No Resting for Wicked

It's 10 p.m.

I'm still at school.

Everyone else has left . . . which may make it easier to get out of the parking lot. Most of my colleagues left at the half.

So far, the only casualties are my pants . . . ripped while climbing the fence, in order to get the attention of the juniors who were scooping up freshmen to "crowd surf". Crowd surfing should only be done with willing participants. And should not be done on an incline. And I was the ONLY adult who said anything. Which pisses me off. And they were some good pants. For yoga pants, anyhow.

Fast forward to next day:

I'm wearing pantyhose. Pantyhose, a sheath dress and a silk jacket that is already making me warm. It is light pink with an Asian print, cheery for me, which is why I'm wearing it. I like to surprise people at Homecoming. I bought on sale, however, and it's too big. But there is no one to pick up at Homecoming, so it doesn't much matter. No one cares if I look like a shiny Asian-inspired bus. One of the sophomores will still try to hump me. Yeech.

I will be the only adult on the dance floor. With my camera. I will say "Leave room for Jesus" 2,342 times and tell 11 girls to "put that skirt/dress down". I will play prude for four hours . . . I'm already 49 minutes late. And then I will lose the pantyhose and the jacket, and perhaps have some fun.

Remember . . . Leave room for Jesus.

Despite It Being Like Groundhog Day

Every so often the little nuggets surprise you.

There was big drama today at lunch in the teacher's lounge. A girl voted onto Homecoming Court may be a "joke" instead of Homecoming Court "material".

Never having been Homecoming Court "material" myself, I'm not sure what is required. And quite honestly, never cared when I was a student. But there was hand-wringing. And teeth-gnashing. "Should we tell her? Should we not have her on court? What should we do?"

I, of course, put in my opinion. "I think you should tell her that hey she made Homecoming Court, which is great. And f**k them." And then I got yelled at for saying f**k in the teacher's lounge.

And then there was more hand-wringing and teeth-gnashing. Would the other students "boo" when her name was called? How did it come to this? Should we talk to her friends? How do we prepare her for this?

Because we, the adults, are control freaks. And this is now beyond our control. So we are trying to get it back . . . to make it raise it's hand before it sharpens it's pencil. How could the kids vote in non-Homecoming "material" as a cruel joke? Next thing you know, they'll organize and overthrow us.

But at the end of the day, I saw the girl. She was at her locker with her best friend. The BF is a former student of mine, so I said "hello" but he didn't hear me . . . so a stood and waited for them to finish up their conversation. She did not seem frail. She did not seem disadvantaged. She had sparkly ribbons in her hair.

And a senior walked by . . . "Hey __________, congratulations!" the senior said. And she meant it. There was a pause. The pause of someone being complimented who isn't all that often. "Thanks ____________" she said gracefully, and added "I really like your hair like that." And it was a moment. But everything is going to be all right. Homecoming "material" she is . . .

Sometimes the little nuggets surprise you.

Hmmmmm . . .

When removing your car battery . . . negative or positive first?

Guess I'll know if there are sparks.

Built on Coffee

I had a lovely day, which somehow revolved around getting coffee. Hud has a shirt that fits (and I got to be right). I woke up at a decent hour. I got nothing done . . . but that often is the main component of a very good day.

And I have drawers in my kitchen. With new fancy hardware and everything. And just six more cabinet doors to re-strip. So do-able, if I get one done everyday.

And I don't know which day it is for Homecoming . . . it's either "Get up and Go" so I'll get up and put on pajamas or College Sweatshirt day. Unsure which one it is . . . so may have to bring two outfits to school. What pants do you wear for college sweatshirt day?

And I have had way too much coffee.

Princess Takes the Hit

(okay, back)

Emily: "No really, it's the rule . . . "
E2: "But she is trying to be so nice. We have to go."

There is more discussion than that, but I'll spare you. The boss clan will get there first. E2 will get there before me, because I refused to use anything but a bank ATM. I find the others to be "dirty" . . . like free WiFi. Kinda like rolling around in a back alley. You never know what's been there.

And the funniest conflict there, is that I've actually gone digging around in back alleys. I came up with a plan for my school to adopt a park in Detroit once and would sweep up syringes. But I won't use an ATM in a bar. Or a gas station. Unless it has a big Chase sign or something.

So as I'm searching for a bank . . . wracking my brain for the placement of a credit union . . . I come up with a plan. A plan of genius. I will call Princess.

We went out to dinner with Princess. The reason I was late. Nice Italian place on the lake. She flirted with our waiter. Our waiter flirted back. We decided we liked him. (Augi at Andiamo's. He didn't have a ring.) He had some good things to say about LLCs. But Princess didn't want to go to the game. Two years out of teaching and she doesn't know anyone.

But Princess is game to go out with the boss clan. Technically, she is now higher up on the education food chain than they are . . . she is our balance. And she taught and went to reindeer games with both the principal-former-gym-teachers. Perfect. I go pick her up. And it worked beautifully.

Princess had witty banter. Everyone was happy to see her. The Head bought the drinks. We talked shop. The nice boss finally figured out my age.

"No, really. I'm 36."
"I really thought you were younger."
"Well thank you, but 36." (which really meant, in Emily code, I'm still 10 years older than you . . . and have 10 more years of teaching and life experience on you)

Princess had class this morning at 8 am and a football tailgate immediately after. So I'm sure she is hurting today. If only for lack of sleep. She called me at 8:15 this morning and got me out of bed. Seems only right. But then again, I can sit at home . . . which is better than sitting in graduate school. I remember.

So except for the Princess-is-tired-and-cranky-today glitch, perfect plan. Everyone had fun. No lives were lost. No careers ruined. And there was Burger King at the end.

About Last Night or Friday Night Lights

Dinner had run late. And I was supposed to be "coaching" photography. Which means on the field, gesticulating wildly at some kid with a camera to get down and get the shot. Yearbook kids are always afraid to get their jeans dirty or something. Perhaps that is why they are yearbook kids . . . and not football players.

As I pull into the farthest parking lot possible . . . because I am a half an hour late . . . pull on my school ID badge because I want to impress my boss and I might need my keys, put my purse in the trunk and notice that there are two boys sitting on their skateboards in the middle of the parking lot. They are not in high school, not my students . . . but boys, they do not usually sit on skateboards. There is usually motion. At least wiggling as they are talking or something. These boys are not moving at all.

"Is everything all right? You're taking a break?" I say.
The boy in the longer hair answers, "I think I just broke my arm."

I go into Mom mode. Check his fingers. He can move them a little. There are no bones protruding or sticking out. Good sign. Might have just cracked his wrist. Thank goodness I have my school ID on . . . I ask who to call. There is discussion between the boys, whose parents to call. "No, no. Who is in charge of you?" I ask the broken one. I call his grandmother. Explain that I am a teacher at the high school and the injury. Give directions. She will come.

As we wait, I feel that we have to chat. It's pretty glum. Another school employee brings some ice and we talk about skateboards until his grandmother shows up. His trucks are loose (maybe why he is falling off the skateboard?) and I tell them to go see my former student at the skate shop. "Have him fix this. Tell him I sent you." His grandmother somehow misses us and is driving aimlessly around the parking lot, so I have to run, waving, to get her. It's a van with two small dogs running loose in it. And a giant pink bag of dog food. She doesn't sound like she is going to take him to the hospital (often people do not have insurance in my district) and so I add my two cents . . . tell her to at least get it x-rayed. The bones in the wrist could be cracked. Say goodbye to the boys. Tell them that I'll see them in two years when they get to the high school.

So now I'm an hour and fifteen minutes late.

And I love to talk to everyone at football games. I become the super extrovert . . . waving, smiling, chit-chatting. "Ooooh, how are you? How's school? How's your mom?" As I am standing next to the only other teacher there, I strike up a conversation with a parent. I don't know her son. A freshman and I no longer teach freshmen. "Oh, but I know you . . . " she says and proceeds to tell me how her neighbor has told her all about me. In a tone that is not good. Tells me that there are only two teachers to avoid and I am one of them.

Who does this? I'm at a football game. Wearing school colors, waving and smiling. She tells me who has given her this information and also tells me that she knows that the source might not be all that credible. And evidently, after I left (because who stands around for that?) she turned to my friend and said, "Well, she seemed really nice."

And the game was awful and I don't know why. They lost. And we used to be used to losing. But we have a new coach and he is great. Doesn't swear at the kids. Respects them. Tells them to be respectful. And I don't know if this was a big game, or if the players just didn't want to disappoint him . . . but there was a whole lot of crying. I've never seen so many men crying at once. Big boys, who are normally mean bullying ______ at school, blubbering. Which was hard to look at. And I definitely couldn't take pictures of it.

At the end of the game, my very earnest boss, wanted to invite us out. She is very nice. Young. About ten years younger than I am.

I was one of two teachers at the game. And there is a rule. The rule among thieves, as it were . . .no going out with the bosses. Harder than one might think. Two of them used to be the gym teachers at our school. And you know how gym teachers are with the reindeer games, so they were regulars. And think they can now just be the same. And it's not the same.

Emily: "So what did we just do? Why are we going out with them?
E2: "She was trying so hard. Did you hear her? She must have asked a dozen times. We have to go."
Emily: "But what about the rule?"

(to be continued)

Didn't get the NO FUN Memo

We are in work week three. There's already been a yearbook fight.

"Ms. _____, you look tired."

And I am tired. I need to go to bed earlier.

Planning a photo scavenger hunt for tomorrow . . . which will be terribly fun and a disaster. Other teachers don't like it when kids roam the halls. They especially don't like it when the kids are having fun. There's no fun allowed in school. And I keep missing that memo. The "they aren't allowed to have fun" memo.

Oh, and I taught my bouncy drawing kids some Pilates today.

"I love that I can get them to sit still if I make them do Pilates circus act poses."
"And do you demonstrate these poses?"
"Of course."

So school week three. What should I have them take pictures of?

Lyrics

I dreamt last night of sirens
By flashlight I had found you
You just held my hand
By the bright lights in some ICU
Even the planless have a plan

I can't write love songs when I'm on these things
I'm affable, responsible, but hard to be around
It's correctable and they're right you know
It's as easy as it sounds
It's all as easy as it sounds

I dreamt last night I saw you
A single spark explosion negotiating with the dead
By the bright lights in some ICU
On my chest you put your head
And said...
There you are
There you are
There's my heart

-- Matthew Good "A Single Explosion"

So while I was walking tonight, I thought about the nature of this "journey" that I'm on . . . and by the way, I hate the word "journey" but can't think of a better term. Sounds all new agey and shit. Anyhow, when you put yourself out there . . . to find new friends, lovers, people, connections, what have you . . . with that comes loss. Rejection. And for some reason, I can handle the rejection (ignorant f**ks, don't see me for what I am . . . ) but I'm not good with the loss.

I'll miss people for no good reason. One little thing that clicked. One thing that I really liked about them. The ability to bring me back to center, whether he knew it or not, was the case I was thinking of specifically. And yes, I managed to start school and crash my car without being hip checked mentally (at least by this person). But funny how people can balance you out. And the vacuum they leave.

And it's only a vacuum when you have nothing to do but think. And it's such a little thing. But how many little vacuums have I left in my wake?

Whatever. Too much thinking. Oh yeah, and the line that resonates? "I'm affable, responsible, but hard to be around."

"No think, only do." -- Yoda

Historial? Home Tour

This weekend I went on a historial home tour in a city that will remain unnamed so that my mother "the Director of Homeland Security" will not throw herself down on the floor and scream about how you are all going to read this and then immediately find her house and break into it.

We have been to the historical unnamed city home tour for about four years running. There are usually about six sites around the unnamed city, which about four thousand glitter mafia ladies and ten dating divorced couples (evidently a good date?) descend upon. This year, it seems that they ran out of historical . . . and so just went with homes.

It's very hard to be a snotty-snotty-know-it-all and it is especially hard when you are descended from a snotty-snotty-know-it-all and you both go on a tour run by middle aged ladies with nothing to do. Because the historical home tour in unnamed city did not bog itself down with facts all that much . . . and that made us argumentative. Because we were right, dammit AND we were standing in a house built in 1989.

That's right . . . built in 1989. On the historical home tour. But it was decorated in Early American Colonial (as opposed to late American Colonial?) with Norwegian accents. And the homeowner made all the quilts. Surely that overtakes the whole built in 1989 thing?

I managed to keep my mouth shut through the "haunted house" lecture at the Tavern that was a guest house. The house wasn't haunted, but people look at you funny if you say such things. I mean maybe they can come and go . . . but it wasn't haunted at the time of me standing there. Because I would know. And you are welcome to look at me funny.

At the second house we got to see the "original wall" which was the ONLY thing that was left from the 1800's in that house. Everything else was Ethan Allen. Or Amish . . . except that it was pronounced AAAA mich. Long A and a mich. I wonder where they live, those woodworking people. Oh, and they were so nice, they came all the way up to Michigan and installed the dining room table that they made by hand. At Macy's, they just call that "delivery". And yes, it was a beautiful dining room table.

At the third house, my mother tried to argue about the banquette. Poor lady was sticking to the script and my mother was contradicting her performance.

"Interesting thing they did with the banquette."
"Oh, no, this was here. They didn't do anything with this."
"But usually, in this era of house, there was a banquette. The bench would have been along that wall."

But the lady was sticking to her story. The Formica counter and bar stools had been there since 1927. Because her paper didn't say they weren't original.

So it was a lot of walking through people's houses, with people who didn't know them giving tours . . . "and this was her great-grandmother's sliver of dial soap, saved through generations . . . this is a picture of the owner's niece's uncle's great-great-aunt . . . the carving on this goes back to 1919 (never mind the plastic) . . . "

Okay, so that one was true. We toured a very nice house built . . . well, I forget, but it was before the Civil War. And it is freshly painted and full of Pottery Barn. And the ladies were amazed by the Pottery Barn.

"Oh, how clever! They made this into a T.V. stand."
"Well, actually it is a Pottery Barn T.V. stand. (I point to the other pieces of furniture) And that's Pottery Barn and that's Pottery Barn and that's Pottery Barn."
"But how do you know?"
"Ummmm. I get the catalog."

So we get to the dining room. And there is a chandelier. And I am fascinated by it because it is EXACTLY like the chandelier I have in my dining room waiting to be painted. It's strung with more glitter, but exactly like it down to the plastic candles . . . except that mine has faux drips. So it's nicer. And the tour guide says, "And this chandelier is original to the house." And my head almost exploded. But I held my tongue. Because I had seen how well the banquette conversation went and no one wants to look dumb in front of eight glitter mafia . . . and me.

So I gathered lots of ideas. And someday will straighten my house so someone that I don't know can give tours.

"And these are the owner's grandmother's end tables . . . original Formica from 1962. And here is the owner's grandmother's plastic mirror . . . given to her by her employer, Dr. Egan when she retired in 1978. And here is the wooden bureau that the owner's grandmother found and then cut the legs off of, because it was too high and bugging her, which the owner's mother refinished. And here is the owner's great aunt Hazel's buffet and the other great aunt's marble coffee table and the owner's aunt's bed." So basically, just a bunch of stuff that the owner's mother didn't want in her house anymore but the owner cannot throw away . . . because then she would have to fill her house with Pottery Barn, like everyone else.

Okay, Two Things

I was just carded for spray paint.

And I was so surprised by their asking, that I stuttered my birth date.

The kids. They huff it. So they have to ask you for your birth date . . . just like at Meijer's, but at Meijer's I'm buying liquor.

"Oh, I thought you were asking because you thought I was going to make some graffiti." Nope. Don't care if you tag the place. Just don't sniff it. And at 36, Home Depot thinks I'm old enough to decide.

Okay, next.

My "superior" . . . a.k.a. an assistant principal . . . asked me today, "if you were still teaching English, would you have applied for department head?"

They were surprised by my answer. "Hell no." Well more like, "Hell NO." I then went on to explain that I make a good minion. I like behind the scenes. "I like to do stuff, but as soon as you get a title . . . well, crap gravitates to you."

To a friend later, I explained that the A.P. seemed confused by my answer. "Hmmm, let's see . . . a natural leader, who is unwilling to take any official leadership role. Yeah, not confusing, at all." (I think I got that quote right. If not, please correct me in the comments.)

Awwww. Someone called me a "natural leader".

Dodge vs. Volkswagon

"Your truck wasn't as bad as I thought it would be."

First off, I drive truck. Well, I used to drive a truck. And as trucks go . . . it was a medium-sized truck. And it was hit by a Volkswagon Jetta . . . or Passat . . . or something. And they are not medium-sized. Volkswagon Jettas are small.

So I was not in any real danger. It did get sorta tippy, so maybe if I flipped. And I was wearing my seatbelt. And I have air bags and all that jazz. But no, my truck is not a mangled mess of metal. It's just really, really bent. In ways it is not supposed to be bent.

And thank goodness it was the truck and not my little car, or I would have flipped over and rolled or something. It would have been a fairer fight, let's just say.

And now, I'll just cement my whole backyard and come out going forward. As the cop pointed out, I don't like to mow the lawn anyhow.

Due Care and Caution

So not totalled. Only half of totalled. And a tire. And perhaps a pear tree.

The adventures of the day . . . I went to the Secretary of State yesterday to get a new copy of my registration. Yes, I know. I'm supposed to have a registration on my person. And I did . . . but they made us get new license plates, so there was that temporary one and then the real one came in the mail but not together with my other car. Anyhow, it was misplaced somehow. So I received a ticket for that . . . in addition to my "failure to use due care and caution" citation. Yes, it is my fault. I pulled out of my driveway, impeding traffic. Which makes me leery of pulling out of my driveway ever again.

(The fun part? When I tell men this? They advise me to "back in" to my driveway and then I can just pull out when I want to. Except when I explain the street I live on . . . and that the only time I might be able to "back in" to my driveway would be 3 a.m.. Otherwise, I would be really impeding traffic. Back in when cars are going 50 m.p.h. down the busy street. grumble.)

So today, I made it to the court office in time and showed them my registration. "This is a duplicate." Well, yes, I just got it from the Secretary of State. "It says you got this yesterday." Why, yes, I did. "I can't use this . . . you'll have to bring me the registration from Monday." Well, okay, but I can't find my registration . . . which is why I'm talking to you and why I got a new one printed. "Yeah, this won't fix this." Well, I guess I could go back to my house to tear it apart again and look under the refrigerator again, but I really couldn't find it. Which is why I got the ticket. So what happens if I don't find it? "You'll get charged the ticket fee." But I have a registration.

At this point a woman calls from the back of the office. I am standing looking perplexed on the other side of the bulletproof glass. "Does it say 'duplicate'?" "Yeah." "It's valid. Give it to her." "Is it a waived ticket?" "Yeah." So with that taken care of, we move to the "failure to use due care and caution" part of the proceedings. "So you want a court date?" "The officer at the scene suggested that I get a court date." "Phone number." I give her my phone number and there is a discussion of if this number is the number that I can be reached at during the day. I have to explain that I'm a teacher and that I cannot answer the phone during the day. "Oh, so you want night court?" Well, no. I don't want to make anyone stay late . . . I can really take a personal day. "So night court. We have a 5 p.m." Then there is the "admit" or "deny" section on the form. I shrug. "I was just pulling out of my driveway." She does not like that answer. "What did the policeman say to you exactly?" That I should go ask the judge to waive the points. She writes "WAIVE POINTS" in big letters on the form and checks the box "review". "Okay, don't do anything about your ticket. I'll send you a notice. The officer works during the day, so he will not be showing up. He only goes to day court."

I'm still confused and don't get any paperwork. But I arrived at 10 minutes to close, so I don't argue. I tell the woman to have a nice afternoon. "Yeah. What's left of it."

So I have a court date. And I don't have to bring pictures or math equations or diagrams, "cause you're just gonna talk to the judge."

And the though of talking to the judge still makes me nauseous.

But it's just the "good girl/teacher" in me. At least I don't have blue hair anymore.

(Chinese Mafia . . . goin' to court.)

Cars and Trucks and Things That Go

Thank you Richard Scarry for the title line. (My brothers' favorite book when we were children)

And I Was Going to Lunch

I think my truck is totalled.

I was pulling out of my driveway yesterday and was hit by a Jetta . . . well, I think it was a Jetta. There are pieces of it between the rim and my back tire. It knocked my back window open. And bent the bed back to crush the cab on the opposite side.

I pulled out and then I was moving quickly and then I was looking straight on into traffic.

The maybeit'saJetta didn't look so hot either . . .

So I've been on hold for a total of two and a half hours with the insurance company, although I will say that the woman I talked to was exceedingly nice.

And ironically, this is the truck that I bought because my father wouldn't let me eat lunch . . . smashed trying to go to lunch. And guess what? I didn't get to eat lunch yesterday either.

So that's what I've been up to . . . made the first day of school really, really fun.

Ummm. . . Go Blue?

I was careful. I only had two bloody mary's. One of which had gotten pickle juice on a program. And they are serious about their programs (I mean who buys programs?). So I was on edge about that.

There were pancakes and sausage . . . cooked on a grill. At we started drinking at 9 a.m.. But when in Rome. There were interview in front of the car for the BigTen Network. (I might be in the background of Friday Night Tailgate) The car is like a big tourist thing. Her family owns the "Michigan Beetle" and parks it next to the stadium. (I thought there would be a picture on the web, but evidently there are a lot of beetles in Michigan that are actually insects)

The seats were awesome. Michigan stadium has 72 rows below the entrance. And then there is row B and row A. We were in row B between the 40 and the 35. Close enough to see the players sweat. Close enough to hear the coaches talking.

It was hot. And they were playing Appalachian State. So it was assumed to be an "easy game". Like playing Michigan State.

But it wasn't an easy game.

Princess left me during the fourth quarter, to go set up the tailgate again. So I watched the upset alone. And I got wrapped up in the football. Not who was playing . . . just the game. And I cheered and yelled.

Michigan fans are very different than Michigan State fans. Michigan State fans are used to losing. It's just a game. We drink. We watch. If we lose . . . so what? So more about fun. Because we used to losing.

And I haven't been to a game in a long time. So it was hard to adjust to cutthroat die hard fans. Fans who "boo" their own team if they make a bad play. Fans who are cranky when they are not winning. Cause Michigan State fans would have to be cranky most of the time . . . unless they were watching basketball.

And I have to say . . . because less people will yell at me here, in this blog . . . ASU played better ball. It wasn't good luck. They played a better game.

As I was walking out of the stadium, alone, I congratulated every Appalachian fan I saw. Why not? They were so excited. This had made their year. Heck, made their next two years. They had beat one of the best teams in the nation. On that team's turf. And they reminded me of how insanely excited Michigan State fans get when we somehow win against Michigan. There is that half an hour of shock . . . and then just pure honest exuberance.

To their credit, every Appalachian fan I congratulated looked at me funny. And then I realized I had a Michigan shirt on. But I felt like the representative of the State of Michigan. We could be gracious. We could be good losers in this state. We could appreciate a good game.

Even if we did have on the wrong shirt. (smile)

(I would like to thank Princess and her family for having me. Their hospitality was overwhelming and they always make me feel welcome at their family events. And I'm sorry about the game.)

(Oh, and it's Princess's birthday . . . I think on Tuesday. Send her gifts.)