Bad decisions made within the last 72 hours:
1. Choosing seeded grapes at the grocery and then paying eleven dollars for them
2. Realizing I spend 1 out of every 24 hours with my cat, then coming home and ignoring him until 30 minutes before I go to sleep.
3. Leaving my bedroom door open with the cat in one room and gold stud earrings in the other
4. Touching a slip of paper belonging to a kid who had minutes before sneezed for a full second's duration onto his hands/lap
5. Working for eleven hours on a Monday
6. Waiting until 9pm to start writing a post
Good decisions made within the last 72 hours:
1. Randomly choosing the dark chocolate truffle option from a poorly-labeled Russell Stover box
2. Sending my little brother text messages like BUT WE MISS YOU because he loves how annoying I am
3. Setting ten notifications for an important meeting tomorrow afternoon
4. Reading parenting tweets and appreciating the sweet silence around me
5. Checking my cat's under-the-bed stash for my gold earrings, and finding my missing volleyball shorts
6. Writing this post in a shitty list format, so I can go to sleep early
Monday, September 12, 2016
Thursday, September 8, 2016
Bad Science
My students took a quiz this week on observations and variables. I've only graded the first page of the quiz so far, but I've already altered my lesson plan for tomorrow and next week as a result. The number of kids who can't distinguish between inferences and observations--between what we think about something and its objective reality--is astounding. Even more astounding, the number of kids who can't read a paragraph about an experiment and recognize the cause and effect relationship therein.
Here's the paragraph they read:
The right side of your brain sees things pretty concretely. But that guy to his left is always weaving tales to try and make sense of the information coming in. That's his job.
We need Lefty to give meaning to life. He interprets your experiences. If Lefty sees real patterns that others don't, people call you creative. But there's also a problem...
Lefty often screws up.
Here's the paragraph they read:
A scientist wanted to know if water freezes
faster with or without sugar added. She
predicted that plain water would freeze faster than sugar water. To test her idea, she placed ten containers
of the same size into the freezer: five with 30 ml of plain water and five with
30 ml of sugar water. Every thirty minutes,
she opened the freezer and recorded her observations. According to her notes, four of the plain
water samples froze before any of the sugar samples did. So, she concluded: Plain water freezes
faster.
Most of them were able to tell me that an independent variable was the cause, but went on to say that the IV for this experiment was whether plain water or sugar water would freeze faster. Which is not a variable. It's the entire experiment. For the dependent variable (DV), or effect, they said it was "which water freezes faster." Which is, again, not a variable. It's, again, the entire experiment. Ask them the hypothesis (line 2), they've got it. Ask them the conclusion (line 6), they've got it. But analyzing a text for the fundamental building-blocks of the experiment? Identifying the cause and effect? Yikes.
Then, they had to look at this picture and make two observations about it: one quantitative and one qualitative.
Most of my students were able to easily make quantitative observations because their only options are to count or measure, and since there are no measurement markers in the picture, there's really just counting. But come qualitative, the temptation was too strong: "They're having fun." "They're at recess." "One of the girls is sad." "The people playing together are friends." Despite the fact that none of these things are actually visible in the picture (Smiles or frowns, sure, but happiness? Can you see happiness?), they noted them as observations.
To make matters worse, in class we've been making inferences about fossil images and supporting those inferences with observations of the image. Some students get it, and they've finished the project with time to spare. But many of my students have come to me clearly stuck on one side of the equation.
Inference: It is a turtle.
Observations that support my inference:
1. It's swimming.
2. It probably lives in a lake or ocean.
3. It is surrounded by fish, so it must eat them. Turtles eat fish.
They know that you can't see swimming, eating, or an ocean in the picture because it's a skeleton preserved in rock, and yet, they still make the conclusions and cite them as evidence. They back up conclusions with other conclusions. They think what they want to think; they don't see what's in front of them.
As a teacher, this is totally frustrating. It's literally right there. Stop inferring, already!
But as I was parking in front of my house today after work, considering what I would write on today's blog post, I had this empathy-building revelation:
ADULTS ARE NO BETTER THAN CHILDREN.
(Honestly, we're probably worse because we're adults, and we should've learned already.)
It's kind of amazing, really, that it took me so long to make the connection. A friend and I have spent the last two weeks completely focused on the new Barking Up the Wrong Tree email blasts that came out about mindfulness. We talk about "Lefty" constantly. We talk about the unfounded conclusions we keep coming to, and just how crazy it makes us feel.
In his August 28th post, Andrew Barker explains:
My grandmother didn't like the word "liar." She felt it was too harsh. She used to say people were "telling stories." And that's what the left side of your brain does. Constantly.
The right side of your brain sees things pretty concretely. But that guy to his left is always weaving tales to try and make sense of the information coming in. That's his job.
We need Lefty to give meaning to life. He interprets your experiences. If Lefty sees real patterns that others don't, people call you creative. But there's also a problem...
Lefty often screws up.
Barker goes on:
As the old saying goes, "The map is not the territory." Lefty doesn't have perfect information. And sometimes he's too clever for his own good. He's part of you -- and you are fallible. So sometimes this happens:
Right Brain: Everyone at the table is frowning. They're not laughing at our brilliant jokes.
Left Brain: Obviously, they hate us and are plotting our death.
Right Brain: Everyone at the table is frowning. They're not laughing at our brilliant jokes.
Left Brain: Obviously, they hate us and are plotting our death.
This is exactly what my students are doing with their observations. Their "lefty" is making up stories as soon as their eyes hit the picture, and while that can be a useful trait, they're ignoring their right brain and all the conflicting facts that lie therein. The turtle's not moving; how can it be swimming? It's a skeleton in a rock; how can it live anywhere?
The cause-effect relationship becomes hazy, too. I co-exist in space with plenty of creatures on a daily basis that I don't eat. But because they've seen a turtle eat a fish before on TV, predictions become conclusions. Turtle skeletons eat whatever's next to them.
And that's bad science.
Barker calls the onslaught of these predictions in our daily lives "monkey brain." You know when that guy hasn't texted you back in twelve hours, and you're sitting in front of the TV staring at the Food Network but all the couture cakes in the world can't keep you from the internal hum of "he's going to break up with me"? Or when that girl seems distracted a lot these days and you find yourself wasting your lunch break searching Google for "reasons why women seem distant"? That's monkey brain. It's the annoying voice in your head telling you unhelpful and often untrue stories. It's Lefty spinning bullshit into gold.
Not surprisingly, this leads to all sorts of breakdowns in relationships, in communication, in common sense. I broke up with many a guy in my mid-twenties because I let Lefty drive the bus. Today, this happened at recess:
Me: Oh my god, M--, don't do that! Do you want worms?!
Student: No.
Me: Then don't put dirt in your mouth!
Student: [shrugs]
Yes, it's terrifying that a ten year old still thinks eating dirt is a good idea. But think of all the stupid things you did or said or felt last year because Lefty led you there. We're not so different.
Unsurprisingly, the answer to the Lefty debacle is mindfulness, and the answer to bad science is paying better goddamn attention to what you're doing...which is basically mindfulness.
I've been attempting this recently: taking note of what I hear and feel to recenter myself when Lefty gets to be too much. My therapist tells me to watch the thoughts come in and go out as I breathe. Barker's research also recommends labeling the shit your "monkey brain" slings at you.
What if he's completely forgotten about me? -- Worrying
If she asked about it, I'd say... -- Thinking
The turtle is swimming. -- Inferring NOT OBSERVING!!!!!!
Perhaps the worst part is that institutions have their own version of Lefty, too. Look at politics and businesses and marketing and organizations. When they ignore facts or lose sight of the details of what they're doing or gloss over the cause-effect relationships they manage, things go awry. Bad science, bad management, bad outreach.
Take, for example, this letter I got in the mail today:
CATHOLIC OPINION RESEARCH SURVEY
A NATIONAL SURVEY OF 10,000,000 CATHOLICS CONCERNING THE ROLE OF RELIGION IN AMERICAN PUBLIC LIFE
Dear Rebekah,
This is likely the largest survey of Catholic voter opinion ever conducted. ...We expect this survey of 10,000,000 Catholics to receive wide media coverage and the results to be studied carefully by America's elected officials. The purpose of this survey is to...
(1) Send a strong and clear message to politicians in Washington that America's Catholics are dismayed at how our own government has been waging an all-out war on the traditional, moral, and religious values that made America great; and
(2) Help CatholicVote identify and mobilize millions of Catholics to make their views known in the all-important Elections on November 8th so we can end our government's assault on America's religious and moral traditions.
IMPORTANT CONTRIBUTION SECTION
(1) I am enclosing my $10 Survey Processing Contribution to help you pay for the tabulation, processing, and distribution of the results...
(2) Please include my survey answers in the overall tabulated survey...
(3) I am also enclosing an additional gift (above and beyond $10) to help CatholicVote educate, register, and turnout millions of new conservative Catholic voters...
[deep breath]
It's not just that it flies in the face of what I think Jesus taught and how that translates into governmental policies. It straight-up spits in the eye of what it means to survey. And somehow that pisses me off more. I thought we could all at least agree that a survey was a measurement tool meant to collect data, not a cloaked instrument of political indoctrination.
And I was really excited when I first got the letter! I tore open the envelope thinking, Finally, Catholic organizations want to know what we really think!
But I'd been duped.
It was just brainwashing paraphernalia from the Trump campaign.
Rich bullshit from a true monkey brain.
Friday, September 2, 2016
When It Rains...
It pours.
I started seeing this guy last weekend. I'm not going to give him a fake name or call him by his first initial or SAY ANYTHING ABOUT HIM WHATSOEVER because I've finally learned my lesson. Writing about new romantic interests is now officially off-limits on the blog. This way, he gets to hear about my feelings from me; his ex-girlfriend won't send my blog to him in an attempt to undermine our relationship; and he won't later rub my blog posts in my face as he tries to get me to admit that I'm in love with him even though I'm not.
These are real life stories. Of men I've written about on the blog. Who I am, as you might guess, no longer chummy with.
I'd call them struggles, but to give them that much weight would be an act of narcissism too great for even me, a woman who blogs about the mundane minutiae of her life and hopes people will read it.
Back to the rain.
Prior to seeing said fellow, I was seeing "pie pan guy," which is what we'll call the medical resident I went on four dates with who was perpetually late and non-communicative and mostly interested in himself. It started off decently well with a nice meal and interesting conversation and a bizarre interaction with a questionably British pirate on Poydras St. But then it petered off, and I let it go on too long, first hoping to see him again to see what it was, and then just trying to get my damn pan back. Weeks after our fourth date, we settled on an Sunday afternoon meeting, which happened to coincide with his birthday. It would be super weird, I thought, to see him on his birthday. But I really wanted my pan back. I could break things off later. When it wasn't his birthday. The day before, though, after an awesome first date with the new guy who I won't say anything else about, I canceled it. I had some sleep to catch up on, I said. (Which was only sort of a lie.)
And then, when I didn't respond to his follow-up message, I must have set off some alarm inside him that goes off when he realizes a woman just doesn't care anymore. Within three days, I incurred more texts than I had in the four weeks before.
He hoped I was okay. He hoped I had a relaxing weekend. His most recent rotation was rough, but it was over, and his birthday had been busy but fun. He hoped my week had been going well so far. He apologized for being a flake recently. He'd really like to see me again if I was up for it.
It was too little, too late.
I tried to let him down easy. I'd been busy and then sick, I said, and I just didn't think he had time for me.
"Well wait a minute," he said. It was just one rotation. It was the hardest one. He'll get off work earlier now. Was I already asleep? He still had the pie pan.
Seriously? Now you care that you have my pie pan? (I didn't say that part.)
The next evening, after occupying myself with all that comes from being sick and working anyway, I sat down and explained in a series of too-long text messages that, essentially, he'd had his chance. I'd explained weeks ago that being 30 minutes late to two separate dates, texting no more than once a week, never asking questions about me, and never setting a future date did not communicate interest. He'd chosen to continue behaving that way, though, and I was done. I hoped he'd enjoy the pie pan.
"C'mon!" he said. "Give me another chance!" He'd lost 10-15 pounds over this brutal rotation.
"And a girl," I said. "But you'll survive both."
"Sheesh." He'd just moved, on top of it all. It was horrible timing. But he really does like me.
I considered explaining how a simple "Life is crazy busy, but give me three weeks" might have been appreciated three weeks ago, but it wasn't worth it.
"I'm sorry" was all I wrote.
He texted dejectedly that it was our loss.
Perhaps it was our loss, I admitted, but I was done, and only time would settle that score.
"Damn," he said. "Take care." But I had already muted the conversation. I got the messages the next day.
I know that I could have told him about the new guy, and that that would've brought a faster end to the string of one-more-chance pleas, but I refused to play that card. I wasn't turning him down because of that. I was turning him down because he'd been disrespectful of my time and then barely communicated with me for weeks on end. I need more than that from a romantic partner. I deserve better than that. And if he couldn't muster up sufficient respect and consideration in the first month of dating, how could I expect him to behave any differently when the glow was gone?
And to be truthful, the glow never really arrived. There was that, too.
So I've had a few days of respite since then--with occasional worries that he'll text again and I'll have to block him--and now Friday evening is here, and I can be sick in bed as much as I want and not have to worry about waking up early or sneezing in my elbow or surviving the last hour of work after my meds have run out.
And then, as I'm laying in bed in front of a paused Netflix screen, scrolling through Facebook on my phone, a notification panel drops down. I have an Instagram request. From no other than the guy that I visited this summer who had--in only three days--spurned me, insulted my religion, and rubbed a blog post in my face. "You wrote two posts about me." Yeah, I said, in February. I text my friend, "This guy barely talked to me while I was sleeping in his living room, and now he wants to follow me on social media. WTF?"
Needless to say, I did not accept his request.
I wonder if there's something out there in the universe that says, Hey, she's sick and tired and seeing someone. Let's pull a few people out of the woodwork and see how she juggles that into the mix.
I think I handled it okay, though. And now I'm going to go watch some Gossip Girl as my reward.
I started seeing this guy last weekend. I'm not going to give him a fake name or call him by his first initial or SAY ANYTHING ABOUT HIM WHATSOEVER because I've finally learned my lesson. Writing about new romantic interests is now officially off-limits on the blog. This way, he gets to hear about my feelings from me; his ex-girlfriend won't send my blog to him in an attempt to undermine our relationship; and he won't later rub my blog posts in my face as he tries to get me to admit that I'm in love with him even though I'm not.
These are real life stories. Of men I've written about on the blog. Who I am, as you might guess, no longer chummy with.
I'd call them struggles, but to give them that much weight would be an act of narcissism too great for even me, a woman who blogs about the mundane minutiae of her life and hopes people will read it.
Back to the rain.
Prior to seeing said fellow, I was seeing "pie pan guy," which is what we'll call the medical resident I went on four dates with who was perpetually late and non-communicative and mostly interested in himself. It started off decently well with a nice meal and interesting conversation and a bizarre interaction with a questionably British pirate on Poydras St. But then it petered off, and I let it go on too long, first hoping to see him again to see what it was, and then just trying to get my damn pan back. Weeks after our fourth date, we settled on an Sunday afternoon meeting, which happened to coincide with his birthday. It would be super weird, I thought, to see him on his birthday. But I really wanted my pan back. I could break things off later. When it wasn't his birthday. The day before, though, after an awesome first date with the new guy who I won't say anything else about, I canceled it. I had some sleep to catch up on, I said. (Which was only sort of a lie.)
And then, when I didn't respond to his follow-up message, I must have set off some alarm inside him that goes off when he realizes a woman just doesn't care anymore. Within three days, I incurred more texts than I had in the four weeks before.
He hoped I was okay. He hoped I had a relaxing weekend. His most recent rotation was rough, but it was over, and his birthday had been busy but fun. He hoped my week had been going well so far. He apologized for being a flake recently. He'd really like to see me again if I was up for it.
It was too little, too late.
I tried to let him down easy. I'd been busy and then sick, I said, and I just didn't think he had time for me.
"Well wait a minute," he said. It was just one rotation. It was the hardest one. He'll get off work earlier now. Was I already asleep? He still had the pie pan.
Seriously? Now you care that you have my pie pan? (I didn't say that part.)
The next evening, after occupying myself with all that comes from being sick and working anyway, I sat down and explained in a series of too-long text messages that, essentially, he'd had his chance. I'd explained weeks ago that being 30 minutes late to two separate dates, texting no more than once a week, never asking questions about me, and never setting a future date did not communicate interest. He'd chosen to continue behaving that way, though, and I was done. I hoped he'd enjoy the pie pan.
"C'mon!" he said. "Give me another chance!" He'd lost 10-15 pounds over this brutal rotation.
"And a girl," I said. "But you'll survive both."
"Sheesh." He'd just moved, on top of it all. It was horrible timing. But he really does like me.
I considered explaining how a simple "Life is crazy busy, but give me three weeks" might have been appreciated three weeks ago, but it wasn't worth it.
"I'm sorry" was all I wrote.
He texted dejectedly that it was our loss.
Perhaps it was our loss, I admitted, but I was done, and only time would settle that score.
"Damn," he said. "Take care." But I had already muted the conversation. I got the messages the next day.
I know that I could have told him about the new guy, and that that would've brought a faster end to the string of one-more-chance pleas, but I refused to play that card. I wasn't turning him down because of that. I was turning him down because he'd been disrespectful of my time and then barely communicated with me for weeks on end. I need more than that from a romantic partner. I deserve better than that. And if he couldn't muster up sufficient respect and consideration in the first month of dating, how could I expect him to behave any differently when the glow was gone?
And to be truthful, the glow never really arrived. There was that, too.
So I've had a few days of respite since then--with occasional worries that he'll text again and I'll have to block him--and now Friday evening is here, and I can be sick in bed as much as I want and not have to worry about waking up early or sneezing in my elbow or surviving the last hour of work after my meds have run out.
And then, as I'm laying in bed in front of a paused Netflix screen, scrolling through Facebook on my phone, a notification panel drops down. I have an Instagram request. From no other than the guy that I visited this summer who had--in only three days--spurned me, insulted my religion, and rubbed a blog post in my face. "You wrote two posts about me." Yeah, I said, in February. I text my friend, "This guy barely talked to me while I was sleeping in his living room, and now he wants to follow me on social media. WTF?"
Needless to say, I did not accept his request.
I wonder if there's something out there in the universe that says, Hey, she's sick and tired and seeing someone. Let's pull a few people out of the woodwork and see how she juggles that into the mix.
I think I handled it okay, though. And now I'm going to go watch some Gossip Girl as my reward.
Monday, August 29, 2016
Monday, Monday
I'm so tired.
Not like normal end-of-day tired, but like, will-I-make-it-to-my-bed-with-my-teeth-brushed kind of tired. Will-I-have-the-energy-to-change-into-pajamas kind of tired. Am-I-getting-sick kind of tired.
I am. As much as I hate to admit it, I know I am.
I didn't feel great coming home from work on Friday, or even on the way to work that morning, but I just assumed it was two-weeks-into-school exhaustion, and that with some extended sleep, I'd feel fine on the other side of Sunday.
Of course, I didn't end up getting as much sleep as I intended. Between a date on Friday and volleyball on Saturday morning and celebrating the birth of my friend Mick on Saturday night and church and things on Sunday, I got a pretty average amount of sleep across the duration of the weekend.
Which is probably why I'm coughing on my couch and trying to keep my now heavy-lidded eyes from shutting entirely before I finish this post.
I guess I shouldn't really complain. If you put me back at Friday evening, I'd do it all over again. I'd still go on that date till early in the morning and play volleyball in summer heat and sing karaoke in Kenner and have lunch on Banks street and go to sleep Sunday night with a smile because it was one of the best weekends--in a string of nice weekends--that I've had this summer.
Enough of that for now. I've filled my Monday writing requirement, and you'd had your fair share of vague and insubstantial run-on sentences. I'm headed to bed, and I hope I get better soon, but I'll be dreaming of this weekend. And wishing for more weekends like it to come.
Not like normal end-of-day tired, but like, will-I-make-it-to-my-bed-with-my-teeth-brushed kind of tired. Will-I-have-the-energy-to-change-into-pajamas kind of tired. Am-I-getting-sick kind of tired.
I am. As much as I hate to admit it, I know I am.
I didn't feel great coming home from work on Friday, or even on the way to work that morning, but I just assumed it was two-weeks-into-school exhaustion, and that with some extended sleep, I'd feel fine on the other side of Sunday.
Of course, I didn't end up getting as much sleep as I intended. Between a date on Friday and volleyball on Saturday morning and celebrating the birth of my friend Mick on Saturday night and church and things on Sunday, I got a pretty average amount of sleep across the duration of the weekend.
Which is probably why I'm coughing on my couch and trying to keep my now heavy-lidded eyes from shutting entirely before I finish this post.
I guess I shouldn't really complain. If you put me back at Friday evening, I'd do it all over again. I'd still go on that date till early in the morning and play volleyball in summer heat and sing karaoke in Kenner and have lunch on Banks street and go to sleep Sunday night with a smile because it was one of the best weekends--in a string of nice weekends--that I've had this summer.
Enough of that for now. I've filled my Monday writing requirement, and you'd had your fair share of vague and insubstantial run-on sentences. I'm headed to bed, and I hope I get better soon, but I'll be dreaming of this weekend. And wishing for more weekends like it to come.
Thursday, August 25, 2016
Haze
It feels somehow fitting that after surviving a day that felt like it was running away with me, I should find myself inhaling smoke as I grasp at the alarm buzzing at the top of my twelve-foot ceiling.
I just wanted some grilled chicken, but nothing's quite that easy today. Two semi-cooked breasts later, there's a window open, a ladder leading up to the ceiling, a box fan on high, an alarm on the ground, and a cat I've never seen before peeking through the screen door to see what all the commotion is about.
So much commotion, cat. So much commotion.
Today, I spent eleven hours at work. It's week two, and school is kicking my butt. Despite having taught this subject in some form for the last eight years, I've still worked until almost six every day this week. I'm trying to convince myself that it's just beginning of the year craziness, but honestly, I just need to be okay with pretty good and go home earlier.
Luckily, I've got things outside work to keep me busy and lighten the mood.
There's writing. (It's Thursday! I'm writing! #selfdiscipline!)
There's Gossip Girl. (2007 slide phones. That's all I'm saying.)
There's Fitz. (The mammal of mass destruction who occasionally nips at me because I'm not petting the right section of his back.)
There's the ever-exhausting search for legitimate male companionship. (Five dates with four guys in six days. Five dates with one guy in six weeks. Two dates this weekend with two different guys. And a pie pan that I can't for the life of me get back.)
And there's choir and hanging out with friends and prayer time in the morning and reading in the evening and scooping watermelon with a spoon and laundry and errands and filling my house with smoke all for a little grilled chicken.
Every August is a run for my money. But not to worry, every month comes to an end.
And there's a payday waiting at the finish line.
I just wanted some grilled chicken, but nothing's quite that easy today. Two semi-cooked breasts later, there's a window open, a ladder leading up to the ceiling, a box fan on high, an alarm on the ground, and a cat I've never seen before peeking through the screen door to see what all the commotion is about.
So much commotion, cat. So much commotion.
Today, I spent eleven hours at work. It's week two, and school is kicking my butt. Despite having taught this subject in some form for the last eight years, I've still worked until almost six every day this week. I'm trying to convince myself that it's just beginning of the year craziness, but honestly, I just need to be okay with pretty good and go home earlier.
Luckily, I've got things outside work to keep me busy and lighten the mood.
There's writing. (It's Thursday! I'm writing! #selfdiscipline!)
There's Gossip Girl. (2007 slide phones. That's all I'm saying.)
There's Fitz. (The mammal of mass destruction who occasionally nips at me because I'm not petting the right section of his back.)
There's the ever-exhausting search for legitimate male companionship. (Five dates with four guys in six days. Five dates with one guy in six weeks. Two dates this weekend with two different guys. And a pie pan that I can't for the life of me get back.)
And there's choir and hanging out with friends and prayer time in the morning and reading in the evening and scooping watermelon with a spoon and laundry and errands and filling my house with smoke all for a little grilled chicken.
Every August is a run for my money. But not to worry, every month comes to an end.
And there's a payday waiting at the finish line.
Monday, August 22, 2016
August
So, time for a little truth. I've been avoiding writing this month. It's not that I don't like writing, or that I don't want to write. I just...haven't really felt like it. (Which is also why I've had clean laundry lying wrinkled in a basket for the last week and a half. I don't feel like much of anything.) I keep telling myself that I'll get to it when I get to it, or that I'll make a writing schedule when my routine finally takes on a normal rhythm, but let's be real. I'm just making excuses. Pure and simple procrastination. With a healthy dose of tired and apathetic thrown in.
I'm determined to hop back on the bandwagon, though, starting today, and to stay committed, I'll share my plan with you: Mondays and Thursdays. My goal is to write on Mondays and Thursdays. Hopefully that includes revising my novel, but...well...baby steps.
Today was a rough day. The kids were wonderful, my coworkers were delightful, classes ran smoothly, and I got a few things done faster than expected. And yet, a select few things didn't go so well, and it's all I can really think about.
This afternoon, as my phone alarm went off and I heard people moving in the hallway, I said to myself, "Everyone else is early. Why is everyone else so early?" And then I taught for five more minutes.
And if it wasn't bad enough that I'd made 30+ students late to their exploratory classes and deprived fellow teachers of precious planning time, I then managed to DO IT AGAIN less than two hours later. This time, sitting in a stiff wooden chair in the library, watching 5-10 indecisive children scan bookshelves for something to read this week. I looked at my watch and said "We've got time. Let them scan." We left the library at 3:15. 3:15 is, of course, also the time students are supposed to head to carpool. We hadn't even packed up yet.
60 children were late for dismissal as a result. I was late to dismissal as a result. Other teachers were late to dismissal as a result.
And the only thing I hate more than lateness is inconveniencing other people.
(Which is saying a lot because I really hate lateness. Ask the guy who had me sitting at a bar by myself for thirty minutes a week and a half ago.)
To compound the issue, I ended the day with a migraine, which--for those who have never experienced one--feels like your brain is swelling up against your skull and causes all light, sound, and pretty much everything to be painful while you wander the poorly-labeled aisles of a run down Rite Aid on Canal Street desperately searching for Excedrin and hoping not to throw up on the sort-of clean floor glaring back up at you.
I am now home and medicated and reading a funny chain of email responses from my immediate family that involves uniforms, cucumbers, and a photo of my youngest niece with a very confused expression on her face. Things are already looking up.
August tends to be a pretty tough month in general. My body has a hard time readjusting to early wake-ups and the physical wear and tear associated with standing and talking all day, while my bank account has a hard time reconciling back-to-school purchases and car insurance payments with the fact that I haven't been paid in two months.
Which is why I'm downing "flavor blasted" goldfish my mom gave me (gross) and paying my volleyball coach with whatever dollar bills I can find around the house.
It's been a tough month for the state, too. Heat is high, crime is high, tensions are high, and last week, unprecedented rainfall devastated the homes of hundreds of thousands of people in parishes along the southern section of our state. To give you a sense of how bad the latter is, consider these numbers:
Average rainfall in Louisiana in August: 6.1 inches
Average yearly rainfall in Louisiana: 62.45 inches
Rainfall in select parishes last week: 20-30 inches
Some parishes got half a year's rainfall in 72 hours.
On top of that, many of these parishes also flooded in the spring, thanks to double-digit rainfall in March.
Here in New Orleans, it rains every day, but fractions of an inch at a time. Honestly, it feels weird to be spared. It feels weird not to be the ones in need, but instead to be the ones gutting other people's houses and sending supplies to other people's homes. It's humbling, really.
And it makes complaining about a few mistimed transitions feel hollow. Who am I to fret about late carpool, when there are people who lost everything just an hour away? When there are people crossing oceans and rivers and seas and continents to avoid war? When there are people enduring traumas every day in the places that they live.
A little self-compassion is in order. A little thoughtfulness about how to help. And a whole lot of prayers.
***
If you're interested in helping out families in our state, here's a great resource to find the best way to donate your time, money, or talents:
Help Louisiana Flood Victims
I'm determined to hop back on the bandwagon, though, starting today, and to stay committed, I'll share my plan with you: Mondays and Thursdays. My goal is to write on Mondays and Thursdays. Hopefully that includes revising my novel, but...well...baby steps.
Today was a rough day. The kids were wonderful, my coworkers were delightful, classes ran smoothly, and I got a few things done faster than expected. And yet, a select few things didn't go so well, and it's all I can really think about.
This afternoon, as my phone alarm went off and I heard people moving in the hallway, I said to myself, "Everyone else is early. Why is everyone else so early?" And then I taught for five more minutes.
And if it wasn't bad enough that I'd made 30+ students late to their exploratory classes and deprived fellow teachers of precious planning time, I then managed to DO IT AGAIN less than two hours later. This time, sitting in a stiff wooden chair in the library, watching 5-10 indecisive children scan bookshelves for something to read this week. I looked at my watch and said "We've got time. Let them scan." We left the library at 3:15. 3:15 is, of course, also the time students are supposed to head to carpool. We hadn't even packed up yet.
60 children were late for dismissal as a result. I was late to dismissal as a result. Other teachers were late to dismissal as a result.
And the only thing I hate more than lateness is inconveniencing other people.
(Which is saying a lot because I really hate lateness. Ask the guy who had me sitting at a bar by myself for thirty minutes a week and a half ago.)
To compound the issue, I ended the day with a migraine, which--for those who have never experienced one--feels like your brain is swelling up against your skull and causes all light, sound, and pretty much everything to be painful while you wander the poorly-labeled aisles of a run down Rite Aid on Canal Street desperately searching for Excedrin and hoping not to throw up on the sort-of clean floor glaring back up at you.
I am now home and medicated and reading a funny chain of email responses from my immediate family that involves uniforms, cucumbers, and a photo of my youngest niece with a very confused expression on her face. Things are already looking up.
August tends to be a pretty tough month in general. My body has a hard time readjusting to early wake-ups and the physical wear and tear associated with standing and talking all day, while my bank account has a hard time reconciling back-to-school purchases and car insurance payments with the fact that I haven't been paid in two months.
Which is why I'm downing "flavor blasted" goldfish my mom gave me (gross) and paying my volleyball coach with whatever dollar bills I can find around the house.
It's been a tough month for the state, too. Heat is high, crime is high, tensions are high, and last week, unprecedented rainfall devastated the homes of hundreds of thousands of people in parishes along the southern section of our state. To give you a sense of how bad the latter is, consider these numbers:
Average rainfall in Louisiana in August: 6.1 inches
Average yearly rainfall in Louisiana: 62.45 inches
Rainfall in select parishes last week: 20-30 inches
Some parishes got half a year's rainfall in 72 hours.
On top of that, many of these parishes also flooded in the spring, thanks to double-digit rainfall in March.
Here in New Orleans, it rains every day, but fractions of an inch at a time. Honestly, it feels weird to be spared. It feels weird not to be the ones in need, but instead to be the ones gutting other people's houses and sending supplies to other people's homes. It's humbling, really.
And it makes complaining about a few mistimed transitions feel hollow. Who am I to fret about late carpool, when there are people who lost everything just an hour away? When there are people crossing oceans and rivers and seas and continents to avoid war? When there are people enduring traumas every day in the places that they live.
A little self-compassion is in order. A little thoughtfulness about how to help. And a whole lot of prayers.
***
If you're interested in helping out families in our state, here's a great resource to find the best way to donate your time, money, or talents:
Help Louisiana Flood Victims
Thursday, July 21, 2016
Top Ten Things I Learned This Summer
10. Relative Humidity is Bullshit
I was sitting on a couch in L.A. a couple of weeks ago, checking the weather, when I noticed that the relative humidity of L.A. was higher than that of New Orleans. Fully aware of California's desert climate and drought conditions, I took to Google to resolve the confusion.
Apparently, though, even Google can't teach you everything. I read several articles about it. I read multiple sections of said articles out loud to my friend, who very pointedly made clear that neither of us had any idea what the hell the articles were saying.
"The dew point temperature is the temperature at which the air can no longer hold all of its water vapor, and some of the water vapor must condense into liquid water. At 100% relative humidity, the dew point temperature and the air temperature are the same, and clouds or fog can begin to form."
So, the higher the dew point, the more water the air can hold. The more water the air can hold, the more humid it feels.
Why? I have no idea. (Seriously, I still don't get it.)
9. There are Mountain Bikes for a Reason
From time to time, my over-developed sense of determination gets me into trouble. Usually, it comes in handy, but sometimes, it's unnecessarily painful.
Last Tuesday, I biked 16 miles mostly uphill on a beach cruiser. Which is meant for cruising on beaches. Which is not meant for climbing inclines.
According to MapMyRide, I burned 1249 kcal, made an elevation gain of 669 feet, and said the F word at least forty three times.
Next time, I'll take the twenty minute car ride instead, but as everyone keeps telling me, it was probably good for me.
I was sitting on a couch in L.A. a couple of weeks ago, checking the weather, when I noticed that the relative humidity of L.A. was higher than that of New Orleans. Fully aware of California's desert climate and drought conditions, I took to Google to resolve the confusion.
Apparently, though, even Google can't teach you everything. I read several articles about it. I read multiple sections of said articles out loud to my friend, who very pointedly made clear that neither of us had any idea what the hell the articles were saying.
"The dew point temperature is the temperature at which the air can no longer hold all of its water vapor, and some of the water vapor must condense into liquid water. At 100% relative humidity, the dew point temperature and the air temperature are the same, and clouds or fog can begin to form."
So, the higher the dew point, the more water the air can hold. The more water the air can hold, the more humid it feels.
Why? I have no idea. (Seriously, I still don't get it.)
9. There are Mountain Bikes for a Reason
From time to time, my over-developed sense of determination gets me into trouble. Usually, it comes in handy, but sometimes, it's unnecessarily painful.
Last Tuesday, I biked 16 miles mostly uphill on a beach cruiser. Which is meant for cruising on beaches. Which is not meant for climbing inclines.
According to MapMyRide, I burned 1249 kcal, made an elevation gain of 669 feet, and said the F word at least forty three times.
Next time, I'll take the twenty minute car ride instead, but as everyone keeps telling me, it was probably good for me.
 |
| Top of the mountain (Cabrillo National Monument) |
8. There is No Word in French for Shallow
The closest it gets approximately translates to "only a little deep." But Californians have shallow on the lock down. Not every resident of the state, of course. I met lots of people who had intelligent things to say and substantial priorities. But, man, spend a couple of days in Pacific Beach, San Diego, and you'll find yourself having purposeful internal conversations about how you view yourself. No, you are not that very tan girl with a magazine-ready body rollerblading by in a bikini. No, you don't want to be that girl, no matter how many people look at her as she rolls past. You have other things going for you. You want to be noticed and valued for something else. You is kind. You is smart. You is important.
7. Shorts are Overrated
During my stay in Quebec, the temperature tended to hover somewhere in the 60s, and it rained a lot in sprinkles and patches. I longed for warmer days where shorts and t-shirts and sunscreen would be comfortable and wise choices.
This morning, I woke up at 9:30am, and the heat index had already passed 102 degrees. I regret every complaint I ever made about the "cold."
6. Avocados are Delicious
I mean, I knew that already, but by the time my stay in California was nearing its end, looking at a menu just meant choosing between dishes that had avocado in them.
Last night, I tried to recreate a salad I'd gotten in Golden Hill (south of Balboa Park) at this place called Counterpoint. Lettuce, beets, toasted quinoa, green goddess dressing, avocado.
This morning, I learned that avocado comes from the aztec word for testicle.
This afternoon, I'm actively trying to block out that knowledge from my memory. Because avocados.
5. Hostels are Not For Me
After a phone call with a friend, I found out that there was a gap in my schedule and I needed a place to stay for one night in San Diego. I looked up last minute deals. I found a hostel in Little Italy for cheap that included breakfast and dinner. I thought, this will be a good experience.
Instead, I spent the whole night on top of a kid-sized bunkbed trying not to move so I wouldn't shake awake the girl sleeping on the bunk beneath me. It was hot. Someone turned the light on in the middle of the night. There was one bathroom for twenty people. Dinner was one piece of crappy pizza, and breakfast was frozen bagels and instant oatmeal. There was no privacy. There was no space.
The people were nice.
4. A Good Teacher is Hard to Find
Great teachers love being teachers. They have fun being teachers. They laugh and make you laugh. They make you want to learn.
I had the pleasure of being part of a class with one such teacher for a week this summer, and I can't say enough about it. I loved being in that class. I woke up every morning excited for that class. When they bumped me up a level, I considered faking regression so I could get moved back to that class. Nothing replaces a great teacher. Nothing.
3. Don't Judge a Book by Your First Date
I spent my first few nights in San Diego in a neighborhood called Pacific Beach. I'd messaged this guy more than a week before to double-check that it was okay and to confirm my platonic intentions, but despite his response, I went to sleep each night in his living room hoping things would be more comfortable the next day and woke up each morning still feeling like I wasn't welcome. We'd spent half a day together in January, and it had gone well enough that we'd even tried to keep it up over long distance for a few weeks. So when I had the opportunity to visit this summer, I just assumed we'd get along. We didn't, not really.
I'm glad I went, though. It sort of burst this mental bubble I'd been carrying around with me for the last six months that I'd be more compatible with the men in other places. I'm not. The men in San Diego and Quebec and everywhere else I went this summer were a lot like the men here at home. I'm not sure whether or not that's a good thing, but either way, it soothes me.
2. There's No Place like Friends
Sacramento is probably a pretty boring place on the whole, but I loved being there because I got to spend 48 hours with my very best friend since elementary school. I'd never live in L.A., but I could've stayed there for weeks if it meant hanging out with my friend and her (very patient) brother. San Diego was a great place to catch up with college friends and adopted family. I love Atlanta and Chattanooga, but mostly I love the people who live there.
And while I have no doubt that Quebec City is a beautiful, wonderful place on its own, there's no doubt in my mind that the people I met there and the friendships I made are what now make the city one of my favorites.
1. New Orleans is Home
I've tossed around the idea for the last year or so of moving somewhere else, of packing up my belongings, renting out my house, and taking a year to live and work somewhere else in the world. California had been on my list of most-likely-places-not-to-freeze-me-out-or-give-me-zika. But after traveling both coasts and even a little piece of Canada, I realize more than ever that home is home is home. You just can't beat the food and the culture and the community.
So, I'm sticking around for the long haul (but God help me, if I ever make it big, I'm buying a summer home somewhere north of here with an average dew point and easy access to avocados).
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