As a relatively young and new teacher at my school, I have worked overtime to project a serious, stern demeanor in front of the little teenage heathens. Only a little over a decade separates us, and trust me, this is not enough of a gap to command automatic respect. My diligence has been rewarded with the certain knowledge that no one will ever say that I'm the cool teacher and with the fact that my classroom is so quiet you can hear you know what drop at any given moment.
So, imagine my horror this morning when a foreign exchange who I've never seen before walked into my very silent study hall full of sophomores and asked, "Ms. eLLe...you at the Wynn last Saturday?" Um, yes? "Yeah yeah, we see you. We all see you and want to say hi, but you with some guy."
Damn.
The way he said guy and the way he laughed as he left the room was either very foreign or very perverted. I simultaneously gave the death glare to the 30 pairs of eye looking over my way and did a quick replay in my mind of that night. Was there one moment, even one half of one moment, that the students could have feasibly seen me that was an appropriate moment to be seen?
No, no there wasn't. In fact the night was nothing more than a long string of wholly inappropriate moments on all accounts.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
bliss
Thought about grading rough drafts of essay on William Carlos Williams last night, cringed, and then opted for quick peek of The Bachelor--not so much as a stalling tactic but as clever trick to motivate myself to delve (to plunge) into the very broken world of the sophomore mind.
Normally two minutes of vacuous* brunette pondering fateful connection between her and Prince Charming based on last week's horoscope and their (astoundingly!) mutual love for the color red is enough to make little Caesar (as in Palace, not Shakespeare he assured me) Brown seem positively genius. Case in point: one contestant last night likened her emotions to butterflies whenever Prince Charming walked into the room. This metaphor, of course, is perfectly acceptable, if trite.
However, she then went on to say that during their one-on-one date the butterflies were flapping.
Normally this would be my cue to turn the show off and, fortified by the obvious fact that there are people in the world who need my verbal services, whip out my red pen, but c'mon...flapping!!!! When was the last time you saw a butterfly flapping its wings? I found myself irate and suddenly performing grande gestures that I can only explain as something I must have picked up over the years of watching my brother tell the Browns off in front of the television on Sunday afternoons.
Nearly twenty four hours have passed since my tantrum, and I've had time to reflect. Given healthy portion of chocolate-covered almonds prior to show, my behavior couldn't be blamed on low blood sugar. Nor could my outrage be blamed on bitterness, given my current state of bliss*. No, the cold hard truth is that my behavior was perfectly justifiable based on nothing more than my inherent disdain for dumb girls. Nothing--I repeat--nothing is more hateful to me than dumb girls.
Still, as an act of solidarity, I've decided to do my sister a favor and do what seems like the thing to do as of late.
Dear Mr. President,
Please please please lend your speechwriters to this chic I saw on television last night. She could surely benefit from the linguistic powerhouses you employ. I am aware of the fact that this is much to ask of someone who has a lot of upcoming public speaking engagements penciled in, but surely you could help a first-time voter like herself out. If funding a replacement for yourself doesn't fit into your budget, just bill it to the White Male. He won't even notice.
Sincerely,
Ms. Elle
eLLe sPELLs : vacuous \VAK-yoo-uhs\, adjective:
1. showing no intelligence or thought
2. having no meaning or direction; empty
bliss* as in I'm feeling inspired to wear both pink and a dress, maybe even a dress that is pink. And, anyone who knows me knows that this HAS NEVER EVER HAPPENED.
Normally two minutes of vacuous* brunette pondering fateful connection between her and Prince Charming based on last week's horoscope and their (astoundingly!) mutual love for the color red is enough to make little Caesar (as in Palace, not Shakespeare he assured me) Brown seem positively genius. Case in point: one contestant last night likened her emotions to butterflies whenever Prince Charming walked into the room. This metaphor, of course, is perfectly acceptable, if trite.
However, she then went on to say that during their one-on-one date the butterflies were flapping.
Normally this would be my cue to turn the show off and, fortified by the obvious fact that there are people in the world who need my verbal services, whip out my red pen, but c'mon...flapping!!!! When was the last time you saw a butterfly flapping its wings? I found myself irate and suddenly performing grande gestures that I can only explain as something I must have picked up over the years of watching my brother tell the Browns off in front of the television on Sunday afternoons.
Nearly twenty four hours have passed since my tantrum, and I've had time to reflect. Given healthy portion of chocolate-covered almonds prior to show, my behavior couldn't be blamed on low blood sugar. Nor could my outrage be blamed on bitterness, given my current state of bliss*. No, the cold hard truth is that my behavior was perfectly justifiable based on nothing more than my inherent disdain for dumb girls. Nothing--I repeat--nothing is more hateful to me than dumb girls.
Still, as an act of solidarity, I've decided to do my sister a favor and do what seems like the thing to do as of late.
Dear Mr. President,
Please please please lend your speechwriters to this chic I saw on television last night. She could surely benefit from the linguistic powerhouses you employ. I am aware of the fact that this is much to ask of someone who has a lot of upcoming public speaking engagements penciled in, but surely you could help a first-time voter like herself out. If funding a replacement for yourself doesn't fit into your budget, just bill it to the White Male. He won't even notice.
Sincerely,
Ms. Elle
eLLe sPELLs : vacuous \VAK-yoo-uhs\, adjective:
1. showing no intelligence or thought
2. having no meaning or direction; empty
bliss* as in I'm feeling inspired to wear both pink and a dress, maybe even a dress that is pink. And, anyone who knows me knows that this HAS NEVER EVER HAPPENED.
Monday, January 26, 2009
strippers...they're just like us
A common question: You live in Vegas? OMG. Is like everyone there a stripper?
My stock answer: Life off the Boulevard is as ordinary as life off the strip in any small town. It as much a slice of Americana as Piedmont, North Dakota and Youngstown, Ohio. We have dry cleaners, mailboxes, and Dairy Queens. We have Targets, school crossings and bike lanes. We have churches, parks, and girls next door, even if the girl next door is in all likelihood a stripper. Or the sister of a stripper. Or the roommate of a stripper. Or even the girlfriend of a stripper, which is another topic altogether.
The one deviant variable off the strip in Vegas is the number of strippers per capita who are buying groceries, standing in line at the bank, and showing up at Starbucks barefaced wearing Juicy yoga pants. Still, even in plainclothes you can't really miss these women. They are always perfectly tan and pedicured, and if their Amazonian proportions don't tip you off, then the rolls of cash they pull out of their Fendi and Ferragamo bags will.
I happen to have befriended a few real live strippers since moving here. The evening I met them at a birthday party I threw for a mutual friend felt momentous, not unlike the days I knew I was going to the mall to meet Santa Claus, or more recently the day I shook the hand of the President. As someone whose starstruckability* wore off years ago in New York, I was downright smitten when I sat down to make small talk with Fiona and Chrissie. What I found is that these women are ordinary--with as many wins and losses tallied as the rest of us.
Since that night I've met other women in the industry--as it is ubiquitously referred to here in Vegas. And while the fact that these women make three times what I do taking their clothes off brings up all kinds of icky feelings about the value of woman's body versus her brain, I've come to understand that they are neither as weak nor as strong as I had presumed. They are, however, amazingly resourceful when it comes to advice on how to repair a torn pair of fishnets and the best place to buy dresses for a night out. When it comes to matters of sequins and stay-put foundation, Fiona and Chrissie are my go-to girls, suddenly as invaluable as those other members of every girls' entourage--our gay hair stylists and our moms.
Which isn't to say that I haven't witnessed them behaving very badly, but bliss calls so...more on that tomorrow**.
*Yes, I made this word up. It's called a neologism.
** I really will write tomorrow. Admittedly I've been slacking with posting, though in my defense let me say that any one of you would be slacking as well if you were in my recent (unexpectedly) blissful position. Oh. Trust. Me. You would be.
My stock answer: Life off the Boulevard is as ordinary as life off the strip in any small town. It as much a slice of Americana as Piedmont, North Dakota and Youngstown, Ohio. We have dry cleaners, mailboxes, and Dairy Queens. We have Targets, school crossings and bike lanes. We have churches, parks, and girls next door, even if the girl next door is in all likelihood a stripper. Or the sister of a stripper. Or the roommate of a stripper. Or even the girlfriend of a stripper, which is another topic altogether.
The one deviant variable off the strip in Vegas is the number of strippers per capita who are buying groceries, standing in line at the bank, and showing up at Starbucks barefaced wearing Juicy yoga pants. Still, even in plainclothes you can't really miss these women. They are always perfectly tan and pedicured, and if their Amazonian proportions don't tip you off, then the rolls of cash they pull out of their Fendi and Ferragamo bags will.
I happen to have befriended a few real live strippers since moving here. The evening I met them at a birthday party I threw for a mutual friend felt momentous, not unlike the days I knew I was going to the mall to meet Santa Claus, or more recently the day I shook the hand of the President. As someone whose starstruckability* wore off years ago in New York, I was downright smitten when I sat down to make small talk with Fiona and Chrissie. What I found is that these women are ordinary--with as many wins and losses tallied as the rest of us.
Since that night I've met other women in the industry--as it is ubiquitously referred to here in Vegas. And while the fact that these women make three times what I do taking their clothes off brings up all kinds of icky feelings about the value of woman's body versus her brain, I've come to understand that they are neither as weak nor as strong as I had presumed. They are, however, amazingly resourceful when it comes to advice on how to repair a torn pair of fishnets and the best place to buy dresses for a night out. When it comes to matters of sequins and stay-put foundation, Fiona and Chrissie are my go-to girls, suddenly as invaluable as those other members of every girls' entourage--our gay hair stylists and our moms.
Which isn't to say that I haven't witnessed them behaving very badly, but bliss calls so...more on that tomorrow**.
*Yes, I made this word up. It's called a neologism.
** I really will write tomorrow. Admittedly I've been slacking with posting, though in my defense let me say that any one of you would be slacking as well if you were in my recent (unexpectedly) blissful position. Oh. Trust. Me. You would be.
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