Let's All Give OBAMA a Thumbs Up...

I feel as though I've lost a part time job.
No more calling swing states for Obama on the weekends.
No more attending Obama calling parties on the weekends.
No more creating home made Obama signs to replace our stolen ones.
No more OBSESSIVELY watching CNN.com.
No more feuding with my mother...because I thought she was smarter than propaganda.
No more pretending I thought both candidates were valid choices...as I taught the 2nd graders about the election process (I don't know how well I was able to do this... and the day after the election, my classroom became official Obama headquarters...because now, it's legal.)
No more connections with my fellow politico-workers. (Seriously. My principle for instance. We were Ob-uddies.)
No more complete and utter distrust in our country's political system.
Yeah, that's right...I'm patriotic. And, in need of new weekend activities.

Yada, yada, yada...

I am – incredibly bitter and sarcastic… in a good way.
I know – way more than second graders.
I want – my mom to stop sending me e-mail forwards that send me to .com websites claiming to provide “truths” about Obama.
I have – an unnatural admiration for Neil Diamond.
I dislike – when parents continue shopping in public although their children are SCREAMING THEIR GUTS OUT. And, they just bounce them more vigorously.
I miss – my slanderous teaching cohort table (i.e. Gig). I feel – tired at 8:30 pm I hear – cats outside that can literally say the word mom. “Mmmoommm.” I HATE them.
I smell – ha. That one is funny on its own. I crave – pumpkin pie…all year.
I cry – when kids are misunderstood in movies and when I watch Extreme Home Makeover. Then, I cry because I am embarrassed.
I search – daily on factcheck.com to retaliate against my mother’s absurd e-mail forwards. I wonder – how long “The Man” has known how spooky plastic is. I TOTALLY remember watching the “Plastic Makes it Possible” commercials when I was younger and thinking “who has a problem with plastic?...so much of a problem that plastic needs PR. Weird.” Now, come to find out… “Plastic Makes it…Infertile.” Oops.
I regret – running (literally) away from a brave young man who dared to ask me to dance at our first 6th grade dance. That was CRAZY brave…and I didn’t help the situation any. Sorry, Monty.
I love – survival shows on the Discovery Channel. And, I love that I NEVER go outside…so it’s futile for me to be so interested in the information being given. I care – about America. Seriously. I worry – about how to react when people give me gifts. I LOVE anything…but give me a gift, and I get all nervous about how to properly show my gratitude. It makes me sick and nervous.
I remember – all the helping verbs because my 5th grade teacher was a genius. And, I can say them all in under 7 seconds. I believe - in science I argue – really well with people…after they walk away.
I write – with my left hand.I win – at scrabble.
I lose – at risk.
I wish – that parents got paid based on the success of their children in school.
I listen – to books on tape and love every minute of it. Now Playing: Sarah Vowel’s new book… Wordy Shipmates.
I am scared – of natural disasters. My predisposition to anxiety…combined with my upbringing…combined with watching too much 20/20 as a child has struck fear into my heart.
I need – my grant for Weekly Readers to be funded on DONORSCHOOSE.COM.
I forget – how old I am…seriously, I do the calculations often.
I am happy - that its fall…and sometimes the air feels like I’m on vacation in Jackson Hole or Zion National Park, but really I’m just walking on 5th Ave.

Skinny McThin, even I am amazed at the things I do for you.

Against my will...

I'm writing this blog MERELY to comply with demands from a harassing acquaintance.
But, since I'm here...have you ever been so tired that you don't even really know...you may very well have hit someone with your car on your way home and not even noticed?
Well, that's how tired I've been since school started. You see, school starts at 8:00 am, so I need to get to school at 7:00 am...and that means I have to leave my house my 6:40 am...and THAT means I have to wake up at 6:04 am (And, the :04 is a little treat I give myself after the alarm goes off at 6:00).
Anyhow, school's been in for EXACTLY 1 month...and because I'm tired, I just call kids by whatever random name I know has the same first letter as their real name. Not on purpose, but it's a survival tool my TIRED brain has come up with to cope. So, when I'm trying to call on Jayla, I say Joselyne...and I'm always so SHOCKED when the wrong person stands up to get in line for lunch. Whoops. "Hi, you are very important to me...and the success of our class, I just can't remember your name yet" sends a great message to mold-able 2nd graders.
I apologize.

Moi...in a minute.

- I act like was was reared during the depression era. Not all the time, but totally randomly, after I buy something, I immediately think of all areas of my life where I could save some change. And, I save REALLY tiny scraps of ribbon that are useless.

- I will (most likely) NEVER let you down. If I tell you I'll do something, I'll do it. I'm a highly sensitive person, and I wouldn't allow it to happen. (Unless you've invited me to a party, I always say I'm coming to parties, but never come. So, know that now).

- I HATE when adults tell children "Soooommmebody's tiiiiirrrreeeddd." Don't say it in that mocking tone. Either say, "You're acting tired. Go take a nap." Or, don't say anything at all.

- I despise talking on the telephone and I block texts on my phone. I get LITERAL, clinical anxiety before I have to call someone or something on the phone. I get so nervous, I have to even write my name, in case I black out and forget it. And, it's just impersonal and weird. But, e-mails aren't. Just kidding. But, I prefer them.

- I LOVE when people pull over for emergency response vehicles. I find it to be one of the only touching things in America.

Soap in Your Mouth Nostalgia...on purpose

I wrote this story for the 2nd graders (well, not FOR the 2nd graders, but to illustrate that I, too, write about my life)...

At the market, we have been selling chunks of soap cut from a GIGANTIC wheel of soap. They are lovely and they smell (ferociously) like rose, cucumber, lavender and other obvious natural odors. The pieces cut are about 1-2 ounces in weight and have squiggly edges from the cutter…and we have been waiting for the day when someone eats a chunk because they are consistently asking what it is.
AND TODAY WAS THE DAY! The meat man brought me the remains of a chunk he found in THE BACON cooler. Funny. So funny that I carried it around…tiny, chewed bits of it and a bigger chunk they took the original nibble from …in my hands. A stranger’s spit, but SO worth the sacrifice.
The thought process of the unintelligent patron is what really makes me giggle.
You would be FORCED to smell it and think, “This doesn’t smell like a cheese I want to eat.” But, no, if we put a sample out, despite distaste or allergies or a razor blade protruding from it…THEY MUST EAT IT. So they do. Even soap. In your mouth. I'm putting toothpicks out tomorrow.

Welcome to the REGISTRAR'S office...

YOU MUST register to vote. The end.

I will not even nag you to vote for who I want you to vote for. All I ask is that you register and vote...
I hereby take away your right to complain about ANYTHING...if you don't vote.

I tell the second graders everyday, "Don't forget to vote when your 19" as they leave the classroom. They get it. They might even be able to help you fill out your voter registration form. Call them.

SALUTATIONS!

It's near time I began to blog my brains out. Or, at least give it a whirl.

For months now, I've been teaching the 2nd graders what writers do...and how they write their lives, as not to forget them when they lose their minds.

So, I'm going to do what I teach...

and write the incredibly bizarre experiences I experience.

Anyhow, speaking of the 2nd graders...I miss their guts.

On Wednesday, they revolted...and got the sub (an old student teacher) to let them write me a letter. Oiy. My heart.