If I could, I would continuously poll my students throughout the semester. I would poll them about all sorts of stuff, like what they thought about that time I wore jeans to class, or how much they liked my new haircut, or how charming they thought I was during my lecture on paraphrasing.
But the most important question I could ever ask is this one: Do you love me?
I want my students to love me. I think my obsession with winning and keeping their affection goes back to the first semester I ever taught. There were fourteen of us TAs in one office that semester, and people were constantly comparing their classes. Two of the girls would consistently slink back from teaching looking like they'd just come back from war. "My students hate me," they would moan. "It's just so clear--they loathe me."
That's when I would smile and shrug and tell them it would get better eventually.
"Do your students like you?" they asked.
"My students love me," I chirped. I was very, very annoying. And I was very, very annoying because I was trying to prove myself to everyone around me. After all, I came in at twenty-one years old, and I spent a lot of time before my first day worrying my students would sense my young-ness, my inexperience, my fear, and there would be a bloody coup, and they would hang me upside-down from the chalkboard. When none of that happened, I was so happy and so relieved that I couldn't stop talking about how they loved me. They loved me. Some loved me too much.
But ever since then, I've wanted every single class to love me the same way. I want my students to look forward to coming to my class because--let's face it--when they are happy with the course and the teacher they are more attentive and less likely to fall asleep in a puddle of their own drool. They might actually learn something.
Sometimes it's hard to measure a class's love. Sometimes you wonder if there's a thin line between loving a professor and wanting them to explode in a firey ball of death as they're talking about the proper use of apostrophes. Sometimes you look into your students' eyes and think, They're totally fantasizing about killing me right now. Of course, there are other times when you look into your students' eyes and think, They're totally fantasizing about me right now. Sometimes it's hard to tell which of those options is the better one.
Still, there are other times when you know exactly what a class feels. This week was one of those times. The class schedule for next semester is out, and students are registering. This means I can now pop open a tentative class list and see who is enrolled in my courses. I did that the other day, excited to see the photo list of my new students. As the pictures loaded, familiar faces began to pop up. Not one familiar face, not two familiar faces, not three familiar faces. At least ten. Ten familiar faces in one class. I went to my next course. Same thing. Many, many familiar faces popped up. I had repeat students. Tons of them.
The next day I showed up to class and one of my students--a boy who never fails to sit in the front row, a boy who refers to me as Miss Jess, a boy who surely must have a raging (albeit charming) case of ADHD--cleared his throat.
"Miss Jess?" he said. "Miss Jess, I really want to be in your class next semester, but that means I'd have to move my chemistry lab section, and the only other one available meets at 7 AM."
"That sucks," I said. I figured this was his apology to me, that he was trying to explain why I wasn't going to see him in next semester's class.
"But I think I'm going to do it," he said. "It's going to be hell, but I think I'm going to do it."
That is pretty much the biggest declaration of love you can get from a student, and I spent the rest of the day wallowing in that flattery.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Monday, November 27, 2006
The Worst Type of Rejection
On Saturday night I was supposed to meet one of Hot Rob's friends. It was a real informal thing, no big deal, nothing to obsess about. This friend was just one of the guys from the rugby team, and the first time I saw him he was wearing grey sweatpants. I thought he had good hair. I thought he seemed fun. I told Hot Rob that out of all the men on the rugby team, the grey sweatpant-wearing boy was the one I'd most like to make out with, if ever given the chance.
Hot Rob said no. He said no way. When I asked why not, Rob just shrugged and said, "Well, he's picky."
I took that to mean I wasn't pretty enough. "Is it the teeth?" I asked. I pulled my top lip down over the gap in my smile. "Am I not cute?"
Hot Rob said no, that wasn't exactly it. "He doesn't want a girlfriend," he explained.
That's when Amy jumped in on my behalf. "She doesn't want to marry him," she told her boyfriend. "She just wants to kiss him."
Hot Rob just shrugged and I figured that was it. I figured the subject was dead, and that was okay with me.
Weeks and weeks passed after that original conversation. Then, last week, Rob told me he'd been talking to the grey sweatpant-wearing boy on my behalf. He'd told him that I worked at one of the area colleges and the sweatpant-wearing boy really, really liked the idea of meeting someone who taught college-level English. Hot Rob said, "Well, he's looking forward to meeting you. He'll be out this weekend after the disco."
And he was. When we met up with Hot Rob after we'd changed from our disco clothes into normal human being clothes, Rob needled me in the ribs. "He's ouuuut," he sang. "He's been asking about you. He kept saying, 'Where's the professor, Rob? Bring me the professor!'"
So we walked across the street to the bar where Rob's friend was drinking. This bar is the worst type of bar. It's a nothing bar. It's a giant garage with a bar plunked into the middle. There are no seats, no stools, no aesthetics, no dance floor. It's a giant space and people just do their thing, and the top three things to do in this bar are dance, make out, and fight.
There were two poles extending up from the middle of the bar and a group of girls climbed up on top of the counter and started writhing against the bars and against each other. Another group of girls tried to balance in their high-heeled boots on top of giant speakers. They writhed, too. They ran their hands up and down their body. They pointed to boys on the floor. They crooked their fingers and beckoned them.
I felt very old. I felt a little nauseous. I recalled the very short period of time in my life where I thought to get a boy's attention it was necessary to dance on a bar or writhe against a mirrored wall. I thought about one of the Mardi Gras parties Barker Brew had when I was an undergraduate at Fredonia. I thought about the boy I loved from my creative writing class--a scruffy, thick-sweater-wearing boy named Andrew--and how he showed up that night. He sat in a corner booth with his friends. I stood by the bar with mine. I drank Hurricane after Hurricane out of pitchers accessorized with giant straws. Then, several pitchers later, I got up on a corner table--the table behind his booth--and started dancing with my friend Amanda.
I thought surely he would say something to me. He would come over. He would smile. He would buy me a drink. He would be impressed by me. He would love this other side of me--this non-creative writing side, this side that got up on tables and danced to AC/DC's "Shook Me All Night Long."
The next morning I woke up hating myself because of course he didn't come over and of course he wasn't impressed be me or my non-creative writing side or the way I had rubbed up against Amanda while the rest of the bar watched.
So watching these girls do the same thing--albeit with more success than I had, mainly because they were aiming to impress a markedly different type of boy than scruffy Andrew--made me tired, made me feel old, made me feel a little like I wanted to throw up.
It was only going to get worse.
By this point, Rob had found his friend. He brought him over to me. He turned me around and started to introduce us.
"This," he said, "is Je..."
But before Rob could even finish saying my name, his friend, who had started to shake my hand, blinked hard at me then quickly let go of my hand as if it were gangrenous or covered in pus and he wanted nothing to do with it. Then he turned on his heel and left.
I have never been rejected that quickly or efficiently. I have never been destroyed before I even said a single word to a boy. It was stunning and almost comical, except that it wasn't comical at all. I wanted to hit that boy across the back of his head and tell him he was a moron, that he had no idea what he was missing out on, that he could go on and try to hook up with that girl who was thrusting her crotch against the pole if he wanted to.
Amy was appalled. She yelled at Hot Rob. She told him he was in trouble, that his friend was ridiculous, that he was going to pay for that. "Stupid twenty year old boy," she huffed. "Just who does he think he is?"
I told her it was okay, it was fine, it was no big deal, it was nothing to obsess over, but of course it was, and of course I spent the rest of the night wondering which part of me had caused that strong of a reaction.
I was self-conscious. I silently hated men. I tried not to feel sad and alone and slightly desperate. I tried not to think about Amy telling me all she wishes she could do is meet some nice boy can introduce me to so I can stop feeling so sad and alone and slightly desperate.
I don't know what my problem has been lately, but I've been real sick with missing the way it used to feel when I had a boyfriend. It's been years and years since I've had a boy who called me his girlfriend, and I keep wishing something big would happen. I keep wishing for some big romantic gesture, for something amazing to happen, for a boy to admit he likes me without reservation. I just want someone I can go to sleep with, someone I can cook dinner for, someone I can go to a movie with. I just want to feel less alone.
And I realize I'm not going to find satisfaction in a twenty year old sweatpant-wearing rugby player, and I realize I want no part of a man who would be that rude, but it's still the worst type of rejection and it's never good to have a memory like that crouched in the dark corners of your brain, ready to talk louder than any of the million good memories--ones that validate me, ones that remind me that I'm nice and sweet and a good girl to have around. The bad memories are easier to hear. They go on chattering, chattering, chattering. They ask me why I think anyone would ever want to be with me, a girl with bad teeth, a girl who grows hair too fast, a girl who's probably not even that good of a kisser. They say, Don't try. Don't try. Why would you even bother?
Hot Rob said no. He said no way. When I asked why not, Rob just shrugged and said, "Well, he's picky."
I took that to mean I wasn't pretty enough. "Is it the teeth?" I asked. I pulled my top lip down over the gap in my smile. "Am I not cute?"
Hot Rob said no, that wasn't exactly it. "He doesn't want a girlfriend," he explained.
That's when Amy jumped in on my behalf. "She doesn't want to marry him," she told her boyfriend. "She just wants to kiss him."
Hot Rob just shrugged and I figured that was it. I figured the subject was dead, and that was okay with me.
Weeks and weeks passed after that original conversation. Then, last week, Rob told me he'd been talking to the grey sweatpant-wearing boy on my behalf. He'd told him that I worked at one of the area colleges and the sweatpant-wearing boy really, really liked the idea of meeting someone who taught college-level English. Hot Rob said, "Well, he's looking forward to meeting you. He'll be out this weekend after the disco."
And he was. When we met up with Hot Rob after we'd changed from our disco clothes into normal human being clothes, Rob needled me in the ribs. "He's ouuuut," he sang. "He's been asking about you. He kept saying, 'Where's the professor, Rob? Bring me the professor!'"
So we walked across the street to the bar where Rob's friend was drinking. This bar is the worst type of bar. It's a nothing bar. It's a giant garage with a bar plunked into the middle. There are no seats, no stools, no aesthetics, no dance floor. It's a giant space and people just do their thing, and the top three things to do in this bar are dance, make out, and fight.
There were two poles extending up from the middle of the bar and a group of girls climbed up on top of the counter and started writhing against the bars and against each other. Another group of girls tried to balance in their high-heeled boots on top of giant speakers. They writhed, too. They ran their hands up and down their body. They pointed to boys on the floor. They crooked their fingers and beckoned them.
I felt very old. I felt a little nauseous. I recalled the very short period of time in my life where I thought to get a boy's attention it was necessary to dance on a bar or writhe against a mirrored wall. I thought about one of the Mardi Gras parties Barker Brew had when I was an undergraduate at Fredonia. I thought about the boy I loved from my creative writing class--a scruffy, thick-sweater-wearing boy named Andrew--and how he showed up that night. He sat in a corner booth with his friends. I stood by the bar with mine. I drank Hurricane after Hurricane out of pitchers accessorized with giant straws. Then, several pitchers later, I got up on a corner table--the table behind his booth--and started dancing with my friend Amanda.
I thought surely he would say something to me. He would come over. He would smile. He would buy me a drink. He would be impressed by me. He would love this other side of me--this non-creative writing side, this side that got up on tables and danced to AC/DC's "Shook Me All Night Long."
The next morning I woke up hating myself because of course he didn't come over and of course he wasn't impressed be me or my non-creative writing side or the way I had rubbed up against Amanda while the rest of the bar watched.
So watching these girls do the same thing--albeit with more success than I had, mainly because they were aiming to impress a markedly different type of boy than scruffy Andrew--made me tired, made me feel old, made me feel a little like I wanted to throw up.
It was only going to get worse.
By this point, Rob had found his friend. He brought him over to me. He turned me around and started to introduce us.
"This," he said, "is Je..."
But before Rob could even finish saying my name, his friend, who had started to shake my hand, blinked hard at me then quickly let go of my hand as if it were gangrenous or covered in pus and he wanted nothing to do with it. Then he turned on his heel and left.
I have never been rejected that quickly or efficiently. I have never been destroyed before I even said a single word to a boy. It was stunning and almost comical, except that it wasn't comical at all. I wanted to hit that boy across the back of his head and tell him he was a moron, that he had no idea what he was missing out on, that he could go on and try to hook up with that girl who was thrusting her crotch against the pole if he wanted to.
Amy was appalled. She yelled at Hot Rob. She told him he was in trouble, that his friend was ridiculous, that he was going to pay for that. "Stupid twenty year old boy," she huffed. "Just who does he think he is?"
I told her it was okay, it was fine, it was no big deal, it was nothing to obsess over, but of course it was, and of course I spent the rest of the night wondering which part of me had caused that strong of a reaction.
I was self-conscious. I silently hated men. I tried not to feel sad and alone and slightly desperate. I tried not to think about Amy telling me all she wishes she could do is meet some nice boy can introduce me to so I can stop feeling so sad and alone and slightly desperate.
I don't know what my problem has been lately, but I've been real sick with missing the way it used to feel when I had a boyfriend. It's been years and years since I've had a boy who called me his girlfriend, and I keep wishing something big would happen. I keep wishing for some big romantic gesture, for something amazing to happen, for a boy to admit he likes me without reservation. I just want someone I can go to sleep with, someone I can cook dinner for, someone I can go to a movie with. I just want to feel less alone.
And I realize I'm not going to find satisfaction in a twenty year old sweatpant-wearing rugby player, and I realize I want no part of a man who would be that rude, but it's still the worst type of rejection and it's never good to have a memory like that crouched in the dark corners of your brain, ready to talk louder than any of the million good memories--ones that validate me, ones that remind me that I'm nice and sweet and a good girl to have around. The bad memories are easier to hear. They go on chattering, chattering, chattering. They ask me why I think anyone would ever want to be with me, a girl with bad teeth, a girl who grows hair too fast, a girl who's probably not even that good of a kisser. They say, Don't try. Don't try. Why would you even bother?
Sunday, November 26, 2006
World's Best Excuse to Dress Like a Pimp or Prostitute
As soon as I got my tickets for the World's Largest Disco I called my mother with a very important question. I wanted to see if she still had a pile of clothes leftover from the 70's—something she'd squirreled away, kept out of some strange love or obsession.
"Are you kidding me?" my mother said. "Gross. Why would I have any clothes left over from the 70's?"
Then I asked about my grandmother's three closets worth of clothes—the ones my mother had to comb through after her death. Surely there had to be something left from the 70's, something my grandmother found too precious or sweet or nice to get rid of. After all, my grandmother was The All Time Greatest Saver of Trivial and Strange Things, a skill she passed down to my mother, a skill that then got plugged into my DNA, a skill that explains why I still have the posterboard from a book report presentation Amy and I did in sixth grade.
But my mother had already donated anything that could've been useful to me. She'd taken bags and bags of my grandmother's old clothes to the Salvation Army. I was on my own with the outfit, but I figured my mother could still be some sort of help.
"What would you have worn to a disco?" I asked. "You know, back then? What kind of outfit would've been your first choice?"
That's when my mother rolled her eyes. "Jessica," she said, "I didn't disco. Disco was lame."
I beg to differ.
The five of us girls—my best girls Amy, Becky, and Steph, and Steph's college roommate Michelle—rented a hotel room for the night and arrived early so we could drink, eat pizza from Buffalo's best pizzeria, and get ready at our leisure:
That's Amy and Becky pre-getting ready. Shortly after this picture was taken there was a flurry of curling irons, aerosol hairspray, and blue eye shadow. We came out looking a little like so:
This is me and my naughty 70's girl pose. Not only am I channeling Jackie from That 70's Show, but I'm also channeling Farrah.
In the middle of doing her own version of 70's hair, Becky had to break it down for us.
A few minutes later, she came out looking like that. So Mary Tyler Moore!
And here's Michelle and Steph, who look so, so cool and aloof.
Becky and Amy did a little pre-disco posing.
Here's the whole group: Amy, me, Becky, Michelle, and Steph. I've come to this conclusion about high-waisted pleated pants: they aren't all that slimming.
The disco was held in the convention center, which was a quick walk down the street from our hotel. This was the same hotel that the Jacksonville Jaguars were staying in since they're in town to play the Bills today. We saw many—and one especially cute one—in the lobby.
We looked as good going as we did coming.
Once we got inside we drank wine from a box, saw some of the best costumes in the entire universe, and stumbled into pimps and sluts and go-go honeys and drunk 70's prom queens and guys who looked like they could've been the groomsmen at my father's wedding—frilly tuxedo shirts and all.
I don't know who this guy is, but he gave me a high five. He also spilled quite a bit of his drink on himself.
After the disco ended, we ran back to the hotel for a quick change so we could continue drinking and dancing downtown. Hot Rob graced us with some of his best white-boy moves.
Becky showed us her stuff, too.
So, really, I can't wait to call my mother and tell her how wrong she was and that discos are many things—including an excuse for every woman in Buffalo to put on dresses that barely cover the crests of their butts—but they are never, ever, ever lame.
"Are you kidding me?" my mother said. "Gross. Why would I have any clothes left over from the 70's?"
Then I asked about my grandmother's three closets worth of clothes—the ones my mother had to comb through after her death. Surely there had to be something left from the 70's, something my grandmother found too precious or sweet or nice to get rid of. After all, my grandmother was The All Time Greatest Saver of Trivial and Strange Things, a skill she passed down to my mother, a skill that then got plugged into my DNA, a skill that explains why I still have the posterboard from a book report presentation Amy and I did in sixth grade.
But my mother had already donated anything that could've been useful to me. She'd taken bags and bags of my grandmother's old clothes to the Salvation Army. I was on my own with the outfit, but I figured my mother could still be some sort of help.
"What would you have worn to a disco?" I asked. "You know, back then? What kind of outfit would've been your first choice?"
That's when my mother rolled her eyes. "Jessica," she said, "I didn't disco. Disco was lame."
I beg to differ.
The five of us girls—my best girls Amy, Becky, and Steph, and Steph's college roommate Michelle—rented a hotel room for the night and arrived early so we could drink, eat pizza from Buffalo's best pizzeria, and get ready at our leisure:
That's Amy and Becky pre-getting ready. Shortly after this picture was taken there was a flurry of curling irons, aerosol hairspray, and blue eye shadow. We came out looking a little like so:
This is me and my naughty 70's girl pose. Not only am I channeling Jackie from That 70's Show, but I'm also channeling Farrah.
In the middle of doing her own version of 70's hair, Becky had to break it down for us.
A few minutes later, she came out looking like that. So Mary Tyler Moore!
And here's Michelle and Steph, who look so, so cool and aloof.
Becky and Amy did a little pre-disco posing.
Here's the whole group: Amy, me, Becky, Michelle, and Steph. I've come to this conclusion about high-waisted pleated pants: they aren't all that slimming.
The disco was held in the convention center, which was a quick walk down the street from our hotel. This was the same hotel that the Jacksonville Jaguars were staying in since they're in town to play the Bills today. We saw many—and one especially cute one—in the lobby.
We looked as good going as we did coming.
Once we got inside we drank wine from a box, saw some of the best costumes in the entire universe, and stumbled into pimps and sluts and go-go honeys and drunk 70's prom queens and guys who looked like they could've been the groomsmen at my father's wedding—frilly tuxedo shirts and all.
I don't know who this guy is, but he gave me a high five. He also spilled quite a bit of his drink on himself.
After the disco ended, we ran back to the hotel for a quick change so we could continue drinking and dancing downtown. Hot Rob graced us with some of his best white-boy moves.
Becky showed us her stuff, too.
So, really, I can't wait to call my mother and tell her how wrong she was and that discos are many things—including an excuse for every woman in Buffalo to put on dresses that barely cover the crests of their butts—but they are never, ever, ever lame.
Saturday, November 25, 2006
That 70's Girl
Today is the big day, the day my girls and I have been waiting and scheming for. Today is one of Buffalo's finest days. Today the city hosts the annual World's Largest Disco.
And I'm going to be there. I'll be channeling Jackie from That 70's Show. She's the one on the right.
The makeup, the hair, the clothes. Just you wait. It's going to be amazing.
I have a pantsuit. And it's teal.
And I'm going to be there. I'll be channeling Jackie from That 70's Show. She's the one on the right.
The makeup, the hair, the clothes. Just you wait. It's going to be amazing.
I have a pantsuit. And it's teal.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
It's the Big 2-0.
Today when my students asked (repeatedly) what the date was and I (repeatedly) said, Today is the twenty-first, I also said, And it's my brother's birthday.
My students asked me what I got my brother. They wanted to see how awesome of a sister I am. I told them I gave him a crisp $10 bill and some expensive beer. I thought the beer was necessary because lately my brother has been drinking beer he describes as "Not that bad for $12 a case." I felt I could improve his quality of life by giving him good beer, beer that was imported, beer that was Irish.
"You are a very, very good sister," my students said.
Yes, yes, I am. I even made a cake. The worst cake of all time. It was a cake for an eleven year old girl. An eleven year old girl who has a really bad cake-baking sister.
I had many things working against me:
1. My brother requested a cake mix. He wanted Rainbow Chip with fake Rainbow Chip frosting. I don't work well with fake frosting. I think fake frosting is grouchy and stupid and it doesn't spread nice, no matter how much you fluff it.
2. I couldn't find my father's round cake pans and was forced to make an ugly square.
3. The frosting pulled a section of the cake apart, and I tried to repair the broken parts with more frosting and cinnamon candies made to look like flowers. Flowers for a twenty year old boy. I'm a genius.
Anyway, I tried. I really, really did. But I did give the beer, not to mention the $10 he can blow at the Canadian Ballet, so that's got to count for something.
My students asked me what I got my brother. They wanted to see how awesome of a sister I am. I told them I gave him a crisp $10 bill and some expensive beer. I thought the beer was necessary because lately my brother has been drinking beer he describes as "Not that bad for $12 a case." I felt I could improve his quality of life by giving him good beer, beer that was imported, beer that was Irish.
"You are a very, very good sister," my students said.
Yes, yes, I am. I even made a cake. The worst cake of all time. It was a cake for an eleven year old girl. An eleven year old girl who has a really bad cake-baking sister.
I had many things working against me:
1. My brother requested a cake mix. He wanted Rainbow Chip with fake Rainbow Chip frosting. I don't work well with fake frosting. I think fake frosting is grouchy and stupid and it doesn't spread nice, no matter how much you fluff it.
2. I couldn't find my father's round cake pans and was forced to make an ugly square.
3. The frosting pulled a section of the cake apart, and I tried to repair the broken parts with more frosting and cinnamon candies made to look like flowers. Flowers for a twenty year old boy. I'm a genius.
Anyway, I tried. I really, really did. But I did give the beer, not to mention the $10 he can blow at the Canadian Ballet, so that's got to count for something.
Saturday, November 18, 2006
Nice Rack
At 4:30 AM my brother stumbles out of the cabin and into the crisp thirty-degree morning. Today is the opener for deer season, and he's taken off work just for this occasion. He will be spending the next three days back at the cabin with his closest friends. They will grill chicken and eat venison jerky that was made from a deer one of his friends found on the side of the road.
My brother waits and waits and waits. He doesn't see any deer. Near lunch time, he thinks he hears a deer snort but he doesn't have a clear visual, so he doesn't shoot. My brother waits and waits and waits some more. Finally, at At 4:30 PM, he drives up to our house and comes in to stand in the doorway to my room. He sniffs his armpits.
"I need a shower," he says. "I can't stand myself."
"Knock yourself out," I say.
After he comes out of the shower he is crisp and clean. He no longer smells like gangrene. He is wearing jeans and a t-shirt that has a giant picture of a buck on it. Underneath the buck is the phrase NICE RACK.
"That's pretty classy," I say.
"I thought it was appropriate for today," he says.
"Are you going out wearing that?" I ask.
He nods. "A couple of girls are coming over, yeah."
That's when he bends over and farts--extravagantly and loudly. He straightens back up and stretches.
"Don't do that in front of the girls," I say. "Girls don't like that kind of behavior."
He shrugs his shoulders. "Ah, I do it all the time," he says. "It gets them hot."
My brother waits and waits and waits. He doesn't see any deer. Near lunch time, he thinks he hears a deer snort but he doesn't have a clear visual, so he doesn't shoot. My brother waits and waits and waits some more. Finally, at At 4:30 PM, he drives up to our house and comes in to stand in the doorway to my room. He sniffs his armpits.
"I need a shower," he says. "I can't stand myself."
"Knock yourself out," I say.
After he comes out of the shower he is crisp and clean. He no longer smells like gangrene. He is wearing jeans and a t-shirt that has a giant picture of a buck on it. Underneath the buck is the phrase NICE RACK.
"That's pretty classy," I say.
"I thought it was appropriate for today," he says.
"Are you going out wearing that?" I ask.
He nods. "A couple of girls are coming over, yeah."
That's when he bends over and farts--extravagantly and loudly. He straightens back up and stretches.
"Don't do that in front of the girls," I say. "Girls don't like that kind of behavior."
He shrugs his shoulders. "Ah, I do it all the time," he says. "It gets them hot."
Thursday, November 16, 2006
The Job of An Ex-Boyfriend
Tonight on the phone Ex-Keith informs me that he doesn't want to sleep with me anymore.
"Uhm, that's wrong," I tell him. "You absolutely still want to sleep with me."
"No," he says—so casual! so nonchalant!—"I don't really think I do."
Ex-Keith is a moron. It's not that I want him to sit around all day and think about what it would be like to sleep with me again, but I do want him to man up and admit that if he got the chance** and if he wouldn't hurt anyone in the process, he so totally would.
This is a dangerous game to play with an ex-boyfriend, and I'm the girl who plays it willingly. It's one of my Big Neuroses. I want my ex-boyfriends, even after we are no longer together, to have moments—not every day, not every week, but every once in awhile—where they sigh, look off in the distance and think, Jess. Gosh, what a great girl.
I think Ex-Keith owes me at least that. After all, on one May night he drove one of his co-workers home. She was drunk. They were both a little drunk. And they sat in his truck and kissed and kissed and kissed. The next day I came over to his house and he sat me down on the loveseat and told me that we weren't going to be together anymore. There was another girl and her name was Shelley.
I didn't get out of bed for a long time.
So, frankly, Ex-Keith owes me for that. He also owes me for the three years that followed. He owes me for my sophomore year of college because I spent the whole thing crying over him and lusting after completely inappropriate men who would save me—men who had strange piercings and thought they were poets (they were not). He owes me for the two years after that—my junior and senior years—because even though we were together again, he refused to call me his girlfriend because he felt it was too "stifling." When I got accepted to Minnesota and went out there to find an apartment, that's when he suddenly came around. "I support you," he said. "I support you 100%. And I'm ready to be your boyfriend now." I wanted to put my fist through his face.
So, I think the least Ex-Keith could do is admit that he would still sleep with me.
"Excuse me," I tell him tonight, "but that's just false. I mean, explain yourself. Am I not pretty anymore or something?"
"I didn't say that," he says. "I'm just not interested anymore."
This rankles me. After all, I've been doing some nice thinking about him lately. For instance, last Saturday Amy and Becky and I went to a ridiculously tiny, very intimate acoustic concert where the lead singer of Lowest of the Low stood on the stage of St. Francis High School and sang some of the best songs ever written. Songs that make me think about Keith.
He was my gateway to Lowest of the Low, after all. It was at his sister's house that I first heard them play. It was in his truck that we used to blare their CDs after we rolled down the windows and let the crisp summer air inside. We listened to them poolside. We listened to them while we parked on deserted streets in the town of Hamburg. He would sing me my favorite lyrics in his off-kilter, out-of-tune voice. He would sing, Just remember when your resistance is low that I know who's your favorite poet... and then he would yell the name of some poet I'd been talking about lately.
Those were nice days, and I sometimes miss them an awful lot. Things were just so simple back then. Keith was my boy and he loved me and I was his best girl. He was my best boy. We drove around and sang songs and grilled corn and steaks. We played Asshole and locked his neighbor in the pantry. We looked up at stars. We were always looking up at the stars.
I feel like he should remember that as fondly as I do. And I feel like he should pine for me in some dark forgotten corner of his heart. Does that make sense? I don't want to be with him, but I want him to want—sometimes, only sometimes—to wonder if he made the biggest mistake of his life. And, I suppose, I want him to tell me that he did.
I try another tactic with him. "You know," I say, "I was good back then, but I'm way better now. I've got new moves."
Ex-Keith laughs. "I'm sure you do," he says. "I just don't want to see them."
"You're giving me a complex," I say.
But suddenly there's this: "I want Abe Lincoln back," Keith says.
"Keith!" I say. "Is this all about ABE LINCOLN?"
"Give me Able Lincoln and then I'll tell you the truth about things," Keith says.
Here's the thing about Abe: while I was in Minnesota, Amy and Becky staged a magnificent coup at a pre-Bills game tailgate party. They found Keith's party, found him drunk and peeing, and they stole Abe Lincoln—which Keith had, in a magical stroke of fate, brought with him to the game for photographic evidence he was planning on taking and leaving in Amy and Becky's mailbox to illustrate Abe's grand adventures since he had been in Keith's control. Basically, Amy and Becky showed him up. In a big way.
"This is all about ABE?" I ask. "You're just trying to piss me off so I give you back a bust of Abe Lincoln that wasn't yours to begin with?"
"Bring me Abe," he says.
"HE IS NOT YOURS," I say. "YOU WILL NEVER HAVE HIM BACK."
"Fine. By the way, I would never sleep with you again," Keith says.
"This isn't your job, you know," I tell him. "You're an ex-boyfriend. You're still my friend. You're supposed to be supportive. You're supposed to say things like You're real sweet, Jess. You're pretty great. You'll get a good man soon. Someone who will love you right. Someone who will be better to you than I was. You're supposed to say those things, not give me new complexes, Keith."
"That's not my job," Keith informs me.
"Then what is your job?" I ask.
He pauses. He lets the silence foam into a thick lather. Then he sighs, suddenly content. "To make your life a living hell," he says. "Okay, I'm going to eat dinner now. Bye."
"You want me," I say. "Goodbye."
~~~
** And he won't, Amy and Becky. So you can stop shrieking You want him! now.
"Uhm, that's wrong," I tell him. "You absolutely still want to sleep with me."
"No," he says—so casual! so nonchalant!—"I don't really think I do."
Ex-Keith is a moron. It's not that I want him to sit around all day and think about what it would be like to sleep with me again, but I do want him to man up and admit that if he got the chance** and if he wouldn't hurt anyone in the process, he so totally would.
This is a dangerous game to play with an ex-boyfriend, and I'm the girl who plays it willingly. It's one of my Big Neuroses. I want my ex-boyfriends, even after we are no longer together, to have moments—not every day, not every week, but every once in awhile—where they sigh, look off in the distance and think, Jess. Gosh, what a great girl.
I think Ex-Keith owes me at least that. After all, on one May night he drove one of his co-workers home. She was drunk. They were both a little drunk. And they sat in his truck and kissed and kissed and kissed. The next day I came over to his house and he sat me down on the loveseat and told me that we weren't going to be together anymore. There was another girl and her name was Shelley.
I didn't get out of bed for a long time.
So, frankly, Ex-Keith owes me for that. He also owes me for the three years that followed. He owes me for my sophomore year of college because I spent the whole thing crying over him and lusting after completely inappropriate men who would save me—men who had strange piercings and thought they were poets (they were not). He owes me for the two years after that—my junior and senior years—because even though we were together again, he refused to call me his girlfriend because he felt it was too "stifling." When I got accepted to Minnesota and went out there to find an apartment, that's when he suddenly came around. "I support you," he said. "I support you 100%. And I'm ready to be your boyfriend now." I wanted to put my fist through his face.
So, I think the least Ex-Keith could do is admit that he would still sleep with me.
"Excuse me," I tell him tonight, "but that's just false. I mean, explain yourself. Am I not pretty anymore or something?"
"I didn't say that," he says. "I'm just not interested anymore."
This rankles me. After all, I've been doing some nice thinking about him lately. For instance, last Saturday Amy and Becky and I went to a ridiculously tiny, very intimate acoustic concert where the lead singer of Lowest of the Low stood on the stage of St. Francis High School and sang some of the best songs ever written. Songs that make me think about Keith.
He was my gateway to Lowest of the Low, after all. It was at his sister's house that I first heard them play. It was in his truck that we used to blare their CDs after we rolled down the windows and let the crisp summer air inside. We listened to them poolside. We listened to them while we parked on deserted streets in the town of Hamburg. He would sing me my favorite lyrics in his off-kilter, out-of-tune voice. He would sing, Just remember when your resistance is low that I know who's your favorite poet... and then he would yell the name of some poet I'd been talking about lately.
Those were nice days, and I sometimes miss them an awful lot. Things were just so simple back then. Keith was my boy and he loved me and I was his best girl. He was my best boy. We drove around and sang songs and grilled corn and steaks. We played Asshole and locked his neighbor in the pantry. We looked up at stars. We were always looking up at the stars.
I feel like he should remember that as fondly as I do. And I feel like he should pine for me in some dark forgotten corner of his heart. Does that make sense? I don't want to be with him, but I want him to want—sometimes, only sometimes—to wonder if he made the biggest mistake of his life. And, I suppose, I want him to tell me that he did.
I try another tactic with him. "You know," I say, "I was good back then, but I'm way better now. I've got new moves."
Ex-Keith laughs. "I'm sure you do," he says. "I just don't want to see them."
"You're giving me a complex," I say.
But suddenly there's this: "I want Abe Lincoln back," Keith says.
"Keith!" I say. "Is this all about ABE LINCOLN?"
"Give me Able Lincoln and then I'll tell you the truth about things," Keith says.
Here's the thing about Abe: while I was in Minnesota, Amy and Becky staged a magnificent coup at a pre-Bills game tailgate party. They found Keith's party, found him drunk and peeing, and they stole Abe Lincoln—which Keith had, in a magical stroke of fate, brought with him to the game for photographic evidence he was planning on taking and leaving in Amy and Becky's mailbox to illustrate Abe's grand adventures since he had been in Keith's control. Basically, Amy and Becky showed him up. In a big way.
"This is all about ABE?" I ask. "You're just trying to piss me off so I give you back a bust of Abe Lincoln that wasn't yours to begin with?"
"Bring me Abe," he says.
"HE IS NOT YOURS," I say. "YOU WILL NEVER HAVE HIM BACK."
"Fine. By the way, I would never sleep with you again," Keith says.
"This isn't your job, you know," I tell him. "You're an ex-boyfriend. You're still my friend. You're supposed to be supportive. You're supposed to say things like You're real sweet, Jess. You're pretty great. You'll get a good man soon. Someone who will love you right. Someone who will be better to you than I was. You're supposed to say those things, not give me new complexes, Keith."
"That's not my job," Keith informs me.
"Then what is your job?" I ask.
He pauses. He lets the silence foam into a thick lather. Then he sighs, suddenly content. "To make your life a living hell," he says. "Okay, I'm going to eat dinner now. Bye."
"You want me," I say. "Goodbye."
~~~
** And he won't, Amy and Becky. So you can stop shrieking You want him! now.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Other Things I Dream About
In my first semester of teaching at MSU I kept having dreams about one of my students. I dreamt he hung himself. I dreamt he took too many pills. I dreamt he drank too much and choked on his own vomit.
The last day of class, this student wasn't there when I took attendance. I gave the rest of the class a journal topic and sat down and tried not to panic. I tried to convince myself that my dreams were, in fact, just dreams and not prophecy. He'd probably overslept. Maybe he was getting a snack. Maybe he'd run into someone he knew in the hallway.
I got up. I looked out in the hall. He wasn't there. I didn't hear the heavy clop clop clop of sneakers belonging to a boy who was late to class.
I went back inside. I watched my other students write their journal topics and tried not to think about the missing student's first paper. His memoir had been about depression, about too much drinking and too many drugs, about getting messed up with the wrong crowd and doing some bad things until he saw the light.
I was afraid he might've forgotten himself, forgotten that he'd found the light and religion and a different way. I was afraid I hadn't noticed a change in him--a change I could've somehow prevented or helped.
I saw myself standing at his funeral and shaking his parents' hands. I saw myself saying, My God. If only I had known. If only I could've helped.
Just as I was thinking about what I would wear to the funeral and just how I was going to find my way to the small Dakotan town where he came from, there he was. Opening the door. Giving me a lopsided look. Shrugging his shoulders. Flapping his final paper at me.
When we ran into each other at a bar a few semesters later, this student bought me a few drinks and I told him all about my dreams and how I was planning the inevitable trip to South Dakota. He seemed touched. He seemed charmed. He bought me a shot and took me to the counter, where we could play Naked Lady Picture Find on the bar's computer game.
It was such a relief to know he was alive and well, to know that all my students were alive and well and accounted for and living their silly student lives, surviving on animal crackers and watermelon Pucker.
Since then, I haven't really thought about any of my students dying. I didn't have to. Until the other day. Last week one of my former students started seizing and couldn't stop. Her friends took her to the hospital. They waited around until she stabilized. The hospital told them to go on home, that she was going to be fine, that they'd gotten her under control. So they went back to work and school and counted the minutes until they could get back to the hospital to see her again. Then they got the news: her fever had spiked, she'd seized again, she went unconscious and never woke up.
I never gave her a grade. When I knew her, she was a first-semester member of my psychology learning community--the rowdiest class I'd ever had. They all lived in the same hall in the dorm, they took the same classes, they had the same homework. They did everything together. They breathed and worked and shrieked and giggled together.
I never gave this student a grade because she just stopped working. It was mid-semester and she just stopped turning in papers. She said she was sick and sad and still adjusting to college life. She said there was always drama in their hall. Someone was always fighting, and it seemed like she was always in the middle of it. She came into my office with eyes tearing behind her glasses. She asked if she could have a second chance.
I said yes, of course. I said she could take an incomplete and that we could work on the papers she needed to hand in over the course of the next semester. We drew up a plan, a schedule of due-dates, a set of guidelines that she needed to meet in order for me to agree to this incomplete. She signed her name to the set of guidelines and then disappeared from my life.
She would resurface now and again: she slid one, maybe two of the missing papers into my mailbox without coming to talk to me like she was supposed to, without sitting to conference with me like she was required to, and then the papers stopped coming altogether.
I still saw her around school and around the apartment complex where we both lived. I saw her a lot this past spring. It always seemed like she was driving to work right when I was walking to school for the day. I'd always smile at her and she'd always smile at me. I'd always think, Huh. I wonder what she's up to now. I wonder if she ever took care of her comp credit.
She was the last person I saw right before I left my apartment complex for the last time. I handed in my key and parking sticker and walked out, ready to go have a nice cry at Katy's house, where I'd be staying until I felt good and ready to leave Minnesota and drive back to New York. Then there she was, my former student. She was in her car, driving off to work or campus or her boyfriend's house. She looked at me and smiled. I smiled, too. I thought, Her again. I wonder where she's going.
Now her friends are organizing trips to her home state for her funeral. They're caravaning to her hometown, where her family is putting them up, giving them food, taking care of them. Her friends are making webpages in her honor. They're writing about memories and posting pictures. They're leaving messages that talk to her like she's still alive, like she's right there sitting next to them.
It just doesn't seem real. And I would never have guessed that this would happen to her, that I'd be sitting around wondering if I could've been nicer, should've been nicer, if I could've been more supportive, if I could've done something more for her. I keep seeing her bright blond hair in the front row of our classroom in Armstrong Hall. I can hear her voice talking about the boys at the party and all the fun they had. I can see her laughing, laughing, laughing with her friends. I can still see it, can still hear it. I just don't understand it. Not one bit.
The last day of class, this student wasn't there when I took attendance. I gave the rest of the class a journal topic and sat down and tried not to panic. I tried to convince myself that my dreams were, in fact, just dreams and not prophecy. He'd probably overslept. Maybe he was getting a snack. Maybe he'd run into someone he knew in the hallway.
I got up. I looked out in the hall. He wasn't there. I didn't hear the heavy clop clop clop of sneakers belonging to a boy who was late to class.
I went back inside. I watched my other students write their journal topics and tried not to think about the missing student's first paper. His memoir had been about depression, about too much drinking and too many drugs, about getting messed up with the wrong crowd and doing some bad things until he saw the light.
I was afraid he might've forgotten himself, forgotten that he'd found the light and religion and a different way. I was afraid I hadn't noticed a change in him--a change I could've somehow prevented or helped.
I saw myself standing at his funeral and shaking his parents' hands. I saw myself saying, My God. If only I had known. If only I could've helped.
Just as I was thinking about what I would wear to the funeral and just how I was going to find my way to the small Dakotan town where he came from, there he was. Opening the door. Giving me a lopsided look. Shrugging his shoulders. Flapping his final paper at me.
When we ran into each other at a bar a few semesters later, this student bought me a few drinks and I told him all about my dreams and how I was planning the inevitable trip to South Dakota. He seemed touched. He seemed charmed. He bought me a shot and took me to the counter, where we could play Naked Lady Picture Find on the bar's computer game.
It was such a relief to know he was alive and well, to know that all my students were alive and well and accounted for and living their silly student lives, surviving on animal crackers and watermelon Pucker.
Since then, I haven't really thought about any of my students dying. I didn't have to. Until the other day. Last week one of my former students started seizing and couldn't stop. Her friends took her to the hospital. They waited around until she stabilized. The hospital told them to go on home, that she was going to be fine, that they'd gotten her under control. So they went back to work and school and counted the minutes until they could get back to the hospital to see her again. Then they got the news: her fever had spiked, she'd seized again, she went unconscious and never woke up.
I never gave her a grade. When I knew her, she was a first-semester member of my psychology learning community--the rowdiest class I'd ever had. They all lived in the same hall in the dorm, they took the same classes, they had the same homework. They did everything together. They breathed and worked and shrieked and giggled together.
I never gave this student a grade because she just stopped working. It was mid-semester and she just stopped turning in papers. She said she was sick and sad and still adjusting to college life. She said there was always drama in their hall. Someone was always fighting, and it seemed like she was always in the middle of it. She came into my office with eyes tearing behind her glasses. She asked if she could have a second chance.
I said yes, of course. I said she could take an incomplete and that we could work on the papers she needed to hand in over the course of the next semester. We drew up a plan, a schedule of due-dates, a set of guidelines that she needed to meet in order for me to agree to this incomplete. She signed her name to the set of guidelines and then disappeared from my life.
She would resurface now and again: she slid one, maybe two of the missing papers into my mailbox without coming to talk to me like she was supposed to, without sitting to conference with me like she was required to, and then the papers stopped coming altogether.
I still saw her around school and around the apartment complex where we both lived. I saw her a lot this past spring. It always seemed like she was driving to work right when I was walking to school for the day. I'd always smile at her and she'd always smile at me. I'd always think, Huh. I wonder what she's up to now. I wonder if she ever took care of her comp credit.
She was the last person I saw right before I left my apartment complex for the last time. I handed in my key and parking sticker and walked out, ready to go have a nice cry at Katy's house, where I'd be staying until I felt good and ready to leave Minnesota and drive back to New York. Then there she was, my former student. She was in her car, driving off to work or campus or her boyfriend's house. She looked at me and smiled. I smiled, too. I thought, Her again. I wonder where she's going.
Now her friends are organizing trips to her home state for her funeral. They're caravaning to her hometown, where her family is putting them up, giving them food, taking care of them. Her friends are making webpages in her honor. They're writing about memories and posting pictures. They're leaving messages that talk to her like she's still alive, like she's right there sitting next to them.
It just doesn't seem real. And I would never have guessed that this would happen to her, that I'd be sitting around wondering if I could've been nicer, should've been nicer, if I could've been more supportive, if I could've done something more for her. I keep seeing her bright blond hair in the front row of our classroom in Armstrong Hall. I can hear her voice talking about the boys at the party and all the fun they had. I can see her laughing, laughing, laughing with her friends. I can still see it, can still hear it. I just don't understand it. Not one bit.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
I Guess I'm a Hooker
Today I sat in the basement of my grandmother's house. I was at the kid's table with several of my other blood- and non-blood related cousins. We were eating soup and bread. We were drinking a bottle of elderberry wine we found in the kitchen, smuggled downstairs, and finished before anyone knew what was happening. As we drank and chewed, we stared at our surroundings: statues of the Virgin Mary, canned pickles, fake daisies, knit dream catchers, an old exercise bike, abandoned baby dolls, and a caddy filled with fifty different bottles of glue.
One of my non-blood-related cousins leaned over and squinted at me. "What color mascara are you wearing?" she asked.
I put down the biscuit I was eating. I swallowed. "Black," I said. "Why?"
"Well," the non-blood-related cousin said, "it's just that only Asian and black girls and hookers wear black mascara."
I blinked. "What?" I asked.
"I used to work for Estee Lauder," she said. "They taught us that in a seminar."
And that's how my grandmother's annual Christmas in November party started. It's an annual thing, this party, something grandma throws before she and her husband go off to their winter home in Florida, and I've missed it for the last three years. But this year there was no excuse: I was in state and very capable of making cupcakes, so I did. And I showed up at grandma's door with a smile on my face. An hour later I was being told I was making some grave choices regarding my makeup. I was told it was possible my makeup was making me look like a hooker.
Later, after the dinner dishes had been cleared away and I had eaten my weight in both soup, bread, and cupcakes, we all gathered in my grandmother's tiny living room to exchange gifts. We watched as the grandparents opened gifts from all their children. My grandfather got things like a grease gun, batteries, and a flashlight. My grandmother got candles, kitchen tools, and earrings. Then it was the grandkids' turn to open their presents.
There was the standard $30 check, of course, and then there was the "extra"—something my grandmother never fails to supply each and every year. Sometimes it's something crafty (handmade booties or scarves), sometimes it's random (fleece blankets), and sometimes it's just strange (things from garage sales). This time it was a winter headband—the type you would stick over your ears to keep warm on a brisk morning walk. It was a nice color, it was fine, it was warm on the ears. It was everything you could hope it to be.
And all of us—because each girl gets the exact same gift—stuck them on our heads and started our gushing and thank-yous.
So warm!
So festive!
Such pretty colors!
Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!
That's when the man my grandmother married opened his mouth. "You look like a bunch of Arabs," he said.
I wanted to put my head through a wall.
"Yeah," he continued, "look at you all in your headdresses. A bunch of Arabs."
Merry, Merry Christmas.
One of my non-blood-related cousins leaned over and squinted at me. "What color mascara are you wearing?" she asked.
I put down the biscuit I was eating. I swallowed. "Black," I said. "Why?"
"Well," the non-blood-related cousin said, "it's just that only Asian and black girls and hookers wear black mascara."
I blinked. "What?" I asked.
"I used to work for Estee Lauder," she said. "They taught us that in a seminar."
And that's how my grandmother's annual Christmas in November party started. It's an annual thing, this party, something grandma throws before she and her husband go off to their winter home in Florida, and I've missed it for the last three years. But this year there was no excuse: I was in state and very capable of making cupcakes, so I did. And I showed up at grandma's door with a smile on my face. An hour later I was being told I was making some grave choices regarding my makeup. I was told it was possible my makeup was making me look like a hooker.
Later, after the dinner dishes had been cleared away and I had eaten my weight in both soup, bread, and cupcakes, we all gathered in my grandmother's tiny living room to exchange gifts. We watched as the grandparents opened gifts from all their children. My grandfather got things like a grease gun, batteries, and a flashlight. My grandmother got candles, kitchen tools, and earrings. Then it was the grandkids' turn to open their presents.
There was the standard $30 check, of course, and then there was the "extra"—something my grandmother never fails to supply each and every year. Sometimes it's something crafty (handmade booties or scarves), sometimes it's random (fleece blankets), and sometimes it's just strange (things from garage sales). This time it was a winter headband—the type you would stick over your ears to keep warm on a brisk morning walk. It was a nice color, it was fine, it was warm on the ears. It was everything you could hope it to be.
And all of us—because each girl gets the exact same gift—stuck them on our heads and started our gushing and thank-yous.
So warm!
So festive!
Such pretty colors!
Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!
That's when the man my grandmother married opened his mouth. "You look like a bunch of Arabs," he said.
I wanted to put my head through a wall.
"Yeah," he continued, "look at you all in your headdresses. A bunch of Arabs."
Merry, Merry Christmas.
Friday, November 10, 2006
Gems from Dad
Me: Boobs.
Dad: Did you just say boobs?
Me: Yes. I've graded papers all day. My brain is shot.
Dad: Maybe you meant bazoombas.
Me: Dad!
Dad: Or kachungas?
Me: DAD!
Dad: Did you just say boobs?
Me: Yes. I've graded papers all day. My brain is shot.
Dad: Maybe you meant bazoombas.
Me: Dad!
Dad: Or kachungas?
Me: DAD!
Thursday, November 09, 2006
Vacation Stories, Part Two
It is 8:00 PM and Katy and Matt are picking me up from the airport. Katy tells me what they've eaten that day. McDonald's. Salads. Famous Dave's. Meatballs from Ikea. She says she's gassy. I tell her I am hungry. I tell her I had some Fiesta Pretzel Mix on the Plane and we better get me some food from Blue Bricks right quick.
Or maybe it is 12:00 AM and JP is shoeless and under a table at McGoff's. Maybe Nate is playing Weezer and substituting JP's name for lyrics. Maybe someone at the table is writing a limerick about me. Maybe someone at the table is writing a limerick about JP. Maybe JP is going into the bathroom without shoes on. Maybe she's touching all the boys and giggling. Maybe I'm drinking vodka-crans.
It could be 9:00 PM. It could be a Thursday. It could be that I'm sitting in one of my former professor's kitchens. I'm eating homemade hummus and homemade bread and homemade soup. The people around me—professors and MFAers and ex-MFAers alike—are doing their best impressions of professors who aren't there.
Or maybe it is 7:30 PM, and maybe I'm at PG's house. Over by the record player JP and Liz are going through crates of old records. I want to play "Crimson and Clover." PG wants to hear "Ballroom Blitz." She ropes JP into singing it with her, but JP does not know the words. Katy is mixing chili into a giant vat of cheese sauce. Or maybe Katy is pouring rum into a giant pot. Maybe I am downstairs and one of my former professors is singing me a folk song while Greg strums his guitar in the background. Rachel is up in the living room and she's strumming her own guitar. She's showing us what she's learned. Later she will ask if we can watch the Paris Hilton sex tape.
It's noon. I'm at the best Chinese restaurant in Mankato, in Minnesota, maybe in the entire world. I am unfolding fried wontons. I am letting the cream cheese melt on my tongue. I might be wondering how I can go on living now that my apartment isn't across the road from Yu's.
Maybe it's 8:30 AM. I'm blinking awake because I think I hear Katy crying and saying, Matt. Matt. I'm going to puke, Matt. The dogs bark. I go back to sleep. Later, when I ask, Katy will tell me I'm dumb and that I hallucinated and that she never said any of that. Ever.
It's 11:30 PM. Katy is on the back of a giant Midwestern boy. He's giving her a piggy-back ride. Now he's giving Katy and JP a piggy-back ride. Now he's whirling them around. "I've had a lot of practice!" he says. Or maybe that's what I think he says. Maybe I'm a little too giddy to understand him.
Whatever it was and whenever it was, everything just felt normal and right and regular. The town seemed so much the same—except for that new restaurant called Johnny Beefcakes—and I felt so much the same in it. I kept expecting Katy to drop me off at my apartment. I wanted to run up the steps, dash into my room, flop on my big bed and watch out the window as the sun set, as it sunk into tilled-under soybean fields.
Luckily, though, the pangs I had were few and far between—I am thankful that I was kept always-busy—and that the whole vacation was a whirlwind of fun and familiarity. And stuff that looked like this:
The girls have a champagne toast
JP has a quiet moment by the legs of men.
Megan demonstrates things on the mustard bottle and a salt and pepper shaker. Bad, Megan. Bad.
He said to me, "I want to play you some music. Here. Listen."
I listened. I said, "Is this Christmas music?"
"Yes," he said.
"Okay," I said. "Just checking. Continue."
This was probably taken was Nate was singing about JP.
Jer demonstrates how he's going to win the Minnesota Strong-Man Competition.
Or maybe it is 12:00 AM and JP is shoeless and under a table at McGoff's. Maybe Nate is playing Weezer and substituting JP's name for lyrics. Maybe someone at the table is writing a limerick about me. Maybe someone at the table is writing a limerick about JP. Maybe JP is going into the bathroom without shoes on. Maybe she's touching all the boys and giggling. Maybe I'm drinking vodka-crans.
It could be 9:00 PM. It could be a Thursday. It could be that I'm sitting in one of my former professor's kitchens. I'm eating homemade hummus and homemade bread and homemade soup. The people around me—professors and MFAers and ex-MFAers alike—are doing their best impressions of professors who aren't there.
Or maybe it is 7:30 PM, and maybe I'm at PG's house. Over by the record player JP and Liz are going through crates of old records. I want to play "Crimson and Clover." PG wants to hear "Ballroom Blitz." She ropes JP into singing it with her, but JP does not know the words. Katy is mixing chili into a giant vat of cheese sauce. Or maybe Katy is pouring rum into a giant pot. Maybe I am downstairs and one of my former professors is singing me a folk song while Greg strums his guitar in the background. Rachel is up in the living room and she's strumming her own guitar. She's showing us what she's learned. Later she will ask if we can watch the Paris Hilton sex tape.
It's noon. I'm at the best Chinese restaurant in Mankato, in Minnesota, maybe in the entire world. I am unfolding fried wontons. I am letting the cream cheese melt on my tongue. I might be wondering how I can go on living now that my apartment isn't across the road from Yu's.
Maybe it's 8:30 AM. I'm blinking awake because I think I hear Katy crying and saying, Matt. Matt. I'm going to puke, Matt. The dogs bark. I go back to sleep. Later, when I ask, Katy will tell me I'm dumb and that I hallucinated and that she never said any of that. Ever.
It's 11:30 PM. Katy is on the back of a giant Midwestern boy. He's giving her a piggy-back ride. Now he's giving Katy and JP a piggy-back ride. Now he's whirling them around. "I've had a lot of practice!" he says. Or maybe that's what I think he says. Maybe I'm a little too giddy to understand him.
Whatever it was and whenever it was, everything just felt normal and right and regular. The town seemed so much the same—except for that new restaurant called Johnny Beefcakes—and I felt so much the same in it. I kept expecting Katy to drop me off at my apartment. I wanted to run up the steps, dash into my room, flop on my big bed and watch out the window as the sun set, as it sunk into tilled-under soybean fields.
Luckily, though, the pangs I had were few and far between—I am thankful that I was kept always-busy—and that the whole vacation was a whirlwind of fun and familiarity. And stuff that looked like this:
The girls have a champagne toast
JP has a quiet moment by the legs of men.
Megan demonstrates things on the mustard bottle and a salt and pepper shaker. Bad, Megan. Bad.
He said to me, "I want to play you some music. Here. Listen."
I listened. I said, "Is this Christmas music?"
"Yes," he said.
"Okay," I said. "Just checking. Continue."
This was probably taken was Nate was singing about JP.
Jer demonstrates how he's going to win the Minnesota Strong-Man Competition.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Vacation Stories, Part One
It is 2:30 AM and I am running through the back alleys of Mankato, Minnesota. I am running past the back doors of bars, past Gary's pizza, past abandoned gas stations.
I am running with a boy. With New Boy. He's holding my hand.
"I've been up on that roof," New Boy tells me. He points to an old storefront. "I got inside there once," he says about a house whose roof is falling in. He tightens his hand around mine. He points to far-off house. "There used to be a child-porn ring in that place."
He walks me past the police station. He points out the window in the upper left corner. "I stayed there a few times," he says. "I was pretty stupid."
I smile at him. I smile at everything he says. I can't help it--there's something about him tonight, and the way he's talking, and the things he's saying, and the way he's holding my hand. I feel like he could keep holding it for the next several hours or forever.
The way I'm feeling might have something to do with the fact that we've just come from three different bars and a strip club. I'm not even drunk. I'm just deeply amused. New Boy is, after all, the third in a string of my conservative crushes, and he's a different type of conservative than, say, Ex-Keith or the Wily Republican. Ex-Keith and Wily have approximately zero problems with going to strip clubs. New Boy, though, has reservations.
When he first joined us at the bar that night, I informed him that it was our intent to go to the strip club. His eyes widened. "Oh, I don't know," he said. "I don't know how I feel about that."
It would be New Boy's second time at a strip club. His first time involved a last day at work and his bosses buying him a combo-lap dance that involved three of the establishment's finest girls.
I found New Boy's reservation to be charming. I thought, Awww and Isn't that cute and I'm so making him go.
I told him that it was Saturday night and that Saturday night was the night they held the wet T-shirt contest. I said, "Some of the girls at this table—not me, New Boy—have performed in that very contest."
New Boy looked sick to his stomach. "What if I know one of the girls who's doing it tonight?" he asked.
I smiled. I asked him if there was anything I could do to change his mind. I rubbed his back. I smiled some more. Then I bought him a shot.
We succeeded in getting him in the door. Once inside, though, we found that the place was busy. There wasn't a table on the ground floor big enough to accommodate all of us, so we sat up in the elevated back. New Boy seemed relieved to be so far away from the stage. When he sat, he turned his body away from the stage and looked at me. "I feel sort of wrong," he said, then shaded the side of his face to block his peripheral vision. "I used to be in the church band."
The church band. My God, I was charmed.
Around this time Rachel stumbled over to me. She looked green and a little cross-eyed. "I think," she said, "I am going to puke."
Not wanting to leave Rachel to her own devices and not wanting to let her spend the night puking into the questionably-clean bathrooms of the strip club ("One time," I told New Boy on our way to the club, "I went in there to go to the bathroom and there was a stripper in there with her leg up on the counter. She was looking at her crotch. How about that?"), I had to leave New Boy alone.
Maybe he spent that time finally looking at the stage and the pliable ladies wrapping themselves around the pole, but I would guess not. I don't think his bashfulness was an act or chivalry. I think his actions were the actions of a boy who identifies his religious views simply as GOD, a boy who used to play in his church band, a boy who loves his mother and his sister a whole lot.
Later I would try to get him to watch the wet T-shirt contest ("The horse we backed won!" Katy yelled to me after the contest. She had met one of the contestants in the bathroom and helped her rip her shirt in a way that would be easy for later removal). He wouldn't. He turned his face into my shoulder even as I cooed, "Look at her, look at her. She's so pretty. Her hair is beautiful. She has such long legs."
New Boy put his hands in my hair and on my legs. "I like these," he said.
A few minutes later we moved down to the lower level—a table closer to the stage—and New Boy sneaked a few hesitant looks at the strippers, but only after I exclaimed over their use of the pole, their flexibility. "Look at that!" I would cry. "Can you believe that?"
He couldn't believe it. Not one bit. He just moved his chair closer to mine. His face was centimeters from mine. I couldn't stop looking at his eyelashes, which are quite possibly the best eyelashes in the history of eyelashes. And then he kissed me.
An hour later, he and I are going past the closed bars, the pizza places, the police station, the abandoned houses. We are stepping across gravel driveways and heading toward his house. I feel a little like perfect. I feel like it's April again and I'm walking toward his door for the first time and thinking, Let this go well.
When we get into his alley, there are people yelling from across the way. It's drunk yelling, with no purpose or focus other than the creation of noise. I see a dark shadow in an upstairs bedroom of some apartment, and that shadow is holding a large glass. The shadow yells, yells, yells, and I have the sudden urge to yell, too. It must feel good to make that noise, to call whatever you're feeling into the night.
Me, I feel like I'm home, like I've never left, like this is really, really good.
We go up New Boy's stairs, and suddenly I'm bathed in the blinding white of the motion light. It's like a spotlight. Up in the night sky there is another great spotlight—a moon just hours away from being full.
Once inside, I unzip my boots. New Boy takes off his shoes.
"It's really dirty in here," he says.
There are fry pans on the stove and empty bottles of every Summit beer ever made lined up along the counter.
"It's just fine," I say, because it is. His kitchen seems exactly the same as it did the last time I stood in it.
New Boy looks at me. It is a very serious look. "You know," he says, "I still have that piece of paper you wrote your name and number on. When PG brought you over—remember?"
I remember.
"You wrote, Jess, the strange girl who came over with PG." He leans up against his counter. "She came over the next day," he says. "She said, 'Wasn't that a very beautiful girl I brought over yesterday, New Boy? You should take her out.'"
I bury my head in my hands. I make mental note to kill PG later. But there's no time for that now, because suddenly I am under New Boy's arm and we're walking to the living room, we're sitting on the couch, I'm thinking about the full moon, I'm telling him I like his new hair, even if I do miss the curls a little bit, and then it goes and goes and goes just the way it always did, just the way I always want it to.
~~~
And now here is a vacation photo montage, part one:
Megan, Me.
JP (who's attempting a naughty sign in sign language) and Katy.
PG, Rachel, Katy, JP, Liz at the Friday night party.
Sebastian, the cutest puppy in the world.
I am running with a boy. With New Boy. He's holding my hand.
"I've been up on that roof," New Boy tells me. He points to an old storefront. "I got inside there once," he says about a house whose roof is falling in. He tightens his hand around mine. He points to far-off house. "There used to be a child-porn ring in that place."
He walks me past the police station. He points out the window in the upper left corner. "I stayed there a few times," he says. "I was pretty stupid."
I smile at him. I smile at everything he says. I can't help it--there's something about him tonight, and the way he's talking, and the things he's saying, and the way he's holding my hand. I feel like he could keep holding it for the next several hours or forever.
The way I'm feeling might have something to do with the fact that we've just come from three different bars and a strip club. I'm not even drunk. I'm just deeply amused. New Boy is, after all, the third in a string of my conservative crushes, and he's a different type of conservative than, say, Ex-Keith or the Wily Republican. Ex-Keith and Wily have approximately zero problems with going to strip clubs. New Boy, though, has reservations.
When he first joined us at the bar that night, I informed him that it was our intent to go to the strip club. His eyes widened. "Oh, I don't know," he said. "I don't know how I feel about that."
It would be New Boy's second time at a strip club. His first time involved a last day at work and his bosses buying him a combo-lap dance that involved three of the establishment's finest girls.
I found New Boy's reservation to be charming. I thought, Awww and Isn't that cute and I'm so making him go.
I told him that it was Saturday night and that Saturday night was the night they held the wet T-shirt contest. I said, "Some of the girls at this table—not me, New Boy—have performed in that very contest."
New Boy looked sick to his stomach. "What if I know one of the girls who's doing it tonight?" he asked.
I smiled. I asked him if there was anything I could do to change his mind. I rubbed his back. I smiled some more. Then I bought him a shot.
We succeeded in getting him in the door. Once inside, though, we found that the place was busy. There wasn't a table on the ground floor big enough to accommodate all of us, so we sat up in the elevated back. New Boy seemed relieved to be so far away from the stage. When he sat, he turned his body away from the stage and looked at me. "I feel sort of wrong," he said, then shaded the side of his face to block his peripheral vision. "I used to be in the church band."
The church band. My God, I was charmed.
Around this time Rachel stumbled over to me. She looked green and a little cross-eyed. "I think," she said, "I am going to puke."
Not wanting to leave Rachel to her own devices and not wanting to let her spend the night puking into the questionably-clean bathrooms of the strip club ("One time," I told New Boy on our way to the club, "I went in there to go to the bathroom and there was a stripper in there with her leg up on the counter. She was looking at her crotch. How about that?"), I had to leave New Boy alone.
Maybe he spent that time finally looking at the stage and the pliable ladies wrapping themselves around the pole, but I would guess not. I don't think his bashfulness was an act or chivalry. I think his actions were the actions of a boy who identifies his religious views simply as GOD, a boy who used to play in his church band, a boy who loves his mother and his sister a whole lot.
Later I would try to get him to watch the wet T-shirt contest ("The horse we backed won!" Katy yelled to me after the contest. She had met one of the contestants in the bathroom and helped her rip her shirt in a way that would be easy for later removal). He wouldn't. He turned his face into my shoulder even as I cooed, "Look at her, look at her. She's so pretty. Her hair is beautiful. She has such long legs."
New Boy put his hands in my hair and on my legs. "I like these," he said.
A few minutes later we moved down to the lower level—a table closer to the stage—and New Boy sneaked a few hesitant looks at the strippers, but only after I exclaimed over their use of the pole, their flexibility. "Look at that!" I would cry. "Can you believe that?"
He couldn't believe it. Not one bit. He just moved his chair closer to mine. His face was centimeters from mine. I couldn't stop looking at his eyelashes, which are quite possibly the best eyelashes in the history of eyelashes. And then he kissed me.
An hour later, he and I are going past the closed bars, the pizza places, the police station, the abandoned houses. We are stepping across gravel driveways and heading toward his house. I feel a little like perfect. I feel like it's April again and I'm walking toward his door for the first time and thinking, Let this go well.
When we get into his alley, there are people yelling from across the way. It's drunk yelling, with no purpose or focus other than the creation of noise. I see a dark shadow in an upstairs bedroom of some apartment, and that shadow is holding a large glass. The shadow yells, yells, yells, and I have the sudden urge to yell, too. It must feel good to make that noise, to call whatever you're feeling into the night.
Me, I feel like I'm home, like I've never left, like this is really, really good.
We go up New Boy's stairs, and suddenly I'm bathed in the blinding white of the motion light. It's like a spotlight. Up in the night sky there is another great spotlight—a moon just hours away from being full.
Once inside, I unzip my boots. New Boy takes off his shoes.
"It's really dirty in here," he says.
There are fry pans on the stove and empty bottles of every Summit beer ever made lined up along the counter.
"It's just fine," I say, because it is. His kitchen seems exactly the same as it did the last time I stood in it.
New Boy looks at me. It is a very serious look. "You know," he says, "I still have that piece of paper you wrote your name and number on. When PG brought you over—remember?"
I remember.
"You wrote, Jess, the strange girl who came over with PG." He leans up against his counter. "She came over the next day," he says. "She said, 'Wasn't that a very beautiful girl I brought over yesterday, New Boy? You should take her out.'"
I bury my head in my hands. I make mental note to kill PG later. But there's no time for that now, because suddenly I am under New Boy's arm and we're walking to the living room, we're sitting on the couch, I'm thinking about the full moon, I'm telling him I like his new hair, even if I do miss the curls a little bit, and then it goes and goes and goes just the way it always did, just the way I always want it to.
~~~
And now here is a vacation photo montage, part one:
Megan, Me.
JP (who's attempting a naughty sign in sign language) and Katy.
PG, Rachel, Katy, JP, Liz at the Friday night party.
Sebastian, the cutest puppy in the world.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Back in the State Whose Official Grain is Wild Rice
I'm here. I'm back.
Here's what I've done in the fifteen hours I've been in this state:
1. Visited the Wily Republican. I knew which house was his because there was a giant American flag fluttering above his front stoop.
2. Drank a pitcher of Long Island Iced Tea at one of the best bars in town.
3. Woke up at 7:30 AM.
4. Went into Katy's room, got in her bed, watched several episodes of Bringing Home Baby. I might have cried.
5. Ate a blueberry muffin.
6. Showered.
That might seem a little tame, but I'm gearing up. I'm looking forward to seeing everyone, doing inappropriate things, and, for the next four days, pretending like nothing has changed. Nothing at all.
Here's what I've done in the fifteen hours I've been in this state:
1. Visited the Wily Republican. I knew which house was his because there was a giant American flag fluttering above his front stoop.
2. Drank a pitcher of Long Island Iced Tea at one of the best bars in town.
3. Woke up at 7:30 AM.
4. Went into Katy's room, got in her bed, watched several episodes of Bringing Home Baby. I might have cried.
5. Ate a blueberry muffin.
6. Showered.
That might seem a little tame, but I'm gearing up. I'm looking forward to seeing everyone, doing inappropriate things, and, for the next four days, pretending like nothing has changed. Nothing at all.
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