My friend started a website with Haiku that is Indecent. He calls it, Indecent Haiku.
Check out my latest post: http://indecenthaiku.com/2008/12/aging/
It's perfect for the holidays.
Merry Christmas!
Jackie
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Monday, December 22, 2008
See Me on MTV
Ladies and Gents,
This week if you're watching MTV, keep an eye out for me during the commercials and you may catch a glimpse of me talking about how I would make the world a better place. In addition to what I say on TV, I also hope to rid the world of ANY pants with pleats and those terrible terrible CROCS (the gardening shoes, not the animal).
Yes, yes, I've already rewarded myself for these 9 seconds of fame with some sushi from the Space Market...and boy do those spicy crab rolls taste like success!
In addition to taking a minute out of your day to watch a video featuring me, you may also want to take an extra 15 seconds out of your day to watch ANOTHER VIDEO featuring me. Or just click that link a few times for fun! This holiday season, I wanted to make sure I gave you all a gift that keeps on giving.
In any case, thank you all for being supportive of me in another small stride as an amateur performer. If these two videos don't quell you're need to see me be ridiculous, come check out my performance at the UCB on January 15th next month. There will be Russian accents, Reagan t-shirts, and a new breakout ad campaign about how Haagan Daaz now has Paninis (FINALLY!).
Thank you all again, and have some great holidays!!
Jackie
This week if you're watching MTV, keep an eye out for me during the commercials and you may catch a glimpse of me talking about how I would make the world a better place. In addition to what I say on TV, I also hope to rid the world of ANY pants with pleats and those terrible terrible CROCS (the gardening shoes, not the animal).
Yes, yes, I've already rewarded myself for these 9 seconds of fame with some sushi from the Space Market...and boy do those spicy crab rolls taste like success!
In addition to taking a minute out of your day to watch a video featuring me, you may also want to take an extra 15 seconds out of your day to watch ANOTHER VIDEO featuring me. Or just click that link a few times for fun! This holiday season, I wanted to make sure I gave you all a gift that keeps on giving.
In any case, thank you all for being supportive of me in another small stride as an amateur performer. If these two videos don't quell you're need to see me be ridiculous, come check out my performance at the UCB on January 15th next month. There will be Russian accents, Reagan t-shirts, and a new breakout ad campaign about how Haagan Daaz now has Paninis (FINALLY!).
Thank you all again, and have some great holidays!!
Jackie
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Friday, November 14, 2008
You Have a lot of Abstinence
I’d been stopped by the Airport security. Shoeless, jacketless, pocketless, and metaless, they escorted me over to a very attractive and very French guard who proceeded to go through my materials. He said he didn’t intend to dispose any of my liquid-bearing makeup, he just hoped to organize it for me.
It was like the hotel maintenance forgot to pack my bags for me when I left. By my standards, I didn’t think my purse/backpack/duffel bag were that disorganized, though I could tell this French guy, though polite, was very disappointed with how much crap he had to sift through. Canadian crap. You know, the kind you buy in Canada.
We engaged in polite conversation about what there was to eat in the airport. He said “Burger King.” I said “Blech.” He seemed actually disappointed that I didn’t like Burger King, and asked me about it just to reaffirm my distaste. As he poked and prodded and drug tested through floral undergarments and five-finger-discounted hotel soaps, he asked me what I did for a living. “Drama teacher” I said. “I am impressed”, he retorted in broken English.
We smiled and chit-chatted as he prodded through my deodorants and creams when he said “You have a lot of, how you say, abstinence?” Do I have a lot of abstinence? I thought I usually come off a little more nubile than that, though maybe the cotton Hanes and hotel soap fetish implied otherwise. Any fantasies of me with this hunky french airport security guard went straight out the window before I even think them into existence.
I must have looked confused. I didn’t know if I should be flattered or insulted. Do I look like a prude? Does that mean he doesn’t want to date me? Should I be more provocatively dressed the next time I leave the Montreal airport? Would that make him want to date me? Would the fact that we live in two very different places also affect the outcome of any dating situation? Would I be able to tell my mother I’m dating an airport security guard? Would I be able to tell my father I’m dating a French Canadian? Also, how can one have “a lot” of Abstinence?
Noticing my bewildered facial expression, he corrected himself. “You have a lot of, how you say, nonsense?” he blushed. “And now all your liquids (all my makeup) are in one place (they were before).”
Another passenger lined up to be checked out and I was actually sad our conversation had come to an end. I wanted to say, ‘Why don’t you come visit me in New York and misuse awkward English words some more” but I knew he wouldn’t understand me. Instead, I hung around a few moments longer, and put my moccasins back on in the most provocative way I know how…on my feet. Yowza.
It was like the hotel maintenance forgot to pack my bags for me when I left. By my standards, I didn’t think my purse/backpack/duffel bag were that disorganized, though I could tell this French guy, though polite, was very disappointed with how much crap he had to sift through. Canadian crap. You know, the kind you buy in Canada.
We engaged in polite conversation about what there was to eat in the airport. He said “Burger King.” I said “Blech.” He seemed actually disappointed that I didn’t like Burger King, and asked me about it just to reaffirm my distaste. As he poked and prodded and drug tested through floral undergarments and five-finger-discounted hotel soaps, he asked me what I did for a living. “Drama teacher” I said. “I am impressed”, he retorted in broken English.
We smiled and chit-chatted as he prodded through my deodorants and creams when he said “You have a lot of, how you say, abstinence?” Do I have a lot of abstinence? I thought I usually come off a little more nubile than that, though maybe the cotton Hanes and hotel soap fetish implied otherwise. Any fantasies of me with this hunky french airport security guard went straight out the window before I even think them into existence.
I must have looked confused. I didn’t know if I should be flattered or insulted. Do I look like a prude? Does that mean he doesn’t want to date me? Should I be more provocatively dressed the next time I leave the Montreal airport? Would that make him want to date me? Would the fact that we live in two very different places also affect the outcome of any dating situation? Would I be able to tell my mother I’m dating an airport security guard? Would I be able to tell my father I’m dating a French Canadian? Also, how can one have “a lot” of Abstinence?
Noticing my bewildered facial expression, he corrected himself. “You have a lot of, how you say, nonsense?” he blushed. “And now all your liquids (all my makeup) are in one place (they were before).”
Another passenger lined up to be checked out and I was actually sad our conversation had come to an end. I wanted to say, ‘Why don’t you come visit me in New York and misuse awkward English words some more” but I knew he wouldn’t understand me. Instead, I hung around a few moments longer, and put my moccasins back on in the most provocative way I know how…on my feet. Yowza.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
On the Train to Saratoga
Dear Girl with the Disgusting Cough,
I know you can’t help it, but every time you cough it really grosses me out. The fact that I can hear the mucous trying to leave your lungs makes me wince. I, sitting a few seats ahead and across the isle should not be able to diagnose and/or treat whatever is ailing you, and yet, I find your cough such a dominant sound on the train, I want to recommend plenty of bed rest (not on this train) and something my grandparents take all the time called Mucinex. Maybe some people are better able to handle the sounds of lung bubbles, popping, but I wish both you and your disgusting cough were farther away from me, as I was hoping not to get “the plague” on my way upstate.
Thank you,
The Girl Two Seats Ahead
Dear Girl Who Wanted to Sit Next to Me, but took the hint that I was less than enthused and sat with another stranger that was also less than enthused to sit with you, a stranger,
How can I sit here and make commentary about my experiences on this train when I have you to worry about? How would I be able to document that I think your purple leggings are AWFUL, especially when paired with your bright, cherry red wool coat, paired with a navy blue hoodie, paired with your face? I wouldn’t, so thanks for taking the hint and going elsewhere.
Thank you,
The Girl Who’s Blogging About You
I know you can’t help it, but every time you cough it really grosses me out. The fact that I can hear the mucous trying to leave your lungs makes me wince. I, sitting a few seats ahead and across the isle should not be able to diagnose and/or treat whatever is ailing you, and yet, I find your cough such a dominant sound on the train, I want to recommend plenty of bed rest (not on this train) and something my grandparents take all the time called Mucinex. Maybe some people are better able to handle the sounds of lung bubbles, popping, but I wish both you and your disgusting cough were farther away from me, as I was hoping not to get “the plague” on my way upstate.
Thank you,
The Girl Two Seats Ahead
Dear Girl Who Wanted to Sit Next to Me, but took the hint that I was less than enthused and sat with another stranger that was also less than enthused to sit with you, a stranger,
How can I sit here and make commentary about my experiences on this train when I have you to worry about? How would I be able to document that I think your purple leggings are AWFUL, especially when paired with your bright, cherry red wool coat, paired with a navy blue hoodie, paired with your face? I wouldn’t, so thanks for taking the hint and going elsewhere.
Thank you,
The Girl Who’s Blogging About You
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Girl Gone Blind
Today was god’s way of noticing that I had gone almost an entire year of life without visiting an emergency room. What better way to remedy that situation than some good ‘ol trauma to the face?
I can’t see. I just got back from the hospital. I’m writing this with my eyes closed. Come on home row, don’t fail me now!
Walking back from lunch (Italian hero, not the usual), I tried to hurry past some oogling construction workers when a gust of wind carried some debris into my eyes. I couldn’t see, there was a stinging pain, and you know how those sorts of problems usually fix themselves? This one, not so much. With my eye getting worse, I hobbled back to school in terribly high heels.
At this point, I could only use one eye, and my right hand covered the half of my face in pain. I must have looked like a real wreck, because the security guard said “Jackie, what the hell are you doing?” when I walked into the school building. “What am I doing? Just playing a fun game called ‘affect your depth perception.’ I want to see how long I can go before I hit something.” The nurse then told me my eye had been cut, and I needed to get to the hospital.
As much as I tried to hide my face trauma, everyone at school saw it happen. I mean, like, everyone. It was almost like having the worst pimple of life smack on the top of your nose, only instead, this problem affected my eyes, and wasn’t caused by post-adolescence.
Onward to the hospital, where I sat in a waiting room, holding a paper towel over my eye like some sort of sad, ill-prepared pirate.
Thanks to Nurse Paul and his fast-acting pleasantries, I immediately calmed down, especially when he numbed my eye. I figured I was in good hands. Too bad Jewish mothers never push the idea of finding a nice “Jewish Nurse” to marry – if only he’d been a doctor! He even gave me a sweetass hospital bracelet, that even with one eye, I could tell was sweetass.
“On a scale of 1 to 10, how much pain are you in?” he asked. The question threw me off, as I immediately had to come up with what “1” and “10” would be equal to on the pain scale. If “1” is the equivalent of being poked too hard, and 10 is something like “loss of limb”, my eye must have been a 6.5. But, overall, I think the eye gets it’s own scale of pain, where 1 is “ow, I’ve looked into the sun” and 10 is “ow, I’ve lost my eye”. Nurse Paul “stained my eye” which involved putting some kind of green dye in it that made everything appear green. It was kinda’ like having a really lame superhero power for a few minutes. Paul-dizzle tried to make a few jokes to lighten the mood, but I had to explain very politely that things just aren’t as funny when everything looks green.
After the numbing, staining, ointmenting, and shot, it was finally time to go. There was no eyepatch necessary for my recovery, something I could have only imagined to spark a schoolwide epidemic of pirate jokes, and besides, I gave up my habit of dressing in ‘pirate casual’ freshman year of college. Regardless, with “talk like a pirate day” having recently past, not even a bedazzled eyepatch would have been okay, so I’m glad it was avoided.
Once home, I had a bit of an appetite. I finally opened my sandwich, (the reason this whole thing started in the first place) only to discover that there was TURKEY on my ITALIAN HERO. COULD THIS DAY HAVE BEEN ANY WORSE?! Overcoming disappointment, I was surprised to see there really is nothing like eating an entire bag of sun chips with your eyes closed (with the best part being, of course, that they have 33% less fat than the standard potato chip!).
And now that I’m home and typing with one eye, I’m totally breaking the rule on my discharge sheet, clearly stating that I can’t watch TV or read, usually the only two things people do when they get sick and can’t do anything else. The Tetanus Shot makes me feel like I’ve been punched…EVERYWHERE. I’ll heal in the next 24-48 hours, and all will be well. I mean, I shouldn’t complain; 50 cent got shot NINE times and he be RAPPIN’ bout it (coincidentally, getting shot is number 9 on the generic pain scale, getting shot in the eye, however, is a 10).
I can’t see. I just got back from the hospital. I’m writing this with my eyes closed. Come on home row, don’t fail me now!
Walking back from lunch (Italian hero, not the usual), I tried to hurry past some oogling construction workers when a gust of wind carried some debris into my eyes. I couldn’t see, there was a stinging pain, and you know how those sorts of problems usually fix themselves? This one, not so much. With my eye getting worse, I hobbled back to school in terribly high heels.
At this point, I could only use one eye, and my right hand covered the half of my face in pain. I must have looked like a real wreck, because the security guard said “Jackie, what the hell are you doing?” when I walked into the school building. “What am I doing? Just playing a fun game called ‘affect your depth perception.’ I want to see how long I can go before I hit something.” The nurse then told me my eye had been cut, and I needed to get to the hospital.
As much as I tried to hide my face trauma, everyone at school saw it happen. I mean, like, everyone. It was almost like having the worst pimple of life smack on the top of your nose, only instead, this problem affected my eyes, and wasn’t caused by post-adolescence.
Onward to the hospital, where I sat in a waiting room, holding a paper towel over my eye like some sort of sad, ill-prepared pirate.
Thanks to Nurse Paul and his fast-acting pleasantries, I immediately calmed down, especially when he numbed my eye. I figured I was in good hands. Too bad Jewish mothers never push the idea of finding a nice “Jewish Nurse” to marry – if only he’d been a doctor! He even gave me a sweetass hospital bracelet, that even with one eye, I could tell was sweetass.
“On a scale of 1 to 10, how much pain are you in?” he asked. The question threw me off, as I immediately had to come up with what “1” and “10” would be equal to on the pain scale. If “1” is the equivalent of being poked too hard, and 10 is something like “loss of limb”, my eye must have been a 6.5. But, overall, I think the eye gets it’s own scale of pain, where 1 is “ow, I’ve looked into the sun” and 10 is “ow, I’ve lost my eye”. Nurse Paul “stained my eye” which involved putting some kind of green dye in it that made everything appear green. It was kinda’ like having a really lame superhero power for a few minutes. Paul-dizzle tried to make a few jokes to lighten the mood, but I had to explain very politely that things just aren’t as funny when everything looks green.
After the numbing, staining, ointmenting, and shot, it was finally time to go. There was no eyepatch necessary for my recovery, something I could have only imagined to spark a schoolwide epidemic of pirate jokes, and besides, I gave up my habit of dressing in ‘pirate casual’ freshman year of college. Regardless, with “talk like a pirate day” having recently past, not even a bedazzled eyepatch would have been okay, so I’m glad it was avoided.
Once home, I had a bit of an appetite. I finally opened my sandwich, (the reason this whole thing started in the first place) only to discover that there was TURKEY on my ITALIAN HERO. COULD THIS DAY HAVE BEEN ANY WORSE?! Overcoming disappointment, I was surprised to see there really is nothing like eating an entire bag of sun chips with your eyes closed (with the best part being, of course, that they have 33% less fat than the standard potato chip!).
And now that I’m home and typing with one eye, I’m totally breaking the rule on my discharge sheet, clearly stating that I can’t watch TV or read, usually the only two things people do when they get sick and can’t do anything else. The Tetanus Shot makes me feel like I’ve been punched…EVERYWHERE. I’ll heal in the next 24-48 hours, and all will be well. I mean, I shouldn’t complain; 50 cent got shot NINE times and he be RAPPIN’ bout it (coincidentally, getting shot is number 9 on the generic pain scale, getting shot in the eye, however, is a 10).
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Dear Boy I Had Dinner With Last Week,
It was great seeing you after 2 years, though this evening made me ask myself some probing questions I’m not sure anyone will ever answer.
When will boys realize that when I invite them over to play video games, I would actually like to play video games and not make-out? If I wanted to make out, I would probably say something really saucy over the course of our romantic dinner. But instead, after the romantic dinner, you said you had to kill time before your train back to New Jersey, and I said I had a Playstation.
Contrary to popular belief, “Playstation” is not code for “Vagina.” Guitar Hero is not laden with symbolism for my aching need to be naked with you, especially when we’re playing songs like “Trogdor the Burninator” and “John the Fisherman”. When you went in for a move, I went straight to “Misirilou”.
In fact, once I thought you had started to assume that things I was doing on the video game system were, in fact, secret messages to you, I immediately switched gears and put in Resident Evil 4. How’s that for a secret message? Zombie Lust? I don’t think so.
There were times when I could sort-of understand the mixed signals. You ordered a bottle of wine for the table, but then drank all of it yourself. You talked about working at Macy’s and having girls slap you in the face. And though, sure, by the end of it all my hands were shaking with anticipation, it was only to see if I would make it into Queens in Grand Theft Auto, which is weird, because I’m never excited about going to Queens.
During what must have been a frustrating and alcoholic experience for you, you asked “Why am I here?” I’m not qualified to answer questions of such existential weight, but I am up to playing songs on “Hard” on Guitar Hero, and boy does that orange note make a real mess of things! Also, that question probably should have been a part of your inner monologue. (I’m a drama teacher, so I know about things like that.) If things weren’t already awkward, you sure threw in your own orange note for a twist!
You never came straight out and said anything else, you just said what a nice time you had and hoped we could do it again sometime. I would have loved to go out with you again sometime, had our first time seeing each other after two years not been so weird and awkward.
The next morning you sent me a text message saying “You have a nice room, maybe when we have time you can show me more of what you wanted to.” I get it. You just couldn’t get enough of my zombie-killing, prostitute-mugging, guitar-playing-self. You want it? Yeah baby, you got it.
If nothing else, I’ve learned that having a video game system is an excellent lure for men in their 20’s back to your apartment, even if you’re not interested.
When will boys realize that when I invite them over to play video games, I would actually like to play video games and not make-out? If I wanted to make out, I would probably say something really saucy over the course of our romantic dinner. But instead, after the romantic dinner, you said you had to kill time before your train back to New Jersey, and I said I had a Playstation.
Contrary to popular belief, “Playstation” is not code for “Vagina.” Guitar Hero is not laden with symbolism for my aching need to be naked with you, especially when we’re playing songs like “Trogdor the Burninator” and “John the Fisherman”. When you went in for a move, I went straight to “Misirilou”.
In fact, once I thought you had started to assume that things I was doing on the video game system were, in fact, secret messages to you, I immediately switched gears and put in Resident Evil 4. How’s that for a secret message? Zombie Lust? I don’t think so.
There were times when I could sort-of understand the mixed signals. You ordered a bottle of wine for the table, but then drank all of it yourself. You talked about working at Macy’s and having girls slap you in the face. And though, sure, by the end of it all my hands were shaking with anticipation, it was only to see if I would make it into Queens in Grand Theft Auto, which is weird, because I’m never excited about going to Queens.
During what must have been a frustrating and alcoholic experience for you, you asked “Why am I here?” I’m not qualified to answer questions of such existential weight, but I am up to playing songs on “Hard” on Guitar Hero, and boy does that orange note make a real mess of things! Also, that question probably should have been a part of your inner monologue. (I’m a drama teacher, so I know about things like that.) If things weren’t already awkward, you sure threw in your own orange note for a twist!
You never came straight out and said anything else, you just said what a nice time you had and hoped we could do it again sometime. I would have loved to go out with you again sometime, had our first time seeing each other after two years not been so weird and awkward.
The next morning you sent me a text message saying “You have a nice room, maybe when we have time you can show me more of what you wanted to.” I get it. You just couldn’t get enough of my zombie-killing, prostitute-mugging, guitar-playing-self. You want it? Yeah baby, you got it.
If nothing else, I’ve learned that having a video game system is an excellent lure for men in their 20’s back to your apartment, even if you’re not interested.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Duped, yo
A few months ago, making my way home down 13th street, I was approached by a tall, relatively attractive woman around my age, wearing glasses, clothes from the clearance section of Urban Outfitters, and a look of distress. She had red hair and a ton of freckles, spoke confidently and looked me straight in the eye when she said “My purse and backpack were stolen while I was trying clothes on in Bloomingdales, they had my wallet, passport and plane tickets in them and now I can’t get home, or anything to eat in the meantime. Do you have any change?” I did. In fact, I had more than change, I had singles. I gave her two and wished her good luck, and she snatched the bills from my hand in no more an attractive agency than Gollum for his precious ring.
That was back in May, and the creepy way she nabbed my two clams, should have prompted more than an afterthought that there may have been something fishy about my encounter. Visiting Portland, I learned it’s all too common for rich kids to play poor punks, just so they can get some cash they don’t have to “work” for. From what I observed, debasing yourself regularly is a lot of work, unless, I guess, you think it’s all a joke or a game. Once their change is in hand, these kids with self-applied cheek-dirt drive off in mom or dad’s Benz. Some friends on the west coast have grown accustomed to saying “get a job” to beggars on the street. These kids looked like they could kick my ass, so I was never so bold to accuse them of slacking, nor ever will be.
So today, with the NYU semester almost back in session, I saw the same girl; red hair tied back, turquoise hipster-clearance-rack-shirt, glasses, walking painfully slowly around my neighborhood begging for change again. I wanted to say something. Or stop her in the middle of her lies as she approached everyone around me and scream “HALT!” or something equally medieval. Could I have called the police? In the end, I decided there was really nothing I could do, so I blogged about it.
That was back in May, and the creepy way she nabbed my two clams, should have prompted more than an afterthought that there may have been something fishy about my encounter. Visiting Portland, I learned it’s all too common for rich kids to play poor punks, just so they can get some cash they don’t have to “work” for. From what I observed, debasing yourself regularly is a lot of work, unless, I guess, you think it’s all a joke or a game. Once their change is in hand, these kids with self-applied cheek-dirt drive off in mom or dad’s Benz. Some friends on the west coast have grown accustomed to saying “get a job” to beggars on the street. These kids looked like they could kick my ass, so I was never so bold to accuse them of slacking, nor ever will be.
So today, with the NYU semester almost back in session, I saw the same girl; red hair tied back, turquoise hipster-clearance-rack-shirt, glasses, walking painfully slowly around my neighborhood begging for change again. I wanted to say something. Or stop her in the middle of her lies as she approached everyone around me and scream “HALT!” or something equally medieval. Could I have called the police? In the end, I decided there was really nothing I could do, so I blogged about it.
Saturday, August 09, 2008
Well, This Happened
My roommate and I have had some rough patches in the past. Like the time she came back from Peru and the light was out in the kitchen – she nearly had a heart attack. Or the time she flipped out because one of my guests accidentally used her toothpaste. I mean, she like, really flipped out. Given that such small things have sparked some near-earth shattering dialogues, I’m really surprised she did the creepiest thing ever.
I stumbled into my very very small apartment at 5am, having noshed at Yaffa Café and drank enough Jameson and diet cokes to leave me too inebriated for bar scrabble. The lights were on in the kitchen, and my roommate’s door was completely open, with, again, the lights on, but sheets and blankets thrown all over the place. The door to the bathroom was closed, so my logic suggested that she too had been drinking, and was rather sick at a rather late hour of the morning. I went to open my room to find my door locked.
“Silly me,” I thought. “In a rush to meet my sisters for dinner, I closed the door to my room not realizing it had been locked, and now I’m locked out of my room and drunk, and may have to sleep in the bathtub when my roommate is done vomiting in there.” Fortunately, or unfortunately, this was not the case.
Suddenly, my door swung open, to reveal my roommate in nothing but her underwear, holding my makeup compacts. Without an apology, she just kept saying she didn’t know how she wound up there, and then retreated to her own room, lamenting over drunk text messages she sent to her not-boyfriend.
Walking into my room, lights still off, I noticed my bed covered with clutter left there from before I went to dinner. She must have slept on uncomfortable plastic objects, and without a blanket. I still have no idea what she was doing there, or why she was holding my makeup, or why she had locked herself in.
She apologized this morning, giving some sort of half-assed hypothesis as to why or how she could justify my finding her naked in my room, including theories of "too much booze" and “nightmares.” Having just returned from two very long vacations, it makes me ask myself if she does that often, or maybe, out of spite, if she’s ever done anything else with my toothpaste.
I stumbled into my very very small apartment at 5am, having noshed at Yaffa Café and drank enough Jameson and diet cokes to leave me too inebriated for bar scrabble. The lights were on in the kitchen, and my roommate’s door was completely open, with, again, the lights on, but sheets and blankets thrown all over the place. The door to the bathroom was closed, so my logic suggested that she too had been drinking, and was rather sick at a rather late hour of the morning. I went to open my room to find my door locked.
“Silly me,” I thought. “In a rush to meet my sisters for dinner, I closed the door to my room not realizing it had been locked, and now I’m locked out of my room and drunk, and may have to sleep in the bathtub when my roommate is done vomiting in there.” Fortunately, or unfortunately, this was not the case.
Suddenly, my door swung open, to reveal my roommate in nothing but her underwear, holding my makeup compacts. Without an apology, she just kept saying she didn’t know how she wound up there, and then retreated to her own room, lamenting over drunk text messages she sent to her not-boyfriend.
Walking into my room, lights still off, I noticed my bed covered with clutter left there from before I went to dinner. She must have slept on uncomfortable plastic objects, and without a blanket. I still have no idea what she was doing there, or why she was holding my makeup, or why she had locked herself in.
She apologized this morning, giving some sort of half-assed hypothesis as to why or how she could justify my finding her naked in my room, including theories of "too much booze" and “nightmares.” Having just returned from two very long vacations, it makes me ask myself if she does that often, or maybe, out of spite, if she’s ever done anything else with my toothpaste.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
My Friend Robyn is a Better Blogger Than Me
So check out what she had to say about our costumey day on Governor's Island:
http://queuedpaper.wordpress.com/2008/06/09/acting-my-jazz-age/
http://queuedpaper.wordpress.com/2008/06/09/acting-my-jazz-age/
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Here We Go Gajabbling
When a 7th grader interrupts a lesson to tell you that a word you’ve just used doesn’t exist, your instinct is to disagree.
“No, fantastical is a word. Punk.”
The bigger problem? Well, I make up words all the time. For example: Shaarkvark-noun-a cross between a shark, and an aardvark. Used in a sentence? "Hear about the shaarkvark that attacked a surfer and then hid itself among a group of traveling gypsies? It used its proboscis like a thief in the night." No one ever argues about the existence of the Shaarkvark, so why argue about "fantastical"?
A way for any teacher to discover dozens of new words is to read spelling mistakes out loud when grading papers! These words will sound, to the human ear, like other words that actually exist, but because these words don’t exist there’s an innate hilarity to the ridiculousness of their pronunciation. In one instance, a student of mine attempted the word "gaugeable" but came up with "gajabble," which I quickly took to be some sort of expletive. "Gajabble! I forgot my lunch money at home!" or simply just "Gajabble!" Go ahead and say it out loud. This whole process is a lot more entertaining than it sounds, and, whatever, you just don't know what you're missing.
But back to fantastical. So, at first I was confident in my decision that, yes, fantastical is a word, but then I thought “Gajabble! What if I’m wrong and he’s right and I’m just the stupid drama teacher that makes up stupid words that sound like they should only be used when referring to unicorns or Sasquatch.” The class must have seen this cross my mind. Maybe I looked confused or afraid of being wrong, or I simply hesitated when I gave my answer, because then they collectively used the Jugulator (Jugulator-noun-a form of attack specifically aimed at the jugular of any individual, though most often used towards drama teachers).
Student: “No, Ms. Silvestri, there is no way in hell that fantastical is a word. You just made that up.”
Teacher: “No, I didn’t, and for being so sassy about this whole thing your homework is to look it up.”
Needless to say, he “forgot” about his homework.
I didn’t.
I walked into my next class with three dictionaries and a printout from dictionary.com.
He walked into class, read all of the definitions to the class out loud, and then, again, for being so rude about this whole thing, I told this fantastically-challenged student to write a paragraph for homework using the word fantastical in every sentence.
Here is what he wrote:
“Drama 7 – Ms. Sylvestri – 4/10/08
I am a fantastical person. Yes, fantastical is a word. I found that out from my drama teacher the hard way. I was not in a fantastical mood the day when I said fantastical wasn’t a word. But, I was wrong...fantastical is a word.”
I like that “finding out the hard way” implies simply “using a dictionary.” Also, it always goes without saying that the teacher is always right. Also, kid spelled my name wrong. Gajabble!
If nothing else comes from this venture into language, this drama class will never forget the word fantastical. And they’ll also learn to never challenge anything I say in class again. Ever.
“No, fantastical is a word. Punk.”
The bigger problem? Well, I make up words all the time. For example: Shaarkvark-noun-a cross between a shark, and an aardvark. Used in a sentence? "Hear about the shaarkvark that attacked a surfer and then hid itself among a group of traveling gypsies? It used its proboscis like a thief in the night." No one ever argues about the existence of the Shaarkvark, so why argue about "fantastical"?
A way for any teacher to discover dozens of new words is to read spelling mistakes out loud when grading papers! These words will sound, to the human ear, like other words that actually exist, but because these words don’t exist there’s an innate hilarity to the ridiculousness of their pronunciation. In one instance, a student of mine attempted the word "gaugeable" but came up with "gajabble," which I quickly took to be some sort of expletive. "Gajabble! I forgot my lunch money at home!" or simply just "Gajabble!" Go ahead and say it out loud. This whole process is a lot more entertaining than it sounds, and, whatever, you just don't know what you're missing.
But back to fantastical. So, at first I was confident in my decision that, yes, fantastical is a word, but then I thought “Gajabble! What if I’m wrong and he’s right and I’m just the stupid drama teacher that makes up stupid words that sound like they should only be used when referring to unicorns or Sasquatch.” The class must have seen this cross my mind. Maybe I looked confused or afraid of being wrong, or I simply hesitated when I gave my answer, because then they collectively used the Jugulator (Jugulator-noun-a form of attack specifically aimed at the jugular of any individual, though most often used towards drama teachers).
Student: “No, Ms. Silvestri, there is no way in hell that fantastical is a word. You just made that up.”
Teacher: “No, I didn’t, and for being so sassy about this whole thing your homework is to look it up.”
Needless to say, he “forgot” about his homework.
I didn’t.
I walked into my next class with three dictionaries and a printout from dictionary.com.
He walked into class, read all of the definitions to the class out loud, and then, again, for being so rude about this whole thing, I told this fantastically-challenged student to write a paragraph for homework using the word fantastical in every sentence.
Here is what he wrote:
“Drama 7 – Ms. Sylvestri – 4/10/08
I am a fantastical person. Yes, fantastical is a word. I found that out from my drama teacher the hard way. I was not in a fantastical mood the day when I said fantastical wasn’t a word. But, I was wrong...fantastical is a word.”
I like that “finding out the hard way” implies simply “using a dictionary.” Also, it always goes without saying that the teacher is always right. Also, kid spelled my name wrong. Gajabble!
If nothing else comes from this venture into language, this drama class will never forget the word fantastical. And they’ll also learn to never challenge anything I say in class again. Ever.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Sorry I'm Late; I Got Distracted by Your Fridge
It’s not unusual to read out loud when you’re tutoring. A student may find they take notes better from listening. It’s faster for them. They remember it better. Whatever the reason, reading out loud is not an issue.
On Friday morning, however, at maybe 8:30 am, my tutoree approached me with a packet of information for which she couldn’t wait to take notes. She was rushing, worrying about a quiz only 35 minutes away. She also needed to learn different parts of the body in Spanish.
“No Problem,” I said. “There’s plenty of time for both.”
But then I looked at the packet. As my student set up all of her materials to take the most thorough notes ever, I froze at the sight of what I would be expected to read out loud.
Was it childish?
Yes.
Immature?
I sure am.
But can you blame me?
An entire office, full of colleagues and students, was about to listen to me read out loud a very long packet on “The Male Reproductive System” or “The Meat-Whistle.”
At 8:30 am, the office was completely silent. The faint clicks of a keyboard, the almost silent but all-too-vocal adolescent complaints about the strong smell of egg-sandwich; these were all that could distract from the pre-pubescent giggle-inducing words I expected to read out loud, and surely, neither would be as distracting as the words “scrotum” or “testes” at such an obscene hour.
So I started to read, and my student saw me blush. “Keep writing,” I said “if you know what’s good for you’RETHRA.” We had a good laugh. We learned all about the penis. She diligently took notes on balls: what temperature they’re most comfortable in, why they shrink up when they’re cold, and why they hang low when they’re hot. We discussed how semen and urine come from the same place, and how disgusting that is. In the end, it was kind of fun. “Vas Deferens” is even kind of fun to say!
But the best part of everything was on page 4, when the packet encouraged you to check your balls once a month. “As a reminder” the packet suggested, “write a message on an index card to yourself, and keep it in a place where you’ll see it often. The front of your refrigerator works very well. Laminate the card to keep it from wearing out.”
To translate, someone was suggesting to carry around an index card that said, “check your balls.” Laminated, no less, to keep it from wearing out? WEARING OUT? What would you be doing that your index card would NEED to be laminated to keep yourself from ever making a new one? Up until now, the wear and tear of a thorough ball-check-reminder never crossed my mind. I mean, why would it? I don't have balls to check. But now it's ALL I can think about. I'm nonplussed.
Let's face it, if the well-being of your index-card-ball-checking-reminder is your biggest concern, then you have other big concerns you just don’t know about. If you own a machine that laminates things, however, you have an extreme business-advantage in the ball-check industry. Good Work, and good luck.
If you don't own a laminating machine, you have a very awkward experience at the Office Max awaiting you. Good luck, and don't wear a trench coat.
Also, don’t forget kids, HANG IT ON YOUR FRIDGE. It’s not just a reminder for you: it’s a reminder for everyone who ever wants a chilled snack.
I guess what makes it even better is that the packet then suggested that you make one for your dad, too. Imagine this “look what I learned in school today” moment: “Here dad, I made you this card that will remind you to check your balls once a month. You can leave yours on the fridge, with mine!”
Of course, the packet preached abstinence. I don’t know why it bothered. That’s like saying, “look at this new toy that aches to have fun, but don’t use it.” Instead of saying don’t have fun, it would have been smarter for my student read about how to have safe fun. I think the importance of condoms outweighs the necessity of a laminated-ball-reminder, but maybe, just Maybe, that’s the next section I get to read out loud.
On Friday morning, however, at maybe 8:30 am, my tutoree approached me with a packet of information for which she couldn’t wait to take notes. She was rushing, worrying about a quiz only 35 minutes away. She also needed to learn different parts of the body in Spanish.
“No Problem,” I said. “There’s plenty of time for both.”
But then I looked at the packet. As my student set up all of her materials to take the most thorough notes ever, I froze at the sight of what I would be expected to read out loud.
Was it childish?
Yes.
Immature?
I sure am.
But can you blame me?
An entire office, full of colleagues and students, was about to listen to me read out loud a very long packet on “The Male Reproductive System” or “The Meat-Whistle.”
At 8:30 am, the office was completely silent. The faint clicks of a keyboard, the almost silent but all-too-vocal adolescent complaints about the strong smell of egg-sandwich; these were all that could distract from the pre-pubescent giggle-inducing words I expected to read out loud, and surely, neither would be as distracting as the words “scrotum” or “testes” at such an obscene hour.
So I started to read, and my student saw me blush. “Keep writing,” I said “if you know what’s good for you’RETHRA.” We had a good laugh. We learned all about the penis. She diligently took notes on balls: what temperature they’re most comfortable in, why they shrink up when they’re cold, and why they hang low when they’re hot. We discussed how semen and urine come from the same place, and how disgusting that is. In the end, it was kind of fun. “Vas Deferens” is even kind of fun to say!
But the best part of everything was on page 4, when the packet encouraged you to check your balls once a month. “As a reminder” the packet suggested, “write a message on an index card to yourself, and keep it in a place where you’ll see it often. The front of your refrigerator works very well. Laminate the card to keep it from wearing out.”
To translate, someone was suggesting to carry around an index card that said, “check your balls.” Laminated, no less, to keep it from wearing out? WEARING OUT? What would you be doing that your index card would NEED to be laminated to keep yourself from ever making a new one? Up until now, the wear and tear of a thorough ball-check-reminder never crossed my mind. I mean, why would it? I don't have balls to check. But now it's ALL I can think about. I'm nonplussed.
Let's face it, if the well-being of your index-card-ball-checking-reminder is your biggest concern, then you have other big concerns you just don’t know about. If you own a machine that laminates things, however, you have an extreme business-advantage in the ball-check industry. Good Work, and good luck.
If you don't own a laminating machine, you have a very awkward experience at the Office Max awaiting you. Good luck, and don't wear a trench coat.
Also, don’t forget kids, HANG IT ON YOUR FRIDGE. It’s not just a reminder for you: it’s a reminder for everyone who ever wants a chilled snack.
I guess what makes it even better is that the packet then suggested that you make one for your dad, too. Imagine this “look what I learned in school today” moment: “Here dad, I made you this card that will remind you to check your balls once a month. You can leave yours on the fridge, with mine!”
Of course, the packet preached abstinence. I don’t know why it bothered. That’s like saying, “look at this new toy that aches to have fun, but don’t use it.” Instead of saying don’t have fun, it would have been smarter for my student read about how to have safe fun. I think the importance of condoms outweighs the necessity of a laminated-ball-reminder, but maybe, just Maybe, that’s the next section I get to read out loud.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
There's No Hope With Dope
All my successes in life are owed to the cast of Saved By the Bell and the president of NBC.
Learn a Lesson Right Now
Learn a Lesson Right Now
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Monday, March 10, 2008
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Sunday, January 20, 2008
I Just Got Business Cards for all That Business I Don't Have
Alternate Title: I Just Got Business Cards and I Feel Pretty Awesome About Them
Despite my new found love for small pieces of paper with my name on them, I think, as with anything, there's always room for improvement in the Business Card Industry. Especially when those business cards are MINE.
I wish my business cards were edible, or, in the very least, lickable. I mean, people are way more likely to use something they keep in their mouths. Example: I use my tongue all the time. Also, I'm pretty sure I use my teeth on a daily basis (also found in the mouth).
Case and point: not enough things are open to the confines of my mouth-hole, something I would like to see more of in the Business Card Industry.
Upon further reflection, "edible" may not be so good. People would get my card, but then lose all pertinent information if they found themselves hungry in the tummy. Then again, it's like an offering of more than my just contact info. It's almost like I'm saying "let me take you out to lunch", but a lot cheaper, and not involving taking anyone out for anything.
Business Cards: Put a piece of edible paper with your name on it somewhere in someone's digestive tract.
Also, if people are going to lose my business card anyway, they may as well eat it. "Oh yeah, that business card I ate. That belonged to Jackie Silvestri." We're talking lasting impressions.
Then, of course, there's the fear of someone choking on my card. But that's a risk I'm willing to take. That's a risk for progress.
All in all, I think the edible/lickable card thing is the wave of the future, leaving people with a zesty aftertaste of me.
Despite my new found love for small pieces of paper with my name on them, I think, as with anything, there's always room for improvement in the Business Card Industry. Especially when those business cards are MINE.
I wish my business cards were edible, or, in the very least, lickable. I mean, people are way more likely to use something they keep in their mouths. Example: I use my tongue all the time. Also, I'm pretty sure I use my teeth on a daily basis (also found in the mouth).
Case and point: not enough things are open to the confines of my mouth-hole, something I would like to see more of in the Business Card Industry.
Upon further reflection, "edible" may not be so good. People would get my card, but then lose all pertinent information if they found themselves hungry in the tummy. Then again, it's like an offering of more than my just contact info. It's almost like I'm saying "let me take you out to lunch", but a lot cheaper, and not involving taking anyone out for anything.
Business Cards: Put a piece of edible paper with your name on it somewhere in someone's digestive tract.
Also, if people are going to lose my business card anyway, they may as well eat it. "Oh yeah, that business card I ate. That belonged to Jackie Silvestri." We're talking lasting impressions.
Then, of course, there's the fear of someone choking on my card. But that's a risk I'm willing to take. That's a risk for progress.
All in all, I think the edible/lickable card thing is the wave of the future, leaving people with a zesty aftertaste of me.
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