Part II.

Forgive that the pictures are out of order.

On Saturday night was hotel party goodness. The night ended with the circle of death and bad TV. Alongside the night in the hotel: a run to the downtown Target in our pajamas for cheese balls which they did not have, pillow fights with penis-shaped pillows, a trip to the Hollidazzle parade at the Nicollet Mall (my favorite part was the walking lightbulbs, but I argued they should've had sexy legs), champagne, egg nog, vodka, Matt's and burgers at Matt's--ordered alongside a crazy man who called me "Chun-Li," asked for a ciggy, and then was kicked out, a travel around the hotel lobby at night and pictures of Christmas fun-time, a glimpse at the parking garage elevator that was filled with a splashy pool of vomit (I thought the vomit got off on the second floor!), jokes about getting raped by the Bengals, whose entire team was staying at our hotel, a new-formed car band called "3 Idiots in a Car" and with hits such as "I Have Low Self-Esteem," offensive comments toward fat people at the mall of America, and a whole lot of parking garages. It was magic.

On Saturday morning, Jenny and I watched movies. We started on our way to the cities, and out of Hutchinson, we saw the sign. Oh, the sign. KETTLE CORN. So we stopped. And--whatever this Hutchinson celebration was, who knows--but the kettle corn was free. Free. And there was a man dressed as a penguin, and there was a short, fat Santa, and there was free cider. And so we got our goods and headed East. Picked up Darren, stopped for booze, found the mall, and let the night move on.

Again, I like to end when the weekend started. It makes it less sad. Less sad that Jenny was gone when I got home, less sad that I have a long, exhausting week of work ahead of me.

And these are the pictures:

And then Jenny came to Hutchinson. And it was good.

Right now, she's in the shower. Have I showered today? Pffft. Are you fucking retarded? No, I have not showered. It's a Monday off. Today I woke up, and after listening to a new Glenn Miller record with Jenny, had a discussion about what happened to him, which led to this. For two hours, we read Wikipedia, each from our own computers. It was like Highland, but what we had to do because Unsolved Mysteries wasn't on.

And then we made banana bread. And then we watched The Office Christmas special. And then we decided to make pumpkin and spinach pasta for dinner. And then we watched Home Alone 2. And now, well we're going to go the grocery store to buy the garganzola and garlic. And we're making a dessert with apples and brandy and ice cream. Because there is some brandy left over.

And yesterday. Well, yesterday we woke up with little hangovers. And we packed the hotel room, and we watched the American Presidents special on TV. They were on Lincoln, and then on Johnson. That selfish, stupid Johnson.

And she and Darren and I went to Target, and then we went to eat at Blackbird in Minneapolis. And then I said Roadrunner Records! Roadrunner Records! and I hunted for Carole Kings Tapestry and I found Nat King Cole's Christmas album, and I found a near-perfect, in plastic copy of All Things Must Pass. With George and the gnomes on the front. And I thought it was $20, but it was 20% off, and now it is mine. I also bought Dylan's first and second volumes of his greatest hits. And Born in the USA for two dollars. And Jenny bought The River. And Darren bought some fucking record from Bob Seger's Silver Bullet Band, and suggested that there be love-making alongside. To which I replied, I will never make love to Bob Seger. And I meant it in every way possible.

And so, as the day went on, we found The Road playing in Edina. And then we found ourselves in a kitchen store to kill time, and then we found ourselves in the theatre with chocolate and Coke Zero. And then we found ourselves on the way home sans Darren, and then in an abandoned grocery store in Hutchinson on a Sunday night, buying bread crumbs and cider and cheese for baked macaroni and cheese. And then we found ourselves doing crosswords, because we'd spent Friday night watching Wordplay, the documentary about crosswords which starred Will Shortz and Bill Clinton wearing a hemp bracelet on his wrist. That crazy Bill. So laid back.

And that's Part II. I'll give you Part I later. If you've earned it.

Coming soon! Shit Jenny and I did on Saturday and Friday!

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.