Is this the day to set one's hair on fire?

While this may not have been the day that I set my hair on fire and ran screaming from the building, I thought about it.

Quite a bit.

In fact, a lot.

But that doesn’t really tell you much, so let’s quantify that.

This flaming thought whooshed through my mind faster than a west Texas grassfire. It was enough to make me crank up the volume on my latest favorite song by Kirby Brown, “No…My Generation” in order to drown out the voices of the those kiddos not working in the next room.

My sticker

It was enough to make me half-smile at the irony of this particular sticker affixed to my computer.

And it was more than enough to ponder the sanity of keeping a box of matches in my top left drawer.

And it was certainly enough to make me search for that letter I received from the University of Alabama in a last ditch effort to reminded me once again why I do this teaching thing.

But sadly I’m not sure that’s even enough any more.

I almost didn’t open the packet, thinking it was just another batch of recruiting stuff that I really didn’t want to clutter my desk. But I did open the package because I never throw away something without taking at least a tiny peekeroo.

The packet had some nifty cards with interesting photographs and envelopes that I could use. The tossed the cards into the clutter on my desk, and the letter was headed for the trash can, but I decided to quickly scan it before tossing it away. You just never know when there might be a prize for a free trip to Barbados hidden in there.

The beginning of the letter was a bit unusual, so I read the rest and discovered that my newspaper editor from last year named me as a teacher who contributed the most to her success.

That letter stopped me from setting my hair on fire. It was enough to make me come back to teach another day. And, hopefully it will be enough to provide a bridge to cross through the rest of the semester into the summer.

Unfortunately, it didn’t solve the gajillion problems I have had with this year’s newspaper and yearbook staffs and other "things."

And no, it didn’t fix the craziness that surrounds me or filters out what those in my wing fondly refer to as the “stupid air” that seems to swirl around us. 

My top left desk drawer

And no, it didn’t stop my latest flurry of detentions and office referrals. And no, it didn’t make me throw away my box of matches. They remain tucked not-so-neatly in my top left hand desk drawer.

But my hair isn’t on fire and I showed up for work today and that ought to count for something.

We know for the most part teachers have a thankless job and that’s OK. But sometimes it’s nice to get that thanks especially on those set-your-hair-on-fire kind of days, or in my case, those set-your-hair-on-fire kind of years.

So even though it was a form letter probably sent to a gajillion teachers, I think much of what was written in it applies to so many teachers. So let’s assume your letter got lost in the mail (along with that free trip to Barbados we’re all still waiting for). So, if you have been struggling to find a reason to finish out the year, this is for you…

 “Such is the work of the great teacher, to bring coherence and the perception of beauty out of it, if not chaos, yet the fragmentation that is common reality. This is the application of insight to outsight. Again and again students coming to our Honors College speak of the high school teachers who have changed their lives by enabling them to change a view of the world. They say they could always understand the poems, complete the experiments, solve the problems, but those great teachers brought them to possession of the coherent beauty of literature, science or, especially, mathematics. These are the teachers who have provided the “Aha!,” the “Voila!,” the “Eureka!,” the [light bulb moment]! Teachers such as you.”

So put down that match and live to keep your hair another day.   

Journalism Workshops, Elevator Rides & Fill In The Blanks

Bet y’all thought I set my hair on fire and ran away.

Sorry to disappoint everyone, but my hair is not afire–although it probably would look infinitely better that way, and no, I did not run away–although I seriously considered the possibility, but with gas prices the way they are, I probably wouldn’t get any farther than Italy.

…as in Italy, Texas, not Italy the country.

No, I spent the last four days at another journalism workshop because that’s what we teachers do. We spend our free time doing things that aren’t free.

Now, trust me I have a gajillion things (and you know how I feel about things) that I could tell you about the workshops I attended, but for now, let’s just take a look-see at one…

About 20 of us crammed into an elevator which, of course, sported a nifty little sign that said something about a 15 person limit and some sort of poundage limit, too. But when 18 of the 20 are teens, well, quite frankly, they don’t read, and, well, quite frankly, they don’t care because they absolutely know they will live forever.

So with 20 of us riding up, you can only pretend not to hear the elevator conversation because teens, you know, don’t remember how to use those “inside voices” they learned about in elementary school.

So listen in with me…

Elevator girl… “Why don’t you like my _____________________. ”

Elevator boy… “Because…”

Elevator girl… “But you never even really looked at my _________________. There’s nothing wrong with it. Why won’t you just look at it?”

Elevator boy… “Because…”

Now, before you go stark-ravin’ daisy crazy and start substituting all kinds of different things that we’ll have to put into the things-that-will-get-you-fired folder, remember we’re attending a high school journalism workshop.

Fill in the blank with the f-word…

As in F-O-N-T.

That’s right. Font.

As in typography.

As in headline treatments.

Now how great is that to overhear kiddos arguing about fonts?

For now, I think I’ll put those matches away.

Empty Parking Lots, the Last Teacher Standing & a Rebel Yell

“I stood on my heart supports thinkin’
‘Oh my God, I’ll probably have to carry this whole load.’
I couldn’t remember if I tried
I couldn’t remember if I took my brain out, threw it so directly at the goal
I couldn’t remember if I...
I could have my mind erased
And still not know exactly what I don’t already know…”
--“Florida” by Modest Mouse

On Friday, as I climbed into my fab-u-lous Nissan Z Roadster. OK, OK, OK, so it’s not anything close to a roadster or sporty…well, OK, it’s my trusty mini-van… I know, I know, I know, it’s all pathetically rather soccer mom-ish from back in the day when my kiddos played, you know, soccer… but, again, I digress… let’s start this whole shebang again… (don’t ya just love the word “shebang”?)…rewinding… here we go…

On Friday, as I climbed into my trusty mini-van and surveyed the parking lot, I noticed that I was the last one leaving on the last teacher work day of the 2007-2008 school year.

I should have realized I would be the last teacher standing.

The signs were everywhere. Perhaps the darkened hallways should have tipped me off. Or, when I zipped speedy quick down those hallways and into the teacher mailroom and had to feel my way to find the light switch so I could find the other switch to turn the copier back on because I still had contest entries to mail--perhaps that should have been the tip off…Or maybe it should have been the fact that I could belt out Aretha Franklin at the top of my lungs and nary a soul was here, there or anywhere to witness or wince.

Now before you start thinking I’m Ms. Slacker Extraordinare, know that I did manage to get all the official stuff done–grades turned in, books scanned, computers turned off, furniture inventoried, purchased orders filled out and so forth and so on--you know all those things that make your head explode. All done shortly after 12:30 p.m. Not bad.

But sadly, my friends, while others were screeching out of the parking lot screaming “free at last! Free at last! Schools out for summer!” at the top of their lungs, I still had all that other stuff to do…like get things ready for the summer journalism workshop (yes, I’m spending five fun-filled days and four stress-filled nights with 30 or so publications staffers in July), and of course, there were those pesky journalism contest entries that had to be readied in order to meet the pending mid-June deadline…

It was shortly after 5 p.m. before I could proclaim that I was as close to done as I would ever be. So after making sure the rubber chicken had been packed with all the important workshop stuff, I gave a defiant glare at my still unorganized desk, locked the door and loaded up my van.

My reward for surviving yet another year? Why my annual trek to the beach where I will be incommunicado--no email checking, no answering phones, no text messaging, no blogging, no posting, no nothing. Nadda. Zilch. Zip. No siree, it’s just me, my family, a stack of good books, some chips and salsa, and all the gulf shrimp I can eat.

So-o-o-o with a rebel yell, I screeched out of the parking lot able to chalk up one more year in the success column because, after all, I made it without once setting my hair on fire.

It doesn’t get much better than that.

Storms, Phone Menus & Yearbook Emergencies

Spring time.

We all know what that means. No, I’m not talking about final deadlines, last minute proofs or yearbook deadlines. No siree, I’m talking about those nasty spring storms that pop up, knock out your electricity and leave you in the dark.

One of those storms blew through the other day, knocking out power and leaving me to put on my makeup by candlelight. (And, no thankfully, I didn’t end up looking like Bozo the Clown). With the lack of electricity, I thought it would be a good time to try for that scrunchy hair look, but I’m sad to report it just looked like I forgot to dry my hair.

I called the electric company a gajillion times pressing 1 for this, 2 for that and wishing there was a 4 for “I’m going to smack someone upside the head if I don’t talk to a real person soon” prompt.

Well, all that button pushing and lack of human contact, got me to thinking how thankful I am that I get to talk to a real person when I call my yearbook plant or my yearbook rep.

Call me whacky, but I love to talk to real people.

I don’t know why other companies–you know, like my power company, insurance companies, customer service here, there everywhere–can’t figure that out. Can you imagine the options menu if yearbook companies were like my power company ?

I think it would go something like this…

Press 1 for Set Your Hair On Fire Emergencies

Press 2 for If I Eat A Pound of Chocolate, My Crisis Can Wait 24 Hours

Press 3 for HAL Has Taken Over My Computers and Nothing Seems to Work

Press 4 for Who Am I and Why Am I Here?

Press 5 for Missing Link?! Are you sure you’re talking about Image 00845 and not that kid who sits in the back row?

Thankfully those are not my options. When I have a yearbook crisis, I actually get a real person.

Still, there’s a part of me that secretly thinks it would be rather fun to add the “Press 1 for Set Your Hair On Fire Emergencies” to the options menu.

Just a thought.

Pulling a Knight, Looking for Matches & Making it a Night

It’s exactly 11:31 a.m. and I have exactly six minutes left of my you’ve-gotta-be-kiddin’-me 20 minute “duty-free” lunch and I am seriously thinking of pulling a Bobby Knight. I mean, how great would that be to say, “Hey, I’m tired…I give up.”

But then what would happen to those 34 yearbook pages due in exactly four days?

Or, those gazillion page proofs sitting on the large table in that other room?

Or the kid in class who asked, “What’s a textbook?”

I know, I know, I know. Welcome to my world. I was going to slam my head in the door, but instead, I started looking for those matches. You remember those matches, don’t ya?

I’m just three steps from the emergency exit, a heart beat away from insanity and one matchstick strike from setting my hair on fire.

Now, if I could just find where I put those matches, we could all run screaming from the building and call it a day… Or better yet, make that a night.