Summary: August Pullman has never been to school before – his mother home-schooled him through the fourth grade. Now, he is starting fifth grade at Beecher Preparatory in New York. He is used to the staring, pointing, and sometimes screaming when he is out in public, but this will be different. He will see the same group of kids and interact with them day after day. Will they point and stare? Will they talk about him behind his back? August is sure that they will. What he doesn’t know is how it will happen, and how they, and he, will change. Oh yeah, Auggie has a severe facial deformity. “I won’t describe what I look like. Whatever you’re thinking, it’s probably worse.”
Last week, my boss handed out perfect attendance awards at a meeting.
Would I feel this way if I was a recipient? Because this is the way I feel:
The people who have perfect attendance should not be awarded. Why? Because the reason they have perfect attendance is because they come to work sick, when they should stay home so as not to spread their sickness around. Which, of course, they do when they come to work sick. And they do it to all of us who responsibly use sick days when we need them, and thus do not receive perfect attendance awards. (Which come, by the way, with one extra paid day off a year and accrue each year, up to five years.)
Is this an incentive for people to come to work sick, and to not respond appropriately to personal and family emergencies?
Thanks for listening. Rant over.
I am enjoying the following this winter season:
The way the sun makes the snow look like glitter. And more so, that I can enjoy the view from my warm living room.
Warm fuzzy mittens that glisten like the snow.
Warm and fuzzy socks.
And this idea mom-in-law shared with me: Surround a tea light with coffee beans, and enjoy the warm aroma each time you walk past.
10 years. It has been 10 years.
We met in November.
Got engaged in December.
Married in January.
Rich: Stop looking at my nubbin.
Me: I wasn’t looking at it. You are so paranoid.
Rich: You always look at it. It grosses you out.
Me: I was looking at your appendix scar.
Rich (hiding his third nipple by covering it with his hand and walking away — behind the curtain that separates our kitchen from our laundry room to grab a clean shirt — because the clean shirts are typically wadded in a laundry basket and rarely folded in the closet): Shhh. There’s nubbin to look at here.
Heehee, get it? Instead of saying, ‘There’s nothing to look at here,’ he said, ‘nubbin to look at here.’ It’s punny.
My favorite thing to do on a Saturday afternoon:
I told the young Barista (if it is a dude, is it still Barista? Or does it change, like become Baristus? I’m going to go with Baristus), okay, so I told the young Baristus in the blue skinny jeans that the tiramisu latte he made for me was so pretty that I needed to take a picture before drinking it.
“Thanks,” he said. “The art on top is my favorite part of making a latte. It’s what makes me love it.”
Thank you, young Baristus in the blue skinny jeans, for loving something, and caring about something, and spreading the good feelings that accompany that to others, in this case, me.
PS. With coffee on the brain last night, I thought about my bucket list desire to try a rare and magical kind of coffee that is known to retail for over $50 a brewed cup. An either odd looking or adorable cat-like animal (depending on your perspective) chooses the best coffee in nature, digests the beans, and people take the beans from the animals poo (I guess the digestive enzymes do something amazing?). After Googling pics of Kopi Luwak (okay, I couldn’t remember that name, so really I googled, “coffee animal poop”) I am officially taking trying the Civet cat coffee off of my bucket list. You Google it. Would you try it? I was all for it until I saw this: