My new favorite moment in life? After McCain says "I don't think Senator Obama understands the difference between a tactic and a strategy," Obama makes sure to turn his way every time he uses the word "strategy" in a sentence.
Also?
Since when is Ronald Reagan a role model? O.o
A professor in the School of Education is allowed 2000 copies per month.
A teacher at Gray Middle School is allowed 500/semester.
Here is a free-write preface to another story I am considering composing for NaNoWriMo. (Obviously, this bit wouldn't be included in the count.)
“Eli, Adolfo is not a drum.” I make a mental note to add that to the ever-growing list of phrases I never thought I'd speak aloud. Eli gives me a sulky look and returns his sticks to his cargo pants pocket. Adolfo has been stoically ignoring his spine's recruitment as a musical instrument, but I think I see him relax slightly as he is once again left alone. In the four weeks I've been assisting in this class, Adolfo has never once responded to Eli's torments. The immature part of me wants to be here when he finally snaps. The teacher in me hopes he never does.
On the other side of the room, Mr. C is ordering Christian to spit out his gum for the third time in fifteen minutes. He tosses his perfectly-flipped hair and ambles over to the trashcan. He's been chewing gum so he can speak to his friend, Evan, who is seated on the opposite end of the room. The fact that his gum stores are dwindling and his participation grade is bottoming out rapidly does not matter—they are discussing Metallica and AC/DC. At the next table over, Sube and Will have propped a textbook up endwise and are having a desperately whispered conversation within the relative privacy it offers. He mutters something to her with a grin, and she yanks her hair forward into her face to hide her embarassment. It takes a full three minutes for her to re-emerge. I catch her eye then and silently ask her to put the book down. She does so with a giggle, but finally pays attention to Mr. C. More or less. It escapes Mr. C's notice either way, because Nick has just started pretending the convection tube in his hand is a bong. He's out of the room and across the hall in seconds. As I walk to the other side of the room to answer the call of a raised hand, I catch Truang staring at my backside and make a mental note never to wear this skirt again.
As sad as it sounds, my eighth graders are behaving today.
I walked into work today to find the following poem from Feeney sitting in my box:
91 to 90,Now, I know for a fact that he hates haiku (naturally, I would know this.) So I decided to reply using several.
Why do you hate me so,
All I give you is love and care,
Yet you always rebuke me with scowl and glare.
Maybe this extreme agression is what causes your odd twitch
Or perhaps its why you threaten to leave me dead in a ditch.
You feed off others' pain and misery like it's a drug,
I think perhaps you could benefit from a nice hug.
We work for eight hours in this boring old cage,
84 and yourself form this aura of unspeakable rage.
As we both graduate and fade off into obscurity,
You'll look back and be glad we worked together on Security.
Perhaps this will get the point across.
Nine-oh to nine-one.
Love is silent and golden.
Show you care. Shut up.
Time crawls to a halt.
Your voice echoes in the void.
Its sound cripples time.
My day really sucked.
I locked my keys in my car.
Your poem sucked more.
My mother is dead.
Grieving requires a heart.
Feeling awkward yet?
Squeaker: I am not angry, I am just angry around you.
Feeney: thats not true, you're angry around a lot of people and you know it
Squeaker: Okay, you're not special. I stand corrected.
Feeney: My mom says I'm special
Squeaker: Mine used to when she was alive.
*long pause*
Feeney: you have a gift of making people uncomfortable
Squeaker: Oh, I am aware. :D
There is a backpack in the back room. Staff only area. I don't recognize it, so I decide to start rifling through it to find a name. No luck. Philosophy books, Spanish books.
Oh, what's this side pocket here? Holy shit, that's like....eight thousand spermicidally lubricated condoms. And they're all crumpled because they're being crammed in an exterior side pocket. That's...that's not very safe.
I know! I'll leave him a note!
This is the best place ever to store condoms, especially if you want them to break. The spermicide won't save you from STDs.Hopefully he finds that sooner rather than later. Imagine what a mood killer that'd be.
<3!
I despise everything you stand for. I know you're a nice guy, but you're also a dangerous guy, because you are very aware that you are also an attractive guy.
Despite that, I am willing to share a "ha, ha...harassment seminar" joke with you. Yes, you may step in a little too close and grab my arm. I grabbed yours right back. The eyes were fine. I gave you the hazy smile in return. Reaching down and stroking my cheek with the back of your hand in a slow, lecherous fashion while giving me said eyes, however, infuriated me. I know you were trying to make me blush.
I'm still giggling at how taken aback you were when I went "Dude, no!" and pulled away.
No love,
(I also considered reaching around and grabbing your ass.)
Left Toes: "Hey, we feel curled. Nerves? Can you go tell the brain we're curled? There must be a shoe or something.
Nerves: "Der, sure thing pal!"
Brain: "What? What? You've been barefoot for hours. There's -nothing- there."
Toes: "Nono, we're curled."
Nerves: "Ya, that's what they are saying!"
Brain: "Gah. Here, fine. Stretch."
Toes: "Nope, still curled."
Brain: "You're on your own, then."
Back of left knee: "AAAAAAAAAAAH!!"
Nerves: "AAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"
Brain: "WTF?"
Blood Vessels: ""Hey, something's wrong here. I think we're losing pressure..."
Back of left knee: "AAAAAAAAAAAH!"
Nerves: "AAAAAAAAAAAH!"
Brain: "How did this happen? Where did this blood come from?"
Blood Vessels: "How the fuck should we know?"
Left Hamstring: "Hey, I am being stabbed."
Nerves: "Yah, it's being stabbed."
Brain: "No! No! Are you all insane!"
When you have mentees of your own, and you want them to act professionally in front of your students, dress maturely, arrive on time, and essentially take responsibility for everything you are accountable for...
Do not do the following:
1) Ever use the phrase "it must be a teenager thing" in reference to them.
2) Call them "so cute."
We're either adults, or we are not. Stop making me walk the fucking borderline.
Defending yourself when I question the validity of the case study is fine, even if it was the author I was attacking and not your presentation.
Bitching about me later in the bathroom to a fellow classmate in the adjacent stall? Are you serious? I stood right there and listened to you. XD
6AM
Alarm: *wake up, bitch!*
Me: "Ten more minutes?"
Alarm: *You have to shower*
Feet: "Hiiiiiii." *waftwaft*
Me: "...Touche."
7AM
Me: "Wow, I look really nice today! I am very glad I bought this jacket/shirt/skirt combo! It looks simply smashing with these heels!"
8AM
Co-Mentee: "You look very nice!"
Me: "I know, right!"
Fate: *EARTHQUAKE DRILL*
Me: "Okay everyone, get under your desks!"
Skirt: *creeps up, exposing thighs*
Me: o.o
Students: o.o
Jacket: *CENSORED!*
Co-Mentee: "AHAHAHAHA."
8:05AM
Fate: *FIRE DRILL*
Grass: *is wet*
Heels: D:
Me: *steadily grows shorter*
Co-Mentee: "AHAHAHAHA."
10:30AM
Tom: "I...don't think I have ever seen you in a skirt..."
Me: "It happens!" *flounce, giggle*
12:00PM
Professor: "Is there anything you've learned that you would like to share?"
Co-Mentee: *glances my way* "AHAHAHAHA."
At Home:
Matt: "You were wearing pantyhose? I thought those were your legs!"
Matt: *stare*
Matt: "You have nice legs."
At Work:
Feet: "You want me to patrol after spending seven hours in heels?"
Me: "Well, uh."
Fate: "By the way, Big Boss is going to be here until 10PM."
Me: D:
Feet: D:
In undergrad, I never considered myself to be that funny. I'd amuse people, sure, but class clown? Not unless I was on a great deal of medication and wanted the professor's body sweaty and naked and under my own. (You are SO welcome! :D)
But in grad school, everyone else is less funny, and so my antics stand out more. I've been in class just over one week and have been taken to task for my sense of humor three times by two of my teachers. The best part? The teacher who has yelled at me twice "admitted" to having a sarcastic sense of humor. If that is so, then why doesn't she understand it when I do it?
The second time, she asked if we had learned anything this week. There was a good ten-second pause, and everyone kinda grinned at each other sheepishly. "That silences are still awkward?" I giggled. CUE TIRADE. "No, they're not, they are very effective and here is my ten-minute tangent explaining why." Oh, you're sure sarcastic and funny, all right.
The third time, the other professor stepped in.
Girl across room: "Wren, red looks very flattering on you!"
Me: "Funny, I was just thinking the same thing about the cut of your sleeves!"
GAR: "It reminds me of Snow White!"
Me: "What, are you calling me pale?"
Teacher: "Wren, stop. Stop now."
Seriously. I thought another year of classes would be about the same as ever. It never occurred to me that the dynamic would change, or that I would be required to dress up in crazy formal clothes four days a week. Or that, you know, I'd be thrown in with a group of people entirely unused to me, my sense of humor, or how I roll.
So now, every time I look in the mirror, I kinda do a double-take. Brown hair? Wearing the real jewelry, and not the lightning bolts? Is that...is that a cleavage-concealing undershirt?! I don't feel like me. I am convinced that someone is going to walk into my room one morning while I am getting ready and ask me "why the hell are you playing dress-up at 6AM?" And as weird as it sounds, it is really killing my confidence.
And I keep getting bizarre compliments. There are people in the cafeteria that love it when they come in "because I am a great dresser and I always have on something snappy!" Or, on Friday, I was told "Wren, you're the most cheerful insomniac I know! You're always so tired, but it never makes you any less pleasant to be around!"
Someone called me cheerful. Did my caustic bitchery go the way of my hair? (Should it have?)
Click through for large.You have just received conclusive proof! STOP OVERANALYZING.
Love,
The Nike Slogan
I sleep now.
I let Bossman Prime install a copy of Spore Creature Creator onto his computer. He loads it up. First thing he does? Grabs the biggest, freakiest bird beak he can find, and puts two of them on his creature's ass.
Then I got old.
Ohman. I don't know what I would do if I didn't have fifty pages of novel notes to sort through and update. It's amazing what writing 100 pages of a book will do to your clarity regarding what is happening in the universe. Right now, in between chapters 11 and 12, I could tell you off the top of my head what every single character is doing. (Seamus is working with the refugees, but how is that a surprise? Perhaps Elene should make them cupcakes. Those two are going to have to battle it out for "who's the nicest person on the planet" award. -.-;)
Matt has moved back in, and we are in the process of attempting to put the house back together while we also foster two reptiles for The Muses while we wait for the RCC to do his or her requisite invaspection. I'm pleased to have someone else to cook for, and I think he's just happy to have a home. I keep having to remind myself to stop wandering around naked, though. Because of this, my morning routine has become a bit more complicated than it used to be:
1) Wake up.It used to just be wake up, trip over cat, turn on computer, make tea. Pants make everything needlessly complicated.
2) Turn on computer.
3) Pants?
3a) If pants, then 5.
3b) If no pants, then 4.
4) Find pants. Ohgod, where did they go I walked in here wearing them.
5) Make tea.
6) Trip over cat.
NOTE TO SELF: Update this banner.