The Reflection Staring Back at Me

Not the right day, but

the proper time to write an

ode to time well-spent.

An Accident Waiting to Happen

Extreme Makeover Too Extreme?

I've lived in DC and environs for a heckuva long time. So, when my SIL told me about the big goings-on up Northeastern Wisconsin way, I had a hard time getting excited.

But this really was a big deal. "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition" visited smallish Neenah, WI in mid-August. When I dropped Ella Numera Dos off at college a week after the onslaught, I got an earful ~ and an eyeful, too.

Residents of this burg, situated somewhere between Oshkosh and Green Bay, got their own eyeful over the 105 hours ~ roughly six days, from dawn until close to midnight ~ it took to tear down the Arboleda family's teeny-tiny (586 square feet) dwelling and construct the mammoth (4,200 square feet) faux-tudor house that took its place on the 700 block of Elm Street.

"Extreme Makeover: Home Edition" fans will get to witness some of the excitement the family, my in-laws and the rest of the 25,000 Neenah residents experienced first-hand when the episode airs October 17.

Yes, Ty Pennington was there, seemingly 24/7. So was "Dancing with the Stars" star Derek Hough, along with a few of his friends from that show. And rapper Xzibit, too. Mr. Arboleda is a local elementary school music teacher; hence, the emphasis on the performing arts in this particular episode.

The local paper estimates that about 8,000 folks were on hand for the big "reveal," after the family of seven returned from Disney World and Ty exhorted behind-the-scenes forces to "Move that bus!" So many gawkers hung out on Elm Street during the week of construction that they destroyed the lawns of all the neighbors. The show's producers graciously paid to re-landscape all the wrecked properties.

The Arboledas call their good fortune "a huge outpouring of blessings from God." Local tax assessors, though, point out that the family faces future property taxes totalling seven times those they previously paid. And some critics note that a) the new house is way too big for its tiny lot; b) the house won't ever be assessed at its true value, because of the modest nature of the neighborhood, and c) if the show's producers were so inclined, they could have built two ~ or even three ~ smaller, but still accommodating houses for the same price, helping out two additional families in need.

My SIL said she could hear Ty and Company hammering way into the night during that sultry summer week. She took oodles of Superior Snaps of the process, from the initial scoping-out that the builders undertook, to the final day, when the family returned from Disney World. I shot the snap above during what my Chicas term a "drive by" ~ anytime Mom (who would be moi) wishes to see something for herself.

Certainly, little Neenah, WI, has enough memories to last a lifetime. The question, however, is this: Was this extreme makeover too extreme?

Wag More, Bark Less

Already four weeks into the school year, and I have a couple juicy tidbits to share with you, Dear Readers, about Principal Man and his Merry Band of Idiots.

First off, under a new schoolwide policy decreed by PM, our faculty has been ordered to "Wag more, and bark less!" I think he even included a smiley face in his back-to-school memo. Along the lines of the Ladybug Inservice, which was so juvenile and embarrassing to all concerned that I've only touched on it once in this space.

The new attitude infusing the halls of Our Humble High School really fit into my lesson plans until I was jumped (only in the figurative sense of the word, praise the Lord!) by our new Director of Student Services (that would be the person who bosses the guidance counselors around) for, in her words, "attempting to determine student schedules."

Rehashing the whole sordid tale, which thankfully only took place via e-mail, would bore you to tears, but here's the freeze-dried version. My yearbook editor wanted to switch into my AP Lang class. I said, basically, "Fine with me. I've got 32 cherubs already crammed into 2nd period, which is a tad overwhelming for 7:30 in the a.m., but if you can find a seat, I don't mind."

You see? I was trying to go along with the program. I'd say my response to the child definitely smacked of wagging, and not one little ol' bit of barking, correctamundo?

Well, little Miss I'm in Charge of Student Schedules pretty much busted a gut when she found out how pleasant I'd been. She basically staged a technological meltdown. I could see steam (figuratively, Dear Readers) coming out of my laptop when I clicked on her electronic missive to moi. Which she copied Principal Man on, natch.

I'm in charge, you're not, how dare you. That kinda thing. After attempting four drafts of a civil response, I settled on a polite but firm reply. In my 16+ years in charge of Room 215, I've never attempted to change a student's schedule. Nor could you pay me big bucks to be a guidance counselor. No sir, missy. Not goin' there in a heartbeat.

Of course, our Principal is a Man who often finds himself drowning in a flood of fools, so I guess I should have expected what happened the following week. I had no sooner put out one brush fire than I had to man the water canons once again.

PM decided this year to locate his four minions ~ known to the school population as Assistant Principals ~ in more visible office space throughout the building. Makes sense, I guess; more visibility from those in charge equals fewer disruptions to "instructional time." Fewer fights, less theft, quieter hallways. I'm all in favor of that.

Well, in all his ultimate wisdom, The Man with the Plan located one of the APs, as they're known, in a space across the hall from my Journalistas. As in the cherubs who attend Camp Kumbaya each year about this time.

The shot above shows my new neighbor's door, with its officious sign and its happy fall door dec (she previously supervised smelly 13-year-olds in a middle school), along with the reflection of my journalism computers. Yup, we're that close.

In my defense, I tried to make friends. She's new to our school, and she's older, and I figured I'd get on her good side by getting to know her. Well, a certain level of detente did exist, until she started questioning my cherubs and their motives, for goodness' sake.

A newspaper editor stepped out in the hallway ~ it's about a 5-second journey, I assure you ~ to get a drink from the water fountain.

"Where's your pass?"

Yours truly scurried down the hall (about 50 feet) between lunches to nuke her Chinese carry-out in the faculty microwave. Our new AP buddy sticks her nose into my classroom.

"Where's your teacher?" (Yes, I leave them alone sometimes for short stretches, like lunch or when I gotta go. It's not like they're playing with power tools, although they have been known to crawl out the window, on occasion.)

Then, my cherubs ~ at 3:45 in the afternoon, mind you, almost two hours after the final bell ~ were having a little fun while cobbling together the first deadline of the year. General guffawing, music blaring and all that jazz.

"Guys, could you please keep it down! This is a school!" Oh, sorry...we hadn't noticed.

In the meantime, miscreants in other quarters of the campus have vandalized both the baseball field and the football stadium; backpacks are disappearing from the gym locker rooms and there was a near-riot at a recent home football game when someone from the visitor's side deigned to walk through our senior section. OK, I'm exaggerating on the last one, but I think you get my drift.

Sounds like PM and his BOIs should wag their little bee-hinds over to the communal hydrant of bad behavior in our school, and stop peeing all over the good folks. I know one little doggy, though, whom I'd like to muzzle.

I Blog, Therefore I Am

I'm riffing on Mama Kat's Prompt #3 today: Write about what blogging means to you.

I started blogging because:

• I have something to say.
• I'm on the computer just about 24/7 anyway, so I might as well make myself useful.
• Blogging looked so easy. You have an idea; you type your idea; you hit "Publish Post."
• I love a challenge. Turns out this blogging janx is pretty complicated, sometimes.
• I'm an inveterate wordaholic, who loves flexing my verbosity muscle.

I've continued blogging ~ well into my third year ~ because:

• I still have something to say.
• I've met some pretty neat folks who say things a heckuva lot better than I.
• I like to burn Principal Man every once in a while (although I promise, I do not blog merely for revenge).
• Blogging is an indirect way of keeping in touch with my chicas. Seriously. They'll go for days with nary a phone call, e-mail nor even Facebook message. But I'm confident in the knowledge that they stop by this space at least once a day.
• I'm an instinctively opinionated person, who loves to ruminate from time to time.

I'm pretty sure I'll continue blogging because:

• I've developed a coterie of blogging buds, who put up with my rants, rambles and my predilection (especially at the start of a new school year) toward failing to respond to their electronic missives immédiatement.
• I've found a photo niche in the blogosphere ~ I've been told that my snaps are not only (sometimes) superior, but that they're downright unusual on occasion.
• Principal Man and his Merry Band of Idiots will continue to make "good copy," as we used to say in the news biz, for eons to come.
• I dig the rush of blogging's immediacy. Sounds slightly transcendental as well as egotistical, but it's true!
• I don't believe I'll ever run out of something to say, however petty, mean, scurrilous, ridiculous or ultimately outrageous.

Whaddaya Talkin' About?

No, it can't be, can

it? Summer's over? Didn't

you get the memo?

Where Were You When the World Stopped Turning?

I was in a classroom stuffed with high school juniors. Which is why I couldn't bring myself to post on the ninth anniversary of 9/11. The memory still scalds the back of my conscious thought.

But I was also eight years away from having to comfort my daughter because her close friend, Mike, was leaving for Iraq. Mike's deployment was a direct result of the cataclysmic events of that Indian Summer September not so long ago.

And nine years away from welcoming Mike home again. He's the slumbering recruit on the left in this shipping-out snap.

I have strong feelings about September 11th, and our country's involvement in Afghanistan and Iraq (where several of my students have served). I'm sure many of you do, too. I'm also not usually known for being politically correct. But I try my darnedest to avoid fanning any fractious flames ~ in this forum, at any rate.

Bottom line? I respect your right to express your views. As long as you will respect my right, too.

But Pastor Muttonchops and his antics down in Florida really piss me off. I'm beyond baffled that a two-bit preacher with a congregation of 30 or so "believers" can set the world ablaze the way he has.

September 11th should be commemorated every year. We should take that day to remember the fallen, and to encourage healing and respect. Continuing to preach hate, however, not only won't solve anything, it just doesn't make any sense.

At all.

Rush Hour Fashionista

One for the Road

The 10-11 school year starts today, y'all. I'd like to say I'm ready, but I was having way too much fun, right up until the last minutes of Labor Day, to even really think about it. My newly minted cherubs will stream through the door of Room 215, whether I will them too or not, correctamundo?

I do have to say, though, that I did get a new pedicure, just for the occasion. That's what I call a lesson plan!

We spent the long weekend up in the Western Maryland mountains with friends at their place on Deep Creek Lake. It was so chilly that we slept between flannel sheets and wore our sweats, even in the middle of the day.

So, my educational philosophy for this year, which I worked out in the hot tub with my friend Carmen, goes a little like this: Just sit back, chica, and enjoy the ride.

Mrs. Scribe Reviews: Lies My Mother Never Told Me

I start back to school tomorrow, and am feeling winsome about quite a few things. No more "me" time (or precious little, anyway); no more hanging out at Ye Olde Swimming Hole; no more reading for pleasure~for the foreseeable future, at any rate

.

Lies My Mother Never Told Me is one of those books that I enjoyed immensely this past summer. Not because it's a summer read~Kaylie Jones's memoir is far too deep for that~but because I had the time to digest this rollercoaster ride without having to worry about papers to grade, people to see, or Principal Man's latest shenanigans.

Jones is a daughter of literature. Sure, she knows how to write, and this gem holds more than a few delights between its 370 pages. But she's also the progeny of WWII novelist James Jones (From Here to Eternity, The Thin Red Line, Whistle) and the sometimes-actress/socialite and literary colony maven Gloria Jones.

The author combines tales from her iconic childhood, spent in Paris and the Hamptons, with memories of her hard-drinking parents and their über-famous social circle. What kid wouldn't have been affected by friendships with all the greats of the mid-20th Century literary scene? Jones's stories about William Styron, Truman Capote, Willie Morris and Kurt Vonnegut are enough to keep the reader stuck to her proverbial beach chair, no matter how many fabulous summer activities beckon.

But there's a larger reason why I finished this riveting but lengthy account in less than a week. Jones reflects on her childhood through the lens of a woman who herself has lived a privileged, but difficult, life. She frames her tale from the viewpoint of a recovering alcoholic who perseveres.

Jones's victories essentially become, for a short time, the fabric of the reader's consciousness as well. We're all behind Kaylie in her battle with her demons, both large and small, real and imagined. And that's what makes this wonderful memoir so much more than just a summer read.