Anyway, I wrote about why I’m incensed over at The Women’s Colony. Check it out and see if you don’t agree. And if you wait long enough, the conservatives will come slithering along to tout their I-Got-Mine attitude throughout the comments section.  Some of them will probably call me names, too. Oh, goody!

In the meantime, people, IT’S FRIDAY and I don’t have to go to my shit-sucking job!!! And my friend Justin posted the following video to my Facebook wall today so things are really lookin’ up. Gosh darn it, if I don’t adore Olivia Newton John. She was, and still is, totally awesome. Watch this and be happy with me despite all the craptastic news, won’t you?

She’s a teacher and like previous years, as the state of California faces a never-ending and unfathomable budget crisis, pink slips are distributed mid-way through the school year. This year was even earlier than last. Now she’ll finish her work knowing she doesn’t have a job in the fall, wait to see what budget our deadlocked legislators hammer out and then hope to be rehired next year. This is just one teensy, tinsy corner of the tip of the iceberg-of-a-problem facing the schools in this state. Good things kids aren’t the foundation of our society or anything.

Think about this: The San Diego Unified School District is facing budget cuts somewhere in the $175 million dollar range for the coming year; the state is looking at a $3 to $6.5 billion-with-a-B deficit. (I know, your eyes are glazing. But I’m almost done with big numbers so STICK WITH ME, HERE!) Meanwhile, back at the ranch, certain decision-makers felt it was more important to put $300 million dollars toward digital whiteboards in classrooms of SDUSD schools, than it was to put it toward building repair. Now the teachers—those that are left—need additional training (with all their free time) on how to use the glorified chalk boards. And when a $200 light bulb burns out, the school is asking parents to pony up. It’s that or let the new-fangled technology gather dust and force teachers and students to get by with—gasp!—chalk. How primitive. Almost as primitive as trying to learn in a building with no heat or a leaky roof or which doesn’t have drinking fountains.

I’m not even in the public school system yet and the whole thing is totally demoralizing.

The news on education is bad. It’s bad everywhere but I’m speaking specifically of California. And to highlight just how dire things are, today is a nationwide day of action. My friend, the teacher, and her colleagues—and my daughter, but that’s pretty much a given—are all wearing pink to raise awareness. I’ll probably try to dig up something pink, too. (I’ve seen elsewhere that people are wearing red. Whatever. I think it would be best if people just make sure to wear clothes.) Throughout California, activists are going to be raising awareness about cuts to higher education through a flurry of activities.

Then tomorrow, a group of activists, including the California Federation of Teachers (CFT) and other unions, labor leaders, religious leaders and business leaders (yes, business leaders, too!), will begin a 7-week march from Bakersfield to Sacramento. The purpose of this March for California’s Future is to engage people and create a dialogue about the realities facing this state and the dire need to change the course we are currently on. To understand the purpose and goals of this march, please read this short piece. This isn’t just about education. This is about the future of California (hence the name, go figure) and, too, the rest of the nation.

I will be writing about this over the coming weeks, and posting excerpts from an interview I did with Jim Miller, a professor at San Diego City College and one of the organizers of the March. And I will be hoping that that all this hard work pays off, that my friend has a job in the fall, and that the education system gets better before my child is ready to graduate high school.

Or, it’s not so much that I see it, per se, since I’m not talking about light-passing-through-retina-to-optic-nerve kind of seeing. It’s more of a perpetual existential awareness of race, in general, and of white privilege, in particular.

It’s something I’m acutely aware of when, say, I overhear a white man at my dentist’s office joke with a booming laugh, that his favorite hygienist is in danger of coming back from her African honeymoon “with a bone through her nose.”

Or when a white male college student says to a white female college student, “The reason why UCSD has low enrollment of black students is because the school doesn’t have a decent athletic program.” Or when the white female college student responds with an emphatic and confident, “I totally agree.” Which makes perfect sense, of course, since all black people are athletes, rock stars or gangsters.

In situations such as these, my cave-woman impulse is to bang on my chest with my fists while screaming, What the fuck is wrong with you, you spoiled, small-brained, advantaged diplerp, booger wads? But I’ve found this approach doesn’t get me very far toward engaging these people in a thoughtful chat about why their expressed viewpoint is so skewed. And racist, too. There’s that.

But I’m more evolved than a prehistoric human (hopefully). If I flew off the handle every time I came up against someone who didn’t want to discuss white privilege, nobody would talk to me anymore.

Most who will talk about it will only talk about it so much before they halt conversation with the that’s-just-white-person’s-guilt defense. Even calm and respectful attempts at defending my position with irrefutable examples have a time limit that, once reached, results in eyes darting to anything but mine.

Too often, though, it’s not that white people are unwilling to continue a talk about white privilege; rather, they cannot talk about it at all, due to their refusal to even acknowledge in the first place, the myriad privileges they enjoy, which were never earned but which are nevertheless as inherent as any genetic trait.

But, still, like rolling a boulder up a mountain, when the subject comes up, I try.

One of the hazards of being the white parent of a black child, as a tireless advocate in the effort to eliminate racism, is the perpetual risk of alienation. Another parent once told me—as we chatted about educational paths for our daughters and I expressed my desire for a school with lots of diversity—that I’m “overly sensitive to race.”

“No,” I said. “I’m not overly sensitive to race. I’m aware of it. There’s a difference.” That parent and I haven’t spoken since.

I can’t be too passionate; I have to be just-right passionate. I can’t be too outspoken; I have to be just-right outspoken. And by “just-right,” I mean the perfect amount that doesn’t make the person on the other end of the dialogue uncomfortable. Never knowing what the just-right amount is—though it’s usually very, very little—if I’m not careful, I quickly become that lady, the one standing in a sea of eggshells with the chip on her shoulder. And really: Be careful what you say to her.

Making sure others are comfortable makes me constantly uncomfortable, and I can’t help but wonder if that isn’t what it’s like to be black in America.

Of course, talking with or confronting strangers is hardly as loaded because my investment is negligible. I’m less inclined to fret about the repercussions of speaking up (did I say too much? Did I offend him?). A checker at Smart & Final recently said to me, during what was otherwise a casual discussion about the difficult economy we’re all enduring: “Those Somali women are crooks. Every last one of them. They are ruining our race.”

“That’s an ugly thing to say and I don’t share that viewpoint,” I countered as I grabbed my stuff to leave, while she flushed and mumbled that I’d taken it the wrong way. Outside, I was calm, but inside I was raging. (As an aside, when Googling “famous white women outburst” to find a metaphorical example, the first two hits were Serena Williams and Kanye West. I’m pretty sure neither of them is a white woman. But! One is an athlete, while the other is a rock star, which reinforces what those intellectuals up there in Paragraph 3 were saying.)

The point is, strangers are easy to address because whichever tack I use, I always walk away, and it matters not what they think of me.

But the same does not go for friends and family. When a conversation with people I care about comes to an impasse, there is no grabbing my things and leaving. I have to find a way to move beyond the discomfort, accept that we don’t all see things the same way and still be true to my values. Like anyone else, I get angry when I feel like I’m not heard, like I’m misunderstood or like I’m being dismissed. But huffing around in hysterics doesn’t nurture relationships.

I try to be mindful, especially in the heated moments, that we all view the world through the lens of our own life experience. It just so happens that mine has taken me on a different path than most. And while I want those whom I care about to take it with me, forcing things isn’t going to make them want to come along.

So I don’t let frustrations keep me from trying. I will always try. I can’t not try. And this, I hope, is how things will change for my daughter and her generation.

(As published today in San Diego CityBeat.)

On Monday, I decided it was meaningless and cried twice. On Tuesday, I confirmed it was meaningless, and cried three times. I mean, holy smokes, folks: I DO NOT CRY AT WORK. It’s against my personal code of conduct. And the a realization that my career consists of minute-to-minute use of a nearly obsolete technology is that much more humiliating.

But. I can write! Right? That’s got too count for something. No?

So in the midst of all this faxing and crying and crying and faxing and feeling generally boxed in, I continued to vent my frustrations about John Mayer. You see, it’s more advisable for me to aim my freak-out at him, than it is my lovely husband. Fewer repercussions, if you know what I’m saying. Plus, Sam’s a terrific guy while Mayer is….well. You just need to head on over to Culture Lust and read on.

Patient (white, middle-aged, male) at reception: I missed Aubrey. I was really hoping she would be cleaning my teeth today.

Receptionist: I know, I know. She’s on her honeymoon.

Patient: Where did she go?

Receptionist: Africa.

Patient: Wow! She just might come back with a bone in her nose. Hahahahahahaha!

Receptionist: Ha ha…um…ha ha (ahem)…ha haa…

Patient: You’ll have to tell her I said that! Hahaha. No. Nevermind. Don’t tell her. I’ll tell her myself next time. Hahahahahha.

Hand written in pencil on a postcard-size piece of paper with violins and cats on it (see? Already, I question the functional capacity of this person), is the To Do list:

- 7:10am = Sleep

- 7:40 = Get ready

- 7:45 = Walk to school bus

- 8:00 = Get to class

- 8:50 = Class

- 9:00 = Walk

- 9:50- Class

I mean, where on this list is this person supposed to squeeze in breathing?

Sometime last week—after I’d wasted an hour on Facebook (OK, fine, so it was two hours) and an unspecified amount of time perusing the photos of my contacts on Flickr, and then a while or so reading only headlines at three newsy sites, and one quick dip into Twitter for Emily Alpert’s updates on the San Diego Unified School District Budget Kerfuffle: The 2010 Edition, while simultaneously conducting three chats, one direct-messaging session, writing a blog post, taking a phone call, tweezing my eyebrows and helping my daughter complete 29 Valentine’s Day cards—I noticed the word “Buzz” and a brand-spankin’-new rainbow-colored thought bubble just below the link to my Gmail inbox.

Since I had some spare time, I clicked on it.

And lo! The information came screaming at me in layers and layers of layers. Without doing anything, I already had 30 followers, was following eight people and had a bold-face offer to follow bunches more. Some of my followers and followees were already engaged in lengthy—though, let’s be honest, not exactly riveting—conversations with people they follow or who follow them, many of whom I do not know or follow. You follow me?

I felt like I’d arrived at a friend’s house in sweats and slippers with cold cream on my face expecting an intimate dinner of take out and chick flicks, only to find a hedonistic gala with beautiful guests decked out in Alexander McQueen finery (rest his poor soul). Apparently, I didn’t get the memo.

“So… is there a way to just link my Twitter feed to Buzz? That’d be so much easier…” wrote one friend whom I’m automatically following.

“Buzz can take your tweets but you can’t update Twitter through Buzz yet,” responded his friend, whom I am not following. That friend continued, “I feel like a big stupid jackass for using those words in that sentence.” Hmmm. Self-deprecation is a feature I dig—maybe I want to follow this guy, after all.

As I scrolled down in blurry-eyed dismay, I read some of the—what are they called? Buzzards? Buzzits? Buzztwits?—and noticed that most of what I was reading, I’d already read during my earlier Facebook  time-suck. With the same exact content in multiple places, it would be safe to say that the linking of platforms is well underway and my friend needn’t worry about sending his message out multiple times. One voice command into his trusty-rusty iPhone and his could be the Tweet heard ’round the world. Holy Merriam-Webster! Am I even speaking English anymore? R u?

Seriously, people. It’s a sorry state of affairs when we can link all of our accounts but can’t manage to link with the people sitting right across the dinner table because we’re busy twatfacebuzzering—that is, if people actually come together in the same physical space to begin with. Our relationships have been watered down to pokes and useless virtual cocktails and serial IMs. We’re so constantly in touch that there’s hardly a need to meet.

I have numerous friends whose marriages are on the edge of a knife in large part because the blue glow of technology has taken the place of intimacy. Hell, I could end up being one of those people if I’m not careful: Just this second—literally as I typed—I was chatting with a friend in Boise and half-conversing with my husband, who was standing in front of me folding my laundry. The only reason I spoke to him rather than texting him from my Blackberry is because I knew responding would have taken him away from fondling my underwear, his only opportunity since my multitasking doesn’t often include getting naked with him.

Speaking of my phone—to which I upgraded from a 5-year-old, sticker-adorned flip phone in December—I can now check e-mail and Facebook and all that twattie-yahoodle from my car or the beach or the movies or the grocery store or the gym. If I want to, I can buzz all my friends—and their friends and their friends—to let them know I’m at 80 percent of my maximum heart rate. Right! This! Second! Instant gratification is dog-slow compared with the offerings of the 3G Network.

With all these options, it’s increasingly difficult to live in the present. But I’m old-fashioned at heart, and I’m pushing back against this nonsense. I prefer letters to listservs, and once in a while, I have to unplug. Two weeks ago, I forged ahead sans cell phone, albeit unintentionally. And that day, I heard raindrops—actual droplets of water falling from nimbostratus clouds—crashing on my sunroof. I watched them bead up and slide down my windows. I had a driveway moment during which I wasn’t texting, e-mailing or talking. It was raining, and I was listening. L-I-S-T-E-N-I-N-G.

This week, I got a postcard from a good friend in Switzerland. A physical piece of paper with ink on it. The original 140-character communiqué. In cursive, scrunched together to fit the limited space, my friend wrote, “Can you stop over in Zurich on your way to the Amalfi (I read about it on your blog)?”

I decided right then that a letter was the only appropriate response. But we’re modern girls and I needed her physical address. And since I’d already shut off Buzz in disgust, I asked her for her digits the old fashioned way: I e-mailed her.

(As published today in San Diego CityBeat.)

Sam: Well, figure skating is smooth with a series of elements that have to be shown, with dramatic air-type things and turns and jumps and stuff. The ice dancing is more dancey, if you will, with dance moves and lots of those close choppy steps.

Me: What about the long program? Good God, the long programs go on forever.

Sam: I think the longs are more dramatic and the shorts are more whimsical.

Me: Why do people watch this…?

Sam: OHHHHHHH!!! She! Just! Ate! Shit!!! She just went down on the first toss! These are Olympians?!? Isn’t that the whole point: That they defy gravity and don’t fall down? They had four motherfucking years to practice this shit and she falls on the first spin? That’s why people watch this shit! And–and!–you get bitchin’ crotch shots all day. Check it.

Me: “The Way We Were”? For real? Don’t they want people to stay awake for their long program? Hello 1973. Our century doesn’t have any music to choose from.

Sam: I like their little outfitsOHHHHHH!!! She ate shit!!! She went down on the triple salchow! That’s three for three. I don’t know…maybe one fall per deal is normal? I don’t know…Whoooa!!…She almost packed that in! She was starin’ at some serious ice right there…

Me: Okay. I’m gonna go work now.

Anyway, here is one video that both Melanie and Morford found offensive:

And then, today, because certain women are extra incredibly bad ass, there is this response, which earned a raucous standing O in this house. Enjoy, and happy weekend.