for those of you who don't know, i have to go to the cardiologist once a year because i have a congenital heart problem that needs to be monitored. what goes along with this annual check-up? really awkward tests, like the echocardiogram.
today was my check-up. i show up like a responsible adult at 10:50 for an 11am appt. true to doctor style, i am forced to wait in the waiting room until 11:40. when the dr finally sees me, she doesn't actually speak to me for the first 10 minutes, instead flipping through my chart and mysteriously typing while looking only at the screen of her computer and my chart. awkwardly, i pick at the arms of the wooden chair and wish that the standard seascape painting on the wall will swallow me up. that's a bad sign--i get sea sick.
anyway, after my brief check-in w/the doc, i have to wait another 35 minutes for the echo test, done by an eastern european woman who was not very friendly. ever had an echo? it's like a sonogram, but of your heart, not your baby. anyway, people usually think sonograms are all sweet--you get to see your baby and what not. echos? not so much.
i hate being touched. i realize that sounds all cold and frigid, but i don't care. i'm unreasonably ticklish. i once had a pedicure. it was worse than when i used to get spanked every day as a child. i don't know that i've ever met someone as ticklish as me. this is all fine and good in my depressingly single life, but it presents a problem when faced with visits to the doctor.
just like with a sonogram, when you're getting an echo done, the technician squirts this freezing cold gel onto a little "transducer" (this little stick that transmits the images to a big screen), and then presses the transducer onto your chest and rib cage to get images of your heart. i seriously thought i was going to die from the torture of ticklishness during this test. and it didn't help that the technician kept barking "don't move!" at me as i gritted my teeth and tensed every muscle in my entire body to keep from laughing/crying.
and nobody even bought me dinner first.
Showing posts with label awkward. Show all posts
Showing posts with label awkward. Show all posts
30 September 2008
27 September 2008
i'm a genius!
i've just updated my itunes software so that i now have itunes 8.0. how much do i love the new genius feature? (the answer is SO MUCH). i can now have my computer pick out all my early 90s angsty music in seconds, by simply clicking on just one angsty song. right now i'm definitely swaying to some mazzy star. it all reminds me of 8th grade homeroom. i'm not really sure why.
but when i think of 8th grade homeroom that reminds me of the time that i got a black eye (in that very classroom, which was also my social studies classroom) on valentines day. i was walking to class and someone was leaving another classroom and the door opened out and flew into my face. my homeroom was in a building where the classrooms opened to the outside, not to an indoor hallway. so the doors were heavy. this means the door actually hurt pretty badly when it HIT MY FACE.
seriously. who does this happen to? on valentines day. thinking back, i don't even really understand the physics of how a big all-weather door can actually hit someone in the face, rather than the shoulder or leg. but it happened to me. when i was 12. like i wasn't lame enough anyway. i was already that geeky new girl with bushy eyebrows and bad hair. i hadn't thought of that incident in probably 8 years. it's refreshing to realize that my awkwardness isn't a new thing, it's something i've perfected over the course of my ENTIRE LIFE.
hee.
ps--i know i'm a social studies teacher, but i found the debate yesterday kinda dull. i watched it while on a work retreat, so maybe the combination of friday night sleepiness, a long day of school stuff, a bus full of alcohol, cheese-its and sour patch kids impacted my ability to focus. be glad i'm not teaching your kids.
but when i think of 8th grade homeroom that reminds me of the time that i got a black eye (in that very classroom, which was also my social studies classroom) on valentines day. i was walking to class and someone was leaving another classroom and the door opened out and flew into my face. my homeroom was in a building where the classrooms opened to the outside, not to an indoor hallway. so the doors were heavy. this means the door actually hurt pretty badly when it HIT MY FACE.
seriously. who does this happen to? on valentines day. thinking back, i don't even really understand the physics of how a big all-weather door can actually hit someone in the face, rather than the shoulder or leg. but it happened to me. when i was 12. like i wasn't lame enough anyway. i was already that geeky new girl with bushy eyebrows and bad hair. i hadn't thought of that incident in probably 8 years. it's refreshing to realize that my awkwardness isn't a new thing, it's something i've perfected over the course of my ENTIRE LIFE.
hee.
ps--i know i'm a social studies teacher, but i found the debate yesterday kinda dull. i watched it while on a work retreat, so maybe the combination of friday night sleepiness, a long day of school stuff, a bus full of alcohol, cheese-its and sour patch kids impacted my ability to focus. be glad i'm not teaching your kids.
21 May 2008
inner. inner city. inner city pressure.
lately i've been wishing that i was from new zealand. i've become ever so slightly (read: insanely) obsessed with Flight of the Conchords now that i've resurrected my netflix account and it's brightened my rainy may days like few other things could. if i were from new zealand, my fabulously non-california accent would make my naivete seem charming, not obnoxious considering my age. and i could definitely pull off a sweatshirt with a screen printed stag or unicorn, making it look effortlessly hip, rather than like i am clinging to my unfortunately styled youth in rural oregon. but most importantly, i could probably play the guitar and sing well. and about important issues like inner city pressure.
there's been lots of pressure in the inner city these days. and i think it's causing me to grow up just a little bit.
in the week that my class is studying Gandhi and the nonviolent movement in India, a gun was pulled on a student in the playground. does that fit the real definition of irony, or is it better suited to an alanis morissette song? seriously though, i'm a firm believer that despite their bad reputations, urban schools are not dens of drugs, weapons and apathy. i work in a good school. and it's urban. and the kid who pulled the gun isn't even a student. he lives in the housing projects across the street. as a result, all after school activities were canceled, students can't go outside for lunch, and there's extra security posted on the campus. i initially played the incident down in my own mind. i think most teachers in my school (or possibly just the distracted, overworked ones like me) feel a certain distance and sense of safety or security at work--i know i don't think of my school as a dangerous place or worry that i am putting myself in danger on my walk to/from work, or while i'm in the building. generally, teachers are left alone when it comes to the neighborhood. this week, the realization that my students probably don't feel this same sense of distance or security really sank in.
the other sure fire sign that i'm growed up and it's all thanks to inner city pressure? don't worry, it will make you laugh.
as part of our advisory curriculum, and as a response to the number of pregnancies among students, we decided that it would be good to teach a sexual health unit to the 11th graders. as we planned it, it sounded like a really great idea--teaching about a super-relevant and urgent topic. then we began actually mapping out the topics and lessons. this is when my inner monologue began to hyperventilate and giggle uncontrollably. this was not a hot topic at the dinner table when ms. f was growing up. i believe that the talk my parents had with me was 2 seconds long: "Don't." and, being the emotionally stunted child that i was, i happily avoided the conversation. we have yet to return to the discussion to this day. i'm 26 now. granted, i had to suffer through health class, but i can guarantee you i never thought i'd have to teach it.
have you ever had to demonstrate how to put on a condom to 18 teenagers? my guess is that the answer is no. also, my guess is that you are able to actually say the word 'condom' without blushing. also, if you know me, my guess is that you are already laughing. also, stop laughing. it was REALLY EMBARRASSING.
but, i managed to get through the lesson properly, and so did the students. and then, it was like suddenly i could use anatomically correct language without turning beet red (perhaps just a nice shade of magenta). i will spare you exposure to my newfound freedom of speech, but it was like years of uncomfortable anxiousness melted away. which was probably good, because the next day i had to explain the purpose of the female condom and dental dam. yeah. you try having a serious discussion that includes the phrase "dental dam" to a bunch of hormonal 17 year olds without getting a little bit giggly yourself.
but in all seriousness, the horrifying thought of teaching sex ed gave way to actually enjoying teaching something my students are genuinely interested in and NEED to be educated about immediately. you'd be amazed at both what they do and do not know.
i'm not sure i'm ready for any more growing up for at least another 8 years.
there's been lots of pressure in the inner city these days. and i think it's causing me to grow up just a little bit.
in the week that my class is studying Gandhi and the nonviolent movement in India, a gun was pulled on a student in the playground. does that fit the real definition of irony, or is it better suited to an alanis morissette song? seriously though, i'm a firm believer that despite their bad reputations, urban schools are not dens of drugs, weapons and apathy. i work in a good school. and it's urban. and the kid who pulled the gun isn't even a student. he lives in the housing projects across the street. as a result, all after school activities were canceled, students can't go outside for lunch, and there's extra security posted on the campus. i initially played the incident down in my own mind. i think most teachers in my school (or possibly just the distracted, overworked ones like me) feel a certain distance and sense of safety or security at work--i know i don't think of my school as a dangerous place or worry that i am putting myself in danger on my walk to/from work, or while i'm in the building. generally, teachers are left alone when it comes to the neighborhood. this week, the realization that my students probably don't feel this same sense of distance or security really sank in.
the other sure fire sign that i'm growed up and it's all thanks to inner city pressure? don't worry, it will make you laugh.
as part of our advisory curriculum, and as a response to the number of pregnancies among students, we decided that it would be good to teach a sexual health unit to the 11th graders. as we planned it, it sounded like a really great idea--teaching about a super-relevant and urgent topic. then we began actually mapping out the topics and lessons. this is when my inner monologue began to hyperventilate and giggle uncontrollably. this was not a hot topic at the dinner table when ms. f was growing up. i believe that the talk my parents had with me was 2 seconds long: "Don't." and, being the emotionally stunted child that i was, i happily avoided the conversation. we have yet to return to the discussion to this day. i'm 26 now. granted, i had to suffer through health class, but i can guarantee you i never thought i'd have to teach it.
have you ever had to demonstrate how to put on a condom to 18 teenagers? my guess is that the answer is no. also, my guess is that you are able to actually say the word 'condom' without blushing. also, if you know me, my guess is that you are already laughing. also, stop laughing. it was REALLY EMBARRASSING.
but, i managed to get through the lesson properly, and so did the students. and then, it was like suddenly i could use anatomically correct language without turning beet red (perhaps just a nice shade of magenta). i will spare you exposure to my newfound freedom of speech, but it was like years of uncomfortable anxiousness melted away. which was probably good, because the next day i had to explain the purpose of the female condom and dental dam. yeah. you try having a serious discussion that includes the phrase "dental dam" to a bunch of hormonal 17 year olds without getting a little bit giggly yourself.
but in all seriousness, the horrifying thought of teaching sex ed gave way to actually enjoying teaching something my students are genuinely interested in and NEED to be educated about immediately. you'd be amazed at both what they do and do not know.
i'm not sure i'm ready for any more growing up for at least another 8 years.
05 March 2008
a model of restraint.
teaching can be hard. teaching teenagers can be real, well, real i guess. real something. high schoolers have this obnoxious, needy, hilarious, awkward, moody j'ne se quois (oooh! look at my french!) and the past few days have been chock full of all that. it's been a rough week thus far and i have a high point and a low point that probably demonstrate my own immaturity more than the annoying teenager-ness of my students. start with the bad, end with the good.
the low point:
today one of my chronically moody students informed me that the assignment we were working on was too long, so she wasn't going to do it. she often needs to be prodded along with humor, pleading, a kindly worded compliment. i did all of this to no avail and her whiny complaining continued. did i mention this was 9 am? as most normal people are savoring their coffee and walking into the office, i am dealing with someone else's pouting child. it took all of my worldly power to resist yanking the wig off of her head and throwing it out the window. yes, wig. not a weave or anything. and she has regular hair underneath it. you can see the bottom of the wig in the part. awkward. it's a burnt-orange looking wig and maybe secretly, that, above all the other nonsense coming out of her mouth, bothered me. needless to say, her hair stayed on and her paper remained blank.
score--ms. f (0), angry orange student (-1) because she got a zero on the assignment AND come on, a wig?
the high point:
you know you have arrived when two of the self-proclaimed "smart, funny" boys in your class have a discussion that ends with "yo, she stayed playin you son. just stop now." for those of you who are not teachers or from brooklyn, that roughly translates to: "ms. f. is funnier than you, and so are her jokes, so stop embarrassing yourself in front of the rest of the class."
score-- ms. f (1), unfunny student (0)
in a last, unrelated note, i had to return some books to the library today. which meant i had to trek into that unholy land--the resting place of all things soulless--midtown. the whole trip was unfortunate, but it provided some people watching that is decidedly different than my normal high school people watching. i also heard some choice quotes:
1. "But mommy, the train is 2 miles away." spoken into a cell phone by a woman older than me, tinier than me, carrying a Louis Vuitton bag. honestly? I don't get the appeal--they're bulky, brown wrinkly leather bags, and if they didn't cost $400 you would think they were ugly too. Also, she should've had her chauffeur Jeeves drop her off at the train station instead of all the way down at Rockefeller Center. Better luck next time, Muffy.
2. "Perhaps it is best to enter axially." spoken by Tobias Funke's doppelganger to his walking companions, as the prepared their strategy to walk into Rockefeller Center. Awesome.
3. This wasn't anything heard, just observed. Perhaps it's the slightly warmer weather or just a crazy wind, but what is UP with all the older women dressing younger than me? I saw a woman who was definitely in her mid 50s, wearing a mini-skirt with knee high boots and a fur lined vest. Hmm.
So there you have it, friend. One day, two very different environments, crazy shenanigans!
the low point:
today one of my chronically moody students informed me that the assignment we were working on was too long, so she wasn't going to do it. she often needs to be prodded along with humor, pleading, a kindly worded compliment. i did all of this to no avail and her whiny complaining continued. did i mention this was 9 am? as most normal people are savoring their coffee and walking into the office, i am dealing with someone else's pouting child. it took all of my worldly power to resist yanking the wig off of her head and throwing it out the window. yes, wig. not a weave or anything. and she has regular hair underneath it. you can see the bottom of the wig in the part. awkward. it's a burnt-orange looking wig and maybe secretly, that, above all the other nonsense coming out of her mouth, bothered me. needless to say, her hair stayed on and her paper remained blank.
score--ms. f (0), angry orange student (-1) because she got a zero on the assignment AND come on, a wig?
the high point:
you know you have arrived when two of the self-proclaimed "smart, funny" boys in your class have a discussion that ends with "yo, she stayed playin you son. just stop now." for those of you who are not teachers or from brooklyn, that roughly translates to: "ms. f. is funnier than you, and so are her jokes, so stop embarrassing yourself in front of the rest of the class."
score-- ms. f (1), unfunny student (0)
in a last, unrelated note, i had to return some books to the library today. which meant i had to trek into that unholy land--the resting place of all things soulless--midtown. the whole trip was unfortunate, but it provided some people watching that is decidedly different than my normal high school people watching. i also heard some choice quotes:
1. "But mommy, the train is 2 miles away." spoken into a cell phone by a woman older than me, tinier than me, carrying a Louis Vuitton bag. honestly? I don't get the appeal--they're bulky, brown wrinkly leather bags, and if they didn't cost $400 you would think they were ugly too. Also, she should've had her chauffeur Jeeves drop her off at the train station instead of all the way down at Rockefeller Center. Better luck next time, Muffy.
2. "Perhaps it is best to enter axially." spoken by Tobias Funke's doppelganger to his walking companions, as the prepared their strategy to walk into Rockefeller Center. Awesome.
3. This wasn't anything heard, just observed. Perhaps it's the slightly warmer weather or just a crazy wind, but what is UP with all the older women dressing younger than me? I saw a woman who was definitely in her mid 50s, wearing a mini-skirt with knee high boots and a fur lined vest. Hmm.
So there you have it, friend. One day, two very different environments, crazy shenanigans!
13 February 2008
The Hoarse Whisperer
We've all heard of Murphy's Law, but I'm pretty sure it was incorrectly named. I know a Murphy. He's got ok luck. I, on the other hand, do not. Take a stroll through my day and see if you would sign a petition to rename Murphy's Law after me.
7:30 pm last night: It's snowing! Now that I am inside, I have a child-like hope that the night will bring lots of snow and that impossible dream--a snow day for NYC public schools.
8:00 pm last night: the rain starts. Good-bye snow day.
5:30 am: Wake up intent on preserving my voice, which I lost alarmingly on Monday. It hasn't been back since. Fortunately, nobody on the planet is awake yet, so I have nobody to talk to as I drag myself to the shower, semi-aware of the intense rainstorm hitting my bedroom window.
6:30 am: My mental grumblings (because I'm attempting to save my vocal cords) about the mayor begin. It's raining really, really hard. Also, there is still snow and ice on the ground. Not ideal conditions to be trudging through in the dark when you're sick and it's cold. Sure, Bloomberg professes his "man of the people-ness" by taking the subway to work with us working folk, but I bet he's not walking from 1st to Lexington carting a tote bag full of mediocre essays and hot tea.
7:35 am: It's on, Bloomberg. How many times do you ride the subway to the projects? Next time you don't call a snow day, you can walk with me to work. Trust me, the walk from the York St. stop through the Farragut Housing Projects is decidedly un-plowed/shoveled/salted. The rain only adds to the appeal of walking through slush, as the slush is, in fact, floating on top of 2-3 inches of rainwater along my path to work. My waterproof boots are soaked through and already my feet are wet. How about you bring a little public school slush to your mayorial shoes/suit/coat? Or maybe consider moving City Hall to the Navy Yards?
8:30 am: Nope. No voice. The first of 3 meetings serves as the setting in which I realize I cannot, in fact, even make noise. It's not just that I can't speak, I can't form any sounds. I feel 1 part paranoia, 2 parts awkwardness for being the only person at the meeting (out of the total of 5 of us) who said absolutely nothing.
9:28 am: It's really annoying to sit in a meeting during which you have comments, totally unable to speak. What makes that better? Teaching 60 kids over the next two hours, totally unable to speak.
11:34 am: Okay. So that was kind of awesome. Kids can be so nice to you when it appears that you may be dying from an illness. I worked it OUT with my non-voice, and let the kids run a class all about communism (in an organized way, guided by my super-high tech smart board). I think they might have been more productive today than they have been all year long. Equally productive according to their needs and abilities, obviously.
11: 45 am: Am forced to deal with the fact that I should probably reschedule my night of catching up and sampling tasty wines with two of my favorite new york people, seeing as I can't catch up (aka "speak") and probably wouldn't be aided in my quest for a working voice with wine. They are understanding. I feel grateful and slightly terrible as we have rescheduled catching up probably 10 times in the past 18 months. FYI: I am a terrible friend.
1:30 pm: Time to lead the 11th grade meeting. After about 90 minutes of not teaching, and therefore, not speaking, I have the husky speech of a woman seriously sick. It is deemed "sexier than Scarlett Johansson" by the one male on the 11th grade team. Color me awkward.
1:40 pm: The husky sexpot voice is gone for good. Someone's taking a sick day Thursday.
1:41 pm: Check my messages. I have to be home by 5:30 to show the super the leak in the bathroom that apparently made itself evident during this morning's little monsoon.
4:30 pm: Why am I still at school? I talked (stupidly) through 3 hours of meetings and am now attempting to pull together materials for tomorrow.
4:34 pm: The general annoyance of putting together materials that you have a suspicion may not get done tomorrow turns to the cold sweat of fear when I realize I cannot login to the website to request a sub for tomorrow's class. I would call the help line...but I can't actually speak to anyone. Hmm.
4:45 pm: Let's set aside the panic of the sub-mess to get my lessons set for tomorrow. Why can't I just leave pages for kids to do in the textbook? Because I only have 14 textbooks and each class (4 of them) has about twice as many kids. And these kids didn't learn to share in kindergarten. Sigh.
5:00 pm: Time to make the copies. WHAT?! the copier is out of paper and there is literally NONE to be found? Why don't I freak out really loudly? Oh wait, why don't I freak out really silently but equally freakishly. I realize there is another teacher in the room. Awkward. Why don't I go find some paper...in another borough?
5:15 pm: Okay, so I made the copies, why don't i freak out again about not being able to request a sub? What's with these websites that force you to use a pin, but then have no tool to help you recall the pin you made up on the spot and didn't write down? Why don't I try every pin I've ever used in my life 18 times and realize that I still have NO idea what my pin is? Thanks.
5:15 pm: Realize that it takes 1 hour (read: not 15 minutes) to get from Brooklyn to home. I suppose I should call the super...with my awesomely husky voice...to beg him to come later. Only, when I dial and he answers, I open my mouth to speak, and nothing but cracking bleats emerge. Mortified, I speak from my diaphragm like a real opera star, to bark out my request. I don't think he really understands me, but he says he'll be there at 6:30. I am exhausted.
5:25 pm: Attempt to go home #1. Make the fatal mistake of saying goodbye to a colleague that I actually like talking to.
5:30 pm: Still talking to said colleague. Another one joins in. Outlook not good for Operation Get home by 6:30.
5:30-5:55 pm: Several, futile attempts made at exiting the conversation, none made easier by the fact that I still don't really have the ability to use my voice. Finally at 5:55, I force myself to walk down the hall.
6:10 pm: at the train station, 1 train passes by the station without stopping. because why stop when you don't have to train?
6:14 pm: get on the proper train. It dutifully treks to Manhattan, but encounters several unnecessary "we are being held momentarily while another train is in the station" moments.
6:42 pm: emerge at my stop only to realize that in my tired, silent, bad-lucked stupor, I got on the wrong end of the train and have to walk ALL THE WAY down to get out of the station. sigh.
6:45 pm: call my dad to check and see if my voice is working enough to then call the super and beg him not to leave the building before I get there. My dad can't really understand everything I'm saying. Not a good sign. I attempt the call anyway, the super will wait.
6:55 pm: The super meets me and we attempt to find the leak in the apartment. We finally see it. Apparently it will require the handiwork of a "roofer." I bet roofers didn't have to go to work today...
7:00 pm: How is it already 7pm?
7:30 pm last night: It's snowing! Now that I am inside, I have a child-like hope that the night will bring lots of snow and that impossible dream--a snow day for NYC public schools.
8:00 pm last night: the rain starts. Good-bye snow day.
5:30 am: Wake up intent on preserving my voice, which I lost alarmingly on Monday. It hasn't been back since. Fortunately, nobody on the planet is awake yet, so I have nobody to talk to as I drag myself to the shower, semi-aware of the intense rainstorm hitting my bedroom window.
6:30 am: My mental grumblings (because I'm attempting to save my vocal cords) about the mayor begin. It's raining really, really hard. Also, there is still snow and ice on the ground. Not ideal conditions to be trudging through in the dark when you're sick and it's cold. Sure, Bloomberg professes his "man of the people-ness" by taking the subway to work with us working folk, but I bet he's not walking from 1st to Lexington carting a tote bag full of mediocre essays and hot tea.
7:35 am: It's on, Bloomberg. How many times do you ride the subway to the projects? Next time you don't call a snow day, you can walk with me to work. Trust me, the walk from the York St. stop through the Farragut Housing Projects is decidedly un-plowed/shoveled/salted. The rain only adds to the appeal of walking through slush, as the slush is, in fact, floating on top of 2-3 inches of rainwater along my path to work. My waterproof boots are soaked through and already my feet are wet. How about you bring a little public school slush to your mayorial shoes/suit/coat? Or maybe consider moving City Hall to the Navy Yards?
8:30 am: Nope. No voice. The first of 3 meetings serves as the setting in which I realize I cannot, in fact, even make noise. It's not just that I can't speak, I can't form any sounds. I feel 1 part paranoia, 2 parts awkwardness for being the only person at the meeting (out of the total of 5 of us) who said absolutely nothing.
9:28 am: It's really annoying to sit in a meeting during which you have comments, totally unable to speak. What makes that better? Teaching 60 kids over the next two hours, totally unable to speak.
11:34 am: Okay. So that was kind of awesome. Kids can be so nice to you when it appears that you may be dying from an illness. I worked it OUT with my non-voice, and let the kids run a class all about communism (in an organized way, guided by my super-high tech smart board). I think they might have been more productive today than they have been all year long. Equally productive according to their needs and abilities, obviously.
11: 45 am: Am forced to deal with the fact that I should probably reschedule my night of catching up and sampling tasty wines with two of my favorite new york people, seeing as I can't catch up (aka "speak") and probably wouldn't be aided in my quest for a working voice with wine. They are understanding. I feel grateful and slightly terrible as we have rescheduled catching up probably 10 times in the past 18 months. FYI: I am a terrible friend.
1:30 pm: Time to lead the 11th grade meeting. After about 90 minutes of not teaching, and therefore, not speaking, I have the husky speech of a woman seriously sick. It is deemed "sexier than Scarlett Johansson" by the one male on the 11th grade team. Color me awkward.
1:40 pm: The husky sexpot voice is gone for good. Someone's taking a sick day Thursday.
1:41 pm: Check my messages. I have to be home by 5:30 to show the super the leak in the bathroom that apparently made itself evident during this morning's little monsoon.
4:30 pm: Why am I still at school? I talked (stupidly) through 3 hours of meetings and am now attempting to pull together materials for tomorrow.
4:34 pm: The general annoyance of putting together materials that you have a suspicion may not get done tomorrow turns to the cold sweat of fear when I realize I cannot login to the website to request a sub for tomorrow's class. I would call the help line...but I can't actually speak to anyone. Hmm.
4:45 pm: Let's set aside the panic of the sub-mess to get my lessons set for tomorrow. Why can't I just leave pages for kids to do in the textbook? Because I only have 14 textbooks and each class (4 of them) has about twice as many kids. And these kids didn't learn to share in kindergarten. Sigh.
5:00 pm: Time to make the copies. WHAT?! the copier is out of paper and there is literally NONE to be found? Why don't I freak out really loudly? Oh wait, why don't I freak out really silently but equally freakishly. I realize there is another teacher in the room. Awkward. Why don't I go find some paper...in another borough?
5:15 pm: Okay, so I made the copies, why don't i freak out again about not being able to request a sub? What's with these websites that force you to use a pin, but then have no tool to help you recall the pin you made up on the spot and didn't write down? Why don't I try every pin I've ever used in my life 18 times and realize that I still have NO idea what my pin is? Thanks.
5:15 pm: Realize that it takes 1 hour (read: not 15 minutes) to get from Brooklyn to home. I suppose I should call the super...with my awesomely husky voice...to beg him to come later. Only, when I dial and he answers, I open my mouth to speak, and nothing but cracking bleats emerge. Mortified, I speak from my diaphragm like a real opera star, to bark out my request. I don't think he really understands me, but he says he'll be there at 6:30. I am exhausted.
5:25 pm: Attempt to go home #1. Make the fatal mistake of saying goodbye to a colleague that I actually like talking to.
5:30 pm: Still talking to said colleague. Another one joins in. Outlook not good for Operation Get home by 6:30.
5:30-5:55 pm: Several, futile attempts made at exiting the conversation, none made easier by the fact that I still don't really have the ability to use my voice. Finally at 5:55, I force myself to walk down the hall.
6:10 pm: at the train station, 1 train passes by the station without stopping. because why stop when you don't have to train?
6:14 pm: get on the proper train. It dutifully treks to Manhattan, but encounters several unnecessary "we are being held momentarily while another train is in the station" moments.
6:42 pm: emerge at my stop only to realize that in my tired, silent, bad-lucked stupor, I got on the wrong end of the train and have to walk ALL THE WAY down to get out of the station. sigh.
6:45 pm: call my dad to check and see if my voice is working enough to then call the super and beg him not to leave the building before I get there. My dad can't really understand everything I'm saying. Not a good sign. I attempt the call anyway, the super will wait.
6:55 pm: The super meets me and we attempt to find the leak in the apartment. We finally see it. Apparently it will require the handiwork of a "roofer." I bet roofers didn't have to go to work today...
7:00 pm: How is it already 7pm?
26 January 2008
jake ryan? he doesn't even know you exist!
So I've been thinking about Sixteen Candles, a movie I could watch forever and never tire of. And I think I had an epiphany. Here it is. John Hughes has forever destroyed my future romantic happiness. How, you ask, could the man who brought us great films like Uncle Buck, The Breakfast Club, and The Great Outdoors, singlehandedly ruin my future? Simple, friend. Just two words: Jake Ryan.
With his sweater-vest and cuffed jeans, and yes, a porsche, the ultimate 80s heartthrob is romantic kryptonite. It's not just the sheepish way he shoved his hands into his pockets when talking to Molly Ringwald and her heinous pink outfits (and hats! why, Molly, why the hats?)--it's so much more. With every boy I meet, I feel compelled to ask, 'Is this the kind of guy who will not only make me a birthday cake, but allow me to sit on the formal dining table at his parents mansion while blowing out the candles?' Overwhelmingly, the answer is no (granted, at this point, I'm sort of hoping that the boy doesn't still live with his parents). And not just that, but Jake Ryan has a supremely noble character. What boy do you know that would rescue your meek, high school sophomore panties from geeks and spend all night trying to get them back to you, while leaving his shallow blond girlfriend with Anthony Michael Hall? Boys that I know, none of you come to mind. Girls, I know that I'm not alone in this either.
Perhaps I am too quick to judge Mr. Hughes. Really, the fault lies with Jane Austen. The original, most crush-worthy man of fiction is, in my opinion, Mr. Darcy. Brooding Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome, who also happens to be ridiculously wealthy and romantic? Sure, I'll take one. The fact that he's got a healthy side of social awkwardness to complement the glorious grounds of Pemberley and his dashing top hat just adds to the appeal. The only problem here is not that they don't know I exist--it's really that they don't exist.
There is a point to all of this boy banter. With my positive approach to 2008 and determination to stop living like a 50 year old hermit, I am realizing that there are 2 main obstacles preventing me from finding Jake Ryan 2.0. They are:
1)Attractive people tend to recognize their own hotness.
2)Very few men just fall into a girl's lap (And if they do, it's usually best to stand up so they don't stay there).
Let me explain. With formulaic chick flicks, somehow the leading man is impossibly attractive, yet he (and possibly the leading lady) doesn't really know it. His charm, carefully messy hair, and ability to rock a pair of Levis like nobody's business have not gone to his head. However. In my experience, most attractive people understand that they are attractive. It's the whole point of being attractive. Friend, people like you (yes, you)--genetically gifted people who can wake up rumpled and still look amazing--typically know it. You may pretend to be surprised when people on the subway give you their numbers, or you are followed by a parade of ardent admirers as you walk to the grocery store, but you're just being modest so that I won't get jealous of the attention and stop letting you read my hilarious blog. Also, when you are being followed by your hordes of stalkers, you tend to deal with them in a smooth, easy manner. I get uncomfortable and begin talking loudly and giggling somewhat inappropriately (and uncontrollably) when I have to punch in my membership number at the gym. Did you take a class in how to be smooth when we were in college, friend? If so, I feel that you were morally responsible to drag me with you, especially since it was probably just a 1-unit, pass/fail course and I totally could have fit it in. The bottom line? My maybe-unfair tendency is to distrust good-looking people. Good-looking people are typically comfortable with their good-looking-ness. I am uncomfortable with my awkwardness and your lack of it, which makes me want to not approach you since I assume that you already know that you are cute and therefore don't need to talk to awkward people and gosh is it warm in here? am i talking really fast? i'm going to open a window. so that i can jump out of it.
Problem #2? The Weather Girls are a bunch of liars. It is NOT raining men, and the meteorologist predicts that I live in a pocket of New York City comparable to Death Valley, a place that knows no rain. I recently heard a statistic that in NYC there are 150,000 more women than men. This alone does not mean romantic doom. Unfortunately, as a shy person who fears rejection, I am far too comfortable with the movie-world dynamic of boy meets girl, boy pursues girl, girl gets to enjoy doing no work to get lots of attention. This would all be fine and good, except that it doesn't seem to happen as frequently in real life. Okay, maybe it does, but not to someone who spends the majority of her days being referred to as "Ms." while negotiating teenage angst and below grade level reading. All signs point to me being in the wrong profession for a man-downpour. So, friend, what with 2008 being all super, I suppose I will have to actively protest this drought and take matters into my own hands. This realization is slightly terrifying and leaves my palms clammy and knees shaky.
What can I do to prevent my demise into the crazy old lady who owns 25 cats and eats pints of Ben and Jerry's while watching her shows? I guess I could pony up and talk to that cute boy sitting near me today at the coffee shop. He was all seriousness and studying and sitting by himself. But I was so consumed by Problem #1 that instead I sat behind him and constantly commented to my friend about him while staring at his back. Which then made me think about Problem #2 and wonder what the best passive aggressive way would be to get his attention. Thinking back on the day, I want to slap myself in the face. He had no idea I existed and I had no intention of making myself known. Needless to say, I entered the coffee shop single, and left dateless.
I suppose, supremely cute boys of New York, we must reach some sort of compromise. I will work on not vilifying you solely due to your intense level of attractiveness. And if you please work hard on honing your charming, nerdy quirks, maybe, just maybe we can go out for coffee. Maybe today I'll buy a good umbrella, just in case.
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