And now I lay me down to sleep

I can't sleep.

I hate that.

When your mind is racing a mile a minute and you just can't shut it off.

And you lie there in bed knowing that you only have 5 hours until you have to get up for work. And then it's even harder for you to fall asleep because you're hyper aware of the minutes slowly ticking away.  And it sucks, cause it's not like you can make yourself fall asleep. 

sigh...

When I was little, I used to have nights like these, where I was awake long after I should be.  Except back then, it was because I smuggled books underneath my covers and read all night.  My problem, as it so often is in my life, was that I had no will power.  I didn't have the ability to stop myself at a reasonable hour so that I could get a good night's sleep.  I would tell myself, "I'm just going to read until the end of this chapter."  But of course, chapters always end in a cliffhanger.  So then I would think, "I have to find out what happens.  Just one more chapter and then I'll go to sleep."  It was always just one more chapter.

A year and a half ago, after my boyfriend left for the Peace Corps, I also had nights like these.  Except it wasn't becuase I wasn't tired or because I was wrapped up in a book.  It was because the apartment was too quiet.  The bed was too big.  The room was too dark.  For months I slept with every light blazing and my DVDs of Dirty Jobs playing in the background.  I piled up the pillows around me and curled up as I waited for the emptiness to go away.

This is going to sound like a non sequitor, but you know what was on tv the other day?  Three Men and a Baby.  I know, classic right?  Back in the 80s when the Gut was in his prime.  It's one of those movies that comes on so frequently that it's like an old ratty sweatshirt; it's may be old and faded, but it's so worn in that it's become one of your favorite things to lounge around in.  So I had the movie playing as I did some homework, totally not paying attention to what was going on in the movie, when the lullaby scene came on.  You know the one--Ted Danson, Steve Guttenberg, and Tom Selleck are crouched around the baby's crib trying to get her to fall asleep.  So of course they start singing a song from the 1950s called "Goodnight, Sweetheart, Goodnight."  And it's one of those moments that makes every woman's ovaries sing; three grown men (one of whom is Tom Selleck for criss sakes) softly crooning to this teeny tiny baby.  Whoever isn't moved by that moment has no heart.

Anyway, my point is: I could use some a capella doo-wop from the boys right about now. 

Apple pie without some cheese is like a kiss without a squeeze

So you know how certain tastes, smells, pictures will trigger memories?  Like, the smell of cinnamon gum always makes me think of this guy I had a crush on in high school, or the fact that I can't look at a looney (a Canadian dollar coin--shut up, it's a real thing!) without thinking about walking down to the corner store by my grandparent's house to buy penny candy after dinner.  Well, I'm currently eating a Braeburn apple, which (in my opinion) is the best kind of apple out there.  Every bite gives that beautiful, crisp crunch sound while your mouth fills with sweet juice.  And tonight, with each delicious bite comes memories from when I was a kid, of my dad making apple pies. 

Nowadays, my dad just makes them for holiday dinners, but when I was younger there would be an occasional fall weekend when he felt like baking a pie.  I would sit there at the counter and watch as he smoothly sliced apple after apple (Braeburns, of course) into a large mixing bowl and then tenderly stir in the sugar and cinnamon.  And he would always give me a bite of an apple, coated in a sugary glaze, and ask me what I thought, as if I was his sous-chef giving him advice.  Sometimes I would help sprinkle the flour onto the countertop so that he could roll out the crust dough without it sticking to the surface, and I would watch as he spread out the circle of dough so thin it seemed impossible that it wouldn't rip.  Then, carefully, lovingly, he would line the pie pan with the crust and pour in the apple filling, until it was so full that I was sure some will spill over, but of course every time it was just the right amount.  He would gently lay the second crust on top, and I would get the honors of sealing the two crusts with a fork.  I was so deliberate and neat about it, making sure my little row of lines marched neatly around the edge of the pie.  And always, the finished product tasted delicious--the pie would emerge from the oven with a beautifully browned top and juice bubbling up from my fork indents.  The whole process from start to finish took several hours, so when my dad and I finally had a slice of that pie it felt like a mini-celebration, even if it was just an ordinary fall weekend.

So, as I sit here taking this mouth-watering walk down memory lane, I just want to say thanks, Dad, for filling my childhood with weekends of homemade apple pie.      

When people stop being polite and start getting real.

Today at student teaching, during a whole class discussion about fish facts, a little boy spoke up and said with an exasperated sigh, "Can we move on?  I'm bored."  Dude, I totally understand.

It's moments like this one when I envy the kids in my kindergarten class.  How awesome would it be to just say what you were truly thinking?

To the creepy homeless guy on the subway:  Stop it with the crazy eyes already!  You're seriously freaking me out.

To the arrogant bitch in my TC class (which class, you ask?  Pick one, any one):  You need to STFU.  If you really knew all the answers, than why the hell are you paying $40,000 to take these classes?  Get over yourself.

To my suitemate:  Do you really need to make so many noises when you spit after brushing your teeth?  Not only do you sound like you're hocking up a lung, but you do it at totally random times of the night which is not convenient for my sleep schedule.

To my hippie professor: Stop sounding like you were an extra in Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure.  Put down the bong, stow the "education is the connection between love and heart and hand and soul" crap, and just tell me what I need to know to be a competent teacher. 

But of course, I'm not a 5-year-old kid.  I'm (apparently) an adult, with both Canadian politeness and Quaker peacefullness drilled into me, so I will never ever say any of these things.  Although, who knows--a few more months of living in New York and I might start shaking things up a bit. 

I scream, you scream, we all scream for fro-yo!

Did you miss me?  I can't believe it's been three weeks since my last post.  But honestly, that's a good thing, cause that means I'm too busy actually living my life to sit around and post.  (Yeah, we're going with that reason.  It's not at all because I'm lazy...)

Soooooo, here are some highlights from my last few weeks:

• I have discovered my new addiction.  My drug of choice can be found at any Pinkberry location, in the form of an original frozen yogurt with strawberry and chocolate chips.  You guys, it's like deliciously tart crack.  With chocolate chips on top.  In a word, it's AWESOME.
• I recently went to the Museum of Natural History with my brother, which was really cool.  They have a dinosaur exhibit that is laid out so that if you follow the arrows that are painted on the floor, you progress through the evolutionary timeline of the dinosaurs.  Along the way, it lets you know what anatomical characteristic has been developed.  Unfortunately, we had to cut our Darwinian trip short because we both had things to do.  Our moment of departure?  The placenta!
• I started my student teaching a couple of weeks ago.  I'm in a kindergarten classroom with 24 kids, and today we got a new student.  He just arrived in the US from Korea two weeks ago, and he doesn't speak a word of English.  Can you imagine?  The amazing thing is that this kid immediately jumped right into the thick of things, participating in lessons and playing with the other kids.  Kid, you seriously rock.  I wanna be like you when I grow up.
• And last but certainly not least, I finally did laundry tonight (only because I was down to my last pair of clean underwear.  If you didn't pick up earlier--I'm LAZY) and I am currently lying down on my freshly cleaned bedsheets.  I tell ya, there are few things in this world that feel better than lying on clean sheets.  Now if only I could get some Pinkberry.....

New York, New Yooooooork!

You guys, I feel like I had an iconic New York City kind of day today.  Seriously, I was just a step away from donning my tap shoes and singing through the streets, a la Frank Sinatra.  Let me break it down for you: I started off the day by meeting my dad for brunch (otherwise known as the AWESOME meal) at his hotel, which happened to be situated directly across the street from the south side of Central Park [New York icon #1].  I even walked past all those cheesy horse-drawn carriages [NY icon #2] that sit outside the entrance to the park, in the hopes to convince some tourist couple to spend a gazillion dollars to sit directly behind a smelly bag of horse poop and pretend that it's a romantic thing to do.

[ahem] where was I?  Ok, so I had brunch with my dad, then walked over to the nearest Duane Reade pharmacy [NY icon #3] to pick up some shampoo.  And as I left the drug store, I figured, what the hell--it's a pain in the ass to get from the west side to the east side of the city, so I may as well enjoy it while I'm here.  So, I decided to walk 25 blocks to the Met [NY icon #4].

I should probably note that in the past two days, I have been to more art museums than I've visited in the last 6 years (yesterday my dad and brother went with me to the MoMA), so I'm a little out of practice.  I went into it worried about going too fast through the exhibits (and therefore showing my lack of interest and/or artistic taste), but also thinking that I would feel stupid if I stood in front of a painting and stared for too long (causing people to wonder what the hell I'm doing looking at a solid block of color for half an hour).  Anyway, it turns out that I loved both of my museum trips.  Yesterday's trip to the MoMA with my family was great, in that we could talk about the different paintings and sculptures that we saw.

While I was at the MoMA, I picked the poster of this
Picasso painting as my first addition to the bare walls of my
dorm room.   I'm telling you, it's a million times more
powerful in person.  It seriously took my breath away.

But today was wonderful, too, in a different way.  When I walked into the Met, I slipped my headphones into my ears and let my random mix of classical music drown out the sounds of all the other people in the museum.  Now, I have to say that I preferred the MoMA to the Met, only because I don't have that much interest in old paintings of upper class Europeans.  But there was still some amazing stuff.  And holy crap, is that place huge.  I definitely got turned around multiple times during my visit, but who cares?  What better place to get lost than a museum?  No matter where you go, you're going to see interesting things.

I picked a print of this Van Gogh painting as my souvenir from
 the Met.  Again, it's a painting that has more impact in person.

All in all, it was a great day.  I swear, all I needed was to walk down 5th Avenue and window shop at Tiffany's and I would morph into Audrey Hepburn.  I should start wearing pearls and full-sleeve gloves...

Close Encounters with big guys and the Big Guy

So I walked over to the gym on Columbia's main campus today, and a couple things happened:

As I was making my way through campus, a very nice looking girl stopped me and asked if I would join a Bible study group she was starting.  Of course, I had to first take my headphones out of my ears to hear what she was trying to ask me.  The song I paused in order to politely decline the invitation?  "Move Bitch" by Ludacris.  Yikes.  That probably means I'm not really the demographic this girl is going for...

Ok, so then I go into the fitness center, and I'm sort of wandering around this huge maze of a building looking for the treadmills and elliptical machines, trying to act casual enough about it so that I don't look like I'm a newbie (which means that I refuse to ask for help, since that would only reinforce the fact that I have no idea what I'm doing).  At one point I'm waiting to get onto an elevator, when the doors open and what looks like half of the Columbia football team pours out.  Honestly, it might have only been a few of the guys, but they're so big that I feel like they should count as more people.  Anyway, I suddenly realized that I've never stood directly next to a college-level football player.  Dude, those guys are HUGE.  I don't even think they saw me standing there; their eye level is about a foot and a half over my head.  Look, I am constantly feeling like a little person in a big world, but I have never felt as tiny as I did today surrounded by these guys.  I think if they really wanted to, they could probably crumple me up and throw me away like a discarded piece of paper.  Scary.

Hello, Bed Bath and Beyond? I'm looking for the Beyond section...

Ok, so as you may know, I just moved into my on-campus housing this past weekend.  I have to confess, I sort of feel like I'm regressing a little bit; my room definitely has an undergrad dorm room feel to it.  Ugly furniture, twin bed, blank beige walls, institutional lighting.  Yuck.  I've made some feeble attempts to give it some color and character (translation: I bought a comforter for my bed.  not really an earth-shattering addition) but I seriously need to access my inner HGTV design diva and give this room a makeover.

Part of the problem is that I'm hesitant to buy a lot of furniture and stuff--I already have a bunch of apartment accessories, since I lived in Delawhere for 2 years.  The thing is that a lot of it is at my parents' place, and I'm having a hard time getting it up to New York.  In the meantime, I had a somewhat brilliant idea:

One perk of being a TC student is that you can get a sticker for your school ID that gets you into all the NYC museums for free.  I KNOW!  How awesome is that?  So here's what I'm thinking--I want to hit up a few places that I've been dying to go to (The MoMA, The Met, The Guggenheim) and at each place I'll buy a poster of a painting that I saw that day that I liked.  I'll get cheap frames for them, and stick the posters up on my wall.  Cool, right?  Right?  Guys?

...Look, I'm working on a limited budget and an even more limited sense of style and interior decorating skills.  This is all I got.  Work with me, people.

Everyone has an inner light

As you know, I went to a Quaker school from kindergarten all the way through 12th grade.  And as cheesy as it sounds, I really feel like Quakerism has shaped how I aspire to live.  I guess I would say that the one belief that I've tried to adopt as my own personal philosophy of life is the idea that "there is that of God in everyone".  In other words, everyone has some good in them.

Look, I know that you deal with people everyday who are annoying or frustrating or say hurtful comments or do hateful things.  There are many days when I'm right there with you, complaining about this person or bitching about that person.  But at the end of the day, I just cannot believe that those people don't have even one redeeming quality about themselves.

And it's one thing to write off adults as being "bad", considering that they should be mature enough to make moral decisions, but it really pisses me off when kids are similarly labelled.  I have interacted with adults who obviously have no love or kindness for a certain child, and I don't understand it.  In my sophomore year of college, I was student teaching at a public elementary school in West Philly, and one day a substitute teacher said to me, "I don't know why I bother.  They're all crack babies anyway."  (I wish I could say that I stood up for those kids and told the woman how wrong I thought she was to say something horrible like that, but I think I just sort of mumbled an incoherent disagreement and walked away.)  Of course, not everyone is as scathingly judgmental as this woman was.  But I have seen too many adults (many of them teachers) dismiss a child as being "trouble".

For instance, let's take a look at the 6-yr-old that I babysat this past year.  First of all, she's on my mind (and she's the reason I wrote this post) because her dad told me that she and her sister are dying to write me letters at my new NYC address.  Pretty sweet, right?  Anyway, I am willing to admit that she's no angel.  This girl can give attitude better than anyone I know.  She can be bossy and manipulative with her friends and her little sister, and there were many afternoons when I got frustrated with her.  But those tough days don't negate the fact that she has a lot of positive attributes.  She can be very compassionate and sweet to other people.  She is wonderfully bubbly and energetic.  She is an amazing writing and illustrator for her age.  She is fiercely proud of her family.  And one day after school, she wrote this thoughtful, sweet message on a chalkboard in my classroom:

It reads, "Dear Andrea, you make smiles grow", and
it's complete with a picture of smiling flowers blooming in the sun.

I know I'm getting preachy and touchy-feely (you can practically hear a guitar strumming "Kumbaya"), so I'll stop.  My point is, everyone has an inner light.  And everyone deserves a chance to let that light shine.

Yeah I'm freeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Free faaaaallling!

I did it--I finished my first (condensed) semester as a Columbia graduate student!  HELL YEAH!  I get two weeks off, and then I start my fall semester.  But before I totally rid myself of any memory of these last 6 weeks, I thought I would share something...

So one of the courses I took this summer was called "Risk and Resiliency".  Basically, it was a course about Special Education.  It was a great class--very practical, and I learned a lot.  One of the few assignments of the course was to observe two different children (one who was a typically developing child and one who was an atypically developing child) and write a 15-20 page paper describing what I observed and what it meant in the larger theme of child development and classroom accommodations.

I should tell you that we've had all 6 weeks to work on this paper.  You want to know when I started writing my paper?  The night before it was due.  I'm telling you, I am the worst procrastinator--although, now that I think about it, maybe I'm actually the best procrastinator, cause I'm so good at managing to get an assignment done at the last minute.  Anyway, I got the paper done (20 pages in less than 10 hours.  WHAT UP.) and I turned it in on Monday.  On Wednesday, we got our papers back.  And that's where several things happened that caught my attention:

• when the professor went through her stack of papers to find mine, she had trouble finding it.  Eventually, she realized that it was accidentally caught in the paper clip of another person's paper. hmmm....you see where I'm going with this?
• when she finally gave me my paper, I realized that it didn't include the rubric (the piece of paper that showed all the different requirements of the assignment, along with what my final grade for the assignment was).  I went up to the professor and asked her about it.  She looked through all of her papers several times, but couldn't find my rubric.  So she told me that I got an A, and that when she found the rubric she would mail it to me.  Are you there yet?  Have you caught on?
• later on, after I had left class with a friend of mine, she and I were looking at her paper and I noticed that her paper was covered in marks from the professor--checks next to ideas the professor agreed with, punctuation corrections, etc.  My paper?  No marks.  Anywhere.  ...aaaaand now you're with me.  

You guys?  I don't think she read my paper.  Swear to god, I think she overlooked it, but when she realized the mistake she had made, she didn't want to have to go back and do the work.  I mean, she even told me that she was leaving for vacation on Monday.  She doesn't want to have to read a 20-page paper when she's got her bags packed and one foot out the door.

And here's where I differ from everyone else that I told this story to--I don't CARE that she didn't read it.  I really don't.  But everyone I've talked to has been like, "Aren't you so mad?  Are you going to say something?  You got ripped off!"  You guys, I already know that I wrote a good paper.  I believe it was worth an A.  So what if she didn't actually read it?  I mean, god, I started writing it with less than 24 hours before the deadline.  But then I realized, I think that's the source of our differing opinions.  Writing papers like this one isn't hard for me.  Plenty of other things are--drawing, singing, playing sports, anything having to do with science--but writing papers isn't one of them.  So, no, I'm not pissed that she didn't read the paper.  And you know what that made me realize?  I am freaking MADE for graduate school.  I was so scared of the Ivy-covered walls and the celebrity professors that I forgot to stop for a second and remember that my one strength is that I can bullshit with the best of them.  You need a 10-page paper on social justice in the classroom.  Done.  15-page paper on parent involvement?  No problem.  20 pages about the cradle-to-prison pipeline?  Bitch, please.

Now, you ask me to compose a mathematical proof or sing "Happy Birthday" and I'm in trouble.  But until then, I'm going to take that A and move on.

It's like a party in my mouth!

Oh. My. God.

You guys, I just had the best sandwich EVER.  Grilled chicken, sauteed spinach, roasted red peppers, lettuce, tomato, and fresh mozzarella all tenderly wrapped in a wheat tortilla.  This masterpiece is called The Milano, and it's beautifully created at a small, nondescript sandwich shop on the Upper West Side called Busters.

See, this is the one thing I love about New York.  I don't really care so much about the clubs or the concerts or the shopping.  But I loooooooooove being in a city that is home to literally thousands of restaurants.  I swear to God, it makes me almost giddy thinking about it.  I don't know if I've told you this before, but I'm basically a fat kid at heart.  And it is only through sheer willpower (and more importantly, lack of funds) that keep me from ballooning in weight.  I don't know, though...if I keep finding places that have food like The Milano, I may soon be eligible for the next round of The Biggest Loser.
  

Always a bridesmaid...

In the last 20 minutes, I found out two people I know just got engaged.  Yay.  Add to this list the woman from my Multicultural Ed class who just got married last month, the guy from my Social Policy class that is getting married this week, and the irresponsible hyperactive kid that used to do his homework in my parents living room in middle school (who, to be fair, grew up to be a very respectful guy, and who has spent the last two years in Afghanistan and Iraq serving with the Marines).

Apparently, for some, love is in the air.

I know what you're going to say, that you can hear the whine in my voice and that I should get over myself.  You're right.  But it just kind of feels like when you go window shopping, and you're staring at all the wonderful clothes wishing you could buy them and then you have to watch others around you step up to the cash register with their credit card in one hand and the dress you were dying to have in the other, and you get that sort of deflated feeling.

Look, I have plenty of friends who are still single.  And as far as I know, they're happy to be single.  That's great for them.  But what I want now more than anything is to get married to my boyfriend, and it sucks that I can't because he's living in freaking Africa for another nine months.  I'm tired of doing long distance, I'm tired of having a relationship over the phone, I'm tired of flying halfway around the world to go spend time with my boyfriend.  We've been doing long distance off and on for the last 6 years, and I'm over it.  I just want to be with him.

I know I'm lucky to be in a relationship with a person I love so much.  I know that.  I just hope that all the newly engaged/married people out there also realize how lucky they are.  I will freely admit: I'm totally envious.

Just to make you smile

Ok, so I'm posting this story because when I told it to a certain someone, she immediately burst out laughing, and I was so happy to be able to brighten up her crappy day that it made up for any embarrassment I felt during the retelling.  You know who you are--and I hope you enjoy this encore presentation of my high-school humiliation...

So when I was in high school, I ran cross-country to fulfill my after-school sports requirement.  I know, I know, it's totally lame, but I was good at it because of all the swimming I did.  Look, we've already established that I was SO not a popular kid in high school, you don't have to rub it in, ok?

Anyway, one day I was finishing up a run after school, and I was cooling down by walking along the edge of a soccer field.  Well, the goalie on the team was practicing, which meant that another soccer player was slamming soccer balls as hard as he could towards the goal, so the goalie could practice saving the balls.  Can you see where I'm going with this?  Imagine if life was a bad sitcom.  What would happen next?  Yep, you got it.  I'm walking past the goal at the precise moment when the soccer player gives the ball a vicious kick, the ball goes wide and smacks me on the side of my face.  I think I actually went airborne from the impact of the hit.


I'll just wait for you to finish laughing...

Done yet?  No?


How bout now?  Yes?  Good.

Anyway, so I immediately burst into tears.  Honestly, it was more out of shock than anything else.  God, it was mortifying.  There I am, a lowly underclassman, barely 5 feet tall, looking like I belonged in middle school, crying like a baby because I got hit in the face by a soccer ball.  So then the assistant coach comes over and patronizingly says, "Hey, sweetheart, you ok?"  Ugh.  To top it all off, I had to do the walk of shame past the entire soccer team (who of course saw and heard everything) so that I can get all my stuff from the gym.  While I'm hurrying past the (super-cute upperclassmen) soccer players, one of the guys calls out, "Hey, you going to be ok, sweetheart?"  AGAIN with the sweetheart?  Seriously?!  Well by this point, I'm so over the whole thing, and I actually turn to him and say, "Screw you!"  I KNOW!  Who would've thought that little ole' me could actually give attitude?  I mean, it was a pretty tame retort, but it was something!  So with that momentary burst of strength, I managed to escape somewhat respectfully to the gym.

Oh, who am I kidding?  It was mortifying.  I blush in humiliation just thinking about it.  But hey, I now have two, count 'em TWO, tattoos, so that's gotta count for something, right?  I earn back some of my badassness points, right?  RIGHT?!

I saw the sign and it opened up my eyes

So I'm in the cafe at Teachers College getting coffee before class.  (Side note:  I think I'm turning into an addict.  I have been drinking so much coffee that one day last week, when I skipped my regular dose, I experienced mild withdrawal symptoms.  Not good.  I got tea today.)

Anyways, every day the cafe posts blow-up copies of front pages from international newspapers.  And as I'm standing by the counter filling my coffee with cream and sugar, I look up and realize that the newspaper right above me is none other than....(drumroll please) The Namibian!  I mean, what are the odds of that?  So I immediately call my boyfriend to tell him, and he's like, "Oh I never read the newspaper.  But I read it TODAY."  COME ON.  Out of all days, the one day that he decides to read the newspaper is the day that I see it at Columbia?  Seriously, what are the odds!!!  I was convinced--it was a sign.  I'm not really sure what the sign was, but it was definitely a sign.

A-B-C, easy as 1-2-3

Today in my multicultural education class, we were asked to share a memory of what kindergarten was like for us.  Now, I have a ridiculously bad memory.  I can't remember what I ate for dinner two nights ago, let alone try to remember something 20 years ago.  Holy crap, has it really been 20 years since I was in kindergarten?!  What the hell have I been doing for the last two decades?  Shouldn't I have done something momentous and outstanding by now?  Sigh...

...[Cough] Anyway!  Where was I?  Oh yes, kindergarten memories.  As I was saying, I had a really hard time coming up with anything.  Honestly, the only thing I remember from kindergarten was this big cardboard shoe tacked to the wall, where we could practice tying extra-large shoelaces.  Seriously.  This is all I remember--and these days I don't even wear lace-up shoes, so I don't really have anything to show for it.  You know, it's actually kind of depressing that I can't remember anything else.  Here I am, hoping to make a career out of being an Early Childhood teacher, hoping that I will make a lasting impact on countless lives, and I can't even remember what my own kindergarten teacher looked like.  Fanfreakintastic.

Apparently, there's a book out there called All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten.  From what I gather, it's all about the fact that if more adults adhered to the rules of kindergarten, the world would be a better place.  Ok, well, I can see the logic in that.  In kindergarten, we focus on sharing, cooperation, problem solving, self-control, thoughtful inquiry, etc.  All good ideas to live by.  Problem is?  Even kindergarteners don't adhere to those rules.  Nobody does.  Oh my god, I just realized--if people actually acted that way all the time, it would be like a continuous episode of Barney.  Yuck.

Guess what?  There's a revised edition of the book!  It hasn't been released to the public yet, but being as I'm "An Educator", I got an advanced copy.  The following is a sneak peak at the Table of Contents:

1. Digging for gold:  You know what they say--one man's mucus is another man's treasure.
2. Of Lice and Men:  Knowing how to make your ideas spread so fast, they'll make people's head itch with excitement.  
3. No Tag-Backs:  Learning how to place responsibility on your coworkers in a way that ensures your immunity from potential problems.
4. Shooting for the Target:  Striving to "get it all in the bowl," no matter how many times you might miss.
5. Tough Love:  Sometimes it takes a little push (and shove. and sand throwing. and name calling. and hair pulling. and pinching.) to get the results that you want.  

There's more, but you'll just have to go out to your local Barnes and Noble and buy your own copy.  Trust me, it's a lot more helpful than the first edition.  None of that "I love you, you love me, we're a happy family" crap.

The Hills are alive with the sound of heavily edited "reality" television

I have a confession to make:  Over the past two days, I have managed to watch almost the entire 3rd season of The Hills on Netflix.  I know, you feel dumber just from reading that last sentence, right?  Trust me, I'm with you.  I mean, I'll admit that I was a total sucker for it's parent show, Laguna Beach.  But in my defense, I was in high school at the time and my life was so utterly boring that I was immediately drawn in by this crazy alternate reality where people wore Ugg boots when it's 75 degrees and sunny, and everyone drives a white BMW, and 16 year olds have, like, a katrillion dollar monthly allowance.  But I am now (supposedly) grown up, so I have no excuse for this sudden interest in a show chronicling the lives of the oh-so-fabulous 20 somethings living it up in Hollywood.  Where was this coming from?

And then I went to class.  I spent four and a half hours talking about how white middle-class Americans have robbed literally everyone else in the world of any chance at a happy and equal life, and how kids around the country are being bullied and beaten and driven out of their schools because of what color their skin is or who they are attracted to, and how our country is allowing millions of children to live in poverty rather than give them any welfare.  It's important stuff to talk about, but it's not exactly light and fluffy conversational material.  And let me just say to those of you out there who belittle the importance of teachers--come sit in on some of these discussions and find out what kinds of issues we deal with every day, and then try to tell me that teaching is an easy job.

The point is that after so many hours of this, my brain is fried.  And I'll admit that I enjoy escaping into the meaningless drivel that occupies the Hollywood scene of The Hills.  I can sit back and listen to LC bitch about not getting to go to Paris for a fashion party, and I take comfort in the fact that she is not suddenly going to strike up a conversation with Audrina about the sad state of our country's public education system.  It's the only way I'm keeping my sanity.  Well, that and a bag of kettle-cooked potato chips.  Nothing soothes the soul like some salt and grease.  Who's with me?

Some things money can't buy...

Buying a bus ticket from
Baltimore to New York:                                          $17.00


Refilling your metro card so that you can
ride the subway all over Manhattan:                        $30.00


Eating lunch at whatever local deli/pizza
place happens to be close by:                               $15.00


Grabbing an umbrella from the nearest
Walmart when it suddenly begins to downpour:       $6.00


Having a late dinner for two at the 
Saigon Grill on the Upper West Side:                     $50.00


Finishing off a long day with a
cup of delicious hazelnut gelato:                             $4.00


Getting to spend the last couple of days discovering new and interesting places while helping your brother find a place to live in New York which means that you two get to live in the same city for the first time in literally a decade?  PRICELESS


Some things money can't buy.  For everything else, there's the measly amount of savings you've accumulated after two years of working in an underpaid job.


*On a totally unrelated note, go over to The Sassy Curmudgeon's blog, and check out this post about women's bathrooms.  For women, it will make you laugh out loud. For all the men out there, it will unveil the hidden world of bathroom politics and potentially scar you for life by forcing you to think about women doing something other than peeing in a bathroom.  (I've tried talking to various guys about this topic--I won't go into it, but apparently there are fairies involved in the removal process.)

can i have a do-over?

You know those moments that you play in your head, and you plan on it going a certain way, and then the real event happens and it goes nothing like how it went in your head?  Yeah, I had one of those moments today.

I was at campus today, and I had about 15 minutes before my first class so I decided to make a stop at the bathroom before embarking on a full 5 hours straight of classes.  Just as I'm about to open the door, a woman brushes past me and I do a double-take:  it's my high school English teacher.  We both sort of freeze in that moment of "did she see me, or can I keep walking?"  Once we've both established that we're stuck talking to each other (outside of a freakin BATHROOM, let me remind you), we begin to exchange pleasantries.  Now I want to say that for a long time now, I have credited my teachers as the inspiration for making me want to become a teacher myself.  This teacher meant a lot to me, and I had some of the best English Lit classes of my educational career with her.  I also want to say that I knew this particular teacher was at Teachers College, so I knew I was bound to run into her at some point or another.  I by no means spent a lot of time thinking about us meeting, but thoughts did run through my head about what we might say to each other.

I have to say, the actual event was sorely disappointing compared to the imaginary conversation that I had been building up in my mind.  In my head, she said something like, "Andrea!  You were my favorite out of all the students I taught at Friends School.  I have never forgotten about you--in fact, I rave about you when I talk to my TC peers.  You changed the way I teach.  Thank you!"  And I would modestly reply, "Oh no, it was all you.  You opened up a whole world to me.  You showed me the power of reading and writing, and I am a better teacher and person because I was your student.  Thank YOU!"

Needless to say, our actual conversation was a little different.  First, we did that awkward hug you do when you're seeing someone you haven't seen in a very long time.  You know the one--it lasts for about 3 tenths of a second, and your arms barely touch while the rest of your body is stuck waaaaaaay far out from each other.  We didn't even greet each other by name.  For my part, it was because to me she has always been Ms. So-and-so.  Don't ask me why she didn't say my name.  It's very likely she simply forgot what it was.  Anyway, we then proceeded to have awkward and stilted conversation.  Ms. So-and-so: "Wow, you're all grown-up!"  Me: "Haha, yeah."  (I refrain from saying that she still looks about 18.)  Ms: "What are you doing here?" Me: "My program started this week."  Ms: "Where are you living?"  Me: "Up on 137th, but in the fall I'll be moving into Whitter [the on-campus dorm]."  Ms: "Oh, man, good luck with that."  Me: "Heh...heh..." (What the hell does THAT mean?)  "What program are you in right now?"  Ms: "[something really long and slightly boring so I forget, but it has something to do with private schools and principals]."  Me:  "[feigning interest] Oh.  Wow."

And that's where this pathetic excuse for a conversation petered out.  Thankfully, I had to get to class, so I had a natural out.  I swear, by the end I was covered in a nervous sweat and my cheeks were flushed with the effort of carrying this painfully awkward exchange.

Oh well.  Maybe my next interaction with her will go better.  Maybe we should go out for drinks--who knows, after a few beers we'll be talking about the good ole' days.  Or maybe not.

Psychology 101

A couple of days ago, I realized that I needed some kind of bag to carry my books/computer in for classes.  Of course, this gave me a very convenient excuse to give in to something I've been lusting after for years.  Over the weekend, my friend and I went to the mall and I bought myself this beauty:

It may not look like much, but this Longchamp bag is perfect--durable, simple, and big enough to fit my laptop without being ridiculously bulky.  And I bought it in purple which, as my friend pointed out (in a wonderfully enabling way) can go with either black or brown.

So I'm happily walking around the city toting my bag, when it dawns on me.  The color I chose almost perfectly matches the color of my high school backpack--you know the one, the classic LL Bean backpack that everyone seemed to have back in the late 1990s:

Yep, that's the one.  So basically, I just bought myself the grown-up version of my childhood school bag.    Let's explore that, shall we?  You could say that being in an unfamiliar situation, I subconsciously drew comfort in the familiar by purchasing something that serves as a reminder of my childhood, thereby offering myself a small source of reassurance as I start my life in this new setting.  Basically, I bought myself a security blanket.  A very, very expensive security blanket.  Well done, Andrea.  Well done.

And so it begins...

Tomorrow is my first day of classes, and in honor of that, I want to share a small moment I witnessed at the Columbia campus the other week:

So I'm walking around the main campus, hoping to get myself a little more familiar with the layout--look, I wanted to feel smart, ok?  I figured I would step off the street and onto the Ivy League campus and I would bathe in the waves of intelligence and excellence that roll of the sides of the buildings like rain.  So I eventually end up in the college bookstore and I'm wandering the aisles, looking at the the merchandise I can get with COLUMBIA stamped on the sides in big letters.  It really is quite impressive.  You need something, they got it: mugs, shirts, towels, pens, golf balls, notebooks, ties.  I'm surprised they don't sell toilet paper with the school crest on it.  I can see it now: Buy Columbia University bathroom tissue (because they would never deign to call it "toilet paper") and even your ass will feel the satisfaction of an overpriced education!

Anyway, as I'm meandering through the store, I pass a group of guys clustered in one of the book aisles.  As I hover over the clearance rack (story of my life) I can't help but hear a part of their highly animated discussion.  I can't remember word for word, but it went something like this:

Douche #1:  Blah blah blah look at how smart I am blah blah blah

Douche #2:  You imbecile!  Blah blah see how I rebut your argument to show off my higher IQ blah

Douche #3:  I concur.  Blah blah pretentious blather blah blah

Douche #1:  Huzzah!  Blah blah condescension and arrogance blaggity blah blah

Ok, well, it probably wasn't that exactly...  Still, I guess I shouldn't have been so surprised that a Top 10 school would have characters like these, but these guys looked like they were freshman.  Columbia hasn't even had time to pump up their academic egos yet, and they're already sounding like pricks.  Maybe it's my fault for hanging out in a book store in the middle of summer vacation--maybe all the normal people are off at the beach or something.  Let's hope so, cause if I have to deal with people like that in my classes, this is going to be a looooooooooong year.

Go shawty, it's your birthday, we gon' party like it's yo birthday

Well, that sucked.


Today is my birthday.  I am 24 years old, and boy did I sure have to deal with the responsibilities of being a grown-up.  Instead of waking up late and having a delicious birthday breakfast, I set my alarm for 7am and got myself down to the Maryland DMV to get my plates and license switched over from DE to MD.  Man, is that place depressing.  It gives me an anxiety attack just thinking about it.  I don't know what it is, but any place that has to do with government agencies or really any kind of bureaucracy makes me break out in a cold sweat.  I become frozen with terror at the thought that I might fill out the forms wrong (they make you write in PEN, people.  that shit's permanent), or that I'll forget to bring the required 20 forms of ID (what, they think someone else wants to waste 5 hours to impersonate me and steal my license plates?).


So I get to the DMV all ready to go....and I wait for 45 minutes for my number to be called.  Moment of truth.  Did I fill everything out correctly?  It takes so long for the lady to go over all of my information that I start to second-guess myself.  My middle name is Nicole, right?  Wait a second, which one is "make" and which one is "model"?  I always get them confused.  But lo and behold, after several anxious minutes (and $200 dollars later) I am in possession of brand new Maryland license plates.  Which are ugly as sin.  Apparently I was one of the lucky ones to receives plates from the Patriotic line of DMV merchandise.  Seriously, you can hardly see my license plate number through all the fireworks and American flags.  Yeesh.


Oh, you think it ends there?  HA!  I've only just begun.  So after getting my plates, I have to walk to an entirely different building so that I can get my new driver's license.  Yet another place to sit and wait.  After awhile, I get called and quickly start laying out all of the necessary information--DE license, passport, social security card, new license plates, complete medical history (hmm, that last one may not have actually happened).  Oh, and I explain that I brought my mom with me to verify my place of residency, since I just moved and I don't have any bills yet.  I just want to take this opportunity to say that last week, the DMV drone that I spoke to said that all I needed was a parent with me to vouch that I am indeed living in Maryland.  Guess what?  They LIED.  


So here I am, so close yet so far, and all that's standing in my way for getting out of this Hell-hole is one, count 'em ONE, proof of residency.  "Well," I say with as little attitude as possible (I'm aware who holds the power in this situation), "I have my phone with me.  I can bring up my online bank statement to show my Maryland address."  Nope, not gonna cut it.  They need it on a friggin piece of paper.  So I hike myself down the highway--that's right, I am walking on the side of a freaking HIGHWAY--to the nearest Kinko's, so that I can log on to the internet and print out my bank statement.  (I'd also like to remind you that my poor mother is here with me in all of this.  Yes, picture me stomping down the highway with a petite 60-year-old woman trailing after me.)


Oh man, this is where it gets good.  The damn computer won't let me view my bank statement, because that's sensitive information and the computer is an unprotected, public computer.  I think at that point I stopped speaking in coherent sentences, and so my mom very calmly (as if speaking to a person on the verge of jumping off a bridge) suggested that we try to find the closest Wachovia.  Success!  There's one just a few hundred yards up the road.  I stride inside and walk up to the teller.  Who then proceeds to talk in a Betty Boop voice.  Oh Lordy.  I quietly ask for a copy of my latest bank statement.  20 minutes later, she hands me a glorified ATM receipt.  "Nooooooo," I explain to her as tears of frustration fill my eyes, "I need my BANK. STATEMENT.  I need to show proof of residency."  Another 20 minutes later, and she hands me something that looks nothing like a bank statement.  It looks like if I had gone home, powered up my laptop, and just wrote a bunch of stuff onto a Word document.  Whatever.  It has my address.  So I book it out of there as Betty Boop airly tries to wish me a good day.  


20 minutes of highway walking, 30 minutes of waiting, 20 minutes of DMV processing, and $45 later, and I am officially a Maryland-licensed driver.  Whoop-de-friggin-do.  Happy birthday to me.

Long time no see

Hey, you.  It's been awhile.

You know, I started this blog because I had all these thoughts rolling around in my head and no one to tell them all to.  I needed an outlet.  But then recently, I got so busy that the thoughts quieted.  I simply didn't have time to let myself "muse out loud" (as my uncle would say).  I was dealing with the end of the school year, and moving out of my apartment, and finishing babysitting, and before I knew it, it was the middle of June.

But now the dust has settled, and I find myself drowning in thoughts again.  And I feel...tired.  Do you ever feel like that?  Like you just want a break from being a grown-up?  I had a day like that today.  I just wanted to shut the door, turn off my phone, pull the covers over my head, and forget about responsibility and to-do lists for a day.

When cocooning doesn't work, I make chocolate chip cookies.  I've made cookies so many times over the years that I don't need to look at the recipe anymore--I know it by heart.  I don't know exactly what it is about baking that soothes my soul.  Maybe it's the effort that it takes to mix all the ingredients by hand--I never use an electric mixer.  There's something to be said for knowing that I didn't take the easy way out.  Or maybe it's feeling of safety and comfort that comes with smell of freshly baked cookies.  Of course, it could always be the healing properties of ingesting large amounts of raw cookie dough.  Every girl knows that cookie dough can get you through even the toughest of times.

Unfortunately, I have a feeling that baking isn't going to solve my problems this time.  I feel tired, but restless at the same time.  I'm pretty sure I know the source of my endless flood of thoughts.  A few days ago, my boyfriend's dad had a health scare, and while my boyfriend struggled to go through one of his first real acts of adulthood (taking care of your aging parents), I struggled to give him support halfway across the world.  Everything seems to be ok now, but I'm left with this tired but restless feeling.  It's like when I was a kid and my legs would get this jittery feeling, and my mom would call them growing pains. (This was before someone started marketing the made up diagnosis of "Restless Leg Syndrome.")  Well, the growing pains are back.

I don't really have a specific point that I'm trying to get to.  I guess I just needed to ramble.  Hopefully, I'll start posting more regularly.  And once I'm in New York, I'm sure I will have plenty to post about.  But for now, forgive me for my melancholy moment of wallowing.  I know it's not very fun to read, but who's really reading this anyway?  It's just me, shouting into the vastness that is the Internet, waiting for the echo of my words to bounce back.  And you know what?  In some ways, that's oddly comforting.  

Pompous Circus Tent--I mean, Pomp and Circumstance...

Ok, so as a friend of mine pointed out to me, I haven't posted in about a week and a half, which for the youtubing/facebooking/tweeting world out there is like, a millenium.  It's partly been because I've been lazy, but it's also partly because I've been out in sunny SoCal for my brother's graduation.

Let me start off by saying that everyone should have their graduation in southern california.  I understand this may pose some budgeting issues for the east coast schools, but I promise you it's worth it.  When I graduated from Bryn Mawr, it rained so hard that everyone's shoes sunk into 6 inches of mud and water.  They had to put down cardboard (which most likely originated as a pile of moving boxes in some senior's dorm room) so that we wouldn't drown on our way to our seats.  And for those of you who are unfairly endowed with silky straight hair, let me fill you in on a little chemistry equation:  curly hair + H20 = unlimited quantities of frizz.  It's not attractive.

Anyway, as I was saying, the weather was perfect for my brother's graduation.  The ceremony was in the afternoon, but of course my mom insisted on going early to stake out good seats.  I'm pretty sure that at one point she was thinking about camping out at the graduation site, but a sleeping bag wouldn't have fit into her suitcase for the plane-ride over, so she nixed that plan.  She settled with showing up a few hours early so she could reserve our three seats--needless to say, my dad and I chose to wait until just before the ceremony to show up.

The ceremony was nice, if not a little boring (but aren't they all?).  But I did come away with an important lesson--my family and I are amateurs when it comes to celebrating.  Our first rookie move was that there were only three of us.  Looking around, there were groups as large as 20 people who had come for just one graduating senior.  What the hell?  This isn't the Duggar Family.  Who's paying for all those plane tickets and hotel rooms?  Who even knows 20 people that care about the fact that you're graduating college?  I sure as hell don't.  Our second rookie move was that we neglected to bring the kind of noise makers that are generally seen only in sporting arenas.  Every other student's name was met with an ear-piercing wail from an air horn.  I even saw one guy with one of those soccer noisemakers, vuvuzelas, that have gained so much notoriety.

But not my family.  We didn't travel with a posse.  We didn't bring a police siren to the ceremony.  We're just a few Canadians who show their pride with a smattering of polite claps.  And then we apologize for something.  While eating a tin of maple syrup.

Seriously, though, I'll cop to the fact that there were definitely a few times when I got a little teary.  I mean, come on, it's my baby brother and he's all grown-up.  Sniff.  It feels like only yesterday when we were...  (CUE CHEESY MOVIE MONTAGE)

• cleaning the entire third floor of our friend's apartment with only an old rag and a bottle of windex.
• riding our bikes up and down Waxter Way
• building worlds out of lego pieces
• spending saturdays at Bolton Hill swim meets (and eating all the candy and tacos-in-a-bag we wanted)
• spending 10 hours in a minivan, riding up the coast for family vacations in Nova Scotia
• walking home from school
• driving (ourselves!) home from school
• filling all of our spare time with NBAC swim practices

(Ok, I tried to make the list longer, but apparently I have the memory of a 90-year-old woman.  Yeesh, I can't even come up with a sentimental walk down memory lane.  Pathetic.)

All right, enough with the sap.  I can't handle all this sweetness.  It's giving me a toothache.

You'll go blind doing that

So I'm sitting at the front of the room reading a book aloud to my class.  Kids are in a big clump on the floor, sitting or lying down in whatever position is most comfortable for them.  It's one of my favorite parts about being a teacher--everyone's quiet and calm, totally immersed in the story that I'm reading, really enjoying themselves.  I guess I didn't count on just how much enjoyment some of the kids might get out of it.  I'm in the middle of a page and I look up to see one little boy lying down with legs spread out and his teenie weenie sticking out of his sweatpants.  Oh lordy.  I mean, he's not waving it around or anything, but he's definitely enjoying himself, and it takes everything I have to just keep on reading like nothing is happening.  Because when it comes down to it, these kids are 5 years old.  They're...curious.  And they don't realize that it's not exactly a school-appropriate activity.  We had a kid last year who would spend all of rest time quietly humping whatever mat he was lying on that day.  It got to the point where I would do everything I could to avoid touching his hands, cause who knows where the hell they'd been.

Look, it could be worse.  ...Ok, well, I can't really think of anything else right now that's worse than a front-row seat to some kindergarten self-love action.  But hey, it comes with the territory, along with getting coughed on, getting sneezed on, mopping up accidents on the bathroom floor, helping a kid wipe his own butt, and cleaning up the mess that comes with a bloody nose.

I know I say this a lot, but seriously--I REALLY DON'T GET PAID ENOUGH.

What's my age again?

Today, one of the girls I babysit said to me, "you look like you're a 5th grader in those clothes."  I was wearing a tank top and jean capris.  I wear that exact outfit all the time.  Great.  I'm surprised she didn't ask me if I got my clothes at the Baby Gap.

And let me tell you, this is just the last item on a loooooooong list of things that serve to remind me how much I apparently look and act like a little kid.  An abbreviated version of that list is as follows:

1. There are kids in the elementary school that I work at who are taller than me.  Do you know how hard it is to get a kid to listen to your directions when you're looking UP at him?  It kind of kills your authoritativeness.
2. A couple of years ago, I went out to dinner with my boyfriend and his family.  When his parents ordered a champagne for the table, my boyfriend's younger sister (19 yrs old at the time) didn't get carded.  Guess who did?
3. I have always been told I look cute.  Cute sucks.  Cute is for little girls in pigtails.  What 20-something wants to be cute?  
4. I cry at everything.  The 4-year-old I babysit cries less than I do. 
5. The parents at school think I'm one of the students.   

Look, the list goes on and on.  But here's the kicker--even though I'm always pissed when other people take not of my not-so-desired youthfulness, there are a lot of times when I do actually feel like a little kid.  I look around in surprise and I think, "Ok, a grown-up is coming to take over soon, right?  No one would leave me here in charge of everything.  I'm just a kid."  But no one ever comes.  It's just me.  What's up with that?  Either let me look like a kid and actually BE a kid, or let me look my age and be a grown-up.  Ok fine, I'll keep the baby face, as long as I get 6 or 7 inches added to my height.  It's only fair.

Seriously? No really, SERIOUSLY?!

So I'm wandering around the internet when I happened upon this gem:

Apparently, couples all over the country are on the verge of divorce due to the stankness of their farts.  Did you know about this epidemic?  I sure didn't, but I'm so glad to hear that someone has been working hard to come up with a solution to this silent but deadly threat to the sacred bond of matrimony.  If you go on to the website, you can visit the "testimonials" page, which I can tell you has (very) limited praise for this miracle blanket.  And it's stuff like "It must be working because I have not woken myself up since I started using it!" Wait a minute--your farts are so rank that you wake YOURSELF up at night?  Hon, I'm thinking that's not normal.  You should probably see someone about that...

Is it Friday yet?

I've had one of those days that feels like it goes on forever.  Jumping from one thing to another to another with no time to catch my breath.  Kind of like what I'd imagine a hackey-sack feels like.  And just as I'm starting to feel like falling onto the ground in exhaustion, I get a little help from an unexpected person.

I'm not sure if I've mentioned this, but I take care of two girls after school every day.  The younger sister is 4 years old, and the older sister is 15.  Ok, she's only 6, but she sure as hell acts like a teenager.  I don't know when it happened, but one day she's sweetly giggling at something I said, and the next day she's rolling her eyes so hard at me that I'm surprised she doesn't get headaches from the effort.  Swear to god, she has so much attitude for such a pint-sized girl.  And the thing is, I never know what's going to set her off.  We can be having a perfectly pleasant conversation, and the next thing I know she's heaving an epic sigh of frustration at whatever pathetic and irritating thing I just did.  I mean, I thought I could do teenager angst, but I'm an amateur next to her.  This girl can put so much oomph behind her sighs that you can practically feel the disdain pouring over you in waves.

Now, this is not to say that I feel like I was any better when I was a kid.  I distinctly remember a phase of elementary school when I would go around sneering at people and saying "GAG me with a SPOON!"  (I have no idea I felt a spoon was more appropriate over any other utensil for this particular zinger catchphrase.)  But look, I didn't reach that level of annoyance until 4th or 5th grade.  I guess this 6-year-old is an early bloomer.  Lucky me.

Anyway, so I was having a really tiring day, full of stupid grown-up responsibility, and when the end of babysitting came around, I just wanted to go home and kill some brain cells by watching crappy tv.  Of course, I had to stay late because the 6-year-old had created a treasure hunt for me, and said that I couldn't possibly leave without following the clues to my prize because I promised, I promised to look for the clues, no it couldn't wait till tomorrow, please please pleeeeeeaaaaassseeeeee?  Yeesh.  So I'm going through the motions, trying to find the little scraps of paper hidden around the house as fast as I can, and I finally--mercifully--find the prize, which is a piece of paper lying upside down under the couch.  And this is what I found:

It reads: The fun woudn't be complete without you!  Andrea your more then nice!  And apparently the picture is me as a Bobblehead, which (as you may know from watching The Office) is AWESOME.

That girl is a pain in my ass most days, but she sure can turn on the charm and sweetness when she wants to.  And man, am I a sucker for it or what.

Where's Captain Planet when you need him?

Today, my kindergartners and I went on a walk through the neighborhood around our school so that we could pick up trash, in honor of Earth Day.  (Oh man, can I tell you how annoying it was yesterday, when I would say "Happy Earth Day!" and a kid would respond, "who's birthday is it?"  and I'd say, "No, I said Happy Earth Day" and this ridiculous conversation would repeat another 14 times.)  

Anyway, it was remarkable how, in this 45-minute walk, I was able to witness 15 different moments that could perfectly sum up each 15 kids' personalities.  Don't worry, for the sake of your sanity I will refrain from sharing all 15 insights.  But here are a few, just to give you a taste of what I deal with every day.

1. The hypochondriac--a few weeks ago, a little boy in our class learned what poison ivy is, and how it gives you a rash and makes you itch.  Ever since then, he has found nonexistent horrors around every corner.  The bee is going to sting him, or the bush is poisonous, or a bug bit him, or (my personal favorite) he got sand in his ear and it's going to poison his brain.  I swear, I'm not making this up.  So today, on our trash walk, this little boy is walking around looking for all the things that can hurt him.  At one point, he pointed at a piece of trash that was hidden under some blades of grass, and said that he couldn't pick up the trash because he would get poisoned from touching the plants.  Dude.  It's GRASS.  
2. The fairy princess--towards the end of our walk, we went past a house that had a gorgeous cherry blossum in the front yard.  The lawn had turned pinkish-white from the thousands of petals that had fallen from the tree, so that it looked like it had snowed.  Well, one girl had the idea to sprinkle petals into hair, so that she could pretend to be a fairy princess.  Cute, right?  Ok, except that I shouldn't use the word "sprinkle."  I should really use the word "smash" or "shove" or "grind" when describing how this girl put the flowers in her hair.  I spent the next 20 minutes picking out the tiny petals.  Look, honey, I'm not your personal hairstylist.  I don't get paid enough.
3. The overachiever--ok, so I want to save the Earth as much as the next person, but I have a limit.  I mean, we were doing this trash walk without gloves, for crissake.  So sure, pick up the candy wrappers and empty gatorade bottles, but leave the nasty stuff behind.  This method, apparently, wasn't enough for one of the boys in our class.  He was like a freaking trash bloodhound, sniffing out every disgusting piece of litter he could find.  And once he found his target, he would proudly stand over it, loudly anouncing to the world, "I found some GUM!  GUM!  Hey, look, a CIGARETTE BUTT!  LOOK!  OVER HERE!"  Yuck.  Oh man, and it gets worse.  Halfway through the walk, when this kid has accumulated a sizable bag of trash, the wind catches it, and the whole bag of trash explodes onto the ground.  So of course I have to help him pick it all up again and put it back into his bag.  Like I said, I DON'T GET PAID ENOUGH.
4. The romantic--So we're walking back to the school campus, and as we make our way along the side of the road, a boy comes up to me with a wilted, half-crushed dandelion in his hand and says sweetly,"I picked you a flower."  Say it with me now, awwwww.  Who can't help melting a little when faced with something like that?  This kid is seriously gonna break some hearts when he gets older.  I mean, yeah, technically it was a weed, not a flower, that he so kindly bestowed upon me, but I confess that I wore that weed proudly in my hair.  At least, I wore it until it fell out 5 minutes later and I was too busy trying to herd 15 kindergartners back into our classroom to notice.  Oh well, it was a nice 5 minutes.  

You spin me right round baby, right round

Ughhhhhhh.

Ok, so Sunday morning I woke up feeling a little dizzy.  No big deal, right?  I figured I was just dehydrated, so I drank a lot of water.  Plus, I had a ton of work to do for my online courses, so I figured it could also be my body having an allergic reaction to having homework for the first time again in two years.  So I toughed it out.  Well today I woke up with a serious case of the spins.  Not enough dizziness to warrant a day off work and forking over $70 for a sub to cover me, of course.  Come on, I'm my mother's daughter.  I was taught that unless I have a fever of 102 or higher, I go to school (or in this case, work).

So I manage to stumble, literally, through the day, and by 3pm I'm feeling pretty good.  That should've been my first clue.  It's always just when you're feeling tentatively ok that the pain strikes.  Around 4:30, I was hit with a massive dizzy spell, which sucked ass cause I still had an hour of babysitting.  I don't know if you know this, but kids could really give a shit if you're feeling sick.  It just doesn't register with them.  What does matter to them is that you're ruining their fun by sitting silently on the couch with your eyes closed while you wait for the room to stop spinning.  Thanks, kids, I really appreciate the sympathy.  I mean, come one, I was seriously hurting.  I was basically experiencing hangover symptoms, without the benefit of actually consuming any alcoholic beverages.  Well that freaking sucks.  Hey, maybe that's why the kids gave me so much grief.  What do they know about hard mornings after too much fun the night before?  Well let me tell you kiddies, it's no picnic.  Anyway, the point is that I have spent the last 4 hours completely incapacitated.  Hey look, I feel perfectly fine--as long as I don't move.  Hmm, that's not really all that helpful...

Oh, and top it all off, I ran into my landlord as I was coming home.  I'm moving out at the end of June (HALLELUJAH--wow, that looks really weird in all caps.  is that really how you spell that word?) so my landlord has started showing my apartment.  Well, I thought he would give me a heads up before he brings someone around, so that I could do a hasty clean-up and, you know, hide my dirtiness so that strangers don't judge me.  When I saw him tonight, my landlord told me he showed my apartment today.  Did I have a clean apartment?  NO.  I had underwear lying around, and dirty plates are stacked up in the sink, and the trashcan in my bedroom (the first thing you see when you enter my apartment) is almost overflowing, and there's cat hair on everything.  Crap.

You know what?  Whatever.  I don't care.  I'm still dealing with the sober spins.  I don't have the energy or inner ear balance to deal with my slovenly lifestyle.  I have to go lie down and stay very still.

Break me off a piece of that Kit Kat bar!

When I went over to Australia for a semester in college, I was devastated to find out that European candy is severely substandard in quality.  Sure, the british Cadbury chocolate bars can hold their own, but other than that, there is nothing over there that could satisfy my sweet tooth.  So, imagine my utter child-like wonder and delight when I discovered that a small candy store a few blocks from my hole-in-the-wall apartment sold American candy.  The first time I went in, I think I just stood there for half an hour, my eyes drifting over the various brand names that were oh so familiar to me, the brightly colored packaging aglow with the promise of sugar and happiness.  Jelly Belly, Snickers, Starburst, Butterfinger, they had it all.  It was my own little piece of home right there in Melbourne.

You should know, I have been harboring an intense sugar addiction almost my whole life.  When I was in elementary school, all I wanted was to open my lunch box and see a Fruit Roll-Up or a pack of Gushers sitting next to my sandwich.  That was just the beginning.  Unfortunately, I rarely got my sugar fix. Shockingly, my mom had this thing about feeding us food that had actual nutritional value.  I'm sure she was trying to encourage healthy eating, but all it did was cause my addiction to go underground.  My need for sugar was still there, I was just sneakier about how I got it.  One year, when I was in middle school, we ended up having a ton of Halloween candy left over because nobody had come trick or treating to our house.  My mom packed up the extra bags of Skittles, put them on a shelf in the basement, and didn't give the candy a second thought.  I, on the other hand, was consumed with thoughts of those delicious bite-sized pieces of sugary heaven.  I began sneaking down to the basement to grab a bag of Skittles.  I was smart about it, too--I would rearrange the bags so that you couldn't even tell that some were missing.  Of course, I fell victim to the most basic rule of stealing--don't get greedy.  My addiction was bad, real bad, and I just kept taking bag after bag of Skittles, until even I, in my sugar-induced haze, could tell that there weren't as many bag as before.  Needless to say, my mom pulled her own Nancy Drew and cracked The Mystery of the Skittles Thief.  I'm not sure, but it might have been the wild look in my eyes and constant jitter to my step, not to mention the empty Skittles bags I had cleverly hidden under my bed.

The point of all this is that over the years, I have become a sort of candy connoisseur.  And much like my dad is particular (coughPRETENTIOUScough) about wine, I turn my nose up at candy that does not meet my expectations.  And European candy just does not cut it.  So when I went to visit my boyfriend in Namibia and discovered that they, too, suffer from the unappealing imports from Europe, I resolved to fix this problem.  Therefore, I have just come back from an extensive shopping trip to Five Below.  Five Below is a dollar store that stocks everything from books to sports toys to makeup kits to, you guessed it, CANDY.  And man, they do it right.  They have all the basics--Snickers, M&Ms, Starburst, Sour Patch Kids, Reese's Peanut Butter Cups--as well as the great classics from my childhood--Airheards, Laffy Taffy, Ring Pops, Push Pops, Pop Rocks, and Warheads.  I think I almost overdosed just by looking at all racks of candy.  It's lucky that I didn't just rip open bags of candy and start feasting right there in the store.  But no, I was on a mission: to educate my boyfriend's host family about the wonder that is AMERICAN candy.  So, I loaded up my shopping bag, and I headed for the checkout:

When I dumped the contents of my bag onto the counter, the checkout girl looked appalled as she said, "I really hope that's not all for you."  I happily explained the whole story, but truthfully, I could easily be there next week buying just as much candy, but with no plans to ship it over to Africa.  I told you, I got it baaaaaaad....

Where did I put that bottle of Raid?

I freaking hate ants.  I'm sorry, I know it's Earth Day in a week and we should love all of Mother Nature's creatures or whatever, but ants do not deserve to live. I came home tonight, and my cat's food bowl was covered in ants because my cat had left a crumb of food behind.  What the F?!  Where do these suckers come from?  I live on the third floor, for crissake.  Are they that determined to invade my apartment that they manage to bypass the two floors below me?  You know, I always forget how much I am creeped out by ants, until all of a sudden I have the entire cast of A Bug's Life running around my kitchen.

Oh my God, I just remembered something:  back in 5th or 6th grade, I read this book of scary stories or urban myths or something.  The story that freaked me out the most was about a boy who tried to kill all the ants in his ant farm, and that night, as he was sleeping, the ants ATE HIM.  He woke up with ants crawling in his mouth and covering his eyes and creepy shit like that.  That is just not right.  Do you see now why I cannot handle ants in my apartment?  Tomorrow, I'm running to the nearest ACME and buying out their supply on ant traps.  I'm seriously going Terminator on their asses.

On a happier note, after a really nice walk down by the river,  my friend gifted me with a mango today.  So I guess the day wasn't a total bust.

I'm a fat kid at heart

I'm supposed to be catching up on a bunch of coursework for these online classes I'm taking, but I have zero attention span for linear equations and slope formulas.  So instead, I've decided to distract myself with thoughts of food.

Yesterday, I went up to New York so that I could check out the Teachers College campus.  My best friend went with me, and thank god for that because she is my go-to NYC tour guide.  She can get you anywhere you need to go, do it with spending as little money as possible, AND give serious attitude to anyone who gets in your way.  I know, it's awesome.

Anyway, after we spent a few amazing hours wandering around Columbia, hoping for some Goodwill Hunting intellect to seep into our skulls, we headed downtown to get an early dinner.  And guys?  We found Heaven.  No joke.  In case you're interested, eternal bliss can be found in the East Village, at a small restaurant called S'MAC.  This place serves the most amazing macaroni and cheese you have ever tasted.  And not just your standard variety--no, this place makes mac and cheese an art form.  And they serve it still bubbling in different-sized pans, covered in a crust of bread crumbs.  Is your mouth watering?  Cause it should be.  

Ok, now my post was going to end there, but then I just remembered the cherry on top that made my day so perfect yesterday.  So after loading myself up with as much mac and cheese as I could (and which sadly, wasn't even the whole serving) my friend and I headed over the Union Square to pick up some Jamba Juice.  FYI, I am a slave to the sweet nectar that is Jamba Juice.  I first discovered it in California, while I was visiting my boyfriend in college, and I have had an addiction to it ever since.  Unfortunately, I haven't had it in over 2 years, since my boyfriend graduated from college, and there aren't any Jamba Juices in Wilmington.  (Yet another reason why DelaWhere? sucks.)  So last night, I was thrilled to get to taste that Jamba taste again.  And then God gave me a present.  When my drink was ready, some punk-ass girl swooped in, grabbed MY Jamba, and rushed out the door.  What. A. Bitch.  Nobody messes with my Jamba Juice!  I was ready to throw down!  Actually, it's me, so I just sort of stood there, blinking my eyes in a moment of stupor, with my mouth unattractively hanging open in surprise.  Yeesh, why do I always have to be such a victim?  I seriously need to toughen up and get some attitude before I move up to NYC.  Oh, you're waiting for the good part?  Well, the upshot of some whore taking my drink is that not only did they remake my 16 oz Strawberry Nirvana, but I also got a 22 oz Mango Mantra for free!  I KNOW! It was awesome.  Turns out, I ended up liking the Mango Mantra better than my original order.  So thanks, random rude girl who stole my drink.  You just made my day.

This Is Africa, PART TWO

Ok, well, I feel like crap.  After going the entire school year so far without getting sick once, I was feeling pretty cocky.  I mean, come on, when a kid sneezes right in your face--sneezes so close to your face that you can actually feel the germ-ridden mucus and spit seep into your face--and you don't end up with H1N1, you deserve to get a little cocky.  "Superman's immune system", I liked to brag.  "Totally untouchable!"

Guess again.  I have finally been overtaken by my kryptonite, those oh so pesky germs.  Of course, I can probably blame it on the plane ride back from Africa.  In my Houdini-like attempts to find a comfortable sleeping position in the cramped coach seat, I probably rubbed countless diseases all over my body, and am now most likely suffering from some rare African malady that mimics the symptoms of your average cold.  If I'm found dead in a week, you'll know to check the medical encyclopedia--look under A for Africa.

Speaking of Africa, I promised you a sequel to my last Namibian post, which you can find here.  Well, I just received more pictures from my boyfriend, so here goes Part Deux:

In Namibia, there are several different tribes of people.  My boyfriend has tried again and again to explain the geographical, cultural, and dialectic differences between them, but I always get them confused.  God, I am a walking example of the Ignorant American stereotype.  Look, I try, but what with European colonization and apartheid fucking everything up, things are complicated over there.  Anyway, my point is that there are several different groups of native Namibians, including Herero, Damara, and Himba, to name a few.  Now the Himba are what most Westerners think of when they think of the stereotypical "African":

But the other tribes have become very Westernized.  They drive cars, they wear jeans, they have cell phones.  This can create a very striking contrast to some of the more traditional huts that some of the more remote communities still live in:

But many people now live in small towns, which look just as modern as any American or European counterpart.  My boyfriend lives with his host family in one of those towns, on the west coast of the country, called Walvis Bay.  Specifically, he lives in the "location" (aka ghetto) called Kuisebmond.  Kuisebmond, like the rest of Walvis Bay, is covered in sand.  All the time.  It was one of the things that really struck me as being different from home.  Everything is muted in color from the fine layer of sand that is constantly being carried by the strong winds that whip through the town.  It's in your eyes, it's in your shoes, it's in the houses, it's everywhere.  Here's an aerial view of Kuisebmond:

See?  I wasn't exaggerating--it's literally in the middle of a freaking desert.  To add to the rather bleak dustiness of everything, many of the houses in Kuiseb are not exactly HDTV candidates.  Thousands of black Namibians live in Kuisebmond as a result of the segregation that came with apartheid.  While many homes are constructed out of sturdy cinder blocks, there are also many homes that are little more than scraps of metal, or even cardboard.  It is, to say the least, very different from what I'm used to.

But like I said in my previous post, within many of these homes are some of the most generous, kind, welcoming people I have ever met.  Which brings me to my boyfriend's host mom, Barbara.  She is in her early thirties, has a 4-year old son, works at the local high school, and cooks some of the best food I have ever tasted.  A couple nights before I had to return to the States, Barbara took my boyfriend and I to experience the iconic Walvis Bay activity: climbing Dune 7.

Ok, when I think of sand dunes, I think of those cute little rolling hills of sand that sit on the edge of the Delaware beaches.  Those are not dunes.  Those are Nature's version of a speed bump.  Sand dunes in Namibia are more like mountains than anything else.  It is breathtaking, seeing them up close.  It kind of makes you feel like you're just an ant who stumbled into a giant's sandbox.  So we arrived at Dune 7, and we immediately started climbing.  As we started passing bushes, my boyfriend pointed to them and said that they were actually the tops of palm trees--the rest of the tree had been swallowed up by the drifting sand.  SERIOUSLY.  It took us about 15-20 minutes to get to the top of the dune because the sand was so soft that it just caved in where ever you put a foot down.  It felt a little like trying to walk up a down escalator.  But man, once you reached the top, it was totally worth all that effort.  We could see for miles around us.  There were no buildings or cell phone towers or highways to ruin the view.  It was just us and the sand.  Like we were the last people on Earth.  Needless to say, I instantly fell in love with Dune 7.

So, for those of you who made it this far (hi mom!) through my excruciatingly long post, I apologize.  That's 15 minutes of your life that you're never getting back.  The scary thing is that I could have kept talking.  What's that I hear?  The panicked pitter-patter of footsteps as you run far far away?  I promise, no more tedious travel logs.  It's back to our regularly scheduled programming tomorrow.  Coming up:  Juice boxes, matchbox cars, freeze tag, and nose picking--a glimpse into the complicated workings of a kindergartner's mind.