Sister: "You used all my shampoo!"
Brother: "I didn't use ALL of it."
Sister: "Yes, you did! I have half a bottle of conditioner left, and NO shampoo left."
Brother: "That means I only used half! Obviously YOU used the other half."
Sister: "You used all my shampoo! Now I don't have any!"
Brother: "Sure you do."
Sister: "No, I don't!"
Brother: "Then what did I use this morning?"
Sister: "You jerk!"
Brother: "It was hard work, too. I had to shake the bottle for, like, five minutes before I got enough out to wash my hair."
Sister: "UGH!"
Tuesday, January 13, 2015
Friday, January 9, 2015
Science Makes Life Exciting
For a junior high school custodian, I'm pretty lucky. My route of thirteen classrooms covers a wide variety of subjects. I have an English classroom, three history classrooms, two computer labs, and three math classrooms. But the classrooms that always manage to throw me off my game are the final four: the science classrooms.
Now, that's not to say that I don't like the science classrooms. They're big beautiful rooms, and they're tiled - meaning I never have to vacuum them, so that's a plus. But if learning is messy, then learning science is just disgusting. And while that usually makes it raucous fun for the students, well . . .
I've learned that what's fun for students is usually miserable for custodians.
There was the day they made ice cream in plastic baggies. Rock salt must be very difficult to pour. It created sticky streams, decorating the tables, the counters, the floor, and sneaking into crevices so out-of-the-way that I kept discovering new dried riverbeds over the next ten days.
There was the week they spent learning to make fossils. Bits of plaster - in both liquid and solid form - repainted the sinks, making them look ceramic rather than metallic. Plaster doesn't just come off when you ask it politely, and once removed, it gets a bunch of its buddies together and they clog the drain in protest. Oh, and while you're on your knees scraping spots of clay off of the floor, keep an eye out for gum - junior high kids spit it out on the floor convulsively.
And you always need to be wary about the teachers' garbage cans. Science teachers are special, so they get to have two or three industrial-sized trash cans in their rooms to hold the offshoots of their awesomeness. Such by-products of scientific discovery may include shattered beakers, mostly-dead insects, or the organs of farm animals. (At least, I hope those hearts came from farm animals. They did look pretty human-sized.) You'll want to keep your gloves on.
Bio-hazardous surprises aside, there's one thing about the science rooms that I love: they're all connected. They all share a back room (which, therefore, is more of a center room) where they can store large, science-y equipment. I love this room because it's the only room on my route with no doors that connect immediately to the hallway. It's isolated and private, a place where I don't have to worry that a teacher is about to burst in on me. When I've had a few extra minutes, I've often spent them in there. It's dimly lit, and I can enjoy a ponderous moment or even a mid-work snack in peace.
I was in there today. I had my broom, and was walking between science classrooms sweeping up at the end of my shift. I paused in my little sanctuary, just looking around and enjoying the moment. I walked around the perimeter of the room, running my hand across counters, until I came to a dark corner I'd rarely even glanced at before. And I saw something. A tank full of gravel, and . . .
A tarantula.
I didn't run or scream. Not in real life. But while my body froze and my eyes locked fully open, on the inside I was flailing and fleeing and panicking and puking and crying and climbing the walls and performing exorcisms, trying not to think about how long the tank had been occupied, and trying not to swear of science rooms forever.
WHY?!?!?!?!?!
Now, that's not to say that I don't like the science classrooms. They're big beautiful rooms, and they're tiled - meaning I never have to vacuum them, so that's a plus. But if learning is messy, then learning science is just disgusting. And while that usually makes it raucous fun for the students, well . . .
I've learned that what's fun for students is usually miserable for custodians.
There was the day they made ice cream in plastic baggies. Rock salt must be very difficult to pour. It created sticky streams, decorating the tables, the counters, the floor, and sneaking into crevices so out-of-the-way that I kept discovering new dried riverbeds over the next ten days.
There was the week they spent learning to make fossils. Bits of plaster - in both liquid and solid form - repainted the sinks, making them look ceramic rather than metallic. Plaster doesn't just come off when you ask it politely, and once removed, it gets a bunch of its buddies together and they clog the drain in protest. Oh, and while you're on your knees scraping spots of clay off of the floor, keep an eye out for gum - junior high kids spit it out on the floor convulsively.
And you always need to be wary about the teachers' garbage cans. Science teachers are special, so they get to have two or three industrial-sized trash cans in their rooms to hold the offshoots of their awesomeness. Such by-products of scientific discovery may include shattered beakers, mostly-dead insects, or the organs of farm animals. (At least, I hope those hearts came from farm animals. They did look pretty human-sized.) You'll want to keep your gloves on.
Bio-hazardous surprises aside, there's one thing about the science rooms that I love: they're all connected. They all share a back room (which, therefore, is more of a center room) where they can store large, science-y equipment. I love this room because it's the only room on my route with no doors that connect immediately to the hallway. It's isolated and private, a place where I don't have to worry that a teacher is about to burst in on me. When I've had a few extra minutes, I've often spent them in there. It's dimly lit, and I can enjoy a ponderous moment or even a mid-work snack in peace.
I was in there today. I had my broom, and was walking between science classrooms sweeping up at the end of my shift. I paused in my little sanctuary, just looking around and enjoying the moment. I walked around the perimeter of the room, running my hand across counters, until I came to a dark corner I'd rarely even glanced at before. And I saw something. A tank full of gravel, and . . .
A tarantula.
I didn't run or scream. Not in real life. But while my body froze and my eyes locked fully open, on the inside I was flailing and fleeing and panicking and puking and crying and climbing the walls and performing exorcisms, trying not to think about how long the tank had been occupied, and trying not to swear of science rooms forever.
WHY?!?!?!?!?!
Saturday, January 3, 2015
Brave New Year
Now that it's gone, I can finally say: I HATED 2014. I rarely have this sort of reaction, but I spent December looking longingly towards the days when 2014 would be mere memory. And I feel just a tad guilty about it. Because really, it's my fault.
2014 for me was The Year of Great (and Unmet) Expectations. I was about to start my last semester of college. Soon I would be a glorious graduate, with a diploma in my hand and the fresh start of a promising career at my feet. I imagined that with this great success draped across my shoulders, I would soon find love, fulfillment, and happiness.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong!
Instead, my last semester of college did what none of the 9 others had managed to do: it broke my conviction. From my very first day at Brigham Young University, I'd known I wanted to become an English teacher. I'd taken exploratory classes, tip-toed my way cautiously into the field, but every step along the way only confirmed my decision. I loved learning about English literature, grammar, structure, and strategies. I was ready to leap into the working world.
Until I did my student teaching. Man! The work was intense, and the work environment left me feeling drained and discouraged. I still liked the actually teaching part - standing in front of students (I love students!) and explaining concepts of English to them - but I couldn't separate the teaching from everything that comes with it: grading, reporting, complying with imposed standards/testing, maneuvering through the strictly convoluted public school system, dealing with administration and other teachers . . . the list goes on. I was miserable. So when I graduated, I bowed out from the many opportunities to pick up a teaching job. I had been gored - I wasn't about to tie myself to that bull again.
In April, I had my diploma. But I had no sense of direction. For the first time, I didn't know what the next step was supposed to be. I didn't want to get a job in the field I was trained for. What else could I do? Get married and have kids, like all my friends were doing? But I had no boyfriend, and no immediate prospects. Move away and get a fresh start? But I had no money. What to do?
After a lovely summer of avoiding my problems, I finally got a job - but not the one everyone had expected. I went back to custodial work, something I'd done all through college and enjoyed. But this time, it felt icky. I'd never been ashamed of cleaning bathrooms in college, but now that I was a college GRADUATE, I was embarrassed to tell people what I was doing. My self-esteem was dragging on the ground behind me, and all I wanted to do was hide in my room and watch Netflix.
Which I did. Frequently.
I was rescued in October. A neighbor asked me to do a presentation for our local youth group, focusing on study skills that could help them with school. It felt like a big deal to me. I spent a ridiculous amount of time preparing. And when I did the presentation - standing in front of a room full of teenagers again, talking about something (at least somewhat) related to my field of expertise, I felt a surge of confidence. I was GOOD at this. Maybe not anything worth making a movie about, but enough to be worthwhile. So when I got an offer that night to tutor a neighborhood girl for the ACT, I jumped at the chance.
Midway through October, I started to feel better. My custodial job - while unglamorous - was providing me with a steady income again; and, with the addition of the tutoring job, my self-esteem perked up bit by bit. It was enough to push me into looking for a third job. (The tutoring was only about four hours a week; I had time for more.) I applied at a couple of different places and was accepted to both at the same time. I could be a substitute teacher, or I could work seasonal at a toy store. Figuring that the substituting job would be available post-Christmas, I took on the seasonal job.
I'm not sure it was a "mistake." But it was definitely a decision that had a negative impact on my life.
For my seasonal job, I worked overnights restocking the store. Originally, I'd thought this wouldn't be a problem - I'd worked early mornings before. (However, as I would soon learn, there is a HUGE difference between working early mornings and working ALL NIGHT LONG.) After about a week, I fell into a survival-mode pattern: I worked for eight hours at the toy store, came home and slept for three hours, got up and went to my tutoring session, came home and ate lunch, went to work custodial for four hours, came home and slept for four hours, got up and went to work at the toy store again.
When all you do is sleep and work, you get depressed pretty quickly. (At least, that's what happens to ME, as it turns out.) I wasn't getting sleep in large enough increments, and my brain's higher-functions turned off. I felt like only 75% of a person. Having no social interactions only increased my isolation, with increased my feelings of inadequacy - what kind of an idiot was I, to sign up for this?
Anyway, both the tutoring job and the toy store job ended just before 2014 ran out the clock. As I huffed and puffed, lying in bed recovering, I was overcome with an unhappy relief. Glad to be out from under that stress. Dissatisfied because I didn't seem to have made any headway toward . . . well, anywhere. I still had no idea where I wanted to go with my life, so I didn't know how to make progress. It was just so DISCOURAGING.
Looking toward 2015, I clung to a vague hope that the new year would be better. Just as many a weary soul has sought solace in the prospect of a new day - "The sun'll come out tomorrow!" - I prayed that a new sunrise would bring new wisdom and new opportunities for me. At the very least, I looked forward to having a distinct line of demarcation separating me from my failures. Because that's what 2014 felt like to me: a series of personal failures. (I haven't even mentioned my failures with regard to church and romantic relationships!)
Now, here we are.
2015.
I don't expect anything miraculous. It's just another year; it didn't come with a free car or a boyfriend under its arms. It isn't anything but a blank sheet of paper.
But seriously? I made such a mess out of chapter 2014 - so many revisions! - that a blank sheet of paper sounds like the best thing in the world.
Glad to meet you, 2015. You're a sight for sore eyes.
2014 for me was The Year of Great (and Unmet) Expectations. I was about to start my last semester of college. Soon I would be a glorious graduate, with a diploma in my hand and the fresh start of a promising career at my feet. I imagined that with this great success draped across my shoulders, I would soon find love, fulfillment, and happiness.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong!
Instead, my last semester of college did what none of the 9 others had managed to do: it broke my conviction. From my very first day at Brigham Young University, I'd known I wanted to become an English teacher. I'd taken exploratory classes, tip-toed my way cautiously into the field, but every step along the way only confirmed my decision. I loved learning about English literature, grammar, structure, and strategies. I was ready to leap into the working world.
Until I did my student teaching. Man! The work was intense, and the work environment left me feeling drained and discouraged. I still liked the actually teaching part - standing in front of students (I love students!) and explaining concepts of English to them - but I couldn't separate the teaching from everything that comes with it: grading, reporting, complying with imposed standards/testing, maneuvering through the strictly convoluted public school system, dealing with administration and other teachers . . . the list goes on. I was miserable. So when I graduated, I bowed out from the many opportunities to pick up a teaching job. I had been gored - I wasn't about to tie myself to that bull again.
In April, I had my diploma. But I had no sense of direction. For the first time, I didn't know what the next step was supposed to be. I didn't want to get a job in the field I was trained for. What else could I do? Get married and have kids, like all my friends were doing? But I had no boyfriend, and no immediate prospects. Move away and get a fresh start? But I had no money. What to do?
After a lovely summer of avoiding my problems, I finally got a job - but not the one everyone had expected. I went back to custodial work, something I'd done all through college and enjoyed. But this time, it felt icky. I'd never been ashamed of cleaning bathrooms in college, but now that I was a college GRADUATE, I was embarrassed to tell people what I was doing. My self-esteem was dragging on the ground behind me, and all I wanted to do was hide in my room and watch Netflix.
Which I did. Frequently.
I was rescued in October. A neighbor asked me to do a presentation for our local youth group, focusing on study skills that could help them with school. It felt like a big deal to me. I spent a ridiculous amount of time preparing. And when I did the presentation - standing in front of a room full of teenagers again, talking about something (at least somewhat) related to my field of expertise, I felt a surge of confidence. I was GOOD at this. Maybe not anything worth making a movie about, but enough to be worthwhile. So when I got an offer that night to tutor a neighborhood girl for the ACT, I jumped at the chance.
Midway through October, I started to feel better. My custodial job - while unglamorous - was providing me with a steady income again; and, with the addition of the tutoring job, my self-esteem perked up bit by bit. It was enough to push me into looking for a third job. (The tutoring was only about four hours a week; I had time for more.) I applied at a couple of different places and was accepted to both at the same time. I could be a substitute teacher, or I could work seasonal at a toy store. Figuring that the substituting job would be available post-Christmas, I took on the seasonal job.
I'm not sure it was a "mistake." But it was definitely a decision that had a negative impact on my life.
For my seasonal job, I worked overnights restocking the store. Originally, I'd thought this wouldn't be a problem - I'd worked early mornings before. (However, as I would soon learn, there is a HUGE difference between working early mornings and working ALL NIGHT LONG.) After about a week, I fell into a survival-mode pattern: I worked for eight hours at the toy store, came home and slept for three hours, got up and went to my tutoring session, came home and ate lunch, went to work custodial for four hours, came home and slept for four hours, got up and went to work at the toy store again.
When all you do is sleep and work, you get depressed pretty quickly. (At least, that's what happens to ME, as it turns out.) I wasn't getting sleep in large enough increments, and my brain's higher-functions turned off. I felt like only 75% of a person. Having no social interactions only increased my isolation, with increased my feelings of inadequacy - what kind of an idiot was I, to sign up for this?
Anyway, both the tutoring job and the toy store job ended just before 2014 ran out the clock. As I huffed and puffed, lying in bed recovering, I was overcome with an unhappy relief. Glad to be out from under that stress. Dissatisfied because I didn't seem to have made any headway toward . . . well, anywhere. I still had no idea where I wanted to go with my life, so I didn't know how to make progress. It was just so DISCOURAGING.
Looking toward 2015, I clung to a vague hope that the new year would be better. Just as many a weary soul has sought solace in the prospect of a new day - "The sun'll come out tomorrow!" - I prayed that a new sunrise would bring new wisdom and new opportunities for me. At the very least, I looked forward to having a distinct line of demarcation separating me from my failures. Because that's what 2014 felt like to me: a series of personal failures. (I haven't even mentioned my failures with regard to church and romantic relationships!)
Now, here we are.
2015.
I don't expect anything miraculous. It's just another year; it didn't come with a free car or a boyfriend under its arms. It isn't anything but a blank sheet of paper.
But seriously? I made such a mess out of chapter 2014 - so many revisions! - that a blank sheet of paper sounds like the best thing in the world.
Glad to meet you, 2015. You're a sight for sore eyes.
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