The Stoplight Oracle

We slowed to a stop at the red light.  Jessica, my best friend of 16 years, sat in the passenger seat of my mom’s Chevy Lumina, and she was in the midst of revealing to me the identity of her latest crush.  Blues Traveler provided the soundtrack for the evening (and most of 1994 for that matter), and aside from an occasional stop to socialize in J.C. Penney’s parking lot, or a driving-too-fast-detour over the dip on 11th Ave., we stuck to the prescribed cruising route:  up Main Street, around McDonald’s, down First Avenue, and around the square in one continuous loop.

Jessica and I sat stranded at a red light in mid-loop when she completed her romantic revelation. “I’m going on a date with Neil Coulter next weekend,” she exclaimed excitedly.  I stared straight ahead at the red light, my hands tightening around the maroon leather of the steering wheel.  "Neil Coulter?" I thought. "My Neil Coutler?" 

Of course, he wasn't technically mine.  I mean, I was sort of dating someone else, and so was he. Sort of. Technically.  At that point in my life I'd had, maybe, a total of three minutes of conversation with Neil, and I'd certainly never told another living soul about my clandestine crush.  But I'd hung out in his area of the parking lot a little.  I'd laughed at all his jokes, and I think I leaned on his station wagon once while I was there. 

“Erin, the light is green,” said Jessica, and with those words I was startled back into reality. “Oh, sorry,” I replied as I stepped on the gas and shook my head in an effort to physically remove myself from the twenty second stupor I’d just experienced.

As we made our way around the loop again, Jessica continued to talk, but I didn’t really hear what she was saying. Hadn’t I told her I liked Neil? Or did I dream that?  Okay, maybe I'd never actually mentioned it out loud, but wasn't there a mind-reading clause in this best friendship?  Perhaps I'd thought about it so much in the privacy of my own brain that I simply felt transparent.  And asserting oneself isn't really part of the giggly, quiet side-kick code of conduct, I suppose. 

Her detailed description of the courtship rituals that led to the making of her date with Neil lasted an entire cruising loop, and so did the silent struggle in my head. Should I say something?  And, if so, what?  No, you can't date my secret, fake boyfriend?  That wouldn't work. My 16-year-old self did not possess the strength to risk looking like a crazy person in the eyes of both my best friend and a boy who was quite possibly unaware of my existence.  But had she noticed that funny way Neil sucked in his breath after he laughed really hard?  Or paid attention to that sweet way he naturally took care of all of his friends?   

As we finished the loop, we slowed to a stop at the same stoplight we'd sat at earlier in the night. It was red. Stop. Wait. Again. Perhaps it was a sign. “That sounds great,” I said. “Neil seems like a really nice guy. I’m happy for you.” The strain in my voice produced by the lie was barely detectable. As I sat at that stoplight for the second time that night, something inside me said stop. Wait. So I did.

The light turned green; the night continued, as did my friendship with Jessica. Nine years later I ran into Neil again. Two years after that I took his last name. The stoplight on Main Street, the one that decided my future, is visible from the bedroom window of the house that I now share with Neil. I came full circle thanks to one continuous loop.

Back and Blue

One of the first pieces we read in my American Literature class is The Crucible by Arthur Miller.  The Crucible is a work of historical fiction based on the tragedy of The Salem Witch Trials.  It's the story of a group of Puritan girls who accuse innocent members of their community of witchcraft.  The false accusations are fueled by both fear and personal vengeance.  The girls abuse their power to the detriment of their community, and the accused are brought before a court and given two options:  Admit to the crime of witchcraft or be executed.  Many of the accused compromise their own beliefs and lie to save their lives, but as the hysteria grows, a few refuse to abandon their moral code.  They are taken to the gallows for refusing to give in to the pressure caused by a gross abuse of power.

I read this play with my students every year, but this time the themes feel strangely familiar.  No, the struggle of a bunch of striking teachers from Central Illinois can't be literally compared to the tragic circumstances surrounding the Salem Witch Trials, but when the discussion in my classroom produces terms like witch hunt, punishment, unwarranted accusations, and abuse of power, it's hard not to make some connections.  The characters in the story are forced into a situation in which they are unjustly assumed guilty until proven innocent.  Yes, I've experienced that.  In the story, the people in charge claim their actions are for the good of the community.  Uh-huh.  I think I've heard that somewhere before.  And as the story comes to its conclusion, the accused characters are forced to choose the lesser of two evils.  Yep.  I can relate to that, too. 

The teachers at Illini Bluffs stood on the picket line for eight days to show that we are not willing to accept a claim by the school board and administration that states a random drug testing policy for teachers, the first of its kind in any Illinois public school, and intended to address a problem that the board itself admits does not exist, is in the best interest of the students and community.  I still believe it is a ridiculous claim, and still CAN'T believe how it all turned out. 

I sat on a sidewalk outside of our school for six hours during the last night of negotiations, waiting to hear if I would report to the classroom or the picket line the following morning.  When the news finally arrived that I would, in fact, be headed back to my classroom, I cried tears of happiness and relief.  I left that night not knowing the terms of the new contract, but full of hope that it was the beginning of a reconciliation between the teachers and the school board.  The next day, after hearing the newly proposed terms, I fought back tears of regret as I voted to accept terms that I do not agree with, and faced the fact that the small shred of human decency that I had hoped to be treated with may never come from my employers. 

The teachers accepted a contract that proposed a voluntary random drug testing policy for teachers already employed by the district.  As stated in our contract, the names of any teacher who "volunteers to be included in the random drug testing program will be made public."   Let me make this clear:  I am a good teacher.  I do not use drugs.  My name will NEVER appear on the aforementioned public list, and that has no bearing on my ability to teach your children.  But what does hinder my ability to teach your children is not being legally allowed in the school building, so in the spirit of compromise, I grudgingly voted to accept the terms as a means of getting your children back into school.  The entire policy of voluntary random drug testing is ludicrous, but as I've become very accustomed to the ridiculous over the past few weeks, I chose to vote for the option that would benefit the majority.  I can live with that. 

The part of the new agreement that keeps me up at night, though, is the section that states that any new employee to the district will NOT have the option to volunteer to be tested; random drug testing will be a condition of their employment.  I feel serious guilt about bargaining away the rights of Illini Bluffs' future teachers.  With all the bad press our district has endured for the past few years, getting quality teachers will be a challenge.  Now, with the terms of the new contract, I fear it will be nearly impossible.  I know there are amazing teachers in the district who are currently exploring other career options as a result of our district's actions, and if my roots weren't so firmly planted in this area, and if I didn't have so much already invested in our students, I would entertain the same notion because this victory sure feels a whole lot like defeat. 

If you've been following my blog through this journey, you're familiar with my tendency to see the glass as half-full.  I am still optimistic that change can happen in our district. As a result of the out-pouring of kindness and support I witnessed during the strike, my faith in the Illini Bluffs community is stronger than ever.  At this point, the power to change our school is largely in the hands of the parents, students, and taxpayers, and they must take action to help fix what is broken at Illini Bluffs.  The spotlight is still on our community and the fight is not over. 

After everything we've been through, to say that I have faith in the quality of education provided by the teachers at Illini Bluffs would be an unbelievable understatement. I am absolutely inspired by both their professional integrity and steadfast commitment to standing up for what is right.  Their example provides me with all the motivation and encouragement I need to continue moving in a positive direction.  In the past months there have been many lofty claims regarding who, exactly, is looking out for the best interest of our children. If you'd like to see actual living, breathing examples, you can find us standing in the front of our respective classrooms, teaching the students enrolled in the Illini Bluffs School District.  We are back where we belong, and in a position where we can do the most good.  And I can assure you that our commitment to fighting for what is best for our school is stronger than ever. 

The Ripple Effect

The picket line has introduced me to a special kind of exhaustion.  I'm not accustomed to spending long hours in the hot sun, so my very pasty-white skin prefers the cool confines of my classroom.  The spotlight and its scrutiny are uncomfortable for me, which is why the largest groups I ever want to stand and speak in front of are the students who fill the desks in my classroom each day.  The anxiety that's produced each time I open the newspaper or switch on the evening news to see our school as the top story continues to be a harsh reality in my world, and I'm certainly not used to spending my days constantly defending my character and integrity.  I'm so tired. 

Teachers are not strangers to adversity. We deal with problems in our respective classrooms on a daily basis.  If your first grader is having trouble reading, it's a teacher's job to find a solution.  If your twelve-year-old has trouble with his multiplication tables, or your high school freshman just can't figure out how to transfer the thoughts in his brain into proper essay form, teachers make it their mission to resolve that issue.  We are the fixers of problems.  The solvers.  So with no clear resolution in sight at the completion of day eight on the picket line, to say we are frustrated would be an understatement. 

For the past eight days I've had plenty of time to look at the school building that I am currently not legally allowed to enter.  I've watched as a handful of individuals have crossed our picket lines in an effort to make a few quick bucks, and I've become physically ill at the thought of a strange teacher in my classroom teaching our kids.  I've been at my gate each morning to watch board members and administrators, the ones who trusted me enough to give me my job in the first place, practice their now infamous policy of silence as they pass by their teachers without a word.  I've listened to parents on both sides of this issue, and I've put myself in their shoes. 

While I continue to be bolstered and inspired by the supporters, because I'm a parent, I can also commiserate with the opposition.  I can sympathize with the headache and extra cost of lining up daycare, and with the frazzled mothers of children who are upset because they can't actually use their new backpacks.  It's difficult trying to explain to those kids why their teachers are standing on the side of the road outside the school.  It's probably as difficult as explaining to my daycare provider what a financial strain this strike could pose to my family.  My heart bleeds for the married couples who work for our district.  They have kids, too.  There are members of the staff that have one income households, new families, new mortgages, and potentially no income.  The ripples of this strike are wide and far-reaching. 

So why would we willingly involve our families in this struggle?  Why would we subject YOUR families to this? Because the teachers of Illini Bluffs believe that the outcome of this strike will change things at our school for the better, and we are fiercely committed to making the school a better place for your kids.  We want a school that holds the school board and the administration accountable for doing what's best for your children.  And while I don't harbor any delusions of a workplace utopia, I do believe that the teachers at Illini Bluffs are entitled to being treated with at least a shred of human decency.  Those are the reasons I'm on the picket line. I have nothing to fear and nothing to hide. 

Our detractors say we should just suck it up and get back to work, and I'd be lying if I said that option wasn't an attractive one.  Teachers are not picket line naturals.  I hate this angry, uncomfortable, picketing version of myself, but I'm certainly glad to know she exists.  I now know that if my son's school was in a situation like the one at IB, I would be the parent on the front lines trying to get the facts.   I would be forcing the elected officials to make MY voice heard, and I would not let my ELECTED officials use a lawyer from outside the community as an all-encompassing voice.  The teachers may not be allowed in the building, but, parents, YOU are.  On the line we may voice our displeasure to "replacement teachers" who cross, but a teacher with a picket sign WANTS to talk to community members, no matter what side you're on. After all, the school belongs to the community.  The school board, the administration, and the staff work for YOU, so please ask questions.  Get involved.  I truly believe that an army of angry, frustrated, frazzled mothers have the power to end this strike.  And I should know.  I am one. 

When I finally get back to school, my students may have to do a double-take when they see the tan, freckled, exhausted version of me walking through the hallway.  They may notice the physical toll the strike has taken, but once we're back in my classroom, it won't take long for them to recognize that little else has changed.  When this is all over, I'll still be the teacher who expects nothing less than their best in English class.  I'll still be the teacher they can joke around with, rely on, and trust.  And when I begin to hear the familiar complaints from my seniors about the workload in English Composition, I'll tell them that I'm trying to prepare them for their future, and I'll explain that the real world will most assuredly be filled with hard work that they sometimes don't want to do, and with challenges that they sometimes don't want to face.  I hope that they'll believe me and see me as living proof of that.  I hope they'll see me as a role model. 

Walkin' The Line

I hate conflict.  I'm uncomfortable with confrontation and try to avoid it at all costs.  I am easily flustered when it comes to engaging in anything resembling a spirited argument.  The sweat-slime that's created after applying multiple layers of sunscreen, and the feeling of sweat-drips rolling down my back bring out the crabby whiner in me. For these reasons, I'm probably not the person you hope to have standing next to you on the strike line.  However, it's important to remember that even if your jokes are dumb, I'm a guaranteed laugh.  And when it comes to my bladder, I'm like a camel, so I rarely have to be shuttled off-site to a restroom.  I enjoy organizing, so I'll always set up a food station and keep the cooler stocked, and I can flash a winning smile and wave to cars all day long when I'm fueled by a cause I believe in.    

I make it a point to surround myself with people who spend most of their time on the bright side.  My people prefer to picnic on a sunny hillside where the grass is always greener, or at least die trying.  It's my nature to seek a silver lining, but even my stalwart optimism was squashed when I found out a teacher's strike at my school was unavoidable.  It turns out, nothing puts a damper on a sunny disposition like having to defend a spotless record of service, and nothing is more infuriating than being considered guilty until proven innocent.  Having the names of both my school and my friends dragged into an absolutely unwarranted, negative spotlight has been profoundly disheartening, but the time I've spent "on the line" has been exactly the opposite.  It's been inspiring. 

Don't get me wrong.  I hate almost everything about this picket purgatory.  I want a resolution YESTERDAY, but when the other side refuses to even open a dialogue, what's a glass-half-full gal like me to do?  You guessed it. This Pollyanna pinpoints the positive (and then writes about it =).

Being united for a good cause provides a sense of community that I always hoped to be part of, but was never sure could actually exist.  Getting to know teachers outside your own building isn't easy...until you're forced to sit on the side of a country road together for eight hours a day.  Providing an elementary school teacher with "where are they now" accounts of the grown-up versions of the tiny people who nervously entered their classrooms, or talking to a middle school teacher about the students who awkwardly navigated their pre-teen years only to find their footing in high school is an awesome and important experience.  Hearing that the problems teachers are facing in our middle and elementary schools are pretty much the same problems we face in the high school only serves to unite and empower teachers to continue fighting the good fight.  And I can assure you that every single teacher at Illini Bluffs IS fighting the GOOD fight. 

Families and other community members continue to deliver an over-abundance of food and supplies to our picket posts, and some hold sign-making parties and donate their time to help spread a message of support for teachers.  Kids take it upon themselves to rally, and past, present, and future students have all shown up to stand on the line with us.  And it means everything.

Out on the line, the teachers are still teaching.  They're teaching me that change is slow, but it CAN happen. They're teaching me about handling myself with grace under pressure.  I'm learning from the best what it means to have an endless capacity for hope. 

From To-Do to Ta-Da!

Nobody loves a good to-do list more than me, and with only one official week of summer left, I have an urge to organize.  Below is a list of what I hope to accomplish in the next seven days.  Each item will include photographic documentation (for entertainment purposes and because I need structure and accountability to help me follow through). I can only hope to get as much satisfaction checking items off this list as I did creating it. 

Last Week of Summer To Do List:

1.  Cherish lazy couch, coffee, and cartoon morning routine.

   

2.  Visit favorite places and linger a little longer than usual.

 

3.  Find Make time to hang out with the girls


Thank you for being a friend...

Just so you know, when I made this list last week I hoped to actually hang out with my own girlfriends.  However, that was the one item I wasn't able to check off my list.  I think the topic of girlfriend time (or lack thereof) deserves its very own blog entry, so stay tuned for that.  To satisfy this to-do list, I was able to trade actual girl time for some Golden Girl time.  Here's a fun Fifey factoid: I LOVE The Golden Girls, and one of my favorite things about summer is that I can stay up past 10:00 to catch an episode or two.  I have a hard time justifying the existence of either the Hallmark or Lifetime channels, but because they are the only ones airing my beloved Golden Girls, I'll forgive them for producing such embarrassingly sappy movies and for continuing to suck so royally. 

4.  Get house in order so that brain will follow suit.

Bleach drops on ovens and swiffers in kitchens,

Clutter-free surfaces keep me from itchin'.

Sparkling clean toilets shining like bling,

These are a few of my favorite things...  

5.  Make chalk draw, trucks vroom, trains choo-choo, tricycles race, animals talk, and create secret shrubbery clubhouses.

 

6.  Go school clothes shopping!



It's a start. 
I love you, Target.

7.  Read a book that provides an escape from reality without making me dumber for having read it.

Did you know women actually existed in the early 1800s?  And did you realize that some of them did amazing things that helped shape our country?  Yeah, me either...until I read this book.  Aside from the obligatory mention of Harriet Tubman or Eleanor Roosevelt, history textbooks tend to focus on the old white dudes, so the existence of the Peabody sisters was certainly a surprise to me. If you're a history and/or literature nerd, you'll enjoy this one. 

8.  Make a point to officially end my obsession with Eddie Vedder and his ukulele (that sounds dirty, but it really isn't) and find a new (or, more likely, new-to-me) fall music favorite to put on constant repeat.  This marks the official summer to fall transition:

9.  Create a video snapshot of what Owen is like at age two to add to my memory movie reel.

10.  Speak more than two uninterrupted sentences in a row to my husband during some head-clearing, grievance-airing, giggle-inducing, after hours porch time.

   


There you have it.  From to-do to to-DID.  Ta-Da!!!  And now I think it's time we have a little talk, Bubble...Deep, cleansing breath...I think I finally have the strength to do this:

It's been a good run, Bubble.  You were an integral part of making Summer 2011 one of the best so far, but it's over.  It's not you, it's me.  I must make the transition from romantic to realist, and there's just no place for you in my new reality. Sure, maybe we'll meet up for an occasional fling on the weekends, but our long term relationship is over.  I did love you, Bubble, but I popped your ass for a reason.  I've got important work to do, and this train is pulling out of Procrastination Station.  I'll always treasure our misty water-colored memories, but I have a kid who sings ballads about pork (see # 9), so Mama's gotta bring home the bacon. 

Thanks again, Bubble, for everything. 



Great Expectations

You know when you blow a really big bubble-soap bubble and as it slowly drifts to a surface, instead of popping, it lands and becomes a half bubble?  That's the status of my bubble life now.  When I look up, there's still a beautifully dreamy, swirly-colored shield protecting me, and it continues to enable me to see the outside world with a rose-colored hue. But when I look down at my feet, I see they are clearly planted on the solid ground that gravity has forced me to land on. 

I think the occurrence of a half bubble can be scientifically explained by using phrases like "surface tension" and "resistance to external force," but as the properties of the bubble aren't really my science, I'm more inclined to metaphorically apply those terms to my own life (English is sort of my science), and right now I'm in the business of bubble preservation.  But it's getting so difficult.  And in my bubble blowing experience, which is extensive, once a half bubble is created, it's only a matter of a few short seconds until it pops. 

I certainly feel the tension on this surface where I've landed.  And resistance to the external forces that will obliterate my bubble can only last until, roughly, August 16th.  That's the date that school will either start or not start.  And because I only have a half bubble of protection now, and the sad and incredibly frustrating reality is becoming entirely too real, I'm experiencing an emotion that I haven't felt in a while:  Anger.

I'm mad that despite the BEST EFFORTS of some of my very good friends who have given up their ENTIRE summer to fight for bubble-dwellers like me, school still might not start on time.  I'm mad that the same people who hired me based on their faith in my ability as a teacher are now working so hard to portray me as a villain.  I'm mad that the school I love, a school that houses amazing teachers and works hard to produce amazing graduates, is getting such negative press AGAIN.  I'm mad that as a result of a ridiculous waiting game, quality teachers and staff members have slipped away to use their considerable talents at other schools.  I'm mad because even when we do get back to the business of education, there will still be so much frustration; A morale that's as banged up and bruised as ours takes a lot of effort to heal. 

I am not comfortable using the word "leader" to describe myself, and as the title of this blog implies, on most subjects I consider myself unqualified to give advice that exceeds the boundaries of good old-fashioned common sense.  But for over ten years now I've stepped in front of a classroom filled with tired, droopy-eyed teenagers on the first day of school.  Each year I work to engage them in the subject matter and prepare them for their future.  I teach a subject that many kids loathe, but as their leader I do my best to make their hard work worth their while.  Even if they hate reading Dickens' Great Expectations or despise the constraints of MLA format, my students know that I'm there for them, that I genuinely WANT to see them succeed, and that I'm proud of them when they do.  And, for the most part, this leadership technique is foolproof.  In my entire career as a teacher, I've given maybe four detentions and failed only students who decided to expend zero effort.  I foster an atmosphere based on mutual respect and positivity, and most of the students who pass through my English class succeed, and many of them actually like being there....Or at least they don't HATE it.  I've used my good old-fashioned common sense to recognize that people, no matter their age or station in life, generally succeed when they feel cared for and supported. And it is in that sort of environment that they are likely to exceed expectations as well. 

As Tina Fey would say, "I want to go to there." 

I See You, Reality. And You SUCK.

For a few months every year I have the luxury of pretending I'm a full-time, stay-at-home mom.  Usually around the end of July, I've had about all I can take of  those annoying orphans, Max and Ruby, and I've lost my taste for leisurely, cinnamon-toast mornings.  Even my sidewalk chalk drawings start to look a little...mental patienty.  As August approaches, I usually start to look forward to exchanging full-time Diaper Duty/Timeout Patrol for a classroom full of young adults.  Sure, they're smart-mouthed, eye-rolling, teen nightmares sometimes, but they can take themselves to the bathroom.  And I don't know if it's because my school has great kids or because I've built up a reputation as being "scary," but I rarely have to send any of my students to timeout.  

My job and my students challenge me in a way that makes me smile more often than they make me throw my hands up in frustration, so at the first sign of the "Back To School" display at Wal-mart, I'm usually more than ready to pack away the sunscreen and the sprinkler, and to happily purchase a fresh notebook full of clean paper and a shiny new red pen.  Even when my summers were all my own, in the pre-Owen days, I would eventually become sick and tired of myself (sometimes a little of me goes a long way, especially when I'm bored and/or too lazy to make myself un-bored), and ultimately I'd be itching for the first day of school.

This has been the routine since I started life in the real world.  However, this year is different, and as a result I've built an invisible force field of denial around myself.  And, I must tell you, I dig this bubble I've been living in for the past couple of months, and this time I do NOT want to come out.  Outside the bubble I will have to have conversations about whether or not I will report to the classroom or the picket line, but inside the bubble my conversations go something like this:

              Owen (sitting in the bathtub): "Mommy, I'm having a problem over here." 

              Me (lying on the floor, exhausted): "What sort of a problem?" 

              Owen: "Oh, I'm just up to my old tricks again." 

Or, sometimes they go something like this:

             Owen (riding his bike down the sidewalk): "Mommy?"
             Me: "Yes?"
             Owen: "You're probably my best buddy in the whole world." 

Now, tell me again why I would ever want to leave this bubble?  Oh, right.  There are those pesky bills that must be paid.  Those are fairly motivating, but fiscal responsibility is not to blame for the noticeable absence of the back to school anticipation I've become so accustomed to feeling.  And it's not just being a mommy that makes me want to stay home, either, because as much as I love my kid, I know myself well enough to realize that I do NOT have what it takes to be a full-time, stay-at-home mom.  (Super shout out to those saintly beings who DO stay at home full-time.  I worship at your feet.)  So, what makes my bubble-life so appealing this year?  Well, I think it's a mix of two things. 

First of all, my kid is AWESOME right now.  He's not a cuddly, chubby-cheeked observer of the world anymore.  He is a smart and hilarious kid whose favorite thing to do is to play the best game in the world, PRETEND!  The Muppets don't make pretend visits to my house when I'm outside the bubble!  And no one plays Monkey Tag out there, either!  (It's pretty much regular tag, but you pretend you're a monkey while you chase each other around the house...I know you were wondering.)   And, after a day of constant Muppet visits and a rousing round of Monkey Tag, my awesome kid goes to bed at 8:00, and I get at least two uninterrupted hours of porch time with Neil.  And, if you haven't noticed, porch time is pretty much my second favorite thing in the world (aside from Monkey Tag). What I'm telling you is This.Bubble.Rules.

And life on the outside?  Well, it's full of uncertainties.  The people in charge of our country, AND the people in charge of my own workplace, have yet to find a compromise.  Rooms full of adults, all of whom are responsible for the well-being of those they serve, can't won't agree on a common ground.  It's frustrating outside the bubble, to say the least, and this sort of frustration makes going back to work feel a lot more like WORK. 

So, now you're thinking, "Okay, Erin.  Not all of us get THREE months off of work, so you should probably stop complaining."  Or, "Not all of us have the luxury of being a working mom and a stay-at-home mom all at the same time, and here you are complaining about both?"  If you're thinking those things, you're right on both accounts.  I really do have it made, and I'm aware and grateful every single day.  And I know that, eventually, I'll be back in front of a classroom full of bored teenagers, trying my best to teach them something, while in the back of my mind thinking about how much I miss being home with my husband and my son.  And, eventually, I'll find myself at home dancing (and singing...don't judge me) to the newest song by Nickjr's very own freaking Fresh Beat Band, and when I realize that I know all the lyrics and can follow most of the Fresh Beat choreography, I'll feel instant shame and long to talk to someone, anyone, about symbolism in The Scarlet Letter.

I'll probably start to feel a twinge of excitement about returning to school when this ugly business of negotiating is over.  Shopping for new school clothes, seeing my class roster for this semester's Creative Writing class, and the promise of daily giggling sessions with my funny, smart and fabulous co-workers will eventually make life outside the bubble bearable.  But, for at least two more weeks, this bubble is impenetrable.  If you need me, you'll have to come in because I'm not coming out.  I'll be swimming in the kiddie pool, blowing bubbles on my porch, pretending to be a monkey in my living room, and basically soaking up some son.