Ridiculous.

Steve Perry got reincarnated. And he's not even dead.

This is not a metaphor.

My sister got a rolling pin.

Sunday afternoon, our church threw her a shower. Among her wife-ly bounty she got muffin trays, cookbooks, a cake tray that doubles as a punch bowl...and a rolling pin.

June Cleaver uses rolling pins, not my sister.


[It's funny how a rolling pin in a giftbag, casually lying on the dining room table, can make you feel more than a stack of invitations, a dress, and a veil do.]

Mmmmm Whatcha Say?

If you don't find this hilarious, we probably have nothing in common.

[Original posts coming soon, I promise.]

Juno, Interrupted

Forgive me, but

the guy who wrote this deserves a Pulitzer.

Sheer genius. All I wanted to say about "Juno" but didn't know how.

Regrets, I've had a few....

but then again,

let's leave the serious ones for another time, shall we?

Quasi-regret #1: I will never know what it was like to have "lived through the sixties."

Admit it, Baby Boomers. You relish your membership in this happenstance-of-birth club, and never tire of saying "you just had to be there." I cannot be the only member of my generation who feels somewhat inadequate about this.

Quasi-regret #2: Short legs are unlikely to ever be considered "desirable."

For that matter, clothing manufacturers seem unlikely to ever wise up to the fact that short-legged people exist.

Quasi-regret #3: Ever reading this article.

I was just contentedly reading my morning NPR last month, and this almost irrevocably spoiled my day. 22?!?! Are you kidding me?!?!

Quasi-regret #4: Being female, I am denied the distinctly masculine experience of growing a beard. At the risk of sounding Freudian, most people who know me sympathize with how cheated this often makes me feel.

Quasi-regret #5: I am not, nor am I likely ever to be, romantically involved with this man.

Okay, I'm going to go ahead and bump that last one up to full-fledged "regret." *sighhhhh*

It's the little things

I recommended this book to one of the students in my pre-AP class when she asked which book I thought she should read.

I'll admit--I was somewhat hesitant to suggest it. It's (sadly) way above grade level from what most of my students read, and furthermore, I love it dearly. And as every good reader knows, recommending a book you love is like offering a piece of your heart. The rejection can be crushing.

I've been cautious about asking how she likes it, to ward off the potentially devastating blow. Today, though, they had their book reports due. Moment of truth.

She turned to me during 7th period. "Ms. Merrill," she said. "That was the best book I've ever read in my life."

She read it, she loved it. Maybe she'll remember that I recommended it to her (though it doesn't matter all too much if she does). Maybe it will influence some part of how she thinks about the world. Maybe she'll tell others to read it, and it will stay with them, too. Maybe I'm just overanalyzing things once again--but maybe that's okay.

It's not much. It's not even teaching, really--just sharing. But it's something.

I can hear the bells....

I am drawing perilously near the end of my collegiate career. And here's a little something that should surprise no one: I have no clue what to do with myself after graduation.

Rather than coping with the natural reaction to this fact (i.e., hyperventilation and paralyzing fear), however, I can only rejoice as I endlessly chant this mantra to myself:

I am almost done with student teaching.

Let me say it again, for no one's benefit but my own:

I am almost. done. with student teaching.

I'll spare you all the laundry list of gripes I have with student teaching in general---99% of them relating to my indescribably lazy cooperating teacher, She Who Must Not Be Named. I'll spare you the thoughts that sleepless nights and endlessly whining students give birth to (among the more PG-rated: school-ditching daydreams such as If I called in a bomb threat, could anyone trace it? Can I willfully rupture my own appendix?) It's more than those things, though.

Never in my life have I felt as incompetent or isolated as I do in Room 18 of Riverview High School. And rarely ever would I succumb to and verbalize these feelings with such abandon. While at times I have the energy to put an optimistic, positive spin on things, I hope you'll forgive my present honesty--there's just such release, sometimes, in not trying to be cute or funny, and instead just admitting that there are so many days when my head's barely above water. But then again, there are days when it's clearly above the surface, and I can catch my breath. These days often follow each other, like a seesaw. I'm glad for that minute variety, I suppose--it's not much, though it does make the descent a little more manageable.

I'm afraid that I've become a negative person, and I'm not usually negative (at least, I hope not). Sometimes everyday feels like a head-on collision with the worst aspects of myself: my negativity, my pathetic fear of confrontation (even with 10th graders), my disorganization, my procrastination. An endless reminder of what I can't do; an endless frustration for why I can't seem to change. What scares me most is not knowing how much of my discontent stems from my situation, and how much is purely and simply my fault.

Does my unhappiness stem from inexperience, or inability? I'm not sure I want to know.

Nothing--especially school--is without its lessons, however. My student teaching has taught me two things. The first is simple and obvious: students who consistently do their work without complaining or presenting a thesis about why they don't have it done are precious, golden gifts from God. I have to restrain myself from falling on the ground and kissing their feet for the redemptive powers of their responsibilty.

The second is about bells. I have come to view bells as nothing less than sacred, much like Muslims view the daily calls to prayer. So many days each bell is a victory; audibal affirmation that I've survived another period, and that time is, in fact, passing. This is the most significant truth I've learned in the past 3 months: that even the longest, or the rowdiest, or the most frustrating periods eventually (and blissfully) end. Even the worst day has a bell at the end of it.

I'll spare you the obvious, cheesy real-life application. But I am thankful that it's there. And maybe not so cheesy at all--just true.