Part I: Joggers
On my drive home this afternoon I passed an oncoming jogger, a well-built middle-aged man with a look of determination on his face. He was moving pretty fast, and I had to wonder if he was enjoying himself, and what he would be doing in, say, two hours. How do vigorous runners spend their after-run, unwound evenings? Lounging with a glass of wine? Watching TV and eating Chinese takeout? Teleconferencing with international business associates?

I don’t know this simply because I am a morning jogger who lacks vigor. I get up at 5:24 most weekday mornings, roll onto the living room floor for push ups and crunches, and slog off down the street for an approximately two-mile face-off with my cush-job destiny of finding fitness (and waking up) by most unnatural means. Jogging is more a matter of winding up, for me, than unwinding.

I’m not the only one like me. Usually at about the same spot each day I meet another young man out for a morning fix. We greet each other and then melt away into the darkness of either direction, and sometimes I wonder if he, too, is exercising before his day begins, or if he is letting off steam from a night shift.

Part II: Beer
Jogging isn’t the only thing that doesn’t float my boat. A coworker who seems to believe himself to be a skilled dresser and all-around flashy guy has quite a few times suggested I join him and other teachers on Fridays after school at the local microbrewery. Last week I had a good excuse not to drink up: M&N&I were to leave right from school to go to my parents’ for an artful weekend with the family. This week, too, I have the happy excuse of already having socializing plans on Friday.

Good excuses won’t always be so handy, however, and so I may just have to tell the coworker, “Thanks for the invitation, but I have found that the best way for me to unwind is to go home and spend some quality time with my dear wife and little daughter.”

Part III: NCLB
If No Child Left Behind remains in effect as is, by 2013 every single student in my school district will be required to pass every last one of our state’s standardized tests in order for the district to continue to receive federal funds.

“Every last student?” one teacher asked at a recent meeting. “You mean that by 2013 they think we’ll be that good at teaching?”

Another teacher piped up, “They’re doing this with the police, too, right? So that by 2013 there will be no more crime?”

It might mean that there would be no more NCLB, if that were the case. After all, NCLB cultivates racial profiling, a big no-no when it comes to police activity. For example, the Hispanic population at my school has risen high enough potentially to count as a NCLB subgroup. Last year, if they had been a subgroup, our Hispanics’ low reading test scores would have cost the school its successful go at “adequate yearly progress.” As a result, this year all Hispanic students (except for those with a history of good testing–i.e. proven innocent) are being removed from elective classes and placed into a remediation setting in order to raise their test scores.

In response to my colleagues’ and my misgivings about NCLB at the recent meeting, my assistant principal assured us that “tweaking for success” is indeed taking place. Certain subgroups have been granted 15-point curves, for example, a trick I was reminded of during an NPR report about teamwork-building executives trying to get a horse to jump over a high bar. A creative solution? Just lower the bar.

Of course, no politician will ever profess wanting to leave behind children. But maybe they could get away with encouraging children to succeed in a variety of ways other than meaningless testing.

Part IV: Republican Ticket Implosion
If Republicans rely on a conservative Christian base, Palin’s veepship is a death wish.

At my parents’ church on Sunday, for the final song, the aging lady leader directed the men to sing the leader part and everyone else to join in on the rest, since, as she said, “men are to be leaders.” (This was in no way relevant to anything else that took place during the service.) She kept mum but raised her arms to conduct as we men lustily sang the leader part. Hmmm.

Men are to be leaders? Then no female veep for me, please! Assuming that the conservative ranks actually believe what they believe–although the song leader’s actions suggest they don’t–a vaginally-blessed candidate simply doesn’t stand a chance.

NPR sure is wishing political death on the McCain-Palin ticket, though, even if conservatives are in love with the NRA pro-lifer. Two weeks ago, immediately after NPR’s coverage of newly-chosen Palin’s denial that polar bears should not be on the endangered species list because they’re not in trouble and oil companies need to drill in their space, there followed–you guessed it–a report detailing the polar bears’ horrid plight. Yesterday afternoon, NPR touted coverage of a McCain-Palin shindig, the Obama-Biden campaign, and–woohoo!–Hillary Clinton’s work to garner womanly favor for the Democrats.

None too subtle, eh?

Part V: Snapshots
I was formally observed last Friday by my assistant principal. In today’s post-observation conference, my impressions of the class period were confirmed: it went well.

It wasn’t my doing, though. My students really took the cake. See, after I had required all of them to come up to the board and contribute to the whole class from their individual homework, about one third of the class begged to share more. Okay then.

And a bit later in class, when I was explaining to students what I wanted to see in the essays they were about to write, one student piped up, “It looks like you’re wanting us to use a lot of snapshots.”

“Snapshots?” I’d never heard of them before.

Another student chimed in, “Yeah, that’s when you write things so that the reader can see what you’re writing about in their heads.”

“Does everyone here know what a snapshot is?” I asked.

Heads nodded, and someone else said, “You use, like, details and stuff. Like what you see and hear.”

“Very good,” I said. “Yes, I want you to use lots of snapshots.”

Whew!

Part VI: Spanish Fluency
M has often discounted her Spanish fluency. If people ask her, “Are you fluent in Spanish?” she will humph and err and humph again and maybe get around to saying something like, “I’m okay.”

Well, today she settled the matter once and for all. In court.

Last week she received a subpoena to testify on behalf of her former employer in a truancy case, since a year ago she had acted as interpreter in a conference involving the mother of a truant student, and so this afternoon she puttered up the highway to take the stand. Once there, she was asked under oath if she is a fluent Spanish speaker.

And she said yes.

“That really doesn’t hold water, C,” M told me yesterday.

I forget what I’d said to merit such a rebuttal, but we were talking about childbirth theory (no, grandparents, do not get excited), and so I couldn’t resist saying, “It’s about breaking waters, M.”

Today, we had a very similar conversation, with M’s same rebuttal and my same irresistible comeback.

“Oh no, we’re repeating ourselves already,” M moaned.

“I am? I am?” Sorry, I couldn’t help myself–I am just a wee, poor victim of my own wit.

“One thing you need to remember,” M then said, “is that our house is not a seventh grade classroom.”

She is so right.

Thank goodness!

This post is in honor of having signed on a tenant, courtesy of craigslist.

We met in person this afternoon, and while her one-year-old daughter and three-and-a-half-year-old son ate their respective hot dog and hamburger and drank their root beers, we went over the paperwork.

She sounds like a promising tenant (which is good, since she was our only applicant), with good references and an interest in using our vegetable and flower garden spaces. Really, I’ve seen and felt no red flags, which makes my little penny-pinching heart soar.

(An aside: Turns out [this will interest particular readers], she Navy boot camped in Illinois, and then was on base in Oahu, Hawaii for two years. She was eager to leave both places.)

Funnily enough, on the phone a few days ago she wondered if, since she would be living there by herself with her kids and a dog would help her feel secure, maybe we would reconsider our no-pets rule. To my relief, however, today she said she decided that a dog would be too much, since she already has to care for her children.

“Besides,” she said, “the neighbors have dogs, and so even if I don’t have my own dog, I’ll know if someone is out back.”

Right.

She’s moving in Friday.

The wide hallways make the school seem half empty during class changes, but it’s good the students are in fact there, or else I might not have nearly as much direction.

The county system’s orientation for new teachers a few weeks ago was helpful, certainly: a full quarter of the two days was a presentation by the school board’s attorney wowing us with his prowess, assuring us of his protective powers and teachers’ “sovereign immunity,” cautioning us to talk to no attorney but him, and describing the stupid things teachers do for which they get fired very quickly. The veiled threat was none too subtle.

My principal appears to be well loved and respected, on top of things, no-nonsense and humorous, and just downright professional. I hadn’t been sure I wanted to leave my old principal, I respected him so, but this new principal seems terrific, also. He conducted the seventh grade assembly about school rules with a microphone but without teacher support (I and a few others were there, unnecessarily so), and never once raised his voice above a sober, quiet talk.

And my new colleagues are very helpful. My pleas for an extra stapler, a clock, or other items did not go unanswered; my many uncertainties about procedures have been clarified by collegial neighbors.

All that said, however, by the time teacher work days had expired, I was once again agreeing with other faculty that school is boring without students. And, in fact, my students are the ones who have done the most to get me on track:

“Mr. C, are we going to have to count Reading Program points?”

I’ve never required this before. “No.”

“Oh, good. That is too much reading.”

Hmm.

“Mr. C, when do we get our reading logs?”

I’ve never assigned reading logs before. “I’m still working on those,” I said. “Maybe next week.”

“Mr. C, do you want us to skip lines when we write?”

I’d forgotten about that. “Yes indeed.”

And so on.

The students are already endearing themselves to me, too:

“Mr. C, how can that cow be related to you?” a boy in the back of the classroom wondered, not even sure he should be asking the question. It was the very first day, and I’d just pointed out my high school artwork, photography, diplomas, and other odds and ends I display to make myself appear more human. When I’d passed under the ceramic cow’s head I’d hung on the wall, I’d mentioned that it was a loving ancestor. A few students had giggled, but even they sounded uncertain.

“Through very complex genetic manipulation,” I told him. He still looked puzzled, but I moved on.

Another student asked, “Mr. C, is that logo on your bulletin board for [my church’s relief agency]? My mom works for their local thrift store.”

What else could I say? “Yes it is–and this year you’re going to see a lot of ties from that store.”

Later, as we were reading “Rikki-Tikki-Tavi,” a girl gasped, “Mr. C, You scared me.” We’d just passed the shooting of Nag, and I’d emphasized the thunderclap of the shotgun by slamming my hand on my podium, which is made of light wood and is big and boxy, and quite noisy. I’d scared everyone, actually. It’s my favorite trick of all–regrettably already used up for this year–and it makes all the students’ little hearts skip a beat or two.

“Good,” I said.

Now I just have to figure out how to make the remaining 176 ninety-minute sessions as riveting.

It’s even a Hon! But let me explain.

Back when we were packing to move (like, three million years ago), we donated our flimsy, small “filing storage system” to the local thrift shop. We needed a real file cabinet, we decided, and our new town, with three colleges and a variety of secondhand stores, would be the perfect place to find a bargain.

Friday morning I started working the phone and found three stores with cabinets. At the first, a surplus outlet, the selection was fancy and not exactly what we wanted. At the second, they were defunct. At the third–well, we would stop there right before getting back home, but they’d said they had only one cabinet and so our odds looked about zip.

“Let’s go to the office supply store,” I said to M. “Maybe we should just buy a new one instead of spending all of our time looking for an old one that we probably won’t ever find.” She waited in the car with the sleeping N–“I’ll be back,” I told her–while I found the perfect cabinet, a store-brand model just like the above-mentioned Hon, for $159.99.

I reported back to M and said, “Let’s just get it. We’ll be glad for it, and it will last us a long time.”

“Okay, whatever,” she said.

I returned to the store and to the file cabinet section and stood before the floor model, a little sobered at the prospect of buying such an expensive piece of furniture just, as M once said, “for keeping stuff in.”

In my moment of hesitation, a little nudge prompted my soul, and I walked back out to M again, empty handed. “We can just rearrange the stuff in our desk drawers, and figure something out,” I said. “That was too expensive.” I can’t remember her exact comment, but it suggested that the world might be coming to an end–I’d passed up a chance to buy something.

With the lightness of heart that comes from listening to one’s still, small voice, I drove our car out of the parking lot and towards home.

As I slowed to cross a railroad track, M suddenly said, “Hey, look at that sign! ‘Back-to-school sale! Desks, white boards, footoons (footoons?), file cabinets, more!'” I swerved into a gravel lot and waited for a cement truck to drive past, and then pulled into the store’s parking lot.

“I’ll be back,” I told M.

It was a little grimy business with a sign that said “print shop.” A raggedy man bringing in the mail asked if he could help me.

“I’m looking for a two-drawer file cabinet,” I said. “Do you have any?”

He motioned to a binder with printed pictures. “That’s what we have in the warehouse,” he said, and then spoke to someone in a back room. “Rodney, are there any file cabinets out there in the warehouse?” He turned back to me. “Go across the railroad tracks, and Rodney will meet you out there to show you what we have.”

I drove to the warehouse and got out of the car. “I’ll be back,” I told M.

Rodney let the way inside the huge old barn, and then pushed open a huge sliding door, to let in light. A conveyor belt leading to the second story graced the center of the room, decked out with a platform for hefting furniture and surrounded by dusty, piled office furniture. We toured through dim shadows until we found the file cabinets.

None were even close to suitable.

“Let me check upstairs,” Rodney said. “I’ll be back.” He disappeared into the shadows and I could hear the stairs and then the floorboards above me creak and groan. When he came back down, he said, “There’s one, but it’s small.” I followed him back up.

From the moment I saw the cabinet, standing there among rolling office chairs and four-drawer cabinets, I knew in my heart it was the one for me. It was kind of like the first time I met M, but without the distractions of other, similarly featured options. It was a genuine Hon, exactly suitable.

“I’ll sell it to you for $35,” Rodney said.

“Wow!” I thought to myself. “What a find!”

“Twenty-five dollars,” he said. “You can have it for $25.”

“Wow!” I thought to myself again. “What a steal!” In order not to appear too eager, and curious if he would make yet another offer even before I’d said anything at all about the price, I examined the drawers and the dented side. After a minute or two, and still trying not to jump up and down or pee my pants from excitement, I said, “You said $25? I’m a little concerned about this dent.”

At the same time, I remembered that I had only twenties (no fives) in my wallet. I opened it up and looked inside it. “Hmm, no fives,” I said. “How about $20?”

“Sure,” he said, and helped me carry it out to the car.

I could hardly contain my elation until driving out of Rodney’s earshot before bursting to tell M all the details, and now our files are properly stowed.

On our moving day, M and I drove past an abandoned car along the interstate. A bit later, we passed a young man carrying a gas can back toward the car.

“Looks like someone learned a lesson,” I said to M. “And I’m glad it wasn’t me. I hate learning lessons.”

“Yeah, me too,” she said.

One of the lessons I’ve learned this week was not to buy appliances from Sears. I suppose the appliances themselves are fine, but here’s my (painfully detailed) story about customer disservice:

Section I: The Purchase

We decided our townhouse would be more rentable with not just a washing machine but also a dryer. Because of our renovations, however, there was no place for a dryer except for on top of the washing machine, which meant that we needed to buy stackable units.

At the local Sears appliance center, saleswoman Melissa talked me into a set, deliverable last Friday.

“How far is your townhouse from here?” she asked. “My boyfriend works in that area.”

“Sixty miles,” I said.

Section II: The Workday

On Saturday, J and Nephew J and I piled into J’s truck with the units on the trailer and puttered up to the townhouse. J installed the dryer vent and did some other structural prep work while I fiddled and faddled trying to reverse the dryer door’s hinges (to better suit the space). It took me a while, but finally we were both ready to do some stacking.

By that time we were running quite late, so my blood pressure was rising just a bit, which didn’t at all lessen the anguish of discovering that the units weren’t a pair. The stacking kit simply would not accommodate the washing machine.

I had been sold the wrong washer. Rats.

I called the store. Daniel answered.

“Could you tell me if these two units can stack with each other?” I asked him.

“I don’t know; you’d have to talk to our installation guys.”

“Is one available?”

“No, but let me check something.” Then, a minute later, “Here’s the customer service number to call; my manager said they can help you.”

I wrote down the number. “Thank you,” I said. “May I speak to your manager?”

“Let me check,” Daniel said. Then, “Actually, he just stepped out.”

Right.

So I called the Sears customer service number. After some navigation (usually just pressing the zero button multiple times is the quickest way through automation), I finally learned that the stacking kit for the washer is indeed different from the one we had. Our trip had been in vain. (Well, not completely–at least the groundwork for a dryer had been laid.)

J’s advice to me was to go back to the store and talk to my sales person, Melissa. The store would rectify the problem, he assured me. I wasn’t too hopeful, but his suggestion seemed to be the best option. I was just mad that I’d taken up his time and used up his gas and put miles on his truck and the job still wasn’t finished.

Over the weekend, I came up with a plan.

Section III: Going Back to the Store

Chapter 1: First Problem Solved
When I stopped in, at about 4:15 (after my first day at my new job orientation), Melissa was helping some other customers. Finally at about 4:40 she was free, and so I explained the situation.

“Oh, that’s bad,” she said. “You know what happened? When I ordered the washer for you, I just chose the cheapest model, since the one you wanted was the cheapest one in the store.” (Note: When you shop at a Sears store, they just go to Sears.com and buy the thing for you. I’m guessing I could have done that myself–and ordered the right thing, at that!)

The washer I received and the one I requested were the same price, so I told her that I really didn’t care about that, except that I wanted them to stack.

“I’ll order you the right stacking kit for free,” she said.

It’s to be delivered here to our apartment in the next week.

Chapter 2: Real Problem Introduced
“Thank you for ordering that for me,” I said. “I really appreciate your help.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, but I didn’t pick up my folders from the desk to leave.

Instead, I said, “The other problem is that I hired a builder friend for $100 to help me install the set, and I’m paying him fifty cents a mile, and so I’m out $160, and we weren’t able to finish the job because we received the wrong washing machine. I would like to be reimbursed for those expenses.”

Chapter 3: Really Stupid Idea
“Uh, I don’t think we can do that, but maybe we can give you some gift cards, or something,” Melissa said. “I need to ask my manager.” She retreated to the room behind the one-way glass, and I sat and listed as Daniel tried to get the attention of a nearby elderly customer. “Sir!” he demanded. “Sir! Sir!”

Melissa came back only to say, “We could give you a $20 gift card.”

“No. I would like $160 refunded to my credit card. What’s your manager’s name?” She told me and I wrote it down. “May I speak to him, please?”

“He’s in a meeting right now,” she said.

“Okay, I’ll wait.”

Chapter 4: Okay Idea
“Let’s call customer service and see what they can do,” Melissa suggested. “Here’s their number. Do you have a pen to write it down?”

“Can I wait here while you call them?” I asked her.

“Uh, sure,” she said. After awhile into the call, she said the lady wanted to speak to me.

I reexplained the problem.

“Sir, what we can do is give you a $75 refund for one of the machines.”

“Could you do $75 for each machine? That would almost cover my costs.”

“No, just the one. Would you like me to credit that money to you?”

I should have said yes right then, but I hadn’t played all my cards yet, and so I got a case number and said I’d call back to confirm that action.

I should add that, during that call, when I was put on hold for about ten minutes, I asked Melissa if I could speak to the manager while I was waiting, since I’d seen the person he was meeting with leave. She went to check, and reported back that he wanted to wait to see what customer service would say.

“Maybe I could get my boyfriend to help you install it,” Melissa said. “That way you wouldn’t have to pay your friend again.”

Chapter 5: Another Really Stupid Idea
“They’d give me $75,” I said to Melissa after I hung up. “But all this still leaves me out $85,” I said to Melissa. “May I speak to your manager?”

“He might not want to,” she said, but she went to his office and he emerged. Cold. Livid.

“Could I show you the problem?” I asked him, wanting to use the floor models to explain.

“I know the problem,” he said. “We don’t know who’s to blame.”

“Yes we do. I indicated which units I wanted to buy, and I received an incorrect one. I don’t think I should have to pay for a mistake that wasn’t mine.”

“Well,” he said, “the company has offered you $75, so that’s what we can do.”

Chapter 6: Trying to Get the Second Mile
“Can I just show you the problem on the floor units?” I asked.

He came out from behind the counter and watched while I explained.

He walked back behind the counter.

I walked up to the counter.

He stared at me.

I said, “Look, I came here to buy these things because I heard you had good customer service. But it’s not happening.”

“What do you want me to do, pay out of my pocket?”

I lifted my eyebrows and shrugged.

Chapter 7: Yet Another Really Stupid Idea
“Would you like to return the units?”

“Sure,” I said. “But there’s a 15% restocking fee, and then I’d be even further behind.”

“I’ll waive the restocking fee.”

“Can I have that in writing?”

“Sure.” He got a pen and paper and began scrawling: “Customer will return units with owners manuals and all paperwork for full refund if there is no damage to…”

I interrupted, “No damage to what?” I was concerned he wanted the packaging to be intact, too.

“Don’t talk to me. Can’t you see I’m writing?” he snapped.

“I’m sorry, I’ll wait,” I said.

Chapter 8: A Possibility
But then I thought of something else: What about just getting it installed for free? Would that solve my problem? “Mr. E? Your last name’s E, right?”

“I said, don’t talk to me. I’m writing this up for you,” he snapped again.

“Oh, yes. Sorry. I’ll wait.”

When he was finally done, I said, “It’s Mr. E, right?”

His stonefaced unanswer: “We’ve made our offer to you.”

“Look, I don’t want to return the units. If they’ll stack, I’m happy. But you’re right–the $75 from the company would cover my friend’s mileage, and if you could install the units for free, then my problem would be solved. But I can’t miss work to meet the installers.”

He said to Melissa, “Melissa, When is that free installation crew available?”

“I’ll call him and ask,” she said. “He’s working 12-hour days, so probably only Saturday. I’ll try to call him.” But her boyfriend wouldn’t answer the phone.

Chapter 9: The Final Solution
“You know,” I said, “I don’t want to inconvenience Melissa’s boyfriend. I think if you just reimbursed me, everything would be a lot simpler for all of us.”

Mr. E stalked away. I stayed put, determined not to leave until satisfied.

I asked to borrow the phone to call back customer service to confirm that I wanted the $75. (Long story short: I have to wait until my Sears card comes in the mail before I can give them the account number in order for them to credit my card. My fingers are crossed.)

While I was on the phone, I could see through the one-way window just enough to see a safe door being opened. A bit later, Melissa walked over and handed me a check for $75.

As I finished my call, I scrawled a thank you note to each of them. To Mr. E, I wrote, “Thank you for standing behind your business.” To Melissa, I wrote, “Thank you for your kind help.”

I took the check and left. It was after six o’clock.

Epilogue

I’ll feel more resolved about the whole matter once the check is successfully cashed and my Sears card refund comes through. Then I’ll be able to reimburse J for his expenses and time, and uncross my fingers. That will be satisfying.

Perhaps just as satisfying will be knowing that I performed–I think–rather impressively. Not to brag or anything, but it’s nice to know that even hotheads like me can be calm, cool, and collected in problematic situations.

And that’s a good lesson to have learned.

I like to think that when family come over to help paint almost the entire interior of our for-sale house (Thanks, Mom and Dad), or help me install a washing machine and dryer in the same, also-for-rent house (Thanks, J and J), that I am a jovial, relaxed, fun person to work with.

But I’m not. Instead, I’m a worrisome, fretful, snippy, stressed wretch just wishing to be rid of the whole deal.

The house, that is–not my family. (Just to clarify.)