Vintage Suss II

I know. I don't write enough. All of my six fans keep telling me so. Honestly I don't have anything much going on and I'm not the type to blog about my daily activities (getting coffee, harassing my landlord to fix my toilet, watching Rick Steve's Europe). What can I say...I've been fairly boring lately. Unless I do something ridiculous or illegal, I probably won't be writing about it: this is my pledge to you. Recently I greatly disappointed one of my fans when I confessed to her that I'm pretty lame and uninteresting. She was shocked, as I am sure you are too. She, between sobs and wailing, suggested I repost a few of my other stories that I wrote before I had a blog. At least I think that's what she said. She was so inconsolable at the thought of my retiring from the blog community that it was hard to decipher her words.

I obliged. Far be it from me to deny my clamoring public a piece of my humiliation. My only problem is that I don't have a lot of these stories as I am not nearly narcissistic or organized enough to keep them all. And most of them were pretty stupid anyway, like the time I debated on whether or not I should eat a Mike N' Ike that had rolled under my keyboard and I thought I needed to email my friends about it. She happily sent me one that she had carefully saved in an email file under "Suss's Stories." I was touched. I have my own file! Watch your back, David Sedaris.

Here is one of her favorites. It dates way back to 2004, right around the time I was almost fired from a job where I was labeled "not a team player." This discussion came the day after I had emptied out a huge moving truck in the pouring rain with my boss. I stayed until 1am helping the guy, who had not checked the height requirements of a local bridge before he drove under it and promptly ripped the entire roof off of his rental truck. I only mention this story because I am still really pissed about it.

So now without further adieu, we look back at the Life of Suss.

This past weekend, I visited the lovely Abaco Islands, located in the heart of the Bahamas...where the mosquitoes seem to outnumber the natives and my subsequent mosquito bites seem to have outnumbered my freckles. I went with my grandfather, who will heretofore be referred to as "Pa,” as it seems when I was 3, I naturally thought my grandfather was Michael Landon, star of “Little House on the Prairie.” I suppose it was because they both had long hair but I was confused for more time than I would like to admit. I also suspected that my grandmother was Flo from “Mel’s Diner” because at that time she was the only person who had ever made me grits. They also both had red hair. Clearly I watched too much television as a child because there was also a time that I thought I was really friends with Punky Brewster.

Anyway, me, Pa, and his ladyfriend headed down to the Abacos on Saturday
morning. To get to Abaco, one must take a small plane which I imagine was a leftover prototype from the Wright brothers. Before you get on, the flight crew weighs your bag and, without mercy, asks your weight in front of everyone. I haven't weighted myself in ages, ever since the Great Nutrisystem Debacle of '01, so I really had no idea how much I weigh. Before they had a chance to roll out one of those huge carnival scales, I took a reasonable guess of "160," assuring the flight crew that this was mostly holiday weight; this probably sounded odd, seeing as how it is August.

Immediately upon my arrival the skies opened up and it began to rain. And it continued to rain, on and off, for the entire time that I was there, and yet I still
managed to get a wicked sunburn. I also managed to get stung by a fierce gang of jellyfish.

As I snorkeled along side my Pa, we came across a huge wall of jellyfish. I wanted to turn around, but my Pa insisted that we swim around them. I called upon my vast knowledge of marine biology learned from watching countless hours of important aquatic documentaries such as Finding Nemo. I decided that, as the young Nemo did on his adventure, I could brush the jellyfish aside by touching only their tops.

Yeah, that was a really stupid idea. These jellyfish were bad ass. The only way they could have been more menacing is if they were wearing teeny black leather jackets and rocked tattoos that said "Born to Sting."

My wrist swollen to the size of my head, I decided to shut it down and get back on the boat. The ladder was broken so I had to hoist myself up using my newly acquired New York Sports Club muscles and pure, old fashioned chutzpah. Also, my Pa pushed my butt up from the water, and I landed with a hearty thud on the boat's floor. Few things in life are as humbling as your grandfather having to push your ass up and onto a boat.

As much as I would love to go into detail about the rest of the trip, I feel I need to rush ahead to when I actually tried to go home, which is where the action really begins.

To get home, I had to take two ferries, two taxis, and three planes. On the second ferry, I met two adorable Caribbean boys named Zeke, who was 7 years old, and Elijah, who was pushing 4. The boys sidled up to me as I sat on the bow listening to my CD player, so I took off my headphones and started chatting with them. Little boys are always talking to me, especially on vacations. It’s really weird. Zeke sat right next to me and Elijah made himself at home by sitting on my lap. These two were absolutely adorable and entertaining...they regaled me with tales about life in the Bahamas. Should you never cross paths with Zeke and Elijah, I feel I must share with you the riveting story that they shared with me. It is as follows:

This one time, they saw a crab on the beach. The crab buried itself in the sand. The End.

That story literally took 45 minutes for them to tell, mostly because they both kept interrupting each other with important plot points, such as, there was a crab, and sand was involved.

After the ferry docked, I parted ways with my new friends and entered the Abaco International Airport. There, I waited for 3 hours for my first of three flights. When my pilot arrived, he threw my luggage into the compartment located in the nose of the plane, otherwise known as where Orville Wright sat. He proclaimed that he “was in a hurry,” he “was burnt out from the whole flying thing," and he “needed a day off because he was exhausted.” Because these are things you like to hear from a pilot immediately before take-off. He then asked me to sit up in the copilot's
seat with him so that I could help weigh the nose down. Embarrassed, my face turned as crimson as the red plush seats that also doubled as floatation devices as I made my way to the front of the plane, passing people who surely weighted more than I did, even with my swollen wrist. But, you know, it was my duty to use my fat ass to help guide us safely home. It’s not quite as honorable as, say, joining the Air Force, but I do what I can.

Sitting in the copilot's seat was actually very interesting and I passed the time by imagining how I would look with a white scarf and goggles. I tried not to look worried as the pilot continued to pull out several maps. And lucky me, for this flight doubled as a tour: before we landed on Marsh Harbor, the pilot was happy to point out the wreckage of several small planes that had crashed in the damp weeds below.

As I walked into the Marsh Harbor airport, who do I see throwing open the doors and running to greet me? None other than my main men, Zeke and Elijah. They were traveling to see their father in Florida and they hoped to hit a few Chuck E. Cheese's along the way. Apparently Mr. Chuck E. Cheese has developed quite a cult following in the Abacos and the kids wanted to meet the legend himself. They asked me several times if I had ever met him, and were amazed to find out that not only had I met the animatronic mouse, but I had partied with the dude several times (having thrown my birthday parties ages 4-8 at his establishment).

A fierce storm began brewing in Ft. Lauderdale, which is where I was supposed to catch a flight from at 5:40pm. At 4:30pm, it became very clear that I was going to miss my flight. I asked an airport employee if they could check on getting me on another flight, and she immediately began checking on the flight status using the ever professional AOL instant messenger. There was a 10:20pm flight to JFK from Lauderdale which she reserved via AIM. We finally boarded the 7-seater plane again, and I bid adieu to Zeke and Elijah, who told me the crab story a few more times for good measure. I was on my way.

Turns out, I was on my way to Ft. Pierce, not Ft. Lauderdale. Who knew Florida had that many Ft.s? No one was able to fly in or out of Lauderdale except, of course, my 5:40 flight, which ironically had left a few minutes early. We arrived in Ft.Pierce weary and ready to figure out how to tackle the next leg of the trip. It was me and the McCarthy family...Susan McCarthy, and her three kids, Leslie, Shane, and Debbie. Soon we learned that we were going to have to get a rental car together because there was only one left. I surveyed the family and quickly assessed that the chances were slim that they would cut me up and bury my in the Atlantic, so I agreed. The time was 5:45.

At 7pm, the rental car was still not there. It was then that the helpful staff of three at Ft. Pierce began turning off the lights and locking up for the evening. Seriously. Not that the rest of this story isn't serious, but I mean, SERIOUSLY, the lights were going off. I stopped them to ask them what we should be doing...could they, perhaps, call another car company? I mean, I didn't want to trouble them, but I also did not want to set up camp in Ft. Pierce Terminal B for the evening.

Finally, they got a hold of the good people at AVIS, to whom I am very grateful. It seems that Ralph, a trusty AVIS employee, had forwarded his calls to his cell phone and, by fate, had forgotten to resend them back to the office. He was heading down to West Palm Beach to see his girlfriend (Ralph and I became tight during our long phone conversation as I pleaded with him to turn around, go back to the office, and wait for 5 strangers to pick up some sort of vehicle). Thankfully, he obliged (AVIS is getting a big thank you letter from me...Ft. Pierce Airport, not so much). The airport staff and pilot took pity on us and decided to drive us to AVIS. I rode with Darlene and Brandee through the heart of Ft. Pierce as country music blared on the radio. The two girls managed to talk on their cell phones and while also carrying on a conversation between them. It was rather impressive. Through innocent eavesdropping (I was only in the backseat, after all) I learned the details of the local scandal that has rocked Ft. Pierce: "Brandon's mama finally told him that Ricky was his daddy and not that dark skinned Italian man." It's about time that truth came out, I say.

Darleen and Brandee dropped me off with the pilot hauling the McCarthy family in his Trans Am behind us. My man Ralph was already there waiting with the keys (AVIS Car Rental, I salute you!). I loaded up the van...me and the McCarthy family of Claremont, Florida. We breezed through a Burger King drive-thru, as naturally the kids were starving. Held up again for a few minutes because of a chicken tender problem, we set off south on 95. The time was 8:00pm.

Through rain, hail, and lightning, I sped through the state of Florida...the 10:20pm flight on my mind. To pass the time, I chatted it up with Susan, the matriarch of my new family. I learned that Susan ran her own successful roofing company, she almost always wears long pants and shirts, and she can roof in the rain "with the best of them." Not to jump to conclusions, but I do believe that Susan was sweet on me. Unfortunately, Susan lives in Claremont, and I am not a big believer in long distance relationships. Nor am I a lesbian.

We arrived at Ft. Lauderdale International Airport at 9:30pm. I tossed the keys to Susan, probably breaking her heart in the process. I yelled goodbye to the McCarthy kids and hauled ass to the Jet Blue counter where I learned I was not on the 10:20pm flight, I was on standby for the 1:15am flight. Shocking, seeing as how the lady had booked it via Instant Messenger. Because of this, I didn't have a confirmation number...I suppose if I had printed out the IM conversation, it probably said, "CU L8R :) LOL" or some other AIM notation that drives my insane. Anyway, Jet Blue assured me that they would tell me 10 minutes before departure if I could snag a seat. I tried to tell them about my vast piloting experience having acted as a copilot in the Bahamas, but they were not amused. And now I was doubly sad because had I known I was on the 1:15 flight, I could have taken my time with the drive and given the blossoming relationship between myself and Susan a real go. Ah, the Fates are cruel.

As the sight of the thunderclouds passing overhead raised my hopes, so too did the sight of the doors of The Lauderdale Sundries Shop, opening wide to the jet lagged public. There I purchased some peanut M&M’s (which I love and are my go-to purchase when times are tough) and rifled through old People magazines. I decided to go try and sweet talk my way onto the coveted stand- by list for the earlier flight, which they assured me was already full. I pleaded with them to add me to the list, seeing as how I did not see how it would make any difference...If I was called, great, and if not, then hopefully at some point in time, I will eventually go home or, logically, move to Ft. Pierce and work at the Lauderdale Sundries Shop, where I will hopefully get a discount on peanut M & M’s. It's a no risk situation! No dice. They assured me that the fake vacancies that may or may not be available have already been filled up or were never open in the first place. At 11:00pm, this all made sense. I was defeated.

At 2am (the 1:15am delayed because lighting literally hit the plane) I boarded, requisite screaming toddler to my right. In my delirium, I actually thanked Jet Blue for helping me get the seat that I had paid for three months ago. Always helpful, they threw a pair of broken headphones for my journey home.

I wanna be sedated...

Hey readers. Sorry I haven't written in a while. And sadly, I have nothing much new to report, except:

1.) I moved. It's awesome. Except that I suspect a couch will not fit through the door so right now, I'm reporting to you from the floor.

2.) I am taking my mom to see The Rachel Ray Show. You best believe I will be blogging about that. If she has any good recipes for Diablo Chicken, I'll be sure to pass them along.

3.) I got a very expensive, very bad haircut. People, it's BAD. I look like one of the Ramones. Like the guy third from the left, seen below:



Except that, no joke, his bangs look better than mine. I don't understand quite what happened, but I should have thought twice about getting the Brazillian Keratin Treatment on my hair when I heard that I couldn't wash it for 4 days. We're on Day 3 now on Ramone Watch 2008, and there is no end in sight.

Hope all is well with everyone...when things calm down and I am able to return to public without my mane frightening small children, I'll be sure to write again.

The Buse is Loose!

For those of you that saw this year’s Oscars, certainly you were riveted. No, I’m not talking about Oscar’s salute to periscopes, I’m speaking of course about E!’s 9 hour red carpet coverage featuring Ryan Seacrest. Ryan’s main job was to stand behind a shrub and ask the star couples such probing questions as, “When are you two getting married?” like he was their grandmother. His interview with Jennifer Garner was running smoothly until someone let The Buse Loose. I am speaking, of course, about Mr. Gary Busey. Gary burst onto the screen, yelling at Seacrest and stunning Garner by getting to first base with her on live television. By now, I’ll assume you have seen the now infamous clip, but if you haven’t, I urge you to do yourself a favor and check it out on youtube. You won’t be disappointed.

Now, I’ll be honest. I’m not that familiar with Mr. Busey’s body of work. Lucking, IMDB has extensive biographical information on all things Busey, so I was able to go there for all of my Gary Busey needs. I read up on The Buse (as I like to call him). I learned a lot. For example, I had no idea he was once nominated for an Oscar. Way to go, Buse! And did you know he once played Donovan Riggs on a very special episode of “Walker, Texas Ranger”? Chances are you are like me, and your knowledge of Mr. Busey comes from watching his work as Chet ‘Rocketman’ Steadman in the 1993 sleeper hit, “Rookie of the Year.” Or perhaps you caught his star-making turn on VH1’s Celebrity Fit Club. Even if your experience with The Buse only extends to the incident with Ryan on the red carpet, or Busey’s completely rational explanation the next day on Ryan’s radio show where he stated that Seacrest “is innocent champion of honesty,” one thing’s for certain: Someone needs to get Gary Busey his own television show.

This is what I have worked up so far (and I am hereby retaining royalty rights to this goldmine when it gets greenlit). We call it, “The Buse is Loose!” It’s part game show, part talk show, with The Buse, of course, as our gracious host. What he has to do is this: He needs to go on camera and say words. That’s it! The game element will come into play when his guests (which could be anyone from your average citizen to a celebrity starlet) try to paraphrase what Busey says in a way that makes total sense. Points could be awarded based on several key categories such as “accuracy,” or, “logic,” or “degree of offensiveness.” We don’t even need a set; The Buse can be set loose anywhere and his charm will still remain. There will be no prizes. The prize is simply the story you will be able to tell about once having a conversation with Gary Busey.

I’m still working on the details, but what I know for certain is this: Kim Kardashian has her own show. I know this even without having knowledge of who she is or what she does. From what I can tell, she has met E!’s only pre-requisite for having a reality show, which is, “Being a person who exists.” Even Ian Ziering has his own show called “Your Momma Can’t Dance!” Are you telling me that you’d rather watch someone else’s mother do The Foxtrot instead The Buse philosophizing with a pigeon? I didn’t think so. By the way, I’ve got money on that pigeon conversation happening by episode three.

The fact that Gary Busey does not have his own television show is a disgrace. People, the man played FBI Agent Angelo Pappas in “Point Break.” Show some respect! This injustice will not stand! America, it’s time we let The Buse loose! Who’s with me?

One of these things is not like the other...

Without “The Office” or “30 Rock” to get me through these cold Thursday nights, I’ve had to turn to VHI to fill my TV watching needs (because god forbid I actually, you know, pick up a book or something). Thankfully they have put the kibosh on “I Love the 80’s.” reruns. I like that show just ask much as the next person, but how many times can I see Lea Thompson wax nostalgic about Hyper Color t-shirts? (Answer: 11). Now, instead of filling the air waves with Rick Springfield comically riffing on Mrs. Pac Man, we get celebrities in rehab! Except they aren’t exactly celebrities, so why I am watching this? Some chick who did not win American Idol is on it, as is some girl who was on “Family Matters.” Brigitte Nielson, while oddly delightful, is only famous of late for being in other VHI shows. Daniel Baldwin seems to be the most famous cast member, despite the fact that I have no recollection of him ever being in anything except “Striking Distance,” and yet a quick trip over to IMDB shows that he wasn’t even in that. Despite the lack of bona fide celebrities, the show is oddly compelling…I’m not sure what it says about me when I can’t seem to turn away from a detoxing, surly Kenickie doing yoga. And how about that Dr. Drew in a black t-shirt, am I right, ladies?

What I find most interesting is the presence of Joanie Laurer, otherwise known as Chyna Doll. What is really interesting about her is that apparently she is not addicted to anything. Not booze and not drugs. While this was news to anyone who saw her on VHI’s “Surreal Life,” where she often stayed up until 4 o’clock in the morning having intense conversations with a basketball, this was really news to Dr. Drew, who promptly staged an intervention to figure out what in the hell she was doing there. As it turns out, Chyna is addicted to being on VH1’s reality shows. Ah, the mystery has been solved! I look forward to future sessions with Dr. Drew, where he dramatically tries to get Chyna to fend off her demons…offers from “Celebrity Apprentice” and “Dancing with the Stars.”

Blog Reader Spotlight: Genghis Khannie

After my first blog reader spotlight (shout out to Joan!), I thought I would take some time to acknowledge some of my other loyal readers. So join me, won't you, for the second in a series of Blog Reader Spotlights.

Before I begin, let me first explain the need for nicknames on this here blog. In this, the digital age, when Google has become both a noun and a verb, I am absolutely terrified that if I use real names, someone, somewhere, will find this blog and I will be judged because of it. This whole information age has become a huge pain in the ass, if you ask me. If you were to Google my real first and last name, for example, you might find out that I abuse pets. Shocking, right? Well, I was shocked. Apparently there is an Other Me running around, who has my exact name and is also exactly my age, and my Other Me has been arrested several times for abusing dogs. The exact quote on www.pet-abuse.com was that the Other Me "was held for hoarding 40 Great Pyranes in the basement of her home." I have long suspected that the Other Me was nothing but trouble, after she almost got me held in the New York DMV for her outstanding warrant (and I mean "outstanding" as in, she should be in jail...not , "Outstanding, you hoard Great Pyrenees! How fantastic for you!)"

My only hope is that those that know the real me know that I do not hoard animals in my basement but that I am, as other Google hits will attest to, "a mad kool teacher" and on the Board of Trustees for a Shakespearean theatre company.

At any rate, I use nicknames to protect my anonymity because I am one Google hit away from making a bad first impression. The only threat of this happening would be from potential employers (likely) and potential suitors (doubtful). And no, I don't do anything too scandalous or embarrassing, but do I really need some principal of a future school I may work at knowing that I DVR "The Bachelor?" Or do I need some future bachelor to know that I sometimes eat three cheeseballs? No. So let's just keep this blog between us, shall we?

I also just like nicknames. I'm bad at remembering people's real names, so I like to look for easily identifiable features and work from there. I find nicknames to be delightful, what can I say? I once dated an Irish guy and, even though I had gone out with him a few times, I wasn't quite sure of his name. My ignorance wasn't entirely my fault because his accent was really thick. After I had already gone out with him twice, I thought it would be rude to ask him his name. I was pretty sure it was Mark, but I wasn't positive. So I nicknamed him Question Mark, which was the perfect nickname because it worked on so many levels. Then he got mad at me for wearing sweatpants and our love affair ended. Anyway, my aunt is incredibly good at nicknaming people, and my own grandfather has dubbed me Tuna for reasons I will discuss some other time. In other words, nicknames are in my blood. It's what we do.

So, it is now that I come to the Blog Reader Spotlight: Genghis Khannie, so named because her real name is Connie, which sounds like Khan. At least I think that's where the nickname's origin lies. I did not nickname Genghis, my good friend D.B. Sweeney did. D.B. Sweeney is also a nickname. I am not, sadly, friends with D.B. Sweeney of "The Cutting Edge" (though he can come over and show me The Pamchenko whenever he wants, if you know what I mean*). Anyway, my friend Genghis is not the founder and emperor of the Mongol Empire. She is an awesome chick that lives in Chicago and visits us not often enough.

Interestingly, when doing some research on the Old Genghis, I did find some similarities to My Genghis. Old Genghis, it seems, was born with a blot clot on his hand which, according to traditional Mongolian folklore, meant that he was destined to become a great leader. So is my friend Genghis! I mean, I don't think she was born with a blood clot on her hand, but she can lead us into the most crowded of New Year's Eve parties with nary a battle scar. Old Genghis (the Mongolian leader, not the girl who calls me to borrow knee socks) was apparently good at forging alliances. His mother taught him that alliances were important in the grim political climate of Mongolia. Well, my Genghis, too, is amazing at forging alliances. She's never met a stranger. She once told me a story about how she ran into an old friend 300 feet below the ground in some darkened cavern. Old Genghis was also credited for bringing the Silk Road to Mongolia, which were trade routes through the regions of Asia vital for cultural and economic expansion. One might say this paved the way for My Genghis, some eight hundred years later, to order 5 dresses from Sak's for only one wedding.

In all seriousness, My Genghis is the coolest of chicks. While she shops at Sak's, I had to Google the word because I wasn't sure if it was spelled with a C. Connie is lecturing at some fancy pants college this semester, while I am lecturing to 7th graders about the importance of not throwing rocks at pedestrians. She once bought a friend of hers rain boots for her birthday. Do you understand how cool that is? It would never occur to me to buy someone boots as a gift. She is a brilliant writer, whereas I cannot even manage to complete the one assignment she has ever given me, which was to expound upon the phenomenon of The Butter Face. (Nanny, a Butterface is code for a woman who has an awesome body but not an awesome face...as in, "she is really hot...but her face." I know, Nanny, it's terrible. I didn't coin the phrase, but it's sweeping the nation).

So I am blessed to have this new friend of mine in my life. She's a great combination of girlie girl meets genius. In five years we will all be working for her, or dead by her hand. No, not dead. Probably just working for her.


*Maybe 6 people in the world know what I mean. Ever.

One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest (and disrupted class for 10 minutes)

I'm playing hooky today. I never play hooky. I come from a long line of non-hooky players. You go to school when you are feeling sick. As I've said before, Ginger Ale and Robitussen were my parents' drugs of choice to get me over a myriad of common childhood illnesses. In 6th grade, I was certain that I broke my wrist rollerskating one Friday afternoon. My father, who I should mention was a medic in Vietnam, was convinced that I was exaggerating. So that Monday, he sent me on my merry way to school, ignoring the fact that my wrist was swollen to the size of my neck. It took a call from beloved School Nurse Ms. Murphy (who always asked her ten year old students if they were pregnant, and didn't fail to deliver that morning) to convince my dad that I had indeed broken a bone.

My point is this. Everyone in my family has an insane work ethic, which is why I feel incredibly guilt-ridden whenever I have to miss work. My dad has had the same job for 37 years. The man went to work feeling ill one morning, failing to realize that he was literally having a heart attack. My mom? Forget about it. My mom is always running around. And don't you even think about mentioning the word "nap" around her. She goes ballistic. "I called so-and-so today and, can you believe it, she was taking a NAP! Who does she think she is?" We have this conversation a lot. A few years ago, I got my eyes dilated at the opthamologist's office. By the time I arrived home, I could barely see 3 feet in front of my face. I laid down on my bed because what else is there to do when one can't see? Because I was bored and blind, I drifted off to sleep. Mom came in 20 minutes later. "Are you taking a NAP? I can't believe it. What, are you tired?" I had committed the first sin in our household (the second sin is leaving the door open so that flies can get in).

But this morning, I woke up, and I just couldn't bring myself to actually get out of bed. The coffee was already brewing, I wasn't sleepy, I wasn't sick. I just completely lost my motivation to go to school today. Yesterday might have been my breaking point, when a small bird had the audacity to chirp outside of my classroom window.

Because they are redoing the stage floor (using the very practical stage floor option of incredibly slippery black tile), I have to move my classes to various rooms all over the school. This small act can create mass confusion, despite my best efforts to make the change as easily as possible. Yesterday I had to move a class, so I called their homeroom teacher. "Please tell class 705 that we will meet in room 227 next period." I remember this very clearly, because it made me think of the awesomeness that was the show "227." And then I started wondering whatever happened to Jackee. To make sure the kids knew where to go, I put a sign on the auditorium door directing them to the room. The kids still couldn't figure out where to go, and somehow arrived to room 220, which happens to be the Assistant Principal's office. I tell them that I vividly remember saying "227" because of the show "227," and then I do my Jackee impression ("Oohhhm, Marrrrry! I'm gonna get my nails done!). Blank stares back at me. I forget that they were fetuses when the show came out.

We get down to business. I get into an argument with a student who always gives me trouble. She does absolutely NO WORK. Ever. She is constantly chewing gum and will not spit it out when I ask her to do so. It's as if she is daring me to go crawling into her mouth in order to fish out the gum. The thing is, personally I could care less about gum. I understand that with these kids, you have to pick your battles. But, if the principal sees her chewing gum, he will think that I don't have control over my classroom. Which I guess technically at that moment, I don't, so she wins. Anyway, we have moved past the gum debate and onto another hotly contested battle. She is insisting to keep her bookbag on her back at her desk. I don't know why this drives me crazy, but it does. Absolutely, positively, cannot continue with the class, blood boiling rage consumes me. It's not so much the refusal to remove the bookbag. It's the fact that she is not even acknowledging my existence. It's not like I started barking at her to take her bookbag off. I asked her nicely, twice, before I flew into a rage. After we got into a yelling match in the hallway, she came back in and just put her head down on the desk, refusing to do any work for the rest of the class (or, another way to put this is, acting exactly as she does every day). She's not the least bit embarrassed that she is failing Drama. DRAMA. A class where you get points by breathing deeply.

As I am lecturing the class on their general apathy, lack of respect for authority, and just about anything else I can think of, a student pulls out a newspaper and starts to read it. ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

We begin my lesson, 20 minutes after the bell had rung. I had prepared a very basic creative writing assignment involving poetry. My thought was that we would write a poem, then they would put several together and, in groups, present them in some sort of dramatic fashion. And, I know what you are thinking. Poetry? Who wants to write poetry? I thought about that too. That's why I was 3 steps ahead of them. I brought in a sample poem written by one of my kids last year (I did the same unit last year and it was a hit). I also provided them with a template of what I wanted them to include, which was basically just some blanks that they needed to fill in, and indicated below the blank was what they were supposed to write. Kind of like Mad Libs. And then, knowing that I can't just hand them something to fill in, (I made that mistake last year), I went step-by-step, or blank-by-blank, as it were, with them.

Together we read the poem aloud and talked about its meaning. Even though the poem was clearly written about someone looking back on their childhood, several were convinced that the narrator was talking about his present day. Apparently the context clues of "long ago," "way back when," "gravestones," and "memories cherished" didn't clue them in.

When we finally understand the poem's intent, we get down to the task of filling in our own blanks, the words "I am from," already written in by yours truly. "What items or toys do you remember seeing or using as a child? I give several personal examples...my grandmommy's orange and maroon blanket, my pink jelly shoes, my collection of My Little Ponies, my Snoppy stuffed animal...I look at my students' faces. They are lost. "What if we didn't have pink shoes? Can I say 'the hood'? Do you have a pen? I can't remember anything! This is boring! Can I go get water? Miss, how do you spell 'bricks'? I don't get this! I'm from the hood, so how can I be from a pair of Jordans?"

We look over the sample poem again, but the student still argues his point that he is from the hood, and therefore he cannot be from an actual item. I actually kind of understand where he got confused. At least he was attempting to complete the assignment as opposed to, say, Bruce, who was busy drawing a Latin Kings symbol on his worksheet. So I ask of them, beg of them, to just go with me and trust that it is going to make sense in just a minute. Skeptically, they continue. "Name two members of your family." I give the examples of my mom and my dad, but offer that they can name any two people from their family that they choose. "Can I name my cousin Ray Ray? What if I can't think of 2 people? What about a pencil, can I borrow a pencil? Can I name 9 people? Can I write myself in? Can I put my dog on there?" I'm all for creative expression, but I urged Anthony to not write down his dog, which made him pitch a fit, crumpling up his paper in defeat. I had lost another one.

We soldiered on. Finally we were getting into some sort of rhythm and making process, though they momentarily got tripped up when I asked them to name their favorite plant or flower. Just as we were maybe going to finish, a bird chirped twice outside the window.

"What was THAT? Where is that bird? Miss, look! There's a bird outside!" Several of them raced to the window to look for the source of the chirping. I wish I had some awesome ending to this story...like it was a mother bird feeding her baby birds and we had just witnessed their first chirps or something like that. Maybe it was a beautiful blue bird with lovely feathers and one of the kids would say, "Hey! This is so weird! I wrote about a bird just like that in my poem!" Or maybe it was a rare bird and one of the students got a picture of it on their cellphones that they aren't supposed to have in school but they have anyway, and then we all got our pictures in the paper after discovering the bird. Maybe the students would feel inspired and return to their poems, their creative juices flowing.

No. This was just a damn ordinary bird that chirped twice, and for some reason this disrupted class for 10 minutes. They were gone. It was like they have never heard a bird chirp before or something. It took 5 minutes for them to return to their seats, and another 5 minutes to get them to stop talking about it. I was stunned.

The bell rang, and the 6 students out of 18 that almost finished the poems turned them in.

I went to my next class, which was basically more of the same nonsense. I tried to tweak what I said from one class to the next, thinking maybe the problem was with me...something that I am not explaining clearly. I'll admit that has happened, to me and every other teacher. But when Stephanie literally started crying because, as she put it, she's "got nothin' in her head," I was done. I was defeated.

So as yesterday replayed in my head, I hit the snooze button. I called in and said that I had a migraine, so I would not be coming in today. Technically, it's true. My head hurt so bad with the thought of going to work that I just couldn't bare it. Then I had a cup of coffee, read the paper, and I was in heaven.

I think everyone might need a day like this. Yes, I feel slightly guilty because I know the kids are going to be running around looking for the right room to be in (though I made them a schedule yesterday). Yes, I could work somewhere else where these issues probably wouldn't arise, at least not as often as they seem to do at my present job. And yes, I come from a long line of non-hooky players who might look down on my behavior today. But right now, still in my pajamas at 3pm, I am going to watch a movie and not think about all of that.

Blog Reader Spotlight: Joan!

I went home for the Christmas break. Three consumed cheeseballs later, I'm back home, ready to start the new year off right and, fingers crossed, cheeseball-free.

Nothing much new to report from the homefront, except that I learned my mom's new trick for slicing onions: she wears swimming goggles during the slicing procedure so that her eyes don't water. It's totally awesome. She also tried to convince me to get into a bathing suit for a Christmas card picture. And then she got mad that I wouldn't do it. Now, I would wear a ski suit on the beach if I could so chances were slim that I wanted to be immortalized in a bathing suit and then have the picture sent around the country. I won't be able to describe the Christmas card to you because apparently it's top secret (Mom's orders) until she sends them out. But I will tell you this. Every time you open your mailbox, you should thank your lucky stars that I'm not in there, half naked, wearing a Happy New Year tiara. You're welcome.

I did learn one startling new fact. While I was lamenting my lack of regularly posting to my blog (because I'm busy, I'm lazy, and frankly a tad boring), my grandmother piped in to say that, while she enjoys my blog, she wishes I would watch my language so as not to offend any of my readers. I understand where she is coming from, but I was also a little surprised because I thought she was my only reader. And, because I thought she was my only reader, I thought I had been watching my language, because who wants to piss off your grandma/only reader? She and my Papa then informed me that their friend, Joan, reads my blog all of the time.

I've never met Joan, but Joan, if you are reading this, you are aces! My mom chimed in to say that she doesn't read it and doesn't even know the web address. Which is totally cool, I'm not mad, I just think it's funny.

So Joan, thanks again for your loyal readership. Don't be a stranger!

Suss' Favorite Things, 2007 edition

There have been quite a few inventions this year that have impacted my life for the better. So as 2007 winds down, I thought I would take a moment to review some of my Favorite Things, Oprah-style. Now, don't get all excited. John Travolta will not be making a special appearance on my blog. You will not find Vermont Maple Scones if you look under your seat. And no, I will not have assistants doling out pallets of cashmere pajamas. You can go get most of this stuff yourself because my tastes are fairly cheap. Rest assured, if I could deliver to my readers really awesome products, like swavorski-covered omelet forks, I would.

It should be noted that I was not in any way paid by the following companies to endorse their products. That being said, a little greasing of the palms never hurt anyone, am I right? I'm looking at you, Nabisco...

And now, I give you Suss's Favorite Things of 2007, in order of how awesome they are with the first item being the most awesome.

1.)The Mr. Clean Magic Eraser



Holy crap, Mr. Clean has done it again! Fresh off the heels of his other invention, the Shower Swifer, he gives us the Mother of all Cleaning Products: The Mr. Clean Magical Eraser! Forget what you knew about previous magic erasers, because this bad boy will change your life. I don't know how it works, and I don't care. All I know is that you wet it, you rub it against some sort of stain, and the stain goes away. The damn thing doesn't get sudsy! It's like some sort of enchanted sponge. I have Mr. Clean Erasers all over my apartment...I have one on mildew standby in the shower, one for KP duty, and one whose sole function in life is to clean my oven. At two per box, I urge you to purchase at least 4 boxes. That will give you 8 erasers to do with what you will. Don't be silly and just buy one box, because you will get home and realize the erasing possibilities are endless.

Last week as I was rushing to work, I opened the fridge to grab some water and out came pouring my newly purchased box of cherry tomatoes. As my apartment is slightly sloped, the tomatoes went everywhere. Cursing the faulty Key Food plastic box, I scooped up the tomatoes, threw them in the trash, and headed out for the day. When I arrived back home, I opened the door to what appeared to be a crime scene. Red stains everywhere. Apparently in my tomato scooping fury, I stepped on a few with my new boots, causing tomatoes to squirt all over the floor. In another situation, I might have just moved. But, remembering my stash of erasers in my cabinet, I grabbed one and went to town. Within seconds, the tomato stain was gone. Magical. My only concern is that I will get a little too heavy handed with the Mr. Clean Magical Eraser and erase myself like the old Daffy Duck cartoons. Because it's just that good.

2.) Zip Lock Zip N' Steam Bags



I first saw these bags of awesome on a commercial. The idea of steaming asparagus in just a few easy steps appealed to me. Once upon a time I owned my own steamer, but I accidentally broke it when I tried to steam some carrots. I forgot one small but apparently necessary step, which is to put water in the bottom of it. What ensued was not pretty. I thought about purchasing another steaming machine but then I remembered that you can go to restaurants and people will steam things for you, so that's what I did instead. Until, that is, the good people down at the Zip Lock company came up with Zip Lock Zip N' Steam Bags.

I searched high and low for Zip Lock Zip N' Steam Bags. Nothing irritates me more than seeing a commerical for something and then not being able to find it in the store (like Splenda's new flavored sugar substitutes for coffee...I've given up hope that they actually exist). Then, NBC's "The Biggest Loser," (my third favorite thing on this list, so see below) highlighted the many uses of the steam bags on their show. They actually steamed salmon, people. SALMON. As in the fish. I was going to be happy just being able to steam my snap peas, but the bags have fish steaming abilities? I'm in!

As you can imagine, after their appearance on "The Biggest Loser," demand for Zip Lock Zip N' Steam Bags went into high gear. Suddenly, they were everywhere, like Ugg boots. I picked up a box and, armed with my salmon recipe from "The Biggest Loser" website, I attempted to steam salmon for three minutes in my microwave. And damn if it wasn't delicious!

Now, you need to know that the outside of the bag is ridiculously hot. I imagine it's what lava feels like when it first comes out of a volcano. You should wait at least a minute before you attempt to obtain the fish from the microwave. But if you open the bag up and keep it about an arm's length from your face, well then you've got yourself a nice free facial! It's done wonders for my pores.

3.) NBC's "The Biggest Loser"



The Biggest Loser is quite possibly the most perfect reality show. It's got all of the elements that I love...competition, hot trainers, people who I can feel superior to, moments of inspiration, and the harsh reality of what will happen if I for that extra slice of pizza. Plus, it's no secret that I love big, teddy bear type guys and this show has them aplenty. Of course they aren't so hot when they get there, but after a few weeks...hello!

I desperately want to go on this show, but I can't for three reasons (and you best believe I actually checked). One, I don't weigh enough. According to the guidelines, I don't have enough body fat. I know, I am just as surprised as you are. Two, you cannot be on the show without donning the spandex shorts and jogging bra. Just the thought of wearing spandex shorts on national television is enough to make me break out into hives. Three, you cannot be on the show unless you agree to weigh yourself on a giant scale. Weigh myself in public? I can't even do it at the doctor's office. The last time I was there, I begged him to leave the room and let me record it myself. I admire the women at the gym that get on the scale completely naked. Not me. I wear a haz mat suit and just subtract a few pounds.

I love this show so much, for several reasons. One, when a contestant is voted off, they turn off the light in their refrigerator. And it's the kind of refrigerator you see in the front of a diner, the one with the three day old rotating cheesecake in it. I love that. Also, when the contestants are confessing who they are thinking about voting off, they do it in a pantry filled with food. It's the little touches like that which make this show classy. I also love watching the different challenges that the contestants have to face each week. It's normally something like, hold up your body weight's worth of dumbbells over your head while the host dangles jelly doughnuts in your face. Genius.

In all seriousness, I love watching the very end of each show, where they show the eliminated contestant's amazing transformation. Every Tuesday night I say that I am going to bed early and that I'll DVR the ending. But no, I get sucked in and I have to watch until the end, where the contestant holds up his old pair of huge pants and drops them to reveal his new svelte figure. And then his wife tells us how excited she is to be able to hug her husband and have her arms actually wrap around his body. Then they always cut to the contestant running around the yard with his kids, and normally this involves him going down some sort of slide with them. It's awesome television. I cry every single week when I watch "The Biggest Loser," which begs the question, does that make me the biggest loser?

4.) M.A.C. Fix It Hydrating Water



This is the best $16 water your money can buy. When my local M.A.C. salesman first insisted that I buy Fix It hydrating water, I passed. "Do you have trouble with your powder looking too powdery?" was his sales pitch. At the time, I thought, "No, of course not. Who buys water spray for your face, to eliminate the look of powder that they just put on their face three seconds ago?" Then I got home and damn if my powder didn't look too powdery. Unfortunately for me, I left for Spain the next day, and for a week I fretted that my powdered face looked like I had put powder on it. DB and I ended up searching high and low for M.A.C. Fix It Hydrating Water, and our quest ended at El Corte de Ingles (where F.Y.I., travelers, you can also get your eyebrows waxed). DB has far superior Spanish speaking skills than I do, but together we were unable to articulate what product I needed (mostly because I forgot the name of the product). That's where my expensive theatre degrees came in handy, for I was able to pantomime putting on powder with a giant, imaginary powder puff, then spray myself with imaginary water. 20 well spent euros later, I had my Fix It water. This was in July, and I still have at least 2/3 of the bottle left, so you really get a good bang for your buck/euro.

5.) Snapfish.com



Gone are the days when you had to leave your house to get your pictures developed. You upload them onto the website, order what sizes you want, and then they send them to your house. The prices are ridiculously reasonable, and I would pay extra for the added benefit of not having to deal with Duane Reade employees. You can also make adorable presents for people. My mom made me this really great poster of our recent trip to Italy, and I hung it proudly in my bedroom. Every morning I wake up to a giant suntanned version of myself eating a big bowl of gnocchi. It may be the best present ever.

So there you have it. My top 5 favorite things of 2007. Happy shopping!

Suss is dating.

As I speed towards turning 30 at a seemingly lightning speed, I realize that I need to get myself out there when it comes to dating. I've been trying to do more things outside of my comfort zone, because Lord knows my dream man ain't gonna fall into my lap while I watch reruns of "Laguna Beach."

Very rarely do I date more than one person at a time. This isn't a moral issue, just a logistical one. I don't have a lot of time to date. Shaving my legs, cleaning my apartment in case the date comes over, going out enough to have fun but not enough to be too tired to face my students the next day...it's just a lot for a girl like me to handle. So I can only handle one boy at a time. Recently, the tide has turned, and I seem to be on fire with the fellas. I don't know what happened. Maybe it's those extra hours I've been logging in the gym. Maybe it's my new hair straightening balm (everyone loves a good balm). Maybe it's just my time. I don't know, and I don't care. I'm riding this train.

So Bachelor #1 is a cop. I've known him for quite some time, meeting him first at one of my old haunts, Mary Maguire's. He and I had a long text messaging courtship and, on my last birthday, things went to the next level (proving that I can turn another year older without necessarily turning another year wiser). He's a great guy, just not exactly for me. We've gone out a few more times in the last few weeks, but I'm just not feeling his flow. First of all, he talks a lot. I mean, A LOT. And we all know I love to talk...but this guy puts me to shame. And he never exactly has a point to his stories. He'll wax nostalgic about some dude he met in the bodega for hours. It drives me insane. Also, and I know I am being incredibly petty, but the man wears a pinkie ring with a lucky horseshoe on it. I can't deal with a man who rocks a PR. It's too much.

Also too much? Asking me to go on a cruise with him on the second date. Going away wasn't the problem, so much as the destination was. His recommendation of a cruise proves that he doesn't know me at all. I'm not really a bingo playing on the deck, conga line around the midnight buffet kind of gal. I'm more of a put on a backpack and go to Barcelona without a prearranged place to stay person. That's just me.

So I will not be choosing Bachelor #1.

Bachelor #2 started out strong. On Halloween, I was walking down the street when this guy behind me called out, "Excuse me, excuse me..." Thinking I had dropped something, I turned around to see a very cute guy standing there. He asked me if I was single, to which I replied, "Yes." We talked for a little bit, then he gave me his card and said if I ever wanted to go out for coffee or something, I should give him a call. I left, my mind still reeling from this exchange. I mean, what was this guy's game? He actually approached me and said what he was thinking? What's his angle? What's his deal? Who does that? My relationships normally take a different path. I'm used to the more passive, "Hey, you wanna hang out sometime?" email, followed by unintelligible text messages, an awkward phone conversation or two, and then it reaches its inevitable conclusion without actually having gone out.

At the time I didn't think I would do anything about Bachelor #2, but then I thought that it took some guts to approach someone like that on the street, and that kind of guts should be recognized and rewarded. I hoped that doing something about this will restore the karmic balance of dating that I somehow unbalanced in my early twenties. Now, I am such a jaded weirdo about dating that I didn't want to call this guy, because I somehow got it in my head that he would think I was being too forward. Me, too forward...not him, the person on the street who came up to a stranger and asked her out on a date. I decided to send him a text with my phone number. There. I sent it and waited to see what would happen.

He called that very same night. Granted, I didn't answer the phone because I was too nervous, but he left me a pleasant voicemail that I was able to listen to several times, looking for any early signs of Crazy.

After a few phone calls and texts, we decided to meet up for coffee. I put on my new cute boots and hit the road. We talked for a bit over coffee, and I soon realized that we might not have that much in common. He's studying to be a nurse and he sells watches (I never wear watches and my knowledge of nursing comes from "Grey's Anatomy"). Our differences did not bode well for a future together. Also, he's a going-to-a-club-in-Manhattan guy, and I would put serious consideration into sticking something in my eye in order to get out of going to a club. I love to travel, and he said, "Really? Hmm...I hate to travel." Well, okay then. Um....hmmm..."That scone you are eating looks good." Proof I had officially run out of things to say.

So he walked me to his car, and I'm thinking that he may be thinking what I am thinking, which was, "How fast can I get home?" Apparently I am not a mind reader because he proceeded to plant the worst kiss ever on me in the history of kisses. It was BAD. He pulled back and I thought, "Ok, maybe that was just a bad apple. A fluke." I'm not that lucky. He kissed me again, and somehow his technique had gotten worse. I'll save you the gruesome details but I will tell you this: I think at one point the man licked my teeth.

Initially I had written off Bachelor #2 before he had even dropped me off, considering I basically jumped out of the car while it was still rolling. After thinking about this encounter for a few days, I thought that I should maybe give him another chance. As a friend of mine said, "Maybe you can tell him what to do [be a little more gentle], rather than what not to do [lick my teeth]. Guys think that's hot." So, when he called on Thursday to ask me out for sometime that weekend, I agreed.

Silly me.

He sent me a text on Saturday night (9:30pm-ish) asking me what I was up to. After a few texts back and forth (I'm trying to give you important/unboring details here) he said he is going out to a club with friends and did I want to hang out before or after?

Before or after? I didn't understand. Apparently he thought that he could come over for an hour or so right at that very moment, or, better yet, meet up at 3 or 4am.

3 or 4am. Now you and I know that there's only one thing a boy wants from you at that hour. When I questioned him about his intentions in regards to this late night rendezvous, he said that he just wanted to see me. Please. Mama's heard it all before. This dope does not know who he is dealing with. Suss deserves better.

So I will not be choosing Bachelor #2.

I think I will go back to my original plan, which is dying alone. It has a quiet dignity to it.

Little Fella II: He's Back, and He's Mad as Hell

I'll start by saying that I live in a rather quaint, rather crooked apartment. My mom fondly refers to it as "The Willy Wonka" apartment because everything is slightly slanted...about 7 degrees I would say. Just enough to drive you crazy.

The first two years I loved this place, and dismissed those who called it "small," or "old," or "glorified kindling." A little IKEA here, a new bedspread there, and I was home. I loved it. I recently hit my two year anniversary in my swingin' bachelorette pad, which is a record for me (I have commitment issues when it comes to domestication). I don't know what happened, but all of the sudden I have to get the hell out of here. I think my need to hit the bricks may be the Return of Little Fella.

Little Fella is a mouse which decided to go for a swim in my sink, about two years ago to the date if I remember correctly. Since then, my apartment has been thankfully mouse free. I didn't do anything special to make my apartment mouseless...no traps or glues or sprays...I just said a silent prayer everyday to the God of Rental Properties that I would not see a mouse. This technique seemed to work brilliantly up until yesterday afternoon when, as I sat on my couch doing a whole lotta nothing, a mouse had the balls to run across my floor.

This is what concerns me: if the mouse has the chutzpa to run across my floor in broad daylight, what in the hell is he doing when I'm not home? Or, a worse thought, what's he up to when I turn off my lights to go to sleep? Well, YOU WIN, MOUSE. I fold. I'm moving.

One might argue that it is unreasonable to move because I saw a mouse. But when you factor in the threat of my fridge falling over and trapping me underneath it, or the potential for my doorknob to fall off and actually lock me INSIDE my apartment (which has totally happened, more than once), or that the wall in my bedroom looks like it's melting (that will have to be a whole other post)...you gotta figure that my mom has a point.

As I was relating the horror of seeing Little Fella II to a friend today, she begged me to repost the initial Little Fella story. Because this travesty happened way before I had a blog, I sent an email to a few friends who I knew would have a good laugh at my misery. So here is the original story below. It's scary to realize what little has changed in two years...

It’s times like these, and only times like these, that I wish I lived with someone.

I heard it before I saw it. A slight, "tap…tap…tappy- tap…screech." I looked up. It stopped. I went back to watching ice skating, my ears now ready to react to the slightest oddity.

It happened again, this time a bit more frantic. "Tap. TAP. TAPPP. Tappity-tap tap!!!" My heart began to beat a little faster.

I got up and turned on the light, trying to figure out the source of this strange tapping. I was hoping that it was just my leaky faucet that needs to be fixed. Incidentally, my landlord has been trying to get me to contact her plumber, but after the last time he came over to fix my shower, I have been a little less enthused to use his services. This is due in part because, after hearing that I teach in Astoria, he said, "Never trust your Muslim students because they are all liars and they are plotting to kill you." After hearing that I have Italian heritage, he reasoned that I must be "nothing but a money hungry liar…a wannabe mobster." He informed me that the next time he comes over, he'll tell me all about "the cheap, lying Greek bastards." All his exact words. True story. The man hates liars, apparently. Ironically, he's Greek.

So. Back to tonight, also now known as, "The Night Christina Realized She Needs a Man in Her Life." Because up until now, I think I have been kidding myself.

I turned on the light and searched. It didn’t take long (the one advantage of a teeny apartment) to figure out the source. There was a mouse in my sink.

Allow me to reiterate the severity of the situation. There was a MOUSE. In. My. SINK.

What do you do in situations such as these? I was freaking out. The mouse, which will heretofore be referred to as, "Little Fella," was freaking out. I call him Little Fella because that’s what I called him from the beginning of this fiasco, and far be it from me to break with tradition. He was brown and slightly petite, and boasted the longest tail I have ever seen on such a small animal. The name suits him. He would be kind of cute, had he not been IN MY SINK.

Little Fella was cleverly perched on the only thing in my sink, a Kermit the Frog coffee cup (I only use the finest of china). He was trying to claw his way out of my sink, desperately grasping in vain for my new purple sponge. After several attempts, he fell backwards and started frantically running around my sink in circles. I stood there watching him in horror.

Now, I am not your typical girlie-girl, nor am I am sitcom star. I’m not one to comically stand on a chair and scream whenever I see a mouse. My horror stemmed from the fact that I had a mouse in my sink, and I did not know what to do in order to NOT have a mouse in my sink. The desired outcome was simple. The plan…not so much.

My first tactic? Plan A: Reasoning. "Calm down, Little Fella, calm down," I said, in my most soothing voice. "Stop running, Little Fella! Calm down. Shhh…."

I seriously said all of this. I "shushed" a mouse.

Plan A, the worst plan ever, did not pan out. It turns out Little Fella was too upset for reasoning. I needed a harebrained scheme, and I needed one fast.

This is when I wished I had a boy around. Boys seem to be better at pest control. It’s one of the few things I have no problem admitting. I proudly consider myself a feminist until I have to get rodents out of my kitchen appliances.

Onto Plan B: Operation Colander. I grabbed my colander, a huge salad bowl, and, for no real reason, a spatula. The spatula made me feel protected, like I was packin’ heat. I placed the salad bowl next to the sink and I ever so gently scooped Little Fella into the bowl with the colander. Now, I will say one thing for Little Fella. I think he knew that we were in this mess together, so he put up very little fuss.

Now I had a mouse in a salad bowl. I never thought this would be considered a good thing, but given the situation, it was a step up from the sink.

"What to do, what to do?" I thought. "I know, I’ll release him into the wild!" I literally had this exact thought in my head…"the wild." Who do I think I am? I live on 30th Avenue next to the Thai Pavilion for Pete’s sake. I decided to put on my slippers and take him downstairs.

What I have neglected to tell you is that I have had an avocado face mask on this entire time (this healthy glow of mine is no accident). Another decision had to be made. Do I walk downstairs with the face mask on, or do I wash it off first? See, if I lived with someone, they could get rid of the mouse whilst I tended to my pores. Since I live by myself, I have to be a Renaissance Man. For those who don’t know, a Renaissance Man is defined as, "A person who excels in many fields and disciplines," the fields here being rodent extermination and facials.

Time was of the essence, so I decided to trek downstairs with my avocado face mask on and a mouse in my salad bowl. On a side note, that's the most awesome sentence I have ever written. I got down to the bottom step and opened the door, where no less than 6 people were walking by at that very moment, on their way to the overpriced Grand Café. To their credit, they barely gave me a second glance. I bent down, lifted up the colander, and tilted the salad bowl towards the ground. I thought I would have to use my spatula, which I had tucked into the top of my pajama pants, to coax him out. Little Fella scampered out and ran towards the corner. He turned to catch one last glimpse of his avocado mask-wearing heroine, and then he took off down the street. I imagine he went to the Glen Oaks Pub for a pint of Guinness.