Good Behavior = Boring Blog Posts!

Dear Readers,

I apologize for not writing in forever. My life has been boring, almost without interruption. I will tell you the only small tidbits of excitement since my last entries:

1) (The bad news) The Na Na and Hannah are leaving for a mission trip in the next few days. Make a list of the five very most dangerous countries in the world in which you can imagine being a missionary/ traveling at all right now, and the country they are visiting will be on that list. So of course I am preoccupied. Any prayers to any good deities or any warm fuzzy thoughts sent their way would be appreciated. I will be going back to Evangelville next week and I will be there for awhile. I'm guessing the Saved household will be a bit more tense and somber than usual for a good part of that time.

2) I went to see Bruno, and one of my students was in the audience. The end.

3) My head hurts from studying because I am gearing up for PhD Program Application Season! Woot.

4) The Lolo breakup has stuck so far, even though we still talk and see each other on occasion. Last weekend I went to a party at his BFF's apartment. It was pretty great. At one point I was standing on the balcony with three guys and we were looking inside the apartment where a huge group photo was being arranged. One of the guys said, "Look, they exiled all the non-Colombians to the balcony so we wouldn't be in their photo." I turned to my companieros and asked, "Where are y'all from?" Two were from Puerto Rico and one was from Mexico. It was true. We were at a segregated party. When they left the party I pulled on Lolo's sleeve and said, "Oh, no, I'm the only non-Colombian here!" He said he thought I would survive the experience.

I spent the evening with Lolo's BFF's girlfriend, Petra, "singing karaoke" (screaming old- school Shakira songs and syrupy Carlos Vives numbers into toothpicks that doubled as microphones) and dancing merengue and vallenato with Lolo and his friends.

I watched as Cristina, the only Colombiana I have ever met in my whole life who I might be able to sort of compete with in the looks department, grabbed Lolo's ass. More than once. He kept shuffling off to try to avoid her, but in her drunken horny state she followed him without resting. It was hilarious.

Meanwhile one of the Puerto Ricans kept following me around. He was easy to talk to and attractive but I was trying to be at least a little sensitive to the fact that I just broke up with Lolo, so I kept finding reasons to excuse myself from his conversations. He has become quite an impressive Facebook stalker. This one is 14 years my senior and also has a daughter. What is it about me that I only attract men who were born before 1979? Anyway, he lives far away in a place I will (hopefully) never have a reason to visit, so I think I'm more or less safe.

At 5 in the morning, Petra sent Lolo and I off for ice and coke since we were determined to be the most sober(!). Petra screamed after us, "NO SEX. You can't just sneak off. You HAVE to come back to the party." Lolo said, "Don't worry, Petra, she's not even going to THINK about touching me."

Upon returning, I danced some more with a Colombian who still managed to smell delightful, even at 5:45 and after seven hours of uninterrupted dancing and drinking. Then I took a very brief nap on the couch cuddled up with Petra's boxer, who snores. I drove home at 7 am, the sun all the way out and Counting Crow's cd "Saturday Nights/Sunday Mornings" playing on my car stereo.

After recovering the next day I accompanied Lolo to a movie we had both wanted to see. Afterward he told me, "You know, you can kiss me if you want to..." I told him thanks but no thanks. See? Resolve! Determination! Prudence!

5) Now I must be off to my zumba class. If you don't know what zumba is, you need to get with it. Yes one of my students also goes to the class. Yes it is awkward. And after the zumba class, I will eat a boringly healthy dinner and then I will probably go to bed, in my ugliest pj's, accompanied only by the four books I'm working on simultaneously right now. But tomorrow morning I am going on a brief road trip with Lori and another friend, so we can all hope that good adventures await.

Hang in there, readers. Classes start in less than a month and then I am sure to be chock full of stories that have little or nothing to do with my personal life! Yay!

Enough with the Infinite Jesting, Already!

Some days I believe in G-d and some days I don't. The days that I do, it is usually not the majesty of the mountains that convinces me. It is simply that somebody out there enjoys making fun of me and is way too good at it for it to all be chance.

I was reminded of that this morning.

When I first moved here I knew almost nobody and found it a little hard to meet people without the dependable structures of college life. I was socially starved and I missed the city I lived in before. I thought a lot about the ex I had left there, who wasn't thinking of me anymore. I developed a pretty good case of the blues and I knew I needed to get out of the house. So, much to the chagrin of my mother, I joined a dating website.

I didn't find the love of my life. I did get out of the house. My membership more than paid for itself in free dinners and drinks. In fact, part of the reason I ended my subscription is because I was being taken out to so many fancy dinners that I was beginning to gain weight. The other reason is because I was totally overwhelmed with suitors.

But it did what I needed it to do. It got me away from the computer and reminded me that not all men find me icky. I got to check out some cool new restaurants and bars and have conversations with interesting people. Those of you who have been reading this blog for awhile will remember Bahram, the Iranian with whom I had very passionate parking lot arguments. I met him this way, and we had a decent little run of it. Plus, this site only lets you see the profiles of people you are matched with, so I felt pretty safe using it.

So this weekend, returning home slightly tipsy after my first night since January out with the girls as a single woman, I renewed my subscription. Don't look at me like that. Lori provoked me.

Imagine my horror when I woke up this morning and checked my email and saw that I had been matched with someone named Lolo. I reassured myself, "There are millions of people in this city. There are other people named Lolo." Imagine my deepening horror when I opened his profile and discovered that this Lolo was also a 34-year-old economist with a penchant for cycling.

It's going to be awkward next time we talk. I can hear it now, "Ever. A computer-generated database even thinks we should be together..." I'm not buying it. And I'm not renewing my subscription.

***Update***

As soon as I walked in the door after classes, my phone rang. It was Lolo. I expected as much, since his approach to getting dumped seems to be to pretend it never happened, and he still calls me every day to chat.

He talked to me awhile without mentioning anything unusual. Then I said, "Ummmm...Lolo...can I ask you kind of a strange question?" He offered up an insipid, faltering "yes?" I said, "Do you have (dating website)?" He stumbled around, "umm...what do you mean, 'do I have it'?" I said, "Do you have a profile, Lolo?"

He confessed, "Ok, yeah, I do, Ever. I do have a profile on that thing; everyone does, you know. But I haven't used it in a really long time, like since before I moved here. Why do you ask?"

I said, "Well, because I have an old profile on there, and I am pretty sure it matched us this morning."

He was incredulous and doubtful, until I read the entire profile back to him on the phone. Finally he started laughing, "Yeah, that thing is definitely mine." Thankfully he wasn't wierd about it; we spent some time talking about our different dating experiences using its services and then wished each other a pleasant evening.

And I would like to reiterate now that no, I am not taking this as a sign. It's been five days without him and I still haven't even come close to questioning that decision.

Assorted Nightmares

One of the innumerable delights of being a profesora is "professional development." It happens in all fields, but in teaching it takes on a life of its own.

My mother, who is an elegant and reserved woman (in public, at least), tells tales of grown women converting back to their 4 and 5-year-old selves- and not in a good way- during her preschool teacher workshops. Training for high school teachers takes on distinct unpleasantries, according to my recent observations.

I am enrolled in a series of workshops at a prestigious local university. I have been excited about this training all summer, because it gives me an excuse to be on a university campus and also because I thought it might be a wonderful way to meet some cool new people.

Imagine my disappointment when I found myself surrounded by tragic stereotypes! It seems that (almost?) everyone in the class falls into one of the following categories:

1) The Mean Girls, Grown-up Edition: These ladies are young and borderline sarcastic. They have good hair. They also all come from the same few schools and avoid the rest of us as if we were carrying swine flu. They are also all too important for me because they are: a) engaged b) new mommies c) pregnant. They might be fun to be around...if you are one of the lucky few.

2) The Elderly Gringas: These tall women have a fondness for super-snazzy flip-flops, frosty "coral sunset" lipstick and matching toenail polish, and sensible short haircuts. They wear a requisite combination of classic linen and cropped pants in neutral shades. In their twenties, they had a forbidden romance/joined the peace corps and kinda learned Spanish. They got jobs teaching Spanish...before school districts would hire actual Spanish-speakers? Their favorite phrases: "Spanish is a important thing to know, you know, because of the immigration and the illegals," and, "Why don't any of the Spanish kids want to go to college?"

3) The Emasculated Male Teachers: I am presuming that these nightmares are most insecure, because they feel a need to swagger in late after every break, forcing everyone else to shift around to accomodate them and interrupting the lesson. They express their opinion...on everything. They wear too much cologne and, while introducing themselves, include the following statements as many times as possible: "Before I came to the district..." and, "There wouldn't be ____________ if I hadn't come along," and, "Here's what I do in that situation..." It's ok, fellas, the only one judging you is yourself here. Sadly, the professor (who is quite nice otherwise) feeds right into this, listening to each of their uninspired commentaries with an indulgent, doting grin.

4) The Embittereds: This is everyone else. They are mostly older ladies who don't quite fit the Elderly Gringa mold, but they do complain. About. Everything. Including (but not limited to): The Administration, the district, the lazy-ass kids, the impossibility of their job and their lot in life, the futility of human existence, and the poor quality of the coffee in the breakroom. So when the teacher asks, "What strategies do you use to introduce students to different dialects," they respond with another question, like, "How would you suggest dealing with an administration that values core classes like math and science over Spanish?" The rest of the cohort then purses its collective lips and nods in unison.

I'm not trying to be mean. I'm sure that most of these teachers are perfectly lovely individuals when they are cut out of the pack. Maybe they inspire greatness in their students, are masters of organization, and care for delightful families at the same time. I would probably be friends with any of them if they worked at my school and I actually knew them. Right now they are just caricatures.

In fact, I'm sure plenty of them look at me and see a sour-faced girl with bangs in her eyes, a nose ring and an inability to match her accessories and would say that I'm my own tragic stereotype. I can be defensive like the emasculateds. If Mario were around with us mortals instead of cavorting in Spainland, drunk off of tinto de verano and papas a lo pobre, he would be happy to tell you that cuando me pongo nerviosa my Spanish is halting and awkward at best. Any of you who read my blog know I do (much more than) my share of whining. But still.

I'm just disappointed that I don't see any prospects for new BFFs. And I'm frustrated because, though I did get some awesome resources and learn about useful websites, I didn't learn much. And it's been so hot that every time I had to step outside to go to another classroom I thought I would puke. Really. I could feel a heat stroke coming on, hunting me down with shaky legs and the kind of chills that do nothing to cool you down.

Plus, when I got home and was talking to my mom on the phone I realized there was a large bug crawling in my hair. I threw the phone and screamed obscenities(in a subdued voice) until it came flying out. My poor mom was scared to death and shocked by my language until I told her what had happened. Then I carried the bug outside on a bit of toilet paper. I still don't know what it was, I just think it must have fallen out of a tree and ridden home from campus on my head. It's not that surprising that it mistook my sweaty, swirly mess for some kind of brush or undergrowth. But what kind of a fucked-up world is this, anyway, that mystery bugs can fall out of plants and take up residence in your bob?

And I have to get out before teaching high school turns me into one of them.

Rumored Registration Riots

It is a well-established fact that students always know more than teachers when it comes to the important stuff, like why little Shlomo was expelled from school or which junior was caught holding hands with some freshman girl in the theater last Tuesday night.

So I wasn't shocked when the following exchange took place yesterday morning.

I went to the gym, as I usually do in the mornings this summer to keep me from being a complete bum.
You should probably understand that, when I exercise, my very fair skin with ruddy tendencies turns a lovely splotchy magenta. You should also know that whether I torture my hair into submission with products and heat or leave it completely natural and curly, when I work out the short pieces around my ears stick straight out, giving me the look of a yorkshire terrier with a bad hair day.

After working out and stretching, I headed toward the bathroom to wash my hands.
Of course as soon as I opened the door I almost ran into Amit. Amit used to work in the middle school that feeds into our high school. She doesn't work there now, but I know her because she is good friends with Lissa. That means she has seen me really drunk. She has even seen me jump into a pool fully clothed, with my phone in my pocket.

Anyway, I said, "Hiiiiiiiiii," in the exaggerated, drawn-out way you do when you are surprised to run into someone. Amit had to look at me twice before she realized who I was. We chatted for awhile about our summers, and then she gave me this little tidbit:

She said, "So I saw on Facebook that a bunch of the kids are upset that they don't have you as a teacher next year." I didn't know what she meant. I thought maybe Rabbi Asher had finally seen that YouTube video and fired me and forgot to let me know. I stuttered out a confused and worried, "um...wha-at?"

She said, "Well, it seems that they were registered for your class and then the registrar had to make some last-minute schedule changes and put them in Tori's class instead. Something to do with balancing the size of classes, I think."

I laughed and shrugged, "Well, they know more than I do, then."

Amit responded, "They always do. Anyway, a bunch of them were discussing how upset they were on Facebook, and I thought, 'awwww, they must really love Ever.' So I'm glad I ran into you today while I was thinking about it still."

I gave Amit an awkward smile (I couldn't blush anymore because I was already a delicate fuschia) and thanked her for sharing before ducking out of the bathroom. I didn't want to lose my cool in front of her, but this information totally made my day. I'm glad they don't all hate me anymore. They're kind of cute sometimes, I guess.

And It's Official...

I'm a single woman again.

And I think I even managed it without creating an enemy.

Lolo Update

For the (thousands of) curious, lovely readers out there, Lolo and I just had a knock-down drag-out over the phone. I am pleased to announce that I initiated this, which is saying something when you consider how non-confrontational I am.

I used the, "I feel..." and, "I think..." key phrases that are supposed to help diffuse these kinds of things. He responded with the height of meanness by saying, "This whole conversation is nothing but 'you, you, you.'"

The whole fucking relationship has been about him.

And I was reminded of this when I pointed out that we actually never talk about any of my interests, although I am a new expert on all of his, and he responded that it's because I don't have any. Any that I mentioned he dismissed as not being "real interests" (aka his interests). Wow, I never knew until just this minute that I was that boring and lame.

To be fair, though, he never knew about my secret writing skillz.

He lectured me while we were arguing about his conversational tone. I mean, sure, it's not like I can blame every single thing on him. Maybe if I had stood up for myself more since day 1 things would be casi perfecto. But probably not.

Finally we both got so upset that we had to postpone the conclusion of this conversation. Actually, I was ready to put the last nail in the coffin but he accused me of being rash. He asked me to, "at least give [him] the respect to think about why I was picking this fight with [him] for a few hours." You know, since I have wasted so much of his valuable (unemployed) time over the last 5 months.

Sorry that you have to read this bilious entry, dear readers. It's mostly to remind myself of some of the highlights of our conversation so I am strong when we talk the next time.

I've been treated better than this before; I will be treated better than this in the future. By someone else, I'm thinking.

A Seinfeld quote came on tv tonight. I'm going to butcher it, but it went something like this: Jerry asked George, "She cried and you gave in, didn't you?" George said, "Yeah..." and Jerry responded, "Eh. You've gotta break up two or three times; you have to build up an immunity over time." G-d I hope I'm immune enough to finish things off once and for all next time we talk. I think maybe now I'm angry enough for that to be the case.

And thanks to those of you who have offered me advice, moral support, empathy, and most importantly have put up with my oversharing and wimpiness without offering up anything but kind words.

Now I'm going to go cry myself to sleep (from frustration/nerves, not sadness!)

Steamy Melty Storytime

Yesterday night I returned from one of the longest weeks of my life. I was dogsitting for an aunt in a godforsaken suburb (I will write about this shortly), and she had neglected to reveal the true nature of her dogs as hellions disguised as fluffy, loveable creatures.

After a long, trafficky, exhaust-filled drive home, I pulled into my apartment complex and climbed the stairs. I was looking forward to a short but refreshing nap in my own delicious bed, curtains drawn and fan whirring. I was sleep-deprived and my cheeks were hot and dry from the weather and dehydration.

I unlocked the door and I had to lean hard into it to force it open, because it was sticky with disuse and humidity. The air smelled stale, and I ditched my belongings on the living room floor and walked over to turn on the ac. I turned on last week's TAL episode and started unpacking my things.

An hour later, I realized it wasn't getting any cooler. It was too hot to sleep, so I took a cool shower. When I got out and started drying my hair, I started sweating so much that the shower seemed pointless. My bangs, which had been cut too-short the day before, curled against my forehead and any makeup I tried to put on ran off my face in rivulets. I went back and checked the thermostat. It was holding at a steady 87 degrees.

I went out for dinner and a few beers with Lori and her boyfriend, and when I got back around ten it still seemed hot. It was still 87 degrees. I could hear the ac unit running, so I was still thinking that maybe it was just taking a long time for my apartment to cool off given the extreme temperatures outside.

I slept in my underwear, on top of the covers, with my fan on full speed, and I was still sweating. I got up and checked the thermostat; it had finally cooled down to about 78 degrees, which is not much warmer than where I usually keep it when I am home. But by 9:00, when I got up after a night of dreams in which I was suffocating and suffering from strange diseases, the temperature had crept back up to 85 degrees.

This is when I knew I had a problem.

Where I live, ac is not a luxury; it is a necessity. In the hottest months of the summer, the city sets up shelters for people who cannot afford to pay their electric bills or fix their units. The heat here right now is like a natural disaster, with heat indexes that make 100 degrees look pleasant. People don't even go swimming except at night.

I went to the grocery store and left a message for my apartment management. When I got back it was up to 90 degrees, even with the sunlight blocked by my heavy curtains. I called the management again and unpacked my groceries. Then I found a fruit smoothie I had made and frozen and sat on the couch to eat it with a spoon. It was too hot to read, so I just sat there and thought. Lolo called me twice and I ignored his calls.

Around noon I was bored and a little hungry, and I wandered into the kitchen to see if there was anything appetizing. I remembered I had bought a bar of dark chocolate at the store and decided to eat a square of it. It was sitting on the kitchen counter. When I went to open it I discovered that the bar was squishy and melted all the way through. Disgusted, I threw it into the fridge.

At last my salvation came, in the form of my BFF maintenance guy. When I opened the door he said, "Hey girl, how you been!?" as if we were long lost amigos. He asked me if I liked living in my new apartment, and then he said, "So where is your friend? She got married?" I said that she had. He said, "You got a lot of stuff in your closet?" I opened the door to show him and he said, "Oh, you have to move some of that."

So as I was tossing empty bags and boxes onto my bed he asked, "So when are you going to get married?" I laughed and said, "Oh, I don't know..." He said, "Well, I guess you need a boyfriend first, right?" And I said, "Yeah, I actually have one of those." I didn't tell him that I probably wouldn't have one of those for much longer.

He screeched, "What!? You do!? But I thought you didn't. I never see you with a boy, you know?" I responded as I squeezed around him to deposit another load of closet crap on the bed, "Oh, yeah, he comes around sometimes..."

Then he said, "Oh, well, you still have time, right? You're young, right? Like 20?" I laughed and said, "Um, not quite. I mean I'm 24." I looked up at him; he was frowning and looked confused. He said, "Oh, yeah, I guess you have a little time then...I mean you have until you're like 30, maybe, I guess...but in ten years you'll be 34, you know? Don't you want kids?" He trailed off. "I'm 34," he said. I nodded and crossed my arms and walked into the living room. I turned on MSNBC, one of the only channels I get, and watched more Michael Jackson coverage as he worked. After a trip up to the roof he had my ac working again. He walked back in and said, "OH, it's freezing in here now. I might get hypothermia, you know? It's like Alaska in here, like where Sarah Palin lives."

And then I thanked him and he left, on his way to maintain other things, and maybe to tell other single girls that if they didn't want to vestir santos they better get on with things.