Happy Fourth of July!

As we celebrate our country’s Independence Day, let us not forget all those brave men and women who paved the way before us, giving each of us the freedom to pursue our individual American Dream.

We are a nation of freedom. We are a nation of dreams. We are a nation of dream makers.

As we celebrate our freedom, forget not those who made such a wonderful nation possible.

May God continue to bless America and let freedom ring!

Barbados, Brits and Barbie Freedom

(Writers note: A version of this post also appears at BlogCritics online magazine. You can access it here.)

Forget the hot dogs. Forget the parades. Forget the fireworks.

Although Fourth of July preparations and celebrations are well underway, I decided to declare a different kind of independence this year.

Barbie Freedom.

Yep. Barbie Freedom. After spending six days out of the country…Whoa, missy, I’ve waited 52 years to say that. It makes me sound so, well, cosmopolitan, my dear, and now I have my first official stamp on my nifty passport to prove it.

My recent trip to the wonderful Caribbean island of Barbados, billed as only 21 miles long but a “smile wide,” got me to thinking about things. (And, Jeez Louise, we all know what happens when that happens.)

Apparently relatively few Americans vacation in Barbados compared to Europeans — particularly the British. So I, along with one of my BFFs and my two daughters, had the pleasure of meeting quite a few Brits and participating in a rather loosey-goosey cultural exchange, in which we dispelled rumors that Texas was just one big, vast desert like in the movie Independence Day and offered such travel hints as to never eat Mexican food north of the Red River.

In return, a very lovely couple on their honeymoon explained why the Brits eat beans in the morning, while a group of young men provided my daughters with an entirely new slang vocabulary along with hand gestures. Don’t ask.

But the most important cultural lesson didn’t occur over afternoon tea. Instead, it occurred on that Caribbean beach. Surrounded by Brits, I felt good sitting on the beach for the first time in a gajillion years, and it wasn’t because I was wearing my sporty tankini supposedly designed to hide a multitude of what our fashion magazines term “problem areas.”

No siree, Missy. That was not the reason.

Everywhere around me were women wearing two-piece bathing suits, regardless of age and regardless of size. Hails bails, most were even wearing bikinis of the itsy-bitsy-teenie-weenie-yellow-polka-dot-bikini type. One woman who tipped the scales upwards of 250 pounds was wearing a string bikini, and no one (except my friend and I) appeared to notice.

Now either the Brits are too polite to gasp, or they feel very, very comfortable in their own skin.

My friend noted that Americans seem to be the only ones who are so image-conscious, and who, despite steadily weighing in heavier and heavier on the scales, still yearn for that skinny, mini, photoshopped, wrinkle- and cellulite-free Barbie body.

She’s right, you know. I still have boxes of my childhood Barbies stashed in the attic in various stages of undress and sporting various non-Mattel-sanctioned avant-garde hair-dos guaranteed to forever ban me from entry into the Barbie kingdom and the world of cosmetology.

This epiphany comes as Barbie celebrates her big 5-0 birthday this year. I must say, she looks spectacular, but then again, she always looks spectacular, while I — now 52 — never, ever, (did I say ever?) looked that good at any year in my lifespan. At this point, I don’t think even plastic surgery could propel me into the spectacular world. Let’s face it, nothing short of a complete, all-out, full-body transplant would help.

Now there was a time, a pre-Barbados-meeting-the-Brits-time, when I would have pined away about all of that nonsense. But watching all those British women secure in their own skin made me comfortable in mine.

For that, I could hug each and every one of them.

Except I know better about that hugging thing.

Instead, let’s just fire up that barbecue, and while you’re at it, toss on an extra hot dog for me.

A few things of note…

Hideeho friends,

Just a few things of note…

•The Carnival of Education has been in full swing over at my friend Loonyhiker Pat’s Successful Teaching blog. I don’t have a post over there since my last post wasn’t education related, but you can read it here. But you really need to hop on over there, so you’ll know what’s going on in the EduSphere.

•Although I’m back from my beach vacation, I am headed out again on a girls’ trip for an almost week in the sun in celebration of two milestones––my eldest daughter’s graduation from Texas Tech and my youngest daughter’s graduation from high school and soon-to-be freshman in college.

•Because of all of that, I don’t plan on posting an education related entry unless, of course, I finish washing the South Padre sand out of our clothes, finish my errands and get everything repacked. The last time I opened the laundry room door and looked at my errand list, well, let’s just say, fat chance of any postings.

However, I did post a rather amusing entry called, “Goldilocks and the Shade Hijackers: My Beach Vacation” for BC magazine. That should keep you occupied while I am gone. You can read about it here. In fact, I would be ever so thrilled if you would go there, read it and even post a comment.

Sitting Bones, Sand & What I Learned On My Vacation

Before I left for the fabulous beach at South Padre Island, I told my exercise/yoga partner that she would have to forge ahead without me. I promised to hold my abs in (what’s left of them anyways), and I promised to grind my sitting bones into Mother Earth (as our yoga instructor admonishes us to do).

Now, my exercise buddy Becky and I aren’t entirely sure what our very lovely yoga instructor means by that grinding bones business, but I told my buddy Becky that if it even remotely meant plopping one’s rather large behind into the sand and grabbing some chips and salsa, well then, I had that part covered for the both of us.

So here I am at the beach violating Beach Rule #1 of remaining entirely unplugged during my South Padre week. At least I have been grinding my sitting bones into the sand while finishing two books that have sat on my “Things I Really Want To Read If I Only Had The Time” shelf. I’ve also spent time just sitting and watching things. And, of course, all this watching stuff got me to thinking about other important stuff like all the important things we can learn outside the classroom. And all of that got me to wondering if my principal will let me do all my in-service, professional development type training right here at the beach.

OK, so just maybe I’ve sat out in the sun too long.

Regardless of my sun exposure, I did learn a few things this week. I was going to tell you all about them, but my youngest daughter, (you know the one, the semi-fired VP of Humor Control) didn’t find any of them even mildly amusing. Now while I agree they weren’t necessarily laugh out loud funny, I thought they were insightful, and Jeez Louise, shouldn’t that account for something? My favorite one covered what I learned from watching dogs on the beach. It went something like this…If you make a mess, you really ought to pick it up instead of pretending like it’s not there or trying to hid it in the sand.

See what I mean? I thought it was an amusing little tidbit. I’d share a few more, but it’s time to do some more of that grinding one’s behind thing, along with the chip and salsa thing, and, oh yeah, that reading thing. Besides, I don’t want to get any more of that eye rolling thing from my semi-fired VP.

Rock Stars, Dr. Seuss & Why The Chicken and I Belong

Wowie zowie kowie.

Friday marked the very last day for teachers. I’d do a little dance of joy, but after my disastrous foray into the dancing Zumba realm, you’ll be lucky to get me to tap my toe.

Besides, those of us in the teaching biz (and especially those of us in the publications adviser biz) all know that there really never ever is a last day for teachers.

Good grief, already I’m bebopping up to school on Monday to teach a brief little in-service on blogging to the technology staff. (I trust the irony of me teaching an in-service isn’t lost on most of you. If so, go here to read about how swimmingly well that worked out for me the last time. Hails bails, just read the little promo blurb for my blog that begins with “One without the universe…)

Well, all this in-service talk got me to thinking (and we all know what happens when that happens) about my district’s end of the year shebang in the auditorium. While waiting for the show to get underway, I did what I always do--I started making a mental list of all the things I’d rather be doing and all the things I needed to be doing. You know, all those important things so I wouldn’t get any official looking thing stuffed into my “Things That Will Get You Fired” folder.

Except, of course, one of the things I was supposed to be doing was exactly what I was doing--sitting in the auditorium waiting for the end of the year shebang to get underway. Just when my head started to explode from my mental listmania, the smoke machine started, the lights dimmed, the music cranked up and the superintendent along with the principals from all the schools popped out on stage in full rock star make up and gear singing Alice Cooper’s “School’s Out!”

Here’s the picture of my principal to prove it…



I must admit I sang along to every word (and I wasn’t the only one either).

The next day we administered the last batch of semester exams. As with most schools, kiddos kept conning their teachers into letting them out of class once they completed their finals. Instead of issuing a snarly, snarky warning, one of the assistant principals sent out this email…

“Do not send them to the gym.
Do not send her out with him.
Do not send them to the john.
Do not send them to the lawn.
Do not send them here nor there.
Do not send them anywhere.
I know that this sounds like a real big bummer,
But we're trying to keep the lid on the boiling pot, just until SUMMER!”

When the dismissal bell rang, I found myself telling the kiddos (in Dr. Seuss Marvin K. Mooney fashion), “The time has come, the time is now, just go go go I don’t care how…”

The following day (Friday) was a teacher workday and the very “last day.” By the afternoon, the building was fairly deserted by the time I packed the five boxes of stuff I needed for the summer--stuff like the contest entries that needed mailing, stuff like permission forms for the 24 darlings I’m taking to summer workshop, stuff like the purchase orders I still needed to fill out for next year, stuff like the rectangular box of planning material for next year’s yearbook, stuff like my notes for Monday’s in-service.

You know, important stuff. (The other, really, really important stuff like my tiara and wand, I locked up in the cabinet.) Before I left though, I grabbed the rubber chicken and plopped him in the back of my trusty blue mini-van and thought, “Geewillikers, I really do love this job.”

No, really. I do.

No Naysaying Nellie here. No siree, Missy.

After the Rock Star thing and the Dr. Seuss thing (and in spite of all the other things), me and the chicken, well, we fit right in.

It’s Out--the 226th Carnival of Education

Just when you thought it was safe, it’s out--the 226 edition of the Carnival of Education––the Carnival of Summer Blockbusters hosted by my good cyperbuddy and very, very funny blogger Mr. Teacher over at Learn Me Good. My post, “R u OK, Volunteering & Dog Poop,” made the cut, but you don’t have to go there to read it here.

But if I were you (and aren’t you glad I’m not), I would trot on over there because the format is fab-u-lous. Even if you don’t read all the posts, you’ll want to read the Carnival. So what are you waiting for? An engraved invitation? Jeez Louise! Get going. If you’re like me these days, you’re already behind, and you haven’t even started!

R u ok, Volunteering & Dog Poop

Something must be seriously wrong.

Even my husband texted me…

r u ok?

It’s 6 o’clock on a Friday evening, the parking lot is empty except, of course, for my trusty mini-van, and I am just now walking out the door with my bag lady cart stashed with stuff still left undone.

Where in the Sam Hill is everyone else? Oh, yeah, I forgot. They must be out to dinner, or at the movies, or at home…anywhere but here.

r u ok?

Nope, I mutter to myself. Yep, something must be seriously wrong because now I’m talking to myself. OK, OK, OK, so maybe I’ve always talked to myself… but muttering? OK, OK, OK so maybe a bit of muttering here and there. But this latest little episode of being the last one leaving (again) got me to thinking about things. And, OMG, we all know what happens when that happens. Well, I got to thinking about those darn tootin’ things again and decided I really needed to make a list of things to avoid at the end of the school year.

I was going to make a really clever list that said things like “Don’t assign major projects at the end of the year that take a gazillion years to grade,” or perhaps something wise like “Don’t agree to take 20 or so kids to a summer journalism workshop for five days,” or something esoteric like “Don’t eat your body weight in sugar and emergency chocolate,” but that would have been a lot like closing the barn door long after the horse has vamoosed. (Come now, ya gotta love cliches.)

So, no siree, Missy. I don’t have a list for you because quite frankly I kept getting stuck on my Number 1 thing that one should never, ever, ever do…Volunteer for anything.

Yep, in a moment of weakness, flush from the excitement of the state journalism convention and filled with all that pie-in-the-sky-stuff-that-we-all-want-to-do-if-we-only-had-the-time, I actually went to my principal and volunteered.

Let me say that again v-o-l-u-n-t-e-e-r-e-d. Yes, I volunteered to produce a special fish camp newsletter to hand out to freshmen over the summer. What should have been a slam dunk, homerun, easy to assemble deal-e-oh, of course, morphed into a five-alarm-emergency-chocolate extravaganza because some of the kiddos volunteered to help. (There’s that word again–v-o-l-u-n-t-e-e-r-e-d.)

Jeez Louise, I shudder just thinking about that word.

Let me tell you what volunteering gets you. First, it took me a good hour or so to discern exactly what was wrong with the s-l-o-w loading files. Hmmmmm. Guess it had something to do with the larger than life size digital file of one of our assistant principals. I guess the 1.22 gig size should have tipped me off. A quick image size check registered 74 inch tall by 49.333 inches wide. You do the math… Hails bails, the digital photo was more than twice as wide and almost a foot and half taller than the real person.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, it took many more hours to convert files, edit and clean up the other stuff my volunteering darlings did. I won’t even mention the other things I somehow v-o-l-u-n-t-e-e-r-e-d to do with only a week left of school and stacks and stacks and stacks of teacher things left undone.

Yep, something must be seriously wrong with me.

r u ok?

Next time I get that overwhelming urge to volunteer for something, I think I’ll call the SPCA. I think they need someone to pick up dog poop.