When Idealism Attacks

You know, the only thing worse than random uninformed citizens who think teaching is easy and that teachers are well-paid is power-tripping administrators who think teaching is merely a matter of crowd control and data analysis and that teachers are idiots who need to be reminded to push in their chairs at the end of workshops on such tricky topics as how to take attendance.

I may have mentioned ten or twelve or a hundred times before that I love my job. What I meant was that I love the TEACHING part of my job: I love the hanging out with kids part, and I love the doing good part. I also love the advocacy part of my job; you can't be a good teacher without being the kind of person who reflects on what works and then advocates for policies that support or facilitate good teaching. You might be effective in your own classroom, but the title teacher -- at least to my way of thinking -- implies an investment in and passion for the overall process, regardless of whose classroom you're talking about.

It's the advocacy part, more than anything else, that kicks my ass. It's fairly easy -- although not in the way people who say teaching is easy mean it -- to walk into your classroom, close your door, and teach the children well (I'm simplifying. Some days just trying to do THAT makes me cry). But eventually you come out of your classroom and you hear other teachers talking about how they don't need to cover the Harlem Renaissance because it's not on the state test, or administators assuring teachers that their problem students will eventually drop out, and you feel compelled to remind people that that's not why we're here -- that teaching is about helping kids make meaning and instilling a love of learning, and that you do that with whatever fucking topic you can (bitches!) regardless of whether or not the state has deemed it important, that instead of crossing your fingers and hoping that problem students will drop out you should be trying to determine what the problem student's problem is and FIXING it, or at the very least fucking emphathizing with it.

I've been back at school for a mere three days now and I've attended a total of seven meetings. In my notes for each of those seven meetings, I've written somewhere "think about getting out of teaching." The first couple times I wrote it as sort of a silent sardonic response to something discussed in the meeting -- my oh-so-important obligation to confiscate cellphones, IPods, hats, COATS, and do' rags despite the fact that they almost never interfere with my ability to teach, or the likelihood that the assessments I've created for my class will soon be replaced with standardized assessments provided by central administration (and, incidentally, that those assessments will SUCK). But I'm up to seven "think about getting out of teaching"s in just 60 hours because. . .you know what? Things are FUCKED UP.

My department is short two teachers at the moment. (And, oh, by the way, school starts in five days. TOTALLY snuck up on us again.) We've hired nice, motivated, focused -- but unqualified -- long-term substitutes to temporarily fill these positions. From an administrative perspective, these are warm bodies. End of story. From a teacher/advocate/mentor perspective, these are warm bodies with potential who are going to be teaching kids and who need LOTS of help. And when I wasn't in a meeting, helping was pretty much how I spent my day. It's how my friend Steve spent his day, and how our friend Jess spent her day, and how our friend Mike spent half his day (the other half he had stupid football practice). Which means that none of us got anything done for US today, although we did attend a shit-ton of pointless meetings.

And this is how the advocacy thing kicks my ass. Because although you can't be a good teacher without being an advocate, if you spend all your time advocating you'll have very little time left for actually being a good teacher. And then you start getting crazy. Hell, Steve and I have already resolved to skip lunch tomorrow in an effort to catch up.

I needed to drop a few pounds anyway.

Plus I plan to make up all those calories (and more!) in Hoegaarden tomorrow. It's Cogan's Thursday! Which basically means that it's Thursday and I drag all my friends to my favorite bar (Cogan's) for some serious drinking. Cogan's Thursday is such an institution that when Jess registered for a Thursday night grad class, her husband looked at her schedule and said, "You're taking a class on Cogan's Thursday?" and Jess said, "Shit" and then promptly dropped the class.

That's how I ROLL, bitches!

Also how I roll is that my bulletin boards aren't done and I'm not quite sure what I'm doing on the first day of school. If you have thoughts on either feel free to stop by Cogan's after 6PM. If I'm not relaxing on the patio with a pitcher of Hoegaarden, I'll be in the back laughing while Steve totally kicks my ass at air hockey. On his quarters, hopefully. I need mine for laundry.

Read This Book!

I know, I know, you're already reading 25 other books. I don't care. Add this one to your stack. Don't be put off by the chick lit-looking cover. I don't know why her publisher did that to her. This is definitely not chick lit.

Bookstore Meaghan recenty recommended it in our e-newsletter and wrote

Julie Powell needs something to break the monotony of her life. So, she invents a deranged assignment: She will take her mother's dog-eared copy of Julia Child's 1961 classic, "Mastering the Art of French Cooking," and cook all 524 recipes in the span of just one year. Begun as a blog documenting her daily cooking adventures, its popularity grew to such large proportions that it had to be made into a book. Her reward for all her work: not just a newfound respect for calves livers and aspic, but a new life -- lived with gusto.

When I emailed Meaghan to point out that she'd forgotten "to mention that Julie & Julia f-ing ROCKS!" she responed that "We are a FAMILY newsletter. However, if I was reviewing it on, say, your blog, it would be something like, 'The best fucking book on cooking and life this fucking year, bitches. Now eat up, motherfuckers!'" which I guess is a nice way of saying that I have a slight tendency to overuse the f-word. Or perhaps that I've been jumped in to some strange book-reviewing gang.

No matter. Read the book. What you can tell from the cover and the jacket copy -- that "new life lived with gusto" bit -- is that this is a touching story about a woman who finds meaning in the simple act of cooking. What you can't tell is that this is actually a deep book whose beauty lies in its exploration of the universal quest to find meaning in life. You also can't tell that Julie Powell is witty as hell or that by the time you get to chapter six you'll wish she'd invite you over for a gimlet or five. Nor can you tell that her heartwarming homage to Julia Child and joie de vivre is both hip and hilarious.

And best of all? Julie Powell fucking loves the f-word.

School? It's Just Right Across That River Styx Over There.

Today was the first day of school for teachers. Incidentally, it was also 96 degrees in Norfolk and the air conditioning at school was broken. Oh, and my classroom is on the fourth (i.e., top) floor. My day pretty much involved wondering if it would be inappropriate to remove any more of my clothing than I already had. Answer: yes.

Around 1:30 I had a visit from some of the students who have been calling me all summer. I told them last week to stop calling me and get a life, so I guess they figured if they couldn't call they'd just stop by. Not exactly in keeping with the "get a life" approach to life, but whatever. At least they're respecting the "stop calling me" part of the plan.

Anyway, I was dripping with sweat and definitely not dressed appropriately for greeting ANYONE, let alone 16 year-old male students, unless you consider an exposed midriff appropriate teacher attire. One of these boys wrote "you are my dream woman" on the VERY first assignment he turned in to me last year and then got progressively creepier until parental and administrative intervention was required. Today his only comment on my appearance was to ask, "Hey, where's your necklace? You always wear a necklace."

So see, we've made progress.

Actually, I do pretty much always wear a necklace, and to notice that is still a little creepy. But to look at your dream woman's bare midriff and note only that she is missing her signature accessory is indeed progress.

And I was so impressed with this progress that when he asked me if I needed help with anything, I handed him my car keys and sent him and my other kids out to my car to unload some boxes of school crap that I'd taken home over the summer. He looked ecstatic. He looked like he was up to no good. There are all kinds of legal issues involved in giving kids the keys to your car and asking them to go get you something. I know this. But it was a hundred fucking degrees and I really needed those boxes.

"Do NOT get in my car," I stated emphatically. "I have a license!" he whined. "No. Look at me. This isn't like the time I said 'do NOT order pizza and have it delivered to class' and you did anyway. This is like dead serious. Do NOT get in my car." I raised my eyebrows and put my hands on my hips for good measure, and I'd long ago covered up my midriff. "Okay, okay," he conceded. And then as he was walking out the door he said, "I'm gonna have to, like, reach in there though. You know, to get the boxes out?" "If I see you get in my car. . ." I threatened.

See, this is my big downfall as a disciplinarian. I can never think of anything good after. . . .

Fortunately he didn't get in my car. He did, like, reach in there though. You know, to get the boxes out.

So I Didn't Call An Ax Murderer

Remember last month when my hairdresser called me and wanted me to go out with some random guy whose hair she'd cut? Remember how I decided not to what with the possibility of his being an ax murderer or whatever?

So today I went in to get my hair done and the first thing my hairdresser said to me was not her usual, "Are we doing the same thing?" (PS, I think my hairdresser would about DIE if I answered no at this point. Change is SO not my thing.) but, "Did you call that guy?" I pretended I didn't know what she was talking about. "What guy?" I asked innocently, as if I couldn't possibly be expected to keep track of all the guys I'm supposed to be calling.

"Un-fucking-believable!" she responded. And then she proceeded to lecture me about how cute and nice and smart and just generally wonderful the guy was until the OTHER hairdresser appeared and said, "You suck. I'd have gone out with him if I was single. He was cute!" "What the hell do you two know?" I asked, "the guy could have been an ax murderer." "He was NOT an ax murderer!" they shouted in unison. And then they started in again on how awesome he was.

Now, ordinarily you would not want a woman who is angry with you to be cutting your hair. My hairdresser, however, is quite adept at giving you a kick-ass haircut while berating you for not calling a guy who may or may not have been an ax murderer.

And the more she went on the more I felt bad for not calling him. Not so much because I really felt like I'd missed out on a great guy, but because, let's face it, refusing to go out with random strangers on the off chance that they may be ax murderers -- or, worse, Republicans -- is no way to find true love.

"That could have been your future husband," my hairdresser admonished as I rolled my eyes and made for the door, "and he seemed like the kind of guy who'd be good in bed, too."

But not, apparently, like the kind of guy who would hack you up into little bits afterwards.

Seen On An OBX Bumper. . .

When Jesus said, "Love your enemies" I think he probably meant, "Don't kill them."

Can I get an amen?

Livin' In A Powderkeg And Givin' Off Sparks

Believe it or not, last night's short and simple post on happy music took me fuckin' forever to write. I blame it on Bonnie Tyler.

Some background: The other day my pal Meaghan and I did a little CD swap and I scored, among other things, a sweet 80s compilation that includes "Total Eclipse of the Heart." Now, I have loved "Total Eclipse of the Heart" since it first came out in 1983. I even had it on 45 -- my sister gave it to me for Christmas when I was 8 and she was 6. (I gave her "Eye of the Tiger," also a good song.) Anyway, last night I threw a few CDs in the CD player, pressed random, and sat down to do my internet thing. You see where this is going.

So I was just sitting here, typing away, when "Total Eclipse of the Heart" came on. I started to sing along absentmindedly, but then I realized "Hey! 'Total Eclipse of the Heart'!" so I turned the CD player up almost as loud as it would go -- which is pretty fuckin' loud, as it turns out -- and continued with my singing and typing. I also added a wee bit of swaying. It soon became rather difficult to type, as Bonnie's 11th "turn around" had prompted me to grab the CD player's remote for use as a microphone and I was concentrating on not dropping it while flinging my abundant hair around as I sang. By the time Bonnie got around to "and I need you now tonight," I was out of my chair with microphone in hand. "Together we can take it to the end of the line" found me clear on the other side of the house, right in front of the drape-less sliding glass doors, in fact. As Bonnie screamed, "I really need you tonight," I relinquished my remote/mic to free up both hands for the lifting of hair and the always necessary above-head hand motions. And if you think when the song ended I sat right back down and commenced typing, without pressing repeat even once, you obviously don't know me very well.

It's a good thing nobody was around. Except the cat, and she's no stranger to such performances.

A detective examining my recycling bin might conclude this was all the result of a now-empty bottle of Tanqueray, but truth be told, the gin had nothing to do with it. This is just how I was brought up.

And even though I was also brought up not being allowed to watch MTV, here's the "Total Eclipse of the Heart" video. Just don't tell my parents I let you watch it.

Ten Songs That Make Me Happy

Chris over at Some Guy's Blog wrote yesterday about how Louis Armstrong's music makes him happy and invited his readers to comment on the music that makes them happy. I like talking about music almost as much as I like talking about books, so I tried to think of a particular artist that consistently makes me happy. I couldn't come up with a thing.

Music is an integral part of my life, but the type of music likely to make me happy at any given moment very much depends on the mood I'm in at said moment. At one point I swore by Motown music as the cure for what ails ya, only to decide a year or two later that there's nothing quite as day-brightening as a bit of loud, angry punk rawk. These days I prefer a mixture of the two genres, with lots of stuff in between. So here, in keeping with my summer "ten songs" posts, are ten random songs that always make me happy no matter what my mood.

1. "Angel" by Bob Dylan
2. "Dyslexic Heart" by Paul Westerberg
3. "I Want You to Want Me" by Cheap Trick
4. "Man in the Mirror" by Michael Jackson
5. "Me and Julio Down by the School Yard" by Paul Simon
6. "Night Flight" (a Zeppelin tune) by Jeff Buckley
7. "Redwood Tree" by Van Morrison
8. "Rocket Man" by Elton John
9. "Sit Down" by James
10. "Uncle John's Band" by the Dead

If there's a common theme, I damn sure can't figure it out.

Free For All

In the interest of fairness, here is where I live:


In the apartment building, not the beautiful house with the wrap-around porch next door. Feel free to make fun of it. I'll start: um, it's across the street from a parking lot. . .how charming.

Is That A Dragon In Your Backyard Or. . .?

Welcome to another edition of "Talkin' Shit About Architecture," where I take pictures of other people's houses and then make fun of them (the people and the houses). Am I qualified to pass judgment on architecture? Not at all. But I have read The Fountainhead quite a few times.

Okay then. Let's get started, shall we?

Here we are in rural Maple, North Carolina, which is situated along the Currituck Sound and consists mostly of corn fields, Baptist churches, and roadside vegetable stands.

But behold! In the distance!

Is that a red UK-style telephone booth I see? It is! Would you like to ring your mum? Too bad. You can't. The door is locked and there's a little sign that reads "not a public phone." Not a public phone?! Then what, pray tell, is the point?

Also, why have an electronically controlled gate that one can easily walk around? You're not keeping out the riff-raff. A gate is supposed to, like, connect to something. Something like the rest of the fence. But I guess if you're gonna have a red (!) phone booth that serves no purpose you might as well throw in a gate that serves no purpose. Go crazy.

The real architectural mishap here though is yonder castle.

I mean, really, a castle? In North-freakin'-Carolina? And it's not even a good castle. That castle is all over the place, architecturally speaking.

As I mentioned above, I'm not an expert on architecture, but I don't think that entrance really works for a castle. Even a fake castle. Maybe without the railing. I don't know. Also, what's up with the lattice-work on the windows? They live right smack dab on a beautiful body of water and they put criss-crosses all over their windows? On purpose? Bad move. And that satellite dish has got to go. How do you think the court jester feels when they sit down to watch American Idol?

Okay fine. How much fun can you really make of a fake castle as undeniably ugly as this? Let's all just point at it and laugh.

Seriously though, what kind of furniture do you think they have in there? And, more importantly, where the fuck is the moat?

A Brief Note To The AP

I do not care what John Mark Karr, the suspected killer of JonBenet Ramsey, ate for lunch on Sunday or that he may have been contemplating a sex change operation. For future reference, I am also not the least bit interested in knowing what his favorite color is, whether he prefers cats or dogs, what kind of music he likes, or if his shirt's tucked in. Just let me know when you have some real news.

The Thomas Jefferson Nerd Barometer

If you decide that the three different collections of Thomas Jefferson quotations you stock at the bookstore are woefully inadequate, then special-order yourself the definitive 576 page Quotable Jefferson and eagerly await its arrival, then spend most of the day it's due to arrive repeatedly asking Meaghan, "Is my Jefferson book in there?," "Did you find my Jefferson book yet?" as she unpacks the shipment, then snatch up the book and hug it once it finally appears, then hunker down with it for hours saying "Huh?" and staring blankly at people when they try to talk to you, if you later force another friend to peruse the Jefferson book until she finally pronounces it cool and tells you that all her friends laugh when she tells them she knows someone with a favorite president, and you hear yourself saying, "No no, Thomas Jefferson is my favorite founding father, but FDR is my favorite president" in an effort to correct her, there is absolutely no doubt that you are a nerd.

If you are looking forward to a major reorganization of your bookcases that will involve devoting an entire shelf to Jefferson books, you are most definitely a nerd.

If you frequently find yourself engaged in debates about whether Thomas Jefferson is cooler than Abraham Lincoln, or opining about how unfortunate it is that Jefferson got stuck on the nickel and Alexander Hamilton, who sucks and wasn't even a president, gets the $10 bill, you are also a nerd. (I know, I know, Hamilton founded the National Bank. I don't care. He still sucks.)

Even if you think Lincoln is cooler than Jefferson, you are probably still a nerd.

If you can name more than five Jefferson biographers off the top of your head, you are most likely a nerd.

If Thomas Jefferson's name evokes Monticello, UVA, the Louisiana Purchase, Sally Hemings, and Paris, you may be a nerd. Or you may just have been raised in Virginia.

If you actually attended Jefferson's UVA, you are probably a nerd. Unfortunately, there's also about a 90% chance that you are a pompous, pretentious collar-popping and/or pearl-wearing jerk.

If your knowledge of Jefferson does not extend beyond an association with the Declaration of Independence, it is doubtful that you are a nerd.

If you believe George Allen when he claims to be a "common sense Jeffersonian conservative," you are not only not a nerd, you are also very stupid.

In Response To A Letter To The Editor, Vol. V

From The Virginian Pilot, 08.19.06

To the Editor:

Re "Fed up with the GOP" (letter, Aug. 15) by Roland:

Let me remind you that the #1 goal of all Islamic radicals is to kill all freedom-loving Americans, period. Please also keep in mind that fighting these radicals in the Middle East keeps the fight over there and allows you, [Roland], to live peacefully in the United States of America.

Terrorists seem to become more radical each day. We live in a different time and it may become necessary for us to continue our presence in the Middle East to ensure our freedom and way of life.

Don't blame the president or the Republican Party for wanting to destroy these radicals who want nothing more than to destroy us.

--Scott, Portsmouth

To Scott:

Did BushCo* pay you to write this little ditty? Or are you just a brainless twit who actually believes all this bullshit?

I know our current president said that the terrorists hate our freedom, but he was lying. It's what he does. Terrorists obviously want to kill us, but they don't give a rat's ass about our freedom. They're out to destroy us, not our freedom.

Let's be clear: the only threat to our freedom -- since 1776, for the love of god-- has come from within our own country, usually from conservatives like yourself. From the Alien and Sedition Acts of 1798 to the McCarthyism of the 1950s to today's Patriot Act, NSA wiretapping program, and ever-blurrier line between church and state, our constitutional rights have been threatened not by outsiders wishing to do us harm but by fellow citizens hoping to make us more secure.

The founding fathers were pretty fucking clear on the topic of liberty vs. security:

"They who would give up an essential liberty for temporary security, deserve neither liberty or security." --Benjamin Franklin

"A society that will trade a little liberty for a little order will lose both, and deserve neither." --Thomas Jefferson

But I know you Bushies think all this founding fathers crap is overrated. They were radical, after all.

And I'm not exactly sure what you mean, Scott, by "our way of life." I can only assume this is some sort of euphemism for "our addiction to oil." Although I appreciate being able to drive myself to the grocery on a rainy day, I don't enjoy it nearly enough that I'm willing to send my beloved students to the Middle East (or anywhere else) to die procuring me those last few drops of black gold. I'll just gather up my canvas bags and walk. Oil is over, buddy, and you'd be hard-pressed to find someone who isn't Dick Cheney arguing otherwise.

Lastly, this whole "all" thing (as in "the #1 goal of ALL Islamic radicals is to kill ALL freedom-loving Americans") is something you and your propaganda team might want to revisit. Even my 10th-graders know that "all" is the harbinger of stupidity and dishonesty. It's why they do so well on standardized, multiple-choice tests; if it says "all," it's obviously the wrong answer. No person with a brain gives any credibilty to what comes after "all."

We do, as you said, live in a different time. It used to be Americans gave a shit about their constitutional rights. There have even been points in our history when political discourse involved more than regurgitating the same line of bullshit the politicians feed you.

Watch all the Fox "News" you want. I, for one, am going to continue to blame both the president and his Republican Party for systematically destroying our civil liberties while using freedom as their rallying cry.

--Megan, Norfolk

*BushCo is a clever term Vikkitikkitavi uses and may very well have coined. I stole it from her. I needed it. Nothing else works as well.

Sleeping Arrangements

Okay honey, here's the deal. There's my side of the bed and your side of the bed. I know you can sleep damn near anywhere, but I can't. I don't sleep well on your side and I don't sleep well when you're on my side. Usually you're pretty good about this, but over the past few weeks you've been slowly encroaching on my side. Until early EARLY this morning, when I rolled over and discovered you had completely taken over my pillow, leaving no room for me. And I know I pushed you and whined, "get back on your own pillow" as you yawned and stretched, and I know that was pretty bitchy. But did you have to get up and go sleep on the couch?


I was so lonely.

This Is Unacceptable!

With two weeks to go until Labor Day and the unofficial end of summer -- not to mention an entire month before the autumnal equinox and the official end of summer -- the delicious Sam Adams Summer Ale has been replaced in the grocery by the merely decent Sam Octoberfest. As I explained to the guy stocking the beer aisle, I am not okay with this.

Dude, What Is UP With Crocs?!

No, not these crocs.

These crocs.

I know this whole crocs fad has been building for quite some time, but suddenly crocs are ubiquitous. Everywhere I look I see crocs. On everyone. I don't get it. I mean, I'm sure crocs are comfy, but GOD they're ugly!

Look, here's the deal with crocs:

Crocs on little girls. . .cute. Very cute. If I had a little girl she would definitely be rockin' some crocs. But only if she wanted to.

Crocs on kitchen staff. . .very practical. Good thinking. Pick a color that makes you happy and be sure you take them off once your shift is over.

Crocs on wait staff. . .also practical. Only in black. Usually it's dark so we can't tell anyway. Don't wear them out for the inevitable post-shift partying.

Crocs as beach shoes. . .reasonable, although I thought flip-flops were working just fine.

Crocs on grown women. . .not good. Not good at all. Attractive, willowy women can sort of pull off crocs. The rest of you cannot. The rest of you look like you have enormous and very colorful feet. Also, I feel like your feet must be really really hot in there. I'm sad for them.

Crocs on men. . .no no no no no no no! Men, what are you thinking?! Please, put your black socks and loafers back on and cut it out with all this getting in touch with your European side crap.

Crocs on teenagers. . .hey, anyone notice that teenagers aren't wearing crocs? It's because crocs are totally not cool.

You know what's cool? Chucks. If you insist on wearing brightly colored shoes, get yourself a pair of Chucks. High-tops, low-tops, slip-ons; they are all cool. You can even design your own.

Just, please, stop with the crocs.

I'm It!

Maritza over at Jump in the Ocean tagged me. When she first told me this, I thought "uh-oh" because she recently mentioned something on her blog about a list of favorite movies, and I am so not a movie person. Thankfully this tag (is 'tag' a noun too in the blogosphere?) is about books. And, conveniently, I have already written extensively on the subject of my favorite books.

Senator George Allen, Jackass Extraordinaire

I may have mentioned once or twice how much I dislike Senator George Allen and his right-wing Republican politics, and I'm sure there are a lot of people who think Virginia's a little backwards and that it stands to reason we'd have a guy like Allen for senator. But seriously, this guy?! And he wants to be president?!

Allen said he was sorry. Well, actually what he said was, "I do apologize if he was offended by that." As in, "Wow, what a silly thing to get upset about. It's too bad he's stupid enough to be offended by something so trivial." A few days later Allen explained that he meant to call the guy "mohawk," in reference to his hairdo. Yeah, because that sounds a lot like "macaca." Plus, the dude has a mullet.

I guess we shouldn't be surprised given Allen's track record. I mean, we're talking about a guy who opposed the creation of Martin Luther King Day and whose idea of tasteful office decor involves a noose dangling from a tree.

Please tell me we are not going to re-elect this guy. Please.

23 Out Of 187 Ain't Bad

We got a new little gift/humor book into the bookstore the other day: 187 Men To Avoid, which tells you about, um, 187 kinds of men you should avoid. Below are 23 of them I have, sadly, not managed to avoid.

Men who live with their mothers.

Men who insist on ordering for you.

Men who say, "Have a good one."

Men who play Nintendo.

Men who don't wear underwear.

Men who stir-fry.

Men with "issues."

Men who drink generic beer.

Men who "just want to be friends."

Men who say the last thing they want to do is hurt you.

Men who pretend they know what they're doing when they smell the cork.

Men who eat breakfast cereal for dinner.

Men who know more than 10 slang words for breasts.

Men who believe the McDonald's McLean is health food.

Men with vanity plates like BMW4DAN or OKGUY.

Men who bring their telephones to dinner.

Men who keep a condom in their wallet. . .just in case.

Men who watch the pre-game show.

Men with car stereos worth more than their cars.

Men who are too cool to dance.

Men who own dogs that are smaller than cats.

Men who won't eat quiche.

Men who wash their cars more than once a week.

Some of the above are men I don't necessarily think need to be avoided. Take the stir-fry guy, for example. I enjoy a good stir-fry, all the more if someone else has made it for me. Eating breakfast for dinner? What's so wrong with that? And some men do know what they're doing when they smell the cork. Of course, those men are to be avoided as well.

Some men are not included in the 187 Men to Avoid book but should be:

Men who are rude to wait staff, especially if this rudeness involves snapping.

Men who take longer to get ready than you do.

Men with a confederate flag anything.

Men who take themselves too seriously to laugh.

Men who drive a Hummer.

Feel free to add your own men to avoid to the list.

Update 08.17.06: Oh, and by the way, this book is by Dan Brown. Yes, that Dan Brown. The guy who wrote the god-awful Da Vinci Code. Apparently before he made it big, he wrote tongue-in-cheek self-help books for women under the psuedonym Danielle Brown. In which case, let's add:

Men who pretend to be women.

Men who write crappy books.

In Response To A Letter To The Editor, Vol. IV

From The Virginian Pilot, 08.14.06

To the Editor:

Re: "Higher earning?" (front page, Aug. 6) about how teachers fare better than many other professionals:

The plump salaries and benefits enjoyed by public school teachers are the one undeniable success of our public schools. In fact, the success is far greater than it might first appear, for school systems provide employment leading to a secure, middle-class lifestyle to many who might otherwise face daunting challenges. Let me illustrate: Applicants for graduate study in education administration, tested between 2001 and 2004, had a combined mean total GRE score of 950 (verbal, 427; math, 523). That is sixth from the bottom of 51 fields of graduate study tabulated by the Educational Testing Service. The mean total GRE score across all fields was 1066.

School systems are, in essence, employment programs for adults. They serve that purpose well. Now, as regards the education of children. . .that's a different problem. It will take a different solution.

--Tom, Lenoir, NC

To Tom:

I am one of those lucky public school teachers who might otherwise be flipping burgers if this whole teaching thing wasn't so damn easy and cushy.

Let me illustrate: Although my contract is based on the presumption of a 37.5 hour work-week, I typically work a minimum of 60 hours a week, as does every last one of the quality teachers I know. These hours are spent planning captivating lessons designed to invest students in their own learning; grading papers and providing meaningful feedback that students can use to grow; contacting parents, counselors, coaches, and colleagues to discuss students' progress; holding after-school tutoring sessions; coaching teams or advising clubs; counseling students about problems in their personal lives; and generally doing whatever is necessary to reach and teach kids effectively.

As for your insinuation that the low GRE scores of applicants to administrative graduate programs suggest that all public educators are morons, well, this is what people who are not morons call a red herring argument. Actually, you've got a double red herring thing going on here, which is a pretty impressive logical fallacy. First of all, the mean score of applicants to a certain program doesn't tell us much about those who were ultimately accepted to that program. Your real problem, though, is that you've given us the scores of applicants to administrative programs in the hopes of convincing us that teachers are dumb.

See, these are the kind of critical thinking skills you pick up in school.

I don't like to brag, especially about something as silly as test scores, but since you brought it up (and called me stupid!). . .I have never scored below the 90th percentile on a standardized test in my life. I can't tell you how I scored on the GRE because my graduate school required the MAT, but I scored in the 92nd percentile on that. I'm a pretty smart cookie. I hold a BA in History from a fairly prestigious East Coast liberal arts college. Trust me, my salary would be a lot plumper had I chosen a different career. Hell, my salary would be plumper if I waited tables, and you don't even need a degree for that.

The truth, Tom, is that I love my job and I would do it for less. The only time I complain about my salary is when idiots like you insist that I'm well-paid. Some public school teachers, the kind who put in only the required 7.5 hours a day, are well-paid. But I and many of my colleagues -- given the hours we put in, the emotion we invest, and the work we do -- are not well-paid.

To trot out some warmed-over version of the old "those who can, do; those who can't, teach" argument trivializes education itself and belittles those educators who continue to do their jobs well, despite the lousy pay, simply for the look of wonder that flashes across a student's face when he connects classroom learning to real life or for the light in a child's eyes when she realizes someone cares about what she thinks.

Moments like those, my friend, are the one undeniable sucess of public schools.

--Megan, Norfolk

You Are The Lyrics Queen, Young And Sweet, Only Seventeen

I heard "Yellow Ledbetter" on my way home from the grocery this evening and, for the bajillionth time, wondered what the hell the gorgeous Eddie Vedder is saying in those five minutes of musical brilliance. When I got home I typed "yellow ledbetter lyrics" into my Google searchbar and had my answer in seconds. Some might laud this as progress, but I think we've lost something by making lyrics so accessible.

I have always been obsessed with lyrics. As a teenager, I fastidiously maintained a three-ring-binder with separate sections for songs and quotes. The quotations I mostly stumbled upon while reading, but the lyrics were tougher to come by. Back in the days before Google and lyrics.com, the only way to learn the lyrics of a song -- aside from liner notes -- was to figure them out for yourself.

For me, this involved sprawling out on the floor, chin resting in one hand and legs suspended in the air above me, a pen in the other hand and my binder turned to a clean page; placing my box (of the boom variety) on the floor next to me; popping a tape -- usually recorded hastily from the radio after a mad dash to the record button when I heard a beloved song begin -- in the tape deck; pressing play; listening carefully; frantically jotting down the words as they were sung; pressing pause between lines to record the lyrics; and rewinding and replaying when the words were fuzzy, pressing my ear up against the speaker to make sure I got it right. Play, pause, play, rewind, play, pause, play.

And somewhere along the way the song became a part of me; it went from being just a song to being my song. I think this is why I still play songs I love over and over again -- I'm internalizing them, getting to know them, making them mine.

A Google lyrics search can't do that for you. A Google lyrics search is like somebody else handing you their song -- it can't ever really be yours because you haven't engaged with it (teaching and learning are a lot like this, but that's a-whole-nother story).

So, even though I found the lyrics to "Yellow Ledbetter," I didn't actually read them. Instead I think I'll pop in the "Jeremy" single (on which "Yellow Ledbetter" is featured) my brother and I bought at an indie record shop in the Ocean Beach section of San Diego when I was in college and he was in middle school, curl up next to the CD player with a pad of paper and a pen, and try to figure it out for myself.

You can have it either way. Click here for instant gratification. Or. . .cozy on up to your computer with some paper and a pen, click 'play' below, and get ready to welcome another great song to your life.