Two hour late start.

The two-hour late start is a cocktease of the snow day.

*

I said this in an email to some of you, but here's what made my day today:

Today I asked my seniors about fang vs. tail, and they were all pissed at me because I was not “serious” about the two-minute debate and that we should do something serious, and then they all got ticked at me for arguing about a tail, and one kid even mocked me (like repeated what I’d said in a sassy voice) and another said “yeah, well if this was a serious question, then maybe we’d think about it.”

And then I said: Yeah, well let me tell you something. I’ve just read a study about “geniuses” and I found that actual IQ has little to do with success in life. The study took the top IQs in the country, and it turned out that intelligence didn’t predict their future success—but you know what did? Their answer to the questions: “Name all the things you can do with a blanket. Name all the things you can do with a brick.” And the creativity of those seemingly lame answers to that seemingly lame question told what kind of people they were and how successful they would be in life.”

And I thought they’d give me some sass back, but they all just looked at me wide-eyed—and in awe—really, like that look that says “she’s really smart and holy shit she’s right” and I realized that I had totally, utterly, and completely SCHOOLED THEM.

It's the blog I've been wanting to write since August.

Before reading this, please remember that there is no laughing in school.



First of all, I have to say this.


I FUCKING LOVE MY NEW COMPUTER.


This is such an amazing computer. It's fast. It uploaded my new pictures in 30 seconds instead of 2 hours. I just pop my CDs in to upload my old music into itunes and then they just upload. I don't have to "end programs" or book half of my day to check my email.

This is like living a whole new life. I have all this free time and shit. I'm motivated to start taking pictures again. Because, let's be honest. The pictures on my camera were from yesterday, yes, but also from last October. That was last-October ago. 14 months.

Sure, I miss the old computer. I wrote my thesis on that bitch. I started blogging on her. The imprint from my sweaty palm is forever faded into the space in front of the keyboard. But I fucking love my new computer. And the backpack carrying case that came with it, and the portable mouse that came with it. And all of its beautiful, beautiful space. Space! Space.


To set the scene, it's Saturday. It's cold, but the sun is out. It's a December Saturday like if somebody said: Saturday in December that would come to mind. I woke up and did the dishes and made Malt 'o Meal and finished wrapping the presents I started yesterday. I listened to Bing Crosby singing Christmas songs all morning, I went for a 3ish mile run (while listening to the same running mix that took me around Lake Nokomis back in January through March 2008) and came home and my thighs were red and stinging. And when I took a shower and washed them with the hot water, they just turned numb. It was fabulous. This town looks better in the day than it does in the night, but I don't see it that often in the day. When I go to and leave school it's dark. And I like to spend the weekend with people, so I don't often spend the weekend here. Once again, it wouldn't be a bad place to live if you were here with me.

But you're not, so I still sort of hate it. Even though I've found myself comfortable today--working on some crafts at home, watching movies, sitting at the Dunn Brothers coffee shop and laughing out loud at old pictures that I've been sifting through. Plus, Christina called this morning, and that was sort of nice. (Bitch, I said sort of.)

My hair is starting to grow out again, which makes me happy. It makes me look like the self from all those grad school photos, and so when I look in the mirror I get a sense of comfort that I'd lost when I cut it. It turned blonde again even though I tried to dye it dark back in August. That always happens--even with the permanent dye. It just goes back to blonde on its own. But it's comforting too. And I think I'm meant to be the blonde one.

Plus, I just spilled coffee down the front of my shirt, so if you're wondering if I changed, I haven't. Still the same ol' Jeano.

Yesterday the first trimester of school officially ended. I am 1/3 of the way done with my first year of teaching (well, my third first year of teaching) and it seems like it's gone slow and fast at the same time. Mostly slow, I think.

And with some free time yesterday, I went around and took the pictures I've been wanting to take for a long time. Of my room, of the classroom. So hold on, folks. Here's a tour of the building where I work. Some things will amaze you. Some things will disgust you.

The tour costs $7. Please send checks to me at home.



This is the door to my classroom! C'mon in, friends! You never know! You might just learn something along the way.


There's my name and shit. The Braille is for 113. There are no blind students in the school, but if there were, I'm sure most of my students would tease them for being blind or tape signs to their back that said I'm fucking blind or would wave their hands in front of the poor kids' faces.

This is the front of my classroom. That's my desk. That's my chalkboard. That's the overhead projector.

This is one of my bulletin boards. Please notice the electrical wire hanging from the wall. It's not live, but I sort of wish it was.

The sign for the "presentation" trait of writing says: your project reeks of professionalism. You didn't write it in crayon. You didn't spill crap all over it.

This is the bulletin board above my desk. That word of the day with the #12 on it is sprachgefuhl, which means a sensitivity to language, esp. for what is grammatically or idiomatically acceptable in a given language. It reminds me of poets and Liz. That article was given to me by a student's dad about the importance of reading classics. That Orwell quote says you have learned something. That always feels at first as though you have lost something. That handwriting chart was a joke gift from Phil last year. That bird is holding a gun, and I love it. The one student who told me that the bird with the gun was awesome is the student I've chosen for Student of the Month.

This is a close-up of a poster on the bulletin board. It is amazing. The fact that I found this in the copy room because no other teachers wanted it suggest that I am, by far, the coolest fucking teacher in the entire school. Nay, universe. (Sorry about the flash.) Go, Nora, go! You leave Torvald! Seach for your feminist rainbow!

Here is the side view of the classroom. That's a poster of a half-naked Romeo and Juliet. Those are some blinds. That's the 3-hole punch I had to bring from home because the school didn't have one. That's the file folder that had a mouse in it when I took it out of James's shed last summer. That sea green counter thing drives me crazy and is a huge waste of space. Unless I'm drinking at it, I don't need a bar in my classroom.

This is the Berryman poem I put next to my pencil sharpener. The first line reads life friends, is boring.

This is the giant heater in my room. One time, a senior turned it up to 90+ for the entire weekend because the control is available for anyone to touch. When I came to school Monday morning, I almost burned my hand on the metal of my desk. I was irrate. And the freshmen sweat and stunk all day.

This is the back of my classroom. (Note that my desks are not usually organized this way. Just for finals.) Those are some laminated maps that cost $25, the homework board and some posters I found in the copy room. I put the one that said FEAR under the homework board on purpose. That's a poster of Romeo and Juliet from 1968 that another English teacher did not want. Those wood-looking strips on the wall are meant to hold up shelves that did not come with the classroom. Well, one shelf came. It didn't fit on the wall supports.

Here's a side view. That blue square in the back is the magnetic poetry board where students write inappropriate phrases with the words "shelf" and "bound" and "dream". Those are the returned textbooks. Note the fire blanket. The eye wash. The sink.

This is the eye wash. I have no idea if it works.

This is the eye wash sign I will steal when I leave. That post-it I stuck on there says to be used for misconceptions about literature ONLY and nobody thins it's funny. I like that it says eye wash yet the pictures shows an eye and chin wash. Fuck! I hate when I get chemicals all over my goddamned chin.

This is my bookshelf. That container is the old sewing kit I use for my markers. Not pictured on the bookshelf: The copy of Black Boy that was stolen by my only black student. No comment about that.

This is where the gas comes from.

This is the sink.

These are the most amazing posters in the world. I would hang these in my house. I found them in the copy room because none of the other English teachers wanted them. This suggests that I am amazing and they are not amazing. Just to remind you.

How Public Like a Frog. This is my favorite one. Can you believe somebody didn't want these. How stupid like a frog. How lame-ass like a frog.

This one is also amazing. These might officially belong to the school, but when I leave they're coming, too.

Here's a desk.

Here's what is carved into the back seat of that desk. Was it carved in 1970? 1986? 2001? Who knows. Nerd.

Hm. Was that fun or what? There's where I teach! Now let me show you some gems of this school. The picutres are really fuzzy, but if you ask me, it adds to the entire Hutch experience. It's all sort of fuzzy.

Now. In the hallway there are 11x17 pictures of All-State athletes and musicans posted above the lockers. These are some of my favorites:

"Naked guy on a cart." This kid is obviously a swimming champion. But does that mean he has to take a picture in his suit? With his leg all bent and shit? Known forever in the Hutch hallways as the picture of that naked guy. Shit. Gross. Doesn't he wake up everyday and think holy shit there's a naked picture of me hanging up in my old high school. What if somebody recognizes me on the street and only knows me as the naked guy.

"Track star, 1971."

"Baritone Stud 1988" The amazing thing about this kid is that if he went out--looking exactly as he does, baritone and all--in Uptown Minneapolis, he'd be popular as shit. He'd be the coolest motherfucker you've ever seen.

"Hairless legs 1994" No, this picture isn't for doubles tennis champs. It's for the first gay couple to be out in Hutchinson. They were given medals and then severely beaten with their own tennis rackets.

"Best bear wrestler and sock-wearer 1980." The directions for the picture were look scared as shit.
"Best vest in Minnesota State, 2004." Runner up for best haircut. (This kid confuses me. He's the only one not in an outfit that lets anybody know what the hell he did. Sure, you could read that little plaque, but who has time.)

And the rest of the school.

This is the giant Tiger mosaic by the cafeteria. It's scary.

And, I really wish the quality of this picture wasn't so awful: but this is the sign next to it. How does nobody else at the school see that this sign is absolutely ridiculous? Holy shit. Somebody explain to me why be the best you can be is part of this sign. Be the best ghosts you can be? YOU'RE DEAD.

The bathroom for the girls is PINK. Because girls piss in there.

This is where "Tigers" has been spelled out with all of the homecoming buttons for the last 40-some years. Sometimes they put the mascot's head in this glass case so it looks as though we've proudly and brutally killed a polyester cartoon tiger.

There are murals throughout the school--painted by students. But there is no rhyme or reason to the murals. Consistency would make sense. But these are just on their own in random sections of hallway. This is the one I pass on the way to my room everyday. I like the "books" on top of the lockers. And that MacBeth looks to be about 6,000 pages long.

This is the other one by my classroom. High school kids like Dylan? No shit. I like that the girls who painted it made their names as big as his. Also: to round out the cliche, the unpictured quotation at the other end of the hallway is by Green Day. GUESS WHICH SONG.

This is the sign on the teacher's lounge. Watch out for that microwave! No preggos better come in. That includes you, slutty knocked-up sophomores.

I have no idea why a Korean flag is hanging outside the office.

This is the senior class motto. My theory is that nobody knew whether Hendrix spelled his first name "Jimi" or "Jimmy" or "Jimmie" so they just went ahead and called him Jim. Or, they're quoting some lame unknown guy named Jim. I think they should've only put "--Jim." That'd be amazing. Get ready, world, for the class of 2010.

I saved my favorite picture for last--it comes from a flier for senior class portraits:

Soccer prom! Soccer fucking prom.

Well, that was the best 2 1/2 hours I've spent in this town. Get ready for the next installment of Jeano's life in Hutch including "my sweet ass apartment" and "other crazy shit about this town like the phone booth and the park called 'Popcorn Plaza'".

...(I was going to write a sentimental blog that wrote about my first trimester as a real teacher, but I suppose I'll have to do that tomorrow.) Making fun of shit is much, much more important.

captain crabby.

I'm in a shit mood today. Students, at the end of the (tri) semester drive me crazy, handing in crap last minute even though I told them they couldn't, not concentrating on anything we do.

And today my favorite student called me "loose." It wasn't in a slutty way; he's too naive and young to realize what he meant by the comment. It was in the way that he said, after you're not a first-year teacher anymore, are you still going to be loose? And then he told me the story about the guy at the middle school who was way awesome his first year but then cracked the whip his second year.

He was trying to say I was nice and a cool teacher but the comment really bothered me. I know that classroom management is far from my strongest teaching point, but because of my mood today, it just turned into a dig at how lazy I am at keeping students on track. It just screamed in flashing lights at me: STUDENTS DON'T RESPECT YOU! STUDENTS DON'T RESPECT YOU! STUDENTS THINK YOU'RE COOL AND THAT'S A BAD THING BECAUSE IT MEANS YOU'RE TOO EASY!

Sucks.

I'm also frustrated with myself this week, how I'm not really teaching but sitting at my desk and having to do so much fucking work that I do sort of let the students do whatever. I gave them assignment for the entire hour, and half of them stopped doing it with about 30 minutes left. And I didn't play damage control. It was bad teaching. It shows that I deserved that comment up there. But sometimes it's hard to get motivated, hard to nag. Sometimes I just want to shove tootsie rolls in my mouth instead, email Jenny and Christina, and wait for the day to be over.

Next Monday, it starts over again. Next Monday is like the first day of school again. I'm frustrated with these trimesters, frustrated with Hutchinson, frustrated that even though I'm lucky enough to teach the exact same classes again--giving myself a much easier schedule--that it feels like I'm moving backwards. And backwards is the last, last, last feeling that I need to have right now. How can it feel like Christmas is coming when September 7th is waiting in the wings? It's exactly three months later than that first day, and I have to start all over. Meh.

But. This weekend I look forward to sitting down and writing, sitting in my apartment and organizing pictures and finally hanging things on the wall. I look forward to getting my place ready for the Jenny visit. I look forward to not doing school things. I look forward to fake-designing an album for a mock band, for writing bad poems, for doing other useless shit that makes me incredibly happy. I look forward to wrapping presents. Bing Crosby's Christmas album.

ALL MONTH LONG.

I've been waiting to write a blog post about my trimester in review. This weekend I graded 90-some student projects, and tomorrow I have to write myself a final, but after that, I'm going to blog the shit out of you.

Thanksgiving was interesting, the first half an adventure, the second half in the turkey-smell-and-heat of Shannon's apartment. More later.

I spent way too much money this weekend, more than I had, mostly on myself. I'm bad with money. Let's not pretend I'm not. But I have new running shoes (look, when they're 50% and Nike + adaptable, what do you expect), and I have some new school clothes that I should take back but I won't, and I have a new computer.

That I did need. That was truly on my list of things to buy once I got this job. So, car, computer. All in the same month. Holy shit. But, you know. This stuff will last me for years and years until 5 years later when I get a new car and a new computer.

Hey. Dingleberry moves out of my parents' house tomorrow. My sister drives him to downtown Minneapolis and he gets on a bus and he rides it to Tennessee, to his mother's house. Dingleberry in review sounds like another apporpriate blogpost when I welcome time back into my life.

And my sister leaves for Louisiana on December 8th. Nobody knows how long she'll last down there. She won't be home for Christmas. She's into making mistakes.

Today I left angry.

Does it work with students the way it works with relationships? Can you go to bed angry and then when there is calm at the beginning of class bring up the shite again? Because that's what I intend on doing.

The seniors cheated today on a small assignment. They just had to bring an example of an editorial to class for 5 points, but instead they shared someone's magazine and ripped out the "editorials" right in front of me. I didn't really know what to do with it. The teacher observing my class today pointed out the other cheaters to me after they left. I was irrate. I said fuck a couple of times, then fucking goddamn. I tried to figure out what I was most angry at:

1) the fact that they insulted me by blatantly cheating in front of me, asking for passes to the bathroom (which I gave them) just so they could go and cheat;
2) the fact that they thought that this was okay behavior--as in, who told you that it was okay to cheat on your homework, and is this something you'll just take right on with you to college? Are you the kid who buys his paper off the internet? because it's just so upsetting to see that the "good" kids in class have no qualms about obvious cheating--REALLY? YOU SEE NO PROBLEMS WITH THIS AT ALL? because that's frightening for the future;
3) the fact that I just didn't call them out on it right away but played just a bit naive because I didn't want to confront the situation; or
4) the fact that nobody in that class (save for a few) really gets school, that I get frustrated that I have to remind students that I don't just give homework to grade them, that they are supposed to take pride in the learning process and be happy to learn things, not to ask are we going to have to hand this in? so they can decide whether to really try on it (you know, try by figuring out what I "want" and then giving it to me) or to half ass it and not really learn a thing.

Why can't they just be excited to learn things. Why can't they realize how awesome it is to know. Why can't they realize that their brains are muscles, and that the more they continue to half-ass their workouts, walk those two miles instead of run, let the treadmill run and tally miles while they stand with their feet on the side while text messaging a bunch of drama-nobody-cares-bullshit, that it's going to be all the more difficult when they realize they can't make it up the real goddamned hill.

***
At the end of a driveway in Albertville I saw two things: (1) a small-framed, white aluminum baby bed with a cheap, plastic foam mattress, and (2) a rusted grill.

Grillin' babies? The ol' burger and bed?

I don't know. But you short story writers (Chelle, you said you were all about the fiction this semester?)--well, you short story writers could do something with that.

Intrepid, how I'll miss you.

It seems nothing to be sad over, getting a new car. But when I pulled out of the driveway in my new Impala and I saw the Intrepid still sitting there, with its faded paint and its hole in the bumper, and that little bit of rust starting to form on the trunk--I teared up. The Intrepid. The era of the Intrepid is over.

I keep chunking my life this way--into eras. Together they don't make sense, because they don't align. The era of school, the era of a car, the era of Dingleberry, the era of forensics, the era of thinking clearly after high school, the era of Tony Sims, the era of teaching. The era of the Intrepid was defined by late undergrad, then grad school, then a rough year of no school, and then grad school again. Most of my 20s were in that car. This year I've called, or considered, adulthood. I have a salary, and I pay into a retirement fund, and consistently, money is put into my checking account. I've decided that the reason I'm getting along so well with my family, that I've left so much of my angst and anger behind is because I'm an adult and that's what adults do--even though this wasn't a conscious decision. I pay bills, put stamps on them, I make coffee in the morning and I bring it to work. This is all new for me. And it makes it harder, but appropriate, I guess to let the Intrepid go. Most kids in the high school parking lot had better looking cars than I did, and my dad was saying things like you break down on the way to Green Bay with that car, we're leaving it there. But, sigh. What a good car. It was good to me. It was my first major purchase, that car, and for six years I watched it age. And now I just let it go. I just left it there and came back home without it.

So, I'll miss: the message center with its orange light telling me, again, it was time to add washer fluid; the excitement I had when I first got it, driving back to Winona, how I said nice Intrepid to everyone who had the same car as me; the excitment I had because I'd gotten rid of the Spirit and all those times I spent jumping it with Jessica's Cavalier; the long trips by myself to St. Louis, listening to Sinatra for about six hours straight on the way home, crying, missing Ryan; the drive down Huff street with Jessica in the passenger seat, rolling down her window and locking it while blasting "MMMBop" from the speakers while she attempted to duck her head; the drive down to St. Louis to live there for the summer, the summer in St. Louis, driving around St. Charles, the drive to Mankato from there to meet Reedo and find a place to live; that green star sticker from Southwood Terrace that I still have in the corner window; all the drives to the cities during that first year in Mankato up to Tony Sims, coming out to that car after the late nights at the bar, listening to the TSB CD with Shannon on our drive back home to sleep, so wonderfully and drunkenly on the warm bed, head next to the heater; then the drives back listening to the TSB CD; the times through drive thru, bacon egg and cheese biscuits; the speeding tickets, even; using the big seats to haul furniture--from Winona to St. Louis, from St. Louis to the first Mankato apartment, from the first apartment to Highland, from Highland to St. Louis Park, from St. Louis Park to Minneapolis, from Minneapolis to Rochester, from Rochester to Albertville, from Albertville to Hutchinson; the trips to the twine ball, to Bockfest, to Holidazzle; the free tires I got out of that accident in Mankato; the $800 I got from the hail damage in Rochester; so many times I put gas in; the whale noise when the power steering fluid was low; the oil checks, water checks, oil changes, engine tune-ups from dad; the card I sent him the 2nd summer I owned the car that said that the oil changes were his way of saying he loved me even though he doesn't ever say so; the jobs I drove to: Videoland, the shoe factory, MSU, the group home, Pier 1, Thomson, Graywolf, Barnes & Noble, Capella (if I didn't take the bus), Century HS, tutoring in Rochester, Hutchinson HS; the tire changes; the time Ben helped me push it in the driveway in Mankato; the parking tickets in the driveway; the time we went in the ditch last year; the time in the Century parking lot when it wouldn't start; the time I packed up all my teaching office from Century; the pole I ran into last February that didn't even damage the front of the car; the month it spent outside Jenny's house, how I neglected yet loved her; the two plate numbers, how I got a parking ticket at RCTC right before the change and never paid it because the school wouldn't identify me; the passengers in the car, the people I drove around; the fact that where that car was was where I was, and if people wanted to know where I was, they just had to look for the purple Intrepid.

my milk issues

I don't like living alone for a number of reasons, but the worst reason is the problem with the milk. It goes sour so quickly, when I've only had 1/4 of it to drink. I buy another milk and then leave the old milk in the refrigerator because I don't want to dump it down the drain if I'm not taking the recycling out anytime soon. And I wonder if I just shouldn't start eating cereal for dinner, maybe.

Or other solutions would be--well, drinking more milk. Or just buying a cow, which would solve both the milk and living alone problem.

I've cooked for myself once, if you don't count macaroni and cheese or cheese bread with sauce, which I don't. The pecan chicken I tackled a couple of weeks ago. (Although I made it to use mushrooms in the refrigerator; when I cut the mushrooms, I found mold and reek.) It was great, but the chicken was $6 and I was mad that I had all that extra, and now I just have this piece in my freezer, and I never know when to really unthaw meat, or when I'll be home the next day.

I haven't hung things on my walls yet. In fact, I think it's gotten to the point where I just won't hang things on my wall. I'm comfortable in this little mess, now--the books in piles on the floor because I don't have and can't afford bookcases, the photo frames that need newly ordered photos that I can't afford yet hiding under my end tables.

I can't stop eating tiny candy bars in my classroom left over from treat day.

I don't want to buy a mop.

It's only 7:00?

It still is hard to come back to Hutchinson after letting myself escape for a couple of days. It's hard to say goodbye to the dog when I leave, it's hard to come home to only the sound of the TV. Snack packs for dinner. Saturday was an amazing day with my dad. We went to a car auction--to find the Intrepid's replacement--and even though we didn't get anything, the rush of an auction was fantastic. The men making football jokes, the bidder numbers, the fast-talk-fast-talk-fast-talk-talk-talking. A hispanic man named Angel with blue shoes and pleated pants running up to the bidders to help them get heard in the National Gaurd garage. The cars we came close to owning, the hundreds of dollars they went up after we pulled our bids out.

Next week, again. There's a state auction, my dad has graciously found a way to help me get the new car (which has caused me to feel as though I've digressed as an adult, but still find myself with no other options), and we're going to get a car. For cheap. Low mileage. Either one of the 170 that the state needs to get rid of, or from a private seller.

And so, the last week with the Intrepid is a bit bittersweet.

Am I going home too much. It's what I look forward to in the week now. I keep my cupboards a little more empty. I feel like I stay here and live there. Is this bad? If it gives me something to look forward to, if I like the warm house and the fireplace and eating dinner with other people, is it bad? Should I stop going? Can I keep going?

Will Rochester happen next year? Should it? Can it? If not, can I just get a job in the cities? I think I'd just like to go back to Minneapolis. I look through the Sunday paper, and I see all of the literary readings I'd like to attend. From Hutchinson, it's too far to drive for a Thursday night. From, say, Minnetonka, I can join books and bars and drink and talk fiction with probably awesome people. I can drive to St. Paul and go to Micawber's for a Graywolf reading, or to Minneapolis and Magers & Quinn so Kling can sign his second book for me. I see seeing Keillor at Common Good Books on a Tuesday night. I see this. I see this happening. I see drinks with a friend on a school night. I see a life. I see towing Darren along. I see 5:00 dinner and 6:30 movies and then just that little bit of grading I have to do and then going to bed. I see a small apartment, just Sundays at home and Friday and Saturday nights with a life, and entertaining friends in the city, and familiarity and driving just a small way to be at home, and wanting to stay, and wanting to cook. I see the start of some possible dating life. But is it just easier to imagine those things. Would I be in the same place. Would I just be back here but somewhere else.

I did nothing Halloween night, save grade papers while my sister answered the door for trick or treaters.

God, I don't know what to do with this loneliness. I watch TV, and a serious program comes on with an interview with a man named Mike Cox, and there's nobody to laugh with. How much easier it is to watch TV when you're here, when we make fun of it all, when it becomes comedy hour. When we make dinner and we drink all of the milk before it goes sour.