If you are wondering why there haven't been any posts lately, the answer is that we have moved to a new and improved blog.
I just wanted to start over. That's it.
Anyway, if you want the address, please email me at erinmmcintyre@hotmail.com.
I'll keep this blog for posterity and so I can re-read the mouse posting over and over. Hah.
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
Sunday, May 18, 2008
I'm still alive ...
... barely.
Seriously, I am exhausted. Just even taking a minute to update with this short message is a big deal, peeps.
I've survived this year and this is my last week of school. I'm in the midst of packing up my room to move to a portable classroom outside the building, as well as wrapping up the year for the kids and doing report cards.
No one told me there was this much paperwork in teaching. Every time I turn around, there's another stupid form to fill out exactly like the last one. Ugh.
So that's what's going on. I'm so tired of going to school at 7 a.m. and not coming home until 7 p.m. but there's only this week to get through.
After that, you'll be getting a REAL update from me, k?
Seriously, I am exhausted. Just even taking a minute to update with this short message is a big deal, peeps.
I've survived this year and this is my last week of school. I'm in the midst of packing up my room to move to a portable classroom outside the building, as well as wrapping up the year for the kids and doing report cards.
No one told me there was this much paperwork in teaching. Every time I turn around, there's another stupid form to fill out exactly like the last one. Ugh.
So that's what's going on. I'm so tired of going to school at 7 a.m. and not coming home until 7 p.m. but there's only this week to get through.
After that, you'll be getting a REAL update from me, k?
Monday, March 17, 2008
Dazed and Confused
I think our neighbor is getting our dog stoned while we're at work.
How's that for an introduction?
Well, let me put it this way. I came home and Maxwell was super mellow, smelled like something moldy-ish that normally is semi-hidden by patchouli, and he was REALLY hungry.
And Mike and I have both smelled the wafting scents coming from the neighbor's garage for the past few years.
At first we thought it was the son partying ... but after a few bloodshot-eyed encounters with the neighbor, we're 99.99% sure it's the 50-something neighbor.
Max plays in this neighbor's yard a lot while we're at work... and maybe he got hotboxed in the garage. That's the only explanation I can come up with. Unless he made some hoodlum friends and is being pressured or something. I'm keeping watch for a secret doggy drum circle.
All I know is, our dog's got the munchies and smells like Triple Pl@y records downtown. If he tie-dyes his collar and starts living in a van down by the river, I'm drawing the line.
How's that for an introduction?
Well, let me put it this way. I came home and Maxwell was super mellow, smelled like something moldy-ish that normally is semi-hidden by patchouli, and he was REALLY hungry.
And Mike and I have both smelled the wafting scents coming from the neighbor's garage for the past few years.
At first we thought it was the son partying ... but after a few bloodshot-eyed encounters with the neighbor, we're 99.99% sure it's the 50-something neighbor.
Max plays in this neighbor's yard a lot while we're at work... and maybe he got hotboxed in the garage. That's the only explanation I can come up with. Unless he made some hoodlum friends and is being pressured or something. I'm keeping watch for a secret doggy drum circle.
All I know is, our dog's got the munchies and smells like Triple Pl@y records downtown. If he tie-dyes his collar and starts living in a van down by the river, I'm drawing the line.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Totally drained
That's how I feel today.
Survived the funeral. There were full military honors and bagpipes. I don't know what it is about old guys in military uniforms, but they make me think of my grandpa and it makes me bawl.
And about the bagpipes ... I actually like bagpipes, but I've come to associate them with funerals so much that whenever I hear them, I start getting a knot in my chest that makes it hard to swallow.
There's something very raw about the sound of bagpipes, the droning and the whining. And that breath of air that it takes to get them started before the notes start to sound right. It seems appropriate for a funeral, because it sounds like the last rasping breath a person might take as they die.
It was the most genuine funeral I have ever attended. And I was very proud to sit with the family.
I was cleaning out my email inbox today after the funeral and found an email from Brian from last May. It made me cry again. But for once I'm glad that I have, like, 12 pages of old emails I haven't trashed. I'll share the most important part of the email, because I think that all of us need to realize this.
"I am thinking about things that I should think of more often. About people I love and mean the world to me. There are some things in this world that I do very well... and some that I do not. A number of people once were here, and now they are not. And I never told them how I felt about them."
Well, for the record, I'm thinking about this today, too. And I wish that we could all attend our own funerals, like Tom Sawyer. I hope Brian knows how much everyone cared about him and could hear what we all said and thought today.
Survived the funeral. There were full military honors and bagpipes. I don't know what it is about old guys in military uniforms, but they make me think of my grandpa and it makes me bawl.
And about the bagpipes ... I actually like bagpipes, but I've come to associate them with funerals so much that whenever I hear them, I start getting a knot in my chest that makes it hard to swallow.
There's something very raw about the sound of bagpipes, the droning and the whining. And that breath of air that it takes to get them started before the notes start to sound right. It seems appropriate for a funeral, because it sounds like the last rasping breath a person might take as they die.
It was the most genuine funeral I have ever attended. And I was very proud to sit with the family.
I was cleaning out my email inbox today after the funeral and found an email from Brian from last May. It made me cry again. But for once I'm glad that I have, like, 12 pages of old emails I haven't trashed. I'll share the most important part of the email, because I think that all of us need to realize this.
"I am thinking about things that I should think of more often. About people I love and mean the world to me. There are some things in this world that I do very well... and some that I do not. A number of people once were here, and now they are not. And I never told them how I felt about them."
Well, for the record, I'm thinking about this today, too. And I wish that we could all attend our own funerals, like Tom Sawyer. I hope Brian knows how much everyone cared about him and could hear what we all said and thought today.
Thursday, March 06, 2008
Why?
I've struggled with posting about this for a long time. Now seems a fitting time, since it's all over.
I have to come up with something to say at my friend's funeral next week.
Yes, my friend died. I think it's the first time I've had someone close to me die who was not a relative.
He was only 44. And I knew this was coming. It was inevitable, with the events of the past two years.
He wasn't himself anymore. As time passed, less and less of the person I loved could surface for a conversation, for a glimpse of the person I became friends with. I knew he was in there, drowning. But it was like he was laying face-down in standing water and he wouldn't even get up to breathe, no matter what the people around him tried to do to help.
I'm trying to think of the good times, the hilarious stories that left my stomach aching and tears streaming from my eyes. I'm trying to remember the way he always had a tidbit of trivia about presidents and Gilligan's Island to share.
And those memories surface like bizarre pieces of a shipwreck floating in the midst of a sea of anger and confusion.
I have to come up with something to say at my friend's funeral next week.
Yes, my friend died. I think it's the first time I've had someone close to me die who was not a relative.
He was only 44. And I knew this was coming. It was inevitable, with the events of the past two years.
He wasn't himself anymore. As time passed, less and less of the person I loved could surface for a conversation, for a glimpse of the person I became friends with. I knew he was in there, drowning. But it was like he was laying face-down in standing water and he wouldn't even get up to breathe, no matter what the people around him tried to do to help.
I'm trying to think of the good times, the hilarious stories that left my stomach aching and tears streaming from my eyes. I'm trying to remember the way he always had a tidbit of trivia about presidents and Gilligan's Island to share.
And those memories surface like bizarre pieces of a shipwreck floating in the midst of a sea of anger and confusion.
Saturday, March 01, 2008
On the road again
I finally have a chance to post a blog from the road!
We're in Denver ... Mikey won two awards and we're here to pick them up.
Every time we're here, I wonder if someday we will make the jump and actually move to a "cit-y" (I'm saying it like Jon Reep here).
Then I think about how GJ is growing and how maybe the cit-y is coming to us, whether we like it or not.
This makes me think of reasons why I would not enjoy living in a congested asphalt jungle. Here are a few off the top of my head:
1. Steam coming from underground. Haven't you ever wondered what the heck all that weird steam is coming from under the manhole covers? I believe it is quite hazardous to my health.
2. Crazy African taxi drivers. 'Nuf said.
3. I can't see the ground. I never think about dirt, but in the cit-y it is located fathoms below the sidewalks and grates and parking meters. This is somewhat disturbing to me for unknown reasons.
4. I can't seem to catch a whiff of anything besides exhaust, exhaled cigarette smoke, fry grease or old-man stench. This is a problem.
Reasons to live in the cit-y
1. Don't have to plan extra 30 minutes to go to grocery store because I run into everyone I know AND their extended family
2. Can shop for lots of things. In person. As in, not online. Instant gratification = good
3. Lots of cultural events that don't involve monster trucks or roping four-legged creatures.
4. Convenient airport that doesn't suck.
5. Wh0le F00ds. Need I say more?
6. When people talk about the "gay bar" in town, it could be more than one place, unlike GJ.
Hmmm......
We're in Denver ... Mikey won two awards and we're here to pick them up.
Every time we're here, I wonder if someday we will make the jump and actually move to a "cit-y" (I'm saying it like Jon Reep here).
Then I think about how GJ is growing and how maybe the cit-y is coming to us, whether we like it or not.
This makes me think of reasons why I would not enjoy living in a congested asphalt jungle. Here are a few off the top of my head:
1. Steam coming from underground. Haven't you ever wondered what the heck all that weird steam is coming from under the manhole covers? I believe it is quite hazardous to my health.
2. Crazy African taxi drivers. 'Nuf said.
3. I can't see the ground. I never think about dirt, but in the cit-y it is located fathoms below the sidewalks and grates and parking meters. This is somewhat disturbing to me for unknown reasons.
4. I can't seem to catch a whiff of anything besides exhaust, exhaled cigarette smoke, fry grease or old-man stench. This is a problem.
Reasons to live in the cit-y
1. Don't have to plan extra 30 minutes to go to grocery store because I run into everyone I know AND their extended family
2. Can shop for lots of things. In person. As in, not online. Instant gratification = good
3. Lots of cultural events that don't involve monster trucks or roping four-legged creatures.
4. Convenient airport that doesn't suck.
5. Wh0le F00ds. Need I say more?
6. When people talk about the "gay bar" in town, it could be more than one place, unlike GJ.
Hmmm......
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Yesssss you have the right address!
Just in case you're wondering, yes, it's still us.
I decided we needed a new look for 2008. Since I've graduated to using automatic windows and defrosting side mirrors, it's time for the blog to move on up in the world as well.
Nothing much to report here lately. I'm surviving school. Twelve school days until CSAP and I'm trying not to care that much. Because there's not too much more I can do to make a difference in a few test scores until then.
Survived V-Day. Did I mention that I'm part of the anti-V-Day movement? I wanted to wear clothing with skulls and stuff that day, but seeing as how I'm teaching elementary school and we were supposed to have a PARTY or whatever, I decided to tone it down and not be a grinch about the whole thing.
In case you're wondering, NO, I did not wear a teacher sweater with a blinky heart on the lapel. I make it a point to never wear electronic devices as accessories. Or teacher sweaters, for that matter.
I decided we needed a new look for 2008. Since I've graduated to using automatic windows and defrosting side mirrors, it's time for the blog to move on up in the world as well.
Nothing much to report here lately. I'm surviving school. Twelve school days until CSAP and I'm trying not to care that much. Because there's not too much more I can do to make a difference in a few test scores until then.
Survived V-Day. Did I mention that I'm part of the anti-V-Day movement? I wanted to wear clothing with skulls and stuff that day, but seeing as how I'm teaching elementary school and we were supposed to have a PARTY or whatever, I decided to tone it down and not be a grinch about the whole thing.
In case you're wondering, NO, I did not wear a teacher sweater with a blinky heart on the lapel. I make it a point to never wear electronic devices as accessories. Or teacher sweaters, for that matter.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Made for Each Other
It's clear that Mike and I are made for each other. We both love hikeswith Maxwell, eating ice cream sundaes in bed and we both can't fix anything mechanical to save our lives.
In fact, I think we make the most mechanically dis-inclined pair I know.
Case in point - my new ride got a flat tire on Saturday. There was a screw jabbed into the tread of the tire so perfectly that it seemed like it was on purpose.
Anyway, we went to remove the tire... and spent about an hour trying to pry the wheel off the car. First it was the jack - Mike swore that turning it counter-clockwise would raise the car... yeah ... right. And then after we got it jacked up and the lug nuts came off, we could NOT get the stupid wheel off the car. Seriously.
I was convinced that there was a sixth lug nut in the center of the wheel, behind the "cover" which turned out to actually be the aluminum wheel (see what happens when cheap people get nice things?) and we were trying to pry the aluminum wheel off the tire. Luckily, we didn't damage the beading and have the tire explode in our faces.
Thank goodness for my brother, who I woke up when I called, frantically seeking some sort of "trick" to removing wheels. Turns out, aluminum likes to stick to steel for some reason. "Did you kick the tire?" he asked. Mike kicked the top of the tire really hard and the wheel just fell off the car.
Wow, did we feel stupid. Thanks, bro.
In fact, I think we make the most mechanically dis-inclined pair I know.
Case in point - my new ride got a flat tire on Saturday. There was a screw jabbed into the tread of the tire so perfectly that it seemed like it was on purpose.
Anyway, we went to remove the tire... and spent about an hour trying to pry the wheel off the car. First it was the jack - Mike swore that turning it counter-clockwise would raise the car... yeah ... right. And then after we got it jacked up and the lug nuts came off, we could NOT get the stupid wheel off the car. Seriously.
I was convinced that there was a sixth lug nut in the center of the wheel, behind the "cover" which turned out to actually be the aluminum wheel (see what happens when cheap people get nice things?) and we were trying to pry the aluminum wheel off the tire. Luckily, we didn't damage the beading and have the tire explode in our faces.
Thank goodness for my brother, who I woke up when I called, frantically seeking some sort of "trick" to removing wheels. Turns out, aluminum likes to stick to steel for some reason. "Did you kick the tire?" he asked. Mike kicked the top of the tire really hard and the wheel just fell off the car.
Wow, did we feel stupid. Thanks, bro.
Friday, January 11, 2008
Goodbye, old car ...
... or, further proof that I am, in fact, the Kev!n B@con of GJ
It's time to say so long to the shaggin' wagon. As you all know, I've moved into the 21st century and have had automatic windows for a week. This has been more of an adjustment than you might think. It's been rather snowy here and I needed to use the windshield wipers for the road muck on the windshield of the NEW car.
Well, the wipers worked fine. Until they needed washer fluid to scrape through all the lovely brown water spewed from the big rigs' tires onto my window. And then I tried every bell and whistle I could find to try to squirt just a little bit of something on the windshield... but nothing happened. I actually had to stop at two gas stations just to sprint out of the car and wash the windshield because I felt like I was trying to drive through chocolate milk and I couldn't see.
Thank goodness for my modern husband. "Push that little button on the end of the lever," he said. Oh, yeah, that lever. Riiight.
Soooo we advertised the car in the newspaper and got two calls - one from a creepy guy named Herb in Cl!fton and another from a lady who turned out to be the mother of a student of mine from last year. What are the chances? So now my former student will be riding in my old car. Crazy. It was good to see him, though, and I'm happy that the green machine is going to a good home in the country, with lots of roads to drive on.
It's time to say so long to the shaggin' wagon. As you all know, I've moved into the 21st century and have had automatic windows for a week. This has been more of an adjustment than you might think. It's been rather snowy here and I needed to use the windshield wipers for the road muck on the windshield of the NEW car.
Well, the wipers worked fine. Until they needed washer fluid to scrape through all the lovely brown water spewed from the big rigs' tires onto my window. And then I tried every bell and whistle I could find to try to squirt just a little bit of something on the windshield... but nothing happened. I actually had to stop at two gas stations just to sprint out of the car and wash the windshield because I felt like I was trying to drive through chocolate milk and I couldn't see.
Thank goodness for my modern husband. "Push that little button on the end of the lever," he said. Oh, yeah, that lever. Riiight.
Soooo we advertised the car in the newspaper and got two calls - one from a creepy guy named Herb in Cl!fton and another from a lady who turned out to be the mother of a student of mine from last year. What are the chances? So now my former student will be riding in my old car. Crazy. It was good to see him, though, and I'm happy that the green machine is going to a good home in the country, with lots of roads to drive on.
Sunday, January 06, 2008
Yay for 2008
I have a feeling this is going to be a good year. Of course, I'm probably jinxing myself by saying so, but I really have a feeling.
It started off so well - I've moved into the 21st century in terms of technology and transportation. Thanks to Mikey, I now am the proud owner of an mp3 player AND a car that actually has power windows. I have never owned a vehicle with power windows.
We finally decided that we had better unload the old station wagon before it got too many more miles on it ... and so I got a NEW green station wagon to replace it! Apparently I am destined to always drive green cars - first I had a 1967 Volkswagen bug that was green, then the green station wagon... and NOW a fantastic, posh new Sub@ru Outb@ck. With heated seats. Two moon roofs. And defrosting side mirrors?!
I'm not normally caught up in all these fancy things. But it definitely makes up for living in the 1990s all these years.
It started off so well - I've moved into the 21st century in terms of technology and transportation. Thanks to Mikey, I now am the proud owner of an mp3 player AND a car that actually has power windows. I have never owned a vehicle with power windows.
We finally decided that we had better unload the old station wagon before it got too many more miles on it ... and so I got a NEW green station wagon to replace it! Apparently I am destined to always drive green cars - first I had a 1967 Volkswagen bug that was green, then the green station wagon... and NOW a fantastic, posh new Sub@ru Outb@ck. With heated seats. Two moon roofs. And defrosting side mirrors?!
I'm not normally caught up in all these fancy things. But it definitely makes up for living in the 1990s all these years.
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Random thoughts ...
I hate this time of year.
I've said it before and I'll say it again. I really do. My birthday is Monday and the weather always sucks. Usually, we can't even drive anywhere within 75 miles to go do anything fun and get outta this snow-encrusted, bleak landscape.
I also hate my birthday being on a holiday. I'm not looking for sympathy - just understanding. Everyone is always saying, "Your birthday is on New Year's? That is SO awesome."
Well, it's not. Every place is crowded, people already have expectations about what we'll do ... and I decided this year we are NOT having a party. Because I'm NOT cleaning up the house so people can bring extra people and spill stuff on the floor and not bring food or drinks or even a birthday card. Not that that's the sole purpose of having a party, but it IS my birthday.
I hate used car lots and salesmen.
We finally decided we need to upgrade the shaggin' wagon. It's a Ford and it's getting close to 100,000 miles, so it's going to self-destruct soon. I can almost hear it ticking in the garage.
Unfortunately, shopping for new cars isn't as happy as shopping for a new... well, anything. We had a very bad experience at a dealership here in town. One minute, I was test-driving a 2007 H0nda CRV, and the next minute, the smarmy finance guy was trying to get us to sign a contract for the car. They never told us how much the monthly payments would be if we financed through them, they never even told us an interest rate.
The salesman was so shady that he actually sent me an email while we were in the finance guy's office congratulating us on buying the car, when we had NEVER (in the three hours we were there) said we were buying the car. And we didn't ever sign a contract. Then there was a second email apologizing for the "misunderstanding" and saying he hoped we didn't think he was pushy. Riiiight.
I finally had to say, "I think there's been a miscommunication. We are NOT buying a car today." They acted like we had wasted their time. Whatever. I didn't say we wouldn't be back - but now I feel so violated that I don't think I will give those jerks my money.
As my mom said, that tactic must work on some people or they wouldn't try to railroad us into buying the car.
Yeah, well I'm not "some people."
I've said it before and I'll say it again. I really do. My birthday is Monday and the weather always sucks. Usually, we can't even drive anywhere within 75 miles to go do anything fun and get outta this snow-encrusted, bleak landscape.
I also hate my birthday being on a holiday. I'm not looking for sympathy - just understanding. Everyone is always saying, "Your birthday is on New Year's? That is SO awesome."
Well, it's not. Every place is crowded, people already have expectations about what we'll do ... and I decided this year we are NOT having a party. Because I'm NOT cleaning up the house so people can bring extra people and spill stuff on the floor and not bring food or drinks or even a birthday card. Not that that's the sole purpose of having a party, but it IS my birthday.
I hate used car lots and salesmen.
We finally decided we need to upgrade the shaggin' wagon. It's a Ford and it's getting close to 100,000 miles, so it's going to self-destruct soon. I can almost hear it ticking in the garage.
Unfortunately, shopping for new cars isn't as happy as shopping for a new... well, anything. We had a very bad experience at a dealership here in town. One minute, I was test-driving a 2007 H0nda CRV, and the next minute, the smarmy finance guy was trying to get us to sign a contract for the car. They never told us how much the monthly payments would be if we financed through them, they never even told us an interest rate.
The salesman was so shady that he actually sent me an email while we were in the finance guy's office congratulating us on buying the car, when we had NEVER (in the three hours we were there) said we were buying the car. And we didn't ever sign a contract. Then there was a second email apologizing for the "misunderstanding" and saying he hoped we didn't think he was pushy. Riiiight.
I finally had to say, "I think there's been a miscommunication. We are NOT buying a car today." They acted like we had wasted their time. Whatever. I didn't say we wouldn't be back - but now I feel so violated that I don't think I will give those jerks my money.
As my mom said, that tactic must work on some people or they wouldn't try to railroad us into buying the car.
Yeah, well I'm not "some people."
Thursday, December 27, 2007
We've noticed a disturbing plethora of...
... a new species in our neighborhood. I saw a few of them pop up last year, but nothing like this year's numbers. They seem to be accumulating.
It seems that the holidayyus luminarius has taken up residence in Panor@ma subdivision. Cousin of the common Odocoileus hemionus mule deer, the luminarius also exhibits similar behaviors, such as seasonal movement. However, despite observations, we are unable at this time to determine where the luminarius goes besides grassy front-lawn areas and ultimately garages for most of the year.
Unlike its deer cousins, the luminarius does not camouflage itself with grays and browns in shrubbery. Quite the opposite, the luminarius somehow frightens predators away with its unusual phosphorescence, only detected after nightfall.
The economic importance of this species to humans seems to be nominal, however the luminarius appears to bring joy to young children and the elderly, who enjoy having them occupy their lawns. Research and observation have also indicated that the luminarius seems to multiply in adjacent areas. For example, the house across the street had a luminarius last Christmas, and since then, five other neighbors have created habitat for the glowing animal.
We, of course, are taking precautions to discourage the luminarius from migrating into our habitat. They make Maxwell nervous and we don't need any more poop to scoop in our yard.
It seems that the holidayyus luminarius has taken up residence in Panor@ma subdivision. Cousin of the common Odocoileus hemionus mule deer, the luminarius also exhibits similar behaviors, such as seasonal movement. However, despite observations, we are unable at this time to determine where the luminarius goes besides grassy front-lawn areas and ultimately garages for most of the year.
Unlike its deer cousins, the luminarius does not camouflage itself with grays and browns in shrubbery. Quite the opposite, the luminarius somehow frightens predators away with its unusual phosphorescence, only detected after nightfall.
The economic importance of this species to humans seems to be nominal, however the luminarius appears to bring joy to young children and the elderly, who enjoy having them occupy their lawns. Research and observation have also indicated that the luminarius seems to multiply in adjacent areas. For example, the house across the street had a luminarius last Christmas, and since then, five other neighbors have created habitat for the glowing animal.
We, of course, are taking precautions to discourage the luminarius from migrating into our habitat. They make Maxwell nervous and we don't need any more poop to scoop in our yard.
Saturday, December 15, 2007
The monthly report
Okay, so I made a deal with myself.
I wouldn't post again until I had good news. REALLY good news. No, I'm not pregnant. That would NOT be good news.
I GOT A JOB!!!
I've been working harder than a gnome in a molybdenum mine the last two weeks (what?). But overall this is a good thing, as M@rtha Stew@rt would say.
I'm teaching fifth grade and the opening for the job came up in an unfortunate manner. A friend of mine had the job before. I won't elaborate but you can check out the details here, since it was in the news anyway.
So I came into this classroom and there had been several sub teachers between the first teacher and me. The kids are pretty shell-shocked, although they're the kind of kids who are used to disappointment and abandonment by adults in their lives. For many of them, school is the most stable environment they have and this was a major earthquake in that safe little world.
The last two weeks have been absolutely crazy. I'm very overwhelmed and I realize I will never completely catch up to where I would like to be for the rest of this school year.
But that's okay. Yesterday I didn't have any of the kids ask, "Are you REALLY coming back on Monday?" and that tells me I'm making progress.
I wouldn't post again until I had good news. REALLY good news. No, I'm not pregnant. That would NOT be good news.
I GOT A JOB!!!
I've been working harder than a gnome in a molybdenum mine the last two weeks (what?). But overall this is a good thing, as M@rtha Stew@rt would say.
I'm teaching fifth grade and the opening for the job came up in an unfortunate manner. A friend of mine had the job before. I won't elaborate but you can check out the details here, since it was in the news anyway.
So I came into this classroom and there had been several sub teachers between the first teacher and me. The kids are pretty shell-shocked, although they're the kind of kids who are used to disappointment and abandonment by adults in their lives. For many of them, school is the most stable environment they have and this was a major earthquake in that safe little world.
The last two weeks have been absolutely crazy. I'm very overwhelmed and I realize I will never completely catch up to where I would like to be for the rest of this school year.
But that's okay. Yesterday I didn't have any of the kids ask, "Are you REALLY coming back on Monday?" and that tells me I'm making progress.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Complicated
Usually when someone dies, everything is sad.
This time, it's different. This time, it's too complicated.
Those of you who know me well know that the family situation with my grandmother is tenuous. I almost used the word complicated again. But that works too.
She died tonight. And, as my brother said, it's different than the last time we had someone die. It's either got to be harder than this, or easier than this, he said.
I feel exactly the same way. Without making this too complicated, I'll just say that this is the first time in my life that I have felt simultaneously disappointed, relieved, guilty, angry and devastated.
It's very overwhelming.
This time, it's different. This time, it's too complicated.
Those of you who know me well know that the family situation with my grandmother is tenuous. I almost used the word complicated again. But that works too.
She died tonight. And, as my brother said, it's different than the last time we had someone die. It's either got to be harder than this, or easier than this, he said.
I feel exactly the same way. Without making this too complicated, I'll just say that this is the first time in my life that I have felt simultaneously disappointed, relieved, guilty, angry and devastated.
It's very overwhelming.
Monday, November 12, 2007
Dancin' the Night Away
Warning: Yes, I'm going to talk about dancing in this blog. And no, it's not as lame as you might think. Please continue.
We discovered contra dancing at our friends' wedding in June. Basically contra dancing involves Celtic music, usually a violin, and you dance in these lines that form patterns. You usually get a new partner about every 30 seconds. You don't have to wear a costume or know any fancy steps, because there's a caller that tells you what to do.
Now, don't get the wrong idea. Contra dancing is NOT square dancing. And it's most certainly NOT country line dancing. Can you picture me doing the Achy Breaky Heart dance? Ugh.
Contra dancing also does not involve giving any money or weapons to Oliver North or Iran or whatever. I swear.
It's fun enough for Mike to go. Of his own volition.
So we went to P@lisade for a contra dance on Saturday and had a blast. We went with some other younger people and managed to hold our own against the old geezer experts. I have discovered a potentially fatal flaw to contra dancing, however.
Some contra-dancing men are really tall. Like, freakishly tall. And very serious about the dance. And very sweaty. The problem arises when these things combine and I get passed on to a tall, serious guy contra dancer and he's all sweaty.
He pulls me in close, and my nose happens to come right up to the perfect height of... his ARMPIT! Ack! So I'm turning my head as we're spinning around and holding my breath... thinking, "God, let this end and please let the next partner be Mike," and I start to get really dizzy with the room spinning (perhaps from anaerobic effects on my brain) but I keep holding my breath because any breath of oxygen would be infused with my dance partner's man-stink ... until I'm tossed to the next person. A wild-eyed little man (thank god) with nappy sideburns and suspenders.
Another possible hazard of contra dancing in a smallish town: You end up dancing with a creepy guy who you met seven years ago. Who called you and asked you on a date when he stole your phone number off an invoice from the business at which he works. Who you told to never call again. And now is holding both your hands, looking at you and asking, "Don't I know you?"
And you look across the room to your husband, who is doubled over, laughing hysterically. Because remember, you are the Kevin B@con of GJ.
Ah well.
We discovered contra dancing at our friends' wedding in June. Basically contra dancing involves Celtic music, usually a violin, and you dance in these lines that form patterns. You usually get a new partner about every 30 seconds. You don't have to wear a costume or know any fancy steps, because there's a caller that tells you what to do.
Now, don't get the wrong idea. Contra dancing is NOT square dancing. And it's most certainly NOT country line dancing. Can you picture me doing the Achy Breaky Heart dance? Ugh.
Contra dancing also does not involve giving any money or weapons to Oliver North or Iran or whatever. I swear.
It's fun enough for Mike to go. Of his own volition.
So we went to P@lisade for a contra dance on Saturday and had a blast. We went with some other younger people and managed to hold our own against the old geezer experts. I have discovered a potentially fatal flaw to contra dancing, however.
Some contra-dancing men are really tall. Like, freakishly tall. And very serious about the dance. And very sweaty. The problem arises when these things combine and I get passed on to a tall, serious guy contra dancer and he's all sweaty.
He pulls me in close, and my nose happens to come right up to the perfect height of... his ARMPIT! Ack! So I'm turning my head as we're spinning around and holding my breath... thinking, "God, let this end and please let the next partner be Mike," and I start to get really dizzy with the room spinning (perhaps from anaerobic effects on my brain) but I keep holding my breath because any breath of oxygen would be infused with my dance partner's man-stink ... until I'm tossed to the next person. A wild-eyed little man (thank god) with nappy sideburns and suspenders.
Another possible hazard of contra dancing in a smallish town: You end up dancing with a creepy guy who you met seven years ago. Who called you and asked you on a date when he stole your phone number off an invoice from the business at which he works. Who you told to never call again. And now is holding both your hands, looking at you and asking, "Don't I know you?"
And you look across the room to your husband, who is doubled over, laughing hysterically. Because remember, you are the Kevin B@con of GJ.
Ah well.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
A mysterious affliction
Now that it's over, we can laugh about it.
Isn't that the story of our lives? Yeah, pretty much. Well, this time it was all at the expense of poor Maxwell.
We left him in the backyard for two hours and came home to find him in excruciating pain. He ran to the car, yelping. It seemed like every time he moved, he yelped.
We looked for blood and guts and didn't see anything. Thankfully, Mike's sister Debbie is a vet and she was visiting. She examined Max and found that the top three inches of his tail was really swollen and hot. He had apparently sprained his tail.
Now, don't ask me how this sort of thing happens. If it was the end of his tail, sure, maybe he got it caught in something or had it bitten or whatever. But this was the top part of his tail, next to his bum. What the???
We iced the tail down and Max laid in the same spot for hours, moaning. It took about a week for things to return to normal.
So we don't really know what made him so miserable. Did he kamikaze off the patio table and land on his tail? Is it possible for a dog to wag too much?
As long as it's better, I suppose it doesn't matter now that Max has overcome his bout with erect-tail disfunction.
Isn't that the story of our lives? Yeah, pretty much. Well, this time it was all at the expense of poor Maxwell.
We left him in the backyard for two hours and came home to find him in excruciating pain. He ran to the car, yelping. It seemed like every time he moved, he yelped.
We looked for blood and guts and didn't see anything. Thankfully, Mike's sister Debbie is a vet and she was visiting. She examined Max and found that the top three inches of his tail was really swollen and hot. He had apparently sprained his tail.
Now, don't ask me how this sort of thing happens. If it was the end of his tail, sure, maybe he got it caught in something or had it bitten or whatever. But this was the top part of his tail, next to his bum. What the???
We iced the tail down and Max laid in the same spot for hours, moaning. It took about a week for things to return to normal.
So we don't really know what made him so miserable. Did he kamikaze off the patio table and land on his tail? Is it possible for a dog to wag too much?
As long as it's better, I suppose it doesn't matter now that Max has overcome his bout with erect-tail disfunction.
Monday, October 08, 2007
Mortified
Thanks to my good friend Enrique, I'm reading a fabulous compilation of teen angst stories. Actually, it's excerpts from teenage diaries.
The intro to the book made me think about writing and purpose. I mean, why do we write blogs? They are sort of public diaries in most cases. Only we know that other people are reading our thoughts, so we self-edit them and (usually) omit the most embarassing things. Unless we're writing to obtain pity. I wouldn't even consider writing some things on a blog, and I have a love-hate relationship with it because of its public-ness.
Here's what author D@vid N@delburg said in his intro:
"In the days before blogs, people transcribed their everyday events with ancient tools known as pens and paper. Back then, private thoughts were not written to serve as public spectacle. Rather, they were intensely guarded keepsakes, hidden under beds, locked in cabinets, or buried in the back of closets. These were called diaries ... or if they were owned by heterosexual males, journals. To their oh-so-sensitive authors, such books served as their confidante, their shrink, and in a few somewhat pathetic cases, their only friend."
Yeah, I do wish sometimes that I could write everything that jumped into my mind. But who knows who is reading this and what they would think?
Haven't we all thought about that on our blogs? Wondered if so-and-so sent Aunt Whatzername a link and if she should really be reading this?
I guess, in a way, that's the main pitfall of blogging. Some people don't self-censor enough. They don't realize that there's still a place for a diary if they want one (NOT on Internet) and that their blog isn't really private, even though you think you know who's reading it.
They badmouth their boss online, quit that job and apply for another and then (mysteriously, by the powers of the Internet!) their potential employer reads the blog and it's all ruined. Or they think that it's okay to post photos of themselves drinking in hot tubs on mysp@ce even though their students have access to their profiles.
The potential to build bridges before they are even built is HUGE on the information superhighway.
Here's to teenage angst books that make you think!
The intro to the book made me think about writing and purpose. I mean, why do we write blogs? They are sort of public diaries in most cases. Only we know that other people are reading our thoughts, so we self-edit them and (usually) omit the most embarassing things. Unless we're writing to obtain pity. I wouldn't even consider writing some things on a blog, and I have a love-hate relationship with it because of its public-ness.
Here's what author D@vid N@delburg said in his intro:
"In the days before blogs, people transcribed their everyday events with ancient tools known as pens and paper. Back then, private thoughts were not written to serve as public spectacle. Rather, they were intensely guarded keepsakes, hidden under beds, locked in cabinets, or buried in the back of closets. These were called diaries ... or if they were owned by heterosexual males, journals. To their oh-so-sensitive authors, such books served as their confidante, their shrink, and in a few somewhat pathetic cases, their only friend."
Yeah, I do wish sometimes that I could write everything that jumped into my mind. But who knows who is reading this and what they would think?
Haven't we all thought about that on our blogs? Wondered if so-and-so sent Aunt Whatzername a link and if she should really be reading this?
I guess, in a way, that's the main pitfall of blogging. Some people don't self-censor enough. They don't realize that there's still a place for a diary if they want one (NOT on Internet) and that their blog isn't really private, even though you think you know who's reading it.
They badmouth their boss online, quit that job and apply for another and then (mysteriously, by the powers of the Internet!) their potential employer reads the blog and it's all ruined. Or they think that it's okay to post photos of themselves drinking in hot tubs on mysp@ce even though their students have access to their profiles.
The potential to build bridges before they are even built is HUGE on the information superhighway.
Here's to teenage angst books that make you think!
Saturday, October 06, 2007
The geek squad ...
Or, happy anniversary to us!
So we made a whirlwind trip to Denver this week so Mikey could cover a convicted murderer's appeal hearing. On our third anniversary. I had no idea the third anniversary present was "attend convicted murderer court hearing" as well as "leather" or the more modern "crystal" present.
So we made a whirlwind trip to Denver this week so Mikey could cover a convicted murderer's appeal hearing. On our third anniversary. I had no idea the third anniversary present was "attend convicted murderer court hearing" as well as "leather" or the more modern "crystal" present.
Truth be told, as un-romantic as this sounds, it was a trip that truly shows that we are perfect for each other. What would I do with a stupid leather bracelet or crystal? I hate crystal. Crystal is usually some form of knicknack, which most of you know is banned from the McWiggins' lair.
Instead, we went to the hearing (my first trip to the Supreme Court chambers, ooh!) and then we met up with Mike and Mary for trivia at a pub.
We came in third. Not bad, considering we beat a team called "McLovin." We messed up on the round with the Neo-Claudian emperors. ("Caligula? Is that a real person?" :) ) But we kicked butt on the visual round. Nobody can recognize W!ll Sm!th's eyes like my husband. Heh.
Then we headed back the next morning after a quick stop in Ge@rget@wn so Mikey could go to a press conference related to a disaster. I wandered around town trying to find a place to get coffee that would accept a credit card. I narrowly missed being hit by a Budwe!ser truck on the narrow highway.
Boy, he's lucky he married a former reporter who understands how this journalism thing works. Happy anniversary to us!
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Newest okay thing
I finally found a movie-rental method that suits me. It's my new friend the red box movie kiosk. Maybe you've heard of him. He usually frequents areas in grocery store fronts and near fast-food restaurants.
It's a lovely little red box contraption that spits out a movie when you swipe a credit card. It's only $1 per night, and you don't have to return them until 7 the next night. You don't even have to return the movie to the same red box you rented it from. You can return it to one of his friends, even if it's across town.
How can you beat $1 a night? I hate some other, unmentionable movie places where you have to rent a new release for three or four nights. What the heck am I going to do with one movie for four nights? I'm not going to memorize it.
There's only one thing about it that I don't like. If all movie rentals came from boxes that spit out only new releases, where are people supposed to get the classics? Is the up-and-coming generation going to even recognize Lawrence of Arabia? What about "Some Like it Hot"? And no one's going to see Maria frolicking in the hills that are alive with the sound of music in a red box.
Ah well, everything has its limitations.
It's a lovely little red box contraption that spits out a movie when you swipe a credit card. It's only $1 per night, and you don't have to return them until 7 the next night. You don't even have to return the movie to the same red box you rented it from. You can return it to one of his friends, even if it's across town.
How can you beat $1 a night? I hate some other, unmentionable movie places where you have to rent a new release for three or four nights. What the heck am I going to do with one movie for four nights? I'm not going to memorize it.
There's only one thing about it that I don't like. If all movie rentals came from boxes that spit out only new releases, where are people supposed to get the classics? Is the up-and-coming generation going to even recognize Lawrence of Arabia? What about "Some Like it Hot"? And no one's going to see Maria frolicking in the hills that are alive with the sound of music in a red box.
Ah well, everything has its limitations.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Giving 110 percent
I bought a shiny silver whistle at W@l-M@rt this weekend.
I figured it might be useful in my next substitute assignment – gym teacher.
Now, don’t laugh. I know this is ironic, given that I was the kid who hid in the bathroom when the P.E. teacher was grading us on whether we could do froggy headstands. I couldn’t even do a cartwheel. And somersaults make me nauseous.
But there are some parts of being a P.E. teacher that I don’t mind. I like the fact that I’m doing a service to the classroom teachers by running the kids ragged so they can sit still later when they’re supposed to be learning. And I only have to listen to one particular group of students screaming for about 30 minutes, before I get the next batch. But, then again, you have to prove yourself ten times in one day instead of just once.
I have to admit I was a bit nervous to teach basketball yesterday. I can’t even play HORSE. And I swear there’s something about my head that attracts flying objects. It doesn’t matter if we’re playing volleyball, football or basketball, the ball always seems to hit me in the head somehow. Yes, that happened twice yesterday. And I wasn’t the only one who got injured. I peeled and applied more Band-Aids than a triage unit.
And am I the only person in the world who hates high-fives? I felt like I was hanging out with 100 David Puttys from Seinfeld yesterday. For someone who hates sports, this was a real challenge.
I’m back today with the trusty whistle, ensuring that I’ll have a voice at the end of the day. Gimme a high five.
I figured it might be useful in my next substitute assignment – gym teacher.
Now, don’t laugh. I know this is ironic, given that I was the kid who hid in the bathroom when the P.E. teacher was grading us on whether we could do froggy headstands. I couldn’t even do a cartwheel. And somersaults make me nauseous.
But there are some parts of being a P.E. teacher that I don’t mind. I like the fact that I’m doing a service to the classroom teachers by running the kids ragged so they can sit still later when they’re supposed to be learning. And I only have to listen to one particular group of students screaming for about 30 minutes, before I get the next batch. But, then again, you have to prove yourself ten times in one day instead of just once.
I have to admit I was a bit nervous to teach basketball yesterday. I can’t even play HORSE. And I swear there’s something about my head that attracts flying objects. It doesn’t matter if we’re playing volleyball, football or basketball, the ball always seems to hit me in the head somehow. Yes, that happened twice yesterday. And I wasn’t the only one who got injured. I peeled and applied more Band-Aids than a triage unit.
And am I the only person in the world who hates high-fives? I felt like I was hanging out with 100 David Puttys from Seinfeld yesterday. For someone who hates sports, this was a real challenge.
I’m back today with the trusty whistle, ensuring that I’ll have a voice at the end of the day. Gimme a high five.
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