I understand that in the grand scheme of life, being in 7th grade still means you are very small. Being in 7th grade means that you have the potential to look uncomfortable in your own body for at least another three years, (and if you are me, make that five). I know that in 7th grade you don't look your best. In fact, you probably look your worst-I sure did. I was in that really pretty, I'm growing out my bangs phase of bangs. The bangs hit exactly at my eyes. I parted them directly down the middle of my forehead. I thought I looked great. I wore a necklace around my neck that said, "Hippies Rule." (It was 1996). And oh yeah, I begged my orthodontist to give me braces.
Despite all of these things, I had a genuine attack of nostalgia today. And for once, not for my own youth--but for somebody elses. The school that I teach at goes until the 8th grade. The first group of students that I ever taught are now 7th graders. Walking into the middle school for a fair, I saw my first class. Teenagers. I nearly shat myself. Well first, I nearly cried, then I nearly pooped. Some of my former students look so grown up, it's actually scary. They have gotten so tall, and their faces are in that in-between stage of still looking like children, but also slowly morphing into adults phase, but most terrifying of all-- the girls have boobs. I know that thirteen year olds may not seem old in the scheme of life, but they do when you teach these thirteen year olds when they were just nine year olds.
It is not (nor has it ever, nor will it ever) be easy for me to acknowledge the fact that I am growing up(slash grown up). But ask me to acknowledge the fact that everyone else is growing up too?? Not gonna happen. Similarly to my blog entry entitled The 90's, this is new for me. This is really the first time that I'm cognisant of seeing people that I grew up with getting older. All of my favorite celebs from the 90's are kind of old now. It is not easy to watch people older than you grow up, and at that same token, it is not easy watching those younger than you grow up too.
This can't be a new emotion, and I'm sure teachers all over the country feel this way when they see old students. It must make them feel old. Funny how you notice everyone else getting older, but you feel like you are staying the same...
And, as much as it makes me sad to see my old kids growing up, I kind of loved it a lot. That little boy who once brought me in a baggy of his toenails is all growned up...
About six months ago, I was at Mr. Chu's, my family's favorite Chinese food restaurant back at home. A place where you are bound to run into atleast 87,663 people that you know. (Obviously, adding to my list of reasons why I love it there). On my way out the door, I bumped right into my 4th grade teacher. While she did not recognize me (Hey, it had been like 15 years), she did recognize my mom. She was able to put two and two together. Her reaction? She fell against the wall. She closed her eyes and said, "Don't even tell me how old you are." Then she opened one eye and said, "Okay, tell me how old you are." I replied, with my age. She closed her eyes shut again. Poor Mrs. B. On a much tinier scale, I kind of get it. And still, I will keep my fingers crossed that one day fifteen years from now, I will run into someone that I once knew when they were very small.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Monday, October 19, 2009
Adventures from Underground
Last winter, late one afternoon, I was traveling home from work via the subway. It had been a long day. I was relieved to have found a seat on the train, and was excited to return to my warm apartment. Once seated, I was quickly lost in my own thoughts, as mid 90's dance music blared through my ipod headphones.
I looked up and noticed a tiny homeless man had taken post in front of my seat. I heard slight mutterings from under his breath, but did my best to ignore his increasingly close swagger. After he stumbled, and almost landed in my lap, I heard a more distinct muttering. Something that sounded like, "blue bitch." Yes, yes. That's what he was saying, "blue bitch, blue bitch" over and over again. I soon realized he was talking about me: I was the blue bitch. (As I was the only person on the train wearing electric blue tights). I started to feel a little bit nervous, but calmed myself down with the fact that I was amidst a crowded train. I relaxed, as I told myself not to worry, this guy may be homeless and crazy--but he won't bother me.
I was dead wrong.
That is when I heard the sound that can only be described as lugie chawking (I have absolutely no idea how to spell that, and believe it or not--the phrase hawking lugies was not found in the dictionary!)
All of a sudden, tiny homeless man lunged forward, and a giant wad of his phlegmiest phlegm landed directly onto my face. YES. Tiny homeless man SPAT on my face. Can anyone really be prepared for a situation like this? I don't think so. I wanted to stand up for myself, but feared being spat on again--or possibly even worse. I could not get off of that train any faster. I held my shit together. I exited the train, now above ground. I crossed the street, and burst into tears. It was revolting, and I wouldn't wish that experience on anyone, ever.
On this particular morning, I was on the subway en route to work. I noticed a tattooed covered gentleman in the corner. Of course, we were the only two people on the subway car. He had a duffle bag on his lap, and I could tell that he was doing something with his hands underneath his bag. I was pretty sure that he was playing with himself, but tried not to make any sort of eye contact with this man. But, similar to a side of the road car crash--the more you don't want to look, the more you find yourself looking... Suddenly, the bag disappeared from his lap, and tatooed gentleman started licking his lips at me. Oh my god...I caught a tiny fleck of pink, and I realized that this man's entire wang was outside of his pants. He was jerking himself off, on a train, as I sat in the seat across from him. Enough was fucking enough. As soon as the train car stopped, I would be on my way, and I would never look back. Ever.
I looked up and noticed a tiny homeless man had taken post in front of my seat. I heard slight mutterings from under his breath, but did my best to ignore his increasingly close swagger. After he stumbled, and almost landed in my lap, I heard a more distinct muttering. Something that sounded like, "blue bitch." Yes, yes. That's what he was saying, "blue bitch, blue bitch" over and over again. I soon realized he was talking about me: I was the blue bitch. (As I was the only person on the train wearing electric blue tights). I started to feel a little bit nervous, but calmed myself down with the fact that I was amidst a crowded train. I relaxed, as I told myself not to worry, this guy may be homeless and crazy--but he won't bother me.
I was dead wrong.
That is when I heard the sound that can only be described as lugie chawking (I have absolutely no idea how to spell that, and believe it or not--the phrase hawking lugies was not found in the dictionary!)
All of a sudden, tiny homeless man lunged forward, and a giant wad of his phlegmiest phlegm landed directly onto my face. YES. Tiny homeless man SPAT on my face. Can anyone really be prepared for a situation like this? I don't think so. I wanted to stand up for myself, but feared being spat on again--or possibly even worse. I could not get off of that train any faster. I held my shit together. I exited the train, now above ground. I crossed the street, and burst into tears. It was revolting, and I wouldn't wish that experience on anyone, ever.
On this particular morning, I was on the subway en route to work. I noticed a tattooed covered gentleman in the corner. Of course, we were the only two people on the subway car. He had a duffle bag on his lap, and I could tell that he was doing something with his hands underneath his bag. I was pretty sure that he was playing with himself, but tried not to make any sort of eye contact with this man. But, similar to a side of the road car crash--the more you don't want to look, the more you find yourself looking... Suddenly, the bag disappeared from his lap, and tatooed gentleman started licking his lips at me. Oh my god...I caught a tiny fleck of pink, and I realized that this man's entire wang was outside of his pants. He was jerking himself off, on a train, as I sat in the seat across from him. Enough was fucking enough. As soon as the train car stopped, I would be on my way, and I would never look back. Ever.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Columbus Day Massacre
If you understand this blog title, (Beverly Hills 90210 Shout out: Season 7) then well, put simply...I love you.
Oh! The joys of a three day weekend. There is nothing better than the procrastination of those Sunday night blues until Monday night. Knowing that I'm going into a 4 day work week, I feel like I can really do this. Hit me with your best shot, third grade!
I haven't blogged in a while, and do not have one concise topic on which to discuss--so instead I will tell you seven things in no particular order...
1. Provided to me by Rweissy and Galzbabi, was what could be the makings of my perfect Halloween costume. Me: Ten Years Ago. For those of you that did not know me a decade ago, the costume will entail the following: One Winnie the Pooh sweatsuit, one chapstick necklace, and one large eyebrow. And just like in 1999, no boys will talk to me all night. Let's not forget: tradition is tradition.
2. Mike-Jason-Scott-Todd-Andrew-Jeff-Matt...remember him? Yeah, he's still in the picture. If by in the picture, you mean we talk on the phone religiously, but never actually see each other in real life. Although, this is probably for the best. Who am I kidding? If I ever see him again in real life, I probably wouldn't recognize him anyways.
3. Hidden in a cabinet in my school's cafeteria is a tub of frosting. (Used to decorate cupcakes). Each day after lunch, while craving something sweet, I sneak into the kitchen, scoop myself some icing, put it into a bowl, eat it with my spoon, in a corner, by myself. I am foul.
4. On Saturday night I left the bar I was at to buy myself a hot dog from a local vendor. It was 3 am, and I was really craving some meat. (Not a sexual innuendo), I stood outside--alone--and REALLY enjoyed my hot dog. Thank you very much.
5. On Sunday, I came home to NJ and Little Mimi Girl took me shopping. We were listening to Z100 on our way to the mall. Black Eyed Peas, "I gotta Feeling" came on the radio. Even if for some reason the rock you are living under did not get radio reception, or at the very least i-tunes--you would still somehow not confuse The Black Eyed Peas with THE FRAY. Yup, Little Mimi asked if I Gotta Feeling was sung by the fucking Fray.
6. It's getting cold out, and I don't like it one bit.
7. It is hard for me to poop at school. The kid bathrooms usually have something delightful left in the bowl. The grown up bathrooms are far and few between and I always get too nervous, (performance anxiety) knowing that someone will be waiting to use the bathroom. My solution to this problem, is to walk down the street and poop in the local (and anonymous) Barnes and Noble. This plan was working out great for me, until last week when I was five minutes late picking up my class from art. Sorry kids, but I must have lost track of time! Time flies when you're pooping at Barnes and Noble!
Oh! The joys of a three day weekend. There is nothing better than the procrastination of those Sunday night blues until Monday night. Knowing that I'm going into a 4 day work week, I feel like I can really do this. Hit me with your best shot, third grade!
I haven't blogged in a while, and do not have one concise topic on which to discuss--so instead I will tell you seven things in no particular order...
1. Provided to me by Rweissy and Galzbabi, was what could be the makings of my perfect Halloween costume. Me: Ten Years Ago. For those of you that did not know me a decade ago, the costume will entail the following: One Winnie the Pooh sweatsuit, one chapstick necklace, and one large eyebrow. And just like in 1999, no boys will talk to me all night. Let's not forget: tradition is tradition.
2. Mike-Jason-Scott-Todd-Andrew-Jeff-Matt...remember him? Yeah, he's still in the picture. If by in the picture, you mean we talk on the phone religiously, but never actually see each other in real life. Although, this is probably for the best. Who am I kidding? If I ever see him again in real life, I probably wouldn't recognize him anyways.
3. Hidden in a cabinet in my school's cafeteria is a tub of frosting. (Used to decorate cupcakes). Each day after lunch, while craving something sweet, I sneak into the kitchen, scoop myself some icing, put it into a bowl, eat it with my spoon, in a corner, by myself. I am foul.
4. On Saturday night I left the bar I was at to buy myself a hot dog from a local vendor. It was 3 am, and I was really craving some meat. (Not a sexual innuendo), I stood outside--alone--and REALLY enjoyed my hot dog. Thank you very much.
5. On Sunday, I came home to NJ and Little Mimi Girl took me shopping. We were listening to Z100 on our way to the mall. Black Eyed Peas, "I gotta Feeling" came on the radio. Even if for some reason the rock you are living under did not get radio reception, or at the very least i-tunes--you would still somehow not confuse The Black Eyed Peas with THE FRAY. Yup, Little Mimi asked if I Gotta Feeling was sung by the fucking Fray.
6. It's getting cold out, and I don't like it one bit.
7. It is hard for me to poop at school. The kid bathrooms usually have something delightful left in the bowl. The grown up bathrooms are far and few between and I always get too nervous, (performance anxiety) knowing that someone will be waiting to use the bathroom. My solution to this problem, is to walk down the street and poop in the local (and anonymous) Barnes and Noble. This plan was working out great for me, until last week when I was five minutes late picking up my class from art. Sorry kids, but I must have lost track of time! Time flies when you're pooping at Barnes and Noble!
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Two Truths and a Lie
I love the third grade. They are adorable, sweet, enthusiastic, and most importantly a tad bit gullible. This morning we played a game called Two Truths and a Lie in an effort to get to know one another better. The game consists of each person in the circle sharing two "truths" about themselves, and one "lie." The idea of the game is to guess which of the three statements told is a lie. Most of the students told "lies" that were so outwardly absurd, it was impossible not to pick out the lie. (Example: My dad invented pigs, I am seventeen, and I climbed a mountain this morning before school). I thought that I would follow my students' lead, and follow the same pattern. These were my truths and my lie.
1. I have been a teacher for 4 years
2. I have one older brother and one younger sister
3. On the weekends, I work as an auto-mechanic fixing cars.
For the exception of ONE student (who said that I looked too clean to be an auto-mechanic--thanks Chelsea!) they all guessed that "I have been a teacher for 4 years was my "lie."
I mean, what 25 year old female teacher wouldn't want to pick up some extra shifts at an auto shop?
1. I have been a teacher for 4 years
2. I have one older brother and one younger sister
3. On the weekends, I work as an auto-mechanic fixing cars.
For the exception of ONE student (who said that I looked too clean to be an auto-mechanic--thanks Chelsea!) they all guessed that "I have been a teacher for 4 years was my "lie."
I mean, what 25 year old female teacher wouldn't want to pick up some extra shifts at an auto shop?
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Only 159 more days...
Day six here in the third grade. I am so exhausted, that if I were to close my eyes right now, I'm pretty sure I'd be asleep in less than 30 seconds. Those of you reading this who are teachers understand the amount of energy it requires in order to keep up with kids (and their boundless bundles of energy). Teachers need energy not just to spend time with kids, but also to manage them, to ask them to keep their hands to themselves, (and off the walls when we walk through the halls), and helping to them to negotiate the rules of an intense game of Connect Four.
Earlier today, I announced to the class that I would be starting our read aloud book. The kids erupted in a cheer. ( I thought that they were cheering because they really like the book). Jimmy raised his hand. I called on him and he said, "Oh! I just love how you read out loud with such great expression!" Wow. Want to know the key to my heart? Tell me that you think I'm good at reading out loud. (And, if I do say so myself--I am a pretty good out loud children's book reader).
Just a few short moments later, once I was done reading, Chelsea came up to me and told me that her tummy hurt. I asked her why? She replied, "well--it could be gas." She paused for a moment, and appeared to be pushing one out--and said..."yeah, it was just gas." (Side note: the area around my desk slowly began to smell like baby diarea). Adding insult to injury, shortly after that Kevin blurted out, "oh my god--look what just came out of my mouth!"--before I could tell him that whatever had just come out of his mouth, I did not want to see-- Kevin unfolded his hands to reveal a large, green phlegmy boogery substance. It took every ounce of self control I had not to slap him in the face while simultaneously vomiting both in, and out of my mouth. Is it June yet?
Earlier today, I announced to the class that I would be starting our read aloud book. The kids erupted in a cheer. ( I thought that they were cheering because they really like the book). Jimmy raised his hand. I called on him and he said, "Oh! I just love how you read out loud with such great expression!" Wow. Want to know the key to my heart? Tell me that you think I'm good at reading out loud. (And, if I do say so myself--I am a pretty good out loud children's book reader).
Just a few short moments later, once I was done reading, Chelsea came up to me and told me that her tummy hurt. I asked her why? She replied, "well--it could be gas." She paused for a moment, and appeared to be pushing one out--and said..."yeah, it was just gas." (Side note: the area around my desk slowly began to smell like baby diarea). Adding insult to injury, shortly after that Kevin blurted out, "oh my god--look what just came out of my mouth!"--before I could tell him that whatever had just come out of his mouth, I did not want to see-- Kevin unfolded his hands to reveal a large, green phlegmy boogery substance. It took every ounce of self control I had not to slap him in the face while simultaneously vomiting both in, and out of my mouth. Is it June yet?
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Tales of a Third Grade Nothing
Aaaand, it's official. School is back in session. Now that I have had 1.5 days of the third grade under my belt, I felt that it was time to compose a blog entry of the events from the past day and a half.
As most of you know, I have taught the 4th grade for the past three years. (That's ages 9 and 10). But this year, I am teaching third grade. (Change of scenery, if you will). These kids are 8 going on 9-- and some of them (the ones with those late birthdays) are still 7! Can you remember what it felt like to be seven? So while seven and eight year olds may not seem like a big age difference from the 4th grade-- believe you me--developmentally it is--and my students seem like tiny little peanuts. Adorable, but tiny little peanuts none the less.
I have eleven students. Eight boys and three girls. Eight of my students (thus far) are adorable, precious and sweet. The other three students range from mild-freak-a-zoid, to severe freak-a-zoid lacking any and all social skills. Also this year, I will be using faux names my students. ( For I greatly fear being fired).
One of my students-- let's just call him Chucky, had an eventful summer. He visited his aunt and uncle on their farm in the mid-west. His uncle brought Chucky outside to milk one of their cows. Chucky milked him alright--using his mouth. That's right, Chucky sucked the udders dry on some poor cow. How do I know this? Chucky's mom decided that this was noteworthy information, and e-mailed me with this news the day before school started. So, if I didn't already think he was a freak ( after talking to his teachers from last year) I fucking do now.
An aside: All of this cow milking got me to thinking about my 7th grade Halloween costume. I came dressed to middle school as cow. Not your average cute cow costume, but I came dressed in a cow costume, that had rubber udders covering my entire abdomen. I spent the entire day avoiding the 8th grade boys who shouted,"can I suck your udders?" at me. What was Little Mimi Girl thinking letting me leave the house in such a vile costume?
Another one of my students, Chris--asked me where the president lived. I told him that the president lives in Washington DC.
NO, he said, his face turning into a scowl. I could see from his expression that I wasn't quite understanding his question. Just then the principal breezed past our room. His face lit up. He pointed at her--The president! Where does she live?
Oh. The Principal? Yes, her office is located on the second floor.
I overheard Jimmy calling someone a "bozo." Anyone who uses the word bozo in 2009, is a-okay in my book.
While completing a drawing assignment on the first day of school, a group of students broke into "We will rock you" complete with desk banging. I told them that they had to lower their voices. "Do we have to stop singing," they asked? I struggled with answering this question. While I felt that their singing may have been distracting to some of my other students, I thought who doesn't like to hear a good Queen ballad at nine am? And, thus--I told them they could sing as long as they did it quietly. While walking around the room, I heard soft whispers of "We Will Rock You."
And lastly, a berage (is that a word?) of the random, funny and interesting things that I have overheard in the past day and a half.
..."I don't have a dad, I have two moms, because my moms hate boys!"
...Said to me..."Did you have red hair when you were seven?"
...My mommy told me that being tired isn't a reason to go to the nurse."
...and lastly, when reading out loud the directions for the classroom scavenger hunt that I had created for the kids to do, one of my students who has a lisp, shouted out--"Thith ith lame!"
Shot down. By a seven year old with a bad speech impediment.
As most of you know, I have taught the 4th grade for the past three years. (That's ages 9 and 10). But this year, I am teaching third grade. (Change of scenery, if you will). These kids are 8 going on 9-- and some of them (the ones with those late birthdays) are still 7! Can you remember what it felt like to be seven? So while seven and eight year olds may not seem like a big age difference from the 4th grade-- believe you me--developmentally it is--and my students seem like tiny little peanuts. Adorable, but tiny little peanuts none the less.
I have eleven students. Eight boys and three girls. Eight of my students (thus far) are adorable, precious and sweet. The other three students range from mild-freak-a-zoid, to severe freak-a-zoid lacking any and all social skills. Also this year, I will be using faux names my students. ( For I greatly fear being fired).
One of my students-- let's just call him Chucky, had an eventful summer. He visited his aunt and uncle on their farm in the mid-west. His uncle brought Chucky outside to milk one of their cows. Chucky milked him alright--using his mouth. That's right, Chucky sucked the udders dry on some poor cow. How do I know this? Chucky's mom decided that this was noteworthy information, and e-mailed me with this news the day before school started. So, if I didn't already think he was a freak ( after talking to his teachers from last year) I fucking do now.
An aside: All of this cow milking got me to thinking about my 7th grade Halloween costume. I came dressed to middle school as cow. Not your average cute cow costume, but I came dressed in a cow costume, that had rubber udders covering my entire abdomen. I spent the entire day avoiding the 8th grade boys who shouted,"can I suck your udders?" at me. What was Little Mimi Girl thinking letting me leave the house in such a vile costume?
Another one of my students, Chris--asked me where the president lived. I told him that the president lives in Washington DC.
NO, he said, his face turning into a scowl. I could see from his expression that I wasn't quite understanding his question. Just then the principal breezed past our room. His face lit up. He pointed at her--The president! Where does she live?
Oh. The Principal? Yes, her office is located on the second floor.
I overheard Jimmy calling someone a "bozo." Anyone who uses the word bozo in 2009, is a-okay in my book.
While completing a drawing assignment on the first day of school, a group of students broke into "We will rock you" complete with desk banging. I told them that they had to lower their voices. "Do we have to stop singing," they asked? I struggled with answering this question. While I felt that their singing may have been distracting to some of my other students, I thought who doesn't like to hear a good Queen ballad at nine am? And, thus--I told them they could sing as long as they did it quietly. While walking around the room, I heard soft whispers of "We Will Rock You."
And lastly, a berage (is that a word?) of the random, funny and interesting things that I have overheard in the past day and a half.
..."I don't have a dad, I have two moms, because my moms hate boys!"
...Said to me..."Did you have red hair when you were seven?"
...My mommy told me that being tired isn't a reason to go to the nurse."
...and lastly, when reading out loud the directions for the classroom scavenger hunt that I had created for the kids to do, one of my students who has a lisp, shouted out--"Thith ith lame!"
Shot down. By a seven year old with a bad speech impediment.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Mike-Jason Uno-Dos-TRES
Hello gang.
A quick update here. After much speculation and wonder, I have in fact, heard from Mike-Jason again. Even though, I forgot his name, and later his face--Mike-Jason has looked past all of that, and called me on the actual telephone.
More to follow soon...
A quick update here. After much speculation and wonder, I have in fact, heard from Mike-Jason again. Even though, I forgot his name, and later his face--Mike-Jason has looked past all of that, and called me on the actual telephone.
More to follow soon...
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