Personally, I would never ever date a man from Texas.
I have my reasons.
Pop Quiz
1. So, how long have you lived in Vegas/Chicago/New York?
(Truth be told, the answer to Question 1 is irrelevant. It's a lead-in meant to loosen up the guy sitting across the table from me. I mean, I don't want him to think this is an interrogation or anything).
2. So, what brought you here?
(The answer to Question 2 is also irrelevant, unless it involves alien drop-offs or a die-hard dream of becoming a male-figure skater).
3. So, where are you from originally?
(Now, if the answer is anywhere and I mean ANYWHERE but Texas then I proceed to Question 4. But, if the answer is Texas then I let the waiter know on my way out that the nice gentleman over there would like his check thank you.)
4. Asked with baited breath at this point: Are you from a state bordering Texas?
(If the answer is yes, then I must revisit his answers to both Questions 1 and 2 and determine if the once irrelevant makes up for his proximity to the Lone Star State. If the answer to Question 4 is no, we are good to go--though we aren't through yet.)
5. How do you feel about raisins?
(This question is a red herring in case he is becoming suspicious or starting to feel uneasy due to my somewhat pointed interest in his geographical origins. However, hating raisins does in fact earn him some bonus points).
The real Question 5. Have you spent any substantial amount of time in Texas since oh, I don't know, your ninth birthday or so for say longer than oh, I don't know, a long weekend?
(While asking this real Question 5 I open my purse and pretend to be fishing for a bobby pin just to seem more casual and in preparation for my possible next move).
If the answer to the real Question 5 is yes, I pretend to drop the phantom bobby pin on the floor so that I can look under the table. Boots=exposure and infection.
When I return to the upright position I pause to allow him a moment to explain. If he tells me that he spent a summer in Austin eating sprouted bagels and doing the Dave Matthews Groupie Thing after college, then fine. Austin (and pretty much anything one does right after college) doesn't really count anyway.
If the answer to the real Question 5 is no, I go ahead and order dinner. I proceed with caution, though, keeping my ear open for dead giveaways such as "Darling" and "All y'all."
Like I said, I have my reasons.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Friday, March 26, 2010
it's the little things...
On my official list of "Things Academics Do But Pretend They Don't"* is listening regularly to the Gayle King Show on Oprah XM.
This morning Gayle complained about an email she received from a man with whom her friends had arranged for her to meet on a blind date. The man wrote of the plans he had for their first meeting, which included getting "buzzzzzzzzzzed in the lounge of a bowling alley" on Manhattan's west side. Mind you, Gayle and Casanova were meeting for lunch. Mind you, Casanova also offered "if we get too buzzzzzzzzzzzzzed to bowl, then we can shoot some pool." Mind you, even I know that Gayle King does not drink and even if I didn't know this, I would still know that no woman over the legal drinking age actually wants to get buzzed at 11:30 am and use a stick to push balls with a buzzzzzzzzed man she doesn't know. Despite the lame date proposal, Gayle announced that the real reason she cancelled the date was that she could never ever date a man like this--that is, a man who onomotopoeiad getting rocked.
I reference scenarios like these to explain why I am a conscientous objector to blind dates. If you're reading this mom, I know, I know--I need to be "open" to the possibilities. BUT I wouldn't buy a pair of shoes without having seen them first, and in my book, the analogous relationship between men and shoes is one that I could wax eloquent on for a surprisingly long time, though I'll spare you.
Anyway, Gayle's little anecdote this morning led me to contact a few of my single friends to find out what that one thing is that is a dealbreaker when it comes to dating men. I wasn't asking them about serious issues like religion or politics. Life has a funny way of crossing stars and pairing unlikely couples together just for the fun of it anyways and the BIG non-negotiables often aren't. I was interested in the little things my friends refuse to compromise on right from the start. A random sample:
"I would never date a man who wears white socks with black shoes."
"I would never date a man who wears turtlenecks."
"I would never date a man named Dale."
"I would never date a man who contemplated for even one minute going into the priesthood."
"I would never date a man whose mother still does his laundry." (Amen, sister.)
"I would never date a man whose hands are smaller than mine."
"I would never date a man who has better legs than me."
"I would never date a man who calls his pants 'trousers' or 'slacks'."
"I would never date a man who actually knows and understands the difference between 'trousers' and 'slacks'."
The problem, of course, is that you have to date a man first in order to find out whether you would never ever date him. Unless of course, you get a little creative.
Hence, tomorrow's post: The Questionaire
*M's "I Do But Pretend I Don't List"
Read Teen Vogue in the bath tub
Kinda like Tyra Banks
Harbor a long-standing desire to play Roller Derby
Vote Republican
Listen to Bananarama's Cruel Cruel Summer and the Glee soundtrack without a smidgen of shame
Use serious literature, such as Sun Tzu's The Art of War for personal, self-serving purposes
Wing a lecture here and there
This morning Gayle complained about an email she received from a man with whom her friends had arranged for her to meet on a blind date. The man wrote of the plans he had for their first meeting, which included getting "buzzzzzzzzzzed in the lounge of a bowling alley" on Manhattan's west side. Mind you, Gayle and Casanova were meeting for lunch. Mind you, Casanova also offered "if we get too buzzzzzzzzzzzzzed to bowl, then we can shoot some pool." Mind you, even I know that Gayle King does not drink and even if I didn't know this, I would still know that no woman over the legal drinking age actually wants to get buzzed at 11:30 am and use a stick to push balls with a buzzzzzzzzed man she doesn't know. Despite the lame date proposal, Gayle announced that the real reason she cancelled the date was that she could never ever date a man like this--that is, a man who onomotopoeiad getting rocked.
I reference scenarios like these to explain why I am a conscientous objector to blind dates. If you're reading this mom, I know, I know--I need to be "open" to the possibilities. BUT I wouldn't buy a pair of shoes without having seen them first, and in my book, the analogous relationship between men and shoes is one that I could wax eloquent on for a surprisingly long time, though I'll spare you.
Anyway, Gayle's little anecdote this morning led me to contact a few of my single friends to find out what that one thing is that is a dealbreaker when it comes to dating men. I wasn't asking them about serious issues like religion or politics. Life has a funny way of crossing stars and pairing unlikely couples together just for the fun of it anyways and the BIG non-negotiables often aren't. I was interested in the little things my friends refuse to compromise on right from the start. A random sample:
"I would never date a man who wears white socks with black shoes."
"I would never date a man who wears turtlenecks."
"I would never date a man named Dale."
"I would never date a man who contemplated for even one minute going into the priesthood."
"I would never date a man whose mother still does his laundry." (Amen, sister.)
"I would never date a man whose hands are smaller than mine."
"I would never date a man who has better legs than me."
"I would never date a man who calls his pants 'trousers' or 'slacks'."
"I would never date a man who actually knows and understands the difference between 'trousers' and 'slacks'."
The problem, of course, is that you have to date a man first in order to find out whether you would never ever date him. Unless of course, you get a little creative.
Hence, tomorrow's post: The Questionaire
*M's "I Do But Pretend I Don't List"
Read Teen Vogue in the bath tub
Kinda like Tyra Banks
Harbor a long-standing desire to play Roller Derby
Vote Republican
Listen to Bananarama's Cruel Cruel Summer and the Glee soundtrack without a smidgen of shame
Use serious literature, such as Sun Tzu's The Art of War for personal, self-serving purposes
Wing a lecture here and there
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
the cardigan chronicles
The scene is my classroom several years ago on a hot September afternoon--a few days into my short-lived career as a high school teacher.
The phone rings.
Me: Hello?
GC: Miss M.? Fiona Guidance Counselor here. We have a problem (misplaced, if strategic, use of pronoun "we" as I am 100% sure that "we" means "you" as in "me").
Me: Hi Fiona. Sooo nice to hear from you. (A lie, of course, as there are two kinds of high school guidance counselors in the world. One is the kind you want to befriend and with whom you want to talk because she (or he) is the secondary education equivalent of US Weekly magazine. The other is the prep school equivalent of The Gestapo or Anna Wintour).
GC: Let's cut to the chase, shall we Miss M.? Did you make a phone call home to Maximillian Pervesie's parents?
Me: Regarding...
GC: Regarding Max's summer reading test grade?
Me: Ummm, well....
GC: Did you or didn't you?
(Imagine a single shadeless light bulb falling from the ceiling at this point and the walls of my classroom receding into the dark for dramatic effect)
Me: Um, yes, I did. I called the number provided to me by the school, but Max answered and said his parents were in Versailles.
GC: Miss M., I realize there was no way of you being aware of this, but Max's father is dead. Alleged yacht collision, trunk of a Cadillac blah blah blah. So, Mr. Pervesie is certainly not in Versailles.
Me: Oh, I...that's awf--
GC: And the number given to you by the school is for Max's residence, not his mother's.
Me: Max's residence?
GC: Yes. Max's mother bought him a house in Summerlin since the family residence is in Anthem. The commute, the carbon footprint, et cetera blah blah blah...(tautology...But I don't bother--her redundancy is lost on her)
Me: Is Max even old enough to drive? He's in ninth grade.
GC: Let's not get off track here, Miss M. (No, let's not, Fiona).
Me: I had no way of knowing I was given the wrong number by the school, Fiona.
GC: Yes, well, Miss M. It's the oldest book in the trick at The Canyon Day School. You always have to be one step ahead of these students. Our students are sophisticated in alluding (Eluding! The word is eluding!) authority.
Me: I, uh...I'm sure I can...
GC: Here's our problem. You cannot, according to school policy, give a student a failing status in your class for any amount of time without having first notified that student's parents or parent, as the case may be.
Me: Um, yes. OK, Fiona, but how could I have notified Max's parents--parent--if the school gave me the wrong number? How could Max not be failing my class if the summer reading test is the first and only grade for the semester thus far?
GC: Regardless of your internal ratiolizing (Grrrrrr...), Miss M., you are going to have to change the grade according to school policy as listed in the handbook, which believe you me is the only school-issued material our students actually read.
Me: Fiona, Max did not read the summer book.
GC: Can you prove this?
Me: Well, in addition to failing the test over it, Max told (with impressive yet unconvincing animation that a great gust of wind blew the book into the swimming pool) he didn't read the book.
GC: Classic He Said She Said, Miss M. Second oldest book in the trick (Right. Whatever.). I'm going to need you to fill out the Grade Change Form and give it to Vivienne in the Grade Change Office.
Me: Fiona, I...
GC: Miss M., I've been here for 25 years. This is a preemptive move on your part. I'm doing you a favor. Please do try to keep up.
Right.
*The latest statistic claims that only 34.4% of Cleveland's high school students actually graduate. The rate is slightly higher than only one other city in the United States--Indianapolis. It's a black mark on an overall dismal report card for a nation where, on average, just 70% of high school students graduate. Statistically speaking, this is the equivalent of every third senior class across the country not graduating. The graduation rate for inner city schools is even worse hovering just above 50%.
The phone rings.
Me: Hello?
GC: Miss M.? Fiona Guidance Counselor here. We have a problem (misplaced, if strategic, use of pronoun "we" as I am 100% sure that "we" means "you" as in "me").
Me: Hi Fiona. Sooo nice to hear from you. (A lie, of course, as there are two kinds of high school guidance counselors in the world. One is the kind you want to befriend and with whom you want to talk because she (or he) is the secondary education equivalent of US Weekly magazine. The other is the prep school equivalent of The Gestapo or Anna Wintour).
GC: Let's cut to the chase, shall we Miss M.? Did you make a phone call home to Maximillian Pervesie's parents?
Me: Regarding...
GC: Regarding Max's summer reading test grade?
Me: Ummm, well....
GC: Did you or didn't you?
(Imagine a single shadeless light bulb falling from the ceiling at this point and the walls of my classroom receding into the dark for dramatic effect)
Me: Um, yes, I did. I called the number provided to me by the school, but Max answered and said his parents were in Versailles.
GC: Miss M., I realize there was no way of you being aware of this, but Max's father is dead. Alleged yacht collision, trunk of a Cadillac blah blah blah. So, Mr. Pervesie is certainly not in Versailles.
Me: Oh, I...that's awf--
GC: And the number given to you by the school is for Max's residence, not his mother's.
Me: Max's residence?
GC: Yes. Max's mother bought him a house in Summerlin since the family residence is in Anthem. The commute, the carbon footprint, et cetera blah blah blah...(tautology...But I don't bother--her redundancy is lost on her)
Me: Is Max even old enough to drive? He's in ninth grade.
GC: Let's not get off track here, Miss M. (No, let's not, Fiona).
Me: I had no way of knowing I was given the wrong number by the school, Fiona.
GC: Yes, well, Miss M. It's the oldest book in the trick at The Canyon Day School. You always have to be one step ahead of these students. Our students are sophisticated in alluding (Eluding! The word is eluding!) authority.
Me: I, uh...I'm sure I can...
GC: Here's our problem. You cannot, according to school policy, give a student a failing status in your class for any amount of time without having first notified that student's parents or parent, as the case may be.
Me: Um, yes. OK, Fiona, but how could I have notified Max's parents--parent--if the school gave me the wrong number? How could Max not be failing my class if the summer reading test is the first and only grade for the semester thus far?
GC: Regardless of your internal ratiolizing (Grrrrrr...), Miss M., you are going to have to change the grade according to school policy as listed in the handbook, which believe you me is the only school-issued material our students actually read.
Me: Fiona, Max did not read the summer book.
GC: Can you prove this?
Me: Well, in addition to failing the test over it, Max told (with impressive yet unconvincing animation that a great gust of wind blew the book into the swimming pool) he didn't read the book.
GC: Classic He Said She Said, Miss M. Second oldest book in the trick (Right. Whatever.). I'm going to need you to fill out the Grade Change Form and give it to Vivienne in the Grade Change Office.
Me: Fiona, I...
GC: Miss M., I've been here for 25 years. This is a preemptive move on your part. I'm doing you a favor. Please do try to keep up.
Right.
*The latest statistic claims that only 34.4% of Cleveland's high school students actually graduate. The rate is slightly higher than only one other city in the United States--Indianapolis. It's a black mark on an overall dismal report card for a nation where, on average, just 70% of high school students graduate. Statistically speaking, this is the equivalent of every third senior class across the country not graduating. The graduation rate for inner city schools is even worse hovering just above 50%.
Monday, March 22, 2010
public service announcement
If you want to know the truth, the answer is yes. As an "English person," I am usually correcting everyone's grammar in my head when he or she is speaking with me. I can't help it. I've tried. While judgmental, I assure you I am not biased; I'm usually correcting my own grammar, too.
Still, I sometimes wonder if this is off-putting to my friends and family in the same way it has always made me nervous to get into too deep of a conversation with a psych major, a liberal, or a mortician who is in all likelihood envisioning oh what she would do to me if she could get me on her slab.
All of this being said, I do feel the need tugging at me almost constantly--I feel it is a calling* even--to un-apologetically clarify something for everyone despite the risk of sounding pedantic or overly bookmarmish.
The Difference between "Well" and "Good" and How to Decide
"Well" is an adverb, which means that you should use it whenever you are describing a verb. For instance, if someone says to you "Hello, how are you?" you should reply "I'm well" because you are describing your state of being--that is, the verb of how you are doing. Ditto for "How did your date with James Bond go last night?" Should the heavens be favoring you, you would reply "It went very very well, thank you" Well describes the verb went.
"Good" is an adjective, which means you should use it whenever you are describing a noun. For instance, "This is a good Girl Scout cookie" or "This is a good day to move back to Las Vegas." In the first sentence, good is the adjective describing the noun Girl Scout cookie. In the second, good describes the noun day.
*Due to my said fear of gorillas, I am unable to travel to remote outstretches and build houses with running water for those in need. In lieu of this decidedly superior act of altruism, please allow me this one small contribution to humanity.
Still, I sometimes wonder if this is off-putting to my friends and family in the same way it has always made me nervous to get into too deep of a conversation with a psych major, a liberal, or a mortician who is in all likelihood envisioning oh what she would do to me if she could get me on her slab.
All of this being said, I do feel the need tugging at me almost constantly--I feel it is a calling* even--to un-apologetically clarify something for everyone despite the risk of sounding pedantic or overly bookmarmish.
The Difference between "Well" and "Good" and How to Decide
"Well" is an adverb, which means that you should use it whenever you are describing a verb. For instance, if someone says to you "Hello, how are you?" you should reply "I'm well" because you are describing your state of being--that is, the verb of how you are doing. Ditto for "How did your date with James Bond go last night?" Should the heavens be favoring you, you would reply "It went very very well, thank you" Well describes the verb went.
"Good" is an adjective, which means you should use it whenever you are describing a noun. For instance, "This is a good Girl Scout cookie" or "This is a good day to move back to Las Vegas." In the first sentence, good is the adjective describing the noun Girl Scout cookie. In the second, good describes the noun day.
*Due to my said fear of gorillas, I am unable to travel to remote outstretches and build houses with running water for those in need. In lieu of this decidedly superior act of altruism, please allow me this one small contribution to humanity.
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