Millennium

I sit here, at my teacher desk, scanning my bedecked classroom. Today, one of my Drama students took notice of my classroom during a discussion about the impact of color vs. monochromatic schemes.

"Ms. M," he said, with a slight cool drawl and a cock of his head, "your room has flair. I like all the color. Color shows that people are alive, not just breathing." I nodded my head as other students agreed and continued to challenge each other's opinions about how to create visual impact in dramatic scenes.

Later, I thought about what was said. It was my intent from day one to exude the eclectic, to be comfortable in my environment and to help my students become less conventional so that they could expand and grow into unbigoted, enlightened entities.

I want my students to learn. I want them to feel safe. I want to be mama bear and protect them. It's only intermittently I want to give up... or shake sense into them.

I came here to make a difference--- to tell them that there are people in this world who want to open their eyes and souls so that they can see the fresh new day and be prepared for hard cases and conundrums. They have so much fire, my students. Their eyes burn, sometimes with hatred for me - though not really for me - but for the institution of life. They need the wisdom to harness their fervor and possess it so they don't explode. They need to find their inner mercy to manage the calamaties to come.

They are all brilliant, and I tell them so. They all have choices, as I so remind them. I tell them that their youth is slippery, like a thumb against satin. I want them to cherish any childhood they have left. They never will - they are all obstinate, just like I was at their age, and determined to not need anyone or anything.

But they need. And they express that need at times. And sometimes, I was there to help fill that need and give them the push toward a better tomorrow. Many times I wished I could impart more knowledge and opinion, challenge them to defend their beliefs - their teenage cores. Many times I listened and said the minimum, knowing they had to discover their own truths and pick their own paths.

I have two weeks left of teaching high school.

I wonder if they'll miss me as much as I'll miss them.

Just notes...

Only three days left of blissful Spring Break. Monday will be filled with tanned, talkative teenagers all revealing their alcohol-filled adventures. Of course, the teachers will be talking about the same thing, just not in front of everyone.

Life on break is euphoric. I'm going to miss these mini-respites when I am no longer a teacher...

Happy weekend and Merry Easter!

Thank you Greg

For having a link to this site on your blogspot.

This entertained me for a good hour or so. Start with the January 9th post and read forward.

Heather, Sally and Aki - do you think this person is rooming with Miriam?

http://ihatemyflatmate.blogspot.com/

What do people do in Suburbia?

As of late, I find myself wandering around my house in my pajamas muttering about the slow, spiritless world of suburban Surprise. I peer out my library windows and surreptiously spy on my neighbors, wondering what they are doing in their little stucco sanctuaries. Are they bored like me?

How long can I hide in my garage going through truckloads of "boxed things" that connect me to my vibrant past? Is it wrong to stand in my shower, gaze up through the skylight and wonder what would happen if a tornado struck the barren desert? Would my Solatube go before the rest of the ceiling? Would I be sucked up through the hole?

Elvis even looks bored here. His big puppy eyes roll heavenward hourly as if to say, "I can't believe we are here. Perhaps we can take another road trip and I can pee on the world's largest ball of twine once again."

Years ago, my friends predicted that I'd rack up college degrees, move to Manhattan, storm Corporate America and have some boys-as-toys to keep me occupied on weekends. How did I end up in the place where people go to reproduce and mow lawns? How come those colorful tri-fold brochures for new housing developments never feature a truthful slogan such as "Suburbia. A vortex of nothingness."

I've come to the conclusion that if I don't figure out how to liven this place up, I may have to schedule a prison break.

Anyone in?

Swamp Ass Cooler

Have you ever been in Phoenix, dead August, no AC, your only hope a metal box on the side of your house? If so, you know that the only so-called substitute for AC is a pathetic "swamp" cooler that doesn't do much to cool your festering house and rid you of that not-so-fresh-feeling.

But alas! There is hope! Someday, my friend Ericka and I will own and operate a chic-chic, uber-cool coffee grotto near Arizona State University. Our mission, aside from caffeinating college co-ed's, will include keeping a cozy, comfy,clothes-minimal establishment called Java-n-Jammies. You show up in somewhat tasteful jammies, and we'll provide a venue for you to hang out (figuratively, at least).

We bet our business will have year-round appeal. In the winter, visit in your flannels and hoist a cup of steamy Joe. In the summer, buy an iced-coffee and avoid the sweaty, smelly clubs that crowd the Mill Avenue strip.

This brings me back to my original point. Summertime in Arizona is damn, frigging hot. Not just warm. Not toasty. Ridiculously over the top crockpot hot. Even with the AC blowing, you will accumulate beads of perspiration which eventually will travel downward and settle in your buttocks region. People know this syndrome as "swamp-ass."

Ericka and I have decided (with a little help from Bettina) that we need to tackle this sticky situation. Therefore, in all bathrooms at Java-n-Jammies, you will not find a typical hot air hand dryer. Oh no. We at JnJ want to go above the call of duty to dry out your drawers. Every bathroom will have an AC-like blower known as a "Swamp Ass Cooler." Aim the nozzle at your nether-regions and blow.

We figure if it blows your skirt up, it's gotta be good.

Food Porn

I was online looking for barbeque clip art (don't ask - something for Prom committee) and I ran across this site.

http://www.house-of-sins.com/food/

This site was created to help people not crave food. I, however, would like some of the chocolate covered strawberries.

The Rain in Spain

My poor friend Greg is bored at home with only his lovely wife and beautiful daughter to keep him company (pobrecito). He is looking for a job right now as he has been taking care of his little one this past school year. Today, he comes to my classroom to deliver two pieces of information. The first is that I don't write on my blog enough to keep him happy, hence this post. The second, I found worthy enough to share with my public.

The Arizona Republic (aka "The Rag" and "The Repulsive") published an article last November that originally ran in the Wall Street Journal. If it hadn't run in the Journal, it wouldn't be appearing on my oh-so-superior blogspot.

The article, "Some talk ain't cheap," highlights the problem of poor grammar in the workplace. According to the article, a person can be overlooked for potential job promotions due to how he or she sounds.

I always believed this fact to be common knowledge. Presentation is everything, right? In fact, concise communication is so important that many companies are paying speech and image consultants thousands of dollars to play Professor Henry Higgins for their junior and senior execs.

This led me to think about my current workplace environment. Every once in a while, I slip in a “y’all” to get my students’ attention or I throw out some gangsta-speak to connect with my homies in the classroom. They need to identify with this almost 30-year-old white girl somehow.

I can’t tell you, however, how many times a student has looked at me and said, “Ms M., you talk way too smart for us.” When that happens, I correct his grammar. And then I reflect about my teaching style because I know if I “talk too smart” that my students will tune out.

The writer of the article warns me that I can’t sound like a teen, use poor grammar, use an abrasive accent, curse or talk tentatively if I want to succeed. In most workplace environments, these are words to live by. But to play communication coach in the high school environment, I sometimes have to display 4 out of the 5 above listed characteristics just to get my stubborn, smut-speaking students to “talk pretty” so that they can succeed after graduation day.

Sadly, the clever consultant’s check is worth so much more than my own.

Big Chicks Rock

Yeah, yeah, yeah. I want to lose weight. Who doesn't? But dammit, I'm still sexy. And I found a great site to share with all my sexy, not-so-size-six friends.

I found this website while in search of vintage style dresses in not-so-vintage style sizes. Curvy chubbies unite!

http://venusimaging.com

I'm gonna be girly...

On the radio the other day, two disc jockeys were postulating that Valentine's Day was all about bragging rights. One woman cannot stand to keep quiet when her man does something wonderful for the Hallmark holiday. I agree.

Personally, I think Valentine's Day is a bit cheesy and overblown. But I am still going to simper and brag. 100 red and white roses, beautifully arranged, arrived in my classroom this morning. A chorus of ooh's and aah's followed. I welled up, just like a typical chick.

It is such a drag to find out I'm so common.

Quoth the husband...

Tomorrow is my husband's birthday. He is oh-so-woeful because he is turning 23. Getting old is hard (ha!). I wish I was 23.

To take his mind off his age troubles, I suggest he help me clean up a bit as we are having some people over tomorrow afternoon. He hangs some pictures and attacks the library area with gusto. Within a few minutes, I realize the house is silent so I go to investigate.

I stand in arched doorway watching him fidget with a blue and black raven ornament that I bought from an artist a few Christmases ago. He had torn the ribbon from the top of the small bird and was trying to balance the thin wooden legs on one of the bookshelves. He gets frustrated every time the bird falls over.

He senses my presence and looks up. Deadpan he states, "If only we had the bust of Lenore."

I love this man and his wacky sense of humor. Happy birthday, Honey!