Gummi Bears, Pumped Up Kicks & Things That Will Get You Fired

I knew last week would have a certain tinge of craziness to it. After all, it was Homecoming Week.

Let's just say, there was more than a just a tinge of craziness. In fact, that little tinge morphed into a full-court-press-5-alarm-commit-me-to-the-nuthouse kind of crazy.

Jeepers creepers, by the end of week, the helicopter parents landed, my principal made it on YouTube, I had not one, but two things to put in "My Things That Will Get You Fired" folder and the newspaper staff couldn't meet their deadlines.

I can't tell you about those helicopters buzzing about, but I can show you this little video of our principal that circulated around school and found its way on to YouTube. For those of you, you have access, the video is embedded below…

For those of you who don't, I guess you'll have to wait until you get home. Until then, here's a brief description: Our principal roller skates around school. He took a rather nasty spill in the hallway which, of course, was captured on the school's surveillance cameras. Apparently, he says he was felled by a wayward gummi bear that was stuck on the hallway floor.

If that's true, I think I had my share of wayward gummi bears sabotaging me and apparently stealing logic, reason and sanity.

During our current events discussion in my Journalism I class, one of the kiddos  brought in an article about a guy who plead guilty to trying to smuggle baby pythons and tortoise hatchings in his pants. When it came time for questions, here's how that conversation went…

Student… "How do you fit a tiny horse in your pants?"

Me… "What?"

Student… "Isn't that what she said? A tiny horse in his pants?"

The class… "Tortoise. She said, 'tortoise."

Student… "Oh, I heard tiny horse."

Me… "Oh…"

I'm not sure how we can blame those gummi bears on that one.

Then, of course, let's examine Exhibit #1 and Exhibit #2 for this year's "Things That Will Get You Fired" folder.

One of the editors showed me a photograph they wanted to run in the first issue of the school newspaper. The editor particularly liked how the dominant element was framed. Great. Always love it when they use those composition elements I taught them.

Unfortunately, the frame showed not one, not two, but three shots of cheerleaders jumping up in the air at a less than flattering angle. You know the kind I'm talkin' about. The kind that brings those angry mom calls. The kind that makes you have to stand on the carpet in the principal's office. The kind that goes into the "Things That Will Get You Fired Folder."

Yep, those kind.

And as if that wasn't bad enough, I decided to check out the entertainment page and read the critiques for our first issue.

One of those critiques was over that really popular song, "Pumped Up Kicks" by Foster The People. Yes, it has a snappy, catchy beat. Yes, it comes in at No. 3 on Billboard's Top 100 for the week of Sept. 24. And yes, I even bought the song. (I'm fond of any song that contains a line about "your hair's on fire.")  But…

Well, here's just a taste of the lyrics, "All the other kids with the pumped up kicks you'd better run, better run, outrun my gun. All the other kids with the pumped up kicks you'd better run, better run, faster than my bullet."

How's that working for you?

Guns+Schools+Shootings=Things That Will Get You Fired

Do you see why this staff can't seem to meet their deadlines? I have a feeling it's going to be a long year. A very long year.

Oh yeah, in the midst of all of that, somewhere along the way, a camera turned up missing.

Missing as in no one is quite sure where it's at.

I'm hoping it will re-appear on Monday along with some sanity.

Deadlines, Omelets & Banned Chocolate

Somehow we managed to survive this deadline without our Emergency Chocolate drawer. Of course, that made us all a tad bit more snarky than usual.

The lack of EC had absolutely nothing to do with efforts to shed 5,000 pounds, acknowledge the evils of refined sugar or fit into those pair of blue jeans now stashed in the back of my closet.

No siree, Missy.

We can blame this entire 5-alarm chocolate-less state of emergency on a nasty little email sent just days before we launched into our second newspaper deadline. This little electronic ditty outlined some not-so-nice edicts from a bunch of state bureaucratic chocolate hatas. Jeez Louise, what is the world coming to?

The email went something like this “blah, blah, blah, high schools may not serve or provide …blah, blah, blah… candy at any time anywhere on school premises… blah, blah, blah…such foods and beverages may not be sold or given away to students on school premises by school administrators or staff (principals, coaches, teachers, etc.), student or student groups, parents or parent groups, guest speakers or any other person, company or organization…blah blah blah… stricter penalties… blah blah blah…”

Is there anyone left in the free world not on that list that can slip us a little contraband chocolate? Now, I know these little rules have been around for a bit, but like Jack Sparrow, I rather preferred to think of them as merely “guidelines,” mate. Apparently, such is not the case.

According to these rules, you can dive into a sugar-laden, fat-filled frenzy after school hours, but not during school. No illegal chocolate for the sports guys after they discovered they desperately needed a quote from the golf coach, who hasn’t been seen in days because the team’s at a tournament. No chocolate. None. Nadda. Zip.

And, no forbidden chocolate either for my cute little editor-in-chief when she discovered–once again for the gazillionth time–that no one shot her photos for the centerspread. No chocolate for her either. None. Nadda. Zip. Just two blank pages staring back at her.

And, there was no emergency chocolate for the rest of us either when–in the midst of deadline–we asked one of the sports guys, “Hey, what are you doing?” as he popped paper plate after plate into the microwave with some sort of egg concoction instead of working on his pages.

“Making omelets for my Spanish class,” he replied.

Now, I’m not exactly sure where mixing and microwaving omelets fit under the chocolate hatas memo. I remember seeing some link that had the words “square meal” somewhere, but I didn’t bother having a look.


You see, my meals come on round plates, and the only thing square comes in the form of a little banned chocolate bar.

Stopping the Big Fat Stupid Head Timer

Sometimes I amaze myself.

Often times I disappoint myself.

And other times I just have to deal with myself.

And so, at this particular moment in time, if you mash those three things together into one fine mess, you get a screeching halt of the Big Fat Stupid Head timer for Challenge #3. Yes siree, Missy. The clock has officially stopped. No more ticking here or there. Nope. We are full speed ahead into a full-blown, 5-alarm Big Fat Stupid Head clock stopping crisis.

Oh, pah-leese, don't look so surprised especially after last week. You knew I was teetering on the edge of the great dark newspaper deadline abyss. While I never once picked up an ax, I did have that Lizzie Borden, ax-wielding, fixin’ to go postal, crazed look kind of smile all week long. And, no, neither the Emergency Chocolate nor the Superduper Secret Emergency chocolate could stop the inevitable.

But let’s go back to the amazing, disappointing and dealing with oneself bit…

I am rather amazed that I managed to muddle through for 266 days, 11 hours, 26 minutes and 21 seconds (more or less) before my Big Fat Stupid Head outburst. I say “more or less” because I technically didn’t stop the timer until two days after the fact. I shrieked those words at my newspaper staff on Thursday during deadline because, well, quite frankly, they were all Big Fat Stupid Heads. Although just a mere two days away from turning in the newspaper, we still had vacant boxes where cartoons were supposed to go, empty columns where stories were supposed to be and blank spaces where photographs belonged.

Once the BFSH words tumbled out, I was a bit disappointed that I couldn’t stop myself. Blame all that chocolate or that shot of espresso, but even as the bell rang, I continued saying, “Goodbye Big Fat Stupid Head No. 1, Big Fat Stupid Head No. 2, Big Fat Stupid Head No. 3…” and so forth and so on.

I felt a tad bit like Chevy Chase in “A Christmas Vacation” in that scene at the beginning of the movie where the corporate types all file past him, but ignore him as he wishes each one, “Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas…” until he realizes that no one is listening to him, so he starts saying other things–– as in things that will get you fired.

Now, calm down. I didn’t say any of those things, but I did find it all rather cathartic to say Big Fat Stupid Head, Big Fat Stupid Head, Big Fat Stupid Head, over and over and over again. It sort of became my mantra for that day, and, yes, the next day, too.

And the kids? Well, they do what they always do--laugh.

So I’ve decided, at least for the next few days, I’m just going to deal with the entire shebang by not restarting the timer, until I have this whole Big Fat Stupid Head thing back under control and my Emergency Chocolate Drawer restocked.

In the meantime, I’ve even made my own, “Don’t be a Big Fat Stupid Head” stickers. They look like this…



So you can see why it may take me just a bit longer before I crank up that timer again.

Picture Day, Emergency Chocolate & My Lizzie Borden Smile

Picture Day sent me to the emergency chocolate drawer twice, to the superduper secret chocolate draw once and to kickboxing class twice. I don’t know what it is about yearbook, but the whole yearbook thing just gives me an uncontrollable urge to hit something. (I think you know what I mean.)

But somewhere in the organized chaos, we still ran through roughly 1,700 kiddos before the final 3:45 bell rang. I’m going to call the day a qualified success since we had only one complaint and my principal still smiled at me––and not that Lizzie Borden ax-wielding, fixin’ to go postal, crazed look kind of smile either. And, as an added bonus, as far as I know, everyone had on their underwear. Nope, none of that Florida nonsense here, Missy.

As an extra, supercalifragilisticexpialidocious bonus, I didn’t even call anyone a Big Fat Stupid… So the ole counter to the right remains counting. (I think it was all that chocolate and extra kickboxing smackdowns that kept me in line.)

But before you do the Dance of Joy for my BFSH restraint, let me just say that Monday marks Beat the Teacher Night--oh wait, make that MEET the Teacher Night, and Monday also marks the start of newspaper deadline week. I don’t even think the superduper secret emergency chocolate will help this time. My BFSH timer might as well toll its last tick tock.

So if you see me with that Lizzie Borden, ax-wielding, fixin’ to go postal, crazed look kind of smile, well, you probably just ought to move on out of the way.

CSI, Fireballs and Ben Franklin

My week ended in a CSI kind of way.

And no, I’m not talking about the Crime Scene Investigation variety, even though Carson, my newspaper editor, leaves her epithelials everywhere she goes “just in case.” And no, I’m not talking about scenes involving yellow crime tape or chalk figures either, even though the day did entail a bit of investigative work and a few threats thrown in here and there.

Nope. CSI, in my teacher terminology, stands for…

C for Crisis
S for Situation
I for Incident

The Crisis…
Yep, we had a crisis, situation and incident all wrapped into one. And to think the day had begun with such promise. It was the kind of day that started more or less as a “This-is-the-day-the-Lord-hath-made-let-us-rejoice-and-be-glad” kind of day. After all, it started with a Starbucks grande non-fat three raw sugar latte. What’s not to like about that?

But it quickly deteriorated into a “this-just-might-be-the-day-to- set-my-hair-on-fire- scream-yell-and-be-sad” kind of day.

Now I’d love to tell you about the “Crisis,” but, sorry, no can do. Super secret type stuff. Let’s just say it involved quite a bit of teen drama and angst and made me want to eat mass quantities of Emergency Chocolate and wonder what kind of crack I must have been smokin’ when years ago, I thought, “Gee, I think I’ll try that teaching thing.”


The Situation…
The “Situation” quickly followed the “Crisis.” Now, I’d really, really, really like to talk about that one too, but it involved a parental unit, and last time I checked, my husband told me I had to work, oh, another four years or so. (I swear sometimes he can be such a killjoy.) Suffice it to say that some people apparently aren’t fond of me and the teaching thing paired together. Who knew?

The Incident…
So now it’s about 5:15 p.m., and I’m just a tad bit grumpy. OK, so maybe more than just a tad and definitely much more than just a smidge grumpy. I’m still at school with the DIs (Darling Inspirations) on newspaper deadline and frantically trying to get things ready for our trip to Austin. The “Crisis” is about as resolved as it’s ever going to be, and the “Situation” will eventually fade away. I peered with some sadness into my empty Starbucks cup when I heard the words that pretty much will guarantee any adviser to catapult from her seat faster than the space shuttle on reentry.

It went something like this…

“Whoa,” shouted Mikey the Extraordinaire, “Did you you see that fireball?”

“Wow! It barely missed Natalie’s leg,” said Travis, semi-impressed.

“What!” yelled Natalie, who apparently narrowly missed getting scorched.

“Oh my God, Mikey, what did you do?” cried Gabrielle. “Look at my computer! Look at my computer!”

Although I was less than 10 steps away, by the time I got into the room, the computers were blank, the server connection gone, and the electrical socket on the back wall scorched.

Mikey apparently had had a Ben Franklin moment, and not in a good way either.

For our little CSI scenario, let’s just introduce Exhibit A…


Here’s the short version of how “The Incident” occurred…

Mikey spied a wayward staple resting on the face of the electrical socket. With pen in hand, he attempted to brush the wayward staple off the face of the electrical socket. Instead, somehow the tip of the pen got caught in the tiny crevice of the socket which, of course, sent a fireball out the plug, soldering the pen tip to the face of the socket and shorting out the entire electrical system––all within a nano second.

And you just thought CSI was exciting.