Hello Stranger

I know. I know. You probably forgot about me, and that's fair. I haven't called and it was unruly (sp?) of me. But I have been busy panicking.

It's the summer and while old Mallory would have been prepping for summer camp season (a moment of silence for my first summer not working with sweaty, smelly, kids for the first time in 5 years), the new graduate school Mallory is taking classes, and subbing (a moment of silence for my new job of working with sweaty, smelly, students). Only one of my classes is face-to-face and it meets for a dogged 3.5 hours, twice a week. I know. The class is both an undergraduate and graduate class, the grad students have to stay for an extra half hour and make a 10 minute presentation. I have the opportunity to take a look at the practices of undergraduate students which has been great. I would like to share some with you.

-The in-class texter: Puhlease. I know you are rotating between texting your boyfriend and playing the stirring game of Tetris on your super-tricked out cellphone. I am assuming that you changed your seat because you wanted to get the optimal angle for text-hiding, yet appear as though you are paying attention, congrats, it's probably done wonders. Also, vibrations aren't silent. Everytime your bf/gf/df? feels like they want you to have the latest breakdown of the relationship, it sounds like a wind-up toy is being released in your pants. Don't act surprised, you knew it was going happen.

-The oral responder: College is what you make of it, I give you that; but is it neccesary to give a verbal response to every rhetorical question posed? So the teachers asks the class if we would like to watch a clip of an opera. You take this as your cue to cry out, "Yes, Yes I would." Great. I am glad, now let's stop and ask THE REST OF THE CLASS. Also, you don't need to "uhuh" and "MMMMM" everytime you think something said is cool. You can just nod your head. It's the same goddamn thing.

-The Cliche-Claimer: This is my favorite. And there are quite a bit of these in my class. They will add to the discourse of class with statements that are general cliches that have been uttered by everyone. In studying the Odyssey one of these said "It's like my theory of travel: It's not the destination, it's how you get there." You are right, I think that this was first stated in AN AMERICAN EXPRESS COMMERICAL. Or hows about "It reminds me of the social theory that women who sleep with many people are sluts, but men are not." Thanks a lot, high school. Seriously.


So that's what it's like so far. I am sure I will have further stories, some about subbing too, a never-ending job of fun.

Observations

Recently I have had some encounters with the people of Albany and their license plates. I understand the appeal of vanity plates. My own grandfather has one. On a side note, if you see IdaAl 9 chugging down the road, say hello. I think it's become a bit overkill, however. These are the plates that I have recently scene:

-IBODADDY--> perhaps, "I be your daddy?" either a stirring confession from one man to his long lost son/or daughter or some guy who never got over the Whose Your Daddy era of jokes.

-MITUL--> someone who was unable to pronounce the name Mitchell maybe.


and then I spotted the ultimate vanity plate as I was walking through the parking lot at school.

-TMYPCKLS--> There is only one solution to this one. Tommy Pickels. of Rugrats fame someone was a diehard fan. So much so that they needed to make sure that everyone knew. How great.


I will update this as I see them! If you see them, let me know. I will add them.

The end of western civilization

Happy New Year Everyone.

It's been a bit since I have updated. My apologies. It's unfair that you look me up and then don't see an update. Which I know you are doing. EVERYDAY.

Currently, I am at home in Central New York for the break. It's been a little boring here, so far from the hustle and bustle that occurs everyday on the streets of Albany. In my head it's a lot like Bjork's "Oh So Quiet" video. Without the flying.

Being home has allowed me to do some different things. First, I can cook dinner for my family. Secondly I can get the best score on SSX World Tour. The last and subject of todays discussion: watch the new generation of children's television.
Now I am no stranger to the programming between 9 and 2 on weekdays. On sick days, I often got a lot more enjoyment out of watching Blues Clues and the Wiggles than the usual talk shows that were on the major networks, with the exception of America's Next Top Model Marathon. That shit is tiiiiight. As a kid I watched the usual. Muppet Babies, Fraggle Rock, Rugrats (apparently a lot of baby-based cartoons). These were unusual characters for the time and I enjoyed them.

Now I have seen this generations Gummi Bears and, ladies and gentleman, it is the apocolypse. It's called "Yo Gabba Gabba". The gibberish in the title says it all. The opening sequence has a man with a yellow jumpsuit and green wig on. He creeps across an all white screen, which is creepy and weird. He then opens a breifcase and puts 4 characters into a little diorama. These aren't just any characters they are horrific. One is a robot. A ROBOT. The next is a tall furry thing. Then there is a short furry thing with long arms and lastly a multiple armed thing. (Vishnu much?) I didn't watch much of it, because it made me afraid for my life. FOR REAL. If you want to, it's on Nickelodeon at 11:30. I would watch it on mute, because they maybe transmitting messages during the children's dance sequences. Where kids are just dancing. DANCING.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

Good Luck

2500 lbs of Hustle

Alright I know it's been awhile. It's finals time and I actually hope to do well, whether this will happen or not, is up in the air. Oh well.

Recent announcements have made my life brighter, however. I know, I know let's go down the list of what it is not:
- I have found a boyfriend
- I have gotten a big time job
-I have done something other than work part-time selling relishes and fruit, researching, writing, hating my current hairstyle and reading Perez.

I did however, see the ad for the new American Galdiators. I am sure you all know about this wonderful show that aired in the late 80's into the 90's. As a child confused about my own gender (obviously) and with an inappropriate definiton of "entertainment". I watched athlete after average joe get beaten by the pinnacle of physical fitness in such games as "Get the Ball in the tumbler thing" and "Try not and get hit by a tennis ball that is shot out of this very small cannon". I can't wait to see how the show improves, I am not sure it can.

One of my favorite Gladiators was a guy named "Malibu". While other gladiators were strong and brutish, apparently Malibu's only talent was his superhuman California accent. He was wounded in one episode and was knocked off a column of some sort. He soon got back to the Champion Stadium enough to fight once more. Genius.
While watching these promos for the new show, somthing stirred within me and I was inspired yet again by these people with muscles and nothing better to do. I am going to forget my career as a teacher and become an American Gladiator.

Cloris Leachman ain't got shit on me.

I try to be hip. There are times where the 10 year old Mallory shines because she is so proud of her 22 year old metropolitan counterpart who frequents cafes and has a Latin boyfriend (note: I am still working on this). There are times though, that I feel my 63 year old counterpart is taking hold and I am not liking the results. There are things in this life that one must hold true and one of these things is identity. I often do things that feel cool without questioning them and then after abotu 10 minutes there is a bit of heavy guilt where I ask myself "Now's the time to figure out exactly what I would do with an Elvis statue complete with 5 foot phallace. This Christmas my parents are going to get a face full of Pelvis." As of late, these decisions have followed a frightening pattern.

I was visiting the mall with my family yesterday and I noticed an odd new trend. Apparently it's really awesome to wear clothing that is not weather appropriate. My hometown is in the snowbelt region of New York (Remember last year when the central part of the state had so much snow the Governor called a state of emergency? Thats the place!) and I first saw a girl enter the mall with a long sleeve shirt and Adidas sandals! At least her friend was wearing socks with them. It got worse as I entered. I saw a girl in flip flops. T-shirts were everywhere. Then the advent of the end: A girl with capris, a t-shirt and sandals; I mean sweet sassy molassy! It was 26 degrees outside. I was wearing jeans, a long sleeve shirt and a sweater, in addition to the fleece jacket, hat and scarf I had on. Also ragwool socks because my feet get cold and I am a lumberjack. As I was complaining, I happened to mention the phrase "kids these days..." totally legitimately, I was not using this phraseology to be ironic. It does not end there.

I was perusing the goods at H&M and I made a purchase that I thought would make my sweaters and hats cuter. I bought a broach. It has sparkly things and I attached to my lavendar hat, which also makes me look like an old woman. Thank You. My parents are not kind about it, my father tried to order me a prune juice at the resturaunt yesterday.

So I need to stop this, I think. I mean being sensible is cool, but I have feeling that I am going to get Depends for Christmas.

An Open Letter to the girl in my Poetics Class

Dear Girl in my Poetics Class,

You are smart. I get it. You are from Korea and have a great grasp on the English language and you know more than I do. Undoubtedly. Your academic prowess is far more advanced and the doctorate program you are a part of far dwarfs my tiny masters program with only 30 graduate credits. Honestly this is my first graduate English course.

However, I would be greatly obliged if you would stop citing Lacan. We all love him; swear to God, or whatever psychological propping device Jacques would have us use. I know he might seem like a good figure, all knowledgeable and such, but just leave it. I actually don't care what he says anymore, Lacan is LaWorst; and I don't ever use that word.

I am sure we can get by this small roadblock, you have done so well already. I think you can overcome this, much like Lacan helped thousands get over whatever notable thing that Lacan helped with. I don't know.

Sincerley,

Mallory

Meta-blogging

So as a result of having a blog several things have come to my attention.

The first is that yoiu can't tell people that you have one. Here's an example of a conversation that will occur.

Blogger: So I started writing in a blog.
Friend: Really?
Blogger: Yes
Friend:.....
---end----
Awkward silence then ensues for several minutes until Rip Taylor sprays a confetti gun in your face.

Here's another great conversation:
Blogger: So I started writing in a blog
Mom/Dad: Oh really?
Blogger: Yes, do you want to read it?
Mom/Dad: (After reading) So is it supposed to be funny or are you sad? Did I raise a socially disfunctional child?
---end---
Awkward Silence until Rip Taylor enters and conducts a family therapy session.

And yet one more conversation:
Blogger: So I started writing in a blog
Rip Taylor: One time Mickey Rooney and I rode a circus pony through Idaho! On a Rainbow!
---end---
Awkward Silence ensues until my mother shows up and sprays in the face with confetti

So there apparently no way to let your friends and family know that you write; because what you are saying is really: "I am HIIIILARIOUS" and things that happen to me are equivalent to an episode of "Laugh-In"

While I have considered hiring Joanne Worley to hang out with me all the time and laugh with me when these things happen, I know that that bitch is a D-I-V-A. So my solution is to record them and then adorn my body with flowers and a bikini and dance.