tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31256212100596668072024-03-15T18:10:57.287-07:00The Genres of My Life"There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed"
-- Ernest HemingwayHolly Vancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10113438267020711966noreply@blogger.comBlogger69125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3125621210059666807.post-83686971315947306962024-01-21T12:02:00.000-08:002024-01-21T12:02:24.395-08:00CrossFit<p>As I move through the challenges of being displaced since September because my porch caught on fire and trying to teach the post-COVID, GenZ generation, I decided I needed to add a wee-bit more Hell to my life: I started doing CrossFit.</p><p>Why CrossFit? Why not, ya know, taking short walks? Chair Yoga? Wall Pilates? Why not self-flagelation?</p><p>Because I've got a lot of aggression to burn off (see first paragraph), and my sister has been doing CrossFit for years. She is a badass that competes. The first time I saw her compete I was blown away by what she could do. I filmed her climbing ropes and thrusting barbells while my nephew sat in my lap and played with my arm fat. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4kukg-7jg1OujQhw45ZVteupI-SfFFN7Le6YBF7LviuqrqHNztjwn7jcGpgiTSXYYHVP4-kVVv89WWjCSwz37q4_PRJUubwvhQHXVRpbUX1fmdjSWFitEIVXCENo7LVTG8uHRCTgQvL8fYc_eO-ggF3Bb-MnwjaXij7stx3len_0GLYh885SP2FAk99Rd/s1125/IMG_0918.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="676" data-original-width="1125" height="120" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4kukg-7jg1OujQhw45ZVteupI-SfFFN7Le6YBF7LviuqrqHNztjwn7jcGpgiTSXYYHVP4-kVVv89WWjCSwz37q4_PRJUubwvhQHXVRpbUX1fmdjSWFitEIVXCENo7LVTG8uHRCTgQvL8fYc_eO-ggF3Bb-MnwjaXij7stx3len_0GLYh885SP2FAk99Rd/w200-h120/IMG_0918.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><p>When you are the sister of Kelli Olsen at Mutiny CrossFit, it elevates you to a certain celebrity status, which is cool. But, it also probably created some expectations that I immediately had to lower. As Kelli introduced me to the coaches and the regulars, I made sure to add, "I haven't worked out in years."</p><p>Which is true. I've been a runner, a gym rat, and a yogi, but I haven't had a consistent exercise routine in like forever. So, I toddle behind my sister hoping the ether of her awesomeness will detract from the shitshow I'm bringin'. But hey, I wear cute leggings and tank-tops with witty little quips about exercising on them. As long as I look good, everything will be fine.</p><p>Unfortunately, at the end of a class, good is not how I look.</p><p>Most of the time I stand in front of the workout board, pointing at the list of exercises and saying, "What is that?" and "We are gonna have to scale that shit back."</p><p>And the coaches do scale and modify so I don't die. And I've only died twice over the course of 18 classes. And I have never been so overwhelmed by testosterone that I've left with a Y chromosome and hair on my chest. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7-6k8qs7Vbm-WtTD-flrV0Jg6icPpi85kFlV7lr1xqCazljDXgrugU8n6ooajILuLp1oM1afsIuJWc5udl8hiPlj0HCkqDxxUfXi75GVi1Cg9F5xZe_UiVKCm_TuI0F8kb7hCrkvilYKWe6Ly31VQ2GssJlZukgm_VX8PiTkmjvv2NsnreVs7aWo-wbtu/s1353/IMG_0919.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1353" data-original-width="1125" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7-6k8qs7Vbm-WtTD-flrV0Jg6icPpi85kFlV7lr1xqCazljDXgrugU8n6ooajILuLp1oM1afsIuJWc5udl8hiPlj0HCkqDxxUfXi75GVi1Cg9F5xZe_UiVKCm_TuI0F8kb7hCrkvilYKWe6Ly31VQ2GssJlZukgm_VX8PiTkmjvv2NsnreVs7aWo-wbtu/w166-h200/IMG_0919.jpg" width="166" /></a></div><p></p><p>I do Deadlifts and Sumo Deadlifts. I do Push Pulls and Push Press. I'm sure there is a Push Drop; I just haven't learn it yet. I do sit-ups and Burpees; no, there are no Fartees. I'm Clean and Hang Clean. I row; I bike: I ski. I do all of the squats: Overhead Squat, Squat Jerk, and Air Squat. I Climb Mountains and Bear Crawl. I Swing Kettlebells and throw Wall Balls.</p><p>Snatches can fuck off. </p><p>I do all the exercises, but I never claimed to do them well. The coaches encourage me to complete the WOD, but mostly I DNF. I am the weakest and the slowest no matter which class I attend: a woman who has 20 years on me kicks my ass; my fellow middle-agers kick my ass; a crossfitter's kid, who I guess to be around 5 years old, kicks my ass. </p><p>If the 20 and 30-somethings don't kick my ass, that kills their street cred and only elevates mine. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgosRQ2TLhOK9koVJz-y89SrwFB-2JUISJs5j1L75iePBEixPT762alcn1xi3yHFIv7BO1TiedtbhewB4o_fj0Y0xBJRaSBMDfPGSMX3JoM1_DNd2hhNg-Fb97dKy7xc2aY_Yq0kGgfTuushDOJFxgHWTFQHXg4Vfb2ITZ5d2Od-Cg3lq2JHtKUy_BmwZwJ/s1125/IMG_0920.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1122" data-original-width="1125" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgosRQ2TLhOK9koVJz-y89SrwFB-2JUISJs5j1L75iePBEixPT762alcn1xi3yHFIv7BO1TiedtbhewB4o_fj0Y0xBJRaSBMDfPGSMX3JoM1_DNd2hhNg-Fb97dKy7xc2aY_Yq0kGgfTuushDOJFxgHWTFQHXg4Vfb2ITZ5d2Od-Cg3lq2JHtKUy_BmwZwJ/w200-h226/IMG_0920.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>So why do I do it? Because I am too old for illicit drugs and look much better with an adrenaline rush than. I do it for the eye-candy: the men are healthy and fit and handsome. And they are always smiling. And the women? Gorgeous, powerful, and in command of their own strength. Now, their leggings aren't always as cute as mine, but their confidence makes that moot.<p></p><p>But, Snatches can still fuck off.</p><p>And the icing on the cake: some crossfitters bring their dogs!</p><p>All jokes aside, don't be intimidated by CrossFit. My sister says it is for anyone and I agree. No matter what I can or cannot do, they always tell me "great job." The guy who dead-lifted 300 lbs while I dead-lifted <i>the bar</i> (and the beginner's bar at that) gives me fist-bumps at the end of the workout. </p><p>Competitions are more like a family event than a ruthless grapple to be considered the best. Athletes encourage and celebrate each other. And, did I mention the eye candy? </p><p>Finally, I do CrossFit because my pants do fit better. I do feel stronger. Ironically, I am polishing up this post after returning from a yoga class where I could enjoy the benefits of my new strength. </p><p>Honestly vanity is the smallest reason I do it, even though I do look pretty good in my cute leggings. </p>Holly Vancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10113438267020711966noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3125621210059666807.post-28201398597259344272023-10-29T12:36:00.001-07:002023-10-29T15:52:09.733-07:00I Need a Young Priest and an Old Priest<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQRSnpEa7OSZMc8kCDK9QO4Lw6-0Vw-1lGA-qxDAmWYuVaJMelkPIaX7vI4n1QrdGv-eE0q4B5eu4MfeNjEZrGyS4vF21VZrj_xCXsJiubdiuQzGXMGwj7jyfNh4JvR2idlaSoBmgD7wYXS2yRfy4K1K1a_SOdPIuh7zAk7slNGsIEJaNLZZGNe2ag5soH/s1047/IMG_0824.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1047" data-original-width="755" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQRSnpEa7OSZMc8kCDK9QO4Lw6-0Vw-1lGA-qxDAmWYuVaJMelkPIaX7vI4n1QrdGv-eE0q4B5eu4MfeNjEZrGyS4vF21VZrj_xCXsJiubdiuQzGXMGwj7jyfNh4JvR2idlaSoBmgD7wYXS2yRfy4K1K1a_SOdPIuh7zAk7slNGsIEJaNLZZGNe2ag5soH/w165-h228/IMG_0824.PNG" width="165" /></a></div><br />The recent releases of <i>The Nun II,</i> <i>The Exorcist Believer</i>, and even <i>Friday Night at Freddy's</i> attempt to provide audiences glimpses into horrific events that both keep us up at night as well as provide that little adrenaline rush. <p></p><p>Bitch, please. I got plenty of horror in my life minus the adrenaline rush.</p><p>Recently, I was whining about having bronchitis, followed by a painful surgery, then frosted with a spin with COVID (which I didn't recover from until Day 1 of a new school year). I need get into a time machine, go back to the summer, look at myself and say "Bitch, please" because right now I might need a young priest and an old priest to ride the current wave of shit. </p><p>I recovered from COVID and stumbled through the new school year. Then, once I thought I had regrouped, my porch caught fire.</p><p>I am not going to go into detail on how my porch caught fire. All I can say it was not my fault and not a freak accident. Accident? Yes. But a stupid one.</p><p>Fortunately, I wasn't there because I had vacated with my cats while my hard-wood floors were being sanded and stained. Fortunately, no one was hurt and the damage to my place is minimal. Unfortunately, there is enough damage to displace me for . . . well . . . who knows. So, I have to live with my mom for a while. </p><p>Living with Mom is fine; we have a great relationship. We travel together and rarely, if ever, fight. In her house, I have a bedroom and a newly remodeled bathroom all to myself. The house is big enough for us to have our own space. And there's a television in my room! As a kid / teen Mom wouldn't let me have a television in my room, so I feel a little smug having one in her house now. My sister and nephews are down the street. Mom lives about 45 minutes from Long Beach, but it is a nice, suburban area. The commute to work is the same as from home. No, my temporary "housing" is not the problem.</p><p>I am the problem.</p><p>When I pulled into Mom's driveway with a carload of what I needed to live there for a while, she said, "Your car is making a funny noise." Not a week later, a service engine light came on for which I could find no meaning for, even when I googled it. (Don't even start talking to me about looking in the car manual. I mean, it is 2023.) I take my car in: three grand to fix it. </p><p>Clearly, the universe has decided that I didn't sustain enough damage in my life as a result of the fire. Glad to contribute to the karmic balance, I guess.</p><p>I bought a brand of flavored water I'd never had before, it tasted like ass, so I poured it down the white bathroom sink. Whatever lab experiment flavored the water, stained the newly installed sink. There is now a smattering of greenish dots running down to her drain. It might have been cool, festive even, if my flavored water had been cherry or strawberry flavored, but instead of looking like blood splatter, the sink looks like it has nuclear waste splatter. </p><p>Sorry Mom.</p><p>I mean, I do feel bad. But at least she has a bathroom sink. Hell, she has two. Currently, I have zero. </p><p>One day when I got home from work, Mom told me to go into her office and see if I noticed anything wrong. I should have walked back out the front door and gone back to work. I went into the office, which is right next to her guest, now my, bathroom and thought that somehow between the kitchen and the office I had gotten drunk. Or all those drugs I did in high school decided to stop by and say "hi." The floor of the office seemed warped as if the laminate floor was flowing. It wasn't flowing; it was bowing. </p><p>Mom told me there must be a leak from the bathroom I'm using that is running into the office. The next day, she had the bowing part of the floor ripped up and found water. A lot of water. So, the entire floor was torn up and it appears a pond had been forming, courtesy of moi and the increase water drainage in the guest bathroom.</p><p>I suggested we throw in a coy fish and name it Duane. We might make it on the Home and Garden Channel. </p><p>After further investigation, a plumber found a crack in the molding in the shower. Water had been leaking from behind the wall into the office for a month. Her newly remodeled bathroom shower will probably have to be ripped out and the wall aired out. </p><p>Oh, and the floor that needs replacing in her office? It has been discontinued. </p><p>She calls me The One Woman Wrecking Ball, but I think that is an understatement.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikzdGsUocK6QWXyiBDNn-gZvt3cxgz8qvxpTyEh9_qNiojP9uXdYBcR1viLXOSH9PcZHblu-Zyf0yTsmzZtYyslb-RwfG-gxbcc_1FQSGazbOl_WnO5ZQVvpmeSwfu-qGvcVfgRGXBhevIR1Zri1EqTIsMxmXWtxCi9olIZ1ay_VkPjeqaJyF777W51KuN/s1657/IMG_0823.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1657" data-original-width="1155" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikzdGsUocK6QWXyiBDNn-gZvt3cxgz8qvxpTyEh9_qNiojP9uXdYBcR1viLXOSH9PcZHblu-Zyf0yTsmzZtYyslb-RwfG-gxbcc_1FQSGazbOl_WnO5ZQVvpmeSwfu-qGvcVfgRGXBhevIR1Zri1EqTIsMxmXWtxCi9olIZ1ay_VkPjeqaJyF777W51KuN/w161-h232/IMG_0823.PNG" width="161" /></a></div><br />I figured it out; I need an exorcism. I mean so far, I've brought fire and flood. Mom asked me if I thought I might have been Attila the Hun in my past life, but I just don't think I've had that level of commitment in any life. Honestly, I think I am the second coming . . . of Satan.<p></p><p>Or would it be the first coming? My Biblical knowledge is limited. Nevertheless, I think I need an exorcism. All this is happening during the media hype and release of the sequel to <i>The Exorcist. </i>Coincidence? </p><p>While my car was being repaired, I borrowed Mom's car for a trip to a town outside of Fresno. Trust me, I had some trepidation, but I had promised my school's cross country team I'd chaperone a race up in Clovis which is near Fresno. I made a point to touch as <i>few</i> buttons necessary in the car and drive with my hands at the 10 and 2 o'clock position. I even used the navigation on my phone instead of the one in her car. When I got back, the electrical system that controls her navigation, radio, and phone connection had fried. </p><p>Three days ago, when I got home from work, I noticed the lawn beneath my window was dug up and surrounded by caution tape. I should have backed out.</p><p>Turns out, while the plumber was testing for any additional links in the bathroom plumbing, he discovered that the septic system has "several hairline fractures." The wave of shit imagery I lead with in this post has become literal. </p><p>So, two successful, affluent grown women might be sharing a bathroom and a bedroom. Honestly, Mom will make me pitch a tent in the backyard before sharing a bed with me. And I'm not sure I blame her. Trust me, if there was a way for me to get away from myself, I would have done so a long time ago. </p><p>I ran my exorcism theory by a co-worker. Between the war in Ukraine and the devastation in the Gaza strip, he saw the logic in my theory. He did make a request: if I am bringing the end-of-days, can I give him time to get through his bucket list?</p><p>Well, sure. I mean right now, I'm just tearing down mine and mom's house; it might take a while for me to tear down the world. But I am going to do it one toilet and car at a time.</p><p>All I know is that my mom makes the cross out of her fingers when I walk in the front door and my sister has <i>not</i> invited me over. </p><p>And an interesting factoid to leave y'all with: if I had been born a boy, my parents planned to name me Damien. I shit you not. Quite the omen.</p>Holly Vancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10113438267020711966noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3125621210059666807.post-49843183771648149072023-09-04T19:19:00.004-07:002023-09-17T08:46:20.051-07:00I Need a Nap . . . Forever<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhKbXxt3eOPm54oUSBX6iQQ95zV_mm6V_NF-iMcG6zopIEzotghOco6CZT5dlWUocjH6tx4KrJiXQSg7b6g1hmcPSJgB9bWyqav5XdJ8TyUhHlGM4I6lmIhHF26WszeCFmdkgYvU0W5-e9waIyjFZknsBqWm2Dsb2ypskyHkWlmwmlUTn-KymOpGz8sFWWw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="174" data-original-width="290" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhKbXxt3eOPm54oUSBX6iQQ95zV_mm6V_NF-iMcG6zopIEzotghOco6CZT5dlWUocjH6tx4KrJiXQSg7b6g1hmcPSJgB9bWyqav5XdJ8TyUhHlGM4I6lmIhHF26WszeCFmdkgYvU0W5-e9waIyjFZknsBqWm2Dsb2ypskyHkWlmwmlUTn-KymOpGz8sFWWw" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span>As mentioned in earlier posts, I turned 50 last year and am fast approaching 51, and just like that, I should be considering moving to Miami, Florida. Unfortunately, I do not look as good as the ladies from Sex and the City and I am definitely not as cool as The Golden Girls.<br /><br />I hate everything about being 50. I hate the stigmatism of being "middle age"; I hate my sore knees and back; I hate my wrinkles; I really hate that muumuus and lounge dresses are more appealing than dark jeans and sequenced tops. <br /><br />I remember in college I could do a dozen things a day on 6 hours of sleep: attend class, work full time, exercise and even maintain a social life. When I started teaching, I was still finishing my credential. So my day became working in the morning, working out in the afternoon, and then going to class 3 nights a week. I wrote a hundred-page thesis when I was 30, teaching full time, and starting a new relationship. I didn't work out as regularly, but exercise was still a part of my life until I broke up with both the relationship and significant physical movement when I was staring down the barrel of turning 40.<br /><br />I know its been a tortoise / hair race between my body and my mind toward, ya know, death, but I can't figure out which is which, and even then, which is winning. <br /><br />Somewhere in my mid 40s, I realized that if I want to do two things in one day, I need a nap in-between or bookend my "busy" day with 8-10 hours of sleep. Run an errand, or god help me, exercise after work? In bed by 8 p.m. Dinner with a friend after work? Nap in-between. Clean on a Saturday morning and then socialize Saturday night? Nap. Have one of my nephews overnight and then do anything afterward? Major nap. <br /><br />Day-drinking has taken on an entire new significance now that I'm fucking middle-aged. My party starts at noon, and either is broken up with a nap or ends at 6 p.m. I need a minimum of 3 days to sober up and sleep it off. <br /><br />So it proves to be a challenge when one's feeble attempt to reclaim her youth includes going to as many heavy metal concerts as possible. Honestly, if I want to reclaim my youth I can go out and make staggeringly bad relationship choices and then crash my car. <br /><br />Most recently, my sister and I saw Godsmack on a Thursday night and I had to go to work the next day because it was the second week of school. In addition, I was supposed to be having my nephews for a sleepover. Now, I don't take both nephews at once; there aren't enough naps in the world to prep me for that. If I want to enjoy myself, I only take one at a time for one night. So it might be Jay on Friday night, then I swap for Blake on Saturday, then take Blake home Sunday, take a 2 hours nap, and spend the rest of the day readjusting my apartment and my brain. <br /><br />But, when my sister and sister and I were working out what we call kid schlepping details, I didn't realize that all three events were back-to-back. I only realized it after I started updating my Google calendar. Once I realized my scheduling impossibility, I went storming into her office and nearly screamed: "I cannot have a kid the two nights after a concert!"<div><br />My sister looked up from her planner, filled with writing and post-it-notes. Her computer is flashing and beeping in the background. Her half-cast eyes show exhaustion; her slack jaw shows confusion. Or exhaustion. Or both. My sister has two kids every night of her life: one kid is heavily into sports, and she is very conscious of giving the kid not in sports as much of her time and attention as the other.<br /><br />I held up my hands to stop any other comment from her and said, "I'll die. I mean, it's the first week of school."<br /><br />My sister's profession includes the title of "director." The only directing I do is of teenage fuckery. My sister hosts seminars, zoom meetings with a dozen people who also have impressive titles including terms like "regional," "statewide," and "national." I have talks with adolescents about why they shouldn't have their earbuds in while I am teaching, even if "they are turned off." My sister holds workshops and seminars for people with PhDs. I teach how to capitalize the personal pronoun "I" to a class of gangling teens who are literally sweating hormones.<br /><br /><div>My sister flips back to August in her planner, propped her elbow and dropped her head into her hands and said, "Okay . . ."<br /><br />We worked it out so that I wouldn't die. And a big shout-out to my baby sis who probably could use a nap, but still manages to function, and function well, without one. <br /><br />Me? I had to take a nap after the near fatal scheduling mistake I nearly made.</div></div>Holly Vancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10113438267020711966noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3125621210059666807.post-28369104479668634372023-08-11T11:17:00.006-07:002023-08-13T11:31:03.559-07:00COVID Woes<p>I promise: <i>Genres of My Life</i> will not turn into my personal diary full of narcissistic whining about things that really aren't that bad. But, for now, I am just slinging up anything that may have one good sentence in it (aka, gaining traction). </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgHREJHulHXWl7--SOImE8TP7ZySVH3Suk6ldunnK2DGAR4pI4p48-ap0hjyRp2x4AuBPEZB7eOBk_wn_s9Az8-TqgPBfWNWoNsmPx5irWDfrhxLtyqqgYK3Os3YZho4wR3-BmtDLcCACmGpuqu1AaFHEbymunHeiGiuRG1TQlx-aYEcNJ3IQgIQhNEXAcb" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="400" height="142" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgHREJHulHXWl7--SOImE8TP7ZySVH3Suk6ldunnK2DGAR4pI4p48-ap0hjyRp2x4AuBPEZB7eOBk_wn_s9Az8-TqgPBfWNWoNsmPx5irWDfrhxLtyqqgYK3Os3YZho4wR3-BmtDLcCACmGpuqu1AaFHEbymunHeiGiuRG1TQlx-aYEcNJ3IQgIQhNEXAcb=w142-h142" width="142" /></a></div>But, when one gets COVID and is in forced reclusion, there is very little to post about. Narcissistic Whining must be a genre; if not, the linguistic community needs to get that shit canonized before "bruh" is. <p></p><p>I'm not going to complain about how awful I feel. Because I have a fantastic immune system, my symptoms are minimal. My two BFFs, whom I gave it to, not so much. They are such good friends that they took on the more than their share of COVID pie. đyou ladies!</p><p>No, my bone to pick with the universe is not that I have COVID, but it is because of <i>when</i> I have COVID.</p><p>My rah-rah teacher day is Monday and I have students on Wednesday. As you read this, I should be in my classroom doing my contract-anointed "float day," but I can't get within 10 miles of campus. I have not been in my classroom since they waxed the floors. If you are a teacher, no other explanation is needed; the collective gasp can be heard around the world. </p><p>For those who don't fall under the educator umbrella, what that means I have to plug in <i>everything </i>(and in a classroom, plugging into the Matrix in no easy task), clean up my decorations (there has been a mad game of Tic Tack Toe going on the construction paper that lines my back wall), and xerox . . . something (digital age or not, GenX teachers don't feel they are ready for a new school year until they photo-copy for at least an hour). </p><p>Being 26 years into my career, I can roll in and throw down some bullshit for a couple days (if any of my administrators are reading this . . . deliver pre-planned, relevant and rigorous lessons that build relationships). Nevertheless, I was going to prepare for the new year for 2-3 long days in my classroom before the year started. Roost around a little bit: clean some shelves, organize my teaching library by genre, organize some desk drawers, put up the posters I never got around to putting up last summer, transfer my 20 meeting invites from my inbox to my new bougie planner that I'll use for a month. Reline the back wall with clean construction paper for the 2023-24 Tic Tack Toe season. Xerox . . . something.</p><p>Nope, no roosting, nesting, settling, pulling-shit-together for me. I'm behind before anything has even started. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi8RHsDv1h-pRUyM1y_zRdVc8QsSAAd8XqJa4I1g-kqpkruA00nw8-2VO8O1JbHmyEI6ONLDyleePHDUFAll9G_DPSBhZ8RrlZZsXQdc70cr43krRWxHM_oF0BQbZMKPzEgAxBjOmJPbEu8VpE2KAE-VaQleEMStlFP1mIHRawH9wm32DhnXYU-tjsv5vxs" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="398" data-original-width="398" height="129" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi8RHsDv1h-pRUyM1y_zRdVc8QsSAAd8XqJa4I1g-kqpkruA00nw8-2VO8O1JbHmyEI6ONLDyleePHDUFAll9G_DPSBhZ8RrlZZsXQdc70cr43krRWxHM_oF0BQbZMKPzEgAxBjOmJPbEu8VpE2KAE-VaQleEMStlFP1mIHRawH9wm32DhnXYU-tjsv5vxs=w129-h129" width="129" /></a></div>But hey, COVID didn't leave me totally hangin'. According to isolation and return-to-work instructions, it is safe for me to return to work just in time for rah-rah teacher day. Great! Can't get my room ready, but I'll be front and center for all those welcome back meetings. <p></p><p>COVID,<span style="font-size: large;">đ.</span></p><p>(Hey, let me know where the good sentence was. The narcissistic whining I can find easily enough.)</p><p><br /></p>Holly Vancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10113438267020711966noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3125621210059666807.post-53698085781735312612023-08-06T12:00:00.002-07:002023-08-20T11:44:40.897-07:00Professional Development <p>I never have, nor ever will, manage my money to get by in the summer. Even with my district managing the academic calendar so that teachers get paid 11 months out of 12 (rather than the traditional 10 months), I still stress out in August as I watch my balance shrink and my bills remain robust.</p><p>Meh, fiscal responsibility is for wimps. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhn7rfT0tmRXE1tsXT5HTVxb8RujnmKnLQi0OL6gPP8OKBwtvYnlLAPDsRhLiwXMpOr4ZWH9sKKY91QmSXgVpv3Y6bLtcNNKupJEMc2tsJfttSZqJuR12fVUWVxVvTqav7bGIjmTFi0DmY43psmaRvwYA1G3t5BumfnC_e8yiIh8w36hDp7pTMeG-GcUL0R" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="236" data-original-width="236" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhn7rfT0tmRXE1tsXT5HTVxb8RujnmKnLQi0OL6gPP8OKBwtvYnlLAPDsRhLiwXMpOr4ZWH9sKKY91QmSXgVpv3Y6bLtcNNKupJEMc2tsJfttSZqJuR12fVUWVxVvTqav7bGIjmTFi0DmY43psmaRvwYA1G3t5BumfnC_e8yiIh8w36hDp7pTMeG-GcUL0R=w200-h200" width="200" /></a></div>Instead, I do a lot of professional development to earn some extra cash. Pay me, I'll do it. I'll workshop the shit out of any teaching technique you want. I'll learn how to teach math, science, underwater basket weaving . . . <i>whatever.</i> Attend trainings for online teaching programs that I'll never use during the school year? Done. (If any of my principals are reading this, I PD in the summer to grow and hone my skills as a teacher. And those online education platforms? Love them đ) <p></p><p>Of course you are all probably snickering as you think "She can pole dance" but then I must remind you that one of my new themes for the blog is that I'm fucking 50. I need to earn money not go to jail. </p><p>Regardless, I do try to go into teaching workshops and the like with an auspicious attitude. Even if I don't learn something new, it helps refresh best practices that I might have left by the wayside. Sometimes, they reinforce that I am doing a couple things right.</p><p>In July, I virtually attended my first AVID training. AVID stands for Advancement Via Individual Determination. The program seeks to provide disadvantaged students access to resources and rigor to "close the gap" in their learning. It is basically moving through a series of teaching techniques that provide students success with reading difficult texts and writing cohesively. </p><p>How's that paragraph for sounding professional? Well, the development stops there.</p><p>Like a good conference attendee, I did all my prework the night before: I watched the tutorial to learn how to use the meeting platform; I tested my technology so that everything would work the next day.</p><p>Ya, that last one: as if. </p><p>So, I wake up Monday morning with enough time to make myself camera presentable, brew some coffee and enjoy a few quiet moments waiting for all neurons to start firing-- or at least a couple neurons. But of course, the moment I sit down at my desk and turn on my computer to join the training, I realize my internet is not working. No idea why. It was working 12 hours previous and I hadn't done anything online since my technology check. But, if anyone can jack-up her technology without even being on said technology, it's me.</p><p>I restart my computer. I restart my modem. No internet. Both seem to be powered up and there are no alarming red lights flashing. I turn off my power strip to hard restart everything in my office. Still, the computer telling me it cannot find any available wireless connections. I am close to restarting my entire apartment by throwing the breaker. Unfortunately, being "camera ready" does not mean I should actually leave the house. </p><p>I say the f-word a lot. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQhXoZlY4K1ousmQSLTRUlrVqzFYm02JXqFhkFkYjTdeeryan1ZOGAlrSZH38tJCr3ZfO1GfxloZrHfHyE3fRNxGMduIpEKquNKvs4FTKd9HR_wNCVtrwszAILu2TNy0QegfEEM3J2mlJJeYUfQ-s1zI-uOnazvPF-2I6KhvFhQ2lv0RH4th43pyU2QPwQ/s3619/Cuddler.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3619" data-original-width="3024" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQhXoZlY4K1ousmQSLTRUlrVqzFYm02JXqFhkFkYjTdeeryan1ZOGAlrSZH38tJCr3ZfO1GfxloZrHfHyE3fRNxGMduIpEKquNKvs4FTKd9HR_wNCVtrwszAILu2TNy0QegfEEM3J2mlJJeYUfQ-s1zI-uOnazvPF-2I6KhvFhQ2lv0RH4th43pyU2QPwQ/w167-h200/Cuddler.jpg" width="167" /></a></div>Turns out the problem is with my desktop, but I don't have time figure it out. It's 10 minutes to go time and I need a minimum of 2 hours to fix my tech. So I grab my laptop, which isn't charged. To be comfortable, it would be better to sit in a my large, loungy-like chair called a "cuddler" but I have to crawl over the back to reach the electrical socket. I plug in my laptop, grab my coffee and put it on the C-table, then settle myself in. I secure a bolster pillow under my knees, put my lap desk in place. Of course, as I grab my laptop, the power cord hooks my coffee cup and sends my survival juice sailing across the room and my auspicious mood out the window.<p></p><p>More f-words. Climbing out of my gauntlet of comfort, I throw a few pillows across the room, refresh my coffee.</p><p>I am now officially late. I regroup: add some Bailey's to the coffee, snuggled back up in my chair. Prep the lap desk and laptop so that it won't tangle on <i>anything</i> when I move it. Place the coffee on the table. Make the sign of the cross, bow to the east, sacrifice a couple chickens. I crawl back into my cuddler, get myself all wedged and propped, and log on in time just as the welcoming message is ending. </p><p>Next time, I'm not checking shit before an online training. I'm just gonna roll out of bed 10 minutes before and log on late. </p><p><br /></p>Holly Vancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10113438267020711966noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3125621210059666807.post-29481293398661028962023-07-31T19:11:00.001-07:002023-07-31T19:11:21.273-07:00Thank You for Returning<p>I struggled with how to title this post. I've already done the "I'm Back" in 2018 when I intended to post regularly. Turns out that didn't happen.</p><p>My posting streak seems to have ended about 10 years ago. Since then, I've thrown up a dozen "meh" posts. </p><p>So, what happened? I don't know. My blogging silence wasn't because I was building a legacy: didn't write any new novels, didn't get any works published, didn't get married, didn't have kids, and didn't become a teaching guru. </p><p>But what did happen was I lost my dad, an aunt and an uncle, and both grandmothers. I gained 2 nephews. I wrote very little and taught a lot.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBClBI7eeSn857b-VVlRt6afHzCj5vDAJr-sn1PTzunfqENdRpCJlX1OiMsCpm02HdRSDLzuGv4nQCxEyMl8-eTdKz0v93Nd7xMq6RtUnvPY2LlCdj8MV13IfJS6DzCoGFEmSHTWzX6nIM_R70SWb2TWcLjoARhZFotZmA_DzCcuk7CNBwHEoF9a_Z9GiF/s301/COVID.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="167" data-original-width="301" height="111" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBClBI7eeSn857b-VVlRt6afHzCj5vDAJr-sn1PTzunfqENdRpCJlX1OiMsCpm02HdRSDLzuGv4nQCxEyMl8-eTdKz0v93Nd7xMq6RtUnvPY2LlCdj8MV13IfJS6DzCoGFEmSHTWzX6nIM_R70SWb2TWcLjoARhZFotZmA_DzCcuk7CNBwHEoF9a_Z9GiF/w200-h111/COVID.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />Oh, then there was COVID.<p></p><p>I realize I'm not the only one who has been assaulted with change, who are looking back over the last 5-10 years and thinking: what the fuck did I accomplish? Why I am so fucking tired? </p><p>Why return to blogging now? Still, no answers. Maybe I need to reflect on all the shit I didn't accomplish in my 40s now that I am 50. Maybe I need cheap therapy. Or maybe someone reading this will think: "Thank the goddess I'm not the only one." Even better: "Wow, this bitch is a mess; I feel much better about myself." I can be the guru of bad decisions and train wrecks. Hell, I might already be.</p><p>In my usual, hopefully more sophisticated, sarcastic voice, I will be posting on themes of the past: teaching, language / slang, my ongoing battle with technology, the enigma of teenage behavior (formally known as "To Quote My Grandmother: Why Are Teenagers so Stupid?") In addition, I hope to write about being an auntie, being fucking 50 years old, and maybe . . . <i>maybe</i> dating.</p><p><br /></p>Holly Vancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10113438267020711966noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3125621210059666807.post-77811221157280547652018-10-08T19:03:00.004-07:002023-07-11T09:40:07.845-07:00The Cheap Way to Sleep: MeWhen my two best friends and I travel together, sharing a hotel room can be a challenge. Over the years, we've worked out a system for getting ready so that we have all the bathroom time we need to get pretty in a timely manner: Cher needs at least two hours to move through her very thorough and meticulous regiment: Lisa needs less time, but still adheres to a formula to produce her beauty, so she gets to shower second. Me? I can slap myself together in forty minutes, because well, I give far less of a shit what I look like than the other two.<br />
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What we haven't worked out is compromising on the sleeping atmosphere. Arrangement, we've got down: we reserve a two-bed room and one of us brings and aerobed. What we can't seem to get a handle on are setting the perfect <i>conditions</i> for each of us to get a good night's rest.<br />
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I need absolute darkness and silence in order to wind down; both of my BFFs need the noise and the light of the television. Because I'm out-numbered, I have to lump it. We've tried shoving me in dark corners or angling the television screen away from me; nevertheless, I usually spend the night dozing on and off. (Trust me, when I win the lottery, marry rich, or start making money off this damn blog, I'll be reserving my own room.)<br />
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On one occasion I stood my ground and demanded they set the television on a timer so that I could enjoy some peace and quiet. They acquiesced by setting the timer for <i>six fucking hours</i>. I meant for it to be set for maybe two hours to give them enough time to go to sleep and leave me the dark and quiet I need to stay asleep.</div>
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I woke up at 4 a.m., the damn television still on: the Pavlovian gong of Law and Order echoing throughout the room. I lie there watching the stupid episode--one I'd seen around 25 times-- until I finally snatched up the remote and turned Jack McCoy's indigence off. Instantly, Cher and Lisa both shot up in bed like mummies or vampires rigged to pop out of a coffin in a haunted house. I swear their hands were formed like claws, and they bared their teeth at me.<br />
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I invited McCoy back into our bedroom.<br />
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Getting a good night's rest is a challenge for most everyone; in fact, according to <a href="https://www.sleepassociation.org/about-sleep/sleep-statistics/">American Sleep Association</a> (ASA), between 30-40% of adults struggle with sleeping. The ASA suggests adults get 7-9 hours of sleep. If a "children's" book called <i>Go the Fuck to Sleep</i> by Gilbert Mansbach and Ricardo Cortes gets nearly a five-star rating on Amazon and entices Samuel L. Jackson and Morgan Freeman to do a dramatic reading, feeling rested is a rarity. </div>
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We all have certain conditions for getting a good-night sleep. Regardless of over-booked and over-stressed lives that should guarantee at the end of the day, many still fight insomnia. Our bodies in hyper-drive in order to plow through our long days, our brains full of worries and our eyes staring at screens for . . . well . . . every bloody minute of the day make it difficult to wind down, drift into a peaceful sleep, and stay in it until the alarm goes off. </div>
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There are sleep therapists, drugs, and apps to help, but my advice is much, much cheaper and less addictive.<br />
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There are many things I'm willing to compromise and/or give up: vegetables, overtime, making my bed, but I will <i>not</i> deprive myself of sleep. No matter what, I will get my 7-9 hours a night. Hell, I've hosted parties where I have gone to bed and left my guests to fend for themselves. </div>
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How do I do it? Well, I don't have kids, which I'll admit helps. Even without them, I do have a full-time and a part-time job, a commute, food to prepare, laundry to do, an apartment to clean, errands to run, and a desire to keep up some semblance of a social life. Believe me, turning off my brain is no easy task. And I can stare at a screen as much as the next person. So, I developed a routine that guarantees a good night's rest. I've shared my approach with colleagues, friends and family, of which one told me I needed to blog about my recipe because she found it so effective.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHY6UgZ2XkyOSKjftkSud1FLbQLMJyH678uxQfdT2aJMsh_UQ5Gl9ofjizZVdJeNFQuAs2Utxyjp2JxG0GPn4K0jMCE_5ovfgNSORCexnzQVG-A6wsAcq3KQaPLFpCFoslEXX5zaREA7qb/s1600/blue+light+filter.png" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="240" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHY6UgZ2XkyOSKjftkSud1FLbQLMJyH678uxQfdT2aJMsh_UQ5Gl9ofjizZVdJeNFQuAs2Utxyjp2JxG0GPn4K0jMCE_5ovfgNSORCexnzQVG-A6wsAcq3KQaPLFpCFoslEXX5zaREA7qb/s200/blue+light+filter.png" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I use Blue Light Filter</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
First, and I know this suggestion will sound sacrilegious, make sure to filter out all the blue-light from your devices--phones, tablets, computers--at around 8 p.m. There are a lot of apps that allow you to set a timer so it happens automatically. Of course it detracts from the vividness of graphics, but it is those graphics that convince your brain to stay awake.<br />
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About and hour before I hope to be asleep, I turn my television to a show I've seen many times and is formulaic so it doesn't require require my full attention. The mere sound of the characters' voices, theme song or score acts as a signal to my brain it is time to disengage. I am partial to <i>Forensic Files</i>, but if blood spatter analysis and mitochondria DNA doesn't lull you to sleep, then I suggest <i>Law and Order</i> or <i>NCIS. </i>I only watch shows involving murder, so my suggestions are limited. Again, the key is formulaic and repetitive. You don't necessarily want to sit and watch it, but more listen to it while you prepare for bed.<br />
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I shower at night, so the warm water relaxes me. I take my time drying off, apply a myriad of lotions to lift, tighten while also plumping aging parts of my face and then I slather lotion on the rest of me and hope for the best. While waiting for one layer of lotion to sink in before slapper on another, I'll do some very easy stretching: touching my toes, raising my arms over my head and bending side to side, throw in a nice and easy sun-salutation or two. I am nowhere near breaking a sweat, but I am working out some tension, nice an easy.<br />
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Scent is critical to my relaxation. Lavender will always do the trick: use lavender scented body wash, lavender scented body lotion, and then to top (or bottom) it all off, put some lavender oil on the bottom of your feet. Trust me on the foot thing--it is magic.<br />
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Once you climb into bed, take a few minute to mentally put all your stresses away. What I do is turn any taxing thought into a photo and then visualize myself putting that picture into a box. Once I've "put away" all my stress, I place a lid on the box and put it away (slide it under my bed, tuck into my closet, or throw it out my bedroom window). I might have to repeat this visualization a few times depending on what is going on in my life at the time.<br />
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For those of you who need sound to sleep, instead of leaving the television on, stream soothing music or nature sounds. I play rain sounds throughout the night. If you must have the dialogue of a television show, wear a sleep mask so the light doesn't keep your brain stimulated (and yes, this happens even when eyes are closed). Lisa used to leave <i>Criminal Minds </i>on all night until her boyfriend told her the sound of screaming women being murdered was interrupting his REM cycle. As much as I would like Derek Morgan in my bedroom, no matter what form, he will keep me awake.<br />
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Many don't have the luxury of fitting in an hour's worth of sleep-prep, so these steps can definitely be moved through more quickly.<br />
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Now, go the fuck to sleep.</div>
Holly Vancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10113438267020711966noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3125621210059666807.post-45504451192913518632018-08-27T20:02:00.004-07:002018-08-27T20:02:47.372-07:00Know Who You're Wearing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMeq496fzxdX_vBItKsGlE1wHnp1ZigXJwLDvuPax2boaBoWqJzSlMSZVkRQg91FFkhWkyb3fjwMpZKF17gqfIn99eD6JPt9VHCMNiSqA4lAK5WweD2p8o846kS7x30ky3zMtWt5VwzFhl/s1600/Metallica.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="220" data-original-width="220" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMeq496fzxdX_vBItKsGlE1wHnp1ZigXJwLDvuPax2boaBoWqJzSlMSZVkRQg91FFkhWkyb3fjwMpZKF17gqfIn99eD6JPt9VHCMNiSqA4lAK5WweD2p8o846kS7x30ky3zMtWt5VwzFhl/s200/Metallica.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
As I strolled across the high school campus this morning, I saw a young man sitting on a brick border surrounding a raised planter, wearing a Metallica <i>Master of Puppets</i> sweatshirt while listening to The Smiths. It was a time-warp, culture clash I was not expecting and only mildly prepared for.<br />
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Did this student not understand the gravity of his cultural misstep by conjoining the metal of Metallica with the ah-ah-ah-ah of The Smiths? <i>In public?</i> Is there no respect for the 80's? At least those of us who lived them showed proper reverence by wearing fluorescent clothing, ripping open the ozone with hairspray, and snorting cocaine.<br />
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Did this student not understand that those who listen to The Smiths want to cut themselves while those who listen to Metallica want to cut others? Sometimes, choices must be made. Some boundaries are for the betterment of culture, of character, of sanity. Little did the heavy-metal-wearing, pop- listening teen know that he was plummeting into an identity crisis. Kids today think they can just disregard the constructs of fashion and music genres, mixing them into a hodgepodge of expression without consequence. The nerve.<br />
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To give the student the benefit of the doubt, I reminded myself that he may not even know who Metallica is. Over the summer I learned T-shirts and sweatshirts featuring rock bands from the 80's is a fashion trend with no relevant connection to the music itself.<br />
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When I first noted students wearing Guns n' Roses <i>Appetite for Destruction</i>, Metallica <i>Ride the Lightning</i>, and Def Leppard <i>Pyromania</i> T-shirts, I thought they had raided their parents' closets, unearthed a piece of nostalgia prompting them to share the glory of their concert days, maybe even played a little "Welcome to the Jungle," "Fade to Black," and "Rock of Ages," and their children--being so impressed by the rock music of their antecedents, wore their parents' rock shirts to school and sparked a fashion revolution.<br />
<br />
Nope.<br />
<br />
While working in a writing center at Rio Hondo JC this summer, I asked a student who wore a Def Leppard <i>Pyromania</i> T-shirt if her parents had listened to the band. My first concert was Def Leppard's <i>Hysteria </i>tour and I had Joe Elliot's face plastered all over my bedroom walls (after taking down Simon LeBon and John Taylor).<br />
<br />
Her response was a shrug.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibMqYzM58P02IHamilLcei647lahPn7io4txiejM5FnyVw_20JAVYtyEMJAE0Rd6RZN1y7aOq0xPnA87NrM6t1tj-woxAETAqwsRL7yzINiHRdvCpi1yB9kdF_pmWluh_clsIzgeTiV1xn/s1600/def+lep.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="679" data-original-width="679" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibMqYzM58P02IHamilLcei647lahPn7io4txiejM5FnyVw_20JAVYtyEMJAE0Rd6RZN1y7aOq0xPnA87NrM6t1tj-woxAETAqwsRL7yzINiHRdvCpi1yB9kdF_pmWluh_clsIzgeTiV1xn/s200/def+lep.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Can be found on Amazon</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
"Do you know who that band is?" I had asked, pointing the glass building aflame on her chest. She shook her head.<br />
<br />
I am slowly accepting the music of my youth is now played on Classic Rock stations. When Neil Diamond was demoted to Easy Listening it quite dismayed my parents. I might have scoffed at the idea of Elvis Presley being The King of Rock, but if I had gone vintage and worn a Rolling Stones or Janis Joplin shirt, I would have at least known who the fuck they were. Hell, I could have busted out a few lines from "(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction" and "Cry Baby." And Neil Diamond? I could have karaoked the shit out "Sweet Caroline," "Forever in Blue Jeans," and "Love on the Rocks."<br />
<br />
It's bad enough I have to endure Ozzy Osbourne's "Crazy Train" in a Honda Pilot commercial, Aerosmith's "Dream On" in a goddamn Buick Lacrosse commercial, and Guns n' Roses' "Paradise City" in the background of Jersey Mikes, but now I have to watch the emblems of my rowdy youth become a meaningless decoration?<br />
<br />
I don't know how Def Leppard, Metallica, and Guns N' Roses ended up on the racks of Target and Hot Topic, as well as the warehouses of Amazon, but can merchants please include a free download of the band's biggest hits? And can parents today do as my parents did before we had such efficient, high-tech ways of channeling music into one set of ears by telling that bitch Alexa to blast Heavy Metal of the 80's (okay, and 90's). Or go hardcore and confiscate all earbuds, duck-tape the kids to kitchen chairs, pull out the boom-box and CD collection and give them some music history.<br />
<br />
And if my rock gods of old have to sell the rights of their songs to car manufacturers, can y'all stick with Porsche, Aston Martin, and (perfectly) Corvette? <br />
<br />Holly Vancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10113438267020711966noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3125621210059666807.post-73090892852246129912018-07-19T17:31:00.003-07:002018-07-19T17:31:50.215-07:00The iGeneration Putting the "i" in IronyI might be the Hercule Poirot of language: I've solved they mystery of why students don't capitalize the personal pronoun I.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi12TWOwBBBketQPowQkOdnUlmQz4NPrjQBZvjTr2csZg5yN8NmpoGsZBJ0Yl01brZmKNRpFm79pRj50-MqdE_XbQQSTHJK49vGXI4NaPo_VYtfm3id0P0giO8AqxN7w_IOpmpPmBSteNzm/s1600/letter-i.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="275" data-original-width="183" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi12TWOwBBBketQPowQkOdnUlmQz4NPrjQBZvjTr2csZg5yN8NmpoGsZBJ0Yl01brZmKNRpFm79pRj50-MqdE_XbQQSTHJK49vGXI4NaPo_VYtfm3id0P0giO8AqxN7w_IOpmpPmBSteNzm/s200/letter-i.jpg" width="132" /></a></div>
At first, I just blamed it on technology (my go-to scapegoat along with the weather and GMOs for all ills in society). Teens socialize primarily through text, Twitter and Snapchat thereby practice and perfect the incorrect grammar teachers spend their careers trying to undo. Regardless of how much we badger them about capitalizing their personal pronoun I, they refuse to do so.<br />
<br />
The most obvious explanation seemed to be laziness because it's not a difficult rule to remember. I suppose it is a bit taxing to stretch that pinky finger all the way over to the shift key and hit it at the same time as the 'I' key: I mean, why hit two keys when one will do?<br />
<br />
Recently, that theory was called into question when I found several hand-written assignments littered with lower case, personal pronoun 'I's; but as with typing, it takes a little more extra effort to make one vertical and two horizontal lines versus just having one vertical line and a dot.<br />
<br />
I further tested these theories by berating students on their laziness; you know, trying to shame them into writing correctly. How are they going to succeed in school, hold down a job, building healthy, lasting relationships if they can't even capitalize their fucking 'I's? Surprisingly, their English teacher's opinion meant nothing to them. <br />
<br />
Ready to settle on the theory that teenage rebellion demands they don't do <i>one single thing</i> they are asked to do without a fight; it is a trait of adolescence generations of adults have been unable to eradicate. Still, it seemed too paradoxical: why wouldn't teenagers, especially Millennials, use every tool they had to assert their individuality? To assert their ego? Aren't they self-absorbed, coddled, entitled, and solitary behind their electronic devices?<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9AR53b9wrNIGwrr3huglkJgfYCaNeLlwiXpzvhVpktT-2ozx_zQ78Ar9OJRuHMqZnemkjfyq_vV989ZtiW2MVughlrR6bDUGcXpWXVxs671HYUKx8GL8c3U08TYS2BOiO05B1yhrhG-ls/s1600/social+media+icons.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9AR53b9wrNIGwrr3huglkJgfYCaNeLlwiXpzvhVpktT-2ozx_zQ78Ar9OJRuHMqZnemkjfyq_vV989ZtiW2MVughlrR6bDUGcXpWXVxs671HYUKx8GL8c3U08TYS2BOiO05B1yhrhG-ls/s200/social+media+icons.png" width="200" /></a>Like most people, the answer came to me while I was in the shower: Millennials are also the iGeneration, they don't need they don't <i>need</i> to capitalize their 'I's because the internet provides so many other venues to promote their individuality in more engaging, entertaining, far-reaching ways. They can track how many people follow them doing ordinary shit. They can snap, tweet, post, share, filter, and, well, blog. Capitalized pronouns are becoming as necessary as landlines.<br />
<br />
To be fair, pronouns have always catered to the ego. Grammar rules that "I" must capitalize myself as the writer in order to assert my ideas, opinions, actions over any other person I might be writing about. When composing my spectacular posts, I don't introduce my voice with "I, Holly Vance" and then shift to "believe i have solved the riddle of how teenagers think (if i had, i'd be in such high demand for consultation i wouldn't have time to blog). Sure, I will capitalized the names of others, but after an initial introduction, grammar rules that I should refer to others as he/she him/her they/them--not capitalized. Capitalization means specific, unique, and important; but to be grammatically correct, I shouldn't capitalize "she" when substituted for Lisa, Cher, Laura, Karen, Mindi, and Carrie even though each woman is specific, unique, and important. <br />
<br />
The generation who exist in a digital extension of their egos, the generation capable of asserting their "I" in so many ways, refuse resort to a archaic, symbol of the ego: the capitalized "I". It is ironic, but also isn't it expected for teenagers to carve out a way to be different, to not do things the way their predecessors did? Maybe I needed to capitalize "I" because I didn't have any other way to do so.<br />
<br />
Or Apple started this whole problem with their iPhone, iMac, iPod, iWatch, iBrain. Like I mentioned earlier, damn technology ruins everything.<br />
<br />
<br />Holly Vancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10113438267020711966noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3125621210059666807.post-76538652221560064482018-07-10T16:13:00.002-07:002018-07-10T18:06:05.116-07:00Finesse My Seat, Not My Hair<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEWl25omP1uZV1jhRKi3VPvgYw_mceI9u9-YCN2ndMRvXFcxUB9zp-lTh99B6EleLZNRpD2TWqUeneGn1J282Hi2AltmyNH52nDJ9Z1j8u4Iz8oSOZK3O1t_Tp94fGXKHWPn7bsm7i5acB/s1600/Charlies+Angels.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="299" height="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEWl25omP1uZV1jhRKi3VPvgYw_mceI9u9-YCN2ndMRvXFcxUB9zp-lTh99B6EleLZNRpD2TWqUeneGn1J282Hi2AltmyNH52nDJ9Z1j8u4Iz8oSOZK3O1t_Tp94fGXKHWPn7bsm7i5acB/s200/Charlies+Angels.jpg" width="200" /></a>Tweens and teens of the 70's and early 80's wanted only one thing: to look like <i>Charlie's Angels</i> (well, and marry one of the <i>Dukes of Hazard</i> or <i>Hardy Boys</i>)<i>. </i><br />
Every girl wanted to have that straight glossy hair with the sides feathered back: wings of beauty hardened by Aqua Net.<br />
<br />
Being in junior high school during this fashion trend, my frizzy, curly, sky-scraper-defying hair only added to the trauma of those years. Straightening, let alone adding a wispy flip, was impossible. And since my most loathsome chore was ironing my dad's clothes, I sure as shit was not going to iron my hair. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXnWxcyZmK4LNBhDdqI-wlx_y7TAdoyx5qBj_kP41PjlJSYZRJRYJ3rnj95R1OedfObUcVn3Uhg6e-InUWlWn1XXYyZbusX2L1-NGeDf6qRLPsPsGmAgZx83kU1kBZ33kh_gpZsav2XJg3/s1600/Finesse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="156" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXnWxcyZmK4LNBhDdqI-wlx_y7TAdoyx5qBj_kP41PjlJSYZRJRYJ3rnj95R1OedfObUcVn3Uhg6e-InUWlWn1XXYyZbusX2L1-NGeDf6qRLPsPsGmAgZx83kU1kBZ33kh_gpZsav2XJg3/s200/Finesse.jpg" width="130" /></a>Finesse Shampoo and Conditioner was my last hope to be trendy and cool. It advertised the end of frizz and the beginning of soft manageable hair.<br />
<br />
It didn't work as well as I hoped. It tamed my afro a bit, but not enough to impress Charlie. I just had to wait it out until the later 80's when it was fashionable to for a girl to look like she stuck finger into a light socket.<br />
<br />
It wasn't until last year when a freshman brought the word "finesse" back into my life. This will give those who know me pause because in my 21 years of teaching I have NEVER taught freshmen, and it is best that I NEVER do teach freshmen. The problem is definitely me not them. I am not emotionally, mentally, hell or even physically equipped to be in the same room with more than say two at a time. They have no control over their bodies, they don't get my sarcasm, and they don't respond well to my "suck it up" and "stop complaining" method of compassion.<br />
<br />
Once in a great while, I would watch a colleague (and friend's) freshman study hall if need be, but only if she had a bonafide emergency: she stroked out, her arm fell off, or her house was on fire.<br />
<br />
It was on one such occasion when I discovered how kids today use "finesse." I had about 15 freshman in my room, all settled into desks and ordered to work on their homework if they planned on surviving their 25 minutes with me. Freshmen cannot be still for longer than 30 seconds nor can they go more than 30 seconds without antagonizing one another, so when one young man got up to flail about the room in search of a trashcan, another one slipped into his desk. As I began to hound the one that was up to get back in his seat, his excuse for not doing so was that his friend had, "finessed his seat."<br />
<br />
Being a Czar of language, I was aware of the definition of finesse as an adverb for something done with grace, skill, and ease. I've heard it associated with a review a person's athleticism. And trust me, freshman are nowhere near graceful, skillful, or at ease. No. Where. Near.<br />
<br />
Based on my Sherlock Holmesian powers of deduction, I figured out "finesse" means to steal with stealth and a style (two more adjectives not within 3-4 years of a freshman). The implication is that the "finesser" is to be admired for his/her expertise, subtlety, and smoothness. The connotation detracts from the negativity of the act. Taking what is not yours is softened with the <i>s</i> sound. "Stealing" squeals and crashes; "finessing" slides and whispers. It brings admiration to the culprit the way James Bond brings class to a governmental assassin.<br />
<br />
Did the freshmen survive their 25 minutes? Barely. Things became much better after I duct-taped them all to their seats.Holly Vancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10113438267020711966noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3125621210059666807.post-1565667514453285072018-06-10T10:06:00.002-07:002018-06-19T18:35:16.955-07:00As Ladies Get Thicc, Gentlemen Get SwoleRecently, while I was at the gym trying to get thicc, the guys around me were getting swole.<br />
<br />
To clarify, I am already thick: that is an easy state to achieve via chocolate and tacos. Becoming <i>thicc</i> requires less chocolate, fewer tacos, and more chicken and vegetables. Oh, and lifting weights.<br />
<br />
And to further clarify, men at the gym are not getting that kind of "swole" watching me work out. The injuries they sustain trying to get away from the sight of me getting thicc might have swole, but that's not what I mean either.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe8Jx5iBzsMdv8X2VAmVVvQ8iOjnu2gLkbnRZ12aD_Kw64f1aVGQpsMJwC-cntWmffg8u8x00LOQe882mPn25l89F1V_vT84iYLWrQDZFebc0O3EqDFi3vlxvTPUaOCnzAZuJC0ok-Yzif/s1600/Top+Gun.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="338" data-original-width="296" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe8Jx5iBzsMdv8X2VAmVVvQ8iOjnu2gLkbnRZ12aD_Kw64f1aVGQpsMJwC-cntWmffg8u8x00LOQe882mPn25l89F1V_vT84iYLWrQDZFebc0O3EqDFi3vlxvTPUaOCnzAZuJC0ok-Yzif/s200/Top+Gun.jpg" width="175" /></a>Swole is the man's version of thicc. Here's where I engage in shameless self-promotion (and sheer laziness) and encourage you to read my previous post if you are hopelessly lost or if you have a memory like mine and can only remember lyrics from 80's hairband songs.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjn4gn6AdTv034MkRjpQpPTyGHfDmxfbINgq78l47VFyYJOgpkeNcMAMSvrXVa77zOOZJqdD_S6DonyEGAMz0F1XTohX8_sbSQD7AHaSWTPjVJISrCJ4_Wp1jFx_DlteWPBg1g5BttdfXd/s1600/Hemsworth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="750" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjn4gn6AdTv034MkRjpQpPTyGHfDmxfbINgq78l47VFyYJOgpkeNcMAMSvrXVa77zOOZJqdD_S6DonyEGAMz0F1XTohX8_sbSQD7AHaSWTPjVJISrCJ4_Wp1jFx_DlteWPBg1g5BttdfXd/s200/Hemsworth.jpg" width="200" /></a>When I was a teenager, I liked my men buff like those hunky pilots playing volleyball in <i>Top Gun.</i> My father nicknamed our muscle-exploding neighbor "meat-head"; in my early teaching years, student athletes had to spend at least one day in the school's weight room getting ripped, and more recently, Chris Hemsworth needed to pump iron and get swole for his roles as the powerful Thor and the "flying beefcake" stupid-secretary-done-possessed in <i>Ghostbusters</i>.<br />
<br />
I understand the need to have a gender-specific word for having well-developed muscles. No woman wants anything on her body to be "swole" and "ripped" makes us sound like victims of domestic violence. Or that we are ready to be served at a cannibals dinner party. Referring to a man as thick (thicc) would be automatically associated with obstinacy instead of muscle mass.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKVcdHomr6hqaQiT_9YtEWaAxMHSMiTZWSS651dkDM2PHBKkfgAlNCOYIvZzpKYfL_wZt_XTpXuQGOoi4LPtRB-Cy6xSL8jrRvF5YwZXu2lVKe0ALmRTqdcSWLEPTNcxCYK20ofzR-dmRW/s1600/Swole+Juice+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="734" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKVcdHomr6hqaQiT_9YtEWaAxMHSMiTZWSS651dkDM2PHBKkfgAlNCOYIvZzpKYfL_wZt_XTpXuQGOoi4LPtRB-Cy6xSL8jrRvF5YwZXu2lVKe0ALmRTqdcSWLEPTNcxCYK20ofzR-dmRW/s200/Swole+Juice+1.jpg" width="91" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Courtesy of a student athlete</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Unfortunately, the development of these terms are not thoroughly thought out. On behalf of women, the only thickness we want in life is in our steaks, our milkshakes, and the circumference of our mens' members. For men, being buff sounds like they've been waxed, meat-head implies malice and stupidity, ripped sounds like he's just been in a brawl or that his muscles are in tatters (I know "shredding" ones muscles at Crossfit is a trend which does not sound appealing). I hear a man is "swole" and I think he's injured himself or he's aroused.<br />
<br />
It will be interesting to see how the slang for strong, developed muscles evolves (or devolves) but hopefully it will have more attractive connotations.<br />
<br />Holly Vancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10113438267020711966noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3125621210059666807.post-59594416627110729292018-02-14T16:52:00.001-08:002018-06-19T18:35:25.816-07:00Thick Through the Middle or Thicc at the Top and Bottom?I love it when my students realize the power of language buried beneath its nuances without my teaching it. It is rare, but it happens. When it does, I'd like to think its a result of the 20 years of teaching that has made me so adept at delivering education to young minds I am not even aware I'm doing it. My students absorb knowledge just being in my presence. Or, teenagers are smarter than I give them credit for.<br />
<br />
No, it's my genius.<br />
<br />
My genius really shines when I teach <i>The Great Gatsby</i>. I love, love, love this novel. Even before Baz Luhrmann. There's something about handsome, filthy rich, charming, and delusional men . . .<br />
<br />
I focus heavily on character analysis with this novel. For the character of Tom Buchanan, my approached is to view him through the lens of his women: his wife, Daisy and his mistress, Myrtle. While going over the difference between Daisy and Myrtle, my students showed me they do understand the importance of spelling.<br />
<br />
Yes, you read correctly. The importance of <i>spelling.</i><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjXeiOTKitytnntNCoJDkhERcfl8pKyBmLTPSRA2AJMlvInQp1zAj2YBUJc6wduBo0AwDxAR6q27qONMglBdnUiCbBgMc6HORSLozyMTpPZm9-YDfoq5z8EbsPgP6tV7O-15UeX8miTus0/s1600/Daisy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="1536" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjXeiOTKitytnntNCoJDkhERcfl8pKyBmLTPSRA2AJMlvInQp1zAj2YBUJc6wduBo0AwDxAR6q27qONMglBdnUiCbBgMc6HORSLozyMTpPZm9-YDfoq5z8EbsPgP6tV7O-15UeX8miTus0/s200/Daisy.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px; text-align: center;">Mia Farrow and Carey Mulligan as Daisy Buchanan</td></tr>
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The women's physical appearance reflect characteristics of their personalities. Daisy is young, delicate with a face "sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth." In contrast, Myrtle is older, aggressive "she carried her surplus flesh sensuously as some women can. Her face, above a spotted dress of dark blue crepe-de-chine, contained no facet or gleam of beauty, but there was an immediately perceptible vitality about her as if the nerves of her body were continually smouldering."<br />
<br />
I find their difference in size relevant to character, but trepidation over my students translating "surplus flesh" into "fat" and therefore "ugly" tricks me into drawing attention to that particular detail as an attempt to divert the fat label.<br />
<br />
"She is not fat," I always emphasize, with my hands planted firmly on my surplus hips. "She is what we call curvy or voluptuous."<br />
<br />
Recently, a student, Isabel, added, "You mean she's thick?"<br />
<br />
"Is that fat?"<br />
<br />
"No, it means," Isabel looked to her neighbor, also a female, "how do you say it? She's just . . . thick."<br />
<br />
"Is she thick because of fat or muscle?"<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6ve5yqZUA5z4CjJ8XM061jFcO_P_m4uilzX6Cd4n92Fkqm0bMWLjYuAV8z2I5WMuoqvGtBW4-28DmTj4EPNV-abmu-n3L27_xYK07Vj_NkAoiv_jxgQ7TkXsUx2uPl-brMgi6hrgJ4gQN/s1600/myrtle2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1198" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6ve5yqZUA5z4CjJ8XM061jFcO_P_m4uilzX6Cd4n92Fkqm0bMWLjYuAV8z2I5WMuoqvGtBW4-28DmTj4EPNV-abmu-n3L27_xYK07Vj_NkAoiv_jxgQ7TkXsUx2uPl-brMgi6hrgJ4gQN/s320/myrtle2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px; text-align: center;">Neither Karen Black nor Isla Fisher have Myrtle Wilson's "surplus flesh"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
A few male students confirmed that "thick" is muscular. The young ladies in the room didn't quite agree. Knowing that it could take the rest of the class--hell, the rest of the week--to get my students to agree on a definition, I wrote "thick" on the board and tried to move on to "delicate" Daisy.<br />
<br />
"It's two Cs," several students said. "T-H-I-C-C."<br />
<br />
"Why two Cs?"<br />
<br />
They look at each other and shrug.<br />
<br />
"There must be a reason, otherwise why not just spell it T-H-I-C-K?"<br />
<br />
No one seems to know. Or care.<br />
<br />
I changed the spelling on the board to T-H-I-C-C. When I turned back around to face the class, I see Isabel curving the fingers of each hand to form the letter C. She whispered something to her neighbor who does the same with her hands and then they both burst out laughing.<br />
<br />
"Figure something out back there?" I asked them.<br />
<br />
Isabel holds up her Cs again, raising one hand higher than the other: "Boobs," she said about the higher C and "Butt" about the lower C.<br />
<br />
Okay, so T-H-I-C-C isn't related to muscle but more the quantity of TNA (Tits and Ass, not Talula National Athletics clothing brand, nor Total Nonstop Action wrestling alliance, nor Texas Nurses Association).<br />
<br />
I was satisfied with the two-Cs-symbol-for-TNA explanation for the spelling, but then one girl piped up: "We spell it that way, so it is ours. So that the definition belongs to our generation." Crossing her arms, she gave me a sharp nod to indicate the discussion was over.<br />
<br />
Can we all say progeny? Reincarnated linguist? Reason I can retire? Her indignation at my academic approach only reinforced an academic approach. Paradox aside, I couldn't help but get goosebumps watching my students try to figure out language. It is one of the reasons I "beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the pastâ (Fitzgerald).<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Holly Vancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10113438267020711966noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3125621210059666807.post-59744516394868425422017-08-28T18:20:00.002-07:002017-09-17T13:21:04.214-07:00Kids and Clean Cannot Co-existI am a very clean person. Boringly clean. Disturbingly clean. I-need-a-life clean. If I am feeling frazzled or stressed, I clean. For some reason, herding and purging dirt makes me feel grounded and in control of my life. I wish eating vegetables and jogging made me feel in control of my life, but it doesn't work half as well as cleaning. Or eating chocolate and drinking wine.<br />
<br />
Since I live alone, keeping my place organized and spotless is fairly easy. So is eating chocolate and drinking wine. I was so grounded a tree would be jealous. Then my sister had to go and have kids and just throw my life into chaos.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE8BSTlE40w95ShPJB3s8HCJEiGt4MJrk_UHUpzmXnpp4q8YpQGrZ2p7KBeHmyEsRykWvJrZF6vF0Rro8RqrHEpZINxthG6-JMrbFwCrlE3py04duf1QauySXbw4XbtOGPdsrxmRXwPYby/s1600/Nephews.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE8BSTlE40w95ShPJB3s8HCJEiGt4MJrk_UHUpzmXnpp4q8YpQGrZ2p7KBeHmyEsRykWvJrZF6vF0Rro8RqrHEpZINxthG6-JMrbFwCrlE3py04duf1QauySXbw4XbtOGPdsrxmRXwPYby/s200/Nephews.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jay, 5 and Blake, 22 mths.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I used to try and fight the chaos when my nephews would come stay the night with me. I'd run around behind them wiping things down and picking things up; I ran the vacuum so much that my cats now suffer from shell shock. Finally, I accepted a modified version of a clean and orderly house--modified being there would be no clean and no orderly. After a night with one or with both boys, my place could serve as a set for hoarders. Toys would blanket the floor; Cheerios, Goldfish crackers, and God-knows-what-else jammed between seat cushions and clinging to carpet fibers could supply me and my cats snacks for days. And when Jay began using the toilet, my bathroom became a bio-hazard.<br />
<br />
My one feeble attempt to maintain some kind of order when my nephews visit is during bath-time. I know; it's like trying to stay on a diet in Las Vegas, but logic has never been my strong suit. <br />
<br />
To prep for bath time, I first remove all my beauty products from the tub and put them out-of-reach. Then, I line the bathroom floor with towels, because I learned quickly kids scare water so much it will leap out of the tub in order to escape them. I load the tub with toys, water and bubbles and then dump the kids in to play, hopefully long enough for me to savor my wine instead of shooting it like Tequila.<br />
<br />
Last Saturday night, I had both nephews. I went through my preparation, got the kids situated but before I had my fingers wrapped around the stem of my glass I heard Jay call, "Auntie!"<br />
<br />
I headed back to the bathroom to him leaping from the tub, announcing, "I have to poop!"<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
He jumped onto the pot before I could get his kid potty-seat down (the only thing keeping him from falling in were braced hands and skinny arms). Even though I was focused on keeping Jay from falling into the toilet, I noticed some suspicious movement from his brother, Blake, in the tub. Before I could further investigate, Jay pulled my attention back to him by saying, "Auntie, I have something bad to tell you."<br />
<br />
Awesome.<br />
<br />
"I pooped a little in the tub."<br />
<br />
If you have not had the pleasure of fishing poop out of a tub, let me tell you it is probably the most disgusting thing I've ever had to do. Ever.<br />
<br />
Well, Blake had handled that for me. In a tub filled with at least 100 toys bobbing beneath a mountain of suds, that toddler managed to find the only, small nugget of shit. Kids can't find their shoes, their homework, their pants, their parents, their ass--but this one can find the only thing in the damn tub I didn't want him to touch. <br />
<br />
Blake squished the nugget into a pancake, shrugged, and then smeared it on the wall. <br />
<br />
Let's just say we did a Bath Time, Take 2. And I did shoot my wine like Tequila.<br />
<br />Holly Vancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10113438267020711966noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3125621210059666807.post-86168985902026326342017-05-02T15:22:00.003-07:002017-05-02T15:22:38.850-07:00To Quote My Grandmother: "Why Are Teenagers So Stupid?"<br />
My 4th period juniors have been quite a challenge this year. They are good kids, but their collective ego could use some humbling. I have several varsity football players in that class, and our team does quite well. Put a bunch of successful athletes who are also buddies in the same class and it becomes an ego-off. I make one statement and I have six boys trying to out smart-ass each other. <br />
<br />
Of course, I've been through the steps of smart-ass management. First, I seat them far away from one another, and when they should across the room, I send them outside and call parents. When those consequences wear off, I go to siting quietly at my podium, looking disgusted and bored at their witty banter, reminding them to "Waste all the time that you want. I'm not the one whose gonna end up with more homework because y'all need to be the center of attention." That usually gets their peers, just as "over" by their antics to apply some peer pressure.<br />
<br />
Yes, there are moments when I consider seating them together in the back corner of the room and telling them to just bro-love themselves to death as long as they don't disrupt what I'm teaching (and their grades will tank because they won't know what's going on), but I <i>refuse</i> to give in.<br />
<br />
With enough patience and consistency, I usually get them in line within a month or so.<br />
<br />
Then Spring Break hits and everything goes to shit. All systems break down. All adherence to the rules goes out the window. It becomes pure survival: juniors want to be seniors, seniors want to be graduated, and I want to be on an Italian Vineyard sipping wine.<br />
<br />
To keep both me and the students from going nuts, I find a compromise between my teaching integrity and their unwillingness to do anything. I ease up on the homework, slow down my pace within the classroom, and do my best to teach something the students will enjoy (or at least not whine every time I ask them to get out their books).<br />
<br />
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Currently, I am teaching my juniors the novel, <i>The Great Gatsby</i>. Of course, most have seen the movie, but my approach is to have students determine whether F. Scott Fitzgerald would approve of Bax Lurhmann's interpretation: does he represent the spirit of the novel or would Lurhmann's adjustments to plot and character representation give Fitzgerald reason to rise from the grave and sober up long enough to tell Lurhmann Gatsby <i>never</i> loses his cool.<br />
<br />
But I digress.<br />
<br />
As expected, my 4th period egos are interested in Gatsby. He is a baller; the novel is full of drinking and drama. It's all about flash and display of greatness (I wait until the end of the novel to explain that Fitzgerald is criticizing these ideas).<br />
<br />
Today, the class analyzed how the party guests who attend his parties and wreck his house and Gatsby himself are represented in the novel. I told them to list adjectives to describe the characters' behavior. With the party guests, I specifically said to not use the adjective "drunk."<br />
<br />
Immediately, the students start shouting out, "how about lit? Buzzed? Wasted? Wrecked? Trashed?'<br />
<br />
"Nor any synonyms for drunk," I emphasized. "What can you say about people who get that drunk all the time?" Then I waved off any answer to that question, realizing that at that age being falling down drunk is cool.<br />
<br />
I knew I was taking a risk giving this task to my 4th period full of the "in crowd" and ADHD, but I'm edgy. Or stupid--the verdict is still out.<br />
<br />
After a few minutes of vigorous scribbling, I have the students share their adjectives with their neighbors. I specifically say, "With those sitting <i>next</i> to you."<br />
<br />
Immediately, one of my rambunctious athletes, Caleb, who sits two feet from my podium, shouts to his friend across the room, "Hey, Freddy. I put <i>lit</i>, <i>wasted</i>, and <i>fucked-up</i> for party guests. What did you put?"<br />
<br />
The class goes silent. Students look at me and then look at Caleb. My forehead hits the podium.<br />
<br />
"What?" Caleb asked. "What did I do? Ms. Vance, are you okay?"<br />
<br />
Wine, whether on an Italian Villa or no, here I come.<br />
<br />
<br />Holly Vancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10113438267020711966noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3125621210059666807.post-35752407865959924212017-04-14T10:15:00.000-07:002017-09-17T13:19:45.724-07:00In Awe and Reverence of ParentsI am amazed to see parents who can manage to hold down a job, keep a house, remain social, and not go absolutely nuts. Several of my co-workers have young children and every day they show up with a smile on their faces to teach even more children. <i>With smiles on their faces</i>. Fashionably dressed. Healthy, packed lunches at the ready. I'm convinced they are medicated.<br />
<br />
Or, Holden Caulfield so eloquently stated, "All mothers are slightly insane."<br />
<br />
I keep my nephews for 24 hours and I feel, look and behave like a mental patient whose been on the streets for weeks. If manage to brush my teeth, I feel like a champ.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje67BL5QNXEMc__uJJn4BmLApOZj83xqMMteML2WoJ2vLd0LTIrF1PYkkk2s3JbY8axzkcdrduwUG7WYE2-wjBtYXql21k3vKLhiKUf77xNzkifkzWH0l-B0Vih_M4vN5SiI6Z-PFS5SbI/s1600/JJ+and+Blake+Chewbacca.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje67BL5QNXEMc__uJJn4BmLApOZj83xqMMteML2WoJ2vLd0LTIrF1PYkkk2s3JbY8axzkcdrduwUG7WYE2-wjBtYXql21k3vKLhiKUf77xNzkifkzWH0l-B0Vih_M4vN5SiI6Z-PFS5SbI/s200/JJ+and+Blake+Chewbacca.jpg" width="149" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Those who own me.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
There is nothing, <i>nothing</i> I love more in this world than my two nephews: Jay, who is 5, and Blake, who is almost 1 1/2. They spend the night with me often, usually one at a time, but there are occasions when I keep both. One is hard enough; two, OMG.<br />
<br />
This parenting shit is <i>hard</i>. And I am not even parenting; I'm quasi-parenting. Actually, I just keep them alive. Naively, I figured all it required was to throw food at them, change a diaper, and block them from running into traffic. Guess what? It takes a lot more than that.<br />
<br />
I have to convince Jay flipping over couches and leaping off chairs can result in him getting hurt, try to get him to eat anything other than candy and chips (I have no problem spoiling him; I do have a problem with the demon within unleashed by sugar), and if I take him to the park? That adds at least 100 other ways he can hurt himself: slides, swings, strangers, oh my. <br />
<br />
And the gear one needs to keep a baby alive: I don't know how anyone can afford to be parents. You need diapers, 5 changes of clothes per day, a sleep sack, butt cream, wipes, whole milk, baby food, regular food (that he'll like, that he can "swallow" without choking because chewing is new), a high chair, and a pack-n-play. Oh, and toys. Lots and lots of toys. <br />
<br />
The first time I watched both boys for an extended period of time, we barely made it. And when I say "we" I mean me. After that harrowing 24 hours, I swore the next time my sister asked if I could take both overnight, I'd immediately volunteer as tribute for the Hunger Games. I just don't have enough arms, patience, and brain cells to keep both of them alive for an extended period of time.<br />
<br />
As with all other great pains in life-- heart-break, labor, crossfit--time blotted out the memory of it, so when my sister and mom went to DC for five days, I volunteered as tribute to watch both nephews overnight to provide her husband with a break.<br />
<br />
I prepped like a motherfucker: I stocked up on child and baby preferred snacks: Cheerios, bananas, fruit, and cookies. Bottles are pulled out and lined up on the counter. Sheets were laid over the furniture to save them from ruin. All breakable items were stashed in a closet. Pack-n-play was set up (after a lot of cursing and sweating). Wine was chilled. And if shit really gets rough, children's Benedryl was loaded in the medicine syringe ready to fire.<br />
<br />
The first 5 hours, I managed fairly well. Kids were fed and entertained. My apartment was littered with toys, but nothing has been broken. Each kid had only one or two brushes with death. <br />
<br />
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Inevitably, my strength waned. I'm not sure why Jay can't get it through his head that he shouldn't cover his brother's face, and since I don't speak baby babble, I'm not sure how to communicate to Blake that kamikaze diving off my ottoman is not a good idea. I had been watching<i> Teen Titians</i>, <i>PAW Patrol</i>, and <i>Team Umizoomie </i>forever, so I found the movie <i>Dawn of Justice: Batman vs. Superman</i> for them to watch--it's about superheroes, so it's child-appropriate, right?--but after Jay asked me 1000 questions about the plot, I'm ready to go back to helping Umizoomie save another one of their dumbass friends. My feet were pock-marked from stepping on legos. I considered putting tape over Blake's mouth to keep him from shoving anything and everything into it--he can still breath through his nose--but the last thing I need to be doing is giving Jay ideas.<br />
<br />
I had poured a glass of wine, but couldn't find two seconds to actually drink it. One of the kids might have drank it; I don't know.<br />
<br />
When I got Blake to go to sleep for the night, I figured I might be at the end of the gauntlet. Jay was watching television, so I told him I was going to take a quick shower. And I mean quick--long enough to get clean--no relaxing, not pampering. In and out. But as soon as I had lathered up my hair and then . . . surprise! My shower curtain flew open and there was Jay, "Auntie, are you done yet?"<br />
<br />
Yes, young man, I am done. And I still have about 12 hours to go. <br />
<br />
I'm sure parenting books have a chapter on how to synchronize the sleeping of multiple children, but I haven't read them. Blake was asleep at 8:30 p.m. and then up at 3 a.m. We hung out for two hours--me trying to convince myself that I'm a rockstar being up at 3 a.m. I think "rockstar" status is negated by poopy diapers though. I finally got Blake back to sleep at 5 a.m. just to have Jay pounce on me at 6 a.m. <br />
<br />
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I had to make it until noon. If I made it, I had planned on auditioning for <i>Survivor.</i><br />
<br />
Jay doesn't understand the concept of brain development. To tell him that Blake "doesn't understand"--well, anything--doesn't quite sink in. So, when Blake threw his Cheerios all over the floor, Jay figured he had license to throw his much bigger bowl of Cheerios on the floor. Fuck it; I told them to pick their breakfast out of the carpet. Hell, I saw Blake eat a few Cheerios he peeled off the bottom of his foot. Breakfast turned into a scavenger hunt since they had to sift through the toys that blanketed the floor.<br />
<br />
I've heard parents--moms especially--lament the time they used to have to themselves. They claim they can't do <i>anything</i> alone. My own mother swears that she hasn't "peed or had a can of Pepsi to herself in 35 years." <br />
<br />
While my nephews scrounged for their breakfast, I decided to duck into the bathroom. Not ten seconds after my butt hit the toilet seat, Jay comes in asking me how kryptonite works. As I explained this (for the 100th time), Blake toddled in with a small tennis ball and began bouncing it off the walls.<br />
<br />
Taking a dump while explaining the power of a glowing green rock while a ball pings around my head: #glamlife.<br />
<br />
At 11:30, I loaded those kids up and drove 80 miles an hour to meet up with their dad to hand them off. In my pajamas. <br />
<br />
When I got home, it took me hours to get my place and my psyche back in order. A week later, I'm still stepping on Cheerios.<br />
<br />
In my opinion, setting a pack-n-play up and breaking it down qualifies as a workout. I may not have been able to brush my teeth, but I could scratch "exercise" off my list. Shit, I can't even do that on a day without kids.Holly Vancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10113438267020711966noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3125621210059666807.post-11653519266742556062015-10-02T09:46:00.000-07:002015-10-02T12:22:08.761-07:00Honoring Dad<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
My
father, Michael MacDonald Vance, died from a heart attack on Friday, September
4, 2015 at 11:59 p.m. He was 69 years
and 6 days old. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
I
am very conscious of dates and time and so was my father. Therefore, I am exact when people ask me when he died. Those who knew him would appreciate that
he died at 11:59 and that he expected me to be accurate. He died on Friday night not Saturday morning.
Such an error in detail would be egregious.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
But
since Dad has died, my concept of time has been thrown off. From the time when
he went into the hospital for a host of other physical ailments to the time he
passed was 3.2857142857 weeks and yet to me it feels like 6 months. Then there
are days when I feel like I have just seen him; have just talked to him. He is no
more distant than the moment I am thinking of him. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj82YPJGXs4_82GM2nk8JdpZJaiFUQIB9eZEpkry-JkVT3aanzRCkbrYbJUgVp5u4AWAG-smOGQu7I8MWqD3K06_FWX5AApprksTek7LvNYzufqNp2b3GL1STFq_zF-Z0X7VhX54zw8LvSm/s1600/Dad+and+Kitties.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="151" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj82YPJGXs4_82GM2nk8JdpZJaiFUQIB9eZEpkry-JkVT3aanzRCkbrYbJUgVp5u4AWAG-smOGQu7I8MWqD3K06_FWX5AApprksTek7LvNYzufqNp2b3GL1STFq_zF-Z0X7VhX54zw8LvSm/s200/Dad+and+Kitties.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dad with his "kitties" Fluffy and Scooter</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
Every
day this week Iâve been thinking, âFriday will be one month since Dad died.â Iâve rallied friends to keep me company so that I donât cry my face off. Then
last night when I was shuffling around my apartment I happened to glance at the
calendar and realized that today is the 2<sup>nd</sup>, not the 4<sup>th</sup>,
of October. It is not the one-month
anniversary of his death, but the four-week anniversary. The only timeline thatâs
measured in weeks is pregnancy, so Dad
would be annoyed if I mourned his one-month anniversary today, because it <i>isnât</i> the one-month anniversary. And thereâs a part of me that wants to honor
his love of the punctilious and reign in the emotions until Sunday.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="text-indent: 0in;">But when it comes to love and grief, time means nothing and everything. Those sentiments would make him crazy, but that's also a way for me to honor my father. I loved prodding him with such lofty, abstract thinking. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="text-indent: 0in;">Nevertheless Dad, I miss you every second of every minute of every hour of every day of every week of the month. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Holly Vancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10113438267020711966noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3125621210059666807.post-1875501938208909672015-09-29T15:52:00.002-07:002015-09-30T09:42:31.223-07:00The Party Never Stops<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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</xml><![endif]--><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Teaching
writing is far more challenging than teaching literature. With literature, a
teacher has fascinating characters, engaging plots, and important themes that
they can easily get behind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>English
teachers, even those who are just paying the bills until they get their great
American novel published, did not choose their major because they loved writing
essays (or even novels). They did so because of literature. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Teaching straight, expository writing is much
more challenging because itâs hard to make the writing process interesting to
students. </span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">At least I
can make the topics of writing more edgy and fun when I teach my college
students. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For example, when introduce the
classification and analysis essay, I ask students to break up the guests of a
typical House Party into different categories.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The term âguestsâ is a bit of an euphemism because very few people at
House Parties are actually invited. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For
those of you whose rebellion happened before the 21st century, House Parties,
formally known as Flyer Parties (90s), formally known as Ragers (80s) occur
whenever a teenâs parents have gone out of the town for the weekend and word
gets out that there is an adult-free abode in which to indulge in iniquities. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Concept has been around for decades (hell,
centuries) but the name has changed.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Same with
those who attend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the students shared
their categories, I learned some new labels.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">For those
who for the tradition of drinking:</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: x-small; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">¡<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-language-override: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-synthesis: weight style; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The hot
heads: </b>The ones that start drinking and just want to get down. âGetting
downâ means to fight. I thought it was a reference to sex. In context, both definitions
make sense to me.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: x-small; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">¡<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-language-override: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-synthesis: weight style; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Flops:</b>
People that can't handle their alcohol</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The fact that
no one offered a category of silly, jovial drunks makes me wonder just how much
fun is to be had at House Parties.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">For those
who are into a little bit more than alcohol:</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l2 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: x-small; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">¡<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-language-override: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-synthesis: weight style; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Burnouts:</b>
People who come to do drugs</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l2 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: x-small; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">¡<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-language-override: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-synthesis: weight style; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Fiends</b>:
People that are just looking to smoke weed and just want people to smoke them
out. I assume they differ from burnouts because they are cannabis-focused where
burnouts will take anything.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l2 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: x-small; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">¡<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-language-override: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-synthesis: weight style; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The
Dealer</b>: The person that comes to make money from drug selling.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l2 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: x-small; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">¡<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-language-override: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-synthesis: weight style; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Ballooners:</b>
Go to party to do noz from the noz tank until they forget how to speak. This party
behavior is new to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Apparently, if itâs
a good party, then there will be a tank of nitrous oxide to take hits off of
(kind of like a step-up from inhaling from helium balloons). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And yes, the goal is to become a drooling
idiot. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I also pointed out that the goal
is to kill off your brain cells. Permanently. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">For those
looking for a little tail:</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo3; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: x-small; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">¡<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-language-override: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-synthesis: weight style; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The thirsty</b>:
people desperate to have sex. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Before
submitting this category, a student asked me if I know what âbeing thirstyâ
meant. I was a little suspicious: either they think Iâve been ballooning too
much or if it was too scandalous to put into spoken (or written) language. I
told them I assumed that it referred to a bonafide alcoholic. I stand
corrected.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo3; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: x-small; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">¡<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-language-override: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-synthesis: weight style; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Smashers</b>:
girls only good for sex. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo3; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: x-small; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">¡<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-language-override: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-synthesis: weight style; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Outcasts:</b>
socially awkward people that show up so they could get noticed.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">As a teacher
and possible mentor, even to college students, I did take this opportunity to
point out that these highly destructive behaviors are all ways to escape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those who frequent House Parties are probably
suffering some sort of personal trauma or self-esteem issues.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I commented on the irony of parties becoming the
stage to let all the things that are no-so-fun about us to come out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our social lives, which are meant to be a reprieve from stress and anxiety, are quickly becoming the fuel for more stress
and anxiety.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Not sure
anyone understood me. Maybe too many Ballooners in the room. Maybe I have fallen into the Party Pooper category.</span></span></div>
Holly Vancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10113438267020711966noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3125621210059666807.post-63254471019156797052015-08-28T09:44:00.002-07:002015-08-28T09:57:15.819-07:00Smarter Than I Look<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I understand that most teenagers
believe teachers (hell, adults) behaved differently when they were
teenagers. We went to sock-hops. We
loved school. If we felt like rebelling,
we wore racy clothes and drove our cars too fast. Maybe smoked a
cigarette; maybe took a couple sips from a beer occasionally. Honestly, I don't blame them. I thought the same thing too.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">What
strikes me is that they think we are not akin to their subterfuges. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The
high school I teach at starts a half-hour later on Fridays; combined with the
fact that this occurs at the end of their week makes hitting Starbucks a must
for adolescents. I sympathize
and have no problem with that as long as students arrive to class on time and donât
spill that Venti, blended goodness all over my floor. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But
this morning, a little lady told me a bold-face lie so that she could retrieve
her beverage after class had started.
One thing I have no patience with or tolerance for is lying. She asked me is she could go to the restroom.
I gave her permission. She came back
with a Venti passion tea.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Really?
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I
hauled her tush outside and said, âSamantha, donât ever lie to me. You ask to
go to the bathroom and you come back with Starbucks. Did you really think I
wouldnât catch that?â<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Her
eyes get real big. âI didnât lie. I just
happen to run into my friend, and she had an iced tea for me. I swear.â<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My
response: âDo you really think Iâm that stupid?â<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-indent: 0in;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">âI
swear thatâs what happened.â</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Yes, she thinks I'm that stupid.<br />
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">âSo, you expect me to
believe that the exact same moment you had to âgo to the bathroomâ your friend
happened to be walking the halls with an ice tea for you? You really think I am
going to believe that?â<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">âI
swear.â<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">âI
donât believe you.â<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> She
stands there blinking at me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">âDonât
<i>ever</i> lie to me again.â<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">She
huffs and storms into the classroom.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">(Little
does she know that next time --or the next dozen times-- she asks to go to the
restroom, the answer will be âno.â)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I
tell my students from the beginning of the year that they will always win with
honesty and never win with lying. Honestly doesnât mean no consequences, but they
will come down soooo much easier. All
Samantha had to do was say, âHey Ms. Vance, my friend just brought me an
iced-tea. Can I go grab it?â<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Itâs
Friday. We are just doing some leisurely reading. Sheâs playing it straight. I would have said,
âSure, but this is an exception. Donât make this a habit.â The end. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Instead,
she lies. Instead, she assumes that Iâm not going to catch on. She assumes that I am stupid. Iâm a lot of
things, but stupid ainât one of âem.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Trust
me, I was not a straight-laced kid. I rebelled. I rebelled hard. And I used the same tricks they try to use on
me. When I set my watch back 20 minutes
so that when I arrived home after curfew I could raise my little doe-eyes to my
parents and show them how my watch says Iâm on time? When I forged my own notes
to get out of school early (I had an âinjured kneeâ my junior year and had
many, many doctorâs appointments) did the attendance workers know I was lying
and just didnât have a way to call my bluff? (They never called my mom, which is
good, because then Iâd be well . . . dead).
My parents never have been push-overs.
If I got caught doing wrong, punishment was severe and swift. Yet I still ditched; I still snuck out; I
still lied. I wonder how much they actually knew and just didnât address
because I was still bringing home good grades and treating them with
respect? Were they just worn by the
demands of their daily lives so they would allow a few transgressions? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-indent: 0in;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The
message Iâd like to send to all teens is this: we know a lot more than you
think we know.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
Holly Vancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10113438267020711966noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3125621210059666807.post-67886020082038163612014-11-02T08:33:00.002-08:002015-10-02T10:08:37.252-07:00Not as Turn't Up as I HopedAs previously posted, I hate grading papers,but there is an exception: my students' personal statements for college. I enjoy these papers because I get to learn about who my students are as young men and women. It is often enlightening, sometimes heartbreaking, and once in a while didactic.<br />
<br />
One young lady wrote about her struggles making a new group of friends when changing high schools--quite a formidable one for a teen. (We all know the critical role our homies play during the adolescent years). She shared that unlike most of her peers, she doesn't like to get "TUed (turn't up)" on the weekends, so finding like-minded peers was difficult.<br />
<br />
I had encountered "turn't up" before: the first time was a couple summers ago when one of my college students used it to help me understand "ratchet" when I was investigating that word (my investigation led to an article still in the revising process), but using slang to help define slang only increases confusion. Most recently, a student asked me how my weekend had been, and in response to my assurance that it had been good, asked "did you get turn't up?"<br />
<br />
It doesn't take a linguist to figure out what it means. Hell, it only requires rudimentary understanding of teenage rebellion. But, I thought that the word's longevity might allude to a deeper meaning. (As with all things, the Internet speeds up the spread and burn-out of slang terms.) I decided to do a little investigating.<br />
<br />
I had a few minutes of class left after finishing one of my lessons, so I asked a group of seniors what "turn't up" meant. After the laughter that inevitably results from my questions on slang died down, I get a mixture of voices yelling, "Partying," and "Getting wasted" paired with raise-the-roof gestures and bodies dancing behind desks.<br />
<br />
I focus on the young lady sitting closest to me and hear her say, "It's like getting crazy."<br />
<br />
"In my day, we called it 'getting amped', is that what you mean?"<br />
<br />
"Exactly!"<br />
<br />
I need to read my own blog posts. Not only was I trying to use slang clarify a definition of slang, but I was using slang of my generation. I probably could have said, "we called it 'getting ugga-bugga'" and would have gotten the same response. At least she wouldn't have known that "getting amped" ususally mean consumption of methaphentomine.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-HOXVsG0DpgTzajEUbQEPRtUPiW9OKh4pcDzkTI6jumcSRMJd-3-afT8-Lt0w8hMDKpJDzUu-clHqYFIMfsniyWnPx7xRbpEU8Yih7oqAPJ2C3VaEbz3ATVVl3VMfOY9wj1FERqN7_4QA/s1600/Lil+Jon.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-HOXVsG0DpgTzajEUbQEPRtUPiW9OKh4pcDzkTI6jumcSRMJd-3-afT8-Lt0w8hMDKpJDzUu-clHqYFIMfsniyWnPx7xRbpEU8Yih7oqAPJ2C3VaEbz3ATVVl3VMfOY9wj1FERqN7_4QA/s1600/Lil+Jon.jpeg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lil Jon</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Fortunately, I went in with a pretty good idea what "turn't up" meant: increasing the energy level of a social situation through being more boisterous and less inhibited, usually with the assistance of drinking, drugs,and music. Nevertheless, I wanted to clarify if, getting "turn't up" <i>required</i> drinking and drug use. Could one drink too many espressos, throw on the Motely Crue, and get "turn't up?" Do teens who do not experiment (or become dependent on) drinking and drugs use the term?<br />
<br />
Several students said, "no" but with some hesitation. My guess was that the answer was really "yes," but they were trying to protect me from the iniquities of teenage life. You know, because when I was in high school I didn't nothing more devious than drinking Diet Rite Cola and playing Candyland. On nights I really wanted to take it to another level, I busted out the Monopoly and regular Rite Cola.<br />
<br />
While trying to get a consensus on the role of illicit party favors in the definition, a student said, "It's because of the song!"<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2ETWoXX-enwFdKQP2lqI9n_jdbzf7S2brP6sgFunVEPziTlYMFKlnPk2V12vq9Xi6uhje1OFDpZKEZXwBLs7U2brq8iwCg80eo1n2qfaAAlodRpKC9OFPfanktfXLW0QnrFm53NBQ6t35/s1600/lil+wayne.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2ETWoXX-enwFdKQP2lqI9n_jdbzf7S2brP6sgFunVEPziTlYMFKlnPk2V12vq9Xi6uhje1OFDpZKEZXwBLs7U2brq8iwCg80eo1n2qfaAAlodRpKC9OFPfanktfXLW0QnrFm53NBQ6t35/s1600/lil+wayne.jpeg" width="140" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lil Wayne</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
"What song?" I asked.<br />
<br />
" 'Turn't Down for What' by Lil Jon."<br />
<br />
This brought on a couple more questions from me: "Do you use 'turn't down' too?" and "I thought it was Lil Wayne."<br />
<br />
No on both accounts. Apparently there is a Lil Jon as well as a Lil Wayne, a Lil Kim, a Lil Fizz, a Lil Bibby, a Lil Boosie, and a Lil Bub. And while using "turn't up" is cool, "turn't down" is lame.<br />
<br />
My students exhorted me to look up the lyrics to the song. I did and they provided no further insight. In fact, the entire song is a repetition of these three lines: Fire up loud/ Another round of shots/ Turned down for what?<br />
<br />
"These lyrics aren't saying anything profound," I said. "In fact, they aren't saying much of anything at all."<br />
<br />
I am assured that if I listen to the song, it will enrich my understanding. I was not sure how, but I played the song. As it turned out, I had heard the song before, quite a bit actually, but since my clubbing days are quite over and have been for several years, I related it to a funny cat video on Youtube called "<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_TxV4dkRi8M" target="_blank">"Kitten Jam Turned Down for What</a>." I admit, it does have a good beat.<br />
<br />
But the lyrics = lame.<br />
<br />
"Fire up loud" means smoke weed.<br />
<br />
"Another round of shots" means another round of shots.<br />
<br />
"Turned down for what?" has a couple interpretations. One is "I am not turning down any weed or shots;" another, "why not get wasted?" If Lil Jon could let Lil Ol' Holly know which interpretation he meant, I would greatly appreciate it.<br />
<br />
And the next time anyone makes fun of Whitesnake, Poison, or Warrant, I am just going to turn up Kitten Jam on Youtube. <br />
<br />Holly Vancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10113438267020711966noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3125621210059666807.post-42452011110573263002014-10-26T11:34:00.001-07:002014-10-29T18:36:11.212-07:00Thought of That THOT and Then I Moved OnI have some major linguistic knowledge to throw down.<br />
<br />
Major. Linguistic. Knowledge.<br />
<br />
This new slang term for an old label might revolutionize the English language.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGfFgatQUOfsbxGgMQgYwQTLKQSr_1nr7JacaC-qdBpfGrLNky8kK89zW8Gkc3iBpGUooOTtgy8p380z2kdKWmKh7daCY1rNRUVbKmKMYBf0L98NdFS67oUn-M2PcnCloMrgI2P7DmES8z/s1600/thot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGfFgatQUOfsbxGgMQgYwQTLKQSr_1nr7JacaC-qdBpfGrLNky8kK89zW8Gkc3iBpGUooOTtgy8p380z2kdKWmKh7daCY1rNRUVbKmKMYBf0L98NdFS67oUn-M2PcnCloMrgI2P7DmES8z/s1600/thot.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Found on Pinterest Quotes</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Teens today have created a new way to call a girl a whore, and thank the goddess because pop culture does not have enough ways to pigeon-hole females. Refer to my post "<a href="http://genresofmylife.blogspot.com/2013/11/whores-offspring.html">Whore's Offspring</a>"<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Whore's latest addition is the eloquent, sophisticated, and innovative term "thot." </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Originally an acronym for the phrase "that ho over there," T-H-O-T became the texting translation so that the youth can communicate their socially relevent commentary faster and easiter. "THOT is talking to my ex" is far less cumbersome than "That ho over there is talking to my ex-boyfriend." </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg80z4rnBtOy4KwR1zuVSAms-DpUzF3VHCiUJGvFlM5x8ZGgSjqOyJARQNIFdoMJ6MNQdG1ta2puFwWHfSsE_RAC9I0jNl7BY6waILQGD2erzQrnndO73Vx02pmv5iPhMObE4JxKTMLd7aI/s1600/thots.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg80z4rnBtOy4KwR1zuVSAms-DpUzF3VHCiUJGvFlM5x8ZGgSjqOyJARQNIFdoMJ6MNQdG1ta2puFwWHfSsE_RAC9I0jNl7BY6waILQGD2erzQrnndO73Vx02pmv5iPhMObE4JxKTMLd7aI/s1600/thots.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Found on Kevin Gurlides' Twitter</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
A new twist texting contributes is acronyms that have a
slightly different definition. National Aeronautics and Space
Administration, NASA, always means National Aeronautics and Space
Administration, while That Ho Over There, THOT, doesn't.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Considering culture's obsession with developing a myriad of ways to call a woman a whore, I would think that it would assume that a whore's life is always interesting. So, to save oxygen and finger muscles, why not just say (or write or text) "thot?" I'm not too worried that it will be confused with "thoughts?" </span>Problem with the verbal use, is that "THOT" sounds too much like "thought" so that whoever is receving the question doesn't know if she is being asked to share the escapes of her body or her mind. But at least without the inflection of voice needed to ask a question, a woman will know when she is being insulted: "THOT."<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
NASA was developed to expedite communication, but not
by teenagers.<span style="font-family: inherit;">My high school students use "thot" frequently; my college students have "heard of it" but didn't know what it meant (until I told them). Unlike with BOGO, I am slightly ahead of this verbal trend instead of way behind. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">By telling my college students about it, I might have just hastened the spread of its use. Life is full of irony.</span>Holly Vancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10113438267020711966noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3125621210059666807.post-23013213144447623002014-09-23T18:07:00.001-07:002014-09-24T12:03:50.897-07:00BOGO or Bobo?A whole lexicon of acronyms is multiplying faster than I can keep up.<br />
<br />
I thought that teaching high school students, teaching college students, and a penchant for action films and hard rock music would keep me abreast of Generation I's lingo, but I seem to be falling behind.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPOUsvnwwozRPv-Oj88mc2XS4mqvx5qAuZfxTf7MWtuVjJXYW_YZ7jOj5yq0owCrfJ64Fze-iRm6phRdIrUzHxar0ZZtmTPX0pLXcyoaHrPwZ2Ou8g5kl0Uaj34iUb_xM9PMF5zN3LjSEN/s1600/Bogo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPOUsvnwwozRPv-Oj88mc2XS4mqvx5qAuZfxTf7MWtuVjJXYW_YZ7jOj5yq0owCrfJ64Fze-iRm6phRdIrUzHxar0ZZtmTPX0pLXcyoaHrPwZ2Ou8g5kl0Uaj34iUb_xM9PMF5zN3LjSEN/s1600/Bogo.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a>One night while indulging my guilty pleasure of watching Investigation Television (<i>Homicide Hunter</i> and <i>Deadly Women</i> are two of my favs), I saw a commercial for a sale at Payless shoe store. Here was this cutesy, twenty-something blonde loading up her trunk with a bundle of shopping bags saying that it was the best "bogo" sale ever.<br />
<br />
What in the hell is a "bogo" sale?<br />
<br />
Since the commercial didn't present the term in all capital letters, it technically didn't qualify as an acronym. I didn't bother to look it up (or pay enough attention to the commercial), so I didn't learn what it was until I was shopping online and saw the phrase again: BOGO sale. This time, it was capitalized correctly and below it was written "Buy one, get one 1/2 off."<br />
<br />
Ah-ha: BOGO sale. I am quite familiar with the concept; it's the new terminology that was, well, new to me.<br />
<br />
Now that I am enlightened, I must criticize. Technically, BOGO just stands for "buy one get one," which could cause confusion. Is the retailer reminding me that if I buy one of whatever that I will be getting just one item? Or is the retailer reassuring me that if I buy one of whatever, I will indeed get what I bought? The more accurate acronym for a "Buy one, get one 1/2
off sale" would be a BOGO HO sale. And the can of worms that advertising
could open up could be cataclysmic. Or at the very least, illegal. <br />
<br />
My pedantic analysis aside, the phonetics of the BOGO (HO) sale are problematic. I don't know about other shoppers, but asked if I wanted to go to a BOGO sale, I'd be inclined to say "no" because it sounds too much like a sale of stupid people. Or a sale for stupid people. <br />
<br />
I commend advertisers for keeping it fresh, for incorporating the language the youth into your ads, for contributing to the degradation of the English language. But, I do recommend that you say your new, catchy phrases out loud to make sure that the older, less hip Gen Xers go to those sales as well.Holly Vancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10113438267020711966noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3125621210059666807.post-79703952036135002492014-09-03T18:48:00.001-07:002014-09-09T18:18:43.633-07:00I Say Colon; You Hear ButtholeEven though I teach English, not all of my friends are teachers. I do have a handful of friends that also teach, but neither of my best friends work in fields remotely related to academia. They are intelligent, accomplished professionals, but like most people, they are not grammarians.<br />
<br />
Knowing the intricacies of English grammar is not a survival skill; it isn't even the key to success (a friend is currently padding her bank account by doing workshops related basic writing for very accomplished audiences, for example, the Navy Seals) but because I spend so much time contemplating and teaching grammar I assume that my knowledge is common knowledge: I often forget that the average person doesn't understand the function of the colon. <br />
<br />
The colon, the two periods on top of each other as my students call it, has three basic functions: to introduce a list, to signal an elaboration or example of what came before the colon, and to build up anticipation.The colon (:) can be replaced with the words "for example," "to elaborate," or "wait for it!"<br />
<br />
Recently, while engaging in a round of <a href="http://www.crabsadjusthumidity.com/" target="_blank">Crabs Adjust Humidity</a> (an off-shoot and addition to <a href="http://thechive.com/2014/07/29/whos-up-for-a-game-of-cards-against-humanity-28-photos/" target="_blank">Cards Against Humanity</a>) with my group of non-teacher friends, as Card Czar I drew the following "question" card: "_______________________: Ain't nobody got time for that." <br />
<br />
I thought that sharing the use of the colon (:) would help my friends come up with witty answers, so I said, "Blank colon (:) Ain't nobody got time for that." By doing so, I thought my friends would grab onto the "wait for it" aspect of the punctuation in order to construction a witty response. I waited in anticipation for the rhetorical genius to come my way:<br />
<ul>
<li>"Micropenis: Ain't nobody got time for that."</li>
<li>"Breeding elves for their priceless semen: Ain't nobody got time for that."</li>
<li>"Two midgets shitting into a bucket: Ain't nobody got time for that."</li>
</ul>
The kind of wittiness I envisioned was not what I got. When I said colon (:) they heard <img alt="" 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" /><br />
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</div>
<br />
My friends were so excited for me to read their answers: they were laughing before I even flipped their cards over. When I began to read them, I put down the question card for them all to see and the miscommunication was immediately seen.<br />
<br />
"You meant the punctuation," a friend said. "I thought you meant the <i>other</i> colon."<br />
<br />
Of course, I extemporized on the ridiculousness of that assumption. I know that CAH is a crass, bathroom-humor type of game for twisted minds, but in what world does "_____________ colon: Ain't nobody got time for that" make any sense? Mircropenis: makes sense; breeding elves for their priceless semen: makes sense; two midgets shitting in a bucket: makes sense. <br />
<br />
My friends proved me wrong. The answers they provided actually did make sense in both contexts: the punctuation and the anatomy.<br />
<ul>
<li>"A butt-plug in the shape of a rolled-up copy of the U.S. Constitution"</li>
<li>"A tossed salad"</li>
<li>"Struggle Snuggles"</li>
</ul>
<br />
Which one did I pick as the winner? Struggle Snuggles, just to be spiteful. Holly Vancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10113438267020711966noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3125621210059666807.post-32741485906008546862014-08-04T11:06:00.000-07:002014-08-04T11:07:37.592-07:00Booze and Books<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYS-ZmgIUh6K6t9tHjcsH4EGvD4gpdhHYwGp7DUm3tndm5F4RcewsKVuOaPpkWVLJmvF9Dh8224xLF433CPQ1Qxt2ZmhozuQQpm1TcXLlQdtG6x3zMDWpV8SpF3IIA0WoX5f7DNvvYVT4N/s1600/Vegas+sign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYS-ZmgIUh6K6t9tHjcsH4EGvD4gpdhHYwGp7DUm3tndm5F4RcewsKVuOaPpkWVLJmvF9Dh8224xLF433CPQ1Qxt2ZmhozuQQpm1TcXLlQdtG6x3zMDWpV8SpF3IIA0WoX5f7DNvvYVT4N/s1600/Vegas+sign.jpg" /></a></div>
My sister texts "Super drunk. Making my way back" at 3 a.m.<br />
<br />
Recently I did a turn-around trip to Las Vegas with my sister, Kelli. The occasion that prompted the trip was that her two best friends, Kyle and Todd, from high school would be staying there for a week in a time-share. Between the guys' military service and moving to different states, Kelli doesn't have many opportunities to see them so this was not to be missed. We left on a Sunday, but she had to be back by Monday evening because she had a very important meeting for her job on Tuesday.<br />
<br />
Now, my sister is very responsible. She didn't need me to keep her out of trouble (I'm usually the one who needs bailing out). I was basically her designated driver for the ride home. Kelli hadn't seen Todd and Kyle in a few years; she is a mother to a toddler and career driven. 24 hours - kid + her high school BFFs = party, party, party until the breaka-breaka dawn. I would be hauling a very hungover sister home.<br />
<br />
I packed yoga pants and tanks-tops, flip-flops, and a book. Kelli packed three pairs of shoes, two pairs of jeans, several blingy tops, and a dress.<br />
<br />
A few minutes after she informs me that she's wasted and working her way back to the hotel, I get "Can you come get me?" As I am sliding out of bed, I get "I'm getting a cab."<br />
<br />
Good thinkin' sis.<br />
<br />
I meet her and her friends in the casino of the hotel. The guys are wide-eyed and jovial; Kelli is slouched over an empty Blackjack table.<br />
<br />
Been there; done that.<br />
<br />
The guys make sure that I know what a "trooper" she was. If two career military men claim that a "civilian" can keep up with their drinking, that makes one's badass status official.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguGAJs1Rhm8U5C8qus-iIr9YKjPbu1-gxdCl6qvrQ5G3OxmxaM2VVyWwFKdfWiyObbh0wjSR-obLOpcorALSrrdlZeU_pBltE3MDn7_oG2-tfRuw-lcfHkVaszYufW0w5fEOlBno5OkeRk/s1600/Packman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguGAJs1Rhm8U5C8qus-iIr9YKjPbu1-gxdCl6qvrQ5G3OxmxaM2VVyWwFKdfWiyObbh0wjSR-obLOpcorALSrrdlZeU_pBltE3MDn7_oG2-tfRuw-lcfHkVaszYufW0w5fEOlBno5OkeRk/s1600/Packman.jpg" height="130" width="200" /></a><br />
I escort Kelli back to the room and pour her into bed.<br />
<br />
She wakes up at around 8 a.m. saying, "I don't feel that bad."<br />
<br />
That's because she's still drunk, but I decide not to burst her bubble. <br />
<br />
By 10 a.m., she's near death. She anticipated this condition so she arranged for a late check-out time. See what I mean? Responsible.<br />
<br />
I knock around the casino for a bit, return to the room to see if Kelli is up for lunch. My suggestion of a meal sends her scurrying to the bathroom; I am on my own.<br />
<br />
Grabbing my book, I head down to the America cafe, belly up to the bar and order a cheeseburger. As I am reading, the host cruises by, stops short, looks at me and says, "Wow, you don't see much of that anymore."<br />
<br />
At first, I think he's referring to my hotness. Then my heart sinks as I realize that he's referring to my reading. The monologue of how the decline of civilization is because nobody reads is scrolling through my head.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYFpJxwu13vr5_P1kwshuJEROCkaINiDrPFe8e2FpKamPvwU4rB-tPDfHn9LFRJAv2EHPU0Rqfp9yrgUfv1RIFKAr44k72bDBjU8nRpUf2Sv9D8TlgdyawOQpEpRQ9COd9156plA5iYiIM/s1600/Books.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYFpJxwu13vr5_P1kwshuJEROCkaINiDrPFe8e2FpKamPvwU4rB-tPDfHn9LFRJAv2EHPU0Rqfp9yrgUfv1RIFKAr44k72bDBjU8nRpUf2Sv9D8TlgdyawOQpEpRQ9COd9156plA5iYiIM/s1600/Books.jpg" height="135" width="200" /></a></div>
Well, this is Vegas. It's not like people come here to read. Only nerds like me.<br />
<br />
He saunters over, leans on the bar next to me and says, "All you see these days is people with their electronic books. I haven't seen an actual book in a long, long time.<br />
<br />
At this point, I'm near suicide. Only recently have I acquired and electronic reader and I've yet to use it.<br />
<br />
Both Kelli and I were moaning in agony on the way home.Holly Vancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10113438267020711966noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3125621210059666807.post-59577251463847958422014-07-09T09:19:00.000-07:002014-07-10T19:13:56.292-07:00"You Don't Have to Be Naked to Be Sexy"--Nicole Kidman<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I decided to take a break from dating several months ago and have been enjoying my sabbatical. I find I like men better when I don't date them. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I have no doubt that the problem was (is) me. When online dating and sexting exploded onto the scene, I was in a serious relationship. My ex and I would send dirty texts, but more in the name shits-and-giggles than foreplay. So, when I re-entered the dating scene at 38, not only was online dating and sexting the new way to court but also cougars were the objects of said courting. For a while, my ego relished in these 20-something young bucks clamoring at my heels, but after a while new dating etiquette began to frustrate and confuse me. One thing that made me nuts were the naked-selfies that I not only received (I could publish my own Playgirl with all the penises I've been sent) but were also asked for on a regular basis. I never sent one man a naked picture of myself and it had absolutely nothing to do with how I felt about my body.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Do women enjoy being told we are beautiful? Of course. Does it make us feel good to be categorized as sexy? Absolutely. Does that mean we want to send you a naughty
picture and/or talk dirty to any guy that asks for it? No. And to assume that that is the exception and
not the rule is insulting.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Women
are willing to capture and share their nudity on film for three basic
reasons: to please their partner with
whom they have established a relationship with, to compensate for their lack of
self-esteem, or for a paycheck. I am not suggesting that women who are proud of their bodies and show them off at every opportunity have no self-esteem, but if she's doing it in the name of being accepted by the opposite sex, I see that as a big problem. Just because he wants it ladies, doesn't men he should get it. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And to those who do it for
a paycheck: good for you. At least
youâre acknowledging that your body isnât up for grabs to whoever wants to see
it. You are acknowledging your body is valuable in a language all will understand. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Women who will not engage in sexting with men they donât know very
well or aren't in a relationship with are not âuptightâ or âprudesâ or âmelodramatic." They just happen to have some integrity.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So,
when a man who Iâve either <i>never</i> met in person or who Iâve only been on a date
or two with suddenly wants me to start sending naked pictures and talking
dirty, you know how that makes me feel? Like an object. Like a prostitute. Let me take that back, offering to pay me to
send you a naked picture or talk dirty to you would make me feel less usedâless
objectified. Hell, I might even be
flattered a bit. At least that way, the john is acknowledging that what I got ain't for free.I donât get anythingâexcept
for a sense of shame-- out of sending naked pictures of myself to acquaintances,
or in more cases than not, near strangers. My self-worth is not based on who does (or does not) want to fuck me or
see me naked. To me, access to my body
is a privilege; something has to be earned in one way or another. That doesnât mean that you have to love me or
that I have to love you, but I do need a relationship established outside the perimeters
of WiFi.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I choose to teach high school instead of wire my mouth shut
so I can lose 800 pounds and become a Playboy model; I teach high school
instead of setting up a 900 number (or chatroom where nothing dirty is coming
your way until you contribute to my bank account). And
just because Iâm not willing to hand over my intimate, sexual life to you on a
platter just because you want it, doesnât mean that I donât know how to fuck
you senseless. That doesnât mean that
with the right guy, who respects me, I am not willing to do things that would
make any man blush.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Let me create an analogy. To my understanding, men are
sensitive about their finances. A manâs
earnings is something private to him, and he might be a bit sensitive about it
because not only women, but the media, link a manâs worth to how much money he has in the same way that a womanâs worth is linked
to her appearance. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Now, in the online
message/texting phase of a courtship, wouldnât it be a bit presumptuous for me
to ask, âHey, do you have an extra $100 lying around to send me a dozen roses?â
Why would a man who has not found an emotional connection to me, who may think
Iâm cool and attractive, but really doesnât know me, want to spend $100 of his
hard-earned money on buying me flowers? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">If a man enjoys sending women flowers, regardless of
how he feels about them, because it makes him feel accomplished or
proud because he can afford to do that, then bonus for me. And just because he may not want to do that
during the fledgling stages of a relationship, that doesnât mean he never
will. As our relationship grows and my
happiness influences his happiness, heâll enjoy sending me flowers because I
love receiving them. Because he respects
me as a person and finds aspects of my character attractive, my appreciation
will make him feel good about himself. But for me to assume that his lifeâs goal is
to make all women happy by sending them flowers is objectifying him. I am basing
his value to me on something that has nothing to do with his character or mine.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So, those women who get a feeling of empowerment or
accomplishment by sharing their bodies openly, thatâs the same bonus for a man
as a man who just likes to send women flowers is to me. But to presume that
every woman wants to do that for you just because you tell her sheâs hot or
send her a few charming emails/texts is arrogant. Itâs the same as if I assume that just
because I have big tits every guy is tripping over himself to get to the flower
store or make reservations at that five-star restaurant is arrogant. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">For that man whose emotional and/or physical pleasure is
important to me: Iâll sext you all day long.
Iâll want to send you naked pictures and dirty texts because you enjoy it. And I give a shit about what makes you happy
because you give a shit about what makes me happy. Youâve
taken the time and care to listen to what I say, to ask pertinent questions, to
make me comfortable to communicate with you. You donât just assume; you care
enough to regard me as an individual with unique needs and wants. Even if those needs and wants only take place in the bedroom. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Ladies, I hope I've given you a voice on this issue. Gentlemen, I hope I've given you a little insight.</span>Holly Vancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10113438267020711966noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3125621210059666807.post-75116704620182982562014-06-05T11:48:00.002-07:002020-10-28T09:49:50.373-07:00Don't Be an Ass<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0in;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBj_UNpwvhxhVnDBiV_82UyFghgOllUMLsn-33cLJuOuhNFe3Dp7Rr2vyzfxINaCRzrjy0YtZw57x_Y1emEgFHKmfgyuqWaaRZGn3H1qN6iY0d39FJ_QCzPBcqo2nsKWqQEvvMVjBttwO4/s1600/David+Draiman+2.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBj_UNpwvhxhVnDBiV_82UyFghgOllUMLsn-33cLJuOuhNFe3Dp7Rr2vyzfxINaCRzrjy0YtZw57x_Y1emEgFHKmfgyuqWaaRZGn3H1qN6iY0d39FJ_QCzPBcqo2nsKWqQEvvMVjBttwO4/s1600/David+Draiman+2.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My future husband</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The "evolution" of communication brought about by technological advancements does not negate basic grammatical structures.</span></span><br />
<span style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In other words, now that y'all are using nothing but abbreviations and acronyms in written communication, at least use them correctly, dammit. It may not seem to matter while texting, tweeting, snap-chatting, tik-toking, but those mistakes will transfer to an arena where it does matter.</span></span><br />
<span style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjArffvlsX9md0_JVY_bWf_nH0UbnjBVGi0OmFJuWLwxgzT98O92v-rpGN8fXUYQCjNxf9w8KdHNusGV7J0gDV5a6z1aWFUrcJsBV8zC8gaHAWkgmUa7pKAW7ubSGDvPT7iHd38om1y-94P/s1600/lt+van+buren.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjArffvlsX9md0_JVY_bWf_nH0UbnjBVGi0OmFJuWLwxgzT98O92v-rpGN8fXUYQCjNxf9w8KdHNusGV7J0gDV5a6z1aWFUrcJsBV8zC8gaHAWkgmUa7pKAW7ubSGDvPT7iHd38om1y-94P/s1600/lt+van+buren.jpg" width="140" /></a><span style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span></span></div>Abbreviations</b> are
shortened versions of a word, but that doesn't mean they aren't just as
important as what they stand for. <i>Missus</i> David Draiman (my name once
he skips out on that gorgeous , model wife and adorable me for little ol' me)
implies no more than <i>Mrs</i>. David Draiman; I am no less a wife by using Mrs.
(Actually, I'm not a wife at all, but that's not the point). </span></span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjArffvlsX9md0_JVY_bWf_nH0UbnjBVGi0OmFJuWLwxgzT98O92v-rpGN8fXUYQCjNxf9w8KdHNusGV7J0gDV5a6z1aWFUrcJsBV8zC8gaHAWkgmUa7pKAW7ubSGDvPT7iHd38om1y-94P/s1600/lt+van+buren.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"></span></a><span style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">By the same token, Lieutenant Van Buren doesn't lose any of her brash,
ball-busting authority by signing her name Lt. Van Buren when she
writes up Briscoe for being a smart-ass or Curtis for being a tight-ass.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0in;">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-indent: 0in;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-indent: 0in;"><b>Acronyms</b> are a type of abbreviation. A basic abbreviation is the shortening of one word; an acronym is the shortening of a phrase into a single word which is constructed from the first letters of each word. For example, NASA is an acronym for National Aeronautics and Space Administration. NASA is both an abbreviation and an acronym; Mrs. is just an abbreviation.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">What abbreviations do is make communication (and filling out forms) a bit
easier. Who wants to say, "I have to get up at 5 ante meridian," when it is so much easier to say, "5 A.M." Even the word "abbreviation" has an abbreviation: abbr. But just because
it's shorter, doesn't mean there aren't any rules:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">1) The period and capitalization can affect meaning. Abbreviations only capitalize the first letter or each letter after a period; acronyms are always written using all caps and no periods. A B.S. in
physics is not the same as using BS to get through physics. Albert Einstein had a B.S. in
physics; the closest thing I come to having knowledge in physics is BS. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">2) Abbreviations are written not spoken; acronyms are both written and spoken. Saying "Mrs. Draiman" sounds the same as "Missus Draiman;" one does not pronounce my future name as "Mmmrrrsss Draiman." Detective Curtis called Lt. Van Buren
"L-T" but he's still a tight-ass.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">3) Abbreviations are not arbitrary. There is a correct way to abbreviate
things; one can't just shorten a word any way he or she likes and consider it
correct. Take the following example from a student's paper:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"One of the cadets absent was our Class Sgt. and the other was our Class
Ass. (Class Assistant). Another cadet volunteered to become to new Class
Sgt. and I volunteered to become the new Class Ass. because I knew it would
please the instructors by being a leader. I moved from my position from
the right to my new position, the Class Ass. Position on the left."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I don't know about other teachers, but my class ass is never absent. But
I guess I'm supposed to put all the asses on the left side of the classroom. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My student's error may have provided me with a few laughs (and material for a blog post), but the panel of judges grading his project will just think he's an ass. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-indent: 0in;">BTW, the correct abbr. for assistant is asst. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Maybe being an ass is conducive for being an assistant, but I wouldn't put that in writing. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">You Fahrenheit 451ers are totally ignoring these basic rules. LOL is usually written like an acronym, but we don't pronounce it like one. We say "L-O-L" not "loll." Technically, it's an abbreviation, not an acronym, and should be written like this: L.O.L. So when those insurance commercials poke fun at the out-of-touch father who says, "loll," it is the insurance company, not the father, who is an idiot. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I suppose asking teens to put their periods in the write place when engaging in social networking is setting the bar a bit high. Let's get them to capitalize "I" first. </span></div>
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