What I've Been Up To---and other things you don't care about.

Does getting a job, going through three interviews, dressing professionally, and teaching for ten days make you a teacher?

Dang, I hope so--then I could be considered something other than a "Sales Associate."  I could print business cards with:

Amanda McConnell
Teacher Extraordinaire

At this VERY moment, I'm in one of the labs.  My students are working on their short story finals.  At least one boy--excuse me--young man, is going to be writing about a zombie epidemic.  He scooted his chair over here to ask, "Miss McConnell, can you have someone die?"

I said, "Of course you can."

"Well, can it be gory?"

"Oh yeah," I said.  I smiled.  "Definitely."

He seemed to pretty happy about that, and is now talking about his ideas with the guys around him.

I teach two senior classes, two junior classes, and one sophomore class.  The seniors have as much enthusiasm as a patient at a dentist office, so I'm not sure how to read them.  Fun fact, I have some repeat students from last year (I did half of my student teaching at this very school).  At first they gave me some strange looks, wondering where they'd seen my mug before.  Now it's just nice because I remember their names.  Juniors are my favorite class so far; they, for the most part, like to interact with me, even if I have to yell at them to shut up once in awhile. I can't help but grin when they tell me they are having more fun in my class than the normal teacher's class.  I haven't been universally accepted, but if the worst thing I do while I'm here is make students participate, then I think I'm doing a good job.

My sophomores are a different story... Well, let's just say it's not my favorite class.

Students have for some reason opened up to me.  That's not something that has to do with me.  I'm a big goof in most of classes; I guess my main strategy throughout this experience has been honesty.  They know when I forget something; they laugh when I crack jokes about the lesson or myself.  Maybe that's endeared me to some of them, I'm not sure.  A dash of sarcasm hasn't hurt my cause either.

What has surprised me the most is the fact that I'm no longer nervous, for the most part, in front of a group of thirty students.  I worry that I will have enough material for a whole ninety minutes, but I don't worry about them hating me.  Go figure.  Maybe I have more confidence in myself than I have previously thought...

... Okay yeah, that's not right.  Probably divine intervention.  Some sort of deus ex machina thing.

I'll leave you with this little interaction I had one of the first lessons here:

"I want you to, on your piece of paper, write three of your personal character traits.  So, for my three I'm going to write on the board that I am.... an introvert.....  an animal lover.... and stubborn."  Here I explained why those things applied to me.  "Now, write your three traits and explain them to me in a beefy paragraph."

One student raised his hand.

"What I mean by a beefy paragraph is that it's five to eight sentences."

Groans and moans.

"C'mon, people.  This is simple.  I'm giving you plenty of time."

I sat down at my desk after making sure everyone was writing.  One student in front of my desk looked up at me.

"Are you sure you're an introvert?" he asked.

"Kid, what you don't know is this is all an act."

M&y

Interview

Today I had my first round of interviews at a high school for a teaching position.  It would only last three weeks, but it may turn out to be something if I'm able to impress.

Anyway, I'll keep you posted.  I didn't do abysmally, but I'm not a good judge of myself (who is?).

-M&y

**EDIT**

Tomorrow I have my second round.  Anxiety is continually building.  I'll post later if it's a KO.

Something

“We’re right on time.”

Josie looked at her husband in the passenger seat with a reassuring nod. “Right on time,” she repeated.

“For once.”

“What was that, dear?”

“Oh nothing.” His nose scooted across the window. He was quiet for a few moments, then, “Are we sure about this? All this, kid business? I mean, how are we going to tell it’s them?’

“There aren’t going to be many children in groups of three at the train station, dear,” Josie said.

Her husband rubbed his eyes. “We don’t have children.”

“I thought that was pretty obvious.”

Her smirk was lost on him. “Then why take on three children for the summer? We aren’t qualified for this sort of thing.”

“You’re winding yourself up again, Simon.”

“You never seem to get wound up about anything!”

The wife laughed while the husband sank lower into his seat.

He folded his hands grimly. “Besides, what are we to do with them?”

Smiling fading, Josie gripped the wheel. “Well, of course we’ll… Um… There’s always…”

“You see, it’s hopeless.”

The car rolled to a stop, and she jammed the shifter into place. “Hopeless or not, they will arrive in a few minutes.” Opening the car door, she grabbed her purse and then her husbands chin. “Do try not to wear that face; it’ll scare the children off.”

Simon produced an even bleaker expression.

“Oh dear.”

Simon’s face, Josie had learned throughout their years together, was a better almanac than anything printed in some journal. It was like an arthritic hip when it rained, a frantic dog at the approach of a stranger. Simon knew trouble when it was coming, and although she had managed her best to ignore it that morning, she was realizing the dark circles around his eyes were not disappearing on their own.

She decided to remain cheery. “There’s no helping it now!”

The couple made their way on the misty platform as they train heaved itself to a stop. Inside, passengers gathered their belongings and stooped or stood on the balls of their feet to retrieve their bags. Josie and Simon scanned the dark windows for the children they were to retrieve.

“What do you suppose they’ll look like…”

The husband remained silent almost as if protesting their presence there.

Women bustled by them, and men with papers clipped past as well. They must have been off to another platform, for not many people stopped to stay at their little town. Or at least not for long. Little towns like theirs had a way of rejecting you or swallowing you up whole like a goldfish.

“Wait, that must be them.”

Josie grabbed a hold of her husband’s sleeve and pulled him down the platform. There was a gangly boy with a heavy bag next to a little girl. Their sister appeared with two more bags.

“You must be Rachel, Sarah, and Roger.”

Quickster

I'm in the middle of deciding whether or not I want to take on a second job.  This job would be at the library, which sounds romantic and comfortably nerdy like a person such as myself; however, I would basically be costumer service (i.e. the person who checks out your books and helps you renew your library card).

That sounds like all kinds of boring.

Other than that, there's no prospects for me as of yet.

Oh, also, on the topic of my other job, I am constantly reminded of how I want another, better job when I go.  That doesn't mean I hate my job there, but I get paid next to nothing and yet they demand me to be there on certain days. This is my part time job.  When I tell a job I'm going to be out of town, and I don't expect to be paid for the day I am away, they should just let me go.  Especially for a part time job.

Anyway, enough negativity.

I know I teased this out in the last post, but I will be discussing what I think about Halloween--I'm just going to combine that with my philosophy on Christmas post, probably.  Or not, who knows.

Catch Up and Other Nonsense

So, I'm just going to say it; I ignored the fact that I had a blog for awhile.  But now I'm here, and you can't get rid of me.

Every time I go into work on the latter part of the week (Thursday-Saturday), I have this horrible nervousness.  My chest gets tight, heart pounds, you know, the whole enchilada of terror.  I hate going in on these days, not because I care about having my weekend free, but because these are the days I find out what my schedule is the week after next is.  Ugh, I hate finding it out, because half the time I'm not happy with how it's been scheduled.  I'm a pretty lazy person, to be honest, and I don't like it when they treat me like an actual worker.

Which brings me to my next crisis: the day after Thanksgiving, also known as BLACK FRIDAY.  Not only does my retail employer think that it's fine to make us get up at 3 am to get to work at 4 (and some employee's, like our Asset Protection guy has to get there at 2), but then assigns us 10 hour shifts.  Now, I'm stuck between my desire to never work that day ever and my integrity.  Of course I've requested the day off, but I don't know if that will be declined (probably will).  My only option then is just to call in and say, "Can't come, sorry."  Most of my co-workers think that, if I've told them I can't work that day, and I tell them I won't, it's okay because they knew from the start I wouldn't show up.  But isn't that... a bad thing to do?

Anyway, That's a month away, and hopefully it will all be straightened out before then.  My bosses aren't horrible people, and are usually pretty understanding.

Halloween is Monday.  I always used to participate as a kid--as Pinocchio one year, a dalmatian a few years in a row, black cat (without the sexiness) another, etc.  One or both of my parents always used to come with me.  Nothing can replace that feeling when you arrive home, candy sack in hand, and dump out all the glorious candy on the floor with that crisp plastic crinkle noise.  Then comes the sorting; chocolate candies were always keepers, but pixie sticks were out of there like underwear.  Sometimes I would keep the smarties, sometimes not.  But those Bit O'Honeys and Now and Laters, I would give to my mom, with the Tootsie Rolls of course.  I didn't really like chewie candies back then (still don't unless they are fruit flavored).

I'm pretty sure my parents didn't have to ration my candy, but maybe they did have final say on how much I could eat at one time.  There's only a few candies I will absolutely gorge myself on, but most of the time, I forget that I have them.  Christmas candy, for instance, has sat in my closet pretty much untouched for the better part of a year.  Not that I don't want the candy, but because I have this insane need to make it last until next Christmas.

Next time (tomorrow), I will continue my discourse of Halloween.  But now I feel like this may be getting too long if I say all my piece.

See you then.
M&y

As promised

So, my dad told me about this writing contest for Halloween.  This actually just came to my attention last night, so maybe it was meant to be that I would start writing, eh?

It has to be 450 words or less.  Below is what I have so far.  Not sure how I feel about it, but it was the first idea, so I went with it.

Working title:  Rule Number Five.  This is all unedited, or "raw," so save your harshest criticisms.

They had seen me.  I was told never to let them see me.  It was rule number one, and I had blown it.  I leaned against the door, shivering with nerves as I felt the three of them walking on the other side of the door. 

What had he told me?  Rule number one, don’t let them see you.  I had to scratch that one off the list.  Rule two?  My mind wound in on itself, trying to remember while my body shuddered.  Oh, yes, don’t underestimate them. 

Rule three, rule three… I wish I could have delayed my arrival by one night, or all of this wouldn’t have happened.  But I was never one for timing.

Right disappear or misdirect them—that was rule three.  I had tried that one already.  They hadn’t followed me to this room.

I closed my eyes and listened for them in the hallway.  They were talking, laughing roughly and knocking on the old walls.  I felt one give way, and I jumped. 

Suddenly, I remember.  The lock!  Oh my god, I forgot about the lock on the door.  My thumb traced the knob behind my back.  No no, it was too late for that.  They would hear the rusty mechanism and know where I was. 

I gasped like a fish for water, my head blurring with panic.  The rules, the rules.  Rule four?  Rule four, rule four… Don’t lead them back to where you live.

But they had found me where I live—those three wearing their outfits fit for hell.  I was told if I had kept the lights off, none would come.  And now three were in my house.  They spotted me in the window and pointed and gawked.  They forced the feeble front door open and were searching for me, jeering and laughing.

Now they knew where I lived.  I had heard stories of this happening to others, and it was never good.  More of them tended to show up, stomping and yelling, sneaking and lurking around the corner.  They violated you, chased you, like some disturbed game of cat-and-mouse.  Fighting back almost always made it worse—more would show up.  An infestation of them, trying to catch you.

The floor whimpered close to the door, and one of their voices traveled through.  “Hey!  I wonder what’s in this room!”

I was left with no time to react; the door opened and the three came inside.

“Dude, it’s freezing in here!”

“What’d I tell you, this place is haunted!”

I stood, eyes frozen wide. 

Rule number five, if you’re home is declared haunted by the humans, no other spirits may help you.  And you may never leave.

To be continued.

Yes, another one of those "I"m too tired to post" posts.

Unfortunately for me, the last few days have been preoccupied with getting my car up and running, work, and job applications.  Nothing I want to do, but that's life.

But--a blog isn't about making excuses on why I'm not blogging.

Anyway, tomorrow I'm going to post something that has to do with the story I'm apparently writing.  Because if I don't say that "publicly" on this blog, I won't ever actually write anything

See you tomorrow.

M&y

Writing

Yesterday, I posted something about writers' companions.  Today, I had a talk with someone I could refer to as my mentor.  He told me that now that I have a lot of time on my hands, I need to write my novel.

Of course, I laughed nervously.  I do love to write--I just don't like to sit down to write.  I do what most writers must do; I invent things in my mind, places, plot points, characters, whimsical happenstances.  But when it comes time to commit or delve deeper than psychological sock puppets, I freeze.  My stomach ties up in knots, and I avoid impulses to just sit down, stop watching stupid Youtube videos, and get down to some serious creative work.  I have a few guesses why this might be, but something tells me it's most likely because I'm afraid that my writing will be horrible.

Rebekah asked an important question in her last post.  What would you do if you weren't afraid?

If I wasn't so afraid, I'd get serious about my writing.  For most of my life, I've written different things, some things I would consider pretty good, others that I wish I could destroy (but nostalgia or my mother prevents me from doing so).  I guess I've never been convinced that I was actually good at writing.  My parents encouraged me, my classmates and friends have been supportive.  But where they being protective?  Nice?  Fulfilling their roles as loved-ones?

I'm taking my wonderful co-pilots challenge.  I pledge that by this time two weeks from now (give or take a day) I will have a short story in some form.  It may not be perfect or in its final stages, but I will have something to show.  I may post excerpts or have it be a serial every Saturday, I'm not sure.

Regardless, I won't become a better writer by being afraid that I'm not.  If I don't write now, I won't ever.

M&y

Fluff, Part One

I'm in the same position as Rebekah, as I just got done eating after I just got home from work.  My brain doesn't contain enough words for a proper post tonight, so instead I'll post stupids today and something substantial tomorrow.  

Tv Tropes

This is basically a writer's best friend (next to a dictionary and a baby-naming book).  It categorizes themes and character traits and etc etc from different books, video games, TV shows, and movies.  I've lost my fair share of hours just reading different entries.  Definitely good when you're bored and have no friends.   

I'll see you back here tomorrow when I have something worthwhile to say.  

M&y

Saturday Stupids

This may inspire another post in the future, but I think video games are wonderful.  Not all video games.  Some are horrible and disgusting and worthless.  That doesn't mean that the medium of video games is not worth utilizing.  There are some games out there, dare I say it, that communicate story on a level a book or movie could never achieve.

Video games offer something unique to story telling.  Go out there an find one.  You may actually learn something, well besides how to kill a man or not pay a prostitute.

I go here to find games.  It's not scary, promise.  There's a lot of cutesy games, a bunch of nonsensical ones.  But "Jay is Games" never fails at finding the promising games published out in that world wide web.

Gender Relations-- i.e. Why I'm Not Having Sex

Let me be a little (post)modern here and say something that will not be connected with the rest of my post, or at least as far as I know from what I know about it so far. I have something akin to strep throat right now. It's probably not, because I went to the Medcheck this morning, and the nurse told me everything was not strep throat. She did however look unsure about that upon seeing my germ riddled (virus riddled?) innards, so she gave me the antibiotics anyway. Hence, I'm at home, doing nothing after calling into work. I mean, I can't just go out into the work place with my throat reminding me of sandpaper every time I swallow... or breathe... or move my tongue for whatever reason.

I guess that above paragraph can serve an example of how I don't have a social life. It's not really surprising, seeing as I didn't really have one in college. Or at least not one that you think of when you think of college. I called in sick and have done nothing but go to lunch, get soup, watch the pets and house, and play Mad Men on Netflicks.

...you're welcome

Like Rebekah, I too feel guilty about not having a social life. I keep telling myself baby-steps are enough to get my life to "adult status," whatever that means. One of my goals is to find a nice little social group at a local church, but that means I have to find a new church, make sure that's the right one, test drive that bible study, and then commit. That's like a month long timeline here.

But I'm not one to rush into things. Though I don't fill my life with pros and cons lists, I research even the make up I buy to make sure it has enough five star ratings. But you can't just look up a social life online to research the best people to spend your time with. Well, I guess you can, but I think that's what rapists do on Craigslist.

On a bigger scale, I guess that social life thing will lead me to the fabled "boyfriend." That means that in maybe... three years I'll meet a boy and then see where I go from there.

The boyfriend conundrum (as described by my co-blogger) doesn't fill me with rage, so much as the question, "What did I do wrong?" or the "Where the hell is he already?" I don't frequent Facebook much anymore, and that's only because I don't like being blindsided with people's happiness. Look at all these kids getting married! Good Christian kids! I guess I didn't read the chapter of Matthew where Jesus said it would be an unknown rule that marriage should happen between the twenty-first and twenty-third year of your life. Maybe I should have taken a class at Taylor about finding a mate, or how to find one, or how to at least appear more enticing.

Sorry bro.

I've had two boyfriends in my life. Three if you count the one in middle school. They were all long relationships. But nothing really in college. No one I've met outside of high school. And I wonder what I'm doing wrong. Is it this way for everyone? Am I that much of a loser? Or should I care at all?

If the right man is out there, he'll show up. But will be I in the right place to meet him? God'll give you the boat, but you have to row yourself to shore. But which way is the shore?

All this sad-sackery aside, I wouldn't date the first schmo to come along and ask. I'm not desperate. But I feel as if I should be.

Where did that come from?

M&y

Post Script

Today I was told I would be receiving a gumball machine in honor of my services rendered at my job. It's kind of like "employee of the month" but instead it's called "top producer."

So life isn't so bad after all.

I earn so little the gov't gives it back.

I'm writing this from home, on the couch with the comforter around my legs and the door open to the small back yard. That may seem strange to you--I'm an adult, I have a job. What am I doing home on a Wednesday morning with dogs sleeping around me and my pajamas still on as of this sentence?

Unlike my companion here, I don't have one of those "real" jobs. I work around somewhere between twenty-three to twenty-seven hours a week. And this is not one of those luxury sit-at-your-desk types of jobs either. I'm talking wearing Nike shoes with the little air pockets in them (because that's good for your feet?), walking around in a maze of aisle and racks, and using a walkie talkie job. My schedule is never set either, which maybe exciting to some, but is a pain to all others who pretend to have a life (me). The place I work really isn't important for the post, per se, but I am one of those people dressed in khakis and a red shirt who asks you, "Can I help you find something?" when you just want to be left alone.

The thing that I have been realizing is that most people I have talked to have at one time worked a retail job. That doesn't mean it's not still a source of shame for me, but it helps me be part of the commiserating club of people who have also worn athletic shoes to work and had to climb ladders for people who want eight cases of diapers that are in the back room. These are the people who look at me knowingly when I say I'm "fine" when they ask how my day is going. They are also the people who try their best to fold whatever clothing they were looking at to a shape similar to the pile under it. "Oh yes, I remember when I used to" etc etc. It's like catharsis, to see me sweaty and hanging clothing up. They survived it. Now they can watch me do the monotonous tasks that used to be their own.

Circle of life

I don't get to read Neruda at work, but sometimes I get to walk through the aisles and make sure everything is pulled forward and straightened up. Like last night, I stood in the toothpaste aisle, making sure all the slim boxes of Crest and Colgate where stacked up just so while still being in the right spot. This while a Nigerian man around my age tried to flirt with me.

That's the thing about my job, I get to talk to him and learn who he is all while doing my job well. I can stand and talk to "guests" (that's a better term my work developed instead of customer, because that's so forward, I guess) about products and then to other things as well, and still look busy. I get to talk. Talk all day and night and morning if I feel like it, because as long as I'm fulfilling my tasks, I'm golden. I interact with people and learn about their children, their ex-husbands and wives, and what they had for dinner last night. I experience humanity at it's lowest and finest, whether that's with a co-worker who acts like the queen of the shoe department (probably more on this later), or with the man who grins when I bring the bike out of the backroom that his daughter wanted.

I don't do anything important at my job, and I don't work enough to be "important" either. But at least I see people. That may not be as nice as a snug cubicle, but it's a start.

M&y

(I'm trying to have a cool little signature like Rebekah over here, so bare with me while I try a few things out.)