I’m Just A Girl

I’ve been meaning to write this post for about a week.  Tara R. over at If Mom Says OK gave me a little push.  I’m honored that she asked me to participate in BlogBlast for Education. It’s a great idea spearheaded by April at It’s All About Balance.  So check out the other bloggers writing about their experience in education whether they are parents, teachers, students, or all three.  Hey, wait!  Where are you going?  Read my post first!

Those of you who have been reading this blog for some time (Thank you! I love you! Kisses! Mwah! Mwah! Are those flowers for me?) know that I use horror literature in my classes to address issues of gender, class, race, and poor fashion choices.  The discussions can get pretty heated.  Early in the semester one of my students claimed that a character in the novel didn’t have the smarts to avoid disaster because she was “just” a housewife.  That student thought that eating bon-bons all day while watching Jerry Springer is more interesting than fighting monstrous sea creatures, unless the sea creature is drooling chocolate while filming porn for her boyfriend’s brother’s website.  They just can’t be motivated to save their own lives if it means missing Oprah.  That’s what menz is for!  Perhaps Mr. Clean and that Brawny guy can help out if they are not too busy saving the world from — oh, yeah, that’s right! — common household germs and dirty kitchens.

The student who shared this gem about housewives wasn’t trying to be snarky or demeaning.  It was her sincere and genuine opinion.  Yes, I said her.  This sentiment arose from a young woman who, as far as I could tell, wanted a college degree so that she could marry well before she started poppin’ out the rugrats.  Yes, she wants to be a housewife!  She was merely sharing her own vision of her bob-bon-flavored future life of leisure and daytime television.  And she ain’t killin’ no friggin’ monsters.

Only one student challenged this woman’s characterization of housewives.  The rest just kind of shrugged their shoulders.  WTF?!  Not in Mistress Dingo’s class! 

There’s education and then there’s ed-u-cation.  Time for a lesson.  I made them talk about their ideas about men and women and it turned out to be one of the best classes of the semester.  We talked about beauty, sexuality, stereotypes, torture porn, the wage gap, cloning (one student’s bright idea was to clone women so that one woman wouldn’t have to do all the housework), and bad fashion choices.  We would have gone on and on but we ran out of time.  I had to shove them out of the door at the end of class.  I mean, I love my students but I am married to Happy Hour. 

The rest of the semester, things looked bright.  We dissected gender roles in the texts that we read and my students seemed to get it.  They brought in magazine ads and talked about commercials they had found offensive and harmful to men or women, gay or straight.  In fact, I was going to have a movie made of this story starring Dingo as the bright, hopeful teacher who motivates her inner city students to look beyond their bleak ‘hood and to challenge themselves to be the best they can be.  That storyline hasn’t been done yet, has it?

I was proud.  Hell, I was smug.  My students were thinking for themselves and I had played a role in their transformations. I was changing the world one awkward freshman at a time.  As the semester ended and the students handed in their final papers, I really looked forward to reading them! 

I was not prepared for this:

Men should not treat women as property and sexual objects because women are also useful in certain areas men are not, for example; cleaning, sewing, cooking, and nursing a baby.

That student had obviously never tasted my cooking.  Or seen my apartment.  Or my boobs.

Then, there was this sage declaration:

As a Confucius saying goes ‘having a woman rule would be as unnatural as having a hen crow like a rooster at daybreak.’

Damn it!  I was ready to hit someone over the head with my Swiffer! I try, y’all.  Lord, I try.  I believe that education is more than just book learnin’ but it appears that in some areas we fail miserably.  Even vampires can’t change thousands of years of stereotypes and generalizations overnight, and they definitely can’t do it during daytime.  Still, I am astonished that in 2008, smart, hip, progressive, and often hysterically clumsy young adults possess such archaic biases.  Sometimes I become so frustrated that I just want to cook those kids or sew them together.  Like paper cutout dolls.  That would serve them right!  But then I would miss Oprah.

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Vampires, and Zombies, and Werewolves!  Oh My!

Last night Mr. Dingo and I watched 30 Days of Night.  I loved it.  I’m not really into the whole vampire thing, but these vampires scared the living crap outta me.  Stephen King Salem’s Lot and Bram Stoker‘s Dracula bored me.  Yawn.  Snooze.  The 30 Days of Night vampires?  Oh my holy hell, I had a kung fu death grip on Mr. Dingo throughout the entire movie.  People often ask me if I get nightmares from watching horror movies and reading horror fiction.  Actually, I don’t.  I scare myself enough in broad daylight.  No nightmares necessary. 

Mr. Dingo likes to remind me of the early morning hours about two years ago when he got a 4:30 am call from me.  I was wrapping up a week-long visit at my Mom’s house.  Mom had already left for her shift at the hospital when I got up to pack for my flight back to NYC.  My old bedroom had already been converted into Mom’s sewing room so I was sleeping downstairs in what we call the dungeon.  A dark, windowless room right next to the boiler room.  Yes, the Princess had been demoted.  Anyway, it had been years since I was alone in this house and the night/pre-dawn noises were eerie.  Every little noise made me jump and I just wanted to get the hell out.  Although the news lately had been filled with the unexplained surge in home invasions, I was not fearful of the living.  No, I was sure that the noises I was hearing were being made by… zombies.  Yes, zombies.  My rational mind knew that there was no such thing as zombies and that I was going to finish packing my bags and be back in New York in time to complain about rush hour traffic. My irrational mind, my sleep-deprived 4:30-in-the-morning mind, was having none of that.  So I did what any sane woman would do.  I called my boyfriend. 

Mr. Dingo answered the phone understandably alarmed at receiving a call so early.  Something had to be wrong, right?  Right.  I was about to be devoured by brainless, soulless creatures.  I swear, I was!  I could hear their footsteps on the stairs! 

Mr. Dingo:  Are you okay?

Dingo:  No.

Mr. Dingo:  What’s wrong?

Dingo:  Zombies.

Mr. Dingo:  What?  It sounded like you said “zombies.”

Dingo:  I did.  I think zombies might be trying to get into the house.  Did you hear that?  Oh my God, and I smell something funny, too.  Smells like… zombies.  Will you stay on the phone with me until I leave for the airport?  I’m almost ready.

And he did.  And the zombies did not get me.  We He likes to laugh about that every now and then.  In fact, we he laughed about it last night as we were watching 30 Days of Night.  The vampires were only scary on the screen.  Besides, I had nothing to fear from these vampires.  The mosquitoes have already sucked all the blood from my body.  In fact, I am an empty, bumpy shell just rattling around the apartment.

Anyway, as I was showering this morning I heard the door to the bathroom open.  Mr. Dingo had already left for work and Dingo Girl, well, she hears water running and she’s hiding under the bed.  Occasionally she’ll come into the bathroom when I’m in there but that’s usually only when I’ve snuck in there to eat a Snickers bar in peace.  My God, can’t a woman eat a freakin’ Snickers bar without having to share?  Does it matter that she bought it for Mr. Dingo and left it on his desk?  I say, if the Snickers bar goes uneaten for 15 minutes a day after I place it on his desk for him, he forfeits all rights to said candy bar.  I’m sure there’s a law about that somewhere.  And after all I’ve done for Dingo Girl, you’d think she’d have my back.  But nooooo, the bitch (because she really is one) wants the Snickers for herself, even though I’m the one who went through all the trouble and made up the law.  But I digress…

When I heard the door open, I knew it didn’t sound like Dingo Girl but I called to her anyway.  You know, using that stock horror movie voice that rises with uncertainty at the end of the sentence?  The voice that lets the audience know that the lone girl in the shower is very well aware that the intruder in the bathroom is not the Snickers seeking faithless faithful family dog but a VAMPIRE!!  Yes, when Dingo Girl did not answer — not even in Dingo-speak — and when I saw a large, dark shadow fall upon the shower curtain, I just knew I was about to be devoured.  My mind raced to all the things I had at my disposal to defend myself from the Undead. 

Shaving cream?  The fact that I use Kiss My Face shaving cream was reason enough to reject this notion.  No, stay away from my face, you harbinger of the apocalypse.  Besides, I don’t shave my face with this shaving cream.  It should be called, “Kiss My Legs.” Anyway, it did not seem like a good weapon against the undead if they were well-groomed.

Razor?  I’m a klutz.  My razor has a safety blade.  Unless he’s afraid of a close shave without all the nicks and gouges of a regular razor, I was outta luck.

Shampoo?  Conditioner?  My God, what was I going to do?!?  Can you moisturize a vampire away?  You know, dead, flaky skin and whatnot?

Realize please, that these thoughts took place in a matter of seconds.  Not enough time for Rational Dingo to kick in.  But just enough time for Mr. Dingo to throw back the shower curtain with a vampire roar.  And then laugh at my deer-in-the-headlights look.  And then slink away at my you-are-so-dead-look.  As soon as I could move and speak I gave him a piece of my mind.  He was all wide eyed innocence as he explained that he was not feeling well on the train so he came home.  Although we’ve done our best to eschew traditional gender roles, I’ve instituted a new law.  It’s on the books right under the Snickers Rule.  Whenever he comes in the door he must announce, “Honey, I’m home!” And bring me a Snickers.

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Beer, It Isn’t Just for Breakfast Anymore

Oh my holy hell, y’all, I have a stock tip for you.  Ibuprofen.  Yes, sales of ibuprofen are going to go through the roof within the next few months.  When I’m lying on the apartment floor after a run, Mr. Dingo thinks I’m practicing my visualization — you know, “seeing” myself completing the marathon, imagining having a great workout, all that New Age mumbo jumbo that scientist begrudgingly admit is important in helping us achieve our goals.  So far, my visualization has included picturing myself getting off the floor and going into the kitchen for a beer.  What usually happens is that I end up begging Mr. Dingo for some ibuprofen with a beer chaser.  What, you think that beer is not an appropriate workout beverage?  I should be swilling Gatorade perhaps?  You forget, my friends, that I will be running this marathon in Florence.  Beer is just the first step in my post-marathon training.  I need to be able to hold my liquor when I go out for the celebratory binge meal after the race.  I would hate to embarrass you, my fellow countrymen, by falling face first into my plate of pasta after only one cask bottle glass of wine.  So, in order to prepare for the post-race festivities, I am chewing ibuprofen and chugging beer.  Why beer?  Because, really, who drinks wine at 7:30 in the morning!?  What, do you think I am an alcoholic? 

My training plan is great.  Before actually training for distance, the training manual I’m using prepares your body and your mind for the rigorous workout to come.  Visualization and gradual increases in running time are on my agenda for the next few weeks before training for distance and speed.  Right now, I’m running for five minutes and walking “briskly” for five minutes.  I think briskly means slightly faster than a zombie lurch but slower than the mad dash during the Pamploma Running with the Bulls.  Next week I jog for ten and walk briskly for five.  You see the pattern here?  This is the training plan that Wheaties used and now look at her — she’s competing in the Ironman in October.  While I am immensely proud of her, the only Ironman I wanna do is Robert Downey, Jr.

Anyway, I’ve discovered that ibuprofen is my friend.  I’ve already gone through a bottle and have sometimes wondered if it would ease my aches and pains faster if I ground it up first and snorted it through a dollar bill.  Side note:  I read that 80% of all paper currency in the US contains trace amounts of cocaine.  Think about that the next time you are going through airport security and one of those friendly looking drug sniffing dogs comes your way

As I’m lying on the floor visualizing the ibuprofen levitating from the medicine cabinet into my hand, Mr. Dingo thinks I’m meditating.  But I’m not.  I’ve found religion.  Yes, those “visualization” moments on my floor are actually prayers.  I’m bargaining with God. 

Me:  God, if you just let me move my legs, I promise I’ll stop making fun of the woman who runs in high heeled sneakers.  But I can’t promise that I won’t stare. 

God: 

Me:  Just a toe, God.  If I could just move my right big toe, I’ll stop cursing the stroller mom who thinks it’s okay to talk on her cell phone while pushing her damn double stroller in the running lane taking up the entire path so that I have to go into the grass to go around her. 

God:

Me:  Okay, since you’re God, you know that I’m lying.  I won’t stop cursing her, but I will stop cursing in that fake under my breath way that’s loud enough for her to hear it.

God:

Me:  I got nothin’ else.

God:

So, marathon training is going well.  I’m actually enjoying it.  To tell you the truth, I never thought I could run for five seconds and now I’m zooming along at the speed of erosion for five minutes at a time.  I freakin’ rock!

(Get it?  Erosion?  Rock?  Oh come on!  That was funny!)

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Spring Jail Break

Spring Break!  Woohoo!  As much as I love my students I’ve been looking forward to shooing them out of the classroom and onto the beaches into the arms of Girls Gone Wild.  That our Spring Break is a full month after almost every other university’s bacchanal means that their only competition in those lovely rites of Spring called the “drink until you puke” and the “Mom, can you send some money? I’m in a Tijuana jail” (not that I speak from first-hand experience) are retirees, nursing home residents, and fugitives fighting extradition. 

I’m a little worried about them though.  Not in the world is a dangerous place type of worried, but more along the lines of what-the-hell-are-you-thinking?!? type worried.  I worry about their judgment and their ability to make decisions tougher than paper or plastic.  It’s not due to mental capability — these are some smart kids — but from their moral compass.  Their directional needles pointing to right and wrong are broken, or at the very least bear a strong resemblance to a corkscrew. 

Throughout the semester we have used various characters to discuss questions of accountability, justice, and morality.  Is Jack from The Shining accountable for his behavior when he’s drunk?  Is Robert Neville’s brand of justice in I Am Legend acceptable?  What is our obligation to ourselves and society when faced with a zombie invasion?  You didn’t think horror literature could be so ethically entrenched did you?  So we can clear the air and move on go ahead and admit that, when I told you that I taught horror literature, you thought it was a fluff course.  Anyway, in discussing our class readings, I always give my students scenarios somehow related to the ones faced by the characters in our readings. I try to make them circumstances that they might actually encounter and ask how they would handle the situation.  In doing so, I have learned waaay too much about my students.  Namely, that they are thieves, but loyal.  You don’t want to give them the key to your house but you definitely want them on your side should you decide to go on a mass murder spree.  Let me explain.

In one of the scenarios we discussed this week, I asked them what they would do if they found a wallet containing a drivers license, credit cards, and twenty dollars.  They all said they would return the wallet.  Awww!  My heart felt good.  But then most of them — MOST — said that they would take the twenty dollars before returning the wallet.  What?  Is there a service charge on being a good Samaritan these days?  Now, I try not to pass judgment on my students but this called for a carefully crafted question and answer session that would gently lead them to the conclusion that taking the twenty dollars is WRONG!  This is how it went:

Me:  The wallet contains a drivers license and even a work ID.  You know where the person lives and works.  You can Google their contact information.  Do you still take the twenty dollars?

Thieves #1-25:  Yes.  Of course!

Me (sputtering uselessly):  But that’s, that’s stealing!!

Thief #1:  They shouldn’t have lost their wallet.

Thief #2:  If I go through the trouble of returning their wallet, I should get a reward.

Me:  Shouldn’t that be up to the person whose money you just stole?

Thief #1:  They should be glad they’re getting their wallet back.

Me:  And you wouldn’t be all red-faced to hand them their wallet with twenty dollars missing.

Thieves #1-25:  No!  No way!

Angelic student:  I would return the wallet and the money, Prof. Dingo.

Me (making sure my wallet is securely in my purse and strapped to my wrist):  Thank you, Angelic Student.  I’m glad someone here has a conscience.

Thieves #1-25:  Booo!  Booo! 

We went on to discuss when and where they drew the line at stealing and it simply got more disheartening.  I will save you having to read the transcript but I do advise that you not keep any money in your wallets.  Your bank and credit cards are safe.  Your cash is not.  Oh, if you have a Starbucks Card, kiss that good-bye.  It’s as good as cash.  See!  It even says so on the back.

If that’s not bad enough, apparently you stand by your friends through thick, thin, and anti-social behavior.  As we concluded our discussion of Jekyll and Hyde yesterday and analyzed Hyde’s uncontrollable forays into evil and depravity, we talked about accountability.  Sigh.  I don’t even know where to begin.  Maybe I should avoid all explanations and just issue warnings like this:  Run for your lives!!  Apparently this generation (OMG, I’m channeling my Mom) lacks a sense of accountability.  Blame it on drugs or a hangnail; whatever you do from drunk driving to robbing the corner bodega, it’s not your fault.  You don’t even have to assert the devil-made-me-do-it defense.  Just proudly proclaim, “I did it!” making sure to add, “but it wasn’t my fault!” That’s your get-out-of-jail-free card, baby.  And you will probably have a book deal to boot. 

I then drew a very extreme hypothesis in an attempt to start out broad and gradually work our way to something more specific in order to lead them to some sort of balance about their views on accountability. 

Me:  Okay, so you don’t turn your best friend in for stealing even though every weekend she’s robbing 7-11’s at gun point in order to support her meth habit.  What about murder?

Accessory After the Fact (AATF) #1:  No!  You stand by your friend.

Me:  Even for murder?

AATF #1:  Yes, no matter what.

Me:  What if she kills someone every weekend? (yes, sometimes this class goes to very dark and disturbing places).

AATF #2:  Well, if she was doing it all the time then I might go to the police if I couldn’t get her to stop.

Me:  Where do you draw the line?  One?  Two?

AATF #3:  Five.

Me:  Wh--?!  Pglshhk!  FBklish!  (recovering).  Five!  So murders one through four were just gimmees but you draw the line at five.

AATF #4:  Well, by then, you know she’s not going to stop.

AATF #2:  But it’s not her fault because she’s on meth.

Angelic Student:  Prof. Dingo, I would turn her in at one murder!

AATF #1-25:  Booo! Booo!

So these are the people I’m releasing into the wild for Spring Break.  Very little sense of personal accountability and an almost nonexistent sense of social accountability.  Lock your doors.  Carry your mace.  And have a great weekend!

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The Difference Between Undead and Un-Dead

I loved law school.  I loved words and reading and problem solving.  I loved all the things about law school that have nothing to do with the reality of practicing law at major New York City law firms.  The legal industry is like a whole-body root canal: it leaves your carcass and brain intact while extracting your soul.  Without anesthetic!  It’s zombification without the awkward amble.  If you’ve ever been in the conference room of an expensive, oh-so-purposefully intimidating conference room staring down opposing counsel across the wide expanse of a shiny mahogany table during a deposition, you know what I mean.  You can’t hear your own heart beat over the clickety-clack of the court reporter.  The floor-to-ceiling glass windows reveal an incredible view of a New York City that you never get to see during daylight hours, while the light filtering film prevents real sunlight from reaching your face.  And you realize, and you wonder how you didn’t realize this before: if it weren’t for the mold growing under your refrigerator you would have no life at all.

So I left the law.  I decided that I would rather teach about the undead than be one.  Now I teach horror fiction to undergraduates.  Every day is different.  Every class is different; each student with her own unique perspective on the issues we discuss and how it relates to her life.  And unlike being in court where everything you say has been scripted and planned in advance, I sometimes find myself at a loss for words.  This morning was one of those times:

Prof. Dingo:  Okay, team number 5, what five things — and five things only — would your team want if you were suddenly thrust into the middle of a horror movie?  And why?

Team leader:  Water.

Prof. Dingo:  Water?  Um, holy water?

Team leader:  No, just water.  We thought we’d get all dirty and smelly running from the monsters.

Prof. Dingo:  Okaaaay…..what else would you want?

Team leader:  Soap.

Prof. Dingo:  What would you do with —

Team Leader:  So we could wash up with the water.

Prof. Dingo:  Um, I don’t think you quite understood the point of this exercise —

Team leader (she’s really getting excited):  An electric car, matches, and a CHAINSAW!!

Prof. Dingo:  A chainsaw!  That’s good! But you already have five things what about gas for the chainsaw?

Team leader:  It needs gas?

Note to self:  You do not want to depend on these people in an emergency! 

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