An Xism in a song:

Shoot me in the face! Shoot me in the face! Hi-ho-the-dae-ri-o, shoot me in the face.

The cheese stands alone, the cheese stands alone! Shoot the fucker in the face, the cheese stands alone.

Uh.

I wish I had time to really blog about how amazing the weekend was, how good, how wonderful it was to travel my way over Green Bay on a cool, rainy fall day with Darren asleep in the passenger seat with a scarf over his face like a beauty mask. How last Wednesday I was at home in Albertville, not doing a thing, waiting for the long weekend to start. How the weekend was ideal, how I drank margaritas the first night and then slept so well, how it was wonderful to have Jenny waking me up again, just like all summer. How I looked forward to Christina and Liz and Ben getting there, running to the street to see them, the hugs. Then the rehearsal dinner, reading letters in the bathroom that forced my face to heat up with emotion. Sweet brandy old fashioneds and the bartender hating my young, naive self for ordering it wrong--twice. The wedding day, our hair, the gorgeous Jenny bride who can through the biggest party I've ever seen. Talking to RT, dancing and dancing and drinking.

And the day after, the ride home, the hard, hard Sunday. Although, a funny breakfast with friends. Talks of mixing water and Sprite and all that.

I took Monday off. A mental health day to breathe. And then I worked for about 10 hours that day. And then Tuesday, Tuesday. Cleaning up after the sub, making up for the lost day. 14 hour days, 14 hour days. Laundry? No time? Hanging pictures of you on the wall? No time. My house is still a mess, but I can't get myself to clean the bastard. At school until 6:00 each night lesson planning, then coming home to grade papers for three hours. Yesterday during a meeting I was volunteered to take notes and report back to the principal--a task that added an hour to my day. And that's actually so much. This is no life.

But. I wonder now, how I'll look back at these blogs. I only complain about this first year. I should note that school is exhausting but I still have moments. There are no longer horrific problems with my 3rd class and their discipline issues. They still talk too much, but I absolutely consider the class a victory. I talked to a kid about bullying today, told him, the drama queen he is, that he no longer gets to "act" in class, and he handled it maturely. Good for him. I brought the students candy bars today to thank them for their work. I nailed the Romeo & Juliet lesson, showing that the play is much easier the second time around. How much easier it will be the third time, how much easier life will be once I settle into the position I want and then grow every year. How much faster I'll get on my feet. My favorite students are a set of twins. One of them makes me laugh everyday, writes, Goody Prokott, why do you use big words like "overture and dialogue" on our homework assignments, and I'd written back, because I like to sound smart! The other of the red-headed twins visits me everyday and plays little pranks.

Today I freaked out about grammar. I don't like teaching it, because I don't know it. And then, I wonder what the point is--do I really need to remind my students about what simple predicates are, what helping verbs are? Can't we instead use that time to talk about basic writing skills, practice voice or organization in writing. Because I don't even know, really, the difference between linking and helping verbs (well, I do now) and I think I can write just fine. Pretty sure I have a Master's degree in writing.

And this, after yesterday, when we had to meet in groups before school to discuss that we should be teaching skills and not content, to discuss that most employers don't have significant problems with people that mess up on grammar just a bit, but more problems with people who can't express themselves in writing, who can't be specific or stop writing in abstractions. So why do I have to teach this? Can't we do miniature lessons on commas, instead? Or dangling modifiers? That's important to know. That helps you become a better writer. Not parts of speech. Nope. Not compound predicates or direct objects. That's how you start to become a great writer. That's why it's elementary school stuff, writing basic sentences. High school should be fine tuning. High school should be finding voice. Tackling bigger projects. Understanding the writing process. [steps down from soap box]

But I don't have a choice. I'm anxious today. I think about grammar, and then I think about The Crucible, and then I think about the books that I haven't taught, and how I will teach next year if I have a new curriculum, I think, then, about all the activities that Phil did once and how clever they were, and why don't I have them all in a folder, and will I ever create activities so thorough and wonderful, and how will I ever have time to do that? What were those activites? Where are they? What I have to teach this again, re-write my calendar? What are my main objectives in The Crucible, anyway? And why didn't I have time to write that out, to give an outline of my goals before the unit? Oy. Xanax, where are you? Why haven't I been clever enough in the activities? How are the kids getting this? Is it too fast? Why aren't they doing their homework? Why didn't I take those reading surveys and put them into data graphs so I could show them that those who said they looked up words in the dictionary were the ones getting As in class, that those who said they put reading into their own words are more likely to do well? Why? How? When?

*
And today I came home to a package from Rochester, a wonderful care package from Kris, full of tea and treats and wonderful notes and jokes about vegan shoes. God, God, a wonderful package, after I walk in from the rain, brush off my rain coat, put the key in the door like only a single, over-worked woman can, like a lonely literary character might who is reflecting on how much work she does, how she's wondering what happened to her social life. And there was the package. It was an utter shrill of glee that came from my throat.

So, here we are. Wednesday night. I didn't eat a healthy meal yet this week, want to cook, don't have the energy. Should stay here for the weekend to finally finish unpacking this place, sweep the floor, finish the dishes. But I don't want to, can't stay here to do all of those dull, sad things--I need to see people who aren't 15-18. Why can't I just stay so it's easier in the week? No. No. Why can't I just have a night where I don't have 8 hours of work after my 8 hour day, so I can have a real weekend. Eh.