Harrumph!

 

So I have been reading reading through all the class information packets that got sent home with the sunny girl on the first day of school, and I think I may need to poke a stick in my eye to obtain a little relief.  In Prince William County, Virginia, the first week of school is nothing but forms, forms, info packets, forms, and requests for donations.

Photo courtesy of the fabulous Miser Mom

Every class has a different set of forms to read through. And all of these freaking forms have to be signed by a parent:  "Yes, I realize that my child will be required to attend this class.  Yes, I realize that my child is required to wear clothes to school.  Yes, I realize that you think my child is a dumbass and comes from a family of litigious dumbasses who will sue you if you don't state categorically that students are required to provide their own pencils."

But today the one form that has particularly frosted my cake is a particular teacher's screed about all the nonsense up with which she will not put.  She uses very huffy language (kinda like I'm using now), and I was actually only partially offended by her tone ( I do love a teacher who won't put up with a lot of nonsense). 

But my head exploded when I read this:  " . . . so keep your electronic devices off and out of site."

People, I get that we are all busy, and everyone makes mistakes or overlooks typos, but come on! --

1.  You are a teacher.
2.  You are introducing yourself to your students, and should want them to see your best possible self.
3.  You are also introducing yourself to their parents.
4.  Some of their parents can actually read, and do know the difference between site and sight.
5.  You had the whole summer to proofread this document. 
6.  You would lower the grade of a student who made this mistake.

Harrumph!

I guess a place to sit is too much to ask for . . . .

 

Well so here's just a little update on my first day of classes at the community college:  What the hell?

Every student showed up to attend this composition class and receive the gift of my brilliance or at least snag a copy of the syllabus.  The class size is supposed to max out at 27, and believe it when I say the doodahs and pooh-bahs bang it into our heads that no class may ever be expanded beyond that maximum number.  "Don't make any false promises to a student!  A closed closed is a closed class!" they say.

 So I was thrilled and not at all surprised to find 28 names on my roster.

And it was even better than that because this classroom has only twenty desks.  Being gifted at math, I used my fingers and my toes to count them up, and said to myself, "I think this might be a problem."  Then I took some students with me on a stealthy mission to steal chairs (extra actual desks would be too much to dream about).  I figured I only needed seven more.

 

So this nice-seeming girl went home after her first day of college and reported to her mom that she sat on the floor.  So that's tuition money well-spent, don't you think?

First day

Well, today begins the fall semester of classes at the community college where I teach introductory writing courses.  I'm looking forward to meeting my new students because the students I have had in the past have been hilarious.  Sometimes they just didn't know it.

Here are some actual things my actual college students have actually said to me:

* * * * *

Here was the sentence under discussion:  We were annoyed by his digging in the yard.

ME:  In this sentence digging is a gerund, because it is a verb form used in place of a noun.
STUDENT:  Now you're just making stuff up, aren't you?

* * * * *

Talking (as I do over and over and over) about the correct use of subject and object pronouns:

ME:  Him and me went to a bar.  Who can tell me what's wrong with this sentence?
STUDENT:  Well, it's wrong because . . . -- hey!  Who did you go to a bar with?!

 * * * * *

During a unit on fairy tales, I went off about why, and how much, I hate the Disney version of "The Little Mermaid."   I may have even stamped my foot.  I was eloquent, y'all.  When I paused to take a breath when I finished, I heard someone mutter, "Dang . . ." under his breath.  And then a girl raised her hand and said, " No offense, but if you talk like that at home, your kids must really hate you."

* * * * *

During that same fairy tale unit, the class considered Angela Carter's "The Company of Wolves," a dark feminist re-telling of the Little Red Riding Hood story.  The phrase we were considering was:  "Carnivore incarnate, only immaculate flesh would appease him." 

STUDENT:  Maybe it means that her innocence is what saves her?
ME:  Well, but is she really that innocent?
ANOTHER STUDENT:  She's banging a werewolf -- how innocent can she be?

* * * * * 

I can't wait!  Let's do this!

Talk about an apple for the teacher!

Well, so the end of the school year has finally arrived, and the sunny girl wanted to thank some of her teachers.    But apples are so twentieth century . . .

. . . so the sunny girl whipped up these cute little mini-pies.  

Don't you wish you were the sunny girl's teacher?!

Georgia on my mind . . . .

So the girl in charge is firmly ensconced in her new digs at Emory University, on the Oxford College campus -- and you have never seen a happier girl. 

We left a day early to get her there because the drive to Atlanta takes about twelve hours.  The girl and I loaded up our rented SUV (and the girl in charge just screeched in outrage -- did you hear her? -- because I did not load one item into that vehicle; not even my purse), and we headed out.  The husband stayed behind, because the tall boy and SHE moved into their college dorms at Catholic University on the same weekend that Emory opened its doors to the girl in charge.

tangent: And people, this all happened the same week that the tall boy got out of the hospital, SHE flew into town to help take care of him, the girl in charge and I flew around town running the off-to-school errands that we had planned to run before the tall boy's lung drama re-arranged our schedule, and I finished the final vexing negotiations with the car insurance people who so cheerfully informed me that my car (crunched back in June) was a "total loss; thank you for letting us serve you." As the husband said to a friend, "for a while there, we had it coming and going."  If only the it had been Xanax . . . .

We spent the night in a hotel in Covington, Georgia, which is a booming metropolis with a Walmart right across the street from our hotel.  The next morning we rolled up to the girl in charge's new home and unloaded a whole crapload of stuff the well-thought-out and totally necessary items the girl in charge had brought from home (as an example, see froggy wastebasket above).

We met the roommate, who is adorable and sweet, and who is from a city in China near Shanghai -- so that's cool.  She kept apologizing for her "not very well English," but her English is certainly a lot weller than my Chinese.

She helped us carry the girl's stuff to their room, and they left to explore together, while I made the newly minted coed's bed.  I could get all sniffly and nostalgic about making my little girl's bed for her one last time, but who here really thinks I have made that girl's bed for her even once in the last ten years?  Oh, please.  The walls were only waiting for the necessary Harry Potter, Wicked, Doctor Who, Billy Elliot and Gashlycrumb Tinies posters to make it seem just like home.

The girl in charge and I made a swing through the college bookstore so I could collect the obligatory swag.  She was giddy with anticipation when she saw all the textbooks (we make 'em nerdy here in my house).  We both suspected that her godfather would be happy to see that this play is being taught in a political science class.

So the grand finale of Move-In Day at Emory is a "Coke Toast" as parents say goodbye to their freshmen.  Those of you who remember my love of all things Coca-Cola know how tickled I was by this custom, which stems from the fact that the vast bulk of Emory's endowment, as well as the land on which the main campus sits, comes from various corporate Coca-Cola donations.  I mean, don't even think about strolling across that campus with a Pepsi -- the girl in charge was given just the smallest bit of a fish-eye when she carried a twelve-pack of Dr. Pepper into her dorm.

After leaving my girl (sniff), I went to my dear friend Randy's house, to decompress with her and her husband Bart.  And let me just say that everyone should have a Randy and Bart to decompress with.  A delicious meal, a glass of wine, and a chance to relax and visit with these lovely people -- it was a perfect way to end a day spent saying good-bye to my beloved girl.

Step aside, middle school -- we're all done with you here!

So I don't know about you, but I find middle school to be a very tricky proposition, especially for girls. Academically kids are thrown into multiple classrooms during a day for the first time, and into courses that demand more and more of them -- and they encounter teachers who cut them less and less slack. On top of that, it seems like the "mean girl" phenomenon really kicks in to high gear right about 7th grade, and too many intimidated urchins who once said whatever was in their heads or on their hearts just shut down. Too many of them feel like they have to wear a mask -- all day, every day.

And then there's puberty -- that bitch! She whacks our girls over the head with so many changes all at once that I am convinced most of them feel itchy in their own bodies every minute of the day -- and then she stirs up a big batch of hormone stew that makes our sweet girls cranky and sad and giddy and worried and passionately in love and on the verge of tears -- all at the same time.

Middle school sucks.

And that's why the sunny girl is my hero. My tall and graceful ballerina has danced her way through three years that could have sucked her soul dry. Instead, she laughed, sang, twirled, and went rock climbing -- always knowing when to strike a dramatic pose.

She chose great friends and made good decisions and is more than ready to be a Bulldawg. Look out, C.D. Hylton High School: the sunny girl has three more days of eighth grade left, and I am here to tell you that she kicked middle school's ass.

Look how lovely!

So the girl in charge went to the prom on Saturday night -- and as you can see she was the most stunning girl for miles around.

She and her bestie got together that afternoon and conspired to produce hair that evoked Pre-Raphaelite paintings and dresses that brought to mind Lily Langtry at her most alluring.

Between the two of them they brought the 21st century to a screeching halt and re-created the Belle Epoque beauty and Edwardian silhouettes that made us all drool when we watched Downton Abbey. Are you looking at the detailing on that shoulder?

And I mean, look at the detail on my girl's dress! So delicately lovely!

It just goes to show that you can wear an utterly gorgeous and sophisticated dress without sacrificing modesty or good taste.

When they got together with the rest of their pals it became clear that every girl there had chosen a dress that was true to her own personal sense of style. You'll note that I don't mention the boys. It is a sad but true prom adage that when it comes to fashion, the dudes are just along for the ride.

tangent: Can I just brag about the young woman on the far left of this picture, who has lost 100 pounds over the past year?! What a knockout!

For one pal, the fashion flair showed itself in a bold floral print that made her eyes glow bluer than seems possible in real life . . . .

. . . while another hipster wore a long skirt that, when pulled over her arm, revealed her inner personality. This dress also cleverly allowed her to be cool when everyone else was moaning about how hot they were. And look at her shoulder ornamentation -- fabulous!

The girl in charge had a great night, spending time with her best friends. Our school's prom was late this year -- just a week before graduation -- so she knows that she needs to make her memories while she can.

The girl in charge takes charge

So last Friday my girl and I attended the annual Drama Club Banquet, where banquet = pizza fest. The drama glamour filled the home of our hostess and spilled out the front door.

At this event the club says good-bye to the seniors and elects officers for the coming year.

It should shock no one to learn that my girl was elected president of the club for next year. She is, after all, the girl in charge. I wasn't kidding about that clipboard.

But mostly the evening was dedicated to bonding with friends one last time before everyone goes their separate ways.

Some good-byes were just for the summer, while other friends are off to college in the fall.



Here's my girl and her total BFF -- soon to start college at The College of William and Mary (GO, TRIBE! Can you tell that's where I went to school?!).

I spent the evening bonding with the bestie's mother. They call us the "Drama Mamas." I like it!

Why I suck

So I teach part-time at the community college,and I love just about everything about it. I especially love the students; college kids are my favorite -- always have been.

tangent: I have been a den leader, a brownie and girl scout troop leader, a day camp volunteer, and a dance recital cat herder. But if you told me I had to teach elementary school, I would very sweetly reply, "how about instead of that, you just give me that big stick over there and I'll poke my eyes out with it?" These teachers are either saints or insane. Probably both.

Well, as at most community colleges, space is at a premium throughout the campus where I work. There are classes stacked on top of each other, and the full-time faculty "offices" are really a warren of cubicle spaces. And office/work space for adjunct instructors? Oh, please.

But see, all of that is fine by me; I can do most of the non-classroom stuff I need to do at home, so I don't really need a work space. Some functioning copy machines would be nice . . . but here's my point -- most of the time the space constraints don't bother me.

But parking: this sucks. Especially in the middle of the day, there are just more faculty on campus than there are parking spaces for those faculty. Many, many days this semester I swore bad swears under my breath as I stalked some poor old professor as he toddled toward his ancient Volvo, and the clock crept ever closer to 11:00 -- when my class was supposed to start. I would die a slow death as 10:57 became 10:58 and I still had nowhere to put my car.

So one day as I cruised the lot and the clock sat at 10:59, I spied an open spot and whipped into it, victorious. As I jumped out of the car I noticed a sign . . . .

Hmmm . . . Well. My huffy reasoning was that certainly if the provost intended to work on campus that day he would have shown up by 11:00, right? So he wouldn't be needing his spot, right? And why weren't there enough spaces for us poor adjunct faculty, anyway?? And he's a very collegial man, so I was sure he would understand. Right . . . ?

So I left my car there, but after my first class ended at 12:15, I rushed out to try to move it to a more appropriate spot. But when I got to it, I saw that I was parked in by a big honking SUV with a faculty sticker on it. Hmmph, I thought to myself; the nerve of some people! So I just figured I would go back and teach my second class and when I came back the (other) illegally parked car would be gone.

You see why I was a little resistant to the idea of going to the campus police with my tale of woe, right? I was sure that they would make frowny faces at me for parking illegally, and besides, they were not really able to do anything about the big SUV that prevented me from moving my car. At 2:00, when my last class was over, I looked out toward the parking lot, and saw that I was still parked in. Now this was a problem, because I needed to get back to my real life and my car pool responsibilities. But no. I was stuck.

So -- and this is always a great solution -- I went into the library, grabbed a book I'd been wanting to read for a while, and read it. The whole thing. I highly recommend it -- funny, thought-provoking . . . you'll love it!

And then I looked at my car again. Still trapped! Well, at least I could get some work done, if I grabbed my computer out of the car. So I walked out to the car -- ticketed, of course. And as I approached, I heard the beautiful rich baritone voice that could only belong to one person . . . the provost.

"Is this your car?" he asked, and as I turned around I saw that he had a look on his face that said, you are killing me here.

"Yes, sir -- and I'm so sorry!"

"Well . . . let me move my car so you can leave, loser." No, he didn't call me a loser. But he thought it, I'm sure.

And I'll tell you in case you were wondering -- yes. It is possible for a car to slink away in shame.

My sunny girl rocks!

OK, so I tried my very hardest to upload a video of the sunny girl singing at her spring chorus concert, but I experienced what the urchins refer to as "an epic fail." So instead, try this link to a Facebook version of the video. I really do hope you will be able to check out the fabulous sunny girl, who sang a solo -- and she rocked it, people!

The thing that makes this video so sweet for me (and allows me to overlook my crappy videography) is watching how nervous she is before she starts singing. She wraps one arm around her back, and flashes infinitely brief grins at various parents in the audience as she recognizes them. I know she is thinking, "Oh no! Someone else who will know it's me if I screw this up!"

The last dad whose eyes met hers was the Bar Mitzvah girl's father -- and something about the way he smiled at her calmed her right down. You can see her take a big breath -- and then when she starts to sing she's as cool as a cucumber -- although she squinches up her toes over and over again while she's singing -- hilarious!

And you have no idea how many times she practiced putting the microphone away -- she says that was the most nerve-wracking part of the whole adventure.

For the sunny girl -- for whom singing is like breathing, but whose companions have only heard her sing informally -- it was gratifying to hear a new note of respect in the voices of her friends. She overheard one pal say to another, "Did you know she could do that?!"

Can a book be part of your snow dance?

Behind the fourth door of my Advent calendar is a book that evokes fond kindergarten memories for all three of my urchins. Over the years each of them acted out The Mitten in the winter class play, using puppets on sticks to depict the various animals who take refuge from the snow in one very stretched out mitten.

The sunny girl asked me to choose "a snowy book" for the calendar today, because she is hoping for snow this weekend. Here's hoping her wish comes true!

My girl is full of the clever!

The Bulldawgs are gearing up for Homecoming, and in the run-up to the Big Game the girl in charge has been pressed to show up every day in various "Spiritwear" get-ups.

I need to inform you that the girl in charge does not love Spirit Week. She did participate in "Slippers and Sweats Day" because hello . . . sweats? Obviously. And she has awesome penguin slippers that were yearning to wow the Bulldawgs.

But today -- Cartoon and Super-hero Day, she succumbed to the pressure and made herself this rockin' costume. I asked her how Ms. Pac-man fit into the theme -- is she really a cartoon? The girl in charge snorted dismissively. "Ms. Pac-man is a feminist icon: she was the first female video game character. So clearly she's a super-hero. Good grief, mom -- get with the program!"

Now I feel really old

So I went to my high school reunion this weekend and of course I had a fabulous time. But I cannot begin to tell you how neurotic and angsty I was about getting ready for it. My philosophy vis-a-vis reunions is that appearance is everything. I must look fabulous and yet like I don't care: No, this isn't a new dress. No, I didn't go to the fabulous Pincurls and get my hair glamorized for the event. Shoes? Am I even wearing shoes? I don't remember. People, shallow doesn't even begin to describe my approach to reunions.

So the traumatic event of the night for me occurred when I realized that I was completely unable to make a decision about the crucial choice between the fun-yet-casual sandals and the awesomely fabulous but pointy-to-the-point-of-witchiness pumps. I was paralyzed by the possible ramifications of a poor shoe choice. So I headed next door to get the fabulous neighbor to rescue me. She's awesome with the shoe psychology; she totally gets the importance of the decision, but can intervene from a more neutral point of view. She's like Dr. Drew, only for shoes.

Well, thank goodness for the fabulous neighbor -- but ask me sometime about how her husband slapped me with a piece of pizza, when I banged on his door and said, "I need the fabulous neighbor -- STAT!" Apparently my urgent tone made him think someone at my house had a bone sticking out or something. He just doesn't get the whole shoe thing, I guess.

So once I got to the event, I smiled graciously and strode confidently through the room and parked myself in the far corner. The husband brought me a glass of wine and said, "You know that you can't stand here all night, right?" He just didn't get that I couldn't mingle until Lisa was there to mingle with me. I was also slightly hyperventilating because across the room I saw the boy with a heart full of sweet whom I ditched meanly to go to the prom with a another boy, who ended up coming out to me -- at the prom. Neither of these boys is my husband, of course (with whom I also went to high school) -- and we're all approaching fifty and happily married. But still. The mind was reeling, and I had not had enough wine.

See what I mean about neurotic? People, you don't even know.

And by the way -- is it just me? I remember people, and I just assume they have no idea who I am. So I imagine saying a cheery hello to a high school pal, and having her look back at me with a blank stare. And I was one of those involved girls in high school -- so I don't know where this notion comes from. I sang; I acted in the school plays; I wrote for the yearbook; I acted like an idiot at pep rallies. A story for another day is how I broke my ankle at a pep rally, and then fell down a flight of stairs the next day and broke the other ankle; the point here would be that people knew who I was -- even if it was because I was widely regarded as a giant dork.

Anyway -- the reunion was fabulous, and so were all the charmingly fun people that I was so afraid of. Look how great we all turned out!

I hugged more people than I have since I don't know when. Seriously, hugging was the default greeting: at the door I was hugged by Dale, who sat next to me in French in 8th grade and dragged me toward a passing grade; and the hugs just kept on coming. Sometimes a spouse was mistakenly hugged but bore up under the strain.

This man was so cute in high school and I always had the teensiest little crush on him. His wife is lovely, just so we're clear.

And this woman was just so dear to me in high school. And she still is. I'm so glad I got to spend time with her; it made all the anxiety worth it.

But can I just say that some things never change? My friend Tim was there and people, he snuck in booze! How hilarious is that? Of course this time he wasn't hiding the beer or the cheap vodka because we weren't old enough to drink. No -- he brought his own "good" wine because he was afraid the house wine would give him a migraine. I howled with laughter -- but I was first in line when he offered to share the good stuff.

It was just like high school.