Friday, March 28, 2008
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
It's somewhere in the way teachers lock their desk drawers to protect their bags of lifesavers and granola bars from you. It's in the over-friendly, high-pitched voices of the faculty when they unexpectedly pop in on you to see if you need anything, when you really know that they're making sure you're not on the classroom computer. It's in the girl's bathroom stalls, where you have to pee because only real teachers have keys to the grown-up bathroom or even know where it is. So there you are, perched on the kids' toilet, butt cheeks hovering only a fraction of an inch above the stall divider, which is the only thing between you and Taylor/Tori/McKenzi's loud proclamations of "OH MY GOD SHE JUST SUCKS AT TEACHING AND SHOULD JUST GET LAID ALREADY," and you are so glad you spent five years in college for this.
It's a slight, invisible wave of smug that comes when barely-interested teachers ask what your "Cert" is in, and then sadly inform you that their school is not hireing, their school has all the teachers they need. Or this momentary pause when you interject something into the conversation around the desks pushed together in some classroom where you were invited for lunch. This pause during which the other teachers remember that you are there, and try unsuccessfully to humor whatever insignificant thing you said.
Maybe I'm being paranoid, because now is the first time since I graduated that I even want to be a "real" teacher. I want the delicious comittment of a contract and the marvelous medical benefits and the keys to their snooty "lounge," which, far from being a magical place of candy and beer, really only contains ugly couches, a greasy microwave, and forty thousand copies of Where the Red Fern Grows. Maybe that's why I suddenly feel like a poser. I want my own horrible spawn to teach!
Oh, for the days of breezing in, doodling stick figure flip-books into their post-it note pads, and breezing out, thinking, "HA! These suckers have to do this every day."
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Because he ate our dinner last Thursday night.
Not just one delicious herb-roasted pork loin, but two. Two delicious herb-roasted pork loins, minus the four medalion-sized slices that I had just carved away. Four slices that I was carrying on a plate, along with the baby, the baby's dinner, the baby's juice and my bottle of beer. Probably waited and slunk in just after I passed by, nudging the gate aside and horking them down his doggy throat while I was distracted. TWO!! TWO PORK LOINS!!!
And. Carl had worked extra late that night, and was extra hungry and deserving of a delicious porky feast. He came home to discover this travesty approximately four minutes after it occured.
Oh, the humanity.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Turtleneck Teacher: They just aren't renewing his contract.
Big Hair Teacher: Because he's eighty-one.
Turtleneck Teacher: Yup. Hopefully they'll convince him to retire gracefully before they have to just phase him out.
Bright Yellow Tie Teacher: Yeah, the guy deserves some dignity. Eighty-one.
Me: What does he teach?
Big Hair Teacher: Oh. No. We're talking about this pro baseball coach.
Over-Axe-Body-Sprayed Teacher: It's okay.
Me: Yeah. Not that I'm desperate for a job or anything.
....or meant to let it show.
Friday, March 07, 2008
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
I reject the idea of having to prove anything to anyone.
Which may have been my problem. I don't think I sold myself hard enough. I don't think I looked like I wanted it enough. I am going with this, because even though I have stated otherwise, I find it impossible to believe that someone else was better suited for this job than me. That's just stupid.
In case you are wondering (if you don't already know), yes. I am this full of myself.
It's just a job. I will get another job. It's just...well, I've never actually applied for a job that I didn't get. I've never walked into an interview where they didn't automatically see that I was the one they were waiting for. Really, my people. I don't think I should have to endure this outrage.