Venting blog 25Million: Copyright

I am so frustrated right now.

The other night we all went down to the music building and jammed. We do this many nights. It's what we do. I even jammed; I brought my ukulele.

At some point, I handed my Flip camera to this woman who was hanging out. I asked her to take some video once we got playing, and she happily agreed to.

At the end of the night, as we all packed up our instruments and started heading back to our rooms, one guy, let's call him Rajesh, stopped me.

"You got some video?" he sounded excited.

"Oh, yea, I asked her to film some."

"Well can I see it?" still sounding excited.

"Of course. I'll put it on the internet --- that is, of course, unless you'd rather I didn't. I know some people are funny about that."

"Right. I'm one of those people. I'm funny about that. I'll need to see it before it goes on the internet."

Admittedly, I've thought myself into a box here in terms of video sharing. "But in order for you to see it, it will have to be on the internet."

"Can't you play it from that right there?"

I took out my camera and played him the last clip. Rajesh held it up to his ear and commented that it sounds great, and to put it on the internet. This was Sunday.

No one stayed out Monday because of the late Saturday and Sunday nights, so I stayed in and finished editing my Travel Vlog. I thought about uploading the stuff from the music building, but I didn't get around to it. Just not high on my priorities.

Today (Tuesday) at dinner, he comes and sits next to me. Not sitting next to me to eat dinner with me, but sitting next to me with his jacket on and nothing in his hands, like he wants to tell me something. I assume he's going to say something about bringing some instrument to the music building tonight, something like that.

"Oh, hey. Did you put those videos on the internet yet?"

"No, I haven't had a chance."

"OK, because I'm going to need to see them before you do."

At this point, something inside me snaps. Interacting with this guy is usually pretty awkward, as he sometimes takes things too literally. I'm going to do that annoying thing and say that I think he's on the spectrum.

Little tiny fencers start jabbing the insides of my brains. I want to smack this guy.

I stare at him in disbelief.

"I'm sorry, the other night you told me to go ahead and put them up."

"Yeah, but now I'm thinking about it, and that was a bad idea."

"I don't know how you are going to see them large format without me putting them on the internet."

Now he's frustrated with me. "You just have to go get a cord and plug your camera into a computer. This place is like, computer-central."

"Fine."

He sits there staring at me, not sure if my 'Fine' was a consent. I start to tear little pieces off my buttered roll and shove them into my mouth.

"So...are you going to?"

"Yeah, but right now I'm going to finish my dinner. And to be honest, I'm really frustrated because you gave me your yes the other day. What if I had put it on the internet already?"

"But you haven't, so it's OK."

"Whatever."

"It might be whatever to you, but it matters to me."

"Yeah, but what if I had already put it up?"

"Well, then, maybe I'd ask you to take it down."

For another five minutes he sort of stared at me while I ate, repeatedly asking me in different ways whether or not I was going to be posting this without his approval. I asserted that indeed, I'd show him on the computer after I was done with my dinner. Finally, he went away. I wanted to scream, but all I was afforded was raised eyebrows at someone else sitting with us.

After I put my dinner things away I began heading toward the computer lounge, and I ran into him right outside of the dining hall. It took a lot of energy to formulate a nice way to speak to him.

"Um, if you have a minute, I can show you this on the computer. I've got some time now."

He was standing with another one of the people we play music with. Let's call this other guy Carlos. "OK" and to Carlos: "let's go watch this."

The three of us make our way into the computer lab, and to be quite honest, I have no hope for these videos actually playing. Yes my camera plugs into a USB port, but I had tried to watch some videos on YouTube earlier in the residency, and while the sound was fairly consistent, the picture was extraordinarily jumpy.

As the computer recognized my camera and I opened the first file, he said "Alright Carlos, let's check this out."

Not "let's check this out" like when I say: "hey, check this out! This is awesome!" No, more like when an overfed pasty policeman spots a young black male duck into an alleyway. There was something faux-authoritarian and accusatory in his statement that really grated on me.

I tried to play the video files straight off my camera, but the sound cut in and out and the picture was jumpy, even worse than the YT videos I had tried to play earlier. I tried to copy the files to the desktop, and as the time for them to copy was about 9 minutes, Rajesh decided to check his e-mail at another computer.

I started to explain to Carlos my two YouTube accounts, and how I would be uploading this to my second account, where there are only 9 subscribers, and I upload whatever crap I want. Rajesh looked over and said, "let's just try to figure this out right now." As though, somehow, my killing the 9 minutes was wasted time, but him checking his e-mail was completely acceptable.

The pinwheel of death indicated to me that I should 'Force Quit' Finder, and then I found myself trying to explain to Rajesh that it wasn't that there was a problem with my video, but that this computer just didn't seem to be able to handle playing them.

I finally copied one of the files to the desktop and opened it with little hope for it to play smoothly. My expectations were met. It played just slightly better than when I attempted to play it straight off the camera. I internally cringed a bit because the woman who filmed this for me had used the zoom, which makes the poor-quality footage (a side effect of low lighting) even worse. Rajesh asked me to just let the video play, and I tried to explain that I was, that the computer was making it jumpy. Frustrated at not being able to hear it all the way through, Rajesh said, "why don't we just say 'don't'? It is amateurish anyway."

The quality of the video was such that his likeness was barely recognizable, and he was one of maybe 7 musicians contributing to the sound, one of two musicians playing his particular instrument.

I couldn't help it. I had to pry.

"Is it because you don't want your likeness on there? Because you can hardly see you anyhow."

"This is how I make my living and I can't have anything like this out there."

"I wasn't going to attach your name with it anyhow."

"Either way, I don't want it on there."

"OK, that's fine, but you should know, I may use a clip that just shows me playing."

"No, because that still has me on there. You can't put that on there without my consent."

"I don't understand. It won't have your name attached, no one will be able to see your face, no one will know it is you playing. It could be anyone playing."

"Just because you bought a $100 camera does not give you the right to post videos of my art on the internet! What gives you the right to say it could be just anyone? It is my creation and you do not have the right to put it on there."

"I'm not trying to argue property laws with you. I just don't get why you don't want me to put it on there. I don't understand how it would be detrimental to your career if your face and name are not associated with it."

"It's just that I want a say at what things I create do and do not get put on the internet. I've had to ask people to take things down before."

The anger started to become audible in my response. "Fine. Then I'll put the footage of me playing with the sound removed. Your face won't be in it. Your playing won't be in it. Nothing of you!"

He stared at me. Just stared like he was doing at dinner. Stared like he didn't believe me. Stared like he thought I was just telling him what he wanted to hear and that I was going to go do what I wanted.

I returned his stare with an exasperated, pained expression. "I DON'T BULLSH%T!"

This seemed to satisfy him. Not only that, but it also seemed to put him in a cheery mood. "Thanks!" As he walked out of the computer lab, I looked at some other student trying to convey in my glance that my head was about to explode. Rajesh stopped in the doorway and looked at me before walking away.

I usually don't ask permission when I record. I try to not record anything I think people would be upset about, and I would of course comply if someone asked me to remove something. The thing is, my scope isn't really large enough for people to get upset. I understand that Rajesh has the right to say whether or not his stuff goes on the internet, but his reasons were bullisht. It isn't going to ruin your career if NO ONE COULD KNOW THAT IT WAS YOU. I don't even know his last name. I would understand if he was singing, but he was merely contributing a small amount of the instrumentation. NO ONE WOULD KNOW.

What else is ridiculous? So many people are desperate for their video to reach many people, and this guy is upset about the probably-less-than-9 views this video, uploaded on my second channel, would receive.

I made this angry music playlist for times like this.

Should I stay or should I go now?

I haven't been feeling well lately. This is mostly because I'm a sub and every single kid I meet with germs shares them with me over his or her elbow. I've been trying lately to sleep more than usual and I decided that maybe I wouldn't even work this morning, that I would just sleep. About 9 am I couldn't sleep anymore, and I got a call to sub at a school not so far from my house, half day. I accepted, and the computer that was calling me told me to check for the "written special instructions" on the website. Now, as I've mentioned before, these are usually ridiculous if not worthless, but I decided for that teacher-who-thought-herself-meticulous's sake that I would check. The written special instructions were hardly worth the effort of finding and stealing wifi.

"pre-k class"

Ugh. Did I really agree to that? (toss the beanbag!) I don't know if I've mentioned before how my preference lies with the older students. Then I remembered that at this school, pre-k gets out an hour before the rest of the school. Score.

So I grab an apple and drive over to the school. I figure it's pointless to pack a real lunch as I probably won't be having any real breaks anyhow. We spend most of the day at lunch or on the playground (it was such a nice day!) and when we're heading back in, the TA is updating me on the rest of the day. "...and then they go home, and then we have to stay [for another hour.]"

Wait.

Wait. Wait.

They made me do this my first days of subbing LAST year. Not in this district. And the pathetic thing was, ALL the students had gone home and ALL the teachers were required to stay for an additional hour. I was told by a long term sub. But what do they need *me* to stay for? I'm assuming this end-of-the-day time is reserved for meetings among the teachers, and what in the world would they need me there for? The first day I stayed, fuming. The second day I just left.

So, yea. I usually bring a book with me, but I didn't bother to grab it because I assumed there would be no downtime. I suppose I understand the staying-till-the-end-of-the-day, but the TA has a duty that I don't think I have. And seriously, I'm a sub. They hardly know my name. THERE IS NOTHING FOR ME TO DO.

SO I said "Is there anything else in here that can be cleaned, straightened, organized?"

So I said "I think I'm going to go to the library and help shelf the books"

So that's what I did...but then no one was in the library. No librarian, just one scared looking little girl. So I went to the computer lab and used the internet.

To type this blog.

I don't think I could handle you at 100% health.

Last night I drank a glass of cold duck, hung around, and then went somewhere. When I got in my car, I noticed my throat was sore. By the time I got home, I had a headache to match. This is all after I'd accepted a job to sub for an elementary teacher. The thing about subbing is that, if you don't work, you don't get paid.

When I showed up this morning, they told me that I was in for a reading teacher (score!) but that one of their TAs was out, so they were going to have me cover the morning for the TA. In the ED room. Do you know what ED stands for? No, not that ED. Not that one either. Emotionally Disturbed. Great.

They promised I'd get paid just the same, but...just the same, I wouldn't have taken the job if it was two half days.

There's three ways twohalfdays can go. That's good, bad, or mediocre. (get the reference?)

So, the good would be lots of breaks in the morning, lots of breaks in the afternoon.

Mediocre would be the average amount of breaks, as in a busy morning and a slow afternoon or vice versa.

And the bad, well....did I tell you about my bad experience? Oh right. I did.

Yea. It can be no breaks and hardly a lunch, which doesn't really allow for enough time to rejuvenate if the kids are really trying.

So I go to the ED room and the teacher asks the students to introduce themselves to me. Two do so, one is hesitant, and one is like "YEA RIGHT!! I DON'T CARE!"

Soon after this warm greeting, the teacher asks me to do her a favor. She needs some things picked up from the library printer. She is about to ask me to grab it for her when she realizes it would be a great idea to make one of the students bring me. You know that one that yelled rude things in lieu of his name? Him.

He starts saying that he can do it himself, which is ridiculous, because I can do it myself, and 1. I'm allowed and trusted to walk unaccompanied and 2. I'm not a student in the ED room.

As soon as we walk out the door, he takes off running. He sprints down the hall and I just stop.

"Come on," I say quietly. I am wearing heels. If I wasn't wearing heels, I still wouldn't run. Not in school. We don't run in school.

I poke my head back in the classroom and tell the teacher "he just took off."

She doesn't seem fazed. "Oh yea, he has trouble with that." She then pokes her head out the door and politely requests that he walk with me. He is peeking around the corner.

She goes back inside and I start walking. I hear him say out loud, to no one in particular: "I wish she'd hurry the hell up."

I round the corner to find him standing there, alone.

"One. Watch your language. Two. I'm wearing cowboy boots and Three. We DO NOT run in school."

No one trained me how to work with ED kids. No one gave me tips on how to discipline them so they won't try to murder me.

He walks ahead of me for a few steps and then takes off running again. I walk, normal paced, until I reach the library. He is standing there, waiting for me, but not waiting for me. He goes over the this table where the printed papers are placed. He picks up one stack. He picks up the top paper from the second stack and glances at it, trying to figure out if that's what he's supposed to grab or not. In an attempt to not have been simply taken for a walk, I grab the rest of the stack and hold my hand out for the sheet he was holding. He wordlessly handed it over, walked out of the library, and took off running toward the classroom. I walked my normal pace back, and the classroom teacher just sort of shook her head and smiled.

As she was going over the day with me, she mentioned some sort of morning program. Some elementary schools do this, I think it's a good idea. Get all the kids together, make them talk about the announcements, sing a song, feel like a part of something. What I don't think is a good idea is the part where she mumbled something about it being my break time but I could come along with them to the program.

"Alright," I said before I could realize what I'd agreed to. I hate how some teachers assume that a sub has nothing to do on the plan periods but do their bidding. They pay YOU the big bucks to plan during those times. Me, they pay the small bucks so I can regather my thoughts or maybe work on stuff for grad school.

In the middle of my reeling at being in the morning program, I noticed something that made my head explode.

On the overhead projector were the words to a song about animals. It was something really lame with a cassette version of kids singing in painful falsetto. "I like owls, I like owls..."

When it got to the really exotic animals, grammar rules seemed to be out the window.

"I like hippo's, I like hippo's"

"I like kangaroo's, I like kangaroo's"

The hippo's what? The kangaroo's what? I hate the panicky thing people do when trying to pluralize a word they don't often pluralize that is sprinkling apostrophes where they don't belong. To illustrate how much this bothers me, I'd like to draw your attention once more to Improper Apostrophe.

Directly from there we go into the computer lab and try to type letters. One little girl complains her MS Word isn't working. When I go open up a New Word Document for her, she makes the background green and proceeds to type SILDIDFJJKJKJKJKJKJKJKJKJKJKJKJKJKJKJSDJFJFJFJFJFJIEEEEEEEEEEEIIIIIIIIIISSSSSSSJKJKJKJ until the page is filled.

After the computer lab, we stop at the gym. The classroom teacher looks at me, says "have fun, see you in 40 minutes," and ushers me into this tiny gym. I felt like saying "Hey, I know you have a break now, but you can come with us into the gym."

In the gym there is no where to hide, and that rude boy with the running? Yea, I'm pretty sure he was TRYING to hit me with tennis balls. Did I mention I'm sick and have a headache? I bet the first time was an accident, but he got so much pleasure out of watching me duck and cover my head that he tried for it again. Again, I was wearing cowboy boots, and I don't think I mentioned, a dress.

After the hell that was gym class was over, the gym teacher made me bring the students to the water fountain and back to the classroom. The teacher inquired as to how gym went. I informed her that almost everyone mostly followed directions, but that the gym is a dangerous place to be. This seemed like news to her. She inquired as to why, and then reproached the students with her ever present half smile that seems to make everything not-a-big-deal. She might have the patience of a saint, but I was losing my patience for her.

She then informed me in elaborate detail about taking two students to the library to do a practice test. I reminded her that I was only to be with them for another 15 minutes. She said that she would have the person coming to relieve me stop at her room so she could explain first. Great. That means even longer that I have to be working with these students.

In the end, the person to relieve me showed up 15 minutes late, and by the time I figured out the classroom I was actually supposed to be in, I was like 20 minutes late for one of my classes. I showed up to the room to find that the classroom teacher had already administered the test that I was supposed to give, and I listened to three students read me tiny books, and then worked on a puzzle.

After this there was a two hour break in my schedule. This is due to 1.plan 2.lunch and 3. a one student class in which the student moved. Without this I think I would have caused a riot.

I, of course, took the opportunity to leave, get gas, buy orange juice and cough drops, stop home, cook lunch, try to upload a video, and read more of Zeitoun.

I'm compiling a DNS list, that is Do-Not-Sub. It may be a mental list, but I doubt I'll lose it.

Road Rage! Speed Racer.

I was just on my way home from watching The Office with my mom. I could get off exit 7 or 6 to get home, and as I drove around the ramp onto alternate 7, I wondered why I hadn't chosen the other exit. I decided that the convenience of either is probably equal, as one involves more stoplights at the beginning part, and the other at the end. As I waited at a stoplight on 6th, I noticed the vehicle next to me creeping forward. I know exactly what it's doing...I tend to do it myself. The right hand lane becomes a right hand turning lane, so if you want to pass the line of cars in the left lane, you've gotta step on it. I inch forward also, letting the driver know that I'm awake and not planning to hesitate when the light turns green. A right hand turning arrow lit up and said vehicle (which happened to be a Jeep Cherokee) almost drove through it. When the light really did turn green, we both stepped on it, nose to nose, with the Jeep pushing me into the other lane. Finally I decided that winning was not worth crashing my new car, so I slowed up. But I was angry. Doing the right hand speed up lane thing is a jerk move. I know, because I often do it. For some reason, however, I think that it should only be employed and pushed if the other person is old or slow and would thus be in the way. So, in my view, this Jeep was being a jerk. I lay on my horn for...I don't know, probably about a minute. I would have laid on it longer had we not been approaching the police station. I high-beamed on and off, figuring that my station wagon was most likely not tall enough to have any effect. As the Jeep took a right on route 2 (congress? fulton? the west bound one) I started to dread the fact that I would have to be turning left soon, and this is another two laned road and said Jeep would probably try to race me again. Instead, the Jeep pulled into the first left hand turning lane and took a left on 5th. As he waited for the opportunity to turn, I honked again as I drove by. I got a look at him, he looked angry and confused. I mouthed an angry word at him. Small white boy. Why would you race a girl in a station wagon? It's like beating up your grandma. Just because you can do it, doesn't mean you should. I took my left up third and thought about how my car isn't made for racing, how I was afraid the offender might work for a school, things like that. When I pulled in front of my house, I took a minute to gather the things in my car, being sure to remove dirty tupperware so I don't have a disaster zone like I left in my last car. I get out, lock my car, and am startled when a vehicle drives by and honks at just the moment it passes me. I get a glimpse as it rounds the corner closest to my house. Sure enough, a Jeep Wrangler. I present my one leg no wing greeting, and go inside.

Crap.

He knows where I live.

Crap.

I feel safe in this city because I don't have any enemies. It seems I've made an enemy. Crap. Crap. Crap.

Every car that pulls up freaks me out a bit. Why would one drive up Fifth and then down Second? Down my block? Was this guy LOOKING for me? Did this guy know where I live? Is this a supposed friend of mine? One of the RPI guys? I think they all drive little cars.

Are you the jerk who tried to race me? Show yourself! They don't call me Brazofuerte for nothing!!

This is Why I'm Single.

I met this guy the other day. He was nice enough, and from our initial awkward interaction, I figured we wouldn't have much of a conversation. Of course, I was mostly wrong about this as he soon began asking me questions about myself and telling me a bit about him. Soon we got onto the topic of gardening, which, apparently, we both do a little of. He talked about how his tomatoes didn't do well this year, and I said: "Oh, yea, we had the blight," but he continued on about how he wasn't affected by this and talked about all the rain, and how the only thing that did well were squash. I told him about how last year I grew a lot of carrots, all in one plot and they did really well, but this year I interspersed them with everything else and I didn't get as many. He explained to me that carrots like sandy soil, and I already was aware of this, but didn't feel like making sure he knew that. Then he started talking about how slugs have been eating his zucchini plants, how they eat the flowers (which I didn't know) and then explained how the flowers are necessary, because the zucchini grows from them. Seriously? I think I've known this since I was 10. And honestly, are you not listening to me when I say that I have a community garden plot? That I grow things? That I've been growing things? Why are you assuming that I don't know this stuff?

Later in our conversation, he started talking about things he's studying in school, and before explaining something, he would ask if I was familiar with it. I think he would have been safer assuming I didn't know anything about his area of expertise, and asking about my familiarity with gardening.

No one likes being talked down to.

Also, the other night, I asked one of my good friends if...in six years, if no one loves me, if he would assist in my having children. After a brief discussion as to why I would want or need him for this and not some hobo, he recognized the query as a compliment, and stated that he has six years to think about it. I added that our children would be really cute. He agreed.

I've been thinking about asking him this for some time now. Of course, I hope that within six years, I can be married and planning my own kids with my husband, but things haven't been looking too promising lately, and I have to be serious about things and not put all my....uh, eggs in one basket. I'd put off asking him because I figured it would freak him out and he wouldn't want to be my friend anymore.

Luckily, this wasn't his reaction. He actually even added that we should talk more.

It's a miracle that I have any friends in the first place.

I love you as a sub

Seriously, what is it with people asking me a question, and arguing about my response? If you'll only accept one kind of answer, you need to specify. "What should I have for dinner, Mac & Cheese or Mac & Cheese?" Don't say "Mac & Cheese or Pizza?" if you've got your heart set on one.

The value of telling the truth

I believe I rambled about my issues with getting this new car. Perhaps I mentioned the big dent that appeared between the time when we said we'd take it and when we came to sign the papers and pick it up? Russ, the guy who was selling us the car had insisted that the dent must have been there, because *he* drove the car from the K-mart parking lot back to the dealership.

I know 2 things: 1) A dent can happen to a car when no one is inside it. 2) My dad has the eagle-eye when it comes to car exteriors. I wouldn't have even noticed something on my car, and when I pull up into his driveway, he'd yell out the window: HEY! What'd'ya hit?

So, to appease my family, Russ said that we could make an appointment with the "dent doctor" and at that time they'd also re-detail my car (it hadn't been done well at all). So when I finally called to make the appointment, I talked to the receptionist (who asked how she may direct my call): "Yes, I recently purchased a car from your dealership. I worked with Russell Frost. When I picked it up, there was a new dent and Russell Frost told me to call and make an appointment with the dent doctor. Russell Frost."

She decided to redirect my call to the body shop, who didn't answer, so I left a message: "Hi, yes, Russell Frost told me to call and make this appointment yaddah yaddah Russell Frost."

About an hour later, I get an angry call from Russell Frost, who essentially conveys to me that he thinks I'm an idiot.

"You need to call ME for that. I'M the one that sold you the car."

Dude, like I know how a dealership works. I shouldn't even need to be doing this. GAH.

"How's 2 on Wednesday?" he inquires. Did he ask me when I was available? No.

"Um...how about 4," I reply, and he agrees.

When he first told me about this, he said it would take about 2 hours. I decided that since I was going right after work I would just bring a book and sit in the waiting room for that time. It wasn't really enough time to try and get someplace else. Also, the weather was crappy. At 4, when I walked into the dealership and handed him my keys, he says: "ok, you're dropping this off?"
"Nope, I'm staying here." He repeats this in a slightly-concerned manner. He tells me he'll be back soon.

I settle into the waiting area and it isn't even 20 minutes before he calls me over to a desk. "Alright, so they've taken a look at your car, and now we just need to make an appointment for the dent doctor."

"WHAT? This WAS my appointment with the dent doctor!!" Can you feel my tension rising? This would have been two whole wasted hours had I dropped it off!!!

"Yea, but the dent is too big to do in-house and it's too late to get the professional today. When are you available next week?"
He asks this as he dials the phone. I scowl. "...um, anytime after 4, but just not Tuesday.."

As he speaks to someone on the phone, he turns to me and says: "How about 3?"

"No, absolutely not. I can't do that." What the heck dude? SERIOUSLY? Are you trying to make it so I can't ever work, so I can't pay for this damn thing?

"Can't you drop it off before work and pick it up after?" By this point, he has told the person on the phone that he will call her(?) back.

"How'm I supposed to get to work?"

"Can't someone bring you?"

"No! I live in Troy, I work in Troy or Schenectady, my parents live in Saratoga, they work full time, they've got their own thing going on. No."

Then he mentions that they're going to need the car for two full days.

"You said this was going to take TWO HOURS!"

At this point he tells me to calm down, that we're going to figure this out.

"I'm sorry, this has just become a huge hassle."

"But it's got to get done, so when can you do it?"

"Can you please just acknowledge the fact that this has become a huge hassle?"

"Fine. Yes. It has."

He is being very short with me, and is clearly annoyed with the exchange. I have resented this guy since he wrote down the trade-in value for my saturn ($100). I hate him.

"How'm I going to get to work those days?" He does not offer any sort of help on this. Saturn of Albany always drove me where I needed to be when they were working on my car. "Well, maybe I can drive my Saturn. It's a good thing I didn't trade it in He starts telling me that this is impossible, as it doesn't have plates. This notion is false. My Saturn is sitting in my parents driveway in Saratoga, just as drivable as it was two weeks ago. Then he remembers putting new plates on the suzuki. Also, he does not understand why my parents can't just drive down and drop off a car, yadda yadda. I'm not just going to make plans and ASSUME my parents are going to be available and willing to follow through, and I REALLY don't appreciate someone else making plans for me with that same set of assumptions.

"Also, it has been very difficult to work with you. You've been treating me like you don't respect me at all."

Somehow, this personal attack was biting enough to change his demeanor. He takes out a business card and writes "Maria" on it in sharpie. He apologizes and says he didn't realize that I'd felt that way, and if I wanted to just call her and not have to deal with him anymore, then that would be fine. I tell him I just need some time to talk to my parents and discuss what will work for us. I call my mom. Her schedule is certainly not wide open. My uncle is coming to visit from Utah next week. I think they usually let him use one of their cars. She says she'll help me drop off the car on Sunday night so they can work on it Monday. I go back into the dealership to tell him this. All of a sudden, he is offering to have me pick him up, drive him to Saratoga, and he will drive one of the cars back to Albany.

"That's OK, but thanks." We make the appointment, and I bring him outside to show him the place in my car where it looked like much soda was spilled and never cleaned up. The problem with fold out armrest cup holders is that they can be hidden and left a mess. I tell him that the bit of dirt not vacuumed up didn't work me up much, but that armrest thing was completely disgusting and unacceptable. He agrees. "It certainly is disgusting." He explains that at these sales, they sell such a quantity of cars in such a short amount of time that some quality, especially in their already-crappy detail department, declines. I share my year experience as "detail technician" at Hoffman's Carwash. "This would have gotten me fired," I say.

This is a hyperbole. It would have gotten my hours cut down so I was forced to quit.

He asks what he could have done differently to do right by me, and where he went wrong. I try to be vague when answering him, but he pries for specifics.

I recount the phone call where he was mad at me for not calling him directly. He does what you shouldn't do when apologizing: tries to defend himself. He starts explaining that he was the one who sold me the car so why would I talk to anyone else yadda yadda. (Back me up here. If he was the one fixing the dent, then I would understand his frustration. But he is just the middle man.) I explain to him that though I mentioned his name a million times, I was connected to the body shop. "Ohh, so it was a receptionist..." he ponders. As though someone else typically answers the phone? I tell him that quite frankly, even as early as that Monday, when-I-absolutely-couldn't-spend-time-doing-anything-but-my-school-work and yet I was made to go to the dealership, I was pissed. He explained that he had remembered about my paper but my father had told him it was OK.

"It was conveyed to my parents that the car absolutely had to be picked up by Tuesday, and Tuesday I had a doctors appointment and Literacy Volunteers training and we couldn't do it earlier."

Though I stated that in that way to not blame him for anything, he starts rambling that he was the only one who ever talked to my parents, and that picking it up Wednesday would have been fine, it was only important that it was out by the end of the month. Now he is calling my parents liars. Smooth move.

He explains to me that most of the sales reps only last for three months, and he has been there for three years, and he doesn't want me to think he's a sleazy sales guy (he's a different kind of sleaze...he had his sleeves pulled up during this interaction and I could see his painful tattoo). I told him that he'd remedied the situation, and that I'd drop the car off on Sunday.

I called my mom on the way home. "He said WHAT? There's no way! Wednesday would have been better for us too!!

So even if he is some sort of a sleaze or an idiot, I'm no longer so angry at him. Instead of violence or screaming, it is really effective to directly state the truth. I find this also works with students. Some people need to hear that their actions truly do effect others, and watching someone's face drop (in this situation) is really really satisfying.

I guess I should have gotten a Ford Fiesta

So I took this extravagant road trip, and my only hope for my car was that it would return me to Troy, NY. It did that, certainly, but along the way....let's say somewhere up the Hollywood Hills I realized that my car was dying. Then, somewhere in Pennsylvania, I realized that my car was going to die soon. Since my car is technically my father's, I let him know this. He didn't sound particularly interested. I tried to convey the severity of it, but his interest still wasn't piqued. Since I can't afford it now, I asked if I could borrow their spare car between the time when my car finally kicks the bucket and when I've saved enough to buy a new one. This seemed fine to them, but somewhere my dad went on a rant about not buying me a car. This was confusing to me, because of course, I never asked him to buy me one.

So I'm not anywhere near ready to think about buying a car, I have only worked one half a day so far, and I need to pay my rent (and soon my Healthy NY) before I can think about such extravagances as...a means of transportation...you know, to work. (Though I could just work only in Troy and walk / ride my bike / the bus.) For some reason, my dad started looking for a car for me. I think he kind of enjoys doing this sort of thing. On Friday, the first day I actually worked this school year, I received a call from my mom. There was apparently some sort of parking-lot-car-sale which I've affectionately dubbed car-garage-sale. When I pulled up, my parents were standing near a 200(6?) Suzuki 4cl Station Wagon. Silver. I took it for a spin around the parking lot, everything seemed fine. As this was a car and a deal that apparently isn't oft found, it was decided to purchase it on the spot. I suppose I'll be making payments to my father. It was assumed that I would be trading my car in, and when our dealer guy, Russ Frost, wrote down $100 for my trade-in, I knew I no longer liked him. When my first Saturn broke in half, a guy name Guisseppe paid me $300 for it, and I think he had to tow it away. Three hundred, and I would have said OK. My car needs transmission work, but everything else seems find.

We discussed when to pick the car up, and I made it a big deal that it had to be after Monday. This shouldn't be a problem, considering that it was just Friday. The reason I needed my weekend undisturbed was that I had to finish my packet for grad school. It was due on Monday, and now that my advisor is in Canada, e-mailing is the only option. So, they never tell you a time Monday, so I figure, before it is Tuesday, earlier is best. After working all weekend on this, I wake up Monday to my alarm clock and my cell phone ringing. I should have been able to get my packet in by dinner time. On the phone was my mother, who had called to say that there was suddenly no option for picking up the car later in the week, it absolutely had to happen that evening. "Are you kidding? I was serious about not being able to do it today?" She promised it wouldn't take too long, and that they'd be down about 5:30 to pick me up.

At like, 4:45, there was a knock on my door. Seriously? Out of all the times I invite me dad to come hang out with me, and he isn't interested, the one time I need to be alone and working, he shows up 45 minutes early. My mom is apologetic. Apparently, she was aware of this, but he wanted to get going. We arrived at the dealership 10-15 minutes earlier than our appointment, and immediately located Russ. He was walking around with some papers to copy, and he said he would be with us in 5 minutes. 15 minutes later, my father went to glare at him. When we sat down, I signed a million papers with gritted teeth. At one point, Russ turned to me: "Are you excited??"

"Quite honestly," I told him "I have a 15 page paper due for grad school, like, right now. I really don't have the time to be doing this today. This is why I said NOT TODAY. So....no, I'm not excited. My mind is elsewhere."

When he went to put plates on my car, he said he had to wait because it was being detailed. I used to work for Hoffman's Carwash, my job title was Detail Technician. I did this for a year. For making us wait so long to bring the car out (like, another 10 minutes)...the car wasn't detailed. It wasn't thoroughly vacuumed, some of the cup holders weren't cleaned out. The part that got us most, however, was the brand new dent. My dad has x-ray dent eyes, and he and my mother had scanned every exterior inch of this car before even asking to test drive it. This dent was new.

So I apparently have to make an appointment with them to suction out this dent and re-detail it. They could just give me $100 and I'd live with the dent and detail it myself. But this isn't the most annoying part. By the time I'm finally able to go home and resume work on my packet, it is several hours later. And I didn't finish until 12:30....which is Tuesday...which means that had I been listened to, I would have been able to finish my packet, you know, around dinner time. ARGH#$*&#($&*#$!!!

And afterward, I watched RHPS because I was too wound-up to go to sleep. Such a good movie.

This is the first time in my life that my car has not existed on the blue-green continuum.

Chills and Fever

I feel sick. I have two reasons in mind as to how I got this way.

The first is mold-allergy related. Though I haven't been tested, I'm pretty sure I have a mold allergy.

Blight is a fungal disease. I recently removed all the blighted potatoes and tomatoes from my garden, to the pleading of CDCG. The next night, I awaken myself with a wheezy cough. My joints ache. My head hurts.

Also, it could be this.

I was at the dentist the other day. I know they take precautions to not spread diseases, but several hands in your mouth for a period of time is a risky deal.

And maybe I just want to blame my dentist because we are about to have a falling out.

There was a two year period when I was going to get a new dentist, closer to where I lived. Finding this new dentist never worked out, and I was under the impression that my mom had called my old dentist to remove my patient status. When I finally clarified this with my mom, the receptionist had to get my file from some dusty filing cabinet reserved for patients they "haven't seen for a year and a half."

This time without dentist appointments was worse than I would have thought. "You have decay in 11 teeth," they told me.

Not 11 cavities. 11 teeth. Expletive. I'd maybe had one or two before this. Perhaps flossing is important.

At my last checkup, they mention a couple spots to watch. I mention my ensuing loss of insurance. They decide to drill these problem areas.

The other day, I went in for what I believed to be the only appointment for drilling. They never tell me what is happening in my mouth, and I usually am not quite sure how many cavities they've filled. I have no clue how many fillings I have. They are all tooth colored. They don't show themselves.

I had actually been looking forward to this appointment because some of my molars have become sensitive to cold, sweet, and acidic. Rear molars on either side of my mouth.

After they dental hygienist moves aside the tray of tools and tells me I'm "all set," I look at her concerned. They've only drilled on one side of my mouth. "I've been experiencing pain on the other side of my mouth," I tell her, as articulately as possible considering the novocaine. She looks at my papers and goes to get the dentist.

Mind you, this is the same dentist I've been going to al my life. I really respect this man's dental abilities.

He comes in and I try to explain to him that I've been experiencing some pain on both sides with cold, acidic, and sweet and that I thought he was going to be drilling on the other side.

Sweet is like a trigger word for him. He launches into a tyrade of self-righteous "you shouldn't eat sugars"-ing. "No, no, strawberries," I tell him. That the pain is from fruit sugars does not concern him. He makes a circle with his thumb and his index finger. "This is how much sugar you should have each day," he tells me. I try to defend myself, I don't really eat that much candy or anything. He asks what I do for a living. "I'm a substitute teacher," I tell him. "What's on your desk?" he asks, which isn't quite the right question, as I typically don't have a desk I feel comfortable enough to keep my drink at. I don't post this concern. "A canteen of water." "What do you put in the water?" he asks, like I'm trying to get away with something.

"Nothing." I'm now getting pretty perturbed. He goes on a rant about how the neanderthals never had cavaties, and if we ate like them, we wouldn't either.

He also asked me how I take my fruit, if I put anything on it, etc. This is a really weird question to me, because I don't actually have fruit rituals. I eat fruit when I can, but it is expensive. Sometimes I cut it up, sometimes I eat it whole, sometimes I can't afford it.

"If you eat it and are done with it," he tells me, "that's fine; but if you cut it up and pick at it all day..." he shakes his head.

"I bought a box of strawberries. I ate a strawberry. It caused pain in my teeth."

He looks at my xrays and sees nothing. "Nothing there," he tells me.

I take my finger and try to identify the area of my teeth that hurts. If I bite down hard, I can feel it.

He looks in with his tools. He finds nothing. He remains utterly unsympathetic, again telling me that I should consume little to no sugars, including carbohydrates in this. This man will NOT get me on the Atkins. He scolds me that I am too susceptible to cavities, that I have had too many cavities in my life, and that as soon as I apply sugar to my teeth, I'm done for.

I can't help but think:

Seriously? Screw yourself. You have been my dentist for at least 20 years, and you have my dental history in front of you and you can't even recognize that my huge amount of cavities did not come about until AFTER my 2 year lack of dentist visits. Also, this is the THIRD time he has asked me what I drink all day, and what my occupation is. If I never had any cavities, I would have no need to see him, and if everyone followed suit, he wouldn't have a job,

PLUS when I tell you my tooth hurts, I don't need a lecture, I need you to identify the problem and FIX IT.

While I will floss more, I am CERTAINLY not going to stop eating fruit.

QUE TE DEN.

Ay.

So yea, I just sort of feel like blaming him for my sickness.

Snooze Button Junkie

I am a snooze button addict. I generally set my alarm clock with this in mind, although sometimes I plan on getting up early to do (insert beneficial activity here), and then in my half awake state hit the button thinking "screw it."

This morning was one of those. Unlike other mornings, when the only one I would be annoying is Igby (who lets me know by slowly inserting her claws into my face), this morning was a Goddard Residency morning.

Whereas the previous mornings I awoke before the alarm clock and turned it off, this morning I decided jogging would not be in the plans, and hit the snooze button.

I don't know how long the snooze cycle is, but it feels shorter than the 9 minutes I get at home.

Maybe at one point I contemplated getting up for a bit before hitting the button again. Sometimes if I just listen to the terrible noise, it helps to wake me.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

As I made my way to the door, stopping to put on more decent attire, the visitor signaled again.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

I open the door to a woman, younger in the Gs than I. "Um, are you ok?" she asks. "Your alarm clock has been going off for fifteen minutes and we're wondering if you're OK. We can hear it all over this floor."

"Uh, yeah, I don't know....sorry..." I stammer.

She is now among the ranks of people I am afraid of, will make a nice smile at but avoid all conversations with.

In other news, I've been thinking lately about digging a hole, and getting in. Unlike the holes of others, I imagine my hole to be on the side of a hill, sort of cave like. I imagine how it would feel to be completely surrounded by earth, it contacting my skin, the weight of it. The responsibility-less nature of hiding in a hole.

But then I think....after a while, I will want to be stimulated in some real way, converse, move about. I also think.....I bet I wouldn't last a half hour before I started getting the heeby jeebies-things are crawling on me-get me outta heres.

A brief note.

Dear America,

Thanks for all the road construction.

Yours truly,

Emily

Sioux City

Driving north from Omaha, I stopped in Sioux City, IA. The reasons were twofold.

1. Buy a Flip camera like Ally's.

2. Go for a run.

Task number one successfully completed, I drove out of the strip-mall-burbs and back into the legitamite "city," complete with buildings. I parked my car on some street, popped my trunk, and changed out of the sandals I was wearing into a pair of sneakers. It didn't seem worth it to try and change out of the dress I was wearing, so I just slipped a pair of bike shorts on underneath. I grabbed my water bottle and my keys and started my jog. A few blocks down the road, I had nearly finished the small amount of water in my canteen, so I was relieved to see a business that was open -- a bar.

A bar will totally fill up my water bottle, maybe even give me ice.

So I enter this bar. It is entirely filled with weathered farm workers. They all look at my as soon as I enter, as though I have five heads. I walk up to the bar and make my request. While waiting for the bartender to give me ice water, one of the farmers (maybe a rude assumption to make, but I was in Iowa) started a conversation with me.

"Don't worry that they're all making fun of you. You do your own thing and that's great!"

'Oh?' I said

'Is that what's happening?' I thought.

Ignorance.

Sometimes someone says or does something that is so wrong that I just loose my mind.

Like, today, for instance.

In a certain middle school in Schenectady where kids are generally OK.

I begin my sub-routine, take attendance, explain the task at hand, let them have at it. In this particular school it is important to take attendance as quickly as possible because they send the monitors in to pick it up in the beginning of the period. I have finished this part and I am explaining the packet to the class. One girl, sitting near the door, is reading a book. Not the end of the world, so I let her go. However, she is reading out loud. Some kids have to. I just talk over her, she isn't talking very loud....but she is the only student talking. Toward the end of my explanation I notice that she isn't reading anymore, she is talking to another student. I begin to pass out packets. I walk up to her and say: "shhh, shhh shhh shhhhhhhh."

Instead of taking my gentle hint, she burts out: "DON'T TELL ME TO BE QUIET LIKE THAT! I HATE WHEN PEOPLE TELL ME TO QUIET DOWN LIKE THAT! DON'T DISRESPECT ME! I HATE WHEN TEACHERS DISRESPECT ME!"

"I wouldn't have to ask you to be quiet in ANY way if you just WERE being quiet," I offer, softly.

She continues to belligerently yell, and I warn her that if she doesn't settle down, I'm going to give her lunch detention.

I don't make empty threats. This was a punishment the teacher told me I could give, if a student does not comply after a warning. However, she wasn't having it.

"YOU CAN'T GIVE ME LUNCH DETENTION! I HATE ALL THESE SUBS COME IN HERE THINK THEY CAN GIVE ME LUNCH DETENTION!"

I begin to explain that I can indeed give her lunch detention, that I will leave a note for her teacher who will assign it. I am no longer being quiet and gentle.

A little later in the class this girl and someone else were discussing something I knew something about. I offered a thought.

"WHO ASKED YOU? NOBODY ASKED YOU SO DON'T TALK!" instructed the baby/future dictator.

Now I'm really heated. "Subs can talk whenever they please, they do not need your permission to do so..." Not that she heard me, because apparently we are now in a yelling match.

Side note: I do not like yelling matches. They are lame. I don't like to loose my cool either, but sometimes I also don't like that my desire to be a teacher negates my ability to inflict bodily harm upon some students.

When I get really mad and frustrated, I turn bright red and sometimes cry. The emotion has to come out somewhere.

Thankfully, I didn't cry, but I did turn bright red. And this student is yelling that I am embarrassed.

"Embarrassed?!?" I gawk, "More like FURIOUS! YOU ARE THE MOST RUDE AND DISRESPECTFUL PERSON I HAVE EVER MET! I feel bad for the other boys and girls in here who have to deal with this, as they've actually been pleasant and respectful!"

"Furry-us? Furry-us? Rrriight. You'se embarrassed. Furry-us. Ha."

"THE WORD IS FURIOUS! FYYYURIOUS!" I yelled, scrambling to call the office.

The phone was busy.

She'll get lunch detention, alright. I just wish I was there to see it.

Um, and if you happen to be seeking employment in a field that isn't hindered by your violence against minors (tattoo artistry, graphic design?) , please do me this favor:

Slap a seventh grader. Preferably a female. Preferably one in Schenectady, after she sasses you. It shouldn't be hard to have her sass you. Just politely ask her to stop doing something.

Stood Up

For some reason, I am always being stood up. Unlike the unfortunate movie character, however, I am usually stood up by friends.
Granted, it is not all of my friends. Some of my friends are really good at making and keeping plans. Some are not.

It has gotten so bad that I have had to discuss it with one or two offenders. This usually helps, but only minimally.

Tonight I was stood up by one friend who is usually good at keeping plans. I would be upset with him, but he is moving away.

Our plans tonight were not just for hanging out, they were for saying goodbye.

I feel really weird. If I say: 'screw you, bud' then I never see him again and we left on a bad note.

If I try any harder to get ahold of him.....I don't know, it just isn't worth it. I left him two messages on his answering machine (he only has a landline), and I stopped by (as per the plans) and he wasn't home.

Less than awesome.

Yesterday I arrived at a certain Middle School in Schenectady to substitute for a certain Special Ed teacher. I follow sub protocol: arrive, sign in, wait to be told room number, arrive at said room, look for sub plans.

So this room is in the basement. It is a single digit. I enter the classroom, and there are already 2 students present. Each is sitting at a table (for some reason, behaviorally challenged students always seem to get large working surfaces). Neither is talking, but one has headphones on, and I can hear his music from the other side of the room.

There is a paraprofessional (read: aide) in the room. He is wearing cargo shorts, a striped polo shirt, and skater sneakers. He is watching Lil' Wayne videos on YouTube.

"I'm here for such-and-such a teacher," I tell him.

"You're in the right place," he tells me, hardly looking up from the computer.

I look around for some sub plans, a blue and yellow folder, a typed or written piece of paper that says "plans" on it, anything.

Nothing.

There are stacks of papers on one of the front desk-tables. There aren't any instructions included with these.

"Did she leave me any plans?" I inquire.

"No, she forgot to write 'em." It is as if I am bothering this guy.

At this point I am just standing there, pissed. Usually, if I am the only adult in the room, I will take this time to put my things somewhere and familiarize myself with the plans. If there are other adults in the room, they will usually give me a rundown on how the day will go, tell me where I can keep my things, etc.

But he is still watching music videos on YouTube. Lil' Wayne, The Used, and other great musicians in the whiney-rock category.

I am staring at a bulletin board across the room, at remnants of wood-grain contact paper clearly left from a half-hearted attempt to remove said paper by tearing. I am gritting my teeth.

After what must have been five minutes, I turn to him and ask as sweetly as I can muster: "Is she going to be e-mailing her plans?"

"No, we'll manage" he assures(?) me, unconcerned.

"Well then can you at least give me an idea of what the day is like?"

"Sure, First period is math, second period someone comes in for science, third is home ec, fourth english, fifth is their lunch, sixth is health, seventh is sort of a free period, eighth is history and ninth is gym."

Never was I told when my breaks were, what my responsibilities were, any classroom rules, consequences, what I should or shouldn't do.

So I sat down at the table with all the stacks of paper on it. I rotated a chair so I could be facing the students, and I took out my book.

A second para-professional arrives. She takes a seat at a table in the back of the room. A third student arrives.

Unlike the students already in the room, this student is a bit chatty. He talks about his track meet to them, scolds the noisy-headphone boy for having his music too loud. I decide I like this boy. I think about this quick decision in my head, dwell upon it for a moment.

This boy opens up his backpack and pulls out what appears to be a bagel with cream cheese.

"Smells like sweaty balls!" he exclaims.

With an expression both disgusted and concerned, I ask him if he is referring to his breakfast.

"No! Ew! What?"

"Oh, if it was, I was just going to say, don't eat that!"

"Why, you know what sweaty balls taste like?"




Awesome.

By the way, the punishment for that gem of a comment was this:

both paras said his name in a disapproving manner.

Never sub for such-and-such a Special Ed teacher at a certain Middle School in Schenectady.

Changing The Way We Do...

It is no news to anyone with a computer that the way the news is made has changed radically, and the distance between people has dramatically decreased. No longer are we subject to the opressive, deaf television of yesteryear. If only Nam June Paik could see it now.

It is easier to get your message out to more people, if they care, as Ian discussed in his 2 year blogiversary. Technology is such that any old fool can make things of the same quality that was only possible for a select few in years past. The twenty minute neon-color-computer-crash-esque scene in 2001: A Space Odyssey says it all, I think. And then people who don't need to rely on such base technology do so in a way that makes them more relatable. I'm thinking about you, Andy Samberg, my love. Maybe these guys are famous, but probably not; check out this video highlighted by GirlShawn. Either way, they will be soon.

Visit msnbc.com for Breaking News, World News, and News about the Economy

And then there is the Craigslist Killah. A new way to be a serial killer, and a new way to report about it. I was sent the following message on Facebook. I bet some of you received it too.


Hi Emily,

My name is Nate Schweber and I'm a reporter helping out with a story for the NY Times about Philip Markoff.

I know this story has dominated the news but what we're trying to do is write the most fair, honest and accurate profile of Phil that's out there.

I wanted to ask you if you know Phil? (I spoke to a couple friends from college already, James Kehoe and Olivia Fagan). Do you think Phil is the person the media has made him out to be? Are there are any stories about him you could share?

My deadline is Sunday. If you could please get back to me before then I'd greatly appreciate it. I can promise to take down only the information you're comfortable giving out.

Phone, e-mail or Facebook works great. Thank you.

Nate
917-478-4984
nateschweber@gmail.com

Do you think that doing your reporting research this way makes it less credible? If someone Facebooks you a quote, do you trust it?

Oh, and I'm still mourning the death of a loved one.


.....and resenting the rebound.

This Week Sucked.

Why? 10 hour days essentially babysitting private school kids....and every kid I've ever disliked (below fifth grade) at that school showed up. A few kids I'd never met before proved themselves to also be annoying, or perhaps annoying and later cute.

Highlights, Lowlights, Things I've Observed:

1. Playing cards with cheat peekers is lame. Peek Sneeker. Pete Seeger.
2. Playing battleship with liars, or kids too little to realize that they are lying is lame.
3. Hungry Hungry Hippos is the noisiest game that does not claim to be noisy.
4. Hungry Hungry Hippos does not fit in its box.
5. I took my favorite kid to help me feed the K/1 frogs. He dumped sooo much food in that the next day one could not make out the frogs through the water. Oops.
6. I can predict what a child will grow up to be based on little things they say (which are essentially direct quotes from the people I know that they will grow up to be like)
7. Electronics out doors is super lame. One fourth grade girl, showing off her fancy new iPod touch seeks shade during playground recess so she could play with her apps. Or watch WALL-E. Oh, the irony.
8. Lame app: toast. Who wants to toast digital bread, add digital toppings, and digitally eat it? Wouldn't it be better to have actual toast? It is cheap, quick, and delicious.
9. One boy, who would become my favorite and the cutest (he is five) kept getting stuck in this part of the playground. I would lift him up and out. One time, he called me "Emmmilly!" 'Stuck again?' I say, and as I get close to him he jumps free of the playground equipment and taunts: "tricked ya, tricked ya, now you've gotta kiss me!"

10. One little girl (4yr old) asked if she could go to her cubby. Another little girl told the first girl that she would be joining her on the walk to her cubby. 'Wait! You have to ask" we tell her. "Oh Sorry!" and turning to the first little girl: "Can I go with you to your cubby?"

11. Guess Who is racist. There is not a single non-white person on the board. Some may disagree. I always thought she was Italian. Furthermore, how many redheads are in this crowd of people? How many redheads are usually? Don't get my wrong, I love me some redheads, but c'mon. (Also, only a handful of women....)


We made bread, hummus, and butter. I almost lost my head at one little girl in particular. She is say....five, and I would do an impersonation of her but I can't bring myself to vlog. So try this: put on your whiniest, most high pitched voice. Be sure to annunciate all your consonants. Now pretend that you are a five year old trying to argue your point to an adult who has already told you 'NO'. Try one of these on for size:

- Why cant we go on the little kids playground?
- But I don't want to make butter. I don't want any butter on my bread.*
- But I want an oompa loompa now Daddy!

*This one really pushed me over the edge. Let me tell you that the only reason bread was made that day (today) was so that there would be something to put the butter ON. If you can't even have the decency to shake the container with the marble, you don't deserve any bread. I just started mocking her and going off:
"ohh, ohh, I hate this, I don't want to do this and Emily sucks and Emily is lame and the activities that she prepared are totally boring and I'll have no part in them" and the other little kids said "Emily, your face is getting all red" while the little girl I was...attacking?...(ohh, no! who am I?) stammered her explanations.

Butter:

Bread:

and when I got home I actually used some of my compost (for the first time ever)

to plant cattle beans.

By the way, the "compost-able" Ben & Jerry's corn cup came out looking the same a year later.

Engrish.com

I made a new blog. I'll tell you about it when there is actually some content on it.

Ten hour days. All my least favorite kids. Some that are OK.

I come home and it is time to go to bed. !!!!!!!!!! I don't know how people do this.

Unfortunately, Jesus died for you too.

So I just was informed that Fred Phelps and the Wesboro Baptist Church are coming to Albany tomorrow to spread around their hatred.

They are going to protest both SUNY Albany and Albany High School, which they claim are both "fag-infested".Apparently, these kids drove them away. Here's hoping a similar thing will happen tomorrow.

The WBC wants everyone to know that God hates them and that He is punishing us for not obeying His commands and killing homosexuals. Or something like that.

Also, they think Obama is the antichrist. I really thought Bush was better suited for that role. Did people think that JFK was the antichrist?

I want to know what sort of crack they are smoking before they sit down to read their bibles. I want to know what they think when they read passages condemning pharisees. Did they miss the entire character of Christ?

I don't usually broadcast my faith because as I've matured I've come to realize that no one wants to be beaten over the head with anything. However, I can't help but rant about this!

And what about the whole book of Galatians? Do they not realize that they are bigoted legalists?

You can go up to a drunken hobo on the street and tell him he has a problem, but I doubt he will care or listen to you. However, if you have a friend with an alcohol problem, and he or she knows that you care deeply about him or her, and you go about it with love and respect, that friend is much more likely to listen to you.

Also, just because you see something as a problem doesn't mean that person does. If someone doesn't care about God, why would they care about things God says are sins? If we had to clean up first in order for God to love us: 1. No one would ever make it, and 2. There wouldn't be need for Jesus.

But there would be, and that's just it. The WBC puts the cart before the horse, and if Jesus were around today, he would probably be at the Oh Bar, getting to know the locals. And the WBC would crucify Him. Or drag Him behind a car.


This is one of those times I sort of wish that I didn't believe that Jesus died for everyone. Like Fred Phelps. But I do believe that Jesus died for everyone, even bigots.

...on lurking.

I read your blog and think about what was going on between us when you wrote what you did. It is as though my presence has no significance on your life. It makes me want to scream at you. 

Or at least comment....but that would take away from what you've written.