One reason it's not good to be short in Los Angeles

The sidewalks here are no wider than in any other city, and are consequently ill-equipped to accommodate the foot traffic of some 4 million people. So inevitably while walking around the neighborhood, there is some side-stepping, smiling and "excuse me" saying, and occasional run-ins with hyperactive dogs (I really don't mind those). This is usually not a big deal.

However, my neighborhood contains more than its fair share of aspiring models. And let me tell you something about these women:

First of all, they are 12 feet tall.


Second, they have terribly big egos, especially considering how freakin' tiny they really are (size, not height)


Third, they walk down the dead middle of every sidewalk, usually swinging a giant purse. And they do not move. There is no excuse me with these girls. Because clearly they are the Most Important Thing in the Universe. They are the sidewalk equivalent of an SUV doing 15 over on the freeway, zipping across lanes and cutting people off as they go.


Here are my options:
1. Literally step off the sidewalk.
2. Hold my ground and see what happens.


And usually I opt for #1, but sometimes I just get annoyed. When I choose to hold my ground however (like today), Ms. Amazon Ego almost always runs into me. Usually the contact is pretty light, just an arm brush accompanied by a sideways head turn that seems to say "who do you think you are, hobbit?" A few times I've seen them lean into it like some scrawny, bitchy linebacker; this means that they DO in fact see me. Sometimes I actually get pushed lightly off the sidewalk.

In my head, I tell them they look like a dead tree branch, and then try to move on with my day.

Cattus Giganticus

Yes, this post is about my cats. I understand that this pretty much rules out the prospect of me ever becoming a "decent" blogger. I understand that not many people actually want to read a post about my cats. I understand that this is the second post about my cats to appear on this blog.

Skip it if you don't feel like it.

Long story short, Peyton had his first hairball today. This is the kind of thing I see and expect from my other cat, who is basically a walking mop with yellow eyes and a squeaky voice. But Peyton has been having issues, and now I think we know why. Which means it was time to break out the Petromalt and see how he reacted. Oh boy.

My fluffy cat, Duke, does not like the stuff. I have tried showing it to him and getting him to lick it off my finger. No dice. I have tried mixing it with his food. Uh-uh. I have tried sneaking up on him and opening his mouth, and scraping it quickly onto his teeth in the manner of peanut butter. If Duke could talk, his response would be "Aw, HELL no!" with a vigorous tail shake to
accompany.
So usually what happens is, I smear the stuff on his paw and then watch him run from room to room, trying to shake it off and being furiously indignant that I would violate the Cat Code of Cleanliness.

Unfortunately, I found out today that Peyton is exactly the same. Except he doesn't lick the stuff off his paw. He is literally letting it sit there, and now he is going to punish me by making me clean sticky stuff off of probably every surface in my apartment.

The next cat I get will be bald.

Show and Tell

I finally have a card reader for my camera! (a real one, not a crappy RadioShack deal that came dead in the package) Here's some of what I've been up to...

My parents came out for spring break:

They like to text.



My mom likes the observatory at night.







We went whale watching in Santa Barbara.







My camera has a sketchy function. Don't you feel like you're in an episode of Saved by the Bell?



More to follow when I get all 350 pictures safely sorted out.

Seriously?

This morning I had to call...The District. It was going to be a delicate operation at best, because I couldn't very well call and say "Hi there! I need some of my personal information to complete a form that is being used in a grievance against you. Have a great day!". Still, it's my file, and I should have access to it, right? Right???



Call #1:

Me: Hello, I'm calling to confirm ____________.

Doofus: I can say yes or no.

(does she mean that she has the right to refuse me my own information? That doesn't sound entirely legal)

Me: Okay. I would like to confirm my _____________.

Doofus: Go ahead.

Me: I know it's _______(partial answer) but I need ________.

D: Yes. _______ is correct.

Me: Okay, what's the rest of it?

D: I can't tell you.

This went on for several minutes, most of which was me being put on hold. Finally it was explained to me that I could say the thing I needed, and she could tell me if it was right.

Me: Seriously, this is how we're doing this?

D: Yes.

Me: Okay. So you mean I have to guess, and if I guess right you'll tell me? (didn't I play this game in middle school when a friend liked a guy but didn't want to say who?)

D: Yes.

Me: **Takes guess**

D: NO.

Me: **Takes second guess**

D: NO. You only get one guess. Goodbye.


Call #2 was to my school to see if I could get the information that way. The secretary was in a meeting, so I gave my number and waited for her call. Meanwhile, let's try downtown again, shall we? Maybe I'll get someone different, someone friendlier.


Call #3:
Phone rings uninterrupted for a full minute. No one picks up, no voice mail. They know it's me, I'm sure of it.


Call #4:

Me: Hello, I'm calling to confirm _________.

Rude Lady (different from Doofus): Listen, we already told you *long rant restating info*.

So they know it's me. They've been discussing me. Greeeaaaaat.

Me: Yes, I have some questions about that.

Rude: Well, *dismissive rude rant* Why do you need this information?

Me: Because I need it.

Rude: WHY DO YOU NEED THIS INFORMATION?!

Me: Look, I just do. If I come in will that help?

Rude: NO. Here's the fax number. 213--

Me: Hang on one second please, I need to get a pen so I can --

Rude: Hold please.

**elevator music**

Rude: The number is 213blahblahblah. Goodbye.


Luckily, the secretary called back later and we pieced together the right date from my records, and the faulty guess I'd made earlier. And if those two ladies are ever in my position, I hope that someone is just as helpful to them as they were to me.

Waiting is Hell

I have never been good at this part of the year. When I was younger it meant waiting for report cards, waiting for AP test scores, waiting on job interviews, with maybe some other fun surprises thrown in. My family can attest that this was a tough time to be around me; I would often bounce back and forth between listless, annoyed, snippy and depressed. Teaching has been a relief from this state, and I've really enjoyed the light feeling that comes with turning in my gradebook, signing off on everything, and walking out of the building for the summer.

This year is different.

The goons at LAUSD call it a RIF. In most other districts it's referred to as a pink slip. Either way, you get a not so nice letter of termination effective a certain date, and then you have to keep being a professional even with unemployment hanging over your head. The worst part is, they keep telling you "maybe, maybe not" as far as a rehire situation goes. I won't go into details, but I will say I'm on pins and needles over here. To sum up: it totally sucks.

Hopefully I'll be writing more this summer, and hopefully I'll have tales of adventure instead of worrisome stories of me twitching in some corner.

Do they not know they're playing with peoples' lives??

This is pretty much my life for the next two weeks...

I'll be helping to direct the chaos...but secretly I'd like to be Sally.

Angelinos On Ice

The sun is shining, and it is 75 degrees. People are bundled in coats, scarves and hats. Only in Los Angeles, I chuckle to myself as I help Jacob lace up his skates. I am wearing a t-shirt, and I'm already sweating. Still negotiating Jake's laces and pretending to listen as he instructs me how to tie them, snippets of conversation fall into my ears:

"I haven't been ice skating in 17 years!"

"I've NEVER been ice skating!"

"My skates are too tight..."

"No, they're supposed to fit that way."

"Are you sure?"

"Not really..."

It's then I realize a hideous experiment is about to unfold: we are about to put a snowless city's inhabitants on a makeshift ice rink in the middle of Pershing Square. Only after this thought do I fully understand why giant signs yelling "SKATE AT YOUR OWN RISK" are everywhere, and why children clutch their parents with excitement-but-fear in their eyes.

All too soon, the death shoes are on everyone's feet and it is time to go. Time for me to fall and crack my teeth. But first, a surprise: Jake is holding a hand in the air, expectantly, in my direction.

This kid NEVER wants to hold my hand. Here he is though, waiting for me to take him skating.

Feeling mom-like in a good way, I lead him out and quickly learn that he has no idea what he is doing. Fortunately, neither does anyone else. For the first 15 minutes of the hour skate session, young and old alike clutch the walls and gingerly inch their way around, exclaiming over the fun of it all and holding digital cameras perilously outward to capture the moment. I take up a position on Jake's other side, and try to coach him as he slip-walks across the ice.

Did I mention I'm going to be his step-mom? Did I mention that this is the first time I've watched the kids all by myself? Did I mention that after we told them "we're engaged!" it was wierd and awkward and silent? Yeah, this kid will not fall. This kid WILL NOT eat it on the ice on my watch. There is more riding on this afternoon than Kaitlyn or Jacob know about, at least in my mind.

At first I'm trying to help him, and he's not listening. Jake is caught in the fun of the moment, the slippery-ness and laughter of it all, and does not seem to care. I wait 15 minutes, and then his competitive side kicks in; he wants to be better than the other kids, better than me. I model how to do it, give analogies and imagery, everything I have been trained to do. We lurch laps around the rink, refining his abilities. We stop twice to loosen and then tighten his skates. No fewer than five times he pitches forward and grabs my arm (catching me completely off guard), putting all his weight on me. No fewer than five times I hold up my 7 year old boy with one arm, balancing and somehow not falling. To borrow from Dave Eggers again: "I am America! I am the Olympics!"

After 45 minutes we have had enough, mostly because our ankles hurt. We amble to the benches and de-skate. Again I fuss with laces, and while I am at his feet untying knots he says it:

"Those other kids didn't know what they were doing, but I did because you taught me. Thanks for teaching me."

I fight tears the whole way home.