Nice Neighbors

do not fry up a large vat of something smelling much like this:



and then let that stench float into the neighboring apartments. I'm gagging here!

In honor of my neighbor's olfactory cruelty, I'm posting some Robert Frost.

Mending Wall

SOMETHING there is that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
"Stay where you are until our backs are turned!"
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of outdoor game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
He is all pine and I am apple-orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, "Good fences make good neighbors."
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
"Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it
Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offence.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That wants it down!" I could say "Elves" to him,
But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather
He said it for himself. I see him there,
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father's saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, "Good fences make good neighbors."

And to this I add: impermeable walls, doors, and windows make good neighbors!

For the Girl Who Knows Who She Is OR Male Bashing at Its Finest

A friend recently had a bit of an embarrassing debacle involving none other than her long-time crush. It involved sending a text message (intended for a close girlfriend) about a certain crush of hers (and her possible frustrating feelings for said individual) to that person in a Freudian slip up of the most humiliating kind.

She informed me that she feels like the earth did in fact swallow her whole this time, but sent her through, "a nightmarish tube into junior high school all over again. I didn't like this when I was 13!" She said. "At 27 I'm supposed to be done with this crap!"

In her honor and in a gesture intended entirely for support during her time of humiliation, I post the following messages of encouragement. (Google search kindly provided all images.)

First off:

Juvenile as that image may seem, sometimes it is what it is.

Secondly, the Farside has guided us through many of life's obstacles. Once again, it did not disappoint in reminding us that we've all been there:

Thirdly, boys have no room to judge our silly ways.

Only an individual of the male variety would think this was a great idea:

And do you notice any females in this particular cast?

I didn't think so.

And, lest we forget, only a man would honestly see nothing wrong, unethical, or flat out disgusting with the following scenario:

So you see, you-know-who, the truth is that you are far better than this loser.  If he doesn't recognize you for the brilliant, beautiful, independent, kind and spiritual catch that you are, it is his loss.

Love,

The Rookie

Taking Yourself Too Seriously: When Bitterness Expresses Itself Freely

This week and next I am trapped in a writing institute "for the students." I got wrangled into it under false pretenses. I thought I was going to learn some great strategies for teaching writing and simultaneously provide some hand-picked students with a fun and stellar summer writing program. All I've really learned thus far:

1. There is a vast difference between theory and practice.

2. Don't ever work with the local big fat university's education department because it is like offering your students as guinea pigs to the research gods.

3. And, this is the most important lesson here, I've learned that it is sickly satisfying to watch college of education academians learning the critical truth about working with (gasp!) actual high school students.

Because the truth is that professors don't know about much beyond the false land of academia. I could go on about how most of the students I teach never make it into their second (or first) semester of college. How, subsequently, these poor professors don't know the truth about that other piece of the pie chart. You know, the group that doesn't make it to college (which somehow translates into my failure as an educator). I could go on about how most actual college professors only teach equally cocky graduate students about their personal, passionate specialty and research within the same narrow specialty and, as a result, can't function beyond their particular specialty. I could give them the benefit of the doubt here. But I'm feeling quite sassy. So I'll say this: never have I enjoyed anything more than watching smug, insulting, arrogant professors flounder painfully and awkwardly as they demonstrate what they believe I should be doing in my classroom.

Yes, if you didn't know this, the beauty in education professors is that (and I'm quite certain this is true in most of academia) they actually believe they know how to do my job better than I do. Why? Well, because they've researched in controlled environments and read articles on the topic, of course. Apparently teaching in the chaos of an actual school and prepping and assessing and discussing students for ten hours a day doesn't qualify me as an expert on the topic. But, never fear, the decision and policy makers churned out of college of education departments nationally are experts.

This post is entirely unprofessional of me, I know. But seriously--you cute little professors (bless your hearts!) need to realize that your quest for tenure means not a thing in my classroom. We're not a team in this. Teams fester in the trenches together. Real teaching (not that pretend research kind or the incessant talking that happens in a lecture hall--but REAL teaching) is damn hard.

It's like this: the emperor of education has clothes on, yes. But, my lands, if that get-up isn't ridiculous!

*What would Stacy and Clinton have to say?

Stickin' It to the Man?

Have you heard about this?  It is about dang time!

Wish it would have happened before my Visa platinum card skyrocketed from 7.99% interest to 13.99% interest for no reason whatsoever last December.  Not a single late payment (and I mean not even two days late payment) in over eight years, always paying more than the minimum, apparently these don't matter because, yes, they raised the interest by nearly double for no purpose whatsoever anyway (other than everyone not paying their bills...and the crap economy).  Yes, I was pissed when they did this.  No, I could not pay it off at that time and subsequently avoid the interest hike.  Yes, I haven't used this card since then.  When I do finally pay the mother off, that account is closed.  Permanently.

My only concern:  what the bastards are going to try to get away with between now and when the law goes into effect.  Now, forgive me while I write a letter to my state senator and credit card company to request the past months' superfluous interest hikes be retroactively credited to my account.  I'll try to avoid the word "bastard".

Hell Hath No Fury: Stare-Hard Part Deux

The first text messages I sent this morning read as follows (to Alice, of course):

"I am SO done with men. Done. Finito! They are mean and they stink. And (insert stare-hard's name here) thinks he is too good for ME?! Hello, (insert stare-hard's name here)! You are a poorly dressed, pinky class ring wearing, bad haired, Star Wars obsessed VET TECH (as if that is a real career)! What, too lazy? Not ambitious enough or smart enough to achieve the REAL thing by the time you're 38 years old? I am just saying that I was willing to lower my standards. Give you a chance. Maybe even help you and give you some pointers in the disaster area that is your appearance. But off you went to be a balls-less, 38-year-old virgin. So be my guest: stay that way! Moon after your white trash (insert stare-hard's unrequited love interest's name here) forever for all I care. Because the truth is that few girls are as decent, intelligent, and kind (I know, I know readers--I actually said this in the midst of this message) as I am. The truth is that I am better off. P.S. Dry clean your suit. It stinks of stale food and cat litter."

This is how I get over crushes. Clearly, CLEARLY, I need help.

Confessions of a Grammar Snob

While checking blogs today, I came across this lovely ditty by Jen. And I couldn't keep myself from writing a lengthy list of grammatical pet peeves in her comments section. And then it hit me, I'm not what I think I am.

You see, when acquaintances find out what I do for a living, their responses are usually a combination of the following: "I loved/hated English! My teacher _________________ was such a good teacher/so difficult to please. I guess I should watch my grammar around you, eh?" My response is typically, "Oh, don't do that. Really, I don't care. Speak as you will. No judgment here." And it is true that I don't want to judge people for their grammatical misunderstandings and language blunders. I've long thought, "I'm not one of those English teachers who judges everybody else's grammar."

But, in all honesty, I am.

Now, when people speak, I'm (a bit) less apt to care. I've been known in the deep recesses of my past to say "your guys'" (I am from Utah, afterall). I may drop an "ain't" every now and again for style's sake. But when writing, I believe the standard rules of English ought to be followed. Punctuation marks aren't there to confuse, they're set in place to add deeper meaning, emphasis and influx. Subjects and verbs were intended to agree. And when that doesn't happen, I wince a wee little bit. Against my will, usually. My better judgment says, "Oh, what does it matter?" My inner-grammar snob says, "NO! Not again! Why must the public be so ignorant of the very language they speak?" And the more mistakes, blunders, and errors made, the harsher I judge (if I am not particularly fond of the person this becomes quite a pleasant activity, in fact).

It is awful. It is snobby and offensive. I am probably losing friends as I write this. But I cannot help myself. Once you know better, these things flash out at you in painful, wincing clarity.

So, next time you write something, read over it once with my eyeballs. If you feel like, while writing, you are making TAMN at Seriously So Blessed seem spot on as opposed to exaggerated, maybe you could read more (stuff that's been through an edit or two, not just blogs). Or research the conventional rules of the English language. Maybe you could have someone you trust edit your work (I'm not volunteering myself--I have a full time job that, while it doesn't pay much, pays me more than you would for doing this).

And maybe I should just shut my mouth. No maybe. I just should.



OH, and my family is NPR-famous. Over the holidays, my mom went to visit my sister and family back East and they made it on my favorite radio station. To listen to their five minutes of fame, go here. Woo hoo family!

20 Random Things That Make Me Cringe, In No Particular Order

1. The sound my alarm ringtone makes (you can add the T-mobile jingle to that list as it was once my alarm).

2. Needles.

3. Veins.

4. The sound of a shovel scraping pavement.

5. Opening cans. A few months ago I royally sliced my hand on the jagged lid while opening a can of refried beans. Ever since then I'm terrified of it.

6. Swallowing the handfuls of vitamin concoctions my mother gave me growing up (washed down with a protein Shaklee shake, thankyouverymuch). (You can add this to the "things that make me shiver" list.)

7. Stagnant algae-filled bodies of water. I was once dumped into a stagnant cove of this stuff while canoeing at girls' camp growing up.

8. Ear wax.

9. The heavy stench of bacon that lingers long after it has been cooked and consumed.

10. Fish. Seafood in general, really.

11. Mystery moisture (you all know this experience--any public place in which you sit in/accidentally touch moisture that derives from an unknown source and has been there an inestimable amount of time).

12. Grammatical errors and malapropisms including: "Unthawed" (so does that mean you're freezing it?), "Irregardless" (not a word, in case you missed the memo), and my mom's personal favorite "Ignernt" (she thinks she is saying "ignorant" as in, they are rude, but she apparently is ignorant of the fact that "ignorant" means unaware, misinformed, or uneducated on a matter--Mommy, you know I still love you).

13. Over the top comedy movies in which things go from bad to worse (I hated Meet the Parents because I was cringing with stress the entire time).

14. Body odor. 'Nough said.

15. When I've started saying something without thinking and my comment goes awry (typically down the offensive/insulting path), at which point I try and correct or clarify the statement and, in the process, make it much worse.

16. Canned meats. It is just wrong.

17. When people say incredibly stupid things and remain oblivious to the stupidity of their statements. (Thank you, Miss South Carolina, for exhibiting my point perfectly!)



18. Scab-picking.

19. Muffin tops. Or should I say ill-fitting clothing in general.

20. Dry wooden spoons.

Because It Really Bugs Me THAT Much

I know, I already posted tonight. I need to go to bed. But I can't stay quiet about this any longer. It is late and my "you know better" censor is in the off position. I might even offend a few of you reading this. But, as said, that censor is as good as gone.

There are many things out there in the blogosphere (blegh...that word) that cause me to shake my head in shame and embarrassment. But none quite as much as the following. Ladies (and the occasional gentleman): DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT, alternate between upper and lower case letters in your post titles (i.e. "fUn WiTh PiCtUrEs" or "oUr ThAnKsGiViNg"). Do not do this in the body of your posts. Do not do this anywhere.

You are no longer 14. It looks ridiculous. Not, as dubbed by Paris herself, "Hot." Please stop. Seriously. Stop.

Now.

Please.

I've HAD IT with the Singles Ward!

That is all.  I am done being single.  I am done with the ridiculous games and the linger longer activities.  I am done with Break the Fast.  I am done with FHE.  I am done with full-of-themselves EQP's and BFN's (sorry, Alice is probably the only one out there who will get this, but...oh, okay.  It stands for "Beer Flavored Nipples" and it is entirely inappropriate and in reference to The Ten Things I Hate About You and in every ward there is a BFN who dates everyone, EVERYONE, and people don't seem to get that they are a player and jump from one victim/conquest to another for the mere challenge of it...so we call them BFN's because there must be something there that we don't see).  I am done with pettiness.  I am done with the meat market.  I am done with the Singles Ward.

I have come to the conclusion that this is in my stars:

Yes, today I give up and resign myself to the future of a bitter, lifeless HAG.

www.Death.com OR Further Proof That We're All a Little Insecure

When I was in college I was a poetry geek. It is true. I worked for the literary magazine my university published every year. Each week I met on the library's second floor with a group of fellow poets and friends. We even wrote a grant (well, our professor wrote a grant because let's face it I'm still not quite certain how one goes about writing a grant) to publish a volume of our work together. We thrived in language and imagery. We were cocky and young as only university students with their lives ahead of them can be. We were sort of snobby and elitist. And, to be honest, we took ourselves a bit too seriously, dropping lines like "honing our craft" and "I'm unclear on the antecedent here" like I dribble soup down the front of my shirt at nearly every restaurant between here and Hoboken.

That is the nice part about college. One can be peacockish there and everyone else reinforces the behavior. Preened by professors, praised by parents, one grows certain that they are the deepest thinker, the most sophisticated, and that the world is waiting for them, bachelor degree in hand. Perhaps it is because I belonged, full-bodied, to the generation of praise junkies. But, then again, maybe this was all just me (I've always been prone to delusions of grandeur, though, "one possessor of an overactive imagination" is the euphemism I prefer).

But I've gone on an unnecessary side trip. Back to The Poetry Geeks. We geeks meshed together when invited to a special week-long daily seminar and workshopping session with Robert Dana. Now before I go into the gory details of our week with Robert Dana, I must first say this: Writers, like most artists (and the vast majority of people, really), are full of themselves. They come to these literary and writing conferences as nobility. They come as guest writers at universities and, for a week, they live the life of a minor celebrity. Throngs (slight hyperbole there) of writing and poetry geeks trail behind them, hoping for that holy grail word of advice which ensures their shot at geeky publication. I won't get started on the boundary-crossing, student/guest writer romantic interludes that frequent these week-long visits, because I never crossed this boundary, one, and more importantly I find no reason to dwell on middle aged men's obsessions with the barely legal. It gives me the shivers. 'Nough said.

Now, when it comes to swollen heads, Robert Dana was no exception. I guess he had a right to it. He, with a few key individuals, built the powerhouse that is the Iowa Writers' Workshop. He was Iowa's state poet laureate for a time. He is known in literary circles throughout the US. And, to his credit, Dana, to my knowledge, never took advantage of a poor co-ed. But the man was ever-sure of himself. He lived life with the firm knowledge that he had "it." And, looking at much of his poetry of the past, he did have "it" at one time.

This attitude of himself carried into our workshop sessions. We scrawny, sniveling college students knew nothing and he knew everything was the basic theme of the week. This treatment tainted our view of his greatness. His new volume (the most recent collection of his poems we had to purchase in order to attend his seminar, of course) lacked that certain something one would like to see in poetry. And, feeling insulted as we did, we poetry geeks spoke mercilessly at his expense and the expense of his rather bad poetry when he wasn't in the room. Afterall, we were nearly as big-headed as he was just without having earned the right.

The last straw of his conceit was our culminating project: a Friday night reading. We'd each taken a brief five minutes sharing our work, when the star of the show took the stage, er podium, for a while. Somewhere in the midst of the reading, he set up his next reading, a poem about the death of a neighbor. He shared with the small audience that this poem had his favorite line he had ever written in a poem in it. He thought himself so clever. He read it with all the drama and histrionics and cheesy seriousness that only a poet can. His favorite line? You guessed it.

www dot Death dot com

We couldn't control ourselves, some of us might have vomited a little in our mouths, others may have even snickered a little (because we were so mature, afterall). This was his crowning glory? Poor Robert Dana. Poor Robert Dana's dead neighbor.

Now why do I tell this story? Frankly, I started to write it because it makes me laugh, and I got the obligatory thank you card in the mail for attending a poetry geek's reception last month. But, always the English teacher, I can't leave this post without a conclusion. What's the point? I'd ask my students. I guess the point is that we are all a little cocky and conceited. We all are a bit too full of ourselves. And we use this to compensate because deep down we all are a little insecure. Even Robert Dana. The nice thing about life is that eventually we get knocked down off those pedastals. Eventually life teaches us that we aren't peacocks, but people. Eventually we learn the graceful art of humility. And as much as it hurts to feel like a donkey's hind quarters, isn't it great that sometimes we get that humbling opportunity? And, I say it again: www.Death.com is THE WORST line I've ever read in a poem. Ever.

Taste Test

I like to think I have good taste. All of us do. I like the way my house is decorated, the clothes in my closet, the "stuff" I am drawn to at Target. I go through life quite certain that my taste is the best taste. Contemporary, but not too trendy. Classic, but not archaic. Clean, but not unliveable. Yes, I am quite certain that my taste is anything but tacky.

But someone out there clearly doesn't feel the way I do. Someone out there is buying the elastic-banded, gag blue denim capri pants at the store (which, I might add, do nothing for your tush--and are they REALLY all that comfortable?). Someone is drawn to mauve and forest green wallpaper borders (the commitment-less wallpaper) to match their Deep Forest Dupont Stainmaster carpet. Someone out there decorates in several shades of my-worst-nightmare! And this someone is every bit as convinced as I am about their taste: it is good.

And I think I know who this person is. My landlady. "Crazy Pat", I'm quite convinced, is growing something illegal (for personal use only, of course) in her greenhouse in the backyard. "Crazy Pat" loves all things tie dye, including her hair which has ranged from a vibrant orange to a vibrant gold to a medley of brown, grey, yellow and orange all at once. "Crazy Pat" has a soft place in her heart for chihuahuas. Currently, we are up to four of the yappers. "Crazy Pat" expressed sorrow of the worst degree after a Jethro Tull concert because her one and only grandson will never have the blessed opportunity that is seeing Jethro live.

Yes, "Crazy Pat" is that special kind of eccentric you can appreciate having in the neighborhood, but living in such close proximity (as, say, her basement) is sometimes a bit much. I can forgive her many yapping chihuahuas. I can forgive her odd conversation. I can forgive her bra-less gardening. But I must express that there is one eccentricity that does me in.

Alice and I lovingly refer to it as "The Gypsy Cart."

Behold, what is only the tip of the iceberg in tacky lawn decor:



It is everywhere. Every nook, every cranny has a little sumpin-sumpin besides organic matter. The tree branches sag under the weight of dangling trinkets, rather than pears or plums. I would find it entertaining, if not for the fact that I live here. The path to my basement entryway is lined with all things tacky.

And so, I have three key words for our kindly (though eccentric) "Crazy Pat."

Less is more, Patty. Less is more.

Yet Another Social Faux Pas

I say things I shouldn't say sometimes (okay, more often than sometimes but maybe not quite all the time...wait, how would you define "all the time"?). And then I feel badly about these slips of the tongue later. It isn't like I open my mouth intending to be rude. I just speak before thinking. I usually feel badly about these comments immediately after they escape my lips. I mean, these things could be interpreted as rude (yeah...probably because they are rude). Like, "I used to be soooo like you in college, all hippie-ish with my Tevas and thrift store t-shirts, except I did my hair still because with this curl it was just way too frizzy without product."

Yes, I really did say this, and that is something you just can't back out of once its been said. No matter how smoothly you might attempt to try and cover something like this up, truth is you basically told this person they are a badly dressed, greasy hippie with bad hair.

Or, while manning the wine table (the obvious job for the solo sober Sister at the event) at a poetry reading, telling your fine state's poet laureate's mother, "Oh, I guess I don't need to ID you."

What am I? A complete social idiot? (Don't answer that).

It doesn't end with the rude comments. Sometimes the words that flow out of me are just plain embarrassing. Like the time I attempted (key word: attempted) telling my guy-friend (that I might have been slightly attracted to at the time) "Don't worry about your basketball shorts and baseball hat attire. You are a guy and guys can get away with dressing down and still looking good." Except, my neatly laid sentences didn't exactly come to fruition. It all came out a bit quickly, sounding something along the lines of "YOU SO SEXY DRESS!"

Yes, the seconds (or hours, I'm still not sure how much time passed) following that little slip were as awkward as you might guess.

Well, last night Alice and I headed to a friend's wedding reception. And by wedding reception we might as well say "High School Reunion" because many folks from my school days were in attendance--all of them in Alice's grade. Let me create for you a One Act Play of these events and how, once again, my large, unthinking mouth, was rude.

The Characters (all names have been changed to protect the innocent):

Lisa A former student body officer/it-girl. Compared to her counterparts, Lisa has a heart of gold.


Alice If you don't know about my very best friend and roommate, well, go here. It will only give you further understanding.


Rookie The one with the size 8, perfeclty pedicured and well accessorized foot in her mouth.


The Scene:
An outdoor summer wedding reception. A circle of reunited high school friends stand with babies on hips and highlights in hair. On the edge of the stage stand two loners on the verge of escaping the scene.



Alice: Hurry, Rookie, block me before those girls see me.


Rookie: Block you?


Alice: And walk. Quickly.


Rookie: Okay. Hurrying along.


Lisa: (exiting the circle and approaching the two near-escapees) Alice!?


Alice: (coming to a complete "I'm caught" halt and turning) Oh, hi. Lisa! How are you?


Lisa: Good. I'm good. I haven't seen you in so long.


Alice: I know, I know. So what are you up to these days?


Lisa: 3 kids. Living in Tennessee. What about you?


Alice: Oh, not much. Living in _________ working as a social worker at _________. And, oh, I'm sorry, this is my friend, Rookie.


Rookie: Hi.


Lisa: Oh, I've seen you before, I think. You look familiar.


Rookie: (Imagine a slightly factual, mostly sardonic voice) Oh, we went to the same school together. (She flashes a fake smile).


Lisa: Oh, right. Well... Errr... Ummm...


The End



I know many people dream of the perfect put-you-in-your-place words coming to them at exactly the right moment (instead of waking you at three in the morning two days after the fact). This scene could be construed as one of those sweet revenge moments, I suppose.


But you know that scene in Hope Floats when Sandra Bullock's character goes into the hiring agency to try and find a job and Polka Dot interviews her? And she's left feeling even more lousy about herself because some witch from high school tried to get back at her for the years of torment? I felt sorta like a bitter Polka Dot at that moment, except that I didn't exactly intend to be rude. Now, in that moment I was thinking to myself "Dude, you seriously don't remember me? Of course you don't--wasn't exactly on your radar, now, was I." But instead of saying, "That's funny, you look really familiar to me too" like any decent person with a heart of gold might do, I went ahead and let my mouth run ahead of me. And while it was sort of funny for a minute, I'm feeling kind of awful about it today.


Because the truth is I don't think I can be trusted to speak.


I must face the facts. I am better in writing. With writing, I actually have time to think (very, very carefully) about my words. In person I just come across as an insulting witch (or blundering idiot, you decide on your favorite).

To Read and Not to Read

May I vent a moment? Because I am going to vent. You see, earlier this summer I picked up two books and because summer is awfully busy sometimes, I finally finished both of them (and started a couple more in between because that's just my style), and one was okay and one really, really ticks me off.

I liked this book:


It was fairly well-written, the characters were developed quite nicely, the plot was simple enough, but the writer understood the complexities that can spring from that simplicity. I didn't appreciate the sexual content, but then, I never appreciate the sexual content because, frankly--who needs to read that? It wasn't grocery-store-paper-back-romance-novel-graphic or anything, but I think it could have left more off the page in that regard. I would recommend it with that warning to you all.

Then, there was this book:


Let me be honest, I finished this book for the mere purpose of writing this seething review. I picked this number up thinking, oh, that could be good, the inside flap made it sound like it could be intriguing. Wrong! All wrong. I felt insulted as a reader. James Patterson and Gabrielle Charbonnet co-wrote this monstrosity of a book. So, Jim, Gabby here are a few words of wisdom for your mass-produced crap: People come in many different categories, as do characters. But the good or bad, black or white, flat, stagnant, boring characters you've created (and I use that term loosely) in Sunday's at Tiffany's don't seem to fit in any categories familiar to me--write some more complexity into them and I might feel slightly more connected. Also, the female psyche is not as cut and dried--"in order to be happy I need ice cream and somebody to love me" as you make it out to be. As I feel that your book was marketed to a female readership, I must ask you, What in the SAM HAM HILL were you thinking in creating women as either the bitch or the ice-cream eating victim? Seriously, Gabby, Jim, terrible, terrible novel.

And I won't even get started on the Junie B. Jones-sized font, margins, spaces, etc. (And Junie, honey, I love you, you are great and fantastic and more complex than any of the characters in this book I'm discussing--I'm sorry I made reference to your 2nd grade reading level sized font, but I needed to prove a point).

I only tell you all this to say don't waste your hard-earned money as I did. And if you liked it, okay, I'm glad you liked it. Frankly, I think there probably is a readership for this book, but it sure as heck wasn't me.

Oh, and I think James Patterson is an ego-maniac. First clue--his photo covered the entirety of the back cover of the book. Big, fat-headed Jimmy on the back cover of the book! HELLO--I should have known the minute I picked the blasted thing up that it wasn't for me. That is NOT my kind of author.

I'll Stick with Jell-O

So my good friend, Kim, has this analogy for dating. She says that dating is much like a restaurant everybody (everybody=married people) has been raving about. Not only are they raving about the restaurant, they're insisting that YOU SIMPLY MUST TRY the creme brulee. So, you, being a fan of creme brulee, head to the restaurant. The service is so-so, you place your dessert order: "I'll have the creme brulee." "Excellent choice," says the waiter. You wait patiently, mouth watering, for this delicacy. The people at the other tables are enjoying the rich flavor and you can hardly wait. Your waiter comes with your plate, you look down, and what do you find?

Brussels Sprouts!

Puke green, slimey brussels sprouts!

And you HATE brussels sprouts.

So your friends (the same "everybody" I referred to earlier) tell you "You just have to go back. Eventually the waiter brings you creme brulee and it is soooo worth it!" So you return again and again, always ordering creme brulee, always receiving brussels sprouts. You waste your money. You waste your time. And to make matters worse, you find out that going to this particular restaurant in hopes of creme brulee is a COMMANDMENT!

That, my friends is dating. And when I shared this particular analogy with my brussels sprouts of a date, he simply asked, "What's creme brulee?"

So many of you are asking me about my date. Well, let me just say that there are some things you just don't say on a date.

Things like (upon the waiter bringing our order) "Whoa...that's a big salad. You're probably going to have to take some of that home, right?" Ummm, noooo. I want to eat it all. That is why I ordered it. Did I say, that's a lot of chicken and rice you ordered? No. Why? you ask. Because I have tact. This is kind of where the whole date started going downhill.

Or there is the whole, "Oh, yeah, I date a lot. My problem is that once a commitment needs to be made, I lose all interest in the person." Okay, dude, if I were interested in you, which I'm not, but if I were...maybe you just shouldn't be waving that red flag just yet. Just a thought.

Like I said: There are some things you simply do not say. Ever.

Then there was the whole "footsy" incident. I had on slip-on shoes, so I was playing with them under the table (out of boredom? perhaps). My shoe happened to bump his so he raised his eyebrows and seductively uttered, "Playing footsies already, are we?"

And in case my polite I'm-just-not-that-interested-dude-vibe wasn't strong enough. Following is the scene as we left the restaurant (eating dinner, by the way, happened to be his only big plan for the evening) to go for a drive which I said I didn't really want to go on (I know better, but my pity somehow kicked in)...

BS ("Brussels Sprouts" and/or "Big Salad"): Brrrr, it is kind of cold out, are you cold without a coat on?

Me: Yep, it is kind of chilly.

BS: Well...(cue awkward reach around my shoulder...and not that I have anything against short people, but let me just say he had to reach UP)

Me: (step aside...sometimes non-verbal says it all)

BS: Oh, not comfortable with the physical touch, are we?

Me: Not really.

BS: Well, you never know. Some people have issues with that kind of thing.

Me: (in my mind) No, some people have issues in their ability to read the please do not touch me vibe.

So we go on our drive (with him singing to the too-loud radio) to look at a townhouse that he probably isn't going to buy because it is too far from his parents' house, but he looked at it and so he thought that was a great place to drive to (random?). And by then I'd given up trying to be polite. Frankly, I just wanted to leave. But I was trapped in his car, listening to him vent about living with his parents.

Finally the date ended, he returned me to my car and drove off into the sunset.

And me? I came home and ate the rest of my salad.

End of Term

Dear Students of ___________ High School,

In case any of you still feel the need to clarify: Yes, that IS your final grade. It is not a grade I selected for you willy-nilly. It is the grade you earned. The grade which was determined by YOUR choices. The grade that will permanently reside on your high school transcript and yes, possibly determine whether or not you get into Stanford. Let me repeat: this is YOUR grade. Deal.

Your Teacher,
The Rookie

P.S. I am sorry these years are so awkward for you, but could you please refrain from being so obnoxious so early on in the week?