So You Wanna be a teacher?

Did you know that 25% of California new teachers leave the profession? Frankly, I'm surprised it isn't more. I know what you're thinking: the damn disrespectful youth are driving 'em out of the career by the truck load. Nope. Not a chance. I teach fourteen-year-olds through eighteen. I love them all, but for different reasons. The frosh possess an innocence (yes, it still does exist) and excitement for learning. Sure, they have their bad days (don't we all), but they have a sparkle in their eye still, and they still love my stupid jokes. The older ones, more wiser, favor a dryer sense of humor, and perhaps one leaning toward sarcasm (their old age has made them more cynical, I suppose). But they still make me laugh. They challenge me, make me a better teacher, insist that I be a human. I wouldn't trade them in, I know that they are smart when they want to be, I give them slack when they deserve it, and support when they need it. So do you want to be a teacher? It takes more than a love of the written word. More than fascination with the unknown. It's beyond the most difficult formula. It's about loving what you do. Loving kids. Enjoying their successes. Sharing in their dismay. Being able to admit when you are wrong. Knowing that what you do makes a difference. Confident in yourself that making an enemy out of love is okay. So you wanna be a teacher? I can tell by the first answer from your mouth, in the way you look at my class, from the questions that are asked, to your intrigue of the unknown teen. Nah...you don't belong in my world, but join the 25%...and I'm glad that you're there.

I'll be needing Rogaine sooner than later

Yup. No doubt about it. You'll find me in the Rite-Aid checkout with my box of Rogaine. And this will happen sooner than later. Confirmed. That's it. "Mom, did you wash those shorts I wore the other day?" (Uh, yeah, I think so, perhaps, it's probable, and maybe not but I'm sure not going to get up at 3:30 instead of 4:30 to wash 'em as I'm SURE you do have another pair of shorts) and with this statement I leave a clump of my highlighted hair on the back of the couch . At 6:20 in the morning, I hear a shout, "Hey, Mom, did you sign those papers for me that were in my backpack?" (Uh, yeah, maybe, I'm sure I signed something, it's possible, and what am I supposed to do? Wade through your backpack, dig under your lunchbox, and pull out every wad of paper and sign the bottom of them JUST IN CASE? What happened to presenting them to me neatly the night before it's due?) and with that fifteen of my favorite hairs fall on my newly mopped kitchen floor (yeah, right, in whose lifetime?). "Mom!" (Oh, my GOD, WHAT now?) "I told you I only like wheat bread!" (Okay, so after my twelve hour day I'll hurry home and make some specially for you because I know that the wheat flavor compliments the P and J so much better than that offered by the Wonder...save me please). Oh, yeah, if my hairs aren't standing at their ends, they are definitely falling out and slowly clogging up my shower drains (but that's another blog).

Eff U

As the only female in a house of testosterone, I feel a need to wear pink as often as possible. In fact, today, I wore pink. My husband even noticed, "I like that sweater," he muttered between swigs of afterwork Pale Ales. Hmmm...a sweater in August? It really was a top, but nonetheless, I think it must of been the pink that did the man in. But I think that the testosterone impacts my reactions at times. For instance, I'm noticing that I am becoming all too comfortable with verbal reactions that would be more suited of a man. Example? A couple of days ago I was traveling down to Paradise, on my way to church, and crossing the Paradise Lake bridge. I wasn't wearing pink. A car up ahead in the oncoming traffic decided to pass while crossing the bridge...not bright...just downright dangerous. Luckily he was far from me, but his lack of concern for other drivers just...just..well, pissed me off. As he passed me I stuck my hand out of the sunroof, flipped him off, rolled down my window and screamed "Dickhead". I couldn't believe myself. I'm usually so calm in the car. (I just learned how to honk my horn.) And, it was Sunday right before church service. Since I felt like quite the sinner, my oldest son put it all into perspective for me by saying, "Don't worry mom. He deserved it. Actually, probably worse." My youngest son, however, worries me...he is still bewildered how I could throw my fingers into the perfect flip-off so quickly. I think he's practicing. So, I wonder, do they make an testosterone shield for mothers? Because if this keeps up, I better buy a lot more pink.

Purple Knickers vs. White Hanes

I come from tea-times and trifles

beans on toast and fried egg sandwiches

suet and yorkshire pudds,

lemon curds and toad-in-the-holes

battling with conkers on the playground

baring purple knickers under navy tunics

too short for netball

wrong gender for cricket

I'm from war stories and ragtime

parachutes and grand pianos

too young to comprehend death

hands drowning in those of Fats Waller

My Fair Lady and Mary Poppins

more my interest than a Bridge Too Far

Accents and idioms

Potatoes, Tomahtoes

and Bob's your flippin' uncle

once just confusion

brings intrigue to my present

Where I'm from molded me

filled me

once just a part

now is me

I got gas

NO, stupid...not needin' the Beano, thank you. I mean, I got $10 worth of gas at the 76 station this morning. Yeah, just like many mornings, only today was different. My youngest son is partaking in a week long writing festival (not a willing volunteer mind you, but that is another story...) down at Chico State. This constitutes a 40 minute drive down the hill, another back up the hill, and then later another 40 minutes down the hill, and later still another 40 up again. And I wasn't done. Football practice 25 minutes away brought further travel up and down the damn hill. As I pulled into my driveway at 8:30 tonight, my 'low gas' indicator blazed its auburn warning. Yup! I already need gas again...$10 sure doesn't go many times up the hill anymore, but it WILL buy ONE pound of steak...