epilogue

Smelly cat, smelly cat, what are they feeding you?

Apparantly my little cat is SO stinky that her stink has managed to pervade an entire apartment despite the best efforts of my vacuum cleaner and Randall's carpet shampooer. And apparantly I am so accustomed to living in the stench of my smelly, smelly cat, that I don't even notice the smell. What can I say, sweetheart? Maybe kitty cologne is in order. I'll buy some for you with whatever measly scraps of the deposit my former landlord throws my way.

(I don't care I don't care I don't care I'm DONE.)

Dear former landlord,

EAT SH*T.

"The Apartment still has cat smell, paint color not match and Oven,Frig not quite clean."

I shampooed the carpets. I vacuumed, and wiped down everything with comet and bleach. Yes, I had a cat, for which I paid you $250. What exactly would you like me to do next, spray down the place with patchouli oil?

If you had let me leave my awesome personalized colored walls, it wouldn't be two different shades of white (because you didn't tell me what color to use, now did you?). But no! You come from a land of white walls and beige carpet. Good luck finding another (boring) tenant to take over. I bet you the first thing they do is to paint the walls.

Your oven sucks and so does your fridge. Plus you totally tore up my bathroom twice. Give me back my $400. That is all.

-Former tenant of apartment #7

Politics of Power Tools

Yesterday I must have called at least ten people in search of an elusive electric drill. My trusty IKEA desk, you see, had let me down--and in order to finish screwing in the legs to the desk, I was going to need the help of electricity. (Insert "screwing" joke here, if you like that sort of thing.)

What surprised me was the number of people who answered with "funny you should ask..." and then went on to tell about how the drill was being held hostage by a bitter ex, or vice versa. Often in these custody battles, the charger had been seperated from the drill itself, leaving both parts useless (and me with a half completed desk).

I'm guilty of it myself. The first person I thought to call was that one person I'm not allowed to call. Could it be that this is why people couple off? For home improvement purposes? If so, sign me up: "Nice girl ISO man with extensive power tool collection. You: good with cars, electronics, and interior design."

Or maybe this year I'll just buy my own damn drill.

"Stoopid frog"

I lifted this title off a comment on Alison's blog. There it was slightly more in-context, but I like the combination of words as commentary to her parable. Made me giggle.

Since I returned from Phoenix, I've been running around (again) finishing up the apartment details. If I hadn't "hired" M to help me today, it may have never gotten done. But it did, all of it: the painting, the shampooing, and the scrub scrub scrubbing off months of cat hair, grease, and dead skin. All this work for a place I'm leaving. It seems anti-climactic.

I'm not going to write a year-in-sum post because frankly, I'm too depressed. On New Year's Eve last year, recovering (or not recovering, as the case may be) from a broken heart, I vowed to kiss as many boys as possible at the stroke of midnight.

I did. And because, dear readers, for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction (this is what comes of taking creative writing instead of physics in high school), the resulting kissers/kissees all came back to haunt me in one way or another throughout the year. More drama than I care to recall or relive, and mostly self-induced. Enough on that.

This year I'll sip my champagne quietly, kiss my friends warmly on both cheeks like Europeans do, and resolve to move slower and more deliberately. Enter 2005: proceed with caution.

Arizona

There is no Arizona
No painted desert, no Sedona
If there was a Grand Canyon
She could fill it up with the lies he's told her
But they don't exist, those dreams he sold her
She'll wake up and find
There is no Arizona. -Jamie O'Neal

Actually, there is an Arizona, and parts of it are really beautiful. I've had this song stuck in my head all week. It seems an appropriate song to end this year, which began with such hopes for lasting love. Here's me raising my beer to a fresh start and brighter future.

I used to think that I was a unique and beautiful snowflake, but I'm learning that I'm actually a collage cut and pasted from various family members. It was most apparent on Wednesday night, when I sat around a table drinking coffee with my brother and two cousins. Absent family members haunted our conversation like ghosts (he sounds just like my dad; that one looks just like Uncle Russell) and I can't tell you how many times I've heard "my God, you look/sound exactly like your mother" this week. Other things, too, less noticeable: the way my aunt grips the steering wheel, my uncle's sly humor, the workings of various body parts (even my blood, held hostage by a Mediterranean gene). When they're 1000 miles to the east or the west, it's easy to forget the genetic (and therefore inescapable) link to these people who look and sound and act like me. What better time for a gentle reminder than on Christmas, breaking bread with a table full of recycled children of children, the lights shining in our eerily similar blue-gray eyes?

snapshot of a woman in transition

At the moment, I'm blogging from a bedroom empty of everything except random odds and ends (a pink hat, a Calvin and Hobbes book, a shoebox full of "important papers," a trash can, an empty coffee mug, a penguin squeezy toy, a frame with no photos, an ethernet cord attached to nothing, a mini-vac, two coat hangers, a notebook, a red halloween wig, a duck cookie cutter, some texas postcards, a CD marked "error").

I'm waiting for the Air Express man to pick up my new(ish) laptop for the SECOND time, after Dell returned it and it still wasn't fixed. While I'm waiting, I'm on hold with the Dell man trying to change my address, and I miss a call from (I discover later) ANOTHER Dell man wanting to know why I haven't sent in the laptop yet. Isn't technology grand?

This weekend has been a busy routine of pack, load, unload, repeat. Yesterday I reached the point where everything except the above-mentioned items had been moved, and it was time to start setting up. My wonderful friends had done their share and had errands of their own to take care of. So I approached my new bedroom, crammed full of boxes and random furniture, took a long look... and started to cry. Yes, I did. After all the hustle and bustle, the idea of sitting still long enough to sort through it all pushed me over the edge. I cried for five minutes, put on some loud music, pulled myself together, and got on with the task at hand.

Inertia is a powerful force, no?

Two school stories

1. Fourth period, I babysit the last few stragglers taking their "snapshot" TAKS tests. The room is equally divided between students who just like to take their time and be careful, and the ones who have been zoning out until now. Rafael is one of two students who hasn't started the second section yet, and we have 15 minutes left in class. He asks me, "What happens if I don't finish the essay and just do the multiple choice?"

"Kiddo, you have to finish the essay. It's required. I can't let you leave this building for Christmas break until you do. I'll keep you here until 6pm on Thursday if I have to."

And he says, with no trace of sarcasm, "Ok."

Blink. Blink. "Excuse me?"

"Ok, I'd rather do that. Can I stay after school?"

Rafael doesn't realize that I have already called the bar, that they already know to have my margarita ready and waiting at 3:35 on Thursday, five minutes after the last bell rings and two weeks of freedom begin. I give him a big toothy smile.

"You could, but you'd have a VERY unhappy teacher on your hands, and I'd have to make sure that you're unhappy too."

"....or I could finish it now."


2. The best thing about the science field trip was the planetarium. Not so much for the crappy film about Saturn, but the few magical moments when I stood before my students in their cushy reclining chairs, and threatened to call their parents if they behaved badly in the presentation. As I projected my voice across the seats, it echoed off the domed ceiling and resounded around the theater, bouncing off the constellations. Ten times better than singing in the shower. I may have gone on for longer than necessary, because the film operator interjected by dimming the lights in a modern-day "give that woman the hook" maneuver. How much do you suppose planetarium operators get paid?

testing, testing...

I love standardized test days.

No, really, I am not being sarcastic, I really do.

And not just because I get to sit at my computer and check email and blog, although that's nice, too.

I love standardized test days because twice a year I get to sit back and just enjoy the fruits of my labor (or cringe due to a lack thereof). Are they brainstorming their ideas first? Have they chosen a "lead" from the possibilities I taught them? Is L---- checking his spelling? Is there action, dialogue, interesting details, a satisfying conclusion? etc etc etc.

And also twice a year I get to sit down and tear apart the multiple choice section, outlining places where the question is unclear or does not test the intended objective. I get super nitpicky about it, taking issue when a question asks for a definitive stance over a style issue. Marking up the test itself in red ink fills me with a silly glee and makes me feel smart, worthy of my English degree, and articulate. Yes, I understand that taking pleasure in correcting other people's wrongs (people who get paid more than me, mind you) is symptomatic of an overblown ego, but I just don't care. Somedays it's not enough to know more than the students; somedays I need to know more than the test-makers.

There is no joy at Numbers...

Last night at the Magnetic Fields show(s), we were all on our best behavior. The unposted rule was that all guests were to remain seated and refrain from talking, foot-tapping, clapping at inappropriate times, and clinking ice. In short, to be SILENT AS THE GRAVE. I picked up on this immediately and silenced my cell phone, thankful I did not wear noisy heels. One poor bartender got yelled at for "throwing silverwear around" in the middle of a song, after Stephen Merritt demanded that "that fan be silenced" and all of us looked around, baffled, crickets chirping, thinking what fan?

The real surprise (and now I feel sheepish) was that the tenor voice I've come to love on 69 Love Songs (buy me this, I lost my copy in Austin), is actually a WOMAN, and this after my repeated assertations to various listeners of "no, it's two men singing."

I still love you, Magnetic Fields, you big grumps.

Off to knit...

p.s. frogsicles!!

I just wanna be a housepet

Not a housewife, a housepet. Completely devoted to someone who will feed me, pet me, amuse me, and clean me for the rest of my days, until I die of old age or get hit by a car.

Why? Because graduate school is scary. Look, I've been teaching for three years in an inner-city school and I have no idea how to approach this question:

Using any one of the following paragraphs, please prepare a brief essay. Assume that you work within an organization to which this suggestions has been made. The person for whom you work has asked for advice on two questions: (1) What are the most important considerations in approaching this issue? and (2) If you had two or three uninterrupted days to explore this issue in greater depth, what would you do? You are not expected to have more than general knowledge of the policy area on which you comment, nor to utilize the tools (or jargon) of any particular academic discipline. The questions contain no “tricks.” You are simply asked to bring good sense to bear and to get a fairly quick response back to the person who has asked for the advice. Your essay should be clear and concise and should not exceed 750 words.

"Giving families vouchers that would allow them to send their children to any elementary or secondary school, including private religious schools, is an experiment that clearly ought to be tried. We might discover that marketplace competition could indeed stimulate improved performance by participating schools and that parents are no worse at making educational decisions for their children than they are at all the other, even more consequential, decisions they make. We might also discover that segregation by race, religion, and ideology increased to an unacceptable degree."

Have I gone completely brain-dead since college that I cannot think of an appropriate response to this question, other than "vouchers are bad"? Have I regressed to a seventh grade intelligence? Is there any hope at all for me?

Last night I met a very nice boy who is a chef. He travels around the world and survives by charm and wit alone. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't pack up and head to culinary school right now...

questionable forecast

The NPR weatherman promised an "unoffensive day" today (fat chance I think to myself, driving to school).

Sure enough, as I walked to the building I passed by an 8th grader pulling on his school shirt with his pants hanging precariously off his rear-end. "Mumble mumble mumble motherf-cker" I hear him say to his friend. He looks up and sees me glare at him. "Oh, sorry."

(What he doesn't realize is that I'm already late and I'm glaring because now that I heard it I have to say something about it, it's like my job, and frankly I'd rather finish my vanilla latte and change the date on the whiteboard before I have to discipline anyone.)

"ExCUSE me?" I spit out. "Would you please stop for a minute and get dressed and get yourself ready for school before you walk any further?"

He stops. I walk on.

Well, it was a nice thought.

Good Will Hunting Moment

"I can't believe he's going to Norway. F-cking Norway."
"Good for him."
"I want to be moving to Norway."
"No you don't. What's in Norway? Snow, that's what. Lots of snow. You'd miss your family and friends here."
"Let me rephrase that: I want to be moving to Norway with the love of my life."
"He's not the love of your life."
"I know."
"Mary, he wasn't a good boyfriend."
"I know."
"No, listen, he was NOT a good boyfriend. Remember when they played that time at the Proletariat? You spent all that time kissing each individual CD, and he was hardly around. He spent the whole time talking with other people and flirting with those girls. He just expected you to do certain things and gave nothing in return. Maybe he was intelligent or maybe he was good in bed... but he did not treat you well. Mary, he was not a good boyfriend."
...
...
...
...
"He was intelligent."
"...yes."
"I hope he moves to Norway."
"Yes."

Smarter than Ray Bradbury

And two days later Dan came running.
"Come see the cow. I was milking her and I saw it. Come on!"
They stood in the shed and looked at their one cow.
It was growing a third horn.
And the lawn in front of their house very quietly and slowly was coloring itself like spring violets. Seed from Earth but growing up a soft purple.
-from "Dark They Were, and Golden-Eyed" by Ray Bradbury

Do you see it already? Do you see where this is going?

Unfortunately, milk cows don't have any horns at all, as L---- pointed out in class today. She's sort of a smart-ass, but she's right. I'm just mad I didn't catch it first.

Tis the (fashion) season...

...for red lipstick and black seamed stockings and slinky black turtlenecks.

Boots! Oversized sweaters! Rhinestone brooches! Scarves!

Oh, how I adore you, cold weather. You and your pomegranates and your rum-infused eggnog. Please stay and make yourself comfortable. You can sleep under my down comforter.

Now if I could just get someone to buy me this coat...

Tear-fest

My seventh period class has been one big weepy-eyed mess lately, and I'm not sure why. A couple of the girls are repeat offenders, always tangled in romantic webs and questioning friendships: standard middle school drama. Still, they're not the type of girls to cry for attention or even ask to leave the room. They'll quietly choke back tears, red-eyed, until they can get it together again. It makes me sad.

One girl has genuine cause for grief. She didn't have to say anything, but I know that her father died (wrongly) two years ago on Thanksgiving. I know because her sister was a student of mine when it happened. Since we returned from the break, she's been quiet, sedate, breaking into tears when I called on her to read aloud. I peeked in her writer's notebook and read that she wants to curse God.

Today it was me who got misty-eyed, when I playfully assigned the journal topic: "How should Ms. D------ spend her Christmas bonus money?" expecting answers like "buy me a playstation" or "put a stereo system in your car" (thanks, Lorenzo) and instead got this eerily appropriate response from Cindy:

Ms. D------ should spend her Christmas somewhere out of town so she can get away from everything. She should go out of town to get out of doing work and checking papers for the holiday. Ms. D, you should get relaxed, go visit some of your cousins or parents or your brother and sisters on Christmas Eve. I'm pretty sure that they miss you because you were gone for a long time. You should be around the people that love you over the holiday. You should really try and get away from everything. I say that you should try and go visit your family on Christmas Eve, I know that is what I'm going to do every year.

If there's a nicer, kinder, more deserving group of kids out there, I haven't met them yet; and I'm very happy to be going to Phoenix.