Those who have no social life, teach.

We're finally finding out why people live in the Valley (or the Valley of Death, as I think of it). We eat dinner on our porch most nights now, sitting in our matching deck chairs like the octogenarians we are at heart. Occasionally there is some of the beauty of a midwest fall, but also without the urgency concomitant with that beauty, since "winter" here means that you don't have to put on deodorant twice a day anymore. Last week the highs were in the 80s and one of my kids told me that it felt like Christmas.

Since the weather has finally cooled off, it was the perfect time for the Iliathon at school. At the Iliathon, the students are allowed to spend the night at school and the Iliad is read throughout the night. Everyone laid out their sleeping bags on the grass and the cute little Arizona natives put on their stocking hats and mittens so that they, like Hector, might brave the trials alloted to them. All of the teachers were in charge of a book, and they read the opening lines and then helped the students to read a hundred lines at a time. My favorite was a tiny sixth grader who read his hundred lines in a perfect Sean Connery accent, the only suitable tone for such a noble tale.

All of our social engagements are actually with the students (or the faculty). This past Monday evening I spent two hours flipping crêpes for my French students to devour in fifteen minutes on Tuesday afternoon. They came after school and brought the toppings and made little Mont Blancs of whipped cream and chocolate sauce. They were spazzing out they were so excited and one student actually brought a griddle on which to make bacon, since that's the way they eat crêpes at their house. I tried to convince him that that's not really a French habitude, but he wasn't fooled--he knew what he wanted, dangit, and if his mom had to pre-cook the bacon in the morning so it could be put in the faculty fridge and warmed up to pile on crêpes with the bananas and nutella, by golly, he was going to have bacon.

I've also realized that I no longer worry about fitting in with my peers, but I do compulsively craft my teacher persona. Obviously someday I'd like to be as inspiring as this photo, but until then, I have to settle for being funny enough to offset the bad grades I chronically give my students. I realized that I actually compose jokes at night to work into my lessons. Last night I came running out of the bedroom to tell Philip that when I gave my students back their math tests today, and they asked how I'd graded them so fast, I would say, "I. Am. A. Robitic. Teacher," in my most mechanical voice. I think Philip's doubts were two-fold: how did I know my students would ask that question, and why did I think they would laugh at my joke? (Philip is pretty used to my robot voice, as well as my Alicia Keys impressions.) But since I can read seventh grade minds, I went in confidently. And I think they did laugh hard enough to overlook the fact that I could have curved their tests but didn't. And so I ended another week at school by tricking the students into loving my classes.