HOA: The Ultimate Irony Machine

At the beginning of the summer, our homeowners' association tried to fine us because of a beach towel laid out to dry after a day of swimming, citing it as "structural damage."

But what about all the janky cars people park in front of their houses? My car isn't beautiful, but at least it doesn't have mismatching doors or an obnoxious paint job.

Also, the other day I took a walk and saw that our down-the-street neighbors have a pot in their yard the side of Tut's tomb, and it's spray-painted with a bunch of ugly swirls of yellow and pink and red and orange. Yes. Like graffiti. As if this isn't an affront to the eyes. It's not even done in an artistic, kitschy way. It looks like some kid had left over paint from a school project and went at it. Actually, the more I think about it, that's probably exactly what happened.

Also, our next-door neighbors just moved, and instead of putting all their garbage in bags before they took it out, they just kind of threw it on the curb. I walked out to my car barefooted to get something, and dirty baby diapers were strewn over the yard like landmines. Now, I'm not sure what the HOA is supposed to do about this since the people have left already, but they could at least pay someone to clean it up using all the money we pay in dues.

I'm just saying, in a battle between beach towel and dirty diapers, there isn't much contest.

Bloody Ears: Like Life

I'm in a reflective, existential mood, tonight. But what else is new?

In the shower, I debate whether to rinse out my ears with the plastic bulb. (See my last post.) When I do, some blood flakes out the next morning. If I don't, nothing. Is the rinsing causing the blood? Is not rinsing letting the problem accumulate there? This isn't about ears anymore, is it?

It's harder to view things like this in Las Vegas than in some other, more ruminating place, somewhere where the leaves change, somewhere like the middle of Nebraska.

I have a student who's obsessed with medicine; he wants to be a physician. Today, during recess, he asks me about old epidemics: "What's cholera? Smallpox? How did HIV begin?"

"I don't know," I say. "Someone was probably too curious about science. So curious, he found himself up to his elbows in monkey blood. Dead a few years later."

I thought my ears would stop bleeding when Celine left.

As a Las Vegan, I never thought I'd have to endure another bloody eardrum after Celine Dion left Vegas for her world tour a few years ago. But today I did. Hmm, she is coming back. Coincidence?

In all seriousness, those of you who know me know I have recurring sinus issues, basically all through allergy season. Today, I visited the doctor who said he could shoot me in the butt with steroids, or I could get my ears irrigated and that might help. Ears... IRRigated. Get it?

So I agreed with the flip of a wrist. "Sure, that's fine," I said ignorantly. In comes the nurse, Leticia. I was worried it might be her. She has the worst bedside manner of any nurse at this particular practice. In she came with the irrigation kit. She put cold drops into my ear canal and had me lay on each side for about five minutes to assist drainage. I read the book I'd brought along, feeling like I could shut my eyes and fall asleep in the quiet room, blissfully ignorant.

Leticia enters again. "Ok," she said, handing me a paper towel to put on my shoulder and juicing the big syringe full of saline. I held a little barf basin to my cheek for the drainage. "Let me know if it's too hot," said Leticia calmly. In retrospect...almost too calmly.

The warm, but not too hot water hit my inner ear before what must have been the worst pain I've experienced in my entire life began. (At least that for which I've been completely conscious and non-doped.) I have an amazing pain threshold too; I really do. First, I'm a woman and engineered for pain, but I've also danced through tendinitis and broken bones and ate a hamburger the day after I got my braces in junior high.

But none of this pain came even close to the pain I felt earlier today as the solution hit, at high-pressure, my inner ear and flooded my sinuses. I could feel the stuff behind my eyes and felt drowned. I couldn't hear a thing and began to wonder if this was what deep sea diving without scuba gear would feel like. I think my legs started twitching as I forced myself to breathe through the pain so I wouldn't cry, because the nurse asked if it hurt. "Yes," I said, "quite a lot actually." She must have heard, "Please sir, may I have another," because then she took out this scraper and went back into my ear, scratching the part of it that was already raw. When she finished, the worst part was knowing we still had to do the other ear.

Somehow I survived the second squirt, during which I think I had some sort of out-of-body experience. Somehow I was able to stand up to drive myself home. I got in my car, touched my pointer finger to my ear, and brought it away covered in blood. Ear number two: same.

It has been approximately eight hours since I left the doctor, and they finally stopped bleeding. It's not like you can stick a tissue on it like when you cut yourself shaving, or put on a band aid. But now I have two ears full of dried blood, so that's awesome. Completely nondisgusting too, sort of like Celine Dion's singing, face, and whole deal.

Radio Psychics: Vegas Style

This morning on the way to work, the radio station I usually listen to had a psychic on the air. I tuned in mid broadcast, so I'm not sure if this was a local guy or what, but I at least know he's performed--ahem, visited--Vegas several times and is friends with both D.J.s on the station.

One caller asked him whether she would keep having relationships that lasted only four years and then break up. Wait, I thought, he can predict the future too?

Then someone called in asking about her son, who predicted a plane crash earlier this week. The psychic suggested that next time the kid had premonitions of a tragedy, he should surround the people with "white light" with his mind. The psychic said he had known 9/11 was going to happen and projected white light on it. Apparently, he didn't project enough white light or something.

Just when I was convinced this psychic was awesome, not only was he psychic, but he could also prevent tragedy and predict the future, he said he sees auras when he enters a room. Auras and rainbows.

I guess when you're in Vegas and a psychic, you have pull out all the stops. Vegas is sparkly, so you need to be sparkly too. But on the radio, no one can see a sequined bloomers.

Professional Development 3.0

I've been to many school-wide professional developments in my life, but today I had the first one at my new school. Here is a list of analogies illustrating the differences between beginning-of-the-year PD at public school and PD at a Jewish day school.

Public School: Jewish Day School

Discussing your summer with fellow teachers: Discussing your health conditions with fellow teachers

Cold coffee: Movie-theater-concession-sized candy bars, cookies, lox

Revealing your suntan: Revealing your feelings

Arguing about how to teach fractions: Arguing about how to best nurture self-esteem

Finding out you have three Victors on your roster: Finding out you have three Moshes in your class

There you have it. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to make math stations.

Pigeons: Wildlife or Dinner?

The last few days, pigeons have been everywhere. Flying in pairs, ruffling the leaves of bushes, leaving lots of beautiful presents on my car. Coincidentally, the episode of Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations in which Anthony eats pigeons in Cairo was also on TV. The pigeon he ate looked delicious. Greasy. Juicy. Golden brown.

For three days now, a pair of pigeons has sat on the ledge outside my roommate's window. They don't fly away when you press your nose up to the glass, or when you make noise, or stare at them. Then I started to think, do city pigeons have diseases? How long would it take to de-feather two pigeons?

So far, I haven't made my move, but I haven't given those pigeons names either.

An obnoxious vehicle is fine if you know your apostrophes.

Our diagonal neighbors bought a new car. I don't usually notice when someone has a new car, especially someone I've never spoken too, unless it's a really nice car. But I noticed theirs.

At first I hoped they just had some ostentatious relative visiting for the weekend, but alas, the car is still there. Anyone could see that from a mile away.

You see, it's an obtrusively long Lincoln, is cranked up really high, and happens to be bright, shiny lime green. The best part is the AWESOME decals on the window: "22's or better," they boast.(An aside to those who don't know, 22s are a type of rim.) Yeah. "22's." Two, two APOSTROPHE esssssss. Apparently, "or better" belongs to the 22s, because any idiot knows an apostrophe S shows possession. Because we learn that in first grade. Surely, if you weren't an idiot but weren't quite sure if the phrase needed an apostrophe, you'd look it up. They park the thing diagonally in the driveway as if they're particularly proud of the stupid thing.

I hope the owner of the car isn't out gambling with his deuces because he probably isn't smart enough to know when to walk away.

Pick-Up Lines: D.O.A.

Today I went to several bookstores looking for a specific writing craft book that I didn't want to have to order. I actually ventured into Border's (which I HATE) because they have a better-than-average selection of books about writing.

So I parked my car in the parking lot and was walking to the store when I realized I was being followed. A short chap who appeared to be about 18 jogged to catch up to me as I quickened to a speed walk. Normally I'd find this creepy, but it was daytime and near a busy intersection in a bustling shopping center. Unfortunately, opening the door to the store slowed me down a little, which gave him time to shoot me this doozy:

Him: Hey! Don't I know you from somewhere?

Me: No.

Inner Me: What are you doing near a bookstore? Are they giving away muscle shirts with every Kafka purchase?

Come on. Is this really the best conversation starter you can think of? A yes or no question? That doesn't even qualify as a pick-up line. After I answered, he of course, hightailed it away from the books. Then again, for all I know, he genuinely had me confused with Justin Bieber.

How to Make Friends and Irritate People

It seems like whenever I leave the house, I get pulled into some strangers weird, awkward conversation. Just the other day, I was sitting in the doctor's waiting room, bereft of any decent magazine or book. I suppose this was my first mistake. Always have a book. Alas, I'd brought my small purse, and I was too lazy to carry a book in my other hand.

Anyway, this particular waiting room is quite small. Soon after I arrived, a few more people walked in, and every seat was quickly full. I could either stare at a blank spot on the ceiling above me, or stare at the unfortunately penned tattoo on the ankle of the twenty-something across from me. Reminded of gross diseases like hepatitis, I chose to stare at the wall. Apparently this is the first signal that you'd like to have a conversation with a random stranger.

The woman sitting next to me waited with her teenage daughter. "What's with your hair today?" She harped. "It's not supposed to look like that! You look like a bum!"
Her daughter simply smiled sheepishly, undoubtedly embarrassed that her mom chose this time to comment on her self-expression. To my horror, the woman turned to me.

"Doesn't she look ridiculous?" She asked me loudly.

"Uh," I replied, buying time to formulate my response. I looked to her daughter, self-conscious in her budding womanhood. The entire room waited for my response. "What are we looking at here? The color, or. . .?"

"No! The way it's parted. On the side like that!"

I looked at the mother's face, about to ask her why she was asking my advice since she obviously had formed her own opinion, when I saw she was wearing navy blue eye shadow, at least three coats of mascara and bright pink lipstick ala Molly Shannon's dress in Sixteen Candles.

"I think it looks good actually," I said, turning to her daughter and smiling. Conversation over.

Keeping Fit in the Desert

Well, it's been pretty hot lately. So hot I don't want to go outside. Some people here head to the gym for exercise. Others, whether seasoned locals or just workout obsessed, actually still jog, bike, or circuit train in the heat of the afternoon. I guess if you like Bikram yoga, it's the same idea.

A few summers ago, I was driving to take a short, early summer hike at Red Rock Canyon. For those of you who've never been there, it begins on a piece of land outside Las Vegas where the desert starts to meet the mountains. The terrain can be pretty steep, even driving. Well this lady with six-pack abs was jogging uphill. She was jogging uphill in the desert in the summer. I parked, finished a hike and started driving again only to pass her in my car and find her still jogging. She did appear to be on roids, but come on!

Anyway, I thought I'd seen everything in terms of extreme workouts until yesterday. While exiting my neighborhood, I glanced around to admire all the power walkers and joggers pacing around the park across the street. Then, I saw a brisk walker sporting not only a six-pack, but a full fifth of whiskey. No open container laws here folks.