I didn’t catch the debates last night because I went with BFF to Applebee’s for some (lots of) drinks (Long Islands) and covert operations. (Our drinking nights generally consist of some scheming — usually about how we plan to take over the world. Shh, you didn’t hear it from me.) Our graduate cohort is divided. Camps have been set up. Chaos is ensuing, and you can cut the tension with a knife. All this started when the graduate student teachers went 7 weeks last spring without getting paid. BFF and I thought we should organize a walk-out since the GTAs teach 70% of the classes, it’d force the administration to address the problem. The others in the cohort thought a letter would be more appropriate (probably because they had other, more substantial sources of income and weren’t wholly dependent on this paycheck as BFF and I were). Between furrowed brows, nervous twitching, shaking heads, and ulcers, we met exhaustively and “hashed it out,” effectively ostracizing me and BFF. The othering has continued, and they’re recruiting new members to the anti-team. So we decided to steal their recruits.
Aside from being feisty (I’m a big fan of protests and civil disobedience), BFF and I are also significantly younger than the rest of our graduate cohort, and were beginning our undergraduate program when most of them began their graduate program. We’re also going to be defending our theses before they defend theirs, so win. There’s electric nastiness about, the anti-team citing favoritism for our success rather than crediting our merit where it’s due. Do we kiss ass? Absolutely. I prefer to consider it intelligent networking. I’ve written thank-you cards to every teacher I’ve had since the first grade. It’s helped me be more liked, opened up more opportunities, and has allowed me to build a type of trust with people who can change my life. So, yeah.
So, since we were plotting our ultimate takeover last night (okay, so maybe it was mostly name-calling and a hope that someone would overhear and a delightful rumor would start), I missed out on some good ol’ fashioned democracy in action. I’ve since began an attempt to catch up on the debates via my iPad while I got ready for work this morning, which was stymied by the cat.
I have two cats: Shelley and Shmow (a boy and girl, respectively. I don’t want to limit them to gender roles by their names). Shmow is a short hair gray, black, and brown tabby, about 3 years old, and I found her underneath my parents’ front porch. She’s a talkative beast, but she’s grateful to be living inside and does everything possible to accommodate me by simply laying around and being adorable (and will occasionally lay on top of me when I’m trying to sleep because I mistakenly have laid on “her side” of the bed). Shelley is a 6-month old, long hair, black cat I accidentally brought home when I went with a friend to pick up her kitten.
Shelley is a little asshole. He likes to hop in the tub to play with bubbles, jump in the shower, eat shoelaces, gnaw on FedEx notices (which I then get to explain to the FedEx man why half the paper is missing via sticky note in cute, girly handwriting so I’ll be forgiven), play zombie with Shmow, dash through the house with the handle of a plastic bag in his mouth, creating a Safeway-brand parachute, and he loves cheese — specifically Velveeta cheese (but he’s not picky). His latest endeavor came as I was getting ready this morning and attempting to watch the debates so I can talk about them with my students. I was standing in my bedroom, double-checking the hemline of my skirt, and he smacked the roll of toilet paper hanging on the open bathroom door and pulled it through the house à la a ribbon dancer. I have a lovely rug in my living room from Urban Outfitters, and he used this as his dance platform (he’s fancy). As he leapt around the floor, toilet paper in tow, he flipped around mid-air, pulling the toilet paper with him. “Godammit, Shelley,” are the first words out of my mouth this, and most, mornings. I chased after him, ripping the toilet paper from his mouth, but his crazy eyes narrowed in on my untied bootlaces, and he launched, digging his claws into my tights.
I blame the rule-breaking debates for showing my kitten that it’s perfectly acceptable to not follow rules and fuck around as he sees fit.
–AM.
avamaura 