'Tis the Season!

As the recipes in newspapers start to involve all things pumpkin and turkey, as the leaves turn shades of brown and fall off the trees, and as the clock rolls back and the afternoons get increasingly darker, I, my friends, get excited. Very VERY excited.

And it's not the Fall weather, or the suggestion of imminent snow, or the switch to a warmer and cozier and fat-hiding wardrobe as much as it is "The Christmas List".

In my family, the siblings draw names. And because there are many busy working Mom's and a hint of type A personality, the "LISTS" are due by Thanksgiving. And you must submit a list because it's a rule in our family. Or you will be forced to receive something "OFF-list"... and that leads to a cluster-fudge of receipts and returns and frowns on the happiest day of the year, as you enviously leer at the person next you smiling and enjoying a gift they actually wanted.

I am not sure HOW the due date came to be, exactly, although I am guessing it has something to do with a barrage of friendly-with-a-hint-of-impatience e-mail reminders sent out by, well, you know who you are.

And so with one eye on the calendar, I have stepped up the perusal of random shopping sites. Carefully saving my list of possibilities under my Favorites until I decide I officially want it. Where it is then cautiously copied and pasted onto my "List".

And I have found something glorious. Truly glorious. The Staxx ring. SO cute. SO wearable. SO diverse! And you can buy all sorts of parts and kits and colors.

And I can't wait to see the others' lists either. To see what has been pumping up THEIR jam lately.

WHOO-HOOO!

I am so darn excited today I can almost trick myself into forgetting that I have to attend parent-teacher conferences later. Within 24 four short hours the election will be done. DONE. I cannot wait. I must admit that I am dying to see what happens in grant park tonight- as the votes roll in and no less than 500,000 calm, cool, and collected folks hang idly at the Obama headquarters under circus tents. Bring on the riot gear. Win or lose, I predict it will be total chaos.
Being a special education US History teacher during an election has not made any of this easier. Kids spouting off at the mouth in an UN-educated fashion mimicking parents.
Kids trying to understand the issues and really only caring about the drinking age and abortion rights. Neither of which have any real bearing on my presidential choice.
Kids arguing the merits of having a first black president and what that will mean.
Don't get me wrong, as I recognize my roll is to educate. And I really do try to lead discussions that are thought provoking and two-sided and unbiased.
But it will be pure bliss when I step into my little ballot booth and punch in those choices which are completley mine. Without explanation.
Because sometimes regardless of my efforts, students come from where they come from and no amount of class discussion or eye-opening video or enthusiastic mock election can change attitudes instilled in children since they were born.
During the last election I actually had one of my students say, "Our governemnt sucks, my uncle had to weight EIGHT YEARS to get his section 8."
Yep. Shore did! He did say that! My response? "It only take four to get a degree, so that seemed like a collossal waste of time!"
Either way, I cannot wait to get back to my regular scheduled programming. Because even the SNL skits are starting to get boring.

A Sad Goodbye

I awoke on Tuesday at 2:30 AM filled with anxiety, tension, and stress. I could't fall back to sleep. Reading, watching TV, and surfing the internet didn't seem to bring any peace to my restless self and so gave up. Wednesday was therefore, exhausting.
Wednesday night was similar to Tuesday. And my husband asked me what seemed to be stressing me out. I didn't know. Couldn't put my finger on it.
Thursday after school I was meeting my friend Sonja and her five week old baby at a Dunkin Donuts a few suburbs away, and then joining forces with her to make the trek to go and visit our friend on hospice.
We had heard a variety of teary-eyed reports about what to expect. But nothing can prepare you or prevent you from your feelings of seeing your friend laying in a bed, so sick and so... barely there.
She was lucid and intermittently joined into the casual conversations, generally led by her husband, who has seemed to master the art of comforting those who walk into his home to well wish his wife he so obviously deeply loves. Cards and pictures and flowers covered the room, dripped from the walls and were stuffed onto the dresser.
On several ocassions he would ask her if she remembered some detail of an experience they had shared. A type of fish they ate. A name of a resort. An actor in a movie. And each time my friend would smile and give him the answer he sought. I almost cried every time as I wondered what he would do, or how he would remember these details later, when she was gone. How frustrated he might be to not be able to bounce those tiny, seemingly unimportant bits of trivia off of her. But we all know, these things are important. They are the ties that bind us into our relationships. The experiences of creating memories that we share just between ourselves.
When it was time to go, I hesitated. She looked at me and smiled and said, "Have a good school year and take care." And how do you respond to that?
I took her shrunken hand in mine and kissed her and told her to stay comfortable and that I loved her. She loves me too. I had to quickly walk out. I didn't want her family see me shed a tear. I felt like they would think I had no idea what it was like to be them.
When I got back into my own car, I tried to follow my horrible mapquest directions to Jen's house. I had pre-planned a trip to see my niece and nephew, knowing it would cheer me after such a painful goodbye.
And my distress and darkness of the night and bad directions and no GPS system left me in a tangled mess. I was incredibly lost. In every way. When I finally got to the house it was past the kids' bedtimes. I disrupted the evening and got the kids' all riled up.
Eventually I sat with my brother and Jen and had a beer. Finally having a chance to let the evening absorb.
And now I am still not sleeping any better.

Catherine Who?

Earlier in the week, my friend Catherine, via e-mail, had requested some advice about applying to work at a school, of which used to be my employer. I responded with some clarifying questions. So, on Wednesday, when she called, I was not in the least surprised. However, Billy and I were about to embark on an "early voting" adventure and we arranged for a phone call later.

As a side note, the "early voting" fell flat as we walked up to the second floor of city hall, only to find about 300 soccer Moms, toddlers in tote, snaking past the temporary guard rails, out the doors, and winding around the entire second floor. Guestimated wait-time? Hour and a half, minimum. We turned around and walked out. Instead we went to the grocery store.

Time escaped me and before I knew it I needed to make dinner. I texted Catherine to ask if we could push our phone call back until after the dinner hour. No problem, she was going to work out right now anyway.

After dinner was eaten, dishes were cleared, and I was tackling a few other random house chores, my phone rang. Must be Catherine! I ran to get it and missed. I looked at the caller ID to double check and realized the school social worker was calling me. Now, the school social worker and I are friends. I really like her. But we rarely call each other. We text often, but really, unless I am lost on the way to meet her at the police station, due to some kind of assinine student thingy, we don't call. We stick to the texting.

And then, in a moment of pure genius, it dawned on me: I had been texting the school social worker, also named Catherine, not my friend, earlier in the evening. When I double checked my texts I realized the poor social worker must be very worried about me, as the texts to her read like this:

Lori: Can I call you after 6:30 so we can talk?

Social work Catherine: Sure, I am going to work out now, but I will be home by then.

Lori: Okay, good, because I don't want to put this off.

Social work Catherine: No problem Lori.

When I realized my mistake was two-fold, A) My friend who needed advice was most likely feeling very blown off and B) The school social worker was freaking about what could be so wrong, I couldn't figure out who to call first.

After calling both girls and letting them in on my mistake, it crossed my mind that it is so typical of me to take an opportunity to help someone out and in the end upset two girls. Sigh.

It has taken me a good 35 years to realize that I do not have an eye for detail. And that maybe I should stick with the old fashioned wall mounted phone. I seemed to get into a lot less trouble that way.

Beer Drama

On Sunday, my husband went to the liquor store to pick up a six pack of his favorite beer before heading to his Mom's house. They didn't have a six pack, so he bought a twelver. He probably drank one or two and left the rest there.

Later that night, I met him at our friend's house. He asked me to stop at a different place to pick up a six pack of his favorite beer before heading over. They didn't have a six pack, so I bought a twelver. We each drank one or two and again, left the rest there.

And then yesterday, after work, even though we had bought collectively a case of his favorite beer over the weekend, we still had none at home, so he stopped to get a twelver.

He handed the cashier his debit card. Declined. Impossible he said. To the non- English speaking cashier. He asked him to please punch in the numbers. Declined.

He handed the cashier his credit card. Declined. Impossible he said.

The owner came out and saw what was happening. HE then explained the "system" was down.

By now, my husband was on a mission. He emptied his pockets of cash and coin and then realized, embarrassed, that he only had enough cash for a six-pack of his favorite beer. So he returned the twelver to the cooler. And got out a six pack.

He said he felt like some kind of addict, going through all that to "get his beer".

I enjoyed one with him to celebrate his efforts. I mean two. As did he.

If you are a mathematical genius, you will figure that now we have two beers in our refrigerator.

Which is not how we roll around here.

So today, after school, I will stop at the liquor store to pick up a twelver, after stopping at the ATM to get out cash.

Now I am starting to feel like some sort of addict.

What is with all of the beer issues?

Teacher-Parent Conferences

Does it mean I am a terrible teacher if I admit I am much more concerned about what I will wear for Parent-Teacher Conferences ( and yes- I have been conditioned to capitalize it) than I do about my actual conversations with parents?
Is it even worse to admit that this particular night, in which I am ambushed by parental concern, are two of the worst of my school year?
It is a rather odd meeting of the minds anyway. Half the time you come in with pre-conceived ideas. And I too, come in with pre-coneived ideas, about what you are like. What you are going to say. How you are going to defend or offend your child.
And the last time I met with parents I had a horrible experience. Truly horrible. It's definitely time to think about hiring a babysitter for your little ones. Just saying. And really, while I don't expect you to shower and primp, I do expect your general person to be in decent smelling order. You should probably keep one eye on the clock, because ten minutes really is a short time, and NO... I don't want to shop with you OR have coffee with you or UGH.... have dinner by your place some night to "talk further". Oh- yeah- and go ahead and brush your teeth for me. That is a plus. And in case anyone has found me at my NEW school, let's just say this all happened at my old school. Because voicing my opinion on that isn't really worth losing my job. Need I not remind you that as a teacher, my soul DOES belong to the state, first and foremost.
And now that I am ranting, I need to bring up that having a label means that there is something about you that is outstanding. Some say special. Regardless.
And changing the name of what the state has labeled you every few years so you don't get too comfortable with the term is an effort in futility. Because if you are super duper small and used to be a midget, and then you were a dwarf, and now you a little person, you are still really short. And really, changing the name of that doesn't make you taller. Or give you the right to stare down the offender who used LAST years term, like "midget"- as if they just threatened to jab you with a weapon and toss you into an alley. It's not like that.
So if you come to my table, I mean if you DID come to my table in the past, I will speak( I mean spoke) openly and honestly. No sugar coating. I call it like I see it. Sorry if it hurts. I don't mean to hurt you. Really. But I am over the lolly-gagging around what your child is and is not.
And for the record. IF your child is thinking about becoming a professional football player, I suggest he go ahead and go out for the team and get suited up or call a family roundtable about "other" career options. Because at five two and 90 pounds, I was thinking more like dressage jocky. Just saying.

Huntress in the Making

Something happened yesterday that could be life changing. I got my Christmas present early beacause there was a super sale at Dick's.

I got a 12 gauge Mossberg 500 shotgun. I also threw in a camo tee and some "outdoor" pants. So I could be fully outfitted for our upcoming Pheasant hunting adventure. And when I got home last night I tried my entire hunting outfit on out of excitement. And my husband was so proud he took a picture.

And I think I look like a real huntress. Except for the fact that you cannot see in this picture that I would never shoot a deer. Or a pig or a cow. Or put a worm on a hook. Or clean a pheasant even. Heck, I still gag when I cut up chicken breasts from a store bought styrofome package.

Philosophically speaking, my husband firmly believes we should only hunt animals that will starve or get hit by cars unless we help with the population control. In addition, he thinks we should not hunt things we will not eat. And logically I can agree he's right. But that does not convince me to want to partake for the same reasons. Because admittedly, I believe I should hunt all rodents that simply bother me, like rats, geese, raccoons, skunks and possums.

I think he is a little scared I will get arrested for a felony for shooting "willy nilly" at pesky varmints in our yard. Or in our house. Because yesterday when we found a beetle on the wall I asked him for the 12 gauge. He smiled at me in a scared way. A very scared way.

And I must admit I have a some desire to be very Hillbilly about the whole thing.