That's a bit more like it. Still, the rising sun melted so much of it away...

Try again, Winter! Think piles upon piles of powder.

It's not just barely above me, something I could swat at with a good leap. It's waaaaaay above me, this weather. This weather I am under.

I think it's psychosomatic AND viral. Today a little girl in the stairwell turned her head and coughed right on me. It was one of those moist, mucus-laden coughs, too. I startled her when I immediately ordered her to cover her mouth.

Unfortunately, I didn't scare the cough out of her. She hacked all the way up the stairs, and I was behind her, walking through the putrid germosphere.

Fortunately, I have to miss school the next two days in order to grade state ELA tests downtown. Sure, it will be a depressing lesson in how ill-prepared NYC public school children are for quite unchallenging standardized tests. I will undoubtedly make fun of the most bizarre and pathetic answers, and then feel guilty about it. But no one will cough on me, and I need a break from the kids.

Case in point: Today one of my Advisory students, Webster's walking definition of "shit-eating grin," squirted pepper spray into the air during math class. Everyone was coughing and tearing up; one student's face broke out in a rash. Somehow the rest of the teachers didn't hear about this until after school.

Damn. Had I known, I would have beaten the crap out of the kid...with my Teacher Scowl. Fear the ever-powerful wrath of my Teacher Scowl! I won't get to unleash the fury tomorrow or Thursday or Friday, either. (Friday is a true vacation day, as homegirl has a hair appointment, mmmkay)? I have to wait until Monday to start oozing out the guilt.

Teaching has changed my life, but has affected the lives of my unborn potential children even more. Man, they won't have it easy living in the naughty, disappointing shadows of my kids in Harlem.

They're a lot like my immune system in that way.

I found the excerpt below during my recent online identity search. I don't know the person who wrote it, but I believe she may be writing for a college course. Don't confuse these words (or spelling or grammar) for my own. This is by a person called meggiman, a name suspiciously close to my nickname for my sister. (She assures me it is not her):

http://www.noisiestpassenger.blogspot.com/

this is the link i am refereing to when i say i dont like blogs. i can see why some people would but for me it is something that is more of a hobbie for a person to have, and if its not something you enjoy doing then it really gets you no where. i believe society if anything these days is too dependant on the internet and technology, i mean, not that i believe that Y2K was, or is ever going to actually happen, but say it did. we would lose so much information that was thought to be backed up in blogs and or other hardware provided on and througout computers. all i got from reading "Amandas MsAdventures" was that her and her girlfriend had a nice day in ney york taking pictures of ablsolutly nothing significant to me and talked about things they encountered durring their life and friendship together. sure its a great way to express yoru personal feelings or even to get out news on a presant happening. However, who is to say that any of the things you see posted on blogs is based on facts. i could go make up a name for myself and become Harry the news reporter from Austria, and tell you that the news doesnt want you to know about this new food i found in my country cause it causes cancer, and your telling me that people are going to believe it like its true when they have know idea where i got that and weather or not its hearsay or a prooven fact.

*I do believe meggiman is on to me. Or not.

Would I ever ask seventh graders to draw penises on the chalkboard? No.

Should an anatomy teacher lose his job for just that? I don't think so.

Let's have a discussion about this. You first.

I start to write on the board.

Me: Let's learn a new word.

Fatoumata: E-X-A-S-

Kenneth: Ex-ass-prated!

Me: Ex-as-per-ated. I am exasperated with all of you right now. What do you think that means?

Alexus: Sleepy?

Bernice: Mad.

Me: It means you have bothered me so much that I'm tired. I'm exhausted.

The kids practice the new word under their breath. I return to the board and start to write another word.

Fatoumata: Live eyed?

Me: Livid. That's what I'll be tomorrow, if any of you have emailed anecdotals on a half-day.

Bernice: That means real mad?

Me: Yes. This is exasperated. [I pinch some air between my index finger and thumb.] This is livid. [I spread my arms as wide as they go.]

Kenneth: No emails tomorrow, everybody!

Overstuffed Armchair Weekend

The long weekend with MLK day was much needed and fondly remembered. I've been meaning to put these pictures up, but have winced at the idea of trying to remember everything in the correct order. I wish I could say this about all weekends.

Cade and I started the weekend in Chelsea. We had dinner at Rocking Horse, a hip restaurant with "modern Mexican" cuisine. I had an amazing drink - a blend of triple sec, Absolut grapefruit, and plum puree. The name eludes me. I have no memory for this sort of thing, but the drink was stupendous.

Cade and I met this English bulldog, Beulah, on the way to Ben & Jerry's afterward. The owner was so nice, but Beulah was more stand-offish. She may have just been put off by my short skirt. (She's more accustomed to the feminine menfolk).



After satisfying my caramel sundae craving, I sought to educate The Boyfriend of my Southern background at Trailer Park Lounge. I knew every song the place played, because, hello, I've gone to plenty of family barbeques. I was disturbed by the pregnant mannequin posed above the bar, drinking a beer and smoking a cigarette. Why is it that the group labeled "white trash" is still okay to vilify? They (we?) don't all go about the way Britney Spears does.

I drank a scary blue margarita concoction, despite my fear of blue colored beverages. It came with a nifty garter-like grass skirt. I wore it the rest of the night around my ankle, slurring non-stop about stereotypes and the media. These are my feet on the subway:


At some point, Cade convinced me to have dinner with him at Vnyl [sic]. It's another one of those trendy eateries. Cade loves the variety. I think the restaurant is a jack of all trades, a master of huh?

On MLK day, we went to The Metropolitan Museum of Art. I'd never been, because I missed that field trip. Cool people like Cade and me get in free, so we walked around a bit. We enjoyed the Famous Sculptures We May Have Seen Before In Books. The intricacy of the art is amazing. I had fun pretending to be Claudia Kincaid in From The Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler.






The weather was gray and misty that weekend. That, in addition to the hours of The Office we watched, made me entertain the notion that the weekend was very British, though I've never been. Sounded bloody good to me at the time...

Each has an individual feel. Some are plush and overstuffed as armchairs, cushioned with extra days. Others are fuzzworn, thread-stretched, paltry days to rest, to work. Neither of these happens over such weakened weekends.

I once wrote about most weekends, neatly recapped them on Sunday evenings. Now I stretch Sunday as far as it will go. It stings when I'm snapped into Monday morning and I'm sitting on the subway to work or walking the long blocks to the school. It's not that I don't enjoy my job, but that I want even more to define my own job(s). That's what the weekend is.

I'm thinking all of this as Cade and I schlep through Brooklyn. It is freezing out and we stayed on the subway for half and hour to go to the Annie Leibowitz exhibition at the Brooklyn Museum. Once aboveground, Cade pranced ahead of me and patted some clean snow into a ball and threw it at the padded bottom of my down coat. I know the coat is imperturbible, but I shrieked anyway.

We walked into the museum and listened to the announcement about the two hour wait. Should we have stayed, we would have an hour to peruse the museum before it closes. An hour for $12. After deliberating, Cade and I left the long, buzzing line.

So we are walking, because it is cold and dark. We are searching for my holy grail, our warmth in the cold expanse of pavement - Target. Cade doesn't have a hat, scarf, or gloves and is losing feeling in all of these parts. I promise I will buy him at least one of these items, should we make it to the shopping center. My toes are numb in my ballerina flats, the wind rattles every tooth in my head. Cade is ahead of me every step of the way. He dashes about, because his legs are longer and his body so much more uncomfortable.

At one point, Cade sees a Brooklynite precariously carrying a few boxes of beer in the cold. "Target's this way, right?" Cade asks. The guy stops with a sigh. "Yeah. Waaaaay down there." He looks at us like we just pointed east and asked, "China's that way, right?"

Being carless and so clearly out of our element is amusement for the masses. When Cade and I walk past a group of black kids, one of them screams in a high-pitched voice that is universally understood as affected honkey voice, "Hey, Billy! Hi, Bobby!" I mutter, "They're so racist. They act like they've never seen white people before." Cade replies, "Yeah. And we would never say, 'Hey, Rastus! Hi, Jamal!' or something." Before I can shrug my shoulders, Cade is skipping in front of me in gleeful honkey mode, "C'mon, Billy!" he yells at me. "We're late - the rest of the country club is waiting for us! I LOVE backgammon!"

Once at Target, Cade will inform me that he thinks that he has pulled his groin while skipping. I laugh the first three times, but then start hissing, "Stop! You're embarrassing me now." When you're perusing the world market home accessories section, you'd be amazed how many people will turn and stare at someone who says "groin." Oh, and "my" coupled with "groin." Answer: All of them. The whole department. Perhaps that entire floor.

Days later, Cade emails me with some mundane update. I respond, "How's your groin?" I smile as I type it. Groin, groin, groin! It is a funny word, and might be slightly funnier amongst affordable imported vases.

"Innocent or lascivious question?" Cade's reponse reads.

"I dunno. But it's pretty hot that you can spell lascivious," I type.

I'm ready for another weekend.

Hardee har har. I really liked this when it was on ABC for all of six episodes back in 2001. I remember watching this the third day I lived in Austin.

HORNS UP:

*My sample photography lesson last week was a huge hit. I start teaching January 29, and will have the job until the end of June. I have the slight feeling I'm signing my life away, but I know I'll make really good money teaching something the kids and I will enjoy. It'll also only be once a week.

*Cade bought us a couples gift of the BBC and American dvds of The Office. The American version has not yet arrived, but the BBC version is darkly hilarious and occasionally quite racy. I know it's been out awhile, but I am way behind on television and hope to never catch up. Ricky Gervais's boss character is wonderfully deluded. Now I want to see his and Stephen Merchant's HBO series, Extras. Maybe in five years...

*I've done all the legal paperwork for my possible publication in a book. I'm not sure when I'll know if my stories are chosen for the collection, but I've been really motivated to keep writing. I've been hunting down opportunities and am ready to make some Benjamins or Lincolns or what have you. If any of you know of any outlets for my writing that would look good on my resume and/or pay me, I'd love to hear from you at girlgriefdecade@yahoo.com.

*Something possessed me to Google "Amanda's MsAdventures" yesterday, and I was pleased by the links that turned up. Some were direct links to this blog, others to people who have listed me on their blogs. (Thanks for reading and your support to all of those lovelies)! And a bit was...porn. Huh? Seriously, if you look up this blog's title, you'll pull up more than one site about rubber sex fetishes. I didn't have the nerve to investigate, but I can't help feeling, "Wow! I've made it!" No sexual pun intended. But I think you've probably arrived when yours is one of the trillions of blogs that ends up mired in the nefarious XXX peep show of the web.

HORNS DOWN:

*The dearth of snow this winter. The weather forecasts predicting snow have consistently been wrong. I've seen nary a snowflake, and haven't had the chance to chuck a single snowball. Cade and I also keep having to put an upstate ski trip on hold, because the weather hasn't been cooperative. (Meanwhile, it has freakishly snowed in Texas in the last week). El Nino, La Nina, whoever you are, send the icy precipitation up this way, por favor.

*My Not-So-Super strikes again. Another light burnt out that I cannot fix - this time, my hallway/closet light. The fixture needs to be pried open with some kind of tool that I don't have. In the mornings, I have to turn on the kitchen and bathroom lights to see in the closet. At night, I've had to use a flashlight in addition to these lights. I'm approaching ghetto fabulousness here. Scratch that, ghetto inventiveness.

*Don't even get me started on how I've never had a working refrigerator light, either. I almost forgot about that issue, until I went to my parents' and helped myself to a snack, thinking, "Wow. I can SEE the food!" I know I could go to Home Depot and figure out where the refrigerator bulbs are, but I don't know if there's a burnt out one already in the refrigerator, because I can't pull anything out of that sealed fixture. Also, who needs a light when I can just feel around and determine what one of the four things in the refrigerator is? "Hmmm, squishy. That must be those bananas I pureed three weeks ago!"

*Weird people on the Internet. I might be referring to you, you know. I'm definitely referring to that guy who saw a Youtube video of me who subsequently emailed, asking for a video or some close-up pictures of my feet, because, "u have nice feet. has n-e-one told u that? their nice." Yeah, dude, I'll get right on that.

Asim enters the classroom before school starts. He is a thirteen-year-old built like a refrigerator, and a gentle giant for the most part. His ipod earbuds plug up his ears.

Me: Morning, Asim.

Asim: Huh?

Karen: Good morning!

Asim: Nah.

Me: [laughing] Asim, take off the headphones.

Asim: Huh?

Karen: [laughing] Take OFF the HEADPHONES!

Asim turns away, not realizing he is being screamed at.

Karen: Asim, take off the headphones!

Asim: The headphones?

Me: Yeah.

Karen: You can't have them in the building.

Asim: [growing indignant and proceeding to stomp out of the classroom] I'M NOT ALLOWED IN THE BUILDING?! WHAT?! WHAT DID I DO?! I DIDN'T DO NOTHIN'!

Me: [laughing] Oh, lord.

Karen and I snicker and watch him storm off.

Adventures in Signage, Pt. 3

I love the familiarity of the exclamation points amid all the foreign characters.

Because I willingly exploit my small-assed self whenever possible.

Whose market? Your your market?

Where dis party at?

The bizarre hybrid of the New York Yankees and "Yankee Doodle."

Further proof I am my mama's daughter:
I bought all of this fruit (about eight pounds) for $9.18! In NYC!

I have raved about it all weekend, and Cade had to physically stop me from showing off the pineapple on the subway.

I saw Freedom Writers with my co-worker/friend Julia a few weekends ago. We'd wanted to see Children of Men, but the film was sold out, and we had few alternatives. Every time the music swelled, Julia unabashedly spilled the coaxed tears. I tried to be more stubborn - I don't like having my emotions manipulated by depictions of teaching that are so utterly false and unrealistic. Neither does this guy.

Among all the other great colloquialisms my dad has imparted ("dry as a popcorn fart," anyone?) is "a snowball's chance in hell." The first real snow in NYC this winter had this likelihood of lasting. That is to say, none. It melted away in the day's sun, not even leaving slush as a reminder.

Drats.

This morning, I froze on the stoop in awe. Central Park was glistening in white, just as it should be. Cars burping black exhaust into the sky seemed a little friendlier with their icy glaze.

Everything felt shiny and clean...for all of two hours.

There's that retort, "Take a picture. It'll last longer." When it comes to last night's snow, nothing's closer to the truth. I'm glad I took some.

*A few flakes were falling when I got home tonight. I'm keeping my fingers crossed for more.

I nodded in the direction of the display to the cashier at the discount store and smirked, "Ironic, huh?"

She replied, "Nice camera."

Read Fun Home by Alison Bechdel.

It's the best thing I've read in a while.

More on that later - it's snowing and I've got to go enjoy it.

I went to a reading on Monday night by the super-smart and charming Norah Vincent, author of Self-Made Man. After she read the chapter where she essentially "comes out" as a woman to her buddy on the bowling league, she took questions and comments.

One crunchy, corduroy-wearing, Robert Bly-reading guy said that he belongs to a men's group and proceeded to criticize her trickery in a Bob Saget sitcom dad kind of way. Another guy who didn't know English very well, and may or not have been hanging out at Barnes & Noble just to stay warm, compared her research to "how, you know, Eddie Murphy dresses up like white people for the inside look, you know?"

Ummm...I know?

At any rate, it was a lot of fun. Read the book - I'm tellin' ya again.

Angry Love Poems
By My Winter Clothes

At parties, I'm thrown
across a stranger's bed,
left dangling as
you make the rounds,
tucked into an uncomfortable
space beside you,
unnoticed, unattended.
You'll miss me someday
when I'm gone,
but for now I am
yours to use
when you see fit.
- Coat

I am a pretty whisper,
as superfluous as
a fleck of glitter.
You forget my beauty,
put it on last.
A light, silken
afterthought to bring
out something else
you already possess.
I'm twisted by your
fickle whims.
- Scarf

You wanted me once.
Stroked me, picked me,
took me with you
for a time.
Now I lay, lame as
an arthritic dog,
fatigued by my
motionlessness,
breathless from
the monotony.
Everyone thinks
you need me...
except you.
- Hat

I'm trying to quickly put together the end of my photography lesson for tomorrow before taking a shower and curling up with Dito Montiel's A Guide to Recognizing Your Saints, but I have to share the good news:

1) Yesterday, I was offered a monthly writing gig. The pay is small, but I'm really excited about getting paid for something I normally do for free.

2) Today, I found out that two of my stories are currently being considered for publication in a book! I was asked to complete the paperwork for a copyright and to send in biographical information as soon as possible. Needless to say, I'm thrilled. I'm going to hang onto this feeling as long as possible and get down to business with my writing. I've been procrastinating too long.

Me: Have you noticed that you never hear anyone say, "I have gas out the wazoo"?

Him: Yeah. But that would make a lot of sense.

Me: Yep.

After our Friday workday in Union Square, Renee and I headed off to the Lower East Side. We'd been talking about teaching and professional development all day, and the topic slightly shifted. We began to examine self-development, what we're thinking right now about next week, next year, several years from now when we will have long forgotten the comment one of us made to the other about the ghoulish Halloween mask stuck high in the branches of a tree. We talked about relationships. How a woman never seems to feel good enough if she's not dating someone, if a man does not find her so beautiful and good that he is content to be with just her indefinitely. She talked about her days since she's been alone, how they haven't been lonely, and I wonder if I should miss the days when I was dizzy with meeting new people and making people laugh with very polished, seemingly spontaneous jokes. I don't miss them, but I can admit they were sometimes easier than being in this state, sucking on this sticky toffee of "us," trying to be happy and make happy.I got to see what a studio on the Lower East Side looks like. Renee's is more expensive than mine with less space, everything I expected with an unnecessary full kitchen and modern bath. The latter of my abode blocks and blocks above hers may have once been a small walk-in closet. Renee is afraid her apartment looks like a college dorm, as most of her furniture is that cheeky plastic purveyed at Urban Outfitters and Ikea. Not to mention that she lives in a box. Her posters are stuck to the wall without frames, her kitchen cabinets stuffed with books and handbags. My apartment actually looks a bit more grown up, decor wise, though the post-it strata of the desk and the random parked shoes and periodicals reveal a scatterbrained packrat. I said it looked like the apartment of someone out of graduate school, which she is. She relaxed but said she wants to work on it, though she'll only be there eight more months before she can't afford it anymore.We walked for blocks, stopping at a fish market, a playground, a pet store full of fish and bubbles. I laughed as she recounted a painful story of bikini waxing, and I asked if she would ever want to be young again. She said no. (Readers over 25, proceed to roll your eyes. I know I'm still young, but not what I consider shiny, expansive world young).

I wouldn't, either. Not now, not Friday. I felt content being 23 and knowing my way around enough to see this city, to take pictures, to talk about what else might happen later.

"This is a candid photo," my mom said when she handed me this photograph. As if I couldn't tell with all the men not looking at the camera, while the women do. "Look at those heels!" she laughed and pointed at the stilettoes on my great-grandmother, her grandmother.

It was Easter. My mom's younger sister, the one who would go on to a hard life of abusive men and self-defeat and ultimately, estrangement from my mom, is blonde bobbed and carrying an impressively filled basket. My mom's father, my grandpa with whom I never had a genuine conversation, is young and handsome. He seems tall next to his daughter, but he was not a big man. The woman who stands against the house always kept a distance. She is my mom's mother, all of nineteen years old maybe, and saddled down with two kids she is not ready for.

I don't know who the man in the foreground is. An uncle? A family friend? I'm guessing it was my great-grandmother's husband at the time. She had a few that didn't work out before the last one. I never knew him, either, but something about him was different. His pictures were still in the house. His last name was still hers. He'd only left, because he'd died, and maybe not even then.

My great-grandmother could cook a huge meal in stilettoes with a baby on her hip and a song on her breath, nary a hair out of place or a smudge of lipstick on her teeth. I have not inherited this kind of poise. No one ever heard her curse, and she did not appear to have any outward vices. Despite this, everyone loved her.

She grew up on a farm where heels and pretty dresses were a mythic extravagance. She reared her children poor - not poorly, but poor. She was a good mother who didn't have much besides her love to give.

My favorite story is of how she once ran on foot with her child to the nearest hospital. It was the middle of the night; the baby had ingested rat poison. He didn't live. I don't know what happened the next day other than her feet and her heart hurt. She made breakfast for the family and soldiered on.

I hope I have inherited this kind of poise.

The worst thing a parent has ever (allegedly) said during a parent-teacher conference:

"Damn! I can't believe my son is so f*ckin' stupid! It must be cuz when I was pregnant wit him, they put all them wires in my vagina."

Three amusements:

1) This emailed anecdotal from a co-worker:
Both of these students were completely off task during French. I sat at their table and graded papers. The entire class, they talked to each other, complained loudly how wack the school was, griped at each other, did not follow along with the lesson, and tapped their pens. When the rest of their table was doing a good job and not feeding into them, they began talking to themselves. Not to each other, but literally talking to themselves. At one point I even asked Bernice who she was talking to. She just hissed and rolled her eyes. While Kenyon was reading they both talked over him. DaShawn at one point was removed, but came back worse. DaShawn banged on the table, kicked the table, and complained about everything very loudly. They were in their own world and did not follow anyone’s directions. Bernice will serve a removal for Monday in addition to tomorrow and DaShawn will serve a removal for tomorrow.

2) On the crowded 1 train this evening, I was sandwiched between a preppy, well-meaning guy and a model for a shampoo commercial. She looked like one, anyway. I gripped the pole easily, but the preppy guy had to really stretch and ended up with his arm inches above the top of hair model's head. He apologized for the tight squeeze and intrusion of personal bubbles. In just two stops, the static electricity in the wool sleeve of the man's coat was enough to ruin the woman's part and make most of the hair on top of her head stand up. She had no idea, and he didn't say anything. It was naughty and hilarious.

3) I was approached by a teenage boy on Broadway pretending to be homeless. He was well-dressed and wearing a huge jacket on his head. (He was already wearing a coat). He kept snickering and asking, "Yo, you got a dollar?" His friends held up a wall nearby, laughed, and pointed. Insensitive, yes. Oddly funny, yes.

Under it, in the album of the plastic sucking noise whenever opened, she wrote, "Second thoughts?"

She'd been graciously examining a box. It probably contained a gift from Sears or mail order. The lighting was fluorescent, the wedding dry. It was sober in more than one sense of the word. Inches of rain fell during the ceremony. He'd been gazing off, deep in thought, turning the new gold ring on his finger the way one right twirl a lock of hair or tap a foot. He wanted to leave, I think. Not her - the building, the people who surrounded him and waited with expectant smiles on their faces.

Perhaps he knew that the rest of his life would literally consist of richer and poorer, sickness and health. He was about to board a rollercoaster, and she was the cute girl who took his ticket and released the turnstile. Second thoughts would never be tall enough to ride along with him.

Perhaps it was the giddiness of staying in a five-star hotel or maybe the discombobulation of random cool pecks on the cheek by people I've yet to meet. I'm not used to that, nor do I understand how everyone thinks it's sophisticated rather than invasive. In fact, the only one whom I was okay with this familiar greeting is maybe that one co-worker of Cade's who took a sip of my mojito over the summer. He and Cade.

Whatever it was, I somehow left my cellphone in a posh hotel in Lawnguy Land. The one means of communication at my disposal as I set out to fly home for the holidays - gone. I was able to go to the Cingular store and buy another one, instantly terminating the functioning of the lost one. What I couldn't get back was the SIM card with my life on it - family, friends lost and found, people whom I used to be infatuated with, whom I used to call regularly. Gone.

In some ways, it is a forced clean slate. There were numbers I kept, just so I could screen their owners' calls if they ever called and some numbers that would ring and ring, no one willing to answer the phone miles away. Numbers of people I hurt and people who hurt me.

There are still friends with information I know I will get, people I see regularly or can email. But what about him - my great stoic college friend who won't answer the email, who is somewhere in Austin not knowing he is lost to me? I know no way to speak to him anymore, not that we spoke recently before I lost the old phone, but still. I really feel the distance now.

It makes me sympathize with my dad, who recently found out his childhood best friend died of a terrible terminal illness. The pain was so raw, the reminder of his own mortality stunning. His friend had known he was sick, that he would die for months, but never called. The grief is not just about the lack of goodbye, for a goodbye could have been, but that between getting married and having kids and moving and getting sick, they stopped picking up the phone. Life got busy; phone calls needed to wait. Numbers got misplaced or slipped the mind, priorities got rearranged.

I've already had to feel the pang of regret, of I-should-have-known-but-I-didn't-ness when a close childhood friend had two kids and got married, and I wasn't there. Never mind that I hardly recognize her, that she wouldn't recognize me. She hasn't been a significant part of my life for years now, but I promised I'd be there. Way back in seventh grade, I said I'd know her now. I thought I'd know her number when she called, that we'd be able to say all that goes unsaid. I thought I'd know how to reach her.

When Cade got back from Philadelphia yesterday afternoon, he'd already promised to do whatever I wanted to do. The original plan was to schlep around the Lower East Side and eventually make it to Washington Square Park, where I'd rollerskate on the flattest concrete surfaces I could find.

I decided to suck up my fears of knocking my teeth out and humiliating myself close to home, and decided to just walk across the street. Central Park was kind of a big selling point of my apartment, and I don't utilize the city's backyard enough. I couldn't venture out alone, not yet anyway. I needed Cade to be my steady arm to grab onto and nimble fingers to dial 911 just in case I get exactly what's coming to me. Professional roller derby skates on a girl who hasn't rollerskated in years? More than a bit cocky.

The skating was shaky at first, and my ankles and feet were tense as the terrain vibrated every tendon. I dodged doodoo and people with strollers. Eventually, Cade and I found a rollerskating orgy near the abandoned sand volleyball court. I'm guessing the patchouli-wearing rollerdancing enthusiasts were former regulars on the Manhattan cable access show, Central Park Skate. They were quite agile on their brakeless skates. One guy in particular appeared to be a cement nymph or something, gracelessly twirling and jumping.


After Cade threated to push my clumsy butt into the mix of rollerskating talent and experience, we headed to Wollman Rink, where people with stronger ankles were ice skating. Now that's something I just can't do. I blame the inconsistency of the surface when a Zamboni hasn't been used in awhile. Well, that and the fact that my ankles are rickety enough with flip flops, much less sharp, dagger soled boots. It is really cool to watch, though, especially the jumps and leg extensions. None of the skaters were doing any of those last night. It was a crowd of amateurs holding their significant others' hands in vice grips, gritting their teeth as they hung on precariously to the rink's wall.

In other words, my kind of skaters.

Saturday mornings, Megan woke up first. She claimed Daddy's chair directly across from the tv; I settled for the couch. We'd yet to reupholster its brown ribbed and pilled surface. It was comfortable and always had throw pillows that made do, made it presentable enough until it could be replaced with something better and more expensive.

Mama painted the kitchen cabinets a cheerful color called "giraffe." I liked it. Mama liked it for awhile, too. Later the cabinets would be "antique white," which I'd guess they still are. We all changed and moved away from where we were younger together, my family and me.

That kitten is Bobby. He's an orphaned Manx my mom adopted. He was still normal then, though malnourished and tiny. When he got declawed, he lost all sanity. Since then, he's cried to be out when inside. Inside, when out. He is beaten up a lot by other cats in the new neighborhood, cats who don't know what it is to want.

Megan and I had bangs. Mama cut them. This picture was taken a long time before I became so critical of myself and started to project my insecurity on my younger sister, whom I thought my parents might love more. I'm sorry for all that now. Things have gotten better with her, but I don't think I'd let my mom take a random picture of me early Saturday morning, before hair or teeth are brushed, ever again. I don't think Megan would, either. (Both of us, however, still eat popsicles for breakfast sometimes).

And Mama, a more sophisticated, well-to-do homeowner years later, would never again paint anything a color so loud as "giraffe."

Hello again.

I haven't felt like writing much during this first week I've been back in New York. I now believe that I was suffering a malady far worse than bad salad, though given recently documented cases of e. coli in spinach and lettuce, bad salad is nothing to take lightly. I've been exhausted every morning when I wake up, and my stomach still can't handle eating certain foods. I learned this the hard way when I went out with some co-workers Friday night, and ended up spangling the curb with some margarita-tinged chunks.

Cade spent the weekend in Philadelphia, so I had to recover alone with plenty of fluids and not-so-fresh fresh air. Most of all, I got some active alone time. Despite my post about being a wallflower, I really enjoy my solitude. The weekend forecast condemned New Yorkers to rain and wind, but the rain ended early Saturday morning. Then the clouds came. By mid-afternoon, I looked up and epiphany: the sun was out, it was 70 degrees out, and I live at the center of the universe. What a great day.

I loved walking around the city, thinking and running my errands with ease over the weekend. But. But. I mean big BUTS, and I cannot lie, I want winter. NYC hasn't seen any snow yet, which makes it the longest winter since 18something. I moved to the East Coast to take up things I didn't have the chance to in Texas, like ambitious Yankees and skiing. Weather gods, don't deny me these dreams!

One thing I've been thinking about a lot this weekend - the crack in my sidewalk of doing - is how much situations can change overnight. I was so excited about not taking classes this semester and seemingly having huge chunks of time given back to me. I wanted to move away from the focus on my job, as it was interfering with me trying yoga and writing. I've since realized that it's always the same amount of time. It really is. And everyone has the same alottment over the course of the week. It's a matter of making the most of it, and knowing when to drop certain practices or plans that aren't as important as others. I can type this and even say it with a straight face, but I'm still filling out a useless database of what I wear each week. I'm a glutton for punishment, I guess.

When I was offered another job at my school on Wednesday - teaching photography as an enrichment teacher - I was flattered, but immediately thought about the time I would lose. Then I started thinking about Born Into Brothels, a great documentary about a photographer who gives poor children in Calcutta cameras and consequently, beauty and hope. I told the people in my support network, who were ecstatic that I would make more money doing something I love. I'm taking the job, which starts at the end of January. There are a few turns my life has taken in the last year that surprise me. This has to be the one I least saw coming. I'm going to be a visual arts teacher? Cool.

Yet another change, though this has been a slow development and realization: I have fallen hard for some of the kids I teach. I read somewhere that the teacher-student bond is finally sealed after Christmas break. I started my new job working with Karen, a teacher who had already developed a rapport with all the students. I was the newbie, the outsider, the adult they hadn't figured out yet. Man, am I glad that's over. I don't work closely with all the students, as my specialty is working with Special Ed and at-risk students, but I know all of them and they know me. For the most part, they respond to my authority and correct their actions when they see my raised eyebrows or hand gestures or feel me tap on their backs.

And sometimes they even initiate very affectionate interactions, like the regular ed students who ask to work at my table. The fact that kids don't seem to realize what kind of teacher I am - that I am meant to focus on struggling students - and don't associate me with a stigma is incredible. I've had a lot of progress relating with some of the toughest male students with discipline problems, who now want to work with me everyday, but tend to settle for some chit-chat. This isn't just a guy thing, either - a lot of my fifth and sixth grade girls want to work in small groups with me, too. It's cheesy, but I feel really good when I think about it. What I'm doing means something to these kids. They like me, they really like me!

Ahh. That felt better. I'm trying to maintain the writing on this blog, but this chirping, rumbling city beckons me again. As long as we're both around, there's always more later.

An email from my boss today:

Subject: Annual Staff Retreat -- your preferences, please

Location:

1. NYC (you can go home at the end of each day)

2. Mohonk

3. Beach location, possibly Montauk

*

This is one reason I sometimes love my job. I'm rooting for the upstate mountain resort, by the way.

Right At Home