Gemini (5/21-6/21) Fun's definitely in the stars, and while others may be in a mellower mode, you're raring to go. Find a friend or two who can keep up with you, and choose something great to do. A daytime adventure of roller-skating might be about your speed, or the hustle and bustle of shopping for a new summer outfit, or a special lunch at an interesting ethnic restaurant. Start a new tradition and enjoy every minute -- these are the days that memories are made of.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Let's go roller skating through the mall!
Today's horoscope.
Gemini (5/21-6/21) Fun's definitely in the stars, and while others may be in a mellower mode, you're raring to go. Find a friend or two who can keep up with you, and choose something great to do. A daytime adventure of roller-skating might be about your speed, or the hustle and bustle of shopping for a new summer outfit, or a special lunch at an interesting ethnic restaurant. Start a new tradition and enjoy every minute -- these are the days that memories are made of.
Gemini (5/21-6/21) Fun's definitely in the stars, and while others may be in a mellower mode, you're raring to go. Find a friend or two who can keep up with you, and choose something great to do. A daytime adventure of roller-skating might be about your speed, or the hustle and bustle of shopping for a new summer outfit, or a special lunch at an interesting ethnic restaurant. Start a new tradition and enjoy every minute -- these are the days that memories are made of.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
I Plead the Fifth
If you haven't noticed, I haven't been blogging. Like, at all. But I got a good excuse.
I went back to school. This semester, I'm a teacher and a student, teaching two classes and taking five. If all goes well, I will have my secondary ed certification in two years.
It's something I've been putting off since... forever. I kinda knew since I was very young that I was meant to be a high school English teacher. Teenagers fascinate me. So does literature. In front of the classroom is the only place I've found where I can stand and feel completely at ease with being a total dork. Plus, I like to think I'm pretty good at teaching. Not that I feel like I know what I'm doing. Seven years as an adjunct has left me with lots of questions, but no answers. But when I enter the classroom, I bring those questions, because I know there are no solid answers. That's why I get up every morning. Because I want to keep learning.
They say, those who can't do, teach. I think it's true, sometimes. Toni Morrison might have some beef with it. For me, becoming a secondary ed teacher is less about giving up writing, and more about giving myself a base.
Before I can feel at ease to write, I need a place to live. I need a dentist. I need to know that I can go to the hospital if I slip on some ice outside and break my leg. I need contact lens solution. Blankets. Hot water bottles. Trees outside the window. Paper in the printer. Veggies in the fridge. It may sound superficial, but without all that stuff, I feel like I'm writing FOR it.
Stephen King said it best: Writing is not a support for life. Believe me, I've lived it. For the past seven years, my future well being hinged on every single word I put on the page. When I wasn't agonizing, I was rushing through everything, worried that there wasn't enough hours in the day. It's just not worth it.
So... yeah. I'm out. For now. Hopefully I'll be back in the summer.
I went back to school. This semester, I'm a teacher and a student, teaching two classes and taking five. If all goes well, I will have my secondary ed certification in two years.
It's something I've been putting off since... forever. I kinda knew since I was very young that I was meant to be a high school English teacher. Teenagers fascinate me. So does literature. In front of the classroom is the only place I've found where I can stand and feel completely at ease with being a total dork. Plus, I like to think I'm pretty good at teaching. Not that I feel like I know what I'm doing. Seven years as an adjunct has left me with lots of questions, but no answers. But when I enter the classroom, I bring those questions, because I know there are no solid answers. That's why I get up every morning. Because I want to keep learning.
They say, those who can't do, teach. I think it's true, sometimes. Toni Morrison might have some beef with it. For me, becoming a secondary ed teacher is less about giving up writing, and more about giving myself a base.
Before I can feel at ease to write, I need a place to live. I need a dentist. I need to know that I can go to the hospital if I slip on some ice outside and break my leg. I need contact lens solution. Blankets. Hot water bottles. Trees outside the window. Paper in the printer. Veggies in the fridge. It may sound superficial, but without all that stuff, I feel like I'm writing FOR it.
Stephen King said it best: Writing is not a support for life. Believe me, I've lived it. For the past seven years, my future well being hinged on every single word I put on the page. When I wasn't agonizing, I was rushing through everything, worried that there wasn't enough hours in the day. It's just not worth it.
So... yeah. I'm out. For now. Hopefully I'll be back in the summer.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
The Old Fake Fever
I had my first Valentine's Day with a boyfriend when I was in the 7th grade. It's a memory that has stayed with me. I didn't really like the guy.
For the sake of minimal privacy, let's call him Rabbit. He looked like one. He was the nerdiest guy in our class. I was the nerdiest girl. We were straight out of the "Nerds" movie with greasy hair and glasses and rabbity front teeth.
It didn't stop at looks. He was obsessed with the TV show "In Living Color." He liked to come to school with a stuffed sock and beat younger kids over the head with it. He prefaced all the boys' names with "Uncle." Except he pronounced it "Unca." So Chris was Unca Chris. Nick was Unca Nick. After getting a free poster of a kitten from the Scholastic Book Club, he drew a Hitler mustache and swastikas on it and hung it from the front of his desk, without a word of explanation to anyone.
Me? I talked without thinking. I was obsessed with Nickelodeon's "Hey Dude." At recess I sat on the blacktop with a notebook and wrote poetry and stories.
Really, who else was going to be my first boyfriend?
Now, when you have a boyfriend or girlfriend in the seventh grade, it doesn't mean much. You smile at each other. Sometimes you swing side by side on the playground. You write notes.
In the beginning, it was easy. Like having a boy for a good friend. Despite Rabbit's sock abuse and unintentional anti-semitism, he was a nice guy. Sometimes he told me that I was pretty. The compliment made my face hot and my nose smell like burning. I thought that meant that I liked him back.
Then came Valentine's Day.
The week before, Rabbit told our class that he planned some big surprise for me. The boys, being Catholic School boys, joked that the surprise was fellatio. On the bus, they told porno stories, starring Rabbit and me. I quickly grew tired of shouting at them to "shut the hell up" and sunk down low in my seat.
It suddenly occurred to me what it meant to have a boyfriend.
The morning of Valentine's Day, I pulled a trick on my mom. The old fake fever. Kids on TV were always trying it with a lamp and failing. I had discovered the right way. With the thermometer stuck in my mouth, I clutched my fist around it and gripped it TIGHT. Mom came and checked the digits, and wouldn't you know? I had a slight fever.
All day, I watched "In Search Of" with Leonard Nimoy and ate butterscotch krimpets. The morning wore on. I felt sicker and sicker.
My best friend Nikki called an hour or two after school let out. It had been her job to tell Rabbit that I didn't want to be his girlfriend anymore.
"He came to school with this gigantic heart-shaped box of chocolates," she said. "When I told him it was over, he opened the box and threw the chocolates up in the air. All the boys were diving around, trying to catch them."
"I feel so bad," I gasped. "But I don't like him."
"You can't help how you don't feel," she said. "He just wasn't 'the one'."
She said this, as if it meeting "the one" was possible at twelve-years-old. Only nerdy girls think this way.
We wanted to meet "the one," because it would help us feel good about ourselves. Once we got boyfriends, we'd transcend all the mean things the boys at school had ever said about us. We'd love ourselves too. We'd know that deep down, we were okay.
Or so we thought.
The next day at school, Rabbit treated me as if nothing had happened. Instantly, we went back to being friends. I felt so grateful. But not so grateful that I saw the forgiveness for what it was. (Validation, maybe?) Some of the boys in our class called me a cold bitch. They said it with a smirk. I smiled proud. I liked it. It was better than being called a dork.
And then, I tripped through the rest of the non-Valentine's days of my youth to arrive at now. Here. Thirty years old. Single on Valentine's Day. What can I say?
I still feel as ugly, weird and self conscious as I did back then. I just care about it less. Today, I can see forgiving and forgetting for what it is. Someone saying, Hey, you're okay. I like you.
Thank God I don't need that anymore.
For the sake of minimal privacy, let's call him Rabbit. He looked like one. He was the nerdiest guy in our class. I was the nerdiest girl. We were straight out of the "Nerds" movie with greasy hair and glasses and rabbity front teeth.
It didn't stop at looks. He was obsessed with the TV show "In Living Color." He liked to come to school with a stuffed sock and beat younger kids over the head with it. He prefaced all the boys' names with "Uncle." Except he pronounced it "Unca." So Chris was Unca Chris. Nick was Unca Nick. After getting a free poster of a kitten from the Scholastic Book Club, he drew a Hitler mustache and swastikas on it and hung it from the front of his desk, without a word of explanation to anyone.
Me? I talked without thinking. I was obsessed with Nickelodeon's "Hey Dude." At recess I sat on the blacktop with a notebook and wrote poetry and stories.
Really, who else was going to be my first boyfriend?
Now, when you have a boyfriend or girlfriend in the seventh grade, it doesn't mean much. You smile at each other. Sometimes you swing side by side on the playground. You write notes.
In the beginning, it was easy. Like having a boy for a good friend. Despite Rabbit's sock abuse and unintentional anti-semitism, he was a nice guy. Sometimes he told me that I was pretty. The compliment made my face hot and my nose smell like burning. I thought that meant that I liked him back.
Then came Valentine's Day.
The week before, Rabbit told our class that he planned some big surprise for me. The boys, being Catholic School boys, joked that the surprise was fellatio. On the bus, they told porno stories, starring Rabbit and me. I quickly grew tired of shouting at them to "shut the hell up" and sunk down low in my seat.
It suddenly occurred to me what it meant to have a boyfriend.
The morning of Valentine's Day, I pulled a trick on my mom. The old fake fever. Kids on TV were always trying it with a lamp and failing. I had discovered the right way. With the thermometer stuck in my mouth, I clutched my fist around it and gripped it TIGHT. Mom came and checked the digits, and wouldn't you know? I had a slight fever.
All day, I watched "In Search Of" with Leonard Nimoy and ate butterscotch krimpets. The morning wore on. I felt sicker and sicker.
My best friend Nikki called an hour or two after school let out. It had been her job to tell Rabbit that I didn't want to be his girlfriend anymore.
"He came to school with this gigantic heart-shaped box of chocolates," she said. "When I told him it was over, he opened the box and threw the chocolates up in the air. All the boys were diving around, trying to catch them."
"I feel so bad," I gasped. "But I don't like him."
"You can't help how you don't feel," she said. "He just wasn't 'the one'."
She said this, as if it meeting "the one" was possible at twelve-years-old. Only nerdy girls think this way.
We wanted to meet "the one," because it would help us feel good about ourselves. Once we got boyfriends, we'd transcend all the mean things the boys at school had ever said about us. We'd love ourselves too. We'd know that deep down, we were okay.
Or so we thought.
The next day at school, Rabbit treated me as if nothing had happened. Instantly, we went back to being friends. I felt so grateful. But not so grateful that I saw the forgiveness for what it was. (Validation, maybe?) Some of the boys in our class called me a cold bitch. They said it with a smirk. I smiled proud. I liked it. It was better than being called a dork.
And then, I tripped through the rest of the non-Valentine's days of my youth to arrive at now. Here. Thirty years old. Single on Valentine's Day. What can I say?
I still feel as ugly, weird and self conscious as I did back then. I just care about it less. Today, I can see forgiving and forgetting for what it is. Someone saying, Hey, you're okay. I like you.
Thank God I don't need that anymore.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Adventures with Me and Yoshi
I started talking to my car right after I bought it.
At six am, on the morning when I was to start teaching at a new school, I greeted him.
"Good Morning, Yoshi," I said.
Our talks continued. On the way to and from work, I talked to him about what was bugging me. When drivers cut me off, I bitched: "Omigod, Yosh. Can you believe that guy?" One night, I was pulling bags out of the trunk, when it came down suddenly, on my head. I yelled at him like a Dad: "Yoshi!"
In my family, it's tradition to name our cars. Currently, we have five. There's George the Geo, Cam the Camry, Holly the Honda, Vercingetorex the Voyager, and Yoshi the Yaris. Each name was carefully considered, alongside several options, and the personality and look of the car. At my house, we don't mess around.
It's hard not talk to a car after its been named. As with any pet, or child, once a name is given, a personality seems to follow, inexplicably. Yoshi has been no exception. He's just like a little boy. He likes to go fast. He growls whenever I hit the brakes. He's also very helpful. Sometimes he goes and gets gas while I'm at work. I'll climb into the driver's seat and find that I have more gas than I did when I left him.
"Thanks, Yosh," I say.
Oh, I know what you're thinking. Duh, Anney. You need to get your gas gauge checked, before you run out on the highway at two o'clock in the morning.
I say, me and Yosh, we got a bond. You don't even know.
Two weeks ago, the first snow of the season dusted down over southeastern PA. Most of the area got only flurries. There was a small area, just outside of Philly, that suffered a mild blizzard. KYW called it "the red belt." My commute took me straight through it.
At a quarter to eight, Yoshi and I were stopped on winding, snow-covered back roads. Cars were backed up everywhere. Because the snow had fallen during rush hour, it was packed into ice. Everyone was being extra careful, inching at a wheelchair's pace. Of course, there's no point in going slow on ice. Ice is ice. Wheels can't catch on it. Up and down route 352, people were coming out of their homes to help push cars that were stuck, wheels spinning aimlessly.
Yosh and I watched as the guy in front of us struggled to coast down a small hill. Every time he tried to go foward, his car slid sideways, an the embankment.
"What are we gonna do, Yosh?" I moaned.
The roads contributed to half of my nervousness. My tank was almost out of gas. Also, I had only a vague idea of where I was, having started teaching at a new school this fall.
Route 352 was our usual route home. Within moments, cars cleared it. I gazed at the hill ahead of us. It was winding and white, like a scene from an ABC Family Christmas special, just before the entrance of a jingling wintry sleigh from the evergreens. There was no way we'd make it up.
We turned around. Major highways passed by on the right and left. Route 3. Route 202. I imagined the mess that awaited us, if we took either one. In our area, the word "highway" means "drive really fast, no matter what the weather conditions are."
Finally, I settled on a road that I knew, vaguely. It took an hour, but I got us out of the red belt. When Yoshi's wheels hit dry pavement, I threw my fist into the air and cheered. We were safe.
I got home and told my sister Moira about my adventure.
"Yoshi did so great," I said. "I'm so proud of him."
She looked at me like I was crazy. Moira, the girl who started the naming of our cars. Moira, who talks to her coffee in the morning. Moira, who at three years old, wrote a song called, "Jacket, You're Lost." She looked at me like I was crazy.
Okay. So I am a little crazy.
This is the thing. My parents taught me to take care of my shit. Throughout my childhood, they yelled at me for eating in the living room, writing with permanent marker too close to the good couch, putting my sneakered feet on the bed, etc. As a kid, I thought they were insane. Like Kevin Spacey in "American Beauty," I yelled back, "It's just a couch!"
But the way you treat your possessions is often an indicator of how you treat yourself. When I take care of Yoshi, I'm taking care of myself. When I talk to him, I'm talking to myself. I'm keeping myself company.
That's kind of a good thing. You never know when you might be stuck somewhere, left alone to fend for yourself. It's kind of inevitable, isn't it?
At six am, on the morning when I was to start teaching at a new school, I greeted him.
"Good Morning, Yoshi," I said.
Our talks continued. On the way to and from work, I talked to him about what was bugging me. When drivers cut me off, I bitched: "Omigod, Yosh. Can you believe that guy?" One night, I was pulling bags out of the trunk, when it came down suddenly, on my head. I yelled at him like a Dad: "Yoshi!"
In my family, it's tradition to name our cars. Currently, we have five. There's George the Geo, Cam the Camry, Holly the Honda, Vercingetorex the Voyager, and Yoshi the Yaris. Each name was carefully considered, alongside several options, and the personality and look of the car. At my house, we don't mess around.
It's hard not talk to a car after its been named. As with any pet, or child, once a name is given, a personality seems to follow, inexplicably. Yoshi has been no exception. He's just like a little boy. He likes to go fast. He growls whenever I hit the brakes. He's also very helpful. Sometimes he goes and gets gas while I'm at work. I'll climb into the driver's seat and find that I have more gas than I did when I left him.
"Thanks, Yosh," I say.
Oh, I know what you're thinking. Duh, Anney. You need to get your gas gauge checked, before you run out on the highway at two o'clock in the morning.
I say, me and Yosh, we got a bond. You don't even know.
Two weeks ago, the first snow of the season dusted down over southeastern PA. Most of the area got only flurries. There was a small area, just outside of Philly, that suffered a mild blizzard. KYW called it "the red belt." My commute took me straight through it.
At a quarter to eight, Yoshi and I were stopped on winding, snow-covered back roads. Cars were backed up everywhere. Because the snow had fallen during rush hour, it was packed into ice. Everyone was being extra careful, inching at a wheelchair's pace. Of course, there's no point in going slow on ice. Ice is ice. Wheels can't catch on it. Up and down route 352, people were coming out of their homes to help push cars that were stuck, wheels spinning aimlessly.
Yosh and I watched as the guy in front of us struggled to coast down a small hill. Every time he tried to go foward, his car slid sideways, an the embankment.
"What are we gonna do, Yosh?" I moaned.
The roads contributed to half of my nervousness. My tank was almost out of gas. Also, I had only a vague idea of where I was, having started teaching at a new school this fall.
Route 352 was our usual route home. Within moments, cars cleared it. I gazed at the hill ahead of us. It was winding and white, like a scene from an ABC Family Christmas special, just before the entrance of a jingling wintry sleigh from the evergreens. There was no way we'd make it up.
We turned around. Major highways passed by on the right and left. Route 3. Route 202. I imagined the mess that awaited us, if we took either one. In our area, the word "highway" means "drive really fast, no matter what the weather conditions are."
Finally, I settled on a road that I knew, vaguely. It took an hour, but I got us out of the red belt. When Yoshi's wheels hit dry pavement, I threw my fist into the air and cheered. We were safe.
I got home and told my sister Moira about my adventure.
"Yoshi did so great," I said. "I'm so proud of him."
She looked at me like I was crazy. Moira, the girl who started the naming of our cars. Moira, who talks to her coffee in the morning. Moira, who at three years old, wrote a song called, "Jacket, You're Lost." She looked at me like I was crazy.
Okay. So I am a little crazy.
This is the thing. My parents taught me to take care of my shit. Throughout my childhood, they yelled at me for eating in the living room, writing with permanent marker too close to the good couch, putting my sneakered feet on the bed, etc. As a kid, I thought they were insane. Like Kevin Spacey in "American Beauty," I yelled back, "It's just a couch!"
But the way you treat your possessions is often an indicator of how you treat yourself. When I take care of Yoshi, I'm taking care of myself. When I talk to him, I'm talking to myself. I'm keeping myself company.
That's kind of a good thing. You never know when you might be stuck somewhere, left alone to fend for yourself. It's kind of inevitable, isn't it?
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Nanowrimo
This blog makes it look like I'm not writing. But since August, I've written about ten blogs... in my mind. On paper, I've been trying to finish my memoir. Nanowrimo is my last ditch, in hopes that I can soon move on to more fun and more violent literary adventures. If you wish to track my progress...
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
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