Tales from the Front Lines

Gracious, I do get myself riled, do I not? Last entry was such a departure for me that I find myself incorporating my Lamaze breathing, which I used religiously whilst in childbirth (to ask/demand/beg/cajole for my epidural). Lamaze, it's a beautiful thing. Now, then, let's move on. What's on my mind this very morning. One thing: my IPod. How I loooooove my IPod. How I adore technology. At last, at long, long last, my inner D.J. is unleashed and boy, howdy, am I rocking the tunes. I've got alllll my favorite songs finally in one place. I got Christian music, of course. I'm a diehard Amy Grant fan. Always have been, always will be. I've come to terms with it. From her early bubblegum earnestness, to the more gritty tunes she's put out recently, I do so adore her. She and I have lived similiar lives and I daydream about what it would be like to live close enough to her and be enough of a personal friend to pick up the phone and say, "Ames? Jewel...

I've never written a "Dear John" letter before. Mainly, because I never dated a John. I dated a Jon, I think. A "Jeff" was in there, too, I believe and a "Mike". But, never a John. And this isn't written to a person, but to a group of individuals, who shall, to my best ability remain anonymous. They deserve anonymity, not for their protection, but because I would rather cut off my fingers than direct anyone else to this organization, of which I was once so proud. So be it. Dear "board", You are a thief. You stole my time, my talent and my heart. You wasted my time, prostituted my talent and broke my heart. You inspired me to corrupt my values, and gave me a chance to settle for incredibly less than I was worth. Your standard in what consitutes "funny" and "clever" and "witty" is among the cheapest in the industry. And, I certainly bought into it for a time. No more. No longer. It's not funny, an...

Besides dating me unbearably as a culture absorber of the 80's and 90's, this statement "I am verklempt" also speaks to my authenticity. Not only am I not Jewish, sadly (and oddly, because I ultimately answer to how I live my life to a Jewish carpenter), but also the word Verklempt is evidently not a Jewish word. Who knew? Jewish people, evidently. When I google it, no honest, good, God-fearing Jewish dictionaries come to my aid. Instead, my googler brings up websites that hiss and spit and nearly shout, "Poser" and "has been" for my wanting to even know the definition. However, I shall give this much-maligned word a definition. Verklempt is to "be overcome". As in: I would have written in my blog, y'all, but what with everything going on...I was verklempt. And what, precisely prompted my verklemptedness? Delighted to share: 1. A hideous, though, thank God, treatable disease has impacted my beloved Black Jack. He looks not un...

....for motherly bragging. For those who don't care for bragging, (I'm assuming we all do love mothers, at least a little), please feel free as a bird to skip this entry. I won't be hurt, really, I won't. It's o.k., I have extraordinary children. I really do. I took them to the "school of choice". There, they were assessed to see where they would fit in. Ian, my precious son, said, "It was hard, but fun. It's challenging, but fun." Ahhhh, that's grand! Cami, the precious youngest daughter came out all smiles and blue eyes crinkly with excitement, "Fun!", she decreed. Excellent, I thought. We waited for Katie. And waited for Katie. And just when I was entertaining thoughts that I had accidently brought my daughter to the open door of a disguised space ship and they had vanished my Katie to Mars, here she comes. The two evaluators behind her had glistening brows. They were shaking their heads. She was beaming. This cou...

did you know that? I teach that and it makes sense, apparently. Someone who is focused is wonderful. Overly focused? Obsessed. Someone who is decisive? Thank God. Overly decisive? Dictator, baby. Alas, and alack, these are only two of the many traits that were up in full force this week as I precariously balanced career, home, family and now, redistricting. Did I wait? Did I ponder options? Did I peruse possibilities? Did I have ANY patience whatsoever? I think not. No indeed, I leaped (lept?) full speed ahead into project "save my children's education" Heard the news on Wenesday morning. By Thursday, I had: scheduled a realtor to visit our home to appraise it for market value, toured two (not one, but two) schools of "choice" that would be a possiblity for the kidlets, decided for, and then against running for school board myowndamnself to try to rectify the situation and developed a raging migrane. By God, when the going gets tough, I get a ...

Ever since I was a wee tot, I enjoyed coloring. The smell of new crayons in the traditional crayola box is just intoxicating. The sight of a 64 count box with build in sharpener? Hon-ney! Pass them right over. I glance over pens, markers, paper, but a box of crayons stops me in my tracks. And, I'll have you all know, you are supposed to color INSIDE the lines. Yes, you are. Yes. You non-conformists and free thinkers, line up over on the left. I'll deal with you all later. I would carefully, painstakingly color inside the lines, shading so carefully. I used to have an occassional friend over who would color in a completely HEATHEN manner (no offense to my friends, the heathens). She would not only apply improper pressure, nubbing up the tip, but she would actually tear the paper away from my crayon!!!! and color with the whole STICK, in broad, sweeping gestures. I knew that she would come to no good with her hedonistic tendencies. I think she became some sort of impressionistic ...

No not the group, Mercy Me, who did the incredible "I Can Only Imagine" (fabulous song, btw, do listen if you get the chance), but more of "Mercy! Mercy me!" in a wistful Southern exclamatory manner. I've just graded my students' first tests. Now, I've matured quite a bit as a professor. As a fledgling prof, I took a fiendish delight in grading, wielding my red pencil like a scalpel, slashing through ignorant answers and incomplete essays with all the finnesse and fervor of a Crusader. "wrong, wrong, Wrong!", I'd mutter and shake my head. Now, I've swung the other way. And I ask myself the tough questions as a teacher. Why are they wrong? Did they not study? Did they not listen? or, and most haunting of all, Did I not teach? Communication, I instruct my students, is a two way street. Each party is responsible for their portion of giving or receiving a message. My students did not do well. Not horrible, not a bloodbath, but I know...

I've been repeatedly pestered by folks to start a blog. A what? A Blog?! What the heck? (this portrays my helplessly antiquated notions of technology, I thought blog was initially a made up word. Like fax. Yes, I'm hanging my head in shame) So, here I am, having navigated the inital waters of cyberspace. My life is remarkable, and unremarkable all at the same time. What with children, a husband, a demon beast of a dog, and a burgeoning academic professorship, I've got ALOT on my plate. And plenty of "front lines" to speak from. My basic philosophy, borrowed from someone much cleverer than I, is "If you can't be a inspiring example, be a terrible warning". I've been both, I'm afraid. And, so, perhaps have you.