Bad Cold! Bad, Bad Cold!

(Trying to sound like I do when chastising Charlie for chewing up yet another pair of my socks.)


Oh man. I haven't even logged on to my computer at home this whole week. Four of the last five nights I've gone to bed between 7 and 8 o'clock. It's not turning into anything evil, just a rotten cold. I've not gotten sick this whole school year, so I suppose it was overdue. Missing school for a day or two to take it easy is almost more work than sludging through, so I've not taken any time off.

What a whiner I be. I don't know how moms do it. I mean, you still have to take care of the kidlets, no matter how crummy you feel. Ugh. I was feeling guilty because I wasn't taking the wonder dog for his usual long treks, but he dealt with it.

The weather today is supposed to be gorgeous; I'm hoping some sunshine will help me feel better.

Two more months left, 35 days left of school, not that I'm counting. We are in the middle of standardized testing right now, so the schedule is all wonky; the kids test in the morning for 90 to 125 minutes, and then we have shortened classes. It's a drag, because it's hard to work within a 26 -minute period. I mean, I take roll, ask the kids to take out a pencil. Ask them again to take out a pencil, begin something, and boom, end of period. Frustrating for all.

I don't usually write about school here, but I'm going to. We are reading The House of the Scorpion right now, and I got a call a couple days ago from a parent. She didn't want her child reading it, and could I suggest something else? Hmm... I had a parent last year request the same thing, and her reason was that the book was "Junk. It's just junk."

Not too enlightening for me.

So, I asked politely, "What is it about the book you find unacceptable? Is it the cloning?"

See people, I've searched the Internet for anything negative about this book, and I can't find it. It's won award after award after award, and it's a great book. Not just for teenagers, anyone. It's enjoyable, and thought-provoking, even if it does drag on a bit at the end.

I digress.

"Well no, it's not that. It's just that we want our child to read something more... wholesome. Something with a positive message."

"Oh. Well, it really does have a positive message. You know, we have finished reading the Diary of Anne Frank, and we're going to be drawing comparisons to it, and how people should be defined by the content of their character, rather than the labels others give them."

"To be honest, I haven't actually read the book, but I just don't think it's what we want junior to read."

ARGGGHHH!!!

How can someone make a decision about a book he or she has not read? This drives me absolutely insane. Bonkers. Nuts.

So, being that it's junior high, and the parent is always right, I said I'd give the student another book to read.

And now I have even more lessons to prepare because of this one single student. Although it's not her fault. I would have dug a hole and hid if my mother had ever done something like this to me.

35 more days.

Torn's Questions

Torn gave me these questions. He prefaced it with:

Okay five questions. But I already know everything about you.

Oh really?


1. Tell us the sweetest memory you have with mom.

There's many. When she threw me a surprise birthday party for my 30th birthday at my least favorite restuarant so I wouldn't suspect anything. When she cried when I didn't make the Madrigals (the elite singing group of my choir) my senior year in high school. How she still thinks every man around is checking me out. The care packages she would send to me when I was in Japan; taping shows she hated because she knew I liked them (even though she'd have to miss her own shows to do it, since she never figured out how to tape one and watch another at the same time). All the times we went to Las Vegas with my sister; all of us having a good time together.

Oh, and the time she told me where babies come from. I really didn't care, except I was being teased by the other fourth graders. She was in her bathroom, doing her hair, and I was sitting in the doorway, in my pink bikini, because I was going to go swimming at my Grammy's place. I was aghast. I was never going to do it ever, and she'd only done it three times, right? Just to have kids right? I mean, I had a brother and a father, I knew what a penis was; that's what they PEE out of! No one is ever going to stick that thing in me. No way. I remember she just laughed and said that I might change my mind one day. I did.

2. What is your favorite dessert?

...ur... uh... just one? I don't think I can do that. I really love sliced strawberries and Breyer's Natural Vanilla ice cream. Crumbleberry Pie with Breyer's Natural Vanilla ice cream. Homemade cherry pie with Breyer's Natural Vanilla ice cream. Most any dessert-y thing with Breyer's Natural Vanilla ice cream.

3. What is your worst moment with Charlie?

Definitely this time. It's part of a bigger moment though, because Poopala-fiesta happened again two days later. It was horrid.

4. Who did you lose your virginity to?

I totally thought I'd written about this before. Nope. It's a story I've told many times. It's the reason why I'm going to teach my little niece that just because she's a girl, doesn't mean she always has to be nice.

His name was Tony and he was horrible to me. He was the first person to lie to me just because he could.

We had gone out a few times at the beginning of my freshman year in college. Tony was older; was my manager at Jack-in-the-Box (I worked graveyard shifts to pay for school at first) and went to UCSB as well. I actually had had a crush on his roommate, but Tony was the one who noticed me. I had a feeling he was a bit smarmy, but after I got back one night after being out with him, my dad met me in the dining room. Dad said I could continue to go out with Tony, or I could live at home, but I couldn't do both.

Dad's a racist and Tony was black.

So, I did what any 18-year-old would do; kept dating Tony just to prove my independence from my father.

Big mistake.

Tony wanted to "lay with me" as he so delicately put it, and I thought it was time I finally slept with someone, so I made an appointment at the school med-center to get birth control. Tony had informed me that he didn't like condoms. Oh a charmer, that one.

So, that November, on a Sunday, my grandmother died. That Monday, my father was laid off from his job. And then, on Thursday, I failed my second mid-term in Comparative Literature, which meant I was going to flunk the course. I went to Tony's apartment to be consoled. At first, he was very sweet, telling me things were going to get better. We stood up, and we were hugging. He kissed me. Then, still holding me, he started walking toward his bedroom. I stopped at the door. Put my hands on the edge of the doorway, asked him where were we going.

"It's just more comfortable in here."

On the bed, clothes started coming off... I was down to my underwear when I said "Stop." He didn't. I said we needed to wait, that I wasn't on the pill yet, that I wasn't ready, that I wasn't comfortable...

He threw my clothes at me and said "Fine. Get out."

I couldn't handle his being angry at me. I was a good girl. I didn't make people mad. I was polite. Said "excuse me" when someone else bumped their cart into mine at the grocery store.

He knew it. Instead of telling him to go to hell, instead of storming out of there, I instead stayed. Told him I didn't want him mad at me, but I didn't want to get pregnant.

"I can't get you pregnant."
"Huh? What do you mean?" I knew he was lying... he had to be, right?
"I mean I can't get you pregnant."
"Are you saying you're impotant?"
"Yes."
"How do you know?"
"Someone who knows told me."

(Okay, at this point, if you are still reading, you are probably slapping your head and yelling at 18-year-old rebekah, but she can't hear you. I wish she could, but she wasn't even listening to herself. Remember, it had been a very bad week.)

"Oh right. Like who? A doctor?"
"Yeah, a doctor."

In my muddled mind, I let a little part of me believe him, and sat back down on the bed.

It didn't last long, and it hurt like hell. Unpleasant doesn't begin to describe it. All that kept going through my mind (besides the lyrics to Asia's Only Time Will Tell, which was playing on the stereo, and the words of which were rather prophetic), was that all the books and movies and so on, totally had left out the part about sex HURTING so damn much. I was actually wimpering.

He finally stopped, we got dressed, and since it had gotten late, he drove me home (I usually rode my bike the five miles back and forth from school).

In the car? On the way back? He casually said to me,

"By the way, I don't shoot any blanks."

I stared at him.

"I'm a real man."

Yeah, I bet his mother's really proud of him.


5. If you had to choose another job, what would it be? Would you ever want to be principal?

I would want to be a writer. You know, a real writer, not just moaning on the blog. I'd love to be able to write the book that makes someone else wish he or she had written it first. Imagine being able to inspire others the way Anne Lammott or Dorothy Parker have inspired me.

And no. No. Way. In. Hell. I would never, ever want to be a principal. The joy of my job comes from being with the students every day, and using my creativity when I make a lesson plan, and all the learning I do myself. Not the bureaucracy and politics and bullshit of education. Yeah, a principal makes three times as much as I do, but no thanks.

Thirteen Thursday # 10

Thirteen things in my purse:

1. Six pens. Pink, purple, green, and three black ones. I’m always grading papers, and don’t like to use red. Whenever I’m waiting somewhere, I pull out papers and go to work. Don’t ask me why I need three black pens.

2. Empty eyeglass case. I wore my sunglasses yesterday afternoon, and never put them back. Notice the swanky Valentino name on the outside though? That’s because I’m swank.

3. 68 cents in change. It piles up inside the depths until it gets too heavy and I put it inside my…

4. Overstuffed, black leather wallet. There’s some receipt hanging out of it (remember my habit from last week?) and $23 in bills. Also my driver’s license with a good picture. I have to renew it this summer, and am praying to the gods of the DMV to let me keep the old pic.

5. A receipt from an Amtrak refund. Dated 11/21/06. It’s from my trip out to New York last Thanksgiving. I had no idea it was still in there.

6. Ticket stub from the Dodger game I went to Sunday night. They won, 9-3. I don’t really care about baseball, but I go once a year on “teacher’s night.” It was also Jackie Robinson Day, and someone had to explain to me why all the players were wearing the number 42.

7. Three old band-aids, an emery board, a metal nail file, eye drops, Advil, one Imodium tablet, and my asthma inhaler. One can never be too prepared. Or, maybe I’m just practicing to be a mom.

8. Lime green checkbook. Mom got it for me for Christmas a couple of years ago. One of my favorite colors, but it doesn’t stay very clean. Last check I wrote? To myself for $40.

9. Cosmetics. A girl’s gotta look good, right? Let’s see, there’s a Labello hydro care lip balm. I got it the last time I visited Torn in Montreal. It’s by a German company, made in Mexico, and distributed in Quebec. I’ve never seen this brand in the states. Then there’s a Pure Spring lip gloss in Chocolate Mint; it’s a Rite-aid store brand. I bought it for half-price in Seattle when I was there in February. A MAC lipstick in “Tease Me…” (yes, that’s really the name of it), and a benefit creaseless cream eyeshadow in “Scrapin’ the Rail.” Just in case my eyes need to be sparkly.

10. Two butter rum lifesavers. It’s the end of a roll I’ve been hoarding. It’s not like I couldn’t go out and buy another package, but I never do. They remind me of my Grampy.

11. Instant Hand Sanitizing spray from CVS. Impulse buy. After all these years working around kids, I’m a little weird now about germs. Never used to be. And yeah, yeah, I know, these kill the good bacteria too. Whatever.

12. Little packet of tissues. I have really bad allergies. Really a drag to sneeze and have nothing to…uh… mop it up with. I always have tissues.

13. Coupons. That pink one is for a Pria energy bar. Buy one, get one free. I love a a bargain.

Supposed to be breaking out my sandals by now

I can't truly complain, but dang, it's cold for this time of year. The wind has me thinking I'm going to wake up in Oz any day now.

Nothing to compare to what's happening out East or around my Canadian buddies, but still.

On the bright side, it's easier to teach when the kids aren't staring out the window and pining for the beach. Teaching when it's beautiful outside is torture, for both them and me. So, the cold weather is a good thing.

(If I keep saying that, maybe I'll believe it).

On Center of Gravitas, gayprof talked about how he became the prof part of "gayprof." As a student he thought he might become a teacher. I teased him a bit about this.

See, he got it right. Too many folks do well in school, feel safe in that known world, and think, "hey, I'll be a teacher!" They don't realize that teaching isn't the same as being a student. I see student teachers and pre-professionals (to become a student teacher in California, one must log at least 120 hours of volunteer work in classrooms or other situations with children and teenagers), all the time. They are overwhelmed by what it truly means to do this job.

I never wanted to be a teacher. Not me. No way. Too much work, not enough pay, and no respect at all. Nope, I was going to work for a publishing company. Or as a technical writer (hah!) or write the great American novel. No teaching for me.

And here I am.

After graduating with an English degree, in 1986, there was a recession going on. No one wanted to hire me. I ended up at Seven-11 and a Hallmark store, riding my bike to both, because I couldn't afford a car. I shared a tiny 1-bedroom apartment with a girl I knew from school. When she was mad at me, she wouldn't tell me, just eat my food and then vomit it up.

Not a good situation.

So, teaching? How did I get here?

Little by little, I got better jobs. I had several working with developmentally disabled children, and then adults. It was teaching, but not really.

Then a friend who was teaching in Japan told me to apply, and I did, and boom. I was a teacher.

Three years in Nishinomya, teaching 400-450 students a day. I was a teacher already, but still, didn't want to face it. I was "on an adventure," not prepping myself for my career.

Back home, I got a job as an instructor for adults with mental illnesses... yes, a teacher again.

Finally I got it. Whether I fought it or not, a teacher was who I was. Ten years after leaving school, I was back, getting my credential.

Even that wasn't easy. The first time I applied to grad school, I was turned down. Yeah, okay, I was on the "waiting list" and they only accepted 10 people, but still. I called and asked what I needed to do to be better qualified (seeing that I'd taught for three years in Japan, taught as a teacher's aide in several special ed classrooms, and had volunteered in several more). I asked where I was on this "waiting list."

After some awkward hemming and hawing on the other end of the phone, I was told that they wanted to maintain a certain level of "diversity" and that they were trying to keep a "balance" of teachers in the program. That the "waiting list" wasn't a numbered list, but rather a list of "matches." She went on to explain what this meant; "you see, you white, middle-class female, you are a dime a dozen in the teaching profession, and don't even get me started about English teachers specifically. You don't have a snowball's chance in Hell in getting into this program this year."

I may have paraphrased somewhat, but you get it.


Reverse discrimination? I wouldn't call it that. I believe that students need to have teachers with whom they can identify. Does that mean I have to be the same gender, color, ethnicity and from the same socio-economic background? Of that, I'm not so sure. Could I have made a stink about it? Maybe, but even though I was hurt and disappointed, it made me think. I still think about it. We do need more diversity in the teaching field, and I'm not adding any (except of course, my sparkling wit and charm...), but should I be punished for that?

Another post.

I actually got an emergency credential, was paid for teaching, applied the next year, and got into the credential program.

Ten years later, here I am. I've never gotten tired of this job, this profession I've chosen. I get paid to care about other people's futures. Could I get into research? Sure. Do I still want to write that novel? Of course.

But day to day? I'm a teacher. And I'm happy.

Thirteen Thursday # 9

Thirteen Habits of Mine:

1. I blow my nose very loudly. Crazy, old-man-with-a-hanky loudly. Just like my father. Sister told me recently that she doesn’t use Kleenex because she never blows her nose. She said she never wanted to sound like Dad or me, so she just sniffs.

2. I remove tags from clothes almost immediately. Tags on shirts drive me nuts. I’ve destroyed shirts by ripping out the tags, which have been fastened with some super-strength thread, just because I couldn’t take the time to find a pair of scissors.

3. I wash dishes in the morning, not at night. Right before I go to bed, I don’t want to get my hands all yucky in the food and drink and soap water. I do it when I get up, drink my coffee and take a shower.

4. I save gas receipts. No reason. I have a little pocket in the driver’s door, which has receipts dating back five or six years. Some are so faded I can’t even read them. Suppose I should throw them out.

5. I use all kinds of things to scratch my back. Pencils, rulers, closed scissors, a coat hanger. I have a wooden back scratcher thingee, but never know where it is. It kinda of cracks my students up when I’m in front of the class and stick a ruler down the back of my shirt to satisfy an itch. I’m unaware I’m doing it until they start laughing.

6. My dresser drawers and closet are VERY organized. Things are sorted by style and length. Sleeveless, then short sleeves (woven on one side, knit on the other) long sleeves, etc. Nothing is ever squished in anywhere. And, that’s my problem. If something doesn’t have a place, it doesn’t get put away, and that’s why most of my house is a mess.

7. I make faces in the mirror sometimes just to crack myself up.

8. After a shower I dry off, use face moisturizer, spray stuff into my hair, then body lotion. Always in that order.

9. Going out of the house without earrings or a watch makes me feel naked, but I often wear no make-up.

10. Diana Ross and the Supremes is usually what I play when I’m cleaning the house.

11. Clothes I buy will come home with me from the store and visit for a while. I leave the tags on them, look at them, try them on again, and sometimes months later, return them to the store. But no, I don’t wear something and then try to return it.

12. My name and the date I bought/started to read it is on the inside cover of most books I own. It must be a teacher thing (I put my name on all my classroom books), but the date? Don’t know when I started that.

13. Every time I see a penny on the ground, I pick it up for good luck. If I start to walk past it, I inevitably turn around to get it. I don’t really believe anything will happen, but then again… on the other hand, if I drop a penny, I always leave it for someone else to find.

Is there a reason

why people are jumping all over Imus or Amus or Anus or whatever-the-hell-his-name-is about being racist and saying nothing about his sexism?

Nothing. I 'm hearing nothing.

He called the female basketball players, "Nappy-headed 'ho's." I'm not saying it wasn't racist but wait a god damn minute.

Has he given any reason he used that phrase other than "poor judgement?" Why would he say that? Why?

He was calling the whole team a bunch of prostitutes? Who does that? Okay, rappers, but they're jerks too.

I would love to see how men come to the conclusion that calling a woman a "'ho" is acceptable. Me, I don't even like the term "chicks" but 'ho?

Okay, if the woman is actually a "Lady of the night," then I suppose using the term, while rude, would be accurate.

I'm trying to think of a comparable term to call men, perhaps call a whole team of football players, but I can't. One doesn't exist.

Linguistically, or culturally, when did this word become a catch-all phrase? It's purpose is to demean. Why would this radio guy say it?

Scratching my head here people.

Pissed off

I'm so angry tonight that I can't write.

Everything I do put down looks whiny and sophomoric.

I wish sometimes I could just be a demanding bitch, and get everyone to do things for me.

But I can't.

fuck.

Thirteen Thursday # 8

Thirteen Things That Make Me Happy:

1. Clean, 100% cotton sheets that have been dried on the line. It’s something about the sunshine or the fresh air, or maybe just my imagination, but it smells so darn good!

2. Walking on Hendry’s Beach with the Wonder Dog. It doesn’t matter if it’s hot or cold, whether it’s early morning or sunset or the middle of the day. It always makes me feel good about living.

3. Going to Las Vegas with Torn. We’ve been going for many years together. We used to go with my mother, and sometimes twice a year, but now only in the summer. Last year was the first time I won anything of note, but it’s always a great time. It’s like a little fantasy world; no phones, no responsibilities… just the chance we might win big, free drinks, and laughing, laughing, laughing.

4. A clean house. It’s rare with me these days. Okay, it’s unheard of with me these days, but it has been known to happen. It’s a curse really; I hate keeping house, but love to have folks over. It’s the one thing that keeps me from going over the edge into pigsty-dom.

5. Fathers enjoying their kids. This gets me every time. It doesn’t matter if the child is a toddler or a teenager. You can tell when a dad is having a good time just being with his son or daughter. It can actually make me cry (if I’m PMSing).

6. Getting a pedicure. Bright red polish is my favorite toenail color. I have the feet of a hobbit, and this is my one indulgence. I never get manicures though.

7. Getting a card or little something in the mail for no reason. This doesn’t happen too much. People are just too busy. I try to remember that and do it for others instead.

8. Going out to lunch after 8th grade graduation with my teacher buddies. We’re all dressed up already, and we usually go somewhere kinda swank. We usually have a few glasses of wine, and it feels a little sneaky, like we’re playing hooky on a school day.

9. Saturday barbeques with my friends. This doesn’t happen much anymore, but I’ve just bought a little gas grill for my backyard. I’m going to start it up again. There was a time I used to bbq with my roommate and our friends every weekend. I haven’t had a roommate for eight years now.

10. Wine tasting when I’m not the designated driver. The Santa Ynez Valley (just inland from Santa Barbara) is an awesomely beautiful place, and when have you ever met grouchy people wine-tasting?

11. The first kiss. You know, when you aren’t sure it’s going to happen, and then it does? So, it’s been a while for me. I know. But that doesn’t mean I don’t remember. Way, way back in my memory. It’s there. If I dig deep. Really deep. I mean China deep. But yeah, I love the first kiss, when everything’s a possibility, and nothing is a given.

12. Shopping in the Misses clothing department rather than the WOMAN’S clothing department. Yes, I’m in the largest size of the Misses department, but who cares? I’m no longer in the tunic and tracksuit community. The choices I have now are wonderful. Especially the dresses. Yahoo for dresses!

13. Being recognized. This is a huge deal for me. It can be something as small as saying “thank you for being such a good friend” to winning the Fulbright. For some reason, I have a lot of friends who aren’t comfortable with the “warm fuzzies” so even though I know they love me, it always makes my heart swell a little when they actually do tell me why they’re glad I’m their friend. And then, my job does not lend itself to commendations; the people that see me perform it are 13 years old. And, many of them take it upon themselves to keep me from performing that job. So, when a parent tells me I’m junior’s favorite teacher? Whoo boy… I can live off that for a long time.

A Good Day

I got up early today, got a load of wash going before 7 am. At 7:19, I got a phone call.

This friend and I used to walk our dogs together almost every weekend, and most every day during the summer. Then her dog died, and my friend took it hard. She didn't want to walk with me and Charlie-Boy; too painful.

She's been having a tough time all around this year, and I've seen her outside of school maybe just once or twice (and like gayprof, when I say "year" I'm always referring to the academic calendar).

Imagine my surprise when she suggested we go walk with the wonderdog at a new park that's been created nearby. We met at The Daily Grind, sat and drank our coffee and talked and talked. Went to the new park and walked and talked and talked. Stood by our cars and talked some more. Walked around the park a second time and kept talking.

At 11:45, we decided to go to The Brewhouse (place of oh-so-delicious homemade potato chips covered with melted Gorgonzola), and eat and talk some more.

It was great.

This Spring Break has not been the best, but today made up for it a little. I'm lonely, and most of my teacher friends are away on some fun kind of trip. I'm here, doing laundry and cleaning my bathroom. Three different people I've called haven't seen fit to call back. It hurts, because I know all of them check their cell phones, which means they just chose not to call back.

The Fulbright exchange was going to shake my life up, in a good way... but now it's not.

And I'm still here, a little adrift, trying to figure out what I need to do to meet people.

Today was a good day.

What Not to Wear

I so love this show. I'm home on break still, and was vegging out in front of the marathon of this last night. The hosts are horrible to the women that are on the show, but if I could get $5000 for new clothes and a trip to New York, I'd deal. The whole new hair and make up thing I could get behind too.

Although, I don't have much hair at the moment for them to fiddle with.

However, the kinds of women they choose never seem to be, how shall I put it, the full-figured types. Oh, they'll have some big-breasted size 10 woman, but not a truly large woman.

When I talk about losing weight, so much of it is wrapped up in the clothing choices I would have. We all know that no matter what our size, we have problem areas; our butt is too big, too small, too flat, too shelf-like. Our arms are too fat, too jiggle-ly too scrawny. Our waist is too big, our hips are too big, our thighs are too big, our chest is too small.

It seems to me though, that at least, if I was just a couple sizes smaller, a whole world of clothes would open up to me. Just a size 12. Which is still considered "big and beautiful," which is the size of most "plus" size models.

Wait a minute, I thought plus sizes started at 16?

Oh yeah, that's the real world.

Because I have some control over my size, it allows the world, society, snotty teenage boys, the right to make fun of me. To discriminate against me. To expect me to work harder than a skinny little petite woman at appearing "presentable."

Eh.

I don't have the energy for a rant. And the whole non-complaining thing is keeping me subdued as well. I should go walk the dog.

Isn't she sweet?

(and no, I wasn't the one who bought that shirt. It actually was a hand-me-down. Sister made sure Ethel was wearing it when I went down last weekend. How cute is that?)