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.