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 Great Interview Experiment

Say it with me fellow bloggers:  I. AM. SOMEBODY! 

Yes, yes, you are!  And Neil at Citizen of the Month thinks so too, which is why he launched The Great Interview Experiment.  The idea is that you don’t have to be a big name in the blogiverse in order to be interesting or have something to say.  In this great big blogosphere, we’re all word lovin’, picture postin’, spend too much time bloggin’ and not enough time helping around the house celebrities, and we all deserve some recognition.  Thus, The Great Interview Experiment in which bloggers interview fellow bloggers and then post the interview on their site. 

I was interviewed by Hamster Grrl and it turns out that we may have been separated at birth.  Her questions were funny and interesting.  My answers only marginally so, but she managed to make me sound brilliant.  Now that’s blogging!  Check out her interview here.  Yes, you will notice that she interviewed me some time ago and I am a moron for not directing you to her sooner.  Bad, bad, blogger!  Consider my hand slapped.  But hop on over to Hamster Grrl and give her some luv.

I sent interview questions to my interviewee but he never responded.  I’m not hurt.  I don’t feel the sting of rejection.  Excuse me while I go call my therapist.

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The Last Supper

I don’t know how it happened, one minute I was emailing my friend Wheaties about our upcoming trip to Philly and the next I was committing myself to run a marathon with her in November.  “With” should be translated to mean, we’ll both be running on the same continent.  See, Wheaties has been a marathoner and triathlete for years.  She runs, bikes, and swims — for fun!  The only running I do is for the subway and I consider life sweet if I’m swimming in a good bottle of Pinot Noir by the end of the evening.  As for bikes, I haven’t ridden one in years.  Biking in NYC is out of the question unless you’re a courier.  NYC couriers have balls of steel.  It may make sitting on their bikes a bit uncomfortable but it also enables them to dart between buses and cars within an ass hair of death without batting an eye. 

With all this in mind, the thought that once the race started I would actually be within shouting distance of Wheaties is laughable.  But, the thought that I could actually train for and run a marathon by November appealed to me.  As did the marathon location: Florence, Italy!  Yes, the marathon is in Florence, Italy.  If that’s not motivation to get off my ass then you really need to just stick a feeding tube down my throat and turn me over every two hours so that I don’t get bed sores.

On Saturday, I went to Barnes and Noble and got a great book on training for marathons.  I then headed to Paragon Sporting Goods, the mecca for all things athletic in NYC.  The crowds were insane and intimidating.  All the customers seemed to know exactly what they were looking for and did not mind pushing me aside to get it.  And then, a ray of light from heaven showed me the way.  His name was Carlos.  Carlos was fantastic!  I told him my goal (26 miles through the beauty of Florence) and my current level of activity (pub crawls through Little Italy).  After trying on at least eleven pairs of shoes, I finally settled on the white and blue Saucony Progrid Guide.  They feel like air.  Or at least as if my feet have wings.  I am Mercury!  If I don’t run the marathon, I can at least deliver flowers for FTD.  Carlos gave me some running pointers and I was on my way.  It was a gorgeous day and, on my way home as I strolled through the farmers market in Union Square smelling the flowers and avoiding the temptation of home baked goods, I felt that anything was possible — even running a marathon. 

Later that evening, Mr. Dingo suggested that we go out for my last calorie-laden, trans-fat saturated, no holds barred meal.  We went to Brother Jimmy’s.  Yes, there are better places for BBQ in NYC but Brother Jimmy’s is located a few blocks away from the real culinary goal of the evening — Cold Stone Creamery.  Brother Jimmy’s is a loud, crowded, twenty-something hang-out but, when the smorgasbord we ordered appeared, all the noise faded into the distance.  It was like a romantic movie scene where the lovers spy each other and the focus is narrowed to their dreamy faces as everything around the edges gets all fuzzy and out of focus.  It took me a few seconds to realize the Mr. Dingo was talking to me, “Dingo.  Dingo!  We’re supposed to share that appetizer platter!” Spoil sport.  Take a look at this and tell me: is there enough for two people?!?

There was this weird fire thingy in the middle.  I don’t know what it was for.  Mr. Dingo suggested that it was placed there to prevent me from reaching over and taking his share of the food.  Good idea, that. 

I was full, distended tummy full, by the time we finished the appetizers.  When the entrees came I made an attempt to eat, knowing that in a few days I would be looking back at this meal with longing.  I also had to save room for Cold Stone’s Cake Batter Ice Cream.  I made a valiant effort to eat but ended up with a rather large doggy bag to take home to Dingo Girl.

Walking to Cold Stone after that meal was painful.  I felt like Violet Beauregarde after eating Willy Wonka’s Three-Course Dinner Gum.  Just roll this ol’ blueberry down the street, Mr. Dingo!  My tummy hurt.  I think I got stretch marks from all the BBQ I ate.  Cold Stone was delish but I couldn’t finish.  My stretch marks got stretch marks.  Yes, it was an exercise in gluttony but at least it was exercise, right?

I know that the next few months will test my determination, stamina, endurance, and Mr. Dingo.  Wheaties is going to help me train via internet and I hope that, by the time we meet in Philly this May, I’ll be able to run a few miles with her.  One of my biggest hurdles will be overcoming my mental quirks.  I tend to take on too much but become frustrated when I just can’t seem to do everything at my top form, and then I grow discouraged and disappointed in myself.  Oh boy, is it fun to live with me then!  It’s like a constant state of PMS.  Mr. Dingo, however, is a trooper.  I am sure that his preparation for this Florence marathon will consist of lots of wine and whine — and I think you know who’s doing the latter. 

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Quittin’ Time!

Quitting my job was not nearly as interesting or amusing as the daily drama on Gossip Girl or The Real Office Workers of New York City – waa?  That’s not a real show?  It should be!  Bravo, I’m going to give you your next big hit.  Forget about the whiny, plastic, unbelievably irritating women in the other NYC reality show you air.  No, the other one.  No, the other one.  With your Orange County show, the women were mildy amusing but the NYC women are simply nauseating.  It’s more like Lifestyles of the Bitch and Famous rather than a reality show featuring pampered women with too much time on their hands.  If I saw one of them on the street, I’d probably direct my cab to run them down.  Bravo, I can do sooo much better for you. A small advance and I’ll submit the script to you by next week. 

Anyway, when I started working for Mrs. Garrett she acknowledged that the position was substantially underpaid and, in full disclosure, informed me that my predecessor made almost four thousand dollars more than I did even though I would be doing a lot more work.  More work, less pay, less filling, tastes great!  You know how they say illegal immigrants often take jobs that American citizens won’t take?  Yeah, well, they would take a pass on this one and head straight to the California lettuce fields.  Mrs. Garrett’s salary revelation should have triggered a Code Orange alert in my brain but she promised a flexible work schedule that would allow me to work on my Master’s degree and continue teaching.  When Pap threw in health benefits and tuition reimbursement as some of the perks I was sold.  Mrs. Garrett seemed apologetic about the pittance offered and blamed the poor salary on union rules, office politics, the university’s budget deficit, the NFL salary cap, and the rising price of gym memberships.  For the record, other than sending me on scavenger hunts in the rain, Mrs. Garrett is the ideal hands-off boss; no micro-managing or nitpicking and she was truly appreciative of my work.  Unfortunately, her managerial skills are non-existent.  She is the leader of an office that epitomizes dysfunctional.  For me, The Office was not merely mind candy, it was reality TV.  Being relatively new to our Institute of Higher Learning Mrs. Garrett looks to Pap, the Personnel and Budget Wizard, to make all of the personnel and payroll decisions because, well, that’s Pap’s job. 

Pap, however, is truly evil.  Or, if not evil, at the very least malignant like a Testse fly or a tick; a voracious, engorged, blood-sucking, Lyme disease carrying tick.  Pap is quiet and unassuming in appearance except for the elaborate scarves she wears 80s style with the corner over one shoulder and a big ol’ glitterty brooch on the other.  I can only assume her scarves are part retro fashion statement and part utility – not only does she pay tribute to the 80s, but she can also avoid the slow assed elevators in our building by parachuting to the sidewalk ten flights below.  I think the scarves also come in useful for the office magic shows where Pap’s slight of hand makes your vacation time and benefits disappear with a flick of her nimble wrist and a snap of her magic scarf.  Now you see ‘em, now you don’t.  Two weeks after I started working at the office, I asked about my health benefits and tuition reimbursement.  Pap looked confused as if I’d spoken in Klingon and said that she didn’t know what I was talking about.  Frustrated, I talked to Mrs. Garrett who told me to talk to Pap. Again, with a confused look, Pap shrugged her scarf bedecked shoulders and threw her hands up in a semblance of frustration.  I would quickly come to realize that this gesture was merely an attempt to deflect any lightning bolts headed her way.  Words you will never hear Pap say:  “If I’m lyin’, I’m dyin’” and “May God strike me dead if ….” Pap has mastered the art of innocent angst, looking worried and concerned when she knows very well she has fucked you over.

Other than Pap, only one other person in my department made things difficult.  Juicy.  Juicy takes up space in the front office and occasionally dabbles at helping out the other head honcho in the department.  Juicy was not evil like Pap.  Whereas Pap was a machete in between the shoulder blades, Juicy was merely mace in your eye: an unrelenting irritant.  It’s not that Juicy hindered my work, but that she would do no work at all.  This left her with a lot of time on her hands to meddle, interfere with everyone else’s ability to get work done, and invent heroic stories of her own inexorable diligence.  When Juicy wasn’t updating her Myspace page or adding pictures to her Match.com profile, she was on the phone with her boyfriend complaining about how much work she did and how little work everyone else did. 

I had my own office down the hall several doors away from Juicy’s prying eyes.  I suppose that Pap isn’t the only one with magical powers because apparently Juicy could see through walls and watch me painting my nails, reading People, and napping instead of diligently working to reschedule a meeting or plan a peasant uprising.  That I was in my office busily working hours before she arrived in her latest Juicy couture, drenched in Juicy cologne, and spackled with glitter eye shadow did nothing to quell her gossip: she knew what I was up to in there.  I’m assuming it’s the multiple layers of pink and green Urban Decay donning her upper lids that made her two hours late for work every day.  I certainly don’t underestimate the one-eyed effort each eyelid demanded, and never would have expected for her to leave for work until she felt she had made her very best effort to paint a perfect slice of watermelon over each eye.  Two.  Hours.  Every.  Day. 

In spite of Pap and Juicy I enjoyed my job.  When I began to organize programs and work with the head honchos of the various academic departments, my job really began to be so much more fun.  I loved being the liaison between my office and all the other departments.  I also worked with officials and organizations from other schools, did research, prepared reports, organized departmental reviews, fixed Mrs. Garrett’s computer woes, of which there were many, watered her plants, got her lunch, and was in the early stages of brokering a Mideast Peace agreement.  In other words, none of this was in my job description but all of it was interesting and rewarding.  I was kept busy from the time I arrived until I left.  I never missed a deadline, Mrs. Garrett said I was indispensable, and I got great reviews until… there’s always an “until,” isn’t there?  Until I asked for a raise.  The earth ground to a halt.  You may have felt it.  I didn’t mean to tamper with the earth’s orbit but apparently my request just rocked their world.  They hemmed and hawed for a while and then said that in order to give me a raise, they’d have to give me a new title and according to some arcane union rules, this means that I would have to re-interview for my job, which I did.  At my re-interview I was told how much they liked my work, how others speak so well, of me, blah, blah, blah, and then I was informed that the “new” job would have more responsibility.  In addition to my already packed day they wanted me, among other things, to consult with students and work on curriculum matters.  Oh, and they also wanted to extend my workday.  Which meant not being able to continue teaching or finishing my Master’s. 

When I asked if the increase in responsibility and the additional hours tacked onto the workday came with an increase in salary, their faces screwed up in distaste as if I had just farted and waved it in their direction with the tail end of Pap’s scarf.  The answer was no, although Mrs. Garrett said it with a smile as if gently chiding a small child.  Pap smirked. 

So, after discussing it with Mr. Dingo — who was supportive in my decision to tell them to take their new job and kiss my ass — I went into Mrs. Garrett’s office a few days later and told her that I couldn’t accept the new terms and that I was quitting.  I don’t think she was expecting that response.  Her eyes got all big and round, she gasped for air once or twice, and a little bit of foamy drool appeared in one corner of her mouth as she turned both shades of Juicy’s eyelids. 

It’s been two weeks since I quit and in that time I’ve managed to do some much needed work on my thesis.  More importantly, I’ve been able to surf the Internet and add new blogs to my Google Reader.  My office spy, a/k/a Gay Best Friend, is also seeking to escape from the Venus Lie Trap and frequently reports that Mrs. Garrett has yet to find a new assistant.  It’s busier than ever around there and, without an assistant, Mrs. Garrett is a hot mess trying to stay on top of things.

I ran into Mrs. Garrett yesterday while on my way to the park for my morning run.  She looked like the seven-layer special at Dante’s bakery.  I asked if she was still working out in the mornings and she said that there wasn’t any time, she’s working fifteen-hour days and it’s busier than ever before.  Then she said, “You should stop by some time.” Um, right.  Although she didn’t say it, I could see the thought bubble floating in the air between us that said, “and please, for the love of God bring me some lunch!”

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Furry Frenzy

I had planned to write a witty post this morning about how I quit my job and the how trying to find someone to replace me has my former coworkers in a frenzy.  I was going to gloat about how Mrs. Garrett runs late to meetings and curses the day I walked out the door.  I was going to write about all of that this morning.  Instead, I chased Not a Dingo around the apartment with a pair of scissors. 

Not a Dingo had a massive dingleberry hanging from her butt and I had to remove it.  It was gross.  Really gross.  I first noticed it this morning when I smelled a rotten stench on the bed.  At the time I blamed it on Mr. Dingo and the delicious burritos we consumed last night.  “Very funny, Sweetie,” I said, before making a quick escape to the living room.  Well, it wasn’t exactly a quick escape.  Not a Dingo sleeps on my pillow and Dingo Girl sleeps across my legs, but I extracted myself as quickly as possible without inflicting bodily injury and hightailed it outta there.  The girls were close behind.  I did not believe Mr. Dingo’s drowsy denials and was a little miffed that I was driven from bed and robbed of thirty additional minutes of sleep — robbed, I tell you! — by his malodorous wake-up call. 

About 20-minutes later, Not a Dingo joined me at my desk.  She often takes up residence in my outbox while I am working.  When she’s not in my outbox, she’s sitting on my keyboard, trying to sit on my keyboard, or sitting in front of my keyboard with her furry face five inches from mine trying to hypnotize me with those big eyes of hers to get up and get her a treat.  So, when my feline inhabited outbox produced the odor of a fully inhabited catbox this morning, I knew that I had unjustly maligned Mr. Dingo — but I didn’t apologize.  If he didn’t deserve my censure this morning, he certainly has on other occasions.  He had it coming.

Lifting Not a Dingo from her perch I was immediately disgusted and repelled at the nastiness appended to her.  And now, you are disgusted and repelled as well.  That’s what blogs are for, no?  But you didn’t have to wrestle with a pissed-off cat this morning.  And neither did Mr. Dingo.  Two seconds after I told him of our dilemma, he suddenly had to be at work early for a conference call or some such sorry-I-just-checked-my-calendar-and-noticed-it-have-to-run-don’t-want-to-be-late-very-important-bye thing, and out the door he went.  Oh Mr. Dingo, you will get yours....

So, this morning was spent running with scissors.  Not a Dingo was far from cooperative.  Without getting into the gritty details of this morning’s bout of Twister with my normally docile kitty (because I expended all the grittiness describing Not a Dingo’s poor hygiene), let’s just say that I’m reconsidering our decision not to declaw her and have notified the CDC that my local hospital will need antibiotics to counteract the effects of cat scratch fever. 

This was definitely a two-person job.  I could not hold a wiggling Not a Dingo and use a pair of scissors to clip a foul-smelling golf ball size mutant appendage while trying to calm Dingo Girl.  Yes, Dingo Girl had to get in on the act.  Any sign of distress from Not a Dingo caused Dingo Girl to whine, bark, and nudge my elbow with her nose.  Between the mewling, gyrating, barking, nudging, stinking, tears and tears, I was truly in awe of people who work from home and manage to be productive. 

When I quit my job a little over two weeks ago, I had blissful but seemingly realistic visions of morning workouts in Central Park followed by several hours of writing, preparing for my English subject-matter test, a break for some play time and a walk with Dingo Girl, working on my thesis, and then studies before running off to teach and returning home to a warm, hot, nutritious meal and glass of wine on the beach, the sunset glittering off my diamonds and too-white teeth.  But it was not to be.  There are not enough hours in the day when my days are filled with things like dingleberry distractions and extractions that prevent me from sitting at my desk and working.  I need to come up with a system that makes me just as efficient and as organized at home as I was at work.  Any suggestions that do not involve violence?

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