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!
Saturday, July 31, 2010
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.
My Blank Period
I know it's been awhile since I've written. A lot has happened since March: SB 1070 was signed by our smoky governor who sounds and looks more suitable as someone who should pour coffee in a Perko's; British Petroleum with their once-pretty logo has indeed gone Beyond Petroleum; a general resigned as wars rage on; Southern Europe was on the verge of bankruptcy; and most importantly, Ricky Martin came out.
Reasons for not writing: I get very cranky from March on at my job. Feb-April is the season of students' standardized tests. These are administered by our harpy administrator who has a voice that makes one pine for the siren song of 10,000 vuvuzelas. Also, I took a creative writing class that gave me a severe case of writer's block. Kind of weird. It was taught by this local author who has capitalized on her Arizona/Mexican-American indigenous background. She writes about desert barrios, Indian myths, shady street people and appearances of Our Lady of Guadalupe on the back wall of a Circle K. Stuff like that. I really admire her because she loves her writing and has no problem promoting it, or herself.
"Wait ‘til you read my latest piece. It's hysterical. You will absolutely love it."
Most of the class bought it and became part of her fan club. I hadn’t realized until I met her that most writers have to be like this, at least nowadays. I always thought writing was a hermit’s life and not one spent emailing people about your appearances at local Borders for poetry readings and book signings. This depressed me. I always fantasized that becoming a writer meant you were done with customer service once and for all. I thought you could go live in a lighthouse and eventually pass, needing a liver.
As with most adult classes, it had its share of interesting people. Sometimes, however, it was more like group therapy. One woman had obviously watched too much Oprah and was obsessed with remembering her spirit, or whatever it is Oprah wants people to do. Her prose was often about being a victim but taking clean refreshing showers that “sang to my fractured soul whilst renewing my inner child’s strength”. Another woman was unhappily married and unhappy with most of the world it seemed. She never said much, perhaps due to her broken Spanish accent, but she glared at people really well. She was like one of those mothers in a Lorca play. I could imagine her dancing flamenco and lighting the floor on fire. Her writing was usually about how useless and stupid people were. The men she wrote about usually had small penises. That’s probably why I was drawn to her. The class was good, however. I realized how Structure is very important in writing. And how I haven't really paid attention to it in my writing. Things like having a main character want something; (instead of just whining) Things like real conflict; (instead of the character not being able to afford a Mini Cooper) And how a short story is just that – short. Not a short story dying to be a novel.
Reasons for not writing: I get very cranky from March on at my job. Feb-April is the season of students' standardized tests. These are administered by our harpy administrator who has a voice that makes one pine for the siren song of 10,000 vuvuzelas. Also, I took a creative writing class that gave me a severe case of writer's block. Kind of weird. It was taught by this local author who has capitalized on her Arizona/Mexican-American indigenous background. She writes about desert barrios, Indian myths, shady street people and appearances of Our Lady of Guadalupe on the back wall of a Circle K. Stuff like that. I really admire her because she loves her writing and has no problem promoting it, or herself.
"Wait ‘til you read my latest piece. It's hysterical. You will absolutely love it."
Most of the class bought it and became part of her fan club. I hadn’t realized until I met her that most writers have to be like this, at least nowadays. I always thought writing was a hermit’s life and not one spent emailing people about your appearances at local Borders for poetry readings and book signings. This depressed me. I always fantasized that becoming a writer meant you were done with customer service once and for all. I thought you could go live in a lighthouse and eventually pass, needing a liver.
As with most adult classes, it had its share of interesting people. Sometimes, however, it was more like group therapy. One woman had obviously watched too much Oprah and was obsessed with remembering her spirit, or whatever it is Oprah wants people to do. Her prose was often about being a victim but taking clean refreshing showers that “sang to my fractured soul whilst renewing my inner child’s strength”. Another woman was unhappily married and unhappy with most of the world it seemed. She never said much, perhaps due to her broken Spanish accent, but she glared at people really well. She was like one of those mothers in a Lorca play. I could imagine her dancing flamenco and lighting the floor on fire. Her writing was usually about how useless and stupid people were. The men she wrote about usually had small penises. That’s probably why I was drawn to her. The class was good, however. I realized how Structure is very important in writing. And how I haven't really paid attention to it in my writing. Things like having a main character want something; (instead of just whining) Things like real conflict; (instead of the character not being able to afford a Mini Cooper) And how a short story is just that – short. Not a short story dying to be a novel.
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