Originally posted: Friday, November 16, 2007 7:43pm
After what seems like an ETERNITY of mediocre film casting, production, and distribution, we have finally broken into an absolutely excellent film season. Let's compare for just a moment or two, shall we?
Movies I avoided like the Plague of Black Death:
Stomp the Yard
Catch and Release
The Hills Have Eyes II
Georgia Rule
Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End
Hostel, Part II (the first one was sooo unbelievably painful, I can't believe they got funding for a sequel!)
License to Wed (and Jon Krasinsky in IN my Top Five!)
Transformers
Harry Potter 20: Order of the Phoenix
Hairspray
I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry
The Bratz Movie (come ON!)
Daddy Day Camp
Rush Hour 3
Good Luck Chuck
The last few movies I'd seen this year before nearly giving up :
300 (meh)
Premonition (worst movie I've seen in months!)
Shooter (Mark Wahlberg let down)
Blades of Glory (might need to see this one again to fully appreciate it--like ALL Will Ferrell movies I see)
Fracture (way worse than I thought it would be)
Knocked Up (a big disappointment after 40-Year-Old Virgin)
Live Free or Die Hard (meh 'shoot em up')
Ratatouille (good for a movie about rats in a kitchen)
The Bourne Ultimatum (meh)
Becoming Jane (actually liked this one)
The Brave One (intriguing, but not a keeper)
3:10 to Yuma (okay, not great)
Elizabeth: The Golden Age (PALE comparison to the first film)
OKAY--so enough negative--it's finally time to focus on the solution to our movie woes and here they are!! :
Into the Wild (fantastic book, fantastic movie)
The Kingdom
Lust, Caution
Michael Clayton (although I did see this movie a few years ago. It was called Erin Brockovich)
American Gangster
No Country for Old Men
Gone Baby Gone
Lars and the Real Girl (unconfirmed--but seems promising)
Ahh--it's like deep, sweet inhalation of movie choices after a long and tortuous box office suffocation--a damn near complete crucifixion of film production. Go forth, settle in with the kettle corn, diet pepsi, and sour patch kids--there are FINALLY movies worth spending money on these days. Hoorah!
Thursday, December 13, 2007
"It's For the Birds": Discourse on Automatic Tipping
Originally posted: Saturday, October 6, 2007 7:16am
Tipping is sometimes an occasion for anxiety for me (and if you've read any of my earlier blogs, you're thinking "Yeah? And what, pray tell, doesn't present anxiety for you?"). So you'll either identify with the following or think, "Good lord, doesn't this woman have anything better to think about?" and be on your way. In either case, I hope you have a fantastic day!
Restaurants are the easy part. I got it--20% of the cost of the meal, 15% if the service was poor, more than 20% if I'm either generously drunk or grateful for some kind of unexpected compensation. It's always the same and I'm happy to do it. I also know that tips help to assuage the poverty of the otherwise criminally low, unlivable wages waitresses and waiters earn. I am slightly less clear about other kinds of services that "require" tips. As I have learned through my keen observations of human nature (someone holding a hand out, or presenting a "tip" line on a printed receipt, for instance), with many many services rendered in this world there is an inexplicable expectation for extra compensation. Into the "less clearly tippable" group, I would put taxi and limo drivers, taxi hailers, airport curbside luggage crew, bell hops, hair dressers, spa staff, piano men, pizza delivery guys, bartenders and strippers. These are all services which have traditionally called for tips. For this category of services I am confused about a few things.
First, how much? The rate always seems to be increasing, but I cannot determine any real mathematical certainty, like I can for the waiters. Thus, if I have paid for an actual service (cab fare, pizza dinner, haircut, etc.), I will usually default to the 20% tip with ONE exception. Any woman (read Leslie) who ventures into my nether regions to remove hair gets damn near 50% in tip--partly out of my own empathy (If I could imagine doing such a job, I would never opt to), and to make up for the uncomfortable time of payment across a cold counter after we've been SO close for the last 20 minutes. It's as close as I will ever come to the feeling some men have when the time arrives to pay the hooker, the latter of which I believe is not tipped for her services--another confusion of mine. For airport crew, bell hops, and piano men, however, there is no initial service cost on which to base my tip amount--thus, the setting for these guys always seems to be between 2-5 dollars (usually depending on the small bills in my wallet and how willing I am to ask and wait for change back).
Second, for what am I tipping these people exactly? With the possible exception of taxi drivers and pizza delivery guys, I do not believe their wages are tip-dependent like the waiters--especially spa staff. So the tip, in these cases, is presumably presented to the service provider for pretending he or she actually likes the job they do. And I would imagine it's a fine, cautious, line they tread. For instance, you want your hair dresser to be friendly and talkative to a degree, but if he or she is annoying or intrusive, that might lower the tip amount. In the case of the strippers, our tip seems to be quality assurance, as far as I can tell. Certainly, we want our strippers be "into" their work, not shoving the reality of objectification and exploitation in our faces--thus, we reward them for pretending like they are executing their dream job before our very eyes. Perhaps the same is true for airport curbside crew? If I give you a couple of dollars, you won't throw my bag around like you're slinging trash into a dumpster?
Third, why do we tip some and not others? For instance, why do I tip my masseur for his gentle hands and comfortable chit chat and not my dental hygienist? Why do I tip the cabbie and not the bus driver, the latter with whom I have more regular and pleasant conversation? Why do I tip the pizza delivery guy and not the UPS or Fed Ex worker who brings immense joy into my life by anonymously leaving packages like Santa Claus? Why do we tip musicians and not circus entertainers--or lawyer, ministers, and teachers for that matter?? It's all in the same spirit of performance, is it not?? There is more to say about this particular "hazy" group, but I'll move on to the group that actually spurred this blog to being with.
The third category of "automatic tipping" is a newer group that, to my ability to recall its genesis, began around the era of the chain coffee shop. You know what I'm talking about. You walk into Starbucks to get your grande-non-fat-iced-mocha-frappuchino-with-sugar-free-hazlenut-syrup-and-no-whip. After the ten minutes it takes to order "your" drink, and paying your five dollars, you notice that there is a jar between the cash register and the Joan Baez tribute CDs marked "TIPS" in some creative, Crayola-marker, taily, polka-dot design--as only a high school girl can achieve.
It's this form of tipping we must really stand against, folks. Firstly, and seriously--for WHAT are we tipping in these counter-top cases? One's ability to remember the order I JUST gave (and, to be fair, at Starbucks that does require some amount of skill)? One's ability to work the cash register in an effective way? One's correctly executing the particulars of my order? One's ability to scream out the order for pick up so that everyone knows I'm on a diet this week? Secondly, where does it stop? The next time I walk into Taco Bell am I to be accosted with the passive guilt trip of ignoring the tip jar some kids have set out because they can? The next time I go to pick up my clothes at the dry cleaners, am I to feel I'm being insensitive to the rigorous work of standing behind a counter all day? Where will the tip-on-all-occasions madness end? I, for one, refuse to put one red cent into such an enterprise.
So, go forth and question your future tipping opportunities. Do not be guilted into spending your hard-earned income on the future keg funds of our youth! Save it for the waiters and waitresses of this world who need it to support their cocaine addictions. Just kidding.
Tipping is sometimes an occasion for anxiety for me (and if you've read any of my earlier blogs, you're thinking "Yeah? And what, pray tell, doesn't present anxiety for you?"). So you'll either identify with the following or think, "Good lord, doesn't this woman have anything better to think about?" and be on your way. In either case, I hope you have a fantastic day!
Restaurants are the easy part. I got it--20% of the cost of the meal, 15% if the service was poor, more than 20% if I'm either generously drunk or grateful for some kind of unexpected compensation. It's always the same and I'm happy to do it. I also know that tips help to assuage the poverty of the otherwise criminally low, unlivable wages waitresses and waiters earn. I am slightly less clear about other kinds of services that "require" tips. As I have learned through my keen observations of human nature (someone holding a hand out, or presenting a "tip" line on a printed receipt, for instance), with many many services rendered in this world there is an inexplicable expectation for extra compensation. Into the "less clearly tippable" group, I would put taxi and limo drivers, taxi hailers, airport curbside luggage crew, bell hops, hair dressers, spa staff, piano men, pizza delivery guys, bartenders and strippers. These are all services which have traditionally called for tips. For this category of services I am confused about a few things.
First, how much? The rate always seems to be increasing, but I cannot determine any real mathematical certainty, like I can for the waiters. Thus, if I have paid for an actual service (cab fare, pizza dinner, haircut, etc.), I will usually default to the 20% tip with ONE exception. Any woman (read Leslie) who ventures into my nether regions to remove hair gets damn near 50% in tip--partly out of my own empathy (If I could imagine doing such a job, I would never opt to), and to make up for the uncomfortable time of payment across a cold counter after we've been SO close for the last 20 minutes. It's as close as I will ever come to the feeling some men have when the time arrives to pay the hooker, the latter of which I believe is not tipped for her services--another confusion of mine. For airport crew, bell hops, and piano men, however, there is no initial service cost on which to base my tip amount--thus, the setting for these guys always seems to be between 2-5 dollars (usually depending on the small bills in my wallet and how willing I am to ask and wait for change back).
Second, for what am I tipping these people exactly? With the possible exception of taxi drivers and pizza delivery guys, I do not believe their wages are tip-dependent like the waiters--especially spa staff. So the tip, in these cases, is presumably presented to the service provider for pretending he or she actually likes the job they do. And I would imagine it's a fine, cautious, line they tread. For instance, you want your hair dresser to be friendly and talkative to a degree, but if he or she is annoying or intrusive, that might lower the tip amount. In the case of the strippers, our tip seems to be quality assurance, as far as I can tell. Certainly, we want our strippers be "into" their work, not shoving the reality of objectification and exploitation in our faces--thus, we reward them for pretending like they are executing their dream job before our very eyes. Perhaps the same is true for airport curbside crew? If I give you a couple of dollars, you won't throw my bag around like you're slinging trash into a dumpster?
Third, why do we tip some and not others? For instance, why do I tip my masseur for his gentle hands and comfortable chit chat and not my dental hygienist? Why do I tip the cabbie and not the bus driver, the latter with whom I have more regular and pleasant conversation? Why do I tip the pizza delivery guy and not the UPS or Fed Ex worker who brings immense joy into my life by anonymously leaving packages like Santa Claus? Why do we tip musicians and not circus entertainers--or lawyer, ministers, and teachers for that matter?? It's all in the same spirit of performance, is it not?? There is more to say about this particular "hazy" group, but I'll move on to the group that actually spurred this blog to being with.
The third category of "automatic tipping" is a newer group that, to my ability to recall its genesis, began around the era of the chain coffee shop. You know what I'm talking about. You walk into Starbucks to get your grande-non-fat-iced-mocha-frappuchino-with-sugar-free-hazlenut-syrup-and-no-whip. After the ten minutes it takes to order "your" drink, and paying your five dollars, you notice that there is a jar between the cash register and the Joan Baez tribute CDs marked "TIPS" in some creative, Crayola-marker, taily, polka-dot design--as only a high school girl can achieve.
It's this form of tipping we must really stand against, folks. Firstly, and seriously--for WHAT are we tipping in these counter-top cases? One's ability to remember the order I JUST gave (and, to be fair, at Starbucks that does require some amount of skill)? One's ability to work the cash register in an effective way? One's correctly executing the particulars of my order? One's ability to scream out the order for pick up so that everyone knows I'm on a diet this week? Secondly, where does it stop? The next time I walk into Taco Bell am I to be accosted with the passive guilt trip of ignoring the tip jar some kids have set out because they can? The next time I go to pick up my clothes at the dry cleaners, am I to feel I'm being insensitive to the rigorous work of standing behind a counter all day? Where will the tip-on-all-occasions madness end? I, for one, refuse to put one red cent into such an enterprise.
So, go forth and question your future tipping opportunities. Do not be guilted into spending your hard-earned income on the future keg funds of our youth! Save it for the waiters and waitresses of this world who need it to support their cocaine addictions. Just kidding.
The Identity Crisis of Name Tags
Originally posted: Sunday, August 19, 2007 6:29pm
This morning approximately 430 high school freshman boys and girls gathered for a retreat day on the campus of the school at which I teach. I was one of a few charged with handing out name tags and directing kids to the appropriate section of the gym for the initial greeting and address by the Principal. It was an interesting job on many levels, but I was quickly and profoundly aware of how much 14 year olds (and the rest of us, I suppose) do NOT like to wear name tags. And I wondered why this is.
Kid after kid would approach the table, mumble a name, and look completely broken when issued the sticky little rectangle. A few asked, "Do I have to wear this?" I remember the same sense of embarrassment. Is it a desire for anonymity within the crowd? Is it the sting of being known or not being known? If I have to wear a name tag, that means you don't already know me--shame on you!
For girls, the problem is apparently two-fold as customary name tag placement is somewhere in the chest area. For adolescent girls in an almost constant state of social panic, drawing attention to the chest as a method of identification is a horror in and of itself. Thus, many girls chose to adhere the sticker to their hips, legs, stomachs, shirt sleeves--pretty much anywhere except the chest and forehead.
At my last high school reunion, my friends and I (who had been substantially pre-partying before arrival) thought it would be funny to put other alums' names on our chest. In this particular case, I labeled myself with the name of an African-American male classmate. Since most of us had been to school together for 13 years, and no one seemed to have had massive reconstructive surgery since we graduated, I did not understand the need for name tags. Perhaps it was a socially graceful decision made on behalf of the spouses who would not know people and would have a difficult time understanding a somewhat slurred Kaaatthhyyrn Dundiadaosjfof. Or maybe the reunion organizers felt that spouses should not be singled out with the name tags (wasn't high school cliquey enough?!).
In any case, whenever there are name tags there is some measure of social anxiety. Sure, in a situation where people would be unfamiliar enough with others that name tags would be necessary, the social context itself would incur some measure of discomfort. But there is a special kind of anxiety brought on by the name tags themselves--embedded in the act of identifying oneself with a posted sign--and I thought it was past time I should bring it to light.
This morning approximately 430 high school freshman boys and girls gathered for a retreat day on the campus of the school at which I teach. I was one of a few charged with handing out name tags and directing kids to the appropriate section of the gym for the initial greeting and address by the Principal. It was an interesting job on many levels, but I was quickly and profoundly aware of how much 14 year olds (and the rest of us, I suppose) do NOT like to wear name tags. And I wondered why this is.
Kid after kid would approach the table, mumble a name, and look completely broken when issued the sticky little rectangle. A few asked, "Do I have to wear this?" I remember the same sense of embarrassment. Is it a desire for anonymity within the crowd? Is it the sting of being known or not being known? If I have to wear a name tag, that means you don't already know me--shame on you!
For girls, the problem is apparently two-fold as customary name tag placement is somewhere in the chest area. For adolescent girls in an almost constant state of social panic, drawing attention to the chest as a method of identification is a horror in and of itself. Thus, many girls chose to adhere the sticker to their hips, legs, stomachs, shirt sleeves--pretty much anywhere except the chest and forehead.
At my last high school reunion, my friends and I (who had been substantially pre-partying before arrival) thought it would be funny to put other alums' names on our chest. In this particular case, I labeled myself with the name of an African-American male classmate. Since most of us had been to school together for 13 years, and no one seemed to have had massive reconstructive surgery since we graduated, I did not understand the need for name tags. Perhaps it was a socially graceful decision made on behalf of the spouses who would not know people and would have a difficult time understanding a somewhat slurred Kaaatthhyyrn Dundiadaosjfof. Or maybe the reunion organizers felt that spouses should not be singled out with the name tags (wasn't high school cliquey enough?!).
In any case, whenever there are name tags there is some measure of social anxiety. Sure, in a situation where people would be unfamiliar enough with others that name tags would be necessary, the social context itself would incur some measure of discomfort. But there is a special kind of anxiety brought on by the name tags themselves--embedded in the act of identifying oneself with a posted sign--and I thought it was past time I should bring it to light.
Back-to-School Blues: A Teacher's Perspective
Originally posted: Sunday, August 5, 2007 7:44am
Normally, I preface my blogs with some diplomatic preamble disclaimer so that the following material may be set in the context of a loving, open heart that needs merely to express the short-sighted view of her limited and confused perspective on this world of ours. In this case, I will only preface the following to say that I LOVE my job, truly feel I have been called to my chosen profession of teaching, and would rather drive toothpicks under my nails than sit in a cubicle all day with a phone in one hand and a calculator in the other.
About 70 days ago I remember feeling a tinge of embarrassment when I responded "Nothing" to the frequent question, "What are you doing this summer?" My answer did not carry with it any inherent shame, as I am no stranger to unabashed loafing (an inherited family trait, I am almost positive). The person asking the question, however, would almost always accost me with a furrowed brow of disapprobation, as if remarking in his or her head, "Hmmm, she looks like a decent, upstanding member of this community, but I suppose I've been fooled all along." With painful reluctance I would hear instead, "Oh. . .well. . .yeah, I guess you deserve the break!"
You bet your ass I deserve the break. If any of my readers are teachers, this all goes without saying--so, this is for the rest of you who think that you've got a bum deal because you work your tail end to a bloody pulp every day and have to beg your employer for two days of vacation time put together, while the teachers of this world (while, okay, maybe not paid quite as much as they should be) total a minimum of 85 vacation days (not including weekends, mind you!). Why that's 17 work weeks, you say, that's four months out of the year those teachers aren't working!! (It actually turns out to be more like four and a quarter, I think). It's right about now where the cynically minded snigger just loud enough to be audible, "No wonder our kids don't learn nothin' these days."
So, as my vacation days wind down--and they have been lazy days, my friends, I will attempt to illustrate for you the beloved occupation that demands such extensive "break" time and why back-to-school sales always carry with them a slight feeling of dread and mourning for the expiring summer.
I heard once that teaching is among the top five most stressful jobs because of all of the decision making involved. The decisions may not carry the heavy weight of those of say, a brain surgeon, a military commander, or the President (and I mean whoever makes the decisions for the President, of course), but in sheer volume equate nearly to the amount an air traffic controller makes throughout a single day. In fact, a traffic controller's job differs only slightly in the details from that of a teacher:
"Controllers are often responsible for several aircraft (read classes) simultaneously. The number of craft varies with size of airport, time of day and weather (read location). Controllers must be able to work under extreme pressure, often without a break, for up to four hours at a stretch. They must be able to visualize the whole traffic picture, establish priorities, and think clearly in emergencies. They must have a good memory, and be able to listen to morethan one pilot (read student) at a time. The pace is often hurried and controllers must make quick and accurate decisions. Any indecision or delay could contribute to a catastrophic loss of lives and property (read self-esteem, GPA, college admissions, intellectual curiosity, etc., etc.)."
These people are REQUIRED to take breaks every few hours where they are ushered into a little room to be completely alone and make absolutely no decisions whatsoever. There is usually a television with only one channel (lest they have to decide what to watch). They are also REQUIRED to retire at age 56 because of the level of concentration the job requires. But, therein, I digress.
For someone like me, a middle child with virtually no authoritative weight in the family structure, I got used to not having to make decisions. I have always been very content to follow along and only "jump ship" when absolutely necessary--usually without warning anyone that I'm about to do so. Teaching does not allow me the luxury of passive observation. In my classroom, I am the decision maker (meaning I make them and I create them) and any decision that comes from without is only being made within the pre-fabricated decision possibilities I have constructed. Among other things, this job has a great capacity to breed control freaks out of otherwise very easy going people.
For the past five years, most days kick off about 4:45am. This is when I actually get out of bed, the alarm has generally been sounding off and on for the past thirty minutes. I am a HUGE "snoozer." In the shower I am beginning to visualize the day. Usually having some plan about the daily lesson (based in what we did the day before), I start considering what needs to be read, copied, graded, and assigned for the lesson to tie into what we've been doing and what we'll be doing later. Do I have what needs to be read? Where is it? If not, where am I going to get it? Would another reading work better? If so, where is it? etc. Do I have what needs to be copied? Where is it? . . . Should I be creating something new for this or rely on what I've already made? If the former, when am I going to create it? Have I graded everything that needs to be graded in order to proceed? If not, when am I going to get things graded (this line of decision making ties heavily into lesson planning because perhaps there is a thirty minute "laissez-faire" activity in which I can get it done during class itself). This "grading" question really only applies to quick, objective quizzes that require no further decision making. I'll get to essays in a minute. What am I going to assign today to make sure they invest in the lesson? Is the assignment worth their time? Is it worth the time it's going to take to grade it? Should I rely on a pre-made assignment or come up with a new one? If the former, do I know where it is? If the latter, when am I going to create it? Then, dear hearts, I get out of the shower.
I review, reverse, reconsider, resist, renew, reorder this line of questioning throughout my morning activities of making coffee, flossing, brushing my teeth, drying my hair, getting dressed (which requires a microcosm of decision-making, of course), applying the teeny bit of makeup I wear, and driving to school.
I generally get to school before the sun has even begun to peep his sleepy head above the horizon--about 6am. From here on until the last bell rings, there is a constant barrage of decisions to be made, all sprouting their own offspring that (with enough care and nurturing) will grow into adult-size, anxiety-ridden, receding hairline and pop belly decisions in due time. These consist of picking material, deciding what's "important" and/or relevant from the material, teaching material, assigning material, and grading material (each having a bevy of decisions in their own right).
Which brings me for a minute to the last of these categories. Every year a benevolent-minded counselor assigns a teaching assistant to me, presumably to lighten my grading load--and I don't care what this statement kicks up--NO ONE grades like an English teacher grades. The math, science and language department can cry their "partial credit" sob story all they want--at the end of the day, the answer is either right or wrong--end of story. Every year I inevitably meet the wide-eyed lass (it's always a girl for some reason) and break the news to her that I can't use her. IF I give an objective vocabulary or reading quiz, we grade them right there in class--as part of the pre-lesson that day. And I'm quite sure I would be fired if I handed over even part of the bottomless essay stack for a 16-year-old to grade. Only on a very rare occasion have I assigned some creative visual component, in which case I don't see how my subjective assessment of art is better than anyone else's, thus my TA has a rare job to do: "Here--rate these on a 1-10 scale, and don't give anyone anything less than an 8."
Analytical, expository essays, the bulk of my grading load, is the beast with which I (and any other English teacher I know) wrestle every year. It takes me, on average, 25 minutes to grade ONE essay. Multiply that times 130 (for each student), and then multiply that times 6 (for each essay assigned). Having difficulty? Let me help you--that's approximately 19,500 minutes of essay grading (luckily, not every student turns in every assignment!)--that's 325 hours, you say, that's thirteen and a half straight days of reading and marking up papers. If only I could compute the amount of decisions that goes into that 25-minute period with regard to main argument (thesis) content and structure, introduction funneling, topic sentence (claim) content and structure, evidence (data) content and incorporation, commentary (warrant) content and structure, reverse-funneling conclusion, to say nothing of grammar, mechanics, and formatting. It is not only safe but accurate to say that I spend more time thinking about some essays than it took to write them in the first place.
I do it to myself, you say? Be quicker about it, you say? Don't care so much, you say? They're friggin' high school student essays, you say? It's all true, but it doesn't matter. Because if I didn't take that time, I wouldn't ever really read the essays. They're not good. They're never good. Some are more surprisingly insightful than others, and that's about it. I HAVE to take that much time, or I wouldn't take any at all. And some small part of me thinks that even though the kids hope and pray with every essay submission that I would just lighten the hell up--some small part of them appreciates the fact that I care more about their essays than they do.
And this essay grading takes place somewhere between the end-of-school bell and 4:15am when my alarm first sounds (and I then beat it into submission with the accessible because overwhelmingly-sized snooze button.) It's perhaps no wonder that I have not yet been blessed with the pitter-patter of little feet in my life. I clock about 14 hours a day of work time, on average, and work about 40 weeks a year. If I were paid $15 an hour (a reasonable wage for rearing and expanding the minds of our nation's youth), I would earn approximately $42,000 (before taxes)--a seasoned teacher's salary by most state standards (though unliveable in the bay area, of course). But, I digress yet again. That doesn't leave much time for cooking for, cleaning up after, playing with, and tucking in children--unless it's around Christmas, spring break, or summer (haha!). I will have to make adjustments eventually--start bribing and blackmailing TAs to keep their adolescent traps shut about grading essays, I guess.
So, no--I'm not quite ready for the bonanza that is "Back to School"--and neither is my subconscious, evidently, judging from the dreams I've been having lately (see "A Teacher's Nightmare" in The Starbucks Chronicles). The break from decision making has been necessary and wonderful. I've been burdened only with choosing my next pleasure read and MySpace profile song. The time is now upon me to sink back into The Grapes of Wrath (sophomore summer reading--a decision made at the end of the year) and decide which passages to propound, whether to make a new Depression Era powerpoint or stick with the old one I've grown detached from after three years of using it, whether or not I'm finally going to tweak that beast of a test to cut down on the grading load, or keep it as it is to effectively set the tone of an "honest-to-God honors level class" (if the former, what to cut out? what to leave in? add more?), decide what activities we'll do on the first few days of school, how much time to allot, how to assess their engagement with the material, how to smile (not too big, not at the beginning of the year!), how to dress, how to decorate the room (finding a keen balance between fun and professional, as well as functional and not too babyish), how to. . ., how to. . ., how to. . ., how to. . .
So long Summer, you've been good to me.
Normally, I preface my blogs with some diplomatic preamble disclaimer so that the following material may be set in the context of a loving, open heart that needs merely to express the short-sighted view of her limited and confused perspective on this world of ours. In this case, I will only preface the following to say that I LOVE my job, truly feel I have been called to my chosen profession of teaching, and would rather drive toothpicks under my nails than sit in a cubicle all day with a phone in one hand and a calculator in the other.
About 70 days ago I remember feeling a tinge of embarrassment when I responded "Nothing" to the frequent question, "What are you doing this summer?" My answer did not carry with it any inherent shame, as I am no stranger to unabashed loafing (an inherited family trait, I am almost positive). The person asking the question, however, would almost always accost me with a furrowed brow of disapprobation, as if remarking in his or her head, "Hmmm, she looks like a decent, upstanding member of this community, but I suppose I've been fooled all along." With painful reluctance I would hear instead, "Oh. . .well. . .yeah, I guess you deserve the break!"
You bet your ass I deserve the break. If any of my readers are teachers, this all goes without saying--so, this is for the rest of you who think that you've got a bum deal because you work your tail end to a bloody pulp every day and have to beg your employer for two days of vacation time put together, while the teachers of this world (while, okay, maybe not paid quite as much as they should be) total a minimum of 85 vacation days (not including weekends, mind you!). Why that's 17 work weeks, you say, that's four months out of the year those teachers aren't working!! (It actually turns out to be more like four and a quarter, I think). It's right about now where the cynically minded snigger just loud enough to be audible, "No wonder our kids don't learn nothin' these days."
So, as my vacation days wind down--and they have been lazy days, my friends, I will attempt to illustrate for you the beloved occupation that demands such extensive "break" time and why back-to-school sales always carry with them a slight feeling of dread and mourning for the expiring summer.
I heard once that teaching is among the top five most stressful jobs because of all of the decision making involved. The decisions may not carry the heavy weight of those of say, a brain surgeon, a military commander, or the President (and I mean whoever makes the decisions for the President, of course), but in sheer volume equate nearly to the amount an air traffic controller makes throughout a single day. In fact, a traffic controller's job differs only slightly in the details from that of a teacher:
"Controllers are often responsible for several aircraft (read classes) simultaneously. The number of craft varies with size of airport, time of day and weather (read location). Controllers must be able to work under extreme pressure, often without a break, for up to four hours at a stretch. They must be able to visualize the whole traffic picture, establish priorities, and think clearly in emergencies. They must have a good memory, and be able to listen to morethan one pilot (read student) at a time. The pace is often hurried and controllers must make quick and accurate decisions. Any indecision or delay could contribute to a catastrophic loss of lives and property (read self-esteem, GPA, college admissions, intellectual curiosity, etc., etc.)."
These people are REQUIRED to take breaks every few hours where they are ushered into a little room to be completely alone and make absolutely no decisions whatsoever. There is usually a television with only one channel (lest they have to decide what to watch). They are also REQUIRED to retire at age 56 because of the level of concentration the job requires. But, therein, I digress.
For someone like me, a middle child with virtually no authoritative weight in the family structure, I got used to not having to make decisions. I have always been very content to follow along and only "jump ship" when absolutely necessary--usually without warning anyone that I'm about to do so. Teaching does not allow me the luxury of passive observation. In my classroom, I am the decision maker (meaning I make them and I create them) and any decision that comes from without is only being made within the pre-fabricated decision possibilities I have constructed. Among other things, this job has a great capacity to breed control freaks out of otherwise very easy going people.
For the past five years, most days kick off about 4:45am. This is when I actually get out of bed, the alarm has generally been sounding off and on for the past thirty minutes. I am a HUGE "snoozer." In the shower I am beginning to visualize the day. Usually having some plan about the daily lesson (based in what we did the day before), I start considering what needs to be read, copied, graded, and assigned for the lesson to tie into what we've been doing and what we'll be doing later. Do I have what needs to be read? Where is it? If not, where am I going to get it? Would another reading work better? If so, where is it? etc. Do I have what needs to be copied? Where is it? . . . Should I be creating something new for this or rely on what I've already made? If the former, when am I going to create it? Have I graded everything that needs to be graded in order to proceed? If not, when am I going to get things graded (this line of decision making ties heavily into lesson planning because perhaps there is a thirty minute "laissez-faire" activity in which I can get it done during class itself). This "grading" question really only applies to quick, objective quizzes that require no further decision making. I'll get to essays in a minute. What am I going to assign today to make sure they invest in the lesson? Is the assignment worth their time? Is it worth the time it's going to take to grade it? Should I rely on a pre-made assignment or come up with a new one? If the former, do I know where it is? If the latter, when am I going to create it? Then, dear hearts, I get out of the shower.
I review, reverse, reconsider, resist, renew, reorder this line of questioning throughout my morning activities of making coffee, flossing, brushing my teeth, drying my hair, getting dressed (which requires a microcosm of decision-making, of course), applying the teeny bit of makeup I wear, and driving to school.
I generally get to school before the sun has even begun to peep his sleepy head above the horizon--about 6am. From here on until the last bell rings, there is a constant barrage of decisions to be made, all sprouting their own offspring that (with enough care and nurturing) will grow into adult-size, anxiety-ridden, receding hairline and pop belly decisions in due time. These consist of picking material, deciding what's "important" and/or relevant from the material, teaching material, assigning material, and grading material (each having a bevy of decisions in their own right).
Which brings me for a minute to the last of these categories. Every year a benevolent-minded counselor assigns a teaching assistant to me, presumably to lighten my grading load--and I don't care what this statement kicks up--NO ONE grades like an English teacher grades. The math, science and language department can cry their "partial credit" sob story all they want--at the end of the day, the answer is either right or wrong--end of story. Every year I inevitably meet the wide-eyed lass (it's always a girl for some reason) and break the news to her that I can't use her. IF I give an objective vocabulary or reading quiz, we grade them right there in class--as part of the pre-lesson that day. And I'm quite sure I would be fired if I handed over even part of the bottomless essay stack for a 16-year-old to grade. Only on a very rare occasion have I assigned some creative visual component, in which case I don't see how my subjective assessment of art is better than anyone else's, thus my TA has a rare job to do: "Here--rate these on a 1-10 scale, and don't give anyone anything less than an 8."
Analytical, expository essays, the bulk of my grading load, is the beast with which I (and any other English teacher I know) wrestle every year. It takes me, on average, 25 minutes to grade ONE essay. Multiply that times 130 (for each student), and then multiply that times 6 (for each essay assigned). Having difficulty? Let me help you--that's approximately 19,500 minutes of essay grading (luckily, not every student turns in every assignment!)--that's 325 hours, you say, that's thirteen and a half straight days of reading and marking up papers. If only I could compute the amount of decisions that goes into that 25-minute period with regard to main argument (thesis) content and structure, introduction funneling, topic sentence (claim) content and structure, evidence (data) content and incorporation, commentary (warrant) content and structure, reverse-funneling conclusion, to say nothing of grammar, mechanics, and formatting. It is not only safe but accurate to say that I spend more time thinking about some essays than it took to write them in the first place.
I do it to myself, you say? Be quicker about it, you say? Don't care so much, you say? They're friggin' high school student essays, you say? It's all true, but it doesn't matter. Because if I didn't take that time, I wouldn't ever really read the essays. They're not good. They're never good. Some are more surprisingly insightful than others, and that's about it. I HAVE to take that much time, or I wouldn't take any at all. And some small part of me thinks that even though the kids hope and pray with every essay submission that I would just lighten the hell up--some small part of them appreciates the fact that I care more about their essays than they do.
And this essay grading takes place somewhere between the end-of-school bell and 4:15am when my alarm first sounds (and I then beat it into submission with the accessible because overwhelmingly-sized snooze button.) It's perhaps no wonder that I have not yet been blessed with the pitter-patter of little feet in my life. I clock about 14 hours a day of work time, on average, and work about 40 weeks a year. If I were paid $15 an hour (a reasonable wage for rearing and expanding the minds of our nation's youth), I would earn approximately $42,000 (before taxes)--a seasoned teacher's salary by most state standards (though unliveable in the bay area, of course). But, I digress yet again. That doesn't leave much time for cooking for, cleaning up after, playing with, and tucking in children--unless it's around Christmas, spring break, or summer (haha!). I will have to make adjustments eventually--start bribing and blackmailing TAs to keep their adolescent traps shut about grading essays, I guess.
So, no--I'm not quite ready for the bonanza that is "Back to School"--and neither is my subconscious, evidently, judging from the dreams I've been having lately (see "A Teacher's Nightmare" in The Starbucks Chronicles). The break from decision making has been necessary and wonderful. I've been burdened only with choosing my next pleasure read and MySpace profile song. The time is now upon me to sink back into The Grapes of Wrath (sophomore summer reading--a decision made at the end of the year) and decide which passages to propound, whether to make a new Depression Era powerpoint or stick with the old one I've grown detached from after three years of using it, whether or not I'm finally going to tweak that beast of a test to cut down on the grading load, or keep it as it is to effectively set the tone of an "honest-to-God honors level class" (if the former, what to cut out? what to leave in? add more?), decide what activities we'll do on the first few days of school, how much time to allot, how to assess their engagement with the material, how to smile (not too big, not at the beginning of the year!), how to dress, how to decorate the room (finding a keen balance between fun and professional, as well as functional and not too babyish), how to. . ., how to. . ., how to. . ., how to. . .
So long Summer, you've been good to me.
More From the Pretend Poet
Originally posted: Saturday, July 21, 2007 8:27am
At Home with a Headache
The dishes are clean
the laundry's put up
the bed's nearly made
and yet you remain—
plaguing me since the afternoon hours
when I didn't take you seriously.
Perhaps it's the reading—
banal essays and unpoetic poems
that make me long for the next
overread masterpiece.
You hate what I'm reading
and beg for a change with your throbbing pulse
and your obstinate presence.
Perhaps it's the lighting—
the luminous glow
of the computer screen
emitting the freshest complaint,
emailed confusion,
or handout on thesis statements.
You'd rather the lamp—however dim—
of inspired imagination.
Candlelight would be nice, you think.
Perhaps it's the bottle—
neglected since Tuesday.
And you're feeling a little dried out,
a little too perceptive,
a little naked all of a sudden.
Or perhaps it's the noise—
the din of preparation,
the screech of undeserved praise,
the blare of human ignorance,
the booming teenage apathy.
You most certainly prefer
the perfect silence
of Aristotle,
flickering tapers,
and pinot noir.
Ash Wednesday
Hers is perfect:
a beautiful symmetry of crossed ash
revealing the faultless state of her soul.
The black edges blend into the skin,
as if the particles knew not what it meant
to be separate from her brow—
the home of patient expression,
inexplicable love, and assurance
in those around her.
Everyone knows her faith today;
her ashen forehead reveals her order,
her inner-peace, her integrity.
Mine is horrid:
a smudge—something like
marks on police reports—
revealing chaos within.
The muddled blob sits clumsily
until someone remarks:
"You have dirt on your face."
"No," I say, knitting my sullied brow,
"It's Ash Wednesday."
But the tacit truth remains:
I have dirt on my soul—
disclosed to you now
through the guise of piousness.
On Halloween
I know it doesn't make much sense
to dress up like a cat—
to don fake whiskers on my face
and prowl around in black.
And never should I reason with
a devilish attire—
two horns, a tail, a miniskirt
That mocks a dark desire.
And surely draped in princess robes,
I link with the insane;
while masking mediocrity,
I claim a regal fame.
Then why is it not lunacy
when daily I disguise
a fear quite well concealed
behind a forged facade of lies?
Deceptions of adulthood
whisper confidences clear—
asserting strength and aptitude
that's never drawn up near.
"Halloween is kiddie stuff,"
the wiser ones will say,
"a time for silly pretenses—
imaginary play."
But I see something sinister
in practicing disguise—
in wishing we were other things,
in cultivating lies.
On Re-creation
Now I understand
Why God let Noah live.
When starting something new,
It's best to use a sieve
To keep that which we love the most
And junk what we don't need—
Preserve our precious works,
Else essay a hellish deed.
At times, though, in my haste
To purge the unessential,
I scrap my written works,
My publishing potential.
Then I must create anew
A piece that I cannot—
The images, the dialogue
Escape my present thought.
Trapped in a paralysis
Of "what I said before;"
Haunting new endeavors
Like a fickle, phantom whore.
At Home with a Headache
The dishes are clean
the laundry's put up
the bed's nearly made
and yet you remain—
plaguing me since the afternoon hours
when I didn't take you seriously.
Perhaps it's the reading—
banal essays and unpoetic poems
that make me long for the next
overread masterpiece.
You hate what I'm reading
and beg for a change with your throbbing pulse
and your obstinate presence.
Perhaps it's the lighting—
the luminous glow
of the computer screen
emitting the freshest complaint,
emailed confusion,
or handout on thesis statements.
You'd rather the lamp—however dim—
of inspired imagination.
Candlelight would be nice, you think.
Perhaps it's the bottle—
neglected since Tuesday.
And you're feeling a little dried out,
a little too perceptive,
a little naked all of a sudden.
Or perhaps it's the noise—
the din of preparation,
the screech of undeserved praise,
the blare of human ignorance,
the booming teenage apathy.
You most certainly prefer
the perfect silence
of Aristotle,
flickering tapers,
and pinot noir.
Ash Wednesday
Hers is perfect:
a beautiful symmetry of crossed ash
revealing the faultless state of her soul.
The black edges blend into the skin,
as if the particles knew not what it meant
to be separate from her brow—
the home of patient expression,
inexplicable love, and assurance
in those around her.
Everyone knows her faith today;
her ashen forehead reveals her order,
her inner-peace, her integrity.
Mine is horrid:
a smudge—something like
marks on police reports—
revealing chaos within.
The muddled blob sits clumsily
until someone remarks:
"You have dirt on your face."
"No," I say, knitting my sullied brow,
"It's Ash Wednesday."
But the tacit truth remains:
I have dirt on my soul—
disclosed to you now
through the guise of piousness.
On Halloween
I know it doesn't make much sense
to dress up like a cat—
to don fake whiskers on my face
and prowl around in black.
And never should I reason with
a devilish attire—
two horns, a tail, a miniskirt
That mocks a dark desire.
And surely draped in princess robes,
I link with the insane;
while masking mediocrity,
I claim a regal fame.
Then why is it not lunacy
when daily I disguise
a fear quite well concealed
behind a forged facade of lies?
Deceptions of adulthood
whisper confidences clear—
asserting strength and aptitude
that's never drawn up near.
"Halloween is kiddie stuff,"
the wiser ones will say,
"a time for silly pretenses—
imaginary play."
But I see something sinister
in practicing disguise—
in wishing we were other things,
in cultivating lies.
On Re-creation
Now I understand
Why God let Noah live.
When starting something new,
It's best to use a sieve
To keep that which we love the most
And junk what we don't need—
Preserve our precious works,
Else essay a hellish deed.
At times, though, in my haste
To purge the unessential,
I scrap my written works,
My publishing potential.
Then I must create anew
A piece that I cannot—
The images, the dialogue
Escape my present thought.
Trapped in a paralysis
Of "what I said before;"
Haunting new endeavors
Like a fickle, phantom whore.
The Starbucks Chronicles
Originally posted: Thursday, July 19, 2007 4:53pm
Sometimes I pretend I'm a poet.
Last summer, after having been immensely inspired by Billy Collins, I sat for several days in quiet observance of the goings on in my favorite crack house, I mean coffee shop, and this was the result:
Voyeurism
You can't seem to get comfortable
in your coffee house chair,
with your pen and your book of poetry.
Perhaps the music is too loud—
clashing with the rhythm of poems
written before the invention of Motown.
Maybe your clothes are new;
they don't yet support the slump of your back,
the angles of bent knees.
And then I wonder if you're pretending—
with your pen and your poetry.
You'd rather be dancing to the Supremes
than continue to spar
with the rhyme of an Ancient Mariner.
You'd rather be rolling down a hillside
than casting your eyes over lines
written by a foreign, Romantic pen.
Not your own.
But that takes courage—
so instead you sit there,
wriggling out of sync
with both Coleridge and the Temptations—
followed by the dancing of my eyes.
Nine to Five
I'm the only woman in this coffee house
on a Wednesday morning at nine thirty.
Is this the result of the Women's Movement?
Women working somewhere,
twirling fingers around a phone cord
and chewing the caps of pens,
while the men—pushed from their cubicles—
now sit in Starbucks, filling out applications,
reading want ads,
and searching online classifieds?
Interview
I'm glad I'm not you—
sitting in your new gray suit
with a pounding heart
and the occasional smell
of recently washed hair
and dabbed perfume.
I couldn't bear the agony
of eye contact with a stranger's eyes,
projecting feigned confidence,
as I muse about the fascinating world
of real estate investments.
I'd absolutely loathe
the crick in my neck and the tired cheeks
that come from pretending
the interviewer's arrogance is charming,
banality is engaging.
I'd rather sit here,
in the comfort of my roomy arm chair,
staring across
at the courage it takes for you
to sit at that hard, round,
crowded table for two.
The Problem with Poetry
Is that it requires thinking—
envisioning a place, a smile, a detail
from which to extract profound meaning.
What must I think of myself, when
standing on a bridge in Florence,
the Arno flowing beneath,
and the golden buildings blasting
the beauty and antiquity
of Renaissance masters,
I consider whether or not
I should eat margherita pizza
again for dinner.
Algophobia
I tell my students writing is like long-distance running
and ask them to tell me why.
"It's hard!" most shout out;
"It takes a long time until you feel good about it,"
one of the more adventurous, perceptive students remarks.
And I agree with them.
It is hard.
It's so fucking hard I'm afraid of it
and I know that if I don't set out,
then at least I will never feel
the pain of asphyxiation, and the collapse
of numb purposeless legs
before any hope of a destination.
"But it's good for you," says Janet,
smiling from her front row desk—
then more muffled,
sensing her minority vote,
"it's healthy."
And I wonder how much I agree
with smiling, upbeat, straight-A Janet.
For truly there is a danger
in running without sufficient conditioning,
motivation and speed—
especially under the oppressive heat
and the bright shining orb
of talent that lights the way.
Memory
I know you from somewhere—
yes, I'm quite sure
we must have worked on a project together—
in graduate school, perhaps.
I faintly remember doing all the work—
constructing meticulously detailed and artistic posters,
laboring for hours on the required written component,
and then carrying you through the presentation
as you mutely accepted recognition
for half the work.
Or maybe it's from yoga class.
Indeed, I think you stretched and breathed
in the front row—
a model for the rest of the class to follow.
You'd perfected your form
and demonstrated exemplary serenity
in the lotus position that weekly
twisted my legs into a painful pretzel--
distracting me from everything
but baseball game peanuts and mustard.
But then again, summer camp comes to mind.
I was 10 and am now pretty sure it was you,
standing on the pier, cigarette in hand, promising
it wouldn't kill me
as long as I didn't tell the counselors.
You talked in your sleep from the top bunk
in the corner and received a care package every week—
with bubble gum and Kool-Aid
you refused to share with anyone.
Yes, I definitely remember you.
The Fall of Her Discontent
For the last ten minutes he's been talking
about the football coach who died from a heart attack
while she's been maintaining heroic eye contact,
Herculean nods—pretending to care.
God forbid he suspect she doesn't share
his concern, his desire to be watching
football at this moment, his long-lost dream
to play in the NFL.
She'll cheer on his desires, his dreams
from her sideline of femininity—
she'll "rah rah" his detailing of injuries and draft picks;
she'll "Go-Fight-Win" his recitation of player salaries
and miscalculated field goal attempts;
she'll jump and perspire through his complaints
about corporate team management
and numbskull referees.
And through it all, she'll swing her ass in a skirt
that falls just below it,
and raise her arms to expose a flat, tanned pierced belly
in the earnest effort to divert his attention
into one solid second of mutual interest.
A Teacher's Nightmare
First day of school—
don't know schedule of classes—
can't find the classroom—
get there late—
class half over/half empty—
fear of getting fired—
no handouts copied—
no lesson prepared—
some parent observers—
students constantly entering and exiting the room.
Anger rising—
panic, humiliation—
insert irrelevant movie—
more kids leave classroom.
Merciless thoughts—
everyone of those little bastards will pay for this—
there's no one to blame but me.
A Student's Nightmare
Last day of school—
looking for locker—
knowing that even if I find it,
the combination is long forgotten.
Sitting in math class,
seemingly for the first time since first day of class.
Exam preparation—
math problems I've never seen—
teacher doesn't know me—
classmates roll eyes in exasperation
as I beg for help to understand
a semester's worth of math
I wouldn't understand even if
I'd faithfully attended class everyday.
Where have I been?
Music for the Masses
The man to my right insists on humming
along with the pre-programmed 80s and 90s pop tracks
the Starbucks employees grow increasingly deaf to.
"Tempted" by Squeeze.
But he's off-key, about two notes behind,
and I can't stand it. I want to shake him,
to scream in his face that people can hear him
and why on God's green earth would he want
to subject all of us to his complete musical ineptitude?
As I rise from my chair to grab him by the collar,
my mind flashes to a karaoke bar in Nice,
a tall American brunette choking up
a discordant rendition of "The Gambler" by Kenny Rogers.
Sympathy pulls me into my chair.
The man collects his newspaper and leaves the shop,
whistling his way down the sidewalk.
Stroller
I watch you having a love affair with your baby,
and I envy your utter lack of self-consciousness.
I've been staring at you for several minutes,
and it's clear you have no idea about it.
Your eyes shift from your infant to the newspaper
for a few agonizing seconds—
your feeble attempt to pretend anything else in this wide world matters,
deserves your roving eyes as much as that fleshy bundle to your left.
You shake your head—
perhaps disgusted with our national foreign policy,
perhaps horrified at the price of oil—
but as quickly as disapprobation rises in you
enough to make your head shake,
you take a foot and begin to play gnaw;
you make silly faces until you've completely forgotten
about wars and gas prices—
and they don't matter anyway because you finally have a baby,
and that other stuff really doesn't affect you.
Sometimes I pretend I'm a poet.
Last summer, after having been immensely inspired by Billy Collins, I sat for several days in quiet observance of the goings on in my favorite crack house, I mean coffee shop, and this was the result:
Voyeurism
You can't seem to get comfortable
in your coffee house chair,
with your pen and your book of poetry.
Perhaps the music is too loud—
clashing with the rhythm of poems
written before the invention of Motown.
Maybe your clothes are new;
they don't yet support the slump of your back,
the angles of bent knees.
And then I wonder if you're pretending—
with your pen and your poetry.
You'd rather be dancing to the Supremes
than continue to spar
with the rhyme of an Ancient Mariner.
You'd rather be rolling down a hillside
than casting your eyes over lines
written by a foreign, Romantic pen.
Not your own.
But that takes courage—
so instead you sit there,
wriggling out of sync
with both Coleridge and the Temptations—
followed by the dancing of my eyes.
Nine to Five
I'm the only woman in this coffee house
on a Wednesday morning at nine thirty.
Is this the result of the Women's Movement?
Women working somewhere,
twirling fingers around a phone cord
and chewing the caps of pens,
while the men—pushed from their cubicles—
now sit in Starbucks, filling out applications,
reading want ads,
and searching online classifieds?
Interview
I'm glad I'm not you—
sitting in your new gray suit
with a pounding heart
and the occasional smell
of recently washed hair
and dabbed perfume.
I couldn't bear the agony
of eye contact with a stranger's eyes,
projecting feigned confidence,
as I muse about the fascinating world
of real estate investments.
I'd absolutely loathe
the crick in my neck and the tired cheeks
that come from pretending
the interviewer's arrogance is charming,
banality is engaging.
I'd rather sit here,
in the comfort of my roomy arm chair,
staring across
at the courage it takes for you
to sit at that hard, round,
crowded table for two.
The Problem with Poetry
Is that it requires thinking—
envisioning a place, a smile, a detail
from which to extract profound meaning.
What must I think of myself, when
standing on a bridge in Florence,
the Arno flowing beneath,
and the golden buildings blasting
the beauty and antiquity
of Renaissance masters,
I consider whether or not
I should eat margherita pizza
again for dinner.
Algophobia
I tell my students writing is like long-distance running
and ask them to tell me why.
"It's hard!" most shout out;
"It takes a long time until you feel good about it,"
one of the more adventurous, perceptive students remarks.
And I agree with them.
It is hard.
It's so fucking hard I'm afraid of it
and I know that if I don't set out,
then at least I will never feel
the pain of asphyxiation, and the collapse
of numb purposeless legs
before any hope of a destination.
"But it's good for you," says Janet,
smiling from her front row desk—
then more muffled,
sensing her minority vote,
"it's healthy."
And I wonder how much I agree
with smiling, upbeat, straight-A Janet.
For truly there is a danger
in running without sufficient conditioning,
motivation and speed—
especially under the oppressive heat
and the bright shining orb
of talent that lights the way.
Memory
I know you from somewhere—
yes, I'm quite sure
we must have worked on a project together—
in graduate school, perhaps.
I faintly remember doing all the work—
constructing meticulously detailed and artistic posters,
laboring for hours on the required written component,
and then carrying you through the presentation
as you mutely accepted recognition
for half the work.
Or maybe it's from yoga class.
Indeed, I think you stretched and breathed
in the front row—
a model for the rest of the class to follow.
You'd perfected your form
and demonstrated exemplary serenity
in the lotus position that weekly
twisted my legs into a painful pretzel--
distracting me from everything
but baseball game peanuts and mustard.
But then again, summer camp comes to mind.
I was 10 and am now pretty sure it was you,
standing on the pier, cigarette in hand, promising
it wouldn't kill me
as long as I didn't tell the counselors.
You talked in your sleep from the top bunk
in the corner and received a care package every week—
with bubble gum and Kool-Aid
you refused to share with anyone.
Yes, I definitely remember you.
The Fall of Her Discontent
For the last ten minutes he's been talking
about the football coach who died from a heart attack
while she's been maintaining heroic eye contact,
Herculean nods—pretending to care.
God forbid he suspect she doesn't share
his concern, his desire to be watching
football at this moment, his long-lost dream
to play in the NFL.
She'll cheer on his desires, his dreams
from her sideline of femininity—
she'll "rah rah" his detailing of injuries and draft picks;
she'll "Go-Fight-Win" his recitation of player salaries
and miscalculated field goal attempts;
she'll jump and perspire through his complaints
about corporate team management
and numbskull referees.
And through it all, she'll swing her ass in a skirt
that falls just below it,
and raise her arms to expose a flat, tanned pierced belly
in the earnest effort to divert his attention
into one solid second of mutual interest.
A Teacher's Nightmare
First day of school—
don't know schedule of classes—
can't find the classroom—
get there late—
class half over/half empty—
fear of getting fired—
no handouts copied—
no lesson prepared—
some parent observers—
students constantly entering and exiting the room.
Anger rising—
panic, humiliation—
insert irrelevant movie—
more kids leave classroom.
Merciless thoughts—
everyone of those little bastards will pay for this—
there's no one to blame but me.
A Student's Nightmare
Last day of school—
looking for locker—
knowing that even if I find it,
the combination is long forgotten.
Sitting in math class,
seemingly for the first time since first day of class.
Exam preparation—
math problems I've never seen—
teacher doesn't know me—
classmates roll eyes in exasperation
as I beg for help to understand
a semester's worth of math
I wouldn't understand even if
I'd faithfully attended class everyday.
Where have I been?
Music for the Masses
The man to my right insists on humming
along with the pre-programmed 80s and 90s pop tracks
the Starbucks employees grow increasingly deaf to.
"Tempted" by Squeeze.
But he's off-key, about two notes behind,
and I can't stand it. I want to shake him,
to scream in his face that people can hear him
and why on God's green earth would he want
to subject all of us to his complete musical ineptitude?
As I rise from my chair to grab him by the collar,
my mind flashes to a karaoke bar in Nice,
a tall American brunette choking up
a discordant rendition of "The Gambler" by Kenny Rogers.
Sympathy pulls me into my chair.
The man collects his newspaper and leaves the shop,
whistling his way down the sidewalk.
Stroller
I watch you having a love affair with your baby,
and I envy your utter lack of self-consciousness.
I've been staring at you for several minutes,
and it's clear you have no idea about it.
Your eyes shift from your infant to the newspaper
for a few agonizing seconds—
your feeble attempt to pretend anything else in this wide world matters,
deserves your roving eyes as much as that fleshy bundle to your left.
You shake your head—
perhaps disgusted with our national foreign policy,
perhaps horrified at the price of oil—
but as quickly as disapprobation rises in you
enough to make your head shake,
you take a foot and begin to play gnaw;
you make silly faces until you've completely forgotten
about wars and gas prices—
and they don't matter anyway because you finally have a baby,
and that other stuff really doesn't affect you.
On (Re)Creation: A Sims Apocalypse
Originally posted: Thursday, July 19, 2007 4:39pm
If you have not played The Sims computer game before, you need not read the following. If you were ever, at one point in your life, addicted to playing The Sims, you will most definitely be able to relate:
God, I loved them. It didn't occur to me that they wouldn't make it. After my computer crashed several months before, my beautiful friend Alvin had managed to rescue the majority of my beloved machine's memory. My music files survived, along with old lesson plans I'll never use again and recipes for dinners I've long since committed to memory. Perhaps it's the stuff that doesn't matter that endures. I couldn't wait to see them again. It had been months since I had been able to play with my electronic dolls (a girl never grows weary of it, I guess) and I eagerly loaded my CD drive with the first of four Sims installation discs. But once the game finished installing, I realized that my community of Pleasantown, formerly constructed over the span of 3 years with the love and passions of a benevolent guide (me, of course), was now a hellish nightmare of erased lives.
The uneasiness came on quick and settled into the very center of my stomach. Dina Caliente, back in the prime of her youth with blond hair and firm skin, ensconced in some torrid, gold digging affair with neighborhood tycoon Mortimer Goth and living with her sister Nina. As I look at her, I remember how much I hated the life she was living—I remember she was my first project. Money was her self-selected aspiration, and God (read: I) forbid I take that from her. A creator learns quickly that free will is a bitch. We compromised and she married Mortimer Goth without much of a fight. Shortly after giving birth to their son, David (named after my very own Irish twin), Dina's appetite for money and expensive things became an oppressive weight on the household, so I guided her toward the medical field. It was not easy for them—Mortimer, an extremely old man taking care of the newborn, and Dina fervently playing chess and peering through telescopes at night to build her logical mind. Around David's advancement into toddlerhood, Old Mortimer kicked the proverbial bucket, leaving Dina a young single mother. She had come a long way since her shallow, money grubbing days, and my faith in electronic humanity was strong.
I thought about all of this as I now watched the screen to see Dina dancing in a skimpy two-piece bathing suit on the top deck of her house. How could I start over with her? In my old game she had died—a highly respected Chief of Staff, culinary expert, accomplished painter and novelist, leaving behind a loving husband Don, sister Nina, son, David, two grandchildren, Alex and Sophia (named after my own niece), a great grandchild, Lucy, a niece, Haley and nephew, Jack, two step children from her first marriage to Mortimer, Cassandra and Alexander, and a step grandchild, Madison. All of whom had had individual lives and careers and relationships and memories and aspirations. No, that bare belly that wiggled before me did not yet know the stretch marks of pregnancy nor the panicked rushing to vomit of morning sickness. She was, at this moment, an unattached entity. Was it fair of me stop the dancing and force her to invite Mortimer (again living) to her house for some intimate hottubbing, just to start the whole process over again? Surely this new game would not follow the exact line it once did. David may never appear. The fruit of Dina and Mortimer's passions might this time create a little girl—and thus would disappear forever the lives of David, Alex and Sophia, and little Lucy too. My computer killed them once; I didn't know if I could handle a second loss with the knowledge that they are not only irrecoverable, but that Dina would be able to carry on without them in a shameless amnesiac state.
I know now that life moves inescapably forward—like the first Super Mario Brothers—the screen pushes you onward whether or not you're ready, and there's no going back.
When I think of all the hours I devoted to that electronic doll house I quiver with emotion. If I were to calculate the hours applied to building and decorating additions onto houses so the growing families could have a more convenient bathroom or a nursery, the time invested in increasing their cooking skill so they wouldn't burn their houses down and die among the flames, all those homework assignments in school and, later, term papers in college, the immense amount of courtship and joke telling and backrubs and games of "red hands" that led up to the baby producing "woohooing," the countless decisions made in order to help my Sims advance in their careers as physicians, military officials, actresses, criminals, lawyers, scientists, slackers, politicians, and athletes, the exhausting parties for birthdays, graduations, and weddings that always caused more fatigue than joy for my Sims, the innumerable hours set aside for the unavoidables like paying bills, bathing, making friends, being at work or in class, using the bathroom, feeding babies, changing diapers, repairing appliances, washing dishes, cleaning toilets and countertops, buying groceries, eating, taking out the trash, and sleeping, and the infrequent but imperative moments of nursing illnesses, extinguishing fires, begging for mercy from the Grim Reaper when a loved one's life was in danger, and mourning the loss of a friend or family member, I would be utterly ashamed of myself for so much wasted time.
So, after considering quite seriously a new voyage into the romances and aspirations of electronic beings, I had Dina call Don, the young, hot, bachelor next door (to whom she had been married in her past life when she died) for one last romp in the sack before I uninstalled the game forever. I always thought it was funny to watch them pass out immediately after the fireworks of woohoo.
R.I.P. Pleasantown
2003-2006
If you have not played The Sims computer game before, you need not read the following. If you were ever, at one point in your life, addicted to playing The Sims, you will most definitely be able to relate:
God, I loved them. It didn't occur to me that they wouldn't make it. After my computer crashed several months before, my beautiful friend Alvin had managed to rescue the majority of my beloved machine's memory. My music files survived, along with old lesson plans I'll never use again and recipes for dinners I've long since committed to memory. Perhaps it's the stuff that doesn't matter that endures. I couldn't wait to see them again. It had been months since I had been able to play with my electronic dolls (a girl never grows weary of it, I guess) and I eagerly loaded my CD drive with the first of four Sims installation discs. But once the game finished installing, I realized that my community of Pleasantown, formerly constructed over the span of 3 years with the love and passions of a benevolent guide (me, of course), was now a hellish nightmare of erased lives.
The uneasiness came on quick and settled into the very center of my stomach. Dina Caliente, back in the prime of her youth with blond hair and firm skin, ensconced in some torrid, gold digging affair with neighborhood tycoon Mortimer Goth and living with her sister Nina. As I look at her, I remember how much I hated the life she was living—I remember she was my first project. Money was her self-selected aspiration, and God (read: I) forbid I take that from her. A creator learns quickly that free will is a bitch. We compromised and she married Mortimer Goth without much of a fight. Shortly after giving birth to their son, David (named after my very own Irish twin), Dina's appetite for money and expensive things became an oppressive weight on the household, so I guided her toward the medical field. It was not easy for them—Mortimer, an extremely old man taking care of the newborn, and Dina fervently playing chess and peering through telescopes at night to build her logical mind. Around David's advancement into toddlerhood, Old Mortimer kicked the proverbial bucket, leaving Dina a young single mother. She had come a long way since her shallow, money grubbing days, and my faith in electronic humanity was strong.
I thought about all of this as I now watched the screen to see Dina dancing in a skimpy two-piece bathing suit on the top deck of her house. How could I start over with her? In my old game she had died—a highly respected Chief of Staff, culinary expert, accomplished painter and novelist, leaving behind a loving husband Don, sister Nina, son, David, two grandchildren, Alex and Sophia (named after my own niece), a great grandchild, Lucy, a niece, Haley and nephew, Jack, two step children from her first marriage to Mortimer, Cassandra and Alexander, and a step grandchild, Madison. All of whom had had individual lives and careers and relationships and memories and aspirations. No, that bare belly that wiggled before me did not yet know the stretch marks of pregnancy nor the panicked rushing to vomit of morning sickness. She was, at this moment, an unattached entity. Was it fair of me stop the dancing and force her to invite Mortimer (again living) to her house for some intimate hottubbing, just to start the whole process over again? Surely this new game would not follow the exact line it once did. David may never appear. The fruit of Dina and Mortimer's passions might this time create a little girl—and thus would disappear forever the lives of David, Alex and Sophia, and little Lucy too. My computer killed them once; I didn't know if I could handle a second loss with the knowledge that they are not only irrecoverable, but that Dina would be able to carry on without them in a shameless amnesiac state.
I know now that life moves inescapably forward—like the first Super Mario Brothers—the screen pushes you onward whether or not you're ready, and there's no going back.
When I think of all the hours I devoted to that electronic doll house I quiver with emotion. If I were to calculate the hours applied to building and decorating additions onto houses so the growing families could have a more convenient bathroom or a nursery, the time invested in increasing their cooking skill so they wouldn't burn their houses down and die among the flames, all those homework assignments in school and, later, term papers in college, the immense amount of courtship and joke telling and backrubs and games of "red hands" that led up to the baby producing "woohooing," the countless decisions made in order to help my Sims advance in their careers as physicians, military officials, actresses, criminals, lawyers, scientists, slackers, politicians, and athletes, the exhausting parties for birthdays, graduations, and weddings that always caused more fatigue than joy for my Sims, the innumerable hours set aside for the unavoidables like paying bills, bathing, making friends, being at work or in class, using the bathroom, feeding babies, changing diapers, repairing appliances, washing dishes, cleaning toilets and countertops, buying groceries, eating, taking out the trash, and sleeping, and the infrequent but imperative moments of nursing illnesses, extinguishing fires, begging for mercy from the Grim Reaper when a loved one's life was in danger, and mourning the loss of a friend or family member, I would be utterly ashamed of myself for so much wasted time.
So, after considering quite seriously a new voyage into the romances and aspirations of electronic beings, I had Dina call Don, the young, hot, bachelor next door (to whom she had been married in her past life when she died) for one last romp in the sack before I uninstalled the game forever. I always thought it was funny to watch them pass out immediately after the fireworks of woohoo.
R.I.P. Pleasantown
2003-2006
What I Learned in College
Originally posted: Wednesday, July 18, 2007 9:46am
I wrote the following the day I graduated from N.C. State in the Spring of 99:
I've learned how to be a good student; I've learned how to be a teacher; I've learned how to be a roommate (good and bad); I've learned how to be a long-term girlfriend (good and bad); I've learned that no matter how much things stay the same—things are constantly changing and vice-versa; I've learned how important family really is, even if they have learned no such thing, yet; I've learned that PMS does exist, and that no matter how old you are, you still get zits; I've learned how not to overdraft my checking account, and that you really should pay off credit card debts promptly; I've learned that being the drunkest is never a pretty sight, and that moderate drinking speaks volumes about one's self-control and self-esteem; I've learned there is substantial value in kindness, and genuine kindness can never be feigned—that people are inherently good but are too often ignorant of that fact; I've learned that education has very little to do with books and tests, and much to do with teachers and personal experience; I've learned that men are terrified of women, and know not what they do. I truly believe that, generally speaking, women are smarter, more, rather than less in control of their emotions, and much better at keeping things in perspective; I've learned that good friends forgive you no matter what you do, as long as you're willing to admit your own fault and learn from your mistakes; I've learned that NO MATTER where you go—there you are, and no amount of distance can separate your past from the formation of what you've become; I've learned that people are attracted to self-confidence more than a pretty face and nice legs; and I've learned that no matter what happens from here on out nothing will ever benefit me more in the long run than a solid attempt at human decency; and humor always prevails.
I wrote the following the day I graduated from N.C. State in the Spring of 99:
I've learned how to be a good student; I've learned how to be a teacher; I've learned how to be a roommate (good and bad); I've learned how to be a long-term girlfriend (good and bad); I've learned that no matter how much things stay the same—things are constantly changing and vice-versa; I've learned how important family really is, even if they have learned no such thing, yet; I've learned that PMS does exist, and that no matter how old you are, you still get zits; I've learned how not to overdraft my checking account, and that you really should pay off credit card debts promptly; I've learned that being the drunkest is never a pretty sight, and that moderate drinking speaks volumes about one's self-control and self-esteem; I've learned there is substantial value in kindness, and genuine kindness can never be feigned—that people are inherently good but are too often ignorant of that fact; I've learned that education has very little to do with books and tests, and much to do with teachers and personal experience; I've learned that men are terrified of women, and know not what they do. I truly believe that, generally speaking, women are smarter, more, rather than less in control of their emotions, and much better at keeping things in perspective; I've learned that good friends forgive you no matter what you do, as long as you're willing to admit your own fault and learn from your mistakes; I've learned that NO MATTER where you go—there you are, and no amount of distance can separate your past from the formation of what you've become; I've learned that people are attracted to self-confidence more than a pretty face and nice legs; and I've learned that no matter what happens from here on out nothing will ever benefit me more in the long run than a solid attempt at human decency; and humor always prevails.
Santa Claus, Immediate Gratification, and Other Spiritual Maladies
Originally posted: Wednesday, July 18, 2007 8:11am
It's important that I preface this particular entry by acknowledging upfront that I view this world through an extremely privileged set of eyeballs. I do understand, in some remote, abstract way, that there are millions of people in this world who not only do not get what they need to survive, but never--for one split second--expect that they should. So, I'm speaking within the very narrow confines of my socio-economic experience from which the overwhelming majority of my friends and family come.
I have a mental illness (perhaps encoded into whatever it is that invests me with human fears and concerns) that hinders me from being regularly grateful for what I have--not simply materially, but also in relationships with others. While pondering this, I considered that for some reason I have very specific expectations of what you are supposed to be giving me. The mental illness really kicks in when, upon being disappointed in that expectation, I jump to the immediate conclusion that you obviously think I'm a big piece of crap--because, otherwise, why would you not be bending over backwards to give me what I need from you?! (The really fun part for you is when you have to read my mind to even know what it is I wanted in the first place).
Horrified about what a baby this makes me (and mind you, I'm nearly 30), I tried to trace it back to its origin. The result of my search is this: I think we really mess kids up in teaching them about Santa Claus. In our culture (and, again, I'm speaking of those who can afford to inculcate children with such things), we are taught from the earliest age that on a certain day of the year we will wake up to several free gifts, many of which we asked for specifically, from an elusive benefactor who has been somewhat monitoring our behavior (but who can obviously be fooled from time to time!). We expect it--every year. Many of us also expected to have money magically appear after we'd lost a tooth--presumably because of the terrifying reality that bones are falling out of our face and there's not a damn thing we can do about it.
So, we're taught two things. One, someone out there knows what we want without our even having to ask for it--for instance, who told the Easter Bunny I LOVE chocolate and would want for nothing more than a giant basket filled with it?? (Conversely, though, who misled him to believe that I want Peeps to be within a fifty mile radius of my mouth?). Two, there's no particular merit involved in getting what we want--the vague idea that Santa distinguishes between "naughty and nice" (whatever those terms mean anyway) clearly did not apply in our household.
THEN, mixed in with these other benevolent, invisible providers, some of us are told that there is another one named, "God." God's a little scarier because he's ALWAYS paying attention, and the punishment for bad behavior is slightly more severe than no presents at Christmas (although, for a child, it's difficult to imagine what could constitute as a worse punishment than that). But, really, the punishment part of God's attention was as easy for me to slough off as the threat of not getting presents at Christmas--it had never and simply was not going to happen. The good part, seemingly, about his constant, unwavering attention was that he too knew what I needed without my even having to ask--which I was encouraged to do (just in case??). Now, here's where things get messed up. If God knows what I want, and has the power to provide for me, why the hell doesn't he? Santa Claus brings me what I want once a year--and that's forgivable because he's got to make all that stuff and he lives all the way in the North Pole and his only means of transport is a reindeer-powered sleigh. What more can I expect of him?! The Tooth Fairy has very clear boundaries. You have a tooth, she has the cash. As far as we know she's feeding a vicious habit. Whatever the circumstances of her bizarre need for children's teeth, it's a symbiotic arrangement where both parties benefit in some way, and it's reliable. You each give what you have because you can.
So, what makes God so special that he gets to know what we want and decide whether or not he's going to provide it? Why isn't it his job, as an able provider, to give me what I need the minute I need it? Two possibilities come readily to mind: One, he can't--which thereby immediately discredits him as God, of course, or two, he obviously thinks I'm a big piece of crap. For any analytical or thinking child, this is necessarily the result--eventually, you come to the conclusion that, because of his inaction, God doesn't exist or he's not on your side. It's the height of irony: in teaching kids about God this way, we teach them about isolation and self-loathing--the two things a spiritual life is supposed to eradicate.
In order for me to have any kind of spiritual life as an adult (which I do think is necessary for me to be able to deal with people, places, and things), I have had to force myself out of that mindtrap and consider that God is less about what I GET in this world and more about what I SEE. The God of my understanding does not protect or provide--it enlightens. I've come (recently, mind you) to honor the silence of God--a kind of stall that allows me sufficient time to garner a shift in perspective about what it is that I think I need (read: want). The ability to change my perception about people, places, and things IS my spiritual quest.
So, when I have a family of my own--to hell with the notion of Santa Claus. My children will get presents on Christmas and Easter (and they will give them) because the idea of anonymous giving is a good idea--but they will know very acutely that the source of those gifts is a loving family member and not some fat, hysterical recluse at the edge of the world.
It's important that I preface this particular entry by acknowledging upfront that I view this world through an extremely privileged set of eyeballs. I do understand, in some remote, abstract way, that there are millions of people in this world who not only do not get what they need to survive, but never--for one split second--expect that they should. So, I'm speaking within the very narrow confines of my socio-economic experience from which the overwhelming majority of my friends and family come.
I have a mental illness (perhaps encoded into whatever it is that invests me with human fears and concerns) that hinders me from being regularly grateful for what I have--not simply materially, but also in relationships with others. While pondering this, I considered that for some reason I have very specific expectations of what you are supposed to be giving me. The mental illness really kicks in when, upon being disappointed in that expectation, I jump to the immediate conclusion that you obviously think I'm a big piece of crap--because, otherwise, why would you not be bending over backwards to give me what I need from you?! (The really fun part for you is when you have to read my mind to even know what it is I wanted in the first place).
Horrified about what a baby this makes me (and mind you, I'm nearly 30), I tried to trace it back to its origin. The result of my search is this: I think we really mess kids up in teaching them about Santa Claus. In our culture (and, again, I'm speaking of those who can afford to inculcate children with such things), we are taught from the earliest age that on a certain day of the year we will wake up to several free gifts, many of which we asked for specifically, from an elusive benefactor who has been somewhat monitoring our behavior (but who can obviously be fooled from time to time!). We expect it--every year. Many of us also expected to have money magically appear after we'd lost a tooth--presumably because of the terrifying reality that bones are falling out of our face and there's not a damn thing we can do about it.
So, we're taught two things. One, someone out there knows what we want without our even having to ask for it--for instance, who told the Easter Bunny I LOVE chocolate and would want for nothing more than a giant basket filled with it?? (Conversely, though, who misled him to believe that I want Peeps to be within a fifty mile radius of my mouth?). Two, there's no particular merit involved in getting what we want--the vague idea that Santa distinguishes between "naughty and nice" (whatever those terms mean anyway) clearly did not apply in our household.
THEN, mixed in with these other benevolent, invisible providers, some of us are told that there is another one named, "God." God's a little scarier because he's ALWAYS paying attention, and the punishment for bad behavior is slightly more severe than no presents at Christmas (although, for a child, it's difficult to imagine what could constitute as a worse punishment than that). But, really, the punishment part of God's attention was as easy for me to slough off as the threat of not getting presents at Christmas--it had never and simply was not going to happen. The good part, seemingly, about his constant, unwavering attention was that he too knew what I needed without my even having to ask--which I was encouraged to do (just in case??). Now, here's where things get messed up. If God knows what I want, and has the power to provide for me, why the hell doesn't he? Santa Claus brings me what I want once a year--and that's forgivable because he's got to make all that stuff and he lives all the way in the North Pole and his only means of transport is a reindeer-powered sleigh. What more can I expect of him?! The Tooth Fairy has very clear boundaries. You have a tooth, she has the cash. As far as we know she's feeding a vicious habit. Whatever the circumstances of her bizarre need for children's teeth, it's a symbiotic arrangement where both parties benefit in some way, and it's reliable. You each give what you have because you can.
So, what makes God so special that he gets to know what we want and decide whether or not he's going to provide it? Why isn't it his job, as an able provider, to give me what I need the minute I need it? Two possibilities come readily to mind: One, he can't--which thereby immediately discredits him as God, of course, or two, he obviously thinks I'm a big piece of crap. For any analytical or thinking child, this is necessarily the result--eventually, you come to the conclusion that, because of his inaction, God doesn't exist or he's not on your side. It's the height of irony: in teaching kids about God this way, we teach them about isolation and self-loathing--the two things a spiritual life is supposed to eradicate.
In order for me to have any kind of spiritual life as an adult (which I do think is necessary for me to be able to deal with people, places, and things), I have had to force myself out of that mindtrap and consider that God is less about what I GET in this world and more about what I SEE. The God of my understanding does not protect or provide--it enlightens. I've come (recently, mind you) to honor the silence of God--a kind of stall that allows me sufficient time to garner a shift in perspective about what it is that I think I need (read: want). The ability to change my perception about people, places, and things IS my spiritual quest.
So, when I have a family of my own--to hell with the notion of Santa Claus. My children will get presents on Christmas and Easter (and they will give them) because the idea of anonymous giving is a good idea--but they will know very acutely that the source of those gifts is a loving family member and not some fat, hysterical recluse at the edge of the world.
A Serial Monogamist On Dating
Originally posted: Thursday, July 12, 2007 8:11pm
Not to sound like one of those bitter, nearly-30-somethings who hates the dating scene because she's unsuccessful at it, but . . ., well, that's exactly what this will sound like. So, here's a Top Ten list of phrases that make my acidic digestive fluids rise with volcanic force (you know, for fun ):
10. Just not a great personality match.
9. He's got issues.
8. He's just getting out of a relationship, so . . .
7. He's waiting for you to call him.
6. You deserve better (this is the cousin to 1).
5. He's intimidated by you.
4. He's afraid of getting hurt again.
3. He doesn't know what he wants.
2. It is what it is.
1. It's his loss.
Seriously, I hear the convent calling. . .
Not to sound like one of those bitter, nearly-30-somethings who hates the dating scene because she's unsuccessful at it, but . . ., well, that's exactly what this will sound like. So, here's a Top Ten list of phrases that make my acidic digestive fluids rise with volcanic force (you know, for fun ):
10. Just not a great personality match.
9. He's got issues.
8. He's just getting out of a relationship, so . . .
7. He's waiting for you to call him.
6. You deserve better (this is the cousin to 1).
5. He's intimidated by you.
4. He's afraid of getting hurt again.
3. He doesn't know what he wants.
2. It is what it is.
1. It's his loss.
Seriously, I hear the convent calling. . .
On Birth Control
Originally posted: Wednesday, July 11, 2007 4:21am
I love babies. I love babies possibly more than anyone I know. I love the way they smell, the way they look around without the ability to focus on anything until they can completely lock in with the baby one-track-mind eyes that could not be torn away from their target if a gargantuan mushroom cloud were exploding nearby. I love the way they can sleep and drink from a bottle at the same time--it's really too bad that we lose that ability as we grow older. I love the way they grab onto hair and earrings without the slightest inclination that it's not only socially unacceptable, but barroom brawl behavior. And I LOVE the first time they smile because it's real, not just because they are aping the silly adult faces before them.
Having said all of that, I have just spent the last few hours with my nephew when no normal and healthy person should be awake. The last time I babysat overnight he was the easy twin. He'd wake up and I would change him, feed him 6 oz of formula and he was out like a light again--easy! Tonight, for some reason, he decided to break from the preferred protocol and remain totally and utterly discontent. And let's get one thing straight--it's not the "awake" I mind--it's the "discontent." Nothing would please me more than being awake in the wee hours of the night with a tiny, quiet baby to coo over and kiss repeatedly. But the mincing "God-I-couldn't-be-more-uncomfortable-and-you're-doing-nothing-to-assuage-that-discomfort" spats tap into my deepest people-pleasing insecurities in a way that makes me want to join him in the unabashed cry of "Damn it, just make me happy!"
Helpless, and out of ideas after nearly three hours, I finally tucked him into his car seat, which he seemingly finds more appealing than his wonderful bed, turned off the lights, closed the door, and let him wail himself to sleep. I like to think the latter was the cry of victory: "Thank God the lady finally just left me the fu** alone!"
I love babies. I love babies possibly more than anyone I know. I love the way they smell, the way they look around without the ability to focus on anything until they can completely lock in with the baby one-track-mind eyes that could not be torn away from their target if a gargantuan mushroom cloud were exploding nearby. I love the way they can sleep and drink from a bottle at the same time--it's really too bad that we lose that ability as we grow older. I love the way they grab onto hair and earrings without the slightest inclination that it's not only socially unacceptable, but barroom brawl behavior. And I LOVE the first time they smile because it's real, not just because they are aping the silly adult faces before them.
Having said all of that, I have just spent the last few hours with my nephew when no normal and healthy person should be awake. The last time I babysat overnight he was the easy twin. He'd wake up and I would change him, feed him 6 oz of formula and he was out like a light again--easy! Tonight, for some reason, he decided to break from the preferred protocol and remain totally and utterly discontent. And let's get one thing straight--it's not the "awake" I mind--it's the "discontent." Nothing would please me more than being awake in the wee hours of the night with a tiny, quiet baby to coo over and kiss repeatedly. But the mincing "God-I-couldn't-be-more-uncomfortable-and-you're-doing-nothing-to-assuage-that-discomfort" spats tap into my deepest people-pleasing insecurities in a way that makes me want to join him in the unabashed cry of "Damn it, just make me happy!"
Helpless, and out of ideas after nearly three hours, I finally tucked him into his car seat, which he seemingly finds more appealing than his wonderful bed, turned off the lights, closed the door, and let him wail himself to sleep. I like to think the latter was the cry of victory: "Thank God the lady finally just left me the fu** alone!"
Stoic Wisdom
Originally posted: Monday, July 9, 2007 3:48pm
A few months ago, I was in the bookstore and a copy of Marcus Aurelius' Meditations lept into my hands. It was weird, but it happened. I let it sit on my bedside table for a couple of weeks with the eight other uncracked books that permanently reside there. Every time I glanced at it, I rolled my eyes to think of the ten dollars I spent on yet another "classic" work that seemed like an intelligent and sophisticated purchase, but--in reality--was a waste of money.
Eventually, I did open it and have not only become a closet convert to Stoicism, but have recommended the book to several others. So, I thought I would save everyone a few bucks and share some of my favorite insights from my new favorite Roman Emperor ;-):
**A little flesh, a little breath, and a Reason to rule all--that is myself.
**For the sole thing of which any man can be deprived is the present; since this is all he owns, and nobody can lose what is not his.
**Do not waste what remains of your life in speculating about your neighbors, unless with a view to some mutual benefit. To wonder what so-and-so is doing and why, or what he is saying, or thinking, or scheming--in a word, anything that distracts you from the Ruler within you--means a loss of opportunity for some other task.
**That men of a certain type should behave as they do is inevitable. To wish it otherwise were to wish the fig-tree would not yield its juice. In any case, remember that in a very little while both you and he will be dead, and your very names will be forgotten ()
**Reject your sense of injury, and the injury itself disappears.
**Do not copy the opinions of the arrogant, or let them dictate your own, but look at things in their true light.
**Anything in any way beautiful derives its beauty from itself. . .Praise is no part of it, for nothing is made worse or better by praise. . .Does the emerald lose its beauty for lack of admiration?
**Most of what we do and say is not necessary, and its omission would save both time and trouble ()
**It is essential to remind ourselves that the pursuit of any object depends for its value upon the worth of the object pursued. If, then, you would avoid disappointment, never become unduly absorbed in things that are not of the first importance.
**If a god were to tell you, "Tomorrow, or at best the day after, you will be dead," you would not, unless the most abject of men, be greatly solicitous whether it was to the the later day, rather than the morrow--for what is the difference between them? In the same way, do not reckon it of great moment whether it will come years and years hence, or tomorrow.
**So here is a rule to remember in the future, when anything tempts you to feel bitter: not, "This is a misfortune," but "To bear this worthily is good fortune."
**it is difficult enough to put up with one's own self.
**To pursue the unattainable is insanity, yet the thoughtless can never refrain from doing so.
**Outward things can touch the soul not a whit; they know no way into it, they have no power to sway or move it. By itself if sways and moves itself; it has its own self-approved standards of judgment, and to them it refers every experience.
**Never rage at the culprit: rather, find out at what point his vision failed him.
**Look beneath the surface: never let a thing's intrinsic quality or worth escape you.
**To refrain from imitation is the best revenge.
**Because a thing is difficult for you, do not therefore suppose it to be beyond mortal power. On the contrary, if anything is possible and proper for man to do, assume that it must fall within your own capacity.
**If anyone can show me, and prove to me, that I am wrong in thought or deed, I will gladly change. I seek the truth, which never yet hurt anybody. It is only persistance in self-delusion and ignorance which does harm.
**Life is short, and this earthly existance has but a single fruit to yield--holiness within, and selfless action without.
**If you suppose anything over which you have no control to be either good or bad for you, then the accident of missing the one or encountering the other is certain to make you aggrieved with the gods, and bitter against the men whom you know or suspect to be responsible for your failure or misfortune. We do, in fact, commit many injustices through attaching importance to things of this class. But when we limit our notions of good and evil strictly to what is within our own power, there remains no reason to bring accusations against God or to set ourselves at variance with men.
**In this life one thing only is of precious worth: to live out one's days in truthfulness and fair dealing, and in charity even with the false and unjust.
**Accustom yourself to give careful attention to what others are saying, and try your best to enter into the mind of the speaker.
**There is no such thing as novelty; all is as trite as it is transitory.
**a man's worth is no greater than the worth of his ambitions.
**Think it no shame to be helped. Your business is to do your appointed duty, like a soldier in the breach. How, then, if you are lame, and unable to scale the battlements yourself, but could do it if you had the aid of a comrade?
**God is one, pervading all things; all being is one, all law is one (namely, the common reason which all thinking creatures possess) and all truth is one.
**If I do not view the thing as an evil, I take no hurt. And nothing compels me to view it so.
**Whatever the world may say or do, my part is to keep myself good.
**Soon you will have forgotten the world, and soon the world will have forgotten you ( ).
**When anyone offends against you, let your first thought be, Under what conception of good and ill was this committed? Once you know that, astonishment and anger will give place to pity.
**Do not indulge in dreams of having what you have not, but reckon up the chief of the blessings you do possess, and then thankfully remember how you would crave them if they were not yours. At the same time, however, beware lest delight in them leads you to cherish them so dearly that their loss would destroy your peace of mind.
**In every action let your own self-approval be the sole aim both of your effort and of your intention; bearing in mind that the event itself which prompted your action is a thing of no consequence to either of them.
**Always get to know the characters of those whose approval you wish to earn, and the nature of their guiding principles. Look into the sources of their opinions and their motives, and then you will not blame any of their involuntary offences, or feel the want of their approbation.
**Pain is never unbearable or unending, so long as you remember its limitations and do not indulge in fanciful exaggerations (quoting Epicurus).
**When inclined to grumble. . .tell yourself that you are giving in to pain.
**When men are inhuman, take care not to feel towards them as they do towards other humans.
**Vex not thy spirit at the course of things; they heed not thy vexation (quoting Euripides)
**How ridiculous not to flee from one's own wickedness, which is possible, yet to endeavor to flee from another's, which is not.
**To live each day as though one's last, never flustered, never apathetic, never attitudinizing--here is the perfection of character.
**To what, then, must we aspire? This, and this alone: the just thought, the unselfish act, the tongue that utters no falsehood, the temper that greets each passing event as something predestined, expected, and emanating from the One source and origin.
I think you probably get the point; isn't he great??
A few months ago, I was in the bookstore and a copy of Marcus Aurelius' Meditations lept into my hands. It was weird, but it happened. I let it sit on my bedside table for a couple of weeks with the eight other uncracked books that permanently reside there. Every time I glanced at it, I rolled my eyes to think of the ten dollars I spent on yet another "classic" work that seemed like an intelligent and sophisticated purchase, but--in reality--was a waste of money.
Eventually, I did open it and have not only become a closet convert to Stoicism, but have recommended the book to several others. So, I thought I would save everyone a few bucks and share some of my favorite insights from my new favorite Roman Emperor ;-):
**A little flesh, a little breath, and a Reason to rule all--that is myself.
**For the sole thing of which any man can be deprived is the present; since this is all he owns, and nobody can lose what is not his.
**Do not waste what remains of your life in speculating about your neighbors, unless with a view to some mutual benefit. To wonder what so-and-so is doing and why, or what he is saying, or thinking, or scheming--in a word, anything that distracts you from the Ruler within you--means a loss of opportunity for some other task.
**That men of a certain type should behave as they do is inevitable. To wish it otherwise were to wish the fig-tree would not yield its juice. In any case, remember that in a very little while both you and he will be dead, and your very names will be forgotten ()
**Reject your sense of injury, and the injury itself disappears.
**Do not copy the opinions of the arrogant, or let them dictate your own, but look at things in their true light.
**Anything in any way beautiful derives its beauty from itself. . .Praise is no part of it, for nothing is made worse or better by praise. . .Does the emerald lose its beauty for lack of admiration?
**Most of what we do and say is not necessary, and its omission would save both time and trouble ()
**It is essential to remind ourselves that the pursuit of any object depends for its value upon the worth of the object pursued. If, then, you would avoid disappointment, never become unduly absorbed in things that are not of the first importance.
**If a god were to tell you, "Tomorrow, or at best the day after, you will be dead," you would not, unless the most abject of men, be greatly solicitous whether it was to the the later day, rather than the morrow--for what is the difference between them? In the same way, do not reckon it of great moment whether it will come years and years hence, or tomorrow.
**So here is a rule to remember in the future, when anything tempts you to feel bitter: not, "This is a misfortune," but "To bear this worthily is good fortune."
**it is difficult enough to put up with one's own self.
**To pursue the unattainable is insanity, yet the thoughtless can never refrain from doing so.
**Outward things can touch the soul not a whit; they know no way into it, they have no power to sway or move it. By itself if sways and moves itself; it has its own self-approved standards of judgment, and to them it refers every experience.
**Never rage at the culprit: rather, find out at what point his vision failed him.
**Look beneath the surface: never let a thing's intrinsic quality or worth escape you.
**To refrain from imitation is the best revenge.
**Because a thing is difficult for you, do not therefore suppose it to be beyond mortal power. On the contrary, if anything is possible and proper for man to do, assume that it must fall within your own capacity.
**If anyone can show me, and prove to me, that I am wrong in thought or deed, I will gladly change. I seek the truth, which never yet hurt anybody. It is only persistance in self-delusion and ignorance which does harm.
**Life is short, and this earthly existance has but a single fruit to yield--holiness within, and selfless action without.
**If you suppose anything over which you have no control to be either good or bad for you, then the accident of missing the one or encountering the other is certain to make you aggrieved with the gods, and bitter against the men whom you know or suspect to be responsible for your failure or misfortune. We do, in fact, commit many injustices through attaching importance to things of this class. But when we limit our notions of good and evil strictly to what is within our own power, there remains no reason to bring accusations against God or to set ourselves at variance with men.
**In this life one thing only is of precious worth: to live out one's days in truthfulness and fair dealing, and in charity even with the false and unjust.
**Accustom yourself to give careful attention to what others are saying, and try your best to enter into the mind of the speaker.
**There is no such thing as novelty; all is as trite as it is transitory.
**a man's worth is no greater than the worth of his ambitions.
**Think it no shame to be helped. Your business is to do your appointed duty, like a soldier in the breach. How, then, if you are lame, and unable to scale the battlements yourself, but could do it if you had the aid of a comrade?
**God is one, pervading all things; all being is one, all law is one (namely, the common reason which all thinking creatures possess) and all truth is one.
**If I do not view the thing as an evil, I take no hurt. And nothing compels me to view it so.
**Whatever the world may say or do, my part is to keep myself good.
**Soon you will have forgotten the world, and soon the world will have forgotten you ( ).
**When anyone offends against you, let your first thought be, Under what conception of good and ill was this committed? Once you know that, astonishment and anger will give place to pity.
**Do not indulge in dreams of having what you have not, but reckon up the chief of the blessings you do possess, and then thankfully remember how you would crave them if they were not yours. At the same time, however, beware lest delight in them leads you to cherish them so dearly that their loss would destroy your peace of mind.
**In every action let your own self-approval be the sole aim both of your effort and of your intention; bearing in mind that the event itself which prompted your action is a thing of no consequence to either of them.
**Always get to know the characters of those whose approval you wish to earn, and the nature of their guiding principles. Look into the sources of their opinions and their motives, and then you will not blame any of their involuntary offences, or feel the want of their approbation.
**Pain is never unbearable or unending, so long as you remember its limitations and do not indulge in fanciful exaggerations (quoting Epicurus).
**When inclined to grumble. . .tell yourself that you are giving in to pain.
**When men are inhuman, take care not to feel towards them as they do towards other humans.
**Vex not thy spirit at the course of things; they heed not thy vexation (quoting Euripides)
**How ridiculous not to flee from one's own wickedness, which is possible, yet to endeavor to flee from another's, which is not.
**To live each day as though one's last, never flustered, never apathetic, never attitudinizing--here is the perfection of character.
**To what, then, must we aspire? This, and this alone: the just thought, the unselfish act, the tongue that utters no falsehood, the temper that greets each passing event as something predestined, expected, and emanating from the One source and origin.
I think you probably get the point; isn't he great??
On Blogging
Originally posted: Sunday, July 8, 2007 11:28am
First, in a very fashionably self-effacing manner, I will begin by saying that there is nothing original about my profile--so I cannot imagine there will be any original insights herein.
I avoided the blog area for as long as I could (about 5 days) which reveals a couple of things about me. One, I fear this medium of communication. I fear the internet in general. While opening my myspace account, I sincerely thought I would have closed down this whole operation by now. Not only am I terrified of identity thieves and their perpetual evil machinations, I am scared of you and what you think. Thus, by subscribing to this unfathomable network of people, I insert myself into frequent anxiety about what you think of me (because, yes, it's all about ME!)
Which leads me to my second revelation: I simply cannot help myself! Give me a public forum (chat rooms, karaoke stages, classrooms, to list but a few) and I am chomping at the bit! It's a masochistic form of self-sabotage, I think, but so be it--it is what it is (how many cliches can I pack into this segment?? My students would be appalled. . .).
So, it is with a mixture of audacity and dread that I henceforth post the half-baked ruminations of a brain in constant analysis and general confusion/ignorance. Thanks for reading; I hope it doesn't hurt too much.
First, in a very fashionably self-effacing manner, I will begin by saying that there is nothing original about my profile--so I cannot imagine there will be any original insights herein.
I avoided the blog area for as long as I could (about 5 days) which reveals a couple of things about me. One, I fear this medium of communication. I fear the internet in general. While opening my myspace account, I sincerely thought I would have closed down this whole operation by now. Not only am I terrified of identity thieves and their perpetual evil machinations, I am scared of you and what you think. Thus, by subscribing to this unfathomable network of people, I insert myself into frequent anxiety about what you think of me (because, yes, it's all about ME!)
Which leads me to my second revelation: I simply cannot help myself! Give me a public forum (chat rooms, karaoke stages, classrooms, to list but a few) and I am chomping at the bit! It's a masochistic form of self-sabotage, I think, but so be it--it is what it is (how many cliches can I pack into this segment?? My students would be appalled. . .).
So, it is with a mixture of audacity and dread that I henceforth post the half-baked ruminations of a brain in constant analysis and general confusion/ignorance. Thanks for reading; I hope it doesn't hurt too much.
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