OK, so I catch on late. I’m finally watching Oprah now that it’s the “Farewell Season”. It’s highly addictive what with one day Oprah is screaming, “YES-I’M-GIVING-YOU-A-MILLION-DOLLARS-BECAUSE-I-CAN!” and then the next day she’s crying over a tragic story of a bipolar mother who smothered her infants after a distressing trip to Dairy Queen. What probably also helps is watching her via DVR after 9:00 p.m. while on my fourth glass of Shiraz.
My favorite of the week was about a single, abandoned mom who worked three jobs, and put her one son and two adopted Asian refugee daughters through college. Of course, Oprah came through. She sent the mom and her family on her dream vacation to Italy; she paid off the kids’ 78K college debt, plus gave the mom a year off with full salary so she could have time to remember her spirit. I cried. Really. For me. Because I know now I’ll never get on that show. That mom was really smart. Once she knew the camera crew was enroute from Harpo productions, she stuck that postcard of Florence out on her fridge. You know she had to have planned that. I’d do the same and even go better: As the cameras rolled, I’d narrate: “I’ve always wanted to buy a villa in Italy and live there for the rest of my life tax-free while taking in illiterate Bosnian refugees and starting a book club for them; this can be evidenced by this empty box of Barilla pasta that I’ve kept tacked above my stove for the past 15 sad years."
Here’s the beauty of Oprah. One day, she devotes an entire episode to “food issues”. There’s an author who just wrote a book about Food and God. Weight gain is now a profoundly spiritual issue. No longer can we blame big bones or overactive thyroids. Oprah tears up with an “I’ve been there, honey” look while several obese women sob, watching their video testimonials. Stories of hiding the Thanksgiving turkey and such. Just when you’ve vowed to drink Dr. Oz’s green vegetable shakes for the rest of your life, the next episode has Oprah and her gal pal Gail finding the “BEST DAMN CHICKEN POT PIE IN THE COUNTRY!” What happened to the “spiritual path that genuinely nourishes our soul?” What happened to the daily 12 step-ish prayers we’re supposed to do when confronted with flakey crusts? Is God just dead on Oprah's Favorite Things days?
The most entertaining guests so far have been the Judds. (Minus the pretty political actress one who doesn't look fun)Winona now sports the hair color and complexion of a Buffalo Chicken Wing. Naomi came on calmly medicated with Baby Jane makeup and a visible halo. I’m still not sure if they were on for inspiration or comic relief. Their therapist was sitting in the audience, I guess giving them thumbs up signs after every platitude uttered. I now know who reads those pocket-sized daily affirmation books. Winona did have the best line of the week. She was explaining the reason her life had been such a mess:
“Oprah, I didn’t put my name on the list”.
Oprah then repeated the mantra back to her and nodded in approval,
“You didn’t put your name on the list. That’s good.”
It was then that I realized Winona Judd held the secret to my happiness:
I just need to put my name on the list.
Can someone tell me where this list is?
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Me & Julia
I started a cooking class at Phoenix College. I’m so used to taking adult-ed classes, that I was amazed at how nervous I was walking in there. The atmosphere didn’t help. Everyone was silent and solemn. Chef stood at serious attention, ready to yell at someone’s fingernails. Some had even already bought their knives and were lining them up on the table, ready to attack. I felt way out of my element. I haven’t cooked professionally – and I use that term advisedly – since I was a fry cook at the Woodshed in Fresno during high school.
I walked into that classroom kitchen and it was weird: I smelled that same kitchen smell from 1978 – grease and sanitizer; felt that same queasy feeling I had when I was 17; and my back started hurting all over again from the memory of all those dishes.
What’s more, my classmates reminded me of the people that I used to work with. Although this was advertised as an International Cuisine class, it seemed to attract types that would look more comfortable behind a griddle at the Waffle House. Lots of missing teeth. I forgot about this rustic aspect of the food and beverage industry. I’m now sure that all those people on Top Chef go through a makeover before getting behind the cameras. Anyway, I’m sticking out like sore thumb – the token gay foodie. It’s not helping that I’m asking Chef stupid questions like, “Does one chop fennel in the same dice as celery when making a Mirepoix?” I believe Chef rolled his eyes as most of the class mentally asked themselves what fennel was.
Chef is slightly fear-inducing. He has a no-nonsense approach and a weary-of-the-world tone to his voice. Kind of like Anthony Bourdain-meets-Ben Stein. Part of his introductory lecture was to bash Food Network stars and rename Top Chef, “Top Shit”.
I like his philosophy. He says we should cook every single meal in our life with devotion and attention to detail as if it were our last meal. This has now made me profoundly depressed every time I empty the orange-colored dehydrated cheese packet into my macaroni.
There are two women who look polished and professional and keep nodding knowingly to everything Chef says. Fellow subscribers to Food and Wine, I deduced. I wanted to be with them -- not with the tattooed gang member wearing the hairnet as a fashion accessory. At the end of the first class, Chef had us all break up into teams -- on our own. Like stand up and go talk to people and tell them things like you can convert ounces to pints in your sleep. The advanced students were dubbed the team leaders and began frantically scouting for people who hadn’t kicked crystal meth yesterday and looked like nice players. I felt like I was back in junior high P.E. class. No one was approaching me. I kept eyeing the two women from the high rent district. Then one – sporting a blunt haircut and overly starched chef’s smock -- made her way to me. I sighed with relief. She looked at me and dismissed me as fast as a Sak’s shopgirl. She turned to a girl right next to me and said, “We only like to work with women. What experience do you have?” Bitch. I hope she burns herself.
I soon realized why this class is so humorless. Most are in training for careers and we all represent competition for each other. I thought about announcing to the class that I was gainfully employed and would not be vying for their same Denny’s job interview. I’m only taking this class so that I can have fabulous dinner parties once I meet people in Phoenix who don’t consider The Olive Garden as their favorite exotic night out.
I walked into that classroom kitchen and it was weird: I smelled that same kitchen smell from 1978 – grease and sanitizer; felt that same queasy feeling I had when I was 17; and my back started hurting all over again from the memory of all those dishes.
What’s more, my classmates reminded me of the people that I used to work with. Although this was advertised as an International Cuisine class, it seemed to attract types that would look more comfortable behind a griddle at the Waffle House. Lots of missing teeth. I forgot about this rustic aspect of the food and beverage industry. I’m now sure that all those people on Top Chef go through a makeover before getting behind the cameras. Anyway, I’m sticking out like sore thumb – the token gay foodie. It’s not helping that I’m asking Chef stupid questions like, “Does one chop fennel in the same dice as celery when making a Mirepoix?” I believe Chef rolled his eyes as most of the class mentally asked themselves what fennel was.
Chef is slightly fear-inducing. He has a no-nonsense approach and a weary-of-the-world tone to his voice. Kind of like Anthony Bourdain-meets-Ben Stein. Part of his introductory lecture was to bash Food Network stars and rename Top Chef, “Top Shit”.
I like his philosophy. He says we should cook every single meal in our life with devotion and attention to detail as if it were our last meal. This has now made me profoundly depressed every time I empty the orange-colored dehydrated cheese packet into my macaroni.
There are two women who look polished and professional and keep nodding knowingly to everything Chef says. Fellow subscribers to Food and Wine, I deduced. I wanted to be with them -- not with the tattooed gang member wearing the hairnet as a fashion accessory. At the end of the first class, Chef had us all break up into teams -- on our own. Like stand up and go talk to people and tell them things like you can convert ounces to pints in your sleep. The advanced students were dubbed the team leaders and began frantically scouting for people who hadn’t kicked crystal meth yesterday and looked like nice players. I felt like I was back in junior high P.E. class. No one was approaching me. I kept eyeing the two women from the high rent district. Then one – sporting a blunt haircut and overly starched chef’s smock -- made her way to me. I sighed with relief. She looked at me and dismissed me as fast as a Sak’s shopgirl. She turned to a girl right next to me and said, “We only like to work with women. What experience do you have?” Bitch. I hope she burns herself.
I soon realized why this class is so humorless. Most are in training for careers and we all represent competition for each other. I thought about announcing to the class that I was gainfully employed and would not be vying for their same Denny’s job interview. I’m only taking this class so that I can have fabulous dinner parties once I meet people in Phoenix who don’t consider The Olive Garden as their favorite exotic night out.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
How many days until the next vacation?
My students return this Monday. At least the ones who have not fled to Mexico or friendlier states. I thought as an icebreaker, I'd dress up like Sheriff Joe and ask for papers when they entered the classroom. Unfortunately, my school doesn't have much of a sense of humor. At least not my kind of humor.
All of the copiers were broken at school last week, so I'm going into the first week paper-free. I'm hoping this will cover my mandated requirement of incorporating "Sustainability" or "Going Green" into my curriculum. The first day we returned, we all had to sign a "contract" that we would commit to a few things:
1. Participate and enjoy and benefit in ALL teacher meetings.
2. Teach lessons Al Gore would be proud of.
3. Use some new acronym-laden teaching strategies. For example, "APR": Ask a question. Pause and count to five. Randomly call on two students to answer.
3. Respond to all emails in a timely and "friendly" manner.
Never mind that the assistant principal never answers her emails and resembles Dodie Goodman in Splash.
(Remember the bra worn over the blouse? That's my administrator's M.O.)
Well, this contract signing was followed by an ice cream social where administrators donned paper hats and scooped ice cream. My admin team is so crazy! I don't think many teachers stayed for that. I went back to my room, put on bossa nova and pretended I was high.
I'm currently working on a Family Medical Leave Act that excludes me from attending teacher meetings. Carlos has it for his job because of ear/nose/throat issues. So why can't I? I'm thinking my gay doctor can excuse me for some psychiatric reason. Or that I'm allergic to bullshit. Something like that. I think my doctor will do it. If I let him give me a few more prostate exams. He seems to like those.
I read Carrie Fisher's book, Wishful Drinking this summer. She has this great line about distinguishing between a Problem and an Inconvenience. And how we always confuse the two. I loved that. So my new philosophy for my job is that everything that happens there are Inconveniences. And they really are. There are no problems. So, really, my only problem now is getting a first-class standby seat on that next transatlantic flight. Damn all those paying passengers!
All of the copiers were broken at school last week, so I'm going into the first week paper-free. I'm hoping this will cover my mandated requirement of incorporating "Sustainability" or "Going Green" into my curriculum. The first day we returned, we all had to sign a "contract" that we would commit to a few things:
1. Participate and enjoy and benefit in ALL teacher meetings.
2. Teach lessons Al Gore would be proud of.
3. Use some new acronym-laden teaching strategies. For example, "APR": Ask a question. Pause and count to five. Randomly call on two students to answer.
3. Respond to all emails in a timely and "friendly" manner.
Never mind that the assistant principal never answers her emails and resembles Dodie Goodman in Splash.
(Remember the bra worn over the blouse? That's my administrator's M.O.)
Well, this contract signing was followed by an ice cream social where administrators donned paper hats and scooped ice cream. My admin team is so crazy! I don't think many teachers stayed for that. I went back to my room, put on bossa nova and pretended I was high.
I'm currently working on a Family Medical Leave Act that excludes me from attending teacher meetings. Carlos has it for his job because of ear/nose/throat issues. So why can't I? I'm thinking my gay doctor can excuse me for some psychiatric reason. Or that I'm allergic to bullshit. Something like that. I think my doctor will do it. If I let him give me a few more prostate exams. He seems to like those.
I read Carrie Fisher's book, Wishful Drinking this summer. She has this great line about distinguishing between a Problem and an Inconvenience. And how we always confuse the two. I loved that. So my new philosophy for my job is that everything that happens there are Inconveniences. And they really are. There are no problems. So, really, my only problem now is getting a first-class standby seat on that next transatlantic flight. Damn all those paying passengers!
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Casa de los Gatos
So it looks like we have a feral cat problem at our house. I've never cared for cats, much less wild ones. Carlos hates any kind of non-human animal unless it's animated by Dreamworks. A few months ago, this black and white thing started slithering in our backyard, scoping out the pool. Then the pool became its water bowl. You would think that chlorine and acid would kill them off eventually, but I guess feral cats develop iron stomachs. A week later, this cat started lounging by the pool, unperturbed by our presence. I would stand outside the sliding glass door, hands on hips, glaring at the trespasser and the cat would lazily raise its head and gaze at me: Yes? Is there something I can do for you? the cat would reply.
Eventually Carlos would go outside and "Shoosh!" the cat, or use the equivalent Puerto Rican expression: something like, "Chu-chi!" Both the cat and I would chuckle. This looked so lame and girly. It reminded me of my mom when she tried to scare away those obnoxious blue jays that terrorized the morning doves in her backyard. The cat eventually responded to Carlos by rising, stretching with a yawn and sauntered away with a look that said, Whatever, mujer. I'll be back tomorow. Same time. Same place.
And she was. I started calling her "Bitch". I know this label isn't zoologically correct, but the name certainly matched her attitude.
Then a larger calico-type (I think that's the kind) started showing up. This one would pass by our sliding glass door and gaze in, sizing up the furnishings and decor. If I stared, it would just stare back. I imagined the cat thought that whoever won the stare contest would win squatter's rights.
Both cats staked out napping areas in our backyard and front yard. I think this is because we have the nicest yard on the block. Well, we're the only house that has a working lawn (that is, alive) and we have shady, green plants as opposed to cacti. I don't think those are too enjoyable to nap under. In short, the cats have identified the Queens on the block: the best real estate and perhaps the most empathetic hosts. The cats know the neighbors around the corner with the dirt yard and the aluminum foil on the windows would catch them, barbecue them, and suck on their bones with ranch dressing and celery sticks. The other neighbors would have already taken out their guns, hung the cats out on the alley wall, and done some target practice. We can do that in Arizona, you know. I believe that's SB 1069.
Anyway, while I was gone and Carlos's relatives were visiting, his Dora-the-Explorer niece discovered that Bitch, the black and white cat, had a kitten underneath our shed. I didn't think a cat only had one kitten. What are all those teats for? Someone suggested that feral cats eat all of their rest and keep one for good luck. I have to look that one up.
This made me think: besides the odd bird carcass found in our front yard, how do these cats subsist? After the birth, the mother was extremely thin -- like Kate Moss thin. Bones were sticking out. Plus it was 110 degrees out. Talk about post-partum depression. She would lay out under a palm tree in our front yard, panting. Her look to me now wasn't I'm-so-bored-ennui, but: Hey, you kind-hearted childless man, can't you spare a tin of tuna and a plate of whole milk? I know you have it. I see what you recycle.
I was this close to offering food, but friends advised against it. They said once you give them food, you're opening up a can of worms, or sardines in this case. Soon, our place would be a feline version of Survivor starring the Aristocats.
Now I'm thinking the calico cat is the father since I spied a set of big balls from behind. If so, he's a pretty good dad for hanging around. I would've taken off weeks ago and set up camp behind the Jack-in-the-Box down the road. I really don't mind their presence. They can't get into our garbage and I guess they keep out rodents. My only concern is that dad is going to keep coming back for more and soon there will be more bitches around. We've already got enough of those in our house.
Eventually Carlos would go outside and "Shoosh!" the cat, or use the equivalent Puerto Rican expression: something like, "Chu-chi!" Both the cat and I would chuckle. This looked so lame and girly. It reminded me of my mom when she tried to scare away those obnoxious blue jays that terrorized the morning doves in her backyard. The cat eventually responded to Carlos by rising, stretching with a yawn and sauntered away with a look that said, Whatever, mujer. I'll be back tomorow. Same time. Same place.
And she was. I started calling her "Bitch". I know this label isn't zoologically correct, but the name certainly matched her attitude.
Then a larger calico-type (I think that's the kind) started showing up. This one would pass by our sliding glass door and gaze in, sizing up the furnishings and decor. If I stared, it would just stare back. I imagined the cat thought that whoever won the stare contest would win squatter's rights.
Both cats staked out napping areas in our backyard and front yard. I think this is because we have the nicest yard on the block. Well, we're the only house that has a working lawn (that is, alive) and we have shady, green plants as opposed to cacti. I don't think those are too enjoyable to nap under. In short, the cats have identified the Queens on the block: the best real estate and perhaps the most empathetic hosts. The cats know the neighbors around the corner with the dirt yard and the aluminum foil on the windows would catch them, barbecue them, and suck on their bones with ranch dressing and celery sticks. The other neighbors would have already taken out their guns, hung the cats out on the alley wall, and done some target practice. We can do that in Arizona, you know. I believe that's SB 1069.
Anyway, while I was gone and Carlos's relatives were visiting, his Dora-the-Explorer niece discovered that Bitch, the black and white cat, had a kitten underneath our shed. I didn't think a cat only had one kitten. What are all those teats for? Someone suggested that feral cats eat all of their rest and keep one for good luck. I have to look that one up.
This made me think: besides the odd bird carcass found in our front yard, how do these cats subsist? After the birth, the mother was extremely thin -- like Kate Moss thin. Bones were sticking out. Plus it was 110 degrees out. Talk about post-partum depression. She would lay out under a palm tree in our front yard, panting. Her look to me now wasn't I'm-so-bored-ennui, but: Hey, you kind-hearted childless man, can't you spare a tin of tuna and a plate of whole milk? I know you have it. I see what you recycle.
I was this close to offering food, but friends advised against it. They said once you give them food, you're opening up a can of worms, or sardines in this case. Soon, our place would be a feline version of Survivor starring the Aristocats.
Now I'm thinking the calico cat is the father since I spied a set of big balls from behind. If so, he's a pretty good dad for hanging around. I would've taken off weeks ago and set up camp behind the Jack-in-the-Box down the road. I really don't mind their presence. They can't get into our garbage and I guess they keep out rodents. My only concern is that dad is going to keep coming back for more and soon there will be more bitches around. We've already got enough of those in our house.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Party Poopers
I've yet to find my social groove here in Phoenix. Perhaps at age 48, I should just give up. The people I meet are either very single and have a singular agenda (to get laid) or they're in a relationship and impossibly dull (“We're really tired; we spent the entire afternoon at the Ashley Furniture store looking for end tables”) The parties – or get togethers, I should say – that I’ve had have been horrible.
Either I’m a social leper or the no-show factor here is incredible. People get sick, make lame excuses, (“Um, I really don't feel like hanging out poolside in 114 degrees.” So what’s a pool for?) or they just plain don't show up. Is it me or the menu? Is it because that one time -- instead of chips and onion dip -- I served marinated octopus and duck empanadas? I realized Phoenix is full of transplanted Midwesterners so I’ve adjusted accordingly. Nacho cheese Doritos is now the most exotic I get.
Carlos is much more successful with his flight attendant friends. They may scream and carry on like cheerleaders, but at least they show up when they’re invited.
Either I’m a social leper or the no-show factor here is incredible. People get sick, make lame excuses, (“Um, I really don't feel like hanging out poolside in 114 degrees.” So what’s a pool for?) or they just plain don't show up. Is it me or the menu? Is it because that one time -- instead of chips and onion dip -- I served marinated octopus and duck empanadas? I realized Phoenix is full of transplanted Midwesterners so I’ve adjusted accordingly. Nacho cheese Doritos is now the most exotic I get.
Carlos is much more successful with his flight attendant friends. They may scream and carry on like cheerleaders, but at least they show up when they’re invited.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
I like me some world cups
I know what you’re thinking: he likes the jazzy uniforms and swarthy gentlemen running around, hugging and kissing each other after 50 minutes of nothingness.
You’re right.
They just do it with so much style. I like that the clock doesn’t stop. I like that the referees are so infallible and moody. I admire the endurance of the players. I like that I can finally saddle up to a bar, chug a “brewski” and -- for once -- bullshit about a sport or a player or a score with someone. True, I’m drooling over my Stella, but at least I’m there.
I like how emotional the players get. Like that defeated player who openly weeps on the field at the end of the game. He’s so upset, he can’t even get his jersey off. Some handsome lad from the opposing team goes up and consoles him, helping him take the shirt off. It’s so Brian’s Song-meets-Ambercrombie.
My love for the game goes way back: in Spain during the 2006 world cup, the entire country shut down during their games. Everyone sat and stood frozen in tapas bars, gazing at screens. The waiter couldn’t even slide me a plate of olives. My lesbian roommates in Madrid threw a world cup party and explained the game to me, while shouting obscenities at the TV. Four years later, I’m a pro. Now, seeing a player like David Villa, I can understand the obsession. I hope Spain wins. They deserve it over uber-smug Germany. Spain really needs the ego boost. They haven’t really been successful since that Americas/conquistador thing awhile back.
You’re right.
They just do it with so much style. I like that the clock doesn’t stop. I like that the referees are so infallible and moody. I admire the endurance of the players. I like that I can finally saddle up to a bar, chug a “brewski” and -- for once -- bullshit about a sport or a player or a score with someone. True, I’m drooling over my Stella, but at least I’m there.
I like how emotional the players get. Like that defeated player who openly weeps on the field at the end of the game. He’s so upset, he can’t even get his jersey off. Some handsome lad from the opposing team goes up and consoles him, helping him take the shirt off. It’s so Brian’s Song-meets-Ambercrombie.
My love for the game goes way back: in Spain during the 2006 world cup, the entire country shut down during their games. Everyone sat and stood frozen in tapas bars, gazing at screens. The waiter couldn’t even slide me a plate of olives. My lesbian roommates in Madrid threw a world cup party and explained the game to me, while shouting obscenities at the TV. Four years later, I’m a pro. Now, seeing a player like David Villa, I can understand the obsession. I hope Spain wins. They deserve it over uber-smug Germany. Spain really needs the ego boost. They haven’t really been successful since that Americas/conquistador thing awhile back.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Flying South
The day after school got out, I fled to Argentina. Metaphorically, this is how far I needed to get away from my job. While the principal wishes us “time to refresh, rejuvenate and spend time with family and friends”, her minions are scouring the campus recruiting you to take summer workshops. Isn’t this why I’m a teacher? So I can NOT think about this CRAP for two months? A 12- hour flight did wonders. Buenos Aires was friendly, safe and very delicious.
The only problem was those late hours. They dine at 11:00 p.m. and hit the clubs at 2:00 a.m. I fell asleep at 10:00 p.m. watching a lot of trashy Argentine television. Did you know they have their own version of Paris Hilton? He is a 5-foot tall heir to a chocolate fortune. He has many girlfriends, but is allegedly homosexual. It’s hard to tell how old he is from all of the plastic surgery, but he’s a hybrid of Liberace and Satan. There is a scandalous story about him on Argentine television at least once an hour, usually after the weather forecast. It is reassuring to know that the rest of the world is as stupid and inane as we are.
Argentines love hearing that they remind you of Europe: the buildings, their food, their attitude, their very souls. “Como Paris, si?” the taxi drivers ask me, beaming proudly. “Si,un poco,” I politely reply. Yes, sort of like Paris’s slutty and worn out step-sister. I just wish I could’ve kept up with her.
The only problem was those late hours. They dine at 11:00 p.m. and hit the clubs at 2:00 a.m. I fell asleep at 10:00 p.m. watching a lot of trashy Argentine television. Did you know they have their own version of Paris Hilton? He is a 5-foot tall heir to a chocolate fortune. He has many girlfriends, but is allegedly homosexual. It’s hard to tell how old he is from all of the plastic surgery, but he’s a hybrid of Liberace and Satan. There is a scandalous story about him on Argentine television at least once an hour, usually after the weather forecast. It is reassuring to know that the rest of the world is as stupid and inane as we are.
Argentines love hearing that they remind you of Europe: the buildings, their food, their attitude, their very souls. “Como Paris, si?” the taxi drivers ask me, beaming proudly. “Si,un poco,” I politely reply. Yes, sort of like Paris’s slutty and worn out step-sister. I just wish I could’ve kept up with her.
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