More from the master builder

For months--maybe even years--I had been complaining about Matt's nightstand. It was an old piece of Target or Walmart do-it-yourself furniture, and it looked awful next to the rest of our bedroom furniture. He must've gotten tired of listening to me complain, because he built the most beautiful piece of furniture in our home:

And it's already right at home, complete with a laptop, textbook, and all sorts of other things cluttering it.

Partners in Crime

Matt was having trouble with a computer recently. Thankfully, Barley was there to lend moral support (not to mention technical assistance).

Merry Christmas

Our Christmas puppy wishes all our friends and family a happy Christmas and a healthy new year!

But he also kindly asks that you keep it down. He's exhausted.

O Holy What?

In honor of (or perhaps, quite unintentionally, to dishonor) the upcoming holiday, I have to share this update of a Christmas classic.

I hope it brings all of you as much joy as it brought a building full of cranky people, forced to teach sugar-high teenagers for four worthless hours the day before a holiday break.

"A few" packing peanuts

Because most of our friends and family live elsewhere, Matt and I spent a lot of time packing and shipping Christmas presents over the past couple weeks. After a particularly disastrous shipping experience last year, Matt became concerned with shipping safety this year. Add to that the fact that we were shipping some bottles, and he was downright obsessed. He started squirreling away packing peanuts, spare styrofoam, you name it. He urged me to be sure I didn't throw away any packing materials that came our way.

So when a colleague sent an email last week advertising "A few" available packing peanuts, I went to his classroom quickly to claim them. Little did I know that his definition of "a few" was either questionable or intentionally dubious:

Those aren't two huge bags of packing peanuts, but rather one giant bag stuffed inside a smaller bag. Even after we sent packages all over the country...

our bag of packing peanuts didn't look any smaller:

In fact, I think it may have grown.

Snowtopia

The Baltimore area was hit with a blizzard this weekend. For those of us from a naturally snowy climate, it was like a small taste of home. In fact, I think there may even be more snow on the ground in Maryland than in Minnesota.

The entire area shut down for the entire weekend, and we were out of school today. Here's just a glimpse of what our neighborhood looks like (we haven't ventured much farther than that):


And, of course, a video of Barley trying to run/hop through the snow:

Nuggets of Matt Brilliance

Matt and I have been cooped in the house for the last couple days because of all the snow (more posts on that later). As might be expected, we've let personal hygiene slip in the process. Until now...

Matt: "I just took a shower."

Me: "Well done."

Matt: "That means you have to take one, too. If one person takes a shower, then the other person has to. That's the rule. I don't want to notice how you smell."

Lovely.

Santa Fred

First, please note that this post has absolutely nothing to do with 2007's lackluster holiday movie, Fred Claus.

It does, however, have everything to do with my father's inherent potential. Some people were born to do certain things. I've always thought my father was blessed to have three choices:

1. Inspire children to enjoy American history and politics,
2. Mow the lawn at Jerry Garcia's estate just to see how many stoned "Deadheads" would think Jerry was back from the grave, or
3. Work just one or two months out of each year playing Santa Claus.

For years, I was convinced the answer was #1, all the while hoping it would be #2. Looks like #3 wins out, much to the benefit of little children everywhere:

Nuggets of Matt Brilliance

Matt makes me laugh just about every day. No, Matt makes me laugh every single day. Far be it from me to deprive the world of his quips.

One of my favorite of Matt's quirks is that he is a terribly picky eater. He doesn't eat gourds (pumpkin, squash, etc.), he doesn't like nuts in anything, and he always leaves just one little bite on his plate of whatever he's eating. Just today, when cutting in to some delicious coffee cake:

"Wait a second. This better not have anything fancy in it like stupid figs or nuts...or dates...is this a raisin?!"

An etymologist's dilemma

On the way home from school today, I was passed (quite speedily, I might add) by a man driving a vehicle with handicapped plates (or, for the PC and alliteration-loving among us, "disabled person parking plates").

First, the juxtaposition of the plates with the speed with which he passed me (he was going at least 90) made me laugh. Before he completely zipped by, however, I caught a glimpse of something that kept me entertained for the rest of the trip--vanity plates that read "LAME."

This puzzled me. Did he mean that it was "totally lame" that his know-it-all children or bossy wife made him get the "disabled person parking plates"? Or was being lame, in fact, his disability?

Dialing down the teacher

This time of year is always busy, but this year seems busier than most. I seem to have an inordinately large number of papers to grade, more students than average who need extra help, homework and presentations for the class I'm taking, not to mention loads and loads of Christmas shopping. Perhaps because of all this seasonal stress, I've had a harder time than usual lately dialing down the teacher while in public.

At a local mall just last night, I had three separate teacher moments with local teenagers:

I saw a young man with low-riding pants, and I had to stop myself mid-sentence from telling him to take pull them off. "No one wants to see that," I started to say.

I saw a young lady drop something, pause long enough to look at it, then keep walking. This time, I tried to stop myself but succumbed to the pressure. I asked her to come pick up what she had dropped.

I saw a group of young men wearing the exact same red baseball hat, all of which had oversized flat brims and were far too large for their little heads. This time, I didn't even try to stop myself. I turned to the friend I was shopping with and said rather loudly, "Isn't it a shame that they couldn't at least find different dorky hats?"

Pearls of Teenage Wisdom

My students were scheduled to give oral presentations today. Most of them went quite well. Others, however...

Student: "I can't give my presentation today. Actually, I won't be ready until later this week."

Me: "Why not? We've been working on these for weeks, and you had all of Thanksgiving break to prepare."

Student: "I have a zit."

Chickens: nature's clowns

Today is the last of what has become a three-part "videos that make Rachel laugh" series. I have always insisted that chickens are the most hilarious of all animals (certainly the most hilarious of the water fowl). I implore my readers to watch this video and not laugh. Go ahead. Just try. I dare you.

Ode to Muppets

Always of the belief that there is no such thing as too much Muppets, here are a few more that follow in the same vein as yesterday's Muppets post. For some reason, the Muppets performing classical music seems even more appropriate than the Muppets performing Queen.

Queen of Muppets

Because life with "Bohemian Rhapsody" is good.

Life with the Muppets is better.

Life with both makes for a very happy Thanksgiving weekend.

Pearls of Teenage Wisdom

This was one of the longest weeks ever. I think it took me an entire week to recover from last Saturday's birthday bash. Perhaps, then, I shouldn't have been surprised when I kept forgetting things all week. Yesterday morning, I forgot to put on half my makeup (that is, I forgot to use half my products, not I only made up half my face). The fact that I forgot just half was especially ridiculous.

I realized that I was missing my eye makeup when I was only about ten minutes from home. I figured no one would notice, though, so I just kept driving. But I forgot how aware of these things teenage girls are:

First Period...
Student: "Are you tired? You look really tired today."
Me: "Actually, yes, I am really tired."
(No idea that she was really saying, "Your eyes look strangely disgusting today.")

Third Period...
Student: "Are you feeling okay today? You look a little sick."
Me: "Well, I'm a little tired, but fine otherwise."
(No idea that she was really saying, "You look sickly and gross without a little help from Clinque.)

Sixth Period...
Student: "Do you usually wear glasses? Something seems different about you."
Me (yes, it took me this long to remember): "Yeah, I forgot to wear eye makeup today."
Student: "That's it!"
Another student: "How do you forget something like that?"

Seriously, I'm turning the car around next time.

The big birthday bash

What's better than one 30th birthday? Two 30th birthdays and a 28th birthday thrown in for good measure!

I was lucky enough to celebrate my milestone birthday with Kris, who was also turning 30, and Mary, who is a wee child of 28:

In honor of our milestones, we celebrated with an assortment of old-people favorites, from mashed potatoes and Jello to our signature "coffeetini" cocktail (modeled here with Jessica who made the journey from Pittsburgh for the big bash):

Matt also got us some headwear that he thought would be appropriate (if not for a birthday party, then for next year's American Gothic-inspired Halloween costume):

And I don't remember the last time I had a cake with my name on it (Thanks, Arjun!):

Thank you, Mary and Kris, for making my 30th birthday 30 times as fun and 30 times as memorable.

(And thank you for the photos, Arjun!)

Our compliments to the chef

Last weekend, Matt took me to Woodberry Kitchen in Baltimore for my birthday. I loved the food--especially the emphasis on local, sustainable agriculture. Matt, on the other hand, won't be requesting a return visit for his birthday.

As soon as we sat down, our waiter talked ad nauseam about their "extremely special" pork feature that was butchered on-site and came from a farm in New Jersey that only sold to three restaurants in the entire world. I believe the word "succulent" was used at least five times. A few minutes later, he came back to ask if we had any questions. He saw me looking at the wine list and went off on another five-minute oration about a specific region in California that produces some of the finest wine blends this side of Bordeaux. Apparently, he lived there for quite some time and "really experienced" the wine. Matt was so annoyed by this time, that he refused to make eye contact and insisted that we order everything quickly and avoid all possible conversation starters. I thought we were in the clear until we discovered the cheese appetizer we wanted wasn't available. Our waiter used this as an opportunity to tell us the names and favorite colors of the goats the other selections came from.

I think the waiter sensed our (okay, Matt's) irritation. Not more than five minutes after taking our order, he not only complimented the next table on their wonderful meal order, but also brought them an order of oysters on the house. Just a few minutes after that, the chef visited another table and brought them a free dessert.

Rachel: "Check that out. The chef is visiting that table over there."
Matt: "Really? Why?"
Rachel: "I don't know. Maybe they did that whole 'compliments to the chef' thing."
Matt: "You mean, they burped really loudly?"

And the mystery of the oil-and-water relationship of Matt and Woodberry Kitchen continues...

Pearls of Teenage Wisdom

A young lady overheard in the cafeteria today:

"Most boys are lying to you. Some just pretend they're not."

I wish I had learned by then what she knows now.

"You're Aging Well"

Perhaps still reeling from my 30th birthday last week, I've had another one of my favorite Dar Williams songs in my head for many days. As I've said before, her songs have a unique way of cycling through my life and popping up when I need them most. This one was a great companion this week (and the imagery in this version is inspiring for any woman of any age):



"You're Aging Well"

Why is it that as we grow older and stronger
The road signs point us adrift and make us afraid?
Saying "You never can win," "Watch your back," "Where's your husband?"
I don't like the signs that the signmakers make.

So I'm going to steal out with my paint and my brushes,
I'll change the directions, I'll hit every street,
It's the Tinseltown scandal, the Robin Hood vandal,
She goes out and steals the King's English
And in the morning you wake up and the signs point to you,

They say
"I'm so glad that you finally made it here,"
"You thought nobody cared, but I did, I could tell,"
And "This is your year," and "It always starts here,"
And oh-oh oh-oh-oh oh-oh, "You're aging well."

Now I know a woman with a collection of sticks,
She could fight back the hundreds of voices she heard
And she could poke at the greed, she could fend off her need
And at anger she found she could pound every word.

But one voice got through and caught her up by surprise
It said, "Don't hold us back, we're the story you tell,"
And no sooner than spoken, a spell had been broken
And the voices before her were trumpets and timpani
Violins, basses and woodwinds and cellos, singing,

"We're so glad that you finally made it here,
You thought nobody cared, but we did, we could tell
And now you'll dance through the days while the orchestra plays
And oh-oh oh-oh-oh oh-oh, you're aging well."

Now when I was fifteen, oh I knew it was over,
The road to enchantment was not mine to take,
'Cause lower calf, upper arm should be half what they are,
I was breaking the laws that the signmakers made.

And all I could eat was the poisonous apple
And that's not a story I was meant to survive,
I was all out of choices, but the woman of voices
She turned round the corner with music around her,
She gave me the language that keeps me alive, she said:

"I'm so glad that you finally made it here,
With the things you know now, that only time could tell,
Looking back, seeing far, landing right where we are
And oh-oh oh-oh-oh oh-oh, you're aging, oh oh-oh-oh oh-oh and I am aging,
oh oh-oh-oh oh-oh, aren't we aging well?"

Pearls of (Young) Teenage Wisdom

Some colleagues and I spent today, my 30th birthday, at a local middle school. Our goal was to see how one of our "feeder schools" prepares students for the types of activities they'll have to do in high school.

The highlight of the day was in the first class we visited. The teacher introduced us as guests from Dulaney High School. One of the middle school students turned around and asked, "Are you teachers or students?" We told him that we're teachers, and he said, "Really? You look like you're in high school."

I know we're not supposed to pray in public schools, but on this, the dawn of what was very nearly a third-life crisis, I uttered a quiet, "God, bless this child."

God Dog

On our way to church this morning--and on this All Saints' Day--this video seems especially appropriate:

The Haircut

I got a haircut earlier this week. I told my husband about it a dozen times in at least a dozen different ways, but maybe I was too subtle:

"Ugh, my hair looks awful. I'm so glad it's getting chopped this week."

"Only two more days, and I get rid of all these split ends!"

And perhaps the most cryptic message of all:

"Matt, I'm going to get a haircut right now."

I got home and waited for Matt to say something. Nothing. I waved my head in his face, and he said, "Oh yeah. How was your haircut?" I told him that I finally got my split ends cut off and my color spruced up. "I'm sorry, but I've decided that hair removal must be greater than or equal to three inches before I'll notice," he said.

The next day at school, not two minutes into first period, a female student asked, "Did you get your hair done? It looks a little darker. And is it shorter? Did you get layers? I don't think it used to flip out like that." Apparently, to a teenage girl, a haircut can be less than or equal to a quarter of a millimeter, and it will get noticed.

A Teaching Bonus

I took a pretty big pay cut when I started teaching. I know I get compensated in other ways--touching the lives of young people, blah, blah, blah. Some days, though, I miss the cold hard cash.

One of my students must have sensed my need today. As the three pennies whizzed by my head and clanged against a filing cabinet, the entire class fell silent. Perhaps they thought he'd be in trouble. I thanked him for the bonus.

This everyday problem can be solved any time

My Facebook status earlier this week read, "Grammar peeve of the day: anytime is not the same as any time, nor is everyday the same as every day." For those who may not know, anytime and everyday are adjectives. Anytime describes an object that is frequently used; everyday describes something commonplace and ordinary. Any time and every day, however, describe how often something happens. For example, "I use my anytime phone any time I want to call someone" or "I do my everyday workout every day."

In the last week or so, I've counted at least six separate instances of "anytime" being used in advertising when "any time" should have been used. I'm at the end of my grammar rope.

I've heard advertisers say they use grammatically incorrect language because of the asthetics or because they're trying to be clever or make a point, but I wonder if they realize what a disservice they do to our young people in the process. When an incorrect way of speaking becomes ingrained in students' lexicon, they honestly can't see language any other way. "But that doesn't sound right" or "But that just looks wrong," they say. At that point, I've lost many of them before we even begin. It's not cute when students have been programmed with incorrect information.

Thanks to Apple, students think "funnest" is a word. The SAT still knows the difference. Thanks to Sprint, NBC and many others, they think anytime and any time are interchangeable. The PSAT still knows the difference. Thanks to grocery stores around the country and those darned Gardasil commercials, they don't see a difference between less and fewer. Sadly, the ACT still knows the difference.

I recognize that it's my job to teach my students these rules (plus a few hundred others), and we do work religiously with grammar in my classroom. But how do I convince them these rules matter if they see the rules broken everywhere they look? Think of how much more they could learn if I spent less time deprogramming and more time teaching.

Please, advertisers. Help me help them.

We fought the bees, and the bees (nearly) won

I've written much recently (perhaps too much) about what a Renaissance Man my husband is. From woodworking to mechanics, it seemed he could do it all. Then, we met the bees, and we had to call in a professional.

It's not that Matt didn't do everything he could do get rid of our friendly infestation. He dressed in his best homemade beer keeper outfit...

and built a contraption to try to combat the bees from the outside:



In retrospect, it may not have been surprising that sealing up the house and sucking the bees into a ShopVac only put a Band-Aid on the problem. It was a lot of fun, but it was a Band-Aid nonetheless.

Finally, Matt found the source of our buzzing buddies. He cut a hole in our basement ceiling and found a papery hive the size of a basketball:

When a strategically placed bug bomb only killed the bees that were already outside of the hive, we decided it was time to call in a professional. Never having called an exterminator before, we called a big-name company, Terminix. The technician who arrived was pleasant enough, but he nearly fell off the ladder when he saw the hive. He then screamed like a child and ran upstairs, waving his arms wildly above his head (no exaggeration). Matt followed him up the stairs and said, as only Matt can say, "I have to tell you, dude. That reaction doesn't inspire confidence."

The Terminix guy made a few frantic calls to superiors, all of whom told him that it was "illegal" to remove bees and that our only solution was a year-long contract involving the spraying of various chemicals. When he hung up the phone, I told him there was no such law and he said, "Yeah...I really don't know." Never being happy with the idea of either spraying needless chemicals or giving money to big business, Matt and I decided to keep our options open.

The next day, we found a listing for a local bee-removal specialist. John Roswell's company (if one could even call it that) was nothing fancy--just a one-man operation. He drove up to our house in an old Chevrolet Astro van, and he stepped out with a big glove and a stick. While the Terminix man (aka "Chemical Ali") ran away from our problem, John climbed up the ladder, sprayed something on the hive to kill all the bees, then used the big stick to poke at the hive. He then went out to his van for an old cardboard box and scraped the hive remains into it. We told him that the Terminix guy said he'd never seen anything like our hive. John laughed and said, "Then he hasn't seen that much."

After the entire hive was removed, John showed us the larve in the hive and explained how queens are bred and the hives are built, all the while speaking with a sense of respect for his 30-year adversary. By the end of the conversation, all three of us were captivated by what had once been an infestation. This is just a tiny piece of what was extracted from our ceiling:
John was a mixture of insane bravery and old-school charm. He charged half what Terminix would have, but I would have paid him twice as much.

My morning companion

Matt is taking a little break from work to go to school full-time (i.e., he's the luckiest person alive), so he sleeps later than my usual 5:00 wake-up call. Rather than let me face such an early hour alone, Barley keeps me company. From my shower and getting dressed to my ritualistic cup of coffee with the Washington Post, Barley is right there.

Still, the early morning hour means that Barley doesn't always bring his A-game. Last week, he tripped on a few stairs in the dark. Before that, he tried to walk through a closed door...three times. Just a couple days ago, he tried to join me in the bathroom, but found an adversary in the shower curtain. He tried to free himself, but gave up half-way:

Don't worry, Barley. Winter break and sleeping in are right around the corner.

Pearls of Teenage Wisdom

Student, deep in contemplation: "Why is the word 'abbreviation' so long?"

I laughed clear to the next class.

A million years ago...

October 15, 2005 seems both like yesterday and a million years ago, both for all the right reasons.

Happy anniversary, love.

"Do Not Feed the Animal"

Part of the one-person-coming-home-later-than-the-other routine in our house is to give Barley his last scoop of food. Every once in a while, however, Barley will beg well enough to get his last scoop early. That begins a stream of telephone calls, text messages and oddly-placed Post-It notes to let the other party know that the dog has already been fed. Barley, on the other hand, pulls out his most pathetic looks to convince the late-arriver that the person sleeping upstairs has allowed him to starve.

When I got home late a few nights ago, Matt had gone to bed, and I was left wondering once again if Barley had been fed. Barley (aka, "Buddy Dog") tried to tell me that he was starving, but Matt was one step ahead of him. He left this note right above the spot where Barley waits to be fed:

But that didn't stop the poor, starving Buddy Dog from trying:

Pearls of Teenage Wisdom

Me: "Remember, 'a lot' is two words. Every time I see it written as one word, I sprout another gray hair."
Student: "You don't have any gray hairs. Oh, wait. I see them now."

With another class later that very same day...

Me: "And what was the name of the mountain where the shepherd found Oedipus?" (The correct answer is "Mount Citheron.")
Student shouting from the back with complete sincerity: "Mount Syphilis!"
Another student, also with complete sincerity: "Really? I thought that was something else."

Portrait of a Yankees Fan

Last night, I watched the home field umpiring Twins game at a local bar. Lady Luck sat me next to a quintessential Yankees fan, unapologetically oblivious to the fact that his designer shirt and uncomfortable shoes looked ridiculous at a blue-collar bar. He may have been out of place, but at least he was obnoxious about it:

Yankees fan circa inning seven: "Oh, great. A-Rod is up. God, I hate that mother f***er."
Yankees fan in the bottom of the ninth: "Yeah! That's my A-Rod! God, I love that guy."

Yankees fan in the top of the ninth: "I can't believe they're going to lose to those f***ing farmers. God, the Yankees suck."
Yankees fan in the bottom of the ninth: "Yeah! The Yankees always win!"

Perhaps not surprisingly, said Yankees fan did not take kindly to a certain die-hard Twins fan publicly calling him out for such hypocrisy. Nor was said hypocrite pleased when said Twins fan suggested that fewer people would hate the Yankees if their fans supported their team win or lose and worked for their championships instead of buying them. Thank goodness said Twins fan was among like-minded friends or this post may have had an entirely different focus, most likely involving a more interesting story about a bar brawl and eventual jail time.

Christmas in October...almost

Last weekend, Matt and I visited the B&O Railroad Museum in Baltimore, one of the rather obscure museums in town that I'd always been meaning to visit but never quite seemed worth the $14 admission. We were lured to the museum in part by the draw of free admission, but mostly by the visiting Christmas Carol Train Tour, billed as a "once-in-a-lifetime attraction." The tour even advertised items from the Charles Dickens Museum! And for free? We wouldn't miss it.

Apparently, no family with a toddler in the greater Baltimore area was willing to miss it either. I doubt the main draw for any of them were the Dickens artifacts, however. Nevertheless, by the time we got to the back of the line, the wait was nearly two hours. We decided to skip the "Christmas in October" experience, but we did get to see the museum for free.

The museum is a converted train station and rail yard, so it's absolutely massive inside:

It's filled with old trains, many of which kids (of all ages) can climb on:

And what would a trip out and about be without a little grammatical error? Overused quotation marks have always been some of my "favorites":
I wonder if they meant to say, "If it does belong on the floor, leave it there," and were trying to be clever.

Barley vs the DVD Player

We're in the process of getting some new furniture in our basement, so our DVD player (as well as a few very tempting boxes) are taunting poor Barley on the floor.




He's insane, but we love him.

New in Town

Student: "You know who you remind me of?"
Me: (This question never ends well. I should just end this now, but...) "Who?"

Student: "That lady from the movie New in Town."
Me: (This might not be so bad.) "Really? Which character?" (Please say Renee Zellweger, please say Renee Zellweger.)

Student: "The lady who does all the scrapbooking in her kitchen and makes tapioca pudding."
Me: (Shut up, you little snot.) "Hm. I don't know if I see the resemblance."

Good-byes said too soon

I've been to far too many funerals for people under the age of 18. Really, just one is too many. Since I started teaching nearly a year ago, our school has lost three students tragically. I taught one of those students last year; another passed away this weekend.

Deaths of young people always seem senseless, but they often seem to be preventable as well. The teens I've lost have died by driving recklessly or by carelessly walking where they shouldn't have been. They're young and fearless: too young for death to find them.

I know someday, several years from now, Matt and I will have to let our children drive, take risks and learn from bad decisions. I just hope that they always remember how fragile a life can be, even a young one.

Pearls of Teenage Wisdom

Last week, my students wrote in class about their personal faults or failings, or their "hamartia." One young lady wrote:

"Sometimes it takes me too long to finish assignments because I'm a perfectionest."

Hmm...not quite.

Master mechanic

After the carpentry craftsmanship exhibited earlier this month, I should stop being surprised at what a Renaissance Man my husband is.

A few months ago, a drunk driver hit Matt's car, totally smashing the bumper and fender. Thankfully, Matt was unharmed, but his precious 1996 Buick Regal (affectionately referred to as "The Oldsmobuick" in our house) was in dire need of repairs. Matt went to Crazy Ray's junk yard religiously, hoping to find a 1996 Buick that wouldn't mind having its bumper and fender ripped off. Last week, Crazy Ray's delivered the proverbial pot of Buick gold (in sea foam green).

Crazy Ray's Buick before Matt ripped it apart:

...and after:

I came home that afternoon to find the bumper and the fender in the middle of our living room. Barley and I tripped over it for two days until Matt was able to take apart his damaged Buick and replace it with the junk yard parts. Now, you'd never be able to tell that his car was in an accident. The Buick moans and squeaks and whistles as it lumbers down the road, but, in all fairness, it did that before the accident, too.

Always being one to get as much of a bargain as possible (as if $100 body work is a rip-off), Matt also took the cassette tape from Crazy Ray's Buick, and he's been rocking out to some funky R&B mix ever since.

Pearls of Teenage Wisdom

One of my students' vocabulary words last week was "extol," which means "to praise extravagantly." While grading their quizzes, I came across this gem of a sentence:

"Whenever my dog goes to the bathroom outside, I have to extol it."

After I stopped laughing, I wrote on her paper, "What must you praise? The dog, or what it leaves behind?"

Swine flu? Make mine mad cow.

I share this clip for no other reason than to provide a sneak glimpse into the bizarre relationship my sister and I have. Every year for Christmas, she finds me the most obnoxious (she knows that's a compliment), animatronic gift imaginable. I've gotten everything from a flying bird or a bouncing frog to a mechanical gerbil in its own exercise ball. I won't even get into the enormous vibrating pickle she gave me last year. Let's just say there was more than one gaping face around the tree on Christmas Eve.

One year, she presented me with a plush version of this:



Imagine that in stuffed animal form, hopping up and down in the middle of your living room. Yes, that was my Christmas. And that is why I love my sister.

Master builder

The newest, most beautiful piece of furniture in my high school is the gorgeous podium my talented husband made for me. Who would have thought that this:

would lead to this:

and finally this?

Honestly, I don't really need a podium in my room. Rarely do I lecture my kids. And if I need to lecture, I walk around, up and down the rows. But my dad always had a podium in his room. He filled it with pictures of our family, and it became one of the (many) trademarks of his classroom. It's nice to have that spirit in my classroom, too.

And, talented as Matt is, he did have a little help from his apprentice, shown here, working hard in our laundry room/workroom:

Farewell, Keith Waterhouse

I wasn't too familiar with Keith Waterhouse while he was alive, but I wish now that I had been. David sent me a link to Mr. Waterhouse's recent obituary, which read, in part:

"His last column for The Daily Mail, 'It’s English as She Is Spoke Innit?,' written in May, dealt with language education. He was the founder and life president of the Association for the Annihilation of the Aberrant Apostrophe, a fictional organization dedicated to combating false plurals like tomato’s and road signs like the one he spotted near Sevenoaks, with letters three feet high that read BUSE’S ONLY."

After a long week of trying to make 15-year-olds care why "BUSE'S" is wrong, it's that much more depressing that someone who not only cared, but championed our cause, is no longer with us.

Click here to read more about Mr. Waterhouse, England's "All-Rounder."

Inside my wristlet world

I've been meaning to compose this "peek inside" post for quite some time. Rebecca suggested it while we were sitting on the D.C. Metro this summer, and I was methodically sorting, organizing, resorting and reorganizing the entire contents of my little wristlet. I've put off writing this post, however, since it seems--ironically--too self-indulgent for this overly self-indulgent medium. But I digress. And I allow you this look at the contents of my wristlet world:

1. Various insurance cards, all of which are especially useful if I never get sick and avoid all potential traffic accidents.
2. A check card with the worst photo I've ever taken. We'd only lived in Maryland a few weeks, and we had no idea that the bank would take our pictures THE DAY we opened the account. I hadn't showered. I was wearing old, broken glasses. I look terrible. Fortunately, I've had more than one clerk question whether the person on the card is actually me.
3. A Cabela's credit card. One guess whose idea that was.
4. A Barnes and Noble credit card, i.e. retaliation for the Cabela's credit card.
5. My Costco card. Again...no idea they were going to take my photo that day. Yuck.
6. A Maryland driver's license, right next to...
7. My old Minnesota license. Somehow, I had two before we moved (I think I lost one, then found it), and the DMV here only took one.
8. A ridiculous stream of loyalty and club cards. If a store has a loyalty program, I'm sucked in. I can't help it. Currently, I have an Aveda "Pure Privledge" card, a Staples "Teacher Rewards" card, a Barnes and Noble membership card, a Borders rewards card, a Farache "Frequent Facial" card, an underwear store rewards card, a "Cosi Card," and an Auntie Anne's "Pretzel Patron's Pass." And these are just the ones I have on me at all times, since most of my clothing and shoe store programs just send me coupons.
9. My membership card to the Smithsonian, and
10. My donor card for the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra. We have to support the arts now more than ever.
11. A background check/fingerprint card for Baltimore County Public Schools.
12. An emergency "find-a-sub" hotline card, which I've never had to use
13. A very helpful, yet somewhat frightening, card from my union: "What should you do if you are assaulted by a student?"
14. My College of Notre Dame student ID card, perfect for discounts to movie theaters and other places that have a student discount but no teacher discount.
15. My expired ticket from the Las Vegas monorail, right next to
16. My SmarTrip card for the D.C. Metro.
17. My polling place card, just in case I forget where to go and need to vote for something immediately
18. A membership card for the Democratic Congressional Campaign Committee, complete with a picture of President Obama, who, if memory serves, was never a Representative.
19. A business card from a homeless man I used to pass in the park every day. He also has a blog, which is worth checking out to see his picture and get a snapshot of the conversations we used to have. His tagline "Vatican, Finances, Mafia, Kalamazoo" pretty much sums it up.
20. Finally, and most importantly, my membership card to the Society for the Promotion of Good Grammar. It's worth noting that this membership will be null and void if I use "myself" instead of "me."

Labor Day is just a walk in the park

Or, more accurately, it's a hike through Patapsco Valley State Park with Matt and Barley.
Thank you, labor unions, for the 5-day work week, the consecutive-day weekend, and time to relax and enjoy my beautiful family.

Arrogant alpaca and paper-pushing poultry

Matt and I went to the Maryland State Fair last night. The highlights of the trip were found in two of the animal buildings.

For some reason, Matt has always had an alpaca aversion. He says they're the stuck-up kid of the animal world. As soon as we came around the corner and saw this guy, Matt said, "Well, well, well. Look at this smug jackass."

He said it was the hair, like the alpaca was trying to look like Prince from the Purple Rain era:

And for me, there's nothing like a little signage snafu to make an outing worthwhile. Was it really necessary to add "office" to this sign? Were they concerned that people from Baltimore would have otherwise thought that the two men sitting inside were poultry? "Wait. Those guys don't look like roosters. I don't get it."

Anarky

There are so many things about this picture that I love.

I don't even know where to start.

Perhaps with a poster-size print matted, framed and displayed prominently in our home.


p.s. Thanks for the picture, Garrett!

Puppies behind bars

I'll never stop being amazed at the debt we owe to dogs. This story is worth the 20-minute investment. It made me miss Newark, and it made me cry more than once.

Don't forget to eat

I once heard a seasoned veteran tell a new teacher, "Don't forget to eat." I thought she was crazy. When you're hungry, you eat. What's to remember? Plenty.

The hardest part of these first few days of school has been getting back into my "teacher timing." Not with my classes and my students, but with myself. I teach four periods in a row, which means I'm trapped in my room for nearly four hours. The "good" drinking fountain and faculty bathroom are both on the other side of the school, so if I need to use them (and, not surprisingly, I usually need to use both), I have to leave myself at least 6 minutes (also known as 1 minute longer than passing time). Yesterday, I forgot to fill up my water bottle, so I was dehydrated by the end of the four hours. Today, I forgot to visit the restroom. And the less said about my unfortunate choice of a Fiber One bar for breakfast, the better.

Dar-licious

What a great way to say good-bye to summer vacation. This weekend, Matt and I saw Dar Williams at a tiny performance venue in Annapolis, Ram's Head (Take notice of that apostrophe, "Rams Head," and please add it).

Since high school, Dar's music has been my constant companion. When I've been lonely, her music has comforted me. When I've struggled, her music has lifted me up. When I've rejoiced, her music has celebrated with me. Every time I think back to an amazing life experience, I remember also the Dar Williams song that accompanied me on the journey. Somehow, I remained calm enough to tell her this, even though the meeting moved me to tears. I'm so grateful that I had the chance to tell her what her presence through her music and her lyrics has meant to me.

For those who aren't familiar with Dar Williams, I encourage you to visit her website and listen to her music. If it sparks even a fraction of the emotion it's sparked in me over the last ten years, it will be worth the visit.

In the meantime, here are videos of a couple of my favorite songs, "I Won't Be Your Yoko Ono" and "After All." They're great examples of how diverse her songs are and what an amazing lyricist she is.

Gratuitous Cute

While Matt was in Minnesota last week, he got to spend time with our first (and, so far, only) niece, Lilly. They called a couple times, but I didn't really get to talk with her. Two-way telephonic communications are tricky when you're only two. So Matt sent me this video instead, which I'm sharing for no other purpose than gratuitous bragging:

Barley vs. Some Air

Matt has been working hard the last couple weeks, building me a podium for my beautiful new classroom. I think one of the reasons he's so excited about this project is that he gets to use his new air compressor/nail gun.

Barley, however, is not nearly as excited:


Note to the Maryland SPCA: No Barleys were harmed in the filming of this video. The nail gun portion is not attached to the compressor.

Back-to-school videos

At our first faculty meeting of the year yesterday morning, my principal talked about the dangers of pre-judging students based on reputations, siblings, etc. To hit the point home, he showed us these videos. Not only are they incredibly funny, they really are good metaphors for public education.

Barley and the Nemesis: a showdown

No, that's not really Barley ready to go head-to-head with a squirrel on our deck. If it was, I'd definitely be writing a much more interesting post.

Instead, the photo has merely been "squirrelized." For those who haven't caught on to the viral Internet phenomenon of "squirrelizing" photos, this is the original, unaltered vacation photo that inspired it:

The people in the photo were vacationing in Canada from Minnesota. They stopped to take a photo, and a local resident became interested in the sound the of the timer on the camera. Now, thanks to this site, you can insert said local resident into any of your favorite photos (including photos of those who would kill you if they knew they were in the same picture as a squirrel).

The Great Howard-County Get-Together

Matt and I went to the Howard County Fair last weekend. I tried hard not to, but I couldn't help comparing it to the Minnesota State Fair, aptly subtitled "The Great Minnesota Get-Together." I would never have compared the Carver County Fair to the State Fair, so this obviously wasn't the least bit fair (pun most definitely intended). I must be going through a bout of homesickness.

We ate some yummy fair food, but even crab cakes aren't cheese curds:

We saw all sorts of animals, but we didn't really get to pet any of them (look at the way they were facing):
Besides, all the animals had "makes delicious pork" and "always tender and juicy" signs hanging over them. I mean, I always knew that Piggy Mama was destined for a life as premium bacon, but there was never a need to broadcast it. Minnesotans are too polite, even to our livestock.

And the exhibit on Maryland farms (and there is a surprising abundance of farming in Maryland), while obviously a lot of fun, was just an unairconditioned trailer on the back end of the fair. There were no kids climbing on tractors. No one was looking for their family's name on a "Century Farms" list. No one was learning about what their state actually does, nor where the literal fruits of its labor actually goes.

In short, no one was embracing their inner agrarian...their inner Minnesotan.