To the parents who think it is unfair

I was not a competitive student as a child. That metamorphosis didn't take place until college, and it wasn't pretty - just ask any classmate who ever asked to borrow my notes and got his or her head bitten off. I don't recall any serious exams or competitions that we had in elementary or even high school - excluding my driving exam at 16 which was pretty memorable. Kids in Polish schools today have the opportunity to take part in a lot of academic competitions, really, a lot. There are notices on the bulletin boards outside the classrooms. Posters for various competitions, often called Olympics, are taped to the glass doors. Kids bring home flyers from their teachers and sometimes from the organizers of the competitions. Announcements are made on the school webpage and on the electronic gradebook. We get direct e-mails from the teachers requesting our children's participation.

Participation is voluntary. There are those children who cannot wait to show off their skills and knowledge and are glad to have the opportunity to do so. Other children could not care less. They are not interested in sitting a test or preparing with the "team". Some kids do it to get a higher grade out of their teacher at the end of the semester or at the insistence of a parent. Some kids cannot be persuaded by any form of force or bribery, not even as practice for the "real" exams they will take in the future. That's all good. I don't have any problem with that.

I just have something to say to the parents who think it is unfair that my child competed in the English Olympics grades 1-3.

Firstly, this particular English Olympics is run by a company, not the Department of Education. It is a crap test given for a fee intended to justify all those Helen Doron courses parents spend money on.

Secondly, my kids are Polish. They were born in Poland. They go to a Polish school. They had a Polish nanny when they were little. Yes, they have American passports as well, but they have been to America twice for short trips. Maybe you parents have been on vacation to America or Great Britain or Australia for a week or two. Did your kids manage to learn enough English to give them an "unfair advantage"? No? Neither did mine.

Thirdly, the fact that my children speak English at all is a miracle. Well, it is not really miraculous at all. It is pure work. My children speak Polish all day long. They learn in Polish. They read in Polish. They watch TV in Polish. They fight in Polish. They dream in Polish. How many hours a day do you spend with your children? I, as many parents unfortunately, spend very few as I work evenings. Of those hours you spend with your children, how many of them are actual meaningful engagement between you. One? Two? Less than that?

My kids have English at school, the same as your children 2x45 minutes per week. Last year Lizzie had 6 different teachers - 6. Rosie's teacher pronounced birthday as bearzday. They were not covering any material that they should. I had a lot of calls from parents wanting me to teach their children privately - parents who on the most part could speak English and definitely on a level high enough to teach their own 8-year-old. 

I force my children to read in English, to watch TV in English, to learn new words in English. This is what I recommend to all parents when they ask me what they should do and to all my students who are parents. It is not something you have to be American to do. Yes, I speak to them in English. They answer me in Polish. When they speak English, they say things like "drinked", "goed", "don't can", "sanged". Not to mention saying a sentence in English with all nouns in Polish - Today Pani gived us karteczka to take do domu. We have to kolorować the karteczka and give it back to Pani jutro. If we don't gived it jutro, we gets jedynka in the książka. Very English, wouldn't you agree?

Believe me parents, if you put as much effort into your child's English as I do, your child would speak English almost as well as mine. I do it for them, but I do it for me too. Can you imagine not sharing a language with your children? As a mother, not speaking to your baby in your own language? I don't do it to spite you. I don't do it so my kids will come out on top in the English exams. Lizzie has never participated in those exams because she is not interested at all. Her philosophy is that she is awesome, no need to prove it. Rosie participated last year at the insistence of her teacher, and this year declared she's not interested. Again at the insistence of her teacher, she signed up, and we paid the fees. Last year Rosie didn't even catch on that is was an English exam. The first question, read aloud by the instructor, was - "What color is a hippo?" with choices of pink, green, grey, and purple. Rosie said, "Who doesn't know what color a hippo is?" "It was an English exam, Rosie." "Ooooohhhh," says Rosie.

So parents, zip it. When my child doesn't want to sing Silent Night at the school show, it's because she doesn't know it, not any more than your child. And when my child gets a good score on the English exam, congratulate her - a lot of hard work stands behind that success.

Genius of Evil

All the middle-schoolers from the “senior year” of middle school are knee deep in exams right now. With these exam results they will apply to high schools and keep their fingers crossed that they get into their first choice.

What? I remember going through the same thing except it was the SATs and I was worried about college.

I asked one of my students, a teenaged boy, what high schools were on his dream list. He included “the math high school”, “the humanistic high school” and the local Catholic high school. The choices didn’t seem to jive with any specific career choice so I asked him what he wanted to be when he grows up.

Stroking his pet terrier sitting in his lap he replied, “A genius of evil, mwah- ha-ha.”




I can’t make this stuff up.

Boys smell bad and other news

Boys smell bad. And they don’t act the way you want them to. Some of them figure out how to behave by the time they are 16, or 18 or 21. Some of them never figure it out.
You might probably already know this information about boys but you’re probably not a teenaged girl.
This is information I did not possess as a teenager and I am sorry about that fact. It seems like such an obvious fact, but I was clueless. If someone, anyone had told me that teenaged boys were nothing like the ideal boy I had in my mind, my teenage life would have been much happier. Or at least I would have been a lot less disappointed. The key to happiness is lowered expectations, right? If only I could have realized that teenaged boys are what they are, maybe I would have better accepted that fact and been more satisfied in my teenage relationships. Maybe I would have been more satisfied with myself.
I teach a couple of teenaged girls. They know that teenaged boys smell bad and that they are not capable of  acting the way they want them to (yet). I told them that. And I told them to accept it and be happy with it. My job is done.
And now something for the boys. I teach some of them too.
Guess what boys? Teenaged girls like you, despite your funky smell. They can get over your immaturity (if you can get over their obsession with everything vampire). All you have to do is listen to them,  talk to them and act as normal as you possibly can. Oh, and share your nachos at the movie theater (my teenaged student, a boy, says that is the real key).

TMI

Disclaimer: This is not about my husband ;)
It turns out it is true. Your middle-aged husband suddenly starts working out after a decade or two of vegging out on the coach. Your husband, father of your children, suddenly gets a new, fresh, dare I say young, haircut with new clothes (underwear included) to match. Your middle-aged husband suddenly has a lot of work in the evenings – much more than before – and is needed urgently on the weekend all over the country sometimes in cities where you didn’t even know that he had clients. Your middle-aged husband is walking around with a huge smile plastered on his face – something you haven’t seen for years.
How do I know that it is true? Because the middle-aged husband(not MY husband) told me so. He spilled the beans to me after I noticed all of the above. The most noticeable of the changes was the smile.
What a strange English lesson this conversation has made – simply TMI – too much information.

Kurwa Poniedziałek Znowu

My Bad Day which started Monday of last week when I bumped a lady (I mean her car) while parking and she about had an aneurysm has now extended to A Bad Week.
My name has officially been changed from Kurwa Piątek Znowu to Kurwa Poniedziałek Znowu and I suspect the day after tomorrow it will once again be Kurwa Środa Znowu. 
My new name is quite a mouthful so as a modern woman, I think I will hyphenate. Please direct all official correspondence to Pani Kurwa Poniedziałek-Znowu.
Thank You.

Coincidence?

This morning my most jaded student ever told me that I looked beautiful. Hmm, my new “Russian Red” lipstick from MAC is really powerful stuff.

Then he informed me that he had not done his homework.

Coincidence? I think not.

You probably thought I was on vacay

No such luck. Actually, I’ve been very busy. I may be one of the few English teachers who has a busy summer season. Summer for ESL teachers in Poland usually equals starvation- school kids are on holiday, business people are on holiday. Just about everyone is taking a vacation. Except me. (dramatic pause to dry a tear)

Summer can equal starvation unless, like me, you take all “your” teachers’ lessons and all your friends’ lessons plus all your own lessons. Then you don’t have time to scratch your arse…or check your blog.

Oh, sweet September. I am waiting for you.

My first Polish jokes - Painters at PZU

For some reason when I first came to Poland, people liked telling me jokes especially the joke (maybe you know it) with the punch line “piłka…do metalu” (complete with arm motions showing a ball and then a saw). The problem with that joke is that it is only funny in Polish. Translated to English it doesn’t make any sense. And even if you can figure it out, nothing kills a joke more than a long, drawn out explanation. So after about the 10th time hearing this joke, I just smiled and laughed at the appropriate time thus allowing at least the joke-teller some enjoyment.

So while living at PZU (if you don’t know, check out some old posts), I had an opportunity to hear this joke again – from the painters.

It was definitely unfortunate for me that PZU decided to paint their premises during the year of my stay. I got to know about it when I came home to my Archives and found my door wide open and all my belongings gone, excluding the contents of the wardrobe which were still there (but the door to the room was open and unlocked). I immediately went to the caretaker to politely inquire as to what was going on (translate – to ask her what the f*#$ was going on). She informed me that the building was being painted and that I had been moved to another room. Strangely enough, they wanted to leave my wardrobe in its original place but they moved the fridge from the kitchen to another room for me. Weird.

After many a morning of running into the painters on my way to or from the bathroom, one painter decided to be brave and talk to me. He started with a joke. I politely waited for the punch line and after seeing the hand movements indicating “a ball for sawing” I laughed accordingly. My newfound painter friend, spurred on by my laugher, decided to tell me another joke unfamiliar to me. As I didn’t understand a word, I didn’t laugh at the appropriate moment and after an awkward silence I said goodbye and continued back to my room. About 15 minutes later a friend came to visit me. She had also brought a message with her from the painters. They asked her to apologize to me for their “off-color” joke. Apparently, the second joke was a bit risqué and they thought that was why I hadn’t laughed.

All turned out well as the painters later invited me for a shot of vodka in my (and all of PZU’s) kitchen. When I stammered out one of the few clumsy yet useful phrases I knew in Polish “Bez popitki?”(without chaser?), the vodka-pouring painter laughed whole-heartedly and called for all the other painters to join us. A little bit later, well exactly 4 shots later, I had to excuse myself to go to one extra-curricular hour of English at the vocational school. When I arrived, my students, judging by the redness of my cheeks, decided that the weather must have turned colder since the morning ;) Yeah, yeah, I know, I know, totally unprofessional and unethical behavior I exhibited at the start of my career.

PS More recently I had a group of business people every Monday and Friday morning. The deal was that Mondays were mine, I could teach whatever “business crap” (as they put it) I wanted and Fridays were theirs to talk about whatever subjects they wanted – usually cars and cars and cars.

Every Friday morning started out with the “Peter Show” a 5-minute joke-telling set by the Vice-President of the Board of Directors aka Peter. His jokes were definitely off-color which I enjoy (who doesn’t?) and his comedic timing perfect. What he was lacking, due to all that “business crap” I was teaching them, was the proper vocabulary needed to tell such variety of jokes. So every lesson began with a pre-lesson vocabulary check with me. You know, nobody wants to “burn” a good joke. However, when you as teacher are asked practically all the vocabulary needed for a joke, you’ve pretty much got the joke figured out. But no worries, my fake but sincere-sounding laughing skills are just about perfected after all these years of teaching adults (just kidding). To give you an idea of how my Friday mornings usually started, here’s a taste…(attention - it's gonna be vulgar)

Peter: Chris, Chris! I have a really funny joke to start the lesson today. I just need one word.

Me: Cool. What’s the word?

Peter: How do you say “pizda” in English?

I knew that lesson was going to be a doozey.

I love my job!

2 Ways To Drink Chardonnay – 2 Sposoby Picia Chardonnay

My job isn’t usually very exciting. It’s interesting enough, but not exactly exciting. It’s a lot of -you should use borrow here not lend – or - don’t use will after if in the 1st conditional - and the like.

It also involves a lot of nodding in agreement when employees say what an idiot their boss is and when bosses say what idiots their employees are. (Note: There usually is an idiot in every office. The idiot is quite easy to spot. He/she is the one calling everyone else an idiot.)

But on that rare occasion, I get a treat – usually in the form of chocolate (yum, from Harrod’s) or homemade sushi (yuck) and twice in my teaching career in the form of chardonnay.

How to drink chardonnay during your English lesson

by Chris

Way #1

Your student asks you if you are a big chardonnay drinker. You reply that no,you are not but you’d like to try it. Said student (who likes to educate all around him – but not in a bad way) takes the opportunity to explain the proper way to drink chardonnay – in a chardonnay glass held in your hands to warm it up to the proper temperature. There’s also a lot of swishing and smelling going on…and of course a lot of glass refilling. The chardonnay was delicious although I felt a little ridiculous warming the glass with my hands, swirling the chardonnay around in the glass, repeatedly smelling and exclaiming “what a marvelous bouquet”. That did not prevent me, however, from drinking 2 (who am I kidding, 4) glasses.

Way #2

You arrive to a late afternoon/evening lesson (it’s after 6 pm, you be the judge) only to find the secretaries are gone and half the board is sitting (a bit tipsy) in the conference room congratulating each other profusely and patting each other on the back a little too hard. I think I even saw a tear or two. The conference room, strewn with bottles of champagne and a few bottles of chardonnay, is a disaster area. When you ask what’s up you get to know that the company has finally finished contract negotiations and has been purchased by a foreign company for a pretty hefty sum, hence the celebratory atmosphere.

Ok, chances for a lesson are out the window, so I suggest we re-schedule, but my student has other plans. Maybe some chardonnay, he offers. Yes of course, I reply - but there are no clean chardonnay glasses…nor are there any clean champagne glasses. My student returns triumphant from the kitchen after quite a considerable absence – I think it was his first time in there- with a coffee cup (clean) with the company logo. As my cup was filled to the brim, I noted to myself that this wasn’t a very classy way to drink a very good (and certainly expensive) chardonnay, but what the hell. Problems started later because (in the mouth of my good friend as she said to her mother) the cup of chardonnay doesn’t count as only one cup, if you keep filling it up. After one cup my head was a little buzzy and after two my Polish got really good. After three, I thought I could fly and after that I called Misiu to come and pick me up.

Bottoms up!

2 sposoby picia chardonnay

Moja praca nie jest zwykle bardzo ekscytująca. Jest ciekawa, ale niezupełnie ekscytująca. Dużo jest – powinieneś użyć tutaj BORROW a nie LEND, lub nie używaj WILL po IF w zdaniach warunkowych 1 typu – i temu podobnych.

Trzeba też dużo przytakiwać, kiedy pracownicy mówią jakim to idiotą jest ich szef i kiedy szefowie mówią jakimi idiotami są ich pracownicy. (Uwaga: Zwykle jest idiota/idiotka w każdym biurze. Idiotę bardzo łatwo zauważyć. Otóż to ta osoba, która nazywa idiotami wszystkich innych.)

Ale rzadko – otrzymuję jakiś smakołyk – zwykle w formie czekolady (pychota, z Harrod’sa) lub domowej roboty sushi (ohyda) a dwa razy w trakcie mojej nauczycielskiej kariery w formie chardonnay.

Jak pić chardonnay podczas lekcji angielskiego wg Chris

Sposób 1

Twoi uczniowie pytają cię, czy jesteś miłośnikiem chardonnay. Odpowiadasz, że nie, ale chętnie spróbujesz. Wspomniany uczeń (który lubi dokształcać wszystkich wokół siebie – ale nie w złym sensie) korzysta z okazji i wyjaśnia właściwy sposób picia chardonnay – w kieliszku do chardonnay trzymanym w dłoniach, ażeby go zagrzać do odpowiedniej temperatury. Jest przy tym dużo szeleszczenia i wąchania … i oczywiście ponownego napełniania szkła. Chardonnay było wyśmienite chociaż czułam się trochę śmiesznie ogrzewając kieliszek w dłoniach, mieszając wino lekko wirując szkłem, cały czas wachając i wykrzykując “co za wyśmienity bukiet”. To mnie nie powstrzymało jednakże od wypicia 2 (żarty na bok - 4) kieliszków.

Sposób 2

Przyjeżdżasz na późnopopołudniową/wieczorną lekcję (jest po 18.00, sami osądźcie) po to tylko, żeby zobaczyć, że sekretarki już poszły, a pół zarządu siedzi (lekko wypita) w sali konferencyjnej obficie składając sobie nawzajem gratulacje i poklepując po plecach trochę zbyt mocno. Myślę, że zauważyłam też łzę lub nawet dwie. Sala konferencyjna, zasypana butelkami po szampanie i kilkoma chardonnay, wygląda jak miejsce katastrofy. Kiedy pytasz, co sie dzieje, dowiadujesz się, że firma udanie zakończyła negocjacje w sprawie przejęcia i została zakupiona przez zagranicznego inwestora za sporą sumę, i stąd też atmosfera świętowania.

No dobrze, szanse na lekcje są marne, więc proponuję przełożenie na inny termin, ale mój uczeń ma inne plany. Może trochę chardonnay, oferuje – ale nie ma czystych kieliszków do wina, ani do szampana. Mój uczeń wraca triumfalnie z kuchni po dość znacznej nieobecności – myślę, że był tam pierwszy raz, z kubkiem do kawy (czystym) z logo firmy. Jak już mój kubek został napełniony po brzegi, pomyślałam w duchu, że nie będę pić z klasą tego bardzo dobrego (i z pewnością drogiego) chardonnay, ale co tam! Problemy zaczęły się później ponieważ (to z ust mojej koleżanki, która tak powiedziała swojej matce) kubek chardonnay nie liczy się jako tylko jeden kubek jeśli cały czas go napełniasz. Po jednym kubku zaczęło mi szumieć w głowie, a po dwóch moja znajomość języka polskiego naprawdę się poprawiła. Po trzech poczułam, że odlatuję po czym zadzwoniłam po Misia, żeby po mnie przyjechał.

Do dna!

Elevators and Me – Windy i Ja

I come from a small town in which an elevator was something hard to come by. I love to go in elevators or lifts if you prefer.

When one company where I had lessons built a big beautiful new office building, I was very excited that I’d be able to go in the glass lift which looked out onto the square. I was even more excited because I knew it would be at night and the view would be fantastic. Imagine my disappointment when I showed up the first time to the new office only to be escorted by the security guard to the back elevator, let’s say the secret elevator, for the big fish upstairs. Blahhh!

But once, fantastically, one evening the back elevator broke down and I got my chance to ride the fancy glass elevator with everybody else. Well, with nobody else because it was evening. It was just me and the security guard because we had to go up to the last floor this lift traveled to and then to a locked stairwell and on foot the rest of the way to my student’s office. Of course, I could not go unescorted. I don’t know if they were afraid I’d steal something or if I’d get lost. Probably a little of each. So we got on the elevator, the security guard and I, and as the doors closed I couldn’t contain my excitement as I exclaimed, “This is my first time on this lift!” The security guard gave me a smile, you know the kind of smile you reserve for that distant cousin of yours who is a little slow and likes to tell stories about his adventures in space, and then he said slowly, “Taaaaaaak,” not as a question, but as a kind of verbal pat on the head.

Another fascinating lift is in the bank where I got locked in one day. It is a paternoster lift which is one of those lifts which operates on a loop, that has no doors, doesn’t stop and is frankly quite scary the first time you use it. While I am perfectly capable of walking and chewing gum at the same time, I am unable to carry on a conversation while using this kind of lift. First, I must concentrate to step on the empty moving compartment going in the direction I would like to go (up or down). Then if going up, I have to concentrate on getting off at the right floor, I mean, its not like it stops on the floor you want. Getting off requires concentration and some bravery at first, and I always hesitate like a young girl waiting to jump into a game of double-dutch. Sometimes, I had to go one floor up and walk down the stairs.

Missing your floor going down was a bit more risky. There was a notice that you had to get off on the ground floor. If you didn’t you’d end up coming back around on the other side. I was very careful to get off on the ground floor because #1 I did not want to see what happened if I didn’t. I imagined I’d travel through time and space or perhaps catch a glimpse of the dungeon in the bank’s basement where they imprisoned debtors or something or perhaps there’d be a big sign like “You were supposed to get off, STOOOOPID!”. Reason #2 was that when you came around the other side, the up side, and got off on the ground floor, anyone who was waiting to go up would know what you had done.

And one more very important thing you should know…DO NOT press the red button. If you cannot remember that, don’t worry, there is a big sign that says, “Do not press the red button, stooopid”. Ok, there’s no stupid part but I think it is understood. Anyhow, the red button stops the whole lift and should be used only in emergencies. You don’t need to stop the lift to get on or off because it travels at a snail’s pace and is only intimidating the first time you use it. (same goes for traffic circles)

You probably suppose that I know about the red button because I pressed the red button. Sorry to disappoint you, but it wasn’t me. Misiuuuu? Would you like to tell them who pressed the red button? No? Could it be the same person who was talking on his cell phone and forgot to get off on the ground floor and had to wait to come up the other side?

I thought so ;)

Windy i ja

Pochodzę z małego miasteczka, w którym winda to coś, co trudno spotkać. Uwielbiam jeździć windą czyli elevator lub jak kto woli lift.

Kiedy firma, w której miałam lekcje wybudowała duży piękny, nowy biurowiec, byłam bardzo podekscytowana, że będę mogła jeździć w szklanej windzie z widokiem na ulicę. I byłam jeszcze bardziej podekscytowana, bo wiedziałam, że będzie to w nocy, i widok będzie fantastyczny. Jakież było moje rozczarowanie, kiedy pojawiłam się po raz pierwszy w nowym biurze i zostałam eskortowana przez ochroniarza do windy z tyłu budynku, powiedzmy, że to była tajna winda tylko dla VIP-ów z samej góry. Ble!!!

Ale pewnego wieczoru – fantastycznie - tylna winda zepsuła się i dostałam szansę przejechać się przeszkloną windą dla wszystkich. Cóż, nikogo nie było, bo było to wieczorem. Tylko ja i ochroniarz, bo musieliśmy jechać aż na ostatnie piętro kursowania tej windy, a następnie przejść przez zamkniętą klatkę schodową i resztę drogi na pieszo do biura mojego studenta. Oczywiście, nie mogłam przejść bez eskorty. I nie wiem, czy bali się, czy coś ukradnę czy się zgubię. Pewnie i to i to. Wchodzimy więc do windy, strażnik i ja, i kiedy zamykają się drzwi nie mogę powstrzymać mojego podniecenia i krzyczę: "To jest mój pierwszy raz w tej windzie!" Strażnik uśmiechnął się - coś w rodzaju uśmiechu, który masz zarezerwowany dla dalekiego kuzyna, który jest trochę powolny i lubi opowiadać o swoich przygodach w kosmosie - a potem powiedział powoli, "Taaaaaaak", ale nie jako pytanie, tylko rodzaj słownego poklepania po główce.

Kolejna fascynująca winda jest w banku, gdzie kiedyś zostałam zamknięta w środku. Jest to taka winda, która porusza się w kółko, nie ma drzwi, nie zatrzymuje się i – szczerze - jest dość przerażająca, kiedy używasz jej po raz pierwszy. Chociaż doskonale umiem chodzić i jednocześnie żuć gumę, nie jestem w stanie prowadzić rozmowy podczas korzystania z tego rodzaju windy. Po pierwsze muszę skoncentrować się na krok w pusty przedział jadącej windy w kierunku, w którym chciałabym jechać (w górę lub w dół). Następnie, jeśli jadę w górę, muszę skoncentrować się na wyskoku na właściwym piętrze - chodzi o to, że winda nie zatrzymuje się na danym piętrze. Wysiadanie wymaga po pierwsze koncentracji i trochę odwagi, a ja zawsze waham się jak młoda dziewczyna czekająca na skok na podwójnej skakance. Czasem musiałam zajechać o jedno piętro wyżej i schodzić po schodach.

Ominięcie właściwego piętra jadąc w dół było nieco bardziej ryzykowne. Był tam znak, że trzeba wysiąść na parterze. Jeśli nie udało ci się - lądowałaś po drugiej stronie jadąc z powrotem w górę. Byłam bardzo uważna, żeby wysiąść na parterze, ponieważ – po pierwsze - nie chciałam zobaczyć, co by się stanie, gdy mi się nie uda. Wyobrażałam sobie, że będę podróżować w czasie i przestrzeni, a może nawet dostrzegę loch w podziemiach banku, gdzie więzieni są dłużnicy czy coś w tym rodzaju, a może będzie tam wielki znak "Miałeś wysiąść, GŁUPKU!". Powód nr 2 był taki, że kiedy pojawiasz się po drugiej stronie jadąc w górę, i wysiadasz na parterze, każdy kto tam czeka na windę dowie się co zrobiłaś.

I jeszcze jedna bardzo ważna rzecz, o której należy wiedzieć ... nie naciskać czerwonego przycisku. Jeśli nie możesz zapamiętać, nie martw się, jest wielki znak, na którym jest napisane: "Nie należy naciskać czerwonego przycisku, głupku". Ok, nie ma tego ”głupku”, ale myślę, że to jest zrozumiałe. Tak czy inaczej, czerwony przycisk zatrzymuje cała windę i powinien być wykorzystany tylko w sytuacjach awaryjnych. Nie trzeba zatrzymywać windy, aby wejść lub wyjść, ponieważ porusza się ona w ślimaczym tempie, a strach jest tylko wtedy, kiedy używasz jej pierwszy raz. (To samo dotyczy jazdy na rondzie).

Prawdopodobnie przypuszczacie, że wiem o czerwonym przycisku, bo go nacisnęłam. Przepraszam, ale muszę was rozczarować, ale to nie ja. Misiuuuu? Czy chciałbyś opowiedzieć, kto nacisnął czerwony przycisk? Nie? Czy to ta sama osoba, która rozmawiała przez komórkę i zapomniała wysiąść na parterze i musiała poczekać aż wyjedzie z drugiej strony?

Tak myślałam;)

Company Christmas Parties -Biurowa Wigilia

Yesterday evening, I attended the Christmas party of one of my client’s. It will be the only company Christmas party for me this year. Not that I wasn’t invited to any others, but one a year is quite enough. How much carp and kutia can a girl eat, anyway?

In my experience, company Christmas parties in Poland differ dramatically from company Christmas parties in America. All the Christmas parties I attended in the US were informal with a buffet table and casual conversation. In Poland, all the company Christmas parties I have ever attended have been called “wigilia” (Christmas Eve) and involved a supper similar to the Polish Christmas Eve supper. Not that I am complaining. A sit-down supper means that you have a chance to actually eat something without balancing a plate in one hand while trying to get away from that one weird guy from accounting. Well, you can have that same problem in Poland as well (weird guys are an international thing). In my case (in this particular company), the weird guy is the boss.

Last year, I arrived especially early to this company’s party in order to position myself as far away from the boss as possible. Unfortunately for me, the other employees (who know him well) seated us side by side, explaining that it would be best for the 2 foreigners to sit next to each other (their boss is not Polish). Everything was fine for awhile. I mean he is actually an interesting person with a lot of crazy (single-guy) hobbies that are fun to hear about. His English is excellent and he is not exactly bad-looking either. But if not for his fatal flaw….he is a toucher. He loves to touch everyone, as you can imagine, women especially.

As we contemplated aloud what possible cut of meat the poetic menu selection was actually describing, the boss stroked my leg from knee to bum informing me that it was probably this cut of meat. Later, he admired my necklace a bit too closely as well as my silk blouse. Each time I removed his hand from my body and returned it to him firmly. I’m too old to be embarrassed by something like this. I’m also too experienced to even be flattered in some odd way – he does it to everybody.

When a lady from the company and I had a chance to escape to the ladies’ room, I informed her that her boss had a severe case of the touchy feelies. She said she thought she had noticed my chair getting further and further away from his. Ladies from another Christmas party at the restaurant overheard our conversation. After they returned to their table, I noticed a lot of heads craning to get a look at the octopus-handed boss.

The situation cooled down and except for one inappropriate squeeze in the parking lot, nothing more happened. As my mother would say -  what a rare bird!

Cut to this year…I was able to position myself as far away from the boss as humanly possible while still being seated at the same table. The food in my opinion was delicious. According to some guests, it was below par but I didn’t have to shop for it, cook it or clean up after it, so I was quite satisfied.

The other guests, many of them my students, were lovely as always. The boss situation was under control. I received a few kisses (too many, too long and too close to my mouth) and a squeeze during the Christmas wishes. The same situation repeated as we said goodbye. And except for a mildly indecent proposal -I’ll drive you home (we are neighbors) in exchange for 10 kisses - it was a pretty tame evening.

The restaurant in the market square is quite old school. I have been there only a few times and all of them were for official dinners. The same waiters have worked there for years and luckily for them, the tip was included in the bill. Touchy-feely boss is notoriously stingy with tipping.

Here’s the menu:

Cold starters: salmon with dill sauce, salmon tartar, pate with cranberry sauce, herring with onions

Mushroom soup

Main course – A choice of either carp served with fried potato coins or (my choice) duck with apple, kluski sląskie, and fried red cabbage.

Pierogi (between the main course and dessert…funny!)

Dessert – apple pie, cheesecake, baked apples, and kutia

Now, I am officially in the holiday mood.

Look out Christmas! Here I come!

PS Another guest hearing the boss’s proposal saved the day by offering to give me a lift home sans kissing. Thank you!!!

Biurowa Wigilia
Wczoraj wieczorem byłam na wigilii jednego z moich klientów. Będzie to jedyna firmowa „Christmas party” dla mnie w tym roku. Nie, że nie zostałam zaproszona na inne, ale raz w roku wystarczy. Ile karpia i kutii jedna dziewczyna może zjeść, nie?

Z mojego doświadczenia wynika, że firmowe imprezy świąteczne w Polsce znacznie różnią się od firmowych imprez świątecznych w Ameryce. Wszystkie spotkania świąteczne w Stanach, w których uczestniczyłam, były nieformalne, z bufetem i swobodną pogawędką. W Polsce, wszystkie bożonarodzeniowe imprezy firmowe, w jakich kiedykolwiek uczestniczyłam nazywa się "Wigilią" i są podobne do polskiej tradycyjnej kolacji wigilijnej. Nie, że narzekam. Kolacja na siedząco oznacza, że masz szansę naprawdę coś zjeść bez balansowania z talerzem w jednej ręce, starając się uciec od tego dziwnego gościa z działu rachunkowości. Cóż, można mieć ten sam problem także w Polsce (dziwni faceci w pracy to międzynarodowy problem). W moim przypadku (w tej akurat firmie) dziwny facet to szef.

W ubiegłym roku, specjalnie przyszłam na wigilię w tej firmie wcześniej, żeby umiejscowić się jak najdalej od szefa. Niestety dla mnie, inni pracownicy (którzy znają go dobrze) usadowili nas obok siebie, tłumacząc, że byłoby najlepiej dla 2 cudzoziemców siedzieć razem (ich szef nie jest Polakiem). Wszystko było dobrze przez pewien czas. To znaczy, on jest naprawdę ciekawym człowiekiem z wieloma szalonymi zainteresowaniami singla, o których fajnie jest posłuchać. Jego angielski jest bardzo dobry, a on wcale nie jest brzydki. Ale gdyby nie ta jego fatalna wada .... on jest DOTYKACZEM. Uwielbia dotykać wszystkich , jeśli możecie to sobie wyobrazić, zwłaszcza kobiety.

Kiedy rozważaliśmy głośno to, jaki kawał mięsa tak naprawdę opisywało w poetycki sposób menu, szef gładził moją nogę od kolana do pupy informując mnie, że to chyba był TEN kawałek mięsa. Później podziwiał mój naszyjnik nieco zbyt blisko, tak jak i bluzkę z jedwabiu. Za każdym razem zabierałam jego rękę z mojego ciała i stanowczo oddawałam jemu. Jestem zbyt stara, by się zawstydzić przez coś takiego. Jestem również zbyt doświadczona, aby mi to nawet schlebiało w jakimś dziwnym sensie - on robi to wszystkim.

Kiedy pani z firmy i ja mieliśmy szansę na ucieczkę do damskiej toalety, powiedziałam jej, że jej szef ma poważny przypadek choroby dotykacza. Powiedziała, że tak myślała, i że zauważyła, że moje krzesło odsuwało się coraz dalej od niego. Panie z innej firmowej wigilii w tej samej restauracji podsłyszały naszą rozmowę. Po powrocie do stołu, zauważyłam wiele głów zapuszczających żurawia, żeby spojrzeć na szefa z rękoma ośmiornicy.

Sytuacja ostygła i z wyjątkiem jednego niewłaściwego uścisku na parkingu, nic więcej się nie stało. Jak mówi moja matka: co za rzadki ptak!

Wracając do tego roku ... udało mi się znaleźć sobie miejsce tak daleko od szefa jak to tylko możliwe, a jednocześnie siedzieć przy tym samym stole. Moim zdaniem jedzenie było pyszne. Według niektórych, poniżej wartości nominalnej, ale nie musiałam iść do sklepu po nie, ani go gotować, ani sprzątać po nim, więc byłam całkiem zadowolona.

Inni goście, wielu z nich moi uczniowie, byli cudowni jak zawsze. Sytuacja z szefem była pod kontrolą. Otrzymałam kilka pocałunków od niego (zbyt wiele, zbyt długo i zbyt blisko moich ust) i uścisk podczas składania życzeń. Ta sama sytuacja powtórzyła się kiedy się żegnaliśmy. I z wyjątkiem lekko nieprzyzwoitej propozycji – zawiozę cię do domu (jesteśmy sąsiadami) w zamian za 10 pocałunków - to był całkiem spokojny wieczór.

Restauracja w rynku jest dość old-schoolowa. Byłam tam tylko kilka razy i za każdym razem na uroczystej kolacji. Ci sami kelnerzy pracują tam od lat i na szczęście dla nich, napiwek został wliczony do rachunku. Szef-dotykacz jest niezwykle skąpy jeśli chodzi o napiwki.

Oto menu:
Zimne przystawki: łosoś w sosie koperkowym, tatar z łososia, pasztet z sosem żurawinowym, śledź z cebulką
Zupa grzybowa
Danie główne – wybór: karp smażony podany z monetami z ziemniaków lub (mój wybór) kaczka z jabłkami, kluski śląskie i kapusta czerwona zasmażana.
Pierogi (między daniem głównym a deserem ... śmieszne!)
Deser - szarlotka, sernik, pieczone jabłka i kutia

Teraz jestem już oficjalnie w świątecznym nastroju.

Uważajcie Święta! Nadchodzę!

PS Inny gość, który usłyszał propozycję szefa uratował sytuację proponując mi podwiezienie do domu bez pocałunków. Dziękuję!

Giving Is Good

Because of my job, I get to meet people I would otherwise not have an opportunity to meet and do things that I would not have an opportunity to do. It’s really great.

This Thursday evening I had the honor of participating in PGF Urtica’s annual charity auction benefitting children’s cancer wards all across Poland held in the beautiful backdrop of the National Museum in Wroclaw. 

PGF Urtica is one of the largest wholesalers and distributors of pharmaceuticals (to the hospital market) in the country. Urtica dzieciom is the charitable arm of the company which organizes cycles of artistic workshops for the patients in the children’s cancer wards. These workshops are led by a team of dedicated professional artists and art teachers throughout the whole year culminating in the annual auction where we can admire the artistic talents of those incredible little patients.

 

100% of the proceeds from the auction goes to the kids – to support the art program (which is now an essential element in the children’s rehab program) in addition to other programs to help make the children’s stay in the hospital as pleasant as possible. The wards are supplied with paints, paper, glue, books, board game, etc. The wards are also equipped with (in co-operation with the phone company) free “pay” phones so the kids can call home whenever they like.

     

The most fun was had during the “big auction” when the auctioneer and bidders did their best to boost up the prices. The auctioneer even bid against himself and bought a picture for double the starting bid (he was the only bidder – it was really quite comical). There were a few big fish there who entertained the audience with their bidding war. The generosity gave me a genuine warm and fuzzy feeling.

The most poignant and moving moment of the evening was when the President of PGF Urtica purchased the painting of a young patient and then returned it to his parents. This young artist was the star, so to speak, of the annual video shown at the auction. Unfortunately, that young boy died not long ago. His parents agreed to allow his interview to remain in the video and his painting to stay in the auction. They accepted the painting from the President (my new favorite student) graciously. There was not a dry eye in the house.

I was also pleased to provide translation for a guest from Austria. The gentleman, who works for a pharmaceutical producer, came all the way just for the auction. He and I were unable to participate in the “big auction” as the prices were beyond our means, but we both we able to snag something in the “small auction” which was a silent auction. A bit of bidding was required to get the picture that I wanted but I didn’t mind one bit. It’s all going to a great cause.

Our picture - The Stork -  made by a 4-year-old little girl.

The whole evening was solemn and joyful all at the same time. The thought crossed my mind more than once that my own happy and healthy children were at home sleeping peacefully in their own beds.

Hats off to the staff of PGF Urtica responsible for organizing this event.

I know that you all put your hearts into it.

Bravo.

URTICA DZIECIOM www.urticadzieciom.pl

A Good Thing – Dobre Strony

A good thing about being a “travelling” English teacher is that when you arrive for a morning lesson you are served delicious coffee…with foam…in a nice cup with saucer…by a smiling lady or occasionally a gentleman. Mmmm, good.

Another nice thing about being a travelling English teacher is that when you arrive for an afternoon lesson, perhaps after a very important meeting, you can eat the left-over sandwiches. Everyone knows that left-over sandwiches made by someone else are the most delicious. Mmmmm, today’s sandwiches were exquisite - (open-faced sandwiches, of course).

For those with a sweet tooth, another nice thing about being a travelling English teacher is that name days (instead of birthdays)are still a popular occasion in offices and you may be lucky enough to receive a piece of cake. Mmmmm, name-day cheese cake.

For a lazybones like me, a nice thing about being a travelling English teacher is that you have the right to park in the special parking spot marked “gość” (guest) just a few steps from the main door.

A good thing about being a travelling English teacher is that you can meet lots of different people from different business sectors and learn really interesting things about them and their job and about their world view. I take the most interesting and intelligent sounding ideas and later pass them on as my own.

That’s a good thing, too ;)

PS Kielbasa Stories has a new follower. Welcome W drodze! Thanks for joining us and thanks for reading.

Dobre Strony

Dobrą stroną bycia “wędrownym” nauczycielem angielskiego jest to, że kiedy przyjeżdżasz na poranną lekcję, uśmiechnięta pani lub czasami pan, podają ci przepyszną kawę ... z pianką ... w ładnej filiżance ze spodkiem. Mmmm, dobre.

Kolejną miłą rzeczą – kiedy jesteś wędrownym nauczycielem angielskiego - jest to, że kiedy przyjeżdżasz na popołudniową lekcję, być może po jakimś ważnym spotkaniu, możesz zjeść wszystkie kanapki, które zostały. Każdy wie, że kanapki, które zostały zrobione przez kogoś innego są najsmaczniejsze. Mmmm, dzisiejsze kanapki były wyśmienite – (były to oczywiście kanapki otwarte).

Dla tych, którzy lubią słodycze, kolejną dobrą stroną bycia wędrownym nauczycielem angielskiego jest to, że imieniny (zamiast urodzin) są ciągle powszechną okolicznością w biurach i można mieć tyle szczęścia, żeby otrzymać kawałek ciasta. Mmmm, imieninowy sernik!

Dla leniwych jak ja, miłą stroną bycia wędrownym nauczycielem angielskiego jest to, że masz prawo zaparkować na specjalnym miejscu parkingowym z napisem „gość” tylko parę kroków od głównego wejścia.

Dobrą stroną bycia wędrownym nauczycielem angielskiego jest to, że możesz poznać wielu różnych ludzi z różnych branż i dowiedzieć się naprawdę ciekawych rzeczy o nich i ich pracy oraz ich światopogląd. Ja zbieram najciekawsze i najinteligentniej brzmiące pomysły i przekazuję je później dalej jako moje własne.

I to też jest dobra strona ;)

Calamity Chris

Clumsy.

Klutzy.

An accident waiting to happen.

That’s me.

Hearing an “ow” from the other room or seeing a fresh bruise on my arm, Misiu always asks, “Did the wall jump out at you again?”

“No,” I answer indignantly, “The wall did not jump out at me. It was the door.”

His parting words to me each day are not the generic “Have a good day” or even “I love you”, but “Don’t hurt yourself”.(Nie zrób sobie krzywdy")

He knows me well.

I am a danger not only to myself, but also to the things around me. I just don’t know my own strength. I have a special acuity for breaking things especially handles, knobs, buttons and levers.

It all started in the bathroom. Unfortunately, not my own bathroom. It started with the bathroom at my parents-in-law’s.

First, we must know 2 things. Toilets in America and toilets in Poland have a slightly different flushing mechanism. The amount of force needed to engage the flush is also slightly different. You may never have thought about it, but your body carries with it the memory of this (toilet-flushing, door-closing, etc.) force. For that reason, you tap on your computer keyboard and not pound. You close the fridge door lightly and not slam. You flush with the force necessary as found in your tactile memory to make the water come down, but not enough to rip the toilet from the wall.

So, I always flushed with just the right amount of force until the day I exited my parents-in-law’s bathroom, eyes looking guiltily at the floor, clutching the broken flusher in my hand. My father-in-law tried to fix it, several times in fact, but somehow I managed to break it again-the action in my hand always overriding the order from my brain, don’t break the toilet, don’t break the toilet, don’t break the toilet. In the end, they had to buy a new toilet…with a different flushing mechanism which remains to this day intact despite my many visits there.

The door handle to their bathroom has not been so lucky. First in my defense, in the US we mostly have door knobs and not handles. These handles have always caused me problems. Often I cannot get a door to close properly, and I usually let it open, except for the bathroom…at my parents-in-law’s. That’s a place I need to close the door. And with my closing, so went the door handle not once but twice, unto countless times. Fortunately, the door can be closed by grasping the lock lever (which I will never use for its intended purpose as I would surely become imprisoned in there) and pulling tightly.

Sigh, if only my accidents were limited to home. I recently removed the door handle from the bathroom at my gynecologist’s office to which he swore that it had been broken earlier that day and he hadn’t had time to fix it yet. Yeah right.

Next, I broke off the door handle to my friend’s bedroom. She knows me and knows what I can do, so she just took it with a smile when I handed her the handle and said my embarrassed sorry.

The most embarrassing of my accidents (so far) had to be in a bank. Well, not in the bank but in the offices of the holding company that owned the bank. Of course, the office was all very elegant, at that time located in a tastefully renovated brownstone, complete with a lot of sexy glass  doors….with door handles. It’s funny how they always seem to come in pairs, doors and their handles.

Anyhow, I finished my lesson on the top floor and decided not to take the elevator down but to walk instead. I didn’t want to be lazy, and I also have problems with elevators. As I pulled on the door handle of the sexy, glass, floor-to-ceiling doors, a strange but familiar thing happened. The door stayed put, and the handle came with me. I knelt down and tried to put it back on giving quick glances behind me to check if anyone had seen me through all those damn glass doors. I tried and tried to put it back on, but jeez I’m not MacGyver. I had no choice, but to turn myself in.

I descended the staircase running through some possible  explanations in my head. As I got to the bottom of the staircase, I was met by the security guard. I sheepishly showed him the handle in my hand. He asked me, “Co się stało?” as if I were his daughter showing him my empty ice cream cone with the ice cream melting at my feet on the sidewalk. I handed him the handle and said, “Nie znam swojej siły”, and then I escaped!

Know your own strength!

PS  Door in Polish is plural. Doors are…Drzwi są even when you are talking about one door. My husband kept me quiet one whole evening by asking me how to say 10 doors in Polish. Dziesięć drzwi. Dzisięcioro drzwi. How about Dziesięć par drzwi….but wouldn’t that mean 20? Oh cholera, who cares?!?

Back to Reality

One of the best parts of my job is that I get to meet and talk to a lot of different people, from different backgrounds, with different opinions, leading different lives. Sometimes for my own selfish purposes their English language betterment, I ask different groups of students about the same hot topic or current events. Today was one of those days.

As you know, the Polish President, Lech Kaczynski, and 95 others perished in a plane crash on their way to a memorial ceremony in Katyn. It is a great personal tragedy for all those involved and also a political tragedy for Poland. (The memorial ceremony was to take place in the forest close to Katyn, the site of a massacre of Polish officers by the Soviet secret police 70 years ago.)

I started my morning with a group of well-read and opinionated gentlemen. We had a great discussion about the political ramifications of the accident and the “what’s next?” in the political arena. They also told me the theory that perhaps the pilot did not want to land but was ordered to do so by higher-ups. Maybe they didn’t want to be late. Maybe they thought the landing was do-able. I guess it will all come out in the black box.

Another lesson today was with a lady who was a definite Kaczynski supporter. I was not a supporter because for me his views were too far on the right. Anyhow, it was interesting to hear her perspective and to listen to her describe the many charitable acts of the late First Lady. She also described how her father taught her about Katyn and other historical events which were not in the history books during communist times.

One student today explained that in fact it is the Russian’s fault because if they had not massacred Polish soldiers (and not only Polish soldiers) in Katyn, then there would have been no need to travel there in the first place. Another student made a joke, in bad taste, that it is good for “us”, meaning the opposition party to the late President. One person faulted the late President and his cabinet stating that they were not even invited there anyhow which is kind of true, but is neither here nor there.

As I drove on from one company to the next, I noticed that the City and private citizens had hung Polish flags with a black ribbon. The radio station played subdued music with special reports about some of the local people who died in the crash. Many people are also flocking to church and to other meeting places to show their respect. I also saw a lot of red eyes today.

No matter how I felt about the President, I still view this event as a tragedy. It is hard to say that anything good has come of it. Perhaps it has allowed Poland and Polish people to show their patriotism without being ashamed and without fear of being accused of nationalism. A good thing to come out of this tragedy is that more and more people have become aware of Katyn. That is one of the reasons Kaczynski wanted to go there in the first place, to put an international spotlight on what happened there 70 years ago. Russian’s main TV channel even showed Wajda’s Oscar-nominated film “Katyn” on TV last night.

In light of the support given by Putin to Poland in resolving all issues connected to the crash (and for his promise to release for the first time top secret documents connected to the Katyn massacre), it has been proposed in the media that a new era of brotherhood between Poland and Russia may arise out of this tragedy. I think they went too far with that prediction. I also think that the late President Kaczynski would be opposed to closer relations between Poland and Russia and especially displeased with his death being the impetus for such strengthening in relations.

National Window Cleaning Week

In case you didn’t know, it is National Window Cleaning Week in Poland. I’m just kidding, but take a look around and you’ll see what I mean.

I remember my first Easter after starting to teach English in the City. Occasionally, I had cancellations and clusters of cancellations especially around holidays. But the explanations went something like this, “Chris, we have to cancel the lesson October 31st because nobody from our group will be at work. We have to travel to our family for November 1st (All Saint’s Day).” Ok, that’s reasonable.

Or something like this, “Chris, we’re cancelling our lessons on Christmas Eve and the days between Christmas and New Year’s. Nobody will be at work those 2 weeks. We’ll meet again the first week of January.” That sounds reasonable, too.

But my first Easter went something like this, “Chris, we have to cancel our lessons next week before Easter….”

Now I am expecting reasons such as shopping, cooking, traveling but not this,

“…because we have to clean our windows.”

Clean your windows? They are cancelling because they have to clean their windows. They’ve got to be pulling my leg, but then the next group cancels with the same excuse and another and another.

Wishing you sunny skies and time to clean your windows!

PS My windows will not be cleaned. I do not bow to the pressure of Polish society ;)

PS2 Is it wrong to simultaneously have Christmas decorations, Valentine’s Day decorations and Easter decorations hanging in your house at the same time?

Good Teacher/Bad Teacher: Teaching English the Kryśka way

There are many methods for learning a language. Unfortunately, there are no magic methods. Part of my job is to balance out the methods I like to use and think are effective with the methods my students are used to and prefer. Most importantly, I want my students to learn English. You’d be surprised how many teachers don’t really care if their students learn anything, as long as they all enjoy the lessons and pay the bills. In order for my students to learn English, I have to put forth some effort to teach them, but my students also need to put forth some effort to learn.

How do I get my students to do what I want them to do?

When I taught in high school in the Village, it was pretty easy. Almost all the kids had their eyes on the prize – university- and didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize their good grades and future studies.

With adults, it is a little more difficult. Firstly, I use two teaching tools - proximity and physical contact. I did not make that up myself as some sort of an excuse to touch my students. I learned it at teacher’s college. The theory is that if you place yourself near your student and from time to time make light physical contact, the student’s performance will increase (and discipline problems decrease). This works in groups. In individual lessons, your student will just think that you are weird and wonder why you are sitting so close and touching him all the time.

Another method I use is rewards. The simplest reward I use is praise, but that’s not very tangible. I mean you can’t take it home and brag about it to your friends. One of my favorite tangible rewards to give would have to be stickers. I have smiley faces and “teacher” stickers with phrases such as “Cool!” or “Good Job!”. The most coveted of all my stickers would have to be the American flag stickers. They are awarded only for tests (not homework) with scores of 89% or better. Some of my students (adults) ask me before the test if they get an 89% or better, could they get their sticker “unstuck”. Usually, they want to put the sticker on their class book or computer.

Another kind of reward is the opportunity to give me homework, too. Yes, sometimes I allow my students to give me Polish homework and then laugh at my mistakes. I’m generous and self-deprecating like that.

If there are rewards, there have to be punishments as well. Adult students are really reluctant to do homework and by reluctant, I mean lazy. No amount of explaining, asking, pleading, ordering, screaming or stickers will get them to do it. So instead I have to resort to punishment – punishments which I call “The Power of Public Humiliation”. They don’t teach that at teacher’s college, and it is a pity because I feel public humiliation as a teaching tool is surprisingly effective and highly underrated ;)

Punishment #1 – Students who do not do their homework, must sing a song for the class…with the classroom door open for the whole office to hear. Number 1 most selected song by students would have to be the very popular Kotek na Płotek with Happy Birthday coming in a close 2nd.

For the most stubborn of cases, I implement Punishment #2 –If your boss is paying for your lessons, you have to explain to your boss why you don’t have your homework, now, right this minute, with me by your side. That one works, but then they hate me. It’s a trade-off.

Sometimes I don’t have to resort to punishment. I just threaten them with the power of, “Your boss said…” It’s a kind of good cop/bad cop game or more like good teacher/bad boss, except what the students don’t know is that in most cases their boss didn’t say anything. It’s a bluff – insert evil laugh here…Wahahahahaaaa…

When all else fails, I bribe them…with baked goods. Do not underestimate the guilt-value of a homemade banana-nut muffin. I can easily get a month’s worth of homework out of that.

It’s not just homework that students don’t want to do. They don’t want to do grammar, either. Lately, in an effort to get some of my students to do more grammar, I have come up with a scheme which seemingly forces them to choose grammar exercises and like it.

How do I do it? It is ingeniously simple. It’s all about choice. I offer them 2 possible activities for the lesson, one being grammar and the other being much worse. They always snap up the grammar, grateful at having been spared the “much worse”.

“Much worse” is different for different students. For some it is a text to read, for others it is a speaking activity, but for the some of my students, it is the grammar exercise which is the “much worse”. So for those who hate grammar exercises, really dread them, I have to be a bit more creative with the “much worse”. Out come the articles on difficult or boring topics: Pregnancy and Childbirth: A Lesbian’s Perspective, The Inevitability of Gay Marriage, Valentine’s Day Vasectomy Discounts….you know, your basic Sunday morning reading.

I have one group of gentlemen who are very grammar averse and by grammar averse, I mean lazy. I knew that to get them to finally stop stalling, I’d have to pull out the big guns. Bam! Grammar exercises or New Circumcision Recommendations of the AMA. Exasperated sigh, my plan backfired. They chose the circumcision article, even after I explained what circumcision was. I gave my students the incorrect statistic that 90% of American males are circumcised which prompted them to ask in disbelief “19 or 90”. I wasn’t far off though, as the estimated rate is around 80%. Despite the painful topic, the conversation was quite good and my students learned some words they may never have had an opportunity to learn. How they will ever use those new words at work is their own problem.

Next time their choice is going to be between difficult grammar exercise and even more difficult grammar exercises.

No more fooling around!

PS When I took my first trip to the sea side, I remember that my new friend asked me, “Are all men in America circumcised?” I responded, “I don’t know. I haven’t checked them all yet.” ;)

Security!

Security guards like me.
What can I say?
I’m a friendly person.
Security guards remember me, too. I guess not too many American ladies come through their offices too often.
In Poland, I have noticed that security guards usually come in 2 varieties, very young men and women probably at their first job and older men and women, probably at an after-retirement job to earn a bit more money for the monthly budget.
I am especially liked by this second variety. Anyhow, I enjoy the jokes such as “If I had had an English teacher like you…” There was one very friendly security guard who enjoyed kissing my hand, so much so that he had to be asked by management to stop. I remember that in one bank I had lessons with one gentleman 5 days a week for a year and then 3 days a week for another year. That’s a lot of lessons. It was early in the morning so I got to meet the night shift security guard at the end of his shift. I’m sure that he was very tired, but he always greeted me warmly. Imagine my pleasant surprise about 5 years later when I showed up to another company and found the same security guard at the front desk and he remembered me and he was happy to see me “Kogo ja tutaj widzę”, he said. It was nice.
I am always sure to “meldować się” (to register) with the security guards as I know this is very important in Polish office buildings. I also subject myself to whatever security precautions are necessary such as checking my bag on the way out or even checking my person as in one bus factory rife with theft. It was amusing to listen to the 2 young security guards arguing between themselves who was going to explain to me in English that I have to open not only my bag but also my jacket before I could leave. I let them sort it out for a while and then I opened my jacket and gave them a wink.
At the local television station, even registering with the security guard didn’t get me in sometimes. Apparently my ID card identified me as a man so they didn’t want to let me in or give me the keys, 3 keys in fact that I needed for one room, my classroom, because my classroom was third in a series of rooms within a room. I never understood why each of the rooms within a room had to be locked. Why not just lock the outside one? Anyhow, there was nothing more than a table and chairs in these rooms. What was there to steal?
There is also the variety of security guard who does not remember me at all…despite the fact that I have been coming to the same company, on the same day of the week, at the same time, driving the same car, and parking in the same spot for years. One such security guard, his face well-known to me after 3 years, ran out of the building to inform me that this parking spot was for employees only (I am lucky because I have good justification to park in employees only spots and in guest only spots). I said that I was an employee, but he responded that he did not remember me and asked in what sense I was an employee there. I said in the sense that I do work and once a month they pay for me it. He couldn’t argue with that and let me off the hook.
In one company my students were notoriously late, and my classroom was right next to the security guards’ “office”. They often asked me to explain different things to them in English usually involving room numbers and keys, signing in and out, etc. When they were really bored, they invited me to their room, and we checked how far the security cameras could see. We discovered we could recognize faces of people entering the sex shop down the street. We also checked out the cameras located outside the restrooms on each floor. We discovered that Irish men often do a bit of….adjusting….even after exiting the restroom. Polish men do not. Anyhow, I hope they all washed their hands. After that, I was always aware that no matter where I was in the building, a camera could be on me.
In one company, the big fish upstairs got a once a year amount of money that they could spend on “trainings” such as English lessons or other kinds of courses. Some people spent the money on Russian lessons, tennis lessons, MBA courses. My student spent his budget of money on English (yeah me!) and massages (nothing to do with me). His masseur often came for the massage to the office in the evening directly after our lesson. Once as I was packing up my stuff and the masseur was setting up his table, the security guard from downstairs popped his head in just to remind my student that there were cameras not only in the secretary’s area but also in his private office. It can be fun to spy, but sometimes you can see more than you bargained for.
I imagine security detail can sometimes be boring and you could look for any kind of entertainment. Once, I was the one providing that entertainment for a bank security guard. Somehow, I got myself locked in the bank after hours. Ok, not somehow, I know exactly how it happened. I had individual lessons in the bank headquarters back office. The lessons, one hour each, started at 4:00 pm and ended at 9:00 pm. Sometimes, one or two students couldn’t attend due to meetings, etc. so they rearranged the order of students, sent me an sms/text message that they’d be late, or canceled altogether. To enter or exit the back office before 5 pm, no security card was needed. After 5 pm was a different story. On this particular day, I had forgotten my mobile phone at home. Student number 1 (of 5) showed up, but Student 2 did not so I waited one hour alone, reading a book. Student 3 showed up but student 4 did not. I couldn’t leave because Student 5 could show up, so I tucked into my book. At 9:00, I decided it was safe to leave (sometimes my students arrived 5 minutes before the end of the lesson expecting me to be waiting so I didn’t leave earlier). I packed up my things and headed to the main door to the stairway. Locked, of course. I began looking for some stray office workers to let me out. No one. Some stray cleaning staff. No one.
What could I do? I contemplated opening the window in my classroom and shouting to someone to ask the security guard downstairs to let me out, but I didn’t want to look like an ass. The office was in the Market Square so a lot of people would hear me and I was pretty high up in the building. I’d have to shout pretty loud and in Polish.
I couldn’t call anyone because I didn’t have my phone. There was a phone in my classroom, but I didn’t know any numbers by heart. That’s what my cell was for. I figured that in about another hour when I didn’t come home, Misiu would come looking for me. At least I had my book. Unfortunately, like everything in Polish office buildings, the bathrooms were locked.
Ok, this is a bank. There are cameras everywhere. Somebody has to be watching me, I thought. I decided to dance in the hall in front of the cameras and wait. Nothing. I decided to dance in front of the cameras and down the hall as I checked each door, trying to find an open one. Nothing. I returned to my classroom and began rummaging around in the desk there. Eureka! A telephone book! I found the number for the main office and hoped it would ring the security desk downstairs. But how to call from this phone? The number doesn’t work. 0 and the number doesn’t work. 1 and the number doesn’t work and so on and so on. Finally, 9 and the number worked. “Bank blah, blah, blah. Słucham,” a very bored male voice answered. “Is this the office in Rynek,” I ask. “Yes,” he answered and as I started my explanation he said “I’m on my way up.” He knew who I was because he had been watching me on his monitor. I half expected him to compliment my dancing, but he just let me out with a smile in his eyes. At least he had been entertained. Glad to be of service.
Security guards are the most important people in the office (well, next to the cleaning ladies) and the most important of all security guards would be the weekend security guard. To get into an office building on the weekends, you practically have to give blood. Who are you? Where are you going? For how long? And of course why? English lessons. Didn’t you hear my accent? No, why on Saturday? I forgot to mention that most of these questions are not required for any paperwork or any security protocol. They are only to satisfy the curiosity of a bored out of his mind security guard.
What do bored security guards do? From my experience, besides spying on people in the building, they also actually secure the building. I mean they walk around, checking that the doors are locked or what’s going on in the parking lot. There are also the guards who are supposed to stay put, to sit at their desk or in their budka and secure the building from a seated position. In my experience, they often read the newspaper, do crossword puzzles, listen to the radio and drink coffee.
So, one Saturday morning as I approached the security booth in one of the City’s office building, I practiced my speech in my head. Security guards don’t usually speak English (but sometimes they do!). Dzień dobry. Jestem Pani od angielskiego….. I approached the booth and rattled off my speech glancing at the clock and noticing that I was almost late for my lesson. From the booth, no response. I leaned down and said my speech a little louder and closer to the “window”. Nothing. I tapped and wrapped, at first lightly on the glass and then louder and louder with no response. I said firmly '’Proszę Pana” and then screamed at the top of my lungs “Proszęęęęęęęęęęę Panaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!” Nothing.
Oh shit! I ran as fast as I could to the 3rd floor, burst in the office door and ran to the kitchen where I could hear my student already making coffee for us. “R, R, Robert,” I barely got out his name as I was out of breath from my sprint up the stairs. “What?” he asked in shock. “Your security guard is dead!” I shouted. “Wait here,” he ordered looking all managerial and took off out the door and down the stairs. I waited nervously, wringing my hands and pacing back and forth in the kitchen thinking, “Shit, why do these things always happen to me?” Actually, nothing like that had ever happened to me and technically this was not even happening to me as I was not the dead one, just the poor, old, kind gentleman responsible for handing out the keys to English teachers on Saturday mornings.
After a few minutes, I heard the click of the door and saw my student slowly walking towards the kitchen. He was not in any hurry to reach me, but why should he be? It’s not like the security guard was going to get any more (or any less) dead if he hurried. He approached me, took a breath and I braced myself for confirmation of the bad news. He said with a sigh, “Chris, the security guard is not dead. He’s old, about 70 and wears a hearing aid. He’s not dead. He was asleep and didn’t hear you.”
I forgot to mention that the most common thing that bored security guards do is sleep.
Sweet dreams!
Check out this post by Sebastian po polsku on the same topic. Thanks for the inspiration.

Sex and the Teachers’ Lounge

The Polish teachers’ lounge in my experience is a very relaxing place especially if you don’t speak Polish. I mean it becomes a relaxing place if you can get over the fact that everyone around you is speaking a language that you don’t understand and some vital information could be passed on, with you none the wiser. Vital information being that the bathroom on the ground floor is out of order and shouldn’t be used or perhaps that November 1st is a national holiday and there will be no classes that day. Purely hypothetical examples of course ;)

When you don’t understand a language you often get the feeling that people around you are arguing - that every raised voice, every gesture is a sign of rage waiting to explode. Except in the teachers’ lounge of my Polish school where you couldn’t get a rise out of anybody for any reason except maybe if the coffee had run out.

I usually never asked what the teachers were talking about. Not that I didn’t care, but usually as soon as they noticed that the conversation was being delivered to me in English, they just stopped talking. Not that the conversations were anything out of the ordinary. I guess they were just self-conscious. So everyday I sat in the teachers’ lounge preparing my lessons without anyone bothering me (teachers out there, be jealous!) with the soothing sound of the Polish language buzzing around me.

Until one particular day, I noticed that the teachers were involved in an especially heated discussion. After a few moments of observation, curiosity got the better of me, and I asked another English teacher what everyone was talking about.

“Sex,” she replied pretty matter-of-factly.

“Sex?” I asked, pretty darned surprised. I mean there’s a crucifix hanging in the lounge.

“Yes, sex,” she answered again.

What had I been missing all these days gone by when I didn’t understand what the teachers had been talking about. Had they been discussing hot taboo topics, - these ordinary looking high school teachers? Had I underestimated them or even “misunderestimated” them as George W. Bush so famously flubbed?

“Even the priest?” I inquired.

“Especially the priest!” she enthusiastically announced.

Mmmmm, the hot priest and a debate about sex. I wondered what side of the argument he was on. Pro-sex? Anti-sex? Wait a minute. What were they talking about exactly?

“About sex? The priest? Really?” I asked for the last time.

“Yes,” replied the exasperated English teacher. “It’s a very important topic for the Catholic church. You have sex in America, don’t you?” she asked.

What a personal question! It’s not like, hey, you have pierogi in America, don’t you. It was sex. A timeless universal. I replied slowly, “Well, yes, of course we have sex in America.”

The English teacher continued, “You have those Amish or something, right?”

Huh? Amish? What?

Ohhhh. Sects.

My red-faced answer, “Yes, yes, we have sects and we have Amish too, but I’m not sure they actually qualify as a sect.”

And then as so many times before, I was saved from further discussion by the ringing of the class bell.