So why did no one ever tell me, Miss I-Don't-Want-a-Boyfriend, that I've been missing out?
I got flowers sent to me at work today. Daisies, actually. For no particular reason! I feel like I'm one step closer to being Kathleen Kelly from You've Got Mail. And this is a big step. I mean, that IS my favorite scene in the movie, ya know.
Sigh. I get to see him this weekend. Yes, I'm gushing. No, I'm not sorry.
I've become everything that I hate: a cheeseball romantic who loves publicly getting flowers and cries at sappy movies.
And, strangely enough, that's okay by me.
8.30.2005
8.29.2005
Interesting
Just passed a former student from a couple of years ago in the hallway. He held open the door for me (if nothing else, the preppy, Southern kids at my school are polite) and said, "Go ahead, Miss Terry."
As I walked past with a grateful smile, he asked, "You are still Miss Terry, right?"
Yes, Tripp. Still Miss Terry. But thanks for the vote of confidence.
Funny how my status as one of the very, very few unmarried teachers at this school is so prominent in the minds of even 13-year-old boys that he would've even thought to ask that. Yet another example of how we are still raising our kids to see being single as unusual and, in some ways, sad and unfulfilling, so that they are always-hopeful that, somehow, their teachers/friends/acquaintances who are living that lifestyle have found a way out of it.
Then again, maybe he has a crush on me. Ha!!
As I walked past with a grateful smile, he asked, "You are still Miss Terry, right?"
Yes, Tripp. Still Miss Terry. But thanks for the vote of confidence.
Funny how my status as one of the very, very few unmarried teachers at this school is so prominent in the minds of even 13-year-old boys that he would've even thought to ask that. Yet another example of how we are still raising our kids to see being single as unusual and, in some ways, sad and unfulfilling, so that they are always-hopeful that, somehow, their teachers/friends/acquaintances who are living that lifestyle have found a way out of it.
Then again, maybe he has a crush on me. Ha!!
8.28.2005
A New Generation of Singletons
I experienced a rude awakening this morning.
Elizabeth and I have been attending the Young Couples' Sunday School class at First Pres regularly for the last year or so. Today, however, we had signed up to help out with teaching the 5th and 6th grade girls' class while the normal teachers were in some sort of meeting elsewhere in the church. When no one showed up for our class, we decided just to head directly across the hall to study with the Singles for the morning, instead of going to the other side of the church where our class meets.
Expecting to find the normal crowd of girls in their upper 20's/early 30's and the guys in their mid-30's (with the occasional 40ish lurker), we were surprised to find, instead, a completely new batch of folks. We took our spots in the back row and inconspicuously surveyed the room. There were a few people we recognized, but they were past "Graduates" of the group who had married each other and were now on staff as "Singles Ministry Coordinators". The only other females in the room were the wives in these three couples. The fact that we were the only girls, though, was not even close to what caused my dismay.
As introductions were made, I was hit a frightening realization. These new guys were ALL recent graduates of college. Like, 22 or 23. One, a first-year law student at Mercer, answered 25-year-old Elizabeth's question of "So, you just graduated from Georgia?" with a nervously polite, "Yes, Ma'am." Ma'am!!!
Suddenly, Elizabeth and I are not the two "Singles for a Season" in the group. No. We have become the misfit, socially awkward, pathetic "Singles for a REASON". We are the ones that these young guys will go home to laugh about as "those random one or two folks in the class who have been there forever."
Someone tell me, please, when did I get old? And how, pray tell, do I undo it?
Elizabeth and I have been attending the Young Couples' Sunday School class at First Pres regularly for the last year or so. Today, however, we had signed up to help out with teaching the 5th and 6th grade girls' class while the normal teachers were in some sort of meeting elsewhere in the church. When no one showed up for our class, we decided just to head directly across the hall to study with the Singles for the morning, instead of going to the other side of the church where our class meets.
Expecting to find the normal crowd of girls in their upper 20's/early 30's and the guys in their mid-30's (with the occasional 40ish lurker), we were surprised to find, instead, a completely new batch of folks. We took our spots in the back row and inconspicuously surveyed the room. There were a few people we recognized, but they were past "Graduates" of the group who had married each other and were now on staff as "Singles Ministry Coordinators". The only other females in the room were the wives in these three couples. The fact that we were the only girls, though, was not even close to what caused my dismay.
As introductions were made, I was hit a frightening realization. These new guys were ALL recent graduates of college. Like, 22 or 23. One, a first-year law student at Mercer, answered 25-year-old Elizabeth's question of "So, you just graduated from Georgia?" with a nervously polite, "Yes, Ma'am." Ma'am!!!
Suddenly, Elizabeth and I are not the two "Singles for a Season" in the group. No. We have become the misfit, socially awkward, pathetic "Singles for a REASON". We are the ones that these young guys will go home to laugh about as "those random one or two folks in the class who have been there forever."
Someone tell me, please, when did I get old? And how, pray tell, do I undo it?
8.25.2005
Slippery Little Fellow
What is it about middle schoolers and their inability to sit in a regular chair for an extended period of time without, spontaneously and inexplicably, falling over and ending up sprawled out on their backs on my classroom floor?
Another first in my teaching career.
Thursday morning, and the school week's almost over.
The highlight?
Being able to answer the boyfriend question (the one most important to 11-year-old girls) with a tentative affirmative.
Of course, with 11-year-olds, it's a yes or a no. Either you have a boyfriend or you don't. None of this he-lives-in-Florida-and-I've-only-technically-been-with-him-once-even-though-we've-been-talking-a-LOT-for-a-month-so-I-don't-REALLY-know thing. But with the way things are going, I feel confident that it's more of a yes than a no, and, plus, it's a more fun response.
Hurrah!
The highlight?
Being able to answer the boyfriend question (the one most important to 11-year-old girls) with a tentative affirmative.
Of course, with 11-year-olds, it's a yes or a no. Either you have a boyfriend or you don't. None of this he-lives-in-Florida-and-I've-only-technically-been-with-him-once-even-though-we've-been-talking-a-LOT-for-a-month-so-I-don't-REALLY-know thing. But with the way things are going, I feel confident that it's more of a yes than a no, and, plus, it's a more fun response.
Hurrah!
8.24.2005
Mexicans and Mechanics
Those of you who know me well will recall my frustration in the fact that, until very recently (see post entitled Oh. Boy.), my luck with men has extended only to gold-toothed mechanics at ghetto lube shops (who write their numbers on the detailed receipts they give me) and to Mexican men. The lube boys appreciate the curves that I've been so generously provided with, I think, and the Mexicans... well, I honestly believe it's the novelty of my blond hair. And, of course, the curves don't hurt there, either.
Tonight proved no exception.
Elizabeth and I decided to ease both of our cravings for burritos and chips and salsa at a local Mexican place we had never tried before. We got there and were seated in a booth, at which time Elizabeth commented on my new shorts. You must understand that I had worn these shorts to dinner for the sole purpose of getting her opinion of them (and of me in them) as a potential item of clothing to wear around the subject of Oh. Boy. when I'm in Fort Walton next weekend. My intention in getting her advice was remembered at her comment, so I promptly stood back up, in front of the table, to model them for her.
I was just beginning to point out my perceived flaws in the legs that have prevented me from wearing shorts more often, when I catch a mischievous gleam in Elizabeth's eye. You see, as I was directing her attention to my legs in my shorts, I had unintentionally and unknowingly blocked a waiter from getting past. He was waiting patiently, listening to my chatter about the shorts and the legs and the, um, other parts of my person that the shorts need to make look good, and I turned around to find him watching and amused. Mortified at the attention I had drawn to my lower body, I promptly sat back down and fiercely studied the menu.
A few minutes later, guess who slides in next to me in the booth? Yes. The very same waiter. He flashed me a smile, told me in broken English that he LOVED the shorts, then proceeded to take our order in a disconcertingly flirtatious manner.
Had I any dignity left, I would've told him sternly that the shorts needed to look good for another, much more special, boy, not him. I couldn't, though. I just ordered my combination platter as quickly and as unattractively as possible.
Some good came out of the episode, however. He was more than willing to substitute a burrito for an enchilada in the combo that I wanted, and Elizabeth was able to get hers without meat.
Maybe, if I wear The Shorts to get my next oil change, the brothers will throw in a free tire rotation? Hmmm... something to think about...
Tonight proved no exception.
Elizabeth and I decided to ease both of our cravings for burritos and chips and salsa at a local Mexican place we had never tried before. We got there and were seated in a booth, at which time Elizabeth commented on my new shorts. You must understand that I had worn these shorts to dinner for the sole purpose of getting her opinion of them (and of me in them) as a potential item of clothing to wear around the subject of Oh. Boy. when I'm in Fort Walton next weekend. My intention in getting her advice was remembered at her comment, so I promptly stood back up, in front of the table, to model them for her.
I was just beginning to point out my perceived flaws in the legs that have prevented me from wearing shorts more often, when I catch a mischievous gleam in Elizabeth's eye. You see, as I was directing her attention to my legs in my shorts, I had unintentionally and unknowingly blocked a waiter from getting past. He was waiting patiently, listening to my chatter about the shorts and the legs and the, um, other parts of my person that the shorts need to make look good, and I turned around to find him watching and amused. Mortified at the attention I had drawn to my lower body, I promptly sat back down and fiercely studied the menu.
A few minutes later, guess who slides in next to me in the booth? Yes. The very same waiter. He flashed me a smile, told me in broken English that he LOVED the shorts, then proceeded to take our order in a disconcertingly flirtatious manner.
Had I any dignity left, I would've told him sternly that the shorts needed to look good for another, much more special, boy, not him. I couldn't, though. I just ordered my combination platter as quickly and as unattractively as possible.
Some good came out of the episode, however. He was more than willing to substitute a burrito for an enchilada in the combo that I wanted, and Elizabeth was able to get hers without meat.
Maybe, if I wear The Shorts to get my next oil change, the brothers will throw in a free tire rotation? Hmmm... something to think about...
Free Advertising
My friend Janet, who holds the title as "Most Hilarious Maconite", has decided to start up a blog. She teaches with me, and she fulfills the much-needed role of entertainer on days that seem never-ending.
Give her some hits! Promises to be full of laughs.
Give her some hits! Promises to be full of laughs.
From the mouths of babes.
My first dose of reality for the year came this morning during 2nd period. In class yesterday, my students had interviewed each other in order to write up one-page essays on the lives of their partners for homework last night. In a couple of classes, I have an uneven number of kids, so I had to interview/be interviewed.
The last sentence of the essay written about me by a kid named Ramsey:
"Maybe one day Miss Terry will get married and buy a house. Who knows?"
Something to strive for, at least.
The last sentence of the essay written about me by a kid named Ramsey:
"Maybe one day Miss Terry will get married and buy a house. Who knows?"
Something to strive for, at least.
8.23.2005
jras!
Only Jenny can pull off a "Reading is Sexy" t-shirt without looking a bit like a nerd.
Great to catch up! She called and we met up for coffee while she was in town visiting her folks. Definitely proof that Macon can turn out something cool and edgy... who knew?
8.22.2005
School Days
This morning, 10 minutes before the official beginning of a new school year, I make one promise to myself and to my students. No, it's not that I will be the greatest teacher of the year. It's not even that I will fool myself into thinking that I'll be the greatest teacher of the year.
My promise is this: I will be the cutest teacher this school has ever seen in its 30-year history. I will not wear button-covers in the shape of shiny red apples or primitive schoolhouses on my blouses. I will not wear frumpy denim jumpers. I will not wear sweaters adorned with cutesy teacher-like images.
First effort at keeping my resolution is my new, apple green Ann Taylor Loft dress and matching green cardigan. Success is right around the corner. I can feel it!
My promise is this: I will be the cutest teacher this school has ever seen in its 30-year history. I will not wear button-covers in the shape of shiny red apples or primitive schoolhouses on my blouses. I will not wear frumpy denim jumpers. I will not wear sweaters adorned with cutesy teacher-like images.
First effort at keeping my resolution is my new, apple green Ann Taylor Loft dress and matching green cardigan. Success is right around the corner. I can feel it!
8.19.2005
Come Thou fount of every blessing!
I love my job. I mean, I really love it. It's taken me so long to admit that, and it's still a little embarrassing, but it's the truth.
This morning, after waking up feeling not quite in top form, I got to school for our third and final day of pre-planning. On the past two mornings, we've started out with a devotional given by one of the administrative staff, but this morning, we met in the auditorium for a time of praise and worship. I stood there, along with 125 or so other faculty members, singing Holy Holy Holy and Crown Him with Many Crowns and several other favorite hymns, and I was overwhelmed with the blessings that God has provided in my life. As much as I complain about Macon, this job is a highlight. I realize that it's rare to find one where I'm working so closely with so many other fellow Believers, each with a common goal of instilling a love for Christ in the hearts of the children that we teach.
God is good. He's watched over me as I've traveled this summer, He's encouraged me with new friendships and future possibilities, and He's brought me back at the end of the summer to a job where I can worship Him freely and boldly. Hallelujah!
This morning, after waking up feeling not quite in top form, I got to school for our third and final day of pre-planning. On the past two mornings, we've started out with a devotional given by one of the administrative staff, but this morning, we met in the auditorium for a time of praise and worship. I stood there, along with 125 or so other faculty members, singing Holy Holy Holy and Crown Him with Many Crowns and several other favorite hymns, and I was overwhelmed with the blessings that God has provided in my life. As much as I complain about Macon, this job is a highlight. I realize that it's rare to find one where I'm working so closely with so many other fellow Believers, each with a common goal of instilling a love for Christ in the hearts of the children that we teach.
God is good. He's watched over me as I've traveled this summer, He's encouraged me with new friendships and future possibilities, and He's brought me back at the end of the summer to a job where I can worship Him freely and boldly. Hallelujah!
8.17.2005
Name that Film
Sweetest line in a movie ever, in spite of its utter cheese, said by Tom Hanks (aka, Joe Fox) to Meg Ryan (aka, Kathleen Kelly):
"If only I hadn't been Fox Books Superstore, and you hadn't been Shop Around the Corner, and we'd just, I dunno, met. I would've asked for your number. And I wouldn't have been able to wait 24 hours before calling you up and saying, 'Hey, how about some coffee, or you know, drinks, or dinner, or a movie... for as long as we both shall live.' And you and I would've never been at war, and the only thing we would've fought about is which video to rent on a Friday night... if only."
Sigh.
I'd ask for your opinions, but I'm sure all you brilliant folks out there still in touch with your Athens/Asheville intellectual edge would put some obscure, avant garde, cool flick up and make me feel (unintentionally, of course) like the mainstream Southern bimbo I've become in the last two years.
Sigh.
"If only I hadn't been Fox Books Superstore, and you hadn't been Shop Around the Corner, and we'd just, I dunno, met. I would've asked for your number. And I wouldn't have been able to wait 24 hours before calling you up and saying, 'Hey, how about some coffee, or you know, drinks, or dinner, or a movie... for as long as we both shall live.' And you and I would've never been at war, and the only thing we would've fought about is which video to rent on a Friday night... if only."
Sigh.
I'd ask for your opinions, but I'm sure all you brilliant folks out there still in touch with your Athens/Asheville intellectual edge would put some obscure, avant garde, cool flick up and make me feel (unintentionally, of course) like the mainstream Southern bimbo I've become in the last two years.
Sigh.
8.16.2005
The First Day of School: A Retrospective
Not much going on in my neck of the woods for the past couple of days, but in honor of school starting back tomorrow (actually pre-planning; kids come back Monday), I thought I'd post a little something I wrote two years ago, immediately after finishing my first day of teaching at FPD. Here's to hoping that this year's First Day and Start of Year Number Three goes a little more smoothly...
********************************
Monday, August 11, 2003
Teaching 19-year-olds is easy.
Forget everything I wrote last year of my first reaction to a class full of 18-year-old UGA Freshmen. I have met the new, more perfect evil, masquerading as 80 (yes, 80) adorable 6th graders. Don’t let their innocent, wide-eyed expressions fool you! No, these creatures will suck the life out of an honest, hard-working 25-year-old in an instant. And this coming after I’ve had a 1-hour nap. I can barely move my fingers enough to type.
It all started at 6 am this morning when my alarm startled me out of a fabulous sleep. You see, before this morning, I had no clue that 6 am existed. What? There’s life before 9:00? pm? I have now discovered (quite brutally, actually) that this ungodly hour not only exists, but is quite dark. A bit like the middle of the night. Exactly like the middle of the night, actually. Interesting.
Found my way to school by 7:40 (hurray!) and thought I was quite early. “I have so much time to prepare!” I think. Uh huh. Actually, twenty or so of these angelic demons are awaiting me outside my room. “Are you Ms. Terry?” they ask. “I am!” I reply cheerfully. You see, I have yet to discover the energy-draining powers that exist inside these tiny people. I am quite fooled.
First crisis occurs when, five minutes before homeroom will start, I am frantically searching for the form that I was given during the chaotic pre-planning of last week that shows locker assignments. To truly understand the gravity of the loss of this form, think back to your 6th grade year when, for the first time in your life, you were given a teeny tiny little cubicle of space that was not to be shared with one of your million siblings. No, you were to have property. Space of your very, very own. Locked space of your very, very own. It was a big day. And I couldn’t find the assignments. I stalled, of course. “Um . . . let’s wait a few more minutes for those who may not have been able to find the room.” Right. The class was full. It was time to start. The perfect Mr. Casper and Mrs. Hattaway had started down the hall. Miraculously, the kids bought it. I found the form. I said a quick, frantic prayer of “Thanks!” and started the day, albeit 5 minutes late.
Handing out locks was the next adventure. I had to call out each one of the twenty students, have them pick out a lock from a basket, write down their combinations (for the inevitable child who forgets everyday), and tell them their locker number. Of course they don’t write these down, so while I’m going through the list, ten others who have already had their turns are crying, “Ms. Terry! What was my number? Ms. Terry! My lock won’t work! It’s broken!”
Finally, the locks are distributed, and the unlocking lesson is to begin. I feel quite cool when I open the first lock that the first 11-year-old crossed-her-heart-and-hoped-to-die was irreparably doomed to the annals of the junk/broken stuff storage closet down the hall. All twenty eyes gaze at me in admiration, and a faint whisper of “Woooooowwwww…” passes through the room. Uh huh. I am the queen of all 6th grade teachers. The year will be a breeze.
The not-so-humble thought passes through my head and immediately 19 hands pop in the air, along with appeals of “Mine won’t work either, Ms. Terry! Mine’s broken, for sure! Open mine!” I start to panic as I see a boy’s face crinkle up like he’s about to cry. He’s first on the list, definitely. Amazingly enough, no one’s lock is broken. Everyone figures it out. They head to their lockers. Homeroom is over.
Not before, however, I had to make a trip over to Mr. Casper’s classroom for some reason or another. Matt’s already made the connection with his students that he and I are family. A kid in the back, destined to be the Homecoming King and class president and “voted most popular” of the class of 2010, immediately says, “Are you Ms. Terry?” “Yes, I am,” I reply innocently. “You’re his sister-in-law?” “Yes, I am,” I repeat. “Well heeellllloooooo there…” he says with a smirk on his face. “I’m Brad*. And I’ll be seeing you later.” I wasn’t looking at an 11-year-old. I was staring in the face of a 90-year-old, dirty old man. Or at least a sleaze ball in a singles bar. What?!? I glanced at Matt. He shrugged. I left the room. (this is a true story. Ask Matt if you don’t believe me.)
Because the first day was a half-day, we had each class after homeroom for only a brief time. The problem came with the fact that the administration failed to tell us, the teachers, how long each class was to last. And we soon realized that that was because none of the periods were the same length. After a 45-minute homeroom, one period lasted 30 minutes, another only 10. There was no way to gauge whether or not to start a new activity, as we had no clue when the bell would ring, if it rang at all. And by the time we herded eighty starry-eyed 6th graders into their appropriate classrooms from staring at their own personal property in the form of their lockers (closed, of course, as they immediately put their locks on them and promptly forgot how they open – if, that is, they remembered the combination in the first place) for an extended length of time, the bell would ring and they would return to the hall, chaotically filled with, once again, eighty starry-eyed 6th graders staring at their lockers. I must have opened a million locks today. At least.
The chaos finally ended at 12:15. Matt appeared in my classroom (I’m impressed he could walk the length of hall between my class and his) and plopped down in a miniscule chair at a miniscule desk. “That was a half-day?” he muttered. “I could’ve sworn it was an extended one.” I nodded. That was all I had the energy to do.
*Name has been changed to protect The Guilty.
********************************
Monday, August 11, 2003
Teaching 19-year-olds is easy.
Forget everything I wrote last year of my first reaction to a class full of 18-year-old UGA Freshmen. I have met the new, more perfect evil, masquerading as 80 (yes, 80) adorable 6th graders. Don’t let their innocent, wide-eyed expressions fool you! No, these creatures will suck the life out of an honest, hard-working 25-year-old in an instant. And this coming after I’ve had a 1-hour nap. I can barely move my fingers enough to type.
It all started at 6 am this morning when my alarm startled me out of a fabulous sleep. You see, before this morning, I had no clue that 6 am existed. What? There’s life before 9:00? pm? I have now discovered (quite brutally, actually) that this ungodly hour not only exists, but is quite dark. A bit like the middle of the night. Exactly like the middle of the night, actually. Interesting.
Found my way to school by 7:40 (hurray!) and thought I was quite early. “I have so much time to prepare!” I think. Uh huh. Actually, twenty or so of these angelic demons are awaiting me outside my room. “Are you Ms. Terry?” they ask. “I am!” I reply cheerfully. You see, I have yet to discover the energy-draining powers that exist inside these tiny people. I am quite fooled.
First crisis occurs when, five minutes before homeroom will start, I am frantically searching for the form that I was given during the chaotic pre-planning of last week that shows locker assignments. To truly understand the gravity of the loss of this form, think back to your 6th grade year when, for the first time in your life, you were given a teeny tiny little cubicle of space that was not to be shared with one of your million siblings. No, you were to have property. Space of your very, very own. Locked space of your very, very own. It was a big day. And I couldn’t find the assignments. I stalled, of course. “Um . . . let’s wait a few more minutes for those who may not have been able to find the room.” Right. The class was full. It was time to start. The perfect Mr. Casper and Mrs. Hattaway had started down the hall. Miraculously, the kids bought it. I found the form. I said a quick, frantic prayer of “Thanks!” and started the day, albeit 5 minutes late.
Handing out locks was the next adventure. I had to call out each one of the twenty students, have them pick out a lock from a basket, write down their combinations (for the inevitable child who forgets everyday), and tell them their locker number. Of course they don’t write these down, so while I’m going through the list, ten others who have already had their turns are crying, “Ms. Terry! What was my number? Ms. Terry! My lock won’t work! It’s broken!”
Finally, the locks are distributed, and the unlocking lesson is to begin. I feel quite cool when I open the first lock that the first 11-year-old crossed-her-heart-and-hoped-to-die was irreparably doomed to the annals of the junk/broken stuff storage closet down the hall. All twenty eyes gaze at me in admiration, and a faint whisper of “Woooooowwwww…” passes through the room. Uh huh. I am the queen of all 6th grade teachers. The year will be a breeze.
The not-so-humble thought passes through my head and immediately 19 hands pop in the air, along with appeals of “Mine won’t work either, Ms. Terry! Mine’s broken, for sure! Open mine!” I start to panic as I see a boy’s face crinkle up like he’s about to cry. He’s first on the list, definitely. Amazingly enough, no one’s lock is broken. Everyone figures it out. They head to their lockers. Homeroom is over.
Not before, however, I had to make a trip over to Mr. Casper’s classroom for some reason or another. Matt’s already made the connection with his students that he and I are family. A kid in the back, destined to be the Homecoming King and class president and “voted most popular” of the class of 2010, immediately says, “Are you Ms. Terry?” “Yes, I am,” I reply innocently. “You’re his sister-in-law?” “Yes, I am,” I repeat. “Well heeellllloooooo there…” he says with a smirk on his face. “I’m Brad*. And I’ll be seeing you later.” I wasn’t looking at an 11-year-old. I was staring in the face of a 90-year-old, dirty old man. Or at least a sleaze ball in a singles bar. What?!? I glanced at Matt. He shrugged. I left the room. (this is a true story. Ask Matt if you don’t believe me.)
Because the first day was a half-day, we had each class after homeroom for only a brief time. The problem came with the fact that the administration failed to tell us, the teachers, how long each class was to last. And we soon realized that that was because none of the periods were the same length. After a 45-minute homeroom, one period lasted 30 minutes, another only 10. There was no way to gauge whether or not to start a new activity, as we had no clue when the bell would ring, if it rang at all. And by the time we herded eighty starry-eyed 6th graders into their appropriate classrooms from staring at their own personal property in the form of their lockers (closed, of course, as they immediately put their locks on them and promptly forgot how they open – if, that is, they remembered the combination in the first place) for an extended length of time, the bell would ring and they would return to the hall, chaotically filled with, once again, eighty starry-eyed 6th graders staring at their lockers. I must have opened a million locks today. At least.
The chaos finally ended at 12:15. Matt appeared in my classroom (I’m impressed he could walk the length of hall between my class and his) and plopped down in a miniscule chair at a miniscule desk. “That was a half-day?” he muttered. “I could’ve sworn it was an extended one.” I nodded. That was all I had the energy to do.
*Name has been changed to protect The Guilty.
8.14.2005
Oh. Boy.
Yeah, so I had a guy come visit me this weekend. All the way from Florida. I knew him in high school, and we've recently been back in touch. His name is Cal, and things were good. But he's far away and timing is off, so prayers here will be appreciated. And that's all the details y'all are gonna get...
I know, I know, you just wanna know if he's cute, right? Well, check him out for yourself below. Yep, Go Miriam!
I know, I know, you just wanna know if he's cute, right? Well, check him out for yourself below. Yep, Go Miriam!
8.11.2005
World Traveler
Nope, it's not me this time. It's my mother. She left at the crack of dawn this morning for a two-week missions trip to the Phillipines. She was so nervous, and I was nervous for her. However, I think she's gonna do great, and I'm so incredibly impressed and proud of her for being so brave.
We got up around 6 this morning to take her to the airport in Tallahassee, about 45 minutes south of my hometown of Thomasville. She was supposed to be traveling with three other people from her church: a recently-married couple and the pastor. However, the pastor called last night and had to back out last minute because of a family emergency, and the group was officially down to three.
After getting to Atlanta safely, Mom gets onto the plane to head for Korea, where they will make a connecting flight to Manila. She calls my dad to tell him that they're about to leave, and, as she does so, she notices that Wade and Jill, the married couple she's traveling with, aren't right behind her like she thought. Suddenly, she hears a commotion up front and realizes that the powers that be are calling for her. She gets back off the plane to find that Wade's passport has recently expired, and they aren't gonna let him on. Period.
I've got to give these girls credit. Did they decide to forgo their months of planning because everything was going crazy around them? Were they, two Southern women, scared to travel literally to the other side of the world without any men by their sides? Nope. They hopped on that plane to Seoul and took off without him. You go girls.
Wade is hoping to get an emergency passport in the next day or so and fly out there to meet up with them later. In the meantime, please keep my mother and Jill in your prayers, as I know they're nervous and tired. I believe that it's a 14-hour flight to Seoul, then they'll have a 4-hour layover before heading to Manila. Time difference is 12 hours, so they'll have a big adjustment when they finally get to their destination, as well.
I love you, Mom, and I'm so proud of you. What a great example you're setting for us. Thank you! I only hope that I'll be so bold in my faith when I get older.
Here's a picture of me with my parents at the airport this morning. Please keep in mind the early hour, and be kind... :) Oh, and sorry for the size; I have yet to figure out how to resize photos on this newfangled toy I'm typing on!
We got up around 6 this morning to take her to the airport in Tallahassee, about 45 minutes south of my hometown of Thomasville. She was supposed to be traveling with three other people from her church: a recently-married couple and the pastor. However, the pastor called last night and had to back out last minute because of a family emergency, and the group was officially down to three.
After getting to Atlanta safely, Mom gets onto the plane to head for Korea, where they will make a connecting flight to Manila. She calls my dad to tell him that they're about to leave, and, as she does so, she notices that Wade and Jill, the married couple she's traveling with, aren't right behind her like she thought. Suddenly, she hears a commotion up front and realizes that the powers that be are calling for her. She gets back off the plane to find that Wade's passport has recently expired, and they aren't gonna let him on. Period.
I've got to give these girls credit. Did they decide to forgo their months of planning because everything was going crazy around them? Were they, two Southern women, scared to travel literally to the other side of the world without any men by their sides? Nope. They hopped on that plane to Seoul and took off without him. You go girls.
Wade is hoping to get an emergency passport in the next day or so and fly out there to meet up with them later. In the meantime, please keep my mother and Jill in your prayers, as I know they're nervous and tired. I believe that it's a 14-hour flight to Seoul, then they'll have a 4-hour layover before heading to Manila. Time difference is 12 hours, so they'll have a big adjustment when they finally get to their destination, as well.
I love you, Mom, and I'm so proud of you. What a great example you're setting for us. Thank you! I only hope that I'll be so bold in my faith when I get older.
Here's a picture of me with my parents at the airport this morning. Please keep in mind the early hour, and be kind... :) Oh, and sorry for the size; I have yet to figure out how to resize photos on this newfangled toy I'm typing on!
Splurge!
Guess where I am? You're probably thinking that I'm sitting in my tiny little office (NOT a closet), typing away on my clunky, desktop computer, right? Wrong!
I did it, I took the plunge, I bit the bullet, I pulled the trigger. Yep, I bought a laptop. I love it, although I'm currently hating every ounce of technology that is required to keep this thing going. I've spent the last two hours trying to figure out how to set up my wireless router so that I can take this baby around the house with me, but it's not working. So, I'm on my bed attached to wires galore. But at least I'm on my bed. Somewhere I can breathe and move my arms without smashing them into a wall.
So, I'm excited, in spite of my current frustrations with all the installation junk. Now, could someone please spare a poor girl some change for food?
I did it, I took the plunge, I bit the bullet, I pulled the trigger. Yep, I bought a laptop. I love it, although I'm currently hating every ounce of technology that is required to keep this thing going. I've spent the last two hours trying to figure out how to set up my wireless router so that I can take this baby around the house with me, but it's not working. So, I'm on my bed attached to wires galore. But at least I'm on my bed. Somewhere I can breathe and move my arms without smashing them into a wall.
So, I'm excited, in spite of my current frustrations with all the installation junk. Now, could someone please spare a poor girl some change for food?
8.09.2005
The Lap(top) of Luxury
I've been thinking about buying a laptop for some time now. You know, one of those thoughts that's been in the very dark, back recesses of my mind, just waiting until the day that I scrape bottom on my checking account to come out, full-force, with its very persuasive arguments? Well, I think that day just might be here.
I'm at my parents' house in Thomasville, sitting in my childhood bed (a place of many great nights of sleep... heck, the place that taught me the joys of sleeping, even), in my pajamas, drinking coffee, and emailing/blogging from my mother's wireless laptop. It's the second of two online access options in this great house, as my dad has a desktop down in the family room. I'm LOVING this.
Okay, so it's probably not only the laptop that's making my morning seem so wonderful. it could be the great night's sleep, or the fact that my mom is wanting to attend to my every desire (right now, for example, she's calling back here from the kitchen to see if she can fix me a bowl of cereal), or that my dad is doing the same, from his pharmacy, where he's currently sending Lee, the long-time delivery guy (and, practically, member of the family) over to our house for the sole reason of bringing me a power adaptor so that I can plug the three-pronged laptop cord into the two-holed outlet by my bed before it runs out of batteries. I could get used to this life.
I don't spend much time in Thomasville anymore, for one reason or another. Perhaps it's because the house is so much quieter than it was when I was growing up. There's no sister screaming that it's her turn to use the hairdryer so she's going to even though ten other things are already plugged in, and then, immediately following, Dad's yell back (from a pitch black hallway) of "How many times do I have to tell you girls that you CANNOT PLUG TWENTY MILLION APPLIANCES IN AT ONCE!?!?!?!?!" There's no Beth putting on makeup next to me in the bathroom while making up every Spanish sentence she can think of that uses her most current Spanish Word of the Day from the calendar she used to have. There's no Amy and Julie in the bathroom down the hall, chattering in what they think are low tones about the latest crush, or Mom calling for the umpteenth time to tell us that breakfast is on the table. I, always the quiet, sullen one, would of course brood in unspoken bitterness at all of this, but now that I'm older and live by myself, I miss it a little.
Anyway, every time I'm here, the memories come flooding back. I look at the yearbooks on my bookshelves, the prom picture from my sophomore year (where I'm in the little black dress that is STILL my all-time favorite), the autographed promo photo of Kevin Costner that Kelly's mom bought for me from a celebrity auction back when I was going to marry the guy post-Robin Hood, and the remnants of the teddy bear collection I used to have, and I'm content. I'm happy with the way my life has turned out so far, but there's a part of me that will always feel most comfortable at home.
And on that note, I'm off to get ready for the day. A world-famous poolroom hotdog from the billiard hall downtown is calling my name.
Then again, maybe I could stay right here and get Lee to pick one up for me? Now that's a thought...
I'm at my parents' house in Thomasville, sitting in my childhood bed (a place of many great nights of sleep... heck, the place that taught me the joys of sleeping, even), in my pajamas, drinking coffee, and emailing/blogging from my mother's wireless laptop. It's the second of two online access options in this great house, as my dad has a desktop down in the family room. I'm LOVING this.
Okay, so it's probably not only the laptop that's making my morning seem so wonderful. it could be the great night's sleep, or the fact that my mom is wanting to attend to my every desire (right now, for example, she's calling back here from the kitchen to see if she can fix me a bowl of cereal), or that my dad is doing the same, from his pharmacy, where he's currently sending Lee, the long-time delivery guy (and, practically, member of the family) over to our house for the sole reason of bringing me a power adaptor so that I can plug the three-pronged laptop cord into the two-holed outlet by my bed before it runs out of batteries. I could get used to this life.
I don't spend much time in Thomasville anymore, for one reason or another. Perhaps it's because the house is so much quieter than it was when I was growing up. There's no sister screaming that it's her turn to use the hairdryer so she's going to even though ten other things are already plugged in, and then, immediately following, Dad's yell back (from a pitch black hallway) of "How many times do I have to tell you girls that you CANNOT PLUG TWENTY MILLION APPLIANCES IN AT ONCE!?!?!?!?!" There's no Beth putting on makeup next to me in the bathroom while making up every Spanish sentence she can think of that uses her most current Spanish Word of the Day from the calendar she used to have. There's no Amy and Julie in the bathroom down the hall, chattering in what they think are low tones about the latest crush, or Mom calling for the umpteenth time to tell us that breakfast is on the table. I, always the quiet, sullen one, would of course brood in unspoken bitterness at all of this, but now that I'm older and live by myself, I miss it a little.
Anyway, every time I'm here, the memories come flooding back. I look at the yearbooks on my bookshelves, the prom picture from my sophomore year (where I'm in the little black dress that is STILL my all-time favorite), the autographed promo photo of Kevin Costner that Kelly's mom bought for me from a celebrity auction back when I was going to marry the guy post-Robin Hood, and the remnants of the teddy bear collection I used to have, and I'm content. I'm happy with the way my life has turned out so far, but there's a part of me that will always feel most comfortable at home.
And on that note, I'm off to get ready for the day. A world-famous poolroom hotdog from the billiard hall downtown is calling my name.
Then again, maybe I could stay right here and get Lee to pick one up for me? Now that's a thought...
8.08.2005
Response to Carrie's Pic
After seeing Carrie's pic from the fun night at Bryan's last summer, thought I'd post my favorite from the same evening. Obviously, Bryan was fascinated with the subjects (Rebecca, Me, Carrie), as he took a million of the same view. Can you blame him? Anyway, I have this one on my fridge here in Macon, and the uncool Maconites think it's really strange and not a good picture because it's blurry and we're not looking at the camera. But I love it. So take that, Macon. And notice how Carrie has two faces. You're two-faced, Miss Allen. ha. I'm cracking myself up. Sign #542 that I must go sleep.
Next Stop? Thomasville!
I'm back from Jackson and barely awake enough to type. Thanks to Meredith and her family, the Clelands, for a WONDEFUL time of laughter with old friends. I'm attaching two pictures, one from each of our evenings in Mississippi. The first is of us enjoying a Saturday night on the town, and the second is with Meredith's parents on a relaxing Sunday evening; they cooked us an incredibly delicious meal of shrimp pasta. Enjoy... I'm off to rest up for the next trip!
8.05.2005
Shout out
Just wanted to say a quick happy birthday to my mother... I love you and will see you next week!
Sad.
My latest package of Thomas' Light Multi-Grain English Muffins (see blog re: obsessions) are not pre-sliced. I mean, do the good folks at Thomas' think that anyone actually eats an English Muffin whole? Why would someone do that? Sigh.
8.04.2005
Saving the Best for Last
I leave tomorrow for my greatest, most adventurous trip this summer. Not because this particular venture will include more exotic meals and fun excursions at the beach than my trip to Savannah did, or because it will be more emotionally and spiritually and physically trying than Belize was, or even because it will be to a more exciting and famous locale than Las Vegas. So, what can possibly make this trip so special? My friend, Meredith. We could sit on her couch in Jackson, Mississippi, the entire weekend, and it'd still be the most adventurous trip this summer. Let me explain, or at least try to.
Meredith came into my life at a point when things were very bleak. I was just, in that last year or so, coming back to a faith that had been foreign to me throughout my college years; I had recently finished my degree and was starting graduate school in a profession that I hated; all of my friends from college all started dating -each other- and got engaged or moved away. It was a lonely time. So one night at RUF at the beginning of that miserable year, I get introduced to this really cute girl named Meredith. We strike up a conversation, and I find out that she's new in town to start her Masters in Journalism, and she officially doesn't know a soul. She recognizes me because I had joined Redeemer the week before (her first Sunday there), and she remembered clinging to the fact that, hey, here was someone who looked about her age... perhaps a future friend? Her biggest concern, at the moment we meet, is that she'll have to go to church alone on Sunday. I offer to swing by her apartment and pick her up. She's delighted, and from that moment on, we are inseparable.
Meredith and I are very different people. I'm a little quiet and uncomfortable with crowds, she's the life of the party. She is, without a doubt, the "funnest" person I've ever been around. She was a Chi-O at Ole Miss and knew the most about how to have a good time than anyone I had ever been around before or have been around since. She would call me, on, like a Monday night, at 11 pm to meet up with the random friends of the year (including two musician brothers and a Canadian named Neil) either at their house or somewhere downtown. And I would go, strangely enough, because she was that compelling.
I mean, heck, Meredith got me, Miss Introvert, into a BOXING RING in the middle of downtown Athens during Athfest one year. We each had two gigantic gloves (probably weighing more than a small automobile apiece) with which to pound each other while standing on that pillowy, blow-up bouncy stuff of fair attractions, and we were surrounded by a large crowd growing ever larger. I'll never forget being laid out on my back on that nasty, smelly floor-of-the-ring, arms spread out because I couldn't lift the gloves up, laughing so hard I was crying and about to pee in my pants, and hearing the redneck lady behind me scream at the top of her lungs to Meredith, "KICK HER A** WHILE SHE'S DOWN, DARLIN'!" That lady was out for blood, I'm telling you. And Meredith yelling back between hiccups of laughter, "NOOO, SHE'S MY FRIEND!!" The guy in charge of the attraction gave us our turn for free because we had created so much publicity and interest.
And, you know?, Meredith was the best thing that could've happened to me at that point in my life. Her boldness and fearlessness and love for life trickled a little into my personality, prompting me to make such crazy and crucial changes as switching my major in the middle of Graduate School. She transferred her strong self-confidence onto mine that had been wounded for so long. She also "taught" me to drink on occasion, which she is mortified about. Such a bad influence, Mere. Tsk Tsk.
Perhaps the aspect of Meredith that I most love, aside from her loyalty and her Faith, is her storytelling. If you ever meet her, get her to tell you about sitting on the second row of the U2 concert after sneaking in because she had, unknowingly, bought a counterfeit ticket from a scalper. Or about how she lost her shoe while walking down the steps of the platform at the front of a church sanctuary full of people where she was a very nervous bridesmaid, and how the groomsman escorting her bent over to rescue the wayward slipper, chivalrously slipping it back onto her foot and rising to bow dramatically in front of an amused and applauding congregation and next to a mortified Meredith. She's never without a story, and, as she weaves her web around a room full of people, her listeners are instantly captured by her lively spirit for forever.
So, even though Elizabeth and I face a long drive to Jackson tomorrow night, we both know it will be worth it. Where will her tales take us this time? Or, more likely and infinitely more exciting, what future stories will we create while we're there?
I love you, Mere. Thanks for the indescribably important role you've played in shaping my life. See you soon!
Meredith came into my life at a point when things were very bleak. I was just, in that last year or so, coming back to a faith that had been foreign to me throughout my college years; I had recently finished my degree and was starting graduate school in a profession that I hated; all of my friends from college all started dating -each other- and got engaged or moved away. It was a lonely time. So one night at RUF at the beginning of that miserable year, I get introduced to this really cute girl named Meredith. We strike up a conversation, and I find out that she's new in town to start her Masters in Journalism, and she officially doesn't know a soul. She recognizes me because I had joined Redeemer the week before (her first Sunday there), and she remembered clinging to the fact that, hey, here was someone who looked about her age... perhaps a future friend? Her biggest concern, at the moment we meet, is that she'll have to go to church alone on Sunday. I offer to swing by her apartment and pick her up. She's delighted, and from that moment on, we are inseparable.
Meredith and I are very different people. I'm a little quiet and uncomfortable with crowds, she's the life of the party. She is, without a doubt, the "funnest" person I've ever been around. She was a Chi-O at Ole Miss and knew the most about how to have a good time than anyone I had ever been around before or have been around since. She would call me, on, like a Monday night, at 11 pm to meet up with the random friends of the year (including two musician brothers and a Canadian named Neil) either at their house or somewhere downtown. And I would go, strangely enough, because she was that compelling.
I mean, heck, Meredith got me, Miss Introvert, into a BOXING RING in the middle of downtown Athens during Athfest one year. We each had two gigantic gloves (probably weighing more than a small automobile apiece) with which to pound each other while standing on that pillowy, blow-up bouncy stuff of fair attractions, and we were surrounded by a large crowd growing ever larger. I'll never forget being laid out on my back on that nasty, smelly floor-of-the-ring, arms spread out because I couldn't lift the gloves up, laughing so hard I was crying and about to pee in my pants, and hearing the redneck lady behind me scream at the top of her lungs to Meredith, "KICK HER A** WHILE SHE'S DOWN, DARLIN'!" That lady was out for blood, I'm telling you. And Meredith yelling back between hiccups of laughter, "NOOO, SHE'S MY FRIEND!!" The guy in charge of the attraction gave us our turn for free because we had created so much publicity and interest.
And, you know?, Meredith was the best thing that could've happened to me at that point in my life. Her boldness and fearlessness and love for life trickled a little into my personality, prompting me to make such crazy and crucial changes as switching my major in the middle of Graduate School. She transferred her strong self-confidence onto mine that had been wounded for so long. She also "taught" me to drink on occasion, which she is mortified about. Such a bad influence, Mere. Tsk Tsk.
Perhaps the aspect of Meredith that I most love, aside from her loyalty and her Faith, is her storytelling. If you ever meet her, get her to tell you about sitting on the second row of the U2 concert after sneaking in because she had, unknowingly, bought a counterfeit ticket from a scalper. Or about how she lost her shoe while walking down the steps of the platform at the front of a church sanctuary full of people where she was a very nervous bridesmaid, and how the groomsman escorting her bent over to rescue the wayward slipper, chivalrously slipping it back onto her foot and rising to bow dramatically in front of an amused and applauding congregation and next to a mortified Meredith. She's never without a story, and, as she weaves her web around a room full of people, her listeners are instantly captured by her lively spirit for forever.
So, even though Elizabeth and I face a long drive to Jackson tomorrow night, we both know it will be worth it. Where will her tales take us this time? Or, more likely and infinitely more exciting, what future stories will we create while we're there?
I love you, Mere. Thanks for the indescribably important role you've played in shaping my life. See you soon!
8.03.2005
Mission Accomplished
I've just completed the most challenging task that I've faced all week. What is that task, you ask? Getting the little wedges out of my grapefruit with a tablespoon. A tablespoon that's on the large end, as far as tablespoons go. (Which begs another question: Can tablespoons, a unit of measurement, be different sizes? Hmmm. beside the point.) And why did I attempt this task? Because, as many of you know, I'm not exactly Hazel, the World's Best Housekeeper, and I haven't run my dishwasher in a longer amount of time than I'm prepared to admit. So, the cute little teaspoons, so appropriate for picking wedges out of grapefruits, are all dirty and unavailable for my use.
At least I'm not re-using the dirty teaspoons. So shut up with the "oh my gosh, how can you live in those conditions?" comments. You've been there, too; I dare you to tell me you haven't...
At least I'm not re-using the dirty teaspoons. So shut up with the "oh my gosh, how can you live in those conditions?" comments. You've been there, too; I dare you to tell me you haven't...
Miriam the Werewolf
Hurrah! I took this Harry Potter personality quiz (because my SO fun life is providing me with endless hours of tedium) and I'm Lupin ... he's my favorite character (currently, although it changes from day-to-day), and I had no way to rig this thing to make it say that! My day has officially been made. Shut up with how pathetic it is that I'm, truly, genuinely, THIS excited. And, if you haven't read the books before and want to, please disregard the title. It means NOTHING. There are no such things as werewolves. I mean, really. Werewolves?
Harry Potter Personality Quiz
Harry Potter Personality Quiz
8.02.2005
Slow night
I've been reading all of my fun friends' blogs and missing the old days in Athens a good bit tonight. It's really just a product of being home with nowhere to go for over a week, now, and that will all change Friday night when Elizabeth and I are going to see Meredith. Still, this boredom tends to produce loneliness, which is what I'm feeling a bit of this evening.
It's funny that I'm feeling this way, especially because I spent the evening surrounded by the most people that I've been around in quite some time. Some of my fellow teachers got together for a true, stereotypical Girls' Night Out ... dinner and drinks and discussions about men and all of the things that go along with men (of which I had very little to contribute). Turns out I shouldn't have bashed the Cookie Swap, after all, as I was much more at home with the girls there than I was tonight. I'm not even gonna go into what that says about me and who I've become since living in Macon. Man. Pathetic, huh?
Anyway, guess that's it. Just wanted to touch base with those friends out there who I love and miss. And, even though we're spread out all over now, those feelings for y'all aren't gonna change!
Sure wish I had more to report, especially since the competition with Rebecca as to who has the "funnest" life has officially started. Game on, Girl. ;)
It's funny that I'm feeling this way, especially because I spent the evening surrounded by the most people that I've been around in quite some time. Some of my fellow teachers got together for a true, stereotypical Girls' Night Out ... dinner and drinks and discussions about men and all of the things that go along with men (of which I had very little to contribute). Turns out I shouldn't have bashed the Cookie Swap, after all, as I was much more at home with the girls there than I was tonight. I'm not even gonna go into what that says about me and who I've become since living in Macon. Man. Pathetic, huh?
Anyway, guess that's it. Just wanted to touch base with those friends out there who I love and miss. And, even though we're spread out all over now, those feelings for y'all aren't gonna change!
Sure wish I had more to report, especially since the competition with Rebecca as to who has the "funnest" life has officially started. Game on, Girl. ;)
8.01.2005
Child Prodigy
My Uncle Rick just called with the funniest news I've heard in a long time. Yes, Mom, Rick called here to talk to me. I thought it was strange, too. Until I heard the reason why.
Apparently he was cleaning out his desk at AG Edwards in Thomasville where he works as a stockbroker, and he came across something someone brought to him a few years ago. Something that he thought might be of interest to me. A story, fully illustrated, entitled "The Murder of John Thomas: A Jennifer McBride Mystery". And the author? You guessed it... a 4th grade Miriam Terry. Yes, the lady who brought it in was no other than Mrs. Payne, my former elementary school teacher. Actually, in the year that I had her, she was Ms. Neil and then Mrs. Payne. And when my sister, Beth, had her two years before, she had been Mrs. Edwards. Quite confusing for a sheltered child like me. Anyway.
The funniest part about this story is that John Thomas, the victim in this tragic book, is my uncle. My very much alive uncle. My mom's brother. And Rick's, too. Rick said that there was even a detailed illustration of my Uncle John, lying on the ground, with a knife stuck in his chest. And, after stumbling upon this sight, apparently Jennifer McBride, the detective and heroine (of obviously more than one story, according to the subtitle), "screamed but no sound came out." Who knew that I was so talented to create such poetry, even at the tender age of 9? I must've been really mad at John. Poor, murdered, John.
Rick's holding the book for me to pick up when I'm in Thomasville next week. He promised he wouldn't give it to my parents before because he knows, as well as I do, that they'll keep it for themselves. Like those paintings I did that are up on the wall in our den. My grandfather offered me good money for those, but Mom says they're not for sale. You'd think she'd painted them herself.
On a completely different topic, I just had lunch with my coolest friend, Gina. I'm not worried a bit about offending any of you blog girls with that statement because those of you who know Gina know that she's unbeatable in that regard. Undeniably so. It was her adorably short, curly hair that inspired me to cut mine a couple of years ago. She teaches 6th and 7th grade at a Catholic School in Washington DC. LOVE her.
I'm attaching two pictures below from our lunch because, apparently, I'm a picture freak of late. Excuse the blurriness of the first; I thought it was too cute not to post anyway!
Apparently he was cleaning out his desk at AG Edwards in Thomasville where he works as a stockbroker, and he came across something someone brought to him a few years ago. Something that he thought might be of interest to me. A story, fully illustrated, entitled "The Murder of John Thomas: A Jennifer McBride Mystery". And the author? You guessed it... a 4th grade Miriam Terry. Yes, the lady who brought it in was no other than Mrs. Payne, my former elementary school teacher. Actually, in the year that I had her, she was Ms. Neil and then Mrs. Payne. And when my sister, Beth, had her two years before, she had been Mrs. Edwards. Quite confusing for a sheltered child like me. Anyway.
The funniest part about this story is that John Thomas, the victim in this tragic book, is my uncle. My very much alive uncle. My mom's brother. And Rick's, too. Rick said that there was even a detailed illustration of my Uncle John, lying on the ground, with a knife stuck in his chest. And, after stumbling upon this sight, apparently Jennifer McBride, the detective and heroine (of obviously more than one story, according to the subtitle), "screamed but no sound came out." Who knew that I was so talented to create such poetry, even at the tender age of 9? I must've been really mad at John. Poor, murdered, John.
Rick's holding the book for me to pick up when I'm in Thomasville next week. He promised he wouldn't give it to my parents before because he knows, as well as I do, that they'll keep it for themselves. Like those paintings I did that are up on the wall in our den. My grandfather offered me good money for those, but Mom says they're not for sale. You'd think she'd painted them herself.
On a completely different topic, I just had lunch with my coolest friend, Gina. I'm not worried a bit about offending any of you blog girls with that statement because those of you who know Gina know that she's unbeatable in that regard. Undeniably so. It was her adorably short, curly hair that inspired me to cut mine a couple of years ago. She teaches 6th and 7th grade at a Catholic School in Washington DC. LOVE her.
I'm attaching two pictures below from our lunch because, apparently, I'm a picture freak of late. Excuse the blurriness of the first; I thought it was too cute not to post anyway!
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