I've almost made it through the first week!
And it's Payday!
I'm tired.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Sorry about the missing picture
I don't know what the deal was. I would post it, see it, click away and come back, and the picture was gone. Weird. It was one I got in an email, and it was a jpeg, so it should have worked fine.
These new, high falutin' techno gadgety thingamagigs...
I'm driving mom to the Goleta train station tomorrow. Every time we speak I end up picking her up ten minutes earlier. As of a few minutes ago, I'm picking her up at 6:10, so she can be at the train station at 6:20, for the train that leaves at 6:50. Yeah, a half hour early so we can sit at the depot. The depot which consists of eight parking spaces and three benches. No office, no ticket window, it's basically a glorified bus stop.
"The ticket says to get there 30 minutes early!" she cried when I questioned the need for such an early arrival.
She's going to my sister's, in Chatsworth, to help her out the next couple of days. She's having a "procedure" done, and needs a hand. I would be the one normally to do this, but because school just started, and it's Labor Day weekend, my principal would probably have kittens if I asked for Thursday and Friday off. Actually, I don't know why, but Mom's going down there a whole day early. I thought it best not to pester her with my ceaseless wonderings.
Allergies have set in with a vengeance. It's either something this time of year, or I'm allergic to school. Seriously. I think there must be mold in the room. I went all summer pretty well, and then last week -poof!- sneezing and sniffling. So charming to be around.
No deep thoughts tonight. Just thankful for another day.
These new, high falutin' techno gadgety thingamagigs...
I'm driving mom to the Goleta train station tomorrow. Every time we speak I end up picking her up ten minutes earlier. As of a few minutes ago, I'm picking her up at 6:10, so she can be at the train station at 6:20, for the train that leaves at 6:50. Yeah, a half hour early so we can sit at the depot. The depot which consists of eight parking spaces and three benches. No office, no ticket window, it's basically a glorified bus stop.
"The ticket says to get there 30 minutes early!" she cried when I questioned the need for such an early arrival.
She's going to my sister's, in Chatsworth, to help her out the next couple of days. She's having a "procedure" done, and needs a hand. I would be the one normally to do this, but because school just started, and it's Labor Day weekend, my principal would probably have kittens if I asked for Thursday and Friday off. Actually, I don't know why, but Mom's going down there a whole day early. I thought it best not to pester her with my ceaseless wonderings.
Allergies have set in with a vengeance. It's either something this time of year, or I'm allergic to school. Seriously. I think there must be mold in the room. I went all summer pretty well, and then last week -poof!- sneezing and sniffling. So charming to be around.
No deep thoughts tonight. Just thankful for another day.
Monday, August 28, 2006
I promise
The school posts will disappear soon; I know it can get very dull for you non-teachers out there.
So, I was a charming member of the English department, and bought cards for the other 8 members. Those cute cards with quotes and photos, usually retro, or of animals. One had a surprised looking cat, and it's quote was "If cats could talk, they wouldn't."
Stuff like that.
I wrote little "good luck" and "have a great first day" kind of comments. I'm trying to be the person I wish other people were for me. Not that they aren't that for me. That's not what I mean. Well, maybe it's sorta what I mean.
This year is my proactive year. That's what I mean. Do unto others and all that, instead of complain about what's missing. We'll see how well I do.
My throat hurts from talking all day.
Already have a few little boogers I'm going to have to watch out for. Like the one who ripped the reading log (required of every student in the school) out of his agenda before school even started today because he "didn't think he needed it."
Wonder who his English teacher was last year?
I'm going to have to go to bed and rest my voice. Maybe this is how Mariah feels when she won't talk to anyone for the day before a concert? Or was that Celine? Or Madonna/Madge? Well, some singer who makes buckets of money.
In other news, I unclogged my kitchen sink drain and shined the sink. Oh, and I got up before the sun today to walk the wonder dog. That was nice. Charlie discovered the wonderful world of rabbits. He didn't catch any, but hope sprang eternal in his little dog heart. I just spilled my coffee.
G'night.
So, I was a charming member of the English department, and bought cards for the other 8 members. Those cute cards with quotes and photos, usually retro, or of animals. One had a surprised looking cat, and it's quote was "If cats could talk, they wouldn't."
Stuff like that.
I wrote little "good luck" and "have a great first day" kind of comments. I'm trying to be the person I wish other people were for me. Not that they aren't that for me. That's not what I mean. Well, maybe it's sorta what I mean.
This year is my proactive year. That's what I mean. Do unto others and all that, instead of complain about what's missing. We'll see how well I do.
My throat hurts from talking all day.
Already have a few little boogers I'm going to have to watch out for. Like the one who ripped the reading log (required of every student in the school) out of his agenda before school even started today because he "didn't think he needed it."
Wonder who his English teacher was last year?
I'm going to have to go to bed and rest my voice. Maybe this is how Mariah feels when she won't talk to anyone for the day before a concert? Or was that Celine? Or Madonna/Madge? Well, some singer who makes buckets of money.
In other news, I unclogged my kitchen sink drain and shined the sink. Oh, and I got up before the sun today to walk the wonder dog. That was nice. Charlie discovered the wonderful world of rabbits. He didn't catch any, but hope sprang eternal in his little dog heart. I just spilled my coffee.
G'night.
Sunday, August 27, 2006
12 hours until it all begins again
Only spent two hours in the classroom today; what's done is done, what isn't, isn't.
I watched the Dateline segment last night, The Education of Ms. Groves. It was fairly realistic, nothing like that drivel, The Ron Clark Story, which has been playing on TNT constantly the last two weeks.
I weeped like a baby at the end of it. So much so that my dog stared at me as if I was a crazy person. He started wimpering, and I thought he was being empathetic, reached for him, and he backed away, barking at me.
So much for man's best friend.
Last year I had 110 students, this year I have 186. What have I done? 30 of them are an extra class I took on, with quite a bit extra pay, so I can't complain, but still, that leaves 156 students. The district limit for a teacher is 157, so they are cutting it very close. As an English teacher, that means 156 essays to grade every time one is assigned. Good God. I may need to be a wee bit more organized than last year.
Or, figure out a way to read and correct (for both content and conventions) 750-word essays in three minutes or less.
I should have been a PE teacher.
I watched the Dateline segment last night, The Education of Ms. Groves. It was fairly realistic, nothing like that drivel, The Ron Clark Story, which has been playing on TNT constantly the last two weeks.
I weeped like a baby at the end of it. So much so that my dog stared at me as if I was a crazy person. He started wimpering, and I thought he was being empathetic, reached for him, and he backed away, barking at me.
So much for man's best friend.
Last year I had 110 students, this year I have 186. What have I done? 30 of them are an extra class I took on, with quite a bit extra pay, so I can't complain, but still, that leaves 156 students. The district limit for a teacher is 157, so they are cutting it very close. As an English teacher, that means 156 essays to grade every time one is assigned. Good God. I may need to be a wee bit more organized than last year.
Or, figure out a way to read and correct (for both content and conventions) 750-word essays in three minutes or less.
I should have been a PE teacher.
Saturday, August 26, 2006
I don't know this time
I'm at school, on a Saturday, been here since 9 am and it's 2:00 now.
It's the only way to get the room set up and the lessons planned, and the grade book names entered, and the handouts copied and the posters up on the wall (just the required ones, you know with all the school rules etc. listed over and over in different ways?), 33 desks set up in such a way that provides optimal learning, yet allows for easy passage for me to circulate and maintain classroom discipline in a postive way, and try to figure out how to get water from a stone.
Okay, so that last one isn't true. I didn't have to do that. But I did find out that the ink cartridge on my printer mysteriously ran out of ink over the summer. Yes, I tried cleaning it off, and no, the computer wasn't left on all summer. It just ran out of ink at a very inopportune time (did I spell that word correctly? I'm an English teacher, I should look it up... oh bother... now I have to... yes! I was right).
I'm hungry. I've not eaten yet.
I'll come back again tomorrow damn it.
Need more glue sticks for my glue gun. oh, I'm not doing crafts! I have to hot glue my posters to the cinderblock walls; nothing else keeps them stuck.
Bah.
It's the only way to get the room set up and the lessons planned, and the grade book names entered, and the handouts copied and the posters up on the wall (just the required ones, you know with all the school rules etc. listed over and over in different ways?), 33 desks set up in such a way that provides optimal learning, yet allows for easy passage for me to circulate and maintain classroom discipline in a postive way, and try to figure out how to get water from a stone.
Okay, so that last one isn't true. I didn't have to do that. But I did find out that the ink cartridge on my printer mysteriously ran out of ink over the summer. Yes, I tried cleaning it off, and no, the computer wasn't left on all summer. It just ran out of ink at a very inopportune time (did I spell that word correctly? I'm an English teacher, I should look it up... oh bother... now I have to... yes! I was right).
I'm hungry. I've not eaten yet.
I'll come back again tomorrow damn it.
Need more glue sticks for my glue gun. oh, I'm not doing crafts! I have to hot glue my posters to the cinderblock walls; nothing else keeps them stuck.
Bah.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
weary
Going from nothing to hours and hours of sitting and listening to someone else tell me how to do my job, while I'm kept from that very job, makes me sleepy.
The speaker today was great. Loved what he had to say. The wide-eyed pollyanna in me was saying "yeah! we can do this!"
The seasoned, and dare I say it, somewhat jaded, teacher in me, was saying "Yeah right. Like this will ever happen."
It's too bad. It was all about Professional Teaching Communities. Teachers of a subject get together, and decide, together, how to provide not only a rigorous curriculum for students, but how to create and maintain an atmosphere where failure is actually more difficult than success. The idea is that a 13-year-old doesn't have the right to choose to fail English or Algebra.
When? When are we going to meet? There are more meetings about the stupid GATE History show than there are meetings of eighth grade English teachers.
I shouldn't talk about it. I'm wiped out, and have another full day of trying to get things done on borrowed time tomorrow.
Did I mention I'm teaching an extra class this year? No prep period to call home, make copies, get a cup of joe... wait, I will have that wonderful 33 minute lunch. Plenty of time.
I love my job.
I just don't love it tonight.
The speaker today was great. Loved what he had to say. The wide-eyed pollyanna in me was saying "yeah! we can do this!"
The seasoned, and dare I say it, somewhat jaded, teacher in me, was saying "Yeah right. Like this will ever happen."
It's too bad. It was all about Professional Teaching Communities. Teachers of a subject get together, and decide, together, how to provide not only a rigorous curriculum for students, but how to create and maintain an atmosphere where failure is actually more difficult than success. The idea is that a 13-year-old doesn't have the right to choose to fail English or Algebra.
When? When are we going to meet? There are more meetings about the stupid GATE History show than there are meetings of eighth grade English teachers.
I shouldn't talk about it. I'm wiped out, and have another full day of trying to get things done on borrowed time tomorrow.
Did I mention I'm teaching an extra class this year? No prep period to call home, make copies, get a cup of joe... wait, I will have that wonderful 33 minute lunch. Plenty of time.
I love my job.
I just don't love it tonight.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
I know there's no sympathy out there
but it's hard going back to work after a great summer.
I think it's why I've been getting the headaches and all. I've been back for two days already, but the administration sees fit to fill up all the teacher work days with "team building" and what not.
When I went to my classroom yesterday, everything was all jumbled around; the custodians come in and clean, but putting things back where they started isn't in the job description, I guess.
I was dragging bookcases and file cabinets around the room when I realized something; three tables, a computer and its monitor were all missing.
What the hell? Of course, I discovered this when almost everyone was gone for the day. We were all together of course earlier, but I hadn't been in my room. God.
So, we figured out that the custodians were farther off than usual this summer in replacing the furniture. Seems it ended up next door, in Paula Patterson's room. The most interesting thing was that when she told me, she also added, "you can take two of the tables, I need one of them."
Uh?
And of course, when I went to get my stuff, she was no longer at school, so I had to go back up to the office, get an extra key, and then haul it all back to my room. Great use of my time, don't you think? The custodian? He's on vacation this week. Uh huh. No joke.
So I get two of the three tables, and the computer and all... but I have a problem. One, I don't know which of the other several tables is mine, and two, Paula's put all her stuff on the aforementioned tables.
Dang it.
I will most likely go and get another table from the storage area on Friday. I'm not a wimp, but I simply don't want to get into it with her. I don't want to have any kind of discussion about it. I just want my room ready for the kidlets when they show on Monday.
Tomorrow, in the school board's infinite wisdom, we have an all teacher, district-wide in-service. A math teacher from somewhere, who has achieved something or won some award is presenting I don't know what.
I do know that another precious day is going to be spent on my butt in a chair designed for a tween, instead of getting ready for the onslaught to come.
Oi.
I think it's why I've been getting the headaches and all. I've been back for two days already, but the administration sees fit to fill up all the teacher work days with "team building" and what not.
When I went to my classroom yesterday, everything was all jumbled around; the custodians come in and clean, but putting things back where they started isn't in the job description, I guess.
I was dragging bookcases and file cabinets around the room when I realized something; three tables, a computer and its monitor were all missing.
What the hell? Of course, I discovered this when almost everyone was gone for the day. We were all together of course earlier, but I hadn't been in my room. God.
So, we figured out that the custodians were farther off than usual this summer in replacing the furniture. Seems it ended up next door, in Paula Patterson's room. The most interesting thing was that when she told me, she also added, "you can take two of the tables, I need one of them."
Uh?
And of course, when I went to get my stuff, she was no longer at school, so I had to go back up to the office, get an extra key, and then haul it all back to my room. Great use of my time, don't you think? The custodian? He's on vacation this week. Uh huh. No joke.
So I get two of the three tables, and the computer and all... but I have a problem. One, I don't know which of the other several tables is mine, and two, Paula's put all her stuff on the aforementioned tables.
Dang it.
I will most likely go and get another table from the storage area on Friday. I'm not a wimp, but I simply don't want to get into it with her. I don't want to have any kind of discussion about it. I just want my room ready for the kidlets when they show on Monday.
Tomorrow, in the school board's infinite wisdom, we have an all teacher, district-wide in-service. A math teacher from somewhere, who has achieved something or won some award is presenting I don't know what.
I do know that another precious day is going to be spent on my butt in a chair designed for a tween, instead of getting ready for the onslaught to come.
Oi.
Saturday, August 19, 2006
two nights in a row
I've had tunnel vision. It's an ongoing thing; has happened since I was 22. It's a "vascular disturbance" and it's the same thing as a migraine. Except I don't usually get the migraine.
Last night I went to bed with tunnel vision, and woke up at three with the most fantastic headache. Right now, I'm typing with one eye shut, due to the repeat of tunnel vision.
Please... let me sleep through through all the crap tonight.
Last night I went to bed with tunnel vision, and woke up at three with the most fantastic headache. Right now, I'm typing with one eye shut, due to the repeat of tunnel vision.
Please... let me sleep through through all the crap tonight.
Taking pictures
I took 129 photos whilst in DC. Here is one of the two I'm actually in. Kevin is in only two as well. He's developed an aversion to his picture being taken (yeah, I know, that's a passive sentence. So what? What's the big deal? I'm an English teacher, and I don't know what the hell is so wrong with writing in the passive voice...ahem).
It was odd, to say the least. I would take out my camera, god how I love digital, and start snapping away, and he'd look away, or put his hand in front of the camera.
"You already know what I look like." was a comment I heard when I protested. "There's enough photos of me in front of the White House."
Yeah, but not in my possession.
I truly didn't get it. It was as if he was being a jerk on purpose. He has photos in frames all over his house, photo albums of he and his friends and his many travels set out in both the living room and the tv room (yeah, he has a big house), yet he didn't want me taking any pictures.
You know what it felt like? Like he didn't want me to have any pictures of him. And certainly no pictures of the two of us together. It really did. As if he was ashamed that anyone might see that he was friends with me, and he had to avoid any evidence that might remain of my visit.
Oh Becky, you're being so dramatic, you say.
Have I mentioned my nerd complex? Yep. I know it's unreasonable, but everytime something like this happens, I feel like it's somehow my fault when someone acts weird or rude or cold to me. Then I try even harder to not bother the person, instead of calling them on their shit.
Don't worry, I did try to call Kevin on his shit. At one point, after one of his charming comments about my attempted photo taking, I pushed him gently, and said, "You can really be such an ass... what's the deal?"
He turned to me, with a poker-face, and said with a flat voice, "You don't need to take my picture."
Okay, so we all have those friends who really hate having their photo taken. We know them. I'm not one of them. I love having my photo taken. I'm not particularly photogenic (my mother likes to say it's because my face is always in motion), but my theory is that the more pictures taken of me, the more chances I have of one of 'em being a good one. Just my way.
So, after I get home the other night, I was going through some old photos, and found at least 35-40 taken during the last 20 years of visits with Kevin. Even some from high school... in all the photos, there is a laughing, goofing around, smiling, posing, Kevin. Skiing at Breckenridge, siteseeing in Boston, on the ferry to the Statue of Liberty in New York, out to dinner in Atlanta.
What's happened to my friend? What's happened to my charming, successful, witty, intelligent friend?
Is this what happens when we get what we want? We stop laughing and smiling? We don't want pictures taken of ourselves anymore? We treat our oldest and dearest friends as annoying acquaintances?
I don't know. I love Kevin. I want him to be happy. But I don't know what to do.
Friday, August 18, 2006
Thursday, August 17, 2006
So much to write
I'm home now. I go back to school on Tuesday next week, and the kidlets come back the Tuesday after that. Summer is almost over for me.
It was a good one, this summer. I saw a lot of old friends, and had fun. Spent time, probably too much, thinking about who I am, and who are the people I choose to be in my life. And of course, those folks who choose me to be in theirs.
Kevin asked me, after we got back to his house after my birthday dinner,
"So, what are your goals for your 43rd year?"
I had to think. Some things can be set as goals, like losing another 35 pounds, and others are more difficult, like falling in love.
Hmm... my biggest goal this year will be to figure out what I'm going to do next. I love my job, love the life I have, but I don't want to be living this same life when I'm 52. Where I want to go, what I want to do next, now there's the real question.
Do I really want to go back to school again? Maybe. Teaching at the college level is quite appealing to me. Research is appealing to me. Writing, real writing, not this verbal masturbation that is my blog, is appealing to me. Frightening too. What if I'm not good enough?
Santa Barbara is beautiful. I am a lucky girl to live here.
I need to move.
Where to? I don't know. I like big cities, and I like rural areas. Not so much into the suburbs. The roots I have here, plus my mom living here, make it difficult to imagine leaving. Fear is a factor.
And then, cluelessness about where I want to go. I mean, I don't want to move to Chicago or Boston, just because they're cities I like. I also don't know anyone in either of them. The idea of moving, just for moving's sake seems crazy. Moving to a place where I have friends? Washington DC, Seattle, Montreal, Albany... I don't know. San Francisco? Maybe.
I'm thinking that might be the place I'm headed. I know it's just as expensive as here, but it's still in California. It's a big city, but friendly. Lots of choices there. Lots of things to do.
Of course, the one friend I had that lived there just moved to Los Angeles. So again, starting out anew, knowing no one.
Traveling alone, I meet more people. I'm sure moving to a new place alone would be the same. On the other hand, it's pretty fucking lonely at times. In DC this last week, I went to every museum and monument by myself. It wasn't like I was chatting up anyone in front of the Hope Diamond. I loved everything I saw, but it was a bummer not to share it with someone. I hate being by myself so much. I'm good at it, I deal with it, I don't hole up and wait for someone to call, but I don't like it.
Okay, so mostly what I just wrote is what I said to Kevin. I talked too about how I never imagined being single, without kids, at this stage in my life. Never. Never ever did I think I'd be the one alone. I've gotten past the sadness about it, most of the time. I'm not bitter, but it does take some real reworkings of my view of things.
I have to keep saying to myself, "What doors are open to me now, because of the life I have?" and not consider what "might have/should have/could have been."
Then, I ask Kevin, whose 43rd birthday is in two weeks,
"What are your goals for your 44th year?"
And get this... he says,
"I don't have any. I've reached all the goals I've set for myself. I wanted to move to DC, and I did. I wanted a good job, and I've worked hard to get the job I wanted. I wanted a relationship, and I have one. I even have the house I wanted. Nope. I'm not setting any goals right now for myself."
Huh.
In one way it's great. In another, it seems almost sad to me. I can't imagine reaching all my goals. Then what? Because really, aren't goals intertwined with dreams? With hope? Maybe that's it. Goals are hopes that are made tangible. When you have no more goals, does that mean you have no more dreams?
It was a good one, this summer. I saw a lot of old friends, and had fun. Spent time, probably too much, thinking about who I am, and who are the people I choose to be in my life. And of course, those folks who choose me to be in theirs.
Kevin asked me, after we got back to his house after my birthday dinner,
"So, what are your goals for your 43rd year?"
I had to think. Some things can be set as goals, like losing another 35 pounds, and others are more difficult, like falling in love.
Hmm... my biggest goal this year will be to figure out what I'm going to do next. I love my job, love the life I have, but I don't want to be living this same life when I'm 52. Where I want to go, what I want to do next, now there's the real question.
Do I really want to go back to school again? Maybe. Teaching at the college level is quite appealing to me. Research is appealing to me. Writing, real writing, not this verbal masturbation that is my blog, is appealing to me. Frightening too. What if I'm not good enough?
Santa Barbara is beautiful. I am a lucky girl to live here.
I need to move.
Where to? I don't know. I like big cities, and I like rural areas. Not so much into the suburbs. The roots I have here, plus my mom living here, make it difficult to imagine leaving. Fear is a factor.
And then, cluelessness about where I want to go. I mean, I don't want to move to Chicago or Boston, just because they're cities I like. I also don't know anyone in either of them. The idea of moving, just for moving's sake seems crazy. Moving to a place where I have friends? Washington DC, Seattle, Montreal, Albany... I don't know. San Francisco? Maybe.
I'm thinking that might be the place I'm headed. I know it's just as expensive as here, but it's still in California. It's a big city, but friendly. Lots of choices there. Lots of things to do.
Of course, the one friend I had that lived there just moved to Los Angeles. So again, starting out anew, knowing no one.
Traveling alone, I meet more people. I'm sure moving to a new place alone would be the same. On the other hand, it's pretty fucking lonely at times. In DC this last week, I went to every museum and monument by myself. It wasn't like I was chatting up anyone in front of the Hope Diamond. I loved everything I saw, but it was a bummer not to share it with someone. I hate being by myself so much. I'm good at it, I deal with it, I don't hole up and wait for someone to call, but I don't like it.
Okay, so mostly what I just wrote is what I said to Kevin. I talked too about how I never imagined being single, without kids, at this stage in my life. Never. Never ever did I think I'd be the one alone. I've gotten past the sadness about it, most of the time. I'm not bitter, but it does take some real reworkings of my view of things.
I have to keep saying to myself, "What doors are open to me now, because of the life I have?" and not consider what "might have/should have/could have been."
Then, I ask Kevin, whose 43rd birthday is in two weeks,
"What are your goals for your 44th year?"
And get this... he says,
"I don't have any. I've reached all the goals I've set for myself. I wanted to move to DC, and I did. I wanted a good job, and I've worked hard to get the job I wanted. I wanted a relationship, and I have one. I even have the house I wanted. Nope. I'm not setting any goals right now for myself."
Huh.
In one way it's great. In another, it seems almost sad to me. I can't imagine reaching all my goals. Then what? Because really, aren't goals intertwined with dreams? With hope? Maybe that's it. Goals are hopes that are made tangible. When you have no more goals, does that mean you have no more dreams?
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
A quiet birthday
I spent four hours in the National Holocaust museum today. I know, not the most uplifting thing to do to celebrate, but it was so worth it. Go, if you're ever in Washington DC.
Went to dinner with three handsome men tonight. It was great. Got a hug from the straight one too (hubba hubba). I'll take whatever action I can get.
On my way home tomorrow, and back to work next Tuesday. Boo.
If I listed everything I've done in the last few days, you'd be bored silly. But. I wasn't.
Cheers.
Went to dinner with three handsome men tonight. It was great. Got a hug from the straight one too (hubba hubba). I'll take whatever action I can get.
On my way home tomorrow, and back to work next Tuesday. Boo.
If I listed everything I've done in the last few days, you'd be bored silly. But. I wasn't.
Cheers.
Monday, August 14, 2006
Can't. Write. Now.
Stomach too full. Feet hurt. Must shower and sleep.
I'm 57 minutes away from 42. And I don't care.
much.
I'm 57 minutes away from 42. And I don't care.
much.
Saturday, August 12, 2006
This trip is grand
I'm kinda tired, and really drunk, but I love every one and every thing... at the moment.
Going to a baseball game tomorrow, gonna eat hot dogs and drink many beers.
Is there anything more to life?
Going to a baseball game tomorrow, gonna eat hot dogs and drink many beers.
Is there anything more to life?
Lazy Book Meme for which I wasn't tagged but am completing anyway
1. One book you have read more than once: East of Eden. Favorite book ever. It's got drama, family dynamics, good and evil, biblical symbolism... and it's a darn good story.
2. One book you would want on a desert island: Golly, this is tough. Shakespeare's complete works. Does that come in one volume? Just found it on Amazon, so I guess it does.
3. One book that made you laugh: Operating Instructions by Anne Lammott. Although I'm not a mother, nor expecting to be, the honesty in this made me love Ms. Lammott even more than I already did.
4. One book that made you cry: To Kill a Mockingbird. I was in sixth grade, and remember clearly finishing the book and sobbing. I went out to the living room where my mother was sittin on the green couch. "Why are people so mean?" I asked in that way that only 12-year-olds can ask.
5. One book you wish you had written: This is silly, but Bridget Jone's Diary. It was the first "chick-lit" book I ever read, and it seemed to be specifically about my life.
6. One book you wish had never been written: Billy Budd. Total and absolute waste of paper in my opinion.
7. One book you are currently reading: Only one? I'm always in the middle of three or four. Right now I'm reading Marley and Me, and Honeymoon With My Brother.
8. One book you have been meaning to read: A Home at the End of the World. Torn said he really liked it, and I won't watch the film until I've read the book.
9. One Book That Changed Your Life: Illusions by Richard Bach. I know, it's a hokey book from the late 70's, early 80's, but it really made me think. I still have the same drink-ring-stained copy from high school. I still read it occasionally. It gives me hope.
2. One book you would want on a desert island: Golly, this is tough. Shakespeare's complete works. Does that come in one volume? Just found it on Amazon, so I guess it does.
3. One book that made you laugh: Operating Instructions by Anne Lammott. Although I'm not a mother, nor expecting to be, the honesty in this made me love Ms. Lammott even more than I already did.
4. One book that made you cry: To Kill a Mockingbird. I was in sixth grade, and remember clearly finishing the book and sobbing. I went out to the living room where my mother was sittin on the green couch. "Why are people so mean?" I asked in that way that only 12-year-olds can ask.
5. One book you wish you had written: This is silly, but Bridget Jone's Diary. It was the first "chick-lit" book I ever read, and it seemed to be specifically about my life.
6. One book you wish had never been written: Billy Budd. Total and absolute waste of paper in my opinion.
7. One book you are currently reading: Only one? I'm always in the middle of three or four. Right now I'm reading Marley and Me, and Honeymoon With My Brother.
8. One book you have been meaning to read: A Home at the End of the World. Torn said he really liked it, and I won't watch the film until I've read the book.
9. One Book That Changed Your Life: Illusions by Richard Bach. I know, it's a hokey book from the late 70's, early 80's, but it really made me think. I still have the same drink-ring-stained copy from high school. I still read it occasionally. It gives me hope.
Friday, August 11, 2006
Yesterday? At the Santa Barbara Airport?
At 5 am?
Very interesting situation.
I had no idea what had happened in London, being that I was packing and then sleeping.
Lines out the door, angry people refusing to throw away their $59 bottles of Estee Lauder foundation, bags being checked by hand and piling up in mountains.
Good times.
We were first told "There was a terrorist attack in London last night, so we are at code orange now. No liquids or gels of any kind will be allowed on the plane with your carry-on luggage."
Okay. I end up squatting on the floor (the SB airport is so small, it actually could be mistaken for a hotel), and start the rearranging. My waterbottle hadn't been opened yet, so into the big suitcase it went. I had a bottle of wine I was bringing out to Kevin... I've never packed a bottle of wine in checked luggage... I risked it.
It was expensive!
Next went in the make-up... no biggie there. Then my mini bag of toiletries. You know, the toothbrush, deoderant, lotion, etc. my mother always told me to carry on in case my regular luggage got lost? All of it had to be packed or tossed. Lipgloss? I asked about it.
"Lipgloss is okay." I was told. I overheard a mother being told that she could bring juice or milk in a baby's bottle, but anything else had to be thrown out.
Next, we check in at the counter. Then drop off our bags to be checked. Like I said, SB airport is so small that they have to handcheck everything. That's fun. So there's my bag, under a pile of other bags, in the middle of the airport. I watch as people's items are moved around, and rubber-gloved hands rummage around in folks undies and dress slacks.
Then, the line for the Gate (at this point, I'd acquired a large Mocha, and was feeling better, but still, it was 5:45 in the morning). Long line. The waiting area is so small, that they would only let the people for one flight in the area at a time. Denver, San Jose, and Los Angeles flights were all ahead of we Salt Lake City folks (where I would connect to the Washington DC flight). More waiting.
A lady talking loudly on her cell phone didn't want to wait in the long line. Huh. And?
She sat on a bench and complained loudly to whomever was on the other end of the line. I expect if I'd called any of my friends at that time in the morning, I wouldn't be the one complaining.
Finally it was our turn. Seated cellphone lady cuts in front, and the person checking tickets lets her. Of course, as we all start removing jewelry and shoes and whatnot to go through the security check, she holds things up.
"But this is a pump. It's not liquid you can squeeze out." She was talking about the foundation makeup she had "just bought" and had chosen not to put away after the million intercom and real life announcements about doing just that. She tried arguing and bargaining with the airline person, who was having none of it. The rest of us just stood there.
"It cost a lot of money." The security person suggested putting it in her car... again, the lot is so small, and close, that it was a doable idea.
"But then I'd have to stand in line again."
Eyeballs of mine rolled heavenward.
The lipgloss had to be thrown after all, but ah well, I've got more of those. The lady with the baby had to thrown out the juice after all too. The airline attendants weren't getting too clear instructions either.
I had to wait until I got to Salt Lake, and watch CNN to realize that it was a terrorist plan, not an actual attack that had happened in London.
After all of that, my flights were on time, I got left window seats both times, and listened to Eddie Izzard on my mp3 player.
And here I am. Having a great time so far, and it's been less than 24 hours.
Whoo hoo!
Very interesting situation.
I had no idea what had happened in London, being that I was packing and then sleeping.
Lines out the door, angry people refusing to throw away their $59 bottles of Estee Lauder foundation, bags being checked by hand and piling up in mountains.
Good times.
We were first told "There was a terrorist attack in London last night, so we are at code orange now. No liquids or gels of any kind will be allowed on the plane with your carry-on luggage."
Okay. I end up squatting on the floor (the SB airport is so small, it actually could be mistaken for a hotel), and start the rearranging. My waterbottle hadn't been opened yet, so into the big suitcase it went. I had a bottle of wine I was bringing out to Kevin... I've never packed a bottle of wine in checked luggage... I risked it.
It was expensive!
Next went in the make-up... no biggie there. Then my mini bag of toiletries. You know, the toothbrush, deoderant, lotion, etc. my mother always told me to carry on in case my regular luggage got lost? All of it had to be packed or tossed. Lipgloss? I asked about it.
"Lipgloss is okay." I was told. I overheard a mother being told that she could bring juice or milk in a baby's bottle, but anything else had to be thrown out.
Next, we check in at the counter. Then drop off our bags to be checked. Like I said, SB airport is so small that they have to handcheck everything. That's fun. So there's my bag, under a pile of other bags, in the middle of the airport. I watch as people's items are moved around, and rubber-gloved hands rummage around in folks undies and dress slacks.
Then, the line for the Gate (at this point, I'd acquired a large Mocha, and was feeling better, but still, it was 5:45 in the morning). Long line. The waiting area is so small, that they would only let the people for one flight in the area at a time. Denver, San Jose, and Los Angeles flights were all ahead of we Salt Lake City folks (where I would connect to the Washington DC flight). More waiting.
A lady talking loudly on her cell phone didn't want to wait in the long line. Huh. And?
She sat on a bench and complained loudly to whomever was on the other end of the line. I expect if I'd called any of my friends at that time in the morning, I wouldn't be the one complaining.
Finally it was our turn. Seated cellphone lady cuts in front, and the person checking tickets lets her. Of course, as we all start removing jewelry and shoes and whatnot to go through the security check, she holds things up.
"But this is a pump. It's not liquid you can squeeze out." She was talking about the foundation makeup she had "just bought" and had chosen not to put away after the million intercom and real life announcements about doing just that. She tried arguing and bargaining with the airline person, who was having none of it. The rest of us just stood there.
"It cost a lot of money." The security person suggested putting it in her car... again, the lot is so small, and close, that it was a doable idea.
"But then I'd have to stand in line again."
Eyeballs of mine rolled heavenward.
The lipgloss had to be thrown after all, but ah well, I've got more of those. The lady with the baby had to thrown out the juice after all too. The airline attendants weren't getting too clear instructions either.
I had to wait until I got to Salt Lake, and watch CNN to realize that it was a terrorist plan, not an actual attack that had happened in London.
After all of that, my flights were on time, I got left window seats both times, and listened to Eddie Izzard on my mp3 player.
And here I am. Having a great time so far, and it's been less than 24 hours.
Whoo hoo!
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Not gonna happen tonight
Sorry. As usual, I'm not finished getting ready for my Washington DC trip. I have to be up and out of here at O' dark thirty tomorrow morning, so I should be in bed NOW.
But I'm not.
I'm all packed, but I have to get all my paper stuff in order... you know my etickets and so forth.
Kevin is sure to have internet, but if not, I'll be back next week!
Cheers!
But I'm not.
I'm all packed, but I have to get all my paper stuff in order... you know my etickets and so forth.
Kevin is sure to have internet, but if not, I'll be back next week!
Cheers!
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Psycho-ko
Okay, I know, I have to finish this story. But I'm trying to get ready for a trip to Washington DC, and I'm just harried. Harried I tell you.
And of course my car, which I just spent $700 fixing, is acting up.
p.s.
I ran into Shelly yesterday, after not seeing her for at least 4 years. Isn't that odd? I didn't even know she lived in town anymore. And... Psycho-ko is still around too! Supposedly, "she's not drinking any more."
Ah, perhaps this story will never end.
And of course my car, which I just spent $700 fixing, is acting up.
p.s.
I ran into Shelly yesterday, after not seeing her for at least 4 years. Isn't that odd? I didn't even know she lived in town anymore. And... Psycho-ko is still around too! Supposedly, "she's not drinking any more."
Ah, perhaps this story will never end.
Sunday, August 06, 2006
MORON-ko
So, Hiroko moves in with Shelly and I on November 3rd. That date will be important for reference later.
She seemed to be...um... around a lot. Like I couldn't figure out when she worked. I had two jobs at the time; I was a special Ed Aide for emotionally disturbed children from 8:00 in the morning to 2:00 every day, then worked four days a week (and sometimes weekends) in a residential program for mentally ill adults from 4:00 to 11:00 at night. She was always at home. Always. Asleep when I left in the morning, often taking a nap when I got home from the first job, usually partying when I got back from the second job. Now, I know I was gone a lot, so I supposed she could be working while I was gone.
Nope.
Turns out she wasn't exactly a "Tennis Pro" at all. She had been hired by the club to teach tennis, yes, but not as a pro. She worked as often as someone signed up for lessons. Which, come to find out, wasn't too often. She instead, was totally digging the Santa Barbara party scene. What that is exactly, I can't speak to too well, since I was always working my ass off, or was too tired from the working off of my ass to do anything else but sleep. In hindsight, I know it entailed quite a bit of drinking, smoking, cocaine snorting, and sex with guys who bought her things. But I get ahead of my story.
She was a leech. Big time leech. Anything edible in the kitchen was fair game, as far as she was concerned. Notes, pleas, requests to refrain from other's food went unnoticed. An example:
The kids I worked with during the day were from third grade to sixth grade. One of our class projects was a garden. We planted many of the same vegetables as the Chumash Indians (the tribe from this area), as we were also studying California and local history.
We took care of that beautiful garden like nobody's business. One of our successful crops was corn. We ate fresh corn, boiled it for corn on the cob, and went through the whole process of removing the kernels, setting them out properly to dry, and then grinding them with a mortar and pestle to make cornmeal.
The kids were so proud of themselves. I took the cornmeal home to make cornbread for the class, so we could enjoy the fruits of our labor. I made the cornbread from scratch, it came out beautifully, and left it, covered with tin foil on the counter. I left a note stating "please don't touch, this is for my class tomorrow." I went to bed.
Next morning, you guessed it, about a third was missing out of the pan. The tin foil was crumpled in the sink, and the culprit was sleeping it off in her bedroom. I had a hard time picking up the pyrex dish; I yanked it up, and there was a long string of green gum (spearmint?) attached to both the bottom of the dish and the top of the countertop.
Did I scream? No. Did I go slap her silly? No. I had no time for that. I quietly and quickly made a Jiffy brand box of backup corn bread, and sped off to work. I did leave a nasty note for Moron-ko, which is the name I had started calling her in my head. Some serious thought was now being addressed to my moving out.
That afternoon, she bought me a Hershey bar and said she was "sorry," but it just looked so good," and she had been drunk. As if that was an acceptable way to apologize. I then asked her about the wine I was missing.
"Oh, I'll buy anah dah one fo' you. Why ah' you so worried?"
I love wine. Growing up in wine country's backyard, I was spoiled early. I would spend money on wine before most regular food back then. I didn't have many good bottles, and the ones I had I saved for special occasions. She helped herself to whatever I had, and then (after repeated requests) would replace it with some crap from the grocery store. If Two-buck Chuck had existed then, she'd be all over it.
So, my wine got moved to the closet in my room. She figured it out quickly enough, and just started going into my room.
"I don' know wha' the big problam is. I say I will get you more."
It was like she was from another planet, where everything that was said, really wasn't meant.
"Stay. Out. Of. My. Room." wasn't clear enough.
The deadbolt lock I bought for the the bedroom door seemed to do the trick, however.
Meanwhile, Shelly, my other roommate, worked all the time and never seemed to be around when these ridiculous events were happening. She knew Moronko wasn't a great roommate, but didn't think it was such a big deal. The fact that she slept at her boyfriend's house most nights might possibly have something to do with that.
We decided to have a party. The three of us were in the kitchen the morning of the fete, and Shelly and I were going to the store.
"Well, if we each put in 20 bucks, that should be plenty (Okay, so it wasn't going to be a big party, but remember, it was twelve years ago)."
Moronko looked at both of us, "Oh no. Ah don' ha' that much. No."
"Uh, well, what do you think is fair then?"
"Well... ah don' think... ah jus' won' be part... you guys ha' the parteh by your self."
Great.
"Oh come on. We've planned this for a week."
"I sorry. Ah jus' don' ha' any money right now."
So, whatever... I know this sounds ridiculous, but when I told Shelly I wanted Moronko OUT... Shelly just got all surfer-dudish on me, and told me to relax. At least she had paid the rent. Did I really want to go through looking for a new roommate?
"Becky... just chill."
I tried. I did.
Of course, Moronko was there for the party. She said she'd "stay in her room." How weird was that? She asked a guy over, and we heard her tell him on the phone, "bring som' beer. Bring good stuff..." And of course, this guy did.
Moronko appeared out of her room just as one of my friends showed up, a little early to help. We opened a bottle of wine, one of my good ones, and Moronko asked, "Can I have a glass?"
The fucking nerve. Before I could scream at the top of my lungs at the silly bitch, my friend, unaware of the earlier conversation that morning, had already poured her a glass. Back to her lair, Moronko went.
You do remember that this woman was 33 years old? It wasn't as if she was some princess from a sheltered kingdom, trying to get by without servants for the first time. As I write about her, I'm amazed I put up with her for as long as I did.
Twenty days. That's how long it took between her moving in, and my putting in my notice. Of course, it was a whole month more I had to spend with her, but at least there was a light at the end of the tunnel.
She seemed to be...um... around a lot. Like I couldn't figure out when she worked. I had two jobs at the time; I was a special Ed Aide for emotionally disturbed children from 8:00 in the morning to 2:00 every day, then worked four days a week (and sometimes weekends) in a residential program for mentally ill adults from 4:00 to 11:00 at night. She was always at home. Always. Asleep when I left in the morning, often taking a nap when I got home from the first job, usually partying when I got back from the second job. Now, I know I was gone a lot, so I supposed she could be working while I was gone.
Nope.
Turns out she wasn't exactly a "Tennis Pro" at all. She had been hired by the club to teach tennis, yes, but not as a pro. She worked as often as someone signed up for lessons. Which, come to find out, wasn't too often. She instead, was totally digging the Santa Barbara party scene. What that is exactly, I can't speak to too well, since I was always working my ass off, or was too tired from the working off of my ass to do anything else but sleep. In hindsight, I know it entailed quite a bit of drinking, smoking, cocaine snorting, and sex with guys who bought her things. But I get ahead of my story.
She was a leech. Big time leech. Anything edible in the kitchen was fair game, as far as she was concerned. Notes, pleas, requests to refrain from other's food went unnoticed. An example:
The kids I worked with during the day were from third grade to sixth grade. One of our class projects was a garden. We planted many of the same vegetables as the Chumash Indians (the tribe from this area), as we were also studying California and local history.
We took care of that beautiful garden like nobody's business. One of our successful crops was corn. We ate fresh corn, boiled it for corn on the cob, and went through the whole process of removing the kernels, setting them out properly to dry, and then grinding them with a mortar and pestle to make cornmeal.
The kids were so proud of themselves. I took the cornmeal home to make cornbread for the class, so we could enjoy the fruits of our labor. I made the cornbread from scratch, it came out beautifully, and left it, covered with tin foil on the counter. I left a note stating "please don't touch, this is for my class tomorrow." I went to bed.
Next morning, you guessed it, about a third was missing out of the pan. The tin foil was crumpled in the sink, and the culprit was sleeping it off in her bedroom. I had a hard time picking up the pyrex dish; I yanked it up, and there was a long string of green gum (spearmint?) attached to both the bottom of the dish and the top of the countertop.
Did I scream? No. Did I go slap her silly? No. I had no time for that. I quietly and quickly made a Jiffy brand box of backup corn bread, and sped off to work. I did leave a nasty note for Moron-ko, which is the name I had started calling her in my head. Some serious thought was now being addressed to my moving out.
That afternoon, she bought me a Hershey bar and said she was "sorry," but it just looked so good," and she had been drunk. As if that was an acceptable way to apologize. I then asked her about the wine I was missing.
"Oh, I'll buy anah dah one fo' you. Why ah' you so worried?"
I love wine. Growing up in wine country's backyard, I was spoiled early. I would spend money on wine before most regular food back then. I didn't have many good bottles, and the ones I had I saved for special occasions. She helped herself to whatever I had, and then (after repeated requests) would replace it with some crap from the grocery store. If Two-buck Chuck had existed then, she'd be all over it.
So, my wine got moved to the closet in my room. She figured it out quickly enough, and just started going into my room.
"I don' know wha' the big problam is. I say I will get you more."
It was like she was from another planet, where everything that was said, really wasn't meant.
"Stay. Out. Of. My. Room." wasn't clear enough.
The deadbolt lock I bought for the the bedroom door seemed to do the trick, however.
Meanwhile, Shelly, my other roommate, worked all the time and never seemed to be around when these ridiculous events were happening. She knew Moronko wasn't a great roommate, but didn't think it was such a big deal. The fact that she slept at her boyfriend's house most nights might possibly have something to do with that.
We decided to have a party. The three of us were in the kitchen the morning of the fete, and Shelly and I were going to the store.
"Well, if we each put in 20 bucks, that should be plenty (Okay, so it wasn't going to be a big party, but remember, it was twelve years ago)."
Moronko looked at both of us, "Oh no. Ah don' ha' that much. No."
"Uh, well, what do you think is fair then?"
"Well... ah don' think... ah jus' won' be part... you guys ha' the parteh by your self."
Great.
"Oh come on. We've planned this for a week."
"I sorry. Ah jus' don' ha' any money right now."
So, whatever... I know this sounds ridiculous, but when I told Shelly I wanted Moronko OUT... Shelly just got all surfer-dudish on me, and told me to relax. At least she had paid the rent. Did I really want to go through looking for a new roommate?
"Becky... just chill."
I tried. I did.
Of course, Moronko was there for the party. She said she'd "stay in her room." How weird was that? She asked a guy over, and we heard her tell him on the phone, "bring som' beer. Bring good stuff..." And of course, this guy did.
Moronko appeared out of her room just as one of my friends showed up, a little early to help. We opened a bottle of wine, one of my good ones, and Moronko asked, "Can I have a glass?"
The fucking nerve. Before I could scream at the top of my lungs at the silly bitch, my friend, unaware of the earlier conversation that morning, had already poured her a glass. Back to her lair, Moronko went.
You do remember that this woman was 33 years old? It wasn't as if she was some princess from a sheltered kingdom, trying to get by without servants for the first time. As I write about her, I'm amazed I put up with her for as long as I did.
Twenty days. That's how long it took between her moving in, and my putting in my notice. Of course, it was a whole month more I had to spend with her, but at least there was a light at the end of the tunnel.
Friday, August 04, 2006
Hiroko
Hiroko was the last of many roommates I had, in the top floor (and corner!) apartment on Alta Vista Drive.
I lived there a little more than four years. After coming back from Japan, I moved into a house with four other people. That lasted ten weeks. I had to learn what at 23 seemed a fine living situation, at 27 was just too damn many bodies.
I set out to find a better place. That third floor apartment was beautiful. Huge. Had an air conditioner. A living room and a dining room. A balcony. A master bedroom with double closets, a vanity and its own bathroom. With a bathtub! I love baths. I hate sharing bathrooms. That master bedroom was mine.
Oh, there was an elevator, underground parking, and a pool too. The place used to be a retirement building for over 55's, but was no longer. There was even an empty rec room.
Two reliable female roommates were found, and we were set. The first year was great, then the great movement started. For the next few years, women moved in and out. There were new jobs to go to, and boyfriends to move in with, and marriages to be had; one girl even had a breakdown and moved back in with her parents (I just thought she was sleeping a lot). Through it all, I stayed. The roommates we chose were always female. I'd had it with men and their football and stinky socks and loud voices. I wasn't happy with that gender too much during that time.
Funny though, now that I think about it, I sure dated up a storm. Had a boyfriend or two, and many flings. Sheesh. Maybe that's what I'm doing wrong now. I like men too much.
Anyway, at 30, I made plans with Katrina to go to Greece for three weeks in October. One of my roommates, Christy, had made noises about moving out. I asked her straight out,
"So, what do you think? Are you going to move? Because if you are, I'm going to too. I really want to live in a house. But it would be great to know because I could save money not paying rent during the time I'm gone."
"Oh no. I'm not moving now. Not until spring at least. Probably not 'til summer."
And of course, she had put in her notice a day after I left. My other roommate Shelly, and I had about a week to find someone once I got back from my trip. She had waited because she didn't want to chose someone without me (Remember, this is before cell phones made staying in touch easy.)
We were frantic. We put an ad in the paper, and the weekly freebie one too. Nothing. A stoned guy showed up, even though we had written the vacancy was for a female, and a 16-year-old girl who said she was emancipated from her folks. The last person to show up was a mom with a toddler girl. Pulled on our heart strings, but it wasn't going to work.
Desperate we were. Paycheck to paycheck types, and we had no clue how we were going to cover the extra rent if we didn't find someone. Shelly then mentioned that there was someone at the health club where she worked who might need a place.
Hiroko was 33 years old, was from Osaka, Japan, and was a tennis pro. She came over to the apartment to meet us and check out the place.
It seemed perfect. I'd lived in Japan, so I was pretty sure she'd be mellow. She wasn't young and immature, so we could probably avoid stupid fights about who drank the last soda in the fridge, and she was a tennis pro, which meant she was healthy and took care of herself (you know, no major drugs, sex parties, whatnot).
I couldn't have been more wrong.
But, unaware of what the next two months would have in store for us, Shelly and I enthusiastically invited her to be our third roommate.
(Next up, Moron-ko)
I lived there a little more than four years. After coming back from Japan, I moved into a house with four other people. That lasted ten weeks. I had to learn what at 23 seemed a fine living situation, at 27 was just too damn many bodies.
I set out to find a better place. That third floor apartment was beautiful. Huge. Had an air conditioner. A living room and a dining room. A balcony. A master bedroom with double closets, a vanity and its own bathroom. With a bathtub! I love baths. I hate sharing bathrooms. That master bedroom was mine.
Oh, there was an elevator, underground parking, and a pool too. The place used to be a retirement building for over 55's, but was no longer. There was even an empty rec room.
Two reliable female roommates were found, and we were set. The first year was great, then the great movement started. For the next few years, women moved in and out. There were new jobs to go to, and boyfriends to move in with, and marriages to be had; one girl even had a breakdown and moved back in with her parents (I just thought she was sleeping a lot). Through it all, I stayed. The roommates we chose were always female. I'd had it with men and their football and stinky socks and loud voices. I wasn't happy with that gender too much during that time.
Funny though, now that I think about it, I sure dated up a storm. Had a boyfriend or two, and many flings. Sheesh. Maybe that's what I'm doing wrong now. I like men too much.
Anyway, at 30, I made plans with Katrina to go to Greece for three weeks in October. One of my roommates, Christy, had made noises about moving out. I asked her straight out,
"So, what do you think? Are you going to move? Because if you are, I'm going to too. I really want to live in a house. But it would be great to know because I could save money not paying rent during the time I'm gone."
"Oh no. I'm not moving now. Not until spring at least. Probably not 'til summer."
And of course, she had put in her notice a day after I left. My other roommate Shelly, and I had about a week to find someone once I got back from my trip. She had waited because she didn't want to chose someone without me (Remember, this is before cell phones made staying in touch easy.)
We were frantic. We put an ad in the paper, and the weekly freebie one too. Nothing. A stoned guy showed up, even though we had written the vacancy was for a female, and a 16-year-old girl who said she was emancipated from her folks. The last person to show up was a mom with a toddler girl. Pulled on our heart strings, but it wasn't going to work.
Desperate we were. Paycheck to paycheck types, and we had no clue how we were going to cover the extra rent if we didn't find someone. Shelly then mentioned that there was someone at the health club where she worked who might need a place.
Hiroko was 33 years old, was from Osaka, Japan, and was a tennis pro. She came over to the apartment to meet us and check out the place.
It seemed perfect. I'd lived in Japan, so I was pretty sure she'd be mellow. She wasn't young and immature, so we could probably avoid stupid fights about who drank the last soda in the fridge, and she was a tennis pro, which meant she was healthy and took care of herself (you know, no major drugs, sex parties, whatnot).
I couldn't have been more wrong.
But, unaware of what the next two months would have in store for us, Shelly and I enthusiastically invited her to be our third roommate.
(Next up, Moron-ko)
Thursday, August 03, 2006
This has got to be my all time favorite use of fresh tomatoes:
Alla Checca
· 2 lb garden tomatoes, chopped
· 2 cloves garlic, peeled
· 15 fresh basil leaves
· 1/2 cup olive oil
· salt
· 12 oz spagettini or angel hair pasta
· 2 lb garden tomatoes, chopped
· 2 cloves garlic, peeled
· 15 fresh basil leaves
· 1/2 cup olive oil
· salt
· 12 oz spagettini or angel hair pasta
- Remove the stem end of the tomatoes and discard. With a sharp knife, chop the tomatoes coarsely and place them in a glass bowl. Salt the tomatoes and let them sit for 15 minutes. Drain the excess juice.
- Meanwhile, crush the garlic cloves by placing them, one at a time, on your work surface and placing the side of your knife blade on it. Use your fist to firmly press the blade down, crushing the garlic in the process. After smashing the garlic, chop it finely and add it to the tomatoes.
- Remove the basil leaves from their stems, chop or tear them coarsely, and toss with the tomatoes and garlic.
- Add the olive oil and toss again.
- Let the mixture rest in a cool spot, but not the refrigerator, for about 2 hours.
- Cook the pasta and drain it. Add the pasta to the sauce. Toss the mixture and serve immediately.
My sister gave me some tomatoes from her garden. Don't those always taste best? God. Too bad I couldn't share this with any of you. No, not because I ate it all! Because none of you are close enough.
ps: I am rather garlicky now. Hope Charlie-boy doesn't mind.
Peace Necklace
So, as I've written about before, my living situation is wonderful, but a little odd. I live up a rather rural road, but very close to the school at which I teach. I see rabbits, squirrels, and birds every day. I hear the Coyotes howling almost every night.
Just the other day I actually stopped my car because I saw a white hawk doing that hover-thing they do, and then I saw him swoop down and grab something. I've seen him once since.
(Please don't tell me what I saw wasn't a hawk. I'm not sure it was a hawk, I think it was a hawk, I see the red-tailed hawks all the time... so I sortof know what a hawk looks like... but I could be wrong. In any case, it sounds more impressive to say "white hawk.")
It's quiet and tranquil and lovely. And quirky. I've written before about Freaky Fred next door. He's still freaky, but I avoid him rather successfully.
My landlady has been gone for almost six weeks. She travels all over the world. When she's gone I collect the mail and take care of her lucky bamboo. My apartment, and Freaky Fred's studio are what used to be a grandmother's or guest cottage on the property. The landlady lives in the "big house." Attached to that are two more apartments; an upstairs and a downstairs. Laura has lived in the downstairs apartment for 12 years, even though she gets flooded out several times each winter. She's about 10 years older than me and always calls me "Honey" and "Sweetie." She stays over at her boyfriend's a lot, so I don't see her all that much anymore.
The upstairs apartment has had the most turnaround since I've been here (Three years as of September 5th). First there was Unka. I don't know if she was from Germany, but she had a very strong accent, and never seemed too happy. She put an old pair of shoes in the recycling bin one time, not quite getting the Metal/plastic/paper idea.
Then there was Jinny. She was a 52-year-old former beach baby who still acted like she was 21. Which is fine. Except when she and her boyfriend would have late, loud nights with the stereo blaring, and when her dog would run free in the orchard, or when the boyfriend used grocery bags to pick all the fruit from the mini-orchard. My landlady was not pleased about the last thing.
Next came Simon. A young and cute professor from England, he was here writing a book about American History. I had a big crush on him, but alas, I knew he was only going to be here for a year. Then he fell madly in love, with an American girl, who followed him back to London. Drats.
Which brings us to the latest tenant. John is single, in his early 60's but looks ten years younger. He's always pleasant to talk to, and every once in a while, asks me to come up for a glass of wine. I've always had something going on, but last night, as I was getting my laundry, I said "sure."
When I came up, on his patio table, was the little necklace you see in the picture.
He said it was for me, and fastened it around my neck. Now, this would usually be a little weird to me, but it wasn't awkward at all. He told me there was a story behind it.
"When I moved in you see, I had to move everything quickly from my freezer at my old place to my freezer at this place. I had at least three bags of coffee beans that I remember putting in the new fridge. Well, for the first few months, I didn't even think about them. You know, I didn't want to pull out the coffee grinder, and wasn't quite sure where I put the thing in the first place.
Then, just three or so months ago, I thought I should use that coffee up, if it's not gone bad already. So I pulled out one of the bags of beans, and opened it up... and it was full of these necklaces!"
I looked at him,
"But, where did they come from?"
" I have no idea Rebekah. Can you believe that? They weren't mine, that's for sure. I've only had one guest here since I moved here, and I actually called her up to see if somehow she left them here. She didn't know what I was talking about."
"Gosh, there's a story in there. Something magical."
And he agreed. He's quite the political peace-nik. He told me when he saw the necklaces, he thought it would be the way to spread peace. You know, one person at a time. He told me that he was down at a coffee shop in town, and a girl admired the necklace and he told her the story and gave it to her.
And he told me the story, and gave one to me.
I don't know if it's that easy, but I do know the necklace is special. How could it not be?
Made me think. What if I'd said no to the glass of wine last night? Like I've done every other time?
We all have stories. We need to tell them, that's for sure. But we also have to take the time to hear them from others.
Just the other day I actually stopped my car because I saw a white hawk doing that hover-thing they do, and then I saw him swoop down and grab something. I've seen him once since.
(Please don't tell me what I saw wasn't a hawk. I'm not sure it was a hawk, I think it was a hawk, I see the red-tailed hawks all the time... so I sortof know what a hawk looks like... but I could be wrong. In any case, it sounds more impressive to say "white hawk.")
It's quiet and tranquil and lovely. And quirky. I've written before about Freaky Fred next door. He's still freaky, but I avoid him rather successfully.
My landlady has been gone for almost six weeks. She travels all over the world. When she's gone I collect the mail and take care of her lucky bamboo. My apartment, and Freaky Fred's studio are what used to be a grandmother's or guest cottage on the property. The landlady lives in the "big house." Attached to that are two more apartments; an upstairs and a downstairs. Laura has lived in the downstairs apartment for 12 years, even though she gets flooded out several times each winter. She's about 10 years older than me and always calls me "Honey" and "Sweetie." She stays over at her boyfriend's a lot, so I don't see her all that much anymore.
The upstairs apartment has had the most turnaround since I've been here (Three years as of September 5th). First there was Unka. I don't know if she was from Germany, but she had a very strong accent, and never seemed too happy. She put an old pair of shoes in the recycling bin one time, not quite getting the Metal/plastic/paper idea.
Then there was Jinny. She was a 52-year-old former beach baby who still acted like she was 21. Which is fine. Except when she and her boyfriend would have late, loud nights with the stereo blaring, and when her dog would run free in the orchard, or when the boyfriend used grocery bags to pick all the fruit from the mini-orchard. My landlady was not pleased about the last thing.
Next came Simon. A young and cute professor from England, he was here writing a book about American History. I had a big crush on him, but alas, I knew he was only going to be here for a year. Then he fell madly in love, with an American girl, who followed him back to London. Drats.
Which brings us to the latest tenant. John is single, in his early 60's but looks ten years younger. He's always pleasant to talk to, and every once in a while, asks me to come up for a glass of wine. I've always had something going on, but last night, as I was getting my laundry, I said "sure."
When I came up, on his patio table, was the little necklace you see in the picture.
He said it was for me, and fastened it around my neck. Now, this would usually be a little weird to me, but it wasn't awkward at all. He told me there was a story behind it.
"When I moved in you see, I had to move everything quickly from my freezer at my old place to my freezer at this place. I had at least three bags of coffee beans that I remember putting in the new fridge. Well, for the first few months, I didn't even think about them. You know, I didn't want to pull out the coffee grinder, and wasn't quite sure where I put the thing in the first place.
Then, just three or so months ago, I thought I should use that coffee up, if it's not gone bad already. So I pulled out one of the bags of beans, and opened it up... and it was full of these necklaces!"
I looked at him,
"But, where did they come from?"
" I have no idea Rebekah. Can you believe that? They weren't mine, that's for sure. I've only had one guest here since I moved here, and I actually called her up to see if somehow she left them here. She didn't know what I was talking about."
"Gosh, there's a story in there. Something magical."
And he agreed. He's quite the political peace-nik. He told me when he saw the necklaces, he thought it would be the way to spread peace. You know, one person at a time. He told me that he was down at a coffee shop in town, and a girl admired the necklace and he told her the story and gave it to her.
And he told me the story, and gave one to me.
I don't know if it's that easy, but I do know the necklace is special. How could it not be?
Made me think. What if I'd said no to the glass of wine last night? Like I've done every other time?
We all have stories. We need to tell them, that's for sure. But we also have to take the time to hear them from others.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Telemarketing
We all hate those calls, right? And now, since I have Caller ID, I don't have to answer any of the calls. However, that doesn't stop them from calling. And calling, and calling.
A few minutes ago, I got a call from "Active Periodicals." I answered so I could ask them to take me off their calling list. Lately, I've been getting 3-4 calls a day from telemarketers (is that a word? It looks funny). Anyway, the woman on the other end asks for Mrs. Silvia. That's not my last name. Close, but no. I say,
"There is no one here by that name. Could you please remove my number from your calling list?"
"If you aren't the person we are calling, then your number isn't on our list. You're so dumb."
And she hung up on me! Can you believe it? I'm minding my own business, answer the phone, and get called dumb.
So, I try to call the number right back (it's displayed along with the name of the caller on Caller ID). I get a message that the company won't accept blocked phone numbers. I call back on my cell phone. I get a message that the voice mailbox is full. So, I look them up online and this is what I found.
I wanted to call and complain to the manager or whomever, but after looking over the other complaints, I guess I'm kinda lucky I didn't get through to anyone.
Man.
Oh, and the Salvation Army wouldn't take my old couch away. There were two pencil eraser size dots on the bottom front of it, which meant it was "stained." Gosh. I've seen much crappier things at the thrift store. Guess I'm going to have to figure out how to get it down to the main street near my house. Put a sign on it that says $25 and you know for sure, someone will come along and take it.
Who's got a truck when you need one?
A few minutes ago, I got a call from "Active Periodicals." I answered so I could ask them to take me off their calling list. Lately, I've been getting 3-4 calls a day from telemarketers (is that a word? It looks funny). Anyway, the woman on the other end asks for Mrs. Silvia. That's not my last name. Close, but no. I say,
"There is no one here by that name. Could you please remove my number from your calling list?"
"If you aren't the person we are calling, then your number isn't on our list. You're so dumb."
And she hung up on me! Can you believe it? I'm minding my own business, answer the phone, and get called dumb.
So, I try to call the number right back (it's displayed along with the name of the caller on Caller ID). I get a message that the company won't accept blocked phone numbers. I call back on my cell phone. I get a message that the voice mailbox is full. So, I look them up online and this is what I found.
I wanted to call and complain to the manager or whomever, but after looking over the other complaints, I guess I'm kinda lucky I didn't get through to anyone.
Man.
Oh, and the Salvation Army wouldn't take my old couch away. There were two pencil eraser size dots on the bottom front of it, which meant it was "stained." Gosh. I've seen much crappier things at the thrift store. Guess I'm going to have to figure out how to get it down to the main street near my house. Put a sign on it that says $25 and you know for sure, someone will come along and take it.
Who's got a truck when you need one?
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
"Why Choose Unhappiness"
My friend Torn, says this quite often. Perhaps it works for him.
I believe unhappiness is something to be experienced, just like any other emotion. Sorrow, pain, fear, resentment... all negative feelings, but they have a purpose. Whether or not we learn from them, now that's another story.
Let me tell you about another friend I saw this summer. Do you remember Dream Guy? My first kiss was with him. Jennifer lost her virginity with him and spread rumors about him.
Somehow, he and I stayed in touch throughout all these years. I was madly in love with him for several of them. Or at least I thought I was.
Let me back up. After Dream Guy left for school, I met someone else. Jesse lived in a different town, but I saw him fairly often. He was my first real boyfriend, and we were together until the first year or so of university. He and I were great friends, loved being around each other, and made each other laugh. He was one of those guys that was almost gawky; all arms and legs, but you could see the handsome man he was going to become. I was awkward as well, and when it came to sex, we sure liked kissing, but we didn't do much more than fumble around when it got to more detailed contact.
When I was 19, I realized I was in love with him. Here, I just went to find my journal (What, you thought this blog was it? Journals are things we kept before blogs).
"September 29, 1983
I love Jesse. It's a fact, revelation, glory, wonder, It's terrific. I need to touch him, to have him touch me. I want him so much. I can't wait three weeks to see him again."
However, all was not well. My next journal entry,
"October 18, 1983
I can't believe what I wrote less than a month ago. Jesse thinks he's gay and it's all over with us. I just want to cry forever. We were going to have a wonderful weekend together. We were going to have a wonderful life together. We were going to make love for the first time."
Okay, so that relationship didn't go the way I'd hoped.
Back to Dream Guy. He was back in town on and off. He always made an effort to see me, but was usually late or could only stay a minute. He was charming, so I always let it go. I hadn't forgotten that kiss at my front door either. Dream Guy was different from Jesse in almost every way.
He made me uncomfortable, but in an exciting way. He listened intently to me, the few times he actually gave me his attention. I loved the smell of him. You know how that works? How someone's scent, if you care about them, can be the sexiest thing in the world? Wow. He knocked me off my feet.
Passion.
For the first time in my life, I knew what passion was. I really liked Jesse, but I didn't feel passion for him. At the same time, I didn't know it was missing, because I had never felt it before.
So, a couple years go by, Dream Guy comes home one weekend, and we end up in bed. It was great, until we talked about it several weeks later,
"Do you know how drunk I was that night, Becky?"
Not really what a girl wants to hear.
I carried a big torch for him, he noticed me when he was home, and had his girlfriends and his life elsewhere. At one point, I was willing to quit school and move to San Francisco, just to be near him, just to see if it would work out. God. What a ding bat I was.
But no, I stayed in school, graduated, and a few years later, moved to Japan.
Still, in the back of my heart, was a little fire I kept burning for him. Don't ask me why. I don't have a good reason. He hurt me many many times, yet still I slept with him when ever the chance came up, thinking maybe... maybe.... this time it will work out.
It never did.
So, all this background for my post today.
Before this summer, the last time I saw Dream Guy was at his wedding seven years ago. He has three kids and a mini-van now. We talk on the phone maybe three or four times a year, but the conversations have become stilted. Dream Guy is going through a mid-life crisis. He has always turned to me for an ego boost... which I'm no longer willing to give him. I don't want to talk about the past. He picked someone else, so don't talk to me about our history.
But yes, until this summer, there was always this bitterness that he hadn't picked me. I could never ask him why. Of course not. So if the bitterness existed, then I must still have had feelings for him, right?
Well, yeah.
So, Dream Guy calls, says he and family are going to be in Santa Barbara in a couple of weeks. There's going to be a barbecue at Sam's (a mutual friend's) house, that Saturday, and could I be there?
Sure. No problem.
The Thursday before he and his are supposed to arrive, I get a frantic phone call from him. They are on the road, but haven't been able to find a hotel to stay in in Santa Barbara.
Okay, wait a minute. This is July, in Santa Barbara we're talking about, right? And he grew up here, right? Who the hell waits until two days before to make reservations? And traveling with three small children, it's not like they can all just sleep on the couch at a friend's house.
I try to help him out, give him Katrina's number (she's a travel agent) and wish him luck.
Next day, another call.
"Hey Beck, we're not coming in tonight after all, we'll be coming in tomorrow instead. And, uh, the barbecue's not going to work out, so we'll go to dinner at a restaurant instead."
"Uh, okay. Did you call Katrina?"
"No, but we'll find something."
"You still don't have a place?"
"It'll work out, you'll see."
At this point I'm actually saying out loud to the Dog Wonder, "I am so glad I'm not his wife right now."
Saturday, I get another call.
"Well Beck, dinner's not going to work out tonight after all. But tomorrow, tomorrow for sure. We'll go to Pascucci's in Goleta. Around 6:30 or so. Okay? I'll call you tomorrow when everything is definite."
God.
So, Sunday comes. No phone call. At 5 pm, I start fidgeting. At 6 pm, I call and leave a message on Dream Guy's cell phone. At 6:45, I leave a message on Dream Guy's wife's cell phone.
At 8:30 I eat a sandwich. At 10:30 I go to bed.
Monday afternoon, I get a phone call:
"Oh Beck, I'm so sorry. I totally flaked. I apologize. Blah blah blah...."
You can surely imagine my displeasure, which I expressed to him clearly.
So, coming full circle. "Why choose unhappiness?"
I didn't choose it in this circumstance. I was unhappy with how things turned out. However, I'm actually glad it happened.
See, for the first time, I can say, without reservations, that I'm happy I didn't end up with Dream Guy.
And besides, behavior like his makes me appreciate all the more my true friends. So see?
Unhappiness has a purpose.
I believe unhappiness is something to be experienced, just like any other emotion. Sorrow, pain, fear, resentment... all negative feelings, but they have a purpose. Whether or not we learn from them, now that's another story.
Let me tell you about another friend I saw this summer. Do you remember Dream Guy? My first kiss was with him. Jennifer lost her virginity with him and spread rumors about him.
Somehow, he and I stayed in touch throughout all these years. I was madly in love with him for several of them. Or at least I thought I was.
Let me back up. After Dream Guy left for school, I met someone else. Jesse lived in a different town, but I saw him fairly often. He was my first real boyfriend, and we were together until the first year or so of university. He and I were great friends, loved being around each other, and made each other laugh. He was one of those guys that was almost gawky; all arms and legs, but you could see the handsome man he was going to become. I was awkward as well, and when it came to sex, we sure liked kissing, but we didn't do much more than fumble around when it got to more detailed contact.
When I was 19, I realized I was in love with him. Here, I just went to find my journal (What, you thought this blog was it? Journals are things we kept before blogs).
"September 29, 1983
I love Jesse. It's a fact, revelation, glory, wonder, It's terrific. I need to touch him, to have him touch me. I want him so much. I can't wait three weeks to see him again."
However, all was not well. My next journal entry,
"October 18, 1983
I can't believe what I wrote less than a month ago. Jesse thinks he's gay and it's all over with us. I just want to cry forever. We were going to have a wonderful weekend together. We were going to have a wonderful life together. We were going to make love for the first time."
Okay, so that relationship didn't go the way I'd hoped.
Back to Dream Guy. He was back in town on and off. He always made an effort to see me, but was usually late or could only stay a minute. He was charming, so I always let it go. I hadn't forgotten that kiss at my front door either. Dream Guy was different from Jesse in almost every way.
He made me uncomfortable, but in an exciting way. He listened intently to me, the few times he actually gave me his attention. I loved the smell of him. You know how that works? How someone's scent, if you care about them, can be the sexiest thing in the world? Wow. He knocked me off my feet.
Passion.
For the first time in my life, I knew what passion was. I really liked Jesse, but I didn't feel passion for him. At the same time, I didn't know it was missing, because I had never felt it before.
So, a couple years go by, Dream Guy comes home one weekend, and we end up in bed. It was great, until we talked about it several weeks later,
"Do you know how drunk I was that night, Becky?"
Not really what a girl wants to hear.
I carried a big torch for him, he noticed me when he was home, and had his girlfriends and his life elsewhere. At one point, I was willing to quit school and move to San Francisco, just to be near him, just to see if it would work out. God. What a ding bat I was.
But no, I stayed in school, graduated, and a few years later, moved to Japan.
Still, in the back of my heart, was a little fire I kept burning for him. Don't ask me why. I don't have a good reason. He hurt me many many times, yet still I slept with him when ever the chance came up, thinking maybe... maybe.... this time it will work out.
It never did.
So, all this background for my post today.
Before this summer, the last time I saw Dream Guy was at his wedding seven years ago. He has three kids and a mini-van now. We talk on the phone maybe three or four times a year, but the conversations have become stilted. Dream Guy is going through a mid-life crisis. He has always turned to me for an ego boost... which I'm no longer willing to give him. I don't want to talk about the past. He picked someone else, so don't talk to me about our history.
But yes, until this summer, there was always this bitterness that he hadn't picked me. I could never ask him why. Of course not. So if the bitterness existed, then I must still have had feelings for him, right?
Well, yeah.
So, Dream Guy calls, says he and family are going to be in Santa Barbara in a couple of weeks. There's going to be a barbecue at Sam's (a mutual friend's) house, that Saturday, and could I be there?
Sure. No problem.
The Thursday before he and his are supposed to arrive, I get a frantic phone call from him. They are on the road, but haven't been able to find a hotel to stay in in Santa Barbara.
Okay, wait a minute. This is July, in Santa Barbara we're talking about, right? And he grew up here, right? Who the hell waits until two days before to make reservations? And traveling with three small children, it's not like they can all just sleep on the couch at a friend's house.
I try to help him out, give him Katrina's number (she's a travel agent) and wish him luck.
Next day, another call.
"Hey Beck, we're not coming in tonight after all, we'll be coming in tomorrow instead. And, uh, the barbecue's not going to work out, so we'll go to dinner at a restaurant instead."
"Uh, okay. Did you call Katrina?"
"No, but we'll find something."
"You still don't have a place?"
"It'll work out, you'll see."
At this point I'm actually saying out loud to the Dog Wonder, "I am so glad I'm not his wife right now."
Saturday, I get another call.
"Well Beck, dinner's not going to work out tonight after all. But tomorrow, tomorrow for sure. We'll go to Pascucci's in Goleta. Around 6:30 or so. Okay? I'll call you tomorrow when everything is definite."
God.
So, Sunday comes. No phone call. At 5 pm, I start fidgeting. At 6 pm, I call and leave a message on Dream Guy's cell phone. At 6:45, I leave a message on Dream Guy's wife's cell phone.
At 8:30 I eat a sandwich. At 10:30 I go to bed.
Monday afternoon, I get a phone call:
"Oh Beck, I'm so sorry. I totally flaked. I apologize. Blah blah blah...."
You can surely imagine my displeasure, which I expressed to him clearly.
So, coming full circle. "Why choose unhappiness?"
I didn't choose it in this circumstance. I was unhappy with how things turned out. However, I'm actually glad it happened.
See, for the first time, I can say, without reservations, that I'm happy I didn't end up with Dream Guy.
And besides, behavior like his makes me appreciate all the more my true friends. So see?
Unhappiness has a purpose.
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