Archive for November, 2009
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Success!
My last post, Home for Sale, was featured on the front page of DCBlogs on the DC Blogs Noted. This means people actually read what I write! I am so excited!
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Home for Sale
As of today, I am trying to sell my house in Shreveport, Louisiana. When Aquarius and I moved up here a year and a half ago, we decided to rent out our charming, eighty-year old, historic home because of the developing real-estate and financial crisis. It was not the time to sell, and with the expenses of the move, we could not afford to let our house sit on the market for months. The huge hike in housing prices moving to Maryland was a giant shock, and the idea of having to pay a mortgage, on top of a rent nearly twice as much, was terrifying. For perspective, our monthly mortgage in Shreveport is just under $800 (including taxes and insurance) for a 1,500 square foot house, and our monthly rent in Silver Spring is more than twice that for an 800 square foot condo. In December, we may be paying both.
I thought we had stumbled upon the best renters in the world, or at least that they had stumbled upon us. We had a lease signed within 48 hours of staking a “For Rent” sign in the yard. The couple we decided upon, for there were many applicants, were Katrina exiles who were so eager to live in our house that they offered us more than we were asking. Maybe the pier and beam foundation set up on a hill seemed to offer a little extra flood protection. After looking into them, we were elated that they could easily afford it together as they were both gainfully employed. The guy bragged about being a handyman and talked endlessly about loving to do yard work and his skill at fixing any minor problem that could easily arise in such an old house. This couple was an easy pick over the group of girls who worked at Hooters and saw the inequality of bedroom sizes as the biggest renting obstacle.
My mother, a very traditional Cancer, had some reservations about this couple moving in together but not being married. I assured her that this is the 21st century and that love knows no legal bounds. My Piscean optimism may have lead me astray. Who pays the rent when the move-in honeymoon is over and there is no legal commitment in the relationship? Possibly me. Luckily, we had smooth sailing up until this week. The rent was paid every month on time and there were no major repairs. That got us through my finding a job and Aquarius getting a raise. In the spirit of the recent holiday, I am thankful, but I may not be buying many presents for the upcoming holiday.
So, what happened? Well, it’s a lot of he-said she-said. As with most lovers’ quarrels, the details seem a little fuzzy when emotions get in the way. Here is what I gathered: she claims he has a mental illness, he is a convicted felon, he lied about this on the lease which is grounds for removal from the lease, she used her position of employment at a bank to clean out his account which may be a felony, and of course she lost said position of employment due to these actions. What happens now? The guy with the criminal record who was faithfully paying rent gets cleared of any financial responsibility, and the woman without a job claims that she will continue paying the high rent to which she and her boyfriend agreed. As for us, we stake a “For Sale” sign in the yard. I am done with being a landlord.
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Thanksgiving Holiday – Don’t Drink the Water
I really want to like Thanksgiving, but as I have grown older, I am having more and more of a problem with this every year. Tomorrow’s feast promises to be extravagant as far as food goes and satisfying as far as friends and family go. My brother arrived yesterday, and as I type this post he is baking pumpkin bread, the smell of which brings back good holiday memories. I think those memories mostly center around being off of school. Tonight a friend from North Carolina arrives and tomorrow friends from Virginia arrive – all transplants from our beloved Louisiana. Aquarius has dubbed the fete “Turkeyocalypse 2009″ and one guest is even having t-shirts made that depict the Swedish Chef running after a helpless turkey. I’m not sure, but it may be a southern thing to make t-shirts for events such as family reunions and the like.
I have everything to be thankful for and no personal reason to dislike this American holiday, but days like today remind me of the distaste the holidays can sometimes leave in my mouth. The last minute rush on holiday items at the grocery store, the traffic incessantly honking, the cut-throat fight for parking spaces, the hurried selfish attitude: all of these things make me wonder why the holidays have to be so complicated. Today is only the beginning. Christmas is one month away, and the “Christmas Spirit” is one thing that I loath. It oozes capitalistic greed. But one holiday at a time. I will enjoy tomorrow because of the good food and my wonderful group of uncomplicated friends, but I will not enjoy it without a bit of sadness in the back of my mind. I know this holiday is supposed to remind us of the cooperation between the Puritans and the Indians, but it commemorates the beginning of the annihilation of a race of people. When I was in elementary school I was happy to make construction paper feathers to put in my construction paper Indian Princess headdress, but I never thought to ask what happened to the Native Americans. I wonder how that class discussion would have gone.
As I left Whole Foods today, I thought how ironic it is that the very place I bought my organic, local, fresh turkey most likely used to be home to American Indians. Why did we need their land? So that we could build shopping malls and fight each other tooth and nail for the 4 am doorbuster deals at Best Buy the day after we stuff ourselves with food out of gratitude for them having shown us how to plow?
Enjoy Dave’s lyrics on the subject. The video quality is not great, but it was the best version I could find that included “This Land is Your Land.”
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First Day of Thanksgiving Break
It’s been a lazy day of much needed rest and recuperation. I stayed in my pajamas until 2 and made a trip to Target. By the way, Target’s pumpkin pancake mix is so much better than IHOP’s pumpkin pancakes.
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Small, Medium or Large?
A recent trip to my local downtown Silver Spring Caribou Coffee left me hurt and even a little bit offended. I ordered exactly what I always order, a medium vanilla latte, except that I slipped up and asked for a grande vanilla latte instead. I don’t think I was even conscious of my mistake until the girl at the register glared at me through her thick, square frames and condescendingly snapped, “We have small, medium or large.” Her look alone read, “You are the scum of the earth.” I did not appreciate how she left it to me to correct my mistake. It was obvious that she was not going to finish ringing up my order until I admitted defeat and clarified my size preference. I showed my disapproval by coldly replying, “Medium.” I’m not a very confrontational person, but I think she got the idea evidenced by the fact that she didn’t look me in the eyes when asking whether or not I would like a receipt. I never knew the phrase, “Small, medium or large?” could be so menacing.There are two things that make me mad about this situation, besides the blatant rudeness. The first is that I actually prefer Caribou to Starbucks. The second is that I have always thought Starbucks’ sizing system to be idiotic. It has taken me years to learn the jargon, and it is for this precise reason that I always order the grande. I can never keep tall and venti straight, and there is a big difference in the two if you accidentally order the wrong one. In all of my years of learning and making mistakes while standing at the Starbucks counter, no Starbucks employee has ever snapped at me. They have simply repeated my order back to me inserting their Italian word for my mundane English. Apparently, they have finally won. They have broken my mind, and I am suffering the consequences.
This Caribou employee could have taken the same approach; she could have simply corrected me as she punched in my order. Maybe Caribou is attempting to right the wrongs, to bring order to the chaos and confusion caused by the coffee giant Starbucks. More power to them for sticking to normalcy, but if snobbery is part of the policy, it’s not working. I do not intend to be patronized while patronizing their establishment. I can easily walk across the street to Starbucks where no one chastises me for ordering a medium instead of a grande.
(I do realize that my Piscean sensibility could have played a role in this situation, and for that reason I will still continue to patronize Caribou Coffee.)
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Kitty Leash
My cat, Garfield we will call him, has not adjusted well to city life. He misses our spacious, historic Southern home and yard. Although an inside cat, he always enjoyed the option of roaming the great outdoors for short periods of time whenever the call of the wild became too urgent. He would spend his outdoor adventures napping on the wicker porch furniture, blissfully rolling in the grass, or, to my dismay, conducting kitty exploration under the house. And then napping some more on the porch.
I have always thought Garfield acted more like a dog than a cat. He comes when called by name, and he jumps up on the legs of new visitors. Most cats have to get to know you over the course of a few months before rubbing a wet noses on your bare ankles, but not Garfield. He never met a stranger. While inside, he follows at my heels like a loyal companion, and while outside, he would always protect his territory. I even saw him scare a neighbor’s dog away from our porch once. The little mutt scurried away trembling after Garfield arched his back and puffed out his long fur. He does a very good impression of a blowfish.
So, condo living has been difficult. Garfield expends his excess energy by running in circles or by belligerently attacking our other cat, Nermal. The lack of space seems to have brought on some weight gain as well. Every time one of us goes in or out the front door, Garfield attempts an escape. He has managed a few adventures out into our hallway but seems baffled by the lack of porch and grass. This is why today Aquarius bought a cat leash at Target. It seemed like a great idea. He already acts like a dog, he’s afraid of absolutely nothing, and he wants to go outside more than anything else. Sure we might look a little weird walking a cat, but he will love going down to the courtyard and playing in the fallen leaves. We were overly optimistic.
After Aquarius’ ten minute battle to get the harness on and properly adjusted (we had to buy a dog harness because Garfield is too fat for the cat harness), we proudly opened the front door assuming he would immediately understand his new freedom. No, he plopped down in the middle of the kitchen floor. I have never seen him refuse an open offer to go outside, but because it wasn’t his idea, it wasn’t a good one. We called, we coaxed, but he refused. Aquarius pulled on the leash dragging his furry belly across the tile. Garfield’s response to this was to roll on his back and throw a temper tantrum like a two-year-old. He then rolled across the floor flopping from back to belly entangling himself in the leash. His next tactic, after we unwound him, was to make it safely out of the kitchen to the carpet where he dug his back claws in for dear life. With claws out, he began to attack the leash, biting it as if in retaliation for some wrong done. Aquarius picked him up and carried him into the hall. Certainly once he saw the benefit of the leash he would come to accept it. No, he plopped down in the middle of the hallway. His body was limp as if the weight of the harness was too heavy to bear. The only way to get him back inside was to remove the immobilizing strap. Aquarius is convinced that this can work, and another kitty leash training session is planned for tomorrow.
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Traffic Circle of Doom Update: Death of a Traffic Circle – an Obituary
Original post – Traffic Circle of Doom
The Thrill Hill traffic circle died last Thursday from complications involving a mini-van. Born in August of 2009, the circle lived a short life of just over two months during which he resided on Gilbert Drive in Shreveport, Louisiana, at the foot of Thrill Hill. He is a direct descendant of the famous Etoile Circle in Paris, France, and he is survived by bereaved parents, Councilman Long and the City of Shreveport, as well as two siblings, the Wilder Place roundabout and the Rutherford Street obstacle: the former of which has had a successful career in traffic circulation and the latter of which suffers from a slight mental handicap due to the fact that there is no cross street.
The circle spent his final days in the same way he spent every other day of his life: in the pursuit of harmony. He lived each day to it’s fullest, attempting to bring safety and equality to a chaotic and dangerous route. The circle’s sole purpose was to direct drivers in a choreographed dance of centripetal force, the beauty of which surpasses any four-way stop or traffic light. Unfortunately, the very drivers the circle aimed to protect were not willing participants in this circular promenade. Instead, they treated the circle with contempt, sent letters of complaint to the councilman, and abused the small roundabout with their prodigious four-wheel-drive trucks. These actions, along with the mini-van collision and a protest sign, heightened the tension that lead to the circle’s destruction. The Thrill Hill roundabout was ironically a victim of that which he tried to prevent – a vehicular homicide. The mutilated body was removed from the intersection without form or ceremony on November 5th. May we remember this day of utter failure.
Now the taxpayers of Shreveport anxiously await a replacement for this circular heap of concrete and brick. Will it be a stop sign, a blinking red-light, or maybe a speed bump? Whatever the successor may turn out to be, this defunct circle will only be remembered with derision and scorn by thrill seekers across the city.
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Special Sauce
A guest post by Aquarius.
Pisces is a bit behind on lesson plans, so while she is busy doing teacher things she asked me to tell you about our recent special delivery.
Last weekend was hectic, and we had failed yet again to plan meals for the week or do any shopping. On Monday evening we ordered Papa John’s pizza, vowing to go shopping the next day. See also, prioritization. 45 minutes after ordering it online – I avoid social contact whenever possible – my iPhone rang with our delivery man announcing his arrival. I stepped outside only to find nobody there. This is a typical occurrence with delivery drivers to our condo. There are actually 2 buildings that share our address, separated by a courtyard, a swimming pool, and a parking garage. I always give specific instructions on where to go, but they’re always ignored. I reluctantly walked back in, through the courtyard, through the other building, and emerged to see a tiny man holding our dinner. After tipping, I made the return trip through the building, the courtyard, the other building, and up 2 flights of stairs.
At the top landing, my iPhone rang again. I sat the pizza on the rail and answered. It was the delivery man:
“Meesta Creees? You forget… I forget sauce! You have – I have – pizza sauce. And the uh… cheeeeze sauce. The side. For you! For your steeeeks!”
My steaks? Oh, STICKS! He had forgotten to give me the dipping sauce for the cheesesticks. I explained to him that it was no big deal, that I didn’t really need the sauce, but thank you anyway. The truth was that I simply didn’t feel like making the trip again. Big Bang Theory was about to come on, and I err on the side of lazy. He stammered a bit, I interrupted by thanked him, and hung up. As I gathered my pizzas and walked down the hall, the iPhone yet again let out its digital yelp. I answered with a sigh:
“Meesta Creees? I lose you, you keep going. I have sauce! The sauce for you! Eeets the pizza sauce, and the cheeeeze sauce. For steeeks. For you in bag. I wait now, ok? You come!”
God bless immigrants, every one. If Americans took their jobs as seriously as this man took his, the Euro would still be envious of the Washingtons I had handed the driver a few minutes before. I told him again not to worry about it, that I didn’t want the sauce anyways, and thanks. As I walked in the door – you guessed it – the phone rang yet again. This time, I ignored it.
*Bleep-bleep* I had a voice mail. I shook my head. He clearly didn’t understand what I was telling him, so maybe he would get the hint if I ignored him. But no, the phone rang yet again. And again. I answered Pisces’ annoyed looks by saying, “I already told him I didn’t want it, so there’s no point in answering!” On around call #6 Pisces finally told me, “Blusp purn eh owf!” which means “Just turn it off” when translated from ravenous-woman-with-a-mouthful. I obeyed and promptly forgot about our friend downstairs. Surely, he wouldn’t just stand out there in the cold shouting “Meesta Creees! Your sauce!” all night.
Just before bed, I remembered to turn my phone back on. Apparently he HAD spent a while downstairs. I had 3 more voice mails to prove it. What dedication! The first 2 voice mails were hangups. Here is the final one.
He somehow managed to get into the building and was leaving the sauce for me on a table.
Mister Delivery Driver – I raise my glass to you tonight, sir. Pizza sauce (and the cheese sauce!) is a small, small thing to worry about. But when an American would have shrugged and moved on to the next delivery and the next tip, you saw to it that the package was delivered to the best of your ability. Instill those values in your children, sir. With a Montgomery County public education and English fluency, the world will be their oyster. This country needs a little more give-a-damn. Cheers.
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Halloween Surprise
A few weeks before Halloween my French II class announced that they were working on a Halloween surprise for me. They had come up with a costume idea for my class and my class alone. Apparently, most of the school knew about the plan but did an excellent job of keeping me in the dark. My only guess was that it must have something to do with France. Were they going to try to dress up as stereotypical French people? This could be a bust. Maybe the guys were going to wear berets and the girls would dress as French maids. I intended to act elated as long as the dress code violations weren’t too severe.
Sitting in my office a few minutes before class on Friday, I heard hushed voices and stifled giggles in the hallway. I walked down to the copy room to pick up my freshly printed French II quiz, and a student from another class attempted to divert my attention away from the sound of rustling clothes emanating from around the corner. I pretended not to notice anything strange as I headed back to my office. I waited several minutes before gathering up my books for class. I didn’t want to ruin their fun by catching them in the hall. They had given me the impression that they intended to be in costumes and in their places when I walked in. So, here goes, I thought, apprehensively walking down the hall hoping that no one would embarrass themselves too badly. I closed my eyes, grabbed the door handle, opened the door, and opened my eyes to see my students dressed as public school kids – more specifically, as my former public school kids.
Before moving to this area and lucking into my dream job at a private school, I worked for four years in the Louisiana public school system. I often tell my students stories about my public school experience, not because I like talking about it, but because they are always asking. Those who have always attended private school are very intrigued by what goes on in these public institutions. I think if they ever had the opportunity to visit one, they would observe as scientists studying indigenous peoples – from afar and with great trepidation. On Friday my students made all of my anecdotes come to life. It’s a tiny class and only a couple of students dressed up, but those few students stayed in character the entire class period. They emulated the attitude and mannerisms of my former students so well that they should all win Academy Awards for their performance.
I walked into the classroom to find students in sagging pants and baseball caps throwing candy wrappers. Once I got over my initial laughter, I decided to just go with it. I passed out the quiz which evoked outcries such as: “This isn’t what you said it would be.” “I don’t know this stuff.” “What is this? A foreign language?” “What’s number one?” One student played out the scenario of not having a pen and had to ask everyone in the room for one until someone had pity on her. I pretended to accuse another student of cheating and made him sit by himself for the quiz. The students even put fake public-school names on the top of their papers. After the quiz I turned on the projector to discuss new verb conjugations. As the Windows screen came up, they begged me to show a movie rather than do real work. When I refused, they pretended not to know what conjugation meant and started a conversation on Pirates of the Caribbean, insisting upon its relevance because parlay sounds similar to the verb parler. Little did they know, I have heard this parlay argument before from students. Their improvisation skills were amazing! Some incidents were obviously orchestrated, such as one girl announced her recent pregnancy and another student’s cell phone rang ensuing in a covert conversation about a drug deal. I was then blamed for the possible bad outcome of this deal since I made him hang up. I am pretty sure the caller was the girl who tried to distract me earlier in the hallway. These talented actors even drew an audience. A few students who didn’t have another class at the time sat in just to see the antics. No one broke character and the show lasted until the students exited stage left talking about the partying they planned to do that weekend.
Obviously, I have a good enough relationship with my students that we were able to joke back and forth. I can’t see this prank having worked in many other classrooms. At times I was nearly on the floor paralyzed by hilarity. They reenacted my years of public school servitude with such accuracy that repressed memories came rushing back. Nothing they did would have been out of the ordinary at my old school, except for the drug deal. It would have taken place in the parking lot instead of the classroom. I even once had a girl open a bag of potato chips in class and inform me that she was now eating for two. At my current school I can’t think of a single time that a student has come to class without a writing utensil. That is what made the scenario so comical. I thank my students for their top notch performance and for their reality check. I hope to never work in that sort of environment again, but it is good to remember your roots.
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Cry Freedom
I have been a huge fan of Dave Matthews Band since high school, and ever since learning sometime in college that Dave Matthews himself was born and lived in South Africa, I have assumed that his song “Cry Freedom” is about apartheid. Yesterday, I did a little research on-line to see if my interpretation of the lyrics even matched up at all with Dave’s intentions, and they did. I am assuming that the song was written in 1994 or 1995 since apartheid ended in ‘94 and the album Crash was released in ‘96. I found that the title “Cry Freedom” came from a movie of the same name starring Denzel Washington who plays the murdered anti-apartheid leader Steve Biko.
I let my 11th grade World Literature class listen to the song today as part of our introduction to Alan Paton’s novel Cry, The Beloved Country. The novel was published in 1948 just before the Afrikaner led National Party came into power making segregation of blacks and whites legal and mandatory. Before reading, I wanted my students to have a grasp on the whole historical and cultural context, even the events that happened decades after the novel takes place, and to understand how long the struggle was for black South Africans to win equality in their own country. My students enjoyed the song and were deeply upset by such injustice. We discussed the meaning of the lyrics, but there are a few lines about which I can only make educated guesses. I am wondering if anyone out there has more knowledge about some of the specific references in the song.
Here is what I am sure of:
“Let this flag burn to dust
And a new a fair design be raised”In 1994 when South Africa held its first election in which blacks were allowed to vote and Nelson Mandela was elected President, the old flag was done away with and a new design was hoisted.
Here is what I am unsure of:
“Cry freedom cry
From a crowd 10,000 wide
Hope laid upon hope
That this crowd will not subside”Maybe this is referring to crowds of protesters, but I am wondering if it is an allusion to a specific protest or even a massacre.
“There was a window and by it stood
A mirror in which
He could see himself
He thought of something
Something he had never had but hoped would come along”My interpretation here is of the black man looking into himself and holding out hope that things will change for him. Other interpretations are welcome.
“In this room stood a little child
And in this room this little child
She would remain
Until someone might decide
To dance this little child
Across this hall
Into a cold, dark, space
Where she might never trace her way across this crooked mile
Across this crooked page “This is the biggest mystery to me, and my only guess is that it could be a reference to the forced removal of blacks from their homes to black-only areas. One of my students suggested that this section seemed very dream-like and that it was possibly based on a personal experience of Dave’s.
Whatever the meaning of these elusive lyrics may be, I think the song is beautifully written. What Dave says about greed (gold) and fear dividing us can be applied to any country. His call to act now, rather than to turn a blind eye or to wait for things to change, can be said for any time and place.
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