9.16 PM Friday, 23 August. The evening of the last day of the first week of school.
Holy crap that was a long week.
Summer was short. It was way too short. I was not ready to come back.
But I did, and within the first week: A parent complained about a suggested (I would like to point out it was a SUGGESTED) movie for actors to watch because they are actors who should watch other actors -warranting a MEETING, another parent scheduled a meeting for BLAH BLAH BLAH privacy BLAH, I had a MEETING to explain How Auditions Work and By The Way Auditions Are Monday, and I actually taught Oedipus for the first time. Usually I say "read the play" and we then spend time on stage learning about Greek performance and doing funny dithyrambs and, sometimes, I make them write their own Greek piece in iambic hex (which is pretty hilarious), but I actually stood in front of the class with chalk and danced around drawing tripods and explaining Apollo and the Oracle and By The Way Oedipus' children are also his sisters and THAT doesn't upset parents but suggesting current movies DOES?
I am so happy to be watching Drunk History and drinking my wine right now.
Keep in mind this is wine and Drunk History AFTER I spent two hours at the Ironworks with Jim.
Who is, by the way, being very patient with me and my crazy.
Remember at the end of last year (because you have been following my blog diligently) when I was like "Imma make rules, kids suck and stuff."
So I did.
I tightened up access to the classroom and my office, killed Improv club and ...it's very, very quiet in my world now.
Who knew?
I have invited kids in the morning, they still have cubbies and lockers and a fridge and such. But man lunches are AWESOME quiet, and nobody messes around during their off hour.
I get why Kron never let them in except for class.
And I kinda miss them a bit, but not much. The current seniors who hang out are really delightful people, I never had issue with them in the first place. And they responded beautifully to the new rules with no whining, no bitching and no trying to find cracks in the foundation.
But still, I'm so tired! My entire house is not sleeping. Is anyone else having this issue? It's like we sleep but we aren't rested.
It bites.
So even though the new rules seem to be working, and I seem to be teaching instead of bitching at A**holes for breaking my computer or interrupting my class, it was still a very long week.
Sigh.
We'll see how next week goes.
Friday, August 23, 2013
Saturday, August 10, 2013
Which of These Things Do Not Belong Together? kryssi and Boettcher. Scene.
See, the Boettcher Scholarship is given to 40 kids statewide every year. They receive a full ride to all 4 years at a Colorado school.
I was not in the running for a Boettcher in 1984 when I barely graduated from GMHS.
Frankly, I'm not even sure I knew what "The Boettcher" was outside of a concert hall and a very rich Colorado family.
Each student then is asked to choose one of their teachers to receive a $1000.00 grant for their department.
I'm going into my 10th year at LHS, and I recall 3 Boettcher scholars in that time. I have no doubt there were others, but I didn't know them.
Last year's scholar told me about the grant money, and which teacher he was giving it to-math, of course- which was the first I'd heard of it. I said "You get to do what?" How rich are these people?
Answer: So Freaking Rich.
In 1984 when I graduated, we had some freaking stellar teachers at GMHS. It was the perfect storm. The Starkeys ruled Lang Arts, Bud ran the theatre like a mini-conservatory, Steve Meinenger was Da Bomb in music, and I heard Shibley (what was his first name?) the band teacher was a real jazz musician, which was to either explain or excuse his apparent daily hangovers.
And there was Peter Melbach: History.
Sometimes called "Peter Von Melbach" or "Fucking Melbach" or just "Melbach".
My freshman year I got a "C" in his class. I learned more from him than any other history teacher, ever, and regardless of the grade I signed up for his class again sophomore year. Fall semester I got an "F". I left my WWI map at a school in Salida while on tour with concert choir. When I returned, crying, beggging for just ONE extra day to redo the map, I was coldly told "No. It was due today" by Melbach.
Later, after having class with him as much as I could, I came into his classroom with Shadows to sing to some kid in his class. He grabbed me by the door and said "You have more talent in your little finger than most of this school. Don't waste it."
I was terrified and kept thinking it was an insult.
Forward twenty years. I was a waitress at My Brothers Bar in Denver, which turns out to be Peter Melbach's favorite watering hole. Every time I would see him, he would ask about what I was doing ("Some show here, film over there, shot a commercial, blah blah blah") and he would say "Why aren't you teaching?" and I would say "Because you are. I'm not needed."
Then one night I said "I am thinking about it. Maybe subbing first?" and he lit up like I'd never seen and just said "Yes."
And the rest, as they say, is history...
But then...
The LHS Boettcher scholar this year was a theatre kid. And he chose me to receive the grant money.
So I got to go to the fancy shmancy Boettcher ceremony at the Botanic Gardens.
It rained, there was an accident and we were late, but we made it. "We" meaning Jim and I because I Got To Bring A Date!
As I sat next to Ryan (the Boettcher Scholar, the kid who did all the work and who should get all the credit) watching the teacher/student parade and awaiting our moment, I saw Peter Melbach, heard his name announced and watched him accept a plaque.
I gasped and looked at Jim "No way!"
This is where I tell you my loving and supportive husband said "It's like if Spicoli was at the same awards as Mr. Hand." Yes, yes it is, and enjoy the couch tonight, dear.
Funny, but wrong.
I looked at the program and Peter Melbach has a denotation by his name indicating he is a "multiple recipient" of the Boettcher money.
Of course he is.
So when Ryan and I lined up to await our turn, I saw Peter in the front row and I started waving at him like a three year old at her dad on the merry go round.
Seriously, you cannot take me anywhere. I have no doubt Ryan was humiliated and was wishing he'd chosen a grown up for the award money.
Also, I cannot be around my high school teachers. When Bud comes to shows I am inconsolable. I still want nothing more than for Kathy Starkey to think I'm smart. Steve Meinenger got flipped off when he asked if I was supposed to be using the printer in the band office---this was three years ago. I was 44 years old.
Poor Melbach must have thought I was "special"or had suffered a brain injury.
Once we were released to the alcohol and food tables---wait, a moment should be taken to compliment the Boettcher's ability to know how to make high school teachers happy: free booze, free food and an invitation to wander around Denver Botanic Gardens for free. These guys get it.
I got my red wine and made a beeline for Peter. I have no doubt anybody watching saw a crazy stalker.
Once in front of him, I realized I had nothing to say. I mean...he's Peter Fucking Melbach, Five Time Boettcher recipient and Rock Star IB History Teacher. I'm Schleppy The Clown. The last time we spoke I asked him if he wanted another beer.
So I said "Can we get a photo to prove you and I are at the same awards?" He was gracious and kind and said of course.
His prinicpal offered to take the photo and I was out of conversation starters when Peter said "Congratulations."
"Thanks. Wow. You too. How may is this?"
He shrugged. "Five."
I downed half my glass of wine.
He indicated my glass "Where'd you get that?"
AH! YES! Booze! A way in!
"Over there, I'll walk with you."
He stopped first and looked at me. The man has the most intense, intelligent eyes. I thought how much they look like Kathy Starkey's eyes and how I hope he doesn't see nothing at all in mine.
He said "You are a great teacher."
I shook my head. "Dude, you have no idea."
He stood firm. "Yes I do. I know. I knew it in high school.Congrats."
Inside I was screaming and dancing and barfing and outside I held it together THANK YOU YEARS OF ACTING TEACHERS and said "Thanks. Seriously." And we walked together toward the booze and he called me kryssi and told me he was retiring and wants to write an historical fiction novel and see "what else is out there" after 38 years of teaching.
Like we were colleagues or something. Not like we were Peter Fucking Melbach and Schleppy
The Clown.
Friday, August 2, 2013
Bucket Listing
2 August, 2013,
Summer is over.
The slant of light has changed, the air is sweeter and the nights are cooling off. Now when I wake up I feel like it's time to get ready for school, not stay in bed and sleep until noon.
This summer screamed by.
It could be that I Accomplished A Thing by cleaning up the bathroom.
It could be that Jim and I consciously started looking for things to do without the kids so that next year, when Genoa goes to college, we're not complete strangers.
It could be that Genoa had an internship, the Betty Buckley workshop, a job.
It could be that Harper had a babysitting job two days a week, occasionally split with her sister, and a boyfriend who takes her to dinner almost every night.
These things combined with G having a car means the girls are doing their own thing instead of looking at me whining "Entertain Us" for the first time.
It could be the lovely trip to Durango, our Saturday Ironworks dates, finishing design and crew manuals, actively looking for things to do, Jim's bucket list....
Jim's Bucket List.
Mt. Bierstedt
Jim has decided he needs to bucket list. Yes, I verbed a noun, move on. I was not aware of this until he got all flavors of geeked out goofy over going to Mesa Verde. He pulled up maps and photos, trails and bought tickets to the two tour houses, regardless of his knees or weight, by god he was going. It was very cute. Finally he admitted "I've always wanted to do this!"
I personally think 50 is a silly age to bucket list, but he didn't ask me.
"Climb a Fourteener" is on his list.
Well, any normal summer any other year I'd say "Have fun" and stay home with a cocktail and Drunk History. But this weird summer I said sure, I'll go up with you.
Knowing I have cadaver ligaments in my knee, held together with fifteen year old screws, which have recently begun to grind like broken glass, I still said "sure, I'll go too" in the spirit of Let's Do Things Together.
Jim almost made it to the summit. To his credit he trudged upward with impressive determination. He turned back only when black clouds began to roll in. Being struck by lightning while achieving a Bucket List item was not on his Bucket List.
I, on the other hand, turned back much sooner. About an hour into the hike, to be exact. There is a ridge of rock facings that are, in places, a foot apart. It's a strain to climb, my knee did not love it, but that was not my issue. My issue was looking straight up and thinking "there is no way I'm coming back down". Grinding knees have a tendancy, under duress, to give out. So I turned back. As I interviewed many people at the base who were returning from the summit, I learned that I had made the right choice, that it gets worse with a trail of bolders further up. Which are not an issue if you A) have working knees or are B) a mountain goat.
We miscalculated the time as well. People we asked who had climbed seem to think it was a two hour up, two hour down venture. A few at the base that I interveiwed said the same. So when Jim did not return by 1pm I began to get jumpy.
I learned later in my interviews that that climb up is two hours if you are A) twenty years old and in good shape or B) a mountain goat. The people returning did not meet either of those requirements and said it was definitely a six hour round trip, particularly when you get to the top and hang out for a bit. This was confirmed by a Ranger I talked to, who shook his head and said "This always happens, it is not short and it is not 'easy'."
So as I waited for four hours at the base, walking from the truck to the trail head to the bathroom to the truck to the trailhead, down the trail to the lake, back up, sit on the wood railing, look at the map, back to the truck, to the bathroom, to the trail head, down to the lake...and chatted with those returning about how long it had taken them and, by the way, did you see a guy who looked like my husband...I made my own list.
Or at least I started one.
At 47 I do not feel the need for a Bucket List. I may never feel a need for such a thing because I really don't want to do anything but theatre and drink and watch TV. I have already accomplished these things, I'm good.
So I, instead, have a Things I Have No Desire To Do, Ever list.
At present it has only three items:
#1 Hike a fourteener.
#2 Swim with sharks.
#3 See CATS.
Summer is over.
The slant of light has changed, the air is sweeter and the nights are cooling off. Now when I wake up I feel like it's time to get ready for school, not stay in bed and sleep until noon.
This summer screamed by.
It could be that I Accomplished A Thing by cleaning up the bathroom.
It could be that Jim and I consciously started looking for things to do without the kids so that next year, when Genoa goes to college, we're not complete strangers.
It could be that Genoa had an internship, the Betty Buckley workshop, a job.
It could be that Harper had a babysitting job two days a week, occasionally split with her sister, and a boyfriend who takes her to dinner almost every night.
These things combined with G having a car means the girls are doing their own thing instead of looking at me whining "Entertain Us" for the first time.
It could be the lovely trip to Durango, our Saturday Ironworks dates, finishing design and crew manuals, actively looking for things to do, Jim's bucket list....
Jim's Bucket List.
Mt. Bierstedt
Jim has decided he needs to bucket list. Yes, I verbed a noun, move on. I was not aware of this until he got all flavors of geeked out goofy over going to Mesa Verde. He pulled up maps and photos, trails and bought tickets to the two tour houses, regardless of his knees or weight, by god he was going. It was very cute. Finally he admitted "I've always wanted to do this!"
I personally think 50 is a silly age to bucket list, but he didn't ask me.
"Climb a Fourteener" is on his list.
Well, any normal summer any other year I'd say "Have fun" and stay home with a cocktail and Drunk History. But this weird summer I said sure, I'll go up with you.
Knowing I have cadaver ligaments in my knee, held together with fifteen year old screws, which have recently begun to grind like broken glass, I still said "sure, I'll go too" in the spirit of Let's Do Things Together.
Jim almost made it to the summit. To his credit he trudged upward with impressive determination. He turned back only when black clouds began to roll in. Being struck by lightning while achieving a Bucket List item was not on his Bucket List.
I, on the other hand, turned back much sooner. About an hour into the hike, to be exact. There is a ridge of rock facings that are, in places, a foot apart. It's a strain to climb, my knee did not love it, but that was not my issue. My issue was looking straight up and thinking "there is no way I'm coming back down". Grinding knees have a tendancy, under duress, to give out. So I turned back. As I interviewed many people at the base who were returning from the summit, I learned that I had made the right choice, that it gets worse with a trail of bolders further up. Which are not an issue if you A) have working knees or are B) a mountain goat.
We miscalculated the time as well. People we asked who had climbed seem to think it was a two hour up, two hour down venture. A few at the base that I interveiwed said the same. So when Jim did not return by 1pm I began to get jumpy.
I learned later in my interviews that that climb up is two hours if you are A) twenty years old and in good shape or B) a mountain goat. The people returning did not meet either of those requirements and said it was definitely a six hour round trip, particularly when you get to the top and hang out for a bit. This was confirmed by a Ranger I talked to, who shook his head and said "This always happens, it is not short and it is not 'easy'."
So as I waited for four hours at the base, walking from the truck to the trail head to the bathroom to the truck to the trailhead, down the trail to the lake, back up, sit on the wood railing, look at the map, back to the truck, to the bathroom, to the trail head, down to the lake...and chatted with those returning about how long it had taken them and, by the way, did you see a guy who looked like my husband...I made my own list.
Or at least I started one.
At 47 I do not feel the need for a Bucket List. I may never feel a need for such a thing because I really don't want to do anything but theatre and drink and watch TV. I have already accomplished these things, I'm good.
So I, instead, have a Things I Have No Desire To Do, Ever list.
At present it has only three items:
#1 Hike a fourteener.
#2 Swim with sharks.
#3 See CATS.
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