Stopping by the Blog on a Snowy Evening

Teachers are really no different from students.

Have you ever noticed that we are terrible students? On any given institute day, you can bet that if you look closely, at least 75% of the educators in the room are doodling, texting, or making comments under their breath to their fellow department peeps. Yet when students do that to us…Unacceptable! What is the rationale? Well that’s easy – get a college degree and you can participate in all the jackassery you want. Ha!

Anyways…back to my point: teachers are no better than students. Why do I bring this up? Well that’s simple…there is inclement weather looming in the area. It took double the normal travel time to get home. The students are restless. Everyone’s shoes squeak down the hall from the slush tromped in. The heat is on full blast, making that turtleneck I chose in a shivering instant a really bad choice. Instead of doing homework or grading homework, everyone just wants to cuddle up under a fleece blanket and drink some Swiss Miss.

In other words, the glorious prospect of a snow day taunts us more and more with every falling downy flake.

It makes no sense to want a snow day. It has to be made up in June when everyone will just want to be outside flip-flopping around. It’s not a freebie of any kind. But yet…cracking open my sleep-filled eyes to squint over at the scroll running across the bottom of the morning news program fills me with eager anticipation and hope. Realizing that I can turn off the hot water I was running and hop right back into my bamboo sheets for an infinite amount of time makes me want to sing Hallelujahs alongside a choir of angels. Imagine all the grading I could get done! I would even have time to take in a special television presentation of a favorite classic holiday film!

Alas…most snow day hopes and dreams are crushed faster than a grape in Napa. It’s kind of like when a major league pitcher is throwing a no-no and nobody mentions it aloud in fear it might jinx the whole thing. If I don’t plan for a snow day…if I don’t mention the word “snow day”…maybe, just maybe…it will be mine. Oh yes…it will be mine.

Well I guess I blew it with this blog, huh? But then again…is typing it really like saying it?…

“He gives his harness bells a shake/ To ask if there is some mistake/ The only other sound’s the sweep/ Of easy wind and downy flake” – Robert Frost, “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”

Ro-me-whoa!

Oh Billy Shakespeare, you scurvy knave!

Thank you for your perverted humor in “The Tragedy of Romeo & Juliet”, without which I never would have pulled some of my freshmen boys past Act 1, scene 2. I tell ya, you’d be amazed to see how focused on Shakespeare a 14 year old boy can be once you tell him that the dialogue he just read had about 5 penis/sex references. Dig for the dirty…1-2-3 Go!

Last year I developed a hand signal. The deal was that I wasn’t going to point out the pervy comments, but rather, I would give the signal (wait for it…wait for it…) and their hormone-driven minds frantically scoured the page so as to be the first one to find the sexual content. This year though, I decided to forgo the signal and just straight up let ‘em have it. These freshmen are a little scrappier than last year’s.

This week, we read Act II of the play. There is a scene in which Mercutio engages in clever wordplay with Romeo to assess whether or not  Romeo is back in good spirits. They say such things as. “is my pump well flowered” (referring to a “pink” flower nonetheless), “the bawdy hand of the dial is now upon the prick of noon”. It’s good stuff. I circulate around the room and see countless eyes glance up at me with knowing expressions.

They came into this unit thinking they would despise Shakespeare, and soon found out that R & J offers a little something to appeal to everyone’s taste: love for the ladies, swordplay for the violence-loving gamers, and sexual innuendo for the pervs. Who knew?!

They especially got a kick out of the mention of the fruit that resembles a lady part. Oh yeah, and the nurse teasing how Juliet fell on her face as a child, but would fall upon her back when she got older…snickers all around. Hey, at least it shows they’re paying attention!

I can’t wait ’till they glimpse Romeo’s butt and Juliet’s boob in the 1968 film. I think they’re been tipped off by other classes and they’re anxiously awaiting the big reveal.

Hating on The House of Brides (Orland Park)

You’ve left me no choice, House of Brides. I must now wage war against you. My blog, my loud-mouth family, and hopefully my mafia-connected seamstress are staging a revolution as we speak.

Who gives you permission to ride atop your high horse of bridal box franchises? Who trains you to false fit, overcharge, and be anything but accommodating to bridal parties everywhere who are just trying to make the big day full of wedded bliss and absent of wardrobe malfunctions and mismatched fabrics? Tell me who, dog-gone-it.

That damn Orland Park House of Bullshit first chapped my ass when Alma, the ignorant stonewall Jackson of the bridal industry skirted around our questions regarding group rates and sizing protocol. THEN there was the whole incident where they refused to give me a teensy weensy fabric swatch so that I could match the organza overlays and votive candles, but yet I magically got FIVE swatches sent to me from a different bridal store within minutes. Finally, the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back was when they refused, I repeat, REFUSED to measure my sister’s soon-to-be sister-in-law who was newly pregnant.

Do I smell a discrimination lawsuit here? Is there a lawyer in this House of Brides? The poor thing was forced to forgo her role of bridesmaid just because there was an itsy bitsy human being developing in her uterus. God forbid women procreate!

Well now the previously pregnant soon-to-be sister-in-law of my sister is an unexpectedly early mommy and wants back in to this par-tay of a wedding. That’s right, she had her little boy two months early and now she wants to give it another go. My sister, her fiancé, and the new momma went to the infamous HOB Saturday to get her fitted and rush order the dress, and good ol’ Alma was back to her biotchy bridal BS shenanigans. She and her manager claim that they never would have refused to measure a pregnant girl. Ummmm, so you’re saying we are liars? Perhaps you’re now covering your prenatally prejudice asses? Oh, and they also wanted to charge like $60 extra for the dress.

This is just a guess, but I don’t think a stressed out bride and a hormonal post-partum woman are the ideal customers to jack around.  Her 2.5lb baby is sitting in an incubator right now and all she wants is to be able to stand up in her baby brother’s wedding and put a positive spin on this less-than-ideal situation and you’re going to seriously jack us around AGAIN?

Poor choice HOB. Poor choice. I know many brides. Also, I would like to think that I will be getting married somewhere in the near future and I DO NOT plan on putting up with anything other than overly-accommodating bridal boutiques. It’s a recession people. There is nothing stopping young women everywhere from saying, “Screw your overpriced clone dresses that only come in one sample size! I am going to a department store and buying something off the rack that people don’t have to spend $95 getting altered!”

Viva la revolution!

Take it to the Mattresses (or seamstress’s)

My sister, mom, and I went to our designated seamstress’ house to get our dresses fitted for the wedding. She came highly recommended by a friend. Well, we should have known that the DeBenedettos would send us to an italian stallion of a tailor. Those italian women know how to cook, and they know how to stitch. Why else do you think Milan is the fashion capital of the world?

We walked up to the door and were met by two lion statues exerting their prowess over the front porch. We were greeted by a small woman with jet-black hair and an accent thicker than the padded cups in my ill-fitting bridesmaid dress. This woman was born in a small town in Italy, and after she acquired all her stitching knowledge, she moved to Chicago where she set up multiple bridal shops. We were confident that she knew her stuff. (And don’t insult her with any talk of the Chinese in her profession…she’s got words for them.)

I apologize for the stereotyping here, but this woman could not have had more of an Italian decor going on. All couches were covered in plastic. All lamps were very ornate, with balls dangling off the shade and detailed brass bases. Black and white photos of dark-haired relatives covered the shelves, and large framed photos of various holy figures kept a watchful eye. I sat down in the chair and was face-to-face with a statue of the virgin Mary. I turned to my left and saw Saint Anthony. Behind me was a shrine dedicated to Pope John Paul II and my man Jesus himself.

She fixed my sister’s dress with no problem (unlike the Chinese lady we went to first). After the first seamstress poked and prodded and continuously reminded my sister of her membership to the itty bitty titty committee, we went elsewhere. This woman knew right where to pin. She also had the right undergarments to make my sister’s less-than-buxom breasts look perfectly perky.

When it was my turn, well, I had a minor moral crisis. You see, I wore a thong to the fitting. How was I supposed to know there would be no changing room? I can’t stand a VPL, so I thought I’d stay away from the granny panties. Also, I’m a firm believer in thongs preventing cottage cheese ass. But alas, I digress.

I needed to take my pants off to put the dress on. This needed to be done in this woman’s family room. One of two people were going to see my ass: the god-fearing conservative old italian seamstress, or JESUS. Great. An awkward grandma-like stare of disapproval or eternal damnation. Any takers?

Believe it or not, I chose Jesus. Listen people; he forgives! He loves me even if I bare my ass for a second in the name of my sister’s upcoming matrimony. Plus, Adam and Eve ran around naked until that apple fiasco anyhow. (I crossed myself afterwards just in case though.)

So once the dress was on I scampered over in front of the mirror ready to tell her everything I needed done. Before I could even suggest some of those bra stuffers be sewn in to compensate, homegirl already had me pinned up, tightened, and looking sexy. Woohoo! This woman was serious. If the pope needed someone to hem his robes, I am guessing he would call her.

As I reveled in my newfound shape under that massive dress, I did not notice where the seamstress went. I looked down and HOLY PLASTIC COUCH she was all the way under my dress!  Um yeah, remember the thong situation? Homegirl’s hair-sprayed roller-set hair was dangerously close to my bare cheeks. If things hadn’t already reached a Vatican City sized awkwardness level, they did at that moment.

Luckily things moved right along, I got re-dressed, and we sat down to discuss when the pick up date will be. The seamstress sat down in her chair, leaned back, placed her hands on the armrests, crossed her legs, and said in the thickest Italian accent you can muster, “Ok….so what you gonna pay me for dis?”

My mom, sister, and I all lost it at that point. Who knew tailoring was negotiable? And who in their right mind would try to cheat this lady out of her money? The dress would not longer be the focal point when you’re missing fingers. The Godmother of all seamstresses told us no alternations would be done until we reached a deal. We through out a number, she accepted, kissed us goodbye and told us her clients are her friends for life.

Yesssss. I can’t wait to be invited over to veg out on her plastic couch and eat meatballs in the presence of the Pope. I’ll wear regular undies next time.

Gaga make me cry Mama

Everyone knows that Lady Gaga is one cracked out ho. That opinion is commonplace in the pop culture realm. However, she just upped the ante and escalated her creep factor from “decorated tranny with catchy tunes” to “ricockulous tranny madonna impersonator on a never-ending LSD trip”.

Have you seen the “Bad Romance” music video? Homegirl has lost her damn mind.

What the hell kind of “bath house” is she in? Thank you Lady Gaga, I am now afraid to ever get any kind of spa-like treatment because I have the fear of God in me that I will end up in a place like that. Is that what they do to you during a chemical peel and seaweed body wrap? God I hope not.

Who are the creepy men with the clear adult beverages, and why must they force them down her throat?? I would be willingly hitting the bottle if I came anywhere close to the mind of the sick sonofabitch who came up with that video premise. Also, why did I have to see her in her thong? I get that sex sells, but I’d rather not ponder her scantily clad, creeptastic, emaciated-looking body. And is it weird that I find her face sans make-up scarier than her painted on one? I’ve gotten so used to seeing the dramatic eye and red pout that I’ve lost all sense of normality. Damn Hollywood/Land of Big-Time Music Producers. They have created a world in which the men NOT wearing guyliner and tight pants that suffocate their members, and the women NOT rocking the dramatic rocker/cat eye and old Hollywood red pout are the strange birds!

I WEAR PANTS DAMNIT. I don’t fit in with this new version of “cool”. I don’t like pleather leggings or shirts as dresses and I think the shoe designers that made 5″ platform heels popular are misogynistic douche-bags (of the most basically-scented variety).

See what Gaga does to me? She makes me tweak out and wage revolutions against the influence pop culture has over societal norms. All I wanted was to rock out to some fabulously 80’s-sounding pop music.

“I want your love and I want your revenge; you and me could write a bad romance. Gaga oh la la. Want your bad romance.”

Ramblings from the Desk of Ms. M.

1. They took all the hooks off the bathroom doors at my school. I wonder if it is to prevent students from hurting themselves/each other or teachers from hanging themselves by their lanyards.

2. Is it sad that my big “rebellious act” today was spraying Lysol to get the nasty freshmen BO smell out of my room knowing full well that aerosol products are prohibited and possibly dangerous to asthmatics and students with severe allergies?

3. I still have not gotten over the goat idea. Now though, I would also like to put the request of a pet potbelly pig on the table. I would name him Jimmy Dean.

4. My bridesmaid dress is so hollow in the breast region I am contemplating using the padded, unfilled cups as a cellphone/lipgloss/camera holder. Believe me…it will all fit. And then some…

5. I had to make an effort to restrain myself from jumping into a student conversation regarding Monday’s “OM3″ episode of Gossip Girl. I have such a hard time suppressing my inner teeny-trash-television loving self when I’m at work. My students can’t know I sing along to Lil Wayne, watch scandalous shows, and secretly wish I could be a combination Blair Waldorf and Serena Van der Woodsen. Now I know how Clark Kent feels. It’s tough having a double life.

A Girl Can Dream

I frequently come up with new things I want to do with my life. I get all into it. I tell people about it (particularly the bf). Then you know what I do? I change my mind and move on to obsessing over my next brilliant life plan.

Sometimes, I want to give up teaching English and open my own dance studio. I would call it something along the lines of “Jazz Hands!” or “Tutu-rific!” (Kidding, kidding…kind of.) I would spend my days choreographing across-the-floor combos and teaching eight counts to age 3 and up future SYTYCD contestants of the world. I would get to peruse dance catalogs for hours on end picking out the most perfectly sequined ensembles for the Spring recital. Minus the millions of velour jogging suited stage moms, life would be one big grande plie.

Other days, I want to open my own bookshop/bakery on a quaint little avenue of novelty shops and boutiques. I could spend my days fluffing pillows on comfy reading chairs, sliding around on one of those bookcase ladders, and talking to people about books all while enjoying a delicious homemade scone. That would be so much more zen than breaking up hallway makeout sessions and trying to remove penis drawings from the desks in my classroom. (Sigh)

Ever since reading about Edgar Sawtelle, I have wanted to live on a few acres, have a barn, and breed dogs. What could be wrong about playing with puppies ALL THE TIME?! Nothing. That’s what. You know how when you get a puppy you wish it could just stay that way forever? That would be my life. One endless puppy stage. Puppy breath, and face licks, and little cuties that can’t run in a straight line = eternal bliss. The bf said no when I initially brought it up. Since then I’ve been campaigning the various reasons why it would give our future children valuable lessons in responsibility and care-taking. So far, he’s not buying it.

From there I launched into my most recent plan. I want the barn still (well, and the puppies), but aside from that, I also have a new demand/obsession. GOATS!

Yep. That’s right. I want me some goats. Not just any goats though, my friends- FAINTING GOATS! I want the ones that straight up pass out when they’re startled. My rationale = endless entertainment. Everyone would want to come over and see them, then everyone would make a hilarious attempt of scaring them silly. I’m not sure which would be more entertaining: the people or the goats.

Can you imagine? You’re just walking through the backyard and you drop the aluminum lid to the trashcan on the sidewalk. BAM! Goat down! hahahahahaha. I am way too easily amused. Animal rights people are probably going to send me some hater mail. Whatever, I like Billy Goats too. I like them because they stand on top of things….like dog houses and brick mailboxes.

Now the bf REALLY thinks I’m nuts. Although he laughs off my new plan as completely ludicrous, I think the good ol’ southern cow-tipping, frog-catching, catfish-chasing boy inside him is intrigued. This just may work! He posed the question, “WHAT are you gonna do with a damn goat??”

Ummmm duh. Aside from watch it faint, I’ll milk that bitch.

I want a goat! I want a goat!

Everybody look at me ‘cuz I got a fainting goat!

wtf? y such bg wrds yo?

Actual conversation I heard in the hallway between two freshman boys:

 

“Dude! Why do you keep using such big words??”

“Believe it or not, when I’m not swearing, I actually have quite an extensive vocabulary.”

 

Perhaps now when I monitor the halls and get agitated with all the M-Fer bombs getting dropped, I can take solace in the fact that underneath all that foul-mouthed atrociousness, there are some refreshingly verbose teenagers.

It’s the little things…

Awwwww No She Di-in’t!

My students think I’m old. I know this because they try to slip inappropriate comments into class and think that I won’t notice. Um, helloooooooooo? Naming your team “Mary Jane” during Jeopardy: Poetry Edition? As if that’s not the oldest pet name for an illegal substance in the book. My grandma probably invented that. (Ok, little old Lila isn’t the reefer-smokin’ kind, but if she was…)

Also, they snicker when a word that has a double meaning is used in the literature. Then they bat their innocent little Pus ‘n’ Boots eyes up at me and ask, “what does that mean?” F-ers…I know what you’re up to! I know your sneaky little game! I will not submit to the role of clueless old teacher who is a vehicle for your ridicule! I am too young for that!

I read Urban Dictionary people! I know slang. I also know all the dirty/creepy/inventive and hopefully fictitious sexual acts. My college roommate and I used to have a contest of who could find the creepiest terms the quickest. We would sit there side-by-side at our computers IM-ing them to one another. “Dirty Sanchez!” “Jelly Doughnut!” “Angry Dragon!” (Caution: Do NOT look those up if you’re easily creeped the heck out like I am. I’m scarred for life.) My point is, I am IN THE KNOW. I am only 24! When I was 14, did I think that 24 was deathly close to wearing adult Pampers and drooling on myself?

I feel like Dr. Evil when he tries to get Scotty to love him….“Give your frickin father a hug. I’m cool. I’m hip. Ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka”…(as he attempts the Macarena). I don’t know why I care if these kids find me contemporary enough for their standards, but I do. I believe it is this desire that led me to Exhibit A:

I totally showed up my little JV dancers at practice. They were all standing around and attempting to do the “jerk” (for all you well-ripened readers, this is a new dance…not the one alluded to in “Land of 1000 Dances”. Youtube it. Get hip.) Anyway, they were all doing it wrong. Some of them were doing some sort of awkward running man, and others looked like they choked on their Cheetos and were attempting a full body effort to extract them. I shook my head and commented, “that’s totally not how it’s done”. Then there it was: the challenge. I had to prove myself. I had to respond to the call to “jerk”, or else all street cred would be lost. I did what I had to do…I went out there and I worked. it. out.

Jaws dropped. Girls shrieked. Then the realization that they were just shamed by their coach/teacher 10 years their senior set in. Bahahahahahahahaha I still got it bitches!

Don’t worry though; I only gloated for a second, then I promptly gave in to their pleading and taught them how to do it. Perhaps I should bust out my moves in class, eh? Throw a little jerkin’ into my poetry lesson? Give me a beat Robert Frost! I’ll clean the floor up in here to that iambic pentameter you’re rockin’. Who’s with me?! Holla!

Ms. M. Out!

 

“Now watch me clean dip. You see the clean kicks. Try to jerk like me I guarantee it’ll leave your team thrip. Pause, drop, go, stop. I let my chain bang, gang swang, go watch. Girls tell me when I jerk I look so hot. ‘Cause I be jerkin’ like a churner. Make the boat rock.”

 

Grades But No Greens

Many people assume that teenagers carry/use illegal substances. Drug-sniffing dogs are periodically brought in to stick their snoots into some trapper keepers and Jansports to make sure that no plant-derived products or powdered substances are brought to school. Random drug tests are also given to students that participate in athletics that require a signed code of conduct. We do much to take care of the illegal substances, but what do you do when you have illegal students??

Lately some students of mine have been openly discussing/teasing one another about their lack of a green card. At first I thought it was just a joke among some of my Hispanic students, but slowly I began to realize that they, in fact, were very serious. Not having legal citizenship has become quite the open discussion in some classes.

I like the kids, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t think illegal immigration is something that I would broadcast. The debt in our school district, and they widely discussed budget cuts and teacher layoffs are a touchy subject for school employees, school administrators, and taxpayers out there. Why don’t you go run around with a big sign that says “I don’t pay taxes and me and all my siblings are going to school for free while you pay for it!” Helloooooooooo. That community is agricultural; they have garden tools…and guns…and they’re angry farmers.

I’m trying to teach my kids about the impact of racism and discrimination (within the Holocaust literature unit), and here these kids are calling each other “beaner” and “wetback” and cracking jokes about border hopping. You are not helping my cause!

I’m not quite sure how the whole thing works; how do these kids get enrolled in school without the proper paperwork? Also, what happens when they’re 16 and everyone their age is getting their drivers’ licenses?

More importantly, I work in a district where I have to heavily document all my grading practices and parent correspondences- if they don’t have to document their existence in this country, why do I have to document why they’re failing and what interventions I have tried?

I’m semi-kidding about that last comment. I obviously do not hold it against the student. It just gets frustrating when you have 5 classes of up to 32 kids a piece, and the crowded rooms are only going to get worse as more teachers are laid off and incoming classes get larger. Do you know what a windowless classroom of 32 teenagers smells like? Yeah…I do. ASS. Do you know how long it takes to grade 150 essays? AN ETERNITY. I’ve got native English speakers that can’t write in a semi-grammatically correct manner; what do you think these Spanish-speakers write like?! I took five years of useless French! I’m schooled in the wrong Romance language…Zut Alors! I’m useless!

We don’t just need better border control, we also need some Homeland Security Homeboys up in my classroom fo sho.