First Day 2006...With Students

They're back.
I'm tired.
Yes, it was the first day of school.
What a day it was.
Let's see....
First of all, we've gone to a six period day, which means less class time, but more classes to teach. That's not necessarily a positive thing.
It was nice to see my advisees, however. Most of them were excited to see me. Hugs were abound (but don't tell the district, or I might get fired).
The unfortunate part was trying to help them understand our brand new schedule. We used to have four periods. So the schedule read 1-4. Well, now that we are in the six period day, the schedule is 1-9. Where 4-5 is fourth period, 6-7-8 is fifth period, and 9 is actually sixth period.
You get it? Good, because most of the kids couldn't.
So how are the classes?
First period is Seniors. 42 kids. They want me to roll over and make it all easy for them.
Second period is also Seniors, but my class is in the Chemistry Lab. 39 students. That class was made all the more fun when our new district superintendent arrived with a camera crew to look in on us. I made sure to look right at her and the camera and make mention of the fact that I was teaching an English class in a Chemistry Lab. She, of course, smiled and then left with the principal (who later hugged me for being so forward).
Third period...well, that's where it all changes. English 9...regular. Freshman. They think I'm nuts. It's hard to go from the fast moving, developed brains of the Seniors to building the basics of brain with Freshman.
Fourth period is my extremely short prep.
When fifth rolls around, the day gets hard again. Both fifth and sixth are Freshman English IB (or the kids who are supposed to be very smart).
The hard part for all the classes is that this year's Freshmen and Seniors don't really know me, so when I do my schtick, they just stare as if I am crazy.
It's going to be interesting.
Wow, I'm tired...and I think I just want to go play with my son now.
Namaste.

Just Do It

It's Labor Day Weekend, and my in-laws have just come to town, so this will be my last post until after the official school year starts.
I'm actually getting nervous which bugs the holy hell out of me.
Oh well.
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I was very surprised at the amount of responses I got to the syllabus post. There is something, however, I would like to clarify. What I am not happy about is not that I have to make syllabi, but the fact that I now have these inserts that must be in them. Instead of a paper that covers just my expectations, I know have to also have all this legal mumbo-jumbo to, as was so perfectly put, "cover my ass," as well as the district. That's what I'm frustrated about more than anything. The world has changed SO much that we HAVE to put things in to cover our asses. It's all about not getting sued. So instead of a one page syllabus, which is just my expectations, I'm now giving a four page packet where most of it is district issues. That's the part that annoys me. There's not enough room for my stuff without handing out a small paperback book.
So here's the issue: in my last post, Tom asked me if I've "considered a new line of work," outside of teaching.
The answer is no. It's not teaching that drives me batty. Not even close. The problem is the bullshit that surrounds teaching.
What do I mean?
If you put me in a classroom with the kids, I will be quite happy to go through and explain Romeo and Juliet or to explain the importance of writing a good essay. That's not the problem.
A colleague of mine puts it best: "It's not the kids that frustrate me. It's the adults."
That's the crux of it. The kids are fine. They say and do stupid things at times, but that's what kids do.
The adults should know better. The parents, the administrators, and the other teachers.
The parents who blame the teacher when it's really about their parenting.
The administrators who should know better than to take away our time with political bullshit.
The other teachers who let such petty issues take over their relationships and their classrooms.
I'll give you an example.
On Thursday afternoon, our librarian went into crisis mode. We are tagging our textbooks so that they have to be scanned in order to let the students take them home (which is a great idea as it means that if a kid loses the book, it's on record).
She was told that students would show up to help her. The morning rolled by without a student showing up, but she didn't say anything.
You'll recall that I am now the chair of my department (also known as "The position no one else wanted") so she called me after lunch almost in tears. "Oh my God. We have an emergency."
"What's wrong?" I replied.
"Just come to the library."
We had 700 textbooks and paperbacks that needed to be tagged and then moved.
"The administration wants all these books out of the library by tonight. It's Freshman Orientation, and they want the library to be clear of these books."
So, I sent a message out over the PA for everyone in my department to show up to the library.
To their credit, almost all the teachers showed up. One, it turned out later, left early and left town.
However, once they were there and heard what we had to do, the kvetching started.
"Why do we have to do it?"
"I'm not using the textbooks, can't I just go?"
"I have better things to do with my time."
And on and on and on it went.
I had to explain to each person, almost one on one, why they needed to get to work.
"We have to do it, because the students didn't show up. It sucks, but it happens."
"You'll help because it's about the department being ready, not just you."
"Even if you aren't using the books, the rest of us need your help."
Even then some did the minimal work and left.
"I have practice in an hour, and I have to get ready."
"I'm pregnant, and this isn't good for me."
"I have to meet with (fill-in-the-blank teacher) in a few minutes."
Two hours. It tooks us two hours, and that's with the amazing recruiting job I did (I went to other departments and called in favors).
The coup de grace, however, was the football team. Those kids were lent to us for ten minutes, and they hauled almost all our books to the classrooms. They never questioned what I told them to do, they just took the orders and ran with it.
Once the books were in the rooms, however, the teachers bitched about having to put the books on the shelves.
That night, we had the parents in for Freshman Orientation. Some of the returning students' parents offered to come and help. One was the parent of a football player who had helped us out.
"Why did you make my son carry books today? He came home complaining about his legs. If he can't play tomorrow, you'll be sorry."
Huh? The kid also went to practice that day. Maybe that was made his legs hurt. This parent is banking heavily on her kid to become a superstar football player so he can "take care of her."
So let's review:
The parent complained that her kid did a good deed.
The administration, rather than say, "Hey, here are the books that your kids will get to study from this year," said, "Get those books out of sight of the parents...FAST!"
The teachers complained and came up with excuses to not have to work...then complained when the work wasn't done exactly how they wanted.
This is the bottom line for me (pay attention Tom):
The problem is that while I love my job, there are areas that I hate.
I hate the fact that the administration can't just let is work. They use us as political tools. I have seen my union president six times in the last four months, and she said the same thing every time.
I hate the fact that there are so many minor stipulations that I have to have in my syllabi and on my walls so that I won't get sued.
I hate the fact that so many of my colleagues are unwilling to stay and help students after school. I hate that they won't even stay to talk to students.
I hate the fact that I can't accept or give a hug to a student as it can be construed as sexual misconduct.
I hate the fact that many of my colleagues are so unwilling to share their curriculum with each other.
I hate the fact that parents are unwilling to understand that we just don't have the money to do certain things.
I hate the fact that I put in $400 of my own money last year in order to ensure that the kids had books, pencils and pens, paper, and such, and yet I'm still told that my school has too much money.
I hate the fact that a friend of mine teaches at a private school, and he gets everything he needs whenever he asks and his department has a much bigger budget than mine has.
I hate the fact that so many people think teaching is so easy and think teachers get too many breaks and such.
I hate the fact that there was a small amount of time that I thought to myself, "You know...maybe I should just be a stay at home dad until he's four."
I hate the fact that people think that teaching is, "a pink-collar job," which means it's just for women.
I hate the fact that my job is considered, "a fallback job," for so many people. I couldn't make it as a lawyer, so I'll teach. I couldn't be a journalist, so I'll teach.
But there is a great deal to love.
I love my job. I love it. I love explaining the English language to a student.
I love shooting the breeze with the students.
I love working with the kids to build sets.
I love watching a kid have the light bulb click on in his or her head.
I love that the kids that graduate tell me that I helped them in some way.
I love that I'll still talk to those kids now and still help them while they're in college.
I love my job...I just hate the bureaucratic bullshit associated with teaching now.
Have I considered another line of work? No, not since becoming a teacher. This is what I was meant to do.
Will I always be happy? No, but that's the point. Even if you get your dream job, there are always things that will bug you.
Professional sports stars deal with pain and losing.
Lawyers lose.
Doctors can't save every patient.
No matter what you do, there are days.
If work was meant to be fun, it would be called Super Action Fun Time. It's called work, because it takes effort, because you have to labor.
I have bad days, but I love what I do.
Namaste.

Syllabus Silliness

When I was in high school, my teachers NEVER gave me a syllabus. Our first day of class consisted of the teacher telling us (and we students would copy down) the pertinent information.
"Here's how I grade...write it down."
"Here's what I expect of you, write it down and KNOW IT!"
On and on it goes.
It was part of learning experience. Know the information and copy it down so you remember it.
Now? Well we have to have syllabi that the parents sign. It's not enough for me to tell the students and write the information down. I MUST have a piece of paper that eventually (and let's be honest here) the students will lose.
Last year I gave my Freshman English classes folders. Every kid got a folder that I went out and bought.
Each folder had:
a syllabus
a calendar
note paper
an assignment log (a grid where the students right down the assignments as I give them.)
Now I told my students, "If you lose the folder, I take points off."
What happened? Many folders were lost, the students never wrote their assignments down, AND (my favorite) though syllabi were signed, it was obvious students hadn't read what I wrote.
"What do you mean you have an attendance policy, Mr Leab? I never saw it!"
"Um...it's in the syllabus...on page one. You know...the syllabus...which you read...and SIGNED!"
"Nuh-uh!"
Sigh.
I bring this up, because I sat down at this computer at 7 PM tonight, and it wasn't until ten minutes ago that I actually finished my Senior English syllabus.
Overthinking is a dangerous thing. I found myself asking questions with every line I wrote.
"Hmmm. Does this make sense? Will it be clear enough?"
Yadda, yadda, yadda.
Why do we, as educators, throw SO much energy into the little things? Well, we say it's because that's what gets and helps the students, but I can't help thinking that these lessons and syllabi and such that I have been working on will be looked over...and tossed.
Am I overreacting?
When you, dear reader, were in school did you (or if you are still in school, do you) concentrate on the syllabi? Do you care?
Hey, that's life I guess...so it goes.
Namaste.

To My Father on this Date

Today is my father's 70th birthday. He decided to take it easy, which I'm very happy about as his original plan was, and I quote, "To throw myself a surprise party." That's right, he was going to surprise everyone else by throwing a party (though I had this scenario in my head where people showed up at his place for what they thought was something else, and, SURPRISE, it's party time).
Happy birthday, Dad. I hope today was good for you.
I hope no one said, "Oh wow, you were born on the same day as Hurricane Katrina."
I hope you got presents that you wanted.
I hope that the next few years are happy ones.
I love you very much.
Ladies and Gentlemen: a round of applause for my father.

School Gatherings...

SUCK!
Ok, this is going to be like an open letter.
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Dear school district for which I work,
How can you not have learned? How? You wonder why teachers are so bitter? It's because you force us to give up our WHOLE morning in order to sit in a hot, hot, hot arena with no air as we listen to you tell us information that we either:
A. Already know, or
B. Don't need to hear right now.
(This will give it away slightly.)
Look, I'm sure that the pistol-packin' mayor is a great guy, but if I hear the word, "referendum," out of his mouth one more time, I may kill someone. Seriously. I'm a teacher in the district, Mr. Mayor. I already know what's going to happen if it doesn't pass: I may lose my job. You don't need to remind us when we're trying to gear up for school.
And another thing, sir: choose your wording VERY carefully. Here's what you said:
"I sent my kids to C and A, because those are the good schools!" (Hold for cheering.)
Here's what you meant:
"I sent my kids to those schools, because they are in the district that has the best schools!"
And here's what it sounded like to every teacher not at C and A:
"I sent my kids to C and A, because they are the ONLY good schools in the district!"
You may have meant that you love our district, but it sounded like all you cared about was the two schools. Then, after some glad handing in the crowd and attempting to start a cheer about the referendum (what the hell was that about?), you bolted out the door.
Now, back to you, district. Ok, there were seven speakers today. SEVEN! And all they talked about was the referendum. I get it, but don't tell US. We already know the issue.
Our union head? Referendum.
Our school board head? Referendum!
Our superintendent? OH MY GOD! REFERENDUM!
Sigh...let me compose here....
You showed us a video for thirty minutes celebrating our district's 150th year, but it was more of a "look what famous people graduated from our district."
Then our superintendent spoke...a woman who, though very energetic and personable (she glad-handed me before the whole thing started), showed why she has had been in six different educational positions since 1999. Warning, this is my honest opinion:
We played a game. We were all to shout out, "THAT'S ME!" when she said something that pertained to our lives.
She was not totally prepared. There were long moments of dead silence as she checked her notes to make sure she made all of her points.
She told us she wants 100% graduation rate, which is impossible, as my colleague told me, because it doesn't take into account kids who graduate late.
She told us we're good, but not good enough.
She talked, and talked, and talked for 40 minutes. That meant we went a half an hour late. She preached efficiency, and then didn't model it (to use a teaching term).
I'm not happy, district, because our future is tied to a woman who, on average, has spent less than a year at a job recently.
I'm not happy, because you made me give up classroom prep time in order to have our get together that was supposed to have us loving each other and our district, but left me yelling at other teachers to "Shut up," because their cheering made every speaker have to stop and wait.
I'm not happy, because it wasn't really productive. It was more of a political rally and that is not what we as teachers should be doing right now. Don't sell us accountability and then preach politics.
Did our new superintendent make some nice points? Sure, but she wasn't eloquent. You want your leader to have a sense of eloquence. Without getting overly political, she reminded me of President Bush at his press conferences. He may be smart, but he sounds like an idiot. She is obviously smart, but appeared very unprepared.
Let us do our jobs as educators. Next time, just send a memo and produce a video we can watch while in our rooms.
So here's the deal, dear district. You don't get to complain if I'm slightly behind at one point. I had to give up four hours today.
Don't preach anymore. Don't preach.
Of course what do I know? I'm a, "Cog in the wheel of Education." I could be wrong.
Namaste.
Oh, and I feel like an idiot, because many of my colleagues drove down to this gathering, got the piece of paper that was required...and left. I took the damn bus and had to wait to get back, because the district didn't order enough buses.
Still, I love my job.

First Day 2006...Sans Students

The school smelled the same. I mean down to that is-it-cleaning-fluid-or-lighter-fluid in the hallway smell.
The first thing I noticed, however, wasn't the smell. It was the heat. The damn heat that's always present in a school without air conditioning and covered with material that eats up heat like Kobayashi eating hot dogs. When I lived in St. Louis, I would walk outside my house and immediately be covered in sweat because of the humidity. Imagine passing your hand under a running faucet. There's always some residual water left over. That's what it was like in St. Louis in the Summer, and that's what it was like today in the building. I walked from the first floor up to my office, and by the time I was there, I was covered in sweat. We tested the temperature, and it was 20 degrees hotter in the school than outside. 20 degrees.
Leaving my son was difficult. Really difficult. He looked so happy asleep there in bed next to my wife, and I really wanted to stay with them. The car ride to St. Paul saw me in a bad mood...until I parkd and entered the building.
The first real shock of the day came when I entered into my office. I'm now sharing the room with eleven other people. My stuff was back in the room, and my desk was uncovered, but there were still a large group of people standing in this small space.
"Oh good," one of my colleagues says, "you're here. We can have our meeting now."
"Meeting?" I reply with a tinge of anxiousness in my voice. "What meeting is that?"
"Well...we need to figure out who is going to be where, and who is going to be in here when."
A fifteen minute meeting was needed to work it all out. Most of the time was spent watching as the people new to the room attempted to destroy each other in order to get what was thought to be the "Best Desk" catty corner to mine (that is across the room and near the door).
After that, I was called to the office. There's something disconcerting about hearing your name on the PA less than thirty minutes after walking through the door.
My schedule changed...again. This was the good part of my day. I now start the day with two senior English classes. That's right...TWO! The upside? They need the grade to graduate and get into college. The downside? Wait until Spring.
After that, it's one regular and then two IB Freshman English classes. It's a pretty easy schedule. And then I got my room assignments. That "s" isn't a typo. I still don't have my own room. You see one of the teachers who assured the department of an imminent departure...didn't leave, then took an open classroom. But, this same teacher is now telling us that a job somewhere else has opened up, and we should now have an imminent departure. If that's true, I want the room. No such luck.
Back to the point. With my cart, I'll be traveling between floors...twice. I start on the second floor, then go to the third floor, then back to two, and finish the day on three. At one point, I was on the second floor until my prep and then went to the third floor, but that changed when a teacher complained and pulled a card that no man can ever use: Pregnancy. As the year goes on it will become harder for this teacher to "travel between floors."
Sigh.
Now I teach in a Chemistry lab and a Spanish room...but I can't store books in either room as the teachers who claim those rooms don't want to have to make space. Awesome.
As for the rest of our first day back? I ended up arguing with the custodian as he STILL doesn't know my name, but he knows he doesn't like me.
It started with him bitching at me about the state of the theatre:
"It's filthy. Why didn't your seniors clean before they left?"
I was already annoyed by my schedule, but I did not explode like I wanted to. No, I instead said the first thing that came to my mind in a calm manner.
"Isn't it your job and your staff's job to take out the trash? Plus...couldn't you have said that in a calm manner instead of jumping down my throat?"
Now our custodial head is a large guy. Likes to work out and such, and he enjoys staring at and talking to his muscles while he works out. He started to flex and look bigger as he talked to me next.
"What did you say?"
"Don't flex at me," I responded. "Look, either ask me to clean or do it yourself. Don't try to frighten me. You can go complain to the principal like you always do, or you can just ask me, but if you threaten me, I'm not going to work harder. You already won't help me whenever I ask you for it, so how much worse can you make my life here when it comes to custodial help?"
He wasn't prepared for this. He just stared back at me.
Of course he went to the principal, and she didn't do anything. Why? Because he treats EVERYONE like garbage, and he tries to intimidate people. Still, he's right. The class of 2006 left a mess that I now have to clean up over the next few days. The booth? It was a pigsty. So was the girl's dressing room. Thanks alot gang.
The end of day had me counting my department's books. Why? Because they couldn't figure out a system for doing it. That and the same pregnant teacher felt that she couldn't move the books and deal with the heat in the library. Here's a hint for you boys and girls: make stacks of ten. That's it. After that, you count the stacks. So not hard, but here were grown adults fretting over how to do it.
"Should we just count each book individually?"
"How will we get through this before 2, then?"
SIGH!
I counted the books for them, because it wasn't hard to do it. Took me ten minutes once they brought all the books down.
Oh, the other highlight of the day? Yeah...I might be chairing my department. I'm not the right choice, but when everyone else said no, that meant the lowest guy on the totem pole would have to do it. Oh yeah, that would be me. Do I get a bump in pay? No. Do I get extra paperwork, meetings, and such? You betcha.
The first day is done. That's the hard part.
Namaste.

Ramblings for the Evening (08/27/06)

Sigh.
I have to go back to work tomorrow. Yes, I know: most of you have been at work all Summer, but I have to tell you...the reason I'm not happy isn't because of the work. No, it's because I don't want to leave my son.
Oh well.
On a side note, my son's grandparents need to get more with it. My wife and I bought you web cameras so you could talk to us and see your grandson. That way I wouldn't have to hear, "Oh...I never get to see him...blah, blah, blah."
Then, once I've set the camera up for you, you refuse to use it.
The outcome? I get a spiel about how you never see your grandson.
Oh, and to my sister...your mission (and the reason I called) is to setup our mother's camera for her, because she won't do it herself.
Let's just get to it before I get really angry....
So, without further ado: SKIPPER!
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Changing Toons:
Look, I understand that our modern world is scary, and many people feel that we have to "protect the children," but so many changes have been made to what we watch, read, and say that it's starting to feel very constricting. When the infamous Janet Jackson "boob reveal" happened, I really didn't think it was that big of a deal. Granted, it raised the stock of Tivo as many people with the DVR realized, "Hey, I can rewind and watch it over...and over...and over."
Still, it was nothing, but the world overreacted. The boob meant that children all over the world would grow up totally craving sex and desperate to do horrible things. Yadda, yadda, yadda.
I understand that there are certain things that kids shouldn't see until they are old enough, and I sympathize that it's getting harder, but I REALLY feel that the latest issue is insane. The original Looney Tunes, Tom and Jerry, and other cartoons are being cut, because parents feel that they out bad ideas in kids' heads.
Examples?
Ok. When Tom and Jerry were first made, they had the occasional smoke. That's how it was back then. Hell, Frank Sinatra, Bing Crosby, and other celebrities used to pimp cigarettes on the air. Yet, parent groups are calling for the scenes of the cat and mouse smoking to be cut. This was done, but it has gone further: the duo are now thought of as too violent and could give kids bad ideas. These parents are trying to get the show permanently pulled. As in never to be shown on TV again. Sigh.
What angers me more, however, is the attacks now being put on Bugs and company. In short, these parents feel that the show is too violent.
I mean GET THIS! Ok, a few parents feel that Elmer Fudd getting shot in the face and living means that kids will think THEY can get shot in the face and live. What?!
I used to watch those cartoons. I never thought to myself, "Hey, if I jump off a cliff, I'll survive like the Coyote."
See, there's this magic thing, folks. It's called PARENTING! This is where you talk to your kids about it. You don't shelter and tell them not to watch. That leads to trouble. If I tell you not to look to your left, what's your first reaction? More often than not...YOU LOOK TO YOUR LEFT! Ignorance may be bliss, but it also means that kids are missing out on being kids. Daffy Duck as Robin Hood is a classic. Don't take that away from them because it's not (and I wish I was kidding), "Not historically accurate." That's just cruel.
Scooby-Doo may not be allowed anymore. Yogi Bear? Haven't seen him in a while. What's going on with our world that parents think these cartoons hold more power than them? You want proof? I can tell you that most kids care more about what their parents and friends think over what I tell them. It works the same for the cartoons. You want your kids to not act a certain way? Talk to them about it. DO your job as a parent.
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A Stroke of Luck:
Life has a been tough lately. However, I did get some good luck today. My sunglasses exploded. The hinges fell apart...while I was driving. I'd only had these glasses since May, so I was frustrated. These glasses were purchased at Marshall Fields (now Macy's...oh wait...that's Sept 1st), so I went to the source first.
The Brookdale Mall has a Sunglass Hut in the Marshall Fields, so I talked to the manager there. She took one look at the glasses and said, "Hmm. Ok, let's just replace them."
How great is that? That was probably the best part of my day.
And finally?
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How School SHOULD Be:
Read this.
Done? Good.
That's what should happen in our schools. I know parents will freak out and say, "My kid won't get into (fill in the blank college) because of this."
Good. Remember that whole "Parenting" thing? This is your chance. I'm getting tired of having to be the parent to your kid.
Ten percent of that school's student population were suspended. Even better is the fact that it will only be removed from their records if they don't do anything else wrong.
The modern student is truly slipping. It's not because of the teachers (who most people are ready to blame). Are some teachers just going through the motions? Sure, and that sucks, but a lot of kids are doing it too.
I would love to see my school do something like this. Does that make me uncool? I don't care. The kids need to understand that there will be rules in life you must follow. Start now.
My son is calling. It's time to sleep.
Namaste.

Friday Morning Boredom

I'm stuck in this class still.
Currently I am sitting in the back of the library of the school at which this class is being held.
I'm bored. Not a little "I have to cover my mouth when I yawn occasionally" bored, but full on, "I can feel my body begging me to beat the crap out of the girl who keeps stopping our class to ask stupid questions" bored.
There is absolutely nothing new being taught. I am the only teacher here who has a Master's Degree. That's odd, at least to me. The problem is that everything being taught, not unlike the class in June, is part of the beginning of the St. Thomas program.
How to take notes? Did it.
How do you get your kids to read in your content area? Um, I give them the book (this is why English teachers are not supposed to be here).
How do I get kids to ask questions? Siiiiiigggghhhh!
Look, I'm glad that I get credit for taking the class, it means that I will, if things keep going they way they are, have enough credits to renew my licensure almost two years before it's up (that means I can start working on getting credits to make more money).
Because the lecture is covering what I know, I've started people watching. Here's what I've noticed over the course of the morning:
1. We're missing six people. A few math teachers and two "coaches" who are there to help us (my coach didn't show up today, which means I will have nothing to do all afternoon).
Though we are missing people, everyone has signed in. You know what that means....
2. People and their cell phones. Almost everyone here has a cell phone. Now, the second I go into class, I turn my ringer to vibrate. Why? Because I don't want to interrupt the class. My hope is that we'll go faster...and get out faster. My colleagues here don't feel that way.
First, there was the woman with the ringer screaming, "The Bitch is Back." She looks at her phone and says, "Oh...it's my mom. Excuse me."
That, on the surface, tells you something about how she feels about her mom.
Next, we got to hear "Tricky" by Run DMC for a few seconds. The guy whose phone it was said, "Hi, Honey," before leaving the room. Is his significant other a "trick?"
Other songs?
"Hero" by Enrique Iglesias and "Country Boy" by John Denver.
Oh, and one guy has a Family Guy ringer (Stewie screaming, "Victory is mine," over and over again.)
I'm just shocked how many phones I'm hearing. If this were my class, I'd be collecting phones left and right.
3. The storm last night was fascinating. I'm starting to really believe in Karma again. The guy down the block from me bought a new BMW. He made sure to strut around the neighborhood telling all of us, "I've got a new BMW. You still drive that (fill-in-the-blank-supposedly-inferior-car)?
Well, he, like an idiot, parked his car next to the tree on his lot. The storm came through the neighborhood, and the wind had perfect aim. The tree was blown over...on top of his car. We could hear him last night screaming. He even cursed God. I went out for a walk with my son and passed by his house.
I admit, I fired the first salvo this time.
"Hey...how's that new car treating you...oh my...what happened?"
His face twisted, and a tear rolled down his face.
"Damn tree. Goddamn TREE!"
I proceeded to keep on walking.
The other odd side last night was watching a squirrel float. Never seen that before, but a squirrel got caught in a huge wave of water and floated past my house. I kept thinking about that water-skiing squirrel and wondering if it got started that way.
That's all I got right now. I have to go and do "homework."
What a horrible post....Sorry.

An Open Letter to the Gods of Education

Dear Gods of Education,
Why do you taunt and hate me so?
Over the last few months you've been taunting me and toying with me as if you enjoy watching me suffer.
Let's look at the facts:
1. First there was the class in June that was required and almost made me miss the birth of my son. That class offered up nothing new.
2. There is my new schedule for the upcoming school year. 53 students in one class? Is this a joke? I don't mind that I'm teaching three different classes (English 9, English 9 IB, and English 12), but 53 in one class is going to be really difficult. I can't imagine trying to grade those papers. Even worse...it's the first class of the day. Seniors...at 7:30 in the morning? You really don't like me.
However, the third fact is almost pure proof.
3. My summer was cut short (sure it's only a few days, but it's short) by this next class I was told, "You must take, if you want to keep your job!"
With that little nugget in mind, I changed my trip to Missouri to a week earlier. I was forced to tell my wife that she would have to go to down there without me if she wanted to attend her cousin's baby shower.
Oh, but you Gods had a fantastic sense of humor. You decided it would be hysterical to totally screw with me.
The class is not for me. Out of 30 people...I am the only English teacher. The ONLY one. I sit alone at my table as the groups are split up by subject. The Math teachers who sit near me stare at me in disbelief. The "Tech" teachers keep asking me if I'm lonely.
But wait...it gets better. You put us in the library of the building which does not have air conditioning and faces the sun. You made the class 90% lecture, which means we just sit and stare.
You made me the person who the teacher goes to for answers. "What was the name of the guy Romeo kills again?" I'm asked.
"Tybalt is the cousin. Paris the guy in love with Juliet."
"Riiiight!"
But you waited until the end of the class today to drop the ultimate humiliation.
"Leeeeaab," the teacher says in a sympathetic voice. "We need to talk."
Now I'm not dating this woman, but the tone of her voice tells me that I'm either getting dumped or getting bad news.
I could see you, Gods, sitting in the room, eating your popcorn, and waiting on the words.
"So...you can't be mad at us," she starts. "I know we told you that you HAD to take this class."
I could see you snickering. You started this game when you made my co-ordinator wait until the last minute to tell me about these classes. She even got the information wrong. Was that your doing?
"Umm....Most English teachers don't take this class. They're required to take Struggling Readers I. That's the class you have to have in order to work."
At this point, I hear your full-blown laughter. You obviously find it amusing that I now must suffer through this class for the next two days with material I learned three years ago, and that all I get for taking it is...some credit.
"The next class is in October. It's after school for two hours for three weeks. You HAVE to take it in order to keep your job."
Your laughter was so loud, that it caused me to grab my head with my hands.
"I can't believe this happened, but...hey, you have to take the good with the bad," I am told.
I have nothing to say to this. Your brilliant plan worked perfectly. I'm stuck in this class that has nothing to offer me, AND I have to try and take this other class in two months. Add to that I have other classes I will be required to take, and I'm starting to think you really like screwing with me.
St. Thomas lost my records at one point, a new class was created that I wasn't grandfathered into not having to take, and more.
What's left? Are you going to have a chalkboard fall on me? Maybe the ceiling? Maybe have all of the books I saved disappear on me?
You haven't beaten my spirit yet, Gods of Education, but you certainly are annoying me.
Perhaps if I sacrifice some Freshmen to you, you'll be nicer to me?
I await your reply.
Signed,
Disgruntled Teacher # 3,912,524.
Namaste.

Ramblings for the Evening (08/22/06) (Maple Grove Edition)

I start class tomorrow. There are no words to explain how much I really do not want to attend this class. It is the signal for me to return to reality. Class the next three days...then workshops all next week...and then...then...school.
Ok, let's get to it. All of the stories tonight are tied into Maple Grove...sort of.
So, without further ado: YOU'LL HAVE A GRAND OLD TIME!
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Definitionof Irony: Maple Grove Edition:
Shortly before I left for Missouri, my son and I took a ride out to Maple Grove to Babies 'R Us. We had to pick up some supplies for the trip. After a quick jaunt through the store which saw my son grab the attention of a two year old girl ("Baby!" she screamed, "I want to see baby!"), we headed over to Leann Chin to have some mediocre Chinese food.
The restaurant was almost completely empty. I took a table near the door and started to eat. When my son cried a little, I pulled him out and fed him. He was being very good.
In the corner of the restaurant was a woman with her three kids. The woman was on her cell phone yakking away about something. I tried not to listen, but I did catch the part where she mentioned "Jerry," and talked about how she wished, "his balls would fall off."
Her three kids, however, were more the issue.
Kid 1: High school aged. Obviously fees that wearing a Metallica t-shirt and skater shoes makes him either a total rebel or a total skater. He would bitch loudly about the fact that my son squawked shortly before eating.
"GOD! Can't SOMEONE take care of that kid! I'm TRYING to eat here!"
Kid 2: Your typical 12 year old girl. Upset over the fact that her mother was ignoring her, she started walking around the restaurant playing with the tables, and, at one point, went outside and walked off. Mom never even batted an eye. Kid 2 cam over to my table while I was trying to feed my son and started talking to me. Beyond the annoying typical banter ("What are you doing? Why? Why?") Kid 2 frustrated me, because she kept touching stuff without permission. She picked up one of his toys, she grabbed the belts of his car seat, and (most annoying of all) she went INTO my diaper bag. What the hell is that? Can I now open and go into her purse? When she started pulling things out, I finally told her to, "stop and go away please." Then came....
Kid 3: Middle school boy with those damn roller shoes. You know the ones where the wheels can pop in and out of the bottom of the shoe? Yeah, he had on those and was popping around the restaurant. After I finished feeding my son, I burped him and put him to sleep in his car seat. This kid is screwing around, and, while rolling around near my table, he trips and slams into my table, nearly knocking my son off. Of course, like any baby, Poozer wakes up and freaks out. Kid 3, however, does not apologize. Instead, he looks and says, "Your kid is loud."
"You should apologize to him," I tell the kid (and it's probably not my place to do so).
And I get an interesting response: "Fuck you," the kid tells me. "You're not my dad!"
I'm stunned.
A few minutes later, bleached blond mom is leaving with her kids. The phone is off, and she stops at my table.
"You know...I just want you to know that your kid ruined my lunch."
My first thought was, "Hey, screw you," but I didn't say it. I just reveled in the irony. MY kid ruined HER lunch.
Regardless of whether or not she was aware of what her kids were doing, it was incredibly rude of her to tell me off when my kid barely cried. Hell, the gal behind the counter told me later she was sorry for my dining experience.
My kid...the irony is delicious.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Merry Maddenoliday:
Today is the release of Madden 07. It's a video game, but it has had an impact on the world.
First of all, there's the Madden Curse. If you're unfamiliar with it, the idea is whoever is on the cover will get hurt or have a bad year. This year, for example, Shaun Alexander is on the cover...and he may have already hurt himself during this preseason (the team is mum right now). If you have a player you love, pray he does not end up on the cover of this game (or Sports Illustrated).
Secondly, men (and a few women) take the day off to play. Seriously. When I was working at the Tobacco Document Depository, I watched two guys plan their day off to play.
I wouldn't be surprised if a bunch of guys were missing from my wife's department at work.
I bring this up, because my wife and I took our son to his two month doctor's appointment today. While there, my son's doctor explained that they were a little short today as three of their nurses (two guys and a girl) called in sick this morning. However, the doctor was, "so sure I saw Jim (one of the nurses) over at Best Buy," that morning.
Five shots (and one totally shocked baby) later, we returned home. Within ten minutes, there was a knock on my door.
"Hey," Mike, the guy who lives three doors down and across the street says, "My buddies and I skipped work to play Madden on my (X-Box) 360. Want to join us?"
My first thought was, "Seriously? You skipped work to play a video game?"
However, my mouth didn't say that. "Sorry, Mike. I can't. I have to run errands." (Sadly, this was true.)
"Duuuuude! You don't know what you're missing! The game rocks!" he yells. (And again, my mind wants me to say something I don't with, "Dude? Rocks? Aren't you 35 or something?")
I admit that I play video games, but I don't think I've ever stood in line overnight, pre-ordered, or skipped work to play a game. Back in November I was the teacher DeRusha talked about having students plan and skip class to get an X-Box 360. That's insane to me. To skip just to be able to play something that you could just as easily play that night and then all weekend.
And finally:
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Up-To-Date Tally:
My wife and I returned from Missouri. While down there, my wife's health took another turn. Let's go to the board for the up-to-date tally for last nine weeks:
-Son was two weeks late.
-Had a fever during birth and needed antibiotics.
-Had a third degree tear and needed episiotomy.
-Had thrush (because of the antibiotics) which meant her right breast was burning, which lead to...
-Plugged milk duct in right breast. Doctors couldn't agree on how to get it out, which lead to...
-Abscess in right breast. Burning pain and unable to even pickup our son. This lead to...
-Surgery on her breast. Beyond having a hole the size of my pinky in her breast, she also had to take antibiotics for the inflammation which lead to the newest problem...
Let's put it on the board, boys!
- A rash. A lovely, red rash that has spread over a large percentage of her body. The doctors think this is not because she is allergic to the medication, but because they gave her too big a dosage. She now has both armpits, both elbows, chest, and part of her neck covered in a red rash that it itchy and makes it hard to sleep.
So there you have it folks. My wife still isn't healthy nine weeks after the birth of our son. I have no idea what it's going to take to get through the last of this. She's currently weaning as the doctors flat out told her, "Breastfeeding is not a good idea for you...regardless of what the government says."
I just want her healthy so I can focus on my son instead of taking care of both of them.
Tomorrow...I start class, so I hope my wife will be ok without me.
Then again what do I know? I'm uncool, because I won't drop everything to play Madden 07. I could be wrong.

"Why Do You Hate America?"

I am getting so sick of this quote being used whenever you disagree with the current administration and its backers.
"Why do you hate America?"
"Do you want our troops to die?"
"Freedom isn't free."
The list goes on and on.
Look, I hate writing about politics. I REALLY hate it, but this trip has found me having to defend myself left and right.
As I mentioned before, my father-in-law watches Fox News for hours on end. I don't care that he does, but after a while, you get sick of hearing wild speculation about rapists, war, and more. During every segment, there was someone who disagreed with the host, and one of those questions was asked. "Why do you want America to be attacked again," was my favorite when the guest talked about how ridiculous flying regulations had become.
During my first clinical at the high school I now teach at, I met a kid who was from a poor family and struggled to graduate. He did graduate, but felt he had no other choice but to go into the Marines. Well, long story short, I recently heard from his mother that he lost his legs. It's devestating as he truly enjoyed playing basketball.
Now last night my in-laws invited their high school friends to come over and meet Poozer as well as see Mrs. Leab, who most of them haven't seen since our wedding.
Suffice to say, I was not allowed to hang out with the gals, because, well, I'm a guy. They horded my son as well, so I was supposed to spend my time with the guys.
As a side note, the gals really didn't like me, with one of them going on to tell my wife that maybe she, "could have married a nice guy from Missouri?" You can tell that she and I didn't really get along.
Off with the guys I went, but that didn't go so well either. Maybe it's because I'm a great deal more mature than these 50 year old guys. At one point the guys started discussing breasts. All of them married their high school sweethearts almost right out of high school. These were the first, and in some cases only, women they had snookered. That's not a bad thing, but my father-in-law, thanks to wife once telling him due to drunken idiocy, knew that I had been with other women, including my Ex.
"What's it like to be with gal with huge boobs?" he asked.
"Yeah," his buddy added," did you bury your head in them and have lunch?"
"It was fine. They were breasts," I replied. "I don't really think about it."
This led to me being viciously teased.
"Come on! What are you gay?" One of his friends asks me through his drunken slur.
I let the question sink in for a minute to see if he can figure out why it doesn't make sense.
Ten seconds later: "Well...are you?"
"Umm...I'm married...to HIS daughter...and I'm here with my SON. Does that sound like someone who's gay?"
"You don't have to be so defensive."
At this point, my father-in-law makes it clear to me that "the guys" want to be alone to discuss a hunting trip they're planning. So, I can't hang with the guys, and I'm not allowed near the girls.
I went and read. The only interruption was when I was asked to change my son and discuss the classes I teach. My tactics had one of the women telling me that she would sue me for, "mental anguish."
"You can't baby the kids forever. The real world isn't as forgiving as high school," I explained.
"But YOU don't need to teach the kids that," she replies.
"Who will? You? Your husband? How will these kids learn that you WILL fail if you don't try?"
"When they get older...."
I gave up. I didn't want to argue, which my wife was thankful for.
Now to the point. Everyone came back together for the final part of the party. A friend of my F-I-L brought up the war and started talking about the "whiny liberals who are against it," and how they are, "destroying America."
I admit that this is my fault, but in the few days I have been here, I have been bombarded with uninformed right wing opinions. Regardless of whether or not you are a Democrat, a Republican, a Liberal, a Conservative, or something else (and there are major differences among all of them), you need to be informed. I'm so sick of people just taking the spoon fed bullshit from the news stations or any part of the media and just repeating it without thinking about it. I was tired, angry, and feeling upset about this student. I made the mistake and engaged.
"They aren't the only ones hurting America. Uninformed know-it-all pundits are also a problem."
"What did you say?" (we'll call him) Aaron replied.
"Look, Liberals, Conservatives, pundits...they all shoot the shit and attempt to say things to rally their side and anger the other side. It's a giant game. They couldn't care less about the troops, just making sure that THEIR side is right."
"Well...why do you hate our troops, son? Don't you know that this kind of thinking is dangerous for them?"
"This is the bullshit I'm talking about. If I said, 'I think Bush was wrong,' then I'll be asked why, 'I hate America,' by someone. I don't hate America, and I don't hate our troops. I think they've been given a shitty setup. America's deal in Iraq is like the guy who gets the girl pregnant on prom night: You shouldn't have been fucking in the first place, but now you have to do the right thing."
After a stunned silence, one of the gals asked me, "What's the right thing?"
"Either pay for the abortion or help the girl give birth."
This brought horror to the entire crowd.
"People like you are the reason our troops are getting killed in Iraq..." started Aaron.
"Why? Am I the one shooting at them? Look, I got an email today about a kid I taught and how he lost his legs over there. He shouldn't have been over there, but he was, and he got hurt. His life is probably over as his family doesn't have the money to go get prosthetics. It sucks."
I took a breath and then continued.
"And why is it if I question authority or thinking that I hate the country or hate the troops? This country was founded on someone questioning the way things were run."
"That was different," I am told
"The terrorists are WINNING! People are afraid of other people who aren't white. We can't take anythingn on planes, and we're afraid to fly. We're even tapping our own phones."
I argued for a few more minutes until my wife grabbed my arm and excused us.
"Stop," she says to me when we get to our room. "Just stop."
"No. I did nothing wrong. I'm tired of hearing this. My family has been ragged on, my thoughts have been shot down, and I have been ostracized from both groups tonight. I can play the game, but not when I have to talk about boobs or hold my tongue about how happy the troops are to be in Iraq.",
We "discussed" things for a few more minutes. I apologized to my wife, but there was no way I would to anyone else. When we returned, the party was breaking up. People were going home. No one shook my hand, no one saiad goodnight to me. My Mother-In-Law was obviously still mortified with me as she couldn't look me in the eye.
Again, I don't think I did anything really wrong, but I had to apologize to everyone today, per my wife's instructions.
This is a difficult trip. I don't have the energy to take care of my son, and keep myself in check.
Even worse? My wife and her mom have been talking about us moving down here.
The Universe hates me.
Then again, what do I know? I apparently hate America. I could be wrong.
Namaste.
I'm really hoping to write about something a little more uplifting soon.

I've just Landed...

in White Trash Heaven.
That might be a little harsh, but let me just convey a little story here, and you may be inclined to agree.
As you can see by reading this, my wife and I made it safely to KC. The drive was fine as Poozer slept almost the entire way (had to eat at some point). He was incredibly good and even got his parents a free candy bar at a gas station in northern Missouri, though why the woman thought an eight-week-old baby would eat a candy bar...I can't guess. Iowa...flat, boring...moving on.
My in-laws live in a small town just south of Kansas City called Raymore. This town is paired with Belton, and, not unlike Robbinsdale and Crystal, Belton has most of the businesses (a la Crystal), and Raymore is building houses and apartments like crazy (really not unlike Robbinsdale). Because of this, Raymore's property taxes are going through the roof, while Belton is having a nice little renaissance. Seeing the amount of empty houses as well as the poor quality of most of the establishments made me worry about Robbinsdale's future. If the time comes that I want to move, I hope that I won't have a problem selling "The Peach."
Incidentally, if you can stand living in Missouri, you can get a very large house cheap. My wife has a friend in Overland Park, Kansas (or as I call it Yuppie Town. Makes Maple Grove look like North Camden...make sense?) who bought a 2,500 square foot home with an attached two-car garage, two acres of land, and near a lake for...$220,000. My house is about 1,350 square feet with a new kitchen, and I'm just hoping to get around that much. Then again...it's Kansas.
One of the things you notice right away in Raymore is Wal-Mart. It stands out against everything. It is the elephant in the room. Among the houses and super small businesses is this giant, all-encompassing building that all roads literally lead to out here. And what kind of automotive vehicle do we have predominantly out front? If you guessed large, American pickup trucks with stickers of Calvin peeing on Osama Bin Laden (or on his knees praying to a cross)...you get a cigar. It's a white town. This town is why White Flight was invented. While walking around with my son today, we saw one person who wasn't white. One! Even in Minnesota, I can see at least five....
So why else is this White Trash Heaven? Well, dear reader, I will admit that it's not about my wife's parents. They haven't been bad, though how anyone can watch Fox News for six hours is beyond me.
No, this is about my wife's cousin and her family.
Her cousin, who we'll call Anna, is pregnant, which would be great...if she had finished high school. That's right: Unwed, teenage mother! Just what the world needs.
Back at Christmas time, My wife's family (extended and immediate) gathered at my wife's aunt's house. Now, I had already warned my wife's aunt that her daughter's declining grades and new attitude was probably due to the fact that she was smoking Pot and possibly doing more (Long story short on that one: I was dead on. I don't have a problem with the smoking part, but anything that's a white powder is BAD, so when Coke was apparently done, I was disappointed).
My wife's cousin had to work the day after Christmas at the Waffle Hut. She would be joining us, but late. When she arrived, I saw an incredibly sad sight: a fat, greasy guy smelling of grease and wearing Elmo slippers. This was John, but he wanted everyone to call him...Bravo.
At 25, John is a real winner to be dating a then 17 year old. Seems he was the chef at the Waffle Hut at the time. Anna was a waitress there. They met over a grill, and it was lust. She wanted her mom to meet him. From the moment I laid eyes on him, my "This Guy's a Schmuck" alarm was ringing.
Seeing the two of them together, I could tell they were sleeping together. You can look at two people and watch the way they act and know what's going on. For example, people who are married and having an affair will often try not to look at each other for fear of something spilling out or just plain getting caught. These two, however, were overly touchy for him having just met her mother.
I pulled Sandy (not her real name) aside and warned her: "They're sleeping together."
"How do you know?" she asks me.
"I've worked with high school kids long enough to know. Just trust me."
She didn't. I warned her, and she didn't listen.
The reason this is important is because John got Anna pregnant. Then we started learning more about the whole thing. Some fun details:
1. John, though only 25, has been married...and divorced. She killed his dog.
2. John left a 32 year old sugar momma to be with Anna.
3. John has no ambition. He got fired from Waffle Hut...and is now a cook at Ruby Tuesday's. He feels that's good enough to get by....
4. They were each sleeping with other people, but also sleeping with each other without saying anything. Think Bob, Carol, Ted, and Alice.
With her due date only a month away, my wife's cousin has done NOTHING to prepare for the birth.
So, before leaving Minnesota, Mrs. Leab and I made a plan: we would sit them down and explain everything. The birth, the breathing, breastfeeding....The Works!
Yesterday, she came over with her mother in a foul mood. The second she saw my son, however, she lightened up.
She sat down and started talking to us for few minutes. We learned she's still smoking (I grabbed the cigarette out of her mouth and went into teacher mode, explaining to her how that hurts the kid), that she drinks five Pepsi's a day (even my sister, who is a Coca-Cola fiend, limited herself to maybe one a day), and she still hadn't looked into any classes. She is supposed to give birth in three weeks and has no idea what to do, which hospital she's going to, and if she wants to breast or bottle feed.
After throwing out the cigarette, I was banned from being near her by my wife ("I'll handle it," she says.), so I get two choices:
1. Go and setup my in-laws webcam
or
2. Watch Fox News and listen to my father-in-law, his brother-in-law, and friend talk about how the failing Missouri education system is the fault of the liberals. Sigh.
I set up the camera.
Anna's sister, Catie, shows up (Do I even need to say not her real name?). Catie has a crush on me. I don't know why. Maybe it's because I've never talked down to her, maybe it's because I just actually paid attention to her. I really don't know, but now that she's 15 (soon to be 16), she's a little...grabby. I had to hug her almost constantly. I'm not family. That would be like me hugging my cousin's wife...which I would do if choking were a form of hugging, and we were near a lake.
So now I have 15 year old grafted on to my side. We talk about school, about getting ready for college, and such, and then Catie's boyfriend shows up.
This is what I like about high school boys: Most of them are posers, and most of them aren't smart enough to fight back verbally.
Catie's boyfriend is named (and this is too good to fake) Qyntrel (pronounced Quinn-trail). He's a white, skater-boy who wants to be black (calls himself...a Wigger), and says things like, "You best be steppin' off my girl, G." I should mention that he drove a Trans-Am, had a pencil thin mustasche, and wore his pants almost at his knees.
I don't think he was prepared for me to laugh in his face. His eyes got big.
Catie hugged him...and then returned to me. Q, as he likes to be known, got mad. After saying something about how I "best not be trying to (something I didn't hear) his girl," he literally stepped up to me and stared in my eyes. Again, I laughed at him.
"Umm....Am I supposed to be intimidated or something?" I asked. "Are you trying to make me feel threatened? If you are, you have to understand: I've been threatened by bigger."
"Whatever..." comes the response.
I decided I would go outside and get some air. I peeled Catie off and left. I couldn't get to my son because his grandmother, mother, and cousin once (or is it twice?) removed were all over him. I wasn't going to fight.
Though sometimes slightly uncouth, my in-laws are not hicks. They take pride in their home and work hard to make it look nice. The same cannot be said of some of their neighbors. At the end of their cul-de-sac is a house with a car on cement blocks. Beyond the car, that guy was blasting Toby Keith from his garage, had a barking Rottweiler, and his car on wheels had a Confederate Flag on the rear windshield. I went back inside instead of listening to how Toby Keith loved America so much he'd screw a terrorist with a guitar...or whatever the song was about.
The sight upon my return was not pleasant. My wife's cousin was holding my son, but she was doing it absent-mindedly...and he was tipping over off her shoulder.
"Grab his head! Grab his head," I repeated frantically. A vision of my son falling over the railing and down a flight of stairs was becoming real.
"Huh?" Anna responded.
"Support his head so he doesn't fall or hurt himself!"
"Ooooh...." she says and then leans back rather than grab him. My son's face bounces right off her shoulder, which was not pleasant. He gets fussy.
Thankfully they leave, which is when my wife clues me in on everything:
1. Anna is still smoking, won't quit...we can't make her.
2. She and John will move in together in an apartment, but his mother, who is dying of Cancer, will need to move in as well as a friend of Anna's who (and I'm not kidding here) was kicked out of her house for seducing and sleeping with her stepfather.
3. When my wife attempted to explain what to expect at the hospital, Anna tuned it out, then stopped Mrs. Leab so she could complain about how her sister was stealing her fan (which is actually Catie's fan). Needless to say, my wife was in shock.
4. Anna didn't finish high school. She gave up. The problem is that without the degree, she can't really find work, and without the school, she'll have no insurance. From what I'm told, you NEED insurance to have a kid.
5. John says that he's not sure if he'll stick around, but Anna's dad has said he has his shotgun ready. The sad part is that he isn't kidding. He shotgun is sitting on his gun rack in his truck.
Oh, and my father-in-law, while talking to John about marriage, made a comment about how he couldn't believe his daughter would marry into a Liberal family. The problem is that my parents...not Liberals...not even close.
I swear I could turn this is into a great movie or book.
Though it is nice that my mother-in-law is helping with the baby. She won't let my wife nap (just talks her ear off), but the help is appreciated.
Again, I like my in-laws, but their extended family is nuts.
Then again, what do I know? I'm just the schmuck who married for love, not for family. I could be wrong.
Namaste.

Off to See the In-Laws...Again

I'm about to drive to Kansas City with my wife and son.
Not really happy about it, but I understand why we're doing it.
I will attempt to post while down in KC, but I promise nothing!
Back on Monday.
Please don't rob me....
Namaste.

Doctor, That's My Foot in Your Ass

I finally have a few minutes to sit down and write about the last few days.
Ever since my wife gave birth, she has been having trouble with a "plugged duct."
Every doctor we have seen since day one has told her that it was a plugged milk duct.
"Don't worry. You just have to keep feeding him."
"Put ice on it."
"Put heat on it."
"Make sure you really press down on it until it's bruised. That will help get it out."
Now my wife and I were very concerned as she was getting worse and worse. We decided to go to the doctor and wouldn't leave until we got a straight answer.
During her pregnancy, we decided the baby would be born at North Memorial Hospital, because it's only five minutes away. To make this easier, we decided to go with the doctors at the Oakdale Clinic, which is part of the same hospital. Now there are seven doctors that, depending what day you go, switch off.
Doctor H is the head of the clinic now, and she is the one we have seen the most often. This is a woman who may be totally brilliant, but has no beside manner. Now my mother always told me that the colder a doctor is, the more brilliant they are likely to be. This woman is an ice queen, so she must be the best doctor ever. Or I would have thought before this.
Back to the point, on the particular day we went, we saw Doctor L. In a total reverse from the normal thinking, the men at this clinic are very nice and competent, while the women at the clinic are stone cold bitches and don't necessarily know what's going on all the time. Doc L told my wife she would need a sonogram.
One trip to the hospital later, the doctors tell her, "We have no idea what's wrong, but it's not a plugged duct. Of that I'm 100% sure."
We return to the clinic. Doctor H looks over our stuff and says, "It's a plugged duct, pure and simple."
When my wife and I protested, she told us that we were, "overreacting." It's never good when a doctor tells you you're overreacting.
"My sister-in-law had an abscess. Could this be an abscess?" my wife asked.
After a giant sigh, we were told, "No. You don't have the symptoms. Please...quit overreacting."
It's NEVER a good idea to have someone, especially a doctor, tell someone not to overreact when they have a burning sensation and a lump.
Twenty-four hours later, my wife can barely move. The pain is too great. She goes to urgent care where the doctor there tells her, "Oh...hmm. That could be an abscess, but the top part is a boil. Take these antibiotics."
My wife asks the doctor, "Can't you lacerate?"
"No," she is told, "We don't do that."
Wait...doctors don't do that...at urgent care? What's that sir? You cut your finger off? We don't fix that at urgent care.
That night my wife cannot do anything but cry. She's in way too much pain. I am already tired, and now I'm pissed off. I call the clinic and, in my not-so-nice voice, say, "Look, my wife is in so much pain she can't stop crying. She needs to see a doctor...NOW!"
I get her an apointment with Dr. K. He's the other guy on the staff. My wife comes in to the office, Dr. K takes one look at her breast and says, "Yup, that's an abscess. Why didn't you get this taken care of?"
She relates the story to this point to him, and he says, "Oh...ummm...yeah...See this doctor (Doc M)."
After another night of taking care of my wife and my son, we go to Doc M for "the procedure." Basically, he's going to lance my wife's breast and drain it.
Now, the first thing he says to her is, "Oh, you went to urgent care...why didn't they drain it?" This causes me to grumble.
He drains the surface and then his face forms a frown. "Wow, this is DEEP! We're going to have to cut this open and drain it."
Doc M goes on to explain that it will be a simple procedure. They will make an incision, drain the breast, and then she'll be on her way.
We trudge over to the hospital (we're parked over at the clinic), and my wife is checked in and given a room.
It's a closet with a bed.
We wait an hour. The doctor is doing another surgery and isn't sure when he'll be in. My wife is almost bawling. She's really hungry, engorged, and her breast is burning ("It's like a branding iron was broken off in there," she tell me).
When they wheel her out, I am kicked out of the room. "This will take twenty minutes," Doc M tells me. "Go get your wife's medication.
I walk all the way over to North Clinic Pharmacy.
Now, I already wrote about this at MN Speak, but the pharmacy gave me the medication without even looking at my ID. Here's the deal:
Imagine a guy walking up to your counter carrying a child and two bags. He looks like absolute hell. In a bag that looks nothing like his, he pulls out a prescription and says, "I need this filled please." He then hands you an insurance and pharmacy card with a name that cannot possibly be his. Would you fill out that prescription no questions asked? Well, they did. No questions. They just handed it to me and told me to be on my way.
It's at this point that the low point of my day starts (that's right, it got lower). As I walk out of the pharmacy, I am carrying:
My son in a car seat
A diaper bag
My wife's purse
My wife's meds
I figure I can shoot up to the car (it was on the fifth floor of the clinic), drop off her purse and meds, and then get back to my wife in time for her to be out of surgery.
After dropping the stuff off at the car, I get in the elevator and start down to the first floor to walk over to the hospital.
The elevator stops one floor above the tunnel.
"Going up?" a gentleman asks me.
"No, down. Sorry," I reply.
The door shuts, and the elevator takes off...up! Both my son and I are not prepared for this. He wakes up and puts his arms out, while I grab on to the railing as we are going up very fast. We hit the sixth floor and hear a clunk. Not a "the elevator is stopping" clunk, but more of a "and now you're going to drop and die" clunk. The elevator clunks again and stops. Suddenly the alarm button lights up...and the elevator drops. We go very quickly back all the way down.
My first thought is, "Oh hell. I'm going to die in an elevator...how droll."
The next thought? "Ok, when I hear the fifth clunk, I'll have to jump and hope I time it right."
Luckily, the elevator slowed down at the bottom floor...but the doors wouldn't open. I put my son down, and forced the door open. We weren't all the way down. There was woman standing in front of the door, and she just stared at me. Never asked if she could help, just looked on slack-jawed trying to figure out what the hell I was doing getting out of an elevator that wasn't all the way down.
I ran back to the waiting room. As soon as got there, my son started crying. He wanted to eat.
What is it about a crying baby that brings out people's true personalities? I cannot help that my son started crying, and I did everything I could to keep him quiet as I warmed his bottle. How does telling someone, "I have enough annoying me at this point. I don't need YOUR crying baby," make the situation better.
I got lucky again. The guy sitting next to me was an older gentleman who told people to shut up. After the third person gave me a dirty look and made a comment, he said, "Look, we were all babies once. We ALL acted this way. Go back to your own business."
Half way through feeding my son, the doctor came out to take me back. I couldn't stop feeding Poozer, or he would start crying, so I finished feeding him first.
My wife looked terrible when I got back there. She was pale, and out of it due to the anesthetic they gave her.
"Mr. Leab?" a nurse asked.
"That would be me," I replied.
"Your wife can't drive and can barely walk. Here is a list of the things you need to do."
So, beyond just taking care of my son, I would now have to help my wife.
I walked all the way back (taking to stairs to get to the car after my elevator ride didn't go well) and picked her up. When we got home, she passed out. So did Will. I couldn't. I had to prepare bottles, my wife's meds, and her dinner.
That night I slept only about an hour, but I was functioning.
The situation, however, got worse the next morning. I had to help my wife shower and change her dressing. The gauze was IN her breast. We had to slowly peel it out. Then we discovered, much to my wife's horror, that Doc M had not made it clear what "an incision" meant. Her breast had (and, though healing, still has as of tonight) a quarter-sized hole in it. She freaked out. How could anyone not. It was a hole in her body that a finger could fit in. That's insane!
I managed to calm her down.
As of today, she's getting better. I'm just glad my parents were scheduled to visit this weekend anyway. It allowed me to nap, which I needed.
I'm pissed at the doctors right now. Let me run the laundry list:
Can't agree on the diagnosis
Horrible bedside manner
Vague or unclear on procedures
That pretty much covers what is angering me right now. I haven't slept much, but I have become a master bottle feeder to my son. That first night was horrible. Help my wife, help my son, help my wife, help my son, (take a breath) repeat.
This experience has just reinforced my feelings about doctors. There's a reason it's called "A PRACTICE." No one has all the answers. That's just how it is. I'm still shocked about picking up the prescriptions, I'm glad my wife is feeling better, and I'm hoping for a break here in the future.
Then again what do I know? I'm the guy who told a doctor to "rethink how you talk to people." I could be wrong.

Poozer Patrol

My wife had to have surgery today.
I have been up for two straight days, and it looks like it will be three as I need to take care of Little Leab AND my wife.
I'm tired, haven't eaten in 36 hours, and I'm frustrated as all hell at doctors.
Thus, this will be my post for the night.
If MN Speak puts up my post, then you can read about how I got drugs at North Memorial Hospital for my wife without having to show ID.
That could be trouble.
Namaste.

The GPA Disbands

I've been reading about Artie W's GPA issues in his Spanish class recently, and it got me thinking about my graduate school career.
You see when I was in college, I didn't take my GPA seriously. When you're doing technical theatre professionally, no one looks at your resume to see your grades. They only care to see if you can do the job at hand. Unfortunately, the world of education doesn't quite work that way. We are requested (which the polite way of saying required) to put our GPA on our resume. This means that we have to answer questions about it (more on that later).
In my whole life, I've never received a 4.0. My sister had a 4.0 (she may have also had a 4.1 at some point, but that's neither here nor there), but I never came close.
In the final year of graduate school at St. Thomas, I had a 4.0. That was, of course, until I took Adolescent Literature.
The school had put too many students in the class but was loathe to lose any money. So, they hired a teacher to take one of the sections and then split us 50-50. Half of us (the graduate students) went with the new teacher (who, for the purposes of this post, we'll call Adam). The other half (all the undergrads) went with the teacher who normally teaches the class. This illustrates my first problem: the grads pay more than the undergrads, but we were given the guy who had never before taught the class. Oh so fair.
Adam was a nice guy. He was a cowboy of sorts (loved his horses and went riding every weekend), and he taught English out in Osseo. However, he had never taught a class at a level higher than high school, which was evident from the way he looked at us when he walked into the first day of class. We were quiet, organized, and ready to learn. Every single one of us. I don't think he was expecting that.
The description of the class fell into two parts:
1. Look at how modern literature aimed at adolescents meets their reading needs and desires.
2. Develop ways of making kids want to read those books (including lesson plans).
Adam, however, saw the class much differently than its description. His version was this:
1.Test the graduate students on their English skills.
2. Read and discuss books that have been taught at his school.
Very different in my opinion.
On the first day of class, we got our first assignments. Read the entire book of The Secret Life of Bees (ok, we had a week, not a problem), jot down five questions that you ask a class about the book (all right, annoying, but useful), prepare a five minute presentation on the chapter you're assigned following a rubric given to us by Adam (starting to realize that he doesn't know that some of us have more than one class and a job), AND write a book report (wait, wait wait....A book report?! I'm a grad student...I haven't written a book report in YEARS! What the hell?). Yes, we were required to do all that work, but the book report was insulting. What did we as teachers (almost all of us to be secondary) gain from writing book reports? Grumbling, we left our first class.
The book reports would become a major issue for everyone. Adam had not made it clear that he would not be grading us on our content, but solely on our writing skills. This was exacerbating. He couldn't have cared less if our information about the book was correct. How do I know? Well, when we read They Things They Carried, I put incorrect information into my paper on purpose. I then had two English teachers and a former English major proofread the paper. It was grammatically perfect. I got an A.
This proved it: Adam only graded us on our grammar skills. He was a Grammar Nazi. He took our first papers, copied them, and then put them on the classroom overhead and proceded to destroy us for the way we wrote. Hell, if he read this, he would comment on the fact that I am using "it" which you NEVER do...according to him. "Look, I'll start looking at your content," he said, "when you all can actually write."
As we finished the first half of the semester, NO ONE had an A. I was holding down a B, but only because I was damn lucky and great at preparing presentations. Coming home from class, I would be so angry, because I saw my 4.0 slipping away from me, and I couldn't stop it.
Our class turned into an educational version of Survivor. We lost a person a week until the end of the semester. Some were able to get into the other class (which I would later be jealous of as they actually prepared lesson plans and...oh...I don't know...learned!), while others just left the class in sheer disgust. Hell, we even had someone gain immunity every week: that person's paper wasn't put on the overhead.
As the semester came toward a close, Adam gave us our final project. A fifteen minute presentation and a four page paper. It would seem easy except there was that whole grammar issue again, and this time it would also apply to the way we speak. He was going to grade our speaking abilities. This meant no "ums," "uhs," or, "likes." (Someone later told me he was once a speech coach.) Looking at my grade, I figured out that if I got a solid A on the project, I could get an A for the class. This was exciting to me. Somehow, I was going to survive this test.
My book was Animal Farm. It was perfect, as I knew the book backwards and forwards and had a source on Orwell in the form of my father (wrote a book on it). The piece I prepared was on how Animal Farm could be used to show propaganda. It was a great piece. I still teach it today and had colleagues copy the lesson plan. My presentation time came up, and I was feeling nervous but good. I watched myself doing the presentation and never heard the offending words Adam had mentioned. Even my grammar, which is normally terrible, was in step. Feeling good about the way it went, I took questions from the audience. This, too, went well as I never was stumped, though one gal did ask me a hard question about modern propaganda in the form of pop-up ads.
I felt great. When I got home, I told my wife the whole story, and she said, "Shouldn't be a problem. You'll get that A."
Our final class, Adam gave us our grades. Much like Ralphie in A Christmas Story, I was in for major disappointment. My final grade was an A-. I had lost points during my presentation for asking someone to repeat the question. You read that right. He took off ten points (giving me a 90 instead of a 100), because I couldn't hear one girl's question and asked her, "Would you say that again, please? I couldn't hear you." Full of anger and literally seeing red spots, I asked Adam why I got an A-.
"When Cindy (not her real name) spoke, you asked her to repeat her question. That showed me that you weren't really listening to her, which you have to do in order to be a good teacher."
"But," I replied, "she was so quiet, and you set us over by the vents. How can you expect us to hear every single thing ever said? That's impossible, Adam."
"Not if you really care about students."
Suffice to say, I managed an A-, which was one of the higher grades (some people flat out failed). However, this meant that I no longer had a 4.0 in a program where ALMOST EVERYONE DOES! I was ashamed to put "3.93" on my resume.
I mean there was a gal wanting to become an English teacher who didn't know that William was Shakespeare's first name...and SHE got a 4.0. That hurts.
Everyone around me tried to reassure me:
"No looks at that."
"They won't ask you about it."
"Concentrate on the other stuff."
I rolled into the Education Fair feeling like a million bucks. "There's no way I wouldn't get interviewed," I told myself. "I have a great resume."
Yet every school I talked to asked the same question: "Tell me about your GPA. Why don't you have a 4.0?"
Are you kidding me? Never mind that I have the credentials, you're going to harp on my GPA?
In my mind I wanted to tell them about Adam. "There was this guy who was a Grammar Nazi...," but that would show I couldn't take responsibility (and you only get a short time with each person). Instead I answered, "Sometimes, no matter how hard you try, you'll still fail. If you learn from it, the experience makes you a better person. I'm not perfect, but I'll never stop trying to be."
I thought it was a good answer. Most schools ended the interview there. One school (ok it was Blake) ripped up my resume right there in front of me and threw it out. Apparently I wasn't Blake material (I heard this happened to many people).
I will admit that even though I have a job now, I still think about that damn class. I was so close to perfect. The problem is that I could outteach many of the people in my class, but they all had perfect GPAs, so they were considered before me.
My students hear from me all the time that their grade point average is just a number. That's all, but in this world of competitive colleges, they are told that it is everything.
The problem is that as more people buy into the whole GPA garbage, the more some awesome minds are being left out.
I saw Adam recently, and I told him, after a long conversation, that he almost cost me having a job. His response to me was interesting, but also backhanded. He told me that a school concentrating on my GPA only cares about how it looks and not how the students are doing. Then he went on to say that I could have worked harder.
It just angers me that our educational system focuses on numbers (not unlike the business world) and not on the people.
Then again, what do I know? I'm the guy who got an A- in the "Everyone gets a 4.0" program. I could be wrong.