We have established that I am a sucker for holiday-themed nail polishes, right? I did some major color swapping for this month's Julep box, based on the theory that Easter will be here before my April box. Then I threw in a glittery green polish, because how else will I celebrate my nonexistent Irish heritage on St. Patrick's Day?
Not pictured: the Smarties that arrived in my box.
I was also intrigued by the labels on two of these polishes. JELLY! SOFT FOCUS FINISH! What's that, Julep? I could always read product descriptions before adding polishes to my collection? That defeats the whole "impulse" part of "impulse purchase."
Two coats each of Lucky, Nayely, Ali, and Ming!
Lucky is a "kelly green and gold coin multi-dimensional, full-coverage glitter." I don't know about gold coins, but this polish definitely delivers on full coverage. I could have gotten away with one coat, but painted on a second one for posterity.
Nayely is a "papaya nectar crème." Papaya nectar? Now you're just saying words, Julep. It is a BEAUTIFUL pastel orange, like a mango lassi. Now I want Indian food.
Ali is a "hint of mint soft focus." Maybe my contacts prevent me from seeing the special finish, I dunno. I think the color is pretty, anyway.
Ming is a "sheer wild orchid jelly." They sure weren't kidding about the "sheer" part. It's a pretty color, but I prefer my polishes more opaque.
Like what you see? Feel free to check out Julep using my referral link.
Believe it or not, it took me two years to achieve this state of organization!
Alternate title for this post: Slowly, Slowly Organized the Sloth.
I have a vision of what the perfect teacher was like as a student. She kept all of her papers neatly organized. She highlighted and took notes and never doodled in the margins. She actually used the free weekly planners the school distributed, and sometimes she supplemented with her own. Her life was a sea of blissful labels, where everything had its place.
I was not that kind of student--I did my work on time, but it was often slightly crumpled from getting stuffed into my bag. Organization is not my strong suit, and teaching early childhood comes with so much stuff. One million books, some leveled, some not; a hundred sets of manipulatives; countless educational games, some bought, some teacher-created; tons of art supplies; a huge amount of pencils that nevertheless vanish by April... I know that I am quite lucky to teach in a school with such great supplies. But the organizing! Sometimes I wish I could have started off with an empty classroom and gradually added the supplies I needed.
Without further adieu, here are a few classroom organization tips I've picked up along the way:
Purge your supplies at least twice a year. If it's June and you haven't touched that cool new gadget you had to buy for your classroom, you're not going to use it next year. Get rid of it. If you've accumulated dozens of mugs from students over the years, keep one or two of the most recent ones and get rid of the rest. How much coffee can you drink, anyway? (Don't answer that.) Sentimentality has no place in organization. Be merciless and you will have much less work to do.
Figure out what you should hoard and what you should use up. I stock up on glue sticks like nobody's business, but that's because there's a high turnover rate. Sometimes I blink and an entire glue stick has fallen to one of my more enthusiastic artists. On the other hand, my teaching predecessor left me with so much construction paper in the closet that most of it had actually thinned and faded with age by the time I got around to using it.
Label everything, even if it's nailed down. I have yet to experience much theft beyond the occasional pencil, but picture labels are an enormous help in the classroom. If you label the supply boxes and the shelves where the boxes belong, clean-up becomes about 500% easier. (Rough estimate.) Plus, labels help build literacy! Even if you're not teaching early childhood, label all your things. Trust me, you will be happier and better able to find things. Who has time in their teaching day to go on a quest for the stapler?
Consult the experts. Confronted with my terrible organizational skills, I spent a lot of time researching the best ways to organize a classroom. My Pinterest board bears the fruits of these labors. Special highlights include The Clutter-Free Classroom and Mrs. Terhune's First Grade Site. Plus, there is the famous I Heart Organizing, which will make you reconsider how you run your entire life!
Make yourself a "classroom closing" checklist. This is more small scale than the other tips, but it's helped me be more mindful at the end of the day when my energy and my brain are just gone. (Does anyone else putter around aimlessly for 20 minutes after school is out? Just me?) At the end of the day, I prep everything I will need for the next morning, rotate our daily schedule/literacy center schedule/etc., write the Morning Message on the board, give the tables a quick wipe down, and try--TRY--to clear off my desk. Accomplishing the latter often means shoving papers in a drawer, but that's my next disorganized habit to break...
A few years after the Spice Girls spiced up my life, TLC came along to continue my feminist education. Since "No Scrubs" was everywhere, the TLC album I selected in the record store was FanMail. In retrospect, FanMail was vastly inappropriate for a middle schooler, but as I've found is usually the case, I ignored the songs that I was too young for and passionately loved the songs I understood. I also knew better than to listen to the CD without headphones.
Listening to the album was like eavesdropping on an older sister and her best friends, women who were loyal and funny and sexy and took no shit. Middle school me could only dream of being that confident. When I listen to the album now, I hear pieces of high school, of college, of my young adult life. "No Scrubs" happened to come up last week at work. Every teacher in my generation started singing the chorus from memory. TLC was that kind of talent. FanMail isn't even their best album, but TLC's personality sparkles from (almost) every track.
Now, because this is a nostalgic album review, I have to talk about the song that was most important to me in middle school:
Go ahead, find me a middle school girl who thinks she's pretty. I'd promise to wait, but I'd wait for an awfully long time. I was not an attractive middle schooler. I had a round face, deeply unfortunate bangs, and enormous bifocals. I developed early, so people accused me of stuffing my bra and made fun of me for sitting with correct posture, even though my back hurt if I didn't. There are only a handful of pictures of me where I'm smiling. "Unpretty" was an older sister telling me that everyone felt unpretty sometimes. I didn't believe moralistic television episodes telling me everybody is pretty in her own way! but I believed it when TLC sang, But if you can't look inside you, find out who am I too, be in the position to make me feel so damn unpretty. It's the difference between being told what to think and being offered a slice of advice based on shared experience. (Side note #1: The original music video is no longer available on YouTube, or at least not on TLC's official account. What's uploaded is a version that cuts the racist attack on T-Boz and the gang violence Left-Eye witnesses. But bulimia and breast implants are kid-friendly! I guess it's okay to feel bad about being a girl, as long as race and class never enter the equation. Way to be completely out of touch, YouTube.)
When I wasn't listening to "Unpretty" over and over, I promise I listened to the rest of the album, too. I can't hear the phrase "fan mail" without getting the titular song stuck in my head. Just like you, I get lonely, too. TLC could create a hell of a hook, which we also got to hear in later tracks like "Silly Ho" and "I'm Good at Being Bad." Talk about two songs I could never play in front of my parents! I love that "I'm Good at Being Bad" works in a rap about using condoms or else: If it's naked, I'll take it with the batteries and bake it! You know, in between the swaggering chorus and jokes about how a hard man is so good to find. This is what I mean about TLC being the older sisters I never had.
(Side note #2: I heard the censored version of "I'm Good at Being Bad" for the first time while writing this album review. When you have to mute every third word, you have to question the point of a censored version.)
Aside from the amusing interludes scattered throughout the album, there are four remaining types of tracks: pretty-sounding if mostly sad ballads ("I Miss You So Much," "Come On Down," "Dear Lie," "Don't Pull Out On Me Yet"), R&B tracks that don't particularly stand out but still get stuck in your head ("If They Knew," "My Life," "Shout,") the boring ("Lovesick," "Automatic"), and "No Scrubs." Because as much as I love many of the tracks on FanMail, I know that "No Scrubs" is in a class of its own, particularly the remix with Left-Eye's rap. See, if you can't spatially expand my horizon, that leaves you in a class with scrubs, never risin'. I was one indignant middle schooler when I realized that the album version was different than the music video version. But the album version of "No Scrubs" was hardly settling. TLC taught me how to demand the love and respect I deserved.
Part of a series in which I flesh out an imaginary town in Connecticut. Weird things happen there, not that the residents would ever acknowledge anything out of the ordinary.
The Union Jack Coffee Shop is at the end of one of the few quaint streets left in downtown Unity. Which quaint street is a matter of debate: every resident has a different set of directions there, based on a different set of landmarks from certain time periods. "Well, you take the left where the old Presbyterian church used to be, not the one with the blue side door, but the one with the big green one, and then you cut through the park on Church Street..." Of course, the fact that the coffee shop has no fixed address and isn't on any maps or in any phone books helps with the confusion. Nevertheless, if you aim right and your need for coffee is true, you almost always end up where you need to be.
The exterior is plain brick, weathered to a reddish-brown shade. There is a large glass window with the words UNION JACK COFFEE SHOP printed in black, along with the flag itself underneath. The door is an unremarkable dark brown wood, though the occasional visitor reports a stinging sensation from the plain metal door handle. Even from the outside, passersby can smell good rich coffee and freshly baked bread.
When you pull open the door, the small, silver bells inside the door give a deep ring, far deeper than their size would imply. The floor is tiled in dove gray, the walls and ceiling warm wooden beams. The first thing anyone sees is the wooden counter and the chalkboard behind it, proclaiming menu and prices. At one end of the counter is an ancient cash register. There is a handwritten sign taped to it: CASH ONLY. The tape is ancient; often the sign falls off during rigorous transactions and a customer has to return it to its rightful place. Otherwise, the counter has neat white trays of baked goods; irregularly shaped, so you know they're handmade. The coffee machine and mugs live on the shelf underneath the chalkboard. The mugs are irregularly shaped, faded to shades of dull pastel.
There is always a sullen student at work behind the counter, with appropriate amount of facial piercings and small town ennui. The owner is a hearty old man named Jack, though he isn't British. He is usually occupied with something small and industrious, like sweeping the floor or fixing a hinge or carving another set of chessmen for the coffee shop's sole chessboard. He knows everyone's order by heart, though he leaves the coffee-making to the sullen student.
The light in the Union Jack Coffee Shop brims over with warmth, like someone's aesthetic ideal of a coffee shop. There are several squashy red chairs arranged around a circular coffee table. The chessboard has the place of honor nearest the window and closest to the rattling heater. There are a few small wooden tables with wooden chairs scattered across the floor, but the rest of the decor is mostly books. There are books stuffed onto countless bookshelves built into the walls. They're nice books, pages aged to pale yellow, covers softened with age but still clean. The books at the Union Jack Coffee Shop are not for sale, and if enterprising clients try to smuggle any out, they'll find their bags empty when they check. On rare occasions, customers will arrive home with precisely the book they needed, whether or not they were searching for it. Who can say why? Certainly not Jack.
I have been amazed by my class lately. Lessons that would have been a disaster five months ago are going off without a hitch, or at least with only one or two minor ones. We're studying coral reefs for our science expo, and my first graders are listening to tough informational texts, asking great questions, and writing about their learning. When they're done sketching pieces of real coral (borrowed from the great New England Aquarium), they wrap the coral up in plastic. They're more patient with each other--nary an argument spotted during a subtraction lesson with many moving parts, and they have been great about giving each other wait time on the rug.
"You are amazing!" I tell them many times, and then I follow that up with naming whatever amazing thing they're doing. I must be doing something amazing, too! I think, and then I try to figure out what. After all, Boston has had more than its share of snow days, not to mention February break. Did the maturity fairy visit all my first graders on the last night of break?
Today, pondering my class's maturity growth spurt, I looked over at the calendar. And the three birthdays there. And the two birthdays the month before. Good grief! In the span of six weeks, the majority of my class has gone from six years old to seven years old. What a difference a year makes!
I already knew that my class skewed toward the younger half of first grade, thanks to Chip Wood's birthday cluster exercise. If you're new to teaching, or even if you're an old pro, Yardsticks: Children in the Classroom Ages 4-14 is a fantastic read. Children, of course, are too busy growing in seven different directions at once to fall into strict categories, but Yardsticks provides general developmental guidelines. My chattering, tattling, exploring sixes are turning into thoughtful, introspective sevens. Well, at least until they get tired, or itchy, or hungry, or...
March is women's history month, so this month's Albums I Have Loved will feature formative lady albums of my youth. And come on, there is no better place to start than the Spice Girls' first album. Their death-defying platform heels and "Girl power!" mantra were everything to me in fifth grade. Writers have made valid points about "I am woman, hear me roar!" getting watered down to "Girl power!" but the thing is, I was a girl when this album came out. The Spice Girls were unequivocally, delightfully for me. There was a Spice Girls table in the classroom. Battles were fought over who go to be which Spice Girl. It was dark times, man, but the pop sparkle was real.
Who the hell cares what zigazig-hah means? The album is here to tell us what it wants, what it really really wants, starting with "Wannabe." I know very few women in my generation who can't sing the song word for word, down to every last vocal inflection. I love that the song is candy-coated ridiculousness and dishes some solid advice. Dating a guy your friends hate? He's probably not the one for you. Your friends pressuring you to date a guy you don't like? You need some better friends. (The latter lesson came in handy in high school. Thanks, Spice Girls!)
For the next track... let's just talk about the music video.
Why are the Spice Girls striking poses, firing lasers, and kidnapping dudes in a desert? Because of reasons. What does it have to do with the song? Absolutely nothing. How did they get Geri's hair so big? It's the fuuuuuture! Who can break it down at the end like Mel C? No one. I love "Say You'll Be There" and the video is a trip and a half.
The next song, "2 Become 1," wins the coveted title of "#1 song I would nap to, but not, like, in a mean way." It's the relaxing pop ballad of my heart. I wish that this song and "Show Me the Meaning of Being Lonely" could have babies. Also, I had no idea the lyric put it on, put it on referred to condoms until I just looked up this song on Wikipedia. Thanks for the advice, Spice Girls!
The narrator of "Love Thing" just doesn't want to be pushed around in a relationship, man. It also features the immortal line God help the mister who gets between me and my sisters, so I'm having fond flashbacks to college. I don't think this song is as strong as its predecessors, but I don't care as much about lyrical depth when I'm blasting dance music in my dorm to console a heartbroken friend.
"Last Time Lover" has a super embarrassing "rap" section, let's just get that out of the way. But I dare you to get Do ya think I'm really cool and sexy? out of your head for the next three hours. It made working with small children interesting, let me tell you. "Mama" is pure schlock, but hey, mother-daughter relationships don't get enough attention in any form of media. As someone who lived through the traditional mother-daughter conflict, it was nice to know there was understanding waiting for me on the other side.
I think "Who Do You Think You Are" deserves more acclaim. It's super catchy! It tells you how to dance to the song right in the chorus! Swing it shake it move it make it, who do you think you are? Granted, then the dance floor directions become more vague--trust it use it prove it groove it--but oh, Spice Girls, you lead and I will follow.
As we get toward the end of the album, inevitably there is filler. "Something Kinda Funny" is just not that memorable. Sorry, 10-year-old self. "Naked" was probably inappropriate for a fifth-grader, but there was far worse on the radio. As an adult, I appreciate the groove, and there's even a little nuance to the lyrics. I'd rather be hated than pitied indeed.
The album closes with "If U Can't Dance," because nothing is more 90's than spelling "you" with a single letter. The song is dumb. There is an inexplicable Spanish rap. There is a lyric about wanting a guy that looks like Keanu Reeves. At this point, I am clutching my CD to my chest and yelling, "You just don't understand!!!" No, I don't understand, either, but I will follow this CD to the gates of hell.
Every Saturday (or Sunday, if some of us fail at timing), I will write 15 minutes of flash fiction. This is based on the prompt "snowmelt."
The pine tree branches shivered off snow as Gabe pushed through them. He kept his grumbling internal, even when the icy powder fell into the slight gap between his scarf and his neck. Sharon didn't like him to talk on the way to lessons--something about "absorbing the moment of transition"--and his mother would never forgive him for disobeying a teacher's direct instruction. Besides, Sharon was cool, for all her odd habits of mind.
"Here," Sharon announced, coming to a sunny clearing. The longest side was about six feet wide, Gabe estimated, and the other sides tapered into a sloppy but definite natural triangle. Despite the knee-deep snow, Gabe felt a grin split his face. Today's lesson would involve magic.
"Spring is starting," Sharon announced, despite the overwhelming and cold evidence to the contrary. He might have made a face, because she continued, breath steaming in the air, "Even in Maine. The quality of light has changed. Sap stirs. We exist in the margin between seasons. Water exists in three forms, twisting back and forth." She closed her eyes, inhaling. "Marvelous."
When Sharon exhaled, her breath emerged in a cloud of snowflakes. They gave a curious quiver and became drops of water suspended in the air. Gabe's eyes filled with tears as they shone like tiny diamonds, then evaporated as though they'd never been there at all.
"Now you try," Sharon said. She didn't say anything more as Gabe wiped away the one tear that managed to escape. She was understanding like that, despite being a woman and closer to his grandmother's age than Gabe's.
Gabe spent the next thirty minutes huffing and puffing to no avail, of course. Sharon wasn't like any of his public school teachers, giving directions and then explaining them again if you didn't get it the first time. She expected you to pay attention and figure things out for yourself. It was maddening, and only the subject material--magic, real magic, because of all people in town, only the skinny mixed race kid showed a knack for it--kept him trying.
Okay. Being the Big Bad Wolf isn't helping, Gabe thought. He had called lightning at the height of summer in a burst of energy, convinced the last roses of autumn to bloom, and dreamed with bears hibernating in winter. Every success had come from finding a place of perfect stillness, a place where he was open to everything and at the same time the most Gabe he had ever been.
So be Gabe, he thought, and then it was easy. He was most himself in the quiet focus of woodwork, in the thrill of a pretty girl's smile, in the tears he shed when something was so beautiful it brought with it a kind of ache.
Facing the point of the triangle, Gabe called back the escaped tear from earlier. Its connection to him hadn't yet faded, and Gabe tugged gently on that thinning tether until it reappeared. It hung in the air as a single snowflake until Gabe called more water from the surrounding air. He laughed and they all became drops of water; laughed again and they reunited with the air. Joy and sorrow and the space between--that was magic.
"Well done," was all Sharon said. She was a woman of few words, except in one of her philosophical moods. "Let's go home."
A-plus for the day, Gabe thought, though he knew better than to say it aloud.
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