The Monsters Come Out. . . After Lunch

In hindsight, it was naive of me to assume that I could reason two boys out of a fight in my classroom today. They had no interest in making the right choice once names had been called and egos bruised, but to their credit, there was no swinging until I moved out from between them to call for backup. Such gentleman.

The thing is, fights don't look the same in real life as they do in the movies. Red faces, tears, missed punches, rolling on the floor in an angry embrace. It's embarrassing, if you ask me.

Now, I have to reason them both into apologizing to the other frightened 7th graders in the room who, to their credit, stood in silence and egged no one on. We all compared the shakiness of our hands and the rate of our heartbeats when the boys, each of whom have at least six inches over me and facial hair, were finally removed from the room. Then my remaining students recapped the whole fight as if we hadn't all been right there to watch it go down ten seconds earlier. And I let them. The recap makes us all feel better, and even though I acted tough and pretended to have things under control, let me just say here, holy shit.

Normal Schmormal

I look for any excuse to feel that I am somehow on course when it comes to the Big-Ass Paper. Last night at a party for graduate students in my program, I drilled Ph.Ders about their thesis experiences.

"I thought I'd be done in the spring," one confided, "but didn't finish until Labor Day."

"I took five years to write mine," another chimed in. "Writing that thing and teaching at the same time is impossible."

Okay.

So, I'm on course.

It holds little comfort.

Now, instead, I'm trying to convince myself that I am the amazing, bionic thesis writer. I type pages in a single bound and destroy incoherence with my agile fingers.

And I wear a cape, of course. It is red.

Hope or Halloween?

Can it be things are getting better with the kiddos at work? Surely, I am jinxing it all to hell right now, but they've actually been, dare I say it. . . pleasant. Staying after school to make up work, thanking me at the end of class, raising hands instead of blurting out, keeping the pencil stationary instead of tapping incessantly, walking in the hallway -- all these things have happened this week. It's freaking me out and I'm knocking on wood.

Plugging Away

I've decided that I'm just plain slow when it comes to writing.

Despite knowing where I've been and where I'm going, I can't write more than a page for every two hours that I work on the big-ass paper for this process MUST include getting up every now and then to pee, eat, refill water glass, clip nails after biting them, stretch, stare at wall, and check e-mail (seriously, I've tried to cut each of these out and it's impossible). Before today, I told myself that I could get it together and write this mother quickly, but it's just not going to happen that way. Slow and steady is fine with me, except that the deadline now requires fast and slipshod.

This is disheartening.

Is there any way to get more hours out of the day? And is there anyone who knows what the metal pieces are for on this rooftop?

If only I could capture the memories in a diorama

I couldn't have asked for a better weekend with grad school pals, Lee and KC. Bloomington is a lovely city and Lee provided an informative tour of its campus, historic buildings, and post-football game traffic jams. Whenever a spare moment revealed itself, we checked blogs for new comments and felt affirmed by the company of other bloggers in action.

The talks about teaching and writing were the highlight of the journey as they made me remember why we do such ridiculously difficult work in the first place. It was hard to leave today, but we've decided to make this an annual trip (which, despite what Lee's sixth-graders tell her, does not mean every ten years).

The Road Trip

KC and I are going to visit Lee in Bloomington, IN this weekend. We haven't been together since June, and without them, I obsess over and avoid the things that stress me out instead of taking action. They'll set me straight again, I know, and with the stories they tell, I plan to laugh until the wine comes out of my nose.

At last, the road trip.
Long awaited, much needed.
Tomorrow it starts.

A little help from my friends...

Kyle and I have the same knowledge of electrical wires. One is yellow, one is green, one is blue, and together, they are heavy.

What are the wires for? Kyle is more likely to know than I am. Fortunately, his father is a handy man married to my good friend, Staci. He fixed things while we drank coffee and enjoyed a fall day that looked like this...



When it comes to home ownership, I'm learning that it's not what you can do, but who you know that counts.

I Want To Live a Simple Life

That's the line from a new favorite song that is on repeat in my head. It keeps me calm. It reminds me that I am working toward something.

A couple of weeks ago, I met a guy. Someone I like. Finally.

Last night, he told me that he's dating other women as well. Wanted to know how I felt about that.

When I said that I felt fine, I meant it. I did. But in the light of day, as that chorus circles through my head, I'm not so sure.

I want to live a simple life, and knowing my over-analyzing self as well as I do, this could become complicated.

It probably won't be made better by the fact that he has this blog address and may be reading my confession right now. I made the mistake once, though, of not writing about my dating life, and if I'm going to be more honest with myself about this, I figure being honest with everyone else too is a first step on the road to simplicity.

A Lesson In Sarcasm

"Tom is hitting me with his book!" Dean shouted across the library during our celebration of Teen Read Week.

I could die from tattling.

"Tom," I spoke in my best teacher voice and gave him my best teacher glare. "That is no way to celebrate books and reading. Please, use your hand."

Silence. Pause. Finally, laughter.

They'll get there. Just takes a little patience and training.

Caulk Job

Pre home-ownership, the word caulk was not part of my vocabulary. Now, I say it daily and it has become a measure of my general productivity.

"How was your weekend?" my colleagues ask.

"Good. I caulked the chimney and the shower," I respond.

Friday night at a public restaurant, I shouted the phrase SHODDY CAULK JOB in order to be heard over the hum of the other guests.

Oh. I was heard all right.

Strangers stared.

We burst into laughter.

I'd propose an alternative pronunciation for caulk (rhymes with Hulk), but I've grown rather fond of saying it in professional settings and public places where listeners might just take it out of context.

Caulk, caulk, caulk, caulk, caulk.

Makes me feel a little bit dirty.

"We can take 'em!"

I read this phrase in one of my theory books today: " a pathetic defense of tiny fiefdoms."

Those words made sense to me within the context of hegemony and discourse about which I had been reading, but I couldn't help but picture the Lilliputians defending their castles in a naive display of bravery against skilled giants who squash them upon arrival.

"Run away, stupid little people! What a pathetic defense of your tiny fiefdoms!"

Yeah. That's more fun.

Update

I looked forward all week to my rendezvous with the cable guy on Friday. Like all other things in my life lately, the news was not good.

Presently, there is no cable hook up to my house and the only nearby pole is up on the hill in my backyard. It's not impossible to make the connection to my house down below, but it does require digging and drilling and lord knows what else.

Since he hadn't anticipated the nuances of this job, the cable guy informed me that we had to reschedule our date. We're gonna try again for next Saturday.

In the meantime, without internet access, my blog updates will lack consistency, but not, I hope, flare.

A reason to post even though I'm dead tired and have nothing to say

Thanks, Mary.

Pity Party

It's no secret to anyone who's been around me or talked to me lately that I am stressed out.

Teaching is hard, my house is turning into a money pit, and all I can think about is how I can't find time to work on the Big-Ass Paper despite its looming deadline.

Just when I think I've got it under control, my kids stop acting like human beings with any rational thought whatsoever and I discover that the shower sprays a fine mist all over the basement through the tile.

People have been very kind to me in my frayed state. They say they are sorry about my stress. Please tell them if there's anything they can do. And it will all be okay. Big sis is so worried she dreams that I'm drowning.

Tonight, when the clogged sink in the kitchen put me over the edge and I called my dad to ask if I could give the house back, his reaction calmed me in a way that nothing else has in recent weeks. He laughed. "Welcome to home ownership," he chuckled. "Get yourself a snake."

Even though my I'm-your-little-girl-so-feel-sorry-for-me voice took over as I told him it wasn't funny, that I hated owning a house, and what the hell is a snake, I couldn't help but laugh either. Finally.

So for all who have put up with me of late, thank you. I see the light, if only for this moment, and I promise that I will work on getting over my self-pity. As soon as I find the time.

Universe, what have I ever done to you?

I have a coffee date tomorrow. So, naturally, my skin is dotted with blemishes that weren't there yesterday but will be there tomorrow.