Finesse My Seat, Not My Hair

Tweens and teens of the 70's and early 80's wanted only one thing:  to look like Charlie's Angels (well, and marry one of the Dukes of Hazard or Hardy Boys). 
Every girl wanted to have that straight glossy hair with the sides feathered back: wings of beauty hardened by Aqua Net.

Being in junior high school during this fashion trend, my frizzy, curly, sky-scraper-defying hair only added to the trauma of those years. Straightening, let alone adding a wispy flip, was impossible. And since my most loathsome chore was ironing my dad's clothes, I sure as shit was not going to iron my hair. 

Finesse Shampoo and Conditioner was my last hope to be trendy and cool. It advertised the end of frizz and the beginning of soft manageable hair.

It didn't work as well as I hoped. It tamed my afro a bit, but not enough to impress Charlie. I just had to wait it out until the later 80's when it was fashionable to for a girl to look like she stuck finger into a light socket.

It wasn't until last year when a freshman brought the word "finesse" back into my life. This will give those who know me pause because in my 21 years of teaching I have NEVER taught freshmen, and it is best that I NEVER do teach freshmen. The problem is definitely me not them. I am not emotionally, mentally, hell or even physically equipped to be in the same room with more than say two at a time. They have no control over their bodies, they don't get my sarcasm, and they don't respond well to my "suck it up" and "stop complaining" method of compassion.

Once in a great while, I would watch a colleague (and friend's) freshman study hall if need be, but only if she had a bonafide emergency: she stroked out, her arm fell off, or her house was on fire.

It was on one such occasion when I discovered how kids today use "finesse." I had about 15 freshman in my room, all settled into desks and ordered to work on their homework if they planned on surviving their 25 minutes with me. Freshmen cannot be still for longer than 30 seconds nor can they go more than 30 seconds without antagonizing one another, so when one young man got up to flail about the room in search of a trashcan, another one slipped into his desk. As I began to hound the one that was up to get back in his seat, his excuse for not doing so was that his friend had, "finessed his seat."

Being a Czar of language, I was aware of the definition of finesse as an adverb for something done with grace, skill, and ease. I've heard it associated with a review a person's athleticism. And trust me, freshman are nowhere near graceful, skillful, or at ease.  No. Where. Near.

Based on my Sherlock Holmesian powers of deduction, I figured out "finesse" means to steal with stealth and a style (two more adjectives not within 3-4 years of a freshman).  The implication is that the "finesser" is to be admired for his/her expertise, subtlety, and smoothness. The connotation detracts from the negativity of the act. Taking what is not yours is softened with the s sound.  "Stealing" squeals and crashes; "finessing" slides and whispers. It brings admiration to the culprit the way James Bond brings class to a governmental assassin.

Did the freshmen survive their 25 minutes? Barely. Things became much better after I duct-taped them all to their seats.

As Ladies Get Thicc, Gentlemen Get Swole

Recently, while I was at the gym trying to get thicc, the guys around me were getting swole.

To clarify, I am already thick: that is an easy state to achieve via chocolate and tacos. Becoming thicc requires less chocolate, fewer tacos, and more chicken and vegetables. Oh, and lifting weights.

And to further clarify, men at the gym are not getting that kind of "swole" watching me work out. The injuries they sustain trying to get away from the sight of me getting thicc might have swole, but that's not what I mean either.

Swole is the man's version of thicc.  Here's where I engage in shameless self-promotion (and sheer laziness) and encourage you to read my previous post if you are hopelessly lost or if you have a memory like mine and can only remember lyrics from 80's hairband songs.


When I was a teenager, I liked my men buff like those hunky pilots playing volleyball in Top Gun. My father  nicknamed our muscle-exploding neighbor "meat-head"; in my early teaching years, student athletes had to spend at least one day in the school's weight room getting ripped, and more recently, Chris Hemsworth needed to pump iron and get swole for his roles as the powerful Thor and the "flying beefcake" stupid-secretary-done-possessed in Ghostbusters.

I understand the need to have a gender-specific word for having well-developed muscles.  No woman wants anything on her body to be "swole" and "ripped" makes us sound like victims of domestic violence. Or that we are ready to be served at a cannibals dinner party.  Referring to a man as thick (thicc) would be automatically associated with obstinacy instead of muscle mass.

Courtesy of a student athlete

Unfortunately, the development of these terms are not thoroughly thought out.  On behalf of women, the only thickness we want in life is in our steaks, our milkshakes, and the circumference of our mens' members.  For men, being buff sounds like they've been waxed, meat-head implies malice and stupidity, ripped sounds like he's just been in a brawl or that his muscles are in tatters (I know "shredding" ones muscles at Crossfit is a trend which does not sound appealing). I hear a man is "swole" and I think he's injured himself or he's aroused.

It will be interesting to see how the slang for strong, developed muscles evolves (or devolves) but hopefully it will have more attractive connotations.

Thick Through the Middle or Thicc at the Top and Bottom?

I love it when my students realize the power of language buried beneath its nuances without my teaching it.  It is rare, but it happens. When it does, I'd like to think its a result of the 20 years of teaching that has made me so adept at delivering education to young minds I am not even aware I'm doing it.  My students absorb knowledge just being in my presence.  Or, teenagers are smarter than I give them credit for.

No, it's my genius.

My genius really shines when I teach The Great Gatsby.  I love, love, love this novel.  Even before Baz Luhrmann. There's something about handsome, filthy rich, charming, and delusional men . . .

I focus heavily on character analysis with this novel.  For the character of Tom Buchanan, my approached is to view him through the lens of his women: his wife, Daisy and his mistress, Myrtle. While going over the difference between Daisy and Myrtle, my students showed me they do understand the importance of spelling.

Yes, you read correctly. The importance of spelling.

Mia Farrow and Carey Mulligan as Daisy Buchanan

The women's physical appearance reflect characteristics of their personalities. Daisy is young, delicate with a face "sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth."  In contrast, Myrtle is older, aggressive "she carried her surplus flesh sensuously as some women can. Her face, above a spotted dress of dark blue crepe-de-chine, contained no facet or gleam of beauty, but there was an immediately perceptible vitality about her as if the nerves of her body were continually smouldering."

I find their difference in size relevant to character, but trepidation over my students translating "surplus flesh" into "fat" and therefore "ugly" tricks me into drawing attention to that particular detail as an attempt to divert the fat label.

"She is not fat," I always emphasize, with my hands planted firmly on my surplus hips. "She is what we call curvy or voluptuous."

Recently, a student, Isabel, added, "You mean she's thick?"

"Is that fat?"

"No, it means," Isabel looked to her neighbor, also a female, "how do you say it? She's just . . . thick."

"Is she thick because of fat or muscle?"

Neither Karen Black nor Isla Fisher have Myrtle Wilson's "surplus flesh"

A few male students confirmed that "thick" is muscular.  The young ladies in the room didn't quite agree.  Knowing that it could take the rest of the class--hell, the rest of the week--to get my students to agree on a definition, I wrote "thick" on the board and tried to move on to "delicate" Daisy.

"It's two Cs," several students said.  "T-H-I-C-C."

"Why two Cs?"

They look at each other and shrug.

"There must be a reason, otherwise why not just spell it T-H-I-C-K?"

No one seems to know. Or care.

I changed the spelling on the board to T-H-I-C-C.  When I turned back around to face the class, I see Isabel curving the fingers of each hand to form the letter C. She whispered something to her neighbor who does the same with her hands and then they both burst out laughing.

"Figure something out back there?" I asked them.

Isabel holds up her Cs again, raising one hand higher than the other: "Boobs," she said about the higher C and "Butt" about the lower C.

Okay, so T-H-I-C-C isn't related to muscle but more the quantity of TNA (Tits and Ass, not Talula National Athletics clothing brand, nor Total Nonstop Action wrestling alliance, nor Texas Nurses Association).

I was satisfied with the two-Cs-symbol-for-TNA explanation for the spelling, but then one girl piped up: "We spell it that way, so it is ours. So that the definition belongs to our generation." Crossing her arms, she gave me a sharp nod to indicate the discussion was over.

Can we all say progeny? Reincarnated linguist? Reason I can retire? Her indignation at my academic approach only reinforced an academic approach. Paradox aside, I couldn't help but get goosebumps watching my students try to figure out language. It is one of the reasons I "beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past” (Fitzgerald).

Kids and Clean Cannot Co-exist

I am a very clean person.  Boringly clean. Disturbingly clean. I-need-a-life clean. If I am feeling frazzled or stressed, I clean. For some reason, herding and purging dirt makes me feel grounded and in control of my life.  I wish eating vegetables and jogging made me feel in control of my life, but it doesn't work half as well as cleaning. Or eating chocolate and drinking wine.

Since I live alone, keeping my place organized and spotless is fairly easy. So is eating chocolate and drinking wine. I was so grounded a tree would be jealous. Then my sister had to go and have kids and just throw my life into chaos.

Jay, 5 and Blake, 22 mths.

I used to try and fight the chaos when my nephews would come stay the night with me. I'd run around behind them wiping things down and picking things up; I ran the vacuum so much that my cats now suffer from shell shock. Finally, I accepted a modified version of a clean and orderly house--modified being there would be no clean and no orderly. After a night with one or with both boys, my place could serve as a set for hoarders. Toys would blanket the floor; Cheerios, Goldfish crackers, and God-knows-what-else jammed between seat cushions and clinging to carpet fibers could supply me and my cats snacks for days. And when Jay began using the toilet, my bathroom became a bio-hazard.

My one feeble attempt to maintain some kind of order when my nephews visit is during bath-time.  I know; it's like trying to stay on a diet in Las Vegas, but logic has never been my strong suit.

To prep for bath time, I first remove all my beauty products from the tub and put them out-of-reach. Then, I line the bathroom floor with towels, because I learned quickly kids scare water so much it will leap out of the tub in order to escape them. I load the tub with toys, water and bubbles and then dump the kids in to play, hopefully long enough for me to savor my wine instead of shooting it like Tequila.

Last Saturday night, I had both nephews. I went through my preparation, got the kids situated but before I had my fingers wrapped around the stem of my glass I heard Jay call, "Auntie!"

I headed back to the bathroom to him leaping from the tub, announcing, "I have to poop!"

He jumped onto the pot before I could get his kid potty-seat down (the only thing keeping him from falling in were braced hands and skinny arms).  Even though I was focused on keeping Jay from falling into the toilet, I noticed some suspicious movement from his brother, Blake, in the tub. Before I could further investigate, Jay pulled my attention back to him by saying, "Auntie, I have something bad to tell you."

Awesome.

"I pooped a little in the tub."

If you have not had the pleasure of fishing poop out of a tub, let me tell you it is probably the most disgusting thing I've ever had to do. Ever.

Well, Blake had handled that for me. In a tub filled with at least 100 toys bobbing beneath a mountain of suds, that toddler managed to find the only, small nugget of shit. Kids can't find their shoes, their homework, their pants, their parents, their ass--but this one can find the only thing in the damn tub I didn't want him to touch.

Blake squished the nugget into a pancake, shrugged, and then smeared it on the wall.

Let's just say we did a Bath Time, Take 2.  And I did shoot my wine like Tequila.

To Quote My Grandmother: "Why Are Teenagers So Stupid?"

My 4th period juniors have been quite a challenge this year.  They are good kids, but their collective ego could use some humbling.  I have several varsity football players in that class, and our team does quite well. Put a bunch of successful athletes who are also buddies in the same class and it becomes an ego-off.  I make one statement and I have six boys trying to out smart-ass each other.

Of course, I've been through the steps of smart-ass management.  First, I seat them far away from one another, and when they should across the room, I send them outside and call parents.  When those consequences wear off, I go to siting quietly at my podium, looking disgusted and bored at their witty banter, reminding them to "Waste all the time that you want.  I'm not the one whose gonna end up with more homework because y'all need to be the center of attention." That usually gets their peers, just as "over" by their antics to apply some peer pressure.

Yes, there are moments when I consider seating them together in the back corner of the room and telling them to just bro-love themselves to death as long as they don't disrupt what I'm teaching (and their grades will tank because they won't know what's going on), but I refuse to give in.

With enough patience and consistency, I usually get them in line within a month or so.

Then Spring Break hits and everything goes to shit. All systems break down.  All adherence to the rules goes out the window. It becomes pure survival: juniors want to be seniors, seniors want to be graduated, and I want to be on an Italian Vineyard sipping wine.

To keep both me and the students from going nuts, I find a compromise between my teaching integrity and their unwillingness to do anything.  I ease up on the homework, slow down my pace within the classroom, and do my best to teach something the students will enjoy (or at least not whine every time I ask them to get out their books).

Currently, I am teaching my juniors the novel, The Great Gatsby.  Of course, most have seen the movie, but my approach is to have students determine whether F. Scott Fitzgerald would approve of Bax Lurhmann's interpretation: does he represent the spirit of the novel or would Lurhmann's adjustments to plot and character representation give Fitzgerald reason to rise from the grave and sober up long enough to tell Lurhmann Gatsby never loses his cool.

But I digress.

As expected, my 4th period egos are interested in Gatsby.  He is a baller; the novel is full of drinking and drama. It's all about flash and display of greatness (I wait until the end of the novel to explain that Fitzgerald is criticizing these ideas).

Today, the class analyzed how the party guests who attend his parties and wreck his house and Gatsby himself are represented in the novel.  I told them to list adjectives to describe the characters' behavior. With the party guests, I specifically said to not use the adjective "drunk."

Immediately, the students start shouting out, "how about lit? Buzzed? Wasted? Wrecked? Trashed?'

"Nor any synonyms for drunk," I emphasized.  "What can you say about people who get that drunk all the time?"  Then I waved off any answer to that question, realizing that at that age being falling down drunk is cool.

I knew I was taking a risk giving this task to my 4th period full of the "in crowd" and ADHD, but I'm edgy.  Or stupid--the verdict is still out.

After a few minutes of vigorous scribbling, I have the students share their adjectives with their neighbors.  I specifically say, "With those sitting next to you."

Immediately, one of my rambunctious athletes, Caleb, who sits two feet from my podium, shouts to his friend across the room, "Hey, Freddy. I put lit, wasted, and fucked-up for party guests.  What did you put?"

The class goes silent.  Students look at me and then look at Caleb. My forehead hits the podium.

"What?" Caleb asked.  "What did I do?  Ms. Vance, are you okay?"

Wine, whether on an Italian Villa or no, here I come.

In Awe and Reverence of Parents

I am amazed to see parents who can manage to hold down a job, keep a house, remain social, and not go absolutely nuts.  Several of my co-workers have young children and every day they show up with a smile on their faces to teach even more children. With smiles on their faces.  Fashionably dressed. Healthy, packed lunches at the ready.  I'm convinced they are medicated.

Or, Holden Caulfield so eloquently stated, "All mothers are slightly insane."

I keep my nephews for 24 hours and I feel, look and behave like a mental patient whose been on the streets for weeks.  If manage to brush my teeth, I feel like a champ.

Those who own me.

There is nothing, nothing I love more in this world than my two nephews: Jay, who is 5, and Blake, who is almost 1 1/2.  They spend the night with me often, usually one at a time, but there are occasions when I keep both. One is hard enough; two, OMG.

This parenting shit is hard.  And I am not even parenting; I'm quasi-parenting. Actually, I just keep them alive. Naively, I figured all it required was to throw food at them, change a diaper, and block them from running into traffic. Guess what? It takes a lot more than that.

I have to convince Jay flipping over couches and leaping off chairs can result in him getting hurt, try to get him to eat anything other than candy and chips (I have no problem spoiling him; I do have a problem with the demon within unleashed by sugar), and if I take him to the park? That adds at least 100 other ways he can hurt himself: slides, swings, strangers, oh my.

And the gear one needs to keep a baby alive: I don't know how anyone can afford to be parents.  You need diapers, 5 changes of clothes per day, a sleep sack, butt cream, wipes, whole milk, baby food, regular food (that he'll like, that he can "swallow" without choking because chewing is new), a high chair, and a pack-n-play. Oh, and toys.  Lots and lots of toys.

The first time I watched both boys for an extended period of time, we barely made it. And when I say "we" I mean me.  After that harrowing 24 hours, I swore the next time my sister asked if I could take both overnight, I'd immediately volunteer as tribute for the Hunger Games. I just don't have enough arms, patience, and brain cells to keep both of them alive for an extended period of time.

As with all other great pains in life-- heart-break, labor, crossfit--time blotted out the memory of it, so when my sister and mom went to DC for five days, I volunteered as tribute to watch both nephews overnight to provide her husband with a break.

I prepped like a motherfucker: I stocked up on child and baby preferred snacks: Cheerios, bananas, fruit, and cookies.  Bottles are pulled out and lined up on the counter.  Sheets were laid over the furniture to save them from ruin. All breakable items were stashed in a closet. Pack-n-play was set up (after a lot of cursing and sweating). Wine was chilled. And if shit really gets rough, children's Benedryl was loaded in the medicine syringe ready to fire.

The first 5 hours, I managed fairly well.  Kids were fed and entertained.  My apartment was littered with toys, but nothing has been broken. Each kid had only one or two brushes with death.

Inevitably, my strength waned. I'm not sure why Jay can't get it through his head that he shouldn't cover his brother's face, and since I don't speak baby babble, I'm not sure how to communicate to Blake that kamikaze diving off my ottoman is not a good idea. I had been watching Teen Titians, PAW Patrol, and Team Umizoomie forever, so I found the movie Dawn of Justice: Batman vs. Superman for them to watch--it's about superheroes, so it's child-appropriate, right?--but after Jay asked me 1000 questions about the plot, I'm ready to go back to helping Umizoomie save another one of their dumbass friends. My feet were pock-marked from stepping on legos. I considered putting tape over Blake's mouth to keep him from shoving anything and everything into it--he can still breath through his nose--but the last thing I need to be doing is giving Jay ideas.

I had poured a glass of wine, but couldn't find two seconds to actually drink it.  One of the kids might have drank it; I don't know.

When I got Blake to go to sleep for the night, I figured I might be at the end of the gauntlet. Jay was watching television, so I told him I was going to take a quick shower.  And I mean quick--long enough to get clean--no relaxing, not pampering.  In and out.  But as soon as I had lathered up my hair and then . . . surprise! My shower curtain flew open and there was Jay, "Auntie, are you done yet?"

Yes, young man, I am done. And I still have about 12 hours to go.

I'm sure parenting books have a chapter on how to synchronize the sleeping of multiple children, but I haven't read them.  Blake was asleep at 8:30 p.m. and then up at 3 a.m.  We hung out for two hours--me trying to convince myself that I'm a rockstar being up at 3 a.m.  I think "rockstar" status is negated by poopy diapers though. I finally got Blake back to sleep at 5 a.m. just to have Jay pounce on me at 6 a.m.

I had to make it until noon.  If I made it, I had planned on auditioning for Survivor.

Jay doesn't understand the concept of brain development. To tell him that Blake "doesn't understand"--well, anything--doesn't quite sink in.  So, when Blake threw his Cheerios all over the floor, Jay figured he had license to throw his much bigger bowl of Cheerios on the floor. Fuck it; I told them to pick their breakfast out of the carpet. Hell, I saw Blake eat a few Cheerios he peeled off the bottom of his foot. Breakfast turned into a scavenger hunt since they had to sift through the toys that blanketed the floor.

I've heard parents--moms especially--lament the time they used to have to themselves.  They claim they can't do anything alone.  My own mother swears that she hasn't "peed or had a can of Pepsi to herself in 35 years."

While my nephews scrounged for their breakfast, I decided to duck into the bathroom. Not ten seconds after my butt hit the toilet seat, Jay comes in asking me how kryptonite works.  As I explained this (for the 100th time), Blake toddled in with a small tennis ball and began bouncing it off the walls.

Taking a dump while explaining the power of a glowing green rock while a ball pings around my head: #glamlife.

At 11:30, I loaded those kids up and drove 80 miles an hour to meet up with their dad to hand them off.  In my pajamas.

When I got home, it took me hours to get my place and my psyche back in order.  A week later, I'm still stepping on Cheerios.

In my opinion, setting a pack-n-play up and breaking it down qualifies as a workout.  I may not have been able to brush my teeth, but I could scratch "exercise" off my list.  Shit, I can't even do that on a day without kids.

Honoring Dad

My father, Michael MacDonald Vance, died from a heart attack on Friday, September 4, 2015 at 11:59 p.m.  He was 69 years and 6 days old.

I am very conscious of dates and time and so was my father. Therefore, I am exact when people ask me when he died. Those who knew him would appreciate that he died at 11:59 and that he expected me to be accurate. He died on Friday night not Saturday morning. Such an error in detail would be egregious.

But since Dad has died, my concept of time has been thrown off. From the time when he went into the hospital for a host of other physical ailments to the time he passed was 3.2857142857 weeks and yet to me it feels like 6 months. Then there are days when I feel like I have just seen him; have just talked to him. He is no more distant than the moment I am thinking of him.

Dad with his "kitties" Fluffy and Scooter

Every day this week I’ve been thinking, “Friday will be one month since Dad died.”  I’ve rallied friends to keep me company so that I don’t cry my face off.  Then last night when I was shuffling around my apartment I happened to glance at the calendar and realized that today is the 2^nd, not the 4^th, of October. It is not the one-month anniversary of his death, but the four-week anniversary. The only timeline that’s measured in weeks is pregnancy, so Dad would be annoyed if I mourned his one-month anniversary today, because it isn’t the one-month anniversary. And there’s a part of me that wants to honor his love of the punctilious and reign in the emotions until Sunday.

But when it comes to love and grief, time means nothing and everything. Those sentiments would make him crazy, but that's also a way for me to honor my father. I loved prodding him with such lofty, abstract thinking. 

Nevertheless Dad, I miss you every second of every minute of every hour of every day of every week of the month.