After getting all caught up in the Cinema Treasures/Cinema Tour websites, I shared them with my Dad. He enjoyed the sites, but even better, out came the stories - always a treat when they're coming from my father. Dad is not a Writer, but he's a gifted storyteller, and even in abbreviated IM'ing his tales are more enjoyable than the average blog post. (Which I think does make him a Writer - cue holy gong! - just not a conventional one with an interest in semi-colons.)
His side of the family is full of writers and, where not writers, certified yarn-spinners. (Oh, don't you wish you could be certified in that?) My aunt, my grandfather, my great-grandfather and all of this brothers, their dad... and who knows from there? Maybe someday my genealogical research will find the source of the wordy Nile.
However pedestrian my own writing is now, I grew up as a Writer. "Deenie's the beauty, Helen's the brain... and Shari's the writer." (If I have to explain the reference, then shame of you. Read more Judy Blume.) I wrote stories for fun, always kept a diary, entered all of the contests at school, always wrote a lot of letters... I got the label and there you have it. It's not that any of these efforts were all that remarkable, but it was something where - back then - I was noticeably ahead of the curve. So it became my thing. Because, hey, opportunities to shine in dwarf hamster husbandry and casino freebie gathering were not readily available to midwestern seven-year-olds in the 1970s.
Except, I don't think I fit in with Dad's side of the family when it comes to writing. Instead, I take after my Mom. Crazy letters. Using writing to express ourselves in a way we cannot talk. Ideas with zero basis in reality. My Dad's side of the family will make you their audience. They're charismatic. Mom and I, we're not for everyone.
But, who influenced Mom? That's a mystery. I know she influenced me, but when I think about it, creative writing is what made her different from her friends and family. Shrug.
The point I was getting to was that I never knew my father managed a drive-in when he was 17. That's something he was telling me about after looking at those websites. How is it that I'm nearly 39 and Dad is still surprising me with stories.
On my last visit to Texas, I found out that he was supposed to move to Iran when he was a teenager. What? What the heck? IRAN? And it's not like I'm older and paying better attention... I always loved and solicited his stories, and neither of my parents have ever held back on reminiscing. (Oh, the nostalgic eBay purchases I could blame on both!) It's just that he has that many stories. And as much as I love the reruns ("Dad, tell me again about the time you were 14 and drove the car to Mexico"), now I feel like I've got to figure out the right questions to unlock all the secret bonus stories I never knew existed.
I can't imagine being manager of anything when I was seventeen. It's not that I wasn't responsible, just the worry would've keeled me over. When I was nineteen I very nearly ended up being the manager of a Mrs. Field's, not through accomplishment (I doubt I'd worked there 20 hours total) but because the people above me were quitting like testy third party candidates.
Even if I had become manager, my most exciting story would probably still be about the time the businessman told me to keep the change when I was working the register. Yeah, not a breath-holder. The only interesting bit might be that this was at Town and Country Mall in Houston, which has since been demolished. And that's probably just me and my bleeding-heart-for-lost-buildings talking.
(Frankly, T&C Mall was kind of shitty. But, it's the place where I discovered that even I could have straight hair, and it's also where I found out that my hair issues had a name, and the name was Split Ends. It's where I started my brief career as a Mary Kay Beauty Consultant, and it's where I first saw Timothy Dalton as James Bond. It's where my Mom and I went one summer day during that week I was on Dexatrim. I'm only 38-nearly-39. How can anything so modern, big, and boring have been torn and down and assigned to the retro quadrant of my brain?)
(Yes, my brain has assigned an entire quadrant to memory lane. Good thing, too, or chocolate would've claimed that part, too.)
Anyway, this is all so unlike Dad, who managed lots of things at a young age, and as a drive-in manager was running around in police cars at 3 a.m. making night deposits and seeing the world of law enforcement before Miranda v. Arizona.
(That is all.)
Speaking of time, sort of. I was really excited about this year's salary chart for the district. I couldn't believe the raise I'd be getting - what education budget crisis? What troubled economy? I stayed up quite late one night making spreadsheets and humming along to the song in my heart - such new riches! I knew there was a cost of living raise this year, but I didn't know it would come so close to the actual cost of living!
Then today I got my first pay slip. Um? Never mind that we're all paying $15 every two weeks now to the retired teachers' health insurance fund (because the old plan, the one where some huge faceless entity paid, went belly up at the end of last year). Um? Isn't this over $100 short? Meaning my projections have just diminished by over $200 per month?
So, I read the fine print. Who knew that they'd added new fine print? Well, they did.
Before, your vertical "step" was related to the number of years you worked. Second year of teaching? You're step two. Sixth year? Step six. Very simple.
Now, I think it's "number of years teaching minus two." So, I thought I was step five. But I'm really step three.
And because I never finished either of those pesky little master's degrees, or took another 10 or so credits of professional development (yet), I'm at sad little Class B (BA + 16). The next horizontal step is BA + 32, but I can't justify paying for (and attending) ten more professional developments when I'm pretty sure I'll be starting yet another master's degree and can use those credits instead. (This one being much cheaper, all online, and district-sanctioned and facilitated.)
I guess this new salary would be fine if I hadn't already psyched myself up for the other one. Now I almost feel demoted. Also, my throat hurts. Also, I had two and a half hours of sleep last night. Also, I had three or four hours' nap and woke up two hours ago - even with the Tylenol PM! I woke up feeling rested and great, sure that the alarm was supposed to ring. And of course now I'm feeling tired, cranky, and like the first cold of the year will probably hit by Friday. And $200/mo poorer.
In happier news, Mike actually took the crock pot potatoes to work today. He thinks they're that good. If I did a family newsletter, this story would be so above the fold. (Oh wait, is a personal blog not just a glorified family newsletter? Except more of a behind-the-scenes edition, so instead of "Susie was elected debate captain!" you get four months of Susie's tortured journey?)
In my school mailbox this morning there was a new paperback by Karen Cushman? What? And the funny thing is, the package was in there on Monday, but I'm not used to my new mailbox location for this year. So, I glanced, saw the empty mailbox, then looked at the package in the box below "mine" with envy. I wished I had some interesting mail like that. Then today I took a closer gander and OH! It is mine! And it's a book! A free book! Oh boy!
I don't know how I got on Random House's list of "teachers who get free novels to consider" - I didn't see any similar packages in anyone else's box - but I can't complain. This is so much better than the endless (but wist-thrumming) spam I get from the "take your class to Europe" companies. I really enjoyed Catherine, Called Birdy, so maybe The Loud Silence of Francine Green will be just as good.
Primm, where I've probably spent only ever spent $3 in gambling, and I'm pretty sure I won it back, sent me a card offering a free two-night stay during the middle of the week. I was mocking it - oh yeah, let's call in sick for that deal, I really want to drive 25 minutes south into the Mojave Desert and watch somebody else's HBO - when I saw that you get a free cookie when you check in. Well. Hm. I'll think about it.
Definitely a sore throat. All of those kids who have wanted hall passes this week for their runny noses? The ones I told to be responsible and start bringing their own Kleenex? (My room ran out. As for hall passes, we're being told not to give them. Too much texting/drugging/wasted time in the bathrooms.) Yeah, I feel the karma coming. It tastes like throat burn.
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