(This story is the continuation of yesterday's Part I. If you haven't already done so, you might want to read Part I first so that this makes more sense.)
The school called me yesterday morning to teach Spanish. Although in the past on my blog I have joked about my dismal lack of foreign language skills, in reality I am actually fluent (claro que si) in Spanish and have no trouble teaching it. (Come on, I studied it for six years in high school and college, travelled extensively in Spain, and lived in California most of my life.) I bounced into school thinking, What a perfect easy day!
Would the regular teacher have me conjugating the future perfect tense of –ar verbs with the students? Would we be writing essays about what we did last weekend in the preterite tense? Would I be quizzing them on new vocabulary words, such as useful words to say in airports? Would we be discussing the differences between por and para? No matter: I was mentally prepared.
I got there 15 minutes early and looked over the lesson plans. Imagine my crestfallen reaction when I saw lesson plans that may or may not have said, “Distribute worksheets. Students will work independently for first half hour. Last half hour, play video.” The same lesson for all six classes.
I picked up the video in question, which may or may not have been about a certain cartoon chicken name Guermo and his adventures with his farmyard friends. I read the back of the video box, and it looked (truly) like a wonderful teaching aid. I was impressed with the high quality of the worksheets and the video.
The problem was, even though I am gifted in Spanish (so much so that a little girl in my third class who may or may not have been Hispanic and may or may not have been born a native speaker, may or may not have said to me, “Your accent is fantástico! Did you learn Spanish or did you just speak it?”), I am not gifted in technology. I did not know how to work the video recorder.
I was becoming worried that this might be an issue. I had only 10 minutes to figure it out before the students arrived, I needed to focus. I turned the power on, always a good start. I put the tape in. I forgot to rewind the tape (this would haunt me later). Then I pressed “Play.” The Spanish Gods of Educación and Buena Suerte were smiling on me, because it started playing immediately. I could see and hear the happy chicken making little pollo jokes and teaching new vocab words along the way. I breathed a (premature) sigh of relief.
The first class of students arrived on time. Here comes the CIA (Confidentiality Information Agreement) part. So I will say, the students were perfect angels—smart, happy, quiet—and they did their work; they all deserve A+’s.
Now comes the part I can write about. We were finished with the worksheets, so I pressed “Play” on the video.
Nothing.
Remember, I had just tried it, I knew it worked. But now, nothing. Just black. Then, a neon blue screen of blank nothingness. Then a very unhelpful menu screen. Things were deteriorating from mal to peor.
to be continued ...
Saturday, February 18, 2012
Friday, February 17, 2012
670. Time To Spill The Frijoles
I am a substitute teacher at my sons’ schools. That is my latest job. I would love to write about it (face it, I write about everything else, and the high-end kitchen store certainly gave me good fodder to work with, so why not this job?), but it turns out, I signed this pesky official document called a Confidentiality Interest Agreement.
When someone who may or may not have been the principal was interviewing me, she (or he) may or may not have said, Working in a school is like being a doctor or lawyer—you are not allowed to talk about the students.
I’m confused. Which part is like being a doctor or lawyer? Because it isn’t the pay part. But I wanted the job, so I sat there nodding-nodding-nodding, like a little bobble-headed plastic doll, Please hire me because I am good with kids and also so I can work the exact same hours that my sons are in school all day.
The next thing you know, he or she may or may not have said, “I would like you to read over the Confidentiality Interest Agreement (CIA), tell me that you understand it, and sign it. I am a registered notary on the side, so I will notarize it and then we will keep a copy in your permanent file.”
I grinned a fake grin, the kind you might grin if your dentist told you that you had three cavities when you thought he was going to say you have the best teeth he’s ever seen.
Trembling and flashing back to my own school years (“permanent file”?!), I read the CIA and signed it. I vowed to “respect the privacy of all individuals I may come in contact with,” (this next part was in a different font, obviously added in recent years) “and refrain from publicizing any related incidents about such individuals via current advanced technological means. To clarify: no facebook, no blogging, no twittering, no social media-ing.” Social media was now a verb here at my older son’s school.
“Excuse me?” I squeaked, “I need to let you know: I blog. It’s what I do.” I shrugged, as if saying, My third toe is shorter than the rest—I was just born that way. I can’t help it: I blog.
She or he may or may not have ignored my comment. She or he may or may not have said under her (his) breath, “Look, we’re really short on subs.” I took my yellow copy of the signed CIA form, got three blood tests and a TB shot, passed a nationwide criminal background check, and started subbing the very next week.
I’ve never blogged about my intermittent substitute teaching—even though I was hired way back in October—until now. I found a loophole.
The CIA applies to me writing about other people, there is nothing in there that forbids me from writing about myself. As long as I do not say anything negative about the students, we’re good. So here we go.
to be continued ...
When someone who may or may not have been the principal was interviewing me, she (or he) may or may not have said, Working in a school is like being a doctor or lawyer—you are not allowed to talk about the students.
I’m confused. Which part is like being a doctor or lawyer? Because it isn’t the pay part. But I wanted the job, so I sat there nodding-nodding-nodding, like a little bobble-headed plastic doll, Please hire me because I am good with kids and also so I can work the exact same hours that my sons are in school all day.
The next thing you know, he or she may or may not have said, “I would like you to read over the Confidentiality Interest Agreement (CIA), tell me that you understand it, and sign it. I am a registered notary on the side, so I will notarize it and then we will keep a copy in your permanent file.”
I grinned a fake grin, the kind you might grin if your dentist told you that you had three cavities when you thought he was going to say you have the best teeth he’s ever seen.
Trembling and flashing back to my own school years (“permanent file”?!), I read the CIA and signed it. I vowed to “respect the privacy of all individuals I may come in contact with,” (this next part was in a different font, obviously added in recent years) “and refrain from publicizing any related incidents about such individuals via current advanced technological means. To clarify: no facebook, no blogging, no twittering, no social media-ing.” Social media was now a verb here at my older son’s school.
“Excuse me?” I squeaked, “I need to let you know: I blog. It’s what I do.” I shrugged, as if saying, My third toe is shorter than the rest—I was just born that way. I can’t help it: I blog.
She or he may or may not have ignored my comment. She or he may or may not have said under her (his) breath, “Look, we’re really short on subs.” I took my yellow copy of the signed CIA form, got three blood tests and a TB shot, passed a nationwide criminal background check, and started subbing the very next week.
I’ve never blogged about my intermittent substitute teaching—even though I was hired way back in October—until now. I found a loophole.
The CIA applies to me writing about other people, there is nothing in there that forbids me from writing about myself. As long as I do not say anything negative about the students, we’re good. So here we go.
to be continued ...
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
668. Up All Night
In college these words meant two things: parties and papers. Fun parties, where you meet new people and end up talking and drinking and having a good time until three in the morning. Or, conversely, term papers that you should have finished weeks ago, but in reality did not start until yesterday. Ah, yes, up all night.
In my twenties, I flew for United as a flight attendant. Up all night meant a red-eye flight, most likely with a tantalizing reward at the end that did not involve a hangover or a B+ final grade: a 24-hour layover in Paris or a 56-hour layover in Sydney. This kind of up all night clearly paid dividends.
Then up all night stopped. Married, no term papers, no wild parties, and enough seniority to fly during the daytime. Nights were for sleeping. Only vampires and security guards stay up all night, not me.
Two babies changed all that, with their midnight cries and aching hunger. This was the variety of up all night that you say is worth it (when your kids are five and eight years old) but at the time you whisper, “When will you sleep 12 hours straight like all the parenting books promised?” You survive on coffee and moral support, most likely given to you by well-meaning mommy-friends or perhaps your husband.
Last night we were up all night. Tall had a nasty case of food poisoning, the type where six hours to the minute after ingesting the suspect food (“It did taste funny at the restaurant, Mommy, but I was hungry,”) all the food comes back up, along with any trace of anything resembling food or liquid that has the misfortune of being in the intestinal tract. He threw up not once, but five times, each incident worse than the last. The Husband and I got him wet washcloths and new bags to vomit in, and we took turns staying with him. We would just start to doze, when his rebellious stomach would attack him yet again.
In the morning, Tall felt tired and sleepy, but his body finally felt better, normal. I placed my hand gently on his forehead, the ever-accurate Mommy Thermometer, and he smiled and whispered to me, “You’re a good mommy.”
I don’t mind up all night.
MOV
In my twenties, I flew for United as a flight attendant. Up all night meant a red-eye flight, most likely with a tantalizing reward at the end that did not involve a hangover or a B+ final grade: a 24-hour layover in Paris or a 56-hour layover in Sydney. This kind of up all night clearly paid dividends.
Then up all night stopped. Married, no term papers, no wild parties, and enough seniority to fly during the daytime. Nights were for sleeping. Only vampires and security guards stay up all night, not me.
Two babies changed all that, with their midnight cries and aching hunger. This was the variety of up all night that you say is worth it (when your kids are five and eight years old) but at the time you whisper, “When will you sleep 12 hours straight like all the parenting books promised?” You survive on coffee and moral support, most likely given to you by well-meaning mommy-friends or perhaps your husband.
Last night we were up all night. Tall had a nasty case of food poisoning, the type where six hours to the minute after ingesting the suspect food (“It did taste funny at the restaurant, Mommy, but I was hungry,”) all the food comes back up, along with any trace of anything resembling food or liquid that has the misfortune of being in the intestinal tract. He threw up not once, but five times, each incident worse than the last. The Husband and I got him wet washcloths and new bags to vomit in, and we took turns staying with him. We would just start to doze, when his rebellious stomach would attack him yet again.
In the morning, Tall felt tired and sleepy, but his body finally felt better, normal. I placed my hand gently on his forehead, the ever-accurate Mommy Thermometer, and he smiled and whispered to me, “You’re a good mommy.”
I don’t mind up all night.
MOV
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
667. Happy Birthday to Oakley!
Today is my little sister Oakley’s birthday. I was emerald green with envy growing up that she had the coolest day on the planet (Valentine’s) to rightly claim as her special day. Her birthday was always an explosion of hearts, cherubs, candy, stickers, and everything glittery, cutesy, little-girl good. As an adult, I scour the Hallmark racks looking for a Valentine’s birthday card, because they are difficult to find. Not utterly impossible, but usually buried on the side somewhere, next to such “non-specific” top-sellers as “Congratulations on your triplets!” or “Happy 19th Anniversary!” and “Wishing you a speedy recovery after you broke your toe (again)!”
This year, Tall drew a special card to send to his beloved Aunt Oakley in California:
Happy Birthday, Oakley! We love you and miss you!
MOV
(“Magnificent Oakley Valentine”)
This year, Tall drew a special card to send to his beloved Aunt Oakley in California:
 |
| His school mascot is the tiger, so tigers slink their way into a lot of his artwork |
MOV
(“Magnificent Oakley Valentine”)
Monday, February 13, 2012
665. Hyperventilating With Famousness
So there I was, reading the blog of my new Bloggy Crush, Stephanie at Clay Baboons. She does these super-funny little clay scenes and then writes ultra-creative hilarious stuff to go along with it, and basically I laugh a lot and then go back and re-read it to make sure I didn’t miss any punch-lines or humor nuances and subtleties (note: that is supposed to say subtleties, I’m sorry if spellcheck corrected it to subtitles, but please be aware that Stephanie does not write in a foreign language even though she lives in Canada where everyone speaks French, but she is quite fluent in the language of Bwahahahaha, that is actually her native tongue). But I digress. The point is, I was reading her latest post, and she recommended a few other bloggers and I thought, “Oh, cool, let’s see if I have heard of any of them,” and there I was, scrolling on down, and KABOOM! My blog! She recommended my blog!
Now, this is not the very first time this has ever happened to me. I have received a few Versatile Blogger awards, the Liebster Award, I came in third once in a Trifecta Writing Challenge, plus I was interviewed by Chicago Parent Magazine online, and I even won a Pulitzer Prize*(*this award I gave to myself, so it might not “officially” count). But what made this such a unique experience was there was a picture of my book cover, too.
I fainted. Well, I didn’t faint faint, in the traditional sense of me falling out of the chair and losing consciousness, but my head did get a little woozy and I thought I might hyperventilate. I did what I always do in scary unfamiliar situations: reached for that bag of M&M’s on my desk and dove in.
Oh, Stephanie, Stephanie, does any of your clay look like M&M’s?
Thank you for recommending my blog. Right back at you (in an infinite loop of mutual admiration).
MOV
Now, this is not the very first time this has ever happened to me. I have received a few Versatile Blogger awards, the Liebster Award, I came in third once in a Trifecta Writing Challenge, plus I was interviewed by Chicago Parent Magazine online, and I even won a Pulitzer Prize*(*this award I gave to myself, so it might not “officially” count). But what made this such a unique experience was there was a picture of my book cover, too.
I fainted. Well, I didn’t faint faint, in the traditional sense of me falling out of the chair and losing consciousness, but my head did get a little woozy and I thought I might hyperventilate. I did what I always do in scary unfamiliar situations: reached for that bag of M&M’s on my desk and dove in.
Oh, Stephanie, Stephanie, does any of your clay look like M&M’s?
Thank you for recommending my blog. Right back at you (in an infinite loop of mutual admiration).
MOV
Sunday, February 12, 2012
664. Count Me In
(Overheard conversation between Short and his buddy, also age five.)
Short: How many trees are in the world?
Buddy: I don’t know. How many?
Short: I’m asking you. How many?
Buddy: Tell me.
Short: (exasperated now) I don’t know! I’m asking you! How many trees in the world?
Buddy: Uh, I don’t know. How many?
Short: I think 3000.
Buddy: (silent agreement)
Short: How many dogs in the world?
Buddy: 10,000.
Short: I think so, too.
Buddy: Short, how many Santas in the world?
Short: How many what?
Buddy: Santas.
Short: (confident) ONE!
Buddy: Cor---rect! Good job.
I need to be the carpool-driving mom more often.
MOV
*amendment: At breakfast this morning, Short told me how Santa gets through locked windows and doors. "He's kind of like a ghost, Mom, that's how it works." So great to have a resident Santa expert in the house to explain these things to me.........................
Short: How many trees are in the world?
Buddy: I don’t know. How many?
Short: I’m asking you. How many?
Buddy: Tell me.
Short: (exasperated now) I don’t know! I’m asking you! How many trees in the world?
Buddy: Uh, I don’t know. How many?
Short: I think 3000.
Buddy: (silent agreement)
Short: How many dogs in the world?
Buddy: 10,000.
Short: I think so, too.
Buddy: Short, how many Santas in the world?
Short: How many what?
Buddy: Santas.
Short: (confident) ONE!
Buddy: Cor---rect! Good job.
I need to be the carpool-driving mom more often.
MOV
*amendment: At breakfast this morning, Short told me how Santa gets through locked windows and doors. "He's kind of like a ghost, Mom, that's how it works." So great to have a resident Santa expert in the house to explain these things to me.........................
663. A Kinder, Gentler Wells Fargo
I do not bank at Wells Fargo. I bank at Crazy Town Bank—I write checks, they give me money, end of story. I have never liked Wells Fargo because they ask for 15 pieces of ID, your mother’s maiden shoe size, your cat’s Social Security number, your thumbprint and nose-print, an EKG, the name of your firstborn son, and a notarized statement proving that this is really your signature. And then they call the bank manger over, and then they call the bank president over, and then they call the janitor over, and finally they all scowl at you and say, “Your money is no good here.”
And that is only to cash a $10 check. Imagine if I was trying to cash a $10,000 check.
So it should come as somewhat of a surprise when I find myself in the drive-thru teller lane at Wells Fargo.
Oh, crap, I think as I notice for the first time these bright red letters spelling out “Wells Fargo,” Since when is The Husband’s bank Wells Fargo? The Husband has always banked at First Bank of Crazy Town even though I myself bank at the far superior Crazy Town Bank, but now I realize that obviously First Bank must’ve been acquired by Wells Fargo.
Since the drive-thru teller line is long, I do what I always do in any uncertain situation: call The Husband at work. I flip my cell phone open, punch in his number, and wait. He answers just as I am about to hang up, on about the sixth ring, as if he has actual “work” to do.
“Sweetie,” I say, “it’s me.”
“MOV, I’m working,” he says the word working the way one might say curing cancer or eliminating global warming or negotiating world peace, instead of his real job, which is crunching numbers.
“I have a question for you,” I say, ignoring his work-related urgency, “What happened to your bank? I am cashing that check for $40 you gave me for Target, and I saw the sign says Wells Fargo now. When did this happen?”
“Oh, yeah, I didn’t tell you because I know you hate Wells Fargo. The one in California—you always complained about it. But, yeah, they bought my bank.”
The visual of a bank buying another bank makes me giggle. I’ll give you one million dollars for your building full of half a million dollars, Make it two million dollars and free parking and you have a deal.
“Well, that settles it. Crazy Town Bank is further away, but I’ll just drive over there.” I look over my shoulder to see if I can back out of the line or if I am blocked in.
“MOV, no need to do that. They’ve changed: it’s a different Wells Fargo now. A kinder, gentler Wells Fargo. Trust me.”
Because I love The Husband more than anything on the planet (and also because I am boxed in), I listen to his advice and stay in line. We hang up because it’s almost my turn at the window.
I recognize no one. The few times I have driven through here with The Husband, I have observed the same three or four tellers working. Not today. Today it is a completely different crew. First Bank most likely took its employees to that great safe deposit box in the sky.
I pull up to the window, and hand the teller my check and my driver’s license. I brace myself for what I know is coming next.
“This bank is too good for you, you need to go back to Crazy Town Bank,” is what I expect him to say. Instead, he surprises me with a cheery, “Hello, Miss, welcome to Wells Fargo!”
He called me “Miss”! I am liking him already!
“Wow, great driver’ license picture,” he enthuses, and for a moment I wonder if he is flirting with me. “You look like you are about 16 in this shot.”
I am mentally closing my account at Crazy Town Bank and transferring all $17.62 I currently possess over to Wells Fargo.
“Do you have any fun weekend plans?” he grins wide.
“No, no, same ol’, same ol’.” I shrug. Laundry, cooking, watching re-runs of Project Runway.
Then it happens. I notice the car next to me is sending the airlifted plastic-tube-thingy across over my head and the teller is going to wait on him simultaneously.
“Great driver’s license picture!” I read his lips, and then, “Do you have any fun weekend plans?”
So this teller says the same thing to everyone! And it was only Tuesday, why are we discussing weekend plans?
He winks at me. “How would you like your cash, Dr. MOV?” he inquires in his faux-cheery Prozac-induced Stepford teller-tone.
I give a brief moment of thought to the question. The check is for $40.
“Oh, I dunno, hundreds are fine.”
He starts cracking up, as if he has never heard that joke before in his long career with Wells Fargo. “Good one! Ha ha! Hundreds! I love it!”
He takes two crisp 20’s out of the drawer and slides them with my license into the envelope. The metal drawer opens up with a clanging sound. “Is there anything else I can help you with today then, Dr. MOV?” His smile could light up a power plant in a black-out.
“No, no, I’m good,” I say. “Thank you, though.”
“No, thank you,” he replies, with special emphasis on the you. “Thank you for banking with Wells Fargo! We appreciate your business! Have a wonderful and blessed weekend! And rest of your day! It was a pleasure to see you! We are so glad you bank with us!” He is waving now, and as I pull my car up out of line, I look for the first time in the envelope. Two strawberry lollipops fall out along with my cash and ID.
My mind is spinning. First, he does not hassle me at all. Second, he is unbelievably nice to me. Third, he is unbelievably nice to everyone else. Fourth, he laughs at my lame joke. Fifth, he gives me lollipops, in fact, my favorite kind.
That’s it. Banks are not supposed to be nice. Banks are supposed to be hostile—everyone knows that. It symbolizes professionalism. If a bank is ultra-nice like this one, that most likely means they are either:
A. In deep financial trouble
B. Giving all my money away to other people when I least expect it, or
3. All of the above
I shudder. From now on, I will drive over to Crazy Town Bank. No one is very nice to me over there, and frankly, a little mean goes a long way.
MOV
And that is only to cash a $10 check. Imagine if I was trying to cash a $10,000 check.
So it should come as somewhat of a surprise when I find myself in the drive-thru teller lane at Wells Fargo.
Oh, crap, I think as I notice for the first time these bright red letters spelling out “Wells Fargo,” Since when is The Husband’s bank Wells Fargo? The Husband has always banked at First Bank of Crazy Town even though I myself bank at the far superior Crazy Town Bank, but now I realize that obviously First Bank must’ve been acquired by Wells Fargo.
Since the drive-thru teller line is long, I do what I always do in any uncertain situation: call The Husband at work. I flip my cell phone open, punch in his number, and wait. He answers just as I am about to hang up, on about the sixth ring, as if he has actual “work” to do.
“Sweetie,” I say, “it’s me.”
“MOV, I’m working,” he says the word working the way one might say curing cancer or eliminating global warming or negotiating world peace, instead of his real job, which is crunching numbers.
“I have a question for you,” I say, ignoring his work-related urgency, “What happened to your bank? I am cashing that check for $40 you gave me for Target, and I saw the sign says Wells Fargo now. When did this happen?”
“Oh, yeah, I didn’t tell you because I know you hate Wells Fargo. The one in California—you always complained about it. But, yeah, they bought my bank.”
The visual of a bank buying another bank makes me giggle. I’ll give you one million dollars for your building full of half a million dollars, Make it two million dollars and free parking and you have a deal.
“Well, that settles it. Crazy Town Bank is further away, but I’ll just drive over there.” I look over my shoulder to see if I can back out of the line or if I am blocked in.
“MOV, no need to do that. They’ve changed: it’s a different Wells Fargo now. A kinder, gentler Wells Fargo. Trust me.”
Because I love The Husband more than anything on the planet (and also because I am boxed in), I listen to his advice and stay in line. We hang up because it’s almost my turn at the window.
I recognize no one. The few times I have driven through here with The Husband, I have observed the same three or four tellers working. Not today. Today it is a completely different crew. First Bank most likely took its employees to that great safe deposit box in the sky.
I pull up to the window, and hand the teller my check and my driver’s license. I brace myself for what I know is coming next.
“This bank is too good for you, you need to go back to Crazy Town Bank,” is what I expect him to say. Instead, he surprises me with a cheery, “Hello, Miss, welcome to Wells Fargo!”
He called me “Miss”! I am liking him already!
“Wow, great driver’ license picture,” he enthuses, and for a moment I wonder if he is flirting with me. “You look like you are about 16 in this shot.”
I am mentally closing my account at Crazy Town Bank and transferring all $17.62 I currently possess over to Wells Fargo.
“Do you have any fun weekend plans?” he grins wide.
“No, no, same ol’, same ol’.” I shrug. Laundry, cooking, watching re-runs of Project Runway.
Then it happens. I notice the car next to me is sending the airlifted plastic-tube-thingy across over my head and the teller is going to wait on him simultaneously.
“Great driver’s license picture!” I read his lips, and then, “Do you have any fun weekend plans?”
So this teller says the same thing to everyone! And it was only Tuesday, why are we discussing weekend plans?
He winks at me. “How would you like your cash, Dr. MOV?” he inquires in his faux-cheery Prozac-induced Stepford teller-tone.
I give a brief moment of thought to the question. The check is for $40.
“Oh, I dunno, hundreds are fine.”
He starts cracking up, as if he has never heard that joke before in his long career with Wells Fargo. “Good one! Ha ha! Hundreds! I love it!”
He takes two crisp 20’s out of the drawer and slides them with my license into the envelope. The metal drawer opens up with a clanging sound. “Is there anything else I can help you with today then, Dr. MOV?” His smile could light up a power plant in a black-out.
“No, no, I’m good,” I say. “Thank you, though.”
“No, thank you,” he replies, with special emphasis on the you. “Thank you for banking with Wells Fargo! We appreciate your business! Have a wonderful and blessed weekend! And rest of your day! It was a pleasure to see you! We are so glad you bank with us!” He is waving now, and as I pull my car up out of line, I look for the first time in the envelope. Two strawberry lollipops fall out along with my cash and ID.
My mind is spinning. First, he does not hassle me at all. Second, he is unbelievably nice to me. Third, he is unbelievably nice to everyone else. Fourth, he laughs at my lame joke. Fifth, he gives me lollipops, in fact, my favorite kind.
That’s it. Banks are not supposed to be nice. Banks are supposed to be hostile—everyone knows that. It symbolizes professionalism. If a bank is ultra-nice like this one, that most likely means they are either:
A. In deep financial trouble
B. Giving all my money away to other people when I least expect it, or
3. All of the above
I shudder. From now on, I will drive over to Crazy Town Bank. No one is very nice to me over there, and frankly, a little mean goes a long way.
MOV
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