BZ, Baby!

Here's the deal: the first month of teaching in a new school is a nightmare, particularly if you are teaching in a new subject area, or are teaching a new curriculum. I have yet to work in a school that had a full set of textbooks for the students, much less a teacher's edition, working overhead projector, and supplementary materials such as the all-necessary DVD or CD on the first day, let alone the first month. I teach English as a Foreign Language--specifically, preparation for upcoming important exams-- and I can't teach out of my textbooks. Why? The CDs are lost. The tapescripts are lost. The transcripts are lost. My students have expensive textbooks which they can't use because we can't listen to the CD to do the activities which begin, "Listen to the dialogue between the two strangers. Write the words you hear in the blanks."

Now, if I had a teacher's edition of the book--or the transcript--I could reenact the dialogue. As it is, I have to resort to making it up--or worse, just making up something else to do. Even if I had the CD, folks, it wouldn't do any good as the two CD players in the entire school DON'T WORK. I finally broke down and brought in my OWN CD player, as well as my own speakers, because none of the speakers in the classroom work. I teach more than 20 different lessons every week and that is 20 plus lessons being pulled out of thin air, borne of my experience and back log of activities that I stored on a hard drive and which I frantically photo copy before class when I realize that once again, the CD didn't come in... Add to that the absolute frustration of a system that takes away the weekend before a holiday and the weekend after a holiday and declares them "working days" so that a teacher is working 9 or more days straight in order to have three days off in midweek towards the end of the month--and then have the said teacher sent to a conference where no translation is provided on the one day off they have all month--and you have a very tired, bitter little person hunched over her keyboard at 7:24 in the morning snarling, "Well, I'm not posting today EITHER then. Screw the fans, if I had any!"

Vice Cream Gateway to Harder Drugs

Vice Cream Gateway to Harder Drugs

Parents and fat chicks are in an uproar over the latest addition to milk bars and dairy cases across Australia. In a world where literally thousands of children starve to death every year, Australians have a deeper concern.

“It’s those bloody Vodka Cranberry Magnum ice creams,” 40-year old Suzie Knox sobbed helplessly, her ankles puffing over the tops of her skin tight white socks. “I can’t control myself. Two of those and I’m ready for the hot fudge sauce.”

Miss Knox’s foster parents nod sagely.

”It’s true," surrogate parent Jan Cochaud states flatly. “One or two bars and the next thing we know, she’s knee-deep in Arnott’s TV Snacks. We’re that worried that she’s going to start going for the hard stuff, dark chocolate, next.” She pauses. “Or worse.”

Other parents express their concerns. “I don’t even want to think about what happens with those damned Tim Tams," high school teacher Scott Wallace adds. “When those walk in the door, healthy snacks like Meat Pies fly straight out the frickin’ window. Even in a safe place like Mount Wycheproof.”

As child obesity rates soar, parents do well to worry that the addictive flavors of Tia Maria Tim Tams and Kahlua Slices will draw children away from traditional fare such as full-fat cheese and steamed golden pudding towards snack foods with a darker edge.

Lucy Y (not her real name) knows all about it. At the tender age of 12, Lucy has forsworn Barbie for delights of a more forbidden nature.

“It started innocently enough, “ she says, picking at a sore spot on her chin. “A few Jelly Babies here, a handful of Smarties there. But one day, I had a few of those Tia Maria Tim Tams and the next thing I knew, I was a goner. Soon, I was scarfing down a pack a day. Then two. But it wasn’t enough. Next thing I knew, I was shoplifting Cherry Ripes. Then even that wasn’t enough. I got on to the Crunchies then. Yeah, the hard stuff. One day, I did so many I totally scraped off the roof of my mouth. When I saw how I’d cut my mouth to ribbons, I knew I needed help.”

Housing in Beijing

Man, oh man, the pretentious names of expensive Chinese high-rises! These are bona-fide examples of names of apartment complexes in  Beijing I have collected and each deserves a novel. The last example is laid out as exactly as I can recall it. (I actually keep a notebook for this very reason.) Here goes:

Amorous Feeling of Canadian Coast

Harbour of the Middle Class

Chateau Regency II

RESPENDENTLYINAUGURATED (Yes, all one word, and all caps)

Blue Ocean (near a desert, for god’s sake)

Ocean View (ditto)

Blue Fairyland

Blue Glory

Blue Gloryland

Upper East Side: A Mature Life is Going On

Triumphal Club

Home of Tycoons

Seat of Honor Oasis

And the best of all: This is on the sign of one building:

Passion stirred

Senses soared

Temptation unleashed

Yearning

Longing

Wanting

Satisfaction

An afterglow

My Humble House

For the SOUL

Yes, the place is called, My Humble House.

THREE MILLION BUCKS for a two bedroom apartment, and it doesn't even have a bidet.

Why Men Should Wear, Not Be, Heels

Men, being human and male, can be callous and stupid and cruel. OK, some are gems, but the majority are unenlightened swine. Plus, some of them smell bad. Yet even swine can be taught to perform simple actions and tasks through operant conditioning. Can we, using some method, find a way to introduce higher level thinking among men?

Sure. Torture. Women’s shoes.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Heels. Not Birkenstocks, which look as if a calf is wandering around saying, “Now what the HELL happened to my left butt cheek?” I’m talking HEELS, baby, cute shoes—pumps! Lovely Italian leather, of such soft rich outfit-coordinating color that the wearer just won’t look as damn good if s/he switches to alternate comfortable (read: ugly) footwear.

Some men snicker at women for being weak, but sneer at them for appearing “unfeminine.” Put high school football jocks in heels for a week and watch their respect for women soar. Send those boys out shopping in cute shoes, with sore ankles and pinched heels and watch as they tote those bags of groceries. They won’t last long enough to microwave a bowl of popcorn, let alone do any washing up.

Once men experience the agony some women put themselves through in the name of lookin’ good, they might actually appreciate the effort it took to get that way.

Women aren’t weak- we have more stamina, and can push nine pounds of baby flesh through our pelvis and still get up, shower, then vacuum the front hall rug. Most men take sick leave for a paper cut and insist on showing it to everybody. Listen, 36 agonizing hours of labor spent giving birth to my baby literally tore me a new one, but does anyone care? No, they’re all worry about how Lance slipped on course at Tour de France and lost six seconds (and that’s among the literate group.)

Putting men in our prettiest shoes will show them the decisions we face daily: comfort vs. fashion. A high tight ass over blistered hells and aching feet, or a soggy butt slumped over washable Keds? Acting like a woman, or putting on a show as a girly girl? Meeting our needs, or trying to attract someone who will give up praise, sex, and half his paycheck?

I think of myself as a person, rather than a woman, and for this I have paid dearly. I wear comfortable shoes, because a) they’re comfortable, and b) I have to do a ton of sh-t daily to keep my daughter fed. And I do wonder, if perhaps my mother is right: if I had kept myself in heels and lipstick, there would be a man around to give me compliments and money and hot monkey lovin’—but I didn’t, and there isn’t, and from the look of things, there won’t be.

But perhaps I’d have more respect from male colleagues if they took off their loafers, stepped into a pair of Manolos, and tried to balance my checkbook while stirring a boiling pot of fudge, talking on the phone, listening to my daughter, taking that bottle of Scotch out of my mother’s hands, and planning next week’s work schedule. Maybe they wouldn’t get ME, but they might just get off my back about “not looking very feminine.” (See Roseanne Barr’s classic response to that.)

Put them in my Pradas. They wouldn’t last a week.

Big Chick in China: She's Baaa-aack!

Big Chick in China: She's Baaa-aack!: "Although I swore I would never get another maid again, it occurred to me that my dog spent too much time alone, which is not good for a litt..."

She's Baaa-aack!

Although I swore I would never get another maid again, it occurred to me that my dog spent too much time alone, which is not good for a little loving lap dog. Duchess has spent much of the last three weeks dragging around listlessly: even taking her out for a bike ride (I ride, she runs) has failed to cheer her up. Attempts to find someone who could come during noon to walk her failed: I raced home from school every day at noon to give her a walk and a cuddle, but still she drooped. When I took her outside, she tried to pull me to the subway stop, the place where we meet friends: it was clear that she thought if she could just get to the station, someone beloved would emerge.

Then, like an answer to a prayer, my former ayi called and told me with tears in her voice that she missed the dog SO MUCH and could she please come visit. Ah, music to our ears: the rapturous reunion between Ayi and the dog brought tears to my eyes as they tumbled out kissing one another with slightly open mouths. My ayi, who does indeed resemble Oprah, brought her husband along as well. He too was thrilled to see the dog (slightly less thrilled to see me.) And so it goes: Ayi is back three days a week to wash my dishes, play with my dog, pry through my drawers, and gossip with the neighbors. She also leaves me snacks, such as today's lunch of chicken and mushrooms with a corn fritter, and I couldn't be more pleased. Duchess is taking a nap on my bed--on my pillow, to be exact--worn out with happiness.  I envy her bliss.  

Thank You Letter for Just About Every School I've Worked In

After writing this, I had to delete it, largely as I still need my job. Yeah yeah yeah, no one reads this but with my luck it will automatically land on the desk of the last person on earth who should read it--ie, the people I work for. Let us say that this week has been a challenge and leave it at that.