The first rule of Math Club is you do not talk about Math Club.

You know that one moment right after your plane takes off when you look out the window and see the city spreading out and you can see all the roads and the miniature houses and the tiny cars scooting around?

I hate that moment.

Well, I don’t hate that moment but it makes me very anxious. I see the houses and then more houses and more houses and I think, “Holy cow! How many houses are there in the world?” and then I start to think about how all those houses have people in them. People who have pots and kitchen tables and hand towels and forks and I think, “And how many forks are there in the world?!” And that’s the moment I hate: trying to comprehend how many forks are in the world. Because big numbers make me anxious. And really big numbers make me really anxious. And I’ll bet the amount of forks in the world is a very, very big number.

I’ve never been able to handle numbers well. In first grade when we started doing math using abstract numbers rather than counters (as in 2+2 instead of 2 apples+2 apples) I got most overwhelmed. I would look at a worksheet covered with numbers and see nonsense. In order to stave off my math-induced anxiety I began seeing numbers as living things. They’re numbers, not people, but they have specific genders, personalities and relationships. For example, 6 is a very kind female who 5, a male, looks up to enormously but 7, a male and 6’s boyfriend, is savagely protective of 6 and keeps her isolated from 5 and 8, another male who is extremely well liked by all the others. 1 is a gender-neutral baby, 2 is male, 3 is male, 4 is female and 9 is also female and a bit of a bossy jerk. 2 is nice, 3 is terrible, 4 wishes to be more popular and her desperation is off-putting to the others. I can’t remember exactly when I started thinking this way because, to me, 2 has always been and will always be male. I didn’t make up the 5-6-7 story, that’s just how it’s always been.

I read in a book a few years back there is a name for seeing numbers as genders or colors and it’s actually fairly common. That’s really irritating. I’ve spent my whole life thinking I was some remarkable child and turns out I’m just a big nobody.

With all their drama, each number has a specific value. When I see 6, I see "6-the-kind-female" and remember she equals 6 units. And knowing that "2-the-kind-male" equals two units, I can see 6+2=8. But I don’t see in my head “six plus two equals eight,” I see, “six-the-female brings six units and two-the-male brings two units and their units together make eight units.” To this day, I don’t see abstract numbers in my head. I see each number bringing their units which are, as I picture them, horizontal red ovals. The picture in my head of each number and its value is so instant that I can see the number 10 and visualize ten equaling ten red ovals and say, “Oh, that’s ten,” as fast as other people can see a 10 and think “That’s ten.” But I wasn’t always so fast at figuring out numbers and I spent much of my elementary school days re-teaching myself math using concrete units rather than numbers. I’m pretty good at visualizing even large numbers, probably up to about 4,000. Anything more than that is too high for me to visualize and if I can’t see it, I get anxious.

Junior high and high school had ever-harder math classes and  I had to spend even more late nights at the kitchen table pouring over numbers and reviewing lessons. Then, my junior year, I decided to join Math Club. Why? Heaven only knows. I had to get a recommendation from my math teacher who eyed me warily when I asked for it as she saw me in tutoring at least weekly.  I went to my first meeting, recommendation in hand,  and guess what they do in Math Club?

LOTS OF MATH.

I also learned that Math Club meets to practice high-level math to prepare for the end-of-the-year Math Competition and the famous Math-Off against other schools. Also, they went to Math Camp.

Math-Off?  Math Camp?

My first Math Club meeting was also my last Math Club meeting and my math teacher, bless her heart, never mentioned it again.



And that's why it bothers me to think about how many forks there are in the world. Because I couldn't go to Math Camp.

I have officially run out of interesting things to talk about.

Everyone who has vanity plates should be required to also have a bumper sticker on the back of the car explaining what the vanity plate means.  Because I spend entirely too much time driving around going, "Batbul? BAT-bul? Bat-BUL? Buh-AT-buh-UL? Be-at-be-you-ell? WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?"


Also, can we talk about how I yelled at my date the other night? Because that's what people do, right?

Adventures in Dating #34

Dear single men,

Actually, no, it's not flattering when you compare me to your mother multiple times during our date. What it is is creepy. And it also makes me wonder how you disposed of the body of the last girl.

Just fyi. 

I've forgotten how to write a blog post.

I wish I had a really fun and exciting excuse for why I haven't been around lately like I've been in Bermuda having a passionate love affair with Aaron Eckhart or something but the truth is I've just been a little bit tired.

And my excuse for being tired is that I've been going to work stupid early lately which is ridiculous because I used to go to work stupid early every single day and that was when I was working two jobs and going to school and plus I had a gentleman friend back then which meant lots of late-night phone calls consisting mostly of “No, I miss you more,” and so I think my point is that I have no excuse to be tired or something. I'm not sure. I kind of zoned out during those last few sentences. Also, I have another point and that is called No One Cares If You're Tired, By The Way. Is it just me or does it seem like every other status on Facebook is something like “OMG! I'm sooooooo freaking exhausted!! When is naptime? LOL!” And I'm thinking, dude, welcome to adulthood because everybody is tired. If you have a career or a kid or are a productive member of society at all, chances are you're tired at least most of the time so get over it. Don't you love that I started this paragraph telling you how tired I am and ended telling you how much I hate when people complain that they're tired. But I think one of the signs of fatigue is diminished rational thought. And general crankiness.

“General Crankiness.”  *salute*



Also, you know that Foreigner song I Want To Know What Love Is? Oh my gosh, does that song not speak to the very depths of your soul?


So . . . this was maybe not a great day to start blogging again. 

You guys are into these rambling things, right? I'll take your silence as a yes.

I bought some ant traps on Amazon yesterday because did I tell you we have ants? Yeah, that is why I was in the kitchen at 1:30 am the other day with rubber gloves on, clutching a bottle of 409, screaming "Why won't you just DIE?!?" But now my Amazon recommendations are insecty things which makes me inexplicably uncomfortable. Like I'm afraid someone's going to see my Amazon page and I'll have to be all "Oh no, I'm not particularly into bug poison! I'm not like a weirdo or anything." Which I think might illustrate just how desperate I am for your collective acceptance.

And have you seen that McDonald's commercial for smoothies with that rapper? I'm no hip-hop expert but I think that if you go around the 'hood singing "When I say 'pineapple' you say 'mango'!" you're liable to get a cap busted in your you-know-what.

And, do you listen to Science Friday on NPR? It's my favorite. I love the call-ins. Last Friday someone called in and asked if, given that people are getting chips implanted in their brains (which, really?) and hackers are so prevalent now, could hackers take control someone's brain and turn the person against himself? And, by the way, then I laughed for a hundred years.



Speaking of laughing, have I ever confessed to you my secret crush on David Mitchell?

I mean, good grief, how could I not?

No, the pictures don't actually *go* with anything. It just needed some pictures is all. Geez, everybody's a critic now. You know what, just shut up and read the dang post, okay?

Guys. Can I tell you something? I do not actually like being out of my element. This I have learned by working out of boxes for the past two weeks. Turns out, when everything is slapdashedly strewn about my desk in mismatched and random piles, I know exactly where to find everything. With everything neatly packed up in boxes with color-coded labels, I'm lost. I'm working 50-60 hours a week and 40% of that time is spent trying to find something. This is making me particularly cranky.

Also, I can't even believe how many times a day the staff at work come to me and tell me so-and-so is bothering me today and I don't like working with her or can I switch my schedule so we don't have lunch at the same time and oh my word, ladies and gentlemen. I'm not sure what they think I should do about this? Magically make everyone in the world agreeable and lovely? Fire any irritating people on staff? Well, guess what, that would mean I would fire you because you are annoying the coleslaw out of me today. (Ha. Coleslaw.)

Some days I have to be to work at 6:30 and some days I start at 8:00 and some days when I go to work at 8:00 I forget to change my alarm the night before so I still wake up at quarter after 5 because I'm awesome. This morning that happened once again and, lying in bed at 5:15, I wondered if perhaps I should go to the gym because I had a good hour and a half before I needed to get ready for work. And then I chuckled to myself because, I mean, I really am quite funny sometimes.

Speaking of me being awesome, did I tell you that I got up in a church meeting to read a passage of scripture and on my way to the podium I knocked over the big display in front of the room? Because of course I did.

Also, Wii boxing. Have you done it? Lizzie and I did it this weekend and ouch, by the way. But isn't it a little fun to punch your roommate in the head without being arrested? Kim says yes.

And can we discuss hot dogs for a minute? I don't particularly like hot dogs but then all of a sudden I'm craving hot dogs every day and I think I may have eaten about a gazillion in the past month. In fact, I had one for breakfast today. I know, right? A hot dog with mustard and a Diet Coke which actually was my roommate's Diet Coke but do you ever look at your roommate's Diet Coke and think “That should be my Diet Coke”? Don't worry, I replaced it from the Coke machine today but can we talk about 75¢ for a Diet Coke? Highway robbery, I say. Have you had Nathan's hot dogs? Right? So good.

I'm speaking in church this Sunday which is a little unfortunate considering every time I sit down to write a talk I end up with something . . . well, a lot like this post, as a matter of fact. (Ha. I just wrote “a matter of face” which should be a phrase I think.) This distresses me.


This should be saved in the drafts folder along with all the other incomprehensible posts.



PUBLISH.

Oh yes we did.

"This is a group of castaways and they are now champions." -Mark Jackson

As a Mavericks fan, you get used to losing. Sure, there are lots of wins and cheering during the season but, when it really counts, you expect the loss. You accept it. They're still your team, you still love 'em, but you know the loss is coming.

And that's what being a fan is all about. Win or lose, you love the team. You love the game. You love the last 12 seconds of the game when it's all tied up and your team has the ball and you're jumping on the couch screaming "Take the shot!!" You love the recaps, the highlights, the articles on espn.com the next day. When you're a fan, you love the game. No matter what.



But . . . I gotta say . . . it feels good to win one.  

And, no, I *didn't* cry through the trophy presentation.

Water is great, except for when it comes from a sewer and it gets all over you.

1: sewage pipes that cracked and leaked in the hill above my school this week
5: inches of raw sewage that seeped rained down into my office
4: times required to wash my hair until it no longer smells of feces after coming in contact with raw sewage
15: minutes I had to clear my office of anything I wanted to keep before the cleaners started knocking out my drywall and ripping apart my furniture
1: pairs of shoes that were thrown out because they were (sorry, Mom) really shitty
46: children that needed to be evacuated because our classroom floors were covered in poo-water
3: times my boss said "how could this get any worse?" until I told her to stop because, guess what, it gets worse every time you say that!
2: big red "DANGER:KEEP OUT" signs I ignored when I sneaked back into the school after the hazmat team descended and locked down the building 
7: Hazmat worker guys I ignored when they told me I couldn't go back in my office because I left a picture of my nephew in there and plus I needed my stapler
2: toxic materials found during the demo of my office

Dear builders of the 1970s,
Thanks for the asbestos and lead paint! You are awesome!
Love, Kim 

1: archive box I would not allow the cleaners to throw out even though it was covered in excrement because I really, really need the paperwork inside it
3: different locations I'm trying to run as we piece together extra classrooms for our 63 children who suddenly have no classroom  
Eleventy billion: number of phone calls and emails I've fielded from upset parents, staff and maintenance workers in the past 2 days in my new office

P.S. Here's my new office:

What's that you say? It looks like it's in a high-traffic hallway 2 floors away from the nearest bathroom?  

Oh, that's 'cause it is*.

0: times I've cried this week even though I really wanted to except I did cry once but it was over a basketball game so it doesn't count and I just remembered I cried over that one commercial where the kid gives that black lady her purse back on the bus but that one doesn't count either
3: sleepless nights I've had worrying over this stupid poo-problem
70: percent chance I think I have of dying from exposure to lead, asbestos or poo from this week which is my own dang fault, but still
4-6: projected weeks until we can get back into our classrooms and offices
100: percent chance I will have a nervous breakdown before then





*Not that I'm complaining or anything because it's like 15 feet from the Coke machine

A Treatise on Exactly How Much Teenagers Suck, Also the Revealation That I Am a Big Ol' Prude, And A Bonus Photo of Poop.

If you know me well, you'll know that I really dislike 3 things: mushrooms, dishonesty, and teenagers.

(Not regular teenagers, though. I'm talking about teenagers.)



So there's this park, you see, about a mile and a half from my house and it has a path around it and I like to run there. But also teenagers like to hang out there. Yeah, just hang out. Like sit around. I never thought I'd be one of those crotchety old people who complain 'bout kids these days but, seriously, do any of them have jobs or homework or anything?


Sidenote: Have you ever driven by a group of teenagers and felt the frantic desire to roll down your window and yell, "Get a job!" at them? Because, really now.



Anyway, these teenager punks hang out at the park and talk about things that they shouldn't even know about at fifteen. I often have to quell the desire to march up to them and demand, "Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?" a phrase I was often mortified by in my teenage years thanks to my own mother. In fact, I have to bite my tongue often to keep from giving these kids quite a piece of my mind. Pieces of my mind include:

• Girls, you do not need to talk that way and dress that was and be generally skanktastic for these boys. These boys are dumb and that's that. 
• Boys, try forming a sentence without using the f-word six times. It will be a new and exciting challenge!
• I'm not sure what your purpose is of talking about doing very bad things when there are clearly several adults within earshot. Perhaps you think it makes us think you are cool and grown-up? Well, here's the deal: we don't think you are cool and grown-up. We think you suck.
• We all know you use the bathroom at the park to smoke pot. We are okay with this. But please, please stop pooping in the sink.

But I don't tell them any of this because someday they'll grow up and be embarrassed by their dumb teenage selves, just like everyone else has before them.

So I just turn up my Lady Gaga (don't even act like you don't) and keep running.

These are the things that make me say "What the crap, man?"

Last night I was flipping back and forth between the Mavs/Thunder game and The Bachelorette and all I can say is "What the crap, man?"

So, guy who got drunk on the couch halfway through the cocktail party, what the crap?

And, Mavericks, are we not getting rebounds anymore? What the crap?

Hey, guy wearing the creepy Batman mask so you can "connect on a deeper level," what the crap?

Oh, and ref who called the foul on Terry when Westbrook clearly tripped over his own feet, what the crap?

And, ABC, really? Are you really sure the majority of these contestants are straight? What the crap, unbuttoned-shirt guy?

Dear Dirk, what the crap? I mean that in a good way. It's not even funny how you move on the court. You rock my world. Seriously. What. the. crap.