Cover Letters

 I think most of us are taught from an early age not to brag. Even if we’re not EXPLICITLY taught by our grownups, most of us still end up getting the gist. If someone doesn’t sit you down and explain it, you eventually (some of you need to) learn to read the room. 

One absolutely hypothetical example is watching the light fade from your beloved aunt’s eyes as you enter your thirty-seventh minute talking about how using pointillism to portray a Ninja Turtle is really avant garde, and frankly a daring entrance into the art community. That’s never actually happened to me, and if it did, which it didn’t - I’m sorry, hypothetical Aunt Laura. Someone probably thought she had rendered Teenage Mutant Leonardo brilliantly in tiny dots with her new thin-line Crayola markers, and that damn kid probably felt compelled to, well - render someone else bored shitless about it. 

Which brings me to cover letters. 

I have four (4) drafts chilling in my Google Docs right now, and I can’t read them without cringing. Seriously.  “Hello! I’m a person and I would like a job! Here are the things I can do. Look at them here! Now look at them on the resume! NOW call my references and let them tell you all the things I can do! I AM SO COOL OMG LOOK AT ME LOOK AT ME.”

There’s GOT to be a difference between incredibly boring child torturing a loved one with too much information and an adult needing to brag *just enough* to get a job, but thus far I’m not finding it. Everything I write about my accomplishments (uck. Even that sounds gross. Skibbidi, in fact.) sounds utterly ridiculous. Every time I start one of these letters, I am again a second grader approaching Aunt Laura with this picture I drew for her; but at this point, I’m aware that I’m going to bore her, and anyone else, to death. I CAN pinpoint one difference between a child with a picture and an adult seeking employment; I never thought for one second that my sweet aunt wasn’t fascinated. I am horrified - frozen, in fact - by the thought that an employer will look at my life so carefully arranged and toss me into the discard pile.

For the record, it really was an amazing rendition of the damn turtle. 

The Best Cat Who Ever Lived: Part One

 

When I bought this house, I didn’t intend to get a pet. SERIOUSLY. A clean, bright living space, smelling of nothing but fresh paint and wood floors?  Newly renovated? Smells like nothing other than said paint and floors unless someone scrambles eggs, cooks broccoli, or uses a bathroom for its intended purpose??  I wasn’t at all feeling “box of cat excrement” as part of the aesthetic. NO PETS NEED APPLY.

Right.

I broke, of course, less than two weeks in, and went to Exotic Tropicals, a truly lovely local pet store. I purchased a fish and fish tank and rainbow gravel and fish pebbles and - frankly, whatever I was offered. I’ll house a slab of salmon like a hungry hound dog, but I don’t know anything about keeping them alive (they need to live in water, that’s a free tip for you). And so the newly christened Ezekiel James and I went home; him in his bag, and me in my car weighted down with all of his accessories.

The next day happened to be a snow day, and I was being a Normal Human Being by texting all of my coworkers to check on their various collections of children, partners, and pets. I sent such an inquiring text to a delightful human, who responded with pictures of pets in multiple stages of repose. She also included in these responses a picture of a tiny, scrappy-looking little tabby critter and said - “This is [temporary name redacted for privacy of foster owner]. I’m looking for a home for her.” I vaguely felt the jaws of Fate close upon me as I texted back, “I have a home.”

It took about 2 minutes to put some clothes on (I don’t wear clothes at my house - ah! The joys of living alone!) and about 5 minutes to get to her house and fewer minutes for my coworker’s sweet son to toss the cat in her carrier and into my car next to her litter box. He didn’t actually toss, of course. He placed her sweetly, kindly, in her box, in my car, and I quietly sang my favorite Raffi songs to her on the way home. 

I expected her to be timid, of course, and I was ready to begin the arduous process of winning her trust. Instead, when I got her to my house - to OUR HOME, now - she immediately left her crate and came to be loved. This is our first selfie together. Most of you know her through my seemingly unending Facebook posts, and many of you know her from her time chilling in the ivy at the pub; but here’s her first blog appearance. My Harriet, the best cat who's ever lived.

Postscript: The morning after Harriet arrived, Ezekiel James was returned quite unceremoniously to the store from whence he’d come, in a Sonic cup with the lid taped on top. We would say we mourn his absence, but we don't lie on our blog.

Your the Best: How a Good Teacher Failed

Say what you will about my teaching career, but leave this standing: I was the best. Adhering to standards? Running a classroom like my literacy coach wanted? Delivering lesson plans on time? Absolutely not. Ensuring that my students followed protocol when it came to anything and everything, like leaving for the bathroom? Please. Where I WAS the best, and where my success will always let me sleep at night - or during the day, since I’m working nights now - is that any child in my classroom felt safe with me. Did I do it like you* wanted? Clearly not. But did I do it RIGHT? For me, yes.

In going through - painfully, slowly, the detritus from my classroom - I found so many notes. Letters. Cartoons. Drawings. Oddly shaped clay sculptures. Stuffed animals. But the notes; most of them proclaiming me the best teacher ever. Almost all of them using “your”, not “you’re”. Now that’s something that should have been taught years ago, of course, and god forbid we release a child into the wild wild world not knowing how to properly use contractions - but here's where I suppose I confess to being a teacher who wasn't meeting expectations. If a child was happy - feeling safe - feeling loved - feeling fully accepted, then I spent the last four years doing God's work. Who the fuck cares about anaphora, anyway?

* I'll wait until everyone I love is fully out of the system, and then I'm naming names. I asked you to tell me why I was cut loose, and you gave me crickets. This isn't over.