I know a bunch of nice guys. I give the ones who are unlucky in love the same advice: Never try to get a woman on the strength of your niceness.
It's not that women dislike nice guys, but bad boys are interesting. They have lives and qualities outside of politeness.
"But why doesn't she like me? I'm nice."
If I had a nickel for every time I heard that, it'd be a drag because cashing in my coin jar is a pain in the ass.
What does nice mean? Opening doors? Calling before the woman goes berserk at not hearing from a sleepover date? Paying for meals?
Those are all good, but they should be givens. Unless the quality of nice transcends ordinary humanity (I'm talking Jesus or Buddha niceness), it's not strong enough to mention. Aside from that, not many women I know would want to date JC or Buddha.
The idea of either of those guys on a date is starting to intrigue me.
I try to dissuade my male friends from throwing down the nice card. I tell them to go with real strengths. Even if the only thing going for them is the ability to touch their noses with their tongues, that would be better than the dreaded n-word.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Reason #367 for loving teen movies
Who cares about the stack of papers begging to be graded? I watched Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist. I enjoyed it in the same way I like most teen movies: it makes me happy to think that someone has that kind of adolescent experience.
My best friend in New Orleans shared my love of the teen oeuvre. The magic words would be "How about a teen movie night?"
This was on the nights we weren't blowing local celebs.
One of my favorite parts of teen movies is how age isn't a factor. Adolescents play after hours in a big city that's rendered pretty much generic at the hands of the director. After all, does anyone feel like they know Chicago from John Hughes?
The characters roam the city and get into bars and for some reason they're never carded. Parties are thrown without parents. That's my kind of childhood.
Every time I went into a bar when I was underaged, I was eaten up with excitement and fear. Something about being where the adults were gave me a thrill. Although I have to say the flattery of having some guy hit on me has given way to disgust at some guy hitting on a teenager.
It's not that I was cool. I just happened to be a girl geek who lucked into a nightlife.
I wonder if anyone has a life resembling a teenage movie. If they do, I'd like to meet them. If they're one of my students, I'd give extra credit for the conversation.
My best friend in New Orleans shared my love of the teen oeuvre. The magic words would be "How about a teen movie night?"
This was on the nights we weren't blowing local celebs.
One of my favorite parts of teen movies is how age isn't a factor. Adolescents play after hours in a big city that's rendered pretty much generic at the hands of the director. After all, does anyone feel like they know Chicago from John Hughes?
The characters roam the city and get into bars and for some reason they're never carded. Parties are thrown without parents. That's my kind of childhood.
Every time I went into a bar when I was underaged, I was eaten up with excitement and fear. Something about being where the adults were gave me a thrill. Although I have to say the flattery of having some guy hit on me has given way to disgust at some guy hitting on a teenager.
It's not that I was cool. I just happened to be a girl geek who lucked into a nightlife.
I wonder if anyone has a life resembling a teenage movie. If they do, I'd like to meet them. If they're one of my students, I'd give extra credit for the conversation.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
The Big Bang Theory of How I Met Your Mother
I love The Big Bang Theory and How I Met Your Mother.
I was all set to hate the former. It was a stop-gap to 8:30 and I am one of those souls who will sit through a program in order to get to the show on the other side. It didn't help that the premise wasn't promising. A gaggle* of nerds and a pretty neighbor interact. How stupid does that sound?
Despite the potential flaws, The Big Bang Theory succeeds. The writing is smart and the cast has a great chemistry. I'd like to believe they all get along in real life. The most surprising chemistry is between the characters of Sheldon and Penny. If the writers decide to put a romance in their arcs, it wouldn't be unbelievable.
HIMYM had one of its funniest episodes last night. Marshall and Barney start texting Ted, pretending to be a girl he just met because he gets too serious too soon.
Hijinks ensue and they're hilarious, including the best line: "Why are we having sex with Ted?"
One solid hour of entertainment in this misbegotten world isn't anything to take for granted.
*nerds needs a collective noun.
I was all set to hate the former. It was a stop-gap to 8:30 and I am one of those souls who will sit through a program in order to get to the show on the other side. It didn't help that the premise wasn't promising. A gaggle* of nerds and a pretty neighbor interact. How stupid does that sound?
Despite the potential flaws, The Big Bang Theory succeeds. The writing is smart and the cast has a great chemistry. I'd like to believe they all get along in real life. The most surprising chemistry is between the characters of Sheldon and Penny. If the writers decide to put a romance in their arcs, it wouldn't be unbelievable.
HIMYM had one of its funniest episodes last night. Marshall and Barney start texting Ted, pretending to be a girl he just met because he gets too serious too soon.
Hijinks ensue and they're hilarious, including the best line: "Why are we having sex with Ted?"
One solid hour of entertainment in this misbegotten world isn't anything to take for granted.
*nerds needs a collective noun.
One man's trash is another's viewing pleasure
I've had a number of debates about TV with my colleagues. English teachers should be of the "kill your TV" mindset, and if they aren't, then they should only watch PBS and the History Channel.
Please. You're talking to a woman who's irked that Entertainment Weekly was a double issue the week before last which means there was no issue this week.
A woman who won't go above basic cable because she knows the premium channels would take over her life, a bondage she'd be happy to enter.
Thanks to syndication, Friends is on for a solid two hours every night. I try to keep my viewing down to one because it's already alarming how many of my pet sayings come from sitcoms and movies.
People complain primetime is too mindless. I don't care. All I ask of my shows is that they have characters I can like and reasonable plots. Sitcoms should be funny, but they don't have to make me fall on the floor. If I crack a smile a couple times during the half hour, that's enough.
The most I ask from them is to get me out of my head for a spell and to provide fodder for conversation.
Please. You're talking to a woman who's irked that Entertainment Weekly was a double issue the week before last which means there was no issue this week.
A woman who won't go above basic cable because she knows the premium channels would take over her life, a bondage she'd be happy to enter.
Thanks to syndication, Friends is on for a solid two hours every night. I try to keep my viewing down to one because it's already alarming how many of my pet sayings come from sitcoms and movies.
People complain primetime is too mindless. I don't care. All I ask of my shows is that they have characters I can like and reasonable plots. Sitcoms should be funny, but they don't have to make me fall on the floor. If I crack a smile a couple times during the half hour, that's enough.
The most I ask from them is to get me out of my head for a spell and to provide fodder for conversation.
How Shakira saved Christmas
Shakira's "Hips Don't Lie" video always makes me smile. Wyclef and Shakira? My cup runneth over.
I have a soft spot for Shakira because of one rainy Christmas.
On Christmas Eve a few years back, I was working. A poor girl far from home subjected to the worst customers of the year. Customers are always extra nasty on Sundays and around Christmas.
I think the Sabbath and the holidays use up all their goodwill.
My shift ended after a run in with a particularly foul individual and his wife. I wasn't rude to them even though their attitudes required me to draw on all the patience I had in reserve.
There I was, riding home on the Max, thinking of my family and crying against the smeary window.
Tattoo Queen called me after I got home and asked if I wanted to come over. We'd planned to spend Christmas Day together. I dissolved into a soggy mush over the phone and she said the magic sentence: "I'll make margaritas."
We opened our presents once I arrived. I had bought her a Shakira CD because I saw her on the Grammys and fell in love.
TQ's reaction to the present was perfect: turns out she had heard a song and loved it and wanted the CD.
It was a Christmas miracle. As long as you're not looking for a savior of the world type miracle.
We put on the CD and proceeded to drink and dance our way into Christmas morning.
Shakira is still my favorite choice for dancing to when no one's watching. Maybe I can't move my hips like that, but I give it my very best.
I have a soft spot for Shakira because of one rainy Christmas.
On Christmas Eve a few years back, I was working. A poor girl far from home subjected to the worst customers of the year. Customers are always extra nasty on Sundays and around Christmas.
I think the Sabbath and the holidays use up all their goodwill.
My shift ended after a run in with a particularly foul individual and his wife. I wasn't rude to them even though their attitudes required me to draw on all the patience I had in reserve.
There I was, riding home on the Max, thinking of my family and crying against the smeary window.
Tattoo Queen called me after I got home and asked if I wanted to come over. We'd planned to spend Christmas Day together. I dissolved into a soggy mush over the phone and she said the magic sentence: "I'll make margaritas."
We opened our presents once I arrived. I had bought her a Shakira CD because I saw her on the Grammys and fell in love.
TQ's reaction to the present was perfect: turns out she had heard a song and loved it and wanted the CD.
It was a Christmas miracle. As long as you're not looking for a savior of the world type miracle.
We put on the CD and proceeded to drink and dance our way into Christmas morning.
Shakira is still my favorite choice for dancing to when no one's watching. Maybe I can't move my hips like that, but I give it my very best.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Ladies go crazy and meanderings
A romance I was reading had a hero asking the dress code of a bar, and the heroine replied that is was "trendy casual".
I was dying for the author to describe the guy's clothes. I never go for clothing descriptions in books; drawn out details about wardrobes lead me to skim until I get to plot.
But this caught my attention. I was looking forward to what the guy would wear.
The author never said.
Which reminded me of an incident in a Sweet Valley High book. Spoiler. Elizabeth was planning a dance and her boyfriend (either Todd or Jeff) said that the dress should be "antique tuxedos".
Holy smokes, I thought that was sophisticated. I had heard of tuxedos and thought that they were massively classy (until I had to wear one for a fine dining job and grew tired of dressing for the prom every night). To my adolescent mind, antique tuxedos must be beyond sophistication.
There's no such thing as an antique tuxedo: vintage- maybe, antique- nope.
Then again, when I was much younger, I thought bagels were the height of sophistication. This was before they were offered in grocery stores and coffee shops.
I'm trying to think what I find sophisticated now. The most recent brush with true class happened years ago when a woman came into the restaurant with a full length mink coat. I'd never seen a real mink coat, let alone touched one. She insisted in full snot mode that I put it in a special place away from the other coats in the coatroom. Maybe she didn't want the other coats to feel bad.
I stashed it in the manager's office, hanging it over the desk chair with the greatest of care-
-right after I tried it on and catwalked up and down the room a couple times.
I was dying for the author to describe the guy's clothes. I never go for clothing descriptions in books; drawn out details about wardrobes lead me to skim until I get to plot.
But this caught my attention. I was looking forward to what the guy would wear.
The author never said.
Which reminded me of an incident in a Sweet Valley High book. Spoiler. Elizabeth was planning a dance and her boyfriend (either Todd or Jeff) said that the dress should be "antique tuxedos".
Holy smokes, I thought that was sophisticated. I had heard of tuxedos and thought that they were massively classy (until I had to wear one for a fine dining job and grew tired of dressing for the prom every night). To my adolescent mind, antique tuxedos must be beyond sophistication.
There's no such thing as an antique tuxedo: vintage- maybe, antique- nope.
Then again, when I was much younger, I thought bagels were the height of sophistication. This was before they were offered in grocery stores and coffee shops.
I'm trying to think what I find sophisticated now. The most recent brush with true class happened years ago when a woman came into the restaurant with a full length mink coat. I'd never seen a real mink coat, let alone touched one. She insisted in full snot mode that I put it in a special place away from the other coats in the coatroom. Maybe she didn't want the other coats to feel bad.
I stashed it in the manager's office, hanging it over the desk chair with the greatest of care-
-right after I tried it on and catwalked up and down the room a couple times.
You're not impressing me
Claims that guys think are cool, but really come off as pathetic:
1. I'm going to get a tattoo. This only goes for men who are uninked.
2. I'm going to shave my head.
3. I'm going to buy a Harley.
Saying one of these is the equivalent of stamping a big old "P" on the forehead.
Yes, at different times during my life, I've heard these claims.
1. I'm going to get a tattoo. This only goes for men who are uninked.
2. I'm going to shave my head.
3. I'm going to buy a Harley.
Saying one of these is the equivalent of stamping a big old "P" on the forehead.
Yes, at different times during my life, I've heard these claims.
I love grammar, but I don't want a commitment
I keep hearing about these people who go around with sharpies and correct grammatical errors on signs.
Should I be doing this? I don't want to be remiss in carrying out a mission if that's what I'm supposed to do.
A dirty little secret of high school is that few teachers teach grammar. It's dry and boring and the students hate it.
All good reasons to avoid instruction.
I teach it because one of the biggest complaints of college professors is the students' lack of writing skills. I figure the students learn the rules and get to know the English language inside and out.
My grammar is far from perfect. There are typos on this blog that are absolute howlers, but I decided if I went back and fixed my misspellings and rapine of the language, I'd end up deleting everything.
Thanatos needs only a crack in the door to slip through and fuck up everything.
Back to the grammarians. I don't know if I'm lacking passion about English. I keep feeling the foot soldiers are carrying on the war without me. Here I sit, complacent and sharpie-less, feeling only the slightest twinge to go out and change every incorrect apostrophe or plural.
Should I be doing this? I don't want to be remiss in carrying out a mission if that's what I'm supposed to do.
A dirty little secret of high school is that few teachers teach grammar. It's dry and boring and the students hate it.
All good reasons to avoid instruction.
I teach it because one of the biggest complaints of college professors is the students' lack of writing skills. I figure the students learn the rules and get to know the English language inside and out.
My grammar is far from perfect. There are typos on this blog that are absolute howlers, but I decided if I went back and fixed my misspellings and rapine of the language, I'd end up deleting everything.
Thanatos needs only a crack in the door to slip through and fuck up everything.
Back to the grammarians. I don't know if I'm lacking passion about English. I keep feeling the foot soldiers are carrying on the war without me. Here I sit, complacent and sharpie-less, feeling only the slightest twinge to go out and change every incorrect apostrophe or plural.
#437 of what I'm a sucker for
Sometimes I'm jealous of movies.
They get to do all sorts of shit that can't be done in books. Yeah, I know books tend to be better and there are very few movie versions of books that come close- let alone surpass- the written word, but I sometimes get a visual envy.
Two scenes I will never get tired of:
1. When the protagonist shoots or slices at the villain and there's a pause. The villian smiles in an extra smarmy way, but wait...a small circle of blood begins to widen on their shirt or a limb falls off.
This was done to great effect in the first Highlander movie.
2. When the protagonist strikes a certain pose: On one knee, head sort of bowed, swords or staffs held behind them. God, I love this image. I would begin every class in this position if I didn't think it would freak the students out.
They get to do all sorts of shit that can't be done in books. Yeah, I know books tend to be better and there are very few movie versions of books that come close- let alone surpass- the written word, but I sometimes get a visual envy.
Two scenes I will never get tired of:
1. When the protagonist shoots or slices at the villain and there's a pause. The villian smiles in an extra smarmy way, but wait...a small circle of blood begins to widen on their shirt or a limb falls off.
This was done to great effect in the first Highlander movie.
2. When the protagonist strikes a certain pose: On one knee, head sort of bowed, swords or staffs held behind them. God, I love this image. I would begin every class in this position if I didn't think it would freak the students out.
I live for tidbits
A bit of celebrity gossip has been bothering me.
Jennifer Aniston takes three minute showers.
How the hell does she do it? Especially when you factor in that she's one of those people who brush their teeth in the shower.
I've cut mine to 5-6 minutes, but I brush my teeth over the sink for the 120 seconds allotted by my electric toothbrush.
Three minutes? Brushing teeth, scrubbing the bod, and washing the hair?
I can't do it. I tried, but the timer went off before I finished soaping up and my conditioner was still in my hair.
Gotta say that my initial conclusion is something's not getting clean; however, I'm a nasty person. Maybe her exercise regime keeps her fit and lets her hands wield a washcloth like lightning.
Jennifer Aniston takes three minute showers.
How the hell does she do it? Especially when you factor in that she's one of those people who brush their teeth in the shower.
I've cut mine to 5-6 minutes, but I brush my teeth over the sink for the 120 seconds allotted by my electric toothbrush.
Three minutes? Brushing teeth, scrubbing the bod, and washing the hair?
I can't do it. I tried, but the timer went off before I finished soaping up and my conditioner was still in my hair.
Gotta say that my initial conclusion is something's not getting clean; however, I'm a nasty person. Maybe her exercise regime keeps her fit and lets her hands wield a washcloth like lightning.
A one little rocking horse town
My town is small.
My two brothers and I went on a pub crawl last night which consisted of four bars because that's pretty much it in town.
The main drag with all the bars is within walking distance from home. No need for a dezzy.
I was enjoying a pint of Blue Moon when my brother leaned over and said, "You know, you could write about anything."
I guess I could.
"You could write about cowboys if you wanted."
Yup. It got me to thinking about writing. I'm not certain I'll get to all the stories or story ideas in my head, but when my brain serves up a notion or plot or character, I always feel the horizon is endless.
The boundary for my imagination seems limitless even though my life is decidedly limited.
I'm not sure that's a bad thing.
I believe in the whole "Be quiet in your life and loud in your art." Even in this rinky-dink town, there are artists in the community who are known for their first rate shenanigans (what fodder for gossip!) and third rate creations.
I don't know if I'll get to my cowboys, but it's nice to know I could.
My two brothers and I went on a pub crawl last night which consisted of four bars because that's pretty much it in town.
The main drag with all the bars is within walking distance from home. No need for a dezzy.
I was enjoying a pint of Blue Moon when my brother leaned over and said, "You know, you could write about anything."
I guess I could.
"You could write about cowboys if you wanted."
Yup. It got me to thinking about writing. I'm not certain I'll get to all the stories or story ideas in my head, but when my brain serves up a notion or plot or character, I always feel the horizon is endless.
The boundary for my imagination seems limitless even though my life is decidedly limited.
I'm not sure that's a bad thing.
I believe in the whole "Be quiet in your life and loud in your art." Even in this rinky-dink town, there are artists in the community who are known for their first rate shenanigans (what fodder for gossip!) and third rate creations.
I don't know if I'll get to my cowboys, but it's nice to know I could.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
sing your song and look pretty
Glimpses into the rock and roll lifestyle somehow fulfill a need in me.
The hedonism and id go beyond my wildest imaginings. I can't picture playing to a packed stadium and then going to the hotel room and showering with four or five complete strangers who want nothing more than to make my dirtiest fantasy a reality.
I can handle the darker side of the tale, but the human side is harder to take.
I watched Some Kind of Monster, a doc about Metallica's comeback, and the movie focuses on the angst of the band.
Metallica used to be a mainstay of MTV; if "Enter Sandman" wasn't playing at that moment, you only had to wait a minute until it came on.
James Hetfield was torched during a concert and a roadie fill in until his injury was healed. The band was hardcore. Actually, the past tense isn't accurate.
When the movie starts, the band has lost its bassist, started recording a new album, and is pretty much on the verge of breaking up.
The three hire a therapist and let the cameras in on sessions. The vulnerability the men show during this ordeal killed me.
My first reaction was cringe. I didn't want to see James Hetfield uncertain or pissy or passive aggressive. I would've rather watched him get sucked off by a groupie.
The massive unfairness of my response made me think. Let me admire the tattoos and love the music, but letting me into the tortured relationship among men who are fated to be together and miserable much of the time was almost too much.
I don't want my heroes to be human. Here I thought I had at least an acquaintance with open-mindedness, but when it comes down to it, I'd rather go for the cardboard cutout.
Yes, I did cry a little bit when Hetfield told the inmates at San Quentin that we all have the same size soul.
The hedonism and id go beyond my wildest imaginings. I can't picture playing to a packed stadium and then going to the hotel room and showering with four or five complete strangers who want nothing more than to make my dirtiest fantasy a reality.
I can handle the darker side of the tale, but the human side is harder to take.
I watched Some Kind of Monster, a doc about Metallica's comeback, and the movie focuses on the angst of the band.
Metallica used to be a mainstay of MTV; if "Enter Sandman" wasn't playing at that moment, you only had to wait a minute until it came on.
James Hetfield was torched during a concert and a roadie fill in until his injury was healed. The band was hardcore. Actually, the past tense isn't accurate.
When the movie starts, the band has lost its bassist, started recording a new album, and is pretty much on the verge of breaking up.
The three hire a therapist and let the cameras in on sessions. The vulnerability the men show during this ordeal killed me.
My first reaction was cringe. I didn't want to see James Hetfield uncertain or pissy or passive aggressive. I would've rather watched him get sucked off by a groupie.
The massive unfairness of my response made me think. Let me admire the tattoos and love the music, but letting me into the tortured relationship among men who are fated to be together and miserable much of the time was almost too much.
I don't want my heroes to be human. Here I thought I had at least an acquaintance with open-mindedness, but when it comes down to it, I'd rather go for the cardboard cutout.
Yes, I did cry a little bit when Hetfield told the inmates at San Quentin that we all have the same size soul.
He's with the band
I watched a Metallica doc earlier today. I thoroughly recommend it as long as the viewer likes Metallica and documentaries.
It made me think about my narrow view of men and heroes.
But instead of talking about that, I'd rather skim the surface.
I love the homoerotica relationship between lead singers and guitarists.
I love guys who look like they're getting off while they're performing.
I loved it when Lars Ulrich said, "What gets me hard..." when pointing out a striking piece of music. I want to appropriate that phrase for everyday life- beyond the hearing of the littluns.
I don't know how any woman could think she could come between a man and his mic or guitar or drumset.
It made me think about my narrow view of men and heroes.
But instead of talking about that, I'd rather skim the surface.
I love the homoerotica relationship between lead singers and guitarists.
I love guys who look like they're getting off while they're performing.
I loved it when Lars Ulrich said, "What gets me hard..." when pointing out a striking piece of music. I want to appropriate that phrase for everyday life- beyond the hearing of the littluns.
I don't know how any woman could think she could come between a man and his mic or guitar or drumset.
Pictures are intentional
Entertainment Weekly had a pic of Joseph Gordon-Levitt in this week's issue.
Even if picturing him as Cobra Commander leaves me scratching my head, that bit of news wasn't nearly as puzzling as his photo.
Who does he look like?
Heath Ledger.
You can't tell me this was an accident.
(Yes, the blasted movie still continues. I'm thinking of breaking my Dylan CDs and throwing in my Wallflower CD for good measure.)
Even if picturing him as Cobra Commander leaves me scratching my head, that bit of news wasn't nearly as puzzling as his photo.
Who does he look like?
Heath Ledger.
You can't tell me this was an accident.
(Yes, the blasted movie still continues. I'm thinking of breaking my Dylan CDs and throwing in my Wallflower CD for good measure.)
another movie review
I'm currently watching I'm Not There.
I cannot express how much I hate this movie. The only reason I'm in it until the bitter end is that I've had it hanging around the house for a week and returning it unwatched (damn, I gotta get a term for that) would be admitting a kind of defeat.
Hey, it's the guy from Double Jeopardy. Now that's a movie I love.
Martin Scorsese made me get over the dislike I had for Bob Dylan and actually grow to love the man and his music. Scorsese's doc is an incredible snapshot of genius.
This odious movie is the very opposite. The tendrils of my old dislike are winding their way around my heart and head.
Cate Blanchett's portrayal is the strongest and most straightforward of all the players.
(Can I just say that seeing Cate Blanchett and Tilda Swinton in Benjamin Button was completely disconcerting and jeopardized the foundation of the space-time continuum. I'm grateful the director didn't put them in the same scene. I don't think the earth would've been spared).
I don't think this movie's going to end. Sartre was wrong: hell is endless biopics.
The execution of this movie is the reason I detest intellectualism and literary fiction. Everything's coy and if the reaction is dislike, there's the whole I'm probably not getting it factor.
Maybe the references and subtext are sailing right over my head and splatting on the wall.
Maybe I don't have the right password to understand the inside jokes.
But I'll say what I usually say in those instances when wankery is dispensed as profound: that emperor is nekkid!
I cannot express how much I hate this movie. The only reason I'm in it until the bitter end is that I've had it hanging around the house for a week and returning it unwatched (damn, I gotta get a term for that) would be admitting a kind of defeat.
Hey, it's the guy from Double Jeopardy. Now that's a movie I love.
Martin Scorsese made me get over the dislike I had for Bob Dylan and actually grow to love the man and his music. Scorsese's doc is an incredible snapshot of genius.
This odious movie is the very opposite. The tendrils of my old dislike are winding their way around my heart and head.
Cate Blanchett's portrayal is the strongest and most straightforward of all the players.
(Can I just say that seeing Cate Blanchett and Tilda Swinton in Benjamin Button was completely disconcerting and jeopardized the foundation of the space-time continuum. I'm grateful the director didn't put them in the same scene. I don't think the earth would've been spared).
I don't think this movie's going to end. Sartre was wrong: hell is endless biopics.
The execution of this movie is the reason I detest intellectualism and literary fiction. Everything's coy and if the reaction is dislike, there's the whole I'm probably not getting it factor.
Maybe the references and subtext are sailing right over my head and splatting on the wall.
Maybe I don't have the right password to understand the inside jokes.
But I'll say what I usually say in those instances when wankery is dispensed as profound: that emperor is nekkid!
Behind every genius
In every success story is the common thread of the teacher who told the genius they would never amount to anything.
I'm pretty sure I'm going to be that teacher at least once in my life.
I'll be in the same league as the guy who told Einstein he was retarded and the jerk who told Edison he was addled.
My whuffie will go down, parents will shield their children from me, and the public scorn will keep me imprisoned in my house.
I'm storing up the responses I'll give to the press:
a. "Yes, I am made of teachersuckage."
b. "I like to believe the minute I called bs on ____________ was the minute __________ was set on the path to success."
c. "Well, _______________ was a prime asshole in my class. Maybe ____________ changed."
I'm pretty sure I'm going to be that teacher at least once in my life.
I'll be in the same league as the guy who told Einstein he was retarded and the jerk who told Edison he was addled.
My whuffie will go down, parents will shield their children from me, and the public scorn will keep me imprisoned in my house.
I'm storing up the responses I'll give to the press:
a. "Yes, I am made of teachersuckage."
b. "I like to believe the minute I called bs on ____________ was the minute __________ was set on the path to success."
c. "Well, _______________ was a prime asshole in my class. Maybe ____________ changed."
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Agent for a day
Of all of the fallout from #agentfail, Nathan Bransford's response is the best: be an agent for a day.
I think this idea is made of incredible and frosted with excellent.
It was too late for me to comment on the queries, but I read them all and checked out a bulk of the responses.
Three of the queries were for already published books, which I knew before I started wading through the fifty. Even though I made my mind up pretty quick on some of them, I kept on wondering if I made the right choice: was this one of the three?
He won't do the big reveal until tomorrow.
No, I wouldn't want to be an agent or an editor. The idea that I might be the one to turn down Harry Potter or the Da Vinci Code would put me in a catatonic state.
Some of the queries and sample pages gave me immediate viceral responses- positive and negative. I wonder if editors and agents ever go with their guts toward the negative responses. There have been plenty of best sellers that turn my stomach immediately and maybe the stomach-churning response could be just as telltale as the electric-eel-to-the-heart reaction.
I can't wait to find out the results.
I think this idea is made of incredible and frosted with excellent.
It was too late for me to comment on the queries, but I read them all and checked out a bulk of the responses.
Three of the queries were for already published books, which I knew before I started wading through the fifty. Even though I made my mind up pretty quick on some of them, I kept on wondering if I made the right choice: was this one of the three?
He won't do the big reveal until tomorrow.
No, I wouldn't want to be an agent or an editor. The idea that I might be the one to turn down Harry Potter or the Da Vinci Code would put me in a catatonic state.
Some of the queries and sample pages gave me immediate viceral responses- positive and negative. I wonder if editors and agents ever go with their guts toward the negative responses. There have been plenty of best sellers that turn my stomach immediately and maybe the stomach-churning response could be just as telltale as the electric-eel-to-the-heart reaction.
I can't wait to find out the results.
Would you call it cyberstalking if...?
Say I had a really great friend 16 years ago, and because of life and geographical changes, we lost touch. And then say I accidentally on purpose found her blog during a whimsical Google search.
A quick stroll through the archives of her posts and I'm all caught up with her life.
Is that creepy or normal? Or is it one of those things that everybody does, but that doesn't make it less creepy?
I'm tempted to drop her a note. She was one of the first girl geeks I ever met and it was a ton of fun to get our dorkage on. We didn't part on bad terms and I've always kind of regretted losing touch with her.
But she lives a couple thousand miles away and doesn't seem to have a me-size hole in her life.
I've been thinking about the dropping in from out of nowhere phenomenon that's been occurring thanks to Facebook and the like.
Members of my family swear by the Face, but as long as students are on there, I'm gonna take a pass.
There are a number of teachers who have friended students on the Face and I'm thinking that's a big old can of chunky awful waiting to explode.
My sister has received numerous requests from people she knew in high school. These aren't even friends...acquaintances from more thirteen years ago want her to friend them.
Not to mention the couple of people who were so crazy in high school no amount of character evolution will balance out the heaping helping of psycho they dished out.
This keeps me from contacting my friend. Even though we lost touch in an understandable and non-crazy way, I don't want anyone to look at my name in the comments and say, "What the frak?"*
*despite the 16 year out of touchage, I know she would say this.
A quick stroll through the archives of her posts and I'm all caught up with her life.
Is that creepy or normal? Or is it one of those things that everybody does, but that doesn't make it less creepy?
I'm tempted to drop her a note. She was one of the first girl geeks I ever met and it was a ton of fun to get our dorkage on. We didn't part on bad terms and I've always kind of regretted losing touch with her.
But she lives a couple thousand miles away and doesn't seem to have a me-size hole in her life.
I've been thinking about the dropping in from out of nowhere phenomenon that's been occurring thanks to Facebook and the like.
Members of my family swear by the Face, but as long as students are on there, I'm gonna take a pass.
There are a number of teachers who have friended students on the Face and I'm thinking that's a big old can of chunky awful waiting to explode.
My sister has received numerous requests from people she knew in high school. These aren't even friends...acquaintances from more thirteen years ago want her to friend them.
Not to mention the couple of people who were so crazy in high school no amount of character evolution will balance out the heaping helping of psycho they dished out.
This keeps me from contacting my friend. Even though we lost touch in an understandable and non-crazy way, I don't want anyone to look at my name in the comments and say, "What the frak?"*
*despite the 16 year out of touchage, I know she would say this.
Reason #57 for loving Twilight
The best thing I love about the Twilight series is that it gave me a serious in with many of my students this year. I'm not one for taking a bonding moment for granted.
I recently saw the Twilight movie. Now I'm dying to know if Kirsten Stewart has more than one expression and am almost willing to shell out the cash for Adventureland to find out. Almost.
Someone please tell me what was up with the actor playing Jasper. His hair I might've forgiven, but what the hell was he doing with his face?
The fight in the dance studio was great to see...I'm a straight up sucker for wire-fighting and people crashing into mirrors, walls, and columns.
Hands down, the hottest part of the movie was the flashback that showed Carlisle biting Edward. Almost made me want to hunt up some Carlisle and Edward slash.
Almost.
I recently saw the Twilight movie. Now I'm dying to know if Kirsten Stewart has more than one expression and am almost willing to shell out the cash for Adventureland to find out. Almost.
Someone please tell me what was up with the actor playing Jasper. His hair I might've forgiven, but what the hell was he doing with his face?
The fight in the dance studio was great to see...I'm a straight up sucker for wire-fighting and people crashing into mirrors, walls, and columns.
Hands down, the hottest part of the movie was the flashback that showed Carlisle biting Edward. Almost made me want to hunt up some Carlisle and Edward slash.
Almost.
Do you wanna dance?
Yes, I am that person you see at the stop sign or red light who is jamming to a song unmindful of the world outside her car.
Singing along to some tune (country, classic rock, metal, or what-have-you), making the requisite dramatic expressions, and dancing as far as her seatbelt will let her.
This is the reason I don't listen to NPR- which might be a punishable and/or firing offense for a teacher. I can't go anywhere in my car without music.
None of that fancy-schmancy satellite radio for me...I'm more than happy to listen to commercials or sit through loathsome songs to get to the one that lets me sing along.
I'm not an exhibitionist and feel comfortable fading into the background, but get me behind the wheel and the obscurity of a clear windshield and I can rock with the best of them.
You should hear my "Wanted Dead or Alive."
Singing along to some tune (country, classic rock, metal, or what-have-you), making the requisite dramatic expressions, and dancing as far as her seatbelt will let her.
This is the reason I don't listen to NPR- which might be a punishable and/or firing offense for a teacher. I can't go anywhere in my car without music.
None of that fancy-schmancy satellite radio for me...I'm more than happy to listen to commercials or sit through loathsome songs to get to the one that lets me sing along.
I'm not an exhibitionist and feel comfortable fading into the background, but get me behind the wheel and the obscurity of a clear windshield and I can rock with the best of them.
You should hear my "Wanted Dead or Alive."
The one when vacation ends
The last night of April vacation and the refrain of the day has been "All good things..."
Which may be bittersweet, but it's not bad. Next week starts the steady descent toward summer.
I haven't finished the second orgy of books and I didn't get an oil change, but I wrote and read up a storm.
My nephew came over today and told me a joke he just learned: Why did the chicken cross the road?
That lead to a steady stream of why did the ______ cross the road and it sure as hell cracked me up.
He's graduated from T-ball to baseball this year and is psyched to bring his glove over for practice. That's one of the great things about little kids. I'm no athlete, but to a seven year old, I may as well be.
You can bet I'm thanking the self of before vacation for doing all her correcting and photocopying and even changing the date on the board so I can ease back into the routine.
Now, if I can only get off my nocturnal schedule, I'll be all set.
Which may be bittersweet, but it's not bad. Next week starts the steady descent toward summer.
I haven't finished the second orgy of books and I didn't get an oil change, but I wrote and read up a storm.
My nephew came over today and told me a joke he just learned: Why did the chicken cross the road?
That lead to a steady stream of why did the ______ cross the road and it sure as hell cracked me up.
He's graduated from T-ball to baseball this year and is psyched to bring his glove over for practice. That's one of the great things about little kids. I'm no athlete, but to a seven year old, I may as well be.
You can bet I'm thanking the self of before vacation for doing all her correcting and photocopying and even changing the date on the board so I can ease back into the routine.
Now, if I can only get off my nocturnal schedule, I'll be all set.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Teacher's Guide to Wildlife is up
Teacher's Guide to Wildlife is up at Samhain's site: cover, blurb, excerpt, and all.
The release date is June 16, which will now be my favorite date in the whole world.
I can't believe it's finally here!
The release date is June 16, which will now be my favorite date in the whole world.
I can't believe it's finally here!
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Ideas are like legos
I love deconstructions- love the very idea of them. Take a concept and twist, twist, twist...
Geraldine Brooks did it with Little Women by writing March, a tale told from the POV of the kindly and wise pater familias.
I could've done without the description of his gorge rising during the reunion. But I admire the sheer brilliance of the undertaking.
Would I be too much of a copycat if I put told the story of Amy's bitter and unhappy marriage to Laurie?
I'd describe the time when Amy pushes him off her and slaps him for saying Jo's name in bed- again.
The huge fight they had over their daughter's name...He wanted the baby to be called Josephine, while Amy- scrambling for another alternative- settles on Beth, the dead sister she really had no great affection for.
Maybe Laurie flirts with Jo constantly and always finds a reason to mosey on over to Plumfield when Professor B is away.
There'll be one scene of extreme histrionics when Amy slams the family portrait she painted over his head.
I tell you, it'd be great to write.
Geraldine Brooks did it with Little Women by writing March, a tale told from the POV of the kindly and wise pater familias.
I could've done without the description of his gorge rising during the reunion. But I admire the sheer brilliance of the undertaking.
Would I be too much of a copycat if I put told the story of Amy's bitter and unhappy marriage to Laurie?
I'd describe the time when Amy pushes him off her and slaps him for saying Jo's name in bed- again.
The huge fight they had over their daughter's name...He wanted the baby to be called Josephine, while Amy- scrambling for another alternative- settles on Beth, the dead sister she really had no great affection for.
Maybe Laurie flirts with Jo constantly and always finds a reason to mosey on over to Plumfield when Professor B is away.
There'll be one scene of extreme histrionics when Amy slams the family portrait she painted over his head.
I tell you, it'd be great to write.
Another great book
I finally got around to my orgy of reading yesterday.
My luck with the books hasn't been too good lately. I've read a couple of highly recommended books in the past months that didn't make me just want to throw the books across the room; no, I wanted to hurl them off the Empire State not caring who was nailed in the process.
But I had the good sense to pick up Scalzi's Old Man's War for my orgy. I'm so glad I invited it along for the party.
As a longtime reader of Scalzi's blog, I started feeling guilty about not reading his books. Guilt, however, was a small part of my purchase. I was curious how he handled fiction and wanted to dip my toe into some science fiction.
Old Man's War is excellent. It's like Starship Troopers (the movie), but with characters I cared for and more plausibility with the hack-n-slash.
It's like the Asimov and Bradbury I cut my teeth on, but don't reread because of the dated coquetry that spoils another look.
A completely enjoyable read...It brought back how I always feel after reading a great book: refreshed and eager eyed, glad to live in a world of such writers and such stories.
My luck with the books hasn't been too good lately. I've read a couple of highly recommended books in the past months that didn't make me just want to throw the books across the room; no, I wanted to hurl them off the Empire State not caring who was nailed in the process.
But I had the good sense to pick up Scalzi's Old Man's War for my orgy. I'm so glad I invited it along for the party.
As a longtime reader of Scalzi's blog, I started feeling guilty about not reading his books. Guilt, however, was a small part of my purchase. I was curious how he handled fiction and wanted to dip my toe into some science fiction.
Old Man's War is excellent. It's like Starship Troopers (the movie), but with characters I cared for and more plausibility with the hack-n-slash.
It's like the Asimov and Bradbury I cut my teeth on, but don't reread because of the dated coquetry that spoils another look.
A completely enjoyable read...It brought back how I always feel after reading a great book: refreshed and eager eyed, glad to live in a world of such writers and such stories.
yet another post about #amazonfail
Cheryl Morgan has a great comment on the failure of Amazon.
I'm thinking about the absolutely willing dominance I gave Amazon. What a great place, surely it has all my best interests at heart. It even greets me by name and with recommendations every time I log in.
That's #consumerfail.
The recent events of the economy and all this fuckery show that most people are perfectly consenual in their own infantilization. Goddamn, if it don't make me disgusted with myself.
Of course, I do have a pervasive scorn for the hyenas and vultures that make their living off scamming people.
But...But...what is this innocence and trust we have? How did we all get taken in?
Was it laziness, kowtowing to authority, or a group naivete that would be really charming in a different context?
I fear the heart of darkness, but I'm also learning to fear the heart of a child.
I'm thinking about the absolutely willing dominance I gave Amazon. What a great place, surely it has all my best interests at heart. It even greets me by name and with recommendations every time I log in.
That's #consumerfail.
The recent events of the economy and all this fuckery show that most people are perfectly consenual in their own infantilization. Goddamn, if it don't make me disgusted with myself.
Of course, I do have a pervasive scorn for the hyenas and vultures that make their living off scamming people.
But...But...what is this innocence and trust we have? How did we all get taken in?
Was it laziness, kowtowing to authority, or a group naivete that would be really charming in a different context?
I fear the heart of darkness, but I'm also learning to fear the heart of a child.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
When mediocre minds falter
I've been putting my brain on the rack trying to come up with a word that describes netflix you let sit around the house and then return without watching.
Poor, unwatched Eternal Sunshine, Wristcutters, In Bruges, and I forget the rest.
I hope my subconscious gets on this right away- though I hate to drag the beastie away from solving 14-year-old boardgame stumpers.
Poor, unwatched Eternal Sunshine, Wristcutters, In Bruges, and I forget the rest.
I hope my subconscious gets on this right away- though I hate to drag the beastie away from solving 14-year-old boardgame stumpers.
Half-assed movie reviews
Since I've been "just let-flixing" and letting my queue come without alteration, I've been getting a mixed bag of movies.
I watched The Seeker: Dark is Rising today. That was a painful- and not in a good way- movie to sit through.
I don't mind ripoffs of Harry Potter or any other kid's fantasy as long as the result doesn't make me want to rip my teeth out and throw it at the screen.
The movie was pretty, I'll give it that. But the cinematographer graduated from the school of herky-jerks and the director thought the action would be better emphasized if he employed slo-mo.
Unless your name is John Woo, you should not do this.
I wanted to see the movie for two reasons: I like children's fantasy and love Ian McShane.
Alas, even McShane's gruffness couldn't compensate for the lack of everything else.
I watched The Seeker: Dark is Rising today. That was a painful- and not in a good way- movie to sit through.
I don't mind ripoffs of Harry Potter or any other kid's fantasy as long as the result doesn't make me want to rip my teeth out and throw it at the screen.
The movie was pretty, I'll give it that. But the cinematographer graduated from the school of herky-jerks and the director thought the action would be better emphasized if he employed slo-mo.
Unless your name is John Woo, you should not do this.
I wanted to see the movie for two reasons: I like children's fantasy and love Ian McShane.
Alas, even McShane's gruffness couldn't compensate for the lack of everything else.
Let me hear it for a little freedom
I finally finished the story after a bit of dicking around. At least my house is dusted and my laundry's folded.
The freedom of completing it tastes sweet. I'll do a once-over tomorrow, then send it on its merry way.
If nobody wants it, I'm putting it up on the web.
Following Gaiman's advice, I immediately got started on a new story. I don't mind putting myself in bondage that soon after release; it put a stop to the gnawing sense of self-worthlessness that's been dogging me.
I'm not willing to chalk it entirely up to PMS.
At least any dicking around tonight was earned.
The freedom of completing it tastes sweet. I'll do a once-over tomorrow, then send it on its merry way.
If nobody wants it, I'm putting it up on the web.
Following Gaiman's advice, I immediately got started on a new story. I don't mind putting myself in bondage that soon after release; it put a stop to the gnawing sense of self-worthlessness that's been dogging me.
I'm not willing to chalk it entirely up to PMS.
At least any dicking around tonight was earned.
Monday, April 13, 2009
#amazonfail
Dear Author has an overview of #amazonfail.
Searches around and around the web yield much conversation, but no clear ideas about the details.
It's like being bitchslapped by Santa Claus. I love Amazon like a child loves the proverbial,but I'm thinking about all those authors who've had their books deranked by this. It hurts.
This pure D amorality of not caring if you fuck with someone's livelihood kills me.
So I'm going to click my heels three times, refuse to shop Amazon until this fuckery is figured out, and try not to be disgusted at corporations, the human condition, and the naivete I didn't know I had.
Searches around and around the web yield much conversation, but no clear ideas about the details.
It's like being bitchslapped by Santa Claus. I love Amazon like a child loves the proverbial,but I'm thinking about all those authors who've had their books deranked by this. It hurts.
This pure D amorality of not caring if you fuck with someone's livelihood kills me.
So I'm going to click my heels three times, refuse to shop Amazon until this fuckery is figured out, and try not to be disgusted at corporations, the human condition, and the naivete I didn't know I had.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
my soul what gots green and petty in it
I've been dragging a razor across my wrist by reading the archives of a published author.
Never mind that I have an orgy of books to enjoy and netflix sitting on the TV. Not to mention invites to go out tonight.
I'm masochistic and hateful.
Her entitlement started to choke me and reading between the lines of her blog made me want to slam my hand in the door.
I'm jealous. Warty and big-footed jealous.
I've started the rewrites on my story and even though my subconscious was kind enough to serve up some plot-smoothers on the silver proverbial, the whiny brat inside is pouting.
Why can't my story be good as is? Why do I have to polish it? Why can't I wear the glass slipper?
And underneath the green monster is a huge nest of stark fear.
I need to turn the computer off and get myself a book and a cup of tea.
Never mind that I have an orgy of books to enjoy and netflix sitting on the TV. Not to mention invites to go out tonight.
I'm masochistic and hateful.
Her entitlement started to choke me and reading between the lines of her blog made me want to slam my hand in the door.
I'm jealous. Warty and big-footed jealous.
I've started the rewrites on my story and even though my subconscious was kind enough to serve up some plot-smoothers on the silver proverbial, the whiny brat inside is pouting.
Why can't my story be good as is? Why do I have to polish it? Why can't I wear the glass slipper?
And underneath the green monster is a huge nest of stark fear.
I need to turn the computer off and get myself a book and a cup of tea.
That time of the month
My mother doesn't believe in PMS. She's made of superhero and I can believe that the angel would see the mark on her door and pass right the hell over.
I don't hold her conviction.
Aside from the physical symptoms- back, breast, skin sensitivity and that goddamned adult acne- PMS really does a number on my head.
The kicker is that I never recognize it for what it is immediately. I see why the adults in the stories never recognize Count Olaf when he reappears.
My mind will go all darkity-dark and the general label of uselessness will be stamped on the day, the week, my life, and all my endeavors. My head won't listen to reason or the chirpy Pollyanna voice that usually coaxes me out of muddles.
I'll be neck deep in a good wallow when I finally realize that I'm not a snail sliding on the edge of a razor.
This realization never comes near the beginning of the angst and existential blues...it takes too long and happens too many times.
Why can't I recognize the tattoo or crooked nose right off? The Count is tricky and insidious, and I'm not a genius orphan.
I don't hold her conviction.
Aside from the physical symptoms- back, breast, skin sensitivity and that goddamned adult acne- PMS really does a number on my head.
The kicker is that I never recognize it for what it is immediately. I see why the adults in the stories never recognize Count Olaf when he reappears.
My mind will go all darkity-dark and the general label of uselessness will be stamped on the day, the week, my life, and all my endeavors. My head won't listen to reason or the chirpy Pollyanna voice that usually coaxes me out of muddles.
I'll be neck deep in a good wallow when I finally realize that I'm not a snail sliding on the edge of a razor.
This realization never comes near the beginning of the angst and existential blues...it takes too long and happens too many times.
Why can't I recognize the tattoo or crooked nose right off? The Count is tricky and insidious, and I'm not a genius orphan.
I got to get a new lightbulb for the attic
I'm of the belief that we forget nothing. Every memory we ever amassed is in our fool heads. We lose the keys to the doors or lose the ways to the corridors, but the memories themselves are still there and sometimes pop up at the oddest times.
Apropos of nothing, or nothing I was conscious of, the recollection of a Scrabble game showed up yesterday. It was a game I played 14 years ago with Major Ex and a friend of ours. I started off the game with the letters v, e, i, n, e, r, s.
I remembered looking at the letters feeling certain that a seven-letter word was there somewhere, but couldn't figure out what they spelled.
Yesterday it came to me: inverse.
More puzzling than the appearance of the memory was the solution that accompanied it. I'm a little pissed that my subconscious devoted years to solving that little conundrum when it should have been straightening out some screwed up baggage in the attic.
Apropos of nothing, or nothing I was conscious of, the recollection of a Scrabble game showed up yesterday. It was a game I played 14 years ago with Major Ex and a friend of ours. I started off the game with the letters v, e, i, n, e, r, s.
I remembered looking at the letters feeling certain that a seven-letter word was there somewhere, but couldn't figure out what they spelled.
Yesterday it came to me: inverse.
More puzzling than the appearance of the memory was the solution that accompanied it. I'm a little pissed that my subconscious devoted years to solving that little conundrum when it should have been straightening out some screwed up baggage in the attic.
I solemnly vow
Given yesterday's events, it would be easy for this vacation to slip down the internet sink where the only things I have at the end of the week are a bunch of blogs, blurry computer vision, and vague memories of various archives.
I can't let that happen. I won't let it happen.
I can't let that happen. I won't let it happen.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Another family birthday
My brother turned 40 this week and we celebrated in high style at the family's favorite watering hole.
My sister Emma was kind enough to play designated which meant I could drink to my heart's content.
I'm happy for my brother. He's recently started writing screenplays and enjoys it in the way that those who don't write have a hard time understanding.
His adult-ed teacher is this dick from community theater who suffers from an acute case of biggus-fishus-littlus-pondus. The one good thing about the class is that it keeps the students writing. The only advice I gave my brother was to know when the teacher has a point and to know when he's full of shit.
I'll freely admit I'm sort of relieved that my brother and I aren't in the same writing game. Sibling rivalry looks damn awful in middle age.
He's been churning out shorts for his class and for his own. He happens to be friends with two professional screenwriters (yup, you've heard of them) and what knocks me out is that they've been taking his efforts seriously.
I don't know why I'm always surprised when established writers give a hand up to beginner writers, but I am.
I'm hoping his forties end up being a great time in all aspects and on all levels.
My sister Emma was kind enough to play designated which meant I could drink to my heart's content.
I'm happy for my brother. He's recently started writing screenplays and enjoys it in the way that those who don't write have a hard time understanding.
His adult-ed teacher is this dick from community theater who suffers from an acute case of biggus-fishus-littlus-pondus. The one good thing about the class is that it keeps the students writing. The only advice I gave my brother was to know when the teacher has a point and to know when he's full of shit.
I'll freely admit I'm sort of relieved that my brother and I aren't in the same writing game. Sibling rivalry looks damn awful in middle age.
He's been churning out shorts for his class and for his own. He happens to be friends with two professional screenwriters (yup, you've heard of them) and what knocks me out is that they've been taking his efforts seriously.
I don't know why I'm always surprised when established writers give a hand up to beginner writers, but I am.
I'm hoping his forties end up being a great time in all aspects and on all levels.
Hello, gorgeous vacation
I stayed late at school yesterday, photocopying and grading like a pedagogical fiend, in order to achieve the zen of no schoolwork over vacation.
Feels pretty darn good.
For those people who crank that teachers don't work hard enough (like my dear, sweet aunt): I've done the math. With all the outside of school hours that I spend on school, I work 40+ hours for 52 weeks. I'm not complaining; I'm justifying.
Now that vacation stretches before me, I scarce know what to do first. There are netflixes to be watched, the remaining season of ANGEL to enjoy, a couple of books that are decidedly non-canonical and entirely school-unrelated...decisions, decisions.
Not to mention the hours that need to be occupied with writing.
For now, I'll opt for a nap.
Feels pretty darn good.
For those people who crank that teachers don't work hard enough (like my dear, sweet aunt): I've done the math. With all the outside of school hours that I spend on school, I work 40+ hours for 52 weeks. I'm not complaining; I'm justifying.
Now that vacation stretches before me, I scarce know what to do first. There are netflixes to be watched, the remaining season of ANGEL to enjoy, a couple of books that are decidedly non-canonical and entirely school-unrelated...decisions, decisions.
Not to mention the hours that need to be occupied with writing.
For now, I'll opt for a nap.
On the difference between friendship and potential drama
Continuing the topic of couples having separate friends:
My sister Emma's friend is spiked on a dilemma. One of her husband's first girlfriends has re-established ties with him.
This is one of the evils of Facebook: everyone with the slightest pang of nostalgia can reinsert themselves into your life with minimal effort.
The friend doesn't know what to do about this. The ex is married, the relationship was years ago, and her husband is trustworthy (famous last words).
The ex has been calling the husband on his cellphone. Yeah, that's a big old flag right there.
Her husband doesn't take her fears seriously and thinks she's overreacting.
Emma and the rest of her friends believe the interaction is inappropriate. My sister is of the mind that women shouldn't be friends with married men unless they're friends with the couple.
I don't agree with that, but I do think there are danger signs all over the situation. When my ex cheated on me, he did it with a friend of his, not ours.
I don't think I could've stopped him, but I could've been more aware of the sitch and saved myself some heartache. Or at least saved myself from being his buttmonkey.
That's one of the worst effects of cheating: not only was I betrayed, I felt like an idiot.
I wouldn't fall for any married friends, but that's what everyone, guilty or innocent, says at first. It's a crap shoot for the married partner and I can see why some wouldn't want to gamble. Still, it's hard when adults tell other adults not to do something.
If there's a happy medium in this, I'm not seeing it.
My sister Emma's friend is spiked on a dilemma. One of her husband's first girlfriends has re-established ties with him.
This is one of the evils of Facebook: everyone with the slightest pang of nostalgia can reinsert themselves into your life with minimal effort.
The friend doesn't know what to do about this. The ex is married, the relationship was years ago, and her husband is trustworthy (famous last words).
The ex has been calling the husband on his cellphone. Yeah, that's a big old flag right there.
Her husband doesn't take her fears seriously and thinks she's overreacting.
Emma and the rest of her friends believe the interaction is inappropriate. My sister is of the mind that women shouldn't be friends with married men unless they're friends with the couple.
I don't agree with that, but I do think there are danger signs all over the situation. When my ex cheated on me, he did it with a friend of his, not ours.
I don't think I could've stopped him, but I could've been more aware of the sitch and saved myself some heartache. Or at least saved myself from being his buttmonkey.
That's one of the worst effects of cheating: not only was I betrayed, I felt like an idiot.
I wouldn't fall for any married friends, but that's what everyone, guilty or innocent, says at first. It's a crap shoot for the married partner and I can see why some wouldn't want to gamble. Still, it's hard when adults tell other adults not to do something.
If there's a happy medium in this, I'm not seeing it.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
No, I can't be friends with your wife
Most of my friends are married or committed to a relationship, but my friendships with them do not ensure a friendship with their significant others.
Which is not to say that I don't have good will toward the SOs. I enjoy meeting the partners who make my friends happy and my unspoken promise is that I won't ever trash them to my friends and I'll always listen to stories about the wonderfulness of the relationships.
At times I have become friends with SOs in their own right, but I don't pursue it. I think having different friends goes a long way to maintaining a separate identity in a relationship.
That said, my teacher friend has a wife who actively dislikes me, or at least, acts as if she actively dislikes me.
She takes the opposite side of whatever I say. It would be fine if we were talking philosophy, movies, or books; I'm perfectly willing to agree to disagree. But our exchanges are pretty superficial: "It's cold outside." "No, it's not as cold as yesterday." "Traffic is backed up." "It was fine when I got in." "I like dogs." "Cats make better pets."
All of these could be considered continuing a conversation, until you factor in that every one of our conversations consists of thesis-antithesis.
I don't know what her problem is. If I was going to sleep with her husband, I would've done it by now. Not to mention, I don't sleep with men who are married no matter how much alcohol I've imbibed or how much they want to. And he is completely not my type. There are teachers who fall into that category, but I respect their relationships and them and their SOs enough to keep from even flirting.
I'll confess that some of my actions in my twenties make me less than proud, but neither my teacher friend nor his wife know about those actions because I haven't told anyone at the school.
One good thing about a switch in professions is the ability to choose what part of the closet boneyard gets shown.
Maybe I have some retro skank-ho stench I'm giving off, but I don't think so.
I tested my theory about her dislike of me a month ago. Her husband and I were going to a movie and he insisted on showing me the new renovations to the house. I'm not one for house tours (hate them), but he was proud so the least I could do was muster the enthusiasm and gushing.
She contradicted every comment I made. "I love the artwork." "The pictures aren't hung right." "That area rug is beautiful." "It doesn't go with the couch." "That's a pretty pattern of wallpaper." "It's wrong for this room."
This wasn't sham humility. Her responses spurred on my comments and she ended up criticizing nearly every change they had worked months on.
Whiskey Tango Foxtrot.
I wanted to ask her why. Is she so blind that she doesn't see I'm her last line of defense? When her husband goes out and decides that flirting and kissing and touching a fellow teacher (not me- I'd break his arm), I'm the one who plays superego to his id? I've stopped him from doing things he'd feel like shit about in the morning.
I'll keep playing the role of cockblock, no matter how disagreeable she is. Sometimes I don't like the way she treats my friend and I sure as hell ain't a fan of her passive-agressiveness, but I don't say anything. It's their relationship and who the hell am I to say what works for them?
All I would like is a fair shake from her.
Which is not to say that I don't have good will toward the SOs. I enjoy meeting the partners who make my friends happy and my unspoken promise is that I won't ever trash them to my friends and I'll always listen to stories about the wonderfulness of the relationships.
At times I have become friends with SOs in their own right, but I don't pursue it. I think having different friends goes a long way to maintaining a separate identity in a relationship.
That said, my teacher friend has a wife who actively dislikes me, or at least, acts as if she actively dislikes me.
She takes the opposite side of whatever I say. It would be fine if we were talking philosophy, movies, or books; I'm perfectly willing to agree to disagree. But our exchanges are pretty superficial: "It's cold outside." "No, it's not as cold as yesterday." "Traffic is backed up." "It was fine when I got in." "I like dogs." "Cats make better pets."
All of these could be considered continuing a conversation, until you factor in that every one of our conversations consists of thesis-antithesis.
I don't know what her problem is. If I was going to sleep with her husband, I would've done it by now. Not to mention, I don't sleep with men who are married no matter how much alcohol I've imbibed or how much they want to. And he is completely not my type. There are teachers who fall into that category, but I respect their relationships and them and their SOs enough to keep from even flirting.
I'll confess that some of my actions in my twenties make me less than proud, but neither my teacher friend nor his wife know about those actions because I haven't told anyone at the school.
One good thing about a switch in professions is the ability to choose what part of the closet boneyard gets shown.
Maybe I have some retro skank-ho stench I'm giving off, but I don't think so.
I tested my theory about her dislike of me a month ago. Her husband and I were going to a movie and he insisted on showing me the new renovations to the house. I'm not one for house tours (hate them), but he was proud so the least I could do was muster the enthusiasm and gushing.
She contradicted every comment I made. "I love the artwork." "The pictures aren't hung right." "That area rug is beautiful." "It doesn't go with the couch." "That's a pretty pattern of wallpaper." "It's wrong for this room."
This wasn't sham humility. Her responses spurred on my comments and she ended up criticizing nearly every change they had worked months on.
Whiskey Tango Foxtrot.
I wanted to ask her why. Is she so blind that she doesn't see I'm her last line of defense? When her husband goes out and decides that flirting and kissing and touching a fellow teacher (not me- I'd break his arm), I'm the one who plays superego to his id? I've stopped him from doing things he'd feel like shit about in the morning.
I'll keep playing the role of cockblock, no matter how disagreeable she is. Sometimes I don't like the way she treats my friend and I sure as hell ain't a fan of her passive-agressiveness, but I don't say anything. It's their relationship and who the hell am I to say what works for them?
All I would like is a fair shake from her.
Gotta love the administration
The outcome of the meeting I had with the vice principal and irate parent? Nothing.
No follow-up, wrap-up, or closure.
But that's how the administration at my school rolls.
Since teachers are getting laid off at a fearful rate in the surrounding districts, I'm not complaining too hard. Let me fly under radar as long as it keeps me safe.
I'm beginning to think tenure ain't nothing more than words that could be revised on a contract and teacher angst is one of the many lubricants of high school machinery.
When this administration goes- and they will eventually- I'm going to make it my mission to become best friends with the new guard. No latte will go unpurchased, no car will go unwashed, and no opportunity to asskiss will go ignored. I've seen the perks teachers get with their administrative friendships, and by God, I want them.
My soul and my pride might twinge a bit, but I guarantee a boot heel to the forehead won't hurt quite as much if I put it there myself.
No follow-up, wrap-up, or closure.
But that's how the administration at my school rolls.
Since teachers are getting laid off at a fearful rate in the surrounding districts, I'm not complaining too hard. Let me fly under radar as long as it keeps me safe.
I'm beginning to think tenure ain't nothing more than words that could be revised on a contract and teacher angst is one of the many lubricants of high school machinery.
When this administration goes- and they will eventually- I'm going to make it my mission to become best friends with the new guard. No latte will go unpurchased, no car will go unwashed, and no opportunity to asskiss will go ignored. I've seen the perks teachers get with their administrative friendships, and by God, I want them.
My soul and my pride might twinge a bit, but I guarantee a boot heel to the forehead won't hurt quite as much if I put it there myself.
Forgotten birthdays and free Sundays
My sister Emma called me last week and after we said hello, she kept saying, "And? And?"
Her hints were too subtle for my thick skull. I had forgotten to wish her a happy birthday.
I'm such an asshole.
She called me back to say I totally Molly-Ringwalded her, but she wasn't upset because that's how she rolls.
I don't know what good deed I did in a former life to get a sister like her.
She never forgets to call on my birthday and when I look at my sisters, I can clearly see the best of my mother in them.
I'm still an asshole. I don't know how I could write the date twenty times during the day and not once connect it to her birthday. Sofa King Wee Todd Did.
Yesterday night I went to Walmart to pick up her present- at least that's not late seeing as how my family lumps birthday celebrations together and we'll officially celebrate next week. I picked up a bin that I needed (how industrious!) and the last two seasons of ANGEL and Nora Robert's Tribute, which is finally in paperback.
Since I have over forty hours of quality entertainment at my fingertips, I woke up today and started pounding out correcting as soon as my little gray cells started working. I wasn't going to spend another weekend with the guilt of ignoring a pile of work.
It's only 9:30, and my day stretches before me: a guilt-free read and a couple episodes (okay, maybe ten) of salty goodness. Don't get much better than that.
Her hints were too subtle for my thick skull. I had forgotten to wish her a happy birthday.
I'm such an asshole.
She called me back to say I totally Molly-Ringwalded her, but she wasn't upset because that's how she rolls.
I don't know what good deed I did in a former life to get a sister like her.
She never forgets to call on my birthday and when I look at my sisters, I can clearly see the best of my mother in them.
I'm still an asshole. I don't know how I could write the date twenty times during the day and not once connect it to her birthday. Sofa King Wee Todd Did.
Yesterday night I went to Walmart to pick up her present- at least that's not late seeing as how my family lumps birthday celebrations together and we'll officially celebrate next week. I picked up a bin that I needed (how industrious!) and the last two seasons of ANGEL and Nora Robert's Tribute, which is finally in paperback.
Since I have over forty hours of quality entertainment at my fingertips, I woke up today and started pounding out correcting as soon as my little gray cells started working. I wasn't going to spend another weekend with the guilt of ignoring a pile of work.
It's only 9:30, and my day stretches before me: a guilt-free read and a couple episodes (okay, maybe ten) of salty goodness. Don't get much better than that.
I'm LOST (lots and lots of spoilage)
I'm not loving how the writers are making Sawyer unlikeable. First they put him in that dumpy Dharma jumpsuit, then they have him acting completely out of character (three years notwithstanding, does anyone believe he'd be that much of an asshole to Sayid?), and now he's all reflective boy with his "I'm not the man for you" to Kate.
I call BS. I think the writers have fallen victim to the syndrome of hating the creation others love. Almost like a Frankenstein monster deal.
Not that I need Sawyer to be sweet as pie or perfect. All I ask for is a shirtless scene every once in a while, funny sarcasm ("I take that back!), and chances for him to show he's got a pair.
For the record, he jumped out of the helicopter to SAVE them. It was not because he was too pussy to go home. It was a moment of self-sacrifice that other characters are allowed (best shown with Charlie's arc) and no amount of retcon in the world will change my opinion.
And all this not letting a little kid die is less moral quandary, and more lazy writing. Ben's responsible for multiple deaths and tons of misery. For his skull-fucking alone he should die. If the writers try to pull a Darth Vader revamp on him, I swear I'll...I'll...bitch about it to friends, family, and blog.
I call BS. I think the writers have fallen victim to the syndrome of hating the creation others love. Almost like a Frankenstein monster deal.
Not that I need Sawyer to be sweet as pie or perfect. All I ask for is a shirtless scene every once in a while, funny sarcasm ("I take that back!), and chances for him to show he's got a pair.
For the record, he jumped out of the helicopter to SAVE them. It was not because he was too pussy to go home. It was a moment of self-sacrifice that other characters are allowed (best shown with Charlie's arc) and no amount of retcon in the world will change my opinion.
And all this not letting a little kid die is less moral quandary, and more lazy writing. Ben's responsible for multiple deaths and tons of misery. For his skull-fucking alone he should die. If the writers try to pull a Darth Vader revamp on him, I swear I'll...I'll...bitch about it to friends, family, and blog.
The thrill of victory
After blowing off my work last weekend, the first half of the week was spent catching up. No one's fault but my own.
I had 70 papers to grade, plus the other assignments coming in during the week. When I took a break from correcting the papers, I could relax by correcting assignments.
On Wednesday, I was sick as the proverbial (food poisoning). I didn't want to call in because I had stuff to do with all my classes and didn't want to leave a huge amount of work for the sub. At least the times when I had to actually be sick were pretty convenient: before first bell and during my free period.
Two great things from that day: I started to feel exponentially better by eleven thirty and I finished the papers by ten past LOST.
There's nothing like the satisfaction of scaling a mountain of correction. The rosy glow lasted both Thursday and Friday.
I'm kind of pissed at myself for not calling in. Now I have a new bar for when I want to miss school: if I'm not puking between classes, I can stay my ass in school.
I had 70 papers to grade, plus the other assignments coming in during the week. When I took a break from correcting the papers, I could relax by correcting assignments.
On Wednesday, I was sick as the proverbial (food poisoning). I didn't want to call in because I had stuff to do with all my classes and didn't want to leave a huge amount of work for the sub. At least the times when I had to actually be sick were pretty convenient: before first bell and during my free period.
Two great things from that day: I started to feel exponentially better by eleven thirty and I finished the papers by ten past LOST.
There's nothing like the satisfaction of scaling a mountain of correction. The rosy glow lasted both Thursday and Friday.
I'm kind of pissed at myself for not calling in. Now I have a new bar for when I want to miss school: if I'm not puking between classes, I can stay my ass in school.
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