Christmas Card Conundrum

If you haven't already found one of these in your mailbox (or we didn't send you one — awkward), this little lovely is the 2010 Hannigan Christmas card.

I didn't think about it until the batch arrived and I started stuffing them into envelopes, but is it a little conceited that beside a picture of us we have, in large type, the word "joy"? That joy is easily attained just by finding our faces in your mailbox? However, we are the couple who, for our first Christmas, gave picture frames to our family members so that they would be able to frame and display our wedding pictures. (Hey, we'd just gotten married 10 days before!) And then, for our second Christmas, we gave pictures of ourselves to our family members (these were also accompanied by frames, this time Christmas themed).

So, are we vain? Well, when you look this good, I like to think of it as a public service.

(Sometimes sarcasm doesn't translate into type very well, so might I emphasize that that last line is meant to drip with it. Add a heavy eye roll just to drive home the point.)

And while we're on the subject of Christmas cards, here is how we're displaying ours this year. It beats laying them along the kitchen counter like last year.  Do you see yours?

Yuletide Traditions: Mimi's fudge

My second Christmas as a married woman marked my first one away from home.

And while I loved being a part of new traditions with Scott's side of the family (like how each person opens their gifts one-at-a-time for everyone to watch and not in an every-man-for-himself fury of paper and ribbon like mine) I found myself searching replacements for what I would be missing out on by not being with my family.

There was one thing that despite my best attempts proved irreplaceable.

The joy of family? The smile on my young cousins' faces? The warmth of being home?

No.

It was my Mimi's fudge.

The top layer is mine. The bottom layer is also mine. If there's a third layer, you can bet it's mine, too.

I know it seems an incredibly shallow (and caloric) thing to say. That Christmas I found myself eating a lot of fudge made by a lot of people, and none of it measured up to Mimi's. Some had nuts. Some was too dry. Some was too chewy. Some was just plain nasty. (I think some was made with Sweet 'n Low. Yuck.) It just wasn't the same.

At Christmastime, I remember searching Mimi's pantry for one thing — the plaid tin wherein lay layers of small, rich, chocolaty squares separated by plastic wrap. One piece found its way onto my plate, then two and, when no one was looking, number three. There are few things that her fudge can't cure when accompanied by a big glass of milk in her living room.

What makes hers my favorite is definitely who makes it, where I am when I have it, and those I have to fight for the last piece. If warmth and love are the feelings of Christmas, the squeals of delight are the sounds, and the sights are of your family members' faces lighting up as they open a gift or the lights on the tree, then Mimi's fudge is the taste of Christmas. Missing out on that was one more reminder that things were going to be a little different from now on.

Since then, Mimi has made and frozen my own tin of fudge before Thanksgiving so that I might have that little piece of home regardless of where I might be spending Christmas. The best part is that now I don't have to share.

Yuletide Traditions: Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer

Despite the fact that the sound of Rudolph's nose lighting up sends me into seizures, this claymation wonder is still one of my favorites. It's a little random at times, and the nudity of the Abominable Snowman weirds me out, but it's been a part of my Christmas memories for as long as I can remember.

And while I thought Rudolph and his song were pretty much the same for everyone, it wasn't until Christmas chapel a few years ago that I learned this wasn't the case. In the midst of slamming song books and jingling car keys, a years-long debate between Scott and me was born. While the crowd was wrapping up "Rudolph" and singing "you'll go down in history," I interjected my usual "Like George Washington!" while Scott said "Like Columbus!"

"Wait. What? Columbus?" I asked him. He only looked at me in the same confused way. "George Washington doesn't even flow right." We both agreed to disagree. (Little does he know, our future child will sing George Washington.)

Since then, whenever Christmas and Rudolph roll around, we begin the grand debate again. I even poll those around me. My very scientific Facebook findings have led me to believe that it's an Arkansas thing, as Arkansans are the only ones I've found who say Columbus.

So, claim your side now. Are you a Washington or Columbus? 

Final exam

Photo (jealously tweeted) by Jeff Montgomery

For my self-administered mid-term, I told you what I'd learned while teaching. For my final exam, I thought it was only fair that I let you in on what my students learned from my class. Stealing the idea from my fellow adjunct Ian (who stole it from someone else, who stole it from someone else, etc.), I had my students tell me what they took away from our time together. Here's what they said.

• "The papers were always what helped me learn the best. Actually putting what we learned on paper and getting to put things into practice was a lot better than just sitting there reading out of the book and reading what someone else had put into practice. I liked having conferences with you; you just really get a better feel for what the teacher is looking for when you can sit down and read through your paper with them. You are able to discuss the comments made on your paper rather than trying to interpret what the teacher meant by the comment made."
• "I learned not to be wordy — to be straight to the point."
• "In Comp. 1 I have learned how to write better. I feel as if my writing improved greatly. My grammar and sentences as well as organization and purpose of writing improved a lot. Thank you for all the help. You have honestly been one of the most helpful English teachers I have ever had."
• "The big thing that I learned that will stick with me is how to properly use commas. I also feel a lot more comfortable writing the different types of essays that we did. The grammar work was also good practice. What I liked most and helped me a lot was practice on being more descriptive. I think you did a good job pushing that."

I feel like a proud momma, bursting with pride realizing her little ones are all grown up. They have taken my teachings to heart and are going to be OK in the big, scary world of Comp. 2. I really enjoyed this class. I'm going to miss them a lot; I'm not going to miss grading one little bitty bit, though.

Yuletide Traditions: Lights!

Harding at Christmastime! Isn't it lovely?

There are few things that really shake the Scrooge out of you like Christmas lights can. I remember Mom and Dad piling my sister and me in the car to go on a slow crawl around nearby neighborhoods, gawking at the Christmas lights. As a child, I thought the colorful lights were far superior to the plain ol' clear ones. But since the University started decorating the front lawn with millions* of bluish white strands, I think I've been converted.

Whoops. That last one isn't Harding...

*OK, maybe not millions. Humor me.

Three years ago today...

As of today, we have been married...

3 years • 1,095 days • 156 weeks • 1,576,800 minutes • 94,670,778 seconds • 3 cars • 2 places we've called home • 2 college degrees •Approximately 100 cans of Saturday cinnamon rolls • 6 birthdays • 4 Christmases • 10 Arkansas Razorbacks games • Innumerable road trips •1 time out of the country • 1 job promotion (hint: not me) • 5 semesters of Home Bible Study • Thousands of laughs • Tons of random made up songs • Hundreds of jokes • Lots of kisses

Yet another case of the whole being greater than the sum of its parts. Happy anniversary, sweetheart! I love you more than words can say.

(I love you so much that I actually did math. If that's not love, I don't know what is.)

Dinner and a "Miracle"

While the bitter cold has tried its best to make it feel like Christmas, I've had a hard time getting into the spirit this year. Listening to Christmas music seems forced, and wrapping presents is a chore. Not even the Living Nativity holds the same seasonal excitement for me.

Because of our hectic holiday schedule, we didn't put up our tree or Christmas decorations. Between putting it all up and taking it all down, we would have had about two weeks to enjoy it. All of our Christmas shopping was done before Thanksgiving so we could give my family their gifts when we saw them in November. I've just been feeling a little Scrooge-y this year.

Luckily and thankfully (lunkfully?), I have a sweet husband who hears my cries of bah humbug and rushes to my aid with four c.c.s of Christmas cheer — stat!

On Saturday night, Scott took me out for our anniversary (observed, not official) to Center on the Square, Searcy's dinner theater, for dinner and "A Miracle on 34th Street."

Center on the Square is appropriately located on the square across from the courthouse. Although it looks small from the outside, the building runs a long way back with the small stage to the right and tables for four lining all the way back with the dinner buffet at the end. Each night is catered by a different place around town, and our dinner of turkey, dressing, and the best red velvet cake ever was brought in from K.J.'s. During dinner, we were serenaded with Christmas carols and some little stringed instrument my elementary school music teacher used to play.

In case you don't know the story (Shame!), let me catch you up. There's a nice old man named Kris Kringle who claims to be Santa Claus. Because of this, he is institutionalized as insane. A young lawyer — whom he's befriended along with a single mother and her daughter, Susan — decides to defend him by arguing in court that he is the real thing.

While I doubt any of the actors will be earning a Tony nomination for their efforts, the show was very enjoyable to watch and all the kids who were in it were adorable. Santa's beard needed a little help though. There's the scene where Susan decides to pull on Kris's beard to prove it's a fake, only to find out that it is his actual beard. If the beard we saw Santa wearing was real, then I'm Kate Middleton, soon-to-be princess of Wales, and have her perfect hair.

We left feeling holly jolly, plus we'd found a new source of local entertainment (and, around here, when you find that, you don't let go).

Yuletide Traditions: Christmastime playlist

Not unlike the Grinch who stealthy stole the Whos' Christmas while they slept, I've stolen this post idea from the lovely Cassie. It just fit so well into my little Christmas series. It was begging to be swiped. (I also was given permission by Cassie to copy her, so I'm not all that Grinchy after all.)

To truly get into the Christmas spirit, it is vital to have a well sculpted Pandora Christmas station at hand. After three Christmases of vigilantly thumbing up or down various Christmas hits (and many, many misses), I have finally created a Pandora station that I don't have to worry about — one that gives me hour after hour of the exact songs which play while sugar plums dance in my head. It's joyful and triumphant.

If you aren't fortunate enough to have the best Christmas playlist ever, I'm in a giving mood, so here are my top 10 (in no particular order):

1. "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas" by the Drifters. You can't listen to this and 1) not think about "Home Alone" or 2) sing along with the "doh-dohs." Impossible. Can't be done. Go ahead and try, but you'll fail.

2. "All I Want for Christmas Is You" by Mariah Carey. I've never been a huge Mariah fan. I can't sing every word of "Butterfly" like some people (*cough* Scott *cough*), but how can you say no to this? The piano, the jingle bells, the always failed attempt at her high notes. Seriously. You need a running start to even think you can hit the note at the end.

3. "Silver and Gold" by Burl Ives. This singing snowman's voice has been a part of every Christmas I can remember. The claymation Rudolph is a classic, as is this little reminder that the most important part of Christmas isn't what you get. Yukon Cornelius would do well to learn that lesson.

4. "Zat You, Santa Claus?" by Louis Armstrong. If you think about the whole Santa thing and the fact that once a year some big old dude comes busting into your house, you'd be a little scared, too. This song tackles this important issue.

5. "Tender Tennessee Christmas" by Amy Grant. This song got a lot of playing time while I was in college and about to go home for Christmas — something that means more when you've been away for a while. And this song reminds me of that.

6. "Christmas Don't Be Late" by Alvin and the Chipmunks. Sing it with me now: "I still want my huuuu-laaaa hoooop!"

7. "Happy Xmas (War Is Over)" by John Lennon. Sometimes, the Debbie Downer in me thinks a lot like this song: "So, this is Christmas, and what have we done? Another year over; a new one just begun." I try to make this song my charge to do more/be better.

8. "Wonderful Christmastime" by Paul McCartney. While "Happy Xmas" is a very John song, heavy with political commentary and self reflection, "Christmastime" is a very Paul song, trendy synthesizer, perky lyrics, completely cheerful. If you take the two songs together, it's sort of a Christmas version of "A Day in the Life" with their very different takes on the same idea.

9. "Christmas Time Is Here" from A Charlie Brown Christmas. This song makes me sad and overly sentimental, which is perfect for the holidays. And a children's choir always wins me over.

10. "Christmas Song" by Dave Matthews Band. In a time of sweet Christmas songs about being under the mistletoe or what's on your Christmas list, this song is a nice reminder of the reason behind it all. I love the depiction of the greatest celebration day and the greatest gift we'll receive — our salvation. It's a beautiful song about a beautiful story.

Yuletide Traditions: A Muppet Christmas Carol

Since it's now December, and we can finally acknowledge Christmas without worrying about any backlash from those "Thanksgiving is chronically overlooked!" people, I decided to do a mini-series on my favorite Christmas traditions.

Today we begin with one of my favorites between my sister and me: "A Muppet Christmas Carol."

Since the days of VHS tapes, (Remember when we used to rewind video tapes? Oh, those were the days.) Courtney and I have had a deep, resounding love for this movie, to the point where we would watch it even in non-Christmas months. And while the classic message of the Christmas Carol still shines through, what makes this movie worthy of countless rewatching is the magic and hilarity of the Muppets. And the songs. The songs that I can still sing, word for word, to this day.

There was one song, however, that Courtney and I hated — hatred so deep, that we would fast forward over it just so we didn't have to suffer through it. That song is "When Love Is Gone."

It was sappy; it was overly sensitive; it featured people singing meaningfully about love and loss and blah blah blah... Court and I couldn't take it. We didn't want heartwarming ballads. We wanted slapstick, humor, a rat getting his tail set on fire ("Light the lamp, not the rat!"), not a sensitive, singing Michael Caine. And don't even get me started on the girl. She's just so awkward to watch. And whiny.

Unfortunately, that VHS went the way of your other sock, car keys, my recorder memory card, and bobby pins, getting lost in that mystical vortex of misplaced things, and we needed a replacement.

Enter the new and improved DVD version!

Popping it in, giddy with the promise of that weird little brown guy sitting on the roof (You know what I'm talking about, Courtney), we watched the Muppet magic in all of its digitally remastered glory.

And then came the song. With finger placed on the skip button, I was prepared to say bye-bye to that girl and her bonnet just like she was about to do to young Ebenezer. But the scene wasn't there to skip. It was gone! Apparently, enough people loathed that song that, when it was re-released, they did away with it completely! Alive with the promise that we'd never have to listen to that song again, we happily danced along, singing with the Spirit of Christmas Present.

And that, children, is what we call a Christmas miracle.

Since then, we've watched it together every year. Except this year. I'm not going to Nashville for Christmas, and Courtney no longer goes to Harding so can't come over before she goes home. I guess this means we'll have to watch it twice next year.

Now for you: What's your favorite Christmas movie — the one you must watch every year or it's just not Christmas?

And with that, I leave you with the weird little brown guy sitting on the roof. Totally worth it, isn't he?

The last of my Razorback posts for the season

The Friday before Thanksgiving, Scott and I loaded up the car and prepared to make a large, four state, weeklong circle  — with stopping points in Mississippi, Alabama, Tennessee and then back to Arkansas. We started out in Starkville, Miss., to see the Razorbacks play Mississippi State. This was our second road game, having gone to Oxford, Miss., the year before to watch the Arkansas/Ole Miss game (which we lost, starting a deep-seeded disgust in me for all things Ole Miss).

Despite the fact the Garmin got us to the middle of a highway and left us there once we arrived in Starkville, we really enjoyed seeing the campus and all the sights of the college town. We even got to stay in an historical hotel — the same Hilton Garden Inn where Cam Newton's dad made the (now not-so alleged) pay-for-play offer to Mississippi State. Classy, isn't it? Plus, the morning of the game, we shared the elevator with the Bulldogs' quarterback and two other very large team members ("I should've pulled a Tanya Harding and taken him out!" Scott later lamented) on their way to the game. It was a little intimidating to say the least.

Clockwise from top: Miss. State water tower; Scott and I pre-game; inside the stadium; the back of Ryan Mallett's head (it was the best I could do.)

When we got to the stadium, courtesy of a very interesting shuttle ride (two words: stripper pole), we were able to see the team get off the bus. I got to say hey to D.J. Williams (my favorite not just because he plays well, but because he actually smiles in his pictures instead of that trying-to-hard blank stare the other guys do to look tough), Ryan Mallett, Joe Adams, Jake Bequette (also a smiler), and the rest.

All the while we were "privileged" to be followed by Bulldogs fans with their infamous cowbells. (Turn your speakers way up and place them directly on your ears for the full effect.) Yes, they have a fever, and the only prescription is more cowbell. I will say that they have some amazing fans, and the energy there is awesome.

Prior to this game, Mississippi State lost one of their players suddenly to cancer. This was their first home game since his death, and a large 36 was painted on the field, and the 36 yard hash mark was blacked out in his memory. Before the start of the game, they held a moment of silence for him. You could have heard a pin drop in what once was a stadium pulsing with excitement. Suddenly, cutting through the silence, was one, lone cowbell being furtively rang by his mother, standing on the field. The whole crowd cheered and rang theirs in response and support. It was heart wrenching. I cried (so what if I also cry at every military commercial, certain "Glee" episodes, and particularly moving print ads). After that it was time to dry your eyes and start calling the hogs!

It was a tight game, double overtime, but we were victorious and it was wonderful. I really didn't want to  hate Mississippi State like I hate Ole Miss. They seemed like nice people. We did sing "Hard to be humble" through twice though, which probably didn't make us seem like nice people.

Sunday, we awoke hoarse and still basking in our victory. We said good bye to Scott's mom and her husband and were on our way to Tennessee, first making a stop in Tuscaloosa, Ala., to see Alabama's campus, just because.

Our goal is to see Arkansas play an away game at every SEC West school (my original plea was every SEC stadium, but we're starting small). I'm already looking forward to seeing a game played here. It was an impressive campus, as much as that pains me to say.

And that was the end of our football season. We watched the LSU game in the comfort of my grandmother's living room, and, despite my prodding, Scott says the Sugar Bowl is a no for us. I'm already looking forward to next season!

Home, sweet home

Dear family: Can we get a newer picture taken soon? 

Since I was at my parents' and then grandmother's for Thanksgiving, I was unable to post the obligatory Thanksgiving/what I'm thankful for blog post. (Well, I could have, but I forgot my laptop and refuse to pay $2.99 for the Blogger app on my iPod.) So, as with so many things, here I am, a few days late but no less thankful.

Instead of listing each one by one, I think my "thankful-fors" are best summed up in one snapshot. Monday night at my parents' house, we were all upstairs. Courtney and I were sitting on the couch while I was braiding her hair, and we were laughing at the greatest Facebook message thread of all time. Mom was sitting in the recliner knitting and mocking Dad and Scott while they played Wii basketball — neither one too happy with losing. Of course, the family cat, Sugar, made an appearance, sitting in the middle of the living room, making sure we were all aware that she had graced us with her presence. And in that moment, I was very, very thankful that this was my family, that these were the people who loved me, and that they were my home.

I hope you had a happy Thanksgiving with whomever you are blessed enough to call "home."

A girl's guide to football cheers

Woo pig sooie!

I've always lacked the physical coordination or overall pep to be a cheerleader but never the vocal fortitude necessary to shout my encouragement. Going to the Razorback games this year has driven this point home even more. However, my limited knowledge of the intricacies of the game leave me few intelligent things to shout. I can't yell at the ref for a botched call because I'm not even sure what he called. I like to think that I know a little more about football than the average female, but I do come up short in the "things to shout" category. So, I've compiled a list of my favorite go-tos in case you find yourself at a football game with nothing to yell.

1. "Go, baby, go!" I learned this one from my parents many years ago. It is a wonderful catch-all. You don't necessarily need to know what's going on to shout it. On offense? "Go, baby, go!" can easily relate to any number of instances, whether the quarterback is getting into position to throw or your team is running down the field. On defense? "Go, baby, go!" can mean to sack the quarterback or catch whoever might be making a break for it. Husband leaving for the concession stand? "Go, baby, go!" And get me some M&Ms while you're at it. (I like to add additional go's to the end for as long as the play lasts. Add a little variety by switching up the rhythm of the go's.)

2. "Hit him, hit him, hit him!" To really emphasize this point, I like to clench my fists and quickly pound at the air for the duration of the play. It is best reserved for defensive plays or when the opposing team is returning a punt or kick off.

3. "Let's go, defense!" My greatest fear in all the world is that I will shout this only to realize we're playing offense. How embarrassing, right? So be sure you're 110% certain of your team's status before shouting this one. Good clues are if your mascot happens to be holding a cut-out letter "D" and part of a picket fence or if someone around you has already shouted it.

4. "C'mon Hogs/Razorbacks/Arkansas!" If you're lucky enough to have a team that answers to several names, your things-to-shout playbook can double or triple in size! What luck!

5. Whatever Scott just said, a.k.a. The Mockingbird: If you choose to implement The Mockingbird, be sure to allow sufficient time between the shout your about to copy and your own for risk of calling attention to the fact you're just repeating what someone else said. That's number two on the "most embarrassing" list.

When in doubt, a joyful "Yay!" or disappointed "Boo!" are also good options.

I hope that these will give you a little more confidence as you cheer on your team to victory!

"It's hard to be humble when your an Arkansas Razorbacks fan! Go Hogs!"

Election Day

I loved "Mary Poppins" as a kid (still do, actually). I had an umbrella with a duck head handle that I'd jump off the couch with in hopes of flying away like she did. It never worked. (Why did I feel like I had to clarify that my umbrella hopping never worked? Who knows. Moving on.)

I never understood this scene, though. First of all, I didn't know what Mrs. Banks was saying when she said "sister suffragette" or why she was wearing that "votes for women" sash. At the time, I thought she'd won Miss America or some other sash-wearing beauty contest. I didn't realize that there was a time when women couldn't vote, that for petitioning for that right, they'd get carted off to prison, "singing and scattering pamphlets all along the way." I'd always been dragged along to the polls with my mom on her errands and seen her vote countless times. (Side note: Say the word "errands" to any kid, and I guarantee you that they'll fall in the floor in a fit. That's what I did. I hated the word "errands." Still do.) A world where women were denied that right was nonexistent in my little mind. (The same one that thought most of the events in the Bible occurred in Tennessee. My worldview was a tiny one, OK?)

I say all this to say, if you haven't already, go out and vote today. I'm not one to get on my political soapbox and preach this view or that, but, whatever your political standing, the ability to vote is not always a given for all people. Exercise your right, and thank those who fought for it.

I also never understood why Katie Nana shrieked when Mrs. Banks pulled up her skirt. I realized later (read: today) that it's because she's showing off her undergarments. You learn something new every day, right?

My last first date

Five years ago, I was anxiously getting dressed in my dorm room in Kendall, trying on this and that, messing with my hair and retouching my makeup. I crossed through the bathroom several times to the adjoining room for my suitemates' outfit approval. Once everything in my closet had found its way onto my twin bed and the final outfit had been decided upon, the waiting and fidgeting began. By the time my phone lit up with his incoming call, the lock on my door had already clicked its goodbye, but I was too far down the hall to hear it.

As I popped out of the dorm lobby and into the affectionately named "crack" between two dorms, I saw a white truck and my date for the evening. He was wearing a long sleeved green polo, jeans, and the same nervous, excited smile I was. He opened the passenger door and helped me hoist my short self up into the truck's cabin. Easy conversation and quick glances sustained us until we got to our dinner destination. 

We slid into a booth to look over menus while the conversation flowed easily, like we'd known each other much longer than we had. When the bread came, a large crusty loaf, he, being a gentleman, reached out to break it for the both of us. Bread crumb shrapnel shot out at every angle, and a cute, pink twinge colored his cheeks as we laughed and dusted ourselves off.

Overwhelming comfort — that is what I felt. Before the check arrived, I had given up on the idea of a second date and moved ahead to numbers three and four. Dates before had been filled with awkward small talk and long lulls, sipping my iced tea to fill the silence, but not this one. This one was very different.

Napkins were tossed onto the table as we pushed through the doors and embarked out into the chilly night. Stop number two was at the local movie theater, which promised college students a break from high-priced features every Tuesday night, allowing admittance for only $2. 

Nestled into old movie theater seats, he reached out and held my hand. The movie was "Elizabethtown," and while it garnered no Oscar buzz or was well-received enough to even find its way on to TBS years later, it will forever be ranked as one of my all time favorites because of whom I was watching it with. While the relationship of Orlando Bloom's character began to grow with Kirsten Dunst's, another was beginning off screen.

Five years ago, I went on my last first date. The same truck that I not quite gracefully launched myself into now sits in the garage, and the boy whose hand I giddily held while watching a movie I still get to hold today.

Scott, thank you for picking up on my not so subtle "ask me on a date" vibes, and thank you for reminding me daily why I was so keen on you in the first place.

Marcel the shell with shoes on

I haven't had a lot to say lately. I don't know why. It's very unlike me, as you probably know, to be untalkative, or whatever the opposite of talkative is. (Quiet? Unheard? Pleasant to be around?)

Anyway, to appease the guilt I feel for not writing lately, I bring to you "Marcel the shell with shoes on."

Enjoy.


MARCEL THE SHELL WITH SHOES ON from Dean Fleischer-Camp on Vimeo.

Mid-term exam

With a little luck and a lot of grace, I have some how made it through half a semester fairly unscathed. If they gave a mid-term exam for teachers, I think I could pass — only if it were an essay test. You can kind of ramble through those and still do fairly well, in my experience at least.

Here are a few things I've learned:

1. Plan your lessons in pencil. One would assume that week one of any class is pretty easy and routine. Between day one (name/state/major student introductions, begin syllabus overview) and day three (continued syllabus discussion), there's not a lot of variance, right? False. I changed, reworked, fiddled with week one at least a dozen times, especially when I learned I'd have eight students instead of the presumed 20-plus. I haven't seen that many little eraser shavings since I had to take a standardized test. If that much was changed in the first week, I knew that I would need to plan for lots more re-planning.

2. "Fun" is a relative term. I've had a few instances where, when swept up in the thrill of discussing comma splices or figurative language, I've labeled an upcoming exercise as "fun." You would've thought that the class was watching a fly circling overhead as quickly as their eyes began to roll. Another great way to send eyebrows arching and mumbles of "yeah, right" a-soundin' is to say they're really going to think something is funny. Whoa, now. Did you not know that you are a teacher, and therefore anything that comes out of your mouth is inherently unfunny? Well, now you do; the students know that. I have, on a few occasion, proven that my definition of funny is the same as theirs and gotten a few surprising choruses of "Hey, Mrs. Hannigan, that was funny." Yeah, I'm hip like that. (Except when I say that I'm "hip." That's not what hip people say.)

3. There are days when you don't want to go to class. Remember when you were a student, and there was that one day where it was too rainy/sunny/warm/cold/early/late to go to class, and you cashed in one of your three unexcused absences? Well, you don't get that same luxury when you're teaching, although it would be very welcomed. Those are the days where I dig into my creativity box (a.k.a. Google) and find some really thrilling group work. Be sure you're thoroughly familiar with point number two, though, and don't get your feelings hurt when they don't think it's "fun."

4. What is planned to take 50 minutes very seldom does; what should only take a couple of minutes lasts the entire class period. Remember syllabus day? I'd planned for that to maybe span two class periods. It was quite a hefty syllabus I'd put together, which needed a lot of delving into, right? False. (This is why I really hope my teaching mid-term isn't true/false.) Twenty minutes later we were done, and I was stuck with eight pairs of eyes staring back at me like, "What now, lady?" I panicked and let them out early, hoping doing so would cement my "best teacher ever" status. On the other hand, explaining the Writers Workshop set up (the peer-critiquing process in class), which I knew would only take 10 minutes or so, turned into a much more time consuming process. I've learned not to fret too much about time specifics and more about how much time the students need to really understand.

5. You're going to fall head-over-heels for your first class and will never want to let them go. I know this from first hand experience. I only have eight, which is extremely rare, and I have gotten to know each one of them very well. They're great, great kids young adults, and the more I enjoy having them in class, the more I fear the next group. But I'm sure they'll surprise me just like this group did, because I was terrified of these guys before I met them.

A stitch in time

On Saturday, I caught the cleaning bug. I'm seldom never the person in the Hannigan home to prompt cleaning in any form, but for some reason the closet was really bothering me. It needed to be taken care of, with or without help from a spandex-clad Will Forte (Side note: I miss him on SNL).

So, I jumped in. I was ruthless, editing down my over crowded wardrobe with the same tenacity that I use when slicing my green pen through wayward commas and dangling modifiers. Lots of clothing items got the delete curly-q. And while I was flinging ages-old American Eagle T-shirts to the floor, (Seriously. Who needs that many solid-colored T-shirts? Why did I think they constituted as "stylish"? The world may never know.) I found myself getting a little nostalgic.

In the "give to Goodwill" pile were a lot of pieces I wore during big events, like both wedding showers,  my get-away dress from after our wedding, a dress I bought especially for our honeymoon ... with each item that was pulled from its hanger and sloppily folded into a bag was another memory. Scott's pile was no better. His after-wedding button up and engagement picture sweater were listed among the casualties.

Seven large shopping bags sat in the hallway, busting at the brim with memory-laced clothing, and I had to remind myself that these are just things and not those moments themselves. I can still remember holding Scott's hand tightly while we dashed to my car (which was now our car) as rice stung our arms and faces and nested in our hair and any exposed pockets without wearing that dress. (Side note: Planning your wedding? Don't do the rice thing. It hurts. Badly.) I can still admire our engagement pictures (overlooking that stupid hair elastic) without making Scott wear that sweater. Those moments are what the clothes were meant for, not the other way around.

Now our local Goodwill is well-stocked with lightly worn apparel with lots of good memories attached, and our closet is open and ready to be filled with new memories. I think it's time to go shopping.

Not going the distance

This arrived in the mail last week, and it took days of building up my courage to even think about opening it.

No, it's not a bomb, anthrax, or Gwyneth Paltrow's head. No, it's something far more sinister.

(Bum bum bummmmm!)

It's my Race for the Cure race packet.

(Cue scary movie leading lady scream.)

OK. So it may not that scary to you, but to me it is a huge sign of my ultimate failure. Yet again, I've figuratively fallen off the treadmill and even more behind on my Couch to 5K goals. I am shamefaced. To open this package is only to admit my own failure.

The sad thing is, half of me — my negative Nancy side — was pretty sure I'd never make it to week six. I'm an ideas girl. Follow through isn't my thing. Someone else can make sure the idea works out, right? No? That's up to me, too? Oh, well. I guess that changes things.

The other half, the one with the childlike optimism (also the side that thought Arkansas would win last Saturday), really thought this time would be different. While I'd run, I'd imagine race day: the cool crisp air hurting my nose as I breathed it in and out, the crunch of my paper number pinned to my chest, the burning of my legs, and the finish line yards away. I've ran the whole thing! Here I am, about to finish.

Flash bulbs pop; crowds cheer! Somewhere, the theme from "Chariots of Fire" begins to play, and everything starts happening in slow motion. The paper finish line snaps and flutters to the ground as I sprint through it. (Yes, in my running fantasy, I come in first. And my hair looks good, and I can wear skinny jeans. It's a fantasy, after all.) Scott hoists me up on his shoulders, and everyone around starts a completely impromptu, never-before-rehearsed chorus of "We Are the Champions." Grown men weep, and small children exclaim, "Mommy! I want to be just like her when I grow up!" Instantly, a cure for breast cancer is discovered. And I would proudly return back here to regale you with that day's tales, basking in the glow of a challenge met. (I've always had a very active, unrealistic imagination.)

Instead, I come to you with my tail between my legs, mostly embarrassed that I've let myself down. To use the most dreaded and heartbreaking of phrases from my childhood, "I'm not mad; I'm just disappointed." Not disappointed; anything but that! But disappointed in myself I am, and disappointed I shall remain. I'm still going to try to run as much of it as I can, but it's not what I'd hoped.

I'm going to go cry into my cute Race for the Cure T-shirt now.

Tailgate time

Although Arkansas looked really good for the first three quarters of the game, ultimately we left with heads hung low and mumbles of "If only we could've..." Scott tells me this is what it feels like to be a Razorbacks fan.

Even though the game was a little heartbreaking, we had a good time regardless. We tailgated before the game, grilling our lunch and playing beanbag toss.

We had a little griddle that was suppose to sear "Razorbacks" in to the bratwurst. Key words: supposed to.

Back off, ladies. He's mine.

Kris Allen, calling the hogs.

There was a silver lining to the game, though. 

We finally found Waldo. I'd worried about him.

Fall-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la

[Alex already did a post like this, but, like all of my good ideas, I decided to steal it from her.]

I need fall. I'm craving it. After last week's game, I decided that it's just not right to sit out at a football game and sweat. We're halfway through September, and the five day forecast is still showing highs of 95 with the words "hot" set on fire below them. The temperature needs to start dropping — soon.

Here are the autumnal additions that I'm aching for most:

Being curled up on the couch making full use of the fireplace

The return of sweater weather

While we're on the subject of clothes, let's include tights, boots, scarves, and jackets

Carving pumpkins

Nights spent around the bonfire and the smell of smoke lingering in my hair

Sipping apple cider

Saying bye-bye to humidity and hello to bright leaves

Brisk mornings

Making these muffins (really, anything pumpkin or apple flavored hits the spot)

Thanksgiving and the turkey-coma that follows

Football games where you don't sweat

Oh, and my other favorite cool weather option: The turtleneck

I'm shaking my fist at you, global warming. You're crushing my fall dreams.

Jam hands

(Title source, Gilmore Girls. Luke: "I don't even like kids. They're always sticky like they've got jam on their hands. Even if there's no jam in the house, somehow, they've always got jam on their hands! I'm not the right guy to deal with that. I have no patience for jam hands!")

Saturday night I realized that I needed to make food for our Sunday morning class. Not wanting to reach for muffin mix or buy something pre-made at the store, I decided to try one of the recipes I'd been eyeing over at the Pioneer Woman, my latest obsession. 

So I made these apricot bars.

Photo from ThePioneerWoman.com

Jelly + brown sugar + butter + oats = gooooood. (That's math I can use!)

It was pretty foolproof, and it used a whole jar of jam — which ranks under Nutella on my list of "Things I could eat by the jarful."

Joey and I have that in common (the love of jam, not the UPS girl as mentioned in the clip below).

(Just watch to about 10:45 or so, unless you want to watch the rest of the episode, and, really, who could fault you for that?)

Other than that, we didn't do much this weekend.

What are your feelings toward weekends, jam hands, and poorly lit cell phone pictures taken from the couch?

Elastic-ed

In my last post, I bemoaned the fact that I was without a hair elastic at the football game on Saturday. After I thought about it for a little while, I remembered that there once was a time when I bemoaned the fact that I had a hair elastic.

"When was that?" you may ask.  Well, let me show you.

These are our lovely and wonderful engagement photos, each marred by a single, stretchy piece of string conveniently kept around my wrist.

Yes, since this disastrous event, I've sworn off the wearing of a hair elastic on my wrist. This is my cautionary tale for you; learn from my misfortune.

Another typical football season weekend

I probably should warn you that between now and January, there will probably be a lot of weekends that look like this:

Saturday

Woke up to a rainy morning of College Game Day and cinnamon rolls

Made a quick run to Hay's to buy appropriate rain gear in case there would be rain at the game

(Upon realizing that we could save $30 if I bought a child's size rain jacket instead of an adult's, Scott said, "I love you for being small." I hope that's not the only reason.)

Geared up for yet another Razorback game, this time in Little Rock
Rejoiced when the sun went down and chugged our overpriced bottled water
Lingered around after another Hogs' victory and prayed we would find the truck parked somewhere on the neighboring golf course

Most of my life, I've questioned how Esau could've given up his birthright for just a bowl of soup, but, thanks to the very humid Central Arkansas night, I would've given up more than that for a simple hair elastic. The wavy hair I daily straighten into submission made a special appearance Saturday night.

My first time at War Memorial Stadium.

Sunday
Woke up and went to church
Happily returned to our young marrieds' class (After weekends spent in Horatio, Nashville, and Fayetteville, it felt like years since we'd been!)
Ate lunch, napped, did laundry and watched "A Serious Man"
Had the Pruitts over for dinner and games
Played Wahoo, ate cookies, and held Hunter
Watched another spectacular episode of "Mad Men"

I'm happy to report that we will be staying home next week. Arkansas plays at Georgia, and I've already put the kibosh on any long-distance road trip ideas that may have sprung up in the mister's head. 

I spy

I had a long list of potential professions as a child: astronaut, teacher, news anchor, meteorologist, Power Ranger ... the list goes on. When I was in the 5th grade, a new job made it's way to the top of the list — spy. Thanks to Nickelodeon's ability to market anything and everything to the children of my generation, I fell in love with the movie and books featuring Harriet the Spy. In case you don't know, Harriet, an aspiring writer, is a young girl living in New York who daily wanders the city and writes down everything she sees and thinks at the encouragement of her nanny, Golly.

I wanted to do everything she did, so I assembled my spy kit. Since I didn't have a cool spy belt like Harriet, I had to settle for another thing that had been well-marketed to my extremely limited tween taste — the mini backpack. My little black backpack was packed with all of the "spy essentials" that Harriet also carried. Inside I had a pair of pop-open opera glasses from my grandmother, a yo-yo so that I could act like I was innocently yo-yoing when I was, in fact, spying (it also doubled as a weapon in case my spying mission was compromised), a flashlight, and, of course, the one thing that no spy should ever be without, a notebook.

 I didn't have a cool spy route like Harriet, either. I had my family, though, but if you go back and read my spy notebook, you'd realize what little material I had to work with.

2:34 p.m.: Mom is ironing.
2:37 p.m.: Mom is still ironing.
2:41 p.m.: Mom told me to stop watching her iron.

I mean, really. You'd think that if my family knew I was trying to be a spy, they'd at least do something spy worthy.

My writing expanding from just my observations to how I felt about things. I even played a game in my notebook called "Town" (which I think I also picked up from Harriet) where I'd make up and describe different characters — what they looked like, what they liked to do, etc. — and then write little stories around them. Slowly notebook morphed from spy writing to my writing. While my spying ambitions went the way of my astronaut dreams, the writing stuck around, and years after I had first started trying to be Harriet, I was still writing.

So, I guess I have Harriet to blame for this desire to constantly be tapping the keyboard or scratching something down on paper, for all of the journals I've filled up with adolescent imaginings, teenage angst, and heartfelt prayers, and for the job I now have where I get to write every day.

It's definitely better than eating that freeze-dried space food.

Woo Pig Weekend

While for many this is/was a three-day weekend, it was simply an ordinary two-day one for me. However, that didn't stop us from cramming three days worth of fun into it.

(A quick apology to my parents and all of the red and white they're about to see.)

Friday

Cleaned and packed for our over-night in Fayetteville

Got my Couch to 5K run in, even though I'm still a day behind where I should be

(Hey, I'm still doing it, which is something.)

Saturday

Got up early and hit the road to Fayetteville
Arrived in our hotel, met up with the in-laws and went to lunch
Ate the best hamburger ever, disregarding the fact I was wearing a white shirt and would undoubtedly spill something on myself (I'm proud to report there were no food stains afterward! I'm an adult!)
Enjoyed some shade and the lovely weather before the game 

Red and white and ready for the game!

This is my mother-in-law.  I must say that I've got a pretty good one. 

Walked to the stadium, through security, fought to get onto the elevators (that reeked of pretzels) and finally arrived at our seats and enjoyed the first Hogs game of the season!

When these little guys weren't calling the hogs, they were picking their noses.

Crowd reflected in the glass

*Insert technical football jargon here*

Final score. I hope to see more like this throughout the season.

Finally got back to our hotel room and crashed after a long day.

Sunday

Went shopping in Rogers, home of my dream Target and a wonderful outdoor shopping center where we had lunch

Lunchtime!

Cheesing in our Harding shirts (it was not our intention to match)

Drove home, sad that the weekend was over (You know it's a good weekend when you get a case of the post-vacation blues afterward)

Unpacked and geeked out on the couch with my three greatest loves: Scott, the Beatles, and grammar

How can a book with "glamour" and "grammar" in the title not be good?

Hope you had (or are still are having) a great weekend!