After writing about my laundry debacle and my mom's subsequent rescue, I keep recalling another time my mom bailed me out. It was a time when I questioned who I was and if I should go on living to see what I would become. At a time when I could have hit rock-bottom, she offered her hand...and her credit card.

I'm talking about the time I accidentally dyed my hair gray.

I've been a chemically dependent blonde for four years. My eyebrows don't match the drapes, so don't even bother asking about the shag carpeting. Every six weeks my hair becomes a famous miniseries based on an Alex Haley epic. Read: Roots. I always have the door held open for me and attract lots of attention, especially in Harlem.

All's fair in love and hair, but one summer I decided to flirt with the dark side. I love chocolatey brown hair, but know I couldn't achieve it without succumbing to another chemical dependency that could be even more grueling.

I settled for ash brown. The woman on the hair dye box looked blondish, but darker. I liked. This way, I could make a change that wouldn't seem dramatic to anyone but me. I dyed my hair late at night. My mom, sister, and I had plans to go shopping the next day, so I rinsed my hair, conditioned it, and went to bed. It was light brown - good.

I can only imagine what I looked like lying in bed the next morning. Birds chirping, suburban dogs barking, light shining in from the window. The rays of sunlight shone on my sleeping face - freckles dotting my cheeks and nose, dark lashes crunchy with sleep, lips dry and slightly parted, hair...as gray as steel wool.

Minutes later, I sat up, saw myself in a mirror, gasped, put in my contacts, and gasped again. My hair wasn't ash brown. It was just plain ASH. Had the fires still been lit, I'd have jumped in and let the whole thing burn.

I screeched for my mom, instead of leaving my bedroom to seek her. No need to freak her out. I've seen Big. I know how terrifying it must be to see your teenage daughter morphed into a geriatric woman.

My mom came in and God bless her, she didn't laugh. I looked older than her! (She clearly knows to respect her elders). My mom told me to wash my hair again and consulted my sister, Megan.

I washed those sorry strands of keratin as if I were filthy. I rinsed and pulled and cursed and repeated. I checked the shower drain for gray run-off. No such luck.

Megan thought back to what she knew about hair and makeup products - EVERYTHING - and said I'd probably need my hair chemically stripped to remove the gray. My mom, Megan, and I headed to a full-service salon to salvage my mane.

Here's what you never want to hear after a home hair repair gone wrong: "Oh...my...wow...ummm..." I imagine this is what people who misplace plugs and hamsters in their anal cavities hear when they break down and go to the emergency room. It's what I heard when I tearily took out my ponytail and the gray cascaded over my shoulders like a dirty waterfall.

My hair doctor asked what I had done, and I seriously wished there was a part in the retelling where I said, "...And then he put the gun to my head and said,'DYE IT OR DIE!'" Alas...

She sighed. "Ash means 'gray.' Never dye your hair a color with the word 'ash' in it, okay?" She didn't have to tell me twice, but that's how many times she had to strip my hair.

My mom waited patiently. She didn't even read the magazines in the waiting area. When my hair went from gray to blonde, and I still pined for darker locks, she told the hair doctor to go ahead and dye me a shade darker, hold the ash. And for once in my life, I went home with the luxurious, overpriced shampoo and conditioner the salon was peddling. My mom insisted.

The salon bill was over a hundred dollars; the act priceless.

My mom was my savior, my provider, my fountain of youth. With her Visa, she bought back my dignity, my self-esteem, my desire to live, and my hair.

How will I ever repay her?

Alex is this kid who used to be in Mr. C.'s homeroom class. I loved pulling him out to work in small groups, because he's considerate and tries hard to do his best. His weakness is a quick temper. Other students often picked on him for "acting white" and being "too good," but also for being so dark-skinned. Alex would yell and fight back, shaken by this ostracism for being too much and too little at the same time.

He was moved to a new homeroom class and now has a new English teacher. Yesterday, the students were working on the writing assignment "What My Life Will Be Like In Ten Years." Despite much statistical evidence to the contrary, no one wrote about death or imprisonment. You know that old line from the commercial: "No one ever says, 'I wanna be a junkie when I grow up.'"

I read the student work. They're all planning to go to collage (sic) to be fashion desiners (sic), rappers, loyers (sic), and pro ball players. When most of them are 22 in a decade, they plan on having homes and fame and families and college degrees and...

And I want to say it isn't that easy. And you have time to hook up and breed. And life is free, but expensive. It's a journey, not a race - please slow down.

Alex asks me to confirm that his main ambition is spelled c-o-l-l-e-g-e, but the boys at his table insist there's an 'a.' One thumbs through the dictionary, one argues Alex is wrong, Alex waits and feels less certain.

A finger slides down a page deep in the C's. It's announced, "Yo, it is c-o-l-l-e-g-e."

Alex whoops; his teammate high-fives him. The others concede, shrug, and correct their papers.

The future is now.

It started out, appropriately enough, with an egg.

Mr. L. had his back turned as he solved a math problem on the chalkboard. Students behind him buzzed with boredom and restlessness. He was explaining the process and carrying a one when the lights went out.

Quiet enveloped the room for a split second. A sudden crack on his chest. The cold drip of a familiar substance. The smell slid down his shirt, and his heart sank to his sour stomach. Shell crunched at his feet. Mr. L. was mysteriously egged.

More shocked than angry, he asked for the perpetrators to please come forward. Please. For once, the class was quiet. The usual suspects used the darkness as an alibi: "We're all black, you know." They snickered as they glanced sideways. The good kids wouldn't speak up, even when the whole class was threatened with detention.

The next day it was rotten milk. Mr. L. stank of it on the train ride home. He eyed the other passengers. "What must these people think I do?"

What did the administrators at school think he did? They were incredulous that he didn't see who threw the egg or milk or cookie the following day. Funny, he had a way of trying to focus his attention on the students who wanted to learn. All three of them. He'd explain absolute value over the din of the others. Administrators said he should get complete control of the class before trying to teach, but if he did that, no one would ever learn anything. The chalkboard would be blank. The classwork still in a neat pile, still warm from the copy machine. The teacher growing colder, dying slowly and painfully.

The saying goes "There's no use crying over spilled milk," but why didn't anyone do anything? Students, administrators, even some fellow teachers were paralyzed with resignation. Blaming the victim was all too easy. Mr. L. had never had exemplary classroom management. He wasn't the kind to get in students' faces and yell. Kids in these neighborhoods need to be confronted, just be careful that you don't get hurt.

The first year is always the hardest. What did this guy think he was getting himself into - a white guy in a black school? No one said it would be easy.

But no one said it would be so painful.

That tears would prick in his eyes when he went into the classroom and saw swastikas drawn on the chalkboard. He turned out the lights himself, put his Jew face in his Jew hands, and breathed in the stagnant air.

A war had begun.

I met a man last week that reminded me of another man I know.

It was the way this new man called a woman his "paramour," an occasional gesture, the earnest gaze as he listened and responded, listened and responded to me, our conversation like an assembly line making meaning.

Had I been a plant, my stalks would have bent to grow in the light of this son.

"Is X like Y, or is Y like X?" I wondered.

How does one ever tell? Chronology? On Earth or in my life? Or must I make one a favorite and thus, the basis of comparison?

I'm not sure.

I only know I met a man last week that reminded me of another man I know.

The world seemed luckier to have these two - X like Y, and Y like X.

Wow. I just watched Web Junk 20 on VH1. The host, Patrice O'Neal, is hilarious.

My favorite lines:

"1989 - When men were men, and Winnebagos were motherf*ckers."

[On a clip of a TV weatherman who has no composure on the air] "Let's see...on Monday, you have an 80% chance of being stupid. On Tuesday, a 70% chance of sucking..."

This is a TV show I could watch.

My mom had to talk me off a ledge last night.

I hurried home after Saturday school to meet the dad that bought the exersaucer on Craigslist. Then I cleaned up my room, ran to Duane Reade to buy some detergent, and did laundry at the apartment. One of the greatest amenities of my apartment, besides the location and proximity to everything, is the washer and dryer in our kitchen. Free laundry is a beautiful thing...or so I always thought. I triumphantly crossed all the lines off the to-do list only to find later that the washer ruined some of my whites. My two white undershirts were gray. My white pillow case was ecru. A light pink nightskirt now had blue-gray bruises all over the front.

I didn't do anything different from the norm. I washed the clothes together on cold with detergent that has never failed me before. None of the colors have ever run in the wash before. That was then, though, and this is now - 2006. This is the year that washing my clothes apparently requires higher education than I possess. I was fuming, but trying to keep things in perspective. "Well," I comforted myself, "at least you handwashed your new bras." I went to the chest of drawers where my handwashed delicates were drying and the bras were covered in brown spots! What the?! Apparently, a pair of my tights was leaking dye. Mother of God! I screeched and stomped to keep myself busy. You know, to keep myself from making a silken, control topped noose out of the tights and just ending it all right there.

I don't know why I was so upset. The shirts are all at least two years old. The bras were bought a few months ago on sale. The pillowcase is a pillowcase. Nonetheless, my plan to finish my chores was thwarted. And maybe a tiny smidgen of me felt like I'd failed as a grown-up. It's my laundry, and I'll cry if I want to.

I called my dad as I held back tears and told him I needed my mom to help me through a crisis of the washable kind. My mom called back and told me to buy Clorox2 and rewash the items. I swore I'd never use the washer in the apartment again, that I'd never let anyone but a Korean professional handle my laundry, and that despite all my use of Abreva and vitamins, one side of my mouth is still regularly cracked and sore. "I've been drinking lots of water, too," I cried. "Have you been drinking orange juice?" she asked. "Well, no. Wouldn't citric acid irritate my lips?" She paused, "Maybe you should drink orange juice. Cracked lips can be an early sign of scurvy."

"So I screwed up my laundry AND I HAVE SCURVY?!" I wiped away new tears as I imagined myself with skin as gray as my undershirts, slouching somewhere on a splintery ship deck overrun with rats. Miles away, my mom rocked with laughter and fought the urge to say, "Rrrrr, matey!"

I bought the Clorox2 at Gristedes, and gritted my teeth as I walked to the neighborhood laundromat with wood paneling and the citrus fart scent. It was closed. I went back home and watched the Silence of the Lambs. I wondered how badly I'd screw up clothes made out of human flesh...

Today I went back to the laundromat and followed my mom's advice. The undershirts and pillowcase are back to their normal colors, the bras still have brown spots, the pink shirt is still lightly bruised, and my scurvy seems to be getting better.

Friday started out a forgettable day for me, but I mean that in the best way. Nothing was so bad that it will forever stand out as That Horrible Friday When..., but nothing was so exceptional, either. Bobby, on the other hand, came out of the closet at work...after a student locked him in one. Had it happened to me, I think I would have either 1) gone completely insane and violent or 2) just given up and pretended to be dead when the students finally opened the closet door. (Guilt is great)! My uncloseted teacher companion was in a bad mood, but we headed downtown anyway.

Insert one more joke along the lines of R. Kelly's "Trapped in a Closet" right here.

First, Bobby took his laptop to the Geek Squad at Best Buy. I waited in a chair long enough to finish Art Spiegelman's Maus II. Other people waited in line long enough to fall asleep on the floor and see the onset of age-related macular degeneration. Those Geeks are sloooow. Bobby and I were famished after waiting and headed to Sal's in the East Village to have dinner. I'd been there once before and remember it being tasty, but that was pre-Lombardi's. I now find the pizza mediocre. Sigh.

We met up with Wallace at Sal's and headed over to Life Cafe, the cafe featured prominently in "Rent." I'd have loved to sing "to days of inspiration, playing hooky, making something out of nothing, the need to express, to communicate," but I'm not sure anyone else could have sung along. It's not fun to be a solitaire bohemian/musical theater geek. That's more like homelessness really.

Wallace and Bobby playfully disagreed about just about everything that night. Wallace is part hipster, part bohemian intellectual, part tree-hugging dork, part obnoxious Little League player and Bobby is a conservative, Madonna-listening, Desperate Housewives-watching McDonald's eater. I was in the middle, literally, at the bar. We headed to another place called Grassroots before going back to peruse Wallace's, sixth-floor walkup shoebox.

A few weeks ago, Wallace told me he was sitting on his couch one night when he heard a knock at the window. The girls in the separate tenement a mere three feet from him wanted to borrow some coffee filters. This is all six stories in the air. Wallace retrieved the filters and barely had to lean to pass them to the neighbor out the window. He settled back on the couch and later heard another knock at the window. The neighbor held out a cup of coffee for him. These kinds of interactions may be a little too close for comfort for some, but I love it. (Just yesterday, I opened my kitchen window and dropped a videotape into a shopping hand basket on a pulley system, so Richard in the building next door could borrow it. I can't wait for the day when Kathy and Company decide to reduce the phone bills by devising a tin can and string phone system).

Back at Wallace's, we went out on the roof deck and watched the island of Manhattan wink at us from all sides. It was so pretty and peaceful. I began to feel infinite. I sang songs from "West Side Story" the rest of the night. Remember the scene from the film when Natalie Wood is hanging laundry and dances on the roof?

Friday was special after all.

What's been going on this week?

I've felt very tired all week. According to the New York Post, January 24 is the most depressing day of the year. Somehow, scientists have studied seasonal affective disorder and found that the 24th is the day with the likeliest shortest daylight, coldest temperatures, fiercest winds, etc. This depresses the system. The date is also just the time when most people start beating themselves up about the New Year's resolutions they've broken and paying back immense holiday debts. All I know is that I vomited lots of stomach acid at school on the 24th and my stomach has finally stopped ominously groaning.

Otherwise, the week has passed quickly. I went to a paid planning meeting after school on Tuesday and planned on attending another this evening, but it was postponed. It's all about the Benjamins. Another interesting development is a request for an interview from a NYC high school I sent my resume to last summer. I declined an interview, as the school wants to fill the position tomorrow. Yikes! I could have had another job, though. Options are out there. My information is being held and I'll be considered for positions that may open up in June. That's an auspicious beginning to a new job search I'm starting in March.

What are you reading?

I finished Makes Me Wanna Holler by Nathan McCall on the most depressing day of the year. The book allows McCall to rationalize a lot of his detestable criminal behavior as an effect of the white man keeping him down. Okay, I can kind of sympathize, but McCall paints black men as either rightfully angry and condemned to fail or Uncle Toms. I don't like the either-or opinion. There's too much gray in the human experience. I did think the book was thought-provoking, though, and I think McCall really tried to emulate Alex Haley's Autobiography of Malcolm X. He doesn't do it, but MMWH is worth a read. Now I'm reading Holy Cow: An Indian Adventure about an Australian woman's life abroad in India.

What's your secret weapon?

I remember everything people say. Okay, maybe not everything, but most things. I won't remember your phone number when you give it to me or what time you wanted to meet me at the 103rd street station (unless I write either of those down), but I remember most everything else. I feel like I get to know people well a lot earlier than I should, because of my sponge-like recollection of what stories they shared and how they told these stories.

How's the weather?

Not bad. It's been very mild. Where is the snow and ice that's supposed to be the bane of my existence? Today I had to start wearing my down coat again, but I've heard that it's supposed to be in the fifties on Saturday. Crikey, it's springtime!

My dad believes that moving to New York is a big step down from living in Texas. I understand that people in Texas have a lot more discretionary income, the housing is more affordable, the cities are cleaner, the public schools are better, but as far as I'm concerned, those factors don't outweight that New York City is really happening. I enjoy my public transportation, landmarks, constant flurry of activity, and liberal politics. I can't imagine ever raising a family in this city, because of how hard it is to live comfortably here, but I'm really excited that I moved. When I go to Times Square, which I generally detest for its commercialism and overcrowding, I'm still awe-struck. I look up at the buildings miles above me and think, "I live here?"

It makes me feel so small.

I live in a very exciting place and my legs are in shape, so I have no excuse to not get out and explore...but not tonight. Tomorrow, I'm going to see the documentary 24 Hours On Craigslist and then I'll be back at MOMA on Friday. Woohoo.

I feel like I'm in a time warp.

I got home after five this evening, tried to read a new library book, and fell asleep. Now it's after nine, and my stomach aches and I haven't done much of anything since I've been home. At the same time, there's nothing really pressing to do. I know what I'm wearing tomorrow. I have my lesson for Friday. I've now showered. That's all I HAD to do.

Still...I feel uneasy about it all. Something is here, but I'm not seeing it. Lots of things are happening in the rooms upon rooms stacked up in this apartment building, this block, this city. My priorities and ambitions are similarly piled up and loom dangerously, like the wooden blocks of a Jenga game.

And to make things worse, someone near me is cooking a retch-inducing concoction in a kitchen not too far from here. Ewww.

The pound of rain roused me last night. I smiled half-awake, rolled over, and returned to slumber. Nothing makes me sleep more soundly than knowing that I am warm and comfortable inside when it is wet and cold outside.

I have two windows in my bedroom. One faces a wall of my building. The other faces a wall of the building next door. Outside the latter, three stories down, is a concrete path where the building super bellows early Saturday mornings and keeps tools, trashcans, and possibly primitive cave paintings. Rain hits the super's concrete space with a rhythmic hiss.

I love the rain. I remember a few times when the generally placid and dry South Texas environment where I grew up transformed into the bowels of the rainforest. Water spilled from the bruised sky like yarn. Vapor veins hung in the air, obscuring the landscape. Rain booed and gurgled, whipping the trees but lapping the cracks in the sidewalks. It was comforting and destructive. The flower beds in our front yard flooded. All the dogs and cats were brought in.

I never owned an umbrella until college. It was one of those things, like showshoes or parkas, that kids just didn't need. Mind you, I had jackets and sweaters. I even remember having a pair of gloves in kindergarten. My teacher, Mrs. Gonzales, had to to teach me that gloves weren't really meant to be worn indoors. I didn't know, plus they were such a novelty!

Now I have all the gear, and so do all the kids in NYC. Even infants have their snowsuits and hats that they grow out of as approximately half the speed of light. (If I'm ever a parent rearing a child in a region with seasons, I'm going to just keep my kid indoors until he or she outgrows that whole growing-out-of-things stage. That should save a few bucks). Kids have their own umbrellas, too, which is cute...except when they're huge, patio-like umbrellas. Kids love to twirl umbrellas while splashing through puddles. Those patio umbrellas will nearly take out your eyes, and who wants to have dry-clean only pants splashed by a careless seven-year-old? Not me. It's enough to make someone who loves rain snatch away the kid's oversized umbrella, donate it to a Taco Cabana, and scream at the parent, "Why not just put him in a large trashbag!? That's waterproof!"

Not to worry, though. I had my flower power galoshes on today with my vintage, clear domed umbrella. I walked through the streets armed with the knowledge that three train stops away, a warm place awaited me...and that I can splash through puddles with the best of them.

You know you've lived in New York when...

-You recognize that black shopping bags are from bodegas, farmacias, or dollar stores.
-You scoff at the prices of bootleg dvds in midtown, because you know how cheap they are in Chinatown.
-You can no longer distinguish among different models of cars. Instead, you lump them into the transportation category "not my legs or the train."
-You call the subway "the train."
-You hang a shopping bag from your doorknob and call it a trashcan.
-You never run to catch the S shuttle from Grand Central Station to Times Square.
-Hundreds of people bumping and writhing against each other reminds you of your morning commute to work, not a mosh pit or nightclub.
-You could not live without an ipod.
-You can doze off on the train, and wake up at exactly the right stop.
-You can name five places to get pizza in your neighborhood.
-You always drink soda through a straw.
-You have pushed and pulled a heavy cart of groceries or laundry at least three blocks away from where you live.
-You see a person sitting butt-ass naked on the sidewalk and the first thing you think is, "She must be cold."
-You walk up more than five flights of stairs a day.
-You have the option of getting your laundry or groceries done and delivered by a stranger who doesn't speak your language.
-You regularly pay $1 or more for a can of soda.
-In a day, you can walk the length of a marathon in heels...and do it again the next day, too.
-You have worn Nikes with a pencil skirt and stockings.
-You find youself saying "stockings" instead of "pantyhose."
-When you go into a fast food restaurant, the cashier asks, "To stay or to go?"
-People at the post office, stores, etc. expect customers to wait "on line" instead of "in line." (This still baffles me, as there is no physical line on which to wait).
-You know people from New Jersey are inherently weird and people from Connecticut are inherently white.
-Though you grew up in Texas, you now use the word "schlepped."

Being here isn't just about making new connections. It's also about trying to maintain old ones, despite the distance. This isn't easy and I miss a lot of the people I used to see daily or at least more regularly than I do now.

My best friend from my junior year of high school, whom I will now refer to as my current friend, Aaron, was in NYC for the last few days for a work-related conference. He works in theatre, so what better place to see a lot of dance and dance and African dance? Aaron was a bit disappointed by the limited acts at the showcase he attended, but extremely impressed by Lombardi's pizza. (I'd have disowned him if he weren't).

I only had a few hours with Aaron today, and too much of this time consisted of waiting for subways. Oh, well. I thoroughly enjoyed seeing him for a bit. Now I am a bit inebriated from a martini at the Hilton, so I think I will attempt to read some fine work of literature or something. Goodnight.

You're not a real New York woman until your pointy-toed, stiletto heeled shoes get stuck not once, but twice, in a grate on the sidewalk.

Right outside of MOMA, the heels are lodged into the grate and you become paralyzed from the calf down. Foot traffic stops, sighs, and goes on around you. Men shake their heads. Women sympathize, but keep walking. You yell at your friend, "Wait! I'm stuck! I can't move!" You finally work your heels out, stagger off the grate onto plain concrete, and breathe a sigh of relief.

You think, "I wasn't moving, but it appears I have arrived."

Even if you've never been to New York City, you know what the people there are like. Right? They're rude, aloof, liberal, and fashionable. Right?

I've had time to see people here exemplify these stereotypes, but I've also met people who completely defy them. Also, think about this: most New Yorkers aren't even from New York. So maybe there's this personality strain we could diagnose in transplanted Midwesterners or some other group IF the stereotypes were true.

Most New Yorkers have seen so much craziness that they're jaded. They lose sympathy and the ability to laugh. Bobby and I decided to go to the Museum of Modern Art (MOMA) last night after work for Free Friday. This is the place to scope out some Andy Warhol, Vincent van Gogh, or just a lot of really fine frugal folks. Our commute required three different trains, so I came up with a social experiment - Bobby would wear his ipod and loudly sing along with it on the subway. I pretended not to know him and sat far enough away from him that we didn't look like we were acquainted, but close enough to be able to hear him belt out the songs. I watched to see how the other passengers reacted.

Bobby started out singing songs most people should know. He sang parts of Kelly Clarkson's "Because of You," which I don't really know, but could recognize as a more recent pop song being completely desecrated by the big dork bopping against the subway pole. Then Bobby sang "To Be Real." As far as I'm concerned, no one else could sing a song that poorly written and sound good. "What you think ahhh. What you know ahhh. What you feel ahhh. To be real." Huh? "My love is your love and your love is my love. Our love is here to stay-ay-ay-ayyyy!" Kind of desperate, no?

One man chuckled very openly and faked some applause. He and I made eye contact as I wiped the tears out of my eyes. Another lady across from me on a different train said, "It's that American Idol. Everyone wants to sing and they've gotta practice." She said this to me from feet away. Most of the time, people don't even talk on the subway. There are unofficial rules of NO EYE CONTACT WITH STRANGERS, NO TOUCHING ALLOWED, GET OFFENDED BY ACCIDENTAL TOUCHES, and NO HUMAN INTERACTION THAT MAY QUALIFY AS MEANINGFUL.

Bobby changed this. He was trying to stay in character while I looked around the train. People were smiling at each other and talking. We were bemused and delighted by the atypical - a weirdo on the train who didn't scare us or reek of urine.

The social experiment will continue. We're going to add a duet to the mix (starring me, yes) and maybe even some ad-libbed performance. Wouldn't it be funny if Bobby was in character and asked me out? Or I took his ipod away from him? That's comic genius right there.

My conclusion from the experiment was that there are plenty of genuine, humane, happy people in NYC that don't often get the chance to show their sense of humor or personality on the subway. If the opportunity arose more often, I think the subway would have a lot less sleeping people and commutes would seem exponentially shorter. And the people who didn't laugh or respond? They're hard and dull and fit the stereotype - avoid them.

A conversation with my dad:

My Dad: Your blog has gotten boring.
Me: How?
My Dad: No one wants to read about how you and your friend got diarrhea! We want to hear about New York!
Me: But...we got diarrhea in New York.
My Dad: Go to an art museum and then write about it in your blog.

Ha. Can you imagine that entry? "The artist's ceramic/mixed-media obelisk, 'Grace Biscuit of the Evergreen Melancholic,' represents an intense yearning for the end of political strife in Africa...or at least an end to that horrible sitcom with Charlie Sheen."

What the people want (and when I say "people," I mean my parents) are stories about all the crazy New York stuff. My dad wants to hear not so much about a trip to the art museum, but the lady I saw on my way to the art museum who was carrying a male midget around in a Snugli. And yes, I do mean one of those baby carriers that allows a woman to snuggle a baby to her bosom while enjoying full use of her arms.

Not a child with some weird pituitary problem - I'm sure of it. A midget...with a moustache...being carried in a Snugli...by a woman who looked younger than him.

How do people find themselves in relationships like this? Can you imagine if the Snuglied midget was the girl's father or some other relative, and this is how they run errands? Oh, those horrible moments when she runs into classmates or acquaintances she wasn't necessarily trying to impress, but whom she'd have preferred not to be embarrassed in front of. She'd feel obligated to introduce her acquaintance(s) and her dad (or whoever the little person is), but she'd have to lift him out of the Snugli and turn him around so they could shake hands.

There's also very little privacy afforded when one of your relatives is hanging around your neck. Conversation is awkward and loud. On top of being annoying, Uncle Midget probably gets very heavy when the girl walks up and down the aisles of Gristedes or down a city block. And what if she has to go to the bathroom? Does she take her Really Small Relative to the ladies room and park him at a changing table or in a sink basin? Put the sling of the Snugli on the bathroom door hook? Or does she leave him in the Snugli and make him wait outside the restroom?

I don't know, but the one thing freakier than seeing a midget being carried by someone in a Snugli is seeing a midget in a Snugli with no one to carry him.

Talk about coming up short.

Happy "You're Practically Two" Day to Jessica!

I just got back from Bodies: The Exhibition. It was really fascinating. Did you know blood vessels look like lovely, wispy fringes you might see on a couture gown? Or have you ever touched a preserved piece of cancerous lung? I do and I have. Yay for free events for NYC educators.

Bobby and I walked around the South Street Seaport area afterwards. I hadn't been before. It definitely has a better TKTS ticket center than the one in Times Square. I'd like to see "Altar Boyz," "Doubt," and "Bridge and Tunnel" in the future, and I plan on getting my tickets there. We also fell into another Gap where I found a pair of jeans on sale. This is a shopping phenomenon and like a rare solar eclipse, not to be passed up. Actually, I have missed the past eclipses that have occurred, but some people have not, goshdarnit.

I do believe it is time for my bowl of cereal now. I needs me energy to sit down and write more later.

Tomorrow Bobby and I are going to Bodies: The Exhibition at the South Street Seaport for free. The location seems kind of questionable, but maybe I'm just being goofy with this notion that the seagulls would be really excited about the possibility of sinking their beaks into some preserved human cadaver. Yum!

I, for one, could never turn down a dead body I was offered. Clearly.

So much of success in life depends on knowing how to play the game. If you know how to play the game, you probably feel it's kind of innate. You might not remember, but you learned it somehow. If you are too smart/creative/free-spirited to buy into the idea of playing the game, but you somehow completed a college degree and pay taxes, guess what Thoreau? You play the game, too. Suck some marrow out of this one.

The game involves knowing how to talk to people to get what you want, to get them to believe what you want them to believe, to get them to trust you. It similarly involves knowing how to study, knowing how to prepare for challenges you may encounter, and knowing how to take matters in your own hands but also how to get help. You will need help sooner or later.

I proctored the listening section of the sixth grade state test this morning. None of my three students played the game. They were disruptive as I read the listening section which I can legally only do twice. After the section was over, they asked all sorts of questions I answered before the test started when I read the scripted disclaimer/instructions for that section of the test. Then one asked if I'd read the reading passage again for $50. The three students laughed and started to talk, which is prohibited. I was asked a series of dumb questions as the students toiled to write about a passage they listened to half-assedly. Not to mention, they had the opportunity to take notes and two of the boys hardly wrote anything. One boy couldn't read the word "taught" in one of the questions. Another boy asked if I could help him with spelling. Did students not do sample tests? Did they block the test instructions I'd read mere minutes ago? Or did they think the nice female teacher would be compassionate and help them pass a test they will probably fail on their own?

Many of the students at I.S. 666 don't know how to play the game. They push away some of the people who have their best interests in mind. (Shoutouts to the teachers out there, hey, ho). At the same time, they embrace the most magnetic negativity they can find. They express anger through dangerous explosions that hurt themselves the most. They invest most of their energy into fighting, condemning, jeering, following the tides of the crowd. They don't think to consider, reflect, or evaluate until it seems like it might be too late.

It's enough to make me want to slap a whole generation of West Harlem parents around. How could you teach your children to neglect their minds and souls, but covet their Jordans? How could you teach them that violence alone equals resolution and strength? How could you teach them that they can consistently devalue a resource, but one day expect it to be there for their benefit?

And then how can you teach them to blame me for their shortcomings?

"Future" is probably the dirtiest f-word I can think of right now.

It evokes an image of...nothing. Endless possibility that just looks like endless haze. The quarter-life crisis exists, because people like myself have always been on a path from elementary school to middle school to high school to college to ??????? It's frightening, because I know what society tells me I'm supposed to want (and I'll admit I buy into some of it), like a house, a pension, a career, a husband, a kid, a dog. However, I don't know when or how I'm to attain all of these "big palookas of life," as Sandra Cisneros calls them.

And I'm only 22. Welcome to my precocious quarter-life crisis.

Teaching is not the career for me for many reasons. These reasons are whispered in my head from time to time, because it sounds so anti-teacher to say them aloud. Honestly, though, I have thought to myself, "Dammit! I'm too smart for this!" at times. When a child says, "I have to fart" after I've asked him about his cause and effect essay, for example. So now I'm looking into the possibility of graduate programs in business communications fields, knowing I'd have to teach while I complete my degree so I can afford to live in Manhattan.

And then a vision comes to me. I imagine myself in smart shoes surrounded by some of my greatest loves, books upon books. I'd be working toward a career in a completely different industry, but everything would be fine at the day job, because I'D BE THE COOLEST SCHOOL LIBRARIAN EVER. I could turn kids on to important works of literature. If I worked in an elementary school, I could do read-alouds and woo students with the reading chops I honed after all those years in theater arts. I could hand out fresh bookmarks and post Billy Collins stanzas on bulletin boards.

This romanticized version of my librarian life is more than a little fuzzy. First of all, I'm technically not educated enough to be a school librarian - I'd need a Master's degree for that. Not to mention that the librarian at I.S. 666 always looks like she's about to run into oncoming traffic. Perhaps this is just the type of person library jobs attract. (I'm being somewhat ironic here. Somewhat). Tomorrow I think I'll ask her about her job and credentials: "Dearest Haggard One, I beg you, do share your tribulations and resume."

This future is fuzzy and far-fetched, indeed. But enough with the f-words.

It's no coincidence that you feel the loneliest when the temperature drops and there's no food in the house. These are only two lines on a laundry lists of defeats, a list with such entries as "not enough phone calls," "nothing good on TV," and "people eating in a cafe, all seemingly happier than me."

Why this sudden funk? Seasonal affective disorder? Hormone hoopla? Bad pizza?

I went to Famiglia Pizza today, because I craved a good slice of pepperoni pizza and I've abandoned Koronet after one really bad slice of cheese pizza. The pepperoni slices all looked utterly congealed with grease and glistening, white fat flecks, so I chose a cheese slice instead. As soon as I sat down at my table, I reached for the mozzarella cheese powder (which mind you, I never use) and the powder's lid fell off and powder completely covered my pizza.

"Time to update the old list of defeats," I thought.

Exactly. Doubly, may I add, because the cheese powder was actually some kind of very spicy seasoning. I did my best to wipe it off the pizza in order to salvage the slice, but it was too late. I was eating a meal straight from the spice rack. Sigh. There goes the fulfillment of my pizza craving.

I realize, though, that even if I hadn't had the spice snafu, the pizza from Famiglia wouldn't do it for me. I am ruined for life, because of Lombardi's. I will pass judgement on every single slice of pizza, and if it's not Lombardi's, it will never be good enough. Papa John's, Pizza Hut, and the slew of NYC pizza places will serve me Mrs. de Winter when I know she will never be as good as Rebecca.

Rebecca on 32 Spring Street with the sweet-tangy sauce and pepperonis that look like nipples.

I can't do anything about the weather or the TV lineup. The phone calls will come in time. And those cheerful people in the cafe are tourists, so I'll disregard them. The funk is hard to fight, but I'm willing to try. I need reinforcements, sooo...anyone up for some pizza?

Today Bobby and I were walking down Fifth Avenue and saw a homeless man with a sign that read, "Brad and Angelina are having a baby. I need money to get a present." We laughed.

I got lots of cold weather gear for Christmas, so for the last few mild weeks, I've wondered where this big, bad, northeastern winter is. Bring it on - I've got L.L. Bean snowboots now, biotch! Everyone around me has chided me and warned, "It'll come soon, but shhh! Don't let the gods hear you!" It seems it's too late now, though.

The temperature dropped Saturday. It rained and rained Friday night, and while I was looking forward to wearing my galoshes, I didn't want to have to dress onion-style. It slows me down and requires serious garment rearrangement throughout the day. Bobby and I took advantage of the crappy weather, and decided to pay for one movie and sneak into another for free. Hey, the tickets weren't cheap, and we bought refreshments at that monument to highway robbery known as the AMC concession stand. I have no qualms about seeing most of The Family Stone for free.99 after paying to see Brokeback Mountain. We decided to go to the large AMC movie theater in Times Square, because 1) it plays a large selection of films, so you can choose which film to sneak into from a variety of options, 2) the place is so crowded, but spread out on so many floors that surveillance is not an issue, and 3) the top floor of the theater puts you at the height of Times Square, which is a pretty cool view even when it's sleeting outside.

(If you appreciated Boys Don't Cry, I'd recommend Brokeback Mountain. It's not a happy film, but it is tender and very relevant. As far as The Family Stone goes, I think most people would enjoy it. I love Diane Keaton, and I've decided Rachel McAdams really is the next Julia Roberts, though I've seen her in only one other film. Sarah Jessica Parker is okay. I don't adore her, like Bobby does. She does, however, play her role well, even if the fish out of water holiday movie premise is tired).

After the movies, Bobby and I saw the large Gap on Broadway and 42nd and decided to check out the sales racks. I found two corduroy peacoats that were originally $70 on sale for $17. They were only available in sizes small and extra small. A victory for the small girls! I bought one in red and one in beige. Bobby also bought a jacket and dress shirts.

The score left us hungry. We wanted a light meal at a table where we could stay warm and talk. We walked down the street and encountered all the chain restaurants, gaudily winking at us with their familiar neon signs. We decided on Olive Garden. As soon as we walked in, we saw that everyone and their mom was waiting for a table. Somehow, though, a busboy sauntered over to us and asked us if we needed a table. We said yes, and were seated immediately, despite the fact that there was a two hour wait. Everyone around us looked incredulous, but they didn't know that Bobby and I lead the privileged lives of celebrities...kind of.

We sampled the red wine, ate, and talked. I had lasagna and a Bellini. Bobby ate something more adventurous. I remember thinking about how interesting it is that the person I am closest to in NYC is a fellow Southern transplant. We don't necessarily get along because of our similar backgrounds. I just feel such a sense of comfort with Bobby, because we can breathe around each other. Years from now, I will think of him as one of the biggest parts of what will someday seem like an ancient time in my life, The First Year in New York.

The weather seemed to be trying to be its ugliest. Sleet stung our faces as the wind pummeled our umbrellas and bent them into submission. I felt really cozy and content on the train ride home. On a day when the weather was such an impediment to travel, I'd ventured out and lived a really full day. I need to do that more often.

The kids were slightly more insane on Friday the 13th. In the case of I.S. 666, though, a SLIGHT difference can mean the difference between a crackdown from the SWAT team and the usual barely patrolled chaos. Fortunately, nothing too terrible went down, but the kids' decorum was atrocious.

Tyrique is a student I teach each Friday in a fourth period class I hate. This class is one of the worst in the school, and possibly even worse than Ms. Hicks's class. Sure, Ms. Hicks's class is lewd and violent, but this other class is lewd, violent, and manic. If I focus more than five minutes on one student, two other students are practically fornicating, one student is going through the teacher's desk, three students are running around the classroom and fighting over a teddy bear, and five students are on their cellphones. One of my colleagues once said that he believes he was assigned to teach this class (in a ninety-minute block each day, no less) to make up for all of the sins he's committed in his life. If that's the case, God, just smite me! Please. Anyhow, Tyrique is a butterball of bad manners and worse grammar. He told me my earrings made of brown, oval stones looked like roach eggs.

Charming. I should have turned the whole thing into a teachable moment: "Wow, Tyrique. That's a simile. My response, 'Your mother is a roach egg,' is a metaphor, because I don't use 'like,' 'as', or 'than.'"

So then later I did some push-in work in Mr. M's class. I walked around and conferenced with students about the cause and effect essays they were writing. I went up to one boy and asked him what progress he had made. He looked at me for a few seconds with no response and then said gravely, "I have to fart." And he did.

What the hell?

Those were the incidents that got to me that day. Since September, I have become impervious to the pains of shrieking, cursing, and threatened violence that have made their home at I.S. 666. That stuff never takes a holiday. In fact, the freakiest Friday the 13th I can imagine would be the day it did.

I feel so resourceful - I followed Sam's suggestion and put the baby Ultrasaucer on Craigslist for $50. If this pans out and someone buys the thing, I might post things more often. I'm stroking the beard I don't have right now.

Me: Can you imagine if our bodies only worked in a different way, and the neurons and circuitry in our brains only allowed us to speak about something after doing it?

Sam: Then all we'd talk about would be eating and sleeping.

Amanda: Right. We couldn't plan. Everything we accomplished would be either reflex or accident.

Funny.

I had to look up what the abbreviation SURR stands for when I wrote the previous entry. When I typed it into a search engine, a message came up: "Did you mean 'surrealist?'"

I'm a realist and I do believe I.S. 666 is bound to be back on the SURR list. So yeah, I'm a SURRealist. I mean it.

A parody by Bobby and I, sung to the tune of "Surfin'USA":

"If everybody lived in ghettoes,
across the USA,
then everybody'd be SURRfin,'
the West Harlem way.

They'd all be scorin' some one's,
or maybe low, low two's.
Everybody'd be singin'
the S.U.R.R. blues."

I was born and raised in South Texas. Many years of my education were spent 1) learning to affect a very convincing Southern drawl (through informal study) and 2) preparing for the state's standardized TAAS tests. TAAS was pronounced "toss," because teachers wanted to do just that to all the prep books and practice quizzes. Teaching to a test is never the best curricular goal, nor does it fairly assess the abilities of all students. BUT. Students will be inundated with tests their entire lives, and they should get used to it. Good test scores help students get farther in life, whether it means they can legally drive a car or get into a competitive university. Good test scores also earn schools more money to enhance the academic environment.

My teachers hated the TAAS test and probably performed the teacher-led TAAS pep rallies and ice cream float incentive parties with some reluctance. However, my school achieved top scores. Even though I was the only person in my tenth grade class to get exemplary marks on all areas of the test, the school was proclaimed "Exemplary" by state test and attendance standards when I graduated in 2001. I didn't get to see the fruition of our new label, but I know Odem High School constructed at least three new school facilities after this.

So now I'm one of those teachers proctoring a standardized state test that I don't agree with. I'm in New York, though, where the test has reading, short answer, editing, and listening sections. It's much more complicated that the TAAS test I took. My students also come from a very different environment - at home and at school - than I did. On any given day, 60% of my students do not have a writing utensil. A higher percentage of them live on government assistance in single-parent homes. A higher percentage do not read or write at their grade level. The school environment is generally chaotic, with a very high teacher turnover rate and an even higher teacher:student classroom ratio.

On top of it all, students are taking the test that demonstrates all of the English Language Arts skills they've developed throughout the school year IN JANUARY. How does this make sense? One final blow: Students are taking the test on Tuesday, the day after they've been out of school to honor MLK Day. There's a reason most schools do not have major exams on the first day of the week, and that reason is recovery. I don't mean to be the eternal pessimist, but I'm thinking the kids are screwed. (The test dates and times are statewide, so students in Yonkers and Whitepeopleland, NY will also be detrimentally affected by poor state educational planning. However, I feel with the ghetto kids, the planning only adds insult to injury).

I.S. 666 was considered a SURR (Schools Under Registration Review) school only a year ago. SURR schools are those schools that do so poorly on standarized tests that they get a few months to improve scores or they get shut down. If that happens, I guess students are then required to go to other neighboring schools, which then get more overpopulated with low-performing students. Then maybe that school will go on the SURR list and then... In Harlem, it's all about the vicious cycles, yo.

I have a feeling that my school is destined for a reunion with the the SURR committee in a few months, and the administrators are going to have streams of diarrhea sliding down their legs and trailing them in the hallways. And then there might be a fan. There are going to be a lot of meetings where fingers are pointed and questions are asked. Why weren't the teachers more effective? How many new teachers are we going to have to hire so that each class doesn't have thirty-three students in it? (This is illegal in a SURR school and should be illegal in EVERY school). How can we alter the curriculum to where we get the maximum test prep time and cut out all that trivia garbage, like creative writing, critical thinking, blah blah bah?

Ready or not, the test is coming. I don't feel like there's anything else I can do, but show up on Tuesday and be an active proctor...in the tiny, cluttered, currently deskless office that is reserved for me and three Special Ed studens.

The test is a necessary evil, but the conditions could be, should be so much better. Yes, SURR.

Tomorrow is Friday the 13th.

What evil awaits me at I.S. 666?

Thing to do when bored in a small Texas town #2: Play limbo in the Dairy Queen bathroom. (Plunger not always included).

After meeting Louis Sachar, Bobby and I walked the streets of Morningside Heights, looking for some fun. We found a trashcan ablaze on a street corner. As seen on TV, folks! Bobby demanded I pose. (Notice how I'm gingerly holding my vintage 1970's purse away from the flames).

Later, we saw the NYFD firemen who extinguished the blaze. Bobby insisted I personally thank one of New York City's Finest for keeping my neighborhood fire-free...most of the time. My fireman and I did the awkward strangers-with-their-arms-around-each-other's-waists pose. The firetruck shortly took off down the street and we waved. It was cool and all, but I kind of wanted a ride in the firetruck...or maybe one of those nifty hats.

Next time?

On Tuesday, I went to my first book reading/signing in NYC. I'd previously wanted to see Joyce Carol Oates and Frank McCourt, but unfortunately let other obligations take precedent. Bobby found out Bank Street Bookstore was giving out free tickets to see Louis Sachar, the juvenile fiction author most famous for Holes. If you're anywhere close to my age or younger, or you work with the younger population, you've probably been exposed to Sachar's writing. I have been minimally. In second grade, my G/T teacher Mrs. Richey read There's A Boy In The Girl's Bathroom aloud. I have a copy of Sideways Stories from Wayside School at home that I never read.

I haven't even read Holes yet, but I was excited to meet Louis Sachar, because I just read an interview he did with Texas Monthly for this month's issue. After graduating from college, Sachar wrote his first book, made ten copies of it, and sent them to ten different publishing houses. Each manuscript was rejected, except for one. Sachar was a novelist, and the rest is history. How easy it all seems! It was the 1970's. Was Sachar's writing filling a new niche? Were there just not a lot of good juvenile fiction writers at the time? Or was his writing just that fresh and innovative? I'm not sure. I wanted to introduce myself to Sachar, one sort of writing Austinite to another. Maybe he could give me some advice.

"The hardest part is getting started, " Sachar told me. "Just write." I could have told him that! Oh, well. I did like that he help up the line for autographs to look me in the eyes while we spoke. He autographed my copy of Holes after I thanked him.

The thing that inspired me most about the event was not Sachar's shyly dispensed pearl of wisdom (if I could even call it a "pearl" at all). Instead, I felt moved by all the kids at the event asking questions during the post-reading Q & A session with the author. Some questions were redundant, but others were really impressive. One kid all of eight years old asked Sachar, "Why do your books so often refer to racism?" I hope the kid's socially-conscious mom didn't feed him the question. Am I naive to think that a bookish little boy would use the verb "refer"? I hope not.

Bobby and I were really impressed with a group of middle-schoolers from the Bronx that were on a school trip. They were so well-behaved and articulate. Bobby and I wondered how our students might have acted at such an event. I think I.S. 666's best and brightest could have represented the school well, but how many "good kids" would have even wanted to come? I imagine my students would have been more reticent and not even attempted to converse with the white, middle-aged writer at the podium, a man who would seem more distant than just the yards between the stage and a seat in the fourth row.

One time a student told a black teacher that there are only two white people she's ever liked and trusted. I was one of them. "All the others look down on me and treat me weird." I don't think this necessarily has been the case, but the girl seriously internalized the idea that she was viewed as lesser by the white race. This opens a whole can of worms, I know, but it makes me wonder.

How much would an event like the Louis Sachar reading - one dominated by privately schooled, Upper West Side kids and their educated parents - make a poor, urban, black kid feel uncomfortably conspicuous, like the token black kid everyone goes out of their way to welcome, but never really accept? Would an event like this feel like an exercise in "passing," but with the politically correct pretense that in America, minorities no longer have to "pass"?

I wondered this as Sachar spoke to the children. But what will I ever know about my students' feelings about the big stuff? So much of our discourse is over why school supplies should be brought to class everyday and why fighting when someone talks about your mother isn't the most reasonable behavior. We don't talk about how in America, racism is either sheathed or outright, but-not-to-be-racist-instead-to-be-smart-and-provocative-and-funny, a la Sarah Silverman.

Until it isn't.

These are the things I wish I could teach...I wish I could learn...I wish I could start to write...

I'm from a small town. In fact, I don't often name the small town I'm really from. Instead, I always say I'm from the surrounding small town, which people from my small town think of as the city. 'Tis true.

When I was a blossomy teenager and my best girlfriend got her first car, we did our best to make Corpus Christi, Texas a little more exciting. We got large pieces of construction paper and on one side pasted letters that read "HONK IF YOU WANNA SEE MY BOOBIES!" As the passenger, I'd hold the sign in the car window and smile flirtatiously at male drivers. (Of course, I accidentally showed the sign to some of my less feminine sisters a few times. Whoops)!

* I know, I know. No need to honk in that shirt. The blinding sun rendered it translucent.

Guys almost always honked, and I noticed the men old enough to be my dad honked more passionately. Yuck. I'd keep smiling, put the sign down, and pause long enough to build some anticipation. Some guys would impatiently honk again. One time a guy was so transfixed he nearly drove off the road. I'd finally flip the sign to the other side and press it to the window. It read, "PERVERT!" Everyone died laughing. Despite the clear lack of boobies, guys really seemed to appreciate our ruse.



The Halley's Comet type of male driver did exist, though. He'd be baffled when I put the sign up to the window. I'd smile harder and maybe even attempt to wink. I'd worry he was extremly nearsighted or illiterate. My friend would make sure she didn't pass up our unenthusiastic fellow driver. I'd be parallel to him, feet of highway between us, and he'd keep driving baffled.

When I started using the sign with one of my gay friends, he made me make a second sign. When the guy didn't honk, I shrugged and pressed another construction paper message against the window - "OH, SO YOU'RE GAY?" I realize that maybe those few guys were gentlemen or just shy, but yeah, maybe they didn't like girls that way, which is fine by me.

I like those guys better anyway.

Oh, I'd love to talk to one of my college sociology professors about this ad from Craigslist:


Straight guy seeks same for thoughtful affectionate friendship - m4m - 36
------------------------------------------------------------------------

Remember when you were a very young boy and your dad would carry you around on your shoulders? Or you'd sit right next to him on the couch? Or roughhouse with him in the living room? Maybe you wished your dad would have done those things.

I'm a young good looking guy whose spent many years in a mythopoetic men's group inspired by Robert Bly and Michael Meade and I've discovered a deep need for male affection. At my men's group I've had the opportunity to physically embrace men for a good two or three minutes. Think about that. That's an eternity in the world of straight men. A far cry from the quick hug and the vigorous pats on the back that implicity say "I'm not gay." I've also had the opportunity to sit on a couch arm and arm with a good male friend.

I'd like to expand my community with other men who may be interested in this very thing. So, if you're interested or just curious this please contact me and we can talk about it. Just to be clear, this is NOT a ploy for sex. I'm not interested in sex whatsoever.

this is in or around Upper West Side
no -- it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

My question: If it's not about sex, why does he mention that he's good looking? Mythopoetic, touchy feely guys would have beards and wear Birkenstocks and cargo pants, I'd think. Maybe he's something special? It boggles the mind.

Years after Aaron and I declared ourselves the reincarnation of F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald (and acted accordingly), I read that comedienne Margaret Cho and one of her old boyfriends also thought they were just as crazy, artistic, and fanciful as the famous Jazz Age couple. In the book I'm The One That I Want, Margaret Cho said something like, "We thought we were the beautiful and the damned. Turns out, we were just the okay-looking and pathetic."

I laughed 'til I cried. Some of it was agreement upon self-conscious recognition. How silly of us! We were hardly living such lives of debauchery or glamour. Our French Riviera was the Corpus Christi, Texas harbor. Hardly comparable.

But I still think we were beautiful.

As I turned the corner onto my street today, I saw it. A pristine, colorful Evenflo Portable Fun Ultrasaucer. On a pile of trash.

It's little doodads were spinning and tinkling in the cool breeze, just looking for a baby to intellectually stimulate. The padding in the chair screamed, "Touch my clean plushness!" The plastic base secured an invisible baby in the delightful contraption while an invisible mother tended to invisible errands at home, at ease because the Ultrasaucer was a haven in an invisible apartment full of danger.

I walked a few feet thinking, "I can pass this up. I don't even know anybody with a baby. I don't need this."

But I couldn't.

I turned around and salvaged the Ultrasaucer. It's spotless and after inspection, perfect just like I thought. If shipping and handling weren't an issue, I'd mail it home for my cousin. I'm planning on donating it somewhere through Kathy, though - a family, a church daycare, child development center, or maybe even the closest Goodwill.

The score makes me happy, because I know someone can use this. I looked up the product on the internet, just to make sure it hadn't been recalled or something. It hadn't. Of course, I also looked up the retail value - $102-$110 on average. Wow. For free.

The opportunity to freecycle is just another example of God/Allah/Goddess's grace, oh yes. I once was lost, but now I'm found.

It's time to resort to interviewing myself again.

Q: Have you seen any movies lately?
A: I saw Matchpoint last week. It's received a lot of praise, but I don't think the movie was that great. It was a classic Greek tragedy, but not meaty enough to really intellectually engage viewers. I didn't find any of the characters to be very sympathetic or even well-developed, either.

Q: What are you reading?
A: I just read Lynda Barry's One Hundred Demons, which is a semi-autobiographical collection of comic strips. The book has great dialogue and touches on some very poignant childhood subjects, like falling in love with music during adolescence and losing friends. I don't know why I'd never heard of Barry until last week when she was mentioned in Time. Read One Hundred Demons! The next book I have to read is Alice Munro's short-story collection Runaway.

Q: Why aren't you going out and doing more now that you live in NYC, the city you've always wanted to live in?
A: You have a point. Cold weather sedates me, but the weather has been flukishly mild the last few days. I need to go out and do more. There are museums I've yet to get lost in, restaurants I haven't been to, etc. I'm going to two readings/book signings in the next two weeks, but yeah, I should get out more.

Q: What song lyric currently sums up your existence?
A: "Afraid of change, afraid of staying the same... Bear with me. Bear with me. Be with me tonight." This is from "What A Good Boy" by Barenaked Ladies.

Q: Why don't you write about teaching anymore?
A: There's never truly a dull moment at I.S. 666, but all the ELA classes have been solely focused on preparation for the New York state ELA test. Test preparation, any good teacher will tell you, is dull and hardly encourages what's really important - critical thinking, creativity, and curiosity. Alas, testing is the biggest way students supposedly prove they are ready for promotion and have mastered certain skills. The thing is...most students are already at a grade level they shouldn't have been promoted to. Honestly. There shouldn't be seventh graders reading at a third-grade level. The situation is dire, because we can't put all the fifteen-year-olds in fourth grade where they belong. Habitual failure is understandably discouraging, so I.S. 666's lowest performing students who need the most help are the most academically disinclined. Now they don't want to get help. I could go on and on.

I've been falling into the same trap. I certainly have school stuff to blog and will get to it...once I muster up enough motivation. (A pox on all these disenfranchised, apathetic people I'm surrounded by. Don't negatively influence me, students and administrators)!

From Overheard in New York:

Person 1: I'm not a very social person.
Person 2: Join the club.

Hardee har har.

Yikes! Time for a cautionary tale: DO NOT EAT AT THE RAY'S PIZZA ON EIGHTH AVENUE.

Bobby and I have just conferenced and revealed that we both got explosive diarrhea after eating our post-"workout" slices of pizza. (Wow, the fact that I just typed "explosive diarrhea" on my blog that some of my mom's co-workers read emboldens me).

We noticed the bathroom door at Ray's had an "Out of Order" sign on it, so Bobby had no qualms about sitting at the table nearest the loo. But as we were eating, the very man who served us our pizza went to the bathroom, presumably cleaned it up and/or fixed the toilet, and then made his way back to the counter to serve up more hot, cheesy pizza to the unknowing public. Eww, eww, eww.

So we finished up our slices, went our separate ways, and the eBOWLa hit us. Bobby said he barely survived the train ride back to Inwood and had to scramble like mad to get upstairs to his apartment. I had a much shorter trip, so I was already home before my long intestine tried to strangle itself.

I'm just glad we didn't work out after all. Imagine the horrid scene that might have unfolded on the elliptical machine...

It's amazing what one trip to Bally's with Bobby will do to a girl...or maybe not.

Bobby and I went to Bally's after school on Thursday. The commute crosstown was a pain, but good preliminary cardio, I suppose. I'm trying to look at the protein shake as half full. Or eat meals that leave me half full. Okay, enough attempts at exercise jokes.

It's no coincidence that the Bally's we went to requires a descent down a long stairway before reaching the lobby of over-eager Bally's reps. It brings to mind Dante's underworld and after an hour of exercise, you'd swear you've been sent to the circle of hell reserved for the Gluttons. (If you have to be totally smarmy about it like me, though, you'd think, "Uh uh. What about symbolic retribution, huh? The punishment fits the crime." In this case, I'll say it's like the circle for those evil, lazy people who ride elevators to the second floor).

I had to talk to a few Bally's employees before my free trial began. I'd like to share that no one I saw working at this gym looked particularly toned. One woman gave me a tour and tried to help me assess my workout goals:

Bally's Rep: So...do you like working out?
Me: No, not really.
Bally's Rep: Okay. What brought you to Bally's?
Me: Coercion by a friend.
Bally's Rep: Are you trying to lose weight?
Me: No. Just some toning. Minimal toning. I'm a wimp.

Clearly, I couldn't share my plan to achieve bootyliciousness. This is top secret stuff.

Bobby and I worked on the bikes side by side. I biked over three miles to groovy seventies tunes, but I'll be honest, I wish I had actually biked somewhere. Especially somewhere that didn't have patchy rugs and close captioned televisions airing sports shows. I got through twenty minutes of biking to nowhere by mentally correcting all the typos on the closed captioning and listening to Rod Stewart's "Do Ya Think I'm Sexy?"

Answer: Not yet, but ask again after some time on the elliptical machine. I started out strong, but spent the last seventeen minutes of my twenty-minute session taking it easy. Meanwhile, Bobby was working out with the machine on the highest level and burned 4,567,435 calories.

Bobby morphed back into personal trainer mode for the last eternity of my workout, which I'll call my Pain In The Butt (PITB) session. I worked on some PITB machines and did squats and leg lifts. Bobby counted down and made sure I didn't hurt myself or give up: "C'mon, it's your ass! Squat like you mean it!" I saw a difference instantly. My butt is now tighter and hurts when I sit down. Progress!

After the workout, we did what made the most sense to us and headed over to Dylan's Candy Bar for ice cream. I justified the indulgence with all the blocks we had to walk from the gym to the candy store to the subway. Similarly, Bobby and I got lost en route to another Bally's location today, thus leading to lots of exercise from walking, thus justifying a trip to Ray's Pizza.

Mmm, working out is great.

Hi, my name is Amanda, and I haven't broken a sweat since 2004.

Well, not quite. I know I've documented the festering hell that is your typical NYC central air-less summer. And don't forget the 39 steps, but really, I don't work out. I've never had to. (Yes, you may send graphic death threats and hate mail now). Lately, though, I notice jiggles I've never seen before. I'm using anti-gravity under eye cream, too. Maybe it's a bit premature, but I'm ready to battle the bulges. All of them. Whether they're truly there or not. (I'd also like to acquire more of a certain bulge. My, ahem, posterior "lovely lady lumps" are "practically preschool plains." I want a butt).

So Bobby coerced me into signing up for a trial membership at a Bally's downtown. Me...in a grown-up gym...waiting in a line for an elliptical machine with the 3,456,872 other people who have resolved that this year they are getting into better shape.

I'm pumped!

I'm the master of the lost connection.

Too often, I've let admired and enjoyed acquaintances remain acquaintances. I don't put myself "out there" enough. When I completely lose contact with these acquaintances, I still think we could be friends, but then it's too late. I think I do this, because I'm more of a loner or dyad/triad interacter and of course, I don't like to come across as weird or overeager about human contact.

It also smarts when someone who made it to the friend stage slips away for whatever reason. I hear the older I get, the more I will need to be around people who knew me when I was young. Enter Aaron, a dear friend from high school. Our friendship really only consumed about a year of my life, but it produced some of my deepest, most vivid memories. When I was with Aaron, I felt, to quote The Perks Of Being A Wallflower, "infinite." I felt clever and beautiful and funny. The world was wide open in front of both of us.

We stopped being friends my senior year, and I still don't completely understand why. What matters is once upon a time, I sent him the link to this blog, and he emailed me after a very long time of no communication, and we briefly reunited last week when I was in Texas. He is older, I am older. We are in different cities, and I realize I got to where we both wanted to go - New York City - all by myself. Back in high school, we thought we'd share a Soho loft...and he'd be an actor and I'd be a millionaire of mysterious financial origins. Oh, naivete... But I wouldn't change anything that happened between us, especially the fact that I saw him again.

Aaron, I really enjoyed seeing you....and we didn't even have to call each other Scott and Zelda to feel at ease. I was surprised. Forgive my trite figurative language, but it felt like sinking into a familiar old chair or a broken in pair of jeans. I only wish I would have hugged you hello/goodbye.

Augusten Burroughs is beginning to feel more and more like a friend of mine, because I've now read everything of his except his "cheese popcorn" novel, Sellevision. And while I love Burroughs' mean streak, he definitely has a way of writing such touchy feely sentimental stuff that I go "awww..." If we really were friends, I'd tease him about it, though.

On his love for his partner: "Unconditional love. That's what this is. I love him, as is, fully. I've had to stop arm wrestling with the facts. Why me? Didn't I already have a big love once? And lost it? So why should I get it again? I've had to stop trying to look for cracks and flaws to prove that it's not as good as it seems. Because it's as good as it seems. Even when we fight, we fight inside the container of good. Somehow, through a flip of the coin, I ended up here. Feeling like somebody at the top of the heart-lung transplant recipient list. Damaged but invigorated and fucking lucky."

...And I'm back!

I've felt kind of loopy since returning to New York. The traveling wasn't so bad, nor was the unpacking. I attribute my state of mind, which ranges from lackadaisical to lethargic, on the weather and the season. I am dragging my feet at the start of another year - a year which could very well be the best year of my life. It's really a shame.

So enough of that.

En route to Texas I read Female Chauvinist Pigs: Women and the Rise of Raunch Culture by Ariel Levy. She is clearly after mine own heart, as she touched on so many subjects I have so passionately and curiously pondered in my own women's studies. For example, the proliferation of Playboy and Hustler logos on tee shirts, underwear, and other merchandise worn by women. I remember how livid I was when I was home one holiday break and while doing laundry, saw my sister's boy-cut underwear with that familiar bunny. Levy also writes about Sex and the City (UT Women's Studies Symposium 2003 - holla!), Playboy, and the state of feminism today. She basically concludes that today many women embrace chauvinism by eating up the idea that being raunchy is being powerful, fun, and sexually liberated. If women aren't raunchy, they're often viewed as asexual and uptight. Oh, how my brain was rocked. I want to share the pearls I have plucked from this book and highly recommend it for a quick, consciousness-raising read.

"If the rise of raunch seems counterintuitive because we hear so much about being in a conservative moment, it actually makes perfect sense when we think about it. Raunch culture is not essentially progressive, it is essentially commercial.

"Sexuality is inherent, it is a fundamental part of being human, and it is a lot more complicated than we seem to be willing to admit. Different things are attractive to different people and sexual tastes run wide and wild. Yet somehow, we have accepted as fact the myth that sexiness needs to be divorced from the everyday experience of being ourselves."

"To me 'sexy' is based on the inexplicable overlap of character and chemicals that happens between people...the odd sense that you have something primal in common with another person whom you may love, or you may barely even like, that can only be expressed through the physical and psychological exchange that is sex. When I'm in the plastic 'erotic' world of high, hard tits and long nails and incessant pole dancing - whether I'm at a CAKE party, walking past a billboard of Jenna Jameson in Times Square, or dodging pillows at the Maxim Hot 100 - I don't feel titillated or liberated or aroused. I feel bored, and kind of tense."

"Women's liberation and empowerment are terms feminists started using to talk about casting off the limitations imposed upon women and demanding equality. We have perverted these words. The freedom to be sexually provocative or promiscuous is not enough freedom... And we are not even free in the sexual arena. We have simply adopted a new norm, a new role to play: lusty, busty exhibitionist. There are other choices... If we believed that we were sexy and funny and competent and smart, we would not need to be like strippers or like men or like anyone other than our own specific, individual selves."

I call it "Too Salty." What would you title this photograph?

*Best title wins a prize.

The mere thought of you sometimes floods my head with letters - I'm a bowl brimming with alphabet soup. The letters make words. The words make up the stories of what we did and what we do.

Our every experience is delicious in the knowledge I gained from it.

You are the scar on my chin that reminds me of the triumph of learning to rollerskate, learning to spend the majority of my time not falling and getting hurt.

I am full with you.

Happy New Year's Eve, everybody!

"I['m] [lying] in an early bed, thinking late thoughts," as I'm flying back to NYC tomorrow morning to begin another year of Msadventures. These last days of 2005 have been well-spent with my family in amazing weather, and leaving will be sad. I'm optimistic about returning to New York with new priorities, goals, and plenty of rest, though.

In 2005, I graduated from college, became a teacher, moved to NYC, won a writing contest, and overall, lived a fuller life. Here's to more of that in 2006 (and you reading all about it)!