Passive-aggressiveness (or should I say aggression?) irritates me. It's the faintest of stenches that you can't put your finger on. Where does it come from? Has he who smelt it, dealt it? This is to say that I'm wondering if I'm being paranoid by suspecting passive-aggressiveness (o.s.i.s.a.?) from someone else. Is the passive-aggressiveness (o.s.i.s.a.?) only born of me when I decide it's there hanging between this person and I. We're the beginning and end of one bridge, mired in fog. I feel it, so it is?

I could just ask, "Do you truly want something bad to happen to me? Would it delight you? Would you feel happier if I felt sadder?" I, of course, don't. Instead, I write about it like this.

One of Sam's Christmas gifts was a copy of Work and Love, Stephen Dunn's out of print poetry collection. This collection is very hard to find and Sam has searched for it for years. I found it online a few months ago and had to wait forever to get it. When it arrived at my NYC post office jet-lagged from a cross-country voyage, I simply put it in a drawer with all my other Christmas gifts.

I had no idea until Sam unwrapped his present that the book is autographed. I think it's a first edition, too, so I should have been charged a lot more money for it than I was! Very cool. I collect autographed books, so Sam might want to make sure he doesn't "forget" his present.

The only thing that tops this, as far as autographed books go, is the time I ordered Blacks by Gwendolyn Brooks off of ebay. One of the copies being sold was very expensive - a leatherbound, autographed first edition. I couldn't afford that, so I ordered the cheap paperback copy. I was mistakenly sent the expensive copy. (I hadn't noticed both copies were from the same seller until this fantastic error). Condemn me if you must, but I never reported the mistake. In fact, this serendipitous event inspired me to start collecting autographed books.

My next treasure was an autographed copy of Sandra Cisneros's My Wicked, Wicked Ways that I kind of stole from my high school library...but that's another story.

Well, Bobby, our dream has come true - Janice Dickinson is getting her own series on Oxygen. The most acerbic ex-model talking to wannabe models = a show I will watch every week. Note to people who call me: YOU WILL NOT CALL ME WHEN THIS SHOW IS ON. I MUST RELISH EVERY SECOND OF THE JANICE.

So much to say.

It's a wonder it doesn't suddenly bubble forth, like a burp I can't hold back. Or stream out like the blood of a hemophiliac. (I'm not trying to rap).

I amaze myself every few minutes when I find I've yet to leap out of my skin to put on another.

If I don't find something to do (or it doesn't find me), I promise I'll be speaking in tongues things poetic and repulsive. Soon.

You might want to be here to stop it. You might want to be here to witness it.

The hardest thing about blogging whilst at home is the constant threat of interruptions. My mom might be preparing a traditional Christmas meal downstairs, while my sister admires her yoga ball and my dad downloads something. The phone will ring and no one will turn down the blaring easy listening music.

I received many functional Christmas gifts last night and felt a wave of content wash over me after it was all done. That's unusual. In the past, I've often felt Christmas was anticlimactic and that there was something wrong with that. There is this supreme awkwardness that arises when you open a gift that someone has picked out for you and you are hit with this feeling of what-the-hell-ness. It is exacerbated when this person is kind of smug about the gift and has foolishly assumed you would 1) like the gift or 2) need/use the gift. I feel this way about receiving candles as gifts. On Sex and the City, Samantha once said, "Women with candles have replaced women with cats as the new sad thing." Girlfriend was right. I don't burn candles, and I most definitely will not display tea lights in cheap containers like some piece of art. I also really dislike getting clothes that don't remotely fit as gifts. I feel insulted, as people tend to buy things too large.

So this is all to say I unwrapped underwear, snow boots, gloves, scarves, and socks I will wear. I received dvds I will watch, books I will read, and gift cards I will spend. Better yet, now I have gift bags and boxes I will recycle. Christmas 2005 is a wrap.

Yesh...

I'm in Texas.

I already opened all my Christmas presents.

Life is grand.

[in a snarly voice] Oh yes, my darling, we shall be reunited soon!

I want to burn a cd of songs that have a woman's name in the title. Here's what I've thought of so far from my ipod:

"Come on, Eileen"
"Stacy's Mom"
"For Emily, Wherever I May Find Her"
"Annie Mae"
"Mary Jane"
"Anna Begins"
"Caroline (Roses)"
"Cecilia"
"Billie Jean"

Isn't there a song called "Amanda"?

Can you think of any other songs?

The strike is over!

I have mixed emotions, as I enjoyed starting school two hours later. At the same time, I'm glad I don't have to drag my suitcase all the way to Harlem tomorrow. Wallace and I are getting Super Shuttled to La Guardia right after school, so that should be cynical fun.

I'm ready to be home.

My flight tunes: Claude, my eclectic ipod that needs some serious updating.
My flight reading: Female Chauvinist Pigs by Ariel Levy and Magical Thinking by Augusten Burroughs.
My flight carry-ons: A purse full of Kleenex, lip gloss, and my airport tunes and reading and a fragile Christmas gift in a Macy's bag.
My not-so-secret flight desire: A whole row of seats all to myself and a really delicious in-flight meal.
My flight fear: Sitting near 1) annoying children, 2) an annoying couple, 3) a person with a malfunctioning colostomy bag, or 4) sitting near an annoying couple with a child with a malfunctioning colostomy bag. Also, crashing.

I'm going back to Texas tomorrow, and while I do not look forward to travel mayhem, I can't wait to see my entire family greet me at the airport at midnight. Even the dog will be there - I just know it.

There's a man in the vicinity of I.S. 666 who owns a dog. This man appears to be a drunk and hangs out on the streets and keeps the dog on a rope. A few weeks ago, the man put a ratty old sweater on the dog, despite the fact that it is an extremely fuzzy chow chow mix and can't possibly be cold. Anyhow, I used to see this huge, haiy dog wearing the stretched out, striped monstrosity after school everyday when I walked to the subway.

Bobby and I think the sweater is too ugly for a human to wear, so the poor dog is condemned to it. On the contrary, we've also imagined that the dog might actually be well off and run along the coast of Maine in rolled-up J. Crew sweaters on weekends, but spends his weekdays slumming it in Harlem in an El Mundo bargain bin irregular. All of his own volition. Is that so far-FETCHED (pun totally intended)?

I saw the dog today, and he wasn't wearing the sweater. It really surprised me. I had to tell Bobby: "You know that dog that wears the horrible sweater? He's topless today. Times are hard."

Of course, maybe he's so well off that he can generously give the shirt off his back...

I really enjoy the Counting Crows song "Long December." It smells like apple cider, old leather, and salt water. It feels like the sting of wind on your face. And it sounds like a night-time conversation between two exhausted people on a long drive home.

A long December and there's reason to believe
Maybe this year will be better than the last
I can't remember the last thing that you said as you were leavin'
Now the days go by so fast
And it's one more day up in the canyons
And it's one more night in Hollywood
If you think that I could be forgiven...I wish you would
The smell of hospitals in winter
And the feeling that it's all a lot of oysters, but no pearls
All at once you look across a crowded room
To see the way that light attaches to a girl
And it's one more day up in the canyons
And it's one more night in Hollywood
If you think you might come to California...I think you should
Drove up to Hillside Manor sometime after two a.m.
And talked a little while about the year
I guess the winter makes you laugh a little slower,
Makes you talk a little lower about the things you could not show her
And it's been a long December and there's reason to believe
Maybe this year will be better than the last
I can't remember all the times I tried to tell my myself
To hold on to these moments as they pass
And it's one more day up in the canyon
And it's one more night in Hollywood
It's been so long since I've seen the ocean...I guess I should

One thing this transit strike has done is put me on an early vacation. I'm not leaving for Texas until Friday night, but I'm already gone. It helps that school starts later in the day and many kids aren't showing up.

Late night movies, cookies for breakfast, dance parties with sixth-graders in Mr. McDougall's classroom - I'm so there.

If you follow the news at all, you already know that NYC has endured a two day transit strike. Day one, I took the day off and ran errands after sleeping late. I felt the freedom that only unemployed people feel. Actually, that's not so much freedom as it is aimlessness and desperation, huh? Let me revise. I felt that freedom that college students feel when they have completed their finals or a class gets cancelled and suddenly the universe expands. Who knew that all that time they were in class and taking quizzes that places like coffee shops and movie theatres were open? Who knew?! The streets didn't seem any more crowded than normal yesterday. Except for one very rude worker at my branch of the NYPL, UWS people were acting normal. Life was good.

It all started to change when I walked a total of 78 blocks last night to see Syriana. In the cold winter weather. Don't these sound like conditions in a story your grandfather would tell? "When I was your age...blahblahblah...I walked....blahblahblah...uphill, both ways..." You can talk about a lot of things in 78 blocks, so it didn't really bother me. It felt kind of like those times I'd go into the woods behind my old house with Shawna and we'd explore the nothingness. We'd occasionally eat prickly pears straight from clusters of cacti. A few times, we walked all the way across a field and over the train tracks to Dairy Queen. It was a great adventure. New York City isn't quite so abandoned, and I couldn't watch for lightning bugs or cottontails this time. Instead, I noticed all the homeless people who had been kicked out of the subway stations. It's so cold right now, and it's really unfortunate that there are so many people here who have no destination. I'll walk block after block if I must, because I know I have somewhere warm and safe to go. Too many people here do not.

Today I walked a total of 52 blocks to get to and from work. It really wasn't so bad. Mind you, I will be glad to have a warm train to get around in again someday. And mind you, I hope that day is soon, but after fifteen blocks, you start to feel invincible. You really do. You are warm and radiant and so long as you have an ipod, the star of one long music video. The walk home was a bit more difficult, because I'd had time to develop some sinus problems, so my eyes kept tearing up. I felt very conscious of the fact that I might look like some grim worker from a Dorothea Lange photograph, so I wiped when I wept. The walk to work, though, was kind of nice. I think I may have been smiling even, because some strange man saw me and said, "Sweetie pie!" It was quite endearing. Maybe he just liked my pants that Bobby bought me for Christmas... I rock the tweed, yo.

So I'm home now, but may venture to mi thrift store favorito in order to return two pairs of pants I bought last week. That'll be 56 more blocks, though. Hmmm... I may go for it. After all, "Ask not what your legs can do for you, but what you can do for your legs." I believe John F. Kennedy said something like that.

I know I'm breaking my promise and haven't written a good entry today, but I'm waiting to find out if the MTA is striking or not. Seven million people ride a NYC bus or subway each day, and I'm one of them.

Will I go to work tomorrow? Only time will tell... (I wouldn't mind a day off to run errands).

* I don't live as far away from my place of work as some of my co-workers do. Nonetheless, hailing a cab tomorrow morning during rush hour will be difficult. Walking many blocks uptown in the cold will be good exercise, but is not the way I'd like to start the day.

Today I discovered where I can get the best waffles in NYC (Diner 24 in Chelsea) and just how soft beaver fur is. All because of Mr. McGoogle. Thanks, Mr. McGoudall.

The best feeling in the world is not love.

Sure, that's one of the best feelings, but nothing feels as good as the first sense of your own repair/growth. Think of the first time you can think about a person who hurt you and you feel nothing. That person's name becomes a mere name, instead of a symbol of all your regret, loss, and anger.

There have been times when an indelible voice became a distant and fuzzy recollection. If I were in a crowd and he called my name, I wouldn't be stopped in my tracks. I'd probably assume he was calling another name, another Amanda.

For Amanda is no longer me, either. It's a collection of letters my parents decided I'd go by, but six letters have never been enough to hold all this life that sits here in a red sweater pounding key after key.

The heart and mind scab over and the faintest scars are left. I'm stronger. I've outgrown just a name and so has he. We have grown and grown...apart.

Bobby: (after singing snippets of a Barbra Streisand song) There are two types of gay men - Barbra Sreisand gay and Bette Midler gay. Which one do you think I am?

Me: Barbra Streisand gay?

Bobby: Oh, no! I'm sooo Bette Midler!

A shopping quote for the day:

Me: (to Bobby) My favorite thing is when you ask the salesperson about a product, and he looks at you like you're totally making stuff up.

* Go ahead and try it: Ask a salesperson at Best Buy if the store carries iGuys. After enough blank stares, YOU start feeling like the crazy, uninformed one. Also inquire about thumb hubs.

Christmas time in NYC is daunting. The weather has become cold fairly early, so everyone walks around slowly rustling under layers of down and wool. Dirty ice scabs the sidewalks and roads. Salvation Army workers ring bells. This sound mingles with sirens, horns, Christmas Muzak emanating from stores, children throwing tantrums, and street vendors' yells to create the most cacophonous Christmas carol.

After Saturday school, Bobby and I headed downtown to finish Christmas shopping. I can resist everything, but temptation, so Bobby easily convinced me that we should ride to Spring Street and go to Lombardi's. The place was packed with tourist parties of five and seven. How can that many people afford to eat at Lombardi's? In a most surprising turn of events, Bobby and I left the best pizza place in America to pursue quicker eats. We went to Union Square and settled for McDonald's. Tragic, I know.

After seemingly endless days of shopping, I'm still not satisfied with my purchases. I have three more small shopping goals before I bury my head in the snow and start Scrooging it. I enjoy the chance to be generous, but I just can't wait for the capitalist binge that is "Jesus' birthday" to be over. I'm tired of braving the crowds. Jesus Christ, blow out your candles.

Yawn. I'm going to bed around 9:00 tonight. I don't care how that saying goes - this city needs its sleep, too.

I was talking to my mom tonight about my writing, or lack thereof. "Look at the great writers - they're all depressed alcoholics," I said. It can be difficult to write when you are content. My mom still mildly nagged and reminded me that I'm in New York City, the home of most major publishers, and I'm not really trying to sell my writing. Mind you, I would need time to write a book I'd even consider trying to send out, but I could at least submit an article or five.

I'm very big on New Year's resolutions, so one of them for 2006 needs to be to really try and get my writing out there. I know I will be ignored and rejected before anything great possibly happens, but I need to do this. There are far worse writers making money for something I do better for free. That doesn't make sense. Since I've moved to NYC, I've sent three pieces of writing out. One was a short children's book. The others were personal narratives for a collection. I need to actually start writing new stuff for new places. I need a writer's market book and a Writer's Digest pronto!

P.S. I've decided that I will be blogging GOOD STUFF every day until I head back to Texas, in order to get the good writing vibes going.

If recollecting were forgetting,
Then I remember not;
And if forgetting, recollecting,
How near I had forgot!
And if to miss were merry,
And if to mourn were gay,
How very blithe the fingers
That gathered these to-day!

- Emily Dickinson

The cold weather appears to be making students at I.S. 666 explore alternative heating methods. Today I had to ask a boy who was straddling a girl from behind (and whose last name not so coincidentally sounds like "jizm") to find his own chair TWICE.

A boy straddling a girl from behind. In English Language Arts skills class. Oh, the horrors!

Then the straddler boy started wooing another girl in class by tickling her and talking about her titties. He called her breasts this, yes. She, of course, was trying to get him to stop my reminding him, "Be careful - my titties is sore." Probably from some major groping earlier during math class or something. The feminist in me was livid. The teacher in me had the horny threesome pulled into the hallway to discuss their inappropriate behavior with the assistant principal.

Mr. Bald: All right, what's going on?
The Threesome: (blank stares of innocence/brain death) Umm...nothing.
Mr. Bald: Yeah, right. That's not true. (looking at Straddled Girl) What happened? Where were you sitting?
SG: In my chair?
Mr. Bald: Where was [Jizm-esque name] sitting?
SG: Uh...in his chair.
Me: They were sitting in the same chair. [Jizm-esque name] was straddling her from behind.
Mr. Bald: Oh, no!
SG: Uh uh! Uh uh! We weren't sitting in the same chair! [Jizm-esque name] was sitting in his own chair!
Mr. Bald: Where were you sitting?
SG: On the floor.
Mr. Bald: On the floor?
SG: I was on my knees on the floor and [Jizm-esque name] was sitting in his chair.

The lie was almost more lurid than the truth. Of course, maybe it wasn't a total lie. Perhaps this happened before my class...

Mr. Bald: You were on your knees with your head between his legs!?
SG: NO!

I couldn't help it. Either Mr. Bald was jumping to some pretty probable conclusions...or he was voicing his darkest I.S. 666 fantasies. The thought of that made me chuckle and blush. When I caught myself chuckling, I faked a grimace and muttered, "Inappropriate!" in school marm fashion.

Meanwhile, the sixteen-year-old seventh-grade Casanova tried to feign purity by averting his eyes and not-so-innocently smelling his fingers.

The stink of kink - my classroom runneth over.

Q: Why haven't you been blogging much lately?

A: I've been busy with work six days a week, as well as after-school meetings and such. My social life has also become more active. I've been Christmas shopping, etc. In addition, I received many books from my NYPL reading list that I've frantically tried to finish before their due dates.


Q: What's going on with the NYC transit strike?

A: I personally was excited about a subway strike, because I kind of wanted to be absent today and to get a break from Saturday school. Other than that, though, the strike would be a great inconvenience for me and countless others. I woke up this morning and finally got dressed when I learned that transit was still running and the full strike would potentially be on Monday.


Q: What are you currently reading?

A: Rich Dad, Poor Dad. It should be called Rich Man, Poor Writer.


Q: Do you still like the snow?

A: Yeah. I'd prefer clean snow that would blanket the city and close the schools. I long for a snow day.


Q: What's something that you do that's really dumb?

A: Sometimes I iron clothes while I'm wearing them. On a low heat setting, of course, but still...

"I feel drunk but I'm sober
I'm young and I'm underpaid
I'm tired but I'm working, yeah
I care but I'm restless
I'm here but I'm really gone
I'm wrong and I'm sorry baby..."
- Alanis Morissette "Hand In My Pocket"

You ask if I leave myself sometimes. "Maybe," I say. "I can see how you might think that," but I know exactly what you're talking about. I sit above myself. The woman with her legs crossed in the pointy heels is not me. Not really. She has accessorized her anecdotes with her intentions, what she knows with what she doesn't, but wishes were so.

Had you squinted as you and I walked into the room, you'd have seen her shed me. I sit on one shoulder, whispering into her ear. We are authentically self-conscious, the most flattering angle of real plucked out of a catalog, one very contrived original.

She tosses her hair gaily over the other shoulder, so carefree after calculation.

I want to remember how hard
you were crying the day I left -
it surprised me.
I'd always thought of you
as so composed with your
happy go lucky nature
tinged with some jealousy,
resentment of me.

Your shoulders shook like
a wet animal, uncomfortable
after an expected,
but dreaded, bath.

Did you feel cold?
Like things were getting colder
even as you finally slinked
out of my shadow?

You can never start blogging too soon.

I live to spoil; and tonight I intend to possibly spoil the remake of King Kong. If you're all that concerned about that, do not read anymore. This is the last time I'll warn you.

So...I'm able to spoil Peter Jackson's remake because Bobby got free tickets to the premiere tonight. We left the weekly staff development meeting early in order to wait in a long, cold line at the Loews at Lincoln Square. Bobby and I watched a so-called actor (some frumpy guy who mentioned he's been on many episodes of Law and Order) hit on a possibly pregnant credit card promoter. I complained my feet hurt. And some girl turned to me at one point and uttered the most ridiculous fact: "I know it's on accident, but you keep bumping into me." What does one say to that? It's a long line for a movie premiere - everyone is bumping into everyone else. I said, "Sorry," but really, it's like she said, "I notice that you sometimes sneeze." And? When I apologized matter-of-factly, she turned around, and Bobby and I laughed. She turned back around, "Is there a problem?" Bobby purred, "Is laughter a problem?" No, and it's a good thing, because we're still laughing about this. Bump, bump, bump!

When Bobby and I finally got to the front of the line (after the girl's hook-nosed boyfriend joined her in line and she pointed me out to him, sheesh) we found an already packed theater. We settled on seats in the center of the seventh row. I put my coat and bag on the seat next to mine and Bobby put his on a seat next to him. An old Hell's Angel guy with a cane and full leather regalia joined our row, muttering the whole time, "I'm here. I'll sit right here. Wow, it's packed." I tried to fix my bag so that it was hidden under my coat and he so graciously said, "Don't worry. I'm gonna put my jacket right on top." He did. And it smelled of smoke, booze, and hookers or something. I moved my bag and coat to Bobby's side. Bobby and I ignored him in the few minutes we waited for the movie to start.

We watched a soundless preview and then a soundless first four minutes of the movie. Hundreds of people in the theater cried, "Sound! No sound! Where's the sound?!" Needless to say, there was actually a lot of sound. (It reminded me of when I ask a student to stop talking when he or she has been talking, and the student says, "I'm not talking" - the complete lack of logic boggles the mind. It's a nesting doll of illogic). Bobby yelled out, "You didn't pay for this shit - shut up!" He is still so proud of this. There was a group of Upper West Side, performing arts high school students behind us. They tried to out-punchline each other as the movie crew tried to restore the sound and the screen went black. Each retort got more and more unfunny. I thought they were a bit annoying, but still highly tolerable. The Hell's Angel suddenly turned around and said, "Be ladies and gentlemen and shut.the.fuck.up!" I went into complete hysterics with the accompanying uncontrollable laughter. His statement was just another layer of illogic - a tattooed, motorcycle man so concerned with propriety dropping the f-bomb. Fabulous. The UWS kids o' privilege nearly crapped their pants, of course. When the Hell's Angel announced he was getting up to go to the concession stand a few minutes later, he put on his leather cap and sneered at the kids, "I'll be back after I get a drink, and I expect it to be quiet." When he left, Bobby let a gay couple take his seats.

Oh yeah, and we saw King Kong. I have ten thoughts for you.

1) There's a really weak subplot in King Kong regarding a shipworker and some stowaway-cum-shipworker. It was really trite and unnecessary. I think it was created merely so Peter Jackson could stroke his beard and chuckle, "This is the longest King Kong movie ever, bwahahaha!"

2) You will recognize some footage straight out of Jurassic Park.

3) The movie had some interesting cinematography one might not expect from a family action movie. Some shots are more often seen in thrillers with great violence. I found this interesting, but I must admit I haven't seen a lot of recent Hollywood blockbusters. I might just be behind the times.

4) Naomi Watts and Nicole Kidman are completely interchangeable. Watts plays Kong's love interest and I find her as beautiful and uncompelling as Kidman. They are just so waxy, distant, and unlikable. What's going on Down Under?

5) There are a few scenes between Kong and Watts (I've forgotten her character's name) that made me conjure up that horrible Chanel commercial where Kidman and some guy with glasses go on a rooftop and fall in love while Kidman says, "I love to DONCE!" I love to watch that commercial end, let me tell ya... Kidman, you have the charisma of a celery stick.

6) The movie is long - wait for your hemorrhoids to clear up before camping out for this one. Whenever the movie got draggy between frantic chase scenes with computer-generated creatures, I mentally directed the premature break-up between Kong and Watts: "Kong, it's just not working. You're really big...and an ape...and can't talk. I don't want to raise a family on Skull Island. All your other girlfriends' skeletons are lying around..."

7) You know that saying, "If you love something, let it go"? The message of King Kong is, "If you love something, let it go, but break through chains later, nearly squeeze it to death, and take it to the top of the Empire State building with you." Love is hard.

8) Watts was stolen from her cabin on the ship at night, so she spends most of the movie in a flimsy, short nightgown and robe set that miraculously keeps the naughty bits covered, despite the fact that she's hanging upside down, crawling on all fours in the jungle, and having King Kong breathe on her. What if I was kidnapped one night and had to spend a significant amount of time getting chased by King Kong...and dinosaurs...and mutant insects in my Cuddly Johns with the planets on them? King Kong would have let me go so much sooner. In fact, he'd still be alive today.

9) How do we really know King Kong is a he? His butt is gargantuan, but I didn't see his King Dong. Even a triceratops was clearly a boy, but King Kong is sexless. What does it all mean?

10) Speaking of King Kong ding dong (sorry, I couldn't resist), there are some strange worm creatures in the jungles of Skull Island that resemble a certain part of an aroused dog. The likeness is so disgustingly familiar that it's my FAVORITE THING ABOUT THE MOVIE. Two thumbs up to those penii pests.

And in the end, Bobby was disappointed because Watts and King Kong didn't get together. Heh.

You Are Uptown

You are classy, cultured, and well educated. You are an expert on the finer things in live. Your city girl persona loves all of the opportunities a city offers. But only in the best neighborhoods.

Are You Uptown or Downtown?

You Are Most Like Samantha!

For you, dating is the ultimate sport You're into guys with power, looks, or a lot of money. You rather have a great two weeks than a great forever. But even you fall victim to love from time to time. :-) Romantic prediction: You'll find love in the next few months... But you'll be the last one to realize it.

Which Sex and the City Vixen Are You?

Abby's a Dasher, a Dancer, a Prancer, and most obviously, a Vixen.

This weekend I...

- stepped in gum
- taught Saturday school
- saw Memoirs of a Geisha
- went Christmas shopping
- talked to Rey (!)
- ate at Lombardi's
- got up early
- stayed up late
- made my bed
- neglected this blog

"Sup? Yeah, dat's right. Jizessica's in the hizouse!"


"Yeah, what she said - represent! Now may I please have a hizamburger?"

I now present the I.S. 666 quote of the week...

Mr. Bald, the assistant principal of the Legal Studies academy during the academy meeting: "We have a new custodian. His name is Dennis...or Donald...or Dee or something. He's really gung ho. You know what they say, 'A new broom sweeps clean.'"

Really? Is that what they say? Because I thought the new white guy in the Dockers was the official chairwarmer in the custodial office. That or the latest beleaguered rookie teacher.

My first assignment in Tom Buckley's rhetoric class in college was to write an "idiot letter." These letters are realistic fiction, if you will, composed by a "valued" and "concerned" (read: enthusiastic and dim) consumer and sent to a corporation. Letters from a Nut by Ted L. Nancy is a latter-day collection of "idiot letters." (I can't remember the guy who originated the idea or the term).

Anyhow, my "idiot letter" was sent by Amanda [my last name], a veteran school cafeteria attendant, to Hostess of Twinkie fame. Dr. Buckley's catch to the assignment was that students could get an A for the assignment only if someone at the corporation wrote back WITHOUT A FORM LETTER. The letter clearly had to address points the student brought up. If a form letter was sent back or worse, there was no reply, the student would earn a zero. My "idiot letter" was the first to receive a typo-rich response. I'm still proud of that...and those Hostess coupons I got.

I read Letters from a Nut yesterday and stumbled upon a hysterical letter Nancy wrote. It's shared below, typos and all:

Dear Nordstrom Dept Stores.

I am a regular shopper at your Nordstroms store in Glendale. In the last few weeks I have noticed that a new mannequin you have out in the store looks just like my deceased neighbor. I have passed the mannequin from many directions and the resemblance is uncanny. In every way - nose, cheekbones, hair, etc. Look at it from any angle. It looks like the neighbor I was friendly with. Even the clothes that the mannequin was wearing is the kind of lightweight windbreaker jacket my neighbor would wear. It is UNBELIEVABLE that this mannequin looks so much like my neighbor.

Is it possible to buy this mannequin (after its use) so I may present it to my neighbor's family? They would think this would be a VERY sentimental gesture. I think his co-workers would also like to have him remembered, so having him "there" would be good, therapeutic behavior for all.

I was told to write to your store's HEADQUARTERS OFFICE after I inquired about buying this mannequin to the saleslady (Very courteous, I may add). She suggested that only the stores main office could assist me in this purchase. But she was very helpful with my socks purchase.

Thank you, Nordstrom, for being a store that cares about its customers. I am a long time shopper. I keep lots of things in your Nordstrom bags. Fishing gear, etc. I have a garage full of Nordstrom bags full of old shoes, wire hangers, etc. That's how I know I've been to your store so much. Let me know about the mannequin. This family is in some need of good loving. This will help!

Sincerely,
Ted L. Nancy

Today was my first truly snowy day in NYC! Holla!

(Cue the sound of crickets).

It snowed inches upon inches. Kathy told me the night before that perhaps there'd be a snow day and thus, a long weekend, but I dismissed the sentiment. I made copies for my Friday classes and laid out a stylish and comfortable Friday outfit. I have two windows in my room that face another building, so I didn't realize how snowy the city was until I walked outside.

I couldn't tell where the sidewalks ended and the road began. Everything was white. The snow crunched and glistened under my stiletto-heeled boots. I crept down my street before turning to the one guy attempting to shovel snow off the sidewalk and saying, "I suppose I should turn back around and change my shoes before I bust my ass, huh?" He agreed.

Time at this point had no meaning. I walked back, changed into sensible shoes, and walked to the subway. I had to fight the urge to just drop everything and make snow angels. Forget work - I want to make snowballs! Once I got to school, Ms. Evilamo, a particularly ineffective administrator freaked out on me and told me to cover a class. Many teachers commute from the Land Of Snow Days (Long Island and some other mythical places upstate) and couldn't make it to school, so I spent all day in Mr. Jones's old class. Hanging out with his students tends to make me feel like a rockstar, as the kids are foolishly in love with me. The worst kids, with the exception of Javar, stayed home today, too. It was quite pleasant.

I trekked through snow with Bobby in order to get food at Fairway. The sun had come out and left the sidewalks slushy. Huge puddles accumulated. I coined the term "Snowman poop" in reference to the grayish slush. Harlem was beautiful this morning. I can't forget the Christmas trees bundled up for sale on Broadway all covered in snow. Everything felt clean.

It was a very special day.

Sad, but true:

* Martin, a student of Ms. O. who loves to launch any and all projectiles during class, was flicking balls of paper with rubber bands again last week. Actually, he found one particularly effective rubber band and used it to launch ball after ball into the air, at the teacher's face, onto the overhead projector... Some strange rubbery pieces were hanging off the rubber band, but it worked well nonetheless. Martin lovingly stroked his rubber band. He'd never go without it again. He didn't put it down all period...until someone pointed out that it was the lip of a condom.

* You know the kid who walks around I.S. 666 with a scowl and smiley face tie that looks ironically sinister? His last name is Killer. Really.

* There's a special ed student named Greg who gallumphs down the halls of the third floor, even though his academy is on the first floor of the school. He doesn't heed any of the hall monitoring adults who tell him to stop. I think only a gun could take him down - Greg is a big, dumb, disrespectful animal that way. Too many of the kids at I.S. 666 think they're grown, but he has a reason to. He's 22. My age! Good lord!

At long last, I write again!

I meant to blog last night, but the Internet was down for whatever reason. I busied myself with laundry, cleaning, and organizing drawers. Afterwards, I fell asleep around 10:00 and had the best sleep I've had in a long time.

It's been really cold this week. It snowed a bit Monday, but not anywhere near the predicted amount. I ate dinner at West Way Cafe and watched snow fall. I exchanged smiles through the window with a man who was locking up his ice cold bike. Somewhere in New York, Paul Simon invented new metaphors.

Hmmm... I'm running out of things to type. I bought a set of long johns today. They're bright blue and have planets on them. They make me look around nine years old. I've also recently acquired some very nice sweaters (think: Michael Kors) during some bargain shopping.

I'm ready for the winter, I think.

According to the beloved, though fickle, weather.com, NYC should see 2-4 inches of snow tomorrow night!

I'm excited.

I was just talking to my mom a few days ago about the longevity of my brassieres. I'm still wearing bras that I got in early high school. Besides the fact that my bosom hasn't developed beyond the pert fifteen-year-old girl stage, this means something else - my bras are looking kind of sketchy. Pilling, stretch marks, discolorations - sounds like a dermatological emergency, but no, I just need new bras. However, I hate shopping for that kind of thing.

I would have just worn my vintage lingerie until it fell apart one day when I was discussing context clues in front of a class of seventh graders, but I just happened to wander into Filene's Basement and found Wonderbras on sale for $4.99! I bought three.

So now I'm covered until I'm 40 or so. Woo hoo.

Eddie Izzard is my executive transvestite best friend. He is hi-larious.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I did an original sin. I poked a badger with a spoon."

"Say five Hail Mary's and six Hello Dolly's!"

I read The Myth of You & Me by Leah Stewart, because it was praised for its portrayal of female friendship. I was looking for some kind of commentary on relational aggression, etc., but instead I got a lovely little book that could very well be on its way to becoming an Ashley Judd movie I will never see. It was kind of like The Secret Life of Bees in that way. I will totally understand if other people love the book, but I wasn't incredibly moved, despite the fact that the topic of friendship lost and found resonates with me. I will also admit that I did get to a certain point in the novel where I couldn't put the book down and just had to read the two former friends into a reunion. "By the power vested in me..."

Here are some quotes I appreciated:

"We were English Ph.D. students and we spent all out time 'unpacking' images and sentences and words, and when we weren’t working we turned that attention to other people. Though my attempts to explain Sonia, and myself, satisfied my friend and made me feel better, there persisted a nagging feeling that ultimately it couldn’t be done. A person is not a suitcase, with a finite number of items to unpack. A person is a world. Look at any photograph – of a stranger, your father, your very best friend. Sometimes the mystery is all you can see."

"I’d lived enough places to make inhabiting the wider world not only possible but inevitable. Home was just a place where I happened to be. But Sonia had never been east of Dallas, west of the Grand Canyon, or north of Oklahoma City. She couldn’t be sure that everything she knew about herself was portable."

"There’s nothing lonelier than being angry at someone who’s indifferent to your anger. It’s like playing catch off a wall by yourself. Everything you feel just bounces back to you."

"I’m sitting beside Sonia in her backyard, and as I hold her hand I’m holding hands with the person she is and the person she was when I first met her, and she’s holding hands with the person I am and the person I used to be. They’re all there – all the people we were and will be, linked like a chain of paper dolls, girls and women, unfolding and unfolding from the moment when one fourteen-year-old said to another that it was a beautiful day."

Friday was Mr. Jones's last day at I.S. 666. He is the fourth teacher to quit since September. I feel weird about Jones leaving, because I was so sure I'd leave before him in those first hellish weeks of school. He'd come by my classroom after school most days and patiently lean in the doorway as I recounted the day, angry tears welling up in my eyes. Drunk on disappointment, I'd stagger around in uncomfortable shoes and slowly take down all the posters and personal touches I'd so carefully put up in Room 108.

Now he's gone.

Mr. Jones threw his homeroom class a pizza party Friday, complete with chips, sodas, and the latest hip pop blaring from a stereo. He invited Karen and I in, so we had a slice of pizza and joked around with the students. There were pictures. Some boys sat at a table and played cards. It was actually the most civil and calm time of the day, contrary to what might be expected. The food was all shared. No one fought. No freaky dancing ensued. I walked from table to table stealing students' chips and making sure they got in the class picture. Everyone smiled.

For once, we were all full. I think it was a great way for Jones to remember what he did like about teaching - that sense of connection and camaraderie between student and teacher, however fleeting it may be. Of course, a meddlesome and persnickety administrator with an unknown job description (I'll call her Ms. Sourberry) later approached Jones and said the pizza party was inappropriate.

Well, I guess Jones still kind of needed to remember why he decided to leave, too. Thanks, Ms. Sourberry. Great job, as always.

The school where I work so rarely affords me those shining moments when my heart swells and I know that I love teaching, but I had one on Thursday. I got to pull five of Mr. Jones's students out and take them away to a large square table tucked away on the third floor. The students read their independent reading books for fifteen minutes and then freewrote for ten. I also freewrote, because I had just begun reading The Myth of You & Me and I originally intended to do a pair and share activity that required an even number of people.

Everyone wrote at different speeds, so we all gradually pushed our papers to the center of the table and grabbed someone else's freewriting to read and comment on. I asked students to really think about content over spelling and grammar. What emerged from the activity was student questioning, connecting texts to the self and world, and lots of book recommendations. It was adorable when the students were checking to make sure everyone had written a comment about their freewriting.

After the activity, we talked about what we liked about writing about our reading and having others read our work. One girl sighed and said, "I wish this could be English class every day."

So do I. Me, five students, a square table - we could conquer the ELA world.

Here's what I wrote about the Myth of You & Me:

The Myth of You & Me reminds me of all the friends I've lost. Sometimes we've merely drifted apart. Other times, there were fights, harsh words, jealousies, rivalries whose veils were finally plucked off. Would I be happier if I had been able to hang on?

All I surely know is life would be different. I wouldn't be here exactly as I am now. In the book, one girl tries to reconnect with another. I don't know what happens next, because I haven't read that far. I assume the other girl responds, because there are hundreds of pages of reading ahead of me, but what will happen?

I've appeared out of nowhere before, with nothing but memories to dress myself up in. When I look for a lost relationship, I usually don't even know what my intentions are. Do I want to be friends again? Do I want to remember why things didn't work out? Or will I pretend I longed for the latter if I'm rejected, a salvaged relationship unwanted by an ex-friend?

The fact that people I haven't seen or spoken to in years still cross my mind fairly often shows how unfinished my feelings are. Is anything ever finished, though?

Believe it or not, I'm sitting here typing while wearing a hat and earmuffs. The radiator is on - I'm just recovering from having no hat or earmuffs when I was outside earlier. It's really cold today. Not as cold as it gets, but cold enough that I no longer consider my down coat the "coat of invincibility, bwahahaha."

I'm currently accepting all generously donated gifts of cashmere and wool.