Equinox
I’m not rich. At least not in the monetary sense. But on this, the first day of spring, I sat out back with my kid and my dog and my camera and the birds and the reggae and a picnic and a few mud pies and dammit if I wasn’t as happy as I’ve ever been in my life.
I’m not bragging. Just really, really thankful because I know how temporary things are and how little control we actually possess in the grand scheme of life. I may not be as filled up tomorrow so I’m just taking a sec to go deep into the goodness that is right this moment.
Outrage
Today I’m recommending you read this open letter to AIG. It was cathartic reading it, so it must have been cathartic writing it. Melanie put a breathtaking human face to the story and now, I’m going to add another one:
I like her ending, only I wouldn’t have been so polite as to use asterisks. I’m too blinded by rage to even locate the asterisk key when I think about the futures stolen by these unscrupulous, relentless crooks who are now suing the US government for…back…taxes…
Starving the (wrong) beast: San Diego Unified throws the baby out with the bath water
Madison High School student Charles Spencer plays a tuba held together by duct tape. His school is too broke to fix the instrument, and with pending budget cuts, the prospect of Spencer—who was featured in a recent story by the online news website Voice of San Diego—having a music class during which to play his bandaged horn is looking grim. Whether you have a child or not, every adult should be alarmed when it comes to the state of education in the Golden State.
In case you don’t know, San Diego Unified School District (SDUSD) is in a world of hurt. Stimulus funds are headed our way, but, apparently, the mystery amount SDUSD will receive is not enough to pull it out of the already in-progress nose dive. And you thought that fiery streak in the sky was a meteor.
The No Child Left Behind farce is one culprit in the evisceration of public education. But add Prop. 13, the state budget crisis and a recession, and San Diego children become diminishing apparitions in the rearview mirror of “progress.”
Now facing a stratospheric deficit, our local school board has put two tourniquet-like plans on the table. Plan A, according to Voice, includes a nearly across-the-board increase in class size, principal-sharing among certain schools, slashing of transportation for magnet schools, cuts to employee benefits and an unpaid four-day furlough for all employees.
Plan B is even more depressing, with cuts to “school supplies, landscaping and elementary school counseling,” areas in which previous cuts have already left the city’s schools in disarray. Also included are “options such as closing small schools, shuttering programs in Old Town and Balboa Park” and nixing altogether arts and high-school athletics. I personally think the school board should require foot binding for kids who are actually succeeding under these ever-worsening conditions just to level the weed-infested playing field.
In addition to all that misery, the free lunch program is broke while roughly 2,600 more kids enrolled this school year than last. High-fructose corn syrup is cheap, so serving less nutritious meals is being talked about as a cost-cutting solution. Good thing American kids don’t struggle with obesity and diabetes or this “solution” might be something of a health concern.
California spent $2,000 less per student than the national average prior to budget cuts, and students here are more likely to attend overcrowded schools and receive less personal attention, according to UCLA’s California Educational Opportunity Report released in late February.
Somehow, I can’t envision Plan A or B improving these statistics. So I’m offering my own plan, which I’ll just call Plan WTF.
Plan WTF includes three ways to generate money for all of California’s public schools with enough left over to buy textbooks published in this century for the state’s poorest kids. Imagine! These predominantly brown babes will get to read revisionist history just like their wealthier counterparts.
My plan begins with the decriminalization of weed. Regulate it like alcohol, tax it like cigarettes and smoke it like you’re being water-boarded and are gasping for air. The idea-challenged what-about-the-children crowd should pack a bowl and take a seat. They’ll likely say that kids will smoke it if it’s legal, and they may be right. But kids are going to smoke it anyway; they still deserve a solid education with access to counselors between bong hits.
Part 2 of Plan WTF is to stop building the third border barricade. Walls are expeeensive. Just get a bid on a 3-foot-tall stucco wall to surround your tiny front yard. You’ll see. Turning our country into one giant gated community is a losing policy. If two didn’t work, certainly three won’t halt the determination of the human spirit.
Finally, and most expediently, there must be a Just Say No To Testing mantra. The policy makers can call the expensive exams STAR or WRAP or whatever silly acronym their high-paid consultants come up with, but they’re not fooling anybody.
Each year, students in the SDUSD face a battery of state-mandated tests that include the National Assessment of Educational Progress, California Standardized Testing and Reporting, California Alternate Performance Assessment, California Modified Assessments and the California High School Exit Exam—because passing grades are no longer enough.
There’s the English Language Development Test and the Physical Fitness Testing, which all the kids hate since they’re fat and wheezy and not allowed to run at recess and they don’t have P.E. anymore because the schools are broke and, anyway, they’re too busy preparing for tests.
There are the district-mandated tests, too: the Benchmark Exams, the End-of-Course Exams, the End-of-Year Exams, the Gates-MacGinitie Reading Test, the On-Demand Writing Exam, the Standards-Based Assessment in Mathematics (your eyes swirling yet?), the Writing and Reading Assessment Profile and the Practice California High School Exit Exam—because they have to practice taking the test just in case they don’t know by this time how to take a test.
Don’t forget the slew of “voluntary” tests that are generally required for college admission and all the regular day-in and day-out testing. Holy mackerel, are you tired? The whole thing makes me want to put my head down on my desk and drool for a while.
It’s crushing, what’s been done to education in California, and everybody loses if this is the future. Plan WTF is the only viable solution. Implement it yesterday and maybe Charles Spencer will have a new tuba before he sits for his SATs.
(As published today in San Diego CityBeat.)
Eccola!
At the noodging—and prodding and guilting and arm-twisting—of my friends Stacy and Mary, I applied to the Sirenland Writers Conference last autumn. Mine was a last minute application and I mean that in a very literal sense, as I waited until the last hour of the last day of the application window to gather and clean up my writing samples, and until the last ticking minutes to write my cover letter. I believe I even called myself a “last minuter” in that cover letter.
It’s not that I didn’t know the deadline was looming: I had spent the previous four weeks pouring over the details of the conference on the website, reading everything I could find about the people running it and those who’d attended in the past. I read about her and him and her . Then I fully embraced the feeling of intimidation and decided I had no business. I was way out of my league.
But then there was Stacy. And Mary. And the last day to apply. And, of course, Positano, Italy.
I got over myself, attached all of my attachments and hit send. Sometime in the following week, I re-read the pieces I’d sent and almost died. The first of the three was so schmaltzy, so dripping with overt emotion, so stuffed with rookie errors, clichés and poor grammar, I knew instantly that there was no way any reviewer would even glance in the direction of my second and third pieces. Were I flexible enough to do so, I would have kicked my own ass. But I’m not, so instead I berated myself with a fierce and pointed inner dialogue.
In December, both Stacy and Mary got emails of acceptance and I got…wait listed!
I was thrilled. That’s me up there, being thrilled.
For the first time in my life, a life that arguably holds the world record in second-runner up status, I was ecstatic to be second best. It didn’t feel like second best. It felt very much like first. It felt like I’d won the scholarship or gotten the job or kept the guy. It was as much of a YES for me as any YES I’ve ever had.
And then. Three months later—as in, one week ago yesterday—I got a phone call and an email inviting me to attend the conference, which began on Sunday. There was a last minute withdrawl by one of the accepted participants, a painful decision that I can only imagine had to be heartbreaking for her. But it left an opening for me and the message I received on my answering machine said, “…we don’t expect that you can turn your life upside down at the last minute, but if you can swing it, we’d be happy to have you. Well, let me rephrase that: We’d be delighted to have you.”
Every star and moon aligned except for that stubborn dollar-sign-shaped constellation. Suffice it to say, the cost of last minute tickets from Southern California to the Amalfi Coast during tax season was prohibitive. I considered putting up a Pay Pal button here (if Nadya Suleman can do it…) but that felt tacky (again, see Nadya Suleman). So after some high-speed juggling and agonizing (I had to make a decision in a very short amount of time), I chose to decline the invitation.
But next year? Next year, I won’t waiver or hem or haw or doubt that I belong. Next year, I’ll be ready. Next year at this time, if they’ll still choose me, this will be me:
(Photos 1 and 3 taken by Stacy and borrowed with unspoken permission by me.)
Oy vey
Me: Ruby? Do you have an “F” for frog?
Ruby: Nope. Go fish…Mama? Do you have a “Z” for zebra?
Me: Sorry, honey. Go fish.
Ruby: Tutu’s turn!
Tutu: Ruby? Do you have a “V” for vagina?
The first Monday after the time change is hard
But here’s what I’m listening to as I get ready in the dark.
New online ‘zine for the ladies
My friend Mrs. G. of the now shuttered Derfwad Manor, has started up her very own online magazine and has included me amongst the first of her guest writers for the launch. I may be taking on a more permanent role over there, which means I’ll sleep when I’m dead, but I couldn’t be more flattered that she wants to play with me.
There’s a lot to read at the new site and kinks are still being hammered flat with a five-pound sledge. Input is needed so feel free to weigh in with feedback. Knowing how kind-hearted and gentle Mrs. G is by nature, I know she won’t swing that thing in your direction. Unless you’re mean. But even then, she’s morel likely to aim her wit at that soft spot between your eyes.
I’ve got a new piece up in The Family Room, an oldie but goodie in The Bedroom (as I read it, I actually thought someone else had written it) and last year’s Ode to Javier is up in The Cabana. Damn it if the latter isn’t one of my favorites. He’s the peanut butter to my jelly, that’s for sure. Mmm, mmm, mmm.
But don’t just read my blubbering. Check out posts by Nora and Stacy in The Confessional, Melanie’s post in The Kitchen and of course all things Mrs. G in The Belfry. Please, when you’re wasting time today scooting around the web, stop in. We’d really love to see this thing fly.
Puh-leese!
I’m sorry but maybe Chadi Moussa should have bought just a little less house when times were good? What I’m saying is, I do not feel terribly compassionate for the plight of this luxury car dealer. Am I supposed to?
“He bought his home in 2005 for $2.24 million, with a down payment of more than $500,000, and monthly payments of $4,000 for the first year.”
A $4,000 mortgage payment and now he wants help? I would bet my house that he wasn’t complaining when Bush signed off on tax cuts for the wealthy and I’d go even further to bet that he is probably a conservative voter who doesn’t believe in government handouts. Until he’s the one in need.
Yes, sweeping judgments based on nothing more than what I know about him from the article. But I have a hunch that he hasn’t been living out of his car or that a SWAT team isn’t breathing down his neck to take his home. People: Let’s talk about this. What are your thoughts?
Cat Loather: Settle down, PETA, I don’t want to drown them in a bag of rocks
For her first birthday, Ruby’s aunties gave her a fish tank, effectively subverting one of the Belfer bylaws: There will be no pets that shit in the house. Of course, once Ruby saw the fish, they were here to stay. When her aunties suggested that birthday No. 1 could be topped only with a kitten on birthday No. 2, I laid down the law. Per Article 7, Section 3, there will be no birds, gerbils, hamsters, snakes, rats, ferrets or cats. And believe me when I say there will never be cats, plural or singular, in my house.
I hate cats. I hate the musical about them, I hate scratch towers built for them and I hate the sound of the mini collar bell that lets me know one is near. I also admit to experiencing a tiny earthquake of disappointment when I learn that someone I like is a cat lover. Sam calls cat-preference a character flaw. I just call it wack.
I’m allergic to cats, which might be the reason for my intense aversion. But maybe I hated them first and the allergies followed. Or maybe I’m just projecting some deep-seated self-loathing onto an innocent animal. I am, after all, a Leo. Perhaps I’m allergic to myself.
I had a friend in college who got a cat shortly after she got the keys to her first apartment, where we used to smoke weed and watch old John Hughes films. She called the cat Jake, though he was cute enough to have been named Snowball or Snowflake or some other foofy cat name. Jake was skinny with short, white fur and light blue eyes. But his fur was prickly and his demon eyes burned mine when I looked directly into them, the same as if I’d sneaked a too-long glance at the sun.
Turns out, Jake was a mean son of a bitch who became notorious for his bad attitude and nasty interpersonal skills. He should have been called Avalanche. Or Asscat. He was so toxic that he once sent me to the emergency room. I had to stop hanging out at Mariah’s place after that and never understood why she loved him so. To this day, I can’t even type “Jake” without wheezing.
I’ve successfully managed to live my life with limited exposure to cats—until recently. It seems everywhere I go these days, there is a scheming, detached, self-serving meower trying to knead its paws on my legs or slink its way around my ankles. It’s like they know I hate them, like they have a special sensor for it, and they make it their purpose to torment me. Meanwhile, I have to stay cool in front of the oblivious owners and try, despite my strongest urges, not to launch the animal into the wall as I kick myself free.
I’m so convinced of some recent planetary shift in favor of the feline that I double-checked the Chinese calendar just to confirm it is not the Year of the Cat. In fact, the cat doesn’t get its own year on the Chinese calendar, something that makes me happy in a superior, dog-loving kind of way. Still, I sense there’s something I’m supposed to be learning from this increased exposure.
Back in the day, everyone I knew had a dog, until, suddenly, everyone had a cat. Several women in my book club have cats, and I arm myself with inhalers, Benadryl, clenched teeth and very pointy shoes when our meetings take place in their homes. My fellow columnist has a cat, but even a regal name like Simba can’t compensate for the fact that Decker’s a cat person (DA has a bird, but that’s another story).
One of my editors has a cat, too, and if you’re reading this now, it means she wasn’t completely off-put when I insisted after several bottles of wine a few weeks back that I despised her fat cat. “But how can you hate her?” She begged. “She’s so adorable!” Cats leave their poop in your house and are nice only when they want something. That’s not adorable. That’s an ex-boyfriend.
And dammit all to hell if “Santa” left not one, but two! cats for my best friend’s daughter last year. My heart exploded into a million tiny hairballs when I heard. My friend might as well have given me a lump of coal. Despite appearances, it wasn’t a passive-aggressive attempt to break up with me. She’s more direct than that. She would do it on Facebook.
While all these cats circle in on me, they’re also in vogue when it comes to defining me. Apparently, my puma days are behind me and I’m fast approaching the cougar years. Life isn’t over after that, though. I still have my jaguar years on the horizon and the lynx years beyond that. I would prefer a peacock analogy. Even a dolphin euphemism, fish jokes and all, would be fine with me because dolphins? Now they’re adorable.
None of these pejorative terms includes direct reference to my vagina, but I’ll give pussy an honorable mention for grating on my last nerve. And I’m embarrassed to admit that I have my bikini waxing done at a place called The Pretty Kitty. While they do a great job, that name is disturbingly childish. I can’t bear to say it out loud or program it into my cell phone, and I’m certainly not jotting down the number: 858-483-PURR. I am a grown woman, not an SDSU coed with velour sweat pants stuffed into Ugg boots, the word “PINK” scrawled across the ass. Personally, I’d be more impressed if Victoria’s Secret skipped the thinly masked allusion and just wrote “VULVA” there instead. Or “PUSSY.” But then, I’m right back where I started.
(As published today in San Diego CityBeat.)
Mental Health Break
This is NexactlySFW, but only because of the language (just turn down the V a little bit). And it’s also probably not very safe for any feminists without a sense of humor. But if you’re pissed off this morning because you learned, during day-care-drop-off, that post-doc fellows at UCSD pay less than half what you pay for the very limited parking or if, in the very first email you checked today, you were belittled by a man whose sense of self-importance is bigger than the national deficit, this will right your mood again.
(H/T to my very first college boyfriend.)