Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Monday, February 25, 2008
Bloggy Bloggy YouTube
I'm more or less posting this so I can practice embedding videos. The first is one I've seen in three of my six education classes. It's geared toward teachers, but I think everyone will enjoy it. The second is just for the LULZ. And warning: Spoiler Alert! if you haven't seen Juno yet.
The Menno-Stare
Most of you have heard me talk about Mennonites, the sect of Amish-like people who have been living in Seminole since the late 1970s. Presently, they make up at least half of the county’s population. I fully plan on giving the Mennonites a separate post, one that discusses, in detail, their history, both as a people and as members of Seminole. This is not that post. This will only serve to illustrate, literally, a distinctive trait of this beloved subculture.
I haven’t noticed this so much in Menno-men, but Menno-women, god love them, are quite gifted in producing a certain facial expression. I call it the Menno-Stare. I suppose this has something to do with their culture’s belief that women are to be kept silent, and my lord, do they ever. You can be minding your business, walking along and thinking you are complete alone, when bam! You feel the stare. Sure enough, all you have to do is turn to find at least five of them—they are never without an entourage—staring at you in COMPLETE SILENCE. I know this is impossible, but their eyes seem just a tad larger than other people’s eyes, and this really isn’t the creepy part. The creepy part is how they WILL NOT break the stare, no matter how long you stare back. There’s nothing territorial or aggressive about the look; it’s more like they’re in a state of awe, like they’re aliens who’ve never seen a human being before. I’m pretty used to it by now, but it still creeps me out from time to time.
Like tonight. My family and I were eating dinner at La Sierra. I should have been prepared for the Menno-Stare; after all, we were eating at a Mennonite restaurant. But our host and server were men, so I thought I was in the clear. No, sir. Our booth was in sight of the kitchen, and about halfway through the meal I looked up and saw this:
I haven’t noticed this so much in Menno-men, but Menno-women, god love them, are quite gifted in producing a certain facial expression. I call it the Menno-Stare. I suppose this has something to do with their culture’s belief that women are to be kept silent, and my lord, do they ever. You can be minding your business, walking along and thinking you are complete alone, when bam! You feel the stare. Sure enough, all you have to do is turn to find at least five of them—they are never without an entourage—staring at you in COMPLETE SILENCE. I know this is impossible, but their eyes seem just a tad larger than other people’s eyes, and this really isn’t the creepy part. The creepy part is how they WILL NOT break the stare, no matter how long you stare back. There’s nothing territorial or aggressive about the look; it’s more like they’re in a state of awe, like they’re aliens who’ve never seen a human being before. I’m pretty used to it by now, but it still creeps me out from time to time.
Like tonight. My family and I were eating dinner at La Sierra. I should have been prepared for the Menno-Stare; after all, we were eating at a Mennonite restaurant. But our host and server were men, so I thought I was in the clear. No, sir. Our booth was in sight of the kitchen, and about halfway through the meal I looked up and saw this:
Ignoring what I fully knew about the stare, I looked back, expecting them to break it off. They silently and emotionlessly stared me back down, back down to our table, down to my slice of Mennonite pizza. It was a little creepy, but I was kind of happy to finally get my first Menno-Stare since moving back home. Plus, this was nothing like the Menno-Stare of 2004. That was when I caught eight of them, only an inch away from my face, gawking at me when I looked up from a discounted bin of DVDs at Wal-Mart. I might have screamed a little then.
Hang on, Hester!
We’ve had 50-mph winds for the past three days. Wind like this is especially uncomfortable in West Texas, for we’re surrounded by tens of thousands of acres of dirt. With no trees, large buildings, or other physical manifestations of human progress in a 100-mile radius, there is nothing to protect your eyes, nose, and other various mucous membranes from being bitch slapped by speeding dirt. I had more to add, but I need to go and hack up a good portion of someone’s farm from my lungs.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
One if by Land, Two if by Sea
I apologize for my hiatus. The last three days have been filled with schooling young children. Wednesday was a blast. I got to teach 6th graders about Eastern Europe. The kids were fun and eager to learn—“Do checkers come from the Czech Republic?”—and I’m already feeling kind of bummed that I won’t be certified to teach this grade. The 6th graders, for the most part, are still pretty sweet and want to be your friend. One kid asked if I could come back and be their teacher, as their current teacher was “old and mean.” Two kids came up to my desk and told me I was “cool.” Obviously.
Thursday was a different story. I had two 7th grade classes and two 8th grade classes. The 7th graders were pretty well behaved. The 8th graders were a little more spirited, and I think things would have gone better had we had something different to do than watch the world’s worst movie about the world’s most boring man:
Thursday was a different story. I had two 7th grade classes and two 8th grade classes. The 7th graders were pretty well behaved. The 8th graders were a little more spirited, and I think things would have gone better had we had something different to do than watch the world’s worst movie about the world’s most boring man:
The movie was just foul. It was part of a Biography for KIDS! series, and I can safely aver that whoever is in charge of making this series has never met a KID! in his life. In fact, the creator was probably never a kid himself but spawned from a pod on the planet boring. The worst part of the experience was the annoying, uber-blonde host who popped up every few minutes to recap what had just happened before making some truly painful joke: “Paul Revere rode on for another 12 hours! Talk about saddle sores!!! OMG LULZ!”
Needless to say, the kids were not paying attention, and they wasted little time before engaging in tomfoolery, hijinks, and miscellaneous shenanigans. My I’ll-Be-Your-Pal-If-You-Respect-Me-And-Be-Quiet teacher mode was not successful in quieting them down, as it had been the previous two days. Thankfully, we all emerged from the day relatively unscathed.
Friday was much, much better. I had the same class again, and was instructed by the teacher to play another movie. This time it was on:
Needless to say, the kids were not paying attention, and they wasted little time before engaging in tomfoolery, hijinks, and miscellaneous shenanigans. My I’ll-Be-Your-Pal-If-You-Respect-Me-And-Be-Quiet teacher mode was not successful in quieting them down, as it had been the previous two days. Thankfully, we all emerged from the day relatively unscathed.
Friday was much, much better. I had the same class again, and was instructed by the teacher to play another movie. This time it was on:
I approached this day with a different strategy. Before heading to class, I did a little research on Ms. Anthony, at least enough to ask some questions and try to activate student background knowledge before launching the video. Unfortunately, most of the students had no background knowledge. There was one class of 8th graders who couldn’t tell me what the constitution was.
However, being the intrepid, four-days-of-experience educator that I am, I tried to incorporate into our pre-movie discussion what my training has professed to be the most important aspect of teaching: making the learning relevant to students’ lives. So I started over, this time asking the kids what privileges they enjoyed, what privileges their parents took away from them when they got into trouble, and what privileges and rights they looked forward to attaining when they got a little older. They were more than happy to regale me with stories about various groundings, missed youth center dances, the dream of the driver’s license, dating when they reached 16, etc. Next, I tried to ask them how they’d feel if these rights were taken away, or if they’d never have the chance to enjoy such privileges. By this point, most of the class was engaged, and it seemed a pretty easy task to link our discussion to the subject of women’s rights and Susan B(est let me vote, bitches) Anthony.
Most of the kids were then able to give the video their attention, at least for the first three-fourths of the period, which was a huge improvement from the horrors of Paul Revere Day. By the last period—I probably took some liberties I shouldn’t have—I opened the class with the above discussion and fast forwarded to the most interesting parts of the film, instead of making them watch the whole thing and risk losing their interest. All in all, I think it was a pretty successful day, and I left feeling that I might possibly, just maybe, be able to do this job.
It was pretty damn fun, too.
However, being the intrepid, four-days-of-experience educator that I am, I tried to incorporate into our pre-movie discussion what my training has professed to be the most important aspect of teaching: making the learning relevant to students’ lives. So I started over, this time asking the kids what privileges they enjoyed, what privileges their parents took away from them when they got into trouble, and what privileges and rights they looked forward to attaining when they got a little older. They were more than happy to regale me with stories about various groundings, missed youth center dances, the dream of the driver’s license, dating when they reached 16, etc. Next, I tried to ask them how they’d feel if these rights were taken away, or if they’d never have the chance to enjoy such privileges. By this point, most of the class was engaged, and it seemed a pretty easy task to link our discussion to the subject of women’s rights and Susan B(est let me vote, bitches) Anthony.
Most of the kids were then able to give the video their attention, at least for the first three-fourths of the period, which was a huge improvement from the horrors of Paul Revere Day. By the last period—I probably took some liberties I shouldn’t have—I opened the class with the above discussion and fast forwarded to the most interesting parts of the film, instead of making them watch the whole thing and risk losing their interest. All in all, I think it was a pretty successful day, and I left feeling that I might possibly, just maybe, be able to do this job.
It was pretty damn fun, too.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
(ach)STUNG
I bought this necklace in 2003 in Arizona and have worn it consistently since. I just thought it looked neat, but I found out later it is the Vietnamese symbol for long life. I thought little more about this meaning until a piece of it broke off a few years ago. Part of me felt I should stop wearing it—would a broken long life symbol invite bad luck?—but I kept it on, superstitions be damned.
Until yesterday. I was outside with Muppet when I felt this weird crawling sensation on my neck. I looked down to find a wasp sitting ON THE SYMBOL. I proceeded to squeal like a troop of girl scouts, but that is not the point. The wasp was obviously beckoned by the evil necklace. Beckoned to the broken portion, where it proceeded to insert its nasty ass, foul, I’ll-cut-you stinger into my neck.
I’ve survived the ordeal. The wasp and the necklace did not—one is in a drawer, the other rendered lifeless by my mighty foot. So I think the moral of this story is pretty OBVS. Don’t wear tainted jewelry from the Far East and…
Until yesterday. I was outside with Muppet when I felt this weird crawling sensation on my neck. I looked down to find a wasp sitting ON THE SYMBOL. I proceeded to squeal like a troop of girl scouts, but that is not the point. The wasp was obviously beckoned by the evil necklace. Beckoned to the broken portion, where it proceeded to insert its nasty ass, foul, I’ll-cut-you stinger into my neck.
I’ve survived the ordeal. The wasp and the necklace did not—one is in a drawer, the other rendered lifeless by my mighty foot. So I think the moral of this story is pretty OBVS. Don’t wear tainted jewelry from the Far East and…
Monday, February 18, 2008
Pass the articles of incorporation, please.
Those of you who know me well understand that underneath my Type-B crust is a Type-A core that is piping hot and prone to rather seismic activity when conditions are right. This is especially true when it comes to dealing with the stresses of school work. My mom is no different if not worse. She rarely tears herself away from her studies, which, in my opinion, contributes greatly to her overall stress. In order bring a little fun into our lives—and get the hell out of the house—we decided it was indeed time to form our own little organization. So, bloggy bloggy readers, it is my great pleasure to introduce you to the…
For our first official outing, we decided to visit Gaines County’s Heritage Hall Museum. The museum occupies one half of Constitution Hall. The other half of the ole CH is the library, which was once the former hospital. My dad was actually born somewhere between non-fiction and periodicals.
Now picture this: You’ve been transported back in time to 1906. Seminole is brand spanking new, and what better way to mosey about the town than on a state-of-the-art Super Deluxe Rickety Wagon? The museum's curator—a former principal of the local high school and my old bus driver—has a hands on approach to history, and he was more than happy to let us climb aboard the wagon and take our picture. He was unable to verify the historic value of the stuffed Dalmatian in the front seat, but boy did that pooch give us a smooth ride around town!
The journey sure worked up an appetite! Here we have one member of the SFFC whipping up a pot of beans on ye olde stove in the 19th century bedroom exhibit, where we also, thankfully, found the 21st century bathroom.
Until the food’s ready, I think I’ll take a stroll down the Barbed Wire of Tomorrow corridor.
Or maybe I’ll ponder the colorful history of cattle branding.
Whatever I decide on, I’m sure it’ll be super swell.
BFFs
Here we find Muppet snuggling with Weaver, her Valentine’s gift from the grandfolks. Muppet is thrilled with the present. Weaver is less than pleased. He has already lost an ear.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Wonderland
My dad is a farmer by occupation, but his real career is that of a hobbyist. His hobbies have included everything from upholstery and wedding photography to building and flying model airplanes. No matter how many hobbies he’s amassed through the years, one thing holds true for each of them: he seems much more interested in buying stuff for the hobbies—kits, supplies, customized accessories—than the hobbies themselves.
Case and point:
Over the past two years he’s seemed to settle on a hobby: restoring antique automobiles. I use “antique” loosely, as one of his purchases is a Corvette from the 1980s, and I refuse to categorize anything from that decade as an antique. There’s also an El Camino—finally, one has come into my life!—of less than vintage standards. The hobby began with the purchase of a Pontiac GTO from the 1960s. It has a lot of brothers and sisters now, but the fact of the matter is that the GTO is in the exact same state as it was when it rolled onto our farm two years ago.
What has changed, you ask? Simple. The construction of a 7,000 square-foot auto shop, for one. A 7,000 square-foot auto shop that doesn’t produce autos. Citysearch would not give it a favorable rating. The place started out pretty functional: a room for the actual fixing of the cars, a paint room, and a shit load of various gizmos that I, for sheer ignorance, cannot begin to name. Now it is a Mecca for antique signage, gas pumps, and other automobile nostalgia. Now its walls are covered in fake red brick. Now it plays host to wayward farmers stopping by for cigars and donuts. Now it has its own name and matching coasters. Now it is the biggest clubhouse in the county, the Neverland Ranch of West Texas. I’m just waiting for a waterslide and a monkey.
I’m glad my dad enjoys it; I just hope his hobby-hungry eyes stay settled here for a few years. We’re running out of acreage.
You didn’t think I’d leave you without a tour, did ya?
Case and point:
Over the past two years he’s seemed to settle on a hobby: restoring antique automobiles. I use “antique” loosely, as one of his purchases is a Corvette from the 1980s, and I refuse to categorize anything from that decade as an antique. There’s also an El Camino—finally, one has come into my life!—of less than vintage standards. The hobby began with the purchase of a Pontiac GTO from the 1960s. It has a lot of brothers and sisters now, but the fact of the matter is that the GTO is in the exact same state as it was when it rolled onto our farm two years ago.
What has changed, you ask? Simple. The construction of a 7,000 square-foot auto shop, for one. A 7,000 square-foot auto shop that doesn’t produce autos. Citysearch would not give it a favorable rating. The place started out pretty functional: a room for the actual fixing of the cars, a paint room, and a shit load of various gizmos that I, for sheer ignorance, cannot begin to name. Now it is a Mecca for antique signage, gas pumps, and other automobile nostalgia. Now its walls are covered in fake red brick. Now it plays host to wayward farmers stopping by for cigars and donuts. Now it has its own name and matching coasters. Now it is the biggest clubhouse in the county, the Neverland Ranch of West Texas. I’m just waiting for a waterslide and a monkey.
I’m glad my dad enjoys it; I just hope his hobby-hungry eyes stay settled here for a few years. We’re running out of acreage.
You didn’t think I’d leave you without a tour, did ya?
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Around My Hood
Seminole is known the world over for its impeccable culture, especially its cuisine. And the town doesn’t just pride itself on the quality of its restaurants’ fare, no siree. We also relish the whimsy that each restaurateur embraces when selecting the name of his or her particular dining establishment.
Here are two of the town’s newest joints, both of which demonstrate this celebration of nomenclatural creativity.
Here are two of the town’s newest joints, both of which demonstrate this celebration of nomenclatural creativity.
The latter—I’ve heard through the grapevine—was opened to offset the lack of traditional family values the former serves fresh daily. Locals now have a choice, and they’re no longer forced to sample the soup of the day off the tit of the local whore.
Bon appettit.
Bon appettit.
Holiday Mishmash
How we celebrate V-Day on the farm. Bets are being taken as to whether it will still be up come St. Patty's Day.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Welcome Back, Mr. Matthews
I couldn’t have asked for a better first day of substituting. First off, the teacher/coach I was subbing for only had four classes, one of which was made up of only two little Mennonite girls. They were sisters who’d just moved from Mexico and knew very little English. The teacher/coach had given them some infantile worksheets to complete, and once we were through with those, I devised a game where I would write down the name of a common classroom object on the chalkboard. Then, they would run to the object in the room and pronounce the item’s name in English. Then I’d ask them to tell me the word in German. I’m not sure if my little exercise was at all pedagogically sound, but the girls seemed to enjoy themselves.
My other three classes were made up of 6th grade world history students. All they had to do was take their six weeks test and sit quietly once they were finished. The latter proved to be more of a challenge for them than the actual test, but I didn’t have any real problems. I may be jumping out on a limb here, but they seemed to like me, at least well enough to do what I asked them to do, in a general sense.
I think the biggest shock of the day was how much fun I had. I suppose this shouldn’t be a surprise. After all, I am going into the teaching field. Shouldn’t I love kids? Shouldn’t I be excited about teaching? Honestly, all I knew was that I wanted to like these things, especially the kids, but I was secretly afraid I would HATE them. Not the case at all, at least today. They were so interesting to watch, and they were all so different. Even the more trouble-prone kids were endearing in their own way.
Goddamn, I’ve gone and grown a heart.
The other great thing about the day was the support from the faculty and staff. Most of them knew me from when I was a student at the school, but even the ones who I’d just met were nice and encouraging. I immediately felt like these people would have my back if necessary, and a few of them even stopped by throughout the day to see how things were going.
It really is kind of bizarre how well it went. I’ll probably get shot in the face, lit on fire, or peed on during my next gig. Until then….
Sincerely yours,
My other three classes were made up of 6th grade world history students. All they had to do was take their six weeks test and sit quietly once they were finished. The latter proved to be more of a challenge for them than the actual test, but I didn’t have any real problems. I may be jumping out on a limb here, but they seemed to like me, at least well enough to do what I asked them to do, in a general sense.
I think the biggest shock of the day was how much fun I had. I suppose this shouldn’t be a surprise. After all, I am going into the teaching field. Shouldn’t I love kids? Shouldn’t I be excited about teaching? Honestly, all I knew was that I wanted to like these things, especially the kids, but I was secretly afraid I would HATE them. Not the case at all, at least today. They were so interesting to watch, and they were all so different. Even the more trouble-prone kids were endearing in their own way.
Goddamn, I’ve gone and grown a heart.
The other great thing about the day was the support from the faculty and staff. Most of them knew me from when I was a student at the school, but even the ones who I’d just met were nice and encouraging. I immediately felt like these people would have my back if necessary, and a few of them even stopped by throughout the day to see how things were going.
It really is kind of bizarre how well it went. I’ll probably get shot in the face, lit on fire, or peed on during my next gig. Until then….
Sincerely yours,
P.S. The "Great" on the board is from "Alexander the Great." I'm not that confident yet.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Professional Development
This morning I made my way to the school district's administration office to register to become a substitute. Already wary of running into too many townies I’d have to explain my situation to, I chose to hit the place around noon, hoping most people would have gone on their lunch breaks, and I could be in and out of there in a matter of minutes. Not the case.
Within five minutes, I ran into my high school’s choir, computer, and algebra teachers, my elementary school principal, and my junior high government teacher. She was particularly rosy and told me that anyone going into teaching in this day and age was a fucking moron, in so many words. The worst part of the ordeal was the administrative assistant who processes substitute applications; we’ll call her Loudy McMeddlesome. Loudy, the mother of a former classmate, says everything in an earsplitting yowl, talks entirely too much, and is unapologetically nosey. Paperwork that should have taken 20 minutes to process took a whopping two hours. Two hours of hearing about her children, her dogs, and most importantly, her grandchildren—“I’ve got four now! Can you just believe it? Can you!?”
Yes, Loudy, I can. Especially after you showed me enough pictures to make one of those animated flip books, one for each child, one detailing everything from Baby’s first teat-suck to Baby’s first trip to the Sears portrait studio, where Baby learns about hideous, fake American flag backdrops and motorcycle-themed props. Yes, yes I can.
The good news is I have a job tomorrow. My mom just finished hemming my pants. I’m so self-sufficient it’s not even funny.
Within five minutes, I ran into my high school’s choir, computer, and algebra teachers, my elementary school principal, and my junior high government teacher. She was particularly rosy and told me that anyone going into teaching in this day and age was a fucking moron, in so many words. The worst part of the ordeal was the administrative assistant who processes substitute applications; we’ll call her Loudy McMeddlesome. Loudy, the mother of a former classmate, says everything in an earsplitting yowl, talks entirely too much, and is unapologetically nosey. Paperwork that should have taken 20 minutes to process took a whopping two hours. Two hours of hearing about her children, her dogs, and most importantly, her grandchildren—“I’ve got four now! Can you just believe it? Can you!?”
Yes, Loudy, I can. Especially after you showed me enough pictures to make one of those animated flip books, one for each child, one detailing everything from Baby’s first teat-suck to Baby’s first trip to the Sears portrait studio, where Baby learns about hideous, fake American flag backdrops and motorcycle-themed props. Yes, yes I can.
The good news is I have a job tomorrow. My mom just finished hemming my pants. I’m so self-sufficient it’s not even funny.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Freeloaders can't be choosers
So I’ve been here four days and have already agreed to some of my parents’ strange requests, they being so accommodating and all. My dad’s decided I’ll be an invaluable member of the crew that will be installing a new, underground irrigation system in the pecan orchard. It’s going to be about three weeks of work, and as per Gary, I can work whenever I have the time. It’s a nice offer, as I’ll be paid for my most likely lackluster efforts, but the thought of doing farm work again makes me really nervous. I was never a “natural” the first time around, but at least then I could blame my utter ineptitude on youth.
My mom has recruited my services in a much more passive role. I’m going to be her guinea pig for her nurse practitioner class on physical examinations. The experience will culminate with the two of us driving to Lubbock, where the examination—I’ll be fully clothed. A condition of acceptance, naturally—will be videotaped and performed in front of her professor and a practicing physician. Two days ago we practiced the first part of the exam, in which my liver was palpitated, or, as my mom says, puh-aall-pi-ta-a-ted. Today’s exercises included a medical history interview. The hi/lowlight? When she asked if I ever had “black tarry stools.”
My mom has recruited my services in a much more passive role. I’m going to be her guinea pig for her nurse practitioner class on physical examinations. The experience will culminate with the two of us driving to Lubbock, where the examination—I’ll be fully clothed. A condition of acceptance, naturally—will be videotaped and performed in front of her professor and a practicing physician. Two days ago we practiced the first part of the exam, in which my liver was palpitated, or, as my mom says, puh-aall-pi-ta-a-ted. Today’s exercises included a medical history interview. The hi/lowlight? When she asked if I ever had “black tarry stools.”
Bloggy Bloggy Picture Post #1
The southern end of my house is entirely devoted to online classes. My mom is hard at work on becoming a geriatric nurse practitioner. She’s watching a video on how to assess the state of the cranial nerve by using nothing but the power of your mind.
I, on the other hand, have embraced a lucrative career as a high school teacher. Search my desk closely for my latest reading assignment, Students are Unicorns: How to give these magical creatures everything they want while not mussing their snowflake-glistened manes!
The cover of the new emo poetry book by Muppet!: Shattered Pieces of my B-A-R-K.
My new digs.
I live on a farm therefore I wear flannel.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Bloggy Bloggy Dew, NOW WITH PICS!!!
Here's a rough depiction of where I'm living now. Those golden blocks on the left are supposed to be bales of hay, even though they more closely resemble my Aunt Nelda's placemats. More accurate, three-dimensional depictions of the farm will be coming soon.
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