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.