Wednesday, December 30, 2009

Okay, I'll Say It: "I Told Myself So"

I was up at 6:45 AM this morning to get ready for an 8:00 AM appointment when they called to cancel. Unwilling to let myself go back to bed (like I have every other day this week when I wake up early), I told myself I had to be productive. So, I got online and started watching a few episodes of The Daily Show (which I justified as productive because I got caught up on a lot of the news stories I had missed in the past month), when suddenly I hit pause and...gasp!, picked up a pile of papers to grade! I know, I was astonished, too. I guess when I've watched every mindless thing I can and am tired of reading (which I can also justify as I'm reading books my students are writing essays on next semester), and my back is up against the wall (so to speak--I'm really just relaxing on my couch), I finally turn to work to ease my boredom and help me to feel more like a successful human.

Starting out, I'll admit, I chose the easy multiple choice questions to grade so I could half-watch the rest of The Colbert Report I was about to start when the initial epiphany struck. However, after quickly finishing those, I found myself tackling the larger essays, I guess with a mentality of "Let's get the tough stuff done first." However, after about 15 minutes, I began to get brain pains and found myself looking for other things to do. So, I tried one of the tricks we use in the classroom to help students focus on large, intimidating assignments: chunk it, then take a brain break. Believe it or not, grading part of an essay and then watching some drivel like Judge Mathis or allowing myself to pig out on chocolate for a few minutes really helps to keep me going. It really is crazy that the strategies they have teachers use to help students often help me get through long spells of grading when I'm struggling with the persistent pest of procrastination. (Look at me--3 hours of grading under my belt and I'm still slinging super alliterations, sassy sarcasm, AND it is still around NOON!).

This brings me to the point where I have to say "I told you so" to myself. I know that I have a tendency to build up something I have to do and am dreading into a huge dramatic problem that can never be solved even if I had a million years. (Hyperbole comes in all shapes when you are staring at a stack about as high as the total snow we've gotten in the past week and only want to keep enjoying the break). However, even though I logically know this, I cannot always make myself acknowledge it and just start working without letting the drama snowball, so to speak. So, I am always caught in this circular rut, similar to the ring around the tiger's cage at the zoo from his daily, repetitive walk: I over-dramatize work, become paralyzed, don't work, and feel guilty, then I decide to work, and hate myself for not just starting earlier and for dramatizing everything in the first place. You would think that this sounds more like a line than a circle, as if I'd learned a valuable lesson, that massive projects aren't that bad and can be accomplished if I would just start. But, for whatever reason, this "cycle" I experience is very similar to the selective amnesia women get in relation to the pain experienced while giving birth. I seem to have selective amnesia about how it isn't so bad once I get started, and instead can only remember how painful it is to get started and see how much time I will lose from my life to grade it all.

Quite a cynical point of view, considering how much better I feel as a productive human being after just a few hours of (albeit, sometimes grueling) work. I hope I can be the one to break this cycle. I have no one to blame it on, saying: "I learned it from watching YOU!", except myself. I have trained myself like Pavlov's dogs, but instead of salivating at the sound of a bell, I become paralyzed and want to vomit at the sight of a huge stack of essays to grade. How did Pavlov retrain those dogs? Or did he ever remove that habit, so those poor dogs don't have to drool every time an angel gets its wings for the rest of their lives? I certainly hope not. I could try electric shock therapy (which my dad suggested a few days ago, hopefully as a joke!), but I think that might just make me more angry and bitter towards the growling stack of grading. So, I guess I'll just keep trying those strategies we use on the kids to "trick" them into learning or working and see what happens... :)

Tuesday, December 29, 2009

Phoenix-Like Words

I am really trying to hop on the motivation train today to ensure I can get the massive stacks of papers graded by D-Day: January 4, 2010, the day I have to go back to teaching after this magnificent break. So, in order to fulfill both my desire to write and my need to get to some "real" work done, I am only going to allow myself to write a haiku today.

Phoenix-Like Words

Writing engulfs me;
dancing fire that consumes the
parched fields of my mind.

Initial spark lites;
swift and final, it cleanses
leaving room for growth.

Now, the seedlings call
from under the spent ground for
water to renew.

My feelings are words,
transformed into the ashes
which nurture my soul.

Monday, December 28, 2009

News From the Future: NFL-Style Drafts For All

Imagine entering a crowded bar in the future, people placing bets on who will be drafted to which organization as they swill down another round. Other people clutch loved one's hands as their name is batted around as a high draft pick, wondering where they will land this year and if they will see a reward for their hard work. "Mom, do you think I can get into a good medical research facility ranked 143rd on the draft pick? The first 100 are all trained in eastern medicine, so I think I have a shot at the organizations with a western philosophy," a young medical student anxiously queries. "I'm hoping for Yale, but I'll settle for Princeton. I hope I don't get drafted by a state school; I've worked too hard for that," a confident young woman declares to her boyfriend. "Man, after 30 years as an EMT driver, I am so looking forward to the salary scale being a #3 draft pick; I'll be driving ambulances for the price Brad Pitt used to get for making one movie. It's about time," a sixty-something year old man remarks, duly rewarded for his fine years of selfless service. Wait, are these people suddenly being drafted to the NFL? No, it's the draft picks of the future--the Career Draft Pick (CDP).

Sometime around the year 2011, the general public got fed up with their increasingly low wages for doing jobs that matter more to the rest of the country (like nursing, teaching, firefighting, etc.) than just sacking a quarterback in a key play on the field or winning an Oscar for doing the best job of pretending to be someone else. United through song, much as we were during the 1960's revolutions, people began voting only those politicians into office that supported the CDP and Reverse Utopia (symbolized by the legal U-turn sign, which needless to say, sparked a lot of unnecessary vandalism as the signs were torn down and placed instead inside supporter's house windows). Reverse Utopia, an idea born out of a school teacher's head in suburban Missouri, is the process of allowing America's true values to be reflected not only in our words, but in our hierarchy of pay scales that has developed.

American citizens were asked to vote on which professions were of the most importance to them and most affected their daily lives. These professions were then ranked, and not surprisingly, movie stars, athletes, and celebrities were much lower on the list than some tabloids and TV shows hoped for and predicted. It turned out that though we like to be entertained, we like having our children educated at a high enough levels to compete on a global scale and our medical problems treated by trained professionals a lot more. Each newly ranked career then went through a draft process. Salary caps were put on career fields based on their grouping within the initial voted rank, and officials and members within each organization determined the number of available positions and the pay scales for each level of performance. Each member of each particular career field and potential new employees were ranked based on their experience, job performance, and overall net worth to the career field. In other words,individual companies became like the NFL teams, and each employee within each career field became like the NFL players in a typical NFL draft situation.

After that, the drafts began. Organizations became more efficient at doing recruiting work, scouring the potential draftees for the ones that would bring the most success to their organization. Plus, the more efficient the company, the higher it would stay in citizen voting ratings, ensuring higher salaries for all in the career field. Organizations that had tough years would know they would be seated for an early draft pick next year, so they could continue to hope for success as they looked for employees in their field that were achieving at a high level. Employees became more efficient at their jobs, knowing that they were paid automatically more if they performed at a higher level. Company loyalty also resurfaced, as employees realized that if their organization succeeded, everyone could see a jump or a maintenance of higher salaries to reward their hard work. I know it sounds like a big shocker, but knowing that you are paid what you are worth to do your job which benefits others really increases productivity and success in the workplace.

Granted, not all careers benefited from the CDP; all forms of entertainment went on strike for quite a while, not used to or not willing to accept the lower pay scales and salary caps. However, this allowed a lot of every day citizens who wanted truth in reporting and media to resurface and flourish, which would have otherwise been stamped out like weeds by the vast media systems of yesterday if the money-driven media companies were not capped by the CDP. After the entertainment employees realized that they could either continue entertaining, but at a lower salary, or become educated in another career field, America saw a strange phenomenon take place.

Ordinary citizens found themselves face to face with John Travolta as he carried them to safety from a burning building; a few people were treated to sponge baths by Brad Pitt themselves, but this only lasted a few months once they realized that people were injuring themselves just to be admitted to Brad Pitt's nursing ward; still others enjoyed learning history at a downtown Chicago high school from Sean Connery himself. Michael Jordan is often seen cleaning gutters (without a ladder, of course) and constructing new houses, while Demarcus Ware now runs the leading moving business, with the highest rating in speed and precision in the industry. Needless to say, this has also increased student interest in these new highly-prized career fields. Now, students day-dream that they can be the next "Marcus Allen of Engineering" or the next "Brad Pitt of Nursing" or the next "Charlese Theron of Social Work", or even the next "Tiger Woods of Online Dating Sites". NFL players, other athletes, and entertainers are still drafted as they always were, but with football coming in at #53 out of 100 and movies coming in at #72, most of these now ordinary folks can make about as much as a full-tenured teacher with a masters used to make. Not a bad living, right?

Sunday, December 27, 2009

I'll Just Think of a Title Tomorrow

I think everyone has been infected by this virus of the mind and body at least once in their lives, if not afflicted by this disease constantly, as I am. This nasty entity seeps into every pore of my being and often can be quite contagious for unsuspecting people around me. No, I'm not talking about leprosy, the H1N1, or SARS, but another invisible devil: procrastination. To prove how sneaky this little beastie can be, look at this paragraph itself: it took me 65 words just to get around to telling you what I'm writing about. It invades even my writing. Sometimes I even put off going to bed; afraid I might decide to do some work if I stay up a bit later, but even if the need to work does arise, I usually find an excuse to justify why it would be better done tomorrow.

I wasn't always a procrastinator. I used to be (and still am...see a problem, perhaps?) a type of perfectionist. I say "used to be" because though I still feel a need to make everything as perfect as possible, the level of perfection required for me to be satisfied has dropped off quite a bit as my obsession with procrastination has taken over. However, when I was in high school, I remember being the antithesis of a procrastinator: I did all of my assignments the day they were assigned and I set daily goals of work to be done and always had everything on my list satisfactorily crossed off by the time I went to sleep. This wonderful habit lasted all of the way until the second semester of my first year at university.

I had "socialized" a bit too much one Thursday night and came home excited to tell my roommate, Paul, all about my night out. I found him hunched over him computer, finishing editing his essay for a class we had together. "Done early, eh?" I asked him. With wide eyes conveying a knowing look, he replied, "Yeah, about 5 hours early. You do know it is due tomorrow at 8 am, right? But you're done, of course, right?" Panic rushed up my spine as my mind flashed to the pile of unsorted research notes and my computer I'd left running with the opening paragraph I had roughly sketched out followed by a blank page and a frantically blinking cursor. "Uh, yeah," I replied, as I rushed to spend the next brief hours trying to clear my head enough to produce at least a paper that would earn a passing grade. I spent the whole time cursing myself for waiting until the last minute, knowing my scholarship might be on the line if this paper earned a bad grade. At 7:55 AM, paper in hand, I managed to get it turned in on time and then spent the next two weeks worrying (after I slept for the rest of the day). You might be wondering how this story sparked my affair with procrastination, as it seems that I would have learned my lesson and stayed with the all-perfectionist approach after all of this. However, the key to this story is the grade I received on my written-the-night-before essay: an A-. Angels sang and the skies opened up when I saw my grade and suddenly, all was clear. Why spend hours of time working on something when you can do it the night before and produce a good product? This, unfortunately, has become one of my main mottoes ever since.

After becoming a teacher, I realized that being a procrastinating perfectionist is very stressful. I can no longer grade or plan everything the night before; the overwhelming work requires grading on a daily basis, which becomes very hard to complete every day, especially after working 8-9 hours at school. Besides the obvious reason why I love procrastinating (work comes later, play now), I keep wondering what else it is that draws me so irresistibly to procrastinate. Could it be a fear of not doing the work well, so if you never start, you never fail? Perhaps. I have tried to end my affair with putting things off, but procrastination is a coy mistress and, with ploys of sweet naps and entertaining movies, he often lures me away from my work, even when I try to resist. In fact, this entire post reeks of irony, as I'm staring at a pile of essays that need to be graded by next week as I keep thinking of more things I want to write. So, to end the duel inside my head, I will quickly share what I have found to be helpful tips for combating procrastination as well as things that I've found DO NOT work.

Ways to Stop Procrastinating:
1. Just don't procrastinate.
2. Give yourself lots of fun breaks if you have to work.
3. Remember #1.

Things NOT TO DO When Trying to Stop Procrastinating:
1. Take a nap.
2. Make reasons for why it would be better to do tomorrow.
3. Eat a lot.
4. Watch "just one TV show" before beginning.
5. Write a haiku about procrastination:
I plead and bargain.
The evil temptress traps me.
Must finish later.

Though this list is very comprehensive, I'm sure there are a few other ways you can stop procrastinating, I just don't have the time to research them right now. I think I'll go take a nap and maybe I'll get to that later, before I start grading those essays....

Friday, December 25, 2009

Sledding at Thirteen Versus Thirty

I took as long of a walk as my wind-stung face could stand after we finished Christmas today. I was trying to clear my mind and wanted to see the trees and bushes covered with powdery snow. I love that part of snow; all of the trees look like little kids bundled in their "Michelin Man" snowsuit, with their limbs all jutted out at strange angles, unable to move them because of their thick, swaddled layers. This morning, the snow looked especially beautiful. No shovels or tracks had marred the patch of snow outside my apartment and the swirling patterns traced by the wind reminded me of that picture of a desert landscape, with beautiful designs shaped by nature in the sand that so many people use as computer wallpaper. Taking in the scenery, I noticed a bunch of kids screaming and laughing as they catapulted down the hill on all sorts of plastic sleds. I started to feel a bit envious, wishing I had brought a sled of my own. I remember when I used to go sledding for hours until I couldn't feel my toes and fingers and even with a hot chocolate (with extra marshmallows, of course) warming my belly, a shower hours later still felt like a million needles prickling my skin.

Sledding near my parent's house was the ultimate experience. We lived near a dam, and for a few years when I was a teenager, it was legal to sled down the double hill. This "hill of terror", as I used to think of it when I first started sledding around age 8 or 9, consisted of the first hill, which was at about a 45 degree angle and seemed like it was a mile long (more like about 50 yards). After making it down this hill, there was a flat patch about 10 yards wide and then a second hill, much steeper, but also much shorter. The whole thing ended in a ditch that was usually half frozen and still filled with water. We often built ramps on the flat part, which always resulted in a huge laugh for those watching and inevitable pain or snow burn for the person attempting to perform amazing aerial tricks that often ended in America's Funniest Videos moments. We used to sled relentlessly, creating new tracks when the old ones had worn thin and stalks of grass and reeds struggled to regain their ground. The worst part was obviously trekking back up the giant hill to do it all over again. After a few hikes up, a trail was usually built and you could find decent foot-holds, but this stretch of hill began to seem like Mount Everest in a surprisingly short amount of time. I was young, though, and I can even remember the adrenaline rush from sledding that would allow me to JOG up the hill at times, giving myself the challenge of beating our dog to the top of the hill. Though we often fantasized about building a make-shift ski lift, we always made the trek back up, time and time again. The trip back down was always worth the trip back up.

However, as I have mentioned before, my perspective is slowly changing as I get older. Flash forward to seventeen years later: my friend from New Orleans had never gone sledding before, so I giddily suggested we go. I couldn't wait; all of my past memories of hours of fun and laughter and adrenaline rushes made me don my snowsuit, gloves, hat, and extra socks in minutes, with a trip to the parents to pick up sleds following soon after. After getting my friend, we found a mild-looking hill on a local golf course with a few families and children already sledding and hit the hill. At first, I was really disappointed. The sleds weren't nearly as fast as I had remembered and this time I had a strange new sensation: worrying about how big my butt looked in the air and how slow I was moving as I awkwardly meandered down the hill on top of a big inner tube. By the time I reached the bottom of the hill, I was downtrodden, but ready to try it again. I just need to get a good groove built, I thought, and then I'll be flying down the hill again like I remember in no time. The best way to get a good track started is to just keep sledding over the top of the same path, but in order to do this, you have to get back to the top of the hill.

At this point, it is probably important that I admit that I have an awful love/hate relationship with lit sticks filled with tobacco. It seems strange to love something so nasty, but that is why they call it an addiction, I guess. Either way, at 30, after smoking for cough years, this "mild-looking" hill very quickly became K2 in the Alps. Seriously, I had to stop twice on the way up the hill just to catch my breath and cough out some of the fresh air spoiling my smoke-craved lungs. Needless to say, this part kind of ruined the whole "fun" of sledding for me. I tried going down a few more times and had a few brief rushes of the excitement I felt as a kid, but just the thought of trekking back up the hill with kids and grown adults striding past me, giving me the "I feel sorry for you" look, made our day sledding come to a rather short halt.

My friend also felt the same way: if you didn't do it as a kid, getting back up the hill is no longer worth going down it. I don't think this applies to life for most adults, but it does make me realize that some things are just more fun when you are a kid. Don't get me wrong, I still finger paint and play with Play-Doh regularly, but there are just some things I don't feel comfortable doing any more as a grown adult, no matter how much I think I want to. However, I think that is one reason I'm getting excited about being an Aunt and possibly having kids of my own one day; that way I will have an excuse to be like a kid again while I'm playing with them, or better yet, for an out-of-shape person like me, just a way to enjoy the activity vicariously through them and their boundless energy.

Thursday, December 24, 2009

The Ghosts of Christmas Traditions

On the eve of Christmas, after a lovely dinner and board game with my family, I find myself thinking about past Christmas traditions of my family. Some traditions we still continue, others have been discontinued to my dismay, while others have thankfully ended or transformed into something new. Perhaps old Dickens's Ghost will pull me out of bed half-dressed to contemplate these traditions tonight. I always have wondered: does this Ghosty give you a warning so you can wear a cute pair of pajamas or does he just catch you in your crappy, holey, four-sizes-too-big t-shirt? I think to save me from freezing tonight and to be "green" and save money on gas for the time traveling machine, I'll just take this journey through the ghosts of Christmas traditions solo tonight.

First, the Ghost of Past Christmas Traditions...

One of my favorite old traditions occurred on Christmas morning. Though I hated it at the time, this "tradition" has come to be one of my favorite memories. On Christmas morning as small children, my brother, sister, and I would awake with excitement, rushing out to be the first to open their stockings. As we tore through the socks hung above the chimney and played "not it" to see who would be the first to wake mom and dad, I could see a rosy color creep into my sister's cheeks. Was she feeling like Jolly Ole St. Nick? Perhaps. Did the growing crimson of her cheeks indicate the escalating level of her enthusiasm, like a litmus test? I never was able to find out, but we all knew that sooner or later, the tradition would come, no matter what warning signs we heeded. One Christmas, we made it all the way to the last few gifts, but my sister got the Barbie she wanted at the end and it was all over. The tradition my sister so selflessly contributed to our family memories was that of vomiting all over any presents that happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, regardless of who they were for. I believe the first Christmas she didn't even get to open any presents before she projected her half-digested breakfast mixed with the overwhelming giddiness she felt during the holidays all over every present under the tree as we all looked on in disbelief. You can imagine, after that, my brother and I began a tradition of getting our presents out of the way before my sister even woke up, just to play it safe. I know at the time I wanted to kill my little sis, but now, I wouldn't replace those vomited presents for anything. It was just her way of spreading holiday cheer, so to speak. Though I'm glad this tradition slowly faded as her age increased, there are still some Christmases I wish we all felt that kind of overwhelming joy that makes you feel like smiling really big, turning red, and puking.

(This is the point where the Ghosty would nod knowingly as he whisks us away to the next destination, satisfied that I learned my lesson from this one. Desperate to grab a sugary snack to keep his energy up while Christmas time traveling, we would move from that appetizing subject to food and the Ghost of Present Christmas Traditions).

My favorite past tradition that still continues to this day is that of having doughnuts and scrambled eggs for Christmas as a family. Though the doughnuts are often stale and just don't taste as sugar-packed as they did when I was a kid, there is something about milk, donuts, and eggs on the morning of Baby Jesus's birth that really makes me say: "This is Christmas." Perhaps it is the way we all come together around the table again for a family meal or the way my parents fight over the last chocolate long john, but something about this tradition always puts the big Christmas dinner of ham, turkey, stuffing, pies, etc. to shame. Perhaps this is because of the overwhelming symbolism of doughnuts on Christmas--they look like wreaths, they make me happy, and they have a hole in the middle that is filled throughout the day with laughter, games, and making new memories with the family. This obviously isn't at the top of my brother's and sister's lists of favorite traditions continued as they remarked "Not really" when I exuberantly asked them if they were looking forward to the doughnuts tomorrow. However, I know this is also one of my parent's favorite traditions, started in the desperation of being out of town on Christmas with every restaurant except a small grocery store open, so I can rest assured that doughnuts will dance through my head every Christmas Eve for a long time to come.

(At this point, we grab a time-traveling cab as the Ghosty has viciously fought off my father for a fourth doughnut and is in no mood or shape to time travel, especially with me on his back. We tell the driver to take us to the Land of Lost and Forgotten Christmas Traditions and proceed to take a solid MSG-induced nap on the back seat of the taxi.)

As the Land of Lost and Forgotten Christmas Traditions slowly emerges from my memory of the best Christmas movie ever (Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer), I see the one tradition that we no longer continue glimmering its way through the night. As we get closer, I see the old kitty ornaments grandma made us, our favorite Hallmark ornaments from over the years that light up and move, and the inevitable candy-cane Santa hanging on the precarious branches of our decade-old artificial tree. Though I know it is a pain for my parents to haul everything up from storage, sort it all out, put it all up, and then take it all down, there is just something missing without a tree on Christmas. Most of my favorite Christmas memories revolve around the constant blinking of the multi-colored lights scattered randomly on the slightly bowing old Christmas tree in the background of whatever we were doing. We had a strand that never blinked, while the others around it seemed to be attempting to elicit seizures from those admiring the beauty of the tree. But the lights were only part of my favorite memories of our tree. My favorite part used to be helping to put on the ornaments. My mother and father dutifully save everything we have ever given them as gifts, so putting up ornaments is like looking through massive scrapbooks of all of our lives. "Your bus driver gave you that one, Karen." "You made that for me in the 3rd grade." "I got this one that year we went to Colorado." Do I miss untangling the lights? No. Do I miss arguing with my father over how to best string the lights? No. Do I miss seeing the tree sit up for weeks after Christmas because no one wants to take it down? Not really, but I do miss this "memory tree" dearly. Plus, gifts just don't look the same when they are gathered around a coffee table instead of a tree with a reindeer ornament missing an antler and a worn globe ornament with a picture of me and my siblings with my sister bawling her eyes out.

("But, there is always a positive spin to everything," the Ghosty replies, with wisdom in the black void of his eye sockets. [I think I'm mixing Dickens's Ghosty up with the Grim Reaper!] "Now, we must travel to the Ghost of Future Christmas Traditions," and we were whisked away, me still wishing I'd changed into those cute pajamas I got a few years ago.)

Though we no longer put up the tree, we have developed a new Christmas tradition and I was reminded of it tonight. Now, to include all of our new family, we make sure to have a dinner on Christmas Eve to spend some time together over games and food. We all contribute to the dinner in some way and have started to rotate which house we meet at as well. Though I miss some of the old traditions and won't be able to live without others, I am also really enjoying creating new traditions with my sister-in-law and sister's boyfriend, and the little guy soon to be born, Berwick, all a part of our new extended family.

(By the way, when you attempt to channel Charles Dickens' Ghost, you also end up channeling his verboseness! I wish I were paid by the word!)

Wednesday, December 23, 2009

If Holden is Catching, Who is Pitching?

I just finished re-reading The Catcher in the Rye by J. D. Salinger, which I originally read about 15 years ago during my senior year in high school. Though I now have multiple degrees and much more experience in life, I found myself relating to Holden Caulfield's life crisis: he is afraid to explore his potential to do good in life, but mostly because he's terrified his potential will not amount to anything and he will become the phonies he so detests. All he wants to do is "catch the bodies coming through the rye" so they don't fall off of an invisible cliff. I had these same worries when reading it 15 years ago, and find myself feeling very similar now at 30-something. I figuratively have the job Holden dreamed of: catching children coming through the school system cracks. But, I wonder: If Holden and I are catching, who is pitching? Is it time to be proactive instead of reactive? Logically I know it, but I'm having trouble motivating myself. It's that "goddamn fear" of potential, as Holden would say.

Cutting your hair short, isolating yourself, and generally finding distractions to keep you from focusing on real life: these are all qualities of a rebellious or unfocused teenager. However, these are all things I've done quite recently (as a matter of fact, in the past few days, even!), and in the words of a woman I used to work with, "I ain't no spring chicken anymore." I know that 30 is supposed to be like the new 20 and I am finding that some long-awaited insights about myself and life do come more frequently after I have left my twenties, but I am starting to feel "old". I don't think I've hit my "mid-life crisis" yet, but perhaps this is a "pre-mid-life crisis" or something along those lines. I know that 10 years ago when I first started student teaching, I could reference things like Debbie Gibson and Fragglerock, but now the kids just stare at me like I'm from another planet. Oh well, their loss, especially when it comes to Fragglerock.

Old or not, I do feel like there is some artistic potential lurking within me, trying to get out. At times, the potential just whines like an abandoned dog in the corner. Though I am dying to feed it and take it in, I know that if I do, I will be forced to spend a lot of attention on the needy little thing to tame it into a normal household routine so I don't lose my job (and so the potential won't piddle on the carpet). It has been too long since I paid any attention to this potential, so I am worried it might consume me at first and give me yet another reason to avoid the massive amount of take home grading in the never-ending pile of work. However, at times, my potential can also become a snarling wolf, demanding attention, regardless of my pleas and excuses. Lately, the wolf has emerged, circling me all of the time, whispering ideas for writing in my head or pictures to bring to life with a paintbrush or pencil. I have appeased the wolf a bit--tossing him a scrap of meat as I painted a sunset that had been stuck in my head for about six months, but he is now angry and foaming at the mouth.

This is strangely where my brother comes in. He is the one I have to thank for getting started with this whole blog idea. I really can't thank him enough (you rock, brother bear!). This idea is letting me bring that poor, whining potential into the warmth of my apartment as I sooth it by writing what has been chained within me for so long. I still don't know if this potential will surprise or disappoint me, but at least it is not snarling at me so much any more.