How to Survive It

1. It is important to watch the political debates.

-1. In preparation secure a small bag of caramels and go to your favorite places, the library, to feel relaxed and be productive before your brain is clogged by hatespew.

2. Watch the debate and also keep peeping Twitter to cut the tension via Lindy West's tweets.

3. Donate money to Hilary's campaign after Trump interrupts her for the tenth time.

4. Discuss what you saw with a loved one.

5. Out down your phone.

6. Watch a scary movie (The Boy) and get creeped and forget for two hours about this election.

7. Keep the windows open. Let autumn on in.

8. Sleep tight, sleep right, go back to the fight in the morning.

Decade of Fall Memories

Walking home from The Goodman with my cowboy boots on. A blast of chilled wind ruffles my braid. I see corners I've seen for two years and wonder how they will look in ten.

The sun shined for Stripes' visit. We walked Maggie Daley holding hot eggnog lattes begging the universe for anything beyond the squat we got. "I would let out a cheer to even be formally rejected," she yelped at the green lions.

Pulled up my Halloween socks and wore fuzzy leggings to Dusty's musical improv show. I couldn't afford the non-student price, but I forgot my ID. My face got hot, and the ticket girl let me go in anyway. On the way home I picked up a pint of trick-oreo-treat flavor of the month from Baskin. Puhg and I ate it in bed while watching Erin Brockovich until 2 in the morning.

I had this grand plan to do a specifically creepy thing every day of October. The 1st, although it was probably 80 degrees, meant a box of Entemann's pumpkin donuts. I ate them in my yellow room before I had to hop on my scooter and work at the testing center.

The year of partymania was old hat. Now it was time for me to spend Friday with a green face mask on reading.

The car radio told me it was a wild weekend ahead--what with the holiday on Sunday. Bars and dress up for three nights straight. I was driving because I had to do my monthly stock pile of Target groceries. The traffic was terrible because of a football game. The carton of napoleon I had in the bag next to me was melting even with the AC on.

Before smartphones we were very lost. East St. Louis actually. It was meant to be a fun girl's night, but we couldn't get home. The light was sucked from corners. So dark, so dark. We were on our way to a haunted house, but we missed it. A cleanup crew met us at the door. It was okay.

My bio lab partner shuffled his little boots a bit after class. There was a nip in the air. He never had much to say but a lot of sass about saying the simple things (HI!!! WE HAVE A TEST!!!) "I have some chocolate in my room?" I tried. "OH I WOULD LOVE CHOCOLATE." We walked back to my dorm and I showed him the Fannie Mays. "HMM," he pondered loudly. He took one small piece and was on the edge of telling me something. But it was too quiet and too chilly.

It happened finally--my polka dot skirt was splayed around my chunky legs as I walked down the street in Kyoto for the final time. The maple leaf cookies were on sale, so I bought some to eat on the train. I think I whispered to what I'm not sure.

Two guys were in the hallway. I thought they were my friends, but they stopped inviting me places. Everything was dying, but I knew it would all become green again soon.

GRAMMAR FUSS

OMG I AM GOING NUTS IN THE BUTTS. I HAVE BEEN WRITING GRAMMAR WORKSHEETS, LESSONS, AND QUIZZES FOR THE PAST TWO HOURS. THERE IS NO EASY WAY TO LEARN COMMA RULES. THERE IS NO EASY WAY TO TEACH THEM. I FEEL LIKE I AM STANDING AT THE WHITEBOARD WITH THE WORLD'S TINIEST ROCK HAMMER CHISELING AWAY. GETTING MY STUDENT WHO RECENTLY GOT A 10% ON A REMEDIAL TEST TO UNDERSTAND DEPENDENT CLAUSES IS. MY. DAVID!

EVERY TEN MINUTES I TAKE A BREAK BECAUSE I AM ACTUAL LOSING MY MIND WRITING AND REWRITING SENTENCES LIKE "BECAUSE CACTI GROW IN THE DESERT, THEY DO NOT NEED MUCH WATER." I KNOW THIS IS MY JOB AND JOBS ARE WORK, BUT IF I DO THE MATH I'M GETTING PAID LESS THAN TEN DOLLARS AN HOUR TO FORCE MIDPLACED MODIFIERS INTO THE FOREFRONT OF MY BRAIN AS IF THEY ARE ACTUALLY THAT IMPORTANT. MEANWHILE, ON MY BREAKS I LOOK UP ALL THIS THEATRE I WANT TO SEE AND I WONDER ABOUT IT AND WHO MAKES IT AND WHAT I DO AND THE ANSWER RIGHT NOW TO WHAT I DO IS I CREATE MULTIPLE CHOICE TESTS ABOUT CONJUNCTIONS.

Respond

A few years ago a boss-type figure gave me a directive that sincerely improved my life. I was on the teaching staff for an improv theatre. We had a teacher's meeting one night and he started by explaining he was very annoyed no one had responded to his email. He had emailed us a week earlier asking about the date of next month's meeting. I didn't know when would work next month. I didn't respond. When I explained myself he said, "Okay, why didn't you just say that?" UH DUR. I mean, this was an alcoholic who was usually living in motels and he had to teach me that an unsure response is better than no response.

Sending email can be scary. It's so non-committal. You blast this information into the void and it feels sort of inhuman to be ignored. Did it ever reach the other side of the web? Does the silence mean anger, confusion, complete disregard? It makes me want to apologize for trying to correspond with a person I know. So backwards. "I'm sorry for communicating." I can't think of a sadder and incorrect yet common feeling.

Women Underground

Watched 10 Cloverfield Lane last night---a pretty good flick. Without spoiling much, the concept is a young woman wakes up from a car crash in an underground cellar being held captive (?) by an older man. She freaks out, but he maintains the world is under attack either by another country or aliens, and everyone outside is suffering a fatal skin disease. So, is she safe or is she prey? I will talk about this movie--with spoilers--in another post.

What occurred to me as the credits rolled is that this is the 5th piece of media about women being held in a bunker underground I've seen in the past one year: 10 Cloverfield Lane, The Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt, Room, Ex Machina, Stranger Things. Oh, and. There's a new movie coming out this fall called Morgan that is also about a girl with special powers trapped in an underground bunker. It's not truly a repetitive "problem" as all five of the works I have seen are actually really good. But, huh.

Being a drinker of the critical theory Kool-Aid, I can't believe this is coincidence. These stories are all slight variations on the current zeitgeist of American feminism. We have been down here with people who say they are helping us when they actually are harvesting us: for our intelligence, for our innocence, for our unique abilities. Most sexist men do not know they are sexist. They become funnels between women and power believing they are protecting women or helping them. Women made huge strides in the earth 20th Century, and then again in the 70s, and now...we reach a new age. Without being an expert in the field, I champion Twitter for bringing women together instead of lashing them apart with catty magazine headlines and lonely kitchens. Not even concrete can contain us and everyone knows it.

Guilt Fees

Can there be a Not Drinking tip that's implied if you get nothing at the bar? I'm writing this on the train full of guac and chips. Fine chips but guilt chips for not ordering alcohol but wanting to be out with my new cast. They were the cheapest appetizer and still eight dollars. I tipped 1.50. I would have rather had no after midnight calories and given the waitress a five spot. I used to get cherry Diet Cokes before caffeine started making me into a wind-up hummingbird.

I walked a ton today. Two and from two theatres, the grocery store, around the neighborhood. Everyone is out enjoying these last summer moments.

Last night I decided to see the musical show I've been cast as an understudy on. It was weirdly diagonal from home, so taking a train is barely worth it. I shrugged and trekked on foot. Down Halstead I listened to The Mountain Goats and was reminded of Oh Yeah That Place Why Don't I Come to This Neighborhood More? Brown rust, broken ATM machine, the jazz club, the teeny prairie homes.

First Day of School Jitters

Today I made up my new office at school. I start classes again tomorrow. A sign on top of my papers in the adjunct drawer. I wrote it myself last December. It said "ALICE'S DRAWER COMING BACK FALL 2016." Fall 2016 seemed very far away at the time. I go through the papers--extra grammar quizzes, a reading or two, and a lot of student evals. Memories of all my old students came rushing back. I'm not disappointed to be back to work. I love teaching. I love community college. I love English. But for the first time in my whole life I am scared.

Any time I start something new I know I won't be great right away. The bar is low, and I make progress. Not bad. I wasn't nervous for my first classes at my current institution or even my first classes ever. But I'm nervous today. Because a year ago I had it down. I knew every day's lessons and how to make them fun and exactly how to talk to the student who simply can't write complete sentences. I have forgotten a lot. I have my notes for tomorrow, yes, and my old syllabi, but so much is hazy. What if I haven't budgeted enough time? What if I budgeted too much? What if I accidentally skip over important steps in the essay process? What if they don't like me? There's so much more to lose when you're doin' pretty good. You know what it's like.