Sunday, August 28, 2011

A Metaphor

For many years, I've had this metaphor swimming around in my head. As far back as college I can recall bouncing the idea off of friends, and even examining them as shining examples of said metaphor. However, the other day at work, as I was expounding upon it to one of my colleagues, I finally felt validated in it enough to put it down on paper. Er...in cyberspace?

So here it is: Women date/search for a mate like they shop. The minute I said this, my coworker said, "Oh, you are so right! I'm gonna steal that." Well, consider this my copyrighted idea. :)

So back to it. Women look for men in the same way they shop. I have met so many women who this can be accurately applied to, and I challenge my female friends to examine their own habits and see if they concur with my assertion.

When I was in college, I knew too many girls who loved shopping while I loathed it. They would drag me from store to store, modelling various outfits, trying on anything and everything indiscriminately. After all, how do you know something doesn't work for you if you don't even try it on? But the hunt for that perfect fit was such a varied venture.

I had one friend who would try on something at every store, stowing each item behind the counter with the clerk, promising to come back for it by the next day. She would then determine the best deal and get one item she wanted on her way out of the mall. She definitely kept her options open.

I knew another girl who was a complete impulse buyer--she'd drop a hundred bucks on a pair of shoes and cry "Buyer's Remorse" as she was wearing them out of the store.

Then there's the friend who wore the same old boring pair of khakis to every event, refusing to invest her time or money on anything else because they were "so comfortable." If it ain't broke, don't fix it, right?

And me. I tend to shop alone. I have never been the type of person who liked looking randomly through stores, searching high and low for the best deal. If I know I want a specific pair of jeans, I will find out the store they are in and I'll drive over and get them. Sale or no sale. I don't cruise by other stores, I don't window shop. I make a beeline for the pair of jeans I want. This most likely explains why I went on EHarmony to snag my husband. The downside to shopping at EHarmony? It took three years to find the perfect fit. Internet dating misled me.

You see, I went from shopping at my favorite store to shopping online. And that falls in line with my theory exactly. After all, who hasn't ordered something that looked super cute online, only to find that in reality it's too small, too large, or crawling up your butt in the worst way? And the sorriest part is, you've exposed all of your information to the net in one fell swoop. Double whammy.

Not to mislead anyone. I eventually ended up with the perfect fit. It just took three years of shopping around. Which was a huge departure from my usual methods, but nevertheless worked out. Joe is like that. Comfortable, fun, and he makes my ass look good. What more could a girl ask for?

Tuesday, August 16, 2011

A Day in the Life...

Well, I'm back to school. No kids until next week, praise Bejeezuz, because I'm always a tad...um, I'll call it special as I get adjusted to the rigor of having a day job. I know, cue the violin, right? I have already managed to inadvertently flash my crack at coworkers, break a heel, and get caught by my principal doing a crossword puzzle when I should have been listening. But I could argue that odd things are bound to occur when you put over a hundred teachers in a petri dish, keeping them tied up for hours when all they can think about is how much they need that time to prepare. It's like a dangerous science experiment; eventually someone is gonna blow. Many of my friends are teachers themselves, but for those of you who are not, allow me to give you a glimpse into the life of a teacher before the children return.

Please pretend you are sitting in a room with a bunch of adults who do not want to be there. Now add a powerpoint. And a person droning on monotonously about things like "curriculum" and "bullying" and "assessments." The person next to you is snapping gum. The person in front of you is rolling her eyes in disgust. The person down the table is talking so loudly that you couldn't possibly ignore them even if you wanted to. Everyone is texting. You won't be told which handouts you will need to keep safe until you are randomly asked to produce them months later during some other inane (and seemingly unrelated) meeting. And you realize that could happen only after you doodle "This sucks" with little flowers all around it. You've asked your friends at your table "What do they want us to do?" only about twenty times because you don't listen to directions. You think your group might turn on you.

Wait a sec. You are the worst student ever.

Ever since I started working in this profession, I have heard that teachers are the worst students. And it's true. We defend our hypocrisy with the excuse that we are adults, but we can't seem to focus or act maturely, just like the kids we teach. And even though I know this to be true, I will still embark on the next week with the attitude that my students should pay attention and act respectfully. Sometimes I have to shake my head.

I don't mean to be this way, and I have to believe the kids might be a little more mature than we are. Ironic? Yes, I like to think so. While I firmly believe we are justified in our actions, I can't help but think rather ruefully that karma's a bitch. Let's just hope not too much of one.

Friday, August 12, 2011

I'm up...Now what?

Okay. I'm up. I don't know what's up with my internal clock, but lately I've been waking up almost every night at some point between 1 and 4 a.m., and it's a) quite frustrating and b) still frustrating. Especially since last night I drank enough wine to put a horse down.


Don't judge me.

Every time I have one of these mid-night crisises (er...crises?), I inevitably attempt to sneak into our bathroom without bothering Joe. And without fail I always see the irridescent glow of the clock splashing across the room as he checks what time I'm getting up. It's as if he's saying, "Really, Reagan? I was sleeping, and then you got up."

Don't judge me, Joe.

I notice this unfolding because I always seem to believe I can sneak into our bathroom and furtively pee in the dark (without disturbing him, mind you) with the door open. Which some people seem to have problems with, but I clearly don't have boundaries when it comes to privacy so please don't judge me because it's really dark in there!

So, since I'm up, I figured I'd put what I made for dinner on display. As an old married lady (how long is a person technically a newlywed?), I pride myself on putting dinner on the table. Last night was meatloaf night. I love meatloaf night.


Forgive the picture quality. I'm lobbying for something more impressive than my Canon Powershot, but this is it for now.

I don't know if you can tell, but that's bacon carmelizing under a layer of brown-sugar and mustard-laced chili sauce, and it's mmm-mmm good! It was so pretty, I decided to take a picture, even though the loaf pan is pretty much a disaster. I am clearly becoming a domestic goddess. That is, if one can be a domestic goddess through cooking alone. Because I don't do the other stuff, like clean bathtubs or toilets. Or scrub floors. Or tend children (which technically isn't my fault because there are no little cuckoos in this nest yet).

Did I mention there's bacon on top? I'm clearly still in a sodium-induced stupor. I can sense a little judgement coming from the weight watchers out there...or is it envy?




















Thursday, August 11, 2011

Pssst! Hey...Follow me...

*cue seductive, irresistible whisper*

I think you should "Follow Me" if you are reading this. You know who you are...you lurkers, you silent supporters, you hangers-by. You, over there, waiting in the wings. Make your love known. Do it. You know you want to.

I need some love. And no, Joe, not that kind. The kind that reflects to the world that I actually have more than 24 people (12 of which are related to me in some manner) who read my blog. I long to be a "Blog of Note." I have grandiose dreams of becoming a blogger who gets noticed. I'm totally open to a movie deal, if anyone out there has any real power. Or (dare I dream?!) a book deal. I'll take one of those, too.

I'm just sayin'.

So, for those of you who need some help, here is my first act of teaching for this school year:

1) Go to the right side of the page.
2) Click on the button above my "Followers" that reads "Follow This Site".
3) Enter your email--no one will spam you, just do it!
4) Prove you are not a spam bot by re-entering the squiggly hard-to-read letters that make no discernible sense.
5) Thank you.

Did I mention I would love you to follow me?


Wednesday, August 10, 2011

Today is my last official day I have off before I start various staff developments and then, inevitably, the school year. I'm not pleading for pity, people. I'm merely stating that I feel ready to pursue a life of leisure. You know, wake up around 9, read a novel until 11, bathe and start the day kind of leisure. I mean, what does a girl have to do?

In all honesty, I am totally aware that during the summer I come about as close to that as some people will ever get. And I'm really not complaining. However, any educator worth his or her salt can tell you how physically and mentally depleting a school year can get, and this last one (for me) was definitely a doozy. By the end of last year, if I dared to squint across the hot, rippling horizon of summer to the bank of this new school year, I literally shuddered. Sometimes a school year can be likened to the Looping Starship at Astroworld--a veritable bastion of steel that is capable of bringing exquisite pleasure and great pain. In my case, every time I strapped on the safety belt and pulled down the shoulder guard, my stomach would flutter as my anticipation of awesomeness would begin to build. Until the second loop. Inevitably, I would end up hurling violently into a trash bin as soon as I exited the ride.

In regards to last year--amidst the Reduction in Force, the shuffling, the class loads of 36 (or higher in some cases), the lack of resources combined with the general expectation of perfection (placed on teachers, but never students!), and the general apathy that teenagers generate amongst themselves--well, let's just say I didn't feel that I'd escaped that rollercoaster ride completely unscathed. And that is why we need this time to recharge and recuperate. It keeps us sane. So even though this year was tough, I'm oddly looking forward to a new start--a luxury I have every year.

You see, even though I knew that there was a likely chance if I got back on the Looping Starship that I would puke again, I never wised up. I crossed the threshold without trepidation. I jumped on, and I prayed it wouldn't make me want to die. And that's what I'm going to do now, metaphorically speaking. Except I think my odds for a more positive experience are actually greater.

And to my colleagues who feel my pain: Enjoy the ride.