WHAT A RACKET

I received the deposit check from my old apartment last week to find forty five dollars deducted for cleaning. I was a bit surprised because I had spent several hours cleaning the old shoebox before turning in my keys. And before checking out, I invited the apartment manager to take a look to make sure everything was satisfactory. She told me to make sure it was "clean" and then waved me away without even looking up. I guess I was interrupting her counting and recounting her stacks of gold coins.

So anyways, I called her Friday afternoon to get the specs. She told me twenty five dollars had been deducted for the oven. “Fair enough” I said, “I did forget to clean the oven, but what about the rest?” She told me that ten dollars had been deducted for the tub and another ten for the toilet, which is pure, 100%, Spanish imported, USDA approved, bullshit. I told her so and she responded with classic form. She took my words and hid them under a walnut shell and then proceeded to play three card monte with them. You know the game. Where’s the truth? Step right up and see if you can find it! You might as well cue the carnie music, because I know I'm not getting my money back.

And that’s okay. Because she obviously needs the money to complete her gender reassignment surgery. It must be really tough living in limbo like that.

PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT

Peeps are evil things. Just look at those beady little eyes. Soul-less eyes. No good is what they're up to.

BULLY PULPIT

I was preparing myself for my last math class of the day yesterday when I heard two students make plans to visit a couple of strip clubs together over the weekend.* One student told the other how he likes to find a good table, sit back, light up, and just watch the girls dance. I rolled my eyes so hard my brain hurt. I must choose my battles. I must choose my battles. I must choose my battles. A few minutes later, someone asked me about my teaching experience in China. As I replied, I heard the other students come to a quick consensus that Asian women are hot. I actually heard someone say something about “sexy, long black hair and dark skin.” That one right there was the last straw. I spun around faster than you could toss a pair of ninja stars and told them to shut up.

I reminded them that they were in a college classroom where it is generally considered inappropriate to discuss one’s sexual fantasies. I also reminded them that I was the only woman in the room, that I might not appreciate their manner of speaking. “Imagine yourself in the minority,” I said. Without really thinking I continued, “what if you were the only boy in a room full of girls?” Of course they hooted like a bunch of stupid ass monkies, like that would be the best thing ever, but I promptly revised my statement. “What if you were the only boy in a classroom full of twelve year old girls? Because that’s what you all are acting like. A bunch of adolescent boys! Now shut it!”

* It’s really touching, by the way, to see these kids form friendships through common interests. It really brings a lump to my throat. Like a big lump of beef stew, for example.

BUS #2

Today I'm wearing black pants with brown socks! Quel Horreurrrrrrrrrr! Shh, don’t tell.

Last night on our way to the lecture, on our way to the bus stop, RS and I saw a man get hit by a car. It would almost be more appropriate to say he was drop kicked by an SUV because his body traveled the path of a perfect parabola, punted from the pavement. The SUV halted like a snorting rhino as RS and I twittered about like a pair of Diana Monkeys sounding alarm calls, swinging from pay phone to pay phone. By the time I dialed 911, the ambulance was on its way. The thing that really walloped me was the look on the man’s face immediately after he hit the ground. He turned his head to face the rhino with a look of distilled disbelief.

GIRL CULTURE

I'm wearing blue cords today and you know what that means: zip zop zip zop zip zop zip zop zip zop zip zop zip zop zip zop zip zop zip zop Zip. And when running: zipzopzipzopzipzopzipzopzipzopzipzop. Ha hahaha!

*Sigh*

I love cords.

Tonight I'm going to a real university to hear photojournalist, Lauren Greenfield, give a lecture about her show Girl Culture. I saw the exhibit about a month ago and it left frosted pink fingerprints all over my brain. My favorite photograph was taken in a stripper’s dressing room. Three women, employees I assume, were talking to each other and one was hiding a tampon behind her back. What fantastic tension, I thought, to exhibit such modesty while making a living grinding your lemming in some stranger’s face. What a crazy cultural mirror reflecting all of us. Yes, even you!

THE GOOD NEWS

During math class, my student N said he was going to miss math now that the quarter is almost over. I thought he was just being sarcastic, but it turns out he was being honest. He said he use to hate math in high school, but now he gets it. Now he likes it.

THE BAD NEWS

I told my environmental science classes to come up with a topic for their final paper over the weekend and have it ready for me on Monday. My student C only came up with a lengthy list of excuses. He recited this list from memory. Isn’t that impressive? I met each excuse with a counter argument. His last, desperate round sounded something like this, “Well I didn’t even want to take this course! None of this interests me! I came here to be an auto mechanic! I don’t give a shit about the impact of fossil fuels! Wah! Wah! Boo! Boo!” Now, imagine a grown man without his front teeth saying this.

Seriously. Do it.

When he was finished with his tantrum, I gave him a look. A look that said, hey do you know what bub? I'd rather be in Australia taking pictures of bower birds right now. I would rather don a pair of wellies and stomp around in a swamp counting tree frogs all day. I’m “not interested” in getting up at 5:30 every morning to deal with the likes of you, but you know what? I have to do it. Because I made a choice a long time ago that I want to eat. Now, I’ve given you several ideas for your paper. I’ve seen your resistance and I’ve taken a few steps towards you, but that’s all I am going to do. I’m not your mommy. I’m not going to spoon feed you this information and I'm sure as hell not going to make airplane noises and swooping gestures to entertain you. This is school not television. And if you continue to resist and make excuses, the only person you are going to make it difficult for, is yourself.

It took a lot of practice in front of the mirror to get that particular look down.

FISSION

When I got home we kissed and our lips formed covalent bonds. RS chopped a head of broccoli and put two winter squashes in the oven while I unpacked my things. I excitedly showed him the pocket gopher skull I extracted from an owl pellet right before we erupted in more kissing and mashing of our bodies. Soon we gave into the gravity of the kitchen floor that pulled at our combined mass like the knotted hands of Jupiter. Our clothes went on strike so we stuffed them under the kitchen sink next to an economy sized bottle of lemon joy. I burned my naked hip on the hot stove. The cat's water bowl was disturbed, while the cat herself sat on the windowsill and listened to the rhythmic sound of RS's knees on the linoleum floor.

HEARTBEAT

This morning while the group went out to the highway in search of goldenrod, I struck out in the exact opposite direction in search of that muffled snowy silence you sometimes find in the middle of a frozen lake. I slowly made my way down the eastern arm of the lake, an arm that seemed to reach way beyond my sight. Every once in a while I would pause to take in the sound void. It was nature's recording studio. It was during one of those pauses that I first heard it: a deep, low frequency thud like the heartbeat of some enormous animal, and then silence. Since I have lived in the city for so long, I assumed it was a musical baseline coming from one of three visible ice shacks. I took out my stop watch and timed the intervals, which turned out to be quite irregular. What was more curious though, was the sound's direction. Sometimes it seemed to come from far away and other times it seemed to come directly under my feet. I could feel the sound through my old sorrels. I was pretty sure I was safe on the ice, but it was the kind of thing that makes the back of you knees sweat. As I walked back, I thought about pollen, down feathers, and helium.

SLEEPING WITH FIRE

Last night, after an hour of snowshoeing I returned to the cabin and sat down in front of a purring fire with my book. In order to get an even coat of heat, I had to slowly turn and turn and turn my body like some rotisserie chicken on a spit. After much turning, I fell asleep.



Today we dissected owl pellets and I was fortunate enough to find the remains of a pocket gopher (Genera Geomyidae)! I have attached a picture for your viewing pleasure. As you can see I put an airplane in the picture, you know, as a point of reference. Look at the crazy little claws in the lower right hand corner!

AND BUNS TO MATCH

Here's a list of some of the things we talked about during the four hour drive north.

1. Work (office politics, motivation, hopes for a better job)
2. Money (saving, spending and generosity with)
3. Families (and some of the mindfuck involved therein)
4. Sex (the best positions to avoid urinary tract infections)
5. Depression (history with, family with, drugs that treat)
6. Pornography (the industry, differences in taste)
7. Drugs (experiments with, favorites, worst trips)
8. Candy (hot tamales, big league chew, bubble tape)
9. Relationships (how they begin, how they change)
10. Eating Disorders (why they persist, coping methods)

GET YOUR GEEK ON

Today after work I’m going to drive up north to a biological research station with my friend, Jane. She's organized a professional development workshop for a group of high school teachers and I’m just tagging along. I’m the nerdy tote with handles. We’re going to work with researchers who specialize in mammalogy, ornithology and entomology for the whole weekend! I can hardly wait! I think we’re even going to dissect owl pellets! Whoop - Whoop!

...

Whoop-whoop!

A STORY WORTH REPEATING

I spoke with my dad on the phone last night. His voice was as an anchor that seemed to pull me through the receiver. He told me about an article he read twenty some years ago. As soon as he began, I knew I head heard it before. But it’s a good story and deserves a second telling.

The article was written by a professor who taught at an undisclosed liberal arts college, a progressive school. The author had been discussing global inequalities with his students; inequalities in economics, trade, and military strength. In an effort to make the issues more real and more human, he invited a South African student into his classroom to talk about growing up with apartheid. In a seamless crescendo, the professor cut a bitter pill for his students to swallow: Is the comfort and privilege enjoyed by people in developed countries built on the backs and necks others? I think about this question, and I wonder what would young America’s economy look like if it weren’t for slavery? What would America’s current economy look like if it weren’t for sweatshops in the Philippines? The author’s students nodded their heads in acknowledgement, some of them even furrowed their brows, but when asked if they would give up their cars, their designer clothes or their bourgeoisie lifestyles, they all balked.

At this point, the professor took out a gun. It was a toy gun, but like a many toy guns, it looked very real. He picked out one of his students, shoved the gun in his hand and said while pointing at the South African student, “Why don’t you just shoot him in the head then?”

The class was speechless. Disgusted, the professor walked out of class.

PLEASE, NOT OUTSIDE THE CLASSROOM

When I walked into math class the other day one of my students asked me what was up with my wardrobe. I gave him my most puzzled look and asked what he meant by that. He told me that he and another student had bet on what I was going to be wearing. Excuse me, but WTF?

When I say “creep!” you say “out!”

Creep!
…
Creep!
…

THIS NATIONAL HOLIDY IS BROUGHT TO YOU BY HALLMARK

This morning I walked to work to the tune of Jeane by The Smiths. “And I don’t believe in magic anymore, Jeane.” The newly fallen snow was so dense it almost looked green in some spots. On my way home I was stopped by a smartly dressed thirty something man. He had an accent and if I had to guess, I would say he was from the Middle East. He told me he had seen me walking down the street once before and wanted to ask me out. Incredulously I ask, “You mean out on a date? Like, romantically?” He replied, “Yeah, you know, like love and forever and ever.” I politely declined. I told him I was on my way to the flower shop to buy my boyfriend something for Valentines Day. “Oh, you are taken?” Yes, quite taken.

And then. As I walked through the park I noticed an older man and a boy, nine years of age. The older man asked me if I would like a valentine heart candy. It looked like they were just randomly handing them out. I helped myself to a white one (because those are the very best) and then popped it in my mouth. I probably shouldn't accept candy from strangers so willingly, but I was secretly hoping it was laced with LSD.

Sadly, it was not.

RANDY LIKE A BOX OF RABBITS

Yesterday afternoon RS and I watched a woman bake a loaf of walnut cranberry bread on PBS. Okay, so I was high, but it was far more erotic and fun to watch than that silly waste o’ money skin flick I rented the night before. And the cook on the program kept using words like “moist” and “firm” and “spank.” No, she actually didn't say spank, but that's what she was doing.

Oh, you naughty, naughty lump of dough.

NOT YOUR AVERAGE DICKSLAP

I view the sex industry the same way I view the meat industries. I think it is normal and healthy for people to have an appetite for animal flesh (for consumption) the same way I think it normal and healthy for people to have an appetite for human flesh (that other kind of consumption). I believe we evolved with a drive to consume flesh and I think it’s an inherent part of our genetic construction. It’s the industry component that I take issue with; the means of production.

I don’t like the way living things are treated like raw materials. I don’t like the way they are removed from the context of society and are bought and sold in the marketplace. I don’t think people in developed countries purchase seven pounds of chuck roast in the grocery store and then go home to ponder the life of the cow it came from, the same way I don’t think people who stuff money into a stripper’s g-string pause to wonder about the life of the person on stage. If I had my way, everyone would raise, slaughter and process their own meat and everyone would make their own porno!

But you know, the thing that truly bothers me about profit margin driven anything, is that it’s manufactured to suit mainstream tastes. I rented and watched my first ever full length adult film yesterday. As I entered the special room I thought to myself, how hard could it be to find a saucy video of two people fucking? Damn near impossible, if you are not the average dickslap.

WHY DON'T YOU GET SOME TACT, FOR A CHANGE

We have a robot working in HR. When I pass him in the hall, he always pelts me with one of those inauthentic ‘hihowareyou’ greetings. He says it so hurriedly it sounds like one word instead of four and before I have a chance to respond, he’s already down the hall. Or on the other side of the building. Or in his car driving home.

Yesterday in the stairwell, he actually paused to hear my answer. I smiled and told him I was doing well. Then he said, “So do you like teaching for a change?” My mind stuck like a bloodthirsty leach to the last part of his question. Just what is that suppose to mean, “For a change?” It was one of those cutting comments where the words between the lines are written in BOLD, ITALICS, ALL CAPS, IN SUPER! LARGE! FONT!! I explained to him that I had always liked teaching. It was working sixty five hours a week and getting paid for half that time (no thanks to you), that I didn’t like.

ADVENTURES IN BABYSITTING

Last night Noah (7 years old) showed me some of his favorite books. He took out a directory of students in his second grade class. Some of the names were highlighted and I asked him if those people were his friends. Like Jenny, for example, is she a friend? "Oh noooooooo. no no no no! She is a girl and I hate girls! Yuck, gross." I would normally take issue with this because, hello, I'm a girl. But I make a special exception for Noah because he pronounces his "r" sounds like "ow" and that's just too fucking cute.

A PART OF THIS COMPLETE BREAKFAST

This morning instead of oatmeal for breakfast I had healthy portion of RS. What a preying mantis I am! Oatmeal and raisins are good. They give me energy and keep me warm. But RS can do all that and make me beam like a lighthouse. Speaking of food and sex, last night while eating dried figs in bed, I told RS that I thought the figs looked like scrotum. What's singular for scrotum? Scroti? Scrota? Anyway, he didn't really gel with me on that point.

TV ON THE RADIO

"one two three, four five six, seven eight nine, ten eleven twelve ladybugs caaaaaaaame, to the ladybugs' picnic!" Gawd. I'm such a child of public television. My parents are total socialists, so they wouldn't let me and my brother Pit Pat watch commercial TV when we were growing up. No TV and no sugar cereals! Because we said so! Now go and play with your Marx and Engel dolls, comrade!

Only kidding.

But not really. In any case, the fact that I was raised on instructional television and Cracklin' Oat Bran has influenced my adult life. Some people I know find TV comforting. They likes to have it on at all hours of the day. Is it like having a friend in the living room talking to himself all day? Some folks I know can multitasking with the television on; they can carry on a conversation, they can cook a meal, they can even read with it on. I could never do that. Once the screen lights up with photons, my jaw goes slack and my eyes turn into swirling pinwheels. I have a television now after being without one for almost two years. So if you don't hear from me in a few months...

HIT AND RUN

Well, I'm sad to report that I fell off the wagon this weekend...or is it on the wagon? How can someone fall on a wagon?? Anyway, two innocent cookies were involved. And some chocolate covered raisins. And two bagels with lox. Who says I don't know how to party? I don't fuck around with hot pockets and pizza rolls from the Super America, let me tell you bub.

Strangely, I'm not totally berating myself for it. I mean, I'm not thrilled that it happened, but it was a hard weekend filled with toxic anxieties and I'm doing the best I can. I woke up Saturday morning with caterpillars in my belly (you know the furry kind), like I was preparing to perform in front of a live audience. Besides, I don't need to punish myself any more since my stomach is already doing a fine job of that. I ate a whole roll of Tums and I'm still breathing sulfuric acid.

TWO SENTENCES

Don't you hate it when you sit down on a Sunday afternoon to watch a movie that you expect to be crafted and packaged for entertainment, but instead it kicks you in your emotional crotch and leaves your limbs feeling like all the bones and muscles have been replaced by tiny lead ball bearings, like you are some kind of human beanie baby flopping about on the futon and you can't get up even though you need to return the video and go grocery shopping, "ah, but no amount of bread or rice," you lament with your head inches from the floor "can soak up the sorrows of the human spirit," and you end that exclamation with a long audible sigh that slowly morphs into one of those strange pixilated throaty sounds that turns into its own game, its own entertainment, but ultimately upsets the cat and makes her leave the room?

I do.

LIKE THE DESERTS MISS THE RAIN

RS is in Seattle visiting his folks this weekend. I have his sweatshirt on because I miss the way he smells. I've never been one to talk something endless about my significant other. I see that behavior most in (but not exculsively in) adolescent girls. They seem to intentionally seek out portals in conversation with which to suck the topic of their boyfriends, beyond all laws of nature and time, into the dialogue. For example, I might say something about stubbing my toe over the weekend, and they would respond "Oh my god, my boyrfiend has toes!"

Having said that, I think you should know that I have never been with a man who made me feel that life without him, isn't really living. And it's unsettling having him so far away.

PERMISSION GRANTED

Calm down girl. It's just money. Lots and lots of money. The one thing that is far more bothersome than having to pay eleven hundred dollars for someone else to fix their car* is the fact that I'm actually letting it get to me. I'm inviting all this bad energy into my home, sitting it down, feeding it coffee and powdered donut holes. I'm charming. I'm entertaining. But every time I disappear into the kitchen, I grab the nearest towel and wring it until my knuckles go white.

Accident: Permission to annoy you.
Winter Wren: Permission granted.

* I would so much rather got to Paris for the weekend. Maybe I should do that; plan a fake trip. I could get a bunch of post cards and pretend that I went to Paris. I could sit around for an afternoon, smoke a whole bale of grass and just imagine a vacation in Paris. Then, I would "come back" and tell everyone what a great time it was and consider the money well spent.

WHEN CARS COLLIDE

One thousand one hundred thirty seven dollars and seventy one cents. That's the estimated cost for the damage in last week's fender bender. Fuck me skating, but that's a lot of money! I spoke with an expert today, someone who teaches autobody repair and he thoroughly explained each line item in the estimate. He explained how auto mechanic work hours are standardized and told me that the part prices were reasonable.

I guess I'm just going to have get down on my hands and knees and suck it.

STAY ON TARGET. STAY ON TARGET. STEADY...STEADY...

Today I gave my math class their third exam of the quarter. The skills being assessed were a little trickier so the atmosphere was a little tenser. My thoughts were completely drowned out by the furious punching of plastic calculator buttons and the mad scribbling of mechanical pencils. Heads were scratched. Brows were furrowed. You get the picture. To avoid feeling completely dull, I decided to read a case study from my environmental science textbook about the pollution of the Themes. There, I discovered that the water closet was invented in 1810 by a man named Thomas Crapper. Thomas! Crapper! I sort of snickered. Then I giggled. And then I snickered again until I was quite out of control. My palms were getting sweaty and I thought I would have to step outside to collect myself. It was very embarrassing.

STOP ME IF YOU THINK THAT YOU'VE HEARD THIS ONE BEFORE

Sometimes I wonder if my dad is trying to be the devil’s advocate or if he is just trying to be the devil. I was talking to him last weekend about my going back to school to get a masters degree in biological anthropology. For about three years I have been planning and saving money for this endeavor. Instead of recognizing my efforts, instead of supporting my ideas to create a more sustainable future he reminds me that despite two masters degrees and a PhD, he is still working like a dog for dog biscuits.

As though I needed reminding.