The other week I saw a snipet from Office Space and it is, along with The Wire, the kinematic masterpiece that most closes matches my current life. I'm still not sure if art is imitating life or the other way around, but let's just say I could be shrunk, zapped into HBO, and my life wouldn't seem much different.
Let's forget for a moment that I found myself jealous of Milton's pretty red stapler last week as I was attempting to fill my own sad, plastic, no-good, lame-ass stapler with it's sad, metal, no-good, lame-ass staples. I have three staplers -- they cost a combined total of $10 -- and they suck. Not one will staple more than 5 pages together let alone staple into my walls. The staples always end up falling sideways and getting jammed. They are mostly useless. Everyone knows that a good stapler is expensive -- and heavy enough to inflict bodily injury on intruders to your home, office, cubicle, or classroom. (Just a note for any of you thinking about Christmas presents already. Actually, a gift certificate to Office Max, Office Depot, or Staples would work. I'm sure I'll be out of paper by Christmas.)
But no, this evening I just completed what I will choose to call my TPS Reports. Everyday, after taking attendance on my seating chart and transferring it to my gradebook, I then go "online" to the 20-yr-old DOS program and input attendance there. THEN, after four weeks, the school sends me a print-out of what I input and asks me to verify it. Theoretically, everything matches perfectly. In actuality -- not so much. Or at leat not this time for me. I'm still learning EVERYTHING, so there were some corrections to make. Some stump me (I have no idea where I went wrong). Some I can tell were where I clicked on the wrong line. Some I thought were mistakes but really weren't because I was looking at the wrong line in my gradebook compared with the line on the print-out -- a hazard of working with 36 kids in a class. I know one was from when I forgot to click the super-secret date that actually *records* the information that I input into said DOS program.
And all of this just seems, so, well, like a waste of my time. Sure, I should get attendance right every time. I should. But I don't. And I'm sure I'm not alone in that. I know I'm not as bad as this person I heard about who just didn't take attendance for a month and a half -- this person is no longer employed at the school. But how do I know that what I put in my book is really any more accurate than what I typed in the computer (especially four weeks later)? I am so frantic during every class (what with the 35-37 students that I am trying to wrangle, teach, and talk to) that who knows if I put it on the correct line in my gradebook or in the computer. In a perfect world, I would have fewer students and more time to spend double-checking my work. But I don't. And I end up opting for spending more time monitoring my students than staring at a computer screen. I'm not saying it's the right choice, just my choice.
I guess I'll find out sooner (or later) if my attendance problems are enough to warrant administrative action.
But at lesat, as far as I know, my reports do not currently need a cover sheet. But I'm not holding my breath that that won't change.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Baby's New Knits
My friend M just had a baby. Well, two months ago, but still. And while I started a blanket for him back in June, I waited (of course) until yesterday morning to finish it. Yesterday morning as in an hour and a half before the baby shower. That is, after staying up until 1am working on it on Friday.
And because I'm me, I adapted the pattern from one I found online. So my gauge was a bit off. It's really hard to tell these things when the yarn is on the needles. And it's really hard to tell when you've only got one row cast on. Knit fabric stretches and it always seems much smaller with one row than with 150 rows. So... I ended up making it a bit too wide.
But, as I mentioned, I was running out of time. When it looked like I'd gotten it to an appropriate length, I finished up the border and cast off. And when it was off the needles, it became very apparent that the blanket was far more rectangular than square. Of course, had I just made it narrower by 30-40 stitches, that extra would have gone into the length and it would have been damn-near perfect. Drat. And I take such bad notes I don't even remember how many stitches I cast on in the first place. So the next blanket is likely to look the same (or too narrow for its long length).
However, J (the baby) doesn't seem to mind and M doesn't seem to mind, either. I am not-so-secretly hoping that this turns into a blankie (my blankie was one knit for me by my mother) and at that point, the size won't matter at all. A blankie can be any size; it's about the comfort, not the coverage (or the komfort, not the koverage). Of course, kids (cids?) will latch onto whatever they please, and the blanket might just get relegated to the bottom of the toy box -- and it won't even be personal.
Also, M's family is awesome. They invited me over for dinner after the shower, forced me to stay the night, then fed me breakfast. They also insist that I join them for Thanksgiving, even though M will be back in Utah by then. They are friendly, supportive, and offer everything one could hope for in a surrogate family including food, wine, and teaching materials. (Just in case any of you were worrying about my support structures out here in the valley.)
For those of you who have ever put me up for a holiday, know that the tradition of my crashing your family events survives.
And because I'm me, I adapted the pattern from one I found online. So my gauge was a bit off. It's really hard to tell these things when the yarn is on the needles. And it's really hard to tell when you've only got one row cast on. Knit fabric stretches and it always seems much smaller with one row than with 150 rows. So... I ended up making it a bit too wide.
But, as I mentioned, I was running out of time. When it looked like I'd gotten it to an appropriate length, I finished up the border and cast off. And when it was off the needles, it became very apparent that the blanket was far more rectangular than square. Of course, had I just made it narrower by 30-40 stitches, that extra would have gone into the length and it would have been damn-near perfect. Drat. And I take such bad notes I don't even remember how many stitches I cast on in the first place. So the next blanket is likely to look the same (or too narrow for its long length).
However, J (the baby) doesn't seem to mind and M doesn't seem to mind, either. I am not-so-secretly hoping that this turns into a blankie (my blankie was one knit for me by my mother) and at that point, the size won't matter at all. A blankie can be any size; it's about the comfort, not the coverage (or the komfort, not the koverage). Of course, kids (cids?) will latch onto whatever they please, and the blanket might just get relegated to the bottom of the toy box -- and it won't even be personal.
Also, M's family is awesome. They invited me over for dinner after the shower, forced me to stay the night, then fed me breakfast. They also insist that I join them for Thanksgiving, even though M will be back in Utah by then. They are friendly, supportive, and offer everything one could hope for in a surrogate family including food, wine, and teaching materials. (Just in case any of you were worrying about my support structures out here in the valley.)
For those of you who have ever put me up for a holiday, know that the tradition of my crashing your family events survives.
Inky's New Klothes
Inky got some new clothes this week. I finally got my sh*t together and got her her Cali plates. Sadly, they are much less pretty than her Oregon ones. Oregon's plates are blue and purple and green, with mountains and trees and a beautiful sunset. Cali plates, on the other hand, are very functional. The plate is a shimmery white with blue letters and a red "California" scribbled across the top. It gets the job done, with just the "appropriate" amount of patriotic coloring. ho-hum.
But that's not the good part.
Most of you know about my abiding love for UNC (go Heels!). Before I left the state, I stocked up on all sorts of Carolina paraphernalia -- sweatshirts and pants and t-shirts and hats and window decals -- and a license plate holder. I was all set to put it on the car in Oregon, but while North Carolina's stickers go on the top corners of the plate, Oregon's stickers go on the bottom. Thus, the license plate holder would have covered the very important stickers and might result in a traffic stop. :-( So, I just put the thing in the trunk and there it stayed.
Until Thursday.
Upon the sticking of the stickers in the upper corners of my new license plate, I realized that Inky could finally wear her Carolina gear. Worried that I had misplaced the cover during those five years (me? lose something? nawwww), I went straight to the box of junk in my trunk. (No, that is not a reference to my butt, but the actual box of random items in my car's trunk.) And there, under a pile of old wedding negatives (don't ask), was the "platinum" plate holder.
I must say, I had a very exciting evening on Thursday installing my license plate with my Carolina Alumni license plate holder (thereby defining me as a Tar Heel born and bred, and not just some fly-by-night bandwagon follower). I have been looking forward to this day for five years.
Inky looks just darling in her new outfit. Now if Michael will just buy me a new window decal to replace the one that's falling off and almost totally gone. I mean, he's working there now, how hard is it to walk across the Pit or over to Shrunken Head?
P.S. Go to Hell, State!
But that's not the good part.
Most of you know about my abiding love for UNC (go Heels!). Before I left the state, I stocked up on all sorts of Carolina paraphernalia -- sweatshirts and pants and t-shirts and hats and window decals -- and a license plate holder. I was all set to put it on the car in Oregon, but while North Carolina's stickers go on the top corners of the plate, Oregon's stickers go on the bottom. Thus, the license plate holder would have covered the very important stickers and might result in a traffic stop. :-( So, I just put the thing in the trunk and there it stayed.
Until Thursday.
Upon the sticking of the stickers in the upper corners of my new license plate, I realized that Inky could finally wear her Carolina gear. Worried that I had misplaced the cover during those five years (me? lose something? nawwww), I went straight to the box of junk in my trunk. (No, that is not a reference to my butt, but the actual box of random items in my car's trunk.) And there, under a pile of old wedding negatives (don't ask), was the "platinum" plate holder.
I must say, I had a very exciting evening on Thursday installing my license plate with my Carolina Alumni license plate holder (thereby defining me as a Tar Heel born and bred, and not just some fly-by-night bandwagon follower). I have been looking forward to this day for five years.
Inky looks just darling in her new outfit. Now if Michael will just buy me a new window decal to replace the one that's falling off and almost totally gone. I mean, he's working there now, how hard is it to walk across the Pit or over to Shrunken Head?
P.S. Go to Hell, State!
Monday, September 15, 2008
Adorable
It was a long day at school today. So long, in fact, that this morning seems like yesterday. But no, it was just this morning.
A brief word about why today was so long. It was Back to School Night! Actually, besides the whole "super long" thing, it wasn't too bad. The parents rotated through their child's schedule and spent 10 minutes in each class. I got to give my spiel about learning and policies, except instead of the blank stares of my students, I was met with the appreciative nods of my parents. I also got some phone numbers and emails, and they got mine. One mom was also very interested in volunteering in my class -- her son was not. But that's OK, because he's a Hellstudent. That would be at least one class where he wouldn't be Hellstudent. MWA-HA-HA-Ha-haaaaaaaaaaa.
Anyway, this morning we had a "William Inspection". Since I am now living in THE most litigious state in the Union, everything is controlled by one lawsuit or another. Sure, the intention is to give every citizen equal rights, but it's quickly becoming old. Sorta like getting transported back to the height of the PC movement.
ANYWAY. Back to Williams. This guy sued Cali because he (or his son) wasn't getting appropriate services. The school was rundown and the students didn't have their own textbooks. A deplorable situation, and one that should be remedied across this nation. (We called them "low-wealth schools" in NC, in Oregon they were just "failing".) But somehow, the solution is these inspections which make sure I don't have cords running across the floor and that all my students have textbooks to call their own.
What this means in practice is that I can't have a class set of books (regardless of whether or not my students can keep their books at home). So, I have to harass, cajole, threaten, and punish my students into bringing their heavy-ass (the technical term) books to class just to prove that we are not lying and they do indeed have them. It also means I have to spend two hours on a Saturday dressing cables in my classroom. Good thing I have all that TV experience, eh?
When they come to inspect the schools, they are supposed to do so quietly. But they didn't. A gaggle of inspectors (three inspectors and a school VP) burst into my classroom and actually took over. One lady was giving a pep talk while one dude was sitting at a desk taking notes and a third was harassing my students asking about their books. All of them had checked out books (thank God), but not all brought them. I've done my best, though; I have the consequences for not bringing a book posted on the wall and I write which book (big-ass text or kid-friendly soft-cover workbook) the student need on any given day. So, I probably won't get fired for the 5-6 kids who left their books at home (grrr).
But this is the adorable part. When the inspectors burst in my room and took over the show, I was desperately trying to figure out what was going on while the Hatchet Woman asked how many studnets I had in my class and I overhead the Ringleader asking my student about their teacher (me). The angels (ANGELS!) said I was a great teacher. Awesome. The best. I didn't even coach them on this. (I had no idea it would come up.) They didn't blink. Didn't miss a beat.
You don't even know how glad I am that the Big Show arrived during first period, and not fourth. Of course, they came back during second. Once is just not enough! And it seems they targeted the first-year teachers. Because I don't have enough to do or think about.
A brief word about why today was so long. It was Back to School Night! Actually, besides the whole "super long" thing, it wasn't too bad. The parents rotated through their child's schedule and spent 10 minutes in each class. I got to give my spiel about learning and policies, except instead of the blank stares of my students, I was met with the appreciative nods of my parents. I also got some phone numbers and emails, and they got mine. One mom was also very interested in volunteering in my class -- her son was not. But that's OK, because he's a Hellstudent. That would be at least one class where he wouldn't be Hellstudent. MWA-HA-HA-Ha-haaaaaaaaaaa.
Anyway, this morning we had a "William Inspection". Since I am now living in THE most litigious state in the Union, everything is controlled by one lawsuit or another. Sure, the intention is to give every citizen equal rights, but it's quickly becoming old. Sorta like getting transported back to the height of the PC movement.
ANYWAY. Back to Williams. This guy sued Cali because he (or his son) wasn't getting appropriate services. The school was rundown and the students didn't have their own textbooks. A deplorable situation, and one that should be remedied across this nation. (We called them "low-wealth schools" in NC, in Oregon they were just "failing".) But somehow, the solution is these inspections which make sure I don't have cords running across the floor and that all my students have textbooks to call their own.
What this means in practice is that I can't have a class set of books (regardless of whether or not my students can keep their books at home). So, I have to harass, cajole, threaten, and punish my students into bringing their heavy-ass (the technical term) books to class just to prove that we are not lying and they do indeed have them. It also means I have to spend two hours on a Saturday dressing cables in my classroom. Good thing I have all that TV experience, eh?
When they come to inspect the schools, they are supposed to do so quietly. But they didn't. A gaggle of inspectors (three inspectors and a school VP) burst into my classroom and actually took over. One lady was giving a pep talk while one dude was sitting at a desk taking notes and a third was harassing my students asking about their books. All of them had checked out books (thank God), but not all brought them. I've done my best, though; I have the consequences for not bringing a book posted on the wall and I write which book (big-ass text or kid-friendly soft-cover workbook) the student need on any given day. So, I probably won't get fired for the 5-6 kids who left their books at home (grrr).
But this is the adorable part. When the inspectors burst in my room and took over the show, I was desperately trying to figure out what was going on while the Hatchet Woman asked how many studnets I had in my class and I overhead the Ringleader asking my student about their teacher (me). The angels (ANGELS!) said I was a great teacher. Awesome. The best. I didn't even coach them on this. (I had no idea it would come up.) They didn't blink. Didn't miss a beat.
You don't even know how glad I am that the Big Show arrived during first period, and not fourth. Of course, they came back during second. Once is just not enough! And it seems they targeted the first-year teachers. Because I don't have enough to do or think about.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Truckin'
I was driving back from visiting M this morning, and I realized I was once again feeling like my old car-driving self. Back when I was living on the East Coast, I used to drive everywhere. Of course, when you live on the I-95 corridor, major cities that involve drives are still within easy reach (even if "easy" means 15 hours). Cities stack up on top of cities, at least if you're heading along a north-south axis. And I had people to see in all those places: mostly friends from home and college, with the occasional family member tossed in for good luck.
Then I moved west and I started slowing on the driving. After I stopped heading up to Seattle monthly, my travels slowed tremendously. I could carpool on hikes and climbs, so besides a yearly trip to Northern Cali for Christmas, I didn't drive very far. And then my Cali connection dried up, too. It didn't help that I took very poor care of my car during my Portland years. I wasn't that comfortable taking my un-maintained car on long trips for fear of catastrophic car failure.
So what's changed? First, I finally took my Ink Spot (so named because the mechanic called her a Crayola, so she needed a name befitting a crayon -- I find cars can really only be named by mechanics) in for repairs. I was leaving my Last Known Good Mechanic, and there's no telling how long it would take me to find another one I could trust. So, I put LKGM to work and got her all fixed up. Now I can feel comfortable driving Inky around again.
And then things are further apart here. In Portland, I didn't have to go far to see anyone I knew. I could shun an entire half of a city and still have friends to see and places to go. And there were many days that I did shun half of the city. At all times I shunned a good quarter of it. (There's nothing so important in the SW that I ever needed to go there.)
But here? You have to drive to get anywhere. Ikea? More than an hour away. The "discount" teacher-store? An hour away. Trader Joe's? Half an hour away. Cool, hip coastal towns? Forty-five minutes away. And I now have friends that live some distance away. I can't shun my far-away friends for my near-by friends because I have no near-by friends. (I'm sure that will change, it's already starting to, but I'm sure you get my drift.)
I never had to leave Portland, so I didn't. But now I have to leave home again. And it's kind of nice. I hate driving around town; I wish I could just get there already. But I do miss that time alone in the car on longer trips. The drive is part of the experience. I can listen to the radio and catch up on my music, plan my week, think about life. I have no responsibilities (except to not hit anyone or cause them to hit me). I can't do the dishes or laundry, I can't read a book, I can't get sucked into the TV. I can only drive.
How fitting that I'm re-bonding with my car here in Cali. Maybe I'll post one of my car-themed song lists one of these days.
Then I moved west and I started slowing on the driving. After I stopped heading up to Seattle monthly, my travels slowed tremendously. I could carpool on hikes and climbs, so besides a yearly trip to Northern Cali for Christmas, I didn't drive very far. And then my Cali connection dried up, too. It didn't help that I took very poor care of my car during my Portland years. I wasn't that comfortable taking my un-maintained car on long trips for fear of catastrophic car failure.
So what's changed? First, I finally took my Ink Spot (so named because the mechanic called her a Crayola, so she needed a name befitting a crayon -- I find cars can really only be named by mechanics) in for repairs. I was leaving my Last Known Good Mechanic, and there's no telling how long it would take me to find another one I could trust. So, I put LKGM to work and got her all fixed up. Now I can feel comfortable driving Inky around again.
And then things are further apart here. In Portland, I didn't have to go far to see anyone I knew. I could shun an entire half of a city and still have friends to see and places to go. And there were many days that I did shun half of the city. At all times I shunned a good quarter of it. (There's nothing so important in the SW that I ever needed to go there.)
But here? You have to drive to get anywhere. Ikea? More than an hour away. The "discount" teacher-store? An hour away. Trader Joe's? Half an hour away. Cool, hip coastal towns? Forty-five minutes away. And I now have friends that live some distance away. I can't shun my far-away friends for my near-by friends because I have no near-by friends. (I'm sure that will change, it's already starting to, but I'm sure you get my drift.)
I never had to leave Portland, so I didn't. But now I have to leave home again. And it's kind of nice. I hate driving around town; I wish I could just get there already. But I do miss that time alone in the car on longer trips. The drive is part of the experience. I can listen to the radio and catch up on my music, plan my week, think about life. I have no responsibilities (except to not hit anyone or cause them to hit me). I can't do the dishes or laundry, I can't read a book, I can't get sucked into the TV. I can only drive.
How fitting that I'm re-bonding with my car here in Cali. Maybe I'll post one of my car-themed song lists one of these days.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
While Everyone Else is Crying Today ...
... I am celebrating.
Yes, because it is September 11. But not because of September 11, 2001. No, you see, on September 11, 2000, I was divorced. A full 365 before September 11 took on much of any significance for anyone (well, unless you care about Chilean politics and the assassination of Salvador Allende), the best day of my life occurred.
Eight years ago, I became legally free of the Asshole. Sure, it was partly my fault: I shouldn't have married him. I was impetuous. But mostly, the man was a jerk. (Keep that in mind, all those of you who find it hard to break up with your whatever. It's not that hard. You just do it. I got a lawyer. I fought for two years. I lost a house and money. I got in knock-down, drag-out fights. I had all my wedding pictures broken on my bed -- you try to sleep on a bed of broken glass. And it was still the best thing I did. And it was still not that hard. I haven't run a marathon, but I got a divorce.)
Not only was it my anniversary, but I also got paid today! For the first time a couple of months, I got a paycheck! And, since I've been working at this district since early August (yes, it's now mid September), a paycheck is a good thing. (It's amazing that schools think it's OK to start the school-year in August but not pay new teachers until the END of September. If I hadn't done my extra (stupid) five days of meetings, I wouldn't have gotten this paycheck at all.)
So, I went out to dinner. Mich reminded me of the brewpub in town. (How can I --I-- forget about a brewpub? Well, I don't get out much anymore.) So I went and bought the steak special. It had everything a girl could want: sauteed spinach, mashed potatoes, bacon-wrapped steak, onion rings. Mmmmm.... Onion rings.... gleuuuuuuu. (That's the sound drool makes, if you don't know.) And, they were out of the IPA *sob* so I had the Pale. Still not bad. The food had oo much salt, too much oil, and not enough pepper (of course, I think that about just about everything I eat). I'll even go so far to say the potatoes had too much garlic -- I believe mashed potatoes should always retain some potato flavor, not be a mere vehicle for aromatics. But the onion rings (which should be salty and fatty) were almost perfect. I could have eaten an entire basket, and not just the handful on the plate (which I could do anyway, even with the bad ones). They were thin-cut, like the shoestring fries of the onion ring world, but with a well-seasoned, flaky batter. Not stupid, thick batter. They tasted like onion. (To be perfect, they would not be shoe-string, they'd be fat.)
And I chatted with the folks at the bar. Man, can I pick up an old man, or what? (Not to take home, ewww.) But me and old men? We can have some conversations. These particular barmates were supportive of my career. It's fun to toss out the teacher-card, you know?
As if this evening weren't enough. When I got home, there was a note from UPS. They'd left me a package. Me? A package? From whom? Why? Mr. Maybe sent me a present! It's now my favorite t-shirt: English doesn't borrow from other languages. English follows other languages down dark alley, knocks them over and goes through their pockets for loose grammar. It's hanging on my chair so I can look at it and giggle.
Sorry this blog is a bit parenthetical. I blame the beer.
(P.S. Why are divorces so expensive?
-- scroll down for answer --
Because they're worth it!
Thanks to Wait! Wait! Don't Tell Me: The NPR News Quiz for the joke.)
Yes, because it is September 11. But not because of September 11, 2001. No, you see, on September 11, 2000, I was divorced. A full 365 before September 11 took on much of any significance for anyone (well, unless you care about Chilean politics and the assassination of Salvador Allende), the best day of my life occurred.
Eight years ago, I became legally free of the Asshole. Sure, it was partly my fault: I shouldn't have married him. I was impetuous. But mostly, the man was a jerk. (Keep that in mind, all those of you who find it hard to break up with your whatever. It's not that hard. You just do it. I got a lawyer. I fought for two years. I lost a house and money. I got in knock-down, drag-out fights. I had all my wedding pictures broken on my bed -- you try to sleep on a bed of broken glass. And it was still the best thing I did. And it was still not that hard. I haven't run a marathon, but I got a divorce.)
Not only was it my anniversary, but I also got paid today! For the first time a couple of months, I got a paycheck! And, since I've been working at this district since early August (yes, it's now mid September), a paycheck is a good thing. (It's amazing that schools think it's OK to start the school-year in August but not pay new teachers until the END of September. If I hadn't done my extra (stupid) five days of meetings, I wouldn't have gotten this paycheck at all.)
So, I went out to dinner. Mich reminded me of the brewpub in town. (How can I --I-- forget about a brewpub? Well, I don't get out much anymore.) So I went and bought the steak special. It had everything a girl could want: sauteed spinach, mashed potatoes, bacon-wrapped steak, onion rings. Mmmmm.... Onion rings.... gleuuuuuuu. (That's the sound drool makes, if you don't know.) And, they were out of the IPA *sob* so I had the Pale. Still not bad. The food had oo much salt, too much oil, and not enough pepper (of course, I think that about just about everything I eat). I'll even go so far to say the potatoes had too much garlic -- I believe mashed potatoes should always retain some potato flavor, not be a mere vehicle for aromatics. But the onion rings (which should be salty and fatty) were almost perfect. I could have eaten an entire basket, and not just the handful on the plate (which I could do anyway, even with the bad ones). They were thin-cut, like the shoestring fries of the onion ring world, but with a well-seasoned, flaky batter. Not stupid, thick batter. They tasted like onion. (To be perfect, they would not be shoe-string, they'd be fat.)
And I chatted with the folks at the bar. Man, can I pick up an old man, or what? (Not to take home, ewww.) But me and old men? We can have some conversations. These particular barmates were supportive of my career. It's fun to toss out the teacher-card, you know?
As if this evening weren't enough. When I got home, there was a note from UPS. They'd left me a package. Me? A package? From whom? Why? Mr. Maybe sent me a present! It's now my favorite t-shirt: English doesn't borrow from other languages. English follows other languages down dark alley, knocks them over and goes through their pockets for loose grammar. It's hanging on my chair so I can look at it and giggle.
Sorry this blog is a bit parenthetical. I blame the beer.
(P.S. Why are divorces so expensive?
-- scroll down for answer --
Because they're worth it!
Thanks to Wait! Wait! Don't Tell Me: The NPR News Quiz for the joke.)
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Door Prizes
The library at my school had an open house on Monday. Yes, an open house. You know, come on by the library and see all the new books and resources, have some snacks, and chat up the librarians. My librarian is pretty tight. Woman knows her shiznit and is very helpful and friendly. And she's always getting supplies for use newbies. She's the school's new teacher resource/liason/leader whatever. Whatever you call her, she rocks.
Well, at said open house, I put my name in the hat for the door prizes. They had some really cool, useful prizes -- like the 16-pack of multi-colored Sharpies or the 8-pack of dry erase markers. Since I'm always up for a prize, I folded the corner of my slip of paper -- to make it easier to grab, right? That's a trick I learned at some conference once, not that I've found it all that successful.
Anyway, I hang out in the library at lunch, then run back to my 5th period class. No word on when the prizes will be handed out. The next morning, a student wanders into my room, looking a bit like Banquo hiding behind vegetation. Well, vegetables, to be honest. Glass vegetables, actually.
Yes, my door prize was a giant bowl of glass fruit -- just what every new teacher wants and needs. Especially a new teacher who doesn't even have enough desk space for all her pieces of paper. I couldn't stop laughing. My students thought it was a bit strange, too. Oh, and I really need fist-sized glass objects around my Hellclasses, right? Just in case they feel the need to start throwing things.
Anyway, I left one apple at school -- I figure I can be a cliche and have an apple on my desk, and took the rest home (for lack of a better storage space -- not that I have any storage space at home, either). Don't believe me? Check it out.
Well, at said open house, I put my name in the hat for the door prizes. They had some really cool, useful prizes -- like the 16-pack of multi-colored Sharpies or the 8-pack of dry erase markers. Since I'm always up for a prize, I folded the corner of my slip of paper -- to make it easier to grab, right? That's a trick I learned at some conference once, not that I've found it all that successful.
Anyway, I hang out in the library at lunch, then run back to my 5th period class. No word on when the prizes will be handed out. The next morning, a student wanders into my room, looking a bit like Banquo hiding behind vegetation. Well, vegetables, to be honest. Glass vegetables, actually.
Yes, my door prize was a giant bowl of glass fruit -- just what every new teacher wants and needs. Especially a new teacher who doesn't even have enough desk space for all her pieces of paper. I couldn't stop laughing. My students thought it was a bit strange, too. Oh, and I really need fist-sized glass objects around my Hellclasses, right? Just in case they feel the need to start throwing things.
Anyway, I left one apple at school -- I figure I can be a cliche and have an apple on my desk, and took the rest home (for lack of a better storage space -- not that I have any storage space at home, either). Don't believe me? Check it out.
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