Oh You Fancy, Huh?

I'll admit teaching isn't the most fashion forward career. While we're reminded at every staff meeting to "look as professional as possible" it seems that for some it just may not be possible. (Do the words "Christmas sweaters" and "cropped pants" bring up horrible memories for others as well?)

Also, teaching in a school with uniforms is makes one falsely overconfident, since no matter what you wear you'll definitely be in something cuter that uniforms. *shudder*

So I'm determined not to let the low fashion expectations of others bring me down. I'm planning on bringing a little Jackie O. into this little ol' place. My first stop? j.crew.com, where I'm determined to use the paycheck that I have no time to spend. The best find:

Caroline dress, $69.99 (sale)

Now that I'm teaching middle school instead of kindergarten, I've decided that it may be appropriate for heels to find their way into my wardrobe rotation. Plus, the clickity-clack of heels on linoleum saves me from having to say "Please stop talking, because I am right behind you."

Natch, Target has come through for me with some awesome 2.5", non-leather finds, like the Euna heel....

in leopard....

...black...

...and brown.

You may ask why I need a pair in every color, to which I would have to treat you like one of my students and demand that you put your hand down and stop asking so many questions.

I think my ploy to become Best Dressed Teacher of the Year is working, since my other extremely tall and intimidating student T. came up to me the other day, twirled my ponytail in a circle, and said "Ms. G, I seen you walking down the hall in that dress lookin' all faaaancy."

Mission. Accomplished. 

I Got Your Back, Yo

One of my favorite students is a big, linebacker sized boy named J. He's big, he's intimidating, and he's mean. Last year, he was suspended for bringing a weapon to school that he'd made out of scissor blades.

So, when I say "favorite" I don't want you to think that it's because he shows up for class, homework in hand, ready and eager to learn.

Instead, he makes me earn my measly paycheck. I have to constantly remind him that he should be quiet, sitting down, and focused instead of whatever else he tends to be doing. (Usually wasting time or getting his friends riled up.) I'd heard a lot of stories about him and his behavior before he ever stepped foot in my classroom, but I chose to turn a deaf ear. I wanted to give him a fresh start, and made a deal that I wouldn't yell at him if he wouldn't make me ask enough times to have to yell.

But still. After years of being behind, he's made wasting time at school a fine art. His behavior is making progress, but it's slow. Or so I thought.

Yesterday, after I reminded someone that, actually we weren't writing notes in class and were actually trying to learn something, I got an eye roll and dramatic sigh. (First of all, I perfected the eye roll and dramatic sigh, honey. Do not git loud wit me.) I chose to ignore her reaction, but as soon as I'd turned my back, I heard J. lean across his desk and whisper threateningly: Do NOT disrespect my teacher. 


I tried to hide my smile, but I couldn't. The toughest kid in school has my back. I think I'm going to be alright.

You Ain't Got No Boyfriend?

Today was my first real day of teaching. Since the first week of school mostly involved assessments, going over the rules, etc., today was the first day in which I took center stage.

I've quickly that teaching itself is more of a performance art than anything else. (I now feel great camaraderie with Broadway actors who drag themselves off the stage after doing two shows a day on the weekends.)

So I create vivid Powerpoints. I make jokes. I'm working the audience, they're engaged, they're excited. (Well, excited as 7th graders can be about most things.) We're learning, everyone's quiet, and I keep having to pinch myself because hey, this is fun!

And then, like magic, a hand raises! All eyes dart to my student who is obviously paying SUCH good attention that he needs more information for his insatiable thirst for learning.

So I call on him. Big mistake. Huge.

"So, Ms. G. You gotta husband?"

Nope. No husband.

"You ain't got no boyfriend?"

Nope. Ain't got no boyfriend. 

"You gotta lotta girly-friends?"

This gives me pause. Are they inquiring about my sexual orientation or my social status? So I ask:
"Are you asking me if I have a lot of girlfriends?"

"Yea, yea. Those. You got some?"

To which I have to say Do I seem like someone who doesn't have any friends? Huh? HUH?


"Naw, naw Ms. G. Calm down. We was just wondering."

And just like that, they turned back to their lesson their rapid-fire questioning about my personal life was no longer interesting.

I neglected to mention to them that I almost bought a cat last week. Too soon? I think yes.

Please Excuse My Minor Meltdown

Picture this: You work a reasonably lengthy day at your middle school teaching job, drive home on 20 miles of country roads, stop at the Black Rock Cafe for gas, get honked at by a trucker, and then get home. You and your roommates then proceed to sit and stare at each other without the slightest clue of how to spend your evening.

Because there is nothing to do. You live in the middle of nowhere.

Oh, and I should mention that, in this scenario, you're not you, you're me. (In the middle of nowhere.)

In my defense, I'm not difficult to entertain. I go for long walks, I read everything I can get my hands on (including the Sunday New York Times...brush your shoulders off), enjoy a few Housewives episodes now and then, and partake in an occasional wine night out on the back porch.

But, in small town America (or at least the one I live in), there still seem to be an inordinate number of hours in a day. Back in Charlotte, I would have killed for more time to fit in all of the fun and fabulous things on my to-do list. These days? I try to force myself to fall asleep at 8pm because, hey, at least I'll be bright eyed and bushy tailed for the next day that consists of...exactly the same thing.

And don't get me started on the fact that, in a town of 5,000 people, none seem to be unmarried males in the 25-35 age bracket, bringing up the distinct possibility that I will die old and alone in a nursing home, scented with urine and surrounded by pictures of my cats.

I used to live in New York. I used to meet friends in Charlotte to shop, lunch, and pop over to the Chanel exhibit like it was nothing. Now I drive 30 minutes to get to a Wal-Mart and go to bed at 8pm.

Sigh. At least there's a liquor store.

The Plight of the Hummingbirds

One of the many new wonderful things about my new small town life is our sprawling Southern porch complete with ceiling fans, rocking chairs, and a view of our (future) garden. It also came with large, Southern mosquitos, which really put a damper on our near-constant happy hours we were planning on having. My roommate kindly bought us a brand-spanking new hummingbird feeder in the hopes that the birds would eat annoying insects while also beautifying our porch.  She filled it with the nectar that smelled suspiciously like cherry Kool-Aid, I did a death-defying reach on a stool to hang it from the roof, and then we sat back and waited for our quick-winged friends to arrive by the droves. 

We waited. And waited. And waited. No hummingbirds.

As we drank our coffee in the mornings, we would go over all of the possibilities. Did we not mix the right proportions of nectar and water? Was the feeder too high? Too close to the door? Was our feeder just not good enough? Who did these hummingbirds think they were, anyways?

Then, it dawned on me: I’m now talking about hummingbirds the same way I used to talk about guys.

Welcome to small town life.

Finally, I found the problem: ants. Everywhere. Ants on the porch, on our rocking chairs, and especially, ants in the hummingbird feeder. In their greed, they had marched down the chain that the feeder was hanging on, down the metal sides, and plunged into the depths of the syrupy sweet nectar. (There are probably worse ways to go, right?) Now, however, I not only had ants practically crawling all over me, but their dead carcasses were now floating in the nectar. To this, I had two thoughts:

1)  1. No wonder we don’t have any hummingbirds, and

2  2.What kind of idiot ant drinks nectar which clearly has the dead bodies of his friends floating in it?

Being a teacher on summer vacation and all, I had plenty of time to ponder these questions. My solution? Sweep the porch, clean out the feeder, and walk myself down to the hardware store to buy ant motels. After all of that, we no longer have ants.

Another thing we don’t have? Hummingbirds.

Sigh.

Yes, I am aware that I’m living the life of a 68 year old retired woman. I can recall a time (I think it was only a few weeks ago) where I barely had a free minute in my day between my workout classes at the Y, meeting friends for lunch (and maybe a glass of wine) and bopping around the Chanel exhibit with Keefer. My bustling days in New York City seem long behind me when I think of my life now. 

But I don’t have time to think about that. I’ve got hummingbirds to find.

The House on the Corner of Middle and Nowhere

The new digs

Before you start fussing at how long it's been since I blogged (waaaaay too long), look at my cute new house in Eastern North Carolina! Doesn't look straight out of Southern Living? (Just say yes.)

It turns out that moving as an adult (aka with furniture) takes a lot more energy (and money) than moving as the nomadic collegiate that I once was. Gone are the days of packing up college T-shirts and bedding into the trunk of my car; instead I'm now renting 16 ft budget trucks and finagling couches into them. (Seriously. I don't know how we got that thing downstairs.)

The old closet...wonk wonk.

And, for the first time in my adult life, I'm living in a house. No more cramped apartments for me. Though it is a bit disconcerting when the furniture that filled up your apartment barely begins to make a dent in your cavernous new home. I'm telling myself that this justifies going to antique stores. (Right?!?)

And our house isn't actually in the middle of nowhere, it's in a cute little coastal town where I can walk everywhere: the hardware store, the movie theater, the library, and the bar. What more does one need?

And just like any small-town novel, the assortment of quirky characters is becomes better by the day. There's Erienne, our thirteen year old neighbor-turned-tour guide, who marched us around town on our second day to show us the sights. Turns out? She knows everyone. Not only does she volunteer at the gift shop, she also holds bake sales, raises money for the local Humane Society, and makes beaded jewelry that everyone woman in town seems to own. If I'd been that cool at thirteen I'm pretty sure I'd be on my way to being President right now. Or at least famous.

Then there's Stella, the sassy 50 year old divorcee who, like me, moved here from Charlotte. She works at the local office supply store and within five minutes had informed us that all the single men in town were either seventeen or seventy, so not to get our hopes up.

Which seems to be the second thing that residents tell us, right after "Welcome to Edenton!". Our realtor told us "If you're looking for a husband, you moved to the wrong town." A nice old woman walking down the street asked if we were the new teachers in town, and then matter of factly told us there weren't any men for us.

I'm not quite sure how they expect us to respond. Should we throw ourselves on the ground like a three year old in a temper tantrum? Jump up and down while shouting "Hooray! Love isn't real anyway!"?

Perhaps this means I'll have to dive back into online dating.

Dear. Lord.

So, I'll hope you'll forgive my month long sabbatical, but rest assured: I'm back. (Cue the theme song from Green Acres.)

Facebook Envy: Totally Legit

I need to stay away from Facebook. And magazines. Earlier this spring, CBS news had a story about Facebook envy: a condition in which users feel dejected after seeing happy updates from friends.

Though I laughed at the time, I'm here to tell you shocking news.

It's real, ya'll. 

As a 25 year old sitting in her dorm room and writing this, it's downright depressing to stalk my 1,405 "friends" and see how much fun everyone is having this summer. Let me put it this way:

Your summer? Pools, lakes, barbeques, beer, vacations, adventures, bikinis

My summer? Summer school, dining hall food, lesson planning, dorm living, beer, 110 degree heat indexes, occasional (vegetarian!) barbeques.

I guess I shouldn't complain as long as there's beer. But still.

After I took my Facebook hiatus, I somehow decided it was a good choice to buy the July issue of Glamour. Sure, it was full of informative articles, if you're doing any of the aforementioned "fun" summer activities. I don't really need articles about getting safe sun, since I'm never really outdoors, but it serves as a painful reminder that there are people doing things that involve prolonged sun exposure. I need articles like "How to Apply Makeup in Florescent Light" and "Easy Hairdos When You Haven't Had Hot Water Since Thursday", but I have a feeling that most people reading Glamour aren't in the same boat.

Six more days until I'm back in North Carolina and my own bed. Let the countdown begin...