sarahb

The Convincer

I don’t think I am a stupid person. I’m generally not even that flighty. I’m a Capricorn after all, and despite spending all of middle school embarrassed by my sign (an anal, uncreative goat who’s born to plan for god’s sake) when all the popular girls were sexy Geminis or Sagittariuses—mysterious, limber, and passionate—I’m ok nowadays with my level-headedness. I feel like I could get my family and myself safely (and efficiently!) to a refugee camp, without even having to leave our cows or tractor behind.* And really that’s all one can ask for from life sometimes.

So anyway, right, I’m not dumb or flighty. I think Special Ed is just really, really convincing. The man could sell farts on a street corner. He is The Convincer. I offer the following for your consideration:

A few years ago, as we exit the incredibly nasty grocery store we used to frequent in our somewhat ghetto-ish Chicago neighborhood:

Me:	Wow, I can’t believe how expensive those pecans were.
The Convincer:	I know. Nuts are very dear in this country. Always have been.
Me:	What do you mean?
The Convincer:	Well, they’ve always had a very high value per unit. Much like gold and other precious metals. You do know that there was some debate in Congress in the 1860s over whether to institute a gold standard or a nut standard. Around the same time there was all that uproar over the national bank.
Me:	Really?
The Convincer:	Yes, it was one of the major reasons the Union wanted to vanquish the Confederacy so badly. They needed access to the South’s plentiful nut crops to stock the federal coffers with them.
Me:	Wow, I can’t believe I’ve never heard of that before.

The Nut Standard? Never heard of it. I’ve got to get to the library!

Last night, The Convincer struck again, as our landlords (crazy people, of whom I’m sure you’ll be hearing more about in these pages) trudged in and out of our apartment trying to locate a leak that was soaking our downstairs neighbor’s ceiling. Our landlords, we’ve realized, have buried many strange clauses into our lease about what we can and cannot flush, do, think, smell, wash, be, or love. As they perused the situation in our house—in matching sweat suits, no less—Special Ed leans over and whispers, “Oh no, what if they see your yoga mat in the corner? Do you think there is a clause in the lease about yoga mats?” I’m all big-eyed, “No, why would there be?” Then he lets me have it, “Well, you know they are finding that yoga mats wear through floors, and really do a lot of damage. In San Francisco there’s this huge movement of landlords getting together to ban yoga mats on their properties.” To which I answer, not “Shut the fuck up, I’m trying to watch The Gauntlet” or “What do you think I’m stupid?” but “Wow. But I guess you mean they wear the finish down, not that they actually wear through the floor?”

Who am I, Jessica Simpson? “You mean this yoga mat isn’t made out of milk?”

(My favorite part about this latest hoax is Special Ed’s use of “they” and “in San Francisco.” Who is this “they” that is doing research on The Effect of Yoga Mats on the Structural Integrity of Rental Properties? And of course this yoga mat problem would just be an epidemic in San Francisco, home of Millions of White People Doing Feng Shui. Take note, wannabe Convincers, of these smooth rhetorical moves.)

Well, I have to go now. Special Ed: The Convincer is saying something about our refrigerator running on mouse power.

---

*This goal has been an important one in my family, ever since my older brother, Lurch, while watching news footage of Bosnian refugees trudging along a grim road, turned to his wife and said “Fi?” (His nickname for her from their engagement. When they were fiancées. Get it? Pronounced “Fee.” And which has lasted long past their wedding twelve years ago. I know, it sounds annoying and stupid, but it’s quite sweet, really.) “Fi,” he said anxiously, “I don’t know if I’m going to be able to load all our shit up on our tractor and get us to the camp if I have to.”

Fun with EW

It’s the little pleasures that can make a week fine

1. Holding magazine up to face, speaking in voice of whoever’s on the cover. For example, “Meow, I’m Halle Barry. Think I’m an overrated actress? I will distract you with my hot bod! Meow, meow.”

2. Having this conversation with your husband at least once a week:
   

   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   

   Me:	Hey, did you know Kate Hudson had her baby?
   Him:	I know, she named it Ryder Russell Robinson.(Mock whistles like a referee.) “Illegal overuse of alliteration. 10 yards!”
   Me:	But also, Ted Nugent. . .
   Him:	I know, I know. He ripped his leg open with a chain saw.

   
   Pause
   
   
   
   
   
   

   Him:	Omigod! I forgot to tell you, Natalie Imbruglia married that skinny Silverchair dude!
   Me:	I know. I read that too. We both read that in EW. We have the exact same entertainment news in our respective brains. Why are we having this conversation?

   
   

3. Getting fooled each week by one item on The Must List. Leading, for example, to my forcing AB to buy the new Hole single online, getting slapped slackjawed at its suckitude (Whistle! Foul! 10 yards!), and then reminiscing about the days when everyone wasn’t brainwashed into thinking Linda Perry is some sort of musical genius. I mean, doesn’t anyone remember Four Non Blondes?

4. Taking two hours to leisurely peruse Dalton Ross’ two-to-four pages of pure genius, What to Watch. Home of the Lorenzo Lamas and Tara Reid Alerts.

5. Keeping count of how many snarky comments about Tortoise appear in the Music section. To date: 5,367.

6. Willfully ignoring the Stage section.

7. Owen “HoYay” Gleiberman’s ability to spend 2/3 of a review on the sensuous contours of Keanu Reeves’ face.

8. Trying to untangle Lisa Schwarzbaum’s inexplicably contorted sentence structure.

9. The often hilariously-poor production values of the cover each week. Seriously, take a good look at the Halle Barry cover.

10. One word: Mullendash.
    

What To Do On a Wednesday Afternoon

Play this game. It's called Pet Boyfriend and it's awesome.

First I got Jordan. He was into road trips, civil rights, and Dashboard Confessional. POSER! I dumped him before he could say Chris Carrabba.

Then it was Josh (or something). Total meathead, only interested in microbrews and hair gel. What, does this guy think he's Kyle from The Real World Chicago? I told him there was a big sale happening over at Abercrombie, watched him scurry off, and didn't keep our rendezvous at Sbarro.

Then it was Ben. Oh, Ben, you seemed so promising. He was into soccer (great legs!) and Annie Hall. But he was so clingy and didn't like it when our make-out sessions got too hot and heavy. I mean, a woman has needs, you know?

So now I'm into Nicholas. He likes theater, the Dandy Warhols, Moulin Rouge, and Lord Byron. And looks like Jude Law. And only wants to hold hands. Wait a minute, when did this become my Pet Gay Boyfriend?

Looks like it's back to the drawing board.

Hip Hop Hooray

What is wrong with me? I'm working on typing up some essay prompts for my students' upcoming first essay. I've already come to terms with the fact that I am irresistably attracted to the use of lame puns in titling my course handouts. C.f. the recent "What's so Good About 'Young Goodman Brown?'," "What's Ideology Got to Do With It?," and my all-time favorite, "Today on English 102: Bad Topic Sentences and the Women Who Love Them." Ok, ok, they're not even puns, they're just one among many in my repertoire of teacherly soft-shoe routines, performed in the hopes that maybe, just maybe!, they'll look up from their desks.

But ten minutes ago I think I went too far. Trying to communicate the fact that they could pick one of three essay prompts, I provisionally titled this handout "You Can Get With This, Or You Can Get With That."

I made a reference to Black Sheep.

I don't think it is possible to have made a whiter, more geriatric reference, I really don't. You can't even Google "Black Sheep" anymore and come up with a site for the hip-hop group. I'm a 90s lovin', white dork. Excuse me while I put some tights on under these jean shorts and try to find my old Doc Martens.

The Pope Gets Wiggity Whack

Seriously, the Pope is getting shit done these days. I know I speak for many of you out there when I say it's about damn time there was a Papal Blessing For Breakdancers. The hep AP reporter covering this riveting story notes, in a crackling and evocative description, that the breakdancers "leaped, flipped and spun their bodies to beats from a tinny boom box."

The only thing better than breakdancing is breakdancing for God. Brings new meaning to the phrase, "Peace out, yo."

Movin' On Up

So Special Ed’s been nipping about my heels telling me to write about how two tough-guy Northerners made the move to the Deep South. It’s an epic story, so I said real excitedly, “Hey, Pooch! How about you write that story for me? Huh? Huh? Wanna treat, do ya’, huh?!” And so he did just that. I sure did pick the right breed of husband. So without further ado, Special Ed barks up the right tree:

The whole neighborhood came out to watch when the movers arrived to drop our stuff off. Our landlords, some of their friends, Jimmy from across the street, some stray dogs. We had spent a torturous week and a half in our bare apartment waiting for our stuff sleeping on an air mattress with a slow leak that would beach us every night on the hardwood floors at 4:30 a.m. We had no tables, chairs, or T.V. We were so desperate we paid to see American Wedding.

We couldn’t believe the truck was finally backing into our driveway. When it stopped, the driver’s side door slowly swung open. Out stepped an older gentleman, over sixty years old. He walked towards us, his open shirt flapping in the wind, showing a wide grey-haired chest and bubblicious stomach. He was chomping on a cigar. He wore sandals. Our mover was wearing sandals.

The other mover came around the other side, a tiny college kid, a Mini-Pete Sampras with a limp. Sarah and I exchanged what-the-fuck-are-you-kidding-me-these-can’t-be-our-movers looks. They were both quiet, almost surly. Mini-Pete immediately asked if he could use our bathroom, and Sarah said “yes,” forgetting the lesson she learned when one of the pick-up movers in Chicago asked the same question, spent 30 minutes in the john, and didn’t light a match.

The older man – we never learned his name – was immediately grumpy and unpleasant. He looked and sounded like Carl Reiner as Saul Bloom as the rich German guy in Ocean’s Eleven. Thick accent, maybe Russian, or Polish, or Ukrainian, or Czech. His first request, after showing up a week and a half late to our home, after we had already given his company over $1000: he demanded $200 cash to bring our shit up to our apartment. He said, “You read contract. It say, $50 for stairs. There are two of us, and those stairs are like two staircases. Very big.”

I knew this was a shakedown. I said “I’ll give you fifty.” He shrugged, and I thought he might do a head fake, jump in the truck, and drive off with Mini-Pete still sitting on our toilet.

We had already been alerted that these movers might not be on the up-and-up. The two pick-up guys in Chicago argued the whole time as they slowly worked. At one point Sarah overheard one say to the other, “What, you think I’m going to fuck you? Have I ever fucked you before? What’s your problem eh?” They were now a week and a half late, after apparently taking the scenic route between Chicago and Louisiana by way of California. But here they were, and we were just grateful to finally get our stuff.

They opened the back of the truck and the old guy and Mini-Pete started shifting things around. There was only one problem.

I saw the sick look on Sarah’s face. “That’s not our couch...,” she said quietly, and then louder, “That’s Not Our Stuff.” Then louder, screaming: THIS ISN’T OURS! WHERE THE FUCK IS OUR STUFF?!?!?!?!?!?!?” “Calm down dear,” I answered, “our stuff is probably behind this stuff here, heh heh, right guys?” They stared blankly at me. The old guy said “Not yours?”

The next forty minutes were a blur. Sarah and I were both screaming, literally, at these two guys, swearing at them, in front of all our new neighbors. I got on the cell phone and screamed at their boss, Kovi. I asked, “How is this good for business?” a question I had always thought was only asked in commercials about shipping companies.

It was a sad, maudlin display, Sarah crying, our neighbors clucking and shaking their heads, the movers driving off and leaving us bereft and heartbroken. We had no stuff. Again. They would have to drive back to Chicago, try and locate it, and drive back to Louisiana. At their previous rate, that would take about six months.

The days passed slowly again, we’d work the phones with Kovi, pleading our case. At one point Sarah had a full hour fight with him, where we were trying to get out of paying the remaining $500 on our balance. Kovi wouldn’t budge, he was saying “Hey, don’t I give you good service? I thought you were nice customers, I gave you discount.” Sarah gave him the routine: “I’m going to tell all my friends about you! I’m going to tell all of my friends’ friends and their friends’ friends’ friends!” Then the ace-in-the-hole “I’m going to post this all over the internet!” I wanted her to take it a step further and use the threat that I have grown fond of since I became a lawyer for the government: “Hey pal, you ever been to Federal Prison?!?!”

But in the end, you are at their mercy. They are free to brutalize you when they have your stuff. And that goes double for someone who has your stuff, knows where you live, and sounds like John Malkovich in Rounders.

The neighborhood came out to watch when the movers returned. Again, the truck backed in the driveway, and again, the old guy stepped out with his bare chest and belly and cigar and sandals. This time, though, he was triumphant: “SE-RAH,” he said “you heppy now eh?!!??” As he said this he did a little jiggly dance with hip swivels. He slapped me on the back (fucking hard!) and did a laugh like the Count from Sesame Street: “Ahhhh Haa Haa ha ha.”

But there was one problem. The old guy said, “Me, I’m too old and tired to be moving this heavy stuff. And the kid has a hurt ankle, he can’t do it.” Sarah and I exchanged what-the-fuck-are-you-kidding-me looks while the laugh track to this particular episode erupted in groans and guffaws. The solution? Of course, the movers hired movers.

We waited for two hours, the stuff still in the truck. Finally, a beat-up Cadillac with tinted windows pulls up, bass thumping. The doors opened and smoke spilled out and then standing in front of us were two enormous black guys. These guys, I thought, are movers. So, the movers who were hired by the movers who were hired by us moved all our stuff into our house.

When it came time to pay the remaining balance I took the old guy aside and told him that we weren’t paying the rest on account of this nonsense, but I gave him $60 for his trouble. “You can give that to Kovi,” I said. “I’ll tell you what I give to Kovi,” he said. “This is what I give to Kovi.” And he gestured down and I looked at his hand and he had his middle finger up. “Fuck him,” he said. “I fuck him.”

The End.

Hot for Teacher

Louisiana’s kind of awesome, really. I mean aside from the never-ending pile of crawfish on everyone’s kitchen table all winter long and the marketing genius behind the Po’ Boy (A sandwich? Hell no, it ain’t a sandwich!). And even aside from the fact that two squad cars once showed up across the street to attend to a dog who had fallen and just couldn’t get up (turns out he was just taking a breather, but thanks for caring, Estrada). Though I truly do miss Chicago, in a way I have to admit that it’s slightly more enjoyable to be entertained by said tired pooch than by two girls in a car parked below your bedroom buying coke at 3 a.m. and then alternating between snorting it and vomiting out their car window. Which, don’t get me wrong, was totally riveting (Brava, Ladies!); it’s just that I’ve been feeling a little more wholesomely entertained these days.

Wait, but I’m off topic. The reason I’m loving Louisiana right now is because they give you underpaid teaching jobs here just for smiling and being polite! All you have to do is email the head of the English department at the state university in your town telling him how much you love to read, wait about a month, and then find out one Friday that you’ve got your very own college literature class starting Monday. It seriously rocks!

But so once I get this nice little gig—which is so underpaid it might as well be paying in Confederate currency—I’ve got to sit down and think about how I’m going to school these little ungrateful bastards. My solution? Make them hot for teacher.

I mean sure I’ve taught college kids before. I’m working on a Ph.D., it’s what I do in exchange for permission from the gods to continue my sniveling little life on this planet. But nobody’s ever taught me how to teach college kids. So I compensate for being scared and untrained in the classroom by trying to make my students want me. All I remember is that in college I did my best work for professors I wanted to fuck, male and female. And so this is my own personal practicum: I make sure to wear semi-tight jeans to class, let loose a few swear words (you know, to let them know I’m down), and always, always wear my glasses (so they can fantasize about me whipping them off in a passion). Special Ed has pointed out that it seems like I am pioneering something like a Porn Fantasy Classroom Management Plan. Discipline through desire. Revise your paper and maybe get a kiss from teacher.

Don’t get me wrong, this is difficult to do. I’m flat-chested and pretty dorky. And these kids today, they come into class all jaded and “You think I’m gonna wanna fuck you?” I don’t know, next Monday’s assignment is Hawthorne’s “Young Goodman Brown.” Pretty staid stuff if you’re not a freak like me. Maybe I’ll work on stretching so I can straddle the desk during discussion.

State of the Playground

“Dickie, Jack, Donnie, Tommie. Thank you for coming here today.”

Pause

“Today, you are witness to the success of my administration of this playground. Today I show that I. Am. King. Of. This Hill.”

Pause. Hesitant applause.

“As we gather here today, Harry is deployed over by the seesaw. I have made sure to provide him with the most modern weapons of playground defense: sticks and stones. His vigilance protects us from our enemies, and allows us to stand here in appreciation of my being in charge.”

Pause

“Make no mistake, our enemies from across the street are lying in wait for us, even now as we speak. But also make no mistake, I have allowed Harry to take up his charge and protect us. From those enemies who will not sleep until they have made me say ‘Uncle’.”

Pause

Pause

“Psst. Guys, you’re supposed to clap when I pause….”

“Oh, right, sorry.”

Applause

“We have faced some grave challenges together. Like the time when I stubbed my toe, and you guys had to carry me through enemy territory to my mom. But we have many more serious challenges ahead. We cannot rest until my enemies have been vanquished by our determined application of wet willies and purple nurples. We cannot rest until my enemies…We cannot rest until everyone stops making fun of my big ears.”

Tittering, applause

“Dickie, Jack, Donnie, Tommy, thank you again for coming here today and showing, by your unwavering support, that you truly believe in how I run this playground. I believe that God has planted in all of us a desire to do what I say. So, to show my confidence in your faithfulness and initiative as citizens of this playground, I will now go watch Spongebob while you, one by one, exercise the skills nurtured by our just order in building me a kickass fort."

Correction

Special Ed was very quick to point out that I have committed the Cardinal Sin of Inaccurate Hip-Hop Reference below, and that the phrase is, in fact, "Throw your hands in the air and wave em like you just don't care" (cf: LL Cool J, Dr. Dre and Ed Lover, and Cypress Hill, I believe).

Anyway, I like it the way it is. It's got that White People Co-opting Black Culture vibe I was going for. Fo shizzle? My nizzle.

Wave Your Hands in the Air, Like You Just Don't Care