Franklin's sister Sue is a teacher and she very kindly posted a comment on my last post, urging me (among other useful advice) not to sub in the fall but to start teaching immediately. I decided to make a new post to muse on this.
The problem is, I think it's too late for me to find a job for the fall. There are a couple of issues.
First, unlike most other parts of the country, this area has a glut of teachers seeking work. It's very competitive, and many school districts have April deadlines for applications for fall positions. Plus, the biggest district lost a referendum and is now cutting teachers left & right. So those experienced teachers are my competitors for jobs, along with all my former classmates.
Second, I have a LOT to finish up before I can even be certified. And I haven't even started putting together my resume, letters of recommendation, nada.
Third, the biggest problem here is that I've come up against some kind of psychological road block that has stopped me from making progress in any of the other things I've tried to do--including teaching, the first time around, twelve years ago. I don't know what it is, but every time I get close to succeeding in a long-term goal, I find myself completely stuck, and find that I refuse to do anything to move forward. This time, I am determined to figure it out and overcome it, and I know I will, because this is the only thing I really want to do. But at the moment--still stuck.
Fourth, when I have taught during student teaching, I basically have found that I have to create most of my lesson plans far in advance. It takes me a long time to develop a good lesson, and when I'm actually teaching, I don't have a lot of time, and find myself not functioning efficiently in the time I do have. So I've concluded that to feel confident and be successful, I really need to take time in the summer preceeding my first job to define the outlines of the curriculum for the year, and even develop drafts of most of my lesson plans. I'm asking myself if I really need that time, but honestly the answer is yes. Last fall, the lessons that went the best were the ones that I drafted over the summer; the stuff I made up at the last minute ended up sloppy and incomplete.
So, if I wanted to teach this fall, I would need to do a lot of preparation this summer, but I don't have time--between my certification work, three weeks in Arizona for my Mom's surgery, and four weeks in Japan--plus, with this "psychological road block" I don't think I would actually do it even if I did have time.
So I don't think it's irrationally pessimistic to think that I'd find myself completely unprepared on the first day of school in the fall, and that this would (1) set me up for such a stressful (and perhaps miserably ineffective) first year that I might indeed despair and become a corporate lawyer (ok, well, never that) and (2) continue to reinforce some bad habits that I'd like to change, e.g., xeroxing the second page of the test while the students do the first page while I type the third page.
I dunno though. But I do have to run now or I'll be late for meditation (one of the things I'm trying to do to unlock my deadlock).
One last thing I'll note—that in addition to subbing, I really want to find even one teacher that I actually consider effective, and observe his/her classes. I have yet to observe any teachers teaching effectively. So I sorta feel like I'm hacking my way through a jungle with a machete while knowing there is a four-lane highway around here somewhere—i.e., I'm having to figure out everything for myself, when I know there are a lot of fantastic teachers doing wonderfully effective things. I finally have leads on two who might fit the bill.
So I'm not just treading water til next summer...I still have things to learn and plans and stuff.
Monday, May 30, 2005
Sunday, May 29, 2005
it kinda grew on me....
Although I had anticipated that it would be painful, about halfway through "The Revenge of the Sith," I was surprised to notice that I was kinda into it.
About two-thirds of the way through I thought, "huh, this is actually not too bad at all."
During the climactic scene where Natalie Portman sobs, "Anakin, you're breaking my heart!" I almost welled up. Almost. And I did really feel sorry for Anakin writhing around in the muck with his legs cut off.
After it was over, I said to Loopy, "Well, that was actually pretty good."
After dinner I thought, "It really was about as good as any of the originals, not that that's especially good, but the old magic is gone for me—I can't really see myself viewing it repeatedly."
This morning I woke up thinking, "I could see that again."
Before getting up we watched a funny little show that Loopy taped for me: interviews with the original actors and the biggest fans of the original series (folks who dressed as Jedi for their weddings, that kind of thing), and I started to remember my old love of the series, and even to allow myself to connect the original three with the film I saw last night.
See, I'm one of those kids for whom the first Star Wars was a formative experience.
I absolutely worshipped Princess Leia: my first love, without question.
This isn't just a random pop culture thing. Princess Leia was one of a rare breed, those feminist (s)heroes of the 70s.
Episode I was so bad, and Episode II was literally one of the worst movies I think I've ever seen. I tried really hard to get into Episode I—saw it seven times in the theaters, read the books, tried, tried, tried to bring back the old magic.
But after Ep II I was just disgusted—I started to fantasize that sometime, twenty years hence perhaps, someone else would come along and remake the Episodes I to III as they should have been done.
Then I watched IV thru VI again and realized, to my horror, that my disgust was corrupting my enjoyment of the originals. So I tried to separate them in my mind as much as possible, not even think about them together.
Then fortunately The Lord of the Rings came along and saved me from torment.
So anyway...this afternoon I caught myself thinking, "I wonder if we could go back and see it again tonight."
There's hope yet for me and the ol' Star Wars magic.
About two-thirds of the way through I thought, "huh, this is actually not too bad at all."
During the climactic scene where Natalie Portman sobs, "Anakin, you're breaking my heart!" I almost welled up. Almost. And I did really feel sorry for Anakin writhing around in the muck with his legs cut off.
After it was over, I said to Loopy, "Well, that was actually pretty good."
After dinner I thought, "It really was about as good as any of the originals, not that that's especially good, but the old magic is gone for me—I can't really see myself viewing it repeatedly."
This morning I woke up thinking, "I could see that again."
Before getting up we watched a funny little show that Loopy taped for me: interviews with the original actors and the biggest fans of the original series (folks who dressed as Jedi for their weddings, that kind of thing), and I started to remember my old love of the series, and even to allow myself to connect the original three with the film I saw last night.
See, I'm one of those kids for whom the first Star Wars was a formative experience.
It came out when I was in first grade. I think everyone who's completely obsessed is about my age, no more than two or three years older. It shaped everything: my ideas about religion and philosophy, feminism and heroism, yadda yadda, yadda yadda.
I absolutely worshipped Princess Leia: my first love, without question.
I carved her name into a tree in first grade; I was her for Halloween; for years and years and years, Carrie Fisher was the only photo on my bulletin board, until in 9th grade I finally realized that was weird and replaced her with Duran Duran posters.
This isn't just a random pop culture thing. Princess Leia was one of a rare breed, those feminist (s)heroes of the 70s.
It was a weird little blip in cinematic history, but for just a few years, there were just a few films featuring female characters who actually behaved like real people, people who had something to fill up their time besides finding their soulmate. At least, I've heard there were others; I don't actually know of any other female lead who goes through an entire film without mentioning anything about her personal appearance, her desire for love, or anything else remotely "feminine." The stupid little kiss she gives Luke (before they swing across the chasm on the rope while hundreds of storm troopers fire at them & miss (god, those films are dumb in some ways!)) always seemed so tacked-on—it wasn't necessary even to notice it.
Episode I was so bad, and Episode II was literally one of the worst movies I think I've ever seen. I tried really hard to get into Episode I—saw it seven times in the theaters, read the books, tried, tried, tried to bring back the old magic.
But after Ep II I was just disgusted—I started to fantasize that sometime, twenty years hence perhaps, someone else would come along and remake the Episodes I to III as they should have been done.
Then I watched IV thru VI again and realized, to my horror, that my disgust was corrupting my enjoyment of the originals. So I tried to separate them in my mind as much as possible, not even think about them together.
Then fortunately The Lord of the Rings came along and saved me from torment.
So anyway...this afternoon I caught myself thinking, "I wonder if we could go back and see it again tonight."
There's hope yet for me and the ol' Star Wars magic.
Friday, May 27, 2005
glutton for...something
*grrr*
A few weeks ago I felt I was getting too detached from life, spending too many days in the house going nuts. So I decided to get back into school stuff. Being around school & students is very grounding—even relaxing in a way, if challenging—because it helps me remember what I'm trying to do and why.
It was easy to head back to the "alternative" high school, which is big on "adults from the community" being tutors etc., and where I volunteered for two years before I was a student teacher; in fact, when I called my old cooperating teacher, she said she had been just about to call me and could I please come help some of "my girls" who were having issues. (And they are, one in particular, but that's a whole 'nother story).
On the other hand, I dreaded returning to the middle school where I student-taught last fall. (You can read a few screams of anguish here and here). I didn't want to face my old cooperating teacher there, who used to continuously put me down. Perhaps worse, whenever I tried to voice an idea, she would look at me either as though I was a child speaking out of turn at a grown-up dinner party, or as though I was an alien from another planet suggesting that we vivisect the students.
Anyway, school's almost over for the year and I really did want to see all my former students, so I gathered my courage, did some deep breathing, and went there.
It was as awful as ever, including "reading" period, where the white kids read "Beowulf" while the Black kids slept (I am not making this up, although I should note that Beowulf was "retold" in semi-modern language, and one Black student was not sleeping but rather chewing on his shirt).
At the end of the day I went up to the teacher—who looked slightly less pleased to see me than if I had been Grendel (the monster in Beowulf, as I now know)—and eagerly but nervously told her that I had decided she was right, that I wasn't ready for my own class (her exact words were, "It's scary to think that you could have your own class in the fall"), and that I'd decided to sub for a year. "I didn't want you to worry," I said, stupidly.
Her answer, like so many of her comments, sounded fine on the surface but when you broke it down (you know, like on the menu when you realize that "plump breasts of organic grain-fed cornish game hens lightly robed in sourdough bread crumbs and sauteed to golden-brown perfection" essentially means "fried chicken") she essentially said, "I wasn't worried, I figured you wouldn't last more than a year or two anyway."
I was totally thrown. I got in my car feeling stupid and calling myself stupid and not quite knowing what had hit me.
Finally I understood what had happened. Without realizing what I was doing, I had slunk back there for one last desperate attempt to win her approval.
I had wanted her to smile approvingly and say, "Oh, I think that's a very wise decision; good for you. Another year of preparation will be just what you need, and then you'll be all set to go out and be a very fine teacher indeed."
Mind you, this is the woman who, on my last day of teaching, when I said, "Sorry if I've been difficult for you," said, "Oh, well, I've had worse." And when my supervisor asked her what my best qualities are, she said, "She knows her own weaknesses and she takes criticism well," which, in "fried chicken" language, means, "At least she knows she's inept and doesn't mind me telling her so."
In other words, there was no way on earth that any rational being could have thought she would ever throw me the tiniest bone.
I'm trying not to be mad at myself for hoping she would. But I am frustrated because I wish, wish, wish, WISH that I did not give a flying fuck what she thought, or anyone else for that matter, instead of being someone who is so thoroughly undone by disapproval and criticism, even minor annoyance.
*sigh*
and *grrr* too.
Well, off to see "Revenge of the Nerds," I mean the Sith. I'll let you know how it goes.
A few weeks ago I felt I was getting too detached from life, spending too many days in the house going nuts. So I decided to get back into school stuff. Being around school & students is very grounding—even relaxing in a way, if challenging—because it helps me remember what I'm trying to do and why.
It was easy to head back to the "alternative" high school, which is big on "adults from the community" being tutors etc., and where I volunteered for two years before I was a student teacher; in fact, when I called my old cooperating teacher, she said she had been just about to call me and could I please come help some of "my girls" who were having issues. (And they are, one in particular, but that's a whole 'nother story).
On the other hand, I dreaded returning to the middle school where I student-taught last fall. (You can read a few screams of anguish here and here). I didn't want to face my old cooperating teacher there, who used to continuously put me down. Perhaps worse, whenever I tried to voice an idea, she would look at me either as though I was a child speaking out of turn at a grown-up dinner party, or as though I was an alien from another planet suggesting that we vivisect the students.
Anyway, school's almost over for the year and I really did want to see all my former students, so I gathered my courage, did some deep breathing, and went there.
It was as awful as ever, including "reading" period, where the white kids read "Beowulf" while the Black kids slept (I am not making this up, although I should note that Beowulf was "retold" in semi-modern language, and one Black student was not sleeping but rather chewing on his shirt).
At the end of the day I went up to the teacher—who looked slightly less pleased to see me than if I had been Grendel (the monster in Beowulf, as I now know)—and eagerly but nervously told her that I had decided she was right, that I wasn't ready for my own class (her exact words were, "It's scary to think that you could have your own class in the fall"), and that I'd decided to sub for a year. "I didn't want you to worry," I said, stupidly.
Her answer, like so many of her comments, sounded fine on the surface but when you broke it down (you know, like on the menu when you realize that "plump breasts of organic grain-fed cornish game hens lightly robed in sourdough bread crumbs and sauteed to golden-brown perfection" essentially means "fried chicken") she essentially said, "I wasn't worried, I figured you wouldn't last more than a year or two anyway."
I was totally thrown. I got in my car feeling stupid and calling myself stupid and not quite knowing what had hit me.
Finally I understood what had happened. Without realizing what I was doing, I had slunk back there for one last desperate attempt to win her approval.
I had wanted her to smile approvingly and say, "Oh, I think that's a very wise decision; good for you. Another year of preparation will be just what you need, and then you'll be all set to go out and be a very fine teacher indeed."
Mind you, this is the woman who, on my last day of teaching, when I said, "Sorry if I've been difficult for you," said, "Oh, well, I've had worse." And when my supervisor asked her what my best qualities are, she said, "She knows her own weaknesses and she takes criticism well," which, in "fried chicken" language, means, "At least she knows she's inept and doesn't mind me telling her so."
In other words, there was no way on earth that any rational being could have thought she would ever throw me the tiniest bone.
I'm trying not to be mad at myself for hoping she would. But I am frustrated because I wish, wish, wish, WISH that I did not give a flying fuck what she thought, or anyone else for that matter, instead of being someone who is so thoroughly undone by disapproval and criticism, even minor annoyance.
*sigh*
and *grrr* too.
Well, off to see "Revenge of the Nerds," I mean the Sith. I'll let you know how it goes.
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
unmitigated mush
I'm having trouble finding a way to express how deeply satisfying and beautiful it was to see Franklin again.
He's been through some really, really rotten shit since I last saw him.
Pain does all kinds of things to people. Although I don't feel like writing it all out here, I was connected to many things and people who were destroyed or damaged by 9-11, and those events shook me to the core. At the time I wrote something about how we have a choice about our response to pain.
Suffering can either harden you and make you narrow, scarred, and bitter, or it can soften you and open you up to a deeper connection with other people. You can't avoid suffering in life and you can't avoid being altered by it, but you do have a choice about how you respond, how you are transformed.
With Franklin, my dear dear Franklin, I am so moved to see him changed. It's moving because it's sad and beautiful at the same time. I am deeply sad about what he's gone through and I wish more than anything that it had never happened to him. But the change—it's like polishing a precious stone.
He seems more fully himself.
He always had a big, kind heart and a gentle soul, but now they are more evident: they almost literally shine out from him.
Like so many or maybe all of us, it seems to me that he used to "hide his lamp under a bushel," you might say (bible quote, sorry). In college, he seemed afraid to be as warm and kind as he is; he seemed to seek ways to protect himself, so that at one point, to my eternal regret, I became confused about which was "the real Frank"—the warmth and kindness or the armor.*
And yet, there are moments that are like touchstones, that I remember so clearly, when I really needed something and he was there for me. He really came through for me, in more than one crisis, with an inimitable insight and wisdom that cut right to the heart of the matter, bringing comfort and illumination. This used to take me by surprise because he usually seemed to prioritize being seen as entertaining and witty rather than wise and solid.
At times he also seemed to be overcome with self-loathing and despair of ever finding love or happiness, even though he was surrounded by people who cared about him. Although... now that I look back to those college days, I can see very clearly how lonely his position must have been...there were many ways in which he was an island unto himself. Back then I hadn't yet learned how to see other people, except as mirrors I used to judge whether I was okay. Not a very useful friend to anyone, I'm afraid; if I ever hit the mark, it was a blind shot in the dark.
Anyway, the lamp is no longer under the bushel.
Frank's eyes are warm and steady, his smile is open and warm, and he seems unafraid to be his ownself.
His goodness and kindness come through so clearly now, not hobbled by self-doubt anymore; it's funny, but I can also somehow feel the presence of his family in his life, and see how these good qualities are in a way channeling his parents, his sister, his grandmothers, his aunt Eva. I think this may seem new to me because he only came out to his parents late in college, so there may have been a barrier there much of the time I knew him.
He seems both gentler and stronger, and more solid on his own two feet.
He still seems a bit raw from the pain that is still not so long ago, but he also seems unafraid of this rawness.
He is so beautiful I can hardly stand it.
I wish I could give him another hug right now.
As you can see, it is this feeling that I'm having trouble expressing. I guess it's just plain old ordinary extraordinary love, which seems more and more precious as we get older and realize how few people "out there" we'll find to love so easily and comfortably.
Being with old old friends always makes me feel more complete, like there are more parts of me awake and alive. I think that's a bit how Loopy felt about being in Chicago.
Frank may not see himself the way I've written him here; he may not see his past self the same way either, but I decided to risk it since he did as much in posting about me. I have a unique perspective, not having seen him in so long. That means I may be missing some things and exaggerating others. But I don't think I have the "big picture" wrong—unless he hasn't changed a bit and I was more oblivious in college than I realized.
As I said, it was so deeply moving, satisfying, and beautiful to see you again, my dear friend. I hope we spend many more happy weekends together before one or both of us leave the region behind.
He's been through some really, really rotten shit since I last saw him.
Pain does all kinds of things to people. Although I don't feel like writing it all out here, I was connected to many things and people who were destroyed or damaged by 9-11, and those events shook me to the core. At the time I wrote something about how we have a choice about our response to pain.
Suffering can either harden you and make you narrow, scarred, and bitter, or it can soften you and open you up to a deeper connection with other people. You can't avoid suffering in life and you can't avoid being altered by it, but you do have a choice about how you respond, how you are transformed.
With Franklin, my dear dear Franklin, I am so moved to see him changed. It's moving because it's sad and beautiful at the same time. I am deeply sad about what he's gone through and I wish more than anything that it had never happened to him. But the change—it's like polishing a precious stone.
He seems more fully himself.
He always had a big, kind heart and a gentle soul, but now they are more evident: they almost literally shine out from him.
Like so many or maybe all of us, it seems to me that he used to "hide his lamp under a bushel," you might say (bible quote, sorry). In college, he seemed afraid to be as warm and kind as he is; he seemed to seek ways to protect himself, so that at one point, to my eternal regret, I became confused about which was "the real Frank"—the warmth and kindness or the armor.*
And yet, there are moments that are like touchstones, that I remember so clearly, when I really needed something and he was there for me. He really came through for me, in more than one crisis, with an inimitable insight and wisdom that cut right to the heart of the matter, bringing comfort and illumination. This used to take me by surprise because he usually seemed to prioritize being seen as entertaining and witty rather than wise and solid.
At times he also seemed to be overcome with self-loathing and despair of ever finding love or happiness, even though he was surrounded by people who cared about him. Although... now that I look back to those college days, I can see very clearly how lonely his position must have been...there were many ways in which he was an island unto himself. Back then I hadn't yet learned how to see other people, except as mirrors I used to judge whether I was okay. Not a very useful friend to anyone, I'm afraid; if I ever hit the mark, it was a blind shot in the dark.
Anyway, the lamp is no longer under the bushel.
Frank's eyes are warm and steady, his smile is open and warm, and he seems unafraid to be his ownself.
His goodness and kindness come through so clearly now, not hobbled by self-doubt anymore; it's funny, but I can also somehow feel the presence of his family in his life, and see how these good qualities are in a way channeling his parents, his sister, his grandmothers, his aunt Eva. I think this may seem new to me because he only came out to his parents late in college, so there may have been a barrier there much of the time I knew him.
He seems both gentler and stronger, and more solid on his own two feet.
He still seems a bit raw from the pain that is still not so long ago, but he also seems unafraid of this rawness.
He is so beautiful I can hardly stand it.
I wish I could give him another hug right now.
As you can see, it is this feeling that I'm having trouble expressing. I guess it's just plain old ordinary extraordinary love, which seems more and more precious as we get older and realize how few people "out there" we'll find to love so easily and comfortably.
Being with old old friends always makes me feel more complete, like there are more parts of me awake and alive. I think that's a bit how Loopy felt about being in Chicago.
Frank may not see himself the way I've written him here; he may not see his past self the same way either, but I decided to risk it since he did as much in posting about me. I have a unique perspective, not having seen him in so long. That means I may be missing some things and exaggerating others. But I don't think I have the "big picture" wrong—unless he hasn't changed a bit and I was more oblivious in college than I realized.
As I said, it was so deeply moving, satisfying, and beautiful to see you again, my dear friend. I hope we spend many more happy weekends together before one or both of us leave the region behind.
*I regret this ten times more when I realize that if I had not made this mistake, if we had been close all along, maybe there would have been something I could have done to help prevent everything from getting quite so bad... but probably not, I guess. I had another friend who went through something similar. A controlling spouse is very skilled in separating the best of friends. Still... this is a very strong, deep regret. I accept that maybe it couldn't have been otherwise, or maybe it doesn't matter now, but I am still heartbroken to think of my mistakes in the past. This makes me all the more grateful to Frank who appears to have completely forgiven (or at least decided to forget, which is much the same thing really).
Monday, May 23, 2005
ultimate girlie road trip
Tomorrow I'll post more about the happy reunion with dear Franklin. For now I will confine myself to illustrating the title of the post (which comes from an observation made by Frank, in wittier words I'm sure, but I'm a bit brain dead just now).
In the proud tradition established by the San Francisco trip, we sang songs in the car, ate ourselves sick (on lasagna, nine-storied pagoda chicken, lingonberry pancakes, cosmopolitan-flavored chocolates, and sweet-potato-tempura sushi, among other things), and bought the following items:
LUSH bath bombs....
Vosges chocolates...
Sex toys...
Yarn!!!
....and patterns too...
I might be lucky enough to this sweater, someday--that is, if (1) I can make up my mind about the color and (2) Loopy doesn't kill me over the purple cardigan!
and a dress for Mike & Danielle's wedding.
(Jones New York--from the clearance rack!!)(not this exact one, but sorta similar.)
It has several panels in the front with seams between, including one seam that goes straight down the middle of the front. It looks weird at first, and Loopy & Frank didn't think I should get it, but it fits and is comfy and pretty, so I got it anyway. I just posted here so Loopy wouldn't be *too* embarrassed to be seen with me in it.
Spanish phrase-a-day calendar phrase for the weekend:
Estas satisfecho?
Si. Estoy muy, muy satisfecho (satisfecha?).
(more because of the reunion than the shopping, but more on that later)
In the proud tradition established by the San Francisco trip, we sang songs in the car, ate ourselves sick (on lasagna, nine-storied pagoda chicken, lingonberry pancakes, cosmopolitan-flavored chocolates, and sweet-potato-tempura sushi, among other things), and bought the following items:
LUSH bath bombs....
 |  |  |  |
Vosges chocolates...
Sex toys...
Yarn!!!
....and patterns too...
I might be lucky enough to this sweater, someday--that is, if (1) I can make up my mind about the color and (2) Loopy doesn't kill me over the purple cardigan!
and a dress for Mike & Danielle's wedding.
(Jones New York--from the clearance rack!!)(not this exact one, but sorta similar.)
It has several panels in the front with seams between, including one seam that goes straight down the middle of the front. It looks weird at first, and Loopy & Frank didn't think I should get it, but it fits and is comfy and pretty, so I got it anyway. I just posted here so Loopy wouldn't be *too* embarrassed to be seen with me in it.
Spanish phrase-a-day calendar phrase for the weekend:
Estas satisfecho?
Si. Estoy muy, muy satisfecho (satisfecha?).
(more because of the reunion than the shopping, but more on that later)
Friday, May 20, 2005
me traje un bocadillo
i love my spanish phrase-a-day calendar. Friday's phrase was the one in the subject line. Meaning: "I brought a snack." So appropriate for our big trip to Chicago!
But Thursday's, I loved so much I made it the subtitle of my blog—"cada loco con su tema."
Meaning: each to his own.
Literally: every lunatic has his theme (topic, subject).
I think that could be the subtitle for the world of blogs, generalamente.
Have a good weekend everyone!
But Thursday's, I loved so much I made it the subtitle of my blog—"cada loco con su tema."
Meaning: each to his own.
Literally: every lunatic has his theme (topic, subject).
I think that could be the subtitle for the world of blogs, generalamente.
Have a good weekend everyone!
Thursday, May 19, 2005
going to chicago, and then Japan
Well, not immediately afterward. But in honor of the Chicago trip—whose highlight will be seeing Franklin again after lo these many years!—I'm posting an old photo of me & Franklin.
Here is probably the best photo of Franklin and myself in our younger years. There are many others, but I have to make sure it's ok with Franklin before I post them. (No, no, you naughty-minded guttersnipes, nothing like that. Worse, actually—they're just photos of us behaving very, very strangely.)
We were on our way to the Lowell House Waltz. We're in Beth B's room, I think (but those two posters were ubiquitous; I included them 'specially). That dance was a lot of fun—a LOT of fun—definitely worth a lot more of a post; maybe later.
All's I'll say now is, little tip: never wear a long-sleeved corduroy dress to perform any strenuous activity.
I was going to post all about both trips and lots of photos, but I stayed up all night last night and it's catching up with me. Then I was going to scan in a better picture than this, then I was going to at least try to make this picture a little less blurry, but, same story. Also, I was going to post a moving and grateful response to Franklin's tribute to me. But not right now. Gotta sleep.
Q: So why am I just slapping this photo up here despite having fallen short of all my other goals?
A: So that I can feel that I accomplished something in the last forty minutes since I came home & DIDN'T immediately climb into the hot bath & nap I'd promised myself.
Here is probably the best photo of Franklin and myself in our younger years. There are many others, but I have to make sure it's ok with Franklin before I post them. (No, no, you naughty-minded guttersnipes, nothing like that. Worse, actually—they're just photos of us behaving very, very strangely.)
We were on our way to the Lowell House Waltz. We're in Beth B's room, I think (but those two posters were ubiquitous; I included them 'specially). That dance was a lot of fun—a LOT of fun—definitely worth a lot more of a post; maybe later.
All's I'll say now is, little tip: never wear a long-sleeved corduroy dress to perform any strenuous activity.
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