This is a human representation of how long Sam and I have been dating. A three-year-old! Can you believe it?

Sam and I don't know if we really have an anniversary. We randomly met at UT when I entered a writing contest and he worked at the English Advising Office. I had to give him my submission and decided to just stay in that office until he asked me for my phone number, too.

I waited for hours.

I didn't win the writing contest, but I won him. We've been teasing each other and having extraordinarily long conversations ever since. Sam wants to make November 1st the anniversary we don't have. We won't be doing much besides walking around NYC and eating snickerdoodles, but really, what more can you ask for?

Happy Day, Same You Eel.

Something funny (but horrible) from last Friday:

[The bell rings, signaling the end of lunch and beginning of seventh period].

Karen: Aww, man! Now it's time for my Speds to come.
Me: So Paul Revere. "The [Speds] are coming! The [Speds] are coming!"
Karen: And I have nothing planned! What should we do?
Me: Ummm...
Karen: Oh, who the hell am I kidding? I could tell them to color a rectangle and it would take forty-five minutes.

* "Speds," in case you don't know, is a nickname for Special Ed students. Karen has a particularly difficult class of Special Ed students who undress in class and scream, "I kill you, I kill you!"

I wrote this for my mom 5/9/04, and it really sums up what I want my mom to know tomorrow when she checks out my blog. I wonder if she ever changed my dirty diapers when I was a baby and predicted that I'd put her through even worse crap someday. Ha! Like puberty and a cross-country move. Even the preparation for the latter was arduous.

I love you, Mama!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

*************************************

For My Moms:

I love her, because her glass of iced tea always tastes better than mine...even when they come from the same pitcher and have the same style lemon squeeze.

I love her, because she is a positive female role model for me now and always. She's a lovely, smart, patient, funny person.

I love her, because she works 45+ hours a week and still manages to bake cakes and plant flowers.

I love her, because I melt when she calls me "baby" and cringe when she calls me "Amanda Louise.'

I love her, because she has always been the middleman convincing my dad to let me go to New York, theatre camp, UT, compensating for my overprotective dad.

I love her, because she always smells good.

I love her, because she taught me how to love animals, make beds, and care for children.

I love her, because she helped me with algebra.

I love her, because she talks with her hands.

I love her, because she's the one parent I can curse in front of.

I love her, because she'd always drag me along on trips to the library, the classes she taught, and her office just to let me know I'm welcome.

I love her, because I've met people who tell me she has saved their lives.

I love her, because she is soft and cuddly.

I love her, because I know she brags about me to friends, family, coworkers, and acquaintances.

I love her, because she reads cheesy popular novels.

I love her, because she taught me to be open-minded.

I love her, because she snorts when she laughs too hard.

I love her, because she cooks, decorates, frames pictures, and runs bubble baths like no other.

I love her, because she is a healer and a fighter.

I love her, because she has given me infinite material for funny stories and essays.

I love her, because she's unpretentious, kind, and grateful.

I love her, cuz they say I git it from mah Mama.

I hope so.

How exciting it is to tear off the October sheet of my at-a-glance calendar and start scribbling plans for November! The first day of the new month has two observances. One, my mom will turn a year older. Some things get better with age - wine, cheese, my mom. (Perhaps she gets better with my age, because I'm older and realizing more and more how much she's done for me). She's great. More about her later. Two, Sam is finally visiting me. There's a kind of self-consciousness that I feel when I haven't seen him in awhile and we're reunited. I know that nothing's changed, except that we don't see each other everyday anymore. It's been this way since the summer. The self-consciousness, but not quite, is more like a wow-I-can't-believe-you're-here-before-me-in-three-dimensions-again feeling. How do I memorize all of you in a few days? Or is it all already in some mental schema? You know, the way you can go without listening to a cd for years and then one day, you play it. You know the order of the songs, every word, every beat.

Sam is going to be here Tuesday evening, and suddenly the weather is perfect again. Coincidence? I think not.

Bobby and I didn't go to Saturday Night Rewritten downtown tonight. Instead, we went to the mother of all street festivals at Times Square - 10 blocks of vendors selling clothes, jewelry, candles, food, home furnishings, music, etc. I ran into Kenneth Bailey, a former student of mine who is a real pain in the ass. He ducked behind a shelf of scarves when he recognized me. No hello, Kenneth Bailey? Why not, Kenneth Bailey? I saw you, Kenneth Bailey. Beware, Kenneth Bailey.

Bobby was really patient as I examined every $2 jewelry tent at the festival. I ended up buying two pairs of earrings. Before making it to the festival, I also bought a steal of a purse (probably a literal steal) for $5 from some guys on a sidewalk. The purse feels more grown-up than any of my other ones. And all for fi' dolla!

I've designated Bobby the big brother I never had. It's really funny when he points out things at a store for me that I don't necessarily dig. It reminds me of any other shopping trip with an older family member, say...my mom. Bobby refused to let me even entertain the idea of buying the plastic pink, white, and blue belt to wear with tunics, because, "No! Just no!" It was just like the time we went to that other street fair and I fell in love with what I still consider the most rocking pair of blue wedges on the face of this planet. When the vendor didn't have my size, Bobby was unsympathetic, maybe even relieved, and dragged me through the maze of remaining booths.

We also went to H&M, Old Navy, and some shoe stores before finally settling for the train ride to our separate apartments. I got some milk and cereal for dinner (oh, the glamour!) and headed home. Now it's almost 10 pm and I'm delirious with fatigue. I may collapse if I write one more worddddddddddddd.

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzz.

*Pictures of new purchases coming soon - Blogger is not currently letting me upload them.

So...I'm watching the opening monologue of Saturday Night Live. Lance Armstrong is the host. Sheryl Crow is the musical guest. I can already tell this is going to be a long, unfunny show. Armstrong can't deliver a punchline. Crow is so overly tanned she looks like an old leather handbag. Sigh.

However, this means that Bobby and I can anticipate an interesting rewritten SNL tomorrow evening at the Juvie Hall Theater downtown. There's a group of people there who watch the perpetually unfunny Saturay Night [Dead], rewrite the skits to be funnier, and perform them sans Horatio Sanz in a funnier, smarter, more risque show...so we hear.

It's a date, Bobby.

I've got to remember this one-liner for school:

"If you don't stop being such a chickenhead, you're gonna catch the avian flu!"

When your mama starts leaving anonymous blog comments wondering if your expensive laptop was stolen, what she really means is "No excuses - update your blog!" So, here goes...

Saturday Prep Academy, or Saturday school, began this morning. I was at school from 8:30-1:30 at $36.50 an hour. Woohoo. I taught two seventy-minute classes of seven kids each. It was heavenly. My first group consisted of the sweetest seventh graders ever invented. Two commuted from some other middle school in order to attend. Prep Academy has a set curriculum that details how many minutes should be allotted to each task, etc. This isn't ideal for a daily school environment, but I don't mind it for Saturdays. I don't really have to plan anything or worry about making copies, and who's really counting minutes? Not me. As it was, I looked over the curriculum guide for a few minutes before the kids trickled in, but with the way I taught, you'd think I was a kite connoisseur with a particular interest in those of the Japanese. Yep. The high-interest article we worked on for the entire period was about Japanese kites.

I asked each of my classes to rate the lesson on difficulty, interest, my teaching, and their performance/understanding/participation at the end. My first group wrote glowing comments. They said they "loved" their "great" English class, that "kites are interesting," and that they really like "fun discussions." My second group said the discussion was helpful, and the boys liked the topic. The girls didn't find kites so interesting, though. My second group consisted of three "bad boys" who misbehave in normal classes, but didn't have enough of an audience today to motivate them. One student, Claudio, muttered a rude comment to me under his breath, but I gave him a hard look, explained the zero-tolerance policy, and watched him try to redeem himself by raising his hand for every question for the rest of the class. Enrique, who is a great critical thinker, but can barely read, volunteered to read aloud. Actually, almost every kid volunteered to read aloud and everyone talked at least once. Yay! This is a huge accomplishment, especially considering that these students "qualify" for Prep Academy because they are failing or in danger of failing. So many of the kids were so great that I'm thinking the school is failing them by putting them in overcrowded, violent classes where they can't be taught. They certainly can learn.

I cannot stress enough how great it is when students are taking notes that I'm writing on the chalkboard when they AREN'T REQUIRED TO TAKE NOTES. Intrinsic motivation is so hard to find at the school where I work. I actually remembered why I wanted to be a teacher in the first place - I really felt like I was helping these students. One girl's mom decided to go to Saturday school with her. The mom beamed the entire time and complimented me at the end of the period: "You've really got a gift for teaching. You're so fresh and nice and the way you ask the kids questions...it makes class fun and exciting."

My second group, as I previously mentioned, had the three "bad boys" who all sat together, a wonderful girl, a kind of "bad" girl, and three listless kids who were bored by Japanese kites. Nonetheless, no real issues. Less reading comprehension from that group, but more critical thinking. After their class, we had lunch. I was straightening up the classroom I used and found a crumpled up piece of paper on the desk of one of my chattier, bored girls. I expected a note, of course. Perhaps even a sheet with notes from the chalkboard that had been abandoned in haste or upon the decision that they weren't important. I unfolded it and found a drawing of...a kite. Someone had drawn the kite demonstrating a clear understanding of the way the Japanese first use bamboo "bones" as a frame and then use paper to make the "skin," as detailed in the article.

Victory!

A few of my current favorite things:
- the David Sedaris books on cd sets that I got from the NYPL
- Smart Food white cheddar cheese popcorn
- the song "Extraordinary Machine"
- Elizabeth Gold's Brief Intervals of Horrible Sanity
- when the radiator randomly comes on
- leaves changing colors
- marshmallow cream
- quoting Langston Hughes
- kids in Halloween costumes

Me: Omarr, please get back in your seat. You were working well earlier. I know you can do better than this.
Omarr: [locking eyes with me and smiling flirtatiously] Ms. [color last name], you're too nice to me. You never get mad. You don't yell at me.
Me: I don't feel I should have to yell at you to get you to behave, especially when you know how you should act at school.
Omarr: But I want you to slap me around sometime.

Ewww. Gross. He thinks he's a playa, and he can't even read.

A scientific inquiry: If one eats an apple immediately after eating a few caramels, will it taste 1/16 as good as a caramel apple? Let's find out!

Today was ho hum. "Despite your riveting science project?" you ask. Yes. Thursdays are my "you're-paying-me-to-slap-on-clothes-today" days. They go by quite slowly, but I'm not complaining. I have preps for first and second periods, I then work in four classes, and have a final prep. Bobby left work early today, so I dismissed his class of sixth graders from homeroom at the end of the day. Wow. It was so nice to walk into a classroom and see mischievous kids chasing each other, but NOT screaming obscenities. They weren't even chasing each other in my direction, threatening to knock me over on my good hip. It was very respectful chasing, really. I yelled, took down names, and got all the kids out in fairly decent lines. It was pleasant.

Tomorrow I teach two of my skills classes for the second time and then I get to pull out students from other classes for small-group work. I love getting kids away from the rest of their classmates and seeing them work conscientiously and open up as a student (rather than an adversary or just an apathetic lump). Some days I find myself shaking my head when I'm in particular classrooms and I notice the quiet, considerate kids who get neglected. It makes me so angry that teachers usually give all their attention to the aberrant behavior of the "bad kids." I detest that my school puts kids in one homeroom class and then makes them spend all day with the same group of kids. It makes me imagine what my school days would have been like with Chris Jenkins or Chase Lindeman in every class. (Names NOT changed to protect the guilty). I couldn't stand those guys. I might have dreaded school, instead of just dreading gym class if I'd spent so much time with them.

My parents sent me a package from home today. I finally have pajama pants, but as I type this the radiator is churning out enough heat to set me up for a night of sleeping in shorts and a tank top. O, god of heating! How thou irritateth me! Another annoying appliance in my life is the damned washing machine in the apartment that has suddenly committed suicide...right when I have three weeks of laundry to do. Grrr. I have to haul all the dirty clothes just a few feet away to the laundromat, but now I have to get the cart down The 39 Steps. I already know I'll lose a pair or two of underwear while doing so. Madame Loco's dog will save the day and seize them, I'm sure. A few weeks later, I'll be leaving for school one morning...and see Madame Loco walking down the street in a pair of my skivvies. But I digress.

The package also included my black boots, some fishnet hose, a down blanket, and muchos discos compactos. Megan burned me the new Fiona Apple cd! Yay! It has occurred to me that I am, at the ripe old age of 22, totally out of touch with today's [crappy] music. I have no idea who Ciara is. Really. Also, are the Pussycat Dolls singers or dancers or skanks who sing AND dance? It boggles the out of touch mind.

A scientific conclusion: Nope, not even close.

Sam's visiting me in one week! Let the countdown begin...

Of course, now that it's cold and rainy outside, there's no hot water!

Fabulous.

In other news, today I slipped on a water/grease spot on a stone floor at school and fell sprawled out like a chalk outline of a dead body. I also loudly exclaimed a popular expletive (and practically, the school motto) on my way to the ground. In front of one of Bobby's sixth graders. Oops. No one flinched, but Bobby laughed after he gave me some Advil.

"Rainy days and [Tues]days always get me down [on the ground]."

This is a blurb about the school where I work that was written in 2003. It's all true, but a very condensed look at the school's challenges.

"____________ is a school that has a lot to contend with. Almost 90 percent of its students who took city and state tests in 2002 did not meet standards. The school is on the SURR list, which means the state could declare it educationally unsound and close it. The day we visited, we saw a class of 8th graders reading picture books.

Principal __________________ says many students enter after having received an inadequate elementary school education. And because two of the four "subschools" have only 7th and 8th grades, teachers have just two years to get kids up to speed -- no easy matter when many enter with scores of "1," the lowest level on standardized tests.

The school also has a high number of students receiving special education services and new immigrants, groups that face special difficulties with standardized tests. Unfortunately, the restructuring required by the state for SURR schools has not, so far, given _____________ the needed shot in the arm. One teacher said that morale is lower than ever. In 2002, teachers posted an average of 12.4 days absent, almost four more days than the citywide average. The building's condition probably does little to boost spirits: library shelves cleared of outdated material haven't been refilled; the paint job in several classrooms needs a touchup; walls in many rooms are bare of student work. Student disenchantment manifests itself in a kind of rebellion against the school uniform. So many kids layer other clothes over the requisite white shirt that the dress code seems counterproductive.

Still, ______________ has some bright spots. ___________________ says she's proud of the job she's doing moving kids from Level 1 to Level 2 -- still below standard on tests, but an improvement nonetheless. Many of the teachers we observed ran classrooms that were under control and full of kids raising hands. (We were, however, steered away from a classroom full of yelling, and the teacher who complained about low morale said there are other, similarly chaotic classrooms.)

One of ____________ subschools is a Mott Hall clone, the fourth copy in New York City of a successful 6th-8th grade program for high-scoring students. The student writing on the bulletin board outside Mott Hall teacher _________________ classroom was striking in its richness and precision. In another subschool, we saw bilingual special education teacher _______________ captivating a small group of students with her gentle theatrics. _________________ tries to get her stronger students into smaller, selective high schools and provides an onsite family counseling program for those struggling with severe personal problems.

In short, ____________ is not devoid of skilled teachers and challenging programs for students -- there just aren't enough of them. (Helen Chernikoff, November 2003)

There is something so delightfully trashy about the New York Post. The gratuitous puns, the overt bias, the crazy pictures... Today I was skimming it and ran across the Weird But True section. The following two blurbs had me shaking with laughter during a prep period:

"Don't ask 13-year-old Simon Grant to feel your pain - he can't even feel his own. The youngster, from Heddon-on-the-Wall, England, has suffered from severe sensory dysfunction since he was an infant, and can feel no discomfort. '[One] time, he broke his jaw and just said, 'Mummy, can I have soup - my teeth don't fit,' said his mother, Jan, 47."

"Tens and thousands of 'Nazi' raccoons are alive and well in Germany - and teams of bounty hunters have been tired to take them out. The nocturnal critters were released into the German countryside in 1934 under the orders of Hermann Goering, who thought they'd 'enrich' the local wildlife. Boy, did he get it wrong - this year, the descendants of the originals have wiped out most of the nation's wine harvest."

Omigod! You can't make up stuff this good. Well no one else but Bill Hoffmann, a journalist who probably takes himself too seriously, can.

*Rey, if you are reading, how do you feel about raccoons now, huh? Be afraid, be very afraid. I love you and miss you.

Tomorrow the family dog, Abby, turns the BIG 1-1. Most English bulldogs don't live this long, so this feat (especially with the occasional Mcdonald's hamburger in her diet) is huge. I couldn't imagine life without her.

Happy birthday, Abby!

I knew teaching at an inner-city middle school in Harlem would always raise eyebrows. I kind of like when people look at me - a skinny, fair, white girl from Texas - and incredulously say, "You? In Harlem?" It's like they've just found out I'm a secret agent or ninja or nutcase.

I am all of those things.

Sometimes the job even raises my own eyebrows. I like to think I've seen a lot in the world, and I have definitely seen enough that I don't pass out when I hear students reciting what seems to be the dialogue of a pornographic film. And from gangsta flicks? Forget it, I'm so over that. There, of course, was that one time that I heard a boy and girl say something so filthy that I froze in my tracks as I walked my homeroom class to lunch. I had to tell myself to pick my jaw off the floor.

My students haven't taught me too many new vulgarities, but I have learned some new slang. For example, "wildin'" and "fienin"." They both mean "to act crazy." "Fienin'" comes from "fiending," as in "drug fiend." Students also say "beastin'," particularly referring to a teacher that tries to establish order in the classroom. Another great verb is "OD'in,'" which refers to any excessive behavior, not strictly limited to a teacher assigning too much homework or classwork or having overt class expectations and procedures. Students say the word "mad" before every other word possible. "Yo, I failed mad classes last year, yo!" And Devlin, a real prize pupil, said a pair of shoes I wore last week was "buttah," which, of course, means "cool" or "slick."

Hmmm...I can't think of anything else at the moment. Aight. I'm out.

My employment luck has continued. You know that I have a new position at I.S. 666 where I teach three forty-five minute classes per week and otherwise work with students individually or in small groups. You know I got a tutoring job where I totally set my own hours for at least $30 an hour. I've now been hired for the prep academy job where I'll be teaching five hours for nineteen Saturday sessions at $36.50 an hour. The tutoring and prep academy jobs haven't started yet, but I'm excited about these recent opportunities. I get to teach something I love to more dedicated students and get paid well for it. My schedule is bound to change, and I'll have to start waking up when the super bellows loudly on Saturday mornings, but this can work.

Don't hate me because I'm thrifty.

Hate me because I bought a pair of Kate Spade pumps for $9 and a chic equestrian-like belt from Saks Fifth Avenue for $8 yesterday.



In other news, I bought my mom her birthday presents and another belt and flats at a very affordable price. I've justified these purchases because of my thrift and the fact that I won't have as much time on Saturdays to spend money with my new job.

Exhibit A: The other new belt. It's quite the fun accessory.



Exhibit B: Some shiny, happy flats from Old Navy.



This concludes this week's shallow and materialistic installment of Amanda's ThriftAdventures.

I've spent the last few days devouring Prep by Curtis Sittenfeld. I read about the novel in The New York Times last year, and I must say it's shaken up my confidence in my own writing in the best of ways. Some of Sittenfeld's prose about boarding school outsiderdom is just perfect.

Honestly, I would never ever redo high school as an educational experience. I'm just not nostalgic about all the painful incongruity I experienced. I had some great relationships with people, but Odem High School thankfully didn't give me the best days of my life. Socially or in any other way. Really, it would be tragic if it had. I would have loved reading Prep in a book club. I'll admit that I do miss those days of college. It seems like so long ago, too. Why?

I like to record favorites sentences of most books I read and here are Prep's winners:

"I did not scream or hug anyone. In fact, as the noise gained momentum, I felt its opposite, a draining of excitement. But not a draining of tension - my body was still stiff and alert, and the impulse I had, strangely, was to weep. Not because I was sad but because I was not happy, and yet, like my classmates, I'd experienced an emotional surge, I too felt the need for expression."

"It was more when things slowed down, during the parts when you were supposed to have fun, that my lack of friends felt obvious - on Saturday nights, when there were dances I didn't go to, and during visitation, which was the hour each night when boys and girls were allowed in each other's dorm rooms. I spent those times hiding."

"I have always found those times when another person recognizes you to be strangely sad; I suspect the pathos of these moments is their rareness, the way they contrast with most daily encounters. That reminder that it can be different, that you need not go through your life unknown but that you probably still will - that is the part that's almost unbearable."

"Sometimes I found myself narrating such success, at least in my own head in order to convince myself of its reality. And not just with major triumphs...but with tiny ones, with anything I'd been waiting for an anticipating... I did this because it struck me as so hard to believe I was really getting what I wanted; it was always easier to feel the lack of something than the thing itself."

"My self-consciousness about the Datsun was something I'd anticipated, something I had to live with but could not acknowledge - a bride descending the aisle with an itchy nose."

"But to be seen as pretty was to be fundamentally misunderstood... If a guy believed my value to lie in my looks, it meant either that he'd somehow been misled and would eventually be disappointed, or that he had very low standards."

"How did you even know if you loved another person? Was it a hunch, like a good smell that you couldn't identify for sure, or did a time come when you had evidence? Was it like walking through a house and once you'd crossed a certain theshold, that was love and you would never turn back? Maybe you'd go into other rooms, you'd fight or even break up, but you'd always be on the other side of love, after and not before it."

I got home after walking around in the rain and cold yesterday to find that the radiator was working. Finally! It makes a fabulous wheezing noise and (I hope) will enable me to get out of bed with more enthusiasm. Each morning, I have to wake up, pull the covers over my head as I curl into a ball, and count at least three minutes one second at a time. I have to physically prepare for the cold startle when my bare feet touch the floor. In apartment buildings, the super controls when the radiator will come on. Some buildings have a system that turns them on once temperatures drop to a certain point. Mine depends on some rude guy named Pedro. I'm making this up. The super's Dominican, I hear he's rude, but I don't know him or his name.

Unfortunately, the temperature is back up to the mid-fifties today, so it's not cold enough for the radiator to be on. Chen saw me last night in my undershirt and shorts and said, "Oh, the temperature hasn't been too bad for you. You always just wear a shirt and shorts to bed." That's because I didn't pack any other pajamas when I moved here...in August. Back then, the apartment was so hot that I remember having to unstick the backs of my sweating legs from the bedsheets in the morning. And I didn't even sleep with covers over me! It was the opposite type of discomfort back then.

Oh, I could write for hours about all the fun NYC apartment snafus that I know people must experience elsewhere, but I never hear much about. Like the senile old woman in the apartment across the hall that has 36 dogs and around 20 cats. Her apartment usually reeks of animal feces and urine, but occasionally has the almost-as-bad aroma of generic Pine-Sol. Madame Loco is old, and forgets to do things like take out her trash and clean up the aforementioned animal waste, so she also has a brood of pet roaches. Said roaches are very capable of walking across the hall into my apartment. My bedroom is right off the entrance to the apartment, too, so they easily visit me. The roach problem is not as bad as it was, and it was thankfully, never horrible, but a roach is a roach is a disgusting roach! I also should count my blessings that these roaches aren't everything-is-bigger-in-Texas roaches. They can't fly or rent cars. NYC roaches are very small, but nonetheless unwelcome in the drawer where I keep my shampoo.

I didn't know where in the previous paragraph to put a few pieces of seemingly extraneous information, but Madame Loco is from a foreign country and shrieks insanely at her pets ALL THE TIME. When I first moved here, I thought that perhaps the person in 3B was abusing some small children. Nope. She's just scolding the dogs and cats for something. I've found out that her voice is always shrill, kind of like the mermaid in Splash. I've never seen the whole movie, but I remember that when Tom Hanks asks the buxom mermaid he found for her name, she says something like, "I don't know how to say it in your language." He replies, "Then just say it in yours." She does, and the heads of all dogs within a fifty-mile radius explode from the sound vibrations. This is Madame Loco's voice. Oh yeah, she always shuffles around the block exposing herself in inappropriate dress, like a long button-down dress that she forgets to button. Yikes. Gravity is a scary thing.

Like I said, I could go on and on. I've already written about the opera students and the wannabe rapper. I didn't mention the loud party right above me last weekend only because I was focused on my parents going back home. Let's not forget the super cackling below me in the alley between my apartment building and the next one at 6 a.m. on the weekends. Truly living in New York will make even the shyest, most laid back person occasionally want to lean out a window and bellow some version of "SHUT UP!!!!!!"

There's something quite moving about it.

Tomorrow I'm planning on buying my mom's birthday present. She's much easier to shop for than my dad, and her recent shoe purchases give me clues about what she might like. I think I'll get up early for brunch at the cafe my parents want me to eat at once a week, then off to midtown and downtown. I'm typing this to capture the excitement of living in New York. Can you feel it? Oh, yeah.

It's almost 8:30 on a Friday night, and I'm curling up with another good book (and maybe s'mores).

Sam was in Idaho last weekend for his sister's wedding. Idaho is apparently beautiful and clean, but has few Democrats, independent movie theaters, and video stores. I'll concede that that's a huge downfall, but I won't look down on the fact that unlike NYC, it's already fall there.

Down? Fall? Did you catch my horrible wordplay? I think it's starting to come out in anticipation of Sam's visit. His puns are atrocious and unstoppable. Fortunately, the guy knows a photo opportunity when he sees one.

Someday when Sam writes a James Patterson-esque murder mystery novel, this picture will be on the back cover.

It's an emo kid's dream tonight. The chill of the air nips at sluggish Friday feet in the streets. Everyone should be going out tonight if not for any planned occasion, then merely to celebrate that tonight is a night one can go out and stay out late. Sleeping is a more flexible recreational activity, rather than a lacking necessity. But. The sun never came out, so all day has been a coma. One wants to just pull the plug and make the forecast rain start already. Go ahead. Totally hinder my day/night.

Tonight the fact that one may wait in line (or as the New Yawkers say, "on line") for ten minutes at D'Agostino's to buy one jar of marshmallow fluff is enough to make an emo kid writhe and bemoan the "scorched chocolate on the s'mores of my wasted dreams."

Heh. I try.

As seen on Thursdays: These are my "I Have Three Prep Periods And A Lunch Today, So You're Basically Paying Me To Look Good And Read At Work" shoes.

I cannot ever complain about my cushy AIS job. Never mind that I don't have a classroom or that I have to be flexible. I don't feel sick every morning when I have to go to work! Today was a good day. I did a read aloud in Mr. M's class and just walked around and helped out in classes. On top of that, the one Special Ed class I teach on my own on Wednesdays had a guest speaker. Now all my classes will at least be on the same track by Friday. My spurned classes didn't moan as much for me to come back when they saw me in the halls. Instead, most of them were just really sweet. But "Too Much, Too Little, Too Late," isn't just a Johnny Mathis song, you know.

I applied for a position teaching at the Saturday Prep Academy at my school. I'd get paid $36.50 an hour for five hour sessions. Classes are small and students have to sign up to go. One disciplinary offense, and students are kicked out. No grading. Seventh graders. No grating eighth graders. (Did you get that?) I should hear from someone about it soon.

Tonight I need to go to bed at a decent hour, because I wake up throughout the night in various stages of bed dishevelment. It's terrible, because the bed linens end up looking like lumpy scraps vomited out of a Ramada Inn laundry chute. You'd have to see the pattern on the comforter to understand - it's straight out of the Divine Benign Hotel Bedding catalog of Fall '96. Besides that, I went to bed just right, but woke up too hot. I did what any other too hot, half asleep person does and took off my pajamas (???). I woke up this morning shivering in a fifty degree room wearing nothing but underwear. The Ramada barf linens? All twisted up...on the floor. Brrr.

Nothing else really happened today. I read and chatted with people I like and had to break out of a vise-like hug from Timothy Fears (his real name, as appropriate as can be). I started my novel, too. I'm off to forage for food now.

Today was a perfectly fine day, but I'm going to update this later when I'm not tired and occupied.

A picture is worth a thousand words supposedly. This one is valued at 1,523.









*Sam took this gorgeous photo at the UT turtle pond in the summer of 2004.

You know you are multi-tasking too much in the shower when toothpaste ends up in your eyes.

My corneas now feel so weird with that tingly freshness only baking soda can give. *Sparkle*

The Sonny to my Cher.



Sam's visiting me in 14 days!

I have six thoughts for you.

1) Today I had to do my "push in, pull out" tutoring work in Mr. Butler's class. Bobby and I call him The Model, because he thinks he's dead sexy with his long, flowing locks and chiseled jaw. I think his hair is actually kind of limp and he always looks surprised. He has eyes like Joan Rivers. Anyhow, Mr. Butler has a weird habit of enunciating unusual words in his speech. He also misspells words like "suicide." (Why was he writing the word "suicide" on the board? It's on the mind of most of the faculty of I.S. 666, but besides that, it's the topic of a book he's reading to the class). And...Mr. Butler made a poster in his classroom about common mistakes students make. One point on his poster was to not use double negatives. It's good to model concepts for students, so he used the example no-no sentence "He don't know nothing." That Model instructor then showed two ways to write that sentence correctly - "He knows nothing," and "He don't know anything."

"He don't know anything"?! Yikes! The Model don't know anything apparently. (Plus, the older he gets, the more he thinks love is about friendship. That's for Bobby).

2) I've recently read some excerpts of Everything Bad Is Good For You by Steven Johnson. It explores the benefits of increasingly advanced and stimulating elements of pop culture. It doesn't exactly justify buying US Weekly, but it does explore the evolving plots of TV sitcoms and compares Starsky and Hutch with modern shows like ER and The Sopranos. Very interesting. It also has some Seinfeld studies, so Sam might want to check it out.

3) Today I was actually productive and inquired about my insurance plan. It took a snot moustache-producing illness to do this, but nonetheless, I have done it. As I watched the minutes tick by in one class I worked in today, I realized that except for the classes I teach Wednesdays and Fridays, I'm pretty much getting paid to do what I did during my UTeach internships. I don't even have to really grade or plan much at all. I have to appreciate this break and not get bored. This new job is going to allow me to pursue more writing.

4) Speaking of writing, well writing of writing, I'm planning on participating in NaNoWriMo and writing a novel next month. Yes! Fifty thousand words (about 175 pages) in November! The project is more about stamina and quantity rather than quality, but I'd still like to do a decent job. I'm currently reading my inspiration novel that will help me get in the mood to write my own novel. I'd write what it is, but I feel kind of self-conscious and presumptuous admitting that I want to write something as important and great as my inspiration novel. Ask me if you care.

5) I spent some time after school packing up my classroom. The torrential rains of last week prevented me from moving out with my cart, because I don't care to ruin all the materials and supplies I bought at Staples. I ended up having to ask Mr. Jones if I could store some of my things in his classroom until tomorrow when I bring my cart again, because my cart was completely filled and I don't think Mr. Patton likes me in Room 108. He seems very reluctant to talk to me about anything. Anyhow, I noticed that the women of the reading resource room had thrown out a bunch of items in the hallway and you already know I'm a scavenger. I saw a cool world flag display that I thought Mr. Jones might want, so I asked someone if it was going to be thrown out and if Mr. Jones could have it. He liked it and gladly took it. I then looked for other potential treasures in the trashbag.

I found a bottle of wine. Really. It looked like a more expensive wine available at a grocery store, albeit still a cheap wine. I joked with Mr. Jones that I was going to take it, especially since it hadn't been opened. A confiscated student item? The administrators' little helper? I don't know. The parent coordinator later approached me in the hall and asked if I'd taken the wine. I said, "No, it was just a joke. I'll dig it out of the trash if you want it, though." She said she couldn't handle alcohol, but she wanted to assure me the wine was a left over retirement gift that some previous teacher had left in the reading resource room. Hmmm... She seemed like she was really trying to cover something up. Hmmm..

6) I don't have it yet, but my girl Fiona Apple has released her latest moody and poetic album, Extraordinary Machine. She's going to be touring a bit, too, so I'm hoping to see her at the Nokia Theatre here in December. I can't find any place to get information on tickets yet, though. This may be my last chance to see her before she goes completely insane or disappears forever. "I lie in an early bed, thinking late thoughts..."

Sing with me now:

Just bead it, bead it, bead it!
No one wants to be de-feeted!
Sure, they are chunky. Sequins are bright.
But they aren't clunky on left or right.
Just bead it, bead it.
Just bead it, bead it.

*These are some of my new shoes. They're comfortable. And I'm a dork.

So...I'm back. I called in sick to work on Friday, because 1) I was the kind of sick of the pounds o' phlegm and a voice like a mafiosa variety, 2) I had a tutoring interview that I had already postponed once that week wayyyy in Brooklyn that I had to get to at 3, and 3) my parents were in town. I I had to get up really early and call in sick, but no one at the school would answer the phone. Once I left my message with a polite administrator (that doesn't have to be an oxymoron), I dozed a few more hours. My parents and I met up, ate breakfast at West Way Cafe, and I changed into my grownup uniform. It was still raining buckets. I told my parents I really didn't need to be escorted to the interview site, but I'm glad they were around for the ride. It was a long one. We waited FOR the Q, then ON the Q, and then we walked blocks and blocks...in the wrong direction...TOGETHER. Quality time, if you ask me. I'm not all that familiar with Brooklyn, so I don't know what the charming neighborhood I went to was called, but it was very Jewish. At one point, all the signs were English and Yiddish. I felt like the Aryan outsider schlepping around in my stilettoes. (Yes, in rain! All because I thought this would keep the hem of my pants from getting wet[ter]. I was wrong).

I got the job, which will pay me $30 an hour for individual sessions and more for group sessions. I get to choose my own hours, too. This recent good fortune - the new AIS position at I.S. 666 and now the tutoring job - makes me wonder if the universe is trying to tell me something. I have to believe that things happen for a reason. Maybe my NYC goals are supposed to pan out? My life sneaks up on me sometimes. Obviously, I still have goals and structure, but I feel so tentative. It's unnerving.

Let's see... The rest of Friday was spent hanging out with my parents. We perused some Upper West Side shops for galoshes, because the rain continued to drum down and my toes were swimming in my pointy black BCBG aquariums. I was wringing out my tights on the train. Alas, no galoshes. We went back to my neighborhood and got ready for a dinner cruise. My mom bought each of us the $100 meal ticket upon the recommendation of her friend a few months earlier. We went to Chelsea Piers and watched gymnasts and hockey players before boarding the ship. Good food, live music, great views. The rain even stopped long enough to walk on the deck, look at the velvety sky with all the glittering lights, and feel...infinite. So close and so far away from everyone and everything else. It was a beautiful night.

Yesterday was a shopping day. We headed to Koronet for lunch and my parents loved the pizza. Then off to the Manhattan Mall in search of galoshes, but again, no such luck. My mom wanted to buy a delightfully tacky knockoff bag for the doctor she works with, so we went to Chinatown. Ugh. I can enjoy going on a Tuesday morning when no one else is around and the fashion crack dealers (really, that's all that these purse people are) come when you snap your fingers. Haggling is much easier then, but Saturdays are so crowded and touristy. My mom settled on an orange faux python Prada knockoff. My dad looked at ridiculous Louis Vuitton knockoff coin purses for my 87 cousins under the age of twelve. Do kids under the age of twelve care that much about what they're putting their lunch money into? Probably not. I guess it was all about being able to say that the items were from New York so far, far away. My dad goes into this really silly secret agent man act in Chinatown. He imagines he can haggle for anything and acts really touristy by trying not to seem touristy. Buying bootlegged dvds is really as dangerous as he gets.

We went back to the Manhattan Mall after the Chinatown excursion to force my mom to buy a pair of shoes she saw and loved, but didn't purchase. I also got some new pairs of shoes and picked some out for Megan. We visited Central Park, Riverside Park, and CompUSA. My mom imparted another valuable lesson for living on my own: make s'mores in the microwave. She also taught me that marshmallow cream is widely available at grocery stores and thus, to spread marshmallow fluff on something and stuff it in my mouth rather than constantly muse, "For some reason, marshmallow cream sounds really good right now..." We made s'mores at my apartment after my dad fixed my Internet. Yay! I now have Internet all the time and don't have to tap into someone else's wireless. I have been saved from my evil deeds. (I have also disabled my own wireless, so what went around can't come around. Heartless, I know).

My parents left at 3:00 this morning. It was great to have them visit. I feel healthier due to the potent antibiotics they provided. No doubt, the love and company also helped me get well. I miss them, but now it's time to focus on two more full weeks of school and then a visit from Sam. I'll keep on keeping on. It's apparently much easier to do without phlegm.

After a delay in Houston and having to fly in circles in Baltimore, my parents arrived in NYC around 4:00. They're staying at a hotel on my street, so the proximity is nice. All we did today was eat at Deluxe (blah), walk around 145th Street to show my mom my first apartment, and then walk around Times Square a bit. I need to be a better tour guide, but I'm still sick and I was so tired today. I'm looking for a good museum for my parents and I to see - something off the beaten path. I'd love to go to the Tenement Museum, but reservations are required and I don't know if it's open on weekends. Plus, my dad would make so many jokes, like "Gee, this place looks like your first apartment, ha, ha."

Sam is in rural Idaho right now preparing to endure another sibling's wedding. He is now the only one who hasn't gotten hitched. His sister is about to start her second marriage. Sigh. Don't let it get to you, Sammer! You are the coolest one by far, and you'll get married when you're ready and your partner is ready. Whoever she may be... Me? Hmmm...

I really don't have anything else to type. I have a tutoring job interview tomorrow in Brooklyn. Wish me luck.

Tomorrow afternoon the man responsible for my shapely (okay skinny, but muscular) legs and the woman responsible for my full German face are coming to New York. I'm hoping to meet my parents at La Guardia, so long as torrential rains don't interfere. If they do, then I still might dog-paddle to Queens.

Some people who love me are coming to visit! Yay!

Howdy.

I said goodbye to my students today. Mind you, I'll still work with my classes once a week, but they're not my sole responsibility anymore. Woo hoo! Students took it fairly well that I am taking on another position at the school. I first told the news to Hicks's homeroom. Some students broke out into very rude applause, which made me feel a bit bad. I can be honest about it, and I know I was not demanding anything from them that they couldn't and shouldn't deliver. It's not my fault that some of them were so angry, disruptive, and apathetic. I know very well that I didn't positively reinforce any of this behavior. My girl students were the ones who were most taken aback. Some asked me not to leave. One girl - a student it seems that only liked and did work in my class - stormed out of the room, was gone for twenty minutes, returned quietly to finish her work, and then told me she would never speak to me again. Hmmm....okay.

Sigh. I do hope my few sweet students are nice to Mr. Patton tomorrow. The man doesn't know what he's in for. The comparisons will get very old, and I have a feeling some students will miss all the writing I made them do. Oh, well. Today's Writing Workout topic was "Things change..." They certainly do.

I am now officially sick, rather than merely under the weather. I've started a course of antibiotics and postponed my interview for that tutoring job. The bad thing was that I rode to Times Square, got on the Q, and then decided I was too feverish and snotty right before the train entered Brooklyn. So then I had to ride all the way back on the Q to Times Square, and then board the 1 from there. I did my good deed of the day when I helped a woman who only speaks four English words - "J, train, thank, you" - find the J train to Queens.

Me: Mida, Jota. [pointing at the sign that says "J"]
Her: Si.
Me: Y Jota. [pointing at another sign down the platform, then pointing at stairs to J platform] Arriba y entonces Jota.
Her: Si. Thank you.

I loved the black guy watching the whole thing, shaking his head and going, "Man, that's crazy, yo." Cracker speaks un poco espanol, senor. Of course, had Jose Montiel, my beloved crazed Spanish profesor been around, I would have remembered whether to indicate that the woman should walk "derecho" or "izquierda." I would have actually said "el tren" and "de nada" when she said thanks. But things change...

Today was a long day. I woke up, typed a blog entry, talked to Chen, and plodded about in far too few clothes. I've officially shut both windows in my room, which is of important meteorological significance Texans cannot fathom. Fall is here and winter isn't far behind! It's exciting, but I know I'm going to shiver like crazy for the rest of the year.

I was going to Duane Reade to pick up water and soup when I overheard some construction workers say the nicest thing about me. Instead of whistling or saying something punctuated with a dirty old man-style "...girlie!," one worker said to another, "She looks smart." It was sort of a refreshing moment from London circa 1957. "What natty riding boots she has, Nigel!"

Tomorrow is my farewell to my students and I only have to teach two classes, because Tuesday is gym day. Hooray! My kids need more physical education, because the greatest workouts they get otherwise are jumping each other in the halls and darting in and out of classes they don't have. In NYC, students have ninety minutes of Language Arts and ninety minutes of Math everyday. They have Health and P.E. once a week. They have Social Studies four days a week. I think they have Science three days a week and Spanish twice a week. Not only are many students STILL failing the Math and English state tests, they also don't learn anything else in school. This school system is so weird. I wouldn't have enjoyed going to a middle school like the one where I teach for so many reasons.

I have a job interview for a tutoring position tomorrow evening. This job would be part-time, so I'd continue teaching and then tutor some days after school and maybe Saturdays. I need to learn more about the position, because I applied to so many tutoring jobs that I can't remember which one pays what, etc. I have to go way into Brooklyn for my interview, and I must make it clear that I can't be going to Staten Island or Queens for an after school job. Commuting is crazy. I like that I can people watch or read on the subway, but it's not fun to have to stand for half the trip during rush hour. Some of my co-workers commute from upstate New York, Long Island, and New Jersey for hours each day. I complain that I have to get to school at 7:15 to have a chance at the copy machine. Sigh. I am luckier than I often admit.

My parents are visiting me on Thursday! I'm really excited about seeing loving, familiar faces in just a few days.

It's cold in here! The rain has stopped, but now it's cold and gray. Of course, it's probably cold because I have a window open and I am only wearing a t-shirt and a pair of shorts. After last night's cold medicine, I woke up throughout the night talking to myself in a weird haze. Great... I haven't been able to accomplish anything since waking, because honestly, I don't want to get dressed.

I have so much grading to do for my ex-students, not to mention the fact that I have to do one last lesson plan for the classes. I'm kind of afraid that Patton, the guy that thinks he wants my job, will bail on me after a whole ninety-minute block with the little darlings. "Not so fast, sir," I'd say. "You made your bed, no lie on it as the students try to smother each other with the blankets and steal your pillows."

I wish I knew a convenient and good place to go get some chicken noodle soup or goulash. I don't want to go to Tom's or some other cranky diner, and I don't want to have to commute to get there. I may just go to Duane Reade for Campbell's soup. Okay, I'm done here for now. Entry of substance coming soon.

I've heard the warnings about student germs from the very beginning. Students are icky and all their little maladies are contagious. The apathy and rudeness have obviously spread to my school's administration. Even I can become uncharacteristically snippy and angry at the end of the day. Not always at anything in particular, either.

It appears I may have picked up the beginnings of a cold from school. My throat hurts and my sinuses throb from deep within...the realms of the unsneezed. Cue ominous music. I know I need to start medicating now, but I'm a bit mystified by all the over-the-counter goodies in my first aid kit. The cold medicine I always used in college leaves me stunned and dramatically reduces my vocabulary. Great for parties, but not for everyday life. Heh.

Hmmm... I already feel like I could fall asleep right now and sleep through the night. Perhaps I should take medicine and do just that.

Me: You know what I checked out at the New York Public Library?
Sam: What?
Me: A cd of Tammy Wynette's greatest hits. [in a sudden booming drawl] "D-I-V-O-R-!"
Sam: You can't say her name without the word "whine."

Touche. "Stand By Your Man"? Forget it.

Here's something fun - as soon as I put my rented videotape into the VCR, the cable started working again. At last! But...it turns out, the VCR doesn't work. I don't know if this is a permanent or temporary condition, as the apartment's entities are not all allowed to function at once. It's some law of the universe apparently.

Oh, well. At least I can suffer through another awkward and stale Saturday Night Live.

From yesterday evening to this very second, it has been raining here in NYC. Sometimes piercing sideways rain that attacks even people with umbrellas. Sometimes gentler drops steady as a heartbeat. I love the rain, as long as I'm not too dressed up or in a hurry. I went to the post office after work yesterday in the rain and spent the rest of my happening Friday night straightening up my room and reading to the rhythm of the rain.

Today I got out my umbrella and rolled up my jeans so I could return a skirt I bought at my favorite place to bargain hunt. I was walking quickly to avoid getting too wet and mistakenly road uptown instead of downtown. Duh. I've never done that since I actually moved here. Ah, regression. I then boarded the right train, got too caught up in The Catcher in the Rye, and missed my stop. I walked five blocks in pounding, violent rain, but ultimately exchanged the skirt and bought a coat I love. Yay, coats. The coat feels like a blanket of the richest quality. I can't wait for it to get colder. (I'll recant later).

So I've rented Drop Dead Gorgeous and a dvd of Blind Date Uncensored: Dates From Hell, because I can't nourish my mind all the time, right? I want to laugh and listen to the rain and eat pizza by myself. It's time for a cleansing of sorts.

Complain honestly and ye shall receive?

From the beginning of my I.S. 666 saga, I've been truthful to anyone and everyone who has asked me about work. No beating around the bush here. My experience has been not just unsatisfying, but dreadful, and I want everyone to know it. I even used to get some satisfaction at the sudden surprised raising of eyebrows when I admitted, "Yeah, I'm looking for another job. I'd prefer not to work here where I'm so overwhelmed and undersupported."

Today my supervisor came up to me and asked if I was interested in another job at my school. Instead of having a homeroom class and teaching two ninety minute ELA blocks a day, Social Studies (which I'm not certified in), and Health (which I'm not certified in), I'd be teaching nine forty-five minute ELA enrichment classes a week on my own. Eight of these classes will be Special Ed classes with a maxiumum class size of twelve. Paraprofessionals will be in the room to assist me with the Special Ed students. The rest of my time will be spent working with students individually and in small groups on reading and writing. Sometimes when I don't have individual students to work with, I will team-teach and provide classroom support in English classes.

To tally it up, this potential job would include the following:
*only teaching in my area of certification
*working with students individually or in small groups, where I could better help students learn
*working with mostly seventh-grade students
*working with students in different academies, not just the crummy default academy I currently work in
*guaranteed planning time (!)
*no homeroom class administrative duties
*teaching nine small classes of my own for forty-five minutes (block scheduling is alluring when you have amazing students, but it feels like infernal torture with disruptive and violent students)
*the same pay I'm currently receiving
*no bulletin board duty

I will lose my classroom, but really I lost that a long time ago. Room 108 became just another dank cell when I removed almost all of my posters and locked most materials up due to theft and vandalism. The job became available, because the guy who currently has the position really thinks he wants to be a regular classroom teacher. I'm unhappy, he's mildly dissatisfied, how convenient. He's older than me, perhaps more experienced, but honestly, he seems a little too meek. Students do tend to respond differently to male teachers, as much as I rue the fact. I wish him the best of luck with my load (especially on Fridays when all but two periods are spent with my crowded and unruly homeroom class). Oops, I mean his. They are his now. I just hope he knows I'm not going to be up for another switch once his dream is fully "realized."

Will this work out? I don't know, but I'm more hopeful. My students have no idea that I'm taking a new position, so Tuesday will be my "bye," "so long," and "don't worry the door won't hit me in the ass, cause I'm flying out of here" day. I should mention, though, that I'll still be working once a week with some kids in both of the ELA classes I had been teaching. I can handle them once a week and in smaller groups. I'll meet some of my new students and try to start learning names Tuesday afternoon. I'm also hoping the weather permits me to take my cart to school and wheel some of my materials back to my apartment. I can't wait to see my stapler again.

*This message was brought to you by the word/exclamation "Sucka!"

On a lighter note... Cupcakes: My Anti-Drug.

Last week or perhaps three weeks ago ("I have no concept of time other than it's flying"), Katie of the now dissolved Book Club and my first batch of residents emailed me. She mentioned how the absence of the Book Club is equivalent to an absence of air...or maybe she said something else entirely. Actually, I know she did. Anyhow, she asked if teaching is "still that bad."

Here's the verdict: yes. Of course, I'm more accustomed to the violence, hatred, rudeness, and ignorance. Things don't shock me as much. The kids are still horrible, though. The administration is still incompetent, unhelpful, and just out of touch. I am powerless to discipline my students or send them to someone else for disciplining. I have not been assaulted at school (yet), but I know my students are capable of it. I teach a kid that brought a knife to school, stole money from another student, and has expletive-every-other-word diction. He was one of a group of boys that was jumping students in the hallway in what has been called the "Tie Rumble." (Male students at my school are required to wear ties. Some do, some don't. Ties are fun strangling devices that double as whips).

My stomach churns every morning as I head to work. I feel sick well into the day, with the pain abating around 2:00. School gets out at 3:00. I hate my job. The day never ends without general disgust for whatever made these kids the way they are. Perhaps I should have anticipated all of this, but I never did. I knew I'd be working in an environment very different from the ones I had previously been exposed to, but I used to be the kind of person who shunned all the negative stereotypes about urban schools. Surely not all urban schools are like this, but I realize that this is just another facet of urban blight in America.

I never signed up for this job thinking I'd pull a Michelle Pfeiffer and save a lot of "Dangerous Minds." I'm not even one to say I expected to "Stand and Deliver" each day, helping kids achieve the highest academic honors and grow into conscientious critical thinkers. I wanted the opportunity to teach, and I have a hard time teaching anything to my classes. Students are too disruptive. Part of me wants to convince the better of my students to transfer with haste. I.S. 666 is no place to learn and honestly, these kids are not ready for high school. Most of them shouldn't have been promoted to eighth grade. There are some students I teach that have never done any work. I couldn't tell you what their handwriting looks like. Consequently, I have no idea what they are capable of doing and neither do they.

School is depressing to write about. I anticipate a return to Texas in the near future. This is completely serious. I enjoy this city, but I'm having a hard time affording a life here. Most of my time is spent working, and my work leaves me disillusioned, tired, and angry. Teaching here has been harder and uglier than I ever anticipated. I hate quitting anything, but I think staying might be even worse.

That's a nice bomb to drop, huh? It's been coming. I knew after the first two weeks of school that I wouldn't let myself last a year at I.S. 666. I would be wronging myself, and that's who I have to look out for before anyone else. I've put resumes out elsewhere, but more teaching jobs won't really become available until after December. I feel sorry that I spent so much time and money thinking I wanted to do this...only to find that I dread each weekday. I feel guilty that I kind of forced my parents and loved ones onto this "Support Amanda's Humanitarian Cause" bandwagon all for naught.

I can't let myself unlearn to take risks and want to change the world, but I'm sitting in the fallout of a dream gone entirely too hazardous.

I call it "Frosting Poetic in Inwood." The cupcakes are delicious. Thanks, Bobby, for letting me lick the big bowl!

I can't think of anything interesting to write in here.

I am currently reading the much-banned book The Price of Salt, which was Nabokov's inspiration for Lolita. I finished Janice Dickinson's second memoir Everything About Me Is Fake...And I'm Perfect last night. Janice Dickinson amuses me the same way Mae West, Loretta Lynn, Zelda Fitzgerald, and Shirley Maclaine amuse me. Would I totally trust them? No. Are they totally admirable? Not always. Would I invite them to dinner and be a good friend to any of them? Yes! Everything About Me... mostly comes across as text diarrhea. Dickinson likes to set each chapter up with some namedropping and one-liners, promising some important revelations...and then the chapter is over. Finished. Her work is unfocused and poorly edited. However, I learned she washes her face in plain nonfat yogurt. And Sylvester Stallone paid for one of her breast augmentations. Clearly, I've taken something from the book.

I finally got a haircut today after a month and a half of letting short and choppy grow out into longish and flat. This should cover me for another two months, right? That's how it tends to go. I walked to a cheap chain haircut place, because I scoff at people who pay lots of money for haircuts. It just makes no sense to me. It's all keratin, and it grows back. Sam pays more for his haircuts than I do. The woman who cut my hair was good - she didn't even offer me any hair products. That's my girl! The only person who can offer me hair products is my sister, who owns every cosmetic or hair product anyone even pondered inventing. It's true. I hadn't used a hair product since Joey Lawrence was popular, until Megan introduced me to a gel this summer.

I've decided to head up to Inwood in a bit to see Bobby's bigger, more affordable abode. Supposedly, Inwood has the freshest air in the city. After walking by one too many hot dog vendors today, this is long overdue.

Bobby has shared some pictures from his cell phone and I feel obligated to post these, especially because I never took lots of pictures of the big ole city of New York the way a good Southern girl would do. I actually didn't even bring a camera with me, because I wanted to pack more clothes. Sigh. Priorities...

These here landmarks are in my neighborhood:

This is the Cathedral of St. John the Divine. It's beautiful and serene. In fact, if I were capable of getting up early on Sunday mornings and I practiced Catholicism, I would frequent this place. As it is, I admire it when I walk by and I tell everyone that it's the largest Gothic cathedral in America...or the world...or something.


You're probably more familiar with this place. Yep, it's the facade from Seinfeld. On Seinfeld, the diner was called Monk's and the service wasn't as bad as it is in real life. Avoid the temptation to visit this place. Fight it with all your might.


Have I mentioned some of the racist things my students have said to me? At first, they were smitten with my freckled skin, fine hair, and blue eyes. Then some of the heavier girls started making comments about my weight, which drives me crazy. If I was obsessed with my teachers' appearances at that age, I know I never discussed it with the teacher. How inappropriate! One boy loudly commented to another that I have a "flat ass." Small, yes. Flat-ish, yes. Completely flat, no. Something he should be looking at and appraising, no. But the best of all race-related remarks is some kid calling me a "white monkey." Why, yes, I guess I am.

Argh! So first the Internet doesn't work that great here. Then the plumbing. Now the cable TV is on the fritz in everyone's room but Chen's.

I am not desperate tonight, but tomorrow I will usurp my housemate's TV if I have to. America's Next Top Model is that important to me. Oh, the shame.

Robert Fulghum wrote that you know you're a grownup when you bury your dead pets and pull out food particles from the sink drain with your bare hands (bare hands!). He's right about the burials, I think. I have yet to bury a dead pet, though I have flushed some fish.

I think one is also a grownup once he or she salvages a piece of furniture from the garbage and fixes a toilet. Many people much older than eighteen (especially women) are walking around this earth as non-grownups, in my mind. This should tell you something about my upbringing. I grew up with parents who could and can do ANYTHING. They could perform surgery on our pets. (Oh, how I hid that fact until college)... They could take a dead stick and turn it into a tree in a month. They could lay tile, build computers, make the best spaghetti you've ever eaten, etc. And yep, they could fix toilets. (I must emphasize again that they could and they can).

So last night I stepped out of the shower and found that the toilet was close to flooding. There was a piece of toilet paper that wouldn't flush. The water would rise and rise, I'd start to freak out, and then the water would slowly recede. I was not going to be the person who let the toilet flood the one bathroom in the apartment for a few reasons. 1) Because then I'd appear to be the person who caused the clog with zealous use of toilet paper or very irritable bowels when IT WASN'T ME, I SWEAR! 2) I didn't want toilet water spilling onto the floor and my flip-flopped feet. 3) You don't want to be remembered as "the one who flooded the bathroom." It's just not cool.

I preferred to not be remembered as the one who fixed the clogged toilet either, but I called Sam to help me perform a good deed.

Me: [whispering] Sam, you have to help me! The toilet is clogged! I don't want it to flood the bathroom.
Sam: Do you have a plunger?
Me: Yes, but it's unique and unusual looking.
Sam: Like an ear bud?
Me: Yes! Why is the toilet clogged when I'm in here?
Sam: Someone used too much toilet paper or left a big turd or something. Now listen closely, here's what to do...

I plunged and plunged to no avail. Then I flushed and plunged and plunged with some results. Then I flushed and plunged and plunged again and, are you getting this? In the end, I FIXED THE TOILET. Triumph was mine! The water became clear. Someone else's toilet paper flushed down effortlessly. No flooding thanks to Yours Truly (and Sam).

So I'm kind of a grownup now. Give me some time to learn more about plumbing, wiring, carpentry, and dog operating and I'll be the super of this damn building! Or at least a few steps closer to my parents' greatness.

I yearn to put on this cloak of apathy I've seen others wear. What do I do at this point? I just sat looking at the papers my students turn in (perhaps I should refer to them as the papers most of my students do not turn in). It is all so defeating. The few students who turn in work do such a poor job of it. Sometimes because they don't care if I am able to read and grade it. Sometimes because they just have such low abilities that they don't know how to read and write.

Did I ever mention that out of my thirty-two homeroom students, only two read at the appropriate eighth grade reading level? The other thirty read between second and fifth grade reading levels. By the way, most of my students have failed at least one year of school, if not two or three. These are kids that are supposed to be in high school.

How can I be expected to help anyone when I can't really teach the way they need to be taught? I spend more time breaking up fights and dealing with arguments than I do teaching. To add to that, my paychecks really aren't allowing me to have much of a life here. My rent is expensive, and then I have a cell phone bill and all the debts of college and my move up here. No money is being saved. I'm working at a job I really dislike and have nothing to show for it. My dad wants me to just move back home, but I don't want to do that. I need to be more independent, and I need to struggle like other people have. I don't want to have to slink back home and call everything a grand mistake.

I hear the first years after college are universally jarring. At least, they should be. I want to be back in school. I want to be surrounded by the people I love once again. I want to be the student and not the teacher.

I'm starting to feel sad.

"Yesterday all my troubles seemed so far away..."

They were. Bobby, my teacher friend from I.S. 666 has been suggesting we hang out since school started. It hadn't happened until yesterday, though. One weekend he went to Florida. Other weekends I spent alone, recovering from a week of school. Yesterday, we finally met up on the Upper West Side, ate at Koronet, and ventured downtown. Bobby jokes that the farthest downtown he goes is our West Harlem school, because he lives all the way uptown in Inwood. He could gallop to the Bronx in mere minutes...if he ever wanted to. (I'm kind of an NYC geography snob. The Bronx and Queens have nothing going for them, as far as I'm concerned. Oh wait, the Bronx has a Target. That's it).

Bobby brought along a visiting friend from Florida, Sean [insert color surname]. I also have a color for a last name, so that was interesting. Actually, it's not all that interesting, but I feel solidarity with all the color surnamed people out there. We endure incessantly unoriginal teasing for years of our lives. Sean and Bobby were clearly getting on each other's nerves after a few days of living together in Inwood. They're operating on very different schedules and haven't ever spent so much time together. The critical three-day window after which fish and guests start to smell had already passed.

We first went to a gathering of Puerto Ricans on a street near me, thinking it was a street fair. I have no idea what it actually was. People were speaking, flags were flying, candles were burning. Hmmm... We found the real street fair after going to Bank Street Bookstore and the boys enduring my neighborhood tour. I saw a cool pair of mod blue shoes that Bobby hated and I loved. Alas, they didn't fit. We also ran into Kathy, who was peddling homemade soaps and dolls. Sean was meandering around the fair, buying organic apples and sterling silver earrings. Early on, Bobby teased him about being a healthy eating food snob.

On to downtown! We went to Chelsea to go to flower markets and the flea market. I was followed by a few different obese housecats that were hanging out in shops. One very large orange tabby purred as I pet him and then heavily jumped into my lap. I nearly fell over, as I was squatting down and not really balanced. I then suggested we try to go to the Village to Magnolia Bakery. I'd wanted to visit for a few years and had never been. Bobby asked if anyone on the subway knew how to get there, and we got eager directions from an elderly man.

There was a long outdoor line to get into the bakery. It was fortunately moving pretty quickly, but it was still ridiculous. At one point, a man carrying a ukelele and wearing a green and yellow matching shirt and short set walked by and said, "Now don't you feel silly waiting in line for cupcakes?" I thought somehow should ask him the same thing about carrying a ukelele and wearing such a weird outfit. Nonetheless, Ninja Turtle man had a point. The cupcakes had too much frosting, weren't moist enough, and the chocolate icing just tasted weird. Like coffee grounds or something. The moral of the story: BE NOT LURED INTO MAGNOLIA BAKERY. 'TIS AN OVER-RATED TOURIST TRAP, METHINKS. Buy some Funfetti mix and make much better cupcakes yourself.

Bobby, Sean, and I drank sodas and ate bad cupcakes while watching attractive dads play with their attractive kids at the Bleecker Playground. Good times. We then headed to Christopher Street for general people watching before heading back uptown to Koronet. I love that pizza. The boys were still annoyed at each other and left for Inwood. I walked the few blocks back to my apartment. I watched the premiere of Saturday Night Live, but wow, was it a task. It was just not funny or fresh. Kanye West came across as really constipated. I don't like the new songs. Tina Fey was gone, so Horatio Sanz co-anchored Weekend Update. Too weird. Tina, come back! Bring the baby, but come back! I had no idea Maya Rudolph was pregnant, either. Megan was right about her breasts getting bigger and bigger. I seldom notice things like that.

That's my story. There were so many good quotes I can't recall, but this will have to suffice. Well, never mind, here's one thing that I find amusing:

Me: [guessing the name of a guy that works at Koronet] I think his name is Constantine. I think he looks like a sensitive soul.
Bobby: I think he hates working at a pizza place.
Me: What do you think his name is?
Bobby: I'm gonna go with Guiseppe.

His name is Greg.

Okay, one more:

[A car is stopped in the street. On the back passenger window is says, "For sale" and a phone number is written. The driver has his window rolled down].

Bobby: How much?
Driver: More than you can afford.
Bobby: Seriously, how much?
Driver: I don't want your money!
Bobby: How much is the car. It says, "For Sale."
Driver: Oh! Oh! Four thousand dollars.
Bobby: I could afford that.
[The driver drives away when the light changes. We laugh at his overly suspicious mind].

I could and should write all about the fun day I had, but I'm sleepy and have a book to read. Also, tonight is apparently the season premiere of Saturday Night Live...

I do want to mention that I got mail today from home! This is exciting, because I have received so little mail in my post office box that I actually forgot the number. I had to ask Sunil, a kind postal worker, to look me up. He did, told me I have a nice driver's license photo (why, thank you), and hollered, "Amanda...you have mail!" announcer-style.

The box had cookies, some fruit roll-ups, a box of Kix cereal, and a note from my mom. Awww. I ate a whole bag of cookies waiting for my entourage to arrive in my neighborhood. There's a whole other blog entry coming soon about that.

*If you're wondering why I received Kix cereal all the way from Texas, you can stop now. I have never seen Kix cereal in NYC. Ever. I'll admit I haven't scoured every cereal aisle in every grocery store looking for it, but I've been to enough and they never had anything "kid-tested" and "mother-approved." A girl has got to get her Kix somehow.

Ugh! As soon as I write about my kilt chagrin, the ad is for "short plaid skirts," which are essentially kilts for tramps. Heh.

Still, I'm offended. Who decided the readers of this blog wear short skirts? We're a modest bunch, I think.

Bring on the ads for sweatpants.

P.S. EARN ME A NICKEL. You know you're a tramp.

I subscribed to Google AdSense recently, because all the millions of dollars I'll make off the ads will enable me to quit my job and do something new with my life, right?

Well, no. But if you click on the ads for whatever service, product, or website Google thinks my blog readers might go to (in my case, kilts - don't ask), I make some amount of money. A nickel, perhaps. I don't know. Honestly, I had Internet access, time on my hands, and read the words "make money." I may have also unsuspectingly joined pyramid schemes that day. Time will tell.

So...do you want to help me out? You do? Okay. CLICK ON THE KILT LINK AND EARN ME A NICKEL. Go ahead, you know you love kilts.

*Seriously, what program looked at the content of this blog and decided, "Put in those kilt ads. If someone likes Amanda's MsAdventures, he or she probably also likes kilts." I realize I come across as a person who wears skirts. I do. I even like some classic patterns. Fall is here, and kilts are more of a fall fashion. But. But. But why not a link for people who like shoes, films, books, or educational materials? Why kilts?

**If you like kilts, please leave me a comment defending the Google AdSense ad placement decision. I need a good laugh.

This morning I woke up with a purpose. Of course, I suppose I always wake with a purpose. I have fifty-two kids to deal with every weekday, but they tend to disgust me so much that I really consider staying in bed. (I should give them credit, though, they've been pretty good the last two days. I'm especially referring to my homeroom/ELA/SS class).

My purpose this morning was to get a children's book manuscript sent off for a contest I entered. When I was in junior high, I randomly entered a historical fiction contest. I used a story I had to write for school and ended up forgetting I even entered the contest. Almost a year later, I learned that I placed and won some autographed books and recognition in a national magazine. It really wasn't that big of a deal, but it showed me I could write.

I have to be in the right mood to write for myself, but honestly, I love an assignment. Being a student has been my favorite vocation. If I knew what I wanted to do with my life at this point, I would go back to school in a heartbeat. I really miss it.

So I woke up this morning around 6:30 and it was fifty degrees outside. This is winter weather to me! I had on a skirt, short sleeved shirt, hoodie, and my commute shoes. I should have just gone to the post office to get an envelope, but I was so cold and disoriented that I couldn't remember what street the post office was on. I walked a few blocks and saw nothing, so I waited for Duane Reade to open. I stopped at Hot & Crusty Bakery to put the manuscript in the envelope, seal it, etc. and encountered the RUDEST MAN IN NEW YORK (a title to be claimed by another only when some of my rudest boys at I.S. 666 become men and duke it out for the title). RMINY called the cashier at the bakery a "pain in the ass" when she asked a question to clarify his order. He ordered, paid, sat down with a friend before getting his food, and yelled at her when she tried to do her job. Ugh. I gave him my nastiest glare in her defense.

(In case you're wondering, I don't often encounter the notorious New York hostility the rest of America talks about. Most New Yorkers are pretty decent. Students and some administrators at my school are by far the rudest New Yorkers I've met. I try to do my best to scorn any other random rude people I run into).

Anyhow, I wrote a children's book. It's about thirty-two pages long. If I never hear anything from the contest, I think I might try to get it published. I feel like my little book is decent - I've seen worse books out there. I love to write, and I need to do more of what I love. Besides being an undercover agent for the Polite Police, of course.