Ten years ago, I woke up on a very ordinary Thursday. I was grumpy because some telemarketer called, and I spent the morning in a relatively bad mood, avoiding homework. I even took to my LiveJournal to complain about having been woken up, and having to read something by Henry David Thoreau. Like I said before, it was a totally ordinary Thursday.
Then a friend called and asked if I wanted to hang out. Sure, I remember saying. Let's go rent a movie, come back to my house, and just hang out. No big deal.
I remember his car. It was a recent graduation present. A Mitsubishi Diamante. Maroon, and equipped with a brand-new stereo. We popped in a Sublime cd, and rolled the windows down, because the spring air was warm and we were on Spring Break. We chose a movie; one of the Bourne trilogy, and on our way home, he asked me, "hey, have you ever gone over 100 miles an hour?"
"No," I replied. "What's it like?"
Now, I often wonder if there was any indicator, any moment in that evening that may have been warning me. I've scoured my memory for a sensation, for a tingling in my scalp, something to let me know that I was barreling toward something very, very bad. In television and movies, there's always the big clue; they drop something important, and it flutters to the ground in slow motion. There's a key word or a look that just makes you think: something big is going to happen.
But every thing about that Thursday ten years ago is totally, absolutely, ordinary. I had lived through so many Thursdays just like it before. Real life, it turns out, is completely ordinary until one, crystalline moment where it's not. And chances are, you never see it coming. I didn't, anyway.
At 16, I was full of life, excitement, and that special something that all teenagers seem to possess: the sense that they're invincible. So believe me when I say that I had no idea anything was wrong as we barreled down a quiet country street, Sublime's "Summertime," blaring from the new stereo, the warm spring wind whistling through the open windows, until I saw the stop sign blur past my window.
"Oh no," I remember thinking. And then nothing.
I should have died. No, really. Every doctor, paramedic, and cute firefighter that helped me that awful, awful day has told me that they've never seen a crash like that where people lived. Doctors since have held up those plastic heart models and told me that my aorta should have separated from my heart upon impact. I didn't have an airbag. My seat belt was torn off of the wall of the car because of the sheer force.
It's a strange thing to hear, as a 16 year-old lying in a hospital bed, that you're not supposed to be there. Aren't I invincible? The doctors kept asking if we had been drinking or doing drugs. No, I kept saying, No. We were invincible.
It was God, people would say. It was a guardian angel, or pure dumb luck or physics. It's been 10 years and still, I'm not sure why. All I know is that I'm alive, and in all reality, I shouldn't be. I feel indebted, in a way, to whatever force came to the decision that that particular Thursday wouldn't be my last. Every day since the accident I wake up and feel completely, utterly grateful for the chance to just live another day. Every day is a celebration of sorts, because I get to experience all the little things that make life wonderful, and I was so incredibly close, a breath away, from getting to experience anything ever again.
So today I am celebrating ten wonderful years of getting to live my life. I am here today, and in the last ten years, I have experienced so much. I graduated high school, college, and graduate school. I met so very many amazing people whose presence in my life just brightens it, and I met Evan, my love. And then there are the little things that also make life so worth living. To go outside, feel the grass between my toes, and watch the trees sway quietly in the wind. To wake up every morning, open my eyes, and see the love of my life sleeping peacefully next to me. To feel the sun on my face, take a deep breath, and let myself be completely overwhelmed by the absolute beauty of it all, of everything.
Ten years ago, I lost that invincible feeling, but I was rewarded with such an enormous appreciation for life, and just how much of a gift it is. Life is purely amazing, beautiful, and I am awed by the sheer wonder of it all. Thank you, God, Luck, Physics, for these last ten years. I can't wait to see what wonderful (and ordinary) things Life has in store for me in the next ten years to come.
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
Winner Winner, Chicken Dinner
One of the more interesting twists the Universe has seen fit to saddle us with this year is having me learn to cook meals outside of the microwaveable meals realm. See, with Evan always either working, at graduate school, or commuting between the two. And me, being a lowly substitute that generally subs at a school less than four minutes from our house, have to take on the dinner duty a lot of the time.
At first, when I realized that I was going to be in the kitchen a lot more often, and for longer than it takes to get a cookie or a bowl of cereal (both viable meals in my opinion; Evan begs to differ) I actually felt anxious. Cooking, you may (or may not) be surprised to learn, is not my forte. Like, at all. As in, I honestly believe I'd be better at pole vaulting.
But, I had to stand up to the challenge, lest we both starve or end up eating at 8:30 pm every night. I decided to start in the rookie leagues, and scoured Pinterest for any Crock Pot recipe that needed minimal ingredients. I have a ton, and really, my Crock Pot has granted me a precious lift in cooking self-esteem.
So today, I decided to branch out and try out one of the more challenging appliances in my kitchen. Our oven terrifies me. It's a gas oven, so when it's on and you look inside, it quite literally looks like the fires of Hell. Understandably, I try to avoid it, but today I wanted to tackle a recipe that I had made before, and Evan had really liked. The poor man has been fed Crock Pot meals for the last week, and I feel like we needed a break.
If you're even remotely as incompetent in the kitchen as I am, and have somehow stumbled onto this little blog, here's a recipe you may want to try!
So, without further ado, here's my attempt to successfully make Brown Sugar Chicken.
First, you need decent music. I can't cook in total silence, because I feel like I'm being punished. So, my first step in attempting to make anything edible is finding a good playlist to either dance or sing your cooking-related stress out to. My choice today was my Jason Mraz playlist on Pandora.
After you get a good vibe going, you need your ingredients. The reason I love this recipe so much is that there's absolutely minimal effort and maximum flavor. All you need for this is:
If you have extra seasoning left over, you can just spoon that over the chicken in the dish. That's what I did, and the chicken didn't mind a bit.
Winner winner, chicken dinner! Literally. And best part is, there's leftovers for tomorrow!
At first, when I realized that I was going to be in the kitchen a lot more often, and for longer than it takes to get a cookie or a bowl of cereal (both viable meals in my opinion; Evan begs to differ) I actually felt anxious. Cooking, you may (or may not) be surprised to learn, is not my forte. Like, at all. As in, I honestly believe I'd be better at pole vaulting.
But, I had to stand up to the challenge, lest we both starve or end up eating at 8:30 pm every night. I decided to start in the rookie leagues, and scoured Pinterest for any Crock Pot recipe that needed minimal ingredients. I have a ton, and really, my Crock Pot has granted me a precious lift in cooking self-esteem.
So today, I decided to branch out and try out one of the more challenging appliances in my kitchen. Our oven terrifies me. It's a gas oven, so when it's on and you look inside, it quite literally looks like the fires of Hell. Understandably, I try to avoid it, but today I wanted to tackle a recipe that I had made before, and Evan had really liked. The poor man has been fed Crock Pot meals for the last week, and I feel like we needed a break.
If you're even remotely as incompetent in the kitchen as I am, and have somehow stumbled onto this little blog, here's a recipe you may want to try!
So, without further ado, here's my attempt to successfully make Brown Sugar Chicken.
First, you need decent music. I can't cook in total silence, because I feel like I'm being punished. So, my first step in attempting to make anything edible is finding a good playlist to either dance or sing your cooking-related stress out to. My choice today was my Jason Mraz playlist on Pandora.
After you get a good vibe going, you need your ingredients. The reason I love this recipe so much is that there's absolutely minimal effort and maximum flavor. All you need for this is:
- Chicken breasts or thighs - about a pound and a half. To be honest, I just put four breasts on a plate and called it good.
- A packet of Italian seasoning. I buy these by the handful because you can use them in a ton of recipes and saves you time by not making you take out those ridiculously tiny spice jars, filling even tinier spoons with the spices/getting spices all over your kitchen counter, and making your own seasoning.
- 1/2 cup brown sugar, packed.
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| My ingredients posing beautifully before being subjected to my culinary skills. Or lack thereof. |
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| My aluminum foil-lining job. Be jealous. |
Find a medium-ish (my recipe is really specific, I know) sized bowl, and mix the brown sugar and the seasoning together. Once your chicken is defrosted, pat it dry with a paper towel (and try to not get raw chicken juices all over the counter, as I did) and coat each chicken breast with the mixture.
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| My mixture and too-small bowl. I ended up just standing the chicken breasts in the bowl and spooning the seasonings on it. |
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| The coated result, before going into the oven! |
I had preheated my (evil) oven to 350 degrees before opening it and throwing that good ol' baking dish in there. I then crossed my fingers, did a quick "let my chicken be edible" dance to the culinary gods, and set my trusty timer for one hour. I then proceeded to wipe the heck off of my kitchen counters with Clorox wipes because I was sure the chicken juices I had accidentally spilled while patting my chicken down a bit too vigorously had resulted in my very own salmonella colony.
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| Chicken in the oven, and the time left after my quick chicken dance to the culinary gods |
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| A hypochondriac's best friend. |
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| The final result! |
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| Close-up of the deliciousness. I sliced it because I was positive it couldn't have been this easy, and I was sure it was completely raw on the inside. It wasn't! |
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| Served with some pasta and a salad! |
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| Yay! Not another gooey Crock Pot meal! |
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| And, a reward for the cook, for a job well done! |
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
On Teaching and Using Equestrian Sport Metaphors
I just realized that I didn't manage to get a single post written in the month of February. How lame of me! Hopefully this absolute tome of a blog post will make up for it.
In our defense, we were incredibly busy this past month. Evan is up to his elbows in graduate school work and trying to wrangle 7th graders on a daily basis. I, amazingly, worked almost every day in February, subbing all over the place.
Subbing is teaching me so much about what it means to be a good teacher. After I survived student teaching, I had figured that I'd get my own classroom, and just start learning the ropes from there. The Universe, however, saw fit to throw me into teaching via subbing, and that is a completely different ball game. Subbing is like starting a new job every single day. Plus, every time I walk into a school, I'm basically doing a job interview. The teacher (and the rest of the staff, really) are depending on me to magically know where everything is in the classroom (I'm starting to believe that all teachers hide the hall/bathroom/library passes just as a test for subs) manage students' behavior without any background knowledge or previous relationship with them, and then somehow try to act like I know what I'm doing and follow the lesson plan in such a way that the kids actually learn something. It can be grueling, to say the least. Luckily, I've been fortunate enough to sub in classrooms where the kids aren't actively seeking to run over my soul with their Nike's, Keds, or Toms.
That is, except for one occasion that literally had me questioning why on earth I had chosen this profession at all.
I went to teach for an 8th grade Humanities class. No problem, I thought. I had actually met all of these kids before during my student teaching, and so I was actually looking forward to seeing them again. I knew that there were a few students with whom I'd had issues with during my student teaching experience, but I figured, "hey, I've been doing this for a little bit now. I've tackled some tough classes. I can do this!"
Before I get into the gritty details of that day, I'm going to introduce a horse-riding metaphor. See, a long, long time ago, I rode horses. I was by no means a professional, and I never entered a show arena. But, I loved going to the barn, seeing my lovely Quarter Horse, Chex, and just going out for a trail ride. He was great, and I got really confident on him. So confident, in fact, that one day, a friend and I decided to ride our horses over a few jumps. I remember thinking that even though I had never ridden Chex over jumps before, it wouldn't be a big deal. I'd ridden for a few years, right? Everything would be fine. Right?
Okay. Back to the torturous teaching day. As soon as the class started, the tension started rising. It seems like one of the difficult students I had dealt with months before had not exactly let go of their grudges against me. In fact, they were holding onto that grudge like it had handles and a chocolate-filled center. This student is a bully, and didn't even let me get past taking attendance before starting to antagonize other students and getting them riled up. Even then, I thought I could handle it. I have this policy, called Earn or Owe, where I tell students that every second they take away from their learning or that of their classmates, they owe me after class. On the flip side, if the class as a whole behaves well and uses their time productively, they get free time after class. In every other class I've subbed in, it's worked like a charm. It also teaches the students that they are responsible for their learning, that they need to look out for their classmates, and work together to earn a reward. It's been pretty darn useful. That is, until that day.
Go back about 9 years. There I am, riding Chex. We've warmed up, and he's been great. Granted, he was blind in one eye, so that should have been a red flag, considering depth perception is important when leaping over a very McGuyvered (yeah, I turned it into a verb) jump. I remember nudging Chex forward, and ever so obediently, he began to move toward the fence. I quickly got him to start cantering, and the fence loomed in front of us. I was super confident that we'd clear it, no problem. Chalk it up to teenage stupidity, or cockiness, but I totally made myself forget that neither Chex or I had any experience with jumping whatsoever. As we got closer, Chex's ears perked up as he saw what was in front of him, and instead of jumping cleanly and elegantly over the jump, he spooked. Chex had never spooked before, and so my loose grip on the reins and relaxed seat in the saddle was not prepared for his sudden, very fast change in direction. Instead of going over, he went around, but being a horse, he neglected to tell me, and I found myself losing my stirrups and realizing, in that movie-ish slow motion way, that I was going to fall off. I scrambled for the saddle horn, and I managed to yank on the reins enough to slow him down, but I did end up just embarrassingly sliding off the saddle and into the dirt, with Chex looking at me like, "And when had you thought to tell me we were going to do that?"
And in that classroom in February, I felt myself slipping off the saddle again, if you will. I had confidently climbed onto this animal, it had spooked on me, and I was quickly losing my seat. This class of 8th graders managed to rack up three minutes in time they owed me. Each time I reminded them that their behavior was costing them time after class, 99% of the class would groan and try to get the 1% to shut up, but this particularly difficult student would just grin and say, "I don't care." It was the longest 56 minutes of my life. I ended up just stopping the lesson and having them work in relative silence, but this student would manage to utter things under his breath, and when called on it, would say, "I didn't do anything! You didn't even hear me! It was so and so!" And whoever he had blamed would then yell back indignantly, "No! I didn't say anything! It was you!" Followed quickly by, "Screw you! I'm going to kick your a** after school!"
I know, I know. I should have kicked him out. I should have come down on him. But, it's complicated. This student has been a sore subject between the teacher I worked with during my student teaching and I for a very long time. I think he's a bully that's been allowed to be a stinker (because this is a family-friendly blog, I'll say stinker) for far too long; she thinks that he just needs more love and tenderness. So, as I'm subbing in her class, I can only think that she'll never call me back if I get him into trouble. I had wanted to prove to her that I could actually teach, and I had let this class take the bit in their mouth and run away with me. I literally had been left with no reins because I so badly wanted to leave a good sub report. I felt powerless. And you know how they say that horses can tell when an inexperienced rider climbs on? Middle schoolers have that lovely sixth sense as well, and this student saw me coming a mile away. He knew that it wouldn't go well for me if I left a negative report about him.
So, as I slumped into my chair at the end of the day, I knew that I had to tell the truth. I sat down and wrote my only (so far) negative sub report. It mentioned this student by name, and all the things he had done. I mentioned not really wanting to come back if this is what I could expect from her class. And then I got into my car and cried.
I also let a few humiliated tears fall onto the dust that day way back when as I sat nursing my bruised ego and behind. I watched Chex, now grazing calmly, incident completely forgotten. I tried to be mad at him, but I knew that I was to blame for what had happened. I knew that I had rushed both of us into something we weren't ready for. And I knew that I had to get back on and try again.
I spent the entire weekend after that awful teaching day thinking about what I could have done better. I wanted to badly to blame the students, to blame it all on this one student, to say mean and horrible things to that student the next time I saw him (just because I'm a teacher doesn't mean I'm immune to negative feelings, trust me) and to just never, ever, go into that classroom again. My confidence as an educator had been badly shaken, and I wondered if I had what it took to be a good teacher, if I let one punk 8th grader get to me this much.
And then the phone rang. It was my old mentor teacher. She apologized for his behavior, and then mentioned something about remembering how he just really "hurt those he really cares for," or something. Honestly, I wasn't paying particularly close attention, at least not until she said, "Would you be willing to come in on Monday?"
And suddenly, there I was again, sitting humiliated and frustrated in the dirt, knowing that I had to get back into that damn saddle and try again. I paused, and then heard myself saying, "Yes, I'm free on Monday."
The most similar thing about both of less than stellar experiences, one on a horse, and one in a classroom, was the sense of pride I felt after decided to tackle both of them after making mistakes. I did eventually get over that jump with Chex, and I did make it through Monday with that very same class. During both events, I remember my hands shaking as I faced the obstacles ahead of me. But the important thing was that I did it. I got back in the saddle, bruised, battered, and better for it. I got back into the ring, back out onto the pitcher's mound, whatever sport metaphor works best for you. I did it. In both instances, I won my confidence back, and it let me move forward.
I wish I could say that every teaching day since then has been a dream, but that hasn't been the case. Every day is a potential fence in the field that my students might not trust me to get them over. Sometimes they spook, and it's my job to lead them back and show them the way over. And that's really what teaching is. And there's really nothing I'd rather do. Although, it'd be nice to go for a trail ride or two.
In our defense, we were incredibly busy this past month. Evan is up to his elbows in graduate school work and trying to wrangle 7th graders on a daily basis. I, amazingly, worked almost every day in February, subbing all over the place.
Subbing is teaching me so much about what it means to be a good teacher. After I survived student teaching, I had figured that I'd get my own classroom, and just start learning the ropes from there. The Universe, however, saw fit to throw me into teaching via subbing, and that is a completely different ball game. Subbing is like starting a new job every single day. Plus, every time I walk into a school, I'm basically doing a job interview. The teacher (and the rest of the staff, really) are depending on me to magically know where everything is in the classroom (I'm starting to believe that all teachers hide the hall/bathroom/library passes just as a test for subs) manage students' behavior without any background knowledge or previous relationship with them, and then somehow try to act like I know what I'm doing and follow the lesson plan in such a way that the kids actually learn something. It can be grueling, to say the least. Luckily, I've been fortunate enough to sub in classrooms where the kids aren't actively seeking to run over my soul with their Nike's, Keds, or Toms.
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| There's a steep, steep learning curve that comes with subbing! |
That is, except for one occasion that literally had me questioning why on earth I had chosen this profession at all.
I went to teach for an 8th grade Humanities class. No problem, I thought. I had actually met all of these kids before during my student teaching, and so I was actually looking forward to seeing them again. I knew that there were a few students with whom I'd had issues with during my student teaching experience, but I figured, "hey, I've been doing this for a little bit now. I've tackled some tough classes. I can do this!"
Before I get into the gritty details of that day, I'm going to introduce a horse-riding metaphor. See, a long, long time ago, I rode horses. I was by no means a professional, and I never entered a show arena. But, I loved going to the barn, seeing my lovely Quarter Horse, Chex, and just going out for a trail ride. He was great, and I got really confident on him. So confident, in fact, that one day, a friend and I decided to ride our horses over a few jumps. I remember thinking that even though I had never ridden Chex over jumps before, it wouldn't be a big deal. I'd ridden for a few years, right? Everything would be fine. Right?
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| Absolutely not me. But in my head, we looked this good. |
Okay. Back to the torturous teaching day. As soon as the class started, the tension started rising. It seems like one of the difficult students I had dealt with months before had not exactly let go of their grudges against me. In fact, they were holding onto that grudge like it had handles and a chocolate-filled center. This student is a bully, and didn't even let me get past taking attendance before starting to antagonize other students and getting them riled up. Even then, I thought I could handle it. I have this policy, called Earn or Owe, where I tell students that every second they take away from their learning or that of their classmates, they owe me after class. On the flip side, if the class as a whole behaves well and uses their time productively, they get free time after class. In every other class I've subbed in, it's worked like a charm. It also teaches the students that they are responsible for their learning, that they need to look out for their classmates, and work together to earn a reward. It's been pretty darn useful. That is, until that day.
Go back about 9 years. There I am, riding Chex. We've warmed up, and he's been great. Granted, he was blind in one eye, so that should have been a red flag, considering depth perception is important when leaping over a very McGuyvered (yeah, I turned it into a verb) jump. I remember nudging Chex forward, and ever so obediently, he began to move toward the fence. I quickly got him to start cantering, and the fence loomed in front of us. I was super confident that we'd clear it, no problem. Chalk it up to teenage stupidity, or cockiness, but I totally made myself forget that neither Chex or I had any experience with jumping whatsoever. As we got closer, Chex's ears perked up as he saw what was in front of him, and instead of jumping cleanly and elegantly over the jump, he spooked. Chex had never spooked before, and so my loose grip on the reins and relaxed seat in the saddle was not prepared for his sudden, very fast change in direction. Instead of going over, he went around, but being a horse, he neglected to tell me, and I found myself losing my stirrups and realizing, in that movie-ish slow motion way, that I was going to fall off. I scrambled for the saddle horn, and I managed to yank on the reins enough to slow him down, but I did end up just embarrassingly sliding off the saddle and into the dirt, with Chex looking at me like, "And when had you thought to tell me we were going to do that?"
And in that classroom in February, I felt myself slipping off the saddle again, if you will. I had confidently climbed onto this animal, it had spooked on me, and I was quickly losing my seat. This class of 8th graders managed to rack up three minutes in time they owed me. Each time I reminded them that their behavior was costing them time after class, 99% of the class would groan and try to get the 1% to shut up, but this particularly difficult student would just grin and say, "I don't care." It was the longest 56 minutes of my life. I ended up just stopping the lesson and having them work in relative silence, but this student would manage to utter things under his breath, and when called on it, would say, "I didn't do anything! You didn't even hear me! It was so and so!" And whoever he had blamed would then yell back indignantly, "No! I didn't say anything! It was you!" Followed quickly by, "Screw you! I'm going to kick your a** after school!"
I know, I know. I should have kicked him out. I should have come down on him. But, it's complicated. This student has been a sore subject between the teacher I worked with during my student teaching and I for a very long time. I think he's a bully that's been allowed to be a stinker (because this is a family-friendly blog, I'll say stinker) for far too long; she thinks that he just needs more love and tenderness. So, as I'm subbing in her class, I can only think that she'll never call me back if I get him into trouble. I had wanted to prove to her that I could actually teach, and I had let this class take the bit in their mouth and run away with me. I literally had been left with no reins because I so badly wanted to leave a good sub report. I felt powerless. And you know how they say that horses can tell when an inexperienced rider climbs on? Middle schoolers have that lovely sixth sense as well, and this student saw me coming a mile away. He knew that it wouldn't go well for me if I left a negative report about him.
So, as I slumped into my chair at the end of the day, I knew that I had to tell the truth. I sat down and wrote my only (so far) negative sub report. It mentioned this student by name, and all the things he had done. I mentioned not really wanting to come back if this is what I could expect from her class. And then I got into my car and cried.
I also let a few humiliated tears fall onto the dust that day way back when as I sat nursing my bruised ego and behind. I watched Chex, now grazing calmly, incident completely forgotten. I tried to be mad at him, but I knew that I was to blame for what had happened. I knew that I had rushed both of us into something we weren't ready for. And I knew that I had to get back on and try again.
I spent the entire weekend after that awful teaching day thinking about what I could have done better. I wanted to badly to blame the students, to blame it all on this one student, to say mean and horrible things to that student the next time I saw him (just because I'm a teacher doesn't mean I'm immune to negative feelings, trust me) and to just never, ever, go into that classroom again. My confidence as an educator had been badly shaken, and I wondered if I had what it took to be a good teacher, if I let one punk 8th grader get to me this much.
And then the phone rang. It was my old mentor teacher. She apologized for his behavior, and then mentioned something about remembering how he just really "hurt those he really cares for," or something. Honestly, I wasn't paying particularly close attention, at least not until she said, "Would you be willing to come in on Monday?"
And suddenly, there I was again, sitting humiliated and frustrated in the dirt, knowing that I had to get back into that damn saddle and try again. I paused, and then heard myself saying, "Yes, I'm free on Monday."
The most similar thing about both of less than stellar experiences, one on a horse, and one in a classroom, was the sense of pride I felt after decided to tackle both of them after making mistakes. I did eventually get over that jump with Chex, and I did make it through Monday with that very same class. During both events, I remember my hands shaking as I faced the obstacles ahead of me. But the important thing was that I did it. I got back in the saddle, bruised, battered, and better for it. I got back into the ring, back out onto the pitcher's mound, whatever sport metaphor works best for you. I did it. In both instances, I won my confidence back, and it let me move forward.
I wish I could say that every teaching day since then has been a dream, but that hasn't been the case. Every day is a potential fence in the field that my students might not trust me to get them over. Sometimes they spook, and it's my job to lead them back and show them the way over. And that's really what teaching is. And there's really nothing I'd rather do. Although, it'd be nice to go for a trail ride or two.
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