Its The End of the Blog As We Know It

Funny how this blog has overlapped so nicely with my long and arduous trek through the world of potential home ownership.  On day 7, I found out that my offer on a house had been accepted.  Today, the sellers had to respond to my post-inspection proposals by 7pm.

Somehow the first 72 hours of the wait didn't bother me too much.  I think the stress inducer was that in the seller's request for an extra 24 hours, they gave a firm deadline of 7pm.  I can handle an ambiguous "evening" response, but an exact time?  By 6:45, my heart was pounding, and I was checking my phone and email every 30 seconds.  Will they accept my conditions?  Will they deny me and force me to continue renting forever and ever?

By 8:30, it was too much, and I texted my realtor to find out when we'd know their response.  She called me back as soon as she got to a computer and shared the news.  They almost met my price reduction.  They were vague about a couple of things.  They didn't respond about another.  So my realtor emailed them back with questions, and we're waiting.  Again.

Almost as if to welcome me into the uncertainty that is home ownership, my bedroom ceiling fell in tonight.  Okay, that might be an exaggeration.  Two ceiling tiles fell, and there are two still hanging tenuously.  But it was quite a surprise to come home and find a stream of water pouring onto my dresser and onto the floor.  I called the landlady, and she called the AC guy.  He'll be out to fix it tomorrow; the AC is off until then.

More waiting.

So, on my last day of blog writing, I find myself in a comical situation.  Waiting on information on top of my covers and under the fan.  Covered in slow-drying natural tanning lotion in anticipation of Friday.  Wondering if I'll get any sleep tonight between the temperature, the likely collapse of two more ceiling tiles, and the looming housing decision I have to make in the next 72 hours.

I could use some prayers.


...
I'll be honest, I'm not exactly sure how to end this blog.  I loved writing it.  I loved the messages and emails and comments people sent me periodically (especially when a staff member referenced a blog entry in response to one of my emails: "I know, I read your post last night").  Of course, I am also super looking forward to coming home tomorrow night and having two more free hours to my name.  That's gonna be awesome.

Thanks in particular to Denise for starting this whole challenge thing.  To Becky for being a devoted reader and commenter.  To Mick and Svetlana for "liking" everything on Facebook (and thanks, Mick, for constantly reminding me how much you liked it).  To others who also commented, thank you: Virginie, Lisa, Sue, Tommy, etc.  I have appreciated the support and the motivation to continue on.

I'll try to post sometime in the future with updates, especially on the housing ordeal, but I doubt it'll come at any regular interval.  As much as I love to write, I'm pretty sure I love to get 8+ hours of sleep more.

Thanks again!

Florida (and under-the-blanket-sleeping), I'm coming for you!

The Calm Before the Storm

I actually feel like I'm on top of things at work.

Unfortunately, whenever I feel like I'm on top of things, it usually means that I've miscalculated my to-do list and will therefore soon be at school until way past normal (and/or way before normal) in order to get myself back to Only-A-Little-Behind.  This happens a lot around major grading-related milestones...progress reports and quarterlies being the two biggies.  I've always considered myself a good time manager, but in teaching, there's no such thing as good time management.  There's just bad time management and better time management.

The good news about being overwhelmed by the amount of grading, planning, and copying that needs to happen before Friday's trip to Florida is that I have something to distract me.  And distractions I need as I wait for a response from the sellers of My Maybe Possibly Future House.

I am the lady in the waiting.  Over the last few weeks, I have waited to see the house, waited for a response to my offer, waited for information from inspections, waited for information from more inspections, waited for estimates, and now I am waiting to see if the sellers will accept the price reduction and contract changes we proposed Friday.

I feel like I'm doing a pretty good job of being calm and patient about it.  Tommy, the organist at my church, keeps reminding me not to get too attached just yet.  Anything can happen.  And he's right, and knowing how I felt when the last house fell through, I really don't want to get attached and then be heartbroken.  I hadn't put a dime into that house, and I sobbed for a good twenty minutes after I got the phone call.  I'm already at least $2000 deep in this one.  Just thinking about the money I'll lose if this falls through makes me want to cry.

It reminds me a little of that story that I told about the toenail removal a couple of days ago.  I really, really thought I had my nerves under control when that doctor was jabbing my toe with the long, painful needle.  It wasn't until I turned and looked at the last minute that the anxiety (and unconsciousness) rushed over me.

I hope that doesn't happen with this house.  I hope that my patience doesn't turn into sad disappointment or overwhelming stress.  Oh how I hope it won't!  It would be great if tomorrow evening they accept my proposed changes without a second thought, and from there, I walk a smooth path to home ownership.  But the fact of the matter is, there is no guarantee.

So until I sign on the dotted line and hand over a check on Halloween, I'll just have to continue wishing and hoping and waiting.  The stress of quarterlies and sub plans will have to occupy my thoughts like sugarplum fairies at Christmas, and my trip to Florida this weekend will have to block out thoughts of anything but volleyball, tall hot guys, and my really terrible tan lines.

I look like the Tennis lady, but less tan and fit.  Who wouldn't be crazy about that?

Always Be the Shittiest House On the Block

Every Saturday, I play in a quads volleyball tournament on a grassy space not far from my house, and for the last year and a half since I started, I have been relegated to the lowest-level net almost every single week.

In the beginning, I understood.  I was a pretty terrible player.  I couldn't serve over the net most of the time.  I wouldn't spike because I didn't know how to put force behind my hit.  I would regularly shank the ball into the not-that-nearby street.  I just didn't set.  I get it, I sucked.

This week marks 11 weeks that I've been working out with a coach.  For those of you who aren't pregnant and, like me, cannot really comprehend large amounts of time given in weeks, that means that I started in mid-July, so it's been about two and a half months.  And I've noticed a drastic difference in my playing in that span of time.  My setting still needs a lot of work--I mean, everything does--but my passing and hitting has been much improved, especially in the last month or so.

Yesterday, it was "Pick Your Partner" day, and my friend and I ended up on an awesome net full of players who not only play well, but who also have a vast amount of knowledge to share.  Since most of the pairs that my partner and I played with were guys (and hard hitters), I ended up playing setter or defense for all four games.  On a lower net, I'd be kind of pissed that they stuck me there--because women can hit, dammit!--but on this net, I was well aware that I was the weakest hitter.  So I took it as an opportunity to practice playing defense and work on my passing and digging.

And I was awesome at it.

Sure, I didn't get everything--I'm still learning--but I passed with great control most of the time.  And that means something on an upper net.  Good passes are so much more valuable because you can count on a great set and hit to follow.  That's the thing about playing with people who can hit and block and move.  Who are always in the right place.  It makes your job as the defense that much more important...and that much more satisfying.

My setting wasn't the best.  But I got to practice with people who wanted me to hand set, who would call my bad hand sets without judgment of me as a player, and who gave me a ton of advice.  It was like I was being coached by nine other people for an hour and a half.

And they were awesome at it.

At the end of the tournament, my partner and I ended up in last place.  We lost three games and tied one.  But I had so much fun playing that it didn't even matter.

Our volleyball group is full of different levels of players.  Some just started, and some used to be pro.  And what I've learned is that my best option on the path to great play is to surround myself as often as I can with players who know more than me.  It's how I learned to speak French as well as I did.  It's why I chose to pay boatloads of money to go to UVA over getting a scholarship at a small school in Georgia.  As a teacher, I spend most of my day with (small) people who know less than I do about pretty much everything (except maybe Minecraft and One Direction), and while I find myself personally satisfied with the relationships I form, I also find myself intellectually stunted by the actual information I teach.  Because you never want to be the smartest kid in the class.  You never want to be nicest house on the block.

Volleyball has given me an opportunity to learn and grow in a way that my job can't, and I love it.  I love getting better at things.  I love sucking at something and then becoming great at it.  For me, it's a rush, like falling in love or cliff-diving.  I love the fact, too, that volleyball gives my height and arm span a place and purpose.  Being tall means being out of place most of time, being a "giant" among men, but in volleyball, it's a huge advantage.  It's a gift.

I know that I can't always be the learner.  Sometimes, like the people I played with yesterday, I'll have to take a step back and share my knowledge.  But for now, I'm just going to revel in the opportunity to grow.

I'll Pass

As promised, I watched another movie last night, placing the DVD for Thin Ice into my blu-ray player and taking a spot on the couch immediately after finishing yesterday's blog post.  The movie was supposed to be "wicked entertaining," and I was looking forward to being entertained.

Thirty minutes in, they kill someone by hitting him repeatedly in the head with a hammer and then chop him up into pieces before shoving him down an ice fishing hole in a frozen lake.  I had to stop.

It made me sick to my stomach.  The resulting anxiety raised my blood pressure astronomically.  It made me grapple with whether or not I wanted this normally awful human being to get away with something even more terrible, just because he wasn't as bad as the other guy.  Well, the latter might actually be an edifying internal conversation, but it was a Friday night.  I just wanted something entertaining, as promised, not to weigh moral quandaries as I bit my fingernails.

My reaction to the murder scene is not surprising to me.  I had the exact same experience a few years ago when my older brother suggested that I watch the television show Dexter.  For those that don't know, it's about a serial killer that kills serial killers.  I never made it past the first episode.  I couldn't overcome the gruesome bodily harm happening to the people in the show, not even if they were the most terrible, horrible people that ever existed.

One time in college, my boyfriend and I went to the downtown mall in Charlottesville to watch The Last King of Scotland there in their small theater.  The end of the movie is pretty gory, and I think my boyfriend may have lost feeling in his hand from the vice grip I had on him.

Even the Hunger Games movie made me nauseous.


I just don't like violence.


Part of it, too, is that I have no stomach for seeing internal body parts/fluids.  Last year, I watched one of those doctor shows on Netflix.  In this one, most of the characters in the show were surgeons.  I liked it, except that every time the surgeons cut into a body and blood appeared, I had to turn away.

Blood in real life is no different.  Worse, perhaps.  Earlier this year, I got a toenail removed.  The doctor showed me a long needle (yikes), and reminded me that it would sting.  Trying to be a mature adult, I turned my head while he injected the anesthetic and took deep breaths.  I reminded myself that it was a routine procedure, no big deal.  But as soon as I they finished, and I turned back to look at the constellation of red on my toe where the doctor had repeatedly stuck said needle, I started feeling dizzy and nauseous and just really bad.  Seconds (minutes?) later, I woke up disoriented and pale with doctors swarming around me.  "I don't think you should consider medicine as a career choice," a nurse joked.  I don't think I'm ever getting a toenail removed again, if i don't have to, I thought.

So, after the ice fishing hole scene in Thin Ice, I'd seen enough to know I wasn't going to like this movie any better by finishing it.  I pressed "stop."  I told the blu-ray to "eject."  I connected my TV to Netflix and watched a sitcom about a guy in his twenties who unexpectedly ends up with a baby on his doorstep (because we don't have enough movie/tv shows with that storyline).  The acting's pretty terrible.  The characters are ridiculous and the opposite of nuanced.  And it was exactly what I was looking for on a Friday night.  I may have lost some brain cells, but at least I kept my dinner down.

What Do Harry Potter and Hallmark Have in Common?

Yesterday, I finally watched a movie.  I said "screw you" to the world, to my obligations, and to sleep (in other words, "screw you" to myself), and I sat in front of a Hallmark Channel movie called 12 Men of Christmas for an hour and a half.

I'm pretty sure I've written about this before, though maybe not on this blog, but I love the Hallmark Channel.  In fact, if I could only pick two channels to watch all day long, they would be the Hallmark Channel and ESPN.  Now that I no longer have cable, I've been going through withdrawal from both.  Because somehow I am both an incredibly stereotypical and also incredibly atypical female.  I believe in high school I learned that this was called an oxymoron.  Or was it a paradox?  Whichever it is, I am the poster girl for an SAT word with at least one r and x in it.

I am well aware that these are terrible movies.  They are horribly predictable.  Give me anything from the Hallmark Channel, and I can tell you the romantic storyline within five minutes of watching.  Better yet, I don't need to watch it at all.  Girl and boy don't get along.  Something happens.  Girl and boy can't resist each other anymore.  This one was no different.  I'm almost positive that it was supposed to be a spin-off of Pride and Prejudice.  There's even a part where he shows up randomly to announce that he's in love with her and that it sickens him, and there's also a skeevy guy that she almost falls for who ran off with his best friend.  Then things work out and they live happily ever after.  Like Bridget Jones' Diary, but with significantly worse acting and visual effects.

I really hope you weren't planning on watching this movie.  So many spoilers.

When it comes to poorly-written and -produced romantic movies--girls, back me up--we don't watch because we want to be surprised.  We watch because falling in love is already a shaky, uncertain, and sometimes elusive path in real life, and when we watch a movie, we want to know from the opening shot that the woman will end up happy.  Yes, this probably ruins real love for us and makes us idealize relationships too much, but it's a nice departure from reality.  Maybe I shouldn't speak for the rest of womankind.  I like the predictable storyline.  I need to escape from reality sometimes.

Beyond the comforting repetition of a common plot line, I also like the view.  Romantic movies are always full of unrealistically attractive men.  Take last night's movie, for example.  The main character moves to a small town in Montana that has less than 20,000 residents, and almost every man she meets looks like a model.  There was a scene with the Search and Rescue Squad with more attractive single men in it than I've seen in real life in the last month.  Even the guy who was supposed to be geeky and plain was more attractive than most real men.  In the same vein, all the other women were pretty plain.  My roommate and I both agreed that we might have to consider moving to Montana.

Tonight, I'm watching another movie.  Something called "Thin Ice." It's got a few Academy Award winners, and was shown at Sundance.  It'll probably be good.  But romantic movies are like drugs and Pringles.  Once you start, you just can't stop.

Turns out it's a Lifetime Channel movie.  Same diff.

When It Rains, It Pours

1. My inspection period ends tomorrow.  That means that I have 24 hours to gather all remaining information and make a carefully crafted and financially-considerate choice about what conditions to add to the terms of the contract.  In other words, I have to negotiate with no real knowledge of how to do so in a real estate context (or any?).  This is like when I studied abroad in Morocco and was regularly gouged in the markets.  I'm just not good at it.

2. Quarterlies are next week.  That means that I need to finish writing the quarterlies, create an answer sheet, copy them (for a total of more than 1500 pages), AND finish grading all the other stuff that I haven't graded yet from the quarter (200 or so projects).  All of this on top of regular teaching duties.  Sometimes I wish some random distant relative would leave me all of their money so I could teach for the fun of it, without all the lame parts.  Of course, with my luck, that relative would have like seven dollars in the bank.

3. My internet has been acting up at school.  I would have finished the quarterlies this afternoon, except that the internet went out sometime between 2:00 and 4:30pm.  FOR THE SECOND DAY IN A ROW.  Are you thinking I should try an ethernet cord?  Well, I've had one plugged in for the last six years.  Apparently the ethernet ports in my room don't work.  So my students and I are at the mercy of the ever-variable wireless networks in the school. Awesome.

4. This blog isn't over yet.  I have loved writing these posts, but they take hours to compose.  And I just really, really want to spend one evening--just one evening--splayed out on the couch and watching a movie.  With that in mind, I borrowed two from the library last weekend and made a mental commitment to watch one before Saturday.  There has not been a single open, two-hour period in my week.

5.  I just got a new provider and a new phone.  This may seem like a super exciting thing, and learning Android is pretty fun, but what it mostly means is that I spent 2-3 hours yesterday trying to figure out how it works and how to transfer all of the information from my old iPhone.  I'm still working on that.

6. I just remembered that I still need to register for an online account for my new cell plan.  #onemorething

7. I'm going out of town next weekend for a volleyball tournament in Florida.  This is simultaneously AMAZING and worry-inducing, considering my experience there in April and the fact that it falls on the last two days of the quarter, respectively.  But the end of the quarter is just going to have to suck it because NOTHING is going to get in the way of my having a good time on this trip.  With all that's been going on lately, I feel like I deserve it.

Of course, it better not rain.

Lazy River?  Yes, please.

The Student No One Wanted

This is not the story of a group of unwanted children that magically transformed under my tutelage and became thoughtful and independent citizens of the world.  It is not that story because that story is fiction at its finest.  However, this is a virtual nod to a group of children who almost made me cry in the classroom once and did made me question teaching as a profession.

Today was extended planning.  For those of you who don't teach at my school, that means that the administration pulls you out to work on important things that make your day incredibly exhausting.  Exhausting mostly because the one rejuvenating thing about teaching is working with kids.  During extending planning, there are no kids.  And adults' reactions to my jokes are significantly less satisfying.

Setting: Yesterday afternoon in the classroom
Me: This picture shows Stapholococcus.  Anybody ever heard of a Staph infection?
Student 1: Oh!  My mom had that in her elbow once!
Me: Right. This guy (points to staph picture) is a bacteria.  He's not a fun guy.
(pause)
[Students 1-10 groan.]
[Students 10-15 laugh.]
Students 15-20: Wait, what's the joke?  I don't get it.
Student 10: Fun-gi?
[Students 20-26 ignore me completely.]

This afternoon, a colleague and I worked on updating our fifth grade science quarterly, and when 3:30 came around, I made my way upstairs to get more work done.  By this point, I was mentally exhausted.  I'd hit a wall.  But I knew that cell quizzes needed to be graded and sent home tomorrow, and that I should really send home quarterly study guides at the same time.  Once I got upstairs, I just didn't have the energy.  I desperately needed a pick-me-up.  I was trying to do something productive, though, when two teenage boys walked into my room.

At first, I was confused.  Were they looking for another class to help with tutoring?  Then I realized that one of them was my in my homeroom four years ago.  The year that almost did me in.

It was a class of misfits.  They'd given me trouble in fourth grade, but I'd hoped that they would mature over the summer and turn out to be the best fifth grade class ever (because when you're a new teacher and don't know how to deal with significant behavioral problems, wishful thinking and avoidance are your defaults).  Well, they didn't, and that year was one of power struggles, bad attitudes, and frequent conversations with the social worker and disciplinarian.

I had a kid who was constantly angry or disrespectful.  A kid whose ADD fueled a series of poor decisions (oh wait, there was more than one of those).  Kids who couldn't stop talking.  Kids who refused to work seriously.  And the cherry on top: a student whose mother was dying of liver disease, who had emotional issues, and who got suspended for cursing out his reading teacher by email that spring...one of a host of detentions and suspensions, if I remember correctly.

This trainwreck of a kid was one of the two teenage boys that came through my door this afternoon.  He hasn't come to see me much, but every time he does, it reminds me of how much of an impact a teacher's support can have on a kid.  Our relationship was never perfect--he certainly acted up in my class his fair share of times--but somehow, I ended up being the only teacher in the lower school that he ever really trusted or worked for.  In sixth grade, he came back to visit, and the social worker pulled me off my after school duty to walk around campus with him and talk.  Every year or so, he comes to visit me after school, and I hear about all of the mess that he's got himself into.  I don't know why he tells me these things but I guess it's because I listen.  I wouldn't say that I listen without judgment.  In fact, I fussed at him today for a few things he told me.  But I guess he shares because he knows that no matter what he tells me, I'll still like him.  I'll still smile when he walks through my door.  I'll still abandon whatever I'm doing to sit down with him for half an hour and catch up.

I recognize that this story reflects well on me.  I know that there's a good chance that the thirty minutes he sat with me today are the first time in a while that a teacher had a pleasant conversation with him, and I bet that validated him in a way that he really needed.  I'm proud that I could be there for him.  But most of all, I really needed that conversation today.  I was tired and overwhelmed, and he sat and talked to me for thirty minutes.  Thirty minutes that he could have been getting into trouble, watching TV, or texting his friends.  Thirty minutes that I would have otherwise spent lamenting the grades on the most recent cell quiz and wondering where I'd failed my students.

The cell quizzes never did get graded.  I'll probably have to go into work half an hour early to get them done in time.  But as much as I hate getting up early, it'll be worth it, knowing that I ended my day well today.

I Don't Wanna Grow Up, But Being a Kid Sucks Sometimes

All of these adult stresses I'm running into recently--housing, work, etc.--are wearing on me.  Yesterday, I responded to a text from my realtor with a "Yay!" because she told me that the house I may be buying doesn't have contaminated Chinese drywall.  Then we were thrilled because the estimate on the foundation work was high, so we might be able to get a significant price reduction.  That's like getting excited because an 18-wheeler swerved at the last minute and you avoided a slow and painful death.  THESE ARE NOT LEGITIMATE THINGS TO BE EXCITED ABOUT.

Relieved, yes.  Excited, no.

It seems like adulthood does that to you; it makes you smile when things are not as bad as you thought they would be.  Maybe that's an admirable trait.  Maybe it's maturity.  But what happened to the days when breaking a bone meant you got a "cool" cast?  When no cavities meant permission to eat more candy?  When extreme weather meant no school?  (Okay, that hasn't changed.)

Nostalgia makes me long to leave behind the contracts and the inspections and the mortgage and the insurance and the parent conferences and the dishes and the bills and all the adult stuff, and just be a kid again.

Then I find a note like this in the recycling, and I remember just why I was so eager to grow up when I seemingly had it so easy...

"Dear C,  Please come back to the old table.  I promise I won't bother you,
but I still will ask you questions that I need to know.  They won't be dum.  Sincerely, J" [sic]

The truth is, being a kid is really hard.  Harder than we adults give them credit for.  They don't have much experience under their belts to give them perspective in tough situations.  They don't have a whole lot of freedom or choice.  They don't really know themselves very well yet.

When I was in college, my family went on a driving trip through the West.  We flew into Denver, rented a car, and then drove through Nebraska and the Dakotas.  And what I remember most vividly about that trip is standing by myself on a small hill in the Badlands as the sun was setting, watching my parents and younger siblings walk away towards a museum that my mom wanted to visit.  It struck me at that moment how wonderful adulthood was.  How great it was to be able to make decisions on my own.  To be able to bypass a museum simply because I didn't feel like going, and to instead take in the dusty air of the Badlands at dusk.  Most likely, adulthood was finally satiating my need for control, but we'll just say it was me getting some peace because I needed it.

I'll be 29 in a couple of months, and I feel like I've gotten to a pretty good place in terms of self-confidence and self-awareness.  Sure, I have no doubt that when I'm 80, I'll probably look back and realize how little I know now, but at this moment, I feel like I'm finally settling into being me.  With that in mind, it's hard for me to think back on being a kid sometimes, knowing how just how anxious I was about everything.  Life was constantly overwhelming, and all I had to worry about was getting good grades and practicing the piano a couple of times a week.  In middle school, I made myself a keychain that said "Just Breathe" as a reminder (my mom's go-to advice), probably on one of the "mental health days" my mom let me take from school so that I wouldn't have a nervous breakdown.

I don't long for those days at all.  Life's not perfect now, but it beats the soul-wrenching worry of childhood.

And so, I think I'll stick to being an adult.  Beyond the freedoms it ascribes, I also get to write a pretty cool blog that people read and stop me to talk about.  In fact, this cool blog just passed 1,000 hits yesterday.  Now that's something to be excited about.

PAH-REE

A friend of mine stopped me the other day while we were talking to tell me that she and her boyfriend were planning on going to Paris in the spring.  "I know you've been there a few times, so I thought you might have some good suggestions about must-see places and must-do activities while we're there."

I do have some ideas, and I'm excited to share them with her.  Here are just six from my list (in no particular order):

1. Musee d'Orsay
     ...The only museum I can spend hours in and not feel as though I've been carrying a sack of rice on my shoulders while simultaneously being tortured (I'm not a big fan of museums).  Here, you'll find beautiful artwork in all different mediums, housed in a building that's a work of art itself.

2. Versailles
     ...Mostly because every time I go there, I just really wish I could rent it out for a day for the most amazing, epic, historically-themed party that ever was.  Oh yes, and we will eat cake.

3. Any Bakery
     ...I get at least one "pain au chocolat" (chocolate-filled croissant) a day when I'm in France.  In other words, I gain a lot of weight when I'm in France.

4. Anywhere that Sells Cheese and/or Wine and/or Crepes and/or Quiche and/or Any Other Kind of Delicious French Food/Drink
    ...Because eating and drinking are my two favorite things to do in Paris, especially if I can do them both at the same time.

5. Sacre Coeur
    ...I like the church itself, and the view of the city is pretty awesome, but climbing up and down the stairs is a great pound-shedding exercise.  Do it a few times to work off #3 and #4.

6. People Watching
   ...As in all cities, big and small, my favorite thing to do is people-watch.  People are so fascinating, and French people are so well dressed.

But as great as these as these suggestions may or may not be, I also know that I've got plenty of friends who know the city a lot better than I do.

So, readers!  Please think back on your time in Paris and share with me: what are your top-five or top-ten Things to Do in the City of Light?

The Little Things

It's funny how the prospect of moving on provokes you to start counting off the things you won't miss where you're currently at.  This happened when I moved off to college eleven years ago and when I considered moving to a different school a few years back, and it's happening now that I may or may not be buying a house.

I'll be glad not to occasionally get locked out of the house simply because the lock decides not to work.  I'll be glad not to have to mow the lawn anymore, or to endure neighbors' sharp glares when I don't mow it.  I'll be glad that my toilet doesn't ring when I flush it.  I'll be glad that my kitchen cabinets won't come off the hinges.  I'll be glad that my A/C doesn't make knocking sounds in the middle of the night.  I'll be glad not to be eaten by a thousand mosquitoes every time I walk out my back door.  In fact, I'll be glad that I won't have to walk out my back door as much because my washer and dryer will be inside of the house.

Of course, there will be plenty of new things that I don't even know about yet.  New houses (especially the ones that are actually really old) come with a host of quirks that one discovers over time.  "Quirks" may be understating it.  Hopefully "hugely inconvenient and expensive repairs" is overstating it.

As I start this slow parting of ways, my heart is a little torn.  Despite all these things I won't miss, there are plenty of things I will.  Most of all, I will miss the fact that every night when I pull into the driveway, walk up the stairs, enter the screen porch, and open the door, that I am home.  I have lived here in this house for the last three and a half years, and it has been more like home than any other place I've lived since I was seventeen.  I have had awesome years and tough years while living here, and it has always been my place of refuge, where I come back to when I need some quiet time.  I will miss that, but I know that having my own house--owning my own house--gives me the opportunity to create home somewhere new.  And to stay.

I have to remember, though, that just like when I considered switching jobs, that sometimes, a planned move doesn't pan out.  Sometimes you realize that where you're at is most likely better than where you considered going.  I have more than 30 days until closing on this house, a chinese drywall inspection to hope turns up negative, and a lot of negotiation to do in the next week.  By Friday, I should know whether or not this house is a go.  It won't be definite until I hand over that check on Halloween, but at least I'll know enough to start saying goodbye to this wonderful house, to my home.

Home at the "Jolly Wilson"
(Yep, we named our house)

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

Parent: He fights me hard about studying.

Me: That seems to be a common problem in this class.

Yesterday was conferences, and for the first time since I've been at my school, every single parent in my homeroom wanted a conference.  Usually, I give them the option to just swing by and pick up their child's report, and normally at least five parents take that option.  I love that option; it's 50 less minutes of conferences and 50 less minutes of trying to either fill time or cut people off before the next conference begins.

Writing progress reports and sitting down for conferences is always a game of Do I or Don't I.  It's like those Choose Your Own Adventure books we used to read in the nineties.  Do I write that the kid does obnoxious things and cross my fingers that I don't get a wrathful email the next day?  Or do I just handle it in my own class, in my own way?  Knowing the parents helps this decision.  Not knowing them means writing about concerns becomes a game of Russian Roulette.  How much will I regret this afterwards?

I didn't have any emails as of leaving work yesterday, but just in case, I've committed myself to not checking my email over the weekend.  After the week I had, the last thing I need is to spend 45 minutes carefully crafting a respectful response to a rude and accusatory parent email.  Because those happen all the time.  Last year, I got this one-liner gem:

You realize you sent this email the morning if the quiz, right? [sic]

No, woman, I didn't realize that because I actually sent it three days ago, trying to be helpful and remind you despite the fact that I've already reminded your kid three times in class and it's in his agenda and it's on my website and he has a study guide in his binder.  Also, if you're going to be rude, can you at least spell of right?  Thanks.

It turns out that the school-related server I used tends to delay messages for an unpredictable period of time. Once, I sent out a message, and unbeknownst to me, it didn't actually go out until a couple of months later.  Thanks, no thanks, Powerschool.

At our school, parent rudeness and accusations are part of the game.  Yesterday, I had two parents talk to me about another teacher at the school who was "mean to their kid" or "picking on their kid."  One told me about it, and left it at that.  One asked me what I thought she should do, but didn't like my answer too much.  I think she wanted me to rail on the teacher instead or go talk to him/her. (No way, this isn't Survivor.  These are my friends and colleagues.)

Parent 1: (tells me the story of her kid being "picked on")  He isn't the only one doing these things, but he's the only one getting punished.

Me: Well, he seems like an honest kid, but you only have one side of the story.  Sometimes a kid's perspective of things is not the same as reality.

Parent 1: No, I can tell that he's telling the truth.

Me: I'm not invalidating what you're saying.  If I were you, I'd email the teacher, saying "I'm concerned about his behavior in your class, and I'd love to meet with you to find out what's going on."  Don't accuse, just find out what's going on.

Parent 2: She said that that's not the way her teacher did it last year, and then the teacher called her up to the board and said [in a sarcastic/biting tone] show me how your teacher did it last year.

Me: Well, your daughter is a pretty sensitive kid, and she doesn't like being wrong in front of others.  Regardless of what was said, or in what tone of voice, she gets upset pretty easily when she's not right.  That happens when things come easily; the fall is harder.  Trust me, I know.  It might be good for her to deal with conflict like this now.

If you've ever seen the 1960s to Now school meme (below), I am here to tell you that it is absolutely, unequivocally on point.  I was only in fifth grade eighteen years ago, but had I come home and told my parents that my friends and I were goofing off in class, regardless of who got punished, they would've asked why I was goofing off in the first place.  Had I come home and said that the teacher was mean to me, they'd essentially tell me to buck up.  I'm sure they would've stepped in if something really serious was happening, but me getting fussed at would never have resulted in a nasty email.

And that's the thing.  Parents and teachers didn't communicate via email then.  Email with teachers is still a relatively new thing, and many people (teachers and parents alike) haven't yet learned how to communicate in a respectful manner.  They are emboldened by the lack of a human face or voice on the other end, and they say things they'd never say, or in a way they'd never say, if they were on the phone or sitting at a table.  Our social skills desperately need to catch up with our technological ones.

It's not just technology, though.  Recently, I found out that years ago, the administration had told one of my fellow teachers that I was "cold" and "dry" and that I "didn't make enough eye contact." (What?  I mean, I'm not the most effusive person ever, but what?)  They wanted this teacher to talk to me about it.  He didn't, because it wasn't his place and it would've likely hurt our relationship as peers.  Let me repeat that again, years ago the administration was unhappy with me, but I heard about it yesterday.  From my peer.  All I've ever gotten from them directly is compliments and accolades.  I mean, I was just in the principal's office just a month ago, hearing about how well I was doing.

At least in this country, we seem to be becoming more and more afraid of conflict face-to-face and less and less afraid of virtual conflict.  We say nasty things in an email, and then we smile at the person in the hallway.  We tell everyone how unhappy we are with someone, except for the person we're actually unhappy with.

I am not exempt from this.  I find that I'm fairly willing to face conflict in person, and I am very cognizant of the way I approach disagreements in writing, but I have once or twice gotten into it via email with parents.  And I have avoided being honest with a person to bypass the resulting firestorm.

Speaking honestly can be hard, but in a work environment, there's an added financial risk.  I'm happy to face a peer and talk through a conflict, but disagreeing with your boss is a totally different thing.  Speaking out always requires a prior self-reflection, How likely is this going to get me fired?  How much do I need this job?

It shouldn't be that way.  A workplace should be an open community, where people feel free to speak honestly, so long as they do so respectfully.  We teachers can't necessarily change how the administration operates, though, so we're forced to think smaller.  We have to change how we interact with each other, with parents, and with our students.  We have to model good communication in our every day encounters.

It's like Gandhi said, "Be the change you want to see in those horrid people who keep sending you mean emails."

Just makes me glad I'm not in IT or customer service.

Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

Change is hard, and uncertainty is a bitter pill to swallow.  Also, a rolling stone gathers no moss.  That only barely relates to this, but I feel like I might as well throw it in since I'm clicheing the hell out of this post.

Tomorrow is September 20th, which is a big day for me.  Specifically, it is the day that my contract with Sprint expires, and I am free to find greener, faster pastures with better reception and lower monthly costs.  That is, I'm free to switch to Verizon, which seems to be the only verdant pasture in this city.  To say that New Orleans is an island is not always a literal statement.

Admittedly, I'm nervous.  I've had Sprint as long as I've had a cell phone.  My dad worked (and works) with the company, so it was a no-brainer for them.  When my parents kicked me off their plan after college, and I delved into the world of online cell-related research, Sprint seemed to be my best option, despite its high cost.  I renewed with hesitation at first, but with each successive contract expiration, I thought about it less and less.  I hopped right back on that mule of a service provider, as though it were a purebred stallion.

Sprint is not all bad.  In fact, when I was in Virginia, I had absolutely no problems with them.  Good reception, good data, good service.  Of course, data speeds weren't really a thing at the time...and I wasn't particularly worried about the cost; I was a college student mooching off my parents, after all.

What's that, dad?  I went over the text message limit this month?  Oops.

It has taken a lot to get me to a point where I'm willing to end my cellationship with Sprint.  We had a lot of good times together, and we've tried to make it work.  We've got history, you know?  With Sprint, I know I can amass ridiculous fees, call up customer service, and pull the "I've been a customer for more than a decade!" line to make things go away.  But even that safety net can't make me renew again.  I can't keep up this charade any longer.  I can't continue, knowing that I'm completely unable to send or receive text messages, call, or do anything even remotely helpful with my phone anytime there are two or more people nearby.  I can get Jesus, but I can't get cell reception.

For some people, reception in a crowd probably isn't much of a factor.  But this is New Orleans.  We pass our lives, moving from crowd to crowd.  Have you ever tried to find someone during Mardi Gras without cell reception?  I have.  It's terrible.  A few years ago, I was sandwiched between a huge police horse and a large drunk man, alternating between waving my phone in the air and yelling at it: Worthless piece of crap! I just want to know where my ride went!  I will never get back home if you won't send this text message!  Please!  Please just let me send these thirteen characters (sob), please.  Anger turns to begging, begging turns to tears.  I would've been embarrassed, but it was Mardi Gras.  Crying and shouting are not uncommon in this great city at carnival time.

So, it's time to make a change.  As with all changes, there's no guarantee that my service will be better.  Mardi Gras will probably still kill my phone.  The Superdome will probably continue to act as a giant, wave-blocking shield.  Living within a mile of Jazz Fest will probably still be too close to avoid a tower overload.  But who knows?  Maybe next time I'm stuck between a drunk and a horse, I'll be able to save my shouting for the Mister on the float and my tears for the impending toe-stomp.

Now I just have to figure out what phone to get.

Can you hear me now?

Sometimes You Just Need to Laugh-Cry

Yesterday, I came home pretty low.  Between the stress of preparing for conferences and the emotional beat-down that was the house inspection (and its associated question of do I proceed?), I just didn't really have anything left in me.  I didn't want to write a blog post.  I didn't want to cook myself food or make a sandwich.  For the first hour I was home, I didn't get any farther than the couch, which is less than ten feet inside the door.  I didn't even have the energy to use the bathroom.

This is it, I thought.  This is the day that my up-till-now consistent and at least partially coherent blog falls apart.  Maybe if I just explain why, my readers will understand.  Surely they'll grant me a raincheck.  I could just make it up this weekend.

So I started to write an explanation of why I was too tired to write a full blog post...and ended up writing a full blog post.

Somewhere between the first and last words I typed, I found some peace in the proceedings of my day.  A lightness of heart, if you will.  Somewhere in that hour and a half of type-type-backspace-type, I eased my own sorrows a little.  Of course, searching through dozens of Stephen Colbert GIFs will do that to a person.

When my piece was complete and published to the world at large, I realized that it was only 8 o'clock.  Too early to go to sleep, I thought.  And since I just didn't feel like taking a shower, I logged into Hulu with the thought that I would just watch a little mindless TV before I went to sleep early.  No shows caught my attention, so I returned to my mainstay, my one and only, Jimmy Fallon.

One Fallon clip turned into two Fallon clips turned into watching a twenty minute episode of Silent Library with Jimmy and The Roots.  If you haven't seen this yet, it's a must.  But save it for a bad day.  You know, one of those no good, downright bad days when you feel like crying or quitting your job or punching pillows.  Keep in mind, there is almost no talking in the whole video.  It's just six guys laughing hysterically at each other while trying to stay quiet in a fake library.  I promise you, you won't regret watching it.

Yesterday, comedy saved my spirit from an evening of worried and distracted quiet, just as I knew it would when I opened that first clip.  Comedy is how I got through high school.  Every night at ten, peanut butter jar in hand (because my brother read that it improves your mood and suggested it as a way to fend off my constant anticipation of world-ending overload), I would sit down in front of the television and watch an hour-long episode of Whose Line Is It Anyway?  Sometimes my family would watch it with me, but for me, it was a daily ritual.  A rain dance, if you will, to end the drought of joy that was a typical day in the life of high school me.

When I got to college, I didn't really need comedy in the immediate way I did in high school, so I forgot about it for a while.  I probably could have used it throughout my five years in Virginia, as well as during my first years of teaching, but I didn't really seek it out again until my third year back in the city.  A friend of mine told me about this improv group called Stupid Time Machine.  I blew it off for a little while until I saw them at a bar in the hipster part of town one Saturday night, and I was hooked.  It became a weekly thing: a big cup of froyo and a second-row seat in a small t-shirt print shop in uptown New Orleans.

Not long after, one of the guys in the group convinced me to buy a pass to take an improv class.  He touted various benefits of the purchase, but the one I just couldn't wrap my head around was the idea of getting onto that stage and making things up as I go.  I'm just not a performer, I told him.

Well, in the spring, for reasons I still won't admit publicly (read: a guy), I signed up for a Level One class with The New Movement, a budding comedy theater here in New Orleans.  And it turns out, once I set my fear of embarrassment aside, I wasn't half bad at the whole making-people-laugh thing.  The class ended with an ensemble performance, and we killed it.  I went from body-shaking nervous to top-of-the-world.  What is this rush? I wondered.  I was happy.  I felt good.  I wanted to do it again.

I only ever made it through Level 2.  As much as I loved being on stage and as much as I loved this newly discovered side of myself, I knew that being a powerful comedian required time and commitment, two things I didn't (and don't) really have available at my disposal.  Successful comedians are devoted to their craft.  They put in their time.  They practice most every day.  And these days, I'll be lucky if I'm free every other Monday.

Recently, the comedy theatre put together a Kickstarter to fund their move into a larger building.  Forking up some cash to help a theatre that made me more confident in my own skin seemed like a small way to say thanks, so I chose to give just enough to earn me a free improv class.  Because, while it might be a while before I get the chance to use it, I know that the only thing better than laugh-crying in the audience is seeing tears roll down a laughing person's face...and knowing you caused them.

I Am Tired And House Buying is Mean

Student: (pointing to my ID badge) How old were you when that picture was taken?
Me: I don't know.
Student: How many years ago?
Me: I don't know...a few years ago, maybe.  (pause) Why?
Student: You look younger.
Me: I was younger.
(Student smiles)

Today was inspections day.  I left school immediately after dismissal to rush back to the house I might buy, where I then dawdled around for half an hour until the inspector finished up and unloaded the bad news.  The house needs a lot of work, and not the cheap kind.  Oh, and if you're worried about money, don't forget that this bad news will cost you five hundred dollars.  The inspector left.  The seller's realtors left.  My mom left.  My realtor opened her passenger door for me, and we sat in the air-conditioned refuge of the car, working through everything we'd learned.  Over and over, I puzzled: is it worth it?

The answer still eludes me.  I've got a lot more information-seeking to do before I make a decision, and a little soul-searching is in the cards, too.  House buying seems to be as much a mental health decision as it is a financial choice.  If being a home-owner feels the way I do right now (which is exhausted beyond belief), do I really want to buy a house at all?  I'll have gray hairs by December.  Kids will look at my ID badge, and instead of insinuating that I look older, they'll ask who that woman is in the picture.

Is that your daughter?

And so, I currently sit on my couch in the home I have happily rented for the last three and a half years, staring out through the beautiful glass front door and wondering whether it wouldn't be better to just live here all my life.  It would be easier, at least in the short term, and it would be cheaper, too.  For now, anyway.

On the bright side, I had two great things happen to me today.  First, a kid called my binding of their cell project books--and I quote--"swag." (Who's boring now, suckaaaaa??)  Second, my real estate agent told me I looked tan.

Looks like we're even, universe.

My Girls

The placard for our fake sorority: a tribute to our eternal friendship and the faith that brought us together.

I met a lot of people in college that I still keep in touch with, but there are a core few that continue to be some of my closest friends.  I met all of them through the Catholic group on campus, and within the first year of knowing each other, we were practically inseparable.  These women are brilliant, unbashedly passionate, and driven.  We are similar and different in ways that never cease to surprise me.  Thinking of us together reminds me of that book my mom read to me all the time as a kid, The Berenstain Bears and the Spooky Old Tree.

Five young women.
One writing for homeland security.
One in relief work in the middle east.
One teaching English to five year olds.
One studying medieval texts.
One writing this very post you read.

A winding life full of surprises.
Do they dare embark upon that winding life full of surprises?

What is probably most surprising about this winding life is how well we've kept in touch and how many times we've seen each other over the last six or seven years since graduation.  Only two of the women live in the same city (now in the same apartment).  Two of us live in other U.S. states, at least a day's drive from the first two.  One lives in Israel.  Sometimes we go months without talking, but that never stops us from constantly wondering how the others are doing.

This summer, I drove up and down the East Coast, and each time I stopped to see one of them, we talked from the moment we woke up to the moment we forced ourselves to get some sleep.  We talked endlessly, wherever we were: on the screen porch, by the river, over meals, in the car, at parties, laying in bed, on the beach, under July 4th fireworks...

The thing about friendships like this is that they never get old.  When we're together, we laugh harder than we have in months.  We share things we can't share with anyone else.  We wonder what we'll be like in ten years.  We wish for more time together.

Recently, I sent out an email to these four girls to tell them about my potential house purchase and this blog, and the reply-all turned into a litany of life updates: housing, work, family, men (or lack thereof)...you name it.  It was as though we were back in college, crammed onto the rose-patterned couch someone's neighbor let us have, chatting about anything and everything.  The difference between then and now is us.  We're different now.  We're happier.  We're more fulfilled.  We're more self-aware.  We're more confident.  Our emails are not littered with unspoken insecurities the way they were when we first graduated and moved away.  Instead, they're full of hope and promise, even in the face of tough times:

"As for my personal life, it's a bit of a zoo... [But there are] beautiful moments every day."

So much in my life is different than the expectations I had as a nineteen year old.  I even feel differently than I thought I would.  But these women, they are my rock.  My constant.  My joyful reminder of where I came from and where I want to go.  I hope that my children are blessed with friends like this some day.  But in the meantime, I'll keep embarking on this winding life. Alongside four strong women.  My girls.  From the beginning to the end.

When we're together, we huddle near a computer and watch youtube videos for hours.
When we're not, we send each other youtube videos and huddle together in spirit.
http://www.jibjab.com/view/kc8Gha7wz8OiMqZRv8gq

I Am Bored And Ms Olinde Is Mean

Well, it turns out that today might not have been my best day of teaching.  I've got to say, I'm a little bit surprised by this fact.  It felt like an okay day, school-wise.  My fourth graders got to examine spores and see a celery stalk's water transport system.  Some even got to play my newly invented game, "Plant Survivor: Photosynthesis Edition"...Where 7 Chosen Cards Determine Your Final Fate.  The right ingredients to photosynthesize or not to photosynthesize?  That is the question.

In fifth grade, my students got to work on the children's book about cells they're writing for their kindergarten buddies, and we did a Close Reading on the carpet about viruses.

That's where I made the mistake.

Close Readings always take a chunk of time, usually somewhere between 20 and 30 minutes.  I've found that trying to do it as a whole class is disastrous, so we've taken to breaking up into groups and rotating through different activities.  Less than 9 kids in a group seems to be the sweet spot.  Enough to have a functional conversation that allows them to break down the text together.  Not so many people that someone is getting away with silence or spending their time drawing tornadoes on their paper.

Today, the tornadoes happened.  I was trying to get through the reading activity in two shifts to save time (12 kids each), and it just didn't work as well as it usually does.  The text was a little harder, too, and with an increased group size, my reading level range was just too wide.  My lower readers got frustrated by the pace.  My higher readers got frustrated by the pace.  I had people playing with pencils, doodling, talking, staring at the floor...  But I didn't realize the extent until a student brought me one of the clipboards we'd been using, where someone had written, "I am bored and Ms Olinde is mean."

Kind of stings, I'm not going to lie.

I don't do well with the moniker of "mean."  Personally, I consider myself to be a fair and understanding teacher who wants the best for my students and regularly acts in accordance with that desire.  Yes, I get short.  Yes, I'll call you out in front of everyone if you're goofing off in my class.  I'll try to do it kindly, but you kind of brought it on yourself, kid.  "Strict" and "tough" are more what I'm going for.  We humans don't get too far by being coddled.  I'll have your back, but I won't spoon feed you.

The phrase "I am bored" just frustrates me.  What exactly during the period was so boring?  The fact that you got to work on a children's book, which gives you significant freedom in terms of design and creativity, as well as clear parameters in terms of what's expected?  Or maybe it was the twenty minutes on the rug where you learned how viruses are like body snatchers and use your cells to multiply themselves?

To me, bored in my class means one of two things: (1) you are not disciplined enough to accept new information in a straight forward, non-game approach (welcome to life) or (2) you have not yet figured out how to bring learning to your own level.  For some students today, the Close Reading was barely above reading level.  In that case, dig into the content and figure out what you didn't already know, or how it relates to things you've seen or heard about before.  For some students, the Close Reading was well above their reading level.  In that case, use the support I'm giving you through my questioning to dig deeper and be successful in understanding the passage.  Ask questions.  Make analogies.  Make it fun for yourself.

Most likely, my Clipboard Culprit was just upset because they were having a tough time understanding the article, and instead of accepting the challenge (and my support), they avoided their confusion by playing around.  And I probably called them out on it.  If that's the case, then maybe it wasn't such a day teaching day after all.  Challenging students is my job.  But I'll still keep my groups small from here on out, just in case.

Society of the Sacred Hand of Drew Brees

Try to say something bad about Drew Brees in New Orleans.  Just try.  I'll tell you what happens.  You'll be cited statistics and records.  You'll get excuses blaming his offensive line, the run game, the defense's shortcomings.  You'll be reminded of the way things were in the years B.D.B.  You might even have your mother insulted.

In this city, #9 has become something of a god, an untouchable deity.  Think back to the spring after our Superbowl win.  A picture of him holding up his son graced the walls of so many New Orleanians, my younger sister included.  With that win, he, a man simply admired, became a man worshipped.  A man that everyone wanted to meet.  A man who became the third best-selling jersey in the NFL.  A man whose fence in uptown New Orleans was covered with "offerings" left by devoted followers.

Drew Bree's fence after 2009 Super Bowl-winning season

Five years and a 100 million dollar contract later, this undying devotion to our Legendary Quarterback has not faded in the least.  If he throws an interception, the pressure is blamed.  If he throws a bad pass, the receiver should have gotten there.  It's not just Saints fans, either.  Listen to the announcers on game day.  Criticism is timid, if it makes its way onto the air at all.  You could make a drinking game out of the number of times they cite Brees' history with the Saints and the number of records he's broken.  (If you want to get drunk, though, rewatch the 2010 season and take a shot every time they mention Jimmy Graham's basketball history.  You'll be passed out before the first game is over.)

The problem is, football is not a game of one.  It is not even a game of few.  There are more than twenty-five men who set foot on that field each Sunday, and each and every one of them contributes to the game at hand.  Many of them do not receive the laud and honor that Drew does.  Perhaps they shouldn't.  But in the words of Spiderman's grandfather, "With great power comes great responsibility."  Brees is both the leader of the team and the most valuable player on the team.  He is the face of the Saints.  When one part of the team falls apart, it is his responsibility to rally it back together again.  When he falls apart, we get quiet.

The First Amendment, and the rights its defends, is arguably one of the most central tenants of the American democracy.  Most specifically, the freedom to speak openly and with little restriction.  We are legally given the time and space to cheer for what we love and speak out against problems.  There are so many countries in history and in our present world that do not uphold this singular right, and we see clearly the flaws of these muted nations.  Having graduated from Virginia, a Thomas Jefferson quote is what first comes to mind: "We are not afraid to follow truth, wherever it may lead."

American Football should be no different.

I should be clear here that I am not likening Drew Brees to a dictator.  From what I know of him as a player, he strives to be a team player, to work hard, to encourage his peers.  It is rather we, the Who Dat Nation, that mute ourselves.  In our overzealous love of one man, we forget that he is just a man.  Full of flaws.  Short of perfection.  With room to grow.  With good games and less good games.

I think our history with Mark Ingram illustrates the need for honesty most clearly.  He came into the league during the first round of the 2011 draft, a Heisman trophy in one hand and a championship ring on the other.  We had great expectations; he had great faith in himself.  The next four years proved to be something significantly less impressive.  In 2009 alone, Mark ran for 1,658 yards with the BAMA offense.  In his three years in New Orleans combined, he's only run 1,462.  While there are plenty of factors that go into this reduced rushing record, it seems that a shear lack of execution ranks highest.  Personally, I saw his performance as that of an overpaid, overrated player that should be cut as soon as we get the chance.  "Bench him!" has been one of my favorite things to shout at the television during Ingram's "runs."  BUT this former college superstar has shown us a new side recently, a glimpse of that guy he used to be.  In the last two games, despite equal time-on-field granted to his fellow running backs, Ingram has picked up a total of 143 yards.  That's near a third of what he's averaged per season over the last three years.  In two games.

For those that don't know, Mark Ingram is in the last year of his rookie contract.  The Saints chose not to pick up the fifth year option on said contract this year, and the statistics I've noted above give you a good sense of why.  To get paid, to be a part of a team, you have to play hard and contribute.  You have to be the best.  If you don't, you'll hear about it, and Ingram has heard it loud and clear.  He said in June of his looming free agency, "It's motivation."

In the world of football, from PeeWee through the pros, coaches' calls and players' performances have always been topics for discussion.  Drew Brees and our beloved Saints should be no different.  Criticism reminds us that we're human.  It shows us where we need to grow.  It makes praise that much more powerful.

So, it's time to stop this stunting idolization of our beloved quarterback.  We have worshipped someone who eats, sleeps, and excretes like the rest of us for too long, and I'm afraid it's worked against him.  But there's still time.  There's still time to speak openly about the places that our dear Brees needs improvement and the skills he needs to refine.  There's still time to be honest about the effect that age will have on him, if it hasn't already started its slow grasping.  We need to remind him, as we remind ourselves, that we make mistakes, and that we learn from them.  Hopefully, starting with an 0-2 record will motivate him to correct some of the errors he's made, and motivate the rest of the team and coaching staff as well.

In the end, we should criticize Drew in much the same way that we remind our children not to draw on walls or walk along the edge of a pool: out of love and a desire to avoid chronic hypertension.

Rip Van Winkle and Other Ungrateful Characters

Yesterday, I came home from work, and all I wanted to do was go to sleep.  I've meant to go running almost every day this week, and it hasn't happened once.  I blame it on the weather, but the truth is, I'm just tired.  We're four weeks into school, but I'm still adjusting to a schedule of seven hours on my feet without down time.  What's that, self?  You want to watch six hours of Amazon Prime a day, like you did during the summer?  Well, tough.  You don't even have time for that over the weekend, anymore.  Not if you plan to see friends or have fun.

This blog doesn't help, either.  Don't get me wrong, I'm loving the daily writing exercise, and I've appreciated all of the positive feedback.  In fact, I find myself looking forward to setting up shop in front of the computer each evening when I come home.  But I also come home each evening planning on getting to bed earlier than I did the night before, and it never happens.  Instead, I harp on word choice and sentence variety and essay structure.  I'm not a fast writer.  It is my curse.

A few years ago, I was really into neurology and psychology, and one of the things that struck me most from my reading was the proven power of a good night's rest: the ability of your body to subconsciously make you calmer, smarter, healthier...

As I pulled into my driveway yesterday evening, exhausted by another full week of work, I wanted that calmer, smarter, healthier.  My first thought was, "Man, I could sleep for a thousand years."  (Well, actually, my first thought was, "Hmm, this Michael Che interview is really interesting.  I think I'm going to sit in the car and listen for a couple of minutes until it's over."  But then I really did want to sleep for a thousand years.)

It got me thinking about stories with sleeping people, like Rip Van Winkle and Sleeping Beauty.  As a kid, there was nothing worse than having to sleep longer than necessary.  Especially on a weekend.  Sleeping in on a Saturday in my house meant unwatched cartoons and cold pancakes (if any at all).  It meant missing out.  These stories follow in the same vein: time lost while sleeping.  These days, though, I can't help but look back on those stories and be jealous.  Oh, to be able to sleep twenty, or a hundred years!

Earlier this year, only two weeks into school, I came down with a cold, and it knocked me out.  I left work halfway through a school day, and upon arriving home, I immediately went straight to sleep and stayed unconscious for approximately 17.5 of the next 18 hours, as though I'd just drank a magic bottle of moonshine (read: NyQuil).  I awoke, suffered through a full day of school, and came home to sleep 10 more hours.  Upon awaking the next morning, I found myself in significantly better health.  It turns out, I just really needed some sleep.

I would, of course, actually hate to sleep and miss out on twenty years of life like Rip Van Winkle did.  I wouldn't want to miss my family growing up and have everyone forget who I am.  But Sleeping Beauty had it pretty good.  I mean, if everyone else was sleeping, too, it was as though time hadn't passed at all.  And a hundred years later, she awakes well-rested to a much-younger, brave, and handsome prince.  I wouldn't mind that right about now.

If You're Not Crying, You're Not Doing It Right

Today, as I waited for the only adult bathroom in the entire building to be free, I overheard third grade teachers in a nearby classroom coming out of a meeting.  One of the teachers, a recent college graduate and rookie to the profession, held a tissue held up to her eyes as she exclaimed, "It's just so overwhelming!"

I leaned over and said, "You know, if you're not crying your first year, you're probably not doing it right."

The other teachers nodded but contrasted our school to their past experiences: "It's a lot harder here than where I was."  To clarify, they did not mean that teaching elsewhere is easier than teaching at our school.  I know plenty of teachers who deal with a lot more difficult situations than I do on a daily basis.  What becomes overwhelming is our school's schizophrenic approach to excellence.  It wants to be an academic powerhouse.  It wants to be a haven of the arts.  It wants to keep things snappy in class, but improve attention span and study skills.  It wants to be a pilot school for various programs.  It wants every child to be culturally literate and engineering-minded and socially adept.  It wants to be the best at everything.  But an organization run by people can't escape one basic human flaw: we simply don't have the time and energy to be good at everything.

Hours later, I thought over my reaction to this woman's tears.  I didn't really cry my first year at all.  Not because it wasn't hard, but because I was so exhausted and overwhelmed that I didn't even have the energy or the emotional awareness to cry.  I hated it.  It hated me.  It was one of the less wonderful years of my life.

Since then, teaching has become easier, but it has never become easy.  In the last week, I have spent 64 hours at work and 10 or so hours at home doing school things.  I have been overwhelmed and exhausted.  I have not gotten enough sleep.  I have left my house dirty and belongings scattered.  And I have done it all in the name of getting school things done and doing them well.

It is times like these, though, that make me wonder if we teachers aren't doing a disservice to ourselves by giving our one hundred percent.  Is it really a good thing to have a harder job than someone else?

Non-teacher: Yeah, I wish I had three months off.
Teacher: It's really only two months, and I don't get paid for them.
Non-teacher: Not counting winter break, thanksgiving break, and all the other breaks.
Teacher: Don't worry, I make up for all of that by being at work 10+ hours every day during the year.
Non-teacher: There are plenty of people that work 50+ hours a week.
Teacher: Pretty sure they get paid more than me.

The problem--aside from the fact that there are plenty of people who work longer hours at shittier jobs and get paid less than me--is that winning the "whose life is harder" argument means that I'm not doing a very good job of taking care of myself or meeting my own personal needs.  Yes, children are important.  Yes, they are our future.  Yes, there are some that have nobody else.  But if I burn myself out, they won't have me either.

So, I challenge my fellow teachers out there: don't let your job be the hardest.  Even if it means that somebody doesn't get an email back immediately or your stations aren't perfect or you make something up to fill the last twenty minutes of class.

In education school, my professors regularly reminded us of the oft-quoted phrase: "Students may not remember what you taught them, but they'll remember how you made them feel."  In twenty years, when you look back on your teaching career, what will you remember about how you made you feel?

Sixteen Candles

James: Planes just ran into the World Trade Center in New York.
Me: No, they didn't.
James: Yes, they did.  I just saw it on TV.
Me: You sure it wasn't a movie preview or something?

We spent that day, thirteen years ago, glued to the television, taking in those same images of planes and towers and planes and towers and planes and towers.  We couldn't stop watching.  We watched, hoping that every news station was somehow horribly, terribly wrong.  Hoping that something that crossed the screen would be different, better, would make more sense.  I remember moving from classroom to classroom, from screen to screen.  Some teachers tried to teach, but we refused to learn.  This is not a time for poetry, we cried!

We just didn't know what it was a time for.

That day was also my best friend's sixteenth birthday.  She came to school gleeful and done up, with dollars pinned to her shirt and a wide smile fixed on her face, ready for congratulations and birthday wishes.  Instead, she spent the day feeling as though someone had blown out her birthday candles before she could.

Every year, the reminder comes again: 1 year anniversary, 5 years since, 10 years later.  We do not forget.  For the sake of those thousands of people who died, and their families who live on without them, we won't forget.  For the sake of our future, we cannot afford to forget.  For the sake of the people born on that day, we all but wish we could.

It's nothing new.  People's birthdays have fallen on days like this for thousands of years.  Any American born on December 7th and alive in the '40s knew that their birthday took second violin to the war in the Pacific.  Any New Orleanian born on August 29th will always share a birthday with Katrina.

In a much smaller way, I understand.  I was born on the same day as my paternal grandfather, and as a child, I spent many birthday weekends with my extended family, swallowing (sometimes not so gracefully) the fact that no one knew it was my birthday, too.  In fact, I carry with me to this day a distinct memory of spending a birthday party for Papa in the back room of my uncle's house.  I loved (and love) sharing his birthday with him.  I hated that his birthday was more important than mine.

Whether good or bad, the presence of these historical events fade with time.  We do not still mourn the day that Rome fell.  Even Lincoln's assassination ceases to be a well-known date (though we are well aware of the tax deadline that shares it).  In the same vein, September 11th will fade into history, and that day will slowly shed itself of the harrowing shadow of planes and towers and planes and towers and planes and towers.

Today, for the first time since 2001, no one mentioned the Twin Towers.  The music teacher didn't sing a patriotic song.  The students didn't share what they knew about it.  Adults didn't talk about where they where when.  I only remembered it because today is my best friend's birthday.  Which means that 13 years later, she can once again blow out the candles out on her own cake.

Happy Birthday, Nika!

Things That Go Bump In The Night

This past weekend, I spent approximately seven or so hours barely making a dent in the mound of grading that I somehow amassed but did not touch the week before.  It's not that I didn't try to touch it.  It was at the top of my to-do list every day.  Somehow, though, other things cut the line, and I found myself each afternoon rewriting "GRADE!!!!" at the top of the next day's to-do list.

Well, that can only last so long.  I finally broke down this weekend, and for the first time in a long time, I took work home.  This is a strict violation of my self-imposed "no work in the house" policy, but I just couldn't see myself getting it done at school at the rate I was going.  No need to incite riots from the parents who already hadn't seen a science grade yet this year...almost a month after school began.

Monday night, I brought things home again, to further claw away at my stack of ungraded papers, but upon arriving home, I just couldn't bring myself to do it.

Self: Grading is the worst!
Self: I know, but I really need to get this done.
Self: You hate doing work at home!
Self: What if I go into work early instead?
Self: You won't get enough sleep! Isn't 6am bad enough?
Self: What if I went to bed early, too?
Self: You hate going to bed early!  It makes you feel like an old person!
Self: I have no other options, self!!!!
Self: Fine. We'll go to bed at 9.

I didn't actually make it into bed until 9:30pm (because I am a slow writer and these blog posts don't type themselves), but with the help of another Benadryl, I quickly fell into a deep slumber...sometime shortly after my face went numb.

I've only done it twice, but I should probably stop using Benadryl for sleep.

Somewhere around 1am, I awoke to a loud "bang."  Now, my house has plenty of unique noises, and all of them sound like someone is trying to break in.  This was a new sound, though.  Maybe the new air filter?  It does click every time the air turns on.  But I heard that click after the loud bang.  Feeling unsure of what it could be, I got up.  Because the one time I don't get up will be the one time that someone actually IS trying to break in.

My first (reasonable) thought was that something had fallen in the bathroom.  I checked there (and used the toilet because Benadryl has a way of confusing priorities) before peeking out of the hallway into the living room towards the front door.  I remembered at this point that, on my way to the bathroom, I may have seen a light on in the front room--the light that's connected to a motion sensor on the porch.  In the half-asleep, half-doped state I was in, though, I couldn't be sure.

I allowed my head to barely pass the threshold into the dining room as I looked out toward the porch.  No one there.  I got closer to the door.  No one in the front yard or on the street either.  The slide lock was clearly latched, but I checked the door just in case.

Unlocked and barely open.

Even Benadryl couldn't stop me from freaking out ever so slightly.  I promptly shut the door completely and locked it, removed the key from the door, and quickly checked the back door, as well.  It was closed.  Locked.  No one around.

Deep breath, deep breath.

I got back into bed--what else could I do?--and went through the house's safety precautions in my mind: front door locked and slide-locked, wood posts nailed to window frames to keep the windows from opening more than a crack, back windows with ironwork over them, back door locked, door from kitchen to back room bolted shut.  Surprisingly, my worry quickly faded into face-numbing, benadryl-drunk sleep again.

Four and a half hours later, my alarm went off--much to my chagrin--and after a couple of snoozes, I finally pulled myself out of bed.  Looking back on my middle-of-night house check, I wondered if maybe I'd imagined the sound.  Sure, the door had been open, but that could've just been an error on our part; it's happened before.  I checked the air filter, in case that was it, but it was in the same place I'd installed it.  Nothing had fallen in the bathroom or any of the common areas.  My roommate never mentioned it, either.

I don't know what happened that night.  Maybe I dreamed it.  Maybe it was real.  Maybe it was a newly acquired house sound, like the air filter click or the recent ringing in the pipes after the toilet flushes.  I'll probably never know.  All I can say is: I got my eight hours of sleep, I finished a chunk of grading at school that next morning, and I have sure as hell triple-checked the front door lock every night since.