Updates: Because I Know You Were Wondering

1. Why yes, I am feeling better! And here's the absolutely AMAZING thing: all it took was for me to STOP TAKING THE MEDICINE. Oh yes. You have that right. After multiple trips to the doctor and an ultrasound for my bladder and kidneys, all I really had to do was stop taking the damn Macrobid, keep drinking lots of water, and do my back stretches just a little more thoroughly. And HEY PRESTO! I don't feel like I'm dragging my body across a desert wasteland, my back feels mostly okay (considering it's my back), and my nether regions feel a little less like they've been channeling a little piece of the netherworld.

I'm still going to the urologist next week, though. I'm also still chugging water (and running for the bathroom) on a regular basis. Lesson: learned (hopefully).

2. In case you were wondering, I DID in fact get both a hug (more than one, actually) and a Date Night with MTL last week. Although we may have been so tired that we settled for a visit to our favorite Mexican restaurant and then snuggling on the couch to watch a movie. WITH NO ONE ELSE AROUND. Just maybe. And really? That was good. Very good.

3. On Saturday we drove down to Detroit and hauled my brother and his things back up to my house. He's been having a bit of a rough time living down there lately, what with the loneliness and the lack of available jobs and transportation issues and whatnot, and when he crashed my parents' car...well, he need some TLC. So we brought him up to our place for not quite two weeks, and it worked very well and he fit in perfectly and when he left--well, we kind of wanted him back. So we invited him to come live with us at least until my parents come back in March, and he said yes, and now we are Eight. Since the Dark One has stayed only one night at our place since she left in September (because God forbid she be away from her troll boyfriend for any length of time), we moved my brother into that room instead.

For the sake of this blog, he shall henceforth be known as "DMB", which is short for "DorkMaster B". Trust me, it fits. And he approves.

4. Thursday is DramaBoy's fifth birthday. FIFTH. This is bizarre. It's also Thanksgiving, here in these American parts, so we're sort of combining them but also tentatively planning a separate party in a couple of weeks and once again I am reminded that holiday birthdays are kind of annoying. Even though they are easier to remember. Considering that seven out of the eight of us (I'm including DMB here) have birthdays either on or right around holidays, it's a family Thing now.

Me: Christmas Day
MTL: Valentine's Day
DMB: Just before Halloween
The Dark One: American Independence Day
KlutzGirl: Often around Easter (this year, it's on Good Friday)
DramaBoy: Right around (or, this year, on) American Thanksgiving
The Widget: Often around Easter (a little earlier than KlutzGirl)

So the only one who isn't is The Padawan. Poor boy. Or lucky one, considering he gets his very own day without a holiday mucking up the process.

5. On the side of Evil triumphing over Good, two very evil things have occurred this week: first, someone(s) broke into my parents' house on Monday (fortunately while the renter was out), smashing a window and breaking down some interior doors. My brother's things were gone, of course, and my parents' were packed away, so only the poor renter suffered loss. His laptop and some other things were stolen. It all makes me very angry: most likely someone saw us moving my brother out and figured there would be less monitoring of the house. At least the (very active) house alarm limited the time and damage. And yet: SIGH.

The second and more evil of the events is that one of my stepson's teachers was arrested on suspicion of child molestation--not at school and not one of the students, but OMG ANYWAYS. This sort of thing makes me so very angry on so many levels: that the evil of molestation happens, that child molesters exist at all, that it was one of my stepson's teachers (!!!!), and that once again it is one of these cases where the evil individual will cast a shadow over the entire educational system. I know it's all alleged right now, and that guilt and innocence must wait for the trial and all that....but still.

This week has not been strong for the side of Good.

6. Except for the case of my school's annual Canned Food Drive. We nearly missed our goal, but a flurry of last-minute cash donations edged us over, and as of this morning we have collected the equivalent of over 60,000 cans in food and cash donations for a local food bank. It's one of the reasons I love this school: the staff and students here regularly reach astonishing levels of generosity for a wide variety of charitable causes. The Food Drive is one; next week the annual Gift Drive for an impoverished elementary school in Detroit takes place; other drives occur frequently to help charities and individual students and families stricken by illness and accident. Last year alone my school raised over $84,000 in charitable donations. That's not the district; that's not the county; that was ONE SCHOOL ALONE. In one year. And while we do have wealthy students and families here, we also have the very, very poor. It's a very diverse school both ethnically and socio-economically.

So that? That makes me proud. And it gives me hope, a little light in the darkness, that sometimes, just perhaps, Good can in fact overcome the many forces of Evil.

Sinking

Today I'm discouraged. Deeply, deeply discouraged. As much as I try to focus on the positives of my career, as much as I try to focus on the great kids and the joy of those wonderful discussions and discoveries and moments in teaching that make my day, as much as I try to listen to the messages I get from former students saying I made a difference in their lives: today I just want to quit.

I just want to be done. Walk away, leave behind all the crap, all the heartache, all the apathy. I just want to leave behind the parents who don't understand the importance of their children's educations and who think that teachers are the Enemy rather than their allies. I just want to leave behind the political red tape and bullshit. I just want to leave behind the pervasive attitude that somehow my education and professionalism and experience mean nothing, just like that of all my many, many, many dedicated and amazing colleagues. I even want to walk away from all the students, former and current, who Need so much from me, above and beyond the parameters of academic education.

I definitely want to walk away from the pile of papers to grade and the overwhelming list of things I have to do, which grows every day.

I feel drained. It's as though I've been plugged in, but in reverse, so all the energy is being drained away from me rather than into me. I'm tired. Deeply bone-tired. I could barely move this weekend to do the bare minimum of what the weekend required, much less do much of anything productive or useful. And of course that means I have even more to do this week because I've procrastinated.

I just want to crawl into bed and sleep for twelve hours, then get up and read or work on my cross stitch project or actually exercise for once or do one of the many other things that are infinitely more attractive to me than what I actually have to do. Preferably in the company of MTL.

But I can't. I have to finish grading all these papers and quizzes and tests, and make tests, and prepare for the onslaught of project presentations, and finish grades, and somewhere in there I should probably work on cleaning a house that became absolutely trashed over Halloween weekend.

I feel like crying.

Dear So and So: An Emotional Rant (Or Four)

Pants With Names posts every now and then with her very amusing versions of her friend Kat's postcard posts. You know, the "Dear So and So" type of thing. Today, I think I need to do it too. Because I am in a MOOD. One that even Ghirardelli dark chocolate with raspberry filling cannot fix.

I KNOW.

**************************************

Dear Electronic Grading System,

WTF do you mean, it's Progress Report time??? I'm not ready! I'm not prepared! I'm still scrambling to get everything done AND figure out how to balance Work and Home Life right now, and it's still in the early stages. Plus I had to take that day off to stay home with The Widget, and it's taking me twice as long to catch up as it would have to just be here.

Your little asterisks of Grades Have Not Been Entered mock me!

Yours in frantic desperation,
Ms. Buried-Up-To-My-Neck-In-Paperwork TeacherMommy

**************************************

Dear Current Students,

No, M&Ms are not suitable replacements for Godiva. Also, it's Cherry COKE. Cherry Pepsi is an abomination.

Grumpily,
Your Favorite English Teacher

**************************************

Dear You Know Who,

I know. It's AMAZING that moving to that town didn't fix all your problems. Such a shock! I never would have guessed.

I really need to work on my bitterness.

Trying To Forgive,
One of the People You Left Behind

**************************************

Dear Media, World, and People I Love,

I know there are problems with the system. I'm not saying it can't improve. And I love that there are options for people, like private schools and charters and homeschooling. But here's the reality check: they're not all perfect either. Or even always better. And every time you lump all of us educators together under the category of "lazy" or "useless" or "outdated" or "unnecessary", you injure a group of people who, in a far greater majority than you give them credit for, have chosen a career that is full of stress and challenge and (increasingly) very little thanks--and do a damn good job.

You want to measure my efficacy? You want some stats? Today alone I actively taught five classes (three different courses), graded eight sets of quizzes, rewrote two quizzes, prepped questions and activities for a novel, answered over twenty emails, entered grades into the grading system, wrote a wiki rubric for the district benchmark "test", checked in three classes' worth of vocabulary assignments, and helped several individual students who had issues or questions outside of class.

That was in five hours. And I'm still behind.

That doesn't even include the unmeasurable aspects: getting students excited about literature, making them laugh, working with other teachers to develop ideas and activities and curriculum. How are you going to gather statistics on the number of students I impact in the ways that don't show up on standardized tests?

And I'm not even the best or hardest working teacher I know, not by a long shot. AND THEY'RE EVERYWHERE.

And here's the other thing: we take everyone. That's EVERYONE. Regardless of ethnicity or religion or gender or financial status or, especially, disability. We don't get to pick and choose like almost every private and charter school does. We take everyone, and we care about them, and we do our damnedest under increasingly difficult circumstances.

And then we get shit on from every direction. Including our own administration, our politicians, the media, and (God help me) even our own friends and family.

I told my students' parents on Sneak Peek night that I teach because I love doing it and I love working with these kids. It's true. But for the first time in my entire career, even when I was so close to burn-out that I could taste it (twice), I realized this week that if I miraculously won the lottery with that ticket I never buy, I wouldn't keep teaching.

Stop saying "Oh, but I didn't mean YOU." Yes, you did. Because I'm in this along with all the others.

It's been a hard week.

Sincerely,
Your Emotionally Raw TeacherMommy

Just Another Hysterical Female With Unreasonable Girly Bits

****FAIR WARNING SO I DON'T GET GROSSED OUT COMMENTS: This post contains references to icky medical and "girly" issues both past and present. If you are easily skeezed out, horrified, or otherwise proven a total wimp by such details, skip this post. If not, or if you're just all, you know, curious now, read on. Just don't say I didn't warn you.****

Yesterday I was reading, with great empathy, the latest post on ongoing medical issues Betty at The 52 Seductions has been facing. Her most recent session with her gynecologist resonated with me, not because of her specific medical problems, but because of how the doctor continues to approach both her and her mysterious condition, which apparently he finds quite annoying because it won't cooperate by being easily diagnosed or treated. His disgruntlement extends to Betty, who is also quite uncooperative since she won't agree that his treatments are actually doing much of anything. It's all quite inconvenient for him. Apparently, paying any real attention to the details of her case or listening to her like she has much of a clue about her own body is also inconvenient.

One of the commenters wrote, Sometimes I have the feeling that gynaecology consultants are not *actually* listening and are just hearing, “blah, blah, blah, woman’s complaints, blah, blah, blah.”

Been there. Felt that.

Let me explain. When I was a nubile young thing of eighteen, I started experiencing occasional bouts of severe but short-lived pain. These incidents would occur every couple of months and last for only a few hours, but I was incapacitated during that time. The pain was very much like that of a severe bladder/urinary tract infection paired with a nasty yeast infection, but would manifest out of nowhere and depart just as suddenly. While in pain, I pretty much could only lie about wearing as little as possible and popping Advil like it was candy.

Time after time, I would take myself to the doctor the next day: he (or more rarely, she) would run the routine tests for a UTI or yeast infection, find nothing, and send me on my way. Occasionally I would be given antibiotics and creams anyway, on the off chance that I had an infection that was escaping their tests.

As time went on, the incidents gradually increased in frequency, severity, and duration. My menstrual periods, which had been relatively consistent, started arriving earlier or later and heavier or lighter than usual. I began spotting between periods, something that had never happened before. Something was wrong.

According to the expressions on the doctors' faces, they started suspecting something was indeed wrong--not with my body, but with my mind. The symptoms were most common at night, so invariably I had nothing to "show" when I was in the doctors' offices. Not a single doctor ever seemed to listen to the whole story. Not a single doctor ever varied in their approach. It was always the same exam, the same tests, the same results.

Looking back, I should have insisted on something more. I was too young and intimidated--all those years of school, all those diplomas, all those shiny metal instruments!--to challenge them. You'd think that since I grew up in a family filled with nurses and doctors I'd be different, but in truth I had grown up believing that all doctors knew what they were doing. The ones in my family certainly seemed to. It didn't occur to me to ask more questions or push for different tests.

After two and a half years of increasing pain and desperation, I was nearing the end of my rope physically and mentally. I was starting to think maybe those expressions were right--maybe there WAS something wrong with my mind. And yet, the physical result was undeniable. The pain was so much worse and so much more frequent that others were noticing. Once, in the middle of my African Lit class, it arrived like a freight train. The professor actually stopped class because I turned white and started sweating. He had another student escort me to the health center, concerned that I might collapse on the way. Same results. Same facial expression.


Then in the fall of 1998, I scheduled my routine pap smear and exam like a good girl, at the university health center. I requested an appointment with the same Nurse Practitioner who had performed my very first gyno exam years before, because I appreciated her approach. I felt like a person with her rather than a pair of legs in stirrups. Let's face it, having one's lady bits messed about with is difficult enough without feeling like the person doing the messing about views one as an unfeeling slab of meat. Or a mannequin.

After the routine part of it all, she let me sit up and regain a bit of dignity, then asked if I had any concerns to raise.

Actually, I do, I said. And I told her the whole story. From start to finish. With every detail. Because unlike every other medical practitioner who had seen me in the previous two and a half years, she actually listened.

Once I completed my tale of woe, she said, Please lie back down. I think I might know what this could be. She then probed my lower abdomen with her fingers, quite firmly, for perhaps a minute. Oh yes, she said. There's definitely something there that shouldn't be. You need an ultrasound.

Two weeks later an ultrasound technician found, in almost no time at all, a single massive fibroid on the posterior of my uterus. It was seven centimeters in diameter, about the size of an orange.

Not quite two months after that, four days before my twenty-first birthday, the fibroid was surgically removed. It had apparently been growing quite rapidly, which explained the increasing pain, because it was then nine centimeters in diameter, about the size of a grapefruit.

I haven't had problems since.

Well, at least from uterine fibroids. I did have to have planned cesarean sections with both children because of the risk of uterine rupture. The scar is...interesting. At least I can still wear a bikini.

And along with the joint issues I inherited from family, I also am prone to REAL urinary tract infections, a problem I share with a close relative or two. I get them way too frequently, despite precautionary measures and cleanliness, and almost half the time the infection makes a run for my kidneys. I've learned to hie myself to the doctor post haste at the first signs of discomfort. And every time, that pain brings back the nasty memories of those years of misery.

So when I read Betty's post yesterday morning, I wrote a comment summarizing my story (yeah, it was long, but shorter than this post, trust me), and then decided I really wanted to write about my own experience over here. Because the main point is true for both of us: medical professionals need to stop jumping to conclusions without truly listening, and they need to start believing that patients can and do know their own bodies. I know enough doctors and nurses who practice excellent and compassionate medicine to believe that it is possible, even under the time and financial constraints so common today.

Here's the fun little kicker, though. Last night, just after popping a handful of cranberry pills, I had to use the bathroom. And lo and behold, I felt that telltale burning.

Went to the doctor today.

Irony, thy name is...well, apparently it's cystitis. And occasionally, when you want to be really nasty, pyelonephritis. Your timing is impeccable. Damn you.


****For an added little TMI bonus, I made sure to text DraftQueen with my test results right away. Because we have this very weird tendency to get UTIs at the same time. Sometimes within hours of each other. Even though we're miles and miles and states apart. I kid you not. She's gorging on cranberry as we speak.****

PSA for Parents

You know when your kidlet decides to have a meltdown in the middle of the mall? As in full-force Mach 5 tantrum with screaming, crying, hitting, and "I hate you"s as a special bonus?

You have two choices: (1) be utterly humiliated and drag the brat kicking and screaming the entire length of the mall while uttering threats and avoiding eye contact with anyone and everyone, or (2) find your sense of humor, try very hard not to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation, and drag the brat kicking and screaming the entire length of the mall while saying I'm sorry you feel that way. I love you! and smiling at all the gawkers.

I'll give you a hint: Choice Number Two doesn't give you a migraine and tends to result in amusement from onlookers rather than surreptitious searches for the phone number to the Department of Human Services.

Oh, and DramaBoy? I still love you.

In Which the Men in White Coats Nearly Had Their Way With Me

Around 12:35 in the wee barely-morning hours of Sunday morning, I posted on Facebook the following status:

THEY ARE STILL AWAKE. DEAR GOD HELP ME. THEY ARE STILL AWAKE.

For some reason this only seemed to elicit amusement from the general masses. Many of whom are parents themselves, and who apparently have already been initiated into the insanity that is The Sleepover. I, as a newb to its reality, was struggling to find the humor in it all.

I was, however, forced to chuckle at one former schoolmate's response: He hears you [TeacherMommy], He hears you. And He's laughing his head off.

I always knew God had a sense of humor. My students are living proof.

So how did I get into this insanity? Well, DramaBoy's best friend is a little girl about four months younger than he. Let's call her ADHDGirl. It just so happens that I taught her older sister last year when she was a junior. I am also good friends with her mother--we met at daycare and had one of those instant connections that would keep us standing in the parking lot for an hour talking. She has had a difficult life, to say the least, and recently has been having a particularly Tough Time. So when I talked to her on the phone the other day and heard that edge in her voice that I know has been in mine on far too many occasions, I told her that she was going to drop ADHDGirl off on Saturday night and could pick her up Sunday morning, and that she had no choice in the matter.

And then I stocked up on multicolored goldfish, apple juice, and Xanax.

Oh, I'm kidding. There wasn't enough time to get the apple juice.

OMG. I had no idea that adding one little four-year-old to the mix would make life so...interesting. For much of the evening I simply stayed out of the way, chatting online to friends (many of whom were laughing at me) and wishing the water I was sipping was wine and occasionally yelling a reminder that YOU ARE FRIENDS AND NEED TO TREAT EACH OTHER THAT WAY and trying not to twitch. Then I spent several hours trying to get them to STAY in the bed into which they had been tucked. Yeah right.

DramaBoy, of course, woke up way too early the next morning, but at least he stayed quiet for the one hour before the other two rioted their way down the stairs. Then chaos reigned again. I was so worn out and grumpy that a friend who lives down the road took pity on me and showed up at my doorstep with a large coffee. Which may have saved my life.

At least when my friend who owes me so frickin' badly whom I love dearly arrived to pick up ADHD girl, she looked much more sane. Which is good, because one of us should be. And which made it all worthwhile.

And if you needed more proof that I am crazy, I even told her I'll probably do it again.

But I'm going to upgrade to Prozac first.

Excuses, Excuses

Student Version: Why I Didn't Do The Homework 
(from this site)

1. I didn’t do my history homework because I don’t believe in dwelling on the past.
2. I didn’t want the other kids in the class to look bad.
3. A sudden gust of wind blew my homework out of my hand and I never saw it again.
4. Another pupil fell in a lake and I jumped in to rescue him.  Unfortunately, my homework drowned.
5. Our furnace broke and we had to burn my homework to keep ourselves from freezing.
6. I’m not at liberty to say why.
7. I wanted to frame the detention letter you’re about to give me.
8. It was destroyed in a freak accident involving a hippo, a toaster, and a bag of frozen peas.  You don’t want to know the details.
9. I have a solar-powered calculator, and it was cloudy.
10. I made a paper plane out of it and it got hijacked.
11. My mom used it as a dryer sheet.
12. My agent won’t allow me to publish my homework until my movie deal is finalized.
13. It’s against my religion to do any homework.
14. I was abducted by green-skinned, three-eyed, pig-snouted space aliens, and they incinerated my homework with their death rays.
15. I felt it wasn’t challenging enough.
16. My parents were sick and unable to do my homework last night.  Don’t worry, they have been suitably punished.
17. We had homework?!
18. I see your lips moving, but all I’m hearing is “blah, blah, blah.”
19. I didn’t want to add to your already heavy workload.
20. I spent the night at a rally supporting higher pay for our hard-working teachers.

Teacher Version: Why I Didn't Grade The Homework
(by TeacherMommy)

1. A draft circulated through my room from the vents, and the friction caused by all those papers rubbing together resulted in spontaneous combustion isolated to my desk.
2. I had to go to the ER to treat the blood loss sustained from all my paper cuts.
3. I started reading the essays and suffered a brain aneurism.
4. I fell asleep on the papers due to exhaustion and got ink poisoning.
5. My children mistook the tests for scrap paper and used them for their latest art projects.
6. My cat mistook the tests for kitty litter and...well, littered on them.
7. The military has been taking up all my time having me train their best interrogators in the proper use of The Look. Soon they will be ready to add The Eyebrow.
8. I strained my back carrying my laptop and bag of papers and had to go to the chiropractor.
9. Oh, they're graded, but the computer hates me and won't let me enter the grades.
10. It was the craziest thing. I left my room for five minutes to use the copier, and a miniature wormhole opened up over my desk and transported all the papers to the Gamma Quadrant.
11. My nemesis in A pod papernapped all the essays. I'm negotiating for their release.
12. I'm trying to get my Procrastination Badge. I've been working on it for years, but the organization keeps putting off the final test.
13. I looked at the essays and decided I can't cure stupid.
14. Next week is Spirit Week and I'm too busy trying to decide what to wear on the theme days.
15. Did you know that Gmail chat suddenly works in the building?
16. I'm very busy practicing my blogging writing skills.
17. Since our salaries and benefits are likely to get slaughtered in the next contract negotiation, I've decided to start charging per paper. I'm waiting for my students to cough up the moolah.
18. I'm staging a protest against the needless slaughter of squids by refusing to use ink.
19. Sometimes it's just better not to know what is and isn't in those kids' heads.
20. I have a life.

Seriously, When I Hear It "Take Off" I Want to Take Off Too

Why, I ask, are so many children's toys so damn ANNOYING?

They beep, they boop, they screech and ding and howl and flash lights and generally drive any reasonable adult within a twenty-foot radius absolutely insane. They also seem to involve a hundred little pieces that will get misplaced and be found by someone's unsuspecting foot--most often the innocent parent. Oh, and they all require a half-dozen batteries that die within a few hours' use. In order to remove and replace the batteries, one must first locate one of those tiny little screwdrivers that constantly vanish (much in the same way as the Second Sock Phenomenon) in order to unscrew the twenty tiny screws that keep our little darlings from accessing the batteries and nomming all that lovely battery acid.

I'd just let the batteries die, shrug, and say Oh, it's so sad! It must be broken. Might as well get rid of it, okay? if it weren't for the equally annoying (and noisy) wailing and gnashing of teeth that would ensue. I'm not sure which is worse, really.

And of course we all know who gives those gifts most often. That's right. People who are NOT the parents of the children. Because they don't have to deal with the horror. This last Christmas was particularly bad for my boys in this regard. The house is now filled to the brim with countless toys that are endangering my precarious sanity.

So those of you who do this? (You so know who you are.) I have a suggestion. Instead of spending vast amounts of money on noisy, annoying, expensive toys that will drive parents insane and be forgotten in a corner after a few months, get something simple. Avoid noises and flashing lights and tons of pieces and battery-requirements. Oh, and you really don't have to put the toy stores back in the black single-handedly. I guarantee that if you start doing this when they're young, they'll never miss the excess. I didn't.

And if you still feel like you need to spend more money? Get something useful. Like clothes they'll actually wear. Or a college fund. Or pay some of their daycare tuition.

Chances are the parents will appreciate that much more than some footlong space shuttle with realistic light and sound effects.

Not that I would know anything about a toy like that. Or desire to smash it into a hundred pieces.

Ahem.

I Was Trying For Something Humorous And Then Found Myself Getting All Nasty. Must Have Been The Subject Matter.

We never talk trash, our rhymes are clean
Our rhymes are never vague and we say nothing obscene
So any sucker mcs who wanna battle us
Can you go at least 20 lines without a cuss?
Cause once we start to jam, you'll be in a state of shock
Clear the way party people, we're the new kids on the block

Ah, memories. Back in 1990, when I was a gangly, gawky, flat-as-a-stick seventh grader with bad skin and worse hair, someone brought a CD back from the United States that sent waves of (delayed) pop culture through our little boarding school. This was the Next Big Thing, what Regular Americans were listening to, and if we were going to be Cool, we had to be in love with

The New Kids On The Block

God help us all.

Boy bands had been around for a while, apparently (Menudo, anyone?), but NKOTB made them American as apple pie and pickup trucks with shotgun racks. The boys were so Cute. They were so Upbeat and Perky. More to the point for us, they were ICA*-approved, which meant that their lyrics would not offend the Powers That Be Were. That meant we were allowed to listen to the caterwauling music and dance er, bob our heads in appropriate restraint.

I didn't really get the music. But Everyone Loved NKotB, so therefore I loved NKOTB. And when the other girls asked me breathlessly which one was my favorite New Kid, I went with the most popular answer and said Joey...or was that Jordan? Crap, I don't remember any more. Because it was such an IMPORTANT decision, you know. The New Kid you liked best apparently said huge amounts about you.

I think some people may have gotten into fights over it, but mostly I just tried not to look too confused.

When NKOTB went out of style (thankfully quickly), I had hope that the days of boy band craze were of Yore. I should have known better.

In college, along came

The Backstreet Boys

who were then challenged by

'N Sync

and I believe people still debate who won that fight.

I am TOTALLY an 'N Sync girl, let me tell you. I mean, really. How could there be any competition there? Justin T., y'all!!!

Excuse me while I run to the restroom.

Whew. Sorry about that.

And if that weren't enough, along came the MMMMbopping Hansons

Aren't they nauseating adorable?

And lest we think that only the male half of the species offended, there were

The Spice Girls

I wish I could say that was all. But it wasn't.

What do I have against the Boy (and occasionally Girl) Bands?

Well. Where do I begin?

If you like meaningless and cheezy lyrics, derivative melodies, overchoreographed dance moves, an almost complete inability to write or actually PLAY music (and let's not even talk about originality here), and an overwhelming emphasis on merchandising and faux celebrity "news", then go for it. Boy Band it up. More power to ya.

Personally, I want to hurl.

And yet...there is something hypnotic about that pop-bubblegum, faux badass, overproduced stuff. It's kind of like Taco Bell or Cheetos. You know it's just so very bad for you, but once you start eating...you can't put it down.

Because while I may not have ever owned an album by one of these bands...

I did catch myself singing along to their songs.

And I kind of liked that one 'N Sync music video where they were marionettes.

And I did watch the Spice Girls movie.

 I may be going to Music Hell.

Um, so DraftQueen? Once you decide to forgive me for my musical sins, you want to send me some more mp3s? I'll be washing my brain out so it's clean enough to receive those luscious songs.

Oh, and you can thank Jason Mayo of Out-Numbered for the post topic. He apparently is a Backstreet Boys fanatic (seriously, all I can do is giggle) and has threatened to play Boy Band music through my window at night so it haunts my nightmares dreams.

I'd be a lot more scared if he knew where I live.

I'll never tell. I value my sanity too much.

----------------------------------------------
*International Christian Academy, the now-defunct boarding school where I went for 7-9 and 11-12th grades. They were quite conservative there. Quite.

Sometimes Honesty is Not the Best Policy

So here I was, wondering what post I could write today that wouldn't be all depressing and mopey and all caught up in the drama of this stupid frickin' month, and lo! the lovely and marvelous Fraught Mummy of Brits in Bosnia posted a highly amusing bit about the difference between what you say and what you mean. I was inspired. So here goes my own "Lost in Translation" piece de resistance:

To my children as they crawl into my bed ten minutes before the alarm goes off: Good morning, babies. I have to get up soon, okay? = You couldn't have waited ten more minutes? I mean, I love your cuddles and all, but I could really have used that addition to what little sleep I get these days. Ack! Get your cold little feet out of my lady bits!

To the secretaries: Good morning! = Crap, another morning. And even though I got a little more sleep last night because I popped some Nyquil tablets, I still feel like something the cat dragged in and every time I talk for more than three minutes I start coughing and my head starts aching because apparently some Throat Troll decided to drag its nasty little claws all over my throat last week and leave me in this condition for what looks like the entire next month. I like you ladies, but I really would rather be looking at the undersides of my eyelids right now.

To the student who just shaved his head: Wow! You shaved your head. = You look like a misshaped cueball. I hope you did that for charitable reasons.

To the student eating some yoghurt: What are you eating? = You better have brought something for me to stuff into my mouth too, girl. 

To the student who always asks when her grades will be turned in: They will make it onto the marking period. = Seriously, stop asking me every other second. I know you have OCD and anxiety issues, but you're making my anxiety shoot through the roof. I have all but two of your grades in at this point and girl, I do have a life and girl, I do have my own share of stress and if you keep looking at me with that half-crazed thisclosetoapanicattack look on your face I will simply throw. them. away. THEN you'll have something to panic about.

To the same student: I'll tell you about the homework when I tell everyone else. = Holy crap. Seriously, it's not enough that you have to panic about your grades (which at least has some little measure of justification), you also have to come in every morning and ask about the homework ahead of time so you can get ahead even more and then screw me up because I get confused and tell you the wrong information? Which then further aggravates your anxiety and gives me a massive load of guilt? Also, we'll actually be doing something in class today so it's kind of pointless to go over this with you when you might as well just wait until I go over it with everyone. Again, I know you have OCD and anxiety issues, and I really want to like you and admire your work ethic, but you are Driving. Me. Insane.

To my students: It would be wise to take notes. = Staring off into space will NOT be condusive to a good grade on, oh, say the QUIZ you have to take the next time I see you. Not to mention actually KNOWING anything in this life. Do you really think I'm talking just to hear myself? Do you really think I'm risking a Coughing Fit from Hell to fill your ears with meaningless noise? I'm trying to cram some INFORMATION into your ungrateful, atrophied, empty little brains here! Get a frickin' CLUE!

To my students: There are still quizzes out. = Shut your mouths, you noisy little buggers. Seriously, all I ask is that you actually remain silent until every quiz is turned in. It's a simple thing. Really. You want to see what happens if you keep this up?

To my students, again: Remain SILENT. There are still quizzes out. = Holy crap! Are you frickin' KIDDING me with this? You see this pen? You see your papers? Do you want to see the points vanish?!?!? And then would you like to see where your crispy remains will be stored when the Flaming Glare of Death is turned upon your whispering, giggling, noise-making, rude-as-all-get-out bodies?!?!?! Don't think I'm not capable! I'll show you capable!!!!!!!

To my students, finally: Have a great weekend! = Thank the little gods and graces that you're getting out of my sight, because I was thisclose to grabbing those stupid earbuds you wear around your necks like some sort of futuristic necktie and stuffing them down your throats so they will get tangled in your tonsils. Two days without seeing your rolling eyes and hearing your smart mouths MIGHT just make it possible for me to avoid Going Educational (TM) on your asses.

Maybe it's a good thing I have a filter between my brain and my mouth. Although it's getting awfully clogged these days...

To Whom It May Concern: Sucking Rocks Edition

Dear October 2009:

I'm starting to think you're seriously messing with my mind. Parts of you are rocking, and other parts are SERIOUSLY SUCKING. I keep getting jerked around from one extreme to the other, sometimes within the space of an hour.

Would you please make up your mind? And maybe be nicer to the people I love? Because it hurts to see them hurting.

Begging for Mercy,
An Avid Autumn Fan

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Dear Mystery Coworker Who Placed a Platter of Dark Chocolate Cupcakes/Muffins with Chocolate Chips and Vanilla Custard Swirls on the Lunch Table:

You rock. You rock hardcore. How did you know I needed chocolate today? And that the cupcake/muffin maneuvre would be exactly right? If I knew who you were, I would contemplate kissing your feet. Or grading some papers for you. Or at least giving you a Really Big Hug.

Slavishly Yours,
A Chocoholic Coworker

P.S. I may or may not have eaten more than my fair share of the treats. Please don't count the wrappers in my trash can.

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Dear Windows XP and Windows Explorer:

You suck. Hardcore. For the last three days I have been fighting you tooth and nail to let me do the stuff I need to do without you crawling along like a snail with serious ADD. Or crashing and closing me out of all my web-based applications, which just makes my day full of sunshine and champagne, let me tell you. You just told me that you needed to run updates, so I spent ten minutes staring at the screen as you crawled along in updating whatever it is you needed to update. Hell if I know, since you didn't inform me.

If this doesn't help, I may start looking at the Macs in the Apple store with a little more lust and less disdain.

Considering Throwing Rocks,
An (Almost) Formerly Faithful and Fantastically Frustrated End-User

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Dear Arby:

So you want to challenge us to a contest, do you? One that requires us to be On Top of Things and read your blog as soon as you post and spot the wreathe in the pictures and be the first/second/third to email you so we can win the absolutely rockin' jewelry The Boss crafted?

I'm divided on whether you rock or suck. On the one hand, you're providing some entertainment and spicing up our lives. And the prize is actually awesome. So you rock. On the other hand, those of us who can't spend every hour of the day hovering over the computer or may be stuck in some location without Internet access at all are Screwed. So you suck.

We'll see what I think at the end of this competition. It totally depends on how I do, just so you know.

Yours in both Anticipation and Apprehension,
TeacherMommy

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Dear Best Friend's Former Employer:

You suck. You suck so hard that I think your brain (could a corporation have one) would ooze out of your hypothetical nose from the vacuum pressure.

Don't you know that she poured herself into that job? Don't you remember all the accolades and praise you heaped onto her? Don't you know how much she genuinely CARED about what she did for you?

Don't you know she needs that salary and that insurance? Don't you know she has a three-year-old child, for pity's sake?

Don't you realize that when you suddenly fire someone, you should at least pay that person the courtesy of explaining WHY, even if you do have that stupid "At Will" policy allowing you to weasel out of doing so?

I hope you realize that you are the ones who are losing in the long run. She was one of the best and hardest workers you had in your arsenal, and you're tossing her away.

You suck. I hope it hurts.

With Disdain and Raw Anger,
A Seriously Pissed-Off Friend

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Dear Former Student Who Drove Me Batty When You Were Here:

You rock. At least, you do now. You're living proof that my policy of kicking asses and taking names with punks and weasels is the right one. I gave you a hard time while you were here, in all three classes when I had you. I called you out on all your smooth-talking and privilege-abuse. I wouldn't cut you slack for not doing your work and living up to your potential.

And yesterday you walked into my classroom, visiting from college where you're pulling As and Bs, and told me you want to be a writer and it's all thanks to me.

Do you know how much it means to be told I inspired you to be more than you were, to write, to explore possibilities outside football alone?

Thank you for making my day that much brighter. I needed that.

With Pride in Who You Are Becoming,
Your English Teacher

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Dear People in Tennessee or Wherever Who Control Our Building Temperature From Afar:

You suck. I know it's probably a balmy 70 or 80 degrees down where you are, but Autumn is heading treacherously into Winter up here, and it's all of 42 degrees outside. That's Fahrenheit, in case you're a Canadien or European transplant and are confused.

This means that your current idea that we need Air Conditioning instead of Heat is turning our classrooms into giant refrigerators. Here's a clue: when the tips of my fingers and nose are turning blue and numb, YOU NEED TO TURN UP THE HEAT.

If I die of hypothermia, I am so haunting you from beyond the grave. Let's see how you like it when I use my ectoplasmic being to suck all your heat energy from your environment.

In Need of an Electric Blanket,
An Irritated Building Inhabitant

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Dear Silver Heels:

You rock.

That is all.

With Adoration,
The Person Who Wears You With Pride

You'd Think I Actually Expect Them to LEARN Something, for Pete's Sake

I am, apparently, a Very Mean and Unreasonable teacher.

You see, I am showing my sophomore honors classes the film Good Night and Good Luck in an effort to connect the Salem witch trials as portrayed through Arthur Miller's The Crucible to the Red Scare and McCarthyism of the fifties.

Oh, you're showing them a movie, you say, surprised that I'm being so wimpy. And how does this make you a Mean Teacher in any way, shape, or form?

Ah, but there's a catch. You see, I am MAKING THEM TAKE NOTES. And THE MOVIE IS IN BLACK AND WHITE. WITH NO CAR CHASES OR HAND-TO-HAND BATTLES. Or sex scenes, even.

I know. The horror.

I also keep pausing the film to ask questions and add commentary. Did you notice what they called the law enacted during that time? I ask them. That's right, the Internal Security Act. A law that was supposed to protect us from communist infiltration and just happened to stomp all over civil liberties while doing so. Does that remind you of anything? No? Really? Thank you! Yes, the Patriot Act. And do you notice the use of euphemisms there? "Internal Security." "Patriot." So what does that mean if you happen to disagree with any elements of the Patriot Act? Right. You must not be a patriot. Isn't that great?

I'm very subtle with my opinions.

Anyhow, you should have heard the groans when I told them the kind of movie they would be viewing, not to mention what they would be doing while watching it. You would have thought I was threatening them with waterboarding or something.

Hey, maybe that's what our government should do. Instead of torturing employing "enhanced coercive interrogation techniques" on all those suspected terrorists, they should just sit the suspects in front of non-stop black and white movies composed mainly of dialogue and character development and FORCE THEM TO TAKE NOTES.

I'm very much looking forward to hearing my students' reactions when I tell them about the paper they're going to be writing.

Next thing you know, I'll be brought up on charges of violating the Geneva Convention.

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To keep my darling friend Lauren happy (which apparently involves hating me for my fabulous foot fashion), I'm gracing you with a gratuitous shot of my footwear today.

You're welcome.

And Now For Something A Goodish Bit* Different

*because it's still about the kidlets and my life and there are no British accents, so it's not Completely. Unless you're providing them yourself, in which case Hullo, hullo, what? and Carry on, old boy.**

**Why yes, I have been reading a great deal of P.G. Wodehouse lately, why do you ask?

The Widget has been carrying on une passion dangereuse with my cellphones since the womb. He is, as far as I'm concerned, responsible for the demise or near-demise of my last four cell phones. He Who Was and a friend Who Shall Not Be Named dared suggest that perhaps I should keep my cell phone out of his reach, but I sneer at their practical parenting tips.

Number One was a simple, outdated, but perfectly serviceable cell phone I'd had ever since switching to T-Mobile back in The Day. I was heavily pregnant with The Widget and absentmindedly forgot to remove the phone from my jeans before they went in the wash. The SIM card was, amazingly enough, still operational, but the phone was a loss. I got a shiny new one by taking my long-overdue free phone upgrade. I forgave my small unborn son, since I didn't have to re-enter any phone numbers.

(Why is he at fault? Why, because I was pregnant with him and therefore suffering from Pregnancy Brain! I've heard that a woman's brain physically shrinks in size during pregnancy. No word on whether it recovers. My theory is that this is why men would like to keep us pregnant. We just might take over the world otherwise.)

Number Two, my free upgrade, was a constant obsession for The Widget once he got old enough to grab it. It apparently looked like a highly desirable snack. When he was about six months old, he managed to obtain it through highly illegal infant maneuverings. By the time I discovered his sneakiness, he had slobbered it so thoroughly that the keyboard had shorted out. This time I was not due for a free upgrade: however, He Who Was WAS, and so they let me use his upgrade. I got a shiny new purple phone, again with an operational SIM card making the transfer simple, and this time I had a CAMERA. The Widget was forgiven, but resentment raised its ugly head some time later when He Who Was desperately needed a new phone and had to wait an additional two months before what was originally MY upgrade date came to pass.

Number Three, that lovely dusky purple being with the fuzzy camera shots, mysteriously whisked itself into the Widget Zone about four months ago. One night it was on my bedside table; the next morning, it was gone. The Widget came under high suspicion due to his obsession with taking things and disappearing them, sometimes down the nearest floor vent, sometimes to mysterious places We Know Not Of. (There's still a missing grandpa glove somewhere. It's a good thing the cold of winter was over.) After almost two weeks of increasingly frantic searching and a sense of disappearing from the connected world, I dragged my sorry, twitching self into the T-Mobile store again. I was, fortunately, again due for an upgrade, and I was able to get Wanda for a decent price with the rebate.

Wanda is my lovely little red Sony Ericsson phone that makes me happy. Not as happy as He Who Was's G2 thingymabob that he waited those additional two months for, but happy.

So when Wanda went missing on Saturday morning while I was in the shower, much like the Purple Wonder did four months ago, I knew who to ask.

There may have been some yelling.

For once The Widget didn't try to blame DramaBoy for his transgressions, but neither was he helpful in locating Wanda. Finally, I found her on the floor in the boys' sleeping area, nestled by a chair. When I opened her up...

I found water all over the screen.

And when I opened up the back and removed the battery, there was water there too.

DramaBoy was only too happy to inform me that The Widget had decided to wash the phone with his bottle of water. Upon which the rising shrieks of wrath spread to cover DramaBoy's head as well, for knowingly watching this debacle and never trying to remove the phone from The Widget's grasp or coming in to alert me so I could take care of the situation myself.

It wasn't a pretty scene. It was a good thing I was taking them to their grandfather's house and would be child-free for most of the day. They wouldn't have enjoyed Mama's company.

It was very very quiet in the car on the drive over there.

The good news is that after drying her out in pieces and taking her to the T-Mobile store today (children in tow--a story for another day when I can have a sense of humor about that too) to be cleaned up so she would charge, WANDA WORKS!

Finally, a cell phone that can survive my Widget.

I just might be in love.

Because My Children Are Perfect Angels

I have no idea why you're looking at me. It certainly wasn't my children who did all those ridiculous things. I am a perfect mother with perfect children, and your accusatory stare is out of line.

I mean, it's ridiculous to even think such things. My Widget would NEVER pull poop out of his diaper and smear it all over his body, hair, and face. Not to mention the wall and some seat covers. Just like he would never pick up anything that looks vaguely foodish off the floor, ground, chair, or other surfaces and put it in his mouth to check whether it's edible. My child? Never!

I also have no idea why you think it would be The Widget who was in that Kroger the other day pulling Barbie dolls off the shelf and dumping them on the floor. I mean, I admire the political statement that child was making, but my child would never behave that way in public! In addition, it certainly isn't The Widget who has a habit of calling every older man he sees Grandpa as if he doesn't even know who his relatives are. I've educated him better than that.

As for DramaBoy, you must have imagined those things you thought you heard him say. He certainly wasn't talking at the top of his voice in a public restroom about the difficulty of pooping and how much was remaining in his bottom. He also most definitely was not the one asking (again, at the top of his voice) whether the other people in the restroom were trying to poop too.

And his understanding of gender differences is not based purely on their possession or lack thereof of a penis. As a result, it wasn't DramaBoy commenting out loud, in public, that He is a boy, so he has a penis. And she is a girl, so she doesn't have a penis. You don't have a penis, Mama! But Daddy has a penis, and I have a penis, and The Widget has a penis, because we are boys.

My son would never use potty words like poop and pee and penis in public. I've certainly trained him to be more polite and tactful than that.

And what in the world do you mean when you say you saw both DramaBoy and The Widget walking into walls and doors and grocery displays multiple times because they were too busy looking around at everything to pay attention to where they were going?!? My children are focused and follow me like good little ducklings. I never feel envious of Elastigirl in The Invincibles because of her ability to grab multiple children moving rapidly in multiple directions, because my children simply aren't like that.

As for those children you've seen sit down in the middle of the store or mall or, God help their mother, a parking lot and refuse to move? Not my children.

Never my children.

Because that would mean they are succeeding in their plot to drive me insane before they even make it into kindergarten.

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To see stories about all the other children who aren't doing things, go over to MckMama's blog and check out all the links--once she gets that up!

If You Need Me, You Might Want To Check With The Men In The White Coats

When I rolled over the sleeping form of my eldest child this morning and switched off the alarm, I had no idea I was heading into the kind of day that would make me reflect that a padded cell sounded awfully peaceful and serene.

Fifteen minutes later, as I hummed in the shower, the sudden din of what sounded like two small boys attempting to throw each other bodily down multiple flights of stairs gave me a dire hint of What Was To Come.

I don't know which side of the bed causes the level of whining I suffered through first thing this morning (most of it not even mine), but I'm planning on placing a brick wall there once I find out. The wailing and gnashing of teeth increased through the torment of packing a picnic lunch, as The Widget witnessed all matter of food disappearing into the picnic tote, obviously not destined for immediate consumption. DramaBoy sat, momentarily cooperative, in a chair and made smug comments to the tune of I'M not whining, Mama! You don't have to yell at ME! Charming.

We had to get out of the house earlier than usual, since the Detroit DPW was planning on "cleaning" the streets (better known as "smearing the dirt into interesting streaks") and all cars had to disappear between 8 ay-em and 4 pee-em. So before we descended upon our accommodating friends, I took the boys to Tim Horton's for donuts. Not to mention a caffeine fix for me. All was going surprisingly well until The Widget decided to tip his apple juice all down his front and DramaBoy began to play hide and seek around the counters.

(I also found out that I've been paying mocha prices at TH for about eight years when I should have just been charged for coffee, since I don't get the whipped cream on top. The whipped cream, apparently, is what makes it a mocha vs. a "half coffee, half hot chocolate" concoction. You think corporate headquarters would give me my money back?)

Once my friend's youngest son had woken from his nap, we piled in our cars and headed over to a nearby splashpark. We were delayed somewhat when I was pulled over by the police. Surprisingly, it wasn't for my duct-taped side mirror or the massive crack across my windshield. No, it was because my license plates have been expired for six-and-a-half-months.

Um, yeah.

You see, my birthday is on Christmas Day, which makes the whole thing a headache anyway, and then this last year my world/marriage fell apart two weeks before Christmas, and so with one thing and another, I kind of forgot.

For half a year.

Oh, and I didn't have my current proof of insurance with me because: guess where that was mailed? And guess where I wasn't these last few months?

I shared my sob story with the very nice and rather cute policeman, who asked me where I was living and why I was so far over on the West Side and glanced at my goggling children in the back seat (Mama, is that a policeman? Why won't he let us go? I can't see the line leader anymore! What KIND of mistake did you make, Mama? Is he going to let us go? Why aren't we moving?), and then he went back to his car to do sinister policeman stuff and I sat there answering my son's questions while mentally whacking myself on the back of the head and waving bye-bye to my bank balance.

Then lo and behold, the nice (and cute) policeman took pity upon me, wrote me a fix-it ticket for "not having my registration card in the car," told me to go get my license renewed, and saved me about $170 in fines.

And I didn't even actually sob or heave my bosom ONCE. Though my hands and voice may have been a little shaky.

At the splashpark, the kidlets became suddenly fearful of becoming wet, since the water was cold even if the day wasn't, and mostly splashed about in warm puddles instead of all the fancy sprinklers. I am willing myself to believe that the puddles were warm because of the sun.

(Note to self: stick to free splashparks until the kids stop being wimps. Cuz otherwise they'll be getting wet whether they like it or not, and then there might be some annoying fallout with Protective Services.)

My afternoon tutoring session was postponed, which left me with plenty of time to drag the kids from one suddenly necessary errand to another, namely tracking down my insurance agent (they'd moved) and getting a new copy of my POI, nipping into my school district's central office to pick up the new laptop that is replacing the PC at work, then backtracking to the Secretary of State's office to get my license plates renewed. With two young boys who had all of twenty minutes of naptime in the car, cruelly interrupted when we arrived at our first destination.

And in case you weren't sure yet whether I am certifiable, I then took them with me to Meijer to pick up a few necessaries because I didn't know when else I would be able to get there before the weekend.

By the time I wheeled the stupid car cart (with TV, conveniently placed on one side opposite to the faux steering wheel to offer maximum opportunity for arguing, hair pulling, biting, head knocking, and other brotherly pursuits) into the checkout lane, I apparently looked like I'd been the sole survivor of a natural disaster. At least that got a little sympathy from the cashier, who summoned a bag-girl to fetch me a regular cart for the required transfer of groceries and then later chased me down to give me the milk I'd forgotten on her bag stand. The two young men standing behind me in line looked on with mingled amusement, pity, and horror, never realizing how often I prevented my monsters from mowing them down with the cart, thanks to sheer muscle and mommy reflexes.

Perhaps I imagined it, but I think one of them may have added a box of condoms to their small pile.

Then I drove us all home (Let's just have quiet time, okay? Let's pretend we don't even know how to make any sounds at all!), threatened my way through the drama of dinnertime (If you don't eat it, you go to bed hungry! *** One more "no" out of you and there's no story before bed! *** That's it, go in time out!) , and wrangled the boys into bed (Don't you DARE get out of that bed, young man!).

And how am I now, as I sit here at my computer between bouts of continued boy-wrangling? Well, let's just say that the reason I haven't broken out the Smirnoff pomegranate martini is because if I open the bottle, I can't take it on my Girls' Weekend out at the island. I've about used up my luck with the police, and I don't want to have to start popping my top.*

Besides, I'm not so sure my saggy mommy boobies would keep me out of jail.

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*Don't panic, Grandma. Never done it. Don't plan on ever doing it. Just said it for laughs.

I Can See Clearly Now, The Kids Are Gone (Almost)

September is a lovely month, filled with the sweet hopefulness of school beginning once again. I feel my creative juices stirring; I look forward to the faces of new as well as familiar faces in class again; I enjoy the thrill of those "ah ha" moments that come along when students get an important point. By the time the end of the summer comes along, I'm itching to get back into the classroom where all things are New for another year.

But it's not September.

Oh no, it's June. And right now I Hate My Students.

I cannot wait to kick them out of class today. My last class of brats is sitting filling in scantrons, struggling to find answers in the mishmash of what used to be their brains. It's one hour and twenty minutes (as I write these sentence) before I am free at last, free at last, thank God Almighty, free at last! Except for the student who has to come in and finish her exam because she had an allergy attack last night and took Benedryl and overslept and was only in class for twenty minutes for an essay exam that took most students at least an hour to complete. She's lucky I'm semi-fond of her, even now, because it would be awfully tempting to say Tough luck, girly, you shoulda gotten here on time! The quality of mercy is most definitely strained by the end of the school year, gotta say.

It doesn't help that my honors tenth grade students turned in a batch of final research/analysis papers that were, overall, so sloppy and poorly formatted and poorly written that I was taking a savage joy in (for once) using a harsh red pen rather than my usual purple to scrawl nasty comments all over the pages. Cite! Cite! I wrote again and again in fury. You'd think they'd never written a paper before. You'd think I hadn't spent days going over the details, that there was no such thing as the Student Writing Handbook, that they didn't have resource after resource at their fingertips.

A college professor friend of mine commiserated with me this weekend (we were chatting privately in World of Warcraft--doesn't matter we've never met in person, she totally counts as a friend) about the increasing sloppiness of student work and the increasing tendency of parents to want to bail them out. I can't grade effort, she wrote. I can only grade the final product. I asked her what she would do if given a paper with sloppy formatting--sloppy, mind you, I'm not even talking about missing citations, which I already know means a big fat ZERO, thank you very much (that's plagiarism, folks, doesn't matter if it's intentional or not). I'd give it an F, she responded. Sloppy formatting means sloppy note taking, sloppy writing, sloppy thinking in general.

And there you have it. I'm done with the sloppiness this year. I'm done with the snarkiness of students who think they're entitled to getting As because I turned it in! I did it! regardless of the quality of work. I'm done with kids disregarding rules about wearing hats and texting and listening to I-pods during class and cheating and wandering about the school when they were just supposed to go to the bathroom. I'm done with kids not bothering to show up with basic supplies, much less their books or, dear sweet sanity preserve me, their homework completed. I'm done with kids being mysteriously ill for Every Single Quiz and then expecting to be able to make them all up the day before grades are due.

I'm done with Brandon C.: if I hear that name even once during the summer, you'll find me in the corner banging my head into the wall. One hour and six minutes before he exits my life for a few months--at least until Mythology next year. I might be able to put up with him by then, at least enough to avoid reaching for the stapler every two minutes. Though I think his parents might thank me if I sealed his mouth for at least a little while. I know my other students would.

It's a Good Thing that we have summer. It takes that long for teachers to recover from the trauma of dealing with Real Live Students the rest of the year. I think if we ever switch to year-long school, there might be an increase in crime. That whole "Going Postal" saying might have to switch to "Going Educational."

Just sayin'.

I have exactly twelve weeks from today to purge myself of this end-of-year hatred, twelve weeks to find some sort of positive emotion towards teaching teens again.

It happens every year. But every June, it seems like an impossibility.

Only 58 minutes left. Not that I'm counting.

The Dark Side

Today was mostly good, at least between the hours of 10 am and 5:30 pm, but it took a rapid turn toward the Dark Side after that.

My head is killing me. Probably a combination of stress, fatigue, and allergies.

The kidlets have been acting up and driving me crazy. Misbehaving on purpose and then laughing at me sort of thing. They should have been asleep a while ago, as tired as they've been behaving, but I had to get their clothes sorted and put away first and time flew by. And now they won't stay in bed.

I yelled at them. Multiple times. I made them both cry. And it's all I can do not to be too rough with them because I'm so fed up with their attitudes. I know a lot of it is their ages, but some of it is also all the anxiety and stress that is Life These Days, and they're feeling it right along with me.

They're reflecting where I am, and that isn't looking too good.

So I'm going to take some headache medicine and drink lots of water, because I'm probably dehydrated.

And I'm going to order pizza and Greek salad from the little non-chain business with wonderful food and even better service, where they know who I am. They'll deliver, with a smile.

And I'm going to watch some TV or a movie.

And then I'm going to get in a warm bubble bath and read Hogfather, because I need to chuckle and lose myself in a different world.

And maybe tomorrow will be better.

Derrrrrr

Context: English 11 class is taking a quiz after viewing Much Ado About Nothing, answering questions about the play, and doing some activities around the text. The title has been prominently displayed, not to mention mentioned, throughout the week.

Young Idiot: Ms. TeacherMommy? There's a typo here.

TeacherMommy (gasping with dismay): Where? Where, for the love of God!?!?!

Young Idiot (pointing to the top of the quiz): Right here.

TeacherMommy (puzzled): Where? I don't see anything.

Young Idiot: Right there! That word!

He points to the second word in the title. As in "Ado."

Young Idiot: It's supposed to be "Much TO DO About Nothing!"

TeacherMommy: *bangs head against dry erase board, speechless*

You know what they say about there being no stupid questions?

Yeah. They're wrong.

So, Moving To The Subject Of Students...

moar funny pictures

Enough said.