Teacher Man

I had but four goals set for myself during winter break: painting my kitchen cabinets; reading Fortress of Solitude, Nickel and Dimed, Teacher Man, and about four issues of the New Yorker piled on my night-table; affixing the missing buttons to an assortment of my clothing; and completing one of the many short stories I have started in the last two years. I have completed only 1 and 1/4 of these goals. The kitchen cabinets, well, they were painted within the first two days--before Christmas even--as a time-filler on the night I waited up for my brother's plane from California, which was delayed for about five hours on the runway. Much to the dismay of my parents, who on several occasions reminded me of the critical importance of sanding furniture before you paint it, I did not sand the cabinets prior to painting them black. The way I see it, I really keep very few things in the cabinets that I access on a regular basis, and I'm thinking the paint will stay on there just fine, save for the little spots where the door touches the frame; those are totally f*cked.

In a far more rewarding experience, I have just finished "Teacher Man" by Frank McCourt. Having read and loved his two earlier novels at the insistent request of an ex-boyfriend ["Tis," and "Angela's Ashes"], I had meant to read "Teacher Man" when it came out last winter. But at the time I actually was a teacher, and quite frankly, entirely disinterested in reading books after work. This book was fantastic. It was interesting to hear McCourt's own self-deprecating remarks on his teaching skills, all the while knowing he was a highly regarded English teacher at Stuyvesant, a, if not "the," top public school in NYC. His tales of dealing with distracted and disinterested students who startle you with poignant observations when you least expect it made me incredibly nostalgic for teaching, and for the first time since the summer, I actually wonder whether I'll end up back in the classroom again, even though that really wasn't the game plan. Read this book! Even if you aren't a teacher, it's brilliant.

Despite the fact that I only accomplished a small fraction of my stated goals, I have managed to consume a record amount of ice cream and watched the old Aaron Sorkin series "Sports Night" in its entirety.

Today, my old roommate Jennifer was in town from California, and I requested that we go out for dessert this afternoon. We realized, upon consideration, that there really are not many places to get a good old ice cream sundae in NYC. I mean, there's Coldstone, and Ben & Jerrys, but those aren't really "sit down" places. There's all of those chain restaurants, Uno's, Applebee's, etc. where you can get brownie sundaes, but really, who wants to go there? A friend suggested Serendipity, and my initial reaction was "will my life become the subject of a poorly written romantic comedy if I choose to eat dessert at Serendipity?" Braving this fear, Jennifer and I met in midtown, where I have had the misfortune of travelling to twice in the last week, sat in the back by a gigantic and elaborately decorated Christmas tree, and consumed monstrous ice cream sundaes. She wisely chose the fruit sundae [you know, a "healthy" sundae], while I decided to indulge in the "can't say no" sundae, which included a slice of humble pie [peanut butter pie with graham cracker crust], hot fudge, and bananas. We rationalized these choices by selecting frozen yogurt instead of ice cream as a base and drinking tea with no sugar on the side, because when it comes down to it, it's really not about the ice cream, per se. These sundaes were delicious, despite the fact that they cost about $13 each and we ate them in the company of a variety of women with very tiny purses and an assortment of tourist-accents. Next time I go there [because if my life is indeed going to become the plotline of a romantic comedy, surely it will come full-circle by a second visit to Serendipity, where I realize that our waiter, who was quite pleased that we did not order the cliched "Frozen Hot Chocolate," is my long lost soulmate], I will order the sundae that comes with a giant slice of blackout chocolate cake underneath it. I'm considering the possibility that 2007 may be the year where one eats sundaes in lieu of dinner.

My day culminated in the first meeting of an intersession class I'm taking as a pre-requisite to taking classes in the policy school. It is essentially American Government 101, which was basically an overview of all of the terminology they sling around on the West Wing, except instead of being packaged amongst witticisms and clever dialogue, is delivered by a young professor getting over the flu who speaks at an alarming rate which I am barely able to keep up with while taking notes. The class is in a giant lecture hall, meets four nights in a row, and is followed by an exam this Friday that will surely merit a giant happy-hour-reward afterwards.

I know it is out of the ordinary for me to post about mostly non-school-related matters [or post more than once a month, these days], especially ones so mundane as to include full paragraphs on ice cream sundaes and what-I-read-over-break, but I'm thinking it's time to get back into the habit of writing. Feel free to disregard it entirely.