I'm Not a Dude

Some things overheard at school today...

• "Mrs. R! Josh licked Lisa!"
• "I went to Dallas this weekend. My parents made me go see some boy band from the 80's. Maybe you know them? I can't remember their name. Something about Hungry Like the Wolf? I don't know, it was boring. I thought it'd be like N'Sync."
• [When discussing where a character in a book has disappeared to] "Hey! Maybe he's having an affair with that chick from the beginning!"
• Girl belches 4 times in a row with me sitting directly beside her. Me: "Dude! Stop!" Belchnastytastic: "I'm not a dude." Me:"Well, you sure sound like one!" Yes, yes, I'll probably be sued tomorrow.
• Superfluously Hormoned One displays dazzling bauble on hand, a new ring from grandad (just got out of prison, yeah!). Me: "[gasp] How beautiful!" SHO: "I got it at WalMart." Umkay.
• After school, I attended my mandatory, but I don't get paid for, student support team meeting. [Please read this article, I WISH my district would do this. I'd love to see that place fall apart.] I love this meeting because we openly discuss all the freakshows in our school and try to decide how to fix them. Today we had a mom tell us that last Tuesday was the most cruel thing we could have done to her son: making him take that writing test was unforgiveable. He has trouble in writing and she has asked for help since September! Well, we couldn't go forward with his testing as the child needed glasses and she "forgot" to take him. But it's unforgiveable. Of course.
• Kids in counseling class. Reviewing daily habits. Question: What do you do before you go to bed at night to make sure you're ready for school the next day? Answer from Exhibit A: [spoken in rhythm aligned with excessive pelvic thrusting] I Like To! Dream About! GIRLS!
• That's really enough for today. Do you really think I could top that one?

Your Hair is Like a Flock of Goats

Okay, I was really immature in Sunday School this morning. Our class tends to be a little less than serious; it's made up of 9 couples in their late twenties/early thirties whose main interests are poker, reality television, and food. We have class with the door shut in case someone swears, and we live for the church Krispy Kremes.
We are currently doing a relationship study in which we are supposed to "review different aspects of our marriages" each week. This week it was called "Where Has the Romance Gone?" Each week it inevitably turns into that episode of the Newlywed Game where somebody smacks their spouse with a placard. The women turn on the men and there's a lot of "I told you that wasn't just me!" and "See!!" going on. It's really a lot of fun. Really, it is.
So, this week the person leading the lesson told Mike to read from Song of Songs 4:1-7. Mike, being the obedient student, immediately launched into reading. I, subsequently, lost it and nearly fell out of my chair. A few samples of the words that came from Mike's mouth:

• How beautiful you are, my love, how very beautiful!
• Your hair is like a flock of goats!
• Your teeth are like a flock of shorn ewes that have come up from the washing
• Your two breasts are like two fawns, twins of a gazelle, that feed among the lilies

I was okay with with how beautiful I was, but as soon as he said that my hair was like a flock of goats, the game was over. The word goats in any context is hilarious to me because I get a dumb goat image in my mind, but when comparing my hair to a flock of goats, I really had a good time. Who knew church could be so funny?

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

Follow up. Mike and I thought we did pretty well as compared to the rest of the class. See, we never had much romance to begin with (when you meet because you're both outraged at the lack of Bud Light at the bar your options are limited), so we haven't had anywhere to go but up!

We practiced tonight at dinner. We clinked glasses before we ate. Well, we bumped my glass of box wine against his koozie of Bud Light. Then we proceeded to eat homemade wings with our fingers. The baked wings were an experiment on my part and while tasty, not very filling. So we made a bowl of popcorn. Then, with Gus panting desperately for a morsel of popcorn, we told each other where we still had wing sauce on our faces. THAT is romance, my friends.

I'm Growing an Antler

I firmly believe that I am entirely too old for acne. It's TAKS that's done it to me this week, that blasted TAKS test. That blasted TAKS test has made my skin blemish. Since Monday, I have had a festering ache above my right eyebrow. After 5 days of analysis, I am fairly confident that I am in possession of an emergent antler. Or possibly a horn. One cannot be positive at this stage of the process. And quite a process it is, too!
First, we have the inaugural ache. This pain prompts a great deal of poking and prodding on my part. I usually try to "wash it off," by overusing skin care products in hopes of stunting its growth and delaying its imminent arrival.
Once that strategy fails, the little devil begins to redden, possibly a result of my insistant jabbing, and mount into a bulging protuberance. This mound was what I wore most of the week. I probably had children write their TAKS compositions about it. My teacher seems to be growing a second head just above her eyebrow. What follows is the tale of what happened that fateful day...when her other head took over the school! Dun, dun, dun.... Anyway. I hope not.
So my colleage and I were discussing this unfortunate, neverending process in the car yesterday on the way to Starbucks. She happens to have a twosome on her face just around her mouth. We think hers might be tusks trying to develop. So we were both at stage two: swelling redness about Wednesday. By Friday, we had reached stage three: receeding swelling accompanied by incessant flaking, as a result of all of the drying products we had applied in an effort to shrink the mass growth. This flaking is punishment for messing with it in the first place. When the magazine say leave it alone, they're generally right. [Except for when you have some obvious popping situation...who leaves that on their face? Please.]
When you have a flaker, you have three choices. None of them are good ones. First, you could try to cover the bad boy up. This doesn't work, because with the flaking, it all comes off. Plus it looks bad to begin with because it's not smooth anymore. Second, you could peel the flaking off. This causes unstoppable bleeding. (Please see You Are Gorgeous for a refresher on what this can cause) (Okay, after looking for You Are Gorgeous, that is apparently not a story I posted on my blog, so will post below.) Third, you could leave it alone. Red, peely, and glaring atop your forehead, you could forego personal pride and just leave it alone. Yep. Those are your choices.

You Are Gorgeous!

While sitting with three little girls this week in a reading group, I found myself in one of my usual awkward situations. It was a normal afternoon…we were reviewing main idea and summary and the kids were enjoying a book about Native Americans. We had just read a paragraph about medicine men and how they helped their tribes.
“What do you think the main idea of this paragraph was?” I asked, absentmindedly scratching my face.
“Indians!” “Clouds!” “War!” came three instantly wrong answers. I sighed and pointed at the paragraph.
“Use the text,” I reminded them and returned to my waiting position. I scratched my face again and looked at one of the girls.
“Lovers?” she said dreamily. Lovers? I thought to myself. Where had that come from? Is she completely clueless? How does a kid get from Native Americans to lovers? And where has she heard…nevermind. I realized I was staring.
“Well, no…” I started to say when I noticed she was also staring, but very intently, and at my face.
“Your face is bleeding,” she informed me bluntly. Two more little girls instantly leaned in to inspect my face.
“Ew! Is that a pimple?” one of them asked.
“No, my brother has pimples and they’re white. Hers is red. And bloody,” another diagnosed, the apparent 4th grade expert on acne. She continued to stare, analyzing my complexion like a Clinique customer service representative. She squinted and leaned closer as I tried to dab at the offending blemish that had halted all progress in my reading group. They wrinkled up their noses as my finger came away with smeared blood.
“Girls, discuss this paragraph and when I return, I want you to tell me the main idea,” I tried to sound firm as I scrambled to my desk for a tissue. I turned away from the class and peered into a compact mirror. In the mirror, I saw all three girls leaning across the aisle to the next set of kids and I clearly heard the words, “…on her FACE!”
“A-HEM!” I loudly cleared my throat and sent them diving back into the Native Americans puzzler. I dabbed at my face. I had unintentionally scratched at the remainder of a (very small, but apparently still volcanically active) zit. This situation only occurs when there is no bathroom available or when there are many people around me. I find that it usually happens at a wedding, in church, or around family that I haven’t seen in a while. Removing the Kleenex, I snuck another peek into my compact only to see a small dot of blood reappear and grow before my eyes. I sighed. It was one of those endless bleeders. Anytime I wiped at it, a small streak of blood would appear and stripe my face. This was ridiculous. I had to get back to my job. I headed back to my table with my powder and tissue in hand. Six eyes followed my every move to the table.
“So what did you decide about this paragraph?” I asked them, attempting to remain serious with a tissue pressed to my cheek. I could see four other kids behind my group peering curiously over the tops of their books, squinting at my face. I threw them the Eyebrow and went back to my task at hand.
“So, what’s wrong with your face?” Clinique asked me, trying to pull my hand away from my face.
“The paragraph!” I hissed through gritted teeth. I was losing my entire lesson to a bout of teenage acne which I personally feel that I should be finished with by the age of 28.
“Sick people!” guessed Clueless, twirling her hair around her finger and trying to get hold of my compact.
“Indian doctors!” another called triumphantly, her stubby finger at last pointing at the paragraph in question. Thank goodness, a reason to get back to business, I thought. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a curly headed little pistol headed my way with an object gripped in her hands. The kids are not allowed to talk to me when I’m with a group, but if they find that they can’t wait, they may write me a note. I chose to ignore the approaching distraction.
“That’s right!” I gushed to my little Einstein. I was desperately trying to get things going again, when the Invader handed me a square black object with a sticky note pressed to the middle of it. I read, “I thote you mite need this for your fase.” I peeled away the sticky to see her magnetic teeny bopper locker mirror. I looked hesitantly into it to see my face with the loathsome small blood dot emerging again and little bits of tissue clinging to my skin. YOU ARE GORGEOUS! was written across the mirror in neon letters. Perfect, I thought.
It had turned into one of those Laugh or Get Mad situations, so I gave up on the reading group, thanked my good speller for the use of her handy mirror, and ended reading class for the day. Sometimes I think I’d really like to work in an office with adults, but would adults really be as concerned for my personal well being? How many people can say that 4 people they work with individually aided them in an erupting zit scenario? I’m just not sure that my every need would be properly met in an adult environment!

Boorish Bellowing

Playing tennis the other night...
"Thank you!" I heard vaguely from another court over as I was about to launch a Ginnytastic power serve across the net. (Okay, just a regular serve.) (Fine. A gentle, sloping, lame lob over the net.) But it was definitely going in. I didn't need extraneous interruptions clouding my intense focus. I hesitated for a moment, then tossed my ball again.
"THANK YOU!" the voice came a bit more persistently. I caught my ball out of the air, exasperated. What was with this guy? I'm certain his thankee has been sufficiently thanked. Sheesh. Chill, dude. Deep breath, nice high toss, focus, racket back and...."EXCUSE ME! THANK YOU!" My ball bounced to the ground and I let my racket drop, frustrated. I turned to give this loser my best glare when I noticed the little man hanging over the fence gesturing rudely at me. Me? What had I done to be thanked for? He was pointing at my knees, my...oh. His ball had rolled into my court. Why didn't he just say so? Is this boorish bellowing of a polite word supposed to make me read his mind and feel grateful that he thanked me before I helped him? Am I supposed to feel guilty if I hesitate to help him since he delivered a pre-emptive expression of gratitude? That was the rudest thank you I had ever received. And when I did return his ball to him, he rolled his eyes and didn't re-thank me. I should have rightly been rethanked. I turned to my partner to express my scorn for this freakshow oxymoron of ungrateful appreciation. She held her racket beside her mouth as though to whisper a secret and hissed, "He's just a little intense sometimes." And it's a good thing she blocked her comment with that racket. Because no one could overhear her through the strings of her racket. Silly. Tennis is a strange sport. Thank you.

Variety Counts

I am giggling over my latest Google referrals. Apparently, the following search words and phrases brought people to my little world here: Nyquil nighttime sniffling, come to Jesus, snot, inconsequential sneezes, and wigwag. Who knew?
Wonder how many searches I'd make if I had words in my blog like ginormous boobs! or....well, nevermind. I don't think I want those people here.

Shaggy Ear Covers

Silence is golden. I'm sorry, what? That's a big, fat, hairy lie! Silence could kill you. Silence, when enforced upon one teacher and 20 kids for an entire day could freakin' kill you. Or at least maim your sense of sanity indefinitely. My task today was to keep 20 young'uns completely quiet from 8:30-3:30. They were allowed to eat lunch. That was our reprieve. Our principal told us that under no circumstances was any direct instruction to take place. No one's ever told me that before. I didn't know what to do with myself. So I planned SuperSilent Stations.
Here's a few things that happened during our Massive Read-in/SuperSilent Stations! escapade.

1. FreakyWeird Kid made lantern paperchains for 4 hours. And brought them to me repeatedly until I told him they were a fire hazard.
2. The Superflously Hormoned (185 lb) One came to school breathing like a foghorn and without a bath. I am 90% certain that she is some form of biohazard. I'm not sure how to alert the authorities.
3. All of the children brought blankets for the Read-in. And pillows. Welcome to Mrs.R's LiceFest 2005. Have a seat! Don't touch your head.
4. I put my magnetic poetry set on the board. Two of my gifted boys spent two and a half hours crafting the longest sentence in the world. I love gifted kids. They're so bizarre.
5. Except for my gifted to the point of insanity/laden with ADHD kid who drove car-candy bars all over his desk yesterday during the Test. Though I told him that the computer network had crashed, he was locked in and couldn't part from the computer screen. So I left him there. Mysteriously, the network was fixed about 30 minutes later. I think he did it.
6. Oh yeah, on the one day I could email people all day, the network crashed. Just thought I should mention that one again.
7. I cleaned out all of my drawers, cabinets, and filing trays. I wrote lesson plans, graded papers, and filed things. Then I ran out of things to do. It was 10:30.
8. I stared at my kids for about an hour. I came to the conclusion that this long hair fad on boys must end soon. All of my boys basically have mullets. Pointed in the back mullets. And shaggy ear covers. Heinous, that in-between stage. Ugh.
9. My spoiled rotten child who believes herself a princess in real life (she wears a tiara most days) got flowers from her dad for her birthday. In a pot. With two balloons attached. She swooned and made an elaborate charade of reading the card aloud, but leaving off who it was from. She told me later that she likes Stifler, and the act was to make him jealous. Because fourth graders should really be doing stuff like that.
10. To top my day off, I used poor judgment and packed some leftover-since-Saturday refried beans in my lunch. Beans that sat in the car Saturday night for a good amount of time after dinner. Severe lapse in judgment. I was extremely uncomfortable for the rest of the day. I came home to quite the non-eupeptic state. I'm recovering now.

We finished the day by cleaning up the pit of despair that had become my room. My colleague and I actually argued over who got to type up the lesson plans I had written because we were both so bored. I left when the kids left and slept for an hour on the couch. Good times. Tomorrow we're allowed to teach again!

My Stats From Today's Writing Test

12- The number of pencils one child went through in a desperate attempt to seek attention during the writing test.

4 - The number of times Student A became publicly trapped in a snot-attached-to-both-nose-and-hand shamefest and had to request a Kleenex.

3 - The number of students who cried before the test.

1 - The number of students who puked during the test and had to leave.

4 - The number of times I gave out a wet papertowel as a remedy to an ailment just to keep a kid taking the test. Wet papertowels cure anything from a rash to homesickness in 4th grade.

2 - The number of kids who leaned just a leeeeetle too far back in their chairs and toppled over during the test.

2 - The number of those toppling kids who were Stifler.

1,678,439 - The number of pieces of popcorn on my floor at the conclusion of the test.

3 - The number of trash cans that I filled cleaning up after TAKSfest 2005.

84 - The temperature today. The day when our kids can't have recess. Yep.

5 - The number of students who had to stay after school to finish said test.

0 - The number of times anyone offered to bring me lunch today.

1 - The number of times I went to the bathroom today.

57 - The number of times I uttered the phrase: "I can only answer questions about the directions, you'll just have to try your best," per my instruction manual.

6 - The number of times that FreakyWeird Kid called me over to tell me that he could "feel his hair on the inside" and that he thought he should go to the nurse.

23 - The number of times I had to redirect my ADHD kid who is allegedly "on meds now" to work on his test. He spent the day driving candy bars around on his desk and staring at close range at his pencil tip.

1 - The number of margaritas I drank after school today.

5 - The number of hours our overtested students have to remain absolutely silent tomorrow while the 5th graders take their test. Riiiiiiiiiiiight...

70 - The percent chance of rain tomorrow which will keep us from taking our kids who sat for 8 hours today outside.

5 - The percent of me that is excited about going to work tomorrow. Yay!

God Luke

I think I need a drink. A big one. And some therapy. The writing test is tomorrow, but you'd think that it was a full moon and the kids each drank a vat of Surge before coming to school today. They burst into the room like a herd of wild monkeys on crack. My theory has always been to go easy on them the day before the test; the last thing you want is a whole mess of kids seeking revenge on their "mean teacher" via their test score. Unfortunately, my kindness theory went right out the window when Stifler skateboarded (yes) into my classroom. Skateboarded. Into the room. On a skateboard. I kindly steered him over to his locker and gently uttered to him that if he ever did that again his tail was toast and smiled kindly as I patted him on the helmet. Hard.
We had planned some fun writing rotations for the kids to help them review and relax at the same time. You'd think. Instead, the change in schedule completely freaked them out. I wrote on the board: Do not switch classes. We will be rotating to all 5 teachers today. You do not need anything but your snack. Have a seat and relax until 8:35. (friendly smiley face)

Kid 1: Is today the test?? [wild look in eye]
Me: Is today Tuesday? The test is Tuesday.
Random Kid: The test is today?! Hey guys! Did you know the test is today?!
Kid 2: Do we need a pencil?
Me: Read the board.
Kid 3: Why aren't we switching?
Me: Read the board.
Kid 4: Do we switch?
Me: Read the board.
FWK:Do you like string cheese?
Me: Sit down.
Kid 5: Can we still have snack?
Me: Read the board.
Lowest writer in class: Mrs. R! Guess what? I'm moving!
Me: [hand flies to throat, heart begins to pound. Could it be? Have I been saved?]
LWiC: ...Saturday.
Me: [of course you are.] And we'll miss you pumpkin. Sigh audibly.

Et cetera. On and on and on until they went to specials. Amen. Then we did the rotations. Mine was a neat little ditty in which we revised a story about riding a rollercoaster and improved its content. Good times, right? Every. Single. Class. Wanted to put vomit in the story. Vomit. Did they glean inspiring tips from the lesson about adding snapshots and visuals and emotions? No. They talked about vomit. Each class thought they were the first to come up with it too. "Hey! Let's make the brother puke when he gets off!" [copious laughter] "Ooh, Mrs. R! What if the kid hurls barf on someone behind him?" [copious laughter] "I got an idea! How about if the kids blows chunks off the side of the rollercoaster?" [copious laughter] Har dee har har. I gave them my most withering You Are Such a Clever Little Monkey Stare until I grew increasingly irritated with each round of puke proposals. Unfortunately for my fifth class of the day, they received the brunt of my fury. [Insert a tone much too sarcastic for school here.] "Do you really think it would be a smart idea to write about puke on the writing test? Do you really? Are you serious? Hmmmm?" I added several witty examples of sentences about vomit for their listening pleasure and asked if that was really appropriate for a test they only had one chance on. No, they decided that was not the brainiest route to take. They cleverly decided fun time was over and finished the story meekly, praising my revision efforts. I made a conscious effort to be nice to them for the rest of the day since my rage really was only 1/5 their fault.
At the end of the day we did one of those feel-good esteem boosting activities that my principal likes to see. It was called A Pat on the Back and it involved the kids writing compliments to one another about their superior writing abilities on papers on each other's backs. Sounds good in theory. Until I noticed that my dyslexic student had written (in large letters) "God luke" on everyone's paper. Sigh. I bet he blows the roof off this test tomorrow! God luke to all of us!

Baying Dervishes.

I think I might be seriously deranged. I complain (lovingly) about Gus all the time. He howls, licks the table, hogs the bed, eats my jewelry and clothing, destroys all paper products, digs in the yard, and kills mice. But he is also the sweetest dog in the whole world. I think you have to love beagles to appreciate one. Not surprisingly, beagles have a high abandonment rate. I can't imagine why. I have recently become obsessed with the Oklahoma Beagle Rescue website. There are so many beagles on there that need a home and it's all I can think about! I want one! But do I? Do I really?
I've read so much about how beagles are happier and better behaved with another dog. When they spend long stretches of time alone [ie- My work day August-May], they may act out with bad behavior. Heh. Ya think?
We tried another dog once, a dachsund/shepherd mix that was touted to us as a dachsund/cocker spaniel mix. Big difference. The vet checked her out and told me how big she was going to be! Gus did not take well to her aggressive habits developed from living around 11 big dogs, I could never wash the doggie smell off of her, and in the process of trying, my eye almost swelled shut from my apparent allergy to her. So, she was placed in a different home. Once with 3 kids and no dogs, which as probably best for her. We dropped the idea after that. However.
You must go look at these sweet beagles who need a home. Most of the ones I've looked at are 2-4 years old and house/crate trained already. I'm in love with Coda, Louie and Lacey. I've been talking it over with Gus. I can't get a clear read on his opinion. He gazes at me adoringly and doesn't look the least bit depressed or anxious as he allegedly should be according to the articles. Then he licks his behind. Is that a sign? But his bad behavior clearly speaks for itself.
I really do love beagles, but I understand why most people don't. There are a lot of people who adopt them as puppies because they are darling and then darling grows up into a baying dervish that destroys their home.
I am extremely aware that Gus is a high, high, high maintenence dog. But what really burns my biscuits is when people who don't have a beagle try to tell me what I'm doing wrong with him. I'm quite aware he has issues. I'll be the first to admit it. But his sweetness and cuddliness and funny personality far outweigh his rotten-ness. I love to spoil him. It makes me happy. And that's why I feel guilty not sharing my ability to love and spoil a dog with one of those poor beagles who needs a home so badly. What do you think?

Stank.

It turns out that I am no longer young and spry. I tried to go out last night. Well, actually we did go out. It's been a long time since I went to bed with my hair smelling like an ashtray. It's been a long time since I wondered if you could still Get Late At the Bell at this particular hour. It's been a long time since I drank beer from a little plastic cup. It's been a really long time since I heard someone use the word "kegerator" in casual conversation. I'm so sleepy today and all I can think about is that I have to go to work tomorrow. And that the writing test is in two days. And that I have to compose a so-so kidesque story so we can practice revising tomorrow and all I can think about it that my pillowcase smells like an ashtray. I gotta go change my sheets or I'm never going to get any work done. That and it's 80 degrees outside and I'm dying to play tennis. Or lay out. Or wash my car. I heart Texas winters.

Here's a Quarter.

I really like to write. It's always been fun to play with words and try to make them sound just right, but now I have a venue in which to do it. I love this blog. It's a little gift to me. When I was in fifth grade, I wrote a modern day version of Little Red Riding Hood which I, the nerd of all fifth grade nerds, titled Little Pink Punky Hood. It got a lot of press, that fairy tale. In my version, Punky had a purple boombox on her shoulder and neon clothing. (mid 80's) She used words like "yo" and "dude" to address the wolf. I suspect she also had mall bangs, but I cannot confirm that. So, ever since that little yarn got quasi-published in a local young author's magazine, I've been hooked. I've always been drawn to newpaper work and any opportunity to write a letter or express myself. Basically, I'm mouthy on paper. I think it all goes back to my mom's child-rearing techniques.

I tend to talk a good bit, but I tend to complain a whole lot more. I love to complain! I love to critique! I love to analyze and argue! I am aware that I have a problem. My mom's sarcastic solution to my many grievances was one sentence long. One sentence that she uttered anytime I started griping about something in her presence. It was very simple. She would roll her eyes and say, "Go write a letter." This was her version of my dad's slogan, "Here's a quarter." (Call someone who cares.) I was clearly raised in an environment which strongly supported my need to write. Where would I be if I hadn't had such strong advocates for my literary development behind me? I'm certain that they had my growth in mind at all times.

So from those moments on, I wrote all the time. I kept diaries (hilarious now) and journals (I still read mine from fifth grade to my class and laugh). I wrote diligently for the Trojan Times newspaper in middle school. (don't laugh, that was our mascot.) I didn't write for the newspaper in high school for obvious reasons: it would have interfered with my ability to take driver's ed in school. I picked it up straight away in college and even became editor of my college newspaper. That was my crowning glory when I got a little 5 X 8 space every week to write whatever I wanted. Loved. It. A couple of English professors courted me to major in English, but I had higher standards than that. I couldn't major in English or work in journalism because, obviously, they hardly made any money. So I became a teacher. The irony. And I majored in psychology, which I loved, but if I didn't get a masters or a PhD, then I was very limited in my career opportunities. So there I was - teaching!

I swore I would never be a teacher. Virtually every woman in my family is a teacher or some semblance of one. I wanted to be different. I tried every major that my college offered. I tried really hard to like math. And German. And biology. As a result, I have a very unique transcript. While dabbling in psychology, I accidentally took a course called Educational Psychology. It involved field work in elementary schools. I sneered. I rolled my eyes. Then I went. And darn if I didn't love it! I was flabbergasted and reluctantly picked me up an elementary education degree to go with my psychology.

So here I am, teaching writing! It all went full circle. I wound up getting paid to do what I love anyway; I write all day and get paid a simply ginormous salary to do it. There's even a TAKS test for me to show how great my kids are at writing. Coming up on Tuesday, that test. Which is the reason I haven't had much to post all week. TGIF. Well, TGIS. I had to get a good night's sleep first. Bygones. The point of this ramble was that I heart my blog. It's some bizarro form of therapy, I think. And it makes me happy. So there. :o)

This gave me a nightmare! Seriously! It was chasing me around in my backyard. I saw it in a catalogue. Does this not freak you out? I can't imagine why the ad says it will become the talk of the neighborhood. Shudder.

A Formal Retraction

After a 12 hour search and rescue, Mike's wedding band has been located. Repeat, the ring has been discovered. I must now go humbly into the backyard and take down all of the markers I posted noting Gus' most recent deposits. We have issued a formal apology to Gus. His good name has been restored in this particular missing jewelry occurence. It has not, however, been restored in any of the prior instances for which we retain proof retrieved from the evidence(s) collected. We also reserve the right to harbor hydrogen peroxide in the cabinet for possible future retrieval purposes. That will be all.

Big Changes

I sat through a Very Important Meeting today on how to administer The Test. We have to learn about the Big Changes from the year before. Big Changes include things like this: Last year the manual read: When finished with test, students may quietly read a book. This year it says: When finished, students may quietly read a book or rest. So you can see that there was clearly a need to assemble the staff for an hour after school to review policy. Other items on the agenda included "Do not give students answers on the test" and "Do not read test to student." It was an hour well-spent.

Alert.

Mike's wedding band is missing. Gus has been placed under suspicion and we are on high alert. His track record with my earrings made him an immediate suspect.

So, what did your dog do today? Mine was interrupted from eating a roll of TP, panicked, and tried to abandon the evidence. Said evidence has since absorbed all the water in the bowl. Now what do I do?

Asparagus Salsa Dance

We must be the anti-Valentine or something. We made the effort this year, we really did. We BOTH remembered to buy a card. We both got a gift. (I got a new watch battery, and Mike is going to pick himself out some basketball shoes with the credit I have at Kohl's. Clearly, these are very thoughtful and romantic gifts.)
I checked the mail and my dad had sent me a CD full of Shag Music! Well, that and one random ZZ Top song that I can't explain. We got him a CD burner for Christmas and he's a man possessed. Over our Valentine's dinner, we decided dad's DJ name was DJ Honky Ed and the Phat Tunes. But I digress. The point was that we played music during dinner instead of yelling at the dog. Again, clearly romance.
So, me in my ARMY t-shirt, jeans, and knee highs leftover from my work day, Mike in his gym clothes, we started a fine meal. And a fine meal it was. I had planned our favorites: grilled salmon, asparagus, and baked sweet potatoes. YUM. The salmon was even on sale! What luck! Turns out it was the semi-fresh/suspiciously orangy/contains bones variety. That explained the sale. So we made it more of a veggie dinner. That's how I wound up eating a bowl of popcorn. But! With a glass of grocery store white zinfandel. Eh?? Pretty schmancy, huh? No milk for me tonight - I had old wine! With bits of cork floating in it for texture! Elegant.
During our meal, Mike told me about the Valentine's Fish Fry at the firehouse his parents were attending back home. "Ooh la la!" I said, waving a piece of asparagus around on the end of my fork. "They're doing more than we are for the holiday!" he pointed out. I nodded in agreement as we gazed at Gus the Beagle, bug-eyed with desperate longing as he lapped with his tongue at the bits of fish dangling from the grill fish basket on the table. A passionate, even tender, moment in our home.
My ealier bout with the asparagus then inspired Mike to inexplicably place a piece of limp asparagus between his teeth and begin some form of Latin dance around the kitchen as though asparagus were somehow...a rose? I'm not sure where he was going with that. I was unsure about the origins of his dance plan, but the climax came when the end of the asparagus toppled from his mouth to Gus' delight.
"DOhhhh!" we chorused at this athletic save by Gus. A near miss for us. Asparagus gas in a dog is never fun. Should add some entertainment to the evening, I'm thinking.
After we made some bets on how far Gus could flick salmon bits with his tongue, we called it a night. Good times. Good refined times. We're middle class folk living as straight up white trash behind closed doors. Real nice. (-Cousin Eddie)

"Happy Thanksgiving, Mrs.!"

"Oh! I mean, I mean, you know!! What is it....Valentine's. Happy Valen- nevermind. Whatever." My dejected student walked away, unsure what exactly he was celebrating today. What we were celebrating wasn't all that important anyway. What was really important were two things:
1. "What time are we going to stop class for the party?" and
2. "Mrs.!! Will you puh-LEASE tell all the boys that just because my Valentine's are mushy doesn't mean I LIKE them??" A few minutes later..."Except for William?"
As my little pumpkins entered my lair this morning, I received a variety of greetings.
8:20 "Happy Thanksgiving, Mrs.!"
8:21 "Hey! Mrs.! Look at my hair! My mom made me cut it! My mom married my stepdad on Saturday! He got out of jail! My hair looks stupid, doesn't it?"
8:22 [Cough, hack, wheeze] "Mrs.? I have the flu. But I don't want to miss the party, so my mom said I could come to school just for today. I won't be here tomorrow. I'm not supposed to sit near anybody. Is that okay?" (Uh, huh...riiiight. But you'll be here for the writing test with bells on, I bet.)
8:23 "Here's some candy for you! Guess what? There was another package of candy at the store that only had 4 pieces in it and it costed four dollars! That one was only three and look how much is in it!"
We managed to suffer through a semi-normal day of school until we reached the pivotal time - 2:15. The room mommies appeared and took over with games, crafts, food, and fun. I hid near the back and tried not to get any on me.
One of the games that she brought was for the kids to see how many words they could make using only the letters from Valentine's Day. Seems simple, right? It would be simple in a district that taught spelling. Some hotly debated entries in the contest were: nite, val, tave, and til. Another student thought he had won with his lengthy list of words such as: Friday, party, and candy. He missed the boat on that one, but wanted to deliberate with me at length about his eligibility.
Me: "See? Friday only uses 4 letters from Valentine's Day. They have to all come from there." I counted them with my finger for him.
He stared.
Me: "Do you see how F and R aren't in there? You can't just stick them in there."
He pondered some more.
Me: "Do you understand?"
Him: "I didn't write that. This fat part on my hand?" He gestured. "It's sore."
Me: "Umkay. Well, do you want to go try the game again?"
Him: "I think my hand wrote the F and the R without me knowing it."
Me: "Well, you know, sometimes that happens. Do you and your hand want to go try the game again?"
Et cetera.
Have I told you about my kid who looks just like Stifler from American Pie? Well. He brought me a gift I've never received before. He trooped into my room beladen with goods, and he extended his arms. His arms which were covered in beads. Colored beads. Colored Mardi Gras beads. He had a Stifler-esque twinkle in his eyes. "Want some beads, Mrs. R?" Twinkle was joined by knowing grin. Knowing grin he clearly gained from his older brothers on their trip to New Orleans last week. My mouth dropped involuntarily. "Heh, heh..." I chuckled awkwardly, trying to act like I didn't know what he was getting at. Was I being sexually harrassed by a ten year old? "Nothing says Happy Valentine's quite like Mardi Gras, does it?" I grasped for words in vain. I put on some pearl colored ones and moved away. Quickly.
We proceeded to enjoy our sugar free holiday fiesta, complete with vegetable tray, cheese and crackers, and everyone's favorite treat, beef jerky. Soon, the kids began to open their mushy-but-I-don't-like-you-but-I-really-do Valentine's cards, which now aren't "the good ones" unless they come wrapped around candy. The sugar to hormone ratio remained constant as both rose rapidly.
Next, came my favorite part. we decorated our Craft. If you don't know how I feel about crafts, well, I can't talk about it. I abhor crafts. Especially ones with jiggly eyes. Today's Craft had something even worse than jiggly eyes: my nemesis, glitter. I will be picking up red glitter for the remainder of the school year. The person who invented glitter has clearly never spent time around kids. The parent who brings glitter into my classroom must have a maid at home. There is now red glitter glued to my desktops, affixed to the chairs, and mingled in the blue astroturf carpeting. My student who believes herself to be a cat sprinkled it into her red hair as an "experiment." Then she purred and nuzzled my arm.
This has been most therapeutic to write about it. I must go finish preparing dinner that Mike has so thoughtfully started. He is baffled as to why I must have this 30 minutes of downtime in which I rehash my day. I can't explain it. Or maybe I just did.

My Valentine's Haul from my class. Including a frisbee, a Harry Potter journal, and a cup full of Mardi Gras beads. Of course.

Sugar Free Fun.

Valentine's Day is tomorrow. Ugh. Think nice thoughts about me from 2:30-3:30 CST. Thanks. A children's Valentine's party should be interesting in a district that does not allow sugar. I'll let you know how that goes. There's so many hormones flying in my classroom, I doubt they'll notice the lack of sugar.

Nyah, nyah!

My sister started this, but Mike and I figured it out, can you?

http://www.dslextreme.com/users/exstatica/psychic.swf

Brain Poisoning and Kidnapping.

"Mrs. R? When I push a pencil point into my head? Like this? I can feel pressure." [creepy spacy grin, pencil poked into forehead.]
"Okay, don't do that sweetie, you might pop your brain."
"Oh, okay. Mrs. R? If you kidnapped me, my parents would sue you." [creepy grin + mouth hanging open waiting for my reaction to this new!, critical, riveting news]
"Okay, I'll try not to then. Can you explain to me which of our strategies you used on this homework assignment on which you earned a 17%?"
(Blank stare. Clearly does not recognize assignment. Lead damage has possibly already reached brain.]
"Did you do this assignment? Is this your name?" I jabbed my finger aggressively at his name clearly written at top of paper.
(Studies signature closely. Confirms that it is, in fact, his name. Progress. He can recognize his name.)
"I don't have a green pen though." Forget the learning opportunity. Brainchild has no green pen. Heavens. Beam me up.
"Honey, take the pencil out of your forehead and use that one." [A flicker of recognition in his eyes! Pencil? Do work? Are we....are we...close? I crossed my fingers and held my breath. Come on! Have I connected?] I stared intently, hoping for a breakthrough. My eyes searched his hopefully.
"Hey...Mrs. R? When I push a pencil point into my head? Like this? I can feel the pressure." [Creepy grin]
Guess which kid this was today? He has fine moments almost every day...

Ants in My Pants. For real.

You know, sometimes things happen to me at school that I just know no one is going to believe. I can't say I blame them. If these things didn't happen to me, I wouldn't believe me either. Remember Bubbles? Anyone who read that post is probably still in disbelief. If you haven't read it, please do before you read below. Well, same kid, same teaching moment, different day. Sigh...

Having a teacher conference over a piece of a child's writing, I was interrupted again today:

Me: (to conferencee) I like the way you used dialogue in this-

A curly-headed shadow falls over my table. I look up. Bubbles is staring at me intently, as though trying to commune with me.

Me: Yeeeesss? [irritated at disruption]

Bubbles: Mrs. R? (No, I'm not her today. She's out. Why must children waste precious seconds asking my name?)

Me: Um hmmm?

Bubbles: I itch.

Me: Say you do, huh? [Corners of my mouth are twitching. I struggle to regain control.]

Bubbles: I feel like there's ants crawling in my butt.

Me: [massive fake choking coughing fit as laughter seeks to explode forth.]

Bubbles: I think I feel them moving, like...you know. You know? [No, sorry. I really don't.]

Me: What do you suggest you do to correct this problem?

Bubbles: Shrugs. Squirms. Makes direct eye contact. [Ants! She said ants!]

Me: I think you should go take care of your, um, little situation. Don't you?

Bubbles: Where? I had ants in my shirt today. [What are the odds of that?] Now I think they're in my (looks around to make sure no one is listening) panties! [Looks at me aghast, as though I should grant her an immediate ant-free panty environment with a swish of my magic hiney stick.]

Me: [snicker] Somewhere private, I'm thinking?

Bubbles: Like the bathroom or the nurse? [scratches deftly]

Me: Look kid, you're a freak. I refuse to fill out a form for the nurse who already thinks I send too many kids who have high fevers during flu season. I'm not writing "Bubbles believes her anus to be laden with ants" on a health form. Go deal and leave me alone.

Me, really: I'm thinking the bathroom should suffice.

Bubbles: Okay! Thank you, Mrs. R! I love you! [Lunges at me with rapid-fire speed and wraps arms around my neck.]

Me: Go! Go! The ants! [Unwrap myself from her dramatic embrace. Grab for hand sanitizer.]

She scampers off. The end.

Huh??? Ants? Are you kidding me? Does this child have any form of hygiene in her backyard? Disgust.

Shudder

So....I had this dream last night. I was teaching a writing lesson about using figurative language in one's writing when I was abruptly stricken with a gut-wrenching pain in my pinky finger. My pinky! It really ruined my dream lesson, which was going remarkably well. In my dream I tried every possible remedy to lessen the pain. I ran it under water, I got an ice pack, even a Band-Aid. Nothing. It was pure unadulterated agony.
As I was walking up to the nurse's office in my dream, I finally began to wake up...to an intense pain in my pinky. Groggy and confused, it took me a while to comprehend what was going on. I felt around my pinky and realized that my long fingernail was bent completely backwards! Oh the excruiating pain! A shiver just went down my spine as I'm writing about it. I grabbed it and pushed it back into the correct position, holding it with firm pressure as I dozed back to sleep. During my morning session with the snooze button, I reached to pull my covers up and HEAVENLY HORRORS it happened again! What a way to wake up! I squealed like a pig and darted to the sink to nurse my wounded finger. A closer look revealed that it was bent halfway down the pink part ("the quick," my mother calls it) and bleeding profusely.
The purpose of this post is not to disgust you. My question is: What are the odds? Why do I never receive a normal injury? Not that I'm asking for injury, but good grief! How on earth does that happen? Upon closer examination, I also found a purple bruise on the knuckle of the same finger. I have always been an active sleeper, but gracious. I need a straitjacket.

I Know I'm Not a Parent, But...

I have picked up a thing or two at school just today. If you are a parent, these are a few friendly suggestions from the teacher:

1. Don't, under any circumstances, shave your ten year old's hair into a mohawk and send them to school. This might seem funny while you're giving them the buzz cut at home, but there is really no logical reason to leave it that way.

2. Don't act all confused and surprised when the assistant principal calls you during the day and tells you to come pick up your son and his mohawk and return him with a dress code appropriate hair cut. Seriously. Not rocket science.

3.You have already passed fourth grade. I believe you. There is no need to show me how well you can do a book report. I am more interested in what your child can do. Thanks.

4. Stop lying. I remember when you told me in the fall conference that you don't believe in medication and would never take your child to a specialist. Don't tell me today that you did take him last year and that the specialist said your child didn't have anything wrong with him. You're lying. I write things down.

5. It is okay for your child to have faults. They are not perfect. I spend more time with them than you do, and I know they're not perfect. Stop trying to tell me that they are misunderstood. It is you who misunderstands your child. Try spending some time with them. It works.

6. Coming to school with your child every Monday and writing down their homework in your dayplanner is not helping them become independent. Your child is going to get to middle school and fry like an egg. You'll see.

7. NO. I will not teach you over the phone what I taught the kids in class. Your kid needs to listen. And you need to get a life.

8. Calling the principal when you think your child has been wronged is not going to help you. She is just going to come tell me what you said and then I will resent your child. This suggestion also applies to last year's teacher. Don't do it. We all talk and we are on the same side. If you have a problem, come to me.

9. Please don't tell me that you aren't asking for special privileges and then in the same breath ask me to do something just for your child that I don't do for others. That falls under the category of special privileges. That's how that works.

10. Just because one of your children was diagnosed with ADHD doesn't mean the rest of them have it. We are not going to help you put all of your children on Ritalin just because you can't teach them to behave. Discipline: look into it. It's crazy stuff.

Thank you and have a pleasant evening.

Notice of Eviction

Dear Cold,
I have just awakened from my fourth nap in as many days. It took place in front of a roaring fire with me swathed in a heavy fleece blanket. You should be aware that it is 62 degrees and sunny outside. This behavior which you are forcing me to exhibit is inappropriate.
A doctor told me once that a cold should last nine days. Three days coming, three days of cold, and three days going. Today is Day Nine. This letter serves as your official eviction notice. I have fought you with Vitamin C, liquids of many varieties, copious amounts of Sudafed and NyQuil, and a preposterous amount of sleep. In the last four days, I have napped for a total of 8 hours. That is sufficiently adequate. I have a life to which I need to return.
I wish for our separation to be fair and peaceful. I request that you leave me the remainder of my voice, my appetite, and my energy. You may have the phlegm, the weight I lost, and the aches. We will share custody of the memories of teaching with no voice for four days. We can part amicably with no hard feelings if you allow me a pleasant week.
Thank you, Cold. It's been real.
Cordially,
Ginny, your host.

Scholastic Book Orders and School Supplies

The real reasons I became a teacher. LOVE them.

Some Things and Stuff

First, my big news. The announcement everyone has been on the edge of their seats waiting for(drumroll)...I, at last, have a productive cough! After a night propped up on the couch, again doped up on NyQuil, we have lift off! I am at last on the road to better health. Amen. Sorry I've been dwelling on my mucal state so much lately, but it's seriously all I can think about. It's debilitating.
So moving on! Valentine's Day approacheth. I'm really not much into the holiday. When I think of Valentine's Day, I think of the inevitable stack of heart-shaped Russell Stover candy boxes that will multiply on my desk, which I don't eat. I wonder how severe my migraine will be this year after the class party. And I wonder how much money some people spend on the event.
I don't even like going out to dinner the weekend near Valentine's Day. It's crowded and overpriced and both things make me cranky. I don't like getting flowers because I know how much money they cost and then I get sad when they die. So there I am: the Valentine's Scrooge. Give me a beer and a pizza and I'll be happy.
Next topic: yesterday's recess, a quick tale. The latest fad at school is BYOB: Bring your own basketball. When the kids line up, they bounce them incessantly right outside of classroom windows where people are trying to teach. Being the weak of voice, I nudged my teammate and said, "Make them cut it out." She took the job very seriously and bellowed, "FOURTH GRADERS! HOLD YOUR BALLS!" and then turned to look at me in horror. "Did you make me say that on purpose?" she gasped, trying to keep a straight face in front of our lines, now rollicking with laughter. Hee.
So the Super Bowl is tomorrow. I guess. The only reason I know the teams playing is because Ellen was talking about it on her show yesterday. My bigger concern is what dessert I should cook for the party we're attending. I don't really like to just make brownies because I feel that if my job is dessert, I should make some effort. Or maybe some sort of novelty brownies. I think that if you make the brownies special, say cream cheese or peanut butter or mint, that gives them a little something extra that excuses them from being just brownies. What really bugs me is when people volunteer for dessert and then bring a cake from Kroger! That is just pure-T laziness.
That's all I have to say about that.

Good Times

You know when your day just starts off kind of hairy and you KNOW it's going to be one of those days? Yeah. Well....yeah.
Mike overslept, which meant that I had to get up first because I had stupid carpool duty at 8am and had to be at school on time. That meant that there was no one to turn on the space heater for me in the sub-Arctic freezing cold bathroom. (I'm not a little spoiled or anything) As I turned on the shower to attempt to heat up the room, I sniffed experimentally to take status on my cold. Nothing. I sniffed again, harder this time. Argh! My hands flew to my throat. I was suffocating! No air in! No air out! Open mouth. Oh. I was okay. Glance behind me to make sure Mike didn't witness my attack. All clear.
I looked down. There was a worm on the bathroom floor. A worm. A brown, curled up worm. I briefly pondered the worm [How did he get there? Where was his family? Was he as cold as I?], and then forced myself to decide that my problems were bigger than his. Evidently, I was still operating under Heavy Phlegm Conditions and full steam remedies were crucial. I moved away from the worm and into the warm shower.
Unfortunately, the soap was down to those sad little slivers of white film masquerading as soap and I got no suds action. I didn't put my contacts in before I got in the shower and accidentally used conditioner instead of shampoo and thereby conditioned my hair twice, with no actual washing. I didn't realize this until I had dried my Fresh 'n Greasy hair, and by then it was too late to do anything about it. Solution? Ponytail day.
I had already decided that since I was feeling poopy I was going to wear overalls, despite the very specific fashion warning delivered to me recently by my tennis partner about her revulsion that I a) still owned overalls and b) would occasionally wear them to school. I was then lectured politely, but firmly on the evils of wearing overalls in public ten years after they were in style. (gasp!) [Fashion editor's note: Her words echoed in my mind during my entire makeup application and I actually changed before leaving the house.] While applying my makeup, I discovered that I had an eager Chapstick zit developing beside my mouth. These particular blemishes always manage to look like some rampant form of herpes by the end of a school day when my makeup has inexplicably fallen off my face. Goody.
Already jazzed about my day, I jumped into the car and headed off to school, relieved of my near fashion faux pas. While I was driving down the road, my tolltag apparently questioned its will to live and plummeted unexpectedly from my windshield, striking my windshield wiper lever on its way down to my feet, where it landed precariously near the gas pedal. I reached down and patted blindly on the floor, trying to find the fugitive tolltag all while attempting to keep my car on the road. My windshield wipers swept back and forth at warp speed and my car swerved about on the road. As it was not raining, other motorists were alarmed by the erratic behaviors of my vehicle and pulled up beside me to stare at the next stoplight. I smiled back and checked the status of my Chapstick Zit in the mirror. I then cleverly cleaned my windshield to show them that I had fully intended the wipers to run on a sunny day. Heh. Amateurs.
When I arrived at school, I began to gather my throng of provisions necessary for a day at school only to find that the contents of my gallon thermos had somehow leaked all over my passenger seat. Unfortunately, I had carpool duty five minutes ago. I made a feeble attempt to blot the water up, grabbed my thermos of ice and headed for class.
While I walked the kids in, I greeted them cheerfully. "Good morning! How are you?" Ooh! I had a new deep sultry voice going on! A fresh development in my cold. My response? A breathless, "Do you have your voice back yet?" I paused and considered my many response options. No. I don't. I'm actually taking up some ventriloquism in my spare time and I just threw my voice to test it out. "Yes!" I cooed instead enthusiastically testing out my new voice, and my reply was met with cheers. My voice has been the hot topic of the fourth grade for several days now. There are pools betting when I would talk again, wagers about who would get the highly coveted job to read aloud in my place, and numerous remedies supplied by my kids and emailed by their parents. It's really been a community event.
The rest of my day took off from there and really turned itself around. I came home at the end of a long Friday to be greeted by my loving tail-wagging beagle and the remains of my inhaler strewn about the living room. Yay for the weekend!

NyQuil Stupor

Headed for bed last night around 10 loaded up on NyQuil, book in hand, dog in tow. Had a cozy fleece blanket, my churgling humidifier, and a pleasant cough syrup buzz. Snuggled down into the bed, electric blanket on 5, Gus curled up at my side. It wasn't long before I drifted into a cough-free dreamland. A world where I had a voice and there were no children. A land of reading good books by the ocean while sipping a pina colada....
Hulrp...hurlp...hurlp...my peaceful dream by the seaside suddenly found me panicked. I leaped from my beach chair and my eyes searched the terrain...what was that noise? Hurlp...hurlp...it sounded dangerous! I dashed toward the mainlaid when...I fell. Hard. On my knees, wrapped in fleece, face planted directly on the humidifier. The beach scene had disappeared, my pina colada was gone, I was hopelessly tangled in a heap of blankets on the floor of my bedroom. I sighed and began to pick myself up. Being high on NyQuil and blind as a bat, I lacked some of the most basic motor skills. Hurlp...hurlp...hurlp...that noise! I blindly patted and groped toward the nightstand until I found my glasses, then turned on the lamp. Hurlp...hurlp...the sight and sound of a beagle about to vomit came into view. Quite loopy myself, I grabbed at Gus and tossed him off the bed. "Outside! Outside!" I croaked in my squeaky man-voice that I have finally partially regained. I untangled my feet and fumbled with the door. Turn. Knob. Turn. It. There was something wrong with my hand. There! We were out.
I hurriedly ushered Gus out the backdoor and stood shivering in the 37 degree air and watched him eat grass. He ate grass and more grass and he and ate and ate. Was he a goat? Did he think this was a leisurely spin in the yard? It was 1:00 am! I went into the den to sit down in the recliner. Just for a sec....I was relaxed and...out.
ARRRHOOOO! ARRRRHOOOO! I grabbed the arms of my chair and jolted awake to Gus' 1:13am howls, which I'm fairly certain made my neighbors even more fond of us, and I staggered to the door. Cold rush of air, enter Gus, and hello! We have vomit. A little pile of black vomit topped with grass right at my feet. Thanks, Gus. I stared at it, transfixed. I could not remember what we did in this situation. Hmmm. Gus wagged his tail happily against the tile and looked up at me adoringly. He strolled to his bowl and got himself a leisurely drink of water. Then he trotted back to my bed and nuzzled himself down under the blankets. And still I stared at the vomit. It is incredibly difficult to create coherent thoughts in the midst of a NyQuil stupor. I wondered why it was black. I thought of all the black things I could. Tar was black. We don't have any of that. My shoes were black. He can't eat a whole shoe. Can he? I wonder if maybe he could...Ash! Ash was definitely black. He had gotten into the volcanic ash from our fake logs in the fireplace. Again. I gave myself a mental pat on the back for my clever sleuthing. I grinned stupidly. What was I doing? Oh, right. Papertowels. I felt like I was fighting through a thick shield as I clambored around the kitchen.
I thought back to those suspicious crunching noises I heard earlier, as I managed to get the mess cleaned up. Beast of a dog. I fell heavily back into bed. I was immediately unconscious again. Gus managed to sleep through the rest of the night until my alarm went off. I took my shower and came back to the bedroom to find Gus eating the last of my used Kleenexes that I had carelessly tossed onto my nightstand the night before. He seemed to be grinning at me as he tossed his head around, chomping the last of my tissues for breakfast. I gazed at him scornfully, my eyes still half-closed, and tried to think good, positive thoughts about him. He's loyal. He's got a great personality. He's warm. He's cute to look at. He's a living vacuum.
I sighed and picked up the scraps of tissue he mistakenly left behind as he darted in and out between my hands, trying to get last tastes of his precious contraband. As I began my day, I wondered if NyQuil will ever manufacture a nighttime, sniffling, sneezing, coughing, aching, stuffy head, fever, sleep through my beagle so I can have a good day medicine? I'd take that every night!

Wigwag

Turns out I remain mute. Mute with another school day under my belt. In case you are wondering why I didn't stay home, a Mute Me at school is infinitely better than an able-voiced sub in my classroom. I would've had to write sub plans that no one would've followed anyway, so it's easier just to go. See more detailed explanation for sub avoidance over at hipteacher's blog.
It turns out that having a teacher who can't talk isn't nearly as fun the second day as the first. All of my instructions were written on the board. "We have to read them?" whined one little darling. Other times I would whisper-shout across the room. "Huh?" "Huh?" "What?" came the responses, drowning out my pathetic attempts at teaching. So forget that. I made them teach.
I put our test warm up on the projector and kicked back in my chair and pointed. Gesticulated. Wigwagged. Signaled. You name it, I tried it.
"I feel like we're playing Charades! This is fun, but you're not very good at it," was my lovingly delivered morning feedback which came with a hug, but by afternoon I had a kid in tears. More on that later.
For the time being, I kicked back in my director's chair and watched proudly as my little stinkers one by one trooped to the projector and taught a review question. The TAKS is 3 weeks from tomorrow, so we can't be wasting review time, now can we? They told me that they preferred the lesson when I taught it. "Why?" I whispered. Turns out that it's frustrating to them when no one participates or people give stupid answers. Huh. Who knew? I feigned surprise. Heh.
You'd think a day with no voice would be complicated enough, but let's factor in today's forecast. This morning, the newcasters jinxed my day o' silence with this vague prediction: "There's a slight chance we might see some mixed precipitation, possibly some snowflakes tonight. The temperature should be around 37 degrees." No big deal. I heard it too while I got ready this morning. You know what the kids heard? "IT'S GONNA SNOW! THERE'S NO SCHOOL TOMORROW!!!" For real. It was the first thing each and every child told me upon entering the room.
Student: "It's gonna snow!" Student stared at me with face-eating grin until I acknowledged them.
Me: "I heard that."
Student: "What's wrong with your voice?" More staring.
Me: "It's broken."
Student: "How are you gonna play in the snow?" Confusion. Wave student to locker.
Next student: "Hey! Mrs. R! It's gonna snow!"
Me: "That's the rumor."
Student: "Huh?"
Me: "That's what I hear."
Student: "I can't hear you." Point to board, wave student away.
Student: "Hey, maybe you'll get better on the snow day tomorrow." Ummmkay.
So, by the end of the day we had 19 unconfirmed snow sightings out the window (0), 13 instances of me whistling at kids with my whistle that means "come" to Gus the Beagle, 5 opportunities taken for some cursory germ breathing on select kids, and one case of genuine tears.
I was attempting to yell at one young man for being a general turd for my partner, his dyslexia teacher, and finally, me. This "yelling" involved a lot of hissing, pointing, and gesturing toward his checkbook, which is now flat out of money, due to his brilliant behavior over the last month. Said young man realized he didn't have enough money to attend our Super!Fun bribery event in March. He also admitted to being a turd, stealing from a locker, cheating on an assignment, writing on a bathroom wall and not doing his homework before finally breaking down into tears in front of his peers and crying, "I can't understand what you're saying! I can't hear you! I can't think of anything else I did, just tell me!" as he beat a fist onto a desk. Note to self: feign muteness when trying to get children to confess in future. Good tactic.
I'm off to bed after my fun day with my Robitussin, my Diet Cherry 7-Up, and my upcoming NyQuil stupor. Yay!