What happened to you?

"When did you get so weird? How did I raise such a weird person? You weren't always this... weird," she says. And to some degree, my mother is right.

Oh, let's not point the when-finger and count the many, many fingers of how.

Not now.

This weekend, I'm going to fix it all. Time to look to look weird straight in its weird eye and take weird down. 

I'm heading to Austin, capital of both Texas and Weird. My goal is to come back a little more normal.

Well, we looked into weird lodging, and that was a bust for several reasons. But I am confident that I can tackle weird from a suite at the Hampton Inn as easily as I could from an Airstream in someone's backyard or a camper-top of a stranger’s pickup truck. (See www.airbnb.com if you’re intrigued by these and other weird options.)

Side by side, these Hampton Inn post-it notes look suspiciously pre-printed, don't you think? No matter. My portable blacklight will determine the veracity of their mass-produced statement, and if there's even a slight question about the level of cleanliness, I'll wait for them to rewash. Heck, I'll do it myself. 

I'm going to eat weird things. I've even been practicing. I had four chicken wings on Tuesday, so I'm ready. I might have a rib. Or salmon. Or--[gulp]--something prepared by the vendor of a food cart.

For at least ten years, I rode ferris wheels and those giant swings, blue-faced and white-knuckled, calculating my escape strategy for when the ride inevitably broke free. 

At some point, I realized there was a name for the condition AND a cure.

Fear of heights.
Stay off of them.

Apparently, this kind of caution has made me weird.

So, this weekend, I will be skydiving. Later, you'll find me zip-lining over canyons and lakes.

"What?!" Russ exclaimed. "Those are the two things you fear most!" (Besides germs, Muppets, kidnapping, drowning, and fires, he graciously did not add.)

But I explained--calmly, rationally-- that this was the New Me.

Either I will live to tell about it, or I will die. 

And if I die, at least I'll die knowing I was right about the life-threatening dangers of these pursuits.

Also, I plan to be dangerously close as ten gazillion winged rats explode out from under a bridge at sunset. I bet they'll poop all over me. I might not even bring an umbrella. Because, you know, that would be weird.

We shall see.

A Lesson in Sacrifice?

I keep thinking about the vast number of illegal immigrants who are willing to risk everything-- even sacrifice their lives-- to get their children the better education that they believe our country can provide. I, too, am so very deeply unsatisfied with my kids' school experience. What am I willing to sacrifice? Where do I turn?

Years ago, we made the necessary changes to move to this neighborhood specifically for this school--this exemplary-rated, blue-ribbon, excellent school in the very district where we taught. 

We've now had experience with all five grades, and the outcome has been less than impressive. Less than disheartening, if such an emotion exists.

I have five years worth of stories of unprofessionalism that would make your soul cringe. For five years, we attributed it to flukes, duds, and exceptions. 

It's time to say enough.

This past year was particularly taxing on my conscience, which was likely due to quitting wine. My spirit ached with guilt to see my once-passionate, insatiably curious learner come home day after day, unengaged and uninspired. By the end of the year, her desire was practically dormant. 

Dormant, I hope, and not extinguished.

I can't stand by and watch my seven-year-old's love of learning be sacrificed any longer.

Every day--then and now--I find myself considering options and trying to determine just how much I'd be willing to sacrifice for the guarantee of an improved situation.

Transfer list in the district? No availability, no guarantee that we won't get a dud.

Private school? Cost, transportation, and we could still get a dud.

Getting a job at a private school and doing anything--anything--in exchange for free or reduced tuition? Daily fluorescent-induced migraines, and we could still get a dud.

Driving daily to her dad's neighborhood, 35 miles each way, to enroll her in his neighborhood school? Cost, transportation, and we could still get a dud.

Selling the house and moving to a different town and district? Still no guarantees.

Another option exists, but I've been reluctant to consider it.

Home-schooling.

I'm not afraid of the curriculum needs or supporting her academically.

I'm not unwilling to reallocate the tasks of my daytime hours-- it has always and only been about serving my family, anyway.

It's meeting her social needs that terrifies me most.

I'm an introvert raising an extrovert. We could not be more distant on the social spectrum, and the responsibility of embedding her into a social community makes me ill.

If she had her druthers, she'd join every club, compete in every science fair, and participate in every talent show. Heck, she's asked annually since age three to audition for America's Got Talent. The only setback is that we haven't discovered a talent, yet somehow this does not deter her desire. (Perhaps you remember the "playing the drinks" incident or the more recent tennis debacle.)

Here it is, late July, and I am still agonizing.

What am I willing to sacrifice?

Where will I turn?

Don't Do the Math

I fill up my gas tank every other Friday, and I try not to think about the cost. Try being the operative word.

Yesterday evening, it cost $65.02.  

Gas prices may rise and fall, but the price of $3.45 per gallon seemed like a reasonable average, until you start to do the math.

Annually, that's $1,690.52.

That's for a normal fortnight, just routine errands. Nothing special or out of the ordinary. The only big thing I do during that time period is take Mia to her dad's on visitation weekends, which is 70 miles round-trip. 

(How did I make that commute daily for three years? With an infant in a carseat?!)

Now, $1,690 a year is shocking on its own, but it's even more startling when you factor in other things. You know, like the tolltag. 

For part (not all or even most) of the journey to Mia's dad's house, I use the Dallas North Tollway.

Because the speed limit is 70.
Because unlike all the other roads, it is not under construction.

But mostly I take the DNT because no one else does.

It is a major time-saver during Friday afternoon/evening traffic, and time is money. 

Time on the road is gas money.

This one little jaunt on the first, third, and fifth weekend is a well-spent $40 per month, which works out to $480 per year.

Now we're up to $2,170.

Then you must consider insurance ($103/2 per month = $618/year)

$2,788.

Let's not forget annual taxes for registration renewal ($65) and the inspection renewal ($40). Plus how many oil changes, three? Probably $100. Three adventures through the carwash? Add another, oh, $18?

$3,011 each year.

Without a car payment.

Without repairs or even new tires.

And that's just ONE of our vehicles-- you know the Big Pig guzzles way more, which is why we try to use it less.

But let's multiply that annual figure by two, anyway.

$6,022.

That's twelve percent of our annual income.

Pretty hefty for two "paid off" vehicles.

Depending on where you live and how much time you spend in your vehicle, your situation might be even more extreme.

According to public relations manager Michael Green of AAA, whose interview with 24/7 Wall St was referenced in a March 2014 USA Today article entitled "10 States with the Highest Gas Prices", price per gallon is largely influenced by proximity to oil refineries. 

Generally speaking, the further you are, the more you will pay. 

Since there are no operable refineries east of New Jersey, the Northeast is particularly affected by this cruel reality.

On the other hand, we Texans have it good.

You know who doesn't have it good? These states, at least at the time that the article was published.

10. Pennsylvania ($3.64)

9. Maine ($3.64)

8. Indiana ($3.66)

7. Michigan ($3.72)

6. Illinois ($3.76)

5. Connecticut ($3.77)

4. New York ($3.78)

3. Alaska ($3.84)

2. California ($3.97)

1. Hawaii ($4.17)

The data and resources out there are fascinating. I could easily spend days immersing myself in all there is to learn and know about this topic. Look at these cool tidbits from the AAA Daily Fuel Gauge site.

Well, no surprises there.

It's amazing that there's only a five cent difference from last year, isn't it?

Meanwhile... Hawaii, wow! Four dollars and seventeen cents per gallon. Can you imagine?

Wait, don't imagine.

And whatever you do, don't do the math.

The Power to Choose (.org)

Not all electricity is created equally.
Nor is it billed equally.
But by golly, the juice that lights my home and your home and just about everything else on the grid is one and the same.

It's almost an insult that the companies make us feel like we have a choice, seducing us with their emotionally-charged advertising and fooling us into thinking that we can make a powerful and positive change to the planet with our selections of plans and providers.

Watch this youtube video from Green Mountain Energy and you'll see what I mean: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6n-B9gJdT-E&feature=youtu.be

Let's see if I can embed it here (great for computer-based readers, but not usually successful for mobile device users)

Always a sucker for planet-related propaganda, I've historically attempted to select plans which are at least partially comprised of renewable resources, our primary option being wind. 

We have a lot of wind here. I think it's because there are so many open, flat places-- there's nothing to slow it down, and like a cartoon snowball careening downhill, it just gets bigger and more powerful as it proceeds. 

Might as well put it to good use.

On the giant list of choices, renewable plans abound. They seemed like the responsible choice-- my little nod to the environmental activist I always thought I'd grow up to be before I was waylaid by everyday life in suburbia.

Sure, those plans are generally a tad more expensive than the non-renewable plans, but it's for the good of the earth. 

Mother Nature.

Not so long ago, I found out that when you select a renewable plan, you're not actually receiving 100% wind-powered energy. You're not getting fifty, ten, or even six percent wind energy. 

You're getting the same electricity that's piped into every other home in your neighborhood, except you are paying a premium for it.

Maybe you knew this.
I didn't.

There's something to do with not being able to store it or convert wind-power into house-power, or pipe it across great distances. Some such hindrance-- I can't remember. I tried to look it up, but the search topic is riddled by big business and bitter bloggers. It was challenging to extract precisely what was happening and why. 

After reading several articles on this subject, here's what I have concluded:

By paying an increased rate for a percentage of wind-powered energy, what you are effectively doing is using your dollars to say, "I support this idea, and I sincerely hope that someone, somewhere is able to benefit from it."

Much like sponsoring a child in Africa for just pennies a day.
Or purchasing and registering a star in the solar system to honor a loved one.
Or buying a paper shamrock at the grocery store and hoping that your full five-dollar donation finds its way to Jerry Lewis and his friends at the Muscular Dystrophy Foundation.

But there are other more financially responsible ways that you can show your support.
You can send an email to a congressman. 
Any congressman. 
All the congressmen.
For free!

So as I sit here, examining the options for my next electricity contract, I'm going to choose solely on cost. 

For the first time ever, I'm not going to let myself be persuaded by that billowing, arrogant bully.

Neighborhood Narc

The property appraisal people really need to develop a better system, because when tenacious junkyard dogs like me get hold of inequality and injustice, things are going to get ugly the moment I enter the arena. 

I am normally a peaceful person. Neurotic but peaceful. I keep to myself and take care of my business. Still, lurking deep down within is a powerful trait, normally dormant, which 99% of the people I encounter will never have to witness.

But it's there. 
I am my father's daughter.
We don't let go.
We take hold with our teeth, square our shoulders, and dare the red tape to leash us.

I'm not saying I'll go into the appraisal office with guns blazing. I couldn't if I wanted to-- they make you check 'em at the door before you go through the metal detectors. 

Instead, I will use my arsenal of data, and I can guarantee they've never seen anyone so well-prepared for battle.

Unfortunately, there will be collateral damage. I'll have to polarize my neighborhood in the process. 

You see, I have discovered that of 23 identical homes in my immediate vicinity, 13 have been incorrectly assessed for square footage. We are paying for more than we have. We are paying more than our next door-neighbors.

I have also discovered 9 unregistered barns, 6 unregistered covered porches, and two unregistered carports.

Six of the appraisal office's own comps aren't consistent with the realtor's advertisements of the homes, and these are substantial discrepancies. Seven-hundred square feet of additional living space discrepancies.

And that's just the exteriors. I haven't scoped out the interiors yet, but I'm betting there's a fair amount of updated flooring and granite counter-tops.

So, if pressed, I may have to dust off the binoculars or invent some sort of premise to gain entry to these homes. Don't worry, I've been studying up on cover-stories with the help of my Private Investigation for Dummies books. Plural.

No joke.

I resent the appraisal office for turning me into such a sleazy busy-body.

I don't want to spy on my neighbors. I already know more about them from this archaeological exploration through the property tax data than I ever wanted to know.

Nobody wants to be a tattle-tale, either, but come on.

This past winter, I sealed the back door with duct-tape because the draft situation was so out of control. We filled knee-socks with kitty litter to create draft snakes for the windows.

Currently I'm creating a radiant barrier out of aluminum foil to try to regulate our electricity costs against the summer surge. 

Our counters and floors are the original 1987 tile!

There's no way our home is worth $25,000 more than the 22 other homes in the same quarter-mile radius.

We already knew the neighborhood had rats. (Remember Rat Attack?)
It's sad that I've been forced to become one of them.

Jimmy and The Emails

"Are you ready for your test?" Hannah asked.

"I'm not sure. I still get most of the matrix problems wrong, but I've gotten really good at Jimmy and The Emails. Go ahead, quiz me on it."

"Jimmy and The Emails... I'm not familiar with that one," she said.

"Jimmy receives an average of 22 new emails each day," I recited. "However, he does not check his email while on vacation. Prior to his first day of vacation," I continued, "he had 9 unread messages. How many messages would he have on the nth day of vacation?"

"Tenth?"

"Nth. It's sort of like X, but worse, because it's even more mysterious. It could be anything. It could be everything."

"So... 22x+9?" 

Jeez. That was fast.

"Well...yes. But it's much more complicated when you have to write it down. There are 'A's and subscripts and 'd's and all kinds of stuff. When you have to write it down, it's quite challenging."

Hannah nodded supportively and said nothing. It was a very wise decision.

***

Apparently ANYONE of ANY age can be asked to solve a 'Jimmy and The Emails' situation.

Look at my first-grader's homework!

And that Mia, she tackled it up to ten without so much as a peep of assistance.

But the 100th day part was messing with her head. Well, her patience, at least.

"Mo-om, I don't want to do this ninety more times. I want to go outside and play!"

"Mia, today is your lucky day. Mommy is a pro at these things. Here, I'll teach you all about it. It's just like Jimmy and The Emails, except it's a bird and seeds.

I didn't take her through the whole 'A' and 'Nth' and 'd' thing, because I didn't want to scar her for life. Instead, we went in through the back door by analyzing her existing pattern. It literally took two minutes to knock it out. 

Boom. Done.

"That was easy," Mia announced, scampering toward the door.

See? I told you I was a pro at Jimmy and The Emails. First grade homework no longer intimidates me now that I am an accomplished Collegiate Algebraean. 

(Algebrite? Algebrit? I'll think of something.)

***

"Mom, we need to take another look at the Chickadee problem. My teacher says we didn't do it right."

What?!

"We did it right. We did it right. All you need to do is explain to her," --deep breath, deep breath-- "that this is an arithmetic progression which is inherently recursive, and that you used the starting term, the nth term, and the difference-- in this case, a constant of +3-- to solve it through algebraic reasoning."

This is just one of the many, many, many reasons why I hate homework, but gosh darnit, we did it right.

Yes, it is preposterous that the little bird would eat 298 seeds in one afternoon on Day 100, but one should not get dazzled by the details.

Incidentally, it is not preposterous that Jimmy would have 229 unopened emails in his inbox after a ten day vacation.

That's just how math is. Sometimes it makes no sense at all, and sometimes it makes all the sense in the world. Sometimes it is confusing on paper and logical out loud. Sometimes someone else understands it immediately, while it takes you seven tries to pass one college algebra course.

Perhaps that was the true purpose of Mia's homework assignment--  to de-sensitize kids from an expectation of logic while they're still young and impressionable.

La Famille en Francais

"My father's name is Russ. He is funny and bald," Hannah translated. She was practicing for her speech about her family for French class.

Emphasis on the adjectives.

"What does it say about me?" Mia begged.

"Hmmm... let's see...'My sister Mia is cute and smart.'"

"Oh, oh! Do me next! What about me?" asked Caleb.

"My brother Caleb is ten and mean," Hannah read aloud.

"Really, Hannah? Really?" Caleb was unusually indignant. I thought he was going to stomp his foot on the floor for emphasis.

"Well," Hannah stalled, scrambling for a suitable reason, "I'd already used a bunch of other adjectives, and we're not allowed to repeat any..."

"Brown hair, Hannah. You could have said, 'My brother Caleb has brown hair.'"

This was a surprise to everyone, because Caleb routinely claims to have never heard of the grammatical concept called adjectives.

Those who are familiar with this denial technique might describe his behavior as deceptive.