Unemployed - With Promise...

This morning I officially woke up unemployed, sort of. I do have a classroom, with a job attached, which will begin this fall, and my stuff is there, and I have a significant degree of confidence that this will also involve a paycheck on or about Aug 30. So... unemployed isn't near as horrible as it could be. It's the getting through two months without a paycheck that is horrendous.

So... what to do now?

Hmmm... well, obviously I'll have more time for blogging, but if the entire source of my content is the ramblings of a 4 year old who calls the television remote control a comote (sounds like commode)... it could get old pretty fast.

I have looked for other both temporary and permanent work, with no luck so far...although I did have a pretty amazing interview the other day. I had applied for a position with Saint Leo University as an academic advisor at the Trenton campus. The weird part was that one of the interviewers, unbeknownst to me in advance, was my current assistant superintendent. Argh.

Now I have to say, he's either one of the nicest people on the face of the earth, or he's got the best poker face in town. He didn't in the slightest way shame me, or give me a hard time for looking for other employment. In fact, when the issue of WHY I'm looking for other work came up, he wasn't even the one asking the question (although I'll admit I found that when I was explaining my reasoning, I was mostly addressing him).

So... why would a person with a promise of a teaching position in the fall, in a great school, with great administration and the absolutely most awesome classroom they've ever had, be looking for a new job?

1. Did I mention previously that I'm taking a $23,000 pay cut in taking the teaching position?
2. Going from assistant principal to teacher is a demotion, even if it is entirely because of funding issues, and due to no fault of my own...and my naturally driven, competitive nature wants to be moving FORWARD, not backward.
3. I've got a daughter (Zabby) who'll be graduating from high school about this time next year, who actually hopes to go to college - and I'm really hoping she'll be able to do so without taking on the kind of debt that I did in order to get where I am, which is not something I can help with unless I'm making enough money to live on, pay my own student loans, AND save something on the side.
4. I have another daughter (Katie), same scenario, just 2 years behind her....
5. Don't even get me started on the 4 year old.

Alas... I'm not going to be getting any other jobs. I've somewhat accepted this fact. After 6 weeks of applications, and searching... there is very little in this area for someone with my education and background, due to the budget cuts which have put a LOT of people like me out of work.

So... I'm adapting a new way of thinking...thanks to Sheryl Crowe - It's not having what you want... it's wanting what you've got.

I want to teach. I want to be poor. Oops...now I'm getting redundant.

Kirby Doesn't Suck Like a Hoover

(Originally written 6/21 /2008, and hanging in the DRAFTS box because I guess I hit the wrong button!)

Recently I discovered an interesting website that I've become at least mildly addicted to: http://newsformormons.com/ and it includes blogs by some of the most brilliant minds of our time - such as Orson Scott Card, of whom I am a major fan.

So today, when I was catching up on the weeks worth of news since I last surfed the site, I found a story about Kirby Heyborne, a Mormon actor whom I greatly admire, being blasted for having been in a beer commercial that was apparently aired during the NBA playoffs.

Now, I watched the commercial (on Youtube) and frankly I had a tough time deciding which guy was Kirby. He was definitely not the one with his face on the ground. Another article said he grabs a beer bottle outside of a party - if so, I couldn't even see that guy's face, so how do you know? I *THINK* he might have been dude #2 - following around the guy who kept pressing his face to the ground. Ultimately, though, all that I saw that guy do was hunt for a party. (Note -- I finally saw this commercial on actual tv on July 2 - and Kirby was definitely the guy grabbing the beer bottle....)

Now, that much said... Orson Scott Card wrote an awesome, painfully sarcastic response in which he slams people for slamming Kirby for trying to support his family however he possibly could. He says that just being in a commercial for something isn't the same as endorsing it. He makes some tough comparisons that I don't have the time or energy to begin to address.

But I have a thought or two.

A while back, in my delightful job as assistant principal at a local high school, I was informed by my boss that we would be getting together over the weekend to prepare for a big upcoming event. Further discussion revealed that she and the other AP would be at school both Saturday AND Sunday and I was expected to play along. I'll admit, I was a little nervous. While I can't claim to be the absolute most totally righteous person that ever lived, I do make an effort, and I just could not find a way to justify working on Sunday. I think it's different if you're a paramedic or a law enforcement officer, or if there's an emergency situation of some sort. Anyway, this wasn't, and so I didn't. And now, I'm not going to have that job any more. Is there a relationship here? Probably not. Ultimately, I think my boss was pretty understanding about me not working on Sundays. But in today's society, even that tiny concession to God seems weird. I can't tell you how many times we've been invited out to a restaurant or the beach, or to a party on a Sunday afternoon, and the confused responses we've received when we've explained that we don't do those things even AFTER church.

Yes, I know I've gone around the block to get next door... but here's my point.

I'm a little disappointed in Kirby. Even though we live in Florida, have never been to Utah and aren't related to any Mormons who don't live in our house, we do buy those movies, and we talk about those actors, and we hold them to a higher standard than the typical Hollywood character. His argument for making the commercial was that he had to support his family. I find that a little weak, simply because there are always other choices - perhaps choices that force us to live a different lifestyle, or make sacrifices that we'd rather not... but there are always other choices.

That much said, does one beer commercial make Kirby into Satan? No. He screwed up, and I'm sure he knows it, and I'm sure a lot of people have been unkind and unforgiving enough to point it out to him repeatedly. However... so have I. And so have you. And we're lucky enough not to have such public lives that our screw-ups make it to the news. So as we consider blasting him for damaging his own reputation with a career mistake, I think we'd do better to consider the motes and beams for a minute and back off the man. He's only accountable for his choices to the Eternal, and I believe he knows enough about what's right to make it right with Him.

So... good luck to you, Kirby. I've forgiven you, because I've done much worse than pretend to go to a party where beer was the main attraction. And when your next LDS movie comes out, I'm still going to buy it because, in spite of the whole beer thing... you don't suck.

Wreaking Havoc

Absolutely no one...and I do mean no one is as good at wreaking havoc as four year old boys. Unless it's perhaps 5 year old boys. I'm not sure - we haven't gotten that far yet. (And if he doesn't slow down, he may never make it to 5!)

Harry is my darling angel boy - God's gift awarded to me after enduring the pre-pubescent years of both of my lovely daughters. The first three years of his life were a dream come true. He was brilliant, adorable, funny, sweet, loving...everything a mommy could want. And then one day... he turned FOUR.



Now I've heard that the twos are supposed to be terrible, and the threes nothing to sniff at either, but I'm telling you, four really takes the cake. Today has been the perfect example.

Today, for the fourth day in a row, I had to take my darling Harry to work with me, because I can't afford daycare with the impending doom of unemployment in a couple of weeks, and his sisters are at a church camp for girls. So, he's been parked in my office "helping" me. Today, he began our adventure by refusing to eat his breakfast, and slipping a slice of ham between the chair and the wall in hopes I wouldn't notice. (The icky smell started giving it away by lunch time.) As folks came into my office, Harry pounced on them and forced them to watch clips from his Spiderman video, shouting, "Wait-wait-wait!! You can't leave until you see this!!" (Keep in mind, he didn't actually KNOW any of these people.) At one point, I left him briefly unattended while I went over a teacher's final evaluation with her in the room next door. I was rewarded to find that in the interim, he chewed a piece of gum, stretched it into wispy spider-web strands and managed to get it all over the upholstery, the carpet, the wall, and most of my desk. (Of course, I didn't see any of this until he jumped up and hugged me, at which point, while picking bits of gum out of his hair, I found that the front of my best black blouse was glued to his shirt with 9 million tidbits of gum. Who knew a single stick of gum could go so far???)

Needless to say, I didn't let him out of my sight until we came home, at which point, after he "helped" me water the garden (and dragged the hose all over my squash vines, utterly destroying them), and "helped" me take the garbage to the street (I have to admit, it was nice not to have to pick up all of the trash that the dog had strewn all over the yard by myself - even if he found it a little too complicated to actually put it back in the garbage bag). By the time I survived these escapades, I couldn't wait to get him bathed and in the bed. So I fixed his tub, put him in it, and shut the bathroom door (which I normally wouldn't do, except our cat just had a litter of kittens 4 weeks ago (yes I actually thought the darn cat was a boy), and we're storing them in the bathroom for safety reasons until they're weaned). Then I sat down, only a few feet away, for a few minutes of peace. Oh what price peace!!

After about 5 minutes or so, I realized he'd stopped making his jolly splashing noises, which is unusual, but not a bad thing, since I could still hear him talking. So I went on with my relaxing moment, until I finally heard the delighted burst of laughter that spurts from him like a babbling brook when he is truly delighted. This is always the first sign of absolute mayhem.

So, I go bursting into the bathroom to find my naked child very quickly shutting the under-sink cabinet door and spinning around, keeping his hand on the door and looking very guilty. This would have drawn slightly more of my attention had I not just stepped in a puddle of water about 3 inches deep which consumed the ENTIRE bathroom floor.

As I crossed my arms over my chest, he bit his bottom lip, slapping on his most pitiful, sorrowful look, and stepped out from in front of the cabinet... the doors instantly popping open, with five drowned little rats tumbling out and mewing for all they were worth.

Two hours, a scrubbed floor, and five blow-dried kittens later, my little havoc-master is in bed. And I just spent 5 minutes typing this... delaying the inevitable ... dealing with the mama cat's method of protest...the big dumpy she just took in the middle of my freshly scrubbed bathroom floor.

There should have been a Calgon commercial for today...

Reality, Hoovers and Other Things That Suck

It's amazing how quickly things can change.

Shortly after making my delightful post about the joys of being an AP, I was notified that my little jaunt into the world of administration, as thrilling a ride as it has been, is about to be over.

Now, don't misunderstand. I am not being punished for blogging. The timing is strictly coincidental. The facts are as follows:

The Florida state legislature, which is responsible for formulating the budget which eventually translates into my paycheck, is a slobbering bunch of dim-wits who can't balance their own checkbooks, much less a state budget. The people responsible for electing them are, in large part, elderly, and suffering from dementia. As a result, they not only elected the buffoons who decorate our state legislature, they compounded the problem by also approving amendment one, the combination of which has resulted in slashed school district budgets all over the state, turning struggling districts into disaster areas, and pushing successful schools toward mediocrity. Our school district is the perfect example.

We're in a tiny, rural district, with just 4 schools - but they've all been "A" schools for a very long time. We've got a system that works, supports kids, and produces awesome results. Almost 85% of our graduating class this year is headed for college. Our seniors racked up thousands of hours of college credits through the dual enrollment program. Our youngsters get to learn in small, focused classes with teachers who know them AND their parents, and the cracks are so narrow that very few students ever slip through them.

And yet, we have to go messing with what works. Because of the idiocy in our state legislature, and population here in "Heaven's Waiting Room" where folks don't care so much about the public school system, since their kids graduated 40 years ago, our school district is cutting 44 positions this year (mine included). Now I know, 44 doesn't sound like many - until you consider that it represents the ENTIRE faculty of one of our 4 schools. With 44 more people, we were all very busy.

In my school, I rarely had any down-time at all, and averaged a good 65-70 hour week most of the time, as did the other assistant principal with whom I worked. (And our principal easily averaged 80-90 hours, often being found at school on Sundays, when I do not work.) Yet next year, those same tasks which kept me busy will be piled upon someone else's plate. Not because I did an inadequate job - not because I was not a hard worker. Not because I offended someone and not, contrary to popular belief, because I'm not related to anyone in this tiny town. No, it happened for lack of money - entirely the fault of the morons we've elected to our legislature.

So am I a little bitter? Sure. I worked and studied and earned a second graduate degree to get this job. I uprooted my family and moved across the state for this job. And just a few months ago, confident and happy, I bought a house in this county to ensure my continued easy access to this job. So yes, I'm a little bitter. I love my school, and my district. I love the teachers and students I've worked with. And I'm even pretty darn fond of our school board and superintendent. I am not, at the moment, too fond of our legislature though. Frankly, I'm tempted to sue them.

What will I do now? Well, at the moment it looks like I'll be going back to the classroom - teaching a special education resource class in a local elementary school. Could I get another administrative position? Almost certainly. Am I willing to relocate to do so? Absolutely not.

Since we have moved to this tiny little county, my kids have found teachers who care about them, we've found a church that loves us, friends who make us feel welcome. We wake up to watch the sun rise, not over the back of the projects from which we came, not over the Burger King where we used to live, but over a gorgeous pasture full of cows. We listen to the birds sing while dew twinkles in the banana spider's web that is stretched across the gate. There are no sirens, and no smog. There is no anger and no fear. Life is, on the farm, the way God intended it to be.

So, even though my job was eaten by the self-absorbed bunch of simpletons in Tallahassee, I'm not packing my things and heading for Georgia. I'll stay, and I'll wait. Because life is good... and those idiots do have to get re-elected.

Here's to you, Senator Hoover. May your term be brief, and your briefs be infested.

Chapter 1: Work

Chapter 1: Work

As of this moment in time, my actual occupation is Assistant Principal of a very small public school in a very small school district in Florida. This is a job to which I have aspired since the very first time that I had a student in my class smart off at me and get away with it because my school’s administrators lacked the energy or creativity to do anything about it.

Being AP is alternately cool and miserable. It is cool when some 12 year old twit decides to call you an “a-hole” because you required him to follow a basic school rule and his parents ask you to give him “licks.” (This is a delightful southern colloquialism used to describe corporal punishment – yes, it is still legal in some areas – and I’ll note that the school district in question, where corporal punishment is still used, is currently ranked the number one school district in Florida, and was recently recognized by US News & World Report in the top schools in the nation list. Short-form: Licks are a good thing (unless you’re on the receiving end, in which case, it depends from whom you receive them).)

Being an AP is also cool when you’ve got a faculty full of teachers who actually want to do and be the best that they possibly can – teachers who love kids and want to see them reach their potential. There is nothing cooler than having a teacher whom you consider absolutely first rate come into your office and ask for suggestions on how she can improve on something she’s doing, because she values your opinion, or at least respects your position enough to ask for advice. Whatever else I might have to say for my current school district, I must say we’ve got amazing teachers and the very worst of them is better than some of the best they had in my last school district. (Whoops… think I just burned a bridge, darn it.)

What could possibly be miserable about being an assistant principal, you ask, especially in such an awesome school? Well, let me share a recent day-in-the-life of me, and perhaps you can glean my point.

5:30 a.m. – get up, get the kids up, try to get ready to go without getting breakfast, toothpaste, makeup, or whatever happens to be on my four-year-old’s hands on my over-priced beige suit.

6:15 a.m. – see the teenagers off to seminary, while trying to make sure all of the animals (including the 4 year old) are fed, while simultaneously e-mailing testing log-in codes to all of the reading, math and science teachers in 5^th through 8^th grades so that the early birds won’t panic when they get to work before I’ve sent them out.

7:00 a.m. – catch pocket of beige suit jacket on protrusion on livestock gate which encloses our driveway – and frantically rush back into the house to change.

7:20 a.m. – mentally throttle the actual mother of the 3 year old with strawberry applesauce on her hands who mistakes me for her own mother and desperately clings to the legs of my cream colored slacks, thereby eliminating any hope of looking remotely professional for the rest of the day. (The actual mother somehow foresaw this fiasco, I’m sure, and managed to escape the daycare unscathed while I will spend the rest of the day wearing her child’s breakfast!)

7:35 a.m. – drop my purse in my office, and collect the pile of phone messages from disgruntled parents who disapprove of how I did my job yesterday, who left messages to that effect on the receptionists’ answering machine last night. Throw the messages in the trash just to avoid telling the parents what I really think, thereby accelerating my arrival in the unemployment line.

7:45 a.m. – take my post supervising breakfast in the cafeteria just in time to witness a 6^th grader tossing his cookies all over the table and risk tossing my own while I’m trying to wipe it up before it becomes an epidemic. Get screamed at by a pair of 10^th and 11^th graders who think the stench should be justification for them to leave the cafeteria and wander the campus unsupervised for the next half hour. Call for the dean to come and collect them, just to learn that he hasn’t actually made it in to work yet, and probably won’t be in before 10. Tell one 13 year old 5^th grader to sit down exactly 17 times before making the mental decision to write him up just as soon as I get back to civilization. Pull one 15 year old girl off the lap of her 18 year old boyfriend. Spend 15 minutes being glared at by the voluntarily self-segregating “Gray Hoodie Gang” because I had the audacity to ask them not to shout at each other across the table. Decide that it is entirely too noisy to possibly hear the bell ring and “accidentally” dismiss the cafeteria crowd to their respective first period classes 2 minutes before the bell will actually ring.

8:15 a.m. – 11:00 a.m.– go to the 5^th grade classroom where I have been assigned to spend half of my day teaching 12 struggling students how to read. Of course, I’m not in an actual classroom – I’m in the old teacher’s lounge, which has no working heat or air conditioning, or even suitable furnishings, or any actual books other than the ones I brought from home, but at least I did manage to get rid of the incredibly noisy Coke machine that held court in the back third of the room for half the year. This is actually the better part of my day, in spite of the fact that I have the considerable joy of sharing this time with the aforementioned 13 year old 5^th grader, along with several of his most obnoxious cohorts whose mothers just “happened” to forget their ADHD medication today. I secretly get a great deal of pleasure from knowing that on the days that I can hold them down for five minutes, I am going to squeeze some learning into the brains of some of the most challenging attitudes on the entire campus. Yes, it will take a wrestling match, but I can do it, and I do it well, so I love it. I don’t follow the prescribed plan though.

They gave me the scripted package that is “research-driven” and is supposed to produce guaranteed results. I've used it before. In my opinion, it is roughly the equivalent of tying a student down and slowly beating them to death with repeated floggings with raw strips of chicken breast.

The set looks really pretty on my shelf, where it is now working on its second inch-deep layer of dust. In it’s place on my desk, however, are a number of comic books, along with Beauty by Robin McKinley and The Last Book in the Universe by Rodman Philbrick. The kids absolutely love to be read to, and are learning, through the experience, that there is actually something to be found in between the covers of a book that is worth learning to read. The evidence that this is worthwhile? Well, of my 12 little darlings, two recently scored in the highest range possible on our school's progress monitoring test, both of them having begun the year in the lowest of the three ranges. Of the rest, more than half have moved up a full level, which in layman's terms means they've produced a years' worth of learning in about 6 months. But the best part - one of my little fellas has decided to read. He had a burgeoning ability last October. This week, I put Holes by Louis Sachar in his hand, and he hasn't put it back down since. This kid, who hasn't read one book all the way through (not even the Dr. Seuss ones) the entire year, actually asked me if I minded if he borrowed my book and took it home over the weekend! Needless to say, if he takes and passes the AR test on that book, it's going to be his forever. I couldn't be more thrilled.

Note - in case you're wondering what happened to my little timeline - it's not remotely uncommon for me to get off on a tangent, so if that annoys you... prepare to be well annoyed. For those of you who are pulling your hair out right about now, I'll try to be good and go back to my timeline.

11:00 - 11:25 - haul my stuff back to my office, and try to deflect the fury of the next round of disgruntled parents, and note that the sticky spots on my pants are now collecting lint, dirt, and general crud, to make the hand and cheek prints about five thousand times more obvious than they were before. Mutter some colorful metaphors under my breath.

11:25 - hurry to the cafeteria to direct 6th grade "Homework Lunch" - a delightful idea that requires silent lunch time for the 100 or so 6th grade students who have zeroes or missing assignments in their classes, so that they have an opportunity to make up the work. The weird part is that this leaves only about 20 kids who aren't obligated to participate in homework lunch, so it's held right in the cafeteria, since there isn't another place on campus where they'd all fit while they eat (except the auditorium, which is carpeted, and the football field, which doesn't lend itself well to managing behavior). After distributing their work lists, correcting seating arrangements for students who can't figure out how to stop talking, and collecting and signing off for a mountain of completed assignments, I make my way to the line and collect a plate full of rather unappealing things which I must wolf down in 15 minutes or less.

(Warning - I feel a tangent coming on!!)

I'll note, generally I am very well pleased by what is served in our school cafeteria. We usually have several great choices, and at least one of them is quite good. However, on Fridays we end up with a choice between pizza (Nardone's - no, I never heard of them either) which is unbelievably bland and flavorless (in spite of the cafeteria staff's best effort to spice it up), and either hot dogs or turkey and cheese subs, neither of which hold the slightest appeal to me. I am definitely a hot lunch kind of person, I guess.

11:50 - Leave the cafeteria and respond to a call for a pair of 5th graders fighting at p.e. I march the forty-seven miles down to the gym, collect the delinquents - a pair of feisty girls who are all nails and hair and spit, and drag them carefully, like a pair of wet cats, back to my office, so they can hiss at each other in private. Oh what joy. My favorite part about this is calling the parents, both of which believe that their child is the next incarnation of Jesus, and that they couldn't possibly have done anything I've described. Of course, neither girl takes credit for starting the fight, which is irrelevant since they're both getting suspended either way. So I give them a stern talking-to, which I hope gives them as big a headache as the one they're giving me, before handing them off to their parents, both of which inform me that I am either an idiot or an a-hole (without the abbreviating, of course), because I followed our policy and suspended them both for fighting.

12:30 - Make another middle school girl cry when I refuse to let her ride the school bus home to spend the night with her friend, on 2 hours notice. Once again - I get balled out (bawled out? I'm never sure about that) by a kid and a parent for enforcing standing policy. I do not know why it is so complicated for kids or parents either one to understand that if we just let any kid who wants to have a sleepover take 5 of her best girlfriends home on her school bus (which I guarantee you is already overcrowded due to the seating allowance expecting all students behinds to be the size of a 6 year old, even when they're 16, 6'4" and 300 pounds), the ride would be dangerous and would almost certainly lead to our losing a very painful lawsuit if an accident were to follow.

12:45 - Interview a potential substitute teacher candidate for a recommendation to the school board. This is particularly painful situation because I know we're desperate for subs, which are more rare than albino gators, but this is even worse because the candidate in question looks like he's about 19 (and of course I can't ask his actual age), and would easily blend in with the students. He's still pimply faced, and so eager that it's a little creepy, but it turns out that he's a college student studying to be a teacher, so I can't really find a valid reason to reject him. (That much said, I have to add that I was particularly disturbed later to find him escorting one of our students to the prom.... )

1:15 - Attempt to squeeze in a couple of classroom walk-throughs (a brief data-collecting observation), between the horde of kids coming to my office to buy tickets or ask questions about an upcoming middle school dance being sponsored by our school's PTO.

(ACK! Another tangent!!)

Here's the thing about our PTO. It's really more of a PATO (Parent Administrator Teacher Organization). We didn't have one at all until I got a bee in my bonnet about starting one last year in hopes of providing funds for student recognition and teacher appreciation. Our first year was pretty weak, but this year, we've raised quite a nice sum of money - enough to provide several months worth of student of the week prizes, as well as forking over a $500 cash scholarship to one of our seniors. What's interesting about that is that we've never had more than about six people show up at our meetings or actually contribute more than the membership fee. (However, this year, we had about 80 parents sign up who never came to a meeting or paid their membership fees - and 30 who never came, but DID pay.) We held two big events - a Masquerade in October, and the Spring Fling in April - both "dances" for the 5th and 6th grade students - which emphasized less dancing and more games and fun instead.

-- Totally separate rant: I really, really hate it when clubs or organizations sponsor dances for these little 10 and 11 year old kids, and force them to endure 2 or more hours of listening to raunchy rap or hip hop music, which 90% of them couldn't care less about, but show up so they can spend a couple of social hours with their friends. At the PTO events, I personally select all of the music, which wouldn't be offensive in a Sunday School classroom (unless you've got religious issues with the Chicken Dance), as well as a few games and contests to mix things up, and the kids always have a great time. Plus, we make several hundred dollars (mostly off concessions) each time we have these things, and the kids make a point of telling us that "this was the best dance ever!!" This only proves to me that those other organizations are only interested in taking the kids' money, and not remotely interested in ensuring that they're enjoying themselves. Rant over.

1:45 - Cover a high school class while the teacher attends a parent conference. (I really wish we could hire a full-time floating sub who would just do little things like this all day. We definitely could keep them busy. ) Endure the disgusted stares of a group of teenagers who apparently think I did something unfortunate in my pants which resulted in the gooey mess on my legs. Contemplate whether or not asking an unmarried administrator if she's pregnant is grounds for expulsion. Deciding it's not, I attempt to stare a hole in the perpetrator's forehead while I silently will the bell to ring.

2:10 - Cover the front desk and phone because the receptionist had to leave early. Field nine-thousand calls for kids to check out, at least half of which sound like they're being made by the students themselves. I still can't believe that we actually let kids check out, regardless of their age, without having an adult come into the building and sign for them. I hereby prophesy that this will one day result in something unfortunate which ends with a nasty, nasty lawsuit.

2:55 - Rush to the 5th grade building to escort the "walkers" across campus to the pick-up gate, and find that they were released early (or my watch is slow!), and they've already beaten me there. Then I stand at the gate and look intimidating to prevent any nonsense as kids head home. Silently, I am praying that none of the kids getting into the cars in the line here are actually being picked up by the 54 year old sexual predator that they met through MySpace, while their parents innocently wait at home expecting them to get off a bus. Then I catch a little kid writing on a post, which I spent hours scrubbing the graffiti off of last summer, and I spend the next 10 minutes making him cry as he contemplates what's going to happen after I call his mother and tell her that he's been vandalizing the school. Generally, I figure my tear- count for the day is maxed out at three o'clock, but this is one of those rare exceptions. This kid is such a good crier that I actually feel bad for him, and agree to let him wipe this one off and promise never to do it again, rather than keep him after school to scrub ALL off the posts, like I had just suggested.

3:30 - Finally make it back to my office where I desperately try to get some work graded for my 5th graders, and some plans in place for the next day, before I jump in my car at 4:30, and rush my 4 year old home, so that I can immediately return to supervise a baseball game which won't wrap up until almost 10. (Actually, the game will be over at about 9:05 - but it will be nearly 10 before the hordes have decided to stop jabbering and go home. If I could afford it, I'd buy the spot of land next to the ball fields and designate it the jawing spot, so that people could step across the property line and keep right on talking to their hearts' content, while those of us who are obligated to stand around and wait on the folks on school property finally get to go home at a reasonable hour.

10:15 - walk in my door, to find 2 loads of laundry needing folding, a sink full of dirty dishes, a 4 year old who didn't get his bath, and his sandy head, precious as it is, is now smearing chocolate pudding on MY pillow case, where he is sleeping. Look down and discover that someone's gummy worm has attached itself to one of the icky spots on my pants, and wonder just how many hours that friend has been traveling with me, before I hit the showers, inhale a midnight dinner and call it a day.... except then I remember that I haven't completed one of this week's assignments for the online reading endorsement class I'm taking (and of course it's due today), so I sit down to crank that out before falling asleep in front of my computer.

And in 5.5 hours, I'll get up and do it again.

Non-Fiction: Prologue/Disclaimer

(Note: I actually began writing this planning to publish it as a book - I'll explain why later. Anyway, my friend suggested I should start putting it here... so here it is. Enjoy. :) )

I am socially handicapped. I don’t know a better way to explain it. I was raised by wonderful parents who love each other, in a healthy home. My mother was a stay-at-home mom who instilled in me a characteristic which the best training and greatest efforts have not been able to quash – I speak my mind. That may not seem like such a horrendous thing, until you realize just how quickly people can be offended by this habit. Now, mind you, this does not mean I go around spewing a string of profanities in every direction each time someone or something irritates me. No, it’s not vulgarity that offends (although I’ll admit that I still refuse to consider “jackass” to be profanity, as my mother swears to this day that she never “cussed” in front of me as a child, and I recall at least a dozen occasions upon which another driver cut her off, or took her parking spot to then be handed her favorite verbal rejoinder: “JACKASS!”)

It’s not that I’m unaware or uncompassionate about the feelings of others. I don’t ever seek to offend anyone directly (well, actually, I can think of a few folks in our state legislature that I’d like to offend directly right this minute – but I haven’t really followed through on those urges lately). The problem is that when someone asks my opinion, I find it utterly impossible to curb the urge to give it to them exactly as it is. And unfortunately, people in my life – coworkers, subordinates, etc. – begin to find a great deal of entertainment in pushing this button with me, just so they can giggle about it later. And of course, they then must giggle about what I said with someone else – usually my superiors… ahhh, life is hard.

Thus, today I decided to write a book. If people are going to be offended by my opinions, why not just offend them on a larger scale? Why not just put my thoughts right out there for the world to mull over. I don’t require anyone to read them, or to respond. But if you’re going to claim I said something, take the book with you. At least then you’ll get the quote right.

So… I’m socially handicapped. I offend people, and I can’t stop doing it. Is that worth writing a book about? No. Believe it or not, I’ve got some pretty positive opinions as well. But I want you to be forewarned, since I’m going to hit on some topics in this book which definitely bring out my horns (i.e. ex-husbands, child support, politicians, etc). I also want to state that many of the names of real people in this book have been changed to protect the anonymity of the guilty – or at least to help prevent me from getting sued.

Older Than I Realized

It's pretty embarrassing to post a blog about how old I'm NOT, and then to have a fit of old age that lasts nearly three months - which results in my absolute inability to remember what my log-in information was with which I started this infernal blog!!

The sad thing is, I actually had used one of my two or three standard passwords, but I just didn't think I used this one, and so I didn't try it. I know. It's embarrassing to be such a dork. Either way... I'm back, and with a vengeance!! Thanks for your patience!!