detention club

You are to copy page 259 from top to bottom. How many times? Oh, one time should be fine. Not that wussy dictionary, please--the big scary red one. Very good. Also, don't talk to me or I'll add a page for every word. Now never ever disrupt my class again. Have a GREAT weekend!

Fake mustache

You know how sometimes things happen that are unjust, and on very rare occasions YOU are the only one with the power to say that yes, it was indeed unjust, and sometimes you have to say it loudly and to many people, so you do it as respctfully as possible, trying not to stir the pot too much, and afterwards you know, you know in your BONES that you've done the right thing, and gracefully, but you're still sort of afraid to leave your classroom...?

No?

Oh.

dumb laptop, stupid keys

me: my s and s do not appear to be workin on tis laptop anymore. fiddlesticks.

me: RRRRR!!!! Before, wen tis appened, I restarted te computer and it was fine. Tat doesnt seem to be workin in tis case. I ate tecnoloy.

ryan: Check and see if there are sesame seeds that have lodged themselves under the keys on your keyboard - a common culprit.

me: its te atce;;;;;////llllllllllllllllllllllll,l;;;;///////////kfds x CAT AIR!!!!! CAT AIR ALL OVER TE KEYS!!!

almost home...

Dear Jeff,

DRIVE FASTER.

Love,
me.

key lime sweater!

You are all trememdously jealous of my awesome new sweater, purchased for $.90. (A STEAL!)


Stylish AND practical: Never misplace your keys again.

Just kidding. I'm going to unravel it for the lime yarn, which will hopefully become a skinny scarf (one day I'll actually FINISH a knitting project), and find some artsy use for the keys.

Unless anyone wants to pay me lots of money e-bay style for this fine specimen, in which case speak now.

geek

I had only just narrowly escaped a Morrowind addiction when last night I stumbled upon the Kingdom of Loathing. Trouble.

consumer

There's something about coming to the end of a 500+ page book that always brings me to tears, so much so that it's hard to finish the last few pages. Not because of any tragedy in the book itself--although there's lots of room for births and deaths in the inches between those covers--but the tragedy of the book ending, like a break-up, a commitment you made during those hours between bed and sleep (even sometimes, a Saturday afternoon). Yes, you know it's coming; yes, you have plenty of warning; and yes, you can even skip ahead to find out how exactly it will end. None of this softens the blow.

One particularly fiesty student, in her two page letter to me, asserted: "Don't ask me to read aloud, because I probably read more than you." My initial reaction (oh--DO you now...) switched to confusion (how are those two things related?) and then doubt (maybe she's right). Even so.

So here's a partial list of the books I've read this summer, for my own self-assurance.

Middlesex, Jeffrey Eugenides
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time, Mark Haddon
The House of the Scorpion, Nancy Farmer
Behind You, Jacqueline Woodson
Kissing Tennessee, Kathi Apelit
Heartbeat, Sharon Creech
A Writer's Notebook, Ralph Fletcher
What Was She Thinking?, Zoe Heller
The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, Michael Chabon
Midnight in the Burned House, Margaret Atwood

***footnote: While looking for the author of The House of the Scorpion (which I liked and have often recommended), I found this 1 out of 5 stars Amazon review:

Horrible, August 17, 2004
Reviewer: Joey (NY)

"This is a horrible book. I hate it. I know 3 kids that read it and all of them hated it. My teacher recomended it but shes a wierdo. I think they should stop selling this book. Dont waste your money on this piece of crap."

The aforementioned fiesty student is borrowing THOTS this weekend. Guess that makes me Ms. Weirdo.

in which i finally leave the apartment, and turn into a chinese bear

thank you to lana for getting me out and about during evening hours again. and thank you to ana and maria and claire because they are special and i like them.

Dear Internet,

Do you see that link up there that says "get your own blog"?

Yeah.

ow ow ow

the cramps started just a few minutes after first period did, so I couldn't make it to a bathroom to chug down ibuprofen (thanks, ryan--i knew there was a cosmic reason why i stole them) until 90 minutes later. by that point, my insides were screaming their discontent, and i rammed my hip up against the "welcome basket" by the door, producing a lovely apostrophe-shaped cut and bruise.



despite these setbacks, i ran to the restroom as soon as the bell rang, did my business, cleaned my wound, chugged down drugs, and made it back to second period before the tardy bell rang.

which is why, students, you only get one bathroom pass every six weeks. if i have to wait, i'm taking the rest of you down with me.

that ole inner ear ain't what it used to be...

So after watching enough tiny girls on balance beams flipping and spinning and splitting in rapid succession, I did what every useta-wanna-be-a-ballerina girl my age does: a spinny jumpy pirouette in her living room. And I subsequently fell off the ground. That's at least a .5 point deduction, right there...

"courtesy" call

Car salesmen do not intimidate me at all.

In fact, I sort of enjoy telling them off--much like bossing around one's little brother.

Why is that?

on swimming

I think the butterfly stroke is very silly.

serious question

How do the Olympic women gymnasts keep from getting wedgies?

blue card count

They used the word "desperate" over the intercom, as in "teachers: Ms. ------ desperately needs your full blue card count in the attendance office in order to even out class sizes." Mine was already filled out, but I asked the kids to add up the numbers for me in their heads. (That's me--reinforcing mathematics in the language arts classroom; aka: don't have a calculator.) 139 students, total, in my cluster. In the cluster down the hall: about 60.

Long story short: The entire seventh grade needs to be restructured in a stunning display of schedule-juggling worthy of Barnum & Bailey. I despair.

And then, leaving school today, I saw the sweet woman who answers the phones huddled over a pile of blue cards with the brilliant art guy who makes shovels, and it was like the Red Cross airdropping food to a famished nation: help is on the way!

"This roster says 39. Can that be right??" "They won't all show up." "That's what you said last year, and they DID! They did all show up!"

Here is how I am adjusting to my class-sizes of 39, 37, and 33, respectively:

1. Add more desks. Since there is no more room IN my classroom, I will request that these desks be taken directly to the roof outside my classroom, where I will teach through open windows.

2. Purchase a megaphone. EDIT: Demand that the school supply a megaphone.

3. Instead of giving personal attention to every student, I will have them elect representatives who will come to me with concerns only after all other resources have been exhausted.

...

Aside from that little setback, it was a good day. Tomorrow perhaps I will have working lights and a fully-equipped classroom, and it will be a better day. If someone (do we even have a guidance counselor anymore? I have no idea) doesn't whittle my class sizes down by Friday, I'm kicking 15 out from each class and sending them to the front office indefinitely.

And if the school adminstration doesn't already think I'm a pistol, they certainly will by the end of this month...

"Hey, Miss D!"

It took me a second to register my name in the juniors section of Target. I was holding a red t-shirt and not, thankfully, underpants, as I turned to see one of my former students approaching me with a smile.

"Hi, Kris!" I was genuinely happy to see him, and happier still that I remembered his name. We chatted briefly about school starting, whether or not he was excited to be starting at Austin High (he was), whether or not he was happy to not have to wear a uniform anymore (very much so), and his old seventh grade teachers. He spoke clearly, and eloquently, and the once insecure, angry, stand-offish boy I taught was mostly unrecognizable. As was his voice: deeper, older.

He left me for the young men's section, and as he walked off I thought, "Gosh, he turned out ok," followed by a warm fuzzy feeling--not quite pride--that I later identified as relief, for both of us, knowing that he and I survived my first year teaching and neither one of us wound up broken because of it.

keepin' it clean

"What happened to you today?" the bartender asked.

"I got fired. I lost my boyfriend and my job, and it's my birthday," Jessica remembers telling him.

"How did you get fired?" the bartender wanted to know.

"I wrote an X-rated blog," Jessica said.

(from Blog Interrupted, Wash. Post)

in-box, out-box

Every year my classroom seems to acquire more STUFF. At first, none of it was my stuff--it was old stuff from the former teacher, who left me boxes and boxes of student portfolios because he thought it would be "helpful" (aka didn't want to move it) and books upon books of teaching manuals, ideas, materials, etc., the usefulness (or not) and necessity (or not) unknown to me at the time. So I kept them. In the closet, in the filing cabinet, in dust-covered piles.

Now I've managed to throw away most everything that I haven't bought, collected, or made myself, and the formerly empty bookshelves are brimming over with novels and books just waiting to be chosen. It's a library. It's MY library.

The organization has changed, too: I have a system for attendence (yippee!!), for turning in papers, for missed work, for sharpening a pencil, for going to the bathroom, for keeping papers in the room. Yes, it's taken me two years; no, it's not perfect, but the systems are there.

And when I left my classroom today for the last time until Monday, when 120 new seventh graders will see it for the first time, I felt (wait for it...) proud and excited. Like it's going to be a good year. Like I wouldn't have to spend my Sunday night frantically making copies at Kinko's and worrying about how I'll convince people that I know what I'm doing.

Heck, maybe I'll even turn in a lesson plan or two.

(But probably not.)

Driving Ms. Gogova

G: Thank you ever so much for going out of your way. You are too kind.
Me: It's no problem. I used to take 59 to get home but since they started construction I take Elgin instead.
G: Oh! I do not like the 59. Too many people trying to go fast, too much tension. I prefer the 45 or the 610. They are much more polite.

Something about her makes me want to sip tea and call everything "lovely" and wear ballet slippers with large floppy hats. How did I NOT KNOW after two years that our French teacher is Bulgarian? (Probably the same reason I still get called "Erica" in the hallway. I AM NOT ERICA. Yes, we're both blonde, yes we both teach language arts, yes we're both TFAs, yes we sometimes dress the same, but I am a individual, dammit--I AM A UNIQUE SNOWFLAKE.)

Anyway, yes, Bulgarian. Eat your heart out, vnimavai(toplo)!

keeping up appearances

I think I look a little crazy lately, showing up places in modified value village clothing mixed with things from the back of the closet and the everpresent red shoes.

This cardigan, for example, was a dowdy White Stag (aka Walmart brand) model that I figured could pass for schoolmarm come September, when the classrooms get icy, until I decided to move the button and throw it all assymetrical. Likewise the off-white skirt dyed deep wine, the baby-doll dress turned skirt, and the ill-fitting too-long tank-dress turned halter-top, with contrast stiching. Let there be no mistake: I know nothing about sewing aside from a travel kit my mother sent off with me, and less about fashion. When asked about "the rules" Lana says: "darling, we break all the rules," and so I bravely attack with scissors. (If it cost $2 to start with, what's there to lose?)

All this to disguise the fact that, since May, I've put on a little weight that I'm hoping will unloose itself once the stress of teaching sets in again.

Until then, I approach my closet like a hunter. T-shirts cower; A-line skirts try to appear invisible. "We'll change!" they protest. "We'll flatter your curves in all the right places! Just don't turn us into throw pillows!"

A month in photographs

New pictures up from
-my dad's visit
-bathroom disaster
-camping on Lake Travis
all lumped together in one easy-to-digest album.

cars p.iii

I LOVE LOVE LOVE MY HYUNDAI ELANTRA.


(not my actual car, but this is what it looks like)

My favorite quotes from an entire day spent on the phone and in dealerships:

Rep1: "So what you're saying is you want a lot of car for very little money."
Me: "Doesn't everyone?"

Rep2: "Now the Scion... does that come with leather seats and a CD player?"
Me: "Yep, standard."
Rep2: "But does it have the 10-year warranty?"
Me: "It's a Toyota."
Rep2: [pause] "True."

Rep3: "$13,000? You're offering $13,000 for a brand new Elantra GT? [chuckle]"
Me: "I have exceptionally good credit."

Rep3: "Are you trying to put us out of business?"
Me: "Look, I have been all around this city today. I have been north and south and west and on the phone and these are the numbers and YOU have my car and I am TRYING to give you my $3000 tonight."
Rep3: "You should stay off the internet."

Rep3: "How much do you think your [Neon] is worth?"
Me: "Have you seen my car?"

I think I did pretty well, for a blonde chick.
Incidentally, the Neon was worth $800.
I thought I'd be paying them to take it away.
Many thanks to all parties involved.

Statement

We were stopped at a red light on the Southwest Freeway feeder road, about to turn right onto Bissonett.
What lane were you in, Ma'am?
The rightmost lane.
And who was driving? I was. I was test driving the new Scion xA. I like it, it reminds me of Lana's Echo. Except the rear-window visibility is partially blocked because of the back-seat headrests. Maybe they could be removed. It's also hard to see because it has those tiny windows in the back. You know my friend Andrea's Corolla has been broken into three times through that window, I guess it's easier to break than the full-sized windows. Still, I don't understand how they unlocked the power doors.
Please, what happened.
We were hit from behind by a man in a truck. He motioned for me to pull into the nearby Sears parking lot so I did. I didn't really know what else to do, because I've never been rear-ended, and I sure as heck have never been rear-ended while test driving a vehicle I might someday want to own.

The first thing he said was "Don't worry, I have insurance." And then it occured to me that I should ask Jeff if he was ok, and he said yes. And then it occurred to me to wonder if I was ok, and I decided that I was not, and I was probably about to be in big trouble effective immediately, so I started to cry.

And while I was on the phone with the dealership
(wait, I dialed 411 to get the phone number
but it was probably written in big numbers on the back windshield,
right under STERLING MCCALL TOYOTA
which is another reason the visibility was poor)
while I was on the phone the man with the truck
--was his vehicle damaged?
Only a tiny dent. He wrote something down on a piece of paper and said he had to get back to work. He told me I should, "chill out, lady," and I yelled at him.

Harsh words were exchanged.

He drove off a minute before the Toyota rep arrived.

I really thought Jeff was going to hit him.

Is this the paper?
Is this your handwriting?
No, he wrote that. We tried to compare the license plate numbers as he sped around the corner, but I wasn't thinking straight. He said he had given us his information and he didn't need to wait around for anyone, except he didn't say it like that, he used profanity.
This doesn't look like a Geico policy number. Did you see the card? Did you copy down his driver's license?
No. We didn't think he would leave like that, so suddenly. He didn't leave a name.
And this was the vehicle? A brown Ford truck?
It could have been black. Or a Dodge. I don't remember.
Are either of you injured?
My neck hurts, and I feel stupid.

it's true what they say...

Women are more attracted to men who don't come on too strong, too needy, or too interested right from the get-go.

Which is why, Mr. Scion-man, I'm headed your way first...


And Mr. Hyundai, I gave you a fake phone number. Sucka.