Consider Yourself Lucky

I'm a nice person.  I really am.  I am kind and generous and generally well-behaved.

So if this is what you believe about me, I need you to stop reading.  Truly.  Just stop.  You may not like me after this.

****

I dedicated a large portion of my life and attention to a specific organization.  I trusted with all my heart that it was filled with wonderful people who believed in their own mission.  I loved showing up, for long stretches of time, and seeing the changes in our clientele from year to year.  I adored my staff -- even some of those who didn't make great choices -- because their heart was truly and totally devoted to it.  Many had grown up in that organization, both literally and figuratively.  I was honored -- privileged -- to work alongside people who ate, slept, and lived that organization.  And when I say this, please note that I am not exaggerating even the tiniest bit.  They gave (and a few continue to give) every last ounce of love and dedication to that place.

You'll notice that this post is in the past tense.  The past.  Not the present, and most certainly not the future.  Because you see, that organization that I believed so strongly in wasn't very honest with one of my dearest friends.  They weren't very responsible with the information they shared or the half-truths they told.  They weren't very respectful of her or me or so many of my darling staff, and the way that they shut all of them out certainly wasn't very caring.  Fail.  Fail.  Fail.  Fail.

Way to live what you love, jerks.

And that was their choice.  I'm a big believer in choices.  Make it.  Live with it.  Move on.

But it's hard to move on.  There are so many precious memories associated with that job.  There are so many beautiful experiences I had with the people I worked with so closely.  I recognize the fact that the actions and choices made by a big, faceless organization do not always reflect the feelings of some of the worker bees within it -- a worker bee's gotta work after all -- but it's pretty damn hard to separate the two.  And a couple of those worker bees didn't give a buzz about what was happening.

Fine. They made their choice.  Live it.  Move on.

I made mine, too, and I was okay with that.  I'd made my peace with it.  I hadn't heard a peep from any of those people for 10 months, and truthfully, that was fine by me.  It didn't shock me in the least that the very next cut was me.  Expected and acceptable.

What isn't fine by me, though?

Tonight, when after 10 months of ignoring me, you call me FOR A DONATION.

You call me, for my hard-earned money -- money I did not earn from you because apparently everything I did for your organization was JUST NOT GOOD ENOUGH.

You call me, asking for help, when you didn't have the DECENCY OR COURTESY to even say thank you for all the times I did help you for absolutely nothing in return.

You call me, expecting me to be honest and caring and respectful and responsible, when you so obviously were not.  And then you start calling all of MY FRIENDS?  Newsflash: they didn't give TO you.  They gave FOR me.  And maybe they're more decent than I am and will continue to give.

Call 'em.  It just might work.

(By the way, is it hard to walk around with balls that IMPOSSIBLY HUGE?  Because you've got a gigantic pair to keep my donation card in that stack.)

You call me, hoping that I'd forgive and forget, I'm sure.  BECAUSE I HAVE PROVEN TO BE A REALLY NICE PERSON IN THE PAST.

Well, that was the past.  Not the present.  Certainly not the future.

Here's how I wanted to answer the phone:

You have obviously called the wrong house.  I AM a nice person, but I'm no doormat.  Yes, I was very -- brutally -- honest in my displeasure at your inept handling of the situation, but I kept that as private as I could, trying hard to maintain a professional and polite attitude in public.  And I WAS willing to forgive until you turned your back on kids who had dedicated their entire lives to you, not even allowing them a courtesy call.  I will continue to care about all of those kids I helped raise, and I will continue to give responsibly to organizations that appreciate what little money or time I can give.  But I'm done being respectful.  

Maybe I'm being petty.  Maybe I'm the one being a jerk right now.  Maybe I am letting my pride and anger get the best of me.  But if I give you my money -- no matter how noble the cause may be -- I am also telling you that how you treat people -- how you treated MY people -- is okay by me.  And, frankly, it's just not.  Maybe I'll get my karmic comeuppance, but hopefully so will you.

By the way, is it hard to walk around with balls that IMPOSSIBLY HUGE?  Because you've got a gigantic pair of watermelon balls to keep my donation card in that stack.

I got a great many gifts in my time with your organization.  Certainly more than I ever expected.  And the best thing about them?  They don't call me when they need my money.  They call me when they just need me.

But I didn't. I didn't even answer the phone.  I'm glad too, because you know who they gave my card to?  Some new little worker bee who doesn't know any better and probably couldn't give two shits as long as he gets his $1.27 per hour and his cafeteria dinner.  I've seen what those kids get to do, and the last thing he needs is my indignation.  He'll have enough of his own sooner than he thinks.

And I had a great day today, and nothing is going to ruin it.

Silver lining:  I was at least a little bit kind though.   My cat threw up on the donation letter sent to me from the last organization to screw over a friend of mine.  I folded it up, put it in an envelope, and sent it right back.

Consider yourselves lucky that I just chose not to take your call tonight.  It's hard to send cat puke over the phone line.

On My Hatred of Wal-Mart

I hate the grocery store in my neighborhood.

Most likely, it's because I just hate Wal-Mart.

I am definitely a Target kind of girl, but getting there is tricky these days due to major construction.  So, I have to settle as Wal-Mart has a death grip on my neighborhood (and because I missed the exit to the last available Kroger on my commute home).

Don't get me wrong.  There are definitely some nicer Wal-Marts in the world, and if you like them, that's fine (YOU SHOULD PROBABLY STOP READING NOW).  Mine just ain't one of 'em.  Also, I feel like I lose a little part of my small-town soul when I go.  I've seen lots and lots of Mom and Pop markets go belly-up as a result  of the giant's arrival.

My neighborhood store is a microcosm of everything I hate in the world.

Screaming kids.  Parents screeching at their kids because they weren't minding them (although the parents weren't watching in the first place).

Let me just tell you... that shit didn't fly with my mom.  I threw a fit on aisle 7 of some random grocery store once in Hereford, Texas, and she left me.  Left. Me.  I'm sure she didn't go far, in retrospect, but it got my attention.  My mother would rather starve than be seen in public with a misbehaving child, and in case you didn't know... my mother's nickname is "Freight Train".  As in "she will run you over like a freight train without even tapping the brakes".  I learned how to straighten myself up but quick.

Thirty lanes in the store.  Five are open.

The world is full of traffic.  I sat in 30 minutes worth just to get here.  I don't need to watch my Blue Bell melt because you can't find an extra $8.00 in your billion dollar wallet to pay another long-suffering cashier.  That Blue Bell might be the only thing keeping me from the edge.

Which brings me to the cashiers.

Actually, you know what?  If I had to work at Wal-Mart, I probably wouldn't be very happy either.  I'll let this one slide.  Also, I had the NICEST cashier ever today.  And don't worry... I already stopped and bragged on him to the manager.  She did not seem impressed.  But she works at Wal-Mart, so you know...

But... the customers.  Good God, the customers.

I already warned you.  If you love the Wal-Mart, I need you to leave now because I don't want you to think I'm talking about you.  Because I'm so not.

Every negative WM stereotype that ever existed exists in my Wal-Mart.  It makes me so sad.  And the teacher in me wants to just stop and Boys Town every idiot I see.  I already mentioned the kids running and screaming all willy-nilly, but they're kids and they're gonna do what you let 'em.  (Please note that I am not talking about your kid whining and crying and generally embarrassing you.  If you are embarrassed by misbehavior, I am so not talking to you.)  I'm talking to the people who let Lord of the Flies play out on the frozen pizza aisle.  The parents in my store must be legally deaf.  Is that a thing?  Can you be legally deaf?  Because they aren't hearing a damn thing.  Or they're beating the devil out of their kid, and then I'm left to debate a CPS report or just reach across for another box of wine.  When my friend, Jill, gets inordinately frustrated with someone, she deems that she's about to go Wal-Mart mom on them.  It's an apt description.  Every time I've been in, somebody is getting a whoopin'.

In the aisle next to me, a lady with a baby was buying 3 cartons -- CARTONS, THREE-- of Basic menthols.

In front of me, an (I'm assuming) stringy-haired, 15 year-old with a hickey necklace was making out with her boyfriend.  Admittedly, they didn't make out the entire time, but when he wasn't performing exploratory surgery with his herpes-ridden tongue, he was telling his buddy (loudly) how he "don't give a F**K about what these mother-fu**ing fu**ers think".  I wanted to grab her and let her know that it wasn't too late.  And when she didn't listen, I'd just walk her on over to the section with the maternity jorts.  Also, he smelled like weed.  I mean, I'm assuming so since I'm no expert.  But he was wearing a dirty t-shirt with a giant marijuana leaf on it, so I'm just inferencing here.

And then to top it all off... the carts.  I don't know what people do to grocery carts, but these move like they've been tied to the back of a car and dragged around for an entire NASCAR cup series.  (Sorry... Weed Boyfriend was also a "mother-fu**in' hard-core NASCAR dude".  I told you -- stereotypes.)  And, of course, in the microcosm of everything wrong in our world, the carts litter every square inch of the parking lot because HEAVEN FORBID THAT ANYONE TAKE TEN SECONDS TO WALK 20 EXTRA STEPS.  Of course, if you ARE a responsible, respectable, non-jerk, you'll get the impatient honk from a waiting car because you're totally holding them up while you return your cart.  Because that happened today.  I didn't get a good look at the lady honking and waving at me with her middle finger, but I'm going to just assume she was a chain-smoking, 65 year old in a tank top with no bra.  Because I saw that today too.

I'm sure there are some extremely nice and well-mannered people in the microcosm.  I really do believe it, but just like in the great big ol' real world, they're totally overshadowed by the shitshow that is the squeaky grocery cart wheel of society.

*defeated sigh*

The Book Room

I feel accomplished today.  Sore... but accomplished.

I went to work this morning with my department chair, LeighAnne, and together, for 2 hours, we tackled the book room.  The book room had become ridiculous.

In June, another teacher, assistant principal, and I had cleaned out two huge flatbed dolly trips worth of old, falling-apart, unused books and resources.  We shipped all of our out-of-adoption textbooks back to the district to store, sell, recycle, worship -- whatever it is that they do.  We didn't finish everything, but we felt accomplished.

And then the new school year arrived.

With the influx of about 50 new faculty, staff, and administration, the changes to our school were already overwhelming.  With the construction, renovation, and re-shuffling of classrooms, things seemed damned near impossible.  We each had to move in to our rooms in strict windows of time, and so many of our new-to-us teachers walked straight into a hot mess.  Some of the returning teachers did too.  *raises hand*

Every closet they opened, every bookshelf they saw, every desk drawer they slid, there was stuff.  It was packed in tightly.  Years and years and years of accumulated papers, transparencies, workbooks, and resources -- all just left.  And since many of those teachers weren't even teaching the subject of all that stuff, they simply did what they had to do.  They packed it up and called a veteran.

This veteran did what I do best.  I advised them to store it in the book room, and I'd deal with it later.

I always say that I'll deal with it later.  I'm not very good at defining "later".

But "later" became today, and off LeighAnne and I went.  I wish we'd taken a "before" picture.  If you think hoarders only exist on television or in that creepster house down the block, you obviously don't know many teachers.  We are, by our very nature, savers.  We so often pay for supplies out of our own pockets that you will see us pick up every pencil stub, stray marker, and freebie we encounter.  We will find a spiral and tear out the last 3 clean sheets because God only knows, some kid in the very next class will need paper.  We are masters of duct tape repair and salvaging lost time.

That nature, paired with the outrageous amount of resources thrust upon given to us by our school, our district, and our government and you wind up with -- the book room.

(Pro-tip:  if you're moving -- whether it's a house or a classroom -- don't leave your crap behind.  Put it back in its rightful place.  Put it in the trash can.  Put it in the hands of someone when they have time to deal with it.  But don't just leave it there.  If you haven't used it, they're not going to use it.  If you don't want it, they don't want it.  And if it's broken, for the love of all that is good and holy in the world, get rid of it.)

So not only did we have the crap resources left behind in those classrooms to contend with, we also had just every day run-of-the-four-decades-old crap resources that had been stored in our school since God was a boy.  In fact, I'd bet that some of that stuff was in the moving van from the former site to our current building (which is 20 years old).  Literally, these dictionaries were stored in there still.  There were more than 60.

1969.

Proof. 1969.

And this one? 1977.  It's only a year older than me.
I've changed a great deal since 1977.  

And, in true teacher spirit, when LeighAnne joked about their discovery on social media, several people tried to shame us out of recycling them.  They were literally falling apart in our hands and had gone unused for 13 years, but there has to be something else we can do!

We did.  We released their spirit.  Now they have a chance to become new books or new dictionaries.  Maybe even new dictionaries that can explain "twerking" or a "derp".  (God, help us all.  Maybe I should have spared those poor books.)

We unpacked boxes and boxes of novels.  Books that should be in the hands of kids and not taking up space in a closet.  Books in a box make me insane.  Although, in the same box, I discovered both of these.  I don't even get how these were in the same box.  Or room.  Or school.  They will be available in the book room shelf sale next week if you're interested.

Are you kidding me?

We found dozens of brand new binders.  Mountains of unopened construction paper.  Boxes of composition notebooks.  Folders.  Textbook CDs.  Audio books.  Personal audio book players.  All unopened.  All unused.

There were hundreds -- LITERALLY hundreds -- of old test practice workbooks.  Most were for a test that our state doesn't even administer anymore.  

And speaking of, dear Texas (and actually ALL OF AMERICA), kids don't learn more by "practicing a test".  They really don't even learn how to take the test better.  They just learn to really, really, really hate testing.  And often -- school.  Those workbooks no more encourage good thinking than they encourage good teaching.  So, schools, districts, states, feds -- stop buying them for us.  They're a crutch.  Instead, I'd love for you to use some of that money to invest in teachers.  Invest in adult education.  Invest in serving my students (who have no breakfast) more than just Pop-Tarts and string cheese (that was on the menu last week -- truth).  Invest in a school counselor who has time to actually counsel (and not just make schedules and organize massive testing opportunities).  Invest in a social worker for my campus.  

Or maybe you just ask us teachers what we need.  I think I can guarantee that it's not more test practice workbooks.

I also found teacher's editions with 30 different guidebooks, test generators, and auxiliary crap resources.  Literally. Thirty.  I don't need 30 teacher workbooks to sort through.  I'm too busy with IEP's and NCLB and ARDs and PEIMS and TEAMS to sort through your box o' crap resources.  I don't even use your Teacher's Edition because A) I went to college and actually took real live thinking courses in English and 2) the print is far too small for my tired eyes to look at while I'm also actively monitoring my classroom.  If you want to really help me out, here's what I need:  large print. 

On our second trip to the recycling bin, LeighAnne and I joked that if we really wanted to make the bucks, we'd write a textbook.  There are no less than 143 optional materials you can get with your textbooks.  Or we could create a standardized test.  That's where the real dollar bills are.  

"I might as well become a Satanist while I'm at it."  That's the reply I got from LA.  She has a point.

This was just the first recycling load.  We were gutsier with the second.

I think my biggest issue with today, however, was one I feel often.  That book room made me feel like a big ol' wasteful American.  My capitalist, white-bread guilt engulfed me.  The sight of all those workbooks, all those resources, all those unopened boxes of good stuff made me so very sad.  And it made me really angry because I have a school full of impoverished kids and our government's only solution is to throw money at the problem.  Money with strings and hoops to jump through.  Don't get me wrong -- my district and my school, in many ways, have started to learn about BETTER ways to spend (with technology and career path training and community outreach), but sometimes I want to lasso my local, state, and federal politicos with all their miles of red tape.   It's exhausting and frustrating.

Then again, our only solution was to lock it all up in a closet, so maybe we haven't been much better.  

At least it's a cleaner closet now though.

¿Cómo se dice 'jerkface' en Español?

I turned on the t.v. on Monday night to watch the Home Run Derby.  I originally wanted to watch it on mute because Chris Berman, you know.  But I'm so glad I didn't.  What I witnessed was not only a pretty brilliant display by Yoenis Cespedes but a pretty brilliant interview in both English AND Spanish by the ESPN reporter.  The reporter was clear and efficient, asking the question first in Spanish, receiving the answer, and then providing the translation for both the question and answer in English for both the at-home viewers and those in the stadium.  If you didn't know, Cespedes is Cuban and has been in America only since 2011.  Consequently, he still struggles with English.  I've taken 4 years of Spanish, but if you forced me to stand in front of 40,000 people, with cameras broadcasting to millions of homes, AFTER I'd just belted 25 home runs and asked me Spanish-only questions, frankly, I'd probably crap my pants before I could even stammer out a simple greeting.  So to me, it was not only an impressive move by the reporter but also a kind gesture.

Apparently, parts of America didn't think so.  You can read a pretty great article by Gregg Doyel here.  He says what I feel probably a great deal better than I could.

What bothered me most about reading Doyel's article or seeing it on Deadspin was not just seeing America show its panties one more time (because America does some ugly shit a lot of the time) but that the majority of tweets and messages I saw were from young people.  In my mind, I kept looking for the skinhead or the toothless redneck or the 85 year old granddad who "just doesn't know any better".  But that's SO NOT WHO I SAW, and I guess the fact that I was looking for those types of people reveals my own stereotypes and prejudices to some extent.  Or just a misconception that somehow we are growing more tolerant with each passing generation.

Any time I hear someone grumbling about "English-only America" I hear the struggles of my students (and their parents).  When I read messages that proclaimed "You're in America, learn to speak English" I see these mothers and fathers, sitting in a parent conference, heads bowed in shame or indecision, trying to understand as their 12 year old straddles two worlds.  I see their fear in coming to school because they feel that they can't interact.  I see my students who struggle to remember nonsensical English grammar rules while still maintaining fluency in their own home language, whatever it may be.

So, needless to say, I was infuriated by these tough guy tweets and all of their bravado and ignorance.  I am so tired of talking to kids about bullying, day in and day out at school, only to see that they really aren't the worst offenders.

Some of these people, whether they're spewing hate about Yoenis or someone else, will say that they're just kidding -- that they're just trolling for a fight or a retweet.  Others will proudly stand behind their freedom to say whatever the hell they want.  Others might just be finding their courage from a keyboard and relative anonymity.  Whatever the reason, I personally think it's pretty laughable for some 25 year old loudmouth  to wave the First Amendment as permission to tell another human being to "speak English or go back to jibber-jabber land".

Actually, the only laughable part, to me, is that almost every one of those English-only demands, in fact, contains multiple and glaring grammatical mistakes.  And you're speaking IN YOUR OWN NATIVE LANGUAGE, YOU JERKS!

Note:  This is where you should hear me giving a huge, defeated sigh.

So just as I was about to give up on America there on an unassuming Monday night, this video rolled across my Twitter timeline.  By the way, I adore my Twitter timeline.  I've said it before, and I'll say it again and again.  If Twitter is really an echo chamber, I'm glad that I found a group speaking what I like to hear.  It's about a 9 minute video, but I promise you, it's worth your time.  (I should also note that it came across my Facebook feed as well -- thanks Taylor Fratina for posting.  I like what she says too!)



I really do believe we are growing more tolerant generation by generation, but like with any other struggle, there are bumps along the way.  And sometimes those bumps are getting all the press because they're the loudest and most insane (to me at least).  But I've got a lot of hope in the crop of kids coming up.  Don't let me down, kids.

For the record, I never noticed that they were a mixed-race couple.  I want to think that it has to do with my ability to look past such outdated prejudices but it might have just as much to do with my lack of paying attention.  Also, I'd like to know when the girl in the aqua tank top will be old enough to run for President. She's totally got my vote.

Ramblings on Demonstrative Adjectives and the State of Our Society

Anyone who knows me well knows that I really love my school.  I do, sincerely.  I started there 13 years ago, on a wing and a prayer because a kind-hearted crazy woman who hired me when she didn't really have a job for me yet. 

I don't just work there; I feel called there.  You know... Called.  Capital "C".

The atmosphere, the culture, the population size is all so radically different from everything with which I grew up that, on a daily basis, I learn something brand new about the world.

Mind you, my love for my school doesn't mean I overlook our flaws.  We have a ton of problems; some are within our control and some are not.  It doesn't mean that I don't get tired and fed up and want to quit on a weekly basis.  Because I do.  Sometimes it's a weekly/daily/hourly basis.

But in the last two weeks, my co-workers and I have been visited by three different former knuckleheads.  Wait.  Not "former", more like "reformed".  Because they changed.  They grew.  Something, somewhere, opened their eyes to a life they didn't want to live anymore.  Then they felt confident enough to come up to our school, to their coaches, to their teachers and say the words that every junior high teacher lives for:

"Miss (or Sir)... you were right."

All three kids acknowledged who they once were and who they are now.  They acknowledged what they did and then explained what they do now.  One has a 3.8 and is applying to nursing school.  One is a working mom.  One is mentoring kids at another junior high.  All of them were smiling.  None of them did this alone.  The working mom told a co-worker and me that "Life is hard, but it's good".

I like that. Life is hard, but it's good.  That's wisdom and realism and God all in six words.

.....

I overheard someone, in passing a few months ago, say something about "these kids" in reference to the students at my school.  It wasn't a nice reference, and I won't go into the entire conversation for two reasons: A) It's not worth my time.  And 2) the only words that truly irked me were "these kids".  I didn't know, right away, why they irked me so much, but, after much thought, I figured it out.

The disdain drips out of them. 

It's incredible how much of your truest self can be revealed in just one tiny little demonstrative adjective such as "these". 

I started listening to how others talked about the people surrounding them -- friends, kids, students, politicians, sports teams -- and it was so interesting to see the differences in attitudes.  People who wanted to distance themselves from the problem (whether it be a political disagreement, a lost game, or a misbehaving student) used the demonstrative.  "That guy", "this team", "those kids"...

But others chose to use a possessive pronoun -- "our President", "our boys", "my students".  The people, even in disagreement, still identified themselves as part of that group simply through the use of a possessive pronoun.  And, in thinking about the personalities of all the speakers, I realized that those using the possessive not only identified themselves as part of the group (or the problem, as it may be) but were actively looking for solutions to remedy their disagreement.  The "demonstrators" were much more likely to be people who not only distance themselves from the problem but also rarely perceive their own actions as a possible source of the problem.

I wonder... Can you be a part of the solution without knowing that you've been part of the problem?

......

Thinking back to the days when the three reformed knuckleheads graced our classrooms and hallways, I know that there were many times when I referred to them as "those kids" or "that girl" or "this knucklehead".  I know it because I'm human, and many times my flawed humanity is glaringly unattractive.  I'm not proud of it, but I am real with it.

Yet at some point, some time, we must have taken some ownership in their worlds as evidenced by their return.  Because as Henry Ward Beecher said, "What the heart has once owned and had, it shall never lose". 

Whether we own their hearts or they own ours, is the only question we have left to answer.

Buyer Beware. It's a $30 Rant.

Take a look.

What might that be?  A clean desk?  No...  A new manicure?  Not so much...

It's a pencil.  That's right.  A pencil.  And before you roll your eyes and click that little red "x" in the corner, understand this... That's a $30.00 pencil.

Oh, you heard me right.  I didn't stutter.  That, my friends, is a $30.00, not-fancy, not-even-mechanical, will-be-devoured-in-5-turns-of-my-jacked-up-pencil-sharpener kind of pencil.

Uh. huh.

Now, I have to confess.  I didn't know that I was buying a $30.00 pencil.  Frankly, I hate pencils.  Detest them.  The writing's faint and reflects the light.  They smudge.  They leave eraser shavings all over my desks and require no less than 23 trips to the pencil sharpener per day.  I abhor pencils.

So, I'm sure that you're positively puzzled as to how I wound up with such an unwanted treasure.  Well, I'll tell you. 

I donated to a charitable cause.  And this was my "thank you".  I found it in an envelope addressed to me.  Without so much as a thank you form letter inside. 

A pencil.  In an envelope.

Now, before I get tens of emails/comments chiding me with phrases like, "It's the thought that counts" or "You should be grateful for even the smallest things" and treat me like some ungrateful wench, understand this:  I love to give.  Love it.  Can't resist it.  I buy cookie dough and gift wrap and coffee from every little kid with a fundraiser pamphlet.  I don't even drink coffee, but I'll buy it.  You're jumping rope for heart?  Tell me how much your mom pledged.  I'll probably double it.  Bowling for Kids?  Knock $50 worth of pins down for me!  You've lost your mind and decided to run 26.2 miles for cancer research?   Better you than me!  Here's my check, Crazy Face!

That's who I am.  A sucker giver.

You are funding educational grants for teachers who never have the funds to do all the things for their students that they can?  I'm in for $30!  And normally, I'd be in for a lot more ,but I bought a crap ton of giftwrap and coffee this year.  For real, you're all getting coffee. for Christmas.  Or Tuesday.  Gift-wrapped coffee.

Understand another thing, however, before you place that trinket in an envelope with a scrap of paper with my name taped to the front (I mean for God's sake, can't you at least take the time to hand write my name?).  I DON'T WANT IT!  In fact, it seems a tad trite and pathetic.  And junky.  It makes me wonder how when our state and district is in an enormous budget crunch, you're still shelling out the bucks to Oriental Trading Company for engraved pencils or coffee mugs. 

Last year, when I donated a bit more, I got a mug.  For the coffee I don't drink.  But at least I can't sharpen away a coffee mug.  For real.

More than just the ridiculous eyeroll that one little pencil brought on, it made me start to think about our entire society, and I became outraged.  That's right.  Pencil = All of Society's Problems.

That's how my Rage Brain works.  Just FYI, I'm like the Incredible Hulk of Illogical Rage. 

"DEANA NO LIKE YOUR CRAPPY LITTLE PENCIL.  DEANA BREAK PENCIL IN TINY PIECES!"

Why does our society request expect demand something in return all the time? Why is a simple thank you or a personal note or a phone call not enough? Has real gratitude gone out of fashion entirely?  Or do people just think that if you throw something -- anything, really, no matter how craptastic -- at you, that you will not only continue to give but also somehow be satisfied?  Are they expecting me to whip out my PENCIL at the grocery store to write a check only to have the man behind me inquire in a squeally wondrous voice, "Heavens to Betsy!  Where upon Earth did you find such a marvel of lead and wood?"  And then when I explain that it came from the recipients of a charitable donation, do they expect him to run out and throw some money their way?  No.  He won't.  Mainly because I broke your little thank you gift in the midst of a Hulk-Out.

I fully understand that not every kindness should merit a plaque or medal or t-shirt or even a coffee cup.  It shouldn't.  You shouldn't do something with the expectation of getting a return; feeling good about yourself should be quite sufficient.  But it is nice to be appreciated.  It's really nice.  Just don't patronize me.  Sometimes it's enough just to hear a thank you, receive a hug, or see a picture of what your small kindness created.  Instead of just figuring out a way to spend a little money to say thanks for gathering a ton of money, THINK.  Think about who gave the gift.  Think about who they are as a person.  Know your audience.  Grab someone's heart, and you're sure to get a lifetime of contributions.  Junk up their desk drawers and kitchen cabinets, and all you'll get is an eyeroll and a healthy dose of Rage Brain Hulk-a-Mania.  I guarantee it.

Lest I leave this on a bitter note, I made sure today to not just take pictures of that measly pencil.  I also wanted to share some of the notes and thank-yous that mean the most to me. 

1.  A thank-you note from a co-worker after his adoption shower.  It wasn't just the note; it was the words he chose and they way those words spoke to me.  While we'd worked together for 11 years and become friends, I would never have thought that my presence and support could mean so much.  And when he called me Aunt Deana, I was hooked.  I look at that note, with it's crayon-scrawled 6 year-old signature, every day when I go to work.  I didn't take a picture.  I wish I had now.  It's completely precious.

2.  Home-made certificate.  On plain white paper.  Cheap but clever.  Clever always works.  In case you can't read it, it's a Taco Bell Fire Sauce packet, and it says, "Thanks for all your hard work!  You've really been on FIRE" and "Way to think 'Outside the Bun'".  I'll never throw it away.

For just the cost of a bean burrito, you can make someone's day...

or this one:

3.  I found it in my mailbox at work.  A plain piece of paper with the words "You're doing a great job" penciled in.  No reason.  No signature.  But I found it on a day when I really wasn't believing I was doing a great job.  Even though I recognized the writing right away, it didn't matter.  At all.  Because THAT'S when the thought really counts.

Although in pencil, not in $30 pencil. 

or this:

This picture screams, "My run and your donation are helping to kick Cancer's ass!" 

That's my sort-of sister, Amanda, after finishing her 13.1 mile half-marathon.  It was my pleasure to donate to her cause.  I got a wonderful thank you on my Facebook and even better -- a chance to see her success, in full-on America's Next Top Model jumping fashion.  And her smile.

Or this:

I'll wait while you sop your melted heart up off the floor.

Okay.  Maybe I orchestrated that thank-you photo by making sure I gave a present proclaiming love for me on it.  Or this:

Not really a thank you.  But still.  How cute is that kid?  And how many birthday checks and college fund donations will I make as a result of that video?  That's what I call a preemptive thank you strike.

So go forth.  Be gracious and giving, and when someone gives to you, don't forget to say thanks. 

But not with a pencil.

Sometimes, A Thinly-Veiled Metaphor is the Best I Can Do.

Yesterday, as I was tooling along on the Road of Life, making my plans to finish out a pretty good day, it happened. Out of nowhere -- sideswiped. Actually, no real damage to me, and I guess that's lucky. Just shaken up pretty badly and stalled on the corner of Shit Happens and WTF.

But here's the truly crappy part. The person who hit me wasn't at fault. That person was going about their day, too. Making plans, dreaming about tomorrow, not knowing that shit was about to get serious.

And so how did all of this occur? Some a-hole in a big effing truck decided to change lanes. Without signaling. With no concern. No notice what-so-damn-ever. Then came the swerve. And the crash. And the carnage. And I'm pretty sure the fuckers never even looked back. Because that's what these fuckers do, see? They could give a shit as to who they're running into because that's what they have big effing trucks for. When you have a big effing truck, there's no need to worry about damage because big effing trucks absorb it and keep on going.

Of course, there are some who might argue that this truck (and the a-holes in it) was just trying to get where it's going. That it has a right to move over, and, as a defensive driver, you should be aware of what's happening around you. And you might have a point.

Just don't be in the next lane over. 'Cause there's a good chance you're gonna get wrecked.

The girl in the car? She'll be okay. She'll knock out the dents, dust herself off, and get back on the road. Of this, I am quite sure. But for now, for her and for me and all those who stopped by to help, we're left with our heads in our hands, wishing for a better tomorrow. Specks in the rearview mirror who aren't sure about traveling this road anymore.

Why I (mostly) Love 3rd Period

I'm a teacher.

I'm a good teacher.

I'm a good person.

I try to be understanding, caring, helpful, and considerate.

But sometimes, I'm not, and mainly it's because there are those who have suddenly chosen to be neither good, understanding, caring, helpful or considerate surrounding me. And they totally wash their dirty feet in my soul.

Today, I endured nonsense from all angles: students, teachers, and administrators. It was truly mind-blowing.

Until 3rd period, who is my last bastion of sanity and humor most days, and today was no exception. During my most intensely frustrated moment, this was the conversation.

Me: Oh... my... Lord. Enough is enough! (as I ran to the door to scold some super-noisy children who were distracting my kids from their quiz).

3rd Period: Uhhhh-ohhhh. (with lots of wincing faces)

Me: (Yell, yell, yell... with lots of finger pointing and mean-facing and then walking back into the room, muttering crazily and super-fast like a total nutjob.) This is it. This is how I will one day wind up on the 10:00 news! I will be the TOP STORY, and I don't want to be the TOP STORY unless I won the lotto! I want to be "Local Teacher Wins $170 Million" not "Local Teacher Leads Police in High Speed Chase"! But so help me, I think I am going to seriously injure someone today.

Student A: Don't do it today. Do it on a day when you straighten your hair.

Student B: (nodding her head in agreement) Yeah. You'll have a way cuter mug shot with your hair down.

Me: *smile* Okay, okay. Another day then. Thanks for looking out for me.

Student A: No prob. (returns to quiz)

And this is why I (mostly) love 3rd Period.