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*
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Thursday, September 27, 2007
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*
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*
Sunday, September 23, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
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*
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*
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
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?
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?
Sunday, September 16, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
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*
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*
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*
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*
Thursday, September 6, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
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.
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?
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?
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