Joining the Information Age

As a teacher, I try to keep up with the trends of communication. This blog started because my students were blogging and I wanted to see what it was all about.

So at the start of this new school year, I took a look at how my students like to communicate. They do not email . . . email is soooo passe, so last week. They text. They text all the time. They would spend their whole time in school texting, if we didn't let them plug into the internet so they can illegally try and get past the firewall so they can . . . well, I don't know what the fad of the minute is. Guess I will find out next week. (I was going to say Twitter, but I think that is "soooo five minutes ago" by now)

So in my resolution to be more organized this year and therefore making my life easier, smoother and less stressed (HA!) (and yes, I make resolutions in late August . . . makes more sense than January), I sent the whole yearbook staff a letter about goals for the first weeks of school. One of those goals was to actually have yearbook students selling yearbooks at registration, instead of Emily selling all the yearbooks. In the letter, I gave them my email address . . . and my phone number so they could text me.

Adults reel at this idea. Give them my phone number? Give the enemy my phone number? What if they call you? For the most part they don't. If anything, by giving them my phone number, I get more parent calls . . . which if you think about it, the school will give them my number anyhow. I did, however, get a lot of texts. Many, many text messages. More text messages than I have received from any of my friends. And my friends are not particularly low tech.

And all of the text messages are long . . . paragraphs. Students would wouldn't write me three sentences in ninth grade are sending me books on my phone. Perhaps they all have qwerty keyboards? I do not. So I am seeing the light on "ttyl" speech. It's just less for me to figure out on the number board.

So my triumph today, besides getting a bunch of students to volunteer to sit around and sell yearbooks basically by tricking them by letting them text, was to group their numbers in my phone address book and be able to send them a mass text. It was so cool. Except that they all replied . . .

Keep in mind that when I text, I have to count . . . a "u" is 8 two times . . . one, two . . . so not only do I have to spell in my head, but then scan and count. Tedious. I have to get a new phone for this.

No Really, You Shouldn't Try it Unless You're SURE I Like You

I talked to a brand-new, shiny teacher today . . .

And after a couple of "well, no . . . that's never going to happen" and "well, they certainly aren't going to give you that!" I realized that I was being a buzzkill. And yes, I often am. But the likelihood of her doing what she wants, it was past "never". So I decided to turn it around.

"Well, no only means no if you let it . . . " and tried to muster up one of those "shiny happy people" smiles.

"But you know, Em . . . "

And that was it. I stopped listening. My father is allowed to call me Em. Certain people that I am very close to can call me Em. I allow certain others with special permission (in my head, silly, I don't tell you . . . ) because they are charming or funny or I like them, call me Em. But otherwise, I'm not really an "Em". There IS one person in the world, so far, that can get away with calling me "Emmy" but again, he is charming and it is his term of endearment . . . and he lives in Colorado so I don't have to hear it.

However, with this bright shiny new teacher . . . this is the first extended conversation that we have ever had. And I think she would have been appalled if I came up with a nickname for her or, and this is probably what actually happened, was just too lazy to say the rest of the syllables of her name.

Perhaps I made her feel so comfortable that she felt we could be on a nickname basis in ten minutes? Nah. At least I don't think so, considering what the students call me sometimes.

I did not correct her. Just started pointing out that changing culture and traditions was a bit like turning the titanic. And gave her a few suggestions to ask for things that would ultimately benefit me and my program.

But in a world where we mostly address each other by last name . . . Em. It was jarring.

She's lucky I didn't stab her in the eye.

Snow Day

I did my nails.
"Tamed" my eyebrows.
Ate some peanut butter toast.
The whole grain white bread from Trader Joe's doesn't toast very well.
Watched "The Cell", mainly for the costumes.
Knit most of a ninja hood.
Need to get size 8 double points, which I missed in the materials list.
Watched Martha Stewart . . . you can get your dog's DNA profiled. Who knew.
Watched CNN.
Ate some yogurt.
Took a shower.
Changed all my linens.
Will stop and get needles on the way to Pilates.
Maybe more yarn.
School tomorrow . . . but it's Friday.
And anyone can survive Friday.

Might make a snowman after Pilates.

Dildo Factory

So let's start with the "and in the second episode there's this dildo factory" story.

M2 has a student teacher.

One would think that as a regular employed teacher, you would be overjoyed with a student teacher. Hey! Someone is going to come in and do all my work for me? And I still get paid? Sign me up! But M2 . . . I love her . . . well, there's really two factors at play. First, M2 has the WORST luck in student teachers. It's like the fates want her to weed them out or something. And this time, she even tried to compensate by asking to interview the person first . . . and the person just showed up anyway. And she is this meek, mousey thing who does not talk and looks terrified most of the time. Like that mouse that the kids always trap in the yearbook room (We have sort of a vermin problem. I prefer to think of him as a pet) who just wakes and then expels everything from his bowels and then dies of heart failure to avoid whatever this circle of teenagers is going to do to him.

So the second factor is that M2 is a really good teacher . . . with a strong personality . . . and . . . again, with the "I really, really love her" . . . she is a bit of a control freak. We all are. Well, anyone that lasts in this profession. So it's really hard for her to give up her classroom to someone who may lose all the control that she has gain. To let things dissolve into anarchy to prove to this person that she probably shouldn't be a high school teacher. Or should be . . . I don't know.

So M2 and the ST share a table at parent teacher conferences . . . and M2 and I plan to go out to dinner . . .

(Side story: The teachers like to go out in big groups for dinner. Which makes me anxious. For the restaurant who suddenly will have a table of 25, all of whom want separate checks. For myself, because I like to be on time and we don't have a lot of time and the waitress is taking 45 minutes to print up all of the checks. And frankly, for the general public, because teachers are really obnoxious when they get in groups. So I don't go with the "kids" for dinner. And it's a big problem. But M2 is kind enough to join me and go to a restaurant far away from the large groups. So yes, I socially isolate myself. So I won't be anxious. And for the record, I check and no, you weren't on time for the second session. No one cared. But I do.)

and there is the ST at the table, so we have to take her along.

She says maybe three words during dinner and doesn't have enough cash, which is cool because I don't have any cash either and I make way more money than she does, as she makes nothing. And on the way back, I kinda forget that she is in the backseat . . . because she is silent . . . and M2 is telling the story about how she had to take this compatiblity test to get married in the Catholic Church and some of the more tricky "yes" "no" questions . . . like "pregnancy is a big part of our relationship" (well, it isn't NOW but is it supposed to be later? According to the Catholics?) and so then I start talking about my new favorite show, Lucy, Daughter of the Devil and I had just watched the second episode, where Satan buys a dildo factory and Lucy wants to become a dildo designer but that grosses her father out.

"Did you have to bring up dildo factories in front of my student teacher? Are you trying to convince her that teachers are crazy?" Mary says after we get out of the car and the ST is out of earshot. Oops. I was just taking about television. It was on cable. So now the mouse is probably going to have to go to therapy. Or at least bring it up in those student teacher sessions when they talk about how all the old teachers are too old and their brains have been turned to mush by close contact with teenagers. I remember that discussion. It always ends with a group feeling that "we are going to be different".

Oh and the "holding dirty hands" is from this episode. Hilarious. About 1 minute, 52 seconds in . . .
"Look at all the people holding hands . . . holding hands around the world . . .
it's making me want to go wash my hands . . . dirty hands around the world . . . yeah . . ."

Lucky Girl

Every so often it will smack me on the forehead.

How lucky I am. I get paid to draw. And paint. And make spiders out of styrofoam and pipe cleaners.

I get paid to roll my eyes and be slightly sarcastic. I get paid to tell the truth . . . like, to a student joining the Marines, "I really think you need to reconsider a career path based on your love of the costume." (But, the Marines have swords, Miss ______. Swords.)

I get to make a difference. Most of the time I won't know about the difference, as that is the zen of how it works, but I'm pretty sure I make a dent somewhere. Maybe a scratch or two. A redirect, here and there.

And today is not the best day to reflect on this, as I can hardly keep my eyes open. Parent Teacher conferences were last night. But maybe that is the best day to think about it. I am blessed. I can draw. I can make things. I can improvise. And I have a biting wit.

Not everyone has those skill sets.

And I have found a place, a career, that will compensate me for doing what I love to do . . .

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.

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?

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".

School Shopping

I had my first day of work on Friday.

And I dressed up. And my bosses showed up in golf shirts.

I sat for three hours in a windowed hallway that rapidly became what felt like 300 degrees. Tomorrow will be the female equivalent of golf shirt.

It was nice to see the kids and although I don't really want to come in a week early, it's good to be able to "ease" into things. Sell yearbooks. Go out to lunch. Somewhat like normal business people.

So I work three days next week. And then four days the following week. But then it's straight through until Thanksgiving.

And although I have been school shopping for the last two days . . . I haven't bought anything. Much.

Cheese on My Sweater

Today was the kind of day where there is no place to sit in the lunchroom, so you sit on the couch and dump macaroni and cheese all over your sweater. But hey, at least you remembered to bring lunch.

A parent told me today that I needed to learn when to "pick my battles". She had already played the "are you a parent" card and was feeling pretty confident . . . I'm not sure to what end: either to feel significantly superior (she has created life, you know) or to bait me, push my buttons (her student does this pretty well, why we were having an impromptu meeting). I didn't raise an eyebrow.

Didn't share any of the thoughts in my head. About how, although I have never contributed any genetic material, I have had thousands of children at this point. And since I'm still in this business after thirteen years (most wash out before year three), I think I know something about battles and their selection. But thank you for telling me how to do my job . . .

Nope. Didn't say any of it. Just smiled sweetly. And then explained the battle I had picked. And why. "Oh, I didn't know that what that meant . . . " is what she left saying, "I let them say that all the time at home." Again, why we're having a meeting.

I haven't been writing because I don't have much nice to say. Forgive me. It is an interesting double bind . . . being admonished for being too negative . . . yet, having comments when I don't write. I should just not pay any attention. But I do. I don't want to be a negative person, to be seen as such, but really . . . it may just be in my nature. Mr. Crabbypants isn't really a negative person. He is a great guy, who is really smart and often frustrated with the world. I am also. And am half his genetic material. And quite honestly, Mrs. Crabbypants . . . not exactly "shiny happy people" material either. I love them both to pieces.

One last thing. In Key West, I was bitten by these little minute bugs . . . "no-see-ums" I think they are called. I did see one. It was a teeny-tiny black fly, smaller than a gnat. And I paid no attention, assuming they were like mosquitoes or fly bites, like black flies. Otherwise, I would have bathed in DEET. So after a couple of days, with the itching getting actually worse instead of better and there seeming to be more bites, even though I'm back in Michigan (did I bring them home?), I looked no see ums up on google. Turns out that the bites last forever, blister and sometimes fester . . . which is the best case scenario.

Worse case, I have some horrible fatal disease that kills my liver and kidneys or some parasite that had a horrible name like nematode. Oh, and if you don't get that, too many bites . . . the venom only can cause kidney failure. Kidney failure from little flies that you can't see. I think there should have been signs or something.

Ah, all small stuff . . . and I'm letting the universe take over and not sweating the small stuff . . . or the itchiness . . . but the itchiness is, well, very itchy.

Hazard

"Teachers lie. I would have liked to gun them all down too." was a blog quoted in the Free Press. The article was about "fringe society" making Cho a martyr on the internet. And somehow it made what I've been thinking about for the last two days worse.

I break up fights. I listen to threats. I've been called every swear word in the book. I've been knocked over by a student this year. I report off-hand comments, things students say without thinking about the possible consequences and then have the student mad at me for making the report . . . which usually leads to more threatening behavior. In the incident where the student knocked me over, causing a visible bruise, I had to call the parent myself. And some of the state legislature think that teachers have too good a lot in life.

If I had gone into advertising, like my parents told me too, it would be stressful. But would I be breaking up fights in the hallway outside my cubicle?

I know that every career has its downside, but what is too much of a downside? I am consistently reminded that I'm taking care of "their" children. That my job is so important. That I have to be very careful, all the time. My personal life is constantly under scrutiny. I am told that I have to set a good example, 24/7. And yet, I am paid less than people with the same education level in private industry.

My profession is seen as easy to get into . . . the tenure system has kept some in my profession in place when they probably shouldn't be. Everyone can remember that terrible teacher they had . . . or the terrible teachers, more likely. "Those who can't do . . . teach." And there is the "you get summers off" argument thrown out there. And somehow, everyone thinks of high school perpetually in the 1950's. Sure everyone was bored, but no one was throwing desks. (I've only had chairs thrown at me.)

Oh, and when I call about "their" children? "I don't know what to do, either" or "I'm afraid of them too" is often the response.

Keep in mind, I always have to be the "bigger" person. I cannot retaliate. I can only defend myself if I can prove that child is being a danger to themselves or others without a doubt. And I will be questioned. And it will be assumed that I am in the wrong (assumed guilty) should I ever have to restrain a child. I am held to a higher standard than a citizen walking on the street.

And I'm not saying that I shouldn't be held to a very high standard. But I just don't see many people gunning for librarians . . . or engineers. He shot the professors first. And how many of you had to break up a fist fight at the office? With blood? Is it too late to go into advertising?

Spew

For about two years, I have been very good at work. I try to be even keeled about my opinions. I try to see the other person's point of view. I try to walk around in the other person skin. And if I can't do that, I ignore them . . . in the case of my next door neighbor, specifically.

Today, I spewed. A lot. I told a large-ish group of people exactly what I thought. With detailed examples. If I had charts and graphs, I would have shown those too. And I had a evil glint in my eyes, because it felt soooo good. So enormously, fabulously wonderful to say what I actually had in my head.

I now realize that I participated in exactly what drove me over the edge . . . the no filter edge . . . in the first place. And I feel just a bit of guilt now. A smidge. A "I might not have done that" smidge. And I will try to be better tomorrow. Because you never know who is listening. And you never know truly where people's allegiances lie. In a group, anyhow.

And people should be glad that I have the filter on most of the time.

Crap, I'm Old

So I'm chatting with my jewelry class instructor and somehow high school comes up . . . because I teach high school. He was talking about how dumb his high school yearbook was, I think.

"So what high school did you go to?"
"Blankity Blank High School"
"Really, what year did you graduate? I did my student teaching there."
"Oh my God, I knew you looked familar."

Yes, I taught my jewelry instructor in art class his junior year of high school. And don't feel a bit old . . . shit.

But She Said "Snow Day"

Tomorrow is Valentine's Day . . . and someone said "snow day" very early in the day because of the weather forecast, so I ended up doing damage control all day.

"No, we are not going to have a snow day . . . it's not even snowing . . . look out the window."

And it is currently snowing. Messy on the way home . . . would have been better if I had left before 5 pm ( . . . yes, I can leave at 3:05, according to my contract, and I rarely ever do that, plus I have homework and a permanent 25 minute lunch . . . ) (I know, puppets of the evil empire have the easiest lives.) But it's not snowing enough. Despite the media foaming over the snow, it's not enough snow to shut anything down. I haven't even shoveled yet.

Why does the media get all rabid about the weather nowadays? Did they always do that? Or is it just that now it's the most colorful part of the news, with all their maps and graphs? Couldn't they talk about how Jenny is taxing all the things I love . . . martinis . . . pedicures . . . haircuts . . . pet grooming . . . (okay, I don't have any pets, but if I did . . . ) So I get to deal with a crabby constituency tomorrow who were all ramped up by the news and by someone coming over the P.A. And it will be Valentine's Day . . . which is a simply despicable holiday. I think I will need a martini. Definitely a martini kind of day.

So happy hallmark holiday. On this made up holiday, specifically thought up to make single people feel rejected and awful, I will be going to a high school band concert. Which means I can't have a martini. But on the plus side, I did not have to think of a creative gift for anyone. There. Thinking positive. Aligning that Chi.

Emily and . . .

the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day . . .

I remember the day, the moment, that I found Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day in my elementary school library. Now here was a book that wasn't all happy and sunshiny . . . here was a book that I could relate to. And if anyone has read it, I have had one of those days today. I didn't fall asleep with gum in my mouth but I probably should have, just to top it off.

"I think I'll move to Australia"

Entering Phase One

I am now solidly in phase one . . . am disappointed that I have to take it off to shower. Took forever (for me) to transfer everything but my computer seems to have recovered. Can type again.

And it's soooooo pretty and shiny. And the headphones feel like they have become part of my body. So yeah, except at work, I may never take this off. Cuts down on the social interaction . . . but hey, who wanted me to do that anyway? I talk too much, most of the time.

Why is it that we don't let the kids use these at school? Would cut my discipline time way down . . . but then again no one would interact. But sometimes that would be a really good thing. I could just podcast everything. Killer for my kids who can't read.

itunes doesn't have anything I want . . . which in thinking about it . . . is probably a good thing.

Eyes are About to Bleed

Just made a photoshop layer . . . no. 92 . . . which means I've flipped, resized, and placed 92 pictures. All this for this fabulous cover idea that I have. The students looked at my sketch, figured out how much work it would be and told me that I was welcome to do it, if I wanted it so badly.

I know, I know. I should be letting them do the cover. They have promised to help once I do the resizing (hard) part and I can't fault them for not wanting to do this. It is the definition of tedious. My eyes feel like they are going to bleed though. I wonder how graphic designers do this all day. Sometimes I'm thankful that I do five shows a day, instead of staring at a screen all day. But only sometimes. The computer has not argued with me once. Been a little slow (asking this old girl to do a lot) but not argumentative.

Off to make a "comma book" for my presentation tomorrow.

Take the Picture

Another Friday and I just want to take a nap. Everything was wild this week and my mother might be coming over tomorrow. There were school pictures today. (Which meant everyone asked me if they HAD to take their school pictures . . . and couldn't I use the one from last year, or the one that they liked . . . well, what year was that? 1977? No, must have been 1986 . . . yeah, that one where I wore the red thing and my hair was good . . . you know . . . that one? NO. SHUT UP. GO AND TAKE THE DAMN PICTURE.) (Sorry, they don't pay me enough)
I'm gone again next week because I'm riding on the coattails of someone more famous (Princess) and then there are conferences. Between the sub plans, the presenting and the conferences, my brain is going to be fried. So no talking. Shhhh. Can't concentrate.

I would love to write about all the hilarious things I heard this week, but they were all from students. "Sometimes unfortunate things happen in life" was a good one . . . in a written memo. I'm thinking about making that into a T-shirt with a symbol for Captain Obvious on the back.

Oh, and the kids came up with a yearbook theme. Thank goodness. Now we can start making the darn thing.