The Real Adventure

Is Skyping my mom. I did it earlier today in a bout of boredom after Jack left for work and was reminded of all the things she does that always keep the person she's Skyping guessing. Like...

...the fact that her webcam works about 14% of the time. I'd like to attribute it to technical difficulties, but I think the real reason is her inability to find the "Add Video" button. This means that instead of truly videochatting, I'm stuck staring at a tiny screen image of myself in the bottom right hand corner of my screen knowing that my mom is watching me, kind of like a stalker.

...her understanding that just because I can't see her means I can't hear her. Whenever she picks up the call, she's always yelling. Usually, I can hear the telltale intro music to Law and Order blasting in the background. The loudness is compounded by her tendency to add a vowel to the end of most words and hold them out for extended periods of time ("Sariiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!").

...the random things that happen during the interaction.

In the middle of a story, it suddenly sounded as if her computer had been picked up by a tornado.

"What are you doing?" I shouted over the noise. It stopped.

"Oh, I was just cleaning out my keyboard. You know, with one of those air sprayers."

Not exactly the right time, Mom.

At least it's always entertaining.

Restless

Sometimes when I have too much free time bad ideas begin to sound like better ides, then they almost start to sound like good ideas. I'm wondering how good the following ideas are...

• Getting a puppy
• Piercing my nose
• Tricking myself into training for a triathlon
• Paying to go to the zoo by myself
• Volunteering to work with children
• Driving around the Deep South trying to find where my friends from Charlotte live

Thoughts?

Filling Time

The number of my blog posts is inversely related to the amount of time I have. Or at least I think it is... it's been awhile since I've done math beyond the single-digit addition required of first graders.

To be clear, I have a lot of free time. Time I've spent visiting friends/family, training and starting my new waitressing job, reading for fun (unheard of!), cooking, and acting reeeeeeal chill about starting law school in the fall. Well, for the most part.

Who has time for blogging when you're catching up on every single TV show available On Demand? Not this girl.

The truth is, my life has been pretty uneventful now that I'm done teaching. I could tell you about working in a restaurant where I leave every day feeling like I'm coated with a thin layer of ranch dressing, but I doubt anyone would be all that interested in that. Likely, too, that people are uninterested in the other mundane details of my life, but I'll share a few of the (slightly) more interesting ones.

• I got carded going into a rated-R movie (Horrible Bosses). Great movie, and definitely not appropriate for those under seventeen. But it is appropriate for 24-year-olds (like myself).
• I made authentic southern fried chicken for the first time. I need some practice.
• I've already corrected my two-year long sleep deficit and am currently functioning on a sleep surplus. Take note, America. Maybe I could fix this whole debt issue we've got.

The Welcome Boat

I know it's normally called the welcome wagon, but I'm so special that I got welcomed into Greenville by a boat. Jack (and the rest of the people at the Greenville Drive) had the past three days off because of the All-Star Break and we got invited to spend it at a lake house in Georgia. I was a little anxious because I was going somewhere where I didn't know anyone and had no escape route besides running away. And given how my workouts have been going, I'd probably only make it about 100 yards before keeling over and crawling back to get some water.

The Fiorillos have two basic rules for making someone new feel welcome: (1) Give them a lot of alcohol and (2) Make numerous inappropriate sexual comments. Whether it's my dad subtly putting a second beer in front of you or my mom trying to make the "Shocker" symbol with her hand, people tend to loosen up pretty quickly (or they leave). This weekend (week beginning? What do you call Monday-Wednesday?) I realized that I do it to make myself more comfortable... which meant Jack's friends had better be comfortable with a little bit of drinking and several under-my-breath boner jokes. I made guacamole as a safety net in case they weren't.

It turned out being awesome- perfect weather, an entire day out on the boat, jumping off a giant rock (eek!), and more Catchphrase than I've played in the first 24 years of my life. It was a great start to the move down here, as long as all my new friends don't tire of my sense of humor.

It's a Man's World

I moved into Jack's apartment for the summer this week. I'll save my tearful Charlotte goodbyes for a later blog since my days have been mainly consumed with unpacking all my junk into the place HE'S been living for a month and a half.

Lucky for me, he cleaned up AND made space for my stuff (as he enthusiastically told me several times) so that I could get settled in, stress-free, while he was video-taping minor league baseball players "swings" (butts) until 11:00 my first day here in Greenville.

Jack and I have been dating long enough for me to know a lot about his living habits, especially since we've been long distance and generally spend several days and nights together at once. For example- he always lays his toothbrush on his toothpaste, rather than getting a cup to put them in. He cleans his ears frequently (who doesn't? Ear canals be damned!). His laundry basket always has at least one article of clothing draped over the side.

But there are little things about a person's living space that you don't pick up on until you are very conscious that you are moving in with them (even if only for the summer). And I picked up on some things that any girl needs to bring with her when moving in with ANY boy.

To be clear, I'm not picking on Jack. He has no flaws aside from the flaws that each member of his gender share (point for Sara!)

1. A box of trash bags: boys don't throw things away. Well, they SORT OF do. Jack didn't lie when he said he cleaned up for me, because he did. But I kept finding all these empty bottles and boxes on the ground. Or in the place where they would belong if they were still full. There was the half-dented Irish Spring soap box next to the shower, an empty mouthwash bottle on the sink, and an empty Advil bottle on his dresser. I think boys think that just because it won't make a mess when it isn't in the trash means they don't have to throw it away. I called my mom to investigate further.

"When I was cleaning out dad's shower yesterday, I threw away three empty bottles of shampoo."

2. Conditioner: that's because men, ever efficient, use grooming products that combine as many functions as possible. This is what is in Jack's shower:

Hair and body wash. I bet it can also be used as toothpaste and toilet cleaner. To upgrade, he bought a bottle of Head n' Shoulders 2 in 1 (specifically for me), but unless you want your hair to look like its been zapped by a taser, I suggest bringing your own beauty products.

3. A toilet brush: I don't think many boys know what this is used for. A plunger, yes, but a toilet brush, no. They'd be as lost identifying its use as they would for eyelash curlers. Most male apartments I've been in seem to have toilets that have never seen a toilet brush. I genuinely think this is because they think that the toilet is naturally stained like that (Jack's case), but bring one and show them the light. Just be sure that it's used to clean the toilet, not as some kinky sex toy (you never know when they might be confused).

4. An air freshener: not because boys smell bad (though some might). I did this because I wanted Jack to think that I (and my stuff) naturally smell like lavender and vanilla. It's even better when you can hide the air freshener so they really think it is just you. I put mine behind the bed. When Jack got home from work the day I moved in, he walked in to his room and goes, "Wow! It smells good in here."

Yeah, that's just me and my stuff. That's what I smell like all the time.

4. An open mind: women are naturally snoopers. Now necessarily because they're looking for ill intentions, but I think because they're curious and like to be in control. This needs to be reigned in when you move in with someone, because you are going to find some weird things partly because of bullet number one (their tendency to NOT throw things away). As I was bringing my stuff in, I found two very strange things.

In case you're wondering, that is a creepy plastic headband usually worn by middle-aged women in windsuits and a bottle of German baby shampoo. Now, either Jack is cheating on me with a German immigrant who is also a single mother, or these things were just left in his apartment (which is fully furnished, making it easier to leave things behind when moving out) by the former tenant (presumably a German immigrant who is also a single mother).

I'll be throwing both away with the other empty bottles.

Awkward Turtle

I HATE packing. On most occasions, I've been able to knock it out in one day, piling everything into my mom's minivan and dad's truck and then going off on my way. I'm not afforded that luxury now. Half my stuff will go to Greenville, where I'm living for the summer, and the rest goes back home, only to sit in boxes and bins and garbage bags and God knows what other types of containers until I get to start the whole process over again when I move to Boston in September. I also have way more stuff (read: junk) to account for since Charlotte was really my first home.

*Extended side note: YES, my mom still has a minivan. She bought it after all three of her kids were already in (or graduated from) college, complete with an entertainment system in the back. Why, you might ask, would a mother with kids in college need a minivan with an entertainment system in the back? When we take road trips now, we generally come in separate modes of transportation since we're coming from different places. And no one needs a DVD player when you're driving around town, especially when your town is approximately one square mile. She got it so that when her and my dad are traipsing around for retirement, she can sit in the way way back (we've always called the bench seat the way way back and I am just now realizing how juvenile it sounds in writing) and watch the Office/nap/stretch her legs out while my dad drives. But this is all beside the point.
 
So here I am, blogging up until the very last moment we have internet, surrounded by piles and piles of clothes and bedding and pens (seriously, how have I acquired so many pens over the past two years?), with nothing to do except sulk about how much packing there is to do (packing that will need to be done again in such a short amount of time). UGH.

This is my only outlet of escape. I can't watch TV because our TV's gone. I can't eat, because all our dishes are packed up. I can't work out because I am not very strategic in my clothing packing and the only thing I've left out for the past three days are my bathing suit and a pair of flip flops. I've had to pull random oversized t-shirts out of the nooks and crannies of laundry baskets and Sterilite snap bins just to go out to my car. Clearly, I'm under a little bit of pressure, especially with summer breathing down my neck and not a single thing planned out except that I'm moving to live with Jack and I'm bringing at least ten unread books. THAT'S IT. The other major stress is whether everything will fit in the truck when my dad comes down next week. Which leads me to mention- the Turtle.

The Turtle and I have a love-hate relationship. Wait... just a hate relationship. A long time ago, my parents decided that a minivan was just not big enough to pack things into when we went on long trips. They needed some kind extra space... a backpack for a car, if you will. So they bought the Turtle. A plastic hump that you strap onto the top of the car to give you a little bit more room to fit things. Why do I hate the Turtle? Let me count the ways.

1. It's loud: On a good day, the only thing you hear from the turtle is the occasional slap of one of its straps hitting the side of the car. On a bad day (meaning almost every time it was on our car), you hear the constant FWAP FWAP FWAP FWAP FWAP, punctuated by a loud PING! every so often. We took a 24 hour road trip to Florida every year, usually without stopping. You do the math.
2. It's disgusting: You know what your car looks like after driving through the swampy humidity of southern states like Georgia. We'd have to draw straws for who would have to unlatch the front latch.
3. The latches: I should say "latches". There are none left. The Turtle is as old as I am, so over the years, the snaps that hold the thing shut have disappeared. You'd think that would be the cue to trash it and buy a new one (or just not have a Turtle anymore), but my thrifty father would have none of that. "There's nothing wrong with the Turtle!" he says as he cuts a wire coat hanger and threads it strategically through the clasps, securing it with pliers.
4. There IS something wrong with the Turtle: this one is going to need some sub bullets:

1. The time when the top wasn't latched down and it flew open, causing our tent and several pillows to fly off the top of our car on the side of the road. We found the tent three weeks later (What a save!).
2. The time when the top wasn't latched down and THE WHOLE TURTLE FLEW OFF OUR CAR. My dad went back and got it ("There's nothing wrong with the Turtle!").
3. The time when we crushed the turtle backing out of a carport. It got completely mangled. In my head, I was cheering- "Yes! The demise of the Turtle! They're finally going to throw it away!" My dad, banging out the dents with his hand- "There's nothing wrong with the Turtle!"
4. The time when the Turtle was leaking (aka every time after it got crushed by the carport) and we have to double pack everything in black plastic garbage bags. We looked REALLY classy unpacking this stuff when we went to Disney World.
   
5. The time when my parents showed up to move me out from college with the Turtle after I specifically asked them not to. I'm still not ready to talk about this one.
5. And finally- why is it called the Turtle when the picture on it clearly shows a snail?

I think it's obvious how much I hate the Turtle. Which is why this next statement is going to tell you just how much this whole packing thing is stressing me out. In a text message draft at approximately 8:32 pm last night, I almost asked my mom- "I'm afraid everything won't fit. Maybe you should bring the Turtle." I cringed thinking about sending it. It's like considering dating your third grade boyfriend again when you're living at home in your parents basement and you know you're better than that. But then, like magic, came the saving text from my mom- "Dad might bring an enclosed trailer on the back of the truck."

Phew! That was a close one.

*End note: I still HATE the Turtle.

Over.

I'm struggling to put into words exactly how I feel right now. My two years are up. My short-lived teaching career is over. Tomorrow, I will pack up the last pieces of my classroom and leave J. H. Gunn Elementary forever. While I do that, I'll find remnants of my students everywhere- the Disney tracings that Glenda gave me, the pencils Jaelyn tore erasers out of, the thirteen toy cars I confiscated from Sean.

I'll think of my kids from last year. Of Jacob, who figured out how multiplication worked on his own but could barely read. Of Taylor, who got a nosebleed every single day when we packed up. I'll think of Briona and the day I found bruises handprinted up her arms and onto her back. The sadness that was constantly behind Juwon's eyes.

I'll remember the days I hated it more than anything, the days when I was waiting in the parking lot at 5:25 am for the janitor to come and open the doors. The days when it was dark as I walked alone to my car. I'll remember my desperate hours spent planning, worrying, wondering how I would get some of these kids to read. I'll remember my craziest days when I wanted to go back to where I found myself after that first day, curled up in my cubby sobbing to my mom on the phone. The books and pencils and chairs that got thrown at me. The slammed doors. I'll remember the Mondays that felt like a whole week by themselves, the paperwork that took up hours of time. I'll remember the pain I felt knowing about the lives some of my kids led, lives filled with poverty and problems and neglect.

But most of all, I'll remember the moments when it all came together. When I asked how Ronaldo became such a good reader and he told me he dreamt it one night while he was sleeping. When Adrian remembered what the word elusive meant a month after we learned it. The excitement of the fun days. The hugs and high fives. The Friday dances on the bus lot. When they GOT it and their eyes lit up because they knew they got it.

My dad's always said that this is the greatest job in the world. And while I feel good about what is next for me, I can't help but think of how different life will be without those kids driving me crazy every day. Because when it came down to it, no matter what they did or said or threw, they were always just kids, growing right in front of my face and teaching me a hell of a lot more than I think they realized, a hell of a lot more than I ever thought they would.

I'll end this post with a quote from Destini's yearbook about me, which I think might be a better description of how I feel about each and every one of my kids:

My teacher is crazy and she is full of love and I want to squeeze the love out of her.... Right back at ya.