"This neighborhood is not a ghetto! We are not going to let them make it one!"

Or so a neighbor exclaimed to Mike after last night's incident.

Here's how it went down: I was awakened at about 3 am by the sound of shattering glass. My first thought was that our bedroom window, only inches from the sidewalk, had been broken by a baseball bat and that Mike and I would soon be bludgeoned to death by a thief--after he (or she) discovered that there's nothing of value to be found here. But as wakefulness quickly claimed me, I became aware that nothing quite that serious was happening. My next thought was that someone was breaking car windows, but when Mike peered outside, there was no one in sight. At that very moment, I heard yet another explosion of glass and discovered that the college kids across the street, drunk on a Friday night, were gathering just about everything breakable inside their apartment and hurling it onto the street--and sidewalk and cars--below.

Someone called the cops, who made the kids at least make a show of cleaning up the mess (even though they were way too drunk to hold a broom). Mike ventured out to see if our cars were still intact, and they were. While he was outside, he asked the cop what had happened. "They had a party, and now they're cleaning up," came the curt reply. But what kind of party involves throwing all of your fragile belonging out the window? Have I grown so old that I no longer understand what the hip kids do at parties these days?

Maybe this is my vanity talking, but I prefer to think that the kids across the street are spoiled rich dicks who've never had to think for themselves--only about themselves. And I'm not the only one who thinks so. Today, our neighbors expressed their disgust and anger at the lack of neighborliness the college kids have revealed on a regular basis. It seems that this isn't the first incident they've created: a few months ago they were partying loudly on a weeknight and the cops were called. One of the kids was so uncooperative that they had to load his ass into the paddy wagon and take him down to the station. Now, the adult residents of the 1700 block of Jane Street want to get them evicted.

I'm just as angry at the assholes as everyone else: I've got better things to do than clean a bunch of broken shit off my sidewalk, and I'd rather not have to buy new tires. But their anger runs deeper than that. My neighbor got at the heart of the issue when she declared that we must keep our neighborhood from becoming a ghetto. Because when you live in the city, it seems like "the ghetto," with its stereotypical barred and boarded windows, curbside trash, and graffiti, is constantly encroaching.

But this neighborhood has resisted decline. When I moved here from South Oakland two years ago, the surprising peace and quiet of our block, as well as its tidiness and friendliness, was like a gift. I had always thought of the Southside as a loud, active part of the city, but this particular neighborhood seemed to have a small town ambiance due to its largely middle-aged and elderly residents who had lived here for most of their lives. Because of their long-term commitment, our neighborhood remained virtually crime-free and relatively clean.

Then, a house was sold to a landlord type who converted it into apartments that were promptly rented by unruly male Duquesne students. They're the type (not uncommon at Duquesne) who dye their hair, go tanning, pass a football awkwardly in the middle of the street, listen to weird European Coldplay remixes, and wear white button-down shirts with designer jeans on a daily basis: an uncultured, frat-boy variety of the metrosexual that seems to have become more and more prevalent. Their presence in the neighborhood has been aggravating, because they don't seem to understand the unspoken rules of the place; instead, they're acting like they live on, say, Dawson St.

What's so ironic about the situation is that these kids are most likely from upper-middle class suburban families who would shudder at most urban neighborhoods and probably blame the lower classes and minorities for ruining previously gentrified areas. Now, their kids--raised to carry the torch of American priviledge--are the ones being accused of turning our neighborhood into a ghetto. Maybe it's because they've been brought up with the idea that all urban neighborhoods are ghettos anyway, so why bother to exercise personal responsibility there? The city can absorb their days of youthful excess, and by the time they move back to the suburbs, they will have learned how to take care of themselves and their stuff, leaving the neighborhood to the next generation of selfish, sloppy kids.

OK, I admit it: I'm indulging in a rant. To be honest, they haven't made our neighborhood a "ghetto" yet. But after living in Oakland, I know the fear of college students is a reasonable one. It is likely that as more houses are sold to absentee landlords, more irresponsible college kids will move in and trash the neighborhood, lowering property value. I clearly don't care about property value, but I do care about personal responsibility and maintaining a clean, safe neighborhood. And, as of right now, there's still a bunch of broken glass and pottery all over our street. So, I'm going to do something I've never done before (and never thought I'd ever do): I'm going to call the cops. Hopefully they'll bring the paddy wagon back--as a dramatic flourish.

The Skinny

Yes, I wear skinny jeans. No, I do not aspire to be like Nicole Richie, who is regularly seen looking skinny in her skinny jeans. I wear them, instead, for two reasons: One, I like fashion, and they are fashionable; and two, I've become skinny again, and I like to think I can pull them off.

In his latest film, Scoop (which I thought was moderately funny but also somewhat forced), Woody Allen, who restored himself to the big screen and reprises his role as himself, says "My anxiety is like aerobics." This quote aptly describes my own weight loss recently: I've worried and obsessed away four pounds and counting since the beginning of the fall semester three weeks ago. Take note, dieters: you can throw away your weight loss books. Simply become a comp 101 instructor, and you'll lose weight even while eating all the fatty foods you can find. Add a bit of chronic depression to the mix, and you're set.

I accidentally discovered this diet a few years ago when I entered grad school and my neuroticism reached new heights as my weight dropped to new lows. For a while, I didn't notice the weight loss, probably because the all-encompassing anxiety was a bit distracting. When I finally realized that all of my clothes were too big--and why--I was forced to accept the terrible irony that I will only look fabulous when I'm most miserable.

Last summer I got married and finished school, and in the face of newfound marital bliss and so few demands on my time, excess neuroticism faded for a while. And because I wasn't miserable, I stopped looking fabulous. Ten extra pounds snuck onto my frame, and I was so contented at the time that I didn't even care--I continued visiting Michael's Pizza Bar on $.50 pizza night and hoovering as much as I could.

Then, in April, I went to Florida, and something ruined my view of the idyllic beach that stretched before me: the sight of my gigantic, pasty, dimpled ass spilling out of my bathing suit in the bright sunshine. Oh, the horror, the horror. At first I doubted that it could even be mine; it seemed so alien, extraterrestrial even. I poked it a few times to make sure Mike's idea of a joke wasn't to attach a prosthetic ass while I slept. But it was definitely, horrifyingly mine.

Exercize happened, and the ass dwindled. Then, teaching happened, along with its accompanying stress and self-doubt, and now I'm back to the skinniness of misery.

And so, I wear skinny jeans. My fear of tapered pants (which began in the mid-nineties after I had seen pictures of myself in pegged jeans) has subsided, at least while I'm neurotic and miserable enough to stay skinny. Or until they go out of style.

No hairdresser, no glory

I want to sucker-punch the person (probably a man) who originated the phrase, "A woman's hair is her glory." Why this violent reaction to a Victorian quote that could be safely classified as quaint? Because while nobody says it anymore, it's perfectly obvious that most people still believe women should have glorious hair. And in order to have glorious hair, a woman must find a trustworthy hairdresser--a nearly impossible task if you're unwilling to spend more for a haircut than for a new pair of shoes.

If you were looking at the Mallia family album right now, you would notice that my hair changes a lot over the course of twenty or so years. You would also notice that none of the many hairstyles I adopted were ever glorious, although certain individuals may classify the mullet I had in kindergarten and again (accidentally) in eighth grade as such. There was no glory in my overprocessed spiral perm during the early nineties, or in the stringy faux-raven pseudo-goth 'do in the mid-nineties, or in the purple pixie cut from my early college days. And there's certainly no glory in the overgrown bob I've settled for now.

And yet, I continue to quest for glorious hair. Meaning, I quest for a trustworthy hairdresser, even though finding one seems more impossible than ever. Recently, my hair barely recovered from two disasterous visits to Phillip Pelusi. I went to a decent hairdresser in Oakland for a while, but her dislike of everything and everyone (which she verbalized in a continuous rant as she angrily chopped off my hair), although amusing at times, made me paranoid, because I knew she disliked me too. Not because there was anything to dislike about me in particular--I did nothing but nod in agreement during her rants--but because it was just her way.

I've thought about giving up on glorious hair and just letting it grow until I look like a hippie. But I dislike hippies, and I'm already accused of being one often enough due to the vegetarianism, pacifism, and ecological concern. For the sake of my own dignity, I need to do whatever I can to distance myself from these people, so in addition to disdaining communes and having an alergic fit every time I catch a whiff of patchouli, I will continue to have my hair "styled" by incompetent hairdressers who promise glory, but fail to free my hair from its decidedly unglorious genetic bonds.