Aunty Shanny
Monday, August 29, 2011
School Week 1- Heaven Help Me
The first week of school has this way of planting angry and incredibly negative thoughts into your brain. I am fully aware that it might have to do with my attitude, but I swear on all that is holy, I plastered a smile on my face August 22, 2011 and willed myself to love this semester.
And you know what, I regret giving that day the honor of my smiling face, regardless of whether it was fake or not.
EE EEE EEE EEE
Sweet mother of pearl my alarms going off ALREADY? Cool it. We're smiling our way through senior year. The morning went smoothly enough besides the usual 10 minute lag that occurs in my closet where I survey my side with a sour glare of disgust. "I hate it all," my brain usually mutters. Well maybe if you laid off the symphony bars and made working out a priority more than once a week you'd like it. Brain: "Let me think about that for a second um yeah no. That's not gonna happen, you don't have that kind of will power remember?"
And with that I usually roll my eyes, chuck on a top I've worn way to many times within the past two weeks and slip on a pair of miss me's, the one clothing item I actually enjoy. I tell myself, one day, when I have a career I care about, I will care about what I wear. This is bullshi* (excuse my french. I suppose I should have started this with a disclosure explaining that there will be a large amount of expletives.. my apologies. While I'm on the topic, I should also include that contrary to my English Major and passion for writing, I am not grammar literate. So deal with it. And if you get a high from calling people on inappropriate use of apostrophes or spelling mistakes, feel free, but it will only fuel me to make clumsy "mistakes"in the future.) Back to fashion sense. I swear have some. But even when I get that job I've forked over thousands of dollars to get (more on that later) the children I teach every day will drive me to a madness where fashion sense is the last thing I will care about.... I'm completely prepared for it.
Anyways,
Then there is the process of pulling out of the garage. I'm speaking concerning the status of my gas tank...not actually pulling out of the garage, although I can see that throwing me a curve ball one day just because.
Hallelujuh. The needle is above the giant "E," as in "Excuse me Shan...don't mean to throw off your groove but....your gas tank is EMPTY." I think its important to note here that my gas gage is bipolar. I feel like it plays games with me for the pure satisfaction of getting a rise out of me... I know its broken but once in awhile I get in the car and drop a few select curse words before I remember I filled up the previous morning. Thanks Audi. Way to keep me on my toes.
I am completely unprepared for what I encounter when I get to that constant source of melt down worthy stress. I have less patience than I had anticipated. Usually I'm silent and hopeful for the first ten minutes. After that, the anger flows freely from my lips. I've pondered on putting a camera in my car, just so I can sit down with a bowl of popcorn and watch the show starring my alter ego, the chick in need of some major anger management. Of course, I'd have to burn it afterwards. Thats a side of me only I know, and apparently my parents. I still can't live down the times back when I was a youngin and they were forced to literally tie my door shut with a rope to keep whatever demon possessed me trapped until Shannon reinhabited my little 5 year old body.
Anyways, today there was no silent, hopeful Shannon. I'm not proud to say my wrath brought me and Audi inches from a bright eyed freshman on a vespa like vehicle of some sort... I don't know what they're called, forgive me.
Finally, I plowed into the "A" lot, the lot saved for those most precious to this facility that stole all my money and then had the nerve to ask for more in the form of parking passes that aren't worth the crummy plastic they're made out of, parking tickets, test fees, printing fees, I could go on forever. Anyways, stupidly, I assumed I would receive the blessed "A" lot pass as I am finally a senior this year. WRONG. Oh what? You didn't get the email telling you to get on and register for one on this one day for this one hour on this one website? We need to move on before I chuck this laptop across the room and have to sheepishly explain to my Husband why he needs to fork over a couple grand for a new one.
Anyways, I'm in the A lot, steam slowly seeping out from my ears. I fly past a dinky little car with a line of yellow lights lining the roof and the words, "parking services" painted across the side. Lovely. I sail into a parking spot, grab my back pack, and am clear across the parking lot before ticket boy even knows what hit him. A beautiful lime green envelope with bold black letters pops into my head. Good to see you again parking ticket. You know what to do, and by that, I mean lay in the back of my car, abandoned and ignored until, in order to get my flipping grades, I begrudgingly snatch you up, attach a check and send you off to what I imagine to be a building made out of gold.
Go ahead and take this entire first section and repeat it all for the second day of school. EXCEPT this time, I make eye contact with ticket boy as I angrily speed into the "A" lot. Maybe he saw the desperation in my eyes. Maybe he noticed how I tripped getting out of my car and felt pity for me. Fairytale land Shannon imagines he couldn't help himself as I fluttered gracefully from my car, my luscious hair blowing in the wind, a seductive wink sent his way. The realty is, the frazzled cursing girl that tripped out of her car was the furthest thing from that. Ultimately, I'm guessing the empty window shield I was met with after class was because I carefully mouthed the words "Don't give me a ticket, or...jibberish...." Your imagination can go wild with what that jibberish was. I'm going to go with the seductive hott girl version. Don't judge me. Its my world. I'll view it as I see fit.
The whole week played out like this with an additional last minute Student Teaching License application I had no idea about, and an especially lovely present, especially since it is my senior year: "You HAVE to have a teaching minor." This stated by the head of my department. Oh yeah? Interesting how when I went over my major and minor requirements, my advisor never mentioned that. NBD I'll just take care of that real quick.... I wonder if these professors, department advisors, etc understand the weight their comments hold. I highly doubt she realized the amount of stress and anxiety she planted in my mind when she said those 7 words. Regardless...
Ironically, the Advanced Psychology class I am required to take to turn my Psychology minor into a Psychology teaching minor, is my absolute favorite. The professor drops so many "what the hell's" and "damnits" I can't help but giggle periodically throughout class. For a second, my happiness with the class faltered when a dumb blonde in front mentioned her intense love for college football, especially Oregon and Notre Dame, but then had no clue who their star players were and who they were playing this weekend. I can hear you all now, sympathetic comments about how I'm being cynical. Give me a break, you're not all Mother Theresa. When someone rubs you the wrong way, you subconsciously tuck them into your "tune out at all times" folder. Fine, its just me. I'll take the heat.
SO welcome to my blog readers. It was a bit negative today, but its all in jest. It allows me to laugh at the situation rather than dwell in self pity : ) I swear I'm a happy person most of the time.
And you know what, I regret giving that day the honor of my smiling face, regardless of whether it was fake or not.
EE EEE EEE EEE
Sweet mother of pearl my alarms going off ALREADY? Cool it. We're smiling our way through senior year. The morning went smoothly enough besides the usual 10 minute lag that occurs in my closet where I survey my side with a sour glare of disgust. "I hate it all," my brain usually mutters. Well maybe if you laid off the symphony bars and made working out a priority more than once a week you'd like it. Brain: "Let me think about that for a second um yeah no. That's not gonna happen, you don't have that kind of will power remember?"
And with that I usually roll my eyes, chuck on a top I've worn way to many times within the past two weeks and slip on a pair of miss me's, the one clothing item I actually enjoy. I tell myself, one day, when I have a career I care about, I will care about what I wear. This is bullshi* (excuse my french. I suppose I should have started this with a disclosure explaining that there will be a large amount of expletives.. my apologies. While I'm on the topic, I should also include that contrary to my English Major and passion for writing, I am not grammar literate. So deal with it. And if you get a high from calling people on inappropriate use of apostrophes or spelling mistakes, feel free, but it will only fuel me to make clumsy "mistakes"in the future.) Back to fashion sense. I swear have some. But even when I get that job I've forked over thousands of dollars to get (more on that later) the children I teach every day will drive me to a madness where fashion sense is the last thing I will care about.... I'm completely prepared for it.
Anyways,
Then there is the process of pulling out of the garage. I'm speaking concerning the status of my gas tank...not actually pulling out of the garage, although I can see that throwing me a curve ball one day just because.
Hallelujuh. The needle is above the giant "E," as in "Excuse me Shan...don't mean to throw off your groove but....your gas tank is EMPTY." I think its important to note here that my gas gage is bipolar. I feel like it plays games with me for the pure satisfaction of getting a rise out of me... I know its broken but once in awhile I get in the car and drop a few select curse words before I remember I filled up the previous morning. Thanks Audi. Way to keep me on my toes.
I am completely unprepared for what I encounter when I get to that constant source of melt down worthy stress. I have less patience than I had anticipated. Usually I'm silent and hopeful for the first ten minutes. After that, the anger flows freely from my lips. I've pondered on putting a camera in my car, just so I can sit down with a bowl of popcorn and watch the show starring my alter ego, the chick in need of some major anger management. Of course, I'd have to burn it afterwards. Thats a side of me only I know, and apparently my parents. I still can't live down the times back when I was a youngin and they were forced to literally tie my door shut with a rope to keep whatever demon possessed me trapped until Shannon reinhabited my little 5 year old body.
Anyways, today there was no silent, hopeful Shannon. I'm not proud to say my wrath brought me and Audi inches from a bright eyed freshman on a vespa like vehicle of some sort... I don't know what they're called, forgive me.
Finally, I plowed into the "A" lot, the lot saved for those most precious to this facility that stole all my money and then had the nerve to ask for more in the form of parking passes that aren't worth the crummy plastic they're made out of, parking tickets, test fees, printing fees, I could go on forever. Anyways, stupidly, I assumed I would receive the blessed "A" lot pass as I am finally a senior this year. WRONG. Oh what? You didn't get the email telling you to get on and register for one on this one day for this one hour on this one website? We need to move on before I chuck this laptop across the room and have to sheepishly explain to my Husband why he needs to fork over a couple grand for a new one.
Anyways, I'm in the A lot, steam slowly seeping out from my ears. I fly past a dinky little car with a line of yellow lights lining the roof and the words, "parking services" painted across the side. Lovely. I sail into a parking spot, grab my back pack, and am clear across the parking lot before ticket boy even knows what hit him. A beautiful lime green envelope with bold black letters pops into my head. Good to see you again parking ticket. You know what to do, and by that, I mean lay in the back of my car, abandoned and ignored until, in order to get my flipping grades, I begrudgingly snatch you up, attach a check and send you off to what I imagine to be a building made out of gold.
Go ahead and take this entire first section and repeat it all for the second day of school. EXCEPT this time, I make eye contact with ticket boy as I angrily speed into the "A" lot. Maybe he saw the desperation in my eyes. Maybe he noticed how I tripped getting out of my car and felt pity for me. Fairytale land Shannon imagines he couldn't help himself as I fluttered gracefully from my car, my luscious hair blowing in the wind, a seductive wink sent his way. The realty is, the frazzled cursing girl that tripped out of her car was the furthest thing from that. Ultimately, I'm guessing the empty window shield I was met with after class was because I carefully mouthed the words "Don't give me a ticket, or...jibberish...." Your imagination can go wild with what that jibberish was. I'm going to go with the seductive hott girl version. Don't judge me. Its my world. I'll view it as I see fit.
The whole week played out like this with an additional last minute Student Teaching License application I had no idea about, and an especially lovely present, especially since it is my senior year: "You HAVE to have a teaching minor." This stated by the head of my department. Oh yeah? Interesting how when I went over my major and minor requirements, my advisor never mentioned that. NBD I'll just take care of that real quick.... I wonder if these professors, department advisors, etc understand the weight their comments hold. I highly doubt she realized the amount of stress and anxiety she planted in my mind when she said those 7 words. Regardless...
Ironically, the Advanced Psychology class I am required to take to turn my Psychology minor into a Psychology teaching minor, is my absolute favorite. The professor drops so many "what the hell's" and "damnits" I can't help but giggle periodically throughout class. For a second, my happiness with the class faltered when a dumb blonde in front mentioned her intense love for college football, especially Oregon and Notre Dame, but then had no clue who their star players were and who they were playing this weekend. I can hear you all now, sympathetic comments about how I'm being cynical. Give me a break, you're not all Mother Theresa. When someone rubs you the wrong way, you subconsciously tuck them into your "tune out at all times" folder. Fine, its just me. I'll take the heat.
SO welcome to my blog readers. It was a bit negative today, but its all in jest. It allows me to laugh at the situation rather than dwell in self pity : ) I swear I'm a happy person most of the time.
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