That Sound You Hear is Mom Doing a Very Secret/Disturbing Dance.


Mom and Dad Are Happy!As the holidays come to a close it is time to take a look back at what we have just experienced.

This is a special time of the year because families get a chance to reconnect. Everyone slows down for a few days and spends time with their loved-ones.

While everyone gets excited about the holidays, nobody looks forward to this time of year more than moms.

All over the world, mothers get excited to have their kids home for some quality family time.

Children are out of school and on top of that… no homework! (this excitement goes for kids and moms)

But now the presents have been opened, the dinners have been eaten, and the time together has worn our mothers out.

It is now approaching every mother’s favorite time of the year. This only happens twice each year, so that makes it even more special.

School is about to be back in session. The holiday vacation is coming to a close. This is an exciting day for mom. Not quite as special as the end of summer vacation, but close (the end of summer vacation is like mom winning a $100 million dollar lottery; the end of holiday vacation is like winning $75 million).

Moms haven’t been this happy since their pregnancy was over.

Sure, all mothers love their children. They gave birth to us after all, but enough is enough.

They have cooked, cleaned, wrapped presents, done laundry, gone to the grocery store 119 times, picked up after us, and heard “I’m bored, there is nothing to do” one too many times.

On the outside, they express their love for their children. But inside, they are saying “Get Out and Don’t Let the Door Hit You In the ….” Moms can have quite the mouths on them.

Students have asked me about why the holiday break is a couple of weeks long. This is an easy one to answer and my answer is always the same.

That is the maximum amount of time moms can take their own evil spawn before they become physically violently ill at the mere sight of them. No one wants to see their mother have a meltdown, but if the holiday break was one day longer… well all I can say is, “It wouldn’t be pretty.”

Moms love their kids, but even they have their limits.

They act like they don’t want us to have to go back to school, but as soon as the front door closes behind us… they do a very secret moms’ dance (there could possibly be gyrating and pelvic thrusting so please don’t try and picture this… if you do go blind the PrincipalsPage.com legal staff says I am not liable).

I have often thought that moms with kids in school should buy presents for their child’s teacher after the break instead of before.

The quality of present would go way up. And I am talking 60 inch flat screen TV. Minimum. Maybe more, depending on how many siblings and arguments took place over the break.

Nothing like mom spending two weeks with her own kid(s) to put things in perspective.

You may be asking yourself… “What about Dads?”

Dads don’t care. We have garages to hide in.

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My New Year’s Resolution Advice: Focus on What You Can Achieve.


A Cat Smoking is Always Funny.This year I am going to choose my New Year’s Resolutions a little more wisely. 2008 is the year that I follow through on all of my resolutions.

I have been far too unrealistic in years past. No more feeling like a total failure when I give up on my resolutions. This year on January 9th, I will feel good about myself.

So for my 2008 resolutions I have chosen the following in no particular order:

• I resolve to become a cigarette smoker. I have never smoked, but I am not getting any younger. No time like the present.

First errand for me in 2008; purchase a pack of cigarettes for $900 at the local convenience store. I may pay in change, so if you are in the line behind me, I apologize (I may also be purchasing scratch off lottery tickets, so I hope you aren’t in a hurry).

• Another resolution is to pack on the weight. It is my goal to get as fat as possible. If all goes well, I could be one of those people authorities have to cut out of his or her house by December 31, 2008 (keep your fingers crossed for me).

I always thought that I was thin, but the doctor always tells me differently. She puts me on the scale and then looks at some mysterious chart with my ideal weight compared to my height.

The chart says at my height of 5’10”, I should weigh between 81 and 92 pounds. I will never beat the chart, so I might as well be huge.

• Along with gaining weight, it is natural to exercise less. Combining resolutions doubles my chances of being successful. No walking, running, biking, or lifting weights. The less movement the better. I may not be able to leave the house for the next 12 months, but I am willing to sacrifice.

• While I am smoking, gaining weight, and sitting around doing nothing I want to accomplish my fourth resolution. Put myself in such debt that there will be no way I ever recover financially.

And I don’t mean just regular debt. I mean maxing out 47 credit cards.

Why be one of those fools who puts money aside for a rainy day? I want the instant gratification of overspending. And with online shopping, I can stay in the house and eat while I overspend.

• My next resolution is to get far less organized. I figure with all of the smoking, overeating, lack of exercise, and huge debt, I am bound to spiral into depression.

Hopefully, the depression will lead to a total lack of motivation and who can be organized when they are in a cupcake induced depression? This one seems like a natural to me (almost too easy).

• Next I want to forget several things that I have learned over the years such as geometry, what an adverb is, and how to floss.

Lots of people make resolutions about expanding their knowledge. Not me, I want to cut back.

• I resolve to spend less time with family and friends. After all, I will be too busy out in the yard smoking Marlboros and eating Twinkies.

• Another resolution is to read less. Books take time. By giving this up, I will have more time for reality television. If I do this, I will never be smarter than I am as of today. This seems like an achievable goal.

• Lastly, I resolve to not walk around school with a 5 gallon jug of water the first week back. This should be an easy one to accomplish because I have no idea why teachers do this.

There you have it. My resolutions for 2008. Some people may call them “negative and unhealthy”, but I prefer the term “attainable goals”.

My hope is to lower expectations to a point that people are impressed by my accomplishments.

I already feel like a better person.

Happy New Year. I’ve got to go.

Those cigarettes aren’t going to smoke themselves.

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Skiing Part I: The Day I Should Have Died.


As I sit in the middle of Wisconsin waiting to go skiing tomorrow (by the way, it is a lot warmer than it was in Canada), I am reminded of the time my wife tried to murder me.

Just for the record, that may have been the best and most interesting first paragraph that I have ever written.

Although the fact that I am here today kind of tells you how the whole “murdering” thing turned out. Crashing While Skiing Tends to Hurt.

When I was a kid, I didn’t have the opportunity to go skiing. Something about it costing money and we didn’t have any (the details are blurry, but that is the gist of it).

I always believed that skiing was something rich people did. It was right up there with polo, boating, going on vacation, and eating out (things were tough, what can I say?).

My wife (from here on known as “the woman who says that I will never understand the pain of childbirth”) and I got the chance to go skiing for the first time about 3 years ago. It was very exciting and a little nerve racking, but surprisingly not that expensive. I am still surprised that the cost is not that bad (better than gas, razor blades, and bottled water).

By the way, skiing does involve me buying gas to get to Wisconsin, but at least I don’t have to shave while I am not working. For those scoring at home; that’s Me 1 and Gillette 0.

That first time my wife and I got to go skiing, we had big plans to take lessons and learn everything that was needed to be successful.

As educators we know the power of knowledge. We were going to be excellent students and soak up every bit of ski knowledge that the instructor had to offer.

But the best laid plans. After arriving at the mountain (for real skiers a hill), we discovered that the next lesson would be in 30 minutes. We lack patience, so on to plan #2.

Plan #2 was to learn on the fly. Bad plan. It was more of a learn on the fall than the fly.

About 2 seconds into this adventure/certain death, I realized we had absolutely no clue as to what we were doing.

We started on the Bunny Hill (which should be known as the “everyone here is in pre-school except for you two old people who should get out of our way and go take some lessons hill”). I guess the name Bunny Hill is easier for people to remember.

After a few slightly successful trips, and by successful I mean no one was hurt (me, “the woman who says that I will never understand the pain of childbirth”, pres-schoolers, or innocent bystanders) she was ready for a bigger challenge.

I wasn’t as confident. I was pretty sure that I hadn’t mastered the sport when my only way of stopping was by throwing my body face first into a pine tree. At this point I didn’t know much about the sport, but I knew there must be a better way to slow down than eat pine cones.

On the upside, my breath did have a certain pine freshness to it.

But back to the murder. “The woman who says that I will never understand the pain of childbirth” called me out. She questioned my manhood and challenged me to go down the next run which was located right next to the Bunny Hill.

Looking back, there were several things terribly wrong with this idea. One, I couldn’t ski. Two, and more importantly, I couldn’t stop. Then the kicker. The run next to the Bunny Hill wasn’t the next run in the sequence of difficulty; it was the fourth. If you ski, I think I just heard you gasp.

For those who are new to skiing, you should work your way up from the easiest, to the second hardest, etc. Never, ever skip from #1 to #4.

We both work in schools, therefore we don’t listen very well. Evidently, we also didn’t look at the giant 20 foot map that shows the runs and their levels of difficulty.

So, we start down the nice “little” run next to the Bunny Hill. Turns out my troubles were just beginning.

I should have suspected something was wrong because this particular hill was called “The Devil’s Armpit ”. But as I look back on those 7 minutes (seemed like 4 hours and 22 minutes) of my life the name should have been a clue, but I am not the sharpest knife in the drawer.

As we started down the run it took me about 4 seconds to realize that I was about to die and I would always be known as the first husband of “the woman who says that I will never understand the pain of childbirth”.

She went down the hill slowly and under control. I on the other hand went careening down the hill at an estimated 1,400 miles per hour. Except when I crashed which happened 47 times that I remember. Somewhere about halfway down I think I sustained a concussion, so I may have crashed more but after several blows to the head I lost track.

I will never be able to apologize to all of the women and children who were kind enough to break my falls as I slammed into them.

As I barreled/stumbled/rolled towards the bottom, I could hear “the woman who says that I will never understand the pain of childbirth” laughing a little bit like Dr. Evil from Austin Powers.

I must have looked like the agony of defeat skier from Wide World of Sports, except much, much, much worse. I had snow in every part of my body (and I mean every).

At least it was cold enough that my tears froze. Nothing worse than a bad skier, except a bad skier crying and screaming like a bratty 2-year old child as they fly out of control down a hill that they have no business being on.

When I finally made it to the bottom, “the woman who says that I will never understand the pain of childbirth” and I realized that if we had taken a lesson they would have probably taught us how to use the ski lift so we could get back to the top.

Getting on the lift is another story (hence, Skiing Part I).

I had never felt this kind of pain. Parts of my body are still sore 3 years later. I can tell you when it will rain 72 hours in advance.

After making it to the top, I limped back to the car and then crawled across the lobby of the hotel. Once I pulled myself onto the hotel bed, I knew that I now had a better understanding of the pain of childbirth.

I should send my wife flowers for the whole birthing thing, but she did try to kill me. I think we will just call it even.

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Gas Prices are Bad, but Razor Blades are Worse.


Americans have made a sport of complaining about the price of gas in this country. I have spent an enormous amount of time (actually very little) analyzing, studying, and contemplating this problem.

I am now ready to offer a solution (in the last couple paragraphs… don’t skip ahead… you’re on the honor system and you don’t want to be thrown out of the circle of trust).

We live in a great country with good jobs and a standard of living that the rest of the world would give anything to attain.

Now don’t get me wrong, America has its share of challenges and problems. In a democracy there are always going to be issues that need to be addressed.

I think we are probably more aware of our problems because the political party not in power is very willing to point them out. Razor Blades are Expensive.  Beards are Cheaper.

If only they were in charge, things could be improved overnight. This last sentence was written by a person who believes that on every ballot there should be 3 choices: a Democrat, a Republican, and a – None of the Above- (too bad we can’t have a President None of the Above).

I think we are obsessed with the price of gas because we are inundated with its ever changing price. You can’t drive 3 blocks without seeing a giant sign with the latest price of gas. Every time it increases 10 cents, we are all in for a bad day and a mild case of depression (meanwhile whoever invented the $2.84.9 is a genius).

This makes it a constant topic of discussion at school, work, or wherever angry Americans who don’t want to pay more for gas gather.

If other products advertised in the same way as gas stations do, our society would become enamored and obsessed and angry with those products.

If the price of bottled water, oil changes, haircuts, bread, milk, or razor blades were posted on 4 foot signs every 3 blocks wouldn’t we tend to direct our hate at those companies?

Gas prices are bad, but the cost of 5 disposable razor blades is the closest thing to highway robbery that I have ever experienced. When I have to buy them, it is like my own personal mugging at Wal-greens (insert your favorite drug store here).

I have to admit that just thinking about purchasing razor blades makes me feel violated and dirty (you have no right to treat me like a piece of meat Gillette people!!!!)

We need to get over the whole gas price thing. We live in a country where middle-class families live in $250,000 homes with 5 bathrooms and yet we think the world is coming to an end when gas tops $3.00 a gallon.

Don’t get me wrong, I would like to pay less for gas but I realize it is my choice.

It’s not the President’s fault, the government’s fault, or even the fault of the countries in the Middle East. It is my/our fault.

Are the gas companies gouging us, price fixing, and generally charging whatever they want and making billions of dollars doing so?

Yes.

But ultimately, it is our fault. We continue to drive large vehicles that use a lot of gas. We think nothing of making 4 trips a day instead of combining our errands.

We live 30-40 minutes away from our jobs and think nothing of it. We will drive 30 miles to shop, get a haircut, see a movie, or eat at an Applebee’s (or Ruby Tuesday’s, or O’Charley’s. or TGIFriday’s, or a thousand other restaurants- they are all the same if you haven’t noticed).

So here is your solution. Drive less in a smaller vehicle. When we do, gas prices will drop. Until then, we might as well get over it.

Now I have to go gas my Ford F-150. I need to run to town because I forgot something on my first 3 trips.

Man, gas is expensive. I don’t think I can afford to shave tomorrow.

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My Unemployed Daughter is a Poet and I Didn’t Know It.


My 6-year old TV watching, soccer playing, ice cream eating, school loving, golfing, skiing, bike riding, bedroom trashing, unemployed, living rent free daughter has requested a spot to publish her first Christmas poem.

CHRISTMAS SURPRISE.

Snowmen are whiteIf She is a Poet... at Least She Will Be Employed.
Santa is red
Santa is coming
So go get in bed

I get up
Look what’s under the tree
A surprise
What is for me?

Presents, presents, and more presents
Red, green, and blue
Cool

Merry Christmas!

There may be hope for her after all. I am hoping to live long enough to see her hold a job and in some way contribute to society in a positive way. Anything less than a lengthy stay in federal prison- I will consider a major victory.

Presently she is lying on the couch, enjoying a snack, and watching Nickelodeon.

She’s living the dream.

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Santa Claus Came to School Today.


Santa Even Brought Rudolph.As the title of this blog hints (very subtle don’t you think), Santa came to school today.

He showed up right on time for school. No fake notes from a doctor, or weak excuses about being sick from a parent (or grandparent, significant other, or neighbor).

He didn’t sleep in and arrive to 1st hour 20 minutes late just because he had a game last night.

He didn’t have the bass on his car stereo cranked up to the setting labeled- “scare the old lady across the street so she calls the high school office and complains”.

He didn’t squeal his tires or drive too fast in the parking lot.

He didn’t leave the front door of the school open so that all of the cold air comes rushing inside.

He didn’t leave his hat on as he came down the hallway (he is surprisingly polite).

He didn’t walk right in between two teachers trying to hold a conversation (again polite).

He didn’t need to leave the classroom every 3 minutes to use the restroom.

He didn’t show up with his homework only half completed.

He wasn’t difficult at lunch or at recess.

He didn’t have a problem keeping his hands to himself, slamming his locker, or pushing in line at the water fountain. No bumping into his buddies as they walk down the hall.

He didn’t forget to bring those papers to the office that we sent home so mom and dad could sign.

He didn’t speak in class before raising his hand.

He didn’t act rudely or speak poorly to other students.

He wasn’t difficult with the subs and he didn’t try to tell them his name was U.R. Gross, Seymour Butts, or Jim Shoes.

And most importantly he remembered to turn his cell phone off so that it didn’t ring in class.

Actually, he didn’t do anything wrong all day. Santa was a model student. If every student acted like him, all administrators would soon be unemployed.

The only thing Santa Claus really did (besides everything right), was take one long look at the teachers, janitors, cooks, secretaries, administrators, and everyone else I just forgot to mention and shake his head.

He asked if he could address the entire group. I agreed even though a fat, old guy in a red suit in school seems a little odd to me. (Anyone who spends that much time with deer and elves kind of gives me the creeps.)

But who am I to judge?

We were all on the edge of our seats as he began to speak.

He said, “You look worn out, tired, exhausted, mentally fatigued, and just maybe you all are on your last ounce of patience.” He is a very perceptive man. I couldn’t have agreed with him more.

Then he said, “Why do PE teachers wear shorts in the winter?” I had no explanation for him. But I am getting off the subject.

Then he announced that the best present he could give us was the next two weeks off. We get to spend the time with our families and not supervising hallways, lunchrooms, games, or going to meetings.

I love Santa, although would it kill him to throw a winning lottery ticket my way?

So, as I begin my break, the staff of PrincipalsPage.com (me) would like to wish everyone a Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah or Kwanzaa, and most importantly a very enjoyable Festivus (a holiday for the rest of us).

Now it is time for the airing of the grievances (Google it or click on Festivus for a more in depth explanation).

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If You’re Taking a Drug Test, Wear a Snowsuit.


Randy from the Christmas Story.Today, I am up to my ears in snow. Literally. And I mean up to my ears when standing, not the 2 times when I slipped on ice and fell to the ground.

Nothing sadder than a grown man flopping around on the driveway like a newly caught fish.

Remember when you were younger and you could fall and not feel it for the next 6 weeks? I don’t. Mainly because my memory is shot (I can remember stories from my misspent youth, but yet I can’t find my keys or remember if I ate lunch).

Speaking of falling (man, my hip hurts). It used to be so easy to pop right back up after a fall.

Then I got to the age, if I fell I looked around immediately to see if anyone saw me because I was embarrassed. Now, I fall and pray someone sees me. I am hoping they will run over and help, call an ambulance, or drag me off to the side of the road so I can die in peace.

But back to my day/nightmare/punishment.

I spent the better part of 3 hours digging out of what can best be called an avalanche. When I first went outside, much to my surprise and disappointment I was faced with a 9 foot snowdrift (maybe it was 8 inches, you can’t expect me to remember all of the details- my memory is bound to get worse after the falls).

After a lot of blood, sweat and tears (and cursing) we can actually now see the road in front of our house. I am pretty sure I can now identify the general area in which the mailbox lives.

During these 180 minutes (1260 in dog minutes) of what can best be described as the best opportunity for my first heart attack, I had plenty of time to think. Moving snow for 3 hours (that is 21 hours for dogs) gives a guy an opportunity to really put things in perspective.

Some examples of my deeper thoughts include; why do I always have to use the restroom 12 seconds after I get all of my snow gear on; holy crap this is a lot of snow; I hate the city guy who is clearing snow off the street and piling it up in front of my driveway; I am an idiot for not living south of the Mason-Dixon line; and if I had a son his lazy behind would be shoveling snow as I watched from inside the house.

But these were all just passing thoughts. All except the needing to use the bathroom. That thought came to be about every 4 seconds. I wish I lived in the woods (if you don’t get this you’re either not a man or you have some class).

The most intelligent thought that passed under my stocking cap was about the snow blower being the number one invention in the last fifty years.

I briefly considered ice makers in refrigerators, video players in the backseats of cars for the little ones (genius!), microwaves, drive-thru fast food windows and Kleenexes with lotion in them.

Admittedly all great inventions, but sadly I would give up all of them before relinquishing my snow blower.

Now if someone could just invent a way to use the restroom without taking my snowsuit off, I could die (most likely from a fall on the ice) a happy man.

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Throwing Rocks is Never the Answer.


As we approach the Christmas season, I am once again amazed by the craziness that infests our schools like rats on an ocean liner.

The kids are jumpy. The teachers are getting tired of the jumpy kids. The parents are tired of their jumpy kid and any other jumpy student that looks at, speaks to, or heaven forbid touches their kid.

It is time for everyone to take a two week time out.

I will be thankful if my luck continues to hold and it doesn’t start to snow really hard one of these mornings. Students and teachers looking out the window and seeing falling snow is like throwing gas on a fire.

The jumpiness will go to the next level (if that is possible). Don't Throw Rocks!

The cure for this is for all of us to spend some time cooped up in our own house with our relatives. School won’t seem so bad after about 48 hours of your creepy brother-in-law (if you don’t have a creepy brother-in-law, please feel free to insert uncle, ex-husband/wife, mother, boss, or guy down the street that always stares when you walk by).

This blog wasn’t meant to be about pre-Christmas craziness, but thanks for listening (at least I feel a littler better; it is good to vent).

My intention when I sat down at the computer was to address why teachers are not paid more.

I have a fascination with the on-going complaint by people in education about how we don’t get paid enough.

This could be because I was a business major in college. I don’t care what you have heard, business majors are cool. If you don’t believe me, ask another business major.

The amazing thing is that some people seem shocked and surprised they don’t make more money. Did everyone they ever came in contact with keep it a secret that teachers don’t become millionaires?

Everyone in education seems to be obsessed with the idea that they should make more money. I believe there is a logical explanation to this never ending question (complaint; whatever).

The reason educators don’t get paid more is quite simple.

The answer lies in the textbook for Intro to Business 101 (I got an A- by the way).

It is supply and demand. Lots of people want to be teachers, so school districts don’t have to raise salaries more than a few percent each year.

I can almost hear my email inbox filling up with people telling me about the lack of Latin teachers in the inner city of Helena, Montana.

Sure, there are always going to be shortages in certain academic areas in different parts of the country, but overall lots of people want to teach and there are a limited number of positions.

Therefore, prices (salaries) stay down. Somewhere, my college Intro to Business professor is smiling (or creeping out his neighbors as they walk by his house- hard to tell at this point, but I am almost positive he couldn’t have gotten less creepy in the last twenty years).

So there you have it. Too many teachers and not enough jobs. Salaries aren’t going to rise dramatically any time soon.

No need to complain, or make the argument about how we are touching the future, or even that baby sitters make more per hour than educators.

I could walk outside right now and throw a rock and hit 14 recent college graduates who are looking for their first teaching position.

But like we teach our students; throwing rocks is never the answer.

Plus, I am afraid to leave the house because it might be snowing. And during this time of year the thought of that makes me jumpy.

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Never Yell “COACH” in a Crowded Principal’s Meeting.


I was asked the other day why so many coaches become principals. This got me thinking. After much thought (actually none), I have come to an intelligent theory (actually more of a guess than an intelligent theory).

Over the course of the last few years, I have had an opportunity to meet a lot of principals and through a totally unscientific study I believe 35% are now ex-principals.

This is for a variety of reasons, but the #1 cause is that I don’t think people actually know what qualities are required to make a good administrator. So consequently schools are hiring the wrong types of people.

But you are in luck; I have a theory (I can almost hear people rolling their eyes as I write this).I Only Owned 2 Ladders.

In all of the good principals that I know, they all have one major thing in common. They don’t care.

Suddenly, I have your attention (I bet you’re sorry you rolled your eyes- apology accepted).

Let me clarify; they don’t care what people think of them. A lot of people say they don’t care, but it takes a certain type of character flaw to really not care.

And what makes this character flaw even more challenging is that it can’t be taught. You can’t pick up the “I don’t care” gene in a graduate class, a good mentor can’t teach you, and you certainly can’t fake it (always remember that kids are like dogs- they sense fear and weakness).

When school boards interview for a new principal they confuse themselves by looking for experience, organization, people skills, good leadership qualities, and high grades on a college transcript.

If you are ever looking for a principal, don’t fall into this trap. Keep your eye on the ball and look for someone who doesn’t care (ball, coaches in the title- I crack myself up).

A good principal can care about the kids, the school, the curriculum, the teachers, and the staff- but they can never ever care what people think of them.

I do have to admit that this can be somewhat challenging.

Everyone has a mortgage and car payment so it is important to stay employed. But when you begin to make decisions based on what others think of you, the end is near.

This brings me back to coaches. Why are so many administrators ex-coaches?

There are several plausible theories to consider.

One is that they have families to support and they can’t afford to coach the JV football team for $700 when their kids will be going to college in 8 years. In review, everyone has bills.

Another is that coaches have summers off and after a few years, they usually wander over to the local college and take administrative classes (you can only play so much golf and paint so many houses).

But I think the real reason coaches become administrators is slightly more complex (look at that, I just used the words coaches and complex in the same sentence).

Coaches are comfortable being in charge, giving directions, getting second-guessed/yelled at, and working long hours.

If they weren’t born with the “I don’t care” gene, after 10 years of coaching it is now ingrained into them.

If you have this character flaw, you have a chance. It doesn’t matter if you are male or female, tall or short, mean or nice, but somewhere in the deep recesses of your personality, you must not care.

Technically, you don’t even have to have been a coach, but it helps. There are a few chosen ones who have been blessed with this “I don’t care” gift from a higher authority.

Now granted, this gene doesn’t make you the nicest person on staff, but if does give you the protective armor to allow yourself a chance at being successful once hired as a principal.

That is why you never yell “Coach” in a Principal’s meeting. 80% of the people will turn around and 65% of which won’t care.

The other 35%- we hardly knew you.

As a former coach, any disrespect to coaches in this article was purely for the sake of humor (or attempted humor). I still think it is an honor for someone to address me as “Coach”. I will take that over “Mr.” any day of the week. And I sure do miss painting houses.

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I am in Canada. Please Don’t Follow Me Home-School People.


I Love the Canadians!I am in hiding. I am not too proud to admit that for my own safety I have headed north and given up my job, my family, warmth, and quality professional football.

I am on the run because the Home-Schoolers aren’t happy with me.

This blog is being written from a seedy motel just outside Alberta, Canada. You may be asking yourself, “Why is he in Canada?”

The answer is that I wasn’t taught my directions in public school and I thought I was heading south. That was a joke Home-School People.

Maybe I can get a job at Elsinore Brewery (Google alert).

If you have read any of these idiotic rambling little stories that I have written (write may be too strong of a word- slop together during halftime of the game is more accurate), you have probably realized that they are not meant to have any deep meaning.

I have lots of “theories”, but even I realize most of them are moronic. However, they get me through my day-to-day sad little existence.

Truth be told, I don’t understand 75% of what is written in these blogs 20 minutes after I finish.

If you spend more than 3 minutes contemplating what you read, you have committed 2 ½ minutes more than me.

I have a very exciting life to live…. actually I don’t, but I want to believe I do.

It amazes me that the blogs I really like usually get very few comments, no angry emails, and I can continue to live in relative anonymity.

The ones that I believe no one will read (i.e. Home-Schooling, seems to cause my email account to back up like a toilet in a truck stop- oh great, now I have insulted truck drivers- I should have stopped with my insult about Canadian Football).

Anyway, it is no longer safe for me to stay in my home.

The Home-Schoolers have commented, emailed, and written about me on their websites. Who knew people who home-school are so tech savvy?

When I wrote (ok, slopped) the home-school blog, I thought it was relatively positive in regards to parents who teach their own kids.

I didn’t write (fine, slopped) that it is a huge task to think one person can be an excellent English, Math, Science, Health, Social Studies, Computer, Literature, Physical Education, Music, and Industrial Arts teacher.

I didn’t say that a child’s formative years are so complicated and important that they need outside influences and perspectives from other children and adults that aren’t their relatives

I didn’t write that people don’t home-school their children in college, which in many cases is far more liberal leaning academically and socially.

I didn’t write that the shared experience of public school (good and bad) is a time in all of our lives that ties most of us together for the rest of our lifetimes.

I didn’t write that class reunions for home-school students must be terribly boring.

I didn’t write that home-schooled students who return to public school have a big challenge in learning to social with other kids.

I wrote that I had respect for people who cared enough about their children to make a commitment to their education on a scale far greater than what I would endure.

But, yet I am a bad guy in their eyes. That is why I am on the run. While I am out here I can assure you that I will be helping OJ look for the killers (unless he is thrown in the slammer… cross your fingers).

There is an upside. As long as I am on the run, I won’t break an ankle traipsing through my daughter’s room and I don’t think they have soccer in Canada.

So in review, Canadian Football is odd, I have a poor sense of direction, this blog isn’t written by a genius, OJ needs my help, and using the restroom in a truck stop can be a roll of the dice.

And most importantly, people in America (I miss my homeland) are free to educate their children in any fashion that they choose.

God Bless America and All Hail Canada, you hosers!

Where else can you get a home-schooling discussion, Canadian Football talk, OJ Simpson references, advice about avoiding truck stop restrooms, and obscure quotes from that 1983 classic movie- Strange Brew. All for free.

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While this site operates with the knowledge and awareness of the Tuscola CUSD #301 School Board, Tuscola, Illinois, the content and opinions posted here may or may not represent their views personally or collectively, nor does it attempt to represent the official viewpoint of Tuscola CUSD #301 administrators or employees.