to students:

look, you can freak out about swine flu all you want, guys--but I'm pretty sure they're not going to close the school--and really, you have nothing to worry about unless you've been making out with pigs all week, because everybody knows that the only way to get swine flu is from kissing pigs on the mouth.

Please, not today.

Please don't make me teach anymore today, please don't let the students come, please don't let them question my reasons, please don't let them moan when I show the essay prompt, please don't let them attack me the second they come into the room, please don't let them beg and plead and complain and say why do you even test us, anyway.

What? That already happened, eh? So, here's the thing about teaching, the thing is that you're assigned, you know, over 100 students and you take them home with you every night and you work for 8 hours at school and six more when you go home, and yet you feel like nobody else fucking gets it, that it's just you and it's just them for such a long time, even when you're at home, alone, in your blue rocking chair and sipping your iced diet green tea, they're with you, yet you never feel so alone and drowned in your work at the same time. At least when a ship goes down there are a couple of people drowning at the same time, and they can at least say--well, the ride was fun at first, you know, when they smashed the bottle of champagne on the side and we headed out--but here there are just a bunch of people screaming at you while you're drowning to--I don't know, bring them a glass of juice--but you're too busy trying to stay above water. When were you gonna get me that juice, then?

Well, then, please just let me have a free day--24 full hours squeezed in here and there. Please understand that I haven't put my clothes away for literally six weeks, because there is just no time, instead there is a pile of clean and a pile of dirty and a pile of I-can't-tell-but-it-smells-alright, please, please tell me why I've collected 180 papers to grade, so many papers, 120 tests, 120 students to tell me I haven't been subjective in the right way but the wrong way, who hold onto those points like the last petals on the last flower from a parent's funeral--as though they make some sort of difference when all is dead anyway. Please let the grading come fast and not so painful, yes, like my own death, yes like an out of body experience that forbids me to return to my own body when it's over--I'm never coming back, no! never, never coming back, ya hear?

Please let the sleep, the heavy eyes, the headache in the back, now the side, now the front of the brain stay at bay just a little longer, please make this end, please, I'll do anything, please make it stop. Please let the fireworks in my brain stop shooting like this fucking Fourth of July of anxiety that refuses to just be done already--and will there be a big show, anyway? Will there be a finale, when I realize I said to the students today: You know how when a woman's pregnant and you bet on when the baby will be born? You can bet on the day when I finally just, when I just crack, you know? And they looked at me because they couldn't see it in me, because I hide it well, but it's in there, it's in my head, it's just that someone is shooting of fireworks in the middle of the goddamned afternoon for some reason other than maybe they like the stink of sulfur. And who wouldn't? The smell like fire, like you have the power to destory or entertain depending on your mood, the smell of dusk, but only on the days where you go to bed and get to sleep in. And instead I just want to create things, morph clay and describe why I did it the way I did, into a bowl like shape, I just want to take books' authors and put them into a room together to see what happens, I just want someone to ask me why the hell did you do it that way? What were you thinking? And not have an answer, just to say that the fact that I did it was reason enough, that hey, it makes sense to me, get off me about it.

Looks like somebody's got a case of the...

...of the fuck yous.

I'm crabby for no real reason today, other than I was teased on Friday with summer, with 92 degrees and humid, with pink lightening that touched down to kiss the still-naked spring field, with pea-sized hail. I watched it all from the garage like those old people who never waved to me in Mankato when I ran by their house everyday. I kept having to move back my lawn chair so as not to let the cold rain blow-in on my legs, and I chugged MGD Light, and I crossed my clean-shaven bare legs over each other. And I cheered on the storm. A line of lightening in the distance, and I point with my beer-hand and scream YEAH! WOO! YESSSS! as though the storm is obeying my commands. Then the thunder breaks through the surface as I'm screaming, as it's responding, as though we're powering each other.

Farmer Bob pulled his John Deere out of the field the minute the rain started. The plow had flipped the soil upside down, showing the brown of the soil instead of the gray dirt made colorless by the snow. With the rain, it was as though the field had put on a layer of lip gloss.

Yes, this is why I'm crabby today. I gave myself Saturday off, and as a result I worked and worked on Sunday, on lessons that I don't think did much of anything for anyone, because maybe we were all thinking of Friday.

The work for my grad program is done. Last week was hell week, and this week is tired week. No matter how much I try to think about it, I can't get over how much the sun controls my life. How, if today were 70 and the sun were winning, that life would be great. That I'd be more optimisitic about where this week is going. That I'd go for a run, sit on a patio, start a new book. But instead, I just want to eat fudgesicles. I just want to pick at my face and feel fat and let the class have the rest of the time to read.

I just need to read a good short story, I think. I just need a good short story.

The big interview.

Congratulations to everyone for winning the contest below! The strong entries all had some sort of racial slur or random quotation unrelated to diarrhea at all.

But now, to more pressing issues. I have a job interview tomorrow, and I just have no idea what to wear. Mr. O and I discussed some options similar to these, but I think I need your help to decide!

I know this shirt is a little cas (short for casual), but I want to stress how important I think it is to read--reading to the extreme seems almost impossible, but that's how much I encourage my students to put into their homework. You can even read while skateboarding! That is so hard core.

Again, a bit cas. But I could use this shirt to guide me through the interview. When I forget why I like teaching, I can just point to something on the sweatshirt! For example, I like teaching because I like to be around kids (the kid at the desk) as their shadow (nice, huh?) or I could look at the ruler and say I like teaching because I like rules, or I like teaching because I can look at the students like an open book, or I like teaching because I like nasty looking apples and giant pink letter Ts.

Dude, this just might turn them on too much. And it might give the message I want students all over me. Or I'm the fattest person you've ever met.


At first I didn't like this one, but then I saw that it came with a mockneck. Gold!
And my pant leg reminds me to read, just in case I forgot! Oh my God, I could even keep a book in the front pocket!

This jumper allows for a formal look and and casual look when I take it off mid-interview to show off my "schoolhouse." And the bus suggests I'm always "on the go!" Aren't we, teachers all?! Ah, I love kids.

Of course, you can imagine the rest of the outfit. Tight-curled permed hair, lots of red blush, and thick-soled orthopedic shoes. I'm putting my glasses on a funky neon-colored designed string so they can hang around my neck, and I'm definitely wearing white ankle socks. God, I just can't wait to touch the future, you know?

Diarrhea_img_1

It's contest time. I was google imaging "diarrhea farm" (for obvious reasons) and I came across a website that had this image. I insist you write a caption, a la MTTS.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go take a shit.

They're like vultures! Fashionable vultures.

It's sometimes dramatic when a woman likes your shoes.

Sometimes it's a casual pause in the hallway, you watch her eyes move to your feet, and she sort of nods with approval. An understanding.

Other times she just offers you the phrase: hey, I like your shoes! And sometimes you give back an enthusiastic thanks! other times you give back a little more: Thanks, I got them at Macy's! Or even more yet: Thanks, I got them at Macy's. On clearance!

Other times it's half-praise half-disgust half-jealousy. It's 150% shoe interest. This is when you get the Oh my GOD, how can you WALK in those?! And there's nothing you can give back to that comment. Just an offering of a small response: just practice, I guess. Or it hurts, but it's worth it! Or: it's really not that bad. And then she says: I could never walk in those. But you wonder if she's really tried. You almost want to give her a little pep talk. Oh, I bet you could. You just have to get used to it.

Today I'm wearing fake snakeskin heels. Shannon used her Macy's discount to help my buy them, over spring break. They're a sassy, sassy shoe. Pointed toe, three-inch heeled Anne Kleins.

I went downstairs to get lunch from the lunchroom. A little downtime. I was the only one in line. I got my pasta and the lady in charge of the frozen peaches in a fruit cup spotted me. She was a whole breed of shoe lovers. The kind that stops you in your tracks to start a discussion about your shoes, the one who gasps at the sight the them, the one who hollers out quickly as though there's a stray baseball coming at your head fresh off a bat and you better duck fast: Oh my God! I loooooooooooove your shoes! She holds out the "o" as though the length of the vowel represents the exact amount of love for the shoes.

I like women like this. Women like this make me feel good about myself. I mean. I wear cute shoes because I like to look good. And I wear them because I like when women comment on how cute my taste is. C'mon. That's why we all wear cute stuff. And they're good for my calves. Bad for my feet, but good for the calves.

So, the excited lunch lady stops me while I'm holding my plate of rigatoni and broccoli and steps out from behind the lunch lady line to get a closer view of the shoes. I offered her the longest phrase: Thanks, got them at Macy's, they were on clearance. She commented I never can find shoes like that! What size are you? And I told her 9 1/2. She was an 8 1/2, she said. That's why she couldn't find them. Nobody had them in her size; it was more common. (I neglected to tell her that 9 1/2 is actually the most common size for all women. No use angering the woman who praises your shoes.)

Eventually, she started calling other lunch ladies over to come see these shoes! And before I knew it I was sort of encircled by a bunch of women in white aprons who'd started a shoe conversation with me in the center. 8 1/2 said that she could totally walk in those! They weren't that high! And the frumpy, permed-hair lunch lady, the one who obviously used humor to cover up her frumpiness, commented that she couldn't walk in those--couldn't even walk in flats! And the lady running the register just kind of smiled at me because she obviously didn't really care for them, and another lady stopped her business to come out an peek at my lower half around the corner. I offered up the heel by bending my leg back--the same way a woman does when she's into a really passionate kiss.

How flattering, anyway. I click-clicked away with my plate of food, praying to the shoe gods I wouldn't trip over myself. And then I thought of the excited lunch lady going home and had a chuckle at what might happen at her house, 6:00, over dinner, while instead of plopping mashed potatoes on trays she's serving her husband grilled chicken and vegetables. He's had a long day, and like the students just expects this food every night. She says, Jack, you should've SEEN this woman's shoes at school today! They were just amazing! They were snakeskin and high heels and I'd love shoes like that! And she goes on and on, all excited, while Jack shovels food in his mouth and just thinks: who the fuck cares. Who fucking cares about shoes.

My dad has started to measure his life in steps.

Apparently, at a recent doctor's visit, the doctor handed him a pedometer and told him he had to walk a certain amount of steps per day in order to keep in shape. The guy eats as many sweets as his dead diabetic father ate, almost as many sweets as me, so I think this is a pretty good idea.

And because it's my dad's project, it has become everyone's project. Not that he makes us walk with him, but in that he must tilt up the pedometer from his belt and update us every now and again about how many steps he's walked today, how many miles that is, how many times he's gone above and beyond and over the limit that even the doctor has set.

He's certainly walking more. All he needed was someone to tell him he could outdo himself again by measuring his steps. Although, I think his pedometer is broken, to be honest with you, because he was gone for about an hour and claimed that he walked five miles. He walked to church on Good Friday, arms swinging away, swish-swishing with his turquoise windbreaker, and this morning, when my mom, Travis and I were out walking the dog, we ran into my dad, out working up his numbers so he could reach his goal for the day. Why the family was on two separate walks, I'm not really sure. But I do wonder what my dad is thinking about on those walks. He's thinking about something--I mean, he doesn't have any music playing in his ears, and he's not talking to anyone (he doesn't have any walking-buddies, although I did pass an old man out walking while I was out running on Saturday--he was wearing jeans and a windbreaker and carrying two pound weights in each hand and lifting them with each step--and I thought of suggesting to my dad that he and this stranger walk together, especially because he lived in a cul-de-sac and they now had something in common and could discuss cul-de-sac livin' in Albertville together). If my dad's like me, deep thought makes the workout pass by much faster, else you have to concentrate on the pain shooting up your shins or the fire in the balls of your feet.

Of course, I overheard him talking about his walks earlier today, and he mentioned that on his route he stops at a friend's house for a beer every now and again. I gotta stop doing that though, he told my sister, I start walking again, and I get all stiff. Gotta just keep going. Can't stop in the middle. Hmm.

Happy Easter, anyway. I didn't go to church, am feeling guilty, have eaten literally pounds and pounds of candy, and have had two thoughts today:

1) Does anyone else eat those whopper robin eggs by first licking the outside so the color in transferable and then sort of paint it on their lips like a shade of emo lipstick? ...uh, yeah, me either, I was just wondering if you did, because I totally don't do that.

2) The Albertville Culver's had one of those signs where you move the black letters around to spell ads and messages, and this weekend it said "CLOSED ON EASTER SUNDAY" on both sides of it. Except somebody rearranged some letters around so it said "EAT COC ON EASTER SUNDAY." Am I going to hell for laughing at that?

Even though I spend 60 hours a week here, I'm still invisible!

Yes, yes, we know. The life of a student teacher, of a grad student, of an intern. What does one expect. The principal doesn't know who you are. The students are reluctant to anything you say, especially once you take the place of one of their favorite teachers. Yes, yes, we know.

Still, why not bitch about it. Why not?

When I was here planning my lessons and grading essays during spring break, I'd noticed something different about my office. My office, where the three of us live--me, another student teacher who has been here for a month or two and is leaving next week, and the leader of the new student/teacher program at CHS. In our office, which is a third size of a classroom, decent size, really. I have pictures of you (probably) hung up in here, my orange-ish lamps with beads from Pier 1, framed poems on the wall, my Book-It button complete with all five stars, a picture of Elvis, the print out of the shit-mobile and a cartoon child smoking and a bird with a gun. I like it in here, except for my crappy computer (meaning, my laptop) and the shit chair. If there was a window, I wouldn't complain, and there's not one, but I'm still not complaining.

Anyway. I'm here on Friday and I come in after being gone for the week of spring break fun, and I can't help but notice--I can't help but--that there are five school desks now crammed into my office. There really isn't space for 5 school desks, but these desks are put in the walking space areas of the office, so one has to maneuver around them. A labyrinth of fun! A labyrinth of fuck you.

I assumed they were just using my office for storage. They had these extra desks, they didn't have anywhere to put them, whatevs. It sucks, and my office looks like a closet, but whatever.

Then after teaching yesterday, I come into my office and there's a woman sitting at one of the big teacher desks and there's a student sitting in one of the student desks. I say, inquisitively, hi? and the woman at the desk--she shssssss me. She shhhhss me. In my office. She says, shhh, she's taking a test and then she points to the student.

I don't even know what to do, but the sense of violation and annoyance is on par with the situations in life that either involve my sister or my mother. You guys. She shhhhed me.

Nevermind the fact that I keep all of my valuables (and delicates!) in the office, or that anyone asked me if they could turn it into a testing center. I mean, who cares, right? The program lady is never here, and the other student teacher hangs out in the other teacher offices. Who cares? It's just me, wanting to email inappropriate shit to Christina and Jenny all day while listening to some Cat Stevens. I'm just some useless intern, who got a phone call last night about not getting the job she interviewed for, where the man on the other end mentioned the word experience at least 10 times, as in, well, it's just that I don't think you have enough experience, you just aren't experienced, and the person we're going to hire, well that person has experience. I think you gave a great interview, it's just that with more experience, you could have a job with us. EXPEEERIENCE.

He didn't say that last part, but it would've been kind of funny if he had--like in Super Troopers when he doesn't say meow enough times.

MEOW.

Not to mention that I've been working here since August, this year, and taught Comp for three years, so someone to tell me I have no expeeeeerience as a teacher makes me want to throw up.

Anyway, Mr. O., the protector of his intern, is taking care of the desk situation. But I still get to feel like a big piece of shit. I still at least get that.

to do and have done, saturday

*wake up at 8:00, watch shitty-ass version of Lord of the Flies, 1990;
*accidentally watch an episode of SVU, even though there's no time on today's agenda;
*run three miles, poorly, but finally under 12 minute miles, because sometimes I feel like I weigh 400 lbs.;
*NOT get my phone in the mail from dad, who sent it after I left it in Albertville, one mile from my house, where it fell off the top of my car and outside the "Space Aliens" restaurant that I hate for literally thousands of reasons;
*grade papers, slowly, because I can't stop writing so many fucking comments, because in a way it makes me feel like less of an asshole for giving a confusing assignment;
*see The Haunting in Connecticut, even though I should've been at school, decide they can have my five dollars, but I do want my 2 hours back--I need those hours!;
*listen to Motown for 6 hours straight;
*regret that I let myself have three whole days of vacation for spring break--realize now that I absolutely should've been working every day--lazy bitch;
*hate everything;
*eat entire cheese pizza in my classroom whilst grading papers;
*eat two suckers in a row, a chocolate Tootsie Pop that claims to be Easter-egg shaped, but is actually shaped like a giant clitoris, and also a regular shaped Cherry Blow Pop;
*question why everything I've done in the classroom has had some gloomy aspect of failure written all over it, as though I start to teach and black clouds just move in and rain shit all over everybody, even though some people have umbrellas;
*try not to freak out in front of Mr. O, who continues to point out the obvious stupid shit that I plan, which on an application level makes little sense, when there are much easier answers out there, that for some reason, I just can't fucking see, what the hell;
*swallow Blow Pop gum, it is grainy;
*think about how I'd much rather be writing about something else, like the "digits" I picked up a K's wedding, or how I'd spend money if I had it;
*think about that time Christina said I looked like the banana-hair face thing at the Copps employment kiosk, wish I looked that fucking good;
*stop blogging, dumby, and get back to work.