The Exasperating Case of the Insomniac in the Night Time

I am crawling through my day on approximately zero-point-four hours of sleep last night which, last time I checked, doesn't come even close to the amount of sleep I need to babble even semi-coherently at the Raving Rabble that still insists on inhabiting my classroom periodically throughout my day. I mean, the seniors are gone--other than the occasional ones who pop in unexpectedly to bring me senior pictures and tell me that I am awesome and they will miss me horribly and YAY! I CAN ADD YOU ON FACEBOOK NOW! and all that, which, hey, practically makes me miss the Mangy Maggots--

(can maggots get mange? somehow I doubt this, but I rather like the nastiness of the alliteration and will leave it be.)

(hey, it's my blog and I can even stop using capital letters OR WRITE ALL IN CAPS if I want to--so there)

(I really need some sleep)

(Where was I? Oh yes.) --but the juniors and sophomores persist. On top of expecting me to rehash every piece of text they've SparkNoted read all semester, little glints of hope sparkling in their eyes that I will give up and just tell them the answers for the test, they expect me to actually read and comment on and grade the massive term papers that I sado-masochistically assign every year. WHY DO I DO THIS???? I ask myself every single f***ing year at this time as I gaze in doomy gloom--or gloomy doom, whichever is dominant at the time--at the massive pile of seven-to-ten- (sophomores) and ten-to-twelve- (juniors) page papers that threaten to smother me in a paperlanche. Of course, this year I had them all submit their papers electronically to the wonderful electronic plagiarism catcher slash online grading service we use, so it's all threatening me VIRTUALLY, which is interesting. At least this way there's less chance of Death By Papercut.

On top of that, I have gradually gained a sense that I am Not At All Well over the course of the day, including feeling rather feverish, developing a sore throat, and (since that wasn't enough) becoming increasingly nauseated.

(NOT NAUSEOUS, which is the error everybody makes these days that drives me absolutely batshit insane, because being NAUSEOUS means that it/one/you CAUSE[S] NAUSEA, not that you HAVE it. People feel NAUSEATED, dammit, and while some people may in fact be nauseous, like the nasty-piece-of-work senior who burned his last bridge with me two weeks ago and will NOT be getting friended on Facebook thankyouverymuch, that is not what most people are attempting to indicate. THAT WORD DOES NOT MEAN WHAT YOU THINK IT MEANS.)

Ahem.

To add just a little more spice to our day, we went into a level one lockdown a short time ago, which means they aren't allowing people in or out of the building because there's a perceived threat somewhere in the area. It's the lowest level lockdown, but I have no idea why it's happening or when it will end. Because, you know, today wasn't enough of a Mondayish sort of Monday already.

The silver lining in it all is that my fourth hour sophomores cheered me up with their depictions of starfish of varying ethnicity and religion on the dry erase board, something that originated with a perky Jewish Starfish in a markered mural that gradually developed over the course of last week. The mural started with a cartoon turtle (a rather adorable one, much like the turtle on our class t-shirt with the joke word "intelligous" we had made last semester) with a speech bubble declaring I'm a turtle!, and it developed from there. The Jewish Starfish (a six-pointed starfish, naturally) showed up toward the end, along with a School of Attici--the plural form of "Atticus" (from To Kill a Mockingbird), obviously.

It's an....interesting class.

Okay, fine, maybe I'll miss those pesky students a little bit after all.

But right now? Right now I just want some french bread, a snuggle with MTL, and my bed. Preferably in that order.

Crumbs are so uncomfortable when they get in the sheets.

I Has a Bucket

see more Lolcats and funny pictures

Apparently the thing to do these days is to have a Bucket List. You know, the things you want to do/accomplish before you kick the bucket. Shuffle off the mortal coil. Run down the curtain. Sleep with the fishes. Pay Charon's fare. Buy the farm. Check out. Dance the last dance. Give up the ghost. DIE.

(You want some other euphemisms? Check out this list. Boy, we'll do just about anything not to say the actual word, won't we?)

I haven't thought about my Bucket List much. I mean, I've said there are things I want to do "someday," but my comment about riding a motorcycle a while back? That's the first time I can remember specifically thinking about doing something before I /whisper/ die.

It's just not the way I generally think. But I'm getting older, yo, and what with my bones creaking and popping and my body acting in general as though it's a goodish bit older than I actually am, I've started thinking about the kinds of things I'd like to do before Death gets in the way. Or even, really, General Physical Infirmity, because that may come sooner than I'd like. Let's be realistic, peoples.

And it turns out a slew of my students already have Bucket Lists, which makes me wonder if it's just the influence of media or if by some miracle more of them have a concept of mortality than generally is the case. Mind you, some of the items on their lists might make mortality more of a reality than a concept, but it's a step.

Anywho, I figured I might as well do my own Bucket List. So here you go--the list of things I'd like to do before I push up daisies*:

1. Ride a real motorcycle. Possibly even drive it. Because I'm a Total Badass like that.
2. Visit Australia and New Zealand. Lauren, I still have an open invitation to crash with you, right?
3. Tour the ancient monuments and places from mythology in Greece. I've only been obsessed since I was seven.
4. Publish some of my writing. And no, blogging doesn't count. Any agents out there?
5. Learn how to do some real ballroom dancing. This may need to be sooner rather than later, as I have a feeling artificial joints, walkers, and/or wheelchairs might make things difficult.
6. Win a teaching award. Because I'm modest like that, yo.
7. .....

Ack. This is where my mind goes blank. I mean, there are things I'd LIKE to do. Travel around Europe more. Visit all fifty states. Learn how to make a chocolate souffle. But they're not the sorts of things that make me feel like my life will have been incomplete if I die before they're accomplished, you know?

Does this mean I'm insufficiently ambitious? Does this mean I'm a loser?

Does this mean my bucket is undersized?!?

Cuz I hear that sometimes size DOES matter.

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What about you? What's on YOUR bucket list?

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*Except I've decided to be cremated instead** and have my ashes scattered because the idea of my preserved remains sticking around in a lead-lined box is just creepy, people, and I don't feel like going through the rigamarole of arranging for a burial au naturel, a la pine box. Plus apparently the level of preservatives present in our food is rendering postmortem preservation pretty much unnecessary these days, and that's even more icky. Just sayin'.

**And yes, I totally get the irony of my not having a Bucket List but knowing what I want done with my body after death. I also know which hymns*** and scripture verses**** I want read at my memorial. I said I'm a planner, people!!!

***"It Is Well With My Soul" and "Amazing Grace". And no, I don't care if that's totally predictable and cliche. They're still my favorites and the lyrics mean a lot to me. So there.

****Psalm 23 (King James Version) and Psalm 51 (New Living Translation). What I said.

It's My Gift To You. You May Thank Me With Brownies. OF EITHER SORT.

I've mentioned before that I'm lazy, yes? Considering I have a label for that, pretty sure I have. And while I have a couple posts brewing (which can mean anything from Coming Soon to a Blog Near You! to Will Never See the Frickin' Light of Day, depending on my level of togetherness and follow-through-edness during any given time period), I'm taking the easy way out AGAIN and posting a meme. Just because. I wasn't even properly tagged this time, because Fraught Mummy Pants with Names (girl, you not only had to change your blog, you had to change your name?!?!?) decided not to tag me. Well, directly, though she kindly says anyone can play along, since she wasn't exactly tagged for it either. This is quite possibly her passive-aggressive way of saying Screw You since I didn't tag her for Saturday's meme, though I was totally going to until I realized that if I was to tag her, then her second post on her new blog would be the first post from her first blog, and that's just odd.

Anywho, the meme involves posting Ten Things I Bet You [My Faithful Readers] Didn't Know About Me. Which at first sounded easy, and then I realized as I started brainstorming that there is far less to write than I thought. First of all, I tell you folks a lot about myself. I'm self-centered generous like that. Second of all, there are plenty of things most people don't know about me, but if I posted them here I'd have to start rating my blog Mature. Also, my parents, sister, grandparents, and various other readers would probably have to gouge out their eyes and scrub their brains, and that's just mean. Uh, DraftQueen? NO TELLING.

And now that you have all sorts of uncomfortable thoughts going through your heads and wish I had an even better filter, here's the PG list:

1. Back in college, I was the official copy editor for a small gaming and publishing company run by my then-boyfriend/now-ex and two of his high school buddies. The problem was that the main guy, a doofus by the name of Ryan, was so controlling and illogical and idiotic that we all Got The Hell Out after only a few things were published. We did put out an actual role-playing game system, though. My (maiden) name is on it as both copy editor and author of the short story in the back of the book. And no, I'm not gonna link it. Tough cookies.

(Also, this may give you further evidence of just how much of a geek/dork I really am. Heehee!)

2. I was temporarily non-geeky in high school with my one moment of Athletic Glory when I was the All Star floor hockey goalie in the high school intramural tournament. I was a lowly freshman, but I Rocked. My team won the Championship, and then I was chosen as one of the goalies for the All Star game--and my team won again!

And then my knees went kaput and any chance at fame and fortune via my athletic prowess went kaput along with them. Sigh. What might have been...

3. You'd think that with my apparent willingness to face down (literally) a hard rubber ball rocketing towards me and my daily obsession with the Intarwebz and my sensation of panic/nakedness without my cell phone (ooh, did you like that segue? I rock transitions, yo!), I'd be all excited over fancy-schmancy phones like the I-phone and Droid and whatnot. You'd be wrong. I have fought the cell phone upgrade issue tooth and nail since, well, forever. I only agreed to GET a cell phone ten years ago when my POS car broke down on I-75 just after I'd driven through that lovely 25-mile section with all the signs saying Prison Area: Do Not Pick Up Hitchhikers and then I had to walk into town to call a tow truck while thanking the God I wasn't even sure existed at the time* that the car had sputtered to a halt right by an exit to Podunkville**, Michigan. I got the most basic, barebones phone I could, and ever since then have been accepting technology upgrades with the greatest of reluctance. You have no idea what a big deal it is that my current phone has a camera. And when I tried to download some ringtones lately, my service informed me with the snottiest of possible text that my phone was simply too old for that application, thankyouverymuch you antediluvian weirdo you. I have no Intarwebz access, no *shudder* touch screen, no fancy apps. And as I watch with dismay the increasing signs that Wanda*** may not be surviving her multitudinous mishaps for much longer, I'm dreading the inevitable reality that they just don't make them like they used to. You know, CELL PHONES FOR DUMMIES.

4. So maybe I'm a technophobe in some weirdly specific way. It's not my only fear. I am afraid of heights, which I think is a very sensible fear, but not so sensible is my overwhelming terror of praying mantises (mantisi? mantisusses?). OVERWHELMING. We grow 'em BIG out in the wilds of West Africa, peoples, and many a time I would go outside at night to feed the dog, turn around, and realize that my way back in had been cut off by a monstrous alien being clinging to the screen door. IT WAS LIKE THEY KNEW. And I'd swallow a shriek (because that could have alerted it to my presence and then it could have ATTACKED OMG OMG OMG) and creep around the corner and run like hell to the front door. I remember one particularly horrible night when apparently two mantisussesses were IN A CONSPIRACY because when I got to the front door THERE WAS ANOTHER ONE OMG OMG OMG OMG. Upon which realization I threw caution to the wind and screamed for my daddy to come save me, which he did, because he's Awesome like that. He only chuckled a little bit, even.

SEE???? Terrifying!!!! And, um, I may never be able to read this post again. I couldn't even bear to make it bigger because OMG OMG and do you have ANY idea how much courage it took to LOOK for this damn photo?????

5. Now that my shuddering is subsiding--I am not all Fear and Trembling. I admit I enjoy a good adrenaline rush. Despite my fear of heights, I love rollercoasters. And I have a semi-secret lust for motorcycles. Not the monstrous practically-an-automobile-on-two-wheels types, but the FAST ones that are sleek and sexy and *swoon*. Don't get confused and think this translates to an automatic lust for bikers, mind you. It's the machine that catches my eye and makes me sigh (Ooh! poetry! Kind of. Meh. I'm not much for cheap rhymes.) I have yet to properly ride one, however. Maybe. Someday. It's a Bucket List item, that.

6. I think I have a secret desire to be a Badass. I mean, I'd totally be a Biker Chick. The hot kind who (wo)mans her own machine, mind you, not the Backseat Eye Candy or My Old Lady sort. It all goes along with my love of smartass snarkiness, I suppose. Which (ooh, another Look At Me Go segue!) translates into the classroom, too. You'd think that with my love for being the Queen and Goddess of the Classroom, I'd be all for the suck-ups and kiss-asses, but here's the truth: they annoy me. Really, they do. I just want to shake them and tell them to leave me alone, for Pete's sake! I mean, by all means bring me bribes tribute and whatnot, but do so with a bit of sly sarcasm. Learn to walk the line between Snark and Disrespect. Some of my favorite students are the ones who mouth off--but know how to do so with humor and without getting insolent. Good times.

7. I am afraid I may have, once upon a time, been the suck-up in my classes. I don't know. (Lauren? Was I?) I certainly was occasionally the Teacher's Pet. Sigh. These days, I'm the annoyingly snarky smart one who thinks she knows more (and occasionally does) than the teacher. The truth is I dislike taking most classes. I'm not like my mother or MTL, who adore learning. They're both the lifetime student sort--MTL even says that if he won the lottery, he'd quit working and just take classes full-time: not for a degree, but just to take classes that interest him. Now, it's possible there might be the occasional class that would intrigue me, but realistically I'd rather learn on my own from books. When it comes to the classroom, I'd rather teach than be taught. I'm depressingly stereotypical that way: you know, the saying Teachers make the worst students? Yeah. That's me.

8. Really, this probably just means I'm controlling. And being in front of my class, leading discussion, interacting with the students--those are my strong points as a teacher. My weakest point? PAPERWORK. Oh dear little gods and graces, I HATE PAPERWORK. And I'm very very very bad at keeping up with it. I'm almost always late getting it done. I know, the irony and hypocrisy of it all. I'm afraid I take the ostrich approach: hide my head and pretend it doesn't exist and perhaps it'll miraculously Go Away.

What I really need to do is locate some of those handy Brownies, only the kind that will do paperwork instead of housework. Anyone know where I could find some?

9. Despite this atrocious lack of paper-oriented organizational skills, I have a little bit of OCD. Just, you know, not in USEFUL areas. I can't be all OCD about getting paperwork done or cleaning the house or organizing my classroom or tidying my desk or lawnwork or anything like that. Oh no. I have to be OCD about things like at which number the radio volume is set, or whether written letters and numbers have the lines touching instead of leaving annoying little gaps OMG FINISH THEM OFF!!!!, or getting stuck cracking my shoulder/knuckles/neck/whatever until I feel like I've "completed" the process (whatever that means), or all sorts of annoying little things. Oy. And now I'm twitching all over the place because just mentioning that third one is making my various body parts need cracking and moving and ahhhhhhhhhhhh I'm such a weirdo.

10. Along with the touch of OCD comes a slight superstitious tendency. I don't like stepping on cracks in the sidewalk. When I say that I hope something doesn't happen, I knock on wood (I use my head if nothing else is available). And I carry a lucky rock. Well, when I say rock, I mean lovely rose quartz crystal, a sort of faceted cylinder with a pointed top. When I'm anxious, I'll clutch it in my fist and rub my thumb and fingers over the sharp ridges and feel it warm in my grasp. It's very soothing.

As for the lucky part...well, that would be telling. YOU DON'T DISCUSS LUCK.

I know. It's silly. But there you go.

Betcha didn't know all of that, did ya? Whew. So much for being lazy.

And since I'm curious, and I didn't tag them last time, I want to hear from

DraftQueen (Ha! Tagged you back!)
GingerB
Stone Fox
Kathleen

Although, in line with Pants with Names, any of y'all who want to join in, please feel free! Because obviously, you don't HAVE to be tagged to play along.

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*Time of quasi-belief, not time of God's existence, OBVIOUSLY, people.
**Not its real name. Come on, people, keep up with the snark!
***That's my phone's name. No, really. She's lovely and red.

To Tell The Truth

Okay. Perhaps I haven't been as honest as all that. There's some angst. It's just angst I don't feel like I can write about much. You know. The Big D. And money. Evil, nasty, wish-I-had-more Money. And the whole What Does The Future Hold? thing. And hot water. And mailboxes.

Um, yeah, about those last two. The house hasn't had hot water for two weeks now. The kidlet's father has been great about handling it, but it's been a nightmare. The hot water heater is broken; the Roto Rooter guy keeps misdiagnosing/lying-about/whatever it; Sears apparently doesn't feel that keeping stock in, well, stock is anything very important; and two weeks later we are on our third diagnosis, second part being shipped, and impending fourth visitation from el Roto Rooter dude whenever it is that the all-important (and please dear God correct) package arrives.

And no hot water.

Then today someone decided to take a detour off the beaten path and obliterate the mailbox. As in smashed to smithereens, metal bar twisted and awry, wooden slats and muddied mail spread about the road. That someone was kind enough to deliver the remains of the mailbox to the front door, along with its damaged contents, but was not kind enough to leave a note so that we could have it replaced via his/her insurance. Which is, by the way, what happened three winters ago when the ex lost control on the icy curve and took out four mailboxes. WE left notes with all our insurance information and explanations for how to file claims at each house's front door.

Because we are Good People.

And yes, I'm judging him/her.

Life is not horrible or even bad, but as my chiropractor said, I am under stress. And as well as I am handling things in general, as happy as I am in many ways, that stress is still there. I think it's bubbling to the surface this week, what with money being extra tight, so many things going wrong (aren't they supposed to be limited to threes? I think we're on five or seven), and the switch from my regular routine.

So tonight? Tonight I'm tired and anxious and lonely and just a touch sad.

And that's the truth of things.

Um....

Before y'all get all upset about my lack of coherent posts this week, please realize that I am on Spring Break and therefore have no real routine.

I know. It's such hardship.

Anywho, at some point I'll write something real. Just not...not now.

You may now return to your regularly scheduled existence.

Beware the Teachermommy, My Readers! The Eyes that Glare! The Brows that Rise!

I am a dork. I am a geek. I am even, upon occasion, a raging nerd.

Monday night I saw the new Tim Burton Alice movie, the one with Johnny Depp...

--Side note and SPOILER ALERT (kind of): this is the second Alice-based movie I've seen this year (the other being the two-part mini-series the syfy channel did this fall, which was also quite excellent) in which the Mad Hatter was selected as the love interest for Alice. Hmmm. What do you think? Make sense? Discuss!--

...and was struck very quickly by its inspiration from the marvelous Lewis Carroll poem "Jabberwocky". I do so love that poem. In fact, it is displayed in poster form on my classroom wall. I mean, how can you not adore something like this:

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought--
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
He chortled in his joy.

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

Not only is it just plain FUN, the grammar geek in me LOVES that the poem is grammatically correct despite containing numerous nonsense words. I have used the poem in the past as a grammar exercise for identifying parts of speech.

And here's where I am proven a true nerd: just for fun, and because I'm a freak this way, I am in the slow and laborious process of diagramming the poem.

Oh yes. Cuz that's how I roll, peoples.

(And holy cow, it's been a while since I've diagrammed. And of course I'm doing it with something as complicated as this. THIS IS NOT EASY. I mean, there are elliptical phrases all over the place, not to mention complex sentence structure. Oy. And how crazy am I that I'm getting really excited about this? My students are mocking me. So are other teachers. And friends. IT'S OKAY. I EMBRACE MY INNER FREAK.)

Just for you, and because I love you, and because I am, after all, a teacher, I have underlined and numbered the nonsense words in the poem. My challenge to you: correctly identify the basic parts of speech used (select from noun, verb, adjective, adverb, or interjection). You get bonus points for correctly identifying additional roles in the sentences (select from subject, action verb, predicate adjective, direct object, object of the preposition)! I may even come up with some Actual Prize (TBD) for the winner.

`Twas brillig(1), and the slithy(2) toves(3)
Did gyre(4) and gimble(5) in the wabe(6):
All mimsy(7) were the borogoves(8),
And the mome(9) raths(10) outgrabe(11).

"Beware the Jabberwock(12), my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub(13) bird, and shun
The frumious(14) Bandersnatch(15)!"

He took his vorpal(16) sword in hand:
Long time the manxome(17) foe he sought--
So rested he by the Tumtum(18) tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish(19) thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling(20) through the tulgey(21) wood,
And burbled(22) as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack(23)!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing(24) back.

"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish(25) boy!
O frabjous(26) day! Callooh(27)! Callay(28)!'
He chortled(29)* in his joy.

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

GO ON. I DARE YOU.

Oh, and darling Heidi (who is also a language nerd and therefore chomping at the bit) says there should be a deadline. She's right. So let's say...submit your work before midnight on Friday (this Friday, the 2nd). And it occurs to me that you should probably NOT do so in the comments, because there may be some DIRTY DIRTY DIRTY CHEATERS out there. So EMAIL them to me: teachermommyblog [at] gmail [dot] com (or click the "Email Me!" button over on the left there), then leave a comment letting me know you entered and, well, commenting. Or you can just comment if you don't want to enter and instead want to praise and/or mock me.
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*Yes, I know we now use the word "chortle" for realsies. Here's the thing: this was the first place that word existed! It's a real-life demonstration of how literature directly affects language. Carroll created this word. Almost a century-and-a-half later, it is a legitimate part of our language. I LOVE THIS STUFF.

In Which I Ramble and Debate Existence as an Appliance

So I seem to have added a follower in the last couple of days, which is amazing because hello, haven't been here much. Nevertheless, gratifying and all that.

I seem to be in a blogging block right now, and even though I understand WHY, it's a little difficult to figure out how to overcome it all. Because people, there are so many things I CAN'T talk about on here that it's becoming difficult to figure out what I CAN talk about.

Things I Can't Or Won't Discuss On Here (At The Moment or At Least At Any Length):
1. My divorce--you know, all those legal things and not wanting to create drama if I can help it
2. My ex--because he doesn't want me to and I'm not sure how to write about him anyhow
3. My boyfriend--because he also likes some privacy and it seems like a lot of my family is all weirded out about me having one anyways and, you know, the divorce is still ongoing and all that crap
4. My angst--well, I could, but I don't want to because there's been too much of that and I'm getting sick of myself already

So on the rare occasions lately that I've even sat down at the computer, I find myself in the virtual equivalent of blank face and gaping mouth. What I do write seems to come across flat and uninspired. My sense of humor seems to be lacking, for one thing, at least when I write here.

Believe it or not, I still do have one. It just seems to be reserving itself for Real Life. Ask my friends--I've been making jokes and laughing and being snarky as usual. Really. But when I sit down here...it all seems to fade.

This post was a lot funnier in my head. You know, while I was sitting on the toilet thinking about posting something for once.

Isn't it phenomenally unfair how the best posts seem to come at the worst times? I'll be driving or in the shower or on the toilet or in the middle of teaching or cooking (ha!) or out on a four-wheeler or something, anything that means I cannot sit down right that minute and even jot ideas down, much less get online and write the post. I'm a brilliant writer in my own mind. Unfortunately, my mind doesn't come with a secretary.

That would be an awesome invention, you know. Some sort of device that could plug into the brain and record ideas when you want it to. Then you could work with the text later. Oh, I know there are those little note takers and voice recorders and all, but really, I need something that jacks into my brain directly.

No doubt this would lead to all sorts of horrific brain hacking and greymatter viruses, though, and then we'd just all be destroyed.

Of course, my brain already was hacked by the two little parasites I grew in my womb. I'm pretty sure they downloaded most of my brainpower between the two of them. It's hard to resent it too much, though, because they are awfully bright and brilliant and beautiful, those boys.

Me (cuddling boys close after mediating a wrestling match to determine who got to hug me the most): I love my boys!

DramaBoy: I love my girl!

The Widget: Yeah, I love my grill!

Me (laughing): Oh, so I'm a grill?

DramaBoy (grinning mischievously): Yeah, and I'm a stove!

I'm glad SOMEONE has a sense of humor around here.

There's a Reason I Listen to Alanis Morissette. And It's Not Because of Her Stellar Fashion Choices.

As much as I love myself (because really, who doesn't?) (love themselves, I mean) (well, or me, because I'm awesome) I also am my own harshest critic. No, really. I may not always let people know just how much I judge myself, but I do. It's far easier for me to see myself in a negative light than in a positive. Thus the self-deprecating humor. You know, make fun of myself before other people do, because then it hurts less? Yeah, I'm special like that.

(You see what I just did? Yep. Slammed myself in a joking way. Jeez, I can't help but do it even when I'm talking about how I do it.)

Sometimes the humor fails me. Then I just get angsty. Let me tell you, it's a real riot walking around with an inner teenager, especially one like mine. My inner teenager is not the bubbly cheerleader who loves trips to the mall and texting all her BFFs about the cute guy she saw at Forever 21. Oh no. Mine dresses in black with black eyeliner and mopes about in the corner and writes dark poetry about the horror of existence in a world of pain and anguish and bubbly cheerleaders.

Okay, fine, I've also been known to hang out at the mall with friends and text BFFs about guys, such as the cute policeman who totally gave me a major break this summer on not having renewed my registration for, oh, seven months; or the hot mechanic who changed my oil and replaced my sway bar links this weekend. But then my inner teenager has to hate ME, so it gets complicated.

I never said I was a simple person. I come with fine print. People just keep forgetting to read my manual.

Heck, I wish I could find my manual. Maybe then I could figure out how to run my own head.

Crap. Where was I going with this post? Oh right! Harshest critic. Angst. Too complicated for my own good. Fun stuff. Not entirely sure why I'm spewing this, but hey. Whatever. You can just stop reading if it's too emo for you.

Except now I'm panicking that you're really leaving my blog because AND THIS IS KIND OF THE WHOLE POINT OF THIS STUPID THING I have abandonment issues. And I've been realizing lately, as I've been navigating the ridiculous self-designed maze of my own mind (map not included), that I have a nasty habit of never fully giving myself to those I love. Deep down, you see, I don't really think I'm good enough to keep people around. So I have to protect myself from the inevitable. Friends, family, significant others, my own children...it doesn't seem to matter who the person is, there is always a part of my heart, a part of ME, that I hold back in reserve. There's always an unwillingness to risk myself fully in a relationship, because in the back of my mind a voice is always whispering They always end up leaving. One way or another, you will lose this person. He or she will leave you, will walk away, will break your heart if you give it all.

It's a sobering realization to have. It also explains certain behaviors. For example, my tendency to NOT write my parents much when they're overseas. Oh, they get my blog, I tell myself (which is a handy excuse these days but doesn't do much to justify the previous thirteen years). My mother will write long, lovely, newsy, satisfying letters that make me feel like she just sat down and had coffee with me. And I will, if she's lucky, write back a paragraph or two. Just the basics. A brief response to specific questions, usually. A quick update on how the boys are doing.

For another example, my ability to disconnect from friends and not even realize that two months have passed since I've seen a person or even necessarily talked to that person on the phone. I just continue to go on through my life, pushing away any sense of missing a connection. If she really wants to talk to me or see me, she'll call me, right?

I have to wonder, too, if I'm capable of loving a man in a way that means forever, 'til death do us part. I haven't done so well so far. And recently I've realized that it's one thing to say I love someone: it's another to give him my heart. Fully, completely, with all the tremendous risk that comes from placing that most delicate part of Self in someone else's hands. I don't think I've ever done that. I'm not sure what it takes to do so, or whether that strength, that willingness to risk so much, is even in me.

Most sobering is the realization that as much as I love my children, there's still a part of me I withhold from them, too. You see, they're going to grow up. And they may not like me very much some day. They may not call. They may not talk to me. They may resent me for choices I've made and have yet to make. They may move far, far away and only come home for the occasional holiday. I will lose them. One way or another, I will lose them: to jobs, to wives, to time.

So I shield a part of myself off from the world. Because if I give myself fully, then every time someone leaves, every time someone walks away or vanishes or drifts off or outright rejects me, there's a piece of my heart that goes with them. And I'm not sure there would be enough left of me to survive.

Sometimes I Wonder If They Exchange Messages With One Another. You Know, Just to Keep Each Other Company. Since They're All Lonely and Forgotten and All.

Okay, so you know how you have your Safe Email Account and your Junk Email Account? And how you start out with a new email address and you're all determined that this will be your Safe Address that does NOT get filled with all sorts of bills and spam and emails from people you're trying to pretend Do Not Exist (Anymore)?

And you know how this becomes a long line of Safe Accounts becoming Junk Accounts?

Yeah. My Safe Account (In Real Life, not my bloggy address, though no doubt that is doomed one day as well) is slowly making that change.

I remember the first real email address I had was in college, that good old Michigan State University one that ended with a million extensions Back In The Day (cuz I'm getting Old, y'all) before they decided to simplify things the year after I graduated. Whatever. It was so primitive. Yellowish-white letters on a black background, because that was how we rolled in the Days of Yore. When I graduated, I knew I would never use it again, but it was handy as the I-Have-to-Write-Down-an-Email-Addy-so-Here's-the-One-I-Never-Use default. You know, for all those applications and memberships and whatnot where you know they only require an email so they can flood you with more spam than a World War II foxhole.

I also had a freebie Juno account for a while, but that one became attached to a short-lived stunt as a book editor for a tiny publishing company run by a very former friend who thought that quantity mattered far more than quality. (Remind me to tell you about that some day.) My real maiden name is still out there on the Intarwebz attached to that stupid company on a no-longer-legit but not-quite-defunct website, so no doubt there are still some poor saps sending cover letters and manuscript teasers to that lonely Juno account. If it still works. I don't even remember what it was and have no intention of figuring it out, so whatever.

(Sorry, author-wannabees. I feel for you, but really, you would have regretted that move anyhow. The idiot dweeb individual who ran that company would probably have expected you to turn around and pour any profits right back into the company because, you know, it would pay out Someday When We Get Big. Ha.)

(Not that I'm bitter.)

There were a couple other short-lived accounts along the way, but I didn't use them much. There was one for the school where I interned, but unless some misguided students and parents kept emailing me after I left, no one's using that any longer. Probably deleted anyhow. And I think there was one for the Time Warner Road Runner internet service we used when we lived in an apartment in my early years of teaching, but I never really used that.

No, I was using Hotmail by then. Ah yes, that Hotmail account. Those who know me personally may remember the days of my Hotmail address, which used (and still uses) my maiden name. There are still a few people who get confuzzled and email me there, which is now where messages go to die.

Because my Hotmail account became my Junk Account about five years ago. We moved into a house and our new internet provider provided us with shiny new email addies. The transition was both inevitable and timely: already my Inbox was starting to pile up with far too many spam and business emails, and my index finger was cramping up from hitting delete.

You see, there comes a time when one starts having to use one's REAL account for certain memberships and business accounts, especially when one starts signing up for those oh-so-convenient online billing and banking transactions.

So my Hotmail account became my Junk/Business Account, and my SBCGlobal account became my Personal/Aren't You Special account. Some people missed the news, but most friends and families simply sighed and dutifully changed their Contact lists.

(We won't go into how AT&T took over SBC after a while, which was Not Welcome since I'm really not fond of AT&T and the whole thing brought up some I thought monopolies were against the law!!!! rage.)

So this morning I opened up my SBC AT&T Yahoo (dammit) account and sighed. Because sitting in my Inbox, as has been the case pretty much every day recently, were multiple spam and ad messages.

You see, my Hotmail/Junk account is slowly going by the wayside. Every time I open it up I find there are approximately 1,289,456,723 new messages waiting for me, and the sheer effort of skimming through them to find the very few remaining legitimate messages, all of which are bill-related, is just exhausting. So when I've opened up or changed bills and accounts lately, I've been using my Real email addy.

Which is the Kiss of Death.

Right now I'm only seeing the edge of the tide. Inevitably it will rise and the flow of unwanted and delete-worthy messages will become unmanageable.

Looks like it's time to start shopping for a new address.  Which means that another email account will join the throng of spam-choked long-forgotten Inboxes trailing mournfully in my wake.

Gmail, anyone?

They're Awesome. I'm Brain Dead.

Oh, hai! I can haz brain today?

Because I think it's mostly gone due to the mind-numbing energy sink that is a combination Professional Development and Parent Teacher Conferences day. (That was yesterday. In case you were wondering. That's why I was only online for a split second. In case you were wondering about that too. Though you probably weren't. Whatever.)

Therefore I will take care of a couple of housekeeping chores today before I go stare at a friendly wall. Since that's about as much as I can handle today.

So. Earlier this week my dear long-ago-long-time friend Kathleen at Treasured Chapters awarded me a lovely award, because she's generous like that, and it is the Superior Scribbler Award, which makes me want to squee. Except I never squee. It's a matter of principle. Instead I will bow gravely with all the self-absorbed gracious pompousness of academia in her general direction.

Thank you very much, Kathleen! That means a great deal to me. 'STruth.

As usual, these awards come with bloggy strings attached. In this case, the strings are:
1. Each Superior Scribbler I name today must in turn pass The Award on to 5 most-deserving bloggy friends.
2. Each Superior Scribbler must link to the author & the name of the blog from whom he/she has received The Award.
3. Each Superior Scribbler must display The Award on his/her blog.
4. Each Superior Scribbler must post these rules on his/her blog.

Eek. Um. Okay. Let's see. Kathleen awarded this to her English teacher(ish) bloggy friends, and I don't dare copy her. That would be so NON-TEACHERY. (That's a word, right? No? Crap.) I also would like to award this to some people who might actually acknowledge and post the award and pass it on (You hear me, Heidi?!?! Yeah, I'm lookin' at you! Well, virtually speaking.)

So I am awarding this Superior Scribbler Award to some bloggers who consistently delight me with their writing. They may or may not have been/be teachers. I'm not going to try anything cute like Kathleen. (Yet.) And they are (dunh dunh dunh):

1. Julia at Julia {here be hippogriffs}
2. DeeDee at Fiddledeedee
3. Beck at Frog And Toad Are Still Friends
4. Mom Zombie at Mom Zombie
5. Marinka at Motherhood in NYC

These five wonderful writers are proof that writing with style Matters.

And now a new reader of mine (Heyla, Hyla! Welcome to my cuuurrrazy little world!) gave me a rather humbling award (Really? I deserve this? Okay, now I really am almost feeling a squee emerge and that would mean that my soul would wither a little. Must. Control. Voice.) called the Best Blog Award. Wow. Okay. Really? Wow. THANK YOU!!!

What makes me gulp even more than that scary word "BEST" are the rules, however, and suddenly I think I might have to cheat. (I know. My reputation as a teacher is becoming seriously tarnished.)

Apparently in order to accept the award, I must:
...post it on your blog together with the name of the person who has granted the award and his/her blog link. Pass the award to 15 other blogs that you have recently discovered and think are great! Remember to contact the bloggers you've awarded to let them know they have been chosen for this award.

ACK. 15 blogs? That I've recently discovered? Crap crap crap.

You see, while I follow a million and half blogs (not all of them are currently listed on that blogroll over at the side), I have NOT added a whopping fifteen to my follow list in recent times. I have added some, but not fifteen. This is because I know that reading blogs is an addiction. I could easily spend the majority of my day simply reading blog after blog after blog if I allowed myself to do so. As a result, I approach blog discovery much in the way that I approach my addiction to shoes and books. I limit my access. I do not enter a shoe or book store lightly.

Otherwise my bookshelves and closets would be even more out-of-control than they already are.

So I am going to have to cheat a bit (Did I mention that last night I actually encouraged DraftQueen a friend to play hooky from class and go have fun with a girlfriend instead? And that she then texted back about the irony of a teacher incouraging truancy? No? Um, forget I wrote that.) and reduce that Very Scary Number to, oh, let's say five (5) (cinq) (cinco). That I can handle.

Recently I've been branching out from MommyBloggers to reading DaddyBloggers. My follow list is slowly swelling with the brilliance of these men. You should read them too. And since I'm just that confusing, I will round it out with a very non-male but still very worth reading MommyBlogger. Because I just cannot bring myself to only list four when five is so much more RIGHT.* I'm OCD awesome like that.

And you know what's fun about that? If they follow the rules, they'll have shiny little hearts on their blogs! (mwahahahahaha *giggle*)

So I am awarding the Best (Somewhat Recently Discovered and Apparently Mostly-Daddy-Blogger Oriented) Blog Award to:

1. Jason Mayo at Out-Numbered
2. Sedg311 at Why Is Daddy Crying?
3. Mike Adamick at Cry It Out: Memoirs of a Stay-at-Home Dad
4. Mocha Dad at Mocha Dad
5. MaryMac at Pajamas & Coffee (Here's a clue: she's the one without a penis.)

Go forth and read. You'll laugh. You'll cry. You'll suddenly realize that men (and women too--don't worry, Mary! I got your back, Gurl!) are Crazy. Good times.

I apologize for any brain aneurisms confusion this ridiculously scattered somewhat rambling post may have caused you.


Now you know how I feel.

*I could include Arby here as the fifth, because he is also a brilliant DaddyBlogger, but I've been following him for much longer and he already refused to post an award I gave him because of the froofy hearts issue. So he's not getting it. So there. Nyah.

Just Do What I Say, Not What I Do

They're just awful.

The presentation is going on and they just sit there chatting to each other, doing other work, reading books, rolling their eyes, texting friends.

They're given an assignment and they doodle on the pages instead of following instructions.

They're instructed to discuss the topic at hand and they talk about their plans for the afternoon and what is happening this weekend and Oh my gawd did you hear what Julie said the other day?!?

They're told to send group representatives to mark their discussion results on the activity board and the few who were actually paying attention jump up to the front while the rest chatter away, oblivious.

They're given a short break and they continue to chatter to each other when the lights are flickered once, twice, three times to bring them back to attention. And again. And again.

They're finally released and they walk away muttering about how much that woman is getting paid for teaching them about something they already know and why can't they just leave us alone?

I don't know why anyone bothers with them, really.

Honestly.

Educators.

They're absolutely impossible to teach.

(I was the one sitting in the next-to-the-back row making snarky comments to my counselor friend beside me, laughing with the Psychology teacher behind me, and re-reading The Trojan War.

If I was my student I'd kick my ass.)

He Should Have Checked My Fine Print Before He Started Dating Me. I'm Fairly Sure There's Something About "May Make Head Explode" in There.

No, this isn't what he looks like. Move along.

(text: me to Joe) Guys keep looking at me because I'm smokin' hot. That or I have schmutz on my face.

(text: me to Joe) Judging from your silence you think it's the schmutz. Or you're really busy. Or you're ignoring me.

(text: me to Joe) And now you're probably thinking I'm fishing for compliments and the answer would be yes, and attention.

(text: me to Joe) And now you're saying to yourself doesn't this crazy girl have anything better to do with her time than harass me? The answer is no, not at the moment.

(phone rings)

Me: Why, whatever made you think to call me right now?

Joe: Were those multiple choice questions? Is this a quiz? Will there be a test?

I'm wondering--do those fancy schmancy i-phones have an app for electronic scantron quizzes? Cuz if they do, I might have to start saving up.

If Blogs Were Weather Patterns, This One Would Have the Meteorologists Stumped. Because They're Always Spot On in the Normal Course of Things.

Okay, so yeah, here it's Tuesday and I haven't been on here for realsies in ages and you're probably wondering, Hey, doesn't she love us anymore?  And the answer is, Yes, yes I do, but life is crazy and busy and awful and wonderful and up and down and sideways all at once and sometimes I think I might just need to pull over for a while and hyperventilate in private.

Because I'm insane complicated that way.

School is going well, other than having to squish the occasional overly-vociferous boy-child and threaten them with a dark, dusty sojourn in the Pottery Jar of Ashy Anguish.

"Ashes of Obnoxious Teenagers"

It always seems to be the boy-children. With the very occasional exception (none so far this year), I spend more time exhorting the female students to speak up than I do commanding them to pipe down.

I move up to the apartment/house on Saturday and have gotten absolutely nothing packed or ready yet. I have a vision of flinging everything down from the third-story window into the waiting arms of various friends and family so they can stuff it all in cars and haul it north. I'm terribly afraid it may come true.

I had a fabulous time over the weekend. My nails are now purple. I was only able to read 40 pages of the book I took, which says something about the amount of time I spent talking and laughing and goofing off instead.

I have graded a grand total of NONE of the papers piling up on my desk. That's a task for this afternoon, since I'll be stuck here until the Sneak Peek (a.k.a. parents-come-meet-teachers-and-check-things-out) tonight. Fortunately a wonderful and much-missed retired teacher is feeding a number of us at her house beforehand.

A former student brought me dark-chocolate-and-raspberry Godiva chocolate bars today. I may have to write her into my will.

I am surviving on practically no sleep, a mug of coffee, a breakfast bar, and a Godiva chocolate bar. The walls are wiggling a little.

And now perhaps I should return to work, since there are some students here to teach. I don't know where they came from. Apparently the tables have given birth.

Remember, only silly teddy bears wear red bow ties.

It's Hard to Wind Down When I've Been Going Nonstop All Day, Okay? Geez!

I just checked my blog stats and nearly fell off the bed when I saw there were only two hits today. I even double checked. Only TWO? What happened!

And then I realized it's 12:44 AY-EM and I really should just go to bed.

Me and my insecurities. I tell you. I mean, I was practically hyperventilating because it's been ages since I've been down in the teens, much less single digits, and here it's just because today started less than an hour ago.

And don't even get me STARTED on the number of blogs I "need" to catch up on reading, cuz I've been crazy busy today. Which is just silly, because those bloggers will survive if I'm a few days delayed in reading their posts, whether brilliant or mundane. Even though I know they sit for hours at their keyboards, tapping the keys anxiously in their desperate wait for a TeacherMommy comment to pop up. (HA!)

OH! And I still haven't replied to bushmanbill's Direct Message via Twitter! Ack! If you're reading this, hon, I'm doing mostly okay and so are the kids. More details later.

Maybe it will be good for me to get away for a few days, somewhere I can't hover by my computer. I think I may be on the verge of running silicone through my veins rather than blood.

Wish me luck (or pray) on our trip tomorrow. It's normally a six-hour drive, but with two kidlets we'll be tacking on a few hours. Sigh.

Since I need to be up in five hours, I need to get OFF THE COMPUTER. Even if it is the first chance I've had to really be on here all day. Peace and sweet dreams!

Talking Philosophy, Three-Year-Old Style

Lately DramaBoy has been very into Bible stories and figuring out the whole God thing. Ever since I started taking him to church/Sunday school and his grandma started reading to him from The Big Picture Story Bible, which has been his absolutely favorite book for several months now, he has dived headlong into faith, three-year-old style. It's kind of amazing to see.

But there are some interesting questions coming up, some of which would be difficult to answer for someone with a doctorate in theology, much less a prodigal who only recently has started picking up the Bible again.

Yesterday as we drove home, he suddenly piped up from the back seat: Mama? There are two Gods, right? A big one and a little one?

Great. I get to try to explain the Trinity to a three-year-old.

No, there's just one God, I replied. But He can be three different people.

Where do I go from there? I mean, come on. This is something I barely understand.

Um, you know how I am Mommy to you and The Widget, and I'm also a teacher, and I'm also a friend to other people? It's like I'm three different people, but I'm still one person.

Oh, he said.

Sudden inspiration hit me. Someone just mentioned lately an approach she was taking with her preschool Sunday School class.

OK, so you know how water is sometimes all wet and liquid, like the rain? And then sometimes it's hard and cold, like ice and snow? And then if it gets hot, it's steam? It's still water, but it can be in three different forms, I said.

Oh! Okay, he said. He sounded a little more sure this time. All right. That would have to do for the time being.

So that took care of faith. But the philosophy bug had apparently hit us both (okay, maybe me a little more than him) because a little bit later he started singing "Rockabye Baby", only to stop and comment: Mama? Cradles rock sometimes. But why does the cradle fall?

Well, that song is really a representation of politics, I replied. Ha! If I could take on the doctrine of the Trinity, I could handle a little discussion about rebellion against government.

Sometimes cradles fall, he confirmed.

Right. What that is really talking about is what happens when the people rise up against a corrupt government, I said, with growing confidence.

Oh, he said. There was a pause.

But we don't do that! he said, as sure in his position as I was in mine.

You're right, baby, you're right. We don't really do that these days, I replied, thinking about all the decades of corruption and increasing lack of confidence in our leadership, as well as the growing apathy about really doing anything about it.

I told you I'm in trouble with these kids. If I'm not careful, he's going to be teaching ME what's what.

And not that I'm putting expectations on him or anything, but I'd rather he be a pastor or seminary professor than a politician. Just sayin'.

Um, Maybe I Should Clarify

Because my last post got rather confusing, I think. It was SUPPOSED to be a nice educated treatise on the problems of social concepts of beauty.

Yes, really.

So no, I don't need all sorts of reassurances that I'm beautiful (in Africa or elsewhere). I mean, not that I would be offended by that, mind you.

I guess my ultimate point is that humans manage to screw up pretty much everything. And we have definitely managed to screw up the idea of what makes someone beautiful. We are individuals, unique, each of us special in our own ways. Yet we act as though in order to be beautiful, we should all follow a generic model of appearance.

Now that's crazy.