Power Suit

I'm getting prepared for summer school. I'm teaching two 6-week intensive stats classes that meets three hours a day, four days a week. My summer vacation whizzed by, and I need to get back in a zen state of mind; nighttime yoga videos, significantly decrease sugar intake, i.e., no more donut ice cream sandwiches, get power suit dry-cleaned, and freshen up my cosmo girl haircut.
My suit is a no-nonsense so-stylish-its-not-very-stylish brown Anne Taylor that I overpaid for in a panic the day before my job interview. The sales lady was very smart and steered me clear from the quirky fashion choices I'd make on my own.

I remember out of college when I did my rounds of job interviews, I wore a very tight XOXO skirt suit with a Baby Phat ruffled tuxedo blouse and three inch black pumps. I looked like I walked off the set of Gossip Girl rather than walking into data analytics companies. This choice in attire did not bode well for me. At the time, my role models for bad ass business ladies were Samantha, Carrie, Charlotte and Miranda, who never shied away from sex appeal. My naiveté on how to present myself professionally was compounded by being approved for a high credit limit Macy's card. To all the youngins out there, get a real, in-the-flesh, mentor so you don't have to rely on extreme characters from HBO series for career advice. Fuck it, thats a lesson you learn from time, so go ahead, Millenials, and show up to your job interview looking like Hannah Horvath, it might work out for you.

I had both the kids in Anne Taylor, so it was a shit show. The sales lady didn't seem to mind, too much. I ended up pairing the suit with a navy blouse, by her suggestion. I was eyeballing a caribbean blue blouse that had a gigantic clown bow collar. It was pretty and feminine with an 80's vibe. She let me know, in a Dutch accent, "No! You could maybe get away with wearing a blouse like that in Latin America, but not here!" And I was directed to wear navy, or an array of off-whites. She was right because I got the job, and it had a lot to do with not letting my clothes overshadow my personality.

I like clothes, and being stylish, but I have a hard time combining clothes I like with jobs I work because the clothes I wear make me look like I have a lesser brain capacity than I do, and that I enjoy being sexually harassed, both of which are things I don't want to portray. When I was studying abroad during my undergrad, I emailed my dad and told him I wanted to drop out and go to fashion school. He told me that would be fine, but I better start working a couple more jobs because he wasn't going to give me any money for that. I didn't quite have the passion for fashion that would propel me to fund my own education, so stuck it out with Statistics.

The other morning I was watching a motivational Oprah video. She explains there is no wrong path, so don't be overwhelmed because failures ultimately happen to point you in the right direction, toward your personal destiny. It is nice to consider how my poor clothing choices during job interviews steered me from going further down a career path I had no interest in. I don't think fashion school was part of my destiny either, so thanks dad. I don't remember the name of the sales woman from Anne Taylor, but I consider her a bit of a saint, saving me from myself, and keeping me from taking another detour.

Life Hack

The laundry is done

My sister was at my house over the weekend, and watched me "do laundry," which means distribute the mound of clothes piled up on the clean-side of the laundry room. I tossed the clothes into one of four piles, mine, Kiki's, George's and towels. The towels I folded and propped in a leaning tower against the wall by the bathroom. Then I took the kids' clothes to their room and stuffed them into the drawers, and brought my clothes into my room, where they get picked from as needed, eventually piling up on the dirty-side of the laundry room.

This ten minutes worth of work blew my sister away. She asked, "You don't fold the clothes?"
"God no!" Then I explained to her that Kiki pulls clothes from her dresser, ten pieces at a time, flailing them over her shoulder looking for her favorite things, one being her "Hogs and Kisses" jammies decorated with flying pigs, size 24 months, that she stretches over her four and half year old body. George will only wear pants with an elastic waistband, and he burns through them in a couple days, so when I rummage through his drawers to find pants, they are usually on the clean-side of the laundry room.

I'm actually an expert folder. I worked in a t-shirt shop for a couple years, then I worked at a department store. I could go into a GAP at closing and transform it into its organized morning glory, without a folding board, thank-you-very-much. A friend of mine who works in fashion told me that most of the designers she works with dress in all black. Thats how I consider my aversion to folding personal clothes, I'm so folding enlightened, I don't need to practice the technique.

I usually browse Pinterest while I'm laying next to my daughter as she falls asleep. There are tons of people who dedicate their lives to organizing, and then depict it with great photos, demonstrating mommies with impressive OCD, and willingness to spend their evenings organizing. I look at these pictures in admiration and think of how nice my house would look if I threw 85% of our stuff away.

Becky called me a few days after her visit, grateful for learning this time saving laundry method.  She said, "Thank you! I've been wasting so much time folding tiny baby clothes!" I told her, "You're very welcome, and in return, you can take two garbage bags of hand me down clothes and toys!"

Walk In The Park

My running might be paying The Menzingers doggy daycare bills since I developed a dependency to their music. This is quite common, to associate an album with running, growing dependent on it. When I read Haruki Murakami's What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, he discusses how much running plays a part of his life, and over the course of decades he has been listening to the same CDs while he runs.
It's not like it's impossible to run without the music, the run just feels more difficult. My phone could run out of battery, or like what happened the other day, my Apple Music decides to pull some crazy shit and log me off and I don't have the password to get back on.
Our Apple Music has now been upgraded to a family plan, which allows us to listen to music at the same time. Before we'd play a game of stealing the other person's stream. I'd be running, listening to music, and then it would stop and a box would pop up on the screen of my phone that read "Another device is playing Apple Music," so I'd say, "Oh, no you don't!" and then hit play, making his music stop and him getting the message. After us doing this to each other a couple times, someone concedes.
We're running a half marathon in Tahoe next month, and I'm adamant training isn't necessary since I'm fit and I grew up in the mountains, so altitude can't-touch-this. My husband took the more conventional approach, and trains. He goes on ten mile runs to prepare, and I'm visualizing myself with rocket pack of energy on my back after drinking a Venti Starbucks.

I adopted my training approach from my sister, Lacey, whose run a couple full-length marathons and never trained. In fact, she wouldn't even call herself a runner. Meeting my sister explains this, she embodies coiled energy; feeling best when working three jobs, taking online classes, feeding an unhealthy shopping addiction, and making feasts for dinners, stress free of the the coinciding mountain of dishes.
When she was finishing up school, she'd go on daily five hour power walks in 115 degree swelting dessert heat. After reading David Sedaris' New Yorker article on his Fit Bit, I learned he's as bananas as her, with endless energy, always trying to outdo himself. My sister never said marathons are easy. Apparently, during the last one, she sobbed throughout the last couple miles after picking a fight with my little sister, Becky. Her biggest complaint, is the days following the run, hobbling around with sore muscles and blistered feet.

Lacey is visiting in a couple weeks. When I talk to her on the phone she is usually watching a new miniseries she'll complete within 24 hours, folding laundry, working on crafting projects for Christmas and singing to her baby. We used to spend our free time shopping, but now we can't waste money, besides, trying to go shopping with small kids is not fun.

Before our kids, we'd go to Reno, buy gigantic Diet Pepsis, and roam the mall. She could easily stay at the mall from open till close. Strange things happen though, when your in the mall for too long. Firstly, the notion of functionality goes out the window, and suspenders from Hot Topic seem like a great accessory.
Once we were shopping at Macys after high school prom season ended, and we tried on prom dresses for the hell of it. We decided to buy them, and then we went home and wore them while we drank beer. I was 27 years old and she was 28.
Becky couldn't keep up with Lacey's pace, and always needed to leave, exhausted. My little sister confessed to me she thinks Lacey absorbs energy around her because she always needs to take a nap after spending time with her. When Lacey gets to town, she can't absorb any of Becky's energy because she is running on fumes; her two month old and two year old don't let her sleep at all. I guess that means she'll just suck all the extra energy out of me. I have something to train for now, and I'll start stockpiling eight-hours-of-sleep nights.

I don't need to worry about the race. I'll need the Venti Starbucks to keep up with my sister. The race will be a walk in the park, or the mall, besides I've got my music to get me through.

Incoming Call

I fear I've been had. I had my tarot cards read yesterday, and what a terribly underwhelming experience that was. When I walked in she was chatting on her cell phone and drinking a red bull. That sight alone, her curled up on a shabby couch, with a bag of McDonalds at her feet, was when I realized I was in the presence of someone who probably went to a Psychic Sylvia Browne convention a decade ago, and then opened up a store front, where, for fifty bucks, she'll tell ladies their life is going to be great.
I should have done better research, instead I chose a place that was close to my house and had a decent rating on Yelp. After posting my personal Yelp review, I noticed there were only two other reviews. I felt guilty for calling her out on being a hack on Yelp; it was my responsibility to call her out in the moment, and say, "I don't feel like giving you money. I already know I'm going to be successful, I have complicated relationships, and a lot of good things are coming my way." If I want a confidence boost, I call my mom, who really loves to point out how good I am at kicking ass and taking names, free of charge. So my Yelp complaint feels terribly passive-aggresive.

My mom lost her cell phone last week, and then it was stolen. She was shopping, and forgot it in the bathroom. After remembering, and running back to get it, the phone was gone. She went to customer service, and told them her phone went missing. The woman behind the counter was over compensating, and it rubbed my mom the wrong way. She kept saying, "I haven't been to the bathroom all day."
My mom went home and did the "find my phone" app, then tracked the phone, drove over to the house it was at, and knocked on the front door. She then met the over compensating customer service woman's boyfriend, who said he didn't know where she was, but the phone had been powered off by now, and so they were unable to find it.
My mom and the boyfriend were in touch over the next 24 hours, and my mom put the pressure on, basically saying, "All I want is my phone back. I won't tell the store she stole it."
After hearing the story up to this point, I worried about my mom's safety. I begged her to stop talking with them, call it a loss, but go ahead and call the store to rat her out.
My mom didn't hear anything I said, and replied, "I'm going to giver her a couple more hours."
The woman threw the phone in a field, and my mom met her there, where they searched the tall grass looking for the phone. A call came in a couple hours after my warning, and the screen read "Mom." I picked up the phone, "By golly woman, you did it!"
Then, very impressed by her fearlessness, I asked, "You didn't think it was scary she asked to meet in an empty field? Weren't you worried she was going to kill you?"
"God, no."

I spent my hard earned mother's day present on that stupid reading, then I regretted writing a dumb Yelp review where I complained about feeling cheated. My mom would have probably told the lady right after the first, "I sense there has been some troubles in your past."
"Yes, dummy. I am a grown ass woman. I sense there will be trouble in your future if you don't let me go without paying you for wasting my time."
I'm going to put my desire for psychic consulting to bed, for a bit, at least till I'm rich enough to indulge in it without feeling like I'm compromising my kids' college fund, and according to my reading, thats not too far off, sometime in the fall or towards the end of the year. I guess hearing that I'll have a windfall of career success in the fall, was worth the fifty bucks.
It does feel good to be told great things are happening, and that I'm as much of a bad ass as I think I am, but it's sort of like putting on a blue shirt and then paying someone to tell me I'm wearing a blue shirt.
I'm going to delete my Yelp review. It was a good learning experience to see a crooked (ninja turtle) psychic, and now I know who to call next time my mom's lost her phone and I need a confidence boost.

Eat Poop, Woody Allen

The bananas represent poop

Another article has been written by Ronan Farrow regarding Hollywood's turning the cheek to Woody Allen being a sick fuck, child molester. Outside the bubble of celebrity and fame, a claim of pedophilia is discrediting and alarming, however in the realm of Hollywood, Allen is still treated like a respectable artist, who has to swat at the annoying accusations made by his adopted daughter.

Firstly, what is there to question. I don't understand the reaction, "Its never been proven." Look, she's his fucking kid, who was seven years old, an age where these type of claims are not imagined or unclear. If someone can't take claims of abuse made by a seven year old seriously, then they have to acknowledge the fact that he married his other fucking daughter. That in itself, marrying his adopted child, substantiates the case that he has no problem with making sexual advances toward his children/daughters.

All the people sucking Woody Allen's dick are greedy fucks. This isn't about art, this is about money. Congratulations, you're path to hell will be paved in gold because your in bed with a troll pedophile, who raped his daughters, and then patted himself on the back for it. Woody Allen is a sick horrible person, and I predict one day his cohort of victim shamers will be dancing on his grave because they can cowardly take back all the stupid, ridiculous, asinine statements they've made aligning themselves with him because they naively considered him a persecuted artist (not once pointing out their personal gain from the allegiance.)

Allen's the depiction of evil, and its terrible to think of the charming brigade of people CHOOSING to ignore the facts for their own glory. They're almost, pretty close to being, just as awful as him.

Over-socializing

You're still here?!

George turns three next month, and I'm putting together a small birthday bash for him. After our last few parties, I'm beginning to understand the lure for paying to have the party at a gymnastics studio, or Chuck E Cheese. First of all, there is no need to deep clean the house, although I could use this encouragement. Secondly, and most importantly, the "ending time" on the invitation can't be ignored and the business will take care of it, doing all the kicking out.

We usually have a barbecue for birthday parties, but there is always a last family standing, that won't go home. The party will be cleaned up, the kids will be walking around crying, needing to go to bed, and I'll be yawing continuously, complaining about my busy day tomorrow, but they carry on, grabbing another drink, oblivious to the hints. 

After the last barbecue, it took my husband putting on his pajamas, then nodding off on the couch, to get the hanger-ons to pack up their diaper bag and lead their over-tired kids from the toy room to their car.

It's just one hectic night, so I guess its not that big of a deal, especially since our little world is calm most every other night. I don't have social anxiety, but over-socializing anxiety. Listening to someone tell me a story they told me an hour before, or, even worse, listening to myself tell the same story I just told someone else, is mind numbing. 

After doing some calling around, most birthday venues are already booked, so we'll have to do it at home. I'm think a brunch party is a great solution, and not because its the perfect excuse to eat both a chocolate croissant and an almond croissant. Sure an early start time is a bit of an asshole move, but the late nighters won't make it in time, and I'll get to drink coffee which will alleviate bouts of social tiring. 

I picked out a rocket ship tent for George's birthday present. At one o'clock, when the ending time hits, no matter how many people are still hanging around, I'll be heading to the moon with George and Kiki. We can pull a banner behind us that says, "You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here!" In reality, I'll enlist my husband, who can do his the-party-is-over pantomime; putting on his jammies, and taking a nap on the couch. It's brilliant.

Im not here.

Don't Call Me Sassy

Second verse, same as the first...

My keys went missing yesterday. George always gets blamed for lost keys, but this time we had solid evidence, since he was last seen with them. Yesterday I asked George frequently, "Where'd you put the keys?" and then Kiki and I followed him through each room in the house as he talked about finding the keys.
At one point he said, "I put them in your backpack," and I tore through every bag, even ones on the top shelf in my closet, because he might have chucked them in the air, and watched them sail out of reach.
George has always been an independent kid, especially when I compare him to Kiki who tethered herself to me until she turned 4 and half, lengthening the cord only because she realized kids her own age are better at playing imaginary games, like mama and baby kitty.
We went to Tahoe over the weekend for my nephew's baptism. It was the first party where I could relax, not constantly interrupted to usher to the bathroom, feed or sooth a kid. My kids ran along in the pack and occasionally I'd venture off to find them. They were in the most off-limits spaces, a loft up a spiral staircase, all sitting on the top bunk. It was easy to herd them back to the living room, especially with the promise of cake.
Before we cut the cake, family and friends gathered around my baby nephew, who was resting in his favorite spot, face deep in my sister's chichis, and we sang "For he's a jolly good fellow." My sister anticipated our getting carried away in the never ending loop, and when we all drew in a deep breath and threw our arms out in a cheerful back and forth, to start up on round two, she raised her arms and shushed us. My niece and I sat down on the couch and shared a piece of cake. She refused a fork, so her saliva soaked finger worked on one half of the piece, and I ate the other half.

It's George's mysterious personality that always makes him suspect. He's always up to something around the house, quietly tooling away, and once someone figures out what he's up to, he gives a devilish grin and runs away squealing. Kiki is too loud and opinionated to fly under the radar. The man who runs our local Baskin Robins is always hounding her to give him her Minnie Mouse sunglasses. He's not reading his audience at all, because she will be terrified, shouting, "Bad man! Leave me alone!" running for the door, as he continues teasing, "Give me your sunglasses!"
I notice a lot of people call their daughters "sassy" when they are giving people a piece of their mind. To me, "sassy" is the most god awful word in the English language, in any language actually. Sassy is a highly gendered word, used to be dismissive of an opinionated young girl. When you call a little girl sassy your basically saying, "I'm not taking you seriously, so shush."
For a lot of women, "panties" is their least favorite word. "Panties" is a close second for me. Saying, "Panties," brings to mind the image of a sweaty gross man spending his free time in chat rooms run by Subway Jared, not being sexy-empowered from non-functional drawers.

I found the keys this morning when I was picking up Kiki's room. They were buried under toys in front of her closet. I don't know which kid lost them, but I don't care. I ran through the house screaming with excitement because I didn't have to explain to my work that I lost office keys somewhere in my unorganized house.
There are so many other playful things I can call my kids when they are acting like, themselves, really; rascal, scallywag and weisenheimer. I'm going to buy the Tile Key Finder (for reals, this time) so my keys can't ever disappear again. Next time I see George walking around with the keys, and I lack the foresight to take them away from him, I can say, "Do what you want with those, you scamp, I've put a tracking device on them!"
Moments later I'll probably hear them plop into water, followed by a flushing sound.

Time for cake

Gotcha Batch

Alicia P.I.

My first semester teaching is coming to an end. Yesterday I daydreamed about writing an inspirational email to the students, telling them this term was just as much a learning experience for me as it was for them. In reality, this term was a monumental experience for me, and they’ve just ticked another class off the list of courses necessary to transfer to a 4-year university.  I was waxing poetic about how terrified I was the first day, and now I find each of them to be delightful. Well, each of them except one, who I find to be a terribly corrupt, aggressive, sociopath whose perfectly suited for politics, but will probably end up working at the DMV, adding to the misery.

After the first exam, this student hounded me for additional points in such an aggressive and rude way, it felt like adult-bullying. If I overcame my disdain for confrontation, and she didn't send me an email apologizing, I’d have turned her in for it. The second exam, she approached me afterward claiming I marked an answer wrong that was correct. She held up the exam, and there it was, the right answer. I looked at the paper, staring at it, thinking of my options. One was to say, “Oh, golly, what a silly mistake. Ok, I’ll add points to your score.” and the other option was to say, “You changed this answer as we went through the exam, and because you have zero ethics, you're lying to me straight-faced, so you can get an additional measly two points.”

I knew I didn’t mark a correct answer wrong. It takes me forever to grade tests because I’m commenting up a storm, being meticulous, which doesn’t allow for mindless mistakes. I chose to give in though because it felt too uncomfortable for me to accuse her of lying, and it was just two measly points. But I put her on my watch list. Today we went over exam three, and she came up to me after class. She started out with an ass-kissing remark. I nodded, and half smiled, expecting her to come in for the kill with a twenty minute argument on how she shouldn’t be marked wrong on questions she really does know how to solve, but didn’t write it down properly. She flipped to the last question, a question worth only a single point, and said, “You marked this wrong, and its right.”

I said, “Wow! What are the chances I mark correct answers wrong on both your exams? That's incredible!”

She smiled, really demonstrating her lack of receptiveness, and said, “I know!”

Then I said, “Well, I scanned the exams before handing them back. So let me go and check on that, I’ll see what you had written there before I passed it back.”

Her face went white, and she pulled her sunglasses over her eyes. She then back peddled, “Oh, maybe I wrote the answer in when you went over the test... because I like to review them later.”

“Uh huh.”

After class I called my dad who found the whole thing to be upsetting, and suggest I seek council from my mentor. I then called my husband. I felt pumped up, triumphant and vindicated. He was amused and said, “If you write about this, you can call it, ‘The End of Term.’”

I told him, “I’m thinking of calling it ‘Gotcha Bitch,' but I think the 'Bitch' would hinder promo, so maybe just 'Gotcha.'"

I have two weeks left till the final, so there will be plenty more fine tuning to my my thank-you-for-the-memories daydream email to the class. I can extend my gratitude to the students, for teaching me so many things, and in particular a very special student who taught me how to conduct a covert investigation, keep my cool when being barraged by a mindless argument, and how to disguise the correct as the incorrect. A truly valuable lesson, possibly worth an extra point... Nah.