My first year of teaching, I was asked several times over the course of the year how old I was. Once, without putting too much thought into it, I quickly answered, "90!" The students looked at each other a bit dubiously and one brave student posed this question, "Well, if you are 90, what year were you born?" My answer with batting an eye? "1910." The students, doing a bit of (slow) quick-math, concluded that I, in fact, HAD to be 90. How could I have done the math so quickly?
The year was 2000. It was at this time I lost a little bit of hope in our educational system.
However, I did enjoy several years of students volunteering to climb on chairs and desks...so that I wouldn't break a hip. Sweet, really, when you think about it.
It never occurred to me what an impact that statement had on students and what fun they had with is as a result. Last year, while on a trip to France, I received a birthday message from a former student wishing me a happy 108th birthday. Well, you know what? It would have been my 99th. And you know what that means? I would be one hundred years old on June 25. Though I believe there should be an event to mark this milestone, I'm going to be in Australia. NOT celebrating my birthday.
Here's the deal. Every year, I build up my birthday into this marvelous, fantastic, super cool thing. Every year, I'm disappointed. I'm not sure what it is. So, I've given up hope on the birthDAY and I'm focusing more on the year.
This year is going to be a great year. After all, I will have lived past 33. As my brother kept pointing out this year, "You know Jesus was 33 when he died...." Thanks.
Being 34 has to be great, right? It's not often you are an age that is comprised of consecutive numbers. 1-2. 2-3. 3-4. I'm going to start a new trend. Who cares about Sweet 16. So what if you can vote at 18 or drink at 21? Dude, I'm an age that sounds like I'm counting! And it happens every 11 years. What could be better?
Ridiculous? Maybe. Fun? Definitely. Hey, I'm still jazzed about the people who meet me and ask me if I went to the awesome house party the weekend before.
Yup, still got it....
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Oh, Pooh....
All teachers have their "thing". For some it's throwing erasers at unsuspecting, sleeping students during a dry lecture. For others it's letting students climb out of the second story window. Just to see if they can. I always believed my thing to be French. Or my wittiness. Or perhaps my plastic lawn gnome named Norm. Or my hand puppet named Grégoire. Or the game I call the Toilet Brush Game. (Yup. With real toilet brushes. Unused, thank-you-very-much. GROSS!) Nope. Today we entered a whole new whole world. Really.
It started innocently enough in college. I was a Disney fanatic. I loved Winnie the Pooh. When the Beanie Baby craze hit, Disney shot back with their answer: the Mini Bean Bag Plush. Or MBBP. I fell in love...thereby giving every friend, relative, and colleague the simplest gift solution. Pooh. I got lots, and lots, of Pooh. So much in fact, that even after selling several dozen years later, I still have about five boxes full of Pooh. (I even went and got myself a job with Disney to support this habit. Hello! Discounts....) After moving into a new apartment with fewer places to stash my Pooh, I decided to do the unthinkable. Okay. Unthinkable for 1999. I packed up my Pooh and took it to school. For the kids. To play with. Yup. That's right. I'm the only French teacher on the planet that not only allows, but encourages her students to play with her Pooh.
Which brings me back to today. Up until today, the lower level French classes had been using my Pooh to practice their adjective agreement, or to practice their clothing vocabulary. (My Pooh is very stylish.) They've been in awe of my Pooh collection, but have refrained from commenting too much. (I mean, I have Mexican Pooh, Scottish Pooh, Easter Bunny Pooh, and Santa Pooh...from twelve different countries!) I'm sure the thought that I'm completely insane has crossed their minds, but they've been too nice to say anything.
Today, as I was reviewing with the French IVs, I noticed that one of my students had Knight Pooh on his desk. I ignored this new development, as I had not yet implemented the use of Pooh with the IVs. But, you know, kids like things to cuddle with. And maybe he needed comfort in a time of need. He was, after all, about to take a quiz.... (P.S. This is the class which, earlier in the year, had two students dress up for animal day. One was a gorilla. One was a cow. We have photos of the gorilla milking the cow, thereby adding cream to his coffee. No lie. I nearly peed myself.)
Once all of the students had reviewed, taken the quiz, and returned to their desks, a small dispute broke out among them. And all of a sudden.... There was Pooh flying through the air! Pooh hit a student in the head. From there...it was a blur. Students were nailing their friends in the back of the head with Pooh, some were stepping on Pooh, others were trying to avoid being hit by Pooh. And we're talking all kinds of Pooh. Chicken Pooh, Dog Pooh, Chinese Pooh, Vet Pooh, Einstein Pooh (Yes, Disney really knew how to appeal to their younger market....) That's a lot of Pooh!
Then the jokes started. "Madame, Luc is throwing your Pooh around." Or, "Margot, leave Madame's Pooh alone. She doesn't like it when you touch it." Or my favorite, "Madame, I left a pile of Pooh on your desk." I had one student laugh so hard, he turned as red as the shirt on the Pooh I was holding. I was considering the benefits of the Heimlich Maneuver when the bell rang.
Saved by the bell? Maybe. But they'll be back. Tomorrow. I'm almost afraid to leave them with a substitute teacher ever again. Because the sub? Might get buried in my Pooh.
It started innocently enough in college. I was a Disney fanatic. I loved Winnie the Pooh. When the Beanie Baby craze hit, Disney shot back with their answer: the Mini Bean Bag Plush. Or MBBP. I fell in love...thereby giving every friend, relative, and colleague the simplest gift solution. Pooh. I got lots, and lots, of Pooh. So much in fact, that even after selling several dozen years later, I still have about five boxes full of Pooh. (I even went and got myself a job with Disney to support this habit. Hello! Discounts....) After moving into a new apartment with fewer places to stash my Pooh, I decided to do the unthinkable. Okay. Unthinkable for 1999. I packed up my Pooh and took it to school. For the kids. To play with. Yup. That's right. I'm the only French teacher on the planet that not only allows, but encourages her students to play with her Pooh.
Which brings me back to today. Up until today, the lower level French classes had been using my Pooh to practice their adjective agreement, or to practice their clothing vocabulary. (My Pooh is very stylish.) They've been in awe of my Pooh collection, but have refrained from commenting too much. (I mean, I have Mexican Pooh, Scottish Pooh, Easter Bunny Pooh, and Santa Pooh...from twelve different countries!) I'm sure the thought that I'm completely insane has crossed their minds, but they've been too nice to say anything.
Today, as I was reviewing with the French IVs, I noticed that one of my students had Knight Pooh on his desk. I ignored this new development, as I had not yet implemented the use of Pooh with the IVs. But, you know, kids like things to cuddle with. And maybe he needed comfort in a time of need. He was, after all, about to take a quiz.... (P.S. This is the class which, earlier in the year, had two students dress up for animal day. One was a gorilla. One was a cow. We have photos of the gorilla milking the cow, thereby adding cream to his coffee. No lie. I nearly peed myself.)
Once all of the students had reviewed, taken the quiz, and returned to their desks, a small dispute broke out among them. And all of a sudden.... There was Pooh flying through the air! Pooh hit a student in the head. From there...it was a blur. Students were nailing their friends in the back of the head with Pooh, some were stepping on Pooh, others were trying to avoid being hit by Pooh. And we're talking all kinds of Pooh. Chicken Pooh, Dog Pooh, Chinese Pooh, Vet Pooh, Einstein Pooh (Yes, Disney really knew how to appeal to their younger market....) That's a lot of Pooh!
Then the jokes started. "Madame, Luc is throwing your Pooh around." Or, "Margot, leave Madame's Pooh alone. She doesn't like it when you touch it." Or my favorite, "Madame, I left a pile of Pooh on your desk." I had one student laugh so hard, he turned as red as the shirt on the Pooh I was holding. I was considering the benefits of the Heimlich Maneuver when the bell rang.
Saved by the bell? Maybe. But they'll be back. Tomorrow. I'm almost afraid to leave them with a substitute teacher ever again. Because the sub? Might get buried in my Pooh.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
A mule...or an ass?
So I recently made up my mind to take the plunge. (No, not that plunge.) After three years of threatening to visit two friends who live in Australia, I decided to take my tax return and purchase a ticket. Now this is no little flight. Oh, no. Just to get to Destination #1, I have to spend 25 hours in three different planes. I'm telling you right now, the only way for me to make it on these long flights is for the flight attendant to keep the wine coming or for me to take loads of Benadryl. I feel like if I don't chemically alter my state of consciousness, I may be hanging from the overhead compartment by my fingernails. Or the other passengers will shove me into one. And I really couldn't blame them.
My two college friends graciously extended invitations for me to stay with them. They pretty much told me that if I could get there, they would give me a place to stay and feed me. Sweet, no? Anyway, my fashion-conscious gay friend decided to use this to his advantage. How you ask?
One afternoon, I arrive home from work to find a package from J. Crew on my kitchen table. Convinced it was for my roommate, I walked away, not the least bit curious. However, upon further contemplation, I realized that she was the one who accepted the package and would have opened it. This needed further investigation. Sure enough! My name was neatly typed above the address. My curiosity peaked and I couldn't wait to see what I didn't remember ordering (because those are the best presents of all!). I fumbled with the mailing tape and peered inside. I was being punked. Surely! Why would I need a men's, size small, cashmere sweater? Then I realized....
Sure enough. My friend is milking this for all it's worth. Apparently clothing is very expensive in OZ and the only solution? Turn the American friend into a clothing mule! Hey. It's safer than drugs. And it's not everyday I get Armani Exchange delivered to my door! His philosophy? He doesn't want to embarrass me by wearing ugly clothing. My thoughts on the matter? I'm going to wear my giant green tutu, tie dye t-shirts,and sandals with socks. Because really? I don't care if we wore a Speedo the whole time. I'm glad to help the guy out.
My two college friends graciously extended invitations for me to stay with them. They pretty much told me that if I could get there, they would give me a place to stay and feed me. Sweet, no? Anyway, my fashion-conscious gay friend decided to use this to his advantage. How you ask?
One afternoon, I arrive home from work to find a package from J. Crew on my kitchen table. Convinced it was for my roommate, I walked away, not the least bit curious. However, upon further contemplation, I realized that she was the one who accepted the package and would have opened it. This needed further investigation. Sure enough! My name was neatly typed above the address. My curiosity peaked and I couldn't wait to see what I didn't remember ordering (because those are the best presents of all!). I fumbled with the mailing tape and peered inside. I was being punked. Surely! Why would I need a men's, size small, cashmere sweater? Then I realized....
Sure enough. My friend is milking this for all it's worth. Apparently clothing is very expensive in OZ and the only solution? Turn the American friend into a clothing mule! Hey. It's safer than drugs. And it's not everyday I get Armani Exchange delivered to my door! His philosophy? He doesn't want to embarrass me by wearing ugly clothing. My thoughts on the matter? I'm going to wear my giant green tutu, tie dye t-shirts,and sandals with socks. Because really? I don't care if we wore a Speedo the whole time. I'm glad to help the guy out.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Really?
If you are looking to make yourself feel better about life, you have stumbled upon a little gem of voyeurism that you will not be able to pass up. Trust me. I couldn't make this shit up if I tried. And I have....
Let me begin by introducing myself. I'm a thirty-something, single educator who lives in an apartment complex in Nowheresville, USA with a roommate and three cats. (One of the cats is currently on hiatus.) After seven years of living alone, I recently decided to find a roommate to save on bills, curtail my enthusiasm for sleeping entire weekends away, and to enlarge my social circle. It's been six months. Nothing and everything has changed.
Upon moving, which entailed an enormous amount of down-sizing on my part (because, really? do you know how much crap a teacher can accumulate in ten years?), I found it necessary to purchase several things which allow me to keep up with my roommate, who is ten years my junior. You read that right. TEN years my junior. If you are good with math...you may have just figured out that my roommate could have been my student. True story. Don't worry though. We decided in the first week that we are the same person. In fact, I am quite certain that to several people we are. More on that later.
The most important investment I made because I was saving money by sharing an apartment? A Blackberry. These devilish little devices are so handy and fun that one quickly forgets how addicting they can be. Having the world at my fingertips is quite handy, especially when stuck in traffic, trying to avoid awkward conversation, or just wanting be a little bit rude so some jerk will leave me alone. It's also great because I would never consider texting while driving with one. Even making a phone call is a challenge. So, thank you Blackberry. By making my life simpler...you've potentially saved lives.
Right. So. On the topic of not sleeping whole weekends away? One might shake their head in disbelief that a thirty-something would do such a thing. Well...believe it! I am responsible for no one other than the two cats I own (Who own me?) and myself. I'm a productive member of society, I deal with other people's children on a daily basis, and I deserve a break. Don't judge. Well, I FELT that way. After taking a long, hard look at what I was doing...the added benefit of adjusting to someone else's life had some appeal. Well, can I just share a little piece of advice? DO NOT BEFRIEND THE NEIGHBOR. And by neighbor, I mean the late twenty-something guy who lives in the building next door who has a penchant for drinking too much, needs rides home at extremely late hours of the night, and who insists that there always be a drink in someone's hand. Don't get me wrong. Neighbor guy is great. He supplies us with an endless supply of after-the-weekend stories, makes us brinner on command, and changes lightbulbs quicker than any maintenance guy. He even goes to church with me. However, note that any evening spent with neighbor guy will end in a 6 a.m. bedtime. Sometimes earlier, sometimes later. The point? I'm still sleeping the weekends away. The difference? Now there is a considerable amount of drinking and carrying on involved. And I have accomplices. Which really? Makes it all worth while. AND I now have a reason besides a rough week with my students to sleep. Hey. I like sleeping. Don't judge.
As far as enlarging my circle of friends? It might have grown. A bit. I mean, there is neighbor guy. And a few of my roommate's friends. But my old friends? The married-with-kids friends? I don't see them much. Sad, really. Hey. I'm too excited to see what crap neighbor guy is going to come up with to bother.
Let me begin by introducing myself. I'm a thirty-something, single educator who lives in an apartment complex in Nowheresville, USA with a roommate and three cats. (One of the cats is currently on hiatus.) After seven years of living alone, I recently decided to find a roommate to save on bills, curtail my enthusiasm for sleeping entire weekends away, and to enlarge my social circle. It's been six months. Nothing and everything has changed.
Upon moving, which entailed an enormous amount of down-sizing on my part (because, really? do you know how much crap a teacher can accumulate in ten years?), I found it necessary to purchase several things which allow me to keep up with my roommate, who is ten years my junior. You read that right. TEN years my junior. If you are good with math...you may have just figured out that my roommate could have been my student. True story. Don't worry though. We decided in the first week that we are the same person. In fact, I am quite certain that to several people we are. More on that later.
The most important investment I made because I was saving money by sharing an apartment? A Blackberry. These devilish little devices are so handy and fun that one quickly forgets how addicting they can be. Having the world at my fingertips is quite handy, especially when stuck in traffic, trying to avoid awkward conversation, or just wanting be a little bit rude so some jerk will leave me alone. It's also great because I would never consider texting while driving with one. Even making a phone call is a challenge. So, thank you Blackberry. By making my life simpler...you've potentially saved lives.
Right. So. On the topic of not sleeping whole weekends away? One might shake their head in disbelief that a thirty-something would do such a thing. Well...believe it! I am responsible for no one other than the two cats I own (Who own me?) and myself. I'm a productive member of society, I deal with other people's children on a daily basis, and I deserve a break. Don't judge. Well, I FELT that way. After taking a long, hard look at what I was doing...the added benefit of adjusting to someone else's life had some appeal. Well, can I just share a little piece of advice? DO NOT BEFRIEND THE NEIGHBOR. And by neighbor, I mean the late twenty-something guy who lives in the building next door who has a penchant for drinking too much, needs rides home at extremely late hours of the night, and who insists that there always be a drink in someone's hand. Don't get me wrong. Neighbor guy is great. He supplies us with an endless supply of after-the-weekend stories, makes us brinner on command, and changes lightbulbs quicker than any maintenance guy. He even goes to church with me. However, note that any evening spent with neighbor guy will end in a 6 a.m. bedtime. Sometimes earlier, sometimes later. The point? I'm still sleeping the weekends away. The difference? Now there is a considerable amount of drinking and carrying on involved. And I have accomplices. Which really? Makes it all worth while. AND I now have a reason besides a rough week with my students to sleep. Hey. I like sleeping. Don't judge.
As far as enlarging my circle of friends? It might have grown. A bit. I mean, there is neighbor guy. And a few of my roommate's friends. But my old friends? The married-with-kids friends? I don't see them much. Sad, really. Hey. I'm too excited to see what crap neighbor guy is going to come up with to bother.
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