the procrastinating girl

Say Cheese

I am a pretty level-headed gal.  Far more inclined toward science than religion.  A believer more in the realistic than the fantastical.  Sure, a burning bush at one point did something to help my people, but consider if you will the temperature of the Middle East desert in the blazing sun.  But to answer Jim McKay's question from 1980 (was it Jim McKay?), over time I have come to realize that I do believe in miracles.  At least small ones.  My latest proof came yesterday morning.  I actually remembered that it was Picture Day at Zoe's school.  And on a Monday!  She was dropped off in a lovely dress and evenly-distributed pigtails.  The only thing missing was payment for her class photographs.  It was due last week.  Moses I am not.

Help Me Help You

I have things to do.  Making school lunch is now a daily agenda item.  Sydney's birthday party is just days away.  And I have to schedule about fifty doctor appointments.  And then show up for them.  I'm not saying it's brain surgery, but I need alone time.  Luckily, today was Zoe's first day of school.  Cue the music.  But rather than dropping the kids into the icy cold deep end of the pool (which would be my choice), they (and we) are subjected to a week-long phase-in program.  Today, they went to school for one hour.  Yes, uno.  Tomorrow, it's the same drill.  On Thursday, they nudge it up to an hour and a half.  And by week's end, these little hothouse flowers are, fingers crossed, adjusted enough to attend the full morning of pre-school.  I know this sounds crass, but come on, Zoe began attending this school while in utero with Syd in the 2's.  She's happy and adjusted.  I have enough innate forces working against my level of efficiency, the last thing I need is to be confined by some external restraint.  Release me from bondage!  Let my Zoe go!

Princess Isabel

To quote 'Arthur', the best movie ever (says the queen of hyperbole), I can't tell you her last name, because that would be indiscreet.  Isabel came into our lives at this time last year.  She was Sydney's reading buddy.  Each Thursday afternoon, these two would spend time reading stories in the comfy beanbag chairs of Syd's kindergarten class.  But there was more.  Ten-year-old Isabel was a mature, familiar face who would wave to Syd from the glass-walled lunch room.  Her friends did too.  Cool.  I became intrigued as well.  When we visited the school-wide art fair, I checked out the fifth grade corner in search of the label "Isabel."  When I found it, I was blown away.  What conic forms!  In June, she wrote, illustrated and published a picturebook for Syd about a pig and a duck and their friendship.  Or was it a pig and a cow?  Whatever, who was this mysterious artist?  This master craftsperson?  This Isabel?  Then came Moving Up Day when the whole school gathers and the kids sing verses to each other about going on to the next grade.  The parents weep.  As this fiesta de schmaltz was ending, a fifth-grader walked forward and presented a bouquet to the music teacher.  It was Isabel.  Since then I've been meaning to call that cute brown-ponytailed girl just to say thank you.  Meaning to.  Haven't yet.  Should.  One call to Pottery Barn Kids and my house could be swimming in beanbag chairs. 

Back and Knee Deep

I am caught in a school-supplies conundrum.  No, this isn't a crisis on a par with, say, fleeing from the second life-threatening hurricane in three years, or announcing your teenage daughter is pregnant right after you accept a position for which you are completely unqualified.  But in TPG-land, I'm in a spot.  First grade starts tomorrow and Sydney must arrive with a list of school supplies in hand.  Our PTA organizes pre-packaged bags that you pay for in June with some proceeds going to the school.  Everyone wins, right?  Well, I can't remember if I signed up this year.  And yesterday being Labor Day, no one was at the school to call and check (let alone pick up the precious cargo).  So our first day home from vacation was spent traipsing from big box store to big box store (my favorite activity behind visiting dentists, food courts, indoor water parks, etc.).  Fortunately, a kind of solidarity emerged among the parents who, like me, were hanging at Staples on an 83 degree day.  We celebrated in aisle 12 for a found set of those elusive erasable colored pencils.  What the others didn't realize is that I still may have a pre-packed bag waiting for me at elementary school.  Who knows?  But what I deemed "our giant treasure hunt" was actually great fun, even if it came at my own undoing.  And when the girls and I finally finished and got in the car, Syd perked up and asked, "When we get home, can I please sort my new supplies?"  Genetics are interesting.  As should be the next 20 years.

Paper Trail

My heart is racing.  Up until two minutes ago, I thought I lost a very important piece of paper.  I'm sorry to be vague.  But I need to protect the negligent party involved (me).  I have a long, sordid history of such behavior dating back to my six replacement college IDs.  The trouble is I pride myself on being one of those wonderfully carefree souls who has absolutely no system for filing, yet can access any piece of information on cue.  It usually works.  Usually.  When I was working as a production assistant at Nickelodeon, my first real job, the perks were great (seat filler at the MTV Music Awards!), but I spent every day dodging bullets like, "You submitted my bagazillion dollar expense form, right?"  Right.  And that envelope with all those receipts was... where?  I became an expert in my own damage control.  Now, 15 years later, I will bask in the glow of my found paperwork.  I know it shouldn't have been a struggle.  But at least it's not, "Amy, where's a copy of my itinerary?"  Um, give me just a second...