Three Kinds of Awkward

1. Having to explain to several medical professionals that not only do I not know when I last had a period, I have no idea when I last had sex. If ever. What is this...suhh-ex you speak of? You see, there is this three year-old that lives in my house who's shrill demands pretty much eradicate the human brain's ability to form thoughts, let alone measure space, time, and...huh-? what was I-? babies?

2. Running into one of my students in the Planned Parenthood waiting room. She clutches her wallet and box of birth control; I make no attempt to explain why I'm there. I return her hug, highly amused as she pelts for the door with a high-pitched stage whisper to the slouchy guy waiting for her: "hohmygodthatwasmyteacherjeeeezus."

3. My sister (also pregnant) and I, breaking into dance in the crackers and juice aisle of the grocery store upon hearing "Hit Me Baby One More Time" over the loudspeaker. We were flinging our hair and girating our be-sweatpantsed rumps, enacting early-, family- and crazy- era Brittany at the same time. This is not awkward in itself. It is only made awkward when we disolve into giggles but keep throwing our butts around when we realize that the guy at the end of the aisle definitely made a U-turn with his cart just to watch with a big stupid grin on his face.

Good times.

KAMPAI!!!

Last Saturday, I ran into two of my students from this past school year.

They traipsed into the sushi take-out place screeching, "Ohmygod noway," and we had a great conversation. They oohed and ahhed over Wendy's cuteness while we all waited for our food. They were fashionably dressed for a party; I was schlubbing around in jeans, a purple fairy tee shirt, and beat flip-flops. I poked myself in the eye while their backs were turned to subdue the awkward self-conscious nausea that was creeping into my throat. (Sometimes I need a stab of searing eye pain to remind me that I am not actually still in high school too.)

My order came out, and I was mid-silent-sigh of relief when Carl came tearing through the door with his crazy eyebrows and a bag from the new grocery store across the parking lot. The crazy brows indicated that he had purchased something awesome and that I should look in the bag. "Giant beers," I said, peering into the bag.

"Giant Japanese beer! From a grocery store! In Pennsylvania!" He did a little hop-jig of joy. Carl's hair was even excited about this discovery. It was all escaping from his ponytail and giving him a very distinct mental-patient halo.

(A quick aside: I am totally on board this celebration boat. Despite the fact that most other states allow it, and that PA has recently begun to build casinos, we are still not allowed to buy a bottle of wine or a six-pack in the same building where we buy lunch meat. We are all held hostage by Quaker/Olde German/Mennonite wisdom, which tells us that placing alcohol in a grocery cart right next to pancake mix and laundry soap will surely lead to drunken laundry and pancake parties. And then it's only a matter of time before the incense burning and wife-swapping begins. Only a matter of time.)

Anyhow, I could feel the spark of interest at my back. I could hear the girls putting this picture together for their friends later: "She said that she wasn't sure if she was coming back to school this year. I wonder if they fired her. She was wearing a tie-dye tee shirt and had a bag full of 40's. I think her husband is a war veteran, or something." I hustled my kid and Crazy Brows out of there, trying not to trip over the ruin of my already-thin professional veneer on my way out the door.

We ate dinner at home, at the coffee table. I very effectively drowned this encounter in sushi and Japanese beer. Carl told me a great story about he and his friends getting drunk with a sushi chef in California a long time ago. In this story, the sushi chef told his own stories about living in Japan, and everyone perfected the art of yelling "KAMPAI!" in a hearty, throaty voice while drinking beer and eating raw fish on rice.

Now, a week later, Wendy is still telling us that we need to yell "KAMPAI!!" before we take a swig of anything. Because she's awesome. Because it's good to bring your children up in a culturally diverse household. Because I did such a good job last week yelling "KAMPAI!" into the the void where my job should be before every chug of Japanese beer, that Wendy now thinks of this as the proper way to indicate her approval for any and all beverage at hand.

I can live with this development.

Net Worth of Summer Vacation

This is a PRE VACATION entry that did not post. So I am posting it now, on August 20th.

In Culture:
-I began reading Audrey Nefeneger's The Time Traveler's Wife last Tuesday at three in the morning, and finished reading it around noon last Friday. I have already said this to her, but I'd like to thank Steph for lending this to me. It monopolized my whole week (I missed out on a lot of sleep and socializing to read this book) and destroyed me emotionally. And now I find out that there is going to be a movie!! Win.
-I also read three terrible Anita Blake vampire hunter novels. Bad writing. Drained many brain cells. Loss.
-I became addicted to True Blood. Also drained many brain cells, but the writing is much better. Delightful waste of time. Win.
Speaking of movies, Harry Potter. Need I say more? WIN.
Cultural score: net 2

On the job front:
-I have applied to the seven English teacher jobs that are available within a 20 mile radius and do not involve flack jackets and the city. I have heard back from one of them for an interview. Win.
-This interview will take place in the middle of my vacation. I must drive five hours back from the other side of PA for a twenty minute interview. Loss.
Job score: net 0

Home and Garden:
-The mortgage company is going to give us a mortgage! This should be a Win, right? No.
The owner of the house that we have lived in for five years has decided that he is not going to honor the part of the contract where he said that he would sell us the house. We are talking to a lawyer. Motherfucking Fuckballs. Loss.
-The...um...tomatoes are tomatoing? Win.
-Ooh, I have a good one. Wendy and I have had an amazing month of us-time. We go to the park, we play in the baby pool, we hang out in the yard. It has been awesome. Have you ever wondered how long you have to pretend to be something before you actually become that thing? You hope that at some point, all the pins will fall in and everything will click. You hope that the fleeting moments of beauty that you know this thing can be will actually gel into a whole solid truth that you can really get your arms around. Okay, the you in this scenario is really me, and despite all of the stress of the house situation and the job situation and every other situation going on around here, this past month has been a revelation built of dandelions and butterfly-print bathing suits.
Home score: net 3 (+1 for tomatoes and +2 for truth and beauty.)

Summer Vacation net score: Stocks are up 5.
BUY BUY BUY!

I'm off to Pennsic now. (like five minutes ago, actually) I am planning to take a few minutes to blog via cell phone. Ta for now, all!

A Wednesday Morning

Yesterday was the last half-day day for students. I saw every class (or, less than half of every class, because most of them brilliantly stayed home) for about 22 minutes each.

22 minutes is just enough time to show an episode of Invader Zim, high-five them goodbye, and clean up any of my leavings in the three classes where I taught this year. Not enough time to...*cough*...cry. (That was the whole ride home.)

I have three glorious days of boxing up my stuff and filling out paperwork and whatnot, before my job is officially over and I have to think about the next thing. It's kind of nice, but also kind of torture. These last few days are like the set-wrap after a play: cramming costumes into drycleaning bags and breaking down the scenery and sweeping props and makeup into dufflebags.... Except that set-wraps are accomplished in a few frenzied hours while everyone is still coming down from the high of the show, and we have to go to seminars about state standards and sign things about lockers. For three days. It is a terrible anti-climax. Particularly when I'm not sure if I'll have a job in the fall. Plus, we don't get the post-show kegger.

Also, when I gleefully set my alarm clock last night for five-forty-five instead of five-twenty, I accidentally set it for four-forty-five. The first day that I don't have to actually be there at seven thirty, and I wake up at FOUR FORTY FIVE!!!!! DAMNIT!!!

Bathroom Walls

(a found poem*)

Hello, Angel of my Nightmare
It's hollow in the marrow
Fourtie four dais left
To Write Love On Her Arms
Emo is over, you can all go home now.

*things written in the girl's stalls, artfully arranged by me*

Since last I blogged...

Hrrmm....where to start....
Life as we know it at our casa over the past month or two, through sporadic pictures:

Big snowstorm in February. Wendy likes snow. Carl had a lot of fun wrapping a snowsuit around her and dragging her around the yard on a sled. She is a snow eater. We couldn't walk from the house to the car or from the car to the house without her flinging herself from our arms so that she might eat some snow. She also likes to "shobel" it. This is Wendy and her "shobel."

I took a picture of the window. It looks like the tree is growing out of the little bottle on the sill. See? I am a picture-taking genius!

Two or so weeks ago, I went to visit Steph and Ryan in their new Manyunck apartment. We did some hiking up and down the slopes of the "Irish Alps," in search of lunch. (Machismo Burrito on Main Street, I heart you.) They have a cute apartment in one of those sub-divided big stone houses that looks like a castle. Small kitchen. Big windows.

I broke out in full-body hives one day at school. I blame stress. Eighth period, you win this round...

Jaimie and Eddie are in town. Eddie and Wendy are getting along much better this time around. Witness how they share the horsey very nicely, below. This is new. Usually there is much hollering and pushing of faces into the carpet in the quest for dominance and the title of "Favorite Best Child."

Amusing Eddie Moment:

Carl: After you finish that juice box, you can have another one. You can have as many as you want.

Eddie: .....I like your attitude. (he says, leaning back in his little chair, one foot casually resting on the coffee table)

I haven't been able to visit with them much, as I am f***ing busy all the f***ing time. It has been kind of torturous, to have them here, but not be able to actually interact with them. We had a nice weekend last weekend. Jaimie and I went to yoga Friday night, where they have live music and candles every couple of weeks. Live music means a guy hanging out in the corner of the room with a didgeridoo, a flute, and a sitar, making sounds that are in key with your chakras and jingling some chimes. It was really relaxing, and I really spent some meaningful time there,

focusing on my chi.

Except that sometimes, out of the soul-stirring WHOAUOUOOUOUOUOUUOUOU would come a THPPTHPPPTHH and a strangely interjected SHIKSHIKSHIK as the guy ran out of breath, spit into his "didge" and had to cover the transition with a tribal rattle thingy as he reached for his sitar. As I pressed my face into the mat, resisting the urge to make eye contact with Jaimie lest I completely lose it and break everybody's concentration with my giggling, I wrote this haiku:

Focus on my breath

Finding my peace in tree pose

Praying not to fart

Anyway. We had a great weekend. Jaimie and I had a sushi date on Saturday night, and we all went down for a ham and mac n cheese dinner at my mom's on Sunday. On Sunday morning, as I performed The Beatles through interpretive dance for Jaimie, there was this:

Erin to Jaimie: She only acts like this when you're around.

Here is another picture of Wendy, still loving her Thomas train set:

And, from this morning:

Erin: Wow, that Sham-Wow really sucks the water right out of your hands.
Carl: Yeah. I like to use it when I have to pee but I don't want to leave the car.

This, my friends, is why I love him.

Perks.

I've had some sort of head-devouring cold for the past four or five days. Behold the progression of my demise:
1. a fever and sore throat that knocked me out on Thursday
2. a sinus thing that kept me miserable all weekend and prevented me from faschnagtery (lard-fried donut making) with Steph yesterday
3. a chest-rending cough that has destroyed my ability to speak like a human. Or at all.

This was fun today-trying to play Bingo-review with my classes in preparation for their test tomorrow. Oh yes. I imparted so much wisdom through the sweet reptile-like rasping of my throat...and a bit of interpretive dance. There was much pity to be had. Also, I had to tell some kids off for being jerks, which means that I busted out a deadly-menacing whisper of doom.

I can only imagine that this was three parts terrifying and two parts hilarious to watch. Or, in all probability, the other way around.

Lesson: public school is a teeming, diseased pietre dish full of amoeba-like organisms known as children, who will complain about everything you do, infect you with everything they have, and whine when you punish them with quizzes and writing assignments. Explore a career in teaching today!

Ways To Get Fired

Tell a Puerto Rican kid that the homework is definitely due on Tuesday, unless of course, he is deported.

I only thought about how bad it might have sounded to a passerby after the fact. You have to understand the context. It's been a classroom inside joke for a few weeks-one kid says to this kid "you should be deported." This kid points out to that kid, "being deported to Puerto Rico is like being deported to New Jersey, as Puerto Rico is a territory of the U.S. you dumbass."

What I said was just playing off of that. But if someone heard just my end of it, oh baby. It would totally go on my permanent record.

Still Trying to Blog This....

It's been a while since I've had a chance to blog. But don't feel bad, wide world of Internet friends... I haven't had a chance to read a book or to cook a nice meal or to teach Wendy how to play the violin or anything.

In fact, I've been trying to get past those few sentences and on to a real entry for four days.

Teaching is hard, you guys. All right...not so much hard-(if you are into that sort of thing it's actually really fun)-as time consuming and stressful. And I also have that Wendy person at home....

Yeah.

I've been joking a lot lately about how I wish there was a pill for this. The stress, I mean. The stress of making a million decisions all day about where kids should sit and how they should pass papers around and whether or not they should go to the bathroom and which words to use so I don't crush egos/receive emails from parents. And then there is the paperwork. And trying to appear smart and professional in front of co-workers. And portfolio reviews.

Did I tell you guys the story about how I cried in front of my direct supervisor?

It's a great story. It has everything you want in a blog entry: Anticipation and angst over potential failure, humiliation and emotional seepage in place of the blindingly impressive intellect that one planned on displaying, eventual relief when one realizes that not only is one not going to die, but that there is actual approval and understanding in the universe...

I'll tell you that story sometime....

Right now, I should tell you the story about our kitchen.
Once upon a time, Mo had off from work for a non-denominational two-week "Winter break." Carl was there too. I don't know why. Holiday togetherness. That sounds good.

Anyway, all it took was a few days of dewy-eyed, loving togetherness before we started ripping the paper off the walls. Literally. Ripping paper off the kitchen walls and painting them orange. Why orange? BECAUSE. That's why.

Good story, huh?

Here's a picture of Wendy wanting nothing to do with Santa:

He didn't take it personally. She still got some good loot for Christmas. :-P

Mixed Messages

At a Monthly New Teacher Meeting

Administrator #1: Keep in mind that you must help inforce school rules.
Administrator #2: Like our policy against IPods.
A1: and cell phones.
A2: and food in class.
A1: and having hoods up.
A2: and hall passes at all times.
A1: But make sure you are having fun. Is everyone having fun teaching your first year?? Because to me, that is the most important thing. To have fun. And Don't sweat the small stuff, really.

A2: ...but also, keep in mind that your class is not your private kingdom. When you close the door, you are not really in charge. School policy is.

A1: Did anyone have trouble posting grades? ...or getting your lesson plans in? ....or with the printing center? Keep in mind; there are a lot of things that just won't work right every time. It's not a perfect world, and you guys know that. Sometimes you have to learn to roll with the punches. It's part of the fun of being a teacher, right?

A2: ...and think about this: GM is about to fold, and thousands of people will be out of a job. But you are still getting paid every two weeks, right? You have a job! And as long as people keep having kids, we'll all still have work to go to!

(keep it in mind)

Job Satisfaction

(n)
Realizing that, even though first-quarter grades are due tomorrow and you still have thirty-five projects to grade and you share a workspace with three other people who like to chat,

.....not to mention the lunch room for the entire Department, which happens to be standing behind you yelling things like WHY DID THE SCHOOL BUY THIS GRADEBOOK SOFTWARE? and WHAT DO YOU MEAN, CATCHER IN THE RYE IS OFF THE CURRICULUM???

......and you also have to type out and turn in all of your lesson plans from the past two weeks tomorrow too, and you only have a third of them done, but apparantly MAKE SURE YOU COME SEE MY BAND PLAY ON FRIDAY is very important to talk about right now...

.....and kids are coming to dump more work in your lap because they suddenly realized that maybe a 30% isn't the grade they want to show their Moms, and maybe their English teacher wants to read this fist-full of crumpled homework from four weeks ago....

....even though really bad school pizza was for lunch today...

...at least I'm not getting a talking-to for folding pizza boxes too fast and making the other box people look bad. At least my work related problems do not involve pulling globs of pork fat out of a sink drain.

*sigh*
This is the life.

Tentatively....

I find myself in a conundrum.

Day in and day out, I experience countless situations that I would normally blog about in a heartbeat. There are the caricatures I could draw of the other teachers in my department. There are the endless moments of absurd bureaucracy that rival and often outshine any Office Space moments I ever had back at H & R Crock. (For example, the observation that an administrator scheduled for tomorrow, and then canceled after I spent all weekend preparing for it.) And the students. Oh. Oh the humanity. I would normally be blogging all of them til my fingers bled, there are so many gorgeous, mockable moments.

But I can't. Because talking about that sort of thing online...isn't that the sort of thing that can get you canned faster than a dolphin in a tuna net?

OMG, my people. I actually have a job that I don't want to get fired from.

I'll loosen up soon. I'm sure. I'll stop looking over my shoulder, expecting it to all be taken away and to wake up delivering pizza again.

I can tell you about how I am a "floater-" a designation just as awesome as it sounds. For those of you not in the know, being a "floater" means that I am one of the teachers without a room of her own, who travels from class to borrowed class, pushing all of her materials around on a cart. Only I don't even get a cart, because my rooms are downstairs and my "office" is upstairs, and although pushing a cart full of homework and office supplies down the stairs would be fun...you get the gist.

I put "office" in quotes there, because my "office" is actually a space shared with two other floaters, and also the department lunch room/lounge. Hells yeah. I'm movin on up.

Really, though, all of that is so low on my give-a-shit-o-meter. First-year teachers with classrooms, first-year teachers with a carts, and me? We all get paid the same. It doesn't really matter. I would probably find the cart kind of humiliating anyway. Eff em.

I goes where I please. (provided that it's 4th or 7th period. those are my drinking coffee and eating donuts periods.)

I'll tell you a good story as soon as I can think of one appropriate enough. I promise.

In Complete Contrast...

Dear internets,

When last we spoke I was feeling very disheartened. Sad. Desperate. Yes, even bitter. But that was two weeks ago, and I feel much better now due to recent developments that I haven't had very much time to sit and write about. I haven't had time to sit still for long at all. Because of my new job.

My new job at a school.

Where I now teach.

*does jig of joy*

I would like to sit and type all about it right now, but as you know, teachers (like me) get up early. And when teachers (like me) also have babies who still wake up at night, teachers (like me) are very very tired and want to go to bed at nine thirty. Which was twelve minutes ago.

I love you internets. I am not edgy or witty or interesting tonight, mostly because right now, I am too busy being happy.

Love,
Mo
xoxoxoxoxo

More Adventures of the UnEmployable

My job search involves one of those catch-22 situations.

They all want to hire someone with more experience, which I can't get unless someone hires me. I thought that some of my other interviews went well. No drippy squirrels or wardrobe malfunctions. I thought that some of them were actually pretty good.

I know it's egotistical to watch TV and see the stock market crashing and big banks going out of business and the unbelievable polls showing McCain ahead 6% and feel that of course all of these things would happen. What else would happen on a Monday when I was positive that one of my interviews would call me back, but no one did. What other kind of day could there be in a world that lets me think that I can use my many thousands of dollars worth of college education to provide for my family so that maybe we can pay the oil bills and pay off some debt and buy this house and not be so consumed by angst every single day; but then sees to it that no one calls me?

Bitter.

I'm sorry, internets.

Mo is bitter today.

Wherin I Prove Myself Classy.

Things to do at an interview to impress people (or possibly show that you are a tacky and horrible person):

1. When asked why you want to teach, reply "for the money." (Funny, right? I thought so.)
2. Wear only suit Monday. Go in to unexpected second interview on Tuesday morning wearing gray pants and button down blue shirt, looking like a Circuit City employee.
3. Arrive soaking wet because you forgot your umbrella, had to park in the back of the building, and just ran across two parking lots through drenching rain. Talk to lots of suits about your "love of literature" looking like a frizzy, drippy squirrel.
4. Realize that zipper is down and stealthily adjust the issue when principal in suit turns his back. Realize that secretary mostly likely saw you do that. (silently vow to burn these pants)
5. Ask blunt question about the school's system of rigorous testing using the phrase "chafe under restrictions."

Interviews suck.

Pennsic 08 pics.
(or, Wendy goes to War, and wins.)

I will also throw some shore pics up soon. Cause, you know. Baby on a beach. Always good to see.

Hot Time; Summer in the Burbs

Me: I'm gonna try really hard not to be a total asshole this Summer.
Carl: ...What are you anticipating for the Summer that makes you say that?
Me: My complete and utter frustration and bordom now that school is over and I've got nowhere to be but home. I'm not saying I'll succeed at not being a royal bee-otch, but-
Carl: no, no. I understand. And I really, really appreciate your efforts. I'm going to try to be the best me that I can be too. The very, very best.
Me: You're mocking me.
Carl: No. I'm not. The very best me.

BTW, it's hot here in the East. I don't envy the people who work outside for a living. Or, you know, the ones who are walking through Georgia.

I hope they all have cold beverages on hand.

Quest!

Okay. First time camping with a baby that walks. A baby who also runs, plays in dirt, schemes wild escape plots, makes friends with other babies and finds funny hats to wear:

Yeah. I'd say it was a successful Memorial Day weekend. Aside from my going way overboard Friday night, having way too much fun (read: bad tequilla) and then laying there in our tent insisting that it is my tent too and I would puke in it if I wanted to, (and gosh, am I so proud of winning that argument), it was a great time.

How could I not have a great time with all of this going on? There was rum-fueled Maypole spectating (complete with complicated cross-ribbon rum-passing moves), and ferrets ("mouse," according to Wendy), and time to hang with my favorite people, and Meetza (giant hamburger patty + pita+cheese+ketchup=Meetza) and steak-y breakfast burritos, and tampanade and strawberries and cuddling together wrapped in warm sleeping bags and breathing the cool night air, and laying around in the grass, just talking and being under some trees by a stream.

What else could one ever, ever ask for?

A New Career is Born

5/9
Texting out of the basement of High School drivers ed class on a rainy afternoon:

Me: My voice leaves my mouth and takes a left turn into the vacuum of space. Their flat eyes tell me that it's Friday; That I don't really exist.

Carl: I can hear you crying into the void.
Me: Thanks, babe.

Mike: You teachers are all the same.

Bethany: Obviously you are subbing at Orwell High today.
Me: It could be Soylent Green High and they would still show up religiously to do nothing but lodge their complaints about the service. I think I'm over this subbing thing.
Bethany: I always thought you'd be a good lion tamer.
Me: Or an alpaca stylist. Or maybe I could bead-dazzle things for a living.
Bethany: I think you could change the world by bringing the Flowbee into the world of alpaca styling. And I'm not just saying that.

I'll totally turn the whole farm show scene on it's ear. You'll see.

I Covet Thy Contract.

There is something vaguely humiliating about being a substitute teacher.

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."