Mucking through the abyss- Part 2

If the number of movies I've had on in the background is any indication of how much I didn't want to write the next two entries delineating my experience, then so be it. I'm currently on Star Wars Episode V.

To read Part 1- Foray into the abyss, click the post with the same title to your left, or place your mouse on the designated word and click on it

The "Informal Chat" was over, Mr S took me on a tour of the school. It was a square doughnut layout, similar to my previous school site. And like my previous school site, this school looked old even though it was built sometime in the 2000s. Unlike my old school, this one has a rock climbing wall. I asked if there was a climbing club. There is not. There used to be but no one wants to sponsor it. The PE classes use it on occasion.

I was taken to the next classroom to meet Ms R, the teacher that is going on the pregnancy leave and for whom I'd be tolling the bells. I say goodbye to Mr S and look around for an appropriate place to put my two coats and largish purse. I settle for under the teacher's desk, next to the wall and behind some strategically placed bins.

Ms R asks me if I feel okay about the lesson since it is basically the same one from Mr S's class. I tell her sure. She then reiterates to me what Mr S nattered on about earlier, that this next class was "lower level". I said, "fine, no problem. Can I tweak the PowerPoint a bit?" So I did. She also told me I'd be taking attendance and showed me how to use the computer program attendance is counted on. Ms R also began to describe the personality dynamics of the class. She stressed to me about the set of four girls in the farthest corner of the room that were a bit of a bother and would need to be monitored and "if they act up, threaten them with separation." Immediately, I'm thinking, "What the hell kind of classroom management were you taught?" If you have an admittedly troublesome group, you don't let them stay together, you separate them before there's a problem, not during or after! The bell rang a bit later and I went to stand outside the door, like you do.

Class begins and I take attendance, trying to match names to the voices that come out of the faces. In this class there were only 14 students. And wouldn't you know it, the four girls had a couple in the group that didn't respond to the oral attendance. Now, this program is on the big projector and all of the students can see it. So, they knew what was what. Everyone else answered either "yes, Miss" or "here, Miss".

An aside note: this "yes, Miss" and "no, Miss" and "Miss? Miss?" got old pretty quickly.

I taught the lesson with no real problems other than the girls. Had a bit of an issue trying to get them redirected away from touching each other and refocused on the lesson's objectives which was to label the damn map of Madagascar with its "lower level" requirements. None of my magic touches worked, so I had to devolve and separate them. OH WHAT HISSY FITS WERE THROWN THAT DAY!

When time for the oral assessment, no one got any candy. Turds. I hate 14/15 year old girls.

That class ended and my coats, my purse and I were marched off to the next class where I "team-taught". Team teaching, I think, is a joke when done right, so this was hilarious. I get to the classroom and 40 faces look at me like I'm ... I don't know, ice cream? Anyway, after stashing my stuff, I helped out by passing out the worksheet I was going to teach them after the video. These kids were great. They asked me all kinds of things, like

1. Where're you from, miss?
2. How did you get here, miss?
3. Do you live here, miss?
4. Do you know any cowboys, miss?
5. Do you like beef jerky, miss?
6. Which do you like better, England or America, miss? I bet England.
1. Kid was really disappointed when I said the US.
7. Can you say "sector", miss?
8. How many guns do you own, miss?

So these kids, after reviewing a video on the Amazon, did a worksheet which I did with them. And that was it. Nothing too taxing, just climagraphs and a few questions. I love 6th graders. I think the feeling's mutual.

That class ended and so commenced lunch. I leave Coat, Coat, and Purse in the most important room in the building (teachers' lounge, but that bathroom really was okay) and go get something to eat.

OH THE CHOICES! Fresh made to order sandwiches, hot meal of Yorkshire Pudding as big as your head with vegetables and gravies and mash! Jacket potatoes (in US, baked potatoes) with variety of topping, multiple pizza sizes in cardboard boxes...we're talking delivery or DiGiorno, your pick. Pasta bar, wraps bar, pastry bar... and in the middle, pre-packaged sandwiches. Really, I needed to do an eenymeenyminymo to choose, there was so much sensory overload.

I'd be looking at the choices in each offering, and a line would form up behind me. Tell you what, the British do love to queue. Could be an Olympic sport later this summer. I couldn't decide and I was still having that agonized nervous butterfly feeling from all the anger that was not yet fully realized. So I took a packaged sandwich from the middle and paid for it. Only £1.00. Went back to the VIP room and proceeded to eat sandwich and read John Le Carre's Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy. Was unsuccessful because the sandwich was not legen,,,wait for it...dary. Not legendary! True story. I was eating it and thinking, "where's the flavor?" I looked at the label.

It was a tomato, lettuce, and cress sandwich. No meat. No cheese. No condiments...not even butter. They put butter on every sandwich in this country except for that one. That bread was as dry as the Atacama Desert. It is totally in my personality dynamic to have all these awesome food choices and pick the not very best one. The bell was about to ring so I threw it away and we all wandered off to the next classroom, Coats, Purse and me. To the class that I'm to cover for the teacher who was out sick that day. The class that no other teacher in the building was willing to cover.

Tune in next time for THE CLASSROOM OF ABYSMAL DOOM.


Oh, in case you were wondering... Leia, Han Solo and Chewie are trying to leave Hoth.

Foray into the interview abyss...Part 1

I was called on Tuesday by the agency I'm set up with to go to a school in Hartlepool for a job interview. I knew it was coming because my "handler" had been keeping me up to date with potential teaching jobs here in the reachable (for me) northeast. I knew the interview would be some time in early January because the position was set to begin in February after the midterm holiday. So, no surprises there.

I was told to be at the school at 8:30 am and that I'd have an informal interview with the supply teacher manager on site as well as with the department head. After which, I'd then teach a lesson with possible shadowing of other classroom teachers. Fair enough.

I ask what the lesson would be covering and was told, "it'll be covering the rivers of Britain". So, the night before, I do what little I can to augment what I already knew about river systems. Mainly, just little facts about the island's rivers...which is the longest, the shortest, the deepest.

If you want to know, the longest is the River Severn at 220 miles, running through Wales and England. The Thames is the longest in England proper, holding at a nice 215, give or take a few feet of silting. It's also the deepest. The shortest is the River Bain in Yorkshire, only 2.5 miles...but if taken in terms of the entire island, then that award goes to the River Scavaig in Scotland, with its impressive yardage of 250. I was on the bus, maybe halfway to Hartlepool, when I realized I'd left my river notes at home. No big deal, I have a Google  Phone!

To go the 20 miles from my house to the school's door took me three bus rides and an hour and 45 minutes total travel time. I arrived windblown and late. Waiting for me at the reception desk was Mr. C., the supply teacher manager. He greeted me by saying, "You know you were supposed to be here at 8:20?"

Um, no. No I didn't. Apparently, they had changed their minds the morning of and had contacted the agency via voice mail. I was to arrive by 8:20 to attend the staff briefing and then to proceed immediately to the first lesson in order to teach.

"Oh, before I take you in, do you have any ID?"
"Um, not a picture ID. I don't carry my driver's license since it expired." WHY AM I TELLING HIM THIS? SHUTTUP!
"Well, I really need some form of picture ID."

OH REALLY? I suppose it is quite common for random people to walk in the building saying they're someone who's expected to be there? I showed him my GTC card (a card showing I'm a registered teacher, no photo on it) and my bank card.

"Sorry, I didn't think to bring my old school's teacher ID card."
"Yes, well, shall we?"

Also, I was informed that I would be substituting for a teacher who was ill that day. Mr. C shakes my hand at that point and tells me he'll show me the most important rooms.

This turned out to be the teachers' lounge and the women's bathroom, which I took advantage of. I'd just been thrown a couple of curve balls when I'd been expecting a soft touch straight down the middle. Luckily, there was a little bit of toilet paper left. Shaping up to be a great day at this point.

Mr. C escorts me to Mr. S's room. Mr S is the department head and as I shake his hand, I can hear the roar of the classroom devolve into whispers. "Who's that?" "Is that the American?" Mr C introduces me to Mr S but I don't hear him correctly, accent is funny like that. He leaves and Mr S is left with me staring at him, trying not to smile to desperately.

"So, I'll just get this lot going and then you can take over. I'll finish up with the plenary and then after the period, we'll have a bit of a chat." And like the sound of a gun at the start of the race, Mr S is off. I look around for an appropriate place to put my purse and two coats. It was cold that morning, with a promise of rain. I settle for a spot along the wall and allow myself to feel the anger I tamped down earlier.

And I was angry. I was angry that I was told to do something by somebody I'd never met, without any input by me. By some bureaucratic control freak. Because I was ill-prepared, not only by the agency but by myself. I should know better. It was then that I fully realized that this was not going to be a typical interview and that pissed me off because I was going to be taken advantage of and there was nothing I could do about it if I wanted this job. I couldn't just up and get in a car and leave. I was angry because I'd spent almost two hours trying to get to this place.

Somewhere, I had forgotten I was interviewing them too.

And what was the lesson about? Was it about the mighty small rivers of Great Britain? No. It was about Madagascar. Mr S gave me my portion of the lesson to teach. It wasn't hard, it was map skills. No big deal. At the end, I busted out the bag of fruity Tootsie Rolls and used them as a way to get the students to answer questions as a reward. I also gave a big handful to the four kids who, through the simple assessment, fulfilled all the criteria required for the map activity. If the students have any input on the candidate selection process, then I wanted to stand out. Essentially and quite recognizably, I bought their love.

The class ended and Mr S's plan period began, so that's when we had our informal "chat". In retrospect, I was a little too shiny and brittle, if you know what I mean. If you don't, then you've never interviewed for a job that's in your chosen career and have been out of a job for almost two years. Mr S had my CV (like a resume, but not) and talked with me about the political economy of the school. Basically, I got the insider viewpoint of the policies and procedures not available online. At this point, I'm uncomfortable.

Why? Mainly due to the constant reiteration of how they don't track, but they do track. How they enforce the uniform code, but I saw contrary evidence in the classroom and hallways. How they are a Church of England School but they're an Engineering Magnet. That I might have to teach religious curriculum to those who don't believe. Mr C asked if I used candy regularly in instruction, with a bit of a sneer on his face. So I hedged...possibly, I lied. Pfft. But he did say some nice things too. He said that I have the kind of classroom presence that can't be taught.

Hell, I could've told him that. It's the one of the three things I got going for me in a classroom. It's called "with-it-ness". I'm a badass.

Holy shit

65 page views for crappy writing? Even with original artwork? Wow.

Had job interview today. Will post about it, after I completely process it. It might be positive, it might not.

So, greatness is coming... please be patient.  Just know that I got asked today by students if I liked beef jerky and what kind of firearms I own.

I ain't Strunk & White..

...but I was drunk and white 11 days ago. BOOMDIYADDA!

My inspirational source of finite awesomeness

It's a bestseller since 2000.

My own personal Strunk & White's Elements of Style (now on Amazon for $9.95! don't lose an argument due to your poor grammar!), my grandmother, emailed me five days ago about the infamous holiday "S". 


I quote: 

OOps!  Unless you are speaking of New Year's Day.  Which means the first day of the New Year.       


Happy Fifth Day of the New Year 2012 A.D.

I think she was in a hurry. Anyway, I'm sorry if the multitude of you were, for five days, laboring under the misapprehension that you were well-wishing it wrong all these years...


Hey Mary in Oklahoma! Thanks for the demand to post more. I can achieve.

That "s" business is just a colloquialism

In response to my previous post's title, my grandmother, a former English teacher, emails me:

"Sorry Pet...it is none of those.  It's the New Year or Happy New Year To You.  Hope you have a wonderful New Year.  How did you celebrate the New Year?   That "s" business, I'm afraid, is just colloquialism. "

Thanks GSus!

And since she wants to know how it went... here we go...

I struck a lovely combination of the two drawings... Fantastic hair, comfy sweater. I wore earrings, darling.

Did I ever tell you what my friend, Roo, says about wearing earrings when going out?

"No, I can't go to the local, darling. It's a bit grim. I don't want to go to a grim place. I've got earrings on. Fucking earrings, darling!"

I love her.

Because it's so true. My sense of dressed up style is indicated by what I think is "dressy", i.e., earrings, necklace, makeup, clean hair...and a belt. I ain't dressy if I isn't wearing a belt. Shoes optional.

So, the New Year Eve pub crawl began at the local regardless of my earlobe accoutrement. And I began the twitter...

Colpitts Pub

The blokes: Rob Scotty, John, and Bri who is Roo's husband

Excellent music choices at the Angel.

At some point while still at the Angel, I told a woman who was with us (for a short while) that I would happily foster her son and daughter-in-law's cat. I fully expect a call any minute.

This was outside the pub. The drink, it is my friend and warmed my brain.

Okay, so I got antsy and decided to take the rest of the tweets as one screen shot. They are in reverse order here... the top is the most recent tweet... so read from the bottom up for the reenacting or reliving vicariously through me.

Teenagers were crawling everywhere at the Angel. Some had pints in their hands, some had cigarettes...some had both. They were easily ignorable. I did commandeer the jukebox, choosing Radiohead, Johnny Cash and a couple of other songs... It was like home. 

However, the girl (old lady, possibly) in the red leather fringe boots was frowned upon by all in my group... Apparently, that's just not done. Snobs. I disagreed, 'murrican style! 

Went across the street to The Elm Tree to see if Rita and Mugsy (under-the-table-cash-bosses) were in. They weren't (yet, as I found out later) so it was decided that karaoke was a next must. According to the blokes, only one place for karaoke: The Fighting Cocks.

Outside Fighting Cocks pub. Very nice bouncer, I can't remember his name, but he knew  all three  men's names. Probably not a totally great thing.

There was no karaoke.

Taxi rank. Let me add now here that it was about 5:45 to 6:15 -ish pm.

We moved on to the Market Tavern from the dithering outside the Fighting Cocks. There, we got down to business...discussing politics and culture and cultural politics...

At the Market Tavern. I stood a round because, you know, I wanted to be a friend. John shall explain in the video:

John's the kind of guy who could "talk for England".

While at the Market Tavern, I get a text from Roo:

Roo: How is it going? Hope the boys are playing nice 

Me: Oh yrs (sic)*..they're talking me about Thatcher. And harry enfuelds women know your limits

Ruth: Indeed. Know your limits x 

Me: Am definitely past my limit 

*this means that I am writing verbatim the entirety of the text conversation.

Hmm, am now understanding tons more after watching this video. Was told that yogurt is the cure for a hangover.


Also, received communiques from SciMan...his responses to my asking if I could stay out just a bit longer were always "Yes". The blokes would always ask if I was in trouble whenever I sent a text, so I finally showed them what SciMan said about me staying out a bit later. To a man, each said, 

"Oh you're alright then."

I guess they're so used to having to try to interpret their women's texts when they're out on a night with the lads.

We leave the Market Tavern and mill about trying to decide what was next. I knew I was at my limit and I needed/wanted to let SciMan have his turn out with the lads. But not before we go back to The Fighting Cocks for one last pint for them, a "full fat" Coke for me. Since none of the lads were "on the pull", there was dancing like eejits, namely me and John. A grand time, definitely. And then homeward bound, where the taxi fare started at £4.50 and ended over £10. Normally, I would've taken a bus home, but buses stopped running at 6pm and I hadn't yet had my fill of drink by then. Ah well.

All total: 5.5 pints consumed that night, which I guesstimate to be about 15 Oklahoma beers. I got home around 8, maybe? Immediately I crashed onto the couch where I stayed until 5 am or so. SciMan joined up with the gang after I got back, so at least he got to have some good times too.


I'm okay with the tag-team party rounds one must do if one does not want to pay through the nose for babysitting, but someday I'd like to be able to stay awake, on purpose, on the New Year Eve.

Is it New Years, New Year's, or New Years'...

or does it matter? Any which way you put it, I hope yours is great. Me? I'm going to go out with a few friends at 3 pm.

Yes. I shall get my drink on from 3 to 6 pm because I fall asleep by 10 usually. Ideally, I will look something like this...

Regrettably, and in a way, predictably jejeune, I'll most likely end up going out like this:

So I'll come home and get my New Years/Year's/Years' kiss and then go to sleep. Pathetic. ABOUT THE GOING TO SLEEP EARLY PART NOT THE KISS PART! THE KISS PART IS AWESOMERAD! I mean, I'm still 17 in my head but I'm not physically capable of doing what my past-17-year-old self used to be able to do. That's the pathetic part.

What are you doing tomorrow night?

So I finally get around to playing with

my birthday present: a new Bamboo Tablet and drawing software.

self portrait. Whaddya think?

It's taken me five months to get around to actually sitting down with it. Oh yeah, I got a crockpot and hairdryer for Christmas. I used the hairdryer immediately upon receipt. 

What? I had dirty hair and needed a shower. Obviously my husband was telling me something without telling me something.


I took several days away from teh internetz and am slogging through all the new stuff on reddit and catching up on my Google Reader. Happily, I am doing this while watching one of SciMan's pressies, Blue Planet/Planet Earth/Frozen Planet. Orca whales are bastards.

In which I compare the local law enforcement to cats

Here's the 411 from a 405'er... Living in this part of Durham is like living with a cat. Without fail, every night, police sirens go by our window, heading south to Brandon (and Crook, I assume but that's just too obvious).

Making the connection yet? Well, it's like this: you cat owners have a cat. Cat is in a room. Cat decides to run at breakneck speed from that room to another, bottlebrush tail bristling. Cat comes to full stop. Cat sheepishly looks at you as if to say, "What? Haters gonna hate." Yep. That is just how the Durham vehicularly mobile constabulary behaves.



I imagine the police cars in some sort of rank, a la taxis. All of a sudden, they leave at breakneck speed, sirens blaring. They're tearing down the A690 and  upon reaching some chav's terraced council home, come to a full stop.

Having never seen Co. Durham police in action in my sleepy village, I can only infer that this is all they do. I picture it like this: they tear down the road, wahwahing at top volume only to stop abruptly and park the police car.





Oh, it's quite within the realm of possibility that arrests are being made, but riddle me this... why is it that the sirens don't come back?