My Nemesis of the Week

The Ladder Diagram hates me. And the feeling is mutual.

This is my first year as the yearbook "advisor" at my little school and, although it does take a lot of time and create a fair amount of stress, I don't really have many actual "responsibilities". The staff (all honors kids) do most of the actual work, like taking the photos, writing the copy, and laying out the pages. Sure, I have to make sure the kids don't break the computers, break each other, or sneak naked pictures into the wood shop collage, but the kids are the ones who actually "build" the book.

One of my few physical tasks as advisor is putting together the ladder diagram: the wall chart that organizes the sections and page spreads in the book. The former yb advisor gave me the previous year's binder-sized version early last summer and it looked so benign, sitting there in its color-coordinated pastels, that I really didn't give it much thought.

Then school started. And the staff showed up. And eventually they wanted to, you know, do something (honors kids can be such blasted overachievers, don't you think?) which meant I had to tackle this year's diagram. Suddenly, the pastel paper I had thought was so innocent showed its true colors. It sat there blank. Empty. It was mocking me with it's nakedness. Seriously, there was naked mocking going on.

(NOTE TO NEW READERS: If you found this blog post by Googling the words "naked" or "naked mocking" -- SHAME ON YOU! It's folks like you who necessitate our school computers having extra strength filters that only let the kids visit about three websites. Your next Google search should be for "repentance" you dirty bird.)


I gave up on staring at the scornfully blank paper and cheerfully went to my computer. "Cheerfully" was the adverb of choice in that sentence because at this point in time, I was still thinking this was going to be a painless process. I remembered having a ladder back when I was a yearbook staffer, but didn't have any actual memories to putting one together. I assumed that was because my yearbook advisor had always done it. Notice the "cheerful" expression and "cheerful" posture.

But twenty minutes later I found myself wondering if I had participated in the ladder-building process before, but then repressed all memories of what must have been an equally spirit crushing experience.

An hour later, I had moved on to other, less blog-appropriate adverbs as I fought with the computer. The computer who had apparently formed some sort of mocking, spirit crushing alliance with the paper diagram.

Finally, under the threat of physical violence, the computer allowed me to put together and print out what I thought was a decent looking, page-by-page plan for this year's book.

My victory was short-lived, however, as I realized that in my single-minded rush to get certain pages scheduled for certain deadlines, I had completely overlooked the necessity of having the two-page spreads face each other. If you look close enough at the photo below, I think you can actually see the last few faint sparks of hope leaving my body and being sucked into the black hole of emotion that is my classroom after 5 p.m. on a school day.


I thought about calling it a day and going home. Then I thought about calling it a career and moving to Alaska to become a commercial fisherperson. Then I thought about having to pack up my apartment and about how much it would cost in gas to drive a U-Haul to Anchorage, so I picked up my red marker and went to work trying to salvage some of the past 90 minutes worth of work.

Half an hour and two more failed ladder-diagrams later, Anchorage was looking better and better.


After all, gas prices have dropped about 50 cents in the last month, and there has to be at least one temple-worthy lumberjack up there who needs someone to help field dress his venison and wash his flannel shirts.


This is the point where the custodians stopped coming in to tease me about being at school so late and started coming in to hide all of the semi-sharp objects in my room.

Five failed ladder diagrams later, even my imaginary, flannel-wearing, Alaskan Elders Quorum secretary hunting buddy scenario seemed pointless. I was done. Defeated. I was about to become just one more ladder-diagram-related fatality.


But then I was saved when that strange English teacher genetic quirk of mine kicked in. The quirk that forcibly compels me to copy edit every piece of text that crosses my path. Suddenly I realized that all hope was not lost.


I'm not sure if it was the rejuvenating act of proofreading, or the potent hallucination-inducing fumes from the giant red marker, but I got my second wind and finished a less-sucky version of the ladder-diagram.


Exhausted, I celebrated my narrowly averted failure by breaking out the hard stuff and drinking myself into a blissful oblivion.

Yes, I know its two percent, but don't you dare judge me.

When you have spent hours staring into the bitter void that is a blank ladder diagram, then you can lecture me on my butter-fat intake. Until then, just leave me alone with my milk and my markers and tell the custodians to vacuum around me. I think I'm gonna be here a while.