five

I forgot I had this blog.

In an attempt to keep on keeping on, (I'm determined to keep writing something) I will resort back to my blogging days of yore, and do a tag. I tag myself, since this blog has three readers.

Here are five things about me, in no particular level or degree of importance.



1. If you are my friend, call me Steph. If you are not my friend, call me Stephanie, or better yet, don't call me at all. Also, maybe just email me. I hate talking on the phone. 


2. I like lots of books, and my favorites often change based on life events and ideas. Currently, my favorite book is, once again, "My Name is Asher Lev."  


3. I like modern art, and religious art from the middle ages. I like El Greco, and someday, the fact that I know his real name: Doménikos Theotokópoulos, will win me a million dollars in some game show.


4. According to legend, my third word in life was "shit," said after I bonked my head on the pew ahead of us in Sacrament Meeting.


5. I like Airhead candy, and often eat them in the morning with Diet Coke because I like artificial colors, chemicals, and fake sugar that will probably kill me. Then I judge my students who drink energy beverages like Monster because it is full of sugar and caffeine. At least my vice tastes better.


The end.

accidental asshole

I feel bad about my last post. Like I come off as smug and obnoxious simply because a marriage license resides somewhere in my garage, probably underneath my pile of high school and college notebooks, that I’m pretentious enough to believe contains valuable information, and not the quite pedestrian observations of any old college student. (Note, also, that THIS is what I feel bad about in regards to my last post. Not the horrifically insensitive jokes, but the idea of being a smug married.)

That’s the thing about me, though. Sometimes, I’m an accidental asshole.

Accidental assholery happens to the best of us, I think.  We all want to believe we are decent enough people, but then BAM, we find ourselves accidentally assholing someone when we cut them off in traffic because really, our trip to Target is just way more important than whatever you were doing, ambulance driver.

My accidental asshole tendencies usual happen in social settings. I’m afraid this makes me sort of a terrible friend. I feel bad about this, and so in an attempt to redeem myself, I shall confess my two biggest asshole sins. I probably won’t change any behaviors though, because, hello, sort of an asshole.

1.       I’m going to be late to our get-together. The title from this blog comes from the fact that 90% of my texts read “srry. I’m going to be obscenely late.” And yes, I’m also the type of asshole who can’t be bothered to type out “sorry,” but can type out “obscenely.”  I hate myself.

      I don’t know why I am always late. I’m aware that time consistently works the exact same way, and yet, I will never be on time to brunch, or your party, even when I’m bringing the drinks. I’m sorry, I’m an asshole.

      Technically, I can blame my child for always being late. In fact, she is also an accidental asshole who likes pooping all over herself, or dumping cat-dish water all over herself, right before we leave. But that doesn’t make me any better. It just makes me an accidental asshole who can’t be bothered to watch her kid (to prevent the cat-water incident, at least.)

2.       I don’t know how to respond to your really bad news. I FEEL REALLY BAD. I really, really, do. But I don’t know how to convey that in a meaningful and kind way. Truly, my heart is aching for you, but instead of figuring out a way to convey that, I resort to one of three asshole behaviors:

                                   a.  Trying to deflect from the gravity of your situation by making a crude and inappropriate joke, that isn’t even funny. Like, you were diagnosed with colon cancer? I thought only Republicans got that because they are assholes. Hahaha. Like Collin Powell? Colon Bowell? Hahahaha, cancer sucks.

                                  b.Attempting to show empathy by relating a similar experience. For a while, I thought this was okay. Like, oh, you got fired from your job? At least you HAD a job! After I got my Master’s degree I had to go back to waitressing while I waited for a teaching job to open up! Your kid has a learning disability? I have ADD! Let me tell you all about the side-effects of ADD medication! I realize now that this isn’t empathy, this is just “one-upping,” and it is awful. But I can’t stop. Someone tells me something awful and I want to badly to “be there” for them that I end up talking about myself like a self-absorbed twitface.

                               c. Asking “is there anything I can do?” This is accidental assholery because it puts all the responsibility on someone who already has a lot on their plate. Like, they have cancer AND they have to figure out something for you to do so YOU feel better about THEIR grief.    

             I should offer to do something specific, like pick up their dry-cleaning or bring them dinner, but I always over-think it and end up doing nothing.  Plus, I’m a terrible cook, and I keep thinking that the last thing someone who lost their job/has a disabled kid/got cancer needs is terrible casserole. Right? Right.  My ability to serve others is like an old dude who wants to get it on, but can’t get it up. I need some form of magical service Viagra because I REALLY DO FEEL BAD AND WANT TO HELP.

              Therein lies my confession. I'm an accidental asshole with a heart of gold. I'm late, I one-up, and sometimes I'm straight-up paralyzed by sympathy and end up doing nothing. 

         
              The jokes about erectile dysfunction though? That’s not accidental assholery, that’s just straight up awful, and that’s a post for another day.

oh, Esau

I married really young ( I was 20,) and sometimes I feel a little overwhelmed by the idea of growing up much too quickly. Maybe I just watch too many TV shows where twenty-something characters spend their days living above bars and going on crazy sit-com adventures while I pay my mortgage, work at the career I began at age 22, and nurse my baby.

 (I'm aware that my perspective of my peers my be off, but I don't know, since I live in Utah and am surrounded by people who likewise married young.)

Anyway, I married very young, and sometimes feel overwhelmed.

But sometimes, it is very, very, nice to be a non-sitcom grown-up. Like this morning, when I eat home-made macaroni and cheese for breakfast (number one perk of marriage to someone with culinary aspirations,) while my spouse grocery shops and Clara fights her nap like a French Resistance worker during the Nazi Occupation.

Side note: I decided this blog needs more offensive Holocaust jokes. This will someday separate the wheat from the chaff in regards to any future blog readership. People who can handle offensive Holocaust jokes can stay. Decent people? You are chaff to me.

Anyway, there is comfort in the permanency of early-onset adulthood as a result of child-bride marriage. At age 26, I know I will always have someone to brave the hideousness of grocery-stores on my behalf. I never need to wonder if I can access home-made mac n' cheese if I need it. Maybe I'm sacrificing my birthright to the wonders of sit-com adulthood for the pottage of carbs and cheese, but I'm okay with it. I always felt bad for Esau anyway. Poor Esau. His mom and Jacob were such dicks about the whole birth-right thing.

Anyway,that is my favorite part of being any kind of grown-up. You get to decide what you want your life to look like. Mine looks like macaroni and a baby, but not grocery shopping. That is nice. When I first married, the years of fighting with my parents over curfews were not so distant. Back then, I sometimes fantasized about being a grown-up and staying out as late as I wanted. Three years later, the combination of school-work and my full-time job as a camp counselor to the rich and famous made a 10 pm bedtime appealing.

Then again, anyone who still refers to adults as grown-ups is clearly not, in fact, a grown-up. I read that somewhere and I think it is true. So many there is some sitcom living in me yet. I don't know, I still can't even stomach coffee.





*This post brought to you by the fact that no one else seems to think my idea of Adderall in Salt Lake's water supply is a good one. ADD is my nemesis. ADD, and people who can't at least muster a horrified chuckle at truly offensive jokes.

some signs.

Signs we still need feminism, as taken from my Humanities class this morning:

One

Upon reading an article about Hillary Clinton:

Student A: "Who is Hillary Clinton?"

Student B: "That lady who had a husband that cheated on her."

Why do we still need feminism? Because women are still defined by their relationship to men, even Senator/Presidential Candidate/Former-Secretary-of-State women.

Two

When asked if it is ever okay for boys to break traditional gender roles, a male student raises his hand:

"Sometimes, when you were little, you wanted to play with the girl toys, and with the girls. But you couldn't. Because you have to maintain that sense of pride about being a man, and playing with girl toys means you don't get to have that pride anymore. But sometimes, you really, really wanted to play with the girl toys. But it doesn't matter if you wanted to. You can't."

We won't "need feminism" anymore when women aren't defined by their sexual relationship with men and boys can play with all the toys without feeling ashamed.

It's not that hard to figure out, but I guess it is.

In Defense of the Regulars

First item of business: I have a student teacher. It is glorious. In theory.

I teach four classes, and she has taken three of them. So I roll into school, teach my first period class, and then hang out in the English Department office/roam the halls/get lunch at the Target by my school for the rest of the day.

It's a sweet gig until you get mind-numbingly bored.

I tried to upload a photo from my phone of the English office to show you the fake flamingo and the tree that we have strangely stashed in our office, but technology is not my friend. Once, Dan told me about a theory that there are some people with a chemical make up that is somehow not compatible with technology. Like the ions and neutrons and whatevers just do not compute. I think I have that. I also think that might have been the plot to one of his science-fiction novels and not a real thing.

I still think I have that.

I should be relentlessly productive during this time. I should be finalizing curriculum for when my student teacher is gone, and planning next year's stuff since I'm technically teaching a new subject. I should be relishing in all the time I have to sort through primary sources and poetry and topical you-tube videos to engage my students.

But I just can't. I need that edge. The pressure of knowing that I need to get this done NOW because I am teaching it tomorrow. Yes, I have a general idea of what I'm teaching. But the day to day stuff? I like to plan that as I go, catering the materials to the students, and having my curriculum be this organic sort of growing "thing" that I create, instead of a binder full of women perfectly curated lessons that probably won't work anyway.

The problem with trying to reform a procrastinator is that the good ones are rarely punished. I come up with damn good lesson plans the night before. Why would I stop?* Don't be ridiculous.

Second item of business: I am not teaching any Honors classes next year. By choice. I've taught an Honors English class for the past two years, and while it has been enjoyable in many ways, I'm ready to go back to teaching "regular" kids.

There is a lot of random prestige associated with teaching an Honors class. It implies that the teacher is not only smart enough to teach it, but innovative and creative enough to engage the minds of future geniuses. Your lessons, your lectures, your homework, will be the stuff that creates the next Faulkner or Hemingway or something.

The rest of us non-Honors teachers just create the next Stephenie Meyers, or something.

I like teaching Honors classes because the kids are usually motivated to learn, behave well in class, and easily engage in class discussions. They almost always do their homework and it is nice.

But there is a certain lack of creativity that sometimes develops in an Honors class. Kids are more concerned about the grade than the process. They email you when you give them 13 out of 15 on a homework assignment. They spend more time looking for the right answer than creating their own answers. (This is deadly in a class where creative interpretation of texts is crucial.)

Are there teachers who are very well suited to dealing with the challenges of Honors students? Absolutely. I can be that teacher, too.

But I love the challenge of the "reluctant" learner. It's where I shine. The "regular" kids who sometimes forget their homework. Students who constantly hear that they aren't smart because they don't do well on standardized tests, the creative and funny misfits that know more about F. Scott Fitzgerald than their AP English peers, but can't stand the thought reducing that knowledge to an end-of-year-test?

The students who hate Language Arts, and who brag about "not reading a book since fifth grade."

Those are my people.

One of my favorite moments as a teacher comes straight out of an inspirational feel-good movie about teaching. I hate those movies, because they aren't real. But this moment was real: When a student who hated reading and hated Language Arts and hated school looked at me and begrudgingly admitted that Brutus, from Julius Caesar was "kind of a badass."

So cheers to the "regular" kids. It's going to be a good year. (I hope. Who knows. They might all be sociopaths.)

rules

The thing about having a sort of secret, not publicized blog is that you can talk about whatever you want. In real blogging, there are lots of rules. There are different kinds of rules for different types of blogs. Let me elaborate:


Rules for Mommy Blogs

-Must photograph children in a whimsically and deliberately mismatched clothing from name-brand stores. The name-brand lets readers/viewers know that your husband is killing it at his job, but allows you to maintain the "I'm just so busy being super mom, my daughter's crew-cuts jumper doesn't match her Boden kids leggings!" You get the best of both worlds, the sympathy that stems form mommy martyrdom  without ever having to wonder where your next meal comes from. Oh the sympathy we save for the privileged and usually white.

side note: I just spent an unreasonable amount of time trying to find a cartoon I liked on Facebook showing a white mother with her child, and a "person of indiscriminate color" caring for a white child, and a Hispanic mother with her child. The caption for the white mother said something like "the most noble calling in the world," and the caption for the nanny/day-care worker said "work anyone can do," and the caption for the Hispanic mother said "laziness."

update: Found it!

That's sort of how I feel about most Mommy Blogs, we are supposed to worship at the shrine of these examples of perfect motherhood, as long as they are white, upper-middle class, and "sacrificing" to stay home.

It's a good thing no one reads this.

Anyway. Back to rules on blogging.

Rules for Healthy-Living/Exercise Blogs

-Must photograph oatmeal

Rules for "Lifestyle/Fashion" Blogs:

-Must "crave," "lust" or "long" for material items. (So basically, must develop a quasi-sexual relationship with consumerism.

-Must take dozens of selfies to showing what you ate or what you wore.

-Must have the funds to support an extravagant lifestyle, without any mention of doing actual work.

-Must constantly justify what is essentially a circle-jerk relationship with themselves and their readers. (If you don't know what a circle-jerk is, go ask your mom.) Basically, in order to justify buying a lot of shit and writing about it, all in an effort to get fawning comments and sponsors, Lifestyle bloggers must claim it is to "keep themselves accountable," to prevent them from wearing sweats and eating pop tarts every day (because if you wore it and ate it without committing it to online memory, it didn't happen,) and to help "inspire" others to do the same. So noble, the Lifestyle Bloggers.


Is this sounding cranky and bitter? Probably. I have a consistently love-hate relationship with "commercial" or "for profit" bloggers but I can't stop looking at them. I don't know why it bothers me so (besides the usual combination of  feelings of immaturity and superiority,)  but it feels similar to the rage I feel for reality TV, while continuing to watch reality TV.

Anyway, I started this post because I wanted to talk about something I normally would try not to bring up online, because it breaks my rule of "No humble-bragging." No complaining about a first-world problem that really isn't a problem at all. So I will never write a post complaining about how hard it is to find schools good enough for my genius children, or clothes small enough for my hypothetically tiny frame (simply an example, not true for me in the slightest,) or grocery stores fancy enough for my sophisticated grocery tastes. I just won't do it, because it's a dick blogger move.

So instead of humble-bragging, I decided to write a mean post about blogging rules instead.

I don't know which is worse. :)

Ode to my Feminist Valentine

I like that my husband is a feminist. I don't know if he spends a lot of time self-identifying that way, but he is.

The best part about Spouseman's feminism? It stems from my favorite Dan character trait: kindness. My husband is a kind person, and his feminism stems from a genuine desire to treat people nicely.

Nice people don't make sexist jokes about women, don't think they own their bodies, and genuinely want people to be happy. For lots of people, being happy means equal opportunity to pursue interests and careers they like. Dan gets to do that with his job, and wants other people to do that too.

 So for him, feminism is natural. He is kind to women because he sees them as people, not as some weird "other" that exists solely to please him.

When I think about how Dan treats people, I wonder why some people have such a hard time with feminism. It's basically just not being a dick, to everyone. How are we all not on board?

I started to realize my husband was a feminist when I noticed what TV shows he liked. My husband likes Star Trek, where women can be authority figures and do hard things. (Look, I get that Star Trek has a shitload of gender and race issues, but for the time period, it has some pretty progressive stuff.) Furthermore, he absolutely loves Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

That's the thing about feminism. Even though it starts out with simply being decent to people by giving them equal opportunities, a real feminist is someone who doesn't get all squirrelly when equal opportunity means that sometimes a woman is in charge, sometimes even in charge of men. 

I don't think Spouseman started watching Buffy and thought "I really like that this woman is in charge of saving the universe, and often her boyfriend." But it didn't make him uncomfortable, and that's an important step: feminists don't feel uncomfortable with women being in charge. Sometimes even women are uncomfortable with women being in charge. We are socially conditioned to adopt roles as care-givers and nurturers so we become really good at it at a young age. We worry about being a bitch when we tell people what to do. The idea or re-wiring decades of learned behaviors is scary as hell.

But it wasn't scary to Spouseman, and I like that.

Like lots of people, I think Spouseman could relate to Buffy. Buffy feels alone and isolated a lot of the time. She doesn't fit in with her peers, and she feels a lot of stress trying to find a balance between work-life balance. These are things everyone, not just men, or not just women, can relate to. Dan's a feminist because he doesn't think gender makes people so different that they can't understand each other.

Even though Dan is a different gender from Buffy, even though he can't relate to some of her issues, ("Does my hair look okay?" Buffy asks after a particularly gruesome slay...) he relates to her as a human.

That's what equality looks like. Seeing and respecting people's differences, but relating and empathizing with the common humanity that unites us.

And just not being a dick to people, okay?

Spouseman is not a dick. He's a nice guy. He's a feminist. So he feels perfectly comfortable watching Gilmore Girls and Buffy and even Charmed. I like that. I think it is sexy as hell. Maybe that's how we get people on board with feminism. Feminism is sexy! Wait. That sort of reduces people to their bodies and assumes all people (especially men) want in life is sex. I think that's the opposite of where we are going. So scratch that. Maybe. Probably. Feminism!