Dear Big Brother,
I hear from the news that you are still watching me. I know you SAID that you are only watching those that are connected to Al-Queda. Those who Al-Queda supposively called or who called Al-Queda. Or anyone you thought might have been Al-Queda. I figure if we've got some web of anyone within six degrees of Osama I'm probably in there. I mean, I've played Six degrees of Kevin Bacon, I know the whole world is connected.
So anyway, I know you are watching me so I feel the need to explain one of my most recent purchases. Ok... here we go. I bought The Dukes of Hazard soundtrack. I didn't pay cash, so you'll know it was me. Now first things first I never saw the movie, or rather I haven't seen the movie yet. I bought the CD because I was looking for a "good collection of Southern Rock." I'll admit there were some selections in the 2 CDs for $5.99 aisle but well, I just can't trust a collection that doesn't have Skynard AND the Allman Brothers. It just couldn't be complete. Lest you think I'm going to insite a Second Civil War (I do work for a school named after a Confederate general and I am teaching "states rights" and "individual freedoms" in history class) I'll explain - it is for my Dad's birthday. He doesn't listen to "music" as most of us would, he focuses on a steady rotation of A) Four Tops B) Temptations C) CCR and occasionally the Beach Boys... something is going to have to change.
I can also explain the recent purchase of 20 boxes of Jiffy; my recent trip to Alabama; 3 gallons of hairspray, and the bussle.
The Union forever,
Kate
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Sunday, August 27, 2006
Just remember when you're talkin' to the man upstairs
Sometimes you have to learn a lesson more than once.
This particular lesson I've "learned" approximately 152 times in the last 25 years of life on this planet, but alas my progress has been incremental at best.
Sometimes I look at life as a choose your own adventure novel. True you start on page one, but by page fourteen you are making choices to slay the dragon, to let it run free, or to keep it as a pet and alas your life is forever changed. Sometimes one choice will lead you back to where you would have been if you'd made a different choice; but sometimes the road taken is not a mere shortcut or protracted path with the same outcomes.
This is all well and good when you are the one making the choices. We are not always the ones making our choices. Sometimes choices are made for us, doors open and doors close. I for one get frustrated by the prospect that I am not in control. I don't get what I want just because I throw a tempertantrum (I've tried) or threatened to walk out. Apparently I'm not the princess of the universe.
So here is what I'm grateful for: all the times that life hasn't worked out the way I would have had it work out. I don't know what my life would look like if every one of my wishes had come true. I like my life pretty well right now, and upon reflecting on those times things didn't quite work out the way I wanted them to, well - I'm glad they didn't.
So keep reminding me of that for the 153, 154, 155, 156th times...
And so... "sometimes I thank God for unanswered prayers... just because he doesn't answer doesn't mean he don't care."
This particular lesson I've "learned" approximately 152 times in the last 25 years of life on this planet, but alas my progress has been incremental at best.
Sometimes I look at life as a choose your own adventure novel. True you start on page one, but by page fourteen you are making choices to slay the dragon, to let it run free, or to keep it as a pet and alas your life is forever changed. Sometimes one choice will lead you back to where you would have been if you'd made a different choice; but sometimes the road taken is not a mere shortcut or protracted path with the same outcomes.
This is all well and good when you are the one making the choices. We are not always the ones making our choices. Sometimes choices are made for us, doors open and doors close. I for one get frustrated by the prospect that I am not in control. I don't get what I want just because I throw a tempertantrum (I've tried) or threatened to walk out. Apparently I'm not the princess of the universe.
So here is what I'm grateful for: all the times that life hasn't worked out the way I would have had it work out. I don't know what my life would look like if every one of my wishes had come true. I like my life pretty well right now, and upon reflecting on those times things didn't quite work out the way I wanted them to, well - I'm glad they didn't.
So keep reminding me of that for the 153, 154, 155, 156th times...
And so... "sometimes I thank God for unanswered prayers... just because he doesn't answer doesn't mean he don't care."
Saturday, August 26, 2006
Monday, August 21, 2006
Schoolhouse Rock
Having recently realized that my "It's America Charlie Brown!" collection glorifies our history a little bit, oversimplifying and always marking Ben Franklin as "the guy with the kite" I sought out new educational cartoons for my classes this year. The goal: something entertaining, educational, and short. I went to the library with this intent, humming the bars to "I'm Just a Bill" and hoping against all hope that no one else had beat me to the Schoolhouse Rock anthology.
They had.
I was able to sweet talk my way into borrowing it for a day, my own copy should be arriving at the public library tomorrow. And so, after making enchilladas for dinner I sat down for my very own screening of "America Rock."
We started out with "No More Kings," followed by "Fireworks," "Shot Heard 'Round the World," and "Preamble." Hokey, but alas what do you expect from ABC programing from the 70s.
I start to wonder, did kids watch these things (I mean, mine will tomorrow) or were they more like extended commercials for kids to refill their bowls of sugar smacks and Lucky Charms? Ben Stein meets folk music. There is certainly a reason these didn't make it to the cartoons I watched in the eighties. As history progressed it only got worse, from an episode entitled "Elbow Room" about Manifest Destiny (which completely ignores the Mexican War) to "Sufferin' till sufferage" the clips are sick propaganda. I wonder what the Russians were putting out? This was our answer to the space race? How the hell did we win the Cold War?
They had.
I was able to sweet talk my way into borrowing it for a day, my own copy should be arriving at the public library tomorrow. And so, after making enchilladas for dinner I sat down for my very own screening of "America Rock."
We started out with "No More Kings," followed by "Fireworks," "Shot Heard 'Round the World," and "Preamble." Hokey, but alas what do you expect from ABC programing from the 70s.
I start to wonder, did kids watch these things (I mean, mine will tomorrow) or were they more like extended commercials for kids to refill their bowls of sugar smacks and Lucky Charms? Ben Stein meets folk music. There is certainly a reason these didn't make it to the cartoons I watched in the eighties. As history progressed it only got worse, from an episode entitled "Elbow Room" about Manifest Destiny (which completely ignores the Mexican War) to "Sufferin' till sufferage" the clips are sick propaganda. I wonder what the Russians were putting out? This was our answer to the space race? How the hell did we win the Cold War?
Saturday, August 19, 2006
The throw-up story
It was Tuesday night. I'd completed my second day back at school. I was on the phone. Sam came home at 10:33, after getting off work at 8PM. There is a benefit of working in a brewery, and that is nearly unlimited (as in unlimited until your boss thinks you are too much of a drunk to work with caustic soda) beer.
He was on the phone as he turned the key on the door. I could hear him before the door even cracked. He was loud. He was drunk. He was making plans to go over to see Nick and Anna, recently returned from the left coast and the far east. He'd be over there in forty-five minutes, just after he took a shower. He was covered in sweat.
I got off the phone, I needed to go to bed. I greeted Sam in the hall. He wrapped his arms around me as he continued to tell Anna he'd be there in forty-five minutes; just after his shower. Again. He nearly pushed me over. He hung up, he began to tell me about his day. About how he'd had a couple (duh Sam). I brushed my teeth. He kept talking. I headed toward my bed. He stood in my door. He started to take his sweaty clothes off. First the shoes... he threw them down the hall. Then his socks, those went in the bathroom. Then the shirt. Then the shorts.
"You're going to stop now, right?"
"Yeah." He kept talking. Loud. I wanted to sleep. It was now 11:11. The wishing hour. He should have already left. He was still talking, half naked with out a shower. I reminded him he needed to leave. He kept talking.
"Oh, you want to go to bed?" I was under the covers, curled up in a ball staring at him.
"Yeah."
"Ok." He retreated into the bathroom, I shut my door and turned off my light. The episode was over. Or so I thought.
The next morning I woke up. Early. I had groups to arrange, and a meeting that may or may not take up my entire off period. I stepped into the kitchen to attempt to make coffee without my glasses. As I reached to flick on the light I stepped in something wet on the carpet between Sam's room and the kitchen. It was wet. It was pale orange. It had one of those obvious splatter patterns. "Oh my Gawd, he threw up and he didn't clean it up. Ewww..." then I jumped. I hadn't had my cawfee, I was slow to react.
Now it isn't that something like this hasn't happened before. Last spring break we awakened to find a weird cream-of-wheat splatter pattern outside our front door. Five people had slept in our apartment that night. Our staircase isn't very often used therefore we had six suspects:
1) myself
2) Sam
3) Bethany visiting from Boston
4) Travis visiting from Austin
5) Allen who we think slept here but he was gone before the rest of us woke up
6) Stephanie the neighbor whose Financial Times stack up outside her door
The investigation ensued. I was sure it wasn't me. Bethany was sure it wasn't her. I was sure it wasn't Bethany and Bethany was sure it wasn't me. Sam was pretty sure it wasn't him, and Travis was pretty sure it wasn't him. We investigated further. It certainly was someone related to our apartment, it was too close to our door and out of Stephanie path. Unless she went out of her way to throw up on our doorstep. We think she likes us. It didn't make sense.
The oddest thing was that it was clear someone had tried to clean it up. Clean it up badly mind you, but it had been cleaned. There were wipe marks that someone had used a towel to try to clean up the concrete. We never found the towels.
We concluded it must be Allen, or at least that Allen had cleaned it up when he left. That seemed out of character, put possible. Allen later claimed it was not him and that he hadn't even seen it when he left.
The case of the splatter patterns remains a mystery. Our best hypothesis is currently that Stephanie trash bag broke as she was taking it down the stairs. She was in a hurry and concrete is hard to clean without a hose so she did her best and went on her way. If you have any further information please call 1-800-222-TIPS.
Back to Wednesday morning. I concluded that Sam could clean up his own vomit, whatever stains were going to be there were already there. I stepped around it and went on with my day.
I came home Wednesday afternoon and the vomit was still there. Now I was miffed. Not only did he not clean it up when he was drunk, he didn't clean it up before he went to work at noon. What the hell?
I called him at work.
"Hi."
"Hi. How are ya?"
"Good. I've got two things. You're remembering you're picking Mom and Dad up right?"
"Yeah."
"And what's with the carpet?"
"Oh, um that's Vodka Sauce. I tried to get it up, but I felt like I was just rubbing it into the carpet."
"It looks like vomit."
"I know, I thought about that. I thought I'd leave you a note, but I forgot. I was making pasta and I recapped the sauce to shake it. I forgot it wasn't closed all the way, so..."
"You know we're going to clean it up right?"
"Yeah."
"And you know by we, we mean you."
"Yeah I know that we. I'll get it."
"If it doesn't work we can cash in on our free steam cleaning or something, we've already lost our security deposit."
Since then he has commissioned an intern to clean it up. The intern has outsourcing the work and e-mailed me to a) clean up the vodka sauce, b) do his laundry, and c) pick up some glutten free beer. Funny three days later, his laundry isn't done, the vodka sauce is still there and it still looks like florecent vomit. We don't have any glutten free beer. Not sure what all that was about.
He was on the phone as he turned the key on the door. I could hear him before the door even cracked. He was loud. He was drunk. He was making plans to go over to see Nick and Anna, recently returned from the left coast and the far east. He'd be over there in forty-five minutes, just after he took a shower. He was covered in sweat.
I got off the phone, I needed to go to bed. I greeted Sam in the hall. He wrapped his arms around me as he continued to tell Anna he'd be there in forty-five minutes; just after his shower. Again. He nearly pushed me over. He hung up, he began to tell me about his day. About how he'd had a couple (duh Sam). I brushed my teeth. He kept talking. I headed toward my bed. He stood in my door. He started to take his sweaty clothes off. First the shoes... he threw them down the hall. Then his socks, those went in the bathroom. Then the shirt. Then the shorts.
"You're going to stop now, right?"
"Yeah." He kept talking. Loud. I wanted to sleep. It was now 11:11. The wishing hour. He should have already left. He was still talking, half naked with out a shower. I reminded him he needed to leave. He kept talking.
"Oh, you want to go to bed?" I was under the covers, curled up in a ball staring at him.
"Yeah."
"Ok." He retreated into the bathroom, I shut my door and turned off my light. The episode was over. Or so I thought.
The next morning I woke up. Early. I had groups to arrange, and a meeting that may or may not take up my entire off period. I stepped into the kitchen to attempt to make coffee without my glasses. As I reached to flick on the light I stepped in something wet on the carpet between Sam's room and the kitchen. It was wet. It was pale orange. It had one of those obvious splatter patterns. "Oh my Gawd, he threw up and he didn't clean it up. Ewww..." then I jumped. I hadn't had my cawfee, I was slow to react.
Now it isn't that something like this hasn't happened before. Last spring break we awakened to find a weird cream-of-wheat splatter pattern outside our front door. Five people had slept in our apartment that night. Our staircase isn't very often used therefore we had six suspects:
1) myself
2) Sam
3) Bethany visiting from Boston
4) Travis visiting from Austin
5) Allen who we think slept here but he was gone before the rest of us woke up
6) Stephanie the neighbor whose Financial Times stack up outside her door
The investigation ensued. I was sure it wasn't me. Bethany was sure it wasn't her. I was sure it wasn't Bethany and Bethany was sure it wasn't me. Sam was pretty sure it wasn't him, and Travis was pretty sure it wasn't him. We investigated further. It certainly was someone related to our apartment, it was too close to our door and out of Stephanie path. Unless she went out of her way to throw up on our doorstep. We think she likes us. It didn't make sense.
The oddest thing was that it was clear someone had tried to clean it up. Clean it up badly mind you, but it had been cleaned. There were wipe marks that someone had used a towel to try to clean up the concrete. We never found the towels.
We concluded it must be Allen, or at least that Allen had cleaned it up when he left. That seemed out of character, put possible. Allen later claimed it was not him and that he hadn't even seen it when he left.
The case of the splatter patterns remains a mystery. Our best hypothesis is currently that Stephanie trash bag broke as she was taking it down the stairs. She was in a hurry and concrete is hard to clean without a hose so she did her best and went on her way. If you have any further information please call 1-800-222-TIPS.
Back to Wednesday morning. I concluded that Sam could clean up his own vomit, whatever stains were going to be there were already there. I stepped around it and went on with my day.
I came home Wednesday afternoon and the vomit was still there. Now I was miffed. Not only did he not clean it up when he was drunk, he didn't clean it up before he went to work at noon. What the hell?
I called him at work.
"Hi."
"Hi. How are ya?"
"Good. I've got two things. You're remembering you're picking Mom and Dad up right?"
"Yeah."
"And what's with the carpet?"
"Oh, um that's Vodka Sauce. I tried to get it up, but I felt like I was just rubbing it into the carpet."
"It looks like vomit."
"I know, I thought about that. I thought I'd leave you a note, but I forgot. I was making pasta and I recapped the sauce to shake it. I forgot it wasn't closed all the way, so..."
"You know we're going to clean it up right?"
"Yeah."
"And you know by we, we mean you."
"Yeah I know that we. I'll get it."
"If it doesn't work we can cash in on our free steam cleaning or something, we've already lost our security deposit."
Since then he has commissioned an intern to clean it up. The intern has outsourcing the work and e-mailed me to a) clean up the vodka sauce, b) do his laundry, and c) pick up some glutten free beer. Funny three days later, his laundry isn't done, the vodka sauce is still there and it still looks like florecent vomit. We don't have any glutten free beer. Not sure what all that was about.
Fraud
A couple of weeks ago I got a message from my bank. I called them back within the hour. It seems someone was swiping my credit card at a mall in Jersey. They identified it as fraud and called me within a few hours.
So I had to wonder, what in the world triggered it as fraud? I got my answer when I got the affidavit yesterday.
That I would spend $1000 on clothes in a single day...
That I would walk into an Abercrombie and Finch for more than just to look at the pictures..
That I could possibly spend $300 at a Victoria's Secret (that's a lot of pushing up and tucking in)
That I would have gotten off the turnpike in New Jersey...
Whatever profiling my bank has done on me seems to be accurate. Creepy isn't it? Just imagine what they would get if they tapped my phone.
So I had to wonder, what in the world triggered it as fraud? I got my answer when I got the affidavit yesterday.
That I would spend $1000 on clothes in a single day...
That I would walk into an Abercrombie and Finch for more than just to look at the pictures..
That I could possibly spend $300 at a Victoria's Secret (that's a lot of pushing up and tucking in)
That I would have gotten off the turnpike in New Jersey...
Whatever profiling my bank has done on me seems to be accurate. Creepy isn't it? Just imagine what they would get if they tapped my phone.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Teacher and a student
I got an A in my big summer class. Go me. No really go me.
Link to my final project.
Link to my final project.
Back to school days
Well I'm back to work. After a summer of laziness, Internet classes, and field trips classes have begun I have to say it isn't all that bad. I'm not really a fan of the start of the year laying down the law bits, but it sure is fun to hand out these stickers.
That's right. Stickers. It started in Algebra, it filtered to the TFA folks and I'll admit I was skeptical. Stickers? I teach high school. Don't those stickers have to be laced with something? But no stickers. Stickers when they answer a question. When they bring their book. When they are on time. When they have a pencil. Until I just take off for not having a book and not having a pencil.
I bought quite a little assortment. The Hello Kitty ones seem to be the most popular, though the boys are tolerant of my monarch butterflies. Imagine a 17 year-old boy almost giddy over his Elmo and Spongebob stickers. Wait till I break out the ladybugs.
Seems some kids disappeared over the summer, and three have come to say goodbye in the past few days. My largest class has 24 students, compared to 32 last year (pre-Katrina). My smallest class has seven. I don't think I'll tell anyone. Thus far it is shaping up to be a pretty nice year. Except for those meetings, sometimes democracy is a sham.
That's right. Stickers. It started in Algebra, it filtered to the TFA folks and I'll admit I was skeptical. Stickers? I teach high school. Don't those stickers have to be laced with something? But no stickers. Stickers when they answer a question. When they bring their book. When they are on time. When they have a pencil. Until I just take off for not having a book and not having a pencil.
I bought quite a little assortment. The Hello Kitty ones seem to be the most popular, though the boys are tolerant of my monarch butterflies. Imagine a 17 year-old boy almost giddy over his Elmo and Spongebob stickers. Wait till I break out the ladybugs.
Seems some kids disappeared over the summer, and three have come to say goodbye in the past few days. My largest class has 24 students, compared to 32 last year (pre-Katrina). My smallest class has seven. I don't think I'll tell anyone. Thus far it is shaping up to be a pretty nice year. Except for those meetings, sometimes democracy is a sham.
Saturday, August 12, 2006
On leafy greens and disjointed conversations...
I went to the grocery store yesterday to purchase the following:
1) mandrin oranges
2) Balsalmic dressing
3) olive oil
4) mixed greens with arugala
5) Gargonzola cheese
6) bagles
My grocery store, much like any other grocery store starts with a walk through the produce section. I was there for arugala, and I was pretty sure it was green. I began looking at the signs, reading each one along with the alternate definitions. It wasn't there. I went to the prepackaged salad section and found no mention of arugala. I proceeded to the organic lettuces (letti?) where I found a sign for arugala. I looked below. There was a bunch named "parsley," a bunch named "cilantro" and on down the line. The signs were clearly out of order. Now knowing (from the sign) that I was looking for a bitter vegetable to balance out my mandrin oranges I went down the aisle.
Collard greans, turnip greans, red leaf lettuce, green leaf letuce, beats, mustard greens, romaine, iceburg. No arugala. I gave up and just got a bunch of "mixed greens" figuring if there were arugala to be found I'd bought it.
~ fast forward to this morning ~
A certain roommate of mine accompanied me to Shipley's. We came back and began to drink our coffee and eat our delectable sweet cakes. He'd made jambalaya last night. I told him about the salad in the fridge. "It has mixed greens... hey do you know what arugala looks like?"
"No, Sara would have known."
"Old Sara or engineering Sarah?"
"Old Sara."
"I guess I won't be hearing much of engineering Sarah anymore"
He then proceeds to update me on well, the deeper things in life than work hours, trips to the lake, cleaning and being burned with chemicals, how many shirts he went though that day. He proceeds to tell me about his hopes and his dreams (left out for fear that one might read these hopes and dreams and know who this certian roommate is), about his loves and hates, his fears and all those things that well make him human.
And my response, "so my salad has oranges and gargonzola cheese with hard salami, you eat it with the Balsalmic vinagarette."
He interupted my train of thought. Jerk.
And just so you know arugala looks like this. It isn't in my mixed greens. Bummer.
1) mandrin oranges
2) Balsalmic dressing
3) olive oil
4) mixed greens with arugala
5) Gargonzola cheese
6) bagles
My grocery store, much like any other grocery store starts with a walk through the produce section. I was there for arugala, and I was pretty sure it was green. I began looking at the signs, reading each one along with the alternate definitions. It wasn't there. I went to the prepackaged salad section and found no mention of arugala. I proceeded to the organic lettuces (letti?) where I found a sign for arugala. I looked below. There was a bunch named "parsley," a bunch named "cilantro" and on down the line. The signs were clearly out of order. Now knowing (from the sign) that I was looking for a bitter vegetable to balance out my mandrin oranges I went down the aisle.
Collard greans, turnip greans, red leaf lettuce, green leaf letuce, beats, mustard greens, romaine, iceburg. No arugala. I gave up and just got a bunch of "mixed greens" figuring if there were arugala to be found I'd bought it.
~ fast forward to this morning ~
A certain roommate of mine accompanied me to Shipley's. We came back and began to drink our coffee and eat our delectable sweet cakes. He'd made jambalaya last night. I told him about the salad in the fridge. "It has mixed greens... hey do you know what arugala looks like?"
"No, Sara would have known."
"Old Sara or engineering Sarah?"
"Old Sara."
"I guess I won't be hearing much of engineering Sarah anymore"
He then proceeds to update me on well, the deeper things in life than work hours, trips to the lake, cleaning and being burned with chemicals, how many shirts he went though that day. He proceeds to tell me about his hopes and his dreams (left out for fear that one might read these hopes and dreams and know who this certian roommate is), about his loves and hates, his fears and all those things that well make him human.
And my response, "so my salad has oranges and gargonzola cheese with hard salami, you eat it with the Balsalmic vinagarette."
He interupted my train of thought. Jerk.
And just so you know arugala looks like this. It isn't in my mixed greens. Bummer.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Terrorism
Perhaps one of the primary reasons that Americans are apathetic is a total disconnect from world events. We simply don't perceive the ripples in our isolated world.
For instance the terrorist arrests in London have thus far had the following effects on my household:
1) The war in Iraq and the war in Israel and other conflicts around the world were not being discussed this morning on NPR. My brother and I decided that Al-Queda was going to target the brewery and the Holocaust museum (where we were today) and almost called in "sick."
2) The facilitator of my social studies meeting (the guy that was justifying his job) left the meeting two hours early. When the cat's away the mice wait around until they won't be caught and then they eat the cheese. By leaving the meeting two hours early I drove home in the afternoon rain and did not go to the grocery store. Thus I ate a frozen dinner around eight.
3) The beer Allen was going to bring back from Iowa will have to be shipped.
4) I'm going to be waking up around 5:30AM on Saturday morning to go to my parents place to take them to the airport.
September 11th had slightly more effects on me:
1) Class wasn't cancelled.
2) My professor was asked to recant his statements that Bush "shouldn't be hiding" by the White House office.
3) I rekindled tension between myself and my rooomate.
4) I bought a shower radio.
5) Airports coming home for Thanksgiving were well, horrid.
6) My mom forgot my birthday.
7) I am forced to listen to historical analysis that discusses the "Post 9-11 world" as though history itself can be divided BWTC and AWTC.
I'm really not that self centered; I estimate however that I'm also not normal.
For instance the terrorist arrests in London have thus far had the following effects on my household:
1) The war in Iraq and the war in Israel and other conflicts around the world were not being discussed this morning on NPR. My brother and I decided that Al-Queda was going to target the brewery and the Holocaust museum (where we were today) and almost called in "sick."
2) The facilitator of my social studies meeting (the guy that was justifying his job) left the meeting two hours early. When the cat's away the mice wait around until they won't be caught and then they eat the cheese. By leaving the meeting two hours early I drove home in the afternoon rain and did not go to the grocery store. Thus I ate a frozen dinner around eight.
3) The beer Allen was going to bring back from Iowa will have to be shipped.
4) I'm going to be waking up around 5:30AM on Saturday morning to go to my parents place to take them to the airport.
September 11th had slightly more effects on me:
1) Class wasn't cancelled.
2) My professor was asked to recant his statements that Bush "shouldn't be hiding" by the White House office.
3) I rekindled tension between myself and my rooomate.
4) I bought a shower radio.
5) Airports coming home for Thanksgiving were well, horrid.
6) My mom forgot my birthday.
7) I am forced to listen to historical analysis that discusses the "Post 9-11 world" as though history itself can be divided BWTC and AWTC.
I'm really not that self centered; I estimate however that I'm also not normal.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Reason number twelve why my health insurance should include massages...
August 7th was my first day back at work. That means today was my second day back at work. It feels like Thursday and I've brought that large bottle of Advil back out onto my bathroom counter. Last night I had one of those tension headaches and tonight my back is tied up in knots. This might be my rationale and motivation for becoming independently wealthy. It has taken me forty hours to make the connection that these might be related circumstances. Now maybe it is the asbestos in the building and my life will be righted when I shift out to the temporaries. In those forty hours I've attended eleven hours of meetings. Some of it was valuable, some of it would be valuable if I hadn't been at the school for three years previously, but easily five hours of it was centered around propaganda which will likely be dropped in a matter of months. I know this because I've been there for three years. Given this is a public forum and most people (I found out today) think that I am a tad sarcastic I shiver to think what might be percieved. I had a chance to leave and I didn't take it for well thought out reasons, mostly having to do with some sort of cracked out sense of social justice, a promise of an easier life, and that whole force of habit. So I'm not going to complain. Much.
Sunday, August 06, 2006
Saturday, August 05, 2006
On weddings and high school reunions...
The night began some what harmlessly. A wedding for a neighbor we had in high school, an invitation sent to the four of us with warnings from the other neighbors that 450 people RSVPed affirmative in a church that holds 400.
So we went early. Now the problem with some of these weddings is that you aren't sure there will be alcohol. Particularly when the groom is a youth minister and the bride at one time didn't drink. So on the way though we had to pick up a flask for the whisky.
Walking into the church as we arrived was the collection of neighbors that had been forwarned at the bridal luncheon that the guest list was growing. Then it hit us, this crowd was a Stratford crowd. As in the high school. My brother's prom date, his ex-girlfriend's roommate, the whole MDUMC crowd (including the Caldwell and Lesem sisters), Mark Bogart, my prom date's parents Carol & Ed, the Garfields minus MD, ex-coworkers (since I used to work for the bride's father), the lady that thought I looked like Mary Louise Parker, etc. etc. etc. The church was hot, the wedding sweet, and my brother and I quickly agreed that we needed to mark ourselves as brother and sister rather than as roommates. It is a problem.
The reception was held at a club, not a country club, a club. There was a bar but not enough food to act as a sponge which only became a real problem later. This was the point that the whole occasion turned into a quasi-Stratford dance with little neighbors and Baby Boomers gathered around little tables. There was a couple box stepping to Michael Jackson, we did the chicken dance (but no Village People). We ordered cokes and supplemented the flavor. When Sam got drunk enough he told my mom. She checked his back pockets, I told her it was in my purse. Ten minutes later she was sifting through the purse. Then we told her we'd lied.
Sometime in there cake was cut, I missed that. The sober people left. Sam introduced me to Parker, a TFA kid from Chavez. Scab. Mark and I reminiced over Uncle Jack Tracy and Mr. Gordon Utz, aka eggman. Our class was a class of cheaters. Guess what? Matt Smith and Michelle broke up.
What I didn't miss was the Stratford gang singing the alma mater, a song I never learned - but sounds just like all the other "We sing to you dear ___ High and pledge our loyalty..." songs you hear. See I never went to a pep rally. Not going to pep rallys meant you got to leave school twenty minutes earlier on Friday. Then there were cheers, which I also didn't know. Or forgot, but I'm a quick study "green and white! green and white!" I'm smart, I got that one handled.
I said goodbye to my new friend Parker The Scab and I promised Mark I'd see him again in three years.
Sam is chatty when drunk. He tends to start off on the flaw's of Pascal's wager and Pele's arguement and tells me I need to finish Bertrand Russell. We got home. He picked me up just below my knees and lost balance. I wound up on the floor. He got saltines and a bedtime story. At 4AM he was still sleeping in the hall.
Yea for weddings.
So we went early. Now the problem with some of these weddings is that you aren't sure there will be alcohol. Particularly when the groom is a youth minister and the bride at one time didn't drink. So on the way though we had to pick up a flask for the whisky.
Walking into the church as we arrived was the collection of neighbors that had been forwarned at the bridal luncheon that the guest list was growing. Then it hit us, this crowd was a Stratford crowd. As in the high school. My brother's prom date, his ex-girlfriend's roommate, the whole MDUMC crowd (including the Caldwell and Lesem sisters), Mark Bogart, my prom date's parents Carol & Ed, the Garfields minus MD, ex-coworkers (since I used to work for the bride's father), the lady that thought I looked like Mary Louise Parker, etc. etc. etc. The church was hot, the wedding sweet, and my brother and I quickly agreed that we needed to mark ourselves as brother and sister rather than as roommates. It is a problem.
The reception was held at a club, not a country club, a club. There was a bar but not enough food to act as a sponge which only became a real problem later. This was the point that the whole occasion turned into a quasi-Stratford dance with little neighbors and Baby Boomers gathered around little tables. There was a couple box stepping to Michael Jackson, we did the chicken dance (but no Village People). We ordered cokes and supplemented the flavor. When Sam got drunk enough he told my mom. She checked his back pockets, I told her it was in my purse. Ten minutes later she was sifting through the purse. Then we told her we'd lied.
Sometime in there cake was cut, I missed that. The sober people left. Sam introduced me to Parker, a TFA kid from Chavez. Scab. Mark and I reminiced over Uncle Jack Tracy and Mr. Gordon Utz, aka eggman. Our class was a class of cheaters. Guess what? Matt Smith and Michelle broke up.
What I didn't miss was the Stratford gang singing the alma mater, a song I never learned - but sounds just like all the other "We sing to you dear ___ High and pledge our loyalty..." songs you hear. See I never went to a pep rally. Not going to pep rallys meant you got to leave school twenty minutes earlier on Friday. Then there were cheers, which I also didn't know. Or forgot, but I'm a quick study "green and white! green and white!" I'm smart, I got that one handled.
I said goodbye to my new friend Parker The Scab and I promised Mark I'd see him again in three years.
Sam is chatty when drunk. He tends to start off on the flaw's of Pascal's wager and Pele's arguement and tells me I need to finish Bertrand Russell. We got home. He picked me up just below my knees and lost balance. I wound up on the floor. He got saltines and a bedtime story. At 4AM he was still sleeping in the hall.
Yea for weddings.
Editors
A big shout out to my faithful editors.
Bethany who faithfully reads my blog and notes when postings disappear and Sam who tells me when I've spelled something wrong. Life wouldn't be the same without you.
Bethany who faithfully reads my blog and notes when postings disappear and Sam who tells me when I've spelled something wrong. Life wouldn't be the same without you.
Friday, August 04, 2006
But how do I get my leather pants?
August 4-6th is tax-free weekend in Texas. That's right, no sales tax. Well no sales tax on clothes priced under $100. The school supplies, football pants, and personal flotation devices that I was in the market for are not tax-free. One thing that bonds all Americans across race, ethnicity, gender and time: we hate taxes.
This event brings me to a fundamental problem. I need leather pants before school starts. I'll note leather pants are not against the dress code, they just don't want to see my thong. The only place I can find leather pants under $100 is at Wally World. The problem is two-fold, I hate Walmart's leather pants (they chaffe) and I don't like crowds. I also don't like Walmart.
I also fear the repercussions of wearing my new pants to my PETA meeting after school. I don't want my tires slashed.
What do I do, what doooo I do?
This event brings me to a fundamental problem. I need leather pants before school starts. I'll note leather pants are not against the dress code, they just don't want to see my thong. The only place I can find leather pants under $100 is at Wally World. The problem is two-fold, I hate Walmart's leather pants (they chaffe) and I don't like crowds. I also don't like Walmart.
I also fear the repercussions of wearing my new pants to my PETA meeting after school. I don't want my tires slashed.
What do I do, what doooo I do?
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
On documentaries
Tonight I was blessed with the opportunity to watch not one but two great documentaries. It is truely one of the greatest artforms known to man. That is, if you chose your topics wisely.
While Michael Moore has put out some pretty powerful (and *slightly* biased) material, I'll have to say there are better subjects out there. March of the Penguins had its moments with the appropriate balance of romance and well death. That was not a film for children. "Disappear" is a euphamism that children understand. The Momma Penguin died, and they know it.
Subject matter is extremely important when creating a documentary. Of course it helps to have a few "tornado victims" thrown in there for good measure. And a panoramic shot of the prarie going by at 36mph. Those are necessary elements. But back to the subject.
The films tonight were:
"Growin' a Beard," a documentary of the donegal beard growing contest in Shamrock, Texas.
"The 72 oz. Steak" in which one soul attempts to eat a 4.5 lb steak with a salad, a baked potato, and a roll in under 60 minutes. I won't spoil the end.
Another of my favorite documentaries comes from PBS, "Sandwiches You Will Like!" features hallmark sandwiches from around the country. Loosemeat, muffalleta, Italian Beef, and Thelma's BBQ. This one gave me a life goal and vacation spots (outside of major league ballparks).
While Michael Moore has put out some pretty powerful (and *slightly* biased) material, I'll have to say there are better subjects out there. March of the Penguins had its moments with the appropriate balance of romance and well death. That was not a film for children. "Disappear" is a euphamism that children understand. The Momma Penguin died, and they know it.
Subject matter is extremely important when creating a documentary. Of course it helps to have a few "tornado victims" thrown in there for good measure. And a panoramic shot of the prarie going by at 36mph. Those are necessary elements. But back to the subject.
The films tonight were:
"Growin' a Beard," a documentary of the donegal beard growing contest in Shamrock, Texas.
"The 72 oz. Steak" in which one soul attempts to eat a 4.5 lb steak with a salad, a baked potato, and a roll in under 60 minutes. I won't spoil the end.
Another of my favorite documentaries comes from PBS, "Sandwiches You Will Like!" features hallmark sandwiches from around the country. Loosemeat, muffalleta, Italian Beef, and Thelma's BBQ. This one gave me a life goal and vacation spots (outside of major league ballparks).
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Things to consider when getting a fake ID...
Men and gentleladies,
For those of you contemplating the purchase of a fake ID and wondering if you should go with A) a newly minted out-of state license with your own photograph or B) a real in state license with someone who "kinda looks like you" I would like you to consider the following:
And so I say unto you, what are the odds?
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