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.