Thursday, May 26, 2005

A cooler spot in hell

I stayed at work today and edited the paper . . . I am not the journalism teacher but I'm sick of the typos and the inappropriate material. I then stayed so the kid could do all the revisions. There should be a spot in heaven for me or at least a cooler spot in hell. (or a better table in hell . . . remember Stu?) Ugh, I hate it when people don't do their jobs (yes this is directed at you journalism teacher). I also hate it when I bail people out . . . since there were really inappropriate things in this senior issue that I suggested they cut. I should have just let the journalism teacher hang for it.

I'm all nervous and anxious about the yearbook coming in . . . I really hate this time of year and am a crab for most of it. When you hand the book out, for some reason, everyone (parents, other teachers, random adults) feels the need to scream at the yearbook advisor for "not doing a good enough job". I'm supposed to have the students make the book and yet catch every little mistake they make. All and all, most people are very happy about the yearbook but those people don't say anything . . . because they are happy with the product. So I get to hear two weeks of . . . "did you know you messed up this" or, more often, irate screaming. And yet, I still have to do the big send-off for the graduating yearbook staff with the party, the presents and the pomp and circumstance. In addition, those are the two weeks I have to go to every after school event because my seniors are graduating so I have to take the pictures. This then exposes me to even more of the public . . . who are sure they PAID for a yearbook even though they are not on my three lists (receipt book, spreadsheet and account register) and they don't have a receipt. Why is it that they always lose those darn receipts . . . maybe because they didn't have one in the first place? Why don't I just trust them, they have the check carbon copy, you know. . .

On the bonus side, I did get mentioned in the senior issue of the newspaper . . . by several different students, who spoke highly of me and were thanking me for things. So it might be worth all the hassle for that. . . maybe.

Thursday, May 19, 2005

Shut off my head

So I get obsessed about little stupid stuff and I just get in this looping thing where I think and think and think but don't act until the hopelessly last second. My current thing is this gift I have to buy for a party I am going to on Saturday. I have to buy a graduation present . . . for a yearbook kid and I don't know what to get. I don't know if it's the kid . . . or going to the party . . . I just can't come up with an idea of what to get. Maybe it's that I got his brother a really good present and I'm afraid I can't match it (which I can't . . . N was easier to shop for. Art supplies.). Quite frankly, there will be nothing wrong with me showing up with the regular graduation gift, like, say the jar of quarters so you can do your laundry at college. I'm actually thinking of getting his mother a present . . . she really, really deserves the gift for letting him live for eighteen years, in my opinion. So far the only idea is an exacto knife set . . . which I am sure he already has . . . or a dictionary, which is lame. He would really appreciate the Anarchist Cookbook but I'm a teacher, so just can't do that. So gift certificate to the art supply store it is . . . and I'll just show up to the party late and with something to do.

Can't wait for school to be over.

Monday, May 16, 2005

They're new!

I changed my oil this weekend. Actually, to be more specific, my father changed my oil while I handed him things. After changing the oil on two vehicles, which is a surreal experience in itself, my father asked (yelled at) my mother about his "other" jeans "that he put in the wash two weeks ago". My mother replied (yelled back) that she had not "done jeans yet". Then there was much discussion (yelling) about "how the jeans were not done".

In the midst of this discussion (yelling), I went in and put the only jeans that I could find in the laundry room in the washer . . . which was filled with some other clothes (colors). My mother had already added detergent (Tide, always Tide) so I figured it was really to go. The jeans actually rounded out the load quite nicely. I walked outside and informed my parents, who were still discussing (yelling) but had branched out slightly to the "what exactly DO you do around here" discussion (argument), that Dad's jeans would be ready in about an hour . . . if he put them in the dryer.

This stopped them from their popular general discussion (argument) and the focus then came to me. How could I touch my mother's washer? How could I touch my father's jeans? What right did I have mixing jeans and colored clothes? (jeans are a color!) Was I trying to be a bad person? Was I trying to turn my father's jeans pink? It ended with me running in, stopping the washer, and pulling out the wet, unharmed jeans. Bad Emily . . . stop being helpful.

The discussion (yelling) resumes, but it is pointed out that my father has three pairs of brand new, with the tags still on them, jeans sitting on a shelf in his closet. Three pairs. Never been worn. I suggest that he could possibly wear one of those pairs while he waits for the other jeans to get washed. Since there are now TWO dirty pairs, they may make the washer because according to my mother, you can only wash jeans with OTHER jeans. Plus, with three pairs of jeans in circulation . . . the whole process may in fact be speeded up. Alas, the jeans in his closet are the kind of jeans that "they don't make anymore" so you have to save them, plus they would need to be washed before you can wear them. This entire discussion (argument) was precipitated by the fact that my father is STOCKPILING JEANS, for some weird blue jean-less apocalypse. He can't wear them . . . they're new.

The day ended with my going to Costco and finding my father some more jeans. They weren't the "right" jeans. He was quite upset by the thought that they were from the outlet mall, since they were Nautica jeans. "Did you go to the outlet mall AGAIN?" They have not been tried on yet . . . a new brand you have to think about for a while. But they can be added to the stockpile up in his closet. I don't know if then a pair of jeans is released into the circulation (thus keeping the reserve static at three) or if we are just hoarding.

Hopefully, the laundry situation may be helped by having more jeans in the house and thus shortening the two week washing turn around . . . Keep in mind that sometimes, if I have to, in the privacy of my own home, I might not fill the washer. I might do a half a load, if I really need something. Or, gasp, I just put my jeans in with my other colors.

So I got my father some new jeans . . . which he cannot wear . . . because they are new.

Thursday, May 12, 2005

I might be irritating

Some people need to understand that there are work friends and then there are friends. And work friends can give you advice . . . like be more happy and accept your lot and "I just do whatever I want and I don't get in trouble" but if they don't accept you for who you are . . . then they cannot be "friend" friends. I'm sorry if I have high expectations, I'm sorry if I want people to do what they say and say what they mean, and I'm sorry if I'm not happy enough for you . . . but, you know, we could just NOT be work friends.

Pushing four or five at a time

There are certain people in this world who are "button-pushers". They assess another person's quirks and what would annoy them, and then just start pushing for fun. I must admit that I have done it on occasion. My brother J is a master . . . which is mostly why I like him. However, today I dealt two button pushers to the extreme. They are both clever . . . and bothersome in their glee at my annoyance.

The fish killer - evidently there are these fish called "Gobies" which are not natural to Michigan's habitat. So if you find one "you are supposed to kill them". One day this person was describing in detail how he kills these fish for fun. Throwing them against walls, impaling them on sticks, poking their eyeballs out first . . . you get the idea. Upon hearing this, I mentioned that if he was into starting fires or wet the bed that he would have the trifecta. So now he arrives early to talk about Gobies, just to get a reaction. Grins all around.

Why don't you tattoo that on your forehead -- my favorite button pusher went out into the hallway today, after hearing that there was a family of geese in the courtyard. In the camera blindspot, he propped open the door so the geese could come into the school. Soon there was daddy goose in the hallway. Next there was Mr. Goose and forty kids in the hallway. The goose was freaking out and trying to escape but was so upset that he couldn't find the doorway again and kept banging into the windows in vain. He was scared shitless . . . which guess who got to clean up later. I finally herded the goose back outside to his family . . . and herded most of the forty kids back to their respective rooms. "H-bomb" thought this was so funny . . . laughed and laughed. And I have to get him a graduation present in the next week.

I'm thinking something along the lines of a lump of coal, maybe some lint or some empty candy wrappers . . .

They really didn't teach me anything about this in college.

Tuesday, May 10, 2005

List of my head

Made some flowerbeds, haven't eaten dinner yet, made two CDs for a student of mine, will miss ALIAS again this week, finally planted those day lilies - though they may be dead by now, threw all the grubs I found on the sidewalk, need some ant killer - too many grubs, bugs, etc., have funky white stuff in my mulch - think it might be mold?, have to mow my lawn desperately - yet didn't do it today, putting off doing my resume and don't know why, have to mail water bill, change oil this weekend, ohh, and haircut on Saturday, want it darker on bottom, have to find money for haircut, find time to clean bathroom, have to clean nails now that you are growing them out - which is why I don't grow them out, Ben Folds is so cool, take cameras to school, make prom movie, must go make something to eat now, put stupid highlighter union shirts in washer so I can wear one tomorrow, have to tell Stu about being a union rep next year, he would have been so proud - not sure if he is still in the union rights stage at this point, have to stop sitting in front of this computer so much. . .

Sunday, May 08, 2005


The leg bones connected to . . .

Deer parts?

A Dead Deer . . . and a half

After all that bad aunt action of taunting Z about "just stop being a wimp and go play in the woods if you want to", he talked me into taking his tour of the "leprechaun colonies" in my 'rents backyard. I usually beg off with the excuse that I'm wearing flip-flops, but with the enticement of "leprechauns" in little organized "colonies" (or was it lepers?) I had to go. There is a lot of poison ivy in the woods. And there are only deer paths . . . which is great for anyone, say . . . as tall as a deer, like Z. There are a lot of sticks, of the pointy variety, waiting to poke at my eyes and pricker bushes or pricker trees and poison ivy, did I mention the poison ivy?

So we start into the woods and we come to the pile of rocks that the farmers made from pulling the rocks out of the fields. This was the big leprechaun settlement. I suppose if you are a leprechaun living in my parent's woods, the rocks would be an excellent place to settle down. But wait . . . there is another leprechaun colony further up. And so we go deeper into the woods to the next pile of rocks. I've seen the rocks before but feign excitement for Z. He heads up the path, looking for the next pile of rocks, eh, I mean . . . leprechaun town and he finds a bone.

"Ohhhh, look a bone!" "And 'nother bone and there's 'nother bone, Emily!" I'm trying to look at the first bone that he is waving in my face, hoping that any rotting things or bugs are not being flicked on my face. I am trying to get a better look because I'm not sure what KIND of bone it is . . . other than old. Z hands the bone to me and proceeds to dig up more bones . . . as if it is a shallow grave, until he has more bones than he can hold on to . . .

I am trying futilely to stop him, just in case we have uncovered the burial grounds of the Oakland county child killer or something. I'm seriously worried that we are destroying a crime scene . . . or disturbing the final resting place of some poor deer. From the bone in my hand I can't tell. Soon he has twenty-some bones, which he gleefully takes back to my mother. I find a bucket and an old toothbrush and he spends a intense (and quiet) hour or so cleaning the bones. Kept him busy washing and arranging and washing again. Yeah, I'm pretty sure that their deer bones.

My mother took him into the woods today and he dug up, like, sixty more bones. He arranged them artfully on the lawn, which he was not supposed to touch because my father had fertilized this morning. He had lots of extra vertebrate, so he used them for knees also. Had half of the pelvis where the head was supposed to be . . . because it looked like an eye. Must have had twenty or thirty bones that he used as ribs. A wonderful anatomy lesson . . . and there was plenty of washing and arranging. Z's mother was kinda horrified but they were the best free toys ever, especially since Z is such a goth kid in training. My mother packed them all up for Z to take home, so he could take them to "show and tell" at school. And I learned that there are now three whole things that I am NOT allergic to . . . cockroaches, chocolate and poison ivy, because I stepped on a bunch of it.

And I'm pretty sure it's a deer, or two.

Saturday, May 07, 2005

Anyone want to go?

I have been invited to the "Mustard Plug" show next Friday by a group (of all people) of my students. Mustard Plug was playing the MSU scene when I was there . . . a million years ago. I would really like to go to the show but I don't want to go with my students. M will be away, interviewing like the international jet-setter should. So if anyone in cyberspace would like to go to the Mustard Plug show . . . comment. It's on Friday the 13th in Detroit. I was told that they are playing at Alvin's but will have to check the website to know for sure. They requested some punk and ska at the Prom, which the D.J. actually played for once, and it came up.

Prom was really great this year . . . but I didn't show until ten, so all the obnoxious ones may have left by then. Only about fifty kids and they were mostly yearbook kids or friends of yearbook. I had a nice time, even did alittle dancing. Got introduced as "My favorite teacher" some . . . which means more to me than they even know. As always, I was the bouncer without planning on it. Had to kick out a bunch of drunk wedding people from the reception next door.

Funny story about that later.

Monday, May 02, 2005

Hurts my Head

Listening to the new NIN stuff . . . will have to buy it tomorrow regardless. Teaching Romeo and Juliet and feel like I'm just rambling . . . talked about Guenter today . . . about the classic adolescent theme of doing exactly what your parents tell you not to do. I think the girls got it . . . the boys all looked clueless.

Weird, that time is a world away, but can be pulled up like yesterday in my head. Like going to prom with Stu when I was fifteen . . . I can remember the inside of the car. Being in Thompson's class, practically making out with Todd Schoenburger in Lane Saborin's class (though I don't remember how to spell Lane's name), lying on the berm trying not to get caught by security while coming back from BK. So I describe these things sometimes and my students look at me like I'm older than dirt. In their eyes, I have always been this age . . . always been this dumb. And while I would never go back to that age . . . what an awful time, high school (though middle school topped it) . . . it's still weird being so old to my students.