can't flip it!! Happy New Year!

Froggie Crew

"We roll so deep on this mountainside," said my brother eyeing the ever increasing group of people that we were skiing with.

I looked at the herd of us, clogging up the trail and laughed all the way down the slope.
For the past week that my family has been in Utah, we've been skiing with another french family. Everyday we join forces to attack the slopes, a veritable army of frogs. Throughout the day we either pick up more family members of their along the way or lose some. Either way, we create quite a cluster of francophones on the slopes and in the liftlines, causing people to turn and wonder when the invasion began.

small pleasures

There is nothing quite as fun as spinning out of control,
while going full speed,
on a sled
d
o
w
n
a snowy
hillside



Last night in honor of our friend Joe's birthday and of Utah vacations passed, my brother, another friend, Joe the birthday boy, and I got suited up in all our snow gear to take a tumble down the mountain at 11pm.

A few years ago, we found an old, long sled and similarly suited in the later evening to take it down the mountain. This sled was long enough for all three of us (me, Joe, and my brother) to fit on at once. The people in the back of the sled had no idea what was happening in the front, so we made a system where if we were going to run into anything (ie: the rope tow operating station), the lead sledder would yell "abandon ship!" which would cause us to voluntarily eject our bodies from the speeding wooden plank underneath. Joe seemed to have little faith in this system, because on several occasions when we were going down, the sled suddenly got lighter and a quick look behind me revealed Joe, several feet higher abandoning ship by himself, without a signal. I laughed 'til my stomach hurt. This scene repeated itself several times or there were several false warnings of danger that would send us falling off. A few times we made it down flawlessly... pure fun.

Last night was a beautiful night- so clear that we could see every constellation. We only had one saucer sled, so my brother and I doubled up on his snowboard, Joe got the saucer and our friend J. got Joe's snowboard. The moment when you lift your feet from the slick snow and relinquish your fate for the next 20 seconds to the hillside is scary and thrilling. My brother and I took the lead, zipping to the right, dangerously in the direction of a rope tow operating station. We steered left and I was amazed that our rough steering techniques were working... and then we bit it and started rolling down the mountain sledless while our friend J. who had taken off right behind us landed on my thigh. Joe went solo on the saucer and was the only one who made it all the way down the mountain. We went down about six times in various combinations.

We learned that doubling up on a snowboard will not create a successful sledding mission, but will result in epic tumbles down the mountain. Going solo worked like a charm... but the saucer was definitely the best tool for speeding down the hill. I got it on my last run and as I was going down spun left, then right, then back left again until I felt a very real fear of running into the control station. I breaked a little, finished the run smoothly and walked back up with my little bro, admiring the stars above.

The Grinch

"I think you just don't like Christmas," said my brother bluntly.

I instinctively readied myself to counteract that comment, come back with some witty reply. Of course I like Christmas- what well-adjusted person would not? But then I thought back to the past few Christmases and I can't argue with cold hard facts. I readjusted myself in my chair.

"No, I guess I don't," I said, feeling like I had just admitted to an awful crime, like robbing someone's grandma while pretending to help her across the street. "I guess I don't like Christmas."

These words are hard to say and maybe, I would assume, akin to telling a sexual partner that you have ghonorrea or something equally uncomfortable and revealing about yourself. Christmas is the happiest of holidays, where we put away our differences, reach a little deeper into our pockets to give to others, sing carols in cheesy abandon, cook and eat rich foods, and cozy up with family in the warmth of each other's company. To not like this holiday is to be a social anomally, a hairy wart growing on the outskirts of this happy, glittery seasonal snow globe.

A while ago, when a friend of mine told me that the holidays made him depressed and shared his desire to hibernate until it was all over, I thought he was crazy. Little did I know that I would also fall prey to more uncommon bitter spirit of Christmas- the holiday blues.

Here's the thing: my family is not religious, so Christmas to us has boiled down to the bare bones consummerist aspect of the holiday. We have the tree, we have the presents... but why? All these things that go along with a bigger celebration and tradition lose their luster for me when they are void of a larger meaning and context. Would I feel better about it if I went to church the night before? maybe. I just feel so detached from the whole thing and turned off by both the subliminal and blatant signals that are urging everyone to buy, buy, buy for no good reason.

Then there's the buying of presents. Maybe I should heed the post-Thanksgiving warnings and start shopping before the last of the Thanksgiving leftovers have been digested. Unfortunately, that's not my style and I'm always the one desperately trying to find something original to give my folks to the very last minute. After all the indecision and frustration, I ultimately cave and get a similar version of something that I've gotten them in the past.

Of course, I love spending time with my family, which is the up-side of any holiday. But holidays are also ideal for producing the cabin-fever that makes everyone want to jump out the window after a few days of staying inside together. Tensions that have been buried resurvace and too much wine makes some of these tensions live out a few last unglorious moments.

This year, I have to say that I was happy when it was all over.

I know, I know... I am the grinch.... and even the grinch was able to reform and conform. There's hope for me yet!

This is my 5th hour at the Las Vegas airport and my flight is delayed. There is a plot of "Wheel Of Fortune" slot machines nearby that has been tinking and plinking incessantly, making me feel like a pinball machine has taken over my brain. Every 20 seconds or so, the words "Wheel of Fortune" come out of the machine. If you are standing close by, it the voice sounds like a crowd of enthusiastic cheering people, but from afar, it sounds like an eerie horror movie whisper.... "I see dead people...." "You just used all your laundry quarters..." I half expect Gollum to be creeping around, low to the ground, a rainbow of flashing lights reflected on his forehead. In all 5 hours, no one has won ANYTHING on those machines. I guess I'm not really surprised, but I kind of assumed that over a long period of time someone would win at least enough quarters back to feed a meter, buy a round of gumballs, or have a go on the mechanical grocery store horse.... but no. Sadly, it's not that kind of establishment.

lay over in the city of sin

This morning, I volunteered to give up my spot to a young girl traveling alone, baited by the travel voucher that I would receive in exchange. I am definitely very happy at the possibility of free travel in the future and have spent the morning floating around the airport wing fantasizing about spring break trip locations, reading, and eavesdropping on people's conversations. Now, I don't intentionally eavesdrop, but it just so happens that apparently some wild things have been going down with people around me, who have no concern for their privacy in a room full of strangers and who therefore don't bother to reduce the volume of their personal conversations. And no matter how hard I concentrate on the conflict between Ethiopia and Somalia or the daily crossword, I inevitably start to shamelessly listen in on other people's drama instead. This drama is made all the more surreal when partly drowned out by the high pitched dings of the ubiquitous slot machines. 3 more hours to go...

the shared experience of the albino squirrels

The only letter I got in the mail today was from my college. I assumed that it was the annual alumni update and request for a donation, but then I saw the odd sender: "Oberlin College Center for Albino Squirrel Resarch." Thinking that it was just a quirky joke, I opened it expecting the same letter I had been before. Turns out that there is actually a new center to research the genetics of the white squirrels that are commonly sighted on Oberlin campus (www.oberlin.edu/squirrel/).

I remember seeing these squirrels, but always questioning whether I had really seen one. The first time I saw one of the little fluffy rodents scampering through Tappen Square, I thought I had stumbled upon a rare specimen, as elusive as the Yeti or the Loch Ness Monster. I didn't know that they would turn out to be as common in Oberlin as patchwork dresses and contact improv dance happenings; a shared experience of sorts. Just as we all remember the blistering cold winters, concerts at the Cat in the Cream, naked pizza nights, the manual register and ice cream at Gibsons, and the womb chairs, we all remember the albino squirrels appearing and disappearing in our extensive snowy setting. Although I love the idea of supporting the genetic research for these furry friends, I don't think I'm quite ready to commit financially.... but if the spirit moves you, check out the website above.

playing pool at d's house

It seemed logical that year after year we would see each other less and less... move to new places, start new jobs, meet new people. Somehow though, the people that I went to elementary through high school with and I just can't stay away from each other.

Last night, we ended up in D's basement playing pool and drinking wine. This is a scene that has repeated itself countless times with the same people over the years. If we could have taken a snapshot of each time and lined them up, it would be a timeline of us growing together and reaching our (yikes) mid-to-late twenties. Here in D's basement float the same old remember when stories mixed in with new details from our lives and the mandatory shit talking that comes witih playing pool. Do you remember when we wanted to be pool sharks? Remember the lino-cut D made in art class in 4th grade? It was the best one. Remember when you went out with so and so for two years? Damn that was long. What are they up to now? The remember when conversations can keep us talking for hours and hours.

I remember going to D's in high school. Back then, we would practice our sexy behind the back shot: butt perched on the table with one foot still touching the ground and a swift behind the back hit. On a good night, I could sometimes pull it off, although never quite consistently enough. Last night, some peole were definitely trying to grease up those rusty moves.

But the thing that stands out most from last night is laughing... fall on the floor because your legs get weak laughing, belly hurting, tearing and never wanting it to end kind of laughing. The kind of laughing that you feel free to let loose with people who have known you through and through. I haven't laughed that hard since... well, I can't even remember, but it felt good.

At one point in the night, V looked around and said: "Do you think we'll still gather here and play pool when we're 30?" Well I, for one, am looking forward to it.

"Well, we could trim a little from each side and taper it towards the back... but then you'd have a mullet."

Our gazes met through the salon mirror. My face donned a look of disbelief at what had just come out of his mouth. I was getting the worst hair cut since college when my friend Danya cut the right side shorter than the left, but I was not in a dormroom this time. Nor was my hair being cut by an overly confident friend with a pair of shears. No. This was at a legitimate, hip hair salon in Chicago. Maybe it's just me, but I feel that any stylist who offers a mullet as a solution to an already f***ed up cut they are giving you should have their license revoked. Or at least should be knocked down a few notches and be forced to work at SuperCuts, where you know you're taking a gamble with a $10.00 hair cut.

"Well, I don't want a mullet, so can't you just trim it all the way around?" I asked, repressing sarcasm.

He continued cutting and cutting and cutting while occasionally asking me for advice. A stylist asking me for advice is akin to a dentist asking me for advice. Scary. He "fixed" the haircut and now I have an incredibly short, short cut that in no way resembles a mullet. I guess I have that to be thankful for.

There's one in every class- the kid who fights against the established order of class pictures and finds a way to slyly throw a wrench in the illusion of innocence and serenity that the photographer is attempting create- like someone building a tower of cards that will stay together just long enough for the click and then come tumbling down.

We had one in my 6th grade class picture where amongst the smiling faces was one, which upon closer inspection also was giving the finger to the camera. Although we thought it was hilarious, our teachers did not, but by the time they found out, the picture had already been distributed to every family in our class.

In our class, this kid is JJ. The detail of JJ grabbing himself had escaped me the first few times that I looked at this picture. This was a much less formal picture and very rushed, because the firefighter and 49er who had come to distribute candy in our class had to go to all the other classrooms. So in the chaos, JJ took his chance. Maybe it was the costume, with the little built in muscles that inspired him to take such a virile pose. Maybe it was the sugar rush from the Halloween candy. Who knows. When I took it, I was planning on giving a copy to each parent, but I'm glad I caught it. This picture did keep me laughing for a good three days, though.

more popular than the Beatles

What on Earth would motivate 60-some kindergarteners to collectively run to the playground exit like a heard of wildebeest all the while screaming like star-struck teenagers at a concert?

I stood both alarmed and in a state of dazed shock as I witnessed the crazed swarm move from one end of the playground to the other in a frantic attempt to leave, while two adults with quicker reflexes came rushing out from behind me and closed the gate just in time to hold the mob inside. Some kids, seemed unfazed by the gate as they began to climb it after running into it at full speed, still screaming. What catalyzed this mass hysteria? What awoke this sleeping giant?

I walked out a little further and it all made sense. To my right, 10 feet away and a little hesitant to come closer, was Santa Claus. Ah, the magic of Christmas. I wished the reluctant Santa luck as I walked to get my lunch, hoping he would leave with all parts of his suit still on.... it's tough work being a celebrity.

The Rager

Last night, my street was alive. The middle turning lane was filled with stationary cars bumping music and the sidewalk was filled with teens laughing, talking, hanging out, drinking…. soda. It was the biggest party I’ve seen on my block. Coming home a few hours earlier, our stoop was filled with people and I excused myself to make it up the stairs. Over a couple of hours, it got so loud that my housemate, who was studying for her finals, had to move to the back of the house to work. None of this is that odd except that it was a weekday. Oh, and it was in front of the funeral home. The festive atmosphere blurred the tragic reality of the commemoration of a teenage death- which this undoubtedly was. As I waded through the surprising amount of trash that was left behind the next morning on my way to work, I was still surprised that this was more like a block party than a funeral.

I’m not quite sure what’s been going on in San Francisco lately, but business for the mortuary is good. For the past week or so, every time I come home, there is a mob of people on and around my stoop grieving or chatting. Most of the time the atmosphere is surprisingly jovial as people catch up on each other’s lives, have a bite to eat. Other times I overhear confessions of disbelief that the deceased person is no longer with us, in the seconds that it takes me to take out my keys and unlock the door. I am just a passerby, carrying a rotation of groceries/laundry/books home and witnessing the same scene repeatedly with only slight variations, while for many of the people who gather here, the day marks tremendous change and loss. I don’t want to intrude or be evident in this moment that does not belong to me, so I scuttle pass, rush to open my door and cram myself inside.

Today, there was the same scene on a much smaller scale. No vibrating speakers, but Tinkerbell backpacks and hoodies in clusters outside. I don't know if it's just that I'm noticing it more, but the mortuary definitely seems busier.‘Tis the season?

settling in

One of the big things that has happened this week is that I’ve moved into a different room, in a completely different pod of the school so that a second grade teacher could take my spot and be closer to the other second grade teachers. After fearing that I would be in her old classroom, which shared an open wall with the music class- think children screaming Christmas carols and producing ear-piercing shrieking sounds with their “flutaphones” (I had doubts that this was an actual instrument, thinking that it was the recorder renamed, but I was schooled by our music teacher that it is in fact a different breed of wind instrument- one with which our scholars make shrill noises and with which they lose all capability of following directions (ie: “Do not blow in your instruments.”))- I was delighted to find an alternative; an empty room in the third grade pod. The change has been fantastic. The room seems more spacious and has a nice view of the neighboring houses and hills. I feel like I am finally getting a fresh start after having settled into someone else’s room and inheriting their mess for a year. The move-in process was definitely disruptive to our routine, but it happened fast enough that within a day, I was teaching in the new room.

My students like the new room and are adjusting to my calling “room 103!” instead of “201!” after recess. They are also very excited about being in the 3rd grade pod, which I’ve used to my advantage, saying things like, “You know, if you yell like that, they’re going to ask us to pack up our things and go right back upstairs. They only take scholars in the 3rd grade pod.” This straightens them out for a bit.

Each day since we’ve moved in, however, all the third grade classes have had field trips… and it just so happens that they all have one tomorrow as well. So, in attempts to be neighborly, I accepted to take a handful of kids who were not allowed to go. This made the morning very hectic and slow, because I had to make sure that everyone was settled in and knew what they were supposed to be doing (not all of which was work that they knew how to do independently). Things that usually take my group 5 minutes took 20 minutes and it was starting to get very frustrating. C. had been complaining about a stomach ache and telling me that he had to throw up. Thinking that this was one of his latest tactics to get attention (and after feeling his forehead for a fever), I showed him the trashcan and told him to rush there in case of an emergency. Five minutes later, C rushed to the trashcan and lost it.

Now this is going to make me sound bad, but I’ve never been so happy to see a kid throw-up, knowing that he would go home and that the day would be slightly easier afterwards. I wrote him a pass to the nurse and sent him with my aid, picturing a serene day for myself ahead. Twenty minutes later, however, he came back looking disheveled as ever and saying that he “felt fine” and was ready to come back to class. When I called the nurse, she said that she had no idea where he had gone and that his mom was in fact picking him up. I sent him back to the office, but C persevered and showed up outside at recess with his new counselor, who wasn’t sure where he was supposed to be. This kid is an expert manipulator. I later got a call from the office asking if I had any idea where C could possibly be- his mom was here and waiting for him. They did an all-school page for him and eventually found him. As a side note: this is the child whose mom I called yesterday. He’s a runner… in the sense that he likes to run away from our group to the point where we have to call security to go find him and make sure that he is not in danger.

The rest of the day was rather pleasant and I got some more things set-up in my new room. As I was leaving school, I find a note in my box written in orange crayon saying: “Ms. V I fil better,” which I guess had been intended as a pass back to class from C. Oh C… I sure hope he’s sick enough to stay home tomorrow as well.

There is something extremely irksome about hearing the words “This is not my responsibility,” from a parent of a child in your classroom, on the topic of their son’s behavior. When I heard these words today, I had to bite my tongue to prevent myself from responding in disgruntled sarcasm with something like: “well, I’m not the one who gave birth to him.” Thankfully, I am capable of self-restraint and have a relatively healthy sense of diplomacy, which enabled me to numb myself to this parent’s infuriating comment and smooth it over with attempts at an individualized behavior plan where this student might attain rewards specific to him for his good behavior both at school and at home: a.k.a. a solution.

This parent- who I would like to point out is the parent who could not be bothered to respond to my requests to schedule a parent/teacher conference, but who showed up in a full “sexy” devil outfit to march in our ELEMENTARY school’s parade (pitchfork and all) the same week as conferences, and who I ended up cornering in her tight red dress and horned headband to go over her son’s academic progress, and who forgot her son at school that same day- was not trying to be bothered. How could her son behave, she said, when he has ADHD? It’s not his fault and besides, he’s just a kid. Not to mention that he misbehaves at home all the time and that she’s already taken everything away from him at home- he’s on perpetual punishment, she said- a kid’s purgatorial wasteland of “no video games” and “no TV.”

I caught her son, C’s eyes during the phone call. He was very aware that a) he was not in trouble and that b) his mom was giving me a hard time. It was more than apparent that I would not get the support that I needed to deal with this un-parented child from her; his mom.

Later that afternoon, the same child kicked another child in his “privates.” Clearly, he was not phased by my calling his mom. I will try an individual behavior plan for him, but I do have to say that if his mom doesn’t see him as her “responsibility,” I can only see the rest of this year as an uphill battle. And as an aside: since when did school become a substitute for parenting??