Keeping work at work

We just started a new semester.  And last week, I only brought work home once!  It was amazing what a difference that made to my home and family life. 

• I didn't have to say, "Not now honey," when N wanted to draw with me, when M wanted to show me her latest scheme, when T wanted to discuss a trip our family might take. 
• I was able to complete all my normal household tasks of an evening (dishes, laundry, pickup, etc.) while it was still evening and not actually yet night. 
• I exercised. 
• One evening, I even sat with my feet up and played with my iPad. 

I want weeks like that more often.  But they are way harder to come by than you might think.  Each year that I have worked at this middle school, more balls have been added to the pile I juggle each day, and more minutes of that precious prep time (teacher talk for our few limited minutes of non-supervisory time at school--the time when we build lessons, call parents, make copies, clean up after the kids, go to the bathroom, eat lunch, etc.) have been taken away. (as well as any promise of the little raises and bonuses that make it financially tenable--I'd have to take a second job if it weren't that the tech industry pays my husband double what I make).


Between my first and second year at my school, I gained two new things to prep, and lost 45 minutes of prep time.  There's something really skewed about this thinking.

This year, I didn't gain any new classes, clubs, or other things to prep for the kids, but I did gain two new PLCs (Professional Learning Communities).  We can debate the value of this particular work sometime if you'd like, but valueable or not, it's a time sink.  And time is the most valuable commodity of my life.

So, the question is back to balance. The whole idea that got me started blogging.  How do we get everything we need and want out of each day? How can I be prepared to educate and inspire 150 middle schoolers, take care of the needs of a household and a house, be there for my family and friends, write, exercise, and still find a little me time?

Step one has got to be leaving work at work.  I'm afraid it's not realistic to think I will never bring home papers to grade or presentations to prepare, but for this semester, my goal is to keep that to a minimum. Because I love my work.  I love my students. But I love my family more.

3 weeks overdue

Damnit. I was doing so well, too. I had quite nearly kept up with weekly blogging.  Then January came. And now it's been just short of 3 weeks. Where did the time go?

Is it just the way of resolutions? Three months then you fall off the wagon? I'd like to think I'm stronger than that. So, why didn't I keep it up? What have I been doing instead? Let's see . . .

• I read. 3 books, in a row. Started a fourth.
• I used my new Kitchenaid Stand Mixer to make a cake. 
• I took a mini-vacation with my family to Great Wolf Lodge. 
• I cleaned. A lot. Then did it again. Families are messy. And housework is something you can achieve even when you feel brain-dead and woogy on cold meds.
• I prepared lesson plans, graded tests, attended meetings, called parents, and generally attended to the business of school. 
• I played with my daughters.
• I wrote several chapters for my novel.
• I wrote an essay for a contest.
• I fought a cold, mostly successfully
• I fought fleas
• I hosted the grandparents, twice. 
• I went to the movies, twice. 
• I went to my reading group and my writing group meetings
• I let Barnes and Nobles buy me lunch because I'm a teacher. Thanks B&N!

That makes me feel a little better. The word "wrote" is in that list twice. So, are literary endeavors like "writing group" and "reading group" and reading books.   Even my movies were sort of literary: Sherlock Holmes and TinTin.  Plus, I'm really happy to have done all these things. Maybe I haven't been spinning my wheels and wasting time after all. Though, I notice my sister is absent from my list. Hmmmm. . . we need a girls' night.

It's all about priorities--and blogging apparently wasn't as near the top of that list as it has been.  Still. I think it's working. When I sit down to write, it's no longer a two hour warm up before I find any flow.  So, this is definitely still worth doing. Thanks to anyone who bothers reading my meanderings. Somehow, it's easier to do this journal-esque sort of writing if I believe someone is going to read it.

So, back to it. My novel gets the afternoon. Thank goodness for days off with open day care!

Grocery Lust

Holidays always give me grocery lust. I have to stay out of places like A Southern Season, Trader Joe's, and Whole Foods. Even Weaver Street Market, our local co-op market,  isn't safe.  They are all full of wonderful things to eat that I have never tried and wonderful exotic ingredients for things I have never made. 

If I walk in to one of these stores, I could bankrupt us.  Once grocery lust takes me over, I could end up buying kitchen tools I don't know how to use and ingredients I don't know how to prepare.  Like it goes most of the time when you give in to sheer lust, it doesn't end well.  You gorge yourself. You don't feel well. You get fatter. You hate yourself afterwards.

It's not limited to the stores either. There are ads, cooking magazines, podcasts, emails from foodie websites. It's kind of funny, because I'm pretty immune to advertising. If I wasn't already thinking about buying something, it takes more than a clever commercial to make me want it.  You can send me ads for electronics, cars, toys, books, garden items, etc. all day and never get any of my money.  But food.  That's different.

I think it goes back to spending my 20's in Alaska.  It was my big adventure post-bachelor's degree.  My then-husband and I packed our bags and moved to Alaska. We ended up staying just shy of ten years.  It was a place that demanded much and gave much. There was so much to love about life there--the people, the landscape, the feeling of accomplishment that just living there gave me. 

But not the groceries.

Alaska, especially small-town rural Alaska, is not a foodie paradise.  Going to the grocery store is a study in lowered expectations.  Depending on the weather, even simple staple items like milk and bread may not be in stock.  You cannot rely on fresh ingredients, and every meal involves a backup plan full of cans and boxed items. People hunt and berry-pick, and it's not just a hobby.  It's a way to have something fresh in your palate.

When I would visit my family or travel in the 48, I would go food crazy. I would eat out for as many meals as I could afford, the more exotic the meal, the better.  I would go to the grocery and spend $50 in the produce section alone, then go spread it out on my mom's table and just smell it, hold it, feel it in my hands, giggle over it with my then-little daughter. When I moved to Kansas, my first home in the 48 after Alaska, I hit every farmer's market within an hour's drive.  There were whole days when I didn't actually eat meals, just a string of produce items.

It's the kind of appreciation that can only derive from deprivation.

Even now that I've lived in the 48 for another ten years after leaving Alaska, I still get that kind of grocery lust, that sensual pleasure in good food. 

My now-and-always-husband likes to take me out to eat at least in part because of how much I obviously enjoy my food. I'm that person who is bouncing in her chair and making yummy noises and gets really excited over something new on the plate. I'm asking the wait staff about the ingredients, what kind of tea is in my iced tea and what that new green is in my salad. I can't help myself. At least it makes him smile.

So, I made it through, and only bought a few things this year.  Weaver Street stollen bread for breakfast today.  Tomorrow, it might be safe to go into the grocery store again.  I know I'll never fully control my grocery lust, but I can manage it, by letting it out here and there, for the really good stuff.

Not Yet Professional Ballet

If you're thinking of seeing a production of the Nutcracker this holiday season, let me wholeheartedly recommend that you seek out a not-yet-professional production.

I just had the best ballet experience of my life, watching a local youth ballet perform it at a showing for a special needs audience.

I'm a strange sort of ballet fan.  Mostly, I find the storytelling weak, but I'm drawn into the visuals: the costumes, the sets, and, most of all, the athleticism.  As a woman who trips over hallways (just hallways, empty ones, with nothing in them), I admire the things these dancers can get their bodies to do, with grace.

Watching these young people with this particular audience was utterly amazing. 

When you watch a professional ballet, everything looks effortless.  I know that's supposed to be part of the artistry, but it's part of why it doesn't thrill me.  It seems cold.

But this show, featuring young performers who may someday be those professionals, had such heart, such spark!  When an especially difficult leap or lift or landing was accomplished, you could feel the joy.  Maybe it's the teacher in me, or the mom, but I found it very moving to watch these young people reaching new levels of accomplishment.  And they were definitely very accomplished.

And watching with this audience!  I was worried about taking my very active four-year-old to a ballet, even a family friendly one, but I figured the special needs audience would be a little more accepting of any of her outbursts. 

What I didn't realize was that who you watch with can be part of the joy of the show. It was like watching a jazz performance. Instead of waiting politely for the prescribed bowing moments, they called out and cheered when something impressive happened, clapped whenever they felt moved.  And their energy fed the performers' energy and it was magic.

I wish the ballet was always like this.

Christmas in FlipFlops

Today, my family and I went to a tree farm and bought our Christmas tree.  The man who sold it to us was full of the right kind of charm, in his flannel shirt and with his well-used tools.  It was a lovely, old-fashioned Christmas experience, very Currier and Ives . . . except that it was nearly 70 degrees.

We get winter in North Carolina. Sometimes.

Last winter, for example, we got to go sledding twice.  We missed several days of school, because even a mild dusting of snow causes mass panic here.  It cracks my older daughter and me up though.  We spent her early childhood in Alaska, where there was a lot of snow, but never a Snow Day.

This winter hasn't arrived yet.  I've worn a jacket twice so far, and only in the morning. Santa, in the Christmas parade, looked a little sweaty.

Mostly, I've enjoyed the milder weather in my new home.  It's rather nice not to feel like I'm taking my life into my hands to walk my dog on a December day.  And I really like having fresh produce any time I want.

But it still feels kind of wrong to buy my Christmas tree in short sleeves and flip-flops. 

My sister spent three years in Hawaii and she always said that Christmas didn't feel very Christmasy there.  I get what she means.  My images of the season have fires in the fireplace and cute hat and mitten sets on my girls.  Hot chocolate really tastes better if you're cold.

Still, when you're in your own living room, and it's dark outside, and the tree is lit, and the carols are playing on Pandora, it's beginning to look a lot like Christmas, at least on the inside.

The Long Haul

About three years ago, I walked into the Open Eye Café, hoping to find a writer's group. I knew I needed one if I was going to get back on the wagon after the baby hiatus.  I'm not self-motivated.  I need deadlines, expectations to fulfill. Otherwise my writing gets shuffled lower and lower on the huge to-do list I call my life.

So, I was hopeful.  And nervous. For lots of reasons.

First, we were in the Open Eye Café, one of those coffee shops that has a really loyal clientele, the kind that makes anyone new that walks through the door feel like a real intruder, and judges you by what kind of coffee concoction you order.  I didn't know if my potential writer's group friends were regulars, or if this was just neutral ground chosen for vetting new members. I am not a coffee connoisseur.  I always order a skinny raspberry mocha. Always. And drinking one makes me talk too fast.

Second, I hate meeting people. Those first impression moments fill me with tremendous dread (strangely, this doesn't apply in teaching situations--I like meeting new students). And I didn't know anyone in this room. My husband had found the group for me through one of those "make a group" sites--I can't remember if it was gather or meetup or craigslist or whatever.  (I've often teased my husband that I dated him because I didn't have to meet him.  I already knew him when my first marriage ended.)

And lastly, these women wrote NOVELS. And they were serious about it.

Novels are long.

I'd never written anything longer than 75 pages--and that was academic. I didn't have to make it up. There was a lot of quoting. I was pretty sure that novels are longer than 75 pages. And that you have make up every word. Everything good I ever wrote was short--an essay, a poem, a vignette (nice little word for unclassifiable prose too short to be publishable).

I was intimidated as hell.


I've worked with this group for three (or is it four?) years now.  I love them. I know about their novels and their lives.  And I'm still intimidated as hell.  Nearly every woman in the group has actually finished a novel.  Some of them have even published them.

But here, at the end of 2011, I think I may actually finish my novel!  The end is in sight. I think I even know how it ends (if the characters will stop changing things on me).  I'm so excited--and scared.  It's the biggest thing I've ever made that wasn't a human being (and those human beings I made aren't done yet--they're still growing).

But still, I've made it through the long haul (almost).  I, at least, can believe that I will make it through.

Then the real work begins: rewrites!

The Problems of Three Little People

This may go without saying (has that ever stopped a blogger?), but Casablanca is a perfect movie.

I had occasion to notice this again, when my husband took me to see it at our art-house/university movie theater last night (see earlier post on my awesome husband). 

Most movies have a false moment.  Something that keeps it from perfection:  a less than stellar bit part performance, a song that doesn't quite fit the setting, a badly written line.  Even movies I love dearly will have a trip-up.  I love them in spite of their flaws.

If Casablanca has flaws, I can't find them.

There's Humphrey of course, amazing in nearly everything he ever made. But nowhere more than here.  He was able to convey so much with the smallest changes in his expression and voice.  No scenery chewing needed.  Sarcastic naivete: "Are my eyes really brown?" Deep wounds hidden beneath breezy banter: "The Germans wore gray. You wore blue."

Rick never says what he feels or feels what he says. Rick seems so straightforward and direct, yet his every line is full of layers and subtexts.  He is sincerity hiding behind a cynical veneer, his sincerity hidden even from himself. Victor Lazlo pegged it:  "You know how you sound, Mr. Blaine? Like a man who's trying to convince himself of something he doesn't believe in his heart."  Rick tells us over and over again that he doesn't stick his neck out for anyone.  He protests so much that we know it can't be true.

But my celebrity crush on a man who died before I was born aside (remind to tell you about my thing for shoulders . . . and real hats), it's not just Humphrey.

What amazed me this time, my first time seeing it on the big screen, was the small parts.  Every character seems perfectly cast and perfectly performed:  from Sam-the-piano-player to the unnamed pickpocket, from the future American immigrants (What watch?) to Peter Lorre's Ugarte, from Rick's ex-lover Yvonne to the Spanish singer and guitarist.  Corinna Mura, the singer and guitarist, had a moment that struck me this time:  holding her performer's smile in place, tightly, when the German officers walked by her.  The tightness of that smile spoke volumes.

Those small moments are what make the movie for me.  It's not Gone With the Wind, with huge sweeping vistas and huge sweeping emotions.  It's not impressive special effects or innovative camera techniques.  It's not shocking plot twists or red herrings.  No tricks. No games. Just an excellent story about the problems of three little people.

It's perfect.