Saturday, April 28, 2012

When a snake, apparently, is not a snake . . .

First off, thank you so much for all of your sweet comments on my last post :] You guys are the bomb-diggity (yeah, that's right, I'm the only dork around who still uses that phrase). Thank you! 

Peeps, I have a confession:
I do not follow sports. Not in any way, shape or form. 
I'm just not interested. Sorry.
While I understand the rush of manliness induced by chasing all variety of balls, it just doesn't thrill me. Good grief, is there any way to say "chasing balls" without it sounding strange? Oi, those middle school boys really are getting to me . . . it's amazing how everything becomes an innuendo when you're a hormonal male . . .
Case and point: I drew an arrow near (not attached to) a stick figure while trying to illustrate a literary concept. The moment that arrow appeared, all the boys were thrown into fits of giggles (yes, GIGGLES).
And don't make me start on the day I said "pianist."
Good lord.

Wednesday, April 25, 2012

Things may be looking up . . .

  • Have you ever seen "Little Shop of Horrors"?
I've discovered something about myself: I love movies that you can tell were plays, once. Or you imagine they could be plays.
And dark quirky musicals? With Steve Martin revealing the truth about dentists? Oh, honey, right up my alley.

  • I have 78 research papers to grade. 
Are you envious?
You totally should be.
Or not.

  • Speaking of papers, one of my students posted this on my FB page . . . 
Ha. Ha. Ha.

Thursday, April 19, 2012

“I suppose the best kind of spring morning is the best weather God has to offer.” ― Dodie Smith

Florida is one of those odd places where spring starts in February and moves into summer by April, at the latest May, and it will remain summertime until November.
And by "summertime" I mean sunny over 90 degrees in heavy humidity (what is this thing you call "dry heat?") that has you sweating and exhausted even making a trek from the parking lot into the mall, yes, even if you are in shape. It's oppressive, peeps.

So far, the air is just now beginning to feel hot and thick.  Our pretty 70-80 degree weather is fading fast.  I was a dunce and missed most of the pretty blossoms (we do have plants that burst into bloom in February that are vaguely reminiscent of happenings up North . . . vaguely), but managed to catch some flowers that surprised me.

 Behold the little lilies that could! They made my heart happy!
After failing to catch my dozen azalea bushes in all their blooming glory (darn it!), I wasn't go to miss these little guys :]

Other things come with spring besides the heat and the buds: the bugs. They are swarming. The cockroaches are awake again, those vile demons from hell itself.  I found one trapped in my bedroom trashcan the other night.
"You need to be asleep!"
"I can't!!!"
"There's a roach in the trashcan! Kill it! Kill the bloody little assassin!"
"Sarah, go to sleep!"
"I can't! I can hear it scuttling around! It's evil! You can't sleep with evil in the room."
So I huddled with my dingo until Chris could squish it.

Then there's this guy:

Remember the Godfather Spider?
Yeah, he's back. 
His fat, bloated orangey, quarter-sized, ugly body perches itself on a MASSIVE web beside my door on almost a nightly basis. The web itself stretches about four feet from my house wall to a nearby bush and is wide enough to almost trap me for lunch. It's terrifying. Luckily, it's beside my door and not in front of it. Apparently, he remembers what happens when you put yourself in FRONT of my door (ANNIHILATION!!!). I allow his new arachnid-condominium to exist because he eats nasties, stays out of my way, and cleans up his web by morning.
He was there every night like clockwork for about two weeks, but his visits are becoming less and less frequent. Either he's found better hunting grounds or was killed by those less sympathetic to his web-wielding cause.

A few night's ago, Chris caught me having a conversation outside the door.
"Sarah, who are you talking to?"
"Do you see that wolf spider?" I pointed to a spindly creature the size of my palm near my step.
"I wanted to make sure we had an understanding. He can be there, but he can't come near my feet or in this house or else he will die a brutal death.  He seems to get the picture and let me come to the door without charging."
"Uuuuh . . . ok."

When I walked up to my step (it's not really big enough to justify being called a "porch") this beast was huddled by the wall, and I had to make a decision: flee, stay paralyzed and scream for Chris, attempt to squish it before it crawled onto my foot and then hope I can get his guts off of my favorite shoes, or let him know who's boss and go right up to my door. I chose the latter . . . but only after making severe threats and then darting to the door in a panic, one eye fixed on him from over my shoulder. He was a compliant little (er huge) bug . . . for a bug.

Sometimes, I have to talk through my fear . . . with my fear.  I don't make a habit of talking to bugs . . . usually I just kill them, but I can appreciate a good spider only in the context that they eat roaches. I'll take a hideous demon-eater over the demon any day.

Wednesday, April 18, 2012

From the mind of a tween . . .

Ah, I remember my tween-hood.
My awkward, awkward tween-hood . . . that lasted until I was about nineteen . . .
Luckily, there are no scanned photos to display . . . oh, darn.

Now, I work with tweens . . . and it is such a flashback.  The giggles . . .did I giggle that much? These kids make me laugh. Sometimes, I just about die . . . in the not-laughing kind of way.  Sometimes, I have to fight the laughter. A lot.

Thanks to a long history of Facebook statuses, here are some reasons WHY I try not to laugh until I cry in class:

Tuesday, April 17, 2012

"I'm not dead, yet! I'm feeling much better!"

If you don't recognize that quote, I'll disown you.
I'm kidding. I work with twelve-year-olds--I'm used to the greatness of days past being an unknown blob next to the glory of the Biebs.
I can't believe I just wrote that.
Or called him "Biebs." The tweens are getting to me, at last . . .