How I wasted my summer vacation. Part I

For ages now, teachers have asked students to write on "what they did over their summer vacation" upon their arrival back to the classroom.  Nearly every August this was our initial introduction to our teacher and our first grade, both of which were important to me:  Type A, People Pleaser McGee.  Begrudgingly my fellow classmates and I would get out our supplies and start writing...something.  Naturally they dug deep within themselves and found the strength to share with the class some anecdotes on the excellent buffet selection on the family cruise through the Caribbean islands, blisters created from hiking in Colorado, and even a family reunions in Galveston where it rained alot.

Whereas I volunteered nothing.  I had nothing interesting,  intelligent or even slighly amusing in which to share.  Um, I drug my little brother to the community pool, watched reruns of Matlock and Murder She Wrote, and read a bunch of books that no one had heard of.

"Um Miss...How long does this have to be?" 

So, in response, I've begun my own adult example. I still haven't done much, but at least I can share it in a better way, which really is the point of the assignment anyway.  

How I Wasted my Summer Vacation

by Jennifer 

I have a confession that will make movie--ahem--"film" buffs shake their heads in dismay.

I don't really like Gus Van Sant movies.   I know I'm supposed to and everybody seems to, but it's true.  
There was that one with all the short film clips about Paris, Paris Je T'aime, which just seems really self-indulgent and relied on all these big Hollywood names to give substance to something that didn't really have any. I'm totally ADD, but even I got annoyed by the shorts.  And then when I wanted story lines to connect thoughtfully like other movies in this genre often do, it leaves you hanging.

No me gusta!

 

Ok, I admit loving Good Will Hunting but that hardly seems fair.  Everybody ate this shit up with extra large spoons and then went back for seconds.  It's a teaching movie with tender moments mixed with self-deprecation, love and friendships--it's hook, line and sinker.  

However, with that exception, I recently finished watching Drugstore Cowboy and, yet again, I'm not impressed.  I'm probably desensitized to "drug" movies growing up watching films like Transpotting, Blow, Requiem for a Dream, Pulp Fiction, hell even The Big Lebowski, where the use of drugs were necessary for the conflicts and resolutions, but this one just seemed silly.  Case in point: the flying cowboy hat across the screen while Matt Dillon is getting high again.  Come on, Gus.

Next wasted unit of time was dedicated to the seemingly never ending television show predominating the 1990's known as "The X-Files."  My God, where do I start in how much I love this show?  Why am I such a late bloomer on this obsession?  I could have shared this with fellow recluses back when it was the appropriate time.  I could have been chatting it up water cooler style with my full on 90's grunge attire complete with Doc Martins and teenage angst.  Now, I'm forced to hide my infatuation with the inexplicable escapades of sexy and wry agent Mulder and power-suited robot Scully (seriously, she has no emotions) in the secrecy and shame of my own home with no outlet.  

 "I want to believe" too Mulder!  Let's hold hands and find the smoking man together. 

Maybe the story lines are slightly ridiculous and often times don't provide satisfactory explanations at the end. Maybe the action scenes are predictable and not well executed.  Maybe the special effects aren't so special now with CG enhancements and such.  

I don't care. 

The pure joy I have in watching this show overshadows rational criticisms.  I can suspend my disbelief even to allowing the lack of sex that these two should be, need to be, having at this point.  Hurry up with it already!  

And lastly, I've been sailing to the very edges of our internet seas in search of the perfect black bag (that I can afford.)  I've looked over the edge into the infinite abyss of darkness and you know what?  Shit is expensive.   I have fabulous taste and a small pay check. Also, you can blow hours on retail sites.  Here's a few of my favorites if you'd like to join my cult. Prepare to look at the clock and then see how fast you loose hours of your life.  Poof!

http://www.hautelook.com/events/#all

http://www.gilt.com/sale/women

http://shopruche.com/?utm_source=newsletter&utm_medium=email&utm_content=homepage&utm_campaign=email_2012_07_31 

Santa, if you're listening, here's what I really want:

It's a Prada bag and it costs $1, 960.  Yes, I just choked on some of my spit, too. How funny!

Here's what I'll probably get.  This bag is from Banana Republic and costs $150.  It's not nearly as cute, but then again it's important to be able to pay rent so you don't have to become a prostitute in order to sleep in  a bed. 

It's all about priorities, kids. 

* Dear Teacher,

I'm sorry this essay is not about a family trip to see the Redwoods or about finding Jesus at a summer camp.  I promise to do better on future assignments so please give me a good grade.  

Thanx! ; )

Ode to my Hangover

You magnificent bastard.

You got me again.

I'm too old for this shit. 

Classroom Nightmares...No Literally

Yes, it's sometimes frustrating and more often annoying when folks start sharing his or her bizarre dreams.

So I'm having lunch with Neil Patrick Harris, and then I transform into a bird... 


Nobody cares.

But here's the deal.  I keep having various forms of the same nightmare where the school year has started, and ostensibly everyone else has been preparing  for weeks.  The students are all showing up, classes are set up and rolling, copies have all been made.  However, I apparently got dates confused and just showed up DAY ONE with nothing!  No classroom, no syllabus, no plan.  Just totally fucked.   

This "classroom picture" really cracks me up.  I like the  kid  who's given up in the back.

In one of my nightmares my classroom was unexpectedly moved to the gym, which then actually became the pool.  No floor!  I had to teach ENGLISH in the POOL. Now, how do you really get through the day without some water damage?  And what would happen to the essays?  Where do you sharpen your pencil?  Where do they even keep their pencils?  I shudder to think...

  
Last night's had me teaching African American studies.  Um, I never took that course in college, and my first thought is MLK, Jr.  That wouldn't get me very far.  Then I figured out that I wasn't even in the right room and go running down the hall to "my" classroom except three other teachers are in there just shooting the shit while my students have left the building.  Nightmare!

So maybe these aren't the "faceless stranger chasing you down the dark and foggy road where you can't run fast enough" variety of nightmares, but for me they are terrifying.

I cannot stand the idea of not being prepared, which really boils down to not being in control. Shocker.  My Type A personality likes control?  This is such news!


This upcoming year they've added grade level juniors to my schedule which I've already taught a couple of years ago, but we're changing it up this year, so I suppose this is my mind's way of coping.  But damn, this is starting to get to me.  I'm going to have to hit up the copy machine mid July to get a jump on things.  


I'll pop some Melatonin and see if I can have the nice puppy--unicorn--rainbow--ice cream--David Beckham variety dream instead.


Oh, and I once had a make out dream with Jack Nicholson.  Not cute

Why you gotta kill off the dog?

Last night I finished a book called The Art of Racing in the Rain that I wouldn't necessarily categorize as the most compelling, funny, or entertaining story ever written, but the author, Garth Stein, did that thing that always gets me.  There's a spoiler alert here, but trust me, it's not really, as you are told this information in Chapter Uno.  

He wrote about a selfless, wise, and clever dog... who is about to DIE!!!!

Now, I appreciate the author's creative technique in telling an otherwise overly dramatic narrative about his amateur race car driving owner through the  eyes of his beloved bow-wow, but it made me sooooo freakin' sad.    The whole time I knew the flashback would return to the predicament of the aging pooch nearing and describing his last moments, but I still found myself crying the UGLY CRY.

You know about the ugly cry.  It's the one you stifle in front of others to be courteous until you get home and really let it out.  Often occurs in bathtubs after that third glass of wine.  No sound comes out.  It's just a really awful face and then snot.  Lots and lots of snot. 

This book was like watching the film Titanic.  My God, we knew it wasn't going to have a happy ending.  Check your History books folks; the ship goes down!  Nevertheless, we all cried as Rose dropped poor popsicle Jack Dawson down into the frosty abyss. Selfish bitch. 

Anyway, this time, after finishing the story, I admit, I felt a little manipulated.  Really?  Why you gotta kill off the dog? 

Why?  Because all animal lovers are moved by the heavy handed pathos when it comes to innocent pets.  Case in point.  Another novel I recently finished was  Zeitoun by Dave Eggers detailing the heart wrenching plight of one family right before, during and after the catastrophic hurricane Katrina in New Orleans.  

It's a wonderfully written and powerful novel that everyone should read.  The part that made me the most emotional was not the dead bodies floating, not the displaced mother and children forced into hostile situations, not even the terrible injustice Zeitoun suffered in a maximum security prison, but rather the two abandoned dogs trapped in their flooded homes he was taking care of throughout the novel that didn't survive.  That was the part that made me cry.  

And who hasn't teared up at least once when that save-an-animal commercial backed by Sarah McLachlan's sappy "In the arms of the Angel" comes on?  Hitler would donate.   

Most of us can say we have had pets who died, or have pets who will (sorry) die someday.  There's a third category.  There are just those freaks of nature who aren't "animal people."  

You know what I call them?  

Nazis.  

( I have a motif working here.)

The logical part of my brain understands the natural order of things--circle of life and all that, but the thought of my sweet Piper girl no longer being with us... there I go... waterworks!

So, why do we do it?  Why did our parents put us through it?  Why do we bring home these wonderful creatures who we know will not outlive us, making it an absolute likelihood that we will have to go through the heartbreak of their degeneration and then finally their death?  

Growing up I had a steady and consistent line of pets--much later mimicked in my style of dating.  One at a time and with reckless abandon to each.  

My first fish, named Violet Prince (can you tell I was dramatic from an early age?), or V.P. for short, was one of those Vietnamese Fighting Fish--a Betta, so he had to be alone since he did not play well with others.  I loved that damn fish.  

He had all the fishy accouterments a third grader with a limited allowance could afford.  It was the Taj Mahal of tanks.  I followed all the feeding specifications and cleaning requirements to a T.  So, upon his death, I was horrified.  

Where did I go wrong?  Why is V.P. dead?  Is there a God? 

My mother, in her efficient but perhaps insensitive way, asked if I wanted for us to flush him down the toilet together or if I wanted her to go ahead and get the job done alone.  

This did not go over well.

Flash forward to the Lifetime Movie version of my fish funeral in our front yard, in the flower bed, where the rain-spout dumps its contents from the roof (since he liked water).  I also demanded he be buried with what I imagined to be his favorite plastic plant decoration from his tank.  I'm giving a pretty strong ugly cry at this point standing over the three inch grave site marked by two Popsicle sticks glued together in the sign of a cross, and that's when our neighbor decides to pay us a little visit.  Since I'm unable to utter decipherable words or phrases due to my grief, my mom fills her in on the proceedings.  My neighbor puts her hand to her chest in a sign of relief and tells us she was worried something awful had happened as she's shaking her head and smiling. 

Smiling!  The nerve...

"But something tragic did happen!" My seven-year-old mind yells at her.  Righteous indignation at her lack of sympathy in my time of need. 

Later, there was G.P.  Short for..., wait for it... "Guinea Pig."  I wasn't terribly creative at this point, apparently. 

It's the same love story, but a change of food, container, and poo.  I was a little older and more prepared for G.P's death.  But the ugly cry emerged.  This time my mom didn't attempt any quick solutions.  There was a full-on-funeral in the backyard with readings.  

And finally, the big one.  Our family dog, Brinkley.  I honestly don't know how much I could even write about this since he really was not just our dog.  He was the third and, in many cases, preferred child. We didn't take family pictures really, but if we did, he would be in the center. 

Now, it should be mentioned that this dog was not like sweet Enzo in The Art of Racing in the Rain.  As a puppy, Brinkley was just terrible despite Doggy University.  He'd jump up on people, scratched, ate things, peed on things, and was generally a little shit.  Later in life he was a cranky bastard.  He'd snarl if you touched his hips, refused to share any bed or sofa, and would keep ringing his "potty" bell until someone, no matter the hour, would get off their duff and take him out.  

In between all that though, he was our best friend.  He knew our various moods and navigated those troublesome waters.  He was a vacuum cleaner in the kitchen and a pillow to sometimes cry on at night. He made us laugh when he stole my brother's food off the table, he made us worried when he ate four dozen Oreo cookies from Sam's, and he made us cry when it was time to leave us.  But in a way, he made us a real family. 

When Brinkley was diagnosed with bone cancer, we weighed our options, and choose to let him go out with some dignity.  The day we put him down, we all went to the veterinarian's office, and I mean everybody.  My divorced parents, my brother, both vets, the assistants, and me.  I was already teaching by this point, but took the day off.  I claimed a death in the family, which, to me, wasn't a lie.  My parents couldn't agree on anything, but this was something bigger than ourselves.We all felt we owed it to Brinkley to be there together.    

And that's why we have animals whom we know won't last our lifespan.   They remind us of what is important.  They exemplify pure and unadulterated love.  They never mask what they really feel in fear of rejection or ridicule.  They never judge or criticize.  They show us that playing catch, rolling around being silly, and taking naps fucking rules. And when we simply can't shake the ugly cry, they bury their head in your crotch and make you laugh.  

Ultimately they make us better humans.

Baby Talk

It seems as if one day all my friends, and all their friends woke up and heard (in the crazy monkey, Raifiki, voice from The Lion King):

"IT IS TIME ...to make the babies." 

I don't get it.
When did this change occur?
Why didn't I hear the voice?

We all drank the same Jameson shots till the bars closed, danced to George Micheal like the drunk idiots we were calling each other inappropriate names, demanding Wham be put in rotation.  Smoked, cursed, yelled.  Someone inevitably would trip and fall. It was great.  We were like pirates who danced to pop hits of the 80's.

And now something has changed.

There are babies. Everywhere...

And if the actual eating, sleeping, crying, shitting babies haven't arrived yet, people are pregnant with them, planning for them, or just talking about them.

Now, don't get me wrong.  I love the little buggers, and someday I feel confident we'll have one to call our own.   I have lofty and magical dreams of the future family I'll have.  (Although mentally I totally skip the pregnancy, and of course, the birth.) The moment the hubs and I will bring "Baby" home for the first time and tenderly place "it" in some sort of bed inside a cozy nursery.  It's a huge deal.  I think it was Seinfeld who joked that any event where two people go into a room, and three come out, is a BIG deal.  And it is.  


I imagine our dog, Piper, sometime in the future, finally matured and calm, snuggled up, overlooking and protecting, perhaps babysitting, our sweet-smelling infant. Whereas today I would fear she'd jump on it and be the dingo that ate my baby. 

Hell, I even have some baby names, which I refuse to tell anyone because that sounds like some serious cliched action, and I have to keep my street cred. In a world of pro-breeding I have to be anti-baby.  It stems from those angsty high school years of being against the man.  It's not that hard either since I'm scared shitless of being a parent.

Everyone willingly shares the professionally polished pictures of their offspring with cherubic smiles and spotless outfits in the field of bluebonnets, but no one shares the images of what really happens:

And I'm not trying to be the Debbie Downer without kids.  I know a few things about the babies.  As a teenager without a license, and clearly sans car, my job options were pretty limited.  But what wasn't limited were the amount of neighborhood parents who desperately wanted a day, a night, an hour of sanctuary away from their beloved buggers, and who did they call?  Moi.  I was a great babysitter. Call me Mary Fucking Poppins. There was singing, poetry writing, fashion shows, synchronized swimming if a pool became available.  (Those were the good jobs.) I was also terrified someone was always watching my performance, and this was even before the "Nanny cam" scare.   The point is that despite the fun and games though, sometimes a spoon full of sugar just didn't do the job.

One time taking care of my own cousin--a family member for God's sake--I had fought with her about taking her nap.  She was a toddler at this point so I'd place her in her crib, talk to her a little in my best soothing and dream-like voice, then back out slowly, and quietly close the door.  Minutes later, she had clambered out of her crib and come downstairs. Giggling with euphoria from her recent prison break, I swooped her up, fussed at her and climbed back up stairs.  So, we repeated the process a few more times, and low and behold, this final time she stayed!  I thought I'd worn her out.  I thought my tenacity was noteworthy.  I thought this parenting is all about discipline and consistency.  What's the all the brouhaha about?

After forty minutes or so, when I still hadn't heard a peep and was still congratulating myself, I silently peeked inside her once immaculate and beautifully decorated room to find it absolutely covered in this white, greasy diaper cream that was apparently within arms reach from her crib.  She'd decided to do some redecorating in lieu of her nap.  This white shit was everywhere!  Walls, books, stuffed animals, the fancy rug.  Her face, her ears, her legs, and then, where her diaper should have been there was more diaper cream to be found in all sorts of hard to reach areas.  I had no idea such a small container of ostensibly helpful cream could go so far and do so much damage.  And where was the artist?  Standing in the middle of her masterpiece with the most shit-eating grin you've ever seen.

This isn't her, as I was blinded by rage when the actual event occurred, but you get the idea.

Now my cousin is a gorgeous and talented 14-year-old whom I love very much, but on that particular day, I wanted to murder her.  

So, my question is when do you know you're ready?  When will Raifiki tell me "it is time"?

Other people clearly trust us with their children.  Just the other day over beers at a baseball game we were asked to be the Godparents of our best friends' children.  I was quickly shoving a hot dog down my throat so I could get a free hand for another giant beer before we sat back down.  Really?  I thought.  You think we're Godparent material?

Don't get me wrong.  It's a huge honor.  We adore this couple--they actually were the reason my hubs and I met, and their children are ridiculously cute.  But I looked this up on the Google machine.  I might not fit the bill.  A couple of areas where I should be disqualified by the fancy standards:

1.  I'm not Catholic and consequently haven't done Catholic-ish events, like communion.
2.  I don't hold one religion over another and would allow my children to make their own choice.
3.  I wouldn't call myself a "public sinner" which equates to prostitution apparently, but I ain't no saint!

However, I know my sweet friends don't hold these things against me.  It's a wonderful privilege to be a special part of their lives and I get it.  They are ready and willing, right now, to say that if something happened to them, they would want us to be the ones to raise their children.  To make all those important decisions.  So, if they think we're ready, why don't we?

Until we figure this out, I'm putting my Momma friend on a diet and exercise plan to lower her unreasonably high cholesterol level to keep her ass alive as long as possible, and popping birth control like tic-tacs.

Money Matters

I never bought into the idea that another person would “complete” me, which contradicts most romantic comedies including the famous Jerry Maguire scene that made women—and some men—swoon. The concept of one person fulfilling another's needs is both dangerous and ridiculous. The term soul mate is thrown around all the time for cards, movies, and country music and people eat this shit up. The rest of us just throw up a little in our mouths.

I think, however, one should be a fully developed entity that finds another complimentary and completed entity in which to join in partnership. Like, two random (and whole) shapes that happen to fit ever-so-nicely with another random (and whole) shape.

Kind of like this, except I'm not into threesomes.  Just take one away mentally.  

My husband—and complimentary partner in life-- P, and I married almost a year ago. Even putting the wedding together was evidence that this union worked. P and I spent countless hours in preparation searching online, created, addressed and stamped invitations, traveled to a thousand locations around the city for supplies, prepared our own potato salad (huge mistake), and finally on June 11th, we celebrated with 150 of our favorite people. Despite our tight budget and the outrageous prices of anything labeled "wedding," we put together quite an event—even if I am totally biased.

Then, real life began. Knowing how well we worked together I wasn't afraid of spending the rest of my life with this man. However, I was terrified to give him my ATM PIN number.

That’s right.

I’d committed my life to one person, “to have and to hold, in sickness and in health. ” We’d even talked about our hypothetical children and what kind of parents we'd be.  I'll be neurotic and he'll help with math homework.  Then what we’d be like as grandparents. I already really dig Luby's, naps, and yelling at young people. He likes to be asleep before 9 PM.
                                                      

So why did he need access to my bank? Why was he really asking about the balance on my credit card?

The reality was I’d been (poorly) handling my own affairs for years including my finances, as I am a grown ass woman. I was making a decent living, but I still had my college loan to pay off, a car payment, and the seemingly insurmountable credit card debt. Damn you interest. Damn you! These were my deep dark secrets that I’d alluded to but didn’t really want to discuss--EVER. My plan was just to slowly take care of it and in about thirty years, then I could talk to him about what still remained.

So, what happens in a partnership? Well, apparently you have to share, which means specifically you have to be honest and open.

I don’t like to be honest and open about money.

                                                         

I was embarrassed and ashamed. This was my debt—my life—my problem. I should be the one to suffer the consequences and pay off my own debts. But my new husband lovingly responded that this was not my problem—this was our current situation. I had to learn the challenging lesson of letting go of my own pride and allowing someone to help me even though it made me uncomfortable. We joined our bank accounts (yikes!) and made a very specific financial budget (whimper...) with a strategic plan for our future. And although we are still paying our bills while trying to save a little, the relief is tremendous.

Do I fear being too reliant on him, depending on him for things that I should be able to do on my own? Absolutely. Hello. I’m constantly taunting myself:

What would happen to you if he wasn’t here?
You don’t even know when to change the oil in your car anymore!
Where's your self-reliance, you pansy?
You are a disgrace to women because it took a man to fix it.

But then I tell the mean bitch inside my head to shut up and enjoy relying on someone else for a change, because P is here for me now.

It’s not about giving in, or compromising core values, but rather it’s about shedding characteristics or mannerisms that don’t support the success of your partnership. In my attempt to be independent I was actually just trembling in my boots. I shouldn't live a life questioning the “what if” scenarios because that's not fully embracing life. In letting go of my ego just a tiny bit, I was able to gain so much more.

Slippery Slope

This entry is going to annoy all those folks in regular jobs without a summer vacation.  On the other hand, teachers will be nodding along with me.  Either way, I hope you enjoy it.

My name is Jennifer and I'm addicted to schedules.  Every summer I set lofty goals and high standards for myself like: I will not sleep in, I will run more, I will eat healthier food, I will get back in shape--whatever that really means.  I really will start thinking about graduate school and preparing for the GRE. (The math section terrifies me.)  There are others like deep cleaning, and I mean the shitty parts no one really sees but you, like the baseboards or the bottom of the crisper drawer in the fridge.  Gross. Another is reading all the novels that have been recommended over the school year which I never had time to read because I was laboring over shitty essays. Then the smaller ones like organizing the closets, Goodwill donation drop-off, bla bla bla.

Every summer I begin rather well.  I get up at a respectable time and fix myself a healthy breakfast with fruit, put on the ol' runnin' gear, get out there and hammer out 3-4 miles and let Piper run and swim.  Come home, clean up, and have a nice lunch.  Run a few errands, read a little of one of those novels, and then in the evening prepare the hubs a nice dinner with a glass of wine.  I feel victorious.  This summer is going to be the most accomplished summer to date! I think to myself smugly of how well-read, well-rested and toned I'll be for the new school year.

(This woman is not actually me, but it's the future "me" upon the summer's closing.)

So far this summer I've done this twice.

It's only the third week of summer, and I rolled out of bed at 10:30 AM today.  I did not go run.  Instead I ate a piece of cake.  I finally showered around one and read some trashy gossip about some celebrity couple.  I have no idea what's for dinner, but I ain't cooking it.

What happened?  I'm not that kind of person who even makes New Year's resolutions, so why do I set myself up for such massive failures during the summer?  And the slope was steep this time.  Apparently when I don't have someone expecting me to do something at a certain time, I can find a startlingly amount of unnecessary chores and activities to fill up the hours.  This cannot be what housewives feel like though, since they have the job of taking care of the kids and all this entails, so I don't want to be dismissive. However, I suck at being home all day.  

I need the school schedule.  I need a million warning and tardy bells, due dates for grades, 24-hour turnaround expectation for email contacts, and every other structure put in place to make sure the establishment stays running.  


Without it, I'm drunk and pantless in the middle of the day eating thin mints.