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With hormones raging and while cracking jokes with my classmates, I walked into our first sex-education class.
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It's coded "CP0020." It's a measure that will be on the November ballot when you vote for president.
After moving to Tampa from a small town in Illinois, I did not want to contribute to the pathetic plight of the environment and shop at overbearing conglomerates that bully local businesses and eventually, in some way, shape or form, lead to global warming.
I know the recession is a pain. High gas prices, falling home values, rising food costs. It's bad, and it won't get better soon.
Upon hearing a concert pianist on the car radio, Ted lamented, "I'd love to play the piano like that, but with work, my family, and responsibilities around the house, there isn't any time to practice." It was six in the morning. Ted and his pals, coffees in hand, were driving to a longstanding Saturday ritual - 36 holes of golf.
"Evolution, revolution, gun control, sound of soul ..."
TO: Warren Weathers, Deputy Property Appraiser, Hillsborough County
Family reunions are a charming phenomenon, awash in warm feelings and cold sweat.
Some folks are complaining that Americans are not reproducing enough. They want more fecundity, more new babies.
The first day of March marked the third anniversary of the day I acknowledged I'd become a fat slob and needed to do something about it.
Believe me, teaching usually is no picnic. It can be just a job many days and like any other career, it can be tough to make yourself get up and go to work. Some days you just want to get through the day and go home. But, I can remember when, for me, it was fun.
It's that magical time of year again, when teachers cram repetitive curriculum into young, impressionable minds and students cringe at the mention of four little letters. Ah, it's FCAT season.
I turned 50 last month, and my birthday came and went with very little fanfare.
Like many Americans, I am experiencing my own recession.
I promised myself I wouldn't do a preachy New Year's column. But damn it, I can't help it sometimes!
I truly mean it when I say teaching a teenager to drive ranks right up there with potty training as one of parenting's finest experiences.
So I'm sitting through my final round at a speech and debate tournament thinking, "If I hear one more speech about the problem with America, I am going to nose-dive into an inescapable depression and become a 17-year-old alcoholic."
I'm not quite sure what to make of the 20-something generation. I think they're lost.
"Congratulations, the operation was a complete success."
The one thing I was not prepared for when I began teaching sixth grade was the sex.
Every year, Pyro, my canary, re-invents himself. Except for the timing, he is a lot like those of us who make dramatic New Year's resolutions. "I will lose 20 pounds." "I will be kind to everyone." "I will learn salsa dancing." But Pyro actually goes through with his transformation.
I know you can't see me, but I'm doing my happy dance now. It's a neat little step and hop, with a couple of shakes and a slide. Good news always brings out my happy dance: the day I graduated from high school, the birth of my children, the day my children graduated from high school, to name a few. I do the dance especially well after a shower in front of a mirror still adequately steamed. Dignity requires some modesty.
A few weeks ago, my high school held its annual college night. Aside from the collection of free ballpoint pens I acquired from perky university reps, the only thing I took home from the event was anxiety.
Meet the 22 Community Columnists you'll see appearing on our pages over the next year or so. Each clip contains their name, age, city of residence and a brief biography taken from their own applications.
Here I was at an exciting new school, meeting exciting new people, with an exciting new pile of homework sitting on my desk.
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