A good day on the block...

I awoke this morning, and wasn't to thrilled that I had to get up extra early. You see, I had a parent meeting this morning. Parent meetings can make a great day really bad, or they can make a bad day your worst ever. I have had some positive ones in my day... but they are few and far between. This one was awesome. It was a good reprieve from the norm. These parents are REAL 'parents'!! They knew and put full responsibility for their child's actions/grades, on THEIR CHILD! It was amazing! So often these days, a lot of parents want to make it my fault their child is failing.

My students were even pretty well behaved today. I usually have total chaos on Fridays. Especially when the weather is changing. I even took a class to the computer lab, which usually spells out disaster. They were silent and WORKING! WOWZERS!

The highlight however, came when I brought a class to the library to meet our author speaker, Rupert Issacson (author of The Horse Boy). I bought a copy of The Horse Boy and he signed it for me. I always love getting an autographed copy of a book. I had one of those dork moments in the presence of someone famous. I told him he had my dream job. He replied (and imagine a thick SUPER AWESOME british accent), "What's that? Being a writer?" "Uh-huh," was all I could get out. "Well, that's easy!" he says,"All you have to do is write a book!" I laughed, almost sarcastically. Then he had the nerve to ask if I was writing anything right now. OF COURSE I AM! But I feel totally unworthy to even talk about my meager little writing excursions on the 'ol Mac to this published author. I reply sheepishly, "Well, I have been playing with a few fiction pieces that haven't turned into anything, and well... a memoir about my journeys as a teacher." "Which one do you totally love?" He asked. I answered that the memoir was my fav at the moment, and we preceded to have a conversation about ME... WRITING... it was very cool, and extremely out of place feeling. I was glad he didn't laugh, or respond with a "that's nice" or something else you might expect from a "big timer".

I get home to be greeted with an eager chef husband, who wants to go to Central Market to get goodies for dinner. He feels the need to grill me a steak... a $35 ribeye.... No one is complaining!

As I draw the evening to a close, here I am at 9:45 at night, sipping some super lovely Pinot Grigio I discovered at HEB (Bandit, comes in a 500mL box-bottle.... I can drink the whole thing and not be a super lush!), smelling the grill churning out my late night dinner, with my favorite cat Baylee sitting beside me... He is so ready for the weekend, so he can spend some good time with his momma.

Spring is upon us! and with Spring comes new. I may just try this author thing out. Everyone has a story, right?

He's everywhere!!

I have a small peach tree in my back yard. It maybe stands shoulder high to me. Over spring break I got the novel idea I was going to garden... I stepped outside to find TONS of these pink delicate blossoms all over it. I have another, reaching 8 feet tall. This one is still sleeping off the winter, and doesn't have a single leaf or bloom on it! I was thrilled to see these. A little sign of God's beauty and springtime. This day I decided to get down and dirty, and I was by myself. I hate digging in the dirt. I get scared every time I start to get into long grass and weeds. "If I find a snake, Satan himself, meandering in my garden..." I am telling this to my husband to warn him if he hears the 12 gauge go off, not to fear, it is just me, blowing away the devil in the back yard. Luckily I didn't have to do that, but there is something into digging in the dirt that is metaphorical for so many things.

Life is that way. So many times we feel like an abandoned flower bed. We started out with such a wonderful goal, clean, beautiful, new. As time goes on, the beauty dries up and dies-- unwanted friends come in, and stay longer than we wanted them to. Ugly grasses take roots, like bad habits and bury deep in the soil, that it is virtually impossible to get them up; unless you take a trowel and make big holes-- scarring the earth, but patching it back up little by little. I found a bed like that back there.

After digging, and digging, pulling and scratching at the dirt with my cultivator, I found a row of small fence pickets... and within, 2 vines, looking like skeleton sticks jetting out of the dirt. One had buds of leaves bursting through, just like they were trying to once upon a time...

I talked to the vine, admiring how it was trying to be brave, amidst the weeds, grass and scary ant hills that had taken up residence in it's heart. I rescued those vines, and now they are bursting with greenery. I still have no idea what they are. They were left here by the previous homeowner, abandoned and forgotten. I gave them life again! Someone else I know is good at that, and if you just let him take his tools to your weeds, some real pretty flowers can come out of it. Let him get his trowel. Just sit there and let him figure out how to garden... sometimes you have to transplant a flower for it to thrive. Grow where you are planted.

stop the madness!

This is what I have been dealing with since I got home today.... Baylee is blatantly protesting me working at home. I shoo him off of the pile, only for him to return again. He head butts me in the face, and says, "Momma... you have been at work all day. It is time to hang up the grading pen, and spend time with me..." I wish I could do that. How many people are there in this world that clock out at the end of the day, and that's where it ends? Not us teachers! Normally bringing work home is NOT my policy. With Jason being a teacher too, we would never talk to each other if he and I brought grading home. However, it is progress report time once again, and here I am... scrambling to get it done. Maybe I need to assign less work... or become a published author, PDQ. Till then, I am off to find some cat nip to distract the protestor...

Spring break in a nut shell...

Warm sun
planting
rainy day
planting
Houston
visit with parents
sister and brother-in-law come
mall time
I suck at grilling...
missing my Jason.

oil change : pap test :: waiting in line at the dmv : root canal

I wrote this story a while back, and feel it deserves to be a part of the block. I have entered it into a funny women contest... we'll see if I am worthy. Until then, party on.

The Oil Change Anomaly—having a vagina does not mean I don’t know anything about cars…

Chevrolet was so kind to include a nice message center on the gauge cluster of the model I own. An idiot light, if you ask my father. It just so happened that the idiot light had been on for quite some time, and this idiot had ignored it… for several months… Ok, so it has been like 7 months since my last oil change! Big deal! I know, I know, I am just sticking a gun to my truck’s head waiting to pull the trigger. I know I need to do it, but if I don’t do it myself, I have to go to one of those places, where the nasty oil stained men all believe my IQ is smaller then the 15mm socket they are going to have to use to get off the nut to my oil pan. Assholes… The day has come where I finally cave, and get in Ol’ Blue to cruise on over to the nearest oil changing facility, to either embarrass the man behind the counter, or to make everyone in the petroleum scented waiting room think I am a heinous bitch.
I pull into the Texaco Xpress-Lube (and lord knows you should bring some, at the prices they charge…) and pull into a parking spot. No sooner have I turned the key off, a burly man, bald shaved head, looking like he just got off of parole, comes sauntering up to my car. This guy looks quite triumphant as I waltz out of my pickup, giant Coach purse in tow, tilt my diva purple-leopard sunglasses and say, “I just need an oil change.” I toss him my keys and go into the waiting room, where you feel dirty just breathing in the air. I wish I would have brought me some Starbucks, I sigh… then remember I have a packet of their VIA stashed in my purse for emergencies… I look at the pot they have in the corner of coffee that may have well been used motor oil, and water that was tinted about the same shade… no gracias, I am not about to die of cholera infested water today… I sit down.
Moments later, oil change man has come to the counter with a piece of paper… I already know what is about to happen… He is going to call me up and tell me all the millions of filters that need to be changed in my truck or some other crap. I think they do this to women because they think we have not a clue in this world what is going on with a vehicle… and if you happen to be one of those women.. then God bless your poor wretched soul… The day I got a driver’s permit was the day my Daddy made me change the oil and work on it myself. Here he goes… “Miss uh Woodell?” “WoodALL” I correct him. Seriously…. 2 syllables.. it’s phonetic.. Wood, All. “You have 125,000 miles on that truck, right?” “Something like that…” I reply. “Well, you see… there is some stuff that needs to happen to keep this thing a runnin’.” He starts jotting down a list of fluids and differentials and filters… high mileage oil, after the hen scratches and calculator buttons flying… my $40 oil change has now just become $700. I stare at him with a look that could scare the devil himself… “No, just a standard oil change… with an oil filter.” “But Ma’am!..” I interrupt, “Oil… Change… only….” Now he says he needs my address to put in the system… He’s probably going to come slash my tires later. “203, Jennifer Ln. and that’s here in Bastrop” I tell him. “Jennifer Ln.! Well, dead gum! You live on your own street don’t ye?” He replies, with a thick twang that would even make Jeff Foxworthy want to puke. “Well did they name it after you or was it already like that?” He asks. “Already there,” I humor him, “anything else?” “Nope, that’ll do it!” he says, and I go sit back down. The next 10 minutes go by like hours as another woman comes in with her daughter’s Lexus. I hear her go through the same thing… like a moron, she accepts the deal and sits down and tells me her life story… Does it look like I want to talk to you? I think to myself. Once I’m free, I write the check, get into my truck, to discover the asshole has changed my radio station! Why do they do that? Do you need to listen to my radio that bad? I peel out of the parking lot and pass Autozone… next time, I am doing it myself…

On writing...

So, I have perused several sites for writing and joined a few over the course of several days... and what I am beginning to discover is a SUPER humbling experience that is a slight bitter pill to swallow. I don't have a shit clue how to write. There! I said it! I am a WRITING TEACHER!!! But does that mean I have the audacity to attempt to become a published writer? BOY do I have a lot to learn! So here I am muse, I am your clay. Mold me into something super, this is what I pray...

Not every girl needs pompoms...

Not every girl needs pompons. In fact, it would be a lot better if some girls didn't have pompons. Why does our society feel like we need to give everyone a chance to be something they are not? I don't understand it. In life, there isn't always ice cream for everyone. . . This is my view from on top of the soap box.

A bittersweet cookie...

Basketball season ended at our house on Friday. Such a bittersweet cookie. I have never seen so many boys cry in 11one gym. One of those boys happened to be mine. My heart ached for all of them... losing by eight points is so hard. Especially when you are ready to keep moving on. That's a bitter pill to swallow. The sweet morsel to this tale happens when I get home from School, like I did today, and my darling coach is home before dinner time! That is when things are the best. We get to meet each other, almost like it is the first time, and get caught up on what has happened the last six months. Oh Basketball! It brings me many, many joys... but I like having my coach home the best. Hello! My name is Jenn, remember me?