The Cat Lady

next door to me has taken to setting food out for the feral cats AND a blanket for them to sleep on! When she neglects to give them food and warmth, they cry and cry and cry. The sound of cats crying is horrific.

I keep trying to look on the bright side of things. I have not seen any mice.

*M*

Dish Washers

Dish washers are the abosolute lovliest, best invention of the 20th century. At my mom's house in Detroit, we have a dishwasher, but it hasn't been loaded in years. At my aunt's house in Detroit, there is a dishwasher, but, sadly, it too has not been activated in years. As a result, for the past 25 years, I have had the unfortunate displeasure of washing all dishes by hand. Every day. Sometimes twice.

Every day I would plunge my delicate lady's fingers into water that is either too hot or tepid. I would have to scour, scurb and disinfect all dishes by hand. If we ate eggs for breakfast, I would have to scrunch my nose up as little egg bits floated around graying dishwater. If we ate spaghetti for dinner, I would have to feel my stomach turn as the clear blue water became that disgusting shade of orange. Inevitibly, at least once the dish drain would become dislodged and I would curse not-so-softly as I had to refill the sink and restart. My soft supple hands would dry up and cringe every time I had to add Clorox to the water to dininfect a cutting board or particularily resistant pyrex dish with dried macaroni and cheese.

I had forgotten there was something better: the diswasher.

When I moved to Vegas, I noticed the dishwasher. I treated it the way I had been conditioned to treat dishwasers: I ignored it. At my houses in Detroit, that's what we did--we ignored them. Two weeks ago, as I was up to my elbows, busting suds, I thought to myself "there's gotta be a better way." They, a soft golden light shone from the sky and illuminated the metal gray door of the dishwasher as beautous voices rang out from the Heavens above.

I dashed out and purchased dishwashing soap (In April of 2002, 11 friends of mine were doing another friend of mine a favor and washing the dishes. They thought it prudent to use the dishwasher, but none of these 11, college educated, 2.5 and above gpa having people knew that you definitely can not put Palmolive in the dishwasher. They did, and soap bubbles exploded from the dishwasher, covered the entire floor, and caused an unbelieveably big mess that was kind of fun to watch, but a real pain in the tush to clean) because I knew that Palmolive can not be used in the dishwasher.

I loaded the dishwasher. I added the soap powder. I danced around my kitchen, to a little ditty in my head. It clicked on, 20 minutes later it clicked off and I was greeted by two trays of sparking dishes.

So I've been using the dishwasher for the past two weeks. And, my loads have gotten bigger and bolder. Unfortunately, today, I pushed the envelope a bit too far.

Let me leave you with this little piece of advice:

IF you eat scrambled eggs and grits for breakfast, and do not scrape the egg and grit bits off of the pot and pan before you put said pot and pan into the dishwasher, you will not be greeted with two trays of sparkling dishes in 20 minutes. Instead, you will be greeted with two trays of wet dishes with egg and grit bits stuck to them that will all have to be handwashed.

*M*

Drag Queens are Really Very Lovely People

I know my fair share of Queens...very nice men who opt to dress and live as women. I have been to my fair share of drag shows, usually full of Chers, Brittneys and the occasional Beyonce who belt out tunes from the 70s, 80s and 90s. One of my favorites is "These Boots were made for Walkin'." One of the best activities Iowa City--complete with its quilts, fairs, corn and pies...I loved it--had to offer was the Sunday night drag show. My friends and I went, ate the free pizza and got free make-up tips from some very nice Queens. So, all things considered, I think I"m fairly open minded and tolerant.

Unless it infringes on my job.

Last week, the yearbook staff was taking the "Best of the Best" student pictures: most involved, class clown, most spirited...you get the picture. The yearbook editor--a very responsible, honest, hardworking child--had won the female title of "most spirited"; she and her male counterpart were going to take their pictures on Friday. She comes running into the classroom, and breathlessly asks "Ms. Daughtery...can I please change into my cheerleading uniform?" I told her that's not a problem. She grabs a uniform and starts dashing toward the door. Then a second yearbook staffer/cheerleader goes running off after her, holding a second uniform. I stop child no2 and ask "What's that for?" The first girl stops and says "That's for James."

Excuse me?

So I ask "Excuse me?"

She replies "Ms. Daughtery, he's going to wear my uniform for the most spirited picture. It'll be sooooo funny. "

I respond, with one eyebrow slightly raised, "No. He's not"

At this point, I feel the need to point out a few things:

1. I am a NEW teacher to this district and I am on PROBATION and have to get through the year without choking, strangling, berating, bullying, cursing or screaming at a child.

2. I work in a community which is VERY heavily Mormon. There's someone named The Bishop all the kids talk about and as far as I can tell, this man has direct access to Jesus.

3. I am a NEW teacher to this district and I am on PROBATION and have to get through the year without choking, strangling, berating, bullying, cursing or screaming at a child.

So, after explicitly stating that James could not wear the cheerleader uniform, the winner sulked off and I could hear her thoughts "Ugh! She is SO uncool."

I waited 10 minutes then thought....hmmm....if I were 13 what would I do? So I went to the hallway to find Haley in her cheerleading uniform and James in her cheerleading uniform, doing what appeared to be a hurkle.

After putting his leg down, he stood there, short and squat in a skirt and lycra sleeveless top. She stood still and began to tear up. When is summer vacation?

What a day.

Age Ain't Nuthin but a Number

Yesterday, as I was checking my mail, I came across a very interesting envelope. It was addressed to me, but the addressee was none other than the AARP (American Association of Retired Persons?) Anyway, they sent me a letter. Much too curious to dismiss a letter from my favorite social group that fights for freedom for all, I opened the envelope.

Inside was a letter. It read: Dear Miah Daughtery. We see you have not activated your AARP benefits, though you are eligible. With AARP you can have access to discounts nationwide on health, car, and boat insurance. Please hurry and activate your card today. The letter went on to detail all the benefts I would have as an AARP member and was accompainied by my official AARP card and membership number.

Today, as I was putting the last of some horrific essay grades into my gradebook, I had a very intersting conversation. A student and I were talking and I was saying to him that I was looking for a summer job in New York. He said the following "Ms. Daughtery, you're too old for a summer job." And went on to say that only people his age were eligible for summer jobs.

So if I'm too old for a summer job, can I activate my AARP membership?

*M*

More of the Ridiculous and Insane: A tribute to Thanksgiving

This evening, as I was dining on my fancy feast of jasmine rice, brocclini and chicken nuggets, I looked up something I had heard of but never had: turducken.

For those of you who don't know, turducken is a chicken stuffed inside a duck stuffed inside a turkey. It's becoming increasingly popular in the weeks just before Thanksgiving and just after Christmas. I always thought turduken was an turban turlegend. I was twrong.

How many ways can we make it totally possible and permissible to have a coronary during the holidays you may be asking?

Well, I wondered the same thing. So I went on a bit of a mini webquest to locate as many ridiculous holiday meats as I could. Here is what I uncovered:

Chuckney--Turkey stufed with chicken stuffed with duckling
Turduckencorpheail--standard turducken, stuffed with a cornish game hen, which is then stuffed with a pheasant, and finally stuffed with a quail.
Turgooponducheasanishuail--turduckencorpheail stuffed with a goose and capon
Turgooponducheasnishuaichuffguihagaga-- It has all the properties of the previous two versions listed, but also includes beef, pork, lamb, and frog. A FROG? seriously people...
Osturduckean--ostrich stuffed with turkey stuffed with duck stuffed with chicken
Turdbutt--a pork shoulder (or Boston butt), inside a duck, inside a turkey.
Gurducken--a goose, which is stuffed with a turkey, then a duck, then a chicken.
Hotchken-- "the poor man's turducken," is a chicken stuffed with hotdogs.
Turgoduckmaguikenantidgeonck-- turkey, goose, duck, mallard, guineafowl, chicken, pheasant, partridge, pigeon, woodcock
Bustergophechiduckneaealcockidgeoverwingailusharkolanbler-- a bustard stuffed with a turkey, a goose, a pheasant, a chicken, a duck, a guinea fowl, a teal, a woodcock, a partridge, a plover, a lapwing, a quail, a thrush, a lark, an Ortolan Bunting and a Garden Warbler.


Definitions compliments of Wikipedia and we all know how legitimate that is...

God has a Sense of Humor

Warning: What you are going to read may be viewed as "culturally insensitive." I am not "culturally insenstive." I am merely reporting and reflecting on my experiences. If you are especially "culturally sensitive" or "politically correct" or "easily offended," I suggest that this be the time you stop reading.

Ok really. Don't read on.


You've been fairly warned.

So on my last night in Detroit, my friend Tammy and I went out. Against my better judgement, we ended up staying out until about 1:30 am. My plane to Vegas left Detroit at 7 am so that meant I had to be at the airport by at least 5:30, which meant I had to leave my house by 5 am which meant I had to be awake and alert by at least 4:45 am. Needless to say, that plan did not work well. I ended up running out of my house at 5:20 after a mere 3.5 hours of a deep and fitful sleep.

I figured I could sleep on the airplane.

The first leg of my flight took me from Detroit to a one hour layover in Cincinnati. I won't dwell on Cincy, but it does have the absolute homliest people in the United States.

I figured that after I left Cincy, I could sleep on the plane; that seemed reasonable because the flight from Cincy to Vegas was projected to be 3.5 hours. Perfect sleepin time.

I figured oh so wrong.

I strapped myself in, got snuggled under my coat, closed my eyes and listened to the calming purr of the airplane engine as we left Cincy. I thought I had lucked out because 2/3 of the flight was filled with deaf people doing sign language. Before closing my eyes, I looked admirably at the sign language whizzing past my eyes and wished I knew sign language. Life was good. My tired body relaxed; my eye lids were weighed down; I sighed and snuggled in the extra tiny faux leather Delta airline seat.

We were off. The plane was completely quiet, minus the calming purr of the engine.

Suddenly, I was jolted out of my restless slumber by a sound that was a cross between seals crying and cats mating--a high pitched loud, brassy sound that honestly frightened me. One of the deaf women--in the seat in front of me no less-- was laughing and laughing and laughing and laughing. The laughted lasted all 3.5 hours. There was absolutely no noise from the plane except from the deaf people. I got no sleep. None.

The man next to me opened one eye (as he was also trying to fall into restless plane slumber) and we eyeballed each other warily.

The ironies of life.

As my mom would say, "God has a sense of humor."

*M*

Starbucks

As I'm sitting in the airport, witnessing firsthand the delay in holiday travel as my plane has already been delayed by two hours and sipping fashionably on a tall Orange decaf soy Mocha minus the cream, and munching on an exceedingly chocolatey chocolate hazlenut biscotti, I am wondering the obvious: Whatever happened to plain coffee?

*M*

The Booger Picker

MY last night in New York, my roomates at co-presenters and I decided to leave the city with a bang: we commenced on a bar hop in lower Manhattan. I"ll leave those details to your imagination (much of it is still very sketchy to me anyways) but I do remember one very pronounced incident that happened when we were at our last bar.

We were seated near the window, quaintly sipping on (or guzzling down, however you want to paint the scene is fine with me) margaritas. The windows were tinted so we could see clearly outisde, but the people on the street could not see us. A very nice Mercedes-Benz station wagon pulled on alongside the bar and we could see a very smartly dressed man sitting in the driver's seat. He appeared to be about 40 years old. He looked right; he looked left. Then he began shoving his pointer finger as far up in his nose as he could go without finding brain matter.

At this point, my comrades and I were squealing and lauging in complete disgust.

After digging around for a few minutes, he pulled his now slimy finger out of his nose and looked inquisitively at what he had managed to produce. He appeared suprised. Then, to bring my utter disgust to total rupugnance, the booger picker (and my sensitive readers should probably stop here) graduated from picking to eating. Yes, dear readers: the Benz driving, suit wearing, 40-year-old man was eating his boogers.

This went on for 25 minutes.

The margarita made it ever funnier. So we started yelling booger eater and pointing at the window while quaintly sipping on our margaritas.

Then he got out of the car, locked the door and entered the bar where we were sitting. That's when one of my comrades decided that we should leave the Benz driving, suit wearing, 40-year-old booger eater a friendly note. It read:

Dear Booger Eater,

We saw you.

Love, the Three Blind Mice.

and left if on his windshield when we left the club.

*M*

Sin City meets the Big Apple

This past weekend I attended the NCTE conference in New York. I haven't been to the Big Apple since 2003 when the high point of my trip was throwin up on Ed Lover, but I'll save that story for another day.

Anywho, when I arrived in New York tired, weak and hungry on Thursday evening the first thing I noticed after the ridiculously gridlocked traffic was the constant anomaly which gives the city its character. New York is marked (at least Lower Manhattan) by its ability to jam together two things that seem not to belong with one another and make them work. The ritziest hotels, like the Ritz Carlton, boasted of having parking in the parking garage for $85.00 a day; right in front of the hotel were two of the oldest cars I have ever seen and one had a flat tire. In front of Morton's Steakhouse mountainous piles of rodent infested garbage sat on the street, waiting patiently for the dump truck. From the beautiful skline of Cental Park, resplendent in golden and amber fall colors, one sees nothing but gray, smoggy skies and industrial strength buildings with bars. The hoods of yellow cabs with cursing, angry, speeding drivers are covered in flowered murals designed by special ability children to encourage calmness. One block East of the Coach store where signature bags start at $240.00, stands a Senegalese man selling darn good knock offs for $30.00. It's like mixing peanut butter and ketchup between two pieces of bread and then getting a suprisingly good sandwich.

One of the things I appreciate about New York and am longing for in Las Vegas is the indivuality and creativity of independent stores and restaurants. Sin City does have its fair amount of sin and debauchery, but there is nothing particularily unique about the city outside of the 4 miles of Strip. New York, however, seems to thrive on its uniqueness where Vegas succeeds at silencing its.

I did have to do at least one cheesy tourist activity when I was in the city so I woke up early on Friday morning got dressed and went with my friend Ebony to a taping of the Today Show. It was disappointingly small and clearly producer staged, but I was still excited. If you were watching Friday, that was me and Ebony behind the Junior World Duck Calling Champion. :)

Where will my adventures take me next?

New York

cabernetmartiniscotchdrambuiebrandymojitomartinitequilamargarita....

is how I ended my last night in New York.

More Vegas Crazy

Today I went to Kinko's to make copies for a presentation. I was standing directly next to a well-dressed, elderly black woman. She was wearing a farily conservative business suit, had her more-silver-than-brown hair in a sensible bun and was wearing tortoise rimmed spectacles. Her jewelry was sparkly, but understated. Her shoes? Classic and comfortable. She was holding what I assumed to be a business portfolio and making copies. I pretty much ignored her and went about my business.

Until I had to walk around her to get to another copy machine.

In her "business portfolio," there were pages of body building photos of just her. In the picture, the demure, classy lady I was standing next to looked like Zena, Warrior Princess. I felt my eyebrow raise just slightly when I saw the first couple of spreads shooting out of the copy machine.

When she got done with those, the woman began to make more copies of herself.

Naked.

*M*

Teachers Produce Future Leaders

Yesterday I went to a workshop and the presenter wrote "principal" on her slide show. She meant to write "principle" but made a slight error. Another teacher noticed it and asked which version was correct (both would have fit in the sentence, but one was a bit odd). The presenter noted the error and said that yes, she should have written principle. A third teacher--high school English, special ed, no less-- offered to fix the spelling error:

"Yes" she replied indigantly "you should have written p.r.i.n.c.i.p.o.l."

*M*

Read a Book...

So the official spokespeople of Black men, women, and children in the great U. S. of A. have spoken:

Read a book,
Read a book,
Read a muthafuckin book.

Thank you, BET--otherwise known as Becoming Embecils TV.

This afternoon, as I was teaching, several of my students came in the room, heads bopping to some imaginary beat in their minds, and seemingly unconsciously murmuring a little ditty. The words are as follows:

Read a book, read a book, read a mummapfffting book. Yeah. Read a book, read a book, read a mummapfffting book.

In an attempt to conceal the obvious curse words, my kids replaced the key words with "mummapffting."

I looked up and asked one of my kids what in the world they were talking about.

"You know Ms. Daughtery, you like to read. The Read-A-Book song on BET."

I replied that I did not watch BET.

One of my kids told me that I wasn't Black. Another said I was a shame to the Black race.

All because I don't watch BET. (Keep in mind, these strong sentiments were expressed my people not old enough to legally vote, drink, procreate, marry or watch rated R movies-yet they all knew the words to BET's newest degredatation: Read a Book.

Just when we thought BET could sink no lower--the BET awards where rappers throw chairs and threaten to beat each other up; the constant barrage of booty-shakin', ass-and-titty little ditties; the nonstop videos that do not subconsciously influence people; the Sharpton press-and-curl hour--it manages to suck the last shred of dignity from cable TV with Read A Book--a song that encourages (?) reading. It gives the viewer great advice: read a book, read a magazine, read the sports page, just read a MFing book.

Now, the reading teacher in me, I suppose, should be happy that BET is encouraging their core demographic (ages 18-39) to read. But come on. The Read-A-Book song is accompanied with a cartoon video, complete with a stripper with the word "Book" spread across her buttocks as she bounces up and down.

Have we really sunk this low? In BET's quest to "keep it real" they somehow forgot to keep it right. A good friend of mine swears that every time we watch BET, we actually lose brain cells, thus becomming progressively stupider. I think I may agree.

Guess I'm off to read my MFing book...

*M*

The culprits have been found

Around 4:30 am I awakened to a child crying loudly outside my window. Alarmed, I looked out of the windor to see the creature in distress. When I peered out into the darkness, I scanned the porch area and saw no baby, but I heard its wails of distress. I scanned the area again: no baby. Finally, I saw it. A feral cat in heat.

It was screaming like its life was hanging on by a thread. I looked at my clock, realized that it was too late to get any real sleep and not early enough to fully wake up and understood what the third circle of Hell was like.

Cats. The feral cats are back. They never really left, but now they're back and in heat. Mating.

Disgusted, I plopped back onto my bed and tried to smother my ears with my pillow. More wails. Later this afternoon, as I was cutting butter for a pie crust (yes, the muffin man is back) I accidentaly sliced my finger. Realizing I have no band-aids, I went to ask my neighbor if I could have one so I wouldn't have to drive to the store with a bloody finger. My neighbor, an elderly woman, answered the door and had me step inside her apartment while she went off in search of a bandage.

As I looked around the darkened apartment, the first thing I noticed was a sign that read "A Home is not a Home if it Doesn't have a Cat!" and another that scripted "Cats are where the heart is." and a third that besmirked "I'm smarter than you. I"m a cat!" Upon further investigation, I noticed not one, not two, but three bowls of cat food, two cats lounging in the sunlight and eyeing me suspiciously, and cat food crumbs making a trail from the kitchen to the front door.

Aha Watson!

Is she crazy? Potentially yes. I officially live next door to the crazy cat lady.

*M*

PS--last week FedEx left a package on my doorstep. A cat peed on it.

PPS--on a completely unrelated note, above are pictures of my sister and me. She came to visit and we went to see the Blue Man Group. It's a great show. I highly recommend it!

Yesterday I breathed

When I woke up on Friday morning, I expected to have a wonderful three day weekend. I expected to attend a Halloween soiree (I did) and have wonderful tales of debauchery and sin and festivus to share with you when I was done (I don't). I expected to sleep late, stay up late, and get up late--all the result of me running wild in the Vegas streets on this hallowed weekend.

I did not expect my uncle to die.

On Friday evening, I started my weekend as I had originally planned--with a cocktail and some three inch heels. I partied, got sore feet and partied some more. I came home at a very unrespectable hour, expecting to crash into a fitful slumber. Fifteen minutes into my sleep time, my phone rang. I ignored it. I called the unrecognizable number back to no answer. I dismissed it. Ten minutes later, my sister called. I answered. Thirty seconds later I shot up in my bed like a cannon and listened to my sister cry on the verge of hysteria. I felt nothing.

Several hours later, however, while driving home in the dark in an unfamiliar land with unfamiliar people and in an unfamiliar time, I started sobbing uncontrollably. The selfish part of me is angry and sad and hurt that my favorite uncle of all time; the best uncle for tricks and teases; the uncle who kidnapped me as a child for a day in the park; the uncle who taught me to correctly cut a pineapple and apply a fake mole (for emphasis); the uncle who could always make me laugh--even when he was insulting me; the uncle who never found a group of people he did not know is gone. The unselfish part of me is so very thankful that God finally released him of his pain and he is in peace. I am not sure which part of me is stronger.

For those of you who know me, you are aware that for the past few years I have lived with my uncle Larry, who I am both saddened and glad to say passed of a heart attack on Friday night.

For those of you who know me, you are aware of the internal dilemnas I have dealt with (and probably not very well) over the past few years.

For those of you who know me, you are aware of the stress I and my family have felt--you know of midnight ambulance runs, tears in the middle of night, the constant threat of death hanging over our heads.

For those of you who know me, you are aware of the most painful and taxing four years of my life.

For those of you who know me, I am telling you that for the first time in years, yesterday I finally exhaled and am just now beginning to breathe again.

I refuse to think of my uncle in the context that I have seen him over the past few years. I remember the uncle I knew as a kid and as a teenager--the uncle who brought presents and laughs wherever he was. So, both crying and laughing, Uncle Larry, I remember you.

*M*

Here are some of my absolute favorite "Uncle Larry" one liners:

Who cares about Mr. Right? I want Mr. Right Now.
I might be an old man, but I've got young ideas
I don't like to tell people when I was born, but it wasn't yesterday
You're the prettiest girl on the block--just don't leave the block (can't tell you how many times I heard that one)
I came in like a million bucks, now I feel like a cancelled check.
You should be shot with a shit gun
I used to give it away--but now I have to buy it back
I was blessed by Mother Nature but fucked up by Father Time
What do you expect from me? I'm just a tired old colored woman
Who did your hair? The wind?
You used to be a live chicken, now you're a cooked goose
You lazy lima bean
With us you can't drop just a hint--you have to drop the whole anchor
Just because there's snow on the roof don't mean there's no fire in the furnace.
It's like my uncle down south used to say--don't go naming those chickens unless it's going to be lunch or dinner.

Vegas Buffets-15 steps to a sucessful buffet experience

If you ever come to Vegas, one of the following will happen: you'll end up naked, drunk, poor and extraordinarily happy on the curb in front of Ceasar's Palace of you'll visit one of Vegas many buffets. For your sake, I hope you fall into the trap of the latter, as I did last night, instead of the former.

My sister Maegs came to visit me over the weekend. Yesterday, as we were trolling the strip, we decided to indulge in a seafood buffet. My friend Monica, who was with us, mentioned that she knew of the best buffet on the strip: It is called the best because it serves both unlimited crab and lobster.

So we went. We indulged. We sighed contentendly when it was over.

So for you, faithful readers, I have decided to put together a list of things to do when you visit the buffet. (I would give a list of what to do when you find yourself naked on that street corner, but the most I can say is "suffer with dignity.")

1. Do your research. There are literally hundreds of buffets in Vegas, but they all won't have what you want. Nothing is worse than paying for a balut buffet. (If you don't know what balut is, I highly, highly, highly encourage you to stop reading now and look it up.)

2. Put a roll of toilet paper in your purse/knapsack.

3. Decide how much you want to spend. Yes, you can get a $20 all-you-can eat buffet, but for $10 more you can have steak, shrimp and lobster at some buffets. It's worth the cost.

4. DO NOT EAT for at least three hours before you go to the buffet. This will encourage your stomach to expand slightly, as it will expect food to be coming. If you wait 4 or more hours, you run the risk of getting really hungry and spoiling your buffet appetitie.

4. Wear stretchy pants. No jeans.

5. Wear comfortable shoes. No heels. When it's time to do a cattle run to the opening line, you want to be prepared to either fight or flight. Heels will keep you from doing either well.

6. Get to the line 45 minutes before the buffet opens. Any later than that and you run the risk of being in line for an hour or more.

7. When you get inside, do NOT get distracted by the buffet distrators: bread, pasta and rice. Your stomach will be starting to growl, especially if you have waited the mandated 3 hours. Casino buffets know this and they will place a table of heaping, hot, steamy, fresh bread before the real food. Bread spreads in your stomach and will suck up room for other things.

8. Send a friend to the steak line, the lobster line and the crab line. Each of you is to pile up the largest plate with the largest and hottest and goodest foods possible. Many people make the mistake of going to each line indivually--that is another distractor. Good eatin' time will be wasted by bad waitin' time.

9. Converge at the table. Eat, but do not gorge. Your stomach will be shocked at first. Pacing is necessary at the first round. You don't want to be knocked out the gate because of a preventable stomach cramp.

10. Rest for a few minutes. Send a scout to refill the most pertinent items.

11. Rotate scouts for the rest of the time.

12. At this point, you will probably be sick. Your stomach will be protruding from you and pushing gently against the table. You, however, greedy bastard that you are, will not stop. You will attempt to shove one last crab leg, one last lobster tail, one last shrimp cocktail into your mouth. DO NOT.

13. When you ignore #12 and do have that last crab leg, lobster tail or shrimp cocktail, you will be sick.

14. Be thankful for #2.

15. Meet your friends outside after you have found the closest restroom and have done #2. *The restroom will be filled with other greedy bastards like you. Expect to wait.

Vegas buffets are the temptresses of the casinos. Do not be lured into one unprepared.

*M*

Really cool Optical Illusion

Look at the spinning girl above. Is she spinning clockwise or counter clockwise? If you see her spinning clockwise, you are using the right side--the more intuitive, artistic, creative side--of your brain. If you see her spinning counterclockwise, you are using the left side--the more analytical, number crunching side of your brain.

When I first saw the image, it would only spin clockwise and I really didn't believe it could go another direction. I went and did some reading and wrote some lesson plans then looked at the picture--and it was spinning counter clockwise. It quickly changed back--which just proves what I have known for years: I'm creative but not analytical. That might explain why I tried to shove a melon rind into the garbage disposal a few months back with disastrous results.

Anywho, you can make her switch directions if you focus very intently on a body part, like the foot. Eventually it'll switch directions.

Please post a comment. I want to know which of my readers/friends/random onlookers are right brained and which are left. I have my hypothesis, but I'd like to know for sure.

Oh yeah, if she's standing still--you're no brained and that probably means you're a guy. :)

Private Stripper Lessons

You'd be amazed at how hard it is to find something to do in Las Vegas--the city of lights which never sleeps. Once one is off the strip, the city become amazingly normal--the freak shows only occur once in a while as opposed to on every corner. Most nights I find myself at home, in my poorly furnished apartment, either reading, writing, doing lesson plans or downloading TV on demand. In short-my life is fairly boring and normal.

One of my friends (and I have to protect her animonity because she has a different day job *wink, wink*) has taken to supplementing her income at night by striping at one of Vegas' many upscale and posh gentleman's clubs. I did not know this--until she showed up to my house for dinner last night half in costume. After dinner, I asked her where she was working so late, knowing that she had to work in the morning. She took off her sweatshirt, this revealing a bra top with swinging gold tassles.

OK.

Then, under threat of death and being sworn to utter silence, she informed me that she was working as a stripper part time.

OK.

Then, she told me it was an all nude establishment.

OK.

Well, my friends pay big bucks to have a woman come set up a pole in their basements for private pole dancing lessons--usually at a martini night or bachelorette party. I figured, I have a real life stripper right here--I may as well learn something while I can.

Those of you who have ever seen me dance know that I am not what you would call "good." I'm not even adequate. I'm a C-, on a good day. I have limited rhythm, I like to swing my hair around and am frequently off beat. Eight years of ballet, tap and jazz evidently had no lasting side effects, like the ability to move my feet with the beat. So when Random Friend Who is Not a Teacher offered to show me some moves, I jumped at the chance. I learned how to make my booty cheeks clap--not really, but that's how I imagined it in my head. I learned how to crawl sedutively on the floor--not fun on a harsh carpet. I even learned how to work a pole--not a real pole, a light stand. One of the biggest problems, however, is not my dancing; it is my inability not to smile. Evidently a big cheesy grin while stripping is not sexy.

*M*

Black Hair

Black Female Hair has been subject to scrunity, debate and scorn. It has been altered from its naturally tightly curled state to limp loose sickly strands. It has been teased by boys, and mocked by girls. It has been stressed from tightly intertwined braids, hidden by sew-ins weaves, chemically changed by relaxers and burned by too much heat. It has been colored, cut, styled, teased, primped, and even shaped into mountaneous mile-high creations where birds can (and have) lived. It has been called good (if it's long and free flowing and Barbie-esque); it has been called bad (if it's tight and curled and nappy-like); it has been called bought (gone today, hair tomorrow). White women burned bras to take a stand against injustice and inequality; Black women grew afros.

But nothing that Black Hair has gone through even mildly equates to what happens when a Black teacher (me) teaches in a primarily white and non-Black area with girls ages 12-14.

I have been growing out my relaxer since February and have experimented with a few different hair varieties to help my days run a little more smoothly. June I experimented with a weave (disastrous). Augustl I experimented with French Braids (too jail like). October I experimented with what I can best describe as "crazy hair" (actually cute)

I wash my hair and when it is wet I add setting lotion and a little tea tree oil and leave in conditioner. No, first I persuade one of my friends to give up a Saturday night with a bottle of Bacardi, a hand full of mint leaves, a lime and some club soda. Then I do the washing, conditioning, adding business.

Then, a friend and I commence to twisting my hair into about 70 small different twists that are held in place with bobby pins. I go to sleep. I wake up and un-pin, un-twist my hair.

The result: a curly crazy mass that most closely resembles a very cute and curly afro. I'm satisfied and with a little (and I do mean little) maintenance I can make it for about 5-6 days before I have to come up with an alternate plan.

What I have noticed: White people absolutely love my "ethnic" hair and can't seem to compliment it enough. I love compliments and am happy. Black people love my "natural" hair and actually ask how I did it. Middle school children think I'm wearing a wig.

Yesterday, as I was bending down to unlock a door, I heard a titter behind my back. I ignored it. Then I heard a whisper "I dare you" and more titters. Any teacher would tell you that's a definite sign of trouble, but unfortunately I had a ring of keys around my neck and one of the keys in the door so I could not immediately look for whatever trouble was brewing. Then I felt two small hands tentatively push the top of my hair and feel it bounce back. More giggles.

"You rang?" I replied, not quite irritated, but a little confused.

"It's real?" replied one of my 8th graders.

"What's real?" my response was coupled with a quizzical look on my face.

"Your hair, Ms. Daughtery. That's sooooo (all middle school girls drag out the words so, like, duh...) like cool. How did you do that?" asked white girl student #1.

"Do what?" I probed.

"You know...get it to stand up like that."

Not offended, I gave a quick tutorial on the inns and outs of Black hair for my little girls and, evidently, tomorrow they're all trying to grow curly afros. We'll see how that works out.

*M*

Physical Weakness Prevents the Accomplishment of Much that Otherwise Might Be Done

This morning I reviewed my new trusty gym schedule and decided to attend Kickboxing I. I was not very daunted by the thought because two years ago, before I began my masters program and gained a ton of unsightly weight, I was kickboxing weekly, spinning 3 times a week, swimming and doing a combination of yoga and pilates. I was actually pretty good at those activities and I knew that I could hang in a beginners kickboxing class.

I walked in the studio at 11:45 as the class was beginning. A very perky blond with very perky breasts and a very perky ponytail and a very perky voice and a very perky smile welcomed us to the class and introduced herself as Sandi or Candi or Bambi or something. She was perky. Harmless. She put on a very perky song with a perky beat for stretching. I smirked internally, knowing that this would be easy. Then, she took off her very perky hot pink sweatshirt and revealed muscles for days. Damn. My internal smirk faded slightly.

Then, all off a sudden, this voice that sounded like it had emerged from the pits of hell shot out of her mouth as she began shouting orders to scissor leg, upper cut, right jab, left jab, left hook, jump! hop! kick! and kick! and kick!. My internal smirk evolved into an internal cry of distress.

I looked around the room for the first time. That's when I knew I was in trouble. A woman who had to be 65 (judging by the bad tan, the gray hair, the wrinkles and the unmoving plastic breastst) was in front of me, kicking ass. Another girl was to my left kicking ass. A girl to my right was kicking ass. I moved to the back and tried to avoid getting kicked in the ass.

Anyway, you all know I"m not quitter and I am fiercely competitive. I refused to be the new chubby girl who quit. So, I sucked up the pain, and got my butt in gear. After 10 minutes, my entire body was covered in sweat: there was sweat in my hair, there was sweat in my eyes, there was sweat behind my knee caps, there was sweat on my back. I was also the only one sweating.

Still refusing to quit, I looked at the clock, knowing that this torture had to end sometime soon: 12:00. I had only been in there 15 minutes and I thought I was going to pass out. Another 10 minutes passed and we were deep into kicking and boxing. Billy Joel shouted from the sound system. Eye of a Tiger got us all pumped up. The beats got faster, more intense and so did the workout.

Then, Candi-Sandi-Bambi said "what a great warm-up! Let's get ready to work-out!" Warm up! WARM UP? I laughed to keep from crying. Just when I thought it could not get any faster or more torturous, it did: high jumps, high kicks, low punches, low kicks. Sweet Jesus.

She then insructed us to work at our own pace, go at our own rate, blah blah blah...I thought to myself "MY pace is on my couch with a bag of Hershey Kisses and reruns of 'Ugly Betty'" But, I still refused to be the first to quit, even though my limbs were on fire and my body was screaming in pain.

Then, grace intervened. Another woman snuck out the back door. Since she left, I would not be the first quitter. I smiled inside, knowing that relief would soon be coming my way. I suffered through 5 more minutes and then managed to manuver myself toward the back door. I could see the outside world. Follow the North Star! Go North! Freedom!

Just as I managed to slid by the door and my hand hit the knob to freedom, Candi-Sandi-Bambi yelled out over the sound system: Thanks for Joining Us! Come Back Again! Thus announcing my low-profile exit to the masses.

Bitch.

*M*

Never Trust a Big Butt and a Smile

I have always encouraged people to listen to the words of wisdom our elders from the 1980's passed down. One of the greatest pieces of advice, which I imlore you to follow, is never to trust a big butt and a smile. Why? Poisonous.

Today I decided to check out Las Vegas' Athletic Club (LVAC) which is all of 3 minutes from my house. Evidently on the West coast everyone works out--unlike the Midwest where we sit on our rumps and eat comfort foods like chili, broccoli soup and beef stew. Besides, my 1/2 mile trek up Red Rock made it quite clear to my screaming bones that I am out of shape.

My plan was to tour the gym, get a feel for it, sign up for the free two week membership and ease my way back into a lifestyle of physical fitness. Then I met the tour guide,"Escobar Alejandro Luis Hernandez" (a pseudonym to protect the anonimity of the innocent). His rippling muscles and throbbing limbs beneath a thin sheath of quivering spandex are the two features that I noticed first. I swooned and clutched my metphorical pearls as he smiled, and a sparkle of white light shone from his upper molar.A glint of pure sexiness emanated from his almond colored eyes. I swear I saw a soft golden light behind this man when he first appeared. Hercules with a tan. Baby Zeus. Fabio without the crazy hair.

The rest of my remembrance is covered in a misty haze. My memory betrays me each time I try to remember what happened after his first smile and my last signature. All I know is that I evidently am now a member of LVAC, I have a personal trainer and monthly physical fitness checks.

*M*

Me? Mountain Climbing? Who knew?

For those of you who know me, you know it was only a matter of time before my curious nature led me into the wilderness to investigate Nevada's mountains. That time was yesterday. Monica and Daphne took me to Red Rock Mountains, one of the many sites Nevada has to offer. WEll, you know I was not content to remain in the car, so I suggested that we get out and experience the trail.

Note: there were ABSOLUTELY no other Black folk traisping through the mountains. Nadda. I kept hoping nothing would happen to us, because the news only covers missing blond girls and pit bulls. Since I am neither, I knew that it would behoove me not to fall into any of the many mountain crevices.

We did the baby 1.0 mile trail, which ended up being a torturous, slow death crawl uphill on a very tiny path. We made it maybe half of a mile.

*These pictures have not been digitally altered in any way. They're the real deal.





That's the extra narrow path I was walking and praying on.

Have I sold my soul to corporate America?

Many of you have either hear, or read about, my financial woes as of late. Let me recap for any new readers:

I moved from Detroit, MI to Las Vegas, NV in August, taking nothing but 2 suitcases and a smile;
My car broke down to the tune of $1400 two weeks later;
My first paycheck was SLOW to arrive, so I'd been living off of my savings and the kindness of family;
I own nothing except for a bed which arrived about two weeks ago--no chairs, no table, no TV, yadda yadda yadda;
I now need to go BACK to school and obtain a second, unexpected master's degree in January;
and invisible monkeys are picking bugs out of my hair.

Needless to say, I would genuinely like to generate some extra income until my extra snazzy teacher pay really kicks in and begins to roll at a rate which would allow me to live comfortably. I thought about teaching night school, community college, forensics, and dancing part time at one of Vegas' posh, upscale, highly revered, sophisticated, top-of-the line titty bars.

I don't really have time for any of the above. Then, I noticed that I can add ads on my blog.

My blog has become a place of refuge. I come here to unload the details of my weary travels and unexpected adventures. I come here for peace. I come here for solace.

So, you decide: Should I post ads on my blog?

*M*

Black kid antagonizes Mexican, Mexican threatens to kick ass while autistic girl rocks and cries in the corner and imaginary monkeys pick bugs out of

teacher's hair.

My day.

*M*

9,000

What does the number 9,000 really mean? Well, after some reliable internet research, here are some facts I was able to find out:

in M&M's in a 1lb bag of M&M's: 13.65 bags
in days: 25 years
in biblical pages: 6.9 Authorized King James' Versions of the Bible
in piano keys: 102.27 pianos
in Tootsie Roll pop licks: 21 tootsie roll pops
in calories found in deep dish ham and cheese pizza: 10.5 slices
in calories found in spinach: 66 bowls containing 1 cup each
in bones: 43.68 people
in cups of beer: 63.42 kegs (not pony kegs or mini kegs--regulation sized kegs)

So, 9,000 is a pretty sizeable number. In terms of numbers, 9,000 is not one to scoff at. If there were a fight between numbers, 9,000 would be able to at least make it past the first round.

You would think that if 9,000 of anything was a factor, somewhere, someone would notice it.

Not in Vegas.

One of the huge selling points of moving to Vegas was that "Vegas never lays off teachers. We've been growing exponentially for the past ten years and are currently building 10-15 new schools a year." Having come from Michigan, where people are fleeing like rats jumping a sinking ship and teachers are being slashed left and right, I was impressed with the stats. I mean, what are the chances that there could be a chance that I would be laid off if I moved to Vegas to teach? People are moving to Sin City in droves and they're bringing their children. Teachers are safe! Secure! Happy!

Evidently the chance, though pretty slim, is still a chance.

Today we had an emergency staff meeting. Here is the gist: the district accidentaly OVERESTIMATED by 9,000 children and they are going to begin the bumping/layoff process.

How do you accidentally overestimate by 9,000? I mean, I've never accidentally eaten 66 bowls of spinach or drunk 63 kegs. No matter how you flip it, 9,000 is a high number to overestimate by.

9,000.

Vegas Weather

I can't say I understand how weather works in Vegas.

Remember, I grew up in the Midwest, in a small, family-oriented town called Detroit. I am used to thermal underwear, grey snow and temperatures cold enough to freeze wet hair on a bear's arse. I'm used to winter melting into spring, spring warming into summer, summer cooling into fall and fall kicking ass into winter--in other words, four distinct seasons. I'm used to blue jays, cardinals, and the occasional mentally patient our Governor let out on the street. I'm also used to the temperature telling the truth.

Last week, I was outside having dinner with a friend around 10:00 pm. The weather was balmy, even breezy. At some point, I wished I had brought a light jacket. Because my body is used to distict seasons and experiencing temperatures ranging from -40 to 105 degrees, I consider myself a pretty good estimator on the temperature. I was certain, based on my internl thermometer, that the temperature was somewhere between 73-77 degrees. That is, until I checked the thermometer: 95 degrees. Where in the world is it really 95 degrees, but it feels like 74? How does that happen?

Special Ed

Things have changed.

I remember when I was in middle school, there were two special ed teachers in the entire building. The special ed kids were almost totally seperate from the general ed kids, with the exception of gym, art, music, lunch and recess. For the most part, they lived their lives and we lived ours. I also remember that special ed was spoken only of in hushed tones and quieted whispers (except, of course, for the few chants and songs that were delivered during lunch and served as a reminder that "they" were different from us). Being in special ed, to my scant recollection, was certainly not a good thing--I mean, there was a boy who could drive in 8th grade. There were very few students enrolled in the "special" classes and those were enrolled, seemingly, had some drastic learning disability which demanded that they be taught differently.

Like I said, things have changed.

I also remember in my middle school classes there was a boy named Lin. Lin was cute, Lin was borderline genuis, Lin was BAD. Lin refused to sit in his seat; he refused to be quiet; he refused to work indepently. One year, he came to school on Halloween dressed as the KKK. The next year, Charles Manson photos appeared in his locker. Lin mainly wanted attention; us kids knew that he was almost scarily normal--he just loved to harass teachers that he was probably smarter than.

Today Lin would probably be diagnosed with some random disability that no one else has ever heard of. He would probably be in special ed.

Today's special ed tries to integrate most children into general ed classrooms. That would not be a problem, but special ed kids have something called an IEP--indivualized educational plan--which teachers are required by law to follow. Not following the IEP to the letter, evidently, leads to personal lawsuits, reprimads and jail time--I'm not joking.

I have a class with about 15 special ed kids. (FYI--I have NEVER had a teaching special ed course and know the combined total of 0 about all the disabilities kids have these days) In all fairness, that class almost consistiently outperforms my regular ed classes--the children in that class, collectively, are able to think outside the box, make judgements and view other perspectives. But, each of these kids has an IEP, which, if you were paying attention, has to be followed to letter or I'll be sued, fined and jailed.

So how bad can that be? What kind of stuff appears in an IEP you may be wondering. Well, take a look below: (PS, each of the things below is for one kid, not the collective group. Remember, these plans are indivualized, so each kid gets his/her own set of special stuff from me)

ALL tests must be read aloud;
ALL quizzes must be shorted;
Only 2-3 question may appear on a page;
A copy of all notes must be provided;
Failing quizzes and tests may be retaken for a higher grade until a higher grade is reached;
Work must be summarized for student;
Orange overlays must be encouraged and given;
Additional time must be given on all assignments;
Parents decide what homework will be turned in;
Data collection must be done daily to assess behavior;
Any time a failing grade is given, parent must be notified;
Child may only recieve one page at a time (if there is a packet of info);
Tests and quizzes can be taken at an alternate time and in an alternate place;
and my own personal favorite--
Teacher must read ALL material to student.

Those are the top of the list. I actually have 10 pages of accomodations typed in list form. Two more IEP's arrived in my mailbox on Friday, so the 10 pages will probably grow to 12.

Are you freakin kidding me? Are you serious? Oh, by the way, I have (as of Friday) 40 kids in that class. At least 15 of them have a grocery list of accomodations that I have to provide unless I want to be drawn and quartered. I have a kid with brain cancer and another with autism. According to the 35 pages of paperwork I recieved just on her, she's prone to standing up during class and having random, loud, angry outbursts.

By the way, most of these kids have the I Can't Pay Attention disease which now goes by ADD, ADHD, ABCD....one girl is in special ed because "her eyes get tired and water when she reads." Her parents actually found a syndrome to cosign on this and, hence, she's special ed. I do believe that there are some legitimate learning disabilities which require some students to have addtional support. I'm 100% for it. I'm not for attaching a syndrome to each kid and then demanding that they all get completely unique instruction.

I am now collecting money for my legal fees. I don't see how this year is going to go by without me being dragged in court for forgetting to give a kid an orange overlay.

Please send those donations seperately from my grad school donations. (The latter should be rolling on in the mail soon since everyone who voted said "go back to school" and is now required to submit a check to defray the costs).

*M*

PS--I'm going to be making my blog private since I'm going to start talking more about my job and don't want to get "written up." There are actually 2 ex FBI agents employed my district whose sole job is to search for teachers MySpace and personal pages so they can be reprimanded. If you still want to read this, please send me an email at mdaughte@aol.com by this Friday before I make my blog private.

Discouraged and Determined

My Master's degree in Reading Education was conferred last month. According to the State of Michigan and Wayne State University, I can effectively teach anyone how to read. I can develop and manage reading programs. I can save the world.

Yay.

When I made the decision to move to Vegas, one of the key factors was that I would be able to move out of the classroom and into an administrative position very quickly. My goals included running a reading program and perhaps at some point writing reading curriculum. I'm ambitious, so I moved.

I found out last week that in order to become an administrator, I need a Master's degree in Administration. I do not have a Master's degree in Administration; I have a Master's degree in Reading. So this means that it's back to school I go. I can't say that was in the plan. Time to earn yet another degree, take yet another set of courses and write yet another set of "observations and notes." Time to go back to sitting in classrooms until 8:00 pm, reading books about leadership and "looking inward to find the inner strength." Time to look at www.half.com for cheap textboks, work three jobs to stay out of debt and practice how not to have some sort of emotional nervous breakdown. Time for hold credits, group projects and study sessions.

I'm at a crossroads. So, I'll let a random group of friends and strangers decide my fate. Should I go back to school or not? I can get the certification in 24 credits since I already possess the Master's degree.

Teaching is the only profession where so much education is required and so little pay is doled.

*M*

the VMAs

So most of you have probably heard that the VMA's were held in Vegas this weekend. If you are one of my friends, you probably expect that I weaseled my way into some semi exclusive soiree over the weekend. You probably expect me to post pictures of Kanye West, Justin Timberlake and Timbaland to prove that I "ran into them" at some point in time over the last two days. You probably expect me to write some long post about how I found a gracious man to maintain my champagne supply for the evening.

You will be sorely disappointed.

I did not weasel my way into some B-list party, I have no pictures to post and my gracious man is right now giving some other woman champagne. Why? Because none of my friends are here.

Let's keep it real: I am neither afraid or daunted by the idea of going out by myself. I'm adventurous and inquisitive. But, there is something about patrolling Vegas clubs, alone, at 2 am that just shrieks "sad." The people I know who have lived here more than six months refuse to go anywhere near the strip during big events; I couldn't even bribe my two new friends into partying with me last night. Since I'm still new, fresh, green and wet behind the ears, I'm still excited about the idea of partying on the strip--especially during big events.

So, the Billboard Music Awards are coming in February. The date has not been posted yet, but the awards will be in the MGM Grand and I found out today that getting tickets is easy and relatively cheap (about $100).

Therefore, I am mandating that at least two of my friends find their way to Vegas during the weekend of the BMAs. This is not optional. I will excuse you from coming during New Years Eve.

*M*

Cats

Before I start writing and get the PETA people all upset, let me preface this by saying that I like animals. As a little girl, I had two dogs, (Sailor and Champaigne) and a Rabbit (Peter). I loved my animals. My dogs were friendly and I used to walk my rabbit down the street on a leash. I eat meat and I even have worn a fur coat on an occasion or two. So, it is clear that I do like animals.

I really like cats. Like me, they are fiercely independent and just snobbish enough you get the picture, but not so snobby that they make you uncomfortable to be around. Like me, they like to be petted and shown affection. Like me, they can take a nap anywhere and at any time. We have a lot in common.

With that being said: I ABHOR the pack of alley cats that congregrate around my doorstep. One of my neighbors, I am not sure who, has taken to feeding the feral cats--I know because yesterday I saw three bowls of cat food under the bush not far from my door. So, unless the cats are going to the closest grocery store, purchasing Purina and serving themselves in old relish containers, I am pretty certain that one of my neighbors has taken to feeding them.

When I first moved in, the feral cats would scatter whenever they saw me coming. The scatter morphed into a slow saunter and the saunter has now developed into a yawn and a slight head turn. I like it better when they scattered.

Why why why would someone feed feral cats? I am not heartless. In my old neighborhood there were a fair amount of jet black feral cats--my sister and I nicknamed them the Parkside Pumas. Trust me, feral cats are NOT incapable of finding their own food: I know this because I once saw one leap in the air with it claws extended, hiss and snatch a pidgeon midair. I then saw it drag the pidgeon to the alley where I assume it became a tasty cat snack.

I don't want to kill the cats; I just want them to go away. Does anyone know of a humane way to get rid of 10 feral cats? I thought about dropping off two or three big dogs, but I also know that feral cats do not shy from a fight.

*M*

dinner parties

This past week I had my first dinner party. You may be wondering how it worked out since I still have none of the following: a table;
chairs;
a microwave.

For all intensive purposes, eating on the floor really is not what one has in mind when the words "dinner party" are said. But, though I did not have some of the essentials--namely tables and chairs--I did have the good sense to pack six bottles of wine in my car before I shipped it from Detroit to Vegas. And, I did have Manchengo (very smooth cheese made from sheep's milk) and plates.

The more I live like the part of a Lifetime Movie when the woman finally leaves her abusive husband and starts life anew, the more I realize how absolutely resourceful I am.

The Green Door (Las Vegas' oldest sex club)

A disclaimer: I did NOT go LOOKING for Las Vegas' oldest sex club.

It's the weekend and I decided to go out. I did not want to party on the strip (too crowded) so while I was driving away from the strip, I noticed a sign: The Green Door: Las Vegas' premier club. Three lights down and to the left. I said to my friend X that we should see what it was about. So we did.

She mentioned that she had never seen it before and that she wanted to drive by. So she did.

When we pulled up, the club looked kind of dead. We mused about going inside, and I offered to go in and check it out. So I did.

Now, you would think that the racks of sex rags near the door would have given me a clue. You would think that the pictures of naked people contorted in odd positions on the wall would have been a hint. You would even think that the flowers shaped like opening clitorises would have been enough writing on the wall.

I'm not known for my outstanding eye for details.

I smiled at the guy at the door. He smiled back. I went to the cashier and asked what the cover was. He said $5 for downstairs, $15 for upstairs. I asked what the difference was, and he smiled and said "All the real fun's upstairs" I heard great music coming from inside, so I paid the $5 cover to check it out.

When I walked in, however, I was pretty sure I was not in the kind of club I had in mind. There were lots and lots and LOTS of sofas. The pictures of naked people got larger and appeared at every wall. It was also completely empty. So, I wandered from the black room to the red room to the green room to the jacuzzi room and the fantasy room. Finally I got to a room that said "couples and voyeurs." THAT was when it really hit me: Oh shit. I am in a Swingers club.

What did I do next? I opened my eyes really wide, turned around and hightailed back past the fantasy room, the jacuzzi room, the green room, the red room and the black room into the parking lot and the car. My friend asked "well, how is it?"

Vegas.

*M*

PS--I did NOT swing or see any swingers. It was still early (about 10) and completely empty except for me and the bouncer.

Going to Church

Disclaimer: I like church. I like going to church. This is no way indicative of my faith or my feelings about church.

When I first got to Vegas, my friend Monica took the day and showed me around the city. One of the places she took me was to her church, which she highly recommended. When we visited the area, however, it was a Saturday afternoon so there was very little activity. I remember thinking "This is not Second Baptist. Don't got to Second Baptist." Since I only noticed two churches in the area, I thought finding my way back to Monica's church would be fairly easy. I mean, I was a girl scout; I have stellar navigational skills, right?

Wrong.

Today I was invited to church by Monica. I really wanted to go and praise, especially since I have been continously blessed since I've been here. Well, first I got lost coming off the freeway. But, I've been lost enough times to navigate back to where I should be, so I used my Scooby Sense to find the neighborhood where her church was located. When I found the neighborhood, I realized immediately that I was in big trouble. When Monica first took me to the area, there were only two churches: Second Baptist (where I should not go) and her church, which I remembered as Not Second Baptist.

However, at 11:00 on Sunday morning, another thirty churches popped up from nowhere. Suddenly there was a pentacostal church, a COGIC, an Apolostic church and several other houses of worship that were not there last week.

So, I called Monica. Being a good Christian, she did not answer because she had her cell off in the house of the Lord.

After driving around the same patch of land for 15 minutes, I decided to just pick a church.

So I did: Church X. (That's not the name, but I want to protect the identity of the innocent)

I picked Church X because it was a Baptist church (I'm Baptist, Monica's Baptist and I took a stab in the dark that it was her church) it was a large building and there was very very loud music filtering from the building and into the street. Based on the sound and the size, I was sure there were at least 400 people inside.

I opened the door. An usher noticed me immediately and took me to the sanctuary. There were 14 people inside. Monica was not one of them.

So, not knowing how to leave gracefully, I took a seat. The choir then got up to sing. Both of them. The choir shouted songs at the audience, using a sound system for several hundred people. I got a headache. Then, someone got up to welcome any visitors (mind you, I"m number 15 in the entire building).When asked if there were any visitors in the room, I heard a loud whoosh as all the heads turned in unison and looked at me. My cover was blown.

The highlight of my morning, however, was the pastor. Now, in all fairness, my mom says that even a dead clock is right two times a day and he did say a few things that piqued my interest. But, overall, this was the best smoke and mirrors, tap dance and bojangle minstrel show I've ever seen. The pastor shouted. He screamed. He yelled. He sweated and wiped his brow. He danced down the aisle. He bent over backwards. He sang (loudly and off key) during the middle of his speech. He used the following words and phrases at least once: "humpty dumpty" and "what the hell is wrong with you." He gave a riveting speech on the meaning of the word "but." (Which, by the way, in case you were wondering, means that something different is going to happen.) But the oddest part was that about halfway through, I noticed that whenever he spoke, the organ/pianist would strike a chord that parroted back exactly what he had just said. My headache grew.

Is everything in Vegas a show?

No hablas Espanol

Today I experiened one of my greatest failures as a teacher.

My English classes are very large--the largest has 39 students and the smallest has 31. That's a lot of kids. Needless to say, I'm still learning names and putting personalities with people. The desks in my class are arranged in a T position and the kids on the outside sit near the wall. Most of my students are friendly, warm, excited and ready to get started. Most of them participate on a regular basis. Most of them smile and are really happy about being in the 8th grade.

My classroom is the epitome of multiculturalism. It's like the United Nations had a convention and forgot to tell me that I would be the speaker. Let me break down for you the ethnic backgrounds in my classes: (in no particular order)

Jewish
African-American
White
1/2 African American, 1/2 White
1/2 Philipino, 1/2 Black
1/2 Hawaiian 1/2 Black
Hawaiian
Cuban
Brazilian
Columbian
Puerto Rican
Mexican
Indian
Asian
Native American
Irish
New Yorkian

That's what I remember off of the top of my head. I'm sure there are more. Anyhow, for the most part I absolutely love it. My classes are teeming with ethnic diversity; I feel like I'm becoming a better person because I'm working with so many different kinds of people.

So why do I feel like a failure?

Today, (keep in mind that school has been in session since Monday) I gave my kids their first quiz. It was fairly simple and only 10 short questions. All of the questions we had been going over since Monday. I knew that all of my kids would get an A. I passed out the papers and sighed contentedly.

Then, a small hand raised tentatively in the air. A little boy was trying to get my attention. I recognized him (having seen him all week) and what I remembered was that he was very quiet in class. I quickly walked to his desk to address his concerns. When I got to his desk, he looked up at me:

"I no speak English." Silence.

I said something back (in English, mind you because I speak no Spanish. This was not helpful, because he looked back at me again and said "I no speak English.")

How had I let and entire week go by without recognizing that this child does not speak English in an ENGLISH class? How am I supposed to teach this child English when he knows NONE of the langauge? I am already planning to have my students analyzing writing and begin writing narratives in two weeks! I'm very frustrated and also a bit sad. It makes me feel horrible to know that there is a child in my class that is perpetually lost and confused.

The irony is, the only Spanish I know is: No hablas Espanol.

So at least we can tell each other we can't talk to each other.

Anyone with any suggestions, please share.

*M*

Again, this picture has nothing to do with this post. I just like it. Hey Tam!

I am not afraid of spiders.

Or so I thought.

Until today, when a creature which goes by the title "wolf spider" crawled its way inside my classroom.

Now, those of you who know me know that I do not suffer from arachnaephobia (fear of spiders), but I instead suffer from ornithophobia (fear of birds). Nothing sends me shrieking in fear faster than a death-ray flying rat pidgeon swooping from the sky with murder gleaming in its red, sinister little eye. The occasional arachnid don't bother me. I've even been known to keep a few around my basement or other spots in my house so they can kill beetles or other creepy-crawlies that I"m not fond of. I was the kid that never understood Little Miss Muffet and mourned amongside Wilbur for Charlotte.

Until today.

Today, I was confronted with the largest, harriest, creepiest spider I've ever seen: I was confronted by a wolf spider--so named because of the stealth and speed it uses to capture and attack its prey. It spits venom, and though not poisonous to humans, it can cause rashes, hives, extreme itching and, evidently, paralysis.

When I saw it crawling along the wall, my first thought was "Ok, don't react. You'll scare the kids. Nothing is worse than a pack of scared kids." When I saw it crawling toward me, my next thought was "Screw that and the kids!" I shrieked. EEEEEIIIIIIAAAAAHHHHH! WHAT IS THAT?!" *A Note to all of my friends who are pursuing education: ALWAYS stick to your first thought and NEVER scare the kids. Pandemonium WILL ensue*

Of course, pandemonium ensued. Luckily this class is small (15 kids) and most of them kept their wits about them as one of the girls (neither of the boys, mind you) ran up, peered down and said nonchantly "Oh, that's just a wolf spider."

"WHAT is a WOLF spider?!" I shrieked as my feet were propped up in the air as my butt was planted firmly on a seat.

"Oh, it's nothing Ms. Daughtery. Don't you all have those in Michigan?" this petite, 5'0 chubby-cheeked girl looked back and asked. "My dad's an exterminator. We have tons of these here."

I felt like saying "Hell no we don't have wolf spiders in Michigan. We have Vernors, Sanders hot fudge, Faygo, the occasional fox, a few bunnies and garbage seeking raccoons. We have mice which grow into gutter rats. We have hennessey. We have trees and grass. We have the gun-toting Militia. We have craps games in alleys and the largest import-export weave system in the entire United States. We most definitely do NOT have spiders that are named after wolves. " But, I held my sarcasm and just said "No."

She sighed. She killed it. I swear I saw green gas puff out of its body as it exhaled its last breath. The lesson continued.

For my friends who think I exaggerate everything, take a careful look at the picture. Would you want THAT coming at you, poised and ready to attack?

This should be titled "8th grade girl saves teacher from hairy, massive, sprinting, people eating, venom-spitting, spittle-dribbling, paralysis-inflicting, though-not-deadly, spider."

Middle School

It's like a glitter factory exploded inside of a melting Crayola farm.

Middle school children are an interesting bunch. First, they have absolutely no sense of fashion--but they all think they do so it's kind of cute. The girls are my favorite. Today I've seen an array of colors coming in all imaginable directions. The best is the shoddy Wet & Wild 8th grade make-up. Everything glitters and shimmers and dazzles. Now, my friends know that I love a bit of shimmer in my make -up. I wear a bronzer all year round. But, 8th grade girls take it to a whole new level.

The First Day

I feel like I've been hit by a Mack Truck.

My body is sore, my joints ache, my eyes and feet are swollen. Teaching.

2007 or 1957? The Jena Six

I don't know how many of you know about the Jena Six. And, because I am absolutely disgusted by the treatment of these students, I am actually at a loss for words right now. This gets little air time, but Michael Vick, Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan and Nicole Ritchie get unlimited free coverage? This is so backwards. PLEASE take 2 minutes to visit at least one of the following sites.

Tuesday, July 10th, 2007
The Case of the Jena Six: Black High School Students Charged with Attempted Murder for Schoolyard Fight After Nooses Are Hung from Tree
http://www.democracynow.org/article.pl?sid=07/07/10/1413220

http://www.naacp.org/splashjena.html

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=za4B4KhIVTE

http://www.petitiononline.com/aZ51CqmR/petition.html

http://seattlepi.nwsource.com/opinion/324177_amygoodman19.html

NAACP SUPPORTS THE PEOPLE OF JENA
THE ACTION WE NEED YOU TO TAKE:

Sign the Petition:
Donate online to the: Jena 6 Defense Fund OR Mail donations to: Jena 6 Defense Committee, P. O. Box 2798, Jena, LA 71342

Make a Phone Call:

Send a letter to the Louisiana Governor and the Louisiana Attorney General:

THE FACTS:
In a small highly segregated rural Louisiana town of Jena in September 2006, a black student asked permission from school administrators to sit under the shade of a tree commonly reserved for the enjoyment of white students. School officials advised the black students to sit wherever they wanted and they did. The next day, three nooses, in the school colors, were hanging from the same tree. The Jena high school principal found that three white students were responsible and recommended expulsion. The white superintendent of schools over-ruled the principal and gave the students a three day suspension, saying that the nooses were “a youthful stunt.” Black students decided to resist and organized a sit-in under the tree to protest the lenient treatment given to the noose-hanging white students.

Racial tensions remained elevated throughout the fall. On Monday, December 4 2006, a white student who allegedly had been racially taunting black students in support of the students who hung the nooses got into a fight with black students.

Allegedly, the white student was taken to the hospital treated, released, reportedly attended a social function later that evening.

As a result of this incident, six black Jena students were arrested and charged with attempted second degree murder. All six were expelled from school. The six charged were: 17-year-old Robert Bailey Junior whose bail was set at $138,000; 17-year-old Theo Shaw - bail $130,000; 18-year-old Carwin Jones--bail $100,000; 17-year-old Bryant Purvis--bail $70,000; 16 year old Mychal Bell, a sophomore in high school who was charged as an adult and for whom bail was set at $90,000; and a still unidentified minor.

On the morning of the trial, the District Attorney reduced the charges from attempted second degree murder to second degree aggravated battery and conspiracy. Aggravated battery in Louisiana law demands the attack be with a dangerous weapon. The prosecutor was allowed to argue to the jury that the tennis shoes worn by Bell could be considered a dangerous weapon.

When the pool of potential jurors was summoned, fifty people appeared, all white. The jury deliberated for less than three hours and found Mychal Bell guilty on the maximum possible charges of aggravated second degree battery and conspiracy. He faces up to a maximum of 22 years in prison.

The rest of the Jena 6 await similar trials. Theodore Shaw is due to go on trial shortly. Mychal Bell is scheduled to be sentenced July 31. If he gets the maximum sentence he will not be out of prison until he is nearly 40.

THE MESSAGE:
As Chairman Julian Bond stated, "This is an American outrage that demonstrates the continuing shame of racial division in our country. Join us in making it one of the last."

In light of the circumstances surrounding Mychal Bell's case, we urge all concerned citizens to support the call for a new trial.

It is unacceptable to selectively enforce the law based on race. Prosecutorial discretion should be used in a fair and equitable manner.

The Jena Six should be tried by juries that reflect the racial and ethnic demographics of Jena, Louisiana.

The hanging of nooses is not a "youthful stunt" or "prank." It is a hate crime. Such hate crimes should not be tolerated at any school. Jena High School must establish a curriculum which promotes cultural sensitivity and understanding.

The NAACP calls on Louisiana Governor Kathleen B. Blanco and Louisiana Attorney General Charles C. Foti to thoroughly investigate and monitor the trials of Mychal Bell, Robert Bailey, Jr., Theo Shaw, Carwin Jones, Bryant Purvis and John Doe. The Governor and State Attorney General should do everything in their power to ensure that these young men's constitutional rights are protected.

THANK YOU FOR YOUR ATTENTION TO THIS IMPORTANT MATTER!!!

If you have any questions, call Angela Ciccolo at the National Headquarters at (410) 580-5777


*M*

Teacher Heaven?

As many of you know, I moved to Las Vegas to take a new teaching post at a middle school where I was bamboozled into teaching 8th grade English, yearbook, newspaper and, evidently, putting together the parent monthly newsletter. You can imagine that I'm absolutely swamped with work--especially since my most recent teaching background is with 12th grade.

So, (and my teacher friends will comletely understand these next few points) imagine my absolute delight when I got the run down on my new job:

There is NO limit on copies! Unlimited paper supply! No copy code!
The walls are made of a soft material that allows me to staple directly into them! I have spent countless dollars on tape, glue, rubber cement, double sided tape, stickies, and 3M adhesives.
I have almost COMPLETE AUTONOMY in terms of what I teach and how I teach it. I can choose my books, my own writing assignments, my own projects; there are no scripted programs, district mandated pacing charts...
The school is huge and there is a beautiful outdoor courtyard that connects all the wings.
I do not have to walk kids to the bathroom, the lunchroom, their next class... and
I will be given a $200 Visa check card to purchase any materials I need for my classroom.

Teacher heaven, right?

Well, I thought so too...until I opened my classroom door and was confronted with 40 student desks. 40. 40 desks means there will be 40 breathing, talking, bodies that are perpeutally needy and the didjas. I need to go to the bathroom, my mom needs you to call her, I need to see my counselor, I need an extra day, I need, I need, I need. Didja check my paper? Didja give homework? Didja collect that already? Didja, didja, didja...

I stressed. I had a panic attack and felt my throat tighten, my stomach churn, my breathing quicken and my palms glisten. 40?! As I tried to assuage my fears, I said to myself: maybe the custodian just dumped the extra desks in here. So, I went to the office to inquire about who would be moving the extra desks and when he or she would be moving them.

The office laughed. THAT was when I was told that there is absolutely no limit on class size in Las Vegas.
I was hoodwinked. Bamboozled. Led astray. The wool was pulled over my eyes. I was blinded my all the lights, the dazzle, the bling-bling of being able to staple directly into the wall.

40.

*M*

FYI--the picture has absolutely nothing to do with this post. I just like it.

I don't understand justice

Let me review the facts:

Paris Hilton is caught driving on a suspended license--45 days in jail and massive media circus
Lindsay Lohan is caught not once, but 3 times driving drunk and with cocaine AFTER she escapes from her third stab at rehab--1 day in jail
Nicole Ritchie is caught driving the wrong way on the freeway with substanes in her bloodstream--81 minutes in jail

Michael Vick gets caught fighting dogs (not people, dogs)--facing more than a year in prison and being evicted from the NFL.

I don't understand justice. Now, I like dogs. I am particularily fond of uppity poodles. But, I do not understand how dog fighting A) consitutes a federal crime, B) deserves this amount of media attention, and C) is evidently worse than coke, weed, underage drinking and drunk driving. Really. All jokes aside. In all seriousness.

How does this work? Until three days ago, I had only heard Vick's name once or twice. I thought he was heir to the Johnson and Johnson vapor rub fortune. I do not follow football; I"m a fairweather fan. But, when I heard this story I thought "hmmm. that's bad, he got caught letting dogs eat each other" Then the thought truly was dismissed from my mind. I felt bad for the dogs, but I figure: people hunt, I eat meat, animals die.

Let me share with you some things that really deserve immediate and extensive media, if not legal attention:

A five year old Iraqi boy is set on fire by insurgents and is burned beyond recognition;
Texas man puts two-year-old in dryer for punishment;
The UN estimates that more than 450,000 people have been murdered in Sudan by the Janjaweed, an insurgent group;
In India, latest estimates indicate that more than 5,000 brides die each year because their dowries are "insufficient;"
Israel turns away Sudanese refugees;
More than 1 million children are forced into child prositution each year;
Crazy ruler of North Korea believes he is the direct son of God and continues to develop nuclear weapons that could, quite literally, blow us all off of the face of earth and into oblivion;
Massive hurricanes, earthquakes, tornadoes, dust storms, gnats, and a plauge of locusts carrying West Nile, threaten to also, quite literally, annihilate us all (thanks Hummers, F150s, Coal mines, nuclear power plants and hairspray!)
Polar bears have nowhere to live, nothing to eat and are turning yellow because the temperate in the North Pole is high enough to melt thousand year old ice caps;
Dedicated teacher gets robbed of books in car;
And though we know the baby's daddy, we STILL don't know who or what killed Anna Nicole and her son...

And we're concerned with dogs? I don't get it.

Animal people, like I said: I like dogs. I don't particularly agree with Michael Vick; quite frankly I don't really care.

How much longer are we going to be bedazzled by the tricks, flash and dance of the right hand and ignore the dealings of the left?

*M*

Rice Pudding (recipe attached--especially for my aunt Julie)

When I first went grocery shopping, I bought staples: brown rice, whole wheat pasta, whole wheat bread, peanut butter, jelly, etc. You know the rest. I bought things that would have a long shelf life and that would make and keep me full. And, thus far, they have.

What I did not factor in the plan was that eventually even the best trooper would tire of the same foods. There are only so many nights one can eat brown rice (1 pot is WAY too much for 1 person) and stewed tomatoes. After a while the repetition gets nauseating.

So today, as I was looking at my nemesis, the pot of cooked brown rice from last week, I decided to conquer it: Rice Pudding.

My family knows that I can remix almost any meal. For the past three years, I have been the post-Thanksgiving goddess. By Sunday, the 12-lb leftover turkey carcass is beginning its transformation into an assortment of different meals: From one carcass I can make turkey ala king, turkey tetrazini, two turkey pies and turkey soup. Nothing goes wasted.

I decided to have that same culinary artistic sprit when conquering the rice. However, a few problems were obvious from jump: I was a soldier with no weapon. Though I had rice, I had no sugar, eggs, cinnamon and the only milk I own is soy milk. Back to SuperWalMart.

Anyway, I made this really really good rice pudding. Feel free to use this recipe. It sounds a little strange, and if the heat is too high the eggs may begin to scramble in the pot, but I have convinced myself that this is actually a healthy dessert.

Ingredients:
All the brown rice you have left over from last week
The last corner of soy milk (ideally 1 cup) in the container
3 eggs
1/4 cup Splenda brown sugar
A dash of vanilla
enough cinnamon that your house smells like you've been baking, but not so much that your pudding looks sick

Directions:

Leave the rice in the same pot it's been in for the past week. This will help seal in the flavor. Add a little bit of water if the rice is dry. Heat at a medium temperature until the rice has reached a temperature that you would actually eat.

In a seperate bowl, whisk together the eggs, sugar and vanilla. Make sure to break up the eggs completely or you may end up with scrambled egg bits in your pudding (not that bad, but kind of unsettling to look at).

Add the egg mixture to the rice pot. SLOWLY heat to a medium boil and stir constantly with a fork or you WILL end up with scrambled egg bits in your pudding. At this point the pudding will be very runny. Continue stirring. Do not stop stirring or you will end up with burned pudding bits at the bottom of your pot. Add in raisins to taste. The puddng will thicken in about 10 minutes, maybe a little longer or less depeding on how hot your stove is.

Stick fork in pot, pull out a taste. Taste. Wince. Remeber that the pudding is hot and that you have to blow before you taste. Blow. Taste again.

Determine if you want it thicker or not. If you're ok with the current consistency, remove from stove. Pick out scrambled egg bits with fork.

Eat.

~You may also use real milk, whole milk, skim milk, sheep milk, goat milk, powdered milk, or rice milk. You may use real sugar, but if you do use 1/2 cup. ~

*M*

It really is good...no, really.

Everything CANNOT go in the garbage disposal

When I lived in Detroit, I never had a garbage disposal. We just threw away our unused food stuffs and my dad took out the trash. It was a pretty simple process. So you can imagine my suprise and sense of intrigue when I realized that my apartment has a garbage disposal. On my first day, I peeled a grapefrut just so I could dispose of the peels. It was fun.

The fun really hasn't worn off. There is still something very satisfying about the whirrrrr and inevitable crunch that occurs whenever I toss something down the disposal.

Now, I am a reading teacher. The first thing I did was read the book on garbage disposals. I learned that while I could safely dispose of soft foods, fruits, and vegetables, I could not safely dispose of the following: bones, metal bits, hair or rocks. I thought to myself, "hmmm, this should be fairly easy. I left all my bones, metal bits and rocks buried in my yard in Detroit."

So today I cut a cantaloupe. It was really overripe and the rind was soft. I though it was the perfect candidate for the garbage disposal. I was wrong.

About 2/3 of the rind went down the drain. I would hear that satisfying whirrr and the ineveitable crunch would soon follow. Then, something happened. The whirrr was not followed by a crunch. The whirrr was follow by a hiccup then a cough then a choke. After the choke came the slight pause, and then, the garbage disposal belched back everything I had just stuffed down its throat. I jumped back and watched in horror as bits of black, melon and rind spewed forth from what can best be described as the belly of a very sick and incensed beast.

This is easily the most disgusting thing I've seen today. I'll be making a servce request in the morning.