Guess what happened to my mom?  She was sleeping in her bed in her Florida rental - peacefully, not bothering anybody - when this large piece of art fell on her head.

What the heck?!

Have you ever heard of such a thing?!

She got cut by some of the glass from the frame, but otherwise, she seems to be okay.

Let's all take a moment to imagine what it would be like to have this huge heavy thing fall on your head while you're sleeping.  Not pleasant.  Not cool.

I picked Mac up from school  and asked for a report.

"How was kindergarten today?" I ventured.

"Good," he said confidently.

"Did you learn any new words?" I asked.

"Yes," he said. "I learned 'constipated.'"

How interesting! They cover a lot of ground there in K. Super impressed.

Well, the conference was a mile-a-minute, and there really wasn't time for blogging. I was extra nervous because I was at the People of Color Conference talking about how my white identity development impacts my teaching. But, the presentation went really well, and we got a lot of good feedback.

My only struggle was this eye-contact activity in the white affinity group.  All the white people got together for several sessions to talk about ally behaviors, competencies, and dispositions.  At the end, we had to find someone we didn't know and look into her/his eyes.  Then, the facilitator said stuff like, "Look into this face.  Let the face open to you and inspire you.  This is the face of someone who will help to heal humanity."  All the while, I was supposed to gaze into this stranger guy's eyes.

"I'm sorry," I told him.  "I just can't do this."

It was so beyond.

The next morning, I made up for my refusal to sit "knee-to-knee, toe-to-toe" with another stranger and stare into his eyes for like five minutes by trying really hard in the singing activity.  All 600 white educators sang together about our lifelong journey to be effective allies.  Even though I thought that part was silly at first, I ended up really liking it.

When I was on my way to D.C. and hanging in the Minneapolis Airport, something exciting happened.  I was in the ladies' room and upon exiting the stall, I saw a familiar face in the mirror.  It was Sara from Top Chef.  I'm so not even kidding.



"I'm watching you on tv right now," I told her, all friendly-like, as we washed our hands.

Immediately, I could tell Sara wasn't thrilled with this encounter.  She looked deeply uncomfortable.  "Right now, huh?" she said.

"Yes!" I responded cheerfully.  "This is an exciting moment for me!"

"Well, it's kind of weird for me," Sara said.

"Oh, okay," I said.  "I guess.  At the sinks in the restroom."  I shrugged and giggled a little.

I thought about asking to take a photo in the bathroom mirror, but Sara really wasn't giving off a vibe about being amenable to that.
 

I was concerned that the snowstorm on the homefront today would prevent me from getting to the NAIS People of Color Conference, but I made it!  Here I am!  I'm super excited.  I've never been to this conference before.  I have a small part in a presentation tomorrow morning, and then I just get to learn tons of cool stuff and see tons of cool speakers.

I'll probably tell you more about it tomorrow.  I won't tell too much so as to be boring, so don't even worry about it.

I decided that we would "do Advent" this year, in that we would light the candles, read the readings, say the prayers, and go to church for the four Sundays before Christmas.

There are a few obstacles to "doing Advent."  One is that there's always hockey, so only Mac and I went to the Children's Service last Sunday.  The second one is that I don't really like the Children's Service, and yet, the regular service is too long and too late for it to really work.  The third is that I'm going to be out of town next Sunday at a conference.

"Well, I'm not taking them to church," Dan said, as I glanced at him hopefully.  "I don't care about your wishes."

I've gotten a lot of mileage out of this impulsive comment already, to tell the truth.  I've gotten a lot of mileage out of that, and out of the fact that he called me "bitch" DURING THE SINGING OF THE THANKSGIVING HYMNS. ACTUALLY DURING THE HYMNS. At our home.  In front of my mother. 

Here's what happened: It seemed he was singing the wrong verse, so I shot him a helpful (and certainly not reproachful) look, to which he responded, and I quote, "I'm singing harmony, Bitch."

Also, he doesn't care about my wishes.

I've had a really annoying and inconvenient problem in the last couple of weeks, in that I haven't been able to hear all that well.  Felt like my ears were totally filled up.  To compensate I did a lot of nodding and smiling.  My friends laughed at me because I was whispering a lot.

"Why are you whispering?" they asked.

"It seems like I might be talking really LOUD," I explained.

Since I wasn't sick and the ears didn't hurt, I figured my problem was ear wax.  So, I tried some at home remedies.  I put drops of olive oil in there and massaged them.  I bought a little lasso-like pick designed not to go too deep into the ear canal.  With that thingy, I extracted some pretty satisfying chunks of wax.  Reddish and extra sticky.  Still, I couldn't really hear.  Next step was the drops you put in there and then irrigate with a squeezy bulb.  Did that yesterday.

Still, I woke up this morning underwater.  Nothing left to do but go to Target Clinic.

"Your ears are filled with ear wax," the friendly M.D. reported.  Then, he held up a spray bottle with a long nozzle.  "This will be high pressure water.  It won't be comfortable."

"No problem," I said. "I have a really high pain tolerance."

"Good," he said, and had me hold a little basin under my ear.  Then he squeezed the ENTIRE bottle, like a whole QUART, into my ear.  I asked to see the chunks of wax floating in the run off bin.

"Yuck!" I said.  He did that again in the left.  Then, he moved over to the right.

"This one's extra packed," he said stoically and starting spraying.  The debris was impressive.

"Doesn't everyone want to see the results?" I asked when I once again craned my neck to peer into the bin.

"NO," he said, emphatic.

"That's surprising," I said.  "I'm really interested in seeing it."

"I can tell," he said.

He peered into my ear with the otoscope and announced  that I still had a really hard chunk in there.

"I think I might be able to lasso it," he said, and brought out a pick like the one I had at home, but with a longer handle.  Then, and I'm SO NOT KIDDING, he pulled out a giant clump that looked exactly like this:

"OH NASTY!" I said appreciatively.

And, now I can hear again.