I dedicate this site to my mother. She was a columnist and an author with the uncanny ability to find humor in the daily ins and outs of life. She faced every challenge with a witty optimism, including the cancer that ended her life too soon.
Apparently, the nature of New Year's resolutions has changed since the 19th century. What used to be an exercise in self improvement - helping others, working harder, etc. - has morphed into an egocentric pursuit mostly focused on poor body image, a transformation that I am sure Weight Watchers and Jenny Craig are more than happy to perpetuate.
In my (extensive five-minute) research on the topic, the top ten most popular resolutions still tend to include some altruistic goals - learn something new, spend more time with family and friends, enjoy life more - blah, blah, blah- how beautiful.
I find it funny that "spend more time with family . . . " and "enjoy life more" a.k.a. (according to some resolution resources) "reduce stress" are listed together. Can you really be expected to reduce stress in your life and spend more time with your family? (I'm joking, all of my family members who are collectively groaning. Please, no angry e-mails or texts. Put the phone down! Put it down!)
As I compiled my own list, I noticed that most of my resolutions contained a "not." I don't know what that could mean. Maybe I am an extremely negative person. Or maybe there are a lot of things in my life that need to stop.
Whatever the case may be, I have decided to call this my official "New Year's Un-Resolutions List."
Considering that 88% of New Year's resolutions fail, most of the items on my list are such that the success rate will not make or break me.
In 2013, I will:
1. Not lose weight.
Maybe a little reverse psychology will work this year.
2. Not discuss politics with people who claim to be "apolitical."
Anyone who claims to be apolitical should not espouse so many political opinions, especially opinions that contradict mine. (If you think this is a veiled reference to you, you are probably right.)
3. Not make any new friends.
I saw "make new friends" on a couple of popular resolutions lists. I thought it would be fun to not make any new friends this year. It's not like a need a bunch of new friends right now. I guess if I do make new friends, it won't be that big of a deal though.
4. Try to convince my husband not to buy so many MP3s.
Ever since Dan discovered the Amazon daily deals, we have so much new music. If it is under $5.99, it is probably on our Cloud, even if it is "Pavarotti Sings Disco." There is no way I can listen to all of the music that has magically appeared on my iPod.
5. Not have children.
Sorry, everyone. Of course, there might be a little more at stake if this one fails.
I have devoted the last couple of weeks to my top ten list of gifts I really don't want this Christmas. (See "Please Don't Get Me . . . Part #1 and Part #2.")
As I said last week, my number one "Please Don't Get Me . . ." gift is Fifty Shades of Grey, and I so vehemently do not want this gift that I am devoting an entire blog post to it this week.
I wanted people to understand a couple of things before I start criticizing a series I have no desire to read. First of all, I hate it when people lambaste books they have never read. Think of this more as a boycott than a critique. Second of all, I am not a prude nor do I advocate censorship.
Here is my problem: The Fifty Shades franchise exposes a disturbing trend in the regression of women's rights. Apparently, reading about women being abused is now considered awesome and sexy.
I have never been a Harlequin reader because I can't handle reading something so poorly written. (I barely made it through The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo books.) I understand that romance novels often focus on old-fashioned submission of virginal young females, no matter how it is dressed up with career women protagonists, etc. Now here comes a tale of an older, emotionally stunted man who relives his own abusive past on a young twenty-something, simultaneously propelling the term BDSM into the mainstream lexicon.
Keep in mind, this book has become popular during this current culture of defining rape as "legitimate" or "a-gift-from-God," labeling women who want their birth control covered by insurance as sluts and prostitutes, and suggesting that women post their sexual exploits on the web.
Of course, pornography can be seductive, and "Fifty Shades" is hot. Less enjoyable is the undercurrent about women's lack of rights . . . But to what extent can women enjoy free play in a country where those going by the name of "Christian" mount legislation forcing them to bear children conceived in rape? When poor young women like Christian's "crack whore" mother are denied access to birth control? By enjoying a porn of their own, women can at least indulge the fantasy that their pleasure comes first even as politicians are devising new forms of punishment.
A while ago, Katie Couric interviewed the Fifty Shades series' author, E.L. James.
"When I read it," Couric said, "I felt like I was the most boring woman in the world."
I wouldn't worry about that, Katie. I would worry more about admitting to reading such low-brow, poorly written prose. I could barely get through the excerpts that I attempted to read (for research purposes only, of course).
The question was raised as to whether or not the books have improved people's marriages and relationships.
During the course of the interview, James said of her readers, "They say, 'Thank you very much, and my husband thanks you too.'
James also revealed that the books were written as a result of midlife crisis and that she was inspired to write them by the Twilight series. That explains the poor writing.
So has anything positive come (no pun intended) out of Fifty Shades? The term "Mommy porn" is pretty rad. Also, the irony in hotels replacing the Bible with Fifty Shades is priceless. (I'm not sacrilegious. I just appreciate irreverent humor.)
With the holidays quickly approaching, I decided to devote my next two
blog posts to the worst possible Christmas gifts I could receive this
year. Last week, I introduced you to numbers 10 through 6. Here are the last five gifts on my "Please Don't Get Me . . ." list.
5. Espresso Machine
It's not that I'm opposed to owning an espresso machine. It's just that I would end up way too caffeinated. And when I drink coffee-type beverages everyday, I get stomachaches. I might love the buzz (and, believe me, I love the buzz), but I don't love the buzz at the expense of the lining of my stomach. I'll stick to my Fair Trade lattes every once and a while.
4. iPad
You mean an "i-maxi-Pad?" (Cue juvenile laughter now.) Same as the iPhone in Part #1. I just don't want one.
3. Any Young Adult Fiction
It is an odd phenomenon. Lately adults having been recommending YA fiction, not for my students', but for my own reading enjoyment. Yes, I read all of the Harry Potter and Narnia books, but I'm not really interested in this new explosion of Young Adult novels. Maybe I'll catch the movies at a later date. I'm not promising anything though.
2. One Direction Album
I paid my dues. I grew up in the era of New Kids on the Block.
And my number one least desirable gift? (Drum roll, please . . .)
1. Fifty Shades of Grey (or any other incarnation)
In fact, I so do not want this gift that I will be devoting an entire blog post to it next week. Stay tuned if you really want to know!
In Jill's Words is taking a break from humor. Out of respect for the victims of the terrible and senseless tragedy in Connecticut, this weekend's blog post will be postponed until the middle of the week. As an elementary school teacher, I grieve for the families and the community of Newtown. Please take a moment to let your children know how much you love them. And to all of my students, current and past, be safe. I care about you very much.
With the holidays quickly approaching, I decided to devote my next two blog posts to the worst possible Christmas gifts I could receive this year - not that I expect presents from my faithful readers. But just in case, here is the first half of my top ten list of "Please Don't Get Me . . ." gifts.
10. Fruitcake
I had to include this old standby. Every few years, I teach my elementary kids a song called "The Everlasting Fruitcake," about a re-gifted fruitcake that gets run over by a lawn mower, sent to Norway, and tossed into a mulcher. And it just keeps coming back.
9. Furby
This is one freaky toy from the 1990s I would like to forget. It reminds me a little too much of a Gremlin. And now it is predicted to be one of the most popular toys this Christmas. Terrific.
8. Walmart Gift Card
Not a Walmart fan . . . for political reasons. That is all I'm going to say.
7. Twilight Movie Tickets
I think I am one generation removed from the people who understand this series. My husband and I went to the first movie, thinking the trailers looked decent. We were very disappointed. And what's with the return of these subservient, too-dependent-on-men, female characters in pop culture?
6. iPhone
I just don't want one. A smartphone of some kind wouldn't be so bad . . . as long as there is no lowercase "i" in front of it.
Apparently, '90s nostalgia is a thing now. I am still in denial that the '90s are even over. Dan and I bought tickets to see the Toadies a few weeks ago. Then the newspaper ran a concert blurb with the headline "'90s alert!" that opened with "Start finding a babysitter, Mom and Dad," and ended with "Take hearing protection, Gen-Xers." I had to face it. My generation had lived long enough to qualify as the nostalgic generation.
This so-called '90s nostalgia is probably no different from the '60s and '70s nostalgia that was a part of my childhood and early teens. The nostalgic generation is the generation that can afford to buy tickets to concerts. It is a simple case of supply and demand. Dan and I have been known to spend exorbitant amounts of money on VIP tickets so that we don't have to stand on the floor. Neither one of us would have been able to afford that in the '90s.
I wasn't super excited about the concert. I liked the Toadies. But I basically knew nothing about the other band, Helmet. And according to my husband's description, I was pretty sure Helmet was not my type of band.
However, I enjoyed the concert a lot more than I expected, especially the Toadies. (I was right about Helmet. I will not be popping in any of their CD's on my way to work. But, as a musician, I could appreciate the guitarist's virtuosity.) The members of both bands looked like graying and balding versions of the music major nerds with whom I spent all of my time in college.
After the Toadies finished their set and Helmet began playing, the hip thirty-something crowd that Dan and I most resembled, gradually cleared out. All of a sudden, we found ourselves alone in our VIP chairs, staring down at a group of large men with goatees and long, fuzzy hair slam dancing in front of the stage.
When the bouncers carted off a couple of wild men who looked a bit like Charles Manson, I got a little nervous about the post-concert parking lot. So I made Dan leave before Helmet came out for an encore, a fact that he brings up at least twice a day. (Dan loves to get to concerts an hour early and stay until the bitter end.)
Plus, I fell asleep during Helmet, the band that is known for making ears bleed. I found Helmet to be somewhat relaxing, like listening to a drone. Hey, it's not the '90s anymore. I can't stay up past eleven.
Every Thanksgiving, Dan and I run in a 5K called the Turkey Trot. It used to be a sort of family affair until the time we had to run in twelve-degree weather. Now my father, Dan, and I are the only relations crazy enough to brave the cold. Personally, I like running or - in my case - light jogging. Dan, on the other hand, will run, but he doesn't really enjoy it.
"Don't you feel good?" I always ask Dan after a brisk morning jog.
"I feel tired. And cold. And sweaty."
I wonder - has he just returned from an invigorating run, or is he coming down with the flu?
As fate would have it, Dan is the better runner. He beats me every time.
For this particular Turkey Trot, the participant guesses his/her race time, and the runner who comes closest to his/her predicted time wins a turkey. Dan, possessing a slightly competitive nature, tried to win the turkey the first year and was frustrated when he came within seconds of his guessed time.
We're not even sure if there is a turkey awarded or if it is just some weird dangling carrot. Most people leave before the last person crosses the finish line, so no one really knows who wins the turkey anyway.
All of the runners and walkers also get free swag. One year, it was a sweatshirt, and another year, it was a choice between a beanie or a headband. But some years, the race is so well attended that they run out of swag. They promise to mail it to you, but we are still waiting on our sweatshirts from four years ago. This year, they are mailing us headbands. We are not holding our breath.
Of course, Dan and I don't run in this event for the free stuff or for the promise of a turkey. I do it because it is a fun, new family tradition that has developed since my marriage to Dan. It takes place in the town where my family lives, so it gives me a chance to spend some extra time with them. It is also nice to preemptively burn off those calories that I will be consuming later that afternoon. I don't really know why Dan does it; maybe he just likes to do whatever I do.
This year, I tried to get to the bottom of why he did, in fact, participate even though running is not his favorite hobby.
But I gave up when I asked Dan, "How do you like our annual Turkey Trot tradition?" and he replied, "I don't hate it."
Of course, when I told him I might be entering a Christmas fun run with my school, he asked, "Can I join too?"
Perhaps he enjoys it more than he likes to admit.
The Turkey Trot when it used to be a family affair
Thanksgiving is in a few days, and if you stalk Facebook the way I do, you have probably seen the daily gratitude posts that pop up around this time of year. For example, the status reads, "Day 1: I am thankful for . . ." and then the person proceeds to tell - you every single day throughout the month of November - for what they are grateful.
The "30 Days of Gratitude" Facebook page states, "Did you know that, according to scientific research, people who focused on appreciation and
gratitude were considerably happier, less likely to complain about
physical ailments and even more likely to exercise and offer assistance
to others?"
Well, I wanted to be considerably happier and less likely to complain about physical ailments. But I was pretty sure I couldn't come up with something every day for thirty days without sounding like a total sap. Plus, the stress of having to post a status everyday was guaranteed to cancel out the promises of increased considerable happiness and decreased complaints about physical ailments.
So I decided to blog about a few things from the past couple of weeks for which I am deeply grateful.
I am thankful that the kid with debilitating stage fright during a recent music program made it to the bathroom before he threw up. I am also thankful that he made it to the stage in time to say his line and that he didn't blow chunks mid-dialogue.
I am thankful that Props 1, 2, & 3 failed. Yay, Idaho, for not just taking what the preferred political party spoon fed you at face value. It showed real integrity on the part of Idaho voters.
I am thankful that no one saw me fall on my butt the other day while I was trying to pick up the car keys I had dropped on the sidewalk in front of my school. I am also grateful that no one turned me in for public intoxication because I wasn't drunk - really. I was just weighed down by a huge backpack and two other shoulder bags. Such is the life of a music teacher.
I am thankful for my tech guy husband. I have a 24/7 IT guy on call at my house. That's amazing. And my tech guy is very quiet, so I can pretty much talk as much as I want. He also helps me with all of the tech set up and manual labor at my school music programs and doesn't complain one bit. Of course, that could have something to do with the quiet-no-talking thing he has going on.
I would like to be thankful for world peace. Unfortunately, that doesn't look like it's going to happen any time soon.
I guess there's not much more to say other than, Happy Thanksgiving, people!
Thank you, Idaho voters, for understanding that the public education system is non-partisan. Thank you for being informed and voting against Props 1, 2, and 3. Thank you for doing what is best for Idaho students because, regardless of what some political leaders (with limited experience in the field of education) may say, we teachers really do love our students and want to provide them with the best possible education. Now it is time to make a more collaborative effort and develop a plan that will truly benefit Idaho's public education system.
Here is my plug: Don't forget the arts!
In this climate of Common Core and STEM and Race To The Top, don't forget that beauty and aestheticism and creativity are essential to a nation of well-rounded, productive citizens. Integration is wonderful. But don't forget, art for the sake of art is just as valuable.
For further reading on the Props 1, 2, and 3 issue:
Check out my blog post from last week and Kevin Richert's editorial from this week.
A few weeks ago, I picked up a couple of "Vote No on Props 1, 2, & 3" yard signs. My husband, Dan, and I have never decorated our lawn or our cars with political statements around election time.
But, as a school teacher, this issue directly affects me. And as a teacher of the arts, an academic discipline that is constantly marginalized in the current test-taking culture, this issue really could be the difference between having a job and not having a job. Unlike most of my votes in the red state of Idaho, this one could actually count.
Anyway, I came home with two signs and posted one of them in my yard. I didn't know what to do with the second sign, but I figured I could keep it in the garage as back up. I was a kind of paranoid about crazy people vandalizing the sign or kicking it down in the middle of the night. Like I said, I had never espoused political views from lawn before.
When Dan came home from work that afternoon, he greeted me with, "So we're those sort of people now."
I told him I had a spare sign in the garage.
"What are we supposed to do with a second sign?" he asked.
"I don't know. Give it to a neighbor?"
Later that week, Dan and I were taking a walk and saw a "Yes, Yes, Yes for Education" bumper sticker on the back of a neighbor's truck, right next to a Tea Party decal. ("Yes for Education" is the opposition if you hadn't already guessed.)
Dan stroked chin and said, "Hmmm . . . I think we found a use for our second sign."
Of course, we would never do that. It sounds pretty illegal.
Then I was recruited for a "Vote No" commercial, and the inevitable finally happened. I took a stand.
When the commercial first aired in Twin Falls, my dad called me, cracking up.
"You got political," he said, in between bouts of laughter and hilarity.
A little background information: My father is the one whose lawn is decorated with candidate signs. And he is always championing some sort of social cause. Right now, he is working on Kiwanis International's Eliminate Project which provides tetanus vaccinations to women and children. (There's a plug for you, my partner in social cause crime.)
"I guess the apple doesn't fall far from the tree," I responded as he continued to chuckle.
In the faculty lounge (our school's "Free Speech Zone"), I overheard one of our maintenance and operations workers asking, "What do you think the outcome of these props will be?"
Another staff member replied, "Well, my sixteen-year-old son came home the other day with a warped textbook. Something had been spilled on it, and it was tattered and beaten up. And I thought, 'Even better if that was a laptop!'"
Prop 1: Limiting Negotiations "They" say "they" are busting up the 1920's mafia-style unions.
"Union" is a taboo word here in Idaho. But the teachers' union in the right-to-work state of Idaho does not have nearly the amount of power that "they" would like you to believe. In fact, our so-called union is an association made up of teachers. We have voluntarily joined this so-called union and pay union dues because the association negotiates things like class sizes, prep times, and extra duties. Also, the rhetoric about "teacher tenure" is misleading. Teachers are not tenured in the college professorial sense. The "tenure" refers to continuing contracts. We can be fired. But we get due process before we are let go. Hmmm . . . sounds like a fairness issue to me.
Prop 2: Merit Pay "They" say "they" are giving "good" teachers bonuses.
First of all, none of the "bonuses" we are getting make up the salary decrease we have experienced in the last few years. And second of all, NEWS FLASH: Teachers don't go into teaching for the money! Plus, we Boise District teachers are baffled as to how the merit pay "bonuses" were determined.
According to the Idaho Statesman: "The state set a measure for rewards based on how well students perform on the Idaho Standards Achievement Test. Individual districts had the option to add criteria, such as student graduation and dropout rates, the number of students taking AP classes and more."
However, according to Idaho's new academic accountability system, the Five-Star Rating System, many of the Boise schools that received four stars will receive less in bonuses than some schools that received three and even two stars. And the majority of the schools getting maximum bonuses? High SES (socioeconomic status) schools. Hmmm . . . sounds like a class warfare issue to me.
Prop 3: Laptops for Everyone "They" say it will catapult our kids and districts into the 21st century.
Since when do kids need to be catapulted into the 21st century? They all know how to use technology quite effectively. And handing a bunch of laptops to kids who already have access to SMART Boards, iPads, smartphones, iPods, etc. in schools across Idaho is hardly cutting edge technology. Plus, the lease agreement (yes, the districts won't even own these mobile devices) is almost three times the dollar amount originally proposed by our Superintendent of Public Education, Tom Luna. Hmmm . . . sounds like a fiscal responsibility issue to me.
For more information, please visit the Vote No website.
I am calling these past seven days, "The Week of Goodbyes." Some of the goodbyes have been bittersweet, some humorous, some sad, and some have been felt nationwide. Here are five goodbyes from this week:
Goodbye to two students who moved away
I am at a school with a lot of mobility. It is not unusual for students to move in and back out of my classroom within weeks. However, these two students were kids who had been with me since the school had opened. One of these kids had made tremendous growth in behavior this year, and the other one had overcome her shyness to play a role in our spring musical last year. I was sad to see them go so suddenly. One little boy keeps teasing me and telling me he is moving to California. When I threaten to hide him under my risers so that he can't leave, he grins and says, "Just kidding."
Goodbye to those two front teeth
Yes, this is the time of year that the six-year-old kiddos start losing teeth by the truckload. I can hardly walk down the hall without coming across little ones with plastic tooth carriers hanging from their necks. (If you have ever worked in an elementary school, you have probably encountered those contraptions at one time or another.) Hence, the popularity of the song "All I Want for Christmas is My Two Front Teeth" during the month of December.
Goodbye to our student teacher
Friday was my student teacher's last day, and as you can see from the picture on the left, the kids will really miss him. The comments I heard on Friday ranged from, "I don't want you to leave," to "You'll come back to visit, right?" And he thought he was going to be a better band teacher than a general music teacher! But I know he will be moving on to better things. And the kids understand to the extent that they can understand this adult world truth: A paying job is always a plus in the end.
Goodbye to George McGovern
An American political icon died this week. His anti-war stance forty-plus years ago still rings true for much of my generation - a generation born at the end of Vietnam, then thrust into a couple of decade-long wars where we saw our younger siblings, friends, and, for me, students sent off to fight and sometimes die for a cause that not all of us accept as war-worthy. One thing is for certain. If I had been alive and an adult during the Watergate scandal, my car probably would have been donning the famous "Don't blame me - I voted for McGovern" bumper sticker.
Goodbye to Nellie
My family suffered a sad loss when they had to put their pet dog, Nellie, to sleep. She was a member of the family. My stepsister referred to her as her little sister. My father fed her bananas every morning at the breakfast table. She provided the entertainment for us every time Dan and I visited. Even though we aren't a part of that household, we will miss her energetic personality when we go to Twin Falls. And I know that Nellie's passing has left a Mini-Schnauzer sized hole in the lives of my family who shared their home with her.
"Math with this class is like being in a very dark place."
Even my student teacher said, "I feel like I've worked really hard this week, putting out fires and keeping kids entertained."
Now that we are eight weeks in, the weather changes, the darker mornings, and Halloween being just around the corner are taking their toll on our up-until-this-point calm beginning to the school year.
Just this morning, I heard someone say, "I think this is the smoothest start we've had since our school opened."
Then this afternoon, I saw two of our repeat offenders from previous years looking chagrined and being marched inside from recess. And these kids had been doing so well.
In my class, a kid stood with his hands down his pants and yelled, "I think I broke the root of my tooth!"
Another one said quite loudly, "I just don't feel the beat! I just don't feel it!"
And yet another brought a plush toy frog to music and, instead of singing "This Land is Your Land," croaked, "Ribbit, ribbit, ribbit!"
"Am I doing something wrong?" my student teacher asked.
"No, it just means they feel comfortable with you now. Take it as a compliment."
Then I added, "But don't forget to nail them to the wall if they deserve it."
So we're back. The never-a-dull-moment aspect of my career has resurfaced. As crazy as it sounds, it is why I love my job. And I am sure I will have many more entertaining anecdotes as the year progresses.
I have begun taking my showers at my night rather than in the morning. I started doing this in September, around the start of the new school year. I had several reasons for changing my showering habits.
1. During the school year, I usually work out in the evening. It's nice to go to bed refreshed - as opposed to sticky - after a 5K or an hour of Zumba.
2. It cuts about fifteen or twenty minutes off my morning ritual. This is especially important on my before school choir mornings. I am all about simplifying my life right now.
3. I'll let you in on a little secret. I have a couple of minor neuroses, as if you hadn't already guessed. For example, I suffer from night terrors. If you have ever followed the comedy of Mike Birbiglia, you have an idea of what I experience occasionally (on a smaller scale, thank goodness).
Anyway, showering at night has helped me wind down before bed. Consequently, I have had fewer night terrors since the school year began, and the first months of school are often my most stressful, night-terror-filled times of the year.
These three significant positives were enough to convince that it was time to change my showering schedule.
However, my husband, Dan, was not so enthusiastic. And I couldn't figure out why. Dan doesn't emote about anything. His response to almost every question I ask is, "Sure, if you want to."
Here is a sample conversation:
Me: "Do you want to go to Johnny Carino's tonight?"
Dan: "Sure, if you want to."
Me: "Will you go with me to a romantic comedy next weekend?"
Dan: "Sure, if you want to."
Me: "Are you willing to go to four Broadway shows when we are in New York?"
Dan: "Sure, if you want to."
Me: "Do you want to have four kids by the age of thirty-five?"
Dan: "Sure, if you want to."
Me: "I don't want to."
Dan: "Okay, that's fine too."
But when I told Dan, "I'm going to take a shower now. Is it okay if I leave you to do the dinner dishes tonight?" his response was, "Yeah . . . I guess."
He does the dishes every night, so I knew his reluctance didn't have anything to do with this particular domestic chore. But I shrugged and took my shower anyway.
I noticed that he continued to reply hesitantly every time I brought up this new nightly ritual. One evening, I decided to pry a little deeper.
"I think I have found out how to sleep sans night terrors."
"How's that?"
"I shower at night. And then I put lavender oil on the nightstand. It helps me wind down."
"That's nice . . . I guess."
"Does that bother you?"
"What?"
"That I shower at night?"
Dan sighed, "No . . . not really."
"That's weird. With all of my personality quirks, my showering at night is what bothers you?"
"No, it doesn't bother me . . . really . . ."
"What's the problem, then?"
"Well, it's just . . . that's what my parents always did. They took their showers at night. Does that mean we're getting old?"
"I never thought about it," I said. "That's what my parents always did too. We are getting old!"
However old it makes me (or my husband) feel, I have continued taking showers at night - most of the time - at least the nights before my early choir mornings. But now that it's getting colder, I am starting to miss a hot shower in the morning. Of course, that could be because Dan turns the thermostat down to sixty every night. Now I wonder if there is an ulterior motive behind our Arctic bedtime temperatures.
Last weekend, I didn't write a new blog post. I barely made it this weekend. I think it has something to do with my age. The older I get, the less capable I am of managing busy weekends.
Let me just start by saying I had the best weekend even though it prevented me from updating my blog. Here are some of the things that went down last week. (You will probably notice that my "best weekend" consists of pretty simple pleasures.)
Friday, September 21:
6:00 p.m. - I danced all night with some of my best friends at a wedding. (By "all night," I mean that I was in bed by 12:30 a.m.) These best friends of mine were also theater friends, so you can imagine how uninhibited that dance floor was.
Saturday, September 22:
7:45 a.m. - I met my school team for the Women's Fitness Celebration 5K. I had a blast running with my students. Yes, I am one of those crazy teachers who would choose (and sometimes prefer) to spend the weekend with my kiddos. However, I came home and crashed for a couple of hours because, apparently, I can no longer stay out all night (until 12:30) and get up early the next morning without feeling very tired.
Sunday, September 23:
10:00 a.m. - Woke up - I don't usually sleep in past 7:00. Incidentally, I skipped church because, even though I woke up, I didn't really wake up until Monday afternoon . . . when the school bell rang at 3:15.
Some of the festivities at the end of the race on Saturday. I'm not allowed to post the cute pictures I took of my students without parent permission.
In conclusion:
In college, consecutive late nights used to be nothing. Now I know why I have no social life. Last weekend, I discovered that I am too old for late night social occasions, but it was still one of the best weekends I have had in a while. Next week, my brother and his wife are coming to visit, and I am expecting to have yet another fun-filled, busy weekend. We'll just see if I can keep up with them.
A couple of weeks ago, I wrote quite a witty post, if I do say so myself, on How I Survived the First Week of School. Of course, as witty as it was, I left out the real way I survive my school year. And really, it's less about survival and more about why I chose my career. (It sure isn't the mad-crazy-huge paycheck I get every month.)
Here are a few anecdotes that remind me why I love what I do. These happened over the last couple of days. Just think how many of these cute little stories I accrue by the end of the school year.
What's in a name:
One little girl told me she was named after a wildflower "because sometimes I'm kind of wild."
Animal lessons:
My student teacher called on a kindergartner who told him, "Do you know that lizards are hard to catch with your big hands?"
"Yes," my student teacher responded as though it was the most normal question in the world.
The observations of children:
One teacher told me that she was standing in front of her classroom projector the other day. The image that was being projected onto the screen, and incidentally onto her face, was green.
One child called out, "You have lettuce on your face!"
Pointing the finger:
A second grade class had to return to the risers the other day when they couldn't handle one of the activities.
One student said, "Everyone causing trouble . . . except me!"
Teacher titles:
When I tell them my name is Mrs. Duggan, what I am actually called is like a lesson on Theme and Variations.
Mrs. Doostan
Mrs. Doogie
Mrs. Doodans
Mrs. D
Music Teacher
Music Guy (This is what the kindergartners call my student teacher. I am Music Teacher. He is Music Guy.)
Mrs. New Teacher (This is what the first graders called a teacher who filled in for our PE teacher at the last minute on Thursday.)
Where did you get that idea?
Maybe we teachers make it look too fun, and kids get the wrong idea about our profession. One of my sixth graders told me that he has already decided to be a teacher when he grows up. But his reasons weren't quite as altruistic as I hoped.
"Great pay and summers off," he said.
Boy, is he in for a rude awakening. Neither of those things are true. Neither of those things make the profession worth it.
Here is why I do it . . .
One of my students, an immigrant from Africa, wanted to join choir so badly this year. Unfortunately, his parents have no way of getting him to school by 8:00 a.m. His father leaves in the family car at 5:00 every morning, and the little boy has no way of getting to school other than by bus. (The bus doesn't usually get the kids to school until right before the bell.) As my student told me all of this, his eyes welled with tears. I wracked my brain as to how I could get him to school in time for choir. Deciding that driving to the opposite side of town and picking him up myself at 7:00 a.m. was probably not the best option, I told him to jump off the bus and run to my room as soon as he got to school the next morning, even if he was a little late for choir. On Thursday, he showed up to choir twenty-five minutes late, but we still had twenty minutes of singing left.
His ear-to-ear grin is what really makes my profession worth it.
So there I was, sitting at a coffee shop, perusing the Internet and Facebook for humor blog material. I found that after two weeks back to school, I needed a little help in the funny department.
I quickly discovered current event humor was few and far between, mostly crazy political conventions and crazy education superintendents (Idahoans, you know what I'm talking about). And Kristen Stewart hasn't cheated on anyone since July. Of course, Clint Eastwood did a bit with an empty chair this week - funny in a senile way, but old news by now. And I've been meaning to blog on Chick-Fil-A for - like - two months, but that's kind of old news too. (Just a hint - not a fan of the franchise. Shakin' my fist, shakin' my fist.)
All of a sudden, I heard it reverberate from the table next to mine. I'm still not sure what it was, but it sounded a lot like, "Acck yack pedakt reafent ubbege?"
And the response was, "Acck yack fegakt pearickle cudgegge."
I surreptitiously turned my head to check out the source of this bizarre but seemingly human chatter, half expecting to see a Klingonseated behind me. I started to Google "Klingon Translator," but I soon ascertained that this strange talk was actually a language as foreign to me as any of the alien dialects on sci-fi movies - Teenager.
I don't know when I lost my ability to understand Teenager. It must be a gradual process. One day you wake up, and all of a sudden, Teenager sounds like, "Acck yack fegakt pearickle cudgegge."
I spent all summer working with teenagers, and many of my former students are now teenagers (and Facebook friends). When these teens speak directly to me, I can still understand them. In other words, our youth must be the more evolved segment of the human population - able to communicate fluently in both Adult and Teenager.
I completely missed the MTV Video Awards this year, although I am confused as to where people see music videos anymore. Must be that newfangled "YouTube" thingy or something. Just another clue I am no longer part of the youth demographic.
At some point, these teens at the table next to mine took a break from their native tongue and said something I could understand.
"I just don't know what he wants on that assignment!" one of them said. She had sparkly eyelids.
"I know, and I asked him when I needed it memorized, and he said, 'Yesterday,'" her friend said. She wore a ponytail on top of her head. They were wearing matching red shirts. "That doesn't tell me anything."
I smiled at the adult humor that was causing these teenagers such affliction.
I almost leaned over and said, "That's pure awesomeness."
But I didn't. Here is a little advice to my adult friends. Don't try to talk Teenager. You might think you still know the language. Trust me - you don't.
I avoided coverage of the Republican National Convention (too crazy and a little depressing) . . . unless it was on The Daily Show or The Colbert Report.
I ate leftovers all week. As an equal-opportunity-loving feminist, I would have been happy to let Dan cook for us. And Dan, also an equal-opportunity-loving feminist, would have been happy to do so. But we would have ended up eating cheese quesadillas every night.
I repeated this mantra: "Labor Day is just around the corner."
Caffeine! And only because Valium is a controlled substance.
Chocolate! And only because Valium is a controlled substance.
Zumba! A little healthier than Valium.
I laughed with my colleagues. We have plenty of material at an elementary school.
I focused on anecdotes like this: A little student of mine, who looks just like my brother did at age six, called a picture of a trumpet a "trump-bone." Adorable!
At the end of the first week of school, Dan and I were both comatose by 9:00, even though I had been the one herding six hundred kids all week.
"When can we retire?" he asked. He was having sympathy fatigue, I guess.
At the beginning of the summer, I took a CPR/First Aid class. A few days ago, I had the chance to use my mad first aid skills on none other but my husband, Dan.
I should first say that Dan never follows doctor's orders. It doesn't matter how many times he has been told not to stick Q-tips in his ears or not to pop or pick at his pimples. He does it anyway.
"But it keeps my ears from itching," or "But it makes my zits go away faster," he says because he obviously knows more than years and years of medical science and research.
So you can imagine how thrilled I was that Dan was my first subject.
"Okay, Ms. First Aid," said Dan, who had been outside mowing the lawn, "What do you for yellow jacket stings?"
I should also say that Dan was a Boy Scout and a lifeguard and had to take very extensive CPR/First Aid courses. Plus, he is a genius who remembers everything, so it is pretty improbable that he had forgotten how to take care of a bee sting.
But, like a caring spouse and a First Aid certified crazy person, I ran to the coat closet and grabbed the "Heartsaver Basics" cheat sheet out of my school bag.
"First, we need to check for a stinger."
No stinger.
"By the way, if there was a stinger, I would scrape it away with a credit card."
"Yeah, okay."
"Now you need to wash the sting with cool water."
Dan ran water over the sting for a couple of seconds.
"You have to wash it with soap!" I commanded.
And he did. So far, he was taking my doctor's orders pretty well.
"Now, we need to put a bag of ice on the area for twenty minutes and watch for a severe allergic reaction for thirty minutes."
"But I have to finish mowing the lawn."
"Do you want to bring down the swelling or not?" I asked, pointing to the sting that was starting to puff up. "The venom could be spreading as we speak!"
"I'm fine."
"I guess you could check in about five minutes and see how it's doing," I conceded with a sigh.
About five minutes later, we realized the ice was starting to "burn" the sting, so I wrapped the pack in a wash rag.
"Five more minutes," I ordered, but he had already started watching TV. Five more minutes turned into twenty anyway.
The swelling did go down, and Dan finished mowing the lawn. But the next day, Dan came home from work with a patch of red on his forearm.
"Why is it so red?" I asked.
"I don't know."
"Have you been scratching or picking at it at all today?"
"Maybe . . ." he said.
I gave him a disapproving look.
"It's itchy!"
"That means it's healing!" I said, but I really didn't know whether or not that was true. I was just regurgitating what my parents had always told me about itchy cuts and scrapes.
"I didn't scratch it that much."
"It seems like you disregard everything the medical professionals say about taking care of yourself."
"Not everything," Dan replied. "I just disregard whatever I feel like disregarding."
Despite my husband's lack of concern for his yellow jacket sting, it did, in fact, start to heal. Everyday he would come home from work, and I would inspect the sting with a nod of approval. Pretty soon, I quit the inspections.
Still, occasionally I would ask, "How's your bee sting? Is it red?"
"Only when I scratch it!" he would respond with a self-satisfied chuckle.
At Butchart Gardens, Dan changed into shorts in the car.
"If you're going to make me walk around a garden for several hours, I'm wearing shorts," he insisted.
"I hope you don't get arrested our first night in Canada for indecent exposure."
2. Dragging Dan to Miniature World
He actually admitted this was his favorite part of our visit to Victoria.
"It's more than just dollhouses," he said.
3. Not Seeing a Bear in Whistler
From the sound of it, we could have very easily seen several bears. In fact, the community prides itself on living in harmony with its bear population. While biking up a mountain trail, we overheard some hikers tell another hiker that their dogs had just chased two cubs up a tree and barked at the mother. And we continued our ride in that same direction - Dan's idea, not mine.
4. The Two French Canadians We Met at Stanley Park
They not only loved our Fusion Hybrid, but they were equally impressed by Dan's ability to convert miles per gallon to liters per 100 kilometers. I have to say, so was I.
5. Victoria Creams from Rogers Chocolates
Delicious discovery . . . and you can order them online!
My husband, Dan, loves the Olympics. He defends the Olympics to the bitter end. He has chosen not to stand with progressives on this particular issue - that the Olympics have a negative impact on the hosting cities.
"You know, a lot of your liberal comrades don't like the Olympics because money is wasted on new infrastructure that ends up abandoned or unused and because the city is torn up and taken away from the people. And the people have to live under a sort of police state, not to mention that the poor and homeless are often displaced," I pointed out.
"It's good for the economy while it's there," Dan said. "Besides, I love the swimming races."
So it was settled. We would be spending four hours every night in front of the television and more on the weekends or if Dan had the day off. When the Olympics ended on NBC, he checked NBC Sports or MSNBC or
CNBC or Bravo to see if those networks had any additional coverage.
Also, as Dan informed me, "They are streaming it live on the Internet, so you
can watch it in real time, in the middle of the night even! It's kind of weird though because there's no
announcer."
Last Saturday, I came home from the closing of Willy Wonka, Jr., a youth musical I had been music directing for the summer.
"I've been lazy," Dan confessed, "watching the Olympics all day."
The rowing competition was on at that moment, and Dan had absorbed all sorts of fun facts about the sport such as:
"The women on the rowing team eat 5000 calories a day. It's one of the Olympics' most strenuous sports. The track athletes told the rowers, 'You're in the wrong sport,' because it's such a hard event."
"You really would watch any Olympic event twenty-four hours a day if you could, wouldn't you?"
Later in the day, I overheard Dan as he read an advertisement on Facebook.
"'Is the Olympics inspiring you to get healthy?'" He answered the ad with, "No, it's inspiring me to sit on the couch."
At first, Dan was reluctant to even go on vacation. Unfortunately, the only time we could get away was right in the middle of the Olympics
"We were out of town during the Olympics four years ago," Dan lamented. Then he added with an sigh, "Swimming is the first week though."
Of course, Dan is not the only Olympic maniac in my family.
"This will be a tough two weeks of avoiding Olympic results," my brother posted the other day. "I will have to avoid Facebook, avoid turning on ESPN and seeing the scroll at the bottom, and even avoid making eye contact with my wife because she will already know all the results too!"
This makes my brother sound very busy, like he is someone who works so hard he has to record the Olympics and watch it in his spare time.
But as my sister-in-law explained, "He wants to avoid the results because London is nine hours ahead of us, so people can find out who won before it is televised."
Although four hours of television a night is not my idea of a good time, I let Dan be the attentive Olympic viewer while I blog or read or check Facebook . . . until women's gymnastics. Don't even think about interrupting my women's gymnastics.
NOTE: In Jill's Words is taking a break this weekend. This blog post was originally published in September 2011. Please feel free to take pleasure in my humiliation.
I thought I would say my final farewell to summer with one more hiking story. You might have guessed from my previous hiking anecdote that adventure ensues wherever my foot treads.
This
time, my husband and I hiked to Mill Lake. In fact, we had originally
planned to hike the Mill Lake trail in July but decided instead to
venture to Norton Lakes when we saw the high water in Prairie Creek.
(Prairie Creek crosses the Mill Lake trail.) Of course, that was a
brilliant choice, considering the water was so low at Norton Lakes. (Did I mention my last hiking blog post was entitled In Which I Discover the Perils of Hiking During a High Water Year?)
After fording the creeks and trekking across snow on the Norton Lakes
trail, I was no longer allowed to use "too much water" as an excuse to
turn around and head back to the car.
There were three creek
crossings on the Mill Lake trail. The first crossing was at the
trailhead, and as I found myself suspended on a log a quarter of the way
across the creek, I thought about telling my husband, Dan, "Too bad.
Change of plans. I don't feel like hiking today after all."
I was
about to tell him this - very loudly - when Dan took out the camera.
The last time Dan "took out the camera," he ended up recording one of my
most notorious acrophobia meltdowns. (See Exhibit A.)
"STOP!"
I shouted. Dan was already across the creek. “When I giggle, and I’m
frozen on a log suspended over water, it doesn’t necessarily mean 'He,
he, he, I’m so happy to be here with my witty, funny husband.' It
actually means that I’m scared to death. I giggle when I'm nervous. It's
the way I deal with anxiety.”
"And you talk a lot too," Dan added.
He put away the camera, mostly because he knew if he didn't come help me across the log, I might stay there all day.
On the way up the mountain, Dan had to escort me across each creek crossing while I whimpered things like:
"I can't move. I need help."
"I'm not going to make it - I'm not going to make it - I'm not going to make it."
"Why do you always make me do this?!"
After
the final crossing, I exclaimed, probably louder than usual, “'Creek'
is not a good description for this body of water. How about we say it's a
whitewater rapid-ish sea of foamy waves cresting at 70 feet -- ”
"There are people up ahead, Becky," Dan interrupted my eloquent oration. "It's time to dial back the crazy.”
Luckily,
we were out of earshot of other hikers when we came upon a pile of
fresh (extremely fresh) horse manure on the trail. Flies covered it,
resting like frogs on lily pads. This sight even grossed out Dan -
invincible, outdoorsy, superhero Dan. We hesitated, trying to ascertain
the least disgusting way of getting around it.
“RUN!” I yelled.
We
ran across the trail, screaming and flailing our arms (actually, the
screaming and flailing was just me) as flies swarmed around us like some
B-grade horror movie.
On
our way back down the mountain, I was able to cross the creeks without
much help from Dan. I even made it across one of the creeks completely
solo . . . while hanging onto an adjacent log and crawling on all fours.
“I
did it all by myself!" I said with pride as my feet touched dry land.
"That was good, huh? It’s okay I had to go on all fours, right?”
Dan paused.
“It wasn't very graceful,” he finally said.
“I wasn’t going for graceful. I was going for survival.”
It's crazy what will pass for news these days. Here are ten of the most pertinent headlines about which I don't care:
1. Kristen Stewart Cheated on Robert Pattinson
Who are these people anyway? Are they that famous that I should care about their relationship ins and outs? She's twenty-two. Most people's love lives are disasters at twenty-two. Is it realistic to believe that she had already found her soul mate in Pattinson at such a young age? People make stupid choices in their early twenties. The real question is, what's up with a forty-one-year-old director cheating on his beautiful family with a young twenty-something, a child compared to his middle-aged butt? Men . . .
2. Celebrities' Reaction to Aurora Massacre at Some Dumb Red Carpet Event
I don't want to hear a bunch of celebrities in designer gowns lament the Aurora shooting. I want to hear an intelligent conversation about gun regulations, and I want to know what is being done to guarantee our safety as American citizens. And please don't make me sit in a dark theater surrounded by a crowd of untrained NRA-card-holding civilians packing firearms.
3. Man in China Loses Penis in His Sleep
Police think his multiple jealous lovers are the culprits. Enough said.
4. Demi Moore is Dating Another Man
She has been seen out and about with another actor, a decade her junior. And this is news because . . .
5. Twitter Outage on Thursday, July 26
Not only did Twitter go down for a few measly hours, but the reports on the blackout were updated every thirty minutes. And then it was fixed. Technology not working properly? Inconceivable! Read a book, go for a bike ride. I'm sure you have better things to do.
6. Lindsay Lohan Involved in Her 5412th Car Accident
She's still around? And she has a car?
7. Special Privacy Screens Installed at San Francisco Library
Now visitors can view pornography in private. According to one frequent library-goer, "lots" of pornography-viewing was going on there. I'm not judging. I just don't care.
8. The Jackson Dysfunctional Family Disputes
All I have to say is that I'm glad my family doesn't have twenty-four-hour security cameras. I already expose enough of my neuroses in this blog. Nobody wants to see the number of times I act erratically throughout my day.
9. John Noble from Fringe Suffers From a Sleeping Disorder
The man who plays Walter Bishop on one of my favorite TV shows is "not sleeping well." Me
neither. Add night terrors to my list of my neuroses. During the calm
times of my life, I have night terrors about once a month. During the stressful times, I have them about once a
week. I'm surprised the neighbors don't call the police when they hear blood curdling screams coming from my house at 1:00 a.m.
10. I Don't Care That Snooki is Pregnant
I care even less that she dreamed that her baby turned into Chucky and tried to kill her. I have this dream at least every other night. (Please refer to my sleeping issues in #9.) I blame it on the Corky Doll from the late eighties.
