First of all, I am completely repulsed by ear wax. This repulsion is truly where the problem originates. Over dinner the other night, a friend and I were appalled to find out that our husbands thought blood was grosser than ear wax. I'm unclear how on earth this is possible, but they were quite adament in defending their stance. The ear wax discussion began when we shared the story my mother in law told us about her first grade teacher who taught the children to smear their own ear wax onto their lips when suffering from chapped lips in winter.
[pause while writer gags]
I find nothing fouler than glancing into a child's ear and seeing six months of ear wax build-up caking the confines of their visible inner ear. The worst? When there's a little booger of ear wax hanging as a dingleberry on a tiny bit of ear hair. I find myself unable to deal with any words which they might say after I make this discovery. Which leads me to the phone quandry.
In my classroom, we have a phone. The kids can use it and often answer it for me. My official "operator" (class job) is the student with the nicest phone manners and the cleanest ears. Clearly.
Unfortunately, I am not able to sanction my phone use only by those with clean ears. Every time I see a grubby ear or a lice kid or a sweaty non-hair washer or a grease monkey press that phone up into their ear, I throw up in my mouth just a little. Then I say a prayer of thanks for my often ornery thick hair which will always protect me from all things nasty on the phone. Have you ever imagined what is probably down in those little holes masquerading as a speaker? Have you? Those holes are the lint trap of sickening filth is what they are.
So what's grosser? Ear wax or blood?
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Writer's Block
If you read this, if your eyes are passing over this right now, (even if we don't speak often or don't really know each other) please post a comment with a COMPLETELY MADE UP AND FICTIONAL memory of you and me. It can be anything you want - good or bad - BUT IT HAS TO BE FAKE. When you're finished, post this little paragraph on your blog and be surprised (or mortified) about what people DON'T ACTUALLY remember about you!
Sounds like fun.
Post away.
Sounds like fun.
Post away.
Friday, January 27, 2006
Tales From the Crypt
"Mrs. Pigs! Mrs. Pigs! I've got two really exciting things to tell you!" a breathless fifth grader panted into the door of my classroom after school, clearly bursting with news that could not wait. She was surrounded by a gaggle of girls.
"What is it?" I grinned excitedly. This girl was one of my lower struggling students from last year. She had always been shy and somewhat withdrawn.
"I got two hundreds on my spelling tests two weeks in a row, and I saved up to 20% on auto insurance by calling Geico! Bye!" the giggling herd darted away down the hall and left me shaking my head and trying not to laugh.
I was instantly reminded why I do not teach 5th grade. Strange and inexplicable things happen to them after Christmas break.
I wish there was a job in which I could teach ten year olds. I love kids from Christmas break of 4th grade until Christmas break of 5th grade. It's a narrow window. Let me know if you are aware of this job.
"What is it?" I grinned excitedly. This girl was one of my lower struggling students from last year. She had always been shy and somewhat withdrawn.
"I got two hundreds on my spelling tests two weeks in a row, and I saved up to 20% on auto insurance by calling Geico! Bye!" the giggling herd darted away down the hall and left me shaking my head and trying not to laugh.
I was instantly reminded why I do not teach 5th grade. Strange and inexplicable things happen to them after Christmas break.
I wish there was a job in which I could teach ten year olds. I love kids from Christmas break of 4th grade until Christmas break of 5th grade. It's a narrow window. Let me know if you are aware of this job.
Thursday, January 26, 2006
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
It's Good to Know the Important Things are Taken Care Of.
**Advance Apologies: Blogger killed my cute outline format. I couldn't figure out how to get it back. Bygones.
One of my goals this year has been to have a better attitude about my school and to try not to complain quite so much. (Heh.) Well…at least I’m trying to focus on the funny things and avoid the negative things. So far, I think I’ve been doing a pretty good job.
But I gotta tell y’all about this meeting today. I understand that there have to be faculty meetings, I really do. Generally, I’m a pretty good sport about them, especially when there are things that we just need to get done.
But, DUDE. Today? During today’s staff meeting, I had to bite my lip and find a really boring spot on the floor to focus on to contain my laughter. Do you know why? Let me explain it to you. (and I believe you’ll find that this concept ain’t rocket science.)
Ahem…
Our faculty meeting today was about the State of the Teacher’s Lounge. What follows is the agenda:
The State of the Teacher’s Lounge
I. Cleanliness
A. Janitors vs. teachers
B. Number of Clorox Wipes required to achieve a “no black” wipe
C. Action Plan
II. Furniture
A. Appraisal of existing furniture
B. Suggestions for improvement
C. Possible new arrangement?
III. Supplies/Utensils
A. Prior experiences with lack of utensils (group sharing)
B. Attempt to allocate blame.
C. Brainstorm for solutions
1. Possibility: Throw shower for lounge?
2. BYOUtensils
IV. Décor
A. Potential color schemes
B. Flower arrangement vs. Centerpiece (contest?)
C. The Great Tablecloth Debate
1. Plastic vs. cloth
2. Cleaning solutions
I’m not joking in the slightest here. What I am doing is still laughing out my residual giggles from calmly existing through this meeting. This seems an appropriate time to point out that my team nor I actually even use the lounge. I think I went in there in October to get a Coke? As it turns out, three teams ‘fessed up to not actually using the lounge. A collective GASP! rent the air. This [shocking, titillating] announcement really blew the socks off of the rest of the school and caused an emergency amendment to the above agenda:
V. Non-Participators
A. Required to participate in shower?
B. Allowed to use supplies and utensils?
Oh, the drama.
One of my goals this year has been to have a better attitude about my school and to try not to complain quite so much. (Heh.) Well…at least I’m trying to focus on the funny things and avoid the negative things. So far, I think I’ve been doing a pretty good job.
But I gotta tell y’all about this meeting today. I understand that there have to be faculty meetings, I really do. Generally, I’m a pretty good sport about them, especially when there are things that we just need to get done.
But, DUDE. Today? During today’s staff meeting, I had to bite my lip and find a really boring spot on the floor to focus on to contain my laughter. Do you know why? Let me explain it to you. (and I believe you’ll find that this concept ain’t rocket science.)
Ahem…
Our faculty meeting today was about the State of the Teacher’s Lounge. What follows is the agenda:
The State of the Teacher’s Lounge
I. Cleanliness
A. Janitors vs. teachers
B. Number of Clorox Wipes required to achieve a “no black” wipe
C. Action Plan
II. Furniture
A. Appraisal of existing furniture
B. Suggestions for improvement
C. Possible new arrangement?
III. Supplies/Utensils
A. Prior experiences with lack of utensils (group sharing)
B. Attempt to allocate blame.
C. Brainstorm for solutions
1. Possibility: Throw shower for lounge?
2. BYOUtensils
IV. Décor
A. Potential color schemes
B. Flower arrangement vs. Centerpiece (contest?)
C. The Great Tablecloth Debate
1. Plastic vs. cloth
2. Cleaning solutions
I’m not joking in the slightest here. What I am doing is still laughing out my residual giggles from calmly existing through this meeting. This seems an appropriate time to point out that my team nor I actually even use the lounge. I think I went in there in October to get a Coke? As it turns out, three teams ‘fessed up to not actually using the lounge. A collective GASP! rent the air. This [shocking, titillating] announcement really blew the socks off of the rest of the school and caused an emergency amendment to the above agenda:
V. Non-Participators
A. Required to participate in shower?
B. Allowed to use supplies and utensils?
Oh, the drama.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
Doggone it.
Yesterday, it was pointed out to me that at least my cream puff/toilet dip/pen explosion didn't happen on a Tuesday, my typical rotten day, and I agreed wholeheartedly. Apparently, this particular Tuesday was instead reserved by the gods for the dogs. As in, the day literally went to the dogs. The kids were good, my colleagues were lovely, but the dogs really played a large role in keeping my day from being dullsville. That and my ill-fated decision to wear my new cream-colored foxy angora sweater, black pants and high heels.
It always, of course, begins with Gus. Every morning, I let Gus out for one final round of business before he gets his puppy chow. The dog is completely, 100% food-centric at this hour of the day. Business? Check! Give me my chow. Go in my room? Check! Serve up the chow! You want me to sit? Spin? Stay? Triple check, now deal up the beef.
This particular morning, Gus became inexplicably intrigued by the mud in the backyard. Since it hasn't rained since the turn of the century, I can almost understand why he became enamored with the notion of digging in it. Almost. Digging means muddy paws, and muddy paws mean that Gus' feet double in size when they are caked with the natural earthy essence that is Texas black clay. Needless to say, when he finally came in [did I mention that I was running about ten minutes late?], I pinned his squirming, writhing, puppy chow fixated self to the wall of the kitchen and launched Operation: Wipedown.
He fought, I pushed. He wiggled, I yelled. He swiped one paw full of muddy goodness down my sleeve, I struck him soundly across the behind. Then I carried him struggling and twisting directly to the bathtub where we engaged in the dragging-to-the-spout and yelping session necessary to rid his paws of this aforementioned foulness. I might mention here that it's been a leeeeetle long since I clipped his nails. He kind of has talons. One of those talons veered stealthily out of the bathtub, took a slap at my [expensive, foxy] sweater and proceeded to get hung in the delicate fabric.
"AAEROWH!" Gus yelped indignantly, completely offended that my sweater had the audacity to claim his claw in this, his time of intense hunger. Lucky for him, he tugged and yanked until he reclaimed his digit, leaving my [really cute, dainty] sweater with a very awkward-looking sleeve and a stretched out hole. I will not offend you with the unloving momentos which were hurled at Gus that moment, and I will cease describing my actions in an effort to avoid the SPCA or animal rights activists launching an uprising in my direction.
I made it to school at last and even managed to use my Gus tale as part of a writing lesson detailing the intricasies of "whispering parentheses" and "taffy sentences." I owe my teaching successes all to Gus, really I do. All was well until my recess duty, during which two neighborhood dogs got loose and bounded onto the playground, infinitely excited by the idea of 100 ten year olds to play with. One of these dogs still had the rope tied to his neck that he had chewed through, and both were probably about 50 pounds.
Stop for a moment and think about any ordinary professional job. [pause] Okay. Now we'll talk about mine. Here are my choices:
1. Dog bites child, school gets sued, Pigs somehow gets fired or sued as well.
2. Dog bites teacher. [end of consequences]
Clearly, I had no choice. I sighed, took stock of the location of the [muddy, wet] dogs and bolted off, heels and all, in hot pursuit of these dogs. Heels sinking into the mud, I lunged and darted until I cornered the dogs by the building. I got one by the rope and one by the collar, hunkered down, and held on tight. I was naturally surrounded by about 80 kids wanting to pet the dogs, and there is nothing harder than explaining the short version of liability law to a group of ten year olds who want nothing more than to pet the cute panting puppies in front of them. It's unnatural, but I had no choice.
I spent the next 20 minutes crouched down, enveloping myself and my black dress pants around the dog called Maggie. We waited for Animal Control to arrive while Maggie bucked like a bronco and swung her head back to lick my face repeatedly, much to the delight of my audience. This conversation was repeated more times than I care to recount:
Student: Why can't we pet her?
Me: Because if she bites you, I'll get fired.
Student: Why do you get to pet her?
Me: Because no one cares if she bites me.
Student: Oh.
At long last the Animal Control arrived and set off to talk to the dogs' owners about proper fencing techniques and basic animal safety. I stood up on shaky weak knees and hesitantly looked southward. My dress shoes and trouser socks were covered in mud, doggie footprints and bits of grass, my dress pants featured streaks of mud, one distinct paw print, and enough fur to craft me a new sweater. I felt dog slobber film drying on my neck and chin and I detected the distinct scent of dog about me.
Walking back into the school to address my other professional duties, namely teaching, I wearily reviewed my ongoing list of jobs that are expected of me as a public educator:
Teacher
Mentor
Coach
Self-Esteem Coordinator
Detective
Actress
Secretary
Friendship Counselor
Nurse
Diagnostician
Publicist
Handwriting Analyst
Author
Mediator
Child Psychologist
Police Escort
Dog Catcher
It always, of course, begins with Gus. Every morning, I let Gus out for one final round of business before he gets his puppy chow. The dog is completely, 100% food-centric at this hour of the day. Business? Check! Give me my chow. Go in my room? Check! Serve up the chow! You want me to sit? Spin? Stay? Triple check, now deal up the beef.
This particular morning, Gus became inexplicably intrigued by the mud in the backyard. Since it hasn't rained since the turn of the century, I can almost understand why he became enamored with the notion of digging in it. Almost. Digging means muddy paws, and muddy paws mean that Gus' feet double in size when they are caked with the natural earthy essence that is Texas black clay. Needless to say, when he finally came in [did I mention that I was running about ten minutes late?], I pinned his squirming, writhing, puppy chow fixated self to the wall of the kitchen and launched Operation: Wipedown.
He fought, I pushed. He wiggled, I yelled. He swiped one paw full of muddy goodness down my sleeve, I struck him soundly across the behind. Then I carried him struggling and twisting directly to the bathtub where we engaged in the dragging-to-the-spout and yelping session necessary to rid his paws of this aforementioned foulness. I might mention here that it's been a leeeeetle long since I clipped his nails. He kind of has talons. One of those talons veered stealthily out of the bathtub, took a slap at my [expensive, foxy] sweater and proceeded to get hung in the delicate fabric.
"AAEROWH!" Gus yelped indignantly, completely offended that my sweater had the audacity to claim his claw in this, his time of intense hunger. Lucky for him, he tugged and yanked until he reclaimed his digit, leaving my [really cute, dainty] sweater with a very awkward-looking sleeve and a stretched out hole. I will not offend you with the unloving momentos which were hurled at Gus that moment, and I will cease describing my actions in an effort to avoid the SPCA or animal rights activists launching an uprising in my direction.
I made it to school at last and even managed to use my Gus tale as part of a writing lesson detailing the intricasies of "whispering parentheses" and "taffy sentences." I owe my teaching successes all to Gus, really I do. All was well until my recess duty, during which two neighborhood dogs got loose and bounded onto the playground, infinitely excited by the idea of 100 ten year olds to play with. One of these dogs still had the rope tied to his neck that he had chewed through, and both were probably about 50 pounds.
Stop for a moment and think about any ordinary professional job. [pause] Okay. Now we'll talk about mine. Here are my choices:
1. Dog bites child, school gets sued, Pigs somehow gets fired or sued as well.
2. Dog bites teacher. [end of consequences]
Clearly, I had no choice. I sighed, took stock of the location of the [muddy, wet] dogs and bolted off, heels and all, in hot pursuit of these dogs. Heels sinking into the mud, I lunged and darted until I cornered the dogs by the building. I got one by the rope and one by the collar, hunkered down, and held on tight. I was naturally surrounded by about 80 kids wanting to pet the dogs, and there is nothing harder than explaining the short version of liability law to a group of ten year olds who want nothing more than to pet the cute panting puppies in front of them. It's unnatural, but I had no choice.
I spent the next 20 minutes crouched down, enveloping myself and my black dress pants around the dog called Maggie. We waited for Animal Control to arrive while Maggie bucked like a bronco and swung her head back to lick my face repeatedly, much to the delight of my audience. This conversation was repeated more times than I care to recount:
Student: Why can't we pet her?
Me: Because if she bites you, I'll get fired.
Student: Why do you get to pet her?
Me: Because no one cares if she bites me.
Student: Oh.
At long last the Animal Control arrived and set off to talk to the dogs' owners about proper fencing techniques and basic animal safety. I stood up on shaky weak knees and hesitantly looked southward. My dress shoes and trouser socks were covered in mud, doggie footprints and bits of grass, my dress pants featured streaks of mud, one distinct paw print, and enough fur to craft me a new sweater. I felt dog slobber film drying on my neck and chin and I detected the distinct scent of dog about me.
Walking back into the school to address my other professional duties, namely teaching, I wearily reviewed my ongoing list of jobs that are expected of me as a public educator:
Teacher
Mentor
Coach
Self-Esteem Coordinator
Detective
Actress
Secretary
Friendship Counselor
Nurse
Diagnostician
Publicist
Handwriting Analyst
Author
Mediator
Child Psychologist
Police Escort
Dog Catcher
Come Here, My Dear
The chaos that is afternoon packup erupted in my classroom one day after school. I detest chaos. Particularly manic chaos. Ten year old manic chaos. Ten year old manic Friday afternoon chaos. It hurts my brain just a little bit. One of my repeat offenders was spotted across the room not putting his chair up, and not sitting in line as expected, but instead twirling his backpack about his head and shoulders in some bizarre ceremonial dance.
"Come here, my dear!" I called sweetly, beckoning with my pointer finger. He froze. The room fell silent.
"Ooooooh! Busted!" one of his future cellmates narrated in a hushed whisper to my left. The aforementioned manic chaos had halted, kids frozen in action: mouths hanging open, notes mid-pass, lockers stuck ajar.
"What's going on?" I queried, puzzled. I needed to know so that I could achieve this level of stillness and silence again in my future.
"You called him my dear! That's what you always say when someone's in big trouble." one of my pumpkins explained, very matter of factly.
I pondered this tidbit of information. Do I do that? Really? I mulled this over, unaware that I had created such a stigma around an affectionate phrase. Huh. Interesting. What's your phrase?
"Come here, my dear!" I called sweetly, beckoning with my pointer finger. He froze. The room fell silent.
"Ooooooh! Busted!" one of his future cellmates narrated in a hushed whisper to my left. The aforementioned manic chaos had halted, kids frozen in action: mouths hanging open, notes mid-pass, lockers stuck ajar.
"What's going on?" I queried, puzzled. I needed to know so that I could achieve this level of stillness and silence again in my future.
"You called him my dear! That's what you always say when someone's in big trouble." one of my pumpkins explained, very matter of factly.
I pondered this tidbit of information. Do I do that? Really? I mulled this over, unaware that I had created such a stigma around an affectionate phrase. Huh. Interesting. What's your phrase?
Sunday, January 22, 2006
Smurfrageous!
I thought I'd show you the end of my day first. This photo illustrates how I looked upon arrival to my house after I had washed my hands. I have these days in which I am just incredibly destructive to myself and the things immediately around me. Friday was one of those days.
It all began when I was checking the kids reading from the night before. I had made it all the way around the room before someone said, "What's on your face?" A quick check in the mirror revealed that my - bright blue permanent - pen had burst and spread it's joy all over my clipboard, my hands, my pants, and - apparently - my face. Clean up number one.
A little while later, someone was kind enough to offer me a cream puff, of which I promptly took a ginormous bite. No one mentioned to me a cream puff's ability to squoosh out the other end. And nobody mentioned to me that you probably shouldn't eat one over your keyboard. I watched with sinking hopes as the cream seeped into my keyboard, certainly ruining K, L, and the comma forever. What kind of tech help request was this one going to entail? I decided to take things into my own (Smurfesque) hands and reached for the can of air duster, silently praising myself for my problem solving skills and general cleverness.
I studied the situation closely. I leaned in for the best aim. I shook the air duster. This should be a clean shot. FIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIS! I fired! Then I stood there, frozen and flummoxed.
I had fired sticky, gooey cream puff directly into the air, my face, and my hair. I looked up, blinking, my top eyelashes clinging a little to the bottom ones. I surreptitiously swiped at the gooey mess on my face and in my hair, trying to cover the evidence. I roughly shoved my keyboard back into my desk. How many words really used K and L, anyway? And commas are so overused. This opportunity would allow me to cut back.
Things went pretty well for a while until it came time for my bathroom break. I marched down there, armed with my vial of Stink B Gone and was determined to make this a quick and painless visit. I was capable of using a restroom without incident like any normal person. I entered the One Man bravely, while cautiously sniffing the air. All clear. I had beaten the Phantom today. The tide was turning! I confidently admired my new sweater, a gift from Cousineddie, in the mirror. I straightened the sweater's belt and struck a pose before getting down to business.
I carefully assumed the (non-hover) position and relaxed for a brief moment. Standing to take care of details, I felt something ice cold slap wetly at my thigh. I looked down in horror. The belt to my beautiful new sweater had somehow dipped in the toilet bowl! Panic struck me. Had it happened pre-pee or post-pee? How much foulness did it touch? Had the toilet been cleaned since the Phantom last fouled it? This was horrible. I awkwardly put myself back together, all the while trying not to touch the wet part of the belt, letting it dangle and drip before me. I hosed it down thoroughly in the sink and attempted to dry it with paper towels. There was no telling what the class was doing at this point, but I really couldn't let this go.
I stole a quick glance into the mirror. A bit of cream puff remained beside my right eye, my sweater was moist at best, and my hands looked like I had been finger painting for days. And it was only about 11:00am! It's a good thing I can laugh at myself.
Saturday, January 21, 2006
To My Alleged Legion
You know, having someone write a guest post on your blog is something of a vacation from the daily grind and toil of cranking out the laughers for your "legions" [thank you, cousineddie] of readers. This non-paying, highly coveted literary position can be a tremendous let down when you are so proud of your carefully-crafted vocabulary nerd game, that you giggled and tittered over for almost an hour, and then the unthinkable happens....no one comments. Not even your own sister until you request it via email when she reports the tragic receipt of your piece. It's taken me four days to overcome the crushing disappointment, but I will press on. [deep breath] I will press on.
I will begin by addressing an interesting tidbit that appeared in Cousineddie's piece, below. Firstly, the husband feels that he has been "grossly misrepresented" and believes that he must now "sue for slander of character." A lawsuit will indubitably ensue. The funny thing is that she didn't actually write anything that was entirely untrue. I just want everyone out there to know that my husband is neither foul, nor malevolent, but perhaps lazy in the hygiene department on weekends, or underexposed to good cooking as a child and has fond memories of the culinary wonders that are Chef-Boy-R-Dee and boxed blueberry muffins. I dunno. That little outfit she described was completely true, but fortunately had faded to a distant memory... until yesterday. Guess what he is wearing right this very minute? And guess who has already been to the gym today? He will be showering before we go to dinner, and the garment will be promptly deposited into the dirty clothes.
That is all that I have to say about that. I enjoyed the trip down memory lane and the explanation of the wonderment that is me. I would also like to note that when Cousineddie highlighted my hair that time, I was more concerned about the reddish-brown blob of dye that colored my forehead for three days than I was about the actual color of my hair. I think that detail may have slipped her memory. It was a scarring first hair dye experience. I will leave you with two pictures:
A really awesome meal that I made the other night and thought was pretty, Chicken Taco Salads:
I will begin by addressing an interesting tidbit that appeared in Cousineddie's piece, below. Firstly, the husband feels that he has been "grossly misrepresented" and believes that he must now "sue for slander of character." A lawsuit will indubitably ensue. The funny thing is that she didn't actually write anything that was entirely untrue. I just want everyone out there to know that my husband is neither foul, nor malevolent, but perhaps lazy in the hygiene department on weekends, or underexposed to good cooking as a child and has fond memories of the culinary wonders that are Chef-Boy-R-Dee and boxed blueberry muffins. I dunno. That little outfit she described was completely true, but fortunately had faded to a distant memory... until yesterday. Guess what he is wearing right this very minute? And guess who has already been to the gym today? He will be showering before we go to dinner, and the garment will be promptly deposited into the dirty clothes.
That is all that I have to say about that. I enjoyed the trip down memory lane and the explanation of the wonderment that is me. I would also like to note that when Cousineddie highlighted my hair that time, I was more concerned about the reddish-brown blob of dye that colored my forehead for three days than I was about the actual color of my hair. I think that detail may have slipped her memory. It was a scarring first hair dye experience. I will leave you with two pictures:
A really awesome meal that I made the other night and thought was pretty, Chicken Taco Salads:
And secondly, my handsome beagle Gus squeezed into the slutty little halter that his Aunt Cousineddie got him for Christmas. (Be sure to note the copious amounts of backfat squishing out.):
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Everything You Never Wanted to Know About Pigs
Greetings, fellow readers who love to visit the World of Pig! I, Cousineddie of the Hizz-ouse, will serve as guest blogger today. My goal today is to let you into the twisted world of Pigs.
A while back, Pigs guest posted a great entry about me. I promised her and her legions of dedicated readers that I would return the favor and post an equally witty and informative entry about her. You see, Pigs and I have known each other since we were 15, so I know her pretty well, and probably have a lot of dirt to share about her.
The problem was that, because Pigs is a wonderful writer, she wrote such a fantastically funny post about me that I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to live up to it. Guest posting on her blog has been eating away at my to-do list for so long, that now I just have to do it so that I can have some peace of mind. Never mind that I’m a terrible writer. Never mind that Pigs already busted out several stories on her guest post that I would have liked to use on mine. We press on in the face of adversity! Here we go….
Ah, Pigs, what can I say about Pigs? Here’s a list of random facts and stories, in no order whatsoever.
• When we were in high school, Pigs came over after school one day. My mom happened to be watching Oprah, which was about teen sex that day. My mom turned to her and said frankly, “Pigs, how do *you* feel about sex?” Pigs quickly squeaked out, “I don’t know,” and ran out of the room, mortified.
• Pigs is an awesome cook. She is very organized and plans each evening’s meal out a week in advance (she writes all the meals in a weekly planner). She often cooks meals from recipes that she got out of Southern Living magazine. That said, the only time her husband has ever gotten excited about one of her meals was when she heated up a bunch of canned food and odds and ends from the pantry (“This meal ROCKS!”).
• Speaking of the husband o’ Pigs, on their wedding day, after they had completed the ceremony and walked back down the aisle to the outside of the church, Pigs jubilantly squealed, “He married ME! He picked ME!”
• Pigs is a sucker for a good tan. Instead of wearing sunscreen like most health-conscious people, she actually slathers on tanning oil while laying out.
• Pigs and Gus the dog have a Friday afternoon ritual in which she gets him to emit ear-piercing joyful howls as she exclaims, “It’s Friday!”
• When Pigs was little, she broke the barre at ballet class and was asked not to come back.
• Pigs is highly allergic to cats.
• Pigs and her husband did not sit together on the plane to Jamaica for their honeymoon.
• Pigs does not dye or highlight her hair. One time, I highlighted it for her and she freaked out because she felt it was a strange color (it really looked nice). She was also scared to tell her mom because she though Mama Pigs would get mad. Pigs was 22 at the time.
• Although she doesn’t dye the hair on her head, Pigs does bleach her abundant arm hair all winter long.
• Pigs loves a good bargain. She’s a sucker for sales, and it’s fun to vicariously shop through her. Incidentally, Pigs is my favorite shopping buddy ever.
• When she gets tipsy, Pigs tends to let secrets fly. Do NOT tell her any secrets if you don’t plan to be there to monitor what she says while drunk.
• In college, Pigs’ dorm burned down in the middle of the night. She went to tennis class the next day in flip-flops, the only shoes she had left.
• In the winter, Pigs’ husband wears a navy blue turtleneck made of wicking material. He works out in it at the gym, proceeds to wear it all weekend without washing it, and also sleeps in it. I’m not sure if Pigs sleeps on the couch on those nights.
• Pigs used to walk around on stilts in middle/high school.
• Pigs has the kind of long, thick, dark eyelashes that would be perfect for a mascara commercial.
• When Pigs started college, she wanted to be anything BUT a teacher. She is now a (wonderful) teacher.
• Pigs and I had eerily similar looks when we were younger (that’s her with the brown hair).
A while back, Pigs guest posted a great entry about me. I promised her and her legions of dedicated readers that I would return the favor and post an equally witty and informative entry about her. You see, Pigs and I have known each other since we were 15, so I know her pretty well, and probably have a lot of dirt to share about her.
The problem was that, because Pigs is a wonderful writer, she wrote such a fantastically funny post about me that I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to live up to it. Guest posting on her blog has been eating away at my to-do list for so long, that now I just have to do it so that I can have some peace of mind. Never mind that I’m a terrible writer. Never mind that Pigs already busted out several stories on her guest post that I would have liked to use on mine. We press on in the face of adversity! Here we go….
Ah, Pigs, what can I say about Pigs? Here’s a list of random facts and stories, in no order whatsoever.
• When we were in high school, Pigs came over after school one day. My mom happened to be watching Oprah, which was about teen sex that day. My mom turned to her and said frankly, “Pigs, how do *you* feel about sex?” Pigs quickly squeaked out, “I don’t know,” and ran out of the room, mortified.
• Pigs is an awesome cook. She is very organized and plans each evening’s meal out a week in advance (she writes all the meals in a weekly planner). She often cooks meals from recipes that she got out of Southern Living magazine. That said, the only time her husband has ever gotten excited about one of her meals was when she heated up a bunch of canned food and odds and ends from the pantry (“This meal ROCKS!”).
• Speaking of the husband o’ Pigs, on their wedding day, after they had completed the ceremony and walked back down the aisle to the outside of the church, Pigs jubilantly squealed, “He married ME! He picked ME!”
• Pigs is a sucker for a good tan. Instead of wearing sunscreen like most health-conscious people, she actually slathers on tanning oil while laying out.
• Pigs and Gus the dog have a Friday afternoon ritual in which she gets him to emit ear-piercing joyful howls as she exclaims, “It’s Friday!”
• When Pigs was little, she broke the barre at ballet class and was asked not to come back.
• Pigs is highly allergic to cats.
• Pigs and her husband did not sit together on the plane to Jamaica for their honeymoon.
• Pigs does not dye or highlight her hair. One time, I highlighted it for her and she freaked out because she felt it was a strange color (it really looked nice). She was also scared to tell her mom because she though Mama Pigs would get mad. Pigs was 22 at the time.
• Although she doesn’t dye the hair on her head, Pigs does bleach her abundant arm hair all winter long.
• Pigs loves a good bargain. She’s a sucker for sales, and it’s fun to vicariously shop through her. Incidentally, Pigs is my favorite shopping buddy ever.
• When she gets tipsy, Pigs tends to let secrets fly. Do NOT tell her any secrets if you don’t plan to be there to monitor what she says while drunk.
• In college, Pigs’ dorm burned down in the middle of the night. She went to tennis class the next day in flip-flops, the only shoes she had left.
• In the winter, Pigs’ husband wears a navy blue turtleneck made of wicking material. He works out in it at the gym, proceeds to wear it all weekend without washing it, and also sleeps in it. I’m not sure if Pigs sleeps on the couch on those nights.
• Pigs used to walk around on stilts in middle/high school.
• Pigs has the kind of long, thick, dark eyelashes that would be perfect for a mascara commercial.
• When Pigs started college, she wanted to be anything BUT a teacher. She is now a (wonderful) teacher.
• Pigs and I had eerily similar looks when we were younger (that’s her with the brown hair).
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
Nerd Alert!
Cousineddie gave the husband a Word of the Day calendar for Christmas (which I just received today, thanks to our inept mail person in a station wagon). Since I enjoy the crafty word play so much, I thought I might try to use the words as they come up on the calendar. Being that I am writing this on January 18, I have a bit of catching up to do. I will try to use good context clues to help with comprehension of my story. I will now commence a retelling of a popular blog entry of yore.
A young woman was out one night roistering until nearly midnight. We will call her Josephine. Josephine quickly became gelid in the cold, winter air of Virginia and attempted to cabbage a coat off of a young man they had just encountered to no avail. He said her need for a coat was simply de minimus right now and gave an impious smirk. Josephine's friend Norma had clearly had abulia set in after drinking both of her beers and had taken to making some scurrilous remarks at passers by. Josephine suggested that perhaps it was time for just a tittle of Frankenfood at a local Mexican eatery. Norma prattled on about how the parochial views of some local rednecks annoyed her with the epenthesis of the word nuclear, pronouncing it instead "nuke-q-ler." Josephine quickly deked out of this conversation to go use the facilities for a moment. Though Josephine believed herself to have sciential knowledge of restroom expectations, she was surprised when the sink fell off the wall and shattered onto her toe. Despite Norma's yeasty ideas and humorous banter, it seems that there are no clear cut, bright-line rules regarding the liability of a restaurant in the matter of plumbing accoutrements plummeting from walls. Josephine spent the next 6 hours alternating between self-pity and overt navel-gazing as she focused only on Number One for the duration of the night. Though she tried to find the spirit of carpe diem and make the most of this exciting, blog-worthy experience, it seems that she actually spent most of the evening whinging about her pain and inconvenience. The End.
Now that I have properly exacerbated my nerd status, please let me know how many of these words I misused. In the future, these Word of the Day words will be inserted with a [WOTD] notation beside them to be understood my only my most devoted and highly introspective readers. Did YOU get the gist of my tale? What would you rank my nerdiness on a scale of 1 to 10?
A young woman was out one night roistering until nearly midnight. We will call her Josephine. Josephine quickly became gelid in the cold, winter air of Virginia and attempted to cabbage a coat off of a young man they had just encountered to no avail. He said her need for a coat was simply de minimus right now and gave an impious smirk. Josephine's friend Norma had clearly had abulia set in after drinking both of her beers and had taken to making some scurrilous remarks at passers by. Josephine suggested that perhaps it was time for just a tittle of Frankenfood at a local Mexican eatery. Norma prattled on about how the parochial views of some local rednecks annoyed her with the epenthesis of the word nuclear, pronouncing it instead "nuke-q-ler." Josephine quickly deked out of this conversation to go use the facilities for a moment. Though Josephine believed herself to have sciential knowledge of restroom expectations, she was surprised when the sink fell off the wall and shattered onto her toe. Despite Norma's yeasty ideas and humorous banter, it seems that there are no clear cut, bright-line rules regarding the liability of a restaurant in the matter of plumbing accoutrements plummeting from walls. Josephine spent the next 6 hours alternating between self-pity and overt navel-gazing as she focused only on Number One for the duration of the night. Though she tried to find the spirit of carpe diem and make the most of this exciting, blog-worthy experience, it seems that she actually spent most of the evening whinging about her pain and inconvenience. The End.
Now that I have properly exacerbated my nerd status, please let me know how many of these words I misused. In the future, these Word of the Day words will be inserted with a [WOTD] notation beside them to be understood my only my most devoted and highly introspective readers. Did YOU get the gist of my tale? What would you rank my nerdiness on a scale of 1 to 10?
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Do not panic...your wait has ended.
For those who have been riveted on the edge of their seats, waiting for the big reveals, wait no longer...
[drumroll]
1. A barking spider is apparently a rectum.
2. The broom? It just does that. It's not photoshopped. It's our special little broom that's fun to play with when bored. So we'll go magical. (Aims was right, I really do fly around at night playing Quidditch in my backyard. Accio magic broom!)
[drumroll]
1. A barking spider is apparently a rectum.
2. The broom? It just does that. It's not photoshopped. It's our special little broom that's fun to play with when bored. So we'll go magical. (Aims was right, I really do fly around at night playing Quidditch in my backyard. Accio magic broom!)
Monday, January 16, 2006
What Can Your Broom Do?
Boredom can create many interesting phenomena that you never knew existed. How else would I have discovered my gifted broom? Sometimes you just have to stop the ratrace and find out what's happening around you.Do you think this broom is:
a) magical
b) talented
c) photoshopped
d) other
Because that's what I've got going on during my MLK Day. This weekend is a special weekend for the husband and I...we were romantically betrothed on the Sunday of MLK Day, thus marking it in history as a Special Day. Because nothing says romance like getting engaged on MLK weekend.
So, how about that broom?
Saturday, January 14, 2006
My Dog Has a Pimple.
Poor Gus has been afflicted with the misfortune of post-adolescent acne. Who knew that his delicate youthful complexion could become marred in such a harsh, unforgiving way? He has become self-conscious and withdrawn, only allowing himself to be seen by his parents. You can detect his shyness in this photo, unable to make eye contact with the camera. The wistful, longing gaze illustrates his yearn for better days, he looks back on his unblemished youth, so unappreciated at the time. How could he have known that such adversity would befall him? He couldn't have known....he simply couldn't have known.
[Brief moment of silence as we all reflect on Gus' youthful pre-acne days.]
Do not fret, my friends. Gus took a step in the right direction toward self-help today. [a hush falls over the readership, I nod reverently.] He accepted an application of my Clinique Emergency Face Mask. Clearly, a brave move toward the road to healing. He faces his treatment with valor and courage and looks directly into the lens, facing his troubles head on.
Thus far, we have seen little change in the blemish, but we are hoping for the best. What could have caused such a regrettable hardship? We just aren't sure. Could it be muzzle overuse? Under the fence nose chortling? Overzealous hunting? We may never know. Just know that Gus needs to hear your kind words and encouraging support during this difficult time. I will pass along updates as information becomes available.
-Pigs
Thursday, January 12, 2006
Go!
I suspect that everyone will be delighted to know that both the Red Poncho Frock and the Flip Flop Wine Coaster sold on ebay. The Dancing Rat Thing, sadly, did not sell. So far I've earned a profit of $37.82 from my Christmas present sales on ebay this year. I am pleased.
In other news, there's still no word on the Phantom Pooper. They are elusive and crafty. They have managed to successfully outwit me for several years now. They need some changes in their diet.
Is it sad or disturbing that I am feeling a twinge of stress over the fact that my TiVo is backed up to last week? I haven't had time to view the Bachelor, for Pete's sake! How behind I feel in the world of media. Instead, I sit here and type to you.
For Christmas this year, my sister gave me an intriguing little guide called The Big Book of Bodily Functions: 4500 words for bodily functions and body parts. I will share with you a few of my favorites. It is your job to guess what they mean. No Googling!
1. The Barking Spider
2. Drown the Brown Turtle
3. Grime Bubble
In other news, there's still no word on the Phantom Pooper. They are elusive and crafty. They have managed to successfully outwit me for several years now. They need some changes in their diet.
Is it sad or disturbing that I am feeling a twinge of stress over the fact that my TiVo is backed up to last week? I haven't had time to view the Bachelor, for Pete's sake! How behind I feel in the world of media. Instead, I sit here and type to you.
For Christmas this year, my sister gave me an intriguing little guide called The Big Book of Bodily Functions: 4500 words for bodily functions and body parts. I will share with you a few of my favorites. It is your job to guess what they mean. No Googling!
1. The Barking Spider
2. Drown the Brown Turtle
3. Grime Bubble
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
Poop. Say it until it has no meaning.
I really enjoy poop. Poop is funny to me in almost every way. Today I was reminded of a way that I do not appreciate poop. See, at work we have this person we call the Phantom Pooper. This individual manages to skunk up our faculty bathroom almost every day around the same times and never get caught. It is surprising for a person with a poop pasttime, but I have an incredibly sensitive nose. Today my nose was wronged.
I decided in the New Year to start drinking the proper amount of water, a health regime at which I have failed miserably for many years now. It turns out that drinking the proper amount of water makes you pee. Kind of a lot. My abhorance for public restrooms makes this a very tricky goal to attain. Particularly today.
One of the reasons that I maintain such a distaste for public facilities is the potential for ungodly reekiness. I don't deal very well with ungodly reekiness because I also have a healthy gag reflex. Now I'll tell you about today.
I had a window of opportunity. I had had to pee for about 45 minutes, but I was waiting for That Moment. The moment when every head was in a book, on a computer, or out of the room. It came today at 10:55. I dashed down to the teacher's bathroom, hoping for a quick tinkle. A quick tinkle I received! One step in the door and my breakfast arose in my throat. I clapped a hand over my face and tried not to gag. The putrid odor assaulted me and threatened to linger in my clothes if I didn't hurry. My eyes watered as they darted angrily around the room. Where were the two (TWO!) cans of Cover-Up-Vile-Stenches spray that I had personally purchased for this bathroom? Spotting one laid to rest, spent in the trash, my heart sank. I briefly contemplated running down to the next adult bathroom, but I was under a tight time constraint.
I hurriedly shut the door, held my nose and took a deep breath from my mouth. I knew the smell was still out there and I swear, I could taste it. Holding my breath, I quickly undid my pants and assumed the Full Hover Position. Normally, this is unnecessary at school, but a horrific transgression had clearly just been committed upon this toilet. I wasn't taking any chances. Mid-stream, I grabbed for my nose again and refilled my lungs with the foul, tainted air. I tried to think other thoughts. Man, a healthy water habit creates a lot of pee! I desperately bounced up and down to speed the process. My lungs were gasping for air. Fresh air. Sweet, unpoopified, clean fresh air.
That's when a horrible thought struck me. If I was spotted leaving this restroom, they were going to think that I did this! Plots raced through my mind. What should I say? "It wasn't me! It was like that when I got there!" No, that's what someone who did it would say. I grasped my nose and went for another breath, then quickly zipped up, my imagination a factory of ideas. Sewage explosion? No. I saw who did it? No. I was stuck. And suffocating. I had to get out of there. There was no time for handwashing; this was a dire situation.
I hastily unlocked the door and threw it open. Heavenly lights blazed from the sky and angels played awe-inspiring music. Wheeze! I panted and gasped and tried to regain my oxygenated status. When my gaze cleared and the recommended oxygen flow returned to my brain, my vision focused on a student standing in front of me. Mr. Owens.
"Hi!" he greeted me, one hand in the air, the other full of foam soap.
"Erm...I think you're only supposed to use one squirt," I reminded him, joining him at the student sink and watching him attempt to sculpt his mountain of foam into a peak.
"Yeah, well, I figure most kids don't wash their hands, so my usage should average out," he explained, intent on his artwork. "What're you using the kids' sink for anyway?"
"Um, there's something wrong with the teacher sink," I stuttered, trying to dry my hands and remove myself from this line of questioning.
"Is that what that smell is?" he grinned, looking at me knowingly. Knowingly! Like I did it! "It wasn't me!" I yearned to shout. I stared at him stupidly while he coaxed his soap into a new shape.
"Quit playing. Get back to class," I ordered him, trying to be stern. Then I scampered off like a busted convict.
I DIDN'T DO IT! Someone else's foul emissions ruined a good piece of my day and now Mr. Owens might think that I poop, something I would prefer him not to address in any manner, spoken or unspoken.
I need a plan. I've been trying to figure out this mystery for several years now and have no new leads. How do you bust a pooper? How do you teach your hall how to spray? How do you get someone else to possibly donate some Stink-B-Gone? I buy the stuff and I don't even poop at school! [Note: I enjoy my own poops so much that I like to do them in a leisurely manner in my home if at all possible. Any school poops committed by me are quick, solid, smooth, and leave no ghastly green fog as evidence. Trust me. I'd spray. I'm a firm believer in the spray.]
So that is your task, dear readers. Devise a crafty plan for me to catch the Phantom Pooper. This chicanery has gone on far too long. I'll leave you to brainstorm. Me? I have to poop.
I decided in the New Year to start drinking the proper amount of water, a health regime at which I have failed miserably for many years now. It turns out that drinking the proper amount of water makes you pee. Kind of a lot. My abhorance for public restrooms makes this a very tricky goal to attain. Particularly today.
One of the reasons that I maintain such a distaste for public facilities is the potential for ungodly reekiness. I don't deal very well with ungodly reekiness because I also have a healthy gag reflex. Now I'll tell you about today.
I had a window of opportunity. I had had to pee for about 45 minutes, but I was waiting for That Moment. The moment when every head was in a book, on a computer, or out of the room. It came today at 10:55. I dashed down to the teacher's bathroom, hoping for a quick tinkle. A quick tinkle I received! One step in the door and my breakfast arose in my throat. I clapped a hand over my face and tried not to gag. The putrid odor assaulted me and threatened to linger in my clothes if I didn't hurry. My eyes watered as they darted angrily around the room. Where were the two (TWO!) cans of Cover-Up-Vile-Stenches spray that I had personally purchased for this bathroom? Spotting one laid to rest, spent in the trash, my heart sank. I briefly contemplated running down to the next adult bathroom, but I was under a tight time constraint.
I hurriedly shut the door, held my nose and took a deep breath from my mouth. I knew the smell was still out there and I swear, I could taste it. Holding my breath, I quickly undid my pants and assumed the Full Hover Position. Normally, this is unnecessary at school, but a horrific transgression had clearly just been committed upon this toilet. I wasn't taking any chances. Mid-stream, I grabbed for my nose again and refilled my lungs with the foul, tainted air. I tried to think other thoughts. Man, a healthy water habit creates a lot of pee! I desperately bounced up and down to speed the process. My lungs were gasping for air. Fresh air. Sweet, unpoopified, clean fresh air.
That's when a horrible thought struck me. If I was spotted leaving this restroom, they were going to think that I did this! Plots raced through my mind. What should I say? "It wasn't me! It was like that when I got there!" No, that's what someone who did it would say. I grasped my nose and went for another breath, then quickly zipped up, my imagination a factory of ideas. Sewage explosion? No. I saw who did it? No. I was stuck. And suffocating. I had to get out of there. There was no time for handwashing; this was a dire situation.
I hastily unlocked the door and threw it open. Heavenly lights blazed from the sky and angels played awe-inspiring music. Wheeze! I panted and gasped and tried to regain my oxygenated status. When my gaze cleared and the recommended oxygen flow returned to my brain, my vision focused on a student standing in front of me. Mr. Owens.
"Hi!" he greeted me, one hand in the air, the other full of foam soap.
"Erm...I think you're only supposed to use one squirt," I reminded him, joining him at the student sink and watching him attempt to sculpt his mountain of foam into a peak.
"Yeah, well, I figure most kids don't wash their hands, so my usage should average out," he explained, intent on his artwork. "What're you using the kids' sink for anyway?"
"Um, there's something wrong with the teacher sink," I stuttered, trying to dry my hands and remove myself from this line of questioning.
"Is that what that smell is?" he grinned, looking at me knowingly. Knowingly! Like I did it! "It wasn't me!" I yearned to shout. I stared at him stupidly while he coaxed his soap into a new shape.
"Quit playing. Get back to class," I ordered him, trying to be stern. Then I scampered off like a busted convict.
I DIDN'T DO IT! Someone else's foul emissions ruined a good piece of my day and now Mr. Owens might think that I poop, something I would prefer him not to address in any manner, spoken or unspoken.
I need a plan. I've been trying to figure out this mystery for several years now and have no new leads. How do you bust a pooper? How do you teach your hall how to spray? How do you get someone else to possibly donate some Stink-B-Gone? I buy the stuff and I don't even poop at school! [Note: I enjoy my own poops so much that I like to do them in a leisurely manner in my home if at all possible. Any school poops committed by me are quick, solid, smooth, and leave no ghastly green fog as evidence. Trust me. I'd spray. I'm a firm believer in the spray.]
So that is your task, dear readers. Devise a crafty plan for me to catch the Phantom Pooper. This chicanery has gone on far too long. I'll leave you to brainstorm. Me? I have to poop.
Saturday, January 07, 2006
Humbug
ARGH!
I am so incredibly irritated by the sales patterns of clothing stores. I don't CARE if it's 80 degrees outside, and I don't care if in the land of fashion it's time for the next season. Right now, it's January 7th, and I want a new sweater! I am tired of my winter clothes and can't go shopping! You know why?! Because all they have in the stores are spring clothes! Who needs spring clothes in January! BAH!
I am so incredibly irritated by the sales patterns of clothing stores. I don't CARE if it's 80 degrees outside, and I don't care if in the land of fashion it's time for the next season. Right now, it's January 7th, and I want a new sweater! I am tired of my winter clothes and can't go shopping! You know why?! Because all they have in the stores are spring clothes! Who needs spring clothes in January! BAH!
The Results
You will probably remember that in my super-fun worst teacher gift contest that the puffy headed rat and the flip flop wine coasters battled it out until the end when I believe the flip flop wine coasters pull ahead to take the win. It seems they are also going to win on ebay, as they have been listed for less than 12 hours and already have four bids. Who knew?
I am almost creeped out by how well my first two days with kids went. They were sweet and somewhat sleepy...it was pleasant! This year's batch is finally growing on me. It has taken five months this time instead of the usual 1-2, but hey. I'll take it. I think they're starting to grow up a little and it's quite fetching on them.
If you are looking for a little entertainment this weekend, I recommend having your husband floor the attic. The elusive squeaking of the drill above the ceiling is difficult for a beagle to pin down and he will run back and forth throughout the house alternately growling/barking at the ceiling and trying to smell it. Quite comical, really.
And one final thought: a pet peeve of mine. I am a loyal subcriber of Us Weekly. (Yes, I know it's trash, but I love it.) I feel that as a loyal subscriber of any magazine, one should be entitled to receive said magazine before the chumps who buy it off the rack. I simply MUST know why Angelina says the wedding is off and I have to see Britney's new baby pics. It is unfair to tease me with this tempting gossip on the rack at the grocery store when I should have it in my hot little hands days before the average Joe. Josephine. Whatever. Harumph...
I am almost creeped out by how well my first two days with kids went. They were sweet and somewhat sleepy...it was pleasant! This year's batch is finally growing on me. It has taken five months this time instead of the usual 1-2, but hey. I'll take it. I think they're starting to grow up a little and it's quite fetching on them.
If you are looking for a little entertainment this weekend, I recommend having your husband floor the attic. The elusive squeaking of the drill above the ceiling is difficult for a beagle to pin down and he will run back and forth throughout the house alternately growling/barking at the ceiling and trying to smell it. Quite comical, really.
And one final thought: a pet peeve of mine. I am a loyal subcriber of Us Weekly. (Yes, I know it's trash, but I love it.) I feel that as a loyal subscriber of any magazine, one should be entitled to receive said magazine before the chumps who buy it off the rack. I simply MUST know why Angelina says the wedding is off and I have to see Britney's new baby pics. It is unfair to tease me with this tempting gossip on the rack at the grocery store when I should have it in my hot little hands days before the average Joe. Josephine. Whatever. Harumph...
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Whamo.
You know sometimes even I start to believe that there might be a point of loving a pet too much. It seems that I have bruised my ear. Bruised my ear as a result of loving my pet too much.
You see, in a simple world one might just bid their pet farewell and walk out the door. In my [somewhat skewed] world, I really believe that Gus is going to be lonely on this, my first day back at work. After all, he's been with us 24/7 for two weeks now. In reality, the dog needs a break. He's suffering from acute exhaustion and over-stimulation, but I see a sweet puppy whom I believe is going to miss me all day. He is going to pine and worry and...you get the point. Back to my ear.
As I left Gus perched himself adorably on the couch, his head cocked intelligently to the side as if to say, "I'll be okay mommy. I'll try to be strong without you." I waved and cooed and backed away slowly. I was going to miss my little man today. My body was going forward and my head was looking backward and - WHAMO! My face smacked soundly into the door frame and apparently attempted to part ways with my ear.
All for the dog. The sweet little pumpkin.
[Gus is featured today in his new Land's End reflective waterproof non-sissy hunting garment®, courtesy grandma and grandpa.]
You see, in a simple world one might just bid their pet farewell and walk out the door. In my [somewhat skewed] world, I really believe that Gus is going to be lonely on this, my first day back at work. After all, he's been with us 24/7 for two weeks now. In reality, the dog needs a break. He's suffering from acute exhaustion and over-stimulation, but I see a sweet puppy whom I believe is going to miss me all day. He is going to pine and worry and...you get the point. Back to my ear.
As I left Gus perched himself adorably on the couch, his head cocked intelligently to the side as if to say, "I'll be okay mommy. I'll try to be strong without you." I waved and cooed and backed away slowly. I was going to miss my little man today. My body was going forward and my head was looking backward and - WHAMO! My face smacked soundly into the door frame and apparently attempted to part ways with my ear.
All for the dog. The sweet little pumpkin.
[Gus is featured today in his new Land's End reflective waterproof non-sissy hunting garment®, courtesy grandma and grandpa.]
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
Yep.
You know, there are times when Texas is a very weird place to live, and there are times when it's just not that bad! Our current weather scenario being a combination thereof. I love, love, love that I can go out and play tennis in shorts and a t-shirt and get a SUNBURN on January 2. Love that. I don't really love these wildfires that are starting to freak me out. I live in front of a big cornfield. One accidental teenager's cigarette ash and we're goners. That's a lot of trust I have to put in these youth. A couple of days of humidity less than 10% is not that fun either. My contacts are crying for some juice. So that's the Texas Round-up.
I am slightly depressed that I have to go back to school tomorrow. I have had such a lovely holiday and I don't want it to end. I spent this morning doing errands: dentist [hygienist complimented my beautiful choppers], library [I accidentally put a book that a friend loaned me in the book slot, then tried to fish it back out until the voice inside told me to come on inside. When I went inside, the book had vanished. I left my phone number. She called me a little while ago to tell me that it had been found, but it was actually returned last week. Even though I wasn't here. And I just watched myself drop it in there this morning. Whatever.], post office [I bought about 60 37 cent stamps about two weeks ago. Smaaaaaaaart....], dry cleaners, and Bed, Bath and Beyond to go exchanging. Ah, good stuff.
So there I am....in denial about tomorrow and enjoying today. I think that is the way to live life. I believe that now Gus and I will adjourn to the backyard for a little laying out. Vitamin D is good for the soul and a little color is good for my skin.
I am slightly depressed that I have to go back to school tomorrow. I have had such a lovely holiday and I don't want it to end. I spent this morning doing errands: dentist [hygienist complimented my beautiful choppers], library [I accidentally put a book that a friend loaned me in the book slot, then tried to fish it back out until the voice inside told me to come on inside. When I went inside, the book had vanished. I left my phone number. She called me a little while ago to tell me that it had been found, but it was actually returned last week. Even though I wasn't here. And I just watched myself drop it in there this morning. Whatever.], post office [I bought about 60 37 cent stamps about two weeks ago. Smaaaaaaaart....], dry cleaners, and Bed, Bath and Beyond to go exchanging. Ah, good stuff.
So there I am....in denial about tomorrow and enjoying today. I think that is the way to live life. I believe that now Gus and I will adjourn to the backyard for a little laying out. Vitamin D is good for the soul and a little color is good for my skin.
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