7 inches don't none matter.

It's going to frustrate you that I don't have any photos to accompany this post, and I'm sorry. I got home late last night--well, later than I wanted, and my plans of eating mashed potatoes and then grading papers and then going for a run instead just turned into mashed potatoes, other food, other food, then grading, which was about three hours of [insert fart-poop noise here].

On Friday some weird synapse fired in my brain to remind me that I hadn't had a haircut in awhile, and then some other synapse fired that said: CUT IT OFF and I had the idea of cutting it off all day, so on my way back to Albertville I stopped in an Aveda salon and said: I'm scared as hell, but let's cut it off. Seven inches later, I have shoulder length hair; I have hair that hasn't been this short in four years. I cut off grad school. I spent so much time growing out my hippie-long hair, my blonde locks, and I became a long-haired girl in grad school, and now it's gone. It looks good, and I like it, but it's still hard not to think that all of the "work" of growing out my hair is now sitting in some weird "hair garbage" in a salon dumpster, that seven inches of Jean was on that floor and swept away. I asked if I could donate the hair, but it has to be twelve inches of locks to give to the hairless--and that would've left me with little left of my own--so it went to waste.

I have a thing about hair that I let myself suppress in Mankato. The thing is that I get in my head that something about me has to change, and the quickest thing to change is hair--so hair gets the sacrifice. In high school, if I came to school with a new haircut (or, in college, a new haircut or color) you could tell that there was something up with me. You could know there was something wrong, or I wasn't happy with how I was, or I was so happy with how I was that I had to show it on the outside. It's a weird thing, hair. I said my long hair was the source of my power: now it's gone. Maybe I've decided that in this job, teaching, in my office, being around high schoolers--that's my new source of power.

Or, maybe I was just sick of buying all of that shampoo and conditioner. Maybe I was just sick of untying hair knots all day.

Maybe I need to talk to my school counselor, as I tell the students.

I went home, dyed it blonder, closer to the real color. But it doesn't look changed, really.

And the cut doesn't look changed, really. Because nobody, um, noticed. I went home, chatted with Rich, the dad, for awhile. The dad, I said. Didn't you notice my haircut? I had seven inches of hair cut off!

Looks like it always does, he said. Not that I would ever expect the dad to notice. (And, side note: The dad changed my oil this week, and then he noticed that the driver's side headlight of the Intrepid keeps coming out. Oh, I'll take care of that, I'll fix it, he said. I didn't notice until the car was parked outside of David's house yesterday that "fix it" meant putting a little tiny piece of duct tape in the corner--a piece that has obviously and very carefully been cut into a square. It's the cutest little square I've ever seen, and I laughed at that little tape for about 10 minutes. I called the dad and said, the dad. Your idea of fixing the light is to put a piece of duct tape on it? Nice. He said: Hey, that's not tape. I said, of course, that it sure looks like tape, but dad said it's a special aluminum holder and I said a special aluminum TAPE? and he condceded.)

(Another side note: Because I sometimes act like I am five years old, I invented a game this weekend called: GHOST DOG that consists of taking Bourbon, the brother's rat terrier, outside at night and having the little white thing chase after me as I tear through the yard screaming: GHOOOOOOST DOOOOG! Travis played too. I did the oooooohhh a ghooooost voice that Jenny loves so much.)

Where was I? Oh yeah. My mom didn't have anything to say about the haircut other than it didn't look much different, and David didn't have anything to say about the haircut because it didn't look much different, and my students didn't notice the haircut, except for a couple of them who asked as an aside. The students did notice that I wasn't wearing my glasses today--did you forget your glasses! --Yes, student. I can't see who is asking me that right now, because I forgot them. And another girl noticed that I had my cartilage on my ear pierced (it's been pierced for a good four years).

I don't really give a shit if people notice my haircut, but it's really got me thinking about what changes when you just cut seven inches of yourself off and leave it on the floor. I mean, I feel like a chunk of me is missing, and when I go back to move hair from my eyes I am physically reminded of that loss. How can someone just lose such a big part of herself and nobody else sees it? Is this not the literal equivalent of some emotional loss?

Am I going crazy? Mostly, I don't know anymore. I've run out of the medication I've been taking for the last six months, and it has caused some pretty severe vertigo, dizziness, confusion, for the last couple of days. I feel like I'm floating, drunk, not on this Earth, not moving in time (in fact, suspended in time) and there isn't really anything I can do about it. A weird thing, feeling as though your brain is like a balloon in your head that keeps filling and then deflating--as though you're losing the air you need just to stand up. My head is floating away, and there is something hiding behind my eyes. How long does this last? I can feel my brain right now. I can feel it, and it's gross.

Issues with the head this week, apparently. Issues with the head.

Oh, semicolon. You are so sexy. Do me now.

Doesn't this semicolon I made look like an evil muppet?

Well, it looks slutty at least. It's a semiwhore.

Humph. Most of my joy in life, so far this fall, has come from school. On weekdays at least. This is good because I'm enjoying myself, but my lack of social life--especially when I go home, fall asleep in the reclining chair to Wheel of Fortune like a 70-year-old--is sad. I said I would workout yesterday. Fell asleep in chair. Then watched CSI, chatted with the Liz, and planned a lesson until late when I had to wake up at 5:00. Today was my second observation in a row. I sweat a lot when I'm teaching, but it's literal and metaphorical, so I don't think it replaces my kickboxing video or a three mile run or reverse situps. It's just so easy not to do that stuff and instead having spaghettios and hot dogs with barbeque sauce for dinner. Gross, you say?! Or delicious. Don't judge.

I might be saying this for the rest of the year, but hopefully not. Yesterday was a warmer day, but tonight it's cold. It's fall, and I'm not so sure the warm is coming back like it did last time. It's easier to transition when outside is transitioning. I hate it getting dark at 7:30, but only sort of. Because I know what I'll feel like as the days get shorter. I know that I'll have been here for over a month and that means this is more permanent. And if I'm still eating cheap hot dogs dipped in barbeque sauce for dinner, maybe I'll at least pick up those 10 pound weights 40 or 50 times. Will this happen? Will I talk the talk again and then, instead of walking the walk, fall asleep 20 minutes after getting home, while watching The Simpsons? Let's see. I sort of wish we hadn't gotten TV, but then I watch new episodes of The Office and I watch SVU all night and I think yes. This is who I am, I suppose. A TV watcher. No use trying to pretend.

I'm sort of alone here in Elgin. James has been gone for a week and a half, but it feels like a hundred years, especially after he was in Ireland for so long. Sometimes I forget he's coming home and that I'm sharing the house with someone. Even if it's his house.

If you're reading this, I miss you. I miss all of you.

I'll explain it to you like I did to them.

If you've read my blog before, or if you know me, you know this:

I HATE bugs, but bugs LOVE me.

Class, I said this morning. I have a story to tell you while you're filling our your index cards. Last night was one of the scariest nights of my life.

So, I was lying in my bed. It's red, just like this [red dry erase marker, draws on board]:

And then, as I was joyfully re-reading A Separate Peace so I could amaze you with my deep knowledge of the novel, I felt something on my leg, right about here. It felt like it was crawling on me, but I let it go, just assumed it was nothing. The only people who feel things crawling on them are meth addicts and schizophrenics, and I am neither of those.

And then, after I finished the book and turned out the light, I felt another movement by my arm! So I jumped out of bed, and screamed, and there was nobody to protect me, and guess what I saw. Guess what it was?

Was it a bug, they asked? I said, and then drew this big circle over my bed: It was this big and it was a HUGE SPIDER. I hate spiders, and there was one in my bed! It was the grossest thing I've ever, ever seen.

If you're good next week, I'll tell you story of how the moth attacked me in the shower. Now get back to work.

And outside turned yellow.

A couple of weekends ago, the soy fields turned yellow. I used to see acres of green while I drove to school, and now I see squares of yellow, then squares of green, and squares of brown. And it's bright yellow, too. It's like the sun is beaming on the fields all day while everything else is in shadow. It's that orange yellow that only appears at dusk, but is all day.

I get bored too easily.

Today I wrote my first lesson plan calander, meaning I've somewhat planned a lesson for the next month. That's way ahead of time. Tonight I did nothing for no reason. But I did put my clothes away.

This is the time of year when I bitch about the weather the most. The fields are yellow, but the sun is hot and the air is heavy. The fruit flies gather by the sink and scatter like seeds when I drop a dish in. I'm inside all day, but would rather be outside, in sweaters. I want to eat hearty food all day and read inside coffee shops.

Of course, last time I wished for such a thing, a year ago, I lost my job the next week. But now I think of where I am and how I know I'm staying here. And I'm happy here, but I still keep finding that I have that feeling to run--to get on a motorcycle and point it down a road and drive. Will I ever stop feeling this way? Will the fields of soy change color again overnight?

My one mission in life is complete.

I've figured out how to use candy as a tax write-off. The hundreds of dollars I spend on treats per year? Comin' back in April.

I've reached the end of my life long journey, now that I have this information! What next, friends? What next.

And why do those gross Brach's green mints have to ruin-up this picture? And root beer barrells? PUKE.

Hey, Praxis II, English Content Test! You're stoopid.

About four months too late, I took the English content test for teaching this past Saturday. Actually, I was supposed to have the scores from the thing before I even applied for this teaching program, and then I was especially supposed to have the scores by this summer, and then I was especially supposed to have them by the time I started teaching. I'll have them in a couple of weeks. I took the test on Saturday morning, at MSU, Armstrong Hall. Home of the English department, my three offices and all of the classrooms I ever taught in, that disgusting second floor bathroom where there is never soap nor a middle stall that works, and a whole buttload of nostagia.

And, of course, I find my room and the first person to walk in--who is also taking an English test---is a former student. I recognize her, but I don't. A speech person, from the team? A Comp student? Someone I just saw in the hall a million times? Hi! I said. At least I recognized her somehow.

How are you! She said.

Good, and you? What are you taking here?

She was taking the Middle School English Content test. She said, I was in your Creative Writing class here!

I said, I know.

She asked if I was still teaching at MSU, and I told her I was doing the high school thing, and she said she was teaching elementary school but was still required to get extra certification and that she'd opted for English. She had flash cards and study guides and nerves. I had dirty hair, no make-up, four solid hours of sleep from Chad's couch-bed, and a good 20 minutes of studying from the day before. This was the part where I got a little nervous.

But we got the test, and it was fine. We had assigned seating, so I was in front of the former student, and I was absolutely certain that I could feel her eyes digging into the back of my head when she couldn't remember poetry terms or scansion. I mean, if I were her, that whole time I would've thought: stupid English teacher, Jean. Thanks for teaching me what I could use later in life. Thanks for helping me pass this stupid test. This is your fault, you crappy teacher, sitting there keeping all of that knowledge to yourself so you could pass this test.

She seemed like a pretty nice girl, so I'm sure she wasn't thinking that. The test was 120 questions, all multiple choice, which makes perfect sense for a fucking Literature/Composition and Pedagogy test. I spent a lot of time reading half-page passages just to answer a couple of questions, and fortunately, I somehow forced myself to read close rather than my typical skimming so the evil standarized test answers wouldn't trick me like they oft do. I think I accidentally said that the author of Winnie the Pooh wrote "Portrait of a Lady," but other than that, I'm fairly certain they'll still let me teech inglish. After all, I am smart enough to know this (very similar to actual question on the test):

The practice where students have other students in the classroom share writing because they are better at critiquing other work than their own is known as:
a) Holistic Grading
b) Peer Editing
c) Publishing
d) Revision

Thank you, MSU TA program for showing me the ways. The answer is obviously "publishing."

***
So, I had some messes last week, metaphorically, of course, and by this weekend I did a pretty decent job of cleaning them up. Since those messes are out of the way, other messes are coming up, as they are wont to do. Isn't it silly how we never let ourselves be happy? I mean, it's either this, or it's this. I'm not in a huge fight with the Good Doctor anymore (although I'm sure that won't take long to change), and I'm not trying to sort out any emotional lovey feelings because I've oppressed any fantasy-like thoughts I've had about anyone deep into the dark recesses of my soul (ahem), and teaching isn't making me want to be stabby. I, of course, am still freaking out about money and the lack thereof, the student loans, the two maxed out credit cards (gulp, why do I constantly choose this life of a student), the speeding ticket still unpaid in Wisconsin that has likely led to a warrant for my arrest in that state, and the car insurance payments that skyrocketed because my last speeding ticket from a year ago has finally surfaced its way onto my record. Also, equivalently, I've been thinking about my thighs.

I was doing so well. I ran that 5.5 miles a couple of weeks ago, and then the next day a good three and half, and then I just stopped. Like, it's been two weeks since I've had a real, decent run. The 10K is this Saturday, and I've officially registered. I've had dreams about the 10K, about being excited to run it. In fact, when I was half-awake the night of the Praxis test, I kept thinking the obstacle in front of me was, literally the big run, that'd I'd wake up and go for a 6.2 mile run--not sit for two hours with a number 2 pencil and a test book that is held together by a sticker seal that I must break when I am ready to begin the test. The big run is Saturday, and I haven't trained in a good 10 days, if not more. And I was supposed to at least train yesterday, but then I put my sports bra on and lay down in my big comfy bed for just-a-second, and when I woke up it was raining and dark and three hours later. Nothing got done. I planned my lessons late that night, got to bed at 1:00. I didn't finish my journal, and I had to wake up early to get it done this morning at school; then I still didn't get to school on time (because it is impossible for me to be on time for anything) and I didn't finish it until my prep hour. I'm so mad at myself. I'm so mad for being tired, for needing naps when I get home from school. I'm so mad that last Friday I fell asleep at my desk in my office--that I fell into such a deep sleep that when I woke up I was drooling into the pit of my arm and onto my desk, and I was so disoriented that I didn't know where I was. I woke up and had a three-second panic of: HOLYSHITI'MINMYOFFICEWHATDAYISIT.

This is not good. I should be running miles. I shouldn't be eating at El Mazatlan and I shouldn't eat half a Gary's pizza and I shouldn't have a peanut butter slice of pie from Perkins while I'm visiting Mankato. I shouldn't have greasy breakfast potatoes from Pub, with greasy fatty sausage right alongside. I shouldn't be buying pound and a half bags of candy corn and shoving all of that honey-sugar into my mouth by the handful, feeling as it plaquens my teeth and coats them with a thick, dull layer of sugar. I shouldn't have put all of those Jolly Ranchers and Life-Savers in my desk. I shouldn't even acknowledge that the office mates Halloween candy bowl exists. Why am I doing this? Why was I so good and now am so bad? Why can't I make myself run anymore, why does it seem to get so dark so early?

Last spring, I bought a skirt without trying it on. I tried it on when I got home, and it was too big. It hung awkwardly and didn't cling where it should've clung to show some kind of curve instead of boxy-weird-body. I was going to take it back, but then I got lazy. Then, somehow, it ended up coming to Rochester with me, and somehow I hung it in my closet, and somehow last night I wondered if this tan dress skirt would work with my outfit today.

It fit. The waist is too big, still, but the skirt clings to the thighs, forming a shape, instead of hiding them under its boxiness. It looks like it's supposed to. Don't be fooled into thinking this is a good thing. This skirt was supposed to go back to the store, and a much fatter than me woman was supposed to buy it for the $7 I paid for it, 75% off. But now, I'm wearing it. I'm at my desk, and I'm wearing it, and I hate my thighs and I hate that I don't run as much and I hate that I need so much sleep and so much candy and that I don't spend enough time outside. A run everyday would take care of this. A run every day would solve all of my problems, even if the color of this skirt is awesome and especially looks good with the brown tights and tall boots. Who cares about that! I'll wear the skirt boxy if I can shave the layers off these thighs that I'd like to, because these fucking thighs are like over-watered crops. They're big, fat pumpkins and squash, growing on their own accord, taking over the garden with their rough skin and their odd misshapes.

*
Finally, today was my first day of official teaching, leading the class. Funny thing is that I thought the first day was supposed to be tomorrow, so imagine my big-thighed form-fitting-skirt surprise when Mr. Olson asked me, five minutes into first hour--so, you ready!

But all was well. I knew what I was doing, it's just that I thought I was doing it tomorrow. Happy Monday, everyone. Get this fucking candy away from me. Give me the mind-power-motivation to kick this 10K's ass. It's not fair. I don't get to treat this like the Praxis, where I don't study and still walk in and do what I do. I crammed too early for this 10K, and now I'm apathetic. Give me strength this week. The physical kind.

There is no way that this will end in me NOT being a fatass.

The office mate has decorated her side of the office, and it looks good, and we have lots of bulb light in here--four lamps--instead of crappy flourescent office light. She even brought flowers for the top of the microwave and put the electronic pencil sharpener on the bookcase so its technically fair game for all of my pencil sharpening needs. The problem, though, is that she put a big fat bowl of Halloween candy--I'm talking Snickers and Kit-Kats here--on the "fair game" table in the corner, insinuating that this candy is for everyone. "Everyone" includes me, because I'm the only other person in this office, and this means that I am probably going to eat all of the candy. In fact, I feel that it is my destiny to eat all of the candy, and she's never here, so it will be simple for me to fulfill that destiny with the door closed and the blinds over the windows drawn. Because if the blind over these windows weren't drawn, this office would feel very much like an exhibit in a zoo with all of the students walking by. A loud voice over the speaker would say: observe the English teacher in her natural office habitat. Notice she cannot resist the communal candy bowl--look! She has visualized her internal struggle by pretending the candy is not there, but then glancing up from her computer as though the communal candy bowl has called her name.

Other random thoughts on a Thursday:

• I think Darren should be a high school history teacher. First of all, the kids would be like: Oh, Mr. W swore in class today and he went on another rant about the fucking communists. And another student would say yeah, well during my hour he told us another one of his janitor stories, and then he told us this story about how he shit his pants in a lawyer's office. Plus: Imagine Mr. Darren's picture in a high school yearbook. Awesome.
• I've read two books in two days, and I'm feeling pretty literary and smarter than you: Slaughterhouse-Five and The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian. Both were fast reads, of course, and they've given me a little break from Catch-22, which I am trying desparately not to give up on. That's two off the longest reading list ever.
• I keep Jolly Ranchers and Life-Savers in my desk drawer. See the top of this post to understand why that is bad.
• Today I helped a sophomore write a scholarship essay during study hour. This sophomore moved to the U.S. just four years ago, knows he wants to be a teacher, then principal, then superintendent when he grows up, and is an impeccable writer. I mean, his scholarship essay uses the perfect amount of emotional appeal, and with more details his creativity will be an amazing combination of persuasive, emotional writing and scholar. A sophomore. We conferenced for about a half hour, and it felt pretty amazing to be conferencing with a student again and to recognize that he had been just as responsive as many of the MSU students had been. This also worries me, because maybe he was faking understanding and I was talking like a professor instead of a high school teacher. I don't know this boundary yet.
• I am so off my running schedule, it's not even funny. Goddammit.
• I've pretty much come to accept the fact that summer just quit trying. I'm certainly okay with this, but it's still bizarre to me to suddenly be sleeping with 4 blankets instead of my fan. Good for the school mindset, though, and also I don't want to be all sweaty in my office. I do love that it's raining today, and I do love that I am inspired to keep cuddling with books.
• Yesterday, at Barnes & Noble, I signed up for my teacher's discount of 20%. This is awesome. I then bought four books, two of which were for "teaching."
• This lipstick-pig thing is fucking ridiculous. Politics are making me stabby, particularly the republicans who have nothing better to do; moreover, Palin IS a fucking pig with lipstick, so I don't see what the big deal is. This is more a literal observation than a criticism, if you really think about it. Perhaps, it is "God's will" that she looks like a pig in lipstick.
• Storyboard for a lesson plan. We're using markers in class next week, kids. Get your poster-board on.
• I want somebody who will go on a fall walk with me in Elgin. Christina. Jenny. Chad. Get over here, because we need to make some brandy and cider and walk around in scarves.
• Mr. O and I had to remove the magnetic poetry magnet that said, "sausage," from the board because the students were getting out of hand with it.
• I'm thinking about next year, and the thought crossed my mind that my home town will be hiring teachers because they're building more and more schools. What if: What if STMA is the only place that has a job available or the only place that offers me a job? What if I end up working there? Could I do it? Let's hope I don't have to make a decision like that. Blech.
• Footless tights are fucking ridiculous, as is the ratio that Target has of footless vs. regular tights. Who the fuck buys those?
• Shannon: You were right about the Franco Sartos, or I'm already used to the heels. (Let's be honest. I sit all fucking day.)
• I've stopped looking at my bank account, because I'm in deep financial poop. Thanks, Winona, for keeping me up to date on my loans and letting me know the aid wouldn't be coming for a couple of weeks.
• My computer is a slow, goddamned douche-machine.
• Observing class makes me fall asleep, as do movies the 11th graders watch about Epic Heroes that include commentary from Charlton Heston. He's dead, and he owned a lot of guns. The movie also referenced the Star Wars TRILOGY. Ha ha. Public school and our dated films.