What happened to May?!  Both my husband and I turned another year older. My baby is now over 6 months old and I can hardly believe it. I’m nearly done as a graduate teaching assistant. Next year I get to write and study (only one or two writing theory classes) in luxury (time-wise)... well, except I’ll hopefully have a part-time job. That doesn’t sound like much luxury, trading in a part-time teaching job for a part-time unknown as of yet job, but the teaching gig was much more than part-time—a mistake I won’t make again (of course I won’t be applying for another teaching assistantship again, so that solves that).

After a first year or so of happiness in the Northwest, we are seeing the cracks in the veneer, so to speak. It isn’t as bad as it was down south with all of the rude and angry people, but there is some of that here too. Of course, I am curious if the way we (hubby and I) view these things is actually a reflection of our own angst and moods. We are a bit less happy with this place and the people as we first were, so of course they all seem less friendly than before. Perspective is perspectivey that way.

My students this quarter are absolutely fabulous compared to a time before that will hopefully soon be forgotten. Although they are probably just a rather typical class. Perspective again.

I’m holding back my excitement for my thesis which is barely begun and still mostly just floating dust particles in the ether of my mind. I feel very much as if I’ll call down the mother of all jinxes if I talk about it too much. So, I’ll simply say I’m excited, but trying not to be too excited (this is a much better state of mind than what I felt a few months ago, aka dread).

Now I get to watch June flitter away and wonder where it all went… then July…

Once a month is rather pathetic for blogging, but I may remain pathetic for awhile. We’ll see.

Even living in my bubble of parental bliss I hear about this phenomenon that is plaguing the nation—nay, the world!!

Those offensive, well-wishing, all-inclusive catch phrases must go!! After all, the entire planet is Christian right? And those who believe in Christ as the son of God, the Lord, the bringer of Salvation have no need for charity, tolerance or acceptance of others (a.k.a. non-believers, doubters, other faithful, etc.). In fact if Christ was here on planet Earth right now, he’d burn every business that displayed signs that read, “Happy Holidays” or “Seasons Greetings,” and slay all of those responsible, ambivalent and anyone else that resisted the phrase “Merry Christmas.” He’s that powerful and that angry that he had to come back to clear up this matter, to be sure.

Yesterday was rough but today is much better. This is something to keep in mind for those rough days.

The baby flipped around a few days ago, getting her head pointed downward in anticipation of her future escape from the womb. Of course, we didn’t know that’s what she was doing at the time, but hindsight is really useful just not when you actually need to know what you figure out later. So, she was going wild, crazy wild like I haven’t felt (and my hubby and I haven’t seen) in a few weeks. I had the thoughts: ‘what did I eat?’ and ‘what a crazy monster child we’re getting!’

The next morning, she was hiccupping. The regular pulse of it made me smile. My child is getting ready to breathe, using her lungs. Thatta girl! But wait, the hiccups were down by my pelvic bone. And voila, that wonderful hindsight stuff kicked in and I knew she had flipped around. Unfortunately, her legs, feet, and rear-end were not exactly feeling so good against my ribs, stomach, lungs and whatever other insides are squished up high in my body. It was a rough night sleeping too. I could lie on either side pretty well, but rolling over across my back was excruciating.

It wouldn’t have been too bad, but I have family in town. My mom, aunt, mom-in-law, uncle, cousin and my cousin’s two-year-old daughter. So, I’ve been busy. We went to the fair yesterday and saw all of the 4-H animals and crafts. Shortness of breath and aching ribs kept me from having as much fun as everyone else, but I was still glad to spend time with my family.

Last night, I didn’t sleep well, but it was a mental insomnia and not the physical pain so much that kept me awake. This morning it felt as if the baby read my mind or my body and shifted a little more into my pelvis, just enough to keep my ribs from aching or causing me shortness of breath. And it has been a wonderful day.

Now that I’ve prattled on about pregnancy, I’ll try to get back to my point. Basically, it can be hard to remember on the rough days that there will be good days to follow. And for folks who are having catastrophically rough days, eventually there will be a good day.

To make a good day happen for the survivors of Hurricane Katrina, you can give a donation at The Redcross Website.

Since I am not heading off to summer session four days a week, I have less and less interaction with the outside world now. And this seems to have an effect on my ability to write here or at the very least observe things with my usual scrutiny for later use here.

What interaction I’ve had has been mostly on the phone. I don’t have the best phone ettiquette, though I often try to be patient and pleasant when dealing with business calls. Some people just don’t want to hear what I’m saying. It can be extremely frustrating to explain something to someone 3, 4, or 5 times only to have them respond as if I never even said a word about it. And usually it isn’t even a situation I can control, and yet they will expect me to work miracles and change an entire governmental organization’s methods to accomodate their need for urgency. Sometimes I wish I could and I do feel sympathy for them, but I promise that I’m not an all powerful being (even though I play one on the sitcom of my mind).

Also, when will the cable (insert other agency here at will) company phone tech guy believe me when I say I’ve already tried a manual reboot of my cable box, and the things he is having me check, I have checked, and that the box is actually sending the information to the cable company and the error is coming back from the cable company, not from within my box? Ah well, I humored him, and did everything he said, because I understand to many people cable boxes and such are foreign objects. I just know that when the guy comes out on Sunday to “check my box” (oh sexy) that he is going to find nothing he can do here, but something they have to do back at the home planet, err I mean, office.

So, life right now is a bit boring. My arm is still injured, though I’ve regained quite a bit of painfree movement. And other than watching TV, reading and doing laundry, I’m not doing too much. Hope everyone else is having a more exciting time.

I wasn’t aware of this new trend in some products until my husband told me about it. Instead of raising prices, companies have chosen to lower quantities. For example, previously a package of diapers held 25 for $9.99 (I’m making this up, since I don’t buy diapers) and now for the same $9.99 they sell a package with only 22 diapers and maybe slap some new colors or graphics on the package, perhaps encouraging the consumer to think that some revolutionary technique in packaging has made it smaller, and voila, the consumer is fooled. Tricky. Very tricky.

As if my 4 am posting for the day wasn’t enough to read...

You know you’re old when walking along you are caught in the crossfires of a shout by five young women sitting around a table in the campus commons area to another woman who is passing by on one of those tour shuttles (think: limousine of golf carts) directing a tour for visitors, and the shout entails “Eye to the UH OH!” (drag the last OH out, so that the entire thing sounds like a chant at a dance club). And you stick a finger in your ear to shake out the ringing, and you mutter to yourself, “What is wrong with people these days?"

Yep, that’s the moment you realize that you are getting old (in relation to today’s youth).

P.S. I’m aware of how calling them “today’s youth” is also a sign that I am getting old. *big sigh*

Tracy Chapman has a soulful voice in my estimation. And I think that quality is discernable from her CDs. What isn’t discernable is how much more powerful and riveting her voice is live. I also didn’t realize how absolutely cute she is when speaking. We saw her (maybe a few less than) a million years ago at one of the Lilith Faires, and the big stadium, or perhaps my seat in the boonies didn’t allow me to realize just how sweet, humble, and charmingly humorous she is. This time, we were in the 13th row of a very small venue and Tracy and her band were fabulous.

There are always one or two annoying people or things at any given concert. There are people who tend to be idiotic in public, and if you get a large enough crowd together (say more than 20), then they are quite unavoidable. For this night there was the woman who randomly shouted things out that made nearly no sense in light of the setting, and even that wouldn’t have been so bad but for her voice. How to explain...? Think of the baby voice of Joey Lauren Adams in Chasing Amy, then make the voice more baby-ish and high pitched, louder, and with a whine, and there! You have the woman in question. Now place her in line for the restroom right behind you shouting out “Rush the men’s room” and “Stampede” and other things that I can’t even recall verbatim because they were so non-sequitor. Then place her 4 rows back and across the aisle from you during the concert, and when Tracy is talking to the entire audience about the cute ducks that were around for sound check the woman was responding as if it was her and Tracy having the conversation one on one and the rest of us weren’t there. And of course she sang, but thankfully it only was annoying for one song.

In spite of that one woman, I had a blast. I shrugged off the annoyance, because what else am I going to do? (I so wanted to tell her that she was in public and she could use her “grown up” voice now, but I refrained, because I’m trying to be more of my old self… the nice person I used to be before I was corrupted by those around me. Teehee.)

Besides the concert, itself, being great—soulful, rocking even near the end, and jammin’ for the encore. One of the surprisingly great things was the people seated right next to us. Four men, the one right next me named Dean, and he was apologetic over their frequent trips to the restrooms (they were consuming beer) and we were on the aisle, and the rows were tightly squeezed so we all had to shift back or out to let them pass. And because he was so polite, and so excited about being there, and loved the concert as much as I did, there was instant rapport. And that made the night all the more special.

I wrote about the effects of an outdoor concert before (Yay, Pearl Jam!). And the San Diego air was cool, but not cold. The night was clear of much of the humidity, though there was some cloud cover, and every now and then a slight breeze would pass. And I felt the bass, the drums, and the electric guitar. And Tracy’s voice gave me chills at one point. There’s a certain earthiness to it, raw like the dirt, but refined like a path traveled upon, and like the earth there is a quality of honesty and purity (assuming here that the earth in this simile isn’t plundered or contaminated with waste).

So, another great concert-going experience.

First day of statistics class and it is already boring, but I didn’t expect parades and fireworks. I may live close to Disneyland, but I’m not that delusional (yet). My expectation was that the definitions and the concepts would be dry, but that hopefully when we start doing applications and analysis, things might get a little more exciting. It looks like that will be the case. However, the instructor has an accent and it is obvious that English is her second language. I didn’t mind at all because she speaks carefully about 90% of the time, and slowly enough so that she is comprehensible (at least to me). Also, she has extremely legible handwriting and she writes just about everything on the board, so even if a word here and there gets a little garbled, you can just read it. There is also a handicapped woman in the class who is very eager to learn and asks questions and volunteers answers and such, and actually her focus and inquisitiveness remind me of me.

What is a little disconcerting is the laughter that occassionally arises from the back of the room (at both the instructor’s accent and the handicapped woman’s contributions) from a small group of boys. I say boys because to call them men would be an injustice to men everywhere. We are in college, and even if these are high school juniors or seniors, they should realize they are in a college class and act appropriately. I know, I know—the old lady inside of me is coming forward here, but really I just prefer that people show respect, not only for the instructor, but for the other students who have a strong desire to learn.

I know these things happen, so I’m hoping over the next 5 weeks that they either learn to control themselves or possibly skip a lot of class. Either would suit me just fine.

As I was buying my book, though, the student worker at the book store asked me if I was buying the study guide, but it was out. I wasn’t going to buy it anyway because I don’t need to spend the extra $35+ for it when I know I can learn the material from the book and lectures. He commented that he bought it because the instructor was so hard to understand. I just blinked and said I had no problem understanding her, and that ended the conversation as the purchase had been completed.

This is Southern California. When did people start having problems understanding non-native accents? Do people just freeze at the sound of an accent? Because I was thoroughly impressed with the instructor’s ability to be clear in spite of her accent of which she obviously was aware. Is it so hard to tune-in, pay attention, take notes, and ask questions for clarity in today’s college classroom? Or maybe they just don’t want to take responsibility for their own education, and like to lay blame for any failure on someone else. That said, the student clerk at the bookstore at least had the right idea. He was aware of a problem for himself and countered it with the study guide. I have a feeling the boys in the back won’t even bother with that and will spend the rest of the summer blaming the instructor for how poorly they did in statistics.

P.S. We’re heading down to San Diego tonight to see Tracy Chapman in concert. (for those of you keeping track of my concert addiction)

At 5am this morning I was in a jail lobby, doing what I do for money—mostly just filling out paperwork, but paperwork that gives a solemn promise backed by large sums of money.

A woman having just been released from the jail facility and awaiting a ride was talking to another woman who appeared to be waiting for another person to be released. The just-released woman said, “I would have had 22 children, but only ended up with 15.” And she said this with a huge sense of pride. She was bragging about her ability to procreate. I was instantly disgusted.

Here I am with no children and a desire to have just one, and I know that at the very least I would give my child an opportunity to be someone who is a positive asset in society. And her? She is sitting in a jail lobby after being arrested for god knows what and she has the gall to be proud at bringing 15 lives into this fucked up world so that they will likely fuck it up even more. I know I’m stereotyping from a few words I heard her speak, but I don’t care. She talked like trash and seemed wholy proud of herself. Like I said, I was disgusted. Maybe I’m wrong about her children. I pray that I’m wrong, but deep down, I know that I’m not.

Restless.

If I knew how to fix it I would, but I don’t, so I’ll just keep on working and hope that it fixes itself.

Trust.

Am I a trustworthy person? I’m not sure. I know I can be doggedly loyal and trusted to try to keep the object of that loyalty’s interests at the fore. But the moment I feel mistreated, abused, or betrayed something happens and all bets are off. And usually the other person doesn’t even know. I’m a complete ass in that case. And it’s not that I like being that way, but I can’t seem to figure out how to not react that way in those situations. Those people who can always be the bigger and better person and never resort to pettiness, I’m in awe of them. I can even recognize in the moment that I’m feeling the need to lash out at someone who has hurt me, and occassionally stop it, and say to myself, I’ll be the bigger person here. But the truth is, inside my mind boils with every thought of their deserved torture and pain. And it takes quite awhile for me to really, truly realize that it’s not healthy; I’m not healthy.

There’s also the effect of time and space. And after quite a bit of both, I can be more objective and see the worst of me, and feel disgusted, but then feel human, and real, and accept that we all have some flaw. And maybe the flaw of the other person is something they can’t see, and maybe I should feel sad for them, instead of wanting them to feel pain, because I know we all feel enough pain. Wishing for more on someone else, really only brings more to me, to my thoughts.

Objective.

It’s one of those words that can never quite be put into action in its true meaning. I can never actually be objective, nor can anyone else. We can, however, try to be objective. And I think that’s got to be good enough.

Subjective.

Because even when we try to be objective, we are at the core a specific person, with specific consciousness, and a specific relation to the people, world and things around us. Maybe our subjectivity changes with each new experience, but it is who we are and how we see things. I don’t believe in the debate of biology versus environment. I don’t care which one someone else thinks makes up a person. I believe in human beings as being of themselves and their place, both to equal the whole. And place is much bigger than where one’s feet rest, and the self much bigger than the water, blood and bone of the body. But my point… I’m a subjective being, trying to find my balance with objectivity.

So, back to trust.

I’m not even sure if I can always trust myself, but I trust that in the grand scheme of my life, I’m trying to do my best. I make mistakes. I royally fuck things up. I create beauty. I create laughter. I create tears. Maybe, I shouldn’t always be trusted, but I’m going to go ahead and give myself the benefit of the doubt, and trust that overall, I’m trying to be good. I’m trying to be my best. Even when, I’m...

Restless.

It’s as if the weather was thinking, “I think they forgot just how hot it can get.” And so, it had to remind me.

It was my fault for putting on black jeans this morning because it looked overcast, and I thought it was going to be another one of those fake-out days, when it looks like it will warm up but stays cool (So, inevitably I wear shorts and then shiver under the hand of the cold wind). We’ve had a few of those in the past week and a half.

Well, that’s over. The devil’s home. And yes, he lives in Riverside. Welcome back Mr. Lucifer, let me help you crank up the heat a notch.

P.S. LA and OC Counties, I know you make fun of us here. But beware, we’re closing in on you. That’s right, cower. The 909 is knockin’ on your door.

P.P.S. For those of you not familiar, 909 is the area code of meth labs, oranges, repressed rage, and not-so-repressed rage, and Beelzebub. Oh and I just watched Eight Mile, so I’m feeling a lil silly with the verbage.

From what I can tell, most of the folks who find this site via search sites are looking for the words “come undone”. There’s a movie by that name, and several songs that have those words in the lyrics, and possibly a book and/or a play with those words in the title. So, I’m sure some people are quite disappointed when they find me. I’ve had a few folks looking for porn heading this way, using combinations of the words: teacher, school girl, penis, drunk, etc. What I didn’t expect was the search a few weeks ago for the question: how to start talking to a girl.

That query made me pause, and give a silent “awwww” for whoever was really wanting to know this vital bit of information. My assumption (which may come back to bite me on the ass, as assumptions often do) is that this is a young man most likely straight (because girls usually know how to talk to girls), entering the age where interest in the opposite sex suddenly becomes a major thought and concern. So, being of the girlish persuation (maybe a slightly aged version, but take what you can get whipper-snapper! *wink*), I thought I’d try to answer this question.

Good luck!

Lesson One: When your boyfriend is in Sears in order to steal a bunch of tools, don’t be waiting in the car. I realize you may not have known he was going to steal. So, sure go ahead and claim ignorance, but it won’t get you any less arrested. And if you are in the driver’s seat when he comes running out, gunning the engine, well, that doesn’t look good either. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Lesson Two: On another thought-train, I’ve found that I am much easier to annoy when I’ve had a sleepless night. Yesterday, after one such night, as I sat in the Commons cafeteria at school, I became aware of one of the most annoying laughs. The super-loud “manly” giggle. Yes, an actual giggle. The skinny guy’s belly was actually jiggling inside, his throat was waving like a bowl-full of shaken jello. I wanted to slap some seriousness into to him, because otherwise I felt I might rip out his vocal cords. If the giggle was quieter, if it didn’t sound like it was coming out of a loud speaker, then maybe I wouldn’t have minded the ho-ho-ey-ness of it (as opposed to the he-he-ey-ness of a girlish or childish giggle), and maybe if he wasn’t the one cracking the jokes and therefore making himself giggle (if someone else was joking and forcing the obscene noises to eminate from his every oriface), then maybe, just maybe I could have tolerated it. But, I doubt it. So, if you’re a man, for the love of all that is sacred, don’t giggle at your own jokes.

Lesson Three: In an educational environment, there are various forms of communication. One of these can be a message board dedicated to a specific class, and even to specific groups within the class. There is one of these that I’m am to utilize this quarter. Already, I am wanting to clutch two people by the shoulders and shake some sense into them. (I’m not sure what this violent streak is about, but you can trust it is figurative, and not literal.) Each person is to post on the topic/question for the week, as well as give one response to someone else’s posting. That is fine and good. Here comes the trouble. When posting a response, I feel a person can disagree, agree, or add to the person’s original posting. Those are all well and good. Critiquing the person’s posting by saying what they could have added and/or saying that the person didn’t touch on some point (not asked by the original topic) isn’t good. I’m not sure if I’m making this clear, but I’ll try to give an example.

The topic is, say, apples. Person A writes about Golden Delicious and Granny Smith apples by describing their color, flavor, and the best climate for optimum growth. Person B responds by saying that person A should have mentioned Pippen and Macintosh apples as that would have made the posting more complete, and to next time put more thought and effort into the posting.

Person B can feel this way all she wants, but the response wasn’t at all constructive or helpful to the class. Here is a helpful response: Person C could say that Person A really knows about Granny Smith and Golden Delicious Apples, and that the qualities of Pippen and Macintosh apples are...such and such, etc. Now, that is a good response. Person A isn’t derided for what they didn’t say, acknowledged for what they did contribute, and the person responding is contributing as well, and not just being snide or seemingly trying to act as a stand-in for the actual teaching assistant who is judging and grading the discussions.

Deep breath. Heavy exhale. Feels good to get that off my chest. Happy Thursday all. Oh, and smile, sometimes it drives them mad wondering what the hell you could be smiling about! (Oh, right. The smiling is Lesson Four)

I was at a Bad Religion concert held at a small local club last night. The sound/acoustics were horrible. The band hadn’t played a concert since October of last year, and it sounded as if they hadn’t rehearsed very much since. Most of the time it sounded as if they were all one or two seconds off from the others in their playing. Ah well. I would have stuck it out, but my husband, who really likes them and was the reason we were there, wanted to leave. So we left.

As we were walking to our car, half deaf, I started thinking about sound. Sound has come up a lot in my English Lit class as we have been discussing Sister Carrie and the sounds, the white noise of industrialization, that Carrie encounters as she arrives in Chicago. On the first night back from Maui, I heard the noises of this city more clearly then usual--the bleating horn of the train, the whoosh of traffic on the street below--and for a moment, as my head lay upon my pillow, I missed the silence of Upcountry (Maui).

We get so we don’t even hear sounds after awhile, accustomed to it. There are other things like this. Landmarks we don’t see in our hometowns that visitors would see. People we ignore, who just may enjoy a smile from a stranger. Advertising that is so deeply ingrained in this culture that its effects are getting harder to calculate. How would we live without so much white noise, and background influences? And will there ever come a day when we are given that chance?

People die everyday. People are killed everyday. Everyone knows this, except for perhaps children who are too young to understand death. And even though we know this, many folks don’t think about it.

And now there is a very prominent reminder: War.

I feel a deep sense of fear and uncertainty. I have felt this before, as many Americans did, when the planes crashed into the World Trade Center buildings, the Pentagon, and the other one crashed in Pennsylvania (that is where it crashed after the passengers tried to retake control of the plane, right? It was covered by the media much less then the other events, so I may be recalling it incorrectly). I’m not in tears this time, at least not yet. If I was to see death, the lifeless bodies, then no doubt, crying would come.

The media are talking and talking and talking and talking, and at times, I want to throw something at the tv. There are careless words, hyped words, prejudiced words. These men (95% of the people talking thus far have been male) have to talk, even when a reporter in Baghdad said, let’s listen to the sounds of the city, and there was 1.3 seconds of silence in which you could here some rumbling, but not much else before the man in the newsroom had to open his mouth and start talking again.

The media is ticking me off. Maybe, though, it is just my fear and apprehension bubbling up.

This is happening. And people are going to die. Innocent people. And the greater good rises up in defense. And there is no position I can claim on this issue. I can’t be pro-war, and I can’t be anti-war. Call me a fence sitter, but really, I’m just torn. When it comes down to it, my opinion, formed or not, makes no difference. War has begun. All I can do is hope for the safety of those who deserve it, and I’m not the one to decide who those people are.