Bathtubs and Gators

Sometimes I don’t know how to start my blogs. I have so many unwritten stories because I can’t begin. This is one of those.

Anyone I’ve ever told this has laughed and then informed me that the Everglades are nothing like it. To all of you I say Boo. Don’t ruin my imagination with your grown up nonsense. Some people conjure a beach in their minds. Maybe you go to the mountains. This is my place. Here I can think. Cry. Exist. Unfrustrate (Unfrustrate: The act of becoming frustrated undone. ex. Now that we have talked I am unfrustrated with you.)

Items needed to create Jessica’s place of solace:

1. Bathwater

2. Green shower curtain—Any will do but green works best

3. Shower water

When I was little I would turn on the shower, stop the tub, and lay down. The hot water would start rising and the shower water would bounce and make a mist that stung my face. Pretty soon my bathroom was steamy and humid and I became an alligator in the Everglades. Somehow it helped me calm down, relax, and process my life. I wish I could say I outgrew my childish fancies but to this day I still stop the tub and become Sasha the Herbivore gator who lives on 249 Marshvale Drive Everglades, FL 91304.

Q & A Session—

1. Are you aware that the Everglades look/feel/are nothing at all like that?

a. Yes. I don’t care. Of all the many places I want to see in the world I don’t know if I’ll ever go there. I don’t want my imagination to be overruled.

2. Why an Herbivore gator?

a. Have you ever watched movies about how alligators eat? It’s always the brave/stupid baby that is eaten. The baby is to trusting, walks right up to the water, drinks in a big satisfying gulp, and next thing you know BAM. The alligator strikes. Sasha the alligator is definitely an herbivore.

3. Do you know the difference between alligators and crocodiles?

a. No. For all I know crocodiles live in the Everglades.

I do think that Sasha could make an awesome children’s book. J— my awesome roomie, we may have to postpone our desert princess book and possibly you can illustrate Sasha and her adventures.

[Insert Sappy Vampire Title Here]

I’ve read the Twilight series. Correction—I’ve skimmed the Twilight series. Just enough to understand the story and wonder if the author had an editor…or spell check. It’s not that it isn’t a fantastic idea but the whole “I’m sooooo in love with him cus he’s sooooo totally hot, LOL” deal, well it’s not really for me.

Since the boom of vampire-crazy teenage girls I have noticed a worrisome change in reading options. Libraries all over the country have begun to designate sections solely to vampires.

Story Line Option 1: Girl falls in love with vampire. Should he kill her or will he love her back? Blah, blah, blah. Shoot me in the face.

Story Line Option 2: Girl wakes up a vampire. Oh no! Now all she wants is blood. She runs amuck kicking butt and sucking people dry. Until…she falls in love and discards blood once and for all. Bleh!

I blame SM for the crisis that has befallen our beloved literature. And to right the aforementioned crisis I am writing my own vampire book. I understand none of you have enough time to go to the library, locate designated vampire section, and then read the whole book so I have, kindly abridged it here.

[Insert sappy title here—something about midnight, a silver moon, blood, and love]

Girl sees boy. He’s dreamy. Although really, really white. Oh well, still sooo totally fab looking. Maybe he should think of tanning? Why is he so white? But dang he is just gorg.

Boy sees girl. She looks pretty…He walks towards her. Slowly. Their eyes meet. She holds her breath the way all girls do when a cute boy is around. She stumbles out a hello. He smiles. Then kills her and sucks her blood. She did look pretty…pretty much just like a delish steak.

The end.

If you don’t like that ending then you are in luck. This is a Choose Your Own Adventure.

Alternate Ending: Vampires don’t exist.

Side Note: I don’t mean to hate on fantasy literature. It is actually my favorite genre. When it is well written and has a point. Unfortunately, I do not count some girl drooling over some boy as a plot.

Fish Sticks for the Hippies

I’m not a member of PETA (Secret—I had to look up the correct acronym spelling) but I am a big fan of the Earth, and animals, and trees. For example, I love getting caught in thunderstorms. The smell of rich, dark earth stops my feet and I can’t help but exist within the moment. Stilled and trapped. Until of course it begins to hail. No one likes rain that much.

Newport Beach Dock—There are tons of fishermen. They toss the line out and within 10 seconds pull it back with three fish. Hooked. I’m pretty sure fish sticks are bigger than these fish. My curiosity is going crazy. These people have coolers full of nugget-sized fish. What do they do with them? I ask the nearest fishermen. Possible mistake. He doesn’t speak much English and I’m being generous with that assessment. The following conversation ensues—

What do you do with all of these fish? Do you eat them? Are they for bait?

No. Just catch.

You don’t use them for anything? At all? Not even for catching bigger fish?

No.

(I think it was at this point I may have “accidentally” switched to attacking. Poor man.)

So…why are you catching them? Why don’t you throw them back? You don’t even eat them? Are you kidding? Do you know how many fish you have?

(I’m going to guess this is the point where he decided lying would be the best way to get rid of the “crazy girl who cares about the fish”.)

Oh no, no we eat them.

How do you cook them?

Cook?

Yea. How do you cook them? Do you fry them? Filet them? What spices do you use?

Oh uh well we filet them. You know and use…(at this point I saw a seal. Considered tossing a fish to the creature. Decided against stealing. Honestly though I just can’t throw that far.) I smile and say bye.

Utah’s Free Fishing Day—June 4. I’m excited. I’m gonna be ticked if all I catch is Fish Bites. After all, I didn’t write down his recipe.

And that is how I burned my students

Realization

4 days before the quarter ends is when the majority of students begin to care about their grade.

Start of class on that day equals chaos.

I have students surrounding me on all sides.

Throwing papers at me.

Shouting questions.

I feel as though I’m on Wall Street at a stock exchange.

Claustrophobia sets in.

Panic.

Demand they sit down. Attempt to start class.

My classroom door opens. I’m looking at two cops.

“There is a fire in your class,” one calmly announces as he shuts the door.

Thought 1—Not cops. Firemen.

Thought 2—A fire? Where? Why?

Thought 3—So that’s what the firemen look like.

Thought 4—Fire drill. I’m supposed to pull the fire alarm.

At this point students have resurrounded me.

Redemand they return to their seats.

Think.

Fire protocol has completely escaped me.

Announce as calmly as possible to Mrs. S. that there is a fire in the room.

She freaks out.

Forget to tell her about the firemen just repeat that there is a fire.

She spots the firemen. Freaks out more.

Realizes she doesn’t know where the fire alarm is and begins lifting papers off the walls.

Dashes into the hall.

Kids resurround me.

They try to exit the building. Like a good teacher I stop them.

Blaring noise.

Realize it is the fire alarm and have kids exit class.

Attempt to keep them together.

Am informed about 20 times that I “blend right in”.

Fireman informs me kids burned to death since I didn’t evacuate them.

Think of their attempts to leave the classroom.

Congratulate myself since they listened to me.

Question whether or not my grading was destroyed in the fire.

Fireman doesn’t think this is funny.

Informs me the school failed the fire drill.

Reenter classroom.

Attempt to make up for lost time.

It’s too late my kids are grumpy because I let them all burn to death.

Side note—For those of you who were worried, my grading was not destroyed.

Rather I put it to good use and built myself a fort.

Literally, I have a small forest that sits before me.

It makes me sad.

I donate a dollar to the “Save the Rainforest” campaign.

Cave Women and Bieber Fever

Teacher In-service today. Note: This day is better when you aren’t a teacher. As I sat listening (mostly doodling) to differentiated instruction techniques and summative assessment ideas I happened to notice a yummy piece of eye candy on my left. Kicker—I don’t think under normal circumstances I’d find this man attractive. Has dealing with tiny humans all day warped my view on attractive men?

Typical Week: Sunday—1:00 Church. 3 hours. Men my age. Or older. I’m not a complainer.

Monday-Friday—7:00 School. 8 hours. Boys. Age: 15-18. Baby faced, no facial hair, high voices.

I’m being dramatic. I have more adult interaction than that. I have my cooperating teacher. Mrs. S. I eat in the English Dept. office. All women.

If there is an opposite of the Bieber Fever then I think I’ve caught it. So have my roommates. Non-Bieber Fever—A condition where men (must be over the age of 21 to qualify) appear more attractive. Are the defined jaw lines, five o’clock shadows, and deep voices an illusion? Are we just deprived due to the forced interaction and somewhat constant attention of 16-year old children?

I must admit that after the “hitting on”, attempted flirty comments, and “whispered” words (Kids can’t whisper. The ability to hear everything they’re saying doesn’t even take effort.) I can’t help but enjoy the attentions of an actual man; once a week when I happen to run into one.

**Note: Hyperbole. The use of exaggeration as a rhetorical device. Minus my desire for a strong jaw line and scratchy face. It’s the cave woman in me.

Fast Cars and Vocab.

I write best at night. When everyone is asleep. No distractions. Lights out. Just me, a blanket, a pillow. The harsh glare of my computer increasing brain creativity. It’s 2:12 pm. My inner clock is not off. I simply am procrastinating.

When I tell someone I’m teaching high school the first thing they tell me is not to be one of “those teachers”. -Disclaimer. Because I look like I’m 16 does not mean I like 16 year old boys. Not to mention that’s illegal. And gross.-

Since moving to Vegas the amount of blushing I have done has increased. Exponentially. Of the 8 hours I spend “playing teacher” 6 of those are spent beet red and flushed. I have a half hour for lunch. I have a hour prep. Permanent sunburn. Completely believable.

A kid, or child if you will, asked me if I dated boys under 17. I don’t. But he has a car. I took this for some logical explanation as to why the rule should be broken. Life must be simpler at 16. I worry for the shock they will experience at 17 when suddenly life complicates. Teenage angst must triple.

I told the kids my age. I wish I’d had a camera to capture the horrified looks. Yes, children, 22 is indeed a dreadful old age.

Vocabulary word-Facetious.

Toga Parties and Cologne

The Ask:

I’m 17. I meet a guy. Later the same day I hear a tapping at my window. He’s throwing pebbles. Cute. He asks me on a date for that evening and then runs to my door to give me a rose. Sprayed with cologne. Lots. I think this may have been the most romantic set up to any date I have ever been on.

The Outfit:

Toga party. I don’t know if any girl has ever agonized over an outfit more than I did. I ended up decided on my light blue sheets. Classy. Three hours to get dressed was not nearly enough. In the end if I didn’t move too much the hundreds of safety pins would be sure to do their job.

The Date:

5:00. He picks me up. We are walking. In our togas. Across campus. The BYU Idaho campus isn’t that big but it’s big enough I don’t want to walk across it, especially in a toga. We arrive at the toga party. It doesn’t start till 9:00. Time: 5:15. Awesome. No back up plan. We go into the lounge. Play a game of pool. I win. Play another. I win again. We decide to play foosball. Better choice. We’re out of options. Time: 6:30. Remove togas. We sit and talk. We watch a movie. Time: 9:00. Music. Finally. Reapply togas. Exit lounge. I’m ready to dance. I love dancing. We decide to leave. Time 9:05. I’m disappointed. He takes me home.

The Lesson:

No toga parties. No dates with boys who spray roses with cologne.