Will you be my mommy? You smell like dead bunnies . . .

Random discussion before class begins
Quinci: So Boo-Boo is bigger than you, right?

Yogi: Yeah. My brother's a lot heavier. And taller. That's why everyone always says, "Hey! Boo-Boo can't be bigger than Yogi!"

During a class discussion of a review of Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull
Me: So the first Indiana Jones movie came out in 1981.

Cheryl: Wow. That was a long time ago. How old were you? 16?

Me: You just got some extra points. No. I was 20.

Quinci: 20. Wow. My mother is younger than you.

Me: Hmmm. Yes. Well, anyway . . .

Guy: So you're . . .

Me: Yes. I'm dumb old. Wait. Should I say "mad old" instead?

Jamie: Yeah. "Mad old" sounds better.

Me: Okay. So. Back to the review . . .

Cheryl (interrupting): So was that Indiana Jones movie in black and white?


Another random discussion during the last two minutes of class
Cheryl (to Yogi): Does your house smell like curry?

Yogi: What? Why?

Cheryl: Guyanese people smell like curry.

Yogi: My house doesn't smell like curry.

Breenah: White people smell like spaghetti.

Cheryl: And when it rains, they smell like wet dogs.

Me: What? Wet dogs?

Yogi: I don't know about that.

Me: What??

Quinci: What do Pakistani people smell like?

Cheryl: Curry.

Yogi: Does everyone smell like curry?

Breenah: No. Black people smell like must.

Quinci: Hey! I don't smell like that.

Breenah: Well, just the boys, and if they don't shower.

Me: Wait a minute. I smell like wet dogs??

Yogi: No, you don't. Cheryl just thinks everyone smells like curry anyway.

Me: So why don't I smell like curry??

Cheryl: No, I mean, white people have pets, and when it rains, they smell like their . . .

Yogi (interrupting): Do you just look at people and see them as food? I bet you do.

Cheryl (laughing): No, I mean, maybe . . .

Yogi: See? It's true! She does!

Me: Wait. I smell like wet dogs? And spaghetti? Why can't I smell like curry?

Yogi:No, Miss. You smell fine. But we'll say you smell like curry if you want us to.

Me fail English? That's unpossible.

Mark: How long is this movie review supposed to be?

Me: I told you on the assignment sheet I gave you yesterday, and which is sitting on your desk right in front of you.

Mark: It's easier for you to tell me.

Me: No, it's actually not.

Jen: So we're writing about two movies? Comparing them?

Me: What? No. Look at the assignment sheet, which I distinctly remember going over in class yesterday and which you have in front of you. It says write about one movie that you choose.

Jen: So it does it have to be one we did in class?

Me (taking a deep breath): Any movie that you choose. It could be one we saw during class, or it could be one you saw on your own, in a theater or at home.

Jen: But I didn't see all of Stranger Than Fiction last week. I was absent, remember?

Me (taking a deeper breath): That's why the assignment can be about ANY movie you want to write about.

Anthony: I bet you're having us write about a movie because we didn't read the book you left when the sub was here and they all disappeared.

Me: That's a good guess, Anthony.

George: But Miss, five to seven paragraphs is mad long. I can't write that much.

Me: Don't worry about the length right now. Just get started on one point and get that part roughed out. Besides, paragraphs can be all different lengths . . .

George (interrupting): No, they're supposed to be three or four sentences long.

Me: Where did you learn that??

Kira: So how long is this supposed to be?

Me (head buried in hands, groaning audibly): Read the assignment sheet again, please.

George: Miss, why do you stress yourself about us? You should just let us take the easy way.

(Murmurs of agreement from other parts of the room.)

Me: Hmmm, let me think about that . . . . um . . . . no.

George: Miss, I'll be honest with you. I've just been doing the bare mininum this year.

Me: Thanks for making that clear.

408 hours (not counting weekends)

By the end of this month, I will have missed 17 days of school, the most consecutive days ever (by far) in 20 years of teaching.

7 days more than I took for the birth of my son.

17 days for my husband grudgingly to allow me to help him after heart surgery.

17 days to get caught up on work.

17 days to do the laundry whenever I want.

17 days to miss at least 5 deadly after-school meetings.

17 days my alarm will not ring at 6:00 a.m. but at 8:00, according to the pill schedule.

17 days to appreciate the sort of freedom my retired friends enjoy.

17 days . . .

to receive emails from students: "hey huth we should watch the movie only Farshid and me and Liz are reading the book"

and "Hey mrs huth how is your husband clas is not as fun with out you. Hope yout husband gets sonn take care."

17 days to get calls from my sub, quiet desperation in his voice, asking me to please send in work that my students would want to complete.

17 days . . .

to realize that my home can be anywhere.

to know that my house is one of my favorite places despite its leaky and cracked spots.

to find that nesting instinct returning from so long ago as I try to make my son's room comfortable for my husband and me, as my daughter and I try to find a chair that will allow him to sleep comfortably (and is not too ugly).

to appreciate a house full of my family after months of quiet.

to realize that I can love my job, and leave it. And that when the time comes to leave it for good, that will be fine with me.

to enjoy being taken care of.

to understand the huge difference 17 days can make.

A very short play about my better qualities, I guess

Scene: My classroom.
I've asked one of my 12th grade classes to tell me about other movies they've seen that fit our discussion theme of the problems characters have fitting into their society.

Christina: Juno has a character who doesn't fit into her world very well. She had a hard time dealing with everybody around her because she did everything differently.

Me: Good point. Can you explain what she did that people disagreed with?

Tom (urgently): Miss Huth, that girl, Juno, reminds me of you.

Me: Tom, you're interrupting Christina now . . .

Christina: That's okay. I can't wait to hear this!

Me: (pause, head tilting, eyes squinting, botox-needing furrow deepening): She reminds you of me because I'm a 16-year-old pregnant girl?

Tom (laughing bemusedly): No. She talks like you.

Me: Hmmmm . . . really? Please do explain.

Tom: She's got a quiet, low voice. And she says interesting things, but not in a simple way. Her vocabulary is way up there.

Josh: Exactly! Like when you turned around what Mike said before, and suddenly we all knew you were right. We just had to accept what you said because we couldn't argue with it. It made too much sense.

Justin: You also remind me of that character in Blades of Glory . . .

(Bell rings.)