Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale...

On Sunday, while down in Florida with my family for Spring Break, Cal and I headed over to a friend's house for a much-anticipated trip by boat out to the Destin Harbor and a nautical tour around the area. We were SO excited. A boat trip! On a beautiful day! In a gorgeous boat! This, you see, isn't something I get to do everyday, and it's a rarity for Cal, too, in spite of his living down here.

We get to the boatowner's (Jazz) lovely house overlooking a limb of the Bayou and head down to the dock. There, suspended above the water, was the Joker 1, ready and waiting for us to lower it into the water and take it out for its Spring 2006 debut. Within 15 minutes we were off, Cal and I in the back two seats and Jazz at the wheel, regaling us with stories of the different folks who owned the several million dollar homes we were passing on the way out to the open water.

"Grab your camera!" Jazz suddenly cries. Cal and I stand up and look ahead to see a school of dolphins not 15 feet from our boat, playing and splashing and having a grand old time. It was my first reminder that we weren't in a lake, the only other body of water I had ever been out in by boat. In a lake you see a fish or two. Dolphins, though? Now that was cool.

About that time, however, our luck began to change. Our attention was fixed on the sea creatures around us when, with a little hesitation so as not to sound whiny or alarmed, Cal ventures this statement: "Um, Jazz? Should I be ankle-deep in water back here?"

Jazz glances back, unconcerned, and mutters something about rain in the boat. However, as he does so, he notices that it's not just a little excess water, it is -literally- up to Cal's ankles. He turns the boat around to head back towards the dock (now a good ways away) while trying to keep up a nonchalant attitude, still exclaiming over the dolphins and teasing Cal about his wet shoes. Cal and I, though, could sense that things might be a little more serious than this retired Colonel was letting on.

Our fears were confirmed when, after the motor started sputtering a bit, Jazz let out a few choice words, cut the boat off, stripped down to his skivvies (not real sure what skivvies are, but I'm fairly certain those were them), and dove -without warning- into the water behind the boat.

Let me clarify: it's spring, and it's Florida. However... remember my last post? About cool temperatures and unbeachlike weather? Right. Well, that's what we're out in on this particular day, and, well, let's just say that the water isn't exactly ripe for swimming. Our beautiful, perfect Sunday afternoon was, uh, sinking. Fast.

Jazz pushes (yes, pushes) the quickly-submerging boat to the nearest dock and commands us (as only military men can) to get out. He has to get the boat back to his house, he says. Walk along the banks and meet him there.

Cal and I proceed to follow his orders (as only folks can do when given them by military men). We traipse through yard after yard of rich folks living in luxury in the coveted (and rare) waterfront properties. We run into a couple problems such as fences blocking our way (at which time we had to walk up to the house, through the front yard, and back down the other side) and a concerned old rich lady drinking her mint julips on her front porch and watching the drama unfold.

"Is his boat taking water?" she asks between sips.

"Yes ma'am," I reply. "Sorry we're walking through your beautiful yard."

"It's okay," she says, still distracted by the distant sight of a near-naked Jazz pulling his boat by its rope through the deep water, sputtering and breathing heavily as he swims.

Finally, Cal and I get back to Jazz's dock, only seconds before he gets there. Cal helps him get the boat raised again and we stand in a daze as gallons of water drain out into the dark waters of the bayou. Upon inspection, Jazz realizes that his son (a student at FSU) has left a cap off of some part of the motor, and that has been what's caused the problem. We got to witness the angry phone call that Jazz made to said son. Poor son.

Through it all, I didn't really think too much about having been in any danger. However, as we were leaving, Cal thought to ask Jazz how long it would've been before we would've sunk in that boat. The answer? 10 minutes. 10 minutes!

We're trying again tomorrow. Keep your fingers crossed. And pray...

I think I'll wear my swimsuit.

Comfort or style?

The weather this time of year drives me a little nuts.

Don't get me wrong; I love the Spring! However, with the beautiful blue skies, the chirping birds, and the cherry trees and dogwoods in full bloom comes the time most dreaded by those who attempt to clothe themselves with some semblance of style. Let me explain.

It's March 23, right? The first day of the season known for all things green and sunny and warm was three days ago. I look outside the heavy, concrete door to my classroom (no windows, ugh) and see what appears to be a typical Spring day. However, I step outside and just about freeze to death. It's in the mid-50's out there; not cold for, say, a New Englander, but for us Georgians, it's frigid.

I'm wearing thick black pants (made of some type of cordoroy-ish material), a warm sweater, and black boots. The student sitting at the desk closest to mine is in a knee-length skirt, t-shirt, and flip flops. Half the kids/teachers here are dressed like I am; half are dressed like the aforementioned girl. Who is more seasonably appropriate? Beats me.

This is all on my mind, you see, because I'm in the process of packing for my Spring Break trip to Destin. I'm thinking Florida, white sands, warm sun, crystal clear water, so I should pack shorts, tank tops, and my new (scary) bikini. Right? However, I check the weather and see temps in the low 60's for the weekend, in spite of sunny skies. Is 63 degrees in Florida the same as 63 degrees here? If so, there will be no beach for me, not to mention the shorts, the tank tops, and the scary bathing suit.

These projected temperatures beg another question: is it appropriate to wear wintery-type clothing in Florida in March? The last time I was there, I wore a skirt and tall boots and my denim jacket (with a top underneath, of course) to church with Cal. This was the first weekend in March, so I didn't think much about it. However, the other girls in his Sunday School class were wearing spring-like dresses with sandals and flip flops. I felt like the landlocked Georgian that I was.

So... to freeze for the sake of fitting in with the Spring fashions? Or do I go for warmth and comfort with my closed-toe shoes and long sleeves? Sigh.

It sure is hard being this cute. HA!

Cherry Blossoms? Here?

How many times have y'all heard me complain about the lack of things to do in Macon? Millions, right? Well, all week long I've been excited because, for once, there's something going on.

Yup, that's right... it's time for this city's annual Cherry Blossom festival, a time to celebrate the trees that are in full bloom all over Macon through nightly outdoor concerts, a carnival (complete with Bengal Tigers!), fireworks, and other various and sundry events. Right up my alley. Bring it on.

Problem is, my body hears "Hey, we've got something to do!!" and it decides to rebel and make sure that the only blossoms I'm seeing are the ones on my bathroom wallpaper*. Friday morning, day one of the Big Event, I wake up with some, uh, digestive issues, which continue through my day at work and get worse once I get home and the body realizes that it's free for the weekend. That's right, folks. I got a stomach virus and ALL that entails. Lovely.

So, instead of enjoying the lovely weather last night at the Eagles Tribute band concert, or munching on pink pancakes with the firemen this morning, or joining the Singles tonight for Mexican food (UGH... don't even MENTION Mexican food), a concert, and fireworks, I've been at home, nursing my ailment and bemoaning its timing.

The good news is I've lost 7 pounds. The bad news is it'll all come back with the first bite of food I take (hopefully) tomorrow.

Thankfully, the festival is a 10-day event, so I'll get in on some of the action later in the week. I'll keep you posted. And, come Friday, it's to the beach for Spring Break! Hurrah!

*My bathroom doesn't really have floweredy wallpaper, but I took a little bit of poetic license. For effect, you know.

An "endearing" quality?

Those of you who know me well will understand in an instant why I found this article interesting. Particularly the second section, which describes Yours Truly to a tee...

Speaking of Showers...

... the one tonight was the ONLY one I've been excited about. Why? Because of Jenny, of course! Hurrah for Baby jras!

Babies-R-Us

I spent $126.72 at Target on Tuesday. What did I get, you ask? Some cool, new electronics to add to the set-up in my apartment? An MP3 player to use at the gym? An entire wardrobe of cheap (though surprisingly stylish) new clothes?

Ah, no. I don't think so.

All of that money was spent on baby gifts for the FOUR showers I have in the month of March. That's not including the cool one of Julie V's from last month. Nope. These are four new ones.

We've also got my best friend, Kelly, whose little baby boy Luke James will be due up near Charlotte on May 1st, and my niece, Anna Claire, who is approx. 8 weeks old. What in the world was happening 9 months ago??? A lovefest that we singles (thankfully) knew nothing about? Apparently so.

Maybe it's just my age. I'm getting on up there, you know, and have long passed the wedding stage. That was 4-5 years ago, when I was fresh out of college and surrounded by idealistic young lovers (ewww, hate that word) who were going down the aisle like they were racing a Kenyan for the trophy in the 50-yd dash. Now they're all having babies. Or two. Or three.

Don't get me wrong. I'm thrilled for them. I just wish my wallet could say the same thing...

I am a sheep.

Inspired by recent posts from my fellow blogger friends in which tidbits of daily life are provided:

1) I think that I have a friend reminiscent of Rebecca's Mellow Mushroom tea boy at my local Moe's. I'm a bit of a regular there because it's about 1/4 of a mile from my house. Tonight after going to the gym, I stopped by there to pick up my regular, and, once I got home, I realized that the dude had not only given me chips to last a year, but I had gotten my dollop of sour cream for free and TWO stamps on my Moe's punchcard. Welcome to Moe's for real!*

2) I overheard one of my female students ask a male student today if "Miss Terry" was his favorite teacher. His answer? "HECK yes!" Not, yeah; not I dunno, but HECK yes. Watch out, Mr. Kitchell**. I'm coming from behind.

3) I like Dancing with the Stars. So sue me.

4) The singles from church are going out tomorrow night for Mexican and a movie. We're meeting at 5:30 at the restaurant. Um, could someone please tell whomever is in charge that one of the biggest benefits of being single is that you don't have to start a Friday night early in order to get home in time to put the kids to bed? I mean, 5:30?? Really?

5) Spin classes go right next to the Elliptical machine in my list of "Things at the gym that are from the Devil". The gym itself, by the way, is at the top of my more general list of "Things from the Devil".

*Cal, you're cute, but can you offer me a Moo Moo Mr. Cow with all the extras at no additional charge and double stamps on my punchcard? How can anyone, even you with your "I love babies" attitude, compete?
**Mr. Kitchell is the charming, blue-eyed Geography teacher down the hall. He gets away with murder at the flash of a smile. All the kids' favorite teacher, by far. His room before and after school resembles an Athens bar on the Saturday night after a big UGA football game, crowded with smelly people all having a grand time.

These are a few (two) of my favorite things.

Is there anything more heart-melting than a handsome man under the spell of my new niece? Can't think of much...

An oxymoron

Who knew that baby showers can, potentially, be cool?!? I begrudgingly attended one the other night, expecting the usual froo-froo fare of tea cakes and petit fours, ooohing and ahhhhing over so-cute-they're-annoying little baby gifts, and lots of cheesy crying and squealing over the guest of honor's belly. I, like Miranda on S&tC, would prefer fried chicken, along with the complete and utter absence of pink or blue storks, in any form or fashion.

What I didn't factor into the equation was that the expecting mother is, quite possibly, one of the coolest folks that I know (here OR in Athens!), and that she most likely wouldn't have stood for all that fluff any more than I would. Sure, there was the opening of gifts that involved lots of the ooohing and ahhing, but Elizabeth and I opted out of that to help in the kitchen, where a FEAST of Beef Burgandy, brown rice, salad, and 3 different types of (hearty) desserts were being prepared.

Confession: In my faulty assumptions about what the fare of the shower would include, I ate before I left. Did that stop me from eating again? No sir.

So -- Julie V., former landlord and friend, you are my icon. Thank you for introducing coolness to the Baby Showering Crowd. My hat is off to you...

Why it's worth it.

We're in the middle of a pretty intensive grammar unit, during which I always get frustrated that the kids don't get it and quickly tune me out.

However, I just had a student walk up to my desk during the most recent class change and say, "Miss Terry, English is making sense to me for the first time in my life," before quickly walking away and sitting in his desk.

Seriously. Those were his exact words. He got embarrassed and wouldn't look at me when I told him thank you. This is the same kid, by the way, who had a giggle-attack when I lost my temper during class that time.

Hurrah!

(In other more vanity-inducing news, I had a whole class arguing the other day about whether I looked 20 or 24. This conversation was brought on by my apparently controversial example of a linking verb on the board: "I turn 28 in June." It ended when one of the boys (C.) told another of the boys (A.) that "She already has a boyfriend, Idiot." I told the blushing recipient of that insult-to-end-all-insults not to worry, that C. was just jealous. That got the whole class roaring in approval. Success!)

(Not to mention that a student's mom mistook me for a senior in high school the other day in Walgreens after I said hello to her son. She was floored when the kid said, "Uh, Mom? That's Miss Terry. My English teacher." Ha!)

Dress-Down Day

I personally think that dress-down days are the best invention ever. When I'm in my jeans, not only do I feel more comfortable, but I also sense more of a connection with my students as I am meeting them on their level.

(In light of the James Frey/Million Little Pieces scandal, I feel the necessity to make an author's note here that it might not, technically, be a dress-down day here. However, my interpretation of a Friday (and one before a, um, major? holiday -- Valentine's, of course) is that it's a dress down day that automatically includes permission to wear jeans. If that permission is unstated, then it's just an oversight on behalf of the administration. And if that's my interpretation, then it's truth. Isn't that the argument?)

The Dawning of a New Era*

A certain handsome young man innocently pointed out to me this weekend that I haven't blogged in an eternity.

"Yes, I know!" I snapped in reply. "I haven't had anything to write about, okay?"

Did he deserve this attitude? No. Why did I do it?

At his acknowledgement of my lack of writing, the guilt that I've been suppressing broke forth and swept over me like a tidal wave. I've let my faithful readers down for almost two weeks! How are they coping without a daily dose of Miriam's witty commentary on her life as a fabulous socialite in the exciting town of Macon? If the Sex and the City girls are NYC's "Glitterati", then I am this place's equivalent. And it is my obligation, my "noblesse oblige", if you will, to let others in on what my life is like.

Excuses? No. A mere apology is all I have to offer for my negligence. Please, my adoring fans, forgive me.

HA! Seriously, folks, sorry I haven't written. I've not felt an ounce of inspiration lately. Not an ounce, that is, until now! What is it that's inspired me, you ask? Something simple. Something everyday. Something wonderful.

An eyelash curler.

Huh? That's right, my friends. An eyelash curler. Perhaps it wasn't so much the item itself as it was the location in which this particular tool was found: the ladies' bathroom in the teachers' lounge.

I know you are all wondering where in the heck this is going. Bear with me, okay?

Think back on your past experience with middle and high school teachers. What is the pervading image? If your education was anything like mine, you're conjuring up the middle-aged, frumpy, makeup-less spinsters with short, no-nonsense hair and personalities to match. They're wearing jumpers or rompers or something equally as waist-less and comfortable, black (or taupe) orthopedic shoes, and an appliqued sweater adorned with an "I love my teacher" apple pin. If they were feeling particularly festive and feminine when they dressed in the darkness of the early morning, they might be wearing apple button covers to match. Lovely.

So what does the eyelash curler in the faculty restroom have to do with anything? Everything! As my eyes fell on the object perched atop the paper-towel dispenser, I felt pride swell up in my heart for my fellow teachers. Would any of those antitheses-of-all-style-women from back in our day have EVER used an eyelash curler? Would they have even known what an eyelash curler was? I'd be willing to bet not.

So, the eyelash curler, to me, signified a change that is taking place in the world of female teachers. No longer can one assume that, should her chosen profession be teaching, a girl will live out her days wearing shapeless clothes, styling dull and lifeless (and -heaven forbid- unhighlighted) hair, donning her very ordinary glasses to read a very ordinary book in the quietness of a very ordinary and lonely apartment, and keeping up conversation with no one but her two very bored cats.

No, my dear friends. The new teacher is above that. The new teacher owns (and uses!) an eyelash curler. Hope springs eternal!

(*This post written by a spinster teacher who lives alone in an ordinary apartment, reading ordinary books and talking to her bored cats for entertainment. Her latest undertaking, as of last Wednesday night, is learning how to knit. Take all of her assertions and self-righteous ramblings, therefore, with a grain of salt.)

If Christmas only comes once a year,

mine is over and done with.

I just had Christmas carolers come sing at my door!! HA!

This week is Spirit Week at my school. For those of you who, like me, had a public school education and don't know what Spirit Week is, let me try to explain.

During Spirit Week, each of the four high school classes competes against the others in several different competitions. There are relays (potato sack, 3-legged, Dizzy Izzy, etc), limbos, grape tosses, and -perhaps the biggest of all- a HUGE lip sync competition. Each class adopts a theme for the week, and their apparel, hall decorations, signs, and music choices for the lip sync hinge on this theme.

One of the areas in which the classes are judged is "Overall Spirit", which is shown through the way the classes act throughout the week. It's a pretty broad category. Very hard to judge.

This year, the Juniors' theme is Winter Wonderland. They've been littering the campus with santa hats, snowflakes, and candy canes, and, if you listen closely, you can hear spurts of Christmas songs playing in a distant hallway every now and then. It's like Santa's elves have escaped from the North Pole and gone crazy, spreading their cheer like snow all over.

So here I am, minding my own business, sitting on my couch in my comfortable apartment watching Dancing With the Stars, when there comes a knock on my door. I thought it might be Janet. I open the door without checking out the peephole.

Imagine my surprise when I find 3 adorable Juniors, decked out in their class color (orange) and Santa hats, singing Deck the Halls, then Joy to the World. In an effort to show their spirit to any teacher who might possibly be a judge, they had gathered a list of addresses and were petitioning their cause door to door. I was their first stop; the girl in charge had been in Belize with me and knew I'd get a kick out of it all.

They didn't seem too disappointed when I informed them that I'm not a judge and don't even know who the judges are; they were having too much fun. I invited them in for hot chocolate (because isn't that what you do for carolers?), but, although they came in for a few minutes to see my place, they had to hurry on their merry way to see how many other teachers they could sing to before it got too late.

How fun! And so foreign to me, this world of private schools where students know where teachers live and use that knowledge for good rather than evil. Most of the time, at least.

So... Merry Christmas, everyone!

The Same Old Stuff

I've been scared to blog lately. It's a little bit of writer's block, I guess, but not brought on by the usual excuses. No, this time it's due to the intimidation I feel when I read Rebecca's worthy-of-publication-in-a-bestselling-devotional-guide-for-intellectual-Christians blog. If you're not reading it, you should be.

Anyway, I've been enjoying her tales of job hunting, vintage party dresses, and overall Bohemian lifestyle there in her newfound home of Asheville, and I find myself wondering (again) whether I've lost my edge. My spunk. My individuality. So I'm here to prove to myself and to anyone else who might care to read why this is NOT the case.

Over the summer it was easy to blog because of two reasons: 1) I was doing things, and 2) I wasn't doing anything. Huh? you ask.

Well, first of all, I was traveling a lot, right? I had places to go and people that I was visiting. I mean, how easy is it to write about a spontaneous trip to Vegas, or a scary non-flushing trip to Belize, or a smorgasbord of International restaurants in Savannah, or a visit with my never-once-boring-in-her-life friend, Meredith, in Jackson, or a move to a new apartment across town? Pretty easy.

On the other hand, I had lots of time. When I wasn't traveling, I was sitting in my tiny little house doing nothing but eating Thomas's English Muffins (lite), watching The Price is Right, or blogging. I wasn't exhausted from a day at work, my brain wasn't fried from teaching grammar to middle schoolers for 7 hours, and I was getting at least 10 hours of sleep a night. Embarrassing, but true.

Nevertheless, when I find myself questioning why I can't come up with anything to blog about, and when I come to the frightening realization that it's because I haven't done or thought anything worthy of blogging about, I get a little worried that I'm losing something. That I'm slowly becoming someone who's okay to just be or exist. This notion scares the heck out of me.

I feel certain that my lack of adventure lately stems from typical middle-of-the-school-year busyness and exhaustion, one that hits this time every year. I have time to do fun and exciting things like suddenly deciding go to a rock concert on a weeknight in Atlanta, but do I really want to anymore? Not at the moment. Over the summer, when I can sleep late the next morning, it'll be a different story.

I've been thinking on all of this for almost a week now, and I haven't come up with any solid answers. One thing I do know, however, is that I don't want to become content with just living a humdrum life, going to work, going to the gym, coming home, and sitting in front of my television.

I want to be challenged by something, to maintain that strong individuality that was developed and honed during my time in Athens. I pray to that end. And because of this desire and prayer, I haven't given up hope. Having a yearning for an edge or passion is, itself, some form of edge or passion.

Right?

It's a Girl!

Anna Claire Reams was born last night to my sister, Julie, at 10:41 after an incredibly quick labor. She weighed 7 lbs, 3 oz, and she was 21 inches.

The best part? Reports are coming out of Greenwood that she looks like her grandfather (my dad) and her Aunt Miriam! Complete with (wait for it)... CURLY HAIR!

Hurrah!

Good thing I'm a teacher

How is it that I've just gotten back from an 11-day holiday (not including weekends) and I'm already chomping at the bit for MLK day on Monday? How do people with real jobs do it?

(PS -- That last statement is NOT inviting comments from non-teachers about teaching not being a real job. In case you haven't ventured into that territory with a teacher before, you should know that it's a grave mistake. It's very similar to the whole I-can-talk-about-my-mama-but-you-can't thing.)

So I'm a nerd. Get over it.

I realize that I'm incriminating myself by sharing the link to this grammar article that I was so excited to see on MSN this morning. Oh well. If you didn't know it already, you might as well know it now. I'm a geek. A major one.

What sealed the deal on my satisfaction with the article was the very last mistake she mentioned. The loose/lose mistake. It is, without a doubt, my all-time biggest grammatical pet peeve. Possibly my biggest in general pet peeve. Even bigger than the words "moist" and "lover".

And that's big.

A matter of Biblical proportion

Isn't it funny how we can form an attachment to something, simply based on the time of our lives during which we used that object?

Case in point: my little, brown Bible.

Back when I used to live in Athens and went to Redeemer, I was friends with a certain girl there named Meredith. Meredith and I were joined at the hip from the moment we met, and one thing that I loved about her from day one was her tiny, brown Bible. I liked it so very much that I went out and bought one of my very own.

As most of you know, my time at Redeemer was one of huge spiritual growth for me. Not only did God draw me closer to Him during those years, but He also provided me with friends -like Meredith- who became more dear to me than I could have ever imagined. Leaving that church and those friends was the hardest part about leaving Athens.

Every time I looked at my little brown Bible, bought at the beginning of my time at Redeemer, I was reminded of God's blessings in my life and of His faithfulness to pursue me, even through the earlier years that had been much darker.

Every time I looked at my little brown Bible, that is, up until about 8 or 9 months ago. That's when I lost it.

I searched high and low for that thing; I asked around at church, in my Sunday school classroom, the house where we met for Bible study. Nothing. It was gone.

Today, however, the reminder is back. At my request, my sister and her husband picked up a new Bible, exactly like my old one, when they went to the Christian bookstore the other day.

I'm still sad about the loss of the irreplaceable things -the underlinings, the notes, the little mementos that I had stuck in the pages for safekeeping- but just holding that little brown Bible in my hand gives me hope for a bright future, full of the fulfillment of God's promises to me, His daughter. It represents to me a fresh start, and I am overcome with joy and anticipation as I know that the future (with or without a little brown Bible) holds nothing but the God of the Universe's absolute best.

Showing Gratitude

I've written 14 thank-you notes to students for gifts given to me for Christmas, and I have 29 more to go. I'm discovering that there's only so much you can say about how much you loved the fudge and the cookies and the chex mix and the sugared pecans and the homemade cinnamon bread and the caramel candy and the 32 holiday-scented candles and the 12 ornaments (usually snowmen, angels, or gingerbread men holding apples that say "I love my Teacher") and the 13 different flavors of lotion or bath salts from Bath and Body Works.

It's a blessing and a curse, this teacher gig. Gifts galore, but the appreciation afterwards is a bear.

On the bright side, I will never ever again in my lifetime have to buy an ornament to fill up my tree or a bottle of lotion to make me smell good. I think I'm set.

All of Athens is howling with laughter.

Yes!! I didn't even try! I promise! So ha! to all of Athens who claimed I could never be anything other than a preppy, bubbly, "pretty little head". (and you know who you are. Darren Grem.) I'm a punk/rebel!

You scored as Punk/Rebel. Punk/Rebel 50% Geek 44% Drama nerd 31% Prep/Jock/Cheerleader 13% Goth 13% Loner 13% Stoner 6% Ghetto gangsta 0% What's Your High School Stereotype? created with QuizFarm.com