Back from the Dead

It has been entirely too long since we’ve spoken and for this I apologize.

I am pleased to announce that the paper was a success, despite my amateur knowledge of  journalism and inexperience, as well as a lack of support from the administration. I now have a small amount of knowledge about journalism, media law, and AP style. Oh, and I can sort of use Photoshop now. I hope all you’re seeing is what I like to call “resume building” or “lines on the CV.”

I also managed to survive teaching a night class at the college, but have decided that I will not be doing it again this spring because my waistline paid dearly for the late night dinners and my ability to stay awake past 10 was beginning to wane.

Husband and I also survived our first year of marriage without any major issues. We still love each other and can say we are more successful in our marriage than over 70 percent of celebrity couples. In case you’re not sure, I made that statistic up. Pulled it right out of my a&$.

Husband and I also spent our first Christmas together. We were with my family and spent quality time with Frankenmommy and Black Sheep sister. I think he was a little overwhelmed at how much food there was and how much talking at the table over coffee went down, but he survived, and I’m so grateful he was with me. I needed him by my side when my family got a little crazy and mildly negative and somewhat depressing (post to follow). I think he enjoyed it. It’s tough to tell. I’m not sure how well I will fare when I’m not with the crazy Italians for the first time next Christmas.

Looking up, it seems as if this semester hasn’t been so bad, and yet I still dread waking up to go to work and do not enjoy cooking, reading, or writing nearly as much as I have in the past. I feel as if my identity is slowly slipping away from me. So in an effort to regain who I am, I have made the following resolutions. They aren’t necessarily new year’s resolutions because I’ve been working on them since October, so please cease with the eye rolling, I get enough of that at work.

This is how I reclaim my identity…

• Keep the house clean by not going to bed with a messy house. (It saddens me that I even have to make this part of my identity recapture project, but alas I do. I was once the biggest neat freak ever, then all of a sudden over this past year and half, things have gotten messy. It’s been awful. It’s time to reclaim the Lysol and Clorox and make things shiny.)
• Complete at least one organization project a weekend. (This is partly because I fear becoming a hoarder. My father is a hoarder, and I think having an organized house leads to other aspects of your life being organized, including one’s finances and ability to manage time. These “projects” may entail cleaning out a drawer, or a closet. They will be big some weekends and small other weekends. It will depend on what I have time to do. I’m hoping to have the house in order by May. I’m not delusional in thinking it will happen overnight.)
• Devote at least 30 minutes a day to writing. (I’m happiest when I’m writing, and 2012 was a year that I did not feel so good about myself, the direction my life was taking and it’s time to get that back. Writing is a calling, and it’s been yelling at me for months. “Come back!”  I’m coming back thirty minutes at a time.)
• Submit at least 1 story or essay a month. (I have quite a few essays and short stories sitting on my hard drive and flash drives that are dying to be available in print or online. Enough is enough, I need to suit up and send them out. I’m not going to get a professor job with my fiction and essays sitting on my computer. They need to be on your Kindle or your bookshelf.)
• Read at least 30 minutes a day. (This one, so far, as proven to be the biggest challenge. I have been unable to find anything to read that holds my attention. I blame Facebook, Twitter, and my insatiable addiction to television. While I know I read meaningless crap everyday, it is time to refocus my love of reading. There was a time in my life when you couldn’t find me without a book in my hand. I used to devour books. I miss the attachment I had with characters and the near euphoria of experiencing a damn good story. Not to mention, this 30 minutes a day will only make me a better writer.)
• Take better care of myself. (This includes grooming–ladies we all get lazy with the shaving of the legs and washing the makeup off of our faces before bed–well no more!–I refuse to not take good care of myself. Taking care of my grooming and putting more care into my outfits and how I look when I leave the house will help me regain some of the confidence I’ve lost. Husband is always telling me how sexy it is when a woman is confident and how unattractive low self-esteem is. Well, I need to be sexy in my eyes in order to be sexy in his, so a-grooming I will go!)
• Be a better Catholic. (These past few years I’ve neglected my spiritual health. It’s so easy to just not go to mass. I know many people do not agree with the teachings of the Catholic faith, but I do and since I do, I should be practicing what I believe and get my a** in church. It’s one hour, once a week. I do my best during the week to be a good Catholic, and going to church regularly helps keep me in check.)
• Follow through. (In general, this is difficult for me. It’s one thing to set all these goals, it’s another to follow through on them. The thing is I struggle to follow through on small things like laundry. I will start a load of laundry, get it into the dryer and leave it there for two days. I think if I can start by following through on things like laundry, good eating habits, exercise, and so on, I can make these goals a reality.)
• Spend less time at work. (Let’s be honest, that place is sucking my soul right out of my body. I know it’s a clichéd image, but damn it, it is the truth. It’s not just soul sucking, it’s soul crushing. As an example, the newspaper was a huge success this December. It was the first issue the school saw in over a year. It was well designed, the kids did everything, sold the ads, did all the writing, fact checking, editing, and so on. When I was hired to be the adviser, the principal wanted me because I had helped the students produce the first literary magazine issue in over 5 years. The principal was adamant that I do it and demanded that we have a hard copy of the paper. I was then not given the resources to do this. The class ended this semester, so I don’t have a newspaper class in the spring. We had to meet after school. The computers did not have the necessary software to layout the paper. I fought and fought. The kids were so determined to lay out the paper, they did it on their own computers, which they brought to school with open source software. We even met on a Saturday to finish laying it out. When the paper was finally delivered to students, the faculty and students flipped. They loved it. I was then, however, snubbed repeatedly by the principal AND have yet to even get a thumbs up, head nod, let alone a “good job.” Now, I didn’t spend my month of December at school until 7 p.m. to get accolades from my principal, but acknowledgement that it was even glanced at might have been nice. This, of course, is just one incident of many that have pushed me over the edge. I’m no longer volunteering at school this spring. I leave fifteen minutes after the bell rings, unless there is a meeting. Frankly, that place can suck it. Life is too short to be spending it where my dedication is under-appreciated. If people want devoted teachers, then they ought to give them some damn adulation. I’m a newlywed and staying at work until 7 p.m. is madness.)

And so these are my goals. They are lofty and ambitious, but I’m feeling feisty this year.

Aurora Colorado Shooting and My Concerns Regarding Humanity

I’m sure you’ve heard about the shooting in Colorado by now. If you haven’t here is the link from CNN.

I don’t ever comment on the news, politics, or anything that might be slightly controversial even thoughI am news obsessed  But this morning I just couldn’t take it anymore. I have to get some thoughts out of my system and send them out into the universe.

When I turned on the Today show this morning, I was shocked and deeply upset by the news of the theater shooting in Aurora. I sat down with my coffee and oatmeal and couldn’t eat or drink because I was crying. I even stopped to say a a few Hail Mary’s, because I didn’t know how else to react. I don’t know any of the victims, but I am fellow human.

And, I have to say, for the first time ever, I’m a little worried about leaving my house to go to a place where there may be crowds.I’m not agoraphobic. I enjoy crowds and being around people. I did attend the Jon Stewart Rally in D.C. and had general admission tickets to Gaga for crying out loud. Crowds don’t really bother me. I have also attended midnight showings of Harry Potter, Twilight, Hunger Games, and a few others. Never would I have imagined something like this happening at a movie.

While what happened in Colorado is tragic and abhorrent, I also feel deep sadness for the people in Syria, Egypt, Libya, Tunisia, and of course, Israel. Yesterday, there was a suicide bomb attack in Bulgaria yesterday that killed a bus full of tourists. I mean, what the hell? It seems there is so much turmoil everywhere, and I just hate it. I feel so terribly helpless and sad. The thing is, those international events of violence are part of a revolution, and while they are tragic in their taking away the lives of the innocent, unfortunately death and violence are a product of revolution and of course religious extremism (which is a whole other topic and I’m not about to digress). I don’t like it, I’m not justifying it, but I get it. However, my brain can process violence caused by war.

Shootings in schools, malls, college campuses, and movie theaters; random killings of innocent people just because–those kinds of massacres make me afraid to produce children. These events make me want to build a bunker so I can shelter myself, my family, and my friends. Acts like this make me question my faith in God and in humanity.

I think one of the reasons that makes a situation like this so upsetting is that the killer showed warning signs, or had a manifesto, or was bullied. Of course, oftentimes society doesn’t get an answer because the killer was shot or took his own life. At least in the this case, society may get answers, although to what end. Knowing his motive isn’t going to change anything. It didn’t change the way we felt in Norway when Anders Behring Breivik shot 69 teenagers. It was only more upsetting to find out why he murdered those teenagers who were at a camp learning about tolerance and diversity.

Of course, even though I’m tempted to hide and never come out of my house, I know that is not going to be happen.

I was a senior in high school when 9-11 occurred. A club I was involved in had planned a trip to New York. We had been planning it for almost a year, and our club sponsor had no intentions of canceling the annual trip. The trip was scheduled for 3 weeks after the attack, and we were all weary of flying. Some of the parents pulled their kids out of the trip. My mother did not. She wanted us to go. I asked my mother why she wasn’t pulling my sister and I out of the trip and she said, “One Mean MFA, when it is your time to go, it is your time to go. You can’t stop living because of tragedies. If that was the case, you’d never live your life.”

I remember thinking she was wrong. I wanted her to come with my sister and I because I was afraid. Of course, the minute I saw Ground Zero (still smoking from the attack) I knew how important this trip was and that it was going to shape me in some way. I remember a few things very vividly from Ground Zero. I remember the smell, the energy of the place–there was such a sorrow in the air (cliche, but how else can you describe the feeling of death all around you?), and I remember the disdain of the native New Yorkers who shouted at our group for stopping to see Ground Zero. One man shouted at one of the teacher chaperones telling her, “this isn’t a tourist attraction. Why don’t you go see the Statue of Liberty instead?” She countered by saying, “It’s important for them to see this. It’s important.” He was hushed after that. That visit to Ground Zero was a lesson in the evil that lives on this planet. That humans are very capable of destruction. Still, time moves forward, people heal, and life goes on. The Earth continues to spin with the good and the evil together. There isn’t much we can do about it.

What happened in Colorado is simply devastating and, quite frankly, frightening. Acts of terror, like the one this morning, can happen anywhere; in a small suburb outside of Denver, on a college campus like Virginia Tech, at a high school–anywhere, at a mall–anywhere. That’s what makes them so horrifying. Where is the next one going to happen? Still, I know I can’t go hide for eternity to avoid being a victim in something tragic. As Husband, so eloquently put it, “something is going to get you.”

Even though these events make me question humanity, seeing the victims being interviewed is shocking, some discussing bravery, remorse, and regret not sure why they were spared while a friend or family member was not shows me that not all people are bad, most are just victims of circumstance. Of course, the media finds ways to make tragedies about politics discussing how the Obama campaign and Romney Campaign have pulled attack ads in Colorado–as if they are doing the people of Colorado a favor. This isn’t about politics, this is about the tragic human condition. The same is true for Bloomberg who is calling for Obama and Romney to explain how they would prevent attacks like this. Can’t society be given a time to process this before we decide who the hell we’re going to vote for?

Tragedies like this are tough on everyone: victims, the families, politicians, and society. The responses to these acts are just as tough. The news is calling on “experts” to discuss gun control and speculate on motive, and analyze how this will impact the election in November. Meanwhile the rest of America is wondering if it’s okay to go see The Dark Knight Rises, not necessarily because they are afraid, but if it’s socially acceptable now that this tragedy occurred (what is the etiquette in a situation like this?).  Then, of course, there are people like me who are deeply concerned with the welfare of humanity and know only one way to put a Band-Aid on the symptom: say the Rosary.

Ramblings

I should totally be putting grades into the gradebook, but instead I’m here.

This semester feels like the longest game of catch up. I just can’t get it together. And to make things worse, today, for the first time ever, I lost student work. I have never done that. I was running scantrons, which I put into a folder, went back to my classroom, got to my classroom with all the copies I made while I was grading the scantrons, but no scantrons. What the hell?

I’m about to lose it. I have emptied my file cabinent, gone back to the room where I graded the scantrons. Nothing. I don’t think my students will really notice or care, it’s just so effing lame and unprofessional.

This morning I totally woke up on the wrong side of the bed. Last night there was some wedding drama. FH talked me off the ledge last night, but when I woke up I felt terrible and guilty even though the reason all the drama went down was not my fault.

I have been debating if I want to write a post about this. I’m totally having a Virgina Woolf moment where I wish I was totally independent so I could write about whatever the hell I want. I don’t want to write about it only to upset FH.

FH, if you read this, will you let me know if you’re cool with my writing about what happened last night?

This post has absolutely no direction. I have been wicked focused in the mornings this past week, but by afternoon it’s gone. I want to stay at work until all my grading is done, but my homework is due in the class I’m taking, I’m making burgers tonight, and frankly I’m sick of being at this desk doing work.

While I was making copies and losing student work, a colleague came into the planning room and we were talking.

“I just can’t seem to get caught up.”
“Well, there is a teacher workday coming up, you can get caught up then.”

What are the chances the entire day is taken up by mother-effing meetings?

Sometimes I feel like I work at Dunder-Mifflin and I do everything but my job–which I have to remind myself is to teach.

The wedding is coming up and my parents are coming up for a visit next week. I can’t wait. I miss them so freakin’ much. FH is so lucky to have his family close by.

I’m back…well sort of

I know, I know. I’m a terrible person. I haven’t written in ages. Shame on me.

I have been writing fiction for the first time in months and with all the other stuff going on (wedding, half marathon training, hunting for a new place for FH and I to live, and oh yeah– a full time effing job) I’ve been a bit preoccupied.

Teaching high school has been a big fat reminder that I’m a tenure track professor at heart. I’ve been so busy with lesson plans, meetings, and more meetings that I hardly have time to get anything done. I’m also very involved; I am a co-sponsor of the Creative Writing Club. And by co-sponsor I mean that I run and organize it all and the three other teachers get credit, none of whom actually attend any of the meetings. Still, I don’t really care because I’m basically running a workshop, which is what I love about being an MFA. I’m also band staff six hours a week after school.

I have never in my whole existence been this busy. Every minute seems to be taken up with something. I took my first ever mental health day on Monday. It was lovely. I went to Bikram Yoga for the first time (almost passed out), got some wedding stuff done (yay, we have limos and hotel rooms to stay in before the wedding) and felt refreshed on Tuesday.

As of late, the wedding hasn’t been stressing me out, my seriously lacking pay check, however, has. I am still being paid as a substitute (a whopping 70 bucks a day folks), and I’m busting my ass. I really have to order my garters, shoes, and under garments for the wedding but can’t. I did pass the required state exam (very stoked–it cost two hundred bucks and apparently no one passes the first time!) so I’ll finally be making teacher pay in November–hopefully sooner than that.

My dietician made an observation in our last meeting. She said, “One Mean MFA, your life seems to be coming together. You’re job, your getting married, you’re in the best shape of your life….” Of course, today this all came to a crashing halt. The principal of my school announced to the faculty that he was taking some baller position at the district and that the job starts in November. I wanted to cry. He was one of the best leaders I’ve ever had the pleasure to work for. He went out of his way to hire me. He could have easily hired a licensed teacher. Then when I didn’t have any technology in my room, he lent me his personal laptop for my classroom. He even came down to my classroom the day before my test to wish me good luck. The students love him, the staff loves him. He’s just one of the greats. I’m blaming my dietician for this one. Everything was going smoothly and then Buh-Lam.

Not that the principal leaving to better his career is this big awful thing, but I am being selfish and nervous that this will impact my job next year. While I don’t want to teach high school forever, there is something very nice about stability. I haven’t had it since like my sophomore year of high school, so yeah. I’ll take some stability right now. When spring rolls around, I won’t be so busy. I think I’m going to be inspired by Wide Lawns and her progress and bang out my memoir. She mentioned how she just had to get the book out of her system, and I get exactly what she means. It’s like it’s taking up space in my damn brain. Really lots of thoughts are.

The End of the Hunt: The End End

I wept audibly for about twenty minutes before I was able to find the strength to call FH. The minute FH answered I lost it again.

“Hello.”

“Wahahaha…….job……teaching….credits….” Gasps for breath. “I…can’t….wahahaha.”

“What?”

This kept on for about ten minutes.

Somehow I managed to find the ability to speak and explained what happened. I was about to lose it. The thought of adjuncting and being broke was just not an option. I sounded like a drunk person who kept repeating themselves.

“I hate this life,” I repeated as I visualized my bottom-of-the-totem pole existence.

FH was encouraging and told me everything was going to be okay. He had my back. He told me all kind words I needed to hear in order to collect myself.

I was able to stand up and when the call ended I got in the shower and looked like Tobias Funke crying  from Arrested Development (see the “Fire Sale” episode).

I wasn’t about to let something like this be the end of a full-time job, so I called HR after I had cooled off.

“Hi, it’s me again.”

“Hello Ms. One Mean MFA”

“I was just wondering if there was anything I could do. I really, really want this job.”

“Well, there is one other option. We can hire you as a sub, then once you pass the subject area teaching test we will hire you laterally.”

“Oh okay.”

“The pay is $69 dollars a day.”

“Would I be retro-paid?”

“Yes, from the date of the exam.”

“Okay. That’s not ideal, but a job is a job.”

“The principal has to be behind the idea.”

I hung up feeling a bit better. The principal had hired me after fifteen minutes. This didn’t seem like it would be a problem. I emailed him and let him know what the situation was; his response email was one question.

“I thought you had a bachelors and masters degree in English?”

“I do…” was my response.

The next email read: “Call me NOW!!!”

I phoned him while he was on vacation. He told me he really wanted me at the high school and would do whatever it took. He also said he didn’t know one English major who had six credits in grammar. He even told me he’d personally watch my class if I ever needed a fill in.

The phone call ended, and I was relieved. I now had to make sure I knew exactly which test to take. Once again I was on the phone with HR. After two days of calling to make sure that I was definitely hired as a sub at my school, I decided it was time to just go into the HR office.

I got in the car, drove downtown, and found an empty building. Every door was locked. There was a sign on the door with a phone number for security. You’ve got to be freakin’ kidding me.

“Hi, I’m looking for the HR office and all the doors are locked.”

“Oh, yeah the offices have been dismantled and are spread out around the county.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes, sorry about that.”

“Well, do you know where I can find HR?”

“I don’t. There might be a forwarding address on one of the doors.”

“Just so you know, this information isn’t anywhere on the website. They might consider updating that info.”

“Yeah. What are you gonna do?”

Morons.

I found the new address and had to drive another thirty minutes in the opposite direction.

After speaking with the receptionist, a licensure officer came out to speak with me. She then went to get the recruiter I had been speaking to for about two weeks. I heard them in the hallway talking shit.

I had to use all my politeness energy not to be a bitch. Sometimes I wish I was more confrontational. I just swallow shit and fester. I get this from my mother (who, I believe, has consequentially developed cancer because of this terrible habit).

I got my info and within forty-eight hours, I had registered for the test, met with a teaching licensure advisor at the college, and applied for a graduate teaching certificate program at the local state university. Still, I wasn’t registered for orientation and not officially employed.

Of course, because I’m impatient I kept calling HR to make sure I was employed. I still hadn’t told the college I wouldn’t be teaching in the fall, and because they had been so good to me I was worried about burning bridges. HR finally called me to schedule orientation.

“Oh wait, one of your references hasn’t filled out the online form.”

“Hmph.”

“Do you think you can have them do it by the end of the day? We can’t schedule you until that’s done.”

“I can try.”

It was done by noon. I had called to let them know and emailed. Still I wasn’t scheduled.

I called all day Monday and around eleven, someone answered. I left a message and was told the phone call would be returned by late afternoon.

It was almost three and the office was scheduled to close at four. I was freaking out. I had spent over three hundred dollars between applications for the teaching certificate, transcripts, and registering for the test. What if I had done this and still didn’t have a job? I stood outside (I was helping out at a camp at the school since I was “officially” employed) and just kept calling and calling.

All I needed was to be scheduled for orientation.

After half an hour of calling and calling, the HR recruiter answered. She scheduled me and before she hung up she said, “Thank you for being so persistent and patient with us.” I thought she was being sarcastic because I had been such a pain in the ass.

“Honestly,” she continued, “if you hadn’t been I might not have been able to get you registered in time.”

So after three weeks of hardcore persistence, I’m finally employed. The principal has assured me I’ll be teaching seniors–I even picked up the textbook and will be starting my planning soon–and have seen my classroom. I’m employed. It’s not an ideal situation, but I strongly believe things like this happen for a reason. Clearly, the stars have lined up to show me the way to teaching license. I’ve put it off for too long and it’s been holding me back.

While I don’ t want to be a high school teacher forever, I’ll stick around for at least three years (God-willing and if the county’s budget allows it). For the first time since before I started grad school, I’m actually not going to have worry about money and will have time write because I won’t be teaching an absurd amount of classes. Feels good.

My Father: A Portrait

For years I’ve been saying my father could easily be the star of a reality TV series. Bruce Jenner has nothing on my dad. The level of crazy my father is at cannot be competed against. Now, don’t get me wrong, I absolutely love my father, but he is a bag of crazy. It is no wonder where I get my crazy from, not to mention I look just like him–in a feminine way.

Growing up my father was a musician and teacher. To this day my father is still teaching high school. He’s been a teacher for forty years. Forty years straight. Can you imagine? Honestly it’s no wonder he’s started to lose it along the way. If I were to teach for forty years straight, I’d need to go home to a padded room. God bless him for having the strength to be a teacher for as long as he has been. Not just a crappy teacher, but a great teacher.

Before he married, settled down, and became an educator my father attempted being a rock star. He toured and had a band. There was even a time, when he was moderately famous. We’re talking like Ben Gibbard  before Death Cab and in the Postal Service famous, or Tim Kasher from The Good Life famous. Not Steven Tyler famous–just to be clear. He was popular for a very brief time, maybe he was less famous than Gibbard or Kasher, maybe he was like Owl City famous. I don’t really know all the details of my father’s musical career. I do know that he loved music more than anything.

If I were to make a list of the many ways my father and I are similar our love of music would probably be at the top of the list. One of the first memories I have with my father is when he brought home my piano. I remember watching a lot of classical music concerts on TV as a kid, and wanting more than anything to learn the violin. So you can imagine my excitement when my father brought home this beautiful upright caramel colored Wurlitzer piano. That piano is still my first love. Oh God. I was so excited.

I didn’t realize my father was grooming to me to be a musician in his band until I was a teen, but by then I didn’t care. I was obsessed. My father and I would sing together. He would play his guitar and I would play the piano and together we would harmonize and sing together. When I look at my father now and see how hardened, hurt, and damaged he has become I think about how music totally bonded us and how he shouldn’t have stopped being a musician. My father has file cabinets full of sheet music. Sheet music that was off limits until I was in high school. He has all kinds of sheet music; standards, show tunes, ballads, Sinatra, and on and on. He has everything. Honestly, I should try and catalogue it for him so that it is easier to sift through.

He owned all this sheet music, because after years of trying to be famous he decided it wasn’t going to work out and became a wedding singer. He finished college, became a wedding singer on the side. Mind you, he wasn’t an Adam Sandler wedding singer. He wasn’t cheesy like that. His band was booked every weekend. My dad made more money singing than he did teaching.

I’ve mentioned before that my father was born in Italy. When he moved my family to the town where I grew up, he really struggled to hold on to the Italian heritage. He wanted us to speak Italian at home, which we didn’t. He really struggled with the American life in suburbia. He also struggled to cope with having Black Sheep as a daughter. As she grew and became more beautiful, getting attention from boys, ignoring her academics and music, my father really struggled to keep her on a leash. We couldn’t talk to boys on the phone–not even in high school, no sleep overs (which I’m strangely fine with now, and will probably enforce this rule when I have kids), we had a phone log (I should save the phone log for the memoir), and the list goes on. He desperately tried to control all aspects of our lives.

When he finally caved in and let us have boyfriends, my senior year of high school and Black Sheep’s Junior year, he would drive to the movies or wherever we claimed to be to make sure we were actually there. Now I know this sounds crazy, because it is, but the man was just doing his best. Being from a small ass town in Italy, and then growing up in a city where everyone around him was just like him, an Italian immigrant, made his life in the American Suburb really challenging. He didn’t know what American boys were like, and he didn’t want them hanging around his daughters.

My mother says you always marry a man that has the  most irritating trait your father had. I don’t know if that’s true. I have never lived with FH and while I do see similarities between my father and FH, FH isn’t quirky like my father. I can see how he will have the same proud father moments my dad had. When I published my first piece, my dad was beaming. He told everyone. He then told me, ” I have tons of stories for you, if you want to write them.” I told my father I was going to a singing audition recently, and he told me, “Make sure you pick the right song, you’ve got the voice, just make sure you don’t pick some easy la-la-la song. It’s got to have range. Maybe sing something Streisand would sing.” Gotta love it.

While my father seemed crazy–he still does–I know he was trying his best. My father is a pack rat, I believe because he is the child to parents who went through WWII, lived in Italy during a time of great poverty, then immigrated and had nothing and were forced to work very hard to get where they ended up. I think living in the small, American town where I grew up, my father lost his balance. He watched Black Sheep struggle. He was betrayed by her many times, and was hurt deeply by those betrayals.

Because my father is an educator, the man cannot stop talking. Seriously, I called him today to wish him Happy Father’s day and we were on the phone for almost an hour. Mostly talking about how he is finally ready to retire from teaching and the music industry–the man loves pop music. He’ll call Frankenmommy to tell her he his on his way home and will yack her ears off for thirty minutes. The man is a talker.

I feel like as you read this, you’re proabably thinking, “The man doesn’t sound crazy to me.” Well he is. Sometimes he’ll say things that make you wonder. I remember one time at the dinner table, I was out of college so it wasn’t that long ago, he was talking about some one who had wronged him and saying something about “breaking a knee cap” to “send a message” and how “the mafia had some good methods.” Baby sister, Frankenmommy, and I looked at him while simultaneously stopping our chewing. I swallowed whatever it was we were having for dinner and said, “You can’t possibly mean that.” He didn’t say yes, but he didn’t say no. He would never do something like but, the way of thinking is a bit much. My father is also a ninja. The house I grew up in isn’t very big. It sits on a quarter acre lot, 3 bedrooms, patio, and has a pool. I swear to you, we would have to scream at the top of our lungs as kids to get him to come inside on Sundays to get ready for mass. Picture three barefooted children in church clothes screaming, “Pappa! Pappa!” He would then emerge ready for mass as if nothing.

I’m convinced that when my father retires he will finally admit to the family that he was, in fact, a CIA agent. That teaching high school was a cover. A good cover at that, I took his class three years in row (he teaches an elective). When he does admit this, it will explain the need to keep things for parts, his having to write down everything, and his understanding and justification of the mafia’s criminal behavior.  We’ll be sitting at Sunday dinner.

He’ll say, “Now that I’m retired I can finally tell you, I’ve been working for as CIA agent for years.”

We won’t even bat eye.

“Yeah, we know,” I’ll say.

“We’ve been onto it for years,” Frankenmommy will mutter.

“Dad, you’re like a ninja,” Baby Sister will explain.

“Honestly Daddy, it explains a lot,” Black Sheep will breathe out.

The man is set to retire this coming school year. I’ll let you know how it all goes down.

 

 

p.s. Daddy, you’re the best and I wouldn’t trade you for any other father. I’m down with the crazy. Lots of writing material.

 

 

 

The Steak Beckons

While I love a good four day work week, my unemployment situation has me all confused. My eating and workout routine is all off, my book a week challenge came to a halt, my sleep schedule is messed up, and on and on. I’m kind of glad America is back on schedule, because maybe I too can get back on schedule.

The dietician and I created a schedule for me. I have officially (it’s on the fridge so it’s official) set aside time for job hunting, writing, watching TV, and working out. I was supposed to be on this schedule last week, but couldn’t get into it.

I’m a TV whore, and love watching The Today Show. I always get caught up in the Money 9-1-1 segments, or the fashion segments, and I love Hoda and Kathie Lee. I swear I’m like an old lady stuck in a twenty something (late twenty-something)’s body.I get back from my 6 am torture spin session and Matt Lauer, Ann Currie, and Meredith suck me in. Then after two hours of having done nothing but made my breakfast, I find myself unable to get focused. I also love watching reruns of Frasier, Seinfeld, Everybody Loves Raymond, and Friends. There isn’t an episode I haven’t seen at least a dozen times, and yet I sit there laughing.

I’m a loser.

I don’t know if I can give up the Today Show, but I will try to turn off the TV tomorrow morning and actually utilize my schedule. Who knows, maybe I’ll actually get some writing done. I’ve been working on a few short stories, and an essay, but my novel needs major revision and my memoir needs work too/needs to written. In grad school, I had a writer friend who called short stories “fun fiction” because he’d work on the little projects in between the big projects in order to get  through the sometimes hard ass drudgery that is novel writing. Since I’m not working and have plenty of free time I’m going to try and use that mentality.

I think I need to read more short stories though. I’m always in novel mode because I’m always reading longer works of fiction. I have a few collections I’ve been meaning to check out since grad school. I bought them and they are sitting on my bookcase getting dusty. As far as teaching, I love teaching stories, but I love reading novels. What about you? Do you have a preference? I should devote a post to this.

Well, now that my brain seems to be cleared of the cob webs, it seems like forever since I’ve been in contact with you readers, I’ll get to work on some other stuff.

Other stuff includes:

a) the thawed steak on my kitchen (it’s kind of early for dinner, but that’s never stopped me before).

b) the essay I’ve been meaning to write for about a month. It only has to be about 1000 words. Honestly, get it done lazy bones.

c) I have GOT to outline my memoir. I’ve been having issues with the organization of the memoir. I don’t know if I should read more memoirs or just get writing. I can’t decide on the structure, the tone, really none of it. Also, should devote a post to this.

d) I need to reread what I have of my novel, so I can decide what I want to do with it. After letting it marinate in my file cabinet and on my flashdrive for about a year, I think it’s finally time to finish it and send it off. It would be super awesome to get that thing out into the world by the time the wedding comes along.

Sometimes, after I write these random journal/diary-like entries, I wonder what you readers think of them. So please, tell me. Do you hate them? Want me to focus more? What do you want?

I can’t promise I’ll give up these random here’s-what’s-going-on-in-my-brain posts, but if you hate them, I can limit them for sure. Or warn you at the beginning of the post.

Okay, the steak beckons.

A Livable Space, Finally

So, I used to work at two schools. As of right now, I only have sections for the fall at one of the schools (the one I like better). Final exam at the school I hate (let’s call it the College Where We Nurture Our Students Instead of Teach Them –CWWNOSITT–okay that’s too long) was Thursday night. At the end of every semester my boss (who hates my teaching style because apparently I’m not sensitive enough) likes to meet with each of the instructors in the remedial program. At the meeting we discuss the semester, teaching pedagogy, and our growth as instructors. Well this semester I will not be driving an hour to and from this meeting.

I’ve been emailing my boss for about two weeks about summer sections and the only email I’ve received from my boss is about a student complaint. So yeah, I’m going to be a prissy little brat and not go to this meeting. On Thursday, after I had graded all the exams I put all the necessary materials into an interoffice mail envelope and drove out of the parking lot like the apocalypse was coming.

Now, I only have four sections to worry about (that’s right readers I taught six sections this semester). I spent today tidying up my apartment. As you know, I hate working in a mess. I’m pretty sure  my lack of productivity was in part because my apartment looked like a bomb went off all semester. For the first time since I moved in (December), my apartment is neat and clean–except for my workspace (irony much) which I will attend to once I’m done with the paper grading.

As I look around my little one bedroom haven, I’m relieved. I feel like I can now get my work done. I’ll be decorating (a first for me) starting on Friday. I have these beautiful art prints of famous book covers that I’ve been itching to frame and hang. Since my apartment is a big fat library, this decor will be appropriate. I’ll take some photos when I’m all done and show you my awesome space.

While I’m kind of freaking out that I don’t know where my June income is coming, it feels good to finally want to hangout in my apartment. It’s been way too long.

Maybe a party is order. By party I mean book club meeting.

Saving the World: One Wasted Conversation at a Time

Currently, I’m sitting in the adjunct office trying to finish up comments on papers, grades, and mentally prepare for a day of presentations. The office is busier than usual because there is a potluck in the office. Generally, I think most of the adjuncts on this campus are pretty cool. I have no beef with any of the faculty; they have been nothing but nice to me. No complaints. Really.

I do, however, hate (okay–dislike) being around them. Most of them bitch about their students. Shamefully, I will admit I participate sometimes. Oftentimes, however, they have theoretical and sociological discussions about humanity, education, politics, religion, and God knows what else.

They sit in the office trying to solve the world’s problems.

God bless them for not having any effing papers to grade.

Witnessing this on occasion, once again, leads me to question my existence and purpose in this life; why am I teacher?  I too have very strong political views. In fact, just this morning my mother and I had an in-depth political chat discussing what the impact on the planet would be if the government does decide to release photos of Osama Bin Laden. We also discussed our surprise at how much information about the operation has been released to the general public. The thing is, I keep these thoughts to myself. The only time I share my political beliefs is in my writing (and generally it’s implied, not flat-out stated), when a little hammered on wine with my best friend who lives way too far away, and at Sunday dinners or family dinners because I live to see my father enraged and shocked. I love to see his face when I share my political or ideological beliefs. I’m sure he goes to sleep wondering how it is possible that I am made from 50% of his DNA.

Of course, teachers talking politics is nothing new. I think what bothers me is how freely they discuss their ideas. I don’t know if it’s my immigrant upbringing, or possibly the heavy influence World War II played on how my parents raised us, or if it is my having read 1984 entirely too many times, but discussing beliefs so openly makes me very uncomfortable.

Don’t get me wrong, I love to discuss controversial issues. In fact, in all of writing classes I live to watch my students dook it out. As a teacher, however, I am forced to remain neutral. Maybe what scares me about the discussions I overhear my colleagues having is that they discuss their students and their political beliefs. They are clearly judging their students and what they believe. They are not being neutral in their classrooms. It also seems they are forgetting what it’s like to be a nineteen year old. Most teenagers (and young college students) often share the same (often Conservative) beliefs their parents spout off at the dinner table. It isn’t until these young adults realize their parents are not infallible, that they can finally determine and understand their own ideologies. So why are these teachers judging them?

Shouldn’t they be trying to open up their minds with questioning and information?

Also, don’t my colleagues have to get ready for the end of the semester? Do they not have papers to grade?

Why I Need to Stop Dressing Like a Whore

The semester is about two weeks from ending, so I’ve  started to reflect on this last semester even though I have still have an absurd amount of papers to grade and presentations to listen to.

This academic year has been quite a wake up call. So far life after the MFA has not been what I expected. I don’t feel any more artistic or creative. In fact, I feel stifled and disappointed in myself. I didn’t do nearly enough writing, although the Spring semester was better for writing than the Fall. Also, towards the end of this semester I read four books (which is not that great) but it’s better than no books.

As the semester and academic year ends I’m seriously deciding if being an educator is really for me.

Recently I had a meeting with the adjunct coordinator at one of my schools. I was super paranoid about being observed because the last time I was observed at the school where I teach remedial courses, my supervisor basically ripped me a new one and made me wonder if I was cut out for education at all.

The day after I was observed at the school where I teach good ol composition I had a note in my box. It was super cryptic and said, “OMMFA, we need to talk. Please see me in my office at noon.”

I nearly hyperventilated teaching my class. After I released my students, I debated going to see my boss. It was a Friday and I had a job interview for a full-time instructor position on Monday. I didn’t want my self-esteem to be totally damaged, but I figured what was the worst thing my boss could tell me, “you suck, don’t expect any sections in the fall”? FH always says “I was looking for a job when I found this one,” so that was my mentality when I went into Boss’s office for the sit down.

Boss: I wanted to talk to you about something.

Me: [gulp] Am I in trouble?

Boss: No.

Boss was super serious. I was totally about to get my ass chewed.

Boss: One Mean MFA, all of the adjuncts are at a certain level.

Boss drew a diagram that looked like a bar graph with all the bars at the same level. Each bar was some element of teaching: organization, education, results, teaching, etc.

Boss: But when it comes to teaching and results you are above and beyond the rest.

Boss drew two bars super high above the rest to emphasize my awesomeness.

Boss: Since a teacher like you rarely comes along, I feel you need to be mentored. I’d like to see you dress more professionally, and be a little less brusque with your students.

Me: I dress inappropriately?

Boss: I’d like to see you show some dignity.

Me: I’m sorry, I didn’t think I dressed inappropriately.

Okay, let me first say this is not the first time I’ve been told this. I teach in the middle of nowhere ( lots of Conservatives–some who are Birthers and believe Global Warming is a myth, and that the theory of Evolution is a crock). For whatever reason I always get jobs in places like this. My first year teaching I was called into the principal’s office about a “mini-skirt.” This “mini-skirt” was a black pencil skirt with a slight slit in the back (you know so I could move in it) and came below my knees. When I told FH about the mini-skirt his first response was “you own a mini-skirt?”

So, yeah.

When I was observed I had apparently dressed like a whore. I had on a white, fitted tee, a scarf (no cleavage), slacks from Express, and a long cardigan that basically functions like a blazer. I know please hold back your gasps, how dare I teach looking so inappropriately and provocatively. I’m such a slut.

Boss: That shirt was entirely too tight and practically transparent.

I don’t know what the hell Boss is talking about. I was wearing a huge colorful scarf that basically covered my entire torso, not to mention the jacket/cardigan.

Me: Okay.

So, anyway after that meeting I felt pretty good, aside from the whole I’m too rough on my students and dress like a hooker thing. I’m still not sure why I need to be so effing nice to my students because even Boss can see that my students produce the results. If it ain’t broke…

Now as the semester comes to a close and I finish grading the never-ending files of papers, I think that perhaps working Downtown as a copyeditor, while probably not nearly as exciting as wondering how I’ll be disrespected at work by a supervisor, colleague, or student, might be the change I need to refocus my life towards my writing. Teaching at the adjunct level sure isn’t getting that memoir written.

Why is it that I have an existential crisis once a month?