Photos Of The Neighbors' Poor Planning

In the post before last ("Streetlights and Stupidity"), I described how my neighbors put in a streetlight and THEN decided to put in a double driveway. Jannx asked for pictures, so I slipped out with my camera at about 6:00 AM on Tuesday and snapped these.

Their driveway is in in the pics, but the sidewalk and widening of the driveway entrance has not been put in yet. This has since happened, and they now have a double driveway with a driveway and a half entrance because there's a lamp post in the way, a lamp post that they insisted HAD to be in. Please notice that their own porchlights are really very bright anyway. (For further description of the tale, read the other post.)


Remember to click on a pic if you want to see it bigger.

Note: Their new driveway is nice. It's just the poor planning that makes me giggle. If they'd kept one car the in the garage and one on the driveway, or if they'd had the double driveway put in first, none of this would've happened.

Just How Often Does The Average 9th-Grader Text?

You can learn a lot by listening to hyper junior high kids while doing their hair and make up before a play. Last week I learned something that blew my mind for a good 5 minutes.
I learned that it's more common than not for my 9th graders to text in the shower.
Yup, most of the kids told me 1) their parents don't know they do it, 2) they keep a special plastic bag with their shampoo and such, and 3) it's an easy way to ruin phones if they're not careful (duh).
Okay, so I"m old enough to remember rotary phones and that my friends at school were jealous because my parents let me get a phone in my room when I turned 12 (all my friends had to talk on the kitchen phone or such).
And I do know that kids like to text in the halls before and after school -- even if their friends are only a hall away -- that they'll text inside their hoodie pockets without looking at the phone if teachers aren't crafty enough to catch them, that they stay up way late into the night texting because their parents can't hear them and think they're asleep.
But I had never in the world imagined that a kid (or anyone else) would text while taking a freakin' shower. I keep visualizing girls texting with one hand and shaving their legs with another. I wonder how many broken bones have been caused by kids slipping in the shower while texting and shampooing at the same time.
And what could they possibly have to say that is so important?
Ah well. But I grew up in a time period where if you wanted to see a TV show, you actually had to be in front of a TV at the scheduled time in order to see it. And when a phone rang, you didn't know who it was until the caller identified him/herself. And no one but James Bond could make a phone call in a car. I learned to wait a bit. Nothing was all that rushed or important. Plus, my mother made it crystal clear we were never to say to a caller that we were just out of the shower -- because what would they imagine??!!! (gasp!) (Nowdays someone might visualize The Great White Whale if I admitted to such a thing.) Hence, texting while in the shower just seems so wrong, on so many levels: Emily Post-wise, financially, safety-wise, time-wise (it's got to be faster to wash if you have both hands free), and electronically -wise.
But obviously I am old and really behind the times. I don't text in the shower. And I doubt I ever will.

Of Streetlights And Stupidity

If there is an award for basic stupidity, my neighborhood needs to be nominated.
Every house except one on the street has a garage, and a couple of the houses have garage space for 2 cars. Yet only two of us (yes, that would include me) actually put a car in the garage. Everyone else either puts two cars on the driveway (thus blocking the sidewalk) or one car on the driveway and one in the street. This has long baffled me because it is FAR less of a hassle to open a garage door than to clean ice and snow off a car left out in the wintertime.
This was dumb enough, but then came word that another street not far away had had some car break-ins to cars left on the street. No cars in driveways were harmed. The answer seemed pretty obvious to me: park a car in the garage and one on the driveway.
But no. This would've been far too easy.
No, instead the call went up on our street for streetlights to scare off the would-be burglars!!!
I tried to point out to people that lamp posts would be far more cost effective, but no one wanted to hear me; they wanted streetlights to save the day!!! (Note: a streetlight costs $1800 to the property owner and $30.00 per month for the rest of eternity on the property owner's city bill to pay for lighting. A top-of-the-line lamp post installed at the driveway edge of the owner's property wouldn't cost half of that and would be far less expensive to use.)
So the street got lights that make the whole neighborhood have the nighttime ambience of a Texaco. People were miffed at me when I refused to a) have one on my property and b) help pay for someone else's.
Now people are saying the lights are really scaring off the burglars because we haven't had any cars broken into since the lights were installed. I don't think they want to hear that our street actually hadn't had any cars broken into in the two decades preceding the street light installation either.
Then we had the crowning glory of not planning ahead this week. The neighbor who rallied everyone else up about the streetlights (and, who, incidentally, has lived on the street less than 5 years) decided to take out his whole side lawn and put in a double driveway, presumably so he can park both cars on the driveway, side-by-side, and leave his garage still unused. This would be fine, except that I find it incredibly humorous that the placement of the brand-spanking-new streetlight prevents him from having a double entrance to his now double driveway. In other words, he can take out part of the curb and parking strip (even with the city's permission) to make a larger entryway for the driveway because there's a huge freakin' piece of metal right where he needs the driveway.
Gosh, if only he'd thought of this before he went all gung-ho on those stupid street lights. And the guy has a college degree. Egad.
When I have kids at school who don't plan ahead, I make sure I point it out to them so they can learn from it. I may have to snap a photo of this street light where the driveway should be and let kids see it when they do similarly dumb but at least less costly things.

Watch Out For Those Homophones

Yet another English teacher shared this with me today. A student turned in the following interview transcript about someone she admires. I nearly laughed myself silly visualizing this career as it is spelled.

" I am interviewing Clair she is a world fames hare dresser. She has been a hare dresser for about five years. By the way she was born of 1980 in Ireland. She just trend 20, but as good as she is it only took her a year to do all of this. Amazing I know. But she was only 17 when she went to hare school. Fast learner. But there is her story."

Oh my.
Hare school. For hare dressers.
I assume they're busier around Easter time, but who knows?
I wonder if this hare school is in Ireland and if Irish hares are much better dressed than American hares.
Also, please note that this student's math skills are just as impressive as her writing skills, as the woman born in 1980 just turned 20 this year after beginning "hare" school at 17, doing "all this" in one year, and then being a "hare dresser" for 5 years. Um, yeah. Right.

Well, I'm happy to tell you this in not one of my gifted students who wrote this.

Why I Teach Junior High: Reason #59

Okay, this wasn't my student, but it did happen at our school.
Reading teacher Ms. W. told me today that last week, 7th-grader "Matt," who is usually hyper, sat brooding in her classroom. She asked him what was wrong.
"I went to the doctor last week," he told her sadly.
Expecting anything from diabetes to a brain tumor as an answer, she asked, "Is something wrong?"
"Yeah," he said, with great solemnity, "he diagnosed me with 'approaching puberty.'"
Somehow this good woman managed not to burst into laughter in front of the boy. Instead, she gave him an encouraging pat on the back and said, "Don't worry, Matt; millions of people have survived that one."

Seniors Mixing With The Juniors

For the entire 21 years I've taught junior high, our school has been a polling place for the local population. Why in the name of all that's holy they choose a junior high when there are churches, senior centers, grade schools, and a high school within half a mile is beyond me.
And, of course, the only people who vote during school hours are the senior citizens, the most vulnerable group. Honestly, these poor folks deserve medals for dealing with the terror of walking down the hallways in between classes, kids flying every which way, noise too much for hearing aids to bear, and the constant and confusing motion of smelly little bodies.
Today, as second lunch ended, I crossed the parking lot to our science building to do a hall sweep -- which means I stand and look formidable with a clipboard and pink lunch detention slips, yell at kids to beat the bell and get to class, then write up the few that fail to heed the warnings. As I approached the doors, I noticed a fairly frail-looking 80-something man staring hopelessly at the stream of 9th graders pushing their way in and out of the doors. At one point, he did try to break in the stream and was nearly knocked down by kids who simply didn't see him.
I walked up to him and said, "Let me go first, Sir; they're scared of me."
He smiled, but willingly fell directly behind me. And, of course, the waters of Babylon parted around us, for no child is stupid enough to push her/his way directly into one of the toughest teachers in the school. I led the man safely to the voting room, and went off to issue pink tardy slips to the few stragglers.
Another senior citizen was saved today. I've done my civic duty. :)

Just Step Back And Let The Artist Work

I teach school in a mostly working class area. It is not common for the parents to have university degrees, and it's not uncommon for them not to have a high school degree. I deal with a lot of parents who work 2 or 3 crappy jobs (construction and McDonalds are two of the most common) and a lot of moms who pretend with all their might they "want" to be just moms, that they don't "want" a job that takes them away from "home," but who spend waaaay too much time volunteering to be "at home" moms and their frustration at not being able to admit they'd like a career but haven't got the training for it comes out in sly and subtle ways. Every year, for example, I must fight the Battle of the Moms Who Went To Beauty School.
Sigh.
I know they're desperate to feel useful. I know they mean well. But just because someone taught them to give a perm ten years ago does not mean they know about stage make up.
True, I've never had a course on stage make up, either, but I've been performing since 1969 and have been doing hair and make up for stage performances and parades (harsh lights, lots of sweat, audience at a distance) since 1977. Plus, I know how to do research. Schools and community theatres don't hire dramaturgs, folks. We do our own research. And I'm just going to make a wild guess here, but I THINK I've probably done more research in my various degrees and 21 years of teaching than the average beauty school student does. (cue music: "Beauty School Dropout, Go Back To High School.") I also have the advantage of having an artist for a father. He taught me to mix colors at age 3. Most kids can barely identify colors at 3, but I remember struggling to remember that blue and red made purple because that was the "hard one." I grew up with the concept of mixing paints to match the desired shades. Again, I seriously doubt that beauty school students get a whole lot of training in this -- maybe in dyeing hair.
This means I can make bruises that look so real -- even up close -- that one boy got grounded for fighting and a girl nearly got suspended for the same reason -- until they washed up. Then I got a visit from the vice principal insisting that I warn her if I sent a kid out with a fake bruise. (giggle) And with the help of a tutoring session by a former drama teacher and a good book or two, I can age kids well. Once, an 18-year-old I'd aged into a 45-year-old General Bullmoose for "Lil' Abner" looked so real onstage that a parent yelled at the drama teacher for having an adult play the role when a student could have taken it. (Both the teacher and I were smuggly thrilled at this.)
Our school is currently doing "The Music Man." We did this about a decade ago, some three drama teachers back, and at that point I did all the research on hair and costumes. So, a few weeks ago, I pulled out all my laminated photos of my grandmother and great-grandmother in 1910 and showed the current drama teacher what real women were wearing in small towns at the time. She agreed it was a marvelous idea. I explained how I had done the former "Marian's" hair, and the drama teacher again was pleased.
But our current Marian's mom was not pleased. She didn't like the fact that the English teacher was claiming to know about hairstyles when SHE had been to beauty school! She told me she wanted to do a Gibson Girl hairstyle on "Marian." I gently tried to tell her last week that Gibson Girl hair was 20 years out of style by the setting of "Music Man" and that that poofy style of hair did not work well when girls had to dance. It was very difficult to keep in place with anything bouncy.
Marian's mom also didn't like the large hats in my vintage photos either. And she was not pleased that I'd told the drama teacher how to make very showy ones very cheaply. Nope, Marian's mom wanted a smaller hat for Marian. I resisted the urge to tell her that the hat she'd chosen was indeed vintage, vintage 1930s and thus some 20 years into the future for Marian.
I was not going to argue. I let it all drop and wished her well.
Today I hauled two bags of hair stuff, a fly-fishing box filled with make up, and a fish and tackle box bursting with make up to school, and after school I ignored Marian and went to work aging the sheriff (gasps from the kids who watched me do this) and doing the correct hair on a few of the other girls. One of the "Pick A Little" ladies is Marian's friend, but, fortunately, her mom has never been to beauty school. Pick A LIttle girl asked me to do her hair in the correct looping style, and I did, pinning curl after curl, leaving one long ringlet to hang down the side, and tilting her large hat ("my purple sombrero") at exactly the right angle. The effect was stunning. The other girls in the drama room were amazed that the chubby old English teacher knew how to make someone look that good. Then the mayor's wife came in and I fixed her hair from a severe bun to the same looping look and adjusted her large hat. She looked great. Another Pick A Little lady, a very chubby girl indeed, also had excellent results once I got ahold of her hair.
At this point, I worked my way into the back of the dark auditorium, where Mrs. Drama Teacher, Mr. Spanish Teacher Doing Stage Crew, and Mrs. Marian's Mom were all seated to watch the dress rehearsal with the two student directors.
Marian and Harold Hill were on stage. Marian, who has in reality long, thick, beautiful hair, looked like a senior citizen. Her hair was slicked back with no part into a bun that hung at the nape of her neck, making her head look misshapen and her high forehead stretch to Elizabethan hair-plucking dimensions. And when the mayor's wife and the Purple Pick A LIttle lady came on stage, the two teachers and the two student directors effervesced with praise. "Did you do that to her? Oh! That's better than I even imagined! It's perfect!" And the Purple Pick A Little lady was so radiant in knowing how good she looked that she completely eclipsed poor, drab Marian by simply smiling. Fortunately, Marian had left off her puny little hat.
Thirty minutes later, I was packing up to go home for the night when Marian's Mom stuck her head into the drama room. "I've been thinking about your suggestions," she said. "And I'm going to try some of those loops to soften the hair across her forehead."
I smirked into the apron I was folding. "You let me know how that works out," I told her.
So here's to hoping that her mom will forget about beauty school and let her daughter look her best for the part. I'm not going to touch the girl unless her mom asks, but perhaps the mom will have a good look at the mayor's wife and the purple pick a little lady and figure out how to do the hairstyle I suggested weeks ago. And maybe she'll ditch the hat and let her get a stylish one for 1910.