oic (smh)

(As I'm walking in the hallway during a planning period)

Dean of Discipline: Hey, Huth? Can you come in here for a sec?

Me: Sure.

DoD: So Katherine tells me she stayed after school with you last week to serve a detention she owed me . . .

Katherine (interrupting): . . . Well, I stayed with Miss Huth to finish some work, but I didn't tell her it was also a detention for you.

Me: Oh. But yes, she did stay for about an hour and a half last week.

DoD: But Katherine, you think this should also serve as a detention even though we didn't know this was your plan?

Katherine: Um, yes, I guess.

DoD: How about this? You stay with Miss Huth one more time this week, and we'll call it even.

Katherine: But I don't need to stay with her now. I'm all caught up on my work.

Me (nodding in agreement): Yup. True. Although it's fine if you want to stay with me anyway. We're working on a portfolio project right now, so she's been doing a lot of writing. And she's doing really well.

Katherine: Oh my goodness! So much writing! It's been two weeks! I'm going to get that carpal tunnel syndrome if we don't stop soon!

DoD (laughing): You won't get that from writing or from typing if you use proper technique. You will, however, get it from this (pantomimes texting on a phone).

Katherine: Oh, I don't do that much.

Me (preparing to leave): That's good.

Katherine: After all (pauses for full effect) I'm a writer, not a texter.

Me: I like that. And you're right.

Whoa, slow down there maestro. There's a "New" Mexico?

I've found myself with an unhealthy interest in my site meter. In particular, I enjoy checking the search words visitors have googled or yahooed to end up at my site. Unfortunately for them, this little blog never helps them with their search.

The most popular search by far is for "the noise next door," a punkish group from England, apparently. Little did I know. My blog's name refers merely to the occasional noise emanating from classrooms surrounding my very quiet one. If the visitor is British, Canadian or Indian, he is probably searching for this musical group. I suppose I should listen to them sometime.

The second most popular search is a fairly new phenomenon. If the visitor is from Florida, Texas, Tennessee, Georgia, New Mexico or Arizona, I can be pretty sure that he is looking for information about "tractor tattoos." Oy. Really? Hmmm.

Another popular search is for "fish scale purses." Those searching for "Mary Poppins spoons" end up at the same entry.

While it's easy enough for me to question why someone might be interested in learning about "fish scale underwear," "what black people smell like," "tattoo texting" or (most disturbing) "paying to be shot," I have to accept this fact: I'm the one writing about these topics. Okay, I may not even be aware that this is what I'm writing about, but nevertheless, search engines send people to me looking for information about things that are very strange, possibly illegal and certainly, at the least, in questionable taste.

It's enough to make me read my entries with an eye to potential search phrases. An entry I wrote on 16 June for my father mentions "wool skirt," "knee socks" and "Camelot" from Monty Python. I eagerly await the possibilities.

Oh boy! Sleep! That's when I'm a Viking!

Last night I had one of those dreams where I thought I had a great idea for a blog post. In my dream, I wrote about some hilarious thing that happened in one of my classes, and I remember thinking, "God, this is pretty darn funny! Erin will read it to Anna, and they'll both laugh!" Then I thought, "But this is a dream. Did this really happen? Will I remember it tomorrow?"

Today, I find myself with no memory of the post's content, and no sense of whether it really was based on reality. Oh well. Duh.

I spent today listening intently to my classes, hoping for writing fodder, feebly grasping at moments of levity, incongruity and insight, all of which slipped from me as I answered the intercom, or gathered back work, or had to leave my room to make way for another teacher.

I finally gave up.

Because I am a person firmly grounded in reality I will offer today's statistics in lieu of my fantasy post.

6: Number of Saturdays until I visit Nora in Venice.

5: The average number of seniors absent from each class today.

4: The number of phone calls I made (in between classes) trying to arrange to pay my son's tuition for the fall.

3: The number of seniors who told me they don't think they'll graduate this June because they still haven't passed a Regents exam they should have passed in 10th grade.

2: The number of students who showed up to mod 8 whom I hadn't seen in a week and a half.

2: The number of former students who came back to visit me with excited reports about their first year in college.

2: The number of beers I drank on my deck when I got home from school.

1: The number of seniors who told me they're pregnant.

1: The number of seniors who told me they're about ready to drop out of school even though graduation is on June 27th.

1: The number of former students' obituaries I found in today's paper.

1: The number of boxes of already-opened granola bars I received because they "tasted like bark, and I know you like to eat healthy."

All in all, it was a good day. Or at least it was a normal day.

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.

It's all about perspective and scrub jays

I don't trust people who read self-help books. Or who watch Oprah. To be fair, perhaps these poor souls don't have the luxury of smart, sensible friends, as I do. Whenever I find myself wallowing in doubt, beating myself up or merely thinking too damn much, my friends usually set me straight.

Case in point: I woke up this morning at my parents' home on the Gulf coast of Florida. The sky was blue, the weather was warm, it was spring break. Where was I? Outside enjoying the sun? Appreciating my wonderful vacation time? Nope. I was inside, writing to Nora about how bothered I was that I hadn't felt like writing lately, and myriad other issues. Her response?

"Just dry your hair and go to the beach, Huth."

Ahhh, friends.

While I did not go to the beach until later, I did visit a state park. On the trail, I spotted a scrub jay. As one does with scrub jays (apparently), I stuck out my hand and clicked my tongue a bit. A jay swooped from the brush and landed on my hand while the other watched. After a minute or two, this jay flew off, and the other one swooped in to land on my head. Suddenly, my purpose was clear: I was a perch, an amiable resting spot, a way-station for the convenience of wildlife.

Actually, I felt quite peaceful. And useful.


Later, when I did make it to the beach the sun had just set, and the surf was rough. The wind had kicked up, and if I had been home, I would have said that the clouds looked like they held snow. The sunset-watchers had left, and the beach was empty. I stood there for a bit, holding my jacket close to me.

There is nothing like going to the beach, or having a large blue bird standing on your head, to provide perspective.

Facts are meaningless. You could use facts to prove anything that's even remotely true!

Today was my first day back at school after being out since March 6. While I was looking forward to seeing my kids, I was not eager to return to the routine of being up before daylight, living according to bells, and the general mess that awaits a teacher who's had a substitute for this long.

Some significant numbers with which to document my day:

115: The number of pages I left my students to read during class.
35: The number of books I left for my students to read during class.
33: The average number of pages that were actually read.
27: The number of students who unabashedly told me they did nothing in my absence because they didn't like the sub.
17: The number of days I was absent because of my husband's heart surgery.
16: The number of days my sub apparently entertained my classes by performing magic tricks.
15: The number of feet a hawk was sitting from my window as he ate a pigeon, neck first.
12: The number of students who actually completed the work I'd left.
11: The number of days until spring break.
9: The number of hours I spent at school today trying to clean up my sub's mess.
9: The number of hours I'll spend tomorrow at school trying to clean up my sub's mess.
8: The number of the "mod" or period where this exchange occurred.*
4: The number of books that I found this morning upon my return.
3: The number of classes I alternately lectured, ranted at and made feel guilty today. I'll do the other class tomorrow. And I'll probably go back and do the same to the other classes as well.
3: The number of dry erase markers that disappeared.
2: The number of hours I'll spend tonight trying to clean up my sub's mess.
1: The number of lamp chops I will make for dinner (it's a big one).
1/2: The amount of a bottle of wine I will consume as I try not to think too much about my students.
------------------------------
*Kathy: Miss! Did you read about me in the paper last week? I was stabbed in the butt!
Me: Um, what?
Kathy: Yeah! So I was at a party . . .
Me (interrupting): Kathy, I'll let you tell this story if you can do it in under 3 minutes.
Kathy proceeds to tell the story in 2 minutes and 47 seconds.
Me (realizing I had, in fact, read this story in the paper): O, lord, Kathy. That was you?!
Kathy: Yeah, and that's why I can't sit still today, even though they gave me a shot of amnesia.

(Later, as they're writing and some tiny discussion pops up)
Me: Hey! Hush now, and keep writing! You took the last three weeks off, and you have no business talking now.
Guy, Cheryl, Sherelle, et. al.: Okay! Okay! We're writing!
Me (sarcastic): Because if the writing is too much, I suppose I could grade you for breathing . . .
Kathy: It would help.