I thought I would be able to update this more, since I had done a fairly decent job keeping everyone updated on my progress of that whole “going back to school” thing I started at the beginning of the year. School would, among other things, at least give me something to write about here. Right?

And then I started classes and suddenly thoughts of writing various and witty posts about my insights into the realm of online education went quickly out the door. When I wasn’t at work, I was either sitting at my computer pouring over notes and lectures, researching and getting reacquainted with Excel, or sitting on the couch trying to wade through chapters of dry textbook material on sustained competitive advantage or short-term scheduling. And if I found some free time it either went to spending a precious couple of hours with Paul, working on wedding related tasks or cleaning the house.

Somewhere in there I did manage to make a trip home to Big Horn to get some wedding logistics taken care of (a big shout out to Mom for making sure we got everything accomplished that we needed to), a trip to Casper (ugh) to help judge at the state DI tournament (yeah!) and a trip to Laramie to see Abbey graduate (congratulations again, little sister!). But other than that, little else besides work and homework/studying occurred.

Next week we head to Big Horn again to help Mom and Dad out with various around the house projects, get wedding and bridesmaid dresses altered and whatever else needs to be done before the wedding. This will be the last trip home before the wedding (which is, amazingly, less than a month and a half away!)

It’s been a hectic last 5 months, but now I’m enjoying my one week of “summer vacation” before I start my next round of classes. And by enjoying my summer vacation, I mean working on wedding related tasks, cleaning the house and some general vegging out while watching various HGTV shows. If the sun ever comes out, I may even mow the lawn.

So, after months of toiling away, after more than a few episodes of panic, stress and frustration towards my lack of comprehension of more than one Economics topic, after working on exams in a hotel room in Casper and in the car on the trip to and from Laramie last weekend; after bugging Abbey a whole lot about homework problems and calling Mom so someone could convince me that I wasn’t going to outright flunk an exam, the final grades are in…

4.0

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some episodes of Top Chef and America’s Next Top Model that I need to watch.  I am on summer vacation, after all.

Hasta!

Well, it’s been a month. Figured we’d update.

Mostly we’ve been working, and getting over colds and then getting sick again, and waiting for spring. I’ve been fortunate enough to only get truly sick once this year, while Kathryn has recently contracted some viral thing that’s turned her nose into a goo factory.

We had a nasty wind storm yesterday – sustained winds at 50mph for a while there, with stronger gusts – and at one point I looked out back and saw shingles, remarkably similar to the ones attached to our roof, in the back yard. Sure enough, we lost a patch of 10 or so in one spot, with random singles gone in other places and plenty more flapping ominously. I quickly consulted a neighbor who said it might not be a bad idea to nail down the loose ends, lest the entire roof blow into Nebraska in a nasty domino effect, so I climbed up there in the middle of the damn storm and nailed down the exposed sections.

Today, after a little research and plenty of phone calls to relatives who know about this sort of thing, yours truly picked up some awesome roofing materials and will be climbing up there once the weather warms up. Speaking of, anyone know when that is?

Meanwhile Kathryn’s been geeking out on Lost and I’ve been geeking out on John Adams. Best moment so far? Right after the Continental Congress signs the Declaration of Independence and there’s that slow pan, with the representatives contemplating what they’ve done, in a total “holy $%*#&” moment. During tonight’s episode, Adams was whining about coming in second place in the election (and given Adams’ perfectionism and general uptight-ness, of course he’d get all bent out of shape about second place), and Abigail was trying to talk some sense into him. On the couch next to me, Kathryn snorted a little bit.

“Yes?” I asked, not peeling my eyes of the TV.
“I’ve seen that look before,” Kathryn said.
“What do you mean?”
“That’s his mopey face,” Kathryn said, “and I’ve seen it somewhere before.”

Did I mention we’re getting married in less than three months?

While trying to get motivated to work on an economics case study (or more accurately, trying to figure out if there was anything else I could do instead of research), I realized I haven’t contributed to this little blog of ours in a good, long time. Chalk it up to work getting increasingly busier (finally), and school kicking into full gear for, well forever; but still, I’m sure someone out there still enjoys reading what I have to say, so I’d hate to disappoint all two of you.

The wedding is now officially less than four months away (!) and wedding planning is in a bit of a lull, as there isn’t a whole lot to do since all the major stuff is out of the way and the details don’t need to be addressed quite yet. Bits and pieces still come up often in conversations Paul and I have, but they’re generally casual references.

“We need to figure out accompaniment for the processional”

“Does our DJ have sound equipment?”

“Does our officiant need a tie that matches the groomsmen?”

Generally, very enthralling and important topics. So, a couple weeks ago, the topic of recessional music was breached. We have processional music and the music performed during the ceremony figured out, but the recessional has been left hanging. It needs to be something peppy–with a celebratory feel to it. It would also be nice to have something with some significance behind it. Here was what we came up with, but we’re not sure if it’s quite right. And this is where you come in, we need an outside party opinion:

Here Comes My Baby by Cat Stevens

Sure, the song itself is about unrequited love (which is why it might be weird to have as a processional song). But we’re hoping the story behind it will rationalize our reasons behind picking it in the first place…

Back in our Orr Hall RA days, our boss made everyone on staff a mix CD for Christmas. We all listened to music during our, often-times tedious and long desk shifts, so we frequently passed around various albums and mixes to help further break up the monotony. Following our boss’s lead, Paul ended up making “RA Soundtracks” for the staff. The first mix had a variety of songs, some relating to other staffers and life as an RA (Long Haired Redneck by David Allen Coe was a shout-out to Paul’s Nebraska farm-boy floor-mate, Marcy Playground’s Sex and Candy was a reference to the potential dangers of hall rounds, etc) and others thrown in for the hell of it.

Paul eventually posted his picks and reasons for the picks on his then current blog. Here Comes My Baby made an appearance on this mix. The only thing mentioned about this particular song in Paul’s description was simply “Here for a reason.” I didn’t think anything of it, well nothing beyond thinking how much I liked Cat Stevens, anyway.

A second volume was released the following semester and the two soundtracks were on a fairly constant rotation at Jenn and Phil’s when I moved in with them that summer. They dug the selections, I dug the selections, it kept us entertained while we painted various rooms at the house. Phil once asked if any of the songs were a reference to me.

“Well, not everyone got a song dedicated to them…but I’m pretty sure Punk Rock Girl by The Dead Milkmen is for me.” I said, completely joking because I really didn’t think any of the songs referenced me in any way, shape or form.

Although, Punk Rock Girl is a great song…but I digress. Fast-forward 4 months or so. Paul and I had just started dating. While bored at work one day, I was perusing old blog posts of Paul’s. I came across the RA Soundtrack playlist explanations and wondered why I had never asked why he actually put the Cat Stevens song on the CD. So I emailed and asked him.

“Gee, Kathryn, what do YOU think the reason was? You’ve listened to the lyrics, I’m assuming…”

I had indeed, listened to the lyrics, but I have a tendency to learn all the lyrics to a song without actually comprehending the meaning of the song. I’m sure there’s some linguistic concept behind this–word comprehension without contextual comprehension, perhaps–but no matter, I knew all the words, but didn’t really know what the song was about. So imagine my surprise when I actually read the lyrics.

Well, crap. How did I miss that only-slightly-subtle message? Because I’m an idiot, apparently. Evidently, Paul had debated about whether or not to even include the song at all, for fear that I would figure it out and react poorly to it. There might have been some loss of sleep over the final decision to include it (from what I remember Paul telling me), and after all the stress, the whole thing just went completely over my head.

So now, every time we hear the song, we chuckle and I apologize for being so incredibly oblivious and thank Paul for not thinking I’m a complete flake and for toughing it out for 9 more months (he gave us the CD back in January of that year).

So, dearest readers, the song is upbeat, and has a significant meaning to us, but is it weird to have a song about unrequited love usher us out of our own wedding ceremony? I tend to think that (hopefully) there are other people like me out there who won’t necessarily pick up on the lyrics if they hear them. But then again, well, there very well may not be and we could end up leaving people very, very puzzled.

Thoughts? Comments? Suggestions? Please share.

Soccer season approacheth. Several months ago, the boys head coach asked me if I’d like to be involved in taking a soccer team to an indoor tournament in Cheyenne. He said they wouldn’t be able to pay me much, but it would be good experience and as an added bonus, it would get me out of a painful afternoon of scheduled professional development. Three fewer hours of professional development? Sold!

“Even if you’re with the girls team?” coach asked.

“Uh… sure,” I said.

In retrospect this was kind of like the infamous “yearbook question” in my job interview. They’d asked me if I’d be willing to be the yearbook adviser, and on the inside, I was screaming OH GOD ANYTHING BUT YEARBOOK. On the outside, I smiled and said “Nothing, sirs, would warm the cockles of my heart more, sirs, than taking the helm of such a proud and organized production.”

So I said I’d take the girls. And why wouldn’t I? If I’m serious about being a soccer coach, then I’d better be willing to coach women as well as men.

The indoor tournament wasn’t like most school functions in many senses (there isn’t a true indoor soccer league; the players had to pay their own entry fees, etc.), but in the most important sense it was: we took school vehicles. Coach drove a Suburban full of 8 boys and I drove a Suburban full of 7 girls.

We arrived in Cheyenne on Friday night, checked into our hotel, and piled back into the Suburbans for dinner. Our kids are pretty sophisticated and savvy, but bless ‘em, they couldn’t resist the high-fallutin’, big-city temptations of Olive Garden and the mall.

Saturday was game day, and a few curious things happened. I taped my first ankle, having passed my “Care and Prevention of Athletic Injuries” class back in December; I threw together some last-minute coaching tips; I sat on the bench and watched the game in an entirely new light. In a goalie-plus-four indoor game, one can’t do a whole lot of coaching other than to stay positive and give high-fives on substitutions. But every now and then, elements of responsibility, control, and teamwork coalesced into a brand new kind of teaching high.

We lost our first three games, with a fourth game at 9:30 and no chance of playing in Sunday’s playoff bracket.

Mostly our losses could be chalked up to fitness and wellness – our school has been ravaged by a plague-like virus and everyone’s been hacking up lungbutter for the better part of a month. More tellingly, the girls were making smart passes and were reading passing lanes on defense, but they simply couldn’t move their legs fast enough to get to the ball or the attacker. With two subs, no one caught more than two or three minute breaks before someone else came staggering to the bench, gasping.

Our final match took place several hours after our third match, so after a lunch (picture a Suburban full of girls screaming “QUIZNOS! QUIZNOS! OHMYGODOHMYGOD THEY ARE SO GOOD DUDE! QUIZNOS! OHMYGOD! OHMYGOD!”) and a long rest, they took the court for the final game.

It was a team from northern Colorado somewhere and they looked like underclassmen. They were called “Ridgeview B” or something, so clearly they weren’t the best players the school had to offer. Still, we wanted a win – and we got it.

That night the kids ordered pizza – way, way too much of it – and stayed up until 2 playing video games in their hotel rooms, since a 5 hour drive home at 10:00pm was out of the question. Sunday’s drive home was terrifying for the first two hours but soon smoothed out. The fifty bucks I was paid barely covered my food expenses, but ultimately the experience was indeed far more valuable than the money. Our outdoor season starts March 3rd and I can’t wait.

We hope our readership knows we’re engaged. If not, well, we’re engaged. June 28 of this year. In the spirit of self-congratulatory celebrations, we invite you to take a quiz about us.

Kathryn’s quiz, written by Paul.
Paul’s quiz, written by Kathryn.

If you’re so inclined, you can also check out our wedding page. Look at pictures of us! Find a picture of yourself, maybe! Post your quiz results! Wheeeeee!

For the first time since November we had two consecutive days above 40 degrees this weekend. Kathryn worked, and me? I fished.

My traditional first-cast-of-the-year unspools on the only open water around, up at the mouth of the canyon, below the Rise. One has to wade through snow to get to the water, and even then, there is snow and ice on the rocks. There are pools, however – clear, deep pools, some of which look like they should hold fish, and some that do hold fish.

Saturday I didn’t wear my waders, instead strapping gaiters over snowboots and casting from waist-deep drifts. That went poorly. Sunday I put on the waders and shuffled into the water, which put me in position to make good casts into good water. It’s three months too soon for airborne bugs, so I offered up a five course meal of aquatic flies: size 16 to 20 beadheads, with enough shiny things on them to catch any hungry trout’s gaze. Sure enough, I hooked into one but didn’t land it, and saw a few others – some darting upstream, spooked by my shadow, some just chilling low, between rocks – but the fish are there.

Mrs. Sigaty, my 4th grade teacher, was my favorite. Having endured Mrs. Paulson’s nebulous presence in second grade, and having survived Mrs. Jensen’s personal vendettas in third grade, I felt like Mrs. Sigaty was pretty much the coolest lady ever. She simply didn’t carry the weight of 25+ years of teaching and South Dakota meals as my previous teachers.

Every week Mrs. Sigaty would scrawl a kid’s name in calligraphy on a piece of construction paper, and everyone else in the class would write two nice things about him or her. The trick was, you had to come up with something that was particular to the kid – you couldn’t just write “I like your shirt” or something like that; you had to be specific. It was a very efficient and clever way of making even the farm kids feel liked.

Now, I wasn’t a bad or mean-spirited child by any stretch of the imagination, but I learned early on to solve problems creatively. In this case, I didn’t really feel like coming up with something new and nice to say about every damn kid in the class. I simply didn’t have the energy for that, but try telling that to Mrs. Sigaty. What was needed here, I realized, was a line to write that was nice enough to make the kid believe I’d thought about it, but also vague enough to be true for everyone. Since chances were slim that my classmates would actually compare these things with each other, I could just use that line for everyone and call it good.

Thus the phrase “You don’t brag and you’re easy to get along with” was born.

I must have written that on at least 15 classmates’ papers before my turn came up. That Friday I got home and read over the sheet, hungry for compliments. I read that thing over and over; top to bottom; bottom to top; only the girls; only the boys; the whole thing one more time. As I did, my stomach lurched.

My classmates had read my soul. One said he liked my stories. Another said she liked my drawings. Another said he liked how I was always nice to him in the lunch line. And on, and on, and on. Every one of those kids had done exactly like Mrs. Sigaty had asked; they’d given some thought to their classmate and written what they truly, genuinely liked about him. And I hadn’t. For all of those kids before me, I hadn’t.

———-

Fast forward 25 years. My 10th graders are learning about the forces that shape our identities, and for the introductory lesson I had them all draw their personal crests. I handed them the outline of a coat of arms; they filled it in with designs that represent how they view themselves. The next step was to sit in a big semi-circle and – you guessed it – pass the sheets around so they could write two nice things about each other.

In the process of explaining why it was important to look at how we see ourselves and how others see us, I told the story from 4th grade.

“Folks, whatever you do, don’t write something shallow and lame. Make sure it’s meaningful and genuine,” I said. “That phrase I wrote in 4th grade has stuck with me all of these years, and it totally sucks that I was shallow and lame.”

Being nice was really hard for some of the kids, and in fact some of them simply couldn’t do it – when was the last time you asked a 15 year old to say something genuinely nice about his best friend? – but overall it went pretty well. As we were winding down for the day one of the students piped up.

“Mr. P., are you going to pass your sheet around?” T. is a band kid and a really funny guy.

I’d been working on a coat of arms, too, but hadn’t spent too much time on it. I’d only drawn my last name and a soccer ball; I’m still trying to come up with some badass-sounding Latin phrase that sums me up.

“Well, I can, but I haven’t been writing on yours,” I said.

“No, but you give us all birthday cards and you write stuff in those,” he replied.

Fair enough, I thought. I gave him my sheet and started picking up the room as they passed it around the circle, giggling a little more than usual. The bell rang as the last kid wrote his note to me, and he slipped it onto my podium on his way out.

I flipped it over, eager to read something – anything – nice about me and my hard work and how awesome my classes are. Written over and over again, by the smart kids and the slower ones, by the nice ones and the hard ones, by the brains, jocks, and metal heads, was:

“You don’t brag and you’re easy to get along with.”

Kathryn’s not the biggest soup fan in the world, so I generally have it when she’s not around. She worked today, and since both of us woke up feeling mildly sick, I thought a bowl of soup sounded like a swell idea for lunch.

I keep a few cans of Campbells in the cupboard; mostly they’re the old favorites but every now and then I get all kooky and pick up a flavor I’ve never had. Today I fired up a can of “Pepper Pot,” which sounded tasty enough.

I’ve had some wretched meals in my life, mostly the result of my own culinary experiments or laziness. But this! The flavor was something of a cross between lint and crap, with little chunks of a fatty substance thrown in for slimy texture. Blech.

—–
Tonight Kathryn’s sacked out in the basement (“the hole,” as we call it) and I’m baking some bread. Relatives and close friends should be on the lookout for an email from us regarding more wedding details and our wedding website. That is all.

Because I, at the very least, like to try and maintain that I’m a responsible, respectable adult, I don’t normally talk about my drinking habits on this blog. I’m not a closet alcoholic or anything, but, my parents and future in-laws read this and, and I feel like drinking (and on occasion, drinking too much) is one of those things we can all assume every does, even if we don’t talk about it.

But Paul referenced in the last post that I would need to explain why he was so tired on Monday, and, well, alcohol plays a really, really large part in all that.

Last Sunday, my employers threw their annual Christmas Party. It may have been January 13, but we were all willing to ignore that fact if there was free food and drink involved. The food was going to be delicious (catered by the fine dining restaurant’s former head chef, no less), and the drinks would be free, alcoholic and at the expense of our employer. Merry Christmas to us! I don’t know this applies to all who work in the restaurant industry, but this group likes to drink, and drink we all did.

I had work before the party, and I didn’t realize until two glasses of wine in that the prime rib sandwich I had for lunch had long since been digested and I had actually started drinking on an empty stomach. No amount of appetizers and Thai food could help the fact that, after four drinks, I was, as the British would say, off my face. At least I wasn’t the only one.

No, that doesn’t mean Paul too was taking advantage of my employer’s generosity. Since he had to be at work bright and early the next day, he stopped after a glass of wine. He did, however, have to endure everyone else being blitzed out of their minds, dancing terribly and probably singing (off key) to boot. So, we left about an hour before my bosses cut everyone else off. I didn’t get sick, thankfully, but really, how much fun is it to sleep with a drunk person next to you? Not very. So, Paul woke up at 4:30 and couldn’t get back to sleep. Sorry, honey.

Not so conveniently, my first day of classes was Monday. Nursing only a slight headache (thank you 5 or so glasses of water and ibuprofen before bed!), I dived into my syllabi, read a little and just tried to grasp all that would be expected of me in each of my classes, all before heading off to work.

Today, as I try to get ready for my work week, and try to get the house looking presentable for our housewarming/engagement party (very belated, we know) on Friday, in addition to school, I’m still feeling apprehensive about being in school when it’s not my only, or main focus. It’s kind of a weird feeling. I finished all of my assigned readings and discussion contributions for the week (which feels great, I should mention), but it’s a strange feeling doing so many other things on top of it.

At least, I don’t feel too out of my league in any of classes, especially since I’ve never taken any business classes before. From emails sent by students in one of my classes, it looks like I’m in the same boat as a lot of people (taking pre-reqs for the online MBA program), so that, in and of itself is very reassuring.

So with that, I’m off to pick up the house and make a grocery list for our party and then head off to work. You can be assured our party will be much tamer (even though some of my coworkers will be in attendance). I have to work at 7:30 or so on Saturday morning and I don’t need a hangover for that.

For the past few weeks yours truly has been in a funk of some sort. It could be my beloved Illini basketball team; it could be seasonal; it could just be the end of semester. My students are looking like a very tired and fed up group of teens, and they are clearly less and less impressed with me on a daily basis. And while occupational considerations might be affecting me on some level, fret not. It’s the right job – it’s just a tough part of the year. The kids are cooked, the teachers are overworked, and all of us are a little edgy.

Which might explain the anonymous hatemail I received in my work inbox this morning. I’ll spare you the details other than to say it was obviously a student in one of my classes, and that the language was, shall we say, ungentlemanly.

Now, I can handle kids being pissed off at me. One doesn’t teach for the fame, fortune, or respect. No, what truly hurt was that the turd didn’t even try to spell “your” and “you’re,” preferring instead the lexicographically odious “ur.” Twice.

Come on. Really?

The rest of the day was mostly uneventful, and when I get bored weird things start happening in my brain, the most problematic of which is that I tend to overanalyze various issues and before you know it, I’m full-blown depressed. On top of that, I was incredibly sleepy (I’ll let Kathryn explain that one). Finally, mercifully, the last bell rang.

As I stood bus duty post with another teacher, watching kids hurl snowballs and scurry into oncoming traffic, a thought occurred to me.

“Most of this is just self-pity,” I said aloud.

And indeed it was. I came home motivated to accomplish some last-minute grading and prep for finals later this week. A few hours later, I’m sitting here done with all of it, eyeballing my Fender Strat with a look that would in other spheres be considered naughty.

Onward.