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Institute reflection guide

I found my post-Institute reflection from this summer, and reading it again at the end of the year may have helped me to re-focus. I was terrified of starting Teach for America in Chicago and later teaching in Jacksonville, but this is how I felt after I had made it through five weeks of "teacher boot camp". I'd like to share it here for anyone who wants to read it.

I came into Institute practically terrified of…just about everything.  Even before being accepted into the corps I had started to hear horror stories of Institute and tireless work, no sleep, and demon children our for blood.  I heard that we would cry everyday, and while some said that that was expected and it was OK, others simply quoted “a sad teacher is a bad teacher.”  Thank you for preying on my worst fears, I would think.  It’s not like my nightmare is being the most ineffective, sad teacher in Chicago and later Jacksonville…  No, I am of course supremely confident in my inexperience and lack of teacher skills. Please continue telling me how hard I am about to fall on my face.  I was worried, maybe understandably.   But then something wonderful happened:  Institute started. 

I was so consumed with figuring out all the intricacies of living at IIT, navigating the L, making sure I didn't miss my bus (whoops, guess I did a bad job of that one), and trying not to miss all my sessions, that I was surviving Institute, even succeeding in it, simply because I was forced to look at everyday minute by minute, session by session, day by day. 

I have had some horrible days here.  Days where I bomb my lesson by teaching to the wrong objective or executing bad classroom management or missing my bus or getting my schedule switched at the last second or finally “breaking the seal” and crying at school (and then later into my macaroni and cheese at dinner).  Oh, did I mention all of those things happened on the same day? Yep.

Institute tried to break me – but because I had tensed myself for battle, I was ready for it.  And despite my penchant for crying when I get frustrated or overwhelmed, I spent all but two days here dry-eyed.   I took every day as a new challenge.  Each new lesson plan was another chance at inspiring my kids and teaching them something they had been told they “just can’t learn.” I hope that this mindset carries over into my region, because as of right now, it is saving my life. 

It has. It did. 

card tricks against humanity

Sometimes teaching can make you want to tear your hair out. And other times, it just makes you laugh.

Early this year, one of my students asked to use my deck of cards after he finished a test.  (Being a probability/statistics teacher, I always have a deck of cards. It is especially helpful when it is revealed that your students don't know what a spade is or how many cards are in a suit - and in that case, how can you be exasperated when they can't determine the probability of drawing an ace? You can't. Exactly.)

I said yes, sure, just be quiet and keep them to yourself. I watched him practice card tricks in the back of class, and later collected the tests.  Several days later, I cleaned out my desk drawer and discovered that all I had left of the deck of cards was the flimsy box they came in. And two jokers, of course. Also directions to some card game no one ever plays.

Bottom line: they had been stolen. 

Well...the student had neglected to return them. I'll put it that way.  This happens daily with pens, pencils, folders, calculators and basically anything else I leave on my desk.  I mentally cursed the student for taking them, and promptly forgot all about it.

A week or so later, I had to correct the student several times in class for doing magic tricks; he used pencils and coins and paperclips, and yes, playing cards.  But I honestly did not connect the dots for a very long while. Obviously they were the same cards, but I was so busy with teacher life that my teacher brain refused to put 2 and 2 together. Which is ironic, because I am a math teacher (and getting really good at quick mental math).
 I called his mother and told her about the magic interrupting class,and she assured me he wouldn't be doing it any more. And for the most part he didn't.

Anyway, here's where the story gets funny.

I talked to another one of his teachers, and we discussed his class performance, behavior, etc., and she told me he was still doing magic tricks.

"Really?" I said, "he stopped doing them in my class. I called his mom, and since then I haven't seen him do it once."
"Yeah," she said. "I called her too. But he's still doing it. She said if I see him with the cards again to take them from him and not give them back."

I laughed, with amusement, and a bit of relief.  After months, I would get my cards back! Nice day. Wouldn't even have to go to the dollar store. I started to tell her they were really my cards - thinking she would get a kick out of the story-

"So I took them," she continued, "and went to the trash, tore them in half, and threw them away. Every last one."

...
I realize after a second my mouth was still open to tell my story. and the smile is frozen on my face.

"I realize it was a bit much, but I was sick of those magic tricks. And his mom told me to take them, so..." She smiles.
I laugh weakly, and murmur something about it getting old and it was probably a good thing. heh. heh.


Looks like I have to go to the dollar store after all. 

excerpts from grading

I was feeling a little down  today. Down on teaching, and down on my mission - to SAVE every student in the world. It's a tough gig, teaching, especially when you, like me, believe that every student can learn, it's just a matter of motivation and engagement.  Especially tough when you realize that the motivation and engagement all has to come from you. You're not teaching if they're not learning.

But then I started grading papers and I was cheered up a bit:

assignment: develop a research question for an observational study.

• "Q: Who smoke more weed boys or girls? 

• Observe different teens and see who smoke the most.

• (I) go to four middle schools four high schools and observe 16 classes by getting a well-known jock to ask his/her peers about it and then I sit in on the conversations and take notes."

question (on a quiz!): explain how you would use simple random sampling to choose your sample group.

"I would take a group of people (mostly girls) and play spin the bottle with them. That would be considered random sampling wouldn't it."

BONUS question: for four points, list at least four X-men and the mutant powers associated with each.

"Black widow - turns black and disappears;  X-man - has claws out of his fingers"

"Never seen X-men, but I think I know the girl is stretchable, there is a fire man guy, a strong guy, and then a superfast guy."

"Wolverine = claws, Jade = psycho, Storm = weather, Wheelchair Man = physic powers"

Stay tuned for more gems. :)

dozers

The last time I wrote, I was a baby teacher nearing the middle of her training in Chicago.   Now I am a baby teacher looking back on her first month of teaching in a real live public school to real live children.
At least I think most of them are alive...they're pretty good at sleeping with their heads propped up, so for all I know, they could be dead.  But then again, they do leave like quick little bunnies when the bell rings, so there goes that theory.

Alright, so my students aren't all sleeping though my classes.  There are a few who have gotten away with sleeping if they prop their head on a binder- OH WAIT. No they didn't. Newsflash: teachers can SEE YOU. You're not fooling anyone just because you're not drooling on your desk.
Although, I do have one student who kinda roosts himself into his chest like a mama owl and falls asleep sitting up perfectly straight, most of the time with a pencil in his hand, poised on the paper. It's amazing.  Once he fell asleep during a quiz, and I debated just letting him snooze his way to a zero...but then I felt bad, so I rapped on his desk, and he carried on writing as if nothing had happened.

...So I just thought I would share my thoughts so far, maybe a few anecdotes, so that those of you who read this every once in a while will know what I've been up to.

I made it through my first whole month of teaching! The days go by faster now (they always go by much much faster than they did when I was a student) and that is partially because the feeling that I am drowning is dissipating day by day. Yay!  It's also because the school day is not very long at all: due to budget cuts, my teaching day goes from

7:30 AM (high schoolers love that) to 1:45 PM.

 Yup.  My kids get out of school everyday before 2:00. So when they fall asleep in my 7th period class, I can say to them "just wait 20 more minutes! then you can take a 4 hour nap and still wake up in time for dinner!"  It also makes their "I didn't have time to do my homework"-excuse really weak.

soundbites:

it's the bangs. it's always the bangs.

• (male) Student:  "Ms D, I figured out who you look like. You look like Carly Rae."  Me: "Who? I don't think I know who that is."  Student:  "You know, (sings) before you came into my life I missed you so bad! I missed you so so bad/ So call me maybe! you know?"  Me: "Yes, but I am oh-so-glad you just sang that out loud."

• (female) Student: "Ms. D, can I make up the work I missed this week? I was in jail."  
• I don't even know what it was for, and I didn't ask.  All I said was "Sure. We did 3.7-3.9 in your workbook. Bring it to me tomorrow"

More to come soon!

beating a dead horse?

I promised a lot of people that I would blog about learning to teach, and sadly I have let all of them down.  Until today.

The fact of the matter is, I haven't done so yet because I talk about teaching all. the. time. now, and when I sit down to the computer at the end of the day, it's usually to lesson plan OR (better) to do something completely unrelated that doesn't require my brain to be on at all.  Yesterday I was introduced to Phineas and Ferb and watched several episodes before finally going to sleep at :yawn: 10 PM.

10 PM is my new bedtime, and 11 PM is my new "why am I still awake"-time, mostly because 5:30 is my new wake-up time.  Also because (I don't know if you have heard this yet) teaching is exhausting.  I was teaching a lesson in summer school today about multiplying complex fractions.

Obviously the kids were not so into it, especially because their previous teacher has been known to say things like "they can't learn fractions. It's like beating a dead horse. So I just let them use calculators on the tests because they don't need to know how to multiply or add fractions for algebra. So why waste your time?"   My first response-thought to this was "my kids WILL learn fractions. and they will LOVE them."  So I poured my heart, soul and body into my lesson today and got very little in the way of enthusiasm back. Their teacher (who had been observing) said to me after "you put in waaaay more work into that lesson than the kids did. Don't do that. Make them work."   And as much as I may disagree with their teacher's view of their potential for learning, I think this advice is pretty good.

I learn lessons like this every day. Some are real lessons, with lectures and worksheets, and some are learned the hard way.  When asked to describe how I am feeling today with a color, my response was "dishwater" and it's true. I feel thin, translucent, grey, and, for lack of a better word, whooshy. But there is one thing that is keeping me from collapsing into a puddle, and it's my students.  Today, my kids took a lesson they had been told they'd never learn (or need to learn, but honestly, where does that assumption come from?) and tackled it. Even though they weren't jumping out of their seats, even though they may have been chatty, even though I wore myself out doing it, they went from 0% of the class mastering the skill to 83%.  

And that is what will keep me up till midnight tonight writing lesson plans.

breaking up is hard to do

I woke up this morning and came to the sad realization that I would be waking up in Charleston (as a student/transfer-South Carolinian/Charlestonian) for the last time.  I graduated yesterday, and while that fills me with pride in my accomplishments and excitement about starting the next chapter of my life, it has also plagued me with sadness and nostalgia.

I have said goodbye to a lot of people I love and "see you later" to the ones who can never be rid of me,  but I am still grievously sad (as anyone within 40 feet of me can attest - I have cried a lot this week).  Why am I so sad though? This is the beginning of something new, even though it means the end of something beloved.   And then I realized why I am so weepy:

I am breaking up with Charleston.

I took this picture at Freshman Orientation, Summer 2008 :)

I once joked on Facebook that I was "in a relationship with the city of Charleston" and "it's complicated."  Complicated because so many people are in the same relationship, I think. Or because in the summer it gets really hot and smells like garbage and/or fish. Sometimes it's hard to love that. But I did.

In the summer I would joke that I was "in a long-distance relationship with the city of Charleston."   I would start to have dreams about just walking the streets, I missed it so much.  And then a month would go by and it would be time to move back. And I would roll down the windows as we drove into the city and say "it smells like beach" and smile.  And I would unpack and take a walk around the city, wishing on several occasions that it were possible to give the city a BIG I-missed-you hug.  (I had to settle for a lamppost. There was gum on it...)

I haven't experienced very many break-ups, and they have never been too devastating, and I think that's because I have never truly been in love.  Until I moved to Charleston.

I know it's a break-up (and that's why I am so inconsolably sad) because:

• Every song is about us.   (me and Charleston, that is.)  Driving home from my parents' hotel room the other night, I heard two songs on the radio and I wanted to cry.  These are songs that I have heard millions of times before and on the surface have nothing to do with graduating or leaving or anything really. They were:
• Hold on Loosely - 38 Special   "usually it's too late when you/ realize what you had/ so hold on loosely/and don't let go...etc."
• Mr. Jones - Counting Crows  "when everybody loves you/ you can never be lonely"
• thank goodness I didn't hear the Cheers theme or James Taylor or "How Far We've Come" or something otherwise reminisce-y.  Looking at these lyrics now, it seems really stupid, but the other night these songs were about meeee.  And that's how I know it's a break-up. Because I am acting crazy.
• When people say "you can still come visit!"  what I hear is "we can still be friends...."  Visiting is such a hollow mockery of our relationship it makes me sad to think about it. I will always belong here, but I won't belong to Charleston the same way ever again.
• I know that this is "for the best" but I don't care. We will both go on to grow and flourish. But I am allowed to be sad about something wonderful ending. So damn it, I will be sad. 

So goodbye, Charleston.

It sucks to leave you.  I will always have a HUGE place in my heart for you and for the College and all the wonderful people I met as a happy consequence of moving here four years ago.  I will miss you. I will miss the Farmer's Market and praline samples and Charleston Christmas traditions and nuns and church bells and crooked streets and lampposts covered in gum and old houses and boarded-up fireplaces and seagulls and the Cooper River Bridge and horse-drawn carriages and alleyways and the Battery and bicycles and the best cupcakes I will ever eat. I will probably never stop dreaming about walking these streets with the people I love.
Stay beautiful, Charleston.  I will be back to visit (we can still be friends).

I've cried a lot about leaving here, but this morning when I looked out my window I knew it was never a one-sided relationship:  Charleston was crying too.

today on the internet...

I just came back from practice for my graduation from the College.  Cray-zay.   And now that I have the time (which I should be using to do laundry, pack my stuff, and...I don't know...learn French) I am going to regale you with commentary on ridiculous things I found on the internet today.  

I checked the weather this morning (hoping it would rain again so I didn't have to sit on the stage in the blazing sun) and noticed that Weather.com has made some updates.  Again!  I feel like they do a redesign every other week.  Those people are on the ball.   Anyway. Today I noticed a new feature:

That's right. It says "Alert me when it rains."  A useful feature for...cave dwellers? People without windows? Maybe, but chances are that if you aren't already outside or can't see outside, you won't be going outside soon. And if you did, you would probably be able to tell when you got there. I'd hope.

 It doesn't say "alert me when there is a hurricane" or "alert me when there is a deadly waterspout hell-bent on making it inland and headed straight for my house" or "alert me when ash falls out of the sky after a Super Volcano-type situation cuz then I will probably need more than a poncho." It says "alert me when it rains." I am curious to know how many people use this application and why.  But that's for another day.  

OH! Weather.com also lets you know about weather-related "trending" topics from Twitter users in the area.   And surprise! Today's trending topics are "rain," "raining," and "sunny."  Fascinating.  Potentially useful/interesting if the topics are "blood rain" "locusts" or "aliens??"  But for now... it's a bit redundant.

Another thing that caught my attention (potentially more stimulating than weather.com updates) was this article about the new cover for Time Magazine. It's about the mother breastfeeding her almost-four-year-old son. Here's the picture:

Oh my! Controversy! That child is wearing army pants!

 

OK, setting aside anything implied by the actual Time article or the headline ("Are you mom enough?" really? Time Magazine, why you always gotta be startin' sumthin?), the article about the article was pretty inflammatory and stupid.  The url for the Gawker article is "http://gawker.com/5909256/mom-puts-boob-in-giant-preschool-sons-mouth-on-cover-of-time?tag=moms." GIANT preschool son's mouth? I don't know all of his parentage, but I doubt he is even half-Giant. Does he look like a child of Hagrid? No.

The final questions are designed to get commenters into a frenzy.  The first two are valid:

• How does this cover make you feel? 
• Will it haunt [the child's] future? 

but of course, even these questions elicit the most heinous internet responses:

"Wish I was that Kid so I can have my mouth on those sweet jugs : )"    classy.

"Not being breast feed had NOT ONE negative effect on me and I'm closer to my parents than some of my peers. My first cousin breastfeeds her children until they're almost two years old and they're allergic to almost everything under sun!"  to which someone responded: "maybe if you had been breast fed you would understand the concept of sample sizes"    hahaha touche.

 And then people just started getting sarcastic..."Breastfed toddlers are also Giant Pussy Crybaby Whiners. See Science publication Vol456. The correct feeding method is Mountain Dew in a bottle with Kool ashes flicked on the head."

And this gem:

 "First of all he is four and his brother is five, and they both breastfeed. That is way beyond the point of normalcy, whether you agree with that or not ("normal" is relative, but that is a fair point, this is not average behavior). And I only took 4 classes in psych in college (please, please don't brag about this. By starting your sentence this way I have already stopped listening to you) but I am quite sure (you are the expert opinion here) that the kid will develop a different bond with people than most. It is likely that he will be much more needy for companionship (not true - several studies show similar levels of attachment to peers as well as fewer problems weaning off of transition objects like teddy bears and security blankets) since for 4 more years he had to attach himself to his mother for nutrition (what? pretty sure he ate other food - otherwise he would not be the "Giant" you claim he is) while all other kids were learning to eat by themselves. I'm not saying it's a certainty, but it is a likelihood that could prove a major problem later on in life."

I am not going to take a side on this.  I am not going to use anecdotal evidence and say "I know people who breastfed past the age of four and they turned out pretty OK fine" because that is the kind of reasoning these commenters use and it is completely ineffective.  What I will say is this: people on the internet are stupid. I do realize the irony of writing all this on the internet, yes.  But just remember that opinions are opinions and facts are facts. And please don't pretend to be an expert and then admit to not being one in the same sentence.

 

Also, just FYI, I have never before seen the word "tits" used this many times in a comment section about a Time Magazine article. ever.

Guest Blog: The Modern American State of Vegans and Vegetarians

After a few months of radio silence, I come to you with something a little different.  I present to you my first guest blog, written by a friend of mine very interested in many things.  I can't think of a funny name for this person, so for now Guest Blogger is anonymous.  But you might be able to guess who it is.

On today's menu: the state of meat and those who eat it (or don't).

Enjoy. 

Firstly, allow me to go ahead and say that I am not a vegetarian, though I have been in the past (however I’ve never given up eggs, butter, and whole unpasteurized milk, meaning I have never been a vegan, probably not even for a day) for about a year. Meat is definitely on my menu these days, though in a very small ratio compared to veggies. While I feel that there is substantial reason to eat meat and little to no reason to not eat it (in a responsible way, of course), I will leave that soapbox unoccupied for now.  Much more important issues are at hand regarding modern conceptions of vegetables and vegetarians.

A recent news article in the New York Times was published about the hard knock lives of today’s vegans and vegetarians, with their main gripe being the unsatisfactory nature of meat and dairy replacement products. The cost and taste of such products are discouraging to them, and certainly factor into the likelihood of a person remaining on their “vegetarian” diet. Let me go ahead and tell you that, from a year’s worth of vegetarianism (with the occasional exception, of course), it is neither expensive, nor bland. In fact, cutting the (usually) substantial meat portion from your grocery bill and upping your intake of veggies is probably the most budget-friendly thing you can do, but this is where people get into trouble. Vegetarians today aren’t really eating “vegetables” anymore; they are eating insanely processed vegetable-based meat alternatives, which are costly and very unhealthy.

Here’s a quote that we will examine from the NY Times article (April 17^th, 2012, page D6)…

“…even a box of Gardenburgers is 4$ - which doesn’t seem expensive, but when you compare it to the meat counterparts, it’s so much more” –Megan Salisbury

I can’t pass on the irony of her last name… Salisbury steak anyone?

But I digress… it’s more expensive to purchase gardenburgers because a team of scientists had to concoct this disgusting excuse for a meal and marketers had to find clever ways to sell it to unsuspecting and under-informed consumers. Check out the nutrition label on Morningstar Farms’ “Garden Veggie Patties”. You will be surprised to find eggs (definitely not vegan) textured vegetable protein (what sort of “garden” does that grow in?), and a good bit of soy (which we now know is unhealthy when processed, and vastly more beneficial in it’s traditionally prepared fermented forms).

Beef patties however (grass-fed and pastured, preferably), are comparably inexpensive because you only have to do three things to the beef to eat it as a burger: get it off of the cow, grind it, and grill it up.

I will say I have purchased gardenburgers before, and from experience, they are disgusting and horrifically expensive. Save yourself the trouble and buy some real vegetables instead.

The modern state of American vegans and vegetarians is that they are being sold a half-truth at a high price. The health benefits and morality of eating only vegetables is underscored while the actual implementation is perverted, obscured, and capitalized upon to the benefit of such “food” companies as Morningstar Farms and Turtle Island Foods (evil and unhealthy institutions, if you ask me), who prey upon the naivety of their customers.

Why must a newly christened vegetarian seek out costly and often unhealthy alternatives to meat and where does this notion come from? Is it some sort of cardinal sin in modern America to go for a period of time without some form of “burger” or “cheese”? If vegetarians (and people in general) committed themselves to eating and buying real food and not food products, they would…

1.      Spend much less money

2.      Be much more healthy and…

3.      Be “voting” with their dollars for higher quality food.

Before I would advocate any type of nutritional/dietary regimen, exercise routine, or other healthy habit I would say this first and foremost:

EAT REAL FOOD

This goes for anyone, vegetarian or otherwise, because it’s one of the best things you can do for yourself. Put down the twizzlers and have some beets (nature’s candy), cut back the soda and just have some water or juice, forget the frozen “veggie”-burgers and have a salad. There are real vegetables to be had, and they are really good for you.

Here are some tips for you aspiring vegetarians.

1. Eat real vegetables.

I can’t stress this enough, and it’s so simple that it’s almost unreal. Real, fresh from-the-earth vegetables are remarkably healthy for you; they’re packed with micro-nutrients and are relatively lacking in any of the saturated fats or preservatives you should be afraid of.

2. Try a farmer’s market.

Here you’ll find all the local healthy eats that you could possibly want (provided that your farmer’s market is actually focused on selling food, and not touristy garbage). Support your local farmers and they’ll trade you in kind for desirably fresh and healthy vegetables.

3. Learn how to cook.

Simply put, by making your own meals you can know exactly what goes into them. When you buy packaged, frozen meals or weird meat alternatives (The Frankenstein-like “Chik’n”, for instance) you run the risk of ingesting undesirable preservatives or hidden ingredients that you hadn’t expected. Plus you’ll be a great entertainer and slightly more marriageable.

Good food is good for you.

I have been pretty stressed out lately, and noticing a few indicators of anxiety neuroses.

anxiety:  "an unpleasant emotional state for which the cause is either not readily identified or perceived to be uncontrollable or unavoidable"   

yay.

I started to ask questions: When did these start? Why am I so sensitive? Why do I feel like I am stressed or anxious all. the. time? 
How come some people can calm down and not me? (apparently, only 18% of Americans. SO 82% of Americans are anxiety free most of the time! no fair!)
and
Why do I only ever use the left-hand "Shift" key?

That last one has been bugging me for a while now, actually.

Anyway, I started looking back on my life and noticing flare-ups of stress, but a general anxiety blanket over most of my thoughts starting around high school.  So naturally I thought it must have started around there. Something about the universally traumatic experience of post-pubertal development within a public high school plus braces plus orchestra minus cool equals inevitable generalized anxiety problems. 

BUT, as I pointed out earlier, not everyone has these chronic problems. Clearly.

And then, remembered for a completely different reason, a fully formed memory floated into my head:..... (bubbly dream sequence harp playing)...

I was walking behind my church, leaving after some post-Mass event or other, and I was worriedly asking my mother what I would have to know to make my First Communion.  I remember that it was warm and sunny outside, with fluffed pine straw in the landscaping to the right of me and the carpool lane on my left. I remember seeing everything from my much smaller 7-year-old height and the hum of the generator behind the old gymnasium. 
And I remember someone telling me "...you're going to be quizzed on all the priest's homilies. I hope you were paying attention..." 
and all of this, the carpool lane, the generator, the pine straw swirling around me as anxiety scooped me into it's dizzying arms.
 ...I haven't been paying attention, I worried, I'm not going to get it. I'll never get it. I'll be old and wrinkly and no one will give me the Eucharist...

Something in his voice (and the laughter that followed the statement) told me he was kidding, but I couldn't undo the worry. And I didn't - not until I finally did make my First Communion a few agonizing months later (during which I spent every Sunday willing my attention to the priest at his pulpit and begging my brain to remember it). 

And so the pattern goes.

1. Evil thoughts.
2. Needless worry
3. Needless worry
4. must calm down.  CALM DOWN.
5. Oh no!! [insert worry here] is about to happen...
6. Oh, what? [insert worry here] already happened? And everything's fine? Oh. Phew.
7. repeat. ad nauseum.

 Moral of the story: Claire has been like this for a while.

I don't know if you can tell, but I'm about to graduate from college. 
 

the antidote

Just try not to smile.

don't forget to breathe

Life has been stressful lately. I'm going to live in this song for a while.

And all the suffering that you've witnessed
And the hand prints on the wall
They remind you how it's endless
How endlessly you fall


And the answer that you're seeking
For the question that you found
Drives you further to confusion
As you lose your sense of ground


So don't forget to breathe
Don't forget to breathe
Your whole life is here
No eleventh hour reprieve
So don't forget to breathe

Sorry if this bummed you out.

you CAN come home again

They say you can't go home again. And at least physically, that is not true.

Of course you can get in your car/plane/bus/tardis and travel back to where you grew up/where your family is/where you keep most of your stuff. But often times the place that you get to just isn't the same as you remember.  (that is what the saying means, of course, but, like my brother Ryan said last night "I'm just trying to break it down for you guys")

This always strikes me when I come home for winter break, especially this year.

My brother Daniel has taken over my room upon my absence. The only real change to the room is a lightsaber mounted on the wall and an x-box in the corner but it is enough to remind me that it's not my space anymore. 

And that makes me more than a little sad. And it reminds me that I have a future out there to be worrying about.
(but instead I ignore the scary thoughts about next year and the echos of concerned relatives "what are you going to do? what are you going to do? what are you gonna do?" and burrow myself into another knitting project)

The most radical change - the one that takes the most getting used to and always reminds me that I don't really live here anymore - is the refrigerator. 

this is not our fridge. this is a stranger's fridge, which is what I see every time I come home for the holidays

Every time I come home it's completely different, and it serves as a microcosm of the changes within my own house, my own family.  Sure, the cheese is still in the cheese drawer, the vegetables are still sitting (ignored and browning) in the vegetable "crisper" drawer, but the contents and configuration are constantly changing.

Sometimes completely new foods show up that I have never heard of or foods that should never have been bought (called over my shoulder: "Who eats blue cheese stuffed olives???" response from the living room: "Oh they're really good. Try one! Try- just try one. Just. Try it. Fine! Don't ever say I don't introduce you to new things").  Then again, there is still a bottle of sake in there that has been lurking at the back of the fridge for several years now. I'm not sure where we got it. Or why.  But it's still there.

I am almost always completely thrown off by the refrigerator.  I open it, seeking refuge for my gurgling hunger, and stop short as I glance around and remember I have no idea what is in there (or how long it's been in there).  It's just one more thing that's different. 
One more reminder that I don't live here anymore and I better get on with my life, because things are changing without me.

Wow. blogging therapy.

In the end, the refrigerator becomes normal again.
I learn not to eat that thing in the black tupperware that's been there since before I got home, that blue cheese stuffed olives are pretty delicious, after all, and that home will always be home. It's just waiting for me to normalize.

There might be ghosts.

After my first week living in this historic house I wrote a post about how it's haunted, citing mainly the fact that we have a medicine cabinet and none of our lights really work.  I have settled in to the house since then.  I am no longer weary of the tiny door to the attic at the foot of my bed nor the demon stove, which only seems to attack Marca.

I did, however, have a hard time sleeping a few nights ago because I dreamt that there were two children jostling me awake every hour or so to tell me something important.
They might be ghosts.

sometimes, they don't even know they're ghosts.

BUT if they are dream-children, this (according to DreamDictionary) means I am repressing my inner child, because I was mad that they were trying to wake me up.  It could also mean that I need to wake up to my full potential, or something. You know. If you believe in that sort of thing.
(Dream interpretation, that is. Not ghost children.)

It is also possible that they are trying to tell me something. Like "stop eating tomatoes" or "you're going to start having problems with indigestion...oooOooOOoo"  - which is entirely possible because I woke up with chest pain the next morning and was told it might be esophageal spasms. 

Anyway, I named that post "Ghost Adventures: Charleston"  because it was about ghosts, adventures, and being back in Charleston.  But recently that post (and my blog, as a result) got a bit more attention when GHOST ADVENTURES CAME TO CHARLESTON.

just a few honest guys in Ed Hardy t-shirts lookin to tell a story

Yep, they came here, stayed over night in a "haunted" jail a few blocks away from campus (that is now a school for textile arts and historic preservation) and caused a general ruckus.  But unfortunately, I confused a few people with the title of that post, which of course was the second item when you Google searched "ghost adventures Charleston" or "ghost adventures in Charleston" etc.


ALSO, even though I had a HUGE paper due the next day, I knew I couldn't be in the same city with these guys and not try to see them.  I didn't want to tell my grandchildren the story about how I almost met Zak Bagans, but decided it would be more prudent to spend my adventuring time in the library. So I went.

staging a boo hag hanging at the jail. gotta love twit pics.

And there was nothing to see.
A few other fans meandering around the building, a mild greenish glow from a room upstairs, and dashed hopes.  But at least we tried. At least we ventured.  And I got the paper done, don't worry.

Though I am still a bit upset I didn't make a weird noise that could later be analyzed in slow motion and captioned to say "Die Zac" or "Go home" or "Boo hag's gonna get ya."


Tune in for the Charleston episode on Travel Channel on December 16th!

procrastiknitting, meet procrastiblogging.

Things that I am thinking about right now:

1. I don't want to be writing this paper.  

Prompt: If you'd been put in charge of raising you, what would you do the same and what would you do differently? What "risk factors" do you think you could have avoided? 

Seriously. "Tell me how your parents messed you up. Be explicit. Also, be explicit enough to fill 2-3 pages single spaced."
I told my mom about having to write this and all she said to me was "Don't let me read it. I don't want to read it."  Relax, Mom. I'm trying to figure out a way to write this paper but not write this paper.



      2.  ARRESTED DEVELOPMENT IS COMING BACK!!  

I feel like shouting it from the rooftops! Which I could probably do because we have access to the fire escape.
 
      3.  I would rather be using this time to finish knitting my sweater.

I only have the sleeves left to do. Well, and 8" of the right side...but if I play my cards right, I could be finishing that to.night. If I ever write this damn paper.

This is what it's going to look like. (pictures to prove my skill later)

OK, no more procrastiknitting or procrastiblogging.  Time to settle into this awful paper.

Good night.

Ghost Adventures: Charleston, SC

Back in Charleston for my last year of college. It's bittersweet.  I love being back here, but it's a bit like visiting a dying relative:  I know my time is short with Charleston so I am trying to make the most of it. Every rain storm, every sunset, every "what is that smell?" hits me in a certain place in my heart.
But I can't be sad. Because it is Charleston after all, and being here just makes me overcome with happiness.

This year, I am living in a historic house. (or is it "an historic house?" I never understood that)  It feels like living in an apartment, even though it is owned by the College and we live on dorm furniture.  It also feels a bit like living in a haunted house.

Evidence our house may be "haunted"

1. Our bathroom is a prime murdering location:
• The light comes on in sharp flickers, as if the last time it was used was to light a meat locker or an abandoned warehouse.
• We have a medicine cabinet.  Which is just begging ghosts/zombies/murderers to pop up behind you when you're putting your toothbrush away.
2. The demon fire that heats our stove top MELTED a tea pot. Melted it. Melted a seasoned tea pot meant to withstand hot stoves. It didn't melt all last year OR the day before on the same stove on the same burner. Only conclusion: demon fire.
3. At the foot of my bed there is a crawl space. To the attic. Just one tiny latch standing between me and whatever decides to come out of there. Nuff said.
4. The floor is squeaky. Which is, you know. Annoying.

However, even though our house may be haunted, it hasn't killed us yet (knock on wood)!




Alright, now I must get to work like a good college student. I must confess that I wrote this first to get my writing brain loosened up so that I could write my first paper of the semester (assigned the first day of classes and due the third day of classes! yay. shouldn't I be taking ice skating instead? clearly I'm doing this wrong)

this type

"Claire!"

My ears prick up at my name. I am walking from the MARTA station to my office and halfway through one of the tunnels between two buildings (the kind that go over the street) when I hear someone call my name. Who would be calling my name this far from the office? Maybe it's one of the people I work with who ride MARTA.

Anyone who knows my name can't be a stranger.

I turn around to face the person who has called my name.   ...And I do not recognize this person.  He is about my height, mid forties, African-American, bespectacled. I've definitely never seen him before.  But how could he know my name?
Maybe I met him around the office.  Maybe someone directed him to one of the interns because he needed help on a project.

I put on my polite face.

He says hi, and allows his business card to do the introduction.  He talks to me about working in the building, asks me about my job, what I am doing, what I am studying etc.  It dawns on me that the only way he could have known my name is if he had read it off my ID badge.

As the topics get more personal, I realize this is not a business transaction.  And then as he walks with me through the lobby towards the elevators, my suspicions are confirmed.

"So, what are your lunch plans?"

I told him it was my last week of work and burrowed myself through people deep into the back of the elevator.

It's happened again!  Sometimes people have a "type" that they date/are attracted to...but what if a type has you?

I did not get this kind of creeper attention before...

1. I got a job, and
2. I got my hair cut.

This damn Zooey Deschanel hair is just too cute for its own good. And all kinds of creepers are getting trapped in it like a fisher's net. Made of bangs.
 

Oh, Zooey.

Re: Paco (reply-all)

Reply-alls suck.  I get it now. I get all the lame office humor about conference calls and intra-office memos.  I may even enjoy Office Space more now. 

A few weeks ago, I became part of a weekly event called Subway Wednesdays.  An email would go out Wednesday morning asking who was planning on coming.  Once I replied, however, I became bombarded by reply-alls.  They all referred to an inside joke about a pinata from the office July 4th barbeque. 



At first the magnitude of the emails annoyed me, but it was actually pretty funny...

Me:  agh I keep getting email notices
        and they are reply-alls to a lunch invite today
        and they are all jokes about some girl named Liz marrying a pinata named Paco

Jenna:  you're making this up

Me:  and this last one:

"Hey Alex, how bout we throw Paco a bachelor party?! Nothing but the finest equine for our ol' buddy! "

Jenna:   hahaha the people you work with are awesome
 
Me:  except I know for a FACT they can not bring Paco to lunch today
        at least not all of him
        because his leg is in my cubicle

Jenna:  O_O

Me:  hollowed out and full of Reese's cups

Jenna:  that is grotesque, madam  

           and incredibly tasty
Me:     SPOILS OF WAR
 

Jenna:  hahaha
           speaking of severed limbs, DEXTER

one more New York story

I'm trying to decide the best way to tell this story. It needs to accurately convey my emotional states through every point: exposition, rising action, climax, denoument, the whole enchilada*. So here goes.

(*side note: don't ever use the phrase "the whole enchilada" in an essay on an exam about Skinner's learning principles, or your professor will leave the comment "...no" next to it and [along with the receipt of a crappy grade in the first place] reduce you to a shapeless mess of low self-esteem noodles in tepid weak sauce)

The last advice Mallory gave to me before heading to New York for the first time ever was

"Make sure you get a window seat on the left side. You'll get to see Manhattan from the plane as you fly in!"

So when I checked into the airport and picked my seat at the ticket printer, of course I got the last left-side window seat. 30A. Success.  Boy, I thought, what a super lucky day for me.

As I boarded the plane, I realized I was not so lucky after all.  For some reason, this was the stupidest plane ever and there was a big ole jet engine obscuring my view.

I took my window seat and began to read my book.  The man in the seat next to me (the aisle seat - this plane had a [][]  [][][] set up) sat down as he was chatting to his friend. They were play-arguing about how many apps he had on his iPhone.

"I've got everything I need. Why would I put anything else on here? ...yeah I know, that does sound cool. But I don't need anything fancy! I've got what I need, I'm happy, leave me alone!  hahaha"   

Hmmm, I thought, that is the most sensible iPhone user I've ever eavesdropped on. A few minutes later, he broke the silence between us, the pointed silence created between two people on public transportation (and that's all a plane is, really. Public transit. Just like taking the bus!), to say

Plane guy: Don't let me hog the arm rest. I'm always hogging this thing.  (friendly smile)
Me: Oh, no, I'm fine. Thanks though.
      (inner monologue): Shit. Now when he does hog the arm rest I'm not allowed to get upset about it. ...Wow, I am pretty crammed up against this window. I look like I'm trying as hard as I can to be as far away from him as possible. And he's just trying to be nice. (I try to loosen up my body and unroll from the ball I have hunched myself into.)

 Then, a few minutes later:

Plane guy: So, whatcha readin'?
Me: (tilts book to show cover) It's one of the Game of Thrones books. It's the second one. It's pretty good. But I don't usually read fantasy so... I dunno. I like it, I guess. (inner monologue): Why am I talking so much?? I'm one of those annoying plane people. No. Wait a minute. Why is this middle-aged man interrupting my precious book reading time by asking stupid questions?  ...He must be one of those nervous fliers who talks to people to pass the time and distract him from worrying about his impending fiery death.

So, in an act of kindness from the "hey, this guy could be Jesus" school of thought that I learned from my mother, I indulged his chatting.  We talked about what I was studying in school (a lot to say) and the city of Atlanta (less to say) and local sports teams (even less to say).  He asked my advice about schools and SAT scores because it turns out his "friend" sitting in the aisle next to us was actually his sixteen year old son.

Eventually, I realized our conversation was none too interesting, and I began to check the time more and more frequently. But I kept smiling, because I had no way of escaping the conversation (I couldn't think of a cleverer way to say "Can you please stop talking now, I'd like to read at least two pages of my book before we land, thanks.") But as I've learned before, my please-let-this-conversation-be-over-soon smile is virtually indistinguishable from my you're-my-favorite-person-ever smile, at least to people who don't know me.

As the plane began to lose altitude, I finally got my first view of the city.

taken by snaking my camera-arm around the sleeping woman in front of me

Then the man next to me turns to me to shake my hand.

Plane Guy: I just realized this whole time we've been talking and I don't even know your name.
Me: Sorry! I'm Claire.  (no last names. my momma didn't raise no fool)
Plane Guy: Claire? Claire. nice name. I'm *****.   ...hey listen, Claire. I was wondering, I'd like to have your number. 

UM WHAT. wait, wait, wait. Maybe this man is just trying to be nice. He knows I have never been to New York before, and he probably wants to exchange numbers in case I get lost or need help. Or maybe to give to his son? Claire, you never should have told him you've never been to New York before. He'll probably murder you. Don't give him your number. WAIT, unless if you don't give it to him you make him angry, leading him to murder you. Walking on a razor's edge... 

Me: Um...O...K.... it's ***-***-**** (give him a fake area code. genius. that way, there's no hesitation when I roll off the numbers, so he won't get wise and murder me on the plane.)

Plane Guy: "yeah, I was thinking we could grab lunch sometime at Atlantic Station...
WHAT. NO.

...maybe grab a glass of wine...

FULL OF RUFIES AND POISON????

...you are old enough to drink, right?"

CREEPY DUDE, you KNOW I am in college. Also, your 16 year old son is watching you try to make lunch plans with a 20 year old girl from the plane. I WILL NOT BE HIS NEW MOM.

At this point,  I am refusing to move my head at all. I am staring straight ahead, towards the front of the plane where the stewardesses are ushering people off the plane. Away from other creepy passengers. To safety.

Me: Um, no, my birthday is in a month.
Plane Guy: (playfully) Well you do eat, don't you?
Me: Um... (the blood has drained from my face) yeah (I am petrified by uncomfortableness and fear of upsetting a potential murderer)

Plane Guy stands up and begins to get his belongings from the overhead bins. (Thank you, Jesus)  He has stopped talking to me and I am using the silence as an opportunity to plan my escape route. Then he looks over at me, and adds as an afterthought:

Plane Guy: Hey Claire, ...you tall?

How the hell am I supposed to answer that? I believe I replied something to the effect of

Me: uh, kinda, but not as tall as my DAD or my THREE BROTHERS. They're tall. And pretty muscly. Quick to anger too. And as protective as mother geese. So, I dunno. Does that answer your question?

I then waited for everyone else to exit the plane, hoping that this man would get far far ahead of me.  Then, just for good measure, I hid in the women's bathroom for about 20 minutes.

Welcome to New York City, Claire!

married to the Eiffel Tower

So I've just finished watching a documentary called Married to the Eiffel Tower.  It's about three women who are objectum sexuals.
"Objectum sexuality" or object sexuality is defined by Wikipedia as

"a pronounced emotional and often romantic desire towards developing significant relationships with particular inanimate objects. Those individuals with this expressed preference may feel strong feelings of attraction, love, and commitment to certain items or structures of their fixation."

One woman married the Eiffel Tower a few years before the production of this documentary.  She is also a world champion archer, and developed a particularly strong relationship with her bow, Lance.  She also has significant relationships with the Golden Gate Bridge, a samurai sword, various wooden gates and the Berlin Wall. Throughout the movie, we get to see several moments of this woman and her fellows caressing buildings, sharing a bed with miniature models, and visiting their significant others (some of which are in different continents).

Mrs. Eiffel Tower visited Berlin to see her lover:
To the Berlin Wall: "I tried to hate you. I tried. ...I curse myself for being human. I wish I were an object like you!"

This movie is just as interesting as I had hoped it would be and is filled with leagues of psycho-data to analyze and think about.  The only part that made me marginally upset was that these women (all objectum sexuals are women, according to the documentary) claimed to love these objects soooo deeply.  With more passion and depth than most human relationships.  But they also loved so many at the same time.
Does Mrs. Eiffel Tower have no respect for the sanctity of marriage? She spends a great deal of her married life fawning over the  Berlin Wall (who is married to another woman in Sweden, the scoundrel) and falling in love with every red fence she sees with just the right angles. 

The documentarian fails to reveal that objectum sexuals believe in polygamy until the last ten minutes of the film. 

Anyway, I learned something today! Someone else watch this so we can have a chat!