When I See You Walk Across The Campus

Matt's out of town again.
I'm taking suggestions for how *I* should start my getting paid to travel exclusively to awesome destinations during the workweek, flying first class. Public education, I like you, but you will never send me anywhere first class.
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"Beer!"
"Sweets!"
"Using the Lord's name in vain!"
Happy birthday Carly, you can have all the ice cream cake you care to eat.
I probably should have chosen something I could go back to guilt-free after Lent.
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Had a great Easter celebration Sunday with the nuclear family churching and dining and watching of Batman Begins. [Awesome except for the trademark Katie Holmes smirk.] We like to mix it up. Sometimes we take a "Christmas card" picture.
I used to wish for spontaneous traditions to emerge among my friends. Perhaps it was a result of being in what felt like constant flux: Go to school. Go home for summers and breaks. Go back to school. Study abroad. Come home. Graduate. Move home with parents. Move out.
Recently I said something like, "Yeah, it must've been about a year ago or sometime during college..." and Matt had to interrupt to remind me that we graduated four years ago.
Huh. So you're saying I should stop using my student ID?

When I See You Smile

My Thursday night was muchly improved when I walked past a giant black man standing in the greeting cards section of Target, giggling to himself. Kind of along the same lines as this big guy, little ukelele theory of humor.
I spent my Friday night talking to 8th grade girls about how to be better friends to themselves and others. To wit, I shared with them an entry from my entirely embarrassing Diary of Crushes and Pettiness for which I Will Never Properly Atone. I gauge my presentation as moderately to largely ineffective, but my audience meter was down that night, so I guess we'll never know.
P.S. Can anyone tell me where I can find a battery made of unicorn mane and fairy dust?
Wow! Holy crap! I almost left you without saying: It's St. Patrick's Day! Hi. Hi. Check this out.

Taking Notes

I'm sitting on an exercise ball. It's part of my new approach.
Nicki and I attended a conference last week about working with difficult and hard-to-reach students. Most of the strategies were not about changing the kids, but about managing our own perceptions. Aaaahhh! Tricky!
The perception I'm changing today is that I need a regular chair.
The perception I'll change tomorrow is that I am gradually sinking into the floor because this exercise ball cannot support me.

Maggie's Getting Married

Somewhere between the "How Well Do You Know Your Fiance?" game and the Hungarian's arrival, we had an [olive] oil spill and 1.5 head-to-wall collisions. Angie #2 downed a quart of vodka. Maggie spilled cranberry juice on her white pants. I stopped counting the number of Victoria's Secret bags when I got to 7.
The tanned, waxed Hungarian "Firefighter" got down to his spiderman thong. Personally, I preferred the clothes-on version. Or at least the non-defilement of superheros version. He provided the soundtrack. The rest of us provided the gawking. Eventually it wore off.
What do you do when nobody is interested in watching the stripper anymore? Ask him to leave? Offer him chips and salsa? Make the oil slick kitchen floor into a slip n' slide? We all slowly returned to our previous conversations and helped him gather up his dollar bills. Because it would've been totally degrading to make him get them himself.

26 on the 26th

The golden birthday was a total success. Except for the fact that I made a preemptive strike on the pressure of birthday dinner and chose Wendy's instead. Roommate Nicki has counseled me out of all future social functions.
But yesterday was lovely. Best parking spots all day long. My students indiscreetly gathered around to sing to me in an atonal masse. They stopped what they were doing, which is a nice touch. I think one of them even looked up from text messaging.
Sorry, I'm tearing up.
Matt and I are off to NYC for the weekend, where I can try out my social anxiety on a larger population.

No mini-quiches were harmed during the making of this blog.

Q: Is there anything more awkward than a wedding shower?
A: No. (Exception: A wedding shower in which the groom's mother asks what will happen on the honeymoon.)
In related news, my sister's heart stopped beating for a brief moment around 5:00 pm yesterday. All of the blood rushed to her cheeks and didn't remember how to get back down to the right atrium.
Q: Why do I sometimes use words like "lovely" in the company of strangers?
A: You are being inhabited by the 80 year-old version of yourself. Her vocabulary is limited. (At age 79.5, your physician is contractually obligated to activate the Old Lady Word Switch. You might also begin to say "dear" and "hips" more often. Other side effects include an aversion to garlic and requests for coffee at 4 pm.)
Q: How do you win an Oscar?
A: Uglify yourself. But you still have to be a knockout when the eyebrow pencil comes off.

Valentine's Day: February's New Year's Eve

An hour after four procrastinators get together to eat dinner on the Romantic Holiday of Obligation and find that all female-fearing boyfriends called ahead, we end up at Psycho Suzi's where (surprise!) they have tables available.
Matt orders a ceramic panda full of booze and our conversation gets railroaded by acquaintances at neighboring tables. What are the odds?
Pretty good. We know a lot of lazy people.
Eventually we return to ourselves and soon we're fighting about whether he was addicted to Percocet and whether I work for the enemy. I make it uncomfortable enough for Brent and Maggie to stop eating. Somewhere around the words "Exaggeration Station," I believe.
We leave in cranky silence. My head is pounding. What did I even say? What did he say? Damn this fight amnesia! Wait, did he just call me ridiculous?!
Yell! Yell! Loudness!
The expectations are too high. I have to look nice AND be agreeable?! No. I cannot. Who can withstand the pressure?!!!!

At the end of the night, on the phone, I tell him I hate him. And he knows it's love.

Valentines Aplenty: The Jailbait Edition

Nothing helps me celebrate this holiday like a bunch of propositions.
Student #1: Hey, Short Legs.
Me: Hey, Owen.
S1: What you doin' tonight?
Me: Who can say? Probably dinner with my boyfriend.
S1: I'll take you out.
Me: Aw, thanks, but you should probably just get your homework done.

Hours later, addressing the changing economy and rising oil prices:
Student #2: Your husband ain't taking you out?
Me: Boyfriend. And I'm not sure what we're doing yet.
S2: Ooh. I would take you out to a movie and Benihana....
Me: Benihana?! Wow. Do you have plans with someone?
S2: Nah.
Me: You should do something nice for your mom. A little chocolate.
S2: I'll give her gas.
Me: Ah. Well. That's what every woman really wants.

Or Maybe I Won't

File this one under "Conversations at Work that Probably Reveal Too Much About Your Weekend Habits, When I Was Just Asking for Some General Information, Maybe a Story About Your Family Or, Even Your Hopes and Dreams":
He: What's up? What's going on? Kids wearing you out?
Me: Oh, I'm ready for the weekend. I'm always surprised at the drama that can happen in the space of three days.
He: Yeah.
Me: Anything new with you?
He: I just can't wait for the weekend: to get drunk and sleep.
Me: [Polite laughter]
He: Kind of a light-weight, though. It only takes me three beers.
Me: [More polite laughter, slightly turning around in my chair to the recycling bin under my desk.]
He: Yeah, I used to be able to drink more, but not now.
Me: ...
Me: ...Well, see you tomorrow.

Tough Love

"This job has taught you a lot about parenting."
Um. Great. I...can't...wait?
In the after-school special that is my life working with "high risk" students, I scored a moral victory last week.
Leading up to this major performance we determined that it was time to set some academic goals: If you want to become a team, you will have to play by state high school league standards. Our standards for ourselves include no failing grades. No Fs. Well, you've got three. You can't dance with the rest of the group at the pepfest on Friday. I'm sorry.
Cut to final rehearsal in cafeteria. "We don't dance unless he dances with us. He's our captain."
That's your choice. But I've put as much of myself into this as you. If you want to throw it away...
And, separately: Do not run out on stage. If you do, you will lose every opportunity for the rest of the year and the beginning of the next.
We left it unresolved on Thursday--Who would dance? Who would protest?
When Friday morning arrived, they crouched waiting to go on stage. I took him aside:
I know it's hard for you. Nobody wants to be the example. I just wanted to let you know that I think you're making the mature choice here. Thank you for coming to support your group.
They killed it, of course. They didn't need him out there. They just needed to know that he would be in the audience, cheering them on. He was. I was.
Boundaries. Limits. Parenting.
Gray hair.