Chimney Sweep, Crocodile Wranger, Rodeo Clown

After a two-week break, the re-entry into the classroom was turbulent. I had had a fantasy that my fourth graders would spend their vacation days thinking about how their behavior affected others, what they could do to make the classroom more positive, and in what ways they might be more respectful to me.

Nerp.

By lunchtime, I was asking Facebook for career suggestions.

My sister offered astronaut. I’m getting kinda squirrelly about flying in my old age, and that’s just between RDU and Laguardia. A trip to the International Space Station might make me a little wheezy.

Some friends wondered about my being a professional dog rescuer or dog-sitter. Those I could go for…Do they come with health insurance?

Suzanne mentioned pole dancer. Well…I mean, that requires a lot of upper-body strength, doesn’t it? Also, I forget, how do strip joints feel about hip-to-knee cellulite?

Are they pro- or anti-?

Anti-, right?

Moving on.

Though I really like Steve’s recommendation that I become a guru-on-a-mountaintop, that sounds like I’d have to be, you know, wise or something, so I think my sister-in-law had the best idea: bajillionaire.

Now all I need is one bajillion dollars. Pony up, folks.

Happy Coming Out Day, People

Have you heard about New York Republican gubernatorial candidate Carl Paladino’s precious little speech? What a mensch—he just doesn’t want anyone “to be brainwashed into thinking that homosexuality is an equally successful or valid option” as heterosexuality.

Wow.

And apparently, his prepared text had a line which he omitted when he delivered it: “There is nothing to be proud of in being a dysfunctional homosexual.”

That’s true! There IS nothing to be proud of in being a dysfunctional homosexual.

But I know a hell of a lot of functional homosexuals, and I love ’em! I’m proud of ’em! They’re just wonderful!

Do Not Read This Book

My book club just read “Her Fearful Symmetry” by Audrey Niffenegger.

I hated it and will, forthwith, enumerate the reasons why.

Number one: Third person omniscient point-of-view sucks anyway, and Niffeneggar executed it particularly badly in this novel, sometimes writing from different characters’ perspectives in the same paragraph.

Number two: Only one of the characters was remotely likable and had a compelling arc. That was Martin, the upstairs neighbor who suffered from Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. As you might have guessed, the upstairs neighbor was not one of the main characters. All the main characters were needy, whiny, pathetic, and/or generally uninteresting.

Number three: The author put all the characters’ thoughts in italics…and there were a lot of them. Here’s a sample: “Martin stood holding the letter. The worst thing has happened. He could not take it in.  She’s gone. She would not come back.”

Take out italics; a little shift in tense…Presto change-o! Tell me it’s not better thus: “Martin stood holding the letter. The worst thing had happened. He could not take it in. She was gone. She would not come back.”

Number four: The “twist” was predictable. It had been done better and, more importantly, twenty-five years ago in a Young Adult novel I read called Stranger with My Face by Lois Duncan.

Number five: The denouement was wholly unsatisfying. I’m thinking she was under deadline and wrote the last 30 pages in 30 minutes. “OK, this one has a baby, the guy leaves her, so-and-so gets a boyfriend, and what’s-her-name finds a crow to fly away on. Done! Whew!”

I could give you more reasons why I hated this book, but I hope that gives you enough to go on.

Thanks for asking.

Dear Future Boyfriend

I’m a pretty flexible person about most things. However, there are exceptions. I’m going to insist that you not wear black and navy together. Also, don’t say, “Bye bye.” You’re a grown man, for crying out loud! (Peter Sagal gets a pass because he’s funny; Neil Conan does not because he’s not.) Lastly, I’m a lid-down person. Not just seat-down, LID-down. Believe me, you’ll adapt, and the next time your toothbrush or iPhone goes clanging off the lid, instead of splashing into the bowl, you’ll come kiss me and tell me you’re glad I changed your wanton ways.

I’m no Victoria’s Secret model, but I exercise A LOT. I eat fruits and vegetables every day. I brush and, most days, floss. I started an IRA when I was 20, and I’m frugal. In general, I don’t buy shit I don’t need. And though I’m prone to clutter and I hate hate hate cleaning, I endeavor to keep my physical space clean and tidy.

I want to be with somebody who attempts to be healthy, financially cautious, and orderly. You’re not an independently wealthy triathlete with OCD? That’s OK—I’m just saying: worrying about your well-being, our finances, and the state of the house takes a lot of energy. Energy that could be used for sex. You make the choice.

Kisses,

Amy

I’ll Be Dancin’

There’s this guy at CrossFit who does all the Workouts-of-the-Day Rx. (If you do the WOD as prescribed, you get a little ‘Rx’ next to your name on the board. For reference, I’ve gotten an Rx, well, lemme see…NEVER. Not even fucking close.)

He’s medium height, muscly, rrrrrrripped but not bulky, clearly about 2% body fat. Wiry, I guess you’d say. Sinewy maybe. If he doesn’t climb rock faces on his day off, I’m a monkey’s uncle.

He not only does the WODs Rx, sometimes he’ll do them twice in a row. Or he’ll finish and go out for a run. (I usually do a half-assed downward facing dog and then hobble to my car.)

Anyway, we’re doing the WOD the other day. A song comes on I don’t recognize, but he does. “Lady Gaga,” he says, in the middle of a set of pull-ups.

He proceeds to sing, “Stop callin’, stop callin’, I don’t wanna think anymore! I left my head and my heart on the dance floor!”

And then he runs to the wall, kicks his legs up, and does 15 handstand push-ups.

These people crack me up.

Tee Nage Dream

There’s really no rest for a person with a grammar stick up her butt. I’m just bothered by so many things. Of course, putting my peeves out into cyberspace is stupid because

(1) I’m sure to make mistakes too, inviting fist-shaking and cries of “Hypocrite!”;

(2) grammar rules evolve;

(3) I often abandon grammar rules for the sake of voice [see asterisks]; and

(4) who the hell wants to read a blog post about grammar anyway?

(Watch that not stop me!)

In addition, I follow certain British rules that American grammarians would consider incorrect. For example, from the last post: My girlfriends and I have this game we call “Gross Crush”. See, I have the quotation marks before the period because the game is not called “Gross Crush Period”; it’s called plain old “Gross Crush”. But American publications punctuate it thus: …this game we call “Gross Crush.” Quotation marks after the period.* I hate that.

But more importantly, really, Katy Perry? (Yes, I’m about to critique a Katy Perry song.) ‘Teenage’ is a compound word. You know how to hyphenate a compound word?** Between the two words that make it up.***

You sing:

You
Make me
Feel like I’m living a tee-
Nage
Dream

A girl who is 13 to 19 years old is not a tee/nager. She’s a teen/ager.

Ugh, and there’s a house in my neighborhood where the Bailey family lives. They have a sign out front:

The Bailey’s House

I mean, come ON. That sign clearly states that one person lives in that house, and that person calls himself The Bailey!

Who’s with me? Want to share your favorite grammar peeve?

P.S. I’m filing this one under Ask the Avid Bruxist. Nobody asked, but I really think y’all**** should have.

*Sentence fragment

**Missing helping verb ‘do’

***Sentence fragment

****Variant of ‘you all’

What a Girl Wants

A friend posted an article about what men and women find attractive on Facebook a while back.

An excerpt:

“Speaking of what women want, this is a very gray area and is said to change from woman to woman and even be inconsistent among a single individual.” (Bold mine.)

Alas, so true. I like a certain quality or feature in one man, but the same thing in another turns me off. Moreover, I think I like someone one minute, and the next it’s shut off, like a spigot.

“One study…even confirmed the fact that while men are largely in agreement about who they find to be attractive, women have no consensus with one another. While men would largely agree about how attractive a given image of a woman was, the scores from women would be all over the board.”

Also true. My girlfriends and I have this game we call “Gross Crush”. All of us have someone we think is attractive that the others gag about. Some examples: Michael Douglas (ick), Chazz Palminteri (ew), and—mine—Joaquin Phoenix (dreamy!). My first runner-up is Bill Clinton….

And regarding what men want:

“As for curvy women, it seems that men’s brains respond to hourglass figures like they are a drug…curvy women’s bodies activate parts of the male mind that are associated with rewards and parts of the brain that are activated by drugs and alcohol.”

Boo yah! I am dope. I am the motherfucking grand prize.

Of course, curvy and chubby are two different things.

Rats.

Dear Redford, Part 3

I often hear a rhythmic thumping and look over to find you, asleep, wagging your tail. Thwap, thwap, thwap it goes against the floor. I don’t have to wonder what you’re dreaming about that’s making you so happy. Everything makes you happy. I mean, food, of course. Treats. Toys.

Mostly beings, though. Humans, you love humans. And other dogs. But really anything with a soul. When we’re hiking, sometimes I can hear Violet’s thoughts, “Bird! Deer! Bunny! Human! Bug!” and yours, “Friend! Friend! Friend! Friend! Friend!” What a sweet baby.

You’re very much the antithesis to your mother’s self-absorbed skeptic with a propensity for depression. Thank god for that.

You love going places in the car, but you hate the car. I think you have motion sickness. You spend all your time, if you’re in the back seat,

with your head out the window

…and, if you’re in the way-back,

draped halfway over the back seat.

I know you’re uncomfortable, but it’s pretty cute. And your motion sickness reminds me that you’re mortal. You seem invincible much of the time—bashing your head into furniture and not even blinking, for example. There was the time at the end of our trip to Massachusetts when you got all listless, and I was freaking out. Turns out you had frolicked in the sand so much without rinsing out between your toes, that the area between your paw pads was all raw and bloody and scabby. I didn’t figure it out for a few days. I felt like a bad parent, and I’m sorry you had to go through all that pain.

Something only a mother could love: You poot audibly. I’m always surprised when I look over and don’t see a pile of crap on the floor because it smells that bad. Seriously, I want to be mad at you because the stink burns my nostril hairs, but the sound is so funny, a little “pfft” or a “thoo”, and you look so cute lying there with your eyebrows arched and your upper lip flaps hanging over your lower lips, and I just have to go kiss your silly forehead. Oh god. I worry about the Pavlovian response you’re developing.

Actually, scratch that. I think, had you been there, you might’ve effed up Pavlov’s experiments. You don’t so much “learn“. Mr. Carlos and Ms. Kathy, the Spanish teachers at my old school—well, we used to joke about which teachers our dogs would get if they went there. One of Ms. Kathy’s would have done well in my class; alas, you would’ve needed Ms. Berry. Because you’re special.

But you’re my baby. You’re more than a year-and-a-half old now, but you’re still a big, gallumphy baby. My baby.

Love,

Amy