Dingo’s Gambit

Summer classes are like opening Christmas gifts.  You hope for diamonds and car keys but inevitably you wind up with a mug with something moderately funny on it, a coin purse, and a few fruitcakes.  Hell, one Christmas as a child, I got an airgun and a rosary.  That’s summer class, Innernetz.  No tennis bracelets.  All socks, underwear, and talking bathroom scales.

One student showed up on the first day of class wearing a thin see-through t-shirt.  Over his left breast — on his skin — he’d drawn a pocket with lines so wavy that I wondered if he suffered from acute astigmatism or, more likely, heroin withdrawal.  As part of what must have been this week’s art therapy assignment, he’d also drawn a fake nametag on the fake pocket.  There, in bright gold marker under “Hello, My Name Is” was the name “Playa.” Yes, the thirty-ish-year-old student with mutton chop sideburns and a hand-drawn name tag wants to be called “Playa.” Um, no. 

“You’re kidding, right?” I asked him. “Naw, man.  This is my tag, man,” he responded, using his right fist to deliver two weak thumps to his scrawny chest like a consumptive Roman legionnaire. He tried to catch the eye of the class slut woman sitting next to him. She didn’t notice.  She was distracted by her own issues, sliding around in her seat as if sitting on a Spirograph.  I couldn’t tell if she was perfecting the moves for her next lap dance or if she had simply forgotten to take off her NASCAR-grade Mobil 1 pre-moistened panties. 

“Well, my roster says your name is Archie so why don’t we go with that.” He grumbled and frowned.  By exposing his true identity, I had obviously ruined his chances with Miss Fucksalot who, by this time, had hooked her stilettos around the legs of the chair and sat slouched, staring at the floor.

Playa was a stroll on the beach.  I pwned him the very first day.  Check and mate.  But the Gary Busey lookalike who sits behinds Playa is a different story.  Busey wants nothing less than complete victory and every day is a battle for control of the proverbial chessboard.  Busey is a pompous brownnoser whose self-important classroom pontifications make Bill O’Reilly look like a zen mantra.  This alone wouldn’t be so bad if Busey could simply stay on topic.  Instead, every single class he channels Sarah Palin after a pot of espresso.  On top of this, he inexplicably lugs a ginormous wheeled suitcase to class every day.  I don’t know what he carries in that suitcase, but I’ll admit that I’ve cut him some slack just in case it’s money.

Yesterday, as I started taking attendance, I noticed Busey wasn’t in his usual seat.  I sighed a deep, contented sigh.  It was going to be a good day.  I wouldn’t have to cut him off in the middle of a pretentious speech wholly unrelated to the class discussion.  I wouldn’t need to shut down his impromptu poll of the class regarding whether or not I should extend the next paper deadline.  My attendance policy is notably draconian.  If you miss attendance you are marked absent.  No excuses.  Period.  End of story.  I looked forward to marking a giant purple X next to his name on the attendance sheet.

When I was halfway through the roster I heard a door in the hall creak open on its rusty hinges. The sound echoed, bouncing off the grey industrial walls in warning.  The creaking continued.  The sound became the wheels of a mammoth suitcase creaking down my spine.  It felt as if someone was wheeling over my grave.  My eyes whipped to the tiny glass partition in the classroom door.  Busey!  Damn!  I looked at my roster and knew I had just seconds to complete it before he and his Samsonite wife came sauntering into the classroom.  I decided to speed things up a bit.

“Sleeper!”

“Here!”

“Miss Fucksalot!”

“Here!”

I could hear his Bruno Magli’s slapping against the tile.  Closer and closer.  Faster, Dingo, I thought.  Faster!

“Smart Guy!” “Here!” “Clueless” “Here!” “Nice Dresser!” “Here!”

I looked out the partition window again and it was almost my downfall.  I made eye contact with Busey.  He saw me standing there with my gradebook in hand and broke into a run.  Shit!  I called names and didn’t even wait for the students to acknowledge their presence.

“Exchange Student, Emo, Chatty Cathy, Cheerleader!” “Here! Here! Here! Here!”

Busey was racing down the hallway, the wheels of his luggage shrieking, “Here! Here! Here!” I watched as he swam in a panic toward the door, eyes dark and flickering like a shark about to feed, trying desperately to maintain his tenuous grasp on his carry-on, that all-knowing, toothy grin on his face.  Fortunately, his suitcase acted as a wobbly anchor, slowing his arrival by overturning and crashing into a wall.  If I hadn’t been holding pen and paper I would’ve rubbed my hands together with glee and thrown back my head with a hearty “Mwahahaha!” But there wasn’t time.

“Shy Girl!” “Here.”

And DONE!

I scribbled an X next to Busey’s name, a bruise he would wear for the rest of the summer semester, and tossed the attendance sheet onto the desk in triumph.  He dashed through the door two seconds later, his baggage slamming into the doorjamb and sliding to a halt.  “HERE!” he screamed. 

“Awww, sorry,” I said.  “I just finished taking attendance.”

“But Ms. Dingo —”

I put on a sad face and slowly shook my head as I held my thumb and finger an inch apart, “So close, Busey.  So close.” That was when he righted his battered suitcase and began to unzip it.  Fuck.  Was this it?  Is this how I was goin’ down?

He unzipped the suitcase just enough to slide one sweat-slicked arm into the dark opening and pulled out — a Diet Pepsi.  Which he offered to me. 

“But Ms. Dingo, I was late because I stopped to get you a Diet Pepsi.  You always get one during break and I thought you’d like one at the beginning of class.”

The Diet Pepsi was in bad shape.  It was dented and hissing from its perilous ride down the hallway.  His sweaty arm reached in my direction, pushing the battered nectar toward me.  I hesitated for two nanoseconds before accepting his offer.

“Take your seat, Busey. Don’t be late again.”

As Busey made his way to the back of the class, banging shins and elbows with his monstrous bag, I caught the slight glimmer of a smirk.  But I didn’t mind.  After I let the Diet Pepsi settle, I would be basking in glory as the luscious drink burned its way down my throat.

Well played, Busey.  Well played.  But the game has only just begun.

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How ’Bout ’Dem Apples!

Sometimes I think I can change the world.  Sometimes I think that I can do something that makes a difference.  I usually feel this way when I’m listening to the Broadway soundtrack to Hair. I get pumped.  I look up volunteer positions, I make sure I’m getting Rachel Maddow’s tweets and then…and then, I just get deflated.  It’s overwhelming. Bailout.  Homelessness. Domestic Violence. Illiteracy.  Animal Abuse.  Natural Disaster Relief. Fashion Policing and Passing Judgment on Tourists.  There’s so much to be done and I can’t even remember to change Not a Dingo’s litter box with any regularity.  And then sometimes I feel that the best thing I can do is to bolster the economy by ordering another Venti Earl Grey and slice of pound cake from the grumpy Starbucks barista.  And no, I’m not putting a tip in the tip jar. 

Really, who does that?  You know when I put a tip in the Starbucks tip jar?  When the whole bean coffee Mr. Dingo drinks isn’t on the shelf and someone runs to the back to get some for me.  Not when someone puts a tea bag in a cup of hot water.  Excuse me, isn’t that your job?  You want me to tip you for doing your job?  Now, don’t get me wrong.  I am definitely in the overtipper category.  Waiters, hairdressers, delivery people, and cab drivers love me. These are all people who tend to go above their job description to make my interaction with them the best it can be.  Refills before I ask, squeezing me into an appointment at the last minute, delivering my pizza so that it’s hot and right side up keeping the cheese on the pizza and not sticking to the cardboard box, seeing me waving frantically in the pouring rain and pulling over to haul me and a soaking Dingo Girl to a vet appointment uptown — those things get tips.  Big tips.  But, no, grumpy barista, you are not getting a tip from me for simply turning from the cash register to the hot water spout and dropping in a tea bag. 

But lately, I have had to change my grumpy barista tipping policy.  You see, I’ve become one of those people.  You know the people I mean, the people you see sitting in Starbucks for hours at a time typing away on laptops or scribbling furiously in a wire-ringed notebook.  I always asked myself, “Don’t they have an office or at least a dining room table to work from!  Who comes to Starbucks to work?” People like me, that’s who.  People who can’t see their desk for all the crap piled on top of it.  People like me who cannot shut out the catcalls and running commentary on my poor housekeeping skills from the dishes in the kitchen and laundry on the floor.  And the mold in the bathtub shooting dice with the soap scum?  They taunt me.  Oh, how they taunt me. 

You know who else works at Starbucks?  People who can’t type a complete sentence without Not a Dingo walking all over the keyboard on her way to the mouse.  The mouse she then chooses to sleep on only to wake up when I try to slide my hand under her dingleberried butt to do a cut and paste.  And waking her up means that I must want to pet her, right?  So she makes sure she stays within arms reach by sitting in front of the monitor. 9999999999999999999999999999 (okay, that was from Not a Dingo walking on the 8888888888888 keyboard and I’m too lazy to delete it).

And then there’s Dingo Girl.  Dingo Girl who loves her mama so much that she must sit and whine at her mama’s feet for attention.  If whining doesn’t work, she’s sure that pawing at my arm will.  Or maybe licking my feet.  Put shoes on and she licks my leg.  Put on jeans studded with cactus tines and she stands on her hind feet to lick my face.  There’s so much love at Casa Dingo.  Love is killing me.  Hey!  I think that’s a great title for a new Lifetime Movie. 

*announcer voice*

One woman.  Two fur-kids.  She’s slowly losing her mind.  Is the descent into madness a sadistic plan by the four-legged critters or is this woman simply unable to love?
Starring Melissa Gilbert, Garfield, and that dog from the Taco Bell commercials.

*end announcer voice*

Really, go set your Tivos.  I’m sure that my screenplay is going to be picked up by Jane Campion or Sofia Coppola any day now.

I could go into the office to work but I share an office with about a gabillion other adjuncts.  It’s less of an office and more like detention from The Breakfast Club.  No one really goes there to work.  It’s a place to go to commiserate about The Man and hand out leftover homemade cupcakes.  Here’s how my attempt to work in the office went late last week,

Me:  (going to my desk and taking out a six inch pile of papers and notebooks)
Co-Irker #1:  Talktalktalktalktalktalktalktalktalk…My daughter had her dance recital.  Talktalktalktalktalk…living room…talktalktalktalktalk…Peru…talktalktalk..ha!ha!ha!...cupcakes!
Co-Irker#2:  Slurp! Chomp! Chomp!  Slurp!  Click! Click! Click! Slurp!

Apparently Co-Irker#2 needs to get his dentures fixed.  He brought in an apple and proceeded to grind it to applesauce with ill-fitting dentures.  He couldn’t bite the apple like a normal person.  Instead, he would slurp the apple creating a suction of saliva and spittle that softened the peel allowing him to chomp into the crunchy flesh.  Of course the saliva made the apple a little slippery. His mouth would lose suction and he’d have to do the slurping thing again.  Then, his dentures would shift and protrude from his mouth like the creature from Aliens.  They’d chatter together with a clicking sound as he masticated the poor fruit and then the cycle would start all over again.

So, I’ve ended up at Starbucks.  And the past two weeks have been more productive than any day I’ve had in the past two years.  I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner!  The only down side is not having internet access.  I mean, they have it but I’m not about to pay ten bucks for it.  Hmmm, could the lack of internet access have something to do with my productivity.  Nah, that’s just too silly to believe.  And oh, Innernetz, the people who come to Starbucks are a strange lot.  I have some stories for you.  But those are for another day.

What I want to tell you is that I tip at Starbucks now.  I tip a lot.  Hell, it’s more like I’m paying rent.  I’m not tipping for my hot water and tea bag.  I’m tipping for a place to work, a place to think, and a place to people-watch and be highly entertained.  I love you Virginia Woolf, but you didn’t need a room of your own.  You needed a Starbucks.

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Red Read Well

First of all, I have to thank everyone for their advice and suggestions for how to deal with my back pain.  Second, Innernetz, y’all are a bunch of broke down bitches.  Herniated discs, IT band injuries, sprained ankles, sciatica, RA, damn, y’all!  Can you imagine our blogger get together?  With all the wheelchairs, canes, and walkers I’m sure we’d be mistaken for an AARP convention.  I’ll be the one on the Hoveround.  Or the riding mower.  Not only do I think I’d look good on a John Deere, but I’m rather impatient.  If any of you take too long perusing the prime rib at the buffet table, I will mow your decrepit asses down.  Don’t try me.

Anyway, my back is feeling much better.  I think some of the pain stemmed from hours and hours hunched over my desk grading the first papers of this semester.  I’m also sure that some of the pain stemmed from the full body seizures said papers induced. How does one get to be a second semester college freshman without even the most basic knowledge of subject-verb agreement?  And paragraphs, people!  Blog posts without paragraphs are annoying enough.  Five page papers without paragraphs?  I don’t have the words.  Wait!  Yes, I do.  Fucked. Up.  Five page papers without paragraphs is just fucked up.

In spite of the trauma of grading sixty, five-page papers in one week, I must say that my classes this semester are amazing.  The students are fun, enthusiastic and, for the most part, really want to learn.  I don’t have any bad kids, you know, the kind of kids that make you wish that you could just send them to the principal’s office or one of those juvenile delinquent boot camps?  Or run over them with a riding mower?

While I am there to teach them about literature and critical reading, I often use the texts as a springboard for discussions about current events, racism, classism, sexism, and about any other –ism you can name.  I try to make literature relevant, even if it means that I sometimes stand on desks and flail my arms as I face the imaginary tanks of the Chinese army.  I’ve taught Shakespeare in the dark, had them pick teams on the first day of class in order to discuss first impressions and biases, read articles to them about the genocide in the Sudan, and discussed the media circus and social implications of our fascination with Britney Spears, Branjelina, and Little J.  I take great pride in squeezing social relevance from Stephen King, William March, and Angela Carter.

The only thing that we are not allowed to discuss in my class is the train wreck that is Twilight.  Yes, I am practicing censorship.  My class is not a democracy.  It is a dictatorship.  So, no Twilight.  End of discussion.  Oh, and Twilight lovers? Don’t even think of defending it in the comments.  If you do, you should keep an ear and eye open for a John Deere bearing down on you in a haze of diesel fumes.  Don’t try me.  It’s bad for your health and the environment.

I don’t expect to change anyone’s mind overnight or even in a semester.  What I do expect is to open their minds.  I want to challenge their normal way of thinking about things.  Sometimes I think I succeed.  Sometimes, I think I fail miserably.  This failure is never more disappointing than when some of my best and brightest students write things like,

Little Red Riding Hood should have known better than going into the woods alone.  She got what she deserved.

*sigh*

Then, there’s this,

All women like to wear make-up and look beautiful.  If she doesn’t look beautiful she is not normal.  She is ugly.  Ugly people are not normal.  Women should wear make-up.

Do I even need to rant about the many ways in which that is just so wrong? 

But, in all honesty, I’m not one of those people who thinks everyone is beautiful in their own way.  Cheesy 70s song aside, I have seen some ugly people.  Not you, of course, Innernetz, you are all beautiful.  In your own way.  But, back to the non-Innernetz ugly people.  I live in NYC.  I see ugly people every day.  I don’t judge them.  I just walk on the other side of the street in case the ugly is contagious.  I kid!  I kid!  I don’t really judge people on their looks.  I’m too busy judging them on their shoes. My point is — and yes, this post does have a point — my point is that Spring Break is still almost a month away and I can hardly wait.

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I’m Lovin’ It

A lot of good stuff has happened recently.  First and foremost, I graduated!  But don’t think you are off the hook.  Although my wailing and moaning about the thesis has ended, a new era of bitching is about to begin.  I’m going to apply to Ph.D. programs and I need to get a good score on my English Literature Subject Matter test to get into the schools I’ve chosen.  The studying and whining will commence now tomorrow after the Law & Order marathon this weekend. 

Mr. Dingo has been very supportive with this decision.  Actually, it wasn’t really a decision.  If I don’t have a Ph.D. I’ll never be able to be on the tenure track at any university.  Except for McDonald’s Hamburger University.  While I find black pants slimming, I just can’t make peace with wearing a visor every day; it would crush my curls and I’m sure that the polyester would make me break out along my hairline.  I also think that 3½ years as a flight attendant was more than enough to show me that my strengths do not lie in customer service. 

The second good thing that happened was that classes started this week!  I’ve missed teaching and it looks as if I have some pretty good students this semester. So far they seem very animated and chatty.  I’d rather reign in conversation than do everything short of lighting my farts on fire just to get a response.  I swear, there were times last semester when I wasn’t sure if I had walked into my class or the cadaver room at the nearby medical center.

The first day of class was this past Tuesday.  I gave my big “Plagiarism:  Don’t do it or I will fuck you up” speech.  It was a big hit.  I had one student, however, who came up after class and claimed that she had some sort of psychic ability and that sometimes the stuff she writes has already been written.  It’s not plagiarism though, she promised.  She’s just channeling other creative energies.  Riiiiight.  You’ve got to give it to the girl, to make up an excuse like that takes crystal balls.  While I was thinking “Great, I’ve got the Ghost Whisperer in my class,” I responded professionally by informing her that I am also psychic because when I smell bullshit, it’s a sign that a plagiarized paper is nearby. She didn’t show up today.  She must’ve seen a giant floating F in her future.

Annnddd…I know you’ve been wondering what’s up with the lack of running updates.  Quite simply, I haven’t been running.  With a knee injury in October that required six to eight weeks of healing, the thesis madness of November and December, and a severe case of the Lazy Ass Can’t Even Get Off The Couch To Find The Television Remote, my running was non-existent.  But I’ve started up again.  I’m at a run/walk now.  It’s a little frustrating to know that I was running 14 miles just a few months ago and I’m run/walking one measly mile now.  But it’s good to be moving again.  It’s good to be out there.  Unfortunately, I don’t have any comments on the usual running freak parade.  With 20 degree temperatures, anyone out there running is the freak parade, myself included.  Who runs in 20 degrees?!  I do. And the guy who runs in a puffy jacket and jeans with a Marlboro hanging from his mouth. 

The only sand in my panties this week is the ongoing construction next door.  Aren’t we in a recession, Innernetz?!  Didn’t Home Depot just lay off a gabillion people?  Then why are the construction workers still working?  I am praying to Sweet Baby Jebus that they soon run out of nails, drills, and what sounds like a broken accordion because my sanity depends on it.

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I’m Seeing Green

I‘ve had one mutha of a migraine so posting and commenting has been limited to the amount of time my swollen left eye and my right eye, which seems to have shrunk to the size of a pea, could tolerate the glaring light from my computer monitor.  That is, until I discovered the dimmer switch on my monitor.  Modern technology is amazing, yes?  No.  My monitor was so dim that I was actually squinting to read and I’m sure that being two inches from the screen caused me to absorb an overdose of gamma radiation that will manifest itself in green skin, destructive tendencies, and tattered clothes when I’m provoked to wrath or other extremes of emotion.

And provoked I was as I had a gabillion papers and finals to grade this weekend before the grade submission deadline today.  Yes, I waited until the last minute.  Intentionally.  Submitting the grades before the Winter Break would have ensured that I received frantic calls and emails over Christmas and New Year’s like the ones I’ve been receiving today:  “y u gv me b?” or “Can I do extra credit?” I was not going to deal with that teeth-grinding madness over the holidays when I was trying to feel love and joy for my fellow (wo)man.

But of all things that had me foaming at the mouth this weekend, it wasn’t papers that contained sentences like, “In her own external world scholarly bystanders and men the world around her and although menacing through her poetry she was able to combat it,” or “The mind is a terrible thing to waste.  Unless it’s not.” No, it wasn’t these gems of budding literary genius that had me tearing out my hair.  It was a phone call with a family friend.

I avoided making the Happy New Year phone call to this friend because I knew how the conversation would go. 

Me: Happy New Year! 

FF: Happy New Year to you!  So, you are graduating.  Again.  Ever the professional student.  I guess now you have to face the real world.

No conversation with this person is complete without the words “Professional student” and “real world” spewing from his mouth.  Forget green, just typing those words makes me see red.  Now, this person knows I hated being an attorney.  Making sure that Company A gets Company B’s money so that it can eventually screw over Company C just wasn’t where it was at for me.  It was even worse when I was working to make sure that Companies A, B, and C had enough money and legal loopholes to make sure they could screw over people like you and me. But I suppose that’s the real world.  The real world means that you must be unhappy as long as you are making lots of money.

Apparently, getting my Masters so I can teach in college is an unworthy pursuit.  I love my job.  I love 7 out of 10 of my students.  The other three students I consider character building experiences.  Whoever you don’t kill makes you stronger and all that.  And you know what?  I need advanced degrees so I can do what I love because in spite of the emails offers that I receive almost daily promising that I can get a MbAdegree MasterPHD DIploma just by sending in tree-fitty. The real world just doesn’t work that way.  I tried to steer the conversation in another direction but he asked if I was now going to get a real job now that I have my Masters.  I told him that I already have a “real job.” I teach.  He just chuckled and I swear if we were in the same room he would’ve patted me on the head while doing so.  And I would’ve punched him in the eye.  While reciting Shakespeare.  Everything should be a learning experience, don’t you think?

You know what’s real about my world?  Real is teaching 12 hours a week but spending more than twice that time outside of class preparing lesson plans, reading articles on education and teaching, finding new and interesting books for the class to read and reading them myself, student conferences, student conferences, more student conferences, grading papers, making exams, etc. but only being paid for those 12 hours of class time.  The real world is watching budget cuts shrink class offerings, stipends for class necessities, scholarships for students, and faculty health care while raising the number of students per class and increasing administrative task work for the faculty. 

The real world is trying to teach the value of education and critical thinking to a generation of students that can’t hear you over the pop culture messages that tell them being young and beautiful will net them fancy cars, bling, and status and that there’s no such thing as life after thirty.  The real world is not an MTV show with tricked out condos in Miami, Philly, Paris, and Brooklyn — Wait! Is it?  Innernetz, are you holding out on me?  Are all of you living in luxury?  Bitches. 

I don’t care whether my students become sanitation workers, nurses, CEOs, or politicians. Well, I do care if they become politicians.  Al Franken’s teachers should be proud.  George Bush’s should not.  Then again, we teachers can only do so much.  What I do care about is that they learn how to think critically and analytically.  What I care about is that they don’t become selfish, self-absorbed, and senseless.  Because to fail in that regard perpetuates the mindset that has brought our economy, our society, and our government to the state that it is in today.  So fuck you, no, I don’t want the real world (although I wouldn’t mind an MTV condo).  I want to create a better one.  And you know what?  I need a degree to do it.

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