Author: Maria Johnson

I feel a rant coming on…

It’s probably not directly related to the fact that the french fries were so salty it rendered them inedible, or that after rifling through a ridiculous amount of wasted napkins there was no straw…

or that after pulling into the gas station and up to the pump, and getting out of the car do I discover the credit card thingie taped up with no sign or any other direction. Every other visible pump had the same tacky cover up…

or this interminable and oppressive heat…

or the general state of affairs of poor customer service.

Or even interacting with cranky pants everywhere, no doubt also affected by all of the above.

No. It’s obviously me.

I clearly don’t smile enough.

my computer travesty

The most horrifying computer problem that ever happened to me occurred many years ago — in the dinosaur age — before the mouse. Before windows. Back when Steve Jobs had a rotary phone.

On the Friday before the Monday when I had to submit the final draft of my thesis to my advisor (who was a cranky old guy), my top of the line IBM personal computer running Wordperfect 2.0 crashed. It died. The royal blue screen with the blocky white letters blinked out like The Outer Limits taking control of the monitor.

I wish it were an alien invasion. Instead, it was something far more insidious: a dead power supply.

Let me set the scene for you. In those days, my dear sweet ever-patient husband turned on the computer for me and set it to where the wordprocessor would open for me. When I finished typing, he inserted a GINORMOUS floppy disk into the computer and saved it for me because evidently all that graduate education had filled my mind with so much data I was incapable (read that as unwilling and terrified) of pressing a key. It was all so complex. And that state of the art dot matrix printer was so magical, with its draft mode that was even faster than the regular mode, that I was absolutely awestruck to be living in such modern times.

Unfortunately for me, he was on a field trip, I mean, business trip to a technology conference somewhere west of the Mississippi where part of the conference included designing and launching paper airplanes into the atrium of the hotel. If you don’t read a sufficient amount of sarcasm in that statement — where my usual knight in shining armor had abandoned me for  a weekend, leaving me with three very small children and a deadline to write a THESIS, then perhaps you should ramp up what you now know to have been a very high level of stress for me.

So, when The Outer Limits hijacked my computer screen as I was writing the last sentence of that interminable assignment, my breakdown imminent, I was too ignorant of the whole computer process to realize that I was in very big trouble.

Go ahead and ask me.

Didn’t you save the paper? Where’s the back up?

You know that’s what hubby asked. You also know that had he seen the blank look on my face he would have gone back to throwing paper airplanes — at me.

Anyway, he didn’t even have consoling words for me. In those days a dead power supply equalled a very expensive chunk of electronics and tacky cream-colored plastic. “Too bad, honey, you’ll have to retype it. There’s an older version of the paper on a floppy somewhere. See ya next week. Love ya.”

Bastard.

I love my husband. I really do. And because of that I will confess that when I started using computers, and to this very day as recently as last month when he bought me an external hard drive, his constant mantra is back up your stuff.

I didn’t listen. But I sure did learn my lesson the hard way. For some of us, that’s usually the only way.

I did what any young woman would do: I called my daddy, crying and out of my mind. Between sobs and hysteria I asked if I could borrow his computer. Poor guy, I must have sounded like the world was ending, and to have something with such a simple solution was almost confusing to him, but that’s all. A little TLC, some babysitting, and his clunky IBM.

The moral of the story: He is wise who is warned by the misfortunes of others.

Back. Up.

_____

Did you like this? I must give the hat tip to my friend, Sarah Reinhard, who asked this question at CatholicMom.com but I couldn’t bring myself to leave such a large comment/story in her comments. Visit her blog, enter her contest, and share your own story!

egg on my face

not what I got click to see how it's done right

I’ve been known to do some pretty goofy things. I have an opinion about this, by the way. I think all people do goofy things, but unlike other people, I don’t mind sharing them.

For example, recently I twittered about accidentally using a quick tanning product as moisturizer. That one was definitely labeled #FAIL. I looked like a leopard. I wish I could have looked like a cougar (okay, no. definitely not).

Anyway, yeah. I had a splotchy arm that took days to fade.

Another time I thought it would be a good idea to use a leaf-blower to get rid of the dog hair in the house. Um. It worked! It removed all the hair instantly from the floor. It also deposited the hair on every single surface above the floor. Another #FAIL.

So this morning I had a hankering for a hard boiled egg. Of course, I thought about this long after I was dressed and had coffee and puttered around the house a little. In other words, I was ready to leave.

That’s when I put the egg on to boil. After a while I figured it had been boiling for an interminable amount of time, so I removed it from the heat and let it sit in the hot water for a bit while I set a load of laundry (because of course, it wouldn’t be a day in my life without laundry). As soon as I cracked it I knew it wasn’t done enough.

I hate runny eggs. I’m developing a gag reflex just writing about it here.

Unfortunately, I had already mashed the whole shell, so I just peeled it off and studied it for a moment. I really didn’t want to throw it away. I wasn’t going to eat it like that. [gag] And I wasn’t going to put it back on the stove for it to boil some more (hey, I’ve done that before — I was just late for work now).

In the tradition of leaf-blowers and tanning products, I thought it would be okay to stick it in the microwave.

Have you ever put an egg in the microwave? I’ve always heard they explode.

I didn’t want an exploding egg so I approached the situation scientifically. You know, because my degrees in English qualify me for such analysis.

I thought 10 seconds would be just enough to get it cooking and I could remove it and set it on the counter and wait for it to continue to cook itself. So that, ladies and gentlemen, is exactly what I did.

I stood in front of the microwave risking imminent danger to make sure the egg didn’t explode. I’m not quite sure what my presence watching was going to do in the prevention department, but since I live in a constant state of delusion anyway, I proceeded with the full confidence that there would be no explosion.

It worked! Evidently not only can I do laundry AND grade papers, my mere presence in front of the microwave can prevent culinary disasters. On to part II, letting the egg cool on the counter.

Hoo boy! There was a lot of steam coming off that egg. I was ever so confident that my plan had worked. This, gentle readers, is a first for me. I’ve never had a half-baked plan work out (maybe I should have considered that it was really just half-boiled).

In spite of my obvious success, I was still a little skeptical about the actual done-ness of the egg. I was certain that the yolk wasn’t quite done, so I proceeded to slice it in half–you know, just to make sure before I took a bite.

(Let me interrupt here to tell you that when I was in high school, my favorite thing to do in chemistry was make dust explosions. I don’t remember how to balance an equation, but I do know how to use an empty roll of paper towels and some sawdust for a little magic).

As soon as the knife cut through the egg I heard a pop followed by a combination of steam-cloud and dried egg yolk dust.

It was epic.

And I was late for work. I had to go wash my face and glasses.

Happy Independence Day!

Don’t forget to thank our servicemen and women who keep it that way.

And don’t forget that we don’t do this alone, as my godson seems to recognize.

courtesy of vic

Warning: Wet Paint!

The last thing I ever thought I’d do as a writer is pull over to the side of the road and write down an idea, but it happened today.

My commute home was no more extraordinary than any other day. By that I mean that I was listening to the same CD that’s been in the player for weeks, and I was tuning it out in favor of the quite animated conversation that I was having with myself. I’d like to say that it stayed exclusively in my head, but there are no witnesses to call me out for moving my lips.

At any rate, my internal musings were interrupted by a sign I’d never seen before. It said:

Wet Paint
Do Not Drive
On Newly Painted Lanes

You know that little Guy-in-Red that resides over my left shoulder? He did a little jig before telling me to drive over a lane to see what happens.

Fear not, gentle reader. I listened to the little Guy-in-White. He was outraged at Guy-in-Red, and shot me a knowing look for having briefly entertained the idea, but I did the right thing and stayed on the straight and narrow.

That’s when I realized that there was this grand metaphor staring at me from the center of the road.

The whole thing about staying between the lines is more than just Kindergarten advice about coloring. It’s also more than just a driving lesson, albeit one that’ll keep you alive. It’s a metaphor for the choices we make in our lives – and the attention that we pay to details on that journey to keep us straight, keep us in the lane, keep us from dangerously going over the parameters of the road into dangerous ground that can hurt us — maybe even kill us.

That road also showed me something significant. A few people did veer too far from the center and crossed the lines. I could tell because the tires were stained by the wet paint and left a fading record of their error until it disappeared back into the road.

Hmm.

A little like the way we err in our lives? Dare I say sin? I will. Sin. We all do it. Sadly, it’s a mark of our humanity. Happily, we can also seek repentance and forgiveness. It’s an amazing grace.

Cuco and Yayo…priceless

With apologies to my English speaking readers, I had to share this with the cubiches in my family and friends circle. This abuela explains how the internet search engines work, Google (Cuco) and Yahoo (Yayo).

The brilliant elements here are of course the Cuban propensity for calling anybody a derivative of their given names, and the omnipresence of Cuco’c/Lalo’s/Yayo’s et al. Absolute brilliance! If you read Confessions of a Middle-Aged Cubanita then you know I love the nicknames.

I’ve been reading My Big Fat Cuban Family for a while and regret not having caught this sooner. But here it is, and I encourage you all to give her a read too. She writes in English, even though the video is in Spanish.

to be, or not to be

One of the more difficult aspects of the teaching profession occurs after the courses are finished, the grades are submitted, and the euphoria of not having any deadlines settles in. It doesn’t last long because invariably a whole new set of deadlines crop up, but the euphoria is short-lived, replaced by a brief period of introspection.

Did I do a good job? Did I reach enough students? Have I made a difference? Did I unwittingly break someone?

Perhaps I am the only one who has these self-doubts, but I suspect it’s more widespread; we’re just in a hurry out of the building and don’t sit around discussing our insecurities.

After all, it takes a great deal of ego to do what we do. I need to face a group of adults (several times a week) and speak with the voice of authority, sure that what I am communicating is true, authentic, and …  well … right.

It’s easy to do in the classrooms that come right out of a Norman Rockwell painting, but the truth is that classrooms don’t look like that today. In fact, I’m cynical enough to believe those classrooms only existed in Rockwell’s paintings.

My reality is quite different.

My reality is filled with an astonishing collection of people from places that I cannot grasp, pursuing their own slice of the American pie.

After 25 years in the profession, I am still optimistic that there is enough pie to go around.

After 25 years in the profession, I am experienced enough to know that pie isn’t always good, or appropriate, or even useful.

The problem is arriving at that conclusion. I could never suggest to anyone that an education is out of reach. It runs against every fiber of my being. I serve the pie!

Still, I perform my job to the best of my abilities – some days very well, other days … I don’t know. I’ve heard teaching described as performance art – that’s a pretty good assessment. I don’t have many people asking for refunds, so I might be doing a fair job of it.

Anyway, I’ve lately suffered from more than the usual insecurities –so much so that I have questioned my career choice and whether it was time to try something else. The problem is that I don’t really want to do anything else, so I have to figure out what’s making me unhappy in the classroom.

I pulled out all the stops – rummaged through methodology texts, read crazy progressive articles on trending topics [one thing I can say about education is that if you wait a few years, everything will be recycled under a new name], read some of the dinosaurs in the profession.

I found my answer in the unlikeliest of places and could have face-palmed myself for not having gone there first…

St. Augustine of Hippo.

Now, I’ve often been amused by Augustine’s desire to be holy … but not quite yet. It figures I’d find him to be an interesting guy, but I was unprepared to have the answer to my dilemma laid out so nicely. You see, I teach Rhetoric, a fancy name for grammar, but it is much more. It is the art of human discourse.

I am steeped in human discourse. If you don’t believe me, visit my classroom.

Evidently, Augustine was steeped in human discourse, too. I admit that I am intrigued enough to study him some more. At any rate, he has just become my new patron saint because it seems he encountered the same challenges I face – more than 1500 years ago.

Ah. The more things change, the more they stay the same. If anything, we both work in the human condition. It turns out he also taught Rhetoric.  And developed a philosophy of education that mirrors the attitudes that I have pieced together over the years.

Don’t misunderstand me – I am not putting myself in Augustine’s … um … august … company. What I mean is that I have found illumination in his theory, and it has made all the difference.

First, he explains that there are three kinds of students:  1. Well-educated [a delight!] 2. Poorly-educated [ a challenge, but satisfying to teach] and 3. The poorly-educated who think they are brilliant [yes, he’s right—I see them all the time!]

This last group can make any teacher mad (in a clinically depressed way).  Those poor souls tax my last nerve, and they are numerous. Augustine has much to say about this last group, and it is here that I found consolation. He stressed the importance of teaching them the difference between having facts and having real knowledge.

To teach this 3rd category of student is truly a challenge. How does one teach someone to THINK? This is especially challenging in today’s world, where it seems like everyone is living in a heightened state of entitlement. The students who feel they deserve A’s because they exist fall into this phenomenon.

Augustine says these students must be helped to discover what they don’t know. Ha! Evidently I am good at that. He calls it the restrained style of teaching. Who knew what I was practicing was restraint?

Augustine also had some interesting things to say about teaching styles, and I have found myself following those, too. In one style he advocates using a lofty approach to find the beauty in knowledge for the sheer beauty of it, and in another he advocates a less showy appeal to passion/ I’m no St. Augustine (well, maybe in the sinner part) but I have found great consolation in his theories. If I’m going to revamp my approach in the classroom, I couldn’t have found a better and more timely model.