Those first two years turned out to be my last two years.

It was an experience I don’t regret, but it showed me that I didn’t want to stay in the education field for myriad reasons.

I recently received a passionate comment from one Adam Redwine. He’s applying to Teach For America, the program I joined and then left when I decided I wanted to move to NYC and save the world.

Hmmmm… funny, I’m applying to TFA at the moment and I think I would be perfect for the position for exactly the reason you were not.

I am not an over achiever.  I have always hated school and still loathe it more than any other manner of institution of which I’ve been a part.  I have not participated actively in any student societies because the few times I have been they were stocked with people who never grew out of playing board games in their basement or who still try to be the best at everything to please their parents.  I have not made perfect grades because when teachers haven’t been interesting and knowledgeable, I have cared nothing for them or their class.  I’ve spent plenty of time working third shift and living in the ghetto.  I understand why these kids hate school; I could help show them that school and learning are not the same thing.

The truly sad part is that the very reason why I am best suited to the position is also the reason I likely won’t get in.  I have a hard time imaging that the ivy leaguers of whom you speak so fondly, who are looking to satisfy some over-achiever’s wet dream, will be interested in the fact that I have a tested genius level IQ.  They won’t care that I completed a full undergraduate degree program in theoretical physics in two years because it came on the back of 5 years of on and off mediocre performance while I was living a real life outside of school.  The experience I gained working two jobs and working through a rocky relationship with an inner city minority wife will mean nothing to them because it lowered that number that is supposed to define how successful I’ll be at any future venture, my GPA.

If you were too scared to take a position in the city, then too bad.  I don’t feel a damned sight bad for you.  You will undoubtedly go on to make plenty of money with your wonderful numbers and society titles.  Meanwhile, the rest of us will get on with making the real world work.

I have no doubts that Adam might make a really great teacher. I mean, he’s lived in the ghetto! He married a minority! His relationship is rocky, perhaps in the ghetto!

While my life prior to teaching in Harlem didn’t involve a spouse who is a minority, I did teach and tutor in a few East Austin schools with small budgets and at-risk and needy students. It was rewarding, and I loved it.

Yes, I’m an overachiever. Well, I like to think I was. Now I’m just trying to be any kind of achiever.

And some of everyone’s competition in the real world is going to be overachieving in some way. That’s the thing. There’s always someone more qualified, and there’s always someone less qualified. Sometimes “qualified” isn’t easy or fair. It’s life.

For a time, there was a hiring freeze on NYC teachers, as current teachers were less likely to leave “safe” jobs in education during the recession and more new teachers were applying for the few vacancies there were. To my knowledge, that freeze is no longer in place.

That means you, Adam Redwine, can try other ways of getting into the classroom if that’s what you desire. Rough schools need teachers, and they’re not as selective as Teach For America. You’ll have to get certified, because it’s required by law unless you want to teach in a private school.

Alas, your grades are going to be looked at by some employers. Explain your situation, but I’d leave out the genius IQ. More and more research suggests that your IQ doesn’t really determine success beyond a certain point. It’s just another “wonderful number.”

You’ll also look like an ass.

I wasn’t “too scared to take a position in the city.” But I didn’t want to take a job without ever visiting the school first. I think that’s reasonable. I dropped out of Teach For America and got jobs on my own, teaching in Harlem for two years and then tutoring ESL students for two more years.

“Wonderful numbers and society titles” are not what my experience before, during, or after teaching in NYC was about. Believe me, I’m well aware that my 17 years of almost straight A’s haven’t translated to all that much in the real world.

I genuinely wish you the best of luck, but dude, red wine - drink some and get over yourself.

Then you can try to make the real world work.

And you know what I said?

I said they were from Sweden.

Because that sounds way cooler than saying they were from some chain that’s technically Swedish, but sells fast fashion in pretty much any large U.S. city.

When people saw my $15 shirt, I wanted them to think of lingonberries and sexy blondes and maybe even a Nobel Prize winner who has something to do with both of those.

I tell you this, because I made tabouleh for similar reasons.

Yes, it’s delicious. But it also sounds really complicated. Picture me mopping my brow with a smile, “Oh, I’ve been slaving over this tabouleh all day.”

With all those syllables one might deduce that the recipe is complicated, or at least, exotic. But “Chef Boyardee” also has a lot of syllables.

And tabouleh by yours truly is about as complicated as making beef ravioli from a can. There, I said it.

I used a tabouleh mix. From a box in the Middle Eastern section of a grocery store.

But wait! I did add raw carrots, celery, and cucumber that I didn’t grow myself. As well as lemon juice and mint packaged up for me all convenient-like.

Before I did that, I had to soak the bulghur in olive oil and boiling water for awhile. Exhausting.

Then I left the confines of the kitchen and rested my weary feet. After I recycled the box the tabouleh came from.

When I first thought of the recipe, I considered making my own falafel balls, but I don’t have a good way to fry them. Also, frying is time-intensive, and I had a lot of other things I wanted to get done, like not accidentally burning my face off. Always a chore, that one.

So I bought falafel balls and tahini from a falafel place I like and decided to pick up a large oatmeal raisin cookie for dessert. Then I bagged up some baby carrots.

Finally, I practiced my “It’s from Sweden” face.

Mike has no idea…

And you know who’s been the bigger advocate of the program? I don’t want to say I’m the more committed member of the team or anything, but yeah. I’m Tiger-Woods-in-a-sex-addiction-treatment-center committed.

Minus the disappointed, ass-kicking wife.

Actually, I’m also my own disappointed, ass-kicking wife.

I’ve asked a few people I know for recipe suggestions for Project MAMM. The criteria include meals that are 1) really hard to screw up, 2) able to withstand a night in the refrigerator before being consumed, and 3) don’t make me want to vomit.

I don’t think these bacon-wrapped turtles sent to me by my friend Jeremy fit the bill in any way.

Do you realize it took me 10 minutes to realize the “turtles” are actually cocktail weiners? That’s because I was screeching, “Ewww!” at the highest pitch I could manage.

Another thing I should add to the criteria: 4) Does not involves weiners.

Weiners do not belong in your lunch at work. That’s something to save for your personal life.

There’s nothing fishy about tuna, though.

(Also: I’m hysterical).

This tuna salad was beautiful, delicious, and weiner-less. I mixed together premium tuna, celery, radishes, lemon juice, sea salt, and pepper. I also brought in some seven-grain crackers and kettle chips, because carbs are love.

The mini-cupcakes were leftovers Mike found in our office. Much better tasting than the chewed-up pens and paper clips I always run across.

That brown, mouse turd in the picture? Chocolate-flavored.

Do you have suggestions for Project MAMM lunches? Remember: No weiners.

Here’s an excerpt:

A few dates into what would become our relationship, I determined that the look John gave me was a sort of hungry admiration. Not that he ever let himself get too hungry. The guy had never met a cheese plate he didn’t like.

We’d sit across from each other at restaurant tables covered in rich foods, always with at least one appetizer that he ate most of. He seemed smart, kind, creative and hardworking when he cared about something. But I noticed his eyes were too close together and his mouth - its default setting being open-mouthed chewing - was too small for that full face.

And oh, how hard I fell for him…

Or eat where Al Capone liked to eat?

Or see a movie where Pee-wee Herman busted a nut?

Well, I don’t have access to those famous spots, but uh, I have a catsitting gig for a few weeks. I’m subletting my apartment while I’m in another neighborhood Will and Grace-ing it up with a good friend. (I’ve lived alone for almost four years now, and I’m really excited to have a temporary housemate).

The apartment is a one-bedroom near Central Park North. I can sublet it on a daily, weekend, or weekly basis from March 8 to March 26 for $150 per day. This is way nicer than a hotel room and more affordable.

More details:

• clean and quiet furnished apartment
• queen-sized bed
• chaise sofa with a queen-sized pull-out bed
• TV with basic channels and DVD player
• wireless Internet
• close to 2/3 express trains
• conveniently located near a grocery store and laundromat
• kitchen equipped with pots, pans, and a juicer

Please contact me if you’re interested (and don’t intend to steal my stuff)!

I’m not the informed person here.

Well, guess what? The cosmic force that propels The Secret - a coalition of goddesses or Allah or Bill Cosby or something - is real.

Because what happened last Thursday and Friday? I started feeling sick.

I got super medicated and slept all weekend and felt better. Everything seemed fine.

Then what happened last night?

I sat at my computer to go about my business, and the computer was frozen. If you’re a Mac user, I just need to say one thing: Beachball of Death. You dig?

The Beachball of Death was spinning gaily on my desktop, which had already been converted to a syphilitic beach in hell. And with such a great desktop background and everything!

Oh, and I should tell you that my iPhone charger had died days earlier, so I could only charge it through the USB of my desktop computer, which was now possessed by Satan.

iPhone batteries are notorious for draining significantly anytime you even look at them, so I was in the red zone when I called my dad.

The conversation went something like this: “ARGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH! Ican’ttalklong,becausemycomputerisdead! Andmyphoneisdying! WHYYYYYYYYY MEEEEEEEEEE?!”‘

I texted Cade to ask him when the Upper West Side Apple Store closed. He texted me to let me know that the hours were posted online.

Really?! Apple posts information on the Internet? Next time my computer’s not compromised, I’ll try to remember that.

I texted gruffly that I couldn’t look it up, as my computer was dead. I wanted to add, “And yours can be, too! Help me or else!” but I thought that might use up too much battery life.

Cade told me to go to the 24-hour Apple Store on Fifth Avenue. Once there, a Mac genius - or whatever they call themselves - helped me spend a lot of money in about 10 minutes. I didn’t even have to scream at anyone.

But the story’s not over.

Now I have to figure out how to get my life off one dead computer (did I mention it’s possessed by Satan and apparently thinks healthcare is a privilege, not a right?) and onto my new MacBook.

Wait. The Secret. I totally forgot to mention to the powers-that-be, which are really not that secret, that I’m not complaining Not at all!

I’m sure that all this struggle and freaking out and wanting to punch myself in the face is part of the journey to greener pastures.

And I know that it won’t be long before my computer situation is just peachy, and everything works better than before.

I’ll make mad cash to replace all that I just dropped on this new computer set-up.

I’ll take pictures in fun places with people I love.

I won’t have the sniffles.

And there will be a smart, inspiring, funny, attractive guy who will hold me and make things at least seem a little easier. And be fun to blog about and good at talking about books and…

But I could handle four out of five.

Not like New Hampshire or Vermont or those other places that currently look like white blobs from space. Now those are hairy-chested states that can open beer bottles with their teeth!

In some ways, NYC is the candy ass capital of America. Snow is one of those ways. In a city where people do just fine on foot and public transportation, I can’t believe so many places were closing yesterday.

It’s precipitation. It’s supposed to fall down sometimes. Put on a decent pair of shoes and get through the day.

Okay, enough tough love. I whine about snow, too. Especially before I’ve had my morning caffeine.

It’s snowing… Again. from Amanda Green on Vimeo.

Umm…yeah. Still snowing. from Amanda Green on Vimeo.

I’ve always needed less sleep than other people, yes. But I mean, when was the last time I was able to get in bed and turn my brain off enough to sleep soundly?

It was June.

Now it’s February.

There’s this other thing that happened, too - something with a time frame I have an even harder time figuring out.

At some point, I started finding it hard to maintain this blog.

I met a reader before the holidays and told him that blogging was about staying regular. “Otherwise, I’m constipated,” I explained. “I’ve got to poop it out.”

So I guess you could say my writing has been on Activia, prune juice, and Ex-Lax so I could keep blogging. I’ve been putting in extra stuff, because I can’t void the things that should come naturally.

And that’s how I started to lose my voice.

Overall, people who read and leave comments on my blog are amazing. I cherish how comforted I’ve been by many readers I’ve never met. It’s a beautiful byproduct of blogging that I never expected.

But I’ve been pulling back, because I’m afraid of people not being so supportive.

I’ve been keeping quiet about stuff going on, because I haven’t figured it out yet myself. What I do know is hard to write and harder to think about certain people reading.

You know my ex-boyfriend reads this, right? And his parents used to, and my parents still do.

Who knows the people who read and never say anything about it? What would they think if I unloaded?

Did you know 98.7% of the time I go on a date with someone, he admits that he’s already read some of my blog?

It makes me feel stifled.

I know I got myself into this situation, and blogging has been too beneficial for me to give up. I’ve met people I wouldn’t have met otherwise. I’ve been given writing work. There’s a space on the Internet with more than four years of my life - the peaks and the valleys - sitting on it.

Time to be honest: I’m in a valley.

There’s a lot I need to get off my chest and onto my monitor.

Maybe you can help me through this.

As oxymoronic as this may sound, the woman’s shriek is a passionless shriek. It’s a metronome, a baby doll’s programmed squawking while its eyes flutter open and shut.

The shrieking is her little way of saying “I’m retarded and very excited about something.” Or maybe “I’m not dead yet.” God, how it sounds like her partner is trying to remedy that.

I was tired after going to bed just a few hours earlier, but not too tired to bring my Bose SoundDock into the bedroom from the living room. They annoyed the folk out of me. I played Ani DiFranco full-blast for almost two hours.

Seriously, it was so loud that I had to go into the living room and just start my day.

You wanna wake me up early Sunday morning with your Laurel and Hardy Hide the Salami act? Enjoy these metaphors about destructive relationships and capitalism, bitches.

2) I decided to enjoy being up early, so I made myself some breakfast and watched reality TV on Hulu. Both endeavors were delicious.

3) After blogging about Annie’s big week,  I perused my mom’s Snapfish account and discovered some photos I’ve been wanting to hang up in my apartment.

The quality isn’t great, but I love how orange and smudgy some of them are.

Look! My mom and dad were younger than me when they got married.

4) That was it. I was on a mission.

It was sunny outside and looked warm enough to ditch jeans and boots for tights, a denim skirt, and Chucks.

In hindsight, it wasn’t quite warm enough. I walked quickly to make up for it.

5) I took my camera, because I like the way it makes me look at the world.

There’s some beauty in even the drabbest environments. Why does it take some gadget for so many of us to consider it?

6) My mission? To look a little closer.

This Flip camera should help. (I could cringe at how many brands I’ve mentioned in this post. Maybe I need to listen to more Ani DiFranco).

So… Any fun video ideas? Getting drunk and playing on the big piano at FAO Schwarz is already in the cards.

A few days earlier, Annie endured another rite of passage. No puppies for this dogger.

I think she should rock the shaved, cow-spotted belly look more often.

Don’t worry. She’s back on her skateboard already.