Ever since I left for vacation in July, things have been happening in my periphery which effect me. For some reason, the powers that be have decided not to involve me in their decision-making process.
At first, it was professional; I was transferred to a new school, our administration left and the district didn't see the need to hire new people to help us do our jobs.
Then, wheels started moving in the educational department. The eternal summer semester at FIU turned sour (as if it weren't awful already, right?), and finished off with a pathetic whimper. Scheduling was a bitch as usual; we got locked out of one class, another was on Monday nights, and suddenly there were no options left. With two angry emails and very little protest on the part of the administration, I quit the masters' program.
Then, it turned to my everyday life. Things every day at work happen while I'm totally in the dark. They hired a new assistant principal, unbeknownst to me. This man in a suit walks into my class, yells at some boys, drags one off by the collar, and disappears. Bewildered, I turn to my students and ask *them* if they knew who this strange man was. Nobody really knew, but they had the vague impression that he "works for Central." Superb. I return to the main campus after 4 weeks, and on a whim go to the main office to see if my mailbox was still there (I have a new one at the middle school). Sure enough, there was my box, spewing papers and memos out onto the floor. In it I found such gems as "the uniform policy" "professional development" and trivial things like memos about curriculum changes and, oh, the hiring of a new principal. Way to keep everybody informed.
Now, it seems to have become personal. I don't really give a shit if he reads this, because we're not "together" anymore; if he doesn't want to think about me, then he doesn't need to read this. D. left Miami just about two weeks ago, mentioning in passing that he'd gotten a second interview with a prospective job. He leaves a note on my pillow, and that's the last I hear from him, more or less, until I get a phone call saying "I'm moving to Washington." Oh, that's nice.
Nothing for 5 more days, so I go about my shitty life down here, staying up late on the weeknights, getting up at 5:45 to rush off to a 9 hour day of teaching ungrateful, insulting children assisted by an either nonexistent or incompetent administration. I spend ten hours of my Saturday at professional development training that I'VE ALREADY HAD LAST YEAR, then sleep all Sunday because I'm so exhausted. If you're trying not to think about someone, take my advice and don't do their laundry. It's quite difficult to keep someone off of your mind when you're folding their underwear and washing their socks.
Monday rolls around, and it's more of the same old shit. Then, on a beautiful Tuesday night, me none the wiser minus a vague sense of foreboding, I make the drive up to Ft. Lauderdale to pick him up at the airport, using a third of a tank of gas to do so in my rickety old car. Right now in South Florida, that's $10 worth.
On the way home, I'm informed of his plans. He's leaving "Wednesday or Thursday." For those of you unfamiliar with the Gregorian calendar, that's tomorrow or the day after tomorrow. Oh, that's nice of you to let me know.
Back at the ranch, he's decided that he "needs some time to figure things out," and that we shouldn't be together because he's not sure that he really wants to be with me. Again, great advance warning. Exactly how long has this been going on? Not really sure, but maybe after he met my entire family this summer. That must have been the clincher.
It was fantastically cliched, my reaction. It disgusts me how sickeningly predicatable I am; at first I wanted to cry (check, already done that this week, last week too); then, I get nauseuous. I go outside to get some fresh air, and what should happen? What would be the most ridiculous situation to be in? Oh, it starts pouring rain. Somewhere up above (because when in search of spiritual guidance in this all-too-random and meaningless existence, we look to the sky), there's someone wiht a dark sense of humor, maybe as dark as mine, and they're having one hell of a laugh at this. I hope someone's getting some enjoyment out of it, because being on the inside of the irony isn't all that fun.
If, on a winter's night a traveler outside the town of Malbork, leaning from a steep slope without fear of wind or vertigo, looks down into the gathering shadow...on the carpet of leaves illuminated by the moon around an empty grave, what story there awaits its end? -italo calvino
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
Monday, August 15, 2005
What I Want
And that's really the question, isn't it. What do I want?
This weekend, it was pretty clear; I did exactly what I wanted for about 30 hours. After taking a final exam which wasn't supposed to be cumulative (but was), saying one last "fuck you" to my Professor in which I stated "this is without a doubt the worst class I have taken in my graduate or undergraduate career," the MTV, along with AH hoofed it to Hialeah for pedicures.
It's amazing how good that can feel. It's amazing how having your own free time can feel too. We even had the chance to go to the *mall,* a mundane activity which I have not indulged in since the beginning of July.
We took our time savoring an all-Amerian dinner of grilled steak, dill potato salad, fresh salsa and homemade tortilla chips, whilst debating the fate of the American public education system. Yes, this is what teachers do on their time off. I felt like my time was my own, and that I didn't feel guilty for hanging out with my friends and wasting the night away with food and drink.
I stole Sunday morning for myself as well, refusing to acknowledge the clock until 12:00. My body needed to have an unrestricted rest; there's not enough of that around my house. Lately it seems like I spend too much of my time snatching bits of rest and private time from the corners of my life, without really feeling the benefits of it. Weekends are nice, but they haven't revived me yet.
Maybe without FIU, without the insanity of the beginning of school, I'll have more time to myself. But I still don't have any books for my Reading class to read, and I can't use the eight computers in my room. There is still no coherent administration at school, and nobody seems to know quite what is going on.
I don't know how much longer Dave is going to be here, and I don't know what's happening to us when he goes. Eventually, I'm going to have to make some plans for next year, and that's pretty scary. The GRE's are scary. Life is kind of scary right now, and I don't know what to do about it. I can't seem to rid myself of this anxious feeling, and that's really all I want
I want to relax, calm down, and get things together. It's better than last year, for sure, but life is still not quite the way I want it to be.
This weekend, it was pretty clear; I did exactly what I wanted for about 30 hours. After taking a final exam which wasn't supposed to be cumulative (but was), saying one last "fuck you" to my Professor in which I stated "this is without a doubt the worst class I have taken in my graduate or undergraduate career," the MTV, along with AH hoofed it to Hialeah for pedicures.
It's amazing how good that can feel. It's amazing how having your own free time can feel too. We even had the chance to go to the *mall,* a mundane activity which I have not indulged in since the beginning of July.
We took our time savoring an all-Amerian dinner of grilled steak, dill potato salad, fresh salsa and homemade tortilla chips, whilst debating the fate of the American public education system. Yes, this is what teachers do on their time off. I felt like my time was my own, and that I didn't feel guilty for hanging out with my friends and wasting the night away with food and drink.
I stole Sunday morning for myself as well, refusing to acknowledge the clock until 12:00. My body needed to have an unrestricted rest; there's not enough of that around my house. Lately it seems like I spend too much of my time snatching bits of rest and private time from the corners of my life, without really feeling the benefits of it. Weekends are nice, but they haven't revived me yet.
Maybe without FIU, without the insanity of the beginning of school, I'll have more time to myself. But I still don't have any books for my Reading class to read, and I can't use the eight computers in my room. There is still no coherent administration at school, and nobody seems to know quite what is going on.
I don't know how much longer Dave is going to be here, and I don't know what's happening to us when he goes. Eventually, I'm going to have to make some plans for next year, and that's pretty scary. The GRE's are scary. Life is kind of scary right now, and I don't know what to do about it. I can't seem to rid myself of this anxious feeling, and that's really all I want
I want to relax, calm down, and get things together. It's better than last year, for sure, but life is still not quite the way I want it to be.
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Quitter.
I'm having a serious moral dilemma. Ever since I got back from Minnesota, life just keeps sliding closer and closer to the shitter. For some reason, every organization in Miami-Dade County wants to lie, manipulate, and otherwise make my life hell.
I reported to work on Monday, went to my required innane, sometimes painfully boring meetings, still with no definite teaching assignment. School started in 10 days, and they still didn't have 75% of the students scheduled. Hey, could we have forseen this problem? Oh, maybe we could have seen it when the School District couldn't get their fingers out of their asses for long enough to make a decision about the Zone until July 14th. The plan from the Superintendent didn't trickle down until nearly July 20th. Then, Central's computer database crashed during a power outage on July 22nd. What a stellar way to start the year.
As of Thursday evening (yes, that's four days before school started), I was teaching some form of 10th Grade English. I would be staying at the 95th street campus.
Friday morning (yes, that's three days before the start of school), I was informed in no uncertain terms from my Assistant Principal that I would be teaching at Madison Middle school, 9th grade. I left school, went home and cried in a ball for an hour, before moving 10 boxes of books in my own minivan (the movers left without me) in 90+ degree heat over to my new portable classroom (no computers, for my "computer-based" classes, no internet, no teacher desk, mountains of fire ants.).
Saturday, I said a great big "fuck you" to all things high school. I seem to be doing a lot of that lately.
Sunday, I went to school, put up posters, arranged desks and cleaned my room.
Monday brought the students, in scant numbers. All the assholes with the bad attitudes decided to take the extra Zone week off and come back to school on the 9th. Oh, what's that? What day is today? Oh, shit, that's right. They all decided to come back today.
Week 1 of school consisted of complete disorganization on the part of the administration. We had no principal at Madison, no Assistant Principal. They finally decided to hire someone circa Wednesday. Smart move, School District. Way to really support your staff which is implementing reforms that you threw down from on high without actually thinking about. Kids are fine the first week, they can't figure you out, especially this crazy white lady that wears trendy clothes and talks about literature. I turned in my Midterm for one class, scrambled frantically to write the lamest paper I have ever written: a summary of a scientific research study. 15 pages. Gag.
On Wednesday, at lunch, I opened my lunch box to find every ziploc bag covered in a slowly-moving black mass. Oh, you guessed it, those were ants. 10:15 am, my lunchtime (does that seem logical? no, it doesn't), also seemed to be insect chow hour. De-anting my lunch didn't really excite my appetite, but that wasn't really the problem. These wonderful bugs were fire ants, to which I am extremely allergic.
By Thursday afternoon, I couldn't move my left thumb, which was twice its normal size and a nice hot reddish color. Did I mention that fire ant bites also itch? That evening, I noticed a large red streak moving down my arm from the ant poison. Super. Super-de-duper. The red streak stayed till Friday, and my ant bite continued to ooze puss from the swollen thumb until Saturday. Excellent. I love my new classroom.
Saturday brought another exemplary class from the master professors at FIU during which I fell asleep I was so bored. The only entertaining part was when EIGHT people whined at the professor about getting an extension on their paper because they were "too busy." Right, I forgot, "I didn't feel like it" is a great excuse to use for not completing school work. Why on earth should we expect our students to take school seriously, or even bother to complete their work when their TEACHERS have such lame ass excuses for their own work. Way to set an example, Miami-Dade.
No wonder, then, that by the time Sunday rolled around I was ready once again to say a big "fuck you" to all things Florida International University. I proceeded to do so, having a wonderful day on South Beach: brunch with Dave after an envigorating run, and a haircut at the Aveda Salon with VA.
Monday. Oh, Monday. On Monday morning, the administration switched us over to block scheduling (100 minute classes instead of 50) with absolutely no warning. "Hmm," I thought to myself "1st period is really long this morning. I wonder why." Gee, it's so good that I have barely enough lessons planned for the day, I wasn't worried at all about filling twice the normal amount of time. Whatever.
Then, today happened. This morning, in a truly unimaginable development, I arrived at my classroom to find all of my desks replaced with broken ones, my filing cabinet gone, all of my papers taken from any horizontal surface, and my desk gone. Slightly confused, I presented an inquiry to the administration regarding the whereabouts of my belongings. "Oh, Ms. Williamson, you're in room 6." I don't have a key to room 6. The last time I was in room 6, there was another teacher's things in it, and no desks.
Apparently, last night someone packed up all of my things and put them in boxes, then threw them in room 6. At 7:45, fifteen minutes after school started, with my class of confused students in tow, we finally got someone to open room 6. There were 32 desks, 6 6foot by 3 foot tables, 8 computers on 2 more 6 foot by 3 foot tables, and 14 boxes of textbooks. Room 6 is not large. My sudents had to climb over the desks and sit on top of them, because they could not fit in the chairs. Apparently, the administration does not understand that students, especially ones with bad attitudes who finally decide to show up a week after class started, are not apt to be on their best behavior in a room that looks and functions like A STORAGE CLOSET.
Oh, but it was fine, because I have white boards now. White boards, no markers. Several hours later, when I finally found a marker, it was orange. New-Girl-From-The-Back: "Miss, I can't see that. You have to write with something else. I can't read that. You can't make me read that." Of course New-Girl-From-The-Back-Who-Missed-Last-Week, I would be *more* than happy to accommodate your aversion to orange ink.
The old kids are pissed at the new kids for missing last week's work; the new kids are pissed to be here, and about 20% of them are just those kinds of kids who are pissed all the time; I'm pissed as fuck at the administration, who keeps coming in and smiling, telling me how nice I'm being, and interrupting the sad excuse for a lesson that was my class today. Movers came in during 4th block, 7th period, and 6th period to cart off several large tables, and somehow one class actually got through Rudyard Kipling's "The Elephant's Child," with me doing animal voices.
I worked through lunch, felt ready to keel over at 3:30 when the kids finally left, and proceeded to have my first bite of food since 6am while I worked on my paper, which, I might add, is due tomorrow evening. I drove home in a daze and proceeded to fall instantly asleep while talking to my cat.
While I was ignorant in dreamland, blissfully ignorant, if you will, the forces of evil known as Floriday International University were conspiring against me. I learned, upon waking, that....[drumroll please]
1. I cannot register, due to a database malfunction. Hmm, these seem to be contagious lately. Maybe every Webmaster in Miami is a fucking idiot.
2. One of the classes for which we cannot register is already filled up, by people who somehow miraculously CAN register.
3. The only other class which is available to Urban Masters students is on Monday nights, the evening which I attend the only activity which keeps me SANE in this fucked-up-upside-down-perverse infrastructure of the Miami educational world: soccer.
4. Neither the web tech support people, or the Registrar, who I spoke to on the phone, can fix this problem.
I sent an email to our dean's secretary saying that I would be withdrawing from the program. I still have a paper due tomorrow night.
I am so upset. I don't quit things easily; true, we got roped into this shitty program under false pretenses AND blatant lies by TFA and FIU, but in spite of unethical acronyms, I have devoted a year to the program and thousands of dollars. The ignominy of being beaten by THIS system, of all the asisnine idiotic systems in the world, is acrid. It makes me want to vomit when I think of all the nights I spent trapped in meaningless classes wiht vapid students, doing absolutely no worthwhile work at all. I feel surrounded by the vile putrescence of quitting, and I can't seem to rid myself of it.
I shouldn't care. It's a stupid program. It's not intellectually validating, nor will it really help my future career goals. That doesn't change the fact that I'm a quitter, or that I still have that damn paper due tomorrow.
So, friends, I turn the music up very, very loud and close out this post to the wise words of Wilco...
"Monday, I'm all high
Get me out of FLA
I fooled ya, in school, yeah.
Now, I know I made a mistake...
I only wanna go where my wheels roll"
I reported to work on Monday, went to my required innane, sometimes painfully boring meetings, still with no definite teaching assignment. School started in 10 days, and they still didn't have 75% of the students scheduled. Hey, could we have forseen this problem? Oh, maybe we could have seen it when the School District couldn't get their fingers out of their asses for long enough to make a decision about the Zone until July 14th. The plan from the Superintendent didn't trickle down until nearly July 20th. Then, Central's computer database crashed during a power outage on July 22nd. What a stellar way to start the year.
As of Thursday evening (yes, that's four days before school started), I was teaching some form of 10th Grade English. I would be staying at the 95th street campus.
Friday morning (yes, that's three days before the start of school), I was informed in no uncertain terms from my Assistant Principal that I would be teaching at Madison Middle school, 9th grade. I left school, went home and cried in a ball for an hour, before moving 10 boxes of books in my own minivan (the movers left without me) in 90+ degree heat over to my new portable classroom (no computers, for my "computer-based" classes, no internet, no teacher desk, mountains of fire ants.).
Saturday, I said a great big "fuck you" to all things high school. I seem to be doing a lot of that lately.
Sunday, I went to school, put up posters, arranged desks and cleaned my room.
Monday brought the students, in scant numbers. All the assholes with the bad attitudes decided to take the extra Zone week off and come back to school on the 9th. Oh, what's that? What day is today? Oh, shit, that's right. They all decided to come back today.
Week 1 of school consisted of complete disorganization on the part of the administration. We had no principal at Madison, no Assistant Principal. They finally decided to hire someone circa Wednesday. Smart move, School District. Way to really support your staff which is implementing reforms that you threw down from on high without actually thinking about. Kids are fine the first week, they can't figure you out, especially this crazy white lady that wears trendy clothes and talks about literature. I turned in my Midterm for one class, scrambled frantically to write the lamest paper I have ever written: a summary of a scientific research study. 15 pages. Gag.
On Wednesday, at lunch, I opened my lunch box to find every ziploc bag covered in a slowly-moving black mass. Oh, you guessed it, those were ants. 10:15 am, my lunchtime (does that seem logical? no, it doesn't), also seemed to be insect chow hour. De-anting my lunch didn't really excite my appetite, but that wasn't really the problem. These wonderful bugs were fire ants, to which I am extremely allergic.
By Thursday afternoon, I couldn't move my left thumb, which was twice its normal size and a nice hot reddish color. Did I mention that fire ant bites also itch? That evening, I noticed a large red streak moving down my arm from the ant poison. Super. Super-de-duper. The red streak stayed till Friday, and my ant bite continued to ooze puss from the swollen thumb until Saturday. Excellent. I love my new classroom.
Saturday brought another exemplary class from the master professors at FIU during which I fell asleep I was so bored. The only entertaining part was when EIGHT people whined at the professor about getting an extension on their paper because they were "too busy." Right, I forgot, "I didn't feel like it" is a great excuse to use for not completing school work. Why on earth should we expect our students to take school seriously, or even bother to complete their work when their TEACHERS have such lame ass excuses for their own work. Way to set an example, Miami-Dade.
No wonder, then, that by the time Sunday rolled around I was ready once again to say a big "fuck you" to all things Florida International University. I proceeded to do so, having a wonderful day on South Beach: brunch with Dave after an envigorating run, and a haircut at the Aveda Salon with VA.
Monday. Oh, Monday. On Monday morning, the administration switched us over to block scheduling (100 minute classes instead of 50) with absolutely no warning. "Hmm," I thought to myself "1st period is really long this morning. I wonder why." Gee, it's so good that I have barely enough lessons planned for the day, I wasn't worried at all about filling twice the normal amount of time. Whatever.
Then, today happened. This morning, in a truly unimaginable development, I arrived at my classroom to find all of my desks replaced with broken ones, my filing cabinet gone, all of my papers taken from any horizontal surface, and my desk gone. Slightly confused, I presented an inquiry to the administration regarding the whereabouts of my belongings. "Oh, Ms. Williamson, you're in room 6." I don't have a key to room 6. The last time I was in room 6, there was another teacher's things in it, and no desks.
Apparently, last night someone packed up all of my things and put them in boxes, then threw them in room 6. At 7:45, fifteen minutes after school started, with my class of confused students in tow, we finally got someone to open room 6. There were 32 desks, 6 6foot by 3 foot tables, 8 computers on 2 more 6 foot by 3 foot tables, and 14 boxes of textbooks. Room 6 is not large. My sudents had to climb over the desks and sit on top of them, because they could not fit in the chairs. Apparently, the administration does not understand that students, especially ones with bad attitudes who finally decide to show up a week after class started, are not apt to be on their best behavior in a room that looks and functions like A STORAGE CLOSET.
Oh, but it was fine, because I have white boards now. White boards, no markers. Several hours later, when I finally found a marker, it was orange. New-Girl-From-The-Back: "Miss, I can't see that. You have to write with something else. I can't read that. You can't make me read that." Of course New-Girl-From-The-Back-Who-Missed-Last-Week, I would be *more* than happy to accommodate your aversion to orange ink.
The old kids are pissed at the new kids for missing last week's work; the new kids are pissed to be here, and about 20% of them are just those kinds of kids who are pissed all the time; I'm pissed as fuck at the administration, who keeps coming in and smiling, telling me how nice I'm being, and interrupting the sad excuse for a lesson that was my class today. Movers came in during 4th block, 7th period, and 6th period to cart off several large tables, and somehow one class actually got through Rudyard Kipling's "The Elephant's Child," with me doing animal voices.
I worked through lunch, felt ready to keel over at 3:30 when the kids finally left, and proceeded to have my first bite of food since 6am while I worked on my paper, which, I might add, is due tomorrow evening. I drove home in a daze and proceeded to fall instantly asleep while talking to my cat.
While I was ignorant in dreamland, blissfully ignorant, if you will, the forces of evil known as Floriday International University were conspiring against me. I learned, upon waking, that....[drumroll please]
1. I cannot register, due to a database malfunction. Hmm, these seem to be contagious lately. Maybe every Webmaster in Miami is a fucking idiot.
2. One of the classes for which we cannot register is already filled up, by people who somehow miraculously CAN register.
3. The only other class which is available to Urban Masters students is on Monday nights, the evening which I attend the only activity which keeps me SANE in this fucked-up-upside-down-perverse infrastructure of the Miami educational world: soccer.
4. Neither the web tech support people, or the Registrar, who I spoke to on the phone, can fix this problem.
I sent an email to our dean's secretary saying that I would be withdrawing from the program. I still have a paper due tomorrow night.
I am so upset. I don't quit things easily; true, we got roped into this shitty program under false pretenses AND blatant lies by TFA and FIU, but in spite of unethical acronyms, I have devoted a year to the program and thousands of dollars. The ignominy of being beaten by THIS system, of all the asisnine idiotic systems in the world, is acrid. It makes me want to vomit when I think of all the nights I spent trapped in meaningless classes wiht vapid students, doing absolutely no worthwhile work at all. I feel surrounded by the vile putrescence of quitting, and I can't seem to rid myself of it.
I shouldn't care. It's a stupid program. It's not intellectually validating, nor will it really help my future career goals. That doesn't change the fact that I'm a quitter, or that I still have that damn paper due tomorrow.
So, friends, I turn the music up very, very loud and close out this post to the wise words of Wilco...
"Monday, I'm all high
Get me out of FLA
I fooled ya, in school, yeah.
Now, I know I made a mistake...
I only wanna go where my wheels roll"
Sunday, July 24, 2005
Transitions
...and then, all of a sudden, summer was over.
Getting off the plane today in Miami, hearing Spanish again for the first time in over a week, it hit me that my vacation, my whole summer vacation, is about to end. My realities came rolling in as a little silver Jetta rolled into the G terminal of the MIA airport carrying my two housemates. The Jetta left the airport with two more passengers and a whole lot of luggage, taking me far from my travels and the life of leisure.
Still, as I sit here listening to the sleepy southern rhythms of Iron & Wine, I can't quite let go of summer. I had such good intentions of blogging about my sojurns into the wilderness this season; my stays on the mountainsides of St. John and the rocky Boundary Waters Wilderness offered many opportunities for reflection and contemplation, but somehow my brain just doesn't seem up to it. What it did do, thankfully, was renew my interest in photography. One of these days (oh, that eternal resolution, never fulfilled) I'm going to take my portfolio, fix it up, and show it to somebody who knows something about these things. What exactly "these things" are is as of yet unclear: photography, 'art,' selling things, presentation, etc.
Our family's trip to the Boundary Waters was short, only 5 days instead of the usual 10 or so, and I think that's one reason that I don't really feel like I've left Minnesota yet. The Hagen Family Reunion, 2005, was low-key and over pretty painlessly. All the people I like were there, and I was happy to introduce Dave to the whole crazy bunch. If only my mother would stop telling everyone "this is a friend of Thea's." Can we please speak clearly? I guess "This is Thea's boyfriend, Dave. He lives with her in Miami, but we don't know how long he's going to be there, and I [this is voice of Cathy] don't really know his intentions towards my daughter" doesn't have the same mysterious ring to it. Anyway, apart from some lewd Ole and Lena jokes, a raucous night in the hotel bar/poolroom with pitchers of Boulevard Ale, and bad small-town Minnesota cuisine, it was standard fare.
The weather was picturesque for our entire five days in the BWCAW [insert, for the uninitiated: Boundary Waters Canoe Area and Wilderness], and yes, I did take many pictures. Dave and I made quite the little pair, day-tripping through the lake country, portaging, and living life in the wilderness. We had a fun time eating dried camp food, cooking fish, putting up tents, swatting black flies and mosquitoes, swimming in the shallows, filleting fish, reading, drinking hot chocolate around the campfire, telling fish stories, hiking rockslides, eating wild blueberries and raspberries, oh, and fishing. I unwittinly initiated Dave into the fishing frenzy by putting a rod and reel in his hands and teaching him how to cast. He subsequently (in the three days left of the trip) out-fished all the other participants, catching the largest smallmouth bass and northern pike of the trip. Dad didn't catch anything bigger than his outrageous lures. I guess as long as you have fun, the trip is a success.
All in all, it's a great way to spend time with my family, whom I have missed greatly this past year. Instead of FIU, Central, and my presence in Miami, the only time I thought about my present life was when I would pull out my driver's lisence to order a drink at a bar. Each time I was a little surprised to see the bright green stripe emblazoned with "Florida." There was much laughter regarding past trips, shared family memories that were now transferred to Dave, and on the whole many high spirits. There's something about pike fillets sizzling over an open fire that makes everyone happy. I just wish that my break from the world could have lasted a few days longer. We rushed back from Ely, Minnesota last night as an orange sunset lit up the horizon in front of us, driving 5 hours to Minneapolis, close enough to the airport to catch our 10:30 ride south.
Being in the Midwest is so odd; I can't quite put my finger on on what it is: the flat farmlands, the perpindicular roads, the whiteness of Middle America, or some underlying malicious prejudice. It unsettles me in an uncanny way; by uncanny I do mean the full Freudian sense, because my familial roots are there. It is strange, foreign, and all my relatives live(d) there. My trip, like all good periods of reflection away from whatever I define as "normalcy," made me see that South Florida is quite a good match for me. Miami is a place of immigrants as well as migrants from all over the United States. Nobody is "from" Miami, we all are just living here for a while until we figure out what we really want to do.
The night before we left for the reunion, Dave and I went down to South Beach for a free screening of "The Thin Man," a delightful murder-mystery from 1934, and then proceded to promenade down Ocean Drive, stopping in the ever-so-trendy American Apparel store. As the cashier rang up my purchases, we chatted for a bit, entailing the question of "where are you from?" She seemed shocked to hear that I lived here, so I qualified it with the fact that I wasn't a native Miami-ite. With a practiced roll of the eyes, she laughingly replied "honey, nobody is."
This comment floated back to me through the waves of time-zone-transfer that washed over me as I left my plane this afternoon. True, this city is full of transitory people, trying to have fun and make a living; many of us are just living in the moment, week to week and month to month, but for now that's okay with me. All of the stability, "settled-down-ness" that I saw in my relatives back in the Midwest made me a little jittery. It shook up my present relationships with people and with my own life plans, reminded me a little too clearly that my Teach for America commitment won't last forever, and yes, I will have to actually make a *decision* soon about my real life. Gasp. Yikes.
For now, though, it feels good to be in Miami. I'm proud to be indecisive, to be in a state of flux, ready to go wherever my fancy (or, perhaps my heart) should take me after I'm done with teaching, and who knows when that will be? I sure as hell don't. In the midst of other temporary residents, I feel right at home in my ever-changing city.
Getting off the plane today in Miami, hearing Spanish again for the first time in over a week, it hit me that my vacation, my whole summer vacation, is about to end. My realities came rolling in as a little silver Jetta rolled into the G terminal of the MIA airport carrying my two housemates. The Jetta left the airport with two more passengers and a whole lot of luggage, taking me far from my travels and the life of leisure.
Still, as I sit here listening to the sleepy southern rhythms of Iron & Wine, I can't quite let go of summer. I had such good intentions of blogging about my sojurns into the wilderness this season; my stays on the mountainsides of St. John and the rocky Boundary Waters Wilderness offered many opportunities for reflection and contemplation, but somehow my brain just doesn't seem up to it. What it did do, thankfully, was renew my interest in photography. One of these days (oh, that eternal resolution, never fulfilled) I'm going to take my portfolio, fix it up, and show it to somebody who knows something about these things. What exactly "these things" are is as of yet unclear: photography, 'art,' selling things, presentation, etc.
Our family's trip to the Boundary Waters was short, only 5 days instead of the usual 10 or so, and I think that's one reason that I don't really feel like I've left Minnesota yet. The Hagen Family Reunion, 2005, was low-key and over pretty painlessly. All the people I like were there, and I was happy to introduce Dave to the whole crazy bunch. If only my mother would stop telling everyone "this is a friend of Thea's." Can we please speak clearly? I guess "This is Thea's boyfriend, Dave. He lives with her in Miami, but we don't know how long he's going to be there, and I [this is voice of Cathy] don't really know his intentions towards my daughter" doesn't have the same mysterious ring to it. Anyway, apart from some lewd Ole and Lena jokes, a raucous night in the hotel bar/poolroom with pitchers of Boulevard Ale, and bad small-town Minnesota cuisine, it was standard fare.
The weather was picturesque for our entire five days in the BWCAW [insert, for the uninitiated: Boundary Waters Canoe Area and Wilderness], and yes, I did take many pictures. Dave and I made quite the little pair, day-tripping through the lake country, portaging, and living life in the wilderness. We had a fun time eating dried camp food, cooking fish, putting up tents, swatting black flies and mosquitoes, swimming in the shallows, filleting fish, reading, drinking hot chocolate around the campfire, telling fish stories, hiking rockslides, eating wild blueberries and raspberries, oh, and fishing. I unwittinly initiated Dave into the fishing frenzy by putting a rod and reel in his hands and teaching him how to cast. He subsequently (in the three days left of the trip) out-fished all the other participants, catching the largest smallmouth bass and northern pike of the trip. Dad didn't catch anything bigger than his outrageous lures. I guess as long as you have fun, the trip is a success.
All in all, it's a great way to spend time with my family, whom I have missed greatly this past year. Instead of FIU, Central, and my presence in Miami, the only time I thought about my present life was when I would pull out my driver's lisence to order a drink at a bar. Each time I was a little surprised to see the bright green stripe emblazoned with "Florida." There was much laughter regarding past trips, shared family memories that were now transferred to Dave, and on the whole many high spirits. There's something about pike fillets sizzling over an open fire that makes everyone happy. I just wish that my break from the world could have lasted a few days longer. We rushed back from Ely, Minnesota last night as an orange sunset lit up the horizon in front of us, driving 5 hours to Minneapolis, close enough to the airport to catch our 10:30 ride south.
Being in the Midwest is so odd; I can't quite put my finger on on what it is: the flat farmlands, the perpindicular roads, the whiteness of Middle America, or some underlying malicious prejudice. It unsettles me in an uncanny way; by uncanny I do mean the full Freudian sense, because my familial roots are there. It is strange, foreign, and all my relatives live(d) there. My trip, like all good periods of reflection away from whatever I define as "normalcy," made me see that South Florida is quite a good match for me. Miami is a place of immigrants as well as migrants from all over the United States. Nobody is "from" Miami, we all are just living here for a while until we figure out what we really want to do.
The night before we left for the reunion, Dave and I went down to South Beach for a free screening of "The Thin Man," a delightful murder-mystery from 1934, and then proceded to promenade down Ocean Drive, stopping in the ever-so-trendy American Apparel store. As the cashier rang up my purchases, we chatted for a bit, entailing the question of "where are you from?" She seemed shocked to hear that I lived here, so I qualified it with the fact that I wasn't a native Miami-ite. With a practiced roll of the eyes, she laughingly replied "honey, nobody is."
This comment floated back to me through the waves of time-zone-transfer that washed over me as I left my plane this afternoon. True, this city is full of transitory people, trying to have fun and make a living; many of us are just living in the moment, week to week and month to month, but for now that's okay with me. All of the stability, "settled-down-ness" that I saw in my relatives back in the Midwest made me a little jittery. It shook up my present relationships with people and with my own life plans, reminded me a little too clearly that my Teach for America commitment won't last forever, and yes, I will have to actually make a *decision* soon about my real life. Gasp. Yikes.
For now, though, it feels good to be in Miami. I'm proud to be indecisive, to be in a state of flux, ready to go wherever my fancy (or, perhaps my heart) should take me after I'm done with teaching, and who knows when that will be? I sure as hell don't. In the midst of other temporary residents, I feel right at home in my ever-changing city.
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
Americana Part I: Daytrippers
After somewhat recovering from the mystery-neck-spasm incident of Thursday, sleeping all day Friday, and taking it *very* slow on Saturday (cooking two whole meals from scratch: pancakes and grouper!, even, gasp!, getting some exercise), I decided that even though I wasn't going anywhere exotic for the long weekend, we could at least get out of Miami-Dade. Dave somewhat reluctantly agreed to particpate, and was fortiutously surprised with the results.
Our day-trip destination was Naples, Florida: the hitherto-unseen West coast of the state. Upon first glance, this does not sound like the most fun-filled outing, but as with most of our trips, the best parts arrived upon us with an air of the aleatory, completely unplanned. In fact, apart from packing sandwiches, water, and snorkel gear, the only research we did was about 10 minutes of Google searching for beach locations. With sketchy directions from a discussion board for "Barefoot Beach," we hopped in Fiametta and said to ourselves "Westward ho!"
Throwing towels, snorkel gear, and wallets in the car, we meandered through Miami-Dade until we reached SW 8th Street, the Tamiami Trail. Bidding a very sweet adieu to Florida International University, we motored on into the Everglades on a beautiful blue-clear day. 100 miles of swampland, airboat tours, and indian reservations passed by as we relaxed and settled in to our trip. Fortuitously, we took a break at one of the state park rest stops and had the chance to walk over the sprawling cypress swamp on wooden boardwalks. Standing alone in the middle of grassy wetlands, the contrast from sprawling Miami is that much more acute. It's nice to know that there is real wilderness left around, where lizards aren't afraid of you, and bromeliads grow free.
Aaw, now wasn't that prosaic?
Surprisingly pleased with our route of transit, we pulled into Naples still following SW 8th, stumbling upon none other than a street art show. Of course, it was absolutely necessary to wander through the stalls for an hour or two to observe the beachey themed products. Honestly, the designer boutiques along the street were more interesting than the show, but I did manage to get suckered in to a cigar box purse. My wonderful rationalization facilities told me that this particualar one was 1. built better, 2. cheaper, and 3. cooler (Cohiba XV lacquered box) than all the ones I'd seen before. Dave concurred, and thus I am now the proud owner. Aside: I tested it out this week when D. and I went to dinner on Lincoln Rd. Indeed, I felt cool.
Our day neatly segued from the urban back to the natural as we set out to find our beach. Not only did we find a cute, shell-lined beaching area on the muddy-colored Gulf of Mexico, it also happened to be a refuge for the floridian Gopher Tortoise. Who knew? We bonded with the plodding reptiles, the spoonbills and pelicans, and the egrets who stalked the surf. I felt so free of responsibility; no watches were allowed, and I left my cell phone stashed in the glove compartment. Shell-hunting on the beach, I found some tiny coquinas, hearkening back to my younger days at Kiawah and Cocoa Beach, with sunbleached snowy hair, eternally sandy feet, and bathing suits with ruffles. Completely regressing to infantile behavior, I sat in the surf watching live coquinas retreat downwards into the sand after incominf waves, powered by their glassy mollusk feet.
Completely refreshed from the paragon "day at the beach," we packed our salty selves back into the van. Perhaps it was my dehydration, perhaps the saline in the water, or it could have been my irrational desire for something else 'American,' but I had an insatiable craving for watermelon. Publix, Publix, where are you?! So, on that summer afternoon, exploring the coast aimlessly, we finally stumbled upon a grocery store. I then proceeded, while Dave took the wheel, to devour nearly half a watermelon before we reached our dinner destination. It was divine.
Stopped to see some wading birds on the salt marshes (yes, folks, I am becoming my parents) near Bonita Beach, then finally settled down for 30 cent oysters and coronas at The Fish House pier. Does it get much better than this? Fresh seafood at happy hour prices? Only in America. As the sun set on our day, brimming with sights, sounds, and flavors of the sea, we set of for Miami. Lo and behold, what should we find? A homemade icecream stand! No, I can't take it; no more; too...much...good...food. Alas, we gave in: me to blackberry cheesecake and Dave to butter pecan. I was one tired hushpuppy on the way home, so after indulging in a few chapters of Zorro, I drifted off to dreamland as the mosquitoes pounded the grill of the van through the darkened Everglades on highway 75. What a beautiful day.
Our day-trip destination was Naples, Florida: the hitherto-unseen West coast of the state. Upon first glance, this does not sound like the most fun-filled outing, but as with most of our trips, the best parts arrived upon us with an air of the aleatory, completely unplanned. In fact, apart from packing sandwiches, water, and snorkel gear, the only research we did was about 10 minutes of Google searching for beach locations. With sketchy directions from a discussion board for "Barefoot Beach," we hopped in Fiametta and said to ourselves "Westward ho!"
Throwing towels, snorkel gear, and wallets in the car, we meandered through Miami-Dade until we reached SW 8th Street, the Tamiami Trail. Bidding a very sweet adieu to Florida International University, we motored on into the Everglades on a beautiful blue-clear day. 100 miles of swampland, airboat tours, and indian reservations passed by as we relaxed and settled in to our trip. Fortuitously, we took a break at one of the state park rest stops and had the chance to walk over the sprawling cypress swamp on wooden boardwalks. Standing alone in the middle of grassy wetlands, the contrast from sprawling Miami is that much more acute. It's nice to know that there is real wilderness left around, where lizards aren't afraid of you, and bromeliads grow free.
Aaw, now wasn't that prosaic?
Surprisingly pleased with our route of transit, we pulled into Naples still following SW 8th, stumbling upon none other than a street art show. Of course, it was absolutely necessary to wander through the stalls for an hour or two to observe the beachey themed products. Honestly, the designer boutiques along the street were more interesting than the show, but I did manage to get suckered in to a cigar box purse. My wonderful rationalization facilities told me that this particualar one was 1. built better, 2. cheaper, and 3. cooler (Cohiba XV lacquered box) than all the ones I'd seen before. Dave concurred, and thus I am now the proud owner. Aside: I tested it out this week when D. and I went to dinner on Lincoln Rd. Indeed, I felt cool.
Our day neatly segued from the urban back to the natural as we set out to find our beach. Not only did we find a cute, shell-lined beaching area on the muddy-colored Gulf of Mexico, it also happened to be a refuge for the floridian Gopher Tortoise. Who knew? We bonded with the plodding reptiles, the spoonbills and pelicans, and the egrets who stalked the surf. I felt so free of responsibility; no watches were allowed, and I left my cell phone stashed in the glove compartment. Shell-hunting on the beach, I found some tiny coquinas, hearkening back to my younger days at Kiawah and Cocoa Beach, with sunbleached snowy hair, eternally sandy feet, and bathing suits with ruffles. Completely regressing to infantile behavior, I sat in the surf watching live coquinas retreat downwards into the sand after incominf waves, powered by their glassy mollusk feet.
Completely refreshed from the paragon "day at the beach," we packed our salty selves back into the van. Perhaps it was my dehydration, perhaps the saline in the water, or it could have been my irrational desire for something else 'American,' but I had an insatiable craving for watermelon. Publix, Publix, where are you?! So, on that summer afternoon, exploring the coast aimlessly, we finally stumbled upon a grocery store. I then proceeded, while Dave took the wheel, to devour nearly half a watermelon before we reached our dinner destination. It was divine.
Stopped to see some wading birds on the salt marshes (yes, folks, I am becoming my parents) near Bonita Beach, then finally settled down for 30 cent oysters and coronas at The Fish House pier. Does it get much better than this? Fresh seafood at happy hour prices? Only in America. As the sun set on our day, brimming with sights, sounds, and flavors of the sea, we set of for Miami. Lo and behold, what should we find? A homemade icecream stand! No, I can't take it; no more; too...much...good...food. Alas, we gave in: me to blackberry cheesecake and Dave to butter pecan. I was one tired hushpuppy on the way home, so after indulging in a few chapters of Zorro, I drifted off to dreamland as the mosquitoes pounded the grill of the van through the darkened Everglades on highway 75. What a beautiful day.
Friday, July 01, 2005
My Day Off
Yesterday, whilst the Gear-Up kids went to a waterpark, I was to have a day of vacation. The night before, my roommate asked me "So, what do you have planned for tomorrow?" I told her, in a rare fit of sagacity, "Well, there are a ton of things that I could be doing, but if I make any plans, I'm just going to be depressed that I didn't get them done."
Plan-less and stress free, I went to bed.
When Cervantes woke me up at 9:12 wanting to be fed, I obligingly got out of bed to pour some nuggets into his kitty bowl. However, as I rolled out of bed, I realized that I couldn't move my neck without getting these weird, jarring pains. Managed to feed the cat, and as I was walking back to my room to lie down, bam. Out cold on the floor. I still have a lump on my head and elbow. Damn those tile floors.
Figured it probably wouldn't do to lie around on the floor all day, so when I woke up, I crawled back to bed and slept for another 6 hours. When people started to call me, I realized that I was going to have to do something about this bizarre phenomenon. Mary drove me over to Mt. Sinai's ER, where they whisked me through triage and stuck me in bed 5.
I've been in an ER before, for lame ankle sprains, but not a whole lot happens in Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania. As nurses, residents, doctors-in-training, and paramedics swirled around me, I continued in my dazed state and did what they told me. Then, all of a sudden my only duty was waiting for head x-rays, so I settled my stiff neck into the bed and took in the drama of the ER.
In some bizarre fashion, it reminded me a lot of the eponymous television show: personalities begin to emerge, the same stock phrases get thrown around, and then comes "the call." Drowning victim from Miami Beach, on his way with paramedics. People started moving a little quicker, got out the crash cart and cleaned up 'room' 4, right next to me. When the ambulance pulled up to the swinging doors, the news crews were right behind them, flashing cameras and asking questions. What a strange society we live in, where freak accidents are 'newsworthy' and people's private injuries make the press. Outside, the press team accosted the hospital PR squad, while inside in curtain 4, the anonymous 23 year old swimmer's heart stopped working. There was little yelling, none of the dramatic scenes from television, just a bunch of people trying very hard to do their best job. Eventually, there were less and less doctors in the stall next to me, and then finally the lights went out. It was over.
Thursday in the Miami Beach ER was far from over, for patient 5 (that's me) and others. Next on the list was what the staff called an "irrational." No, not a fraction, but a woman with a drug overdose kicking and screaming. Meanwhile, I've had some morphine and valium to make me ever so alert and coherent. Three hours after I arrived in the ER, I finally got my x-rays, then an hour later I was ready to go home.
Apparently, the chief resident believes "in holistic medicine. All these pills aren't going to make you better...[she taps my temple] *YOU'RE* going to make yourself better." Well, lady, that's nice, but the morphine's wearing off again and I still can't move my neck. So she wrote me a prescription for some hard-core muscle relaxants for my apparently routine neck spasms. When they say that "people come in all the time" with this, I'd really like to know what "all the time" is. Every week? Every month?
Feeling not much better physically, and not a bit dazed, Mary and Dave arrived in a much welcome chariot to shuffle me off home at 7:45 pm, four hours after my arrival. Damn. I guess it's really a good thing that I didn't make any plans for yesterday. And hey, I even got a doctor's note to stay home from work today =). Maybe by Saturday, I'll be able to turn my head to the left.
Plan-less and stress free, I went to bed.
When Cervantes woke me up at 9:12 wanting to be fed, I obligingly got out of bed to pour some nuggets into his kitty bowl. However, as I rolled out of bed, I realized that I couldn't move my neck without getting these weird, jarring pains. Managed to feed the cat, and as I was walking back to my room to lie down, bam. Out cold on the floor. I still have a lump on my head and elbow. Damn those tile floors.
Figured it probably wouldn't do to lie around on the floor all day, so when I woke up, I crawled back to bed and slept for another 6 hours. When people started to call me, I realized that I was going to have to do something about this bizarre phenomenon. Mary drove me over to Mt. Sinai's ER, where they whisked me through triage and stuck me in bed 5.
I've been in an ER before, for lame ankle sprains, but not a whole lot happens in Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania. As nurses, residents, doctors-in-training, and paramedics swirled around me, I continued in my dazed state and did what they told me. Then, all of a sudden my only duty was waiting for head x-rays, so I settled my stiff neck into the bed and took in the drama of the ER.
In some bizarre fashion, it reminded me a lot of the eponymous television show: personalities begin to emerge, the same stock phrases get thrown around, and then comes "the call." Drowning victim from Miami Beach, on his way with paramedics. People started moving a little quicker, got out the crash cart and cleaned up 'room' 4, right next to me. When the ambulance pulled up to the swinging doors, the news crews were right behind them, flashing cameras and asking questions. What a strange society we live in, where freak accidents are 'newsworthy' and people's private injuries make the press. Outside, the press team accosted the hospital PR squad, while inside in curtain 4, the anonymous 23 year old swimmer's heart stopped working. There was little yelling, none of the dramatic scenes from television, just a bunch of people trying very hard to do their best job. Eventually, there were less and less doctors in the stall next to me, and then finally the lights went out. It was over.
Thursday in the Miami Beach ER was far from over, for patient 5 (that's me) and others. Next on the list was what the staff called an "irrational." No, not a fraction, but a woman with a drug overdose kicking and screaming. Meanwhile, I've had some morphine and valium to make me ever so alert and coherent. Three hours after I arrived in the ER, I finally got my x-rays, then an hour later I was ready to go home.
Apparently, the chief resident believes "in holistic medicine. All these pills aren't going to make you better...[she taps my temple] *YOU'RE* going to make yourself better." Well, lady, that's nice, but the morphine's wearing off again and I still can't move my neck. So she wrote me a prescription for some hard-core muscle relaxants for my apparently routine neck spasms. When they say that "people come in all the time" with this, I'd really like to know what "all the time" is. Every week? Every month?
Feeling not much better physically, and not a bit dazed, Mary and Dave arrived in a much welcome chariot to shuffle me off home at 7:45 pm, four hours after my arrival. Damn. I guess it's really a good thing that I didn't make any plans for yesterday. And hey, I even got a doctor's note to stay home from work today =). Maybe by Saturday, I'll be able to turn my head to the left.
Sunday, June 26, 2005
Back in the Saddle
It's raining in Miami tonight, as it has done for the past 25 days of June. No, that's a lie. There was actually one day (while I was on vacation) when it did NOT, I repeat, did NOT rain in the MIA. Does this mean that I'm gloomy, under the weather, walking about with dampened spirits? No, it does not! Although the last 4 inches of my jeans may be moist every day, and I may sometimes have to wade barefoot through puddles 4 inches deep to get to my car after work, I am reaching equilibrium.
No longer does Mariah Carey blast continuously from my speakers (just occasionally). Willie Nelson and Patty Griffin, in the spirit of summer living, have taken her place. Oh Willie, why did you have to play a part in "Dukes of Hazzard?" That's just wrong. My country hero and Jessica Simpson on the same screen? No. No. Anyway, back to the real stuff...
Tonight, I dropped Dave off at FLL for a quick trip "home." It's easier making the drive knowing that I'll see him on Thursday [grin]. It's a Sunday, and usually this would mean a cloud, metaphorical instead of meteorological, settles over 266 as the teachers make preparations for another long, gruelling week at school. But oh, not so, not so! I only teach 3 days this week, then get paid to go to 1. a water park, and 2. a film production and processing studio with 35 good-natured high school students. I [heart] my job. I mean, I really [heart] my job.
Earlier this evening, thinking about my decision to work over the summer, I realized that I can now finally say that yes, it was a good idea. Working with the Gear-Up kids is so refreshing; someone ELSE is ultimately responsible for their behavior, they are interested in the material (except maybe for my ESOL class), they are cute, funny, and some of them are surprisingly intelligent. I go to work, watch movies, talk about movies, then drive home. Some nights, I watch a movie to prepare for class, and jot down some lesson plans. Are you KIDDING?!!? Yes, this is my job. See, teaching doesn't have to be cutthroat, backstabbing, brutal, tedious, antagonistic, and futile!
Professionally, I'm doing well.
Personally, I'm doing fantastic. Even though I miss my few friends who are gallavanting around the world in other hemispheres, I enjoy the MIA crowd who is sticking around for the summertime. My cat, still slightly insane, is here, as is another resident in Apt. 2: David Dickinson Henry. This is a phenomenon of much delight and amazement. We just returned from 9 fun-and-sun-filled days in St. John, USVI where there was much cooking, much snorkeling, and many many many mosquito bites (post to follow, hopefully)
The weather on vacation was perfectly idyllic, and I returned ridiculously tanned and blonde...to a very, very rainy Miami. FIU threatened to dampen my sunshiny attitude during summer finals/midterms, but together the TFA contingent perservered, and that's done with for a while. Work started up in whirl, and although I still haven't unpacked, I at least have clean laundry. Went to see the Cristo and Jeanne-Claude exhibit at the Bass Museum and renewed my love for Art-Deco architecture, so now I feel firmly back at home and grounded.
OOOOH! And, I finally got around to seeing Batman Begins, yayayayyayayayayyayayyayayay. Thanks for that. I was literally jumping up and down upon exiting the theater following the film. So good, so good. So tightly put together, there was hardly room for mistakes. Now the only question is what does Christopher Nolan do *next*.
Whew, on that note, I think I'd better shower and figure out how to make my kids think that "Batman Returns" isn't outdated =).
No longer does Mariah Carey blast continuously from my speakers (just occasionally). Willie Nelson and Patty Griffin, in the spirit of summer living, have taken her place. Oh Willie, why did you have to play a part in "Dukes of Hazzard?" That's just wrong. My country hero and Jessica Simpson on the same screen? No. No. Anyway, back to the real stuff...
Tonight, I dropped Dave off at FLL for a quick trip "home." It's easier making the drive knowing that I'll see him on Thursday [grin]. It's a Sunday, and usually this would mean a cloud, metaphorical instead of meteorological, settles over 266 as the teachers make preparations for another long, gruelling week at school. But oh, not so, not so! I only teach 3 days this week, then get paid to go to 1. a water park, and 2. a film production and processing studio with 35 good-natured high school students. I [heart] my job. I mean, I really [heart] my job.
Earlier this evening, thinking about my decision to work over the summer, I realized that I can now finally say that yes, it was a good idea. Working with the Gear-Up kids is so refreshing; someone ELSE is ultimately responsible for their behavior, they are interested in the material (except maybe for my ESOL class), they are cute, funny, and some of them are surprisingly intelligent. I go to work, watch movies, talk about movies, then drive home. Some nights, I watch a movie to prepare for class, and jot down some lesson plans. Are you KIDDING?!!? Yes, this is my job. See, teaching doesn't have to be cutthroat, backstabbing, brutal, tedious, antagonistic, and futile!
Professionally, I'm doing well.
Personally, I'm doing fantastic. Even though I miss my few friends who are gallavanting around the world in other hemispheres, I enjoy the MIA crowd who is sticking around for the summertime. My cat, still slightly insane, is here, as is another resident in Apt. 2: David Dickinson Henry. This is a phenomenon of much delight and amazement. We just returned from 9 fun-and-sun-filled days in St. John, USVI where there was much cooking, much snorkeling, and many many many mosquito bites (post to follow, hopefully)
The weather on vacation was perfectly idyllic, and I returned ridiculously tanned and blonde...to a very, very rainy Miami. FIU threatened to dampen my sunshiny attitude during summer finals/midterms, but together the TFA contingent perservered, and that's done with for a while. Work started up in whirl, and although I still haven't unpacked, I at least have clean laundry. Went to see the Cristo and Jeanne-Claude exhibit at the Bass Museum and renewed my love for Art-Deco architecture, so now I feel firmly back at home and grounded.
OOOOH! And, I finally got around to seeing Batman Begins, yayayayyayayayayyayayyayayay. Thanks for that. I was literally jumping up and down upon exiting the theater following the film. So good, so good. So tightly put together, there was hardly room for mistakes. Now the only question is what does Christopher Nolan do *next*.
Whew, on that note, I think I'd better shower and figure out how to make my kids think that "Batman Returns" isn't outdated =).
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