Replace "Jesse" with "Sarita" and "he" with "she"

If you thought something was fishy about my last post--but were too polite to say anything--you were right. If you know Jesse, you understand that the last thing he wants is 300 pictures of himself. So, there's no way he's taking credit for my brilliant idea; since Jesse's too busy to post his rebuttal, I thought I'd do it for him. If you do as he said in his last comment, you'd have the right story, although I did not find the maternity photos inspiring.

Jesse was probably secretly glad that it rained; it meant he didn''t have to change into his second outfit. In this picture, he's probably thinking, "My butt's wet. Are we done yet? I'd rather be watching Macbeth!"

The moral of the story is that Jesse likes me a lot. Or, I suppose you could look at it this way: I remained level-headed enough not to feed the chipmunks or fall off the edge of Angel's Landing, so I deserved a reward. Take your pick.

Anniversary Photos

We had our pictures taken on July 30th while we were in Cedar City. It was all Jesse's idea. He tried hard to convince me that the following were good ideas: packing two separate outfits to wear while traipsing around the farm towns surrounding Cedar City, posing awkwardly for a stranger we had never met, but whose photos he had seen here andiwatkins.com (the maternity photos on this site inspired him to make an appointment with Andi). He may have been fooled by the website, but I was not.

Three hundred pictures of myself is the last thing I wanted. I tried to explain how awkward this would be, with closeups of kissing and walking into the sunset, but he insisted we do it. He finally sold me on the idea that the photos would commemorate our five-year anniversary. Although I hate getting my picture taken, how could I say no to that? So I finally gave in and tried to find an outfit that would coordinate with the colors he chose to wear.

The day our photos were scheduled to be taken, it rained. All afternoon. The rain only confirmed my initial suspicion that this was a bad idea. Oh, the things I do for him! He agreed that the photos will serve as birthday and Christmas gifts for the next five years.

This last one reminds me of the painting, American Gothic. Jesse wanted to bring props--overalls and pitch forks--and suggested I wear an apron and my hear in a slicked back bun, but I refused. Also, the sheep were being uncooperative and would not pose with us.

Eviction Notice

This week I was “kicked out” of my classroom. I only teach two periods at Elk Ridge, and the teacher who’s been filling in the rest of my schedule has been teaching four periods in my classroom. We have enough seventh graders to give her two more classes. So a move of Machiavellian pragmatism was made to relocate me to a “portable.” These are classrooms outside of the school, lined up like one-room houses on the East side of the main building. They are divested of any technological equipment, they have regularly malfunctioning air conditioning and heating, and they have orange carpet and the lingering odor of wet dogs—at least mine does. I can see it now: For the rest of October, the room will be swelteringly hot, with kids slumped over their desks, half asleep; in December and January, we’ll all be huddling in a refrigerator, wearing our coats and gloves with icicles sticking to our snotty noses.

I was told last week to expect an official notification from the administrators. It never officially came. I knew it had to happen soon, and got tired of waiting for a definitive answer. I got suspicious on Thursday morning, the last day of parent-teacher conferences, and therefore the last day of the week because Friday would be teacher comp day. On Thursday, several of my students told me they would be switching out of my class and that I wouldn’t see them anymore. The counselors told them to expect their new schedule to take effect on Monday. On Monday! So when was someone planning on telling me?

This meant I would have to move out of my classroom and into the portable, and make it look presentable as soon as possible. I’m not sure how people expected me to magically move into my new room without coming in on Friday, or Saturday, or 5:00 AM on Monday. My solution? Skip out on parent-teacher conferences. At my designated table in the gym, I left a note for parents to come see me in the portable.

The portable’s previous inhabitant must have been a Spanish teacher, because an assortment of classroom furniture still bore laminated labels with Spanish phrases emblazoned over colors of the Mexican flag with sticky tape peeling off. So as a result of my relocation, I now know how to say “trash can” in Spanish.