You know, that one scene...

You probably think it's a bad sign when one starts out with a reference to "Bridget Jones' Diary." But I'm going to do it anyways. In the movie, she starts out a new year with a new diary, and a resolution: "will find nice sensible boyfriend and stop forming romantic attachments to any of the following: alcoholics, workoholics, sexaholics, commitment-phobics, peeping toms, megalomaniacs, emotional fuckwits, or perverts. Will especially stop fantasizing about a particular person who embodies all these things."
It seems very sensible and easy to do, except for the fact that it isn't easy. One often finds oneself in a fuck buddy situation, which is all fine and dandy except when one finds that the fuck buddy is skipping out on the sex part of the equation.
Granted, we never really put a label on it, but for about five months, we have had general hang-outs and sex time every week or so. People who are more of stage 5 clingers than I am would maybe consider that a relationship but I'm not deluded enough to call it that, certainly. When it was his birthday, I think I might have written something to him on Facebook, but I can't really be sure.
A couple of times, his indecisiveness about getting together made me ready to cut and run (a text asking him if he wanted to get drunk and hang out got the response "Perhaps"; erm, either a "yes" or a "no" will suffice). Yet he usually would come back with a plan to have a drink, we'd get drunk and have really good sex, and he would leave.
Yet a couple of times he has either been too tired or busy to do the drunken sex routine. Today, we just had lunch (very rare to get together during daytime hours) and he couldn't stay long because oh, he must mail out an application. I watch him from the window as I eat a cupcake, and I see him glance up as he dials his phone. It's probably nothing and yet really, am I stupid enough to think that I'm the only one? I am maybe that stupid, but it still depresses me because I am coming to the realization that maybe I'm looking for a monogamous relationship.

Sigh. I thought I could avoid it, and yet here it is.

Trust me, I'm a teacher

You've heard it before: teaching is a noble profession, underrated, underpaid. Teachers touch lives, move mountains, and form the future of America. Both of my parents are teachers, as am I. I've always been proud of them and what they do and people generally nod approvingly whenever I tell them that my parents are educators.

That's why I have to hand it to Maury Gusta, a fourth grade teacher from Gauthier, Mississippi who was recently featured on The Today Show with Kathie Lee Gifford and Hoda Kotb for starting a National Elementary Honor Society to encourage and reward students for reaching high academic honors. I applaud his efforts; working with fourth graders is no small feat, certainly.

What I take issue with is the bullshit that followed, courtesy of Kathie Lee Gifford, head of emotional smarminess at the Today Show, in the form of the song "When Somebody Cares About You" which she co-wrote for Mr. Gusta and his students (but I'm sure it was partially so she could pimp out her showtunes). I was listening as I ate my morning cereal and nearly choked on some of the lines: "when somebody cares about somebody else/ A miracle takes place, you can see it in their face." Wow. Deep. Oh, wait, this one's even better: "If we're all god's special children why don't we understand/ That we can be his angels here by reaching out our hand/ Then all things being equal/ We'll come to realize/ The greatest gift is what we see in someone's grateful eyes." At this point, I almost rolled off the couch from the cloying, overly emotional (and delusional) crap being paraded about. It didn't seem as though I was alone, either. Most of the kids looked bored but happy to be on TV at least and were probably wondering when they'd get their tour of the Statue of Liberty and get to visit the FAO Schwartz. The camera panned to Mrs. Gifford who was swaying to the music and looking overly pleased with herself as she grabbed for the Kleenex.

ENOUGH! I say. Enough of this deluded view of the teaching profession as some ethereal carnival ride where each student sits obediently in their desk as the knowledge peddled by the teacher washes over them and suddenly, a ray of light shines down from god, the lightbulb clicks on, and they say "Yes! I understand! It's a miracle!" Then the whole class comes together in song around the campfire.

That's not how it happens. Believe me.

I would like to see Kathie Lee try teaching for the day. Let's see if all god's angels are on her side or if she has my typical day when students don't listen, go on Facebook while you lecture, become verbally combative when you correct their essay or talk to them about why they are failing the course, and they don't complete the assignments on time.

Mrs. Gifford is welcome to make a "miracle" out of those situations, and I wish her luck.

Let's get out of this country

It's been a while. Of course, everyone says that, and I could say that I completely understand how time gets away from you with everything that has to be done. And yet the problem is that I really don't have anything to do. At least, not in the typical "job and school" sense; that typicality stopped abruptly in June, and so now I'm one of the unremarkable masses who are unemployed. I thought unemployment was going to be an exciting respite to the usual routine, and then suddenly, I would get a great job offer and I would be gone around July (and I had begun my search in February). Bitterness set in around the end of June; I kept thinking, "What the fuck is a Masters degrees supposed to get me now?" I have a good deal of debt that I have to pay off, but it was all under the pretense that I would get a wonderfully important job at the end of it all. I admit that it was kind of a bad idea for me to decide to enter the world of work in the middle of a recession, but at the moment, it's the only thing that even remotely makes sense. A job is the only thing I can agree on at this point.
Really, I put my nose to the grindstone on the job search and have pumped out a little over eighty applications in sixth months. I'd say that's pretty decent. I've had a few callbacks, two interviews and now--the first even remote possibility that I've had in a very long time. The telephone interview went well. The thank-you note I sent went over even better; the interviewer sent a thank-you note a half hour later saying that it had been wonderful to speak to me as well.
I worry I might be putting all my eggs in one basket; I went shopping for an interview outfit (it was at Target, but still) and I don't even know if I've been selected to come down to Chicago. And then I start to think about actually being in the workforce: getting up early, looking professional, having to do actual work (gah!) and I wonder if I'm ready for it. Ridiculous, I know.
Either way, I will be ready for work because it has to happen. It simply has to. One cannot stay unemployed forever; on one hand, I will plow through my savings account very, very quickly, and on the other hand, I do not have enough things to occupy me for most of the day. For example, today I had the intention of going to sell some of my books, however the bookseller was not in at the store, so I instead went to Goodwill to look for appropriate work clothes for a job that I don't have. Again, ridiculous. Oh, and I went for a run and ate cheese fries. Together, accounting for about four hours of my day.
I need a job. Eggs in one basket be damned. (And I'll be sure to keep this post for when, some day, I have a job and then I start to complain about it.)

Sally is thinking

Sally is thinking; she’s thinking about her life so far, and what she had for breakfast way back on Monday when she still felt like eating. She’s thinking about what she sees in the trees as they are flipping past the windows, and why the neighbors just exploded something on the sidewalk. She thinks about exploding things all the time: the loud cars and trucks that run past her window, and how they’re so obnoxious, she wishes they would just blow up in front of her and be done with it. She thinks about the man whistling as he shuts the car door, and how he yells epithets at his girlfriend for no reason other than he can and he wants to. She thinks about a nap and feeling better some day, about what may happen when she closes her eyes and dreams; if she will be back on the streets of Brooklyn, the day her hips began to hurt for no reason at all. Or maybe she’ll dream of a field—a nice field somewhere quiet, away from the cars and car doors and strange men yelling on street corners. Somewhere with beautiful sun, a kind breeze, and a long stretch of soft wheat so she can run, run, run.

Sally is thinking.

Hot town, summer in the city

It stays pretty quiet on the East Side. Okay, fine, there are a few idiots, such as my neighbors who are currently playing lite rock crap music just a little too loud for their stupid party which is annoying. But for the most part, each neighborhood exists peacefully, holding its semi-regular hippie block parties and everyone is happy.

Until the final week in June, when our peaceful lives are turned upside down and the East Side, downtown, and Third Ward neighborhoods are thrown into disarray. It's Summerfest time, and while the various government and business folk boast that it's the largest outdoor music festival in the country, they don't have to live with the crowds that flock into the city. Everyone's a culprit in this case: the suburbanites, who never come within the city line because there are reportedly black people who live there, and all black people carry guns and shoot them at cars; the rurals who come from towns over; the truly out-of-towners who come from out of state just to attend; and then the rest of the mix.

I don't think it's a coincidence, really, that on the day that Summerfest opened, I was almost run over twice in the span of eight hours while on my bike. That's really never happened before; one guy had no clue whatsoever that I was even there, and then a Dodge Neon full of trashy teenagers thinking they were bad-asses nearly rolled through a stop sign, only to cuss me out and call me a "bitch" because I deigned to be on the rode on a bike in the bike lane. Brady Street is backed up with traffic; even on a busy summer Saturday night, it's never that busy. People were looking for parking on the already cramped streets in order to take the bar shuttles down to the fairgrounds in order to drink our local beer, become belligerent, trash the area, and drive home.

Why am I so down on Summerfest? It's not so much that I'm down on the festival itself or think it should only allow Milwaukee residents in (because, let's face it: the likelihood that Milwaukeeans, let alone the East Siders, would pay $12 to go and hear a random smattering of bands only to have to pay $8 for beer is unlikely). The fact is, the outsiders come in, think they have fair run of the city since they're paying an exorbitant price to get wasted and listen to bands, and think they have a run of the place. They trash it, fill up the streets, and disrespect the locals, only to leave in a week and go back to their various dark caves. They don't have anything invested in being respectful, clean, and orderly; even if they act like a bunch of knuckle draggers, Summerfest will be on next year and they will be allowed to come back.

Ultimately, I don't like feeling as though I can't safely go out my door each day and bike safely around my city (yes, I called it "my city"). I don't care if you're an out-of-towner; it's when you start acting like an asshole that I put my foot down and say "Get the hell out, and stay out."

Let that be a warning to you outside agitators.

I dream of Dan Savage

I had a dream where I was rebuked by a woman on the bus for piping a Savage Love podcast about anal sex over the speakers of the bus. She told me it was "blasphemous" to speak of such activities and that I shouldn't listen to such filth. I told her she shouldn't be so uptight, and maybe if she listened to Savage Love and got a good boning herself, she would relax. She told me I was going to burn in hell, I told her I looked forward to it, and then she got off the bus.

So, what's up with that? Today, I was on the bus listening to my Savage Love podcast, and there's always a suspicion that they can hear what I'm listening to; they're learning about polyamory and butt plugs and anal sex just like I am. Most people might freak out if they heard the things discussed. Perhaps that's too strong of a generalization; maybe there's a higher number of kinky people out there than I give them credit for.

But there's, unfortunately, the problem of abstinence-only education, and the general lack of proper sexual education overall. People don't really have any clue what their genitals really do, or what's going on inside them. For example, there was a caller on the podcast who referenced a college girlfriend who would not perform oral sex on him because she honestly believed oral sex would get her pregnant. I had to shake my head, but Dan said it best: "People really are that stupid."

So how do you figure out what is really going on? Well, Savage Love, number one, and number two, you discover by doing. Ah but here's the problem (at least for all those sex-starved puritans out there): you go to hell for having pre-marital sex! And you're a slut if you have more than one partner. Or if you enjoy sex. Or if you masturbate. Or or or or or. The list is a mile long.

It's unfortunate. Whatever happened to embracing one's sexuality? Did it ever happen? One could argue the sexual revolution during the 60's and 70's ushered in a more free-thinking approach, but where are we now?

Not that my dream necessarily has some sort of mind-expanding insight into sexuality today. There are crazy prudish zealots that still run rampant today, trying to clamp down on sexual activity any way they can: restricting access to birth control, abortions, gay marriage, etc. But Savage Love is important and refreshing; it's kind of a revelation to learn about gay crushes on a high school swim team as I'm hurtling through the city on the bus surrounded by people who are totally oblivious to what I'm learning about. Yet there is also solace in the fact that, on thousands of other city buses, trains, and cars across the world, there are other people listening and learning the same thing, opening up their minds and their sexual possibilities. Now that is something to broadcast on the bus speakers.

a squeak

my father will not tell you that he has a weak eye
so he turns to the TV
to watch from his right side

and there is a piece of apple stuck between his teeth
so he pulls in the air and the spit
to make that high pitched squeaking sound

it is something absent-minded,
and I join in

a chorus of tooth-sucking family members
squeaking in the glow of the television