The bus charges for the curb like a perturbed elephant. It squeals and stops in front of the line of people waiting to board. I take my turn up the steps and watch my Metrocard slide into the valley with a whir. I grab it when it's spit back out.

I take a seat behind two small children, a boy of about four and a girl who looks two. They are brother and sister, wiggling and giggling as everyone else sighs. It's another hot day. It's only 2:00, and our collective feet hurt. The children's mother stands in the aisle and adjusts her heavy African garb before the bus lurches forward.

Outside, people sweat and try their best to run everyday errands. Some girls strut on the street; some boys are lifting dumbbells in front of a bodega. The brother and sister in front of me are oblivious to anything beyond their two seats of velour upholstery, crushed and darkened under millions of behinds before them. The little girl bats her eyes at the little boy who tickles her arms. Their mother looks out the far window wistfully, like she's trying to find who she used to be.

The little girl throws back her head and laughs, tiny pink tongue peeking out like the petal of a budding flower. I watch intently, marveling at the innocence.

Then the little boy leans forward abruptly and rubs his tongue against his sister's. I'm more than a little shocked. The little girl looks surprised, too, but pleased. She opens her mouth wider, and her brother caresses her tongue with his. Again.

I look at the mother, who is still looking for herself or something. I look back at the children and they are essentially making out. The little boy has instigated it and continues to lead. He cups the little girl's face and gives her lingering open-mouthed kisses, licking and sucking on her tongue.

My studies in human sexuality have taught me that we are all sexual, no matter what society would like to believe about the very old and the very young. Many people report that their first sexual experiences are with a family member in a play situation. Nonetheless, I feel like maybe I should intervene in the hanky panky. These kids are making memories they're old enough to recall repeatedly...during those difficult years when they get bizarre pangs to make out with people they're not related to.

I have a lot of questions, the biggest being "Where did the little boy learn this stuff?" What is he watching on tv? Or does his mom model her kissing prowess at home in front of him? (With that modest dress, who'd have thought)? Or maybe the little boy is a child prodigy who reads and absorbs any piece of literature he can get his hands on, and he happens to have access to Cosmopolitan. Should I be glad they don't appear to have too many problems with sibling rivalry?

I am hot (temperature-wise) and yes, bothered (disturbed, gouge-my-eyes-out-wise) when my stop comes. I vow to stay off public transportation as long as I can, misplacing my metro card in the jumbled chastity belt that is my change purse.

Amanda's MsAdventures turned one year old on Saturday. I celebrated by seeing two movies and gazing down at Times Square from a terrace many, many stories off the ground.

Remember that song "From A Distance"? How everything is so pretty or at least makes sense from very far away? I got the same feeling watching the movement of miniscule people and cars in midtown as I do when I occasionally look back at the archives of this blog. I realize how much almost everything has changed in a year. Everything fell apart or eroded, only to slowly regenerate or be repaired.

All the hurt, tension, and uncertainty make sense. Always in hindsight, from very far away.

In April of 2002, I went to a huge poetry slam my university sponsored. The Students Event Committee had squired some lesser known slam poets from NYC to come. I'd seen Slam and grown obsessed with slamming (watching, never participating), so I was a shoo-in.

I was thrilled to find out that Taylor Mali would be there. He was the celebrity of the bunch. Never mind that some Chuck D. guy was there. Who was he anyway? Mali was funny and in Slam and a teacher in NYC. He was, for all intents and purposes, my idol. (I could have said the same thing of Beau Sia, but alas, Beau was a no-show).

The performance was electrifying. People were clapping and the slam crew received a standing ovation. Mali slammed about teaching. A female poet did her sensitive Latina slam schtick. I'd begun to notice and accept certain slam stereotypes. The white slam poet is sensitive to racial inequality and should denounce his race. The Latina girl is supposed to be an enlightened feminist, but still advertise her ass and her desire for a man who will respect it...while he's smacking it.

I remember when Taylor Mali was answering some questions, Chuck D. commended him for being a teacher in NYC. Mali was quick to say, "Oh, I work in a private school." There was a pause. It's humble to brush aside a compliment one-on-one. But when on stage in front of hundreds of people, calling into question some presumption of greatness is disturbing and brings the moment to a temporary halt.

Chuck D. muttered something like, "Still, man," but everyone just knew that he bought it. To a lot of people, teaching in a private school - or in a decent school - almost doesn't seem as important as teaching in a war zone. But at the same time, who wants to teach in a war zone? This is a topic I think about a lot. It's so easy to embrace this idea of being a teacher-soldier or glorify the struggle as ghetto slummin.' I know I bought into this. It was my schtick. Still, slummin' isn't teaching. Is surviving but not thriving, any good way to use your talents, skills, education, and energy?

I work in a city under what Jonathan Kozol so aptly calls "educational apartheid." In my new school, the teachers and administrators are mostly white. Everyone has completed a Master's degree it seems, except for me and another new teacher. Our students are all black and come from many different backgrounds. I'm honored to be a part of this school that effectively serves this population. Seriously, I feel like I work in one of the freedom schools of the sixties.

I teach, and it's important. I know this. But I work in a school that has a teacher's lounge with Pottery Barn furniture and all the students are provided with binders and book bags. Tomorrow, we're going on a field trip to Barnes & Noble. All of the students are getting money to buy books. Am I in Dreamland...or suburbia?

I've grown so accustomed to the short end of the stick, hell, the splinters of the short end of the stick, that I'm experiencing cognitive dissonance. How can I be teaching these kids I don't know and they're engaged? How can I walk past all the decrepit old buildings of this community, this race the city forgets, to reach a place of such light and possibility? I can't believe it, but I finally get to be a real teacher.

I'll accept it someday, I know. But tomorrow the summer session ends, and I still feel habitually amazed.

Summers of
my childhood
were long,
packed with
flies and the
sticky-shrill
cry of cicadas,
afternoon
to dusk.

My dad would
drop me off
at his mother's,
my grandma's,
house where
the floors
never ceased
to be sticky
and the
fan's loud
whirring
enveloped
conversation
and the drone
from the three
lone channels
on the tv.

My grandma loved
animals and had
hundreds of them,
both caged and
free. I never
questioned this
coveting, never
entertained the idea
that maybe her
"love"
was cruel
or too constricting,
though I know
my dad did.
He was from
a line of
people as
poisonous
as they
were medicinal,
their bonds
as blurry as
mirage-laden
caliche
roads in those
hot Texas summers.

I remember
how my grandma
made spice cake
one afternoon.
She'd never cooked
much of anything
before - the house
was too small
and hot.
The fan couldn't
struggle any harder
to combat the heat
from the stove
or the sun.
In the sweltering
kitchen, the spice
cake was delicious.

Now I know the cake
was easy to make.
It comes from a box.
It bakes in
twenty minutes.
But then I felt
like it was a
monumental
achievement.
My grandma did more
than have animals
and a cigarette
and a raspy laugh.

I devoured the piece
of cake.
I'd never had it
anywhere else,
had never heard of it.
I really thought it
was all hers,
as unique as her habit
of sweeping the dirt
in her
grassless backyard.
She liked it
in smooth
brown-gray lines,
cool to the touch.

I haven't had spice cake
since those summers,
and not for any good
reason. I just
never craved it
or felt curious,
but I remember it.
I also haven't
eaten a mulberry
or done much
tree climbing
since I grew taller
than my mom
and heard my grandma died
and forgot exactly
how her laugh sounded
but remembered that
I have her eyes.

In a very cool turn of events, I've just found out that I was linked on a blog much bigger than mine. A blog I've read since freshman year of college. The blog that originated The Big Three idea and was written about in the New York Post last year when its author, Kelly Kreth, was serendipitously dooced.

Cool. Now how do I get to be Kreth's protege?

A Conversation With My Mom:

Me: Yeah, Cade and I are going to Zabar's later.
Her: Gay bars?! You guys go to gay bars?!
Me: Zabar's! For cheese!
Her: Gay bars?! For sleaze?!

*This is my 500th post. Let the celebration commence.

Cade has long suspected I might be a fraud.

Is it possible for one person to really publicly vomit as much as I have claimed to? How could tsunami-sized waves of nausea come and go so spontaneously? You'd think that if I really hurled that often - in so many environments and on such diverse innocent bystanders - that I'd have permanent congealed gobs o' barf on my clothes and in my hair.

For Cade to truly believe me, I needed to put my money where my mouth is. Well, where my undigested food spewing out my mouth is.

Last Sunday, Cade and I decided to have a picnic in Central Park. We went to Fairway and bought lemonade, half a watermelon, and a Latin-style rotisserie chicken. Despite having the grocery bag with the chicken attacked by a rabid cocker spaniel, we easily settled in the grass and began to eat. Cade tore at the chicken with his bare hands. Afterwards, he smeared seasonings on his fingers and decorated some cave walls. I squatted and grunted my approval.

After finishing the watermelon - after finishing the chicken - I felt like I shouldn't have kept saying, "No more for me. I'll full. Well, okay!" Cade and I stood and cleaned up. He was ready to head back to my place, but I needed to recover. We sat on a bench and watched people jogging. There's nothing better than to sit in gluttonous splendor and watch other people (people more in shape than you) struggle to finish a five-mile run, right?

Cade and I eventually got up and started to walk to Broadway when my.innards.began.to.churn. Let's just say that I am not a "regular" person. So when I finally got's to go, I got's to gooooo. Cade exclaimed, "Thunder! We've got to go before it starts pouring!"

I said, "That thunder is somewhere in my colon! We've REALLY got to go before it starts pouring."

We quickly started walking to Barnes & Noble, which is undoubtedly one of the best places in the country to relieve yourself. (Alas, 'twould be even better if you could take a magazine or book in the stalls with you). I have to mention that on the way to the bookstore, we passed Cade's apartment. I could have gone there, but no, Cade had been living alone since his roommate flew home to Morocco for a visit the week before. This meant no toilet paper. Besides, Cade considers the pristine and powerful bathrooms at his workplace to be part of his corporate benefits package.

We passed Cade's apartment and I started to groan. Cade pointed out a man walking his English bulldog - something that always makes me happy - and I didn't even stop to pet the dog. Something was amiss.

Cade told me to keep walking and reached for my hand, but I pulled away. "No! I may need these hands to cover my face in the mortifying moment when I poop my pants right here in the middle of 83rd Street," I thought.

I had to pause and take at least three breathers over a stretch of thirty feet. I squatted, hugging my arms around my knees. Cade, always the thinker, looked worried. "Maybe you shouldn't squat, Amanda."

On my last breather, I paused where I felt I needed to. I didn't worry about where I was. I bent down, my butt grazing a stoop. Cold sweat began to trickle from my temples and I shuddered at the sudden chill.

And then I retched.

I lost all of my picnic right there in four great heaves. That Ronco infomercial guy could only dream of creating a food processer more efficient than I. Between spews, I looked at Cade and apologized. He was a man totally transfixed. It was probably how Benjamin Franklin looked when he flew the kite with the key during that storm - a look of empirical discovery and confirmation.

I wasn't full of shit after all... Or was I?

Post-puke, I confirmed I felt a lot better. Suddenly, a doorman appeared from the building. He asked Cade to come with him. Leave it to me to vomit right in front of a fancy residential building, one I could only hope to live in someday.

Cade came back to me a few minutes later with a plastic bucket of water. Apparently, the doorman - a very understanding guy who couldn't afford to live in the building himself - said, "Hey, I don't wanna bust your chops, but there's no way in hell I'm cleanin' that up!"

I leaned against the side of the building, feeling drained and so relieved. Cade dumped the water over the large splash of vomit, sending the chunks afloat to the middle of the sidewalk. He went back inside to refill the bucket and washed most of my sick into the street. Then he brought back a broom to sweep away the clingiest pieces of barf. Meanwhile, the doorman came out to check on me. He asked me if I wanted to go inside and wash out my mouth. I declined. "Hey, when you're sick, you're sick," he said sympathetically.

I guess I had finally proven myself to Cade. I truly am a notorious public vomiter. But Cade proved himself to me, too. He's the person who cleans it up.

BEFORE (I'll leave the AFTER to your imagination):

Ten Things Worth Blogging About That I Did When I Didn't Have The Internet

10) I read Jhumpa Lahiri's The Interpreter of Maladies and The Namesake. I loved The Namesake and felt really sad when I finished it. I've heard that it's supposed to be made into a film, so we'll see how that goes. I also read and adored Curtis Sittenfeld's second novel, The Man of My Dreams. Sittenfeld is such a raw, honest, fantastic writer. Read her now.

9) Cade and I ate at fancy schmancy restaurant Smith & Wollensky. It's a premier NYC steakhouse that we normally wouldn't splurge on. During Restaurant Week, however, many exclusive restaurants have specials for $35 per person. Cade and I had salad, filet mignon, and dessert for this price. It was delicious.

8) I've had nary a celebrity sighting, despite the fact that I've lived in NYC for almost a year. I just don't hang out enough in the right neighborhoods, and I probably wouldn't recognize a celeb in the flesh anyway. Three weeks ago on a late Friday night, I finally had one: Daniel V. from Project Runway. I had just boarded the uptown 2 train in the Village when I noticed the designer. He looks exactly like he did on tv. In fact, the nose gave him away.

What else to say? He was wearing metallic gold sneakers, skinny jeans, and had voluminous hair. He was with a girl with really curly hair - his fag hag, I guess. Despite my totally healthy view of celebrities (Stars: They're Just Like Us!), I was giddy.

7) Savvy inner-city public school teachers who work at failing schools are able to apply for a grant for up to three years of suffering/teaching. I found out about this opportunity last summer when I became a sucker. I finally received the grant a few weeks ago. $3,400! I thought I'd just walk away from the I.S. 666 experience with good stories, a political cause, and higher standards for my own children. Nope. I also have enough money to buy a few chartered hot balloon rides, if I wanted to.

6) I have anointed El Maguey y la Tuna of the Lower East Side my new favorite Mexican restaurant in NYC. The enchiladas suizas have a tangy tomatillo kick. The flautas are crunchy and flavorful, while the gratis chips and salsa are far above par. (The salsa is made in the restaurant). The presentation and service are great, while the food is authentic and unpretentious.

5) I also recently tried Caliente Cab Company in the Village. I wouldn't recommend it, but I'll advertise a special. You can get a fajita platter for two on Mondays for $20. A warning, though: the platter comes with lackluster tortillas, chicken and beef, no cheese (?), really good guacamole, sour cream, and lots of veggies. I'm more of a carnivore, so the platter isn't for me.

4) Paul came into the city last week right before a torrential downpour. Cade, Paul, and I visited the glorious, gratuitous Chinese restaurant with the free white wine. This time, Cade did not impale himself on some metal awning bar. No one got lost on the subway. However, I had more rice in my hair than a bride. I can handle wine; it's the grain I can't control.

3) I'm currently intrigued with the idea of going on a chartered hot air balloon ride with Cade. It's something I've always wanted to do, and I had no idea this thrill was available in so many places. In my limited hot air balloon mental schema, I imagine Cade and I would be standing in a crunchy basket under the flame that inflates our balloon. We'd throw down weighty bags to land after drifting through clouds, far above the trees. I've seen The Chipmunks' Great Adventure way too many times.

2) The new school where I work has a co-ed faculty bathroom equipped with a scale, hand sanitizer, a plethora of upscale air fresheners, toothbrushes, toothpaste, and Listerine for the teachers. It now takes me 15 minutes on average to void...and indulge. I'm kidding. Kind of.

1) NYC has been in a heat wave for the last few days. The subway platforms are something out of Dante's Inferno. Actually, they're so slow that they might just be purgatory. I still don't have air conditioning, nor do I have time to go to the beach, thus, I welcomed the storms forecast for today.

In her blog, Kelly Kreth has documented her progress with the Big Three for years. Single women in NYC, Kreth espouses, are constantly fighting for the Big Three - the job, the apartment, and the man. It is rare to possess all three at once, and almost certain that you can't hang onto all of them for long.

The Big Three theory jives with my experience thus far. My job teaching in a Harlem public middle school? One soul-sucking, harrowing experience. The apartment? Fine, until my lease was broken and I was told to move out during the hardest time of the year - and one of the most expensive times in years - to secure an apartment. The man? This has been consistently fabulous, supportive, fun, and challenging for the last four months.

Two weeks ago, I hurried to meet Cade in midtown after he got off work. It was a hot day, but something else simmered inside me. I had something to confess: "This is really weird to say and completely out of character. But I have this feeling inside that things are going to be good, that there are so many possibilities ahead of me. It's foreign and uncomfortable, but I'm feeling optimistic. Hard to believe, right?"

It is for me.

It's not that I'm always a pessimist. I prefer to think of myself as a realist. A realist who knows that life generally sucks. I feel this exhilarated right now, because, ladies and gentlemen, I have (temporarily?) found the Big Three. I'm going to covet them like an inner city school teacher with free crayons.

The Job:
I started my new job last week. It's been difficult getting up early, even though my old school just got out for summer. Still, waking up has been the most challenging part of my new job.

The new school is smaller, progressive, and completely different. The small staff consists of intelligent and dedicated teachers, administrators, and support staff. The school pays for everything - copy paper, pens, useful classroom furniture from Ikea, my own new laptop, working wireless Internet access. I'm going to a mountain retreat to bond with my fellow teachers before the fall begins.

I feel like I'm in an alternate universe. When I voiced this thought last week Cade retorted, "No, you're just teaching in a place that all the schools should be like." That's true.

The Apartment:
I spent over a month gripped with fear of impending homelessness. NYC rentals are extremely expensive and hard to find. I pondered finding my own apartment, but I didn't want to use a broker. I just bought a used cheese grater! How could I justify an exorbitant broker's fee, one that would probably cost more than my rent? I didn't want to move away from the Upper West Side. I didn't want to settle for a lesser standard of living than I'd had in my apartment share situation for the past year.

So all my resolve slowly flaked off. I met many people with apartment shares that wouldn't work for me. The bedroom was too small, I wasn't allowed to have guests over, I wasn't supposed to talk after 10 pm. I decided that I needed my own place, so I could be the dictator.

I found a studio on the Upper West Side through a broker and serendipity. I did all the paperwork, crossed my fingers, and paid a deposit to keep the apartment from being shown. I sat pretty, only to find out that the apartment had been shown and rented to someone willing to pay more for it than I could. Pickings were slim in Manhattan, so I contacted other brokers in Brooklyn and Queens. I don't want to be a geography snob here, but this really hurt my pride. Well, Queens more so than Brooklyn. I associate Queens with accents and horrible sitcoms with Leah Remini and gulp, people who actually drive.

A little over a week before I was to be kicked to the curb, Cade forwarded me a link from Craigslist posted by the man who would become my broker. Yep, I broke and got one...who broke me. Eugene, said broker, showed me a unique little Central Park West studio. Instead of the typical box, the apartment has a large living/sleeping area, separate kitchen, separate bathroom, and separate closet/dressing area. The building is nicer and quieter than the one I previously lived in and is on the first floor. Bye-bye, 39 Steps!

My very first apartment of my own is in Manhattan! I didn't know if it would be possible, if I was "picky" and refused to live in basement squalor near a housing project. (I took some pictures of other NYC apartments I was shown. I'll show you how awful they were). I've slowly been buying previously unfamiliar items, like my own furniture, dishes, and TV. What's next - a Palmolive commercial? I feel like a grown-up.

The Man:
Through all the chaos, including the end of the old job and apartment, Cade has been a constant. We're really conscious of how long we've known each other, but are still surprised when we acknowledge our meeting each month.

Only four months?!

These last few months have been the hardest of our relationship, because it's not all about fun anymore. It's been a scramble with deadlines and changes of plans and those obligations you fulfill not because they're your own, but because they belong to someone you care about.

I'm lucky to have someone to make reservations during Restaurant Week with. Someone for me to drag to Ikea and rent movies with. Someone to make me laugh and think and dream. Someone to help me change for the better.

Cade is the man who moves me.

I do believe I've found a few more reasons for living:



*Flavored Fluff?! I'm probably not brave enough to buy it, as I like my Fluff virgin and would hate to have a Negative Fluff Experience. But just knowing the option is out there makes my horizons feel expanded and well, fluffier.

And now back to our regularly scheduled program...

I finally have the Internet again! I feel like that kid in Gary Paulsen's Hatchet when he was rescued from the Alaskan wilderness after living on his own post-plane crash, surviving a forest of bears, diarrhea-inducing berries, and a water table prone to disruption.

Well, without the diarrhea. And the bears. And the hatchet.

But otherwise, I feel just like that.

SURPRISE!

I've moved since my last post, gaining square footage, privacy, and quiet, but temporarily losing internet access. Knowing I can't just log and blog or spend hours each week perusing Wikipedia smarts, but I probably wouldn't blog much even if the internet was up and running.

I start a new job and graduate classes in the next week, and I still forget which light switch goes to which room/area of my new abode. So much change at once! It's kind of nauseating and hectic and definitely, definitely exciting.

Much more to come. On and offline.