Homeward Bound

Who says you can't go home? Me, up until two weeks and two days ago. Despite my parents' and even a few friends' urgings to move back, live a block from work, avoid high gas prices and Philadelphia's gouging wage tax, I was firm on my need to live within city limits. If I couldn't walk to a bar and a grocery store from my apartment, I wasn't having it.

And then I saw some of the city's slim pickings. It turns out that a crumbling housing market means landlords can charge a lot more for rent, something I'm not currently able to bend to. Most apartments within my price range were either very far out from any sort of city life, or infested with things that moved.

Disheartened after one particularly sad apartment -- a trip I took with not at all helpful Mom ("Well, this is no Georgetown," and "You have to set high standards," set against "You kids are spoiled. You're too picky.") -- I sat down to discuss my difficulties logically with my dad. He suggested broadening my search to beyond city limits -- the Main Line in particular. I told him I would rather live at home for free than pay for an apartment from which I would have to drive everywhere. And he asked me, why didn't I?

I started considering it -- but of course I couldn't stand to live under my parents' watchful eye all the time. My dad's not-so-subtle hints to law school. ("She's going. Next year.") My mom's not-so-subtle hints to my weight. ("Why don't you just start with that? It's an awful lot of food on your plate...") But the option of the pool house emerged.

My family doesn't actually have a pool house. The nickname is a leftover from the favorite OC quote, "Don't say pool house!" When my parents moved in and commenced their major renovation of a decrepit house, they had to ditch the pool, which had become a health hazard and was providing a home to a family of ducks. The pool house, then, became the "back office," a place for my dad to meet clients after work hours. Once he opened a private practice only 5 minutes from home, that purpose dissolved, and it became just a storage facility for my parents.

Now, it is soon to be my apartment. I'm quite hesitant about living this close to home and living in the suburbs (not really my style, particularly all the driving), but I figure a) it will save me a lot of money, b) it's convenient to work, c) it serves as a good test drive of whether I actually could be happy living in the suburbs, and d) it allowed me to commit to buying the final "life changing" event -- details tomorrow.

Rage and Food Porn

My apologies for keeping (all two of) you waiting. Finally, here it is, momentous event #1: The Rage-Inducing Diet.

Let's start at the beginning, shall we? I attempted to ignore the signs -- the pants feeling a little tighter, my mother's hints, my sudden discomfort in bathing suits, and the fact that my weight is greater than what Bridget Jones sites as totally unacceptable in her movie Diary. But then came the proverbial straw: Marianne's Run The Chop Race. My dad and I run a 5-mile race every year over 4th of July weekend. The past few years I have been remiss in my race-running, but this year I stepped back up to the plate, mostly to prove to myself that I still could.

And I did. The race itself went fine. I didn't stop to walk, I kept a steady (if a little slow) pace, and I did not finish last. I even helped urge my dad along at times. I wouldn't exactly say I'm proud of how I did, but it wasn't terrible. What was terrible was the realization that the box I usually skip over, the one that asks if I want to be considered in the optional heavyweight class for men and women over a certain weight -- I qualified for that box.

I did, in fact, skip over it. It wasn't until about 0.5 mile that it dawned on me -- I could have checked off that box because I am indeed over that weight.

So the following Monday I went to the library (I would never pay money for such trash) and took out a diet book. The South Beach diet book to be exact. This is where I should mention that I basically eat three food groups in every meal: carbohydrate/starch (pasta, bread, potato, or corn), tomato, and cheese. Pasta with sauce and parmesan. Pizza. Nachos. Baked potato. Etc.

As I casually started to flip through South Beach and discovered that I could eat nothing from my first major food group for two weeks, not even fruit, I felt disbelief. When I arrived at the part where I was not to drink any alcohol, it reached full on rage. Just reading about the diet drove me to eat a sausage, potato salad, green salad, spinach and cheese dip, a mini-loaf of bread, and a piece of cheesecake.

After my revenge eating (revenge on what, I don't know), I woke up and found I really couldn't keep my pants buttoned. So I did the unthinkable. I gave the diet a try. My previous record for dieting having been 1 hour and 45 minutes, I did not have high hopes, but I tried. I made it through the first day, probably foaming at the mouth, muttering about foods I missed, and dreamed that night of pasta. The sun rose on Wednesday, and I pushed through again, angry the whole time. Wednesday night I dreamed of cookies. Thursday passed in much the same way, and I dreamed of wine.

It's entirely possible that I dream this much of food normally, but this was overpowering. This had reached the level of food porn, a term coined in Chile, a country known for its tasteless and occasionally even repulsive food. (Don't worry Chile, I still love you.) "Food porn" refers to the visions of food that dance before your eyes, open or closed, when you are truly missing good cuisine (or any cuisine at all). Food porn is a total tease. And it was all I could think about.

Friday I was embarking on a trip to DC. I had made it three days, 6 pounds, and I was prepared to go for the whole 2 weeks in order to fit back into my clothing. I even packed diet-acceptable foods to eat on my trip. That night, Cranston, Tim, and I went out to grab dinner, and Cranston suggested we go to Legal Sea Foods because I had never been. I was already starving when they quoted us a 45 minute weight time, so I was ravenous by the time they actually seated us, over an hour and a half later. When they sat the bread basket in front of me, I grabbed a roll, covered it in butter, and asked, who wants to split a bottle of wine?

I guess the lesson is: Be true to yourself and your carb-loving stomach. I suppose it wasn't so much of a life change as an affirmation of the way life currently is, and I like it.

Coming Soon, to a blog near you...

Somewhat predictably, the first two years out of college have brought quite a bit of change. First the plan was to do T....F....A.... for two years, followed by law school. Then that plan got scrapped as the amount of time spent hiding under my desk exponentially increased as the days passed, and I decided to work for my dad for the remainder of the two years before, as planned, attending law school. Then I reconsidered my belief that I wasn't cut out for teaching, and took my latest job that I [gasp] postponed applying to law school for. Okay, not monumental changes, but for someone who a) plans her meals for the whole weak down to the afternoon snack, and b) follows through on plans to a T (what does that really mean, anyway?), these past two years were a fast life-lesson in curve balls.

Keeping on that theme, I start a three-day series of my latest life-changing events.  Yes, it may be summer, but I can still find such occurrences. (Well... maybe you should put air quotes around "life-changing.") You'll laugh, you'll cry... stay tuned. Episode 1 starts tomorrow.

Learning in (and from) Finland

The educational policy community widely regards Finland as the current leader in student academic achievement these days. While next door Sweden has boasted high literacy rates over the years, it currently has nothing on its Scandinavian neighbor, from whom it is learning a lesson or two.

[Aside: I wouldn't be me if I didn't allude to one of my favorite short and oft-forgotten West Wing exchanges here --

President Bartlet: Sweden has a 100% literacy rate. 100%! How do they do that?
Leo McGarry: Well, maybe they don't, and they also can't count.

And, end aside.]

The Economist's recent article on the topic gives what seems to be a very brief overview of Finland's pluses and minuses right now, as well as a peak at what Sweden is doing (which it seems is what it has been doing for the past 30 years). (Actually, the writer spent more time in Sweden than in Finland, which somewhat mystifies me, but I digress...) Like I said, it's short, but it at least makes mention of some specific policies. If you're at all interested in state-wide educational policies, check it out. If you're at all interested in my opinions, read below. If you're not interested in anything of the sort, click that little red square in the top right corner of your tab/window.

First off, I think I should mention that I would kill to travel to different countries (Finland included), study their educational policies, and draw conclusions on policies that would benefit the U.S., so if anyone is aware of a governmental organization and/or educational institution that would like to fund my research, send them my way. Okay, shameless aspirations covered.

Goods

• Teacher competition and preparation -- this implies a total mentality shift, that those responsible for the education of our children should be the best and the brightest, not just the ones who end up in that field. According to the article, only 10% of those applying to teacher preparation programs are accepted. That's half the acceptance rate of many top Universities when I was applying. This also hits on a longstanding debate that the article does not even mention -- the difference between preparing teachers in content areas vs. pedagogy, or the skills of teaching.
  
• Emphasis on special education skills -- a mantra, reiterated to the point of exhaustion in the special education community, is "Special education is good teaching practices." While over-used, it also has the benefit of being true. Best practices in special education aren't necessary for all students to learn, but all students can benefit from said practices. The more specific example of reading illustrates the concept well. Roughly 80% of students will learn to read with whole language or other non-research-based methods. 20% of students will not learn to read using these methods. Nearly 100% of students can learn to read with research-based methods, and all students will learn to read effectively and at a reasonable pace. Furthermore, because not all students with learning differences are quickly identified, it makes good sense to have teachers well-trained in how to effectively instruct various types of students.
• Less Testing -- I actually strongly disagree with Finland's policy, but not totally with the sentiment. They say, don't waist time and money on testing students all the time. I say, redesign assessments so they become part of the education process, and so they truly assess what we want our students to learn and take away from school. It's important that we decide what we want our students to learn, devise a way to test that, teach them, and then test to be sure it worked. But don't force an 8th grader reading at a kindergarten level to sit for tests he can't understand for 4 days. Where's the sense in that?
  

Bads

• "Segregation" of special education students -- Finland seemed so on the right track with the emphasis on special education training. And then they had to go and pull all special education students into completely separate classes. While I will give them a very small gap between "lowest" sections and "highest" sections, it often benefits all students to experience more integrated classes. If you're going to train your teachers in differentiation, direct instruction, alternative assessments (etc.), why not utilize that?
• Start education "late and gently" -- I think I can get behind the gently part, but late would simply not work in America. The unfortunate situation in our country is that many students grow up in unhealthy environments. By the time our children reach the age of 3, the a child of low SES will probably have experienced 30 million fewer words than one of high SES. Furthermore, once they start school, they will acquire vocabulary at a slower rate, making it incredibly difficult to catch up. And early vocabulary correlates strongly to test scores as a child grows. Because of the legacy left by poor education policies in the past, because of the inequalities we have suffered our people to endure, we find that the poor children that walk through our doors on Day 1 of school are far behind their richer peers. We don't have time to waist pushing back the starting age of education.
• Few inspections -- Making it difficult to remove bad teachers takes away a certain professionalism about teaching, something I think we should work to maintain. There can be ways to integrate supervisory practices into education that benefit teachers and help them grow, while also looking out for the best interest of kids.

But I'll save that soap box for another time. I've written enough, and I have statistics homework for tomorrow. While trying to make myself a better teacher, I have to remind myself to be a good student!

Left of Center

Driving through University Park to West Philly the other night, I noticed it's new moniker flying from street lamp flags lining Walnut: Left of Center. The joke being that it's west of Center City, but really, the political implication tending to apply as well. It was almost cutesy and clever enough to make me move to University Park, but, while "almost" counts in horseshoes, it certainly doesn't in living arrangements, and so I press on in my pursuit of the perfect apartment.

I realized in this whole process that my living requirements border on insane to the "normal" people in my life (e.g., my parents), and so I thought I would post them for the rest of the world to either balk at or confirm. I hope it's the latter. I so loathe my parents being right.

- Shared walls! If there's not a person on the other side of that wall, I don't want it. Sure, one exterior wall, maybe even two (am I worthy of a corner apartment??), but I require at least one plaster connection to life outside myself.
- No yard. I can barely keep myself alive, let alone green things.
- No excess space. And by excess, I mean existent. I don't like a lot of space. I want to feel cozy in my apartment. Otherwise I feel I might have a tendency to rattle. And who wants a rattling Caitlin? Not I, I say. Plus, I am yet to own furniture to fill space with.
- Access to public transit. I hate my entrance into the world of designated drivers. Can't we all be civilized and take busses and taxis home? Until someone gets pregnant and is therefore forced into DD-dom, I dread living in a place that requires one to "designate" and, in doing so, hope that they do not drink so much as to totally obliterate themselves, as everyone seems to have a different definition of what it means to be safe to drive.
- Nice walking. I have to have a neighborhood I can walk around. I am very fond of walking. (And don't hate on the P&P reference.)
- Parking. I have finally succumb to the need for a car in this crazy city we call that of Brotherly Love. So if I need a car, I need to be able to park it. Gone are my days of driving around for 45 minutes looking for a spot among all the suburban vehicles, visiting my neighborhood for a concert or a bar. (My life every weekend for the past year.)
[Note: Some might say to me, given your hatred of designated drivers, driving in general, and parking, why not live in Center City? You could choose not to have a car there...the only neighborhood in Philadelphia where you would be able to reverse-commute to your suburban job via: public transit. My answer to you is the next bullet.]
- Cost. I must be able to live in my apartment without going into debt. (Center City-ites pleased? Come on, I teach in a private school.)
- A notable absence of rapists and serial sexual offenders. As my current neighborhood seems to be the new hot spot to wait in your car for 20-somethings on their way home from work (see the 4th and Kater rape), or to break into women's homes and climb into bed with them (last summer's offender), I'm checking out crime rates in my new neighborhoods pretty closely.
- City. While I'm coming around to slightly more residential areas within the city, my address better end in "Philadelphia, PA 191xx". I can't say I understand it myself, but something within me feels so much more alive in the city. I want to walk to the corner to buy my milk, and have access to endless bars (did you think alcohol would have no part in this list?). And this requirement would seem to encompass many of the others: limited space, no yard, shared walls... I'm just not sure if it can sustain some of the others, such as parking and cost.

Right now, I'm pretty much decided on Manayunk. Sure, it's considered Philadelphia, but outside the bounds of the more urban parts of the city, but it would seem to meet most of my other requirements. Additionally, it would cut my commute to work in half from the South Philly-Suburbs commute, a major plus. And I can actually afford to live there, a huge bonus. If you have any other brilliant ideas, though, send 'em my way.

Popularity vs. Self-Hatred

I'm doomed.

There is a difference between popularity and self-confidence. Obviously, I knew this before, but I felt the two really had a lot to do with each other.

The above article lured me in with its promise that teenage popularity was not all that important. In fact, it had little to do with success later on in life. "Yes!" I thought, "One day I will go back to my high school reunion to find that those who were cruel to me have landed suitably unfulfilling careers as retribution.

No, that was just what the article hoped I would think. It went on to describe that while it did not matter if one was popular in high school, to attain life success, teens did have to be comfortable with themselves and happy in their group of friends. This is a tough one. I certainly was comfortable with my friends in high school and found my niche in music, AP classes, and reading on Saturday nights. But comfortable with myself? I'm never going to be comfortable with myself. All of a sudden my dream of waltzing up to some frighteningly fast food (because nothing prepared that quickly can be good for you) counter and requesting that a former social barracuda pass me a medium fries slipped away.

Damn my own self confidence. I started building it up again in college -- being one among other nerds helps that -- but this regression in to high school life through teaching has only hurt me. Is there hope for the self-loathing dork? I can only hope I actually love myself more than I let on.

My Big Fat Serbian Mothers' Day

Every family has one member who seems to bear the brunt of the family pain. And whether through this pain or through some sad neurological development, this family member winds up just a little on the wacky side. Meet my maternal grandmother. Serbian to the core, g-ma's Mothers Day was made perfect by our taking her out to a Serbian restaurant in South Philly last Thursday night.

We walked into the restaurant, complete with patriarch portrait directly above the bar, and the owner and his wife immediately greeted and conversed with G-ma in Serbian. You could almost hear them thinking, "No, don't bother trying with those Serb-Irish mutts, they know not of the Serbian language." Which was correct, none of us do, though I tried to make my Russian pass. (Poor, CMac, piss poor.) We took up the whole front window with our table, which wasn't saying that much as it was not an especially large restaurant. And we started the wine flowing. Because when you have dinner with G-ma, it's best that wine be served.

Even little Banana had a small sip of wine. We figured we were caught when the owner's wife said, "You are not of drinking age..." but she just wanted to see if the little one wanted a Sprite with her underage sip. G-ma started in on painful childhood stories (it's not a holiday dinner without painful childhood stories), the highlight of which was a (I kid you not) 10 minute detailing of how all the family's graveyard plots were purchased.

G-ma loves jewelry, and noticed Al's turquoise bracelet in the middle of all the fun storytelling. G-ma asked if she could try it on. She kept it on, hoping Al wouldn't notice, for 10 minutes, until Al took a break in the grave plot story, gently grabbed her wrist and removed it.

Perhaps my favorite personality trait of the K-vich (g-ma's maiden name) family women is that we are totally unable to deviate from whatever plans we set in our heads. Even when these plans are crazy. The best demonstration of said quality went something like this...

G-ma (to waitress): I'll order once you bring out everyone else's dishes, so I can see what I like.
Mom: Just order now, Mom. Get something. If you don't like it, we'll trade.
G-ma: Okay, I'll order when I can see what everyone else's looks like.
Mom: They can't just wait and put your order in last, Mom. Just get something.
G-ma: Well I either want [insert Serbian dish #1] or [insert Serbian dish #2], so I want to see what the other dishes look like first. Go ahead, (to the waitress), take their orders.
Me: G-ma, I'm getting #1, so why don't you get #2?
G-ma: I want #1. It'll be softer on my sensitive teeth.
Waitress (heretofore silent): #2 is actually softer, and very flavorful.
G-ma: Oh, I don't know.
Waitress: I think you'll really like #2...
Mom: Go ahead, Mom, order now...
G-ma: Okay, I'll have #2.
Everyone Else: (Sigh of relief.)

The whole night ended with some very "smooth" homemade Serbian shots, of which G-ma took multiples because Dad and Al thought they tasted like shoe polish. She pretty much giggled as we cheered her on. Then she demanded that someone help her get up and get out to the car. She was a little too tipsy to manage that one on her own.

America's Next Top Teacher

or, how I managed to walk down a runway, as a teacher, and not make a fool of myself

The short answer to that quandary is, I have no idea how. I think the blinding lights may have had something to do with it, or the surprisingly approving applause. Who knew that seeing a teacher take a risk and do something totally frightening would excite such approbation?

As posted earlier, I was a model in the school's fashion show, the final exam, if you will, of the fashion design elective at school. It turns out I was the only teacher model. Yikes. I wish I had pictures to post; if I get some they'll go right up. For now, the picture I paint in your mind will have to suffice. My designer had the self-described "crazy" line. She likes goth-inspired concepts, which went hard core into my dress. It had a red and black satin bust. The waist began immediately below and involved layer upon layer of black satin and red and black tulle. The top red layer of tulle was cut at the bottom to resemble flames extending downward. The back laced up with a ribbon. It was all very medieval meets rocker chick at the prom. My hair was spiky and my eye makeup smoky with a touch of red.

As someone who can now speak from experience, here are a few things to remember when asked yourselves to model in a fashion show.

1. If the designer tells you there will be no pictures, she is hiding the truth from you to calm your fears. In other words, she is lying. Fashion is pictures. There's no avoiding them. Even if there had not been a photographer hired for the evening, the parent and student newspaper flashes going off would have been sufficient to blind me had the spotlights not been so extreme.

2. If the designer tells you that all you have to do is walk, she obviously is overlooking the fact that posing and walking are not the same thing, you do have to walk and pose, therefore you have to do more than just walk. In other words, she is lying. Again. It's not her fault. She doesn't realize that the idea of "striking a pose" terrifies you, even when posing for cell phone contact pictures. Do not take it out on her. Make your own mental adjustment. Because when she tells you to pose-two-three, walk the corner, pose-two-three, walk to the other corner, pose-two-three, walk back up the runway, pose-two-three, that's four three-second poses there. That's twelve seconds of posing you need to be mentally prepared for. So gear up.

3. If possible, find out where your principal will be sitting during the show, and look anywhere but in that direction. If his is the only face you make out through the bright lights, it might bring on sudden shortness of breath and heart palpitations, not to mention fear of loss of professional dignity, which greatly interferes with any mental preparation for the aforementioned 12 seconds of posing.

The most exciting (by which I mean terrifying) part of the evening was attempting to speak seriously with parents who had come to the show. I think I pulled it off with minimal awkwardness... for me at least. The bottom line greatest benefit to come from the whole experience was to show students that even teachers do things that frighten them, and they can have a blast doing it.

Well, my greatest relief from last night's debate is that, regardless of which candidate people perceived as winning the debate, ABC took loser of the night. Did they think that Stephanopoulos was the best man for the job as their most prominent journalist, or because his biases against both sides would cancel each other out? I honestly like the guy, but the man who owes his career to the Clinton administration, though strongly clashing with Hillary Clinton, probably was not the wisest pick. On top of all that, his questions shat the bed, if you excuse the borrowed phrase. He claims he asked about important issues that haven't been discussed in the debates before. The truth of the second part of that statement is due to the falsehood of the first: the questions had little play in previous debates because they are so incredibly unimportant to the American people, their lives, and their government.

I confess I wasn't able to see all of the debates, but felt fortunate that tonight I was able to view all of the Colbert Report. It was a better showing anyway.

Now enough rants. I'm too tired to even complain eloquently. Here's my amusing teacher tidbit for the night.
Mikhail (student): (Appearing in my office door, looking past me to the math teacher) Can I talk to him?
Me: Yeah, is this a guy thing? I can leave...
Mikhail: Oh no, it's a math thing.
Math Teacher: Well if you're asking if I think Ms. McC will marry you, I don't think so.
Mikhail: Oh, I know she won't. She's older than me and way out of my league.
Me: Automatic A.

Maybe I spoke too soon about my ability to conceal my dorkiness. (Insert glasses finger nudge here.)

And she's back

That's it. I have gone through all my methods of avoiding my paper. It is time for me to return to the blog. After all, what would the internet be like without sad and embarrassing stories of this awkward teacher? (Answer: It would more than survive on all the other sad and embarrassing teacher stories out there.)

Today's embarrassment: trying to pretend you're cooler than you really are. I never realized how much teaching in a high school would make me feel like Drew Barrymore in Never Been Kissed -- reliving painful memories and stereotypical cliques while taking that second chance to make a name for yourself. Of course, I'm not lying about my age, pretending to be a student, or seducing men 10 years younger than me, like Drew was. I also like to think I'm slightly better at this the second time around, unlike Ms. Barrymore's character.

That said, there are still those moments when I am acutely aware of just how dorky I am. Our school has a fashion elective, in which students design and make clothing. Students display their final products at the Spring Art Show in a fashion show, something I was not aware of until a few days ago. When asked by a student if I would be her "model," I could have felt so very Project Runway, but instead I felt so very panicked. "Uh...uh... would I have to take pictures? Because if that's the case you should reconsider for your own benefit. I'm the least photogenic person you'll ever meat." Upon learning that this was not some sort of school magazine spread, but rather a show where you walk down a small runway, I responded nervously, "Oh, walking. I can walk. I can totally walk. What day is this supposed to be?"

Turning for my planner, I swiftly tripped over my heals and collapsed (luckily) into my desk chair. Smiling at the student, I said, "Well, I wouldn't do that during the show. Really."