Tag: the blahs invade


In which confusion reigns

25
September

Two days out of the classroom screwed with my sense of time this week. Tuesday was Monday. Wednesday was Tuesday. Thursday was… Friday. Yeah. Because Friday was apparently Thursday, an entire day spent at the Ventura Court system fulfilling my jury duty for the year.

I was so messed up, I missed a voice lesson and had to reschedule. In five years, I’ve never missed a scheduled voice lesson.

Today, I’m stunned, but I do know it’s Saturday. That’s all about sleeping in until 7A this morning. Which may have something to do with the being stunned. Along with not enough caffeine.

Yesterday was not wasted, however. They never called a jury panel, so I had plenty of writing time. I dissected my feathers story, chopping and pasting bits and scenes into a new document and adding new bits and scenes as needed. It’s not done, and I have a Tuesday deadline for it. I’m hoping today will get me a rough draft and I’ll have the rest of the time to smooth and polish it.

Housework looms. As does getting the dog in for a trim. As does finishing the tiny landscape and cleaning out the frig.

Mostly, though, I’m tired and hoping that applying lots of coffee will activate me. The idea is to clean early, seeing that it’s going to be hot, and then place my butt in the chair after.

I just remember I’m gone a second weekend after this coming one. I need to install a gigantic mental calendar because the juggling I’m doing with the limited one I’ve got isn’t working well these days.

And now I’m really tired because I remembered a concert I am going to tomorrow night, and right now it’s all about staying home and cocooning. Bleh.

I’m sure everything will turn around, though. Like maybe right after a nap.

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Bummer.

30
January

School has taken a downturn. Not so much with my little rascals–they’re still rascally as ever. My best weapon is keeping them busy. Think of an anthill, and you’ll get the picture.

I think my favorite image this week was everyone crawling on the floor to retrieve the tissue paper bits from their snowflake cutting–making life easier for Mr. Nelson, our custodian. They will do anything for Mr. Nelson, and half of them think Mr. Ron–the other custodian–is Mr. Nelson. The 12-inch height discrepancy and shock of white hair versus black has made little impression. All custodians are named Mr. Nelson.

But what is really kicking me at the moment is the news that our district will have to cut another 8% of our budget this coming year. That’s another 2.1 million. In addition to the 12% we cut the past two years. We have cut everything except personnel.

So guess what’s on the chopping block now?

Well, not quite. If–and that’s a big if–the union gets their act together and actively negotiates, then there’s a possibility we could transfer our medical to an HMO as a temporary measure and take five furlough days. If nothing happens, or happens in a timely enough manner by March 15, then whoops–a third of our district staff will get a pink slip.

I am safe. But class-size reduction is not. So it’s a good chance that I’ll be back to where I was ten or so years ago, with 32 kids in my class. Although now, it’s full day kinder, not two half-day sessions. And it’ll be without the aide I had then.

As I told one of the other long-time teachers, the only good news in that scenario is that we’ll not have to teach Spanish language arts in addition; our district went to English-only instruction about the same time we reduced class size.

So, yeah.

I’m not holding out much hope for the union negotiations. The current leadership has moved to a confrontational style in negotiating, and our district is the poorer for it. And let’s not even mention the drama-trauma of the charter school application here. Not parent organized. Unsupported by much of the district, parents and personnel alike, and rejected by the county board of education.

So they’re taking it to the state.

Yeah. It’s a very good thing I’ve got kids in the classroom to focus my attention. Little things–besides my worms on the floor–like pairs of missing glasses which turn up a week later under a corner table behind my plastic tubs of listening center books and tapes.

Writing is in a depressive trough right now, too. Blech.

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