Oh, Ralphie, How I Understand...

Part I

Confession: When I was ten I flipped my mom off behind her back.

I'm not even sure she knew this before reading it on this blog, but when she sent me to my room at ten years of age ("Hello! I'm practically an ADULT!  DOUBLE-DIGITS, woman!"), I remember feeling so angry I couldn't control myself and when I got around the corner, I shoved that finger up into the air so hard I am surprised now that it didn't come flying off.  Sometimes when I'm driving I wish I could recapture that anger and give someone else the good flipping-off they deserve, but I am not sure I have ever.been.so.angry.  (Which, now that I'm a teacher, I can see is probably not quite normal for a ten-year old, but whatever...)

Immediately afterwards I drew my arm in and had to hold back tears.  My mother loved me, and here I was doing the absolute worst thing one human being could do to another.  (I wasn't dramatic at all.)  I felt such a wave of shame and guilt that I went to my room quickly and quietly and waited there until she  came to get me.

Since that wave of shame overcame me so many years ago, I have not thought it was appropriate to cuss in front of my mother.  I had been using curse words since I was nine (thanks to my awesome cousin who is three years my senior!), and- apparently- gestures since I was ten, but I never wanted my mom to hear me.  It always amazed me how some friends would nonchalantly talk to their parents just like they would talk to their drinking buddy.

This strange quirk really came to a head when I was trying on prom dresses at JC Penny ('cause I'm classy).  I don't know why, but my wayward mother was not able to make it with me to the store, so I called her when I found a dress I loved.  As I shoved myself and the large, pouffy dress into the small fitting room, I was describing the dress to my mother and marveling at the cheap price.  Always the optimist, though, my last remark was that the "fudging dress probably wouldn't fit me!"

Only I didn't say fudge.




Without thinking, I immediately hung up on my mother, staring at myself in the mirror- mouth agape, eyes wide open, and face about THIS COLOR.  

It's been nearly a decade since that incident, and I've grown quite a bit more comfortable using vulgar language around my mother, but she doesn't usually get to witness the sailor side of me like she did last week.

Last Sunday, I was iChatting it up with the old lady.  I won't tell you what we discussed for nearly two hours, because it's ridiculous, but in order to further aid the conversation I needed to grab a magazine on top of one of our bookcases.  I was sitting on the living room floor, as was the computer, and this enabled my mother- although it was not my explicit intention- to watch as a wooden picture frame tumbled from eight feet into the air and landed- ever so distinctly- on a pointed corner on my FOOT.

I am no mathematician, but I am a bettin' woman, and I BET that the odds of something 7"x9" landing not on the front, or on the back, not even on one of the FOUR long sides, but on a point, are pretty slim.

Oh the string of expletives that came running out of my mouth, as though there were a fire in there.  As I looked down and saw blood pooling underneath my unbroken skin, the rapid fire of curse words flew with further intensity.

When I looked back over at the computer- at my mother-  I could only see her laughing.

Ha-ha-freaking-ha.

Part II- the part about my poor, poor foot- is on its way.

It's a promise

Hi all!

I know, I know I am ALMOST breaking my promise of two posts a week, and to be honest I don't have a lot of time to rev up the ol' writing corners of the brain right now.

HOWEVER...

I have an awesome story to share with you, involving me getting hurt.

There will be pictures.
What could be better than that?

BE EXCITED.

Teacher Fail

This might not surprise those of you who know me, but it happened today.

I am mean.

My eighth graders hate me, and the feeling is mutual.  (Okay, I'm exaggerating, I don't really hate them, but I'm getting THISCLOSE.)  Amongst my thirty-three eighth graders I have officially been called "mean" behind my back- and that's just what I've heard about.  When I was in eighth grade, I had words much harsher than "mean" to describe my teachers, so I have a pretty good idea of what I'm not hearing.

But they are mean.

Some adult I am, I know...

but they are.


Dear Reader, I am trying so hard.

I tried music- like "cool" music (in Spanish) that The Kids are listening to these days.  It was "annoying."  I tried videos to stimulate interest.  They were "dumb."  I tried games.  They were "ghetto."  I tried relating to them regarding respect.  I had a class meeting.  Each activity has elicited a negative, sarcastic, condescending response.  Today I gave a slower student who never participates a high-five (I KNOW, who DOES that?  ME.) for giving the right answer in class and when I turned around he said, "Ew, I touched her."

He sits in the front row.

I'm officially out of ideas.

Ten more weeks?
Ugh.

Valentine's Day

I have never been one to enjoy or celebrate Valentine's Day.  Single or coupled, I was one of those people who hated the "holiday" and cursed Hallmark for being greedy, greedy bastards.  I hated "love" and that picture above still makes me wanna vom.  I have, however, always cherished February 15th as Awesome Cheap Candy Day and have been known to stop at more than one CVS/grocery/Target to check out the goods.

Anyway, two years ago, when Mr. Peaches and I had been together for a few measly months (which included a break-up, like all strong relationships between two well-adjusted adults) when the "Holiday" rolled around.  I told him.  I warned him.  And then I threatened him.  I do not like Valentine's Day.

We were working in Cincinnati, Ohio for the same non-profit group and I was staying with my aunt and her family while I was in town.

If you don't know me, I'd like to take this opportunity to talk about the unusual relationships I have with my aunt and my mother.  The three of us talk to one another on a daily basis, sometimes talking for hours unhashing the same minute details of our lives.  We have conference calls frequently.  We iChat.  We each live 4-7 hours away from any other, but we see each other bimonthly or more.  We are the closest of friends and sometimes,  the biggest of enemies.  We are obsessive.  We love each other.

I hadn't let Mr. Peaches in on our strange world because he was still adjusting to just how much I am in love with my own brother.  I have family issues.

But because he didn't know exactly what our relationships were like, he had no idea what he was doing when he sent me the biggest bouquet of flowers ever.  Flowers that my AUNT received at her house for me.  A card that was read, over the phone, directly to my mother within minutes.  I didn't find out about the flowers for nearly thirty minutes and they were my flowers.

Valentine's Day two years ago is the day Mr. Peaches forever won over two of the most important people in me life.  Since then, I've kinda been more optimistic about the day.

All of that, to tell you this story:

Saturday morning I woke up early, as usual, and headed for the same place I always go first thing in the morning- the coffee pot.  When I got there, I discovered three beautiful roses and a homemade card (did I mention were broke?).  Mr. Peaches writes the best cards, and this was no exception.  Loved it.

When the coffee was brewed, I took some in to a sleeping Mr. Peaches and woke him up gently.  I thanked him for the awesome and totally unnecessary Valentine's Day gifts.  And then I mentioned that Valentine's Day was SUNDAY.

Oh, Mr. Peaches...never a dull moment.

I am not a victim, I am a survivor.

Yesterday, I missed a phone call from a mysterious number.  I missed it because the caller only let the phone ring twice before s/he hung up.  The area code was 510, which is California, but my only friend that lives in California has a phone number from our humble hometown.  I Googled it (seriously, what did we do before Google?) and learned that it was from my credit card company.  This puzzled me because- for once- I do not owe them any money and I am not late on payments.

However, they called back today and left a message.  A cryptic one.  One that cautioned me about "security" issues and implored me to return the call.  I promptly did.

After a ten-minute wait on hold someone answered.  When they asked how they might help me today, I responded with, "Your company called and left me a message about a 'security problem' and I just need to take care of whatever it is."

You would have thought I shouted "TERRORIST" in an airport.  (Does no one shout "FIRE" in a crowded theater anymore?  Are those days through now that we have Osama?)

The man, clearly startled, responded, "A security issue?"
"Um...I guess."  It must be the end of times.

"Okay let's take a look," he continued.  "Did you try to make a $450 charge in Saõ Paolo, Brazil this morning?"

I'd like to first say that, while they speak portuguesa and not español, I was offended by his ridiculously poor pronunciation of Saõ Paolo.

Secondly, I wish I made a $450 charge in Saõ Paolo this morning!

"Nooooo," I responded curiously.  I wonder what someone tried to buy.

"Did you try to make a purchase in North Carolina this afternoon?"

Yeah, sure, I was in Saõ Paolo this morning, and took the mass transit to NORTH CAROLINA for some afternoon BBQ.   Wait, did he say "try to make a payment"?

I left the warmth of Saõ Paolo and the deliciousness of Raleigh and returned to the voice on the other end of the line.  "Are you telling me that someone tried to steal my credit card and it got DECLINED because I'm so poor and close to my limit?!"

Turns out yes, that's exactly what happened.  Those poor thieves.

99 Problems

I teach children.  Ages 8-14.  Yesterday, there were so many I couldn't handle- kids off the wall.  Openly defiant, refusing to work, hateful, and spiteful.  Everything I used to give to my teachers, I'm getting back- fine, I get it.

Meanwhile, I have to do something to be able to teach these kids.  After first period yesterday, I had already given three lunch detentions (which are to be served with me during my own lunch, so, yeah...), two stern talking-tos after class, and sent one to the office with an office referral.  Karma.  I know.

Since I don't have 100% responsibility yet, my mentor teacher (yes, she did return to work this week!) called the parents of three of my most "challenging" students (of which two are siblings- and one is the person I sent to the office).  Between my own conversations with the kids and my mentor teacher's phone calls home, here is what I learned about my kids...in one day:

1) The two siblings, who have four cousins that have been living in their house for the last four years while the cousins' parents (one of which is another student of mine) are "out of town," whatever that means.  This week, the cousins are moving to Pennsylvania because their parents are "back" and the kids feel like they are losing their own siblings.

2) One has been on many different medications over the years, and- because of the way they make him feel- the family (and doctor, I assume) tried to half one of the doses for a few days to see if the kid could cope.  He couldn't.

3) One student lost his father when he was four and his mother when he was five- one to cancer and one to a car accident.  Since then, he has lost three beloved pets, three grandfathers, and one of the two uncles he lives with is also dying.  Did I mention we started the Family Unit in Spanish this week?

I do not know how to help these kids, yet alone teach them that "madre" means "mother."

It's "Challenging."

JT commented on my last blog post with some advice: "Just don't turn into what you used to loathe."  He followed it up with "haha" but all day I have been thinking about how I did just that- in one day.

In the past two weeks I have learned that "challenging" is what teachers say about students, or entire grades of students, who are sent from hell to torture us.  "She's...challenging" or "They are a challenging group..."  They say it because they don't want to get caught saying, "That kid is a GDMFer!" in front of their boss.

Today was definitely a challenge.

My mentor teacher called me at 715.  It's NEVER a good sign when the teacher calls you at 715.  It means she's not coming in to work.  And she wasn't.  And she didn't.  Today was my first day with those challenging eighth graders and then I had to Surprise! teach the rest of the day, too.  I didn't even get a sub, even though that's actually illegal.

And the eighth graders, despite giving me a "challenging" headache due to their nonstop talking and really testing my limits created their own rules, consequences, and rewards.  The conversation didn't go the way I imagined, or have experienced in the past, but it got done.  And then I got compliments from TWO separate teachers who said, "The eighth graders were much quieter than usual!"

I made up lesson plans that sorta worked for the rest of the day.  I saw fifth and sixth graders.  I had my first fire drill.  It was stressful.  The day lasted forever.  I betrayed myself by thinking things, saying things, and doing things I never thought I would do.  It was CHALLENGING.

But- and very likely because I was told by a sixth grader how pretty I look- I lived to tell about it.
Until tomorrow.