Snow Days

I'm not sure why, but I'm not an excitable person.  I mean, I think I'm relatively happy most of the time, but it's in a reserved kind of way.  I'm not prone to dancing happy jigs, squealing in unnatural octaves, clapping my hands.  

I greet Christmas with a deep breath and a sly smile.  Birthdays?  Shy and averted.  Anniversaries are a brilliant mixture of heart-felt cards, really good food and a few loving glances.  But, Snow Days?  Snow Days are a different story.

There's something completely magical about a snow day that truly compares with nothing else.  It's as if God had decided to turn the entire world a different color just for me and had informed my place of work about the importance of my ability to capture every second of it uninterupted.  And I do.  I literally set up shop in front of my big bay window with a cup of coffee (the second pot brewing, because I have time to actually enjoy it) put a pot of soup on to simmer and just watch the sky.   Snow Days are  big, bright packages of restful sanity.  You can't go anywhere.  You have to reach Wolfgang Puck status in creativity with whatever's remaining in your fridge.  You must clean behind the bookcase, because, when else are you going to be home all day?  The new bubble bath gleaming on the side of the tub is calling your name.  

But, my favorite kind of snow day?  This one.  The anticipation of waiting for the snow to fall.  The Christmas with the Rat Pack album on rotation.  The ingredients for Mocha Crinkle Christmas cookies spread all over my kitchen table.  The sweet scents of cinnamon emanating from my bread maker, already working on that cinn-raisin-honey bread I'll be eating hot with butter for lunch with some soul-warming chicken soup.  The guitar silently whispering that it's about time we spent some time together.  The christmas lights twinkling on the tree that consumes my entire dining room.  The fact that my students are all giggling about how they got out of taking their test on Animal Farm today.  Good for them.  I'm giggling, too, thinking how I got out of grading their Animal Farm test.

Snow Days are magic.  Plain and simple.  It's the reassurance that God can do amazing things.  Things beyond your comprehension.  Things that will dazzle and excite you.  Because He loves you.    Because you're worth it to Him.  

When you were in school, how did you spend your snow days?

Poem

Long before I wrote anything, poetry was the medium I always defaulted to.  I drew away from it for a while, but my roots have recently been drawing me back so I thought, here is as good of a space as any to share.  

Finding Who You Are At Twenty-five

Freedom gained or freedom earned

To which extent have the people learned

Whose lovers should be left unspurned

As the jilted axis turned.

The life that's left has left to give

The right to "live and let all live"

Right's don't hold in a human sieve

Tripping over pebbles, "Unite" "Forgive"

Soundless

Wordless

Waging matters

As confidence of breathing shatters

Tar beneath the tire splatters, ingenious beneath the pitter

Patters...

"Where is Art?"The old man asks, his desk adrift between his tasks

And allowing in his gaze, I bask

Politely say beneath my mask-

"Under here."

Learning Curve

I must be off my rocker. I spend a great deal more than half of my day in a place where it is impossible for me to use the bathroom when the need arises, where a coffee cup is one of the first signs of insubordination and where "Salud" has taken the place of "God Bless You" for fear one of my Muslim students might take my politically incorrect ass to court. After all of that, fighting off screaming kids in stupid holiday dresses with pins that light up and sing "We Wish You A Merry Christmas"lined up to meet Santa at the mall, dropping an incredibly over-due check off at the dentist's office in hopes he'll take pity on our pathetic souls during the holiday season, trying desperately to manuever our Hulk of a tree that has clearly claimed the dining room territory for it's own, all the while juggling papers my students have written over a week and a half ago that I haven't even breathed on- only to stare down an application for Graduate school.

Don't I complain about having to be in school ever day????? I want to now PAY to go there? Again? As I said, I must be off my rocker. A few more than a few screws are loose. Please insert yet another terribly cliche saying here_________________________________.

It wasn't that long ago that graduating from High School was seen as an incredible accomplishment. You could go far with a diploma. Then, all the emphasis was placed on four year colleges. Without a bachelor's degree, you were one step closer to getting acquainted with burgers and fries or Mailboxs Etc. Now, a B.A. is a dime a dozen and the real winners are the ones with cool adendems at the end of their names. What the hell? The world's view is so complicated. It's not enough to just go back, you must go back for some "higher" purpose-generally, wealth or status. Where's the redemption in acquiring an M.A. in Studies of Indigineous Tribes and Their Cultural Holiday Practices?" I'm quietly, but defiantly, murmuring my reply.

Learning is awesome. On some level in order to be even a half-way decent teacher, I have to believe that. Learning what you love to learn, however, is unparelleled. That's why, after smelling like erasers and cafeteria sloppy joes all day, I can come home and still approach an application to Grad School with wide eyes and a frantically beating heart. I could get an M.A. in bread baking, did you know that? I could go back and set myself up to be tri-lingual- (how do you like me now, U.N.?) I could primarily study voice and actually accrue a degree as a Vocalist-tell me thats not the coolest thing you've ever heard. I could get an M.F.A. in writing kids stories...yessss...

I love that as I get older, I get more comfortable in the skin God placed me in. I love that as I get older I'm able to grasp more firmly that my identity is in Christ, not in what the world has to say about me, so I can go ahead and study those Indigineous tribes I was talking about. I am free to be who I was created to be. Grad school is just another avenue in my crazy life where I can reclaim what I've given away. My decision will not be based on someone's expectations nor anyone's belief in what I "should" be doing. If I'm going back to be a baker, I'll be a damn good baker-even if I don't make one red cent off of a honey-cinnamon-raisin loaf (though, seriously, they're so good I'd buy one from myself). If I'm going back to be a writer, I'm going to enjoy every second of assessing, analyzing and spinning tales that will change my life-if not anyone elses. If I'm going back to be a singer- heaven help anything that stands in my way. This time, whatever I go back for, it'll be something I love, not what might pay the bills or allow me to add some cool suffix to my name plate. I already have my identity and my security in Jesus....the rest is gravy.

I'm being observed tomorrow. For those of you not accustomed to teacher-speak, I'll clue you in. Non-tenured teachers are watched like hawks while they are teaching at least 6 times during the year by supervisors who pick apart every thing you do. They like to point out things that you have no control over, such as, a student breezing into your room 10 minutes after the bell and giving you a high-five as if there's nothing wrong with his tardiness. (Because, if your supervisor wasn't here, there wouldn't be anything wrong with it since you sanctioned him a be-late-for-free pass as long as he handed in all of his homework). They glare at you from the back of the room, pausing to slowly write something lengthy down on their little yellow pads while you sweat and try not to swear, quizzing the kids on the main characters of "Animal Farm". Needless to say, I've been stressing about it all weekend. Every night since Friday as I've laid down to sleep, I've dreamt of my classroom and my students' faces slowly taking on my supervisors features-and laughing loudly-and cynically. Until tonight.

This evening I had the privilege of sitting around the kitchen table with two lovely ladies. We gabbed about all kinds of things from husbands to dishwashers to God, sharing stories and laughing, encouraging and edifying each other. We all seem to be in a season of waiting where the Lord seems to be trying to teach us to be patient. One of us has recently had to go back to her old job after an attempt to go into business for herself didn't quite turn out the way she expected, one of us has begun her own business and is just praying now for financial backers and practice space, and then there is me who is back in the classroom without a really clear idea as to why. We're all suspended in these spaces and, in hashing it out tonight, have realized that God is speaking to us clearly after all.
This year I've learned that nothing is successful without the Lord. That the word success, if not directly related to Him, is empty and meaningless. I've learned that if I spend all of my time writing the best lesson plans, stressing over classroom management and looking good in front of my supervisors then I have yet, again, missed the point. God has revealed to me through the words and laughter of these women that He has brought me back to the classroom to relearn some basic things. I love teenagers, I love to minister, I love writing and literature and I love music. I am completely called to do all of these things. That being the case, I am called to use those things wherever I am. Being, the classroom. But it doesn't stop there.
Deeper than that, He has taught me that when my supervisor thinks my lesson plan sucks, He still thinks I'm the greatest. That if the choice is between spending time with Him and doing extra school work, He wants me to choose Him. That if my kids walk all over me and wreck my classroom, but in their hearts, know truly and deeply that I love them, then I have done the best job I could have. I was really stressed out a few weeks ago as I was working on yet again, another lesson, when I heard God audibly say, " Aren't you tired? Aren't you tired of trying to be the best? Of trying to be perfect? Aren't you tired of having to worry about things? Give it up, Jen. Let me take care of it."
I'm slowly learning to let God take care of things. I'm slowly learning that being God's daughter means that He more than has my back-He wants me to be happy, healthy and totally in communion with Him. I want my only desire to seek more of Him. I cannot believe I'm learning how to do that in the very place that represented, what I thought to be, God's unfaithfulness. I may not have gotten down the whole "identity in Christ" thing yet, and I'm sure I'll still have butterflies tomorrow, but I'll sleep well tonight knowing that I have a Father-God who is smiling on me, who is proud of me and who loves me completely.

I don't want to love my students. The way one of them knocks on my door every day at 12:16 just to wave to me on her way to the cafeteria. The way one of my rather intimidating looking students did a jig before turning in his first piece of homework for the year. The way they tip-toed hesitantly into my class today because I had lost it on them yesterday for slacking. The way one of them stood up and announced that he wished to speak for the class and apologize for their behavior, and that they would all try to do better. The way I have to hide my giggles when they're inappropriate-or when I can't hide them at all. The way they ask me for relationship advice and parental advice and fashion advice-though I would be more inclined to ask them the latter. The way they take for granted that I will always be there, to help them, to fight for them, to defend them, to care for them for as long as I can. The way we have inside jokes. The way they ask me to come see their games and their plays. I don't want to love them. It is often too hard, too draining, too emotional, too much. I don't want to. Unfortunately, as I have learned, you can't always get what you want.

Herculean Bacterial Coup de Tat

I thought I had beaten the system.  Nearly two years floating around in public schools without nearly a sniffle.  It had to catch up to me sometime.  Though, it's possible that I've just been harboring all kinds of kid-germs and they all came out to play at once- which would explain the head-splitting ache in my skull and the fire-breathing dragon sore throat.  

I've all but injected Vitamin C, have tried snorting Advil Cold and Sinus to no avail, and have hung my head in misery over a steaming pot of water.  I quickly become angry.  This is all a ploy- a dirty trick.  I've been out-smarted by Herculean bacteria.  The ones that hide out inside your body like those gross foot-fungal commercials....or Mucinex....shudder...little green booger men sweating and scratching, getting ready to release their fury just as I'm off for Thanksgiving vacation.  

All and all, I refuse to let it beat me.  I will rejoice.  I will be Thankful.  I will be armed with Puffs Plus and a humidifier. 

Gobble, gobble.

Necessary Indulgences

Both a mani and pedi in the dead of winter. ( No one should have feet that look like that, even if they aren't going to be making any public appearances for a few more months).

Good shoes. Fun, good shoes. One pair of good, fun expensive shoes.

The purchase of a book at full retail price on the day it was released. Yes, I know you can just get it for free from the library, but who knows how many people have read it their bathroom???? Bet you never thought about that, hum?

An over-priced, overly sweet latte from Bigbucks....just once in a while, you have an itch only a four dollar coffee can scratch.

Mental Health Days. No work, no kids, no worries. Just you, a big bowl of popcorn and a sappy Meg Ryan/Tom Hanks combo.

Shoprite at Home. Hellooo....order your groceries on-line and they do your shopping for you- all you have to do is pull up with that over-priced latte I was talking about and watch as they lovingly place it in your car. No more Shoprite on Sundays has single handedly lowered my blood pressure.

A weekend away with your husband. Sure, you'll argue about who forgot to pack whose glasses, complain about the scratchy sheets and the way your car is always a mess- but isn't that all the stuff you'd do at home already? New places even make arguing more fun.

Fresh Flowers, Fresh Produce, Fresh Food. All capitalized for good reason. They may feel like indulgences, but there are few things more necessary.

Good wine and good chocolate. Neither necessarily mean expensive, just that they are important enough to splurge on when necessary. If a good wine's 7.00, then awesome- if it's 70.00, aren't you worth it?

Showing "The Goonies" to your class full of 17 year olds on a rainy Friday under the guise of utilizing it as a "Writing Prompt" for an essay about Childhood Adventures. Yes, I'm that smart. This day is awesome.

I know I have much more necessary indulgences, what are yours???

Gym Politics

In light of the up and coming election, I thought I would articulate some of my thoughts on political matters at large....no, this is not the forum to declare which candidate has my support- I seldom discuss it publically in person, why display it all over the internet?- but to discuss an entirely different set of politics I am sure most of us are aware of. The politics of the Gym.

Let's get one thing straight. I hate the gym. Everything about the gym, actually. I hate the spandex, I hate the sweaty towels, I hate the soccer moms in their forties fooling themselves into believing that wearing pink stretch pants with flirty sayings across their behinds is appropriate. That is singularly why, after three years of living down the street, I conceded and joined the YMCA. I mean, there's nothing intimidating about the Y, right? A bunch of fat people just like me minding their own business, trying to keep their feet on the eliptical machine while changing songs on their ipods-you laugh, but for someone as uncoordinated as myself, this is a feat worthy of celebration. Six weeks ago I walked into to Y for the first time and was hit in the face by more than the musky stink.

There are two rooms of cardio equipment and you must walk through one in order to get to the other. You enter into the back room first, filled with sub-par machines and dirty carpet stains that seem to be designated for the morbidly obese, terribly self-conscious, geriatric wing of Mountainside Hospital. As you make your way through the "back room", silently encouraging the gentlemen who seems about to suffer cardiac arrest if he spends one more second on the bike and the young girl who is having trouble trying to convince the wall to swallow her, you catch a glimpse of the utopia that lays ahead.

The "front room". The front room is a dizzying display of lycra and flat screen televisions. Matching sweatsuits, ipod armbands, nalgene bottles. Everyone is so tan and shiny and serious looking! You recognize immediately that you do not belong there. You notice that people even scowl as you pass through. And it's not the "I'm working really hard here and I can't control my facial expressions" it's the, "you can't honestly think that you belong here, sweating next to me".

I allowed the front room trolls control my whereabouts for three weeks. I knew where I belonged. I don't have a matching sweatsuit. In fact, I actually had to go and purchase sweatpants so that I would have something to work out in. I gave the girl who hogged the wall spot the evil eye. Who needs a flat screen t.v. right on your machine, anyway? Watching the old guy in Richard Simmons tights plod along on the tredmill was entertainment enough, right?

As I said, it lasted three weeks. On my forth week, unsure of what came over me, I ventured back into the front room. I was tired of machines sticky with ben-gay. I was tired of watching little miss, "I have a really tight ass; that's why I'm wearing these spandex pants the same color of my skin ," from the doorway. So what if I was wearing mismatched socks? So what if I didn't have a , "NYC marathon '08" tee-shirt on? I bet he didn't even run. Probably handed out those tee-shirts and got to keep one for free for volunteering. I parked my feet into that fancy-shmancy eliptical machine and felt like singing. It glided gently-something I was unaware an eliptical was supposed to do since the one I'd been using got stuck everytime my left foot went down-it had a remote for the t.v.! It did all but serve me sparkling water at the end of my work-out ( I'm pretty sure it does do that, but secrets are well kept in the front room). I had hit the jack-pot. I was not going back. At the finish of my workout I glanced around once more. You know the tight-ass girl? She has cellulite. The marathon man? All the tred-mill running in the world isn't going to fix that saggy man-boob syndrome.

I threw a smile in the wall-flower girl's direction assuring her that the grass was indeed greener on the other side and we had just as much right as the rest of the lycra posse to indulge. I hope she'll take the long walk up to the front soon. I'd be glad to save her a spot right next to me. Perhaps we could even watch Oprah together and toast with our cheap, plastic water bottles that we won't recycle to reclaiming our dignity, our humanity and our right to a bright, shiny machine without judgement. So, scowl away lycra ladies- we're coming in and we're here to stay.

Indecisive-less

I have a problem. I'm not sure how big of a problem it is, or if, in fact, it is a problem at all. Even in that example shines the very essence of my problem. I am indecisive. I'm more than indecisive. I am maddening. Ask my husband.

I wake up in a cold sweat exactly six minutes before my alarm goes off every morning. I squeeze my eyes tighter as I wait for the rain of assailing questions. What will I wear today? Pants suit or black skirt? Eggs or cereal? Do I even have time for breakfast? Coffee before shower or shower before coffee? Peanut butter or tuna for lunch? Trust me, it doesn't end there. My indecisiveness has permeated every part of life from my majors in college ( yes, majors- I went from Music to Psych back to Music to Communications to graduating with an English degree) to the restaurant my husband told me to pick for our night out. Ethiopian or Thai? Italian. Italian's always safe. Unless...

Of course, I realize that my indecisiveness has a ceiling. I mean, I married after all. I had to decide on that. I choose the new car we drive without hesitation. I hands down know that I can't wear pink without a tan. So, why doesn't that part of me drift over into the other, more annoying part?

For several reasons, I believe. I tend to take the saying, " If you say yes to something, you're saying no to something else" quite seriously. And I am not a say-no-er. I hate to say no. To anything. (Unless it's directly related to physical activity. ) If I commit to taking French lessons, then I certainly can't take Portuguese. If I invest more practice time on the guitar, I won't have any time for the piano. If I say yes to the lunch date with a friend, I am a bad wife for not staying home to clean my disaster of a house. And so on. The second reason being, the typical people-pleaser answer. I've spent my life conceding to the desires of others, I'm not really sure I even know what I want. And, if I don't know what I want, how can I possibly make a decision?

So, be patient with me, friends, if I'm hesitant in suggesting a coffee house in which to meet. Or if I can't even decide what time would be best. I'm learning how to weigh the options and actually choose (that's the dead air on the phone, in case you ever wondered). I am taking all kinds of new steps in this new season of life. Indecisive-less, here I come!

Beloved

It was 12:30 and I called my husband at work on my lunch break with the sob story of my day. He listened patiently, reassured me through my hyper-ventilating that my day was over soon and that he couldn't wait to see me. An hour later when I called back with a relocation proposal, to Africa preferably, I heard him smile over the phone and say, " Take a deep breath. Meet me at the train. I made reservations for 6."

I'm ashamed to admit that I sometimes take my husband for granted. He tells me that he loves me everyday. He calls me and texts me throughout the day to remind me that he's thinking of me. He cleans up after meals. He does all the laundry, for crying out loud. He provides and cares for me more than anything I've ever experienced before. I had thought that these things are just things that husbands are supposed to do. Wrong. My husband isn't supposed to do these things. He doesn't have to do these things. He does them because he loves me. He loves me in a way I am only beginning to understand.

I hear all the time from women who feel neglected, taken advantage of or taken for granted by their husbands. I have no idea what they're talking about. However, it's a good reminder of how blessed I am. How I need to acknowledge my loving spouse every day and make sure I'm not taking who he is for granted.

I would certainly elaborate, but, I have surprise plans for 6 with the most incredible, dashing man.

Reclaiming Autumn Part 2

Lazy Saturday morning.....a long, leisurely romp at the Farmer's Market....scrambled eggs with cheese and grits at our favorite greasy spoon for breakfast....a long drive into the country air....a sneeze-filled hay-ride into orchard acres....apples still wet with dew plucked from trees and placed in plastic bags....14 lbs of juicy freshness to be eaten raw or in pies or in breads or in muffins....cozy, candle lit dinner with family....happiness fulfilled. Autumn is mine.

In His Image

It was second period this past Tuesday. There's nothing really redeeming about Tuesday. It's not the start of a fresh new week like Monday. It doesn't have the allure of "hump day" Wednesday. It's just kind of there, like partially moldy cheese-there's nothing really wrong with it if you can get past the green stuff and scrape off the edges. I was gathering my notes together before the barrage of gangly, strong smelling, chatty teenagers took over my room all abuzz with the excitement of sports commencements. This is the week my football, soccer, volleyball and basketball players along with my cheerleaders have their first games. They run around crazy-like in the hallways, decorating lockers with red and white streamers, painting their faces to show school spirit, baking cookies with players names in them. They come to school in suits either too small or too large for their ever-transforming frames, asking for help to tie their father's ties; slick with hair-spray, floating on European cologne. Even their smiles are different-some excited to be returning to the game, others petrified.

One of the downfalls of only teaching Juniors this year is that I occasionally miss some of my students from last year who are currently sophomores. I only say occasionally due to the fact that they seldom give me a chance to miss them considering they are in my classroom so often to say hello I forget that they are no longer students of mine. In fact, I had promised one of them that I would swing by his J.V. soccer game later on in the week to watch him in action, since I don't get the chance anymore in the classroom.

Anyway, back to Tuesday. I had noticed as they all got settled into their seats and reluctantly took out their notebooks that one of the boys who sat in the back was eyeing me in a peculiar fashion. Not uncomfortable, mind you. Just as if he needed to ask me something and wasn't sure how to word it. He stayed that way throughout the period. Usually having all the answers, he abstained from answering questions and when I called on him it was brief, one or two words at the most. I generally stop the class a few minutes early and tell them to get a jumpstart on homework, but it's really for me to be able to connect to each of them personally. I made my rounds and finally made my way to the back when I heard his voice.

"Mrs. Shannon? Alex told me that you were going to the J.V. soccer game on Friday to watch him play."
I answered, that yes, Alex was student of mine last year and I told him that I would come to at least one game of his this year.
The boy in the back puffed up his Varsity soccer jersey, shuffled his feet and with a bit more confidence asked-
"Are you gonna come to my games then, too? To watch me play? I'm captain this year."

This caused quite an uproar among the classmates. "What, you a footfairy fan Mrs. S? You not gonna come see me in a real American game? Football?" "How 'bout we get you the basketball schedule, will you come to those, too?" "What? Mrs. Shannon? You won't just go see the boys, will you? Our volleyball team plays Garfield next week...."

I taught pre-school where four year olds clamoured over holding my hand. Sitting next to me for snack time. I thought for sure after my experience in high school last year these kids would sooner egg my car then demand my presence at one of their functions. Needless to say, I appeased the masses Marc Anthony style. I assured them all (who meandered in with smirks and attitudes, laughing in my face and refusing to sit down or hand in their homework just minutes before) that I do not discriminate and will gladly attempt to make one of each of their games. That they are all equally as important to me. That they were all talented and I couldn't wait to see what they could do. They smiled. Their shoulders relaxed. They breathed. They gave me high fives on the way out. I was stunned.

After class was over I marveled quietly at my desk. It is true. We are all made in His image. We all truly want love, acceptance and support. Even smelly, disrespectful, snotty teenagers. Go figure. So, if you happen to be bored on a Friday afternoon depending on the week, I could gladly use the company of someone who knows anything about football...or soccer...or basketball...or volleyball....or.....

Threes?

I'm aware of the superstitious belief that bad things happen in threes, but I'm curious to discover if that applies to annoying things as well.

Case in point:

1. Our security alarm has seemingly developed a mind of it's own, therefore forewarning us of an obviously invisible attacker every twenty minutes. Though I am appreciative of it's vocal concern for our safety and outrage at any intruder (imaginary or otherwise), I fear our neighbors are considering a plan of attack themselves if it continues its cacophonous tirade throughout the night. Again.

2. As if incessant beeping wasn't enough to disrupt these last few nights of summer sleep, my toilet has been eavesdropping on my inner dialogue condemning my severe lack of exercise and has decided to make up for my reluctance for physical exertion by taking matters into its own hands. By running, I mean. For hours. All morning, in fact. Of course he is aware that in addition to the physical satisfaction he may be getting, he is also quite successfully running up our water bill. A fact, that, I've discovered in a brief exchange with him, he apparently doesn't value as highly as physical maintenance and extrinsic motivation. Honestly, he may have a point. A jog sounds like a brilliant reprieve from the deafening sound of rushing water emanating from my bathroom.

Thus, I am just the conductor in this symphony of audible intrusions, and almost afraid to wonder if this mysterious law of threes does in fact apply to things obnoxious in nature, what could possibly happen next?

I'll be sure to let you know.

Grin and Bear It

It has finally come.  Glancing over at the alarm going off in our bedroom to signify that it was time for Rich to get up, I rolled over with deep indignation.  In less than a week, I will be waking an hour earlier than him.  Walking zombie-like into the kitchen to make the coffee.  Turning on the hot water, then the cold water.  Dancing around in the bathroom waiting for the water to regulate.  Sleepily making a lunch that always seems to be missing something-like, the sandwich- and joining the rest of the working world in the that blasted line for the parkway.  

At precisely 7:35 I will be staring at the inside of my classroom instead of the inside of my eyelids.  For those of you who scoff at the notion of a teacher complaining after she has gotten nearly three months off, let me explain something to you.  I was unable to unclench my fists or my jaw until mid-July from school stress.  I finally began sleeping through the night toward the end of the second week of August.  And then, in the third week I was back to organizing, preparing, studying and stressing over going back to school.  Total vacation hours? TWO WEEKS.  Woe is the life of a teacher.

I have applied to more jobs that I could count over the summer.  Jobs with the allure of only working 6-8 hours a day and leaving the work THERE before coming home.  A job where what I do would be appreciated and respected by functioning adults.  A job where I would look forward to going ...where I would feel called to be...where I could utilize my skills and talents...where I wouldn't have to be concerned if that student I failed would be waiting for me by my car...or outside of my door...with a weapon...or a chair...or worse...a parent.  Where I could drink a cup of coffee, for goodness sake and wear open-toed shoes.

Alas, here I am, public school teacher. Again.  

So, rather that let this simple fact overshadow my life this year (those of you who know me understand that last year I'm pretty sure "myself" disappeared into a bundle of self-deprecating, second-guessing, stressing, sleepless, panic-attacking mess) I have already decided to approach this school year with a new vision and manner in mind-and am pleading your help in this mountainous endeavor.

Fact: I would rather not be teaching.

Fact: Regardless of how I feel about it, I WILL be teaching.

And sooooo, I am determined to grin and bear it, so they say.  Make the best of it.  But am praying for even more than that.  I'm not sure why God wants me in the classroom, but it's apparent that he does.  So, with that knowledge, I will do my best to wake with a smile, leave my stressing at the door, approach the day with something I love in mind.  I will plan things to look forward to every month...every weekend...everyday-that's where you come in, if you choose. Dinner with a friend, a movie, a new book, a weekend away. I will thank God daily for the job that I have that provides the support our family needs and a fresh supply of spit-balls in my purse.  

At work, instead of being a grammar pusher, a paragraph stickler or a homework nazi it will be my main daily goal to make my students laugh.  To teach them that being who they are is awesome enough-they don't need to be anything else.  To revel in their differences instead of beating each other up over them. To encourage them that the world stretches outside of their city boundaries, to read the newspaper, explore their own thoughts and ideas instead of spewing out everyone else's without even thinking about it, to communicate effectively(preferably without the F-word) and be normal, civilized human beings who will (hopefully) be able to write and read.  Doesn't sound like a tall order, I'm sure, but you haven't witnessed a classroom full of thirty hungry, bored, tired and hot seventeen year olds who amuse themselves by seeing who could hit me first with a paper airplane.  Yes, they still make those.

I, of course, will document my progress on both the attitude adjustment and the paper airplane problem.  Like I've said in previous posts, I am attempting this thing of not letting circumstances decide my future- or take my joy.  So, if there's anyone interested in a hay ride and a pumpkin picking excursion, my September fun-day slot is open! 

Sacrifice and Surrender

I'm an addict.

I'm told that the first step toward active recovery is to admit the problem. Therefore, with pause, deep breaths and morose confidence, I am laying it on the line. I am addicted to sacrifice.

Don't tell me that you're unaware of what this means. I love to sacrifice. I live to sacrifice. I used to like to disillusion myself and call it part of my selflessness. My husband calls it "Baptist Guilt".

Though not my vocal belief if anyone were to ask me, I seem to have lived my life according to certain rules.
1. If I sacrifice my desires, it will be pleasing to God and I will be rid of guilt.
2. If I sacrifice my opportunities, it will be pleasing to God and I will be rid of guilt.
3. If I give up on anything and everything that has the possibility of bringing me any happiness, I've got a first class ticket on the freedom train and be rid of my guilt.

Please don't misunderstand. God does call us to make certain sacrifices, all pleasing in his sight and biblical when our hearts are motivated properly. But, did you notice a pattern in my aforementioned rules? My whole life has been motivated by eradicating guilt.

Does that even make sense? Would people be lining up and around the corner to sign up for a God who takes pleasure in watching you suffer? Who requires you to forsake all that stirs your heart and forces you to settle for something that will never make you happy? Who would dictate that unhappiness is, in fact, the very sign that signifies what a good little Christian you are? I certainly don't believe that about the God I serve, but the way I have lived my life has reflected something different entirely.

People use the words sacrifice and surrender as if they are interchangeable, but in fact they are worlds apart in ways that I am only beginning to discover. Sacrifice means to give something up for someone else. It invites images of suffering, of pain, of loss, of struggle. I've relished this image and adopted it as my living blue-print. But surrender, oh, surrender means to let go. To offer it up. To lay it down. To hand over the control. That's different.

I am slowly learning the joys and depths of surrender. I am lethargically remembering the verse where God promises the desires of our hearts. That I should know the plans he has for me. Plans to prosper me, not to harm me-plans to give me hope and a future. I am carefully prying finger after guilty finger from my view of God. Guilt is selfish. Holding onto my guilt is selfish. Believing that if I give up everything I might have been called or created to do, I will be saved is selfish- and not aligned with my core belief in Jesus at all. I'm praying that God replaces my definitions of sacrifice and surrender with his own.

Introduction

All four of you who read my blog on occasion have most likely picked up on the fact that, well, I like to be funny. Or rather, I like to think that I'm funny, therefore write about normal, silly, everyday things in a somewhat humorous manner. Whether that is always accomplished, I cannot say, but the world is full of long lines and pse&g bills, why add to the mess with my own short comings?

But-all of you post public school attenders know a lead-in when you hear one-there's been something on my mind that has settled deep in the recesses of my heart that I'm not sure what to with. And, when I'm not sure what to do with anything it generally ends up on paper. Or in song lyrics. Or computer screens. Or consumed along with large quantities of dark chocolate brownies. Judging by the waist band on my last pair of sweat pants, I'd like to avoid the latter, if you don't mind.

Being in your twenties, I believe, in a short, vulgar, unintelligent word, sucks. We have graduated from college. We have moved out on our own. Some of us, myself included, have in amidst all the madness, found the love of their life and have gotten married. Whatever your situation is when you've landed smack dab in the middle of those golden years I can bet that the words forming in your mouth are the same in the mouths of hundreds. Thousands even. Especially mine.

Now what???

We can't find a job, and when we've found one it has nothing to do with our education, and definitely miles away from our passions. We're too poor to purchase houses and make too much to qualify for any assistance. We can't go back to school to become more marketable until we've paid off all the loans we took out to go to school the first time. We can't have kids because we can't support them financially or otherwise-nor are we even sure we want them, that's just the next step, isn't it? We are trying at all costs to prove that we are valuable members of society as we're moving back in with our moms in droves due to high rent, higher living costs, and due to all the stress, higher medical bills from all the Xoloft we're consuming. I'm trying my best to rein in my language considering I have to be back teaching in the classroom in a few weeks, but, what the hell???

I haven't figured it all out. Not even a little bit. But, I know that we have a God who is omnipotent. Always forgiving. Always loving. And that we, often, miss the message entirely. In the next few posts I'm going to be exploring why this perpetual state of hopelessness exists in my life when I know that I serve a God who offers all hope. What I think is holding me back from accepting all that God has been longing to give me. Why I settle not often, but all the time, for things I'm not passionate about, or even desire. Why I equate the word risk with the word irresponsible. Why I could tell you exactly what I believe God wants from me, and why I've refused to give it to him. And why all of those things are exactly what is weighing down my generation in an anchor made up of anti-depressants, late night bar runs and The Secret.

This certainly wasn't the plan or the layout for this little writing space, but, if my musings do nothing other than lay common ground, I'm fine with that. And don't worry, in the next few weeks I'll throw in a post here and there about Supporting your local Starbucks, My contempt for the color Pink and my new obsession with the Twilight series just to keep an even keel:)

Reclaiming Autumn

It's begun. Produce at the grocery store is being decoratively described as "harvest". I went to Michael's with my sister-in-law and limped desperately, eyes closed past ceramic pumpkins. I gasped for air in Pier 1, trying to clear my nostrils of the cloying cinnamon smell. Walmart is advertising the coolest new pens I've ever seen. The sweet scent of coconut sun block and grilled hamburgers is fading faster than I do in direct sunlight. I can deny it no longer. Fall is coming.

Before I began teaching, autumn was my favorite season. I loved it so much, in fact, my husband and I got married in October- the most beautiful month of the year, in my opinion. It boasts of all my favorite colors: holy golds, vibrant reds, crossing guard orange, deep chocolate browns and chestnuts. It swings in on my favorite scents: spice and apples and cobblers and coffee and the crisp coldness that clings right to the front of your face- the tip of your nose. I celebrated the first fall after graduating from college- finally! Never again will this beautiful season be marred by the anxiety ridden first day of school. Never again will it signify new notebooks, new pencils, new friends, new responsibilities, new pep rallies, new shoes. I admit I drank hot apple cider every day that year. I rolled around in the falling leaves. I purchased aforementioned dreaded ceramic pumpkins. And put them everywhere. Even in the bathroom. Never a good idea, by the way.

Sigh. My jubilance was short lived. Why, you ask? Because I am currently sitting in my living room, on August 12th, in a sea of rough sketches, all displaying how I will be setting up my classroom in a few (very short) weeks. You've got it. The one who waited her whole life to be free from the vice-like grip of public school now works in one. Not just any one, mind you. But the very similar institution in which my last years of adolescence were spent wishing I was foraging the rain forests in Borneo, battling life-sized tarantulas. Here I am, Mrs. Shannon, High School English Teacher. Die, Autumn sunsets. Bloody red. Dirty bar, flashing neon sign orange. Die.

Of course, it doesn't help that at this time last year, my husband and I were reading up on London, Dublin and Edinburgh and buying trial sized, well, everything. Oh, because we were going there. In September. For three weeks. Alright. Enough. All of that was not intended to make it into this post, but being that blogs often have a mind of their own, it couldn't be helped. I hope this isn't the onset of some abnormal schizophrenic behavior, granted, it is my mind regardless. I digress. (but those who happen to diagnose as a profession are free to get back to me) Getting down to the real reason....

I have decided to reclaim my season. It is my season, after all. So, I'm a teacher. A lot about that sucks right now, but that is for a different post entirely. I am downright refusing that minute detail to hinder my joy. I WILL NOT purchase one new pen, no matter how cool it is. I will plug my nose to the new notebook smell and breath in the macintosh apples instead. I will bake, leisurely even, as if there are no papers to grade. I will go on hay rides and eat cider donuts and salted pumpkin seeds until I fall blissfully into a foma (food-coma, for those scratching heads in bewilderment) or throw up. Whichever comes first. I will wear red shoes, no matter how many of my students taunt me. What do they know? They wear purple knee socks with mini skirts. Have they ever seen my first grade picture? Helllllo? The only thing they're missing is the side-pony tail. I will smile into the sunshine, watch the sunset every night from my porch( if we still have one ; which is, again, another post entirely) go for walks in sweaters and Birkenstocks and never once dream of being late for class. Well, the last one is already broken considering it's begun already. And I was not only late, but naked and without teeth as well.

I have allowed life's circumstances to take from me what is mine for too long. I'm placing my flag right in the middle of that pumpkin pie. I'm "going to the mattresses". Autumn is mine.

The Secret

I understand that my neighbors could be assuming that I consider myself of certain princess status since my car has been in the drive-way throughout the entire day during this summer. I feel that I should explain to everyone I pass on my morning walk, "So nice to have off! I'm a teacher, you know. I'm employed, just not during the summer. Not a kept woman. Oh, no. I pull my weight." Smile. Wave. Pride restored. Go back inside for napping at noon.

However, on my walks I've discovered something. I pass the same people every morning. The same handful of people walk briskly passed my front porch, dragged by a large Huskie or pulling a petite terrier at 7 am, 8, 9, and 10. It was only this morning that I mulled over this phenomenon and light radiated from my (under-used as of late) cranium. They all have one thing in common! I paused to breathe, then uttered the awe-inspiring question: Could dog owners be exempt from the working world?

There they are. Every single day. Young women smiling in their matching pink lycra, skinny Starbucks latte in hand, scampering right behind the little rat disguised as a chihuahua, leaving their Juicy calling card shaking down the sidewalk. Stopping at corners. Reading People on benches. Smiling and nodding, plastic baggie in hand. The older, distinguished looking men come later with beagles and greyhounds. Never in suits. Never wearing a watch. Flashing veneers that could have paid my yearly salary. Sauntering even, taunting me. Poor girl. She'll never figure it out. Smelling Parisan- the expensive Parisan, not Paris-in-July Parisan, which I understand is more offensive than middle-school boys playing basketball. Occasionally, in groups. Discussing the stock market and gas prices, stopping to give a pat to his charge. I fought the urge to call out to them. "Took off today?" "Nice week for a vacation, huh?" "What do you for a living, if you don't mind me asking?" I mean, it's utterly impossible that the entire Montclair community is made up of educators all enjoying the plight of summer. They know something.

However, I abstain from embarrassing myself with such thoughtless questions. It's not fair to exploit my insecurities in others, especially complete strangers. And, if I was keeping such a prized secret, I would be reluctant to share as well. Little do they know that I am finally on to them. Ha.

All of these years of trying to figure out how I can get out of waking at 6 am, coming home at 4 only to do it all over again for 5 straight days in a row and the answer was right in front of my nose-or porch. Be gone, get rich quick schemes. Silence, at home web companies. Enough, private tutoring, car-washing, apartment cleaning, home buisness operating. It all boils down to one thing. I have seen the light. I'm privy to the secret. I've wised-up. I'm getting a dog.

You've Got...one embarrassing vice

Everyone has vices.  Guilty pleasures, skeletons in the closet-a rose called by any other name...you get the picture. I'm not necessarily talking about the stereotypical vices, i.e. smoking, drinking, excessive food intake or other seductive behaviors that have become so common place in our over-indulged society that they no longer fit the true definition of vice, but rather the definition of social-norms instead. ( The actual definition for Vice, for future reference is exactly this: depraved or degrading behavior; a fault, defect or shortcoming; a bad habit.) 

For some it may be the 47th pair of strappy black sandals hidden behind the frozen peas and the 5 gallon container of chicken stock in the extra freezer in the basement that the dear husband doesn't know about.  For others, it could be something much more provocative- such as the entire collection of WHAM! videos neatly tucked away underneath your side of the bed.  Whatever your vice is, I am here to assure you that it cannot, will not, could not possibly be as embarrassing as mine.

That's a bold statement, you say.  Just to clarify- this is not an invitation for vice trump cards. No catharsis necessary as barter to participate in the reading of my ridiculous-though often highly intellectualized, philosophical-rantings.  If you happen to disagree with the above statement, let us now, as friends, agree to disagree without having to trudge through embarrassing admissions that I really would have rather gone to church in my underwear before choosing to be a listening ear to.  That being said, I am most positive you will agree that this terrible, little vice of mine really should never be exposed for fear of ridicule or bullying and just the sort of thing those paparazzi search to dig up the moment after you've gotten famous.  I'm hoping that by this public display of humility when my time for fame rolls around, they will have nothing on me other than the fact that I keep the water running while I brush my teeth.  ( Oh stop it all of you Green Gestapo, you do it too and you know it.)

Deep breath.  Here it is.  I am, by nature, an anxious person.  I grind my teeth.  I get jaw pain from grinding.  I get migraines from jaw pain.  I get panic attacks from the migraines and so the cycle continues until either I or my husband or the both of us put together are so sick of me that we have to sit on separate couches and sulk.  I cannot eat or sleep or read or even cry.  It is at these dark hours that only three things have the power to bring me up and out into the light.  1.  Praying to God 

2. Ben and Jerry's Chocolate Mint Cookie- (Half-Baked is acceptable under duress of emergency)

3. You've Got Mail

(Insert slowly widening eyes as connections are made. Audible laughter is evident.  Alright, that's enough.  Really.  It's not that funny.)

No, I do not still use the archaic AOL.  I am talking about the grilled-cheesy mid 90's movie starring Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan.  I know.  I can't believe it either sometimes.

I am unsure of the hold that YGM has over me, but it is certainly stronger than any caffeine addiction.  Perhaps it's Kathleen Kelly's charming profession as a children's bookstore owner that has me entranced.  Maybe it's the way she always wears flowing skirts and matching sweater-sets.  Oh, and how the store is perpetually decorated with twinkle lights.  And how daisies are her favorite flower because they're the friendliest.  And maybe it's how she always skips when she walks and how she buys one solitary apple at the farmer's market and how she re-reads "Pride and Prejudice" over and over because she likes the word"thither".  And maybe it's because of how she and Joe Fox always bicker in the cutest little cafes over Mochaccinos and Herbal Teas. Oh, and how I want to be just like her.  Maybe that's it.  Embarrassing.

As soon as the opening credits roll I can feel the tension in my jaw melt away right into the couch.  By the "bouquet of sharpened pencils" my headache has slightly subsided.  By the "what is it with men and the Godfather?" line my fists have slowly unclenched.  And most certainly by the "no matter how horrible you are there is no reason for me to talk to you like that" line I have completely lost sight of any and all previous pain and anxiety and have broken into a deep, silly grin.  My husband, after three years of observation, is still amazed at the mighty power a poorly made 90s film has over his wife's emotions but I would venture a guess to say that if ever there came a time in which he were to meet Tom Hanks, I think he might cry in his arms and thank the poor gentleman for having a hand in saving our marriage.

So, there it is for all the world to see.  I am not thoroughly unashamed, yet have a curious sense of pride in my vice confession.  I love "You've Got Mail".   I hope this gives courage to the masses.  I know there's at least one of you watching "Hope Floats" at this very moment, Kleenex in hand, rubbing the scuff marks in between the skips in the DVD.  Take heart, sister- or brother, mind you, we don't discriminate here at kindalikeoprah-you are not alone.  

No Place Like Home

We were successful.  We have each consumed our weight in bbqed pork, washed down with our share of local southern brews- Abita Amber from New Orleans and Yazoo Pale Ale from Nashville were the front runners for Rich-I, however, apparently am a Texan at heart and stuck with the tasty Shiner Bock. I wore the same dress for four days straight without batting an eye and I resigned myself to the fact that "y'all" and "darlin" have slowly crept into my northern vocabulary- and the Beignet's in New Orleans have crept sneakily into my love handles.  I welcomed them.  I tell ya, I would do it again just for some of that powered sugar-fried doughy goodness.  Don't judge.  

Though we stayed and hung out with beautiful people in Nashville-( Thank you Kelsie, Michael and Emmy!) and had a rockin' night on Beale St. in Memphis (a foot note, I will warn you now, NEVER stay at the Fartisan, uh, I mean, Artisan Hotel in Memphis-it smelled like hot dogs and looked like someone had just previously bathed their dog in the sink) New Orleans was our all time favorite road trip experience.

We were(well, the pessimist that I am, was) reluctant at first about getting too excited to stay in the French Quarter since neither of us had been there since Katrina.  And, truthfully, there is still some significant damage left to undo.  Parts of the levy are still being held by sand bags, some shops and pubs remain boarded up with newspaper with sad, hopeful signs- "We Will Return", no promise of a date.  The biggest remnant is the increase in poverty- some poor soul tried to shine Rich's shoes-though, as everyone knows, Rich only wears flip-flops from March to November. After making this discovery himself, undeterred, he attempted to shine his toes instead.  A task worthy of more than a dollar after walking around all morning, I assure you. 

With that said, the revitalization that has taken place over the last three years is more than phenomenal.  The French Quarter is just as beautiful, if not more so now with a sense of purpose, than it was when I was last there at 16.  We stayed at the hotel, Maison Dupuy which we would highly recommend to anyone who is planning a visit-and you really should.  The staff were most helpful and friendly, we were not even two blocks away from the famed Bourbon Street, the pool was amazing and the rates in the summer time (considering it's the off-season sweatiness) were enough to make us consider extending our vacation-permanently.  

We ate enough Gumbo, Jambalaya and Crawfish Etouffe' at the famous Gumbo Shop to claim Creole roots (if ever you are to go, know that there will be a wait to eat-they don't take names, you just get in line-so, get a beer and chat with all the international tourists on line with you, it's totally worth it) and wandered the Parisian looking streets for hours at night, hovering in and out of jazz clubs and bars-beers in hand, since it's more than legal to walk around with drinks. Guess who kept reminding me of that?  Not being a night-owl, I have to say that New Orleans comes alive at night and it is an over-stimulus of color, movement and most of all, music.  Where else can you watch a terrible Bon-Jovi cover band directly next to the most engaging jazz clarinet player I've ever heard? Fascinating.   Side note for the more conservative- Bourbon St does have it's pitfalls, so if traveling with children I would suggest you steer clear of the side of the street advertising, "Boys Prettier Than Girls!" It will only make you uncomfortable having to explain what they mean, and angrier still if you do pass by and discover that they are right.  They are, in fact, prettier than you.  Sigh.

Our second day consisted of sweating through two changes of clothing, walking up and down the bank of the Mississippi, deciding that not even our travels were worth the thought of the buttons melting on my shirt and ending up at the pool with take-out po'boys for the rest of the day.  At night, again, more meandering wide-eyed and open-mouthed with Hurricanes as we wandered into the cutest little jazz bar called Fritzels where we met a lovely couple, Seth and Amy, with whom we shared a table (and some Absinthe for Seth and Rich, crazy kids) for the rest of the night.

New Orleans felt like a European vacation without having to leave the country.  We were certainly sad to have to leave, but satisfied in a strange way that this iconic location has reclaimed some ground.  It was bustling with people.  Most shops were up and running.  The food was fabulous.  The hotel was heavenly.  Good for you, New Orleans.  We will be back.

We then, after some deliberation decided to head to Atlanta- wanting really to spend some time in Savannah, but discovering it would be after 10 pm once we got there, we settled for Atlanta.  No one informed us that Atlanta is the convention capital of the world and it is a crazy thought that you will be able to 1. find a room anywhere in the city on a Saturday night and 2. if you do find a room, it will be nary under 170.00 bones.  HElllo.  So, we had already driven 5-6 hours, what was one more?  We headed to a little town outside of the city, got a perfectly decent room for 70.00, went swimming and crashed, visions of Voo-doo shops and Beignets still dancing around in our tired brains.

We drove home the next day.  Yes, you heard me correctly.  We drove HOME to New Jersey from Atlanta, GA all in one day.  We couldn't officially call ourselves road-trippers without driving more than a 10 hour stretch, could we?  As you can tell, it wasn't the brightest idea considering, we got home on Monday and I haven't really been coherent enough to write a concluding update until this very morning.

The purpose of this trip as stated in previous posts was basically to breathe.  To get a fresh perspective on things.  To be open and listening to what God may or may not be calling us to do, whether that means relocating or not.  It was to spend some time with friends who really live up to their Jesus-follower titles-and that was more than encouraging.  It was to see how God is moving in other parts of the country, to remember what it is like to simply enjoy being in one another's company with nothing but a Styrofoam cup of bad coffee and the open road. 

I'm not going to be as cliche as to say it was life-changing experience, so instead, I will just tell you what has changed:

1.  Rich and I were able to breathe, to laugh, to eat, to pray and to believe that God has great plans for us

2.  God IS moving in different parts of the country, not unlike he is moving right here

3.  We are with ALL CERTAINTY not called to wave our confederate flags in surrender of a relocation to the south

With all of our urgency to get the heck out of New Jersey, the biggest thing we learned was how grateful we were for cool summer nights.  For 2 minute drives to the supermarket.  For the train to the city and the parkway for the shore in our backyard.  Most of all, for the people we love that are situated right here.

That seems to make being a Yankee worth it, y'all.  

Now that we're officially staying, I'm going to have work on that.

P.S.  anyone interested can find all of the pictures from our trip on flicker:

http://flickr.com/photos/richandjenny/

Raleigh, Nashville and other Hookey-Dookey

We've made it.  We're hardly wearing dirty clothing.  We've yet had to pan-handle.  Our car is still running- no  thanks to gas at 4.07 a gallon, thank you very much.  But we are here in sunny (sweaty) Nashville.

After leaving my Mom's quaint little town of Fuquay, we headed toward Raleigh-Durham to spend the night with Rich's college roommate Adam and his wife.  Adam and Steph are wonderful people and we owe them much for revealing to us that all of North Carolina does not consist of tobacco fields and crab shacks.  Raleigh is actually quite a fun college town to hang around in- we went for drinks at a cute little bar called the Raleigh-Times and Steph was kind enough to introduce me to her favorite haunt- Locopops.  Don't judge, people, it is the most fabulous store dedicated to gourmet popcicles.  Cherry Hybiscus, Mexican Chocolate...mmmmmm.

After attending the mega-church (our word and not theirs, they seem to find the fact that they have parking attendants in their church parking lot an every day occurrence), we headed out again to Nashville.

We seemed to have underestimated the distance between North Carolina and TN and after a beautiful 6 hour ride through the Smokey Mountains with at least 3 more to go, we decided that if we were going to make it to my friend Kelsie's house with both of us alive, it would probably be appropriate to stop for something to eat.  Thus, Lefty's was discovered.

We came upon a sign for good BBQ, and when in Rome....we had to stop.  Truth be told it was the most frightening looking place I've ever encountered.  Missing shingles.  Firewood strewn all over the parking lot.  Pick-up trucks just waiting to kidnap young Yankee girls, I'm sure.  Though I was a bit put off by the decor, Rich convinced me that these were the best kinds of places for good BBQ- so, I believed him and we went in.

He was right.  After a hefty pulled pork, baked beans and blackberry cobbler consumption we were on the road again and after another 3 hours, pulled into Kelsie's driveway in good old Nashville.

Yesterday, Rich and I proved our tourist title as we drove up and down Music Row, went to see the Grand Ole Opry, had lunch at the Broadway Brewery and met my friend Michael for another quick tour around neighboring towns before meeting his girlfriend, Emmy, for dinner.  We have been so blessed with beautiful people to hang out with along this trip, and dinner was lovely.  We hung out for a good part of the evening, even played a bit at Emmy's house before heading back to Kelsie's.

Today, we're taking it easy and taking advantage of Panera's WI-FI to update, catch up on some much needed caffeine intake, and plan out the rest of our trip and, er, our lives if we get around to it.

Next stop:

Memphis tomorrow for one night before moving on to New Orleans.

Observations:

1.  When someone from TN tells you that something is "just around the corner", expect at least a 45 minute drive..

2. never attempt to shoo a cat away from your shampoo bottle after she hisses at you-just let her eat it

3.  Texans have funny sayings that should never be repeated....unless making fun of said Texan;such as hookey dookey....love you, Adam!

4.  scary BBQ places have the best food

5.  good friends make even the south a fun place to be.

More later.....off we go!

Thoughts from the Road

Alright, we've done it. Rich and I threw some of our belongings into our (sweet) Scion and took to the open road. Those of you who are vastly aware of my anti-spontineity status, now would be the time to close your swinging jaws. Since we chose to be anti-planners for the next several weeks of the trip, I am uncertain of how often I may or may not be able to update our travels, but I do promise the four of you who read this I will do my very best to keep you abreast of our happenings.

A recap of our last few days are as follows:

July 1st

Fresh-faced and gleaming with visions of new adventures at 9:30a.m., we turned for the last time in several weeks onto the good ole' GSP with D.C. as our first destination.

After sitting for 4 hours in Deleware in bumper to bumper traffic and only slightly regretting our American road trip, we chose to entertain our traffic neighbors with "Here Comes the Sun."

Arrival in D.C. =$50 in gas
The book I finished in the passenger seat that was supposed to last me the whole trip=10.95
Hearing the words, " Mr. and Mrs. Shannon, it appears we have upgraded you to the King Suite. Is that suitable?" priceless

July 2nd
Alright. I believe we are the only two people in existance who saw all of D.C. in a little under three hours. And considering that this is my blog, I have chosen to be terribly honest. I was enamored with the White House, awed by the Lincoln Memorial(standing where MLK Jr. stood when delivering the "I Have a Dream" speech was quite a unique experience), enveloped by the beauty of the Smithsonian and moved to tears at the WWII and Vietnam memorials. But, my favorite part about our stay in D.C., you ask? Unashamedly I will answer: THE ROOFTOP POOL. I am unsure if this makes me as unpatriotic as that sounds. I am chosing not to care. You didn't see it, you have no idea. A pool. On the roof. Overlooking all of Washington D.C. Off the chain.

Leaving our King size bed and swimming extraveganza was difficult to do, but we had places to see, people to meet. We stopped in Richmond, VA along our way south and asked the portly parking attendant where the best place to grab a bite to eat would be. In his none-too-delicate southern drawl, he "reckoned" it would be the "Capital Ale House". Hearing the word "Ale", I had officially lost my husband in the pursuit of a good beer and a burger. Quite the understatement, I assure you. If ever you are in the Richmond area and are looking for a good beer garden, an upper and lower level bar and a crab BLT- Capital Ale is worth the trip.

A few local beer bottles in toe, we thanked the attendant for his top notch suggestion, and he hardly charged us for watching over our car and I quietly decided that if it wasn't so blasted hot, I could like the south. Just a little.

Our next stop was undecidedly Virginia Beach, longing for some sea salt and sand so I gave my mom a call from the car to update her on our trip. Come to discover, she's in Oak Island, NC where my family owns a beach house and informed us that if sand and sea were what we were after, there was no better place than Caswell Beach and the price would be right- yup, free. We're into free. So, we breezed past Virginia Beach's Holiday Inn and drove 5 more hours down to the very tip of N.C.

The beach house was quite literally the perfect label. It was, built right on the beach- like, I counted 15 steps from the deck to the waters edge. The water was warm, the sand was like powder and we camped out for 24 hours, leaving well rested and a little tanner. Well, Rich was anyway.

July 3-4
We're recharging in Fuquay-Varina, where my Mom has a house and, of course, our car already looks as though we've been traveling for weeks. So, we're cleaning up, doing some laundry and anticipating our next stop in Raleigh, to stay with Rich's friends Adam and Steph Parken.

A few observations so far about North Carolina:

1. All high ways smell like beef jerky
2. The best place to find a good wine is at the local Walmart
3. Dinner at Applebee's is close to a black-tie affair

Who knew?

Again, I'll do my best to update as much as possible. Until then, on the road again!

Shameless Plug

Alright.  I've gone back and forth on whether or not I should attempt to plug my book that was published just a few weeks ago.  I mean, we have the publicity thing pretty well under control- thanks to my amazing in-laws Tom and Jamie who launched the website and my friend I wrote it with is fantastic with that.  I don't want to be one of those people who can only talk about themselves and what they're doing with their lives.  I don't want to appear egotistical, God forbid.

And then, it hit me.  I'm a blogger.  How much more self-centered can you get than making a live journal open to the public with the belief that millions of readers will pour over your very, well calculated, witty word?  So, here it goes.

My friend and I wrote a book together about a year ago and it has since been published.  It's a delightful little tale about how we all can find and be comfortable with who we are.  It's entitled, "Finding Your Voice" and the really cool thing about it is it is written both in English AND in Spanish....yeah, I know.  It's genius.  Hey, if I'm going for shameless, I'm going all the way.  

Anyway, it's available for purchase at Amazon.com.... or simply check out the website for more details: www.morethanthemoon.com 

That's enough shameless self-promotion for now.  I'm going to go make a few phones calls to producers and taunt them with script ideas-but leave just enough time to hang that "Author lives here" sign in the front yard.

Vacation Shmation

Ahhh....summer vacation.  I've dreamt of this week often as I was answering questions, okaying kids to go to the bathroom, coming home smelling like pencil shavings and cafeteria goo.  It was like a fairy-tale that just got better over time.  I imagined  sitting out in the yard with a book and a glass of something tropical.  Waking to the sound of silence and having leisurely breakfasts at my favorite hole-in-the-wall diner.  Writing fervently, spinning stories of talking doves and pre-pubescent lightening bugs while sipping lattes in Starbucks.  Practicing the guitar until my finger-tips develop callouses my husband would be proud of.  Singing in the shower, on the side-walk, in the mall-to anyone who would listen, really.  So, after all of these lovely visions, should I tell you what I actually HAVE been doing the last two days?

I've cleaned the bathroom.  Twice.  I've taken out the garbage.  Twice. I've woken up at exactly 6:00, and not gone back to bed.  I've checked the mail eighty times even though I know our mail-lady likes to take her time and doesn't generally show until 2 in the afternoon.  I am continuously checking my e-mail in case I've missed something.  I've stressed at least 3 times a day already about how we're possibly going to make it through the summer without working, though I've garnished my pay-check for the last 5 months to secure the decision. Spurred by the financial stress, I've budgeting the up and coming year.  On several spreadsheets. Color-coded and organized by month. I've put all of my vacation days on the 2009 calendar.  

Lets face facts.  I am a worker.  And for some reason, in my warped little mind, if I am doing something I enjoy it cannot possibly be as important as doing work.  Or, work cannot possibly be something I enjoy.  So,  I have been wandering aimlessly the last two days feeling terribly guilty about not having to get up and go somewhere that I hate, where I would proceed to just wish that I was back at home.  Make sense? Of course not.  I seldom do.

So, this is my want-ad if you will.  If you are well-versed in leisure, have a PhD in vacation, have learned how to live life without guilt, or are doing something you absolutely love for "Work" I desperately need your assistance.  Help a sister in need.  I need some insight...and a fruity cocktail, perhaps.

When My Dad is Jesus

In light of Father's Day, I thought I would honor my Dad by making him the topic of my latest blog.  Before I receive any phone calls from concerned readers who think I have finally let high school students get to me and have gone off the deep end, I don't think my Dad is really Jesus.  Not technically, anyway.  

My Dad is a truck driver.  Last time I checked Jesus was a carpenter, but it's close enough to the burly-blue collar male persona every man wants to emulate.  Except, honestly, there really isn't anything burly or even blue collar about him.  He's very tall and very skinny, for one thing.  Just by looking at him, you couldn't tell he could lift very much.  He doesn't have any tattoos.  He doesn't smoke.  He HATES beer.  To the chagrin of his four daughters, he uses the phrase," you, dog" in place of obscenities.  My Dad may possibly be the most alien truck driver you have ever met.  I went to work with him several months ago, actually, and got to witness first-hand how weird my Dad actually is.

My Dad takes monthly drives to Boston where his company is based and is forever looking for a passenger to accompany him to make the all-inclusive 8-12 hour ride with the bribe of the open road and a Friendly's sundae.  I'm usually the sucker who says yes.  Granted, my other sisters generally fall asleep in the first hour and don't make very good company.  I, on the other hand, cannot sleep in the car let alone the rig of a tractor trailer and tend to chat incessantly the whole way until my throat hurts and we have to stop to get some coffee.  Which, truthfully, serves the both of us- I get to talk uninterrupted all about my grand ideas for my next novel or my philosophies on life or about the genre my album would be placed under, if I, in fact, ever record one and he gets to pay attention to something other than road kill and not fall asleep at the wheel.  

It's in the rig where my Dad seems most normal to me.  Shifting the ten-speed, complaining about the traffic that was inevitable on Rt. 84 by Hartford, drinking old coffee out of a styrofoam cup, dreaming about plots of land in Florida and pointing out motorcycles.  In the rig, being a truck driver fits my Dad who hasn't purchased a tie since bolos were cool, gets uncomfortable when he sits in one room for too long and whose hands look like they could palm hot coals and not feel a thing.  It's when we get to Boston when I realize what an anomaly my Father truly is.

Surrounded by men less than half his size (but double in girth) donning filthy Red Sox caps and greasy tee shirts, my Dad sticks out like a sore thumb. They all smile congenially when we show up, gap-toothed and broken bridges stained with years of strongly brewed coffee during the day, strongly brewed something else after hours, I'm sure.  They all seem to have ruddy cheeks like they've been standing firm in a wind storm at the Patriot's game just before we got there.  They have hearty belly laughs coming from hearty bellies that make me wonder how they get in and out of their trucks and if they rest their coffee cups on them while shifting gears.  They call my Dad all kinds of names that make my cheeks burn- apparently they haven't picked up on the "you,dog" quite yet-but he just laughs it off and playfully punches one of them in the arm.   

The whole warehouse smells like days old coffee, Brut aftershave, the chemicals they were loading into my Dad's truck, and, well, man dirt.  Yes, man dirt is what I said.  You know what I mean.  Running to the bathroom, I nearly knocked off a sign hanging on the door made out of a flap of an old cardboard box declaring," If you just have to piss, please use the urinal" and I wonder as I contemplated whether I should attempt the urinal or not just for kicks how my Dad who counts "piss" as a vial four-letter word works here with these people and seems to whole-heartedly enjoy it.

And then, I get it.  I'm working on this concept on how everybody has a little bit of Jesus in them.  I'm not talking about how "Jesus lives in your heart," and all that sunday school stuff, but how we as Christ-followers exhibit certain qualities that Jesus walked around with.  All of us.  So, my Dad's kinda like Jesus.  

He loves to be surrounded by people that other's have deemed "a little rough around the edges." The jokes we would have gotten a serious lecture for if he heard any one of us kids tell them, he uses as an in to ask his co-workers other personal questions about their lives.  You know that my Dad knows each and everyone of those truck driver's wives names? And their kids? And if they had mistresses, I bet he knows them too.  He knows where they live.  He knows where they went to college, or if they never did he knows the reason why. He knows whose going through a divorce, who just lost a child, who's struggling financially, who's kid just got accepted into Boston University and who got season tickets to the Sox-then teases them about it.  

My Dad never judges them.  The way they dress, the way they talk, the way they live.  He just happens to met them where they are and really love them.  The dirt, the warehouse chemicals and all.  That's Jesus.  That's the kind of Jesus I'd like to be.

Happy Father's Day, Dad.

Too Bloody Hot

I admit it.  It is Monday, the beginning of the work week.  My students are most likely sticking to their metal desks.  Teachers are cranky and soaked through their proper business attire.  The cafeteria aides have probably quit reprimanding the kids for throwing paper airplanes because of the brief, small gust of air they bring.  Of course, I can only hypothesize because I am home. 

Yes, I stayed home.  Yes, I used a sick day.  Truth be told, my allergies have been atrocious this whole weekend, I tailgated in 140 degree weather outside of the Meadowlands for the US/Argentina game for 3 hours yesterday, then sat through the last half hour in the pouring rain.  I did not feel well this morning.   

So, I am so sorry for those who are stuck in this terrible, fry-an-egg-on-the-sidewalk day, but I am so grateful to be home!  

Domestic Plights

I'm not exactly Martha Stewart.  I'm positive I fold my towels the wrong way.  I don't have little bags of smelly stuff in my underwear drawer-sachets, I believe they're called.  My idea of floral arranging is swinging by ShopRite, picking up their 3 bunches of wilted daisies for ten bucks and tossing them none-too-delicately in my K-Mart special vase.  I can say with certainty that my husband has seen the inside of our washing machine more than I have and I don't even want to tell you that last time I looked behind the toilet; but I know without a shadow of a doubt whatever creature lurks back there keeps eating my hair elastics.

Don't get me wrong, I do my part.  I happen to love to cook.  And bake.  And, do both fairly well if I may say so myself.  I get a bizarre sense of accomplishment out of scrubbing the kitchen floor.  I love to take out the recycling.  I make sure all of our bills get paid on time.  I fluff all of the pillows in the living room on a daily basis-for some reason I feel better that the floor is covered in garbage if the pillows on the couch look pretty.  

Truthfully, though, (and I will tread carefully here for those super-women who can do it all and bake cookies too), I don't really care all that much that I don't do my dishes everyday.  It doesn't really bother me that the same sweatshirt has been hanging to dry on the back of one of the dining room chairs for the last three weeks.  The milk in my fridge has most likely expired and I think that strange squeezy bottle of relish is older than some of our bottles of wine. 

When it comes down to it, I'd rather put my sweats on when I get home.  Go for a walk.  Catch the last ten minutes of Oprah.  Maybe read something none-work related for once.  Eat some ice-cream.  Then do some crunches.  Then reward myself by eating more ice cream.  Perhaps someday I'll get better at this "keeping house" thing.  For now, I am going to order a pizza and take solice in the fact that I will recycle the box first thing in the morning.

Ah, Summer

I have been trying so hard to keep the wolves at bay. I've closed all the windows to avoid the wafting aroma of lilacs. I've even shut the blinds to block out the way the sun glints on the grass in the quad. I've been sweating through sweaters to maintain the seriousness of the school year. I've banned water bottles- adamantly denying their neccessity. But, today, on June 2 I could deny it no longer. I donned my brightest colored skirt, rebelliously broke the dress code by pairing it with cute gold sandals, flung the windows open and welcomed summer into my dreary little classroom.

Summer was always synonymous with fun-therefore, teachers are taught to avoid the subject entirely or you'll lose your students forever to day-dreams of sandy beaches instead of focusing on Oedipus, Act III. However, I figured since I've broken every other teacher code in the last four months, why not go out in style?

Truth is, I'm most likely more excited than they are about the summer. In fact, they might have lost me in the dreamy floral breeze slowly taking the place of the adolescent stink that hovers over my desk like their incessant requests. Mrs. Shannon, can I get my average? Ummm...what do I owe you again? The book report was due when????? Can I get an extra day? Come on, you know you love me.....

I have successfully tuned them out today. If I'm lucky, I will continue the success for the remaining three weeks.

Sweet Jesus

Sweet Jesus, I need a break. After appeasing the grumbles of anxious students by surreptitiously handing out pretzels- I'm officially promoted to the "coolest teacher ever", by the way-and grading their atrocious grammar exams that I bestowed upon them, I'm staring blankly at the wall of my classroom without an ounce of "umph" left. I'm borderline catatonic. I believe this is generally what happens on the last day of school before break, to both students and teachers alike.

So, I'm trying to hold on and not lose it while secretly counting the minutes before I can rip off this damn cardigan and act like a normal person. We're almost there. The saving grace is knowing that by this time tomorrow, my husband and I will be driving far, far away to a little town tucked away in Northern New Hampshire for an extended weekend. Oh, New Hampshire. Where teenagers are kind and people smile for no reason. I have a to-do list a mile long of all I want to accomplish as soon as we get there.

1. sleep
2. eat
3. go back to step one.

It could very well take all 5 days.

See you when we get back!

Serial Winker

Just this past week I discovered that I have an incredibly incriminating habit.  I've never noticed before and, apparently, no one has felt it important enough to inform me. Due to the reluctance of friends,  I'm unsure of how long this has been going on.  Perhaps it's something I've just acquired, which would save me years of worrying whom I may have confused.  The unfortunate reality is,  I have a feeling that this has been a part of my life for quite some time.  Years even.  Which, in retrospect, would explain a lot.  My name is Jenny Shannon and I am a serial winker.

I wink. At people. Not just in passing.  Not only people I know, but people I don't know as well. Please don't get me wrong, my wink simply means, " hello, I acknowledge you." Similar to a hand shake, except more sanitary since no touching is involved. You can tell by the subtlety of the wink- quick and to the point, not to be confused with it's slow, seductive counterpart which if I even attempted would result in a lazy-eye flutter as attractive as a seizure. Unfortunately, not everyone is educated in the art of wink-prowess.  How many young men must have been thrown off by my ill-perceived interest?  How many women? People who aren't intuitive enough to recognize the varying wink degrees must have suffered greatly at my hands, er, eyes.  There are other uncomfortable realizations as well, such as, the extra pickles the deli guy gives me for free may not just be an expression of good-will. Sigh.

I believe all of this would have gone unnoticed for God knows how long if I didn't have a conference with my boss this past week.  I was using the phone in his office to make a rather uncomfortable phone call to a parent of a child I have in my class.  In between the nods and explanations and all other forms of silent communication teachers and parents alike are well versed in, he silently mouthed, "how is she taking it?"  Rather than place my hand over the receiver like any other normal person and reply, I simply winked.  Which, of course, in my mind simply meant, "Everything's cool, I got it under control."  Apparently, his mind didn't get the telepathic wink memo.  Good Lord.

I have now become painfully aware of my serial winker-status.  I've invested in a pair of wind-shield sized sunglasses to curtail the offense.  I avoid looking people in the eye.  I close them only when necessary, and even then I check to make sure no one is looking.  I've developed a rather wide-eyed expression that would make Bambi seethe with envy. I've invested stock in Visine.  I have been clean for exactly two going on three days of.  Free of winkage.

In order to keep myself in check I've developed a theory: winking is akin to farting.  If you are not around people who love and understand you and in order to avoid embarrassment for both parties, it's best to abstain.