tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76128803707715369202024-03-13T09:38:04.883-07:00Teach Her“A man should first direct himself in the way he should go. Only then should he instruct others.” BuddhaTeachHerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07274190034126281924noreply@blogger.comBlogger23125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7612880370771536920.post-86611777501527689052016-06-27T22:31:00.000-07:002016-06-27T22:31:16.057-07:00Jenners "Teaches"<br />
Poor student teacher, unaffectionately named Bruce "You don't know how to say <i>Genre</i> correctly" Jenners has to work towards planning and then, (sharp inhale) execute an actual lesson in front of real live students. <br />
<br />
It was time to begin lesson planning. We were studying <i>The Crucible</i>, so naturally, that seemed a good place to start. Let the record state that he had not read it. How is that possible, you may ask? And my answer is: who the hell knows?<br />
<br />
I hand him a copy (since he didn't have the good sense to get a copy himself or even ask me for one) and suggest he finish reading it as soon as he can, so he can actively participate in class discussions, and can then (theoretically) take a portion to teach. <br />
<br />
You would have thought I handed him ancient Greek texts to translate. <br />
<br />
"Um, Mrs. I'm not sure how I will be able to do this with my schedule..." and then he rattles off classes, other obligations, and other shit. I've stopped listening because I'm thinking of all the things I could be doing right now instead of this. Clearly, the honeymoon phase is waring thin.<br />
<br />
"Well, this is real life. Suck it up." And I give him a soft scuff on his shoulder. <br />
<br />
The robot-boy was not amused. <br />
<br />
Jenners then awkwardly goes back to his sanctioned side of the room to actually read the play. At this point I need to mention that he has a specific way of walking where he rolls on balls of his feet so he almost does a sort of bob up-and-down. Add hands in his pockets for the most accurate image--if you dare. <br />
<br />
Days pass, and he's still in his corner reading. Mind you--the play is under two hours. But it's time for him to actually teach! Yikes. We hold the perhaps the most awkward conversation about what he could teach the students--since he has NO IDEA what this job really means--and come up with some ideas. He's to have an engaging opener, that will lead into the bulk of the lesson--in this case the play and what's happening, and then move into the written piece, which I'd already prepared.<br />
<br />
You would have thought he was delivering the State of the Union address to defend his mother f-ing life. <br />
<br />
Jenners was on that Mac just typing his little fingers away.<br />
<br />
<i>But I thought he was poor! </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Me too!</i><br />
<div>
<i><br /></i>
Anyway, I'm still teaching the shit out of <i>The Crucible. </i>Days later, he finally submits something that on some planet could resemble a lesson plan but without any logic or reason or purpose. Now, this is not something I've encountered. I have dealt with details left out, with activities in an illogical order, with transitions lacking. But this? This was another beast. <br />
<br />
"Warm up: Think about a time you had no idea what was happening. (1 minute)"<br />
<br />
<i>I'm having that moment right now.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
"Engagement:<i> </i>Then have students read in groups for thirty minutes and answer the questions. Then they write about what they've read."<br />
<br />
That's it.<br />
<br />
I wish I was kidding. What the hell was he doing back there all those hours? This?<br />
<br />
So, a thousand email exchanges later, it's time. He has to stand in front of the children to teach something. One would have hoped with such scaffolding from his professors and from me--the actual teacher, he would have made necessary improvements.<br />
<br />
No. That did not happen.<br />
<br />
Jenners arrived early. Three HOURS early. <br />
<br />
He wore his little costume neatly pressed which almost made matters worse. Picture a short male, perhaps 5 foot 3 inches wearing a suit and tie, with shiny black loafers, his black hair plastered down with gel, and then a huge ass back-pack walking his special way--sort of rolling onto the balls of his feet--so he's bobbing down the hall.<br />
<br />
This is Jenners. <br />
<br />
It's one thing for the kids to witness him in the room making his little bird faces at them, but it's an entirely different scenario when he's the authority.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
TeachHerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07274190034126281924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7612880370771536920.post-37936300309605771262016-06-27T22:30:00.003-07:002016-06-27T22:36:16.102-07:00Cancer? Maybe. Pregnant? Yep.<div class="MsoNormal">
Being a woman of a certain age, never having a pregnancy
scare (thank you, Baby Jesus) and using birth control for what seems like decades, I was anxious about my ability to conceive. The hubs and I were on no schedule,
but I had serious doubts. So, we agreed to lay off the bc and just see what
happened. As a planner, I immediately began prenatal vitamins--go Girl Scouts!
Wait—Girl Scouts doesn’t prepare you to get pregnant, just to be prepared. Ok,
now that’s out of the way…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After a few months of being sans pill, I scheduled an
appointment to begin the discussion of fertility at the gyno office. I’d done
some “research” on what to expect by asking my friends, co-workers, and the
pregnant teen working the HEB check-out. The internet provided more details
than I cared about or understood. But ultimately I felt prepared about the way
the discussions would go. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes, irregular periods, etc. “<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, when the kind but random nurse practioner asked if I’d
ever had these nodules on my throat checked, my stomach dropped. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What nodules?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And that’s when she dropped the c-word. <b>Cancer</b>. It <i>could</i> be thyroid <b>cancer</b>, but then she quickly
added it was a very “treatable <b>cancer</b>.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
WHAT. THE. FUCK.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She said words. I have no idea what they were. At some point
someone asked if I’d had a pregnancy test, to which I retorted: “Of course not.
That’s why I’m here. I can’t get pregnant!” They still poked me and took a
blood test. There was talking… I was to see some other doctor about how my body
had betrayed me and made cancer. I made another appointment about baby-making,
was told that if there were any major issues on my blood test they’d call and
then left. Totally mf’ing shocked. This was why I hated going to the doctor.
You go in for help, and you leave with cancer. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next day I went through the teaching routine of kids, jokes,
Englishy-stuff, and all the while, I think<i>:
I might have cancer, I’m a statistic, I’m going to lose my hair. Shit</i>. And
then I get a phone call from the gyno’s office that I should I call and ask to
speak to someone “regarding my blood test.” That’s when you know shit ain’t
good. Everyone knows that you get bad news from a humanoid, good news from an
automated machine or some dashboard of numbers with your name at the top. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Naturally, with only five minutes between classes, I desperately
attempted to seclude myself and call, got their voicemail and left a
thoughtless message. I somehow made it through the next class and then locked
myself in my room to try it again. I flipped through my phone for the office’s number,
accidentally called a random relative by mistake, took a deep breath to get my
shit together and dialed again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, yes, we’re so glad you called. Let me connect you to
someone immediately.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fuck.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes, looking at your numbers ma’am, you are pregnant. Very
pregnant.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Wait. Whaaaaa...?</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the follow-up appointment the next day, the hubs and I
had our first sonogram appointment where we heard a heartbeat. It was fucking
amazing. We were also told I was quite far along—as in eleven weeks. I’d been
pregnant for eleven weeks totally doubting my ability to even get pregnant. I
remembered all my judgment bestowed upon the “Sixteen and Pregnant” girls who
didn’t know they had a human life growing inside themselves. What idiots! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, I’d been easily annoyed and unbelievably tired all the
time. <i>Huh</i>. But that’s how you often
feel as a high school English teacher. And, yes, actually I had been nauseous in the
morning. <i>Huh</i>. But I thought it was because
of these spinach and banana shakes I’d been forcing down. And yes, my pants had
been a little tighter. <i>Huh</i>. But I’d also been eating a lot of cheese. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, that’s the story. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I successfully completed tests concerning the nodules and cysts
in my throat, but the annual checks done by my bad-ass endocrinologist confirm
they are not a threat. Cancer? Nope.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh, and twenty-nine weeks later, I had my healthy and happy
baby. Baby? Yep!<o:p></o:p></div>
TeachHerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07274190034126281924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7612880370771536920.post-5370465929514037582014-03-23T15:26:00.002-07:002014-03-23T15:26:17.034-07:00Brony LoveI want to take a brief moment to discuss just how weird some of my students are.<br />
<br />
One of my senior varsity football players also happens to be a Brony.<br />
<br />
What's a Brony?<br />
<br />
That would be a male who openly watches and enjoys the most modern CARTOON of "My Little Pony." Yes, you remember the show from the 1980's, but there's a new version with similar pony characters, but they have the new anime-giant-eyes thing happening.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXarMEEZib41QRpVCWU8-h5gv5tMX8uXiyVH9apW5BjcVoEPUZSvk0rr6vxT-Rc3gxbUz-8Qj7VJp2EFqEnkpAk746uwxH5wFWtFP5hS0RON9wGbGYoaVTdRwn54ngqTuzZihaw35dIKOZ/s1600/My+little+pony+logo+ponyville+review+blogger.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXarMEEZib41QRpVCWU8-h5gv5tMX8uXiyVH9apW5BjcVoEPUZSvk0rr6vxT-Rc3gxbUz-8Qj7VJp2EFqEnkpAk746uwxH5wFWtFP5hS0RON9wGbGYoaVTdRwn54ngqTuzZihaw35dIKOZ/s1600/My+little+pony+logo+ponyville+review+blogger.png" height="180" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
There are conventions, apparently, where these folks meet and discuss ... <i>something</i> about the shows. What exactly this entails is beyond even my imagination.<br />
<br />
As far as the class project went, this student made considerable effort of integrating this kiddie cartoon as a legitimate and worthy source of media. He was making <i>Hamlet</i> references for Christ's sake.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt7k0lzVsGHgt8esBoyTU2CkGSGxayW43BseGCRGAwPDFVe2GgOEYAMxn0MEVdyWCpclkUvggDstslfoYm2FX234peY8mfUgBTCUEEjEUZ0SfGDlc6OhMPXxBdxintrmwUEmqtXmyTD9fJ/s1600/bronies2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt7k0lzVsGHgt8esBoyTU2CkGSGxayW43BseGCRGAwPDFVe2GgOEYAMxn0MEVdyWCpclkUvggDstslfoYm2FX234peY8mfUgBTCUEEjEUZ0SfGDlc6OhMPXxBdxintrmwUEmqtXmyTD9fJ/s1600/bronies2.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">None of these people are actually students of mine, but you get the picture.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
So, what makes a kid a Brony? I have no fucking idea.<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
However, I would also like to point out that one day this same kid left to use the restroom (with permission, of course) and came back with a large, clear plastic bag filled with kale. I really only happened to notice because he was munching away on it as he returned. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Me: "Brony, what the hell are you eating?"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Brony: "Kale!" Munch, munch, munch.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Me: ?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Brony: "Don't worry. I just bought it. I'm going to make a kale dip when I get home."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Apparently our culinary students were selling food items that hadn't been used as ingredients during the lunch service, and my kid happened upon them in the hall. For one dollar, Brony got a big bag of crunchy, raw kale. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
What happened to good old fashioned drug deals? </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Damn hippie kids. </div>
TeachHerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07274190034126281924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7612880370771536920.post-43391628890251699382013-11-12T19:20:00.002-08:002016-06-27T22:34:09.452-07:00Nesting is Going to get me Thrown Out of the TreeOnce again I've found myself in the not-uncommon occasion of doing something I absolutely abhor; this time it's moving. <br />
<br />
It's stressful.<br />
<br />
It's expensive.<br />
<br />
It's basically a pain in the ass. <br />
<br />
However the hubs really wanted to "change it up" and leave the past behind--only about five or six miles behind--but he thrives when completing projects or serving a purpose. He is his best when there's a set of tasks before him and a due date for completion. In this scenario he gave it to himself. While the "old" place's amenities were indeed aging, and the rent was increasing, there wasn't anything categorically terrible. <br />
<br />
It was our first place together as a couple. Then we enlarged our little family by adopting our dog. We got engaged and then married in this apartment. (Well, I mean, not IN the apartment. Jesus, that would be depressing and totally bizarre.) After time, clearly this became home. Especially because--and this is the important part--I'm a <i>nester</i>. That's right. I've pretty much always needed or craved my own space and desired to make that a unique and special place for me. I like to make sure my little area of the world in which I lay-me-down-to-sleep, is ideal for me. I like painted walls. I like pictures of loved ones, and places we've traveled thoughtfully placed around the vicinity. I love various flowers and plants to bring life both indoors and out. And after five years of living in this home, I had a pretty fucking amazing nest.<br />
<br />
We'd accrued some fancy (and by that I mean, matching!) kitchen ware, two nice (also matching) sofas with complimentary pillows to the wall colors, and a whole patio of plant friends.<br />
<br />
This might have something to do with control--needing to assert it or maintain it, but it manifests in a weird way where my home has to be perfect. Whatever. It doesn't hurt anybody, so I'm going with the innocuous term, <i>nester</i>.<br />
<br />
So, with lead in my heels, I agreed to look around for something different. Needless to say I was one picky bitch. Deal breaker? Small closet space. <i>I'm out!</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Naturally we eventually find something nicer than what we've had. But here's the deal--NO patio, NO garage, and a bit smaller. But I'm totally sold on the granite countertops, the fancy island, two outdoor pool options, two huge gyms with all the newest equipment and a place that has never even been lived in. <br />
<br />
Then comes the moving part. I'll skip this since most people have moved, and most people, like me, hate it. So why would you want to read about it?<br />
<br />
Ok, we've moved in. I'm emotionally battered and physically bruised, but no matter. I've already painted the living room and the office/ study so I'm feeling pretty good. We didn't sell as many items as planned, but no matter. Surely we'll get our deposit from what I am now referring to as "that old dump."<br />
<br />
But now, we have two bathrooms. Hoo-ray! I love the hubs, but let's face it. Every woman needs her space. Now that means we need some new items. I begin small. I tell you. I go with our biggest needs. There HAS to be a shower curtain. And there should be a rug, but then one rug looked funny. So, I bought another. And then the matching bathroom accessories were on sale, so... you know where I'm going with this.<br />
<br />
I also blame the summer. This all occurred when I had way too much free time to judge, ponder and then act without consulting the budget-Nazi. This also might have been on purpose. <br />
<br />
I changed lamp shades, bought entirely new lamps, towels, and more bathroom items. <br />
<br />
Currently, I've got my eye on a new rug for the kitchen. The one I like is in the three-digit range. That's two digits too many as far as he's concerned. Better yet, why get a rug? The heathen!<br />
<br />
While this search continues, I'm also working on two new side tables that I keep mistakenly refer to as console tables. So, when the kind lady at the fancy furniture store that I pretend I don't know asks what I'm looking for, I tell her "two matching console tables" I have to quickly edit my mistake out loud--not unlike an autistic person--and explain that, yes, I am a dumbass, and no she will not be receiving a giant commission. One--because I'm never going to be able to afford anything for this store and two--because I meant side tables, not giant ass coffee tables. They should just all call them coffee tables, btw.<br />
<br />
Needless to say, the hubs will reconsider our next move. Of that, I can be sureTeachHerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07274190034126281924noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7612880370771536920.post-5023899528389059992013-11-06T09:18:00.000-08:002013-11-08T16:52:24.336-08:00My Student Teacher: Mr. Blindspot, aka, Bruce "Literary" Jenners.My student teaching experience was not unlike most other folks. I had a wonderfully talented, funny, and inspirational cooperating teacher named Mr. Blankenburg, whom I still consider, after thirteen years of teaching, to be a dear friend. <br />
<br />
It was scary at first. I remember. But I also worked my ass off to make sure I knew what the hell I was talking about while keeping my target audience in mind--namely to keep them awake and not humping each other during group activities. I wrote down everything Mr. B did in class during those observations. I stayed up late perfecting my lesson, memorizing names, and practicing my emerging teacher-face, now perfected with the Mom-stank-eye when the kids get on my last nerve.<br />
<br />
These fond memories inspired me to, years later, embark upon the similar journey of mentoring potential future educators. So, for many seasons now, I've agreed to host college students from around the area to observe my classroom and my teaching. I've encountered quite a few teachers-in-the-making, with their eager and nervous smiles. <br />
<br />
All of them, I feel fairly confident in saying, found their way in the world--most as current teachers. All of them had potential to do something in this world. All of them could communicate thoughtfully and effectively. All of them except for my current student teacher. <br />
<br />
I shall dub him Simon.<br />
<br />
Simon arrived to our first meeting over 40 minutes late. He was small, sweaty and strange. It was one of those moments, like on a first date, where you think to yourself: <i>well, this is gonna suck</i>.<br />
<br />
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<br />
I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt; however, more time spent together only strengthened my case. He came over six times late. That's six times too many, homey. Naturally each time he'd arrive late, he'd interrupt my teaching, a few kids got distracted, and he'd creep over to the other side of the room, waiting expectedly for me to come over to him and summarize everything he'd missed. When I finally confronted him on it, Simon became Simon, the Martyr. That other apostle no one wants to talk about because he was just that fucking annoying. <br />
<br />
He couldn't afford a car, because he couldn't afford college, because his parents were poor, because who knows. He had to ride his bike--in the rain--up hill--both ways--and then the chain broke--and then someone almost ran him over--and <i>then</i>, and <i>then</i>, and <i>then</i> I want to scream and go all Wolverine on him in the head. We have our various crosses to bear and at this point, it's not professional to announce them prior to having any type of relationship.<br />
<br />
Well, that confrontation backfired on me, because the next time he showed up early. Two <i>hours</i> early. Two additional hours with Simon, the Martyr. Since this was my planning period which meant no students to interrupt him, Simon took it upon himself to begin the world's most awkward interview. Each question would begin the exact-same-way. <br />
<br />
Simon: "Um, Mrs. -I have a question."<br />
<br />
Me: <i>Stopping what I'm doing and turning to him. "</i>Sure, Simon. What's up?"<br />
<br />
Simon: <i>Without any noticeable expression. </i> "Um, so. Um. How do you, like know, like what to teach?"<br />
<br />
Me: <i>Blink. Blink.</i> "Do you mean what texts I teach? Or what lexicon level of texts? Or skills?"<br />
<br />
Simon: "Yes."<br />
<br />
So, then I'm thinking that perhaps this college isn't quite up to par in their preparatory courses anymore, and instead introduce all the different ways the English department creates the scope and sequence for the year including all the TEKS skills, district course guides, etc. Meanwhile Simon simply sits there looking around me--not at me. After I finish, hand him several more handouts with information about our courses, he begins again.<br />
<br />
Simon: "Um, Mrs. -I have a question."<br />
<br />
Me: <i>Thinking this would be a follow up question related to what I've just spent the last seven minutes discussing. </i>"Go for it."<br />
<br />
Simon: "Did you buy a class ring from your college?"<br />
<br />
Me: <i>WTF? Take a deep breath. </i>"Um, no."<br />
<br />
Simon: "Um, Mrs. -I have a question..."<br />
<br />
Me: <i>Warily</i>. "Ok."<br />
<br />
Simon: "How do you work with students who don't care?"<br />
<br />
Me: <i>Thrown yet again by the drastic change in subject manner and complexity of the real answer. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>... Twenty or so minutes pass in this way while parts of my soul have just died. </i><br />
<br />
And this now concludes the Q and A part of our session. <br />
<br />
Each "interview" is the same completely random and disconnected set of questions with the same introduction. "Um, I have a question...." Well, no shit. We're not friends, and you certainly don't know what you're doing. Just ask it!<br />
<br />
Days pass and poor Simon is still fiddling with paperwork, or looking through all the documents I've given. And then, one day, Simon is just sitting. Nada. Then he's--dare, I say it?--on his phone and ostensibly texting. This is while I'm leading the class through an analysis of an excerpt from Meria Edgeworth's novel, <i>Belinda</i>, in my senior AP class. Texting. <i>Really</i>?<br />
<br />
Am I boring you? <br />
<br />
It's an insult from a self-centered and immature teenager, but somewhat understandable. However from a senior in college preparing to actually be a teacher, who's entire job at this point is to OBSERVE, it's something else. Again, I want to Wolverine your face.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yes, I just made "Wolverine" a verb.</td></tr>
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So, I get all teachery on his ass, and suggest he move around the room to help with students' questions on a writing exercise. I return to my podium in the front where students have been coming up to ask for individual help. Kids are visiting with me a few at a time. I briefly scan the room. <br />
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Students working? <i>Check.</i><br />
Simon walking around the room? <i>No--hmm.</i><br />
Simon in his corner? <i>No. Uh-oh. </i><br />
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I do another quick scan and nearly have a heart attack because it's then I realize Simon has been standing in my blindspot for some time now, with his hands in his pockets. Just standing. In the front of the room, in the left corner, not doing <i>anything</i>. <br />
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The nickname Captain Blindspot was born that day. <br />
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Then it came time for Blindspot to begin his lesson planning to then actually deliver a lesson to one of my poor classes. The questions were relentless.<br />
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Blindspot: "Um, Mrs. -I have a question..."<br />
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Me: <i>Yeah, I bet you do.</i><br />
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With his rigid schedule (he mysteriously can only be available Wednesdays and Fridays) the best viable option for him was to lead a lesson in my elective course--Literary Genres. Selfishly, I'm also aware that he can do the least amount of damage to an elective course where I can literally make things up as I please. The kids are fantastic and the focus is by my design. I thought this would be an amazing opportunity to craft a lesson using pretty much any medium with the only stipulation that the focus be in the adventure genre and there's some planned analysis.<br />
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When I describe this rare gem in one's teaching career to Blindspot, he does not share my enthusiasm.<br />
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Blindspot: "Um, Mrs. -I have a question."<br />
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Me: <i>Here we go.</i> "Yep."<br />
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Blindspot: "I don't know what you do in this literary genres class."<br />
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And now think to yourselves how to say the word "genre."<br />
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I bet it was not "jenners" which is how he pronounces it. "Jenners" as in <i>Bruce Jenners</i>.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoRS4TUrm-bpjsFg5D5jTpR_NpkKOsJ6F9QemgmSaqLnclnfWFL0twJzHMn7vfyWC0SQyZTmLJMvxoo3zl4xSg06I_jmiro7vYgsLmPSGTelN79HyVUDXh9gdF0JQwwwPU3gSnxbrfTKj6/s1600/bruce-jenner-profile.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoRS4TUrm-bpjsFg5D5jTpR_NpkKOsJ6F9QemgmSaqLnclnfWFL0twJzHMn7vfyWC0SQyZTmLJMvxoo3zl4xSg06I_jmiro7vYgsLmPSGTelN79HyVUDXh9gdF0JQwwwPU3gSnxbrfTKj6/s200/bruce-jenner-profile.jpg" width="133" /></a></div>
This is a mistake I would absolutely allow for a middle school student to make. This is something I might hear from a high school student. But for a senior in college who majored in English, and plans to be an ENGLISH TEACHER?<br />
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Houston, we've got a [yet another] problem.<br />
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And mind you, he's now been observing this class for three weeks with every piece of syllabus and class material the students have also been given. <br />
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Bruce "Literary" Jenners has emerged.<br />
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He has two weeks to prepare a lesson for Literary Genres. I've never been asked more questions in my life.<br />
<br />TeachHerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07274190034126281924noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7612880370771536920.post-69575437997025175202013-08-12T13:51:00.001-07:002013-12-28T11:35:53.297-08:00Books of 2013<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The following titles are novels that I've read (or reread) this year in order from January to... (why am I writing this part?). I tried to be brief because sometimes I just want to know the gist of something--<i>give me the seed of the story, whether it's worth the time, and then shut up</i>. So, that's what I've done, with some anecdotal information because it's my blog. </div>
<a href="http://blogs.slj.com/afuse8production/files/2012/06/Hobbit1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://blogs.slj.com/afuse8production/files/2012/06/Hobbit1.jpg" width="127" /></a><br />
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<i>The Hobbit</i> by Tolkien<br />
There's not much more to say about this stunning story that hasn't already been written, so although this was my first choice for the new year, I won't even attempt to be clever or creative, but rest assured, if you haven't read this and are contemplating it, stop reading this and pick up one of the best stories written, grab some hot tea (how very British of you!), and get to reading. Sweet but not sappy, inventive and absolutely addictive.<br />
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<i>Twelfth Night</i> by William Shakespeare<br />
<a href="http://www.ms-healey.com/resources/Twelfth-night-702823.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://www.ms-healey.com/resources/Twelfth-night-702823.jpg" width="200" /></a> So, I teach the hell out of some Shakespearean tragedy, but it's important to include his comedy as well. While he's got some famous ones, I prefer<i> Twelfth Night </i>to do the job. There's a line in there where Viola (dressed as the young man, Cesario) is cryptically telling the man she secretly loves that the only female in her family (referring to herself) could never speak her love, but sat "like Patience on a monument, smiling at grief." That always gets me. The whole plays is about mistaken identity and reinforces the idea that unless we are brutally honest with ourselves, we may never even know what we want anyway. To the right is the promotional image for the film because there aren't any interesting covers for the actual play. The movie is fun too!<br />
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<i>Casual Vacancy </i>by J.K. Rowling: <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlpZzyZDYUhCkr2nTHFTYlD-ut_Dm0ojzoBYaere9yJzpAks8Cv3XtESyGF2OIIXLOkNJF-FkVm5vz9Rx5JTUtIHSOoG3WvaWIPiQ2yu4TJ73BG_-q2cFJQdJnBeeyDJJP6FLaEgptJAIu/s1600/Casual+Vacancy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlpZzyZDYUhCkr2nTHFTYlD-ut_Dm0ojzoBYaere9yJzpAks8Cv3XtESyGF2OIIXLOkNJF-FkVm5vz9Rx5JTUtIHSOoG3WvaWIPiQ2yu4TJ73BG_-q2cFJQdJnBeeyDJJP6FLaEgptJAIu/s200/Casual+Vacancy.jpg" width="130" /></a> I really, really, really wanted to like this book. However, in the end, I didn't. Here's the deal: I knew there was no Harry in this. I knew there was no magic, or Hogwarts, but come on... just a little nod to something of the genre. Just a knowing, wink-wink, would have been appreciated. Oh, and for those of us who loved the emotional and physical adventure of Harry and Company, be prepared to be absolutely <i>underwhelmed </i>by the lack of both. Tear, whimper. It's an ostensibly realistic portrayal of a town with the old money and then those "on the other side" where characters from both sides are monsters. It's a little dark, definitely depressing, but certainly well written. I'll admit that Rowling's facility with language was a surprise; I'd pegged her as brilliantly creative, but left it at that. This novel lets her flex those linguistic skills. I just didn't like the story!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8UcPa2OzaMCWw25_8YhlwpzLjRkx1nxFpJoRc6-kuDy6sAKoEGsKuZirUJMbzDdcO3hskr2bwiQONdZxb8HgHon-KEYsckoZLyGChj-Wda5X5E3nLzRmnaofSUbv2UxF2FQdT265PVzNv/s1600/Gone+Girl+Cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8UcPa2OzaMCWw25_8YhlwpzLjRkx1nxFpJoRc6-kuDy6sAKoEGsKuZirUJMbzDdcO3hskr2bwiQONdZxb8HgHon-KEYsckoZLyGChj-Wda5X5E3nLzRmnaofSUbv2UxF2FQdT265PVzNv/s200/Gone+Girl+Cover.jpg" width="131" /></a><i>Gone Girl</i> by Gillian Flynn<br />
What a page turner, and much needed after the bore fest of my previous choice. This one was chosen by our book club and was a perfect escapist novel filled with interesting narrators and some wild plot twists. You have two narrators--one the husband, and one the wife--and as the reader, you're torn on more than one occasion as to which one you trust or even like. I got into the style of the novel as well--it wasn't a bubble gum beach read by any means, but I didn't feel like I had to work too hard either.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFhyphenhyphenkvHwoCe-d8yDVYxBm-UYUVsfAuKvzjpbgFhyzXpzoe2IO0jZvPJPpwUmTxPyZzKUWp608Z7vPRiKAFSFELnk2_HA6epg-05CvmBJDWZ2DQqJr83mLWFy-NZjXX5FvqOtGJqE38yIGo/s1600/OfMice-Men_680.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFhyphenhyphenkvHwoCe-d8yDVYxBm-UYUVsfAuKvzjpbgFhyzXpzoe2IO0jZvPJPpwUmTxPyZzKUWp608Z7vPRiKAFSFELnk2_HA6epg-05CvmBJDWZ2DQqJr83mLWFy-NZjXX5FvqOtGJqE38yIGo/s200/OfMice-Men_680.jpg" width="122" /></a><i>Of Mice and Men</i> by John Steinbeck<br />
To be fair, this is another one that I'm using with my juniors, but as an English teacher, I invariably need to reread it. At times this can be taxing, but my-oh-my how I adore this little novel, ahem, <i>novella</i>. The story of an unlikely friendship between two men, Lennie and George, trying to make their American Dream become a reality. And the film with the fantastic John Malkovich and Garry Sinise is really wonderful as well; I cry every time. (This past semester I didn't really "prepare" before reading the last chapter aloud to them and I totally couldn't get my shit together. Another sweet kid took over for me.) I love this particular cover. <br />
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<i>The Color Purple</i> by Alice Walker<br />
<a href="http://beautyisasleepingcat.files.wordpress.com/2012/03/color_purple.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://beautyisasleepingcat.files.wordpress.com/2012/03/color_purple.jpg" width="132" /></a> This is an outside reading option for a large research paper my AP seniors will be using basically as one of their sources, but all that doesn't seem to matter. You will fall so deeply and completely into the dark world of Celie--you love her and want to fight for her. Even when she's an adult, you still see her sometimes as this helpless child whose innocence was stolen from her--whose life was stolen. You celebrate her evolution as a character through her diary entries which are also her prayers to God, whom she at times denies, and for good reason. This is both a heartbreaking and heartwarming novel. Pulitzer--duh?! National Book Award, of course! Now I get it.<br />
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<i>The Things They Carried</i> by Tim O'Brien<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDWpJM8pnZKr4jEpq7e_FQ0CYN4IdGoBVex1N9r3KimNIzmLaNmG4lWiGgksZD1JlVzkPlGwQytB_VyjP_xsHZeD5LME22GeV41XDhKsm7LbjUCg3ENUtB7mZ3xYl7Hj2xO-2XMcn_GddN/s1600/Things+They+carried.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDWpJM8pnZKr4jEpq7e_FQ0CYN4IdGoBVex1N9r3KimNIzmLaNmG4lWiGgksZD1JlVzkPlGwQytB_VyjP_xsHZeD5LME22GeV41XDhKsm7LbjUCg3ENUtB7mZ3xYl7Hj2xO-2XMcn_GddN/s200/Things+They+carried.jpg" width="130" /></a> Yet again, I'm cheating a bit in that I've read this one, but it was worth the reread. Each time another chapter speaks to me in a way I hadn't expected. It's a collection of war stories told by Tim O'Brien--who was in the Vietnam War. Except this is fiction. Why? Because sometimes you have to lie to tell the truth. This is infuriating for a seventeen-year-old, but fodder for valuable class discussion. It's raw, complicated, beautiful, and terrible. It's humanity. I was enthralled from the first stories and then overwhelmed later as you get to more "truths" or explanations revealed in later chapters which at times contradict details earlier forcing you to ask those important questions, like does it even matter? I think my juniors got a lot out of it--some simply because they could read a book with cussing, but be that as it may, it reaches all the kids in some manner.<br />
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<i>Wild: From Lost to Found On the Pacific Crest Trail</i> by Cheryl Strayed<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin15d7weMZY877KmxCj3JpE-PM5xitCaJkrVVHQ9J6vzwFckvbz3oy9_w0SODBVNFF38vXDa-1L_IfT42cYiHvxxGBg_Ks5oI9nblAf_DJMgZFioLNnopeGrN9TVT3sBrSkruXh-Qf4ivw/s1600/cheryl-strayed-wild.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin15d7weMZY877KmxCj3JpE-PM5xitCaJkrVVHQ9J6vzwFckvbz3oy9_w0SODBVNFF38vXDa-1L_IfT42cYiHvxxGBg_Ks5oI9nblAf_DJMgZFioLNnopeGrN9TVT3sBrSkruXh-Qf4ivw/s200/cheryl-strayed-wild.jpg" width="200" /></a><i> </i>This one has been on lots of book club lists (including my friend, Oprah), and that's exactly how I was inspired to read this one--my book club. It's a memoir about a young woman who takes a year off from regular life to hike the rigorous Pacific Crest Trail because she is <i>lost </i>emotionally (and at times physically), yet by the end becomes... you guessed it, <i>found</i>! There were some sections in the reading which were extremely compelling including the portions with her dealing with the recent death of her mother and clearly coping with all the complications that a mother's death can create. It was heart wrenching stuff, but the low-middle class kid came out and started to get annoyed with all her self-induced, bullshit drama. I felt like yelling at her to "suck it up. Get a real job. Stop using so many drugs and stop fucking around." But some people need a long trail and a year off to figure it out. Either way, it's well written, but if you've had enough with the <i>Eat, Pray, Love </i>entitled, white woman drama, then this isn't for you.<br />
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<i>Fifty Shades of Grey</i> by E. L. James (Trilogy)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh122K-4vT-SVO_f4Etk9Nl_oFRmb4yVLj1e2gcAtn2sIt6STgZSBGrm2tyAYYP3TYWfPSGcq2qFlkkABCWkkwNMAcf3TnAReuy54WVZqAUiBmN4GjD5HwumeCJ6smriXUPCSuyk3xZ9iBY/s1600/50-shades-of-grey-cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh122K-4vT-SVO_f4Etk9Nl_oFRmb4yVLj1e2gcAtn2sIt6STgZSBGrm2tyAYYP3TYWfPSGcq2qFlkkABCWkkwNMAcf3TnAReuy54WVZqAUiBmN4GjD5HwumeCJ6smriXUPCSuyk3xZ9iBY/s200/50-shades-of-grey-cover.jpg" width="150" /></a> Alright, alright. I know. But I had to find out what all the hub-bub was about, and here's the deal. I totally get it. It's a story that, yes, certainly has sex in it. But more importantly, it has the equivalent of sex for most women. It's centered around a hot, brilliant, and wealthy young man who needs help. Help from whom? Help from a young and also hot brilliant young woman. He NEEDS her--it's so thick with Lifetime Television-esque scenarios the academic in me sneered. But... I kept reading. It also has her detailed shopping trips, what savory dishes they ate with the wine, what vacations they took to romantic and picturesque places around the world. It just had all the frivolous things women take pleasure in, and then we get the added benefit of just how desperate he is without her. We get the physical AND emotional intimacy! Oh my! This was also the first book (I refuse to call this a novel) where I read it solely from the comfort and protection of prying eyes using my iPad.</div>
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<i>The Passage </i>by Justin Cronin<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_n4jnMT_fSZdyP0PXEbnM-zTisL9mO_CTqtYJdsBtjq62Gp6At-kTpuYBfY-bpsg7Q79BfxpQbsVKaLPaYau-na3NWj_EJ-WnZ24Ix9DhZIk-jtgCI_VuD_-ARaSZQKiwQJB16Zp5kuAb/s1600/The-Passage_PB.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_n4jnMT_fSZdyP0PXEbnM-zTisL9mO_CTqtYJdsBtjq62Gp6At-kTpuYBfY-bpsg7Q79BfxpQbsVKaLPaYau-na3NWj_EJ-WnZ24Ix9DhZIk-jtgCI_VuD_-ARaSZQKiwQJB16Zp5kuAb/s200/The-Passage_PB.png" width="129" /></a> The reviews for this novel really intrigued me including one by the famous Stephen King who is quoted as saying "Read this book and the ordinary world disappears." Whoa! Right? Now, I typically don't go for unnecessary blood and gore in my summer reading, but this was something right out of the <i>X-Files</i>, and you know I'm a slut for anything Scully and Moulder-related. So, I embarked on this journey and was not disappointed. The gist is that there has been a terrible government experiment gone awry causing the end of the world as we know it. And as cliche as that sounds, it seems totally believable while you're reading. You meet a whole host of protagonists and even skip around in time. This novel plays with all kinds of genres including science fiction, fiction, romance, and definitely a little gothic! Word to the wise, this is a long one, so you'll have to commit. Also it's the first in the triology, but really it gives a sense of closure if you don't want to read the second or third. I'm on the fence about reading on.<br />
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<i>Saturday</i> by Ian McEwan</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK0U4S5EDmcIVigiMdWQ6BF2RY1qAbmr1B03AvkaHeCeNVvov7xIupGCAezGwCDnggZ7diAWvtNsX2YttiDGgeDDm6yI9aOz79rLP0lrB3JX3UG6OxhS7JmD4sWbcsinbPg3OA9TF4MTId/s1600/Saturday_McEwan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK0U4S5EDmcIVigiMdWQ6BF2RY1qAbmr1B03AvkaHeCeNVvov7xIupGCAezGwCDnggZ7diAWvtNsX2YttiDGgeDDm6yI9aOz79rLP0lrB3JX3UG6OxhS7JmD4sWbcsinbPg3OA9TF4MTId/s200/Saturday_McEwan.jpg" width="131" /></a> When I saw the film, <i>Atonement, </i>I was really blown away by the whole thing--the sweeping story line of love and betrayal, told from an outsider's narration who affects the plot early on. Then someone suggested the short but dense novel, <i>Saturday</i> and I was intrigued. It's just one day in the life of this neurosurgeon, but it was so incredibly well written with phrases that just cut right to the truths of humanity--get it? "Cut"...You delve into the past of this interesting and articulate family and then something dramatic happens... It really is a worthwhile read.<br />
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<i>The Great Gatsby </i>by F. Scott Fitzgerald<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjR-dv624JmXeleM70vsQ0NSH8wxCmAXzdOnFB3pqJxcCCBX2NHNcOHhIAugS5wxjBpBq-tgj7CEg-lvr9YZhm7lzlNwBz3R6w4CBh3PXNTWQMNZ2QZe4L4fwc7PhVaJUYEyRL7vQGHrih/s1600/Cover.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjR-dv624JmXeleM70vsQ0NSH8wxCmAXzdOnFB3pqJxcCCBX2NHNcOHhIAugS5wxjBpBq-tgj7CEg-lvr9YZhm7lzlNwBz3R6w4CBh3PXNTWQMNZ2QZe4L4fwc7PhVaJUYEyRL7vQGHrih/s200/Cover.png" width="132" /></a> This felt like the "summer of Gatsby" since the film finally came out, and since it was summer, I finally found the time to go see it--at a super sketchy dollar theater, ironically--but this was also the first time I am preparing lessons for the kiddies upon their return. This was their summer reading as well. This novel is as a beautifully written as its character's are ethically flawed, all save Nick--our little cowardly lion who is able to grow a pair by the end. Can't wait to hear the seniors' take on it--I'm sure they'll be critical, and I'll have to destroy them.<br />
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<i>The Lacua </i>by Barbara Kingsolver<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRapVUL0KLvGNiT8vMhy2QMmZXBPDhnwovZMmyhZ9ekxgiFRGP6LdjRWk4iT8rEFeChyphenhyphen5R2hIjlkOoLcG8hE0pdTq2eBpu97XRZX9-HBGNes_R8ulHnTBPaCAO1Md9qJ4SzWZOdeB7ijpq/s1600/The+Lacuna.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRapVUL0KLvGNiT8vMhy2QMmZXBPDhnwovZMmyhZ9ekxgiFRGP6LdjRWk4iT8rEFeChyphenhyphen5R2hIjlkOoLcG8hE0pdTq2eBpu97XRZX9-HBGNes_R8ulHnTBPaCAO1Md9qJ4SzWZOdeB7ijpq/s200/The+Lacuna.jpg" width="131" /></a> One of her previous novels, <i>The Poisonwood Bible</i>, really is like a religious text for literature teachers looking to use a novel rich with texture, distinctive narrative voices, and a deeply moving plot line. I've always wanted to read more of her works, and I finally got my grubby hands on <i>The Lacuna. </i>While the former was set in Africa, the focus of this novel is really Mexico during the exciting and turbulent times of the Russian Revolution while in the home of the infamous painters and rebel thinkers, Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera. Our narrative then travels back to the U.S. and our narrator is forced to confront the ugly, and frankly embarrassing, trials against involvement with Communism with the HUAC trials. The concluding pages just take you to another place altogether--compelling, wondrous, evocative and lovely. Read!<br />
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Next up? <i>A Tale of Two Cities </i>by Charles Dickens<br />
Ok, this one is going to be short. "It was the best of times; it was the worst..." and I'm asleep. Sorry Dickens. You lost me on this one. NEXT!<br />
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<i>Game of Thrones </i>by George R.R. Martin <br />
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What an interesting read. Now, I was unaware of the whole index in the back--but those are for yuppy cheaters. I roll the hard way and made various family trees (or really webs with all the bastard children) on post it notes. Quite handy as you start getting through the various plot twists. This puppy took some time for me, by no means a slight on the novel, but more a commentary on how fucking busy the end of the semester is. You've got political conspiracies, murder, cover ups, and then let's talk about love. You've got thwarted love, familial, fraternal, hell, even incestuous. This series has it all. Now, since it's a series there's quite a bit to cover which the HBO series leaves out for the sake of time and to keep the attention of the typical ADD-prescribed viewers, but all the same it's damn entertaining. </div>
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<br />TeachHerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07274190034126281924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7612880370771536920.post-37899471103947034152013-08-07T09:10:00.000-07:002013-08-07T09:10:31.206-07:00Cell Phone Murder Painful for us All<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
Well, I'm a murderer. </div>
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I've killed my cell phone.</div>
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You know how this blog is about the fact that I'm a teacher, but I still do stupid things, or make poor choices? This one is just such a rookie mistake, probably made by many.</div>
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For some reason, I put my cell phone in the back of my shorts and took Piper out to go play. (Did I think someone important was really going to need me in the twenty minutes it took to play with the dog?) It's over 100 degrees in the shade here in Austin, so I got back and was disgusting and sweaty. I just started to a load of laundry, stripped and thew in my shorts, along with all the rest I'd been putting off. </div>
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I take a shower, grab a snack and, as I usually flip though Facebook or my emails while I eat, I began to look for <i>my beloved</i>. Instantly, the cold shock realization that I have totally fucked up hits me. I sprint to the washing machine pulling everything out, which is all ten times harder now with the water weight and the tangling. I grab it out, but yes, it was totally submerged at some point in the wash. The cursing began here. </div>
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I remembered I'm supposed to keep it off and get it as dry as possible. (Yes, from a previous encounter with a tub of water at the pedicure place.) So, I look for rice to start sucking out the water--but no dice. But, I've got couscous! Then I attempt to make a couscous bowl ASAP, but it's literally all over the floor now in my frenzy. I get on the computer to watch some You Tube clips about getting into the phone to remove the battery before any more damage is done. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRwxZwf9uM5kJXgHD7DUzw8jcuMtgyLZaFGEGm82CJ8kEEiEn1GO65Fag4X9ShifG-YQHA19XqHeQof-gXvikQ8UGe6Cv6ePCfLl9aGEVjFhovppGmF6rZCV8k-mFIpIBDEesZQ4t5Ds2s/s1600/iphone_5_dummy_bottom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRwxZwf9uM5kJXgHD7DUzw8jcuMtgyLZaFGEGm82CJ8kEEiEn1GO65Fag4X9ShifG-YQHA19XqHeQof-gXvikQ8UGe6Cv6ePCfLl9aGEVjFhovppGmF6rZCV8k-mFIpIBDEesZQ4t5Ds2s/s200/iphone_5_dummy_bottom.jpg" width="200" /></a>Have you ever looked at the screws on the I phone 5? Ok, the screws at the bottom which I'm instructed to remove are so freaking tiny I have to get out my glasses. I don't have a microscopic screwdriver for the microscopic screws, so I thought, <i>hey!, why not run up the conveniently located Apple store where I can get instant access to the pros?!?! </i> I put my dripping hair in a crazy-ass looking bun, put some actual clothes on, and literally run up the street to the store where I'm met with the most patronizing man with his hip, clear glasses. After explaining my whole situation with sufficient self-deprecation and the I-screwed-up-please-help-me-smile, he replies that "they" aren't open. (What, do you own Apple? Is this your family?)</div>
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"Um, I'm here talking to you. The door wasn't locked or anything."</div>
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"Well, yes, but we open at noon on Sundays."</div>
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"Ok, that's in thirty minutes. No, ok, well can I just borrow one of those microscopic screwdrivers to avoid more damage on my super-expensive-phone which has everything on it?"</div>
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"I'm sorry, but there's just nothing we can do at this point." Shaking his head as if he cared, and then queuing up his stupid functioning I-Pad. "But you can make an appointment for this evening with our Genius Bar."</div>
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Um, thanks for nothing, asshole.</div>
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So, now I'm frantic AND pissed off. I quickly head back home to the car and then out to HEB to get a special screwdriver to open up the case. Along with actual rice since the couscous is getting in the small openings of the phone. While there, I can't find anything useful except that little plastic case people use for glasses with some extra screws. Whatever, that and rice and I scoot.</div>
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I race back home, now just frantic and less pissed, because I am taking this challenge head-on! I can change this outcome! I've got my own will and abilities! Only to find that no--in fact this teeny tiny screwdriver is small--but NOT microscopic. Lots of cursing. </div>
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Then Speed Racer out again to Home Depot for another set of screwdrivers. I'm still trying to pump myself up here and not to give up. Some little old man employee was eyeballing me since I was taking out all these screwdrivers to make sure this time. "Ma'am, may I help you?"</div>
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"No. I'm fine." Seriously man, you do not want to unleash the Kraken boiling up inside this sister.</div>
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I pay for the deluxe set of 16 screwdrivers thinking the smallest one HAS to work. </div>
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Naturally, it doesn't. The bile is now rising in the back of my throat. I've now personified my cell phone as drowning in a car, and I can't help it. </div>
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I basically found one of the flathead attachments to use, which really wasn't the right size either, but I made happen, all to figure out that the YouTube video was for an I phone 4, not 5. Meaning, I needed more special tools to open that one up. At that point the hubs came home from work (yes, working on Sunday) and I totally broke down-- bawling from frustration.... and also hormones and let's face it, hunger. </div>
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He hugged me and let me complete my Ugly Cry. We left it in some rice (thank you HEB) overnight and that poor puppy was still fried. I tried to turn it on finally the following morning and it literally was blinking red and white. My phone was bleeding. Totally a Johnny Five moment for me. <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No disassemble! Johnny-Five alive!</td></tr>
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So, from our research, it seems like I can pay a small fortune and just get a replacement. That was going to be my school clothes shopping money. Also a tearful moment. </div>
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First world problems indeed, but they're my problems so they count--yo. The hubs said he thought a family member died I was so upset when he came home. I told him one did. I loved that phone.</div>
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And now, naturally, I have to walk back to the Apple Store and make a stupid appointment with the "Genius Bar" to get another phone. God, I hate that name. And I'm going to make sure that I have on make-up and dry hair this time. </div>
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Lesson learned? Get the stupid insurance coverage and don't be a dumb-ass.</div>
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TeachHerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07274190034126281924noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7612880370771536920.post-19190596726761378782013-03-10T09:18:00.001-07:002013-03-10T09:20:03.375-07:00Sex EdThere were some times, especially in my early years of teaching, when I knew, just <i>knew </i>that one of those hormone-raging, angst y little teen-aged boys had a crush on me. They'd have that glassed over look and get all goofy when I asked them a question about what I was actually fucking teaching. Now, I think it's interesting to mention that this was not a male-only scenario. <br />
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Oh, yes. A few years ago I had one of my female students flirting with me. I thought it was in my head, but this gal--we'll call her Melissa--was just a really cool, smart girl who happened to be in a band. We had lots of small talk after or before class: she'd ask about my dog, I'd ask about her recent new hair dying experiment (gone wrong). Because she was a female, I didn't think anything of it. And then, she would be coming in after school every day asking if I needed help with anything. <br />
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Any filing? <br />
<i>No, I'm solid but thanks gal. Have a good afternoon. </i><br />
Any grading? <br />
<i>Nope, I'm good! </i><br />
Want me to rub your shoulders? <br />
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Silently: <i>Whaaaaat the fuuuuuck?</i><br />
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Melissa went from asking to help me staple some stupid packets to physically touching me. I gave her a blank stare to which she then added: Do you want me to play with your hair? <br />
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And that's when you realize that girls have crushes on girls too. Since I've never been gay, this really didn't dawn on me. Sadly, the Melissa scenario got a little creepier before it got better. She made me a beaded bracelet with the letters to my first name, and then told me about a song she'd been writing...about me. <i>Gulp</i>. Right as I was starting to get a little paranoid and watched <i>Jennifer 8 </i>for clues on how to horribly address these things, Melissa got a little girlfriend of her own! Saved by the ever-changing, volatile world of teenagers. She solved her own problem; I couldn't have been more happy--or supportive. I was her own personal cheerleader. To the point that I think I creeped <i>them both </i>out. The new girlfriend thinking, "What's the deal with that weirdo teacher who keeps smiling and waving at us? And why did she give us this coupon for dinner-for-two?" <br />
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The young-cute-teacher novelty would inevitably wear off when the love birds received their shitty report card and realized that in actuality, <i>No, I'm not cool. I'm your English teacher. Now stop staring and get your ass to work! </i>Typically the honeymoon phase would come to a close and we could really get down to the learning business. <br />
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Time has passed and I really thought I'd crossed some threshold of teenage attraction. This was welcomed. I'd hit the over-thirty birthday, gotten married, had our anniversary--all of this was public knowledge. I was a teacher who was no longer privy to their lingo, their music, their television programs and I was okay with this. There was a more clearly drawn line between the students I taught and myself. I also did some math, and turns out I am, biologically speaking, old enough to be their mothers! Now, I would certainly be a young and most likely fucked up one, but still!<br />
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All this to say the other day I received the most sexually charged anonymous email from one of my students--presumably male from the contents. It began with the "don't try and guess who this is because you won't.." I checked the email and sure enough, it's some bogus name. And then I kept reading the shocking email which contained lines like: "when you wear those grey cords it makes me want to bust out of my seat and have you right there." <br />
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When I started to read it, my mouth dropped wide open and I started to laugh. And then since I'm scared of technology, I started to wonder if he could see me... so then I deleted the email thinking that would do the trick. Then I blocked all email from sender. <br />
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Of course, this is still the middle of the damn day, so now I have to teach knowing that one of these little horny bastards had the audacity to send me--an adult--his teacher--this really inappropriate email. The first day I hardly made eye contact with anybody. It was awful. Then after talking to the hubs about it--who laughed (thanks for the help)--I got kinda pissed off. It felt like a power struggle and now this over-sexed kid has put me in an uncomfortable position. So, the next day, I was on a mission. I was the one staring at everyone. Making serious face just a little too long. I was also wearing the most asexual thing I could find. I really wanted to bring back that black blow-up suit Missy Elliot wore in some music video, but that was really hard to find with such short notice.<br />
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What's also disturbing is that I love those grey cords. I wear them with my converse and a some kind of lame t-shirt. Dammit kid. You've ruined my casual Friday uniform for winter!<br />
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So, the mystery here still goes unsolved, but the drama never ends.<br />
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The following day, I'm leaving school a little later than usual. I'm on the third floor, and I take the poorly lit stairway where the walls still show years of graffiti that has been painted over and over, but are forever peeling and however much you clean it still smells like Fritos and vomit. In short, it's pretty gross. But as soon as I swing open the door, two students--one of them I currently teach--make a quick gasp. I turn to see her pulling UP HER PANTS!!! and then him crouching down on the ground, his face in his hands as he has recognized that they've been caught, but what's worse--caught by his own teacher. I yell: "Oh my god! Gross!" and then there's the split second of absolute terror for us all. I'm not even sure they were even having sex, or about to have sex... but whatever it was, was NOT OKAY!!! <br />
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So, what do I do? The adult. The professional.<br />
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I say with my hand outstretched so I don't have to really look at either of them: "I'm embarrassed for both of you. Leave. Right now." <br />
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And they do. <br />
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After going home and contemplate poking out my corneas with a hot poker, I realize I have to teach that kid the very next day. I arrive early to get my head straight. The kids begin to stroll in and Mr. Lover is among them--not early nor late. Just there. I'm still too mortified to even write him up or, God help me, call home to talk to a parent. <br />
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Neither of us has made eye contact since. TeachHerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07274190034126281924noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7612880370771536920.post-41929203860321323322013-01-12T08:49:00.003-08:002013-01-12T08:50:50.109-08:00It's the Most Wonderful Time of the YearThis entry is not exactly timely, but I think it's still worth sharing.<br />
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When you begin a new school year in August the teacher is going what feels like one hundred miles an hour. You're a freaking performer. You are an entertainer, disciplinarian, friend and sometimes foe. You facilitate conversations, deliver lessons, provide examples, share your wisdom, ask questions, exhibit respect, and so on... then around November, you begin to realize that this is totally working!<br />
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<br />
The students--ok, <i>most </i>of the students--are responding to this whole thing. They are learning. Following your procedures. Those who don't follow the protocols you've established are put in their place by fellow classmates. <br />
<br />
You're giddy with success. <br />
<br />
Then we hit the end of the semester.<br />
<br />
The wheels fall of a little as those idiots who have been sucking the marrow of your joy everyday come to you and ask:<br />
<br />
Student: Hey Miss<br />
<br />
Me:<i> (Um I have a name, Fuckface. I've memorized yours and 159 others this year alone) </i> We haven't seen you lately. Is everything ok?<br />
<br />
.... (<i>nothing) </i>How can I help you?<br />
<br />
Student: "Uh, like, what can I do to pass?"<br />
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<br />
This is an interesting "conversation" to have with some students. Now, with <i>most </i>of the kids who are riding the border between passing and failing, I can actually respond normally and with a potentially successful outcome. With the kid who has missed more days than he's attended, and an average in the single digits, I have my own special response. It goes as follows:<br />
<br />
Me: Ok, so here's what I want you to do. First, go home and get ALLLL the tools you can find. Set them out. You with me?<br />
<br />
Student: Uh, ok.<br />
<br />
Me: Then I want you to start to build something really special. I want you to build a time machine.<br />
<br />
Student: (<i>blankly staring at you and probably already thinking about video games, pot or porn)</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Me: Then, hop into your time machine. Set it back to the beginning of the school year, and then do EVERYTHING I TOLD YOU TO DO from day one. How does that sound?<br />
<br />
Student: (<i>begins to smile a little. Then realizing that he's fucked, just stares. Then sometimes...) S</i>o, like, there's no bonus?<br />
<br />
Me: No, honey. There is no bonus.<br />
<br />TeachHerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07274190034126281924noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7612880370771536920.post-22967852988269362612012-12-13T20:10:00.003-08:002012-12-13T20:23:26.457-08:00The ShitsSo, I don't want to be graphic, but...<br />
<br />
My hubs returned home from a two-week work assignment where he traveled to a few distant locations, to say the least: Malaysia, Hong Kong, and Japan. <br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
This was all well and good. We spent way too much money talking overseas when we should have done something called: Skypping. You know this is weird when auto correct doesn't know what the hell you're talking about. Technology issues aside...<br />
<br />
He texted. I replied. I texted. He'd reply. He'd call when available using his best this-isn't -as-cool-as-it-is-because-I-know-you're-jealous-as-shit voice. Bless him. He tried. I tried not to be jealous as shit. I mean, come on. He was eating sushi from the people who invented it. I was deciding between gray meat number one or two in the school cafeteria line. <br />
<br />
So, while he was away, I decided to work on some recipes that caught my eye earlier in the year. <br />
<br />
Ok, years. <br />
<br />
One of the recipes was a butternut squash bisque with cremini mushrooms. <br />
<br />
Fancy, right?<br />
<br />
I slaved away--but with a smile--over that monster of a plant called a butternut squash. <br />
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<br />
<br />
Um...Quick note. You need to take steroids and then take two shots of Jameson before even attempting to dismantle--yeah, I said dismantle--a butternut squash. <br />
<br />
That thing is a monster. <br />
<br />
I really wished I had a step stool to give myself some leverage in cutting that bitch apart. Nevertheless, with some insane techniques and extremely sharp utensils, I managed to core and cut up the squash with all ten fingers still intact. I won't bore you with the details but this bisque was a bitch. But damn, it was really good. <br />
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<br />
<br />
The problem was that I'd made enough for the Duggar family's reunion. There was a giant pot of this business. Personally, I'd taken on multiple servings over several days, and then put an enormous Tupperware container in the freezer to share later with the hubs upon his return. I thought he'd be so impressed.<br />
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<br />
He finally came home and baring gifts, no less!<br />
<br />
All was well. He returned to his normal routine. I returned to mine, and then after a few days of settling back in, I suggested he try some of my new bisque which I had taken out of the freezer and put DIRECTLY into the refrigerator. AKA--no counter time.<br />
<br />
Cut to: hubs lying in agony on the bathroom floor unable to make it back to bed between bouts of intense diarrhea, painful cramping, and incessant vomiting. I come home finding this special little scene and we rush to the local emergency room with barely enough time to spare. It's pretty remarkable how puking is the equivalent of celebrity status in an ER waiting room. Velvet ropes were replaced with his own wheel chair and personal nurse to bypass all the riff-raff.<br />
<br />
We are rushed again into another tiny little room where he's violently upchucking what appears to be nothing but butternut squash and I'm scrambling trying to find new containers to catch my vile concoction. It's so terrible that the poor wretch can't make it to the actual restroom and they bring in a portable toilet. This, friends, is when true love is tested. Yes, I wanted to vomit, but I was too busy holding the bag containing <i>his</i> vomit and getting the temporary toilet prepared to take notice.<br />
<br />
This is all compounded by the fact that at this point I'm blaming my stupid, unnecessary pretentious, and potentially fatal bisque.<br />
<br />
While waiting for hours in this tiny little space of hell for doctors and nurses to help attempt to alleviate his massive outpourings, I was able to take some notes on the human condition. In short: it's bad. It's really bad. Oh, and George Clooney was not there. <br />
<br />
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<br />
He was never there and no one who <i>ever </i>looked like him will <i>EVER </i>be there. <br />
<br />
The best you could get would be an extra on a <i>Will and Grace</i> episode--not that I'm complaining. (I loved our gay nurse.) That would certainly beat the mentally unstable fella next door screaming that they were all trying to kill him and asking "is this really happening?" as the pain medication began to finally take effect. <br />
<br />
Trust me, pal. We were all wondering if this was happening and I was, unfortunately, drug free. <br />
<br />
Finally, after hours of liquids coming out, and then liquids going in, an actual doctor arrives. Just when I thought nothing could phase me --I'd seen way too much of my husband's personal issues at this point--an actual hobbit walks into our personal hell of a hospital corner. He very politely extends his little hand introducing himself and moving on to the patient, but honestly, all I could think of was how was it possible for someone so small to be a doctor? <br />
<br />
He barely cleared my waist. <br />
<br />
And then the shame--I'm a terrible person. (For the love of God, I've almost killed my own husband) But for the life of me I couldn't pay attention to his questions, and then what he was giving my own husband in the way of medication. Finally I had to collect myself, swallow my judgment and ask him to please repeat the medications again. Terrible.<br />
<br />
And then the hubs sleeps. And then I obsess over how I've almost killed my husband in less than two year of marriage. <br />
<br />
I'm allowed ample time to travel this downward spiral since we spent about ten hours there.<br />
<br />
Later that night we are finally allowed to attempt actual liquid rather than that from an IV. It's a blue Powerade. Dr. Hobbit provided explicit instructions about how much and how often. If this takes, then we are allowed to go home to all that is good and pure in the world (minus the fucking bisque).<br />
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So, we take our first sip of real liquid after probably twelve hours of liquids exiting. I'm counting the seconds... then minutes. <br />
<br />
I think to myself that maybe we can go home tonight. <br />
<br />
Maybe this was just a bad night, but he can sleep it off. <br />
<br />
Maybe.... and that's when the poor man begins to throw up again. <br />
<br />
This time it's blue.<br />
<br />
So, the hubs is going to have to spend the night in the hospital. But it isn't until 3 in the morning that he's finally admitted and moved to an actual room with a real bed and a really big bathroom--they know what's up. (And REAL cable--holla!)<br />
<br />
By this time I'm finally seeing George Clooney in my hunger and sleep deprivation. <br />
<br />
And yes, he was diagnosed with gastroenteritis, or more commonly known as a really bad stomach bug, which sounds so anticlimactic given the nature of the event. And, no--apparently it wasn't the bisque since there wasn't any opportunity for it to actually go bad. But bad it was... oh, so bad. <br />
<br />
But it certainly was a time to reflect on how much I love this man, how much I need to learn about cooking, and how much I need to memorize his social security number--in cases of emergency.<br />
<br />
Or, when my cooking <i>does </i>actually end up killing him.<br />
<br />TeachHerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07274190034126281924noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7612880370771536920.post-76335818052440194862012-09-29T18:30:00.002-07:002012-10-01T19:02:12.896-07:00Tuesdays in SeptemberFor a teacher, Tuesdays in September are an absolute fucking nightmare. <br />
<br />
I personally keep the local liquor store in my neighborhood in business because of this month, but in particular, this day. Ok, that might be a bit of a stretch, but the staff becomes very familiar near the end of the month since I've spent some time in there. <br />
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<br />
<br />
So, why are Tuesdays in September so terrifying? <br />
<br />
It begins with August.<br />
<br />
In August, teachers are still high from all their summer fun. We're well rested, tan (ok, tan-<i>ish </i>in my case), toned, and full of interesting stories of places we've been, people we've met, cheeses we've tasted. <br />
<br />
Then the day finally arrives where we head back to our schools for our week of "Professional Development." It first involves sitting through three full days of ridiculously unnecessary and fairly patronizing large meetings, where the highlight--if you're lucky--is a free lunch. Now--it's not typically tasty, but it'll be free. It's sort of their way to keep you on campus and shrink that hour and a half lunch they scheduled into just one without you raising a fuss. So, that leaves two days and a weekend to get your entire year planned and ready to go before students arrive on Monday. Since I always seem to change what I teach every few years, this then becomes the time that I start to cry and realize just how much there is to get done before it's Go Time. <br />
<br />
The last frenzy of preparation of materials and meeting with a cohort of people to plan all this shit takes place, the weekend ends, and it's time. Inevitably, the night before the first day of class I get diarrhea AND I get nauseous; naturally, we never have Pepto Bismol when I need it.<br />
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Despite my best efforts to suspend my Sunday night into eternity, Monday morning arrives and with it more nausea and now sleepiness, confronted only the way God intended---a coffee the size of Montana. The school is abuzz with last minute activities, students and teachers wearing their new attire, laughs, hugs, classes, bells, lecturing on procedures, teaching, a quick lunch, repeat with the afternoon classes and then... it's 4:15. There's a mass exodus. We all take a collective big breath and realize we have to keep doing this until May--oh, shit--June. Then we start planning tomorrow's lesson...<br />
<br />
And so it goes. <br />
<br />
But what makes September so horrific is because the honeymoon ends after August. Students who just a few weeks ago seemed shy but eager to learn, in a matter of a few classes morph into giant assholes. I went from "getting-to-know-you" group activities, to "shut-the-fuck-up-independent-work" in very short amount of time.<br />
<br />
Eventually, all teachers know that it takes time to train your new kids on your procedures, your policies, and your quirks. <br />
<br />
All English teachers can attest to this one:<i> students turn in their two-page ESSAY and come in asking what their score was the following day. Are you fucking kidding me? There's 160 of you! </i><br />
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<i><br /></i>
Eventually the students stop acting up or out to gain attention because they've simply given up, or because the teacher brilliantly discovered ways of making that student feel important while he or she is doing the right thing. <br />
<br />
Eventually we teachers discover how <i>each </i>student works best, which tricks to use when, how to establish and build a rapport without becoming too familiar. <br />
<br />
Eventually...<br />
<br />
But in September, each day is a total toss up. You don't know how it's going to go in each class. And each class has its own personality that, I've found, can completely change from August to May--shit, June. There's a lot of testosterone in my classes this year, so I'm watching more football. Some of the kids actually play, so that means I'm going to have to drag my unhappy ass out there on a Friday to watch a high school game. Gross.<br />
<br />
But the end result is that you're fucking exhausted with creating engaging lessons, managing a class of 30 (or more) hormonal and highly emotional 16-year-olds, grading their work, meeting with your cohort, answering parent emails and phone calls and finally actually teaching. <br />
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<br />
I fancy myself to be quite the entertainer. This sounds quite egotistical. But it's true that many of our kids are not intrinsically motivated, so yes, I put on my performance hat and try to make it entertaining, or at least funny. One of my favorite Oscar Wilde quotations is: "If you want to tell people the truth, make them laugh, otherwise they'll kill you."<br />
<br />
For some reason when you refer to Lady Macbeth as Lady McBitch, they stay awake just a little longer.<br />
<br />
So, why Tuesdays? Well, this has nothing in fact, to do with teaching. Here's my personal week day psychological analysis. Monday--one is mentally resigned to a Monday--weekend breaks, fresh starts, and it's just the beginning. Wednesday you feel a sense of accomplishment from your dedication on Monday and Tuesday, and are consequently inspired to finish strong. Thursday is heading straight for Friday. One feels confident in the work being done and certainly can make it another day. Friday is just Friday. You do the job, students and teachers are all in pretty good moods. It's just a total win.<br />
<br />
But Tuesday? <br />
<br />
Tuesday is useless. Tuesday is a total downer. It's just a <i>buckle down and get through it</i> kind of day. Add that to a September, when you have so-long-until-a-real-break, and then you have all the breaking in to do with the kids...<br />
<br />
The silver lining is that there's only four of them. My dear friend, who was actually my mentor teacher years ago would often swing by between classes and we'd commiserate. Around March (<i>and there's some serious March Madness in the classroom</i>) he'd say: "It could be worse. It could be a Tuesday in September." And we'd snicker, thinking back to those long forgot struggles. The pull and push of the classroom, the sheer exhaustion, the seemingly endlessness of the school year from that point in time. And, like every school year, the months slip by. The classroom become fun again, and we finally slide right into May. Dammit--June!TeachHerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07274190034126281924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7612880370771536920.post-4122571488396964002012-08-15T08:59:00.003-07:002012-08-15T09:04:42.707-07:00This is My dance space; this is YOUR dance space.Growing up, my friends and I would browse through the downtown music stores and add to our cd collections. We'd drive with the windows down and the music blaring. We had those really huge black cd cases to show off our plentiful collections.<br />
<br />
Timeout.<br />
Learning opportunity.<br />
Kids, C.D. stands for <i>Compact Disc</i>.<br />
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<br />
<i>These were shiny metal discs that stored digital data sometimes in the audio form. When you put them in a certain type of machine, you could hear music. </i><br />
<br />
(Let's not even begin to discuss tapes. Lord...)<br />
<br />
Suffice it to say, music was a huge part of our lives. So, attending concerts and smaller shows was just part of it. Now these weren't the seated in your special numbered chair type of events. These were the smoky, sweaty, throw some bows and get-your-ass-to-the-front-now! variety. <br />
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<br />
Typically it was dark and you'd be pressed up against some sweaty overweight giant who also felt it necessary to be in the very front even though he was like, forty. Oh, and he'd have long, curly, black hair that would get in your face. His girlfriend would also be large and accidentally spill her beer in your hair and cigarette ash on your arm. <br />
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<br />
<i>We loved this shit. </i><br />
<br />
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<br />
Nearly every weekend we scour the local paper for our favorite bands and then make our plan. Since we were still young and lived under the roofs of our parents, we therefore had to follow rules. Fortunately, being the oldest in my family and without any priors, I had no set curfew. Consequently, my house became very popular. <br />
<br />
Amy had pretty conservative parents, and since we'd come home reeking of cigarette smoke (since in those days, kids, you could still smoke inside), we had to come with some explanation that didn't involve seeing shows at places called <i>The Abyss</i>. So, we had to come up with a safe place that also permitted smoking. <br />
<br />
The answer was a bowling alley. <br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
It was the perfect excuse. But I was always anxious that Amy's parents would call our bluff and attend some time or actually challenge us to a game. I can't even think back on a time we <i>ever </i>bowled, but once with my family I barely broke a 100. We'd be screwed. <br />
<br />
But the shows continued. There was even a time when "moshing in the pit" was something we looked forward to. Basically it involves throwing yourself around and banging into other people. We also enjoyed "riding the crowd" where strangers would pick you up and you would be shuffled along the heads and shoulders of the crowd with your ass (or worse) being grabbed and ending up in the far back of the crowd entirely alone, or as was the case with me, dropped on my head somewhere in the middle.<br />
<br />
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<br />
Having a headache from the dehydration and sheer physical trauma and ringing ears from the temporary damage to our ear drums was just the nightly result of all that fun.<br />
<br />
But oh, how things have changed...<br />
<br />
Now I'm at a place where I don't want anyone touching me. I get fussy in airport security lines or the grocery store check out when the people behind me get antsy and start inching forward. <i>Back the fuck off already. </i><br />
<br />
I'm reminded of one of the most important lessons Johnny teaches Baby in <i>Dirty Dancing</i>. <br />
<br />
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<br />
"This is my dance space. This is your dance space. I don't go into yours. You don't go into mine."<br />
<br />
Thank you so much, Johnny. Thank you.<br />
<br />
(P.S. Now I've got "Hungry Eyes" going through my head. Don't you? You're welcome.)<br />
<br />
When teaching high school students, <i>ahem--</i>high school <i>boys--</i>personal space becomes an issue. (At this point I should allude to the infrequent though not unheard of lesbian advances. I had one! She asked if she could braid my hair after school. Whaaat?) Not often, but some bold fellas try and go for the super-friendly-front-hug, and this is when you have to politely but firmly establish your level of comfort with the touching. Some go for the no-hug policy which just nips it all in the bud, or you could do what I do and go for the side hug where there's no front parts touching. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3SH5EJM9z13YrNTgv9yjMGqWICiVAOV-ZhfinRK4sm3oeKj1pVRMsVA_s57V0KWv_EEdMNDcGbqF2aDsiRykpaGWU87FalEsKVoJSxl1M4Oy6nFWo5yKgPy3paIaXjxjACIY15vxIeHgb/s1600/Side+hug2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3SH5EJM9z13YrNTgv9yjMGqWICiVAOV-ZhfinRK4sm3oeKj1pVRMsVA_s57V0KWv_EEdMNDcGbqF2aDsiRykpaGWU87FalEsKVoJSxl1M4Oy6nFWo5yKgPy3paIaXjxjACIY15vxIeHgb/s320/Side+hug2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Even though these two people will never have sex, this photo still makes me uncomfortable. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The side hug works about 90 percent of the time. The other ten, however, is just awkward as hell. The student will go in with both arms and you're trying to maneuver so you can just get a half hug in there, and the kid feels embarrassed so you try and make a joke, which won't be funny enough. And the potentially sweet moment has become another memory of why high school sucks for most teens. <br />
<br />
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<br />
Now, the personal space issue is not exclusively s student problem. One year, early in my career, I found myself in the precarious situation of having a "close talker" mom.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://youtu.be/NGVSIkEi3mM">http://youtu.be/NGVSIkEi3mM</a><br />
<br />
The first encounter with this mother was during an open house so there were a gazillion other parents there. I thought maybe she was nervous, or had some sort of hearing problem. But then, as she had no real job, she became a <i>volunteer</i>. Oh, how this makes teachers nervous. <br />
<br />
What you're thinking:<br />
<i> Really, you're going to harass me about Brian's 89 on that ONE assignment while I'm teaching a class? Really?</i> <br />
What you're saying: <br />
"You're going to be here everyday? Greeeeeaaaaaat!"<br />
<br />
So Close Talker then became a frequent flyer to my room asking questions, commenting on random shit, and every single time, I would have to put one foot way out in front of me to keep her from invading my personal space from the waist down, but then she would get her lean on and literally begin bending her head toward me. In response, (with foot still out) I would cross my arms and begin leaning my body back.<br />
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<br />
It was the most uncomfortable six to eight minutes of my life. <br />
<br />
P.S. I fantasized about the moment I'd offer her a Tic-Tac.<br />
<br />
Why doesn't everyone know about respecting one's personal space? Maybe if the world watched <i>Dirty Dancing </i>it really would become a better place. It taught us so much.TeachHerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07274190034126281924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7612880370771536920.post-79056141881648349812012-08-09T13:34:00.002-07:002012-12-13T20:30:51.961-08:00Britney was Right. Being Famous is Terrible.After teaching for about a decade, I have met and worked closely with a crap load of teenagers. These kiddies then (hopefully) graduate and go on to become pencil pushing, metal grinding, tax paying citizens, and naturally you run into them in various locations around the city from retail to restaurants.<br />
<br />
When <i>teacher </i>and <i>student </i>meet beyond the walls of a high school a number of things can happen. Typically we smile, approach, engage in some small talk, and maybe end with a side hug. Sometimes we mutually ignore one another. Now this is either because the kid's a complete shithead in class or wants to appear cool in his or her social setting and we, as adults, can sort of sense this and keep our distance. <br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
Most teachers have positive stories to tell when encountering students outside the class. I've heard so many fellow teachers brag about deals they've received from previous students. It might be a percentage discount on a meal or retail item, or an extra ticket to an event, but everyone seems to be getting some inside scoop from their students. There's some sort of benefit.<br />
<br />
However, I on the other hand have a different sense of notoriety. <br />
<br />
Whenever I run into students--either current or previous--I am without a doubt a hot mess.<br />
<br />
In my earlier years I actually lived close to the school in which I taught. This was a mistake. <br />
<br />
Although the travel time was minimal, the other conflicts made it a nightmare. Case in point: it was a Saturday afternoon and after somewhat recovering from Friday's hangover, I was in the local grocery store picking up ammunition for that night including cigarettes (I know, I know), a case of beer and two bottles of wine, and of course, tampons. I have a sloppy side ponytail and my mascara is still smudged around my eyes from last night. <br />
<br />
So who is the check out of this aisle? <br />
Oh, it's just John from second period English. <br />
Fucking perfect.<br />
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<br />
<br />
Me: not making eye contact, "Uh, hey John. I forgot you work here...."<br />
John: "Hey miss," as he's scanning my groceries.<br />
Me: "Yeah, good for you! Oh, I'm having a little get together tonight, as you can see" with a clearly awkward smile.<br />
John: Grinning. "Alright miss. You want ice?"<br />
Me: "Ice? Yeah...for the guests. Good idea. Thank you."<br />
<br />
Was I having a party that night? <br />
<i>Of course not.</i> <br />
That was just wine for the week and beer before I went out that night. But now I have all this stupid ice.<br />
<br />
Another little special meet and greet was at our local spring that's sort of like a really cool local pool. Or rather, it's cool if you're a teenager, a parent taking your child out or old. <br />
<br />
If you're somewhat in between that, it's awkward because you WILL see someone you don't want to. For me, it was Jordan, a really sweet but distracted kid I had two years ago. I'm laying out on the hill with some friends minding my own business when I can feel someone staring at me and then after sitting up, I hear my name being called. I focus in and yes, it's Jordan. <br />
<br />
He waves.<br />
<br />
I wave. <br />
<br />
And that's when I see what he's holding. <br />
<br />
<i>A giant bong. </i><br />
<br />
I stop waving. I lean in and alert my friends to this very special little scene unfolding. Jordan is telling his friends that it's me, they wave, and then finally, he looks down and I hear from about twenty feet away, "Oh, shit, y'all! My bong!" Thankfully they lost the game of chicken and left first. <br />
<br />
And finally, my most recent run in with fame. And I wasn't even lucky enough for this to be a solitary student. This also involved a <i>parent </i>of a different student. This occurred at a place where you really don't want to know anyone. This place is personal. This place involves some nudity and consequently some vulnerability. This place is the salon where I have parts of my body waxed. <br />
<br />
I walk in and instantly the two ladies (one much older than the other) behind the counter smile, look at each other and say in unison, "Yep, it's her!"<br />
<br />
Apparently they recognized my name and were just waiting for me to enter in person to confirm it. <br />
<br />
Yes. It's me.<br />
<br />
I'm here for a bikini, eyebrow and upper lip wax. <br />
<br />
And now I'm fucking mortified. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8Y9ZdUpv6KfQcTICNGyiao6fsFIGVg9eV__g2Hf92EBc1BZ5tUd5d9Qk6gyIUhyphenhyphen6bHCCdeEAgyE2qGTvBQ1afkzbU5gI5u0YGhmChusC_7o_oNYB6h_iP0Fk2kB50eIyhYWkQplwhOHh0/s1600/embarrassed-woman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8Y9ZdUpv6KfQcTICNGyiao6fsFIGVg9eV__g2Hf92EBc1BZ5tUd5d9Qk6gyIUhyphenhyphen6bHCCdeEAgyE2qGTvBQ1afkzbU5gI5u0YGhmChusC_7o_oNYB6h_iP0Fk2kB50eIyhYWkQplwhOHh0/s320/embarrassed-woman.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
So, I do my best to play it off. I mean, it <i>has </i>become a social norm now for women to wax, pluck and shave every inch of hair below their eyebrows. <br />
<br />
What are we anyway, seals? But I digress...<br />
<br />
Less painful than the actual ripping of hair from my body was making small talk with these women, especially the mother whom felt compelled to share with me all the wonderful places her son has been. Now, I enjoy hearing about the success of the kids, but just not here. Not now. <br />
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All I want is to hurry home, hide my red and swollen face, and put some ice on my ta-ta.<br />
<br />TeachHerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07274190034126281924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7612880370771536920.post-2043001085729072852012-08-05T12:42:00.002-07:002012-08-05T12:43:33.646-07:00Crap People Buy, or at Least Sell.<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Check out Zuup--the "sleek pill dispenser."</b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvUIaryAWaMkVjOdGNlu3Vf_X_0l3g8ejmnFbg8sssvM01gQG04ibdIrKzOtyxiL1Lm03xzbWakUzROYplH19hL3MqZ-KwDK3QDYCAaqY97L_QpG8oIR6n9OPQSt-UzOqe2bBnFnuUolwM/s1600/Zuup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvUIaryAWaMkVjOdGNlu3Vf_X_0l3g8ejmnFbg8sssvM01gQG04ibdIrKzOtyxiL1Lm03xzbWakUzROYplH19hL3MqZ-KwDK3QDYCAaqY97L_QpG8oIR6n9OPQSt-UzOqe2bBnFnuUolwM/s320/Zuup.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Here's Zuup's marketing team hard at work:<br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">"Purse, pocketbook or handbag — whatever you call it, you're lost without it. Pockets, zippers and compartments of even the tiniest clutches are filled with supplies to help you stay on the go, but aren't made to cart around the kitchen sink (or the medicine cabinet). Take some weight off your shoulders with today's Save from </span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Zuup"</span><br />
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Whuuut?!? How much weight does a pill bottle <i>really </i>add? Exactly how many pills are you taking?<br />
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Apparently we have a society so plagued by medical/psychological/emotional issues that a) we need to pop a pill during the regular working hours rather than relying on the medicine cabinet at home b) the volume of pills to be popped necessitates an accessory to enable this popping, and c) we are so vain we need this accessory for all our medications to compliment our various outfits.<br />
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I don't want to be Judge Judy here, but we should be concerned with how we Americans primarily deal with our problems. I'm including myself as well. When I can't sleep I am NOT going for warm milk. I'm heading straight for the Advil PM. When I have a headache, however I go straight for chardonnay.<br />
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This next little gem was pointed out to me by a friend--not to purchase, of course, but to share in the mocking.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgjUZL_qkOn2qoiZO6J07igoQgse-x19914cUrOM0QVZ7tGHEXFZUcLubXEWRgmIaiNjHQTP9R75yUq1xLdqo1o8J7TzOVwEy3VxRyLKayte-IewoEac0lq0GBT51qvFF-OKp-T5Q1_4iZ/s1600/Pittbull+shirt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="279" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgjUZL_qkOn2qoiZO6J07igoQgse-x19914cUrOM0QVZ7tGHEXFZUcLubXEWRgmIaiNjHQTP9R75yUq1xLdqo1o8J7TzOVwEy3VxRyLKayte-IewoEac0lq0GBT51qvFF-OKp-T5Q1_4iZ/s320/Pittbull+shirt.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Step right up folks, and take a look at a 100 percent Rottweiler...face... shirt. Again, whuuut?<br />
Why would anyone wear this except ironically? Is it to intimidate people? I'm sure Snoop Dog wouldn't be caught dead in this shit, but it makes me wonder all the crappy swag he's received over the years and then maybe re-gifted later to second cousins.<br />
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And then for the meow-meow lovers...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyRGYm0b2QAtjcpz3OCaODna6ePj-F9WkY_7YzMUOjdi753zxsb2WfN15VqZseHis5Bu2DOm0uMObMVZPSFZfq4jXQWk_Wk0SpXVRJ275goa0D39_rm5lgzQzXElT_S4AVpauX9HeEfblw/s1600/Cat+shirt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="279" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyRGYm0b2QAtjcpz3OCaODna6ePj-F9WkY_7YzMUOjdi753zxsb2WfN15VqZseHis5Bu2DOm0uMObMVZPSFZfq4jXQWk_Wk0SpXVRJ275goa0D39_rm5lgzQzXElT_S4AVpauX9HeEfblw/s320/Cat+shirt.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
This one just makes me giggle. I want to wear this lil' fella out just to see people's reactions. Oh, and it has a name: "Emerald Eyes." <br />
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Really, what message are you sending when you wear this? <i> </i><br />
<i>I have a deep affection for cats</i>. <br />
Ok, yes. But also that you're really, really, really creepy. <br />
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Here's a little nugget of goodness for you. I don't even know how I feel really about DNA testing since I don't question the validity of my biological parentage, but the thing that rocks my socks here is the picture used to advertise for the "DNA Self Discovery Kit." <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKl_Jcm57udABodgQywk4fierYRqGrrTwbeyD08p4dqZKJ2hxWpZLVeBpOS7JrmECPa9Pwb7S99O2p4XjwPWSX_Fgu0rGQAiidp_tHvQ_2qzuxlN2GfAOeC0jPWnjkV_qxuO6bFtyo3lg7/s1600/DNA+Self+Discovery+Kit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKl_Jcm57udABodgQywk4fierYRqGrrTwbeyD08p4dqZKJ2hxWpZLVeBpOS7JrmECPa9Pwb7S99O2p4XjwPWSX_Fgu0rGQAiidp_tHvQ_2qzuxlN2GfAOeC0jPWnjkV_qxuO6bFtyo3lg7/s320/DNA+Self+Discovery+Kit.jpg" width="224" /></a></div>
Call me cynical, but I don't think you should trust a doctor with this type of expression when dealing with what I can only assume to be DNA test results. And PS, why do the results look like those images from years ago that when you stared at it long enough morphed into something else? <br />
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I don't get it, but it's a funny picture all the same.<br />
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This one is not necessarily ridiculous, but it is way too cheesy to go without some shame.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5z8I4FpEjeivLUHqgLYq7lFxAkJ00WGulVxJrYLTq2UXriwdms2EGRZtXOnmx1efHK0n-JHtICx71_NbMYo1RarDrpDefwurd59xnaFAh0unHJJHxACiA_BsBL_bGraxu6qzBmI6GbxGb/s1600/Collage+canvas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5z8I4FpEjeivLUHqgLYq7lFxAkJ00WGulVxJrYLTq2UXriwdms2EGRZtXOnmx1efHK0n-JHtICx71_NbMYo1RarDrpDefwurd59xnaFAh0unHJJHxACiA_BsBL_bGraxu6qzBmI6GbxGb/s320/Collage+canvas.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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It's the Customizable Collage Canvas! </div>
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By the way, "customizable"? <br />
No.<br />
Not a real word. <br />
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Ok, so for about 100 bucks you get a giant ass canvas with up to 40 photos. Now, I enjoy pictures. I like the idea of capturing a moment and then being able to recall that fond experience and collective history with that person. However, this is a cheap knock off of pop art like Chuck Close. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMaU_kIAgksMqjMp6cAxNpNb9x68QYL7g3CUemguIDyLkd80WVNQYgA7BOiB64fRuT7Al_SXY4gDJj3qi61SPEUISOAFN3lYJvquY7yznixvFFYqCokw6fVcTweBijSNDSttx7vfMhc-cA/s1600/Chuck+Close.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMaU_kIAgksMqjMp6cAxNpNb9x68QYL7g3CUemguIDyLkd80WVNQYgA7BOiB64fRuT7Al_SXY4gDJj3qi61SPEUISOAFN3lYJvquY7yznixvFFYqCokw6fVcTweBijSNDSttx7vfMhc-cA/s200/Chuck+Close.jpg" width="161" /></a></div>
But for those overly sentimental folks--the ones who enjoy watching Lifetime television movies--they would probably like to give this as a gift for someone, and who am I to judge another's gift? <br />
But let's be serious for a second.<br />
I love getting presents, but please don't do this to me. <br />
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Last but not least:<br />
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<i>Rhinestone Bra Straps </i></div>
This is the "classy solution for unsightly or clear bra straps." <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdm4TmUGL7kmvU92jtYnEK5WDTvpKjaScWxJPVO9et0wnRN8iLXIt-ORvEFPguqRvt8mdAHTgIT7vLni8B0lPfXy6wisicHZQyZBzXRV8p2w-X7PT3b7Q76yxULejmPax6M_466lhfVv94/s1600/Bra+Straps.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdm4TmUGL7kmvU92jtYnEK5WDTvpKjaScWxJPVO9et0wnRN8iLXIt-ORvEFPguqRvt8mdAHTgIT7vLni8B0lPfXy6wisicHZQyZBzXRV8p2w-X7PT3b7Q76yxULejmPax6M_466lhfVv94/s320/Bra+Straps.gif" width="320" /></a></div>
Um, there is nothing classy about this folks, not a damn thing. If you can't keep your boobs in your dress with a strapless bra, then do us all a favor and get a different dress, because I doubt the straps are your biggest problem. Not to mention those poor rhinestones straps aren't going to last all night, Cinderella!TeachHerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07274190034126281924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7612880370771536920.post-45083284072484039102012-08-04T15:02:00.001-07:002012-08-04T17:23:26.038-07:00Flying SoloDuring the summer, it's not uncommon for me to spend quite a bit of time by myself. For some this sounds lonely and perhaps depressing. They wonder what the hell I must do with myself all day. (Trust me, not a whole lot.)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKbslkCAljYL-UY-EHxg-G_KpHTIs8kvuXspEmq9H42UOaeO31HZk0fGMaoAOT5k8okYjTckSXOarn_5lBC7j4HFuFpdNCs8Ice4BlqzJqNDn2z3M8rU4iajdXKS9YXvEKl2HOA0jfsy4s/s1600/Woman+alone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKbslkCAljYL-UY-EHxg-G_KpHTIs8kvuXspEmq9H42UOaeO31HZk0fGMaoAOT5k8okYjTckSXOarn_5lBC7j4HFuFpdNCs8Ice4BlqzJqNDn2z3M8rU4iajdXKS9YXvEKl2HOA0jfsy4s/s320/Woman+alone.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
But during the school year a typical teacher has to divide his or her attention amongst the 140ish students and their parents, our fellow teachers and finally the few administrators. The constant social stimulation becomes annoying and then by March, just fucking intolerable. You'd be amazed how sick you become hearing your own name being repeated followed by yet another request. <br />
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I'd like to say consequently I need my quiet time, but honestly I think I always revered a little isolation. Growing up in a very modest home with minimal square footage, I preferred the solace of my own bedroom with my own novels and music. Now, I'm no J.D. Salinger. I went out to play, and <i>Oh, how I played</i>, but I never felt "bored" being by myself. Yes, after some time alone, I'd call up the homies and we'd do whatever we did as teenagers (ahem), but then after some time, I'd want to crawl back into my turtle shell.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOqIAATcHpDi2qGzClgTux2_grt283D-qU_lIZqEdzMgzrVc6j5TK3Vq1Q1eN9sD4VbvzYofbPmPFzAwilPii8amiiGLWPWknijTFm0f3ssAKqKsrYiYhhsBIVJGP8Nb9IHTz3TSjsF6dD/s1600/Woman+alone3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOqIAATcHpDi2qGzClgTux2_grt283D-qU_lIZqEdzMgzrVc6j5TK3Vq1Q1eN9sD4VbvzYofbPmPFzAwilPii8amiiGLWPWknijTFm0f3ssAKqKsrYiYhhsBIVJGP8Nb9IHTz3TSjsF6dD/s320/Woman+alone3.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>
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So, now in my thirties, I continue to cherish this time of reflection, serenity, and regeneration. Really, I just like to do whatever the hell I wanna do, and when I wanna do it! The tricky part to this solitary bliss is that it occurs in the comfort of my own den. <br />
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My own couches. My own sofas. My own internet. My own refrigerator...<br />
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And I don't just stay inside for God's sake. The bliss continues... in my local surroundings. There are errands to be run, shops to explore, and lakes to run around. I'm pretty comfortable even seeing movies by myself. (At this point I'd like to remind everyone that when a theater is not at full capacity to leave the courtesy buffer seat between you and your neighbor. You'd be surprised by how many folks do not honor this etiquette.)<br />
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The comfort I took in my solitude was recently put to the test when the hubs and I went to Washington, D.C. to meet with colleagues for his work. Obviously while he was in meetings for three full days, I would then have to traverse the city solo. Naturally I took the opportunity to geek out on the sites including the legendary 17 (or so) Smithsonian Museums and Galleries in the area. I'd purchased my travel guide and spent some serious time on the Google machine mapping out my itinerary for the trip. Since I'm too cheap to take a cab and too scared to navigate the subway system with my penchant for getting lost, I'm relying on what God gave me. Working legs and feet. </div>
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With a little trepidation and lots of maps to arm me against my own self destructive broken internal compass, I was stomping down 14th street ready to take on the city! Well let's be honest--the historic, crowded with tourists, "safe," part of the city. Shit gets crazy 'round the other parts. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU2lUbeOxEL_uECId4iO0CswCj97SriBKMD64j5JB_xc3fb8U_eXHlJ7WaUQyKFp5UkJVKXTkmuKtFzhFkJ15iZaS-tZg3RBxBDt6kx8enCUK5EgMAf84xH-y-92D7EiLvowFJQiLN2zbq/s1600/Woman+map.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU2lUbeOxEL_uECId4iO0CswCj97SriBKMD64j5JB_xc3fb8U_eXHlJ7WaUQyKFp5UkJVKXTkmuKtFzhFkJ15iZaS-tZg3RBxBDt6kx8enCUK5EgMAf84xH-y-92D7EiLvowFJQiLN2zbq/s320/Woman+map.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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I hit the National Aquarium first since I was making this an efficient trip. It opened first and was on the way to the bigger fish.The gal behind the desk hands me a ticket and says I don't have to pay!!! Hollah!</div>
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<i>This trip is going to fucking rock!</i> </div>
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Actually I think it was because the person in charge of money including the key to the cash register hadn't arrived yet, but I took it as a sign that this trip was fated to be a success. So, yes, it was entertaining--alligators, fish, a small shark, a teenaged tour guide who wanted to "help me" since apparently reading the placards seemed too difficult... but I wanted dolphins, mermaids, and King Triton (Ariel's Dad) himself! Too much?</div>
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Next on my tour was a biggie: <i>The National Museum of American History</i>. Doesn't that make you want to say the Pledge of Allegiance or shoot a firecracker at somebody? I'm still on my high from not having to pay anything and my personalized, albeit unnecessary, tour. I get in the giant line forming and then once we're in it's like a frenzy. People are just taking off to be the first in an area. I just start taking pictures of shit without really knowing what it is. The funny part is that I'm taking pictures of things I think my hubs would enjoy seeing. Pieces like the first compound engine. Or the first steam-engine piston, or the first generator. These items, although very important to the growth of our nation ... are boring. I'm marching on and stumble across something pretty cool. The first public school bus!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT7fO-eAEvxaPonwjEeqJc6Up6TWHnmjaok3a2fsdhLyyrFO_o6XvuOAPkoA4QBvz9IF8EiPkHCXjaF7Qfc9L9c0ijKGj2ApjvEDBMYmDWCYaYJ7sqUi3vn82w9qWPDBZDuj-b3yrl8Tpf/s1600/Washington+First+Bus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT7fO-eAEvxaPonwjEeqJc6Up6TWHnmjaok3a2fsdhLyyrFO_o6XvuOAPkoA4QBvz9IF8EiPkHCXjaF7Qfc9L9c0ijKGj2ApjvEDBMYmDWCYaYJ7sqUi3vn82w9qWPDBZDuj-b3yrl8Tpf/s320/Washington+First+Bus.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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How freaking cool is this?! They had all kinds of other early modes of transportation that you could actually go inside. Ok, still loving the freedom but at this point I found myself pointing and going "Whoa, this is the first school bus"... to NO ONE. I shrug it off. Take a picture and move on. </div>
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So, I attach myself to a group of people led by one of the ancient docents through one of the floors and we get to share in some anecdotal laughter, but it's forced and it makes me depressed, so I disengage from them and found some treasures like Dorothy's "Ruby" slippers from <i>The Wizard of Oz</i>. I'm saying out loud how amazed I am by how simple and obvious the slippers are in reality compared to my childhood imagination which allowed them to be actual rubies, when I realize that yet again, I'm talking to myself. Actually, I'm talking to another young woman who is taking her children through the museum. She quickly guides them away from me. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVcgLPE_UX0PQU1kETUgi1v8gBrSp6avWqPdOxtU-OPpT6thKGNBV5Ulsy_LWpIx9Ty-Zppbr0Un_KBGUQfLcoxJp_bnceTIlktC1MjSwYRkwZIK-QpjHZClAfUT7Gwcs8Djwml8GFswTO/s1600/Washington+Dorthy%2527s+Slippers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVcgLPE_UX0PQU1kETUgi1v8gBrSp6avWqPdOxtU-OPpT6thKGNBV5Ulsy_LWpIx9Ty-Zppbr0Un_KBGUQfLcoxJp_bnceTIlktC1MjSwYRkwZIK-QpjHZClAfUT7Gwcs8Djwml8GFswTO/s320/Washington+Dorthy%2527s+Slippers.jpg" width="237" /></a></div>
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I meander and find many interesting items to read about and take pictures of. One of them was the first lady's collection of inaugural dresses encased in the belly of the museum with lots of descriptions. Um, Nancy Reagan was a little minx! Her dress was divine, and then naturally I had to take a shot of Michelle Obama's dress in all its glory complete with her Jimmy Choo heels. The picture doesn't do it justice, but believe me, this is the shit. </div>
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I've been plowing through some serious historical artifacts from Kermit the Frog to the actually namesake flag from <i>The Star Spangled Banner</i>, which was quite dramatic in the way it's presented. Dark room, the song is playing, no pictures allowed... you feel special just looking at it. </div>
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I move on to the National Museum of Natural History to see the dinosaurs, which they call the fossil exhibit, but that's a boring name. Kids come for the Jurassic Park adventure minus the screaming and death. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsXRK1kprWv1UqDfsMWO7FGiB2YyqdOOFRDGSrAn6KiBDza9Kp0eaa_EmL68AFwN7iPJWj9vp4rD8aFSYjguBfDgXH2mfkhLhJGXd_jysM5lXIhfHQI2wjLY9aHmmaXuZB9KLBD2UO1-5P/s1600/Washington+Tri.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsXRK1kprWv1UqDfsMWO7FGiB2YyqdOOFRDGSrAn6KiBDza9Kp0eaa_EmL68AFwN7iPJWj9vp4rD8aFSYjguBfDgXH2mfkhLhJGXd_jysM5lXIhfHQI2wjLY9aHmmaXuZB9KLBD2UO1-5P/s320/Washington+Tri.jpg" width="237" /></a></div>
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<span style="text-align: left;">This was underneath the fossil of something called a "stellar sea cow" which to this day just makes me giggle. It's like a compliment and derogatory name-calling all in the same phrase. </span></div>
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<i>"You fat magnificent bastard!"</i></div>
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There's also an entire section devoted to the history of mankind complete with the first lady herself, Lucy! I really wanted to hear children from conservative religious backgrounds asking their parents how this could be if God created the earth in seven days. No such luck. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKxlACkgnbj7J3Sw3LnvSlLZQhReJxjQ-AR2oGN1xYW2dDfjBIVqQ5rngmFofYtx1EUZgyr7y0fL6EV6ffMQ-tOFx8HSzfBDrsi1T1y0ZsCLY73jbvAgLzn-I-iX9OpnZf2Fe-w3xmP3v5/s1600/Washington+Lucy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKxlACkgnbj7J3Sw3LnvSlLZQhReJxjQ-AR2oGN1xYW2dDfjBIVqQ5rngmFofYtx1EUZgyr7y0fL6EV6ffMQ-tOFx8HSzfBDrsi1T1y0ZsCLY73jbvAgLzn-I-iX9OpnZf2Fe-w3xmP3v5/s320/Washington+Lucy.jpg" width="237" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beauty is on the inside, right Lucy?</td></tr>
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So now I'm in line at the cafeteria inside the museum and having to navigate those lines with hungry parents and screaming children really makes me want a drinky-poo. I spot the little individual wine bottles you get on airplanes, but decide that might be pushing it. I get my eggplant panini and water and begin wandering through the long tables looking for a spot for little ol' me. It's middle school all over. I start to beat myself up a little thinking that if I were stronger I wouldn't be thinking about it. </div>
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<i>It's just one meal. Eating a meal by yourself doesn't mean you are lonely or strange. </i><i>Where am I going to sit? </i><i>No, those people are not looking at you with pity. </i></div>
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But as much as I try to eat slowly and calmly, I don't. I scarf down my food, chug my water, and head on past the hordes of groups continuing to pour in. I hit up a few more exhibits including the rocks and minerals which are great. Here are some of my favorite "gems" ...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic2O5biK5PyW81xm6Ionc5Dfm_vhyphenhyphenbqt08euBtZ7eENXX6aVd9Fa0IXBeCxDyfssDKskFW3Dfuh_D9m5Y8biyDQ7s4Kp6Z6zeoLB0CMHWTwb7_-F9Aa_9GPBeZduvGUCgx9PR-a766BZXt/s1600/Washington+Malachite.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic2O5biK5PyW81xm6Ionc5Dfm_vhyphenhyphenbqt08euBtZ7eENXX6aVd9Fa0IXBeCxDyfssDKskFW3Dfuh_D9m5Y8biyDQ7s4Kp6Z6zeoLB0CMHWTwb7_-F9Aa_9GPBeZduvGUCgx9PR-a766BZXt/s320/Washington+Malachite.jpg" width="237" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic-8tOodEOMZZYI2axnOj7x0ikm7ryB9o3i5rZIByBcs3KUdtBCjhyphenhyphen2gudDhLAnIHDcoqKq1kXqHSYlp1aBUEUWmJOGJtYtDoqVYW6sucssNBeHyT9PkQ6A1SOfaVwSsYP9bn1tEQT00mu/s1600/Washington+Topaz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic-8tOodEOMZZYI2axnOj7x0ikm7ryB9o3i5rZIByBcs3KUdtBCjhyphenhyphen2gudDhLAnIHDcoqKq1kXqHSYlp1aBUEUWmJOGJtYtDoqVYW6sucssNBeHyT9PkQ6A1SOfaVwSsYP9bn1tEQT00mu/s320/Washington+Topaz.jpg" width="237" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv4OrGrIhcKr2BxZRIl2JhVAD7KUNBluTU8bxtevl67ECopkZMkvX14XTp_J4Xr7R0GMCEryzowi1cU8XD0IbN7UykDIIqvZohocoFBs1b_gK-M-8QRzp1moYlNhUx2fr1kVJu8jV2sPUY/s1600/Washington+Topaz1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv4OrGrIhcKr2BxZRIl2JhVAD7KUNBluTU8bxtevl67ECopkZMkvX14XTp_J4Xr7R0GMCEryzowi1cU8XD0IbN7UykDIIqvZohocoFBs1b_gK-M-8QRzp1moYlNhUx2fr1kVJu8jV2sPUY/s320/Washington+Topaz1.jpg" width="237" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi77aKn2cFdYWDb6vKiPJkE9DWr53H7t-fkUX9iOZxBO6YDkHqHZDkRd4be4W2l0hEmF9TqZqW0fVOQO4ZA4YQ1TfhVRGMHppHuoWaOT7eOWhaCoLrEh44Rean4EqLI8pq2UMC-B19skvyx/s1600/Washington+Crystal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi77aKn2cFdYWDb6vKiPJkE9DWr53H7t-fkUX9iOZxBO6YDkHqHZDkRd4be4W2l0hEmF9TqZqW0fVOQO4ZA4YQ1TfhVRGMHppHuoWaOT7eOWhaCoLrEh44Rean4EqLI8pq2UMC-B19skvyx/s320/Washington+Crystal.jpg" width="237" /></a></div>
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I'm loving these but really I'm just forcing myself to recognize this feeling and deal with it. I'm also acknowledging that I have two more days of this, so I better get used to it. But the truth is that it's way too crowded, I'm tired, my head hurts and I miss having someone to share this with. I'm thinking of just heading back to the hotel for some air conditioned quiet complete with cable, but I decide to switch it up and go through the surreal National Sculpture Garden over to the National Gallery of Art. </div>
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<i>Hello, Heaven! </i></div>
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It's quiet. The building itself is breathtaking with the giant rotunda with columns surrounding the proportionately giant fountain in the center. The artwork is just unreal. I'm alone and it's perfect since the hubs is a lot of things, but he is not a fan of art. I feel rewarded and blessed as I make my way through this immense and mind numbing collection. This is what I've been waiting for. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJXa1cA6wPFYoVOzGX7TAzdYFliX1ITlxix9vynQsGwZJ8K5DKzBJSgO62eN1S5rpRvmTbAEgNgsAUhSyyGTutkZqcZHS0TIpd40dxcNdGceUHVB-EFoj1fEvta-vggErncY71cVDzoz8A/s1600/Washington+Van+Goch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJXa1cA6wPFYoVOzGX7TAzdYFliX1ITlxix9vynQsGwZJ8K5DKzBJSgO62eN1S5rpRvmTbAEgNgsAUhSyyGTutkZqcZHS0TIpd40dxcNdGceUHVB-EFoj1fEvta-vggErncY71cVDzoz8A/s320/Washington+Van+Goch.jpg" width="233" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vincent Van Gogh</td></tr>
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<span style="text-align: left;">I'm simply grinning as I walk from room to room admiring these treasures: Van Gogh, Raphael, Rembrandt, Whistler, Sargent, Corot, Cezanne, Monet, Gaugin, Degas... it's just too much to take in. I know that I'm smiling and recognize that there have been moments where I would suppress that emotion. But not today! I try to sit on one of those giant ottomans they put in large galleries for people to share, but the old guy keeps giving me the stink eye, so I don't linger. It doesn't matter though because this is why I came. For this feeling. Art that lifts, inspires, and allows quiet contemplation.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFqANBYpnSXG9Qj78eEvXunFH_I3-EScjJDoq82yWJHU5oOO_P8oAcdc98CNZz56mlc7PEskHgPxDPrHLRlMD1hjhe5DnnAhnDrBHp3E3c4xaFFxLxGJjpgYVED1Rqhi6FiXk2U1UzHBXk/s1600/Washington+Thomas+Cole.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFqANBYpnSXG9Qj78eEvXunFH_I3-EScjJDoq82yWJHU5oOO_P8oAcdc98CNZz56mlc7PEskHgPxDPrHLRlMD1hjhe5DnnAhnDrBHp3E3c4xaFFxLxGJjpgYVED1Rqhi6FiXk2U1UzHBXk/s320/Washington+Thomas+Cole.jpg" width="233" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thomas Cole</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC1ClnbCwQe8FheBv70RAbfjFQFV5cavv8LbmIu5zYogtRKuOsURKqLWpYnMqPb8SBHcMdLavb4egGsTOLWd58B-vk0_0P1GEk_YAyBGeS8iqoRh-1SH72NrWWnc4kfFUYsa7wNpIGx3Jb/s1600/Washington+Degas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC1ClnbCwQe8FheBv70RAbfjFQFV5cavv8LbmIu5zYogtRKuOsURKqLWpYnMqPb8SBHcMdLavb4egGsTOLWd58B-vk0_0P1GEk_YAyBGeS8iqoRh-1SH72NrWWnc4kfFUYsa7wNpIGx3Jb/s320/Washington+Degas.jpg" width="237" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Edgar Degas</td></tr>
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And here is when I feel the universe smile. See, it's worth it. I call it a day and hike my way back up to the hotel, but <i>whoa</i>, <i>watch out</i>! I take a detour up Pennsylvania Avenue--uncharted territory folks. Along the way I stumble upon the impressive Navy memorial with fountains and bronze artwork and take a quick rest there. Then I pass the FBI building where I make a shout out to my homies--Mulder and Scully. </div>
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Later that night after the hubs returns and we all have this great dinner together at a tucked away Indian place, I try explaining my day. I begin by going through the photos which are small since I'm only using my I-phone, and dark since the flash isn't the best quality. Since you really need to be the one holding the phone to get the best version of the image, I give him the phone and let him scan through. I'm trying to give my explanations and reactions but he's just flying through them which really hurts my feelings especially since I was taking so many for him. But then I take another look. The images are fuzzy, dark, small and for the most part pointless unless you were there. And that's when I come to the understanding that unless you're there it's rather meaningless. You have to be present. We all know the postcard doesn't do any justice to the real thing. </div>
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The hubs is appreciative of my effort and we agree that I don't need to take pictures of everything, especially not for his sake. This trip is for me. I need to slow down and appreciate what I'm seeing. This is not as easy as it sounds. </div>
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So, the next day I'm more mentally prepared. I have a tour of the Capitol building which I'm totally psyched about--which consequently ensures disappointment. Long lines, crowded rooms, impersonal docent, and way too short considering they tell you to be there 45 minute prior to your tour. </div>
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I call <i>bullshit.</i> </div>
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But I got a cool shot of the building with all the questionable black suburbans. </div>
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And then, again, after going through some crap, I went to visit the U.S. Botanic Gardens. </div>
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Here are a few of my personal favorites. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPrkeoch_5xwiOiUwa_JLax-hcntzut_ltvT-wMra2DZY3AwrF9iS8arZI_krJk1Ey0IuKtQ-H3ASqtPSZNC4XUs6xGjFC6pUv38TGAvD0QoCBJhu1e3dIsQE3OGNdxRPuKFLIi5EV-1GS/s1600/Washington+Botanical3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPrkeoch_5xwiOiUwa_JLax-hcntzut_ltvT-wMra2DZY3AwrF9iS8arZI_krJk1Ey0IuKtQ-H3ASqtPSZNC4XUs6xGjFC6pUv38TGAvD0QoCBJhu1e3dIsQE3OGNdxRPuKFLIi5EV-1GS/s320/Washington+Botanical3.jpg" width="233" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhScaobZ0EnGe07ABEJLy7tLhEDGYn393nfdgNls05pK96eJUBiVtFtfb6Sbd-LV-Ywc29ta-76aIa3ZDlxhZViHeJ7kW19Z2mLu-cSeOFUf0EgJNVBJhnj7msguxAEIZmycIyrqKVImtHa/s1600/Washington+Botanical4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhScaobZ0EnGe07ABEJLy7tLhEDGYn393nfdgNls05pK96eJUBiVtFtfb6Sbd-LV-Ywc29ta-76aIa3ZDlxhZViHeJ7kW19Z2mLu-cSeOFUf0EgJNVBJhnj7msguxAEIZmycIyrqKVImtHa/s320/Washington+Botanical4.jpg" width="233" /></a></div>
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So, while I'm still enjoying my freedom I do miss the opportunity to share these little findings with someone who might also take delight in finding a plant that totally looks like a penis. But no. I have to hide that little joke for later. </div>
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Last on my itinerary for day two was the Freer Gallery which was also nicely cool and underpopulated. Asian art is not quite in high demand on The Mall. I fell in love with this very serious Japanese silk screen when I looked closer and found this bratty child painted in the corner of the last screen. Everything else on the screens was so stoic, but this little shit just made my day. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeLTV095GS37ADEDGSdu_1HPuWfX2AWC7iqSNdzkT9EYT4fhYvTRFkVmOszFNcnCrtiZ1ppWMtCs5f4TxkfHOz_0qGYFg2p001rLm79HWi-esEJYlL5JBb0f8rbaNGY6jt2HJc-8UAGBDX/s1600/Washington+Freer+Kid.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeLTV095GS37ADEDGSdu_1HPuWfX2AWC7iqSNdzkT9EYT4fhYvTRFkVmOszFNcnCrtiZ1ppWMtCs5f4TxkfHOz_0qGYFg2p001rLm79HWi-esEJYlL5JBb0f8rbaNGY6jt2HJc-8UAGBDX/s320/Washington+Freer+Kid.jpg" width="237" /></a></div>
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Followed by this sassy little fella. He had some gruesome friends who each guarded the temples against one of the winds. East, West,... each had a job. But this guy with the hip out just cracked up my shit. At this point, I'm totally laughing out loud by myself and absolutely not giving a rat's ass. Freedom. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7QLShuhEzxSCybbn8xQemeq6buSPObctbSRGpIGLggPF_6hyphenhyphendf24mt2y-5g8iK-jlqyOdxTIpS1GWxq3W-2xKqpAla7tiSduXuQoEQkPwx11-_E17eb7GzTre5F8pCf0I5Uwew31Ho495/s1600/Washington+Freer+Sassy+God.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7QLShuhEzxSCybbn8xQemeq6buSPObctbSRGpIGLggPF_6hyphenhyphendf24mt2y-5g8iK-jlqyOdxTIpS1GWxq3W-2xKqpAla7tiSduXuQoEQkPwx11-_E17eb7GzTre5F8pCf0I5Uwew31Ho495/s320/Washington+Freer+Sassy+God.jpg" width="237" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Give me angry and sassy! Yes!"</td></tr>
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I also found my dwindling number of photos taken to be an indicator of my desensitization, or comfort in taking things in as I was experiencing them. We'll go with the second interpretation so it sounds like I'm learning and growing. </div>
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Here's the one and only picture I took day three at the Corcoran Gallery by the White House. I'm proud to say I join a tour group and stay with them the entire time through the gallery which was a very rewarding experience. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitu3J0YPXqJI2IFt6f3YYVk0xEzypEwz8LvPzh5zUHj4FW8VYn1idJFAJErX6Jk_tvbVkvy-WMYD5LMjdYO7GiGoAKLUDhanZ_cvc7bZxCFou7ztn5ks763Uss_Nc6LUyT9ZyaRIYIZvTd/s1600/Washington+Corcoran+Stained+Glass.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitu3J0YPXqJI2IFt6f3YYVk0xEzypEwz8LvPzh5zUHj4FW8VYn1idJFAJErX6Jk_tvbVkvy-WMYD5LMjdYO7GiGoAKLUDhanZ_cvc7bZxCFou7ztn5ks763Uss_Nc6LUyT9ZyaRIYIZvTd/s320/Washington+Corcoran+Stained+Glass.jpg" width="237" /></a></div>
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On day three I finish up early with only the Corcoran under my belt. Overwhelmed with names, dates, and art modes I find a posh restaurant with a bar close to our hotel. I'm killing time until my hubs and his boss finish their meetings, where we'll all meet at the hotel, and then we'll head to the airport that evening. I muse over all that I've seen and experienced. I'm proud of my independence, my overcoming some expected social norms, and enjoying my <i>aloneness</i> in a different place. I think to myself what a perfect way to conclude this little journey but with a glass of wine by myself.</div>
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The bartender finally comes around and takes my order. He asks if anyone will be joining me, to which I quickly reply, "Oh, yes, I have a friend meeting me." </div>
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Dammit!</div>
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And then, when no one comes to meet me, but I still get another glass of wine, I have to make up another story so I don't sound like a crazy person. See kids. This is why you tell the truth. </div>
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This lesson is apparently still in progress. </div>TeachHerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07274190034126281924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7612880370771536920.post-69989190325872237212012-08-01T08:27:00.003-07:002012-08-04T17:22:30.247-07:00How I wasted my summer vacation. Part IFor ages now, teachers have asked students to write on "what they did over their summer vacation" upon their arrival back to the classroom. Nearly every August this was our initial introduction to our teacher and our first grade, both of which were important to me: Type A, People Pleaser McGee. Begrudgingly my fellow classmates and I would get out our supplies and start writing...something. Naturally they dug deep within themselves and found the strength to share with the class some anecdotes on the excellent buffet selection on the family cruise through the Caribbean islands, blisters created from hiking in Colorado, and even a family reunions in Galveston where it rained <i>alot</i>. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLDHKTfL3zUfkFPVy2xrKpxO-sWmHOGies060IHfOF6HeF53OSujVaUfezoI8HVjeKal8QdrwNKed12VNtGYqr-p5OFbn5FjwgsCC2dGFPoefCoKKtU7zMiSjtsWGuZzDV9nTIoWVx0Blt/s1600/I+hate+school.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLDHKTfL3zUfkFPVy2xrKpxO-sWmHOGies060IHfOF6HeF53OSujVaUfezoI8HVjeKal8QdrwNKed12VNtGYqr-p5OFbn5FjwgsCC2dGFPoefCoKKtU7zMiSjtsWGuZzDV9nTIoWVx0Blt/s200/I+hate+school.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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Whereas I volunteered <i>nothing</i>. I had nothing interesting, intelligent or even slighly amusing in which to share. Um, I drug my little brother to the community pool, watched reruns of <i>Matlock</i> and <i>Murder She Wrote</i>, and read a bunch of books that no one had heard of. <br />
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"Um Miss...How long does this have to be?" </div>
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So, in response, I've begun my own adult example. I still haven't done much, but at least I can share it in a better way, which really is the point of the assignment anyway. <br />
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<b><i>How I Wasted my Summer Vacation</i></b></div>
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by Jennifer </div>
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I have a confession that will make movie--ahem--"film" buffs shake their heads in dismay.<br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">I don't really like Gus Van Sant movies. I know I'm supposed to and everybody seems to, but it's true. </span><br />
There was that one with all the short film clips about Paris, <i>Paris Je T'aime</i>, which just seems really self-indulgent and relied on all these big Hollywood names to give substance to something that didn't really have any. I'm totally ADD, but even I got annoyed by the shorts. And then when I wanted story lines to connect thoughtfully like other movies in this genre often do, it leaves you hanging. <br />
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No me gusta!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2qBpH9tLKEHDYv5QuIUsp20M0Xe_NbNBbN2TyyzzgQIHGNPFaY_aPsx3fdAhGpitgWmaJaRmim3WyNblURF7Objr-OPRU63f75jMuDgQV6Pt6oRuGMyExk8Sl4Fx2UmKrSfGqEF9W9-_X/s1600/Paris.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2qBpH9tLKEHDYv5QuIUsp20M0Xe_NbNBbN2TyyzzgQIHGNPFaY_aPsx3fdAhGpitgWmaJaRmim3WyNblURF7Objr-OPRU63f75jMuDgQV6Pt6oRuGMyExk8Sl4Fx2UmKrSfGqEF9W9-_X/s200/Paris.jpg" width="133" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">Ok, I admit loving </span><i style="background-color: white;">Good Will Hunting</i><span style="background-color: white;"> but that hardly seems fair. Everybody ate this shit up with extra large spoons and then went back for seconds. It's a teaching movie with tender moments mixed with self-deprecation, love and friendships--it's hook, line and sinker. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZR4loITm8cqumo0LRmJvO7nJ23r1sEC5H5ZemWV5b06RH4TOMbYeSCfa-hMvEx-DhFCAOnCve6IuI9p8yn4zOZ2eOaXHWZpGRgW5VHt9pbvs22JwL4KAyPE8yMIRar9lh2eg-izggtq-n/s1600/Good+Will+Hunting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZR4loITm8cqumo0LRmJvO7nJ23r1sEC5H5ZemWV5b06RH4TOMbYeSCfa-hMvEx-DhFCAOnCve6IuI9p8yn4zOZ2eOaXHWZpGRgW5VHt9pbvs22JwL4KAyPE8yMIRar9lh2eg-izggtq-n/s200/Good+Will+Hunting.jpg" width="136" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">However, with that exception, I recently finished watching </span><i style="background-color: white;">Drugstore Cowboy </i><span style="background-color: white;">and, yet again, I'm not impressed. </span><span style="background-color: white;"> I'm probably desensitized to "drug" movies growing up watching films like <i>Transpotting</i>, <i>Blow, Requiem for a Dream, Pulp Fiction, </i>hell even <i>The Big Lebowski, </i>where the use of drugs were necessary for the conflicts and resolutions, but this one just seemed silly. Case in point: the </span><span style="background-color: white;">flying cowboy hat across the screen while Matt Dillon is getting high again. Come on, Gus.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicvnWUstXwVQ28xPcySpAzO1O1hCUcl9ts3m3nqL4fZ1mINXKrZn7o-7rj-IlrkyYCubvyIH24kR1bWT_FhyxcjG9lwBhnNcjWTZkmS66tFU_p2NZHNiIoh1lcfbcr2srTjQRgau7UJ7DV/s1600/Drugstore+cowboy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicvnWUstXwVQ28xPcySpAzO1O1hCUcl9ts3m3nqL4fZ1mINXKrZn7o-7rj-IlrkyYCubvyIH24kR1bWT_FhyxcjG9lwBhnNcjWTZkmS66tFU_p2NZHNiIoh1lcfbcr2srTjQRgau7UJ7DV/s200/Drugstore+cowboy.jpg" width="131" /></a></div>
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Next wasted unit of time was dedicated to the seemingly never ending television show predominating the 1990's known as "The X-Files." My God, where do I start in how much I love this show? Why am I such a late bloomer on this obsession? I could have shared this with fellow recluses back when it was the appropriate time. I could have been chatting it up water cooler style with my full on 90's grunge attire complete with Doc Martins and teenage angst. Now, I'm forced to hide my infatuation with the inexplicable escapades of sexy and wry agent Mulder and power-suited robot Scully (seriously, she has no emotions) in the secrecy and shame of my own home with no outlet. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBxllOx23Orsqx9jlXTiVKRAJ-xel-WFAIpSElJzSEk6yBj5y7viHHMGV7Htk91wNBvxVfVyg1tDD32KRwwenT4ECI4UBtOLuH01KV-e5-dFjw0x4Y5CWB1INiodWAnY5IbzTtERIm1bjV/s1600/X+Files.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="151" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBxllOx23Orsqx9jlXTiVKRAJ-xel-WFAIpSElJzSEk6yBj5y7viHHMGV7Htk91wNBvxVfVyg1tDD32KRwwenT4ECI4UBtOLuH01KV-e5-dFjw0x4Y5CWB1INiodWAnY5IbzTtERIm1bjV/s200/X+Files.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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"I want to believe" too Mulder! Let's hold hands and find the smoking man together. </div>
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Maybe the story lines are slightly ridiculous and often times don't provide satisfactory explanations at the end. Maybe the action scenes are predictable and not well executed. Maybe the special effects aren't so special now with CG enhancements and such. </div>
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I don't care. </div>
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The pure joy I have in watching this show overshadows rational criticisms. I can suspend my disbelief even to allowing the lack of sex that these two <i>should </i>be, <i>need to be</i>, having at this point. Hurry up with it already! </div>
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And lastly, I've been sailing to the very edges of our internet seas in search of <i>the perfect black bag </i>(that I can afford.) I've looked over the edge into the infinite abyss of darkness and you know what? Shit is expensive. I have fabulous taste and a small pay check. Also, you can blow hours on retail sites. Here's a few of my favorites if you'd like to join my cult. Prepare to look at the clock and then see how fast you loose hours of your life. Poof!</div>
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<a href="http://www.hautelook.com/events/#all">http://www.hautelook.com/events/#all</a>
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<a href="http://www.gilt.com/sale/women">http://www.gilt.com/sale/women</a>
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<a href="http://shopruche.com/?utm_source=newsletter&utm_medium=email&utm_content=homepage&utm_campaign=email_2012_07_31">http://shopruche.com/?utm_source=newsletter&utm_medium=email&utm_content=homepage&utm_campaign=email_2012_07_31</a> </div>
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Santa, if you're listening, here's what I really want:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-KA_EfDFAOtresiC8RnhY7_QEE7-ivFPfW4km9tq3V21uD4vRK2sklOKKDndBXumSOpdoWFlCvfBTWqk7QamGM8zozG3icKiuEXH9jKOplyywoN-awUSvMJz4sPhZd0bDIMH-vEeQ7cL8/s1600/Prada.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-KA_EfDFAOtresiC8RnhY7_QEE7-ivFPfW4km9tq3V21uD4vRK2sklOKKDndBXumSOpdoWFlCvfBTWqk7QamGM8zozG3icKiuEXH9jKOplyywoN-awUSvMJz4sPhZd0bDIMH-vEeQ7cL8/s200/Prada.jpg" width="173" /></a></div>
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It's a Prada bag and it costs $1, 960. Yes, I just choked on some of my spit, too. How funny!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioaB9mdThOVuJpUeseqr66udLWGGN7Z0eVVHbN4kwZ0DvOJ0E3sjU-CXhJndE0-apd89vI4r6dsNrlwTL4m8Nnaro_YsYT-zbjLnJwenjeCUaXS-uZhV7hR11-X5R8dAzU2X3ypAFFyDRy/s1600/Black+bag.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioaB9mdThOVuJpUeseqr66udLWGGN7Z0eVVHbN4kwZ0DvOJ0E3sjU-CXhJndE0-apd89vI4r6dsNrlwTL4m8Nnaro_YsYT-zbjLnJwenjeCUaXS-uZhV7hR11-X5R8dAzU2X3ypAFFyDRy/s200/Black+bag.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>
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Here's what I'll probably get. This bag is from Banana Republic and costs $150. It's not nearly as cute, but then again it's important to be able to pay rent so you don't have to become a prostitute in order to sleep in a bed. </div>
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It's all about priorities, kids. </div>
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* Dear Teacher,</div>
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I'm sorry this essay is not about a family trip to see the Redwoods or about finding Jesus at a summer camp. I promise to do better on future assignments so please give me a good grade. </div>
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Thanx! ; )</div>TeachHerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07274190034126281924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7612880370771536920.post-17852257282681210242012-07-15T07:44:00.000-07:002012-07-15T07:44:07.900-07:00Ode to my Hangover<div style="text-align: center;">
You magnificent bastard. </div>
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You got me again.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTZLHzw98MleX4UySqrUFIAHRh9R_-zztqhlN_TXEN4qsX_kpa2HfYROwhbufjlyIBbO6S9VOdRFeO6VJia0Euu3iCLCW3qd_LcSMwTIX1ZL3KaDNP8qFs-Tl_y7OfDZt0iteTfJ9oF3rn/s1600/Hangover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTZLHzw98MleX4UySqrUFIAHRh9R_-zztqhlN_TXEN4qsX_kpa2HfYROwhbufjlyIBbO6S9VOdRFeO6VJia0Euu3iCLCW3qd_LcSMwTIX1ZL3KaDNP8qFs-Tl_y7OfDZt0iteTfJ9oF3rn/s320/Hangover.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I'm too old for this shit. </div>TeachHerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07274190034126281924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7612880370771536920.post-6014788429988383892012-07-11T07:47:00.001-07:002012-07-11T07:53:00.938-07:00Classroom Nightmares...No LiterallyYes, it's sometimes frustrating and more often annoying when folks start sharing his or her bizarre dreams. <br />
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<i>So I'm having lunch with Neil Patrick Harris, and then I transform into a bird... </i><br />
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But here's the deal. I keep having various forms of the same nightmare where the school year has started, and <span style="background-color: white;">ostensibly </span><span style="background-color: white;">everyone else has been preparing for weeks. The students are all showing up, classes are set up and rolling, copies have all been made. However, I apparently got dates confused and just showed up DAY ONE with nothing! No classroom, no syllabus, no plan. Just totally fucked. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8Jnl3gCYjBtD_16C72HLNnMWwLeLfuua26kOqMQ06ojcCfchLDEgQuz8H4222ZnWldONf7FwfEYY7R88IHe6PEqFHmDLrf7FXGaQ321FBO15aUQH9QaOHutHF-KiZwXhAJhqas5EeKiVD/s1600/Crazy+classroom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8Jnl3gCYjBtD_16C72HLNnMWwLeLfuua26kOqMQ06ojcCfchLDEgQuz8H4222ZnWldONf7FwfEYY7R88IHe6PEqFHmDLrf7FXGaQ321FBO15aUQH9QaOHutHF-KiZwXhAJhqas5EeKiVD/s320/Crazy+classroom.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This "classroom picture" really cracks me up. I like the kid who's given up in the back.</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white;">In one of my nightmares my classroom was </span><span style="background-color: white;">unexpectedly</span><span style="background-color: white;"> moved to the gym, which then actually became the pool. No floor! I had to teach ENGLISH in the POOL. Now, how do you really get through the day without some water damage? And what would happen to the essays? Where do you sharpen your pencil? Where do they even <i>keep </i>their pencils? I shudder to think...</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdt34IERTB1zcaLa1jS0Pb1JmKqkl3K7CbetGrWL_iSM97nXYExSXy1YAPyb3lkF3sR8KYP1ZiT-3FSqbHxemZKjn6jeT9JP2k_E_D7iABw3IBLLy0ZUFFm7fknAMzfA3oVnbsHSg-XS0y/s1600/Synchro+Swimming.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="134" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdt34IERTB1zcaLa1jS0Pb1JmKqkl3K7CbetGrWL_iSM97nXYExSXy1YAPyb3lkF3sR8KYP1ZiT-3FSqbHxemZKjn6jeT9JP2k_E_D7iABw3IBLLy0ZUFFm7fknAMzfA3oVnbsHSg-XS0y/s200/Synchro+Swimming.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">Last night's had me teaching African American studies. Um, I never took that course in college, and my first thought is MLK, Jr. That wouldn't get me very far. Then I figured out that I wasn't even in the right room and go running down the hall to "my" classroom except three other teachers are in there just shooting the shit while my students have left the building. Nightmare!</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">So maybe these aren't the "faceless stranger chasing you down the dark and foggy road where you can't run fast enough" variety of nightmares, but for me they are terrifying.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmRB5P-KYcilYbHiTWRUPkDrniKQjecEpa29WD8oNzQ23ydSzEMOUAmEfndmEyOxVgq7hR6q9Jg5dWBv_i_lDN0x6c2DzDEIDgc83cB2BHbYBo9Qy55yLA_b5A7QvfTit4_3p3ncRxAAnP/s1600/Nightmare.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="125" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmRB5P-KYcilYbHiTWRUPkDrniKQjecEpa29WD8oNzQ23ydSzEMOUAmEfndmEyOxVgq7hR6q9Jg5dWBv_i_lDN0x6c2DzDEIDgc83cB2BHbYBo9Qy55yLA_b5A7QvfTit4_3p3ncRxAAnP/s200/Nightmare.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white;">I cannot stand the idea of not being prepared, which really boils down to not being in control. Shocker. My Type A personality likes control? This is such news!</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">This upcoming year they've added grade level juniors to my schedule which I've already taught a couple of years ago, but we're changing it up this year, so I suppose this is my mind's way of coping. But damn, this is starting to get to me. I'm going to have to hit up the copy machine mid July to get a jump on things. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">I'll pop some Melatonin and see if I can have the nice puppy--unicorn--rainbow--ice cream--David Beckham variety dream instead.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">Oh, and I once had a make out dream with Jack Nicholson. Not cute</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWNsSycFb2oKiWEkbCyVTYBz4ZUpVhdP_Qa9nNSNtOH0kW139QQlIMEV7zU4M_NQWWDXocU2jZdOksOtjbH6DXSB_-f2_3-GXZO2gC_IOWRVumu1tTZfmp8XN2mB3huxC4tYxM6cbZSsnf/s1600/Jack+Nicholson.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWNsSycFb2oKiWEkbCyVTYBz4ZUpVhdP_Qa9nNSNtOH0kW139QQlIMEV7zU4M_NQWWDXocU2jZdOksOtjbH6DXSB_-f2_3-GXZO2gC_IOWRVumu1tTZfmp8XN2mB3huxC4tYxM6cbZSsnf/s200/Jack+Nicholson.jpg" width="121" /></a></div>TeachHerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07274190034126281924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7612880370771536920.post-88806729080910375552012-07-06T19:11:00.000-07:002012-07-06T19:44:10.608-07:00Why you gotta kill off the dog?<span style="background-color: white;">Last night I finished a book called <i>The Art of Racing in the Rain</i> that I wouldn't necessarily categorize as the most compelling, funny, or entertaining story ever written, but the author, Garth Stein, did that <i>thing </i>that always gets me. </span><span style="background-color: white;">There's a spoiler alert here, but trust me, it's not really, as you are told this information in Chapter Uno. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge_xEUqfPgYB09kEuJvysPGOEwZczfit0UtJosFxJo3KOhsB0q8nEKnZFyOOuztact51SpPY9QC9-wEEK7KRmRiX3RIdxu0q8KmKdNbZWqfi-obg-TPu7zgC_GpcZ6neSl7qyX6Mm0Cue3/s1600/Art+of+Racing+cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge_xEUqfPgYB09kEuJvysPGOEwZczfit0UtJosFxJo3KOhsB0q8nEKnZFyOOuztact51SpPY9QC9-wEEK7KRmRiX3RIdxu0q8KmKdNbZWqfi-obg-TPu7zgC_GpcZ6neSl7qyX6Mm0Cue3/s320/Art+of+Racing+cover.jpg" width="211" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">He wrote about a selfless, wise, and clever dog... who is about to DIE!!!!</span></div>
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Now, I appreciate the author's creative technique in telling an otherwise overly dramatic narrative about his amateur race car driving owner through the eyes of his beloved bow-wow, but it made me sooooo freakin' sad. The whole time I knew the flashback would return to the predicament of the aging pooch nearing and describing his last moments, but I still found myself crying the <i>UGLY CRY.</i></div>
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You know about the ugly cry. It's the one you stifle in front of others to be courteous until you get home and <i>really </i>let it out. Often occurs in bathtubs after that third glass of wine. No sound comes out. It's just a really awful face and then snot. Lots and lots of snot. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvuYpymScarVvAk82hc0X1PBIqtHZ-9KUr-bplsQbAeqthrbv3S8T7vqousbehmUZKbuw99b7jjo0Syr4zJJUIzLgRf9J6sfjhrWISnHYbbDPeduvqXj2iw2tS4Yb44dYxe-gttJgSAhRL/s1600/Ugly+Cry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvuYpymScarVvAk82hc0X1PBIqtHZ-9KUr-bplsQbAeqthrbv3S8T7vqousbehmUZKbuw99b7jjo0Syr4zJJUIzLgRf9J6sfjhrWISnHYbbDPeduvqXj2iw2tS4Yb44dYxe-gttJgSAhRL/s1600/Ugly+Cry.jpg" /></a></div>
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This book was like watching the film <i>Titanic</i>. My God, we <i>knew </i>it wasn't going to have a happy ending. Check your History books folks; the ship goes down! Nevertheless, we all cried as Rose dropped poor popsicle Jack Dawson down into the frosty abyss. Selfish bitch. </div>
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Anyway, this time, after finishing the story, I admit, I felt a little manipulated. Really? Why you gotta kill off the dog? </div>
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Why? Because all animal lovers are moved by the heavy handed pathos when it comes to innocent pets. Case in point. Another novel I recently finished was <i>Zeitoun</i> by Dave Eggers detailing the heart wrenching plight of one family right before, during and after the catastrophic hurricane Katrina in New Orleans. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhryZNSFEJBmk76_igLM9MEMiCMS3KAPhqFJ7iwo7M_sLPo1XQXAYnVRRMiFkfW5A4wabZTQhJJA5T4njB_IlhTJje_y_L-fAqVKga4EhQBsfnOa7PxPyo0cHQb7bcNtgr_mwFyQz0L-JWH/s1600/Zeitoun.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhryZNSFEJBmk76_igLM9MEMiCMS3KAPhqFJ7iwo7M_sLPo1XQXAYnVRRMiFkfW5A4wabZTQhJJA5T4njB_IlhTJje_y_L-fAqVKga4EhQBsfnOa7PxPyo0cHQb7bcNtgr_mwFyQz0L-JWH/s200/Zeitoun.jpg" width="136" /></a><span style="background-color: white;">It's a wonderfully written and powerful novel that everyone should read. The part that made me the most emotional was not the dead bodies floating, not the displaced mother and children forced into hostile situations, not even the terrible injustice </span><span style="background-color: white;">Zeitoun </span><span style="background-color: white;">suffered in a maximum security prison, but rather the two abandoned dogs trapped in their flooded homes he was taking care of throughout the novel that didn't survive. <i>That </i>was the part that made me cry. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">And who hasn't teared up at least once when that save-an-animal commercial backed by Sarah McLachlan's sappy "In the arms of the Angel" comes on? Hitler would donate. </span></div>
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Most of us can say we have had pets who died, or have pets who will (sorry) die someday. There's a third category. There are just those freaks of nature who aren't "animal people." </div>
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You know what I call them? </div>
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Nazis. </div>
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( I have a motif working here.)</div>
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The logical part of my brain understands the natural order of things--circle of life and all that, but the thought of my sweet Piper girl no longer being with us... there I go... waterworks!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLA7CV9-4VK1S1FOc08lEuEK6Eut_jXkTbdOx-ZD6Ky9ErxeigJLx4ovScKly7f3FLn5CfYwBz1-MBJApi2Qsk2oFFkt1X8ut_AtV9s0-g2D9xoEugjQlrfIdSr42DnAWNXSz0tFWz2rVl/s1600/piper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLA7CV9-4VK1S1FOc08lEuEK6Eut_jXkTbdOx-ZD6Ky9ErxeigJLx4ovScKly7f3FLn5CfYwBz1-MBJApi2Qsk2oFFkt1X8ut_AtV9s0-g2D9xoEugjQlrfIdSr42DnAWNXSz0tFWz2rVl/s320/piper.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>
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So, why do we do it? Why did our parents put us through it? Why do we bring home these wonderful creatures who we know will not outlive us, making it an absolute likelihood that we will have to go through the heartbreak of their degeneration and then finally their death? </div>
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Growing up I had a steady and consistent line of pets--much later mimicked in my style of dating. One at a time and with reckless abandon to each. </div>
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My first fish, named Violet Prince (can you tell I was dramatic from an early age?), or V.P. for short, was one of those Vietnamese Fighting Fish--a Betta, so he had to be alone since he did not play well with others. I loved that damn fish. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvfFz2MYxgNS8QBAj6vylMr4SOU1cwBdNnwHwDS3b5ayswuYQZYXLBu7G3_gyAqcWoZdTmZK6l9rYrgoFeF4uMSc2Pf9xNtm3JnZ3sHrxWtRek1LJwdXvYuddQX9W_ITw4e3RyB1Y3hfMY/s1600/Betta+fish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvfFz2MYxgNS8QBAj6vylMr4SOU1cwBdNnwHwDS3b5ayswuYQZYXLBu7G3_gyAqcWoZdTmZK6l9rYrgoFeF4uMSc2Pf9xNtm3JnZ3sHrxWtRek1LJwdXvYuddQX9W_ITw4e3RyB1Y3hfMY/s200/Betta+fish.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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He had all the fishy accouterments a third grader with a limited allowance could afford. It was the Taj Mahal of tanks. I followed all the feeding specifications and cleaning requirements to a T. So, upon his death, I was horrified. </div>
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<i>Where did I go wrong? Why is V.P. dead? Is there a God? </i></div>
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My mother, in her efficient but perhaps insensitive way, asked if I wanted for us to flush him down the toilet <i>together </i>or if I wanted her to go ahead and get the job done <i>alone</i>. </div>
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This did not go over well.</div>
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Flash forward to the Lifetime Movie version of my fish funeral in our front yard, in the flower bed, where the<span style="background-color: white;"> rain-spout dumps its contents from the roof (since he liked water). I also demanded he be buried with what I imagined to be his favorite plastic plant decoration from his tank. I'm giving a pretty strong ugly cry at this point standing over the three inch grave site marked by two Popsicle sticks glued together in the sign of a cross, and that's when our neighbor decides to pay us a little visit. Since I'm unable to utter decipherable words or phrases due to my grief, my mom fills her in on the proceedings. My neighbor puts her hand to her chest in a sign of relief and tells us she was worried something awful had happened as she's shaking her head and smiling. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">Smiling! The nerve...</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">"But something tragic <i>did </i>happen!" My seven-year-old mind yells at her. Righteous indignation at her lack of sympathy in my time of need. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">Later, there was G.P. Short for..., wait for it... "Guinea Pig." I wasn't terribly creative at this point, apparently. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">It's the same love story, but a change of food, container, and poo. I was a little older and more prepared for G.P's death. But the ugly cry emerged. This time my mom didn't attempt any quick solutions. There was a full-on-funeral in the backyard with readings. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">And finally, the big one. Our family dog, Brinkley. I honestly don't know how much I could even write about this since he really was not just our dog. He was the third and, in many cases, preferred child. We didn't take family pictures really, but if we did, he would be in the center. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsq62MrKJVrqRFyxA5IT4ovbfxeVhjBXSKVa9yNvU7Pe41jEe9vXQYXxXLgPbQZpZ66UzVif6Khee0WcNZGLNGM4MT3Z_XBSk3Y7QKB4_2HCKs0SQzljoPlVv89_1TD-Vp6JfzBk4dcuDY/s1600/Lab.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsq62MrKJVrqRFyxA5IT4ovbfxeVhjBXSKVa9yNvU7Pe41jEe9vXQYXxXLgPbQZpZ66UzVif6Khee0WcNZGLNGM4MT3Z_XBSk3Y7QKB4_2HCKs0SQzljoPlVv89_1TD-Vp6JfzBk4dcuDY/s200/Lab.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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Now, it should be mentioned that this dog was not like sweet Enzo in <i>The Art of Racing in the Rain</i>. As a puppy, Brinkley was just terrible despite Doggy University. He'd jump up on people, scratched, ate things, peed on things, and was generally a little shit. Later in life he was a cranky bastard. He'd snarl if you touched his hips, refused to share any bed or sofa, and would keep ringing his "potty" bell until someone, no matter the hour, would get off their duff and take him out. </div>
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In between all that though, he was our best friend. He knew our various moods and navigated those troublesome waters. He was a vacuum cleaner in the kitchen and a pillow to sometimes cry on at night. He made us laugh when he stole my brother's food off the table, he made us worried when he ate four dozen Oreo cookies from Sam's, and he made us cry when it was time to leave us. But in a way, he made us a real family. </div>
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When Brinkley was diagnosed with bone cancer, we weighed our options, and choose to let him go out with some dignity. The day we put him down, we all went to the veterinarian's office, and I mean <i>everybody</i>. My divorced parents, my brother, both vets, the assistants, and me. <span style="background-color: white;">I was already teaching by this point, but took the day off. I claimed a death in the family, which, to me, wasn't a lie. </span><span style="background-color: white;">My parents couldn't agree on anything, but this was something bigger than ourselves.We all felt we owed it to Brinkley to be there together.</span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span></div>
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And that's why we have animals whom we know won't last our lifespan. They remind us of what is important. <span style="background-color: white;"> They exemplify pure and unadulterated love. </span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span><span style="background-color: white;">They never mask what they really feel in fear of rejection or ridicule. They never judge or criticize. They show us that playing catch, rolling around being silly, and taking naps fucking rules. And when we simply can't shake the ugly cry, they bury their head in your crotch and make you laugh. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">Ultimately they make us better humans.</span></div>TeachHerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07274190034126281924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7612880370771536920.post-35330193353189382272012-06-29T13:18:00.004-07:002012-06-29T13:21:55.026-07:00Baby TalkIt seems as if one day all <i>my </i>friends, and all <i>their </i>friends woke up and heard (in the crazy monkey, Raifiki, voice from <i>The Lion King):</i><br />
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"<i>IT IS TIME</i> ...to make the babies." </div>
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I don't get it. <br />
When did this change occur?<br />
Why didn't I hear the voice?<br />
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We all drank the same Jameson shots till the bars closed, danced to George Micheal like the drunk idiots we were calling each other inappropriate names, demanding Wham be put in rotation. Smoked, cursed, yelled. Someone inevitably would trip and fall. It was great. We were like pirates who danced to pop hits of the 80's.<br />
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And now something has changed.<br />
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There are babies. Everywhere...<br />
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And if the actual eating, sleeping, crying, shitting babies haven't arrived yet, people are pregnant with them, planning for them, or just talking about them.<br />
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Now, don't get me wrong. I love the little buggers, and someday I feel confident we'll have one to call our own. I have lofty and magical dreams of the future family I'll have. (Although mentally I totally skip the pregnancy, and of course, the birth.) <span style="background-color: white;">The moment the hubs and I will bring "Baby" home for the first time and tenderly place "it" in some sort of bed inside a cozy nursery. It's a huge deal. I think it was Seinfeld who joked that any event where two people go into a room, and three come out, is a BIG deal. And it is. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">I imagine our dog, Piper, sometime in the future, finally matured and calm, </span><span style="background-color: white;">snuggled up, overlooking and protecting, perhaps babysitting, our sweet-smelling infant. Whereas today I would fear she'd jump on it and be the <i>dingo that ate my baby</i>. </span><br />
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Hell, I even have some baby names, which I refuse to tell anyone because that sounds like some serious cliched action, and I have to keep my street cred. In a world of pro-breeding I <i>have </i>to be anti-baby. It stems from those angsty high school years of being against the man. It's not that hard either since I'm scared shitless of being a parent. <br />
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Everyone willingly shares the professionally polished pictures of their offspring with cherubic smiles and spotless outfits in the field of bluebonnets, but no one shares the images of what <i>really </i>happens: <br />
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And I'm not trying to be the Debbie Downer without kids. I know a few things about the babies. As a teenager without a license, and clearly sans car, my job options were pretty limited. But what wasn't limited were the amount of neighborhood parents who desperately wanted a day, a night, an hour of sanctuary away from their beloved buggers, and who did they call? <i>Moi</i>. I was a great babysitter. Call me Mary Fucking Poppins. There was singing, poetry writing, fashion shows, synchronized swimming if a pool became available. (Those were the good jobs.) I was also terrified someone was always watching my performance, and this was even before the "Nanny cam" scare. The point is that despite the fun and games though, sometimes a spoon full of sugar just didn't do the job. <br />
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One time taking care of my own cousin--a family member for God's sake--I had fought with her about taking her nap. She was a toddler at this point so I'd place her in her crib, talk to her a little in my best soothing and dream-like voice, then back out slowly, and quietly close the door. Minutes later, she had clambered out of her crib and come downstairs. Giggling with euphoria from her recent prison break, I swooped her up, fussed at her and climbed back up stairs. So, we repeated the process a few more times, and low and behold, this final time she stayed! I thought I'd worn her out. I thought my tenacity was noteworthy. I thought <i>this parenting is all about discipline and consistency. What's the all the brouhaha about?</i><br />
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After forty minutes or so, when I still hadn't heard a peep and was still congratulating myself, I silently peeked inside her once immaculate and beautifully decorated room to find it absolutely covered in this white, greasy diaper cream that was apparently within arms reach from her crib. She'd decided to do some redecorating in lieu of her nap. This white shit was everywhere! Walls, books, stuffed animals, the fancy rug. Her face, her ears, her legs, and then, where her diaper <i>should </i>have been there was more diaper cream to be found in all sorts of hard to reach areas. I had no idea such a small container of ostensibly helpful cream could go so far and do so much damage. And where was the artist? Standing in the middle of her masterpiece with the most shit-eating grin you've ever seen.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This isn't her, as I was blinded by rage when the actual event occurred, but you get the idea.</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white;">Now my cousin is a gorgeous and talented 14-year-old whom I love very much, but on that particular day, I wanted to murder her. </span><br />
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So, my question is when do you know you're ready? When will Raifiki tell me "<i>it is time</i>"?<br />
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Other people clearly trust us with their children. Just the other day over beers at a baseball game we were asked to be the Godparents of our best friends' children. I was quickly shoving a hot dog down my throat so I could get a free hand for another giant beer before we sat back down. <i>Really</i>? I thought. <i>You think we're Godparent material?</i><br />
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Don't get me wrong. It's a huge honor. We adore this couple--they actually were the reason my hubs and I met, and their children are ridiculously cute. But I looked this up on the Google machine. I might not fit the bill. A couple of areas where I should be disqualified by the fancy standards:<br />
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1. I'm not Catholic and consequently haven't done Catholic-ish events, like communion.<br />
2. I don't hold one religion over another and would allow my children to make their own choice.<br />
3. I wouldn't call myself a "public sinner" which equates to prostitution apparently, but I ain't no saint!<br />
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However, I know my sweet friends don't hold these things against me. It's a wonderful privilege to be a special part of their lives and I get it. They are ready and willing, right now, to say that if something happened to them, they would want <i>us</i> to be the ones to raise their children. To make all those important decisions. So, if they think we're ready, why don't we? <br />
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Until we figure this out, I'm putting my Momma friend on a diet and exercise plan to lower her unreasonably high cholesterol level to keep her ass alive as long as possible, and popping birth control like tic-tacs.TeachHerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07274190034126281924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7612880370771536920.post-30816827939419041982012-06-25T15:41:00.000-07:002012-08-15T10:33:06.704-07:00Money MattersI never bought into the idea that another person would “complete” me, which contradicts most romantic comedies including the famous Jerry Maguire scene that made women—and some men—swoon. The concept of one person fulfilling another's needs is both dangerous and ridiculous. The term soul mate is thrown around all the time for cards, movies, and country music and people eat this shit up. The rest of us just throw up a little in our mouths.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggR1apNoKeHTWSNw30PEI0mX8VlBUssLytSqRCoSRMov65fBOJTGVI_DAsEskuA89iJHZ_095SCCyPNX1F-o8MRT_VV3PKXmETN9yhnECdIH9Hk_jdV-Bl-iW1NEbA__szgNEzStmI7dkc/s1600/Jerry+Maguire.jpg"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggR1apNoKeHTWSNw30PEI0mX8VlBUssLytSqRCoSRMov65fBOJTGVI_DAsEskuA89iJHZ_095SCCyPNX1F-o8MRT_VV3PKXmETN9yhnECdIH9Hk_jdV-Bl-iW1NEbA__szgNEzStmI7dkc/s200/Jerry+Maguire.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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I think, however, one should be a fully developed entity that finds another complimentary and completed entity in which to join in partnership. Like, two random (and whole) shapes that happen to fit ever-so-nicely with another random (and whole) shape. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kind of like this, except I'm not into threesomes. Just take one away mentally. </td></tr>
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My husband—and complimentary partner in life-- P, and I married almost a year ago. Even putting the wedding together was evidence that this union worked. P and I spent countless hours in preparation searching online, created, addressed and stamped invitations, traveled to a thousand locations around the city for supplies, prepared our own potato salad (huge mistake), and finally on June 11th, we celebrated with 150 of our favorite people. Despite our tight budget and the outrageous prices of anything labeled "wedding," we put together quite an event—even if I am totally biased.<br />
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Then, real life began. Knowing how well we worked together I wasn't afraid of spending the rest of my life with this man. However, I <i>was </i>terrified to give him my ATM PIN number. <br />
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That’s right. <br />
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I’d committed my life to one person, “to have and to hold, in sickness and in health. ” We’d even talked about our hypothetical children and what kind of parents we'd be. I'll be neurotic and he'll help with math homework. Then what we’d be like as grandparents. I already really dig Luby's, naps, and yelling at young people. He likes to be asleep before 9 PM.<br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">So why did he need access to my bank? Why was he </span><i style="background-color: white;">really </i><span style="background-color: white;">asking about the balance on my credit card?</span></div>
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The reality was I’d been (poorly) handling my own affairs for years including my finances, as I am a grown ass woman. I was making a decent living, but I still had my college loan to pay off, a car payment, and the seemingly insurmountable credit card debt. Damn you interest. Damn you! These were my deep dark secrets that I’d alluded to but didn’t really want to discuss--<i>EVER</i>. My plan was just to slowly take care of it and in about thirty years, then I could talk to him about what still remained. <br />
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So, what happens in a partnership? Well, apparently you have to share, which means specifically you have to be honest and open. <br />
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I don’t like to be honest and open about money. <br />
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I was embarrassed and ashamed. This was <i>my </i>debt—<i>my </i>life—<i>my </i>problem. I should be the one to suffer the consequences and pay off my own debts. But my new husband lovingly responded that this was not my problem—this was our current situation. I had to learn the challenging lesson of letting go of my own pride and allowing someone to help me even though it made me uncomfortable. We joined our bank accounts (yikes!) and made a very specific financial budget (whimper...) with a strategic plan for our future. And although we are still paying our bills while trying to save a little, the relief is tremendous. <br />
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Do I fear being too reliant on him, depending on him for things that I should be able to do on my own? Absolutely. Hello. I’m constantly taunting myself:<br />
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<i>What would happen to you if he wasn’t here? <br />You don’t even know when to change the oil in your car anymore! <br />Where's your self-reliance, you pansy?<br />You are a disgrace to women because it took a man to fix it.</i><br />
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But then I tell the mean bitch inside my head to shut up and enjoy relying on someone else for a change, because P is here for me now.<br />
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It’s not about giving in, or compromising core values, but rather it’s about shedding characteristics or mannerisms that don’t support the success of your partnership. In my attempt to be independent I was actually just trembling in my boots. I shouldn't live a life questioning the “what if” scenarios because that's not fully embracing life. In letting go of my ego just a tiny bit, I was able to gain so much more. </div>
TeachHerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07274190034126281924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7612880370771536920.post-79152878019401076292012-06-22T13:55:00.002-07:002012-06-22T14:46:11.070-07:00Slippery SlopeThis entry is going to annoy all those folks in regular jobs without a summer vacation. On the other hand, teachers will be nodding along with me. Either way, I hope you enjoy it.<br />
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My name is Jennifer and I'm addicted to schedules. Every summer I set lofty goals and high standards for myself like: I will <i>not </i>sleep in, I <i>will</i> run more, I <i>will </i>eat healthier food, I <i>will</i> get back in shape--whatever that really means. I really <i>will </i>start thinking about graduate school and preparing for the GRE. (The math section terrifies me.) There are others like deep cleaning, and I mean the shitty parts no one really sees but you, like the baseboards or the bottom of the crisper drawer in the fridge. Gross. Another is reading all the novels that have been recommended over the school year which I never had time to read because I was laboring over shitty essays. Then the smaller ones like organizing the closets, Goodwill donation drop-off, bla bla bla.<br />
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Every summer I begin rather well. I get up at a respectable time and fix myself a healthy breakfast with fruit, put on the ol' runnin' gear, get out there and hammer out 3-4 miles and let Piper run and swim. Come home, clean up, and have a nice lunch. Run a few errands, read a little of one of those novels, and then in the evening prepare the hubs a nice dinner with a glass of wine. I feel victorious. <i>This summer is going to be the most accomplished summer to date! </i>I think to myself smugly of how well-read, well-rested and toned I'll be for the new school year.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small; text-align: -webkit-auto;">(This woman is not actually me, but it's the future "me" upon the summer's closing.)</span></td></tr>
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So far this summer I've done this twice. <br />
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It's only the third week of summer, and I rolled out of bed at 10:30 AM today. I did not go run. Instead I ate a piece of cake. I finally showered around one and read some trashy gossip about some celebrity couple. I have no idea what's for dinner, but I ain't cooking it.<br />
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What happened? I'm not that kind of person who even makes New Year's resolutions, so why do I set myself up for such massive failures during the summer? And the slope was steep this time<span style="background-color: white;">. </span><span style="background-color: white;">Apparently when I don't have someone expecting me to do something at a certain time, I can find a startlingly amount of </span><span style="background-color: white;">unnecessary chores and activities to fill up the hours. This cannot be what housewives feel like though, since they have the job of taking care of the kids and all this entails, so I don't want to be dismissive. However, I suck at being home all day. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">I need the school schedule. I need a million warning and tardy bells, due dates for grades, 24-hour turnaround expectation for email contacts, and every other structure put in place to make sure the establishment stays running. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Without it, I'm drunk and pantless in the middle of the day eating thin mints. </span>TeachHerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07274190034126281924noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7612880370771536920.post-45202707632229223842012-06-20T16:59:00.002-07:002012-07-06T19:14:41.734-07:00I'm Not Really an Asshole; I Just Play one on TV<br />
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Bienvendios! This is my introduction by way of a disclaimer. I’m a high school teacher which means I deal
with lots and lots of shit. Not actual
feces, as I refuse to interact with those little creatures that might erupt at
any given moment with fluids coming out of orifices. I’m referring here to teenage shit, and the
shit their parents will dole out in sometimes equal proportions. Don’t forget about the shit from the
administration either. We’re up to our
eyeballs in the stuff. There’s plenty of
fodder to work with here; we’ve got entitlement issues, laziness, misguided
anger issues and just sheer stupidity. So,
prepare yourself. I will get on my huffy
bike without the proper head gear or elbow pads, and I will pedal my heart
out, basket, streamers and all. I will be pissy and unfair to some
folks out there. I may come across as,
wait for it—a bitch. </div>
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However, I’m not <i>really</i>
an asshole. Here’s what I think. Being cynical and sarcastic are results of
simply being disappointed in life many <i>many</i>
times. The important part (the one that doesn’t make me sound like an asshole)
is that in order to become this way, we must have begun the journey optimistically. We believed the world provided endless opportunities for us to
learn, grow and yes, sometimes challenge us, but that was alright, because in
the end, everything would work out. “Oh
the places I’ll go!” Dr. Suess told us. And
I’d never contradict the Doc, but the hills in the journey are a bitch. </div>
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And you should know, I am still a teacher. I won’t get all Hallmark on your ass, but
when the job is good, it’s fucking awesome.
Not in a Michelle Pfeiffer sort of way, but in a <i>Dead Poet’s Society </i>kind of way—wait, that kid died, right? Ok, the part about the kids “getting it.” And Robin Williams, the maverick teacher on campus, nods knowingly to his students
and Ethan Hawke, the quiet student who found himself, stands on his chair being so cute and panting looking back at his “captain.” Except I don’t get fired. </div>
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All teachers have these moments or we wouldn’t stay in
the profession. But one of my favorite
stories is about a student, who we’ll call Amy.
Now in ninth grade, she had never been in a pre-Advanced Placement (AP) class
so when we started working in analyzing texts and writing about it, she felt
overwhelmed since she lacked some of the skills her classmates had acquired
through the years. After class, several
times a week, she’d drop by and we’d go through her analysis. It was painful. She got her first report card. This was also painful. She came to me crying asking as to whether or
not she should stay in the course and continue banging her head against the
wall or “drop” to a less challenging course.
For a teacher, this can be a tricky conversation. I gave her a tissue, told her to <i>buck up little camper</i> and we went
through yet another assignment together.
However, in time with her tenacity, humility and grace we got her
writing level beyond her classmates. By
the end of the year she was making “A”s when her classmates were
struggling. Amy went on to graduate at
the top of her class with scholarships to four different colleges. She came to visit me on her last day of her
senior year with the line every dedicated teacher deserves to hear: “If it hadn’t
been for you, I wouldn’t be where I am today.”</div>
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This blog will not just be about teaching though. Like everyone on the planet, I have been through
painful experiences. I’ve also been
blessed to experience friendship, beauty, and love. One would expect some wisdom gleaned from
these. One would assume I know
things. The irony is that although I’m
paid to be a teacher, I’m absolutely still learning. And I usually have to learn the lesson twice
because I’m very stubborn. And I don’t
like to be wrong, which I often am. I
hope this serves as a way for us all to laugh at the wonderful, disturbing,
unfair, hilarious world in which we all live, and how I deal with it. </div>TeachHerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07274190034126281924noreply@blogger.com0