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.

The Mall. It's Like, TOO Much Fun.

Us: We are not buying you seventy dollar sneakers.
Her: But I need shoes.
Us: Not for seventy dollars you don't. Maybe forty or fifty. We can look somewhere else.
Her: *huff* Well, I'm. Like. NOT. Getting shoes. From...Payless. *huff*
Us: Cool. I guess we can go home then.

And we did.

We did not, however, spend that fifty dollars on bottles of wine and crab legs, like we were seriously tempted to do. Because we are good parental units and not yet driven to spiting a teenager, no matter how temporarily gratifying that might be.

You Have to Respect the Argument.

I am continually amazed at how sophisticated kid's opinions can be concerning complex topics. I really think people underestimate a child's ability to navigate the subtleties of social and political points of view and come up with their own substantial and often well articulated arguments.

For example, we took Wendy to the playground today for a Labor Day picnic, and I overheard this conversation between two boys who looked to be about ten:

"Who are you voting for?"
"Easy. Obama's got big ears, but Palin is totally hot. I'm a rebumlican now."

And this, my friends, is why I want to teach. Constant intellectual conversation.

Nostalgic for War Already

Every year, as Pennsic looms closer, my nerves get the best of me. I get this apprehensive flutter starting in my guts around June, and it doesn't really quit until about halfway through War week. This apprehension is so bad that usually, the week before Pennsic, I am seriously convinced that I don't even want to go.

I don't know what it is. Maybe it's the chaos factor of Pennsic. You know that something is going to happen, but you don't know what, when, who will be involved, or whether it's going to be totally awesome or totally apocalyptic. I mean, I met Carl at Pennsic 31, and we are (thankfully) still feeling the shock waves of that cataclysm. :-) The control freak in me quakes before the inevitable mayhem machine that is my two weeks at Pennsic.

I forget until I actually set foot on site how priceless that mayhem actually is, and how much I value all of those moments that don't seem to take place anywhere else.

Like listening to the rain on the tent while curled up under the covers with Carl and Wendy, or visiting with Mollie late at night like little girls at a sleepover (who talk about explicit sex acts), or meeting Luna Lovegood on speed, or doing drunken diaper delivery with Wrenne, Frannie and Bree, or waking up and having cups of tea under the canopy of trees with whoever is conscious...



It's why so many people go back again and again, I suppose. Because we miss those people and that feeling that we belong somewhere special. Even if that place only exists once a year.

Of course, if I could just move all of my friends into my town, it would save me the anxiety attack every summer...and the two-day packing extravaganza...and we would get to smell each other under normal, non-camping circumstances, which would be novel*. I'll be sure to put that at the top of the list when I send out the brochure.

*except for the smelling of Wrenne. she always smells luscious. always.

"At last! My manhood has been avenged and redeemed! By my fourteen year old daughter!!!"

~Carl, after he was foiled by the ever-popular hammer-and-bell attraction on the boardwalk six times, and Erin sauntered up and cracked the midsized one twice in a row. She won a nubbly beach ball. We were very proud. (and avenged.)

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.

This Week

This week was a long week.

We had Monday to regroup from Pennsic and pack stuff up. This is still going on, but the bulk of it took place on Monday. Tuesday, we decided to join my sister, nephew, Mom, and Carmine down the shore, so after securing Carl's Mom for dog-sitting, we packed up and drove to Wildwood.

It was nice. I think we all were due a beach fix, which we got within a half-hour of arriving at the tiny little house where they were all staying. Wendy put her feet in the ocean for the first time, and promptly decided that she is owning at least six beach-front properties by the time she is ten. I am voting for at least one New Zealand bungalow.

We did some other stuff while we were down there. We rode roller coasters and pink elephants and Jaimie bought me ice cream and Carl caught the biggest fish. We had a great time, though I am having a hard time writing about any of that. I guess the reason that I want to write about the beach at all is because I don't really know how to write about the other events of this week.

Wednesday we went to the beach again, and I spent a significant stretch of time reclined in a chair, holding my sleeping baby and looking out at the water. Holding my baby and thinking about Avery, Chris' daughter, who was four when she died last Friday. Holding my baby and thinking about the abundance of life in the biological soup of ocean at my feet and the breath of my own child against my skin, and about how quickly our life and breath can go from us. Thinking about how I would be happy to stay there with my baby and watch her splash and laugh and play, for all of eternity.

The ocean is seriously restorative, even if it is only for two days, even if it is Jersey. I highly recommend it.