jimmy's semi-debut in the music vid arena

I say SEMI debut because Jimmy actually makes a habit of being a part of music video projects that come to Birmingham. It's really funny -- he gets so excited about them. He always wants me to do it with him, but I think they're cheesy. I, in general, don't like music videos. You may have heard me say that I don't think they do anything for a song -- anything positive, anyway. I believe this is especially true in today's contemporary Christian music industry. The line from cool to cheesy is oh so delicate and easy to cross.

But Jimmy loves it, and so I went with him for the last one. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you....

The "guy in the bright red tie," James Lowell, Jr.



I might as well be his bodyguard now that he's so famous.

Post-It Notes and Pumpkin Mush:

My Journey From Student to Teacher and Back Again

He should never have worn that leather jacket - the one with all those zippers and chains. It didn’t help that he also had on tight black pants and a long silver chain around his neck with a giant key dangling from it. He said it was “the key to his fiancé’s heart.” His fiancée’s name was Dawn. After he explained this to us, Marcy Faircloth immediately raised her hand. “So Mr. Skinner, did you wake up at the crack of Dawn this morning?” His pale, round face burned with embarrassment as we all struggled to muffle intense laughter. “Don’t wooorrreeeeee about it,” was his reply.

The minute he walked through the door of my seventh grade math class I knew his days as a teacher were numbered. We would make sure of it. We were not an intimidating group. There was Marcy, the wiry redhead with the green vinyl backpack and scattered freckles. There was Bubba, with his plaid flannel shirt always tucked neatly into his faded jeans with the hole in the knee. Heather, with her fashionably crimped hair and perfectly round glasses, hardly breathed a word for as long as I knew her. And Kristen, dear Kristen. She did science experiments in her spare time and hardly ever looked anyone in the eye.

Despite the utterly harmless nature of the students that made up this class, we would become the mighty terrors that drove all five feet of Mike Skinner from the field of education. Who knew we harbored such power? I don’t think it was any one event that drove him away, but rather a succession of moments scattered throughout the year like thunderstorms in the summertime – only a few of which I remember with delightful clarity.

“Ahem….ahem….AHEM.” A hushed giggle started in the back corner of the room and spread to the front, evolving into shameless laughter. Mr. Skinner finished writing his equation on the chalkboard before turning around and giving us a look that was intended to quiet us with its intensity. Instead, we thought he had something in his eye, and the laughter grew louder.

“WHAT are you laughing at?” he barked.

“Skin-Daddy, your pants are ripped,” answered Charlie from the front row. “Don’t wooorrreeeeee about it. No one should be examining my pants,” was his response as he turned back to his equations. The two-inch split that ran vertically right down between his back pockets remained the focus of the rest of the period. The next day, he came to school wearing those pants – the split sewn up in the back with white thread.

In a heroic attempt to quiet us, he climbed onto his desk and began shouting at us from his newfound height. He talked about respect, about maturity, and about how we’d never pass math if he was all we were interested in studying. I could only stare at that big silver key swinging back and forth. Occasionally, it would catch on his shirt buttons, which were undone just far enough to confirm that yes, indeed he has chest hair, albeit sparse, and no, he was not afraid to show it off.

He finished his lecture, and the room was finally quiet. He hopped gingerly off his desk, only for one leg to land in the little round garbage can to send him tumbling to the floor in slow motion. There was no redeeming any instructional time at that point. Loud cheers and howling laughter rang out, and he stood up with his face so reddened that the flaky white dandruff in his eyebrows glowed. We were so loud that no one heard him as he squealed his already signature response, “Don’t worrreeeeee about it!”

There is nothing worse, nothing and no one more void of remorse than a mean seventh grader. Had I but known that one day I would be teaching them, I might have handled that year a little differently. But I didn’t. Instead, I signed up for the Halloween lip sync contest, rented fishnet stockings and go-go boots, and started practicing “Stop! In the Name of Love” with the passion and energy of Richard Simmons on speed.

Katie, Foley and I had waited for this night for months. It was our time to shine. It came and went, and our moments in the spotlight of that old, tin band hall were not enough. We needed something else to give us more of that delicious adrenaline. We camped out at Katie’s house that night, and this could only mean one thing: pranks. And when the conversation turned to choosing a victim, only one name crossed our lips: Mike Skinner.

Since we had to work with what was readily accessible, we chose the three pumpkins sitting next to Katie’s front door. We certainly weren’t bold enough to actually do anything destructive with them, so we smashed them up and put the goo into a large brown grocery sack. I know - devilish, just devilish. With a bright red marker, we scrawled “DON’T WOOOORRREEEEE ABOUT IT!” across the front of the bag. Armed with our bag of soggy ammunition, we set off on the one mile trek to the home of one Mike Skinner.

We arrived at his house to find the lights were out. Perfect. Two cars sat in the driveway – Dawn must be visiting, we mused. Being the fearless pranksters that we were, we quickly and carefully placed the bag on the top front porch step. Hearts racing, we darted out of the yard and down the street until the house disappeared from view. Back in Katie’s yard, we sat down in the damp grass and breathed sighs of satisfaction at having trespassed on our teacher’s property and left a token to let him know we’d been there. We exchanged victory high-fives and made a toast with candy bars, clicking them together in the moonlight. “To Skin-Daddy,” we giggled.

We promised each other we’d tell no one of our prank, but by Monday morning at ten o’clock, half the seventh grade knew about it. I’ve never been good at keeping secrets. As rumors of pumpkin mush swirled throughout the halls, another slightly more disturbing rumor made its way to us, the victorious Supremes: Mr. Skinner’s fiancée, Dawn, had spent the night in the emergency room.

Turns out bees really like pumpkin mush. It also turns out that Dawn’s allergic to bee stings. Deathly allergic, as a matter of fact. Who knew?

Eventually, tales of our weekend adventure made their way to Mr. Skinner. Our hearts were pounding like jackhammers as we made our way to his desk after class. He’d asked to see us, and my palms were cold with sweat. I’m quite sure we had beads of perspiration on our foreheads and were visibly trembling with fear. I had visions of handcuffs dancing through my head; I could see it all clearly: “You ladies come with me. You’re under arrest for the murder of the fiancée of Mike Skinner. You have the right to remain silent.”

I didn’t want to imagine the looks on my parents’ faces when they’d find out they would be visiting me in prison for the next thirty years of my life. I couldn’t bear the thought of not seeing my cat, Tigger, anymore. And my dream of moving to Hollywood at age nineteen for my big break? Dashed.

Mr. Skinner looked at us, not saying anything, for about fifteen seconds. The zippers on his motorcycle jacket gleamed in the sunlight. All three of us stared at the floor.

“The beds they give visitors at the hospital are very uncomfortable. Did you girls know that? My back is sore today, and Dawn won’t be released for another two days. They think she’s going to make it, though.”

Every muscle in my body tensed at that moment, and my visions of prison life started to seem like reality. My eyes brimmed with tears as I looked up at Mr. Skinner.

“So she’s probably not going to die?” I croaked.

“No, I think she’s going to be alright. But she’s in a whole lot of pain right now. What you girls did was not funny. I don’t appreciate the gesture one bit.”

I couldn’t hold the tears in any longer. Out they flowed, down my cheeks and onto the floor.
“We are so, so very sorry, Mr. Skinner,” Katie said softly. “We didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”

Mr. Skinner looked at us silently for another fifteen seconds, studying us like the Pythagorean Theorem. I held my breath and looked at the door, bracing myself for my impending arrest.

“I hope you understand that your actions have had serious consequences. Because this happened outside of school, you won’t have any kind of punishment from me or the administration. However, I am going to have to call your parents.”

“Not the police?!” I asked apprehensively.

“No one is calling the police,” he answered.

Though the reactions we got from our parents weren’t pretty, a relief that we weren’t going to prison settled deep into our bones. Our time was up; we wouldn’t be pulling any more pranks on Mr. Skinner, save the occasional use of school intercoms to serenade him with our rendition of “Bad to the Bone” when our teacher left the room. For the most part, the rest of the year was void of any major drama.

Fast-forward eleven years: I am standing in front of a class of middle school students for the first time, sweating bullets and praying not to become like my former victim. I’d carefully checked my sweater for zippers and my pants for rips. There was nothing I would tell my students “not to worry about,” and I wouldn’t dare stand on any elevated surface to get their attention. I made every attempt to prevent any “Skinner moment” from becoming my reality as a teacher. I knew that Karma was not on my side.

Despite my best efforts to avoid any kind of breakdown, on day five, it happened. I was relegated to the teachers’ lounge for a forty-five minute cry-fest after my third period class proved wholly and altogether uncontrollable. I questioned everything I was certain of in those moments as I made my way to the teachers’ lounge, tears rolling down my face. I sat in the swivel chair, turning back and forth and wondering if this was my “Skinner moment.”

It had all the signs: ardent frustration, relentless thirteen year olds, mayhem, turmoil, and tears. And although I had sense enough not to come to school dressed as a leather-clad biker, I did show up armed with the faulty ammunition that is an unrealistic vision of one first year teacher magically creating an academic utopia despite “the odds.” I’m convinced that I might as well have gone the biker route that first week.

Unlike myself and my former classmates eleven years ago, these students had a rare mercy about them: I returned to my classroom after they’d left to find my door covered with heartfelt apology notes scrawled on yellow Post-Its.

It was a picture of grace: they’d forgiven me my first naïve mistake, and though I was certain more would come, I knew at that moment that it was worth it. The tears, the struggles, the hits and misses and the trials by fire – it was all worth it. I had been given another chance by my students, and I’m still grateful for that.

I should probably go look up Mike Skinner and give him a call.

one word

How is it that I think all these listy posts are so lame, yet I am drawn to them more each time I see one? Is it because I am looking for something, ANYTHING to put off grading papers and entering them into the computer? Could be. Or is it my adolescent (ahem---adult) penchant for email surveys that brings me back each time?

Who knows. irrelevant, really. The fact remains, here I am again, with another list, stolen from of course none other than one LT.

The good news is, the answers have to be one word, so I won't be able to put my work off much longer (and you don't have to read long, boring answers--just short, boring answers.)

Object: answer questions with one word ONLY. Not necessarily as easy as it looks! Can you do it?

1. Where is your cell phone? table
2. Where is your significant other? meeting
3. Your hair? frizzy
4. Your mother? frilly
5. Your father? airborn
6. Your favorite thing? coffee
7. Your dream last night? none
8. Your dream/goal? book
9. The room you're in? livingroom
10. Your hobby? writing
11. Your fear? knives
12. Where do you want to be in 6 years? birmingham
13. Where were you last night? home
14. What you're not? energized
15. One of your wish list items? broom
16. Where you grew up? Starkville
17. The last thing you did? broccoli
18. What are you wearing? dress
19. Your TV? off
20.Your pet? boo
21. Your computer? useful
22. Your mood? peaceful
23. Missing someone? absolutely
24. Your car? Volvo
25. Something you're not wearing? shoes
26. Favorite store? Target
27. Love someone? friends
28. Your favorite color/shade? green
29. Last thing you ate? broccoli
30. When is the last time you laughed? today
31. Last time you cried? weeks

Whew. That was a toughie. Alright, one more confession (the first one, in case you're wondering, being 'I'm about to do another list on my blog'). I went to a month long writing workshop/institute this summer, and it was pretty intense. I loved it. While in the thick of said workshop, I did a little writing. There is one piece of writing I finished that I would like to soon share on my blog. It is called "Post-It Notes and Pumpkin Mush." Those of you who either know me really really well or have just know me long enough can probably guess from the title what the subject of this short memoir might be.

We, the 8th graders and myself, are currently reading memoir. We will follow these weeks with some intense writing workshop in this genre. So, I thought I would write along with them and perhaps share some things I've written previously, one being this story of pumpkin mush. They ended up really liking it, if only because of it's 1. drug reference and/or 2. descriptions of chest hair.

Either way, they DID like it, and I enjoyed sharing it -- I usually don't share what I write, but I think I'm changing my mind. In my next post, I will officially publish "Post-It Notes and Pumpkin Mush" for the first time.

I know you will all be checking back every thirty seconds until its appearance.

Until then...

Goodnight unto all.

circus peanuts: the breakfast of champions

Thanks so much, friends, for all the birthday wishes. I felt very loved in the blogging community yesterday. And yes, I did in fact eat circus peanuts for breakfast -- thanks ya! They were luscious, and you better believe it started the day off right.

Yesterday marked the 27th year of existence for me, and what a fantastic 27 it's been. Yesterday was great -- right after school I went to Barnes & Noble to get Jane Austen's Persuasion (more on that below) and to Sephora for my free birthday gift (vanilla cupcake bubble bath!). Last night, all my favorite Birmingham people gathered for a fun wine and dessert soiree. It was a blast. I so missed all my out of town favorite people, though. Here's one of few pictures from the night. The button I'm wearing says "Rock Star," in case you're wondering.
I've been thinking about being 27 a lot lately, and it's funny -- my dear friend Kate and I, ever since we met back in 2000, have believed that 27 would be/is an all around magical year.

I think we just liked the way it sounded. But, now that it's here, I've given it a lot more thought, and my conclusion is that it has to be better than any age, yet.

The fact that I can eat circus peanuts for breakfast (and Swedish fish for lunch) whenever I want and not feel like a freak (even though I might actually be one) is reason enough.

I have a few thoughts on being 27, and I'd like to share them. Here they are, in no particular order.

1. I have never read any of Jane Austen's novels, and I've decided this is the year. I think 27 is the perfect age to appreciate her writing in all its veracity and wit, and so I am beginning with Persuasion, her last published novel. I'm starting with this one because it was published near my birthday, and Anne, the novel's heroine, is newly 27 at the beginning of the story. (She's also considered a spinster, but we'll overlook that part)

2. 27 is going to be good, because, and I'm directly quoting Kate on this one...it just sounds like a good age, and "You're old enough to have a system of independence that works, and young enough to do and be whatever you want, and be hot doing it." Right on.

3. Turning 27 means that...and I want you to understand how much it hurts me to say this...

I am probably not going to be famous.


More than likely, turning 27 means I have missed the train to stardom. As of yesterday (but not a day before, mind you) it's a safe bet I can go ahead and cash in the change in the "Money for California" jar for new socks.

4. I need more sleep at 27 than I've ever needed before. I know some of this has to do with chasing 8th graders around all day, but most of it is probably because I just don't have the energy to stay up dancing to "Colors of the Wind" like I used to. You like that, msk(s) and Mere?

5. It's been 10 years since I was 17. Wow.

6. Since I was Pippi Longstocking as a child, I wonder if Pippi would be like me as an adult?

7. Many mornings, I wake up with creaky joints and a sore back. This has not always been the case. Turns out, I'm not Tuck Everlasting. But there's something charming about the cycles of life, and I'm glad to be feeling it a little bit.


8. I am now older than Uncle Jesse in Full House. It's true. The immortal hair gelled crooner was 26 on the show. This marks birthday significance if ever there was any.


That's all, for now. Here's to life and being 27.

10 things

I'm taking up msk(s)'s challenge because I have nothing else to write about, and because in this situation I refuse to do the alphabet game. No offense to all you abc-ers out there.

There aren't many things I can't live without, come to think of it. But the ones that ARE on that list, I really can't live without them. And a lot of them are pretty lame.

Here they are.

1. Coffee and hot tea. I know I am far from alone on this one. I just really can't go without it. I have gone back and forth on whether or not I am addicted to it. Some say I am, because of the simple fact that I say I can't live without it. But I can and have gone a few days without it here and there (not by choice), and I didn't have headaches or anything associated with symptoms of withdrawal. It just simply makes the whole day better when I do have it.

Why are coffee and hot tea so wonderful? I don't know, but I could drink it all day.

2. Zyrtec D. I realize it's sad to have medicine on here, but I'm convinced that without these little wonder pills, my professional, social, and personal lives would be over. Since moving to B'ham, my allergies have become my worst enemy. There are days when, be it not for Zyrtec, I can't get through a sentence without sneezing four times in a row and having to blow my nose at least twice. This medicine makes me feel like a new person.

3. CoverGirl Lipslicks lipgloss. I am not one to spend much money on makeup - maybe because I have never tasted the wonders of the really good stuff. But if cheap is working well for me, why open my eyes to what I'm missing and further empty my pocketbook? (LT and msks, are you horrified?) As long as I have this lipgloss, I'm good. It wakes me from the aesthetic dead if I've overslept and don't have time to do anything to my face -- it's my favorite -- and maybe only -- staple in the world of cosmetics.

4. Adhesive hooks. Lame? Yes. But these handy gadgets are my most powerful tools of organization. Towels off the floor, purses out of the way, scarves in their place. You'll find many of these, both small and large, placed strategically in the nooks and crannies of my living space.

5. Ebay. I can't stress it enough -- this online marketplace has saved me countless dollars. I've gotten scores of books for my classroom for almost nothing, electronics for cheap (even if I did have to sell the PlayStation 2 because Jimmy had been "permanently loaned" a PS3), quality shampoo for less than the off-brand, my CAR, and my latest find...my new armoire, for which I paid...are you ready? A whopping $26. And no, it is not made out of banana wood.

You just can't beat the prices you find on ebay. If you don't mind buying your stuff used, this is the way to go.

6. Cucumber Method All-Surface Cleaner. It costs more than the average cleaner, but this stuff is definitely worth every penny. It's the Target brand cleaner, and takes a good chunk of the YUCK out of cleaning. It smells WONDERFUL and cleans very effectively. I recommend this for any surface you clean that water won't damage. Comes in spray or wipes.

7. The Elmo document camera. I don't actually have one of these yet. But I'm convinced that when I do, it will make my teaching life a million times easier. All you do is turn it on, toss an article or paper underneath the lamp, and it's projected onto the wall for everyone to see/read. No computers, no annoying transparencies, no paper. Talk about saving the trees.

8. Sara Groves' music. She sings my life, and I love her. That's all I have to say about that.

9. Tomatoes. Recently declared my favorite simple food, these wonder veggies (yes they share that title along with the pumpkin) just make everything taste better.

10. Conditioner. The only thing that, where my hair is concerned, separates normal from all out brillo pad/afro. I'd rather just never WASH my hair than have to wash it without conditioner.

burnt nosehairs

I am admittedly embarrassed by the fact that until yesterday, I thought you could refrigerate raw chicken breast and it would stay good for longer than a day.

About six days ago, I started noticing a rancid odor each time I stepped in our front door. No one smelled it but me, though, so I didn't think too much of it. After the third day, I started getting suspicious. Either we have a dead animal decomposing in our house and magically I'm the only one who can smell such things, or I need medical attention in the nasal cavity area, NOW. Finally, my roommates started smelling it, too. I'd already gone through the fridge to see if anything was rotting.

Chicken salad? Nope. Smells fine. Week old pasta salad? Practically no smell at all compared to this. I nosed around in there for days, not finding anything that could be the source if this most foul smell that ever singed my nose hairs. It wasn't the eggs, it wasn't the tomatoes, and it wasn't the leftover meal from Macaroni Grill. And it CERTAINLY wasn't the leftover raw chicken meat that I put in a tupperware container and put in the fridge - because it wouldn't EVEN be bad after a week. Right?

Right?

Apparently not. I feel like a moron. Once Katie enlightened me on this little known (I thought) chicken fact, I knew it was the chicken and that I had to get rid of it, but how?? I have to really mentally prep myself before I even TOUCH raw meat that ISN'T rotten. I just don't know if there's anything more revolting than raw meat. Until I encountered rotten raw meat. I left it there, rotting in the fridge, for another 24 hours because I couldn't work up the nerve to mess with it.

I came home from school today (which is going very well, as of day 2, if anyone's wondering) and of course, it was a thousand times worse. The moment had come. I took a deep breath of rotten smelling air and went for it. I grabbed the plastic container from the shelf and pulled at the lid until it came off. Before the intensity of the chicken smell hit my nose, I, like a fool, went ahead and stuck my face up next to it "just to make sure" this was what it was.

It was.

I about passed out right then and there. Roommate Abby was sitting in the dining room, so she can verify that I am not exaggerating. I started gagging, couldn't breathe, and started trying to dump the chicken into a trash bag. It was stuck to the container. Wouldn't budge. In the meantime, I'm gagging, not breathing, and turning blue. I dropped the chicken, container and all, into the trash bag and headed to the backyard with it.

The house still smells like rot. But apparently only in my nostrils. I can still feel my nose hairs burning. Maybe because I subjected myself to a good sniff of the fumes from about one centimeter from the source. I'll be lucky if I can ever eat chicken again.

And to think, I thought I was making headway in the kitchen.

back to school jitters are here...

Not in their entirety, though...I will have the full case of jitters officially on Sunday night, the night before my new students come. Tomorrow, though, is my official first day back at work. Technically I've been working off and on all during July, moving and readying my new classroom. Seriously, is it really time to go back? Who has time for work anyway? Not me.

There are much more important things to be doing, like eating steamed broccoli. Have I mentioned lately how much I love it? With LOTS of lemon juice that is probably eroding all my teeth enamel right off. LOVE IT. Most of you who know me well will be rightly surprised by what I'm about to say, but...I am on a cooking kick.

That's right -- a cooking kick. And it's going pretty well! No disasters yet, and everything's (most everything) turned out really good. Unless my friends are lying to me, that is. I've made lemon tarragon chicken salad, a tomato tart, and chicken with rosemary sauce. It might be easy for most of you, but for me, this is a big deal. I can usually mess up just about anything, including boiling water. But I think I'm turning over a new leaf.

Is anyone else ready for cold weather????