Slice of Pink

Stardom

Last night I put on some sequins, put my hair in an up-do, and attended the premiere of the annual law school movie.

In the film, I play the role of a pathetic third year law student, who has no job, no boyfriend, and terrible grades. After realizing that my life is in shambles, I send out a signal to the Lambda Law Association (dubbed the "gay mafia" in the film) and a band of sharply dressed men and women arrive, Reservoir Dogs style, and teach me to "love my fabulous self."

Me! On the big screen!

My director extraordinaire, Lowell, who kept referring to me as "The Star" until I finally was like, OKAY FINE, I'LL EMBRACE THE STARDOM. Sheesh. Now somebody go get me a cocktail.

Rob, the man who played opposite me as my annoying 1L boyfriend. He is not annoying in real life and I obviously am not trying to find a boyfriend in real life, which means we had to bring our best acting skills. And, more importantly, Lowell had to bring his very best editing skills (case in point: Rob and I filmed an almost-kiss scene in the computer lab, but that scene was ultimately cut, presumably because our best acting skills were not so great).

Also, that there would be a champagne glass full of beer. Yes. Classy, I know.

We had a superb time.

And, finally, somebody you may already know: The Mawker, who superbly produced the film.

Making the film was so much fun. I'm not sure if it will ever make it to YouTube. There are some Copyright issues with music and whatnot and it would be, ahem, illegal to post it. We ARE law students, after all, so we care about these types of things. BUT! I will get a DVD, so come on over for popcorn and champagne (or cheap beer in a champagne glass, if you prefer).

You So Crazy

There's an application on Facebook, whereby people are asked questions about their friends. A question pops up, along with a friend's photo, and the user answers the question in a sentence or two.

I don't participate in the application, but when somebody answers a question about me, it pops up on my page and I am able to see the answer that my friend provided. Most recently, one of my former students got this question:

If Janet had to run naked around time square for 1 million dollars, would she do so?

And this was the student's answer:

when she was my teacher she was crazy so yes i think she would

Crazy? Really? Theatrical, maybe. Over-the-top, sure. But crazy?

Sure, things like this and this and this and this and this don't help my case. Oh, yes, and there was the party where I invented the Otter Shots concept. And, this demonstration of me "teaching" is not exactly first-rate.

Oh.

Well.

This is not where I thought this post was going--my initial reaction was to beg to differ--but now that I've reviewed all THAT business (and that's just the tip of the iceberg), I'm thinking maybe crazy is possibly an apt description. I'm also thinking that law school is making me lose my edge. This dull old law building has sucked out some of my crazy, but, people, I'm DETERMINED TO GET IT BACK. All the best memories have a little crazy in the mix.

End of the World Peach Smoothie

Last night I was visiting Costco.com for, well, for what I can't really even remember right now, when I was completely sidetracked by something highlighted on the front page.


That there would be a Shelf Reliance Thrive emergency food kit, the ultimate in emergency preparedness planning. It's a one year supply of dehydrated and freeze-dried foods for one person, which will be delivered to you in 14 separate boxes for the bargain price of $799.

I find this extraordinarily fascinating for several reasons, the first of which is that, due to overwhelming demand, any orders placed after 10/08/09 will not ship until 11/16/09. That many people have paid $799 for 78 gallon-sized cans of dehydrated food? Is there something we don't know?

Perhaps more fascinating, not to mention comical, is a video on Costco's site, in which a friendly lady named Natalie teaches us how to make a peach blackberry smoothie using the dehydrated products. It's so easy! After you re-hydrate the dehydrated fruit by soaking it in some liquid that appears to basically be Tang, you simply blend up the fruit in your blender with some frozen yogurt and ice. Voila! Garnish with a flower and Natalie swears your dinner guests won't even know it isn't fresh.

Here are my questions:

1.) If you are in an emergency--an emergency so dire that you are resorting to your Thrive emergency food kit, eating foods that have a shelf life of 20 years(!)--do you really think you'll have electricity to run your blender?

2.) If you are eating dried whole eggs from a can because of said emergency, where the hell are you getting your frozen yogurt and ice?

3.) If, in fact, this emergency food kit is being promoted not for emergencies, but for everyday use (which it appears to be), where the hell do you live that you can't get a fresh piece of fruit? A space station?

After October 18th, the cost of the kit goes up $200, so act fast! Just think how popular you'll be at your End-of-the-World dinner parties with those delicious smoothies!

Decidering, Part 14

Sara asks: Should I continue directing the school musical/drama club advisor next year? My decision changes daily. It is going to be a lot of work next year, but there are no replacements. Go out with a bang? Continue and hope for the best?

Here's my decision: do it, but only on condition that you find a co-advisor.

I totally know where you are coming from. On many days, advising a nationally recognized robotics team was only better than, oh, sticking a fork in my eye or eating a plate of tomatoes. In other words, it sucked. Like, for instance, the time one of my kids hit another of my kids in the head WITH A ROBOT CONTROL BOX. That was fun. Or the time when one of my kids lost a ring AT A PHILADELPHIA FLYERS HOCKEY GAME. Good times.

On the other hand, some of my best memories are times spent with those kids--traveling around the country, squeezing 30 people in Daddy D'z BBQ Joint, drinking Starbucks coffee by the bucket.

Sure, dealing with teens can be a total hassle, but when they get it right, when they pull themselves together and amaze you, it's so completely worth it. Plus, occasionally they'll go and do stuff like this.

The key, however, is having another adult around to help you keep your sanity. We had five adults coaching the robotics team and, hoo-wee, did it ever take all five of us to make that circus run effectively.

I can think of four reasons for having another adult on-board: (1) someone to share the work load with, (2) back-up when you make an unpopular decision, (3) someone to complain to, and (4) someone to drink with. The adult need not have any drama experience; I didn't know a lick about building a robot. You just need someone who can properly fill out paperwork, who can be present and engaged, and who can manage teenagers. I imagine about 50% of the teachers at the high school meet this criteria, so you just need to wrangle one of them into being your co-advisor.

So, yes, do it. But ONLY on condition that you find yourself a co-advisor. After a day of dealing with teenagers, you definitely need someone to sneak out with you for late night cocktails at Trader Vic's is all I'm saying.

Stand Up Routine

This is me backstage, quickly writing my speech for the robotics 10 year reunion last Friday night. This showed up in the Antelope Valley press yesterday:

"I feel incredibly fortunate to be a part of the robotics team, to be a part of this family," [Wallace] said, noting she has seen these students grow up, graduate, go to college, become engaged and marry. "It's so nice to share that with you."

I don't know if the press quoted my speech correctly because my notes were indecipherable scribbles on a sheet of lined paper, but I do know that they failed to quote any of my funny bits. Which is totally not cool.

Code Pink

Benji: Hey Janet, when you worked at the white house did you have a secret service code name?

Me: Haha. No. I WISH!

Benji: They'd probably call you 'pink'. That'd be a fun game to play: "what would be your secret service code name?"

Although I've met several Secret Service, I was never issued a code name. I guess Gift Wrapper to the President does not require the sort of high security afforded to, say, the First Lady. On the other hand, I did place the perfectly wrapped cheap lapel pins and golf balls into a bullet proof case. Priorities.

So, let's play! What would your Secret Service code name be?

Be sure to stick to the rules: code names must be unambiguous and easily understood and you can't choose something that's already been taken (sorry, friends, Renegade, Renaissance, Rosebud, and Radiance have been swooped up by the soon-to-be first family).

Need ideas? View the list of current and past code names.

Money for Nothing

News Flash! The economy is all jacked up!

Oh. You heard?

In light of the disaster that is the economy, I'm going to do something that I never do on Slice of Pink and actually follow up on something that I started to tell you about, once upon a time. I often tell you things only to never speak of those things again. Largely, this is because I lack follow through, both on this blog and in real life. For instance, hula hooping to health? Despite my best intentions--despite actually purchasing a hula hoop--I did not once hula my way to physical fitness. 

But let's ignore my failures. 

If you have been around these parts for awhile, you'll remember back in 2006 I did a little experiment. The experiment was called June Money Madness and for one whole month I tracked my purchases. I wrote down every dollar I spent on sun dresses, movie tickets, cokes, hairspray and nachos. I dutifully kept track of pancakes and pizza and postcards and purses and presents and parking fees. 

In one month, I spent $1169.94. Over half of that money was spent on just three things: clothing, eating out, and trips to Target. The nearly $1200 outlay did not include a single bill--I did not pay a penny to the electric company or the car insurance. Not a penny went to rent or utilities.

I was shocked that I had spent so much money, largely on nothing at all. As I pointed out:

Last month, I could have purchased a Burberry trench coat with the money I spent, and still had some change leftover for, oh, maybe a Coach tote. Instead, I have two skirts I picked up at Costco, a stand of fake pearls from Target, and a bottle of hairspray. The other thousand bucks? Who knows!

The following month, July 2006, I decided to spend less, but I implemented no actual plan to meet this goal. I was just going to, you know, spend less. No biggie. I just wouldn't go to Target so often. 

I ended up spending more.

So over two years ago, I went on a budget and cut my spending in half. I gave myself $120 a week to spend in any way I pleased.  I never talked about it here again, which is a real shame because the budget? It worked.

I stopped using credit cards. I stopped using my ATM card. I had $120 cash each week and I made that $120 last from Monday to Sunday. Some weeks I spent it all by Wednesday. Some weeks I had $80 left over at the end of the week. Some weeks I spent it all on a single clothing item. Some weeks I blew it on coffee drinks and cheap lunches.

It's crazy to say, but the budget actually changed things. Our savings account grew and grew. We paid off our credit cards. I stopped feeling guilty about buying a great pair of shoes, because if I had the cash, I knew I could afford them. It was less money, sure, but it was liberating. Profoundly liberating. I could throw the money in the trash, if that's what I wanted to do, and it would be okay because the savings account would continue to grow and the debts would continue to be nonexistent.

When I got to law school, I went really crazy and turned my $120 allowance into a $60 allowance, cutting my monthly outlay in half for the second time.  I now live on $60 a week, plus an extra $60 a month for a haircut. All said, I spend about $300 a month. It was a personal mission of sorts--a choice I made myself. I think that is absolutely critical to the success of a crazy, strict budget.  I'm not sure I would be so onboard with a similar sort of budget imposed on me by an accountant or a husband.  The challenge, it is personal.

I use my credit card for only three purchases: groceries, health care, and law school expenses (which, I admit, included a pretty cute suit. What? I have to go to interviews for legal jobs, people!). My monthly billing statement is extremely short, maybe three or four items, always paid in full at the end of the month.

Getting control of my spending meant that I had to get really bossy with myself. To be frank, sometimes it sucks. Sometimes it means drinking a bottle of wine in, rather than going out. Sometimes it means choosing between a good pair of shoes and a good skirt. Sometimes it means saying no. Sometimes it means being--dare I say--a miser.

But, really? It's not so bad. Somehow, I still have great wine and great friends and great memories. Can it be true? Money doesn't buy happiness? My 2006 self might not have agreed, but my 2008 self has a whole new perspective.

And, funny, now that I don't blow $400 at Target each month, my husband is so much more inclined take me out for fancy meals.

From Saturday Night Live: A sure-fire way to get out of debt.

Back by Popular Demand

My former student and guest poster, Brian, is back. I promised Brian that he could post again here if he received twenty comments on his first post. Y'all commented and, over a year later, Brian put together his second guest post. In other words, YOU ASKED FOR IT, people. Don't blame me. 

Last time, Brian gave you advice on blogging. Today, he adds to his blogging advice, suggesting that you get a bit more edgy and use more words like "boo" and "shizzle":

Guest Post by Brian

Recently I have been taught that edgy blogs are the ones that sell. After reflecting on my last one, and trying to think of a new one, I noticed that I am like a basketball; Rough, round, full of pimples, non-edgy, and always getting played with. Not to mention that all of my previous ideas didn’t get me started on the right pathway to a sharp blog. I’ve noticed that there are few that actually know how to talk gangster, even less know the rules of which.

Take “Boo” for example. Which can be lamemansly translated to homie or loved one….kinda like mijo in espanol.

A sentence in which this can be used is “you straight trippin boo.”

Here is a minor dictionary of the newly founded religion, “Barquanism”

1) Think of a word

2) Slurr the words a little

3) Add izzle to the end

4) Place a mild accent over a random letter

5) Flex da voice (it makes you seem like you know what your talking about)

Note how Brian's grammar and spelling have slightly improved since he started college last week. 

If you are new to Slice of Pink, you might want to meet Brian. In addition to his guest post, I wrote about the time he got checks and the time he ripped off his shirt in the high school talent show. He also created a tribute video for me and Will, which he somehow got played on the jumbotron at the local minor league baseball stadium, and he created a photoshopped Paris album for his best friend, Amber, which he hosted here at Slice of Pink. 

If you have any questions for Brian--about his "minor dictionary," his new adventure at CSULB, or what in the hell "lamemansly" means--leave them in the comments and I'll make sure he responds.

Cocky

It's Saturday night at the high school prom and Will and I are standing at the top of the stairs in the lobby of a nice downtown hotel. We're on chaperone duty, poised between the hotel bar and the lobby, with the task of keeping high schoolers from entering the bar area and drunk bar-goers from entering the prom area.

Not much is going on and Will and I are chatting away, when Will's eyes suddenly go wide and his jaw drops to the floor. I turn to look and, I can barely believe what I am seeing, but there is a man in the bar with his penis out. He's got his belt undone, his fly unzipped, and his penis is just chillin' there next to his glass of beer.

Now, I don't know what you would do if you saw a penis out at a bar, but we were responsible for 600 teenagers and, somehow, kids + alcohol + bar + penis did not add up to equal the kind of thing that sounded like a particularly good calculation.

After a few seconds the guy put his penis away and zipped his pants back up and the problem was resolved. Temporarily. Five minutes later, he is standing up and undoing his belt again, presumably to bring his penis back to the party. I'm thinking we should tell security or something, but before I can suggest that plan, Will has entered the bar and is hovering over the guy in what Will later reports he wished would have resulted in a bigger confrontation. Maybe involving a punch, what with Will being larger and sober and all.

Instead, the conversation goes like this, except with more much graphic language and a lot of in-your-face finger pointing by Will.

Will: You better not take your cock out again.

Guy: (mumbling) I was just joking around.

Will: There are 600 16 and 17 year-olds right over there...

Guy: I didn't take my cock out over there!

Will: No, you took it out here, right in that chair.

Guy: No I didn't!

Will: Yes, you did. And then you touched that girl right there.

Guy: Well, uh--

Will: Don't do it again. If you do, it will involve the police and jail.

Guy: Okay, okay, we're cool. High five, man.

Will: Get your hand away from me. You just had it down your pants, dude.

The penis, no longer welcome at the bar, stayed put for a good ten minutes, until the guy removed his shirt, put his hand down his pants, and promptly passed out on a Sheraton sofa.

At which point, I informed security.

At which point, the guy and his penis were escorted from the hotel.

At which point, his girlfriend, laughing until this point, also had to leave.

At which point, his girlfriend became distraught because they had to leave behind the large group of wedding-goers they were partying with.

At which point I wonder which is tackier: having your penis out an upscale hotel bar or having a girlfriend who thinks that is hilarious.

Penis police on patrol, protecting prom partygoers since 2008.

Hockneyizing

Back in the day, when I taught photography, I used to make my students complete a project based on Hockney's photographic collages. They would have to go out, take a bunch of photos, develop the shots, arrange the pictures, and then glue them onto a poster board. I would never, never have allowed them to use the Hockneyizer. It is way too much fun and, in case you were wondering, my goal as a teacher was to make anything fun into a whole week's worth of work.

Good Times in Review

Last Thursday was my last day of work as a teacher. On the last day of class, a group of my summer school students gave me a card, in which one of the students had written, "Even though the class was only four weeks, it was my favorite." It is these types of moments that make me understand why some people would want to stay in teaching forever. If they doubled my pay and hired me an assistant, I might stay, too.

When I first got hired, I wrote that I wasn't gonna talk much about my job, but I did it anyway. Like, a lot.

I got hired and y'all told me what to wear on the first day of school. Two month later, I asked you if I could wear fishnets, and although you mostly said no, I did it anyway. I ruined a fabulous pair of shoes in the darkroom door and helped form the book club which I failed miserably at for the rest of the year.

I joined the robotics team and basically lived at school. We traveled to Las Vegas, Atlanta, and Annapolis.

A kid stole my data projector but returned it a few days later. We played a lot of Ghettogories.

My AP kids rocked the Advanced Placement exam and thanked me with an amazing Shirley Lev bracelet. We drank a lot of Otter Shots and I got dunked.

I ordered a pink hood to wear to graduation and when they sent me a proper green and orange one, I ripped it apart and re-lined it in pink.

I went to a conference in San Diego and got per diem.

Year two rolled around and started with pinhole photography, snakes on glue, and the Barney theme song. I starred in a student film (or had a cameo anyway, but my name! was in the credits!). We made gingerbread houses, some that required blueprints on graph paper.

I resigned. I celebrated my birthday at school as well as Pi Day.

We traveled to Philadelphia, Atlanta, Sacramento and Los Angeles with the Robotics team. Someone made a photogram of a penis using a banana and two apples. My students gave y'all relationship advice.

I let one of my students do a guest post which escalated into other posts and a video in which I rap. My advanced students and I made up a dance and won the high school talent show. My second class graduated.

Good times, it was. Good times.

Gots Me Checks

After Brian showed up for the entire first week of summer school, just to hang out, I called down to the vice principal to see if he could earn some credit for the class. Having already taken photography and advanced photography, the principal offered Brian the chance to earn five credits for being my teacher's aide.

Yesterday Brian showed up to class with a backpack, which in itself is pretty unusual because he had never brought one before and a teacher's aide does not really need any supplies, especially my aides who have two jobs: bubble the roll and try to beat me at card games.

Even more unusual was that Brian did not remove his backpack for the entire duration of class. Five hours he had his backpack on his back, not removing it even for lunch. About four hours into the day I finally asked, "Do you have drugs in that thing or what?"

Brian opened up his backpack and, with pride, showed me what he had inside--the thing so important that it was worth wearing a backpack around all day.

"I gots me checks!"

Sure enough, Brian got a checkbook with M&M checks. He was on check #102 having written one check for $38.

I guess if you are a high schooler who just got checks, you're gonna have to find a place to keep them. The most obvious place? Yo' backpack!

Streamline Productions Presents

The robotics team recently had an end-of-the-season party at our local minor league baseball stadium. We had a big barbeque dinner and an awards ceremony and then we all stayed to watch the game.

Right before the game was to start, the robotics team was able to show their annual video on the stadium's big screen. Barquan filmed and edited the annual video this year and he made an extra movie as well, a kind of tribute to Will and I since we will be moving to Davis in the fall. The video of us was also shown on the big screen for everyone--including hundreds of people I did not know--to see. It is a kind of montage of an interview we did and photos and video clips taken throughout the year. There is also a lot of footage of me without makeup, making some weird, fake video laugh, and rapping to Vanilla Ice. And, yet, it is very moving and wonderful and something that I will cherish for a long to come, along with my memories of robotics and the amazing students I have come to love.

The other video Barquan made, the one that highlights our trips, is here. That is where you can see our robot in action and, also, how awesome my Vanilla Ice rapping skillz really are.

The One with the Routine

After their end-of-the-year portfolios were completed, I convinced my class of advanced students that we needed to participate in the high school talent show. Surprisingly, they almost all agreed to the crazy scheme and by the end of the first class period, we had an entire dance choreographed.

We spent two weeks practicing, about ten hours total, for our dance routine, a comedic yet totally organized and advanced dance to "I'm Too Sexy" by Right Said Fred. I started on the stage alone, lip synching the first few lyrics, when most of my class joined me. Each person had a camera and they circled around me, snapping the flashes.

I slipped out of the circle and Barquan slipped in. At the exact right moment, all 13 of us, except Barquan, dropped to the floor, and Barquan ripped off his shirt and lip synched to I'm too sexy for my shirt, too sexy for my shirt, so sexy it hurts. He had a shirt underneath, of course, but we had to explain to the Associated Student Body that he would not be stripping, exactly, and so I thought I ought to mention that here as well. The rest of the dance basically consisted of a catwalk and camera flashing and a lot of model moves which we all did in perfect unison, proven by a video taken of the event that nobody is smart enough to get on You Tube.

We won, obviously. $100 to the mall. Which worked out to about $7 each.

After the show, the parents were all congratulating us and they kept saying, "I can't believe the kids got you to participate with them." I just laughed and nodded, but the truth is, I can't believe I got the kids to participate with me.

Somehow the four boys did not get in these pictures, taken just before we went on stage.

We're too sexy for this school.

Peel This

My classroom has a very large darkroom, large enough to comfortably hold 8 to 12 students assuming that the students all used deodorant that morning and use their classroom voices, the term we use to describe a volume level that is significantly lower than the high pitched shrieks that they use to communicate with their peers.

As the school year comes to a close, my students have lost interest in the darkroom, preferring to take advantage of my second semester privilege to shoot their assignments with a digital camera. Because the darkroom has been so empty, I invited another class on campus up to my classroom to learn the process of making a photogram. Basically, a photogram is an image made in the darkroom without a camera. You set objects on a piece of photo paper, expose the paper to light, and develop. Presto! A photogram is produced, which might look something like this one by Man Ray:

You can make a Fauxtogram here to get the idea.

Anyway, I have a whole drawer full of photogram supplies including little plastic cowboys, hearts, buttons, ribbons, alphabet magnets, and beads, but it is also popular among the kids to make peace signs with their hands or place their whole head on the easel to create a photogram of their profile.

Today, one of the visiting students got in big trouble. His teacher was referring him to the principal because his photogram consisted only of his hand, or more specifically, only of his middle finger. He made an 8X10 image of his hand giving the world the bird. Perfect for framing.

Not 10 minutes later, after telling me how disappointed she was about the boy's work, she was admiring the photograms of some of her other students. She especially liked a particular photogram, one that made use of my drawer of plastic fruit. I could hear snickering from the back of the darkroom and came over to take a closer look. The student had made creative use of two plastic apples on either side of a big, plastic banana. If you can imagine what I mean.

If you can't imagine what I mean, you would be much like the teacher who could very well have a photogram depicting male genitalia perfectly framed on her classroom wall.

Easy as Pi

Today is Pi Day. To celebrate this occasion, several of my students wrote out 7,000 digits of the decimal expansion of Pi with sidewalk chalk. The Pi chain twisted throughout the high school campus and took seven straight hours of writing to complete. My neighbor teacher, Kiley, had cherry and rhubarb pie delivered to complete the Pi Day celebration. This is about as nerdy as it gets.

About two hours into the Pi extravaganza, I was standing in the hallway admiring the endless string of numbers, when the computer lab lady threw open the door and said, "I hope this isn't your doing."

"As a matter of fact, it is," I replied.

"Well, I just called security to arrest the taggers."

Taggers? Are gangs now comprised of 4.0 students using washable sidewalk chalk to write out mathematical formulas on the concrete? Sounds like a gang problem we'd be happy to have.

Luckily, the project had been approved by the principal, and so I quickly sent out a school-wide email to the 175 employees on my campus, wishing everyone a Happy Pi Day and requesting that nobody call the cops on the Pi writers. Almost immediately, my email box filled with responses from my colleagues who were excited about the project, including this response:

If pi are squared, then cake are round?

Give Me Samoas

There is this lady at my work who always marks her email messages with a little red flag, the flag which designates her message as Very Important, Must Be Read Immediately, Or Else! This red flag indicates fire drills or important meetings or the fact that you are about to get fired unless you get off the Internet and do some work.

Of the dozens of emails that I have received from this women, not one has ever been Very Important. In fact, the majority of the emails are so unimportant that the fact that she even wrote the email indicates an abundance of spare time.

This week I finally, finally, got a Very Important email from her, an email worthy of the little red flag. She announced one of the most important events of the year, an event that demands the use of the red flag email system. Yes, it is Girl Scout Cookie time.

The Sound of Crickets Chirping

Hello? Anybody out there?

Cue: crickets.

If y'all thought I had died, I am terribly sorry about that. You had good reason to think so because I have not done any of the following in three weeks or more: responded to emails, responded to voice messages, done laundry, answered my phone, cleaned my apartment, slept.

Here are some things I have done in the past three weeks: purchased clothes at Target for next day wearing because I was out of clean items, ate cookies and Twix for dinner (more than once), slept less than 4 hours a night, and worked 105 hours a week on some robot. Hello, I have boarded the crazy train.

Everyone keeps telling me that this is "preparing me for law school." I don't think this is preparing me for law school at all unless at law school you are a.) responsible for 39 hormonal teenagers and b.) forced to listen to White and Nerdy by Weird Al Yankovic 1700 times a day. Oh, and manufacture a robot. Does law school require you to do that? Because if so, forget it. All those law schools can find some other sucker.

Anyway. The robot shipped. Which means time to sleep! Read! Blog! Sleep! Take showers! Catch up on email! Sleep! I'm back and better than ever. Are y'all still out there? Hello?

Multi-Tasking

Three weeks ago the robotics season started again. The past three weeks plus the upcoming four weeks are the busiest weeks of my year, weeks in which I somehow do a full time job on top of another full time job. Robotics alone requires nearly 40 hours of work a week and includes seven grueling 14-hour Saturday Robotics Extravaganzas. I get paid about 12 cents an hour for the work--work that is a million times more intense than my day job as a photography teacher--but there is something magical about seeing a 120 pound robot built from scratch by a bunch of teenagers. Not that they are your ordinary teenagers. They are more like mini-NASA engineers somehow misplaced in a high school environment. Trust me, you would not let the average high school student touch an exacto knife, let alone a band saw or a drill press.

I am also co-chair for a charity event that is being held tonight. It happened to fall, with extremely bad timing, right in the middle of the robotics season. I have spent the past two days hanging giant parasols, arranging fruit and flower centerpieces, creating big ribbon bows, baking cherry-vanilla cupcakes, organizing small committees, cutting programs, picking up tablecloths, choosing music, and generally running around like a chicken with my head cut off.

It has been a real scheduling nightmare, these two operations, and has required less sleep than usual and many long to-do lists that I add items to when I wake up in the middle of the night thinking things like "Flowers! Did we order the flowers?!" and "Where the hell did I put that ribbon for the centerpieces?" At this very moment, I am sitting in a classroom managing the robotics students in a t-shirt and a pair of warm-up pants. My floor-length dress for the charity event is hanging in the classroom closet. I plan on getting ready for the event--an event to which I am wearing a vintage Oleg Cassini silk and pearl skirt--in the high school bathroom. I have gone totally classy. And totally insane.

Oh, Yes They Did

To build a graham cracker gingerbread house, you are going to need a box of graham crackers, royal icing, candy, safety goggles, hard hats, lexan (highly-durable polycarbonate resin thermoplastic), and a Dremel.

You should color code your gumdrops.

And, use a heat gun for quick drying of the frosting.

Happy Holidays from me and my geeks!

Geek Squad

I teach an advanced placement course full of some of the brightest students on our high school campus. I have the #1 ranked senior, the #1 ranked junior, and several other students who are ranked in the top 5 of their respective classes. Most of them have intense final exams this week in college level courses including English, anatomy, chemistry, physics, statistics, and civics.

Because I am so nice, and more importantly because these students collectively did not miss an assignment all semester, I am giving them a gingerbread house final. They still have a pretty big assignment to complete for my class over the holiday break, but on the final exam day all they have to do is build a gingerbread house for their final credit. It kind of relates to photography. Photography is art. Sculpture is art. Gingerbread houses are sculpture. Therefore, gingerbread houses are photography. I am going to make such a good lawyer. Check out that logic, baby.

The students will be making their houses in groups, with five or six students to a table. I am providing the royal icing and they are responsible for the graham crackers and candy embellishments for their group's house. They decided last class to make it into a competition with the best house getting the highest score on the gingerbread final exam. Advanced Placement kids are pretty competitive.

Yesterday, I gave the students a bit of time to make arrangements for who was bringing what candy and to allow them to discuss their plans for the houses they will be making on Thursday. They all were quietly talking amongst their groups when I noticed one group was making a blueprint.

A blueprint.

On graph paper.

I approached the table to take a look at their design and discovered that they are not planning on building a gingerbread house, but rather a gingerbread reconstruction of the Aztec Empire complete with step pyramids and Lake Texcoco.

Apparantly, asking an Advanced Placement kid to build a simple gingerbread house is kinda like asking Martha Stewart to decorate with synthetic garland. They just ain't going down like that.

Legally Pink

About a year ago, I decided that I would take the Law School Admission Test. It was a whimsical decision based on three important factors:

1. I want a big clean office
2. I want to wear expensive shoes
3. I did not want to take the GRE

About a year ago, I also decided then that I would only go to law school if I could get into a top 100 school, that is, a tier one school as reported by the US News and World Report people. Oh. And by top 100, I really meant top 50ish, but who's counting.

About a month ago, I sat for six very long hours taking the admissions exam. In a very tiny desk. In a very cold room. I had to pee for an entire section. I listened to Damn it Feels Good to be a Gangsta on my iPod during our ten-minute break (inspiration). I read about basins of influence and punitive laws and prefrontal cortexes and triceratops extinction. I bubbled my ass off.

I waited for 20 anxious, cranky days to get a score and you know what? Damn, it does feel good.

Y'all, we're going to law school.

Join the Geek Squad

I am an advisor for the high school robotics team, the nerdiest club on campus, but also the club that travels all around the United States while the rest of the student body is sitting in math class. Remember hearing the advice that you should be nice to the geeks because one day you will be working for one? Robotics is that at the high school level. We may be a little on the nerdy side, but we'll be borrowing your Calculus notes when we get back from Boston, baby.

Every year we build a robot to compete in a game designed by FIRST, an organization that recognizes and inspires future engineers and scientists. When I say "we" build a robot, I actually mean that "the students and mentors from places like NASA and Lockheed build a robot while I eat snacks and watch." They once let me file a metal piece on the robot with a little metal tool. It was kind of boring.

Last year our robot was named TnT, a tribute to two members of our team, Thomas and Tyler, who had passed away the previous year. The year before, the robot was named Mr. Clean, in honor of one of our current students who survived cancer and had lost his hair in chemotherapy. Prior to that, we had a slew of Willy Wonka themed bots including Gobstopper and Oompa Loompa.

This year, however, we seem to be having a problem coming up with a robot name. We're five weeks into the robotics season and have one week left to choose a name. There's really no criteria except that it be high school appropriate. It was suggested that the robot have a name that relates to a popular song, which could be played while the robot competes on the field, but that's certainly not a requirement. Any suggestions? If the kids choose a name you submit, I'll mail you a robotics kid who will fix all the broken crap around your house and pimp out all your electrical devices. They can probably get you free cable.

Or else I will send you a robotics team button and something pink from Target. Your call.

I Heart NY

Everyday an announcement comes over the intercom system at our school requiring the entire student body to stand up and say the Pledge of Allegiance. Everyday I have to announce to the kids "PLEDGE!" in order to get them to stop talking long enough to hear the announcement so they will know to stand up and participate. Some of them gladly engage in the pledge. Others need the dreaded evil-teacher-eye before they will stand up, and even then they can barely drag themselves to a fully erect position, let alone move their mouths in unison with the intercom. Teen angst. Life is hard, people. Especially when you are 16.

Today, after the pledge, I reiterated that the kids did not need to say the words of the pledge, but they did need to stand up in respect. And by standing up I meant on both feet, not draped dramatically across their chair with one foot on the floor and another hanging off the edge of the table, like ohmygod the pledge is so embarrassing and I totally need to finish this poem I am writing, are you serious.

When I sat down, my teacher aide added that geez, they could have at least participated in the pledge on September 11.

And he was right. Geez.

Honestly, I'm not fanatical about the pledge. I don't forward on those emails about keeping God in the pledge or keeping the pledge in public schools. I do respect our pledge and will stop putting relish on my hot dog at a baseball game when the national anthem is sung. And I expect my students to do the same. Especially on September 11.

I do realize, though, that for most teenagers in my school, New York is a world away. Some of them have never seen the ocean and that is only a 45 minute drive away, so New York City--a 6 hour plane ride-- almost doesn't exist for these kids in any real terms. I was only a baby when John Lennon died and wasn't even alive when John Kennedy was shot and, while I realize the tragedy of these events, they will never resonate with me in the same way they affected my parents.

Two months after 9/11, Will and I bought plane tickets to New York City. Tourism in NYC was low and not everyone thought it was a super idea for us to fly into the Big Apple. But we went. We saw Times Square, Broadway, Central Park, Wall Street, and also the big gaping hole in the ground that was the Twin Towers. And we will never forget. Most of you reading this will never forget. The trick, I think, is going to be passing it on.

Let's Have Fun with Manners!

Tomorrow is parent-teacher night at school, the one day of the year when I dig into the back of my closet to find an appropriate pair of high heeled shoes and a professional looking dress to wear. These are the clothes that I last wore when I worked in politics because, despite the image of teachers as professionals, there is no way I would wear a pair of Banana Republic slacks to mix photo chemicals and clean up after teenagers. Most of my work clothes are from Target because even if I spill photo developer on a $9.99 Target shirt the first time I wear it, making it mostly unwearable except maybe to the gym, it was still almost worth the price.

Tomorrow during school we will be having a major clean up day to get the classroom looking decent for the parents' visit. Sinks need to cleaned, floors need to be swept, artwork needs to be hung up, supplies need to be put away, trash needs to be put into the trash can. It is going to require a group classroom effort; an effort made significantly more difficult by the fact that I'm working with teenagers who I would guess have not seen the floors of their bedrooms since before they entered junior high.

At the end of each regular school day, I ask the students to pick up the area around their tables. If they do not quickly comply, they suffer the consequences: I play the Barney Clean Up Song. It is incredibly annoying and for the first couple weeks of school, they groaned and complained at even the mention of Barney and his Clean Up song. But today! Today as the song was playing and the high school seniors were picking up their trash, I actually saw some kids singing along.

With lots of work to do around the classroom, it looks like tomorrow is going to be a very Barney kind of day. Non-stop Barney and grown-up clothes. Doesn't it sound so very mom like?

Thank God it's only once a year.

Take a Number

It has been one of those weeks.

And it's only Tuesday.

I hate to complain.

But.

Things I need to do: call the LA Superior Court to tell them that I did send them the $10 processing fee on the fix-it ticket they returned to me but I sent it in a separate envelope because there was no mention of the processing fee on the original ticket; find my home phone which is dead and therefore does not respond when I page it; figure out how to use this grade book thingy; finish my book club book; make fee cards for my class; order supplies for my class; mail photos from the wedding I attended last weekend; pack for weekend trip to San Francisco/Berkeley; study; go through the 14 million work emails that appeared in my inbox today and which have mostly a lot to do with absolutely nothing that applies to me; fill out 25 pages of paperwork, which, seriously? why don't we move into the computer age and stop with all the silly paper forms; explain to 180 high school students that I will not write them a pass to be late to class, that I will not tolerate their scream-o music, and that they need to throw away their coke cans into proper trash receptacles rather than leaving them on the desks for me; avoid about four people who are so incompetent that it is downright amazing they were ever hired (and yet totally not amazing); and buy a mousepad.

Wow, can I complain.

The thing is: I can handle a lot of shit. No big deal. That list ain't shit in my world.

But.

On the worst day of the year, the day when all the weird people are bugging me and all the mean people are cranky and when all the stuff I have to do is seemingly endless, I decided to walk to Del Taco. I decided to walk to Del Taco so I could have a moment of silence, a little bit of sun and, also, a chicken soft taco. On the way out the door, I decided that at that moment I would make the rest of the day a good one! I'd get some stuff done! I'd eat a taco and then find the phone!

I grabbed my keys, $6, and a chewable vitamin on the way out the door. Yay for sunshine and getting things done and making the most of the worst and vitamins! I got as far as the parking lot, happily ever after.

And then? That chewable vitamin ripped out a damn crown.

Happy Effing Tuesday.

My Man, Alexander

Last week, one of the counselors at work asked if I wanted to be in a Fantasy Football League. Knowing absolutely nothing about football, not even how it is played or scored, I said that no, I could not be in a Fantasy Football League because I don't know jack about anything football related, but thank you for asking.

Then I found out that everyone would be meeting at a bar at 11 o'clock in the morning to do this thingy called the draft, which is the thingy where everyone picks their players but, more importantly, there would be much beer drinking and much french fry eating going on.

Beer and fries at 11 in the morning! Revolutionary! So, I signed up.

But then things got sticky. Because I do not like to lose. Under any circumstances. I can't stand failure. I rarely earn anything less than an A. I don't half-ass things. I am Type A, all the way. I wasn't going to this beer drinking party to get screwed over by nine jersey-wearing women who were talking all about running backs and quarter backs and half backs and tight ends.

Oh, hell no. I'd be wearing a dress, I'd have a pink pen, but I'd be damned if I showed up to just hand over my money.

My husband, also Type A, created an excel chart for me and printed 20 pages of data-based rankings from which I would select players based on past performance. I learned the chart. I reviewed the rankings, paying close attention to the highlighted picks. I followed a detailed plan of attack. I hole punched the pages and tied them together with a cute little ribbon bow. Oh yes, I did.

I did not drink, with the exception of one small beer, to maintain my concentration during the draft. I ate one chicken strip and four french fries and then moved the food out of the way to make room for my paperwork. I crossed out, highlighted, and penciled in.

And I am going to win. Because I have Shaun Alexander. Last year he broke the record for rushing touchdowns, was the NFL MVP, and led the league in rushing yardage.

Which? Whatever that means.

All I know is that he is going to spank some Fantasy Football booty until it is SoPink. (Do I totally have the smack down or what, people? Worse case scenario: I will have the smackiest smack in the league. Send me your best one-liners so I can lay down the smackage all season long.)

Pinhole Photography

One of the best assignments of the year in my Photography One course is building a pinhole camera. The students build an actual working camera using only a shoe box, masking tape, and some photo paper.

Some of the results:

Pretty amazing, considering the "camera" was a cardboard box.

Snakes on Glue

Earlier this week, one of my students showed up at my desk with a shoebox and small screwdriver wondering if he could use the developing room. My classroom is actually four rooms--a classroom, a darkroom, a film developing room, and a storage room--and although the students are starting to use the darkroom, the developing room is not yet in use.

I questioned the student's reasons for wanting to use the developing room, since the students currently have no practical use for the room.

Me: Why do you need to use the developing room?

Student: I have a creature in this box.

Me: A creature?

Student: Yes, a creature got caught in a mousetrap.

Me: Like....a mouse?

Student: Um, not exactly.

Me: Like a rat?

Student: Um, more like a reptile.

Me: Like a lizard?

(I can now tell that the student doesn't want to tell me exactly what is going on, for fear that I might freak out.)

Student: Well, actually, a snake.

Me: So, you have a snake in a mousetrap in that shoebox?

Student: Yes. Do you want to see?

Me: Is it alive?

Student: Yes. But it is stuck in glue.

Me: So you have a live snake stuck in a glue mousetrap in that shoebox?

Student: Yes.

Me: Okay, let me see it.

Sure enough, a 14-inch garden snake is glued down to a trap, its beady little eye staring up at me. I send the student off into the developing room to extract the snake from the glue.

I do not hear anything from the developing room for thirty minutes, at which time the student emerges for some soap.

I give him a bottle of hand soap.

For thirty minutes more, I hear nothing from the developing room.

The lunch bell rings and the other 34 kids leave for lunch. I decide to see what's happening with the snake extraction.

I enter the developing room to find the student SOAPING UP THE SNAKE. This is how I describe the event to everyone I know for the following three days. The student was soaping up the snake. Which is literally what was happening but which? Does. Not. Sound. Good.

But is also hilarious.

Due to the nature of the glue, which could best be described as thick sap, the snake was only able to move while soaped up. Once the soap started to dry, the snake would instantly be frozen and stuck to whatever he was touching, usually the student's hand. I was discussing options for dissolving the glue (paint thinner? nail polish remover?) when the student dropped the now slippery, soapy snake and said these exact words:

OHMYGOD! SHUT THE DOOR! THE SNAKE HAS GONE WILD!

(I do not make this up. Seriously, people, I work with high school kids.)

I shut the door (with me outside the room), the student caught the wild snake, and I sent him down to a Biology teacher who would know what to do with a sticky, soapy snake. The biology teacher put the snake in corn oil and took it to the emergency vet.

The snake is now recovering and will be released back into "the wild" next week.

Digital Age

My 16 year old sister, April, is in my advanced photo class, a class in which each student prepares a portfolio of photography for submission to the College Board. Tonight April was at my house and we were talking about the photo class.

April: So, mom brought home some camera from Grandma's house for me to use in class, but it is waaaay old.

Janet: What do you mean? How old is it?

April: Realllllly old. You have to, like, load film in it.

Countdown to Winter Break

When I got home from work today, I sat down at the computer to check my email and maybe check some blogs, but what I found on the screen was the very blank "Compose a New Blog Post" window waiting patiently for an update. Last night I apparently signed in to Typepad with the intention of posting something for y'all to read and then I fell asleep sitting at the desk before I even typed a single word.

I've been back to work for two days, two days of teacher in service, two days with no students, two days during which I could sit in the back row of the theater and close my eyes or complete logic puzzles while the principals and secretaries talked all about some things that I can't remember because I was either sleeping or playing logic games. And yet I am very tired. Very tired because I have been waking up at 6:30 in the morning which sucks after five weeks of sleeping in.

I did hear one announcement today, that announcement being that the dress code will finally allow for flip-flops. People were very excited about this new development because if the students are allowed to wear flip-flops, then so are the teachers! We can finally wear flip-flops! Three cheers for the flip-flops!

To which I say, seriously? I have been wearing flip-flops at that school for two years. There was a rule against flip-flops? Interesting.

Most of the 100 or so teachers were present at the last two days of teacher in service and, department by department, every teacher introduced themselves, except this one flakey teacher who was in the bathroom when the art department was introducing themselves. Guess who? I'll give you a hint: she's always wearing those damn flip-flops.

(Except I was really in my husband's office eating some of that M&M trail mix stuff and not in the bathroom, but you should never say you missed that part of the in service because you were getting candy and also checking your email.)

I am actually kind of sorry that I missed my introduction because there was some weird camaraderie going on among people who were born in the same city or state. We were supposed to each give our name and then tell the place that we were born. Every time any person said a town in which another person in the room was also born, the 2nd person would hoot and holler for the 1st person. Anytime anybody said a place that was a bit uncommon, say another state or a foreign country, everyone in the theater would ooooh and aaaah. I couldn't help rolling my eyes at this because, oh please, is it really that amazing that somebody was born in Canada or that two people were born in the same hospital in Los Angeles, California, a mere one hour away? People were shocked that not one, but TWO of our staff members were born in Hawaii. Hawaii? People are, like, born in Hawaii? I thought that was only a vacation destination!

This is the Antelope Valley. People don't get out much, I guess.

Anyway, I was sorry that I missed my introduction because I had heard another teacher say that he was born in Panorama City, California, which AMAZINGLY SO WAS I, and I surely would have received a hoot and a holler for the fact that my parent's jobs happened to insure them at Kaiser in 1980.

Teachers are a very encouraging bunch, always cheering and applauding any effort or success or, really, anything that isn't a huge and total failure. Not only did they clap and applaud for every person with whom they shared a birth hospital, they clapped and applauded for everybody and everything that was said, announced, or presented over the course of the past two days. Here is an excerpt:

Vice Principal: And so if you want to send a kid to detention, fill out these six forms and call security.

Teachers: Applause.

Secretary: There is a sheet in your binder explaining how to call into the substitute finder system.

Teachers: Applause.

Principal: Now we are going to show you a video.

Teachers: Applause.

VIDEO

Teachers: Applause.

Vice Principal: We are starting school at the same time this year, 7:30 in the morning.

Teachers: Applause.

Secretary: You will receive a phone list via email.

Teachers: Applause.

Vice Principal: And now we will see a very long slide show about test results from the past 8 years in the form of many graphs.

Teachers: Applause.

POWERPOINT PRESENTATION WITH MANY GRAPHS

Teachers: Applause.

Principal: You can now wear flip-flops!

Teachers: Applause. Applause.

And now I need to go take a nap as the clapping has tired me out.

No Laughing Matter

I'm on a budget. I cringe even using the word budget because it sounds so stifling and oppressive. My husband just loves the word budget and he actually enjoys making little spreadsheets and checking the bank account and being all impressed over how much money is in our retirement account, which we can't even touch until we are, like, 80 or something. It's like a little hobby for him, in the way most people enjoy knitting or reading or going to the theater.

Will has never put me on a budget of any kind because even the mention of the word makes me fall on the floor and get a headache around the sides and partially under it, Eloise style. Will cannot stand that kind of drama.

This new budget, my first ever budget, is totally self-imposed. I made it up myself! In June, I spent $1169, mostly at Target, and in the next four weeks I am going to try to spend less than half that, $500 to be precise.

I plan to take out $120 a week from the bank and spend only that for 7 days, with a $20 buffer. It seemed like a good time to start this crazy plan, because on Thursday I have my wisdom teeth out so I'll be chillin' at home and next week I am going to a conference for which I get $50 a day per diem, which of course does not count toward my $500 since I will get reimbursed. So really I will have $800, but only $500 of that is my own money.

The funny thing is that even though I put myself on a budget, and even though the budget has nothing to do with how much money is in the bank and everything to do with stopping the ridiculous daily trips to Target, I somehow cannot stop complaining about the restrictions of my budget. What has to fit in the budget, I ask? Do I have to buy groceries with my money? Do I have to buy cat food with my money? Because if I have to buy cat food with my money, the cat is going back to dry cat food only. Sorry Millie.

(I do not have to buy groceries with my budget money. I do not have to buy cat food with my budget money. Will is going to buy these items. This is good news.)

Last night, I was suggesting wild and exaggerated What If situations concerning my budget. What if someone broke in and stole all my summer dresses? Would I get an increase in my budget? What if I had spent all my money and needed gas to get to work? Would I be allowed to take out $20 more dollars? I asked these questions as if my budget were inscribed on golden tablets, voted on and allocated by the state legislature, rather than just some numbers I made up in my own head.

After a dramatic monologue concerning my cash and the events that would ensue if I lost it all at a train station, Will asked if I was going to blog about my new budget.

With a significant amount of drama, I announced that "no, I am not going to blog about my budget. There is absolutely nothing funny to say about my budget."

"What is funny," he responded, "is how NOT funny you think this all is."

So far, I've spent $12. After the jump is a recipe, which is what happens when groceries are free but eating out is not.

15-Love

On June 1, 2006 I wrote these exact words: We use only one credit card, an American Express, which is paid off in full at the end of the month. Supposedly we earn points for free gifts by using the American Express although I have yet to see anything in the way of a free gift or even a catalog from which to choose said free gifts.

Not a week later, a $179 Wilson nSix-One Tour Tennis Racquet arrived in our mailbox from American Express. I do not think that I need to point out that I was not the one to redeem 23,000 points for a racquet that arrived without strings. I know for a fact that you can purchase a tennis racquet with strings at Target for $24.99, but what do I really know?

The good news is: the next American Express gift is mine! All mine! ALL MINE! I might choose a $250 Bloomingdale's Gift Card, which happens to require nearly the same points the tennis racquet.

The bad new is: it's gonna take me, like, six years to add up the next 25,000 points. I betta get spending on that ol' AMEX. Speaking of which, I updated the Money Madness with the weekend spending and moved the most recent entry to the top so y'all don't have to, you know, scroll. You'll see that I'm still well under a grand, so I am doing super-fabulous, except that, at this rate, I'll never get that Bloomie's money.

Crack Me Up

We have a pretty super insurance plan: no charge to see a doctor, dual coverage, $5 prescriptions, free mental health, and thorough dental and orthodontic coverage.

But, who really cares about a super insurance plan? I don't ever even think about my insurance plan other than the times I go to have my teeth cleaned or pick up some allergy medication.

EXCEPT.

Except, I just found out that we get chiropractic care and for $10/visit we can see the chiropractor and get cracked up, which again? Who cares?

EXCEPT.

Except, our chiropractor also offers massages and for $12 we can get a 30 minute massage! A 30 minute massage for only 12 bucks! And we can go, like, weekly or more! Many exclamation points required! Massages! $12!

You know, my neck has been really stiff lately....

Pop Us Another Round

As the school year comes to a close, I've been allowing the kids to bring in food for a "cultural experience." We can't officially have parties, so we just change the name to "cultural experience" and party on. There's not much cultural about doughnuts, Cool Ranch Doritos, and Pepsi, although one girl brought in tamales, totally validating our educational soiree. Thank goodness.

Yesterday a student showed up with a huge box of Otter Pops in an ice chest. We were enjoying the Louie-Bloo Raspberrys and Poncho Punches (see? cultural!) but we were not eating them fast enough and they started to melt. I was on my third pop when they all turned to pure liquid and I began referring to them as Otter Shots, since you could now drink 'em down in one big, sugary gulp.

Every time a student would ask for another Otter Pop, I would remind them that they were no longer Otter Pops, but Otter Shots. When a new student would arrive, I’d ask if they’d like an Otter Shot.

The kids all laughed and rolled their eyes at my increasing silliness, but I seriously think I’ve stumbled on the greatest idea since the mojito: Otter Shots. An adult-only version of the Otter Pop. Kinda like Jell-o shooters, only packaged in little plastic tubes with cute little characters and a theme song! It's pure genius.

(I am so fired.)

Of course, the Otter Pop people won't listen to my amazing suggestion, much like the Eggo people did not listen when I wrote to them suggesting they make Eggo waffle mix in a box, like Krusteaz only with a less crusty and gross sounding name. The very important people at Eggo wrote back saying something about liability and not taking suggestions from the public and blah, blah, blah. But, when the Eggo waffle mix appears on the shelves, it will have been because of my brilliance legally stolen from those jerks at Eggo. I will still buy the mix because Eggos? Yum.

Anybody for a Poncho Rum and Punch?

Money for Nothing

I spend a lot of money on, well, I can't really say what it is I actually spend a lot of money on. I don't pay any of the bills, so everything I purchase is basically a non-necessity, with the exception of groceries. In order to contain my wildly unorganized habits with all things involving money, I use only one credit card, an American Express, which is paid off in full at the end of the month. Supposedly we earn points for free gifts by using the American Express although I have yet to see anything in the way of a free gift or even a catalog from which to choose said free gifts.

At the end of each of each month, Will will say something about how I spent such-and-such amount of money and then I nearly have a heart attack because I cannot believe how much money I spent, especially since I cannot usually think of one thing I have to show for all the missing money. Last month, I could have purchased a Burberry trench coat with the money I spent, and still had some change leftover for, oh, maybe a Coach tote. Instead, I have two skirts I picked up at Costco, a stand of fake pearls from Target, and a bottle of hairspray. The other thousand bucks? Who knows!

I do have a point to this (besides the obvious fact that I have no idea what the hell I buy). For the month of June, I am going to document every dime I spend. Every single dime. This won’t include bills or the things my husband purchases, just those things that are paid for out of my own pocket or wallet or with the crumpled bills scrounged from the bottom of my purse. I will take pictures for you and, at the end of the month, we can marvel at how a whole lot of nothing can add up to a whole lot of money.

Surprisingly, I only made one purchase today, so far, which I documented here. I think this might actually save me some money, in the end, having to post every lunch I eat out, every stupid pair of leggings I buy (oh, yes, I did!) and every new lip gloss that I purchase simply because the flavor sounds deliciously edible. Some things seem much less worth it if you have to post them on the world wide web.

I’ve added the link June Money Madness to the sidebar and I’ll update as often as I spend, complete with a running total.

Tomorrow night we might be going to Korean BBQ. I hope my husband pays.

Preaching to the Choir

I don’t know if I believe in Karma, but I know that I don’t want to take any chances. For most of my life, and even more significantly the older I get, I want to do the right thing. My conscience weighs heavily on me almost always. Ogden Nash once said that the only way to be happy is to have "a clear conscience or none at all" and I fully believe it.

A few weeks ago it was my grandmother’s birthday, and on the way to the party I stopped at Costco to purchase a few novels for her. Costco sticks these big price stickers on the front of their books and, when I got into the car, I peeled the stickers off the novels. One of the novels had a textured, matte cover and the sticker left a big, messy sticker stain on the top right corner of the front cover. It looked terrible and, when we stopped at Target to get a gift bag I purchased an identical copy of the book, one without the enormous price tag on the cover. The next day I returned the book with the nasty sticker glue to Costco and the woman accidentally reimbursed for the wrong item, giving me ten dollars too much. I walked away from the counter with the extra ten dollars, but then a deep feeling of guilt overcame me and I promptly returned to the counter to correct the cashier’s mistake.

One of the hardest parts of my current job as a high school teacher is choosing to do the right thing. Not only because the kids often make idiotic choices, but more importantly because many adults in the school system would rather sweep a problem under the rug or take an unethical approach to a dilemma, rather than deal with an irate parent or have to enforce consequences.

In college, I had a health teacher who literally gave out the answers to the tests before we took them. This was a class designed for athletes, taught by one of the college’s football coaches. I can’t say I learned much in the class, except the unsettling fact that favoritism and nepotism are very real and sometimes brains have nothing over brawn, even in the educational system where brains should be the, um, point. Sadly, I’ve discovered that high school is the same way. Integrity is often overruled by convenience, especially among some adults who find winning more important than playing fairly. I have no other way to describe these adults than this: pathetic.

Several of my best students know about this website because I would often post at late night robotics meetings or during class when my teacher aides were hovering around my desk. These are the kids nobody fights for. Nobody needs to because good integrity does not need to be defended. They do what’s right even when it is not popular. Why is it that some of their supposed adult role models are still hung-up on what’s popular, even if it is not right?

It is a high school tradition for the graduating students to leave “Senior Wills” or advice and memories to their friends and teachers. This didn’t get done this year, for whatever reason, but If I were doing a Senior Will, this is what I would say to my kids, the ones who do the right thing despite any popularity penalty:

Confucius said, “to know what is right and not do it is the worst cowardice.” May you never be cowardly, may you always be honorable, and may Karma, if it exists, carry only good things back around to you.

I hope that, in the middle of this huge popularity contest called life, they can hear me.

Tada!

I have this to do list thing going on over at tadalist.com. I liked the name of the list--Tada!--and explained to Will the significance of the name. So, like, when you check something off the list, you get to say TADA! I have so much depth, y'all.

I refer to the list as the TADA! list which is ridiculous because in the time I have had the TADA! list I have only checked off a few things and, anyway, I added those things just so I would have something to check off because I was tired of not getting to actually check anything off and TADA! it.

Yesterday, I found out that I have been selected by the senior class to be a hand shaker at graduation. I thought that all I had to do was shake hands but, as it turns out, the hand shakers rotate as name readers as well. The very thought of some of my students graduating makes me teary-eyed right now and this has nothing to do with the fact that iTunes randomly selected Forever Young to play at this particular moment. I am a little worried that I won't make it through my name reading duty. There’s a reason why the Storypeople print in my hallway says: She said she usually cried at least once each day not because she was sad, but because the world was so beautiful and life was so short.

Also. There's an additional dilemma.

Remember the ordering of the illegitimate pink graduation hood? Well, it turns out that the lame high school cap and gown people do not carry pink hoods and so, instead of calling me to see what my second choice would be (lavendar), they simply sent me a hood in my university colors, blue and gold. Gah. A normal person would wear the stupid nylon hood with gold and blue lining. A normal person. The thing is, I think I can recreate the hood with pink lining as opposed to the blue and gold. It appears to be four pieces of fabric sewn together and turned right side out. How hard could it be? I can kinda sew. And, I can work wonders with a glue gun. Especially drunk, when things look much better than they do sober.

Gimme a vodka tonic and a sewing machine, baby. I'll have it covered in no time. The tears, though, are a whole different story.

School: Boring without Board Games

One of my favorite games is Scattegories so I was pleased as punch when one of my students showed up with it a few days ago. The basic premise of the game is to score points by filling in answers to categories. The trick is that all the answers must start with a specific letter chosen by rolling a 20-sided die. So if the letter is “R” your board might look like this:

Presidents: Ronald Reagan
Ice Cream Flavors: Rocky Road
Breakfast Foods: Rice Krispies

And so on.

My students have taken a liking to the game and play it regularly in class when they have completed their work. Or, sometimes they play it when they have not completed their work and have to do their work at home. This is fine by me because having the game in my classroom has been fun and educational for all of us. According to the rules, when a player’s answer is questionable, the other players vote on whether to allow the point. My students took it a step further and actually researched the disputed answers. In the past week, I have googled dozens of things to prove or disprove the validity of the kid’s answers.

Some of the disputed answers and what we discovered:

Fish: Jellyfish
(NOT a fish, an invertebrate. No points awarded.)

Disease: Jaundice
(NOT a disease, a sign that can occur due to several diseases. No points.)

Actress: Jenna Jameson
(We’ll just let that one slide by. Two points for the double J.)

Color: Grape
(Actually an official Crayola color in the 2004 limited edition box released in North Carolina; what most of us refer to as Royal Purple. Other limited edition Crayola colors include Atomic Tangerine, Hog Wild Red, and Jazzberry Jam. One point.)

Vegetable: Mashed potatoes.
(The jury is still out on whether to count the “mashed” part. Would Apple Pie count as a fruit, they wonder?)

Emily brought the game and you can go see a selection of her work, as promised, on the Daily Snap.

Style and Substance

One of the reasons that my posting has been so flighty lately is because my Advanced Placement class had their portfolios due to the College Board this month. This required many stressful hours enlarging photos, creating slides, cutting out teeny-tiny labels, matting photographs with massive amounts of spray adhesive, and agonizing over essays.

It was all worth it in the end, not only because my nine advanced placement students are fabulous artists and fabulous people, but also because today they brought me pink flowers in a pink vase and an amazing Shirley Lev bracelet.

Who says teenagers don't have style?

I'm thinking we should post their remarkable photography over in the Daily Snap. Next week, prepare for high school photography on steroids.

Fake it to Make it

Today I took a few of the robotics kids over to a luncheon hosted by a major engineering corporation. We are often invited to meetings and conventions where we show off the robot and beg for sponsorships. Robots are not cheap and neither is the Hyatt.

As an advisor, I usually do not do much other than drive the school van, eat the luncheon food we are provided, and defer all questions to the kids.

The thing is, I really do not know anything official about the robot. I do not know how many lines of code it is programmed with or how the battery works or what the gear ratio is or any of the other highly important crap that makes a robot, you know, do things. That’s why we have mentors; mentors who are, like, engineers in real-life.

The master of ceremonies at today’s luncheon, however, kept referring to me as the “Technical Advisor” of Eagle Robotics. I am technically an advisor, but definitely not a “Technical Advisor” seeing as technically I do not know anything technical about the technicalities of the robot.

I did kind of like the title of Technical Advisor, so I took two bathroom breaks, ate the chocolate mousse dessert very slowly, and pretended like I was generously letting the kids answer the questions, while nodding my head in agreement at everything they said. All to avoid being asked anything that would wreck my promotion to advisor of all things technical.

I may not know anything technical about the robot, but I’ve got lying by omission down pat, you know, technically speaking.

Who's the Ringleader at this Circus?

It seems that there has been an up rise in the general stupidity of people in my life. On a daily basis these last couple weeks, I have had the urge to slam my palm into my forehead and let out an astonished groan at the idiocy that is surrounding me. On several occasions in the past week, I actually have slammed my right palm into my forehead while I raised my left hand to the sky in the universal gesture for “what the fuck were you thinking?”

Some of the more idiotic moments have occurred at school with my students, which should not come as a total shocker, them being teenagers and all, but the moments have been especially ludicrous in the last several weeks.

Let’s consider the following situations:

1.) Mrs. Wallace’s student, John, has six absences. After five absences John will not get credit for Mrs. Wallace’s class. John wants credit so he informs Mrs. Wallace that a substitute teacher incorrectly marked him absent. The reason, John explains, is that the sub did not call out names verbally but took attendance using the seating chart. John says he was sitting in the wrong seat that day. Because he was in the wrong seat and because the sub took roll using the seating chart, it follows that John was incorrectly marked absent. Right? EXCEPT MRS. WALLACE HAS NO SEATING CHART, YO. (Slams head repeatedly on desk.)

2.) Mrs. Wallace’s student steals a data projector. Half of the student body knows about stolen projector. Mrs. Wallace devises plan in which students sit silently and read advanced, college-level texts on tone control techniques, which will be followed by equally advanced, college-level examinations worth large percentages of their grades. Mrs. Wallace spreads word about impending plan. Before plan even takes effect, other students snitch. Data projector is returned. Thief student wants to if everything’s cool since the projector arrived back. (Slam, slam, slam.)

Oh! And it’s not just the kids. It’s adults, too:

3.) On my drive home today I was listening to the radio when the DJ announced the next song as “the soon-to-be most requested wedding song ever, You’re Beautiful by James Blunt.” Damn it, that’s totally what I wanted at MY wedding: a song about unrequited love that ends with the line “I will never be with you” because the woman in the song IS WITH ANOTHER MAN. If only that song were out in 2003 and I were a total moron. (Slams head into steering wheel.)

4.) Have I mentioned the lady at CSUB, who still did not find my transcripts, exasperatedly decided that fine, I would be enrolled in 30 minutes? Without transcripts. Which, alrighty then, why couldn't THAT have happened three weeks ago?

Somebody get me some Excedrin.

Viva Sephora

It is our third night in Las Vegas.

Because Vegas is less than four-hours from our home, we visit Vegas pretty often, at least a couple times a year, sometimes with family or friends and sometimes just the two of us. This visit, however, we have quite a large party with us, including 30 teenagers from the robotics team who we transported to Vegas in four rental mini vans.

Last night, due to robot changes and modifications, some of the team had to stay behind and we made the decision to split up. Each van was to be responsible for their own eating arrangements and entertainment. Although we only had two and half hours before room check, our van decided to take a whirlwind tour of the strip.

We parked at New York, New York, saw the lions in the MGM Grand, ate crepes in the Paris, and watched the fountain show in front of Bellagio. We ended our quick strip tour at the Aladdin, for the sole purpose of visiting the make-up mecca, Sephora.

If there is a place to take teenage girls, it is Sephora. They—and I—went bonkers with turquoise eye shadow, purple mascara, all sorts of face glitter, bright pink blush, and lots of shiny lip gloss. Even the boys joined in, sampling the Federic Fekkai hair products and expensive colognes.

By time we left, just in time to make curfew, the girls looked like Vegas showgirls and the boys smelled like the men that pick up on Vegas showgirls in seedy bars.

I think one boy had mascara on.

I, myself, had created a sensational oceanic display on my eyelids; purples and teals and shimmering silver glitter three inches thick, which I accented with pink blush and super-shine pink lipstick.

We arrived back at the hotel at 10:30 on the dot, phenomenal considering that our hotel is in the middle of nowhere, miles and miles away from the strip to keep the teenagers from the sin and indulgence promoted by the contemptible and wicked Las Vegas tourism industry. (I, of course, love all things contemptible and wicked, but I don’t make the hotel reservations.)

As we entered the hotel lobby, giggling and carrying on, it suddenly occurred to me that the lobby was full of people.

PARENTS!

Yay. The parents have arrived.

What a pleasure to meet you. I don't usually, um, look like this.

Speaking Of

For the past three days I have been milking the excuse that I am still on Maryland time, which has been getting me a lot of sympathy, but which, of course, makes absolutely no sense. Technically speaking, after a week of waking up at 6:30 in the morning in Maryland, waking up at 6:30 in California should seem like sleeping in until 9:30. But nobody really does the math so I think I should be able to exploit the time change for at least another day or two.

At lunch somebody kindly pointed out that just as I would be getting back on California time, the robotics team would be leaving for Vegas and I’d be all screwed up again.

Um, do you get all screwed up if you are not crossing time zones?

Speaking of robotics, the robot came in 13th out of 64 teams and we won the team spirit award.

Also speaking of robotics, I don’t know how it happened, but I got signed up to be in charge of building a structure out of PVC pipe. I cannot remember ever in my life even touching a piece of PVC pipe so this should be fun.

Also, if Kiley would ever burn me a CD of pictures, I would totally show you some of me in my PINK safety goggles. Kiley, I know you are reading this. My people, they want the pictures. They demand the pictures. The Daily Snap has nothing daily going on.

Also, every time I type goggles, my fingers accidentally type googles and it takes me a second to figure out why Word is underlining it as misspelled. 

Speaking of googles, y’all, I really want to work at Google:

1.)    Three free, gourmet meals a day

2.)    No dress code

3.)    Lava lamps

4.)    Onsite dry-cleaning

5.)    Google subsidized massages

6.)    Onsite foosball, pool table, ping pong, and beach volleyball

7.)    A resident pug

I mean, hello, we had free lunch here at school today and it was hot dogs and potato chips. Not exactly gourmet. Not exactly edible.

So, I have to go to Starbucks now and get some caffeine. Neeeed caffeine. I’m still on Maryland time.

To Be Continued...

Items that have been lost by the California State University, Bakersfield satellite campus, from which Will graduated and to which I applied:

Will's application
Will's transcripts
Will's CTAP Portfolio
My writing sample
My GPA verification
My transcripts, episode I
My transcripts, episode II
My transcripts, episode III

I find this mildly disturbing and rather hilarious. Luckily, my place is being held, I just need to send in one more set of transcripts to reinforce the three sets I've already hand delivered to their office.

Caramel Frap, Extra Extra Caramel, Extra Extra Whip

Things teenagers want to eat: chocolate muffins, Starbucks, hamburgers, Starbucks, chili fries, greasy appetizers, pizza, Starbucks, candy, goldfish crackers, Starbucks. After returning home from six days with teenagers, I decided that I was totally going on a diet.

I’ve been doing very well so far.

Breakfast: Coffee, Ruffles
Lunch: Coke, Zingers

Ridiculous Questions and Requests on the Trip to Annapolis with 35 Teenagers:

Airport check-in lady: Can you have all the kids arrange themselves in alphabetical order?

Student: The National Mall? Cool! What kind of stores do they have?

Student: Can we just go to a REAL mall instead?

Crazy lady at the competition: Can you please have your kids sit down and stop cheering when their robot competes?

Girl students: Can we have boys in our room?

Boy students: Can we have girls in our room?

No, no, no, no, no and no. But thank you for asking.

We took the kids to Washington DC on our way to Annapolis for some touring. The typical teenage response: Vietnam Memorial, blah, blah, Washington Monument, blah, blah, blah, National Gallery of Art, blah. We’re so tired. Soooo tired. HEY!! STARBUCKS!! VENTI FRAPPUCCINOS!! World War II Memorial, blah, blah, American History, blah, blah, Le Ballet Mécanique, blaaaaaaaah, another STARBUCKS!! WHOOHOO!! LATTES!! Can we go to the hotel? We’re tired. We’re sooooo tired. Caffeine has no effect on us. We want to go to bed.

Of course, as soon as we got to the hotel they immediately began jumping on the beds and running around the lobby and What? Tired? We’re not tired! Can we go buy candy? Can we go get STARBUCKS? Please. Please. Curfew? Why a curfew? Can we get virgin daiquiri from the bar? Can we have boys in our rooms?

I started playing my own version of a drinking game in which I took a drink every time a student missed check-in or drank a Frappuccino and, y’all, I am still drunk. Yup.

And now I am going to bed.

Cookies, Crazy Socks, and Class

It is that dreadful time of year again. The time of year when I turn into a greedy, gluttonous, shifty addict. I hide out in my storage room to secretly indulge. I lie about my supply, claiming that I am all out of stock so that I won't have to share.

It is Girl Scout Cookie time.

I bought my first two boxes to help a student reach her sales goal; all subsequent boxes have been purchased out of sheer necessity. Addiction is a bad, bad thing.

My name is Janet Wallace and I am a Samoasaholic. Also, a Thinmintaholic. Oh, and a Dosidoaholic. I'm not so much into the Trefoils. Although, if you gave me a box of the Trefoils, I'd totally eat the whole box with hardly any complaints.

(Segue from cookies to crazy socks.)

I got a chain letter in the mail today. The last time I got a chain letter it was one of those recipe trees where I had to send a recipe to the top person on the list and I was supposed to get 1,300 recipes in return or something like that. It did not work. I think I got three recipes.

This chain is a crazy sock chain and I am honestly really excited about it. Apparently, if I send out one pair of crazy socks and six letters, I’ll get 36 crazy socks in return. I want 36 pairs of crazy socks. Waaaaant them. Neeeeeed them. We all need funky socks to "boost our outfits" as the chain letter states.

I am looking for a few good people to be a part of my chain. People who want crazy socks and are going to follow through on sending out the letters and sending out the socks, unlike the recipe tree people who did not close the deal. I need people who are organized! People who can follow instructions! People who can put stamps on envelopes! People who have the time go to Target and get a cute pair of stripey socks! I am once removed in the chain so not only do you have to be good, but your people have to be good.

I know you have good people; you know you want 36 pairs of crazy socks. Send me an email if you’re in.

(Segue from crazy socks to prom dresses.)

Last night, we received an automated phone call from the school informing us of the prom dress code. As chaperones, we need to know the prom dress code so we can enforce it at the door. Many of the kids had also received the call and we were reviewing the guidelines in class today. I reminded them that backless dresses, dresses with slits higher than mid-thigh, and keyhole or cutout style dresses were unacceptable. One girl, at hearing this, announced that she already had purchased a cutout dress, but then decided that it was no big deal—she would just wear a tank top underneath.

Cutout dresses, in case you, like I, didn’t realize the new trends in prom couture:

Teenagers have so much class, don't you think?

The Sweetest Sound is Silence

According to the 10 Commandments of Human Relations, the sweetest music to anyone's ears is the sound of his or her own name.

As a teacher, there is nothing more annoying.

I hear my name 300 times a day and it almost always means writing a pass, answering a question, locating the stapler, lending out a paperclip, fixing a computer error....

CSUSucka

Although I don't plan on being a teacher for long, I was required to apply to a credentialing program so that I could retain my job, and my current pay, for the 2006-07 school year.

I did not take the application process very seriously because the local school to which I am applying does not have very high standards. I turned in my application two weeks late and, honestly, I had thrown the application together in less than an hour. I needed two letters of recommendation and got one from a fellow teacher and the other from a student because there were no other adults around at the time. There was a small space on the application for a personal statement and, although I had the option of attaching a separate sheet of paper (preferably typed), I elected to handwrite a two-sentence statement in the provided area. To make up for these inadequacies I attached my 50 page senior thesis, the one for which I won the University Writing Award, as my “writing sample.”

Two days later, I went to an admissions interview. One of the interview panelists fell promptly asleep while the other two asked me complex questions such as: Do you feel it is important that teachers can read and write well? Do you feel that you read and write well? Tough ones.

Today I got two envelopes in the mail from the University.

The first letter claimed that my application was incomplete and that I should bring in the following items for admittance: my transcripts (I turned in two sets that they must have misplaced), a writing sample (how could they lose the 50-page thesis?), and proof that I have at least a 2.6 GPA (are they serious? I could go Ivy League with my grade point average, which they could easily conclude by checking my transcript, two copies of which were provided in the file I submitted).

The second letter I received, dated three days later, contained a letter welcoming me to the program and congratulating me on my admittance.

Not to sound like a snob, but what the hell kind of University accepts people with an unverified GPA on an application turned in two weeks late, which contains letter of reference written by a 17 year old and no transcripts, personal statement, or writing sample?

Yo, homies, I like totally made it in to collage. Those suckas do’nt no what they are in four.

Thank You for Calling Eagle Robotics

On Wednesday night, I left robotics well after midnight, only to return 6 short hours later for the unveiling of the new robot, TnT. It has been a long and tiring week spent mostly on campus.

This week I have eaten most of my meals in a classroom (at one point I dumped out my purse and gave a kids $8 in quarters to go buy Jack in the Box Tacos at 11pm), shopped online from a classroom, made personal phone calls from a classroom, wrapped Valentine gifts in a classroom, paid bills in a classroom, made important fashion decisions in a classroom, fixed my hair and makeup in a classroom, and slept in a classroom on a pillow made out of a sweatshirt.

I'm beginning to wonder why we even bother paying rent.

This afternoon I called my neighbor teacher who is also one of robotics advisors and, like us, has spent every waking hour at school. He answered "Room 231" which would have been totally normal had I dialed the school. Except that I had dialed his cell phone.

You know you are spending too much time on campus when you answer your personal cell phone with your classroom information.

The robot ships on Tuesday and we will be back to your regularly-scheduled, robot-free Slice of Pink. At least until mid-March when we fly to Annapolis to meet up with the robot. There's nothing like taking 35 teenagers cross country on a red-eye flight.