Tools.
Last night, my dear old friend Karen and I led the women of our church youth group in a "straight edge" discussion on sex. They've been talking about drugs and alcohol for the last few weeks, and culminated their oh-so punk-rock unit last night with a very frank discussion about sex. And their parents were there.
Actually, only one of the middle school moms came in for just a few minutes of our talk WHICH WAS COMPLETELY AWKWARD, but they did have designated time to group off with their families and lay out any expectations the parents have for the youth, and, most importantly, vice versa.
Karen and I have known each other since back when we were wee virgins, and of course, back when we were wee not-virgins, which put an interesting spin on the preparation and the dialogue with the girls. We wanted to ultimately express to them that pre-marital (or pre-ready-for-it) sex is a fucker of a decision to have to make in the first place for teenagers, even more of a fucker of a decision because they're Christian, and even more of a fucker because they're female. And we used 100% clean language! Impressive. Although at one point, I told them that some of the ideas we were giving them for resistance were "tools, for like, your sex toolbox," which rallied some nervous laughter.
We also wanted to assure them was that God will always love them, and they should never feel separated from that love or from their church family because of what they choose with this. It's a delicate balance, because you don't want to give them a free pass for sex, but feeling marginal in the body of Christ was by far the toughest thing I dealt with as a teenager. I feel it's more important for them to be educated and equipped to handle this. And also to make sure that their toolbox is chock full of sex tools.
God help me if they told their parents that Julia taught them about some good sex tools.
1.30.2006
1.25.2006
'Tis not a Plague.
'Tis not a Plague.
This morning marks my fifth morning of being dead tired. Same with Erik. And it's my fault. Since Friday night, I've had this constant and random cough. It's with me all day, but seems so much worse at night. I'm not exaggerating about it being constant, LET ME TELL YOU. You're lucky you're being typed to, and not getting the maybe-one-word-per-cough conversations most of my in-person acquaintances are enduring. At night, I can't even get the words out. My throat doesn't tickle (except after coughing for an entire night straight) nor does the cough actually produce anything, or feel like it needs to produce something. It's just air being forced out from my lungs. Or something.
Last night in particular, I thought I had The Black Plague. Erik thought I had pneumonia. The second he said something, I figured we should probably call the nurse's hotline through our primary care provider and find out what they say. At the very least, if the nurse hotline tells us to go the ER, we won't be charged up the butt for going to the ER for a non-emergency; it's on record. The nice lady kindly suggested I take some cough syrup. Anyway, she helped me rule out the Plague, and then made an appointment for this morning with my doctor.
The doctor helped explain why my non-productive cough got worse at night. Basically, as you go to sleep, your biorhythms signal that less cortizol (maybe not the right word; I was trying to act smart and not ask stupid questions) be sent to your lungs, because it's needed less as you sleep, or something. Cortizol keeps things nice and uninflamed. And if you don't have it, your lungs get unhappy, and there's wheezing and asthma-ing and coughing. It's totally not because of what the REGISTERED NURSE said on the hotline: that when you lie down, more phlegm falls down your throat. Dude. That's the kind of thing my mother would say, alongside things like going out with wet hair makes you catch a cold and wearing socks at night makes you go blind*.
Anyway, I'm just happy I don't have The Consumption.
__________
* I'm pretty sure mine was the only mother who used the socks/blindness one.
This morning marks my fifth morning of being dead tired. Same with Erik. And it's my fault. Since Friday night, I've had this constant and random cough. It's with me all day, but seems so much worse at night. I'm not exaggerating about it being constant, LET ME TELL YOU. You're lucky you're being typed to, and not getting the maybe-one-word-per-cough conversations most of my in-person acquaintances are enduring. At night, I can't even get the words out. My throat doesn't tickle (except after coughing for an entire night straight) nor does the cough actually produce anything, or feel like it needs to produce something. It's just air being forced out from my lungs. Or something.
Last night in particular, I thought I had The Black Plague. Erik thought I had pneumonia. The second he said something, I figured we should probably call the nurse's hotline through our primary care provider and find out what they say. At the very least, if the nurse hotline tells us to go the ER, we won't be charged up the butt for going to the ER for a non-emergency; it's on record. The nice lady kindly suggested I take some cough syrup. Anyway, she helped me rule out the Plague, and then made an appointment for this morning with my doctor.
The doctor helped explain why my non-productive cough got worse at night. Basically, as you go to sleep, your biorhythms signal that less cortizol (maybe not the right word; I was trying to act smart and not ask stupid questions) be sent to your lungs, because it's needed less as you sleep, or something. Cortizol keeps things nice and uninflamed. And if you don't have it, your lungs get unhappy, and there's wheezing and asthma-ing and coughing. It's totally not because of what the REGISTERED NURSE said on the hotline: that when you lie down, more phlegm falls down your throat. Dude. That's the kind of thing my mother would say, alongside things like going out with wet hair makes you catch a cold and wearing socks at night makes you go blind*.
Anyway, I'm just happy I don't have The Consumption.
__________
* I'm pretty sure mine was the only mother who used the socks/blindness one.
1.22.2006
Sundance, oh six.
Sundance, oh six.
Guess where I went this weekend.
More later. I currently do not have a voice and can only cough in morse code. I can't even sleep for all the morse code.
I blame the altitude, a fledgeling pre-existing coldish thing, and cross country skiing. Oh, and belting out Kelly Clarkson's "Since You've Been Gone" at the top of my lungs (WITH EVERYONE ELSE, shut up!) while probably dancing on a chair. I didn't even know I knew that song.
Guess where I went this weekend.
More later. I currently do not have a voice and can only cough in morse code. I can't even sleep for all the morse code.
I blame the altitude, a fledgeling pre-existing coldish thing, and cross country skiing. Oh, and belting out Kelly Clarkson's "Since You've Been Gone" at the top of my lungs (WITH EVERYONE ELSE, shut up!) while probably dancing on a chair. I didn't even know I knew that song.
1.16.2006
Unlearned.
Unlearned.
Despite the fact that if after you've given your teeth a solid brushing and maybe even a good rinse with mouthwash, you then decide to floss, and it is painfully obvious that brushing and mouthwashing make absolutely no difference in the amount of crud between your teeth, I still don't think I'll ever be one of those Regular Flossers. Like my husband. He leaves the unsightly container of floss out on our prettily arranged counter in the bathroom in hopes that I might catch on and start flossing daily. But I just put it away and rinse more vigorously. I'll never learn.
Despite the fact that scraping day-old oatmeal remnants off the inside of my mug in the work sink always leads me to curse and tell myself that never again will I let oatmeal sit in my mug, I still wait. The stuff rinses off so easily when it's fresh! But every hour pushes that stuff closer to glue than food. Two days later? Mortar. There are a few communal sponges in the breakroom, but holy god, they are gross. Sometimes I see them sitting in the sink, in a pool of their own bacteria sponge juice. So not only am I left with oat-based cement glued to the inside of my cup, I'm also stuck cleaning it with a wet paper towel. Regardless, I will never.learn.
1.14.2006
Vero.
Gelato Vero.
This post is no more than a shout out to the one and only Matt Grace and his crushingly beautiful wife Sarah. I'm sitting in the famed Gelato Vero cafe, home of our rendezvous (post-Guiness) so many moons ago.
Come back, dude. The soy lattes are still pretty genius here. And they have free wireless. And there might be a med school or two around here. Cheers.
This post is no more than a shout out to the one and only Matt Grace and his crushingly beautiful wife Sarah. I'm sitting in the famed Gelato Vero cafe, home of our rendezvous (post-Guiness) so many moons ago.
Come back, dude. The soy lattes are still pretty genius here. And they have free wireless. And there might be a med school or two around here. Cheers.
1.12.2006
Back to school. Or: Memories of More Socially Inept Youthdom.
Back to school. Or: Memories of More Socially Inept Youthdom.
Let's just tag this as another installation of my Chronicles of Socially Inept Youth series, because it's been a while.
I went to my first day of classroom observation on Tuesday (amazing! more later!). I spent most of the day with my old AP English teacher (who I adored back then, and still do), and a few classes with my freshman humanities teacher (who I hated back then, as follows).
One delightful day in 1992, after a particularly harrowing and rainy experience in 2nd period Marching Band bringing the little golf cart with three trailers in series holding a plethora of stationary percussion instruments back from the football field to the band room, I was a little late to 3rd period humanities. I rushed to the classroom with no real concept of how late I was. I don't think I ever really looked at the clock and figured out how late I was, either, but I'm thinking it was pretty inexcusable.
I got my first and only detention that day. This is no problem. I totally deserved it.
However, what I also got was the worst public mocking ever to be bestowed upon me so far. The teacher stopped class halfway through, and asked me, IN FRONT OF EVERYONE:
"Julia, as a child back in England, did it rain a lot?"
I hesitated and told him that of course, you moron, it rains in England. It came out like this, though: "yes."
He then asked, "So, do you remember liking the rain?"
I might have said, "What the fuck does this have to do with Hamlet or whatever we're reading?" which also came out as "yes."
Then: "Did you also like to play in puddles? In the mud?"
I paused, thinking of what he could possibly be getting at with this question. I answered, "sort of."
Then, he gave me the smarmiest look I've ever beheld and gestured towards my feet. "I see you brought that habit to America with you. Please get out of my classroom and clean off your shoes."
I'm totally not making this up. Rather than leave a note for the cleaning crew to vacuum up the carpet or what have you, he decided to deride a sweet* and innocent** freshman girl about having mud on her shoes on a rainy day. I couldn't even tell you what books we read that year in his class, but I have been able to perfectly recite that conversation by memory ever since. I got up and left the class and just wandered around the halls for the rest of the class.
I contemplated reminding him of my strongest memory of his teaching style this week as I shadowed him, but figured I was probably the only one in the whole class who remembered that incident. And also, I kind of noticed that not much had changed, as he mocked a freshman for falling asleep in his class. Yes, we know we shouldn't have muddy shoes or fall asleep in class, but come on. There's a basic mandate for any interpersonal communication, not just teaching: praise in public, criticize individually, and mock behind their backs or on the internet.
But hey, I will never enter a room without wiping my shoes now. I am scarred.
________________
*allegedly
**actually, at this point, this was still true. I was probably more accurately described as "ridiculously naive," though.
Let's just tag this as another installation of my Chronicles of Socially Inept Youth series, because it's been a while.
I went to my first day of classroom observation on Tuesday (amazing! more later!). I spent most of the day with my old AP English teacher (who I adored back then, and still do), and a few classes with my freshman humanities teacher (who I hated back then, as follows).
One delightful day in 1992, after a particularly harrowing and rainy experience in 2nd period Marching Band bringing the little golf cart with three trailers in series holding a plethora of stationary percussion instruments back from the football field to the band room, I was a little late to 3rd period humanities. I rushed to the classroom with no real concept of how late I was. I don't think I ever really looked at the clock and figured out how late I was, either, but I'm thinking it was pretty inexcusable.
I got my first and only detention that day. This is no problem. I totally deserved it.
However, what I also got was the worst public mocking ever to be bestowed upon me so far. The teacher stopped class halfway through, and asked me, IN FRONT OF EVERYONE:
"Julia, as a child back in England, did it rain a lot?"
I hesitated and told him that of course, you moron, it rains in England. It came out like this, though: "yes."
He then asked, "So, do you remember liking the rain?"
I might have said, "What the fuck does this have to do with Hamlet or whatever we're reading?" which also came out as "yes."
Then: "Did you also like to play in puddles? In the mud?"
I paused, thinking of what he could possibly be getting at with this question. I answered, "sort of."
Then, he gave me the smarmiest look I've ever beheld and gestured towards my feet. "I see you brought that habit to America with you. Please get out of my classroom and clean off your shoes."
I'm totally not making this up. Rather than leave a note for the cleaning crew to vacuum up the carpet or what have you, he decided to deride a sweet* and innocent** freshman girl about having mud on her shoes on a rainy day. I couldn't even tell you what books we read that year in his class, but I have been able to perfectly recite that conversation by memory ever since. I got up and left the class and just wandered around the halls for the rest of the class.
I contemplated reminding him of my strongest memory of his teaching style this week as I shadowed him, but figured I was probably the only one in the whole class who remembered that incident. And also, I kind of noticed that not much had changed, as he mocked a freshman for falling asleep in his class. Yes, we know we shouldn't have muddy shoes or fall asleep in class, but come on. There's a basic mandate for any interpersonal communication, not just teaching: praise in public, criticize individually, and mock behind their backs or on the internet.
But hey, I will never enter a room without wiping my shoes now. I am scarred.
________________
*allegedly
**actually, at this point, this was still true. I was probably more accurately described as "ridiculously naive," though.
1.09.2006
Direction
Direction.
I will be buying one of these:
Admit it: so will you. You can't pass on something like that. There's nothing remotely practical about it, because it would probably be easier to loop one of those tiny pocket compasses to the strap of my 2 litre camelbak than to (1) bring a daypack big enough to hold the nalgene, and then (2) stop moving to (3) take off the pack, (4) unzip it, and (5) get out the bottle to (6) check the compass. All those extra steps, however, are not going to stop me wanting it and ultimately creating scenarios for me to use/need a nalgene bottle lid compass.
This weekend marked the real start of my work as an assistant coach for a new adventure-sport-plus-fundraising program for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. It's called Hike For Discovery and if it's being offered at a location near you, sign up ASAP. There are only 20 or 30 something chapters in the country offering it this year (the first year after the pilot program last year), and each of those chapters will only accept about 35 participants. We'll be hiking down the Grand Canyon, and we don't want to, like, erode the place.
I hiked with my head coach and her darling dog yesterday afternoon (before delving into 100 pages of reading my health education for teachers textbook: more later). It was sort of a feeler hike for how we'd work and hike together (I totally had my A-game on; this woman is about to run her second Boston Marathon, so I didn't want to be the slow or pant-y one), but also to test out a trail neither of us had done before. We did the San Pasqual Mountains south peaks, which was fantastic. The trail was narrow enough to feel legit, and spiked pretty quickly to help spread all the participants out early. The trail rolled through a stream-y valley for a while, which had ACTUAL GREEN GRASS and moss growing wild. This blew my mind. A few minutes later we had climbed back to the standard southern California plant life and sense of normalcy.
The program officially starts in a few weeks, but we have a few more mountains to test in the meantime. The informational meetings begin in a few days, which will be the first time that we meet the five volunteer mentors. And the meeting on Wednesday will be at REI, which is conveniently where I can buy my nalgene compass. I love it when a plan comes together. *evil laughter*.
I will be buying one of these:
Admit it: so will you. You can't pass on something like that. There's nothing remotely practical about it, because it would probably be easier to loop one of those tiny pocket compasses to the strap of my 2 litre camelbak than to (1) bring a daypack big enough to hold the nalgene, and then (2) stop moving to (3) take off the pack, (4) unzip it, and (5) get out the bottle to (6) check the compass. All those extra steps, however, are not going to stop me wanting it and ultimately creating scenarios for me to use/need a nalgene bottle lid compass.
This weekend marked the real start of my work as an assistant coach for a new adventure-sport-plus-fundraising program for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. It's called Hike For Discovery and if it's being offered at a location near you, sign up ASAP. There are only 20 or 30 something chapters in the country offering it this year (the first year after the pilot program last year), and each of those chapters will only accept about 35 participants. We'll be hiking down the Grand Canyon, and we don't want to, like, erode the place.
I hiked with my head coach and her darling dog yesterday afternoon (before delving into 100 pages of reading my health education for teachers textbook: more later). It was sort of a feeler hike for how we'd work and hike together (I totally had my A-game on; this woman is about to run her second Boston Marathon, so I didn't want to be the slow or pant-y one), but also to test out a trail neither of us had done before. We did the San Pasqual Mountains south peaks, which was fantastic. The trail was narrow enough to feel legit, and spiked pretty quickly to help spread all the participants out early. The trail rolled through a stream-y valley for a while, which had ACTUAL GREEN GRASS and moss growing wild. This blew my mind. A few minutes later we had climbed back to the standard southern California plant life and sense of normalcy.
The program officially starts in a few weeks, but we have a few more mountains to test in the meantime. The informational meetings begin in a few days, which will be the first time that we meet the five volunteer mentors. And the meeting on Wednesday will be at REI, which is conveniently where I can buy my nalgene compass. I love it when a plan comes together. *evil laughter*.
1.04.2006
Balls deep.
Balls deep.
Breaking news: I'm going back to school. Like, right now. I'm applying to a single subject teaching credential program and knocking off some pre-requisites.
When I used to try to think about my dream job, someone Sarah and I ran into one day at Balboa Park comes to mind. He teaches english and writing and is the cross country coach at her old school. Perfection! I just couldn't shake it. (I would also be an advisor to the ecology club or what have you and maybe, like one of my old science teachers, would specify that they could be late to class if they had teenager "issues" they needed to take care of. And I'll be damned if I'm not each and every student's favorite teacher who is also feared and respected. Riiight.)
I can't even begin to explain the joy/elation/relief/fright/standardized-test-fear/overwhelmedness/etc I'm feeling about finally figuring out what I want to be when I grow up. This has been a very, very long time coming and I'm not about to dilly dally anymore. I'm going balls-deep. (I said balls-deep within earshot of my work boyfriends the other day, and I may never live it down. I would quote an after-midnight drunken new year's eve text message from John mocking my usage of the phrase but it's really not for mixed company.)
There are at least two standardized tests in my very near future. Perhaps three. Tests, I hate you.
In other news: please see flickr for some recent house/food/party carnage pictures. The kitchen will stay like that, without upper cabinet doors, at least until Erik puts them on himself without any help or complaining privilidges. I love the open display. And those hinges are little bitches.
Now that I've figured this whole future thing out, I have absolutely zero patience for my current job, which has strangely increased my productivity and decreased Time Spent Crying In Cubicle. However, it's also slightly increased Time Spent Missappropriating In Cubicle. C'est la vie. Balls deep!
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