Mountain Bound!

Well, the trip has arrived. Tomorrow morning at 10, three of the four boys and I will head off to North Carolina (the others will be heading out at noon). Approximately 6 hours later, we will arrive at our mountain home... which will hopefully be covered in snow. I'm going to set the boys to starting a fire immediately; luckily, we have an Eagle Scout traveling with us. So handy.

Before then, though, the task at hand is packing. Thanks to some neat freak gene passed on to me by my sweet mother (fortunately in rare, tiny increments), I cannot successfully pack until my room is completely clean and my closet organized, creating a bare canvas for laying out my wardrobe. We'll be gone for five days altogether, and you can guess what that means... lots of luggage. Traveling with the boys comes with pros and cons in the luggage department: there will be more room for my luggage because they surely won't pack as much, but I have a feeling they won't be as accepting of my excess baggage as the girls would be. Give me a break, though. We're going skiing, lounging around, going out, and that's very demanding of my wardrobe. I need ski wear (loaned to me by sweet Alice), lounge wear, going out wear, and a few things that can be dressed up or down. Not to mention scarves, jackets, boots and shoes, jewelry, toiletries, hair products and tools... etc. I mean, whoa.

On top of packing clothes, I'm spending the evening creating sweet confections to take with us... Oreo truffles, peanut butter cookies, Rice Krispie treats...

Clearly, a lady's work is never done.

Fahoo Fores, Dahoo Dores

Welcome Christmas, Christmas Day!

Well, if you haven't heard, we had a White Christmas this year. I'm not sure who was more excited, me or my cat. Macy rushed from window to window trying to determine whether or not the white specks falling from the sky wished to do her harm (think Wizard of Oz, "Are you a good witch? or a bad witch?").

As usual, Dad made breakfast and I slipped around the corner to see what Santa had left me. Mother says that Santa is running out of room on his sleigh for twenty-three-year olds; I insist that if Santa really loves me, he'll make room.

Christmas was good to me this year: riding boots, dresses, make-up, the annual Snow Baby ornament, a couple small home decor items from Anthropologie (Santa is so good to check my online wish list), pearl earrings (I have to mention that my dad picked them out because he did such a good job), and a few other this and that's. Spoiled much? Definitely.

Above all, though, I can truly say that the best part of Christmas was spending time with my family. Sure, I'm a little materialistic. I like pretty things, and I'm a sucker for name brands. But you can't put a price on tradition and laughter.

Every year on Christmas Eve, Mom and I watch How the Grinch Stole Christmas. Which means, every year on Christmas Eve, Mom and I crack up over the same animated faces we've seen time and time again. Something about that Grinch, though... Gets us every time.

Every year on Christmas, we play games. Oftentimes we play Scrabble, Dad's specialty, but this year we switched it up a bit with Trivial Pursuit because it was one of my Christmas gifts. Mom and I always play Monopoly, but Dad sits out because he only plays games he feels sure he can win.

Every year, Dad and I watch White Christmas. I should scratch that out because that was switched up a little bit this year as well: every year, Dad and I watch a Bing Crosby Christmas movie. We traded in White Christmas for the Crosby and Astaire classic Holiday Inn. It was cute, but we'll probably go back to White Christmas next year. Fred Astaire is a wonder to watch, but it's hard to beat Danny Kaye, in my humble opinion.

Every year, Dad suggests that we wait and open presents the next day. Or an hour before dinner. Or not at all. Basically, every year Dad tries to act like he doesn't know that we have a strict tradition enforcement policy around here.

It's been a few years since I've spent all of Christmas at home with my parents, and I've missed it more than I realized. I am so blessed to have a family that, gifts and jokes aside, celebrates Christmas because of a desire to celebrate Christ's birth, an event so incredible that I cannot find words to do it justice. How do you describe the God of Creation sending His Son to us, knowing all that He would endure... for us? Measly, complaining, wretched us.

What a mind-blowing day it is, really! Family, friends, food, laughter, presents, awful holiday sweaters... and the celebration of the most incredible, life-changing gift ever given to mankind. Whoa: Christmas is awesome.

it's the good life.

Christmas break is always so good to me.

I love spending time with my family and friends-- my hilarious aunts and uncles, snugs with my niece Mal, inside jokes with my dad, kitchen table talks with my mom, video games and ping pong with the boys, and lunch dates with the girlfriends.

I love spending time in my hometown with no worries about getting back to school to finish homework or study. I love reading on the couch while Mom watches the news and taking a beating from p90x with Dad and Dea, eating at my favorite restaurants (okay, I'm sorry I keep forcing you guys to eat at Mama's, but I love it so so much) and shopping at the local boutiques in my storybook town (the crowds are so much better than Target or Wal-Mart, and the customer service is the icing on the cake). And of course, there's the book table at Mike's. Oh man, oh man-- hours, literally hours, people. I love late night laughs in the living room at the Married Couple's house, long talks in the car with Clay, and midnight phone calls with JoJo (just to talk about the new board game she got today).

I love weekends with the pledge sisters, reliving the glory days and toasting memories long gone. I love that I always have something to look forward to because the Lord has so richly blessed me with people I can't get enough of.

And of course, it doesn't hurt that when I'm home for Christmas break the house elves magically do my laundry once a week and put supper on the table every night... Just one of the many perks.

Oh, and PS-- this is my 200th post. And I'm posting it at 2:00 am. Hip hip... hooray!

confession.

I've confessed before that I watch A Baby Story. Oh, how I wish this were my only guilty pleasure.

TLC shows a number of shows that I enjoy and am considerably less embarrassed to talk about: What Not to Wear and Say Yes to the Dress, for instance. For this reason, when I turn my TV on in the afternoon, it is often still on TLC from the night before.

Today, I turned the TV on just for some background noise while I typed out a few emails. I didn't realize how dangerous this practice is. An hour later, I'm watching a show called 'I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant.' Yeah, pretty self-explanatory, but in case you're having trouble putting the pieces together... this show documents stories of women who did not realize that they were, in fact, pregnant until they went into labor... usually sitting on the toilet in their dorm room bathroom. The show comes complete with reenactments... yup.

Now, I have no experience with being pregnant; however, this is an unthinkable thought to me. While I have never been pregnant myself, I have been around pregnant women, and I happen to be well aware that they're pregnant by their very pregnant appearance.

In the episode that's on as I type this out, the college freshman skips her period multiple times in a row, complains about crying over everything, throwing up at soccer practice, and gaining 15 pounds. Her mother says she noticed that her hips were getting wider, and the girl herself mentions that she'd gone up a cup size and is experiencing heartburn.

Hmmm. Call me crazy, but... absence of period, crazy hormones, throwing up, weight gain, heart burn, changing body shape... Oh, what's that? You went off your birth control a month before your boyfriend was deployed to Iraq? Yeah, I can see why this came as such a shock.

People, you are killing me.

little miss productivity

I know that no one likes a bragger... but...

I am having the best week ever.

I have been unusually productive in the past few days, which also happens to mean I've been unusually anti-social but you can't have everything, I suppose. But then again, the few days before this, I was extremely social... so maybe it's just a trade off. Play hard, work hard, or something like that.

First of all, if you didn't read my toilet post, I spent a few days last week in Dallas with my friend Clay. That city is awesome, eclipsed only by the people living there. I am in love with Clay's friends. The two girls in the group I am certain are my soul mates, and the boys are so much fun and such strong Christians. In-cre-duh-bull. (for all concerned, yes I know that's not spelled correctly. sound it out.)

Friday night, one of my very best friends came up from Auburn for some much-needed hang time. Blake and I were joined by a few of our other fellow Auburn-ites, and we spent the evening playing the Wii. Oh yeah-- I'm a total gamer.

I spent Saturday morning with my family. My wonderful, wonderful family. Am I the only person who still looks forward to family gatherings? I hear people groan and moan when they talk about "having" to go to a family gathering... My family fun days are the highlight of my week. Seriously, they are highlighted in my planner. And underlined. And circled. I spent most of my day playing with Baby Mallory and eating (about that whole hot tub thing...), and then we played Dirty Santa. I ended up with #1, of course, and I picked up my cousin Rachel's offering: it's one of those things you see on infomercials where you put this little spring mechanism under your chin and nod until you work your flabby neck off. I'm still puzzled as to why no one attempted to steal it from me, but you can be sure that I'll have the hottest neck in town come next Christmas. Then they'll be sorry.

Saturday afternoon I drove to Birmingham to celebrate the marriage of one of my pledge sisters. She and her groom are like the cutest couple ever. We danced the night away in our cocktail dresses and heels and ended up at Ihop with my dear friend Wade around 1 am. And to top the night off, we had a slumber party at JoJo's house. Practically perfect in every way.

After a much-needed nap Sunday afternoon, the productivity phase set in. I decided it was time to de-clutter my bedroom. Other than Christmas break and a few weeks in summer, I haven't lived at home since I've been in college. My college stuff has been bumped around from apartment to apartment; meanwhile, my bedroom at my parents' house has become something of a shrine to my high school career. For some reason, it has never occurred to me that we have an attic and I'm allowed to use it, so everything that has had some sentimental feeling attached to it has piled up under my bed, in various junk drawers, and in my closet. After hours of cleaning and reorganizing Sunday, I had two boxes of trash (it turns out, some things lose that "special" feeling after a few years) and two boxes for the attic (my Babysitter's Club books and a few priceless love notes, for example). I'm feeling much better already in my less cluttered space (please don't misunderstand: there's still clutter).

On Monday, I turned my attention to my car. It seems that I have collected every license plate registration receipt and expired insurance papers since I turned 16. Also, every nook in my car had at least 5 pens in it-- not that I could ever find one when I needed it-- and several dollars in change. Not to mention countless gum wrappers, straw wrappers, the occasional old fry, and a few empty water bottles jammed under seats. After the trash purge, I vacuumed. I even treated the leather. I told you I've been productive. Don't act like you're not impressed.

And lastly, today I did yoga with my dad. P90x yoga that almost killed us both, that is. This stuff is no joke. It's not your peaceful deep breathing yoga with a background soundtrack of Forest Sounds. This kind of yoga turns your body inside out, warping you into positions previously only used in medieval torture. My shoulder popped out of place briefly during one set of sun salutations, and I have rug burns on the palms of my hands. After arranging my body parts back into proper working order, I went out on the town to run some errands: bank, post office, last minute Christmas shopping.

I'm exhausted just typing it all out. I think I'm due some social time after so much productivity, although I have a sneaking suspicion that my mom could think of a few things to throw at me while I'm in this phase. Sorry, Mom, your window of opportunity has just closed. Try again next week.

I must be butter...

... cuz I'm on a roll.

So far this Christmas break I have finished three novels:

Margaret Mitchell's Gone with the Wind

Phillipa Gregory's The White Queen

and Charles Martin's Chasing Fireflies

I get very, very attached to books-- like, really, I weep every time I read the Harry Potter series-- and so I always hate to turn that final page, but the sorrow is quickly eclipsed by my excitement to jump into a new literary world. Right now, I'm working on C.S. Lewis's The Screwtape Letters, and let me tell you: it's awesome. Awesome. It is such a fresh take on the life and trials of a believer, and satiric prose is the perfect fit for me.

Also on tap for this Christmas break:

F. Scott Fitzgerald's This Side of Paradise

Edith Wharton's The Age of Innocence

Jane Austen's Northanger Abbey

Rick Riordan's The Lightning Thief

and hopefully many more...

And now, I have a date with my man C.S.

cliche.

Right now, I'm sitting in a coffee shop in Dallas. It's in an old house, every room is full of vintage couches and arm chairs, and the playlist is a Who's Who of indie sonsters: The Decemberists, Sufjan Stevens, Frou Frou, et cetera. Atop every table sits a Mac Book Pro, including the very laptop I'm borrowing right now, and I feel a bit out of place with no chai tea latte in my hand and no worn-out Toms on my feet.

It's the kind of place that hosts open mic nights and allows frequent fliers to post their homemade art on the walls in hopes of a big sell.

So, yes, this is a hipster cliche. But while I was amused when I first walked in, I'm falling more and more in love the longer I sit here. The more I gaze around at my coffee house comrades, the more Bibles I see accompanying the Macs, and the more I listen, the more I hear people my age discussing their spiritual lives with the person next to them. Immediately, I am in love and inspired. The greatest thing of all: the majority of the people around me are guys. This isn't awesome because I'm single (hello, I don't need a Dallas boyfriend). It's awesome because there are few things in life more touching than a man with a heart for God. I think it's so easy for women, more emotional and in touch with their feelings by nature, to talk about "what the Lord's doing" in their life and tell their friend they're praying for them. But a man who talks this way, who lives it out loud, seems like a much greater feat indeed.

I'm reading The Screwtape Letters-- in between blog posts-- because I left my book (Charles Martin's "Chasing Fireflies") at home, and Clay loaned me the C.S. Lewis classic. Just five chapters (letters) in, I'm obsessed. C.S. Lewis, you win again. You always do.

my cup runneth over.

Okay, it wasn't my cup. It was a toilet. And it wasn't mine, it was Clay's.

**warning: this is graphic and what some might call "over-sharing." But I don't believe in that.

Head's up: this is a blog of full-disclosure, and, though the most mortifying moment of my life, this story begs to be shared.

First things first, let's get some things straight: everybody poops. There. I said it. It's a natural, God-given function, and it is necessary and healthy. I'm not sure why we're so ashamed of this little process, but I'm no exception. If you're a guy, I hate to burst your bubble, but yes: girls, too, poop. Your wife, your girlfriend, your little sister... all poopers since Day 1.

Right now, I'm in Dallas visiting my friend Clay. Last night, we went to a Mexican restaurant called Manny's and then went back to Clay's apartment to play games. So there I am, with Clay and seven of my closest friends (read: seven strangers that I'm trying to impress with how cool and clever I am) when the urge hits me. Usually on trips, my colon is what you might call "shy," so when the opportunity arose, I had no choice but to embrace it.

I carefully timed my decision. Just after my turn, when I knew the other seven still had to play before I would be up again, I quietly excused myself. I stealthily slipped past the hall bathroom to the back bedroom. There I considered a test-flush to ensure that the porcelain throne was in good working order. Stop being paranoid, I told myself.

You know what happens next. I flush, and as I'm buttoning up and adjusting, I watch the water in the toilet swirl. Unlike most toilets though, this time the water is spinning in the wrong direction.

Cold sweat. Racing heart.

I think to myself that the toilet is just teasing me, some kind of bathroom version of chicken. Wrong. As the water threatened to spill over the top, I lunged to turn the water off, all the while whispering frantic prayers and promising to never be bad again if God would only fix the toilet. Some sort of Christmas miracle.

I think it's funny when God laughs at me.

So, I have no choice. After deciding that there's no way I can sneak back into the living room, grab my phone, and call my dad for advice (he's the only person I know that gets himself into more awkward situations than me), I drag myself into the living room and try to catch Clay's eye. He doesn't notice-- of course-- but his friends do.

"Clay, I think Lindsey wants you."

Great, all eyes on me. Um, yeah, hi... I broke your toilet. It started to overflow, but I cut the water off. (mental pat on the back)

Sensitive Clay, "So there's pee all over my bathroom floor?"

Okay, I'm horrified that Clay, thinking that I'm making a big ordeal about something as normal as pee, will run into the bathroom and save the day. So there, in a room of my peers, I have to confess immediately: No. It's not just pee.

Nice to meet you all, it's been a lovely time here in Dallas, but I must leave now so that I can bury myself under a rock and never make eye contact with any of you ever again.

They were all so sweet about it. Too sweet. Unbearably sweet. I wanted someone to joke about it, act like it was totally normal. But instead, they petted me, as though they wanted to save me from what they agreed was a totally miserable, mortifying experience.

They'll never remember my name. Months from now one of them will turn to Clay and say, "Whatever happened to that girl that broke your toilet?"

Before you go thinking that you can't believe I shared this, don't act like it's not your worst nightmare. I just said what everyone's been thinking for years. I wish we could get over it, and I hope this was a step in the right direction. Guess what: I poop, and so do you.

The Day My Brain Snapped.

Today I ventured into uncharted territory: first grade. I haven't been in a first grade classroom since 1996-- when Yours Truly was herself a first grader-- and so it was mite more difficult to get my bearings. First of all, everything is in miniature. (Yeah, yeah, insert "just your size" joke here). Second, as the teacher, I am the keeper of all of Life's answers. It is inconceivable to a six-year-old that I might not know their second cousin Bradley or that I am uncertain how to log in to their AR test.

We started off with a bang, as my lesson plans stated that from 7:45-8:45 I was to take attendance. Attendance for an hour. So for the remaining 57 minutes I fielded questions-- what are we doing today? what's wrong with our teacher? do you know Santa? do you have kids? do you have a boyfriend? are you for Alabama or Auburn? are you going to be here tomorrow? do you go to high school? can I go to the bathroom? can I trade snacks with Lucy? can I go put my gloves in my backpack? will you pull my tooth? and so forth-- and tried to keep my 15 students in their seats, an experience much like asking cats to roll over on command.

Conversations with first graders are hard. Their attention spans are much like that of a chipmunk and, feeling the need to explain their every thought, any request comes with a five minute description of why they need what they need, including a break between sentences to see what the rest of the class is doing.

Water is, apparently, a miracle cure. Any ache or ailment can be magically solved by being allowed to get a drink of water:

"Miss Hays, my belly hurts."... "Would you like to get a sip of water?"... "Mmmhmm."

Much better.

"Miss Has, my neck hurts."..."Why don't you have some water?"..."Thank you!"

Problem solved.

"Miss Hazel, my head hurts."..."I bet a sip of water would make you feel better."..."Yes ma'am."

Ta-da!

Swear words are the new chicken pox. One kid whispers the "s-word" to his neighbor, who immediately reports, "So-and-so said &*it!!" He is in turn reported by his neighbor, who is then reported by his neighbor, and down the line until I have fifteen first graders blowing my room up with bad words. I calmly explain to my class that, regardless of who started it, we are not going to say bad words from here on out because you-know-who is making a list of who's naughty and nice, and I would hate for anyone to end up on the naughty list because of tattling or swearing. So there will be no more swearing from here on out because we all now have clean slates. At this point, a sweet child yanks my sleeve and says in his clearest voice, "Brandon said bull shit." Perfect.

Tattling, like swearing, is another epidemic. The majority of the time, the tattling child is in no way involved in the crime they are reporting; they are simply doing the civic duty to their neighbor by informing me that so-and-so stole so-and-so's pencil. These reports can be from the smallest infraction--"Susan put her hand on my desk"-- to the most ridiculous stories--"Dylan said you're his mom"-- to tattling on a tattler-- "Cody's going to tell on me but I didn't do anything wrong!" Halfway through the day I realized that this was not tolerated by any other teachers, and I had to put my foot down and inform the children that I was no longer accepting tattles, and I happen to know a jolly man in a red suit up North who doesn't care for tattlers either. This was a welcome break, as one more kiddie-breath (much like puppy breath, but worse) whispered tattle would have surely driven me over the edge.

As some point during the day, my brain snapped in half. I watched as reality melted around me and fought the urge to curl into fetal position and giggle to myself on the floor. No amount of lecturing, no severity of threat can curb these children. I could no more make a worm stop wiggling than I can make fifteen first graders simultaneously be quiet and still. They must swing their legs and tap their desks like they must breathe, and they must share every unfiltered thought that comes to their mind: "I colored the presents brown" (runs back to desk then returns), "I colored the house red" (runs back to desk then returns), "I colored the snow purple." You know what, why don't you just surprise me?

Let me put it to you this way: these kids are adorable. So freaking cute I can barely stand it. Like really, I'm not sure I can stand it. I want to teach first grade like I want to coach a basketball team of ducks, and I think I would be equally good at both.

It's not okay.

This is one of my many confession posts.

Okay, deep breath, here goes: sometimes, when I'm awfully low, or really just bored, I watch... drumroll, please... I watch A Baby Story.

There. It's out there in cyber world, and I am breathing just a bit easier.

Now this show, for anyone who hasn't tuned in, is ridiculous. One hundred percent, unadulterated ridiculousness. Why anyone would want to broadcast this "special day" on cable television is beyond me, but alas, there they are on TLC-- legs hiked up in stirrups and sweat flowing down their grimaced faces-- for all to see.

Yesterday I watched back-to-back episodes, which was a little much even for me. First, we had a couple who were first time parents delivering in a hospital. The dad was far too excited for his own good, continually peering around to watch the crowning and other such uncomfortable occurrences. He did what he called his 'daddy dance' and proclaimed proudly to the camera that he even got to "help move the Britney around to release the head."

**Note: "Britney" is code word for a certain part of the female body that my girl Britney Spears flashes from time to time to unsuspecting paparazzi. The proud daddy actually used anatomically correct terminology, but the v-word has no place on this blog.

Whoa, Big Daddy, there is no need for all that. That's what nurses are for. You sit back toward your wifey's head and let her squeeze your hand until your knuckles crack. At no point in time should you be south of her knees. Your sole purpose in that room is to take accept the blame for putting her in this lousy predicament via her soul-crushing accusations. You may also feed her ice and mop her brow. Nothing else.

Second up were, appropriately, second time parents. Their first child, Uva (oo-vuh), was born in a hospital after coming pre-term. The second time around, the Earth parents opted for a home birth, complete with baby pool in the living room in case of a water birth. Mommy laid in the floor chanting to herself as the midwife rubbed her and chanted back. When Mommy finally climbed into her swimming pool, Uva was there at ringside to observe the birth. Oh yes, you read that right. Two-year-old Uva watched her mom give birth in a baby pool in the living room.

Tee-totally normal. Not traumatic at all, I'm sure.

Some people shouldn't reproduce. Exhibit A: Uva's parents.

People, this is not okay.

Breakfast of Champions

Well, I'm back at the school today, so I'm up extra early. And you know what, it's extra cold. My hands ached as I gingerly held the steering wheel, hoping for as little contact as possible without careening my car into the icy lake-- which is something, morbidly enough, I think about almost every time I cross the Big Bridge.

True to my Operation: Hot Tub mission, I've been trying to watch my food intake as of late. Unfortunately, when I say I'm watching it, I mainly mean that I'm aware of it... not necessarily tailoring it to my Hot Tub needs. This morning, I'm noshing on a 100-calorie pack of Cheese-Itz... or maybe it's Cheeze-Its... I'm pretty sure there's a 'Z' in there somewhere... and a Diet Mountain Dew. Mmmm, nutrients.

I keep planning on making a grocery store run to stock up on more satisfying options, but it's so gosh-darn cold out and I so hate mass market places... Oh, and I'm extremely lazy, so there's a con. I am craving healthy options, though. The truth is, I don't have a sweet tooth. (My mother just gasped). I am a sweet tooth (feel better, Mom?). I feel like every meal must be followed up with a sugary treat to cleanse my palette (thanks for that genetic gift, Dad). Preferably something chocolate. Furthermore, while some people have an aversion to fast food, believing it to be gross or low-quality or some such nonsense, I love it. Yep, there it is. I love it. Chick-Fil-A: whoa baby, your milkshakes and spicy chicken sandwich make my heart sing. Arby's roast beef sandwich, 'H' yes. Krystal, your burgers are so tiny, I could eat a million-- and I usually give that lofty goal my best shot. And the worst of the worst, Taco Bell. Oh boy, Taco Bell, you are my tummy's delight.

That's what's up. I'm a glutton, and you're disgusted with me now, but I needed to confess that to get to this:

I'm over it. Lately, I'm craving rabbit food. Blame it on my road-diet on the way to and from Tuscaloosa; blame it on the rich Thanksgiving fare of late; whatever the reason, I need lettuce. I need fruit. I need water. I need things that are natural and juicy, God's own sweet gift to me.

Thank goodness the lunchroom is serving chili and corndogs today... Mmm, nature's bounty.

Testing, testing.

Today I'm subbing at the high school again, and I'm giving a test. An open-book, matching, vocabulary test. And yet, the groans of protest never cease. The whispering of answers and double-checking of neighbors persists despite my desperate pleas for silence and dangerous threats of zeroes: "If you're talking, you're cheating."

Just now, for instance, I had to look up from my blog respite to tell one of my iPod-clad students to stop talking. "Oh, I wasn't talking, I was singing something to him. You want me to sing it to you?"

Oh, just singing? Then, sure, go ahead. As long as you're not doing anything disruptive and totally opposite of what I've asked you to do multiple times. Sing away, my Grammy-bound friend.

No, dear, I do not want you to sing your song to me. I want you to be quiet. And do your work. And just nod in submissive acknowledgement when I reprimand you. Honestly, it's OPEN BOOK and it's MATCHING-- if this is hard for YOU then don't trust your classmates' answers either, for goodness sake. Really, the only way I could make this easier for you is to write the answers on the board.

And no, before you ask, I will not do that.

Ugh. Kids these days.

from Me to You.

Dear Flirtatious,

Hey girl, I got my eye on you. Yes, you. You know who doesn’t? Cutie in Camo in front of you. I hate to burst your hormonal bubble, but that stud muffin in front of you isn’t interested, no matter how many times you kick his chair or laugh entirely too loud at his joke. And that whole play fighting thing—give it up. It doesn’t actually hurt him when you flail your fists at him. It bothers him, but more importantly, it bothers me. So stop. I realize that you only have four years ahead of you to secure your run for ‘Biggest Flirt’ in the Senior Who’s Who, but girlfriend, trust me, you are working overtime here. Focus your energies on love letters if you must share your feelings, but please, for the sake of my sanity, cease your outrageous flirting.

Sincerely,

Elle the Sub.

Dear Sour Puss in Sixth Period,

Why yes, you do have to turn your desk around. And yes, you do have to copy the questions down. And yes, you do actually have to do work because you are, in fact, in school. Does that come as a surprise to you? Have you believed all along that you are part of some secret social society that meets regularly on week days? Sorry about your luck bud, but your frat days are many years ahead of you and this is neither a Christmas cocktail or band party. What’s that you’re muttering under your breath? You don’t understand why you have to do these things? Let me tell you an age old secret of why you have to do these things: because I said so.

Sincerely,

Elle the Sub.

Dear Over Achiever,

I delight in you. You, my dear, are the reason I grace this school with my presence. You come to class prepared, expect to do work because you are in school after all, and take full advantage of the free public education you are receiving. Sure, you whisper to your neighbor from time to time, but I love that about you. Why? Because you have learned the art of whispering, and that makes me feel like you are more accomplished than your peers who lack this life skill. You, sweet child, will go far in this life because you are so wonderfully agreeable and a refreshing change from the rest of your generation. Do you need a reference letter for college? Look me up, girl. Do you need a recommendation for the social sorority of your choice? I’m your (wo)man. Do you need someone to sit with you at lunch? Join me at the faculty table where your maturity will be appreciated. Are these other rambunctious children bothering you? Please, allow me to silence them for you.

Sincerely,

Elle the Sub.

Dear Twin Towers,

Hey, down here. Yep, waaay down here. How’s the weather up there, big guys? You two are entirely too tall to be freshmen. You obviously aren’t on a trendy organic diet because your height must be the result of the hormones pumped into grocery store chicken. What’s that? You think it’s funny that I must stand on this chair in order to talk to you? Yeah, well, I don’t like it either. Please make yourself available for my next class announcement, as I would like to sit atop your mountainous shoulders as I broadcast my edicts. Thanks in advance.

Sincerely,

Elle the Sub.

**Names and dates have been changed to protect the innocent... and the not-so-innocent.

Some things just can't wait.

Usually when I sub, I like to do a little compilation blog at the end of the day made up of all my favorite student quotes and stories. But some things can't wait. Some things must be reported immediately.

Currently, my kids are creating 15 Multiple Choice questions for section two of their chapter. No biggie. Meanwhile, I'm working on a Christmas list and corresponding with E via email. Imagine my surprise when a student catches my eye and blurts out,

"Is Africa in Europe?"

Holy moly. Maybe I should specify, for the sake of your shock and awe, that I am subbing at a high school... not an elementary school as the question might suggest.

For anyone wondering what the answer to this perplexing quandary is... No, Africa is not in Europe. Africa is, in fact, it's very own continent.

Here's the kicker: when this question was asked, I immediately expected an uproar from my other students, exclaiming what an idiot their classmate is... Nope. No one even acted surprised. It was as if she had asked the question that had been burning on all of their minds.

And one other thing: one of my students is pretending to be her classmate's baby. Baby talk and baby voice included. I'm not sure what ethics and discipline dictates here. On the one hand, she's no louder than anyone else. The whole class is maintaining a dull roar, and she's not necessarily any worse than anyone else. On the other hand, I can hear her ridiculousness, and I think my head might explode at any moment from unvented irritation. To call her out or not to call her out...

just a few things.

Apparently a prostrate problem has hit the freshman class. I know this because not a single student has been able to control their bladder today; instead, one by one they come to my desk and insist that they must go to the bathroom immediately. I also happen to know that beverages are not allowed in class, so outside of break and lunch there should be no liquid consumption. I, for one, have not been to the restroom once today, and I just so happen to have a pea-sized bladder. Not to mention my control top tights that are oppressing my lower abdomen.

With my discomfort in mind, I would think that my wee charges could "hold it" for just one class period. I have been for at least 6 periods. But no, my wee charges constantly have to... well, wee.

And Heaven forbid I say no! Even though I have been left with strict instructions-- No Passes Out-- those puppy dog eyes look at me as though I have denied them oxygen or Justin Bieber when I say no.

Tomorrow, I'm putting my foot down.

Along with my complaint, I'll leave you with my favorite student quote of the day:

"I really, really wish Britain would've won the Battle of 1812. That would've been really cool.... Then we could all go over to Hermione Granger's house."

with Wonder.

Confession: I stole this from another blog. Now, if I was really high-tech like some of my other blogging friend, the word 'blog' would be a hyperlink to the blog I stole it from... but since I'm not, I'll just tell you that the blog is called kisssing, and I found in through my dear friend Anna.

Drumroll, please:

“All our young lives we search for someone to love. Someone who makes us complete. We choose partners and change partners. We dance to a song of heartbreak and hope... all the while wondering if somewhere, somehow, there's someone perfect... who might be searching for us.” --The Wonder Years

I vividly remember watching The Wonder Years with my mom when I was very little. Don't act like you didn't want to fight for Winnie and Kevin, especially in the episode where Winnie moves to a neighboring school and the two young lovebirds promise to think about each other every hour, on the hour.

Lately, I've been feeling a little sentimental; maybe it's because I'm coming home for my 23rd Christmas, and that's quite a few Christmases under my belt... maybe a little more than I'm comfortable with. And so I love the finale quote from The Wonder Years, too:

"Growing up happens in a heartbeat. One day you're in diapers, the next day you're gone. But the memories of childhood stay with you for the long haul. I remember a place, a town, a house, like a lot of houses. A yard like a lot of other yards. On a street like a lot of other streets. And the thing is, after all these years, I still look back...with wonder."

--The Wonder Years

Operation: Hot Tub

With Thanksgiving and Iron Bowl festivities behind us, my attention has moved onto one of the many adventures I have planned for my winter break: New Year's Eve.

Now, I understand that I have a project and three finals standing between me and my break officially beginning, not to mention a trip to Dallas and Christmas, but my New Year's trip comes with a few "needs" that must be handled with haste. Allow me to explain with a few visual supplements.

Every time I've talked to Clay about my trip to Dallas, his agenda has included mainly one thing: eating. Awesome; I just so happen to be a huge fan.

Next up: Christmas parties.

I don't know what your Christmas parties entail, but mine consist largely of treats. Lots and lots of treats.

On top of Christmas parties with friends, you have, of course, Christmas dinners with family.

Yes, a smorgasbord of delicious Christmas goodies, and if your family's Christmas dinner is anything like mine, there aren't a lot of "lite" options floating around on the big day.

Now, why am I complaining about all this deliciousness soon to be coming my way? That's where my little New Year's trip comes into play. This year, I'll be ringing in 2011 high up in the mountains of North Carolina with 9 of my best friends. Total, that's five guys and five girls. Cute, isn't it? What fun! you might say... Well, sure it will be loads of fun. Two tons of fun, in fact, as I expect to weigh approximately two tons when we depart for our holiday destination.

You may be wondering what's the big deal. Winter is the perfect time to splurge a bit and hide away your holiday muffin top under layers and layers of cuddly clothes. You'd think.

Ladies and germs, I give you the highlight of our New Year's retreat:

Ahhhhh, the hot tub. What a delightful way to warm up in the snowy mountains. But who needs that when you've put on a thick layer of holiday "warmth," like a bear heading into hibernation??

So, you see my dilemma. In less than a month-- that's right, a month from today we'll be starting a new year, friends-- I'm going to have to shed all my layers of warmth and slip into hot tub appropriate attire: aka, bathing suit. Most people will start a tireless workout routine on New Year's Day to begin gearing up for Spring Break. Not I. I have less than a month to be bikini-ready.

Thanks to last night's Victoria's Secret Fashion Show, I have a little inspiration:

I'm sure this is a look that can be easily accomplished in just 30 days... even with all the Christmas goodies... right?

And so, Operation: Hot Tub has commenced. Every time a caramel brownie crosses my path, I'll picture that roaring hot tub and my VS Angels to help keep my eye on the prize.

I just won't count the brownie I ate on the way to work today...