Ink Drops

Hi there!

2010-02-13T12:11:00.000-08:00

I'm so cool at Ms. Laur's house.

Petrarch's letter to us

2008-11-25T06:35:00.000-08:00

For all writers who fear everything that could be written has been.

"Put this concern aside, I beg you, and never let it induce you to be lazy, for certain ancestors of ours have already removed this worry, and I [,Petrarch,] will now remove it for those who come after me: for although ten thousand years may pass and centuries pile upon centuries, never will virtue be praised enough; never will there be enough lessons about how to love God and to hate sinful pleasures; never will the road to the discovery of new ideas be closed to eager minds. Therefore, let us be of good spirit: we do not labor in vain, nor will those do so who will be born many ages in the future right up to the end of this aging world. Rather, it is to be feared that men will cease to exist before their efforts in humanistic studies will have enabled them to penetrate the most secret mysteries of truth."

~ from Petrarch's letter to Tommaso da Messina found in Letters on Familiar Matters: Books I-VIII. trans. Aldo Bernardo. Albany State University of New York Press, 1975.

Teacher for Hire

2008-11-21T11:23:00.000-08:00

I should have listened to my brother, who told me he was going into med school because he didn't want to end up like our parents, who couldn't afford to buy Chips Ahoy!. I, on the other hand, was going to be "noble". I went to school for writing. What good will medicine do if I can't enjoy the depth of philosophy? The farther I step back from my college years, the more pretentious I realize I was.

I grew to realize, in my second year, that I would have to pay the bills at some point. Oh, yes, people told me that before, but I never was confronted by the enormity of it until it loomed in the distance. So I defaulted: went into teaching and loved it. However, English teachers are a dime a dozen out here, and so I'm left at the place I once was so afraid of in my sophomore year: paying the bills with hopes and dreams (minus the hopes and running low on dreams).

I married an amazing man, but we're on a raft that could break at any minute. The economy that so frailly holds the wolves at bay is starting to crack. And then what are we left with? A teacher, a writer, and two dogs. Makings of a great story, but not a good life.

So, 59 cover letters and 12 versions of my resume later, I'm left trying to formulate a new plan. I can't return to medicine: no science classes in an English major. I can't return to writing: no monthly support to lean upon. So, I'm left listening to CNN and Obama's rhetoric of hope. I pray he's right.

Guerrilla Gardening

2008-07-03T09:10:00.000-07:00

I kid you not; there is such a group. Their goal: the improve the drab of cities and urban areas by doing what people complain isn't being done: making it beautiful.

What a great idea! These groups go out in the dark of night and landscape neglected areas and continue to maintain them for the enjoyment of everyone.

Seriously, what a great idea.

Check them out and see if there's a group in your area.

Crazy Running People with...their...running

2008-07-02T13:18:00.000-07:00

Since my hubby and I are moving to Chicago, I figured it was high time I did the Bolder Boulder 10k Run. If you haven't been, think about a typical 10K run/walk, but add drunken frat boys in superman costumes skipping beside 83 year old mall-walking grandmas. It was, amazing.

My friend, Megan, and I kicked ass I must say. Neither one of us are real hard-core runners; in fact, I'm a jogger, not a runner (I got no shame). We decided to do it again next year in uniform of some sort. One problem: I won't be at Denver altitude for awhile, which means, I must become a hard-core runner if I'm to survive BB next year coming from Chicago. And I'm not going to lie, that blows! I don't want to be a real runner. But, I don't want to miss out on the crazy experience that is Bolder Boulder.

To give you an idea of how crazy this is, here are a few stats I just got in the mail:
Total number of finishers: 48,955
Winning Time - Male: 0:28:32 (28 mins! for 10K....that's CRAZY running)
Winning Time - Female: 0:32:49

And...you ready?....
My Time: 1:14:45

I know, stellar. However, considering it was my first race EVER, it rained, and the average elevation was over 5320ft., I did good.

We'll see how I do next year.

Chicken or Internet

2008-06-27T10:28:00.000-07:00

So, my husband found the following stat regarding internet use in the EU:

Out of the people in the European Union who do not have Internet in their homes, 50% quoted the cause "remains the lack of interest in Internet".

This caused quite an interesting discussion between my husband and I. I believe that since the EU is geographically so close that many Europeans do not feel the need to have access to information in their homes (unlike Americans who almost need it since we are so isolated from each other both physically and culturally). He has different opinions.

Regardless, I'm interested in what you think. Post a comment.

Waiting for Godot...or at least feeling like it

2008-06-24T11:18:00.000-07:00

Today a friend threw me a bone and gave me a small copywriting job. I'm thoroughly nervous- well, not thoroughly, but at least two cups of coffee nervous - about writing it for several reasons:

1. I'm not used to getting paid for my copy, thus, bar is raised internally

2. I'm not used to writing copy for someone I don't know. This leads into

3. I'm not used to having lag time between the starting of something and its completion. I'm currently waiting for said client to call me back so she can answer some of my questions. In education, you either get it done now or it doesn't get done. It's weird being on someone else's schedule.

However, this does expand my repertoire of copywriting. Hooray for expanding Chicago job options. I'm just ready for this first phone call to be over and done with; then I will have the worst part over and feel like I can come out of this thing successfully.

No more teacher's dirty looks: a eulogy

2008-06-19T20:58:00.000-07:00

Chewed the rag with a fellow educator, lamenting the 40% increase Xcel has tacked on to its Denver customers. In the middle of this bitter-laced banter, my colleague informs me of her new technique to save money: walk everywhere. She proceeds to expound on her daily routine of walking - yes, walking - the 3.4 miles to her local gym, walking home, having lunch, reading (a feat in of itself for any educator), and walking the 1 mile to her friend's - who is on vacation - house to water the plants. I thought she was being a little overzealous in her battle against oil, but then she explains how she can't wait until October when her car will be paid off and she can start paying off her furnace. We made some kind of joke to sweeten the anger and fear of our economic situations. She said something we both laughed a little too hard at: "I just need to find a rich husband." We laughed because we knew the unspoken, somber ending of that sentence: "...so that I can keep teaching."

When did educators fall into poverty levels? Our union fought with sharp teeth this year, and although we got to keep our health insurance (which only covers us btw, not any spouse or children), we received less than a 4% raise. When Xcel energy is gearing up for battle by 40%, and I can only afford one bag of apples a month, 4% will not cover much.

As my friend and I continued on our conversation, we both talked about other people, in other industries who are able to ride out this dep...er...recession, our sad reality comes into focus: we may have to leave teaching because we cannot afford to stay. That reality depresses me greatly. We are good teachers who, if nothing changes, will be forced out of the classroom and into corporate America. I heard a rumor that for a family of for to be completely self-sufficiant (no government aid) in Colorado, the annual household income had to be above $60,000. What does that mean for my rambling buddy? What does that mean for me and my husband?

I fear I must dust off my resume.

(thanks to Chylinski Marcin for the pic of the pencils)

Summertime, or what you will

2008-06-18T11:28:00.000-07:00

So, I'm starting to wonder if I could work a little extra money into the summer. I explained this to one of my students before school got out two weeks ago, and she said what I had been thinking for quite some time: "you'd make a great barista." Hazzah!

Now I'm left debating whether to apply for a summer job at Starbucks in Denver, or should I wait until we get to Illinois? Finances being tight right now - and us wanting to buy a house within the next two years - I will most likely have to get a part-time job to pay down (read: get rid of) the majority of our credit card debt. We can't have any credit card debt if we are to buy a house. It just sucks being so behind the financial times. I keep reading that we should be putting about 20% of our income into a retirement fund. Are you kidding me?! 20%?! Do these crazy people not realize that we are barely living month to month (proven by our debt). And we don't live extravagantly. We don't go to movies in the theaters more than once a month; we don't take huge road trips; what are we missing?

Ugh.

Regardless, the idea of working part-time at Starbucks is kind of fun. I should start applying now.

Job hunting sucks like a Hoover industrial vacuum cleaner.

2008-06-17T14:46:00.000-07:00

I'm in the midst of trying to find a job in the Chicago area, and boy, it's a cumbersome project. I didn't realize how lucky I was to get a job only after three applications when I first got my teaching credentials. Part of me wants to just walk into these schools and say, "Can I teach for a day? Just so you can really see how good of a teacher I am?"

Ah well...

Off to spend some more time applying

Solemn

2008-04-29T18:46:00.000-07:00

Utterly distracted since I saw the new Batman movie and caught a glimpse of Heath Ledger's last performance. Now, I'm flooded with images of the movie that eerily remind me of The Crow and moments of brilliant acting and writing. Moments when the genius of writers, directors, producers, set-designers, and the whole gamut collide. Such a rare occurrence.

I am sad we have lost such an amazing actor. I feel like I've missed out already.

Dry

2008-04-11T18:39:00.000-07:00

I feel very dry today, creatively. Perhaps it's because I spend the entire day organizing paperwork for a school audit..er, excuse me...inventory.

Perhaps later.

Tweat!

2008-04-11T18:37:00.000-07:00

A little bird asked me a great question: "what are you doing?"

http://www.twitter.com/msgoonie

The Ken Burns Essay

2007-10-24T12:39:00.000-07:00

Today, my students presented a Ken Burns-like essay. Over the past week, they researched a topic and created a PowerPoint presentation to accompany the oral reading of their essay. The purpose was to prepare them for a huge research project in the spring that requires them to make a short documentary, Ken Burns style. Most were pretty good. One was amazing.

Two sophomore boys created a true documentary using iMovie and the "Ken Burns effect." It wasn't just the magic of Apple that made their documentary come alive, but it was their execution of the essay that made it brilliant. They paused between topics - like real documentaries do - they used a variety of pictures and visuals to bring the ideas alive, and they painted a vivid description with their language.

I'm so proud, I could spit.

This group, although hellions in the past, amaze me with their ingenuity every day. I can't wait to see where they go from here.

I'm hoping to have the video up online soon.

Metaphor

2007-06-11T20:53:00.001-07:00

The evening shoved the afternoon quickly aside, and we, too busy with brats and burgers, never noticed. Before any of us noticed the fading light, Tim slipped into the shed of the garage, determined to distract us from the fleeting time. It was calm in the backyard as light laughter filtered through the ivy tressed patio onto the lawn. Erin sat gingerly on the swing too small for any adult and ran her toes through the soft grass. It was a peace filled afternoon.

Abruptly, Tim clashes onto the scene, arms spread with a wide smile. Four broad ceramic balls balanced in his hands. The light is quickly slipping away, and everyone is watching this oddity. With grace and precision, Tim tosses the spheres into the air where they catch the last of the light. Up and down they frolic, bouncing playfully into and out of Tim's nimble hands. His eyes are focused on something other than the balls, the figmented strings which hold the world together.

Fixated, we watched. Burgers went cold in our hands. And we never noticed the night settle in.

Poor Puppy

2007-06-11T20:31:00.000-07:00

Well, Maddy is finally spade. As my eloquent husband put it this morning, we took her to the "chop shop." God bless tact. Regardless, it's going to be a long night since she seems - only recently - interested in her incision, and it's too late to get her an Elizabethan collar. Hopefully, a bit of walking around the house before bed will wear her out enough to help her sleep through the night without the smell of her own flesh healing inticing her. Gross, I know. She is a sweet pup; exhausted and drugged right now, but sweet.

Unfettered

2007-04-23T11:21:00.000-07:00

My God, again, I am dizzy from the brilliant writing of my sophomores. They write with such unfettered passion and fury. However, unlike other years, these comrades have power over their writing. They control every letter. I am both inspired and jealous.

My mouth feels dry, imageless, like everything I write here is sand compared to their clear stories. They twist plots with ease, and dig deep into their characters fearlessly. Yet, they paint vibrant images with the precision of calligraphy. The ghosts of their characters haunt me deep into the night.

I am surrounded by writers...and it makes me weep with joy.

Creative Writing Unit

2007-04-20T13:29:00.000-07:00

My students possess amazing creative writing abilities. I just previewed a final draft, due Monday, from a student who's writing is like a calculus student's algebra: flawless and subtle. The story fluctuates between reality and memory, easily moving from one to the other (unlike Faulkner). The author focused on three colors to drive his story and the memory of the character. To top it off, you are the character; the story is written in second person.

I'm excited to see these pieces published online. I must remember to ask my husband about that. Mass Creative Commons license?

Regardless, I'm basking in the brilliance of my students. Their eyes illuminate the world for me.

Tim's First Love

2007-04-18T18:27:00.000-07:00

The door creaks open, awaking dust from the floor with light. There she sits, stainless steel shinning proudly. Tim gently walks in, afraid of spooking a wild beast, and his converse shoes leave pads of movement on the dust floor. The red vinyl feels cool; he always had taken care of that glitter seat. Gently, he caresses the chain and rubs the residue of last year’s grease between his fingers and his heart jumps at the excitement of oiling her up again. Fingers wrap around her neck, Tim sternly pulls her up from the ground and walks her outside. He oils her chain, bounces her wheel to check for life. Lifting one foot onto a pedal, he pushes off the ground. 'The hardest part is always the liftoff', he thinks. Quickly, he swings his hips, balancing himself on top; she bucks slightly at the forgotten weight. Soon, she settles down and lets him maneuver her around the backyard. Tim looked down at the world he was now no longer a part of. Everything seemed farther away, less menacing.

"Tim!" Erin shouts from the bedroom window, "I thought you were going to mow the lawn!"

Startled, the unicycle drops Tim and falls to the ground like a opossum playing dead. Resigned, he rolls her back to her spot in the garage.

No prublem, Miss Noe, no prublem

2006-05-28T05:44:00.000-07:00

The secretary in the dean's office looked sideways at me when I snatched twelve blank discipline reports from the file cabinet just before class. Darren flew home yesterday, which left me as ringleader of the 7/8 block circus. The sub, a timid woman, would try her best to keep crowd control, but would eventually fail, like every other sub. Which meant it was up to me and I was not looking forward to it.

Someone cursed as I pushed them on my way to my room. "Watch the language," I shouted over my shoulder, even though I knew they couldn't hear me over the throng of high school hallways. I stumbled into my room without losing any of the papers I was balancing. Jazz music started to pour in over the speakers; one minute to the bell. I scribbled on both boards as sixty sophomores scrambled into the room. I could smell the sugar in their salvia and the sweat of being outside. I was bombarded by passing questions: what's on the board, where's Clemenhagen, can I go to the bathroom, I need a drink of water, are you teaching AP next year, what's on the board, what about the bathroom, what's on the board? The sub looked at me in horror as she tried to get them to settle down; her hair a bit more frazzled.

Then my typical mantra:
Alright, here we go; have a seat; gentleman, stop drawing on the board; Cory, sit down; Harry, glad you're here, you're late; Mira, why are you only carrying your purse into my classroom; get out a piece of paper...
It usually goes on like this for a good three minutes. Finally, the drone was low enough that I could squeeze in: "Take out a piece of paper, it's pop quiz time."

That always gets their attention.

What? Miss Noe, are you serious? Quiz on what? I wasn't here yesterday, do I still have to take it?

Yes.

Oh my god. What did we do yesterday? Can I borrow a pencil? I don't got no paper!

They copied the questions from the board, grumbling along the way. I heard " 's stupid" seeping out from the masses every once in awhile. They were most angry that it was a constructed response pop quiz. Heaven forbid they write down complete sentences and complete thoughts from their brilliant minds. They took the quiz, and calmed down. I relaxed my grip on the discipline reports.

We still had an hour and fifteen to go when they broke into their groups to perform snippets from Casablanca. We just finished Elie Weisel's Night last week. They needed something fun to do. Surprisingly, they worked for the time given, probably because I gave them worksheets to do along the way. I walked around and noticed Nikola, our handsome young man from Bulgaria, wearing a skirt.

"Nikola, what are you wearing?"

"I'm playing Eel-za Ms. Noe. I've gut my seester's high heels in my backpack."

As a class, we moved the desks back to create a thrust stage (habit from when we read Romeo and Juliet) and began to preform. It was amazing to watch their creativity and childlike imagination come alive during these times. I often fear we stifle it with AP preparation or snuff it out with testing. But the imagination is resilient. It just needs to breath every once in awhile.

Four boys used construction paper to create cigars, mustaches, and chops. One group did sock puppets (it was hilarious to watch the characters kiss; they enveloped each other from toe to sock). Several groups had name tags. Many tried an accent. Few came in costume. All were enraptured.

The class applauded the group who performed the shooting of Ugarte in the beginning (which was more Monty Python slapstick than real drama).

"Alright, next group is-"

"Miss Noe, will we have time?"

Holy cow, two minutes to the bell? I look over at Nikola in his skirt, high heels, and cut off tee shirt.

"Nikola, you'll have to go Tuesday. You'll have to come to school dressed like that again."

A flash of fear brushed his face before it immediately relaxed. "No prublem, Ms. Noe. No prublem."

I hear someone say, "way to take it like a man, Nikola."

I can't wait to see them on Tuesday.

Sunday Evening in Spring

2006-05-07T17:37:00.000-07:00

I wipe down the patio table;
damp cloths leave dirt streaks.
The cool presence of evening rolls in
while the warm dog cuddles against my feet
exhausted from a day of play and activity.
I finally sit to grade papers, endless papers,
full of words, pregnant with potential;
yet the slow exit of the sun taunts me to linger
in her space a bit longer.
So my pen rests on the glass table top
lolling from one side to the other each time I shift.

Ah Sundays, how I relish and dread you.
Your slow hours are delectable
and your brief visits are welcome.
Do come again next week.

Cut back to:

2006-05-06T10:33:00.000-07:00

Twenty-three more school days until summer vacation. Yes, I'm counting. And yes, I'm the teacher. Most people assume teachers weep as we count down the last days of a school year, afraid our delicate students still don't understand the difference between an iamb and a hexameter. However, we often leap behind closed doors when the end is in sight and make vacation plans. We don't like to admit we count; people get the impression we are careless about our instruction, or lazy. That's not the case at all.

We count because summer is one of the few times to do two things simultaneously: rekindle our passions (or second jobs for some) and interact with the adult world. It's like we play grown-up for two and a half months out of the year. We can meet our friends at the bar on Thursday night. We can swear in line at the grocery store. We can forget that we're one of the most influential role models for our students. We reconnect with family and friends. We dust off that book we started reading last summer. We play frisbee with our dogs every day.

This summer, I plan on doing a lot. My school is overzealous when it comes to summer vacations and I know that I will have meetings throughout the summer. However, what excites me is the writing. I get time to write. Not the academic reflecting that my profession demands, or the graduate papers my summer classes will require, but the glorious writing that demands time to listen to characters argue. I can stare at a white wall, zone out, and play with the stories in my head.

Which makes me realize, what am I doing here? I'm going to play with those stories. Oh, wait, I can't. Those 120 research papers need to be graded (it takes me a total of 18 hours to grade those suckers). Calm down, my dear young man, your story is coming. Pieces of it pop up and solve themselves, just keep talking to me during that place between awake and asleep. In that place, I am all ears, and I listen well to your arguments.

Sitting with Siddhartha...waiting

2006-04-30T18:56:00.000-07:00

I used too much oil to clean my wooden desk today. It didn't even need it, just precautionary habit. But now, it's slimly and too slippery. Even my keyboard has a difficult time gripping the cherry surface. I have felt like this all day: unable to gain traction in my life. Students' papers trumpet to me from the living room, and all I can do it drift. A hazy mind, unable to navigate into a harbor and tie down.

What am I doing? Am I mimicking my mother for a sense of security, or is this something I really want? I love the intermitted jewels my job drops: the daily humor, the energy, the depletion thereof, the struggles, the epiphanies. But I am worn; a product of a "work as hard to not work" mentality prevalent in my generation. I constantly fight: pen in one hand, alibi in the other. Does God ever become so exhausted? Does a mother? Does my cousin, Martin, and his husband, Shawn? Does anyone who fights endlessly?

A dear friend of mine today talked about opening my own business. She taunted my inner workings. "Make your time your own...Open up your life...Give your writing the deserved time." It was delectably enticing. I licked my lips; but I did not bite. I do not have the self-discipline to run the show myself. I run a tight ship, but that's only because I am not the owner. I'm not even the investor, I'm just the captain in a fleet of many.

For now.

Soft Quiet

2006-04-20T11:28:00.000-07:00

The soft hiss of our office air purifier is lulling me to sleep. Like the tranquility of 3pm sunlight in late June, the cool breeze on a porch swing, a book of Wordsworth.

I have no motivation to gear up for 8th period. My squirrelly kids will try to drain me today, and I will let them. They will come in expecting me to be a cooling salve for adolescent drama. But today, I focus on me. Today, I will run. I will read. I will write. I will pick up my exhausted puppy, and we will ride home together with the windows open to feel the fresh afternoon air cleanse our day. He will rest his tired head on the window sill, squinting at the fading sunlight, sleeping to the soft rock of the car and the constant breeze. We will ride home in peaceful silence, knowing the day's labor is behind us.

Caught

2005-10-15T19:35:00.000-07:00

The other day, I was fed up with the loss of my Muse. I felt my career was pushing his beautiful presence out of my life. So, I did something about it. Here's what I wrote to all my comrades in arms:

While driving my car at 6:01 this morning, I heard a nasty growling sound right around the Thornton Parkway exit. When I realized it came from inside my head, and not from my car, I became a bit more concerned.

See, I like to write. It keeps the peace in my head and in my life. As fellow writers and readers, you understand. I don't need to explain how therapeutic writing can be; how it allows thoughts to breath and gives a place for emotions to live. Yet at the same time, I find myself not writing lately. Gee, I wonder why. Regardless, I feel like my creativity and effectiveness as a writer are decaying. The growling this morning cautioned me not to wait any longer. I need to write; and I know I'm not alone.

This is an invitation, a proposal, or a calling. Let's join forces and write; whether it be academic grant proposals, vignettes, memoirs, poetry, or just play free writes, let's get together and write. No formalities, no expectations, let's just create a safe place to explore the power of the pen.

And let's do it soon. Before the growling carrion of my writer's mind becomes a threat.

Much to my pleasure, I received equally enthusiastc responses. Such as this one:

My lovely Noe (not a Laura to Zivalgo, but...),
I concur to core of my pen, which would be the inky plastic part. My growling spilled out of my laptop the other night, leaped over onto my papers and before I knew it, it had sprung upon me, snatched my aching fingers in its ravenous jowls... and it grew too late to grade essays...but alas, it was a correspondence only, a short note, and the appetite was not satiated (and if that only involves thirst, then that was not satiated either). When shall we proceed, and how?
Do write.
Vechi (ahem, it's a pen name)

And then, of course, I get the interested smartass teacher, the one who gets me through the day:
Jessi-
Growl no more...carrion (20 points!).
I am game, whenever, however,etc...
Hang in there!

I can't wait to write.

Preface

2005-09-10T20:19:00.000-07:00

Whose bright idea was it to leave me in charge of the academic survival of a hundred and twenty students? “Oh crap, I forgot this was English class, can I go grab my book?” “Are we doing anything important today or can I sleep?” “ Ms.! I just pounded three sodas!” Oh dear God.

I make it sound worse than it is, a gift inherent in teachers. I find myself recounting what happened this past week in an attempt to embellish the reality. Why? For entertainment? To keep me sane? Without the extravagance of exaggeration, the stories I tell would seem plain; and as any teacher will tell you, teaching is anything but plain. I think we teachers embellish to illuminate the real story that goes on in a high school classroom: the constant assessment of self and social structure, the contradictions, and the amazing vigilance of adolescence truth. “Ms., those earrings make you look like a hooker.” As storytellers we must pull forward the most honest moments in the classroom and somehow, without accurate context, give them a voice.

Yet nevertheless, all teachers are storytellers. Get enough of us in a bar and the stories will continue into the parking lot well after last call. But what is it that drives us to tell our hyperbolic classroom lore?

Being a new teacher has its disadvantages; one being everyone gives you advice. “Sponsor your first year.” “Don’t get involved at all, its suicide.” However, there was always one piece of advice that never changed: find the humor in every day. I think it is this sage piece of advice that causes teachers to develop a knack for storytelling. Ever heard this twist on a cliché? It’s all fun and games until someone loses an eye, then it’s just funny. The key here is to realize that once the action is done and danger is out of the way, things take a very different tone. Stories of near-death encounters suddenly become side-splittingly funny to co-workers. This metamorphosis from horrific to hilarious is well enjoyed at my family’s Christmas party. I believe we are able to laugh at these stories afterward because we realize how awkward the situations were and how even more awkward our responses were. We embellish to make the bad students seem worse, the good students better, and ourselves godly. Somehow, we are able to reminisce, even over events less than an hour old, about how we handled ourselves in the most precarious situations. Then, we are truly able to bask in the truth: we survived. In a profession that is bombarded with criticism from administration, fellow teachers, parents, and most obviously the students, teachers use storytelling as therapy to help deal with the frontlines of high school. We use it to remind ourselves, or convince ourselves, that we are worthy of the job. We are appropriately placed in this world to handle the teenage population on a daily basis, and prepare them for the future they will inherit. It’s a hefty responsibility, but without the embellishments we might never be able to appreciate the unsung glory of our job, or the unsung glory of our students.

So, let me tell you a story…

In medias res

2004-11-22T20:35:00.000-08:00

I love being surrounded by jazz music and espresso at the Starbucks on Colorado Boulevard. After a weekend spent at a Teaching Convention in Indianapolis, I knew I needed the encouragement of crowds and caffeine to get me through the writing assignment that was due. I hadn't slept well in Indiana. Hotel beds never squeak or give in the right places. My down comforter was the welcome home hug I relished in last night. Ten hours. That's more sleep than I got Friday and Saturday night combined. Sweet rejuvenating sleep. But then the inevitable happened.

My body starts to object after two nights of less than six hours of sleep; it's a curse I can't escape. So when Sunday morning arose and I felt a tickle in the back of my throat, i knew I was doomed. After a full night's rest, my body was in the clear to declare war. Mucus, headache, fatigue; they sent in all the troops.

So instead of doing my daily duty of working out, I went to the epitome of franchise.

Starbucks' hard back chairs kept me alert throughout most of the afternoon. Christmas music was already playing, but I didn't mind. Bing's voice is an instant tranquilizer to my anxiety. So I sat with the love of my life, doing homework, and feeling warm and safe.

My parents are coming out in a few days for Thanksgiving. I desperately want to finish all the necessities of life, like cleaning the bathroom, before they come, but it's hard to motivate myself. A vacation is trying to sneak into my life, and I'm fighting it off. Just a few more assignments, is what I tell myself. But when I look ahead in my planner at what's due next week, I laugh nervously and think boy that's going to suck.

The most hilarious part is how easily frustrated I get. I can't screw the cap onto my water bottle right, I throw it across the room...still full of water. Spellcheck neatly reprimands me with that little red squiggle, and I think If you're so damn smart, fix it yourself, you piss ant! Ah, the joys of stress. Just imagine what I did when my school's student teacher placement program put me at Northglenn HS after I specifically talked to three people in charge about placing me at Thronton HS. It was beautiful. Flames and steam were involved. It was a good time.

So now I'm winding down for the day. Ready to return to my lazy comforter, the only place where I that sneaky vacation can keep me company for a few hours. Tomorrow is another day.