Mind the Rules

It's a family getaway, and so for us? That means playing games! So far on this trip our games have been mostly been trivia related, which is no coincidence, because the restaurant across the street is hosting a trivia night tomorrow, and the five of us are in training. 

Conveniently, the rental house came with a pub-style trivia game, and we have played a few rounds while cooking and after dinner. Our average hovers in the 7th percentile, a solid pass on the SOLs, and a score we're hoping would be locally competitive.

We also have another Q and A game called Mind the Gap, which has four sets of trivia questions based on the four recent generations, Boomer, Gen X, Millennial, and Gen Z. Last night, despite its rules and design, we played the game as individuals, an approach which was not entirely unsuccessful, although it did provide a few moments of unintended hilarity. At one point, I was trying to hum the theme song from a popular 80s sitcom when I dissolved into laughter.

"Can you hum and laugh at the same time?" my brother teased.

I tried unsuccessfully to get myself under control. "No," I gasped, "no, I cannot." I held my breath for a minute. "But I can laugh and pee my pants at the same time! I'd just rather not."

This evening? We played in teams.

Special Occasion

Lately, as I stand outside my classroom each morning, I've noticed an increase in the number of kids wearing pajama pants to school. These days, fuzzy fleece and flannel in fun florals, plaids and patterns, emojis and cartoon characters are a common sight in school.

As for me, it's a rare occasion that I leave the house in my pajamas, but this morning we were busy getting organized and packing for the beach from the time we got up. When 9 am rolled around and the dog needed to go out, I pulled on my warm white buffalo plaid jacket over my red buffalo plaid pjs and leashed her up. 

Imagine my surprise as I rounded the corner of our quiet complex and ran into one of my students and her mom. "Oop," I laughed, "you caught me walking the dog in my pajamas." In truth, I knew that her best friend from elementary school lived in our neighborhood, but the encounter was still unexpected.

"I need a cozy outfit like that to walk our dog," her mom told me graciously.

The next folks I met were a neighbor, who is also a teacher, and her kids. "You look nice and warm on this cold morning!" she said.

"I used to have a just shirt like that," her son pointed to my pants.

She's an elementary school teacher, so I said, "I don't know about your students, but in middle school they are wearing pajamas on the regular. Soon, there won't be any point in having pajama day!" 

"Maybe we should change it to wear regular clothes to school day," she laughed.

No Need

 "We need lip stuff," Heidi told me yesterday on the way to school. "It's getting colder and I can't find any."

Rather than answer directly, I told her about an essay by Ann Patchett I had just read called "My Year of No Shopping". In it, Patchett writes, My first few months of no shopping were full of gleeful discoveries. I ran out of lip balm early on and before making a decision about whether lip balm constituted a need, I looked in my desk drawers and coat pockets. I found five lip balms.

"We probably have a bunch of lip balm all over the house," I laughed. "I can't remember the last time I actually finished one, can you?"

Heidi shrugged, unconvinced. Perhaps she sensed that I was considering a year of no shopping myself and was bracing for it, or maybe she was just thinking we should buy some damn lip balm.

I thought of our conversation this afternoon after a day spent in my warm and dry classroom. My lips were stinging a bit, and I knew I needed to be mindful not to lick them into an angry, red mess. After the last of the kids had headed off for PE and electives, I opened the top drawer of my desk, certain I had some chapstick in there. 

Did I ever! I hit the jackpot with three little pots of our favorite lip balm as well as a couple of sticks of peppermint. I guess we won't be shopping for lip stuff after all!

This Is Not Going to Be Easy

Two students stayed after school with me today, one by choice and the other by coercion. The one who chose to stay retook a test and improved his grade from a C to an A. The other moped and refused to work despite the expectations of his parents and the cajoling and offers of support from me. 

"No one can make you do your work," I acknowledged at one point in our conversation, "but wouldn't it feel better if you did?"

In the end he turned in the incomplete (but well-written) narrative he had, and I called it a win, since he complained about the effort of tapping his screen the entire time.

This kid has been on the team's radar since day one of the school year. "I think he might be my future favorite," I have joked with my colleagues at lunch, even after told me how much he hated my class. Maybe? I thought today when he left without saying good-bye, he's not a problem to be solved, but just a kid to accept for who he is.

The Oven Ordeal, Finis

 The technician arrived shortly after I did. He seemed very professional and quite competent, and I gave him the pre-shipped parts that had arrived earlier in the week then sat down to wait. I heard the whirr of his drill as he opened the back of the stove, and then a melodic beeping that I recognized as my oven in working order.

"Is it fixed already?" I asked incredulously.

"Yes," he said. "It was only a loose wire ribbon. Have you had anyone else out to look at it?"

"No," I answered honestly, omitting the truth of my tinkering.

"Well, it's fixed," he shrugged and then went on his way. 

I was happy enough to have the oven working that I resolved to give myself some grace. I had, after all, almost, repaired it. I considered giving the extended warranty company some grace, too, even after all the screw ups. 

Just then, my phone rang. "This is Company X," an urgent voice reported. "I got your message about the stove, and I'm returning your call."

"Someone was already here," I told him. "He fixed it."

"Another company came?" he replied in relief. "Okay then," and he hung up.

Seriously, WTF? 

I put my phone in my pocket and turned the oven on. It was definitely time to bake something.

Ask Me Again Later

I always say a good seating chart is among the most effective of classroom management tools, at least in 6th grade. Combining personalities and academic strengths in an engaging, but not overly socially stimulating, way can make a class both fun and functional. 

In general, I think I have knack for effective grouping; whether it's from experience or intuition or a combination of both, I can't say. Even so, I do have my rare failures, and first period yesterday was definitely one of them. 

Rather than the subdued quiet that usually follows a seating change as the students get acclimated to their new group, the class came in raucous and stayed that way despite several sharp redirections from me, and eventually only buckling down under threat of losing their brain break. 

In between the wrangling and the warnings, I stepped over to my desk and scribbled a reminder to try again before our next class. One of the students followed me to fetch her iPad which was charging nearby. "Are we your favorite class?" she asked with a giddy grin.

"Sometimes," I answered, and it was true.

But not that day.

The Oven Ordeal Continues

It was a maddening conversation. 

"I know you received an email saying the appointment was confirmed, but that was only tentative," said the operator on the call I had made to avoid a cancellation of my oven service appointment. I had hastily contacted her company after checking my home phone messages, even though I had updated my contact information twice to my mobile number and explicitly stated that the home number was not monitored.

"But tentative and confirmed are opposites," I pointed out with irritation.

"You confirmed with X company," she answered, "but we are Y company," she finished, as if that was obvious and therefore explanation enough.

In the end, I really just wanted my stove fixed, and even though I postured by asking her if the call was being recorded, and later, her name, I accepted the appointment she "confirmed" even though it was 5 days after my other confirmed appointment.

"What if they cancel the appointment?" I asked.

"They won't," she replied, "because it's confirmed."

"But it was confirmed before," I pointed out, "and it was canceled."

"It's confirmed," she insisted.

"What if it's not?" I repeated.

"It is, because I confirmed it," she told me.

"But that's what they said before," I replied petulantly.

"That was Company X," she answered impatiently.

And so I let it go.

Over the next 10 days I received many communications reminding me of the service appointment scheduled for today betwee there, tooen 1 and 5, and I organized my workload to be able to book home and meet the technician. By 2:30, I hadn't heard a word, and so I packed my things and prepared to leave school. 

Before I did, though, I thought to check the home phone. Sure enough, there was a message from someone at 10:30 a.m. saying that they would be at my home in 20 minutes. Fuming, I called the number back, but it went straight to voicemail. In essence, I said that I expected someone at my house before five, and then I headed out to my car.

I hadn't gone three blocks when the phone rang. "This is your technician," said a voice way too friendly to have received my last message. "I'll be at your house in about 20 minutes."

"I'll be there, too," I said skeptically. "See you then."