Back to the Drawing Board

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Last weekend I rummaged through my parents’ attic, where I’d stored my classroom supplies during my three-year hiatus from teaching in Hartford. There I encountered five signs scribbled furiously on a series of whiteboards. The first one read, “I’m waiting.” The second: “Any time you’re ready.” The third: “Is this thing on?” The fourth: “My blood pressure right now: 160/80.” The fifth: “Every mouth in this room shuts NOW!”

Ah, another year of molding, inspiring and delighting those thirsty teenage minds.

Breakthrough in “Break on Through”

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Nearly half a century after “Break on Through (to the Other Side)” hit the airwaves, the FCC is finally allowing Jim Morrison to complete a sentence. After years of singing “She get—” along to the radio, today I discovered that Jim’s complete thought, binding and gagging aside, is “She get HIGH.” Shocking. But such an exciting testament to our progress as a freely speaking civilization that I won’t even correct Jim’s grammar.
Eva Carbonell- Artelista.com

Eva Carbonell- Artelista.com

I sometimes listen to ’60s music and feel a bit sad that I wasn’t a part of it, like I missed out on something big. More than once I’ve wished I could flick on my refrigerator-sized color TV, adjust the antennae till the picture came in just right, and catch a glimpse of the Doors performing live on the Ed Sullivan show. Jim’s dark, intense eyes would penetrate right through the camera and hold me hostage. I would practically feel his wild curls brush against my neck as he crooned poetic philosophies into my ear with that deep, soulful voice.  He would cradle the microphone in both hands, a mischievous smirk of defiance, the entire theater resonating with secret codes intended just for me. “Girl, we couldn’t get much higher…”

Which brings me to today’s disturbing thought. Could lusting after someone posthumously be categorized as a mild degree of necrophilia?

Suddenly Jim’s Oedipal mother issues aren’t nearly so alarming.

Me and My Dislocated Hip

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As much as I enjoyed having Doug home while he recuperated from his injuries over the past 2.17 (but who’s counting) years, it’s time for him to head back to work. And as reality sank in early this week, I decided it was time to post a job in Sittercity.com.

“We need an Alice!” screamed my headline.

After a series of days with no response, it dawned on me. The young applicants looking for jobs on Sittercity.com have no idea who Alice is.

I’ve had a lot of “Damn I’m Old” moments as of late, like today, when I confiscated a cell phone from an incensed eighth-grader and pointed out that when I was his age, we didn’t even have cell phones. Or during a recent conversation, when I actually thought “dope” was still considered marijuana.

Completely off the lines of incensed dope-shooting teenagers, does anyone know of any nanny/cook/housekeepers in the Hartford County? I’m looking for someone to transform my chaos to smooth-sailing bliss for 50 hours per week. My peeps, hook a sistah up. Can ya dig it?

Ah, fuck it. I make Alice look hipper and trendier than the offspring of Justin Bieber and Hannah Montana. May I still use the word “hip”?

When they just won’t drop the ball…

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Fed up with students who arrive ten minutes late for math class after their time in the gym, I decided to take matters into my own hands.  I positioned myself in the midst of the running, dribbling and shooting and gently encouraged them to get to class.  Some stared.  Some laughed.  None of them made it to class on time.

Apparently, a woman waving her arms around screaming “PUT YOUR BALLS AWAY!” isn’t a force to be taken seriously.

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