extinction.

Last weekend was the opening of deer season. Few things spark in "real" Texas men the essence of masculinity and an inherent predatory nature, but deer season is one of them. You can recognize the signs by an increase of camoflauge being donned on campus complete with red-rimmed eyes and mud stained boots from getting up at 4AM that very morning to kill a deer. To complete that male right of passage. Murder. My students excitedly discuss "8-points" and "6-points," and I initally thought they were all keeping score. I swear you can smell the blood lust.

When I was fifteen I went hunting with my best friend. We had our sights set on geese and I was filled with a heady sense of adrenaline from holding a shotgun bigger than myself. I fired a few test rounds with a smaller .22, just to calibrate my semi-acceptable aim. I then moved for the big gun. I held it toward the woods and POW! it knocked me backward with the force of a kicking mull. My chest ached and the guys were laughing so hard it made me laugh too, despite the fact that I sported a bruise on my chest for several days afterward; much to Anthony's amusement and my general disgrace.

At 5AM we rose to greet a frigid dawn and the V's of migrating geese passing over our heads. The long underwear I had under my oversized camo pants, tied up with a bungee strap, were itchy to sit in for overly long. Suddenly, there was the first shot. It sent them scattering, fleeing what they couldn't see. My shot was second, it grazed a wing and I watched helplessly as the poor creature spiraled downward toward the earth; one wing flapping desperately, the other, limp at his side. He lay on the ground, writhing in pain, and eventually Anthony took it upon himself to break it's neck. Immediate relief flooded the now vacant eyes.

I gaped like a dying fish, sucking in the poisonous air. Tears threatened to spill down my dirt stained cheeks. I had killed a living being, intentionally. Sure, they prepared the animals for meat and every part was used appropriately. But that was small salve to my soul, it didn't make me any less a murderer; or I suppose more accurately, an accessory to murder. I have never touched another gun, nor participated in the Southern ritual of hunting again.

ritualistic.

I participate in a ritual of virtual escapism.

I choose to blur the lines between fantasies and my, sometimes overwhelming, reality. A student throws papers at me, a parent threatens me, I forget to do a lesson plan for one of my three preps; and instead of crying, I take the opportunity to whisk myself away into an online photo montage of secluded beaches, lush landscapes and majestic castles. Bavaria, Belize, New Zealand. I lose myself in reading the extensive travel stories of other wanderlust addicts. My off-period is offset by my excessive bookmarking of proper nouns I want to visit. My mom says "goal setting is healthy" but I feel a compulsion bordering on obsession toward travel.

The irony is, lately I have been splitting my sedentary dreaming between travel destinations (currently Central America) and house hunting. Yes, Michael and I are looking for a real home to call our own. After creating an extensive budget, I realized we are really wasting money on this apartment and we can afford a decent sized house, with a decent down payment by this summer.

My psyche is torn between the desire to settle and the desire to wander. After careful consideration I have concluded I am able to accomplish both of these goals, even simultaneously, even now. Why shouldn't I be able to have a home and wings? I am excited to follow myself down this road and discern the direction of my dreams.

{image from flickr}

paper eater.

You know when you get to that point of complacent apathy which follows a fair amount of alcohol consumption? Case in point, I ordered a taquito from Whataburger following my Halloween shenanigans. My level of inebriation caused me to ravenously devour everything contained within the warm tortilla blanket, this included some misappropriated paper wrapper. Initially confused at the textural difference inside my egg and cheese filled maw, I finally discerned I had eaten a piece of the wrapper in an overzealous attempt to engorge my tipsy-ass self. Having attained the apathetic drunk fringe, I shrugged and swallowed the damp paper.

That is how I feel about my job right now. I don't jive with my students this year as well as I did last year, I am not passionate about the literature and I lack that "joie de vivre" which drives me to get up early every morning with a smile. I do love teaching, I like my co-workers; but with Freshmen I lack the ability to facilitate elevated academic discussion and spend more time on elementary guided classroom management (yes, I have even initiated the "two checks next to your name" ritual) than teaching. They have a big attitude for their minuscule age and Friday I wrote my first referral this year which caused the student in question to throw papers at me and slam the door, after he erased his name off the board and pretended to untie my shirt (which I found out about later). The level of disrespect I have experienced this year is astounding. I am either dealing with general arguments (because apparently they don't revere me as their superior) or my PreAP students constantly questioning my intellect (which I am in turn continually setting them straight about).

Thus I am stuck chewing paper until at least Thanksgiving break.

halloween.

Halloween is best spent at a country bar with a group of like-minded friends when you are the only ones in the place dressed up.

I may have put too much thought into my outfit, but it's a modern interpretation of "The Raven" & "Masque of the Red Death" by Poe. You're welcome for your daily dose of literary geekdom.

pumkintime.

Boo -- by Michael

King Leonidas -- by Andy

Oogie Boogie -- by Me

{Templates are by Zombie Pumpkins}

inlaws & inability.

My husband hails from a little town in Southeast Texas; little in this case being defined by less than 600 people. Did you know there are still dry counties in Texas? Well there are, he is from one of them. Cue the moralistic, guilt imposed church signs juxtaposed with directions to the nearest liquor stores. Large trucks are parked in both parking lots, complete with gun racks and stickers of either Christian fish or "NObama". My personal favorite sign from this trip was "Have you forgotten God? He still sees you." Thank you for the reminder of his heavenly omniscience via letterboard.

However, despite the close-mindedness of the surrounding gentry, I love Michael's house. It's on the shore of a lake and you can watch the sunrise from beyond the pine trees, high into the clear sky. When the sun was at its peak, he took me swimming at the ol' swimming hole (yes, really, it exists) and we visited with the locals at the only store in town which serves as a meat market, food mart and sandwich shop. There is one stoplight which marks the beginning and end of this place. Everyone knows everyone else and they typically greet you with a smile and a handshake and, if they have their teeth in, some garbled backwoods saying about how you are the "purdiest girl they ever did see." It's quiet and I wouldn't mind having a house out on the lake there, but I would be a very distinct outsider.

The reason for our trip back into this confusing pasture of Michael's adolescence, was the fact that his brother's girlfriend had a kid this weekend and we drove out to see them. I think this means I am an Aunt, but I am somewhat ambivalent about the familial tie. To my surprise, the child was actually cute, normally I think newborns resemble aliens but this one already bore striking similarities to Michael's brother. Had it just been the four of us, plus the baby, the visit would have been quite nice; however nothing is that easy and his family was ever vigilant in their continued efforts to methodically drive me toward some sort of breaking point.

Here are some of my favorite quotes from this weekend:

"I don't need a man, I've got Double D batteries!" -- Granny

"I always thought Michael was a little 'iffy' and I would have loved him anyway, but I was definitely surprised when he brought you home." -- Granny

"My son is a Republican and always will be!" (directed toward me) -- Mother In Law, she apparently thinks that because he came out of her uterus she gets to lead his political beliefs as well.

"Don't bring a child into this world until Obama is out of office!" -- Granny

Unfortunately I made the mistake a few years ago of telling them I am a Democrat, and as you can probably I tell I will never be able to live it down. His step-father will actually leave the room when I am in it, whether or not this is due to my political views is yet to be discerned. His mother simply pretends I don't exist, unless she is locked in some kind of imaginary fight with me for Michael's love. She only knows how to argue with me. His granny actually likes me now, but geez is she inappropriate (all the time) asking for details about our sex life and when will we start making babies (obviously this should be done only after Obama has been replaced).

The kitchen is typically reserved for his brother's girlfriend, his aunt and me... The Outsiders. We are simply the women who fell in love with the men who are attached to this family. It's nice to be able to look across the table at another woman and raise a knowing eyebrow when someone says "Well, you used to look good before you got pregnant!" There is simply nothing to be done but laugh and have another glass of wine. Welcome to the family.

teaching fail.

Me: "Okay guys, you absolutely cannot use your phones during the PSAT. The phones shouldn't be on vibrate either, they need to be off!"
Student: "Can we take them out to turn them off now?"
Me: "Yes."
(students turn off their phones fairly obediently)
Me: "Make sure they do not go off during the test or your answer document is destroyed."
(phone starts ringing loudly, students look confused)
Me: "Guys, I just said….. oh, that's my phone."

Owned.