Miz S

I Will Snatch You Bald-Headed.

Liza Lee's advice was awesome and she is my official go-to person now for handling sticky situations. Unfortunately, by the time she left her comment I had already bumbled my way through the confrontation.

TIMING, PEOPLE. IT'S ALL ABOUT TIMING.

Truth be told, it went very well. I dressed with particular care in the morning so that she would take me seriously. A skirt, a nice top, and really cute Madden Girl red high heels.  This lady is 5'10 and I didn't want to have to look up at her. (The blister on my pinky toe by noon was totally worth it.)

I realized as I started to talk to her that I didn't feel intimidated at all. I don't like her, I don't give a shit what she thinks about me, and it's fucked up to call a 7-year-old stupid.

The conversation went something like this.

Me: I have a concern about Estefania that I wanted to discuss with you. She came back from math feeling upset, and she told me that the unit test was too hard and she felt stupid.

Mean Teacher: She feels it's too hard when she's being challenged?

Me: I've never observed that with her in the past. Also, she said that you said she is stupid.

Mean Teacher: That never happened.

Me: Well, I thought you would want to know what she told me.

 

And that was pretty much that. I did not mention the fact that another child had verified the story because I didn't want to back her into a corner. I think it's enough that she knows I am listening and watching.

 

Her denial was so flat and so quick that I knew instantly she really had called the kids stupid.

Anyway, I felt victorious and proud all day because I had done something that was really hard for me to do. And it turns out that I can do it and it wasn't even that difficult. It felt good to be direct and calm.

I have been such a wimp my entire life. But now that I have tasted blood I will be ALL UP IN YOUR FACE if you piss me off. Ha! Kidding! Don't hurt me!

Thanks for all the advice and support, you guys. I hope everyone has a fun weekend.

 

J'Accuse!

So. I got myself a little situation at work that is making me feel really uncomfortable and resentful but HAS to be addressed.

There is a teacher at my school who has a reputation for being somewhat "sharp" with the students. She works with the kids who are above grade-level in math, and 3 of my students go to her math class every day. Yesterday, one of them came back from her room looking somewhat downcast and chastened. She told me that the teacher had gotten mad at her when she was taking the unit test and called her stupid. She also called a boy from another class stupid. I talked to the other boy's regular teacher (my Ellen xoxo) and he corroborated the story.

How motivating to be called stupid! Way to make them love math!

My first reaction was that I should take my student to the principal and have her repeat the tale. But, after thinking it over I have decided to *gasp* go talk to the math teacher myself.

I KNOW.  I'M SHOCKED TOO.

The principal has heard these stories before and has even talked to the teacher in question about toning down her approach. I don't think anything will really come of it if I tattle-tale to the principal.

I briefly considered just ignoring the situation, but I can't do that. I'm responsible for these kids all year and I have to stand up for them if necessary. If I do nothing at all then as far as Estafania can tell it's okay for a teacher to call a kid stupid.

I have to be careful what I say to her, though. I can't go in all J'accuse! and expect things to go well.

Those of you who know me well know that I hate anything that smacks of confrontation and I will get all shaky and teary at the drop of a hat. If you have any advice as to how I should approach this PLEASE SHARE. AND HURRY!

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Hey. Did you know I had a baby a few years ago? She was a big ol' nine-pounder, and she was born smiling. I totally rocked the Lamaze breathing and didn't take any drugs at all.

Breathe in, breathe out.

You're doing fine, Miz S.

The child's head was enormous.

We named the giant blonde girl "Evangeline." Or something very much like that.

She grew up to be dreamy and tall and lanky and rather good at lying around reading books when she was supposed to be walking the dogs or doing the dishes.

And just when I was getting the hang of the whole motherhood thing, just when she had learned to hang up the towel in the bathroom and put her dishes in the dishwasher, she up and left for college.

Oh, I kid. She never learned how to hang up the towel in the bathroom.

Tomorrow, under Russian skies, Evangeline will celebrate her 21st birthday.

Tonight, under Maryland skies (which are not nearly as poetic as Russian skies), I ponder the swift passage of time.   

I remember so well the moment that this picture was taken. The day had turned warm unexpectedly and she rolled up her little blue sweatpants. She was wearing the the red sweatshirt with the dog's face on it that was sewed just for her by my friend Robin.She was still such a little girl, and she leaned in for that kiss so unselfconsciously. That night I probably soaped her hair in the bathtub, and maybe read to her from one of the Betsy-Tacy books. I'm making myself sniffle here. Dammit. I promised myself I would stand firm against any maudlin birthday blogging.

Hey! Check out my hiking boots, Jane!

 Happy birthday, Evangeline! We miss you.

And, I Reorganized My Geometry Files.

Yesterday morning I was cold, tired, cranky and GOD I didn't want to go to my job. I punished the world for making me work by wearing cordoroys, sneakers, and NO MAKEUP. Oy, the blotchy skin tone and the red-rimmed eyes and middle-aged frumpiness. TAKE THAT, WORLD!

I slogged through the day and in the end it wasn't that bad, I guess. In fact, at dismissal time I had one of those warm and fuzzy moments that makes me love being a teacher at this school.

After saying goodbye to the last of the kids, I walked back up to the front of the school and sat down on the wall with my friend Ellen (you know Ellen, right? The one I adore?). There were still a few kids and teachers milling about. My little Estafania was there with her mom, her little brother, and 3 kids that her mom babysits.

One of those kids is Thomas, the Peck's Bad Boy of my friend Krystle's class. (Ha! Anachronistic literary reference! Look at me!)

Thomas can be a pill.

Thomas spit at my little Estafania. There was a bit of an uproar, with Estafania's mom scolding him in Spanish (which he doesn't understand) and Estafania looking tearful and the other little kids laughing and pointing.  Thomas' teacher, my friend Krystle, marched outside with her lips set in a grim line and held her hand out to Thomas. "We're going inside to call Mom," she said. In her MEAN teacher voice.

Krystle is the only person that Thomas will listen to.

The whole group walked back inside and I followed because I love me a little bad boy drama. I sat with the rest of the kids because the littlest boys were getting rowdy and the Mom was busy dealing with naughty Thomas inside the office. A Head Start teacher who knows the family came out in the hall and chatted with us and corralled the rowdy little boys, one of whom was saying bad words, and spoke to them in Spanish. Estafania leaned up against me and we had a nice little chat which was particularly good because Estefania spends half her time at school in hot water with me for sneaking out of the classroom to conduct secret first-grade business and stealing stuff from my supplies and distributing them among the other students, as if she is goddamned Robin Hood or something.

It was a warm and fuzzy moment for me. The way that Krystle jumped and took care of Thomas even though, technically, it wasn't her problem. The way that the Head Start teacher knows the whole family and has known them for years and was telling the little boys that it's not nice to say bad words. The way the secretary was translating for the Mom.

I'm not conveying it very well, but it felt warm and cozy and all it-takes-a-village. You know?

Later I went home and walked the dogs and worked out and ate lasagne and drank wine. I scared myself a couple of times when I passed by a mirror and saw my blotchy-skinned, allergic-eyed reflection, but aside from that it was a nice afternoon and evening.

And Then We Went Out For Sushi and Ordered TWO Bottles of Sake.

So. You guys remember that I have a special friend at my school, right?  The Small Brother? A while ago, little Tony asked me for my phone number. I gave him my cell phone number, mostly because I didn't really know why he was asking me. Maybe there was a reason why he wanted to be able to reach me.

I've given my number to kids before. Usually they instantly lose it. Not my Tony. Within 24 hours he had committed my number to memory. I would pass him in the hall and he would say, "Miz S! I know your phone number! It's twenty-five, thirty-three five, three seven, fifty-six four. It made me laugh, the way he had memorized it in some strange string that made sense to him but was completely confusing to me.

Whenever he sees me he says, "Can I call you today?" Usually I say yes but sometimes I say no because I know I'm going to be in a meeting or busy or CRANKY.

So,  he calls me a few times a week and a couple times on the weekend. I ask him what he's doing and I tell him what I'm doing. We talk for a minute or two. Sometimes he puts one of his brothers or sisters on to say hi. 

The first time that I said, "Okay sweetie, I'll talk to you later" he was confused. "Do you mean I should call you again tonight?" he asked.

"No, honey, it's an expression, it means I'll talk to you the next day."

"So...I should call you in the morning?"

"No, it's an idiom...oh never mind. Sure. Call me in the morning."

Now I am careful to say, "I'll talk to you when I see you at school tomorrow."

Last Friday he called me at around 7pm. We talked for a couple of minutes. He sounded a little off. I asked him what his family was going to do on Saturday and he said that they were going to go to Safeway.

Then he told me that they weren't going to have dinner that night because they didn't have any food.

No. Food.

I tried to talk him out of his story. "You must have something in your kitchen. Some cereal or something, right?"

"Nope. No food at all. I am not lying."

I told him to call me the next day, and then I got off the phone and tried to figure out what to do. Should I go pick up some groceries and go over there? Should I order some pizza and take it over?

I mean, I know it sounds like a no-brainer and some of you must be shaking your heads. But it's a little more complicated than it may seem. Would Tony get in trouble if his mother knew he had told me this? Would his mother feel humiliated if she knew that I knew?

I knew not what to do.

So I called the parent coordinator lady-person who works at my school. She has experience with this type of situation.

We talked for about half an hour about what to do. She said that she could fix this on Monday. She would get his family in the "Backpack Program," where food for the weekend is sent home in the child's backpack on Friday. She said he would be okay going without dinner for one night. She said, "Honestly? It's not that unusual. It's fucked up, but it's not unusual."

I spent the rest of the evening feeling a little off myself. I'm not naive. I know that hunger exists even here. But it's one thing knowing that it exists and another thing having an 8-year-old call you and tell you that he won't eat until the next day.

Busy As A Little Bee.

Nash was not a big fan of the floor waxing, but he did feel that it was important to supervise the work.

I was very accomplishment-oriented this weekend. The realization that we will be having a big party here in about 6 weeks (Sasha's college graduation) is a huge motivator. I don't want our friends and family to find out that we are perfectly comfortable LIVING IN SQUALOR.

Kidding. We don't live in squalor. But things seem to pile up in corners and baseboards seldom get washed and have you LOOKED under your beds recently? Good God. Saturday was all about cleaning the hell out of the house and doing 5000 loads of laundry. I was so filled with the Spirit of Cleanliness that I waxed and buffed the wood floors on the main floor of the house. Our house is small so it didn't really take very long. But the floors are treacherously slippery now so you can expect a post about a broken tailbone probably within 48 hours.

Sasha was home for the weekend. She handled all the animal-related errands and jobs yesterday, including running over to Petsmart to pick up a Furminator, recommended by Robyn. The cats are shedding like crazy and Robyn says that this will help. Believe you me, Robyn knows her animal care products.  Sasha tried it out and removed enough hair from the cats to make another cat.

We called Evangeline in Russia and everyone got a chance to talk to her. The conversation between Sasha and Evangeline went something like this:

Sasha: Hey.

Evangeline: Hey.

Sasha: Did you leave any underwear here? I forgot to bring any with me.

Evangeline: Yeah, there's probably some upstairs in my dresser. Don't take the nice ones.

Sasha: Who's going to stop me?

Evangeline: Ha-ha!

No squealing or sentimental crap with these two girls, no sirree bob.

There is a bunch of other stuff that we need to do before the party. The vinyl siding needs to be washed, all the furniture on the screen porch needs to be taken outside and scrubbed as well as the porch itself, kitchen cabinets need to be cleaned out and re-lined, and probably some other stuff that I haven't thought of. And then there's the yard work to think about.

If it weren't for parties Josh and I would never, ever get anything done around here.

Today was more of the same. We hauled a bunch of stuff out of the basement and took some to Goodwill and some to the dump.

Sasha and I topped the weekend off by going to Petsmart to adopt a cat for my parents. Their cat died a few months ago, and my mother has been making noises about getting another pet. Knowing my mother and her penchant for difficult dogs, this was really a self-preservation move on our part. Left to her own devices she would go find herself a diarrheal, blind, 3-legged dog with a taste for human flesh. Which we would end up with when she goes into the Home for Difficult Old People.

We found a beautiful little calico/tabby 11-month-old female. Her name is Phoebe. My parents are thrilled. Stupidly, I forgot my camera so I don't have any pictures but I promise I will go over there within the next day or two and capture her soul.

Oh, there's more. MUCH more. But if I tell you everything now what would I say tomorrow? Oh, and sorry, I don't think I answered any comments last week but it's not because I don't love you. I just had a crazy busy week. 

Rosie adores any attention at all. Here she is giving Sasha some Schnoodle lovin' while Sasha does a little grooming.

Raehan is having a baby! Again!

Do you know Raehan? I "met" her 3 years ago this summer through her blog. She is lovely, serene, and tall. And very, very pregnant with her third child at this very moment.

Raehan might be one of the very smartest and genuinely kindest people that I have ever met. She is not really blogging anymore but hope springs eternal in my heart.

Raehan came to my town once when she was attending some fancy-pants University seminar (did I mention that she is smart?) and I got to have dinner with her.

Would you do me a favor? Pop on over there and wish her well as she begins the last week or two of her pregnancy. She is feeling rather large and uncomfortable and I know she would be thrilled to get some Internet love.

If you know Raehan and would like to contribute to a group shower gift, click here. And a shout-out to the super-organized Kim for pulling this together.

Beware the Schnoodle!

Alright. Look at Rosie, then look at the picture of the random Schnoodle below. I can't figure out (am too lazy to work at it) how to make the pictures be side by side.

Unless I am in a mood, I love walking my dogs and meeting other dogs and owners in the park. Josh prefers that his walks do not include human interaction and he sometimes hides in the woods to avoid neighbors. One time he almost pulled my arm out of its socket trying to strong arm me into the woods before a chatty lady spied us. He says I encourage people to talk to me.

Yesterday I met someone who looked at Rosie and said right away, "Oh, you have a Schnoodle too!"

A Schnoodle is one of those made-up breeds that is a cross between a poodle and a schnauzer. You know, like a "Morkie" or a "Peekapoo." 

Silly combo names aside, I personally don't believe in inventing new breeds and selling them to people when there are tons of lovely mutts being euthanized every day. THERE AREN'T ENOUGH HOMES, PEOPLE. But, whatever.

Her schnoodle looked just like Rosie except for his coloring, but apparently they come in all different colors. He had Rosie's eyes, Rosie's fur texture, Rosie's little white chest blaze, and her funny long legs.

We don't know anything about Rosie's background other than the whole 75-dogs-in-one-house thing, but I looked up schnoodles when I got home and she damn sure looks like one.

Here is a random Shnoodle that I found on Google Images. I know the ears look different but I think she has them sort of half-cocked because I've seen Rosie's ears do that too. Also, all the dogs looked a little different because there's not really a standard for the "breed." 

We have always noticed that Rosie doesn't shed, and that is one of the characteristics of this mix, since neither poodles nor schnauzers shed. They are also reputed to be highly intelligent and very friendly AND THAT'S MY GIRL.

So. A Schnooooooodle.

In other news, I have decided to get serious about strength training again. I have done it off and on for years, but more off than on for awhile now. Clearly the whole yoga thing is just never going to work out for me.

So yesterday I did the treadmill for 40 minutes and then did free weights for chest and shoulders. I was really careful not to overdo it, because the last time I tried to start this up again I was so sore the next day that I couldn't perform ordinary functions and it took a week to heal up. By that time of course I had lost interest. Today I can feel soreness, but it's not too much. It feels good. Tonight I will do abs and lower body. Go squats!

I'm kind of psyched about it. I love muscles.

In other other news I accepted an invitation to go to an out of town birthday party for a close friend who is turning 50 in a couple of weeks. In the meantime, my mother-in-law decided to do Passover.

"Yes! Great! Yay Passover!" I said. We had several conversations about it. Then I looked at the invitation from my friend and I figured out that it's the same weekend. This is practically unforgivable from my mil's perspective.

I'm all bummed because no matter which one I blow off, someone will be disappointed, if not downright shriek-y mad. Josh thinks I should do the weekend birthday thing because I never do stuff like that alone and it would be really, really fun to spend a weekend in a fancy vacation house with good food and lots of wine and close friends.  So, that's what I might do.

One more thing: a cafeteria aide hit a first-grader in the cafeteria today. No, really. Grabbed his collar, pulled him over to the timeout place, and SMACKED his face. No doubt he was being a royal pain in the ass but dude...you can't go around smacking kids at school. Unless the rules have changed lately, in which case my little Julio better watch his ass.

See God In Everyone See God In Everyone SEE GOD IN EVERYONE, DAMMIT!

Oh dear. After my vitriolic post about Dorothy I'm afraid you will think that I don't want to hear you talk about your children. I do, I swear. Just don't boast while pretending to be modest, okay? Let's face it, poor Dorothy can't do anything to please me. There's a whole history there.

And why the hell am I so reactive anyway?

Speaking of reactive, or rather, speaking of being 50-going-on-13, Josh and I were out for a walk the other day. We were doing our over-hill-over-dale walk through the rich people's neighborhood. As we passed one house the huge Rottweiler that lives there came around front from the back yard and charged us while barking like a maniac. At first we thought there was an invisible fence and that he would stop at the property line but he didn't.

Now, you KNOW we have the Love of the Dogs and the Dog Smarts and all. I've seen this dog playing with kids before and I know he's not vicious, but I have a healthy respect--no, a healthy fear-- for an 80-lb dog defending its territory. So we stopped walking and didn't make eye contact with him and tried to look like people who should not get their throats ripped out. All the while I was mentally cursing the dog's owners for letting the dog out loose.

Just then a man came around the side of the house calling the dog and saying cheerily, "Sorry about that!"

Josh, who is really much nicer than me, said, "That's okay."

It was only about 10 seconds that the dog was unsupervised. That can happen, I guess.

And me? I glared and said, "You know, it's really scary to be charged by a big dog like that!"

The man said, "We have 4 little kids in the backyard and someone must have left the gate open."

And what did I say? I said, "WHATEVER." While scowling. Because I am uncomfortable with confrontation yet inwardly I seethe.

"Sorry!" said the man again, awkwardly. Josh tried to cover for me by waving cheerily as we passed by. It's like I'm turning into that Maxine lady on the cards.

And don't even let me get started on the lady I saw at Starbucks yesterday, reaming out an employee because her foam wasn't foamy enough. I AM NOT LYING. I had to restrain myself from confronting her.

Again with the seething.

On the flip side, I am oddly patient with my first-graders and I downright adore my family and friends so perhaps there is hope for me yet.

Off to work now. Got some scowling to do on the way there.

I still hate Dorothy.

Shortly after this picture was taken, Sasha and Evangeline went inside and solved some quadratic equations.

Do you guys remember when I hated a person named Dorothy?

Well, I still hate her. And I had to talk to her on the phone the other night! Oh the agony.

She called on Thursday and left a message on my voice mail that she is trying to get a job in the school district that I work for. (for which I work? for which I work for? naaah.) I ignored the message on Thursday night. On Friday night I asked Josh if I HAD to call her back. Yes, he said. He's a stickler for proper phone etiquette.

So I fortified myself with a glass of wine and dialed her number with a heavy heart. The first thing she did was ask me how my girls are. She only does this so that she can tell you what her kids are doing which, believe me, is way more important and selfless than what YOUR kids are doing.

One of her daughters is the same age as Sasha, so I said "Teresa must be graduating in May like Sasha, right?"

Heavy sigh, voice lowered with concern. "Well, no, she's goin' to need an extra semester. She's been so busy workin' on her senior thesis. She had a lot of field research to do for her senior thesis, and it was very demandin'. You know, H. is really a tough school. All the students at her college have to do a senior thesis. A senior thesis."

(More about her in' fetish in a minute.)

Naturally, I exaggerate for effect but I swear to God she used the words SENIOR THESIS 4 or 5 times.

Why does this bug me? Because, goddammit, every freaking college senior that I know has some big-ass senior project but Dorothy has to make it sound like her kid is writing a dissertation for a doctoral program. Sasha is working on her project at this very moment. Her final draft is due tomorrow. It's a big deal and it's really SMART yada yada. But I have never once felt the need to tell anyone that she is working on her THESIS.

Anyway, due to my basic mean-spiritedness, I enjoyed immensely the fact that for once my kid is ahead of her kid.

You know, moms and dads have bragging rights about their kids and most of us feel like we are doing things the way they ought to be done, but for God's sake please try to have at least a modicum of self-awareness about it. I swear, if you ever think that I sound smug or pious or boastful about my life you have my express permission to swiftly take me down a notch. I will consider it a favor.

After 30 painful minutes I was able to extricate myself from the conversation and spend the rest of the evening complaining to Josh about her.

Alright. Here's something I complained about that is so trivial I can't even believe I'm sharing it with you:

Dorothy leaves off the "g" at the end of every single "ing" word. She's not thinking, she's thinkin'. Her kids are goin' to college. Her husband is workin' on the house. You know, like she's Loretta fucking Lynn in Coal Miner's Daughter but without the southern accent. This bugs me because it seems like such an affectation. She doesn't come from a part of the country where that is regional pattern of speech. She affects it, I believe, because she likes to think of herself as a simple person with old-fashioned values and somehow this complements her self-concept.

So, I was going on and on to Josh about this and how fucking irratating it is. And he said, "Well maybe you could axe her to stop."

I got to laughin' and laughin'. My husband is way funnier than HER husband.