Sweet Nap

I arrived early for my eye exam yesterday. I have terrible patience for waiting rooms, so I brought a thick novel with me to stave off boredom.

Just as I was sitting down, a woman two seats away got called in for her appointment. She rose from her seat slowly, her husband's hand gently assisting in the arch of her back. As she was walking down the hall to the exam room, her husband, as if jolted by a small current of electricity, popped out of his chair and handed his wife her purse. She didn't say 'thank you,' but she smiled a small, almost secret, smile. He returned to his chair, slower than before, and sunk into the patterned, mauve fabric to wait for her.

For the next half an hour or so, I lost myself in my book, unaware that the man had drifted to sleep in the cushioned but uncomfortable chairs. It was only when his wife returned that I looked at him, his head hanging forward like in prayer. Trying not to wake him, she sat down carefully like she was sitting on a porch swing supported by thread. She had a grin on her face like a child discretely opening a cookie jar. Instead of waking her sleeping escort, she returned to her seat, allowing him to continue his nap.

The love story in my book then seemed flat: For the next 15 minutes, I kept peering over at the couple. The man still napping, dreaming of and waiting for his love. The wife, gingerly turning the pages of her magazine to limit the rustling leaves.

When my name was called, I tried to gather my things as quietly as possible, but when I rose from the chair, I accidentally woke the man. My Spanish is rusty, but as I was walking down the hallway to my exam room, I heard her say, "Because you were sleeping."

Mystery Scratches

I didn't notice them all morning. I washed my face, ate my breakfast, buttoned my collared shirt, all unaware that my neck bore mysterious scratches. It took one my impolite students to ask, "Dude, what's up with your neck and face?"

And like all minor injuries, becoming aware of my scratches made them all the more painful and irritating. Worse still, the scratches laced my neck skin. Stretching and contracting, the fissures of flesh opened and closed with every head nod and neck twist. The above picture does not do the annoyance and pain justice. Call me a wimp, but aren't the paper cuts, hang nails, and chapped corners of lips the most egregious and unwelcome?

I checked my shirt collar for barbs. I checked my hands for shiv-like finger nails. But these scratches seemed other-worldly. I imagined a feminine werewolf sneaking into my room last night and caressing me with her fangs. That was the sexiest and most fantastic answer: a werewolf hickey.

But after a school day of living in my werewolf fantasy, I returned home to my Chihuahua/Pug dog and realized my mysterious scratches perfectly aligned with my tiny dog's nail pattern. In the end, it wasn't a secret tryst between man and lycanthrope. My dog jumping on my face and kick-starting my throat simply didn't stir me from my sleep.

What a day: I'm not a werewolf Romeo, and my neck got tore up.

Bartering to Feel Young Again

The rainy season has brought more than grayness to my life; it has brought youth.

Forced inside the cafeteria by the misty January afternoons, teachers and students from all grades have no choice but to shed the hierarchy and eat in close quarters. Some teachers grumble, but I don't mind the occasional student screaming.

This new seating arrangement has reminded me of a very important part of being young: food bartering. It started with one boy looking longingly at my ziplock of kettle corn. Though the corn tasted good, I started feeling guilty as I cracked the sugary kernels in my mouth. So I offered him some, and he was grateful.

The next day, the same thing happened, only this time, out of his mature sense of equality and fairness, he offered me a vanilla Oreo in return. This wasn't so much of an economic exchange as it was a respectful food handshake between gentlemen.

The system grew. More kids joined in. Ten potato chips for a Chip Ahoy? That's too many. How about six? Okay, eight it is.

So, after several days of diplomatic practice, three-way trades are commonplace: I gave some veggie straws to David, who gave half a granola bar to Mark, who then gave me three fruit snacks.

The bartering probably isn't the most ethical and some might see it as taking advantage of the youth, but it's all in good nature. There is an intellectual excitement and mutual respect in our system. I assure you, dear reader, I am generous with my side of the offers. And, most importantly, we are all happy.

Once the rains stop, I'll go back to my secluded, adults-only lunchtime, slowly eating food from my own home. But for now, it's fun to feel young again. As an adult, how often do you really get to barter for and earn your food?

Used Underwear

I saw this in the store, and I was confused. Who would buy underwear that had an opened package? This wasn't even the last box of that particular item or color. At least 10 identical, non-opened boxes surrounded this.

If I worked at the Returns Counter for the store, I would have just given the customer their money back and told them to keep the undies. My store looks cheap and dirty having products like this out.

Maybe the customer just opened the box in the store to look at the underwear patterns, but still, those aren't good odds.

When girls try on their swimsuits with that hygienic barrier, I still cringe. There's something off-putting about tight, binding clothing being near sensitive zones. I can imagine the germs literally jumping the skin-tight gap. Even if my own brother wore a pair of my silk underwear on accident...garbage. "Used underwear" is not a term in my lexicon.

And the scariest part: I was at the store the next day, and they were gone.

Dixinormis1983

So, you want to help but don’t have a way to get one of our shirts or make a monetary donation? Not to worry, we’ve got you covered with the easiest possible way to be a hero – playing Halo!

We are rallying our fan community to show their support by playing Halo 3 or ODST online Wednesday or Thursday while wearing a special emblem signifying your commitment to the cause. For every thousand heroes that participate, we will make a $100 donation on behalf of Bungie and our fan community to the Red Cross for Haiti relief efforts, up to a maximum of $77,000. All you have to do is don a special emblem and play a game online and know that you’ve done a small part to help those in need. www.bungie.com

Haiti is everywhere, as it should be.

Bungie, the company behind Halo, had a technologically aware fundraiser for Haiti. Play Halo over the Internet, wearing a special in-game, heart icon, and Bungie will donate money. The icon is easy to equip and is free assuming the person already has the Halo game and online service.

So I turned on my Halo ODST expecting to see hearts galore.



















I began politely to remind other non-heart players about the drive. I expected my words to be met with changes to the heart icon, but instead, Dixinormis1983 responded with, "Those niggers live on a fault line. That's their own fucking fault. Why would I change my icon for those fag niggers? It's like the Katrina shit. I wasn't going to help those welfare shits. I'm not changing my emblem because I don't want to help them." Dixinormis1983 even said that he changed his icon to look like a KKK member.

I expect online slurs and name calling. But this...?

I tried to plead my case, commenting that the very act of being on an online game was an exorbitant luxury in the scope of world affairs. That Haiti is in utter ruin the likes he would probably never know. But he called me a "hippie asshole." How could something so universally awful be seen as comeuppance?

Doesn't he understand that the world is not equal? Life in other places, even within our own borders, even within our own cities, is drastically striated. Doesn't he understand that people are not born onto flat ground? That some are born onto luxurious hilltops and others into squalid valleys with more than willpower and hard word separating them?

Dixinormis1983, even if you were joking, your words scalded me with heat that dissolved my trust in generosity and good taste. I'm sure you're a good man, but your comments have repercussions. I've written your words, so that you may take responsibility for them. Dixinormis1983, if ever you read this, please contact me. As mature men, I hope we can share words about honor, generosity, and hope. I have faith in you, even if you don't have faith in others.

My love to Haiti. Be strong.

Itchy Toes and Wet Socks

Everyday he takes off his shoes in my class. I'll glance up from my pile of vocab tests to see shoes strewn about. During the warmer months, he'd take off his shoes because the socks "itched" his toes. And now, with daily deluges, he complains of wet socks that wrinkle his feet.

With my teacher's intuition, I think that maybe he's exaggerating, but measuring sock wetness sounds unhygienic and potentially illegal if another adult walked in at the wrong moment.

At first, I told him that someone could trip on the loose shoes. I thought that would be the end of it. But as a bright young man, he started kicking off his shoes and neatly lining them up under his desk. He wasn't being disobedient; he was accommodating my concerns.

So I had to just come out with it: Please leave your shoes on. But like many social norms, there wasn't a logical reason for me to use as evidence. He was genuinely confused. His face contorted as he processed the information.

I imagine there is a giant index of how kids' faces look when they are truly confused. Right between "Mommy doesn't love Daddy anymore" and "There is no tooth fairy" would be "You can't take your shoes off in public."

To be honest, I really don't understand the rule myself. I hate wearing shoes. They are the first thing off when I get home from work, and sometimes, I take my shoes off so haphazardly that my feet accidentally pull down my pants.

I have no real reason for my student. His feet don't smell. His shoes are not intrusive. He's an academically sound student. I always try to explain my classroom rules, give a philosophy behind the limitations, but this time I found myself silenced. I begrudgingly uttered the words, "Just do it because I asked you to."

I'm a sell-out shoe hater.

Nice to See You Again

I don't know his real name, so I shall call him "Lucky" because he is the luckiest dog I know. Today was the second time I've found Lucky running loose on the street. He was un-collared. He was un-leashed. And, despite Bob Barker's cries, he was un-fixed. Even with all the odds against him, Lucky was still alive.

One time, about a year ago, I found Lucky running loose, crossing the streets in zig-zagging sprints like a toddler. I managed to round him up, tie him to my dog, and walk around until the owner luckily found us.

So I was pretty surprised to see an unattended Lucky again. Even after a near loss of their pet, the irresponsible dog owners still didn't fix whatever allowed Lucky to escape.

Running in a mad, collar-less dash at my dog, Lucky was totally oblivious to the green truck that almost plastered him to the asphalt. The owner of the truck braked the kind of way that would cause loose items riding shotgun to slide to the floor. As he accelerated off, he gave me a look like "control your damn dog." Funny, I was readying that same look for Lucky's owners.

In usual dog greeting, Lucky started smelling my dog like a mechanic examining an undercarriage. Then, the usual changed to the strange: Lucky started excessively licking my dog's penis.

Now, I understand dogs are very different than humans, but it's still very strange and rude. My dog backpedaled trying to escape this unwarranted fellatio, but Lucky was too amorous. Lucky isn't the cleanest dog, so I began to worry about my dog's health. Is there such a thing as doggie oral herpes?

I reached for the scruff of his neck to stop the assault and to harness the stray, but he ran off thinking it was a game. My dog was too apathetic to chase after Lucky with me. I hope he got home okay.

No address for me find his home. No phone number for me to call. No doggie-proofed house. His owners are dog owners in name only. Maybe Lucky isn't so lucky after all.

Tasting the Rainbow

I've never seen a green parking cone. What a sight. And suddenly I feel like eating some Skittles.

What a great start to the weekend. I'm so happy.

Please Leave My Classroom, Mr. Bird

With the mildewy winter making my classroom smell like feet, I decided to open my classroom's back door inviting in some crisp sunshine. But my open invitation was accepted by a party crasher: a swallow.

Now, I've seen wild birds indoors before. Costco often has a pigeons eating hotdog scraps, and I've even seen a duck in a Walmart. But reader, I was unprepared for a fast-flying, panicked swallow in the middle of my composition lecture.

And of course, my usually reserved students went berserk. A few girls ran out of the room blatantly violating the hall-pass policy. Some boys climbed on their seats in celebration. Most of the students, however, ran around the room in a chaotic and tomfoolerish effort to corner the helpless bird. One of my multi-lingual students shouted "I eat him!" but I think he was trying to say, "I want to keep him!" At least I hope so.

But the bird was, of course, a bird. Flying from corner to corner like an acrobat and flagpole to top of whiteboard like a gymnast, the students' rampage probably caused more harm to each other than the visitor.

It's strange that seagulls on the soccer field are a nuisance, and pigeons around the lunch tables are invisible. Put one bird in a classroom, and it's pandemonium. I'll have to admit, when the bird did, what I interpreted was, a pecking dive bomb at my head, I screamed. But it was a very manish scream.

So, even I, the teacher, liaison of learning, got caught up in the bird escapades. Eventually with some shouting and my thin vocabulary textbook flexing as I made shooing motions, I calmed my students and helped our unruly visitor leave my classroom.

Despite the bird taking class time, there was no real lesson in the event. It was simply mayhem at its best. Unpredictable and wonderful. The kind of event no words could capture, but we try.

I would have taken a picture. But with the screaming, injuries, pushing, shoving, and birds...I didn't have time. It was a great day.

Fruit Cocktail

It's too late. The expiration date on the bottom is 2/2009. Canned fruits have expiration dates years in advance. Like batteries. Or condoms.

I've stored this 6-pound can for three years, never piercing the lid with the circular edge of a can opener simply because the idea of a fruit parade, waiting just for me, in a light syrup is too appetizing.

The grapes are my least favorite; they are too squishy and wrinkly like I imagine the eyeballs of a corpse would burst in my mouth. I eat them first, just to make room for the divine pear chunks. Ah, the pears. So crisp and sweet. Fillet minion textured with nectar-sweet juices. Even though the grapes are nasty, they are necessary. In the wake of their consumption, rises, like the penitent phoenix, the glorious pear.

I'm so sad. I had to throw away my big can.

I'm Driving. Calm Down.

It's my sweetheart's birthday today, and I decided to get her a balloon. A big one. There's something about balloons that encapsulate the joy of a celebration. Balloons may deflate, but there is something charming about a half-floating balloon, dancing in the apartment air currents and corners.

Safeway just wouldn't do; Safeway balloons are for your cousin's baby shower. No, sweetheart balloons are the most romantic when purchased from garish party stores. When the display balloons have four-digit ID numbers, then you've got the right store.

The only problem with fancy balloons? They are too big in the back seat of the car. It's like carpooling with some floating children whose overactive ribbon fingertips tickle your face. You put your car in reverse, and their faces block the rear window. And when you reach in back to calm them down, you dislocate your shoulder and turn the wheel too soon scraping your left headlight on a BMW fender. For so much fun, balloons are quite dangerous.

It was worth it though. She smiled at her funny balloon. And when we came home from dinner, giant Mylar Hello Kitty, floating aimlessly, greeted me with an ethereal curtsy.

Coaching In Field Trips? It Is Curriculum?

My school has started their annual ad campaign to attract new parents. Part of this plan includes dressing up the school so when tours pass through, our mission statement, statistics, and philosophies are posted on well-placed plaques.

And by well-placed plaques, I mean 8.5"x11" paper on a stucco wall near a door that opens outwardly.

I don't need a super chic, snazzy ad campaign, but black and white paper flapping in the wind doesn't exactly scream high-end education. I don't need $1000 ad agency witticisms, but maybe signs that make sense would be a good idea. And shouldn't the un-laminated, outdoor advertisements be put out on Monday, when the open house occurs, rather than the rainy Friday before?

I love my school; I bought a polo designed for a large middle-school girl just so I can rock the school insignia. So the instant I saw these signs, I rushed back into the school to alert my principal tactfully. But sadly, they had already left for the day.

So here I am, cautiously warning you, dear reader, that ad campaigns are devastatingly important. Please proof read. Please bounce ideas off different people. And please, for the love of God, no scotch tape.

Where Is My Tasteful Disney Shirt?

Sometimes I wish I was a middle-school girl. Not because transforming into a girl would be some groundbreaking gender study. Not because becoming young again would mean more years to live. No, I want to be a girl so I can wear Disney paraphernalia.

Now, in my defense, I would be happy to stay an adult man if Disney made decent men's clothing (boys clothing doesn't count). But they don't, so I'm stuck secretly wishing upon a star for a socially acceptable situation where I could wear a shirt with Belle, Ariel, Aurora, and Mulan across my bust.

I think Disney as a clothing company drastically underestimates the demand for men's, Disney-themed attire. I'm not talking about the unabashed Disney whoring of t-shirts in The Disney Store; I'm talking about tasteful clothing. Think of the artwork for the Disney musicals "Beauty and the Beast" and "The Lion King." They are both stylin' and Disney-oriented. But other shirts with that necessary mixture just don't exist.

When it comes to Disney prints, I say, that smaller the better. Subtle and understated. What about a two-inch Chip and Dale doing their signature jig on the front of a shirt? How about a tangerine-sized lamp with unmistakable blue-Genie smoke wafting from the spout?

I think Disney has largely been unsuccessful with adult clothing going mainstream because the shirts and pants are too ostentatious. Disney movies gave us ethics, aesthetics, and charm. Why can't Disney make a shirt that caters to the values they instilled in us? "GRUMPY" in big bubble letters with a three-foot, dwarf face printed on the front of an XXL shirt? What man would want to wear that?

Some of my girl students haven't even seen Sleeping Beauty or Snow White, and yet they have their likeness plastered all over their binders. Why not make products for the people who truly understand and love Disney characters? I'm a man, dammit, and I dig on Disney too!

When Not To Listen

Three Christmases ago, I bought Grandma a betta fish. I remembering looking for the male betta that had the biggest fins. Like the Adonis peacock trapped in a petting zoo, I found Hoshi, blue and purple ribbons trailing off from his torpedo body, trapped in a plastic Petsmart cup.

But just before this Christmas, Hoshi died. Crotchety till the end, his body hid under one of his plants making it impossible to know he had passed away until the food gathered in the eddies of his bowl.

For such a menial pet, Grandma was surprisingly sad. Mom asked Grandma if she wanted him buried in the garden. She said it wasn't necessary. Grandma didn't watch as Hoshi traveled the plumbing to the afterlife, but sometimes, with grandmas, it's what doesn't happen that reveals the most sadness.

I asked her if she wanted another fish, but she said Hoshi was too much work. She said she didn't want another fish. Secretly though, with her age and her health, she felt a certain inability to care for another fish that would potentially live 3 years. And when I visited her for Oshogatsu, I saw Hoshi's bowl was still on the end-table. Dried marbles on the bottom of the bowl, a dehydrated plant limp on the bowl's edge, betta food still neatly tucked in its cubbyhole.

I chose not to listen to Grandma. My brother and I picked out a new betta for her. A girl this time. Her body, like the female peacock, is simple and direct. She didn't need trailing azure fins for me to find her; she is like my grandma: modest, calm, and loyal. Though she is a fighting fish, and her tag says "Temperament: semi-aggressive," I know Grandma can bring softness to her warrior's eye.