Absence Makes The Cherry More Desirable

Cherry was away on business for a week. We texted back and forth the entire week, his texts growing to be calls for help by the end. On Saturday, I got an "I can't take this anymore!" I asked why he was in a meeting on a Saturday and he texted back that it just never ends.

I feel bad. That's all he does. He works. Non-stop. I asked him if he ever sits down and does nothing for a while. He said that yeah, he sometimes sits on the couch and goofs around for a few minutes. Ah, minutes. Yes, that'll help decompress.

When he got back to NY, he asked if I was free on Monday. No, I was line dancing. I asked about Tuesday, and he said he might have to go upstate again on either Tuesday or Wednesday or Thursday and he wasn't sure which. After much debate, we decided on a tentative Tuesday.

Waiting was almost unbearable. I couldn't believe how much I actually wanted to see him. Tuesday came and went and somehow we'd pushed plans to Wednesday. When Wednesday arrived, he got home later than he'd been getting home of course, so he asked if I was still up to hang out or if I wanted to push it to Friday since he'd be going upstate on Thursday.

No. Uh-uh. I asked him point blank, Do you want to do something tonight? He answered, Yes. So I said, there is no way we are not seeing each other then, end of story. I offered to drive out to him so that he could settle in and shower and I could be on my way while he did so. He said he'd rather take the drive out to me than clean his house.

He has this idea that he needs to clean his house if I come over. I realize that he's got several home improvement projects going on and he hasn't been home all that much so it would be a mess. I point out that I don't even need to come inside. He won't go for it.

I don't think he's married. I think he's holding someone hostage in there. That's my new theory. He's CIA. That's why I can't go to his house.

The not seeing his house is getting very old, and I told him so. He was grating on my nerves and when he arrived he couldn't decide if he wanted to come upstairs or have me come down. Finally, I decided and said, I'll be right down, and hung up on him.

He was hungry, and I was a little too, so we drove to get food. The waiter smelled and the food was really greasy. We talked about how his neice was going to be in a play that he had to go to when he got home from upstate the next day and I told him he needed to buy her flowers. He said he would think about that (turns out, her mom bought her flowers and he was like, Somebody told me to do that, and I asked, Oh so I'm somebody? thanks). Then we talked about winning a million dollars, paying off mortgages, and him going to Haiti to help people.

I tried to pay the bill. He said that when we go to a nice restaurant and he gets like five drinks, I can pay. I agreed to it--it would even out all the times he's taken me out. He said he was kidding. I said I wasn't.

Then we came back here around 9:30. He said that he could stay for an hour tops. Since he gets awkward when people say nice things to him, I was like, I'm going to be sincere for a minute but I'll follow it up with an insulte to make ou feel better. He started laughing. So I said, You know when you were away, I missed hanging out with you. He took a deep breath and started to respond but I cut him off with, and you have a big head. That made him feel better. Then he left at 12:30. As usual.

So this is now where we stand. We're dating. I haven't seen his place. He goes away a lot because he's in the CIA and has hostages at his house. He pays for stuff. I would like to pay. I'm somebody. Yeah, this is definitely going somewhere.

It's Not Cheating If You Don't Get Caught

Lots of books have the title, Fidelity. Michael Redhill takes a broader perspective on what that word actually means. It involves frogs, sex tapes, scientific fact, roadkill, and vasectomies. Some stories show that even thinking about being with someone other than your spouse is an act of infidelity--not an uncontrollable dream, but an actual plan even if the plan isn't fully developed and is for some time in the distant future. Some stories show that divorce is not the end of love, no matter the reasoning behind the divorce. Some stories show that fidelity has nothing to do with marriage or love at its core; it is, in essence, about loyalty and honesty in any form. Redhill offers some good lessons about the relationships of human beings.

That being said, reading Fidelity made me feel the way I felt when I watched The Squid And The Whale. I felt absolutely awful. About myself, about my past relationships, about my present relationships, about everyone I know, and about everyone I might meet. I felt bad about being part of the human race. But then, I felt redemption when I backed away from his parallel world. His characters are not the people in my life. Unlike them, I have the capacity to move on. They're stuck in the pages.

Grammy Queen Causes Line Dancers To Almost Keel Over

Dance class began in the usual way. Fred and I walked in, put our jackets on an empty table, and stood around while other people chatted. One woman, the woman with the regular jeans, came in and nodded hi so I nodded back, and amazingly she smiled. I didn't push for chit-chat. I wanted to bask in the non-hatred moment. Then the custodian almost ran me over with a table. I went to sign us in, and we were on the roster. And Fred's name was spelled wrong. Heeheheheeee.

We faced the front of the room again. The group had thinned down by maybe three people. Somehow, Fred and I wound up in the front line. I tried to be in the second row, but everyone decided to make only two rows, not three, and so what I thought would be the second row became the front. The woman next to me said, you two finally came up to the front, and I nodded, laughed "yup," and told Fred what she'd said.

Jean got right into turning grapevines. She showed us how to do them a few times. Then she changed how to do them halfway through. Then she changed back to the first way. She never acknowledged that she changed it, and people were confused, except for me, Fred, the woman next to me, and the woman next to her, because we've all been in Jean's classes before. I mumbled to no one in particular, She's doing it differently, and the woman next to me said, She always does that! The woman on the other side of Fred was Notox, and she was wearing the exact same outfit as the week before; maybe it's her dancing outfit. Her face had seemed to settled down since last week. Fred and I tower over her; it's freaky feeling tall. Next to Notox was a tall woman in a flowy skirt and high heels who was all Flamenco-like in her moves. She asked Jean to repeat a few moves and Jean always helped her.

Then we started to learn a dance that involved the turning grapevine. It had a lot of steps. The woman behind us kept trying to tell Jean how to teach the class. The woman always wanted Jean in front of her. This woman obviously thought Jean could be in two places at once because once we turned, Jean would have to be behind us. Jean kept switching places, but there's no way she could always be in the front if the dance has a turn.

We picked up the first two eight counts. We means me and Fred and maybe two other people. People just could not get the turn and the grapevine that followed. That's when TrackSuit walked in. She stood in the now forming second row and asked what she'd missed. We told her only a few grapevines. She did pick it up, but she also started to add in claps as well as her hands above the head arm movements that were, quite frankly, annoying.

Meanwhile, Fred was all worked up because my "friend" had abandoned her friend. Her friend was in the back row, showing some woman one of the moves. My "friend" was in the front row, talking to someone else. Then we saw that the woman who collected the money for Jean's "card" had come back as had Peachy. Peachy remained in the back corner and did call over to us that we looked cold. I nodded. I didn't want to start a conversation across a room, and if I wanted to do that, it was not going to be with Peachy because it would turn into a conversation about the weather, about Disney, or about how I might be Jewish, and I didn't want the clicking to happen again.

TrackSuit piped up in the middle of the choreography to ask what dance this was. Jean turned to all of us and proudly said, Grammy winner Taylor Swift's song, Can't You See and then in parentheses You Belong To Me. I'm not kidding; that's how she said the title. Everyone went Ohhhhhh as if it made a difference what the name of the dance was. It was a hard friggin dance. At one point, TrackSuit asked me how to do a specific turn and I tried to show her but Jean started teaching another part and I couldn't show the turn while listening to another one.

The dance includes about four turns before you start it over on a new wall. That's some excessive turning. However, Jean called one turn not a turn, just a shift to the side. It was totally a turn. Then, when everyone did not have it, she decided to try it to the music.

While she was searching for the song, TrackSuit started doing yoga poses behind us. She was bragging about how she takes yoga. I was getting steamed. Fred was like, oh just ignore it. I was like, between her snapping and arms movements and yoga and then having to look at Notox every time I turned towards Fred, something had to give. That made Fred cackle. Meanwhile, the woman with regular jeans was telling TrackSuit to do downdog, and TrackSuit had no clue what she was talking about. The woman asked, You do yoga and you've never done downdog? Oh, thank you woman for saying that.

The music began. We started doing the dance. The first row from Fred to me to the two ladies next to me to a few more people were doing fine. Some of the people in the back row were okay. But for the most part, it was a clusterfuck. Everyone was turned in different directions. Then we got to the second wall and that's when everything fell apart. At one point, Fred and I were facing each other. The problem was that we had practiced only one wall, not all four, so I had no frame of reference as to where I was supposed to be on the other three walls.



Jean stopped it halfway through and taught it again. Then she turned on the music and it happened the same way all over again. Then Jean gave up on that and went onto the dances we did last class.

During Chicki Cha Cha, TrackSuit was doing the large arm movements, snapping with one hand, and eating an apple with the other. I'm not a fan. Fred was like, are you seeing what's happening on the other side of me during the turn? I was like, Notox? She was like, collectively. On the next turn I watched and saw everyone on the ends of the lines on the other side of her turning in different directions, and this was to the simple dance. It's a really fast dance and Jean found a super slow song to dance it to the second time. That was boring. Then she found some middle ground for it.

While she was going over the steps to refresh everyone's memory, she was doing a turn a quarter of the way. I turned around halfway. Then I was like, Oh that's wrong and turned back to the wall she was on. She looked at me and said, No you're right--we do it that way and we can do a contra. So she told everyone to do a half turn and make it a two wall dance. I didn't mean to make Jean change her mind, and I have no idea what a contra is, but that's the way we did the dance from then on.

In the middle of the the third time of one of the reviewed dances, a cell phone started ringing. And ringing. Then TrackSuit went over to the wall where she'd plugged it in and started having a conversation. If this had been yoga class and she did that, there would've been problems, and by that I mean I would've turned to the instructor and made a pleading face. At least here there was music to drown it out. Then TrackSuit put on her coat and left while we were dancing.

So to recap, she came in late, made a scene with her arms, snapped, did yoga, ate an apple, let her cell ring loudly, had a conversation, and then left early.

We ended a few minutes later with Jean instructing us to go onto YouTube and look for Taylor Swift's Can't You See and then in parentheses You Belong To Me. She promised that we'd review it next time. I have a feeling that no one would complain if we didn't do it again.

Spam Spam Spam Spam

If you're a fan of Monty Python, then right about now you may be imagining a group of Vikings chanting about this precious blend of meat products. If not, then perhaps you're thinking of Hawaii and how Hawaiians love Spam. Or maybe you're wondering why I veggie-lover like me would want to talk about spam. I don't want to talk about spam, the meat kind or the computer kind. Unfortunately, I have to talk about the computer kind. Fortunately, the supposedly edible kind is still off my radar.

Over the past few weeks, Reality Shack has been hit hard with spammers. They post weird things in old forums and include links to irrelevant websites. The gal who runs the site granted me the access and authority to delete the spam posts. I love power.

The spam has followed me. Since posting my stuff on Craigslist, I've gotten lots of spam in my email inbox. I didn't think I'd get this much. In all honesty, getting any spam didn't cross my mind since I was including my email in the text of the ads and not in link form. Shame on me; my internet savvy should have sent up flags and set off whistles. So now I find myself dumping out my spam folder twice a day. No thank you, I do not want a job from you, I don't want to contribute to your organization, and I don't understand what porn has to do with the 8th edition of Thinking Critically.

Now, spam is all over the blogosphere. I've been getting weird comments on old posts that are a bunch of wingdings with the word sex somewhere, and it's all hyperlinked up good. Some of the spam is in either Chinese or Japanese characters. I'm assuming that all of it links to porn because, yet again, I've turned naive and I clicked on something out of curiosity and up popped a whole screen load of naked, and it was the bad kind of naked, the very bad kind. I probably shouldn't use the word "load" when describing porn, huh?

In any case, to avoid the spam as much as I can (take that Dr. Suess), I've had to switch on the comment moderator. I don't like it. I like having people say whatever they want to say without my looking at it and evaluating it, even if it's to say bad things about me or what I've written. That's what a blog is all about. This is how spam ruins everything. Open forums can't be open when wingding sex bandits are on the loose.

Another One Bites The Dust

Throughout my two weeks of sickness, BlackLabel and I kept in touch. The night that I got really sick, we'd been texting and then I just stopped answering because I was in agony. Then he'd called the next day and I didn't get back to him right away. When I finally felt like a person again, I called him. He was happy to hear from me, he said, because he figured I'd been really bad off since I hadn't gotten back to him right away. I said he was right. Then we tried to plan a day to get together. Nothing worked. He was busy pretty much every night except for the one night I had something to do. So we figured the next week we'd do something.

But then my plans fell through on a Thursday and so I called him up and said that if he was still free, I was free. He said he was and that he'd pick me up and we'd go for tea and dessert. That was fine by me so he showed up right on time and off we went in his car to the coffeehouse one town over.

He asked how my new semester was going and I asked about his job and running and the cycling group he'd been busy with all week. We split a piece of Granny something or other. All I know is that it had some sort of nuts and caramel and it was so very delicious. He joked around with the waiter who told us that none of the special teas on the menu were actually available. Then the two of them bonded over their phones because they have the same one. Really, the two of them could have been on their own date.

So as we finished up, BL leaned back in his chair and was like, So I have a confession to make. That was intriguing. I was like, Okay what? He began a highly convoluted reply that involved some sort of app on his phone and how he clicks on things. I had no idea what he was talking about, so I was like, Can you please tell me what you need to say because you're making me nervous. His answer again involved his phone and apps and things. So I was like, You need to get to your point.

He did finally. He said he found a site called Yelp. He found my reviews. Then he found my bio. Then he found the links. Then he found my blog. And he read it.

Flashback to my first phone conversation with BL: We were talking about writing and he brought up blogging and I told him I had a blog. After some conversation about how I'd rather him not read it, he agreed not to, even if he found it by accident. He said he would not read it.

When he told me that he did, my response was one of annoyance. I said, So you did what you said you would not do.

He said he did.

I asked, When did you find it?

A week and a half ago.

What the? And this is the part when I went mildly ballistic. A week and a half and this is the first I'm hearing about it? He said that he didn't tell me because he was being considerate because I was sick. I pointed out that we'd spoken since I'd recovered. He said he didn't want to do it over the phone out of courtesy. I said that over the phone would have been fine. It's not like we were breaking up after a five year relationship; he was simply telling me that he'd done something he said he wouldn't do and that he didn't like what he read.

Sidenote: TLS and I once had a fight over my blog, but not like this. I didn't mandate that he not read it. I didn't care. He did read it and stopped reading it because he said it was boring. So I got mad that he called my writing boring. It was a huge fight. Much like everything else is between us.

So I sat with my arms crossed, not saying much. BL was like, should we go? I was like, Ya think? He got the check and tried to pay. I asked what I owed and he said he got it. I got a tad bit loud and said, That's ridiculous! I threw him six bucks and waited for him to finish doing whatever it was he was doing with the check. We sat there in silence. Then he said, We don't need change. So I was like, Then let's go.

He stepped on my heel on the way out. I was like, And now you're trying to kill me? He laughed. Now here's the part that shows he really didn't think things through. We had to get back in his car and he had to drive me home. Yeah, that's considerate. So we pulled away and sat at a red light that was the longest red light in the history of all red lights. I said, This is a really awkward silence so feel free to talk but I have nothing to say right now. He started three different sentences and then gave up on the whole words thing. The light changed green and we had the longest ride home. He finally turned on the radio. Yeah, that's right. He hadn't turned it on when we first got in, which made the silence that much worse.

However, by the time we'd pulled up to my house, I'd offered him gum and the surreality had worn off. We looked at the full moon. I told him that I thought he was a pretty cool guy and that he shouldn't take everything to heart. He said that he's a private person; he didn't even tell his brother he was dating someone. So I asked, Am I like your dirty little secret? He laughed. I pointed out that I'm obviously not a private person and that I've been keeping the blog for years. He was like, I understand--you're a writer. I was like, Yes I am.

I asked, Where do we go from here?, because we will probably cross paths eventually. I think he thought I was asking if we were going to keep dating because he started to stutter start his answer again. So I clarified, like if I see you on the street, should I pretend I don't know you? That made him laugh again. I asked if I should take him out of my phone. After some deep thought, he said no, that I should keep him there. We decided not to ignore each other if we saw each other again. Then we hugged it out and I climbed out of the car, one man down.

Candy Curse

Yes, yes, I watch The Hills. I also watch The City. (I did NOT watch Laguna Beach and I'm not sure what I'm trying to prove by divulging that). Grotter watches, too. So I figured a nice cute gift for Grotter would be L. A. Candy, the novel by Lauren Conrad, former Hills star (who left before the show jumped the shark--can a reality show jump the shark? I think so. It's called trying to replace Lauren with Kristen. I mean, Kristen is fun to watch, but she's got a completely different personality from Lauren, and it made the show totally different. I'm aware that I know way too much about The Hills, and I'm only mildy ashamed).

Turns out that Grotter already read the book by the time I bought it. I should've known. She's always on top of these things. So it's been sitting in a box, waiting to be given away. I figured, hey I may as well read it before giving it away. Grotter said it was a quick read.

Yes, it is. It took about a total of eight hours to read. It's about girls living in L. A. and being found by a producer and going on a reality show. Hmm, I wonder how Lauren Conrad was able to come up with that. It's a cute, mindless book. It pulls you in the same way reality television does. So if you don't like reality tv, especially the shows on MTV, then you will not like this book. If you don't mind mindlessness, then this is for you. The major drawback--the book just ends. It may as well have ended mid-sentence. Arg! Now I have to read the next one to see what happens. That's textbook Hills right there. Dang you, LC.

Bottlenotes Forgot A Few

I sometimes get an email newsletter from Bottlenotes. It's about wine. The good folks at Bottlenotes decided that they needed to remind us why we should drink wine. Really, they think we need excuses. So here's what the email listed:

To maintain a healthy diet, to maintain a healthy weight, to increase your good cholesterol level (which is part of a healthy diet, no?), to increase your endurance, and to live longer! (exclamation point theirs).

All five reasons could have been rolled up into one: to be healthy. I'm not nitpicking though. I'm just going to add on because Bottlenotes forgot the major reasons. Health is good, sure, but that's not why we drink wine.

They forgot that we should drink wine:

To wallow in one's misery

To combat loneliness

To have a rockin good time

To loosen up to make out with that random guy

To make someone else more attractive

To be the life of the party

To forget all your troubles and forget all your cares (Twyla, take note)

To pretend to be French

To pretend to be sophistocated

To get loud and sloppy and be a little bit ashamed the next day

To create a great photo op

New Crew, Same Jean

At last, line dance class has returned. It's a new session, and Fred and I arrived two minutes late to an already dancing jam-packed class. We found space in the back, which used to be the right side of the room. Yes, Jean had turned us on our side, perhaps to try to accomodate the large number of people. Last session, the class was full on the first night, too, but it's always overwhelming to have that many people dancing all at once. She was going over the basic steps we'd have to know for every dance, so we hadn't missed much. We spent that time trying to spot the dancers we knew.

We automatically saw the nice older woman, LWTMOTFNIMGAHAGM, from last time who was right by the door. Right in the middle was a woman who had danced last session too, but she keeps to herself and doesn't annoy anyone. Then we spotted my "friend" and her friend up in the front. Then two other older women in the middle of things. We stood behind an older gentleman who wears slacks and a button-down and takes notes on a small pad who's been there before but always disappears. Fred thinks he's Jean's husband, but I'm convinced he's not.

But where was everyone else? Where's the woman who collected all the money for Jean's card? Fred suggested she took the money and is on a beach somewhere. Good call. Where was Peachy? Where was older lady in the sweatpants? Where was High Waist Pants Lady? Where was Red Shoe Diaries? Where's the woman with the bandaged toe? Where was the woman who smiled at Fred every time Fred said something? Where was the Unhappy Couple? Where was the man who pointed at the ceiling when we were supposed to point in the direction we were to turn? They were nowhere to be found!

Instead, we had a lot of Asian women, some Indian women, a tall man and either a woman he knew or a woman he just met and they hit it off. This man was in the first class of last session and then never came back. There was a woman in a track suit and another woman in regular jeans, not mom-jeans. They were really into the dancing, which I appreciated, but they were also clapping and raising their arms over their heads. Um, no. If Jean doesn't do it, then you don't do it. That's how you play.

Speaking of Asian women, oh, this was the best part of my night. We were crowded in the back, and I guess this little woman couldn't see Jean, because we're in the middle of doing jazz boxes and Fred is suddenly looking uncomfortable and defeated. She leaned her head to the right and I saw this little Asian lady totally in her dance space, personal space, and breathing space. Fred may as well have picked her up or put the woman's feet on her own feet and danced the way you do with little kids. Heeheeheeeeeee.

Then Jean started the first dance. Ah Si! Um, Jean? What happened to "we learn new dances every session?" We learned it last time. So we relearned it here. Since we already knew it, we picked it up without any problems. And since we know Jean's teaching style, we kept once step ahead of her. Sometime she has us do one wall, turn, and stop. Then the next, turn, and stop. Sometimes she doesn't stop. So after a few turns and stops, Fred and I would turn and go while Jean stopped and the older gentleman got a kick out of us stopping short each time. Then the music came on and we didn't remember the song being all that long, but it was and people were all over the place at first. Then they picked it up.



The video is kind of what we did. There were a few people in the front who had no clue what they were doing. One woman, Notox (Fred's nickname for her--I leave it to you to figure out why), was at one point turned to the left wall when everyone was facing front, and she didn't seem to realize she was facing the wrong way. Another woman in the front kept bumping into the woman next to her and thought Jean was making fun of her when Jean was merely correcting her in Jean's very abrupt way.

Then we discovered the method to Jean's madness. We'd done Ah Si so that we could do the next dance, Chicki Cha Cha, which is a jazz box and sixteen count away from Ah Si. Oh, Jean, why do I ever doubt you? This dance was really fast. Some people were adding claps while others were completely lost, still. If they didn't get Ah Si, they weren't getting this. But eventually, everyone (or almost) got it. At one point, when we were turned to the back wall, Jean came over to instruct and she wound up right next to Fred and she gave a little laugh. I don't know if she was like, oh it's you again or if she was like happy to see you again. Jean is very cryptic.



Unfortunately, we were not wearing matching shirts as they are in the video. In between the two times we did Chicki Cha Cha, Track Suit decided to buy water from the machine, causing a mighty ruckus! Okay, it wasn't a ruckus, but it made noise while Jean was teaching. Seriously, Track Suit, for your own good, don't anger Jean. Then my hopes skyrocketed--joy of joy, wonder of wonder, who walked in? The abusive lady! She wasn't wearing sandals and she was carrying a yellow umbrella, aka her weapon of choice! Her husband wasn't in view--I wonder if he was walking with a limp or something. Then my heart fell when I realized, no they were not in this class. They were taking another class. Fred was like, it's halfway through--too late for people to come to class. I was like, that's exactly when they'd arrive! Some nights last session, they "forgot." "Forgot" here means they most likely were "moving furniture." And if you'd please recall, "moving furniture" means "having a knock down drag out fight." Heeheeeeeee. Miss them.

Then, with only a few minutes left, Jean decided to teach us another dance. It was tricky because it was nothing like the other two dances that were so much like each other. I could not get the turn down, later realizing that it was because we were turning left while the other dances turned right. Muscle memory is usually a great thing, but here it was working against me. My body wanted to go right. At first, Fred joked that we should point, so I started pointing at the ceiling like the guy from last session would have. Then Fred goes, Your exterior is cracking--you can't do the dance! I stared at her with a raised eyebrow. Fred has grown to be a bit catty during dance class. She was like, you know, I'm mean like that--remember the point and turn. I did, which was funny, and then I remembered the little Asian woman running into her at the beginning of class, and then all was well again.

Then Jean spent about five minutes trying to find the song. Fred keeps pointing out the Jean needs to set up a play list. I was like, Why? The clicking sound is so danceable.



When the song came on, we realized, wow this is slow. Since the last song had been so quick, this was a nice way to wind down. We also realized that I pick up the dance steps to quick songs better than to slow songs. At several points when we first started, I turned in the completely wrong direction, and I don't know how I did that considering my weight was on the opposite foot. Again, I like my own dance moves sometimes. I didn't let Jean see, though.

When it was all over, we went over to our jackets which were far from everyone else's since we came in late. Then my "friend" came over to say hi. She started talking and so, forgetting once again that everyone hates me, I started talking back. Yeah, she wasn't interested in anything I had to say so she zipped up and slipped away. Fred was like, yeah she didn't care. I was like, I know! Then we went over to Jean to sign in. Jean was preoccupied with several people and we waited and waited but then were like, we're gonna leave. I pointed out that if we came in a little late every class, we would never have to really sign up for the class and we could take it for free and not have to deal with the whole rigamarole of registering. Fred said we'd be caught if we tried it. True. We would. Still, as of right now, we still don't know if we're on the roster.

My New Favorite Emails

The assignment is to email me via Blackboard to let me know they're on the system and read the syllabus.

I get this on my non-Blackboard account, the one they aren't supposed to use:

Its [name not properly capitalized] from your english class. I tried to go to the store today trying to buy the book or text but they did not have any in stock. Can you possible send a link from barnes & nobles so i can buy it online, Please resong as soon as possible or else i might not have it by class on thursday.

But this one takes the grand prize:

VIA BLACKBOARD

Take a moment, as I did. Reread the assignment, as I did. Take another moment. Ah, get it? Yup, there it is. College level thinking. I cannot complain. She was following directions, kind of. Onward!

No Soo To Moo

In case you haven't been following the California Happy Cow contest, here's an update. My poor Soo lost to Kirsten. No happy Japanese inspired singing. Kudos to Kirsten.

Now that that's all over and done with, I am itching to get behind a team again. Good thing the Vancouver 2010 Winter Games are coming. Oh, yeah, that's right. The Olympics are coming! The Olympics are coming! (Try to contain yourself, Rappleye. You know you're just as excited as I am!).

Why Teaching College Is A Lot Like Teaching Kindergarten

Yesterday, I had one student come in late, flustered, and then leave early because she had a court date. Another student told me he wouldn't be in next class because of a court date. I also had a student email me to tell me she wouldn't be in the first class because of a dance audition (ten to one she tried out for So You Think You Can Dance because they were having a casting in NYC yesterday and yes I know all about that kind of stuff). Kindergarten teachers don't deal with this, but they do deal with pretty colors.

And so, I give you my favorite email message as of Spring 2010 Day Two:

Hi professor. I am contacting you to let you know that I have learned how to access Blackboard. I just would like to say that I apologize in advance for being quiet in class but it is eight in the morning. I also noticed that you changed the colors on Blackboard and was wondering if there is a way to change them back because the yellow sort of hurts my eyes. Thank you and I hope it is the start to a great semester.

And of course, my response:

Thanks for the email. Since you signed up for an 8 AM class, I expect that you will participate. If that's not going to happen, you may want to find a later section. Also, if you do not like the color on your screen, you can adjust the brightness of your monitor and your eyes won't hurt.

I wonder what the rest of Day Two has in store. And what wonders Days Three and Four will bring.

Stupid Pact Makes Amazing Movie

My big Saturday night plan was to watch The Pregnancy Pact on Lifetime. I haven't watched anything on that channel in a very long time. As soon as I saw the ad for this made-for-Lifetime movie, I jumped on my DVR and programmed the crap out of it. The Pregnancy Pact is prime television programming. It's based on the true story about the 18 girls in Salem from last year who supposedly wanted to get pregnant together. For some reason, the movie stated that any likeness to the real story was purely coincidental. Umm, I think legal needs to look up the meaning of coincidental.

Fred came over and we first watched the SAG Awards. She made up ballots for us to fill out before watching. I filled mine out with a whole lot of guessing, using what I'd heard about the Golden Globes as a guide (I missed the Golden Globes because of my illness and then because of the Hope For Haiti that aired on Bravo when the repeat of the awards show was on so I got one hour of awards following a very long telethon, thank you George Clooney). I got to the final category entitled: Chrissy's Boyfriend with the choices of Chad Michael Murray, Meredith Viera, Eric James, and Black Label, with the winner already filled in for me as Chad Michael Murray. Fred thinks she's funny.

Fred rocked out the winners. I got like three right. The show ran over and we missed the end so I recorded the second time it was on and we were able to see the end of Sandra Bullock's speech and the final category. That was after The Pregnancy Pact.

The Pregnancy Pact was the most awesome thing I've seen on television for quite some time. The writing was phenomenal! Example: I should have pulled out every time or bought condoms. The acting was superb! Example: The girl who has a baby moans, It hurts! The message was clear--even if you offer the option of birth control at school, girls who want to get pregnant on purpose will still not use it, but boys might use it. Ohhhh, soooo good!

At one point, all the girls are in the hallway and they keep going to the nurse to find out if they're pregnant. Why they couldn't just do a test on their own, I don't know, especially since one of them actually does just that, and she's the daughter of the woman in charge of the churchy-group that's all for abstinence. So they're in the hall and one comes out of the nurse and is like, It's positive--I'm gonna have a baby! And she's all happy and the girls all cheer.

I turn to Fred and say, That's not how I'd react to that news at all.

She asks, You mean when you're fifteen or now?

I say, Both. Either time, not my reaction at all. Opposite from that in fact.

Because being pregnant means you're gonna have a person, and I would rather not have a person because that would mean being responsible for keeping it alive for many, many years, and that's a lot of time and effort and resources that I just don't have on my radar, and if the fifteen year old pact makers thought the way I did, they would've kept their pants on.

Art Of Reading About Drowning

Billy Collins has magical powers. He can take any simple idea and make it poetic. He can make me care about a poem in which the speaker mentions "my wife" or a horse. He can create a scene of the everyday, like one during which a writer wakes up, puts on a pair of slippers, goes to a desk, and writes, and I very much care about the writer getting up, putting on slippers, going to a desk, and writing. He's relatable. That's what his Poetry 180 is all about, finding relatable poems. Only a relatable poet can find relatable poems because only that kind of poet understands what relatable is. In fact, I told my dermatologist to read Poetry 180 because he told me he doesn't like poetry because he doesn't get it and he was even an English major as an undergrad. In my mind, we could have dated as undergrads had the timing been better. But this is not about my odd imaginary love affair with my dermatologist.

This is about my odd imaginary love affair with Billy Collins's The Art Of Drowning. Everything that Collins does, he does well. I once told him that he never writes a bad line and he told me that I should see his wastebasket. No, no, Mr. Collins, you should be recycling, and I also don't believe it.

I suppose anything I say about the collection isn't really going to be helpful to anyone who wants to know what it's about because all I can say is, It's so goooooood. It's just a good collection of poems. They are strong poems. They are easy to read and relatable. Still, they are simple and good. Simple and good is not easy to create. That's the beauty of Collins's work. It's so complex, but only if you want it to be.

Dove's Dance

I had thought that "American smooth" was a catchy title about language. You know, smooth talkin' lingo in America. While Rita Dove has an amazing handle on smooth language, that's not what "American smooth" is. It's a dance, like a waltz, but with snazzy individual flair added. That definition makes the dance sound not smooth at all, but that's America for ya. I have no idea what I mean by that. I do know that Dove's collection, American Smooth, incorporates the rhythm of dancing with the rhythm of language while tackling topics like race and gender and social strife. Those issues take on a rhythm of their own, and Dove makes it all seem like it is what it is because that's the way it's supposed to be. She's smooth like that. The collection runs smoothly. The ideas run seamlessly. Like a dance. Like America. Again, I don't know what the hell I'm saying, but maybe you know what I mean. It's a good book.