Ruining the school system....the Rick Scott way...

Let me start by saying that I am in college. I am in a very specific field, and I don't get much contact with fresh-out-of-high-school students. I'm not too far removed from my high school days, although much further than I'd like to be, age wise. The little contact that I have had with these college freshmen has been, well, disheartening.

I am not a teacher, have never had any urge to be a teacher, but there are those, some of my friends included, that do it and love every second of it. They don't enter the field because they think they are going to make amazing salaries. Remember in the board game LIFE, how the teachers made the least amount of money? Yeah, well reality isn't much different. But they do it anyway, because they want to make a difference in the lives and education of children. On top of that, most teachers I know use this money to purchase supplies for their classroom and to have additional enrichment activities to supplement the topics that they are expected to teach. It's called being a good teacher.

So back to the high school graduates entering college. In my experience, and yes this is from one tiny little college in Lakeland, Florida, these kids expect the answers handed to them. If it involves some critical thinking or using of the logic, they panic and drop the class. What? There is homework involved, and I am expected to turn it in on time? Deadlines, what are deadlines? I'll just tell the teacher a sob story and all will be fine!

That being said, there are times when life gets in the way. I'm not trying to degrade those experiences and say that you have to be an automaton about school. But when I overhear students telling other students that they are going to make up an excuse to get the deadline extended, I fear for the future of these kids.

So who gets the blame? Obviously these students know better, but they are willing to go with the flow, if it means passing. And teachers, who are under more and more scrutiny to produce results, are throwing their hands up in frustration. They don't have the resources to teach these kids and they get more and more frustrated with their lots in life. So they start teaching the students EXACTLY what is going to be on the test. And again, this isn't universal, but it is happening. I have family members in the school district who tell me that they are teaching their students specific words to use in the written portions of the FCAT.

For those who don't know, the FCAT is the Florida Comprehensive Assessment Testing that is given at certain grade levels, a barometer for the progress of the students at each school. It includes both multiple choice and essay questions, and the results of these testings are released and each school is given a grade based on the outcomes.

So certain teachers and certain schools are teaching key words, long vocabulary words and their meanings, specifically for the student to use in the essay portion of their test. But why would they do that? Why limit kids to these specific words? Because they want to have their students score higher than other schools, so they know if they teach a handful of words that are worth more points, they will get those higher scores.

Wait, you say, don't the people who grade the tests notice that all the essays have the same key words? Yes, but the schools didn't figure that out until the following year when they taught the kids the exact same words, but their testing came back lower. So now, they teach new key words each year....but still the same handful of words to all kids in that year. They do what most people call "teaching to the test." And it happens all throughout classrooms, not just for standardized tests.

So the schools are sending out students that expect to be taught EXACTLY what they will be tested on. Then they enter college. If they are lucky, they will get a college professor that feels the same way. If they aren't so lucky, they will get one of my professors from last semester. Granted, he was tough and taught a tough subject, but he knew the disaster that teaching to the test can cause. He and I discussed it frequently and he admitted that there were a few professors that had been fired BECAUSE they taught to the test. He refused to do it and for those that stayed through the duration of the semester, we knew the topic more in depth than probably any other class in the same subject. He pushed us and we struggled, but when we go out into the real world, we can realize that life doesn't just hand you the answers.

Teaching to the test doesn't work, it produces students that can't think beyond what is in front of them, students that won't study any additional material because they won't be tested on it.

So now we get to what is going on in current legislation. The Merit Bill. Making teachers salaries comparable to their success rates.

Imagine you make birdhouses for a living, and you only get paid for the birdhouses that come out perfect. The sides have to be straight, the roof must be at the correct angle, everything has to be within a correct range for someone to buy your craft.

Now imagine the boards that you use are all different lengths, sizes, shapes, and colors. You can do some trimming, some staining, some manipulation, but no matter what, the pieces don't fit together like they should on the blueprint. You do your best and get them together as uniformly as possible. When you go to pick up your nails to hold the pieces together, some of them are bent or blunt, and some of them are screws, and all you have is a hammer. But you know you will only make money on your birdhouse if it comes out the way the blueprint shows. So you go around the manufacturing and you buy a rough birdhouse from a few towns over, bring it home, sand it, and repaint it. It matches your blueprint, but you weren't the one that built it. Still, you take credit for it, get paid based on how it looks now. But what happens when the person who bought it takes it home and it falls apart? You weren't actually there to build it, so you didn't know that the real builder used cheap materials. Good thing you have a no return policy clearly posted.

Teachers get students from all walks of life, from all economic and family backgrounds. Every person in a classroom learns differently. Excellent teachers have the ability to teach a topic in a variety of ways so all the different learning types in the class can absorb. But what happens when they hit speed bumps? Students do fall through the cracks. With a merit system, it will get worse, not better.

You think teachers teach to the test now, wait until their pay is at stake. No one liked working for and having a school that had a low grade, as assigned by FCAT scores. Now the teachers within the school will have their salaries based off of how well their students are doing. It is counterproductive! Sure, students progress reports may jump up, but their ability to function in society is in extreme danger. School is not only supposed to teach subjects like Math and Science and English, it is supposed to teach study habits, deadlines, responsibility, and life skills that will be used in the real world and the workforce. If a teacher's salary changes to be based off of their student's performance, they will just run out and buy a passable birdhouse, slap some paint on it, and hope it waits to fall apart until after it has left their classroom.

Thanks Rick Scott, for ruining Florida, one industry at a time. You say this can only help retain the great teachers and provide better education to the students. In fact, the great teachers are going to take their Master's Degrees to private schools and colleges, and the students are going to fail, in college or in the workforce. Glad you are so in touch with the constituents of your state.

Nothing like a two year hiatus...

I know, I know, it's been a long time. But really, what blogger hasn't gone long periods without posting something new?

Although, if I'm being honest, I completely forgot this blog even existed. It wasn't until I was posting a comment on someone elses blog (to win a freebie, no less) that this name came up under the email address I put in...and I had to go back and read what I had already written.

It is also interesting because I am about to create a NEW blog, but for business purposes. But it is always nice to have a personal blog at hand. When you can remember to post to it.

Looking back, this blog is a whole lifetime away, even though a little under 2 years has passed. Both Husband and I are back in school full time, we've gone places and done things we never thought we would, and now we are embarking on a new challenge. Business ownership.

Husband has been taking photography classes and I'm proud to say that he has been aceing them all. Top grades on his photos, top grade in the class. His work is really spectacular and we work together to make unique pictures. Pair that with his extensive Photoshop and design knowledge and why wouldn't we want to make money doing something like that? We have been starting off slow, building our portfolio, but so far we are getting great feedback and have already booked a couple jobs. It's an exciting time and I'm so proud of Husband for his hard work. He really seems passionate about what he is doing and it shows!

I, on the other hand, am going to college for Medical Transcription. It's a strange field, and sometime soon it will be changing, progressing with technology and this whole healthcare reform thing. But it is something that does interest me, something that I can ultimately work from home doing, and something that I seem pretty good at....as Husband says, I type like the wind anyway so why not use it to my benefit. My ultimate goal has changed since I joined the program, I intend to go back after I've graduated to pursue nursing. I really enjoy the medical field, and the human body is just so damn interesting.

All of that aside, our real goal is to get the heck out of the town we live in. It really does not suit our style and we're here because we've got a great setup going housingwise. But with our new careers we can relocate where we want to and still continue our work, so that's super!

Alright, enough of catch up, I do intend on updating more frequently than before and hopefully getting some of my own giveaways and specials on my blog. Since I'll be the social media contact for the business, I'll be on here quite a bit anyway....

For real Rent a Cop?

Went to Orlando last night to meet up with some friends we haven't seen in almost two years. They were staying at one of the value resorts at Disney, which Husband and I had not been to previously. While our friends were braving the free Disney transportation from the Magic Kingdom (which after a long, hot day at the parks can safely be called either "The BO Bus" or "The Stink Mobile") we wandered the hotel, taking in the sites.

We have stayed repeatedly at Disney resorts, but only the higher end "moderate" and "deluxe" accommodations. This was our first glimpse of how the common people live. (Note to readers, the last two sentences were completely facetious. Welcome to my humor. And no more side notes explaining said humor, as they take us away from the point at hand.) That being said, we've never had the urge to stay at these hotels, call us stubborn, but they are nothing more than a tacky Days Inn. If the 30 foot cowboy boots weren't to your liking, please take note of the giant banjos and fiddles that loom menacingly above you, threatening to end your life with the pluck of a string.

We walked around the hotel grounds as we waiting for our friends to ride the Disney bus of eternal stench to meet us, and were met with the shrieks and screams of the most terrifying creature known to tourists: the cheerleader. We had stumbled upon the nesting grounds of these obnoxious beasts and feared for our very eardrums. It was close to sundown and they were still practicing whatever it is they do, clapping and flying through the air with the greatest of ease.

We begrudgingly sat by the pool to wait for our friends, only to be joined by a group of buff young men, probably high school aged. Yes, the male cheerleaders had arrived.

They were attired in what I can only describe as boxer brief swim bottoms, without the little peaky hole for easier access during urination.* Husband wears the boxer briefs....under his clothing. These were skin tight and had I not been sitting near Husband, I may have stared a bit longer. (Clearly I did, as I did notice the lack of peaky hole) Also among the male cheerleaders, was a boy in a pair of white swim trunks and soon after his first dip in the pool, it became clear that he did not find the need to wear any underthings. It became very, very clear.

Normally, I am all about seeing some peen, but I felt incredibly old (class of 1999, in the hizzy) and slightly pervy for even looking for one second, but then I noticed the children at the other end of the pool, eyes curious and, in some cases, bulging. There was a lot of that going around. Bulging that is.

You see, good ole' white trunks and his male cheerleader pals were involved in a furious game of....well, grab the Nerf football (and that is totally not code for anything else) and swim from one side of the pool to the other. There were makeshift teams, which I could not decipher as they were all "skins" to me. It seemed more like an excuse to rub up against half naked guys, and this thought had me eager to shed my clothes and jump on in, but a glance at Husband and I thought better of it.

There was one girl involved, but clearly her team had no faith in her abilities. Although she was floating, unblocked, in front of the "goal", they ignored her cries for attention and threw to other members of the team. The cute little girl in a skimpy bikini got little attention in this man pile.

While we were watching this, we sat discussing the male cheerleaders nationality.

You see, not only did I have to endure the torture that is cheer leading (and really no offense to cheerleaders, it's just so much funnier if you think I detest them), but I had to listen to the cheers in roughly 15 different languages.

Husband and I listened closely between the screams of the children around us to hear the language the male cheerleaders were using. My knowledge of language extends to being able to tell you what language a group is NOT speaking. I know, it's a gift. My rudimentary grasp on English aside, I have a very very basic ear for Spanish (duh, I live in Florida), German (I was taught how to say "May I sharpen my pencil?" in the language, and used it proudly until my parents German friend told me he had never heard ANY German dialect such as mine.), and maybe a tiny pinch of Mandarin Chinese (and for really dorky purposes, which I keep a secret for now)

I could say with some certainty that these kids were none of the above. Woo! Three down, thousands more to go!

I listened intently although it was difficult from all the splashing and yelling, and one particularly fat teenage boy at the other end of the pool, who kept telling his friend that was out of the water "It's MAAAAAD warm yo." Ok, maybe I added the yo, but the rest is true. I think he said it five to seven times and it was obnoxious. I couldn't understand why he assumed his friend heard him the first time, as the friend responded in kind to him. But he repeated it again. And again. Perhaps he loves to hear his own voice. Perhaps it was code for, "I am currently filling the pool with my urine, do not come near." Maybe I just wanted to punch him in the face. I'm leaning toward the latter.

After tuning "MAAAD fat" out, I was able to hear more than just a few syllables from the foreign male cheerleaders.

After using my powers of deduction and running through all the stereotypical foreign accents in my head (The Swedish "Yaaaa" playing over and over, with visions of pigtail milkmaids. Or Drew Barrymore from Charlies Angels...shame.), I announced to Husband that I thought them to be of Scandinavian decent. As though that means something to me. Or Husband. Or anyone other than Alex Trebek.

When I was certain that I had nailed it, case closed, the noise died down, and their Nerf football came became less energized. Then I could finally hear a few full sentences and the true language became clear.

I turned to Husband, "Imagine we are at *local pizza place*. That's what I hear."

Yep, I deduced where these young kids were from by thinking of food. I am so talented, it scares me sometimes.

As the sun started to go down, the bugs started to come out. It was impossible to stand still if you intended to remained unblemished from their constant biting. We chose to walk around. First we walked back to our friends building, passing the giant banjos of death and coming dangerously close to the 30 foot cowboy boots that guarded the entrance to the portico holding the elevators. As we passed the boots, a teenage girl and her mother were walking up an adjoining path towards us.

"I like the big boobs," the teen said to her mother.

At least, that's what I heard. I had somehow forgotten about the existence of the boots that we stood in the shadow of, and glanced down at my own chest. I nodded my head silently in appreciation at the rack I was graced with and thought silently, "well thank you!" Then I was forced back to reality as we passed under the raised heal of the right boot and realized the mistake.

"Oh, boot!" I realized out loud, confusing Husband. Then I gave my girls a reassuring nod and continued on my way to the elevator.

When our friends called and said they were just leaving the park, we estimated they had 30 minutes until they got back to their room. Husband and I decided to wander the premises, as this was likely the last visit to this resort.

We walked past the pool we had sat by earlier, noting that the Italians had vacated the pool, leaving it rather empty. It was close to 9pm and I hoped that cheerleaders had curfews. It didn't seem that was the case though, as we passed many other international teams practicing, back flipping, twirling in the air in ways that were not intended for the human body. This thought was reinforced when a group of five girls hobbled towards us, dressed in their cheering outfit (uniform?) and each supported by crutches.

"See," Husband noted, "cheer leading is a dangerous sport."

I imagined the gimpy cheerleaders joining their healthy counterparts, heads hanging in shame from letting the team down. Then I imagined the healthy cheerleaders forcing their gimpy teammates from the "inner circle", their inner sanctum**, a 400 square foot hotel room filled with spandex and sparkles, banning the temporarily crippled from associating with any healthy cheerleader until they could be strong enough to compete. And in my imagination, there is hissing and claws and demonic possession. At least that's how I imagined it.

It explains why the hobbling cheerleaders were alone in their shame. Unless they were permanently crippled, beating the odds, like the Special Olympic team representing. But that makes my previous thought implausible. And we can't have that. Exiled cheerleaders indeed.


We continue our lap through the buildings, each section with a different theme, with bright colors and sparkly lights. It was a epileptics nightmare. And a pedophiles dream.

Children ran amok, screaming, yelling, and obviously on vacation. Loud music pumped out of speakers, keeping with each themed building. We arrived at a larger, even busier pool. People were practically shoulder to shoulder in the water and I couldn't see the appeal.

I don't have any numbers to back up my suspicions, but I expect that someone in that packed pool was leaving some yellow clouds behind them. There is not enough chlorine in the world for me to swim in someone else's pee. Give me a couple a beers and stick me in the pool, I might lavish in my own urine, but someone else's, no way. Although, there is a trick to not creating a yellow force field around yourself, which includes short spurts and slow, continuous movement. Or just give enough beers and everything comes out clear. Or so I've heard.

At the end of the pool, where the throbbing*** music grew in decibel stood a large inflatable projection screen and the almighty Wii Fit Skiing being played. They erected the air filled screen in the walkway, so it was difficult to pass by. We decided to forgo the return path by the pool and walked closer to the building to stay away from the crowd.

As we walked, we again looked at the decor of the hotel and found something rather...disturbing. I'm ashamed to say I didn't take a picture of it, as you would have to see it to believe it.

The railings on the second floor of the building look like sheet music. They have the bars and the clefs and the music notes. Snuggled within the innocuous music are squiggles. They have no discernable shape, as all of them look different, and no purpose that I can determine. Granted, I'm no virtuoso, but I did play some instruments as a kid, and I'm pretty good at deciphering sheet music if you give me a few minutes.

These blobs continued down the whole side of the building, roughly 50 yards. Each had it's own unique shape and size, most starting with a larger rounded top and tapering down to what I could only describe as a tail. Perched on the bulbous "head" portion of the creature is a large black dot, an eerie eye, making the creature even more unusual.

To me, they looked like a puddle of jizz with an eyeball.

I expressed as much to Husband. He readily agreed.

I am going to begin marketing myself to companies for my special talents. This uncanny ability to find the perverted where it is not obvious. I'd be on the payroll and they could run their plans, designs, slogans, or anything really, by me, and I will provide them with possible lawsuits, future Christian outrages, possible company embarrassments. I think I'd be keen at it.

This creature would be first on my list.


It was when we were just past the first pool, where we watched the Italians conquer American aquatics, when we smelled it.

That familiar sweet, piney, sometimes skunky aroma that I have only smelled in passing for the past few years.

As a former pot smoker and child of (former occasional) pot smoking parents, I know that smell like my own armpit after a hot day and forgotten deodorant. (Not that they compare of course, just familiar, and taunting)

The moment after I smelled the weed, I saw the security guard. He must have been 15 months pregnant and he swung his belly around with the pride that screams "well past my prime, rejected police academy applicant". As though his badge means anything to me. Especially with Mickey Mouse front and center, it really screams "authority". And soon we would have proof of his incompetence.

I started sniffing the air loudly and commenting on the obvious.

"Wow, that smells like fun." catching me a sour look from Security. The guard was on his walkie talkie, informing the other worthless guards of his position.

As we walked forward towards the boots, we glanced to our left to the open clearing with picnic tables. In the middle of the dimly lit "pasture", as it was designed to represent, we first saw the glowing ember of smoking object. We continued to watch as the smoking object was raised to the persons mouth, the ember flamed and brightened with the suction from the other end, and not so surprisingly, no smoke was emitted from the lungs of said smoker.

Upon further inspection, we noted that smoking man was clothed in tie dye and bell bottomish attire, with long hair and a long scraggly beard. This man was perpetuating every pot smoker stereotype and it looked like it felt pretty good.

And there he was, hiding in plain site, Security only 100 yards away and hot on his trail.

Or not.

We took the elevator up one floor, expecting friends any moment. When we saw they weren't in their room, Husband suggested we go watch the pothead and Security collide.

Only a few seconds later, our friends showed up and we did our greetings. Before we even entered their hotel room, they brought up Mr. Pot Smoker.

Our friends have a 4 month old baby and they were jokingly worried that she would get a contact high from the smell.

After relaying our experience, they explained that the Security Guards had doubled, like feeding Gremlins after midnight, and they were still completely inept.

After our friend commented to the guards that they should find the culprit, Security advised that they were working on it.

It must have been a covert operation, because Security maintained their position. Perhaps they were just enjoying the buzz.

Our friends walked forward about 10 paces, noted the direction of the wind, and discovered the squinty eyed pot smoking fiend. (Note, not that the guy was Asian, but that he was stoned. That sounded bad.) Yet the guards stayed their ground. Serve and ignore?

I can't say I expect any more out of Disney Security. Hell, I make much more than they do an hour and I don't feel like doing my job half the time.


* I suppose now is the time to admit my extreme penis envy. I long to urinate anywhere I please.

**Point of interest, I looked up sanctum to verify I had the definition correct (see: bad grammar and language skills) and even though I did, I found it interesting that sanctum is also a crust punk band from Seattle. I'm still not sure what the hey crust punk is though.

***So it was Disney, kid friendly fare, but I just like the word throbbing. Although throbbing reminds me of such classics as "Oh, Me So Horney" or "I'm Horney All Night Long"

a great new beginning

When I was younger, this process was done on an online diary, not a "blog".

I wrote in one, methodically, every day, for almost 3 years. Friends read my ramblings and got pissed at my comments, strangers witnessed my sexual conquests and questioned my reasoning, and perhaps sanity. I detailed my first foray into drinking alcohol legally, my journey into casual sex, my overwhelming emotional attachments to a variety of men, most of which now cause me to wretch at the thought of, and my ultimate triumph* in meeting the man of my dreams. My "blog" trailed off when I met him, as spending every living second with a person can put a damper on gut spilling blogging.

Now, years have gone by and I finally remember the feeling, the thrill of writing, the passion that it brings to me. I've let that fall by the wayside and I want it back.

I don't have any credentials, I arrive here with only an Associates Degree, after quitting college in my late teens to be with my first fiancee. When we didn't work out, I had too strong of an urge to party, so I didn't start back up. Now as a semi-adult, I use the excuses that I don't have the time or the money to go back to school. And one day, really, really soon, that excuse is going to get old.

But as it stands, expect this blog to be filled with only moderately passable grammar and horrendous spelling. You have been warned.



*For the record, said man of my dreams is now my husband, but it was a long hard road and we're still traveling on it, but with great success.