Lesson 22: Repetitive redundancy.

A few weeks ago, my beloved Stephen King ("Uncle Stevie") decided to no longer be a guest columnist for Entertainment Weekly.

His predominant reason? Fear of repeating himself.

And while I am sad he is leaving, I can understand his worries.

I worry that there is a shelf life to our jokes, our stories, and our demands.

Sometimes I think that may be part of the reason I am a high school teacher. I like the part where I am in people's lives for brief flashes and then a memory.

I keeps me from worrying that I am going to wind up an overplayed chorus. Like a summer song that gets played too long into the fall.

Now I just have to decide if I still want my subscription to the magazine.

Lesson 21: Don't stop believin'

I think I have written before about optimism.

While I never seem to get to teach it (Willy Loman the optimist? Only ironically), my preferred literature often reeks of optimism.

Persepolis? Times are tough but we'll get through.

Old School? School is awkward but I will grow up and make money telling people my woes.

Even my super favorite A Prayer For Owen Meany? I may be getting smaller but I still see you.

Why is optimism seen as childish?

I had a 15 year old today tell me that he would rather not look forward to a possibility of a snow day and be surprised than spend a day hoping.

I know I am supposed to agree. I know I should be cynical. All I want is snow though.

I am hoping to live forever as an optimist.

For example: despite knowing that the snow is supposed to end early, I have thoughts like...

...maybe they will run out of room to put the snow and I will have off?

...but I picked up my car from the shop, I am so prepared for school so I must have off.

...I work in such a big town, they will never be able to plow it all.

I guess this can be the optimist test.

Will I go in tomorrow or will my inside out pjs pay off? Will it be a day of cocoa cookies and catching up... or will I review for midterms?

Lesson 2010. Should auld acquaintance...

Today one of my inspirations and facebook friends told me not to worry or feel guilty and to focus on happy. He said I deserved good things.
So Paulo Coehlo, this list is for you.

My 2010 good things (in no particular order):
-ran in my first 8+miler, 10k, and whooped some butt (finally) in a 5k
-crossed the brooklyn bridge!
-spent a day pretending Hogwarts was real... and in Florida
-watched the sunrise in Georgia
-went to a multitude of terrific plays with my mom and Aunt Sue
-celebrated as Chris finally found a job that fits
-whooped it up as Portia has started to re-grow toenails
-introduced Cait to Disneyworld and finally ate in Mexico
-discovered 5 hour energy drink
-was a nominee for the Princeton secondary education teachers
-ate a whole lobster
-danced a reel in a centuries old New England inn
-wore a bikini in public!
-finally got more of Chris's family to enjoy the cabin
-enjoyed 5 years of marriage and 10 years as a couple
-saw Ben Folds for the first time in 10 years and felt like it never changed
-had the perfect city day with Chris (Harry, Wintuk, and Max Brenners)
-loved a trip to DC (and discovered DC loves cupcakes as much as I do)
-finished German year 1
-realized the makers of Lost like C.S.Lewis as much as I do
-read a great many books I like (I think Geraldine Brooks is great and that everyone should read Persepolis) and only one that I hated (Pillars of the Earth? More like Pillars of Poop)
-was blessed to have good friends, good family, and good health

It was a happy old year.
Happy new year!

Lesson 19: Why I Hate the Puritans

Oddly the reasons why I hate the Puritans have little to do with witch hunts, sermons about spiders, or even, mission style furniture (which, secretly, I love).

It's their damned "Early to bed, early to rise" crap.

The damned Puritan Work Ethic.

I'm sick of it.

This Ye Olden Work Ethic has stressed out my holidays, guilted my vacations, and currently is loading up my weekends.

I was raised on the get it done, make it work mentality.

I was raised feeling like it was bad to take mental health days.

I know it's not just the Puritans. My mom went to work at a time when so many around her judged her for not being a stay at home mom and when others judged her for her ability to keep up with the boys. As a result she has always worked. Weekends. Holidays. Nights, even when she got home from a long day of work. And during tax season? From January until April. As in, every waking second from January to April. I still can't fathom how she had both a February and April baby. I can't imagine her taking off from work long enough to go into labor.
My dad did not have quite so many societal issues but he wanted to make a name for himself. And wanted to buy a nice house. And pay for his kid's education (yay!). So he worked one job, and taught nights.
And when we vacationed? We listened to classic literature on the way up, were up with the sun each day, and many of our touristy activities were learning moments.

I was raised with the notion that work=life.

I still do this. I make vacation To Do lists and feel guilty any day that I am not grading papers.I don't even (really) like to sleep late. Any time after 9 and I feel like I wasted the day.

But I am learning to work on this. For once teaching The Stranger with his keep moving forwards mentality did not depress me.

And for once I will admit that one of the reasons I am a teacher is for summer. I think working 51 weeks out of the year is for suckers. I will admit that working 10 months is more than enough to keep me feeling fulfilled and like I am making a difference in the world.

And my new theme song for this...

Lesson 18. On Family, Moving Out, and Moving on.

I live with my parents.

What began as a small move, to enable Chris and I to go on our tour of Europe without paying exorbitant rent on top of exorbitant hotel bills, has turned into a lifestyle of sorts.

We actually find it suits us.

But we feel guilty about it, and I am not certain why.

I feel in so many ways like it has been only since I got a little older that I appreciate my parents. I understand how cheeky I was as a teenager and no longer want to fight about playing my music loudly at bedtime or cleaning up after myself. And since the near constant struggle to find myself has been replaced with an attempt to be myself (and maybe like myself) I think they find it easier to anticipate my reactions to normal queries. Which makes things easier.

But I know that I am not supposed to be here. And I am not supposed to be okay with this.

It's weird but it makes me think of Mrs. Bennett. Striving her whole life to get her daughters married and then crying when they leave her.

When I first told my parents I was getting married, my mom did not respond well. She was more or less concerned that just as we were starting to get along, I was going to leave her and never come back.

Now, instead, I think when the time finally comes, she will realize that we will survive the separation.

And for now, we will enjoy our movie nights and arguments over the menu.

And when people ask me why we live with them, I will continue to tell that that it's "to take care of them" while secretly knowing that there is something special to being as ancient as I am and still having people take care of me.

Lesson 17: Not with a bang, but with a whimper

Chris wanted me to try out this new type of presentation (called prezi).

Because of this, I spent a lot more time this week with TS Eliot than I ordinarily would have.

We bonded.

We argued.

An he got me to consider rereading Heart of Darkness. Because maybe, just maybe 17 year old me missed something.

But mostly, Eliot just made me sad.

I can deal with idiots full of sound and fury signifying nothing.

Idiots have bang.

What I can't deal with is the whimper.

I want Eliot to hang out with Thomas and his dying father. I am all about raging.

But whimpering?

Not for me.

So when only one of my students got mad at the poem, I got sad again.

The majority sat there saying - this is true. this is inevitable. we can't stop this.

But one student just said - this is stupid.

And it's weird, because I know that academia and the world of intellectualism scoffs at comments like that.

Especially comments like that about Eliot.

And they sneer and say things about opiates of the masses or the unbelievable naivete of youth.

But I thought he was BANG on.

I think I prefer Whitman.

All of his YAWPING and celebrating self, strutting his grey beard down Manhattan.

I prefer him.

Lesson 16: Soup's On!

Eventually, I suppose, it all comes down to soup.

Physically - I have always figured that soup is the stuff of leftovers. Last night I had to use some of the refrigerator overflow (the cabin had been shut down for the winter and we brought food home). Potatoes. Celery. Carrots.

AKA... soup.

In fiction - Alice's Adventure In Wonderland comes to mind. I always loved the mock turtle, but never more than when he was played by Gene Wilder. I loved how melancholy and absurd he is.

And I always loved the stories of Stone Soup. I like to think it's what my mom always meant when she said we were having boiled rocks for dinner. I like the idea of the rock "just needing a little..." to make it into soup. I loved liking the "bad guy" - the con man with only a rock and a story.

And the Dodge Poetry fest this year seemed to be all about soup - despite it's sunniness. Aimee Nezhukumatathil's "Fugu Soup" was a favorite. She was a general favorite.

And in the kitchen.

I think it's fairly widely established that I am no great cook. I can bake well, and I am terrific at breakfast, but "real food?"

No way.

I make reservations. I grab takeout.

As I am writing this, Chris is happily in the kitchen making quesadillas. They will come out wonderfully. I am certain that I would still be able to screw these up, easy as they are.

But I am good at soup. And I like to think that soup is important.

Soup makes your esophagus and belly warm.

You can't rush eating soup (at least, not my chunky soup).

Soup keeps the storm outside outside.

And it's hard to screw up soup. If it's too salty, I can add something. Too bland, I have a remedy.

And I beg you to look at people on the next cold and blustery day when they get soup. When their hands cradle the mug or bowl, there is a look of calm expectation.

Just because of soup.