Delia's Wishes

I love the word corpulent. It surpasses fat, heavy, big-boned, obese, overweight, any plump. Corpulent tells it like it is-- utter gluttony and sloth embodied in rolls of flesh.

In high school, I was corpulent. I did not have the advantage that some "fat" girls have---large breasts and a large ass. Corpulent girls do not get those benefits.

I wore guys' clothing because it was easier to find 38 waist pants than to step foot into a Lane Bryant. I wore guys' boxers "with the dick holes" as I so eloquently describe them. I wore cottony bras that were one step above the flattening effects of sports bras, but were nowhere near the sexiness of bras with lace or see-through effects. I wore horizontally-striped shirts sized for men.

Today, I got a Delia's catalog in the mail. Delia's can be found in most malls and has been in existence since my teen years. Sassy magazine (RIP) used to always have Delia's ads.

Two years ago, I ordered comic book style Converse from Delia's and have been on the mailing list since. NONE of this clothing would really ever fit me. Although I weigh less than I did in high school and am more plump than corpulent, Delia's clothing is juniors fit. It is meant for lanky, awkward, curveless girls. I could probably shimmy into an XL tee, but anything else from the store would not fit me properly. The clothing is also inappropriate in that many shirts are flirty and midriff-baring. Other shirts have cute slogans or are silkscreened with images of One Direction band members. You can proclaim your love for all of One Direction or for an individual band member. The styles of jeans have names like Morgan, Perry, and Jordin--- names that would fit bitchy girls in high school cliques. Delia's carries the size of double zero.

Although the only thing I have ever purchased from this company is a pair of shoes, I still feel compelled to remain on the subscription list. Part of the reasoning is nostalgic and part of the reasoning is wishful thinking. I think that part of me hopes to one day "get in shape" enough to wear Delia's clothing. Bodies can't be time machines though.

At least I can always fit into their jewelry. 

Non-mechanical side

I find that in modern society that having too many choices is completely overwhelming. I realize that that idea is nothing new or enlightening. Best said in the words of author Barry Schwartz, there is a "paradox in choice." Choices seem like a positive thing, but when there are a myriad of choices for every category of possession, it can be daunting.

We did a small remodel on our bathroom one year ago. Finally, I decided on an over-the-toilet organizer to purchase. This should not have been something that required me to search endlessly. However, with the variety of sites out there, I did not choose an organizer until a few days ago.

The package arrived yesterday, left outside our front door. I felt proud enough for taking the bulky, cumbersome cardboard box inside. Today, I decided to put the organizer together. Using something a day after receiving it is "not my style." Usually, once I purchase something, it will rest in its cardboard housing for days and days, until I finally decide to open it. Delayed gratification, I suppose.

The box hailed: "15 minute assembly! No tools required!" Of course, I remained hyperaware of the time, so as to see how well I fit into the over-the-toilet-organizer-assembly population.

As I started putting the pieces together, within minutes I was uttering curses under my breath. The directions spoke of buttons with tapered ends and push buttons---what the hell? While trying to get one piece into another, I had a sudden premonition that one of the satin nickel rods would suddenly burst out of its correct spot and impale me. The directions were written in a detailed way and were numbered, yet they remained frustrating.

I finally got the organizer put together in 20 minutes, with 33% more time needed than the average assembler (if my math is correct). I relied on the assembly method that worked during much of my childhood when I had to put together Barbie houses, She-ra castles, and other domiciles for fictitious characters: looking at the colorful picture on the front box.

The directions recommend anchoring the organizer to the wall... I think I'm just going to play over-the-toilet-organizer roulette and hope that the China-made tower doesn't tumble down on me.

Gym pigs

The gym is the source of much fascination for me. When I am on the treadmill, I go into ADD mode. I observe all of the people weightlifting (and taking an unproportionate amount of drinks breaks in comparison to painstaking workout time) and stare at the ceiling tiles and mammoth air conditioning units as if they were some new, innovative product.

When I am at the gym, I also notice patterns in behavior.

A common pattern is people getting off the treadmills and other cardio machines and not turning off the TV. This bothers me. I hate being on a treadmill and then having a line of empty treadmills beside me with flashing images. I am the gym's good samaritan who turns off all of the unused television sets.

One main pattern I see is in regard to gym "machine etiquette." People that are running maniacally, truly sweating all over the handgrips of the machines, have a tendency to NOT spray the machines down. The pattern of non-spraying also stems from very attractive and/or muscular people. I envision them getting off the treadmill and thinking in their minds, "Fuck it. I'm too good looking to follow the etiquette."

Sandcastles in the air

The mind is quite enigmatic at times. Just now, for instance, I started thinking about a sandcastle figurine that I used to want. These figurines are nothing special, simply plaster covered over with sand and glittery fragments, in the shape of a sandcastle. Some of the castles have blue or pink glitter and some of the castles are shanties while other are mansions. Overall though, these castle figurines are available at any tourist destination near a beach.

There was a store close to my childhood home and it sold these sandcastles. The store also sold overpriced jewelry boxes, necklaces, and picture frames made out of beautiful seashells that were not indigenous to NJ. Outside of the store, when you drove and passed by, you'd be greeted by bright pink, blue, green, and yellow tubes and rafts in the shapes of various animals. In short, this store was a cheesy tourist trap and, being that I was "local," I never actually purchased anything in it. I'd stop in and get entranced by all of the merchandise, but I never bought anything.

A few weeks ago, I saw a sandcastle figurine at the Goodwill Store. I could have purchased it, but it just didn't seem "right." That kind of purchase needs to be made from a cheesy tourist shop.

On a whim, I used GoogleMaps to track the route I would have needed to take to the tourist store. Whenever I went there, it was in a car, since I was terrified of riding my bike on Route 9. The route is 1.5 miles! I hardly ever drive down to Ocean County anymore but the next time I am near there, I am going to stop by that little tourist shop and pay a ridiculous price for a sandcastle shanty.

Habits and observations

First, the "new" (it's probably been out for over a year, but I waited until they "forced me" before I moved over to the new format) Blogger set up is annoying. It's all white space, icons, and confusion.

I must get back into the habit of blogging and, in general, writing. Too many times I doubt myself and then spend time belittling myself instead of simply writing. Somehow, I feel that self-doubt is a common writer's ailment.

If you pay attention and take life's moments at a slower pace (extremely challenging if you live on the East Coast in the tristate area), those small moments and observations will inevitably make you smile.

Today I went for a quick walk around the lake. There had been a pair of swans gliding across the lake in February.  Now, months later, and there are grey Cygnets traveling with them. I had noticed the baby swans about a month ago, but never stopped to really watch them. Today, I stood at the edge of the lake and got a view of the mother swan bobbing her head up and down in search of food. The baby swans (now significantly bigger than they were one month ago) followed her lead and bobbed their heads up and down too. A few minutes later, the two "parental swans" led the way and the baby swans followed behind, single-file.

When I was in Aldi, waiting on the line to the register, a woman turned to me and said, "Beach day tomorrow," while pointing at her groceries. On the conveyer belt were chips, rice cakes, other carb-heavy foods, beverage containers, and a few other miscellaneous items. I smiled back and said, "I might go too, if the weather is nice." On my way out of the store, she said, "Have fun." It seemed like she truly just needed someone to talk to and tell about her exciting adventure. Kind of pitiful, but kind of sweet too.

Lastly, I am a admirer of words and those who use them well. At the gas station, the attendant who was helping me uttered, "Have a good evening." People rarely use the word evening. We need to bring that word back into vogue.

Getting Childhood Wants

Kids in America are "branded;" they do not desire winter boots, sunglasses, or sweatsuits. Instead, they desire Uggs, Ray Bans, and Juicy Couture sets.

When I was a kid, there certainly were material items that I desired. I recall wanting this ridiculous (in retrospect, of course) pair of cowgirl-style boots. They were white, white white fringe and small pseudo-turqouise embellishments. I have no idea as to what compelled me to desire those boots.  I remember they were expensive for the time, either $50 or $100...and I remember splitting the cost with my mother...probably with monies from a birthday or a holiday.

There were tons of other items that I desired, but never got.  The amazing thing is that those items that were expensive, in the early 90s, are now being sold exponentially cheaper at "deep discount" chain stores. It's amusing because, if desired, I could get all of those items that I desired in my youth for similar 1990s-esque prices. Kind of like some weird nostalgia time machine.

Brands that come to mind:

Airwalk shoes and sandals--now sold at Payless

Goofy JoeBoxer prints--now at Kmart

Starter athletic apparel--now at Walmart

OP-- now at Walmart

Mossimo--now at Target

I have yet to find a store that sells HyperColor clothing though:(

Metaphors for teaching in 2012

It isn't that there have been more meetings than usual, but it just seems lately that the union meetings and board of education meetings leave me feeling upset. Often, midway through the meeting, i'll take my index and middle fingers and check my pulse. My pulse is usually racing, frustrated, angry, and a myriad of other emotions intertwined. 

This leads me to metaphors for teaching in 2012:

1. Every day that I teach, I walk on a tightrope.

2. Every word that I utter is analyzed, microscopically, from each child in the room. They know how "sue-crazy" and PC-minded that our society is, to a fault. 

3. With all of the emphasis on testing and scores, I am basically an educational robot.

Reunited

At karaoke tonight, while I was looking through the binder of songs, someone came over to me and uttered: "I think I know you from somewhere." I enjoy having this line said to me because, as experiences have shown me, I have a "familiar face." When I went to college for undergrad, I apparently had a close resemblance to someone named Debbie, who had graduated a few years ahead of me. On more than one occasion, people on campus would ask me if I was Debbie's sister or relative. 

The girl continued on and asked, "Did you go to Kinnelon High?...CSE?" Bam, apparently we went to the same college. It doesn't seem like a big deal but when your tiny college has a graduating class of 230 students, I guess it does seem to be a big deal. 

The whole situation was just odd because her face did not look familiar, yet she recognized me from across the room. She also said, "You wouldn't know me; we ran in different circles."  That comment made me laugh-- how can there be that many circles or cliques when you're dealing with 230 people? 

Honestly, it was just a self-indulgent moment; I don't desire to be recognized all the time. In fact, when I am at a mall or something and see students from a distance, I tend to immediately walk in the opposite direction. This was a nice moment though.... 

Current Children

I feel sad for the current generation. Each day, I try my best to teach and to share knowledge. I recognize that even though I am the teacher, I can still learn from the life experiences and thoughts of 13 year olds. I try to remain open-minded. Sometimes, although not often, I am surprised by the insightful questions asked by students or the riveting tidbits that they already know.

When I come home from school, after the "work day" is done, I still ponder various aspects of whatever lesson I taught that day. I can't help it. Right now, I am teaching Anne Frank to 8th grade and Lois Lowry's Giver to 7th grade. Empathy for all victims of the Holocaust, as well as victims of other tragic deaths, persist in my mind. I contemplate the society that Lowry poses in Giver. I try to NOT think about topics I have taught during the day, but it just happens---those thoughts circulate in my mind. I guess it shows that I am a "good teacher" or (significantly less self-indulgent) that I simply care about my job.

Sadly, I think that a lot of today's students do not think carefully about issues and topics being posed to them. Case in point---a class reading from today mentioned how women at the concentration camps were not "permitted" to get pregnant. Somehow, babies still were born at these camps; one can assume that women were impregnated from sexual assaults and rapes. I mentioned this fact to my students and one of them commented, "It's not like that bad stuff happened to us. It's ok if we have happy lives."

Kids don't get the point. One can easily say, Oh, some kids just need to grow up and mature, but I think that's a cop-out. 13 years old and without empathy? It's a pretty bleak picture for future generations; at least they'll be able to accessorize their empathy-less selves with Coach purses, Ugg boots, Juicy hoodies, and Abercrombie jeans.

Fat Bottomed Girls

I used to think that Queen's "Fat Bottomed Girls" was inappropriate. Over the years, I've grown to like the song and find it to be a lively celebration of...girth.

Honestly though, there are some of us who look good fat and some of us who desperately need to shed some pounds in order to keep our attractiveness intact. I had a friend in high school named Stephanie. She was heavy all of her life. Facebook photos show that she is still quite heavy today. She "carries it well" though. Her body curves in the right spots and her face features full lips and round cheeks. She looks good heavy. People like her are rarities, but some women can pull off being heavy. I don't condone heaviness, just because of health factors. For beauty factors though, some fat bottomed girls are beautiful.

Me, as a fat bottomed girl, is a definite no-no. When I gain weight, my already small eyes become smaller, surrounded by fat in my face. My breasts stay small, as my stomach increases in its protrusion. My hips have always been prominent, but when I gain weight, there are extra mounds of fat, indentations that go back and forth, giving my waist and hip area a rippled effect.

All of these thoughts came to mind because I was trying on dresses at the mall this afternoon. At this point in time, clothing fits me awkwardly. Due to my recent increased penchant for beer and junk food, I feel crummy. Today was my first day back at the gym in a week+. I didn't overly exert myself, but it was pleasant to be on the treadmill with just music, my thoughts, and my feet moving.

I aspire to be an average bottomed girl.

I'm fucking old...ish

I love putting the suffixes -ish and -esque at the end of words. It gives finite words a sense of vagueness. It's also a copout for choosing a more accurate word for what one wants to say.

I'm still doing the daily poetry prompts. Instead of posting them here, I'll just post them at the prescribed site:http://3030poetry.com/

Anyway, I uttered a simple question in class today and, upon having no students' hands affirmatively raised, I came to the conclusion: I'm old...ish.

We were discussing use of the vocab word "recuperation." I described the first real-world example that came to mind, Gloria Estefan's bus tour accident in the early 1990s. I asked, "Has anyone here heard of Gloria Estefan?" Not one hand went in the air. I added, "She was popular in the late 80s and early 90s. She is like Jennifer Lopez from previous years."

At home, I googled "Coming Out of the Dark," her hit 1991 single. The song has fairly cheesy symbolism and metaphors and features an overly dramatic choir in the background. Nonetheless, listening to the song made me smile. It makes me think of other hit songs by Estefan: "Cuts Both Ways" (beautiful love ballad), "Bad Boys" (the video featuring large 80s hair and eyebrows, in addition to men costumed as cats), and so on.

So..maybe I am oldish...music videos from my "youth" are awesomely hilarious...and gray hairs do not matter...if I spy any within my mousy brown hair, I just snag them out. 

Animatronic Head

30/30 Poem of the Day

Animatronic Head

Driving on NJ highways is best done

with an animatronic mind.

Stare straight ahead at the expanse of asphalt,

gemmed with small splinters of glass.

Keep the speedometer between 65 and 70,

the neon orange dial slowly seesawing.

Pay the other drivers no attention

and simply bob your head back and forth,

a pendulum moving to the beat of a song

heard one thousand times before.

Stay unaware of the line of tail lights

signaling the long pathway to your destination.

You realize that the machine mindset will bring

the most success

and the least frustration.

But human nature can’t stop you from

noticing the vibrant wildflowers

on the side of the highway,

scattered as if someone made a bet

as to whether or not he could make you smile. 

30/30 Challenge... a few days late

Read a blog post about a poetry writing challenge for April. The idea is to compose a poem each day of the month. I found a site, http://wordxwordfestival.com/challenge/index.html, that gives daily prompts for writers. While the idea of using prompts bothers me (I'd much rather come up with my own ideas), it does help with getting the writing process started.

This is my poem for 4/5...and yes, I realize that today is 4/6. The prompt was "then and now."

Then and Now

Alert, curious azure eyes taking in her surroundings

Straying eyes that look for escapes from reality

Words sputtering from a mouth, bubble-like, one after another

Thoughts perpetually contained, anxious and unrefined

Digital numbers inviting her to welcome the day’s possibilities

Mind-numbing lists of tasks to do and people to tolerate

Roads to traverse, feeling newly turned earth beneath her feet

Old, cracked dirt piled atop her dreams.  

City jitters

Most people have a consensus of what cities are like: crowded, louder than the 'burbs, busier, and with more things to do.  My conception of the city is: pure and utter chaos, droves of people streaming into one another, ridiculous expenses, and lots of things to do.

I think I am partially cursed, in that our nearest "big city" is New York City. According to worldatlas.com, NYC is the fourth most populated city in the world, with over 19 million people---and this is the city I have to live near?!

We have visited other U.S. cities and enjoyed them. Chicago (6 million population) seemed easy to navigate. If you got "lost," you did not feel like you were utterly screwed. We could tell when we were walking into a "bad section," but in actuality, it did not feel all that dangerous or threatening. Parking right by Cubs Stadium was crazy cheap. The people were nice too. We've been to Milwaukee (whoa- population under 600,000!). That was a comical experience. We wanted to visit a brewery and with out NYC state of mind we scrambled for the first parking spot we saw. We proceeded to walk about 3/4 mile to the brewery, only to find copious parking spaces in front of the brewery. We've been to Charleston, Savannah, D.C., and other cities and have had pleasant experiences.

But NYC--utter chaos.

We went there yesterday for a day trip, which I'll go into more detail next time...I just wish we were in closer proximity to a different city. I'd take Charleston. What I remember about Charleston is the eerie sounds of large bugs skittering across the sidewalks at night. Other than that, it was a quiet and polite city.

Modern Chaos

There are many times during the week when the following chant repeats in my mind: "the chaos of the modern world." This mini-chant does not occur once or twice within the week, but at least 10-15 times.

I savor silence. Even when my surroundings are classifiable as quiet, I can still sense noises around me: the sputtering of the gutter outside when rain droplets trickle onto it; the soft buzzing noises that the turned-on computer makes; the sounds of cars passing by outside; the sound of lawnmowers and other yard equipment being used at houses, even distances away...

When I am at work, I am most productive when barely anyone is left in the building. Interestingly, during my prep periods within the school day, I always have music playing in the background. Once the school is almost empty, I just grade papers and plan lessons with silence.

It seems like I would be a prime candidate for nature-living... like Thoreau. I don't feel that comfortable amidst nature though and, as foolish as it may seem, my mind churns with visions of being mauled by bears or something else catastrophic. I am "ok" with being a suburban person...but just wish silence were more frequent.

The Ghost of a Guido

Well, it's been a tumultuous past month, but I feel as if the storm between John and me has reached a point of being calm. With that calmness brings a yearning to write again, even if it's just the silly musings of my days.

My classroom has horrible, old, ugly-colored carpeting. The carpeting is mottled with various shades of brown and neutrals. I'm sure that when the rug company installed it, the colors were labeled as: tawny, burnt sienna, mahogany, copper night, amber, and beige, but the simple assessment is this: it's fucking ugly.

That carpeting has been in my classroom for the 10 years I have been there, and probably for another decade and a half on top of that. There is a large rectangular rust stain from the carpet cleaning company moving a metal bookcase halfway across the room, then deciding they no longer wanted to move it. There's bubbling that occurs right in the center of the classroom on warm, humid days. On muggy days, the classroom smells of adolescents and old carpeting combine to create a hay-like scent.

I generally have an air freshener plugged in to camouflage the horrendous smells. It makes me think of Upton Sinclair's Jungle when people took advantage of the immigrants by selling them spoiled milk, mixing in water with the curdled liquid, so that there was the appearance of freshness. This isn't as drastic, but it's the connection that comes to mind.

Today, there was a potent smell of Axe body spray in the air. I asked my 8th graders, "Did anyone spray Axe spray?" Of course, no one responded. The strong odor remained in the front quadrant of the room, strangely in area where no students sit.

My words that got a laugh during today's class: "The scent must be from the ghost of a guido who is inhabiting our room....Rodrigo."

About 15 minutes later, I renamed our ghost and announced, "Yo, it's Joe Toritelli."

Wintergirls

I'm reading a YA book, alongside an "adult" book. I find it amusing how books are classified as young adult. YA lit features the same topics as "adult lit" sex, drinking, misery, intertwined relationships, and so on. YA books just tend to be shorter and have (sometimes) less complex vocabulary.

Right now, the YA book I am reading is called Wintergirls. The protagonist, Lia, is a girl dealing with all the awkwardness and angst of high school, in addition to being an anorexic. The author does an effective job of showing how focused Lia remains when it comes to the battle between food and her own self-worth.

So....I did an awesome job...tracked food for 21 days and stuck to 1350 calories. I even went to the gym for six consecutive days. Then, Valentine's rolled around. We went out for a buffet... Wednesday was carb-laden lunch at a workshop...Thursday was solo beers...Friday was soggy, greasy french fries at the bar (and beer)...Saturday was 1 1/2 Taylor ham, egg, cheese, and bagel concoctions (mine pus half of Jen's). I look at photos from last night's karaoke time and my face appears fuller. My shoulders look wider. I look how I felt: fat.

I know it is is self-indulgent bullshit when people tirelessly discuss their weight and self-perception. I'm back on a good routine of eating for today and plan to go to the gym. A large part of me wishes I could eat garbage (pizza, fries, beer, red velvet ANYTHING) and maintain a normal weight. Everyone has things that come easy to her and things that are challenging. Academic tasks come easy to me and, generally, always have...right now though...I might exchange some portion of my intelligence for a crazy high metabolism.

Nervousness Symptoms

It's interesting how the body physically reacts to nervousness. For me, just like for everyone else, there are two types of nervousness. There's anticipation-related nervousness, that kind of nervousness when you're meeting someone new or taking a risk and doing something new. There's conventional nervousness, associated with fear of failure.

I got observed by my principal on Friday. Although I've been observed plenty of times since I have started teaching, the whole experience still makes me nervous. My mouth begins drying up and it's hard to get words out; I start to internally worry that every morsel of language that I am speaking is being analyzed. I try to be conscious of filler-words such as "like," "um," or "okay," but probably say them anyway because I am so nervous.

The second kind of nervousness is the fun nervousness...hands gently shaking, head bobbing up and down amidst affirmative self-talk, tapping of the feet... I recently read some of my poetry aloud and could feel the nervousness symptoms appearing. When I first spoke, my voice slightly quivered. After a few lines, I could feel the quivering lessen.

I don't experience that second type of nervousness too often nowadays but, when I do, I revel in it. It's miserable and wonderful at the same time. Nervousness is hard to navigate or control, which is probably what I simultaneously love and loathe about it.

Things I hate about Facebook

1) When someone posts photos of recipes that he/she has made; it's even exceptionally more annoying if the person who has posted the recipe is very ...corpulent...shall we say--- like...are you looking to be ridiculed?

2) (stated on previous post) When people post about the woes of doing schoolwork...if you're a single mom working full-time and going back to night school, then you have room to whine...if you're not that description, shut up.

3) When a "current event" occurs and everyone starts posting about it...these "current events" are never life-altering events of actual significance...cases in point: Superbowl, Whitney Houston's death, etc.

4) The foursquare app--WHY would you actually want everyone to know where you are?

5) When people who are teachers write posts that feature idiotic grammar errors. Think than vs. then, breath vs. breathe, and so on... It's so aggravating. People already do not respect the profession and those grammar idiots are just cementing that disrespect.

6) Recent updates about progress on Farmville, Cityville, Words with Friends, etc. Yes, I have played Farmville for over two years. Yes, it takes me a pathetic six or so weeks to "level up." I don't post about it. The earth doesn't need to know.

7)When people post pictures of newly born babies and others comment, "Oh! So beautiful," "Precious!," or other uncreative, complimentary things...

So yes. I am a curmudgeon:) At least I get a fun word for my grumpiness.

Hopeless Romantic

Despite my cynicalness and doubt, I am definitely a hopeless romantic.  There are two previous romantic things that I recall John doing: 1] surprising me for Christmas with a Clay Matthews jersey--I totally was not expecting it at all and, to me, successful surprises are a huge part of romance and 2] when John left beef tongue for me on the kitchen counter. He had gone to work and beef tongue was on his new recent food ventures. He left beef tongue taco prep directions on the counter, the directions outlined in "idiot format"---which is precisely what I need for any cooking endeavor.

They're definitely not conventional examples, but they're examples.

I just spent 90 minutes watching Teen Witch on ABC Family channel. The fact that I can withstand the cheesiness of this 1989 movie and still revel in the CHEESY romantic scenes is something that I love. I love the end of the movie, where Louise discards her magic-inducing necklace and how Brad falls for her... without having magic involved. I love the stupid scene where they're in the abandoned house, tip toeing around amidst creaks of old wooden floorboards, followed by the camera zooming in on a slow, long kiss.

In between the movie were commercials for The Notebook. I hate all the "old people" scenes of that movie, but love any other scene between Ryan Gosling & Rachel McAdams. I don't desire to like this movie, but I just do.

Hopeless romantics can't be tarnished by anything, not even urbandictionary.com. Urbandictionary.com always manages to find a way to fuck up the most innocent of words. "Hopeless romantic" on the site remains innocent, sweet, and simple: someone who is in love with love. <3

Recent poem

I know that "successful blogs" have some kind of theme: musings on daily life, video clips, top-whatever lists, and so on. I did start writing a blog entry in how I revel at the fact that some people I graduated high school with are now fat. The entry did not go too far. What am I?- a lead character in Mean Girls?

So, instead, here is a recent poem. I've been trying to write more often. Whenever people ask me why I stopped, my reply is, "Students suck the creativity out of me." Well, screw them... I'm making it come back.

(Not yet titled)


The rain slackens 
but its sound
echoes into the air. 
Stray droplets reach my windowpane
and continue intermittent songs.


I am reminded of younger years,
long expanse of time, 
and your hands trailing paths down my body. 
Small, meager lamp on the bedstand,
Nothing but the gentle brush of colliding lips.
Breaths being passed between us
like carefully constructed words in a conversation.


I think of us now
and the sounds that surround us.
Cars battering the pavement, rushing to reach home. 
Dim streetlamps on the verge of disrepair. 
Rickety white fence posts shuddering in the wind.


I long for your breath on my body.

"Mirror," Sylia Plath

A new, mysterious gem that I discovered today...

"Mirror," Sylvia Plath

I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
What ever you see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful---
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.
Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.


http://quietube2.com/v.php/http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6nZht4WMoMo

Moves Like Jagger

Despite being released last June, "Moves Like Jagger" is still constantly on the radio. This song is my WAKE UP anthem. On Friday nights when I have contemplated going to sleep early instead of going out, I've played "Moves Like Jagger" while jumping on a mini trampoline. That definitely does the trick for waking a person up. It also, um, makes me feel sexy.

On the way to work, if it comes on the radio (which it often does), I have a routine: I unroll the window (yes, manually, and yes, even if it is 20 degrees out), frantically flap my arms around ("car dancing"), and sing uproariously. My favorite lines are " Don't need to try to control you/ Look into my eyes and I'll own you." This song energizes me and somehow makes me happy to be on the road, even if it is 7:25 in the morning.

After 4 minutes of utter loud bliss, I am most likely close to work; I only live 4 miles away. As the song's chorus fades into a background and the song ends, I reverse the morning bliss. I roll my window up, re-compose myself, and calmly drive down the main road that leads to work. I turn up the main driveway, pull into my parking spot, and get out of the car.

Sometimes I wish my work day was like a musical, with clever songs and choreographed dances to help me get through the motions of monotony.

Neighbors

When we moved into the house, I assumed that living in a "neighborhood" would equate with a sense of community. In our apartment, we knew our neighbors, but it was on sheer acquaintance terms. I knew our one set of neighbors were Muslim, based on the echoes of prayers that I would hear at various times of the day. Another set of downstairs neighbors would have very short sex-capades; I could hear labored breaths on weekend nights; the labored breaths would last about 20 seconds. Poor girl. Our other neighbors were the #10 couple; the wife was ridiculously thin (had a drinking problem, mixed with the tendency to overexercise) and the husband was very corpulent (he was short, fat, and yelled constantly at his wife).

We moved into our quaint house in the "lake community" and I assumed that with the new residence would come the kind of community that you see on TV and hear about in novels.

FALSE.

Tom is our next door neighbor. He spends lots of time manicuring his lawn and backyard, but never has company over. Bobbi (short for Roberta) and Neil are our next-door neighbors on the other side of our house. She definitely is the commandeering force in the relationship. Neil drives a modest Subaru. Bobbi owns a grey BMW that is frequently covered with a canvas tarp. They also own another luxury car in their garage. They dug up their entire backyard to "re-lawn" it and now the beautiful yard is only used for their purebred poodle to shit upon. The neighbor across the street, Edith, was an elderly woman who would sometimes sit outside with her nurse-on-duty. Apparently, Edith died a few months ago--I didn't know until a few days ago.

I just feel like everyone is in their own house, watching their plasma TVs, using their luxury kitchen appliances, and paying no mind to the world outside their house.

I am definitely a private person and am not the type to just totally have our house open to anyone at anytime...but I do like the concept of a community...which is non-existent here.

We pay $540 in annual fees for the "lake community property owners association;" writing out that check pisses me off beyond explanation.

The neighbors I most detest are across the street... Russ and Michelle...she's a teacher; he's some businessman. They have two children (a boy and a girl) and a shiny, new mini-van. My negative view of them would best be saved until later...

Winter Doldrums

The sun is setting; there's a tinge of orange across the sky, but most of the light has descended. The sky remains a blank shade of blue, a bit more optimistic than its recent consecutive shades of grey. At the height of the day, the temperature was a mild 48 degrees. 48 degrees is a rarity from the normal temperatures around here. Driving on route 80 today, I momentarily got the feeling of sunlight coming through the driver's side window and warming my face.

For the most part, winter on the East Coast sucks. I find myself coming home from work, getting underneath blankets, reading (and never anything uplifting--right now, it's Andre Dubus III's Townie and he is describing how he has almost just killed someone in an altercation), and just waiting for the coldness to end. I'm not a winter sports enthusiast so the idea of being outside "against the elements" does nothing for me. Today, the most momentous thing I did was watch an an episode of Alaska: Ice Cold Killers. Apparently, even Alaska has horrible, crime-ridden areas (they specifically cited 4th Street in Anchorage).

Lying in bed, amidst the background sound of the television, I heard the faint sound of police sirens and the sound of an airplane flying, overhead, in the distance. I'd settle for hearing that wintery crackling sound, snow dusting the ground and pure silence in the air.

Little Girl Lost

Maybe I am entering crazy terrain, although I prefer to refer to my current state of mind as inquisitive.

Last night, I went online and was searching for some record of my father's death. He died in 1986, I know that much. My last memories of him include: sitting in the passenger seat of his dark green truck and counting mile markers on the parkway; drawing fluffy, pliant clouds; and looking at his paperweights collection.

Since it was a Jewish funeral, I didn't see his body. The last I recall is going to the cemetery and seeing relatives uplift small piles of dirt, putting them into the ground.

Awhile ago, I found a site that listed someone with my father's name as a professional boxer from Brooklyn. Though I know he did not grow up in Brooklyn, the past few weeks have been spent with the assumption that my father boxed professionally and that, hey, maybe I could take up kickboxing at the gym and continue the legacy. After further research, the Brooklyn boxer's birth date does not match up to my father's.

There's someone in Florida with the same first and last name who was a victim in the Bernie Madoff investment scandal. Relatives on my father's side live in Florida, but, alas, the person could not be my father (large age difference).

I know he is dead, is gone, has passed away...whatever other euphemism one wants to use. I just feel angry that I have no connection to my father. I have thick, wavy, brown hair---just like him. I have an affinity for glass paperweights, which I have never really given much previous thought to before. That's about it.

When I was six and my father died, I am sure that I felt lost--not understanding the gravity of the situation. At 31, I don't know if I feel any more grounded.

American Traditions

Just saw an acquaintance's Facebook photos of a bridal shower. The bride-to-be was dressed in a short, white sundress; she was surrounded by her bridesmaids, all clad in purple. Obviously, the shower had been carefully planned. Ridiculous.


My own bridal shower was intended to be a surprise, but was ruined because of men. John came home from the gym and said, "Steve said that this is a gift from Maria," and urged me to immediately open it. I opened the gift and the card was post-dated for a Saturday in September. The jig was up as I asked, "Um, is there a shower planned for me for September 6?" 


I still ended up being surprised though, in terms of the bridal shower location. Additionally, since it would hurt family members' feelings to know that I had discovered the shower date, I dressed like myself: hoodie, tshirt, worn jeans, and Birks. It was awesome:)


When I think of how us Americans do things, it aggravates me. We try to orchestrate events so that perfection and originality are simultaneously achieved. Everyone always has to have something "unique" at their wedding; something needs to be done in a "new way." People have been participating in marriage ceremonies for hundreds of years; newness has dissipated. At this point, newness would be unabated traditionalism.


While looking at the overly posed shower pictures on Facebook, I immediately thought of the Gogel Bordello song, "American Wedding." (I used to use that song to encourage me to run swiftly at the gym; now that I leisurely walk at the gym, the song can have other uses). 


Some of the song's lines include:" I understand the cultures / Of a different kind / But here word celebration / Just doesn't come to mind."

Careful orchestration of supposed bliss is not a celebration. And going to a party and wearing matching dresses? That fucking sucks:) 

I think my sister put it best when, over the summer, we got into an argument about gift wrapping. I was wrapping two matching gifts in preparation for a bridal shower that I was attending. Amy, intoxicated, was assisting me but was just making more of a mess than anything. Annoyed, I said, "Come on, take your time. It should look nice. The bride opens the gifts in front of everyone," to which my sister replied, "You're so fucking Jersey." 

Adolph vs. Jesus

I suppose if I had to classify myself, i'd say I am an agnostic. I don't know exactly what I believe in, but I know I believe in some higher power. Mainly, I don't believe in something precise because I am lazy---probably the reasoning for about half of the people who prescribe to no specific religion.

When I was younger, we went to a local Methodist Church. In my mind, I recall small images related to the church: Reverend Bowering had "silver" gray hair and I am SURE my mother complimented him on it (to this day, she loves gray hair and has no qualms about announcing it to ANYONE);  the church had kickass craft fairs with lots of fattening treats that a chubby little kid would enjoy; church services were tolerable because there were little paper pads and pencils next to the hymns; and summer bible camp had some very "interesting" theatrical performances.

It had to be when I was in about 5th or 6th grade, but the summer bible camp put on a performance which featured a "boxing ring." Within the boxing ring were Adolph Hitler and Jesus, throwing symbolic air punches toward each other.

In the first starring role of my life, I played the role of Hitler. I recall having my hair tied back and under a cap, so that it was look short. I had a moustache painted on, in addition to an army-esque jacket that featured a swastika. I get that these were props, but in retrospect, the whole idea was fucked up. If that lesson plan idea were part of 2012 bible camp, it would surely be featured on some news show. It kind of makes me think of a recent news story where students in Michigan, some African-American, had to write a narrative in which they pretended to be slaves. Parents were enraged. Now, imagine the scene of your child coming home from bible camp: "Mom, I got the lead role in the play. I'm Hitler!"

An Ohio Sky

There's a certain type of winter sky that reminds me of Ohio. When I was younger, we used to visit Ohio every Christmas. Other families went to exciting, warm places like Florida or the Carolinas. We went to Ohio. Today's late afternoon sky sky is an Ohio sky.

The December sky is Ohio is a constant gray. It's not a dark, charcoal gray, but rather is a muted gray. It's a sky of indecisiveness. If it was an indecisive sky, the weather was mild (30 degrees or higher) and tolerable. If the sky was muted white, the weather was stark cold; the type of weather where uncovered skin turns bright pink within mere minutes.

They're forecasting snow for tonight. I am going into "kid mode," assuming that there will be some type of delay tomorrow. When we have school delays, I always have lofty goals of getting housework done or doing something else productive; instead, I always succumb to going back to sleep. 

Even though we had Monday off, I feel like this week has dragged. A 90 minute delay would surely be welcomed. 

Self-Indulgent Facebook Posts

One of my biggest pet peeves is when people make Facebook posts about the "tough lives" they endure--you know, taking grad school classes and having lots of work to do. It's spring semester time, so I guess I should not be surprised at some of today's posts. Someone posted a picture of his textbooks and wrote "So it begins. Starting classes tonight. God help me." Someone else posted how yesterday was her last day of "freedom." At the end of last semester, I recall someone posted about getting history papers and stating something along the lines of "woe is me."

Here's background information. Some of these people live at home with their parents. Yes, I know how stressful it is to go to college and have cheap and/or free rent, laundry facilities, dinners cooked for you, and so forth. Some of these people come from fairly affluent backgrounds so, yes, they have to take grad classes and "work" at the same time but, no matter what, someone has (financially) always "got their back."

I try not to post complaints or "woe is me" comments on Facebook. There's so many people on this earth who actually are experiencing adversities; going to grad school for an advanced degree is not an adversity. It's a choice. Too many times, Facebook exists as a place to 1: try to gain pity from others, 2: pass along stupid "awareness" emails about causes like breast cancer when it would be better for people to get off their ass and do something REAL for the cause, and 3: give play by play of sports events.

I guess I could be seen as a hypocrite...my previous post about having a cold is basically "woe is me." However, this is a blog... it's different :)

Verge of a cold

I can't blame anyone except my stubborn self. I'm the one who gallivants outside with a hooded sweatshirt, Uggs slipper "shoes," and a scarf--assuming that that combination of clothing will be suitable for 18 degree weather.

I woke up this morning, tired (normal) and feeling weak (less normal). My throat is scratchy and my lips have become simultaneously chapped and enlarged---not a sexy combination. I basically stayed in all day, sleeping, reading, and drinking white tea. White tea consists of tea, sugar, and an abundance of half and half. I had plans of going to the gym anyway, but succumbed to sleep.

I've also been eating large amounts of oranges and crossing my fingers that a magical vehicle will come to my door, bearing gifts of Won ton soup (in my mind, the "cure" for the common cold)....

Winter Weekends

I am not interested in hiking, skiing, snowboarding, or even the as-idle-as-you-want activity of snow shoeing. I have decided that winter weeks should go as follows: be healthy and on target with exercise goals during the week. Be saintly. When Friday hits, feel free to partake in copious amounts of food and drink, copious amounts of drink more than food.

Last night, we hung out @ Jen's. Pasta night. Light on the pasta, heavy on the mix of vodka and diet Sprite. It's now 2:00 the next day and I am still loafing around. I plan on going to the gym for about an hour. I won't work out too hard, just a short stint on the treadmill, but it will make me feel less guilty for this evening's pursuit---party at Dustin's. More food and mixed "diet" cocktails. Recovery will be tomorrow.

Honestly, with the cold winter weather, I think that my activity pattern is pretty wise. What else is there to do?

Stream of Consciousness

(I wrote this Wednesday afternoon, at 4:30...I didn't post it from work because I am CUH-RAZE and figure that you shouldn't complain about work and post it during work time...at a public school ...) 

End of day and head feels like it is pressed in between a vise. Trying to have robot-like efficiency and still failing to complete all necessary tasks. I’d love to have a blood pressure machine in my classroom. I’d measure blood pressure levels at the beginning and end of class, finding twisted amusement in how 14 year olds can aggravate me. The sound of my fingers tapping on the keyboard--- writing lesson plans and composing carefully worded emails to parents--- that sound annoys me to no end. It’s the sound of franticness, but ultimately leads to the same outcome. Some people leave the building as soon as we are permitted; in my classroom (“lair”) I can heard them exit their rooms, as the sound of door slamming echoes through the empty halls. Little things annoy me--- the rust stain on the classroom carpeting because the summer crew was too lazy to lift up a heavy metal bookcase before shampooing the carpet, how kids can complain about any particular element at any given time (It’s too hot in here, it’s too cold in here, this novel is boring, this novel is too hard, I hate reading), how kids can be ungrateful… I constantly think in my mind, I hope my children are not like most of the students that I have. I sometimes, often, feel like an idiot for continuing in this profession. Jersey is expensive, but if I lived somewhere else I truly think I would be content working at a bookstore or other small retailer, clocking in at a reasonable hour in the morning, clocking out at another reasonable evening hour, and then going home and enjoying….life. 

How 'bout a goal in the other direction?

So, lately, I've been going through my day to day eating regimen with this mindset: Fuck, you gained weight between mid-December and now...you're about 20 pounds from where you see your "healthy weight"...fuck, why not just go for the gusto and completely indulge in whatever you want???


I do recognize that my mindset is a very self-destructive one.

Since New Year's, like the rest of the American population, I have tried to have self-control. I can manage for most of the day, but then there are little indulgences that creep their way into my day...and i gorge. Working at the library yesterday, I had tons of cookies. Certain evenings this week have featured me taking triple trips to the fridge to slice segments of fruit cake, a very sugary, caloric, and fattening treat.

Now to Sunday. It's beyond indulging at this point. I feel disgusting. I feel unattractive. I feel too lazy and unenergized to have sex. This is a bad place to be.

I can say that I have a weight loss goal, in terms of pounds and ideal weight. Rather though, I'd like to have the goal of fitting into my green silk shirt in time for St. Patrick's Day. This was the shirt I wore to my bachelorette party and it makes me feel kickass sexy:)

So...in the words of Nina Simone..."it's a new dawn, it's a new day, and I'm feelin' fine."

I do think I will have to throw the rest of the fruit cake in the trash though.....   :(

irony

Went into JC Pennys tonight...steered quickly past the sexy lingerie and veered in self-deprecation territory, otherwise known as flannel PJ sets area. I didn't end up buying anything, but did have quite a laugh at a pajama set that I saw.

There was a book-themed PJ set, sized 1x. Size 1x is approximately the size I "could" be if I don't stop shoving food into my mouth sometime soon. Size 1x makes one eligible to shop at stores such as Lane Bryant, Fashion to Figure, and Avenue... One could even shop at Torrid, if she's a fat goth....

Anyway, the 1x PJ pants featured books and the matching shirt proclaimed: Don't Judge A Book By It's Movie. Yes, "it's," which translates to: Don't Judge A Book By It Is Movie. I should have looked to see if the set was made in the United States or not--although that would not necessarily have made the grammar mistake not appear anyway--Americans suck at basic grammar.

The funny thing about the PJ set was the saying was supposed to be witty. I imagine an overweight woman sitting at home on a Saturday night. The Netflix DVD of Water For Elephants rests on her nightstand, but she feels proud of herself for committing to first read the book before watching the film. A cup of Celestial Seasonings tea is near the DVD, probably some odd flavor like Acai Mango Zinger. She smiles after reading the wise quotation on the bottom of the tea box. Her cats surround her body on the bed, taking advantage of the warmth of her fat. She reads quietly, feeling righteous for her intellectual ways...

when the entire time she is wearing a shirt with incorrect grammar...

It just makes me laugh... and roll my eyes...simultaneously.

:)

Fuck at 7:57AM

Last night was filled with gluttony. I came home from work, gazed at the computer screen for hours, and pacified my stress-induced hunger with carbs galore: Allagash beer, dinner rolls, fruitcake, and Tostitos. Sloth and overeating do not go well together. I went to bed, annoyed at myself for wasting the evening.

This morning the Language Arts teachers got a "surprise"- we had a workshop that administration forgot to tell us about. I scrambled to make plans for the substitute, relenting and just leaving a vocabulary sheet and a video.

I wasn't in the best mood today anyway, so a morning workshop actually turned out to be convenient. 

Sitting at the table during the start of the workshop, I opened my purse and my cell phone fell across the ground. At 7:57...barely 20 minutes into the school day, I uttered, "Fuck" under my breath and my co-worker looked at me surprisingly. I explained how I only curse when I am stressed or taking a workout class for the first time and doing poorly. 

Later in the day, I accidentally bit my lower lip twice. This was not sexy Kristen Stewart lip biting (which I've practiced doing in the mirror times before, without any success). This was "Fuck, I am stressed" lip biting. 

We watched Portlandia the other day and while I know the show is spoofing Portland and while I know that "real Portland" has its good points and bad points, I want to move somewhere now...and I'd be okay with it being there:) 

Back to work

Today finally arrived-- the start back to work. It's amazing how 10 days off can put you in such a different mindset. My whole sleep cycle resembles that of a 20-something who goes to raves...Friday and Saturday had bedtimes of 4AM; Sunday's bedtime was 2AM. Screwing with my sleep cycle made last night horrendous. I kept waking up in the "middle of the night," which was the previous night's time to karaoke and hang out with friends.

On days during my winter break, there were times when I did not wake up until noon. With my teaching schedule, 3/4 of my classes are done by noon.

Today, as I walked into work, I actually witnessed the sun rising. Instead of walking through the halls and thinking, "Fuck, another day of work," I tried to appreciate the sight in front of me:

Competing with Michael Phelps for calories

I have read articles that stated Michael Phelps' daily caloric intake (during training) as 10,000 calories. Within the past 24 hours, I feel like I have consumed a Phelps-worthy amount of calories.

Although today is technically the first day of the new year and would be an ideal day to start eating better, I have simply merged today with last night---in other words, I've just been on a day long food rampage:) I've consumed Tostitos chips, large amounts of seven layer dip (most of the seven layers being fatty substances like sour cream or guac), cupcakes, brownies, sweet potato chips (your daily serving of veggies--according to the packaging), pasta, chicken on skewers, and some token veggies and hummus.

I kind of like the idea of starting off the first day of the new year with utter gluttony and then, tomorrow, beginning anew. I guess I could have gone to the gym today and started off the new year "right," but the gym is notoriously PACKED on January 1st. I think it was much more intelligent to lie in bed in pajamas, consume abundant amounts of carbs without having any plans to really expend the energy that I consumed, and watch marathons of shows like Jersey Shore. I would say I feel horrible about watching such trashy tv, but honestly, everything on television today was garbage. A majority of channels had all day marathons, most of which were dreadful shows that encouraged vapidness and sloth, or a combination of both: Housewives of Atlanta, Keeping up with the Kardashians, One Life to Live, 650 Pound Virgin, House, Samantha Who, Storage Wars, Hoarders, and on and on. In following with the theme of today's television, I chose to be slothful today:)

Little anxieties

I've been to a psychiatrist once in my life.  It was about two years ago when I was on Accutane. After seeing a barrage of commercials which linked Accutane use to potential increase in suicide risk, John wanted me to see somebody. In retrospect, it would be humorous if those Accutane/suicide link commercials were something created by the pharmaceuticial makers and American Psychiatry Association---some kind of conspiracy to further increase the amount of Americans on meds.

The psychiatrist... His dark-framed glasses and sweater stand out in my memory; I can't recall if the sweater featured elbow patches, but I wouldn't doubt it. At the end of the session, during which I cried profusely in regard to hatred toward my mother, he gave me a prescription---for another therapist. He concluded that I did not need to be medicated but that, indeed, I definitely would benefit from talking my problems out with someone.

I still have the prescription on my fridge, just because I thought it was hilarious---getting a prescription to see someone else.

Anxiety. Although my constantly low blood pressure might make it seem like I have little anxiety, that's absolutely false. I just try to avoid situations where I know I will be anxious (rush hour traffic, "peak" times at stores and shopping centers, communicating with my mother, etc).

When I feel anxious, there are a few common reactions: crying hysterically and biting my nails.

We're having the New Year's party on Saturday and I am definitely feeling stressed. I've been trying to clean the rooms of the house, all of which contains pile of MY stuff. I found some items that could be classified as "historic": my 2004 teacher ID card, an ice cream store gift certificate from 2007 (I WILL be going and checking the gift card's validity sometime soon), souvenirs that I bought for friends on my 2006 trip to Montana, and so on.

Most of all, I found tons of photo frames, about a dozen--all unfilled. I filled the frames and then felt anxiety about displaying them and hanging them up. This is a commonality with me--I have this odd anxiety about hanging stuff up on the wall. I guess it comes down to not wanting to hang something in the wrong spot and then leave a hole behind. So, in other words, I am fucking crazy:)

I did hang up a few things, include the custom-made watercolor painting of the Flash (comic hero, not our former cat) that John had his friend make.

And I didn't hysterically cry or bite my nails while hanging things up...Anxiety over hanging things up---seems ridiculously lame when I read over my typed words...

Progress. Progress.....

Hoarders also host parties

So, we are hosting a New Year's Eve party this Saturday. My friend Jen asked, "What's your menu,?" to which I replied, "Pizza and beer." I'll have more items beyond that but, honestly, my friends are not Hoboken yuppies who are expecting homemade sushi and complicated cocktails. Food for the event is fairly easy. Decorations are definitely easy--and something I actually am looking forward to.

There does remain one stumbling block though: a clutter-free house.

When I watch episodes of Hoarders, I sometimes do see a little bit of myself within the people on the show. I too don't always throw boxes away because, hey, you may need them sometime. The 2 bucks you'd have to pay for a USPS box dominates over the space that boxes will take up in one's home. Also, I definitely do hold onto some items for sentimental reasons. It took about 3 times of playing trash-tug-of-war before I finally threw out my black Converse shoes. They were filthy and the laces were shredded to pieces, but my reason for wanting to keep them was that I wore them on my honeymoon and they had "red dirt" from Kaui on them. Kind of ridiculous reasoning, when I think in retrospect.

Today, I ALMOST threw out my red/black patterned sarong style skirt. I have had this skirt for about 9 years and haven't worn it because it is "wrap style" and I fear having a wardrobe malfunction while wearing it. However, I want to keep it because I like the pattern and...that's about it.

John is taking our myriad of boxes to the recycling center today. I am going to work on organizing a bag of clothing and books for Good Will. One step at a time, as they say...

Fuck it-I'll donate the sarong skirt. I've owned the skirt for 1/3 of my life and have never worn it...it needs to be donated:)

But...here's a photo...for posterity. Actually, now that I look at the pattern, it's definitely matronly... not what I want to look like in my life, at this point.

Mall Men

The past two days have been thoroughly entertaining, from a sociological standpoint. Going to the mall, Walmart, and various other shopping venues, I have been amused by the different shopping methods of males and females.

When it comes to shopping, women "graze." Even if we wait until the last minute, our last minute is at least 7 days before Christmas. We tend to scope out the various gift options, going from store to store, but not immediately buying anything. We take several days to get the git buying task complete and then go on the quest for little trinkets or doodads to add to the gifts when we wrap them. We'll go into a gigantic store to buy a single hologram ribbon or some other "individualized" item.

When it comes to shopping, men wait until the last possible moment. Conceptually, they attempt to get as many gifts in as few stores as possible. Many of them have a blank look across their faces, comparable to the ubiquitous "deer in the headlights" look. Whereas women will shop around for the best possible prices, men will frantically grab items off the shelves, willing to pay whatever they have to pay because they realize they procrastinated. Most interesting is the line inside various jewelry stores. I know nothing about jewelry, but I'd think that buying jewelry in a smaller town store would be significantly better than some chain store like Helzberg. If you walk past mall jewelry stores, you see men huddled inside... carefully deciding between which piece of jewelry to get. Inevitably, about 50% of the men will just succumb to buying the trendy "love" necklace of the season. A few years ago it was the "past, present, future" diamonds. Then the "infinity circle" arrived. More recently was the half-heart pendant, which our family dubbed "the turd necklace." I've always said I have wanted a heart locket necklace, but something tells me that in reality I would find that gift monumentally cheesy and lackluster.

There's also always the amusement of the stone-faced men who have been dragged along on shopping ventures with their wives or girlfriends. These men look like they are being put through some modern-day form of punishment. Best are the men who sit in the "comfy" chairs while their spouses try on clothing.

Secret Santa Sucks

Every year, we have Secret Santa at work. This is the third year I have participated; it's also the third year that I have been disappointed with the final gift. All three years have ended with the final gift being a gift card. One year was a Kohl's card, the next was Barnes and Noble, and this year was Dunkin' Donuts. I filled out the Secret Santa likes/dislikes list pretty well---not too thoroughly to seem like a pain in the ass---but just enough information so that someone could have fun shopping for me. Each year, the activity ends in the same result: I get chocolates, gummi bears, FOOD, and a final gift card that says (in my mind), "You're a pain to shop for."

When I think about people shopping for me, I don't think I am that difficult of a person to shop for. I do have some quirks with clothing, but I do have some other terrain where there is utmost freedom. The quirks with clothing include a few things that I immensely dislike. I hate white anything. I dislike brand names being on the outer part of clothing. I only like pants that have pockets on the ass, work pants included. Pants sans ass pockets just make me feel like I look heavier. I also dislike pink, yellow, and anything light colored. Basically, I am an insecure emo kid.

My likes are fun though---wacky earrings ---I'll wear anything on my ears... Any scarf will suffice too. Scarves and earrings of any kind...that's a broad range of things.

And I end up with the Dunkin Donuts card... Agh. I spend time for Secret Santa, composing "clue poems" and making sure to buy actual gifts... and in return, end up with someone basically saying, "Hey, go get yourself some coffee and doughnuts."

Also... the lamest part...this year's Secret Santa was the vice-principal...

Join the masses

Typically, my Sundays do not feature a huge list of errands to do. However, no matter how little I have to accomplish, crowds always seem to be part of the day.

Today I have to go food shopping at Costco (sheer madness--- John generally goes midweek--- to go food shopping on a Sunday is pure masochism). I have to finish Amy's Christmas gift, a photo album of tons of pictures of us. This requires me to go to Walmart or another "discount store" and use their photo machine. Places like that are PACKED today. Furthermore, the photo copy kiosks tend to get crowded around this time of the year. I have 10, maximum, photos to copy. Other people will be standing at the machine, printing out photos from the dawn of time. I also have to go to Michael's to get some minor crafting supplies for making ornaments.

None of the above tasks are particularly time-consuming, but the fact that the masses are out today is what makes the tasks significantly more miserable.

I have always said that it is not as if I am claustrophobic or anything, but I just really detest crowds. Guess it makes perfect sense that I continue to live my life in the nation's most densely populated state.....

Roving eyes, but otherwise civil behavior

I went to the school's chorus concert tonight. The crowd's behavior was definitely better than it was during last week's band concert. I, however, was in the 4th row this time, whereas last time, I was among the (what is seemed) dregs of society in the back of the gym.

There was one point during the show when some of the dancers from a previous number came back out onto the risers, to sing with the rest of the chorus. A few of these girls had on extremely short skirts. The short skirts were black and contrasted with the either tan legs (from ladylike leggings or stockings) or bare, pale legs. As the girls, got onto the risers to perform the next song, I could see a small group of 8th grade boys' eyes moving with the girls' bodies.

I had a "mom moment" too; all I kept thinking was, If my daughter wore something like that and, simultaneously, If my son's eyes roved like that. At least, the eye roving seems more natural and "acceptable." I can't take the inappropriate clothing.

I guess I should just assume, at this juncture, that John and I will have an only child who is socially awkward and probably needs to be homeschooled because her mother will be nuts:)

Me VS. Pink

For as long as I can remember, I've disliked the color pink. I can't really pinpoint a specific reason for my detest of the color, but I can pinpoint three specific instances in which I experienced actual detest.

1. The pink Easter dress--- in third grade, I recall an instance where my mother was purchasing Easter dresses for Amy and me. This was when we still had some semblance of religious beliefs and before I was smart enough to ask, "If there is a god, why would he make such horrible things happen to people?" We were in Kmart, I recall that specifically. I wanted this knee length dress; it had satin material and lace material over the satin layer. There was a thick satin ribbon in the middle of the dress that tied around the back. I loved that dress...in pale blue. My mother allowed me to get the dress, but I had to get it in the pink shade. I truly think this experience simultaneously cemented my hatred for pink and for my mother.

2. The bubble gum sweatsuit--- Maybe it was because I was a fat child and buying elastic waisted pants and cotton tops are easier than "regular" clothes. Maybe it was because someone in the family thought the outfit was "cute." For a Christmas gift, I received a sweatsuit set. The top portion was a pink sweatshirt with a gumball machine smack dab in the middle. The pants were also pink with brightly colored gumballs up and down the legs. This sweatsuit was horrible --- comparable to the pink bunny outfit that Ralphie has to wear in Christmas Story. I'd say that someone else out there must be able to relate, but surely no one else has family members that would buy her such an atrocious outfit...and embarrassing too...I was in 5th grade!

3. Bedroom walls--- Since childhood, the bedroom walls of the house where I grew up were a shade of pink. The walls were technically a pale mauve, but the shade was close enough to pink to warrant my loathing. When I was in high school, I loved the black and white magazine ads that were trendy for brands like Guess and Calvin Klein. My bedroom walls were covered with various photos, artistic advertisements, and anything else that would shroud the pink underneath.  Most of the photos were of male models. In retrospect, my bedroom must have been a frightening place for any teenage boy...not that there were many in my bedroom...just one.

Adulthood has made me accept pink a slight bit more. Hot pink is okay for 80s concerts, but for any other occasion...it's still dreadful.

Long haired guys

I guess I quite like long-haired men. One would never know it because every guy I have dated has had regular length hair, however, long hair usually is reserved for specific groups of men: earthy hippies and musicians...neither of which I have technically dated.

Clay Matthews. Gigantic beastly build with huge arms. That's not what gets me though. The long blonde hair. It's just awesome. I don't think I would "look good" with a guy that looked like Matthews, but I guess in the realm of fantasizing or "crushin' " that appearance compatibility does not matter.

Last night, we went to see Kyuss Lives. One of the opening bands was a doom metal band called Sword. I didn't like the music too much--- a bit too loud for my tastes (which translates into "please lower the thrashing guitars and increase the nice drum beat")---but I was entranced by the guitarist. I only realized he was the guitarist after Googling the band; last night, I was stuck as to whether he was the bassist or guitarist. I don't know the difference.

Anyway, the guitarist was tall and had a medium build. He had a SLIGHT paunch, but nothing too noticeable. Obviously, he is the type of guy who does not have to work out, but still keeps a fairly good build. His hair was long and blonde, flipping back and forth in front of his face as he played. I was awed by how the swaying hair did not break his concentration. I mean, if you're in the middle of playing doom metal, I guess strands of hair in your face do not affect you...but I was just all the more entranced.

After the band played, John asked what I thought of them. I replied, "Eh, they were ok, but the guitar player with the long hair was hot." He had no idea who I was talking about, despite the fact that ALL of the other band members had shoulder length and shorter hair. He was entranced by the music more than the musicians' looks:)

On the way to the parking garage, we actually saw the guitarist on the streets of Montclair. John complimented him on his band's performance and the guy nodded his head, acknowledging the praise. As he walked further away, John yelled down the street, "My wife thinks you're hot too!"

:)

Decline of Civilization

Last night, I went to the school's band concert. Walking into the gym area (where the "stage" was set up) was a bit of a downer. Only about 50% of the chairs were filled. I arrived just as the "Star Spangled Banner" was playing; I entered by the gym's back entrance and sat in one of back rows. I basically occupied the last "person-filled"row. Behind me, there was about 20 other empty rows.

Apparently, during school band concerts, the back area of the gym is representative of the utter decline of civilization. A few rows ahead a little girl swayed back and forth, while standing, on an aluminum chair. I kept worrying about her falling over. Moreso, I worried how I would have to react since I was sitting so nearby. I am not too effective in emergency situations.

On the bleachers sat a child without a parent in sight. He was playing on a portable video game device. Rude enough, yes, but the game's volume was actually quite high. I could hear the PSP's noise even over the band's rendition of "Iron Man."

Also, a few rows near me, there was a woman who seemed to be rubbing the back of her son's head. She kept rubbing his head and seemed to be intertwining strands of his hair. There seemed to exist two possibilities explaining her odd behavior. She was either braiding small strands of his hair OR checking his hair for insects or parasites, much like a tribal member of yore. 

Additionally, there was this man, thin and with a small moustache, who kept frantically waving to one of the children in the band. At one point, this man did some pseudo-sign language and gestured toward himself, mouthing, "I love you" with great emphasis. 

Furthermore, throughout the concert, there was continuously some sort of noise or background chatter going on. 

It's just disturbing...and this behavior from a supposed "affluent" community. Affluence is obviously not synonymous with civility or class.

New Ad Slogans

During Christmas time, stores' inventories are overwrought with utter junk. The person who has room for a quesadilla maker, panini maker, waffle iron, and other kitchen accoutrements surely lives in a mansion and does not need those things because he/she has maid service.  Any other person does not need those items because he/she does not have the room for them.

There are some phenomenally stupid gift ideas this Christmas. Somehow, whenever I have seen or heard advertisements for these items, my own carefully crafted alternate ad slogans have instead entered my mind:

1. Pajamagram- what to get for the spouse you no longer want to have sex with

2. Babycakes Cupcake Maker- for the stupid person in your life

3. Vitamin and aloe infused socks- really?

4. Genie Bra- when you're too lazy to put on a real bra

I can't make too much fun of the Genie bra... we had "twin day" at work and a colleague and I dressed up. We decided to wear white shirts, gray cardigans, black pants, black shoes, and green/blue plaid scarves. In other words, we were dressed up as conservative white women. I needed "flesh tone" for under the white shirt, so went and purchased the Genie bra. It's pretty awesome...like a sports bra, but makes it actually look like you have breasts. However, yes, I am too lazy to put on "real" undergarments with hooks and straps.

Livestrong

I spazzed out at John yesterday. The onslaught of words went something like this : "Yeah, I know I gained weight and I'll never be a smaller weight. And your whole family always says, 'John, you look great,' but you're a 32 year old majoring in Exercise Science so of course you will strive to look your best. Your cousin is healthy and is a marathon runner, but that's only because she is a former drug addict and needs something new to get addicted to."

Kind of a stream of consciousness....

I affirmed that I eat healthy, but eat huge portions. I also said that since I have felt crummy lately, I have basically taken healthy things and desecrated them by adding butter and sugar and/or cooking with copious amounts of canola oil.

We went onto the livestrong website and tracked my eating for the past two days. Breakfast and lunch were fine, but dinner was the bulk of my daily caloric intake. Dinner also featured large amounts of carbs. Fat intake was high, but mainly due to uncontrolled amounts of almonds.

John mapped out a food plan for me that makes it so I have more frequent snacks in the mid-day, thus (hopefully) off-setting my crazy night meals.

Today is day one. I have stuck to the breakfast meal plan. I'm even trying coffee without sugar.....

We'll see.

Andy Warhol of high school

I was looking at an old photo album from high school. During my high school years, there is an abundance of photos; however, I am not very prominent in them. My albums have tons of "in action" pictures of others, almost as I was using my horrifically outdated (regular 35mm camera...no frills) as an outsider view into their world. Plenty of photos have my friends in them, but other photos feature people that I was not particularly close to. 


In the photos where I am actually shown, I am the epitome of angst. My face is generally facing downward, my shoulders are hunched, and my body is pulled forward. When they make the current videos and public service announcements about bullying, a photo of high school me could be equivalent to the "bullying target." In retrospect, I wonder, why didn't anybody intervene ...somehow? 


Besides my awkward body motions, I also wore plentiful amounts of guy clothing...


In the words of a good (current) friend who recently saw some high school photos of me: "Fuck! You look like a dyke...."


Someone needed to tell me that honest statement back in 1998...the dyke "look" was definitely not the intent...

Karaoke...to help ease a case of the Mondays

I've tried a variety of things to get myself prepped for Monday mornings: drinking copious amounts of caffeine...mixing copious amounts of caffeine with a small dose of caffeine tablets... making sure that I have every possible element of my work day planned or packed away in advance (clothing choice, lunches, gym clothes, etc)...even spastically jumping up and down on a trampoline in hopes of "energizing" myself.

Nothing works. I suck at Mondays. Despite living four miles from work, having an extremely quiet homeroom, and having a well-behaved 1st period class, I still suck at Mondays.

Therefore, if I normally am still wide awake on Sunday night (basically always an occurrence...since year one of teaching I have not even contemplating going to sleep until at least 11:30, i.e. when the old Fox Five reruns of Seinfeld ended).

Last night was goth night @ karaoke. I generally go to karaoke anyway, but took special excitement in walking out of my house at 9:30 on a Sunday night, clad in black and deep red. Garnet hair extensions, black shirt with white and red mermaid design, short skirt, leggings, Doc Martens, and dark makeup composed the entire look. While driving to karaoke, I made certain to stay within the speed limit... I couldn't really envision the scene of being pulled over by a cop and looking how I looked.

So... I went to karaoke... tested out a new song (AC/DC's "You Shook Me All Night Long") and realized my voice is nowhere near whatever Angus Young's "range" is. Secondly, I sang The Donnas' "Take It Off"- they obviously are shitty singers because whenever I sing their songs, I sound good. That's my gauge for assessing singers' talents...if I can karaoke their song and make it sound good, they obviously are horrible.

Got home at 1, shimmied restlessly in the bed for awhile, and then fell asleep. I woke up around 6:20 and, reluctantly, got ready for work. Although I had washed off most of the makeup, some of the dark eyeliner remained on my face... the hilariousness of the fact that leftover goth makeup actually made my "work makeup" look better.

Damsel in Distress

I exited the gym today and saw quite the scene--- a guy with low-hung cargo shorts and prominent plaid boxers, a girl cozily reclining in the driver's seat, and a dismantled car door.

I'm not the best with situational context clues but after noticing the coy grin on the girl's face and seeing the guy applying something to the door track, I figured out the scene: he was fixing something with the car motors. Since he took off the inside part of the door, I am assuming it had to be something to do with the power locks or windows.

The whole scene was just a bit silly. As he was laboring over the door, she sat (backwards) in the driver's seat, just sitting there and cutely smiling.

This is why I have a car with manual windows and locks. Similar to the parking lot girl, I do not want to pay large amounts of money to have labor done to the power locks and windows. Unlike the parking lot girl, I don't want to have to flirt with some guy to get the work done for free....in the gym parking lot, nonetheless.

I will, however, use cute smiles to help make my way through busy traffic intersections :)

Success!

The turkey sat on the counter in its packaging for most of the day. The thought of taking the giblets and neck out of the body cavity was the cause for procrastination.

Around 5pm I finally removed the plastic netting from the outer packaging. I somehow cut my finger in the process. I have this amazing ability to suffer small cuts and abrasions when opening packages, even when I am very cautious. I stuck my hand in the body cavity and , boom, out came the neck. Honestly, I know understand why some people are vegetarians. Normally, I eat chicken breasts... no wings or anything that resemble the animal. The chicken breasts are basically flat pieces of meat. However, while "washing" the turkey, it felt odd... the turkey looks like a turkey (duh).

Next, while using my recipe (courtesy of the "reputable" simplerecipes.com), I put onions and carrots into the body cavity. We didn't have fresh carrots so I figured that defrosted carrots from a Normandy-style blend would work just as well. I had a bunch of herbs from John's mom. Instead of mincing them, I just tossed them in a blender. I'm really horrible at cutting things and, again, generally somehow cut myself. Then, I mixed the herbs with melted butter and put them on the outside of the turkey. We somehow lost our basting brush but, luckily, I have tons of new craft brushes. For once, my lack of crafting (but abundance of supplies) came in handy. I had extra herbs on stems and didn't know what to do with them, so I stuck them in what may have been an inappropriate orifice on the turkey....

Three and a half hours later and the turkey came out of the oven. I was desperately hoping that the turkey would be better than Anna's... to cook one for the first time and have it be better than your mother-in-law's...that would be great.

Alas, the turkey was not as good as Anna's... but it was better than my mother's.... sober mom too...if you look to the left, those "dried" twigs are the herbs that I stuck in the ...orifice.

Making my first turkey..otherwise known as, if you do not see me at work on Monday, I food poisoned myself

I have an orphan turkey in the fridge. At Kumon Learning Center, a student's parent was trying to get rid of an extra turkey. Just the premise that somebody would have an extra turkey is amusing enough. At first, I said, "Sorry, I can't take it. I just cook omelets and that's about it." Then, I ruminated for a few moments and responded, "Sure, I'll take it."

The turkey has been in the fridge since Monday and now the day of reckoning has arrived---when said turkey is basted and tossed in the oven.

The only challenge is that I have never cooked a turkey before. In fact, I have never cooked anything in the oven, with the exception of cupcakes, yams, fries, and shake-n-bake chicken.

Normally, I have a pretty good attention span, but after viewing the seven steps to make a turkey (online tutorial), I grew annoyed. I am not looking forward to taking the innards out of the turkey... honestly, I consider it a "man's job," much like taking out the trash.

John's at the gym now...think I will play role of sous chef and get the herbs ready...then wait for him to come home and remove the innards...

Seriously, making a turkey can not be that difficult. I recall times from childhood when my mother was drunk and made turkeys. Surely, a sober person can manage to make a turkey....