Monday, September 29, 2003
WORST PICK UP LINES EVER
Setting:Thursday afternoon at strip mall on Baseline and McClintock.
Characters: A)Warm Friendly Girl, just got off work, shopping for a birthday card and gift for friend. (me); B) Clean-cut- "GAP" Dressed Guy- Latin looking. Nice car. Face looks like he just barely missed "handsome."
Time: 5:30 in the afternoon. Setting sun.
As the scene opens, WFG is leaving Hallmark store, headed to her car. She opens the car door and begins to drive out of the lot. Before she drives away, "GAP" Man drives up in a nice looking silver-ish car, and flags her down frantically.
WFG: (partially rolls down windows and secures car locks) Yes? Is there something I can help you with?
GAP: Oh hey, yeah (approaches car door) I was wondering if you knew where the Blockbuster was? I was supposed to meet my friend there this evening.
WFG: (shielding eyes from the sun) Uhm...there's no Blockbuster on this street.
GAP:(seemingly sincere) Oh...well do you know how to get to Rural and Baseline? I need to find this Blockbuster....
WFG: (thinks something is up) There's no Blockbuster on either of those streets, and furthermore, they run parallel to each other.
GAP: (disappointed) Oh...that's too bad. I just must be lost. You're really pretty.
WFG: (rolls eyes, and prepares to drive off)
GAP: (innocently) What? Is that wrong for me to say?
WFG: (defensively) Well, I just got off work and I look terrible. It seems odd for you to say that.
GAP: So where do you work?
WFG: (impatient- but not wanting to be rude) Well, right now I work at a funeral home, but I'm getting my Master's at ASU.
GAP: Oh wow...I'm going to get my Master's there, too- what are you studying?
WFG: Curriculum and Instruction with a Secondary Ed. emphasis.
GAP: No way! That's cool! I teach 7th and 8th graders right now.
WFG: (curious) Oh yeah? What subject?
GAP: English.
WFG: Hey, that's what I teach.
GAP: So what's the craziest thing you've ever done?
WFG: (apalled) Huh? That was random.
GAP: Well? Are you afraid to tell me? Just tell me? Aren't you wild?
WFG: Are you trying to sell me something? I don't understand the question.
GAP: So you're not wild, are you?
WFG: I think I'm spontaneous, I guess. What are you trying to sell me?
GAP: So what kind of underwear do you wear?
WFG angrily rolls up window, drives off center stage with a vengeance, and thinks about crashing into his car.
End scene.
*Note: a few months later, I saw this man at ASU, in my department, filling out an application for the Master's program. When I pointed him out to my boss I was asked to fill out a report on him that would go in his permanent record. Neener neener neener. Be careful what you do.
---------------------------------------
** Today's sorry pick up line:
Setting: Strip mall on the corner of Tatum and Cactus, outside "Michael's"
Characters: WFG and Creepy Man in white car.
Time: Noon
(As the scene opens we observe WFG getting out of her car, about to walk into the store. CM has just driven by, spotted her in his peripheral vision, and begun to reverse his car- ostensibly to speak with WFG)
CM: Hey, do you know the way to ...uh....(scratches head)...
WFG: Are you lost?
CM: Yeah- do you know the way to...well...uh...anywhere?
WFG:To anywhere? No.
CM: Oh...man....do you live around here?
WFG: Nope. (exists stage left)
CM drives away.
End scene.
Setting:Thursday afternoon at strip mall on Baseline and McClintock.
Characters: A)Warm Friendly Girl, just got off work, shopping for a birthday card and gift for friend. (me); B) Clean-cut- "GAP" Dressed Guy- Latin looking. Nice car. Face looks like he just barely missed "handsome."
Time: 5:30 in the afternoon. Setting sun.
As the scene opens, WFG is leaving Hallmark store, headed to her car. She opens the car door and begins to drive out of the lot. Before she drives away, "GAP" Man drives up in a nice looking silver-ish car, and flags her down frantically.
WFG: (partially rolls down windows and secures car locks) Yes? Is there something I can help you with?
GAP: Oh hey, yeah (approaches car door) I was wondering if you knew where the Blockbuster was? I was supposed to meet my friend there this evening.
WFG: (shielding eyes from the sun) Uhm...there's no Blockbuster on this street.
GAP:(seemingly sincere) Oh...well do you know how to get to Rural and Baseline? I need to find this Blockbuster....
WFG: (thinks something is up) There's no Blockbuster on either of those streets, and furthermore, they run parallel to each other.
GAP: (disappointed) Oh...that's too bad. I just must be lost. You're really pretty.
WFG: (rolls eyes, and prepares to drive off)
GAP: (innocently) What? Is that wrong for me to say?
WFG: (defensively) Well, I just got off work and I look terrible. It seems odd for you to say that.
GAP: So where do you work?
WFG: (impatient- but not wanting to be rude) Well, right now I work at a funeral home, but I'm getting my Master's at ASU.
GAP: Oh wow...I'm going to get my Master's there, too- what are you studying?
WFG: Curriculum and Instruction with a Secondary Ed. emphasis.
GAP: No way! That's cool! I teach 7th and 8th graders right now.
WFG: (curious) Oh yeah? What subject?
GAP: English.
WFG: Hey, that's what I teach.
GAP: So what's the craziest thing you've ever done?
WFG: (apalled) Huh? That was random.
GAP: Well? Are you afraid to tell me? Just tell me? Aren't you wild?
WFG: Are you trying to sell me something? I don't understand the question.
GAP: So you're not wild, are you?
WFG: I think I'm spontaneous, I guess. What are you trying to sell me?
GAP: So what kind of underwear do you wear?
WFG angrily rolls up window, drives off center stage with a vengeance, and thinks about crashing into his car.
End scene.
*Note: a few months later, I saw this man at ASU, in my department, filling out an application for the Master's program. When I pointed him out to my boss I was asked to fill out a report on him that would go in his permanent record. Neener neener neener. Be careful what you do.
---------------------------------------
** Today's sorry pick up line:
Setting: Strip mall on the corner of Tatum and Cactus, outside "Michael's"
Characters: WFG and Creepy Man in white car.
Time: Noon
(As the scene opens we observe WFG getting out of her car, about to walk into the store. CM has just driven by, spotted her in his peripheral vision, and begun to reverse his car- ostensibly to speak with WFG)
CM: Hey, do you know the way to ...uh....(scratches head)...
WFG: Are you lost?
CM: Yeah- do you know the way to...well...uh...anywhere?
WFG:To anywhere? No.
CM: Oh...man....do you live around here?
WFG: Nope. (exists stage left)
CM drives away.
End scene.
Friday, September 26, 2003
FRIDAY
I agreed to hang out at Barnes and Noble with "the girls" tonight. "The girls" consists of 3 or 4 single girls who also teach various subjects at the high school level. Three of us teach English (9th, 10th and 11th, respectively) and the other teaches Spanish. We are between the ages of 23 and 28(?). Having devoted our lives to the amalgamated art and science of teaching, we are- as our students are wont to remind us- without lives. We try to get together from time to time, but it can be awkward, as only one of the other girls likes to do what I do- she is the Spanish teacher. She is the only one that will go dancing, the only one that will throw back a drink or two- the only one who is not willing to give up "the fun" for something more tame, like an "I'm-throwing-a-candle-party-come-and-browse" soiree, replete with small, flaky pastries served on fine china, eaten with pinky fingers pointed heavenward.
Make no mistake, the 10th and 11th grade teachers are fine human beings, but what do we all have in common, really? (Besides our English and our students?) The 10th grade Eng. teacher occasionally comes to our department meetings crying about one thing or another; she seems to be very sensitive and delicate of the heart. She would rather write flowery poetry than mete out detentions. Her students see right through her and walk all over her. I pity her tears to her face, but remain perplexed in private.
The 11th grade Eng. teacher is a very tall woman. Very tall. She is goofy and funny. If I am outgoing, loud, and funny, she is 10x more so, and I am a little jealous that she can make anyone (i.e. administrators and such) feel at ease in her presence. I seem to intimidate first, then befriend.
And tonight we have agreed to go "out." I had major plans after work today but I decided to put them on hold for the sake of hanging out and making nice. Of course, my plans included a serene and pensive drive home, an hour or two of guitar, maybe a movie, two Benadryl and a sound sleep in between crispy, clean sheets.
There's always tomorrow.
I agreed to hang out at Barnes and Noble with "the girls" tonight. "The girls" consists of 3 or 4 single girls who also teach various subjects at the high school level. Three of us teach English (9th, 10th and 11th, respectively) and the other teaches Spanish. We are between the ages of 23 and 28(?). Having devoted our lives to the amalgamated art and science of teaching, we are- as our students are wont to remind us- without lives. We try to get together from time to time, but it can be awkward, as only one of the other girls likes to do what I do- she is the Spanish teacher. She is the only one that will go dancing, the only one that will throw back a drink or two- the only one who is not willing to give up "the fun" for something more tame, like an "I'm-throwing-a-candle-party-come-and-browse" soiree, replete with small, flaky pastries served on fine china, eaten with pinky fingers pointed heavenward.
Make no mistake, the 10th and 11th grade teachers are fine human beings, but what do we all have in common, really? (Besides our English and our students?) The 10th grade Eng. teacher occasionally comes to our department meetings crying about one thing or another; she seems to be very sensitive and delicate of the heart. She would rather write flowery poetry than mete out detentions. Her students see right through her and walk all over her. I pity her tears to her face, but remain perplexed in private.
The 11th grade Eng. teacher is a very tall woman. Very tall. She is goofy and funny. If I am outgoing, loud, and funny, she is 10x more so, and I am a little jealous that she can make anyone (i.e. administrators and such) feel at ease in her presence. I seem to intimidate first, then befriend.
And tonight we have agreed to go "out." I had major plans after work today but I decided to put them on hold for the sake of hanging out and making nice. Of course, my plans included a serene and pensive drive home, an hour or two of guitar, maybe a movie, two Benadryl and a sound sleep in between crispy, clean sheets.
There's always tomorrow.
MEMO
From:The Principal
To: High School Faculty
RE:
It has come to my attention that some 9th grade boys have cut up fliers of missing children and fashioned them into "trading cards" by laminating them. The boys trade the cards amonst themselves. Apparently, this sick idea came from a boy who, on the first day of school in Biology class, when asked to come up with the name of a food that he liked to eat and which started with the first letter of his name, answered: "C-----, for 'children'."
Please be on the lookout for these hooligans and, should you catch them, send them to my office at once.
The Principal (Your Pal)
From:The Principal
To: High School Faculty
RE:
It has come to my attention that some 9th grade boys have cut up fliers of missing children and fashioned them into "trading cards" by laminating them. The boys trade the cards amonst themselves. Apparently, this sick idea came from a boy who, on the first day of school in Biology class, when asked to come up with the name of a food that he liked to eat and which started with the first letter of his name, answered: "C-----, for 'children'."
Please be on the lookout for these hooligans and, should you catch them, send them to my office at once.
The Principal (Your Pal)
Thursday, September 25, 2003
RECIPROCITY
Yesterday was a long day. After I left work I was simply anxious to get home and to bed as quickly as possible without having to cook a thing. Although I normally don't frequent restaurants during the weeknights, I buckled last night and made my way through the drive-thru section of a reputable and renowned fast food joint. I was tired and just wanted to eat but as Murphy's law would have it, I found myself in a line of cars that was the complete antithesis of the phrase "fast food." Eventually, the line inched forward and I became the second car in line. My impatience was further fueled when I noticed that the lady in the car ahead of me (I could see her through her side mirror) was having a detailed conversation with the cashier. It seemed to be taking her a long time to pay for her meal. I assumed they were flirting and marveled at the nerve of the cashier: apparently he had found an efficacious way to combine his duties and dating! I briefly considered honking my horn at them. After all, they were not only holding me up with their loquacious chatter, they were holding up the people behind me. At this point, I noticed the two pointing to the back of the line- I saw them pointing at me!
Frustration turned to wonder, and I mulled over all the things that could cause them to point in my direction: I assumed that the girl had made a mistake with her order, or she had dropped something or...who knows what...all I knew was that the girl was drastically impeding the rest of us. Eventually, she pulled away from the window, and I took her place. In the universal drive-thru fashion, the cashier handed me my coke and a straw and I presented my crisp twenty dollar bill. Imagine my surprise when I was informed that the lady in front of me had just paid for my meal!?? Why? I asked. Just because, came the answer. A wave of humility washed over me as I sat in my car, mouth agape. Her one act of kindness forced me to suddenly become aware of the "It's all about me" attitude that had usurped my drive-thru escapade.
What could I do? I didn't even have a chance to say "thank you." So...having just been served a piping hot, fresh slice of humble pie I saw it only fitting that I pay for the man seated in the car behind me.
Yesterday was a long day. After I left work I was simply anxious to get home and to bed as quickly as possible without having to cook a thing. Although I normally don't frequent restaurants during the weeknights, I buckled last night and made my way through the drive-thru section of a reputable and renowned fast food joint. I was tired and just wanted to eat but as Murphy's law would have it, I found myself in a line of cars that was the complete antithesis of the phrase "fast food." Eventually, the line inched forward and I became the second car in line. My impatience was further fueled when I noticed that the lady in the car ahead of me (I could see her through her side mirror) was having a detailed conversation with the cashier. It seemed to be taking her a long time to pay for her meal. I assumed they were flirting and marveled at the nerve of the cashier: apparently he had found an efficacious way to combine his duties and dating! I briefly considered honking my horn at them. After all, they were not only holding me up with their loquacious chatter, they were holding up the people behind me. At this point, I noticed the two pointing to the back of the line- I saw them pointing at me!
Frustration turned to wonder, and I mulled over all the things that could cause them to point in my direction: I assumed that the girl had made a mistake with her order, or she had dropped something or...who knows what...all I knew was that the girl was drastically impeding the rest of us. Eventually, she pulled away from the window, and I took her place. In the universal drive-thru fashion, the cashier handed me my coke and a straw and I presented my crisp twenty dollar bill. Imagine my surprise when I was informed that the lady in front of me had just paid for my meal!?? Why? I asked. Just because, came the answer. A wave of humility washed over me as I sat in my car, mouth agape. Her one act of kindness forced me to suddenly become aware of the "It's all about me" attitude that had usurped my drive-thru escapade.
What could I do? I didn't even have a chance to say "thank you." So...having just been served a piping hot, fresh slice of humble pie I saw it only fitting that I pay for the man seated in the car behind me.
Wednesday, September 24, 2003
BITTER? PARTY OF ONE? YOUR TABLE IS READY...
And he emailed today. Not a personal email, mind you. Just a mass email to all his “friends.” Of course, I’ll use the term loosely because I know the truth: he doesn’t have any. You may think I’m bitter when I make such a comment but I promise you, it is true. In the entire 8 months we dated, I met one friend. ONE. And he was someone who lived several states away, so it wasn’t like they were even close.
Of course, that is neither here nor there, so onwards and forwards with my consternation. The thing that bothers me is that I KNOW he sent the email to prove something to me. He, of no friends, and who lives in a constant shroud of darkness; he, who confessed to me in his weakest of moments that he is alone in this world and worries that no one will care for him when he dies; he, whose world revolves solely around the care of his three cats; he, who hides and cries in the blackness of his closet, alone and depressed for hours at a time; he, who spends hours locked in his recording studio playing sorrowful and pitiful dirges that he calls “music”; he, who refuses to answer telephone calls and abhors the normalcy of the world around him… HOW IS IT POSSIBLE THAT HE SUDDENLY HAS AN INFINITE AMOUNT OF FRIENDS TO EMAIL?
Even more puzzling is the fact that my name was on the list. I know, I know, I know he sent the email to send me a message: “See? I’m doing just fine without you. I have my friends, I have my travel, I have my music and you are not a thought in my mind.” I am quite certain that this is not the case. I am 80% sure he sent the email in the hope that I would email him back, and we could talk again, so that it wouldn't look like he was making the first move. Or maybe he's met someone new (I pity the fool!)- and hopes that I email him back so that he can drop this new information and shock me.
Why am I so angry? So passionate? So torn? So flustered? Because I have to persuade all who will hear that he is doing this to be manipulative. This is how he is. I'm worried that because you do not know his beguiling ways you'll think I’m just suffering from a case of very sour grapes; however, I assure you my words contain no hint of prevarication.
And how does he have the energy to write me an email? And from where did he muster up the superfluous good cheer and sunshine that's been splattered between the words? When did he finish crying? When did he find spare time in between the long lonely hours of sulking in the blackness of the night? When did he rise and tear himself away from his mysterious and cryptic lyric-writing to put a chink in my life? When did he get over me? Is there a magic formula he is using? And if so, where can one buy it? Why am I not also privy to the efficacious panacea of a broken and bruised heart? Why should the secrets of self-healing be revealed to him and not I? Tell me honestly, how does one shut off one's heart? One's feelings?
... perhaps his kind do not possess hearts.
Was it not just yesterday that I congratulated myself on how well I was doing? I was moving on, forgetting, licking my wounded pride and recovering from the fact that such a one as I would be duped into his abominable, manipulative cycle. As I rose from the ashes strengthened by the silver lining on that proverbial cloud of hope he reached out from the depths of his inner hell, and with his long arm of evil- cloaked in spite and self-torment- he ripped the caverns of my heart, shredding it with his scraggly talons of retribution....all in the form of his pretentious email.
When will I breathe? When I will rest? When will I stop seeing his image burned into my eyes every time I smell, taste, touch, hear anything that remotely reminds me of him? Dear God! Is there no peace to be had in my life?
Senselessly, I hate him.
Shamelessly, I hate him.
Righteously, I hate him.
I hate, and I feel no remorse.
And he emailed today. Not a personal email, mind you. Just a mass email to all his “friends.” Of course, I’ll use the term loosely because I know the truth: he doesn’t have any. You may think I’m bitter when I make such a comment but I promise you, it is true. In the entire 8 months we dated, I met one friend. ONE. And he was someone who lived several states away, so it wasn’t like they were even close.
Of course, that is neither here nor there, so onwards and forwards with my consternation. The thing that bothers me is that I KNOW he sent the email to prove something to me. He, of no friends, and who lives in a constant shroud of darkness; he, who confessed to me in his weakest of moments that he is alone in this world and worries that no one will care for him when he dies; he, whose world revolves solely around the care of his three cats; he, who hides and cries in the blackness of his closet, alone and depressed for hours at a time; he, who spends hours locked in his recording studio playing sorrowful and pitiful dirges that he calls “music”; he, who refuses to answer telephone calls and abhors the normalcy of the world around him… HOW IS IT POSSIBLE THAT HE SUDDENLY HAS AN INFINITE AMOUNT OF FRIENDS TO EMAIL?
Even more puzzling is the fact that my name was on the list. I know, I know, I know he sent the email to send me a message: “See? I’m doing just fine without you. I have my friends, I have my travel, I have my music and you are not a thought in my mind.” I am quite certain that this is not the case. I am 80% sure he sent the email in the hope that I would email him back, and we could talk again, so that it wouldn't look like he was making the first move. Or maybe he's met someone new (I pity the fool!)- and hopes that I email him back so that he can drop this new information and shock me.
Why am I so angry? So passionate? So torn? So flustered? Because I have to persuade all who will hear that he is doing this to be manipulative. This is how he is. I'm worried that because you do not know his beguiling ways you'll think I’m just suffering from a case of very sour grapes; however, I assure you my words contain no hint of prevarication.
And how does he have the energy to write me an email? And from where did he muster up the superfluous good cheer and sunshine that's been splattered between the words? When did he finish crying? When did he find spare time in between the long lonely hours of sulking in the blackness of the night? When did he rise and tear himself away from his mysterious and cryptic lyric-writing to put a chink in my life? When did he get over me? Is there a magic formula he is using? And if so, where can one buy it? Why am I not also privy to the efficacious panacea of a broken and bruised heart? Why should the secrets of self-healing be revealed to him and not I? Tell me honestly, how does one shut off one's heart? One's feelings?
... perhaps his kind do not possess hearts.
Was it not just yesterday that I congratulated myself on how well I was doing? I was moving on, forgetting, licking my wounded pride and recovering from the fact that such a one as I would be duped into his abominable, manipulative cycle. As I rose from the ashes strengthened by the silver lining on that proverbial cloud of hope he reached out from the depths of his inner hell, and with his long arm of evil- cloaked in spite and self-torment- he ripped the caverns of my heart, shredding it with his scraggly talons of retribution....all in the form of his pretentious email.
When will I breathe? When I will rest? When will I stop seeing his image burned into my eyes every time I smell, taste, touch, hear anything that remotely reminds me of him? Dear God! Is there no peace to be had in my life?
Senselessly, I hate him.
Shamelessly, I hate him.
Righteously, I hate him.
I hate, and I feel no remorse.
EMAIL FROM A JUNIOR
Dear Ms. X,
Im having trouble again. Two things I just noticed happened today. Firstly, my 1/2 page writing assignment about pantomimes I did not turn in. I was too worried about presenting my own pantomime today. I know you do not like excuses so I will accept the zero. But I will give it to you in the morning tomorrow before first period anyway.I am very sorry.
Secondly, before I gave my pantomime presentation, I only gave you the outline and the grading sheet. I realized at the end of class that I was supposed to give you the whole speech binder. I did put my papers in the first pocket of my binder and laid it back in the pile of notebooks. I do recall you telling us to give you the binder before we presented our speech but I thought it would be easier for me to just give you the papers you needed. Again, I am sorry for this incident also.
I ask of you to help me not to worry so much about the speeches I give and to be able to remember things more clearly then I have been. Thank you for taking your time to read this letter and I appreciate your guidance towards me as a teacher throughout this year. Thanx.
-Student XYZ, 7th hour Speech
(-there are still some good kids out there-)
Dear Ms. X,
Im having trouble again. Two things I just noticed happened today. Firstly, my 1/2 page writing assignment about pantomimes I did not turn in. I was too worried about presenting my own pantomime today. I know you do not like excuses so I will accept the zero. But I will give it to you in the morning tomorrow before first period anyway.I am very sorry.
Secondly, before I gave my pantomime presentation, I only gave you the outline and the grading sheet. I realized at the end of class that I was supposed to give you the whole speech binder. I did put my papers in the first pocket of my binder and laid it back in the pile of notebooks. I do recall you telling us to give you the binder before we presented our speech but I thought it would be easier for me to just give you the papers you needed. Again, I am sorry for this incident also.
I ask of you to help me not to worry so much about the speeches I give and to be able to remember things more clearly then I have been. Thank you for taking your time to read this letter and I appreciate your guidance towards me as a teacher throughout this year. Thanx.
-Student XYZ, 7th hour Speech
(-there are still some good kids out there-)
Tuesday, September 23, 2003
CLIP YOUR EAR HAIRS AND SHAVE YOUR BACK
....iron your good polyester suit.
Momma's takin' you out tonight.
I got a raise.
(incoherent squeals of joy)
....iron your good polyester suit.
Momma's takin' you out tonight.
I got a raise.
(incoherent squeals of joy)
IN WHICH THE TEACHER IS INSULTED
So.... for two weeks now, I have scoured the Internet and my teaching materials for an exciting way to kick off my punctuation unit. After 4 or 5 weeks of Literature, the curriculum calls for a review of punctuation rules, etc. Being the brilliant teacher I am (I dare you to disagree) I found some interesting information that related to the history of punctuation! Yes, my friends, I gave an anticipatory set (teacher speak for "attention getter") in which I enlightened 9th graders with the origins of punctuation; future trends and implications of the punctuation we now use; and concluded with the out-of-this-world-amazing-fact that although punctuation has some strict rules, isn't it exciting that one fourth of the punctuation we use allows for individuality and creative expression (actual fact from an actual book)? I set them free by telling them that the more experienced they become in writing, the more creatively they can use punctuation.
Fellow bloggers- I regret to report that my weeks of fact-finding were met with blank stares. I saw two or three students' eyes roll back into their heads. I'm not certain, but I think I heard subtle snoring. Why do I bother?
I am insulted.
I beg of you, how can one not find these facts interesting:
1. Punctuation began in Ancient Greece. The word "period" comes from the Greek word "periodos", which means the mark of a cycle, or the circumference of one's thoughts. Is that clever or what???
2. The word 'comma" comes from the Greek word "komma" or "koptein", which means to cut off (as in, one part of a sentence from another). I love it! Give me more!
3. The United States was technically the first country to decide on an orderly system of punctuation, but it wasn't until the 19th century that books, magazines, and newspapers began to use it regularly. Tell me another!
4. The American Declaration of Independence is filled with erroneous punctuation marks. For example, this punctuation mark shows up 25 times: .---- (a period followed by a long dash). This punctuation mark shows up 9 times… :------ (a colon followed by a long dash). Now, are you not all filled with an unquenchable, insatiable longing and desire to learn more about using punctuation effectively in your writing?
Ingrates!
---------------------------------
In other news, four 10th grade boys asked me to homecoming. Isn't there a law against such things? After they each gave me a somewhat questionable but hysterical sample of their dancing skills (which I did not request), I emphatically gave a resounding NO. Not that I would have EVER said yes;my last name, for the record, is not LeTourneau. They unkindly responded to my rejection by taunting me about being single.
Comments began to flow that went along the lines of: "Ms. X, are you ever going to get married?" (NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS)"Ms. X, I'm a 10th grader and I have a more successful dating life than you do."(I WILL SEE TO IT THAT YOU NEVER GRADUATE HIGH SCHOOL) "Ms. X, my mom said you're cute and that you should be dating someone." (THANKS, I THINK)"Ms. X, my dad said so, too." (DISTURBING!!) "Ms. X, when you get married, we're coming to the wedding." (HELL, NO) "Ms. X, why don't you marry Mr. Soandso, the math teacher? (ISN'T THAT SOMETHING AKIN TO TRYING TRYING TO MAKE A SANDWICH OUT OF THE LAST TWO SLICES OF BREAD!?...OFF WITH YOUR HEADS!)
...I don't know if I should be flattered or perturbed that they "care" so much.
------------------------------
Unintentional cuteness: there is a 9th grade boy who keeps going on and on about how he loves this other 9th grade girl's "accent."
Poor thing. I can't bring myself to tell him that it's not an accent....she has a speech impediment. She can't say her "R's."
So.... for two weeks now, I have scoured the Internet and my teaching materials for an exciting way to kick off my punctuation unit. After 4 or 5 weeks of Literature, the curriculum calls for a review of punctuation rules, etc. Being the brilliant teacher I am (I dare you to disagree) I found some interesting information that related to the history of punctuation! Yes, my friends, I gave an anticipatory set (teacher speak for "attention getter") in which I enlightened 9th graders with the origins of punctuation; future trends and implications of the punctuation we now use; and concluded with the out-of-this-world-amazing-fact that although punctuation has some strict rules, isn't it exciting that one fourth of the punctuation we use allows for individuality and creative expression (actual fact from an actual book)? I set them free by telling them that the more experienced they become in writing, the more creatively they can use punctuation.
Fellow bloggers- I regret to report that my weeks of fact-finding were met with blank stares. I saw two or three students' eyes roll back into their heads. I'm not certain, but I think I heard subtle snoring. Why do I bother?
I am insulted.
I beg of you, how can one not find these facts interesting:
1. Punctuation began in Ancient Greece. The word "period" comes from the Greek word "periodos", which means the mark of a cycle, or the circumference of one's thoughts. Is that clever or what???
2. The word 'comma" comes from the Greek word "komma" or "koptein", which means to cut off (as in, one part of a sentence from another). I love it! Give me more!
3. The United States was technically the first country to decide on an orderly system of punctuation, but it wasn't until the 19th century that books, magazines, and newspapers began to use it regularly. Tell me another!
4. The American Declaration of Independence is filled with erroneous punctuation marks. For example, this punctuation mark shows up 25 times: .---- (a period followed by a long dash). This punctuation mark shows up 9 times… :------ (a colon followed by a long dash). Now, are you not all filled with an unquenchable, insatiable longing and desire to learn more about using punctuation effectively in your writing?
Ingrates!
---------------------------------
In other news, four 10th grade boys asked me to homecoming. Isn't there a law against such things? After they each gave me a somewhat questionable but hysterical sample of their dancing skills (which I did not request), I emphatically gave a resounding NO. Not that I would have EVER said yes;my last name, for the record, is not LeTourneau. They unkindly responded to my rejection by taunting me about being single.
Comments began to flow that went along the lines of: "Ms. X, are you ever going to get married?" (NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS)"Ms. X, I'm a 10th grader and I have a more successful dating life than you do."(I WILL SEE TO IT THAT YOU NEVER GRADUATE HIGH SCHOOL) "Ms. X, my mom said you're cute and that you should be dating someone." (THANKS, I THINK)"Ms. X, my dad said so, too." (DISTURBING!!) "Ms. X, when you get married, we're coming to the wedding." (HELL, NO) "Ms. X, why don't you marry Mr. Soandso, the math teacher? (ISN'T THAT SOMETHING AKIN TO TRYING TRYING TO MAKE A SANDWICH OUT OF THE LAST TWO SLICES OF BREAD!?...OFF WITH YOUR HEADS!)
...I don't know if I should be flattered or perturbed that they "care" so much.
------------------------------
Unintentional cuteness: there is a 9th grade boy who keeps going on and on about how he loves this other 9th grade girl's "accent."
Poor thing. I can't bring myself to tell him that it's not an accent....she has a speech impediment. She can't say her "R's."
Sunday, September 21, 2003
YOUR HOMEWORK:
Try to write the following words into a grammatically correct English sentence by adding the necessary punctuation. You many not change the word order, nor add or subtract any words. (Borrowed from: Punctuate It Right!, copyright 1993) Place your answers in the comments section and I will peruse them shortly. No cheating!
1. that that is is that that is not is not is that it it is
2. John while Jim had had had had had had had had had had had a better effect on the teacher
Class Dismissed....
P.S. There may be some old comments from an earlier post that I had erased. Just work around them. Thanks.
Try to write the following words into a grammatically correct English sentence by adding the necessary punctuation. You many not change the word order, nor add or subtract any words. (Borrowed from: Punctuate It Right!, copyright 1993) Place your answers in the comments section and I will peruse them shortly. No cheating!
1. that that is is that that is not is not is that it it is
2. John while Jim had had had had had had had had had had had a better effect on the teacher
Class Dismissed....
P.S. There may be some old comments from an earlier post that I had erased. Just work around them. Thanks.
A GEORGE ORWELLIAN NIGHTMARE
I just found out that if you type someone's phone number in a Google search (using dashes in between sets of numbers), the Almighty Google will pull up that person's name and provide you with a map to his or home.
Example: 480-350-5577.
...and if you think that's MY phone number you're in for a major disappointment.
I just found out that if you type someone's phone number in a Google search (using dashes in between sets of numbers), the Almighty Google will pull up that person's name and provide you with a map to his or home.
Example: 480-350-5577.
...and if you think that's MY phone number you're in for a major disappointment.
Saturday, September 20, 2003
I ERASED THIS POST
It was rubbish and not worthy of your delicate eyes.
It was rubbish and not worthy of your delicate eyes.
Friday, September 19, 2003
EMBARRASSING TEACHER STORY
One of my close friends recently shared that a mutual friend of ours was attending her acupuncture class listening to the professor lecture when- all of a sudden, and quite out of nowhere- the teacher's skirt fell off.
First of all, I don't know how it's possible that one cannot tell when one's skirt does not fit snugly around one's waist, but my friends, that is not the worst part of the story.
The professor wasn't wearing any panties!!!.
Nothing! Her unmentionable swimsuit areas were out there for the world to behold! Now that's embarassing...mmmmmkay? How does one regain composure after one's students see one's privates?...what does one say?)
The moral of this story is, if one is going to wear a skirt that is a little too large, one should make sure that one is wearing panties so that one is not exposing one's bare bum!
...And you thought teaching was boring...
(Shudder) Please God, if you're really real...don't let that ever happen to me.
One of my close friends recently shared that a mutual friend of ours was attending her acupuncture class listening to the professor lecture when- all of a sudden, and quite out of nowhere- the teacher's skirt fell off.
First of all, I don't know how it's possible that one cannot tell when one's skirt does not fit snugly around one's waist, but my friends, that is not the worst part of the story.
The professor wasn't wearing any panties!!!.
Nothing! Her unmentionable swimsuit areas were out there for the world to behold! Now that's embarassing...mmmmmkay? How does one regain composure after one's students see one's privates?...what does one say?)
The moral of this story is, if one is going to wear a skirt that is a little too large, one should make sure that one is wearing panties so that one is not exposing one's bare bum!
...And you thought teaching was boring...
(Shudder) Please God, if you're really real...don't let that ever happen to me.
Thursday, September 18, 2003
CAR TALK
If you could have a vanity plate that could convey, in a clever arrangement of various letters and numbers, one sweeping statement about you -- what would it be?
If you could have a vanity plate that could convey, in a clever arrangement of various letters and numbers, one sweeping statement about you -- what would it be?
Wednesday, September 17, 2003
WARNING....VULGAR...MORAL DISCRETIONS STRONGLY ADVISED
This may change your opinion of me (sad face).
...(This is up for a limited time because I am momentarily insane, and I know it. Therefore, I cannot allow this vulgar post to exist for long. I will take it down when I find something not so fatuous to post.
MORNING NEGOTIATIONS WITH THE TWINS
You must stay in your place
And not jiggle about!
You must stay in your place!
Do not shove! Do not shout!
I have things I must do
I must work, I must teach!
Cease all your movement
Be good little teats!
You are bulbously lovely
Curvaceous, it's true
You are "WoW!" You are yummy
You are supple and smooth
Now sit back and relax
As I harness you in
Teat 1! and Teat 2!
Scrunch yourselves in!
I know that you grumble
And that to no end
I promise you freedom
Once the weekend begins
This may change your opinion of me (sad face).
...(This is up for a limited time because I am momentarily insane, and I know it. Therefore, I cannot allow this vulgar post to exist for long. I will take it down when I find something not so fatuous to post.
MORNING NEGOTIATIONS WITH THE TWINS
You must stay in your place
And not jiggle about!
You must stay in your place!
Do not shove! Do not shout!
I have things I must do
I must work, I must teach!
Cease all your movement
Be good little teats!
You are bulbously lovely
Curvaceous, it's true
You are "WoW!" You are yummy
You are supple and smooth
Now sit back and relax
As I harness you in
Teat 1! and Teat 2!
Scrunch yourselves in!
I know that you grumble
And that to no end
I promise you freedom
Once the weekend begins
Tuesday, September 16, 2003
IN LIEU OF MUNDANE CACOPHANY
What will you be doing two Fridays from now? If you are afraid you will find yourself at home, alone, and aching for something to do, might I extend an invitation for you to join me and company at a local coffee shop on the corner of Robson and Main Street in Mesa?
You will like this place. It's an old house that has been converted into an eclectic collection of mismatched paraphernalia. An old stuffy 2-story house; on the inside, it is filled to the gills, and bursting at the seams with Victorian antiques, decrepit books, old but comfy couches, and decent fare to satisfy the average caffeine-addicted palate.
I welcome you to sit outside in the cool weather once you have made your rounds about the house and and settled into the second chapter of your cafe late, or whatever it is you drink at typical coffee houses. Make your way outside and join me on the patio. It's intimate and quiet, secluded and dim, but lightly peppered with tiny white lights about the courtyard creating a romantic aura for those who are feeling amorous..
In the middle of the courtyard, there will be a small stage. Look about you, I will be there... seated in rapt attention. On the stage, there will be a small accoustic ensemble playing- two simple guys from Oregon- who left all behind to pursue a music career in the most unlikely place- Arizona. I don't know them personally, but I met them a weekend ago, at the end of their show when Shannon and I introduced ourselves and purchased an album to encourage their efforts.
They play the guitar and the bongo drum. The union of their soulful voices and instruments will produce a sound so aesthetically pleasing to the ear it will linger with you long after the night is over.
You will hear Man #1, the lead singer, sing in a deep baritone voice that will send warm rays of sun to the quiet recesses of your mind, the places we often neglect for lack of time and focus. You will be moved by his vibrato, which is rich and full; it comes from deep inside that place where our emotions lie in a microburst of ambiguity, and rises to the surface in a soothing arrangment of notes. Before you know it, you'll find yourself delightfully entangled in the mesmeric pattern of his fingers strumming.
You will see Man #2, the percussionist, mete a simple beat to Man # 1's guitar and voice. Occasionally, he will harmonize and create a milk-and-honey, cookies-and-cream-like amalgamating effect, complimenting his friend and partner.
You will close your eyes and smile deep inside you and be glad you came.
Don't be alarmed when you see they are young. 19 and 20 I am told. Listen and you will hear the wisdom of the ages woven into the tapestry of their lyrics and music and concur they are wise, and filled with a sagacity more commonly seen in men twice their age.
Won't you join me? I will be there... waiting. To make it interesting, don't purposely seek me out. Perhaps we will just unknowingly encounter each other, inhaling
-the lights
-the sights
-the sound
... and it will suffice.
What will you be doing two Fridays from now? If you are afraid you will find yourself at home, alone, and aching for something to do, might I extend an invitation for you to join me and company at a local coffee shop on the corner of Robson and Main Street in Mesa?
You will like this place. It's an old house that has been converted into an eclectic collection of mismatched paraphernalia. An old stuffy 2-story house; on the inside, it is filled to the gills, and bursting at the seams with Victorian antiques, decrepit books, old but comfy couches, and decent fare to satisfy the average caffeine-addicted palate.
I welcome you to sit outside in the cool weather once you have made your rounds about the house and and settled into the second chapter of your cafe late, or whatever it is you drink at typical coffee houses. Make your way outside and join me on the patio. It's intimate and quiet, secluded and dim, but lightly peppered with tiny white lights about the courtyard creating a romantic aura for those who are feeling amorous..
In the middle of the courtyard, there will be a small stage. Look about you, I will be there... seated in rapt attention. On the stage, there will be a small accoustic ensemble playing- two simple guys from Oregon- who left all behind to pursue a music career in the most unlikely place- Arizona. I don't know them personally, but I met them a weekend ago, at the end of their show when Shannon and I introduced ourselves and purchased an album to encourage their efforts.
They play the guitar and the bongo drum. The union of their soulful voices and instruments will produce a sound so aesthetically pleasing to the ear it will linger with you long after the night is over.
You will hear Man #1, the lead singer, sing in a deep baritone voice that will send warm rays of sun to the quiet recesses of your mind, the places we often neglect for lack of time and focus. You will be moved by his vibrato, which is rich and full; it comes from deep inside that place where our emotions lie in a microburst of ambiguity, and rises to the surface in a soothing arrangment of notes. Before you know it, you'll find yourself delightfully entangled in the mesmeric pattern of his fingers strumming.
You will see Man #2, the percussionist, mete a simple beat to Man # 1's guitar and voice. Occasionally, he will harmonize and create a milk-and-honey, cookies-and-cream-like amalgamating effect, complimenting his friend and partner.
You will close your eyes and smile deep inside you and be glad you came.
Don't be alarmed when you see they are young. 19 and 20 I am told. Listen and you will hear the wisdom of the ages woven into the tapestry of their lyrics and music and concur they are wise, and filled with a sagacity more commonly seen in men twice their age.
Won't you join me? I will be there... waiting. To make it interesting, don't purposely seek me out. Perhaps we will just unknowingly encounter each other, inhaling
-the lights
-the sights
-the sound
... and it will suffice.
THOUGHTS THAT KEEP ME UP AT NIGHT
His clean, soft, tender, gentle, lily white hands contrasted against my darker, smooth skin. Touching me. Awakening me.
His kisses- gentle and warm. Inviting. Passionate. Certain.
Laughing.
His body pressed against mine.
Hours of lovemaking.
Days of lovemaking.
Lovemaking.
His fingers fluttering masterfully over the strings of his guitar.
His mind. His competence. His confusion.
His apologies. Fervent; meek; genuine; weak.
Everything aches. I want him out of my mind.
His clean, soft, tender, gentle, lily white hands contrasted against my darker, smooth skin. Touching me. Awakening me.
His kisses- gentle and warm. Inviting. Passionate. Certain.
Laughing.
His body pressed against mine.
Hours of lovemaking.
Days of lovemaking.
Lovemaking.
His fingers fluttering masterfully over the strings of his guitar.
His mind. His competence. His confusion.
His apologies. Fervent; meek; genuine; weak.
Everything aches. I want him out of my mind.
Monday, September 15, 2003
FIND THE VALUE OF X; I HEART MATH
Arithmophobia- Fear of numbers.
Autodysomophobia- Fear of one that has a vile odor.
Carnophobia- Fear of meat.
Which of these do I suffer from the most?
If I have not mentioned it before, I suffer from arithmophobia. No. nothing has ever been documented, but I know it is as the disease that threatens and taunts my psyche. While many of you picture me as stunningly gorgeous, breathtakingly brilliant, genuinely gregarious and an unequivocal deft epitome of womanly substance, I hate to bring you down a notch and tell you that all is not as it should be upstairs when it comes to doing the 'rithmetic."
Case in point. Last week, after work, I took myself to the bank-in-the-box to deposit my not-so-hefty-check (it's not like I'm educating the future throngs of America or anything). Usually, I have planned out my budget before I get to the bank. "Planning out my budget" consists of drooling about what I would do with my money if it was truly mine to spend, then wiping the foolish grin off my face before I write down on a yellow legal pad excactly which funds shall be allocated to whom, depending on the date of my paycheck. Thus, I pay myself an allowance in cash for two weeks, pay my savings account, take out my weekly allowance for gas, put the rest in my checking account for the businesses that really control my life and do not return to the bank until the next paycheck.
This day, however, I did not have the "system" in place. Without thinking I rushed to the drive-through, without the yellow legal pad, without an idea of what I was to pay myself this week. I asked the cashier for a deposit slip and then sat in my car for a good 15- 20 minutes while I did math sums all over the front and back of the check envelope, trying desperately to figure out how to allocate the funds.
I realize that to most of you, my ailment seems a portentous thing to post. "Minutiae!" you cry. But it is to you that I respond, "You don't understand." I sat there for a loooooooong time. I subtracted and subtracted and added and added, and then forgot what I had added and subtracted and why. I carried the "one", I even think I managed a little bar graph with some sine and cosine action. After I looked at my Venn Diagram and had set aside my protractor I admitted I was lost without my calculator. In the interest of time, I ended up taking a superfluous amount of cash out of my paycheck, and dipped into monies that rightfully belong to others!
Okay- I know you don't think this is a sufficient example of my poor math skills so I'll titilate your minds with some more and then I'll go cry in the corner because I royally suck at math...
...First week of school I gave a speech assignment that had to be done in groups of two. One girl was sans partner, so I dutifully joined her. After all, how can I ask the kids to do something I wouldn't do? Being the fair and just teacher that I am (and humble to boot), I did the homework assignment as well. An item on the assignment required that I put down a large number. I chose "one million" (the number 1 followed by a gajillion zeros, right?) When I gave my presentation in class, everyone ignored my faux pas, except for one very tall b-baller who meekly but mockingly said: Ms. X you said "one million" but your poster reads "one billion."
Eek. Who can tell the difference after three zeroes? Ay! It's a good thing I can laugh at myself. Yes, I was laughing outside, but I was feeling mighty crunchy on the inside. I blushed a much darker shade of pale.
Still don't believe me? When I was in high school, Inthe 9th grade I had to take consumer math AND my school split my one year of Algebra into two years. How embarassing. I slept with all my math professors in college so I could graduate, and performed an infinite amount of sexual favors for extra credit.
...okay that last one's a straight out lie. I kept my legs stapled shut all through college, thank you very much. I was a good girl.
I transpose numbers. Sometimes I forget how to do long division. I fumble fractions. I can't multiply, add, or subtract any numbers in my head if they're not single digits. I still use my fingers to count! The only math related problems I can require nothing short of a simple calculator.
Number one item on my list of "must have's" for a future mate: please come equipped with an extra large... heavy duty... super strength... er... Math Degree; I need man who can work my digits.
That sounded so sick and so wrong.
Having said that.... consider this:
If Batman has been imprisoned by the Riddler, and in order to escape he must find the quickest way to move the tower of plutonium disks from one post to another so that the disks have the same arrangement as on the original post, and he may move only one disk at a time, (deep breath) what is the minimum number of moves he must make in order to move the ten disk tower and have it appear the same?
[A 5th grade math problem borrowed from:
http://www.stfx.ca/special/mathproblems/grade5.html]
I read the answer and I don't get it.
KNOCK YOURSELVES OUT.
Arithmophobia- Fear of numbers.
Autodysomophobia- Fear of one that has a vile odor.
Carnophobia- Fear of meat.
Which of these do I suffer from the most?
If I have not mentioned it before, I suffer from arithmophobia. No. nothing has ever been documented, but I know it is as the disease that threatens and taunts my psyche. While many of you picture me as stunningly gorgeous, breathtakingly brilliant, genuinely gregarious and an unequivocal deft epitome of womanly substance, I hate to bring you down a notch and tell you that all is not as it should be upstairs when it comes to doing the 'rithmetic."
Case in point. Last week, after work, I took myself to the bank-in-the-box to deposit my not-so-hefty-check (it's not like I'm educating the future throngs of America or anything). Usually, I have planned out my budget before I get to the bank. "Planning out my budget" consists of drooling about what I would do with my money if it was truly mine to spend, then wiping the foolish grin off my face before I write down on a yellow legal pad excactly which funds shall be allocated to whom, depending on the date of my paycheck. Thus, I pay myself an allowance in cash for two weeks, pay my savings account, take out my weekly allowance for gas, put the rest in my checking account for the businesses that really control my life and do not return to the bank until the next paycheck.
This day, however, I did not have the "system" in place. Without thinking I rushed to the drive-through, without the yellow legal pad, without an idea of what I was to pay myself this week. I asked the cashier for a deposit slip and then sat in my car for a good 15- 20 minutes while I did math sums all over the front and back of the check envelope, trying desperately to figure out how to allocate the funds.
I realize that to most of you, my ailment seems a portentous thing to post. "Minutiae!" you cry. But it is to you that I respond, "You don't understand." I sat there for a loooooooong time. I subtracted and subtracted and added and added, and then forgot what I had added and subtracted and why. I carried the "one", I even think I managed a little bar graph with some sine and cosine action. After I looked at my Venn Diagram and had set aside my protractor I admitted I was lost without my calculator. In the interest of time, I ended up taking a superfluous amount of cash out of my paycheck, and dipped into monies that rightfully belong to others!
Okay- I know you don't think this is a sufficient example of my poor math skills so I'll titilate your minds with some more and then I'll go cry in the corner because I royally suck at math...
...First week of school I gave a speech assignment that had to be done in groups of two. One girl was sans partner, so I dutifully joined her. After all, how can I ask the kids to do something I wouldn't do? Being the fair and just teacher that I am (and humble to boot), I did the homework assignment as well. An item on the assignment required that I put down a large number. I chose "one million" (the number 1 followed by a gajillion zeros, right?) When I gave my presentation in class, everyone ignored my faux pas, except for one very tall b-baller who meekly but mockingly said: Ms. X you said "one million" but your poster reads "one billion."
Eek. Who can tell the difference after three zeroes? Ay! It's a good thing I can laugh at myself. Yes, I was laughing outside, but I was feeling mighty crunchy on the inside. I blushed a much darker shade of pale.
Still don't believe me? When I was in high school, Inthe 9th grade I had to take consumer math AND my school split my one year of Algebra into two years. How embarassing. I slept with all my math professors in college so I could graduate, and performed an infinite amount of sexual favors for extra credit.
...okay that last one's a straight out lie. I kept my legs stapled shut all through college, thank you very much. I was a good girl.
I transpose numbers. Sometimes I forget how to do long division. I fumble fractions. I can't multiply, add, or subtract any numbers in my head if they're not single digits. I still use my fingers to count! The only math related problems I can require nothing short of a simple calculator.
Number one item on my list of "must have's" for a future mate: please come equipped with an extra large... heavy duty... super strength... er... Math Degree; I need man who can work my digits.
That sounded so sick and so wrong.
Having said that.... consider this:
If Batman has been imprisoned by the Riddler, and in order to escape he must find the quickest way to move the tower of plutonium disks from one post to another so that the disks have the same arrangement as on the original post, and he may move only one disk at a time, (deep breath) what is the minimum number of moves he must make in order to move the ten disk tower and have it appear the same?
http://www.stfx.ca/special/mathproblems/grade5.html]
I read the answer and I don't get it.
KNOCK YOURSELVES OUT.
Thursday, September 11, 2003
JES' KICKIN' IT - ADDENDUM
I have searched my heart to see exactly what, if anything, I need to say about September 11th in my blog. As of yet, I have no immediate reason to say anything, so I will keep my ambiguous thoughts to myself and spare you my confusion.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch…
Although I have been on a “no-white-starchy-foods” kick, I broke my rule three times in the last 2 days, a situation which is not exactly riddling me with guilt- although it should. Yesterday and today I had a bagel- sesame seed with butter. My weakness. My shame. I purchased each of them at the local Baskin Robbins which also has a Dunkin’ Donuts branch inside it. The woman who works there at 11 am, which is when I take my prep/break, has all those unique qualities that make a person intriguing and yet terrifying. I saw her a couple times last year- so I recognized her face. She’s one of those brass, borderline vulgar women, who masquerade as part of this earth’s female population, but once you hear the tenor voice could easily pass as men. She’ll talk about anything, raise her voice about anything. She takes orders, quickly, as if she can’t wait for you to get your shit and get out so she can go get her smoke on “one mo’ ‘gain.” I don't think she likes me.
This morning she was out on the patio, puffing away, yakking to some guy dressed exactly like her- same haircut, jeans, boots and everything- minus the Baskin Robbins apron. I breathed a sigh of relief when it appeared someone else would be serving me today. The other girl was pixie-cute, and she had itsy-bitsy-teeny-weeny…feet. A fleeting thought posed the question: is it possible for Quasi-Woman to have an effect on her? You know the old saying, “One bad apple…"
The patio door opened suddenly as Pixie Girl was finishing up with her customer and she-man walked in. He-she walked in with that watered down customer service attitude that SEEPS with obsequiousness. She looked fired up and ready to assist with the “morning rush.” I wondered what the urgency was as the only other customer present was yours truly. Why couldn’t pixie girl serve me?
Clandestinely, I noticed her hair because she had taken her hat off before she took her cigarette break. Although it's a pretty color, it’s one of those Mullet-For-Women hair dos, that can be found at ye ole “Ambigusex Super Cuts” store. It’s one of those hair dos that makes you want to bust out with a clever joke that begins with: “Hey, the 80s called…”
Pixie girl disappeared while Trucker lady approached the counter. Thankfully, she had taken care to wash the nicotine residue off her fingers before she pulled my bagel off the rack. The tips of her fingers are the only feminine things about her, and seemingly the antithesis of her persona because they are covered with plasticy talon-like, store-bought pink fingernails.
Gruffly she took my order. Bagel, toasted. Coffee, sugar. No, nothing else, thank you.There was an awkward pause after in between. We just sat there, staring at nothing but pretending to stare at something while my bagel rolled around the “Roto-toaster” (my word, for lack of any other).
I hope she’s there tomorrow.
I have searched my heart to see exactly what, if anything, I need to say about September 11th in my blog. As of yet, I have no immediate reason to say anything, so I will keep my ambiguous thoughts to myself and spare you my confusion.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch…
Although I have been on a “no-white-starchy-foods” kick, I broke my rule three times in the last 2 days, a situation which is not exactly riddling me with guilt- although it should. Yesterday and today I had a bagel- sesame seed with butter. My weakness. My shame. I purchased each of them at the local Baskin Robbins which also has a Dunkin’ Donuts branch inside it. The woman who works there at 11 am, which is when I take my prep/break, has all those unique qualities that make a person intriguing and yet terrifying. I saw her a couple times last year- so I recognized her face. She’s one of those brass, borderline vulgar women, who masquerade as part of this earth’s female population, but once you hear the tenor voice could easily pass as men. She’ll talk about anything, raise her voice about anything. She takes orders, quickly, as if she can’t wait for you to get your shit and get out so she can go get her smoke on “one mo’ ‘gain.” I don't think she likes me.
This morning she was out on the patio, puffing away, yakking to some guy dressed exactly like her- same haircut, jeans, boots and everything- minus the Baskin Robbins apron. I breathed a sigh of relief when it appeared someone else would be serving me today. The other girl was pixie-cute, and she had itsy-bitsy-teeny-weeny…feet. A fleeting thought posed the question: is it possible for Quasi-Woman to have an effect on her? You know the old saying, “One bad apple…"
The patio door opened suddenly as Pixie Girl was finishing up with her customer and she-man walked in. He-she walked in with that watered down customer service attitude that SEEPS with obsequiousness. She looked fired up and ready to assist with the “morning rush.” I wondered what the urgency was as the only other customer present was yours truly. Why couldn’t pixie girl serve me?
Clandestinely, I noticed her hair because she had taken her hat off before she took her cigarette break. Although it's a pretty color, it’s one of those Mullet-For-Women hair dos, that can be found at ye ole “Ambigusex Super Cuts” store. It’s one of those hair dos that makes you want to bust out with a clever joke that begins with: “Hey, the 80s called…”
Pixie girl disappeared while Trucker lady approached the counter. Thankfully, she had taken care to wash the nicotine residue off her fingers before she pulled my bagel off the rack. The tips of her fingers are the only feminine things about her, and seemingly the antithesis of her persona because they are covered with plasticy talon-like, store-bought pink fingernails.
Gruffly she took my order. Bagel, toasted. Coffee, sugar. No, nothing else, thank you.There was an awkward pause after in between. We just sat there, staring at nothing but pretending to stare at something while my bagel rolled around the “Roto-toaster” (my word, for lack of any other).
I hope she’s there tomorrow.
JES' KICKIN' IT
Hello dah-lings.
I've upated my 100 list for your entertainment and perusal.
Have a look-see.
Comments, questions, and concerns are welcome.
GG.
More later- I have to get real work done.
Hello dah-lings.
I've upated my 100 list for your entertainment and perusal.
Have a look-see.
Comments, questions, and concerns are welcome.
GG.
More later- I have to get real work done.
Wednesday, September 10, 2003
AFTER SCHOOL MEETING, TAKE TWO
Another meeting after work today. As the meeting unfolds the mood boils down from cheerful chatter to solemnity. We have a new student; all the teachers have come together to meet with the student and the Dean of Students. The student's mother is also present. One by one, we are called upon to give any observations we have noted while teaching the student in the past few weeks. School has only been in session for 4 weeks. What could I have possibly noticed in the middle of trying to remember 125 names of kids who dress exactly alike every day of the year? I muse to myself that this seems to be my only accomplishment thus far. My turn comes. All are silent- English is a major subject, I should have something important to say. My offering of words is simple. Student X has a difficult time taking tests. The entire class finishes in 15-20 minutes; it takes the student the whole period. Whoa. I'm good at thinking on my feet. I finish my impromptu presentation, replete with words of encouragement and support. I like this kid, and I want to say something kind. The student has had a hard time fitting in, but I don't mention that; I let someone else do it.
The teachers finish their observations. Now the crux of the agenda unfolds. It seems the student suffers from a debilitating lung disease, among other physical complications. We are told the necessary measures to take if Student X should ever have an uncontrollable asthma attack. At this point of the meeting many teachers become concerned. So...this student could possibly pass away if we- the only rationally thinking adults in the room- do not act quickly enough to save him? Be sure to run to the nurse for help, they say. More confusion. Hands rise, eyebrows furrow, mouths open to speak and ask for elaboration. No, better yet, he may not make it so send a student to the nurse, they say. Heads nod slowly, indicating we have heard, but we do not understand. Somewhere I hear the words "mouth-to-mouth resuscitation" and "breathing machine." I feel my mouth go dry. I haven't taken a CPR class in 6 years.
Mother continues. Disorders are mentioned that I never knew existed: names of disorders that are as foreign to me as the transmission of my car. One large name sticks out. We are told that on a chart of diseases, this large-named disorder falls right above Down Syndrome. We conclude the meeting by learning that Student X's bones are as brittle as a person who is 103 years old. Or was it 110? After 100, do the numbers matter any more? Before the meeting ends, I steal a glance at the extremely healthy looking child I have named Student X. I don't remember reading anything about this in my education courses.
How will I give chest compressions if his bones might break?
Another meeting after work today. As the meeting unfolds the mood boils down from cheerful chatter to solemnity. We have a new student; all the teachers have come together to meet with the student and the Dean of Students. The student's mother is also present. One by one, we are called upon to give any observations we have noted while teaching the student in the past few weeks. School has only been in session for 4 weeks. What could I have possibly noticed in the middle of trying to remember 125 names of kids who dress exactly alike every day of the year? I muse to myself that this seems to be my only accomplishment thus far. My turn comes. All are silent- English is a major subject, I should have something important to say. My offering of words is simple. Student X has a difficult time taking tests. The entire class finishes in 15-20 minutes; it takes the student the whole period. Whoa. I'm good at thinking on my feet. I finish my impromptu presentation, replete with words of encouragement and support. I like this kid, and I want to say something kind. The student has had a hard time fitting in, but I don't mention that; I let someone else do it.
The teachers finish their observations. Now the crux of the agenda unfolds. It seems the student suffers from a debilitating lung disease, among other physical complications. We are told the necessary measures to take if Student X should ever have an uncontrollable asthma attack. At this point of the meeting many teachers become concerned. So...this student could possibly pass away if we- the only rationally thinking adults in the room- do not act quickly enough to save him? Be sure to run to the nurse for help, they say. More confusion. Hands rise, eyebrows furrow, mouths open to speak and ask for elaboration. No, better yet, he may not make it so send a student to the nurse, they say. Heads nod slowly, indicating we have heard, but we do not understand. Somewhere I hear the words "mouth-to-mouth resuscitation" and "breathing machine." I feel my mouth go dry. I haven't taken a CPR class in 6 years.
Mother continues. Disorders are mentioned that I never knew existed: names of disorders that are as foreign to me as the transmission of my car. One large name sticks out. We are told that on a chart of diseases, this large-named disorder falls right above Down Syndrome. We conclude the meeting by learning that Student X's bones are as brittle as a person who is 103 years old. Or was it 110? After 100, do the numbers matter any more? Before the meeting ends, I steal a glance at the extremely healthy looking child I have named Student X. I don't remember reading anything about this in my education courses.
How will I give chest compressions if his bones might break?
Tuesday, September 09, 2003
90% PREPARATION- 10% EXECUTION
Today was a satisfactory day. I can't complain. I lectured the whole period and gave notes via power point; power point makes life so much easier- I don't have to write on the board, which takes forever, and I just give the kids an outline to follow. Everyone has identical notes and there are no excuses come exam time.
Today I'm proud of myself because I timed the lecture perfectly. It ended a minute or two before the bell rang signifying the end of the period. Perfection.
Speech was the highlight of my day today. We're just taking notes this week, before the major speeches begin, but even giving note in that class is fun. I feel the class respond to what I teach. I feel their fears relieved. Finally, I see them making correlations between the textbook, the quizzes and the notes- it's rewarding. The beauty of it all is that it's nothing I'm doing. I just make sure I'm ready for class, show up, and they take the class to the zenith of feel-good fun. Every teacher should be so lucky. I love to know that I rarely have to remind them of class rules- they're upperclassmen- I treat them like young adults, command respect and they step up to the task of giving me the same respect. I trust them. This is a sign that I'm growing as a teacher; I relenquish complete and anal control, the class relaxes and 55 minutes goes by before we know it. They're smiling, they're laughing, they're making jokes, they're teasing me and I know that it's all good.
I fully anticipate some amazing speeches this year. The hardest part of speech class has been working with the guys. They're just "too cool" to practice speech techniques. But a few weeks ago we did our monologues and these boys absolutely amazed me!! They were all over the place with volume, rate, inflection (the beginning basics of public speaking). They even moved around the room a little and I never told them to. There was eye contact, enthusiasm, and almost a competitive edge that took over the room. I have never seen this before in my speech classes. This is definitely a great sign. Just thinking about the whole thing makes me giddy. Next week they will present their first speech. It's a Pet Peeve Speech. I told them I want passion, emotion; just tell us what absolutely pisses us off. Yell if you have to. I can't wait to see what they create.
My #1 rule in speech class is that everything must live up to this statement: 90% preparation, 10% execution. The word execution is synonymous with delivery and presentation, to explain a bit further. I will be able to tell in an instant who has heard me bark this rule every day and truly take it to heart.
Sigh. I outwardly and freely proclaim to all who inquire that I despise my profession, but deep down inside I know it's the beat of my heart.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch...
After school there was a faculty meeting. This is all I have to say about that:
F(*&^%%$!@#$%^&*)_)(**&^%$$#@!k!! What is wrong with people? Does every single faculty member need to accompany each point on the agenda with an anecdote and personal illustration?? This is not summer camp! Keep your kumbayah singing- marshmallow s'mores toasting- hiking boot loving- gotta badge for "archery" wearing -suck up to the camp director having- selves locked in your classrooms!
I leave you with this ever fabulous piece by my precious namesake. Chew the fat.
Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.
We slowly drove, he knew no haste, 5
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too,
For his civility.
We passed the school where children played
At wrestling in a ring; 10
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.
We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible, 15
The cornice but a mound.
Since then 'tis centuries; but each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses' heads
Were toward eternity.
Emily Dickinson (1830-86). Complete Poems.
Today was a satisfactory day. I can't complain. I lectured the whole period and gave notes via power point; power point makes life so much easier- I don't have to write on the board, which takes forever, and I just give the kids an outline to follow. Everyone has identical notes and there are no excuses come exam time.
Today I'm proud of myself because I timed the lecture perfectly. It ended a minute or two before the bell rang signifying the end of the period. Perfection.
Speech was the highlight of my day today. We're just taking notes this week, before the major speeches begin, but even giving note in that class is fun. I feel the class respond to what I teach. I feel their fears relieved. Finally, I see them making correlations between the textbook, the quizzes and the notes- it's rewarding. The beauty of it all is that it's nothing I'm doing. I just make sure I'm ready for class, show up, and they take the class to the zenith of feel-good fun. Every teacher should be so lucky. I love to know that I rarely have to remind them of class rules- they're upperclassmen- I treat them like young adults, command respect and they step up to the task of giving me the same respect. I trust them. This is a sign that I'm growing as a teacher; I relenquish complete and anal control, the class relaxes and 55 minutes goes by before we know it. They're smiling, they're laughing, they're making jokes, they're teasing me and I know that it's all good.
I fully anticipate some amazing speeches this year. The hardest part of speech class has been working with the guys. They're just "too cool" to practice speech techniques. But a few weeks ago we did our monologues and these boys absolutely amazed me!! They were all over the place with volume, rate, inflection (the beginning basics of public speaking). They even moved around the room a little and I never told them to. There was eye contact, enthusiasm, and almost a competitive edge that took over the room. I have never seen this before in my speech classes. This is definitely a great sign. Just thinking about the whole thing makes me giddy. Next week they will present their first speech. It's a Pet Peeve Speech. I told them I want passion, emotion; just tell us what absolutely pisses us off. Yell if you have to. I can't wait to see what they create.
My #1 rule in speech class is that everything must live up to this statement: 90% preparation, 10% execution. The word execution is synonymous with delivery and presentation, to explain a bit further. I will be able to tell in an instant who has heard me bark this rule every day and truly take it to heart.
Sigh. I outwardly and freely proclaim to all who inquire that I despise my profession, but deep down inside I know it's the beat of my heart.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch...
After school there was a faculty meeting. This is all I have to say about that:
F(*&^%%$!@#$%^&*)_)(**&^%$$#@!k!! What is wrong with people? Does every single faculty member need to accompany each point on the agenda with an anecdote and personal illustration?? This is not summer camp! Keep your kumbayah singing- marshmallow s'mores toasting- hiking boot loving- gotta badge for "archery" wearing -suck up to the camp director having- selves locked in your classrooms!
I leave you with this ever fabulous piece by my precious namesake. Chew the fat.
Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.
We slowly drove, he knew no haste, 5
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too,
For his civility.
We passed the school where children played
At wrestling in a ring; 10
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.
We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible, 15
The cornice but a mound.
Since then 'tis centuries; but each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses' heads
Were toward eternity.
Emily Dickinson (1830-86). Complete Poems.
Monday, September 08, 2003
TEACHER’S PORTFOLIO
Every now and then, I try to save letters, awards, certificates and other noteworthy paraphernalia to add to my collection of items that I will someday put in a professional portfolio. This way, when I leave my current profession to pursue my dream job of being a tour guide at a Smithsonian Institute in D.C. (if the teaching in college thing doesn’t work out), I will have something for my future employers to look at and judge my ability by.
[For all you grammar mavens out there, I DO realize I just ended a sentence with a preposition. (rolling eyes) Bite me. Bite me hard.]
For your reading pleasure today (and because that is the only pleasure I am comfortable satisfying for you at the moment), I have decided to share a letter from a student I taught last year. To protect his identity we shall call him Grover.To protect his identity even more, we shall pronounce Grover with a French accent, "gro- vay", for added effect. Last year, a week or two before the semester exam in December, I told the students that I would help them review by posting review games and quizzes on my website. I nonchalantly mentioned that it would probably help them ace the exam. Of course, very few students took advantage of the opportunity, but for those who did, there was a little extra credit surprise waiting on each review page of the website. One of the extra credit opportunities requested each student to email me two things they liked about English class, and two things they didn’t like. I wanted to have some student feedback so that I could modify and adjust my teaching style for the students who felt I might not have been meeting their needs.
Grover (once again, that's "gro-vay") wrote me a letter, which I have kept in my email inbox for a year now. I plan to someday place it in my portfolio because it meant a lot to me for a variety of reasons. I have told both Grover and Grover's mom (Mademoiselle gro-vay) my intentions with the email, so I hope I am not violating anyone's trust by posting it. There have been no changes to the format or grammar.
I have a feeling that people who read this may have mixed reactions. I welcome any questions or comments you may have.
From: Grover@grover.com
To: Ms. Graduate Girl
Subject: Four Things About English Class
HONEST PART
Well, seeing as I'm not going to be graded on my letter composition, (I hope) I'm not really worried about the neatness of it. As you may have guessed I'm only writing this letter to get two extra credit points. However, since you don't want to know that, just scroll down and ignore this part.
STUDENT PART
I was so thrilled to be able to write you a letter that I just wanted to procrastinate and make it as long as I could. So now I will list two things that I like about your class.
I like:
#1 That you deal with the class in a strict but loving manner and always have our best interest (of this I have no doubt) in mind.
#2 You have no mercy on the underlings that don't do their work. BWHAHAHAAHHAHA, and that you keep discipline and order in your classroom.
P.S. (Can I write this? Oh well) I seem to strive on discipline and it helps that its the last class of the day and it helps even more that your always in a good mood for our class.
At this point I'm going to ask you to look above and notice that we are completely out of the honest zone and that I am not responsible for any false information given. (HAHA just kidding :-)
I don't like:
#1 All the homework!! (I know your heart must be bleeding for me right about now) and all our class does is WHINE WHINE WHINE! yada yada yada! blah blah blah--by the way I'm amazed at how much you teachers can put up with, is it mandatory to take a tolerance course to become a teacher?
#2 Uhhh...You've been the only teacher to give me a lunch detention! (not to mention 2!) How could you? (dumb question) How could I?!
Yeah that pretty much wraps it up.
Love ya-
Grover
Keep up the good work--thanks for devoting your time to ensuring the education of the next generation--Whoa did I just come up with that?
Every now and then, I try to save letters, awards, certificates and other noteworthy paraphernalia to add to my collection of items that I will someday put in a professional portfolio. This way, when I leave my current profession to pursue my dream job of being a tour guide at a Smithsonian Institute in D.C. (if the teaching in college thing doesn’t work out), I will have something for my future employers to look at and judge my ability by.
[For all you grammar mavens out there, I DO realize I just ended a sentence with a preposition. (rolling eyes) Bite me. Bite me hard.]
For your reading pleasure today (and because that is the only pleasure I am comfortable satisfying for you at the moment), I have decided to share a letter from a student I taught last year. To protect his identity we shall call him Grover.To protect his identity even more, we shall pronounce Grover with a French accent, "gro- vay", for added effect. Last year, a week or two before the semester exam in December, I told the students that I would help them review by posting review games and quizzes on my website. I nonchalantly mentioned that it would probably help them ace the exam. Of course, very few students took advantage of the opportunity, but for those who did, there was a little extra credit surprise waiting on each review page of the website. One of the extra credit opportunities requested each student to email me two things they liked about English class, and two things they didn’t like. I wanted to have some student feedback so that I could modify and adjust my teaching style for the students who felt I might not have been meeting their needs.
Grover (once again, that's "gro-vay") wrote me a letter, which I have kept in my email inbox for a year now. I plan to someday place it in my portfolio because it meant a lot to me for a variety of reasons. I have told both Grover and Grover's mom (Mademoiselle gro-vay) my intentions with the email, so I hope I am not violating anyone's trust by posting it. There have been no changes to the format or grammar.
I have a feeling that people who read this may have mixed reactions. I welcome any questions or comments you may have.
From: Grover@grover.com
To: Ms. Graduate Girl
Subject: Four Things About English Class
HONEST PART
Well, seeing as I'm not going to be graded on my letter composition, (I hope) I'm not really worried about the neatness of it. As you may have guessed I'm only writing this letter to get two extra credit points. However, since you don't want to know that, just scroll down and ignore this part.
STUDENT PART
I was so thrilled to be able to write you a letter that I just wanted to procrastinate and make it as long as I could. So now I will list two things that I like about your class.
I like:
#1 That you deal with the class in a strict but loving manner and always have our best interest (of this I have no doubt) in mind.
#2 You have no mercy on the underlings that don't do their work. BWHAHAHAAHHAHA, and that you keep discipline and order in your classroom.
P.S. (Can I write this? Oh well) I seem to strive on discipline and it helps that its the last class of the day and it helps even more that your always in a good mood for our class.
At this point I'm going to ask you to look above and notice that we are completely out of the honest zone and that I am not responsible for any false information given. (HAHA just kidding :-)
I don't like:
#1 All the homework!! (I know your heart must be bleeding for me right about now) and all our class does is WHINE WHINE WHINE! yada yada yada! blah blah blah--by the way I'm amazed at how much you teachers can put up with, is it mandatory to take a tolerance course to become a teacher?
#2 Uhhh...You've been the only teacher to give me a lunch detention! (not to mention 2!) How could you? (dumb question) How could I?!
Yeah that pretty much wraps it up.
Love ya-
Grover
Keep up the good work--thanks for devoting your time to ensuring the education of the next generation--Whoa did I just come up with that?
Sunday, September 07, 2003
Are there any women out there who despise the radio? Please contact me; I have just the man for you...
IT'S A GOOD LIFE.
I will try not to talk too much about it, but I have been thinking lately about how different life is now that I am single. Of course I had the initial feelings of despair after the breakup: I cried as lovers are prone to do when they part ways. The loneliness was killing me, as well as the undeserved feeling of utter failure which had engulfed me. Thankfully, those feelings are gradually diminishing because of my small but adequate circle of quality friends.
Yes, life is different. Things have changed. I can listen to the radio.
Maybe you didn't hear me: I can listen to the radio.
The X! despised the radio and requested (several times) that we do not listen to it in the car or in the house. THE RADIO! Have you ever heard of such a thing? One day we went to the mall for dinner and a movie and some shopping. While inside the Gap, rummaging through the typical aisles and aisles of poorly made articles of clothing (admit it! it's true!), a familiar song began to play over the loudspeaker. Of course, I love to sing- and I am, from time to time, compelled to sing or hum harmony or melody to whatever tunes I hear. So...instinctively...and without malicious intent...I hummed.
Well, that made the X!'s lips purse together and his brow furrow. He wasn't just displeased, he was down right ANGRY. Suffice it to say that he refused to speak to me for the rest of the evening. When I finally couldn't take the silent treatment anymore, I confronted him. What was he angry about? He just didn't know, he began, if he could date someone like me. What do you mean? I inquired- completely oblivous to the grievous crime I had committed two hours earlier. I don't know, he continued, if I can be with someone who listens to the popular music that is played on the radio. I'm an artist, and I support starving musicians; the radio stations monopolize and manipulate the industry. I need to be with someone who understands my convictions on the matter.
@#!*?
I did, after many soothing kisses and loving hugs, manage to persuade him that I was truly sorry. I held him close to me and cooed and cajoled him into a smile, all the while convincing myself that it was these bizarre thought processes (and there were many) that made me love him so. I also tried to casually mention that it really shouldn't have been a big deal.
But it was a big deal.
I will try not to talk too much about it, but I have been thinking lately about how different life is now that I am single. Of course I had the initial feelings of despair after the breakup: I cried as lovers are prone to do when they part ways. The loneliness was killing me, as well as the undeserved feeling of utter failure which had engulfed me. Thankfully, those feelings are gradually diminishing because of my small but adequate circle of quality friends.
Yes, life is different. Things have changed. I can listen to the radio.
Maybe you didn't hear me: I can listen to the radio.
The X! despised the radio and requested (several times) that we do not listen to it in the car or in the house. THE RADIO! Have you ever heard of such a thing? One day we went to the mall for dinner and a movie and some shopping. While inside the Gap, rummaging through the typical aisles and aisles of poorly made articles of clothing (admit it! it's true!), a familiar song began to play over the loudspeaker. Of course, I love to sing- and I am, from time to time, compelled to sing or hum harmony or melody to whatever tunes I hear. So...instinctively...and without malicious intent...I hummed.
Well, that made the X!'s lips purse together and his brow furrow. He wasn't just displeased, he was down right ANGRY. Suffice it to say that he refused to speak to me for the rest of the evening. When I finally couldn't take the silent treatment anymore, I confronted him. What was he angry about? He just didn't know, he began, if he could date someone like me. What do you mean? I inquired- completely oblivous to the grievous crime I had committed two hours earlier. I don't know, he continued, if I can be with someone who listens to the popular music that is played on the radio. I'm an artist, and I support starving musicians; the radio stations monopolize and manipulate the industry. I need to be with someone who understands my convictions on the matter.
@#!*?
I did, after many soothing kisses and loving hugs, manage to persuade him that I was truly sorry. I held him close to me and cooed and cajoled him into a smile, all the while convincing myself that it was these bizarre thought processes (and there were many) that made me love him so. I also tried to casually mention that it really shouldn't have been a big deal.
But it was a big deal.
Friday, September 05, 2003
SINGLE GIRL, BIG CITY, BIG PLANS
Well, now that I am officially single, and have been for quite some time- I thought I would take this time to draw up my goals for the coming year. I think it's important to have some things to look forward to - especially activities that don't end with the word "boyfriend." Now I do teach, so my year has officially started and will finish the last week of May, 2004. We shall see, after that time, what I have accomplished.
In no predetermined order of appearance, my goals are to:
A. Plan a four day personal vacation to New York City for the summer. See one Broadway show.
B. Remain single and free until at least December, to ward off evil spirits from the "ex" and appease the anger of the gods.
C. Add and maintain at least one month's salary in my savings.
D. Learn at least 5 more guitar chords by Christmas (damn that Bm!).
E. Dress up on the weekend with the purpose of going out. (At least twice a month.)
F. Sign up for my third Latin dance class by summer.
G. Pay off the balance on my credit card before Christmas ($450)- yes I only own one, thank God.
H. Call the lady back from the Phoenix symphony and get trained for the volunteer program by November.
I. Look into the PhD program at ASU- just for kicks if nothing else!
J. Write or call my parents- once every two months is enough.
I think that's good for now.
Here's hoping.
Well, now that I am officially single, and have been for quite some time- I thought I would take this time to draw up my goals for the coming year. I think it's important to have some things to look forward to - especially activities that don't end with the word "boyfriend." Now I do teach, so my year has officially started and will finish the last week of May, 2004. We shall see, after that time, what I have accomplished.
In no predetermined order of appearance, my goals are to:
A. Plan a four day personal vacation to New York City for the summer. See one Broadway show.
B. Remain single and free until at least December, to ward off evil spirits from the "ex" and appease the anger of the gods.
C. Add and maintain at least one month's salary in my savings.
D. Learn at least 5 more guitar chords by Christmas (damn that Bm!).
E. Dress up on the weekend with the purpose of going out. (At least twice a month.)
F. Sign up for my third Latin dance class by summer.
G. Pay off the balance on my credit card before Christmas ($450)- yes I only own one, thank God.
H. Call the lady back from the Phoenix symphony and get trained for the volunteer program by November.
I. Look into the PhD program at ASU- just for kicks if nothing else!
J. Write or call my parents- once every two months is enough.
I think that's good for now.
Here's hoping.
ODE TO TODD
You have graciously allowed me to converse with you at will, and to seek out your friendship. For that, I am most grateful.
One quiet and unsuspecting day, I pulled back the cumbersome and never ending folds of cyber space and, serendipitously, found you there.
You did not know you had a purpose in my life; unknowingly, you stepped up to the challenge anyway.
You are a master teacher and a shining example to bloggers everywhere. You are not a mere acquaintance: I call you friend.
It is only fitting that I write about you first.
Your humble tutee,
GG
You have graciously allowed me to converse with you at will, and to seek out your friendship. For that, I am most grateful.
One quiet and unsuspecting day, I pulled back the cumbersome and never ending folds of cyber space and, serendipitously, found you there.
You did not know you had a purpose in my life; unknowingly, you stepped up to the challenge anyway.
You are a master teacher and a shining example to bloggers everywhere. You are not a mere acquaintance: I call you friend.
It is only fitting that I write about you first.
Your humble tutee,
GG
