Sex Ed in Higher Ed

I am Tired

2008-10-19T15:34:00.007-05:00

Somehow I didn't think that I would get tired of not having kids. Oh, boo-hoo. I know. Poor me. I deliberately chose a child-free lifestyle and now I'm struggling.

But let me explain why: I am not struggling because I feel I made the wrong decision and now with me being 38 and Mr. J. turning 40 next month, suddenly I'm having doubts. Oh, no. I rarely have doubts and if I have anything even remotely resembling doubts all I have to do is go to Target for 20 minutes and I'm fine.

I'm tired of feeling like a freak. And then some.

Back when I first met Mr. J., I knew he was the one (for sure!) when he confessed that he felt he was falling in love with me but wanted to be fair before the relationship progressed any more: He did NOT want children. Ever. And if that was something I wanted, then he wanted me to have exactly what I wanted in life so I needed to move on, because, well - it just wouldn't happen with him.

Not only was I grateful for his honesty, I was thrilled. Because personally? I never really knew where I stood on the whole motherhood thing. It was something I would do, maybe, someday in the future. Far off in the future. Right after I stopped being overwhelmed, appalled and grossed-out by tasks that seemed to be part and parcel of motherhood.

My friends who have children often said, "It's different when it's your own." Probably, I suppose. But being up to your elbows in poop still seemed like it was just being up to your elbows in poop regardless of the owner of aforementioned poop and your relationship to the owner of that poop.

And even if I could get past all the bodily fluids - the puking, the pooping, the drooling and the snotty noses, I wasn't sure I could get past the rest of it. What if any child I had someday asked me the meaning of life? I would probably say, "How the hell do I know?" and that would not be good. The majority of my friends have children and it is interesting for me to watch; all of the children are at varying life stages so I get to see everything from Mean Girls-esque adolescent drama and angst to driving lessons to college tours to clarinet lessons to mastitis from breast feeding to croup and thrush (it's a yeast infection in the mouth that some infants get. And if I'm not mistaken adults with weakened immune systems can get it also) and night terrors and homework struggles and sweet holy Moses, the time, energy and money involved. Ultimately, I'm just really, really lazy and parenting has always looked like too much work. There. I said it. Hate me yet?

Finally, very few people seemed to be able to give me a good reason to reproduce except, "It's what we're supposed to do" and yes, I guess that's right. Continuing the human species is a biological imperative. I get it. But whenever I asked my mother why she had children, she just said, "It's what we thought we were supposed to do." Sorry. Not good enough.

Most of the men I've dated wanted children and when I pressed for a reason why, they usually just said something ridiculously patriarchal like, "To carry on the family name". Good reason to bring another human being into the world, loser. And by the way? Yeah, it would be a damn shame if "Anderson" died out. There's a huge possibility of that happening. And if it did? Wow. What a tragedy that would be.

After Mr. J. and I got engaged, but before we got married, I wanted to be 100% completely and totally sure that I was okay with this choice. We were taking rather, uh, permanent measures to make sure we never conceived and the thing about permanent measures is that they can seem so, well, permanent. I did the only thing I could think of to do: I read books. I went to our local library and found as many books as I could find on living "child-free". More than a few of the books were basically a collection of essays written by women who ended up without children because of . . . life. Many of them never announced at 18 or 21 or some magic age, "I'm opting out of motherhood". Life happened . . . some thought they'd have children "eventually" and "eventually" just never arrived. But one of the books was entitled Why Don't You Have Kids and I remember thinking, "Hey - this doesn't sound so bad. I get it, I can do this. I'm ready."

But sometimes you don't know what you don't know. Or you ask yourself, "How bad can it be?" and then you found out you have no idea. I imagine there are a lot of things that work that way - parenthood, in particular. Childbirth. Maybe cancer.

I walked/ran a marathon and thought the same thing during all the months of training until I was in the marathon, at about mile 20, in the pouring rain, feeling two of my toenails lift up off their native toes and cursing myself out loud saying something like, "Wow. You are really, really REALLY damn ignorant. A marathon can be insanely bad. What the hell were you thinking?"

I'd like to think it was then I learned never to ask the question, "How bad can it be?" but I did it anyway.

So I'm reading the book by Leslie Lafayette, way back in January of 2003 and although it (and many of the other books I read) gave me pause, I determined that ultimately I was okay with my decision. It also helped tremendously when I read, "People who choose not to have children often spend more time and give more thought and effort to that decision than people who do have children." Of course this makes sense - again, reproduction is our biological imperative as humans, so following through on a biological imperative? What is there to think about, really? Doing the opposite of what we're (supposedly) hard-wired to do - I guess you do need to think about that.

But the past two weeks have been filled with announcements of pregnancy, and new babies and infertility struggles and yes, in a way that only I can, I have made it about me: What is WRONG with me? (Please don't answer that. If at least a dozen therapists and hundreds of self-help books haven't helped me come to any conclusion, I doubt you can.)

So I did what I typically do when I'm confused (well, I did drink but that's not what I did first) - I went to the library and looked up my old pal Leslie Lafayette and there was her book, right where I remembered: Why Don't You Have Kids.

Reading it now, I am getting the answer to "How bad can it be, really?" even though I had the exact same information available to me 6+ years ago. I imagine it's like reading or hearing about, say, childbirth, nodding, thinking you get it and then reading the same book or having the same conversation after you've gone through it yourself. Then - and only then - do you realize the earlier you had absolutely no freakin' clue.

Take, for example, my new favorite chapter called "Living Childfree Isn't for Sissies!" I'm guessing that parenting is the sport that really isn't for sissies and if I'm barking up the wrong tree, it's okay with me if you stop reading now. Here is a quote I still remember reading 6+ years ago and now I can read it and think, "And how, sister!" I almost said, "I wish someone had told me this earlier" - but someone - the author had and it didn't matter. But I digress. The quote:

"Understandably, there is a strong emotional reaction to something as basic, as visceral as choosing not to have children. Even if you did not originally choose not to have children, the very fact that you are living happily without them is threatening to many around you. Childfrees can expect strong responses from those to whom such a lifestyle is, frankly, unacceptable. . . It seems to be everyone's business to investigate the reasons you have not had kids . . . What are you going to tell these people? Are you truly prepared for the never-ending, ongoing onslaught that life is about to hand you?" (pp. 25-26).

And also from a section entitled, "Don't Expect Anyone to Think You're a Hero":

"Suffice it for now to say that few decisions you make will be as unpopular as choosing to live childfree. If being out of step with the majority of your fellows really bothers you, you may want to think this lifestyle through again!" (p.35).

And all these years I thought I was immune to peer pressure. Let me clarify: I do not want to run out and have a child because I'm tired of feeling like "everyone else is doing it" and I'm the only girl at the party drinking milk and not keg beer out of a plastic cup. I do not want to run out and have a child, period.

The peer pressure I am feeling is the "What, exactly, is wrong with you that you don't want children?" pressure. I get those vibes, I feel that look and I know on some level, I'm supposed to hang my head and apologize and explain what is wrong with me for not wanting children.

And what is the answer? What am I supposed to think and/or what am I supposed to say to other people? Here are a few answers I've come up with - haven't yet said any out loud, although I'm tempted. And yes, I'm kind of joking, but only kind of.

I'm selfish (And yes, I've had people from virtual strangers to my hairdresser tell me that upon learning about my decision)
I'm too lazy (well, that one is true - I've already admitted to that)
I'm heartless and cold
I have no soul
There's a laptop and a hedge fund where my uterus should be
I prefer to die alone with no one to take care of me and just several hundred cats left to eat out my eyeballs after my death which will probably go undiscovered for several weeks
There is nothing in my personality, history or genetic makeup that is worth passing on to anyone
I'm too afraid that any child of mine would get my original nose
I hate holidays and creating pleasant memories for others
I think it's critical to miss out on one of life's most important human experiences (in response to those who say, "But you're really missing out!")
I don't enjoy giving of myself tirelessly, sacrificing or doing without so someone else can have a better life (Also been told this - see first bullet - i.e., "I'm selfish")
At this time I don't have enough cash stashed away to get the "Mommy Makeover" plastic surgery tummy tuck/breast lift combo
Elmo's voice makes me want to rip off my own arm so I have something with which I can beat the television
Kids are stupid
I want to make sure I make one really big mistake that I will regret for the rest of my life and I decided this would be a big one (To answer the question - no - really the gasp/statement/pearl clutching combo of, "OMG! You're going to regret it!")

I suppose I should be used to this by now; after all, I certainly heard these things enough the first year we were married and to be fair, I've gone a long time without feeling like my decision makes me a selfish, self-absorbed freak of humanity. And I'm sure I'll get over my own little pity party sooner than later. (And to be fair, I don't need to throw my own pity party because it's easy for me to see that lots of people pity me - esp. those who blurt, "Oh, but think what you're missing out on!" But for today, I'm just tired of being the weirdo in the cube down the hall who was born without a heart and without a soul and something clearly, clearly wrong with her.

Tomorrow will be better. Don't cry for me, Argentina!

If You're Doing These Things, I Have a Message for You: Knock it the "eff" Off!

2008-09-18T21:19:00.005-05:00

As I have mentioned, I have a lot less rage than I did when I was in a college classroom. But I'm still surrounded by your average idiot and the thoughtless (and often senseless) behavior of idiots never ceases to amaze me and it (occasionally) enrages me.

Observe: As I sit this morning on the freeway - "sit" and not "drive" being the operative word, the driver behind me appears to be tailing me a little closely and as we go five feet. stop 10 seconds. go five feet. stop 10 seconds, he seems preoccupied and a bit slow with the reaction time. It's a clear morning and I've got a fairly decent view of him and it would seem he's smoking the world's longest cigarette. I mean we're talking Audrey Hepburn, Breakfast at Tifanny's cigarette holder long. It's very white and thin and occasionally he removes it from his mouth and then wait . . . he's frothing at the mouth. This can't be good. A person operating a moving vehicle should - ideally - not be frothing.

I'm confused. Is he chewing tobacco and somehow swirling it around with this long white stick? (Can you tell how bad traffic was? Lots of time to observe and solve the mystery). But. Wait. The froth is . . . blue. Now I'm scared. Is he having a seizure? Should I dial 911 from my cell and say, what? I'm on the northbound middle lane of I-27 and there's a driver behind me . . . foaming blue at the mouth? And that's bad, right? Send paramedics, okay? 'Cause I don't think that's really supposed to be happening. Not good for him and certainly not good for any of us here on the road with him.

And then I see him . . . spit. Into the passenger seat. (I'm guessing there was some kind of spit receptacle in the seat. At least I hope for the sake of any future passengers there was a spit receptacle!) I can't decide who is the bigger idiot: Him, for brushing his teeth while navigating rush hour traffic or me, for taking a good 5 minutes to figure out he was brushing his teeth while navigating rush hour traffic. Please - don't answer that.

While we're on the subject of idiotic people doing mystifying things, here's another for you: Women who bring their cell phones into public restrooms and have conversations. This happens to me on average (at work, not at home - thank heaven for small favors!) at least once a day. I'm trying to be all annoyingly healthy and drink my 8+, 8-ounce glasses of water a day. My skin looks nicer than ever, but I'm sure my co-workers think I have a bladder infection or some kind of kidney condition. The point is - I visit the ladies' room a lot. So I have a lot of experience with this. And it is just . . . bizarre.

Maybe I have issues. I embrace that. Perhaps I was potty-trained too early (or too late as the legend goes). Yes, I could be stuck in some Freudian stage and that is why I'm all messed up. Or maybe even I was once traumatized by the sudden and unexpected flushing of one of those toilets with the automated laser/flushing thing. Fill in my sick issue of your choice here:

But. When I am in a public restroom - and yes, ladies, you are not in your own home in your own bathroom and you're not in someone else's home, so that makes work bathrooms "public", whether you like it or not - there is nothing more disconcerting than hearing a woman crash into the bathroom talking loudly about something inane, THEN hearing her sit in the stall next to mine (when I'm the only one in there and there are EIGHT OTHER EMPTY STALLS BUT I DIGRESS!), plunk herself on the toilet, begin urinating and telling her husband what's she making for dinner ALL AT THE SAME TIME.

You know what? My urethra shrieks in shame and everything stops. And suddenly I have what they call "stage fright" and now I can't do a damn thing until you've finished your conversation and who knows how long that's going to take?? Because while you don't care that your husband hears YOU going to the bathroom, I care that he can hear me. I'm sure he's perfectly nice and a very understanding, supportive man but I don't know him and I don't like the idea of the sound of my peeing being transmitted over the cellular airwaves. Really, ladies - you're taking multi-tasking much too far. One or the other. Not both. Please.

I apologize for the potentially graphic and offensive nature of this post. Believe it or not, even after teaching the kids about sex and all kinds of things most adults don't mention in pleasant conversation, I prefer not to engage in long discussions about my bodily functions. But, anonymous cell-phone-in-the-ladies'-room-users, today was the last straw!!! You pushed me too far. Please don't make me do it again. And if you can't do it for me, think of the children.

(I have no idea what that means, but as Kathy Griffin says, it seems to get people to pay more attention.)

Reasons why this post will suck

2008-09-09T18:54:00.017-05:00

Uh, one: I should not be blogging.

I just spent the last 5 minutes trying to figure out what day it is. "It's Wednesday. No, not quite. Is it Monday? Maybe. Could be. Wait . . . Yes, it's TUESDAY."

Who doesn't know what day it is . . . for FIVE minutes!? Although, when I was pondering that particular question of the day, I was amazingly calm.

Okay, next reason: I attended a conference today. I drank:

3 cups of coffee

1 giant Diet Mountain Dew (which I've never had before, but they had already run out of Diet Pepsi)

Another giant cup of coffee, and . . .

No water.

I am thirsty and dehydrated to distraction (and probably more than a little wired up) and although I've sucked down almost an entire pitcher of Brita water, I am still having trouble removing my tongue from the roof of my mouth. Fascinating, yes?

And perhaps because of the conference and/or the dehydration situation, that's about all I got. Told ya - this post sucks. I'm trying to be okay with that because not even two years ago, I (vaguely) remember posting about some book title like No One Cares What You Had for Lunch - How to Write Fascinating Blog Entries - and I ripped on people who would need a book like that. I think I may have made comments in the realm of, "I ALWAYS have something to say. Who is SO boring that they have to blog about what they had for lunch? PLEASE. I could post 100 times a day about all kinds of fascinating, compelling issues and look at me go with my snarky bloggy self."

And now . . . well, witness the carnage. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. I'm not even interesting enough to tell you what I had for lunch (It was a chicken salad sandwich on ciabatta bread, if you're wondering) - I've stooped so low that I'm discussing beverages!!!!! Oh, the humanity!

Oh - and my eyes are crossing and I'm not even doing the most basic proof-reading which would have made my head spin not so long ago and now . . . eh. Not so much.

Now I will attempt to distract you with a picture of Minnie . . . in a dress. (This was NOT my idea, nor was this dress purchased by myself or Mr. J. In fact, Minnie was photographed wearing this dress because Mr. J. LOST A BET AT WORK. I think someone should call the ASPCA.)

The "F" Word - Again!

2008-09-03T17:16:00.003-05:00

Liberal Banana is back in the Blogosphere! Hooray!!!!!!

I figured if she could do it, I still probably couldn't do it, but I'm willing to entertain the idea.

Now. Let's get down to business.

No - not that "f" word. I have no problem (probably a sad thing for my mother) with the f word.

I have written about this before but I'm much too lazy to find it in my archives.

It's "feminist". The reaction to this word has always surprised me. If you were a regular reader you may remember that my female students often included a phrase like this in their writings, "Not that I'm a feminist or anything, but I don't think that women should . . . " be forced to wear burqas, experience genital mutilation, be date-raped, slipped the date-rape drug, get beaten by their husbands . . . choose one of the above or insert your own.

I haven't thought about it in a long time and then today I walked past a colleague's office. She was lunching with her assistant and I heard her call my name: "Hey! Teacher Lady" I stuck my head in to say hello and she said, "Let me know if I'm crossing inappropriate boundaries," (wait - are you going to tell me you have Herpes? No, different job). How do you feel about Sarah Palin?"

My response: "She's basically a conservative white dude with an NRA membership card who happens to have a pesky little thing called a uterus."

Colleague looked at assistant smugly: I told you she wouldn't like her!
Assistant looked at me, confused: But I told you, TL's a feminist.
Colleague shook her head, "The feminists don't like her."

I was thanked for my time and then I wandered off to my meeting and proceeded to be pretty useless because I couldn't keep myself from wondering what "feminist" meant.

I was extra confused b/c colleague is a very successful 40-year-old who is married but kept her own last name (apparently that's a BIG tip-off to all the other feminist hunters out there) and would seem to be very assertive in her marriage (at least the way she tells it).

Assistant is the primary bread-winner in her household while the spouse stays home with 3 children under the age of 5.

Mr. J. pays all the bills and manages our finances to the point where I'm embarrassed to admit it because I'm pretty much as ignorant about money as the average 1950s housewife.

But I'm the feminist?

What does that mean? To my knowledge, I've never been recruited. I don't own a message tee that reads, "This is what a feminist looks like" (although I don't care if someone else wants to wear one).

I don't have a membership card, I haven't paid any dues since, oh, I was born and if there are weekly meetings, I've never been invited.

And let's say I were to be recruited - where might this happen as I'm going about my day? In the dressing room at Nordstrom's while I'm trying to wrestle myself into size 6 jeans? (Yes, I know - I'm quite the dreamer!) Suddenly, I hear - "Psst - you don't have to take this anymore" and I see an unmanicured hand slip a business card under the divider. The card reads, "Feminists. World Domination is Just One Bra-Burning Away." On the reverse side is an address to a Tarot Card parlor which serves as the "front" for the operation.

This has never happened to me (and I'm pretty grateful actually because no one likes to see strange hands appearing from underneath dividers of any sort, especially if they're in politics) and I think if it ever did I'd probably have some sort of fit that would involve me soiling myself.

I don't know where I'm going with this (oh, blogosphere - you are kind and understanding because I suck right now) but ultimately: What did I do, say, wear, carry, mention, sing, eat or _______ (something, right!?!) to announce to my colleagues that I am a "feminist".

And again - would someone please tell me what that means, exactly? Was it Gloria Steinem who said, "A feminist is anyone who distinguishes herself from a doormat"? I like that definition. Too bad it never really caught on because then world domination WOULD be just one bra-burning away!

Why I Will Never Reproduce

2008-06-02T20:20:00.005-05:00

Because I do really dumb things.

The end.

Epilogue: This is what happens when you give a dog a bath and then take her outside immediately because it is sunny and warm and you think, "She'll dry off faster." And then, she runs into the front yard, where your husband has spent the morning spreading topsoil so you might actually have a yard with real grass some day and she does that dog scoot around on the ear/head area to get water out of said dog ears thing except she does it in the dirt and not on your pillowcase which is actually what you were trying to avoid in the first place.

Okay - now it's "The End."

Twice in One Day? Stop the Madness!!!

2008-06-01T11:02:00.006-05:00

Way back when, dear Flossie tagged me for a meme.

It is interesting and thought-provoking and seems (deceptively) simple. Ready?

Here are the instructions: 1. Write your own six-word memoir 2. Post it on your blog and include a visual illustration if you’d like 3. Link to the person that tagged you in your post and to this original post if possible so we can track it as it travels across the blogosphere 4. Tag five more blogs with links 5. And don’t forget to leave a comment on the tagged blogs with an invitation to play

I am excluding myself from #5 because tagging someone when you haven't blogged in months or visited their blogs is like calling someone you haven't seen in 10 years and asking them for money.

Career: Will I Get It Right?

Image from Retro Housewife.

Still in Denial

2008-06-01T10:30:00.002-05:00

I haven't posted in nearly two months. (If you can read, you're thinking, "No shit, dumb-ass.") I know why I haven't posted. But I don't know why I can't bring myself to officially bid y'all "adieu" and retire my blog to the great blogosphere rest-home in the sky.

Some reasons for my lack of posting:

I now look at a computer screen for at least 40 hours a week. I sit in a windowless cube. When I come home, the last thing I want to do is spend more time looking at a computer screen. I want to sit outside (weather permitting, of course) and read a book. Not that I don't love and miss many, many wonderful blogs, but I want paper pages. I'm so giddy and greedy with the concept of reading only for pleasure (it's been a year, and I still can't get over it - like a lottery winner who can't believe her good fortune), I'm inhaling several books at once. Wait - that sounds insane.

I don't know why, but when I eat a meal, I always start one thing and finish it before I move onto the next. I never thought this was weird until college and then people started pointing it out left and right. People (okay, servers, mostly in restaurants) will ask me, "Do you not like your sandwich?" when 15 minutes after my plate has been delivered, I'm still playing with the mashed potatoes or chips or fries or whatever. I'll get to my sandwich eventually. Just not until I've finished the "whatever."

That's how I used to read books. I might bring home a pile of 10 from the library, pick one and start it. And no matter how painful or tedious or boring the book, I couldn't start a new one. I had to finish the one I was currently reading. The first time I started another book without finishing my current book, I felt like I was cheating on someone. "Listen," I wanted to say to my new book, "Don't tell Eat, Pray, Love that we're doing this, okay? She thinks she's the only one in my life right now."

I eventually got over it, although the guilt lingered for years. But not this year. This year I am a reckless slut with my books, starting one and then another and then another and being SO crazy that sometimes I've even been reading four books at once! (Can you believe the promiscuity? And the craziness? So crazy with the craziness around here!)

So. Me and books have gotten back together - probably since last May - and I really feel like I need to devote all my attention to that particular relationship, since we'd broken up way back in 2004 when I started grad school.

I am also no longer filled with rage. Oh - don't get me wrong - I still have my rage. Just not enough to fill a blog post a week even - let alone a day.

But the other thing is that I am going through something right now that has got me feeling very sad and helpless. I do believe that we can manage our feelings if not "choose" them, but not this. And in between being sad and feeling helpless, I'm obsessing to anyone who will listen IRL. In fact, I'm basically out of other conversational topics once I've exhausted what books I'm reading and "The Issue" as it shall be known henceforth. Or is it "whereto"? I should have paid more attention in my Shakespeare Tragedies class in undergrad. I should have paid more attention in ALL of my classes, but that's for another blog.

Where was I? Oh, yes. The Issue. I'm pretty much surprised that anyone still picks up the phone when they see me calling because I'm sure they know there's only one subject about which I will be in the mood to discuss and that is - of course - The Issue.

Things are so bad I've started scrapbooking. This is bad because I don't take pictures, really - except for home improvement ones. And I'm not doing a home improvement scrapbook. I'm creating beautiful (well, at least I think they are) scrapbook pages with NO PICTURES. I'm experimenting with things I once openly scoffed, like "fibers" and "found objects" and "metal charms" and colored staples. If Michael's stock has soared in the past two months, I am personally responsible for it. On one particularly bad day, I became convinced I needed a "Crop-o-diler" and ran out and bought it without even looking at the price tag or considering the fact that people need air, water, food, shelter and that's about it. I'm sure people who have lost loved ones in the recent tragedies in China and Myanmar would gladly have me killed for thinking I "need" anything other than those things I already mentioned and oh, I don't know, family and friends.

I think my blog would be the perfect place to work out all my angst with The Issue, except the person about whom I am most worried - around who The Issue revolves - reads this blog. Or, at least he read it. He probably stopped reading when I stopped posting, just like everybody else. So I continue to blather on to bored friends and spend money on crap for scrapbooking that was probably made by poor exploited child laborers somewhere and I am spending my way to hell with every purchase.

Which brings me to my point. I can't remember what it was, exactly, but I do know I had one or I wouldn't have started this post. Something to do with, "Am I going to shut this sucker down for once and for all or just keep lying to myself that some day, some day very soon I will pick it up again and start blogging religiously?"

And the answer is, I don't know. But if you're reading this, thanks for checking in even when I've given you absolutely no reason to do so. I guess time will tell. Or I will be voted off the blogosphere in which case I will pack my things and leave immediately.

Better Late than Never, Right? Right!?!?!?

2008-04-06T10:37:00.005-05:00

No excuses for my lame-ass response to this article - I'd apologize but that would sound more than a bit insincere. Let's just get down to it.

WARNING: Nonsensical ramblings to come. Do not expect logic, sense, or even remotely sub-standard writing. You will not find that here. Teacher Lady tries to become "Philosopher Lady" and fails miserably.

I think the reason that article really resonated with me is because that if I had met Mr. J. before I had met my crazy first husband - or, if I had never met my crazy first husband, I would have written him (Mr. J.) off.

I am in no way saying that I "settled" with Mr. J. - far from it. But my experience with my first husband was so life-changing. Once, when I was living with my parents (oh, the humiliation) after I had left Lt. Loser in Hawaii but hadn't yet got my emotional or financial footing back, my mom said something about how if I had my life to do over again, I would just erase that entire chapter. From a mother's perspective, I understood as much as someone who's never been a mother could understand. She had to be worried. She had to be scared. I can only imagine how terrifying some of my phone calls must have been. I was living with an abusive, narcissistic crazy bully who had no problem using violence to demonstrate his anger. (I've said this here before and I'll say it again - our "therapist" who failed me in countless ways I think but that's for another time said to me as I announced I just couldn't take another minute and was leaving the nut-job, "Well, if you were going to stay with him, that was really the equivalent of deciding to spend much of your life in the hospital and no woman should have to make that decision." (Then it sounded brilliant - now all I can think is, "Well, duh!") I lived in fear of him every day and my parents lived thousands of miles away - they were helpless to do anything.)

What was my point? Oh, yeah. So while from my mom's perspective, my marriage to LL (Lt. Loser) should have been completely eradicated from my life if I ever had a "do-over", I'm not so sure I feel the same way. There MUST be easier ways to learn such lessons, but I guess I was rather thick-skulled and had to sit through the very time-compressed yet intensive version of "What Really Matters in Marriage, 101."

You see, if you take the craziness out of the equation (which is difficult, but obviously the man had some good qualities or I never would have married him), LL made a great boyfriend. And by that I mean, he was charming and gregarious and no one who knew him on a strictly social level could have imagined what he was capable of doing. He was clearly intelligent (in some ways) because he once said to me, "All I'm doing is what we do in the Navy. We have to break down the new recruits to nothing so we can build them back up into officers who know and do things our way. I'm just breaking you down so I can build you back up into a good wife." Why was that intelligent? Because he knew damn well not to explain his "philosophy of marriage" to anyone else, including our marriage counselor. Maybe intelligent is giving him too much credit - maybe he just wasn't completely stupid.

Where was I? Oh, yeah. Good things about the ex. So LL was up for anything, meaning if someone up the street called and said they were having an impromptu 70s costume party, we were off and running to the Good Will, finding the perfect costumes, complete with accessories. He was all about entertaining and being social and he had lots of interests from snowboarding to surfing to sailing and would try anything once: Fashion show? Okay, why not? Hawaiian church service, totally in Hawaiian language? Let's give it a whirl. That may not sound like much, but when I was in my 20s, I had just come out of a very long, very boring, very serious relationship and this was such a refreshing change I couldn't believe my luck (yeah, the word "rebound relationship" occurred to me, too.)

But you know what? Mr.-Lots-of-Interests and up-for-anything was a financial disaster. Who needs to eat when there's a full drum set for sale in the paper for only $1,000 that we don't really have? And we don't have any place to put it? Oh, well let's rent a studio for $100 a month to house these drums that you don't really know how to play in the first place.

I'm all over the place here (apologies - my blog muscle is very rusty), but one thing my Nana always said was "Pay yourself first." She was all about the IRA and the 401k and anything else you could do to save money. I heard that my whole life and I knew what that meant. One day, LL came home with one of his newest toys - something ridiculous that we didn't have space for and couldn't afford - that was about $400. He said proudly, "I know we haven't paid our bills yet this month, but you know what they say: You have to pay yourself first." Yeah, I don't think that's what that saying actually means, but you didn't correct LL unless you wanted to instigate a huge fight, so I just bit my tongue. (I did that a lot in those days. I'm surprised it never fell off.)

He also didn't understand that spending every minute of every weekend with his semi-retired parents wasn't my favorite thing to do. Don't get me wrong - I loved my mother-in-law (which a close friend said was the sign of a doomed marriage. She thought it sick and perverse that I actually considered my MIL one of my closest friends) - but if you have in-laws, I think you know what I'm talking about when I say that I couldn't exactly be 100% myself around them. I couldn't have a bad mood, or a quiet mood where I didn't feel like talking and there was certainly no wandering off and curling up with a good book. The in-law thing became an important lesson for me - and maybe it's only me - but I discovered that spouses have to be on the same page where in-laws are concerned.

But LL was good "boyfriend" material. Maybe not even "boyfriend" - he was good dating or friend material and I confused that with good husband material. (How could I be so silly?)

Mr. J. is so opposite of LL it boggles the mind. Mr. J. is extremely introverted. (This is an understatement.) He will never be the life of the party because he will probably never go to the party. And had I never met LL, I would have written off Mr. J. immediately as boring. I wanted a gregarious, entertaining guy who would not just be the life of the party but would be hosting the party. Now? So. Highly. Overrated.

Lt. Loser was a Navy pilot. This was an exciting job. Being the shallow nitwit I was in my 20s, for some reason, I thought it was important for my husband to have an interesting job. (Dear gob, could I have BEEN more immature? What exactly was wrong with me?) Mr. J. does something with computers. Or networks. Or something. And, oh yeah - project management. Can't forget the project management. Lots of project management. You hear words like "scope creep" around our house all the time. He gets magazines like, "Project Management Professional" - which, by the way, is mind-numbingly boring. Just in case you were wondering.

Lt. Loser's parents had been married to each other and only each other for about 30+ years. I also thought this was important. It said something that LL came from a "good family". (Oh, I could not have been more wrong. I mistook marital longevity for love, stability and commitment. And as I mentioned, my ex-MIL left my ex-father-in-law after 37 years of marriage; I was long gone by then.) Mr. J.'s mother was deceased, but she had been married and divorced 3 times in her life. Mr. J.'s parents had gotten divorced when he was 3. His siblings were all what I would call "the working poor", except for his younger sister who somehow managed not to work and (not surprisingly) was incredibly poor.

If you read that article and thought it was silly, then my hunch is you are or were incredibly mature in your 20s and had good sense. I made a choice during my 20s based on passion and fun and what I thought was "love" and it was an unmitigated disaster. And had I met Mr. J. in my 20s, I wouldn't have married him and thought I was "settling" - I would have written him off entirely. Not my type for about a million reasons.

And I would have so, so SO missed out on the best possible person for me. I don't like to think about it. So that's why I wouldn't necessarily delete the Lt. Loser chapter from my life: because I think I would have continued to have this immature, practically stupid and incredibly naive idea of what matters in marriage. (At least to me. I know everyone has their own individual criteria and "deal breakers".) And if I had met Mr. J. in my 20s and I had given him a second glance, and let's say I had married him at that time in my life I would have thought I was "settling" big time. My experiences (and that article) make me wonder: How many women out there are dating/living with and/or married to a great guy and yet think they're "settling"? Someone who shall remain nameless recently flipped out because her fiance asked her what she wanted for her birthday. Her reasoning: He just should have known. He shouldn't have to ask. The perfect present is out there for her somewhere and he failed her by not finding it. This is someone who, I fear, will believe she is "settling" for less than she deserves when in fact she is incredibly lucky to be with someone who is so devoted and loyal and loves her so completely.

I'm going to stop typing now. I never knew where this entry was going and I still don't, but thank you (if you're still there) for reading what is basically the swirling miasma of my brain put into words.

So . . .

2008-03-10T08:19:00.004-05:00

A good friend called me last Thursday night from her daughter's top-secret-mandatory parents-of-little-gymnasts meeting. My good pal is so not a "gymnastics mom" that she brings lots of reading material and figures anything really important will be given to her in writing. (Like: Your child could be seriously injured at any time. We are not responsible. Please sign this waiver.) So the other mothers are scribbling furiously in their notebooks, raising hands and asking questions while my pal flips through her Atlantic Monthly. After laughing out loud a few times (and getting glaring looks from the gym-mombots) she got up to call me. Her whispered voicemail basically said, "Read this article. Let's discuss."

So, being the ~~person with no life~~ good friend that I am, I immediately went and read the article.

Interestingly, the next day I was looking on WebMD for some information on facial twitches (don't ask), and there was another article about the Atlantic Monthly article. It's hit a nerve, clearly. And I have to wonder if it's hit a nerve among men, although I doubt it. Spoiler alert! Spoiler alert! Do you suppose men considering "settling" without the ominous ticking of a biological expiration date?

So, if you're still dedicated enough to listen to the crazy woman formerly known as Teacher Lady, go have a read and then post your thoughts. Lord knows I have some. So you show me yours and I'll show you mine.

I've Been Busy - So Sue Me!

2008-02-09T13:13:00.000-05:00

Here's what I've accomplished since my last post:

I learned a dirty version of "Deck the Halls" from my 7-year-old nephew Jack. That story goes like this:

Christmas Eve at my father-in-law's house. Jack is fidgety and whining because he doesn't want to eat dinner first. He wants to open presents. Now. Right, right, RIGHT now!!! Thinking I know something about children, I try to distract him. "Jack, your mommy told me you were in your school's Christmas pageant and you recited a nice poem. Do you think you could recite it for us, too?" Jack scowled at me. "No. I don't want to recite a poem." He was quiet and seemed rather thoughtful for a moment and then said, "This is a song that means a lot to me at this time of year and I'm going to sing it now." Everyone at the table politely put down their silverware and turned toward Jack, waiting for an adorable child's warbling of - oh, say "Away in a Manger" - on this holy night. He opened his mouth and at the top of his lungs belted out (to the tune of "Deck the Halls"):

Grab your balls like Michael Jackson, fa la la la la, la la la laaa
Add some pelvic thrusting action, fa la la la la, la la la laaa!!!

As you can imagine he didn't get much farther than that before his mother leaped across the dining room table to cover his mouth with her hand. She was horrified.

Personally, that's one of my top-10 Christmas memories of all time.

I Think I Might Be Happy

2008-01-02T18:25:00.000-05:00

I've always been a "grass is greener" kind of person, which pretty much eliminates any chance for personal happiness.

When I was single, I envied the security and stability my married friends had. Then, when I was married (the first time), I envied the freedom my single friends had - you know, didn't have to account for a penny they spent, could spend a whole paycheck on shoes and not look like the worst wife in the world, that kind of stuff. And then when I got divorced and was single (again!), I envied my married friends and how they always had someone who would "have their back." I started to wonder if I happened to die in my small one-bedroom apartment, how long would it be before anyone noticed? And then, perhaps even more terrifying, would they write it up in the local newspaper as "Local single woman found living in squalor"? Before I met Mr. J., I wasn't exactly close personal friends with a dust rag. Or a vacuum. Or a mop. I guess it depends on who found me - by Mr. J.'s standards, I was definitely living in squalor. The good thing about this time around with Mr. J. is that my envy of single friends is limited. It's still there - mostly I envy the excitement when they go out on a first date with someone they really like. I remember buying the perfect outfit, planning your makeup, talking to your friends that day about how the evening might pan out, where you were going for dinner, etc. And then the wistful reminiscing ends just as soon as I remember that about 90% of those dates were train wrecks and half the time I drove home in tears, sobbing to my mom or one of my friends that apparently every normal man was married because only freaks were left in the singles' world. I am finally in a good place - for the most part, the grass is very, very green where I live. Only occasionally do I witness a patch of greener grass and normally that turns out to be due to some kind of swamp gas.

Still, it should come as no surprise that while I've gotten to a place where I'm perfectly satisfied with my marital status, I cannot stop doing the "grass is greener over there" thing with my career. I think I've swung back and forth between Corporate America and higher education more times than I can count. And it was sort of like those relationships where you dump the guy and then you miss him and then you get back together and then two weeks later, you remember exactly why you dumped him the in first place and dump him again. And then you repeat the cycle until one of you moves away and/or all your friends have stopped speaking to you because they think you're certifiably insane. Or was that just me in the late 1990s? (And, if I'm honest, the late 1980s. And, okay, I confess, most of the 1990s.)

So, don't throw garbage at your screen, but toward the end of October, I started getting misty-eyed about the classroom. (I know. I need medication. However, I don't think Merck has invented a pill for this particular breed of mental instability yet). I can blame Mr. J. a little bit. He taught again this past semester and sometimes he'd have such great stories about class or be so excited planning an activity that I couldn't help myself: I missed the classroom.

Gob must be watching out for me, because I had dinner with one of my friends (who is a kick-ass professor, by the way. I always wanted to be more like her and less like myself when I was teaching) and she had a story. Dr. Friend isn't easily rattled. And she has been teaching in the college classroom for 20 years. And it was with a morbid sense of glee that I watched this story unfold. Don't get me wrong - I did feel badly for her, but man did her experience bitch slap me right back to reality: I don't belong in the classroom.

Here's the skinny: Dr. F. teaches a course that is for majors only; you don't usually take the course unless you're majoring in our field. On the first day of class, she had all the students go around and state what other courses they had taken (in the major, of course), what their career goals were, any relevant internships they'd had, etc., etc., She gets to Nancy Nightmare who picks her cuticles and stares at the ceiling and says, "Yeah, um, so . . . yeah. I'm a Finance major, but I heard this class was really good. Plus I needed three more hours and this class had three more hours and also, it fit in my schedule." Much to Dr. F.'s dismay, she found out her course was listed as "Easiest A You'll Ever Get!" on Rate Your Professors (Hell, no I'm not going to link to that site!!!) So, it wasn't that Nancy heard the class was really good; she heard it was really easy.

But sometimes the problem with taking an "easy A" kind of class is that you overestimate yourself and underestimate what will be required of you. Nancy did just that. She disappeared until the first midterm, which she failed. She immediately set up a meeting with my pal, Dr. Friend. During the meeting, Nancy asked quite sincerely, "I guess I'm not doing very well in your class and I wonder if you had any suggestions on how I could improve." And Dr. Friend -who is also VERY sincere and never snide said without a hint of sarcasm, "Well, I've noticed you don't come to class, so a good place to start would be to, you know, show up." And Nancy nodded very seriously, as though she had never heard of such a thing but would consider it.

And then of course she disappeared again. During the second five weeks of the semester, Dr. F. gave the students a group project. In no time at all, Nancy's group was incessantly e-mailing Dr. F. with questions like, "Is this person still enrolled?" and "Have you heard from her because she won't respond to our e-mails?" and "Is it okay if we get started on the work without her because we're running out of time?" And Dr. F. told Nancy's group to go ahead without her. Oddly enough, Nancy showed up on group presentation day with something completed. It didn't fit with her group's presentation, exactly, but it fit with the overall topic, so Dr. F. - patient saint that she is gave Nancy a C- for showing up and presenting something remotely related to the assignment.

She got a D on the second midterm and of course scheduled two emergency, "How can I do better in your class" meetings with Dr. F. And of course, she completely blew off both appointments without so much as an "I'm sorry I blew you off" e-mail. Gob I remember those. They made me very angry when I lived an hour away from campus, but I got used to them and was only moderately irritated once we moved and lived only 10 minutes from campus. Still, it made me wish I was a doctor's office just so I could charge somebody $40 for not giving me 24-hours cancellation notice.

Nancy continued with her Spectacle of Failures by turning in their final paper 2 weeks late. She also only wrote 3 of the required 5 parts of the paper. I believe she got a C+ on the final if I'm remembering this story correctly. Can you guess where I'm going with this?

Dr. F., saint that she is, notices that Nancy's final grade is a "D". But, with 3 extra "I'm not going to completely ruin your life" gift points, Nancy's grade was a D+. That's right - Dr. F. gave her a D+, just to be nice!! And then she did that thing which always made my stomach churn - she hit the "submit" button. Once you hit that "submit" button and final grades are posted, you'd better be ready for the shit to hit the proverbial fan. Within 12 hours or less, you will have a minimum of 2 e-mails demanding to know why the student got "x" grade. For example, remember this young chap? Oh, wasn't he a treat.

Hence, none of my dear readers should be surprised to learn that within 6 hours of hitting that submit button, Dr. F. was on the receiving end of a similar e-mail: I can't believe I got a D+. I know I did really well on the final and thought for sure I'd get at least a C in the class. Please get back to me and explain how this happened.

How I wish I lived in my fantasy world where I could respond with an e-mail that began, "How this happened is that your parents failed to use birth control and spawned an irresponsible idiot. Fast forward 20 years to this day. The end." But I digress.

Dr. F. kindly responded, breaking down points earned, points lost, and how things shook out. And Nancy responded - all via e-mail, of course - "You don't understand. I totally cannot flunk out this semester." What intrigues me is that I totally cannot interpret the exact emphasis in this sentence. Would it be okay for her to flunk out any other semester, just not this one? Has she flunked out in the past and she can't have it happen again? I suppose we'll never know. Dr. F. took the high road: She e-mailed Nancy back with this response: "This discussion is over. Your grade is a D+. Good luck to you in your future endeavors and Happy Holidays." Then Dr. F. proceeded to delete (unread) any subsequent e-mails from Nancy Nightmare.

And me? I don't miss teaching so much right now.

A Christmas Meme

2007-12-16T21:16:00.000-05:00

If Mrs. T. is doing it, then it must be cool! (However, I do feel rather uncool for "tagging myself" but my lack of bloggable topics has made me get over it.)

1. Wrapping paper or gift bags? Gift bags! Gift bags are the best thing to happen to the terminally lazy (read: Me) since Lean Cuisines.

2. Real tree or artificial? Artificial. I do love the smell of real ones, but since it's taken me a few years to talk Mr. J. into any tree period, I'll take what I can get.

3. When do you put up the tree? Um, I haven't had one long enough to really establish that. This year it was the first weekend in December.

4. When do you take the tree down? If Mr. J. had his druthers, it would be taken down Christmas night. As it is, last year I think we kept it up until New Year.

5. Do you like eggnog? Yes! I love it, love it, love it. Although Starbucks Eggnog latte is a big fat disappointment.

6. Favorite gift received as a child? I'm embarrassed to admit this, but it was Merlin, the electronic wizard. Now I don't even remember how it worked or what I liked about it.

7. Do you have a nativity scene? No. I don't know why. Am I even allowed to celebrate Christmas now?

8. Hardest person to buy for? It depends on your logic. You could probably say Mr. J. is easy to buy for since the only thing he ever asks for is Diet Pepsi and M&Ms. (Yes, I know. This is all kinds of pathetic.) Although this year he did come up with the oven mitt request. (See previous post.) How hard can it be to go out and buy some Diet Pepsi and M&Ms? It's not hard, but it sure is lame and kind of depressing. One year I gave him a sterling silver monogrammed key chain. He asked if I had included his middle initial. Well, of course I did. Too bad, because now he couldn't give it to his dad. He just doesn't like "stuff."

9. Easiest person to buy for? This is awful and selfish and hateful and probably not how one is supposed to answer this question but . . . . myself!! Everyone else - very difficult!!

10. Worst Christmas gift you ever got? Did I get a Chia Pet? I can't remember. Something that you could only order from a television commercial.

11. Mail or email Christmas cards? Real, old-fashioned, snail-mail with stamp Christmas cards. I hope that is one thing technology never ruins completely.

12. Favorite Christmas Movie? I do love Elf, but Love, Actually is a very close second.

13. When do you start shopping for Christmas? When I absolutely have to. This year I started before Thanksgiving (online only) which is very rare for me. I think I actually said, "I'm going to try and be someone else this year."

14. Have you ever recycled a Christmas present? I know I have, but I don't know what. (Wow. I'm really sucking at this meme. Sorry.)

15. Favorite thing to eat at Christmas? Oh, gosh. This is another tough one. You know what? I'm going to say "The thing I don't like to eat at Christmas", because that's easier. I don't like "office Christmas cookies" that everyone seems to bring to the office. You know the kind -you get them in a giant tin, and they're all the same exact dough and flavor, but in different shapes - sometimes they have sprinkles and sometimes they don't, but they are just about the dumbest thing ever on which to waste your holiday calories.

16. Clear lights or colored on the tree? Can I say both? I'm going to say both. Together. At the same time. All crazy-like.

17. Favorite Christmas song? Traditional: O Holy Night. Modern: It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year. Least favorite? I have to copy Mrs. T.'s answer for this one: That damn Christmas Shoes song. I can't think of another song I hate more - not just at Christmas but all year long!

18. Travel at Christmas or stay home? I don't think I've ever really had to "travel" at Christmas unless you count a 3 hour drive, which I don't. For this I am truly grateful.

19. Can you name all of Santa's reindeers? Why, yes. Isn't that a requirement for third grade graduation?

20. Angel on the tree top or a star? We have a cream-colored ceramic star with the word Believe spelled out in gold lettering. Very tasteful and much too classy for the likes of us.

21. Open the presents Christmas Eve or morning? Both. Christmas Eve was always for my mom's side of the family (and now it is for Mr. J's). Christmas morning was for my dad's side of the family (and now it's for mine!) Really the best of both worlds, I think.

22. Most annoying thing about this time of year? Not having willpower to say no to cookies and treats 24/7 and knowing that by January 1 none of your jeans will fit.

23. What I love most about Christmas? This Christmas is a little bittersweet, as many of the traditions I had growing up are winding down as our families grow and change. While I look forward to starting new traditions, right now what I love most about Christmas is remembering past Christmases.

That's What I Want for Christmas

2007-12-13T07:44:00.000-05:00

Mr. J. hates Christmas more than anyone I have ever met. He’s the bastard love child of Ebenezer Scrooge and the Grinch if a literary character and a cartoon (both male) could actually reproduce. In the almost 5 years we’ve been married, I’ve managed to campaign for Christmas a little at a time. Last year we had a tree. This year we have stocking hangers and stockings. When I told Mr. J. I had purchased some lovely Christmas decorations from Pottery Barn, he said, “How are they going to stay up? You’re not using nails or duct tape after we've just painted all these walls.”

First of all, what the hell kind of Christmas did you have growing up?!? Maybe it makes sense that you hate it if duct tape was involved. I explained that all I had in mind was stocking holders and stockings for the mantle. He wasn’t convinced. “How are they going to stay up there?” he asked skeptically. What do you say to that? Stay up, where? Good gob what you are talking about? I said, “Um, gravity. You know, they like, just sit there.” Until he actually saw them sitting (nail and duct-tape free!) he was very concerned and didn’t believe me. He’s not what I would call a Christmas convert, but “baby steps” and “Rome wasn’t built in a day,” clichés ad nauseum.

The positive note? We don’t really spend much on Christmas gifts for each other. We do stocking stuffers and have a limit of $50 each. (Total. Not per individual stocking stuffer.) Mr. J. requires so little to be happy in life it’s really hard to buy him anything. Last night I asked for suggestions. After thinking for a moment he said, “I could really use a new oven mitt.” An oven mitt? Are you serious? “Yeah, or you know – those pads or things you use to put a hot plate on. It doesn’t have to be a mitt, per se.” So that’s it? An oven mitt. Anything else? “Nope. I just really need an oven mitt.” Uh, okay. Well, I guess I’d better run out to Target before they run out of oven mitts . . . keep your fingers crossed because this time of year they're so popular!

Gob, I Love America!

2007-12-12T20:35:00.000-05:00

Have you seen this?

It brings back fond (okay, not exactly fond) memories of my students and their idiocy: You remember - the whole "Where am I supposed to find a stapler?" crowd. Kind of like that.

Ah, education in America.

Chock Full O' Rants

2007-12-11T11:34:00.000-05:00

I've been thinking a lot lately about why I haven't been writing. No - not just not writing, I've felt like I can't write - like it's physically impossible for me to sit down and bang out anything - even what I ate for lunch - on the keyboard.

First I decided that it's because (sadly) my writing is rage-driven. Take me out of the classroom and you take away my rage and then: I got nothin' to say. But then I realized: I'm a very anxious, easily agitated person and I always have rage. Since I stopped teaching, the rage has become more widely dispersed. Instead of rage with all the focus of a laser beam, which is what I had when I was teaching, I have rage that is more like a goopy fog - sort of settling on everything in a thin layer. I can write about that. Who doesn't like to hear a crazy lady rant about every little thing that bugs her? (Wait, don't answer that.) Lately so much has been irritating me (big and small) that I think I've gotten to the point where I can't not write. It's a matter of preserving what little sanity I have left. Hence, I give you what I hope is the first small rant of many: The absolutely ridiculous fuckwits who came up with this list:

A preface: Mr. J. and I have both been on edge a bit lately about money – who knew insulation was so expensive? (Listen folks - if you live in a seventy-plus year old house, you think insulation in the attic is a luxury. And then you have your first night that's below 25 degrees and you realize it's about as much of a luxury as air. At least if you intend to climb out of bed from under two down comforters. And if you don't enjoy sleeping in a long sleeve shirt, a sweater and a hoodie with the hood pulled up. Not that I don't enjoy it, but the first time you wake up because you're suffocating it's kind of a buzz kill.) Plus, with the holidays, blah, blah, blah. Nothing that anybody else isn’t going through right now who isn’t named Rockefeller or Kennedy. That’s not what irritated me. Yesterday I was on the Internet looking for “cost-saving tips” and things like that. The first one I found was from Yahoo! Finance (I think. Or some financial magazine that links to Yahoo!). Who in GOB’s name is writing these and who is their audience? On the one hand, I never pay any attention to those “Make your own clothes”-type lists, because that ain’t gonna happen. It’s just not. This one was obnoxious and annoying in the opposite extreme:

Just a few little lifestyle changes and you’ll be amazed at how much money you’ll save!!! Here are our fabulous tips:

Instead of getting your massage every week, get it every other week. Who is reading this? If you’re getting massages every week, do you really NEED cost-cutting tips? Me thinks not.
Buy a used car instead of a new one! Done. Done, done, done. Is seven years old “used” enough for you people? Perhaps I should just build my own car out of old orange juice cans and sticks.
Do your own landscaping or mow your own lawn instead of paying someone. Yeah, okay. I guess I’ll have to fire the lawn boy. Too bad because he was hot - just like that kid from Desperate Housewives.
Go to matinees instead of evening movies. Let’s see . . . the last time I actually went to the movie theatre would have to be . . . I think I saw a movie in the theatre this summer, largely because I wanted to get out of the un-air conditioned house. Before that, I think I saw The Devil Wears Prada in the theatre. We rent DVDs and half the time I borrow them from the library.
Keep your thermostat just a few degrees cooler in the winter and just a few degrees warmer in the summer. Well, we keep ours at 67 degrees. Is that “cool enough” for you, asshats? Did I mention that when we did have A/C we kept it at 80 degrees? That’s right, eighty degrees. As in, “What’s the point of having A/C” eighty degrees.
Oh – and one that is not going to happen anytime soon: Stop coloring your hair! Gray is in. Yeah. I want to see the massage-getting, movie-theater-attending, new car driving woman who is also going to let herself go gray to save a few bucks. I’m guessing this list was written by a man.
Don’t go to Starbucks every morning: Bring your own coffee. Who in the hell goes to Starbucks every morning?? If you go to Starbucks every morning, I am happy for you. As much as I love, love, LOVE my Pumpkin Spice latte, can't do it every day of the week.
And one of my personal favorites: When you go out to dinner, eat dessert at home. Also, when going out to dinner have your first glass of wine at home. Well, considering Mr. J. and I usually go to places called “Bruce's Roadside Grill” or “The Corner Diner”, there’s not a whole lot of dessert-eating going on, period. Besides, other than never leaving our house, can we really save on a $20 dinner for two? (Mr. J. doesn’t drink.) Do we want to?
Trade in your gas-guzzling SUV for a smaller more fuel-efficient car. Listen, peeps: I could not drive a smaller car unless I bought the McJunior Volkswagon Beetle/clown car you see at the circus. I am currently blessed enough to have a 12 mile commute to work and allowed to work from home 1-2 days a week. Although it might make sense for me to trade in my clown car for a bicycle and pedal to work in the freezing rain/ice/sleet/wintry mix, I do have to draw frugal the line somewhere. When I start using leaves I find in the backyard as a reasonable and free substitute for toilet paper maybe I'll think about it.

Who are these people? Is this how most Americans live? I’m mystified. Do you have any cost-saving tips I could actually, I don't know, use!??!?!!?

Why Is There Always One?

2007-11-14T18:49:00.000-05:00

You know what I forgot about? I forgot that back in Corporate America - aka "The Real World" - there is always one person who is a giant pain in the ass. And everybody knows that person is a giant pain in the ass and yet? Instead of putting the pain in the ass on double-secret probation, or firing the ass, everyone tip-toes around and finds ways to work AROUND the ass.

Can someone please explain this to me? When I was young and stupid (okay, three and a half years ago so not so young but incredibly stupid), I thought this was a phenomenon only of my current employer. Mr. J. repeatedly tried to tell me that the world is full of great big giant PITAs (pains-in-the-asses) but no - I thought my situation was unique.

Well, duh is all I can say to my old-enough-to-know-better 33-year-old self. Duh.

I work with a woman who is so hideous that after my first run-in with her, I automatically nick-named her "Jaws of Death." I don't know why. I've never even met her in person. She could have perfectly healthy, life-like jaws. It just popped into my head and was much more original and creative than "Hideous bitch" - which, as I came to find out later, is what everyone else calls her. And I only call her Jaws of Death in my mind. Well, and as code that I use when e-mailing a certain co-worker, but other than that, I swear - it's just me and good ol' JOD.

I thought I had seen and heard all manner of corporate obnoxiousness until. Until. We had a meeting to prepare for a meeting. With her. No wait -here is what I mean: All of the people who were going to be in Tuesday's meeting with her were in Monday's meeting. To practice how we were going to do the meeting and who was going to say what on Tuesday when JOD was actually present. Is this woman the CEO? No. Is she my manager? No. Is she my manager's manager? No. Does she have any legitimate power? Not so much. And yet? She is a huge NASCAR fan, enjoys tanning, bleaching her hair and verbally ripping people apart in meetings at work. She's a real Miss Universe candidate.

Hence, we have meetings expressly for the purpose of preparing for the "real" meeting the next day with her. I happened to say this to someone from another part of the company. "I'm confused. Is this normal? To have a meeting to plan for a meeting?" And I'm not talking about some fabulous-presentation-to-the-client kind of meeting. I'm talking about just a regular meeting, with all internal folks and many of her peers. "Oh, yes," the person assured me. "We have meetings to prepare for meetings with difficult people all the time." Wouldn't it make more sense to show the giant pain in the ass where the door is and then cut down the number of meetings to only the actual number of meetings you need to have? Then again, I never went to Harvard Business School. I don't have an MBA. Hell, I've gone through undergrad, a master's program and a significant chunk of a doc program without ever taking a business class. So what the hell do I know?

Ah, well. The good news is, I know enough to recognize an excuse to drink and she gives me an excuse to drink. Which I did. And hence, I am now drunk. Please forgive any spelling errors.

Is it Friday yet?

You Call That a Treat?

2007-11-05T21:40:00.000-05:00

I'm like a bride after her wedding. I just keep wanting to relive Halloween and think about it and talk about it, and oh my! So very much upon which we can reflect.

Yeah. Our lives are pretty sad like that.

At one point my sister-in-law and her kids stopped by the house mid-tricking or treating because they had such a serious haul it was just getting to be too much to carry.

I love my SIL dearly. She has survived a hell of a lot and hence, I believe she is a survivor. She's tough. If I had been through everything she's been through, I would be locked up -either in prison or a mental hospital, but locked up, for sure. This is all to preface the fact that she is very religious. I don't care what you do in your spare time - honestly, I don't - but some types of folks who are very open about their religion make me a bit uncomfortable. But because SIL is so sweet and so dear, I can handle it. Most of the time. Also, having been raised Catholic, (nothing stuck except the guilt and this one thing I'm about to mention) I'm a bit biased about the fact that (I think) all the major religions have already been invented. Ditto all the major denominations. (Oh, boy. Am I going to get nasty comments here? That would be ironic.) So when we meet "Pastor Devon" who "invented" this church that meets in a giant 11-screen cinema every Sunday, I feel a bit worried. But Mr. J. and I know it gives her strength, and she doesn't have any money for them to steal, and even if it is a cult it seems like a positive one and holy crap, where was I going with this?

Oh, yeah. Someone in my neighborhood gave out Jesus coloring books. And dear SIL was over the moon. "Oh, a person after my own heart!" she swooned. "Isn't that such a great idea?" And I was looking around for someone to kick under the table except there was no table and you shouldn't kick children. (Or so I've heard.) I smiled and listened to her as she read the stickers that came with the coloring book, "He bled and died for you and your sins." Well, I guess that kind of goes with Halloween what with the blood and other gory, disturbing references?

A few days later I was telling my soon-to-be sister-in-law about this and she nodded wisely. "I know. When I was little there was a guy on our street who gave out toothbrushes." And so over the past few days I have started informally collecting a list of non-candy (and hence, otherwise disappointing) things that people received while trick-or-treating (as children, people. Trying to keep it clean here!)

In addition to the Jesus coloring books and toothbrushes, I was reminded of folks who would hand out .25 and .50 coupons for McDonald's. Does anyone else remember that? Sort of expensive, I guess - especially since I went trick-or-treating in the 70s and 80s and you sure could get a lot more bang for your, um, quarter back then. But still - when you're a kid looking to get enough candy to launch you into a sugar high that allows you to orbit the universe, a piece of paper isn't going to cut it.

Another friend told me her daughter got PediSure bars. I wasn't exactly sure what these were and I had to look them up. They're kind of like candy, right? Sort of for the person who ordinarily gives out granola bars, maybe?

And then someone who shall remain nameless told me she gave out individual packs of applesauce because kids like applesauce. Well, yes. For lunch with a peanut butter sandwich. Not for the tooth-rotting holiday of all holidays. I also remember getting pennies and pencils which didn't taste very good but were great for injuring younger siblings in a variety of ways.

So I'm dying to know - what's the weirdest/non-candy thing you ever got while trick-or-treating?

Teacher Lady's First Trick-or-Treat

2007-11-02T17:45:00.000-05:00

This year was the first time in all my 37 years that I actually gave out candy on Halloween. In the past Mr. J. and I have lived in high rises and townhomes and other places that didn't get trick-or-treaters. (Although I remained hopeful. There was the great fake-out of 2005 when I was convinced that the woman in the townhouse across from us was going to bring her grandchildren to our little community for Halloween. I don't know how I got this idea into my head. I even bought candy. Alas, it was but a fruitless fantasy.)

I don't know why I was so excited but I actually said to people, "This is my first Halloween!" They'd look at me and think, "Why, because you have amnesia?" and I often had to remind myself that 1.) Handing out candy to strangers wasn't that big of a deal; and 2.) No one cared.

Was it everything I thought it would be? Yes, and more. Mr. J.'s sister brought over 2 of her children. Jane was a "cereal killer", complete with giant cereal box taped to her torso with plastic spoons "stabbed" into it. Jack, who turns 7 today (Happy Birthday, Jack!) was a Spidermanvampire.

Yeah, exactly. Jack and I had this conversation last week. "What are you going to be for Halloween?" I asked. Jack looked at me and said in a monotone voice, "Spidermanvampire," Like it was all one word. Taken aback, the only thing I could think of to say was, "Huh?" Jack sighed. Adults must be so exasperating at times. He explained, "I'm going to wear my Spiderman costume from last year but not the hood thing. Mommy bought me vampire teeth. See? Spidermanvampire." Now that is some serious creativity. "Wow, Jack. That's pretty great. How did you think of that?" I could tell he was this close to rolling his eyes, "My imagination!" and if it were me saying that I'm sure I would have added, "Duh!"

So Jack the Spidermanvampire and Jane the cereal killer went off into our fun neighborhood with the houses close together and all the sidewalks a trick-or-treater could ask for. Mr. J. even got home at a reasonable hour and we sat on the front steps and handed out candy. We had been informed by our next door neighbor that it wasn't unusual to have around 150+ trick-or-treaters but we were ready.

And then - I don't know what happened or from whence she came, but of all people - Teacher Lady showed up! I couldn't believe it. First, she - I mean, me - handed out candy to a small boy wearing a giant white puffy jacket, a baseball hat on backwards, enormous jeans that were practically falling off him and I swear he had a cigarette tucked behind his ear. "Trick-or-treat" he said, swaggering up to the front porch. I looked at him skeptically. "What are you, Kevin Federline or something?" I think this boy wasn't much older than Jack. He might have been 9 at the most. He was appalled. "NO!" he shouted. "I'm mumble-mumble-something-mumble wrestler from Ultimate Fighting Champion!" And then he thundered off, mutinous that I could have mistaken him for Britney's ex. Mr. J. looked at me. "What, exactly, is wrong with you?" he asked. I was the picture of innocence. "What? Me? What do you mean? I was simply asking a question." Mr. J. just shook his head.

But things got even worse when another boy, this time maybe 10 or 11 marched up the driveway to the front steps, held out his pillowcase and said trick-or-treat in a monotone voice. I squinted at him. He was wearing a navy blue sweatshirt with a hood, normal-fitting jeans, regular tennis shoes. But there was something about his hairline and serene face (and maybe the hood) that made me think of a monk. I asked, just to be sure, "And who are you, honey?" I asked. Monk-boy shrugged sheepishly and said, "Myself."

Oh, no. I did not spend $40 on candy at Target for you to not even steal your mother's lipstick and earrings and make a feeble effort at being a drag queen. Something. Anything was better than, "Myself." Teacher Lady must have been really bored without anyone to mock all summer and fall. She fully possessed me and looked Mr. Myself straight in the face. "That," she/I said firmly, "Is really, really lame. I'm going to give you candy tonight, but next year you're going to have to come up with something better because this is ridiculous." He nodded at me, listening, looking all serious while Mr. J.'s jaw dropped on the ground. "Oh. My. God. You cannot do that!!" My response" "Oh, I think I can. In fact, I just did and I don't see anything wrong with that." As I turned to distribute candy to two teenagers wearing pajamas (also lame, but at least they're ready to be college students, showing up in public wearing pajamas like that), I heard Mr. J. exhale heavily. "You set the bar way too high," he said.

And then Jane and Jack came back with their mom to refuel on pizza and I decided it was better if I stayed in the house. I wasn't ready to teach college. Apparently, I'm not ready for trick-or-treaters either.

Why I am Embarrassed to be Part of the Human Race

2007-10-29T19:22:00.000-05:00

My morning commute - remember, 3 years with essentially no rush hour so I'm still adjusting - makes me hate the human race. I think as a species we are ridiculous. I find nothing more maddening then driving. And stopping. Sitting. Driving 10 feet. Stopping. Sitting. My 12 mile commute sometimes takes an hour. And inevitably I find my evil brain actually HOPING for something interesting. Maybe the zoo was transporting a truckload of monkeys and they escaped! That would be exciting! I'd be willing to sit in traffic for an hour to get a look at that.

Alas, no. This morning it was three police cars pulled over onto the shoulder. The three policemen were standing outside their cars, chatting. Why you'd want to inhale exhaust fumes when you don't have to is beyond me, but maybe somebody called an urgent meeting. That's it, folks. That's the big excitement. Oooooh, aaaaaah. I guess if you don't get out much, three policemen in one place is a pretty big deal.

I give you that perhaps at one point there was something exciting - a truckload of monkeys or even an escaped python! (Can you tell my mom took a small child to the zoo yesterday? Obviously my subconscious is still thinking about this zoo visit.) But whatever it was happened to be long gone by the time I drove past. And I refuse to look. I refuse to be a gawking rubber-necker because I think it degrades us all. Wow! Shiny! Cars! People! Must. stop. and. stare for minutes. By the time I get to work I am exhausted and want nothing more than to put my head down on my desk and take a little nap.

As Mr. J. says, "Oh, boo-freakin'-hoo. Welcome to my world." So sympathy is in short supply around here.

There's a bottle of wine downstairs with my name on it. (Well, not really although that would be a nice Christmas gift.) I think I'll go pour myself a big glass of sympathy right now.

Cheers!

Thank You

2007-10-25T18:37:00.000-05:00

Considering all that is going on in the world right now, I truly appreciate the time everyone spent to help me with my teensy-weensy little "problem."

There were so many different opinions, but all sincere and I guess it makes me realize there really is no one "right" way to do this, although some ways are more mature than others (like my not answering her calls).

I had a message waiting from her tonight. She said she was starting to get concerned that I had fallen off the face of the earth. I returned her call and left a lame-ass voicemail like a big girl.

Your advice did help me answer some bigger questions, though. Perhaps most important is, "Do I care to salvage this friendship?" And I've had a long time to mull it over (I think since Tuesday, right?) and I think we're just not a good fit.

Another example: She constantly puts down her step-daughter to me, and I almost fell out of my chair the last time we talked when she said, "Abby is just such a selfish child." And it was after that conversation I stopped returning her calls. I had heard iterations of this before but nothing quite so bold and my response in the past has always been, "She's 13. It's in her job description" or, "She's a child and you're expecting adult things from her that she can't developmentally perform. You're not calling your baby 'stupid' because he can't hold his head up yet, right?" (Well, okay, I didn't say that last part about the baby).

In the past 2 years, I've started to feel like a broken record, "She's the child; you're the adult. Joe's her father; they're not peers. This is such a tough age." And on and on and on. I think I realized in that conversation that she is who she is. And I don't think she'll change.

Momentary aside: I do not pretend for one second that I actually know jack shit about parenting. I have other friends who are stepparents and all I can say is that it looks like about the hardest, most thankless (or second most thankless after "mom" but I guess that depends on who you're talking to) job in the world, right up there with garbage collector and meat-packing employee except there is no pay and the benefits are horrible. However, I cannot listen to someone talk trash about a child who is pretty much a hapless victim in a rotten situation and agree that yes, she's pretty dumb and of course, your husband/her father will NOT pay for her college because why bother? Oh, and aren't you a saint for throwing her a birthday party and yet you can't believe that you have to remind her EVERY morning to make her bed. She's a complete nightmare. Can you imagine? A child who has to be nagged constantly to do the simplest of things? (Her kids - perfect, of course - are 3 years and 11 months.)

Wait, where was I? I guess that was bothering me more than I thought it was.

Anyway, I've not come to any firm conclusions except as someone smarter than me once said, "The easiest thing to do isn't always the right thing and the right thing isn't always the easiest." Or something.

If I Have Any Readers Left

2007-10-22T16:05:00.000-05:00

I know they made a whole Seinfeld episode about this, but how do you break up with a friend?

I'm especially nervous because I was once on the receiving end of a friend break-up (she sent me a "You've changed, have a nice life" letter) and it hurt like hell. I suppose even more than the loss of the friendship (10 years) I felt humiliated and like a fool. Apparently (according to the letter), we'd been "growing apart for some time" (news to me).

So I don't want to do this to my friend. In fact it's the last thing I want to do to her. I've been taking the mature and thoughtful route - not returning her phone calls. Instead of getting my lame-ass hint, she calls and leaves more demanding messages, "Um, Hell-o! I've left you a few messages now. Call me back." Her messages are only slightly less pleasant than ones you might get from a bill collector.

I suppose I could sit down and have a chat, but what would be the point? She is who she is, I'm not interested in changing her and it's not like there's this long list of "crimes."

Okay, maybe there is. Let's see:

She makes snide comments about Mr. J. and once actually said, "So, you guys don't ever really like, do anything, do you?" in reference to the fact that we don't travel much (or ever, what with all the house stuff.) Not traveling is one of the biggest crimes one can commit in her eyes and we are guilty, guilty, guilty!
Mr. J. took a week's vacation to tile the bathroom. Her comment, "Oh, so that's what he does with his vacation" in the snottiest tone possible. Translation: Clearly you don't go anywhere or do anything so this is how you burn vacation time.
Do I need to mention the babysitting? She seems to be under the impression that a.) since she pays for daycare during the week, she shouldn't have to pay for childcare at any other time. Her daughter will be four in March and to my knowledge she has only paid for a babysitter once. I got sucked in the first time by "Do you have plans tonight?" No, I didn't. What was up? Dinner and drinks later? "No, thank goodness. Now you can come over and watch the baby. I have to mow the lawn and then husband and I want to see a movie." That I only fell for once, or maybe twice. Now when she says, "Do you have plans Saturday morning?" she's not asking because she wants to go shopping (or maybe she is) but my standard response is, "What did you have in mind?"
Do I need to mention the highly annoying voicemails demanding an immediate return phone call because she's trying to "organize coverage for the babies." I'm not getting a Ph.D in baby-sitting. Also, one of the many reasons I don't have children is so I can spend my free time exactly how I want to spend it. I don't need you begging me to watch your kids (for free, always for free) because you and your husband need to go to counseling. (Well, that one's my fault. I get sucked in because I'm a neurotic mess and the only person who likes a doormat is someone with dirty feet.)

I could go on, but the point of this entry wasn't (believe it or not) to completely defile this person's character. I just want to know how to terminate a friendship in a way that is least hurtful for the other person. (And to be fair, right now I have a bit too much pent-up resentment to discuss anything calmly with her anyway so that may not be an option for a while.)

Have you ever had to end a friendship? What did you do? Have you ever had someone end a friendship? What did they do? What was the outcome? I'd like to hear your stories, please.

Burning a Hole in My Head

2007-09-30T11:00:00.000-05:00

There are books that stick with you when you don’t want them to. This is one that won’t go away. Granted, I just borrowed it yesterday. I finished it yesterday. Not a big feat. It was short. I had heard the author over a year ago on NPR. I’ve been “meaning” to read it ever since. Something made me remember it Friday. I picked it up yesterday. It had been so long since I’d been to the local public library that the address they had on file was before I met Mr. J. I blame school. Can’t exactly read for fun when you’ve got peer-reviewed journal articles hanging over your head.

Some books end and you’re sad – not because the book had a sad ending, but because it’s over. East of Eden was like that for me. For four days, I couldn’t put it down and didn’t do much else (much to Mr. J.’s chagrin.) Then, when I knew I only had a few chapters left, I started lingering. Each word, each page. When I only had a few pages left, I’d turn each page with dread and anticipation. I wanted desperately to know what happened next, but I also knew that soon I wouldn’t know what happened next to me. What other book could be this compelling, this all-consuming? When a great book ends, you almost feel like you’ve lost a friend. Definitely, you’ve lost your companion for a moment in your life. I still remember what was going on when I read East of Eden – not in the world, but in my life. It was July, hotter than hell and we had just moved into our townhouse. There was so much to do and all I did was read (see: Mr. J.’s chagrin, above.) The bed wasn’t yet assembled and there were boxes everywhere so I read much of the book while I was sprawled out on the new carpet (cooler on the floor, anyway). I drank lots of Diet Pepsi and stayed up late and got up early. I had just finished teaching two classes for summer session and this was my reward for the student who wrote “pee hole” instead of “urethra” on his final exam. That book marks that exact point in my life.

Yesterday’s book ended and I laid it on my chest while I stared at the ceiling. Minnie snoozed beside me. Mr. J. was downstairs, grading papers or paying the bills or checking e-mail on his laptop or doing one of the millions of things he’s always doing. I wanted to cry but I couldn’t. This time I didn’t want to cry because the book was over. My chest felt heavy but it wasn’t because of the small book I had placed upon it. This book kicked my ass. Welfare Brat.

Talk about a slap in the face. Talk about putting things in perspective. Talk about something that made me feel overwhelmed and helpless and hopeless yet confused and amazed. Mr. J. and I went to dinner and I wanted to explain this book. One of the reasons this book is burning a hole in my head is because Mr. J.’s childhood was in many ways like the author’s. Yesterday I kept saying, “OMG. You have to read this book, honey. You have to read it. This author grew up with 5 sisters and a brother in a two bedroom apartment in the Bronx. Her mom was a single mother and there were 4 different dads among the seven of them. Her mother wasn’t big on going to school and if you didn’t feel like it, then you didn’t go. Sometimes her mother would tell the author, Mary - #3 – that she had to stay home from school and watch the little kids because she, Sandy, the mother, was too hung over to do it herself. Can you believe it?” I shook my head in amazement and waited for Mr. J. to show some shock, something. He stared at me and then blinked. “Uh-huh.” Then he took a bite of his portabello mushroom wrap (with chicken). He doesn’t want to read the book. He’s made a few comments like, “Oh, sure I’ll read it, what with all my spare time.” He doesn’t have any. But I don’t just think it’s about that.

Maybe one of the many, many reasons this book was so compelling to me is that I feel like it gave me more insight into my husband’s past. I can’t tell you about Mr. J.’s childhood in much detail – not because I don’t know much detail but because it’s not my childhood and therefore not my story to tell. I can tell you though that while we all have stories to tell and we all (okay, maybe not all) can say we came from a “dysfunctional” family, I know I didn’t really know the meaning of that word until I met Mr. J. and learned about his life. The things that sent me running to the therapist’s couch for so many years make me cringe now. Oh, I didn’t have the exact right clothes for high school and oh, I never learned how to properly wear eyeliner and boo-hoo, woe is me. I didn’t have everything I wanted, but I had everything I needed. I had my own room and my own bed and new clothes never worn by anyone else. I had trips to Disneyworld and trips to the dentist. I always knew where both my parents were and I was never left unsupervised, without food, for days at a time.

This book rattled the teeth in my skull. What it means to have problems, real problems is something I don’t often think about because I don’t have to. I also sometimes think about what it means to escape those problems physically, but never escape them mentally. This book is about that. The author escaped the Bronx. She went to college and got a Ph.D. One of her seven siblings also escaped with a Master’s in Social Work. The author writes how when she tried to explain to an admissions rep that she didn’t really know anyone with a car who would be able to drive her to campus on move-in day, the admissions rep didn’t believe her. But she managed to get out in spite of insane obstacles that I can only conjure up in my head with some effort.

Mr. J. got out. He has two degrees, both in Math – not in Math Education as he is quick to point out. One of his other siblings (of six) got out. He went to college, got a degree, has health benefits and saves for retirement. I think his heart has been more damaged, he has more of an aura of sadness about him, but when you look at the circumstances of his life, at least externally - he got out.

What has fascinated me for years (and what made me fall in love with Mr. J. and what makes me love him more with each passing year) is why and how some people get out and some people don’t. It is intangible, I think. We could talk about grit or raw determination or work ethic but that’s too simplistic. Mary Childers, author of this amazing memoir, wrot a sentence that I think will stick with me for many years and maybe become my new mantra. I won’t do it justice and I’m too lazy to get up and quote the book directly, but basically she says it boils down to circumstances. Lives are launched and derailed by circumstances. Yet it’s more than that, too.

I don’t know. I haven’t got any answers. I just had to get these thoughts out of me, out of my head, on to “paper” because swirling around in my brain they weren’t doing me any good. What does it mean to “suffer”? What does it mean to be poor in America? How do some people get out and some people continue the cycle of poverty and what can we – what can I – those of us who are not the working poor - do? I’m not a politician and I never will be because I don’t know. It’s complicated. And yet it’s not. Clearly, education is the way out. Clearly, smaller planned families and accessible, affordable birth control (among about a dozen other things) are the way out. But what if that’s not the way your world works? The author’s family- especially her mother – chided her for “wanting to escape” and showing off and basically disowned her (albeit briefly) when she went off to college. Mr. J.’s father wanted nothing more than for Mr. J. to break the cycle and get out and achieve his dreams. His siblings are . . . another story. I think they envy him. I think they feel he owes them. He should help more than he already does financially. How dare he not help them support their children – his own nieces and nephews? I don’t get it but reading Welfare Brat helped me get it a little bit. This world is confusing and complex and with each passing day I understand it less and less.

And no I’m not on drugs and yes, I think my doctor would say I’m mentally balanced (more or less). This is just something I’ve been thinking about since I’ve met Mr. J. (over five years now!) and this book helped me get a glimpse into a world I never lived in and I don’t understand. Thank you for reading this atypical post. This is just garbage that was littering my head and I’ve needed to throw it out for quite some time now. Otherwise, I’m not going to qualify this with my usual disclaimers. (Okay, wait – there’s still some of my typical neuroses left. I so desperately needed to get this down on paper that I didn’t spell check this and I won’t go back and edit it right now or maybe ever.)

Introducing Unnecessary Complexity

2007-09-16T19:40:00.000-05:00

Once again, I am living in a house with a kitchen that has really none of the standard "traits" of a kitchen. Yes, we have a microwave and we finally have a refrigerator. A stove, sink, dishwasher, countertops? Not so much.

As you might imagine, this has truly affected the whole food preparation process. I ditched NutriSystem because all the food was starting to taste like the cardboard boxes in which it was delivered. Mostly I've been eating lots of Lean Cuisines and lots of "prewashed vegetables" - spinach (Now! With extra e. coli!), baby carrots, etc.

The other night I decided I was SO sick of pre-cut baby carrots (and the accompanying slimy feel) and I wanted a “real” carrot on my salad – the kind that requires washing and perhaps some peeling. You know, not the baby kind. The big girl kind.

I had the bag of carrots on my miniature “counter top” (probably 18 inches wide at best) next to the utility sink in the basement – aka, my kitchen sink. At some point there wasn’t enough room on the postage stamp-sized counter and the whole bag of real big-girl carrots fell behind the stupid *&^%$# counter thing. It was too heavy to move, and I couldn’t reach the carrots so I had to settle for one carrot and leave the whole bag back there.

When Mr. J. got home I informed him of the situation and first he asked my least favorite question, “What do you mean, you dropped carrots behind the countertop?” which always baffles me. I never understand this question. The other day at Home Depot, I told him I thought a particular configuration of wall hangings would look "absolutely ridiculous" and he asked, "What do you mean, absolutely ridiculous?" I only speak English. And I don't know any other way to say "absolutely ridiculous."

But I digress. Then he asked me why I wasn’t using pre-cut carrots, etc. I told him I was sick of them and he said (with a completely straight face), “Why are you introducing unnecessary complexity into the carrot preparation process?”

I laughed until I actually cried and then said, “Why are you not normal?” His response: “I’m totally normal.” I told him that I could ask every woman I know if her boyfriend/husband would EVER utter those words and the answer would be no, about 100% of the time.

Cabinets to be delivered Sept. 21-26. Countertop (and of course much desired sink) to follow two weeks later. I don’t know if we’ll make it.

A Whole New World

2007-09-06T18:46:00.000-05:00

Of pet peeves!!!

Oh, kids. I completely forgot what gives Corporate American its stank. That would be "The life of the cube." That's right, I traded the life of the mind for the life of the cube and you know what? Sometimes, we get what we deserve. Karma's a bitch, ain't she?

Let us begin with building facilities - I guess - because who else could be responsible for cranking the air conditioning so high that my fingers are shriveled and my nose drips? I wear a sweater or blazer to work every day and over that (in the office, of course. It was 93 degrees outside today - what am I? On a mission from God or something?), I have this lined fleecy/jacket thing I wear OVER everything else. At all times. If it's hot on the way to work, I'll put my hair in a ponytail. When I arrive in my cube, I take the ponytail down so my hair can cover my ears. Once the sun hits my side of the building, I'm totally screwed and I bust out the old-school phone headset and pretend I'm Ernestine. My co-workers probably think I'm running some sort of betting pool from my desk. But really? It's just to keep my ears warm. And just in case we weren't dorky enough in our house (stay tuned for fall and the return of the plaid flannel hunting cap with ear flaps!) poor Mr. J. is so cold in his office that he has actually broken the rules and has an illegal space heater. Since June. He also wears suits to work every day. The other day he received the "digital weather system" he ordered online (please don't ask!) and took it to work so he could check the temperature in his office. The verdict? A chilly 63 degrees. Now I can kind of (almost) understand why he doesn't really care that we don't have air conditioning in our house. When he walks in the door he's still thawing out.

What else? Oh, so many pet peeves. But I've just spent the evening warming up with a mug of hot spiced wine and I'm currently too gling-glongy (as we say in our family) to make much more sense. If I made sense in the first place. Who knows? Could be peaches, could be meat! (Points to anyone who can name that movie!)

Oh - and thank you for the kind wishes about my grandfather. He is doing as well as can be expected. On his second or third night in the hospital, my grandmother fell. Do you see? Do you see my genetic legacy of bad luck here?

Just kidding. My grandmother missed my grandfather more than anything and we think she may have been walking in her sleep when she fell. My mom has been staying overnight to keep an eye on my grandma and the fall must have happened in the wee hours of the morning. But can you imagine living with the same person for 67 years? Of course you're going to miss that person so much you walk in your sleep. Would be romantic if it weren't so freakin' heartbreaking.

On that happy note . . . stay warm, kiddies!!!!!!

I'm in Love!

2007-09-04T07:47:00.000-05:00

Okay, I'm the first person to admit that after 3 years of reading poorly written papers, my writing and grammar skills are just barely out of the toilet. So you can imagine how thrilled I was when a friend sent me this website.

If I ever get my act together, I will post it in my updated links. Someday. Soon. I think.

Enjoy!!

None of My Business

2007-09-02T17:10:00.001-05:00

Supposedly, Mr. J. and I are going to stay in this house for quite some time. (Knocks wood, prays, clicks heels, etc.,) So when you're starting from scratch (with some limitations), you have the luxury of a clean slate. You also have the burden of creating a home where none currently exists which costs money. A lot of money.

We bought our little love shack back in December. Wait - we put in a bid that was accepted in December and we closed at the end of January. This means that Mr. J. has been toiling away on this place ever since. Evenings, weekends, even a week of "vacation" all dedicated to making this 70-year-old foreclosed-upon-owned-by-the-county brick Cape Cod into a homey abode for Teacher Lady, Minnie and himself.

Mr. J. and I have very different priorities about what is "urgent" in a house and what merits a "splurge" and what merits a "scrimp." Unfortunately, his priorities usually make more sense. A leaky roof needs to be repaired (or, as it turns out - replaced) much more than the current kitchen floor needs to be ripped out and replaced with Mexican ceramic tile. Do you see where I'm going with this?

Even though I've often mocked my students for not grasping the "I can't have everything" concept, I trip over it myself more than I'd like to admit. To me, it's obvious that as a student I can't skip every class, turn in every assignment late or not at all, never read, review or take notes and then get an "A" simply for rewarding the universe with my presence.

However, I'm struggling with the concept when it applies to the refurbishing of a home. I'm 110% ashamed to admit that neither Mr. J. nor I have ever owned an unused (okay, "pre-owned") couch. I am 37. He is going to be 39 in November. This seems rather silly and extremely immature to me. But we have chosen (mostly) to spend our money on things like stainless steel kitchen appliances and quartz counter tops. Now, I am absolutely dying to get these blinds. If you're familiar with them, you know why I feel like I have to have them. If you're not familiar with them, then you'll just think I'm completely insane because these suckers ain't cheap, people. In fact, they are so outrageously priced that I'm too embarrassed to tell you about the recent quote I received. Mr. J. thinks that buying expensive window blinds is an outrageous waste of money when we could be buying a new dining room table. (We already have one. It's my old boss's sister's and I have no idea how old it is and my old boss's sister had actually already put it out on the sidewalk for bulk trash pick up when I decided I wanted it, but still. We have one.)

So here's my question (which is none of my damn business and I realize that, so no pressure to answer): Since I'm guessing that most of my readers are not reading my blog from a lounge chair at an exclusive resort in Bora-Bora while sipping a tropical drink (although I certainly hope you are), I'm also guessing that we all have our financial priorities - the places where we "splurge" and the places where we "scrimp." Specifically, I'm being nosy about home repairs/maintenance/furniture, stuff like that. Do you get the most expensive refrigerator possible and save by getting laminate counter tops? Or, like a friend of mine, do you completely scrimp on the house all together and splurge on vacations and a commitment to exploring other cultures (via travel) instead?

A former co-worker buys all her furniture at Ethan Allen. Gob bless her. Even if we had that kind of income, I'm not sure I'd feel I could fork over a few thousand for a dining room table. What furniture we haven't inherited, we've bought at Target. (Except for our bed. I will not scrimp on a mattress people. I also refuse to buy cheap sheets.) But I also know that millions of Americans would think I'm completely insane for even considering to spend the amount of money on window blinds I'm considering spending on window blinds.

It's weird and tricky, this whole money issue. I used to talk about sex for a living and never felt the least bit uncomfortable. But money - whoa! Now that's private. But just like my students all ultimately wanted to know, "Is that normal?" or really, "Am I normal?" I just want to know the same thing: Without going into debt, and after "paying yourself first" are there certain household items you're willing to fork over serious cash for and others you just won't? I await your responses. And if I don't get any back, I get it. I think that in this culture we can talk about nearly anything on Oprah, Dr. Phil, etc., except the dirty little details of our financial lives.

Thirty Six Years Plus Three Hundred and Sixty-Four Days

2007-08-30T16:10:00.000-05:00

Do you think that's too young to have a heart attack? Because after the last 18 hours, I'm a little worried.

Last night around 8:30, Minnie the Biting Wonderdog vomits. This happens sometimes. Dogs vomit. I commence the disgusting clean-up process. Minnie hops around while I eat dinner and I ignore her begging (good instincts on my part). Around 9:30 she vomits again. I think, "Not again!" and clean up disgusting mess. "Stupid-freaking *&^%$#@ cleaning up vomit twice in one night!" Little did I know . . .

It was to be the night that Minnie got something I wouldn't wish on anyone. During the ten minutes or so I was in the bathroom around 11:00-ish, brushing my teeth, washing face, etc., she vomited three times. Actually more, but at that point she was just dry-heaving. Is it only my animals who happen to become violently ill after dark? Anyone? Two hours later - long for me, but I'm sure MUCH longer for Minnie, she finally conked out. I stayed downstairs with her and "slept" on the couch. Of course I didn't really sleep because every time she made the slightest peep or snuffle, I jumped up with the paper towels. (The only good thing to come out of this experience was that by the end of the vomit-fest, Minnie had pretty much learned to vomit directly into a paper towel. She's so dainty.)

This morning, she was her usual spunky (aka "ornery") self and she was able to keep down water, so I figured I would go to work. Plus, I'm new at my job and I don't have any vacation time. Plus plus, do you really want to be the new person who calls the boss and says, "I'm not coming in because my dog has the stomach flu?" Yeah, me neither.

When I got to work I called my regular vet. I love my vet. A lot. It takes a very special vet to not judge or reprimand me for not getting Minnie "straightened out". However she (the vet, not Minnie) does not have emergency hours nor does she have an answering service. At one point last night, I was in Yahoo! Yellow Pages typing (with one hand) every iteration of "Emergency Vet" I could think of while Minnie sat in my lap and quietly puked into the paper towel I was holding.

I have learned recently that this town will never be known for its emergency vet scene. We'll never be on Animal Planet. My regular vet said to feed Minnie boneless boiled chicken breasts and boiled white rice. Apparently this is the canine eqivalent to ginger ale and Saltine crackers. I thanked the vet and said I could do that. Then I hung up the phone and realized: I don't have a kitchen. I have a microwave on a table. (Yes, again. Please don't ask). I call my mom to ask if I can come over after work and "borrow" her stove to make some boiled white rice (because "Minnie must have BOILED white rice - not microwaved - BOILED" was my thought process, if you must know). Why am I switching between past and present tense? I have no idea. But if you continue reading I think you'll allow me this annoying grammatical quirk today.

My mom's voice sounds very strange. She tells me that my 92-year-old grandfather has just fallen and he's on his way to the hospital. I don't know anybody who knows anything about geriatrics - I personally do not - but from what I understand, after a certain age, breaking your hip is bad, bad news. Which is (of course) exactly what he did. (Aside: The paramedics didn't want to take him to the hospital because they said he showed no signs of broken bones and his vital signs were near perfect. Luckily, a few family members were there to insist they take him.) My grandmother (also 92) hates hospitals so she stays home. (Another aside: My grandparents have been married to each other for 66 years. In November it will be 67. I have very big shoes to fill!) The ripple effects of this are big - too big for me to go into now, but the situation is not good. It especially stinks for my mother and my aunts. So there's that. And mostly I'm just trying not to think about it because in some cases I find denial an extremely effective coping mechanism.

I get home and Minnie is in GREAT spirits. Her dog food is gone (I had completely forgotten it was out from the night before.) She's had water. She's so excited to see me. I open the door, she runs over, does her little "hoppy, hoppy, I'm so happy" dance and hops right to the edge of the basement steps and falls. down. the. whole. flight. All I could think was, "My dog is going to be dead in a second." And of course, the whole thing feels like it takes ten minutes while I wave my arms around trying to figure out some way to help her. She lands on the floor at the bottom of the steps, looking at me like, "What?" wags her tail and I go down to get her. Normally I never take Minnie off the leash. Ever. EV-er. But I'm so traumatized and she's so traumatized (not really, but I was "projecting" as they say) I take her outside to see if she can stand/walk/move. I don't put her leash on because this is a twelve-pound dog who has just tumbled down an entire flight of stairs. She may not even be able to stand up. So of course, she takes off running. Into the street. This last episode? Just happened.

Someone get me a drink. Now.

Out of the Loop

2007-08-27T20:11:00.000-05:00

My brother is getting married next summer. I am going to be a bridesmaid. Mr. J. kindly pointed out that I will be the oldest bridesmaid in the wedding party by about 10+ years. That's good for the self-esteem, yes? Although I suppose I may be able to hide a bit since I am one of eight bridesmaids.

So while learning that I was going to be a relic on public display didn't exactly make me feel young, nothing has made me feel older than this new phenomenon: Trash the Dress.

Have you heard of this? I had not. And I called myself a wedding planner's assistant!

My brother e-mailed me Friday to tell me that he and his fiancee were in the midst of planning their "Trash the Dress" shoot. I had no clue what he was talking about, so after he explained it, I did some Googling. Here's what I found:

"Amid the posy photos and puffed-up bios that comprise the wedding announcement section of Sunday Times Style Section, there was a fascinating article on the rising trend of so-called Trash the Dress wedding photography.Trash the Dress, you say? It's exactly what it sounds like -- following the blessed event, the bride straps on that gorgeous dress once again for a final farewell photo to the gown she spent a fortune to wear for one day only. Only instead of posing in some predictably idyllic setting, the picture is shot in a scroungy back alley or a mossy lake. These so-called Trash the Dress photos have become all the rage with brides who want to add something unconventional to their wedding albums. And unconventional they are -- particularly the photo at right in which a bride has set her wedding gown aflame, a la Joan of Arc. This shot was taken by a photographer named John Michael Cooper, who coined the phrase Trash the Dress. If you want to see more of his edgy, arty wedding photography, check out his website, which chronicles his collection of Trash the Dress wedding photos. Pretty cool, huh?"

Suddenly, I'm older than someone who lived through the Great Depression. Because, no - this is the opposite of pretty cool. Why would one spend thousands of dollars on a dress, wear it once and then trash it? I'm sure some of my younger readers could enlighten me on this one. For the sake of "art"?

I also suppose it doesn't help that I'm turning 37 on Friday. Whoopee!

School is Starting Monday

2007-08-25T12:58:00.001-05:00

And I have strangely mixed feelings. I really don't want to blog about it, because that means I'd have to think about it.

So, look at some before and after pictures of my bathroom, okay?

Before

During (I should hope so!)

After - ta-daa!!!!

Only Me

2007-08-23T21:49:00.000-05:00

Throughout my life, various people have said, "Teacher Lady, that would only happen to you!"

Anyone else have this experience? Do people say that to you a lot? No? I didn't think so.

Get this: Remember this guy?

So I'm less than a month into my new job and my company sends out an e-mail to all 10 million of us that tells us to welcome the newest Vice President of All Things Important and Impressive. As it turns out, my boss' boss' boss' boss' boss reports to her, so she makes the rounds and eventually gets to me. I've already got her life's story because it was in the e-mail. Degrees? Many. Schools? All Ivy League. Looks younger than 30 and pregnant out to here? Clearly.

Guess who her husband is? One guess. Yes, folks, Senor El Cheap Bastard.

As they say, "Only me."

How to Lose Weight without Even Trying

2007-08-22T18:38:00.000-05:00

Buy a 70-year-old brick Cape Cod.
Live in a locale where 94 degree days are not uncommon.
Ask husband to disconnect air conditioning ducts (Yes, he did and no, I don't want to discuss it).
Sit and/or sleep in house. Fans optional.
Sweat profusely.
Try to stay hydrated.
Don't let your dog - aka - "My own personal fur coat" sit on your lap as much as she might want to. I mean, we all have our limits. Would you wear a fur coat in this weather? Yeah, I didn't think so.
Repeat every day the temperature goes above 85 degrees.
Ignore everything your trainer has told you and do what you want.
Inexplicably, lose 8 pounds.
Be offended when your trainer tells you it's probably water weight.
The end.

Identity Crisis

2007-08-21T09:14:00.000-05:00

Disclaimer: Throughout this post, I talk about blog “categories.” Although I may categorize your blog into some vague topic or subject area, I am not categorizing you. Please do not hate me if I have “miscategorized” you. I realize that we’re all complex and most blogs don’t really fit into one single category. I just plunked you into the first category that popped into my head. I also apologize if you take offense to being “categorized” period, but please don’t take it personally. After all, this is my identity crisis, not yours. My apologies in advance if I my disclaimer does not soothe and you are still offended. If I link to you within a particular category, know that it’s only because I worship you. Seriously. Would I link to someone who makes me puke? End Disclaimer.

The blogosphere is an interesting place. Much like high school, people tend to categorize themselves and each other. Although I don’t think this is bad, it does make those of us who no longer fit in around the blogosphere feel like we’re right back in high school where we (oh, sweet Jeebus) never fit in. High school had the jocks, the cheerleaders, the homecoming queens, the overachievers, the band geeks, the math nerds, the stoners, tech school kids who weren’t going to college but were going straight into heating and cooling repair upon graduation, the scary-slutty girls and any other category of poor unfortunate teenager you can think of.

When I first arrived in the blogosphere a year and a half ago, I found the categorizations comforting. They helped me understand where I fit in – and where everyone else fit in, too. I found folks who “fit” into these categories, fell in love with them and decided that in some form or another, I too “fit” into their categories. In no particular order, I decided that these were the kids who would let me sit with them in the cafeteria:

Grad school bloggers
Professor-type bloggers
K-12 teacher bloggers
Mommy bloggers (No, I don’t have children, but those mommy bloggers are a riot!)

Infertility bloggers (Also not applicable to me, but oh, how I miss Karen at Naked Ovary. I’m glad she and her husband became parents, but man, do I miss her snark!)

Feminist bloggers

Hollywood gossip blogs (guilty pleasure and now that I have a subscription to People magazine, I really don’t need them so much anymore.) And TMZ used to be a blog but now it’s really more just . . . something other than a blog.

Advice blogs
Political blogs

Mad grammarians, book worms and other intellectual (and often neurotic) types

But no matter whose table I chose to sit at, everyone knew - and I knew - that I was Teacher Lady. However, like the high school cheerleader who goes off to college and has no idea of where she sits or who she is now that she's not a cheerleader, do I know who am I now in the blogosphere if I can't be (or I'm just plain not) Teacher Lady anymore?

I guess the answer is, “I don’t know.”

Since this pointless rambling identity crisis has really gone nowhere, I will now try to redirect your attention to a picture of Minnie (appropos of nothing), post-much needed bath. Ta-da!!

We're Crazy, Y'all!

2007-08-20T17:34:00.001-05:00

One of my favorite moments in that train wreck of the Matt Lauer interview of Britney Spears was when one Mr. Lauer questions Britney's parenting skills because she didn't put poor little "reserve your room in rehab now" Sean Preston in a car seat and instead, drove with him on her lap.

Her response: "We're country, y'all!" And then she proceeded to tell Matt Lauer how by the time he was 15 her younger brother had been life-flighted to the hospital, three - oh, maybe four times. And I wanted to reach through the television screen, hold out my hand so she could spit her gum in it and shake her, hard, saying, "You're not SUPPOSED to get life-flighted to the hospital, ever, really - and especially not when you're a kid! That is NOT normal. Do not use your childhood as a yardstick for acceptable parenting behavior."

But yesterday, that same phrase popped into my head - except instead of "We're country, y'all," it was "We're crazy, y'all!"

Friday, Mr. J. attempted to chop down this hideous shrub-like growth-thing in front of our house. But instead of hitting the root of the shrub-like thing, he hit a yellow jackets’ nest. That was fun. Have you ever seen one of those cartoons where the bees are so mad that they form into a giant arrow and start chasing Yogi Bear (or some other hapless victim?). It was kind of like that. Luckily, he (Mr. J., not Yogi Bear) only got stung twice.

Yesterday, we went to our home-away-from-home (that would be the aptly named Home Depot) and bought some environmentally toxic bee/hornet/wasp killer. We were instructed by both the can and the Home Depot guy to wait until late at night or early in the morning to use it b/c all the yellows would be snoozin’ in their nest.

Of course, Mr. J. - like many men - listens to no one – including me. I told him to follow the directions on the can and listen to what the guy at Home Depot said and wait until dark to get at the nest, but of course – why listen to me, an insect repellent manufacturer or the guy at Home Depot?

He insisted that yesterday, since it was cool and raining, they were all probably “napping.” (This man is one of the most intelligent people I know. Why would he assume that yellow jackets “nap” when it rains? Do insects even nap, period? ) My job was to stand behind him waving a saw (don’t ask) and try to “protect him” from the yellow jackets if they got near him. Because, you know, when a yellow jacket wakes up from a nap, nothing scares it more than a woman waving a saw.

Honestly, we could have been on America ’s Funniest Home videos except I didn't think there was anything funny about it at that moment. And also we forgot to ask anyone to videotape us. We looked like drunk white trash. I’m sure our neighbors were very amused. And at that moment, I thought of Britney and wanted to shout out to our new neighbors, "We're Ka-RA-ZEEE, y'all!"

But I digress. Of COURSE the yellows were NOT napping and OF COURSE they came flying out of the nest, probably saying, “We’re mad as hell and we’re not going to take it anymore!” And yet -when they first flew out of the nest, Mr. J. actually said, "See? They were napping. See how slow and lethargic they are?" Dude. That is not slow and lethargic. That is pissed the hell off and they were just calling their other yellow jacket friends so they could kick Mr. J.'s ass even more effectively.

Mr. J. looked over his shoulder at me, said, "Do I have any on me?" and when I responded, "No", he advanced toward the shrub and all the yellow jackets swarming around it, trying to spray the poisonous liquid/gas directly at individual yellow jackets. They (as you might have anticipated) did not appreciate this. I said, “I’m out of here”, and started running for the back of the house. So much for standing by my man.

The shrub and the yellow jackets? All perfectly fine and exactly where nature put them many months (or years) ago. Mr. J. and Teacher Lady? Jury's still out.

Baby Steps

2007-08-19T19:52:00.000-05:00

I feel very unsure of myself now, back in the blogosphere. So until I get my footing and figure out who I am if I'm no longer Teacher Lady, I'll just try to do little mini-rants each day. Just enough to keep the wonderful, lovely and talented Veronica Mitchell coming back. If you don't know who she is, you must go and visit her. She is who I want to be when I grow up. She is the sophisticated version of my snarky self. She is my gauge - if she's visiting, I must be doing something right.

Tonight, it will be a short movie "review."

Last night Mr. J. and I rented The Good Shepherd. Um, What. The. F*ck, people? Has anyone else seen this? If so, can someone explain it to me?

Here's my take: CIA = bad. Men in the CIA and/or Skull & Bones (because apparently, they're the same thing) = very, very bad, yet, secretly running the country.

I gotta tell ya, I was sucked in by the Oscar nominations and the cast - Robert DeNiro? William Hurt? Joe Pesci? These are some heavy hitters in my tiny pea-brain. However, all the heavy hitters in the world were not enough to make me like a film that was 2 hours and 40+ minutes of Matt Damon acting like a complete and total emotional fuckwit (to borrow a phrase from one Ms. Bridget Jones). At the end of the long slog, I looked at Mr. J. and asked, "What was that?" He shrugged. "Who knows. And really, who cares?" Who cares, indeed. I have to like a character - or at least find him remotely compelling to want to stick around long enough to see what happens to him. Matt Damon - or the character he plays - is about as compelling as a wet paper towel. And that's an insult to wet paper towels everywhere.

Even though it was nearly 1:00 a.m., I had to hop onto Yahoo! Movies and find out if I was the only ignorant slob who was too stupid to like this movie. The BEST quote I found in the user reviews? This:

This was the worst movie I have ever seen. I wouldn't recommend it to anyone, except people I hate.

As It Turns Out . . .

2007-08-18T10:13:00.000-05:00

I'm really quite boring.

I never intended to abandon my blog, suddenly and without warning. But stuff just happened.

I started my fancy-schmancy job.
We moved.
Did I mention we moved into our 70-year-old house that was still partially gutted and had. no. air conditioning!?!?!?!?
And also? My computer is now in the "upstairs office." When you come upstairs after a long day in a refrigeration unit masquerading as a cubicle and see on the office digital thermometer the current temperature is 96 degrees, blogging does not appeal. Nothing does.
I joined NutriSystem. I hate it, but I lost 8 pounds. (Whoopee! My trainer told me I need to lose 16.)
Oh. I joined a gym and hired a trainer. I hate him. I think the feeling is mutual.
I have purchased several pairs of Steve Madden shoes with my fancy-scmancy new paycheck. You know what? Steve Madden shoes don't really fit my giant, flat Fred Flintstone feet all that well.
You know what else? When you have to keep a large box of Band-Aids in your desk at work, your new co-workers think you're an idiot for wearing gorgeous shoes that have the capacity to turn your feet into bloody stumps.
I got subscriptions to intellectually questionable magazines like People, Oprah and Real Living. (Are you sensing a theme here with the crazy-mad-spending? I gotta tell you, after 3 years of living on a teaching fellow's salary when I got my first "real" paycheck, I felt like a woman who had been wandering in the desert for 40 years and then, um, wandered out of the desert? Okay, bad analogy, but I'm rusty people!)
I got my first speeding ticket in 7 years. When I called Mr. J. in tears, he said, "It's okay. It's been a long time since you've gotten a speeding ticket." Yes, it was. I hadn't gotten one since I met him. I sniffled, feeling a bit better. "When was the last time you've gotten one?" I asked, hoping for more sympathy and commiseration. "I've never gotten one because I don't speed." I hung up on him.

SO much more excitement around here, but what I've discovered is this:

The last year+, my blog has been largely driven by rage at my students. No rage? No blog? But I'm trying to be a better human being and I'm now going to attempt to blog without the rage. We shall see.

If you're still reading after 3 months of silence, all I can say is that you're a better human being than I am. I apologize for abandoning my readers and I will do my best to make it up to you.

Here's to better days!! (Oh - and the grammar is rusty, too. Be kind!)

Teacher Lady

So Many Gripes, So Little Time

2007-05-24T09:35:00.000-05:00

Big changes in the life of Teacher Lady, y'all.

I am officially going back to Corporate America. That's right, bitches! I've been interviewing for a "real" full-time gig, complete with benefits and a 401k for a while now. I start the 8-5 grind the Tuesday after Memorial Day.

I have very mixed feelings about this and the day I got the job offer I wasn't exactly leaping for joy. And that was also the same day I posted final grades. So of course within about 6 hours, I got this pleasant little e-mail:

Mrs. Teacher Lady,Why is it that I checked my final grades 2 days ago and I had a Final Grade of a B in your class and today I check and it dropped to a C+? Joe You-Work-For-Me-And-Don't-You-Forget-It

I responded politely and professionally (believe it or not!) like so:

Good morning, Joe!I'm not quite sure. I download the electronic gradebook from WebCT Vista weekly, and most recently, I have your final score at 435. If you check the syllabus, you'll see that 435 lands within the high end of the C+ range of 418-439. Did I fail to enter one of your exam or reaction paper scores? If so, please help me out and we'll get this fixed. Teacher Lady

Of course, I was right and he was hallucinating but I didn't want to be unnecessarily bitchy and point that out. Do you THINK for one second I heard back from the punk? Something along the lines of, "Wow. I guess my e-mail had a really accusatory tone and I didn't realize it and also, since I missed ALL the classes between the first and second midterm which means I missed 5 out of 10 quizzes and since I didn't even HAND IN one of the three papers due, I guess a C+ is a damn good grade"? No. Of course not.

Mr. J., who is intimately familiar with such e-mails and much less reactionary than I am said he didn't think the e-mail from Joe had anything wrong with it and I was just reading too much into things. His exact words, "I don't think it sounds demanding or accusatory." On one hand, Mr. J. is so often the much-needed voice of reason in my life, this could be very true. On the other hand, I KNOW this student. This SAME student who came to me groveling before the second midterm with this sob story about how he bit off more than he could chew this semester and he really needed to do well on the second midterm and did I think he could do well enough to save his grade so he wouldn't have to drop the class? He did really well on the second midterm and I thought we had cleared things up, except for every subsequent class when he did show up, he spent the whole time leaning forward and whispering into the ear of the hot little sorority honey sitting in the desk in front of him.

Now although I bitch endlessly about my students, for the MOST part, they get how insane I am (well, in general, of course) about not talking when anyone else is talking. And yet, every week, dirty looks, calling on him, asking him questions, doing everything but grabbing him by the scruff of the neck and throwing him out of the classroom . . . nothing. He insisted on having conversations with HSH throughout the entire 3-hour class. If I weren't afraid of getting sued, fired or ending up on the local news, I would have said, "Dude. Go buy a condom already and get it over with. You're disrupting my class."

So, it is with mixed emotions that I bid farewell to the classroom. I may return next year in the spring if my schedule permits, because I truly do enjoy my actual time in the classroom. It's everything else teaching involves that I hate.

As always, Rate Your Students summed it up for me. Check this out.

The Dumbest Conversation, Ever!

2007-05-14T20:59:00.000-05:00

Mr. J. and I almost never fight. I don't say this to boast. I say this because he is an introvert and we are BOTH super-conflict avoidant. So perhaps we could do with a good air-clearing fight now and then.

Instead, we have some pretty dumb conversations. Have I mentioned that Minnie the Biting Wonderdog is terrifed of my triple hole punch? In what is perhaps the best example of ___ (some kind of) conditioning I have ever seen, it started simply enough. When I was printing out articles and organizing them to study for comps, I would get out the triple hole punch and start punching away, so I could put my articles in my handy-dandy studyin'-for-comps binder. Minnie does NOT like the noise of the triple hole punch, so after a punch or two, she'd run upstairs or find Mr. J. and hide behind/on/beside him. Over the past year, she has gotten so attuned to the warning signs of the imminent arrival of the triple hole punch that now she runs and hides when I open the drawer in which the triple hole punch lives.

Last week I was frantically trying to complete the take-home final from hell. If you've ever had a newly minted Ph.D. tenure track professor for class - a professor who happens to have his picture next to the word "overzealous" in the dictionary - you feel my pain. I'm guessing that there are published masters' theses shorter than this take-home final. It had "short answer" five-point (5 points! For pages' worth of writing!) questions like, "Explain the meaning of life," or "Support or refute the statement, 'In God We Trust.'" Related to health, of course, but you get the picture.

For whatever reason - the sparks flying out of my brain - me and my office were a little too intense for Minnie so she ran upstairs to find Mr. J. Later that evening, he came downstairs to find me (still) typing. "What did you do to poor Minnie?" he asked me. Never, EVER ask me what I "did to poor Minnie." How about spent like a BAZILLION dollars trying to figure out what the hell is wrong with her? I kept typing. "Nothing" I said, rather distractedly. "Well," Mr. J. replied, "You must have done something with the triple hole punch." During finals week, them's fightin' words (Don't ask why. Never ask crazed, sleep-depraved women why anything is the case). I stopped typing. "Look around. Do you even see the triple hole punch? I've been working on this take-home final." Mr. J. looked at me like I was the worst liar ever. Yet he tried to say kindly, "Well, perhaps you were simulating the use of the triple hole punch."

Simulating the use of the triple hole punch!?!?! How, exactly, does one do that!? And WHY in gob's name WOULD anyone simulate the use of the triple hole punch? It wasn't my miming class take-home final.

I stared at him open-mouthed for about 30 seconds. Then I said, "Does THIS" -frantically miming wailing away on a keyboard-"look anything like THIS?!?!" and then I mimed angrily punching holes in peer-reviewed journal articles. (Yes, I am THAT good of a mime. You could tell not just that I was using the triple-hole punch but also that it was to punch holes in peer-reviewed journal articles.)

He looked at me like I had officially gone insane and then took his Diet Pepsi back up to his office, while Minnie looked at me in fear and then raced after him like he was the dog version of the Pied Piper.

A typical "fight" in our household, ladies and gentlemen!

A Very Slender Thread

2007-05-14T12:43:00.000-05:00

Finals week is over. Halle-freakin'-lujah!

Grades are due tomorrow. I am postponing the inevitable because I've already snapped once. I wish I had snapped in a way that was half as witty as this brilliant post, but alas, no.

I don't quite know what my problem is. Chemical imbalance, maybe? I truly felt that this semester was in many ways, my best ever. Not only have I learned what classroom activities work and what classroom activities are guaranteed to be a spectacular failure, I thought I was becoming more patient. Now I know that students cannot string together a sentence, but I no longer feel rage at them. I blame the entire American educational system, which is much easier because no single culprit = no one to plot murder against.

But the last three weeks pushed me. Or I let them push me.

I won't link to a post about this particular student because you'd have to re-read too much angst-laden rambling, but a quick summary: This is the student who told me his aunt didn't send him a check in time for him to buy the textbook and did I have any suggestions as to how he might study for the first midterm? Instead of asking, "This is my problem, how, exactly?" or saying, "Get one of those free T-shirts for filling out a credit card application and sink into debt. It's the American way!" like a dumb-ass, I LENT him an extra copy of the text with the (clearly delusional) belief that he would return it when he got his check from his aunt. No. Actually, he used it the whole damn semester and returned it to me after the final on Friday. This is also the same student who left me a voicemail instructing me to call him between 5:00 and 5:15 because that was the only time slot he had available to discuss with me the fact that he would be too ill to take the midterm the next day.

On one fateful day, toward the end of class he raised his hand. I thought he had a question. Instead he said, "I have an announcement to make." I asked if it was in any way related to class. He said no, it had to do with something his fraternity was sponsoring. Immediately, I had visions of my classroom becoming the "live version" of the Greek community's event website and each subsequent class beginning and ending with announcements about wet T-shirt contests and beer pong and drunken tug-of-war fundraisers for "the children". Shockingly, I had my wits about me enough to ask him to check with me first after class and if I thought it was appropriate, he could announce it the next class. In spite of all these annoyances, do you know what pushed me over the edge? THIS e-mail from him:

did you say that we wasnt doing chapter 18?

In spite of his sleeping through many of my class sessions, he was a very consistent e-mail pal. At least once a week, I could expect an e-mail from him asking me a question that - had he actually been awake in class - he wouldn't have needed to ask me. His e-mails were chock full o' bad grammar, but that's not what drove me battier than usual. It was how every single e-mail contained NO salutation (or salvation, as a very poorly written website on how to write good cover letters read), no sign off, no "Thanks" and never, EVER any "Please." From the first week of the semester, I tried to "role model" appropriate behavior. I kept telling myself that he should probably know how to e-mail politely because future bosses would find his style a bit abrupt and offensive, but what the hell do I know? Because in spite of responding every. Single. Time. like this:

Dear Dudley,

Thank you for your excellent question. You are correct. I do not expect you to read chapter 18 for the final exam. Have a nice week.

See you Friday,

Teacher Lady

Nothing changed. Role modeling appropriate behavior, my ass!

So after dealing with Dudley the scintillating e-conversationalist, I was already teetering on the brink of lunacy.

Then, last week, I got this e-mail:

Hey Teacher Lady,I was wondering if I could take the final early on Wednesday? I have to go home to babysit and if its possible could I take it in the morning? I am not sure if like you can leave it with the geology department and I can go in and take it with someone there... If not that is okay, but please let me know! Thanks! Suzy Center-of-the-Universe.

Here is what I wish I could have written without being strung up by my ankles (by my department chair) in front of the faculty lounge as a warning for all to see:

Hey Suzy,

Hey. Hey you. Hey Suzy. Kind of annoying, isn't it? Clearly, your parents didn't have the intellectual or social capacity that God gave a goat, but for future reference, you don't address your professors, your parents, your pastor, your policeman, your anyone important or anything starting with the letter "p" as "Hey." It is rude and obnoxious and shows that clearly, you were raised by wolves.

The good news is, "You're a winner!" Not a winner in life, but the winner of a very exciting contest called "The lamest excuse I'VE EVER HEARD for wanting to take a final early." The sad part is, you are being punished for being honest. And clueless. And so self-absorbed it takes one's breath away. Had you lied and said your father was having emergency surgery to remove his ingrown toenail, I might have been a tad more understanding.

Thank you for letting it be "okay" for me to give the class the final at the time dictated by the university many, many months ago. I would hate for you to "not" be okay with that. Phew. What a relief! Sure wouldn't want THAT hanging over my head!!!

And finally: Just this fall, my department's secretaries declared a moratorium on administering and proctoring make-up exams for students. They sent out a formal memo detailing all the reasons they would no longer offer "this service," but it boils down to: "Not their job." Since I wouldn't dare ask the administrative support of MY department/college/building to give a make-up exam, I would rather receive a public flogging than ask the department secretary of another department/college/building to do a big fat inconvenient favor for someone she's never seen and doesn't know. But clearly asking people for favors doesn't bother you in the least, so I don't expect you to understand that.

Oh. One more thing, my darling. The shameless use of the word "like" in conversation is the equivalent of hanging a giant billboard that reads, "I'm an idiot" over your head. Using it (the word "like") randomly, like, in e-mail is the equivalent of concluding every e-mail with "I'm an ignorant slut" instead of your signature.

More to come . . . please excuse me while I finish this bottle of wine!!!

Because It's Fun to Pretend I'm Fascinating

2007-04-24T18:11:00.000-05:00

My separated-at-birth Virgo twin Shawnee is doing this very "personalized" meme/interview thing. I e-mailed her requesting interview questions and she wrote some! Just for me! However, this meme dies with me. I can barely answer my own questions; please don't expect me to write some for you. Plus, finals week approacheth. Yikes!!

Here we go. Get ready to be fascinated!

Name five "luxury items" that you could not live without. (i.e., not necessities such as food, water, air, wine or George Clooney. Although that last one may just be me.)

Oh, gosh. There was a line in a movie/TV show/something once like, "Roughing it to you means staying at a hotel that doesn't have 600 thread-count sheets." I will pay a fairly hefty chunk of money for sheets if the thread-count is 400 or more. Mr. J. thought I was crazy when we first got married, but now I've got HIM hooked, too. It's like flying first class - once you've done it, you can't ever go back to coach.

Regular eyebrow waxing treatments at the salon/spa. It's not fun, it's not that cheap (considering you're paying someone to rip your hair out by its roots), it's pretty painful but it beats the hell out of me stabbing my forehead repeatedly with tweezers sharp enough to kill a man.

Burt's Bees lip balm. I've started buying multiple tubes so I've got one with me at all times, regardless of bag, wallet, what have you.

Pedicures. Especially the sinfully indulgent ones that take an hour and use 27 kinds of soothing mint-scented Aveda products. Every woman should have one, if only to kick off sandal season.

Ann Taylor pants. I am short. I have "birthing hips" (that will go completely to waste, but oh well). Ann Taylor (rest her soul) seemed to understand this. I can actually pull those pants up over my hips without the waist looking like it's six sizes too big.

What's your idea of a perfect weekend?

Is this a complete and total fantasy? Because then my idea of a perfect weekend would be one in NYC with tickets to have a dozen shows - the big, over-the-top ones like Lion King and anything that just won a Tony and of COURSE Avenue Q. And then food, wine and shopping. And maybe staying at the Plaza hotel. How's THAT?

If you could live anywhere on the planet, where would it be? What do you like most about where you live now? Least?

Back to Hawaii, baby. I miss it in the same intense way you miss a person. I always hoped I'd end up back there eventually, but I don't think it's anywhere in the near future.

I feel about 100 years old when I type this, but affordable housing? Minimal traffic? Near family and friends?

Where do I start? Scary gun-toting extremists, crappy weather, lame suburban chain restaurants on every friggin' corner.

Which do you think is more likely to make you snap someday: a clueless college student, rude neighbors or random people sharing their unsolicited opinions of your choices?

Honestly, it's probably going to be a college student and it's probably going to be something small, like the student who is CONSTANTLY e-mailing me questions about what we discussed in class (because he'd rather nap when he's IN class) and never, ever, NOT once included a salutation and FORGET about e-mailing me back to say, "Thank you. I know you discussed this in class and I appreciate you taking the time to respond to me since I'm clearly a sleep-deprived idiot." Either that, or a really bad run-on sentence.

Name at least one secret guilty pleasure. (The Girls Next Door doesn't count, we know all about it!)

I am so embarrassed to even type this and I KNOW I'm going to lose about all 15 readers, but I am obsessed with this little pet boutique. I bought Minnie a pink collar with her name spelled out in GIANT rhinestone letters (she does look a bit like a pimp/rap-star now that I think about it). It was not cheap. In fact, it was borderline, "It is OBSCENE to spend that kind of money on an animal who couldn't care what her collar looks like and who enjoys eating Kleenex and grass." You can't exactly see it in this picture, because well, even I was too humiliated to make her hold her head up high enough so I could take a picture of it. I've also bought her boots (pink of course) and those went right back because they didn't go over well. I bought her a pumpkin costume (it was Halloween, okay?) which also did NOT go over well. Most recently, I bought her a pink polo shirt with white daisies embroidered on it and although I managed to get it ON her, she was far too humiliated for me to take a picture and now I'm trying to stop because I guess it's bordering on animal abuse. Uh, thanks for reading. Bye-bye, now!

Housing Update

2007-04-23T21:05:00.000-05:00

Let me begin by apologizing for the picture situation. I was quite happy to do the drag and drop that a wonderful reader told me about, but now the pictures don't seem to be the least bit interested in being dragged and they do seem to be interested in only living at the top of my post, regardless of where I have my cursor. Bah! Stupid technology that I am too lazy to learn!

Anyway, let's work from the bottom up, shall we? No, it isn't a prison! It's the only functioning toilet in the basement of my "new" 70-year-old house.

The lovely Mrs. T. has asked about our current living situation.

She is correct - we did buy a 70 year-old home in December and we are renovating it. Praise be to Jeebus we are NOT living there. Not for another 5 weeks, anyway. It looks like it will be in move-in condition by then, don't you think? Yeah, me neither.

Did I mention that I took these pictures on Saturday??? Saturday. Notice the back of the house. There used to be a room there. Mr. J. had concerns that the wood underneath was rotted because the room seemed to be an addition. He was correct. Rotted. But now? The proverbial door to nowhere. Well, that's not entirely true. It's just a little high up for Minnie (or me) to be using it as an entrance or exit.

Now, if you're still with me through this ridiculous mess of a post, look at the very top picture. Notice something? Talk about a door that goes nowhere!!! See, the one thing about that little room was that it had a flat roof because it was actually a small balcony you could access from the master bedroom (off the second floor). Now that is no more. Although I guess it's probably not such a bad thing, because apparently during February someone managed to scamper up there and tried to break in (broke the door handle) which is what (I guess) you get for leaving a house empty for an extended period of time, but sheesh! Do your homework all thieves, robbers, cat burglars and ne'er-do-wells: That wadn't nuthin' in there to steal.

I promise to keep you posted on renovations over the next five weeks. Mr. J. assures me that there WILL be functioning shower by the time we move in. We finally got hot water on Saturday as well, so that's exciting. I like showers and I like hot water and I like toilets that flush. I guess I am spoiled. I do so love the modern conveniences.

Don't You Be My Neighbor

2007-04-22T21:59:00.000-05:00

Are deer supposed to eat white bread? My hunch is no, but I'm not a large animal vet, so what the hell do I know?

Here is what I do know: I know how to be a halfway decent neighbor. I'm a better neighbor than I used to be, thanks in large part to Mr. J. He is constantly watching out for ways we might be "not very neighborly" because being "not very neighborly" is actually the Eighth Deadly Sin.

You know what's maddening, though? What's maddening is when you're doing your damnedest to be neighborly and well . . . no one else seems to give a tiny rat's ass (to blatantly steal a phrase from Friends).

We moved into this rental back in September. The good(?) news is that we're moving out in about 5 weeks. Since I won't have to deal with these clowns for very much longer, I can now acknowledge the rage I've been feeling this whole time. Mr. J. does not have this rage. He has a very Jesus/Oprah/Maya Angelou attitude about the whole thing, like "they know not what they do" or, "If they knew better, they'd do better." Did I ever mention that I once bought a few decks of these cards? I gave them away, mostly as gag gifts and now I'm tempted to buy a big slew and distribute them in the middle of the night in a fabulously spineless, passive-aggressive attempt to indicate my unhappiness.

Let's start with the biggest offender, the one with the bread. I shall call him "Rudely McThoughtlessen." Our very first night here, he showed us a hint of his not very neighborly ways when he started playing jazz music, very loudly, at oh, about midnight. Now I like jazz - especially jazz with a very heavy bass line - just as much as the next gal. But not when I'm trying to get my beauty rest and definitely not when I share a wall with your speakers. Of course, he is the PRESIDENT of the condo association so what the hell were we to do except bitch to each other? Did I also mentioned, he's like, 50? And retired? And married? And has the requisite motorcycle in his garage?

Then in early October, he put a pumpkin in front of his door. We all kind of share the front wall of our units (hard to explain) so I guess he put a pumpkin out for all of us to enjoy. And enjoy we did. All through November and December and just when I thought Minnie was going to choke herself trying to get away from me in order to eat the delicious rotting pumpkin, it went away. Or so I thought. He just threw it in the backyard, which we do all share. I guess he's an animal person and I imagine deer can eat pumpkin. But even deer probably don't love rotting pumpkin. Again - just a guess. Throughout the winter, I would look out my patio door and see white bread thrown up on the hill/backyard we all share. At least when it was cold, I could try to justify it - he's worried about the deer. He doesn't want them to starve. Except this morning when I came downstairs I looked outside and lo and behold, what looked like an ENTIRE loaf of white bread (whole slices!) thrown all over the hill. A few piece were dangling gently from some tree branches. Did I mention it was EIGHTY degrees today? Dude! Um, it's also ANT season. I know they're outside already, but do we really want to encourage them?

On the other side, we have two young men. Mr. J. and I can only assume that someone has purchased the condo for them - or maybe they're subletters, like us - who knows? We call them the "Let's spend Saturday afternoon throwing furniture down the stairs" guys because it seems that's what they like to do in their spare time. Another family lived there (before they got evicted!) and were so quiet, you'd hardly even know they were there. (Which is maybe why they got evicted?) And they had a big dog! And a small child! Two almost guaranteed to be noisy residents and not a peep. The other thing these two fellows do is put their trash outside either not in bags or mostly not in bags. It seems like they have a contest the night before trash day and see how many pieces of junk they can throw into a small garbage bag. I think they do the throwing from several feet away. They also remind me of my students because they can't seem to find a little twisty-tie thing and the bags are always too overflowing to just tie in a knot. If the sanitation engineers come kill them in the middle of the night, I can't say I would blame them.

Ending abruptly because I'm not sure I'm making much sense and this hour and suddenly find myself unaware of how to spell basic words. Stay tuned . . .

Just a Bunch of Stuff

2007-04-16T20:16:00.002-05:00

When you are in the car, trying to peer through a windshield being pelted with giant raindrops and you hear the DJ/weather-person guy say, "Tonight, there will be a slight chance of rain," you have to wonder how the hell you can get THAT job. And also? Dude. Stick your hand out the freakin' window. Or, gosh. I dunno. Maybe look out the window?

Some people have luck. I do not. I don't think I ever have. Short of winning a few coloring contests in my childhood, I'm fairly devoid of luck. I guess I have to clarify. I don't just mean winning the lottery luck. I mean the kind of, "I'm running late but if I can make every light I might even be two minutes early" luck. And of course, if I'm running late, and I will get stopped at every light and perhaps a freakish accident or two. The next day, traveling the same exact route, when I'm hoping for a red light so I can just catch my breath, take a sip of coffee, or get the giant eyelash out of my eye that is temporarily blinding me, that is when I will glide through every single green light. Of course.

So I should not have been the least bit surprised when last week I was running late for my office hours. I have office hours three days a week. I think it's the 11th? 12th? week of the semester. I have been on time or early for my office hours every single time. Whether it was 33 times or 36 times, no student ever showed up. Ever. Thursday, I was late. About 15 minutes late. And of course, that was the day a student showed up. Even better: Some office mates told me a student had stopped by, waiting all of 20 seconds and then saying, "No big deal, I'll just e-mail her," and then he did. Except in his e-mail, he told me he had been waiting patiently for 20 minutes and then finally - sadly - gave up. Apparently his plan was for me to pack my bags and set off on my guilt trip, but you know what? Not gonna happen. I had witnesses - and I was there 15 minutes late. Not 20. I would have tripped over him had he still been there. Doesn't matter if he wiated 20 seconds or 20 minutes. That's going to show up on my end-of-course evals: Not available during office hours. And you know what else? He said he'd stop by today. Since I was a bit paranoid and overzealous, I was an hour early. Then another professor asked me if I wanted to run to Starbucks with her. Knowing my luck, I declined, figuring he would show up during the last 10 minutes of my office hours and I'd look like the thoughtless prof once again. Except he didn't show up. Even better? When I got home tonight at 9:00 p.m. I had an e-mail from him that read: "I'm sorry. I was too ill to come to your office hours." Thanks. I didn't notice you were ill, but I did notice you didn't show up. Like the college boyfriend who would call me when he was an hour late and say, "I'm running late." And the only appropriate reply was a crass phrase I normally don't use in life: "No shit, Sherlock."

This weekend, after hearing much praise from several women in my life, I rented The Holiday with Kate Winslet, Cameron Diaz, Jude Law and Jack Black. And all I can say is, "The hell?!?!!" Do you have to be high on eggnog to think this is a "not-to-be-missed" movie? Mr. J., who is an amazingly good sport about "chick flicks" was equally mystified. Then again, he couldn't say much because it was his sister and his niece who happened to be raving about it when we saw them last week. After we watch crap movies, we often talk about how we should go to Hollywood and somehow get involved producing movies. You know, 'cause I'm sure it's a real easy field to just bust into. But seriously. Gigli, anyone? How hard can it be? Or do you think the average Hollywood exec just grossly underestimates the intelligence of the average American? Luckily I have no problem fast-forwarding through any scenes that appear to be utterly pointless and dreadfully boring, so I lost approximately 1.5 hours of my life instead of 2.1 hours.

I can't even get into the Virginia Tech shootings and I'm not sure I will go there. But just so you know - I do try to stay up-to-date on some current events and even I am not that completely self-absorbed.

Peace (Really - it's more of a request than a closing),

TL

I am. So over. This semester.

2007-04-12T10:26:00.000-05:00

This will be brief. But first, a question: Do they let inmates blog in prison? Or the insane asylum?

And also: Is it too much to ask of you (yes, YOU siblings in the back of the classroom) that if you're going to indicate your complete and total disdain for the subject matter of the day that you COVER your mouths when you perform those giant, exaggerated lion in the savanna yawns? You look like you're auditioning for the road company of The Lion King at best and trying to catch a fly, at worst. I've seen enough of your tonsils to last me the rest of my life, thanks.

Next, here is what I propose: I propose a ban on any and all siblings taking classes together. Save yourselves the money and save me the aggravation and do this instead: Show up on the first day of class and get my syllabus. Be sure not to register. Then, plan to meet twice a week at the same time at the campus Starbucks. You can discuss each week's topic since you know so much about it that you clearly don't need me anyway. This way, we all win. I don't have to constantly stare, glare, loudly clear my throat and finally STOP teaching because the two of you won't shut yer yaps and you've saved several thousand dollars. See? Everybody's happy!

I will rant more in the next couple of days. In the mean time, I'm off to find a physician who will sell me Valium in the convenient, economy-sized bottle.

Stop the Presses! Teacher Lady has Nothing to Say!

2007-04-10T09:55:00.000-05:00

Since I've returned to blogging, I realized that being a dedicated blogger actually requires me to notice things. It also requires me to think, almost all the time. And you know what? I'm not sure I have the mental capacity for that right now. So I really don't have much to say. Here is a feeble attempt to summarize things I've noticed (or tried to notice) in the past few days:

I'm getting a new cell phone! Yippee! It's about damn time because the one I have now was probably discontinued about 2 years ago. What can I say? I'm not a gadget goddess. And I'm only replacing it because the top half and bottom half are no longer connected. (I'll post a picture one of these days). Because I bought it online, FedEx was suppposed to deliver yesterday. And do you know what? They couldn't deliver it without my signature and even though I was home until 2:30 yesterday, I don't have my new phone because they came by at 2:51. Of course. Here's what I want to know: How does anybody get anything? WHO is home all day to receive a package that will show up sometime between 8:00 a.m. and never-thirty? Even "stay-at-home" moms have reason to leave the house, if only for a few blessed moments.

Friday, I received TWO letters from my bank informing me of my new pin number. I don't recall asking for one. And also? Both pin numbers are different. Yesterday, I received TWO envelopes with two different new ATM cards. I don't recall asking for those either. And no, my card is not anywhere near the month of expiration. Here's what really bugs me: Because of someone else's mistake, I will have to spend some time on the phone today navigating the ridiculously confusing automated menus, holding for a real human being and then probably being transferred all over the banking world because some service/quality/technology person somewhere was talking to his girlfriend while fiddling around with something. That's not good service, people.

The DJs this morning on practically every radio station were obsessing over WHO might be Anna Nicole's baby-daddy. Am I missing something? Surely I'm not the ONLY person in the world who really doesn't care, right?

Still with me? This has got to be more painful for you than it is for me. A few other fascinating tidbits:

For Easter we went to my in-laws. My 6-year-old nephew came marching into the house wearing an adorable little suit, complete with vest and bowtie and toting a "toy" rifle that was bigger than him. Happy Easter! Don't forget to lock and load. Oh - and I brought chocolate covered strawberries that I made myself!! I am still very proud. Something edible AND I didn't burn the house down. That's quite an accomplishment for me.

And um, and . . . oh forget it. The end. Perhaps tomorrow will be better for all of us. Sorry for the major suck-i-tude of this "entry".

Thank You Sir, May I Have Another?

2007-04-06T12:01:00.000-05:00

Believe it or not, in spite of my constant bitching, I do want my students to have a good learning experience. Notice, I didn't say experience. I said learning experience. I have enough educational theory under my belt to know the basic principles of "adult learning" and recognize that different people learn differently and blah, blah, blah. Oh, those poor "hands-on" learners. Anything that might be considered "hands-on" in my class would land me in the women's federal penitentiary.

So this semester, for the first time ever, I've started doing "mini-evaluations" after every other class. Here's the logic: If I know I'm doing something wrong early on, I can actually fix it. I know - genius, right? Because honestly, by the time I get the official university evals back, it will be the middle of October, and I won't even remember much about this class. And - did I mention it will be the middle of October? Meaning any egregious teaching errors I made will be repeated for the first 7 weeks of a new semester? Great system, isn't it?

But the kids, they were angry this week. They didn't do so well on their last midterm. Well - that's a bit incorrect. They did "average" - which is about right. Average means that's how most people do (or am I wrong? Isn't that the gist of "average"?) But in spite of the fact that this state school isn't exactly considered a public version of the Ivy League, I'm still shocked that my students expect As for, well, existing, it would seem. So their evals were pretty pissy. As the saying goes, though, "You asked for it." Indeed I did. Here are a few of my favorites: WARNING: Not recommended for children or those easily offended. Severe sarcasm, bitchiness and very "Unteacher-like" behavior below.

For the exam, you need to narrow down the study guide more to the specifics of exactly what will be on the exam. Oh. I see. You need me to give you a copy of the actual exam. Duh. What was I thinking? My bad. See, I thought that the point of most courses is to learn about a particular body of knowledge, not memorize a bunch of exam questions. How silly of me. I'll be sure and distribute the final a few weeks in advance.
You need to stress to us how important it is to read the textbook. Gosh. I don't know why I didn't think of that. I thought since I give you quizzes every week to motivate you to keep up with the reading, that might be enough. I also thought that putting it in the syllabus, including some page numbers from the book on the study guide and, well, saying, "You need to keep up with your reading" you would get the fact that I think reading is important. Next semester, I will be sure to sing it, while performing an interpretive dance so you have a better chance of understanding that you need to read the textbook.
Tell us what is important and what is really going to be on the test. I'm sorry. I thought by saying before certain lectures, "Now, this will be important for you to know for the exam," that's what I was doing. If only I weren't so vague in my communications with you. For the rest of the semester, I will hit you over the head with a styrofoam bat every time I discuss something that might be on the exam. This will result in constant hitting, but over time I think the numbness in your skull will actually help you become a better human being.
Give more extra credit. Interesting. When I first started teaching, the concept of extra credit in college was about as foreign to me as young women parading their muffin tops across campus. But since I am insecure, neurotic and a people-pleaser I got on board right away. And you know what? I also tried to assign things that would actually inflict learning on your underfed, underworked little brains. The last time I checked, I have given five (5) extra credit opportunities this semester. The thing is, though, you have to be in class because that's when I assign extra credit. Sorry about that. Would you like me to visit you in your residence hall room so you can get extra credit without coming to class? Or do you mean I should come up with a few options just for you, that include, oh, "Have sex with your girlfriend and then write a paper about it"? Let me know what would work best for you. I'm all ears.

Old School Bitch-fest

2007-04-04T22:13:00.000-05:00

I once read somewhere that "any unhappiness is life is caused by our expectations of others." And I know for me, this is true. I also heard once, "If you expect someone to be grateful for something you do for him, you probably shouldn't be doing it in the first place," or "You're doing it for the wrong reasons," or something like that.

And so today, it is an old school bitch-fest because I am SO over one of my students because I have expected him to be . . . grateful or at least say the words, "thank you" and he has not.

This is the student who came to me the third week of the semester because he was worried about the upcoming midterm. He hadn't yet received his check from his aunt, so he was unable to buy his textbooks. In a rare spasm of charitable behavior, I told him he could use my review copy until he got his check from his aunt. The next class, I loaned him the book, "Please guard this with your life," I said. He looked at me like I was the rudest person ever. "Why would you say that? Like I'm not going to take care of this book or something?"

On my planet, the appropriate thing is to say, "Certainly. And I'm so grateful you're able to help me out." I should have known. See, I didn't mean for him to not have to buy the textbook. It was a temporary solution. I keep one copy at my home and one copy at my office at school and that way I have one less thing to lug back and forth all semester long. So while I'm not exactly high and dry, it would be nice to have it back. The semester is almost over.

This is the same student who told me he would be much too ill to study for our midterm and he had a doctor's excuse, so I said fine. He then called me, the day before the midterm, rattled off his extensive class schedule for that day and then instructed me to call him that same day between 5:00 p.m. and 5:15 p.m. (remember him?)

He came to my office yesterday to take the make-up exam. About halfway through he said, "Do you have a tissue or something?" He had been sniffling away, but I had somehow managed to block it out while I graded some mental trainwrecks posing as papers. There were no tissues in the office, but there were some in the faculty restroom, so I went and got him some. Did he say thank you? No, of course not. And that's why I'm pissy. Because after all my previous evidence to indicate otherwise, I still expected him to have the manners God gave a goat.

And then he had the balls to openly sleep in class later. I'm surprised . . . why?

Duh. And I complain about students being stupid.

April Fool! Alas, No

2007-04-02T19:06:00.000-05:00

I, too, was duped by the folks at RYS. And honestly, I didn't even notice the date on the calendar. (That alone says something right there, although I'm not quite sure what it says.)

Maybe I have been holding out a bit on this blog. As Mr. J. puts it, since I started my program, I've had "one foot in and one foot out," never quite deciding whether this was going to be my life's work or not. In fact, after about my first week of grading student papers I had my first doubts about this career.

As the extremely wise Denever put it, "But then I realize that as I'm imagining what my daily life would be like, I am actually thinking about my own days in college." Another "Alas": Denever has no blog. That's a damn shame, if you ask me!

I wish I had come to that conclusion three years earlier, because she's exactly right. Now remember - I was far from the model undergraduate. Personally, I am amazed that no one ever grabbed me by the shoulders and yelled, "Fat, drunk, and stupid is no way to go through life! Get it together, girl!" I did incredibly stupid things - none of which I will detail here because my mom sometimes reads this blog and since she and my dad paid for about 99.9% of undergrad . . . well, I don't want them to think that was a big, fat waste. Let me put it this way: I was in a sorority, all right? And it wasn't a professional or service one. To put it another way: I once skipped a class that only met once a week to practice for Greek Week opening ceremonies. So, if I expected undergrads to be exactly like me, I never would have been intrigued by this route in the first place. After all, who wants to be surrounded by clones of Bluto and Otter for all of her professional life?

Now I sound like an old bat, but seriously: I think e-mail and text messaging have been in many ways the best thing to happen to higher education since co-ed dormitories, but I also think they have been the worst thing.

And those two types of technology alone changed the college experience - at least from what I imagined it would be like - drastically. I never expected the poorly written, rude, bitchy and demanding e-mails I started receiving before the semester even started. After all, I had just come from Corporate America - people got FIRED for writing and sending e-mails like the ones I was getting.

I never expected text messaging to ruin any writing ability students' may have had and never expected I would be reading papers I could barely decipher because they read, "i think this speaker was cool. it was good for u 2 have a dr. come to our class."

Anyway, blah, blah, blah, whine, whine, whine.

Here is what I'm thinking of doing: Continuing to keep one foot in and one foot out. I truly believe in the importance of women's health issues and the necessity of comprehensive sex education. I still think the rate of unplanned pregnancy in this country is appalling (48% by latest Alan Guttmacher Institute data). But if I have to spend much of my time trying to determine whose excuse for missing an exam is legitimate and whose is complete bunk, I will go insane. (Yeah, I hear you peanut gallery - it won't be a very long trip.)

What if my other "corporate" work was my "job" so to speak - something I enjoy, something I think I'm fairly good at, but not necessarily my passion and my passion - sexual health - becomes my hobby? And not like a "I've scrapbooked twice in the last year even though I have hundreds of dollars worth of crap to cut every piece of paper ever made" hobby, but more a "we go out on the boat at least three times a week" kind of hobby?

I don't know why this didn't occur to me. After all, Mr. J. does it. His passion (bless his wee heart) is math. I know. I don't get it either. But he knew he could never teach college full-time for about a million and one reasons. He also claims he is in no way smart enough to get a Ph.D. in mathematical sciences (NOT mathematical education - as he often reminds me, there is a BIG difference!) so that ruled out that career option right there. But he teaches one or two undergrad calculus classes a year and it's enough for him. He gets to see that "aha!" moment when a student finally understands calculus, but he still gets to sit at the grown-ups table during the day.

So at this exact moment in time, on this day I am thinking I will do both. I will continue - very differently - and very slowly - with the doc, but with a "part-time" focus. My full-time job will be my corporate gig and also, digging us out from under the spectacle of disastrous proportions that is our "new" house. If it takes me three or four years to become "Dr. Teacher Lady", then so be it. That's the plan. For right now. Teaching will be my passion/hobby-which is good, considering I don't sew and I'm really bad at crafts. Stay tuned. Subject to change without notice.

Now! With Half the Depression and Two-Thirds Less Whining!

2007-04-01T11:17:00.000-05:00

Ah . . . something fun.

From the lovely Fraulein N. we have a music meme:

List seven songs you are into right now. No matter what they are. They must be songs you are presently enjoying. Then tag seven other people to see what they're listening to.

I guess I tagged myself. I will give a bit of commentary although it's probably more embarrassing than if I said nothing. At least two of these songs are from The Devil Wears Prada soundtrack. Yes. I know. I'm that pathetic. Here we go:

1. Dropkick Murphys, "I'm Shipping Up to Boston"
2. P!nk, "Who Knew"
3. Rilo Kiley, "With Arms Outstretched"
4. Mocean Worker, "Tres, Tres Chic"
5. Moby, "Beautiful"
6. Bowling for Soup, "High School Never Ends"
7. G. Love & Special Sauce, "Cold Beverage"

Much like Fraulein N., I never tag people because, well, I'm afraid no one will do it and then I will be reminded of how ineffectual I am. So do it if you feel like it and then let me know! (Without the context, this last sentence could be really, really um, nosy and even vulgar.)

The Beginnings of a Confession

2007-04-01T10:04:00.000-05:00

This is my last semester of coursework. I'm supposed to take "comps" at the end of this summer and then begin the daunting dissertation process.

I don't think I will. I don't think I have it in me because I don't care enough.

For the past 15+ years, I always thought that eventually I would end up as Dr. Teacher Lady. It was just a matter of how, when and where. I always figured I would be a college professor. I could live "the life of the mind" and that's what I was meant to do.

And as soon as I started teaching college 3 years ago, I started to hear the distant sounds of my life-long dream falling apart, like chunks of plaster hitting the floor - some big, some small - crashing into smaller and smaller pieces. Now there is nothing left.

I don't mean to make this sound like a melodramatic suicide note, which I suppose it is. Let me begin again:

Jerry Seinfeld once said the best time to have a job is that brief window between the time you are offered the job and before you actually have to start doing it. In my case, that summer was filled with delusional fantasies about what it would finally be like to "live my dream."

At least I know I am not the only delusional person in the world: At every single wedding I have worked, some young drunken bridesmaid or guest comes up to me and says the same thing: "Are you the wedding planner? Do you have a card? Could I, like, talk to you sometime about how you got into this? This is my DREAM job!! I have ALWAYS wanted to be a wedding planner." I don't have much self-restraint, but I have enough to keep myself from saying, "Good gob, why!?!?!" I won't review the gory details since I have this whole series, if you will, but there is nothing glamorous or romantic about being a wedding planner. Nothing. I've swept trash at an amusement part and I've worked at a waste-water treatment plant and being a wedding planner is only slightly less offensive than those two jobs. So I understand that maybe it's a bit immature to think a job is going to be what you think it will be. In the case of wedding planning, I blame J-Lo for all the false perceptions.

Where was I? Oh, yeah. Confessing my immaturity about thinking that teaching college was going to be some cross between Educating Rita, Dead Poet's Society and the scene from Kinsey where Kinsey first taught his "marriage course." In actuality, it has been more like Animal House and Dangerous Minds, except I don't look like Michelle Pfeiffer and I don't play the guitar and/or have sex with my students. (Oh, boy. Get ready, Sitemeter. Here come the pervs!)

From the moment I started teaching, I kept thinking, "This is teaching college? This?" And for a while I told myself it was because I was new and I just didn't get certain things. Then I wasn't new anymore and I told myself that Inappropriate Sister and her brother were anomalies and the majority of students weren't like that. And to some degree, that was true. Except the anomalies took up more of my time than everybody else - and dare I mention that they got special and/or better treatment than my students who toed the line? Then I told myself it was just where I taught - a large research university not known for its tough admissions requirements and somewhere else it would be different. Except Mr. J. teaches at a small, private liberal arts college and it's no different. In fact, it may be worse because many of his students are spoiled, wealthy and possess an enormous sense of entitlement. At least mine are just toting around that sense of entitlement. I thought maybe it was just my students who were vaguely delusional about their abilities - i.e., the endless "But I've always thought I was a great writer" or "I studied really hard - how is that my grade?" except then I started reading Rate Your Students on a daily basis and I found it wasn't just me or my students. As an aside, today I find out that RYS will be outed in The Chronicle of Higher Education tomorrow and I am officially pissed. But I guess that is for another post.

In a bizarre turn of events, I picked up a consulting position last week. It has nothing to do with sex or education or sex education. It is a complete and total return to my old life, minus the job stability and medical benefits, but plus a whole lot more cash. I will be working 20 or so hours a week until this semester ends and then . . . I imagine I will pick it up to full time or more.

Mr. J. and I have had endless conversations about this. Me quitting my full-time job and becoming a full-time student has been extremely difficult for our little family. Going down to one real income tested our marriage, our patience, and certainly our ability to be "frugal." Generic tampons, anyone? I'm not completely whining about the situation. I know that few adults are lucky enough to quit their jobs full-time and indulge in the pursuit of their life-long dream. For that, I am truly grateful to Mr. J., to gob, to all my family and friends who constantly said, "atta girl!" and "you can do it!" And I suppose I can do it - I have done it so far - but I don't think I want to anymore.

Two weeks ago, I received an e-mail from a student telling me that he had been really ill and was not able to study much for the upcoming exam. Would this affect his grade? I e-mailed him back, politely writing that I wasn't sure if he had kept up with the reading, how he felt about his comprehension of the topics, etc., What was I supposed to say? Sure! Anyone with a few brain cells rattling around in their skulls can pass my exam with at least a B+! He got a note from his doctor, showing how he had spent some time in the emergency room which had rendered him incapable of sitting upright and reading a book. I wasn't about to do battle over this one, so I said fine - you'll take the exam when you feel better. Except Monday, the day before the exam I had a voicemail from him. (This must have been really urgent. Students rarely use the phone. Too much of a chance they'll actually have to talk to you.) It went like this: "Teacher Lady, I really need to talk to you. I have class from blah, blah time to blah, blah time. I need you to call me back today between 5:00 p.m. and 5:15p.m. when I will be waiting for your call."

I wasn't furious - believe it or not. I don't think there was anything to be furious about. Mainly, I thought two things: Interesting that he is just "too ill" or has been "too ill" to study, yet the day before he can't take the exam he's running all over campus and is apparently so busy he has exactly 15 free minutes. And then I thought: Oh no, my dear. Even though you might think I work for you because when you pay your tuition, you believe you are paying my salary, you don't tell me to call you within a specific 15 minute window. Because it wasn't a polite request or a suggestion. It was the same tone that a supervisor would use when telling a subordinate she must call the client at this time because that's the only time the client would be available. A very "don't drop the ball here" tone.

This isn't the straw that broke the camel's back - I think that happened a year ago. I also know that I do enjoy teaching - believe it or not. My evals are okay mostly (if not extreme) - both the official university course evals and the Rate Your Professor evals. But I cannot do this every day, every semester for the rest of my life. I will end up meaner and more bitter and more jaded than I already am. And that is not good. I may decide to proceed with comps and work on my dissertation at a snail's pace, part-time while I do my new/old corporate gig. Although I'm not sure I will ever technically "need it" at this point, giving up the life-long dream isn't easy. It's sort of like finally realizing you and a childhood friend no longer have anything in common. And maybe you don't even care for the childhood friend anymore. Suddenly, you realize her husband is a racist and she's picked up his racist tendencies or whatever. But you feel guilty and maybe you want to hang on to that friendship for sentimental reasons. I don't know.

But I do know I am tired of being a human lie detector. I am tired of trying to determine which stories are real and which are fabricated and of the real stories, which ones deserve my understanding and which ones deserve an "Oh, well. Sorry about your luck." Because at the end of the day, my driving philosophy has been to be as fair as possible. Which - I found it - is about as much of a pipe-dream as pain-free plastic surgery.

So there. That's my rambling, make-no-sense, not exactly clear "confession" of sorts. I will keep you posted, if you haven't deemed me a selfish, heinous sell-out and traitor to the educational system. Wait - although I will say this: I sure did miss wearing the Ann Taylor suits! It's awfully nice to be able to wear something cool and know it won't end up covered in chalk dust or dry-erase markers by the end of the day.

If you have deemed me a selfish, heinous sell-out and traitor to the educational system, that's okay too. I get it. Thank you for your readership. Good night and good luck.

At the Risk of Repeating Myself

2007-03-30T08:34:00.000-05:00

Fifteen years ago (YIKES! How the hell did that happen?), in a search for my first post-college job, I interviewed with a man who asked me if I was comfortable reporting to men. I think that's like asking a person of color if he or she is comfortable reporting to a white person. Most times, in most organizations, ya don't get a lotta choice about that kinda thing. I mean, really. If you're not comfortable reporting to a man (or a white person) your career opportunities are probably going to be fairly limited, especially in certain geographic areas. (Minnesota, anyone?) Of course I blathered on about how I had often reported to men and blah, blah, blah, stupid things, blah. Then interviewer boss guy said, "That's good. Personally, I prefer managing women over managing men."

(This is where I may have told this story before): I came home and repeated my experience to my stupid post-college boyfriend. "Why," I asked, completely flummoxed, "Would he prefer to manage women over men - like it was the easiest choice, ever?" SP-CB said, "Simple. Because most men think they're better than they actually are, and most women think they're worse than they actually are." Which brings me to . . . my point. Yes, you knew I had one you patient little readers, didn't you?

I may have mentioned the aftermath of posting grades. I hate it. I always feel like I'm sending a bomb threat to an elementary school when I click the "submit" button in the online gradebook. I try to do it late at night, but it doesn't matter - I always find several interesting/furious/incomprehensible e-mails waiting for me the next morning. A few days ago, I posted students' grades from their midterm. Within less than 12 hours, I got this e-mail:

Hi Teacher Lady this is Steve from your sexuality class on mondays. I was just wondering what questions i got wrong on the test and if i could possibly see you in your office hours whenever they are. I just wanted to see my test because i felt really confident about that test after i took it, because i studied that study guide really good and i just thought i would have done better on the exam than i did. So if you could please e-mail me back i'd appreciate it. Thanks!

Here's where the male/female thing comes in. Maybe. Much to the annoyance of my college roommates (and now my husband), I often had either NO sense of how I did on an exam, or had a strong sense that I completely bombed it. Just last semester, I told Mr. J. how I thought I had bombed a particular midterm of my own. He looked at me and said very clearly, "I do not want to hear it anymore. Do you know who are you? You are the girl everyone hated in undergrad. You're the girl who cried, 'Oh, I think I failed' after the exam and then skipped out of class the next week because you got the highest grade." It sounds harsh in this rendition, but believe me, it was more funny than anything. And sure enough, the next week I came home, tail between my legs, hoping he wouldn't ask how I did. Because I did really, really embarrassingly well.

But in undergrad, when I did kind of blow it, I always thought, "Yeah, that seems about right." Or, "Well, what can I expect - I pretty much suck and oh yeah - I probably should have read the book." It NEVER occurred to me that I might have done better than my grade indicated.

Is this a male/female thing? (Although I have had one female student send me a similar e-mail, mostly these are from male students). Or is this a Teacher Lady has no self-awareness and a pathetic lack of self-esteem thing? Maybe it just boils down to confidence, but when you've gotten a low "C" on a midterm and you find that somehow impossible, does that cross the line from confident to cocky? Or maybe just completely delusional? I don't know. What has been your experience with this? I'd like to know your thoughts as a student (at some point in our lives, we've all been students, right?) or as a teacher, if that's your chosen profession.

Cheers!

Teacher "I think I'm worse than I actually am" Lady.

The Game No One Wants to Win

2007-03-28T08:32:00.001-05:00

Remember how on the Johnny Carson version of The Tonight Show, Johnny and the band would sometimes play a game called "Stump the Band"? Johnny would walk around the audience and if an audience member could name a song that the band didn't know, that person had effectively "Stumped the Band" and then they got some kind of magnificent prize like . . . a year's supply of motor oil or something.

You know what's not a good version of that game? Stump the Dermatologist. I'll try to spare you the most disgusting details, so here's the short version:

The first week of January, I notice something resembling a large, uh, blemish, smack in the middle of my right cheek (the one on my face, pervs!) and I think, "Damn it all to hell, you stupid perimenopause! I've NEVER had acne anywhere but the T-zone! Thanks for nothing, bitches!" Then I begin the usual treatment. After two months, I realize that NOTHING is going to make this thing go away. Nothing. Well - to be fair, it's not like I tried Lysol or anything, but you catch my drift.

After a few lectures (mostly from parents, and yes, I'm 36. What's your point?), I make an appointment with the family dermatologist. After all, I have a family history of skin cancer like you wouldn't believe. Both sides. A family history of straight white teeth and 20/20 vision? Not so much. But I digress.

My lovely dermatologist, Dr. G. says, "I'm concerned, but I'm not urgently concerned." He didn't say it was cancer, so I'm not freaking out. "Okay," I say calmly, "What is it?" He holds my face in his hands and tilts my face up toward his giant light. Then he takes off his glasses and squints. Puts the glasses back on and sighs. "I really don't know." Uh, okay. You've been practicing dermatology for at least 25+ years and you don't know???!!!?

If you're the least bit interested in the outcome, here it is: Since I'm young (his words, but still) he said he doesn't want to do a biopsy and then come back and have to cut again. His exact words, "I don't want lots of scarring, so if I do cut it out, I'm going to cut once, and cut deep. It will hurt." Goody. But he wants to rule out cancer, so for one month, I'm slathering on this topical antibiotic cream. He doesn't think the festering sore on my face is a bacterial infection, but just in case it might be, he wants to go this route before we do any, um, cutting.

I really don't care at this point, I just want the thing gone. We're going on three months now. That's longer than I've had most of my boyfriends, for cryin' out loud! But what I do care about? Stumping the dermatologist. I imagine the only thing worse would be stumping the gynecologist. Those are the people who get their pictures taken and put into medical school textbooks for future study. If my guy asks if he can take a picture of this thing on my face, I think my answer will be "No. Not even in the name of science."

Off to grade papers! Sincerely, Teacher - "Good God, what is that on your face?! Someone call the news!" Lady.

Ask and You Shall Receive!

2007-03-20T12:54:00.000-05:00

Magpie asked if we now had no bathroom floor and no kitchen ceiling. That was the case. However, like a loser, I forgot the camera the day Mr. J. decided that "everything must go" - this is just a preview. Remember how I said I didn't want the 70-year-old floor and I did want a new bathtub? And Mr. J. said "HAIL no!" and I ignored him because I knew I'd get my way anyway? This picture is the very beginning stages. Look at the patch of light below the bathtub. That, my friends, is the kitchen window. You can also see a teeny patch of light green - that is my dining room wall. And of course, the ubiquitous f---ing construction trash bin. I hate you, construction trash bin! (Long story.)

Mr. J. and his father are re-doing the plumbing. Hence, they had to follow the plumbing to see where it went.

Actually, that's a lie. I have no idea what the hell they are doing at any given moment. I'm kind of along for the ride at this point. Other than clean-up crew, I'm not involved until it's time to spend money - picking the new stuff - woo-hoo! Anyway. Mr. J. had planned on somehow "replacing" this portion of the floor because the whole Don't Break the Ice thing was just too messy and opened up the "to replace or not to replace" bathtub conundrum. Then I came over the next day after a "We could use your help" phone call to find the bathroom floor gone-zers. And I didn't bring my camera!!!!!! Dammit! But here is a photo of the old tub. I took this picture standing in my kitchen. Doesn't it bring tears to your eyes? I showed this picture to a dear friend and she said, "This is the stuff of my worst nightmares. Truly.

Then we have a few more photos for your viewing enjoyment, now that I may have figured this photo thing out, thanks to your help! Well, sort of. See what happens when you don't blog for two months?

Behold, our bathroom in its pristine true "before" stage. In our house, "before" means "Before Mr. J. sees it." If you are old, and you live in Mr. J.'s house, beware. Your days are numbered! Hmm . . . I really hope that does not apply to humans, because then I'm completely screwed, and not in the good way. But I digress.

What I called "Bathroom after" before the tub and floor were removed. How silly of me. How could I think this was an "after"? Note back of Mr. J.'s head. Cute, yes?

And now, our NEW bathroom. The End. Kind of.

The Biggest Pile of Crap, Ever!

2007-03-19T09:04:00.001-05:00

Alternate title: Why Mr. J. and I may be single-handedly responsible for global warming.

If someone ever says to you, "Aw, that's just a bunch of crap!" or, "That's a load of crap!" You can say, "Actually, no. There IS a bunch of crap in Teacher Lady's garage. And it's really a ton of crap, too. You wouldn't believe it if you didn't see it."

Lest you say to yourself, "Aw, self! I've seen much bigger piles of crap," let me tell you this: The first two weeks after we had gotten the keys to the new "Love Shack", we rented TWO dumpsters. Two. That's a lot of dead bodies one could hide if one were into that sort of thing. But I digress!

They were filled almost immediately. I am learning that when you buy a 70-year-old house, you get a lot of charm. You also get a lot of stuff that doesn't really work so great. (Did I mention we have a coal cellar?!!! A COAL cellar!! I think that is just so neat. Not that I have the slightest idea what in the hell we're going to do with a coal cellar, but still. I've always wanted one.) The filled dumpsters were taken away and then we looked at each other and said, "Fuck. We still needed those."

Hence, our falling-down garage has become our dumpster du jour. See that big white thing at the bottom of the pile, in the middle? Well, sort of the middle. That, my friends is the ORIGINAL cast-iron bathtub. Yes, that's right folks. It had been glazed and re-glazed and re-glazed and as much as I love a good cast-iron bathtub, just LOOKING at it skeeved me out. Mr. J. at first said there was NO way he was removing it. Apparently, in one of his first "Handyman Special" purchases, he removed an original cast iron bathtub from the premises. I guess it was too wide to carry down the stairs so he and his father HOISTED it out the window. Does my hubby know how to rock the hizz-ouse or what!

So even though he said "No way!" - actually, he said, "Oh HAIL, no way!" - I wasn't worried. Now ladies, I feel like the mother in My Big Fat Greek Wedding. If I've learned nothing about Mr. J. in the last 4 years, it's this: His initial reaction, whenever I ask him for anything - especially anything home repair related - is this: No. The first 6 months we were married, I'd get very upset and pout and stamp around and mutter things about how he didn't really love me and blah, blah, blah. Then I realized: Usually within 24 hours, he'd return and say, "You know, I was thinking, with 'insert logical "manly" reason here', we should probably use ceramic tile, paint the bathroom lavender, insert "girly" request here." And somehow, whatever I requested makes perfect sense.

And do I know my husband, or do I know my husband because a few short weeks later, there were giant pieces of the now-dead cast-iron tub all over my kitchen floor. Remember that game, Don't Break the Ice? It was kind of like that. Mr. J. and his brother took giant metal manly smashing tools and just smashed the tub into pieces and smashed the floor underneath it and watched the whole mess fall down into the kitchen. Good times.

I would like to incorporate more photos of this whole process throughout this post. It can be done. Others have done it. However, when I try to add more pictures, even if I have my cursor in the "correct" place, Blogger still inserts the picture up at the top. Can anyone help me? Thanks!

More pictures of my worst nightmare to come!!!

How I Spent My Blog Hiatus

2007-03-18T13:20:00.000-05:00

It's the "after" picture of the kitchen in my new house! Don't you love it!?!? In the past month and a half I have pondered such important questions like: Am I up-to-date on my tetanus shot? How many days does it take for concrete dust to leave your lungs? And of course, What is the purpose of wearing a face mask when you still have black mucus running out of your nose for days after a weekend spent in the "destruction" phase?

Oh, my blog friends - how I missed you! Honestly, I did not miss blogging - much to my amazement. But I did miss your funny comments and sage advice. I definitely do not miss the voice in my head constantly yammering, "Could this be a blog entry? Or this? Or that?"

So what brought me back to the blogosphere, you ask? It is a stack of 40 ungraded papers staring at me, mocking me. Telling me I have neither the mental capacity nor the patience to slog through them. Blogging - I have realized - is an EXCELLENT way to procrastinate. I'm doing something. I'm not just sitting on the couch, slack-jawed while I wonder which one of the Real Housewives of Orange County has her own original God-given breasts. And finally, if I can't bemoan the current state of higher education in the blogosphere, then where, I ask you where am I to do my bemoaning!?

Because I know you're just itching for a fix, I'll give you a few student anecdotes.

This first one isn't even an anecdote. It's just a sentence that made me smile. And then weep for the future: "I got tired of feeling like my boyfriend's constellation prize." Dar-ling. Darling. Put down the iPod. Pick up a book. For cripes sake!!!! I think I had those words confused when I was in 5th grade. Oy.

Here's one that would have sent me into a blog tizzy just a few short months ago. And now? Look at me - almost calm, cool and collected, although still knowing in my heart that this will come back to bite me in the ass via course evaluations. Yet. It felt DAMN good. Let the anecdote regaling commence:

Leggy, thin blonde student wanders up to me before class begins. She is in no way a "dumb" blonde - she gives more of that rich, privileged, country-club and private school educated blonde vibe. No Mystic Tan for this gal. You can tell she's spent her whole life slathered in sunscreen. (And good for her!) And it was probably slathered on by the nanny or a bevy of servants.

Leggy Thin Blonde: Um, yeah. That midterm thing - when is that? The 14th or something? That's not going to work for me, so I need to reschedule. When can I take it?

Me: (For the first time in my teaching career, I think I am containing any sense of shock I may feel. Because perhaps I am not shocked. This is both good and bad) I'm assuming you cannot take it because of one of the four acceptable reasons listed in the university rules and regulations. You will also find these same reasons listed on the first page of the syllabus.

LTB: Blank stare. Eyebrow raise.

Me: Remember, death in the immediate family, severe illness with physician documentation, blah, blah, blah.

LTB: (Shakes beautiful blonde hair with perfect highlights) No, it's not any of those things. I just can't make it.

Me: (At this point - believe it or not - I'm trying to be flexible. Give me something here. Your dog lost a limb in a freak sled-dogging accident. Come on. Something.) Well . . . what, um, is it?

LTB: (Sighs exasperatedly.) Look, it's not like I'm going to the beach or something. I'm a skier.

Me: I - um, what does this have to do with the exam? I'm confused.

LTB: Look, I don't blame you for this stupid situation. (At this point I am DYING to say something sarcastic like, "Phew! What a relief, because I was worried!") I know it's not your fault.

Me: Completely bewildered stare. Stammering. All I can think is: Things are always my fault. Except in this case, she's telling me they're not, but I don't know what the hell isn't my fault. But the fact that whatever it is is not my fault is good news, indeed. I think.

LTB: I blame the stupid university for having spring break so late. I HAVE to leave early because otherwise the snow will be all melted. (Rolls eyes.) It's not like I'm leaving for break early to go lounge around on the beach or something.

Aside: This last statement fascinated me. Being neither a skier nor a sun worshipper, I had no idea there was some sort of hierarchy of spring breakers. Clearly, one is more worthwhile than the other. But it's not like she said she was going down to New Orleans to help continue to rebuild the city for dozens of homeless families. Then I could have maybe understood the eye roll.

Me: As much as I would like to help you out, I cannot. I'm guessing many students would like to leave (Four days early! Class is on Tuesday afternoon!) for spring break. If I offer you this opportunity, I would have to offer it to the other 74 students in the class. Since I don't live on or near campus --

LTB: (Interrupting) I don't live on campus either. I'm commuting all the way from Snootyville!

This was another statement that intrigued me. Was she trying to empathize with me? One-up me? Show that somehow we were peers? I didn't get it and was dying to say, "Hey! WASP Queen: We weren't talking about you!"

Me: Then you understand that me traveling to campus a possible 75 different times to accommodate all students would be both unrealistic for me and unfair to your fellow students.

LTB: (Looking at me with pity in her eyes) I'm not not going. (She said this to me kindly and with patience, like I might have just a wee bit of a developmental disability.)

Me: I understand that. You're certainly entitled to that choice.

LTB: So, like, how will this affect my grade if I don't take the exam?

Me: I don't know exactly how you're doing in this class right now. I guess it depends.

LTB: (Exasperatedly) Like, just pretend I have all the points so far.

Me: I guess, I mean, well . . . I'd have to look at the syllabus and get a calculator. I'm not really good at doing math in public.

LTB: I guess I'll have to figure it out. But I'm not changing my travel plans.

Me: Okay.

LTB: (Speaking kindly, as if I'm her servant and she just wrongly accused me of stealing her jewelry) That's all right. I understand you have to be fair. To the others.

Look at me! Minimal stammering! I've come a long way, baby!!

In other school-related news, we have two comments from last semester's evaluations:

Really neurotic

and

Amazingly inspirational. The best teacher I have ever had.

Those two comments have really given me pause. One person's "amazingly inspirational" is another person's "really neurotic." I type with some seriousness: I can no longer think that course evaluations have any validity. Well, they may for my department chair, and perhaps for the Human Resources team that handles employees with severe mental health issues, but they can't for me. If I'm going to spend two weeks being depressed and - accurately enough - really neurotic about the first comment, then I have to spend two weeks throwing myself a ticker tape parade over the second comment. Or, I could just decide that they average out to "average" or "zero" and go on with my day. Because really: Am I ever going to be NOT neurotic? No. And believe me, I've tried. Me and half of the licensed clinical counselors in the Western hemisphere have tried and failed.

My conclusion? Although I've been told this by everyone who has ever met me, I have finally realized: Not everyone is going to like me. And so what? And now I feel sorry for Sally Field and also ashamed that it took me 36 and a half years to grasp this concept.

Perhaps I should have started small for my first foray back into our lovely world. But I wanted my first post-hiatus post to have been worth waiting for. *&$(&#*@ people-pleasing tendencies! Okay, maybe I'll catch on in another 36 and a half years! I'll keep you posted.

'Til We Meet Again

2007-01-26T11:47:00.000-05:00

Well folks (or "folk" depending. I don't know I have more than one reader left after this week of non-posting), the time I thought would never come has come.

Not to be melodramatic, but there is just too much going on in my life right now for me to justify blogging regularly. I'll be taking a little hiatus, about 6-8 weeks - or perhaps more - starting today.

I'm not going to make a big "see ya" speech about how much your comments and support have meant to me over the past year and blah, blah, blah because I do plan on returning to the blogosphere, eventually.

Until we meet again, thanks for being such great and supportive readers.

Peace,

Teacher Lady

Why I Love Rate Your Students

2007-01-21T11:15:00.000-05:00

Believe it or not, I've sort of come to the conclusion that I actually like students. They may be maddening, uneducated, poor writers, rude and badly behaved, but at least with traditional-age college students, what you see is pretty much what you get. Except for bat-shit crazy. Not too many people actually appear to be bat-shit crazy, so that's always somewhat of a shocker.

Even with all the crazy stories, dying relatives, strange excuses, odors and bizarre pajamas masquerading as clothes, they're still better to be around than many university administrators. No - I didn't slip on a patch of black ice and smack my head on the ground - I guess what's been going on with my classroom lately has really given me a new found empathy for students and what they have to go through. Man, if I spent several grand on a class and had no desk??! I would probably do absolutely nothing but bitch about it on this blog, but you get the idea.

However. I still am not jazzed about some students evaluating my work and here's why. Rate Your Students nails it, every time!

Aimless prattle

2007-01-19T12:21:00.000-05:00

Sounds like somebody needs a dictionary!

As if these kids aren’t dealing with poor spelling all over the Internet, now they’re HEARING it on the radio. I will confess that I like the song Fergalicious. I know the video is completely antithetical to feminism, but it’s got a groovy beat and I can dance to it. I give it an 85. I’ve been trying to figure out exactly what the hell will.i.am. is spelling at one point and today I figured it out. He’s spelling tasty, but he’s spelling it wrong!!! (I know, I know, poetic license and all that stuff.) Tastey. Cripes. Just what I need. Good job, Fergie! Soon you’ll need to open your own school for kids who can’t read good because of all the damage you’ve done. Thanks for nothing, bitch.

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How to get a whole new wardrobe without spending a dime!

Disclaimer: This only applies to people who are unbelievably messy and disorganized, like myself.

In a rare fit of Virgo-like activity, yesterday I decided to clean out my closet. Guess what I found in my "to-be-dry-cleaned" basket? About 4 pairs of pants, 7 sweaters and 3 blouses that I had completely forgotten about. Like forgotten I owned them. Lately, I’ve been saying to Mr. J., “I feel like I’m wearing the same things over and over again,” and guess the fuck what? I was. Duh.

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A Family emergency

I guess my body has decided to ring in the beginning of every semester with a wicked-bad bout of insomnia. Sigh. Here we go again, folks. Hopefully this round I will neither hallucinate nor shower with my glasses on. Hence, I was watching Will & Grace at around three a.m. In this episode, they were at Jack’s graduation from nursing school and the? head nurse? someone? said the guest speaker wouldn’t be coming because she had a family emergency which of course, everyone knows is code for “vaj problems.” I couldn’t stop laughing. Today I checked my e-mail and a female student told me she would not be in class on Monday because of a family emergency and all I can think now is “vaj problems.” This is not good. And it’s going to be even worse if a male student tells me this because I will automatically think, “Oh, I get it. Your girlfriend has vaj problems.” I am probably too juvenile to be teaching anyone. Definitely too juvenile to be teaching college students.

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Oy with the siblings already

Guess what, gang? Another set of sibs is in my class this semester - young women who look so much like twins that I would think they were except one is nearly a foot taller than the other. And they sat next to each other and whispered and giggled the whole class. My hairy eyeball and pointed pauses were not enough to shut ‘em up. I wonder if I SHOULD have said something to show what a “hard-ass” I can be? Years ago, the department chair was female and she would advise all the female professors to wear high heels (not a problem over here!) and a suit on the first day of class (okay, THAT’S a problem. Do I really want my Ann Taylor suits covered in chalk dust? I do not) and act really mean. Because you can always get nicer, but you shouldn’t start out nice and then have to get mean. Or something. I get the gist, but who wants to be a raging bitch the first day of class? Okay, probably some people. All right, probably me, sometimes. Teachers – whaddaya think? Start out like a humorless drill sergeant and then back off as the semester progresses? Or does anyone else even put that much thought into their classroom “persona”?

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Yeah, we live like rock stars around here

A few years ago, some of my friends decided to – wait for it – put together a list of our most hated words. Do we know how to party or what? (Of course, that little endeavor led Mr. J. to christen me “Word Nerd” and I have been stuck with that moniker ever since.) I am in charge of the list. I still have it somewhere. If I’m not mistaken, there were categories. (Jealous yet? I'm sure this is how Aerosmith spent their Saturday nights pre-rehab!) “Products” that were made-up words like McGriddles. Corporate words and phrases like “post-mortem” and “ramp up”. Other made-up words and phrases that are complete bullshit like “wintry mix.” That one truly vexes me. I HATE when the weather person says, “Tomorrow, be on the lookout for a wintry mix.” Way to cover your ass. What the hell does that mean? Could be sleet. Could be snow. Could be cold rain. We don’t really know so it’s a wintry mix! Sounds like a party snack but a lot less fun. And finally, real words that just . . . blech! You don’t want to say them or read them and – perhaps worst of all – you definitely don’t want to hear them. Like probe. And kumquat. And finally the word that inspired this particular paragraph: Repository. Can we PLEASE call it something else? Something that doesn’t sound so much like suppository? I mean, really.

On a cheerier note, I would like to give a shout out to a few of the words I really, really like: Kerfuffle, mercurial, solipsistic! Hey kids! Love ya! Now I see why we didn’t have a list of words we loved. I guess it’s easier to be annoyed by something, especially if you’re me.

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Classroom Update – Now I’m Mad!

I have been moved to a different room in the same building because, well, I’m not really sure. But I no longer have electronic window blinds. The department secretary called me and asked me if I would be willing to change rooms. Why not? Isn’t that the same as asking if you’d like to see a different part of hell? “Do you have more than 75 students?” she asked me. I have exactly 75. Perfect! She put me in Room D for Dungeon. I went over there to check out my new digs and found exactly 70 desks. I counted three times. Yes, folks, 70 desks and not much room for one more, let alone five more. Now that shit pisses me off. I am mad for my students. They have paid boatloads of money to take my stupid class and personally? I think a freakin’ desk should be part of the damn purchase price. Mr. J. assures me I won’t have to worry because I will never have all 75 students in the class at the same time – but – hello? Exams? So . .. then what? They’re supposed to sit on the floor? I’m supposed to be so student centered that you can plagiarize the hell out of an assignment and not get in trouble, but sorry, we’re fresh out of desks. WTF?

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Got whole milk?

No? I didn’t think so. At the risk of repeating myself, I must address this Very! Important! Subject! Since it’s January every magazine and newspaper is featuring a “lose that holiday weight” article. And they all include advice on “how to lose 10 pounds in a month without even trying.” And they ALL say, “Replace whole milk with 2%, 1%, or even skim!!!” Seriously. Who are they kidding. Is there ANY woman in America who drinks whole milk?!!?! What is wrong with people? Disclaimer: If you drink whole milk, I am wrong and I apologize to you, madam. But I’m pretty sure I’m not wrong.

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On Being Brave – And How I Wasn’t

This is my only truly serious topic today and I’m embarrassed about it, but I guess if I sit in the giant confessional that is the Internet and then do 10 Hail Marys, 10 Our Fathers and 10 Glory-Bes, I will be absolved. Or not.

I am in some classes that are masters/doctoral level. After class, a bunch of us were standing around talking – I was the only doc student so I don’t know them as well as they know each other. One of the masters students was bitching about how disappointed she was in someone’s work. Apparently, one arm of the department was having a student conference and someone had volunteered to make a brochure. The masters student (let’s call her Janice) was going on and on about how it was the worst brochure EVER and she couldn’t believe that Molly sent it out to the whole group without her approval first and there were SO many things wrong with it on and on ad nauseum. Finally I asked, “Who’s Molly?” She replied, “You know, Molly Jones.” Molly is a doctoral student in my program. We started the program together and we have shared almost every class. I adore her. She is hard working and funny and articulate and a whole lot of things and just – what’s not to like? I also know that her partner of 11 years up and left her around Thanksgiving – for a man – and she is (understandably) devastated. But unlike me, she is very composed and together. In fact, you wouldn’t know she was going through something so horrible unless you really, really pushed her to admit something was wrong and maybe not even then. Point is – she’s not a complainer or a whiner or an emotional trainwreck like I would be in that situation. She and I discussed her situation a lot over e-mail during the holidays which – of course – were incredibly difficult for her.

I stood there and let Janice bad-mouth Molly to 9 other masters students while I did nothing. I kept wanting to yell, “Stop it! She’s an amazing human being and you have no idea what she’s going through and how dare you talk about her like she murdered children when all she did was send out a ‘disappointing’ brochure!” But I didn’t. As Janice raged on (BTW, in case you haven’t figured it out, Janice needs her meds adjusted and I am just a little bit afraid of her), all the other masters students nodded and clucked sympathetically and shook their heads in that, “Some people are just so unbelievable” kind of way. Finally, I interrupted her but it was too late. And I didn’t say what I wanted to say. The only thing I said was, “You need to tell Molly that then. She needs to know how you prefer to work so she doesn’t make the same mistake again. It’s only fair.” Janice nodded and agreed and I know she will never say a word to Molly – just continue to bad-mouth her behind her back. As the group dissipated, I stood there with a bad taste in my mouth. I didn’t stick up for Molly. I didn’t defend her. And you know what? I can pretty much bet that she would have defended me in the same situation. I don’t really believe in New Year’s resolutions, but this year I want to become brave. I think at 36, it’s a little overdue.

Just When I Thought I Had Run Out of Things to Whine About!

2007-01-18T13:15:00.000-05:00

One Day Only! All new fresh complaints!

Disclaimer: Believe it or not, I occasionally try to keep things in perspective. I do realize that if this is the biggest problem in my life right now I'm pretty damn lucky.

For those of you who teach at universities, I'd be interested to know how the classroom situation works on your campus.

I typically teach in the same building as my office/department. It's very nice. Every room (permanently) has all the A/V equipment my technologically-challenged little heart could desire. Even when I have my heavy bags of Play-Doh or my giant collection of feminine-hygiene products, I can just run up and down a few flights of stairs and make two trips. (Although Mr. J. likes to remind me I should never run up or down stairs - especially not with the shoes I wear!)

For some reason, this semester I was assigned to a new building. And not just any building - the sparkly, new, "Hey look at me! I'm an EXPLOSION of technology!!" building. Tried to get my class switched back to my building, but to no avail. Okay. This will be a challenge for me, but I can try to be a little flexible for once in my life.

Until. I found out how this building works. It is easier to get into the Pentagon, it would seem. The super-pimped out classrooms are kept locked at all times. Because I do not work for the psychology department, I am not allowed to have a key. Hence, every day before class, I must traverse the length of this massive building to have the secretary let me into the classroom.

Then, I must sign out the "A/V" cart (interesting, isn't it? The building is all pimped out so the students can watch on a giant screen - that descends gracefully from the ceiling in all its electronic glory - if I wanted to surf the 'net for the whole class, but there is ONE DVD player in the whole damn building and it's kept in a (locked) closet next to the secretary's desk.) Then I must wheel this cart (can't wait) through the building (including a ride in the elevator) to my classroom. When I am finished, I must return this equipment. WAAAH! Just typing this I realize how lame I sound.

But, I just went from walking down two flights of stairs five minutes before class, knowing my classroom would have everything I need, to adding 30 minutes to my prep time. No - that's not even "prep" time - it's just "getting into my damn classroom" time. I lost a half an hour and I want it back!!!!

Yeah, yeah, my life is so hard. I know. I'm obnoxious.

My Newest Goal

2007-01-17T13:07:00.000-05:00

Remember how I said I was going to start naming National Weeks?

Well, I think that's my new goal. To name a week, every week. Plus, I have to teach in about 3 hours and I can't think of anything else I should be doing right now.

Next week will be . . . National Blog About Your Favorite Under-rated or Low Profile Actor Week.

Here are some guidelines:

This actor should not be featured in People Magazine on a regular basis. And NOT on the cover; NEVER on the cover.

There probably has not been an E! True Hollywood Story about this person.

This person probably does not have a "combo" name like Brangelina or Bennifer II or Vaughniston or . . . you get the picture.

A regular presence on the Red Carpet? Not your favorite under-rated actor. (Is underrated hyphenated? I don't know. I don't think so now, but it looks weird all together like that.)

This person should also not be so obscure that only the brightest art film snobs will know of whom you blog.

For now, let us stick to both big and small screen actors. Perhaps we will do another week where we discuss that Great White Way.

For my entry (I'm getting a head start on next week, see), I give you:

Alan Rickman.

I love him. I love him as Professor Snape in the Harry Potter Series. I love him as Harry in Love Actually. I love him as Metatron in Dogma. And I love, love, LOVE him in the HBO movie Something The Lord Made. (Add to your Net Flix Queue - you won't be sorry!)

That's all. See how easy it was? Let me know when you blog about your favorite under-rated actor. You know, in honor of the National Week and all.

It's Finally Here! How I Dated My Husband: Part II in a Series

2007-01-16T11:21:00.000-05:00

Y'all have been so patient. Not like anyone has been banging down my door for second helpings. When I was writing about the blind dates from hell, my dear readers couldn't get enough of my misery. Schadenfreude is part of the human experience, I guess. I'm guilty.

Since it's a new year, I'm required to recruit new members to the Mr. J. fan club. Let the recruitment effort commence:

In case you haven't figured it out yet, I'm not just mentally unstable. I'm also pretty evil. After the whole Blane experience, I decided that for our first "real" date - i.e., unchaperoned by Steve and Suzanne - we would go to the same notorious cash-only restaurant that showed me Blane's true colors early on. Yes, heterosexual gentlemen readers (all 4 of you). I set a trap. However, please do not use my opprobrious act as evidence that all women are manipulative shrews.

I was running late for our date. (Okay, if you've been a reader for more than a month, I don't need to type that anymore, do I? Let's just assume that's how every story begins if I'm to leave the house, okay?) I was not dragging my feet late, just oh-my-gosh-I-like-this-guy, so I must change clothes 17 times late. It was also raining unbelievably hard outside; I knew I wouldn't find a parking space very near the restaurant. Hence, I resigned myself to parking several storefronts down and seeing Mr. J. for the first time in a week wearing the costume of "drowned rat." So much for the 17 outfit changes.

One last refresh of the lipstick in the rear view mirror and then my heart stopped. Some weirdo was here to kill me before my date. Someone was standing next to my car. Did I have my cell phone? Who should I call? Is, "Someone is standing outside my car and it's dark and raining" a legitimate reason to dial 9-1-1? And then I looked again. It was Mr. J. - holding an umbrella and a dozen teeny tiny pink roses. I opened the car door while mentally praying all I had done was check my lipstick and not, um, my nostrils or anything else embarrassing. Mr. J. spoke first, "I didn't mean to scare you. But it's raining so hard and I wasn't sure if you had an umbrella." I didn't. Then I stammered, "But, I'm, um, 10 minutes late. How - where - were you standing outside for the past 10 minutes?" He nodded. "Yeah. It wasn't bad at all." He's an excellent liar sometimes.

Then he handed me the roses. "You probably don't want to bring these into the restaurant, so if you want to put them in your car now, that's fine." He was right again, and I did put them in my car.

Do I really need to tell you that he had cash for the restaurant? Because of course he did. Stay tuned . . . many more nauseatingly romantic tales to come!

Because she is patient and lovely

2007-01-14T10:36:00.000-05:00

which is more than anyone can say about me!

The lovely Ms. Shawnee politely tagged me nearly a week ago. I did not ignore or forget her tag, even though it may appear to be the case.

Finally - here we go!

Feast #126

APPETIZER

What comes to mind when you see the color orange?

Um, oranges?

SOUP

Did you ever get in trouble while you were in school? If so, what was it for?

When I was in eighth grade, I was trying to be cool and said "hell" in front of a bunch of fourth graders. I got called down to the fourth grader teacher's classroom and was accused of saying "H-E-double toothpicks."

SALAD

Which topping(s) make up your perfect pizza?

Is there any such thing as an imperfect pizza? I think not. Although, I do enjoy pineapple and banana peppers. But come on. That's like saying, "What types of bills make up your perfect million?" I'm not going to gripe if you give me hundred-dollar bills instead of thousand-dollar bills.

MAIN COURSE

Do you believe in UFOs/aliens/etc.? Why or why not?

Well, yeah! If humans are it, the whole universe is kinda screwed, don't ya think? Somebody's gotta be smarter than we are!

DESSERT

What color is your bedspread/comforter/quilt?

Our duvet cover is cream, with white and dark beige leaves, from when I was going through a "Japanese decorating theme" phase. Side note: NEVER buy towels off the Internet, no matter HOW cool they look. Hello, sandpaper!!

A Trip Down Memory Lane Inspired by Guilt

2007-01-12T15:38:00.000-05:00

Minnie is SO not loving having another dog around. Let me rephrase that. Minnie hates Bugger so much that if she could speak, she would say to me, "You ruined my life, you ignorant slut." In fact, yesterday Brady was shamelessly pandering for some cuddles and just as I leaned down to pet him, Minnie walked in the room. I swear, the look on her dog face was the same look female actresses use when they're portraying a character who walks into her own home to find her husband in bed with another woman. Horror. Heartbreak. Disgust. Disbelief. Then again, perhaps I'm giving Minnie too much credit. Or not enough credit to the likes of Markie Post and Tori Spelling.

My hope was that after fostering Bugger for a while, we'd just sign the papers and say, "Yeah, we're just a bunch of suckers for a fuzzy face and a bouncy gait. We'll take him." But Minnie is struggling with sharing me with any other dog-like entity. And I feel pretty damn bad about that.

Then I think about my own childhood and I feel even worse! After all, I am doing to Minnie what was done to me, lo these 32 years ago, when my parents dethroned my only-child ass by bringing home a baby brother. I can still vividly recall the evening: I had been spending days at my grandmother's house and evenings at my beloved Nana's house while my poor mother was in the hospital with her 3-week-overdue pregnant stomach. During dinner at Nana's, the phone rang. A few minutes later, Nana hung up and whooped with her characteristic enthusiasm, "Hooray! You have a baby brother!" and then she picked me up, hugging me and spinning me around. She set me down and I can still remember looking at her doubtfully. "Are you sure?" I said, "Because I was really hoping we could get a dog instead." She probably laughed and hugged me again and gave me a great pep talk about the joys of being a big sister - I don't remember, but I do remember I wasn't buying it. If being a big sister was so great, why did everybody go for the hard sell?

That night I had a very vivid dream during which the Blue Fairy of Pinocchio fame (don't ask) told me that my new baby brother would immediately need some Flintstones chewable vitamins and an overnight bag that was soft like a stuffed animal. The next morning my dad came to pick me up and bring me back home where the ~~intruder~~ baby and my mother were waiting for us. In the car on the way home, I told my dad I was ready to assume big sister responsibilities and thus, we would need to stop at the drug store and pick up some Flintstones chewables and then a nice soft overnight bag.

Heaven bless my father. That man didn't protest. Hell, he didn't even blink. Here's a man with a four-and-a-half year old daughter who's clearly already headed for the loony bin and a giant blob/baby impersonator waiting at home with an exhausted wife and what did he do? He drove us straight to the nearest Revco (I believe) and plunked down some of his hard-earned cash for Flintstones chewables and an overnight bag that was shaped like a lady-bug. No questions asked. Because I guess it was more important to him that my request - although inspired by a fairy-tale character - seem reasonable to me. And perhaps because he wanted me to get off to a good start with my big-sister responsibilities. Or maybe he didn't want me to feel stupid and insignificant in light of the new family situation. I don't know. Maybe I'll ask him one of these days.

So if Minnie tells me that Bugger needs an overnight bag and some Flintstones chewable vitamins, and she knows this because a fairy-princess told her during a dream, I am all over it.

A Good Talking To

2007-01-11T18:44:00.000-05:00

Well, folks, apparently it's National De-lurking week and those of us who blog (and lurk) obsessively are supposed to de-lurk. I've tried to de-lurk on SOME blogs, but what with the (literal) pissing match going on around here, time has been kind of tight.

So, forgive my lame attempt at bossing you around and just de-lurk already, would ya?

Also, I'm going to start inventing national "weeks". It would seem that anybody can invent a week and I have now deemed next week national, "Patronize your local hardware store" week in honor of us getting our keys for our new house and my grudging reliance on and long-standing resentment of Home Depot. (Shakes fist at sky, muttering about big-box stores and the same-i-fication of America. And not a WORD about the same-i-fication invention. Somebody has to make up new words -why not me?)

Urgent Cry for Help!

2007-01-10T17:54:00.000-05:00

Remember when I said I was toying with the idea of getting a foster dog? No? Don't care - too frantic to link to it.

Anyway, foster fella - let's call him Bugger - is here. In the past 24 hours, he and my biting Wonderdog have gotten along okay - not great, but okay - except for ONE thing. It has been a poop/pee fest and really only in the last 3 hours. But DAMN if these two dogs aren't determined to mark up this whole rental unit. Other than taking them out compulsively (which I'm happy to do if it will prevent more little presents), is there anything else I can do?

Those of you who have multiple dog households and/or foster dogs: Does this subside? Minnie has been the culprit in 2 of the 3 recent marking episodes and I honestly can't blame her. This is HER house and I guess nobody really likes to share. And she is the only female dog I've ever seen who leg lifts (outside, on trees, but still. A leg lift's a leg lift.) So perhaps I should have expected this.

Sorry so short and perhaps badly written - must dash off to store for more carpet cleaning supplies!!!!

Oh, the Humanity!

2007-01-08T22:51:00.000-05:00

Alternate title: You know it's time to seriously consider shutting down your blog when the following search brought some very unfortunate person to your site:

Warts on anus look like Nerds candy.

Oy Vey Gevalt on a Stick!!!!!!

What the FUCK is wrong with people?!?!

And yes. I know that if the freak show parade wasn't already marchin' right through Teacher Lady Town, they sure as hell are now, thanks to me typing out that Google search in its horrifying entirety.

Here is what I (someone who is supposed to be a "sex educator" and hence, not easily shocked) want to know: If you have warts on your anus, does it MATTER what they look like? I mean, seriously. Dude. (Or Dudette.) Genital warts can be transmitted anally. I've seen more than a few cases in every single textbook review copy I've ever gotten (Thank you, textbook publisher people. I paid you boatloads of money during my undergraduate years and this is what I have to show for it now. Pictures of genital warts. Gee, you shouldn't have!) and again I ask you: Genital warts, anal warts, any kinda warts - who CARES what they look like!? Run for the hills and get those suckers frozen off, right!?

I thought I was scared for our future. I didn't know a damn thing about scared, people. Now I'm scared. If you need me, I'll be under my bed. With some Vicodin and a fuzzy blanket.

It's Really Just Psychology

2007-01-08T14:10:00.000-05:00

I love my new hair stylist. Have I mentioned this? Love. her.

Because I am so ~~annoying~~ fascinated by other people's jobs, I asked her about a million questions when she tackled my terrifying root problem on Thursday night. She told me about one of her continuing ed classes, which was called something like, "The Psychology of the Chair." Psychology of the Hair would have worked just as well for a title, I think, but nobody asked me.

Apparently, the instructor told my stylist and all the other stylists that when you have a new client come in for a consult, if s/he cannot figure out what s/he wants within the course of a 10-minute conversation, it is time for your calendar to suddenly become full-to-bursting. You are not accepting any new clients - sorry, but you just realized that right this very second.

"What's the logic?" I asked, completely intrigued. "Well," she replied, "Someone who cannot decide on a haircut or style within 10 minutes of discussing it will never be happy with anything you do. Ne-ver. With anything. And I learned that years ago and never forgot it because it is 110% true." Now I was absolutely hooked. "Really? It's that simple? You can tell if someone is going to be a huge pain-in-the-ass within 1o minutes!? That's a miracle!" She shook her head. "Not really. Don't you think that's true in life in general?"

I thought about it. I realized that I know a lovely business woman who owns a catering company and has managed to determine in a single consult if a bride will ruin her life and somehow then steers the bride to another caterer.

My advisor told me last spring, after about my third or fourth run-in with Inappropriate Sister (do I really have to link to her?) I should have expected it. "Why?" I asked, again mystified by things that people seem to know that I don't.

She has been teaching college for 30 years. "Didn't you tell me that she e-mailed you the first week of the semester, begging you to add her brother to the class?" This was true, I had made the fatal mistake of adding her brother to my roster. Then she (Inappropriate Sister, not my advisor) traipsed in late the first day of class and then spent the remaining minutes of class giggling and talking with her brother until I gave her the stink-eye and finally, the verbal bitch-slap.

But how did my advisor know that would happen? Here was the Yoda-like answer: "I have found - fair or not - that students who have problems at the very beginning of the semester - just getting into the class - will be a problem all semester long. I know it seems harsh, but it always seems to work out that way. Now, when my class is full and someone is begging me to add them, I just say no. It's never worth it in the long-run. It's basically a fool-proof way to determine who is going to drive you nuts all semester long with an endless array of problems and issues."

I thought about this today because when I opened my e-mail I had about a three paragraph plea, explaining some kind of problem, begging me to let her into my (already closed) class. The semester hasn't even started. Ordinarily, I would just e-mail her back and write, "Sure, no problem. People usually drop anyway - not a big deal." But then I thought about my very recent conversation with my hair dresser. And my not-so-recent conversation with my advisor who has been doing this a helluva lot longer than I have. And now? Not so sure . . . I will you keep you posted.

On a similar note, anybody else in education or any other field have a "fool-proof method" for determining if a student/client/customer is going to be a nightmare? I find this stuff fascinating!

Bossy, Yet Still Polite

2007-01-05T13:04:00.000-05:00

I learned two things yesterday from FirstCityBook.

1.) Some people think I am opinionated. And I'm all, "Wha? Huh!? Me?"

2.) And then I learned that, "The BBCNews recently reported that many of the blogs that have been created are generally abandoned within the first month or two because the blogger discovers how little he/she has to say after all." (Must I use proper APA format when citing other bloggers or is it okay to say that FirstCityBook over at Red Moon Cafe wrote this?)

And then I thought, "People think they don't have anything to say? Really? Or it only takes them a month or two to realize this? How is this possible because I have something to say all the time. In fact, sometimes I have so much to say I can't sleep at night, because of all the things that need sayin' flying through the frantic and crowded ghetto that is my brain." And then I thought, "Oh. Perhaps that is what he means by opinionated."

Here is what I have to say today. It's about a very critical and important issue and this is why my blog will go on into infinity - I'm opinionated about very critical and important issues. Today's critical and important issue: My very important and opinionated thoughts on a bumper sticker I saw yesterday. The sticker in question read:

Please don't put my American flag on your foreign car.

Because I'm trying (honest! I swear!) to be less "knee-jerk liberal" and more "open to multiple opinions" I first identified what I liked about the bumper sticker. It is polite. I mean, really? How many bumper stickers (or any stickers, for that matter) have you seen lately that begin with "please"? Not that many, right? After all, manners are social lubricant. (I didn't make that up. Someone important said it. Maybe Miss Manners? Ann Landers? Carolyn Hax? If you can tell me the answer, you get a first-time subscribers only Teacher Lady newsletter or whatever other non-prize I can think to make up).

So, if you start your bumper sticker with "please" you have my attention.

Now here's where I get all Teacher-Lady-Opinionated on your asses: My flag?!?! My flag. Oh, my - aren't some of us presumptuous! Listen, mister, unless your name is Betsy Ross, (in which case, way to go on the nifty reincarnation as a pick-up truck driving white dude) it ain't your flag. I believe it is our flag.

Yeah, that's right - our. I said our. As much as it might vex you, I am an American citizen, too and hence, it is also my flag - but I believe it is a collective "my". You see, I was born in this country. As were my parents and their parents and their parents before them. No, we're way too ethnic and loud and messy and dysfunctional to have been Mayflower passengers, but still. Americans, just the same. I have worked crappy jobs since I was 16 years old which means I have been paying taxes for more than half of my wretched life. I have a Social Security number. I vote. In almost all elections - even local ones, sometimes, if it's not raining.

I pump money into our local economy by trying my damnedest (how do you spell that, anyway?) to patronize locally-owned businesses and avoid giant chains. (Although it's getting harder every day.) I rescued a dog that no one else wanted and I pick up her dog turds after each and every neighborhood excursion. I have car insurance because it's the law - but many people don't anyway - and also so I can be a good citizen. I have volunteered for countless organizations (all American, by the way - American Red Cross, the Arthritis Foundation, the Ronald McDonald House, and our local (and American) county dog shelter.) I give blood when I don't get turned away for being borderline anemic and when I had a real job I also gave money (and not just time) to charitable organizations. Oh - and I teach. American college kids who are just going to end up hating me for telling them they can't have a word bank and actually need to learn seven words, but I try.

But. I drive a "foreign" car. Does this mean that everything else I do that I consider part of being a good American citizen is crossed out by my choice of fuel-efficient vehicles? Somehow, it is no longer "my" flag - it is now "your" flag and yours alone? And working and paying taxes and being born here and all the other things we use to determine citizenship don't count because . . . of what I drive? Oh - and also, I forgot: You sir, and you alone can lay claim to the American flag. In fact, why even call it the American flag anymore? Let's just call it _______ (insert your name here)'s flag? Okay? That seems fair.

So that's today's opinionated rant. And also, even though I'm not sure I agree with the bumper sticker, I do appreciate that it asked politely.

2006: A Retrospective

2007-01-04T10:31:00.000-05:00

Because ~~I'm so lazy~~ 2006 was such an eventful year, I thought I'd do a month-by-month retrospective, highlighting all the big events in my fascinating life during the glorious year of 2006. Plus, this keeps me from having to come up with an original thought. Ready? Here we go!!

January was my inaugural blog month. I also barely survived my first cruise! Could my life be any more interesting!? (And also? That is NOT a picture of me, as someone asked. People - that is a DUDE! Granted, a very tan, very clean-shaven, rather dainty dude, but a dude all the same.)

In February, I proved to the world my psychic friends' network talents by prematurely awarding Inappropriate Brother and Sister the PITA Award. (If I only knew what awaited me . . . sigh. Ignorance truly can be bliss.)

In March, I took it upon myself to educate the ignorant, unwashed masses (not you, gentle readers - definitely not you!) about the proper way to discuss (or not discuss) a woman's state of . . . motherhood? Parenthood? Child-free, uh, dom? Okay, I just decided to get all bossy and rant and stuff. What else is new, really?

Home repairs were a big theme in 2006, and April was the month during which I almost hung myself with an extension cord. Finances were also tight when some extra vet bills made their way onto the balance sheet. Fun. Dog tranquilizers + Home repairs = wee bit o' insanity!

'Tis May! The lovely month of May! Where do I begin? May is the month during which I realized that when you teach at a B-list school, retention of students is more important than anything else. More important than fairness, or ability, or, well, anything. Although our kitchen was finished and lots of other wonderful things happened, May is the month that I realized I might be marching into the wrong profession.

Ah, June. My part-time summer jobs as wedding planner and student advisor kicked into full swing. Enjoy the trip down memory lane!

July: More weddings and more classic Teacher Lady bitchiness. What would I do without this blog and a whole bunch of anonymous people to boss around with my priceless unsolicited ass-vice?

August wasn't good for me or my poor dog. We put our house up for sale and the world's strangest realtors took it upon themselves to fill our house with little signs that, ah, stated the obvious - to say the least!

September: A move + the worst case of insomnia I've ever had = bad, bad things!

I found out during the month of October that no matter what you do (or don't do) in a Human Sexuality class, you're going to offend someone. Seriously. These kids expect to watch porn in my classroom, but a human uterus? Now that's offensive.

November = I'm a NaBloPoMo dropout. It was kind of fun while it lasted, though. And it did bring us the beginning of a new series, How I Dated My Husband.

And I guess the big news in December was . . . I got bangs! Just kidding. We bought a house. Not a bad way to wrap up a crazy year, if I don't say so myself.

Now, all you bloggers go back and do the same thing. Review your year so I can read the highlights in 30 minutes or less. Go! Get out of here, go on! And then come back and tell me when your retrospective is posted. Peace, y'all.

My New Year's Resolution

2007-01-03T12:54:00.000-05:00

This will not be an entertaining entry. It will probably not even be clear or well-organized. Not exactly the way I had hoped to kick off the new year, but even Teacher Lady can mature. Or suffer from incurable clinical depression. To-may-to, To-mah-to. But I had a strange, brief experience yesterday that has me (perhaps inexplicably?) rattled and depressed.

Yesterday I went to Borders to drool over some of the home decorating magazines. After all, we are soon-to-be the official proud owners of a 70-year-old house and what else can you do with your spare time, sanity and disposable income (all of which are in short supply) besides gut and renovate, gut and renovate, gut and renovate some more? (Seriously. I’m taking suggestions. Since Mr. J. and I got married, that is all we do. I think other people have hobbies and children to use up their spare time, sanity and disposable income, but I’m not quite sure.)

The home decorating magazines are kind of obnoxious which is why I can’t decide whether I love them or hate them or love to hate them. You know the kind – an article entitled, “Bathroom Must-Haves!” includes “must-haves” like a ceramic tile floor with a heating element underneath so your wee tootsies never feel the winter chill when stepping out of a fabulous (also must-have) spa-quality steam shower. Did I mention on every other page is an ad for the European towel warmers – also listed as a “must-have” in the ubiquitous bathroom “must-have” articles – explaining how now you can bring the luxury of your recent European vacation home with you? I’ve never been to Europe. Perhaps if I get one of these towel-warmer thingies, I will feel like I have been to Europe.

As I was mopping my drool off the shiny cover of the newest issue of “Fabulous Things for Your Home That Most of You Will Never Be Able to Afford” I overheard – no, not overheard – I was exposed to – a most disturbing cell phone conversation. Not disturbing like seeing a parent beat his or her child in a supermarket, but disturbing nonetheless.

This young woman was speaking so loudly that for a second I thought she must be speaking to me, until I turned around and saw her less than five feet away from me, on her cell phone, facing the only blank space of wall in all of Borders. Her first conversation went like this:

“Yes, I’m 22 years old and I’m 5’1” and weigh 126 pounds. I have a very high percent of body fat and looking in the mirror is extremely upsetting to me. I’d like to have some of my problem areas liposuctioned. I have some savings and I have some insurance.” Because I’m so nosy, I had to turn around and get a better look at this young woman. I only saw the back of her, but quite honestly? She looked fine to me. Then again, maybe her abdomen was the “trouble area” but still – liposuction at 22?

I tried to block out this conversation because I didn’t want to leave the drooly decorating magazine area. After all, can’t you call plastic surgeons from just about anywhere in Borders? Much to my relief, she finished the conversation quickly and I was able to get re-absorbed in an article about Italian! Ceramic! Tile! It’s not just for Billionaires anymore!

Then, she dialed another number. (Does she have numbers for all the local plastic surgeons programmed into her cell phone? Why was she doing this at Borders? Trying to hide this desire for liposuction from roommates or family members?) The second conversation was longer and louder and even more disturbing – this girl was losing it. You could hear her choking back the tears as she talked about how much she hated looking at herself in the mirror. And – again – the stats – I’m only 5’1” and I weigh 126 pounds, I have a very unhealthy body fat ratio, etc., etc., and I just can’t stand myself anymore.

I finally grabbed some snooty decorating magazines and ran to another part of the store, but this woman’s public angst and self-hatred sticks with me, even 24 hours later. I have a new year’s resolution now: Stay home. Don’t venture into the outside world unless absolutely necessary. Not only are people in lots of psychological pain, they are comfortable (unwittingly?) sharing it with the outside world. I don’t know what rattled me more – the self-hatred, the tears or the complete and total willingness to have this conversation in public.

I understand that just by being a member of society, one will see and/or hear things that one does not want or need to see or hear. I worked one summer during college at an amusement park. Seeing strangers vomiting? Yeah, no one needs to see or hear that, ever. And when you work at an amusement park, it becomes pretty routine. Not tolerable, ever, but somehow still routine. Car accidents, domestic spats, all kinds of things come into our line of vision when we are the least prepared (emotionally/physically/psychologically) to see them. But something about overhearing this young woman’s conversations was more disturbing than seeing a stranger vomit a chili dog after staggering off of the Hurricane. (And believe me, I have lots of experience with that one.) In a way, I felt like I had accidentally walked in on this young woman while she was in her therapist’s office. Or a department store dressing room. Or a public restroom stall. And all I could do was cringe in embarrassment and horror and apologize profusely and back away with my eyes closed.

I’ve read and heard about people overhearing inappropriate cell phone conversations in places where they (the over-hearer) are trapped – i.e., a bus, the subway, an elevator, etc., This was kind of a first for me – although I wasn’t exactly trapped – and I’m sure it won’t be the last inappropriate conversation I overhear. But what is happening in this world? I know I’m not asking anything original or deep – or at least not anything that hasn’t already been asked publicly by everyone from Oprah to Andy Rooney. Is this just now a part of modern society? We will be exposed to everyone’s secret, painful private business, whether we are interested or not, on a regular basis? And – although I don’t really want the answer – would I have been a Good Samaritan – or at least a better human being – if I had approached the young woman between calls and said something like, “I’m sure you don’t realize it, but we can all hear your conversation and it sounds like something you would probably like to keep private?” Or would that have been rude and somehow have implied that I was eavesdropping and therefore the one at fault? After all, I could have walked away as soon as I got the gist of the first conversation.

I think I have a slogan. 2007: The year of the tiny but powerful earplugs. Happy New Year, indeed.

Teacher Lady and Small Children: Who is the Messer and Who is the Messee?

2006-12-29T13:10:00.000-05:00

On Christmas Eve, I got to spend some quality time with my cousins' children. I have two wonderful cousins, Kyle and Kristen, (yes, they are siblings and no, their parents didn't hate them) and they each have two wonderful daughters. Kyle has Octavia and Sybill and Kristen has Rachel and Haley. All four girls are blonde and under the age of six. As far as kids go, I like them. They're about as well-behaved as kids can be and plus, I don't spend a lot of time with children so what the hell do I know?

First, let me explain some things. No, I don't have children of my own - that I know of - and no, that doesn't mean I hate all children. I just hate yours. No, just kidding. Oh, Teacher Lady, put DOWN that vat of eggnog, you silly!

For those of you who are new around here, I will review: When you don't have children and you don't burst into tears every time someone asks you when the wee rugrats will make an appearance in your life and you're not actively filling out adoption paperwork, people then assume you don't have children for one reason and one reason only: You hate them. Are you kidding me? I LOVE children! I think they're especially delicious served with Fava beans and a nice Chianti. Kidding. Again. Sheesh!!

Kids are the same as other grown-up human beings as far as I'm concerned. Some are funny. Some are cool. Some don't dress so well and some are just really annoying. Some are bossy and rude and some always seem to have really bad breath. Some, I think I can say with some confidence, will end up on the front page of the Times because of their involvement in an Enron-type scandal and you can almost always tell which kids those are within five minutes of meeting them.

Since I think kids are basically smaller adults with shorter attention spans and worse haircuts, I try to treat them like smaller adults with short attention spans and worse haircuts. None of this goo-goo gah-gah crap for me! No sir. Just basic conversation.

In my experience, children are fascinated by the only adult in the room who is not interested in them. That adult is usually me. Again, not because I hate children, but mostly because I don't know what to talk about. "Hey, Timmy. How's your car? I just got my brakes replaced. Guess how much THAT set me back? Oh, you'd rather pick your nose than have this conversation with me? Okay, never mind. You and your crusty nasal fluid just go back to enjoying each other."

When I arrived at my aunt's house for Christmas Eve, Sybill (who is 3) ran up to me and yelled, "BOO-yah!" Wow. Pretty political for a three-year-old, but you're never too young to support our troops. "That's the spirit!" I yelled. "Go MARINES! BOO-yah!" Sybill looked at me like I had just vomited on her, burst into tears and ran away. Kristen had witnessed this whole thing. I just looked at her. "What? Okay, Aunt Kristen. What the hell did I just do?" Kristen rolled her eyes. She then pointed at the television. "ROO-dolph! Not BOO-yah! Rudolph. Sybill loves Rudolph. All she wants for Christmas is a stuffed Rudolph. You just scared the crap out of her. Congratulations." Okay then.

Later we were all playing a card game and I was trying to get Rachel to help me cheat. When you're 36 and you cheat at cards, people hate you and you never get invited back. When you're 4 and you cheat at cards, it's freakin' adorable. Mostly. Unless you're Jeff Skilling, Jr. and then it's a completely different story. Rachel was sitting next to me and I couldn't reach the deck of cards so I asked her to pick two. She did and then handed them to me. They stunk. (The cards, not the kids.) "Now Rachel, these are very bad cards and Santa is going to be VERY unhappy with you." Kids are so dumb. Sarcasm is totally wasted on them. Without missing a beat, she took the cards back to the deck, slipped them back in, pulled out two new cards, handed them to me and walked away. All very stealth-like. Kristen, Rachel's mom, witnessed the last few seconds of this transaction. "What just happened?" she asked me. I acted all innocent. "Nothing. I just told her she got me some bad cards and Santa was going to be very unhappy with her." Then I did feel a bit guilty. "I didn't think she'd believe me. What? Did I like, totally traumatize your kid?" Kristen was laughing so hard tears were pouring down her face. "Are you kidding? I think that's hilarious!"

See? It's genetic. Unwarranted sarcasm and emotionally manipulating pre-schoolers? It's in our blood.

At one point, Rachel and I were coloring together. She stopped coloring and then looked at me very seriously. "Can I tell you something?" she whispered. Now this is my kind of kid. Totally up for gossiping with virtually unknown relatives. I looked around for signs of interlopers. "Yes," I whispered. "Hayley is really stupid. She doesn't even know the words to Jingle Bells." Then she stared at me to see my reaction. I totally understood. From one big sister to another, I completely got where she was coming from. I nodded. "Yeah. Little sisters are usually pretty stupid." She looked at me and smiled, extremely satisfied with my response. "Yeah. Only Mommy and Daddy don't know it yet." I looked around. "Don't worry," I whispered back. "They will. It's only a matter of time." Vindicated, she asked if she could use the green crayon. I handed it to her. Coloring carefully, she said, "Hayley doesn't even know what color a Christmas tree is. She thinks it's blue." I rolled my eyes. "God, what a dumb-ass."

Okay - everything up until the "God, what a dumb-ass" comment is true. But don't think I wasn't tempted. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I don't have kids. And also? Why you should never let me near yours. Today's magic phrase is "'Bad influence."

Boo-YAH!

Answer Key

2006-12-28T21:27:00.000-05:00

The answers to yesterday's fascinating question(s) are:

a.) I wish. (Although Moobs is a freakin' riot.) No, in our family we celebrate the birth of our Lord not by buying each other expensive leather goods, but by bidding on a house that has been repossesed by the local housing and urban development department.
b.) Sadly, yes. There is nothing that says Christmas like a bright red, completely chapped nose and upper lip, is there? No, there is not. This holiday portrait is brought to you by the lovely folks at Kleenex, Chapstick and Vicks' NyQuil.
c.) I'm not sad, exactly, but the answer is yes. (I gave you a big fat hint, did I not? See my response to "a" people.) Pictures will be posted shortly. You do the math. A house that is 70 years old needs . . . work. Much, much work. But supposedly it is worth it because of all the "quaint" features like falling down garages and ripped up driveways.
d.) See above.

Off to consume copious amounts of drugs and chicken soup. Cheers!

Test Question

2006-12-27T23:22:00.000-05:00

Teacher Lady received which of the following for Christmas? (Check all that apply.)

a.) Coach hobo bag
b.) Nasty cold
c.) "New" 70-year-old house
d.) None of the above.

Answers tomorrow . . .

A Christmas Meme

2006-12-22T11:48:00.000-05:00

Saw this over at Terminal Degree and thought I'd play along. And I'm also tagging everyone else who sees this - Tag! You're it!

1. Eggnog or hot chocolate? Eggnog. Although I can’t remember the last time I had real eggnog. The Starbuck’s eggnog latte is vomitous. (And yes, vomitous IS a word. A word that I just made up.)

2. Does Santa wrap presents or just put them under the tree? Wrap, silly. It’s an agreement he made with the wrapping paper manufacturers years ago.

3. Colored lights on tree/house or white? White.

4. Do you hang mistletoe? We had a mistletoe ball in the house I grew up in and I never quite understood what it was. Wait – did I answer the question?

5. When do you put your decorations up? This one is tricky, since we don’t have a lot of decorations. Mr. J. was (apparently) Ebenezer Scrooge in a past life.But my mom made me a GORGEOUS Christmas tree this year and we picked it up the first week of December.

6. What is your favorite holiday dish (excluding dessert)? Um, anything that I didn’t make myself. Which is pretty much everything.

7. Favorite holiday memory as a child? One Christmas morning, my mom had hidden our “big” presents. We were supposed to find them and I said, “Give us a hint! But not just a regular hint. Make it like a rhyme or something from a scavenger hunt!” And that woman rattled off a three-line rhyming clue that actually made sense. Many points for that and many more points for indulging my nerdiness.

8. When and how did you learn the truth about Santa? I still (honestly) don’t like to talk about this. Let’s just say I was in third grade (I know – not the sharpest knife in the drawer back then) and I came home from school the day I found out and told my parents and then I cried. Then I flopped on the couch and stayed there all night, crying. My parents took turns coming into the living room and trying to console me, but to no avail. I think I cried all night because it was the first day I realized that life wasn’t nearly as amazing and magical as I thought. And I knew it was my first step on the path to being a “grown-up” and I wasn’t the least bit interested in being a grown-up. I can’t explain it. I was just really, really traumatized.

9. Do you open a gift on Christmas Eve? We have always had Christmas Eve at my maternal grandparents’ house, so yes. Christmas Eve has pretty much always been a bigger deal than Christmas Day.

10. How do you decorate your Christmas tree? This year, my mom made me this total "Martha Stewart-looking" tree decorated with white lights. It also has burgundy and gold bows and burgundy and gold ornaments. I love it.

11. Snow! Love it or dread it? Both, I guess. Love it Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. Then it can go away. And not in that painful, slow melting way where there are blobs of gray snow everywhere until about April.

12. Can you ice skate? How are we defining “skate”? I learned a bit as a kid, then in college took an ice skating class as a way to meet the hockey players (they taught the ice skating classes and we were all in love with the hockey players.)

13. Do you remember your favorite gift? My senior year of college, my dad asked me what I wanted for Christmas and I said I would like a Claddagh ring. He said, “Oh. You mean like a Pina Colada ring?” (And he’s the Irish one. I know. I mean, seriously. What on earth is a Pina Colada ring!?!?) So I didn’t exactly get my hopes up. Then Christmas morning, I opened a little ring box and there was the Claddagh ring to end all Claddagh rings – WAY more than I had expected. Gold, with an emerald heart which was surrounded by diamonds. I was both surprised and touched.

14. What's the most important thing about the holidays for you? Honoring family traditions and trying to create new ones.

15. What is your favorite holiday dessert? My grandmother makes these “stained-glass window” cookies. They’re only for Christmas and I love them.

16. What is your favorite holiday tradition? Brunch on Christmas morning at my parents’ house. Stockings and omelets? What could be better?

17. What tops your tree? A cream colored ceramic star with the word Believe written on it in gold script.

18. Which do you prefer, giving or receiving? Giving. And not because I’m that deep. Actually, I'm pretty selfish because I only like giving when I KNOW I’ve found the PERFECT present for someone. Something that maybe they didn’t even know they wanted or needed, but it’s just perfect. Then giving blows the doors off receiving. When it’s out of obligation and you don’t have a clue (exhibit A: My brother’s ex-fiancée ) then it’s no fun at all.

19. What is your favorite Christmas song? Religious: O Holy Night. Secular: It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year.

20. Candy canes? Only if nothing else is around.

21. Favorite Christmas movie? Love, Actually and The Christmas Story. Oh – and Elf! A new favorite.

My Epitaph

2006-12-19T11:49:00.000-05:00

I want to be cremated, but just for fun, I came up with my epitaph this morning. Ready?

Here lies Teacher Lady. She asked the important questions in life, like:

What the hell is wrong with people?

A few causes of my most recent aggravation:

A lovely female student came to my office hours to double-check on her grade. She's very intelligent, a physics major and really did pretty well - a B+ - which, compared to my other students isn't too shabby. We chatted, had a nice conversation. Then she asked, "Can I give you some feedback about the course?" Sure. I love nothing more than to get feedback from my students. I put on my professional face. "Certainly!" She really liked my class. Her only complaint was the quizzes. What, specifically, about the quizzes bothered her? HAND-TO-GOB quote: "Well, we never really knew what you were going to ask about, so if you wanted to do well on the quiz, it meant you had to read, like, the whole chapter. If it weren't for the quizzes, I would have gotten an A." Wow. No wonder so many of my students struggle - my intent was for them to read the whole chapter. Well, duh! Shame on me!

This semester, I had another former sex worker come talk to my class. Let's call her Lauren. She was very different from Kiki. Polished. Articulate. Totally mini-van-driving soccer-mom looking young woman. Currently wrapping up her master's degree in epidemiology. In order to work her way through an expensive private college, she was a call girl for two yeas. She was neither ashamed nor apologetic. Actually, she was more interested in educating my students about sex workers in other countries in the world. Lauren was also very knowledgeable about the difference between making sex work legal and "decriminalizing" it. Then she spoke about sex workers' unions and told us that in countries where sex workers are unionized and have health benefits, rates of HIV/AIDS and other STIs (in the entire population, not just among sex workers) are significantly lower than countries where sex workers are not unionized.

And guess what? My (female) students hated her. After she left, the room became a sea of waving hands. A quote: "She was not at all ashamed of herself! And she's crazy if she thinks she's going to get me to feel sorry for her!" Luckily, for me, another student raised her hand. "I don't think Lauren was trying to get us to feel sorry for her; I think she was just trying to explain that sex workers need insurance just like anybody else." Then another (very dear) student said quietly, "I guess if she would have seemed more embarrassed or said she was sorry, I might have been able to like her. But she just wasn't sorry at all!" That was the consensus - at least from the female students - the men were conspicuously quiet. It's okay to come to a class and talk about being a former sex worker as long as you cry and thank the Lord and act ashamed and sorry. So last week, I was reading papers about students' reactions to Lauren, and the same female student who made the first comment about Lauren not being ashamed of herself wrote, "This lady should have gotten a REAL JOB and not tried to take the easy way out! I have a full-time job at a restaurant, and I have a car and I work hard so I can go to school. THAT'S what she should have done." Here's why I had to ask, "What the hell is wrong with people?" (And my answer was, honestly, I hope it's just that she's 20. When I was 20, I was judgmental and sanctimonious as all hell. I pray she grows out of it.)

I shared her writings with Mr. J., who came up with an excellent response of his own: "The easy way out? Somehow, I think risking your life and subjecting yourself to an array of sexually transmitted infections like AIDS and Herpes is probably a lot more scary than getting yelled at because you forgot the mayonnaise on some guy's sandwich. Easy way out. Ha, ha, ha. That's really funny."

And finally, we have an annoying female DJ on a local radio station who does this evening show during the week. I try not to listen to her, but sometimes when I'm flipping around on the dial, I inadvertently hear her faux-new-agey, simpering, condescending voice. This poor young woman called in and said she's like to dedicate a song to her mother, because at six in the morning, her mother was undergoing surgery for (can't remember what kind of) cancer. Let's call the DJ Leila. This poor girl said, "I just want my mom to know I'm praying for her tonight and I thought if I played her favorite song, it might make her feel better." Annoying, condescing Leila said, "Oh, honey, no. A song can't cure cancer. Nothing can make cancer better." I don't THINK the poor caller meant that the song Wind Beneath My Wings had magical properties and was going to cure her mother of cancer! So caller girl stammered and stuttered and said, "Well, you know, I just thought that maybe she might relax if she could listen to her favorite song from me." Again, stupid Leila said, "Oh, honey, no. She's going in for surgery tomorrow morning. She probably won't even sleep a wink tonight. No song is going to make her feel better."

Lady. Lady! Isn't that your JOB?!!? To play whatever the hell people ask you to play and act like you're happy to do it!? Sheesh! Shut yer piehole and play the damn song. I ask you, "What the hell is wrong with people?"

Crack Open a Bottle of Whine! The Semester is (almost) Over!

2006-12-17T16:02:00.000-05:00

Also called: Mindless Mental Meanderings of Someone Who Has Truly Lost "It." If she ever had "it."

Except for a "situation" I have with one student, I am done.

All papers graded (with much bleeding from my eyes). All exams graded. All grades entered into online grading system. I already experienced the dreaded "morning after."

"What is the morning after?" I hear you ask. Well, it's like this. I post all the grades online and then I go to bed. When I wake up in the morning, I have about 27 e-mails in my inbox from students, most of them time-stamped between 1:00 and 4:30 a.m. (I often wonder if this means they were taking a study break from their other finals or if they were drunk when they sent them - with some of the spelling, it's really hard to tell.) Although they all include various (non-sexual) propositions, threats and questions, it's all the same: I'm surprised. How did I get the grade I got? Can you change it? I really need a ____ (insert grade here) if I'm going to (choose one): get into the basketweaving program, keep my financial aid, stay in the basketweaving program, not get kicked out of school, get in the honors program/stay in the honors program, keep my football scholarship, not be killed by my parents and then forced to work at Burger King, etc., And it always ends the same way: I really thought I did better than that on the final. Can you tell me which questions (out of 50!) I got wrong? 'Cause again, I really think I did better than a 48%.

Sigh. And you know what? It's never, ever the students who showed up to every class, did their reading and turned in every assignment on time.

It's the students who missed 50% of the quizzes, left early whenever there was a last-minute beauty pageant, the students who turned in 2 out of 3 papers late and "forgot" to turn in the third one at all. It's also the student who had every damn thing go wrong in their lives in one semester.

Disclaimer: I am not manufactured from 100% heartless bitch. I understand that certain things (especially bad things) happen in clusters - some would even say they happen in threes. For example, my junior year of college, before school even started, my parents announced they were getting a divorce. Then, the second day of classes, my boyfriend dropped me like an anvil on someone's foot. And, finally, the dog I'd had for 13 years died you know, just in case God thought I wasn't enough of a weepy, non-functioning mess.

I'm talking about the student who has an ovarian cyst, an aunt killed in a freak scuba diving accident, witnesses a crime and is subpoenaed several times during the semester, gets in a car accident, has to go home to help her boyfriend while boyfriend's father must have serious surgery - he's getting a wart lanced off his big toe - AND she has to plan her parents' 25th surprise wedding anniversary party. All in the same semester.

On a completely different note, I have a question for other educators. Back in my first semester of teaching, someone complained and told my program coordinator that she was disappointed I didn't spend enough time talking about abstinence. Not sure if I was supposed to fly the abstinence flag during every class, or conclude each week with a rousing "Pet your dog, not your date!" chant or what. But, since I had never taught college before and I was (if you can imagine!) even more sensitive than I am now, you would have thought someone reported that I was bringing puppies to class just to kick them in front of students, say, "This is what I think of YOU, except you're all too big for me to kick!! Bwah! Ha ha ha!" and then top off the whole thing by tossing the puppies out the third-floor window.

My advisor made an excellent point: You've got to consider the source. But this also means, when you get raves in your evals that "Teacher Lady's class was all that and a bag of chips," you STILL must consider the source. And determine this equation for yourself: Students' opinions - positive and negative - mean X percent to me in my own evaluation of my teaching skills.

I haven't quite figured that percentage out yet. But what I have noticed is that the last two weeks of the semester, I get at least half a dozen (if not more) e-mails from students. In the e-mail, they're typically asking for something or asking a clarifying question about the final exam. Then, they end the e-mail with: I just want you to know I really enjoyed your class. It was the only class I looked forward to attending and you did such a great job and I really learned a lot. Blah, blah, ticker-tape parade for you.

The first semester teaching, when I got a few of these e-mails, I was all, "Aww . . . melty, melty." Then, over time, I started to realize there was a correlation between how poorly the student was doing in class (pretty high -although not 100%) and how flattering their e-mail was.

I think I forgot what my question was, and my brain needs to be removed to sit in its charger for the next 4 weeks before I can use it again, but if you're still following: Do you take e-mails like this with a grain of salt? I should probably just ignore them, but sometimes they just irritate the crap out of me. Like, do you think I'm so gullible that I don't notice you're carrying a 64% in this class and it's the last day of the semester before finals week? And then I'm bummed. I've only been doing this for two and a half years andI'm already one of those professors who doesn't trust students as far as she can throw them? How do you find the balance between cynical curmudgeon and clueless optimist? Don't ask me why I care, because I don't know that either.

To Foster or Not to Foster? That is the Question

2006-12-15T12:13:00.000-05:00

Okay, gang. I need your two (or five or ten) cents here:

Mr. J. and I have been talking about adding a second dog to our family. However, as you know, Minnie the Biting Wonderdog is quite a special case. On one hand, her foster mother (this is over 3 years ago) told us that Minnie won the "plays well with others" award (meaning other dogs, not humans.) This is the same woman who told us that she couldn't believe that Minnie would snap at or bite anyone (and Minnie snapped at 8 people in 7 days). Yet, when I pressed Delusional Foster Mom, she admitted there were a "few" circumstances under which Minnie might snap. Like, during the day. Or at night. Or when there were people around.

Minnie, Mr. J. and I have made GREAT (but very, very painfully slow) strides in the past three and a half years, but we're afraid adding another dog to the mix might be like dethroning a beloved only child who has been the only child for at least 5 years (wait . . . now who does THAT sound like? Oh, yeah. Me.).

So, we've found a dog on Petfinder.com who is in a "death row" situation and needs to be taken out of the pound before he meets his untimely end via the doggy gas chamber. Since we're not sure how things will go, we didn't want to make a permanent commitment just yet, but thought it might be nice to foster this fella until he either finds his permanent home or we all decide his permanent home is with us.

Here's where I want your advice: Have any of you ever fostered a dog? What is it like? Is there any way to know what to expect? Or can you only expect that you don't know what the hell to expect? Do you get too attached and then have your heart ripped out when they finally get adopted? How do your other dogs (if you have any) handle the situation? Is this something you would recommend doing?

I patiently await your wise counsel.

What? Everybody else is doing it!

2006-12-13T17:52:00.000-05:00

All my brain cells were used up during finals week and Mom 101’s hilarious post inspired me to do another one of my own on searches. (Wait – I guess I did learn something from my students – plagiarism is okay if you admit you’re doing it! Or if everybody else is doing it, hence the title of today's post.) Hers is brilliant. Mine is a cheap imitation, at best.

Lately, a lot of serious pervs have been showing up here. I teach human sexuality. Not sexual perversion combined with “how to be the worst speller, ever.” But I give you ANOTHER collection of searches that brought folks here, but this time, I've added my oh-so-hilarious commentary.

santa sex
It IS the most wonderful time of the year!

Sexy mom teach has soon video
WTF!?!?!?

Bookreport on extremely loud and incredibly close
Book report is two words, you cheating little bastard.

Unexpected kidnapping
Who knew this was such a common problem? At least 3 searches this week!

Sex lady.
Well, I guess . . .

Brooke Shields nude
Ew. Not Brooke Shields nude, because I’m sure she does Pilates and everything, but this person MUST be over 40 and now Brooke Shields has a husband and two children with completely incomprehensible names and SHAME ON YOU!!!

Showed my ass
As long as it wasn’t in church, I think you’re probably okay

ALL KINDS OF POSTCARDS THAT YOU CAN BIE
Good God, person. Stop shouting. And also: Stop skipping your spelling class.

Break up with your hairdresser.
See? And you all said I was being silly. Other people worry about these things, too.

Gracious george gingerbread
He sounds lovely. I would like to meet him. And then maybe bite his little cookie head off.

Fall in love with teacher.
This seems to be a common problem. But personally, I never had any teachers I could have fallen in love with. I mean, yikes. I must live in a state where it’s the law that teachers must be unlovable.

Position fellatio.
You know how to spell it, but you still have to look it up? Interesting.

Sex movies.
Seriously. What with all the FREE! HOT! PORN! Flashing ads that come at you when you type those words into Google, I seemed like your best bet?

A sexy lady with no eyebrow and hair on the head.
Congratulations. You have just won the “creepiest search of the year” award.

Gold mons.
Oh dear. Talk about being all dressed up and no place to go!

EDITED TO ADD: I had to delete all references to a little four-word movie that Jess was kind enough to Wiki for me. Of my past 100 Google searches, about 80% of them were NOT looking for my insightful writings on college teaching and . . . I was starting to get REALLY creeped out. Just, um, eew!

Too Tired to Be Really Mad

2006-12-12T00:14:00.000-05:00

Warning: The spelling and grammar in this post will stink up the joint. Please ignore to the best of your ability. Time permitting, I will come back tomorrow and clean up my mess.

Guess what, folks? I have the answer to the question: Why do students think my class is going to be the easiest A they've ever earned? Even when I say, sternly and repeatedly on the first day of class, "Students in this class seldom earn As." (Like the trick with my vocabulary? Back when I was a NOVICE novice (now I'm an "advanced beginner" as we used to say in gymnastics - wait - maybe I have that wrong. Too tired to care), I would say, "Students don't often GET an A in this class." Now I use the word EARN. Pretty tricky, huh?)

My course is actually required for a few majors at the university. And apparently, every. single. academic advisor in a few of these programs tells students, "It's a totally easy A. It's exactly what you'd expect a sex class to be." Question: What DOES one expect a sex class to be? Dirty jokes and dirty movies? I honestly have no idea. However, the students who have friends who have taken the class get the real dirt: It ain't easy at all. Or to quote one of my students, "Yeah, I heard you've got to like read and write and stuff." (Bless their wee hearts).

I don't want to immediately make assumptions - and I won't - but CRIMINEY! Are academic advisors really encouraging their students to take this class as an "Easy A"? I worked in the advising center this summer - and we were told repeatedly: NEVER tell a student ANY class is "an easy A." You may not know a particular instructor's requirements, you don't know a student's interests or strengths or weaknesses. It's almost a guaranteed method of creating a bad situation.

I know the academic advisors in one of the departments - they all have master's degrees in college student personnel or counseling and they all seem like reasonable people.

I've heard almost universally this past week from all of my students (in one particular department) that this class (not just my section) is touted as "The easiest A you'll ever get". No wonder I get whiny, bitchy evals complaining that my class was "too hard" and "way too much work."

Now: The question: How - if I bother to take this on - do I find out what (if anything) the academic advisors are telling students without coming across like I'm super-sleuth or offending some very nice, very hardworking people who are just trying to make a difference in the world and get paid a little something at the same time? And I'm so loopy right now I just realized something else: I guess, who cares? Because even if I went in with colors flying, I have no control over what anyone says to any student once I'm out of the room. Actually, I don't have control of what anyone says when I'm in the room. On the other hand, I feel a bit as though I'm the victim of false advertising. Unless I'm deluding myself (entirely possible) and all students complain about the amount of work in any given class.

I'm off to bed - I'll leave it up to you to solve and I expect an excellent answer in the morning! Ta!

The Green-Eyed Monster Rears Its Ugly Head at Mr. J.

2006-12-09T15:58:00.000-05:00

I’d like to think jealousy is not one of my many flaws. Although when I was in third grade I did confess to Father so-and-so that I was jealous of my cousins’ piano, envy is probably the only one of the Seven Deadly Sins I don’t wrestle with on a regular basis.

I once worked with a beautiful, thin, fashionable woman. Her husband was extremely successful. She was known to show up to work wearing $800 Burberry shoes. She was a self-confessed Botox junkie and she always looked (as a co-worker said), as if she had just stepped out of a magazine. (I think the permanently tattooed-on eyeliner and lip liner helped.) Her children were healthy and adorable. Her husband had a Porshe just for “driving around on weekends, for fun.” Their house was a stunning century Tudor that included such necessities as “a library.” Both she and her husband together were seen several times a year in the society pages of our newspaper and local magazines.

Imagine our surprise when she came in one Monday morning, not her usual cheerful self. Her weekend, she said, had been terrible. Hubby’s boss had invited them over to dinner and she couldn’t believe hubby’s boss’ house. It was so completely amazing that she cried in the car all the way home. She cried all day Sunday, too. As she said, she just had a terrible case of “The Green Meanies.” Within three months, she and her husband had bought another house about six times the size of a small country and she was already feeling much, much better.

The point of this story about someone you don’t know and will probably never meet is this: This is so far from me, I cannot begin to tell you. If someone I know and like has something fabulous, I’m happy for them. If someone I know and don’t like has something fabulous, I think, “Oh, well. Them’s the breaks. Karma doesn’t always work.” I’m not the Cruella DeVil in the corner, pulling out my hair and howling, “WHY isn’t that MINE?!?”

So how shocked was I yesterday when I realized I was not immune to jealousy?

Mr. J. brought home his course evals. With his department chair's permission, he wrote his own evaluations (in addition to the department evals the students also completed) and used them to ask questions he felt the department evals didn't address.

All of the evaluations can be summarized in this short (and somewhat - but not entirely - facetious paragraph):

Mr. J. is the most amazing Calculus teacher ever in the history of Calculus. I would have failed this class had I taken it with any other professor (this is an actual quote and almost all of his students wrote it or something like it). I already signed up for the second level of this class for next semester and I have held several Novenas to assure that I will have him as my instructor. Otherwise, life has lost all meaning and I will kill myself. I wish he were my dad. Although this class was a lot of work, for the first time in my life I understand Calculus and I think that we should throw Mr. J. a ticker-tape parade through the center of town. Totally worth all the work we had to do, because now I am smart. As long as you showed up to class and kept up with the reading and the homework, you could do a good job. All hail, Mr. J., King of Freshman Calculus. Let me know if he needs a kidney ever, 'cause I am first in line.

After reading his evals, I was so jealous I could barely see. So incredibly, hatefully jealous. If I recall correctly, I think that envy is when someone has something you want and you covet that thing. But jealousy is much, much worse - you see someone who has something you want and not only do you want that same thing, you want them to not have it and maybe you wish a pox on their house. Or something.

Mr. J. has been teaching college much, much longer than I have. Since 1991 (plus or minus about 4 years or so when he moved out of state.) One of the things that made me fall in love with him was his passion about math. Because really? It's easy to be passionate about the things I'm passionate about - teen pregnancy, AIDS, abortion, etc., But to be passionate about math!?! Now that's a special person. Usually I know someone who knows someone who happens to know one of Mr. J.'s students and the reports are always the same - "He really loves Calculus - you can totally tell and then he makes you love it, too." How can I not love a man who makes 18-year-old kids love Calculus, right? (By the way, I'm treating Calculus like a proper noun for some reason and I'm not sure I'm right. But I'm too jealous to really care at the moment.)

My evaluations? They're kind of all over the place. Not this universal, "All hail Teacher Lady for making us want to always use condoms!" I always get a few, "This is the best class I've ever taken ever in my whole life and should be required for all students at this university," and one from this summer that made me smile " She deserves a 10% raise!!" (Although why or how that student came up with 10%, I'm not sure.) But overall, I get this kind of stuff:

This class was too much work. The tests were too hard. I don't understand why she gave us the quizzes at the beginning of each class. Why didn't she teach us the chapter and then give the quiz at the end of the class? She was really tough on our papers. If you didn't write the required 5 pages then it really affected your grade. We shouldn't have been expected to show up so much. She shouldn't have included content from guest speakers on the exams. It wasn't fair to those of us who couldn't show up to class during sorority rush week. Why did she make us do all this extra reading from recent external sources? Completely unfair. Just reading the textbook is enough work, thank you very much.

Now I'm going to explain the obvious, but it still bugs me: Students have math anxiety. They take calculus (oh - I must be really miffed - no longer a proper noun) expecting to suffer. On some level, they've had enough experience with math to know that they can't expect to skip class, blow off reading, not keep up with homework and understand what the hell is going on. Here's what else is interesting to me: Out of approximately 18 students, Mr. J. said one of them will get an A, two or three will get a B and the rest will get Cs and Ds. And yet, they're singing his praises like they all got As. When you take calculus, you're thrilled with a C. Mr. J. said he figures that most of them (with another prof) would probably have failed the class. But his students feel that universal satisfaction of working hard to understand something and actually understanding it - it's not about the grade. (At least that's what it would seem based on his evaluations since most of them included a line like, "This is the first time ever in my life I've understood calculus. Praise be to Mr. J.")

As I've said before, I think students expect my class to be all about porn and Jell-O shots so when I expect them to do all the same things Mr. J.'s students do - keep up with the reading, be prepared for class, complete assignments, hell - show up for class - then I'm the Wicked Witch of the Sex. I mean, honestly? What student would miss a calculus class for an emergency fashion show? Probably only the student who was going to drop or fail anyway. Yet, I suppose my students never expect that they will have to learn about various ART methods (Assisted Reproductive Technology for those of you playing along at home) and are completely flabbergasted to find questions about it on an exam.

I think even I'm exhausted by my whining, moaning and kvetching so I'm going to abruptly end this post. I just find it ironic that clearly people expect to work hard in math classes and any other class (well, at least mine - no, make that especially mine) can be the ultimate blow-off and you should get an A simple for existing and breathing. Bah. All hail the end of finals week.

Cringe-Worthy Moments

2006-12-07T19:09:00.000-05:00

The past 2 weeks in our residency class, we’ve had to “pretend-propose.” Technically, the purpose of residency is to complete the first 3 chapters of your dissertation with support of a faculty member and your peers. I “proposed” last week and although it’s cliché, I can’t think of anything else to write except, “Boy, am I glad that’s over!”

One of my fellow doc students – and it’s one I adore – was faux proposing yesterday (can we call it faux-prosing?) and she was extremely nervous. Like, looking green and sweating nervous. “Teacher Lady,” she said, “You don’t really seem to get nervous when you present, do you?” I was trying to enter some quiz scores into my electronic gradebook, “Mmm . . . no, not really,” I said distractedly. Clearly she was looking for more support beyond what crumbs I was giving her. “Why not?” she pleaded. I had to think about this for a minute. “Honestly?” I asked. “I have publicly humiliated myself so many times in so many ways, I think I must be used to it. Hell, it could be some kind of new mathematical equation: Me + any public setting + lots of people = complete and total utter humiliation with an alpha level of .05 and a .25 likelihood of physical comedy.

Now she was looking much more interested and much less green. “Like how?” she asked brightly. “Oh, Allison. I’ve had so many ‘cringe-worthy’ moments, we could stay here for hours and you’d never hear all of them.” She begged me for just a quick few humiliating moments to keep her distracted until her faux-prosal and after all, what are friends for?

I told her of the time in undergrad when I was presenting at a local conference for the student version of a professional organization. I was truly nervous and I (still) have the habit of running my hand through my hair when especially jittery. During this presentation, in front of about 50 or so of my fellow undergrads (some from my school, most from other schools within the state) I ran my hand through my hair. I forgot that I was wearing a lovely cuff bracelet that had a hinge. A hinge that got stuck in my hair. And not in a subtle, “Oh, let me wander off quietly and you’ll never see me pull this thing out of the back of my hairline” kind of way. Oh, no. My life doesn’t work that way. It was stuck on the top of my head, about in the middle. Sticking. Straight. Up. And it actually kind of hurt. Pulling it out would have resulted in my ripping out a good portion of hair and probably some of the skin on my scalp. For about 5 seconds there was a collective horrified inhale and then everyone burst out laughing. And laughed and laughed while I tried to pretend nothing was happening and careened ahead with the end of my presentation. Have you ever tried to give a presentation while having a large gold bracelet stuck to the top of your head? (Never thought you’d get ask that question, did you?) After that, pretty much anything else feels like a rip-roaring success.

I must have been strolling down undergrad lane because then I launched into the story of the day at the end of my freshmen year when I was returning from some business-y networking type event. I had a long walk across campus on a lovely spring evening and I passed at least 100 people. Almost all of them smiled at me brightly and said, “Hi Teacher!” and “Well, hello, Teacher!” and as each additional person greeted me by name I started feeling better and better about myself. “Well,” I thought, “This might be a fairly big campus, but clearly I’ve made quite an impression over the past year. People really know me!” The trek took about 20 minutes and by the time I got home, I’d never felt more confident or proud of my 18-year-old self. And then I walked in the door and my roommates fell on the floor shrieking with laughter. “Please,” one of them said, laughing so hard she was bright red, “Tell me you did NOT walk across campus like that.” I turned around, expecting to see my skirt tucked into my underwear or some such humiliation. No. I checked the bottom of both shoes for toilet paper or small children. Nothing. What? They both pointed at my chest. I was wearing an ENORMOUS name tag with “TEACHER LADY” written on it in bright. Red. Marker. And all caps. Of course. Even worse? I wasn’t so much humiliated as I was sad that I didn’t have all the new friends I thought I did.

I regaled her with the tale from my corporate days about my videotaping a training class. This was back in the day when I was terrified of anything faintly stinking of technology and when a video camera lived on a tri-pod. I was taping people who were much higher up the ladder than I was. And it was the first time I was conducting this particular class. My nerves weren’t so much jumping as they were having epileptic fits. While trying to look cool, I announced to the training class that I would start the camera and begin taping their presentations. Then I walked the step and a half up to the camera, sort of leaning forward to put my eye into the lens (thing? Eye hole? View finder?) and tripped over the cord, lost my balance, fell forward and hit my eye on the camera. Not only did it hurt but then I had a wee bit of a black eye for about a day and a half. Classy.

Allison felt much better after that and did a bang-up job on her faux-prosal. I was glad I could help. And I realized it’s probably very dangerous for me to leave the house.

Woo-Hoo: A Post That Takes No Time at All

2006-12-06T08:14:00.000-05:00

This is the last week of classes, hence my crappy-ass posting record.

Imagine my delight when Rate Your Students posted an e-mail I wrote in a fit of (what else) anxiety and neuroses last week.

Hope to be back on track by this time next week! (I know, you're all biting off your nails from Teacher Lady withdrawal. Poor dears.)

Procrastination: It's Not Just for Grad School Anymore

2006-12-04T10:28:00.000-05:00

Although I may be in the running for best procrastinator of all time, I think more than a few of my undergraduate students may knock me out of first place. I mean - damn, can those kids put stuff off!

Hence, I have spent most of the weekend grading literally dozens of papers. My students (conceivably) could have turned in all 3 papers within the first 3 weeks of class. In fact, I encourage it. But (of course), things don't work that way. Last week, I was nearly suffocated by students turning in all 3 of their papers at once. And since I'm trying to be superstar instructor, I have attempted to turn their papers around within a week. That's a hell of a lot of grading.

And also? My writing is seriously suffering. Last night I read a sentence about Margaret Sanger's mother who bared 11 children. I knew that sure as hell wasn't right, but what should it have been? Bore? Borne? Beared? Someone should warn you: There's a direct correlation between one's knowledge of the English language, vocabulary and grammatical rules and the number of college student papers one grades. The more papers you grade, the more ignorant you become. Everything starts looking right. More or less. After all, when you read a paper about the "matting habits" of certain groups of peoples, after the fifteenth time "matting" starts to look about right. The indigenous peoples matted just about everything - postcards, sketches, even oil paintings! They were CA-RA-ZEE!

You know what else? This kid, who could not figure out how to find my classroom - or even e-mail to find out WHERE I might have moved the class - e-mailed me this morning to ask why only ONE of the two papers he turned in last week was graded. And if I could answer him as soon as possible, because he is worried. Dude, step the fuck off. 50 times 3 is 150 papers. You'll get nothing and like it as far as I'm concerned because if you knew how to use the e-mail at the beginning of the semester and didn't need Daddy to call my department chair, I think I might be a bit more understanding. But I haven't graded all of your papers in less than a week and NOW you're troubled? NOW you can figure out how e-mail works?! Oh, hell no.

And finally, please do not report me to the insensitivity police. After reading the above chap's first paper (in which he reversed "there" and "their" and used each one incorrectly every.single.time), I lost it. (Not that I had it to begin with.) I explained the difference between their and there and then I wrote, "Someone in the English department of your high school should be ashamed of him or herself." Please don't throw garbage at your screen. I know, this was NOT the paper on which I should have written something so unprofessional and rotten. My MOTHER is an English teacher so I wasn't taking a swipe at English teachers - more a passive-aggresive (I'm brave that way) swipe at him because I was so pissed at having to translate his paper into English and FINALLY, I'm sure his father will be on the phone with my department chair by tomorrow morning, I'll be forced to lick the young lad's boots and then I'll be given my marching orders and sent packing. See ya all in hell. It's been fun!

Sincerely,
Soon-to-be-unemployed-Teacher Lady

Why We Are Bitter

2006-11-30T11:36:00.000-05:00

There are lots of conversations going on all over the web about why we teach college if we think students are so horrible. Why are we so evil and mean-spirited and why do we post our students' e-mails on the Internet if we're truly "educators"? Can't we be more compassionate? After all, surely we weren't perfect when we were undergrads, right? Honestly, aren't they just kids? Can't we cut them a break now and then? Don't we all make mistakes?

You truly cannot grasp the complexity of emotions that accompanies teaching until you've done it. Believe me, three years ago, I would have been on the "Boo! Hiss!" wagon of do-gooders who thought professors were cold and heartless and students were people, too and bang the drum of empathy and understanding, ad nauseum.

But this explains it, better than I ever could. And this happened to me my first semester teaching (and it has happened at least once every semester since), the only difference being I lived 44 miles away from campus (not 30) and my student called me to tell me she had "something going on" and a colleague of mine saw her walking into Subway at our appointment meeting time. I guess the something going on was lunch. Although I might have been more pissed if it were Homecoming banners.

This Hurts Me More Than It Hurts You

2006-11-29T10:54:00.000-05:00

I'm a NaBloPoMo drop-out. Can I go to summer school? Get the equivalent of a GED?

Those of you who know me IRL know that I can procrastinate like it's nobody's business. In fact, in undergrad, I medaled (gold, thank you) in the procrastination Olympics.

Procrastination in grad school is a different kettle of fish altogether because you're actually expected to be coherent and know stuff. If you want to know the unplanned pregnancy rates of young women in Nigeria, I'm your gal. If you want to know where this blog entry is going or where the hell my car keys are, I have no idea.

Last night while I was driving home, I had this BRILLIANT idea for a blog posting. Truly - it was great. And then this morning I was trying to type it up and it's not the same at all. In fact, it sucks. (And no, I'm not fishing for compliments - too tired to do any sort of fishing.)

But, knowing myself and knowing that two days away from posting could quickly become two weeks and then two months . . . I forced myself to get right back on the wagon. Or the horse. I'm not sure which is the relevant analogy in this case.

This Stupid List I Made Up Last Night that Seemed Really Witty at the Time. It is called:

Really Fun Things about the End of the Semester

You never really know exactly how much sleep you need to stay awake while driving until you test yourself, right?
Not only do you know all the names of the toll booth operators, but you have favorites.
Your dog is always extra excited to see you – largely because she thinks you’re a stranger invading her home.
All the things that kept your mind swirling in a mad cyclone of angst – the war in Iraq, the 3% drop in the average home price, Gilmore Girls going completely in the toilet – they no longer upset you. Mostly because you can’t remember what upsets you. Actually, life seems pretty damn great! From what you can remember of it.
No sleep + no food = pants falling off of you during your presentation. It’s educational! It’s risqué! No, it’s two types of public humiliation at once!
For the first time ever, you can truly understand how people fall asleep while driving. (Mom, I hope you’re not reading this! Look away! Look away from the computer!) It’s important to develop empathy for others, right?
You are now intimately familiar with all the stupid “energy” drinks – Red Bull, Rock Star, Tommy Lee on ‘Roids, whatever – and when dining out you can make good recommendations about what type of high-fructose corn syrup goes with what. Your friends are really impressed!
You realize that coherent thoughts are highly overrated.
You save lots of money on alcohol because you don’t need to drink – you can already fall asleep while standing up.
Your students’ papers begin to make sense. A lot of sense. Finally.
After spending hours each day in the car (sensing a theme, here?) and listening to the radio station that plays “All Christmas, All the damn time,” you realize the song “We Need a Little Christmas” is really deep. It’s got, like, secret meanings and stuff. No, really.
You’ve lost the will to make obscene gestures at bad drivers. Sleep deprivation is making you a better human being!
Being awake at 3:00 a.m. gives the mind time to explore complex issues. Like WHY is there now Secret deodorant with “sparkles”? It’s not enough for that area to be clean-shaven and stink-free, now it has to be glittery, too?
Except for wondering about glittery armpits, by and large, self-maintenance has become a thing of the past. After all, in some cultures, enormous eyebrows and bloody cuticles are considered sexy. Right? Right!?!
You compile a lame list of things that aren’t really funny and make sense to no one but you and post them on your blog.

A Professional Opinion

2006-11-26T17:02:00.000-05:00

Last week, I was out with a bunch of health doc students. We got into this conversation about what it means to be a "Professor of Health." In order to be taken seriously, do you have to be a "role model" or can you pretty much do whatever the hell you want as long as you're cranking out the research?

My argument was that you don't have to be perfect, but you have to set a fairly decent example. After all, would you go to an accountant who had filed for bankruptcy? Would you go to a personal trainer who was 300 pounds and smoked while s/he coached you through your workout?

But - the problem with the notion of "health" and setting a good example is that it's so broad. If you look at the current health professors in my department, of course, none of them smoke. That makes sense to me - and I also like that one because I don't smoke either. 90% of them do not drink alcohol. Ever. Strike one for me. I'm not exactly gunning for AA membership, but I do likes me a glass of wine with dinner. 90% of them exercise regularly. A few of them might be teetering on the brink of exercise addiction. Huh? What? Exercise? I don't remember what that is. Strike two for me. Almost all of them eat really, really healthy. In fact, one eats so healthy that most of us can't even look at the food she brings in because it's THAT disgusting. (Lots of steamed squashes as entrees and lots of unrecognizable whole grains.) I try to get in my daily servings of fruits and vegetables, but I also like some crappy food now and then. In my field, this is akin to worshipping Satan. In fact, for the past two years, I've gotten bitched at for bringing my left-over Halloween candy into the office. (There was lots - we didn't get any trick-or-treaters.) I could go on and on, but you get the picture.

So, one of my fellow doc students was bemoaning the fact that she might not be taken seriously when she is a professor because of her size. Personally, I think she looks fine. She's very curvy, but she's also very tall and broad-shouldered, so I don't look at her and think, "Morbidly obese. At risk for Diabetes and other obesity-related causes of mortality." As we tried to give her a pep talk, another colleague said, "No one is perfectly healthy. Remember, there are so many dimensions of health - not just physical, but emotional, mental, spiritual, etc., After all, look at Teacher Lady. She's skinny, but she's a wreck."

How sad and pathetic (and how much of a wreck) am I that in a split second I went from really insulted to all gushy-grateful, "You think I'm skinny!!! Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!" I think I just heard that "mental health" dimension disappearing. Oh, well.

I've Arrived at My Last Neurotransmitter

2006-11-25T21:42:00.000-05:00

And it's a dead end. All the other ones have been burned up by this stupid NaBloPoMo. I'm out of thoughts.

So, I'm finally reaching for the post I said I'd do - except I'm totally half-assing it. If the construction guys in my head decide to build a bridge, I may go back later and try to link to each of these crazy searchers. But I doubt it.

Today alone, 5 people have gotten here by Santa Baby. Now that one I understand (and remember). But "unexpected gay kidnapping" - from someone in Belgium, no less - not so much.

Anyway, me and my sad little last burned out transmitter give you, random weird interesting strange disturbing searches that have brought people to my humble blog:

Ford Windstar

hollaback stalkers

double d lady

bumps on scrodum

woman has sex with rabbits

Harry hamlin’s wife

Purse mary louise parker weeds

Brother and sister love

Hair body wave Minneapolis

Eyebrow pressure

Blinded by the light lyrics analysis

My husband has an undescended testicle. Can we still have kids?

Unexpected kidnapping

Drive-thru crossdresser

She don’t know me Bon Jovi grammar mistake.

Lie to me baby

Chicken pocks + spell

THINKER sex

Kind rude behaviour infuriates

GOB turn pennies dollars

Lady teach in classroom

Biblical answers plastic surgery

crossing her legs masturbate in public

My first sex dog teacher

rapt sex

free first pelvic exam video

Chicken pocks third times

Sister raises her skirt