Friday 55 & Da Count

Well, we have lived through the start of school in these here parts. Already we've had a few gems.

Isaac reports that in 5th grade he no longer gets to play tag at recess. The class was instructed to play 'touch fast' during their 'wellness activity.' He demonstrated by jogging in an effeminate and overly gleeful manner and gently tapping a shoulder. He said he couldn't wait to see what the next politically correct wellness activity was and rolled his eyes. I told him 'touch fast' made it sound like a game Michael Jackson played at Neverland Ranch.

Calypso reported being sternly corrected in her terminology at the junior high. The school is over crowded so trailers (Oh, I hear the PC police knocking on my door for using that term) have been installed for overflow. She called them 'pods' and a teacher told her they were to be referred to as 'learning cottages.' Puhleeeze.

Finally, Diana, never one to mince words, let me know the girl next to her on the bus drives her bonkers with inane conversation. 'Mom, I don't care about her new jeans or her hair cut or if red is her color. It's like being in a sucking black hole of boredom.' Yeah, I know kiddo, soul-stirring conversations on fashion and interior design make my ears bleed too, but be nice at least.

Onto our Friday 55!

Am I at the right bus stop? Did it leave without me? How am I going to get to school? Who are those people back there? Are they laughing because I have a pimple? Do they hate my clothes? Do they think I'm a dork?

The first day of Junior High School is soooo stressful?

In honor of the return of Edvard Munch's stolen masterpiece, The Scream, and the start of school. Inspired by Amber's series of 55s based on pieces of art.

Lecram has instituted a new Friday feature called Da Count. That new green button over there explains it. We can all spend time complaining about any number of things but we really need to focus on what we already have. Count your blessings sort of thing. So to that end...

Yesterday I bumped into someone at a school function who I hadn't seen in since before my accident. She saw the gnarly scars and the odd way my hand moves and wanted to know what happened. I told her and she very sympathetically offered, "You must have thought 1000 times 'Why me?'" I paused and I realized that while I have had moments of thinking what a serious pain in the butt it all is or that it hurts like a son of a gun I really don't think 'Why me?' has ever crossed my mind. I posted way back when it happend that I was glad it was me and not one of my kids, their friends, or Mr. Lime. Over 4 months later I have to say I still feel that way. I'd have terrible guilt and hate seeing one of my kids suffer. I'd feel awful for my husband and we'd be in a much worse bind financially if he couldn't work. So dat's Da Count dis week. It was me not them.