just another day in queens

Yesterday I taught for nine hours--almost straight. I had 20 minutes for lunch and then an hour or so during which I did class preparation and graded quizzes. They needed a sub for a class that meets at night, and I, the glutton for punishment that I am, said I'd do it.

Then I came back to teach a pointless class today. My intensive grammar class took their big test yesterday, but we were scheduled to meet today anyway. I asked them if they'd actually show up, and they all promised, but only 5 people showed (all women). We talked about grammar and life, watched a rather silly video and ate chocolate and this yellow Chinese candy. It was okay, but I ate a lot of it, because I didn't want to hurt people's feelings. These women have done so much for me. They've brought me coffee, given me candy, a banana, etc. This was a good class of people. (One of the young guys had asked me several weeks where to look for jobs, and I told him about CraigsList. He got a job the other day, and came to shake my hand and thank me. How cute is that?) We haven't heard who passed the test, but I'm hoping the best. I think most of them will.

One of my students has taken this class twice, and she certainly didn't pass--I don't know for sure, but her quizzes are enough proof. I'm suspecting she has a learning disability. When I tell her to copy things I have written on her paper, she either writes letters that aren't there or just copies the first few letters and thinks she's done. I feel so bad for her. She asked me if I was interested in being her personal tutor, and I had to say no. I can only do so much.

I love the teaching. It's everything else that stinks. The grading, the planning, etc. And only being paid for the hours I'm in the classroom. The worst thing is I feel like I never have any free time. My weekends are spent working on everything for the coming week. I knew it was like this, since my mum's a teacher, but I didn't know, if you know what I mean. And I haven't written anything at all. But, now that the intensive class is over, I'll have more time. And less money.

dun dah dah daaaaaah!

The amazingest thing happened the other day--you know, the fact that BOTH the House and the Senate are once again in the hands of the Democrats. (My slip is showing on this, I know.) It was a nice feeling, back on the 7th when I pulled this over-large red handle and deposited my vote into a void, hoping against hope it would do something. Apparently, a vote does matter--at least in Virginia, where Webb beat Allen with merely 7,000 votes. Tom said last night, That's how many people live in this neighborhood. It really puts things in perspective.

There wasn't much of a contest in New York. The state now has it's new governor (a Democrat), Hillary's back in office--the only Democrat I was sad to see win is the state comptroller. It's come out in the last few weeks that he's had state workers drive his wife around for years with taxpayers' money--$82,000 worth. He said it was for security reasons and the fact that his wife is ill. I don't care if she's flat on her back! I've known plenty of people who are have long-term ailments--they don't steal people's money for transportation. They work it out themselves.

I couldn't stomach voting for him or the Republican candidate, so I voted for the Socialist Party's candidate--a guy named Willie.

The state may fire the comptroller anyway. I will be glad to see that.

Now the real race begins--for the Democrats to get off their asses and do something. I say, Let it all hang out. Actually have some kind of backbone!!!

I'll stop now.

boots cross paths

On the way home today, riding on the 7, my boots (pictured left) met their twin set. A woman sat next to me, and I saw them, proudly displayed with a pair of excellent jeans. She was reading this huge textbook, I was reading a worn out copy of Jane Austen's Emma. It was another of those crazy New York moments...

weirdos, take two

A man on the subway winked at me the other day. I don't think I've been winked (for real, at least) at in my life. Two days later, another man sat next to me on the 3 and plopped down a large bag of who knows what. He looked at a woman across from us and pulled his mouth up into a big smile with his fingers. Then he began digging in his bag furiously, muttering to himself: Yes. Yes. Here it is. He pulled out a pad of paper titled Model Release Form, tore off a sheet, scribbled, and wrapped the pad in a plastic bag. Then he pulled out another plastic sack covered in rubber bands. He slipped them off. For some reason my first thought was: oh no, a proselytizer. I quickly closed my eyes. I could hear him shuffle around; I peeked at what he would do next. The bag contained a little box with large negatives or something like that. He held them up to the light, muttering again. Then he packed everything up. We were about to stop at 42nd St. Ah, here we are, he whispered.

loneliness vibe

Yesterday evening I was sitting alone in a Starbuck's cafe in Barnes and Noble, minding my own business, reading a copy of Marie Clare. A youngish man approached and asked if anyone was sitting there. I said no, cleared off the table a bit, and continued reading. (For those of you non-urbanites, this is completely kosher in New York to have perfect strangers sitting at the same table in a coffee house. Frankly, I was a bit nervous about it the first time it happened to me, but now I sort of admire it. We all crush ourselves into stuffed buses and subways, why not do it in Starbuck's?) Of course, there are ground rules: you don't talk to the other person--and if you do, it's very short, like Can You Watch My Bag While I Get Another 4 Dollar Cuppachino? You can say hello or goodbye, or comment on the book they're reading, but beyond that, you say nothing. You act as if the other doesn't exist. I think this is mostly a survival method.

This fellow didn't know the rules. He sat down and played with his non-Starbuck's beverage. No books or magazines or notebooks appeared. I kept my eyes down, feeling more uncomfortable by the minute. After about five minutes, he blurted: What are you reading? Without a word, I showed him the cover (I was a little embarrassed--but I'd just taught English for three hours and sat on the train for another hour--I deserved some time to be a little girly.) Since I said nothing, I figured that would be a hint that I wasn't interested in conversation. He didn't say anything for awhile. I thought, He's gotten the hint. But no. A few minutes later, he asked: Are you from around here? I looked up, said Yes and looked down. I knew he wanted me to reciprocate. That little angel whispered, You really should do it. The demon said, Don't you dare. If you speak now you'll be in for it later.

This reminds me of an incident about two years ago: I'd gone to see Donnie Darko with some friends soon after I'd started at Sarah Lawrence. By chance, I ran into a guy from school after the movie. We talked for a bit, and I said, well, I gotta go. My friends are waiting for me to go somewhere. I turned and walked away. He followed me. And followed us to the restaurant. And sat at our table. It was horrible. He had nothing to say, which made it worse. It was one of the more awkward moments in quite awhile. Finally he had to catch a train back to Bronxville.

I think now that he took my words to be a kind of invitation. So I didn't want to lead this other fellow on. I wished I could have a wedding ring to flash, but since I don't have a left ring finger, this was impossible.

He continued to sit there. I was completely miserable by this point. I wasn't even reading. I just was flipping and flipping, wondering how to get out of this. Then he asked, leaning ever so slightly towards me: I'm going to go get something. You want anything?

That is a call of desperation. No, I said nicely, but thank you.

He didn't return.

Of course, after he disappeared I began to feel guilty. Would it have hurt, my angel said, to have a little conversation? He was lonely. He had a lonely vibe. He had an eastern European accent. But, I'm glad it ended quietly. I hope he finds some happiness somehow.

About five minutes later another guy sat down. He was wearing the ugliest sweater vest I've ever seen. It was loosely knitted out of mohair-like yarn! Luckily, he seemed disinterested, and soon left after talking to someone on his BlueBerry (or is it BlackBerry? I can never remember). I'm on the third floor, he said. Okay, fine, he said, sounding annoyed.

shoes and oates

I am thoroughly sick of two things: myself and my clothes obsession, and Joyce Carol Oates.

First, let's deal with me. Does anyone out there ever try on a pair of shoes in the store, walk around in them for quite some time, are amazed at their comfort and good looks, and decide: hey these are great!!! I'll buy them! But then, when you get them home, one day you take them out to wear, and lo and behold--they aren't comfortable anymore. No matter what you do, you can't get those damn things to act like they acted so cunningly in the store.

This has happened to me more than once. The other day I tried on, wandered for quite some time, then bought a pair of dress up loafers to wear with my new pants (I got my suit back yesterday, wore it today, and received complements)--since I am unable to deal with a heel that's more than a half inch apparently. I put them on yesterday morning, and was shocked at the immediate discomfort. So, that evening I returned to the shoe store to see if they had the same shoe in a larger size (I have the weirdest feet that need several different sizes with no rhyme or reason--they're known as Egyptian Feet). No. So I looked for a replacement pair, found some, wandered around in them, bought them and took them home. The jury's still out on whether they'll turn uncomfortable like the other pair.

Now Joyce Carol Oates. She had a story in the New Yorker recently and I'll be blunt: It stank up to high heaven. It was basically a rip off of a true and gruesome story about a college kid being killed when friends pushed him down a garbage shute. Being a writer who also takes (or steals) real life and fashions it for her own craft, one would say I should talk, but the difference is that I actually make it into something of my own. This story (and I've pasted the link here so you can judge for yourself) does not do any crafting. It took the facts and that was it.

The writing was rather sloppy as well. I did not ever have any sympathy for anyone in the story (which according to Oates, the reader should)--not even the victim of the crime. The father was horrible and the mother was ridiculous. In writing you don't have to like any of the characters, but there has to be some kind of pull towards empathy.

Oates said in her defense:

In an e-mail sent Wednesday to The Associated Press, she likened the school's criticism to the reaction of Muslim fundamentalists who issued a fatwa, or religious edict, against Salman Rushdie for his "The Satanic Verses."

She said it is a case in which a writer draws upon real events to write a fictional story, but is then met with "astonishing hostility on the part of people who do not 'read' fiction as symbolic or representational, but literal.

"Where I had hoped to evoke sympathy for a young man trapped in a nightmare situation, with symbolic resonance (I had thought) for all of us, I had succeeded, in some quarters at least, in arousing only great anger," Oates said in the e-mail.

I have no anger for the story. Just a general blahness.

I'm willing to bet that if some unknown writer had sent in this story, the New Yorker editors would have trashed it immediately. Can you imagine a big-name author being rejected by anyone? I've always liked her short stories. Her story, "Where are you going? Where have you been?" constantly sends chills through me.

the 7 experience

My intensive class has started again, and though it's nice to be bringing home some extra bacon, I must say I'm the most tired I've been in a long time. I remember feeling this way in college after a spending most or all of the night in the WeatherVane office (my undergrad newspaper, for those who didn't know me back then) and dragging myself to an 8 o'clock class. It's not exactly the hours. I'm teaching the intensive class M - Thurs and two other classes M and W. All hours counted, I'm teaching 18 hours week. Which, in the normal work world is less than part time. But those hours don't include grading, planning, and all the other piddly details (like figuring out my worksheets ahead of time to give to the receptionist. I know that full-time teachers do more than me, but the difference is they get paid during those hours for preparation. I'm only paid for the hours I'm in the classroom.

Not that I'm complaining or anything, of course. It's mostly the tiredness talking. And the hour and some change commute pipes in as well. My commute begins on 135th Street in Harlem, and ends eons away (about 5 miles) in Flushing, Queens on the very last stop of the 7 line. The 7 train and I have gotten to know each other rather well. I try to get a certain seat so I can semi curl up and grab a little unconsciousness for a bit before and after my teaching. As I flicker my eyelids I see the glorious scenes of Queens fly past (not so much fly--the 7 is the slowest train ever). LaGuardia Community College, Shea Stadium, the big metal globe built for the World's Fair--and the best of them all: there's this stretch of buildings soon after the train pulls above ground that are covered on every inch of space with graphitti. The colores are this gorgeous clamour that circle around the buildings and on their fire escapes and rooftops and you wonder how on earth the artists (some would say vandals) got there. I keep meaning to bring my camera.

I've said it once, and I'll say it again: I love New York.

The other morning on the Brian Lehrer show there was this discussion about immigration in the city, etc., and one caller blabbered on and on about how few immigrants even bother learning English anymore, and complained about all the signs in various languages. It honestly pissed me off. Everyone at my school is Asian or Spanish (the only gringos are the teachers), and though it has a large ESL component, it's a business college, so these folks are studying not only to gain English but to contribute to NYC's economics as well. True, some of my students have lived in the city for 20 or more years and are just starting to learn English, but when you live in the Chinatown in Flushing or in Manhattan, you often don't need to know English, because all of your needs are met right there. Most people need to learn Spanish rather than English, because they deal with them more. If I was new to a country and I had to learn one of two languages, I would choose the survival language first.

One more note to the ramble: I had to reprimand three young men today for their lateness and not doing their homework. There was a time I would have hated doing it and felt bad. I felt neither emotion this time. Ah, how times change.

not dark yet

This weekend we went to a renaissance festival at the Cloisters. It was one of those days when you knew fall had come: the sun was hot without the fierceness of summer, the scent of the leaves and earth had turned ever so slightly to that time of decay.

I love fall. Even when it toys with you. You never know if it's going to be 80 degrees or 50. If that sweater you brought with you will be enough or a too-warm drape. Almost two years ago, there was this day in November when everything was perfect. It was cold, but if you wore a jacket it was enough. The leaves were falling and rustling in Central Park. We went rowing on the Lake, and a thready fog surrounded us; the spires of the city peeking in from time to time.

There's something about being confronted with the mortality of leaves and grass that comforts and frightens me at this time of year. Something about the absence of light, I think. The light leaves New York so quickly. The buildings are so huddled and we're so far north. She collects her darkness with a smile that is not quite benign.

I've had Bob Dylan in my head these last few days:

Shadows are falling and I been here all day
It's too hot to sleep and time is running away
Feel like my soul has turned into steel
I've still got the scars that the sun didn't heal
There's not even room enough to be anywhere
It's not dark yet, but it's getting there

Well my sense of humanity is going down the drain
Behind every beautiful thing, there's been some kind of pain
She wrote me a letter and she wrote it so kind
She put down in writin' what was in her mind
I just don't see why I should even care
It's not dark yet, but it's getting there

Well I been to London and I been to gay Paris
I followed the river and I got to the sea
I've been down to the bottom of a whirlpool of lies
I ain't lookin' for nothin' in anyone's eyes
Sometimes my burden is more than I can bear
It's not dark yet, but it's getting there

I was born here and I'll die here, against my will
I know it looks like I'm movin' but I'm standin' still
Every nerve in my body is so naked and numb
I can't even remember what it was I came here to get away from
Don't even hear the murmur of a prayer
It's not dark yet, but it's getting there

happy days are here again

I've found myself a little depressed these last few days. I can't quite pinpoint what is the culprit, although it may be the little things that have happened that have added up to larger issues. Sometimes I freak out about the small stuff, and am completely calm about huge things. Or so Thomas says. I think he may be right. It may be a kind of survival mechanism. Freak out about the things you can change. The things you can't change...well, you can't change them, so freaking out is out of the question.

Maybe it's my birthday. I'm now 28. Which sounds incredibly old yet incredibly young. I don't think I would have imagined my life 10 years ago the way it's turned out thus far. But then, I tell myself, when you're 18 you barely know anything anyway.

I've often thought, post-undergrad and post-grad student, that people shouldn't be allowed to attend college until they're at least 25. Make everyone do some kind of labor or public service. Really live on your own first. I think I would have made a lot of different decisions about my undergrad years had I a few years under my belt.

Of course, there's this idea pricking my brain about I wouldn't be where I am today had I not been young and foolish when I had the great gift of education under my nose.

Maybe it's because I'm having post-grad school blahs. For the last two years I had a purpose, and now that purpose isn't so clear. I like my job, I like where I live, I love you-know-who, but still I feel like I have no clear course of action. What do I do now? Of course, there's the whole writing thing. (I've sent some work to my Tin House contact, but she warned me it might take a month before I hear anything!) There are more contest to enter, of course, and I should do some actual new writing, but I've just felt too exhausted and probably lazy to come up with much material.

I don't know where this post is headed. I just have this sense that something--something--needs to happen.

family

My birthday is coming fast (the 9th, if anyone reading wants to send a card or a gift or cash), and some various (yet uninteresting) things have made me reflect on the nature of family: specifically, siblings. When you're a kid (I'm 27 going on 28--I may sound like an old coot about this), conflicts are there, but they're more about your brother stealing a toy or your mum making you go to bed in the summer when it's still light out. My older brother once hit me with the high heel of one of my mother's shoes. I still remember the sound it made on my head--and my mother's voice as she reprimanded him (there may have been a spanking involved). I have no idea why he did such a thing. But no matter what the conflict was, we somehow resolved it and went back to playing whatever games we usually played: Dukes of Hazzard (we had the Matchbox General Lee, Rosco's beep car (my brother's word for a police car), and Uncle Jesse's white pick up), "Farm" (we also had mini tractors, balers, etc.) or just rode around our street on our banana seat bikes with April and Justin, our childhood friends.

It's strange how, when we get older, the (physical) conflicts may be fewer, but they take on a different meaning and people are stained by them in a weird way. And some of it isn't anybody's fault, per say; some of it stems from the person that you become when you grow up. A lot of it doesn't even come because of conflict. You just grow up and your siblings grow up and your parents grow older and there you are, tied by blood, but somehow divided by it as well.

Some of this division may be from our modern society as a whole. Now that people can travel faster and farther, families disperse and go their own ways. It's healthy, in many ways, to not feel like you're tied down to a place simply because you were born there. And it's good that you can feel like you can return at any time, since our sense of distance has changed. If I had come to New York 150 years ago, I quite possibly would never see my family again. But I do see them at least once a year. But when we're together, we're somewhat divided (and I don't mean divided in a conflict sort of way) because we live such different lives--in different places and stages in life.

I live on the east coast, in New York. My older brother lives on the west coast, in Ventura, California. My younger brother sits between us in Lawrence, Kansas. Our experiences of life have been so different during the last decade or so. And our relationships to each other have changed--at least for me. Not that one is better than the other. They are simply different.

Some of it, I suppose, comes from our childhood experiences with each other. B was the older one. We did everything together--mostly what he wanted to do, but I rarely felt constricted by it. (When I first read To Kill a Mockingbird I thought, Hey, Scout and Jem sound like us!) I have a picture of B and I holding hands at our grandma's house when we were both very young. B is smiling like he always smiles now, and I have this look of consternation, like I'm thinking, Okay, what's going on here?

But then middle school came for B and our ways parted. D was around by then, and I took on the older sibling's role of both protection and demanding reverence/obedience. (Aside: I remember the night D was born. I woke up, looked for my parents, but their bed was still made up. This scared me, because I thought maybe they'd been Raptured away. Grandma Ens was there, but it didn't comfort me much.)

The main reason why my relationships with my brothers are so different is because of the time and setting that molded them. B was my brother when I was a kid--our biggest challenges involved toys and bullies and when we were going swimming. I was still a kid with D, but our relationship was set at a character-building time for me: the pre-teen/teenage years (god, I'm glad those are over!). Plus, my family had moved to our farm by then, and D and I were somewhat isolated. For a few summers during high school and college, my mum was getting her Ph.D. in PA and our dad was busy with the farm. We were pretty much on our own with each other. We made a lot of spaghetti and hamburger helper back then, and D took me canoeing in his rather leaky boat.

I think of those summers when D and I are just sitting around. When I was home this summer, D and I would walk to Main Street and get pop and sit by the grocery store. We talked a lot, but we were also silent. I don't know if he thinks about those times, but I do.

My question, I guess, is this: when do you realize that those differences in relationship are more negative than positive? I have seen various families tear apart because those changes, those little changes, have affected their very view of each other. When do you know it's just healthy, natural differences--and not divisions of a more sinister nature?

a new semester

A new "school year" is about to begin at my college, and I'm finding myself on the other side of the desk. I am the one who must figure grades and tell people who use cell phones and are late what's what. It will be an interesting 15 weeks, to say the least.

A friend from Sarah Lawrence emailed me yesterday. She's got a plummy internship at Tin House, a very respected lit journal, and she said her supervisor wanted her to glean work from SLC people. So, I'm going to send stuff to Tin House, of all funny hilarious turns of events. She said she doesn't have much pull, but she'd certainly read and try to pass on my work. I don't expect anything to come of it, yet, but it's a nice opportunity. We'll see what happens. It's been a contest-deadline couple of days. I've been sending stuff out into that cold cold world.

an apology

Dear Reader(s):

I apologize profusely for my absence. You are right to be upset as this sister. Life has been very distracting--and, frankly, I've been lazy. When I'm not working on my lesson plans, traveling between Harlem and Flushing, I've been spending my free time in front of the tube, watching the Netflix's Lost series. Tom and I were trying to get both season 1 and 2 finished before season 3, but it hasn't happened. Partly because two of the discs were stolen in transit, so we were over a week without any Lost to entertain us.

It sounds horrible, writing this. It makes us sound so boring. We read and watch TV because everything else costs money, and we're trying to save money. When it was lighter after Tom got off work (8 pm) we'd go to the park and eat sushi, but that's ended. It is too dark by that time now, and though Central Park and Riverside Park are much safer than a decade ago, it's stupid to tempt fate.

My remedial ESL class has ended, so my schedule is more open now. I am teaching two more classes, starting next week, but they meet only twice a week. So my income will shrink, but it also means I really should dust off my thesis--ahem, book (my brother insists I call it that (he says publishers won't take it as seriously--he should know, since he works for Sage))--and revise revise revise and send stuff off to contests. I have had one small piece published online. So, my time hasn't been wasted altogether.

Fall has officially begun, and it makes me happy. Though it is still warm, the warmth doesn't oppress one any longer, and I've broken out some of my warmer clothes. I like fall because it seems to me to provide one with different avenues of dress. No longer the t-shirts and jeans or t-shirts and skirts and flippy flops. And now that I must dress "professional" for my job (anything denim is strictly forbidden at LIBI), it's that much more interesting. I bought my first real suit a few weeks ago, which was incredibly weird. I haven't worn it yet because it needs to be tailored. The legs are so long it looked like I was playing dress up in Mummy's clothes when I tried it on in the store. I bought another pair of dress pants a while ago; they too need to be chopped. It just hasn't happened yet, because my tailor/dry cleaning lady is down at Menno House. I know, I know--I should find one uptown. But I like the lady and she seems to like me, and I don't feel like changing.

Okay, enough about clothing. It's ridiculous how much time I've spent on writing about clothes lately. It is very un-Menno of me. I did buy the suit at an outlet store and got a 300 dollar suit very cheap, so I haven't lost all my Mennonite values.

Speaking of--this past weekend Tom and I went to a church retreat upstatish. (Tell me how weird it is to be one of those city folk that escape to the country for a retreat. When I was living in the country I saw nothing relaxing in it.) And some of my fellow members were talking about not standing up during God Bless America or the national anthem or performing the pledge of allegiance. And though I understand and pretty much feel the sentiments, I have never found them to be that bad. People (children in this case) shouldn't feel forced into the pledge. I do hate God Bless America and it's hideous tone--I much prefer This Land is Your Land--but I've secretly always liked the anthem. Less because I like what the words mean, but more for the music itself. It's always been interesting whenever I've listened to it live, because I always wonder: is she going to hit it, that final high note that soars or goes horribly flat?

And more often than not--she doesn't make it. And it secretly pleases me.

Maybe some of this harkens back to my high school days. When you got asked to sing the anthem at a home game, that meant you were it. It meant that people admired your voice and didn't mind letting it out to the public. At least that was in my head. Maybe that wasn't it at all. And I was one of those it girls. And I made that note--or at least that's how I remember it! So I look back at that moment with fondness.

I don't think these anthem/pledge wars should be taken so blessed seriously on both ends. There are more important things to worry about in this world. I'll stop now, and do some work.

Love, me

employment!

Yes, I've joined the masses yet again after a two year hiatus. It happened suddenly. Last Thursday, a woman called from--get this--the Long Island Business Institute. She had looked at my resume (I had found the job on Cragslist.com) and wanted me to come in for an interview for a job that was starting Monday. I came in on Friday, she'd hired me an hour later, and I sat in an orientation that afternoon. I was given a workbook that has to be covered in five weeks. So for three hours a day, Monday thru Thursday I teach 10 people ESL. It's only part time and for five weeks, but hopefully I'll get another teaching gig after that. This school doesn't go by a typical academic schedule. They start a new semester every 15 weeks. A new semester starts the week after this class will be finished.

It was a little daunting at first. The longest lesson I'd planned at the time was 45 minutes. But we have so much material to cover the problem is making sure I get everything covered in 3 hours. Now the main trial--besides the teaching itself--is making the lesson plans. I spent hours on them every evening this week. I'm getting in the groove, sort of. My plan for this weekend is to finish all plans for this coming week. It'll be harder, because I have on 3 days this week to cover two units that usually would take at least 3-6 normal lessons--depending on if they're 45 or 90 minute lessons, which are more normal.

The final trouble is it's out in Flushing, Queens. On the last stop on the 7. So it takes around an hour and 15 minutes to get there. The neighborhood is decent. It's the Queen's Chinatown, so I feel at home. It's a good job, and since it's a college, it pays more than a regular ESL job. It is double what the two other places I interviewed paid.

My grammar's going to improve, though you can't tell with this blog. (That last sentence especially) I'm learning the names of the rules, like subject pronouns, possessive adjectives, etc. One of my classmates at my TESOL course told me (being a French teacher) I just have to stay one chapter ahead of my students.

I'm not the only one in my family that's starting their teaching career. Check out my brother's blog. Only he's teaching math. Scary.

thoughtful shopping

I can always tell when I'm thinking about something hard and maybe deep, because that's when I go wandering--and eventually find myself in a clothing store. I went into my favorite thrift shop and saw this wonderful wonderful bamboo coffee table that would look great in a real apartment but would never fit in ours. I waded into the Gap, and waded out again. Honestly, I can't imagine paying 50 for a khaki skirt, no matter how cute it is! I looked at Express but didn't go in. I went to Old Navy and bought a pair of p.j.'s. (My old pair has finally bit the dust after two years, and the newer pair needs a buddy.) Then I wandered around some more, rode the bus awhile, debated about whether or not to go to my second-favorite thrift store and decided yes once I saw the creepy guy who commented on my chest wasn't there. I'm so glad I did. I came upon, almost immediately, this jacket that looks like one of those worn by men in the 1700s. It comes nearly to my knees, has this raised velvent thing going on, and has sleeves that have a little silky ruffle at the wrist. I was worried because there was no price tag on it, but when I brought it up to the counter, the very nice and polite Jamaician man said twelve dollars without hesitation. I was willing to pay twenty! I'm a regular there, so I'm imagining he gives me special prices.

There is a point to all this.

I went to Sunnyside in Queens today for a job interview as a teacher's aid in ESL. It is at a community service organization that has a senior center, afterschool programs and adult ESL classes. The job is only six hours a week at twenty dollars an hour, so it's not much. It sounds like I'll mostly be a go-fer or stand-in when the teacher is ill. I feel the interview went okay. I rambled a bit, which is my wont when I'm nervous. I felt okay about it. In some ways I hope I don't get it, because the hours are so few. I could work it out if I got another part-time teaching gig earlier in the day or later Monday thru Wednesday. I am just worried that it'll conflict with a better opportunity or a full-time job. I would feel so bad about quitting.

So, that's what I've been thinking about this afternoon. I won't know for a week or so, so I'm not going to wait. I'll just be pounding the pavement in cyberspace and hope for the best.

hippie dress

I did go outside yesterday, and spent money. I have a wedding to attend next weekend, and I was feeling I ought to wear something new. I've shopped off and on for this--and found this Jackie O. kind of dress (navy w/ polkadots), but I just didn't feel right in it. It seemed like something I'd only wear once and never again--unless I go to some similar wedding. Then I found a hippie dress and a little crochet cardigan and I bought that. Now, the whole point for the spree was to get something a little more dressy, since this wedding will be dressy. And I go and buy something not so. I don't know if I'll wear it or not. I decided I would wear something I already have if I decide not to wear it.

Anyway.

The wedding's in PA, near Lancaster, so I'll be staying with the illustrious R and H. Which will be very excellent. I've been to Lancaster before, but only for one night with an older couple who I'd never met in my life. Tom and I were there for another friend's wedding, and they put us up for the night. We weren't married yet, but I guess S hadn't told them either way, so they put us in the same room. The entire time they tried to pry it out of us, but we were very evasive with our replies. This was a nearly Old Order Mennonite couple, so you see why they were so concerned.

God must've been watching, because we got terribly lost on the way home, and had to drive through DC to get back to Harrisonburg.

back to life

Here I am dear faithful readers, if any still remain. My class ended yesterday (I realized when looking at my last blog I made it sound like a five-week course, but it was four), and I slept off and on till around 11 am. I say off and on because it has been damn hot these past few days. I've felt I haven't really slept in our unairconditioned bake box, just lost consciousness for a few hours.

I must've slept a little though. Last night I had a nightmare about the TESOL class--my first one ever. I dreamt that instead of a lesson planning course it was a cake baking class. The time had come for the critiques of our cakes, and I was yet to bake one! I tried to make a cake using just flour and water, but it wouldn't work. Then five cake mixes appeared by the stove! So I was rushing around, and my classmates were trying to stall our teachers and I was cutting strawberries for the top...it was crazy.

I'd never had one of these during the class. I guess my dream-mind decided it was safe to come out and play.

The apartment is a disaster area, and I've had thoughts of cleaning but nothing more. I've had thoughts of going outside as well. It isn't supposed to be as hot today. You can't really tell in here.

My responsible mind has said: It's time to stop stalling and look for work. And oh, hey, there's that book I slaved over for two years. You'd better dust that off as well.

But the irresponsible mind says: Forget work! Forget writing! Go out and play! Or stay in and let your mind rot on TV!

I'm thinking the latter will win, at least for today.

About the photos:

The first on the left shows Tom (the Canadian-Ted-lookalike trainer), me and Cindy. The second shows Yira, Jim and Rose. This is at a bar we haunted throughout the course. With ridiculously priced beer, might I add. The third shows Andy (the Ukrainian trainer), Jim and Sadie in the back, Yira, me, Cindy and Rose in the front.

one week down, four more to go

I've just completed week one of the intensive TESOL course. It feels like a month! I've gotten, at max, 6 hours of sleep a night, the apartment's a mess, my laundry looks like a mountain, and I've only had a snatching of free time. I've barely seen Tom, with our conflicting schedules. The most I've talked to him is during supper, and then I head to the computer or my class reading or making lesson plans...

But I like the course, all in all. The trainers are very nice. One of them's originally from the Ukraine, and he is as cute as a button. He's always enthusiastic and good humored. The other day I saw him in Bryant Park during lunch (the building where the classes are is on 42nd St., near the main New York Public Library), just wandering around in this kind of quiet awe. He said he was looking at the trees. The other trainer is a Canadian, who is the absolute picture of what I think Ted might look like in 15 years--only a little heavier. For those who know Ted, you get the picture. They (the Ukrainian and Canadian) both know their stuff and seem to enjoy themselves immensely.

My classmates are cool. Yira (she's from the Dominican Republic) and I have really hit it off. I thought she was a lot younger than she is--she has a son who's fifteen!

Well, the weekend's here. I plan on sleeping in, doing laundry and trying to clean the apartment somewhat. We'll see what happens.

complaining new yorkers, past and present

I will not do it justice. So I merely refer you to the Times and will let you read about the complaints that have been shared with various New York mayors since the 1700s. The letter at left is my favorite.

the jeans gods have smiled again

I found another pair of thrift store jeans, this time they're "just" Gap, but they fit the best of all my new pairs! And this store had all women's jeans half off, so I got them for 6 bucks!! (Shall I make another sentence that has multiple exclamation points? Yes!!!!!) I really think luck comes in groups. I had a thrift store stint like this last fall.

I think I'm really into school mode. I want to do everything but the task at hand. I'm blogging more, cleaning more, shopping more, reading more. And now there's a farmer's market that's come up at last to Harlem. (I guess the farmer's market gods have decided that minorities like fresh organic food just like white people. Imagine! Of course, I have a sneaking suspicion it's only because there's more gentrification going on up here, rather than original thinking. The amount of white folks I've seen in the neighborhood just this week confirms it.) I want to go, but I've told myself I can't until I get a section of my homework done.

responsibility or some such nonsense

The clock is ticking on my free time this week. On Monday I begin an intensive course on teaching English for Speakers of Other Languages, (TESOL) at Rennert Bilingual for a month. For most of July and the first week of August I'll be heading out the door at the god-awful hour of 8 a.m. for a 9 a.m. to 6 p.m. class five days a week. During those hours I'm going to try to stuff as much methodology and experience into my head as possible and hopefully clean up my grammar as well. When I emerge from this course, I will hopefully have earned a certificate in TESOL and will be on my way to getting some form of employment. We'll see what happens. I already have an assignment due on the first day of class: a fourteen page questionnaire. It doesn't look too difficult, it just is something I need to sit down and do. And my mind has been on vacation too long to make much sense of it.

This weekend Tom had a four-day break from work, so we did only hedonistic things. I shopped, Tom read this giant book he bought at Housing Works, we slept in, ate out, spent way too much money and last night tried to see the fireworks with Lady L but because of a very slow subway ride we got out at Rockefeller Center and merely watched the fireworks' after-light reflecting on the buildings around us.

It was a lovely weekend, to steal a word from Thomas's blog. We ate and drank in Lady L's air conditioned apartment, had spaghetti outside, drank tea and had a McFlurry with S and A, and ate sushi in Central Park by a pond surrounded by gnats. Lovely indeed.

But, responsibility calls me to the task...