We've settled on a transcript evaluator, one that costs under $200, takes less than a month, and is not going to suddenly disappear off the approved Department of Education list (like the last two). Also, they have agreed that Mike does not have to send his actual diploma, but they do have the right to request it.
I'm sulking over the county library website, which has a countdown to the first day of school. Two reasons: a) ew, no reminders, and b) ew, that's their first day of school - I'll be back sooner. Frlf! Not ready!
I do have lesson plans for the first two months, but there are kinks. One of them is that I've agreed to be in a textbook study for two weeks, but I'll only have materials for one class, so this may be odd. Another kink is that we've all agreed to keep the freshman English experience very similar regardless of teacher, making the million inevitable class transfers easier, but how will this work when I'm doing textbook studies and we have a new person coming in and some of us don't want to plan new things at the last minute so we're all aligned? I like the idea, but I don't want to think about it right now.
Remember back in April when I talked about writing a poem? Today I looked for it under the bed and worked on it some more. I think it would be better if I knew what it should feel like instead of what it should "report" - duh. So, perhaps I'll read it again in December.
Today I read up on a special kind of microfiction called "55 Fiction" that I want to try with the kids. The rules are that you have to have a setting, one or more characters, a conflict, some resolution, and no more than fifty-five words.
As dialogue and shock endings are traditional for the form, I don't think I'll be any good at this, but of course I must try. (See how my habit of using students as guinea pigs is fading?) This one will be based on an exaggerated event in my life from five minutes ago. (I'll hope the arty form distracts from the pedestrian content.)
They day-camped six feet from the ginger beer.
"Mine?"
"Yours. Mine?"
"Yours."
Seconds danced recklessly close.
"Ours again?"
"Again!"
The tink of the empty bottles sang, and the microsuede sofa braced for tears. Throw-pillow dosh was divided, but the lamp's bet was on the man.
"Lovely water?"
"Or sleep."
They slept.
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