Flourish and Flair

Today is my dad's birthday. And since he loved to laugh, I'm going to tell a funny story. Even better, I'm going to tell a story on myself which would only make him laugh harder...

Several years ago, my mom and dad decided to go on a gambling trip to Shreveport. And since it was my birthday, they offered to take me along with two of my friends, Heather and Courtney. I had never been gambling before, and I was beyond excited. You see, learning to gamble is like learning to walk in my family, and I was feeling about 27 years behind schedule. I spent days looking up hotels and casinos and studying the rules of games. (I'm a nerd; studying is what soothes my anxiety). 

As time grew nearer and my mother questioned more and more about where we'd like to stay, I threw up my hands one day in despair while sitting in the coaches' office. 

"I don't understand," I complained. "Everywhere I look I cannot find any hotels in Shreveport." 

"What do you mean? There are lots of hotels and casinos in Shreveport," replied Heather. 

"No. I type in 'hotels in Shreveport' and nothing comes up. The closest I can find is somewhere called Boss-ee-ay City." 

"I'm sorry. What?" 

And so, I said it again. "Boss-ee-ay City." Only I didn't just say it, I slowed it down and spoke really loudly as if I were speaking to someone mildly deaf or obviously foreign. 

BOSS-EEEE-AYYYYY CITYYYY. Just like that. 

Stifling laughter, Heather replied, "Do you mean Bossier City?" But she said it all slow and simple -- BOZYER -- as if she was speaking to a 2nd grader. An obviously foreign 2nd grader. 

Realizing my complete ineptitude and waste of four days of Google searches, I immediately hid my embarrassment with indignant outrage. Because the best defense is ALWAYS indignant outrage. And as both a perfectionist and an English teacher, I get especially embarrassed when I mess up words. 

So you can guess that I was at DEFCON 1 for outrage. 

"There's no Z in there! That's stupid."

"Why don't they just call it Shreveport? They should just call it Shreveport."

"I've never even been to Louisiana. How should I know what they call their dumb ol' towns?"

And, my personal favorite last grasp... etymology. 

"Well, Louisiana was founded by French people so I just assumed it was a very French pronunciation. Boss-ee-ay. Like it would end with a flourish. With some FLAIR." 

I have to hand it to Heather. Until that point she had held it together pretty well until that very moment. But listening to me rant about the flourish and flair of the French language (which I do not speak) sent her into convulsive fits of laughter that included tears and a near asthma attack. 

After a few moments/hours/days, I finally began to see the humor of the situation. And as I am always unable to resist the temptation of making someone laugh, I confided my language faux pas (and that one IS French with all kinds of flourish) to Courtney as we drove to Louisiana. As expected, I was rewarded with guffaws and snorts, but this time it was okay because I was laughing along.

***FLASH FORWARD*** to the elevator ride up to our rooms at our hotel, the Horseshoe Hotel and Casino. 

We have been friends for two decades now, and the strongest common thread in our friendship is the ability to hit each other with the perfect inside joke reference when the other least expects it. A humorous sucker punch if you will. A zing.

In fact, it's my favorite thing, and I consider myself a zinger ninja. So in the elevator, this is what happened. Courtney hit me with a mispronunciation allusion, my cheeks flamed red, and then we collapsed into laughter. Not being in on the joke, my mom immediately asked what it was we were going on about.

Against my better judgment, I let Court and Heather tell the story. My father just shook his head. My mother was incredulous. Even more, she was delighted. 

See, I come by my zinger stealth naturally. For the next two days, it was a nonstop barrage.

"Should we stay here at the Horsey-hoe (Horseshoe)? Or go on to the Isle of CaPRY (Capri)?"

"I heard they were winning big at Hair-RAWS (Harrah's)."

"I love LOUIS-EYE-ANNA. Let's tour it in our Chev-o-roll-lay coop-pay!"

They practically vomited fake French flourish and flair all over my bruised ego.

But every time they did it, there was my dad, chastising them to leave me alone. It wasn't funny. I learned my lesson. All my life, he'd been my protector -- my Daddy Dean -- and this was no different. Each time they pestered, he'd swat them away.

You're never too old to be a daddy's girl.

When we returned home to Fort Worth, my parents and I hauled in our luggage, and my dad took up his post on my couch with Pat Sajak babbling away on the television. Heather and Courtney had talked them into staying the night instead of going home so that they could match wits with my mother, a legendary Scrabble player. As we headed out the door to Heather's for dinner and Scrabble, I asked my dad one last time if he'd like to join us.

Eyes closed, just a hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth, and without missing a beat, he replied...

"No, I think I'll hang out here for a while. Watch some Wheel of For-too-NAY."

And as my mother cackled and my shoulders slumped, I remembered how good it feels to sit on a joke until just the right moment. And he hit me from the top rope... with flair.

Nope, you're never too old to be a daddy's girl. Or a well-deserved punchline.

Happy Birthday, Pops. Your girl misses you big.

#CERTIFIED

So... I love my job. I do. But like with any job, there are things you have to do that, frankly, you just don't wanna.  One of those such things is training. Another is standardized testing. And when you get those two crazy things together... well, it's a whole lotta don't wanna.

But whether you want to or not, it must be done. Before the actual standardized test training next week, we had to watch 3 training modules about standardized testing.

No. That is not a typo. It's exactly as clear as it sounds.

This is modern day education. Just like there are warnings like "Do not ingest" on tubes of Preparation-H because somewhere, somebody thought "Hey. This stuff I put on my butt? I wonder how it tastes" and then got sick and died, there are poorly-acted training videos set in the worst looking fake classroom because somebody, somewhere, thought "Hey, I've got 4 hours to let kids test in my room. Maybe I'll take a nap."

And now we all suffer because grown adults can't follow scripted directions, pay attention, and stop eating hemorrhoid cream. Such is life.

But because there's not anything top-secret in these videos, and because I was so tired of hearing the robotic voice explain to me what was happening in said videos, and because I was totally alone in my classroom at 6:30 PM with no one to whisper my snark to, I live-tweeted my experience between video segments. Luckily, I think everyone was watching the NCAA tournament play-in games and paid me no mind.

I have to admit, some of the scenarios were intriguing... students stealing test booklets and hiding them in their leather jackets from 1992...THEFT! A teacher who can't tell the difference between Roberto Martinez and Robert Martin... ILLITERACY! Teachers leaving their booklets, trusting another teacher to turn them in only to have that coarse villain violate privacy rules by looking at the test... BETRAYAL! A shady looking administrator leaving a teacher's door unlocked after "checking smoke alarm batteries"... ABUSE OF POWER!

It's enough to make someone certifiable. Or you know, just #CERTIFIED!

*Please note that all of the teachers referenced below are what I believed to be not-so-professional actors playing the role of some very questionable educators. Because, let's face it... video taping a classroom actually engaged in standardized testing is most likely against the rules. There wasn't a module mentioning it, but I'm sure there will be next year.

**Also, reading this blog post does not qualify you as having been "trained". This blog post cannot be used as module credit, will not print out a certificate, and could never do these videos the justice they so rightfully deserve.

***Plus, I had to watch; therefore, so do you.

The Quick Brown Fox Jumps Over the Lazy Dog

Yesterday, my students were taking a quiz in class. I sat at my desk, responding to an email. Typically, students hear the typing of computer keys and assume that the teacher is not watching. They take that opportunity to talk or cheat or do something really silly. And, as if on cue yesterday, as soon as I started typing my response, one of my boys reached across the table to try to win her attention by stealing the pencil from her hand.

Before his hand even made it off his desk, I had called him out with a "Hands to yourself, Mr. Taylor" and told him to get back to work, all without stopping my typed response. He stared at me incredulously for almost a full minute, waiting for me to finish what I was doing. After the quiz was over, he asked me if he could see what I had been working on because he didn't believe I was typing "real words". I couldn't show him because it was a work email about another student, but I asked him if he'd like to test me.

The whole class watched as I sat at my laptop, transcribing his words without stopping. They were in awe that I could not only type without looking at keys but that I could also correct my mistakes without going back to look at them.

I am an excellent typist. Mainly, I'm an excellent typist because I had an excellent typing teacher. And, yes, I took typing. On an actual typewriter. It was the dark days, indeed.

Coach Smith was our small school's art teacher, typing teacher, and head football coach -- a man of many talents, if you will. He referred to us as his Sweathogs, a nickname I have forever loved and continue to use at times. He also was sneaky-brilliant. See, I was a bit of a perfectionist at schoolwork then, and in order to correct something on the typewriter, you had to stop, backspace, insert a white-out strip, re-type the mistake, backspace, and type the correct letter, word, or sentence. Making mistakes was a time-consuming and irritating process, so I had a terrible habit of looking at my keyboard. This would elicit a reprimand of "eyes up, Nazworth" from Coach Smith every time.

Even if the man was reading the newspaper, he seemed to catch me.

And then one day, he sat a new student across from me. That student happened to be his son, Spencer, who happened to have the most gorgeous eyes on Earth. Now, I honestly don't know if Coach sat him across from me because it was the only open desk or because he knew I wouldn't talk to him (I was super-awkwardly shy AND a rule-follower while Spencer was an uber-popular cool kid). My guess is the latter, but what happened was I never looked at my keyboard again. I didn't necessarily stare at him, but I made sure to have my head up just in case I could sneak a quick peek or in case he needed to borrow a white-out strip. I didn't want to make mistakes, and I didn't want to miss a chance to gawk, so my only option was to become really, really good at typing.

And I did. Good enough to catch students doing all of the things they're not supposed to be doing when they assume I'm not looking.

See what I mean? Sneaky-brilliant.

So yesterday, as my class called out tricky words and phrases, trying to mess me up, this is the story I told. And then I reminded them that teachers really do always know what's best when it comes to seating charts.

Then I moved Mr. Flirty to a seat across from the starting center on the football team.

I'm kind of sneaky-brilliant too, now. Like I've said before, I learned from only the best.

(For all of you who haven't been exposed to the greatness that is
"Welcome Back, Kotter")

Teachable Moments

In my classroom, I try to follow just a few guidelines every day:

1. Don't speak in anger.

2. Never shy away from a teachable moment.

3. Find the funny. The funny will keep you alive.

That's it. I don't always accomplish all 3 every day, but I make the attempt and I apologize when I'm not successful. Especially when I don't accomplish #1. I've probably apologized to more 12 year olds than any other group of people on Earth.

I do believe, however, in the teachable moment, and I find myself sometimes teaching lessons that I never planned (see examples: here, here, and also here).  I also don't tend to shy away or ignore topics that kids seem to be/show to be misunderstanding. I like honest answers, and I don't think there's anything wrong with answering the "tough" questions as long as you speak respectfully, intelligently, and without personal bias. 

On Wednesday, my 3rd period had a 5 minute discussion on how one of the student's sentences -- 

"Joe, a black student, was sitting in class" was not a racist statement but that their continual assumption that I like country music and NASCAR because I'm white might be. 

(For the record, *Joe, is in fact, a black student, and he created that sentence himself. Also, for the record, it's a pretty funny story to tell, but in trying to recreate it in teleplay form, every last one of us just came off looking terrible.)

It's also how, during today's assignment, I discovered that my students didn't know the name of one of our mustachioed teachers and have been calling him "Dr. Phil" for the last 4 months.

You be the judge.

For the record, these kids don't have this teacher, so I don't really believe that they're trying to be mean-spirited. Unless he really hates Dr. Phil, I suppose. Then it would be mean.

Still... Tuesday's teachable moment is going to be all about introducing yourself and learning people's actual names as a sign of respect.

Never. A. Dull. Moment.

I MAKE MIRACLES HAPPEN!

Every 12 year old I know has only two sworn enemies: body odor and combination locks.  Both seem to mystify and confound even my smartest students.  Students who seem to believe that dollar store perfume and Axe body spray somehow replace soap and water.

Unlocking a combination lock is the ultimate test for adolescent youth.  It requires patience, attention to detail, and enough memory space to store 3 numbers.  None of these happens to be a 7th grader's greatest attribute.  I might as well have given them the instructions in Japanese or asked them to divide 8 by eleventy-billion.  Their blank stares haunt my dreams.

The first few weeks of 7th grade each year are full of crying, begging, and bargaining.  There are even a few punches thrown in absolute rage.  Learning to work their lockers is a full-on adventure into the 5 stages of grief -- for them and for me.

Stage 1: Denial
With an entirely new administration and an almost 50% new teaching staff, there were certain things that fell by the wayside in planning.  One of the most notable of these was, you guessed it, lockers.  So for 3 weeks, students wandered in and out of classrooms, all willy-nilly, carrying their backpacks.  Not a big deal, I thought, until I almost met my demise courtesy of Jansport interference within my inner loop.  Every day, no fewer than 37 children would interrogate me on the whereabouts of their locker combinations.

"WHAT DO WE WANT?"
"WE WANT LOCKERS!"
"WHEN DO WE WANT THEM?"
"WE WANT THEM NOW!"

I'm telling you.  EVERY. FREAKING. DAY.

So, we gave them lockers.  They tried them. Once.  The next day, 37 children wandered aimlessly into my classroom -- with their backpacks.

"What happened to your demand for lockers, Norma Rae?" I asked.

"Lockers?  I never wanted a locker.  What do I need a locker for?  And who's Norma Rae?"

This.  This and that damned blank stare.  I have now endured the blank stare for 17 days with some of my kids.

Stage 2:  Anger
Me: "Put your backpack in your locker.  Put your backpack in your locker.  PUT. YOUR BACKPACK. IN. YOUR LOCKER."

Them:  (shock. indignation. gasps.)  "Whaaaatttt?  Huh?  No."

Me: (silently pointing at the lockers, blocking the door)

Them:  (5 second transition to) "I CAN'T OPEN MY LOCKER!  MY LOCKER IS BROKEN!  MY TEACHER NEVER GAVE ME A LOCKER!  WHYYYYY CAN'T I JUST BRING IN MY BACKPACK?"

Stage 2 involves a tremendous amount of anger, on both their part and my own.

And for the record, if you punch your locker out of illogical and asinine rage, I will not drop everything to give you a nurse's pass for your hand.  Those are what I like to call "natural consequences".  Deal with it.

Stage 3:  Bargaining
This is a good one.  Stage 3 involves all sorts of promises.  But if you've ever known/depended upon a 12 year old to follow-through, you know how it will end.  So, much of Stage 3 just involves me either looking away and pretending not to hear OR masking my still-burning hostility with a look of bemused ambivalence.

"I'll be so quiet if you let me bring in my backpack."
"I won't tell anyone else you let me bring it in."
"I swear I'll learn my combination tomorrow."
"This is the last time I'll need your locker key."
"No, really... this is the last time I need your locker key."
"Can you open my locker with your key one last time?"

Stage 3 also sometimes involves tears.  It doesn't matter if it's a boy or girl.  For the first 7-10 days of learning lockers, someone will cry.  Guaranteed.  Tears are a child's only real bargaining strategy.

It's sad, but not in the intended way.

Stage 4: Depression
This one tends to fade quickly.  And if it doesn't fade, it just jumps straight back to anger.  The default setting for most adolescent youth is usually just anger at everyone over the age of 16, so this makes sense.  But there is a TREMENDOUS amount of whining and foot-dragging as I force kids to their locker to make them "Show me.  Show me how you can't possibly open your locker."

Stage 5:  Acceptance
The absolutely most gratifying stage of any teacher's day.  This is the moment where you relish the win. You have feasted upon their tears, grown strong from their hate, and proven, once more, that you will outlast them.

It's also the moment where, yesterday, after quickly visiting all 4 of the first stages within 45 seconds with a student, I marched her down to her locker, made some quick observations about her lack of combination lock finesse, and taught her the Way of the Locker.  I am, essentially, the Mr. Miyagi of Lockerdom.

The Way of the Locker:

• Ignore the written directions. They're stupid.
• Listen to me. I am Mr. Miyagi.
• Shut up.  It's not important who he is except that he's awesome.
• Breathe.
• Go right. Slow down as you approach the number.
• Go left. Pass it up... slow it down.
• Go right. Pay attention.
• If you mess up, start again.
• Repeat as many times as necessary.
• Don't forget to breathe.
• Celebrate.

Which I did when she opened it three times in a row.  I threw up my hands to signal a touchdown and loudly proclaimed, "I MAKE MIRACLES HAPPEN!" in front of the Assistant Superintendent of Administration who happened to be visiting.

I didn't care.  Let him judge.  Let He who has not spent the last 32 days in Stages 2 and 3 cast the first stone.

And then let him take on the next one.  That kid stinks.  Probably because his Axe body spray has been securely locked away for 16 days.

Fallon and Football

There aren't many things that make me smile/laugh/swoon more than Jimmy Fallon and Justin Timberlake dancing.  Silly is sexy, y'all.

If you haven't seen the latest, here you go:

*swoon*

It's What We Do

I spent the day with some really great teachers, and I loved it.  Their enthusiasm is the right kind of contagious.  And then I met some incredibly cute and sweet kids, stumbling and wandering through the hallways, searching for their classrooms at Open House tonight.  I'm worn completely out, but I cannot sleep, thinking of all the things I have to do before Monday at 8:47 AM.

But I'm a teacher.  It's what we do.

Challenge Accepted

I am the baby of my family.  I have two older brothers, and I have a mom and dad who don't believe in "letting" you win, even if you're little and cute.  I was 32 years old before I ever beat my mom at Scrabble; I still have the score card.  For every domino game I win, either (or both) of them will soundly thrash me 3 or 4 times in return.  I have never beaten either of them at shooting pool or golf.  My mom even trash talks when she solves a Wheel of Fortune puzzle before me.  My middle brother and I were rarely allowed to play games together because eventually the game board would take flight in a fitful rage from whomever happened to be losing (typically me, I admit).  And many a Nintendo controller narrowly avoided my wrath.

I hate losing more than I like winning, but, sweet baby Jesus, I do love to win.

Coaching junior high girls for 13 years taught me to temper my rage and frustration (although I'm embarrassed that I did accidentally break a volleyball cart once because I kicked it so hard).  I understand what behavior and expectation is expected and acceptable at what level; I'm a fairly humble winner and loser publicly.  But even my best behavior cannot quench my thirst to just make somebody else pay for their self-righteousness.

As the baby girl in a highly competitive family, I was desperate to be old enough or cool enough to be as good as my brothers and their friends.  I tend to have a chip on my shoulder when it comes to "boys only" activities and clubs, and I feel a deep need to impress if not out-perform or outsmart the competition.  So, today, when I was invited to play in my school's fantasy football league, I accepted the challenge without much hesitation.

And it will be a challenge, for sure, because I know ZERO about Fantasy Football.  In fact, I usually think it's kind of dumb.  But I'm not about to be left out for simple facts such as being a girl (or being clueless), so tomorrow afternoon, I'm going for it.  I've consulted a few of my Twitter experts and done a little studying up.  I think I've got the basic plan formed.

In my head, I'm viewing it as my own personal Title IX test case.  I'm about to roundhouse kick down the fantasy sports gender barrier, people.  This is the trophy I rescued from the garbage pile at school today.  I think it's an omen.

In truth, the guys I'm playing with are actually really nice guys who will talk noise and test me but still love me no matter how terrible I am at it.  There's only a couple that I'd really take delight in beating.  They're kind of like my work brothers, though, and historically, that spells trouble.

Hold onto your game boards and volleyball carts, friends.

Hello, Win Column

It's late.  Really late.  So you'll have to pardon the shortness of this post.

I went to the Rangers game tonight.  One of my best friends invited me along with a big group that had scored some tickets from the Angels management.  It didn't matter how they got them; I don't turn down free tickets.

I love baseball.  It brings back a host of wonderful memories, and I am a full-on romantic about it.  I love to play catch in the backyard, go to the batting cages, etc.  I especially love to catch a game in person.

Bird's eye view of Ian Kinsler.  Team #HighSocks

I especially love to go with kids.  Sure, there are times that they demand your attention more than your favorite player, and there are bathroom breaks and snack runs and an extreme amount of sticky faces.  But they also can sometimes get so entranced that you feel yourself slipping back into those moments when you first fell in love with the game.

That smile. Jeez.

My best friend, Heather, has a six year-old named Marcus.  Marcus loves Ian Kins-uh-ler and shouts for him maniacally when he's up to bat.  This makes me very happy; I also shout maniacally for Ian.  He also loves Joe Nathan, and he dubbed him "The Greatest Pitcher in the World".  When Joe hit the mound in the 10th, Marcus had wandered down to some empty seats (half the crowd gave up hope in the 8th when we were 4 runs down).  He had his feet propped up on the empty chair in front of him with his glove on his hand and his hat pulled low over his eyes.  He didn't move for an entire half inning, and I never once saw his attention leave Nathan on the hill.  For that half an inning, I saw Marcus at 16 and not 6, and time both sped ahead and slowed to a crawl all in the same moment.

In the bottom half of the inning, we had to teach him about rally caps, and he kind of gave us the side eye about it until he saw some of the "big dudes" wearing theirs.  I didn't blame him; it does look kind of dumb.

Only a charming 6 year-old can pull off a rally cap.

It worked though -- 2 strike, walk-off 3-run home run for a 14-11 win in the bottom of the 10th.

Hello, Win Column.

Baby Giggles are the Best Medicine

I woke up this morning, and I felt like a garbage truck used my head as a speed bump.  Then it backed up and poured hot garbage juice on me.

Needless to say, the words are not forming so easily in the brain today.

So, I'm leaving you with one of my go-to videos on my struggle days.  I've watched it about 12 times already today.

Baby giggles make the world go 'round.

How Do You Remove a Rabbit From a Sousaphone?

Remember when I confessed to y'all that I'd never been to the ocean?

Well, check that one off the bucket list.  Sort of.  I guess it depends on who you ask.  I technically went to Galveston and the Gulf.  There's lots of argument about whether the beach of Galveston counts and whether to qualify the "gulf" as an "ocean".  But for a kid who's always been able to see the opposite shore of whatever body of water she's looking at, it's the damned ocean.  It was mesmerizing.  The wind, the waves, the seagulls fighting over dead fish.... all of it.

I wound up going to see my friend, Allison, who is in nursing school down there.  Allison was one of my favorite campers like a 1,000 years ago at summer camp.  Since she's 30 now, I guess I can stop referring to her as one of my "kids".  Allison leads the kind of life of adventure that I always think I want to lead.  She's been so many different places -- studying in Mexico and Guatemala, doing desert conservation in Arizona, leading canoe trips on the Canadian border, blowing up dams, and measuring tree growth in Alaska, just to name a few. 

Then I remember that I really treasure things like television and microwaves and toilet paper.

Allison's adventures both make all the "responsible" adults in her life insane and jealous all at once.  Now she's settled into pursuing a career in nursing.  I think it's just a cover to work a couple years in civilization before she's off delivering Pygmie babies in the Amazon, but whatevs.  I'm just hatin'.

Here's a little photo re-cap of my Bucket List weekend:

This is Allison.  Allison went to OU.  The burnt orange scrubs are both required by school and sure to cause a fierce rash to her Sooner blood.  I will not take this opportunity to point out the obscenely white tennis shoes.  I will also not point out that someone advised her to get Skechers Shape-Ups.  Or that she took their advice.  That would just be cruel.

The Skrehart family is one of the most intelligent and creative thinking families I've ever known.  It does not surprise me at all that Kathy used her evil genius to exploit Pinterest for this:  Skittles-infused vodka.  Literally, you just take vodka, drop in a handful of Skittles, and then strain out the weird gelatin coating that melts off.  What you're left with is neon-colored jars of Heaven.  I drank a lot of Neon Heaven.

 Oh yeah.  We went to the beach.  It was dreadfully, dreadfully cold.  I did not stick my foot in as planned.

 Kathy and Allison looking for shells on the beach.  And freezing. 

 If you live in Galveston, in a house without a verandah, I'm thoroughly convinced you're not doing it right.  I wanted to knock on doors of houses without verandahs and ask the resident within what the hell they were thinking.  This is a relatively tamed down version of a Galveston home as it's not hot pink or turquoise, like below:

This is the view from Allison's verandah.  It was a dreary day, so my camera didn't really capture the vibrancy of the house colors.  We had a weekend-long debate about what color we would all paint our houses if we owned homes here.  There's also a marigold yellow house directly across from Allison's apartment that I kind of coveted.  It mattered very little that they *might* have drug deals happening on the front porch or that there was a port-a-potty stationed in the front yard.  Truthfully though, I think that if you don't go with some sort of rainbow sherbet motif, you're really letting the entire city down.

 Apparently, if you cut down a tree at your house (or it's blown down by a massive hurricane -- whatevs), this tremendous artist with a chainsaw will come carve it into something magical.  This yard's tree stumps turned into the Tin Man and Toto from the Wizard of Oz.  The Tin Man and Toto happened to be celebrating Mardi Gras at the time.

 Back to drinking.  If you look closely, you'll see that, in celebration of Mardi Gras, we drank the grape, lemon, and lime vodka first.  You'll also see, if you look closely, that we drank out of Allison's "Sip and Strip" glasses.  When the glass temperature changes, the rejects from CHiPs begin to shed their tank tops and tighty-whiteys so that they're wearing nothing but unbelievably out-of-date facial hair and a smile.  I really can't describe how proud this child makes me.

So... apparently the coast is Hurricane Country?  Hmm... I seem to remember something in a book somewhere mentioning this.  All around the city, there are water line markers from the big storms.  The middle silver plaque is the big storm of 1900.  The blue mark at the very top?  Hurricane Ike in 2008.  Allison's there for reference, and she's like 5'6".  I took this moment to have a very serious discussion/review I entitled, "Hurricane Warning = Get the Hell Out".  Really.  Get the Hell out.

So... to recap.  I saw the ocean.  I hung out with great friends.  I drank delicious drinks and ate delicious food.  Additionally, I was introduced to the delightfully awful 1970's tv show "Emergency!" whereupon I learned about the history of paramedics (a couple of upstart "rescue men" and one young doctor's willingness to put it all on the line for 'em), what to do if a child swallows a quarter (pick him up and shake him -- literally, this is what the doctor did), and how to get a bunny unstuck from a sousaphone (hint: chloroform and a strong air flow, but I'd just recommend not putting your rabbit inside a sousaphone.) See for yourselves here:

http://www.hulu.com/emergency

I am now chock full of wildly irresponsible medical know-how.  And views of the ocean.

All in all, time well-spent.

It's the Small Things

I... Am... Alive. 

I swear.  For the tens of you keeping up with me via the interwebs, take your fingers off the 9.

I'm here.  I am just mother effin' tired.  In 3 days, I'm almost at 40 hours of work.  That makes 2 days left to go.  I left this evening around 6:45 PM just to make sure I saw the sun this week.  It's been a series of work tirelessly for 4 or 5 days straight and then go comatose on the weekends.  It's a go, go, go, go... CRASH/BURN cycle.  And I'm so not the only one in this, so I try to keep my bitching to a minimum.  The fact that people are keeping this pace and then going home to do things like cook dinner for their kids or iron their husbands' shirts flipping astounds me.  I can barely change the cats' water dish.  And I can rationalize them drinking from the toilet. 

Every day, I feel like the pressure intensifies even more.  New kids.  New schedule.  New responsibilities.  Same ol' challenges.  Oh.  Annnddd... a NEW TEST.  When we're still on the hot seat with the last one.  The journey into the Great Unknown has begun.  And, everywhere, there are constant reminders that if we aren't successful, it'll be time to re-apply for... your... own... job.  I was the first teacher in yesterday at 6:45 AM and the last teacher out at 8:45 PM.  Now that's not the norm, but it's also not a rarity.  When I got in my car, I sat in the parking lot and sobbed for 2-3 minutes straight just to have some sort of release. 

Then I pondered taking up drinking full-time.  I bought dinner on the fly and then wound up putting it in the fridge because I was too tired to eat.  I was asleep within an hour.  I am unsure how to keep up this pace.

It's hard to have fun at work in the midst of all the tension.  But, by God, we're trying.  It's important to still find ways to have fun.  That's what I like about my co-workers.  The teachers in "A" Lunch are somehow under the impression that they are better than "B" Lunch, my lunchtime crowd.  As we're all fairly competitive and unwilling to give anyone else any sort of edge, much jaw-jacking (see "talking smack") has ensued.  Yesterday, when they stole all the chocolate from the Half-Price Books gift basket during A-Lunch, I put them all ON NOTICE. 

(This really doesn't mean anything since, unlike Stephen Colbert, I don't even have a NOTICE board, but still... a warning should strike some fear.)

Today, when I went to buy an afternoon snack from the lounge vending machine, I noticed these signs under the glass on the lunch table.  Subtle, yet hilarious.  I took some photos before those heathens see them and surely deface them somehow. 



Hunger Strikes, be damned.



Pseudo Political Testimonials



Straight shootin'



Historical perspective



Psychotic, former Heavyweight boxing champion testimonial



And my personal favorite...

I laughed until I cried.  Such a better batch of tears than yesterday, so I'm thankful for that.  It's the small things you have to treasure, people.  It's the small things.

Toddler Math and Cake-Cake Extortion

When you're about to be away from the real world for the summer, it's important to get some quality time with the funniest people you know.

For me, that means dinner with Elliott and some snuggle time with his baby sister, Brooklyn. Here's the conversation that ensued when Courtney told her darling son that his loving Aunt Deana was coming for a visit.

Court: Guess who's coming to see us? Deana! Deana is coming to see us!

Elliott: CAKE-CAKE! (with a deliriously happy face, I would imagine.)

Hmmm... the last 3 times I've spent serious time with my home skillet, Ell, has been for:  Heather's adoption shower, Heather's birthday party, and Baby Brooklyn's shower.

Here's math, according to a two-year old.

Showers and birthdays = cake-cake.

Therefore, DEANA = cake-cake.

So, when Courtney texted me this conversation, I had to strongly fight the urge to stop and buy my buddy a slice of cake-cake. But I resisted. Because his mother would kill me. And because Aunt Deana is neither made of money or cake-cake.

As I coaxed some green peas down the kid (and had to stomach a few of my own), I tried to get some video of my latest venture with E. Here's my attempt (Pardon the cackling at the end -- for everyone who listens to me on a daily basis, I'm really very sorry. I had no idea.)

Attempt #2 only served to attract Glammy's attention, and you'd better believe that ain't nobody better than Glammy.  Except maybe Poppy.  But Poppy wasn't there to chime in.  Too bad, Poppy.

I'm not quite sure what the Ell-Man says at the end, but his eyes tell the whole story.  "Uh-oh... Glammy heard me.  I'd better change my story and look extra cute."

So, here's what I learned tonight:
A.  Green Peas actually aren't too bad if they're fresh.  And coated with lots and lots of butter.
and
2.  You gotta bring the cake-cake if you want a chance to overthrow the Reign of Glammy.

I'm On the Case

Law and Order: Special Victims Unit is the favorite show of one of my best friends. She swears that it's the best of the L&O franchise. I denied watching for several years until one day, at her house, an episode used a nickname of my own invention on one of their perverts. It was like they crawled up into my brain. I was hooked.

SVU comes on approximately 38 times per day.

Hence, my DVR records it about 38 times per day.

In the 2 months that I've been obsessing, I have become pretty much outstanding at cracking a case before the third commercial break. Sometimes even before the second.

I'm fairly sure that the FWPD will begin dropping off cold case files on my front porch any day now.

I'm also fairly sure that I might have a weird crush on Ice-T.

Deep Thoughts and Ketchup Blow-outs

I spent the weekend in what I've come to admit as the "Number 1 Way I Should Not Recoup". I came home Friday night, laid down, and slept. And slept. And slept. Saturday. Sunday. All of it. Not because I was tired but rather I was hiding. Hiding from Worry, Doubt, Despair, and Fear - the Four Horsemen of my Emotional Apocalypse.

And tonight, what I needed to do was work - all the work I avoided this weekend (because I hid from responsibility too). What I did instead was go to dinner with my friends.

My wonderful friends who, at one moment, are discussing life and death matters (seriously), but in the next are belly-laughing because someone accidentally exploded a ketchup packet all over two of us across the table AND the wall behind us.

We laughed so long and loud that everyone in the restaurant was staring. Maybe because we were too loud. Maybe because they're jealous. It doesn't matter anyway. It was just enough to wake me up.

Life in the Dirty South

My 8th period class is what I call "The Dirty South". The majority of my kids do not hail from Texas but rather Louisiana, Mississippi, Georgia, etc. My favorite, a skinny little big mouth boy, made his way here from Arkansas. And his thick country accent makes me smile each and every time he talks to me. He drawls out words, drops letters, and basically mangles up everything I try to teach him. Then you add in a little whine and some lip smacking, and you're there. You might have to read the following exchange out loud to get it just right.

Here's today's installment of Life in the Dirty South:

I overhear Arkansas arguing with a group of girls while they're supposed to be doing their review. After a decade of teaching, I don't even have to look up to know they're not working; I can tell from the low hisses and super-speedy talk that they are up to no good.

Me: Arkansas, what on Earth are you doing now?

Arkansas: Miss! These girls be tryin' to get me to flex! And I toolllddd them you'd ketch me and chew me up you be so mad at me.

Me: What is it you're planning to flex?

Arkansas: (incredulously) My muscles!

Me: And why would I "ketch you and chew you up" just for flexing your "muscles". (Brief interlude while I explain "air quotes" to one of my other kids who replied, "I had a feelin' you'd be doin' somethin' sarcastic.")

Arkansas: Weeellllll... if start flexin' then them girls gon' be gettin' all worked up and start sweatin' over me. Then that's gon' make the room all stanky. (Smug look as if he's made perfect sense while every girl falls out. Literally, falls out of the chairs laughing.)

Me: Annnndddd....?

Arkansas: And you ALWAYS be gettin' own us if we be stanky up in here.

Me: Ohhhh.... I see where you're going. Good point, Arkansas. I do not like stanky kids.

Arkansas: Thass right. Noooo flexin' here today. I cain't be making teacher mad. Not 'for grades come out. Show. Is. Over. (Big, wide smile as he pushes up his sleeves to discreetly start flexing his little pipe cleaner arms as he struts back to his chair.)

Me: (Head on desk)