Passing Time on a Rainy Afternoon

“I’m going to count how many negative statements you make.”

“Fine, I’m going to count how many negative statements you make.”

“Alright, we can keep a tally. It’ll be fun. Don’t you think that will be fun?”

“No.”

“Okay. That’s one.”

Hosting

Anxiously awaiting the family's arrival. It'll be a cozy Christmas in my little house. Busting with love and laughter.

Cheesy. I know. It comes out this time of year.

Paper-o-meter

College roommate Angela and I used to argue about whether the paper-o-meter was pronounced paper-ah-meter or paper-oh-meter. I like paper-ah-meter, but you can call it whatever you want. The important thing is that it measures how many pages left to write at the end of each semester.

The count as of today? 17.

And blog entries don't count.

"That One Was Especially Dry."

Cassie is trying to pull her weight around here, but I'm going to have to draw the line at watering the fake plants. She's done it once so far, and really, she doesn't have to.

The Outburst

I wouldn't call myself a big talker in my classes, but every now and then I just can't shut up. Even worse, sometimes I find myself really worked up about what I'm saying. Last night, as I tried to ask a question, a classmate interrupted me to express his surprise about my thinking and I practically yelled at him, "Look! Just let me ask my question!" Red face and all. And my question wasn't even that interesting.

I don't really like myself in such situations even though I know they're partly constructed by the context, the atmosphere in the room, the professor's way of conducting discussions, and my own level of stress at this time in the semester. But that just doesn't seem like much of an excuse to yell at someone.

Poor fella.

Family Ties

Now that the little sister lives with me there will be many opportunities to use her words against her. Here's an example of how I did just that when she shared how she had gotten mad at our mother for cooking sausage and making her clothes smell like fried food.

Email to mom:

Hi Mom,

Cassie just informed me that you fried some sausage for her today and instead of thanking you for that, she complained about the smell. I just want you to know that you can fry food in my house whenever you want. Also, you should know that I am a better daughter than Cassie, but that's pretty obvious.

Love you more than Cassie does,
Jessie

Optimism

The cold is on its way out. Good news given the mountain of work ahead of me in the next three weeks. I'll have to put my nose to the grind, but at least I'll be able to breathe out of it.

A Short Whine

Here it goes:

I'm really trying not to feel sorry for myself, but it keeps popping up. You see, I've agreed to sub for a 7th grade class tomorrow, Thursday, and Friday. During the busiest time of the whole semester. Not only do I have class tomorrow night, but I'm also sitting in on another class both Thursday and Friday after teaching all day. And then there's that lecture that I really shouldn't miss after class on Thursday because my professor made a point to invite me. And I'll need to use my lunch time and prep time to read for class and start on a paper that's due Monday. Oh. And I'm sick. Sore throat. Achy muscles. Yellow mucus. Can't sleep.

Clearly, the sorriness is warranted.

Why You Might Not Want to Date Your Financial Advisor

Overheard at a party. . .

"Were you talking to a client?"

"Yeah. The best kind of client. The kind you have sex with."

"What?"

"My girlfriend. I manage her finances too. I was like, 'Baby, I'm gonna maximize your returns. And later, I'm gonna maximize you.'"

Thanks a Latte

A mystery birthday card arrived in the mail on Wednesday. The envelope had my full name and no return address. The card itself is from Caribou Coffee and read:

Happy Belated Birthday!
Hopefully you can enjoy a shameless latte (maybe even a triple with flavor?) while you study. Love you!

No signature.

I've been racking my brain trying to figure out who sent this card and the $15 worth of coffee with it. I recognize the handwriting (perhaps due to eight years of teaching) and it seems male, but I just can't place it. I've been through all of my old cards and letters, but it just doesn't match any of those. And the postage is metered, so I can't tell where it was sent from.

I admit, I'm enjoying this mystery a bit, but mostly it's driving me crazy. If the card was sent from a blog reader and the name was left off by mistake, please, do claim your kind action. But if it was meant to be anonymous for some reason, well. . . then. . . thanks. I'll have a vanilla latte on you.

Turning Tides

The election results have me in a tizzy. So excited and nervous at the same time. I really hope the Dems can do some good. Really, really, really hoping for that.

Why I Could Never Doubt This Match

My sister, Becky, and her fiance, Andrew, share a credit card. They used to have one in each of their names, but Beck lost hers. So now they have just one in Andrew's name. He's out of town this weekend and wanted B to make their purchases using the card so as to earn miles in the process. Legally, such an act is not really allowed, so B found the card and this note from A when she returned home yesterday.

To whom it may concern,

I am writing to ask that you please allow my fiance Becky _______ to use my credit card.
We are engaged!
And I love her!

Andrew _______

Some might be inclined to not use the card with a note like that. Not Beck. She'll have the checker read it out loud. Maybe even over the intercom.

Halloween 2006

It was a tough day for Goldy yesterday. Creamed by Ohio State, Samuel L. Jackson, AND Princess Leia. He's keeping his spirits up, though, like a good mascot should.

Performing

Being a student has never felt more like a job than it does now. That's good and bad. I got into graduate school again because there are things I want to learn, ways I want to grow and challenge myself, but the message so far has been that everything I do is a resume building move. Today my advisor talked about how I need to think about marketing myself and that the decisions I make now will determine the kind of work I do later. Assignments never used to carry quite so much weight beyond earning a grade. Now I need to consider how each assignment fits into the larger identity of me as a scholar and researcher. Yikes. Sure, assignments are more meaningful and worthwhile this way, but they carry more pressure as well. I've managed to play the green, naive newcomer for the past for four weeks, but I'm feeling a bit like I've worn out that role. Which is fine. I wasn't all that crazy about it anyway.

Potpourri

My new deodorant is supposed to smell like lavender, but when combined with my sweat it smells more like bologna.

Clearly of Superior Insight

I went to D's cabin this weekend to help get the place ready for winter. My biggest task involved rolling up about eight hoses, which was a dream job compared to donning a wetsuit to help bring in the dock. A task that required standing in the cold water for over an hour while the pieces came apart. I was invited more than once to join this team, but when the time came, four men changed into wetsuits and trotted down to the shore. I awaited an "Are you coming?" but when none came, I strategically located myself out of sight where I slowly and meticulously rolled up my hoses in the warm sunshine. Normally, the assumption that some jobs just aren't meant for girls pisses me off enough to try to prove myself in the name of an entire gender, but the swearing and frustrated growls that carried across the water and landed upon my ears confirmed my suspicion that that battle was best saved for another day.

Boo, Humbug!

Fall marks my second least favorite holiday of the year: Halloween. (First on the list is the one we celebrate for the murderer, Columbus. October is a tough month for me.) Sure, years ago I would have traded my little sister for candy corn, but now that I can drive myself to Walgreens where they sell it year round, I simply loathe the holiday. Why? Because even after an entire month of searching the internet, gathering advice from friends, perusing the racks in second-hand stores, and making lists of ideas, I have never, ever, ever managed to come up with a creative, thought-provoking, or well-crafted costume.* Not once. Every year I think it will be different. That I'll suddenly discover the perfect idea. That it'll cost me only pennies. That I won't look like a total idiot. That I won't have to say, "It's a concept costume. Get it?" That someone will actually mean costumes are optional when they invite me to a party. Or that I'll be vomiting up candy corn all night and won't be able to leave the house. But every year, no such luck. So, while others look forward to the festivities of October 31, I wallow in the shame of not being able to call myself a true American. You know, because Chris Columbus got the ball rolling on making me so proud of that.

* Pimpon asks that I exempt all sock monkey costumes from this statement.

Minnesota, hats off to thee. . .

My non-roommate, Kate, the one who pays rent but doesn't live here, felt so bad about her late check that she gave me two free tickets to tonight's Gopher hockey game. As a U of M student, I was glad to do my part to cheer for the ole' maroon and gold. I had a great time, but felt more like an anthropologist studying the rituals of another culture than a student and fan.

First of all, everyone, really everyone, except me and a two-year old girl in a pink tutu was wearing the team colors. Secondly, I don't know the words to the Rouser and when I did try to chime in on the one easy part, I spelled Minnesota wrong. It has two Ns, you see. Next, there were the chanting patterns. After certain musical cues or announcements the crowd would answer in unison. And each time I would turn to Dave with the same question: What did they say? By the third period he was repeating himself. And still I asked. Finally, I'm just not cut out for viewing violent sports. The fights, name calling from the fans, and chanting of "You Suck" all elicited the same mumble from me: "Well. That's just not appropriate." But the thing is, for a hockey game, it was appropriate. The only thing out of place, it turns out, was me.

This Is How We Roll

I meant to write more about the marathon on Sunday, but I had a date with my aunt Diana's chicken n' dumplings and cheesy beans. That meal alone is incentive to run 26.2 miles.

Despite the fact that I spent fifteen minutes of my race in line for or using the bathroom, the run could not have gone better. I'll take a bad(ish) gut over fatigue and IT band problems in a race like that any day. Plus, finishing in 4 hours 28 minutes was still 17 minutes faster than three years ago. Next year, 4:15. Yep. I said it. Next year.

Becky and Andrew both had awesome runs too. Beck finished in 4:38 and Andrew in 3:53. Must have been his headband.

The Training: Marathon Day

I did it. All 26.2.

The Training: Week Eighteen

Dave has this philosophy that you're not allowed to speak of any running maladies the week of the big race. That's this week. The psychology of this is interesting because not having uttered the fact that my _________ hurts and my _________ are still sore, I've almost forgotten that they are. The training this week requires mostly rest and very short runs. The psychology of this works too as I am itching to run long. Preferably on a sunny Sunday morning with thousands of people cheering me on. It's also required that I eat a lot this week. Carbo-load, they call it. I've sort of been doing it for seventeen and a half weeks already, but I can eat mac n' cheese every day this week if I have to. Best of all, Becky, my running mate, arrives today. She's as prone to freaking out about things likes marathons as I am, so D's philosophy will come in handy. At this point, all of the physical work is done and the goal is to simply remain calm. The greatest challenge for me by far.

New Philosophy

Unless I adapt a new philosophy, my graduate school years could be rather glum. My old philosophy consists of doing every piece of reading assigned, spending hours on even short writing assignments, and generally doing homework every hour of the day that I'm not running or sleeping. I've also developed four to five knots in my right shoulder that will require at least an hour massage to maybe loosen them up the tiniest bit.

That was last week. So far, this week is shaping up to be about the same. I'm open to suggestions on the new philosophy, but I think it should be along the lines of taking things less seriously, drinking more wine, laughing more often. . . you know, good shit like that. The first step in this philosophical search was to take a break from the 350 pages assigned FOR JUST ONE OF MY CLASSES to write this entry. I feel better already. Step two? This new philosophy doesn't require that I plan ahead. That's the beauty of it.

The Training: Week Seventeen

The Training: Week Sixteen

Today is the last long(ish) run before the marathon. I meant to be finishing up my twelve miles right about now, but instead I'm drinking a cup of coffee and watching Tim Russert ask some tough questions on Meet the Press. I'm less thrilled about the politicians' answers, but that's to be expected. One of them did apologize for recent racist remarks and promised to stop flying his confederate flag now that he understands what it means to some people. Of course, he'll probably get elected.

I can use this information for motivation. Twelve miles may be just enough reflection time to restore a minimal amount of optimism for this world.

The Meet Market

I got asked out at the grocery store the other day.

I could see it coming from the moment he followed me into the organic food section where he collected zero items for his cart, but fixed his hair a few times and readjusted the sunglasses on his head. He wore a suit coat with a white button-down buttoned down to show off his hairy chest and gold chain. My Birkenstocks should have been a magic shield, but no luck. Later, I cut in front of him at the deli counter because he was talking on his cell and the kind lady working there had better things to do than wait for him. And so did I. I couldn't shake him though. He bumped into my cart in the coffee aisle, approached the lotions just as I left them, and moved into checkout aisle number 12 right after I did.

"Hey. How's it going?"

Classic.

"Fine."

"How much do you think you saved today?"

"Um. I don't know. Ten bucks?"

"No way. I bet I can get closer to my number than you can."

"Great. Go for it."

"I think I'll save $9."

"Oh."

"What does the winner get?"

And there it was. An opening for an invitation to coffee, dinner, a movie, or other such tortures.

"I guess, the winner gets . . . well. . . nothing. Sometimes that happens." Even if he wasn't reading the hint, my checker was. She gave me a knowing look and speeded up the scanning process. My hero.

"You cut in front of me in the deli line, you know."

"Yeah, I know."

"Well. That's not very courteous."

"Yep. I'm an awful person." I moved down to begin bagging at what I hoped would be lightening speed.

"So. You saved almost exactly what you guessed you would and I was way off. How could I not save any money at Cub Foods? Impossible. What do you say I buy you some coffee or tea to celebrate your winning?"

I was torn. Should I tell him that I can't go out with him because I have a boyfriend which would lead him to think that that was the only thing keeping me from saying yes? Or do I tell him that I just don't go out with men who follow me around grocery stores, demonstrate their rudeness, and reveal more chest hair than I'd want to see under any circumstances?

"No thanks," I replied. "Consider not buying me coffee as your savings for today." And with that, I left.

Worlds Collide

During our discussion of cultural models and genre ecologies last night (note: scholarly terms I don't quite understand), the professor (picture your father or grandfather here) decided to read to us from the genre of the romance novel to exemplify his point about the patterns that go along with particular identities and spaces. A good choice. But I couldn't help noticing how reading the particularly steamy scene -- one that involved kissing and undressing while waves crashed upon the shore in a color that matched the blue in the hero's eyes -- disrupted this otherwise academic space. No matter how dry his tone -- enough to soak up that ocean, mind you-- we were all quite aware that those words did not belong in this room or in that mouth.

Later, he showed us the proposal scene from High Fidelity as the modern alternative to the proposal scene in Emma. Another good choice, except when he decided to give us our instructions and handouts for next week -- something about identity and improvisation -- while Jack Black sang "Let's Get It On" in the background. You can probably guess which one had my full attention.

Can't Get the Spell Check to Work, but It's Still So Pretty

I'm writing this on my new Dell Inspiron 640m. It let's me do

block quotes,

italics, bold text, and make font changes with a simple touch of the mouse pad. It's very shiny and pretty too.

Jodi saw it and said,

"I've never wanted anything of yours like I want that laptop."

• Functional
• Attractive
• Enviable.
  

My sad, sad Mac is collecting dust already.

Phantom Housemate

She moved in one week ago.

Signs of her existence: Bedding on the bed. Clothes in the closet. Pictures on the dresser top.

Signs that she's paying rent for me to store these things: No underwear in the drawers. No toiletries in the medicine cabinet. No towels in the linen closet. No mail in the mailbox. And most telling, no housemate. Hide nor hair. Not a single sighting all week.

Initial findings from my detective work: This is a kick-ass living situation.

And so it begins.

Perhaps the best thing about being a full-time graduate student is that I can go to work in my pajamas. Already I have a fair amount of studying to attend to, but sitting on my couch with a book and a cup of coffee doesn't seem so bad. After talking with my advisor yesterday and collecting opinions from other graduate students in my department who offered sideways glances and boldly called me crazy, I ended up dropping one class to preserve some sanity this semester. I'm not very good at making such decisions and the guilt of it is still sitting in the pit of my stomach. Having a life was an argument I couldn't dispute, however, and three weeks from now, when I'm complaining that there just isn't enough time in the day to get everything done, it's going to feel like the right decision. Or so I hope.

The Training: Week Fourteen

Just four more weeks until the ole' 26.2. Due to lack of drinking fountains along the trails in Bismarck, I opted to postpone my twelve-miler until I returned to Minneapolis. A good decision. After sitting in the car for over six hours, I was actually looking quite forward to my run. Sadly, the first two miles involved some of the most painful steps I've ever taken. IT band. With only four weeks of training left, I'm not really willing to give up altogether, so I hobbled along until the pain subsided as it commonly does. Good thing too, because just as I was getting into the groove, I happened across a similarly paced runner who seemed to be in his own modicum of pain.

"You training?" he asked.

"Yeah. Twin Cities. You?"

"No. I used to run it, but I was hit by a car in the spring. I've just started running again."

"Wow. How does it feel?"

"Good now, but I may not be able to walk too much tomorrow. Lower back trouble."

Poor guy. We chatted for a while and I learned that he had actually saved his four year-old daughter. Pushed her out of the way of the car and took the hit himself. He runs despite the pain because he just can't give it up. "You've got a strong stride," he told me. "Use it. You can go faster than you are right now." He made his turn home and we waved farewell. Then, I kicked it into a higher gear. IT band nothing. I'm running this marathon

Primary Sources

Since I have my own house now, my mom asks me kindly each time I'm visiting if I'd like to relocate my stored boxes of belongings that age back to my elementary school days. Each time I'm here I organize them a bit, throw a few things out, take a couple of photos or writings with me, and then leave the rest for the pleasure of perusing the next time I'm home. Tonight, mom and I opened the door to the closet at the end of the stairs, the one where all memories are stored and things not remembered for years come to life. There I found treasure after treasure. My parents high school diplomas. My mother's "Neither Tardy Nor Absent" certificates. My kindergarten report card. A second grade story published in the Young Author's booklet. Physical fitness awards. A report on the jack rabbit. Birthday cards from my sixth grade classmates. And my sticker book. My beloved sticker book.

Two other items of interest to me were the bibles that my older sister and I had used for confirmation. Both with red leather covers and gold edging on the pages. Both used and worn. In the front of my bible, I had practiced my name three times. Within the pages I located my catechism, a filled out visitor's card, the 1990 Twins schedule, and a church envelope with New Kids On The Block and each members name written in block letters across the front. Likely evidence of how I passed the time during confirmation class.

In Becky's bible, I found no pieces of paper. No doodles, notes, inserts of any kind. Instead, written on the first page was Becky's name along with the names of six of her classmates. Under each name, a phone number. Evidence of how she passed the time. And one basic difference between us.

Supernova

I have a theory that we all have superpowers, just not the kind that send us flying into flaming buildings where we bend metal to save screaming children. Our superpowers are something more mundane at which we are unusually adept. Like catching wine glasses before they spill or never having trouble sleeping on a plane. Mine has to do with running errands with the least possible distance between stops and the least amount of gas used. Nothing worth wearing a cape for, but it's my power, take it or leave it.

Yesterday, as I drove home to visit the parents for the weekend, I listened to the first third of Bill Bryson's a Short History of Nearly Everything. While doing so, I learned about Robert Evans, a reverend and amateur astrologer who has spotted over 40 supernovae to date. He has no training or elaborate equipment, just small telescopes, but his uncanny skill for memorizing sky fields and noticing exploding stars his given him more discoveries to his credit than any of the large, automated telescopes now used. Evans told Bryson, "There's something satisfying, I think, about the idea of light traveling for millions of years through space and just at the right moment as it reaches Earth someone looks at the right bit of sky and sees it. It just seems right that an event of that magnitude should be witnessed." Amen to that.

Evans had me thinking as I drove along, now this, THIS is a superpower. Some have called Evans a savant, an autistic savant even. Certainly he has some exceptionality of vision and memory, but don't all of the real superheroes have that? It's a safe bet that I'll never witness my own supernova, but Evans has me thinking that maybe, just maybe there's another superpower out there for me. One "why me?" superpower that will reveal itself at just the right time and place. Extraordinary and ordinary all at once. And I like that thought.

I'm a Mac

I need a new computer for graduate school. My Mac, which I adore like one of the family, has had a few problems over the years. Its logic board has gone out twice, and just last spring the entire hard drive died. During that last fiasco, I lost all of my course work for my master's degree, and I just can't bear the thought of the same happening with my Ph.D research. It's time for a new machine, we can all agree.

I've been resisting this day, however, because I've realized that the smart choice for this time in my life is the PC, not my beloved, boyishly cute, sweatshirt and Keds sporting Mac. Not only does the PC carry the software that I'll need for calculating and storing statistical research, but it also comes in at around $500 cheaper than the Mac.

I want you all to know that while this may be the smart choice, it is not my heart choice. And I will refuse, for quite some time, to identify myself as the suit wearing, spyware buying, AOL using PC owner. Until I'm really strapped for cash or am willing to recognize the inconvenience of it all, I'm going to own both a new PC and this worn and tattered iBook. But I'll only clutch one of them close to my chest each night as I fall asleep.

Getting Oriented

I enjoyed my return to campus today. Classes haven't started yet, but I'm enrolled in orientation sessions throughout the week. They aren't just for students in my department, but for instructors and TA's in all departments across campus. It's interesting to meet people teaching other subjects and to hear their varied perspectives on the challenges and rewards that come with the territory. At the same time, whenever I explain that I am a middle school teacher who is making the shift into academia, I tend to get an underwhelmed response followed by some ridiculous statement to which I know not what to say.

First there was, "You know. Every time I meet a middle school teacher, she's always a striking and small woman. I bet the boys never skip your class! Ha ha!" Then there was, "English teacher, eh. Do you still have your students diagram sentences? You know, I never understood the contraction or the preposition until I had to diagram sentences. I've heard that's not taught any more and I think it's a real dumbing down of the curriculum."

Sometimes these comments make me feel like I don't belong at the university. Not because I don't feel smart enough or because I don't know enough about my discipline to play along with the scholars. But mainly, I think I don't belong because I'm not . . . well . . . an ass.

Making Ends Meet

I don't know why it took me by such surprise, but when my loan check came in the mail today for the entire amount of my loan, I was rather taken aback. Oh, I've borrowed my fair share of money before, but those checks went directly to my school, never to me. All of a sudden those zeroes began to translate themselves into flights to beach locations and tropical drinks.

Upon setting aside the check and scanning the lending documents that accompanied it, my bubble burst. When all is said and done, I will have to pay back nearly three times the amount of money that I'm taking out. Let me say that again. Three times. Th-ree.

So all of those zeroes will be making their way to my savings account tomorrow where they will earn interest and grow at a rate that pales next to the interest that will be accruing for my lending company on the other end. No plane tickets. No mai tais on the beach. Just my nose to the books. But here's the thing. I've got a feeling it'll all be worth it.

A Guest Entry

Back from the Boundary Waters, but not settled in just yet. Luckily bdoc, patient as ever, decided to take blog matters into her own hands. Thanks sister.

I feed my terrible addiction to Diet Pepsi every morning by stopping at a particular convenience store called Friendlys on my way to work. I KNOW I shouldn't drink that crap so early in the morning but my addiction is too developed now to stop while I'm also training for a marathon. Just can't do it. And truth be known, Friendlys is actually NOT on my way to work. Again, the addiction makes me do crazy things....

I digress.

So, this particularly morning was no different than any other except that I noticed a New Dude (ND) working behind the counter. He wore an eye-harassing outfit of camouflage pants and a tie-dyed shirt with the logo of Friendlys on the upper right hand corner of the shirt. His glasses were WAY too big and his eyes were about the size of baseballs behind them - quite the sight, really so it was hard not to notice him.

I got my soda and walked to the line behind the counter. I patiently waited behind the 2 people in front of me and noticed the 3 people lined up behind me when I finally reached the front. While I handed ND my money, he inquired about the button pinned to my purse.

I told him, "It says, 'Vote Pro-Choice.'"

ND: "Hmmm, I'd have to disagree."

Me: "You can disagree; have that right ... though you'd be wrong." And then I gave him my syrupy-sweet-how-can-you-disagree-with-this-face smile.

OH, he disagreed alright.

ND: "Think about it: We need slaves in this country. What better slaves could we find than those that are already unwanted. Let them be born and then put them into slavery."

He gave me NO HINT of sarcasm or joke in his face or voice. He didn't say anything to indicate jest and merely urged me again to "Think about it" as I walked out the door.

I am not sure whether to be more afraid of his anti-choice statement or his pro-slavery "idea."

Needless to say, there are some characters in Montana ... even in a place called 'Friendlys.'

Evidence of My Colossal Laziness (or Why Jodi Is My Best Friend)

"I think I like the name Jill again. I went through a period where I really didn't like the name, but I like Jill again."

"Uh huh. You're watching Starting Over aren't you."

"Oh my god. Yes. How did you know?"

"I've been watching all week during the commercials for General Hospital. You might want to turn over to ABC to find out how Sonny's therapy is going. Plus, it's the superior of the two shows."

"Huh. Really. Thanks. I will."

The Training: Week Eleven

Injury from my first marathon took me to an orthopedic specialist who offered this sound advice: "If it hurts, don't run."

Well. It hurts. Same leg. Same spots. Same pain.

And the training was going so well up until now. I'm taking today off, but running tomorrow isn't out of the question.

Yet.

A Bump in the Night

For anyone who is keeping track, I still haven't figured out what's wrong with my gut. And it still hasn't gone away. The latest installment of grief coming from that area is incessant gas throughout the night. This condition comes and goes, and I haven't really been able to pin point its triggers. Luckily, I live alone with ceiling fans.

The other night, feeling fairly well, I decided to stay over at the boyfriend's place instead of making the trek home after watching a Twins game that went extra innings. At about 3:30, I awoke with a start at the sound of my own ass letting loose. In these situations, I usually like to play it cool. Pretend nothing happened. But not only did the sound reverberate off the walls, it literally shook me out of sleep and my only option was to pretend that I was rolling over. D didn't move at first, and as the seconds ticked by, I thought I was in the clear. Then, with a sigh that signaled consciousness, he rolled the other way and returned to sleep. My Sex and The City nightmare come to life.

It was obvious to me that I had awoken us both, and it did not take long to realize that my rumble was only one of many to come. I spent the next hour and a half trying to alternately fall asleep and hold things in. Neither of which I did successfully. Finally, defeated, I grabbed my pillow and headed to the couch where I relieved myself, more than once, and slept like a baby for the remainder of the night.

Things could have ended there, but compelled as I am to discuss all embarrassing moments at great length (you know, clear the air . . . ahem), I brought up the incident only to learn that D had no I idea what I was talking about and had slept through all but the part where I shook him to say, "I'm going to sleep on the couch." I figure there are two possibilities here: a) he was lying to protect my dignity or b) he really didn't hear my quaking of the earth. Either way, we make a great match.

And. Done.

Last day of summer school today. It wasn't a total wash, but the first and last weeks were certainly trying. As I returned my supplies to the office, I heard one of the administrators complimenting teachers as they walked by. "You are a great teacher." "Thanks for your hard work." "Great job with the kids." To me, she said, "Nice to meet you." Perhaps she was just trying to expand her repertoire, but a shift was certainly noticeable. Granted, things were a little crazy with the 8th graders on most days, but we made it though and celebrated with a short game of kickball at the end of the morning. It was clear we had built ourselves a little community over our four weeks, and even my most annoying student smiled after I chucked the kickball hard at his back and got him out. Quite a nice little ending note for me, I must say.

35 Years

Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad.

Keep dancing.

Living Alone

As much as I need a roommate for financial reasons, I must say that I have been appreciating my time alone here at casa de doc. Plus, I've taken on new habits certain to annoy any cohabitant. For starters, to save money in this heat, I've unplugged all minor appliances. Microwave. TV. Stereo. Lamps. Even though the dryer is plugged in, I haven't used it for weeks and instead, I hang my wet clothes over every door handle, chair, and railing in the place. I've also darkened all windows with blankets and run only the ceiling fans instead of the air conditioner for all but about three hours of the day. Since that makes it relatively warm in here, clothing has become optional. And in a dark, quiet house where any small movement makes you sweat, why be awake anyway? So, I nap for a couple of hours each afternoon.

The best news of all is that I think I found someone to live with me. She can't move in until September, so I'll have at least one more month of doing whatever the hell I want in MY house.

Passing Judgment

I really need a roommate for the fall and the prospects are grim. Here's the score card:

Turned Me Down:
1. Young professional female who had to move because roommate is getting married and only needs temporary housing because she wants to travel the world starting in January.
2. Young professional male starting a job in public television. Prefers to live with women because they are clean, like him.
3. Young teacher with certification in middle school language arts beginning her first teaching job this fall.
4. Anyone who has seen the house.

Shown Overwhelming Interest:
1. Father of two who needs someone flexible enough to let his two children stay with him when it is his weekend ON.
2. Older woman who left an eleven-year abusive relationship even though she did keep her married name because her maiden one was just too hard for anyone to spell and who likes living with her aunt but thinks it's time to get out on her own even though she can't find a job in early childhood education because of the requirement differences between California and Minnesota and what do I think about all of that?
3. Even older male who is moderately disabled and needs space for his service dog as well, but we can't meet until after the heat passes because he can't really go out in the sun.
4. Anyone who has NOT YET seen the house.

I'm beginning to think that I should have tackled those painting and home improvements projects that I meant to complete by now. Can't anyone see potential anymore?

The Training: Week Eight

I had, perhaps, the best run of my life last Sunday. Twelve and a half miles at a solid pace and two more miles on top of that at an even faster trot. I don't know what got into me, but let's all remember that run for posterity sake when I declare, with tears streaming down my face, "I can't do it! I can't take another step!" It's out there. Just waiting for me.

Careful What You Wish For

Remember how I said I'd do the prep work and procedure all over again if I could miss a day of summer school next week too?

I take it back. I take it aaaall back.

Unfortunately, it's too late for that as the doc today recommended a barium enema and x-ray of the rest of my colon -- which requires TWO days of prep work slightly more unbearable than the prep work described below.

On the plus side, the inside of my colon is clear, clean, and lovely.

I Exaggerate . . . A Little

Earlier today I began prep work for my very own flexible sigmoidoscopy. This prep work requires that I eat a full liquid lunch, eat a full liquid dinner, fast after 5 p.m., drink ridiculous volumes of clear fluid, down 10 oz. of magnesium citrate before 6 p.m., visit the bathroom innumerable times expelling my liquid meals due to the magnesium citrate, stay up through the night due to such visits, and then give myself two enemas in the early hours of the morning before heading to the clinic where some folks will take a look around my colon.

And if I could miss a day of teaching summer school next week too, I'd do it all over again.

Why I've Never Done This Before

It's official. Teaching summer school is a full time job. While student contact time is only three and a half hours, the actual time planning, preparing, teaching, assessing, and obsessing (recall: I haven't a clue what I'm doing) is about nine hours per day. This is really cramping my style.

Summer School

It started today. As much as I'd like to say that I'm teaching summer reading to help my struggling readers become more proficient and fluent, the fact is I'd rather be sleeping in and drinking coffee with my book each a.m. I can't complain too much because I have just four morning hours of work each day, but I can already predict that my days will in actuality be much longer. You see, I don't really know how to teach reading, which is what I've been assigned. Literature and writing, sure. But reading is a whole different ball game of strategies, decoding, and vocabulary. I'm not worried that I won't figure this out, it's just going to take a bigger chunk out of my summer days than I had anticipated. Luckily, I made it through the first day without anyone calling my bluff.

The Shits

I've been having some odd stomach problems lately. Actually, they've been going on for a few months now, and they crossed the line the other night after I ate half a pound of blueberries and then completed a ten-mile run. Sure, the cramping and moaning could certainly be related to such events, but those who care about me most helped me see a trend that has been present for a while now. So, yesterday I paid a visit to urgent care and collected all of the appropriate "samples." And yes. By "samples" I mean exactly what you are thinking.

Since nothing can be known until next week, I've been trying really hard to not freak myself out with the possibilities and have even managed to avoid Googling my symptoms. I did call just about everyone I know to solicit sympathy, however, and they did not disappoint. Becky is very sorry that I have to go through this crap; Jodi promises to be my side no matter how it all comes out; and my mother, the calm in every storm of my life, promises that even though this is really the shits, I'll get through it.

Lessons Learned Over the Weekend

1) Never play lawn sports. There's nothing worse than being really bad at something that's supposed to be fun;

2) You only have to fall hard three times before realizing why skis come in pairs. That fourth fall is unnecessary and remarkably painful;

3) When sharing a room with someone, really bad gas is pretty much standard; and

4) If you start every day drinking coffee on the dock while dangling your toes in the water, all embarrassments from the previous day simply wash away.

The Training: Week Five

I let my sister talk me into running the Twin Cities Marathon again this year. The last one was in 2003 and I remember it fondly as The Time I Nearly Died. Or so it felt. And so I declared to my father at mile nineteen. My exact words: "I'm fucking dying." The run left me injured in other ways as well, and my right leg can't promise me that it'll actually stick with me through the entire training. I'm open to the possibility that this won't actually happen, but like most of my major life decisions, the damage will likely be done before I turn back. Nine miles already down this week. Twenty-one more to go.

What's the Story?

The morning glories are killing me. They're growing ev-er-y-where. And lately, they've been choking to death the plants I want to keep. In the Northwest, they're called Bindweed and are considered noxious. I know this because I've been lurking on garden chatrooms to try to find out how to kill them. So far, no one seems to have the answer. In fact, some are offended that anyone would attempt to eliminate a plant that others try so hard to grow. Gardeners are a fascinating bunch.

Today, I realized that the interesting thing about my problem is that I don't really want it to go away. When I arrived home from the gym, I looked at my mounds-o-glory, mumbled my usual "fucking weeds," and happily pulled a few more from the ground. You see, I actually enjoy removing my nemesis bit-by-bit from the earth. Should they all disappear one day, I wouldn't know what to do with myself on a quiet evening at the end of June with no papers to grade or lessons to write. So, for now, I'll continue to pluck the horrible creatures from my yard, cursing them joyfully all the way.

The Return

You'd think that I'd get sick of waking up to the likes of these two every morning while visiting my sister in Montana, but quite the opposite is true. Perhaps I'll tape this picture to my nightstand so this image can still be the first thing I see upon waking (albeit a dryer and less animated version).

The Plugs

Becky and I decided to stay in the same hotel room as our parents for cousin Bryce’s wedding under one condition: that we acquire earplugs industrial enough to deaden the sound of dad’s snoring. You know, something similar to what the the airline workers wear when standing directly below a plane.

So in preparation for the trip, dad made meeting this particular challenge his mission and raided the earplug stash at work. Having raised three daughters, he knew well enough to get two of each variety to avoid arguments, and in the end, Beck and I were each able to choose from a selection that looked like this:



When the time came to select a proper plug, Beck went with the Pura-Fit 6800 and I the Max Lite. At bedtime, we settled into our spots, and once we both had our ear gear in place, the conversation went something like this:

Me: Are your earplugs comfortable?

Beck: What?

Me: Com - fort - a - ble.

Beck: Oh. Yeah. What about yours?

Me: What?

Beck: (pointing at her ear) Yours?

Me: Oh. No. I think they’re sticking out too far.

Beck: What?

Me: Too far. Is this too far out of my ear?

Beck: Yeah. You should try this kind.

Me: What?

You can probably read the pattern here. It all ended in fits of laughter that woke our already sleeping father, who, should he have wanted them, still had ten pairs of earplugs to choose from.

Bittersweet

Today was the last day with the kiddos, and six hours after their departure, I finally feel pretty sad. I imagine that in no other job will a thirteen-year-old girl tell me that I rock and rule and am her best friend when her other friends aren't around. The day was full of other such well-wishes, I'll miss yous, and promises to visit next year too.

What the kids don't know yet, is that I won't be back next year. I didn't want to tell them because, even though I wouldn't be their teacher anyway, to these kids it feels a little like someone is leaving them, like someone is giving up. And if I'm being honest right now, it feels a little bit like I am. While I know that there is no bigger or better thing than teaching these kids that I could ever move onto, I know too, that it's time to challenge myself elsewhere, to see what I can accomplish. For me.

I don't think kids like Sarah or Thanh will understand that this fall when they return to my room ready to show me how much they've grown over the summer and to tell me about their adventures. And the thought of not being there to see and hear them has me pretty bummed out. Yet, as cheesy as it may sound, I have to trust that they took something of me with them that they won't forget, even if I'm not standing in room 213 awaiting their return. Just as I am taking something of them with me.

Priceless

Some would argue that it's a bit juvenile to get together with a group of adults to play board games. Below is just one example of why I beg to differ.

Game prompt: Gifts you would never give to a nun.

Game answer that will be relived in every subsequent "Game Night" for the rest of our lives: Herpes

Home Owning 101

Notice, if you will, two things in this photo. First, I managed to string a clothesline from one tree to another in my backyard to save loads and loads of money on the electric bill this summer.

Second, I mowed the lawn. This may not seem as great a feat, but take into consideration the fact that the contraption has not started for two weeks and that I was able to troubleshoot the problem using Google and a tea canister, and it should be obvious to any thinking individual that I am pretty much the MacGyver of home ownership.

Ten Days Left and I'm Doing More Harm Than Good

As you read this post, please remember two things: a) I rrreeeeaaaaaallllly need my summer break to arrive and b) I recently wrote a very nice post proving that I was once a good teacher.

That said . . .

When my whiniest child (and I mean please-rip-my-ears-off whining) stated for the umpteenth time that he needed a drink or he might just die, several students heard me mumble, "At least you'd be quiet." Then, to make things worse, when he asked if I'd care if he died, I replied, "I'd feel bad for maybe a second, but then I'd get over it."

I think he knew I was mostly kidding. No calls from home yet.

"Last night I dreamt I had a unibrow"

Whiteboard notes like this one are the reason I love having Kirsten as a house guest.

P.O.T.U.S.

Greg, hallway neighbor and teacher extraordinaire, is running the senate in his social studies classroom. I can't remember how I got the gig, but somehow I'm the president, which means I sign or veto all bills that pass through the committees. While this means that I get to talk over important issues with kids who ask me about my politics, it also, and more importantly, means that I am the most popular teacher on the team. In order to make his lesson authentic, G points out that sometimes politics is about who you know as much as what you believe -- maybe more. So, gifts of artwork, poetry, and candy always mark the start of the game. My favorite part, though, is the major ass-kissing in the hallway: "You look very nice today, President D. How are you?" Shit like that.

When it comes to talking agenda, some of them struggle to get to the heart of the issues:

Student: "Ms. D. How do you feel about saving the environment?"
Me: "I feel great! Let's save it!"
Student: "I knew it! You'll sign my bill right?"

Then there are those who know the right approach:

Student: "Ms. D. If you could change one thing in our country, what would it be?"

I never know where to start. And then I never know where to end.

So far, I've vetoed only two bills. One wanted to lower the working age and the other the voting age. The second was a harder decision for me, but sometimes I'm just curious to hear their reactions when I slash their bills. "Wah? Why? I'm in your Prime Time!" I love the power.

Each year I do this, a couple of pretty serious bills come my way. Abortion. Gay marriage. Immigration. At those moments, I realize this is NOT a game, and that G is the best teacher those kids will ever have. Then, all brown-nosing aside, I'm just damn grateful to be part of this process.

The Countdown

At the end of the day on Monday, I knew it was time to start counting down the days left of school for the year. By the end of the week, I was counting down minutes left in each day. Every action the sevens make and every word they speak escalates just a notch day by day. At year's end, they'll be bubbling over -- which happened literally to one particular boy yesterday.

In a brief lapse of judgment, I let my last hour choose seats for work time. Boy S sat next to Boy J and each proceeded to poke, tickle, tease, and write on the other. Nothing atypical. Yet, when Boy S really gets giggling, he . . . well . . . vomits. Yep. Right there on the floor. You can imagine the chaos that ensues when a child hurls in the classroom. First, there's the clearing of space anywhere near the chunk blower and his puddle. Then, there's the screaming and opening of windows. Finally, the recapping of the incident by every child in the room even though they were all right there. Angles differ, I guess.

I, on the other hand, had two main concerns: a) calm the boy who will forever be known as the Giggling Vomiter, and b) get that shit cleaned up. After calling for back up, I took Boy S to the door and wrote him a pass to the nurse. He felt fine, but the arc of the projectile liquid did not quite clear his clothing. "S," I said, "Don't worry. These things can happen." To myself, I thought, "Like hell they do, you freak."

He replied, "Yeah. This is the third time."

Then I couldn't help myself. "S," I looked him straight in the eye. "I take it back. This isn't normal. You've got to get it together. You can't go through life vomiting spontaneously." I said this with a smile because Boy S is also prone to spontaneous crying. With his bottom lip quivering, he took the pass and left the room, and I calculated that my own private hell would last eighteen minutes and 42 seconds longer.

Before and After

The clean up over the weekend was a great success.







There's still work left to do, but I'm motived by the results so far.

And my mother wonders why I'm still single. . .

My parents and I ate at my local tavern last night. We had earned our onion rings after ten hours of yard labor. When I went up to the bar to pay our bill, the man next to me -- mid-thirties, rough looking, drunk -- turned to me, smiled, and said, "Hey" in that long, drawn-out, "How are you doing?" voice.

"Hi," I replied.

"Are you here alone?" he continued.

"I'm here with my parents." I could see where this was going and smiled as I responded.

"Ohhh. That's okay," he smiled back. "Are you busy?"

"Um. Yes. I'm with my parents. We're leaving."

"No." He pointed at the ring finger on his left hand. "Are you busy ?"

I laughed. "No. I'm not busy like that."

"Good. I'm looking for a wife."

"Well, you've known me for only two seconds. What makes you think I'm the one?"

"Great smile. Good attitude. I can tell."

The female bartender couldn't help but overhear. My guffaws probably got her attention. "Nice line," she shouted down the bar.

"It's not a line!" my suitor shouted back. "I haven't even seen her walk yet!"

That was my cue. "Good luck with your search," I said as I grabbed my card and returned to my parents' table.

Project Parkway

The parents are coming to help clean up the yard this weekend and I have high hopes for the end result. My part in the effort, aside from the actual physical labor, is to stop telling myself that I am totally inadequate when it comes to home ownership. Believing is half of the battle. Having parents who will drive four hundred and fifty miles to help you is the other.

Brunch

There are those who love to have people over and those who love to be had over. I am of the second breed. But now that I own a house and it's time to enter into that first category, I fear I lack the skills that make me qualified to make such a move. I also lack the dishware, but that's really a separate issue. So after inviting people over for brunch, anxiety set in to the point that I've been dreaming all week about Bridget Jones and the blue soup she served for Christmas dinner.

You'll be glad to learn things went better than that. Thank goodness.

I'm at a point in my life where it's easier to admit my insecurities than pretend they don't exist, so I called the appropriate experts for recipes and back up. When guests asked what they could bring, I appointed side dishes and beverages. Jodi vowed to arrive an hour early to help with preparation, and of course, she thought to bring flowers. As the main dish was still up to me, there was extensive room for error, but I surprised myself with just one easily remedied mistake. I even managed to stop sweating before we sat down to eat.

The guests talked, laughed and left with full stomachs. And even though my hosting turn won't come up again for another nine to twelve weeks, I'm looking forward to it. Now that's progress.

The Brothers

If someone asked me which of my former students I would most like to walk into my classroom today, I’d say, without hesitation, the Lopez brothers. They came to us the last year my former school was open, and at first, they were just sort of there. They were the kind of students who could easily be overlooked and forgotten. Isaac was in 8th grade; David and Daniel, twins, were in 7th. I had them in separate classes, and while I could get Isaac to speak, albeit softly, David and Daniel said nothing. Even when asked a question directly, they’d smirk and look down. Spanish was the language spoken in their home, and I assumed that their silence was their way of coping with their lack of understanding. I was wrong. They understood more than I knew.

Daniel was in my advisor group, and on more than one occasion I caught him, and only him, chuckling at my sarcastic and often lame jokes. David and Isaac, although quiet, were engaged and interested in class too. Soon, they began to stick around after school, even though missing the bus meant an hour’s walk home. “Would you like to see a trick?” Isaac asked on one of these days. David and Daniel giggled behind him. “It’s very tricky,” Isaac continued. Soon, I was the one giggling as Isaac shared his card tricks with me. “Can you do this too?” I asked the twins. They looked at each other, and Isaac responded, “They can.”

Day after day the three of them stuck around for at least an hour after school. Some days they sat in my room. Some days in Greg’s room next door. When they’d leave, Greg and I would share stories about the afternoon. “Have you noticed how Isaac uses the word ‘rapidly’ over and over?” I shared one afternoon. “He says it’s his favorite word.” Rapidly, rapidly, rapidly. He liked the sound of it. Soon, I did too. Slowly, Daniel and David began to talk, usually to make fun of Isaac or one another. Their gibes never turned harsh, but demonstrated their absolute love and respect for their big brother and for each other. They let me in on a few of their inside jokes, but most of them they saved for themselves. Their card playing and giggling became one of the best parts of my week.

At conference time, their mother came to talk about their progress. The Lopez brothers weren’t stellar students, but their character could not be matched. I was eager to tell Mrs. Lopez how much I enjoyed her boys, and that I admired how she had raised them to be such good people. She arrived for conferences with Isaac, David, Daniel, and at least three of her other nine children in tow. She had taken off time from work to be there. I told her how lucky I was to have her sons in my classroom. She thanked me for my compliments and then told her boys their academic performance mattered as much as their kindness. She was right, and they listened. That night, I gained a new level of respect for this single mother, and found a new mission as a teacher. Our after school time gained a new focus, and by the end of year, the Lopez brothers turned in work more consistently and confidently.

Over the years, Greg and I have often recalled stories about these boys, and Greg keeps a picture of the three of them in his closet. So today after school when I turned around to respond to my name, there wasn’t a moment’s hesitation. Despite five years distance, I knew immediately who was standing in front of me. “Isaac Lopez!" I said. "What a pleasure to see you here.” Next to him stood David, although I admit I had to ask. I never could tell him apart from Daniel. They had come to say hello. Greg was as excited as I was, and the two of us bombarded them with questions and memories about the three of them. Isaac did most of the talking, still, but let David speak for himself as well. Isaac is enrolled in culinary school. Daniel and David will graduate from high school this year. Their mom is doing well, and has adopted their cousins. All three joined the army last year. They are happy, articulate, and confident men. And they promised to come back again soon -- with Daniel.

This is, in all likelihood, my last year teaching middle school, and I can’t help but feel that today’s visit was a scene from my very own episode of “This is Your Life.” As I contemplate my upcoming transition, I’ve wondered what impact I’ve had in this job and whether or not I’ve done enough before moving on. Today, my answer walked through the door.

Accepting My Earth Day Challenge

My yard has gotten to be quite an eyesore. Once it was just overgrown and chaotic. Now it's overgrown, chaotic, and dead, like the former yard molted and left its skin strewn about. Since Earth Day's greatest cheerleader happens to be my sister, I decided I had better get out there today to do something about the mess.

From what I can tell by talking with the neighbors, the previous owner of my house was a little bit crazy, sort of a pagan version of Tom Cruise, if you will. Three neighbors and the postman stopped to chat with me today as I pulled the unidentifiable foliage from the ground. Each one looked me the eye, shook his or her head, and sighed, "I don't know what he was thinking." One joked about the dead bodies that must be buried under the mounds of dirt where two green posts hold up these ridiculous swarms of dead vines. I've actually wondered about that myself.

Since I don't really know how to improve the yard, I appreciated the advice that each one offered, even if I didn't always understand it. "Just put down some sod." "What about wood chips?" "Maybe some ground growth would look nice." I get sod and wood chips, but does ground growth actually mean something other than what's already there? I mean, isn't it all ground growth?

I worked for two hours in the yard today and I can't say that it looks much better than it did before. I will say, however, the day was successful if only to show the neighbors that I'm at least trying to do something about this blot on our otherwise lovely block. And I'm beginning to think that my roommate, Julie, is right. Just moving in was improvement enough in their eyes.

I like to pretend that I have a life outside of work. . .

so I try not to write about the seventh graders too often. But when you just want to put some words down before dragging your tired ass to bed at 8:30, I think it's okay that the one blog-worthy thing that stands out from your day is the boy who shouted, "There is a God!" when you told him he'd have to sit in the girls' locker room during the tornado drill.

Just What She Ought

When I complained to best pal Jodi about being sick again, this time with some laryngitis/fever/cough thing, she knew just what to say: "Yeah, but you look so cute with your rosy cheeks. Like how someone with tuberculosis might look."

I tried to laugh at this, but I only managed a tortured wheeze.

Wanted

I'm in search of a new roommate. Nothing wrong with my current roommate, she's just moving out of the country. I've had an ad posted for a few weeks touting the fabulous amenities of my house. You know. Clean. Quiet. Free wireless. What's not to love? So far I've had four or five inquiries and four or five rejections. Each one feels a little bit like a break up -- especially the rejection by the woman who actually came over to see the house. I even had her number programmed into my cell phone already. I cried a little when I erased it. Okay, not really, but my point here is that I'm trying not to take this personally and I'm not doing so hot. Perhaps it's time to tweak the ad a bit. I do have ten channels if you count the Spanish one.

7th Grade Poetry

He wanted her like a kid wants candy.
Unfortunately, she wanted him
like a vegetarian wants meat.

Gearing Up

It's time for the ritual Sunday night get-ready-for-the-week self-pep-talk. (There are so many ways to hyphenate that sentence that the only ridiculous option is not to.) I'm sitting on the couch reviewing what needs to get done between now and 10 pm so that I might be ready for the week. As usual, there's more than I can possibly tackle and I am working on a successful attempt to convince myself that I might as well call the evening a wash and cuddle up with a book until Grey's Anatomy begins at 9. Skipping any sort of preparation over the weekend always sits a bit uneasily in the conscience, though, and this is made particularly heavy by the fact that last week was, without a doubt, the best week of the entire school year. My days were enjoyable and stress-free, five in a row, one right after the other. So now I am convinced that could only have been the calm before a very big spring storm. Some sort of clipper is surely on its way. Which, as I write this, seems all the more reason to relax this evening so that I'm rested up for the tempest. Yep. The pep-talk is going pretty well.

Confessions of a Miser

Every now and then I have this gig where I take care of a dog named Sam in a suburb named Edina. Sam is pretty easy going, except when he relieves himself in the house, which happens more and more as he gets older, and when he follows you around bumping his soggy nose against your thigh, whimpering so you know he wants food or a walk or just plain love, and when he saunters off to sniff what the neighbors have got going on. Okay, so Sam's a bit of a handful, but I can't really complain because he mostly sits at my feet while I watch free cable, looks at me when I sing to him, and generally brings my heart rate down. Plus, I find I really love living in someone else's house. I am, I admit, a snoop, but that's only part of it. Not only do Sam's owners pay a nice rate for his care, but I save a fair sum eating their food too. They encourage me to eat whatever I'd like while here, so I don't feel too badly about the rows of thin mints I've eaten, even if they did have one of the kid's names on them. What they may not realize, however, is that I also borrow their products. Those who know me well know that I am a bit of a penny pincher. So every time I use their toothpaste, floss, soap, shampoo, lotion, laundry detergent, or whatever, I think about the pennies I'm saving. And I really do think about it every time. I know this confession won't get me any dog sitting gigs soon, but come on, truth be told, wouldn't we all do the same thing? Maybe it's just weird how much I enjoy it.

A Bit of Maturity to Begin the New Quarter

The sevens were particularly somber today after their returns from Spring Break. I was okay with their sleepy states because I lived in one myself all day, but that didn't mean I could let them outright snooze through the lesson. So, I had to nudge at least one student awake each hour, and the last one proved well-worth a blog mention.

As we began work on the assignment last hour, I stopped over to wake one dreaming beauty. She didn't sit up or move upon receiving my tap; instead, after a brief pause, she spoke, head still down.

"Oh my god." Her tone was neither surprised nor shaken. "There's a puddle of drool on the table." Calm and collected, her words muffled through her arm, she asked, "Um. Can someone please get me a tissue?"

Not all sevens would handle this so cooly, so I couldn't deny her request. As I walked over to retrieve the tissue, no one else moved or spoke, but each began to tune into the situation.

The drooling daisy sensed this, and when I handed her the tissue, she replied with a kind "thank you," but still didn't move. Finally, she asked, "They're all looking at me, aren't they?" her tone now muffled and defeated.

"Well. Yeah," I confessed. She had, after all, announced that she had created a puddle of drool. What seventh grader doesn't want to see that?

"Oh," she stated, drew herself up gracefully, wiped up the drool in one swift motion, and took up her pencil to begin work. I like this girl, I thought.

And miracle of all miracles, no one laughed. They simply looked back at their own papers and resumed writing.

A Shameless "Feel Sorry for Me" Request

Spring Break 2006 ends today. I successfully put off doing any work until this last day, but now I find myself with the stomach flu. Thinking the symptoms had been brought on by the moderate sum of wine I consumed Friday night, I held off giving my ailment a name until today. Gatorade and club crackers have been my only companions, and whenever I think I feel well enough to get out of bed, I find myself stopping to rest part way across the house. I mustered up the verve to shower at one point, but had to sit down for a spell mid-lather. If I keep myself on bedrest all day, this thing should run its course and I'll probably be fine to teach tomorrow. Of course, I will have nothing to teach because I have not yet planned any lessons for our new unit. Poor me. Why does the end of Spring Break always have to suck so hard?

Girl Gone Wild 2006: The Summary

As expected, the trip Out East was wonderful. Ann, who put us up in her Brooklyn apartment, played hostess extraordinaire. She and Tyler were dogsitting the most precious little mutt of a dog, and the three of them made quite the happy family.
If Sophie knows what's good for her, she'll ditch her real owners and stick with the people who actually encourage sitting on the couch.



One of the highlights was meeting Bryan for Indian dosas followed by Magnolia Bakery cupcakes heavily coated with frosting. I rapped The Chronic (What?) Cles of Narnia for everyone as we scarfed down the sugary goodness and peered through the window to witness the magic of the cupcake design. Each Cupateer had a style all her own, and we stuck around long enough to determine the two-to-one ratio of cupcake productivity between a couple of the workers. Contestant A had style, speed, and swirl. Contestant B never stood a chance with his dainty pat-down method.


After a late lunch Saturday in Tribeca with running pal, Josh, Sass-a-frass and I made our way to Connecticut via the train, my favorite mode of transportation. The space between buildings tripled and the trees multiplied as we neared our Westport stop. Then we jumped into the leather-seated Jeep and drove twenty more miles to the other side of the world. I traded in the street and people watching for big screen TVs and two-hundred channels, coffee on the corner for Dunkin' Donuts ten minutes away, trendy shops with items beyond my income for, well, trendy shops with items beyond my income.


The great thing about being with Cassie is that we have as much fun lounging with a movie and Easy Mac as we do painting the town. Come to think of it, we aren't really town painters. She, undoubtedly, works her b-u-t-t off as a nanny, though. I just hope the family knows how lucky they are. At least the baby seems to get it. I even changed her diaper to lighten Cass's load. Just once, though. I was on vacation, after all.

And now I'm back. Sad to leave my sister, overwhelmed, once again, by life, and counting down the days until summer break.

Ah, Spring

Two centipede-like-creatures and a spider greeted me when I entered my bedroom tonight. That's, like, two hundred and eight legs, people. 208. 2. 0. 8. If there are others like them in the crawl spaces up here, I'm sure they'll stay away after witnessing the painful deaths of their compadres. Yeah, that's a sound argument.

Plentiful Bounty

After this vacation, I'll never have to eat again. Cassie lives in a swanky house with enough food to feed most of Connecticut. I had a bowl of cereal, two thin mints, yogurt, chocolate chips, and tea for breakfast. Well-balanced and all for the taking. Cassie manages to stay away from the pantry-o-goodness, but I'm only here for one more day. Must make the best of it.

Girl Gone Wild 2006

Heading out East to see the sister tomorrow, which, incidentally, is where the other sister says she's from because she lives in Montana and North Dakota is "out East" from there. Took me three hours to pack for this trip and I'm still not sure that I have everything. The process is rather ineffecient as I try on most outfits before deciding to pack them in the bag and then I throw in every other random tanktop and sweater just in case. All of this after waiting for the clothes to dry. And don't EVEN get me started on the shoe problem. I didn't mind all of the hard work of the evening, though. I'm looking ahead fondly to the time I'll spend with baby sis in the Big Apple. We were there together about five years ago, and now that she's twenty-five, I think, this time, I'm going to let her cross the street without holding my hand. But not at night. I'm just not ready for her to be that grown up.

Three Day Week, Three Day Week, Three Day Week

With quarter's end nigh, it's been sheer chaos after school. The sevens have been staying past that final bell day after day after, so help me god, day to complete missing work and finish the project they've been working on for over a week now. Given that all poetry booklets were officially due IN CLASS today and the kiddos had the weekend to polish them up, I thought it safe to schedule a dentist appointment. Um. Wrong.

One by one, they rolled into my room like I was giving away candy. As one asked me a question, another plopped himself down at a computer, another opened the closet to get out the paper supplies, another picked up a book to look for poems.

"Can I just print my poems?"

"Fine, but I have a dentist appointment today."

"Can I just make a cover?"

"Fine, but I have a dentist appointment today."

"Can I just type my table of contents?"

"Fine, but I have a dentist appointment today."

Those things all seemed manageable, but before I knew it, I had fifteen students sprawled around the room. And with it so full, they stopped asking for permission to be there and all I could whimper to my sad self was, "But I have a dentist appointment today."

Having lost control of the situation, I began to make deals with the lingerers. When one asked for a rubber band, I said I'd give her one only if she would then GET OUT. If one asked to use the phone, I replied, "Yep. Then get out." Get out. Get out. Get out. They were the only words I had left. Finally, Mr. E stopped in and asked loud enough for all to hear, "Ms. D, don't you have a dentist appointment today?"

"Yes!" I cried. "Did you all hear that? I have a DENTIST appointment today! That means I HAVE to leave and you HAVE to GET OUT!"

And would you believe one boy had the nerve to say, "Why didn't you just tell us?" He took one look at my face and packed up his things.

I made it to my dentist appointment on time, and sitting in that chair anticipating the numbing, drilling, sucking, and filling was the best part of my whole day.

Lowering the Bar

Last week, I didn't do anything particularly well. Tasks were forgotten, items lost, and words miscommunicated. It was a blur of movement from one minor crisis to another. As I reflect upon it all today, I think it best to blame others. If no responsibilities were placed upon me, I wouldn't have to let anyone down. Embracing this philosophy will, I hope, release a bit of the pressure caused by impending deadlines in the week to come. I'll do what I can, and all the rest is just someone else's problem.

Sigh.

I feel better already.

Mea Culpa

I think I made a great impression on my new graduate school advisor today -- I came on the wrong day for our meeting and made her think the error had been her own. My email archives confirm that, indeed, I had made the mistake. I didn't realize this until after complaining to other grad. school pals about the absent-mindedness of my brilliant, albeit spacey, guiding professor. Turns out, I'm the space cadet who can't even claim my work on the next great research discovery transcends all daily responsibilities and I should therefore be forgiven for my less-than-perfect appointment keeping. Nope. I'm just an ass.

Snow Day

That's my tree. Beneath the snow. That's my cable wire. Beneath the tree. Last night's storm has one resting atop the other. There are only so many possible endings for this story.

And He Wasn't Even Exaggerating

"Hey, Ms. D. Look what I can do," T says to me as he touches his eyeball with his finger. "It doesn't even hurt!"

"Fascinating, T," I reply dryly. "But why am I looking at that?"

"Because it's fun," he says.

Why else?

Later, when I check on T to see how his hyperbole poem is coming along, I find a blank page in front of him.

"T," I inquire, "where's your poem?"

"Umm," he looks around as if maybe it's walked away.

"What have you been doing for twenty-five minutes?" I continue.

He smiles and answers like I've heard this a million times, "Poking myself in the eye."

And only in 7th grade is that a plausible activity. For twenty-five minutes, probably straight, he really DID poke himself in the eye. Literally. What do you say to that? I had nothing, so I just turned and walked away.

Mercury is Definitely in Retrograde

The to-do list keeps getting longer, and I keep getting lazier. If I don't kick it into high gear this weekend, I'm in big trouble as we near the end of the quarter. Bit by bit. Day by day. I can do it. . . starting tomorrow.

Freudian Slipknot

We start the poetry unit with a rhyming poem that has a distinct pattern and refrain. Even the poetic nay-sayers have a little fun with it and find they CAN write poetry. Mostly, I am amazed by the large handful of students who can't follow the pattern or make words rhyme, but my favorite exchange so far came from a boy who had no trouble with that part of the assignment:

"Ms. D, I'm stuck. I need help with my poem about Slipknot."

"Okay. What do you like about Slipknot?"

"They are pretty hardcore."

"There you go. You can rhyme easily with core."

"Oh. Okay. Thanks."

I wander to another table, but am called back just a minute later.

"Ms. D, I'm still stuck. I like that idea, but what rhymes with whore?" Pause. Realization. Blurt. "I MEAN CORE!"

The other students at the table nearly wet themselves laughing and I couldn't the find words to respond through my own snickering.

The boy understood there was no turning back. The one word he could think of but couldn't use had been spoken. He knew there was only one thing left to say: "Well. I guess I found a word."

The Friendship

The ex-boyfriend and I have decided to be friends. As an appropriate amount of time has gone by (according to Charlotte's break up philosophy), I figured that two mature adults could handle this. Thinking that public places are best for such reunions, I suggested a movie. Unfortunately, my timing was a little off and the only movies he hadn't seen were playing too late in the evening to remain awake for them. Instead, we decided on dinner and renting.

The dinner part was easy. Good conversation -- mostly about work -- over pizza and cups of wine. No mention of our dating lives now. No problem.

Then, it was movie time, and here's where it gets tricky. We've done this routine over and over, but it usually involves cuddling, hand-holding, or other annoyingly cute things couples do. When the routine changes, it becomes painfully apparent. I sat on one side of the couch, he on the other. Oceans of tension between us. For two hours, my attention went not to the movie, but to whether or not he meant to brush my foot or move two inches closer. It was a long, slow movie.

When it was over, I jumped up, stretched, yawned, and headed for the door. "Want to get together again soon?" he asked. "Sure," I replied. "But let's go running."

His mouth said, "Great idea," but his smile said, "Say no more." We always did have that unspoken understanding between us.

The Mao

I could not have scripted a better weekend in Chicago with the pals. (Okay, that's not true. If I had scripted it, I would have left out my total insecurity about reentering the world of academia and that annoying travel constipation.) All that aside, I'd like to spend more weekends viewing fabulous art and exploring restaurants in a fine city like Chicago with KC and Lee. But even if we can't hang out in cool places, we'll have as much fun in our jammies with Sudoku, free internet, and pay per view movies even when we are too tired to solve the puzzles, locate lost e-mail messages, or watch a flick. I really heart those two.

If Only For a Moment

I'm not in the business of teaching to tell kids how to live their lives. I figure my job is to give them the right tools to muddle through, to help them learn enough about themselves and the world to understand what the best choices might be. But every now and then, I get up on my high horse and offer a lecture sure to make them rethink every move they'll ever make . . . or so it feels. Today, I delivered a doosy.

The troops spent the day yesterday on a field trip where the discussions and activities focused on the topic of courage. By the end of the day, the leaders had worn the kids down to their emotional cores, and when they take it seriously, it's a journey that can change the course of the school year for many. Not the case so much this year.

Last hour today, Student A pulled a chair out from under Student B. Sadly, a normal occurrence with the sevens. But Student B was M. A. D. and carrying baggage from similar incidents. He stood up, hit Student A, and began to yell, "You're stupid! You are all stupid!" at every laughing kid in the room. This merely made the populace taunt and tease with greater zeal. Meanwhile, my heart was breaking and my anger rising.

This is when the movie theme music kicked in. Something from Dead Poets Society or Stand and Deliver. "That's enough!" I shouted. As I don't yell much, the laughter ceased immediately.

"What are you doing?" I went on. "Just stop and think about what you are doing. This is tearing me apart. I don't know what you believe you learned about courage yesterday, but today, I am sad to say I see NONE of it in this classroom."

(This is where the violins get really loud.)

"I am looking at twenty smart and good people right now, and once, just once, I would like for you to have the courage to do what you KNOW is right instead of doing what everyone else is doing. Be that strong. If you do indeed have the courage."

I'd like to say that tears fell and sincere apologies were made, but really, we just went on with the lesson.

Later, a kind and savvy girl, one with her own brand of courage, pulled me aside. "Ms. D," she whispered. "I counted twenty-two students in here. Not twenty. So, which two are the really dumb and mean ones?"

She had saved me from my serious self and I thought she had earned this response: "I'm not really allowed to say, but you should know that there are more like five of them." Then we had a good laugh and the credits rolled.

Sicko, Part II

After ten days of coughing and blowing, I finally took a sick day. What should have been a day for sleeping and recuperating became a day of grading to get ready for conferences. And I'm feeling, even, like I didn't get quite enough done. This inability to relax, I realize, is my true illness, one for which I desperately need a cure.

Namaste

When my yoga instructor isn't making jokes about stealing the blocks to do ab exercises at home or telling us about her latest favorite movie -- "The penguins, people, you've got to see the penguins!" -- she talks with intensity about finding intention and following the breath. It took me a few years to take her seriously on this pursuit. Now, through the first five Surya Namaskar A's, I follow the breath to find my intention for each yoga session. The intentions vary from week to week: to lift my top foot during side plank, to kick my feet back after balancing my weight on my forearms, to hold my headstand without the support of the wall, to straighten my legs during that bastard V balance pose. Each week, I make it something different. Each week, I successfully match my intention while messing up every other pose. And I'm pretty proud of that.

I've known for a long time that Jonna, my yoga master, wants us to think about intention for more than the hour and fifteen that we are with her, and to think of breath as more than the energy we need to finish a class. This is the part of yoga that is most difficult for me. It is where my challenge begins. It's just so damned easy to let someone else determine your intentions, to live day-to-day meeting the deadlines that someone else has created. I want to pay more attention than that. So my first life intention is to pause. To think. To breathe. To live with intention. Maybe I'll mess up every other thing that I don't intend, but it's not the success or failure that matters so much as the intending. And that, after years of yoga, I finally get.

The Squeamish Beware

Although few admit it, I know that I am not the only one who thinks it's kind of cool to find a yellow glob of mucus in the tissue after coughing or blowing your nose. Something very satisfying about such productivity. But it's not nearly as cool as the time that a greenish and bloody ball of disease came out of my nose at the end of a battle with tonsillitis. Through that entire sickness, I kept checking on the size of the white globule in the back of my throat and wondering, where the heck will that growth go when I'm better? Turns out, a sneeze can loosen a globule's grip, and when you blow your nose . . . voila! Proof that you are on the road to better health! I admit, I thought about keeping the evidence in a jar, but that's just weird. Instead, I just told everyone I knew about it. Nothing as fascinating as that happening in my body as I near the end of this cold, but it does bring back fond memories.

Happy Sister's Day

Bdoc still doesn't have her own blog, but as long as she writes nice things about me, we've agreed she can post guest entries on my blog now and again. Before reading her entry, please note that as much as we have in common, my older sister and I differ in significant ways as well. Case in point: Not only will she purchase edible underwear, but she will also write about it in a text that she KNOWS her parents will read. Nope. We are not the same. Still, there's no one I love more (except for maybe cdoc -- who, if you are wondering, would never make said purchases or write about them either). Enjoy.

I have never liked Valentine’s Day. In my opinion, it’s the day where the lame ass boyfriends and husbands of the world can redeem themselves for being such by buying cheap gifts that only die or make us fat anyway. This year, I’m trying my best to stop being such a bah-humbug (BH) about every holiday (I detest Christmas too) since my boyfriend with whom I now live, loves every holiday and St. Valentine’s Day is no exception. So, I bought AJ some edible underwear and 1000 Sex Games. He will love them. And I will laugh when he thinks I’ll actually wear them or play the game. But we’ll have fun. AND I wore pink and red to work. No one will detect the BH in me by outward appearances even though the attitude still lingers deep inside and will color my every thought and smirk throughout the day.

But when I got to work, I was challenged in my BH attitude too. I received a forward from jdoc. She appropriately labeled it cheesy but forwarded it nevertheless. It was one of those tear-jerkers; about how we can never forget our sisters. About how they will be the mainstay in our lives through loves lost and friends that pass through our lives. And about how we should make efforts to be with them and cherish them as much as possible and foster that relationship throughout our lives.

So today, in honor of that dastardly and hideous “holiday” called St. Valentine’s Day, I will celebrate my sisters without that BH attitude. We have something special; the three of us; that others envy. I will foster that connection throughout my life. I’ll continue to dream of the three of us living at the ranch where the Three Sisters will reign and no boys are allowed unless they are the canine variety. And I’ll cherish that I have them in my life.

So, here’s to my sisters. I love you.

Sicko

Despite the coughing fits and snot drips, I managed to teach a full day of school today. Hopped up on Valentine's sugar, the kids didn't cut me much slack. I threatened to breathe on a few of them who wouldn't settle down. That held them at bay for a little while. If they hadn't tortured my sub last week, I'd consider calling in sick tomorrow. Instead, I'll just go to bed early this eve and hope that they'll all be on the post-candy crash tomorrow.

The Unexpected Adventure

The whole point of our trip to the environmental learning center is to challenge the kids to challenge themselves. To push themselves further than they think they can go. We do that by making them walk on wires thirty feet above the ground, cling to a wall for dear life and then fall, and trudge through snow four feet high to reach an unknown destination. Each time I chaperone this trip I am moved quite nearly to tears by the successes they achieve while never believing they can. It's a Hallmark movie with a Chariots of Fire theme song. It really is.

For some, the challenge is physical, pushing yourself up onto the single high wire after falling. For some, it's mental, solving the puzzle of where to place your fingers on the rock wall. But for most, the emotional weight of their social interactions is the greatest challenge of all. The one that no one expects, not the teachers, not the kids. Their greatest fear is not belonging. It's the reason one won't climb the rock wall and why another won't sit with the group at dinner. It's the reason one crawls into bed instead of joining the campfire and why another trips everyone instead of telling them their words hurt. They are afraid. And it's the reason that I spend a good chunk of my week cushioning the blows that they serve one another. Eating with a lone boy in the dining hall. Sitting on the edge of a bed as a girl cries. Walking with a boy in the back of the pack as he talks . . . and talks and talks. . . his whole life story laid bare.

As I look back, then, over the three days, I'm not sure what we learned about the environment, but I can say that we each learned a little something about fears. So when they said to me, whether on the high ropes or the climbing wall, "Ms. D. I'm scared." They didn't know that I was thinking about ALL of their battles when I replied, "Of course you are. That's why what you do next matters."

The Lining

Two days later, the laptop is back. It wasn't cheap, but the invisible crack they accidentally put in the case of the computer saved me a significant amount. This is how my luck works: It'll only take us a couple of days to fix your problem -- HURRAY!-- but you'll lose all of your files -- ohh. We did damage the case of the computer -- ohh -- but we'll take a pretty sum off of the cost AND you can't even see the crack -- HURRAY! With Jupiter, the planet of good luck in my sector of the zodiac, I keep thinking that laptops shouldn't crash and relationships shouldn't end, but what I've learned from that great, guardian planet is to stand by for the yin to find the yang. So. The blog is back after only a short break -- HURRAY! -- but tomorrow I head up north for three days with forty 7th graders to a place where electronics are not allowed-- ohh.

One Laptop Down. . . One Blog Site Missing

Last night in the middle of writing what was sure to be the most brilliant blog entry ever (one about how painting my kitchen is a metaphor my romantic life), my computer crashed. Not the same logic board problem that has haunted my laptop. This was clearly something different -- and a metaphor for something else, I'm sure. The computer is now out of my own care receiving a new hard drive, motherboard or other gadget that is sure to erase whatever files, photos, and music therein. What this means, my friends, is that the blog will suffer for a few days and I'll be out of touch. Godspeed, computer geeks, godspeed.

P.S. Ukemochi is experiencing her own blog problems (as anyone who has attempted to read her site has noticed). Don't worry. She has her own set of geeks working on it.

The Day

Today was ski day for the sevens. I stayed back at the compound with the derelicts that had racked up referrals, detentions, or suspensions and the other lingerers who did not turn in permission slips to go. About ten of them total. Staying back with ten kiddos sounds pretty easy, but planning six hours of activities for ten angry and left-behind children was a daunting task. Missing work was determined, copies gathered, a schedule prepared, lunch duties swapped, and passes written to break up the group now and then. I was, admittedly, worried about how the day would go. In the end, it was smooth sailing. Even the girl who had told off three teachers that morning before arriving at my room settled in to read a book before too long. There was no magic formula, just a little attention given to ten kids by one teacher. And I realized, if this could be the size of every one of my classes, we could really get some stuff done. I mean, we could really learn some shit. I could feel like a teacher five out of five days of the week and no child would be left behind. Not a single one.