Sunday, November 30, 2008

"I know you can be overwhelmed, and you can be underwhelmed, but can you ever be, like, whelmed?"

Thirty days of my life have just gone by, each one feebly chronicled here for NaBloPoMo. I feel glad that it is over because I didn't enjoy the days of posting what I call "fluff," but sad, too, because I really enjoyed reading what you all had to say. Also, I made new friends!!!

Actually, I enjoy the fluff - but only when I think it is valuable or funny in some way. When I didn't have something to say, I felt like NaBlo, in his zoot suit and matching fedora, would hold a gun to my ribs and with his cigar smoky breath whisper something like, "You see here, honey, you'll post the meaningless fluff or you'll be sleeping with the fishes. Capisce?"

And I would be all like, "OK. fine. Maybe I want to sleep with fishes. I mean they're not so bad, other than they smell, um, fishy. Plus, that would get me out of grading papers (which I can't NOT mention), and away from my sick husband and kid. Hell, I'll sleep with you, NaBlo, if you can work that kind of magic. But first, I've always wanted to go to a speakeasy. Do you know where one is? What's the password? Can I order a Cape Cod? Can I wear your hat?"

And then Nablo would sigh, drop the gun, turn around and walk away, mumbling something about it not being worth it and something about Vinnie not liking this a damn bit.

"Hey, where are you going? Come back! I'll wear my stilettos! Hey!" I'd call after him. "I'll sleep with the fishes if you want!" And then on the bank of the Hudson, I would mix two buckets of concrete, step into them while wet, wait for the mix to harden, and then throw myself into the river, through the fall yelling, "See! Look! Fluff fluff fluff fluff.. (splash)" All for Nablo: fluff for fluff's sake.

I really wanted to challenge myself to think this month. I rarely get a chance to have a thought these days. Unfortunately, life gets busy. And my life is insane at the moment. I realized this when I was sitting at my in-laws house wondering if I had time to do my homework AND put out the Christmas decorations. The answer was NO. Then I had to wonder about priorities. Among many similar circumstances (change the second activity to whatever you want, the first one (homework) always being the constant), I did have time to at least post something. That is something to be proud of, I suppose. And I will miss NaBlo.

At least I'm free now. I can post or not post as much as I want.

**Title quote from Ten Things I Hate About You

Saturday, November 29, 2008

At least we're home

This is just a quick note to say that we're home safe. We had to make a midnight drive back -- the baby (finally) asleep in his car seat, Rich hanging over a sick bucket for 6 hours. They both have a nasty stomach virus, and I'm doing my best to help, though helpless is exactly what I feel..

In related news, this morning I awoke to find a baby cricket in the kitchen sink. I tried to save it, using the ole paper under the bug relay. In the end, I got the cricket outside, but I think I broke two of its legs in the process.

I hope this doesn't reflect poorly on my nursing skills.

Friday, November 28, 2008

Thursday, November 27, 2008

Wednesday, November 26, 2008

Shannon Doherty did you happen to meet my friend, Gloria?

Gloria Estefan is my nemesis. Many of you know this already. For those of you who don't, I'll briefly explain. When the Miami Sound Machine comes on the radio, it's like all of a sudden I'm under hypnosis and the mesmerist, in his calmest, most sedate voice says, "OK. Ginger, when you hear, 'One, two, three, four; Come on baby, say you'll love me; five, six, seven ti-imes...' I want you to grab that butcher knife, wave it in the air, and vow to assassinate the person who personally programmed that song into the play list. OK. You will wake up at the sound of 'eight, nine, ten, eleven...'" And then I do. I grab the nearest weapon, which is usually my big mouth and I verbally castrate the DJ. I can't help it. It's coded in my DNA. I mean it's nothing personal. I'm certain that Gloria is a wonderful human being. I just inexplicably loathe her voice. It makes me want to commit homicide.

The reason this came up today was I saw a preview for some Hallmark Thanksgiving special "starring Shannon Doherty" who apparently went from 90210 bitch-itude to "And I'm thankful for you, and you, and oh, yes, little Timmy, you too. Let's roast marshmallows and sing Christmas carols by the light of the warm, glowing hearth, and learn special lessons about giving thanks."

I didn't know it until I saw the preview, but I had a Gloria Estefan reaction to Shannon, too. Right then and there, I vowed NEVER to watch anything EVER with her in it.

Even though I'm not really sad about this recent development, I do blame Gloria for it. Thanks Gloria. Thanks a lot for limiting my Hallmark movie choice this holiday season. I hope you two are very happy together.

Tuesday, November 25, 2008

Obligatory Post

In Lubbock.
Smiling Baby.
Family.
Visiting friends.
First family "portraits".
Off schedule.
Smiling...No, wait. Screaming baby.
Rosa's Mexican Food.
No nap.
Movie.
Fussy time (me).
Tired.
Still no nap (me or baby).
Screaming baby again.
Spilled wine.
2 minutes to post.
G'night soon, I hope.

Monday, November 24, 2008

It's been a whole year, but we're back in the Flatlands

We made it to the Hub City, all in tact, and saw some really cool wind turbine farms - not the sort of farms we're used to seeing in these parts, I tell you what.

Other than cleaner energy, everything seems to be the same around here, except that the whole town is still recovering from the remarkable ass kickin' it received on Saturday. The folks are licking their wounds, guns in the air. We will survive. Yes. We will survive.

Sunday, November 23, 2008

Between Loads..

Fulfilling NaBlo postal obligations between loads of laundry by saying these things:

* I miss going to the movies. There are so many I want to see. I missed Wall-E, and Ironman, and now I see that James Bond will not wait for me.. Plus, I miss the popcorn. For far too long I was "good" and either didn't get a tub OR I got a tub without butter. What was I thinking?! I wasted all of that buttery goodness! Maybe one or more grandparents will watch Jack for an evening over Thanksgiving so that we can catch a movie or two.. (hint hint).

*The TTU defeat last night was too painful to watch.. So I didn't. I sulked in my room while Rich endured the trauma. Call me a fair weather fan if you want, but there is something to be said for not bitch slapping yourself over and over again. And last nights game was the mother of all bitch slap parties to which I RSVP'd a resounding, "Aw, hell no! I won't go!"

* I should be grading papers. I have 40 Macbeth essays left to mark and 11 Dorian Gray character sketches. Only 4.25 hours of grading over Thanksgiving.. except for all of the stuff waiting for me when I get back: 130 Inferno projects, 130 SAT practice papers, and an entire literary magazine to edit. Oh, and planning the next units.. But no stress.. F*CK!

* At least my kid can sit up and play with toys for minutes at a time. And I mean it when I say I am thankful for that!

*Tomorrow we head to the Flatlands.. That will be fun!!

Saturday, November 22, 2008

Hooray Beer...Goggles

The man with the snake brimmed ten gallon hat swaggered by our table at Buck n Loons. He paused, eyes piercing through my skin, and continued on around the corner. I mumbled something about that being an odd behavior - to walk by a person, stop for enough time for the observed to feel uncomfortable, and then continue on without a word - but then I realized that I was talking about a man who had a rattle snake wrapped around his hat, the head of said snake lying limply on the brim. Probably he was not very concerned with social norms or ordinary types of pleasantries. He certainly did make an impression, though.

I am not unaccustomed to West Texas eccentrics since many of them were members of my Texas Panhandle family. Those men would gather in Mimi’s kitchen, chug Keystones, and rehash old stories that usually involved pick-ups, dirt, and/or a shotgun. These yarns were endearingly woven and told of some idiot friend who got himself into some sort of scrape, one that the ______(fill in the blank with fire chief, preacher, or sheriff)____ had to get him out of. Many of the tales ended with the listeners braying, “Ah hell” in whatever inflection was appropriate to the story – as in “No shit?!” or “That’s too bad,” or “That’s the most hilarious thing I’ve ever heard!” As the evening progressed and the beer coolers emptied, some of the stories were reenacted with props – like with a dead rattlesnake, a weed whacker, or shot gun shells. Always there was a lot of laughter, though any city slicker would have been justifiably afraid. Even I was sometimes uncomfortable, though I felt a great love and admiration for those Flatlander good-ole-boys.

So the snake brimmed man at Buck n Loons didn’t scare me as much as he reminded me of my childhood.

I, being at the end of an extremely challenging work day, sat lethargically people watching and sipping on Texas tea when he sauntered back around. I was determined to speak, to at least say hello to this dusty cowboy who obviously had some fascinating stories to tell. Before I could take a breath for what would be hello, he again stopped at our table.

This time he tapped Rich on the shoulder and said, “You do know you’re with the prettiest woman in the room, dontcha?” But before I had the chance to puff up with any ounce of pride, before Rich could even respond to confirm or deny his observation, the man said, “You better realize it or else we’ll have to take you to Vegas.”

Being understandably thrown, Rich asked, “What?”

The man explained, “You know, Vegas.. Where you can easily bury a body without being caught.”

We paused for a moment, trying to determine whether or not the man was making a joke or being genuine. I glanced over at Baby Jack, wondering how I would grab him and make a speedy exit if necessary.

Then with a huge yawping guffaw, the man slapped Rich on the back and made his way back to the bar.

“He he..he,” we weakly tittered in return.

“Check, please!”

Friday, November 21, 2008

It's Friday! ... Hey. Where's my dancing cat?!

Oh. There it is.

www.totalleh.com - click to visit

And I'll take it to go... Whew.

Thursday, November 20, 2008

An Escape from Reality

It took some resistance on my part and much begging on theirs, but I finally gave in. Thanks to my students, I am reading Twilight.

Here's the thing: The book isn't written particularly well, though I am appreciative of the fact that it uses some SAT vocabulary words and the main character, Bella, likes to read and do homework - a character trait that sets her apart from the other flighty girls in the story and is, therefore, part of what the dream boy/vampire Edward admires in her. It is not a unique story, by any means, and is, as everyone deems it, a teen ROMANCE novel.

The question is, is that OK?

Edward, the ideal, who (though he wants Bella in an instinctual, predatory way) must keep his distance, physically, except for the occasional flirtatious face stroking. And maybe this will change by the end of the novel, which, in my opinion, will kill the interest. In romance novels, the lovers can't give in too easily and must make the reader wait (sometimes agonizingly) for consummation. That's what keeps us reading. Edward has to be a gentleman otherwise he wouldn't be able to control himself and would 'devour' Bella.

In the past Vampire stories (especially in places like Victorian England where staunch religion suppressed basic human nature) were sort of a way to bypass religious dogma while still playing at morality. In reading the books, men, with the unquenchable thirst for delicate, pure women, were allowed to 'take' them in a primal way, without all of the messiness of the sinful affair. And women, in reading the books, could be quite willingly 'taken'. In the end, the vampires were 'monstrous' villains and the poor helpless, though alluring, women were victims, plain and simple.

So maybe this is what Twilight is, as are all romance novels, an escape from reality where the girl who represents those of us who are ordinary - brown haired, brown eyed semi intelligent girls who want to be special enough for the ideal man to want us so much that it pains him- to be innocently seduced without feeling guilty about the seduction.

And there's nothing wrong with that, I suppose, as long as we remember that it is fantasy. Edward is not real. But then, neither is Bella.

Wednesday, November 19, 2008

Texas grand Jury indicts Cheney, Gonzales

(CNN) — A grand jury in south Texas indicted Vice President Dick Cheney and former Attorney Geneneral Alberto Gonzales on separate charges related to alleged prisoner abuse in federal detention centers, Willacy County District Attorney Juan Angel Guerra told CNN Tuesday.
On the southern tip of Texas, Willacy County is on the United States-Mexico border.
Democratic state Sen. Eddie Lucio, Jr. is also charged in the indictment. Michael R. Cowen, an attorney for Lucio, issued a statement calling Guerra a “one man circus.”
Cheney spokeswoman Megan Mitchell said, “The vice president has not received an indictment.”

And from The Washington Post and AFP.

Tuesday, November 18, 2008

I've got your friggin' post

I'm in a foul mood and I am about to take it out on you.. or really on this blog. And before I even say why I'm pissy, I should first say that I am embarrassed about airing it all out in such a public venue. Apparently, though, I'm not embarrassed enough to not post it.

So I think I'm sick. This may or may not be a direct result of the flu shot I got on Saturday.

I think Jack is sick. I can't tell, exactly, other than to say he is CONSTANTLY fussy/crying, won't take naps, is arching his back when being held, won't play or smile or do anything except cry. And I am helpless. I can't fix it. He has no other symptoms except that he won't sleep and is constantly crying.

I am buried in homework. I can't get caught up. And the district wants to give me more to do. They decide on Thursday whether or not next year they will give me more students and take away a conference period.

We don't have enough funds to make our magazine in litmag right now. Unless the kids come up with some significant patrons, the mag is sunk.

I feel really bad for Rich at the moment. He gets to hold the screaming kid right now. He, too, is feeling helpless.

I have to go and help now.

Monday, November 17, 2008

Something I usually forget, but want to be better at remembering:

"When we start to meditate or work with any kind of spiritual discipline,we often think that somehow we're going to improve, which is a subtle aggression against who we really are. It's about like saying,"If I jog, I'll be a much better person."... But loving kindness - maitri - toward ourselves doesn't mean getting rid of anything. Maitri means that we can still be crazy, we can still be angry. We can still be timid or jealous or full of feelings of unworthiness. Meditation practice isn't about trying to throw ourselves away and become something better. It's about befriending who we are already."

from Comfortable with Uncertainty by Pema Chodron

Sunday, November 16, 2008

I can't breathe

Teaching is too hard.

Recently, Christine and I have been feeling a bit overwhelmed with our jobs. Both of us have been playing with the idea that maybe we should be doing something else. We have been playing at "what if?" and have been looking at job opportunities and graduate programs. A new job is very appealing, especially now, at the end of the six weeks when the demands of our students, the parents, the administrators, and paperwork completely kick us in the gut with steel-toed boots.

This year I have been completely ineffective, as seen in my students' grades, in their attitudes, and even in the condition of my poor, abused and littered classroom. As Christine puts it, it's like we are water boarding beaten horses. We are dragging them to the water, shoving their heads under, and screaming at them, "Drink! Drink! Drink!" Afterwards, they blankly stare at us blinking and then make some ridiculous comment like, "Why do we have to be here? School sucks," and "This is boring,"and "Do we have to do anything today? I hate reading." I try to reply with a little bit of humor, saying things like, "Sorry I have to make you work IN SCHOOL." But the retorts are fairly consistent: "Well, if you were more _____(fill in the blank with your own word)___________ then maybe we would want to do something."

Yes. It is my fault.

And I say that with some sincerity. It is my fault if my kids are not learning. But at the same time, they have to at least care.. a little. And this year I am seeing an overwhelming majority of kids who would like to sleep through class, do no homework, and then expect to pass. They don't want to read, write, or even think. And you know what? They don't have to. This is where education is going in this country. We have completely lost the notion that getting a diploma is an important privilege. Instead it has become a required chore for all involved.

I hate that I sound so negative about my job and my students. I don't want to become one of those teachers and have vowed that if I were becoming that cantankerous soul, I would go and do something else. I do actually love and care about them.

But, this is me looking for something else to do.

The really sad thing is, most of my students would agree that I am a good teacher. I spend tons of time talking to them, working with them, making precise comments on and about their assignments. I meticulously mark their papers (Essays take 8 or so minutes to grade each. Multiply that times 150 students and you'll see how much extra time - outside of school- I spend working and that doesn't include daily assignments or planning). I work hard, and I really don't have to. I get paid the same amount as the person who shows "Dead Poets Society" everyday in class. I beat myself trying to be effective for my kids - to cater to their learning styles and their personalities. Their learning is my responsibility, and I take that very seriously.

A lot of people believe that to an extent teachers have it easy - they at least get the summers off. But as my good friend Jamie puts it (and sorry if I butcher this, Jamie), jobs are like cars. Some cars are year round cars; they steadily accumulate mileage and are fairly well maintained. And then you have race cars; they work for a season each year, but are driven into the ground, accumulating the same number of miles but with a lot more wear and tear. Teaching is like the race car, and the off season doesn't make the car any less worn and it doesn't change the mileage.

The summers no longer makeup for the wear and tear during the year. On top of the extreme workload and duties, our particular district would like to increase our class load by one class (30 more kids) by taking away a conference period. Because we are on a 4x4 block schedule, we would only have a conference period every other day. I will have more to do and less time to do it in, with NO extra pay. No other professional job would dare increase workload, decrease work time, and not compensate the employee for it.

I've already said I am having trouble working with apathy. It might be different if my kids were eager to learn or if they gave a shit about school. It might be different if I received some kind of respect from my kids, from the parents or from the district, or if what I do was valued in any way (other than being tossed the occasional societal platitude). But I'm not a miracle worker. I neither have the time or the energy to fight the good fight.

I think it may be time to move on.

Saturday, November 15, 2008

I'm Of The Wonderland Persuasion

I’ve always been the hopeless romantic – in a Sibyl Vane sort of way – as in I am naively in love with art and poetry and Prince Charmings and all of the utter tragedy that is love and beauty and the loss of those, knowing full well that reality may suffocate them. Even as a child one might have seen me take some practice swoons onto a fainting couch so that when the time came for me to actually swoon, I would do it right and with the perfect and appropriate effect. Or I might have cried at the injustice of windblown plastic bag, the injustice being, of course, that the bag was plastic and not paper. I would often get trapped in the romantic and worked at staying in that dreamy state – I wanted to be Alice at the tea party.

Unfortunately, the transference of the romantic to reality never really worked since reality is composed of practicality - time management, check book balancing, and (what a majority deem) rationality. Morality also raises its eyebrows occasionally in the realm of the real, though I highly suspect that Guilt is guilty of using Morality as its lap dummy. But my imagination certainly didn’t fit into this world.

I coped (and still do to an extent) with this duality by living two separate lives: my romantic, idealistic side, the one that keeps me in daydreams, vs. practical, snarky reality. And in doing so, I have trouble reconciling myself to..um..myself. I envy people who tend to have a solid, “here I am, world, anchored and secure with who I am and there’s nothing you can do to break me” motto.

It isn’t that I am lacking as far as what I believe in – the universal truths and whatnot. It’s that I am unwilling to give up on the romantic. When I find myself being too practical and responsible, I run to the open arms of Whimsy. It is escapism, I suppose, from all the cold reality that seems to hold me down – responsibility, for example.

But I can’t be real unless I’m daydreaming.

Friday, November 14, 2008

Thursday, November 13, 2008

An Odd Encounter in Concrete and Heels

So the other night we were at a swanky coffee and wine bar where they were playing some live music. After having a glass or two of house Merlot, I excused myself to go to the ladies. To get there I had to wander through a cold concrete maze, following vague signs and arrows, similar to what you would see in a parking garage, usually in a scary movie. What made it bearable was that I passed several colorful people in glam gold spandex and platform shoes. Once I finally found my destination, I walked in to find that there was one other person in the restroom and she was at the mirror applying make-up.

Earlier in the evening I had noticed her. She seemed to know a lot of people in the crowded coffee house, and was constantly getting up and sitting down and hugging people, then kissing them - all European-like. I have to admit that I was a little annoyed since the room was so crowded that there was only an inch and a half space between us, and I was looking at the back of her head. I was sitting on a plush red church pew which was hard to scoot around on, and each time she got up and sat down, I had to scoot around to see the bands. She was very pretty, at least, and I envied her gorgeous, thick hair. Plus she was very at home in her skin. There's something really nice about that.

Anyway, I walked in and she was at the mirror, applying make-up and singing. I tried not to smile, as I found it amusing that she was singing to herself and I caught her. But then I remembered what I was there to do, and now it was quiet in that cold, concrete, now silent bathroom. I was acutely aware of the sound my sassy stilettos made as I walked into a stall - click clack clack clack - and closed the door, the sound echoing back and forth off of the walls. I unbuttoned, sat down and then waited.

Awkward silence.

For far too long.

Years maybe.

No noise, whatsoever.

And then she started singing again. And that's all it took. I took care of business and shyly came out of the stall to wash my hands. I was all prepared to wet my hands, grab a towel, and jet without looking up, because seriously, how embarrassing! Then she spoke to me.

"What color should I go with?"

"Huh?" I said.

"I'm really tired. What color of eyeshadow would help me look less tired: green, copper, or sparkly?"

"I'd go copper with what you're wearing," I said realizing that I- the least girliest girl in the world when it comes to wearing make up - was dishing out advice like Elizabeth Arden.

"Thanks" she said.

"Are you playing next?" I asked.

"Yeah. I'm just trying to look presentable which is really hard right now since I am so tired."

"What time are you going on?"

"Nine-thirty."

"I wish I could hear you play, but we only have the babysitter until 10, and we live a ways away from here." In my brain, as I said this sentence, I couldn't believe I was still talking. Maybe I should tell her that my baby is five months old and that it's my husband's birthday, and that I had a c-section, and my favorite month is October. Lamely I asked, "Do you have a Myspace or anything so that we can catch you at another event?" What? Shut up! I swear I'm not hitting on you, I thought, and I am also not a computer geek...no wait...

"Yeah, she said. Grab a sticker with our web information. Our band is called Inner Frequency."

"OK. Thanks."

And I left- click clack clack clack- feeling a little bit strange and a little bit cool, too.

Wednesday, November 12, 2008

Friday Night Salon

It's salon time again! If you have a comment/response to any of these, please feel free to write as little or as much as you want! Enjoy!

When was the last time you had a genuine conversation--an experience not of mere self-assertion but of speaking and listening as though you had something both to offer and to receive? Our habits of language define us, but the pace of our lives is such that the simple gestures of listening carefully and speaking prudently are amazingly rare. The Friday Night Salon aims at being an alternative to the urban rush that denies the civilizing graces of community. We begin with good food and drink, then take our places in a circle for discussion about a variety of relevant, substantial topics. It's a welcome way to end the Dallas workweek.

Discussion topics for November 14, 2008:
1. What happened on November 4th?
2. What is entertainment's place in a healthy culture?
3. Are homo sapiens intellectually curious by nature?
4. Chronos vs. kairos: can we control how we experience time?

Tuesday, November 11, 2008

To the Looking-Glass world it was Alice that said

“I’ve a scepter in hand, I’ve a crown on my head.
Let the Looking-Glass creatures, whatever they be
Come and dine with the Red Queen, the White Queen, and me!”

Then fill up the glasses as quick as you can,
And sprinkle the table with buttons and bran:
Put cats in the coffee, and mice in the tea—
And welcome Queen Alice with thirty-times-three!

“O Looking-Glass creatures,” quoth Alice, “draw near!
’Tis an honour to see me, a favour to hear:
’Tis a privilege high to have dinner and tea
Along with the Red Queen, the White Queen, and me!”

Then fill up the glasses with treacle and ink.
Or anything else that is pleasant to drink:
Mix sand with the cider and wool with the wine—
And welcome Queen Alice with ninety-times-nine!
from Through the Looking Glass by Lewis Carroll

Monday, November 10, 2008

Divine Intervention Interrupted by Divine Intervention

I was a bit worried this morning when I got to work and realized what I had planned for the day. It involved the students getting up and reading their free write reflections. I usually assign a specific topic for them to consider and write about, but last week I decided to let them free write, mostly because I had forgotten to prepare a topic for them with all of the billions of essays I had/have to grade. So this morning I panicked a little, especially since there have been countless instances of kids saying hateful things to each other in light of the election, racist things that seriously hurt my heart. I refuse to write these into existence on this blog.

I began the class with this caveat:

"I think before we begin, we need to remember to be mindful of our words and our reactions. We need to respect each others' opinions, but also only share that which is worthy of respect," or something like that. They grinned knowingly at me, as in, "Hey, we know you are talking about the election and the text messages and emails, and we hear you." But then, some of them looked like sabotage was on their minds.

I held my breath as I called on the first volunteer.

"My reflection is on taking things for granted," he began, and continued on about how athletes don't understand what a gift it is to have a talent and to be able to compete.

The second person talked about the fact that she, "can't believe [she] is grown-up." She spoke about her parents seeing her as an adult and the sacrifices they made for her, and the ones she will have to make in the future.

The next boy spoke about death and that he has attended far too many funerals for his peers. He ended with a poem to those friends he lost, a very unexpected response from this very large, O -line athlete.

One talked about synthetic ingredients in perfumes and soaps, another about wanting to play video games as a career, an so on and so forth.

Of all of those who volunteered only one was a bit scathing about the election, and the students, though they gasped collectively, held their breath, waited for her to finish, and exhaled were fairly supportive of her.

I was really proud of them today and felt like I had dodged a bullet of sorts. Unfortunately, I survived this only to realize that the next text I would introduce would be Dante's Inferno.

Hey kids, now that we're done working through being non confrontational about a very personal, passionate subject, let's talk about God and sin and hell! Weee!

Sunday, November 9, 2008

The Universal Conservation of "L"s

During our three hour window of baby-less transaction, we careened towards the great metro-wonderland of music and lights and dancing and sin, leaning forward to get there faster. And then this:

Him: So, yesterday my students noticed the way I say bolth. They were all like, "Mr. Haag, it's not pronounced boLth, it's both."

Her: See. They're smart.

Him: Well it's not bowwwth. Bowwwth sounds so.. so..

Her: Correct?

Him: Snobby. (lifting his nose in the air) Bowwwth. See? Uppity.

Her: (eye roll) Dude.

Him: Look. It has to do with the Universal Conservation of "L"s

Her: The wha..??

Him: The Universal Conservation of "L"s dictates that we sometimes conserve the L in words like "solder". Say it with me. "saw-der" See? No "L" is pronounced. You then take that L and move it where it is supposed to be - in words such as "boLth".

Her: Oh my God, it's a good thing this is your birthday week-end, the one time you get to say weird stuff and I nod and smile instead of explaining, using pie charts and graphs, why what you are saying is completely pulled out of your ass. (nodding and smiling)

Him: Precisely.

-And scene-

Happy Birthday, Love.

(p.s. I hope you are not too disappointed that we can't afford your midlife crisis Ferrari. At least you have a hot young trophy wife.. (wink))

Saturday, November 8, 2008

Advent Conspiracy - A Very Cool Idea



Go here for more information.

(and thanks to Carol for the heads-up!)

Friday, November 7, 2008

Freaky Friday

Hey, it's Friday! Here's a cat listening to music in a record store!

www.totalleh.com - click to visit

It's what you've always wanted.
Happy Friday!

Thursday, November 6, 2008

Gingerly Casting My Medal Aside In The Most Polite Way, So As Not To Cause A Ruckus

I suppose there are always “consequences” for our actions. I mean the wrestler who threw his Olympic bronze medal on the mat and walked away in disgust is now banned from participating in the sport for two years. That's a consequence. Most of us nod our heads and say, “Yes. He deserves that consequence for unsportsmanlike behavior, by God!” Maybe that is the correct reaction. But probably to the wrestler, it was worth making the statement – to fight what he judged as being an injustice - even though he has to endure the consequence.

My former boss, Mr. Adams (and I think I can now say his name since he has retired) always used to ask me a question when I felt like there was an injustice being “committed” in my vicinity. He used to say to me, “Ginger, is this the hill you want to die on?” I assume he said “hill” because, let’s face it, around these parts there are no mountains. The point, though, was clear. He wanted to know if it was worth risking my opinion, my reputation, my job in some cases, to fight for what I think is right. In most cases it was not worth engaging in battle; the injustice wasn't egregious enough to fight against.

I have to admit that I am a passionate, reactionary person and have for several years worked at trying to be more measured – to take a step back before I react, to breathe through emotions, and even “sleep on it” before I respond. In most cases this is a good thing. I suppose that this is some form of maturity training or pearl of wisdom that I seek. I fancy this quality - patience, we might call it or an attempt at understanding - a good one to possess.

But what happens when we decide that whatever we are facing is the battle we want to fight? What happens when we decide that this hill is THE hill?

This has happened to me before. I ended up changing jobs as a result; I couldn’t work for a woman who promoted injustice. I climbed the hill. I was proactive, made my statement, and moved forward. I didn't die.

I am at that point in my life again, standing at the base of a very personal hill. I have relatively little armor to put on, except the confidence to know that something needs to change for me. It is time to move forward. I think it’s time to climb a little, though I do feel afraid.

Maybe I’ll be surprised at the outcome.

Wednesday, November 5, 2008

Election Reflection

I knew today would be nuts at school. This election was huge to the students. Plus, most of them, my seniors, are eligible to vote. In their government classes and history classes, they were able to study the candidates' platforms. Student council held a mock election, and the journalism class polled students, passed out surveys, and reported statistics and observations.

Our school is very diverse. We don't really have a "majority" when looking at any demographic. Our school is made up of wonderfully colorful students who represent many cultures and religions. They are from all kinds of socio-economic circumstances and are involved in all kinds of different programs.
I love my school because of this diversity. Most of the time the kids get along really well - they date outside of their demographic, they are mostly tolerant of each other (though still somewhat self-segregated outside of the classroom), and are generally willing to listen to opposing viewpoints.

When it came to this election, however, the kids got lost in the chaos that they saw/heard on their televisions, in the rumor mills, and in their homes. Several of my students (who are quite easily influenced, as most teens are, and who are still very literal thinkers) feel like they have had the rug ripped out from under them. Some of them came into my classroom angry about their candidate - the one they had hope in and were confident about - not getting elected, vocally wondering things like, "how the anti-Christ" got elected. They walked through the halls yelling out things like, "Welcome to Communist America, people."

One of the boys sneered in a most hateful tone, "I can't believe that black Muslim got elected." The sweet little girl sitting next to him - who was wearing her hijab as she does proudly everyday- said in a deflated tone, "He isn't Muslim, first of all, and why do you say that, like it is such a horrible thing if he were?" The hateful boy ignored her, turned to me, and spat, "Would you want a Muslim president?"

I said in what I hoped would be an even, measured tone (though I was raging inside), "First of all, what you are saying is not OK. It is not truth and is completely out of line, so please stop talking."

His voice rising, the boy tried again. "So you don't care if the president is Muslim!"

Again, breathing slowly, fully aware of the Muslim students in my class listening in, I said, "No. I wouldn't mind if the president were Muslim. It is not a factor in my decision making."

And honestly it doesn't matter to me. I don't buy into that stigma, and frankly it pisses me off when people use a person's religious belief as an insult. I firmly told the boy who continued to belabor the point to stop talking, that his remarks were racist and therefore not welcome in my class, and that the topic of the election was off limits. Whispers continued. I tried to go about my lesson ignoring them, reminding them a few times to stop discussing the election.

I usually have fairly open discourse in my class. One of my goals as a teacher is to get our students to listen mindfully and speak prudently. This is extremely difficult for high school students to do since their whole world is divided into absolutes: black or white. This election defied that assertion. Somehow, passion overcame reason for a lot of people in this country, not just in high school students. I had to shut them down because there was no intelligent sharing of ideas, only illogical, truthless rants.

I am proud that a great majority of our country is color-blind enough to elect the first African American president in history. On the news, I am hearing that maybe there will be some unification of our partisans. I hope that the rest of the world sees that we Americans are coming together in an effort to elicit change.

But I am truly sad that as a casualty to these things, our kids have learned that hate speech is OK. And the worst part is, I am almost certain that they don't know what they are saying. In fact, the majority of people who fill their mouths with hate, don't really know what they are saying.

I hope.

Tuesday, November 4, 2008

Monday, November 3, 2008

Be Prepared

When I was a kid, I always had an exit strategy. I practiced every type of drill and every scenario. For example, I felt that conducting weekly fire drills was extremely important. I made my family go to separate rooms (except for one of my parents who was in charge of actually activating the fire alarm (that is, he or she lit a match and held it up to the alarm)) and wait for the signal. They were to exit the house according to the maps I had drawn out for them, all of which ended at our meeting place, the mailbox. I had alternate routes for them to consult if, for example, the fire was in front of their normal paths. We felt the door, but not the nobs, because that might burn our hands. We crawled on our hands and knees to the nearest exit, because smoke rises, of course, and we covered our mouths with our t-shirts so as not to be asphyxiated. And if anyone deviated from the required procedure, I insisted that we do the drill again. Correctly. And if they didn't, they would experience the wrath that was an eight year old girl.

I kept a baggie of things I would die without under my bed, except that I couldn't live without them, so the bag was generally empty, the items in my arms. I also kept a butter knife under my bed.. uh... in case a murderer came into my room .(?) It was never monsters - only murderers. And they were sure to come in through my window. But I was prepared. I had a knife.

And that kind of explains my whole personality, I think. I hate being blindsided by life, and I want to have a plan for every scenario. If I ever get trapped, I want to have a way out. I have a definite plan of action, but I allow for conditional diversions from the plan, especially for those things I hold dear to me. Also, I am constantly acutely aware that someone/something is going to "get" me. Hence the anxiety meds.

This OCD paranoia keeps me fairly prepared and organized, but also must be really annoying to my friends and spouse. Ask my mom, dad, and brother. Now that I'm a parent I can only imagine the irritation I caused my reluctant parents who all of a sudden were in a difficult dilemma. Should they encourage their daughter to do the "right" thing so that she is prepared in case of an emergency - the emergency that she knew was eminent, or do they tell her to calm down, go outside for some fresh air, and join the real world for once? Fortunately, my brother mocked me enough that I was reminded that perhaps my tactics were a little extreme. He kept me sober.

I don't know where I'm going with this except to say that I fight this tendency. I am so afraid that I will not experience "living" because of all of my rules and plans that I work at spontaneity. Planned spontaneity is what I call it.
I have a route mapped out for it. It involves moving to a different country for a while, eventually. I won't say it is a definite, just yet.

But we have moved from saying "if" to "when", which is a good thing considering the fact that poor Rich will experience the wrath that is a 33 year old woman, otherwise.

Sunday, November 2, 2008

Ecstatic or Horrified?

If he's ecstatic, it must be because he watched a kid called Crabtree fly across an end zone at the very last second, rekindling the hopes of a crestfallen underdog nation. Watch out boys and girls. He'll likely rush the field.

If he's horrified, it must be because because he just watched several of his burnt orange friends get whipped by a masked rider, cape flying, her cavalry leading the charge.

I personally vote for the former, his arms a signal to the world that what he just saw was, in fact, a touchdown.

Saturday, November 1, 2008

I Saved Gilbert Flannigan

I am often cognizant of the (more than likely) fact that I am soul mates with author and comedian, David Sedaris. We are so close that we finish each other's sentences. Or really, he writes the sentences that I wish I could. I bought his new book, When You Are Engulfed in Flames, and in it is a story called "April in Paris". In the story, Sedaris who joins the American Arachnological Society, studies and befriends a spider that lives on his window sill in France. He names her April and he ends up taking her to Paris and showing her the Eiffel Tower. Hence, we have the title, "April in Paris".

Just like Sedaris has, I have my own special relationships with some of the infestations in my home. I suppose I don't bond with many of them. Actually, I usually ask most of them to leave, politely of course. The sugar ants are by far the most uncooperative and intrusive, but the ones I really can't tolerate are the roaches. I rarely see them in the house, but if I do, then it's pretty much a scene - hardcore yelling and throwing things. But spiders, especially, are helpful creatures, for the most part, so I usually just ask if they wouldn't mind moving their homes for a few days while company visits.

Last night I befriended a very large fly. He has a striped black and grey body and red eyes, and he told me his name is Gilbert Flannigan. He was just passing through when some thoughtess person closed the door on him, keeping him stuck here until morning. That's what his travel agent implied, anyway, though she didn't come right out and say it. It turns out that Gilbert is very interested in me, and because I literally can't even harm a fly, I tolerated him last night as he watched me get ready for bed. This was mildly uncomfortable, and I have to admit, I felt a little self conscious. Once I turned off the lights to go to sleep, I heard Gilbert flying around, and I thought, "Rich is probably right. He probably is just looking for a place to die." And then I was a little sad for him.

This morning was typical. I got up when I heard our Baby Smuch stirring. I turned on the coffee pot and checked my email. Smuch and I played for a while, Rich got up eventually, and then I decided to bathe. I drew my bathwater and settled in to what I would call an "almost perfect" bath - a nice temperature, a recent New Yorker Magazine in hand. Right in the middle of an article about how McCain ruined a perfectly good Sunday afternoon by kicking a puppy (or something like that), Gilbert showed up.

"I thought you would be dead by now," I whispered to him.

"I'm not dead, yet" was the reply.
"OK," I thought, "that's a pretty resilient beastie, and who am I to end his life? Just because he eats poop and lands on stuff...stuff that my baby touches.."
And that's when it happened!
Gilbert flew directly into my bathwater! I started gagging. My brain was all confused. This was so gross, and yet, I felt horrible that he was struggling to swim. And then came this mental montage: "Flies can't swim, right? Well they sort of can. Look at Gilbert. He's swimming. No. He's flailing... Drowning.. If a fly's wings get wet can he fly? Then he can't eat. Or leave. Or do anything else that flies are wont to do. Why am I doing nothing? I'm complete shit!"

And just like that, I vowed to save Gilbert.

I looked around for something to help because God forbid I would actually touch Gilbert. I ripped out a page of my New Yorker, and fashioned a make-shift buoy for him to cling to. Like a good fly, Gilbert grabbed on. I flipped him out of the bath and after standing on the side of the tub for a pulse check, he flew away. I finished my bath and went about my day.

This afternoon (four hours after the event) Gilbert came to see me in the kitchen to say, I would assume, thank you. He must be pretty grateful, seeing as he let me take his picture, and on the David Sedaris book, no less.

Sunday, November 30, 2008

"I know you can be overwhelmed, and you can be underwhelmed, but can you ever be, like, whelmed?"

Thirty days of my life have just gone by, each one feebly chronicled here for NaBloPoMo. I feel glad that it is over because I didn't enjoy the days of posting what I call "fluff," but sad, too, because I really enjoyed reading what you all had to say. Also, I made new friends!!!

Actually, I enjoy the fluff - but only when I think it is valuable or funny in some way. When I didn't have something to say, I felt like NaBlo, in his zoot suit and matching fedora, would hold a gun to my ribs and with his cigar smoky breath whisper something like, "You see here, honey, you'll post the meaningless fluff or you'll be sleeping with the fishes. Capisce?"

And I would be all like, "OK. fine. Maybe I want to sleep with fishes. I mean they're not so bad, other than they smell, um, fishy. Plus, that would get me out of grading papers (which I can't NOT mention), and away from my sick husband and kid. Hell, I'll sleep with you, NaBlo, if you can work that kind of magic. But first, I've always wanted to go to a speakeasy. Do you know where one is? What's the password? Can I order a Cape Cod? Can I wear your hat?"

And then Nablo would sigh, drop the gun, turn around and walk away, mumbling something about it not being worth it and something about Vinnie not liking this a damn bit.

"Hey, where are you going? Come back! I'll wear my stilettos! Hey!" I'd call after him. "I'll sleep with the fishes if you want!" And then on the bank of the Hudson, I would mix two buckets of concrete, step into them while wet, wait for the mix to harden, and then throw myself into the river, through the fall yelling, "See! Look! Fluff fluff fluff fluff.. (splash)" All for Nablo: fluff for fluff's sake.

I really wanted to challenge myself to think this month. I rarely get a chance to have a thought these days. Unfortunately, life gets busy. And my life is insane at the moment. I realized this when I was sitting at my in-laws house wondering if I had time to do my homework AND put out the Christmas decorations. The answer was NO. Then I had to wonder about priorities. Among many similar circumstances (change the second activity to whatever you want, the first one (homework) always being the constant), I did have time to at least post something. That is something to be proud of, I suppose. And I will miss NaBlo.

At least I'm free now. I can post or not post as much as I want.

**Title quote from Ten Things I Hate About You

Saturday, November 29, 2008

At least we're home

This is just a quick note to say that we're home safe. We had to make a midnight drive back -- the baby (finally) asleep in his car seat, Rich hanging over a sick bucket for 6 hours. They both have a nasty stomach virus, and I'm doing my best to help, though helpless is exactly what I feel..

In related news, this morning I awoke to find a baby cricket in the kitchen sink. I tried to save it, using the ole paper under the bug relay. In the end, I got the cricket outside, but I think I broke two of its legs in the process.

I hope this doesn't reflect poorly on my nursing skills.

Wednesday, November 26, 2008

Shannon Doherty did you happen to meet my friend, Gloria?

Gloria Estefan is my nemesis. Many of you know this already. For those of you who don't, I'll briefly explain. When the Miami Sound Machine comes on the radio, it's like all of a sudden I'm under hypnosis and the mesmerist, in his calmest, most sedate voice says, "OK. Ginger, when you hear, 'One, two, three, four; Come on baby, say you'll love me; five, six, seven ti-imes...' I want you to grab that butcher knife, wave it in the air, and vow to assassinate the person who personally programmed that song into the play list. OK. You will wake up at the sound of 'eight, nine, ten, eleven...'" And then I do. I grab the nearest weapon, which is usually my big mouth and I verbally castrate the DJ. I can't help it. It's coded in my DNA. I mean it's nothing personal. I'm certain that Gloria is a wonderful human being. I just inexplicably loathe her voice. It makes me want to commit homicide.

The reason this came up today was I saw a preview for some Hallmark Thanksgiving special "starring Shannon Doherty" who apparently went from 90210 bitch-itude to "And I'm thankful for you, and you, and oh, yes, little Timmy, you too. Let's roast marshmallows and sing Christmas carols by the light of the warm, glowing hearth, and learn special lessons about giving thanks."

I didn't know it until I saw the preview, but I had a Gloria Estefan reaction to Shannon, too. Right then and there, I vowed NEVER to watch anything EVER with her in it.

Even though I'm not really sad about this recent development, I do blame Gloria for it. Thanks Gloria. Thanks a lot for limiting my Hallmark movie choice this holiday season. I hope you two are very happy together.

Tuesday, November 25, 2008

Obligatory Post

In Lubbock.
Smiling Baby.
Family.
Visiting friends.
First family "portraits".
Off schedule.
Smiling...No, wait. Screaming baby.
Rosa's Mexican Food.
No nap.
Movie.
Fussy time (me).
Tired.
Still no nap (me or baby).
Screaming baby again.
Spilled wine.
2 minutes to post.
G'night soon, I hope.

Monday, November 24, 2008

It's been a whole year, but we're back in the Flatlands

We made it to the Hub City, all in tact, and saw some really cool wind turbine farms - not the sort of farms we're used to seeing in these parts, I tell you what.

Other than cleaner energy, everything seems to be the same around here, except that the whole town is still recovering from the remarkable ass kickin' it received on Saturday. The folks are licking their wounds, guns in the air. We will survive. Yes. We will survive.

Sunday, November 23, 2008

Between Loads..

Fulfilling NaBlo postal obligations between loads of laundry by saying these things:

* I miss going to the movies. There are so many I want to see. I missed Wall-E, and Ironman, and now I see that James Bond will not wait for me.. Plus, I miss the popcorn. For far too long I was "good" and either didn't get a tub OR I got a tub without butter. What was I thinking?! I wasted all of that buttery goodness! Maybe one or more grandparents will watch Jack for an evening over Thanksgiving so that we can catch a movie or two.. (hint hint).

*The TTU defeat last night was too painful to watch.. So I didn't. I sulked in my room while Rich endured the trauma. Call me a fair weather fan if you want, but there is something to be said for not bitch slapping yourself over and over again. And last nights game was the mother of all bitch slap parties to which I RSVP'd a resounding, "Aw, hell no! I won't go!"

* I should be grading papers. I have 40 Macbeth essays left to mark and 11 Dorian Gray character sketches. Only 4.25 hours of grading over Thanksgiving.. except for all of the stuff waiting for me when I get back: 130 Inferno projects, 130 SAT practice papers, and an entire literary magazine to edit. Oh, and planning the next units.. But no stress.. F*CK!

* At least my kid can sit up and play with toys for minutes at a time. And I mean it when I say I am thankful for that!

*Tomorrow we head to the Flatlands.. That will be fun!!

Saturday, November 22, 2008

Hooray Beer...Goggles

The man with the snake brimmed ten gallon hat swaggered by our table at Buck n Loons. He paused, eyes piercing through my skin, and continued on around the corner. I mumbled something about that being an odd behavior - to walk by a person, stop for enough time for the observed to feel uncomfortable, and then continue on without a word - but then I realized that I was talking about a man who had a rattle snake wrapped around his hat, the head of said snake lying limply on the brim. Probably he was not very concerned with social norms or ordinary types of pleasantries. He certainly did make an impression, though.

I am not unaccustomed to West Texas eccentrics since many of them were members of my Texas Panhandle family. Those men would gather in Mimi’s kitchen, chug Keystones, and rehash old stories that usually involved pick-ups, dirt, and/or a shotgun. These yarns were endearingly woven and told of some idiot friend who got himself into some sort of scrape, one that the ______(fill in the blank with fire chief, preacher, or sheriff)____ had to get him out of. Many of the tales ended with the listeners braying, “Ah hell” in whatever inflection was appropriate to the story – as in “No shit?!” or “That’s too bad,” or “That’s the most hilarious thing I’ve ever heard!” As the evening progressed and the beer coolers emptied, some of the stories were reenacted with props – like with a dead rattlesnake, a weed whacker, or shot gun shells. Always there was a lot of laughter, though any city slicker would have been justifiably afraid. Even I was sometimes uncomfortable, though I felt a great love and admiration for those Flatlander good-ole-boys.

So the snake brimmed man at Buck n Loons didn’t scare me as much as he reminded me of my childhood.

I, being at the end of an extremely challenging work day, sat lethargically people watching and sipping on Texas tea when he sauntered back around. I was determined to speak, to at least say hello to this dusty cowboy who obviously had some fascinating stories to tell. Before I could take a breath for what would be hello, he again stopped at our table.

This time he tapped Rich on the shoulder and said, “You do know you’re with the prettiest woman in the room, dontcha?” But before I had the chance to puff up with any ounce of pride, before Rich could even respond to confirm or deny his observation, the man said, “You better realize it or else we’ll have to take you to Vegas.”

Being understandably thrown, Rich asked, “What?”

The man explained, “You know, Vegas.. Where you can easily bury a body without being caught.”

We paused for a moment, trying to determine whether or not the man was making a joke or being genuine. I glanced over at Baby Jack, wondering how I would grab him and make a speedy exit if necessary.

Then with a huge yawping guffaw, the man slapped Rich on the back and made his way back to the bar.

“He he..he,” we weakly tittered in return.

“Check, please!”

Thursday, November 20, 2008

An Escape from Reality

It took some resistance on my part and much begging on theirs, but I finally gave in. Thanks to my students, I am reading Twilight.

Here's the thing: The book isn't written particularly well, though I am appreciative of the fact that it uses some SAT vocabulary words and the main character, Bella, likes to read and do homework - a character trait that sets her apart from the other flighty girls in the story and is, therefore, part of what the dream boy/vampire Edward admires in her. It is not a unique story, by any means, and is, as everyone deems it, a teen ROMANCE novel.

The question is, is that OK?

Edward, the ideal, who (though he wants Bella in an instinctual, predatory way) must keep his distance, physically, except for the occasional flirtatious face stroking. And maybe this will change by the end of the novel, which, in my opinion, will kill the interest. In romance novels, the lovers can't give in too easily and must make the reader wait (sometimes agonizingly) for consummation. That's what keeps us reading. Edward has to be a gentleman otherwise he wouldn't be able to control himself and would 'devour' Bella.

In the past Vampire stories (especially in places like Victorian England where staunch religion suppressed basic human nature) were sort of a way to bypass religious dogma while still playing at morality. In reading the books, men, with the unquenchable thirst for delicate, pure women, were allowed to 'take' them in a primal way, without all of the messiness of the sinful affair. And women, in reading the books, could be quite willingly 'taken'. In the end, the vampires were 'monstrous' villains and the poor helpless, though alluring, women were victims, plain and simple.

So maybe this is what Twilight is, as are all romance novels, an escape from reality where the girl who represents those of us who are ordinary - brown haired, brown eyed semi intelligent girls who want to be special enough for the ideal man to want us so much that it pains him- to be innocently seduced without feeling guilty about the seduction.

And there's nothing wrong with that, I suppose, as long as we remember that it is fantasy. Edward is not real. But then, neither is Bella.

Wednesday, November 19, 2008

Texas grand Jury indicts Cheney, Gonzales

(CNN) — A grand jury in south Texas indicted Vice President Dick Cheney and former Attorney Geneneral Alberto Gonzales on separate charges related to alleged prisoner abuse in federal detention centers, Willacy County District Attorney Juan Angel Guerra told CNN Tuesday.
On the southern tip of Texas, Willacy County is on the United States-Mexico border.
Democratic state Sen. Eddie Lucio, Jr. is also charged in the indictment. Michael R. Cowen, an attorney for Lucio, issued a statement calling Guerra a “one man circus.”
Cheney spokeswoman Megan Mitchell said, “The vice president has not received an indictment.”

And from The Washington Post and AFP.

Tuesday, November 18, 2008

I've got your friggin' post

I'm in a foul mood and I am about to take it out on you.. or really on this blog. And before I even say why I'm pissy, I should first say that I am embarrassed about airing it all out in such a public venue. Apparently, though, I'm not embarrassed enough to not post it.

So I think I'm sick. This may or may not be a direct result of the flu shot I got on Saturday.

I think Jack is sick. I can't tell, exactly, other than to say he is CONSTANTLY fussy/crying, won't take naps, is arching his back when being held, won't play or smile or do anything except cry. And I am helpless. I can't fix it. He has no other symptoms except that he won't sleep and is constantly crying.

I am buried in homework. I can't get caught up. And the district wants to give me more to do. They decide on Thursday whether or not next year they will give me more students and take away a conference period.

We don't have enough funds to make our magazine in litmag right now. Unless the kids come up with some significant patrons, the mag is sunk.

I feel really bad for Rich at the moment. He gets to hold the screaming kid right now. He, too, is feeling helpless.

I have to go and help now.

Monday, November 17, 2008

Something I usually forget, but want to be better at remembering:

"When we start to meditate or work with any kind of spiritual discipline,we often think that somehow we're going to improve, which is a subtle aggression against who we really are. It's about like saying,"If I jog, I'll be a much better person."... But loving kindness - maitri - toward ourselves doesn't mean getting rid of anything. Maitri means that we can still be crazy, we can still be angry. We can still be timid or jealous or full of feelings of unworthiness. Meditation practice isn't about trying to throw ourselves away and become something better. It's about befriending who we are already."

from Comfortable with Uncertainty by Pema Chodron

Sunday, November 16, 2008

I can't breathe

Teaching is too hard.

Recently, Christine and I have been feeling a bit overwhelmed with our jobs. Both of us have been playing with the idea that maybe we should be doing something else. We have been playing at "what if?" and have been looking at job opportunities and graduate programs. A new job is very appealing, especially now, at the end of the six weeks when the demands of our students, the parents, the administrators, and paperwork completely kick us in the gut with steel-toed boots.

This year I have been completely ineffective, as seen in my students' grades, in their attitudes, and even in the condition of my poor, abused and littered classroom. As Christine puts it, it's like we are water boarding beaten horses. We are dragging them to the water, shoving their heads under, and screaming at them, "Drink! Drink! Drink!" Afterwards, they blankly stare at us blinking and then make some ridiculous comment like, "Why do we have to be here? School sucks," and "This is boring,"and "Do we have to do anything today? I hate reading." I try to reply with a little bit of humor, saying things like, "Sorry I have to make you work IN SCHOOL." But the retorts are fairly consistent: "Well, if you were more _____(fill in the blank with your own word)___________ then maybe we would want to do something."

Yes. It is my fault.

And I say that with some sincerity. It is my fault if my kids are not learning. But at the same time, they have to at least care.. a little. And this year I am seeing an overwhelming majority of kids who would like to sleep through class, do no homework, and then expect to pass. They don't want to read, write, or even think. And you know what? They don't have to. This is where education is going in this country. We have completely lost the notion that getting a diploma is an important privilege. Instead it has become a required chore for all involved.

I hate that I sound so negative about my job and my students. I don't want to become one of those teachers and have vowed that if I were becoming that cantankerous soul, I would go and do something else. I do actually love and care about them.

But, this is me looking for something else to do.

The really sad thing is, most of my students would agree that I am a good teacher. I spend tons of time talking to them, working with them, making precise comments on and about their assignments. I meticulously mark their papers (Essays take 8 or so minutes to grade each. Multiply that times 150 students and you'll see how much extra time - outside of school- I spend working and that doesn't include daily assignments or planning). I work hard, and I really don't have to. I get paid the same amount as the person who shows "Dead Poets Society" everyday in class. I beat myself trying to be effective for my kids - to cater to their learning styles and their personalities. Their learning is my responsibility, and I take that very seriously.

A lot of people believe that to an extent teachers have it easy - they at least get the summers off. But as my good friend Jamie puts it (and sorry if I butcher this, Jamie), jobs are like cars. Some cars are year round cars; they steadily accumulate mileage and are fairly well maintained. And then you have race cars; they work for a season each year, but are driven into the ground, accumulating the same number of miles but with a lot more wear and tear. Teaching is like the race car, and the off season doesn't make the car any less worn and it doesn't change the mileage.

The summers no longer makeup for the wear and tear during the year. On top of the extreme workload and duties, our particular district would like to increase our class load by one class (30 more kids) by taking away a conference period. Because we are on a 4x4 block schedule, we would only have a conference period every other day. I will have more to do and less time to do it in, with NO extra pay. No other professional job would dare increase workload, decrease work time, and not compensate the employee for it.

I've already said I am having trouble working with apathy. It might be different if my kids were eager to learn or if they gave a shit about school. It might be different if I received some kind of respect from my kids, from the parents or from the district, or if what I do was valued in any way (other than being tossed the occasional societal platitude). But I'm not a miracle worker. I neither have the time or the energy to fight the good fight.

I think it may be time to move on.

Saturday, November 15, 2008

I'm Of The Wonderland Persuasion

I’ve always been the hopeless romantic – in a Sibyl Vane sort of way – as in I am naively in love with art and poetry and Prince Charmings and all of the utter tragedy that is love and beauty and the loss of those, knowing full well that reality may suffocate them. Even as a child one might have seen me take some practice swoons onto a fainting couch so that when the time came for me to actually swoon, I would do it right and with the perfect and appropriate effect. Or I might have cried at the injustice of windblown plastic bag, the injustice being, of course, that the bag was plastic and not paper. I would often get trapped in the romantic and worked at staying in that dreamy state – I wanted to be Alice at the tea party.

Unfortunately, the transference of the romantic to reality never really worked since reality is composed of practicality - time management, check book balancing, and (what a majority deem) rationality. Morality also raises its eyebrows occasionally in the realm of the real, though I highly suspect that Guilt is guilty of using Morality as its lap dummy. But my imagination certainly didn’t fit into this world.

I coped (and still do to an extent) with this duality by living two separate lives: my romantic, idealistic side, the one that keeps me in daydreams, vs. practical, snarky reality. And in doing so, I have trouble reconciling myself to..um..myself. I envy people who tend to have a solid, “here I am, world, anchored and secure with who I am and there’s nothing you can do to break me” motto.

It isn’t that I am lacking as far as what I believe in – the universal truths and whatnot. It’s that I am unwilling to give up on the romantic. When I find myself being too practical and responsible, I run to the open arms of Whimsy. It is escapism, I suppose, from all the cold reality that seems to hold me down – responsibility, for example.

But I can’t be real unless I’m daydreaming.

Thursday, November 13, 2008

An Odd Encounter in Concrete and Heels

So the other night we were at a swanky coffee and wine bar where they were playing some live music. After having a glass or two of house Merlot, I excused myself to go to the ladies. To get there I had to wander through a cold concrete maze, following vague signs and arrows, similar to what you would see in a parking garage, usually in a scary movie. What made it bearable was that I passed several colorful people in glam gold spandex and platform shoes. Once I finally found my destination, I walked in to find that there was one other person in the restroom and she was at the mirror applying make-up.

Earlier in the evening I had noticed her. She seemed to know a lot of people in the crowded coffee house, and was constantly getting up and sitting down and hugging people, then kissing them - all European-like. I have to admit that I was a little annoyed since the room was so crowded that there was only an inch and a half space between us, and I was looking at the back of her head. I was sitting on a plush red church pew which was hard to scoot around on, and each time she got up and sat down, I had to scoot around to see the bands. She was very pretty, at least, and I envied her gorgeous, thick hair. Plus she was very at home in her skin. There's something really nice about that.

Anyway, I walked in and she was at the mirror, applying make-up and singing. I tried not to smile, as I found it amusing that she was singing to herself and I caught her. But then I remembered what I was there to do, and now it was quiet in that cold, concrete, now silent bathroom. I was acutely aware of the sound my sassy stilettos made as I walked into a stall - click clack clack clack - and closed the door, the sound echoing back and forth off of the walls. I unbuttoned, sat down and then waited.

Awkward silence.

For far too long.

Years maybe.

No noise, whatsoever.

And then she started singing again. And that's all it took. I took care of business and shyly came out of the stall to wash my hands. I was all prepared to wet my hands, grab a towel, and jet without looking up, because seriously, how embarrassing! Then she spoke to me.

"What color should I go with?"

"Huh?" I said.

"I'm really tired. What color of eyeshadow would help me look less tired: green, copper, or sparkly?"

"I'd go copper with what you're wearing," I said realizing that I- the least girliest girl in the world when it comes to wearing make up - was dishing out advice like Elizabeth Arden.

"Thanks" she said.

"Are you playing next?" I asked.

"Yeah. I'm just trying to look presentable which is really hard right now since I am so tired."

"What time are you going on?"

"Nine-thirty."

"I wish I could hear you play, but we only have the babysitter until 10, and we live a ways away from here." In my brain, as I said this sentence, I couldn't believe I was still talking. Maybe I should tell her that my baby is five months old and that it's my husband's birthday, and that I had a c-section, and my favorite month is October. Lamely I asked, "Do you have a Myspace or anything so that we can catch you at another event?" What? Shut up! I swear I'm not hitting on you, I thought, and I am also not a computer geek...no wait...

"Yeah, she said. Grab a sticker with our web information. Our band is called Inner Frequency."

"OK. Thanks."

And I left- click clack clack clack- feeling a little bit strange and a little bit cool, too.

Wednesday, November 12, 2008

Friday Night Salon

It's salon time again! If you have a comment/response to any of these, please feel free to write as little or as much as you want! Enjoy!

When was the last time you had a genuine conversation--an experience not of mere self-assertion but of speaking and listening as though you had something both to offer and to receive? Our habits of language define us, but the pace of our lives is such that the simple gestures of listening carefully and speaking prudently are amazingly rare. The Friday Night Salon aims at being an alternative to the urban rush that denies the civilizing graces of community. We begin with good food and drink, then take our places in a circle for discussion about a variety of relevant, substantial topics. It's a welcome way to end the Dallas workweek.

Discussion topics for November 14, 2008:
1. What happened on November 4th?
2. What is entertainment's place in a healthy culture?
3. Are homo sapiens intellectually curious by nature?
4. Chronos vs. kairos: can we control how we experience time?

Tuesday, November 11, 2008

To the Looking-Glass world it was Alice that said

“I’ve a scepter in hand, I’ve a crown on my head.
Let the Looking-Glass creatures, whatever they be
Come and dine with the Red Queen, the White Queen, and me!”

Then fill up the glasses as quick as you can,
And sprinkle the table with buttons and bran:
Put cats in the coffee, and mice in the tea—
And welcome Queen Alice with thirty-times-three!

“O Looking-Glass creatures,” quoth Alice, “draw near!
’Tis an honour to see me, a favour to hear:
’Tis a privilege high to have dinner and tea
Along with the Red Queen, the White Queen, and me!”

Then fill up the glasses with treacle and ink.
Or anything else that is pleasant to drink:
Mix sand with the cider and wool with the wine—
And welcome Queen Alice with ninety-times-nine!
from Through the Looking Glass by Lewis Carroll

Monday, November 10, 2008

Divine Intervention Interrupted by Divine Intervention

I was a bit worried this morning when I got to work and realized what I had planned for the day. It involved the students getting up and reading their free write reflections. I usually assign a specific topic for them to consider and write about, but last week I decided to let them free write, mostly because I had forgotten to prepare a topic for them with all of the billions of essays I had/have to grade. So this morning I panicked a little, especially since there have been countless instances of kids saying hateful things to each other in light of the election, racist things that seriously hurt my heart. I refuse to write these into existence on this blog.

I began the class with this caveat:

"I think before we begin, we need to remember to be mindful of our words and our reactions. We need to respect each others' opinions, but also only share that which is worthy of respect," or something like that. They grinned knowingly at me, as in, "Hey, we know you are talking about the election and the text messages and emails, and we hear you." But then, some of them looked like sabotage was on their minds.

I held my breath as I called on the first volunteer.

"My reflection is on taking things for granted," he began, and continued on about how athletes don't understand what a gift it is to have a talent and to be able to compete.

The second person talked about the fact that she, "can't believe [she] is grown-up." She spoke about her parents seeing her as an adult and the sacrifices they made for her, and the ones she will have to make in the future.

The next boy spoke about death and that he has attended far too many funerals for his peers. He ended with a poem to those friends he lost, a very unexpected response from this very large, O -line athlete.

One talked about synthetic ingredients in perfumes and soaps, another about wanting to play video games as a career, an so on and so forth.

Of all of those who volunteered only one was a bit scathing about the election, and the students, though they gasped collectively, held their breath, waited for her to finish, and exhaled were fairly supportive of her.

I was really proud of them today and felt like I had dodged a bullet of sorts. Unfortunately, I survived this only to realize that the next text I would introduce would be Dante's Inferno.

Hey kids, now that we're done working through being non confrontational about a very personal, passionate subject, let's talk about God and sin and hell! Weee!

Sunday, November 9, 2008

The Universal Conservation of "L"s

During our three hour window of baby-less transaction, we careened towards the great metro-wonderland of music and lights and dancing and sin, leaning forward to get there faster. And then this:

Him: So, yesterday my students noticed the way I say bolth. They were all like, "Mr. Haag, it's not pronounced boLth, it's both."

Her: See. They're smart.

Him: Well it's not bowwwth. Bowwwth sounds so.. so..

Her: Correct?

Him: Snobby. (lifting his nose in the air) Bowwwth. See? Uppity.

Her: (eye roll) Dude.

Him: Look. It has to do with the Universal Conservation of "L"s

Her: The wha..??

Him: The Universal Conservation of "L"s dictates that we sometimes conserve the L in words like "solder". Say it with me. "saw-der" See? No "L" is pronounced. You then take that L and move it where it is supposed to be - in words such as "boLth".

Her: Oh my God, it's a good thing this is your birthday week-end, the one time you get to say weird stuff and I nod and smile instead of explaining, using pie charts and graphs, why what you are saying is completely pulled out of your ass. (nodding and smiling)

Him: Precisely.

-And scene-

Happy Birthday, Love.

(p.s. I hope you are not too disappointed that we can't afford your midlife crisis Ferrari. At least you have a hot young trophy wife.. (wink))

Friday, November 7, 2008

Freaky Friday

Hey, it's Friday! Here's a cat listening to music in a record store!

www.totalleh.com - click to visit

It's what you've always wanted.
Happy Friday!

Thursday, November 6, 2008

Gingerly Casting My Medal Aside In The Most Polite Way, So As Not To Cause A Ruckus

I suppose there are always “consequences” for our actions. I mean the wrestler who threw his Olympic bronze medal on the mat and walked away in disgust is now banned from participating in the sport for two years. That's a consequence. Most of us nod our heads and say, “Yes. He deserves that consequence for unsportsmanlike behavior, by God!” Maybe that is the correct reaction. But probably to the wrestler, it was worth making the statement – to fight what he judged as being an injustice - even though he has to endure the consequence.

My former boss, Mr. Adams (and I think I can now say his name since he has retired) always used to ask me a question when I felt like there was an injustice being “committed” in my vicinity. He used to say to me, “Ginger, is this the hill you want to die on?” I assume he said “hill” because, let’s face it, around these parts there are no mountains. The point, though, was clear. He wanted to know if it was worth risking my opinion, my reputation, my job in some cases, to fight for what I think is right. In most cases it was not worth engaging in battle; the injustice wasn't egregious enough to fight against.

I have to admit that I am a passionate, reactionary person and have for several years worked at trying to be more measured – to take a step back before I react, to breathe through emotions, and even “sleep on it” before I respond. In most cases this is a good thing. I suppose that this is some form of maturity training or pearl of wisdom that I seek. I fancy this quality - patience, we might call it or an attempt at understanding - a good one to possess.

But what happens when we decide that whatever we are facing is the battle we want to fight? What happens when we decide that this hill is THE hill?

This has happened to me before. I ended up changing jobs as a result; I couldn’t work for a woman who promoted injustice. I climbed the hill. I was proactive, made my statement, and moved forward. I didn't die.

I am at that point in my life again, standing at the base of a very personal hill. I have relatively little armor to put on, except the confidence to know that something needs to change for me. It is time to move forward. I think it’s time to climb a little, though I do feel afraid.

Maybe I’ll be surprised at the outcome.

Wednesday, November 5, 2008

Election Reflection

I knew today would be nuts at school. This election was huge to the students. Plus, most of them, my seniors, are eligible to vote. In their government classes and history classes, they were able to study the candidates' platforms. Student council held a mock election, and the journalism class polled students, passed out surveys, and reported statistics and observations.

Our school is very diverse. We don't really have a "majority" when looking at any demographic. Our school is made up of wonderfully colorful students who represent many cultures and religions. They are from all kinds of socio-economic circumstances and are involved in all kinds of different programs.
I love my school because of this diversity. Most of the time the kids get along really well - they date outside of their demographic, they are mostly tolerant of each other (though still somewhat self-segregated outside of the classroom), and are generally willing to listen to opposing viewpoints.

When it came to this election, however, the kids got lost in the chaos that they saw/heard on their televisions, in the rumor mills, and in their homes. Several of my students (who are quite easily influenced, as most teens are, and who are still very literal thinkers) feel like they have had the rug ripped out from under them. Some of them came into my classroom angry about their candidate - the one they had hope in and were confident about - not getting elected, vocally wondering things like, "how the anti-Christ" got elected. They walked through the halls yelling out things like, "Welcome to Communist America, people."

One of the boys sneered in a most hateful tone, "I can't believe that black Muslim got elected." The sweet little girl sitting next to him - who was wearing her hijab as she does proudly everyday- said in a deflated tone, "He isn't Muslim, first of all, and why do you say that, like it is such a horrible thing if he were?" The hateful boy ignored her, turned to me, and spat, "Would you want a Muslim president?"

I said in what I hoped would be an even, measured tone (though I was raging inside), "First of all, what you are saying is not OK. It is not truth and is completely out of line, so please stop talking."

His voice rising, the boy tried again. "So you don't care if the president is Muslim!"

Again, breathing slowly, fully aware of the Muslim students in my class listening in, I said, "No. I wouldn't mind if the president were Muslim. It is not a factor in my decision making."

And honestly it doesn't matter to me. I don't buy into that stigma, and frankly it pisses me off when people use a person's religious belief as an insult. I firmly told the boy who continued to belabor the point to stop talking, that his remarks were racist and therefore not welcome in my class, and that the topic of the election was off limits. Whispers continued. I tried to go about my lesson ignoring them, reminding them a few times to stop discussing the election.

I usually have fairly open discourse in my class. One of my goals as a teacher is to get our students to listen mindfully and speak prudently. This is extremely difficult for high school students to do since their whole world is divided into absolutes: black or white. This election defied that assertion. Somehow, passion overcame reason for a lot of people in this country, not just in high school students. I had to shut them down because there was no intelligent sharing of ideas, only illogical, truthless rants.

I am proud that a great majority of our country is color-blind enough to elect the first African American president in history. On the news, I am hearing that maybe there will be some unification of our partisans. I hope that the rest of the world sees that we Americans are coming together in an effort to elicit change.

But I am truly sad that as a casualty to these things, our kids have learned that hate speech is OK. And the worst part is, I am almost certain that they don't know what they are saying. In fact, the majority of people who fill their mouths with hate, don't really know what they are saying.

I hope.

Monday, November 3, 2008

Be Prepared

When I was a kid, I always had an exit strategy. I practiced every type of drill and every scenario. For example, I felt that conducting weekly fire drills was extremely important. I made my family go to separate rooms (except for one of my parents who was in charge of actually activating the fire alarm (that is, he or she lit a match and held it up to the alarm)) and wait for the signal. They were to exit the house according to the maps I had drawn out for them, all of which ended at our meeting place, the mailbox. I had alternate routes for them to consult if, for example, the fire was in front of their normal paths. We felt the door, but not the nobs, because that might burn our hands. We crawled on our hands and knees to the nearest exit, because smoke rises, of course, and we covered our mouths with our t-shirts so as not to be asphyxiated. And if anyone deviated from the required procedure, I insisted that we do the drill again. Correctly. And if they didn't, they would experience the wrath that was an eight year old girl.

I kept a baggie of things I would die without under my bed, except that I couldn't live without them, so the bag was generally empty, the items in my arms. I also kept a butter knife under my bed.. uh... in case a murderer came into my room .(?) It was never monsters - only murderers. And they were sure to come in through my window. But I was prepared. I had a knife.

And that kind of explains my whole personality, I think. I hate being blindsided by life, and I want to have a plan for every scenario. If I ever get trapped, I want to have a way out. I have a definite plan of action, but I allow for conditional diversions from the plan, especially for those things I hold dear to me. Also, I am constantly acutely aware that someone/something is going to "get" me. Hence the anxiety meds.

This OCD paranoia keeps me fairly prepared and organized, but also must be really annoying to my friends and spouse. Ask my mom, dad, and brother. Now that I'm a parent I can only imagine the irritation I caused my reluctant parents who all of a sudden were in a difficult dilemma. Should they encourage their daughter to do the "right" thing so that she is prepared in case of an emergency - the emergency that she knew was eminent, or do they tell her to calm down, go outside for some fresh air, and join the real world for once? Fortunately, my brother mocked me enough that I was reminded that perhaps my tactics were a little extreme. He kept me sober.

I don't know where I'm going with this except to say that I fight this tendency. I am so afraid that I will not experience "living" because of all of my rules and plans that I work at spontaneity. Planned spontaneity is what I call it.
I have a route mapped out for it. It involves moving to a different country for a while, eventually. I won't say it is a definite, just yet.

But we have moved from saying "if" to "when", which is a good thing considering the fact that poor Rich will experience the wrath that is a 33 year old woman, otherwise.

Sunday, November 2, 2008

Ecstatic or Horrified?

If he's ecstatic, it must be because he watched a kid called Crabtree fly across an end zone at the very last second, rekindling the hopes of a crestfallen underdog nation. Watch out boys and girls. He'll likely rush the field.

If he's horrified, it must be because because he just watched several of his burnt orange friends get whipped by a masked rider, cape flying, her cavalry leading the charge.

I personally vote for the former, his arms a signal to the world that what he just saw was, in fact, a touchdown.

Saturday, November 1, 2008

I Saved Gilbert Flannigan

I am often cognizant of the (more than likely) fact that I am soul mates with author and comedian, David Sedaris. We are so close that we finish each other's sentences. Or really, he writes the sentences that I wish I could. I bought his new book, When You Are Engulfed in Flames, and in it is a story called "April in Paris". In the story, Sedaris who joins the American Arachnological Society, studies and befriends a spider that lives on his window sill in France. He names her April and he ends up taking her to Paris and showing her the Eiffel Tower. Hence, we have the title, "April in Paris".

Just like Sedaris has, I have my own special relationships with some of the infestations in my home. I suppose I don't bond with many of them. Actually, I usually ask most of them to leave, politely of course. The sugar ants are by far the most uncooperative and intrusive, but the ones I really can't tolerate are the roaches. I rarely see them in the house, but if I do, then it's pretty much a scene - hardcore yelling and throwing things. But spiders, especially, are helpful creatures, for the most part, so I usually just ask if they wouldn't mind moving their homes for a few days while company visits.

Last night I befriended a very large fly. He has a striped black and grey body and red eyes, and he told me his name is Gilbert Flannigan. He was just passing through when some thoughtess person closed the door on him, keeping him stuck here until morning. That's what his travel agent implied, anyway, though she didn't come right out and say it. It turns out that Gilbert is very interested in me, and because I literally can't even harm a fly, I tolerated him last night as he watched me get ready for bed. This was mildly uncomfortable, and I have to admit, I felt a little self conscious. Once I turned off the lights to go to sleep, I heard Gilbert flying around, and I thought, "Rich is probably right. He probably is just looking for a place to die." And then I was a little sad for him.

This morning was typical. I got up when I heard our Baby Smuch stirring. I turned on the coffee pot and checked my email. Smuch and I played for a while, Rich got up eventually, and then I decided to bathe. I drew my bathwater and settled in to what I would call an "almost perfect" bath - a nice temperature, a recent New Yorker Magazine in hand. Right in the middle of an article about how McCain ruined a perfectly good Sunday afternoon by kicking a puppy (or something like that), Gilbert showed up.

"I thought you would be dead by now," I whispered to him.

"I'm not dead, yet" was the reply.
"OK," I thought, "that's a pretty resilient beastie, and who am I to end his life? Just because he eats poop and lands on stuff...stuff that my baby touches.."
And that's when it happened!
Gilbert flew directly into my bathwater! I started gagging. My brain was all confused. This was so gross, and yet, I felt horrible that he was struggling to swim. And then came this mental montage: "Flies can't swim, right? Well they sort of can. Look at Gilbert. He's swimming. No. He's flailing... Drowning.. If a fly's wings get wet can he fly? Then he can't eat. Or leave. Or do anything else that flies are wont to do. Why am I doing nothing? I'm complete shit!"

And just like that, I vowed to save Gilbert.

I looked around for something to help because God forbid I would actually touch Gilbert. I ripped out a page of my New Yorker, and fashioned a make-shift buoy for him to cling to. Like a good fly, Gilbert grabbed on. I flipped him out of the bath and after standing on the side of the tub for a pulse check, he flew away. I finished my bath and went about my day.

This afternoon (four hours after the event) Gilbert came to see me in the kitchen to say, I would assume, thank you. He must be pretty grateful, seeing as he let me take his picture, and on the David Sedaris book, no less.