The last twelve hours

12:35 AM: Standing up at the Saddleranch on Sunset (yes! twice in two weeks!) and looking for our waitress
12:53 AM: Give many hugs to fellow teachers and leave Saddleranch
1:10 AM: Assure Amy and Boy#4 I will be OK driving home
1:54 AM: Arrive home after a few drowsy spells at the wheel
2:07 AM: Finish unpacking books, clothes, luggage, etc. from truck
5:30 AM: Wake up
5:45 AM: Get out of bed and shower
6:28 AM: Leave for school
7:02 AM: Stop at SuperSaver for snacks and money; Know I will be late for school because of this
7:20 AM: Arrive to school late
7:22 AM: Sit in my classroom; Read entries on blog; Look up new medicine my doctor is prescribing me
8:10 AM: Student teacher arrives even later than I did
8:25 AM: Go to nutrition and look around the cafeteria for teacher friends already there; While waiting in line realize that Michelle will not be there today and get sentimental
8:28 AM: Indiana tells me she can't give me her salsa recipe today; Get very sad
8:46 AM: Let homeroom into room and raffle off prizes; Realize how happy I am to be leaving (rowdy 6th graders!)
9:15 AM: Begin typing letters for student teacher's credentialing program and district, so she can be hired
9:23 AM: Meet new B-Track teacher who will take Orringer's place
10:00 AM: Remember I should maybe call Bulgarian
10:05 AM: Look up places on citysearch I could suggest Bulgarian and I hang out
11:00 AM: Finish letters
11: 15 AM: Dean comes by to say goodbye -- very nice of him
11:20 AM: Go to lunch and Indiana tells me she will give recipe to Heather tomorrow
11:45 AM: Eating with non-lunch-club teachers; Realize JUST how much I will miss them; While Sarom is talking about teaching sex ed. other teacher gets annoyed and disgusted by the topic of using pictures of genital warts to teach
12:10 PM: Burn backup CDs of things on computer so I can return school's laptop
12:20 PM: Take one last load of stuff to my truck
12:27 PM: Sign out early
12:28 PM: Get annoyed at student teacher for the first time; Realize she took down my door sign while I was at lunch -- planning on ending my school career doing that, but now I can't
12:28 1/2 PM: See 8th grade student waiting for me in room to give me hug (although they did not have to come to school today) and feel a bit better
12:32 PM: Begin writing this blog because I had nothing else to do
12:43 PM: Jimmy comes by room, says goodbye and makes me cry
12:51 PM: Still waiting for bell to ring, but realize it's a silent dismissal day (idiot!)

So long, farewell . . . goodbye, Ms. Teacher. Geez. Am I really crying about this? Am I really ending my teaching career with this boring minute-by-minute blog? I guess so. All that's left is turning in my key.

"In view of . . . "

Some advice CC was once given: "In view of the brevity of life, it never hurts to tell someone you care about them." Often when we care for someone (in whatever capacity) or appreciate what someone did for us, we often overlook thanking them. We assume they know they are good people or that they are loved. But do they? That is one of the big lessons I've learned from teaching. Positive reinforcement and positive remarks can never be too many. Yes, there will be times in our romantic lives when we have to hold in how we really feel about someone so as not to scare them off too soon. But, on the other hand, if we truly care about them, we would care more about making them happy (letting them know they're loved) than about seeming a fool. I'd rather be a fool than a jerk. Unfortunately, I often am the jerk, though.

So, I question why I am the jerk. Why is it I hide when I care about someone? Because of this, I hate my sister, for instance. She is the good daughter who takes care of the family. No wonder my parents liked her more when we were growing up. She tells us she loves us and shows it. I am the worst daughter/sister ever. Although, when inebriated (sp?) I can confess lust for strangers, why can I not tell other males just how special they are (in any state)? Not telling people they are cared for, will probably be my only regret in life. Why is it that I hide my romantic/sexual life (or lack thereof) whenever possible? Why is it that I avoid talking about religion or telling people I go to church every week? Why do I avoid situations in which I have to talk about my personal life and beliefs? Why do I hide so much? I am happy with who I am.

In view of the brevity of life, it never hurts to be honest about ourselves and tell others the truth about ourselves or them. Yes. I would like to believe that. But, I avoided certain topics once again at lunch, and my students left today without fully knowing just how special they are or how much they have changed me. Grrr!

The Beginning of the End

I guess I really am finished with teaching. Verizon took my teacher discount off my phone bill this month. I called to find out why (how could they already know???). Turns out LAUSD didn't renew their Verizon contract. Rats. I thought I was going to be able to mooch off that discount forever. As much as the $20 a month will be a pain, that's not the saddest part of leaving.

I really will miss my students. Yesterday I was reminded of the good parts of teaching. First period started with a student bringing me papusas and empanadas. Mmm. I should have started hinting at my love of food much earlier. When 3rd period left yesterday, they all gave me hugs. They're so cute! Due to culmination rehearsal, I won't see my 2nd or 3rd period again. Third period has a special place in my heart. They try every way possible to figure out if I'm married (who knows what ever gave them that idea); they make farting sounds when I bend over, and I laugh. Then at lunch, the PE teacher told me my 2nd period kids stuck up for me when he started bagging on me during class. How can you not love kids like that?

Just as much as I'll miss my students, I'll miss my co-workers. Teaching is an odd job in the fact that you don't see your colleagues but for 35 minutes a day. Whereas most professions allow you to meet new friends and dating prospects at work, teaching makes that much harder. But I love my fellow B-track teachers! Just being around them makes me happy. When even one is missing, lunch is completely different. They are all wonderful people with wonderful problems and even more wonderful advice. I think what best summarizes my friendship with them is that I feel like a better person for knowing them -- they help me improve my weaknesses and they never fail to tell me when I look nice, do something well at school or make them smile. They are the kind of friends everyone needs.

Yes, I am sad and getting sentimental. Perhaps if I had another job on the horizon, I wouldn't feel quite so melodramatic. And, that Verizon discount would make me feel a little better, too.

One Year Ago

Today is the Civil War Fair at school. My students are complaining I did not take them. We have work to do, and I tell them last year's students were bored and hot and complained the whole time that they would rather have stayed in class and worked.

I don't tell them the real reason. Last year's Fair was one of my most traumatic teaching experiences. Wandering through the boothes, I happened upon a group of 8th grade boys. One had his pants down and was taking pictures of his pork and beans with someone's digital camera. I took the camera to the Dean, and many of the boys were suspended; the sick feeling in my stomach never went away. I'm getting nauseated thinking about it even now. It's clear I won't ever relate to Mary Kay Letourneau.

What ever happened to quality TV?

3-2-1 Contact! That's what my students are watching today. Yesterday I was at the library finding a persuasive video they will evaluate for their final assignment. I saw 3-2-1 Contact! and nearly leaped with excitement. Hmmm . . . "They'll hate it!" I thought. So, I got it. Last year's students were forced to watch such classics as Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory and The Neverending Story. I figured this class was getting off easy.

Funny thing is, they're really watching it. I hear collective, "Dang!" and "Man!" when the host gives facts about water conservation. They laugh at the right times. Which makes me think about the lack of quality programs for these kids to watch and the proliferation of pop culture in television. The plethora of movie, music and sports channels pushes PBS and after-school specials away from the 13-year-old mind. But I firmly believe kids would watch these shows if there were more of them and on more stations.

When I was in 7th grade, my 13-year-old, dog-killing, weed-smoking neighbor would come over every day after school to watch Ghostwriter. We had grown up watching Today's Special and Square 1 together. Kids truly like learning. Yesterday, I had a random (not my own) student complain to me about a certain math teacher. "She never teaches us anything. She tells us 'I'll teach when I feel like it.'" Kids want more quality television and more quality teaching.

Now, despite my constant blogging, I have been teaching somewhat. I have an excuse, though. I've got a student teacher. Unfortunately, she called last night and will be out for a week with chicken pox. Good thing my sister gave them to me when I was 5. Or else I would have to stay at home watching CMT.

Age-defiance

For those interested in just how old we are: RealAge

You tell it your health habits, and it tells you how old your body is. My biological age is 24.6. My body's age? 23.9. Darn it. Thought I was younger.

International Woman of Mystery

I hate telling stories about myself. I especially hate telling personal stories that don't have an ending yet. Thus, I don't like saying I've applied for a job until I get it. I don't like telling people I'm planning a trip until after it's over. I hate that it may not happen, then I'll seem like a failure.

Which is probably why I hate discussing "personal" issues. Being the ego-centric beast I am, I will say that there are few things I've tried in life that I'm not good at. I have a quick learning curve, and my skills are usually swell enough that it's OK that they don't develop much past that. Except at relationships. It's something I may attempt that I won't succeed at. I may suck as a girlfriend. I may get rejected. Jaynar does not suck (no pun intended). Jaynar does not get rejected. So, the learning curve is once again quick, but skills don't get better later. This is why I "lose interest" in guys after three weeks (or usually less).

But in an interest of making the lunch club happy, I will try to divulge more information about myself and my weekend. Saturday was the night we went to the Sunset Strip. After Friday's blogfest, I felt I needed to once again search for dateables. Once arriving at the Standard I texted Ms. O for a challenge. Knowing me well enough but being herself, she gave me a challenge (albeit one that is not a "measurable goal"). I was instructed to find the butter of LA. The City of Angels is full of "the margarine" she said -- the fake stuff that isn't good for you. So, searching for the buttah on the Sunset Strip, I sought out an indy-rocker as recommended. Finding those (two) indy-rockers to be perusing the meat market, I kept looking. (Thinking about ending the blog now and in pain, but will continue) I danced and talked with a nice little Bulgarian dude. I liked him. He took my number. Now? If we do go out, it ends too quickly for any good stories. Or we never go out.

It's like applying for a job and waiting to hear from the HR department. Either they hire someone else and never call, or you go and meet them and are temporarily hired but then realize you never wanted that job in the first place. Then, when you quit, others tell you that you should just be happy to have a job and you should have kept it until you found another.

Funny Ones, Those Canucks

So, we got our new "roommate" straight off the plane from French-Canada. My roommates and friends thought I was weird for agreeing to let him move in without speaking to him. Guess that's my small-town trusting. I figured I've never met a bad Canadian, so it would work. Had he been from Chicago, I would have required references.

I feel terrible that he had to sleep on the couch last night. Roomie #3 still has not moved out, although she told us she would be leaving June 15. I was kind of annoyed that no phone calls were returned in the 10-hour time span the other three roomies and I called her. We needed the spare keys she had decided to give her boyfriend. We need to know when her stuff will be gone from the hallway. So, French-Canuck had to sleep on the couch. I told him he could sleep in my room and I would take the couch, but I knew he was too nice for that.

He doesn't have a car. I'm wondering just what LA will be like for him. He's also never seen Napoleon Dynamite or really heard of it. He does not have a cell phone. Yet, it works for him.

We took him to Hollywood last night; I've lived here two years, and never been out on the Sunset Strip. We made it to three bars, and I had a great time. French-Canuck was wiped out. I was proud of the little kid. Due to travel, he was up for a solid 24 hours and not complaining. I'm just afraid he liked the places too much last night. Living in Redondo, his LA experience will be far different. Not the "variety" of people that he liked last night. (For those in NYC, the South Bay is the place where all white 20-somethings move) If any LA people want to hang out with him, I think you'll enjoy his French-Canadian company. There is a certian je ne sais quoi (is that right, Amy?).

Apparently I Need a (Wo)Man

So, by the time we made it to the lunch table yesterday, there was some passion in the conversation. Michelle tries to tell me love is not a game. I say I'm not looking for love. Then, we try to figure out what I am looking for. As far as looks go, we pretty much decided he's a guy, with hair, who wears t-shirts some of the time.

Michelle kept pushing my "intimacy issues" (as she calls them), and thus we had to unravel the type of man I would be attracted to. Basically, I look at love and relationships much like a guy does. I don't want to put in a lot of effort (unless the person is really worth it), and think people come and go. I don't really get attached and don't really do all that emotional stuff. Marriage has never been an end-goal or fantasy (yes, it will probably happen someday), and I'd rather live my life first. With this knowledge, Jimmy decided I need a guy who needs me. He has to be emotionally dependent upon me, which we decided was usually how the woman acts in these male/female relationship-thingies you all speak of. However, because of my "traditional" ideals, he also has to appear to be more of a man than me (although I can do these things: he has to change my flat tires, eagerly plunge a toilet and move all the heavy things). He has to pretend he's not emotionally dependent on me (I can't handle clinginess), but he's going to have to need me. Or no lovey-lovey for me.

After-lunch topic: Do we care so much about relationships because we're teachers?

I'm humored

As a way to entertain me and my (currently) apathetic co-workers, we have taken to insta-blogging today. With no chatting abilities, this has been brilliant. Funny things is that my co-workers seem so lost on my love life; the first topic of the day is "Jayna's Perfect Man" . . . for a good time, read it on amyocelot.blogspot.com.

New York? Not Soon Enough

Why I can't wait to spend my summer in NYC:
-see all those East Coasters
-see all those West Coasters and Midwesterners who want to "visit me" (i.e. have an excuse to stay in New York) there
-ride the Staten Island Ferry
-not have earthquakes I mistake for a jackhammer or an old, rumbling air conditioner
-not hear firecrackers I mistake for gun shootings
-eat at Columbia Cottage
-eat in Little Italy
-hopefully make my way back into journalism
-guys who buy drinks (but don't mind when you return the favor)
-public transportation
-meet lots more people to add to my Friendster contacts

I, too, have an Asian fetish

I finally sympathesize with those who have Asian fetishes. Five hours ago I was lying half naked on the floor of a seedy place off of Hollywood Boulevard. It was the kind of place only Nick Carter would frequent.

Still, I moaned and groaned as a small Asian woman rubbed baby oil on my corps from head to toe. My body was put into positions I never even knew possible. She used every part of her own body to make me feel better about mine. I didn't want her to stop; there were times when it hurt -- yet it still felt so good.

Ah, yes, I love PhoSiam's Thai Massages. Apparently so does Nick Carter, Jenna Elfman and Wesley Snipes. I mean, who doesn't love a little Asian woman doing whatever she can to please you?

Crash into me

Knowing that I would be taking today off (ah, the hard life of a teacher with four weeks left and still six days of paid sick leave . . . ) I went to the late showing last night of Crash. After seeing Hotel Rwanda, I am obsessed with Don Cheadle. And, the movie trailers pulled me in from the beginning, so I had to see this movie in the theaters.

The opening monologue of Cheadle seems to summarize my disdain for LA. Don't get me wrong, I love the mild weather and the proximity to the ocean, but the feeling that LA is not actually a city but rather a grouping of small-town neighborhoods smashed up against each other make LA a US city unlike any other. For those who haven't seen it, he basically says that in any other city the masses run into other . . . physically bumping into each other on the sidewalks. Not in LA, though. We can cross to another sidewalk and even avoid eye contact completely. And, sad as the racial divide is, it still happens most frequently when we encounter those of a different race.

As I've been a bit introspective lately (thus starting this blog), I loved thinking about the idea behind Crash. Does race really influence our interactions that much? Is LA really that lonely? I have to say yes to both. This has become even more clear as I work in East LA (which is mostly Latino) and live in the South Bay (which has been referred to as the "People's Republic of Hermosa" due to the nearly all-white, all-20-something crowd). Although I may not really agree that the need for human interactions is a subconcious reason why there are so many car accidents, I do agree on the whole. (However, I must admit I have on one occasion considered "accidentally" side-swiping or rear-ending hot guys on the road just to meet them . . . )

I realized that the loneliness of LA was even far truer as I considered this as I left the theater . . . by my self.

The 9/11 Generation?

If I'd known what the last two years would hold for me, would I go back and apply to Teach For America again? Hmm . . . I don't know. Well, I am happy with my life now, and I know I know far more about America and our political and social systems than I ever thought I could learn in two years. But would I say "yes! Sign me up!" if they had told me that I would endure a heinous five-week training session that included me breaking down and crying at least twice in front of a large group of peers (something I don't do in public)? Would I say, "yes!" if they had told me I would be forced to get a teaching credential through a sham of an educational program? Would I say "yes!" if they had told me I would have 13-year-old gang members and kids with ankle monitors in my class? Would I say "yes!" if they had told me a student would tell me the second week of school that she had been raped? Would I say "yes!" if they told me failure was inevitable?

No, I would not have said "yes!" When I think of senior-year Jayna, she was happy living in the moment, spending every Thursday night at Harpo's, every Friday at Fieldhouse or Big 12, and she was most focused on crossing guys off an alleged list. And when she signed up for this unknown thing called Teach For America, she was really just trying to prove herself. Yes, there was that whole "helping the world thing," but she never knew what she was getting herself into.

However, I'm glad I did it. One of my first memories was of me crying myself to sleep when I was in 2nd grade. I had just seen a news report on AIDS, and I wept as I thought that one day everyone in the world would die of AIDS. So, yes, I was a dramatic child (somehow, I doubt you're suprised); but somewhere between 2nd grade and college I lost that sense of belonging to the world and what happened to others. Somehow, in TFA, I've found that again. And, haha, that's why I'm quitting teaching. Although I love my students this year, I've quickly realized this isn't my passion or what I feel I should be doing. I feel I'm meant to do something more -- somewhere else. In fact, I feel I have to do something more.

Which brings me to a recent report on CBS. With the proliferation of applicants for TFA and the Peace Corps growing over the past four years and even more this year (the graduating class were freshmen when 9/11 happened), one professor said "we may eventually call this the 9/11 generation." Hey, it's a catchier moniker compared to ones like "baby boom" or even "Generation-X" (most of whom don't even know where the "X" came from). But I wonder if this is true. Will we be known for the effects 9/11 had on our social desires? I've always (well, always being since the beginning of time -- or at least since I was 16), thought my generation was lethargic in terms of politics and society. I was the first generation in my family who had a choice about entering the armed forces. For three previous generations, the men in my family had fought in WWI, WWII and Vietnam. My generation saw "war" as black and green screens shown on CNN. We have never had the fear of being drafted or saw brothers and boyfriends, who never signed up for killing, shipped off in hoards. So maybe 9/11 was a good thing for my fellow inhabitants of the earth.

Perhaps 9/11 changed how we have viewed our commitment to others around the globe. If this really is our most defining factor of our generation, I can't wait to see what will happen when the first 9/11 president takes office. Hmmm . . . doubt that president'll be a Republican.

How true, Angel

Five years later . . . I finally saw the first Cameron/Drew/Lucy version of Charlie's Angels. Too lazy to rent it, I caught the edited version that was on ABC's Thursday night movie slot yesterday. Halfway through the movie, I was upset at myself for having let this jem pass me by during my college years. I'd always been told I would like it . . . and they were right. I did.

Throughout the movie, I was forced to think of my (Asian) friend's boyfriend. He always told her that Lucy was obviously the best looking of the Angels. My friend and I just attributed it to our assumption that he has an Asian fetish. I mean, come on, how could the Ally McBeal sidekick be better looking than Justin Timberlake's girl? But as I was drawn into the movie, I had to agree. Lucy was hot! She definitely was cast into the more sexpot of a role. I couldn't believe I actually agreed with the Whiz Kid. (But I still think said friend's boyfriend has an Asian fetish)

Now it wasn't just the casting that I LOVED; the action was great and the comedy was even better. It made me get up and dance like an idiot. Maybe I also liked it because these gorgeous women were taking charge and could do everything. Me? I like to think I'm that kind of gal, but I must face reality. I am no action hero. Heck, I don't even change my own tire when I run over a curb. Instead, I take it into Ford and ponder over whether the married men there are truly good looking or just better looking because they're handier than most of the sissy boys I encounter in LA.

Which brings me to my favorite quote from the movie: "Do you know how hard it is to find a quality man in LA???"

Innocence Lost

I've finally decided to enter the land of the technologically savvy writers and begin a blog. OK, so this is truly my second blog, but the other one is just for 13 year olds. Hopefully, you all won't post messages such as "your a bitch." If you did, however, there would be three major differences: 1) You would most likely spell you're correctly. 2) I would think you were funny (although I did when my students did it, too). 3) I wouldn't have to take your comments off for "inappropriateness."

Thus, as you can see, my life for the past two years has not only been one of a teacher, but I've also been relegated to a playground referee of sorts.

But that's not what I'm going to spend my time writing about. No, this blog will be far more egocentric than that. It's going to be about me. It will be cathartic for me. Hopefully, it will be entertaining for you.

My first idea I need to set forth is the idea of the loss of my innocence. I became quite disturbed last night when roomie #1 (Amie) found a picture of me and roomie #2 (Heather). The picture was over two years old, and I was just trying to figure out exactly why the picture was so funny. Yes, Heather looked different, but Amie pointed out something else. "You look so . . . innocent."
"I don't now?"
"No."

It's true. I don't have the big, innocent, small-town, midwest smile I did in that picture. What happened to it? Hmm . . . so I've spent the last 24 hours trying to figure out just where my innocence went. Even throughout college (even my inevitably more crazy senior year) it was there. So, what took it away? Was it the teaching? The problems in my students' lives? The coldness of people LA? The nights I had a little too much beer, or wine, or some other intoxicating beverage? The time I decided it was OK to ask people to "pull my finger?"

Or is it just growing up? I like to blame all of the above culprits, but when it comes right down to it, I think we've all lost some of that innocence and carefree spirit we once had. Growing up involves experiencing all those things (although not everyone likes to have their fingers pulled in public). I guess I can be OK with that . . . as long as I don't get wrinkles for a few more decades.