Pen to Paper

It took some focus. I hadn’t taken a pen in hand and actually written with the intention of writing a story or just writing for pleasure, even pain, since, well, a long while.

The first sentence was just a sentence to begin movement. I had learned a long time ago not to expect the first sentence on a first write to ever be first or even last long at all. It was the sentence after that first one and the sentence after that one and that one and that one that gave me a sense of what I could still do.

Writing on paper showed me the past and the future. In college, I wrote on paper. Personal computers were gigantic and felt stale and distant. Not much later, I stopped using paper though and typed everything. It was faster and easier.

But, using that pen yesterday, felt as if I connected a string to my heart. That’s where I wrote from. It all came from my heart.

Tapping on a keyboard now feels distant and almost like work.

A paper and a pen tug at the heart.

<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/paper/”>Paper</a&gt;

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Upward

I can finally hear the trees speaking to me again. It’s been a while.

After a school year that seemed relentlessly long, there’s nothing I’d hate more than to talk about this school year. I don’t want to give any advice about reading, questions types, testing, and, please, don’t ask about writing, in particular, essays.

I’m looking up.

I’m disconnecting from what supposedly defines me. Not from my phone, computer, or TV, although that’s some of it, not from electricity in any way, but I’m disconnecting from school.

So I’m going to give myself a break from thinking about reading assignments, reading comprehension, required reading, homework, grading, everything in connection with traditional, structured, life-draining education.

What a relief!

I woke up last week and it was 6 a.m. Normally I’m up at 5:30 getting ready to take my daughter to school then returning to get ready for teaching and take my son to school.

But I didn’t have to, so I looked at the time and went back to sleep.

After I woke and became instinctively lazier, I took a walk.

I noticed the trees and how many brilliant flowers were blooming. I’m physically looking up, up, seeing the branches sway and the petals drop. My neck pain is at a minimum because I’m not hunching over a computer or over stacks of papers.

Tree (1)

The trees spoke to me. They waved and winked as I approached them. Orange petals floated over my pathway, welcoming me to life, the best kind of life.

My heart opened.

Now when I look around me, I see my children relaxed, smiling more, looking healthier and happier than, well, than in the last several months.

I see my house, messy, but home just the same.

I breathe a whole lot slower, deeper, calmer.

My feet don’t hurt. 

No headaches!

No students to reprimand. No screeching noises. No nothing.

I see me.

Content.

No responsibilities.

Relieved.

<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/relieved/”>Relieved</a&gt;

The Zika Monster

Everywhere you turn, you hear a buzzing sound–that high-pitched synchronicity peeling through your eardrum deep into the dead of night.

That’s me.

Every night.

Even when there’s nothing really there.

I had planned to begin this blog post by focusing solely on education because I’m trying so hard to stick to the just to that topic of which I’ve dedicated my last 10 years of life to, but I just can’t do it.

See, I live in Florida, in particular Miami.

Miami is all over the news along with the earthquake in Italy and the campaign for the presidency.

In Miami, however, the Zika virus has dominated the attention of everyone.

Walking the campus on the first day of school, I saw students wearing long sleeves and smelling like Off. I just smiled and asked, “How are you today?”

Normally, I’d get an “OK” or a “Really tired” or even a “Super happy” every once in a while. But, this time, I just got “Hot.”

I felt their pain as a parent and a teacher. I knew somewhere my own children reeked of Off, so I just rolled my eyes at myself.

What is Zika?

The virus delivers flu-like symptoms, lots of achiness, and a rash. Pregnant women seem to be the worst victims because of the possible effects on the fetus.

According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, people don’t usually get sick enough to even go to the hospital.

But, everyone here has already begun to panic. I received several texts telling me to use the strongest repellent possible and every time I look on Facebook, someone’s posting something about Zika. They really love giant, digitally enhanced photos of the mosquitoes with rounded, red bellies.

zika1

Of course, though, it’s the news that always sends us into a frenzy—talking, stressing, watching, then spraying ourselves with dangerous chemicals, rarely leaving the house, but when we do we smell like mosquito spray and we’re sweating in our long-sleeve shirts and pants.

Then, as a parent, we start to worry about our children.

We contemplate insane questions such as Should I send them to school? Should I demand that they don’t participate in P.E.? Should I send them with a can of bug spray so they can re-apply it like sunscreen? Should I keep them from playing sports?

An even more pressing question for many parents especially in Miami might be Should I have my child switch schools to an area deemed “less contaminated”?

Propaganda?

We begin obsessing, only to find that we all could be infected with Zika because we all might not even show signs of the virus let alone be tested for it.

And, we all know that’s the truth down deep inside, behind our collective, paranoid mindset and the media’s ability to control that.

We should take control of our situation and dismiss the rest of the jolts of information once we know what we need to know. At least, that’s what I plan to do.

Out of all the news reports and speculation on the virus, I just read a post that reveals the insanity we are experiencing around the world and over here in Miami.

The post Propaganda Machine Takes Aim at Zika Virus compares the media coverage and viewer reaction to the bird flu and Ebola. It also breaks down the facts into digestible chunks so you understand what’s really going on as opposed to panicking.

I consider myself a fairly logical person, but I’m emotional when it comes to my children, just like most parents. That’s why it’s so important to remember that monsters live mostly in our heads.

Written by Lisa Chesser

Tapping into Anger, Hitler Youth

Youth
The eyes spill anger, the kind that festers.

Love turns to hate so quickly.

There’s a sort of hell inside a young mind. I see it every day at school and all the time at home. It’s the conflict inside all of us, but as an adult, we master it.

We live. We learn. We stop hurting so much over small problems. Most of us work on ourselves. The youth or young people seem to us to have everything while at the same time to lack the essential appreciation of that everything.

They desire too much and can’t control that desire. Some even acquire a collection of iPhones, iPads, and video games that startles the onlooker, the elder who never had anything.

They indulge in outrageous behaviors such as cutting or bullying.

They love too much, screaming and crying for a singer or rock band.

Some adults have the audacity to act the same way. And, all of it makes sense. After all, the young know how to live. Sometimes it even works to our advantage because we harness the energy level they have and use it to invigorate our lives, not harm them.

Some adults, however, know how to just be:  to live without the need to return to the youth mindset.

But, what is it about youth, that age where you’re maybe 14 and you realize that you have a period and/or hair all over your body so you grapple with ways to cope with it? You go from insecure to almost good enough.

A teenage girl might struggle with body image and find a way to control it by exercising more and improving the way she looks in the mirror and to others.

But, the events that led to her struggle damaged her so much so that her hatred for herself and others lingers. No, it festers.

What is it that makes the youth hate so much? Hate everyone they love. Hate everything about themselves. Hate the most beautiful and pleasant moments in life. Then, what is it that makes them lash out—try to destroy themselves or those around them?

I often think of Hitler Youth when I see this in a tween or teen.

He must’ve known just how angry they were and simply gave them permission, encouraged them, to act on their rage.

Read more about this in The Mindset of the Hitler-Jugend by Kyle Frabotta
June 2004.

 

Portraits of Love

D&amp;MAngryEvery day.

Four eyes hit me with judgment and love.

Dark lashes fan the flecks of green and yellow floating in a sea of amber.

Love.

Striking out of a pool of black.

Forgiveness.

But, as they grow I forget that they were always doing this.

Waves of black and brown frame her face instead of pigtails.

Wisps of brown float across his forehead, one eye squinting.

Glaring at me.

Darts.

Hit me with a pinch then a sting.

I know every crinkle in their skin, still plump, even now, at fourteen and ten.

They remind me that I’m just like them.

Not above, not below them.

We dance this dance together.

Flawed.

Crazy.

Fun.

Angry.

Little.

Fierce.

Human.

Love.

Written by Lisa Chesser
Portraits

Does money matter for teachers?

People used to ask me, “What do you do?”

I’d say, “I’m a Publications Specialist.” Before that I’d say, “I’m an editor, writer, graphic artist, or copy editor.” They’d nod and smile in approval and ask more questions about it. I felt respected.

Now, when people ask that question, I say, “I’m a teacher.” Their eyes pop open, sometimes there’s a gasp or a grunt or even a hiss with a dramatic “Ouch” at the end. I was startled that at first. I stopped wanting to answer people. I avoided the question when we were meeting people. Sometimes I even told my husband that I would just say I’m a writer and editor because I still am so I’m not lying or anything. I’d just leave out what I do the majority of the time throughout the year.

But, I couldn’t avoid it completely. So as I started answering that question more and more, I realized people just felt sorry for me when I said I was a teacher and it didn’t have to be bad. So, I’d laugh and grunt with them. I’d agree and then unload my frustrations on them. It felt kind of good considering that I needed counseling after all the rough weeks of teaching.

However, the underlying problem of telling people that I am a teacher never seemed to change.

There’s a tangible lack of respect for teachers. We are jokes. We are servants. We are babysitters. We can’t do anything else. We are burps in a person’s life that they’d like to forget about.

Or, we are honored for being so special that we work for scraps thrown from the dinner table and educate the children who will someday rule over all of us and either save or destroy the world. This latter “honored” reaction, I’ve found, happens a lot less than the other negative ones.

Somewhere, far, far away

According to an article in The Guardian, How the job of teachers compares around the world, there’s respect for Chinese teachers and teachers in Finland receive the monetary rewards that make teaching worthwhile and transform it into a respected, even sought-after profession.

So, yes, asking “Does money matter to teachers?” is a loaded question, I know. Many teachers would say, “Sit down and let’s talk for at least two weeks about why teachers absolutely need to be paid more.” Still others would say, “It’s not about the money.”

Despite either reaction, let’s just say this, teachers deserve more money based on the fact that they work endless hours and hold the world’s future in their hands. And, of course, I’m talking about the good ones. Those who look like they’ve been through WW III after the first week of school and lug stacks of papers back and forth from the school to their homes.

There was a video I watched about a year ago about applying to a demanding job.

People who were applying for jobs were asked by their potential employers to do what moms do without knowing that it was actually a list of tasks that every mom does. And, we all know moms don’t get paid for what they do. The people interviewing for the jobs were horrified and immediately rejected the jobs. In the end, when they were told that they were really applying for the job that all moms do, their faces changed to a knowing, a deep appreciation, a realization that only mothers do something so insanely valuable for no pay whatsoever.

I would argue that good teachers come close to that idea. Is it the same? Absolutely not, just the same idea.

To say we as teachers don’t work for the money is quite true. To say we shouldn’t demand more pay is not fair and ridiculous.

Dedication

We don’t work for the money because we’re paid nothing compared to the amount of hours we put into it. We grade stacks of papers at home throughout the week—if we are good teachers. We chase students around about homework, classwork, quizzes, and tests. We counsel them when they make mistakes and think they can’t go on. We care for them like they’re our own children. Then, we send them home to hopefully do homework, study, and sleep. We start over the next day even if we know they stayed up late playing video games and didn’t do homework.

Given that we are a world that runs on money, teachers need it not only to survive but to hope for more, to fuel their own fire if they’re giving so much of their energies to teaching.

It’s a profession with very raw, concrete value; yet, it’s treated as a volunteer opportunity offering little respect. Why would anyone with an ounce of respect want to teach or even continue to teach then?

We wouldn’t. In fact, any teacher worth their salt and willing to be honest will tell you that he or she contemplated leaving more than once. Many teachers make other plans and go as far as to pack their materials, but they remember their students, their lessons, the challenges that made them better human beings, and they think of the future without dedicated teachers.

We don’t do it for the money, but that’s precisely why teachers, good, hardworking, dedicated teachers, should be paid as much as any professional and respected equally or even more.

What’s interesting though, is that as a writer, editor, graphic artist, and publications specialist, I started out getting paid significantly less than an average public school teacher yet I got a whole lot more respect.

Why the School Year Begins with Nightmares

He jumped back. He was so startled that I thought I had a bug on my face when I went into my son’s room at 11 a.m. to wake him.

Seeing is believing.

“Wait, what day is it? Is there school today?” he asked. I shook my head and laughed nervously because I had been thinking that I needed to start waking him up earlier to prepare him for the coming school hours.

“Uuugggh, I thought you were waking me to tell me it was time to go to school,” he said and breathed a sigh of relief then buried his head in his pillow. He proceeded to describe a horrific dream where his teacher gave the class an assignment and he got an F.

I felt terrible because I know how much he hates getting bad grades and how generous some teachers are about giving them. I’m especially fond of the teachers who hand the papers back with an imaginary pair of bifocals hanging on the end of their noses as if to remind students that they just aren’t good enough.

Do teachers really need to give kids F’s?

It might’ve already started for you: The nightmares, the rising tension, the fear that you’re missing something, the sting of an impending headache…. It started in our house about a week ago.

The mere mention of school shot the hairs up on the backs of our necks.

And, it ultimately seems to amount to judgment. How will you be judged by other kids, parents, teachers, principals, administrators and so forth? You just aren’t good enough seems to vibrate in our collective subconscious.

But, what kills me and my kids, are the F’s. I don’t understand that need to give F’s, especially with no second chance. Granted, some students seem to live for the F.

I’ve been there. As a teacher, you’re this short of moving the pencil for the student because you’re trying every technique in the book to get the kid to learn and the student refuses.

Most of the time, however, those students who get those F’s just need a second chance. They need to take the test again. They need to hear the lesson one more time. And, it’s not just about percentages such as 50 percent of the class failed; therefore, the teacher must reteach and retest. No, let’s say 5 percent failed. The rest aced it. Why wouldn’t a teacher try to offer that student a second chance? Most likely, it’s too much work and the teacher doesn’t feel like administering another test and definitely not re-teaching an entire lesson to one or two students.

Second Chances

But, what if it was easier than that? What if it was a matter of spending one or two lunch periods with them and chatting about what they didn’t understand? Ask them what went wrong. Even if they’re brutally honest and say they just don’t care or they didn’t bother to study, what if you said well, then, study here and I’ll give you a second chance.

What then?

Would the student succeed?

And, then, how would that affect that student’s future?

Would the student try harder next time, especially if they found success the second time around?

Yep, that’s right, I’ll tell you. That student will succeed because you’ll have connected with him or her in a deeper way than most teachers. Contrary to the way we judge the kid who gets the F, that child simply doesn’t want it even if he or she vehemently claims to want it, even to deserve it.

A highly intelligent and insightful gifted student once told me that he got F’s because he had gotten so many that he finally just got used to it and didn’t care anymore. He was one of the first students I ever taught and those kids taught me more about teaching than I’ve ever learned before. I asked them everything and he was one who I felt so sad about but even more so, I was infuriated with him. He was so freakin’ smart so when he got F’s, I felt like he just did it on purpose. And, judging from his observations, he kinda did do it on purpose.

However, there was one other very important insight. He said he hated seeing an “F” anyway. That’s why he just gave up and gave in to so many teachers’ labels like that he just didn’t care or that he refused to learn, that he was wasting his talents. That was exactly what I was thinking as I was talking to him.

But, it still didn’t register right away. I still didn’t get it. Give him a second chance? What?!

Then, I did, by accident almost. I experiment a lot when I’m teaching, which is why I hold myself at least partially accountable for every performance estimation that I inflict on my students. I give them second, third, and fourth chances so that I can average scores and teach and reteach. Does it make for a crazy exhausting school year? Yeah, but then, I couldn’t call myself a teacher at all if I didn’t do that.

I asked him if he wanted to take a test again. Different questions. Same subject matter.

He accepted. That acceptance in itself taught me a lot. He actually did want to try. So the label that “he didn’t care” made no sense.

Reset the Mind

Before he took the second test though, I talked to him during lunch and asked why he chose some of the wrong answers. I saw where he went wrong and then helped him adjust his logic. It felt like magic when I scored his second exam. He went from an F to a high B. Plus, the questions on the second exam were much more difficult and somewhat more confusing.

When I gave it to him, he held it as if it was a rare piece of parchment paper. Then he smiled and laughed a little. He blamed his success on the questions being too easy, but I insisted that the questions were harder. I had thrown them out because they were too confusing.

After that success, he never got anything lower than a B. Most of the time, he got A’s.

So, what of it? I think the story speaks clearly.

F’s are like viruses. They spread quickly and they’re hard to get rid of. But, you can wipe them out with a little love. And, that just takes a lunch or two.

Don’t get me wrong. My students who don’t like me will tell you I’m the detention teacher. And, I would have to agree. But, guess when I give detentions? Yep, during lunch. Some students, especially in middle school, don’t think it’s so cool to have lunch with a teacher, hence the detentions (and second chances), but that’s another story.

Passing Through Madness

She was so much more than this.

Sometimes we have those momentary revelations that we write down and act upon or we just forget them, passing them off as frivolous or a lapse into madness, a simply unacceptable thought or notion. This happened to me more than once in the last year. I never bothered to write any of it down until now.

I’ve been away from WordPress and all of you because everything seemed nothing and then nothing seemed everything.

Now, here, I write what lingers, the remnants of love, peace, and an overall sense of wonder at how fragile and temporary everything we know and understand really is. My grandmother spent the last few months spiraling into madness. She began shutting her eyes and turning off the world around her. She tore off her clothes and screamed for her mommy and daddy. She tapped into a static frequency, her voice sounding like a message from another universe when she said, “Why do we waste so much time? Why don’t we visit each other more?”

My desperate screams of “I love you” breaking into her madness. I found that those were the only words that she understood until her last breath. My tears met the words, “Don’t cry. Come on over and I’ll make ya laugh.”

I spent the next two months visiting her in the hospital and helping her son look for an assisted living facility. Somehow the universe helped us find someone crazy enough to take her and she spent her last few weeks of life surrounded by cats and dogs who were rescued, just like her.

When I’d visit, she’d bounce from one thought to another, then suddenly she’d cup her hands around her mouth and make a sound like she was hollering but it was almost a whisper, “Mom, we’re coming.”

She’d gaze into a far off place and say, “Oh, mom’s got that look. I don’t like it when she just sits and stares like that.” Then, she’d shake her head.

I stopped calling her grandma and called her Bobbye Jean or little girl because that’s who she was. I began to realize that she became grandma for me then the rest of us. That wasn’t who she really was. She was none of those names the world, her family, had given her, the names she accepted and even embraced, creating them to give herself a place here.

She had begun her journey into madness, which I know now was her path to peace. Her revelation had come.

Two weeks before she passed, I sat in front of her while she sat in an old, black wheel chair, which the nurse had put her in because it was sturdy and she wouldn’t fall over.

She had opened her eyes again, and she looked straight at me. I thought for sure she recognized me. Bending her boney, spotted arm, she propped her fist onto her hip then lifted her chin and looked down on me. “Am I pretty?” she said.

I was startled for a second still wanting her to recognize me, to give to me, to be grandma again. Then I realized it was all over. She was dying, and I needed to help her.

I sort of spit a stifled, salty a smile and laughed a laugh of realization and, well, love. “You are so pretty, just about the prettiest thing I’ve seen in a long time.” She then babbled and repeated, hand on hip, “Am I pretty?”

I said, “You’re not just pretty, you’re beautiful.” She acted like a princess and said, “I know I am.”

I kissed and hugged her. I fed her. I watched her as she fell asleep in the wheelchair. I visited again.

When asked her name, she sang, “No-oel, No-oel,…” word for word, perfectly, and in tune. I spent the holidays listening to the song, asking my daughter to play it on the piano.

On December 7, 2014, I drove to her down the winding pathways to the house she was passing through. She sat with her head bowed in that old wheelchair, a blind dog, who had had a stroke also, was resting at her feet.

I cut and cleaned her nails, her body slumped over, her hands limp. I lifted her head to find eyes with barely a pupil. There was no black, just a sea of clear blue.

I kissed the back of her neck and spoke to her, “Don’t be afraid. You need to go now. Mommy and daddy are waiting for you. Your angels are waiting for you.”

Her breathing increased as if she were on the last laps of a race. I left her knowing it was over and later that day she was pronounced dead from cardiac arrest.

I miss her.

I look for her everywhere. I imagine she’s in the wind, the trees, my dreams, but she’s gone.

She’s finally found her peace, the quiet in between.

She was just passing through, like all of us.

Teen Advice in Snippets, Weekly Writing Challenge

Writer’s Challenge Note:  I ran out of time for editing too much, but I did what I could in bold. I’ve been an editor for too many years so I know the value of it; however, here in WordPress World I found myself so much more at ease with writing, so much more confident and content that I didn’t feel the need to slash all my words. I simply commanded them and they stuck. I don’t think I could’ve experienced this without WordPress.

Snipping away at yourself makes for a difficult day, let alone life. A general glance strikes you as a hit with another’s eye. But, really, was it a glance at you or was it something else entirely? You don’t even consider that until years later when you’ve grown older and you realize these snippets never really mattered to anyone but you because, well, just because.

Teens, and often enough Tweens, live in a bubble built upon self-interest and self-conscous slaps to the face. They riddle themselves with bullets shiny and new. Shiny because their “friends” polish them and new because it is new to them.

This age group which is about 11-17, sometimes as old as 18, roams around with so much pain because at the same time that their bodies are changing, they see the world for what it is, and it is not so pretty and sometimes neither are they.

If any of us adults could fast forward teens to ten years later, we might be able to spare them all of this needless pain. We can rewind though for ourselves.

When I walk backward to that day when I found myself taller than the boy I liked, a pimple sprouting in the middle of my forehead, hair too frizzy to feather, voice too soft to cheerlead, butt too big to wear short shorts, lips too small to call sexy, I want to take myself by the hand and walk myself forward.

I want to lie down next to me and tell myself stories about what happens afterward, how life changes, why I shouldn’t be afraid of myself, and why I should definitely stop trying so hard to fit in with everyone else. But, to that girl, buried in her day to day dramas of a changing body and a chaotic life, the gift of sitting next to her older self might not help at all. It could even land her in an insane asylum.

But, here we go anyway.

Listen Lisa, feathered hair looks ridiculous except on that “inappropriate” poster your uncle has of Farrah Faucet. Everyone eventually grows a pimple on the most embarrassing part of their body for the whole world to gawk at because this is what makes you human. Worry about wrinkles, trust me, they’re much worse. Your butt is perfect, perfect for roller skating, perfect for running, perfect for swimming, and perfect because you have a body and you’re not a boy. But, you don’t appreciate this because girls are told to starve themselves or forced to do so because advertising and fashion magazines say so. They blast it from their bony butts perched on their fake everything.

Lisa, if you would just listen to me, really listen with your soul, not just your ears, you’d understand that your lips don’t need to be enormous and red. You don’t need all those kids to like you. You don’t even need one. You’ve got a grandmother who one day will get sick and need you to take care of her like a baby, so enjoy her now. She’s your best friend. There’s a sister hanging out with some really mean girls and she needs a shoulder to cry on. There’s your mom, who loves you so much, but works too much to know how to show it anymore.

There are so many reasons to forget this teen drama and look to the beauty around you. Take my hand and remember this as you go through that.

You’ll thank me someday.

 

 

THIS WAS THE FIRST VERSION:

Snipping away at yourself makes for a difficult day, let alone life. A general glance strikes you as a hit with another’s eye. But, really, was it a glance at you or was it something else entirely? You don’t even consider that until years later when you’ve grown older and you realize these snippets never really mattered to anyone but you because, well, just because.

Teens, and often enough Tweens, live in a bubble built upon self-interest and self-conscous slaps to the face. They riddle themselves with bullets shiny and new–shiny because their “friends” polish them and new because it is new to them.

This age group which is about 11-17, sometimes as old as 18, roams around with so much pain because at the same time that their bodies are changing, they see the world for what it is, and it is not so pretty and sometimes neither are they.

If any of us adults could fast forward them ten years, we might be able to spare them all of this needless pain. We can rewind though for ourselves.

When I walk backward to that day when I found myself taller than the boy I liked, a pimple sprouting in the middle of my forehead, hair too frizzy to feather, voice to soft to cheerlead, butt too big to wear short shorts, lips too small to call sexy, I want to take myself by the hand and walk myself forward.

I want to lie down next to me and tell myself stories about what happens afterward, how life changes, why I shouldn’t be afraid of myself, and why I should definitely stop trying so hard to fit in with everyone else. But, to that girl, buried in her day to day dramas of a changing body and a chaotic life, the gift of sitting next to her older self might not help at all. It could even land her in an insane asylum.

But, here we go anyway.

Listen Lisa, feathered hair looks ridiculous except on that “inappropriate” poster your uncle has of Farrah Faucet. Everyone eventually grows a pimple on the most embarrassing part of their body for the whole world to gawk at because this is what makes you human. Worry about wrinkles, trust me, they’re much worse. Your butt is perfect, perfect for roller skating, perfect for running, perfect for swimming, and perfect because you have a body and you’re not a boy. But, you don’t appreciate this because girls are told to starve themselves or forced to do so because advertising and fashion magazines say so. They blast it from their bony butts perched on their fake everything.

Lisa, if you would just listen to me, really listen with your soul, not just your ears, you’d understand that your lips don’t need to be enormous and red. You don’t need all those kids to like you. You don’t even need one. You’ve got a grandmother who one day will get sick and need you to take care of her like a baby, so enjoy her now. She’s your best friend. There’s a sister hanging out with some really mean girls and she needs a shoulder to cry on. There’s your mom, who loves you so much, but works too much to know how to show it anymore.

There are so many reasons to forget this teen drama and look to the beauty around you. Take my hand and remember this as you go through that.

You’ll thank me someday

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lifestyle in Dallas & Collin counties

WWD

Women's Wear Daily brings you breaking news about the fashion industry, designers, celebrity trend setters, and extensive coverage of fashion week.

Mother Jones

Smart, fearless journalism

Film Quarterly

Film Quarterly offers serious film lovers in-depth articles, reviews, and interviews that examine all aspects of film history, film theory, and the impact of film, video, and television on culture and society.

IndieWire

The Voice of Creative Independence

FlutteringBy

"What you see depends on where you sit...or where you fly"

The Hockey Mom Fit Life

Adventures in motherhood, fitness, youth hockey & corporate America

juantetcts

The Courage To Shift is my Life Coach business that focuses on moving the client from victim, to VICTOR, regardless of their personal goals! Is there anything in life that you would like more of?

Neil's Commonplace Book

The modest successor to the "Floating Life" blogs

Discover

A daily selection of the best content published on WordPress, collected for you by humans who love to read.

Word Adventures

Sharing a literary journey

Poems and Petals

Because poetry. And petals.

The Mum on the Run

Running from Life with a Wine at a time

Chronicles of an Orange-Haired Woman!

Descriptive writing on love, life, landscape, laughter and lodges!

Approaching Justice

an online journal of religion and politics

dearlilyjune

Letters from a Mother with Mental Illness

THE (HE)ART TO BE HAPPY

About the book and exerpts from the book THE (HE)ART TO BE HAPPY from Andreas Antero Ahrens

Postcard from a Pigeon

Musings by Dermott Hayes, a writer

Endless Edits

Writing exploits and motherly adventures of Valerie Brown, Author

Megan Kalmoe

Three-Time United States Olympian | Women's Rowing

Save Maine Schools

Helping You Navigate Next-Gen Ed Reform from the Great State of Maine

Mirth and Motivation

Motivate. Elevate. Laugh. Live Positively...

simply.cindy

sharing my love for little ones, literacy, and learning

From One Crazy Life To Another

Spreading the craziness, one smile at a time

Life with Jess

Living LIfe Single, Sassy, and Joyfully!

Inspire Within Yourself

'Life never stops. Your time here is limited make it count. People won't remember you for what you owned, but they will remember your personality and values. Make your mark on the world. Start creating the person you want to be today because tomorrow could be to late. Who knows how long each one of us have left. Embrace all aspects of your life.' -Sebestien LaBrake

roamwildandfree

Work Less // Play More // Be Free

The Creative Writing MFA and Beyond

Maintained by the University of Central Florida MFA Program

Talking Math with Your Kids

Because children enjoy using their minds

Adventures in Wonderland

a pilgrimage of the heart

Gail's Blog

As the seasons change, so do I

Women Entrepreneurs GROW Global

Educating women business owners and entrepreneurs worldwide on how to go global.

David Rickert

Original cartoon illustrations and Teaching Resources!

UnitED For Florida Children

Because every child deserves a quality education

EdTECH HACKER

hacking my way through education and technology.

Stefanie Weisman

A website about education and academic success