postaday2011 – Page 20 – Angel Wheeler

Arm Flab and Pit Bulls

I’ve been exercising lately, it is January after all, and I’m sore.

When you haven’t exercised in like a millenium it’s usually a good idea to start off slow.

I started off slow and I’m still sore.

But you know, in a small way I’m glad I’m sore. It makes me feel like I actually did something. Something good for myself.

And perhaps my exercise will help slow down the aging process and keep my arm flab at a minimum.

Teachers must be careful about arm flab. Let me tell you why.

I recommend this experiment if you are undecided about whether or not your arm flab is a menace to society.

Imagine yourself in a short sleeve shirt. Or a tank top if you feel like breaking the dress code. Something that accentuates your upper arms.

You got it?

Now imagine yourself standing in front of a chalkboard. A markerboard if you’re in 2011. There is a room full of young, yet precocious children waiting to soak up the knowledge you are about to bestow upon them.

Are you there?

Okay raise your arm, with chalk or marker poised, and write a sentence on your imaginary board. Something like “The dog’s balls were round.”

Now pull your mind out of the gutter, this is a lesson on possessive nouns of course.

Go ahead and write it in cursive, it’s a handwriting lesson as well.

Write it big and long, stretch your arm out and write by golly. Write like you’ve never written before!

Now stop. Time for an arm flab check. How’s it doing? Swinging slightly? Or did it circle around and nearly slap you in the ear?

A boy in the back of the room just snickered about your possessive noun sentence. He’s probably got a big brother or two.

You don’t allow snickering in this classroom.

Get the eraser. Get it.

Erase that sentence fast.

Erase it big.

Choose something much more appropriate and repeat.

This now concludes the demonstration.

So how are you feeling about your arm flab now?

Children are brutally honest and they will point out fat, jiggly arms in a heartbeat. I only know this from experience. I no longer wear short sleeves.

Or write on the board.

There was a story of a teacher, a rather large teacher who was teaching elementary age students. The kind who haven’t yet learned the inappropriateness of certain topics.

One day, one of her young boys said in the most horrified voice, “Mrs. B, what IS that?” while pointing to her flabby upper arm.

“Oh, honey”, the kind, large, gentle teacher replied, “that’s just my ole’ fat arm.”

“Whew”, the boy replied with a sigh of relief. “I thought it was your titty.”

**********

It’s an issue with kids, don’t ever think it’s not. It ranks right up there with calling shotgun. It’s a big deal.

Today I was working with a small group of students. One of my little angels began talking about her grandma.

This is what she had to say.

“She’s just so flabby. When she raises her arm,” and the little girl raises her arm to demonstrate, “10 flabs fall out.”

Another student was curious, “What’s a flab?”

The little darling raises her arm again, and proceeds to explain to the child whose family obviously has the thin gene, about flabby arm fat.

She waves her hand under the raised arm to indicate the severity and jiggliness of the flabs.

She continues, “They’re like dogs. Like pit bulls. ”

And then she bares her teeth, shakes her head, and growls ferociously.

I only hope I don’t have your granddaughter in my class.

Just think, this could be you she’s referring to.

Now go perform 3 sets of 20 triceps presses.

And Hurry!

The Seinfeld Post—a post about nothing

I’ve accepted a challenge by WordPress, the site where I blog. They are challenging bloggers to either post once a week or once a day in the year 2011.

I am going for the once a day posting challenge. It’s a biggie. Especially considering how long it takes me to write one of these boogers.

I missed the very first day of the year. Which technically means I failed before I even started, but I am going to perservere anyway. I may be a failure but I ain’t no quitter.

Now its January 5th, Day #5, and guess what? I’m out of ideas. I got nothing. I have nothing to write and a sneaking suspicion this might be a long year. Yesterday evening, after I pushed publish on my last blog, I closed my laptop feeling very insecure about my post, and thought It’s a good thing noone is ever coming back to read anything I’ve ever written, because I have nothing more to say.

Nevertheless I’ve accepted this challenge, I want to do it, and I need to post something daily. Something with a little substance.

All day I’ve been thinking about a topic.

WordPress is putting out ideas over at dailypress.wordpress.com, so I hopped over there for some inspiration. Today’s topic is “Are you stressed out right now? If so , why or why not” Uh, yeah, I kinda, sorta don’t have an idea for a blog the 5th day into a challenge.

Next I thought I might do a Wordless Wednesday post like other bloggers do, where they just post a picture and no words at all. But I can’t, I tried that before. And I just can’t say nothing.

But if I was going to do a Wordless Wednesday post, which I’m obviously not, here is the picture I would use.

But I can’t post a picture like this and not explain it. It’s just not right.

This was taken on Thanksgiving Day. My mom was cooking and we all gathered up at her house. It was a pretty large crowd and one must admit, it is hard to cook for a large crowd especially when the cook is out of practice, has adult ADHD, and is displaying the early stages of Alzheimers. I LOVE YOU MOM!!

Authors Note: Okay so right now I must pause in writing and tell you, if my mom ever reads this, which she probably won’t because she’s forgotten I even have a blog, but if she does, I will need protection from her immediately. I will pack my bags, move to a remote location and not leave a forwarding address. If I make it out alive. I’m scared.

Back to the story. My mom was a bit frazzled, all with the turkey being undercooked, forgetting the ham, not having enough chairs for everyone, the broken plate and the spilled tea. So when I saw a cigarette on the rolls, and my mom being the only smoker in the house, I thought Holy Cow, she’s gone over the edge now. There’s no turning back. Call in the white coats. Haul her to the loony bin.

But she denied doing it. That was not me, she claimed.

She was adament about her innocence. I would NOT have done something like that.

Now mind you, this is the same woman who drove off and left my niece ordering a milkshake at Jay’s Drive-In the other day and didn’t realize she’d left her until she got home, then had to rush back only to find her leaning against the bricks sucking on her straw with not a worry in the world. So laying a cigarette on a dinner roll and walking off seemed very plausible to me.

So I was all like, mom you probably just forgot. Who else would have done it?

And here I must give my mom a little credit. It wasn’t her after all. She was right. She would not have done something like that. Of course she wouldn’t. The heathen children later confessed (after torture and beatings) that it was them. They were playing pranks on the grown-ups. They felt we needed some revenge after forcing them to sit at Mr. Tiny’s table, which in itself is a whole ‘nother story.

Here are three of them shaking their fists at us just because we forgot they existed and didn’t have a table or chairs for them. I don’t know why they’re complaining. Children never get to sit at the grown up table during the holidays. It’s like the law or something.

*****************

Here’s something funny that happened today. I was teaching my classroom full of second graders that I adore. There is not a single child in there that I want to hog tie and gag. Not one. We’re studying weather patterns and the water cycle. So I ask the question, “Who can tell me the four seasons?”

And one of my boys blurts out, “Matthew, Mark, Luke and John.”

I am a sheep.

I’m participating in the Beth Moore scripture something-or-other team. I love Beth Moore. Do you know her? She is one of my spiritual gurus. A brilliant woman who walks with Christ and is right there with me on my level. She’s uncovered and explained many issues in my walk with God through books, Bible studies, and her blog. You can read about this scripture memorization thingamajigger over at http://blog.lproof.org

Basically she challenges us to memorize 24 scriptures during the year. Two a month. That’s pretty do-able. To participate, you pick a verse that is relevant to where you are right then in your life. If you don’t have one, you can always use the one she posts. I didn’t know what verse to choose, until Sunday when I experienced a crisis of faith.

I got a notion to visit someone in the hospital this past weekend. I don’t really know why, it’s not something I regularly do. The person in the hospital is not someone whom I hang out with, or talk with on the phone. We’ve never gone for ice cream or pedicures, she’s just someone I sort of know. An acquaintance really. But I got a strange feeling I should visit her.

I don’t know how you feel about hearing from God, or if you even believe He speaks to us at all, but I do and I try to remain open to His voice. I believe He works in small and mysterious ways. I know His plans are good for me, and I don’t want to miss out on something He has in store. So I considered this might be God talking to me and decided to be obedient, despite the awkwardness of it.

So after dinner (which means lunch) on Sunday, I drove my husband and niece home and was on my way to the store to get a flower or something for the patient. “But first”, I told myself, “I need to get on facebook and check her wall to see if she’s still in the hospital. I’d hate to waste my time and be embarrassed at the nurse’s station if she’s no longer there.”

“Nope”, another voice told me. “Now you’re doubting God. If He told you to visit, then go visit, don’t question it.”

So I ran into the store and got something for her and went to the hospital. I didn’t know what room she was in, but from past hospital visitation experiences, everyone usually winds up on the third floor. I got off the elevator, stepped up to the nurse’s station, with the plant and asked for her room number. And you’ll never believe it. But she had been released that morning. Hmmmm? Was God talking to me after all?

Okaaayyyyy. Now what do I do? Maybe I’ll run it by her house even though I have no idea where she lives. So I got back on the elevator, stepped onto the first floor to go to my car and something stopped me. I stood in the foyer outside the elevator and felt extremely led to give the plant in my arms to someone hospitalized who maybe hadn’t had a visitor. A lonely old person perhaps? Surely, there’s lonely people in the hospital. Hmmmmm? Now was this God speaking to me? Maybe I needed to minister to someone in need? Maybe I’m at this hospital for someone I’m unaware of.

So in an attempt to be obedient, once again I got back in the elevator, returned to the third floor, walked up to the nurse’s station and asked if there might be someone on that floor who could use a visitor and a plant. The nurses look at the wall of patient’s names and room numbers, consider their patients, and slowly shake their heads. Seems like everyone is doing just fine and dandy.

Alrighty then. So now what? I guess I’ll just keep the dern plant for myself.

I got back in the elevator to leave.

And I cried.

I stood in the elevator alone and cried.

Not because the person I went to see wasn’t in the hospital anymore.

Not because I spent money on a plant that no one needed.

Not even because the nurses couldn’t help me find ONE SINGLE PERSON to brighten their day.

But because, right then and there, alone in an elevator, it became blatantly apparent to me that I don’t recognize the voice of God, obviously.

And then the other VOICE came. The bad VOICE. The one who speaks defeat and negativity to my soul. It makes me doubt, causing confusion, fear and self-loathing. It twisted itself around my head and my heart and caused me to think, “How do I know if I have ever heard God’s voice? I didn’t today when I thought I had on three different occasions. Which only means, all those other times in my life, all those instructions, all those thoughts that I felt were God’s way of directing me, that was probably just indigestion or something.

I’m probably married to the wrong person, living in the wrong town, working at the wrong job, and going to the wrong church. How am I to know really?”

Which leads to the scripture I’ve chosen for my first memorization of 2011. It is John 10:27 which states,

“My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me.”

I know I am not a lost sheep.

I know I have a shepherd.

He laid down his life for me, just as the shepherd lays down his life for the sheep.

He protects me from the wolves who wish to cause me harm.

He leads me so I do not go astray.

And I long to hear his voice.

I didn’t marry no pimp, that’s fo’sho’

My husband loves New Year’s Eve. To him it’s a sacred, holy holiday. To me, it’s just another day. And another night that I want to be in bed by 9:00.

In my marriage we don’t fight alot. We don’t have too much to fight over. During the past 6 years, the few times it’s turned ugly either revolved around food or New Year’s Eve. I have finally learned that food and New Year’s Eve are important to J-Dub. To love him is to love these two events as well.

For the sake of all that’s good and peaceful, I suggested we have a few close friends over for a small celebration. We had a little food, a little drink, and a lot of laughs. It was so fun, I can’t wait until 2012.

The next night, being the party animals that we are, we went with a couple of friends to a country-western dance in a nearby town. The music was great, but the crowd was young, and I do mean young. The thirty-something crowd that I was in was the geriatric group for the night. The dance lasted until 1:00, but by 12:00 the crowd had thinned considerably ; I imagine in order to make curfew and avoid getting grounded from their cell phones.

In the midst of this young, firm bodied, tech savvy crew, there was another character however. He wasn’t too young, but he was younger than me. Probably in his late 20’s. He wore a goofy knit hat, baggy jeans with holes in the knees, and he had way too much hootch to drink. He couldn’t dance but he thought he could. I spent my evening watching this idiot flit around the room, pulling women out on the dance floor and explain to them how to dance because he was so hard to follow. He would start out two-stepping (and I use that term loosely) in his converse tennis shoes and frayed jeans dragging the floor, and then suddenly turn and lock elbows with his partner, performing high kicks and attempting scottish dirges, as his trapped partners struggled to maintain an ounce of composure as they were dying a slow death of embarrassment.

I watched this moron and although I consider myself to be super easy going and tolerant of most kinds of people, I couldn’t stand this guy. Towards the end of the evening, after he had drank all he had brought, he went to an abandoned table to rummage through all the empty beer cans to see if there was anything left to drink in them. He picked up discarded cigarette packages in hopes of finding a forgotten cigarette. In between songs when the dance floor was partially cleared, he would take a run onto the dance floor and slide across the center. At one point he decided to break dance and he was even so bad mannered as to dart and flit between and amongst the couples enjoying their slow dance without any regard to anyone. I sat at my table thinking he needed a good punch in the teeth and I was about ready to give him one.

And then he walks over. He begins speaking to my husband. The music was loud and I couldn’t make out everything he was saying. I heard the word “bucks” and I presumed he was asking for money. J-Dub shook his head, some more words were exchanged, and he walked away.

“What’d he want?” I leaned over and yelled at J-Dub over the music.

I found out he didn’t want money. But instead he offered my husband 50 bucks for a dance with me.

I was appalled. I can’t be bought! What does he think I am? Some 2 bit hoochie mama that he can just throw money at and have his way with?

But …..wait……. on second thought…..fifty bucks you say?

I think I might know a scottish dirge or two.

And break dancing? Did I mention I was a child of the eighties?

I don’t know the point of this story. Perhaps the lesson learned in all this is:

The girls all get prettier at closing time.