*All the hubbub of my apartment hunt and kill has got me feeling more and more like an adult. Though I have a degree and a job and enough bills to feel like childhood is far away, I'm just now realizing that the big palookas of life aren't so unattainable, but the completely carefree days are. I found something one of my dearest college friends, Rey, wrote to me. He felt like a man long before I felt like a woman. Sigh. I miss this guy.

I would say that the moment I felt as though I was
really a man was when I did the first major repair to
my first car. The station wagon always had problems
before that. In fact it's name was The Creepa,
because it had this habit of running fine for an
entire day and then while pulling away from a stop
sign or traffic signal it would inexplicably go no
faster than 3-5 mph. This caused no end of drama as
people in my car would scream in terror, watching
three lanes of traffic barreling towards their
passenger-side door with nothing that could be done
about it. Fortunately tragedy never struck.

I got the car for a mere $500 near the end of my
senior year and after a couple months it began to
accelerate in an inexcusably slow rate. It finally
got to the point where it would take about 1 1/2 miles
of straight, smooth road before it got up to 50, so I
decided it was time to figure out what was wrong with
it.

I looked under the hood and poked around for a while,
not really seeing anything terribly out of the
ordinary. After all, this thing was 14 years old at
the time; there was absolutely nothing pretty about
it. I looked under the car and saw a fresh puddle of
fluid, so I looked above the puddle until I found the
cause of the problem: a cracked transmission line.

So I went to a transmission shop and asked them how
much they would charge to fix my transmission lines.
The guy at the counter took one look at my car and
said it would cost me $100 to diagnose it. I said I
didn't need to diagnose it; I just needed to replace
the transmission lines. He said they never worked on
a car without diagnosing it first, and that they
usually charge between $100 and $200 to do lines. I
said thanks, but I'd go somewhere else. I went to
another place and got the same run around and a higher
quote.

Since I refused to pay half the cost of my car for two
hoses and a few bottles of transmission fluid, I
decided to do it myself. I puttered up to Autozone,
asked the clerk what the right hose would be, and he
handed them off to me. I got my fluid, and went along
my way about $7 poorer. I had a friend whose father
was in the military and you could rent the hydraulic
lift in their garage for $5/hr, so we did that.

There was something awe inspiring about being under my
car, suspended in the air, wiping the screws on the
ring clamps with a rag soaked in degreaser. The hoses
had numerous little cracks beneath the clamps and
there was crusty, burned fluid sticking the lines to
the fixtures and I had to pull at a very awkward
angle. A few times my hand slipped as I was pulling
and I slammed my hand against the edge of the radiator
and got a lovely array of cuts. When I finally
wrenched the hoses off and a small amount of nasty,
black transmission fluid barely oozed out (good
transmission fluid is pink and there *should* be a lot
of it) I felt rather vindicated.

Most of the time in the garage was spent trying to get
the new hoses onto the fixtures snuggly, which proved
incredibly hard and I burned myself while leaning
against the various pieces of machinery that hadn't
cooled off from the drive. Of course at this point I
couldn't let searing flesh stop me. If I didn't get
the hoses on, the car would go nowhere. If I didn't
do it right they would pop off while I was driving and
there would be no way to get back under the car on the
side of the road to fix it a second time even if I had
enough fluid to replace everything that got spilled.
The fact that I could ruin whatever functionality was
left in my transmission was daunting, and the sweat
and oil seeping into the various wounds I'd acquired
wasn't helping. Despite this, I finally got
everything in place, and I was satisfied that I'd done
a good job of it. Looking up at the lines, bright
orange and pristine compared to the dull black and
grey of the cars guts, I couldn't imagine having such
an enormous sense of accomplishment without that pain.

We cleaned up the mess, and brought the car down,
leaving it running on the lift a few moments so the
new fluid could circulate. I drove it outside but the
thing still seemed a little sluggish, so I added some
more fluid and drove off. It was accelerating much
better than it did when I first bought it and while it
wasn't fast by any means, compared to its performance
a mere hour earlier it felt like my station wagon
might've flown if it had wings. All together, fixing
the Creepa set me back less than $12.

I dropped my friend off at his house and thanked him
for his help, and drove home to take a shower. By the
time I was done my mom had returned from work and I
decided I was going to take her out to dinner and that
we would go in my car. She tried to resist because it
had developed quite a reputation as a death trap, but
I insisted. She noticed that it was running better
immediately and when I told her that I had fixed it
myself I think that we both realized at the same time
that I was grown up and I wasn't going to have any
problems taking care of myself from that point on.

Not terribly exciting, but entirely true.

Yesterday was my last day at I.S. 666. It was tedious and not sentimental. I saw a few students I worked with throughout the year, but many left early or didn't show up at all. The end of the school year was long overdue - report cards were turned in long ago and teachers have just been babysitting the last few weeks.

The I.S. 666 experience has made me stronger and more appreciative of good education. It's true that you don't know what you have (or what you had) until it's gone. I wish the best for all kids, but know the typical overcrowded, undermanaged NYC public school is not one that is a safe, nurturing environment conducive to good teaching or learning. That's a shame.

I won't miss the way the school is run or the chaos and violence, but I will miss some of the teachers who worked in the trenches with me.

Shout-outz To Some Of My Peeps, Yo!

Mr. C: I was delighted to hear about your promotion to a different academy. I hope you get to teach more and discipline less next year. I enjoyed working with you Friday mornings.

Ms. H: Thanks for helping out when I needed teaching resources or just a magazine to read. You were always grim, but helpful and hilarious.

Mr. C: I'm sure we'll keep in touch. You make me laugh, and maybe now you'll give me a side job. Don't forget I helped you get through grad school with all my paper editing.

Mr. W: I admire how much upheaval you went through this last year, and that you were overall positive through everything. You're still lined in cynicism, though. Just as you should be.

Ms. A: You aren't as caustic as you think you are. You see through the b.s. at the school and that's refreshing.

Mr. F: I loved our long conversations. You were so helpful throughout the year and the most reliable gossip ever.

Ms. D: You had a wonderful group. Thanks for all your support throughout the year. You are one of the most caring and enthusiastic individuals I have ever met.

Mr. C: Don't hold your tongue...ever. You are one of the most effective, yet undervalued teachers at the school.

Mr. A: A higher-up with lots of class. You made my life easier.

Ms. H: You were encouraging and I enjoyed hearing you reminisce about the school's better days.

Mr. B: What a hard year you had! I'm glad you're getting out and exploring the world. Fridays were fun with you.

Ms. W: Go after you goals. You were great at dealing with kids when you got the chance. Find a place where you can work in the foreground and make more of a difference. The potential is in you.

Mr. L: Your kids were great, because of your strong, consistent management. Congrats on a successful first year. I admire your skills.

Mr. M: It was heartwarming to see how much you cared for your kids last year. I think your strength is how approachable and down-to-earth you are with everyone. I'd have loved to have you as a teacher and I enjoyed spending afternoons with you and Jimmy.

Rate-A-Concert/Rate-A-Weekend

Artist(s): O.A.R. and Dave Matthews Band

Length of performance: 3.5 hours

What I did: Cade and I headed to New Hope and hung out with Paul Thursday night. It began to rain, leading Paul to conclude that our planned trip to Hershey Park was a no-go. The next sunny morning, Cade, Paul, Alex, and I had brunch and went to Hershey Park for a day of rollercoasters and lines for rollercoasters and music. On Saturday, Cade delivered on his promise to grant my suburban fantasy - a large pepperoni Pizza Hut pizza (they don't have them in NYC) and browsing at a mall. Well, mostly just the pizza. To pay him back, I accompanied the boys to a screening of The Fast and the Furious 3: Tokyo Drift. I used this time to make a to-do list...for the next five years. I met Cade's parents and brothers a few hours later. It really wasn't awkward; I'd already figured that the people who created Cade would be cool. That night, Alex and Paul went to Philadelphia. Cade and I went with Paige and a newly single friend to two bars in Doylestown. We were the wing couple, text-messaging encouraging words to Paige as short, clueless guys chatted her up. On Sunday, Cade and I met up with his parents again and later headed back to Manhattan.

High point: Roller coasters! Swaying with Cade to "Crazy" while the energy of the crowd and the powerful universality of the song made the hairs on my neck stand up.

Low point: The Fast and the Furious. The movie should have been called The Trite and the Frivolous. I hate seeeing thirty-somethings play teens, and the dialogue, oh God!

Overall impression: I like New Hope. It's clean and pretty. It's really nice to get out of Manhattan for the weekend. Hershey Park was not the best amusement park, but I hadn't gone anywhere like it for many years. I'm getting to know Alex and Paul better, which is good. I met the Boyfriend's family - a big step in any relationship. I'm happy.

Reason I went to the concert: Cade bought tickets for us months ago when we first started dating.

I learned: I now know why it seems every college student has seen DMB in concert. The live show is fantastic. The crowd was huge, energetic, and stoned or drunk. I saw lots of uninhibited dancing and skimpy tops and good vibing. I have to amend my first sentence: it seems every WHITE college student has seen DMB in concert. There were so many hundreds of gringos at the concert, that I wondered if I was at a KKK rally. Words can't explain my discomfort at being surrounded by so many of my own kind. Cade and I saw three non-whites who were all canoodling with white people. DMB consists of mostly black musicians, but where was the diversity in the crowd? It really weirded me out.

Pretty in PA

"Much too much is just right. It is exactly what you want and need, to be fully alive, at every moment of your life."
- Bonnie Fuller

I once compared my small hometown in Texas to a sprawling, austere mansion and New York City to a small, cluttered apartment.

Location aside, where would I rather live? The apartment.

It seems more like a place with stuff to do, things to be seen, drawers to be junked up. A place to be healthily messy, to really live. I never want to have a couch covered in plastic or a room a dog can't go in. I prefer to do something with every inch of space I can afford.

The same goes with the time I have each day. I never complete the to-do list, because I inhabit a jungle of goals both small (catalog my pictures in iphoto) and large (get a book deal and live the exciting, simile-filled life of a literary rockstar).

Bonnie Fuller's The Joys of Much Too Much laughs at the idea of a balanced or meditative life and extolls the virtues of being overextended and frenetic and busy. Fuller has edited YM, Cosmopolitan, Glamour, Marie Claire, US Weekly, and now works as editorial director for yet another magazine I don't read. The woman has done extremely well in her career, and the expected criticism has followed - Fuller's been called cold, bitchy, aggressive, overly career-oriented, and too ambitious. (Read: too much like all those powerful menfolk running the world).

I like her already.

The Joys of Much Too Much needs to be further examined, though. Is Bonnie Fuller trying to hard to prove something? How can she criticize the meditative life? Could anyone but Fuller live without buckling under the weight of much too much?

The book also has to be viewed as a calculated career move. The author has burned some bridges career-wise and needs to rebuild some ethos. She needs to be a public relations phoenix, and I think she does it pretty well.

I don't agree that working women should wear heels during pregnancy in order to keep up appearances, as one chapter absurdly suggests. In fact, if I am a pregnant working woman someday, I want to spend the nine months doing what the women before me have done - complaining about the discomfort, eating incessantly, and entertaining people with bowel anecdotes. That's who I am! You can't expect me to be knocked up on the downlow.

Magazines geared towards women are dominated by men who don't get their reproductive equipment hijacked. Still, do women have to tiptoe (literally, in high heels) around the womb? It's the twenty-first century. I will never, ever wear high heels when I'm pregnant - or do anything else to obscure that I'm with child - in order to keep things "normal" at the office. If I did, I may as well live in a tent at the edge of a forest during my monthly days of impurity.

I will not follow Fuller's advice and take the shortest possible maternity leave, or just refuse leave at all, and raise an infant in an office. Who really does that? The whole parenting section of the book is unrealistic and illustrates not a life pleasurably maxed out with work, play, and relationships, but one fraught with denial and selfish parenting.

Alright. Let me work myself back home now. I love reading interview and foot-in-the-door tips from higher-ups, especially women who climbed their way from the bottom with no connections to speak of. Fuller offers quite a few tips, but nothing remarkable. Nonetheless, I was inspired. I'm trying to do more with my writing this summer and Fuller's advice to "send proof that [I] am worthy of someone's time" struck a chord. I now have an idea for something I've long thought I could do, but never figured out how to do.

Finally, this is something I think about a lot: I need to regain some of the optimism and confidence beaten out of me by higher education, alcoholic writers, and the dullness of the real world. Fuller writes, "I'll never forget how each of my four children first started walking and talking: they didn't alk, they swaggered! They owned the world...convinced they could be anything they wanted to be when they grew up. When do we stop swaggering and start second-guessing ourselves? Maybe it's about time that you rediscovered your childhood confidence and became a born-again swaggerer."

A selectively Fuller life sounds good to me.

It's been a week since I was horribly ill with a throat infection-cum-avian flu-mononucleosis-hybrid (well, I exaggerate a bit). The memories of public vomiting and my hospital visit are so fresh that I have yet to start taking my health for granted again. I promised that I'd record my experience here, so it's time to deliver.

Warning: The following entry will contain at least three synonyms for the word "vomit" and may glamorize prescription painkillers that Winona Ryder illegally carried when she pulled that shoplifting stunt. Oh, and it will describe what I vomited onto a stranger's leg at Times Square.

The left side. This is is where my throat first started to feel rusty. I woke up one day and it hurt, but the pain seemed to abate throughout the day. I worked as usual, talking to students, breaking up fights, subbing daily.

The next day my throat was raw. No rust there. I'd started to feel tired and achy. Strep throat was going around, and I'd already spent three days the previous week subbing for a teacher who had it. That week, I'd sneezed and coughed a bit, but medicated with Claritin and felt fine. Now a new week had started and my throat hurt with no other cold symptoms.

My mom prescribed an antibiotic for me and overnighted it. I began gargling warm salt water and drinking tea. I bought Motrin and took some each day. After gargling in a hot shower before bed, I'd feel better, slip into sleep, and wake up again with a sore throat only on the left side of my throat. For whatever reason, I couldn't replicate the soothing effects of the salt water gargle outside of the shower, but I live with a dictator who would have mentioned a climbing water bill had I taken two showers in one day. One shower each night had to suffice.

After a week of soup, antibiotics, and whining now that my normal routine had been disrupted by illness, my throat felt better. The antibiotics had done their job and I could get back to apartment hunting...or so I thought.

The day after I finished the antibiotics that were supposed to restore my health and revitalize my apartment search, the throat was raw again...on the right side. By this time, not just my bedroom, but my entire person, smelled of chicken noodle soup and cinnamon tea. Not so nice, especially since I don't have air conditioning. Clothes were piled everywhere. The bedsheets were practically braided in my fevered bouts of sleep, in which I dove under them when I had chills and cast them off desperately when I started to burn up.

My mom advised me to start a second round of antibiotics. By this time, the horrible pain in my throat had traveled to an infernal pain in my right ear. I felt disoriented and tired. Despite the antibiotics, saltwater garglings, and denial of any food that wasn't extremely hot or cold and liquidy, I wasn't getting better. Every time I swallowed, I cupped my ear and winced.

One night after three fruitless treks to shared apartments on the Upper West Side, I had a horrible fever. I could feel my face turning redder and redder. My saliva was foamy and filling up my mouth faster than I could cup my ear and wince to swallow it. I began to spit it out as Cade and I were walking through Manhattan back to my apartment.

I felt like Death. Or at least, it's cousin. In tears, I called home and said that I just wasn't getting better. My ear ached, my throat felt mutilated, my body was sore. My mom told me to go to the emergency room stat. It was the first time I'd have to visit one since I nearly sliced the tip of my pinky finger in the front door when I was two. The only other time had been that day I was you know, born.

I packed Augusten Burroughs's Possible Side Effects (ironic title, I know), changed all my clothes, and cleaned my flip flops before going. If I was going to wait for hours to be seen, I was going to work it while clutching my ear and wincing in the waiting room with all the drunks and bleeders and mental patients. Cade accompanied me with his laptop, thinking he'd be able to pick up a wireless signal and fulfill work obligations. No such luck.

We waited for hours. I just wanted someone, anyone to stick a tongue depressor in my mouth and give me drugs. Hard drugs that would knock me out for a few days and evict the demons that had taken up residence at Right Side of Throat Lane and My Ear Canal Boulevard. I wanted to wake up Snow White-style in an unfamiliar, but pleasant Upper West Side studio apartment of my own.

Instead, my name was called after years in the waiting room, I made small talk with a registered nurse that took my blood pressure, temperature, and gave me the nifty hospital bracelet I wore for the next few days, because 1) I thought I might have to go back, like that one slurring dude waiting for detox and 2) I had to milk this opportunity for all it was worth. Being so sick I had to go to the emergency room is not an everyday thing. I still have the bracelet and I intend to sell it on ebay when I'm really famous someday. Hmmm...

Cade and I were told to wait in the x-ray waiting area for another interminable chunk of the night, but I was whisked away by strange circumstances and got medical attention before the others. The doctor made sure to impart that horrible throat infections usually clear themselves up, given enough time. Right, but why live like a caveman when I don't have to? I wanted drugs, new ones that actually helped me get better. I learned that I was probably having a bad reaction to the antibiotics I'd been taking, that there was fluid in my ear, that I needed a new weeklong course of antibiotics. I left the hospital after midnight with prescriptions for ear drops, Vicodin, and Zithromax. My body buzzed off the Percocet I'd been given in the emergency room and I walked home and passed out.

The antibiotics didn't appear to be doing much for the pain, so I had to take painkillers every few hours. A catch-22 commenced: I needed to eat so the painkillers didn't make me nauseous, but it hurt too much to eat in order to take the painkillers.

Enter the vomit. The primary renter of my apartment has a tendency to cook things that smell like boiled puppies and beets. Normally, I can handle this. Now I already felt sick to my stomach and the smell pushed me over the edge - to the edge - of the toilet. I barfed my liquidy soups and apple sauces and they looked just liked they looked hours before when I'd first consumed them.

Well, I'll be!

One day I had to go downtown to run errands and started feeling woozy on the 2 train. I'd taken my pain medicine and bought a muffin to eat en route, but the train was packed. I had to stand, a stranger's arm rubbing against my bag, my orange juice growing tepid. At 42nd Street, I walked onto the platform in that slow motion, cookie tossing stupor where you start to salivate and can't remember your insurance provider, mother's maiden name, or what you're about to upchuck.

I'd thrown up before I left the apartment, eaten something to take my medicine with, and now I was sitting on a bench at the Times Square station, doubled over. A reunion with my applesauce from a half hour ago didn't take long. I hurled and my eyes teared. All the while, I protectively clutched my bag. Commuters walked by and I sprayed the legs of a woman passing. Me, 1. Anonymous pair of size 8 Seven jeans, 0.

Embarrassingly, I felt well enough post-heave to finish my errands. I didn't realize I had been saving some apple sauce for later on the bottom of my jeans the entire time. Ewww.

I'd missed a few days of school by this time with very little guilt. I spent my days vomiting, sleeping, gargling, medicating, and vomiting again. I was spared a subbing schedule the day I returned, but didn't last long doing other duties before the waves of nausea crashed against my aching shores. Now I spewed vile bile awhile. I was sent home where I showered my yellow goodness into the toilet once again. I stumbled to Duane Reade when I decided that this much projectile vomiting had evolved from bloggable to terrifying. I ignorantly scoured the rows for anti-vomiting medicine. My eyes darted from box to bottle to carton of over-the-counter drugs I'd never heard of. I found Pepto-Bismol and hastily grabbed a bottle of water.

The line at the register moved slower than the melting of a glacier. I could feel the collagen in my face breaking down. And I could taste the regurgitation rising in my throat. I ran out of Duane Reade like a crazy person, leaned against the side of the building, and barfed a draining barf. I was squatting on Broadway with my hands on the dirty ground to steady myself, my bag in a puddle.

This was not what the Drifters sang about on Broadway.

I was ignored through all the heaving, until a kind stranger squatted down next to me. She told me she was a nurse and wanted to know what I was taking. I told her everything and she suggested I get a blood test if I didn't feel better by Monday. She made my day a lot better, because she expressed concern and knowledge. It can be really hard to get New Yorkers to venture outside of their bubbles and routines and notice other people's problems.

I felt better incrementally. One day, Cade said my eyes looked bright again and I was making the usual snarky comments. By then, my ear had stopped buzzing. My raw throat transformed back to its smooth, normal consistency. I ate solid food at a normal temperature.

I clipped the hospital bracelet off my wrist and put it in my desk drawer.

Another lovely weekend in Pennsylvania.

Three mo' days at I.S. 666 and I'm done with that school forever.

Can I get a "Woohoo"?

*I've been asked to mention that the guy in the sunglasses is Paul, a.k.a. "Big Poppa." That is all.

Ten Things NOT To Do In NYC This Summer

10) Don't forego sunscreen, especially if you are fair-skinned with light-colored eyes. This should be obvious, but all those flesh-baring summery tops provide enough skin to potentially start a deadly melanoma collection. Also, if you don't protect your skin from UV rays now, you'll look like an old, leather handbag when you're fifty.
9) Don't unsuspectingly hop onto an empty or nearly empty subway car. If it's daytime and the car has almost all its seats available, the car either 1) has no air conditioning, 2) smells like a rotting corpse (with the real thing possibly inside), or 3) both.
8) Same as above: don't run for the cars with all the available seats and the windows open. They aren't air conditioned.
7) Don't spend $4 on an ice cream treat from Mister Softee or Tasty-D-Lite. Instead, go to McDonald's and get a cone for $.75 or a sundae for $1.
6) Don't let your guard down. Crime rates increase significantly in the summer. Watch out for pickpockets, subway pervs, and shady people hanging out in the streets all day.
5) Don't eat snow cones that come from some melting block of ice a dirty guy is shaving right on the sidewalk. Maybe it's quaint, but it's also tainted. To me, this is the equivalent of eating the mulberries that grow outside I.S. 666 right off the branch. Imagine all the invisible, toxic effluvia - ewww!
4) Don't wear ill-fitting clothes please. Excessively skimpy clothes don't look good on anyone. In NYC, you walk a lot, so wear a bra. If you take the subway, you need to be able to walk up the steps to leave the station without giving a free Hustler spread to the people behind you. Don't make unwilling voyeurs out of your fellow city dwellers. Most don't want to be that familiar with you.
3) Don't merely show up for NYC's myriad free summer events on time. You've got to be early to see/hear anything. Bring a towel, bottled water, and a snack anywhere you go.
2) Don't be uncaring to homeless people. These next few months are just as hard as the dead of winter, if not harder. I've seen some very dehydrated, miserable people sitting and sweltering on the sidewalks. Instead of giving them money, you could offer food or water.
1) Don't just stay in the city. Escape the tourists, the noise, and the ripe stench of bloated trash bags on the sidewalk. Go to a water park or a lake. Visit a suburb and shop for bulk items you can't buy at Duane Reade. Sit in a chilly booth eating Dairy Queen and watching pickup trucks drive by.

I don't need to state something so obvious as, "Williamsburg feels nothing like Manhattan to me." But I will. It reminds me of the Drag in Austin, except more rundown and without the quirky Drag rats and infiltration of the evil University Co-Op.

Cade and I went there last night to see a concert. I craved a slice of pizza, but all we could find was an organic pizza parlor whose pies had names we couldn't pronounce. We were served by starry-eyed, skinny jeaned people who were nice enough, but haven't consumed anything that comes from an animal in like, ten years.

Thank God we washed all that organic stuff down with some Tasty-D-Lite soft serve ice cream. I need to live dangerously.

Which is why I acted like a tourist, trying to capture the essence of Billysburg for you people, because I know I've neglected the blog and I can't keep putting up pictures of signs at restaurants.

But...but...Williamsburg is ugly. There - I typed it. It's run-down and quiet and has nothing remarkable, architecturally speaking. And the super-expensive faux vintage clothing paraded on its uneven asphalt runways makes me, decidedly not a hipster, consider the hipsters, ahem, poseurs.

I do, however, like some of the graffiti. And vintage and thrift stores. And Barcade. And Tasty-D-Lite is okay, too.

Today I was grading eighth grade essays on the reasons for and difficulties of immigration throughout history. Most essays were pretty bland. The ones that stood out were racist and insensitive, just plain inaccurate, or ummm, pretty much right, but hysterical:

"Some immigrants had weird names and had to change them to something that sounded like their name. Like Timmytashkado would be changed to Tim. Some even had such weird names that they just named them John."

The above came from a student with a seemingly normal African-American name, except it has a jarring, silent 'z' at the beginnning. Ironic?

Another student mentioned that cramped tenement housing was one of many immigrant hardships:

"They was small. No tv, no sinck, no beds for probably like 6-15 people, no carpet, no table. No place to rest in that room."

Next time, I'm going to the Mexican restaurant in Corpus Christi without pants:

Ten Things I Intend To Subject You To Once I Get Some Time To Blog

10) A few graphic accounts of [more] public vomiting.
9) Thoughtful entry in which I reflect on Bonnie Fuller's The Joys of Much Too Much, wherein the author suggests that people do bold things to get their name out there (I agree) and that new mothers take as little maternity leave as possible to show the man how much they can juggle (crikey!). Fuller also encourages pregnant businesswomen to continue wearing high heels and not let pregnancy change anything about their appearances. What do you think? Is she Fuller shit?
8) Warm and fuzzy little piece dedicated to the wonders of dating a former Mathlete who says "wudder," instead of "water."
7) My blow-by-blow account of going to the emergency room in recent days.
6) Shout-outz to some of my peeps at I.S. 666, yo.
5) A photo entry of scorching hot and tragically hip Williamsburg, Brooklyn.
4) Rate-A-Weekend/Rate-A-Concert/Rate-A-Free-Candy-Bar. The place: Hershey, Pennsylvania. The concert: Dave Matthews Band. The candy bar: preferably Hershey's with almonds.
3) A prose-poem about memories of summertime in Odem, Texas.
2) Ten Things NOT To Do In NYC This Summer
1) Farewell entry to my current apartment, including (tear!) The 39 Steps.

Happy Daddy's Day.

Things have been chaotic for me in the last few weeks, so I didn't do anything for my dad today except wish him a happy day and discuss my apartment situation. Bleh. I feel like a bad daughter.

The man is impossible to shop for and miles away and one of the most magnanimous people you could ever meet. I've never known how to tell either of my parents that at some point in college, I realized most of their kindnesses to me, to so many people, have been completely unnecessary.

Their compassion is not protocol. Their devotion every blistered, exhausting step of the way is highly atypical. I've stretched and stretched the threads of their love (and the bindings of their wallets) in my pursuits of MsAdventures and self-actualization and all that other crap I do that their parents never helped them with.

To say that my dad deserves everything his heart desires on not just one scorching summer day, but for the rest of his life, would be a complete understatement.

Happy Daddy's Day to the man who has helped me through thick and thin, including that one harrowing incident with a sock puppet:

When I was in elementary school, I had no work ethic. I never studied anything, I don't recall ever reading a textbook, and I didn't memorize my addition problems the way I should have. This seems to be typical, though. I coasted through Odem Elementary in G/T classes and loved watching Full House reruns.

My third grade teacher was Mrs. Stovall, a cold and stuffy woman I pretended to like. (For some reason, I couldn't allow myself to dislike a teacher until I got into college). Mrs. Stovall assigned a big project for our reading class - we had to make a sock puppet of our favorite author. I remember choosing Beverly Cleary or Judy Blume for mine, and blithely tucking the assignment into the back of my mind.

One day, my teacher casually mentioned that the sock puppet was due the next day. I knew my puppet could never be as beautiful as Leslie Elling's. I mean, her mom had a hot glue gun and fuzzy pom poms. I still didn't think it could be that hard to make a sock puppet, though. We had yarn and permanent markers at home. I'd be fine.

Sock puppetry turned out to be harder than I'd anticipated.

I don't remember if I had a tantrum or asked my dad for help or what. I do know that he was doing his best to come up with some way to make a more presentable sock puppet. He looked for red fabric to make the inside of a mouth for Beverly or Judy. My mom never sewed; she only occasionally mended things. She wouldn't be home from work for hours, so my dad always oversaw all the homework. But decorative assignments weren't exactly my dad's forte.

We were desperate for some decoration for my sad puppet. I remember my dad scolding me for using one of my socks for the puppet, and giving me one of his own large, white socks. He rummaged through his dresser drawers and found a source of red material - his favorite pair of shorts.

They were Ocean Pacific board-type shorts. Very retro cool. He wore them around the house quite a bit. He didn't wince when he cut into them to make a mouth...or when he sewed the red scrap onto the sock and saw how bad it looked. Later, he called my step-grandmother Betty who sewed all sorts of tacky decorations. She agreed to help, so we went to Wal-Mart for a new sock and then to her house. She quickly made eyes, eyelashes, and a perfect red mouth for Beverly or Judy.

I thought Betty was the hero when I went home with my puppet. When my mom got home, she was disappointed to see my dad's favorite shorts in pieces, laying in the trash. I remember she shook her head and asked why he had cut the shorts. He said, "Because that puppet needed a mouth." It was what he thought he had to do. I was immediately touched.

I don't know if this story makes sense to anyone but me. Maybe if you knew what little care my dad has for clothing, how rare and special it is when he does get attached to any item. (One time he thought he'd lost his beloved gray jacket in a movie theater and looked for the same old jacket on ebay). It meant so much to me that he'd sacrificed his red shorts.

Surely Leslie Elling's mom didn't do that.

Today is the first day in over a week that I can swallow, eat, talk, etc. WITHOUT needing painkillers for my throat! This is GREAT news!

My throat infection had seemingly gone away only to come back with a vengeance once before, so I shouldn't count my chickens before they hatch, but...I might be almost back to normal? Oh, I hope so.

I'm tired of my throat feeling like this:

Speaking of weird rental situations...

From a St. Augustine newspaper:

Landlord held in attack: Merlin Edwin Bement III, 49, was charged with aggravated battery with a weapon, aggravated assault with a weapon and depriving a victim of communication early Saturday, St. Johns County Deputy Sheriff's Office reports said. Deputies said Bement, of 2629 Isabella Ave., hit his 35-year-old tenant in the ribs and arm with an aluminun baseball bat during an argument that started when the tenant complained Bement was coming into his house and taking his food. When he retreated to a bus on the property, Bement hit the bus with the bat, reports said. The victim grabbed a cordless phone but Bement pulled out the power cord to the phone box then pulled the phone box off the wall, reports said. When the man ran inside the house, Bement fetched a three-pronged martial-arts sword called a tonga and stabbed through the door twice, cutting a big hole. Deputy David Fulcher arrived at that point. Bement, a third-degree black-belt in karate, told him he was "king of the house" and whatever food was inside it was his. He also told deputies that he was trying to break the tenant's ribs, reports said. He was taken to St. Johns County jail.

A few people have expressed concern at my lack of writing. Was my computer stolen? Did I break up with Cade, thus, rendering myself completely speechless? (Yeah, like that could happen). Have I been hit by a bus?

The answer is most aligned with the third question. I had a mild sore throat about two weeks ago. I quickly became better and continued on with my life. Now I have a raging case of strep throat that has made the most recent days of my life miserable. I'm also apartment hunting right now, so that has eaten up most evenings and my entire weekend.

Fear not, I will be back. [Cue ominous music.]

*Today was the wake for the I.S. 666 student who was shot a few weeks ago.

His death
emptied a desk,
but filled their
mouths.

The grief-stricken
girls can't do
schoolwork today,
because their
reason for living
didn't have his own.

Another one inserted
himself into danger
without thinking.

They will run
towards anything that
breaks the monotony,
even when it threatens
to break their lives.

The thought of being
mourned, fleeting
celebrity until the
next tragedy,
becomes them.

They dream of how
much they will be
missed, thinking
not of how much
they will miss.

Scene in New York:

A squirrel peruses a grassy lawn at Madison Square Park and finds half of a slice of pizza. The pizza is easily almost as big as the squirrel, but he grits his teeth over the crust and proceeds to run and jump over the wire lawn-protecting fence.

Another bigger, hungry squirrel spies an opportunity and starts chasing the first one. The squirrel with the pizza slice runs faster and faster, but the dried-up crust edge starts detaching from the rest of the slice!

Somehow he gets a grip on the dough below the edge right before the edge flies off and the bigger squirrel steals it oh-so-cunningly. The decreased weight of the slice seems to revitalize the pizza delivery rodent. He scurries to the top of a trashcan and stares at me as he noshes. He shoots me a look that says, "Don't even think about it."

With a Brooklyn accent.

In honor of 6/6/06, I meant to write about I.S. 666. This didn't happen, though, because I was tired and busy. Lately, I avoid the topic anyway, as I know my days there are winding down. In fact, there are only 14 left. Additionally, nothing out of the ordinary has demanded I write. So the school has no working discipline plan and provides students with an inferior education? This dysfunction is sadly banal. Why write about it more?

At times, it baffles me that I have almost fulfilled a year-long commitment at a school that terrified me the first year. I never thought I'd survive this experience! It makes me feel strong, unfathomably stronger than the naive teacher I started as. It also makes me feel jaded. I will never be the green teacher again. My views on education and society have been challenged daily and I've had to change.

As much as I recognize how appalling educational inequity is in this country, I will not stay at I.S. 666, one of the failing schools most in need of good teachers, because I feel the administration and management of the school - of most public schools in NYC - work to perpetuate problems in our society and disempower educators.

Call me selfish, but I want to work where real teaching (not babysitting, not breaking up fights) is supported, demanded, and possible.

My friend, April recently asked if I'd be willing to answer questions for a friend contemplating Teach for America. I applied and got accepted to this program in January 2005. It seemed like a great way to move to NYC, teach for two years, and figure out what I wanted to do with my life. The problem was that despite a promised consideration of my regional preferences, I was placed in the Bronx, my last choice. I was told I couldn't even apply for jobs where I wanted to live and work, so I dropped out of Teach for America and decided to get a job on my own.

In the end, I got a job teaching English in Harlem at a school where many Teach for America and NYC Teaching Fellows are placed. I don't know if I'd do it all again if I could go back a year, knowing what lay ahead. I do know that I've never regretted moving to New York. Not on the worst day of subbing. Not when I come home with a headache, sore feet, and torn conscience.

Tips for April's Friend and Any Other Teacher Considering Work in an Urban Public School:

1) Educational inequity is a disgusting problem. Be prepared to encounter sixteen-year-old seventh graders who can't read or add. Be prepared to possibly follow (or pretend to follow) a curriculum that doesn't address the needs of these students.

2) Secure everything. Students will steal and vandalize your stuff. Don't walk around with an ipod at school. Don't carry a lot of cash. Keep your cellphone close to you.

3) Have a life outside of teaching. Hang out with people removed from the occupation and your school. Otherwise, you risk personal drama creeping into the workplace, which is unpleasant and unprofessional.

4) Watch your health. Students are germy and often don't seek medical attention. Wash your hands often!

5) Some students will do their best to scam any and every adult they can. It can take awhile to figure out who these kids are, so don't let your guard down. Girls especially will prey on your sympathy and compassion. Don't be too quick to believe anything a student says, particularly about another teacher.

6) Many administrators are quick to blame teachers for discipline problems or for not being _________ enough. In my case, I think the word in the blank was "authoritarian" or "intimidating" or "loud" or "street." There's only so much a teacher can do, though. You are who you are. Don't beat yourself up for not being like everyone else. Good teachers don't have to be mean, screaming dictators or drill sergeants. If someone tells you they do, look for another school.

7) Nothing worthwhile is easily attained. If you walk into a Harlem middle school in jeans and get a job, like I did, you probably don't want the job. Let the red flags fly! A good teaching job will require a real interview and perhaps a demo lesson.

8) Another red flag: If you bring the student teaching portfolio you toiled over to show a principal during the interview and said principal screws up her face and scrutinizes a lesson on Antigone and gender roles and says, "Nice handwriting!"

9) Take every sick day you have. I'm still amazed when I'm out of school during the day and see people walking around peacefully in the city, being civil and calm. Call it a Mental Health Day and get out to run errands and revel in not being at school.

10) Most of the teachers and administrators at your school will focus on the students who are disruptive, destructive, and violent. Make it your mission to focus on the students who do their work, who don't speak up, and who have needs that are not being communicated or met. These kids deserve your attention the most. These kids are ultimately why you teach.

Wow. Mr. Chen took this picture of me a few days before I met Cade.

Who knew then how much more I'd have to smile about in the future?

Not me.

We've got these chains
hangin' round our necks.
People wanna strangle
us with them before
we take our first breath.

Afraid of change,
afraid of stayin' the same.
When temptation comes,
we just look away.

-"What A Good Boy," Barenaked Ladies

Uh oh. Song lyrics to start an entry. Things must be bad.

They have been.

I've tried to live my life week by week. This is the only way I've nearly survived a whole school year at I.S. 666. Since May, the days have melted off the calendar faster than I can accomplish everything I want to. But all the while a chant has throbbed in my head: "I have to get out of here. I have to get out of here."

The search for a new job hasn't been easy, despite how motivated I've been about sending out resumes and cover letters. I've had some fruitless job interviews at decent schools that wanted someone with more experience. I've also been called for interviews at some schools that are as bad or perhaps worse than I.S. 666. I didn't bother going to these. Human punching bag no more! Next year, I plan on actually teaching.

Coupled with my ennui from stressful working conditions is upheaval on the homefront. Since last August, I've lived in a third floor walk-up with three other women, none of whom have been employed. This is weird, considering I'm the youngest person in the apartment and the only one working. The arrangement worked out for the most part. Sure, I was annoyed when Chen, the roommate closest to me, would want to talk or ask me to do something for her right when I walked in the door from work. That is not a good time to talk to me. Ever. I'm tired, hungry, and disgruntled. Always. Chen and I also had internet issues, because the router is in her room and she's always home, except when it needs to be switched off and back when the internet stops working in my room.

I found out three nights ago that I'm expected to move out a month before my lease ends to accommodate a family member of the primary renter of my apartment. This means I need a new dwelling next month! At times like this, one doesn't recall all the uncomfortable summer days without air conditioning or the tile that fell from the shower wall while showering one night, leaving ancient black scum at your feet.

Instead, one freaks, really really freaks, out.

Omigod. IhavenofurnitureofmyownandtoomanyclothesandverythingIknowishere. AHHHHHHHH!
Howexpensivewillthisbe? WillIhavetomoveinwithfreaks? Whocanhelpmethroughthis?

My mom misses my "only in New York" stories. Well, here's one: Only in New York will someone pay over $800 a month to rent a bedroom so small that he or she literally can't do a push-up in it. (I know, because I'm dating a someone like this). Only in New York do people rent kitchen pantries out for college students to live in. Remember that Seinfeld episode where Kramer houses Chinese men in a bureau drawer? I'm pretty sure there may be residential situations like that downtown.

George Carlin has this schtick where he talks about how people refer to their own possessions as "stuff," but those of others as "shit." For instance, my room is full of my stuff, but the rest of the apartment is completely cluttered with Kathy's shit. I'm afraid of getting an apartment where I have no storage for stuff OR shit.

In all this upheaval, I start fast-forwarding months ahead and I want to see something better. Nothing worthwhile is easily attained, I know, and I have to take risks. I know there's a way for me to get a better living situation in the future without going through all the roommate drama. I need a situation with fewer people to deal with. I need to live with someone I know better and trust.

I don't want to share a cluttered, cramped apartment with multiple roommates for the rest of my twenties, but I don't want to move to an apartment in an undesirable area just so I can afford my own place, either.

As for the job, again, nothing's easy. I need to be more educated in a particular area to take advantage of one opportunity. I'll do my best. Sometimes I can't tell if all this undulation is coming from waves out of my control or my own mad splashing in treacherous waters. Either way, I'm still paddling, desperately trying to stay afloat.

Last Friday.

This Friday.

*Noah's ark can float down Park for all I care. I'm glad the lack of air conditioning in my apartment isn't a problem for now.

David Beer, my favorite college professor that I never had, told me, "You don't know if you really love someone until you go camping together." Dr. Beer meant the sleeping in a tent, bathing in a river, slapping gnats off your face, and roasting canned pork and beans over a fire kind of camping. That'll test any relationship.

I knew then and there that I'd never really love anyone. The mere idea of eating pork and beans catalyzes the animal death instinct in me: just let me out of the house so I can retreat into the woods and give up on life.

On Memorial Day, Cade made a terrible mistake - he let me make beachgoing plans and he (horror of horrors!) went along with them. I'd read of a great Long Island, which shall heretofore be referred to as Lawnguy Land, beach that is never crowded, even when Jones Beach and the rest are. The esoteric ocean paradise requires a long train ride on the Lawnguy Land Railroad (LIRR) and then a ferry ride. I didn't think to research ferry times or train and ferry prices, because I was too busy finding a cute shirt to wear over my bikini top and contemplating angles for the blog-ready beach photo shoots.

Noah, of the former bickering union of Noah and Jill, visited Sunday. He, Cade, and I went to the Museum of Natural History, but I left the boys to their own obnoxious devices the rest of the day...and night. So a late start on Monday was inevitable.

Cade and I got to Penn Station in the early afternoon and hurried to the ticket machines. We found Patchogue tickets and when Cade saw the price for two, round-trip, he reminded me he's half-Jewish: "$38?! I'm half-Jewish!" (Not being fond of racist stereotypes, I try to regard this reaction as a complete non sequitur, just as silly as saying, "Windshield wipers?! I'm half-Jewish!" Alas, some individuals on the margins of groups embrace stereotypes about themselves. I guess they have the right to).

Coney Island is a shorter subway ride and costs the swipe of a Metrocard. It would have made more sense timewise and economically, but it would be crowded and it's not very clean and it would expose more people to the blinding paleness of my flesh. I'm talking an epidemic of spontaneous blindness here. Can NYC social services handle a catastrophe of this proportion? How could all the Midwesterners get home? How would anyone find their way back home? How will I be dealt with once everyone finds out my pale ass is to blame? I'd like to keep guessing about these things, thank you.

Cade knew how much I wanted to go to the insider's beach, so we went for the tickets after I pried the debit card out of his shaking hands. We got on the LIRR and rode for over an hour and a half with visions of white sand and boardwalks dancing in our heads. We passed Jamaica and Babylon, which aren't the Jamaica and Babylon you're thinking of. Instead, they feature Linens 'N Things and multiple Jazzercise facilities, have trash pickup Tuesdays and Thursday, and the annual Halloween Boo Bash at the local VFW chapter.

We arrived in Patchogue, walked the wrong way to the the ferry twice, stood at the ferry station, and learned the next ferry would come in an hour. The last ferry would pick people up from the beach and return them to Patchogue thirty minutes later. Whaaat?

All this time and money, and no beach?! I'm half-Baptist!

We had gone all this way for nothing? Why yes, apparently so. Lawnguy Land is not a place where things are supposed to make sense. Exhibit A: the survival of rooster bangs and Aqua Net. You'd think there would be extended ferry service for Memorial Day, but this beach is just that exclusive. It doesn't recognize national holidays.

I can't stay afloat for long, so swimming to the beach from the marina wasn't an option. There was no other body of water in sight, minus a few birdbaths in some front yards. I shrieked twice in frustration and Cade and I headed back to the train station.

Cade got on the phone with an LIRR-literate acquaintance to discuss alternatives. Could we make it to Jones Beach or get off at Babylon and hope the sounds of gulls would beckon us to the sea? Nope. Too late.

It was early evening and the train to Jamaica was late. Cade and I camped at the station and shared our one source of nutrition - a small bag of Smart Food. Finally, we boarded a train full of sunburnt, sandaled, scantily clad people who successfully made it to the beach. Standing room only. We transferred to another crowded train at Jamaica and again, stood the entire way back. We finally sat down on the uptown 1 when we got to Penn Station. It churned us back to the crowds, the noise, all the sand that's been made into cement and glass.

Cade never complained once, and even though I did shriek, I didn't feel like I'd had a bad day. Even when you're tired and dirty and uncomfortable and pointlessly stuck in Lawnguy Land, I guess it's okay - or at least tolerable - when you're with someone you really love.

Dr. Beer would be happy for me.