"Twas the Late Afternoon Before Halloween

As you know, we spent the day checking out Marywood University in Scranton, PA.  One would think that my blog would have to do with the college.  One would be incorrect.  Several hundred people went to the same open house.  Let them write about it.

Tara informed me yesterday afternoon as we were leaving that she and Jesse (the boyfriend) are going trick-or-treating as hippies.  We'd have to shop quickly because she had invited a handful of friends over to watch scary movies and eat unhealthy amounts of candy.  We figured that after we returned (Saturday afternoon) we could go look at costumes.  Then today at lunch we came up with the idea to pass our planned exit home and go to Woodbridge for the costume.  This evolved into Tara getting her friends to locate Halloween and party stores in the Scranton area.  This way we could  go to the Party City just 2.0 miles from our current location and be on our way home, two hours and 45 minutes away.  With our handy GPS this should be a piece of cake.

The first thing the GPS told us after receiving the address was that it was impossible to get there from our current location.  Then it said something about there being an unpaved road.  After a few false starts finding the Marywood exit, we were on the road and it gave directions to the store 2.0 miles away.  23 miles of  mountain passes and half an hour later, it announced that we had arrived at our destination.  There was a Fresho's Restaurant, a Pep Boys and a law office.  In the process of making a U-Turn we found a really steep road leading down to a big mall.  We eagerly ran inside to find it to be the only major mall with no Halloween store. 

So we drove around the parking lot trying to find a steep uphill road leading back onto the highway in the correct direction.  This accomplished, we looked again and reassured ourselves that our "destination" really did hold a restaurant, a Pep Boys and a law office.  Not a family to give up, we programmed in the next closest address in Dickson City.  This was fortuitous because we had just passed a sign welcoming us to Dickson City.  Within a quarter of a mile we were informed by the GPS that we had again reached our destination.  We pulled in to find a box store shopping center with a Target.  BP let us off at the door.  He was going to wait in the car.  Target had no costumes larger than girls size 12.  We know this for fact because we picked one my one through the 500 or so costumes on the rack.  Okay, there was the Robin, as in Batman -and-, mixed in to give us false hope.  We hemmed and hawed in both the juniors and girl departments for an alternative before admitting defeat and going to the car. 

BP picked us up.  We saw a Walmart down the other, far, far end of the parking lot, and were headed in that direction when out of the corner of my eye I spotted a Halloween costume poster in the window of Marshalls.  We leapt from the moving vehicle only to find that all costumes in this store were children's size 6 or smaller.  As long as we were there we decided to quickly peruse the women's department for something vaguely hippie.  After five minutes I located Tara and told her that no can shop quickly at Marshalls.  It is a collection of single editions of every garment manufactured on this planet in the last five years. And Daddy is waiting in the car.

Off to Walmart.  We chose unwisely and followed the sign to the holiday department.  Christmas holiday.  Then Tara saw orange, but it was the hunting department.  She asked a saleslady who pointed us to the far opposite end of the store.  More picking.  No adult sized costumes.  At all.

Crestfallen and defeated, we returned to the car.  BP was no longer offering curb service, so we had to walk the lot, trying to determine which of the three dozen red minivans was correct.  There we were- minivan number 36.  As we inched down the aisle, Tara staring sullenly out the window at the valley below,  suddenly shreiks, "Party City!!!!!"  How in God's name do we get down there?  We continue inching around the lot, find the correct road out, proceed down another extremely steep road, and get ourselves to the entrance to the lower parking lot. 

We enter the store and elbow through the day-before-Halloween crowd.  We find several suitable choices in the correct size.  We debate, choose, and find the end of the cashier line about ten feet up an aisle.  It's all good now.  

I share with Tara that up until last year, every single October since Laura was old enough to trick-or-treat, I have had a recurring nightmare.  I dream that it is Halloween, kids are out trick-or-treating, and I have not bought costumes yet.  I am frantically shopping through leftovers and trying to assemble an ensemble at the last possible moment.  I did not have that nightmare this year.  I lived it.

Okay, this is a new experience.  I have exactly fifteen minutes to write my blog before I time out and am signed off.

I am at the Hilton in Scranton, PA.  Tomorrow we are going to the open house at Marywood University.  We wisely decided to drive up tonight rather than rise way before the sun tomorrow.  On the way up here nobody actually asked, "Are we there yet?", but we each implied it.

 Upon leaving home Tara discovered that she didn't pack the car adaptor for her DVD player.  "It's going to be a long, miserable drive."

Me, somewhere on Route 287:  How long ago did we leave home?

Me, on Route 80:  We're still in NJ.

Tara after passing East Stroudsburg:  I see a sign for Scranton.  We're almost there!

BP:  No we're not. 

Tara:  Yes we are.  The sign says Scranton.

Me:  It's the beginning of the road to Scranton.

Tara:  Then why does the sign say Scranton?

BP:  Mom doesn't know.

Sign:  Scranton 30 miles.

Someone:  There's no cars up here.

Someone:  It's 42 degrees up here.

Someone else:  All the leaves are off the trees.

Me:  I don't know about this Tara.  If you go here you're getting the warmest coat I can find. 

BP:  And mittens.

Tara:  I won't be coming home to visit very often.

Me:  I don't blame you.

BP:  We're not really car people, are we?

Me:  That's why God invented airplanes.

BP:  So we're never drving to Florida or California, are we?

Never.

With one minutes to spare, stay tuned 'til tomorrow.

The Unlikeliest of Places

Thursday afternoon at 4:40 I was holding up a plain white wall in a hair salon in New Brunswick. 

Before this happened and after this happened I was living a typical day.  I went to school and taught science.  I drove my red minivan home along the usual route.

Afterwards I ate dinner, walked the dog, fed my virtual frog, and watched last week's Apprentice. 

But in between ordinary and normal, I took a journey to "what am I doing here?"  It wasn't even unexpected.  I planned this sidetrip from my life.  I picked up Tara and her friend Gina.  We drove to New Brunswick, hunted for a parking spot while dodging Rutgers buses and students, walked two blocks and entered a hair salon called Sparks.  We were not getting hair cuts.  

Tara was there to get her belly button pierced.  Since she is under 18, she needed a parent present.  I had been hoping that parent would be BP, but he had another appointment that could easily have been scheduled any day of the year, but fatefully occured at the exact moment of Tara's belly button event.  I had been proclaiming for years that I wanted nothing to do with this piercing thing.  But there I was. 

I don't remember the name of the man in charge of poking holes in people.  Usually I don't remember people.  This guy I remember.  For lack of a proper name, I will call him Pierce, with absolutely NO connection or resemblance to Pierce Brosnan.  Pierce was a big tall red head with giantly guaged ears sporting black earrings at least an inch in diameter.  These things were apparent from the front, notable from the side, glaringly obvious from the back, and most likely viewable by astronauts on the space shuttle.  His right forearm was adorned with some sort of artwork.  His left forearm bore a solid black stripe which disappeared up his sleeve.  I can only assume that the stripe is the tail end of a more elaborate design on parts of his body that I will not ever have occasion to see.  But if I ever did end up passing this guy on a beach, I would know it was Pierce from New Brunswick.

Let me stop here to make it plain that I hate belly buttons.  They are the ugliest part of the human body.  I don't care how beautiful, well-toned, or fit you are.  I don't care if you are a supermodel.  You have an ugly belly button.  Period.  I will be averting my eyes. 

Stage One:  Pierce is swabbing Tara's belly button with brown antiseptic.  He is doing a thorough job.  Gina is watching.  I have briefly seen what he is doing and am now studying the desk in the corner of the room.

Stage Two:  Pierce draws a line and a dot on her navel and tells her to look in the mirror to check that it is straight.  She looks.  Gina looks.  They agree that the markings are straight.  I peek and hurriedly agree.  Then I examine the floor. 

Stage Three:  Tara lies down on the padded table.  Pierce tells her he is going to take some measurements.  She is to lie perfectly still and look at the ceiling.  Gina and I see Pierce use a silver ruler to take measurements.  Slightly queasy, I watch Gina watching the measuring in the mirror. 

Stage Four:  Pierce tells Tara something about forceps, a puncture, and taking a deep breath.  I am leaning into the wall, staring at white paint, concentrating on breathing, and trying not to listen.  At some point I glance at Tara.  There is some sort of equipment attached to her midsection.  Gina is making a joke about aliens coming out of her.  Pierce proclaims that if aliens come out he is booking.  I am back to studying the paint. 

Stage Five:  The task is done.  Gina asks, "Are you okay?"  Tara answers, "Yeah, I'm fine."  Gina says, "I was asking your mother."  I say, "I'm fine."  Pierce interjects, "If anyone cares, I'm fine too."  We all laugh.  Tara gets up and I let go of the wall. 

Tara pays and we leave the salon.  We are standing on the street and life returns to normal.

Chalk Board vs. Computer

You know the saying, "back to the drawing board"?  Is a drawing board the same as a chalk board?  Because I am definitely ready to go back to the chalk board.  Teachers in our school are constantly being told to incorporate technology.  Some of us embrace technology wholeheartedly, although I can neither confirm nor deny its effectiveness.  Then there are others of us that are apprehensive, bordering on negative, or one might say, plain ol' stubborn and old-fashioned.  The events of today gives credence to the wisdom of technological backwardness. 

I have six MacBooks in my classroom.  I haven't used them for a variety of reasons which don't really figure into the problem at  hand.  But yesterday I got to thinking that I really should make use of my laptop and projector.  This past weekend I bought a devise to marry the laptop and the projector with the intention of using it to show a movie or a website.  Then I got to thinking that I could let the kids dictate notes on earthquakes, and we could make a class copy of seismic facts.  The kids would like that.  I could easily keep track of a set of notes for each of six classes.  I would be utilizing technology.  We could use the notes to review and reinforce and repeat.  And repeat again as needed.

So this morning I get to work bright and early to make a set of copies and set up the computer/projector combo.  I go straight to the copy room at 7:25 to find seven people ahead of me on line for the single working machine. (We were copier-less for two days.)  I left my copy with the art teacher who was last on line.  Then I returned to my room to set up the technology.

I connected everything with no problem.  I worked in the front of the room, which is too close to the board to be clear.  But it wasn't a problem because I was just testing the system.  I wasn't planning to actually set it in place until after homeroom.  I looked through the icons and didn't see a Word program.  I found all my old documents that had been copied off my desk computer, but I couldn't figure out how to write a new document.  I disconnected the laptop and ran back to the copy room, dutifully remembering to lock the door behind me.  Technology does, after all, require additional security.  I figured I could get assistance while waiting my turn for the copier.  There were still two people ahead of me.  Neither of them could figure out how to open a new document either.  I left my colleagues puzzling over the situation while I ran back to my room to get copy paper.  Last time I checked there was paper in the room, but it was all gone so I needed to get my private stash.  I unlocked the door, grabbed paper, and ran back.  I made the copies, with five minutes until homeroom, grabbed the laptop and my keys, and dashed to Hans's room.  Maybe he'd know how to use the stupid thing. After all, he's the one who started me thinking about using the computer in the first place.

I barged into his room without saying good morning and demanded, "How do I write on this thing?"  He said he'd try to remember.  It was an icon with birds on it.  He found it quickly.  Since I hadn't used it before I had to register.  First name.  Last name.  Initials.  Do you want to register now, later, or never?  "Never," Hans suggested.  Never, I readily agreed.  The kids were on the way up.  Bingo!  I was in.  I muttered a hasty thank you as I and all my stuff shuffled hurriedly out the door and unlocked my own room.  I dumped everything and dispatched a student to get the breakfast.  Joanne, my parter homeroom teacher,  oversaw my class as I frantically reset the screen for full page, my preferred font, and a large print.  I was ready.  Joanne also watched the class while I ran to the ladies' room, an errand teachers never neglect because the next rest stop is two hours away. 

Breakfast over, books at the ready, I dismissed my homeroom and greeted my first period class, who are, at least in my eyes today, saints.  I warned them immediately that I was not too tightly wrapped at the moment, so they should not approach me until everything was set up.  I displaced two students to properly place my projector and laptop.  It was at this point that I realized that each of my dozen or so extention cords are for two-pronged plugs.  Naturally I needed a three-pronged model.  I called Hans who sent one over.  My students kept themselves relatively quiet if not busy while I worked through my difficulties.  I was almost ready when the projector went to sleep.  One of the kids woke it up.  Good.  I was in business for approximately two characters.  I wanted to write "EARTHQUAKES".  I got EA up there when I got the circly icon thing.  It kept spiraling.  I waited patiently.  Then I waited nervously.  Someone suggested that I reboot.  I did.  The kids in the back were singing "The Wheels on the Bus".  I gave them a dirty look.  Finally signed back in, I looked up at the screen.  The background was being projected, but not the applications.  I called for the computer teacher.  While I was waiting two helpful students came to offer opinions and assistance.  They looked into my eyes and backed away cautiously.  The computer teacher came, mucked around, and left promising me an answer.  I moved the whole mess to a side table.  I owe first period an entire science lesson because we did exactly zero work.  They, however, stayed away, for which I am totally grateful. 

Second period I wrote notes on the board.  Class went smoothly.  Third period was lunch.  Yes, my kids eat at 9:55.  I still hadn't heard from the computer teacher.  I called the other computer teacher. Fourth period I wrote on the board.  Things went swimmingly.  The other computer teacher came, mucked around, and left with the manual for the projector.  She promised to call someone who would know what to do.  Fifth period I have another teacher with me.  After class I told Ron my trials and tribulations.  He said someone else had the same problem and he knew how to fix it.  He went to some obscure setting and dragged something across a screen.  Voila!  My problems were over.  I called both computer teachers and told them the crisis was over. 

I am happy to report that seventh and eighth period I was up and running.  Now all I have to do is figure out how to keep my computer/laptop set up in the center of a classroom while 165 sixth graders come in and out in 45 minute intervals.  I will have to ensure the safety of this technology, make sure no one trips on the cord, always remember to lock the door, and hope there are no more obscure settings that I don't know about.  It's certainly doable, but it makes my non-secure, totally wireless, indestructable, 100% dependable chalk board sound like the real winner.

The Mommy Whistle

I stayed up until 2 a.m.  I wasn't doing anything of importance, but by the time I was finished doing basically nothing, it was almost 2.  I got into bed and read four and a half sentences.  My Kindle fell and woke me up, so I turned out the light and went back to sleep.

At about 6:30 Magic reported that someone was out for an early morning jog.  At 6:40 a cat crossed the street.  At 6:56 a couple of insects flew by our mailbox.  I didn't actually get out of bed to witness these incidents.  After eight years of her early morning sentry duty, I can understand every word that Magic says.  I try not to respond, although I have resorted to the all-purpose human to dog response, "Magic, NO!"  To this, she inists, "Yes, the cat not only crossed the street, but he's digging under your bushes."  Then I mutter, "Look Magic, I don't care who went where.  It's none of my business.  Just let me sleep."  Then she goes away to the stair landing and patrols the front step from on high.  I go back to sleep.

Until 7:23.  At this time I hear a soft, high pitched whine.  It's kind of like a dog whistle, only it's a mommy whistle.  I call it a mommy whistle rather than a human whistle, because I am the only person in the house who can hear and respond.  She uses it to tell me if she's trapped in another bedroom and needs me specifically to get out of bed and open the door.  She will also to use it to remind me that I closed my door without her inside.  On weekend mornings she whistle whines to tell me she's hungry.  When I invariably ignore the summons she gets louder and more urgent and hints that she really, really has to go out.  When she's starved and is close to losing consciousness, she calls from the back door and does a little dance as soon as I come into view.  I know she doesn't have to go out.  I know this because she never, ever, ever pulls this routine on a rainy day, during which she is adamant that she won't be going out until next week.  She knows the routine.  She goes out and then gets fed. 

So I stagger down the stairs and let her out.  She runs down the steps and waits for me to sit down at the computer to check the headlines and get sucked into reading something, which admittedly can happen within 8 seconds.  After 12.3 seconds, she comes back to the door and reminds me that she is wasting away.  I let her in, feed her (oh, thank God!) and continue with whatever has sucked me into the computer.  A few minutes later I'm squinting at the screen because I didn't yet put in my contacts, and realize that I'm cold.  I make a cup of tea, grab a blanket, and continue squinting and reading.  Soon I realize that I am up for the day after half a night's sleep, and Magic is upstairs dilligently working on her early morning nap.

I'm Going To College

If anyone wants me between now and Thanksgiving, I'll be at college.  Actually, I will be at colleges.

This morning Tara took her SATs.  I spent the entire testing session looking at, no, meticulously examining information on a select group of colleges in three states.

I started by taking notes about the colleges on a list of art appropriate schools in and around our area.  I jotted down student populations, availability of housing, percentages of commuters versus residents, and where information was available, I noted the percentage of residents who still reside on campus during the weekend.  I tallied in-state versus out-of-state student populations, noted exorbitant university pricetags, tracked particularly wonderful study abroad opportunities, and hunted for schools with the highest amounts of scholarship money available to give to me.  I verified the existence of photography concentrations at each school's website, and differentiated bachelor of arts degrees from bachelor of fine arts degrees, noting, of course which schools clearly delineated the four year course requirements.  I virtually toured all fourteen campuses and included a listing of approximate driving times.  Still worried that I may have missed something, I cross-references each entry with it's corresponding page number in Barron's Profiles of American Colleges. I then condensed my research onto one standard spiral notebook page and presented it to Tara upon completion of her test.

Then the two of us sat at the computer and I watched her view all fourteen websites.  We eliminated three schools and scheduled campus tours for each semi-finalist.  By Thanksgiving I will have used a normal year's worth of gasoline, learned to navigate the entire eastern half of Pennsylvania, and be qualified to conduct campus tours anywhere in the world.  

The Chicken Was Not Trying To Cross The Road

I've got a story to tell.  It's not my story, but it's something that could have happened to anyone.  Well, maybe not.

The story has a preface.  Last week Amy was driving down Route 1 and saw a chicken on the side of the road.  This is of course, odd, and like everyone else on the road, she drove on wondering how a chicken got to Route 1.  Then she got to worrying about the chicken but it was too late to do anything about it.  Life went on.

Yesterday, Amy is driving on Georges Road, on the other side on South Brunswick, which, if you were wondering, is absolutely not a rural or farming community.  It's afternoon and the kids from the middle school had been recently dismissed.  There's a bunch of kids gathered around doing... something.  They are gathered around a chicken!  Another chicken on the road?  So Amy pulls over because the kids, in their effort to keep the chicken off the road, are inadvertently herding it into traffic.  She gets out and comes up with the idea to use the old "trail of breadcrumbs" trick to lure the chicken to safety.  So she takes some crackers out of her car and distributes them to the kids.  The plan is working and Amy calls animal control to come rescue her bird friend. 

Soon after, a police car arrives at the scene.  The officer approaches and asks her if she's the Good Samaritan who called...

"Yes, I am," replies Amy, who is rather proud of her humanitarian efforts.

"to say that there's a suspicious woman on the side of the road with a group of middle school children?"

Pause for shock and awe.

"Name?" continued the police officer.  "Address?  Is this your vehicle?  Is it registered in your name?"

"Are you kidding me?" sputtered a totally deflated Amy, as she proceeded to answer all the officers questions. 

After reviewing the situation, he let Amy leave.  I'm sure the officer had no doubt of the veracity of her story.  The chicken made a credible witness for the defense, and no one can make this stuff up.

It Was A Computer Error

It all comes down to a computer error.  I know it doesn't matter because my fantasy baseball team is #8 out of 10.  It's the last day of the season and I'm on the next to bottom rung of the consolation ladder.  But it is still in my nature to fight until the end, if for no other reason, then for the sake of fighting. 

So yesterday afternoon I get an idea.  I decide to pick up every available pitcher who still has a pulse and stack them all up on my team for today.  I log on to the ESPN.  I go to the Players page.  I punch up probable pitchers for Sunday.  There are several of them, and I decide to take all but the guy who loses fifteen points every game.  But something is wrong.  There should be a little icon in the Action box to click on and add that player to your team.  The Action box is blank.  Everything else on the page looks normal.  So I go to another page, and their Action boxes are blank too.  I sign out thinking it is really shady of ESPN to remove the "add" option a day early. 

Fast forward to midnight.  BP is online.  He's comparing my team to Gene's.  Gene has a mess of pitchers.  Those are my pitchers!  Well, they're the pitchers I wanted to add.  He put them on an hour ago.  They should be mine.  It was all a mistake.  ESPN didn't take away the "add" option.  There was an error on the site and I didn't realize it.  If I'd gone back...if only.  Growl. 

So I did the mature thing.  I texted "u suck" to Gene.  I had hoped the text would at least wake him up from a sound sleep, but he didn't even ask why until this afternoon. 

As of this minute I am down by 9 lousy points with very few innings to go.  I'm thinking I lost.  If things change I will add the update to this blog and all will be right in the world.  If not, I am sulking and blaming the entire world of Computerdom.

IHOP is Messing With My Head

After the Rutgers game BP and I went for a late dinner at IHOP.  Going back to ancient times when we were in high school we always loved going out for breakfast at night.  Viva la French Toast.  A cheese omelet.  Rooty Tooty Fresh and Fruity.  Truly food for the soul. 

Then we picked up the menu.  The food police were there.  They weren't physically there, as it sitting at the next table evangelizing us to repent from our homefries and turn away from bacon and sausage.  But they left their calling card.  Every menu item is now marked with calorie count.  When I shook my head at the omelet column asking "How much is that?" I was not referring to the price.  Everything I've always loved on the IHOP menu would cost over 1000 calories. 

Every page is now peppered with a lower calorie, healthier selection.  I could have ordered substitute eggs with turkey sausage.  Instead I panicked and got a cheese steak.  It was 890 calories.  As the waiter approached I realized the 890 calories was just for the sandwich.  The accompanying fries were another 300.  I ordered it anyway.  In retrospect, I still wish I'd stuck to breakfast, but I was under duress.

The cheesesteak was okay, but BP's pancakes looked better.  Throughout the meal I volleyed between two thoughts.  Thought A was "I should have ordered something healthier whether I liked it or not."  Thought B was "The dog is going to have to take me for a long walk tonight."  BP suggested that I could have ordered a bowl of oatmeal.  Humbug.

As a reflect on all this I realize that the food police have gotten their way.  They want us to think rationally about our food choices.  They want us to feel guilty and be miserable.  So next time I head off for a late night breakfast, I will solve the problem by going somewhere with a less expressive menu.  This is not a sensible suggestion and I know I'm not thinking straight.  IHOP is messing with my head.

Taking the Day Off While at Work

A workshop, an extended nap, and gender segregation at Games.  That's today's synopsis.

I spent yesterday and today at a workshop on supporting English Language Learners after they exit the bilingual program.  It was a decent workshop- not the greatest I've ever attended, but way far from the worst.  I prefer to think of them as days off from work for the following reasons.

1.  I theoretically get to sleep later.  This is only a theory because I still have to get Tara up and out of the house before 6:45 even though I don't have to leave the house until 7:30.  Some day this will mean I get to sleep until 7.

2.  I get a chance to park in a real parking lot.  If the workshop is out of district there is always a parking lot.  Some schools have parking if you get there early enough.  But if all the teachers are in the lot, then there will be parking on the street in reasonable proximity to the school.  This is good when you're accustomed to circle the block like a buzzard waiting for someone to leave home to you can have their parking space.  At this workshop I was totally out of luck.  My workshop was held in the administration building, which was built in 18-something, considerably before anyone was trying to park a car.  So parking on what used to be a playground is reserved for administrators, secretaries, and Adult School staff.  But, years ago someone pointed out that there are a handful of unreserved spots in the back alley entrance to the building.  Since the neighborhood vehicles were packed bumper to bumper and it was pouring rain, I snuck to the back of the building and found a spot with no reserved sign, no loading area sign, no permit required sign, and no door to block.  And to sweeten a beautiful situation, someone opened the back door so I didn't have to walk all the way around.  The bad news is that at the end of the day, I found a ticket-looking paper on my windshield.  I searched carefully for the phone number of the person whom I would be arguing the ticket with.  To my great relief it was not a parking ticket but a warning from the Board of Education that I have been permanently registered as a parking offender.  That was yesterday.  Today I parked three blocks away and walked in the rain all the way around to the front of the building.

3.  We get breakfast.  Sometimes.  The rule is that the Powers-That-Be are not allowed to spend money feeding us coffee and bagels.  They can only spend money on breakfast for people coming in from somewhere else, like other Powers-That-Be.  But the bilingual supervisor sprung for a nice breakfast spread both mornings.  We know better than to get used to it.

4.  We get to rest our voices.  As of Wednesday at dismissal my throat was raw and felt swollen from six shows a day, five days a week, plus barking supplemental orders such as:  sit down, get your book bag, put your book bag away, be quiet and listen,  be quiet and listen, be quiet and listen, didn't you hear the bell, get up, get out, let's go!  I am happy to report that they hired a substitute drill sergeant and my throat will feel perfectly normal until Monday.

5.  We get to use the bathroom whenever we want.  This is a workshop perk beyond all else.

6.  We get a whole hour for lunch.  This means we can go out.  Of course we walk because we are all either too far from our car or are afraid to give up our spot.  And off we go without having to walk anyone to the cafeteria or leaving enough time to pick anyone up on the playground.  Heaven.

7.  The workshop ends at a specific time and we can leave, for absolute certain.  There will be no one to keep for detention.  No administrator will want to see you for just a minute.  I can not hear myself being paged to the office, nor do I have to speak for the parent who stopped in at the last minute.  I am sure that something in the classroom is out of order, but I don't have to clean it up, well not until Monday.