Kids these days...

Although for ten months out of the year I surround myself with teens, overflowing with opinions and fashion, I keep finding myself saying, "Kids these days..."
Am I that far removed? I see kids in the streets after dark and automatically assume they are up to no good. I pass a pack of teens in the supermarket, being loud, tossing a box of cereal to each other and I am ready to reprimand them. When I see them wearing hats, especially on weekends during the school year, I am tempted to have them take them off.
It wasn't long ago I was a teen; hard as it is to believe. It was seven years ago and apparently I'm older now and they trust me to teach kids. But we are different. Now in our mid to late twenties, we grew up with no internet, cell phones, text messaging, iming, myspace, i-pods, music downloads, 500 channels and crazy video games with secret sex scenes.
So what do I see in the classroom? Most kids want a good grade, whether or not they work for it is up in the air. Many of them manage a million things in and out of school: homework, soccer practice, gymnastics, yoga, Spanish tutoring, class council, choir, the list goes on. They are high stress, over achievers and not as creative as they should be. They care more for the right now, for the A, but not so much how to earn it.
Last year I had my 9th graders read an article called "The Echo Boomers".
http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2004/10/01/60minutes/main646890.shtml
It essentially categorizes this generation of kids, born 1982-1995 as echo boomer or generation Y. We (1965-1982) are generation X and our parents (1946-1964) Baby Boomers. Echo because they are the offspring of the baby boomers.
The article talks about how kids these days deem immediate results, while putting little time into things. They want immediate satisfaction in all aspects of their lives. I see this to be true in the classroom. They want to know how they are going to be graded before they even know the assignment. It no longer seems to be about the experience, but rather "What do I get out of it."
And these kids, after reading an article like this were pissed! This brought about a record debate in all classes amongst kids who were down right offended to be categorized as such, and kids who kinda agreed and were embarrassed.
Overall these kids are safer, less violent, not getting pregnant, more patriotic, more trusting of the government.
Yet businesses and major corporations argue that their employees nowadays, "can't think long-range. Everything has to be immediate...And they have a lot of trouble sort of doing things in a stepwise fashion, delaying gratification. Really reflecting as they go along." ("The Echo Boomers" article, Oct. 3, 2004). I couldn't have said it better myself. Everything is so fast and now with drive thrus for everything from a burger to medicine.
I only hope that it doesn't completely destroy the creativity that I see diminishing amongst kids. They want structure and deadlines and "exactly what is the teacher looking for" questioning. I purposely don't give deadlines sometimes and say, "We'll see how long this take us. I really want you to do well on it." The kids, they panic. "What do you mean you don't know when it's due?"
My favorite is when I make them come up with the rubric (grading scale) for a group assignment. They argue back and forth, "Writing your name should get you 50 points, " says class clown. "Funny, I chime in. I agree. Considering FIVE of you didn't write your name on the last assignment." (including the kid who made the suggestion)
So they sit and they debate and they argue and they finally agree on a fair rubric (one much tougher than the one I would have given them), but what they think is silly and should be something I decide is actually teaching them some higher learning skills that they will be able to take with them into whatever field they decide to go into. What's important is to nurture their creativity and their thinking. They need to realize that in my class becoming a good writer does not happen over night and that by the end of the year, then they can reflect and see what has improved. "So long? A year?" they ask. Yeah a whole year!
So why all this, and why now? Getting back into the swing of things and preparing myself mentally for school, I have to remember what I am going back to: a class full of teens who want bigger, better, faster, more efficient, effective, and productive. All they get- is me. Someone who can only hope to make them realize that there is more to the world than chatting online or texting a friend to meet at the mall. Someone who wants to see them think and not the ads and commercials that feed them daily. Somoene who wants to foster creativity and enthusiasm about learning something new. Someone who expects them to be competent enough to be able to write a sentence without using AOL slang such as "b/c" or "ur funi". An English teacher can dream can't she.

SENSE: Part One (continued)

Sense: Part I (continued)

I write. Most often it goes unread, only a lucky few get to skim. This is a piece I've been working on for some time now--not sure if it will be a short story or much longer. I suppose it could be categorized as adolescent lit. It's a work in progress. Suggestions and constructive criticism are welcome. Working title- Sense
Installment # 2 (continued from August 13th)

He exhales as if to say I quit. His hands escalate, palms up, then BOOM, they hit the desk like a trapeze artist landing on both feet. He stands up, his hands motioning back and forth around his head. He talks about how I drive him crazy, how I am smart, how I am president of my class, how my future is important, how my education should be my priority, how I could get kicked out, how my parents pay too much money for me to throw my education away. I want to tell him I know more than the teachers do. I want to remind him I am a straight A student. I want to kick him in the nuts. Instead I stare at my shoes. He stands above me, follows my stare, looks down,

“And you wear blue shoes! What is going on?” his accent becomes more noticeable when he yells. He stutters and meshes words together,

“You wantto break the rules allover the place and get no punishedment.”

I look at my shoes, and feel like I won some sort of victory. Blue shoes. I am the ultimate rebel.

He turns to her now. She’s been sitting in the adjacent armchair, perfect posture, her hands crossed on her lap, that stupid fucking smirk on her face. I want to throw myself onto her and destroy that smug look. I want to be calm like her.

“And you,” I think his scolding, is about to resume, “you, Margarita, how could you? You just come to the school this year. I see you in my office three times in two weeks,” his voice softens. I think it’s just me. It sounds different because he is reprimanding someone else. I wait.

“You are too beautiful to do those kinds of things. Smoking. Psst,” his hand swats a pretend fly. His face softens up. His cheeks, they are pressed up towards his eyes, they are rosy and plump and look a lot like the cheeks of an Eskimo. He is smiling. She is looking at his face. Her great big white teeth glistening, as though they were wiped down with Vaseline. Her left leg crossed, like a lounge singer now, the left shoulder leans in towards his desk. Her cheek rests on her shoulder. Her cheek, it’s bright pink. I think she’s holding her breath. She is batting her eyelids.

“I’m sorry,” her head swings down. The drama, is coming. I can smell it the way I smell her perfume, a heavy mature Escape. She whispers, “I know it was wrong. It’s just I miss my mom,” the eyes are frosty and blue, like an iceberg, not the tip, but the part that is underwater, the deep dark blue that they show on the Discovery channel, “I’m not adjusting well here.”

Her mom skipped town when she was two. She told me she doesn’t remember her voice and if it wasn’t for photos she wouldn’t remember what she looked like either. She’s playing Mr. Potatoehead like a tator tot and he’s buying it. He stands up and walks towards her with giant strides. His hand falls on her head stroking her hair.

“I understand it is hard,” there is a pause when I am certain I hear a sniffle or a sigh come from under her hair, “If you need anything, come to my office, don’t go in the bathroom. You need to talk about it. It’s healthy that way.”

I look at the table behind his desk. The red ashtray is full of cigar ash. I wonder if he would smoke with her. The smoke comes out of her nose when she smokes and she smiles exhaling. I wonder if she would do that in front of him. I tried it once and burned my nostrils. Only witches and fire breathing dragons can do that and smile at the same time.

The day I felt delightfully white trash

The alarm went off at 7:15 am blaring Fleetwood Mac's "Don't Stop Thinking about Tomorrow". Wondering why the hell I set my alarm for 7:15 am in the respite of a teacher's summer, I reached over and snoozed. Then I remembered- today was crabbing day! I rolled out of bed, splashed some water of my face, got the hubby to wake up and hit the road ready to conquer each and every crab worth crabbing. We set out for two other destinations before finding our way to Keyport, New Jersey's lost playground for all sorts of handicapped. Not the type of handicapped you are thinking about, but rather the kind that you may think could be prevented.
The lone skinny black man on the dock wearing a scuzzy white tank, (notice I do not call it a wife beater because this man...I am SURE had no wife) shorts that were held up by a leather belt bound with black electrical tape, a fanny pack (also clasped shut with tape), a backpack shut with a diary lock and a toupee, wandered up and down not so much crabbing but admiring the view. The young boys on the dock crabbing with their friends, brothers, fathers, seemed to be of most interest to him. And when one boy bent down to place a crab in his bucket, the effeminate man with the kinky toupee actually checked out this kids legs, then his butt, then stared at his shoulders and arms, all the while playing with a piece of what looked like empty Dentine Ice gum wrapper. It was enough to make me want to puke all over his crusty Walmart sneakers. Instead, I watched him and everyone else on the dock. Noone seemed to take much notice of him, either because he frequented the dock, or because they thought him harmless. A teenage girl approached the sickly man, her D.A.R.E. shirt practically touching her knees, asking if he wanted a bite to eat then offering him the bucket of crabs. In a James Brown sounding voice he replied, "Get on outta here. Aheehee. Aheehee." This man was not on the dock like the rest of us, crabbing or fishing or keeping company to crabbers or fishers, no he seemed to have his own agenda, fishing for little boys. I sat on the bench and watched him, avoiding eye contact was easy. I was a girl and apparently not interesting to him. I wondered what was in the backpack, the one closed off from the rest of the world with a tiny diary lock that could easily be pulled apart. I imagined pills, little bottles of rum and tequila, socks, handcuffs, pictures of children playing, close ups of little boys' legs. I pictured candy wrappers and lollipops, the ones with the white smiley faces. All these thoughts, although fabricated, disturbed me. He seemed to fit the part of a lusting pedophile all too well, asking the boys "Catch any yet?" or "Oohhwee, that was strong cast boy." The fathers or brothers or friends barely paying attention. Soon, I too became distracted.
A lady sat on the bench next to me, her toes bright red, smoking a Pall Mall (I didn't know they still made those), rubbing her neck and shoulder with the free arm. I wondered what her story was, smoking, neck stiff, her husband or boyfriend or whoever he was, walking to the edge with a limp to cast his lines, coming back to smoke a cigarette. Waitress by night, probably at a local tavern, serving beers and shots and french fries. Her husband or boyfriend, unemployed, collecting worker's comp, needed to be seen in public limping around.
At the end of the pier, a father was with his two sons who were probably still in elementary school, both wearing red "Knights" t-shirts.The father, cane in hand, Hawaiian print shirt wide open revealing a tight XL blue tank top, fitted around his breasts; bitch tits. His story? Probably prostate, pumped up and juiced with so many hormones, he had developed tits. Now he brought his kids fishing to show them he was a real man yet.
There was this voice I kept hearing, a high pitched voice that belonged in the seventies, echoed over all the other commotion. It took me a few minutes to place the voice, one that sounded like a female's. An Italian woman, with short hair, spiked, big earrings, eyeshadow fresh, looked like the ideal candidate. But it wasn't her. It was the man she spoke to. An average Joe that sounded more like a Susan. He reminded me of that twerp on Lavern and Shirley with the greased look and the leather jacket.
My senses were full, as was Keyport. Full of all the rejects the rest of the state chewed up and vomitted on a pier in Keyport. The feminine pedophile with his sinful backpack, the waitress smoking her Pall Malls, the father with the bitch tits, the guy with the squeaky chick voice and the crabs all accidentally displayed on the dock. I rested on the bench, wondering how so many rejects ended up on one pier in Keyport, somewhere in New Jersey, next to me.

Prayer for Tragic Loss

A moment of silence for the 121 Greek Cypriots who died yesterday in a plane crash going from Cyrpus to Athens.
August 15th marks an important holiday in the Greek Orthodox religion, the Assumption of the Virgin Mary. We pray that those who passed away are with our Mother Mary in a better place.

http://www.cnn.com/2005/WORLD/europe/08/15/greece.crash/index.html

SENSE: Part One

I write. Most often it goes unread, only a lucky few get to skim. This is a piece I've been working on for some time now--not sure if it will be a short story or much longer. I suppose it could be categorized as adolescent lit. It's a work in progress. Suggestions and constructive criticism are welcome. Working title- Sense



“Kiss him,” I dare her, “French kiss him.”
“Sure, yeah, ok. Find him.” She is nonchalant. No need to play it cool because she is the picture beneath the word in the dictionary.
It’s Wednesday, I am wearing my gray skirt, algebra equations inked on the seam, a white shirt, short sleeves, and the tie, blue and red loose around my neck, hanging like a noose.
She’s got her gray skirt, way above the knee, a white shirt, sleeves rolled up, untucked and that tie, blue and red striped, like a shawl draped over her breasts.
Explain to me why the man of my dreams is kissing her and not me? Or better yet why I dare her to kiss him.
She’s what I want to be.
A few weeks earlier we got in trouble, cutting class, spending time in the bathroom writing poetry on the walls with a sharpie marker and smoking Marlboro reds. I told my teacher I felt sick, which wasn’t a lie. I was sick of her and her bullshit class and all the assholes who threw spitballs through empty bic pens or made irrelevant comments in the middle of her reading directly from the textbook. I said I had menstrual cramps, was feeling sick, and asked to be excused to sit and wallow in my ovarian pain.
My new partner in crime was in another class and asked to use the lavatory. Synchronized Swatch watches.
We met up in the stalls by the canteens, right behind the music classroom. The air behind the class always lingered of dry stale smoke, girls’ perfume, and cheeseburgers. Some nark saw us in the bathroom and told the principal later that period. I’m trying to figure out who it was so I can break her face against the sink. I know it’s a girl because only a girl would be jealous of us. A guy would’ve joined us.
The principal, he calls us in to his office. A real bear of a man, sitting behind his desk, his Greek coffee steaming, resting next to a glass of water, his arms crossed over his papers, he looks stern, a picture of large man with his hands folded over his desk, the founder of the school, hangs over his desk. They look like brothers, or maybe second cousins. He starts shaking his head when the secretary announces us and leaves the room. He looks at us, then at her and points to the armchair closest to the door. She sits. I am still standing when he begins,
“And you, what now? Hmm?” he presumes I will answer? “I expected more from you. You are so smart. Why you need to leave the class and spend time in the bathroom, eh?”
I look at my shoes, they are dark blue instead of black, as is the code. I feel like a rebel, I hope he sees.
“I was sick sir,” I cough out, looking at his hands, a fat gold ring adorns his pinky. He
looks more like a Mafioso than a principal. Someone who has wacked a few poor lost souls in his time. Someone who lays down the law, but for a bowl of really tasty pasta, he’d bend the rules. The crispness of his collar doesn’t move when his head moves.
“Eh, come on you were sick. You were smoking in the bathroom by the canteen. Don’t lie to me,” his pointer finger shakes, I stare at the pinky ring reflecting the light. It plays around on his red tie like fireflies fighting over light. He reminds me of the type of guy who would order a big fatty fat dinner with extra fries and a loaf of bread, and to drink- diet coke.
“You are too smart for that. Why you have to miss valuable class time? The president of your class, what would the class say eh?”
I want to tell him the class can bite my ass, that they don’t give a shit about this dump, that our parents are paying thousands of pounds for some airhead redhead to read out of a textbook for 45 minutes and then complain that we don’t pay attention to what she “is teaching”. I want to yell that the gym teacher grabbed a girl by the arm the other day and pushed her into the wall because she complained that it was too hot to run. I want to talk about the religion teacher’s promise that we would all burn in eternal flames if our families did not abide by the Bible and the 10 commandments. If someone in our family was not married, but living together/having sex, we would pay. My great-grandparents, they were never married. This meant that anyone who came after them would subsequently burn on top of infinite brimstone. I couldn’t sleep for five days after that. I’d close my eyes and envision little horned midgets with flaming pitchforks jabbing the heals of my feet and chanting some awful song in German about how this would last forever, that tomorrow they would eat my brain and dance on my face. My mother was forced to sit by my bedside and feed me soup and chamomile tea. When that didn’t work, she gave me sleeping pills so I could fall asleep.
I want to slam my hand on the desk and tell him he can take his Potatoehead wife vice principal and make mashed potatoes for all I care. I want to tell him that the graffiti on the walls that spells out A.A.N., Assholes Anonymous Nicosia, or A.A.N. not just for dickheads anymore, or Talk Hard, Fight Mr. Potato head with a picture of Mr. Potatohead wearing a thick red tie and a crisp shirt, resembling the principal, all that was my doing. Instead I say,
“Sir, really I was sick.”

Make Love...NOW!

Here's the reason Europeans are so relaxed all the time and just don't give a f* about anything. We should learn from our wise eastern neighbors and do as this sign says. I got it off a photoblog. http://www.zoomvienna.com/
Some neat pictures.

Bad Ass

Someone commented that my blog was not bad ass enough. You wanted bad ass people...here it is. Bad mutha-f-ing at its best.

Muffin Joke

Two muffins are in an oven. One muffin turns to the other and says, "Whew, it sure is hot in here." The other muffin turns and says, "AHHHH!! A talking muffin!"

Cousin Yiannaki, An Idiot Savant

This is Yiannaki, my mom's first cousin. In his fifties, he spends his days walking, smoking cigarettes and eating anything offered to him. He was one of the many family visiting for my wedding. We all have stories, about our experiences, memories, our loves, our truisms. After the wedding one night we sat on my parents' deck and he wanted to talk to me, to tell me how lucky I was to find Doug. "He is a good man, good man." Yiannaki repeated. He wanted to tell me about his love. Here is his story as he managed to tell me only a few nights before he returned to Cyprus. Cousin Yiannaki was a brillaint student who attended the University of Athens in Greece some thirty years ago. He studied Accounting and Finance and was top of his class. According to Yiannaki, during this time he met a girl, but not just any girl. As any good story goes, Yiannaki fell in love with this girl. She would call him up to go out, watch a movie, go out for coffee. Yiannaki imagined him marrying this girl one day. He promised her a house, a Benz, diamonds, a fine silk wedding dress, anything she wanted, Yiannaki would make sure he would get for her. She stayed in Greece, Yiannaki went to Saudi Arabia to make his fortune. He did and he worked hard and long for two years. He had enough to get by each day, didn't go out, barely spent his money, in fact lived quite poorly for what he was making. His white collared shirts were frayed and yellow. He used his tea bags two, sometimes three times. He saved every dollar and riyal he made. He received one letter from his beloved the entire twenty four months he was there. He assumed she was busy with her studies, having one more year of school after Yiannaki left. He thought, she is finishing school, she is starting a new job, she is preparing for my return. He made excuses, realizing what was happening all along. Yiannaki kept in touch with many friends back in Greece. One friend, George wrote Yiannaki a few short weeks before Yiannaki's return to Greece. "She is engaged," George wrote in a one of many letters to his friend. "Her fiance is Panayiotis Antoniou." He was Yiannaki's former boss. It was difficult to digest, and actually he decided not to. He threw the letter away and pretended he hadn't read it. At night he broke out in sweats that drenched even in between his fingers. He would wake up, breathing heavily, wanting to run for kilometers, but then collapsing back on his bed as though he already had. He returned to Greece, wealthy from only two years of laborious, diligent work. He looked for her, for Helen. He called for her back in their old neighborhood. He said he was always sensitive, but in that moment, he felt like a child who had lost everything from parents, to home, toys, pets, siblings, all the things that bring comfort. He was lost, abandoned, a child once again. He cried that night, the following morning, over coffee, with a cigarette in his mouth, he wept such tremendous tears his cigarette could not remain lit. He did not put salt on his food because his tears sprinkled over what he ate. He could not read, play cards, or watch television. His vision impaired from the continuous falls of tears. His decision, for a brief period of time, alcohol. He wanted his mind to go numb, but found only his body did. His decision, to go into the monastery and become a recluse. Still not having faced what happened to him, the silk wedding dress he promised Helen, still hanging in his closet, Yiannaki thought he needed a retreat. At the monastery Yiannaki rested, eating no red meat, drinking wine, and eating onion and bread with all his meals. He attended three masses throughout the course of the day, totalling anywhere from five to eight hours, depending on the time of year. He still dreamt of women and wanted to be with them. The head monk advised Yiannaki to remain strong and go back into the real world; and so he did. Still not being helped. He was depressed, suicidal and at times spoke and rambled so noone could understand him. Doctors experimented with anti-depressants, schizophrenia meds, pills and injections. He began to gain weight, develop high blood pressure and high blood sugar. His stutter was magnified and his train of thought, scattered. The doctors toyed with his doses for years. He's been on disability for over twenty five years. Each month a check comes in the mail from the government, a payment of apology for screwing him up. His life is a wash. When I ask him if he ever wants to find his Helen again, see her, talk to her, ask her what happened; he cuts me off. He says if he sees her, he will kill her. She lives only a few kilometers away from him in Cyrpus. He found out from a mutual friend that she is slowly and painfully dying of cancer. He believes in karma and knows it is because she broke him, that she is now suffering. He reminds me that life is so precious. He explains how he could have been worth millions now, married, with children, living and working and happy. Instead that "poutana" ruined him, he says. "She made me go crazy, crazy, she made me go crazy. I was depressed, you know depressed, " he explains in his stuttering broken English. He speaks of it as though it happened two years ago. His anger is still vibrant and you fear for this woman's life when he says he will kill her, so convictingly, with a burning rapidness in his eyes. Even behind his thick lenses, his eyes explode when he talks of his love for her, his hate for what she did to him, and his life long desire to "finish her with a riffle". I observed him as he said that, a certain craziness in his eyes, a bit of spit on the side of his lips, the cigarette burning in his hand, and thought what happened to this man. This person who was fine on day, fell in love the other, and was destroyed shortly thereafter. When he speaks of these time, it's as though he is reliving his past; still a victim when he speaks of this experience, but saying, "I wouldn't be here now if that hadn't happened, and now I am happy."

Why the Backstreet Boys' music: although sucky, compels me to sing along

The last entry was a bit too oh I don't know--deep for the summer. So I have decided to lighten it up a bit. Why is the Backstreet Boys' song "Incomplete" so damn catchy. Some of you may be asking yourselves, "Is she serious? Backstreet boys? More like Backstreet Boys, if you know what I mean." But seriously people what have they done to deserve hate? And I quote sheer poetry here, "Empty spaces fill me up with holes. Distant faces with no place left to go. Without you. Within me, I can't find a way. Where I'm going is anybody's guess...." What the fuck does that mean? Empty spaces fill me up with holes? This song is full of unconventional oxymorons, but not on purpose. They found words that sound good with the music, but make no damn sense. How can empty spaces fill you up...with holes? Think about it...not to hard, it starts to hurt after a while. The song continues, nice piano riff, "I go on like I never knew you. I'm awake, but my world is half asleep. I pray for this heart to be unbroken, but without you all I'm going to be is incomplete." My question to you- So this narrator, the singer is disgruntled because he is alone now. He wants to forget the girl. Wants the pain to go away, the heart not to be broken, but he complains of being incomplete. So he wants the pain to go away, but knows he will never be whole without this girl. Whatever dude, I have been playing this stupid song on AOL music five-six times a day. I whip out my thumb and sing along too. It's damn catchy, like a real love song should be. It's got all the right music with all the wrong words. I'd keep "But without you all I'm going to be is incomplete." Save the music, change the rest of the lyrics.

Does Playing Stay-At-Home Mom Affect Your Kids' Smarts?

As many of my friends and family are having children, I have noticed that more of them are deciding to stay home for the first crucial years of their child's life, shunning day care and signing up for mom-baby classes. My Q is- does it really matter? Does staying home to soley raise your child matter? Does it matter in the type of person they will become, their intelligence, their work ethic. I think of myself, three, four years down the line when I decide to have kids. Will I be able to stay at home for six years raising my own beloved offspring? Going on nature walks, taking them to singing lessons, reading to them at bedtime, playing Beethoven and Mozart for babies while they play with Baby Einstein blocks? Abandoning the shackles of an eight hour work day, uncomfortable shoes, stressful paperwork and putting on the shackles of Elmo and Telletubbies, matching velour sweatsuits and mindless humming of Old MacDonald.
Not to stray from the topic at hand, but I consider my upbringing. The first few years of my life both of my parents worked long hours, spending little time with me during the week. After all what was more important - making sure I had enough formula or playing patty-cake for six consecutive hours. And so my mom read to me occassionally when she had the energy. My dad saw me on the weekends when he wasn't working twelve hour shifts...and I consider myself somewhat intelligent, successful and very motivated. I graduated college, not only with a bachelors, but with a masters as well. I am teaching the youth of America, pumping information about Greek mythology, comma splices, and the correct uses of there, their and they're into their minds already jam packed with text messaging and Halo. How did my parents working during the first few years of my life affect who I am today? Ok, they weren't there to cuddle me for naps. watch my every move and change my every diaper, but what I do know is that everything they did was for me. They wanted to obtain the best possible life for their baby. They wanted to move to the suburbs, have a house with grass and backyard with a swingset.
So their work ethic somehow trasported, most likely by example to me.
What is surprising, after a bit of reserach, is that a mother not working between birth and kindergarten has little affect on her child's intelligence.There is no visible advantage to a child's mother staying home. No correlation between a smart kid and his mom staying home until he's five/six. (Freakonomics, pg.169)
In fact 50 % of who you will be is already predetermined by your genes. So why stay home when most of how your kid turns out is out of your hands? Good freakin' question. Maybe I'll change my mind when I have kids and all I want to do is play ball with them in the sun while drinking lemonade and eating grilled cheese. Doesn't sound that bad.

Day one of the spiffyness

Welcome to the world of the blog. Kids have been talking about myspace and blogging and I would sit there questioning what this lingo was and how could I, an over the hill not so hip teacher get with it. I have done it. I am from this day forth, a blogger. I promise to blog as often as I can and be the best blogger I can possibly be. This I do solemly swear on the first day of August 2005.