Dead Frogs

I'm not exactly sure why, but there is a box of dead frogs in my classroom. In my storage cabinet, on the shelf just below the American-Literature anthologies rests a cardboard coffin holding 10 plastic-wrapped frogs.

"We think the students will be too excited and eager to see the frogs, so we thought it best to hide the frogs until Friday, the day of the dissection." Of course. That sounds logical: Hide the formaldehyde pickled frogs in my Literature cabinets.

I stood outside my cabinets, imagining the frogs belly up with "X" marks instead of eyes. I had to look at them. There was some force compelling me to look at the corpses. Even though I knew it would be unpleasant, I pushed forward, opened the cabinet, and removed the Fedex frog box.

I unfolded the cardboard flaps and peered in over the edge. My body was tense, preparing for a possible strike from a zombie frog breaking for freedom.

But there was no escape attempt: just speckled frogs vacuum packed and stiff from latex injected into the veins. I got close to one of the frog's faces. The lids were closed over the dehydrated pebble-sized eyes, and his head seemed flatter than I thought it would be.

I feared the idea of the dead frogs at first. But sharing a moment with them, alone in my classroom, I felt somewhat like an accessory to murder. Though their blood was replaced with chemicals, and their lives probably taken months ago, the dissection seemed more like an execution.

My cabinet feels like death row.

I Hate Protractors

I'm not a math fellow, but I think even math teachers will agree with me that protractors are ridiculous. They are useless!

Now before all you SOHCAHTOA lovers write me hate mail, let me clarify that I know protractors are immensely useful in real world situations like architecture and astronomy...but in middle school?

Protractors are just weirdly shaped. They don't really fit in pencil boxes and they end up cluttering backpack pouches. Seriously, who has a semicircular slot just for their protractor?

And though I haven't verified this with one of my math teacher colleagues, I'm fairly certain protractors are only used for, at most, half a textbook math chapter, hardly necessitating a specific tool for angle drawing. I graduated 8th grade: I don't remember using my protractor for anything academic related.

Through this school year, I've had to confiscate over five protractors. Boys are using them as fake brass knuckles. Girls are using the raised tick marks to file their nails. Aspiring circus folk are spinning them on their pencils.

I got so mad at a protractor/Frisbee distraction today that, when I was alone, I snapped that thin plastic in half. I did it slowly. The blue protractor discolored along the lines where I folded it. And the moment I brought its two opposite edges together, I heard and felt its spine crack. Then I imagined its angle-measuring voice screaming. One of the blue shards almost hit me in the eye, but, even with that, it was damn worth it.

Afraid of Sharon Stone

I was a zombie most of yesterday. Two days ago, I went to sleep at 4 am only to wake at 6 am. I was planning on going back into my deep sleep, but a minor emergency (my video game order from Amazon.com got messed up) and anger and frustration jolted me out of the sleepy phase.

So there I was, awake on Wednesday with only 2 hours of sleep. Of course, at about 7 pm, I crashed and took a two hour nap. Now, I'm one of those guys that a nap ruins my chances of falling asleep. Even a 30-minute nap will amp me up so high, I'll toss and turn all night.

So now, with my sleep cycle haphazardly shifted and my dog totally confused, I desperately searched for something on TV.

And that's when I came to Basic Instinct. I've heard good things about it, and I know there are countless references to this movie. So I took the plunge: My dog and I started watching this movie at 2:45 am.

That's when I started freaking out. Sharon Stone and Jean Tripplehorn are CRAZY in this movie. First off, they're naked for about half the movie and the other half they may, or may not, be stabbing people with an ice pick. This kind of psychological thriller totally freaked out the zombie version of me.

After the movie, all I could was imagine the killer jumping out of my closet, out of my bathroom, out from under my bed. I could feel the tingle of their ice pick piercing my neck. I felt helpless and unaware in my sleep-deprived state. So I did the only logical thing: I tied my all my doors shut with rope, and I cleared out under my bed and piled the junk in a corner. Even though I usually sleep fairly naked, I strapped on a sweatshirt like armor protecting from Sharon's potential attacks.

I slept on my side, hugging my dog close to my chest. Even though he had seen the movie, he wasn't afraid. He was as brave as ever. Sharon Stone didn't have shit on Pancake. He was my rock, my hero last night. And in an imagination where Sharon Stone was stalking me, my dog, unafraid of a murderer, guarded me.

I woke up this morning, and thought to myself, "Why the hell is the pantry tied shut with my good, blue neck tie?"

A Farewell at the Roadside

I love Spring Break. Even though it's technically the weekend, I'm feeling the unfettered freedom from adult responsibility. It's the kind of day where I watched a rerun of "Family Matters" and didn't feel guilty that I was wasting my time. I ate crackers for lunch and drank milk from the carton. It's the kind of day when I consider a box of fruit snacks to be a single serving.

But wouldn't you know it? I ran out of delicious snacking items: It was time to reload at the store.

As I grabbed my car keys though, an awareness of my slothfulness and obesity came over me, and I decided to run to the supermarket with a backpack in a vain effort to burn off some of my thunder-thigh calories.

It was pretty ugly outside. The wind and rain synergized into 45-degree blades of cold. Regular people, people with places to go and appearances to maintain, care about the rain. But Spring Breakers? Not so much.

Even with the angry weather, it was a wonderful day. Running out of chips and Fruit Gushers was the worst thing that could happen. I strapped on my running coat and took off with an extra pair of socks in my backpack. My stride was jaunty, and I bounded through puddles just to feel the cool water trickle down my legs.

And then I saw it. At first, I thought it was trash, collected together by the rivers in the gutters. But getting closer, the soaked teddy bears and dead plants revealed a roadside memorial to a person who must have died on that corner.

I've seen these memorials before, usually speeding by at 50 mph in my car. But up close, standing where someone died, standing where someone cared enough to offer gifts: this was something different.

Maybe it was the rain. Maybe it was the still legible messages inscribed on the signal pole. But 5 miles into the 7-mile trip to the market, I turned around and heavily jogged home. The Fritos didn't seem that important.

Spring Break!

I really enjoy being a teacher: I get to tell little kids what to do and what to think. And best of all, I get paid for it.

But even with teaching catering to my wonderfully bloated sense of superciliousness, Spring Break is a fabulous perk. What other job gets a scheduled week off right when the flowers are waking from their hibernation? when the sunshine and the air smell crisp? when Persephone herself walks the surface world again and kisses us on our winter-cracked cheeks?

Sixth period was the school-wide Spring Party. My students and I sat in my classroom licking Safeway frosting off Safeway cupcakes. Chip Ahoy cookies crumbled to the floor. And we laughed together like a middle-school clique.

My students assaulted me with "What are your Spring Break plans?" today. Amid the Tahoe, Disneyland, and Vegas anticipation, none of my eager students could believe that I was going to sit at home and relax.















It's going to be a good week. Me so happy.

Do You Renounce Satan...

I've never been to a Catholic-church service before. So when I got an invite to a baptism, I didn't really know what to expect.

As I was waiting, I noticed a hinge on the pew in front of me. It looked like a tiny pew, folded into the back of the bench in front of me. With a curious heel, I yanked the hinged appendage out. But unaware of its total length, the mini pew collapsed onto the feet of the lady sitting about 10 feet to my left. Oops. Good thing the service started right after that. I could blend in with the singing.


Some old ladies who looked like life-sized Mrs. Butterworths handed me a small, 6-inch candle. It had black wick from a previous burn, and the white wax puffed on the side like a mixture of teardrops and clouds frozen in time. Before long, the priest made his way down the middle with a giant, lit candle. At first, I thought it would take a million years for everyone’s hand-held candle to ignite, but like a smile in a room with friends, the flame passed quickly from person to person before the songs started.

The songs made me oscillate between alert and fatigue. When the priest did his solos, I started to drift into a daze. But when the congregation joined, the rotund fellow in front of me bellowed sonorous tunes that jolted me to attention. Though he and I didn’t share the same beliefs, he sang with a confidence and faith that was admirable and inspiring.

And when the songs had finished, the priest took out the wine and bread. I wasn’t expecting to take communion, but the priest said, “Today, everyone is welcome.” I had researched a bit on how to receive communion, just in case, and I’m glad I did. And this was the biggest surprise of the evening: the communion wafer. I’m not sure why, but from my ignorance, I always assumed the wafer was some type of cookie. When the priest put the body of Christ in my palm, I was expecting the texture of a stale Oreo with the clean taste of a Milano. It really was just flat, edible Styrofoam. No offense.

I guess ignorance really does make us stupid.

But for all the surprises, all the fakeout cookies, and miniature furniture, nothing was quite as powerful as watching twin, 5-month-old girls get baptized. There are different types of smiles: opening a gift, seeing an old friend, laughing at a joke, but the warmest and most subtle smile must be watching a baptism.

Paranoia

I didn't forget it was April Fools Day. I woke up cautiously, checking the floor before I stepped out of bed. I smelled each of my shower liquids before lathering them on my body. I read all of my emails carefully before responding.

But even with my prank alert on high, nothing could prepare me for the most dangerous pranksters of all: the kids.

It started innocently enough with one of my girl students. "Oh my god!" She shouts at the end of the standardized test. "I bubbled all the answers in the wrong section!" The teacher in me freaked out, worrying that erasing all the bubbles would be a daunting task; the shadows of lead would still leak through and ruin her machine-corrected answer sheet.

Of course, April Fools.

I laughed it off. It really was pretty funny, and I appreciated that the students weren't maliciously laughing at my "freak out" face...at least I hope it wasn't malicious.

Then things got out of hand. Before fourth period, one kid burst in the classroom out of breath, saying someone had stolen his backpack. I popped out my seat to go comfort the distraught child, only to have him giggle through my sympathy.

After that, the day just went downhill. Every time a student asked for anything, or told me anything, I suspected foul play.

"Can I go to the bathroom?" Umm, no? I'd rather you piss yourself than be made another fool.

"I forgot my homework." SOL. Pull it out or you fail.

"My stomach hurts." Yeah right. You'll have to crap blood before I let you go to the nurse.

Usually this is a fun holiday, but today's paranoia just made me a grumpy teacher. I could feel the frown lines burn onto my usually jovial face.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice...damn.