May the odds of getting a theatre free of the loud whisperer be ever in your favor

 

I have loved reading The Hunger Games series.  And I'm super excited about the movie adaptation coming out this weekend.  However, I will not be one of those suckers tenting it up outside the theatre to get a good seat on opening night.  Or second night.  Or third.  Or fourth, fifth or sixth for that matter.

I have been to one opening night release in my lifetime and that was quite enough just to say that I've had the experience.  It was Harry Potter 5 and the first movie for which I'd read the book first.  Expectations were guarded.  But it was summer so I figured that if I had to stand outside, waiting in a line longer than Walgreen's during flu shot season, this was the right time to try that hat on.

Had to get tickets early. . .which, if I'm remembering correctly, Adam purchased for my birthday the previous month.  I also had to work that evening and my ol' stomping grounds closed at 10pm with at least 45 minutes to an hour of cleanup.  If showtime was 12am and the line of nerds with their noses in giant blue books started at 1pm earlier that day. . .I was hoping to be lucky enough to get at least an aisle seat in the front row.  On that note. . .why do they even make that front section?  Sure, it's a myth that sitting too close to the television can damage your eyes, but it is a medical surety that it does no good for your neck.

Even the advent of a new Harry Potter movie couldn't make me feel comfortable with standing and sitting that close to strangers smelling like fried chicken and sour milk so I absolutely had to go home and take a shower, put on a shirt that wasn't made out of denim and race to the end of the ever-growing line of bright-eyed humanity.

Turns out they were showing the movie on several screens at once and were staggering the start times.  Poo.  We weren't all going to be in the same theatre.  There was a touch-and-go moment when I was given the opportunity to switch tickets/theatres with someone I knew but did not plan to go with so that more of us could be together.  But. . .here's the deal.  I was in theatre 7.  And if you haven't read the books, you just wouldn't understand that kind of magical significance.  My geek cells refused to allow a trade with that kind of awesome on the line.

Suffice it to say. . .it was worth the experience only because it was a dry, beautiful warm night.  I did NOT have to sit in the front section.  And even had a group of girls I did not know wave their hands and their Gryffindor scarves in welcome to the seats next to them to let me know they were available.  How sad that this was a nice surprise!  People being kind to strangers, all of us reveling in the excitement of this night together. . .as for one evening, we all knew we had at least one thing in common.

Hunger Games comes out tomorrow. . .or rather later tonight, in about 9 hours.  I'm sure all the girls in love with the boy with the bread are lined up already, wearing green jackets and combat boots, their hair braided on the side.  At the ripe age of 29, I've come to realize it's definitely appropriate to get just as excited as I ever did about silly things like this.  I just show my excitement in a different way.  That way being waiting at least a week before I venture on to those sticky floors and fight for elbow room with the Big Gulp of the guy next to me who guffaws at all the worst jokes.

I do, however, wish luck to all those who plan on fighting it out this weekend in procuring entertainment over comfort.  Let's hope there are no bows or berries involved.

----------------------------------------

Completely off-topic - I like how the woman being handed the baton in the above image seems somewhat surprised if but a little perturbed.  As if she was just running along on her own when this woman with a baton appeared out of nowhere.  That is a hilarious practical joke and I kind of want to do it.  Just look for people running and race up alongside them to pass a baton.  Looks like there's no need for me to worry about missing out on HG this weekend at all. . .I've got plans.

"Hi, I will be your child's teacher this year."

What exactly does it mean when you start a new year by inviting all of the parents of your new students to attend Open House?  What do those parents hear when you introduce yourself?

"Hi, I will be your child's only teacher this year."

"Hi, I will be your child's primary teacher this year."

"Hi, I will be your child's end-all be-all of informative data this year."

"Hi, I will be your child's go-to individual for latent life lessons and general upkeep."

"Hi, I will be your child's bane of existence."

"Hi, I will be your child's endless purveyor of homework that you will never understand."

"Hi, I will be your child's next authority figure to ignore in a whole line of incompetent failures."

"Hi, I will be your child's excuse for not doing well."

Is it too soon to become jaded?  I graduated in 2008.  By 2009, I was still flipping burgers and making bulk macaroni salad orders.  But this isn't going to be about how I made more money there than if I were subbing.  No, this won't be about money.  This is about the fact that I made more money dealing with people who cared far more about whether there was sauce in the bag than if their child could perform basic mathematical equations.

This is not to say that there aren't some killer parents out there.  The balanced ones who care about their child's academic and personal well-being without being overbearing or jumping to conclusions about whether my credentials are credentially enough for them.  Contrary to popular or unpopular opinion, I have been substituting and tutoring and I have seen quite the gamut during the past 4 years.

Parents Doing Homework for the Child
I understand, almost ridiculously so, that it is frustrating when a child does not "get it."  Believe me, this is the bread and butter of my very job.  I realize that if a child comes home around 3. . .and a parent comes home. . .say, around 5.  And dinner is at 6.  And Biggest Loser is on at 8.  There is precious little time to sit down with your child and get to the business.  I fully comprehend this predicament.  It is one of those great first-world problems.  Too much to do and eat and see and experience that it leaves so little time for sundries like homework and spending time getting to know how education has changed since you were a wee one.

Do I sound sarcastic?  I have to admit that I am wavering.  I 100% mean what I've said but I also have a slight disdain for people who continually (repeat: continually) do their child's homework for them because they don't have time to re-teach it because "that's the teacher's job.

"Hi, I will NOT be your child's only teacher this year."

School is supplementary to a child's personal development and academic growth.  You have had your child for 5-6 years before I even see them.  That's a master's degree's worth of time.  You might think not because we're talking babies and toddlers here.  But children learn at a much more accelerated rate than adults.  And these incredibly formative years are yours to take advantage of.  Obviously, life has rough patches.  And none of us are perfect.  Often, we find ourselves at the end of our rope.  So, it happens.  We rush a child along, we think FOR them.  It's excusable, but not on a chronic base.

"Hi, I will NOT be your child's primary teacher this year."

You are your child's primary caregiver and, therefore, teacher.  I am paid to provide a supplemental curriculum that is governed by state and nation.  I am paid to work WITH you in conjunction with the things that you are doing in YOUR home.  I'm not instructing every parent to devote an entire room of their house to being a classroom with a desk, a chalkboard and lesson plans.  But teaching opportunities will arise.  Don't miss them and don't leave them entirely up to me.

"Hi, I will NOT be your child's end-all be-all of informative data this year."

Especially with the advent of the internet, there is absolutely no excuse to miss out on becoming more informed and to exemplify to your own child that you are a lifelong learner.  Even if you are the most destitute parent on the earth, if you live in a neighborhood or community with a library or have friends who have access to the internet, you should not be hiding in the dark ages.

"Hi, I will NOT be your child's endless purveyor of homework that you will never understand."

No parent should ever say, "I don't know."  It should be, "I don't know. . .but let's find out."  Ok, so you're busy.  "I don't know. . .so try it on your own and when I am finished here, let's find out."  For goodness' sake, it's one of my favorite lines in the classroom and I'm classically trained to know things!  Eight times out of 10, a child will figure it out on their own.  I can not count the actual number of times a child has asked for help on an assignment because they either did not read the directions or they simply did not even give themselves the opportunity to sit for 10 seconds and try it for themselves.

Parents Expecting me to be the Babysitter

I spent my time, from age 13 to 18, as a babysitter.  A pretty darned good one, too.  I've employed infant CPR, I've held little girls' hair when they were sick in the bathroom, I've dealt with some life-changing diaper explosions.  That part of my life (at least in respect to other people's children) is over.  I am a bonafied, certified, trained and capable elementary school teacher.

Between the hours of 9 and 3:30 (and often before and after), I am expected to carry out lesson plans that adhere to standards and objectives demanded by the state and the district.  I am not a childcare service.

Unfortunately, I have worked in places where children are dropped off for "tutoring" and have demonstrated that it is completely unnecessary.  The parents just need a free place for their children to stay.  I do not mind having these kids around.  I love being with them and getting to know them.  But, it seems unfair to boor these children to death with procedures and concepts that they already grasp while making those who need the tutoring feel intimidated by the presence of these more proficient students.  Sure, I've teamed them up as high and low student groups because, after all, the best way to learn is by teaching.  But that's merely a happy coincidence and my excellent training showing its face.  The parents had nothing to do with it, intentionally.  I know childcare is expensive and a babysitter can not always be found.  But come on, parents, think!

"Hi, I will NOT be your child's go-to individual for latent life lessons and general upkeep."

School is a great and terrible place to learn some very important life lessons.  And while I'm always there to hold a hand, try to say the right thing or give out bandaids, I am not Mom or Dad.  I am not the hero.  And speaking of heroes:

"Hi, I will be your child's bane of existence."

I just may be.  And while I know most parents want to give their children the benefit of the doubt and believe them when they say their teacher is the worst monster imaginable. . .cut me some slack.  I am not here to make life easy for your child.  I am here to make life accessible to your child; through application of knowledge they gain while in my classroom.  I am helping them set the stage for the rest of their life.  Helping them.  Not doing it for them.  Not doing it on my own, either.  I need your help.  If that means you also need to be the bad guy and insist on doing work that is "too hard," so be it.

"Hi, I will NOT be your child's next authority figure to ignore in a whole line of incompetent failures."

There are also parents, on the other hand, who give no benefit of the doubt to their children.  Some kids have fair gripes with teachers.  Remember, we're not perfect, either.  But I will not stand by when a child is actively abusive or distracting.  Unless I am informed about a child's tendencies or given pieces of pertinent background information, I will employ the management techniques that would normally work for a child who is acting out.

If there is an at-home situation or an extreme lifestyle change that a child is enveloped in, the teacher should know so that she can make both allowances and changes to her behavior plans that are specific for that child.  Excuses for behavior are one thing, but reasons are another.  Consider the teacher/parent relationship much like that of a doctor/patient.  It will be confidential and there's no reason to feel embarrassed or judged.  Sometimes, things happen in families that directly affect a child's behavior and ability to excel.  I absolutely NEED to know at least the general conflict, if not all the details.

"Hi, I will NOT be your child's excuse for not doing well."

If a child does not get along with a teacher, it may bear looking into.  If there is a serious stubborn battle of wills at play, this is detrimental to the student, the teacher, and all of the other children in the classroom.  Sometimes, for the good of everyone, changes need to be made.  But, MOST of the time, it is a good lesson to teach your child that, for the rest of their life, they will have to work with unfavorable people.  We all must learn how to work around this unfortunate way of the world.  Some time in our lives, we will have a boss we can not stand.  Some time in our lives, we will have to complete a project with someone or someones we do not get along with.

This is why we have parent/teacher conferences.  It is a place to air out concerns or grievances but it's also a great time to bring up positive points and make sure that everyone is on the same page.  Most of the time, from having been involved in several of these conferences, it is the latter that occurs with the exception of small, albeit important, concerns.  Someone's not turning in homework when the parent is saying that they've seen the child's completed work.  Someone's getting high grades on class and home work but low grades on tests.  These are the kinds of problems that come up and can usually be resolved between parent, child and teacher.  It's a trifecta.  Neither of us does it alone.  We are the holy trinity of the academic child's existence.

It seems sad that I have so much to complain about when I don't even have my own classroom yet.  Oh, the humanity when I do.  But I will say one absolutely wonderfully positive thing about teaching:

The overwhelming and spectacularly satisfying duties I have had bestowed upon myself by becoming a teacher and lifelong learner are rewarding because I get to go to school for the rest of my life.  And I can reinvent the wheel every year if I want or need to.  I get to share a passion for knowledge that can not be feigned.  I get to be part of a process that will change childrens' lives.  And I get to do what I love.  And get paid for it.  Not much, but then sometimes blessings are worth more.

Danger Gets Stranger

Once upon a time, I was fearless.  I ran along the edge of sheer cliffs just to make my dad nervous.  I splashed in puddles during thunderstorms.  I climbed out onto house roofs to reach the good mulberries at the top of the tree.  I raced my bike down steep fleets of stairs ending in busy streets.  With no spotter.

There's something about getting older that reminds you how much there is to be afraid of.  You would think that, as you learn and grow. . .and survive each day. . .you would have a newfound respect for survival and a confidence in your ability to refrain from peril.  But no.  That's not how it works.  Somehow, you realize how lucky you are.  How endlessly insane it is that you are still alive.  After all that you've done that would suggest the contrary.

When I was locked in my parents' upstairs bathroom, I didn't give it a second's thought that the best way to solve my predicament should be to crawl out the window and use the drainpipe to obtain access to the open window one room over. That's the obvious solution.



While my problem wasn't self-made. . .I did not hesitate to use it as an excuse to do something thrilling and dangerous.  Who did I think I was?  I look back on that and I wonder. . ."[expletive]. . .What would have happened if I had fallen?"

And yet, I did stupid tricks like that all the time. . .and often, I did fall.  But I always got right back up again.  Sure, I was a little worse for wear and lived, like almost everyone, my entire childhood with bumps, bruises and scrapes.  Bandaids and Neosporin were my best friend.  Along with my Johnny Switchblade Adventure Punk and my Bag-O-Glass (see video below.)


I find myself increasingly fearful of 'getting back on the mountain goat' so to speak, however.  When I fall [read: fail] I can't help but kick myself while I'm down and express some bizarre version of post-traumatic stress disorder.

In January of 09, I was on my way to do some laundry at my in-laws' house.  It had been snowy and icy lately but I knew how to handle myself.  I mean. . .nothing had happened to me yet. . .so, obviously nothing COULD happen to me, right?  Things just don't happen to you.  I'm driving up the main thoroughfare. . .the road's rather clear since the sun is out and shining. . .and there is little to no traffic.

Except this one guy.  A honkin' red Ford 350 (Idaho, right?) who's having some difficulty remembering that there are two lanes and one of them is mine.  Sure, the white lines are hard to see under some of the packed snow but really.  You live in this town.  We share the road 'round these parts.  He's making me nervous.  Alright, dude.  If you really feel like purchasing your giant truck gives you entitlement to all of your lane and half of mine, I will be the bigger man (and on that note, please remove those ridiculously undersized truck nutz) and give YOU some room.

Whoever said being kind and compassionate got you anywhere in life except last?  As I slowly move my car towards the side of the road, I hit a patch of ice that unfortunately did not feel the inclination to melt in the glorious yet insufficient sunshine.  Nothing matches that feeling of complete and total loss of control.  My car began to turn into that weird rubber pencil trick.

You could tell me over and over and over and over exactly what you're supposed to do in this situation.  You could remind me time and again not to overcorrect.  You could literally get inside of my brain and write all over my cortex, "Drive INTO the swerve!"  It would not matter.  Split second reaction does not equal the legitimacy of physics.

All I could do was try to steer into NOT THAT RED TRUCK.  I am the nicest person in the world.  As I did everything in my power to keep from turning into him, he drove off into the sunset and probably made millions and bought a whole load of truck nutz for his entire family.

I, on the other hand, realized that braking it wasn't working and that I just needed to get off the road.  It was all a blur but I managed to see an open parking lot.  I did not manage to stop short enough to make use of that empty parking lot.  Instead, I am quickly heading towards a storefront ramp bordered by a beautiful clean parked truck on one side and a gleaming mailbox on the other.

By some miracle upon miracles, I came to a sudden and crunching stop.  Right here:

The truck was fine.  The mailbox. . .untouched.  The building?  Turns out it was an optometrist's office and this wide-eyed guy comes out because everyone inside thought the end of the world had come.  My car was definitely the loser of that fight, though the corner of the office did lose some stucco. The guy catches my eye and I sheepishly wave from behind the wheel with a frightened grin on my face.  His head swivels to the parked vehicle. . .then to the mailbox, then back to me.  He says, "Boy howdy, I'm sure glad you missed my new truck."  So was I.

They invite me inside and call emergency and calm me down while I call Adam (who's stuck down at work because I'd dropped him off earlier since his truck stopped going into gear that very morning - WHY, I ask you, WHY does this always happen to us in twos??)  After I stop shaking and crying, I muster the joke that I thought I was going through a drive-thru.  I was due for a new pair of specs.

No severe damage.  To my physical self or the car.  No real blow to the building itself except for a small aesthetic fix.  No deployment of airbags.  All surface damage and a flat tire.

I keep telling Adam he needs to take me to an empty snowy parking lot one of these days and just let me spin around and play, get comfortable.  I realize that, from my comfy dry snow-and-ice free couch, it's much easier to imagine how much fun and games that would be.  Twelve panic attacks later, I may be wondering why in the world I would ever make such an absurd suggestion.

See Consumer Probe on Dangerous Toys like Bag-O-Glass

This guy is tops

September 16th was a special day.

My awesome rock-my-world husband turned 30 years of age.

I think he looks remarkably preserved.

I was so excited his b-day was going to fall on one of his Fridays off!!  I had so many crazy ideas for what we could do.  Rent an oceanside condo and hope it doesn't rain.  Spend the weekend in the city in some crazy fancy hotel and laugh about how we shouldn't open or touch anything except the free ice.  Or just toss a bunch of money in a pot and let him decide where to go or what to do.

Considering he ended up having to work some over time on the day of, I'm glad none of these plans worked out.  There is a part of me that knows some crazy spontaneous surprise would be just the bees knees.  But, then again, Adam's an old fart who is quite set in his ways.  Plus, you need a credit card to do most of this stuff and we share one so a bunch of frivolous charges showing up might raise an eyebrow or two.

So, I think I did the smart thing by leaving it up to Adam.  Check out his gifts......

I got up as soon as I heard the door close on Friday morning @ around 7:30am.

If there was one thing I knew I could do to make Adam's birthday 1000% awesome, it would be to get all the payday grocery shopping done before he got home.

I had my list ready, dinners lined up, even remembered to grab my grocery bags!!

Got all the way down to my car (and if you have been up and down my steps, adding the flight to the garage, you'll know what I mean) when I realized uh. . .no monies in the bank.

Back up the stairs, shoved the key into my ridiculously sticky lock (hate you!) and made sure to transfer the money I would need.  Man, I'm glad I realized that then instead of at the register with a shopping cart full of sundries.

Shopping at Wal*mart @ 8:30am was like the most blissful shopping experience ever.

It was like I was gliding through the aisles, no old ladies stopping to gab about sores and aching joints, no guttersnipes getting caught up in my wheels, no fiendish track-suit wearing mom grabbing the last bag of the good cinnamon bread!

All the checkers were bright and early, starting their shifts and smiling as they waited for me at their registers.  Oh, which lane to choose?  Which lane to choose?  Any will do, really.

Suffice it to say, it is totally worth getting up super early for that kind of shopping experience.

And it was probably the best birthday present ever.  So says Adam.  And well. . .that's who counts.

The day before, I found Adam's pocket knife which he'd been missing for a week or so.

Since I've got kind of a thing for wrapping anything and everything I can get my hands on (can't wait for you, Christmas!!!!) I just had to.

He was pleasantly surprised, as evidenced by his face.

I know it's super lame to get someone underwear or, if you're a guy and you didn't pick it out, any clothing at all for your birthday.  But seriously.  This boy needed some new church socks.

I believe I spent about an hour to an hour and 15 minutes in the JCPenney mens socks section.

It is super hard to pick out black socks, y'all.

Blast if I didn't just spend 1 minute too long because I got in line behind the ONLY other lady in the store and she had problem after question after coupon after penny.

Adam wore the socks on the following Sunday.  He looked pretty dapper if I do say so myself.  And I did.

I like how this picture looks like he is posing for another camera.  I am the only one there.

A few months ago, I had told Adam I was hoping to plan a little party for him.  It wouldn't be a surprise time or location but I was hoping to have a surprise theme.

I figured since he was turning 30 and becoming a real man and. . .well, real men always have mustaches

(see Ron Swanson). . .a mustache party would be hilarious.

I just kept laughing about it so he says to me, "It isn't gonna be a mustache party, is it?"

.........crickets........

Me:  Haha.  No.

A few days later, I couldn't hold it in anymore.  Not because I can't keep secrets (I'm the best there is) but because I couldn't believe he'd guessed it.  I thought for sure he'd found my secret notes!

I told him.

His reply:  "What?  Really?!  I didn't even know that was a thing!  I was just making it up."

Yeah.  That's why we're married.  Only us.

And the coup de grace.......................

He was so freaking excited about this tablet!  This was his big expensive gift.

And he'd been waiting months and months to get it.

It came in the mail on Tuesday but he had to wait until Friday to open it.  It wasn't a serious rule and, in fact, was one that he came up with.  If pressed, I probably would have let him check it out as soon as it came.

He carefully sliced his knife through the packing tape and raised the lid and. . . . . . . .

Yeah.

Best.  Birthday.  Ever.

After some initial grumbling and crying into my shoulder (not really) it's off to the computer to complain and get a new one sent out right away!!!

Though the mood had turned somewhat sour, we just couldn't stay upset for very long.

Not when there was birthday pie and mustache fun to be had!

Way back when I first got excited about actually planning a surprise mustache party with friends (before Adam decided he wanted it to be just him and me, aw how sweet) I ordered a chocolate mold for mustache lollies.

They turned out amazingly!  And were super delicious.  I am not sorry I dished out $5.00 which was mostly shipping.

I tried to get a picture of Adam with his birthday pie, candles lit, but he blinked!  Then blew out the candles before I could check to make sure the picture came out right.

Always in a rush for pie, that kid.

So, I had him re-light his own candles and go for take two.

And you can't even tell they're lit.  Nice smile, though, Adam.

Eating pie and consoling himself with his laptop; read not a tablet :(

It was pretty good pie.  Thanks Costco.  And Dustin and Michael for dropping off one extra delicious piece with cinnamon on top, specially for the birthday guy.

And. . . .6 days later. . . .

Ah.  Sweet unbroken and time-consuming tablet merriment.

I asked for a smile.

Love my birthday boy.

Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness

I miss my job at Sharp's.  I miss the consistency of a schedule.  I miss the people and the silly fun we had, especially after closing.  Turning every chore into a game.  Freezing people's keys in blocks of ice.  Making instructional videos on how to mop a floor or properly cut an onion; complete with chef who wants to be left alone, annoying host lady who won't shut up and an already finished onion prepared and ready to show.

I miss the regularity of customers I learned to recognize over 4 years.  I miss greeting them by name and ringing up their order before they even approached the counter.  I miss that 6th sense of knowing exactly what people wanted in drive-thru, even if they could never quite vocalize it correctly.

I miss a steady paycheck.  I even miss the times I got all the way to the bank before realizing Bud or John didn't sign it.  I miss knowing every conceivable in and out of a business.  I miss training newbs, learning them up in the ways of the burger ranch.  I miss hearkening back to my first few weeks and using that experience to remind myself how difficult and scary it was so I could make new employees feel more at ease.

I miss Sundays alone, sliding my glasses down to the end of my nose as I added up the profits of the week and recorded them with precision in "the book," putting the ice cream machine back together and pretending like I was building some futuristic weapon that would change the world and singing sad country songs about missing dogs and forgiving wayward sons at the top of my lungs.

I miss bad jokes and word games to pass the time on those slow nights.  I miss being useful.  Being counted upon.  I miss the camaraderie when things just plain sucked.  I may even miss screaming my entire way home when customers were mean.  I miss the confidence, the independence and the accomplishment I felt with every task.  That knowing smile or a "Good Job!" stamp on my bonus.  I miss being recognized for my hard work.

I miss the parking lot after close, whether it was throwing empty bottles over the roof into the garbage can or sharing our deepest thoughts about the world.  I miss impromptu fashion shows with the Lost & Found drawer.

I miss giving people rides home and trying to fit bicycles into the trunk of my Ford Escort.  I miss the feeling of that shower after getting home, washing off the smell of grease or success or whatever it was.  I miss watching new kids try to scoop fries as the bag keeps sliding off the handle - smiling to myself that one day. . .oh, one day, they'll get it.  I miss doing inventory, ordering the produce, signing off on shipments, stacking the boxes of patties, making 3 lbs of bacon at 7am, filling the shake flavors, icing the salad bar, washing the windows, stocking the mini-fridge, and making bank runs with $2000 cash in my pocket.  Especially when I got to take someone along and we could act paranoid as if the guy behind us was after that money and we had to make it through all the green lights before he caught up to us.

I miss all of it.  Not because it was anything special but because it was mine.  It was my job.  And I was amazing at it.

Fear & Loathing Blogger.com

I have spent two days composing the picture blog for the Anderson Family Reunion.  I accidentally click the undo button and it wipes the entire entry clean?  What is that about?  Undo means undo EVERYTHING?  Not just the last thing I did?

And my mere human hands weren't fast enough to redo or undo the undo before it was autosaved.  What kind of demented programmer allows someone to autosave a BLANK entry????Q!?!?!!??!/kl421jkjklwrejnfekjl;sfelj

Anger doesn't begin to describe my hatred for you right now, blogger.  Does not.  Even.  Come.  CLOSE!

By the way, thanks for autosaving this every 2 friggin' seconds.  Wouldn't wanna lose these precious thoughts!

Employment Purgatory

When I was delightfully and obliviously acing my 4 year elementary education degree program, we were told that the average certified teacher right out of college will have to suffer through 8 interviews before landing a job.

I have had 5.  However, it never got brought to our immediate attention that interviews aren't the end-all be-all of the job train.  Or the only way in which one's self esteem and confidence can be built or dashed.  I have applied and NOT received interviews (what were they thinking!?) for 18 positions in the past year.

Except for a few bouts with disorganization and procrastination, elementary school was easy.  High school was even easier.  When college came around, and I got a taste of freedom, I learned nothing from my academic classes and everything from the life lessons associated with the consequences of slacking off.  When I began to make real goals, it was challenging. . .but easy.

Almost every job I've had before now has come to me without too much hard work or that go-getter attitude.  I have been lucky enough to have connections which, while they did not GET me the job, certainly helped in getting me noticed in the first place.  All I had to do was show up and be awesome.  Which I am.

And yet, I keep forgetting that.  If I have to hear, "-Insert glowing praise here- BUT we decided to go with another candidate because -insert insider knowledge reason here-" I am going to curl up into a ball and become a fossil so that, one day, millions of years from now, a happy-go-lucky scientist can happen upon me and I can finally be worth something to somebody.

Here is where those people in my life who truly love me pipe up, "Oh Beth, you are worth the world to us."  I know.  And that means the world to me.  It still doesn't get me a job.

This area is so weird.  There are teachers who I subbed for last year who were not invited back due to budget restraints.  Now, these people are out there looking for jobs, too!  I'm on the same playing field as them and they've got the advantage because they've had their own classroom.  Everywhere I go, I'm stuck in some kind of strange limbo between the experienced elementary school teachers and the pre-schools who claim they can't afford me because I'm overqualified.

Nobody wants me.  I'm too little or too much.  Good but not good enough.  Each "Sorry, but. . ." phone call gets harder and harder.  I am running out of steam.  I have my faith to keep reminding me that, if I continue to do my part, the way will be shown to me and I will receive the position I am supposed to have.  Something about this experience is supposed to be teaching me something.  And if there's anything I've learned about teaching throughout my career (or lack thereof) it's that learning is the greater portion.

I am learning quite emphatically that I have had it way too easy for way too long.

Ok.  Lesson learned.  Can I have a job now?