How To: Live the Dream

Find a beach.  Sit on it.  

Easy enough.

Wear bright nail polish and even brighter bathing suits.

I must have looked like a crazy person when I went through security because I brought six different nail polish colors with me.  That's right, SIX.  As if I would even take the time to repaint my nails once I got here.  I was so torn between which color to choose before I left that I painted each of my nails a different color to decide.  Just one of the common problems of living the dream.

Jump in the air and have someone take a picture.  Or be artsy and take a picture of your shadow on the sand.

Drink something exotic, like raspberry beer.

 A delicious beach drink that packs quite a punch if you aren't careful.  Mix four Coronas, 1/2 a cup of vodka, and a container of frozen raspberry lemonade from concentrate and serve over ice with fresh raspberries.  Extra points if you have chilled Mason jars to drink out of, because I got this drink idea when I was living in Charlotte.  The only thing more southern is a gin bucket.  This is my (late) Sunday night recipe for this week.

Note the bright yellow French manicure.

Follow a strict diet of fresh seafood and anything fried.  

Or both, if it's available (I'm a sucker for a good fried cod).  Tonight we're pairing raw oysters with March Madness games, and hopefully I'll get a crack at some salmon before I leave.  Also, eat outside when possible.

Lunch at the Tiki Bar at the pool.  Fried green beans every time.

Use the hand signal for another round at least once (twirl finger above head enthusiastically)

This is too much fun to not do it at least once in your life.

Read.  Read a lot.  

Read enough to give yourself an embarrassing sunglasses tan or one of those weird back tan from propping yourself up on your stomach.  This vacation I read all three Hunger Games books in two days.  Last time I was down here it was a great book called "The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake," by Aimee Bender.  Super strange and beautifully written... I definitely recommend it.

Watch a sunrise or a sunset, take a picture, and share it on social media to make other people jealous.  Works like a charm.

Sunrise on the Atlantic is BEAUTIFUL

Change your flight to either arrive earlier or leave later.

My Nana's friend pretended to be Kristin and managed to get her and Ryan an extra two days by explaining to the Orbitz customer service rep that her "grandma" was 85 years old and would only be able to drive them to the airport two days later during the daylight hours.  Midway through the negotiations she covered the phone, turned to Kristin, and said, "You're kind of a bitch on the phone!"  Completely worth it.

Ignore the clock and any e-mails that seem stressful/important.

Meaning anything that my Con Law professor has sent is still unread.  And meaning that my clock looks like this:

Vacation sun dial

The Hiatus

Blogging isn't quite as soothing when you spend every waking minute reading and writing and trying to avoid even the most stylistic use of the passive voice.  It also doesn't serve much of a purpose when the only funny stories you have either revolve around nerdy law school jokes or the fact that one of your professors wears a fanny pack and uses Lindsay Lohan in all of his hypotheticals on land grants and the law of estates.  I'd like to go back to giving it a try anyway.

It feels like the first time seeing an ex after a break-up, months later with an awkward amount of space to fill with small talk and half-interested nods.  I have't seen this "compose" page of my blog in so long that I almost wasn't sure I was in the right space.  But I'm back, and I guess that's all that matters.

So what small talk do I start with? I guess I could tell you what I've been doing for the past four months.

Read, study, writing assignments, repeat.

That actually sums up everything you need to know, at least about the law school part. 

What about my social life?

I spent last Saturday watching puppy shows on Animal Planet in
between frequent panic attacks about my moot court brief

I guess that picture works for that too.

Be on the lookout for more...

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.

Skinny Wednesday

Lent began today. I've never been especially good at giving things up, but over-indulging on Fat Tuesday has always been easy. And with my two moms in town, it was even easier than usual.

When I was in Italy, my overly patriotic father who will never leave the country would not come to visit me with my real mom. So Bonnie came along instead. People in my program were a little confused when the two moms showed up, as were the maitre'ds (is that correct?) when they insisted on getting a cot in their room in Florence for "their" daughter. We drank wine straight out of the bottle in St. Mark's Square, watched my mom lock herself in a tiny coed bathroom, and had a deli worker explain the meaning of love to us.

They've been traveling up the coast from Florida enjoying their retirement and stopping at every plantation and old southern city they can find. Charlotte was a less historic pit stop, but one I was lucky they made because it meant I had an excuse to stuff my face full of Charlotte's best Italian food and desserts. They left this morning, leaving me feeling quite empty (as lame and cliche as that sounds). I love my mom. I love her even more when there's two of her. And a monotonous day of school and South Beach diet food feels even more deprived after a day of indulgence.

The whole time they were here, I demanded that they give me life advice. What I really want, more than advice, is for someone to just tell me what to do. Or someone to at least give me some solid ground to give me at least a little sense of stability. Unfortunately, my mom's pushiness stops at the point of making decisions for me, usually with her exclaiming that she thinks I should "follow my hopes, dreams, and aspirations." Whatever that means. I was able to at least get the pearl of wisdom that making a choice does not necessarily result in a mistake, but just in something different. And that you don't always have to have everything 100% figured out, because there will be things like Nutella Pie and salted caramel brownies to fill the part that remains uncertain.

At an Italian restaurant in Charlotte celebrating Momma's birthday

I suppose the only thing I can do is get a grip, suck it up, and just chill out. Have some fun while life is sorting out the details for me. Try to distract myself by giving up some part of my daily routine (i.e. Facebook... we'll see how long this lasts) to understand sacrifice. Before I know it, something great will just fall in my lap, wrapped up in a nice little bow. That counts as a plan, right?

Words of Wisdom from My Teabag

For some reason that sounds dirty.

Also...

Is there an award I can give out for best mom? Or most thoughtfully-timed card ever? Perfection! Especially given my unhealthy obsession with greeting cards.

ADHD Indicators

Let me preface this post by asserting I am in full support of parental decisions to medicate or not medicate children with ADHD. I've lived it. Two siblings with ADD, and I've seen my brother and sister on drugs like Adderall and Strattera and the way that it changes their personalities. I get it. But it's pretty easy to tell when people who are on medication stop taking it. Particularly when they are six years old. Want to know what it sounds like?

"...and that's how we complete the math workshop activity Number Flags. Are there any questions?"

After army crawling through the tunnel made by my long table and pushed in chairs, the student in question slithers face first onto the floor, hops up, and sprints over to me panting heavily. He's over there not because I can't control him (so I tell myself) but because he needs to be able to move around or he'll explode.

"CAN YOU CALL IMMANUEL'S MOM AND ASK HER IF HE CAN STAY THE NIGHT AT MY HOUSE?"

"I meant questions about the math game, but no. I will not call her."

Then, like a flash, he's gone. Back to searching for lost pieces of tape under my art cart. Eventually he had to leave the room when he started closing his eyes and karate kicking at random, which is also when we found out that he wasn't taking his medicine anymore from his mom. In a lot of ways I don't blame her.  But it doesn't stop it from being incredibly frustrating, even though I know it's not his fault and he can't help it. He wants to be good- he really does. See note below, given to me on one of his very rare sit-down-and-work days. I'll be clutching that note until the end of the year, reminiscing about the one time that he did not sprint laps around the classroom. Ah, the joy of teaching.

Written EXACTLY how he talks

Snow Day Code

My mom came in this weekend on her way down to Florida for her two month retirement vacation.  I've been counting on her to pull me out of my quarter-life crisis and advise me on EXACTLY what to do with my life and how to do it.  Unfortunately, I guess other people can't give you that advice and I'm on my own.  This didn't help my situation much.

What DID help my situation was the fact that the entire city of Charlotte shut down today (including CMS) because of the greatest amount of snowfall in seven years.  Maybe it was only four inches, but I'll take it.  Not to mention that our apartment complex looks like a winter wonderland (see below).

Snowpocalypse!

Although my mom wasn't able to tell me what to do with the rest of my life, she was able to introduce my roommates and me to "The Snow Day Code."  Let me elaborate.

Part I: The Anticipation
Teachers (and students) know what I'm talking about- it's a crisp and clear school night and the smell of snow is in the air.  All the meteorologists are calling for snow, or, if you're in the South, last minute trips to the grocery store to stock up on 30 days worth of canned food and bottled water.  The pieces are there, but ultimately, the fate of the next day lies in the hands of the snow gods.  Who need a little extra nudging in the form of interpretive movement.

Yes, kids, I'm talking about the snow day dance.  You are probably familiar with the superstitions- wearing your pajamas inside out, banging on pots and pans, shamelessly trying to convince your parents to let you have a sleepover with your friends because there will DEFINITELY not be school the next day.  But my mom (and probably her clan of former KP beavers) have PERFECTED the snow day traditions with a fail proof routine.

For snow, simply chant the words "Blow and drift!" while moving your hands and hips erratically from side to side.  It works best if you have had a few cocktails beforehand.

Snow not in the forecast?  Relying instead on other forms of inclement winter weather to cancel your workday?  The magic words for that one would be "Sleet and freeing rain!" sung while shaking your keys over head.  Again, the sound of the keys against an aluminum beer can usually intensifies the chant.

Needless to say, it worked.  From what I've heard, teachers almost always get called in for a workday in spit of poor weather, so the announcement of "Code C" this morning at 4:30 am (meaning essential personnel only) was quite exciting.

Part II: The Enjoyment
According to my mom, there are several key essentials to a successful snow day.  First of all, you need to jump up and down ecstatically when you first hear the news (check).  Next, you have to watch the local news station for at least an hour to make sure that it's for real (check).  After those two steps, the real snow day enjoyment begins.

Rule #1: Snow days are free days, not days to catch up on work.
My roommates and I failed this one.  Because of my recent crisis, I spent the morning applying to jobs and convincing myself I was doomed to live in my parents' basement, penniless, for the rest of my life.  One roommate was tracking student data.  The other was organizing papers.  My mom nearly had to force Kahlua and hot chocolate on us to get us to stop.  Which leads to...

Rule #2: Snow days require at least one nap and at least one alcoholic beverage.
I don't think this one takes much explanation.  We finally caught on after Ellen's prompting.

Movie time with appropriate snow day snacks

Rule #3: You must wear the most embarrassing lounging around clothing that you own.
This means rainbow pajama paints, multi-colored fleece socks, and stained sweatshirts.  The comfiest things you own.  I don't care if the Queen of England is coming to pay you a personal visit- this is the code.  I was sufficiently embarrassed when the maintenance man came in to turn off or carbon monoxide alarm after an unfortunate fireplace incident, but again- the code.

Part III: The Wind Down
All you need for this stage is a good meal.  And a TV with a weather report so you can check the chances of an additional snow day tomorrow, giving yourself ample time to digest and possibly do another dance.  Join me again in about six hours, and we might have another chance to get the snow day code right tomorrow.

A Big Fat Congratulations

I'm back in Charlotte, unpacked, and trying to remain calm in the face of the approaching school day tomorrow.  It's always hard to come back from vacations when they've been especially good, and this one ranks up there with the best of them.  That's probably due to the MAGNIFICENT wedding of my wonderful sister and her now-husband Ryan.  So as I am facing six-year-olds with dread, they'll be taking off on their honeymoon to Maui.  I'm only a little jealous.

Despite several blips, including an unruly guest nearly assaulting several key wedding players (I won't go into that), the wedding was (and I quote) the "BEST F***ING WEDDING EVER!"  This was said by one of my parents' friends who had just gotten married at the same place just six months earlier.  I think we made an impression.

One thing I love about my family is our ability to adapt.  Part of my maid of honor speech (which, I won't lie, might have been the best part of the whole debacle) was about how much Kristin is able to make the best of any situation she's in.  That might be genetic.  Even though none of us knew what to do during the ceremony thanks to a power struggle between Deacon Dean and Grace-Ann, the eighty-year-old wedding coordinator for the church, we still managed to pull it off without too much confusion.  Minus the fact that I was constantly standing three feet away from the lovely couple staring at them (most awkward was when they were lighting the Unity Candle).

If it made me realize anything though, it was the fact that when Kristin and I were little, we NEVER paid attention in church.  After we sat down to listen to the readings and the sermon, front and center with all the wedding guests staring at us, I realized that I had no idea what was happening.  I should know this stuff, shouldn't I?  After all, we had gone to church faithfully every Sunday, right after finishing up church school with our respective age groups.  And yet, here we were, in the church where we both got Confirmed, the church where I had learned (briefly) how to whistle, the church where Jon had snuck his Gameboy into one Christmas, and completely clueless about the whole getting married process.  Oh well.  We still rocked it.  AND the Deacon even mentioned Titanic in his sermon.  That reall has nothing to do with us rocking it, but it was awesome nonetheless.

The reception went as expected, with the 100 guests whipping through 59 bottles of wine and two and a half kegs.  It was New Years Eve, after all.  The only real problem (again, besides the disgruntled party guest) was the stomach bug that was going around.  I had it pretty bad the next morning, although it could have been due to the massive amounts of tequila the night before.  There's really no way of knowing.

The main thing, though, is that my sister is now HAPPILY married and she deserves it more than anyone I know.  As I said in my speech... she's spent her whole life getting other people to see the best in the mundane and the horrible, and she's finally found someone who does the same for her.  Congratulations!

Of course I'd pick a picture that included me, the highlight of the ceremony.

...and thanks for the great party.

New Year, New Look

I spent a good part of today adjusting my blog layout.  I figured that since I was no longer a first year teacher, I needed to at least change the blog title.  Then I got a little edit crazy.  It's pretty weird to think how much things have changed for me this past year, and it only makes me realize how much could change this year too.  To borrow a TFA word, this time of year always makes me more reflective than I normally would be.  It's pretty easy to think of things that you want to change- floss more, eat better, exercise- but I think too often people don't think about things they should continue doing.  So this year, rather than looking for things to change, I want to find the things that I should keep the same.

1. Getting 'er done: after working relentlessly (another TFA catchphrase) for the first two months of 2010, I started to burn out.  I ended my first year feeling a little like I let my kids down, and thought a lot over the summer about how I could leave at a reasonable hour and still have everything done.  I'm pretty proud to see how much more on top of my work I am this year, and I'm not going to let mid-year doldrums cause me to slack off.
   
2. Having a life: part of the good that came out that February burn-out was that I finally started taking care of myself.  It started out with my yoga endeavors and gradually began to include actual social interaction.  I stopped working all weekend and started having fun.  I finally made friends (at least two!) and felt like a real person.  I'm definitely continuing THAT tradition.

Erin and I sampling beers mid-week

Pretending to be a doctor with Al and her med school friends at a Wake end-of-year party

Sunday Funday at the U. S. Whitewater Center

Starting to make each other dinners... my fiesta fajita bar, complete with Coronas and margs

...and shrimp scampi with bruschetta.

Live music at a gallery crawl in NoDa

Actually having time to Skype Jack... even though he has a lamp coming out of his head.

  

I guess what it all comes down to is continuing to try to balance everything out- work, friends, family, and molding the youth of America.  There's not much more that could really make my life that much better, because in spite of all the complaints I can come up with and the negativity that sometimes seems to suffocate me, I am an extremely lucky girl.

Oh, and (of course), I want to floss more.

A New Toy

I needed a pick-me-up today.  Badly.  I've been feeling a little deflated (a little may be an understatement) because of some things going on in my whole teaching life.  Then, just when I thought it couldn't get any more down in the dumps, I found out there is a case of scabies somewhere in our school.  I don't know what scabies is exactly, but it makes me feel like I have worms crawling under my skin.  I picture the symptoms to be foaming scabs... although that is probably completely inaccurate.  I'd google it but I'm pretty sure that would make me feel worse, not better.  I am instituting a strict no hugging or high five policy until further notice (one teacher suggested just giving kids a Jersey Shore fist pump instead).

Anyway, on top of the scabies, it was Wednesday.  And we had a staff meeting.  And a training.  And then another meeting.  It was 3:30 before I got something to eat- a long time to wait when my lunchtime is 9:45 (yes, in the morning).

Like I said, I needed a pick-me-up.  So at 4:20, I left for UNCC on a mission.  I bought a brand spankin' new MacBook Pro at 4:50 and made it to class at 5:00.

Now I'm home and get to play.  The only problem is that I don't know how to do anything.  I never realized how much I use backwards delete until a time like now (how DO you use backwards delete on a Mac?  If it's not possible I might have to take it back).  I'm just hoping I don't spend the whole night exploring the trackpad shortcuts and finally being as cool as all those people with the photo booth pictures (see below).

Note: I am already in bed at 9:30.

Playing Catch-up

I've been terrible at life lately.  Or maybe it's just blogging.  At any rate, I've been super busy going between, work, grad school, and LSAT stuff.  It's EXHAUSTING.  Then this weekend (which would have been my blogging catch-up time to reveal all the hilarious little details from my babies) I took an impromptu getaway to the Rappahannack (sp?) River to my roommate's house there.

We did nothing.  We woke up late, had her dad make us delicious breakfasts, lunch, and dinner, and then alternated between napping on the beach and closing our eyes while laying out on the beach.  There's not much of a distinction between the two, FYI.  See picture below to get jealous of me and my very impressive tan.

Looking out towards the Chesapeake Bay

School?  It's great.  I'm actually LIKING it.  Feeling like a teacher, minus the fact that we have been testing so much these first weeks that I've barely gotten to teach at all.  But soon that will be over and I will be in the zone.  More to come later- I promise.

Come See How Good It Looks!

Pictures of my classroom!  First day of school tomorrow, so no time to actually talk due to the nervous anxiety/nausea. Hopefully my kids will be so mesmerized by its beauty they won't do anything wrong.

My word walls

Calendar and behavior chart

Carpet area

Themed bookshelf

Wall of work... and computers

From the door

Happy Birthday Krissy

This will be a brief birthday post because my sister gets to celebrate with my mom.  She usually goes overboard for our birthdays, particularly when it comes to alliteration, sponsoring events such as "The Seven Days of Sari" and "The Many Cakes of Krissy" and "June is Joyous... Shit, Jon's Birthday was Yesterday".

Anyway, congratulations on turning 26, ya old fart.

In the picture below, you can see me practically diving into her cake headfirst.

Also, don't be fooled by my man hands and massive head- she's still two and a half years older.

The Stages of Teaching

We were given this graph of the stages of a first year teacher sometime in October for a TFA session on having "balance" in your life.  HAH.  That's how most of us responded to that, if we could manage to untuck our heads from the fetal position.  One of my friends posted this on Facebook and got a pretty funny line of responses, mostly questioning whether rejuvenation would ever ACTUALLY happen.

I re-did the graph to more accurately show the stages of a first year teacher.  Please note the area where the plot line drops off the graph into no man's land (approximately September-November).

Additional Photos

I've been looking at old photos at home, and happened to stumble upon some from the infamous Cousin's Camp that I blogged about last week.

At left is the playhouse in all its glory, and below are two pictures of all the cousins.  To me, the funniest part is the fact that all the kids are doing whatever they want in the third picture, with my mom and dad just looking away not caring anymore. Wonder if Mollie's arm is broken there?

Get Out Yo Seat and Romp Around

One of the more amusing things about teaching lower elementary is the gifts you get from the kids throughout the course of the year.  Ask any K-2 teacher and they'll be able to tell you about some pretty hilarious and outrageous things that kids have brought in.  One of my student's former teachers donated a huge 3' by 1' decorative art piece that was clearly plucked off the wall of their home (or off the curb in front of a random stranger's house) in a last ditch attempt at Christmas spirit.  Some have gotten pints of obscure perfumes or toys from fast food kid's meals.  My aunt had to call home after a first-grader began stealing jewelery from his mother to give to his beloved teacher.

My mother, since her school was closing and she was retiring, brought home a massive box of gifts.  Most of them were cards and letters, ranging from "I hope you enjoy retirement" to "I'll dream about you every night."  She also got a cardboard box that was meticulously covered with colored duct tape with a large F protruding from the top of it.

I have received my fair share of thoughtful and bizarre gifts, ranging from Chick-fil-a gift cards to stuffed animals to the homemade flower pen I mentioned in a previous post.  My favorite and most random gift came on the last day of school just as one of the most well-behaved kids in my class left, handing me a cute little gift bag (I take a lot of notice of cute gift bags and cards).  I didn't get the chance to open it until the next day, when I found a pajama romper from Target inside.  Why a student and his parents would decide that a green floral onesie would be an appropriate end-of-year gift for a teacher is beyond me.  All I know is that it is the perfect summer accessory for me, letting me wear it all day when I've woken up past noon singing my "Romp Around" song (to the tune of this classic).  It really lets me capture the feeling of summer and my lack of responsibility and we all could learn a little something about the feeling you get when wearing one.  Those of you that aren't teachers, though, will have to go out and spend the money yourself.

 The romper in question from Target.com 
(no, I did not model it myself and then post it on my blog)

Dad's Day

I know, I know, I'm a little late, but I figure that late is better than never.  Yesterday, we all celebrated our fathers, the men in our lives that have such a strong influence over us (whether we care to admit it or not).

Father's Day has always seemed like a funny day to me, especially in comparison to Mother's Day.  On that day, mothers generally want their children and husbands to finally show their appreciation for the thousands (maybe even millions) of little things they do for us throughout the year.  Fathers, on the other hand, seem to just want to be left alone.  Unless it involves someone bringing them an ice cold beverage or a delicious snack, they're more than content to just get some time to themselves, time when they are free from the nagging and whining of their family members.  Or maybe that's just my dad.  I'm pretty sure his ideal Father's Day would be getting in 18 holes (with some breaks for a few frosty brews) and being able to buy whatever he wanted, whether it was a membership to a gourmet coffee club, a $150 pool chair, or state-of-the-art spatula that can do more things to meat on a grill than you could ever even wrap your head around.

That's a little off-topic, but it's just a funny little thing I noticed.

Anyway, now it's the REAL part of the blog, where I get to pay tribute to my dad.  Not that I really need to- all you'd have to do is search around our house.  You'd find the countless gifts from graduating track stars, pillows with iron-on pictures, scrapbooks individualized by runners and jumpers, newspaper articles about his success as a coach.  Until pretty recently, I never really thought about the impact my dad has had on other people.  Once I figured that out, I realized how much his strong community influence had an effect on me, no matter how indirectly.

In some ways, my dad and I have had trouble really "getting" each other.  I was always the daughter that wanted to read and write, the one that hated running and loved eating.  I was the one that did anything I could to try to get away from our family stereotype that I found stifling- that you were an athlete no matter how hard you tried not to be.

When I think back to when I was younger, especially in middle school, I imagine that my father struggled to understand me, just as I struggled to understand him.  It worsened when I got to high school and went through a phase which can be referred to in two ways.  The nice way is the "growing up" phase.  The accurate way is the bitch phase.  All I wanted was to prove him wrong- that athletics didn't matter, that they brought nothing deeper or important into your life.  He just sat back and said nothing, e-mailing college volleyball coaches when I wasn't looking and talking to admissions offices about the college's sports.

He did his convincing subtly.  At the time, I would have never been able to tell you when he was asserting his arguments for the merits of sport.  To me, it was just a conversation with my dad.  But over the years, through all the phone calls and e-mails and text messages, he somehow got through.  Somehow, I became an advocate of what I used to condemn.  I became a believer in the power of teamwork and commitment required by athletics.  It inspired me to join Teach For America and his story, his experience took up roughly 95% of my letter of intent.  That's a pretty impressive influence to have over someone.  He had finally converted me and I'll never go back.

As my sister has put it before, my parents are "the coolest 50-year-olds she's ever met."  In high school, I would have vehemently disagreed with that statement.   My parents could not be farther from cool.  But after the years of arguments and getting in trouble, I've finally seen the role models that so many other kids saw before me.  In my mother, it was obvious.  She wears her feelings and opinions on her sleeve and lets you know what she thinks immediately.

My dad, and I think dads in general, are trickier.  They exercise their influence over the years with carefully crafted mottos and mantras, painstakingly inserted during the moments their children are questioning themselves and the world that they know.  They continue to do so until one day, we wake up with clear eyes, a clear head, and one clear thought-

"My dad is awesome."

Happy Father's Day!

The Doldrums of March

Milo and Tock from The Phantom Tollbooth

The Phantom Tollbooth is one of my favorite childhood books, SUCH a favorite that even talking about it makes me want to drive to a bookstore and buy it so that I can re-read it (for about the millionth time).  Lately, the only way I've been able to describe the month of March has been as "the Doldrums," a colorless place in the book where thinking and laughing are not allowed.  Here's a little piece of the book to let you know what it's like (spoken by the Lethargians, who live in the Doldrums):


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"Well, if you can't laugh or think, what can you do?" asked Milo.


"Anything as long as it's nothing, and everything as long as it isn't anything," explained another. "There's lots to do; we have a very busy schedule- at 8 o'clock we get up, and then we spend from 8 to 9 daydreaming.  From 9 to 9:30 we take our early midmorning nap.  From 9:30 to 10:30 we dawdle and delay.  From 10:30 to 11:30 we take our late early morning nap.  From ll:00 to 12:00 we bide our time and then eat lunch.  From l:00 to 2:00 we linger and loiter.  From 2:00 to 2:30 we take our early afternoon nap.  From 2:30 to 3:30 we put off for tomorrow what we could have done today.  From 3:30 to 4:00 we take our early late afternoon nap.  From 4:00 to 5:00 we loaf and lounge until dinner.  From 6:00 to 7:00 we dillydally.  From 7:00 to 8:00 we take our early evening nap, and then for an hour before we go to bed at 9:00 we waste time.  As you can see, that leaves almost no time for brooding, lagging, plodding, or procrastinating, and if we stopped to think or laugh, we'd never get nothing done."


"You mean you'd never get anything done," corrected Milo.


"We don't want to get anything done," snapped another angrily; "we want to get nothing done, and we can do that without your help."


"You see," continued another in a more conciliatory tone, "It's really quite strenuous doing nothing all day, so once a week we take a holiday and go nowhere, which was just where we were going when you came along. Would you care to join us?"


"I might as well," thought Milo; "that's where I seem to be going anyway."


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It's not that I've been doing nothing all month, and it's not like I haven't been thinking or laughing at all this month, but I'm definitely ready for Spring Break (and spring weather).  I can only hope that a giant dog with an alarm clock as a body comes to rescue me, or I get a note addressed to "Sara, who now knows the way."


I would make this post longer, but I really think I need to go buy this book again.