I'm aghast

So, it has been an eventful couple of days since I last posted. I could talk about the great work John and Jonathan have been doing in the basement--the excitement of a phonecall from Christy, who was supposed to be at the movies but needed rescuing because the theater lost power--the excitement of the first day back at school this morning--the weird department meeting where one of my colleagues stood at the door while the chairman waved her in, repeatedly, only to have to get up and open the door, thinking it was locked, only to discover the crazy woman had just washed her hands and didn't want to get germs on it from the handle--to the wild ride to the tax assessors offiice to pay for my (expired!) tag with a cop trailing me the whole way, to the mad dash to the doctor's office for athletic physicals for J and C, to the guy who came in with his finger dangling and the rush to try to save his finger while they figuratively gave us the finger and made us wait, to Jonathan's first experience with, um, the hernia test. Yeah. I could talk about those things, but I actually found something that trumps all of it.

You see, the Episcopal Church in North Carolina is suffering, along with other churches, with a decline in young people seeking spirituality. Personally, I think they need to get over themselves. I mean, here's the church, here's the steeple, go inside, you're the people, but I guess in the 21st century, some people think church is like Burger King, and they need to get it their way. Whatever.

Check out this neat (I mean, nauseous) article from Newsweek about a priest who conducts his mass in hip-hop. Weird.

But weirder still is this hip-hop translation of the 23d Psalm:

The Lord is all that, I need for nothing

He allows me to chill.

He keeps me from being heated

And allows me to breathe easy.

He guides my life so that

I can represent and give

Shouts out in his Name

And even though I walk through

The Hood of death,I don't back down

For you have my back.

The fact that you have me covered

Allows me to chill.

He provides me with back-up

In front of my player-haters

And I know that I am a baller

And life will be phat

I fall back in the Lord's crib

For the rest of my life.

I have no response to that.

The slide downhill

We are up at this ungodly hour because...

it's birthday weekend, again. This time for the Old Coot turning 49. His preferred method of celebrating? Not letting anyone sleep in on a Saturday morning. Updates later.

The Return of Wheelchair Man

It's been a while since I report on the wacky wanderings of wheelchair man. I wonder if there's a cartoonist that can draw a prototype for this guy as a superhero. He can join the ranks of Reflector Man, and together they can fight the time-honored norms of neighborly behavior.

I'm thinking his tagline can be something like "able to disrupt traffic by his mere presence...slower than a go-cart...more dangerous than the average bicyclist...it's Wheelchair Man! "

Or not.

I'm trying to give up my mean streak. Really. Somehow, though, all my hard work goes out the window when I spot him.

I was thinking that maybe I just needed therapy or something, and so I saw my therapist (of sorts). Do you remember that line in the venerable classic "Crocodile Dundee," when Mick discovers that Americans go to therapists? He asks if they just don't have any mates. Ah. Isn't that brilliant? Anyway, it's true.

My therapist took the case while we were driving along the interstate coming home from a concert. She is better known as my dearest friend, wine purveyor, and Gilmore Girls dvd provider, but I guard her privacy here (everybody else is free game--imagine that!). Like Napoleon, she has skills, so she hides behind the veneer of mild-mannered administrator by day. Naturally, she figured out why I respond so psychotically to crazy people who endanger their lives on the side of the road. Imagine that. Now I'm cured. Sort of.

You may be interested to know that I have released my anxieties. I can't make this guy do what I want, so I have changed gears. I'm just going to keep a tally of wheelchair man spottings. It's like that British hobby, trainspotting. Maybe I'll get a notebook and everything.

Here's my plan--I'll keep a record of when, where, and who I spot, and share my findings periodically. It's got to be better than the way my neurosis has manifested itself until now. At least the anxiety attacks have gone away.

• last week, Ga Tech campus, white guy in an electric wheelchair zipping along the I-85 ramp
• this weekend, busy road, black guy in electric wheelchair, zipping along the side of the road
• last night, as seen from my classroom window (a first! all previous spottings have been from a vehicle), black guy in electric wheelchair struggling to traverse a construction site, maneuvering around debris and a rocky terrain

I've observed that while WMs have been both black and white, to date 100% of the spottings have been men. I wonder what that means? Maybe I should offer a reward for the first female menace.

Post your WM spottings here. I'm sure I'll get ticked off again soon and post an update on my list.

Wings, Wingnuts, and the Politics of the Left (-behind)part II

My first day in class was right out of any of those scary teacher movies where the principal carries a baseball bat, and the teachers are escorted by security. I was Gabe Kotter and I was back in my old high school, only these sweat hogs weren't cute and endearing. I was facing real-life thugs. While other teachers were filling out progress reports to parents, I was writing letters to judges responding to court requests for probation and sentencing hearings. Unfortunately, or fortunately, I didn't know I was supposed to be scared. I also didn't know I wasn't supposed to teach.

So teach, I did. I assigned stories to read, and when they didn't read at home, we would read in class. I beat them into submission by plugging ahead and not giving up on them. I even got them to read a play, "12 Angry Men," and they not only read it, but they ate it up. I found out later that I was reading the wrong curriculum, and it was assigned to the honors classes. Oh, well. My thugs did better than the honors kids on that story. Of course, their life experience also gave them an understanding of knife-fighting.

Some months later I met the woman who took that job at the middle school. She was a wreck. The kids would eat chicken wings in her class, and then leave little bone piles as monuments on the desktops, or bookshelves, or wherever they could eat unobserved.

Crazy. Until now.

You see, I teach this college class on Saturdays. The students are capable, if ill-prepared. I still subscribe to the mentality that anybody is teachable (with varying degrees of success) and so I plow on, introducing this group to college-level work instead of dumbing down the curriculum, and dumbing them down as well. There are other issues that they will have to sort out by themselves. Talking about goals and writing about goals doesn't necessarily mean that they will suddenly start working towards those goals. I can't undo in 10 weeks what a lifetime of Pavlovian resignation has taught them. But I try. Maybe I'll make a difference to one.

It's a challenge, though. On Saturday, I gave the class a 10 minute break. I had been walking them through the convolutions in the MLA handbook, a task that even I find challenging, and they were going brain dead from the incessant hum of my voice. It was a kindness--a bathroom break--a chance to check their voicemail. Some joker went down the street to the chicken emporium and came back with lunch, which he proceeded to eat, surreptitiously, in a corner. I chose to ignore it. Maybe I should have used him as an example for the class. I don't know. He came back after all, and sat in for another 2-hour drone-on about margins and parenthetical documentaion. What's a little chicken in the big picture? Maybe it's God and His everpresent sense of humor. It's almost like He's saying, "Ha! You thought you were getting away from where I'm sending you. Here's a little reminder that you're in the right place."

There are those who would argue that this demographic doesn't need saving, let alone saving by a hispanic woman passing for white (hmm, more on that perception another time-theirs, not mine). I don't know. I'm not out to save anybody--I've got my own distractions. But, I am a teacher. Let me teach.

Wings, Wingnuts, and the Politics of the Left(-behind)

Almost twenty years ago, when I struggled to get a teaching position in Miami, I received some advice from people already in the system. They told me to get an answering machine, and screen the interviews and job offers--never to speak with a representative of a school. If I made contact, and rejected a job offer, my name would be sent to the bottom of the list. If I rejected an offer after that, I would be blackballed from the system for a year. I didn't have the luxury of sitting around waiting for somebody to die or retire from a cushy school, nor was it likely that a string of people would turn down the position so that I could have a shot at it, so I dutifuly did as I was told.

As luck would have it, when I checked my messages one Friday afternoon, I went into panic mode. The middle school with the worst reputation at the time offered me a position. Yikes! The school was located in a very poor, very crime-ridden part of town. It was considered a failing school on many levels, and that's where they were going to place me, a very green, very inexperienced, very naive little girl. As a further indication of my extreme naivete in the situation, the part that most appalled me was teaching middle school--somehow I wasn't phased by the implications of working in a ghetto that hadn't quite recovered from the race riots in the early 80's.

I immediately started calling around town, looking for any contact any where that would grant me an interview Monday morning before I had to return Friday's call. The exercise was a complete bust, and then I remembered that my former trigonometry teacher was the assistant principal at a high school near me. Monday morning, I was sitting outside her office at 7 am, begging to see her. Thankfully, she listened to my pleas between the tardy bell and the Pledge of Allegiance, and within minutes placed a phone call to a friend, another assistant principal, with the directive that I was going over right now and she was to hire me on the spot.

That's how it worked out, too. My lucky kid comes by it honestly--maybe that kind of luck is in the gene pool.

While I had my choice of teaching in a high school, God seemed to have had the plan that I was to work with a troubled population in spite of the machinations I went through to avoid it. My assignment at the high school was to teach the "unteachables." I believe my rather antiquated department chair referred to them as "ruffians." Does anybody use that term anymore? They were delinquents. Gangsters. Drug-dealers.

I had made my bed, and now I was going to have to lie in it.

to be continued

There's a first time for everything

and it seems this is the first time I ever review anything here.

Tonight I joined the girls for the closing performance of K2, a play we knew little about. Frankly, my only motivation in going was to support the drama teacher, and his (very cute) brother.

I was pleasantly surprised. The story was both enjoyable and profound as the brothers, Jake and Luke Dreiling, played opposite each other in funny, sometimes poignant ways. The story is simple: two mountain climbers get stranded on a ledge with barely enough rope and supplies for only one to descend the mountain. To further complicate the situation, one of them is crippled by an injury. The choice is painfuly clear from the begining--the climber with the broken leg must perish in order for the other to return to safety and deliver a message of love to his partner's widow and child.

The action is mostly emotional, as the "well" climber battles against the mountain, enraged at their fate, while the injured climber sits and contemplates their plight, and his inevitable death.

Jake's character, weakened by the injury, is the source of strength for his partner, who may be strong physically, but always on the brink of losing it all, both emotionally and physically.

The play explores their relationship as friends, and their relationships with loved ones. As Jake's charater explains, the mountain is a metaphor for how they live their lives. He remains cool and in control the whole time, coming up with a possible solution to their predicament, encouraging Luke's character to keep trying and not give up hope. He accomplishes this through entertaining, albeit raunchy, stories.

We draw our own conclusions about his character, and how he manages to sustain and direct his weaker partner.

Luke, on the other hand, has a far more physical role, climbing the ice wall that serves as their oasis several times. He falls, he wants to jump, at one point he beats on the mountain.

The performance was in a small community theater, which afforded us the opportunity of a more intimate setting for such a moving performance. We could see the expression in the actors' eyes, watch as they struggled against demons far more imposing that an ice wall and a frigid death.

Susan Sontag suggested that "Real art has the capacity to make us nervous." While perhaps she had a different idea in mind when she wrote that, the quote has always stuck in my mind. K2 raises some serious questions about allegiance, love, and living in the moment. Sadly, the characters find themselves wanting in those areas, and it is only through sacrifice that they redeem themselves.

I thoroughly enjoyed the play. That there was chemistry between the brothers is obvious, but it was much deeper than that. It's a story about communication, and fears of intimacy, and true love between friends. In the end it's about sacrifice amd how each one of them lays down his life, literally and metaphorically, for the other.

Look at this

The luckiest kid in the world bought a lottery ticket this morning to celebrate her 18th birthday. She was even carded, haha! Anyway, having no experience with the variety of ways the lottery commission sucks money from the poor, my child purchased a ticket, and let the cashier pick it out, since she didn't know or care or whatever. So, she gets this cheesy scratch off ticket.

And wins! 50 BUCKS!!!

Vaya, what a funny kid.

A morning at the health department

Feeling like poor white trash again today. It's getting to be a monthly ritual with Vic, who has undergone more vaccinations in preparation for college than the first months of her life, when I was certain the pediatrician was intent on making her a pin cushion.

Alas, today's adventure may just be her last, but I have visions of repeating this at least two more times.

This morning's foray into the county bureaucracy and world of people on a socio-economic level unfamiliar to us is always an adventure. Forget about calling this an opportunity to experience life outside my 1950's situation-comedy life. After all, I'm not the one that lives in Pleasantville, but that's another story for another day. Today's experience just drives home the point that ethnicity, language, race, you-name-it has less to do with what we do with our lives than the empowering mighty dollar.

Let's face it, I am a middle class snob, with middle class tastes, and middle class values. I turn my nose down at the poor and rich alike. If I was uncomfortable watching the people in the health department today, I do believe I would be equally uncomfortable sitting in some high-faluting country club.

I mean, honestly, I may turn up my nose at Kool-Aid, but I'd also take a pass on an expensive champagne in favor of a nice cold Heinekin. Who knew I'd prefer the excesses of pizza rolls to caviar? But please, don't offer me saltines with spray cheese, mmmkay?

random thoughts between blasts

A few posts back I talked about a short story that I like, Harrisson Bergeron. One of the characters is very intelligent and has a radio in his ear that blasts random explosions to break his train of thought. Needless to say, I feel like that guy. The blasts around here at work have slowed down a bit, so now they are even more unexpected. They also seem to be bigger. It's been tough to get into any kind of writing or planning at work because of it, but the good news is that there is an end in sight, and the foundation for the new building looks like it's ready to be poured.

*blast*

Meanwhile, I get a loud interuption, and get distracted, and it becomes very difficult to follow through on my intentions to write. Ha. How's that for a great rationalization? Mmm. Not a good one, actually.

*crash*

It brings me back to the reality of a dry spell. Absolutely nothing to write about that I am free to express. Reading between the lines--all kinds of wild and crazy things are happening, and I ain't telling it here. Gimme a call if you're that curious.

*thunderous roar*

On the homefront, all is well and winding down or winding up, depending on your metaphor of choice. School starts in less than two weeks. I think that's criminal. Vic hangs around for a few more, and then she's off.

*crash*

We have big plans to go to a nightclub opening in Ohio in September.

*boom*

I haven't even considered back to school shopping.

*blast*

I finished my textbook--Vicky posted it a lulu, but before I release it to the public I have to tweak a couple of sections. Hmmm. Maybe I need to do that tonight.

*powee*

I'm hungry and it's only 10:30. And, the explosions are getting scary again. I'm out of here for lunch just as soon as I can swing it.

This looks like a Batman episode. I'll just wax nostalgic about television in the sixties.

The sky is falling, and there's no Chicken Little in sight

It finally happened--construction has started on the new building, which is designed to wrap around the old building. I thought it was bad working inside while they were blasting for the new driveways. I got it all wrong.

I am, at this very moment, a little creeped out by the thunderous explosions and the reverberations of the pounding going on maybe 100 feet from where I'm sitting. It's highly disconcerting to watch my coffee cup dance across my desk. During one of the blasts, dust fell from the ceiling tiles. I hope I'm not on the evening news, being dragged from the rubble.

I wonder if I'll get to wear a hardhat?

On the positive side, the lead architect is working out of the office next to me, and except for the random spot check outside, he seems to prefer working inside, in the comfort of air-conditioning. Not that I blame him or anything, since the temperatures around here are in the high nineties. I digress. The point is, if he's inside here, I'm guessing things aren't going to be collapsing anytime soon.

I hope.

lazy sunday morning

So it's early, but not that early, and the house is quiet and everybody is asleep. I think I'll leave it that way.
I'm enjoying the silence, reading the news, having a chat with my second (or third---who understands how one details such parentage? my mother's cousin, so my ----?)something-cousin, on IM.

Wow, I need coffee given the state of that convoluted sentence.

Anyway, enjoying the silence. Went to see The Lake House with the girls last night while Jonathan was at a party--John still putting finishing details in the inventory, so I am on the one side feeling badly for him, and on the other, just trying to stay away and give him some peace to work. Meanwhile, the pile on my desk getting bigger by the moment. Perhaps I'll have to do some excavating today.

I think I need to lay low anyway, as I was accused (and perhaps rightfully so) of menopausal weirdness last night. Ha.

public confessions and rationalizations

I'm chismosa, a gossip, but it's more than what the word in English implies. Somehow, in English, to gossip, or be a gossip, implies the wholesale distribution of information about others, generally of a distasteful nature, or something to ridicule or even scandalize. Morally speaking, to be a gossip is not a good thing.

Therefore, I'll hide behind the word in Spanish, which still carries with it some morally reprehensible activity, after all, the mere act of lowering my voice to share a chisme is pretty much an indictment on the scandalizing nature of what I'm about to say. But it's more than that. Somehow, being a chismosa is also other unsavory activities, like eavesdropping.

Ooops. Busted there. Well, not literally busted, but my admission is kind of like busting myself. Publicly. I mean, here I am, telling you that I love to eavesdrop.

I have a habit (since forever) of letting my ears wander to other conversations, even while I'm having one of my own. It has nothing to do with being bored by whomever I'm tuning out, nor does it have to do with an insatiable urge to gather information about others. I think, instead, that it's a part of my imagination wanting to be fueled by the dramas that are unfolding around me.

Once, I sat in a restaurant with a friend, and we created elaborate lives and scenarios for the people around us based on snippets of conversations we overheard. Sick, I know. We created little mini-movies. It was great entertainment.

I was reminded of this while sitting in my (ok, we know it's the president's) office this morning. She showed up rather unexpectedly yesterday to reclaim her work area, and after freaking me out and then telling me I was welcome to stay, she showed up again this morning, disappeared behind closed doors, and then left again. That weirdness was followed by a troup of maintenance people showing up, under the command of the Vice President's secretary, to re-arrange the office.

I sat frozen at the computer, listening to the exchange going on behind me. They were there to move the desk over. About a foot. That required an army, complete with logistical advice, and near starts until the mission was accomplished. I couldn't pay for that kind of entertainment.

I love my life.

Aaaaaargh...it happened, the other shoe dropped

This morning when I got to my office, the lights were on and the door was unlocked. I went in tentatively, since the conference room is often used. Nothing. Nada, so I went through to the actual president's office.

Well, there she was, looking at me like "what are you doing here?"

After brief introductions, I basically had to explain my presence. Thanks Dean, for letting them know I was squatting in her domain. Nice call, chief. She had no idea.

Well, she was gracious, after all, it's the secretary who had the squatter! She was gracious, too. Nothing like inconveniencing the President. Any bets on how soon I'll have an office?

Logging out now...I have files to move. Meanwhile, feeling like the wandering jew.

Happy Birthday, Christy!

And where is she? Cavorting around Newton County on retreat. What a "different" way to celebrate Sweet 16.

I'm smuggling a box of cupcakes onto campus this morning.

July 12 of 12

6:57 am
on the road to work, praying a rosary for all of you guys playing along today

***

7:00 am

realizing that maybe driving in pumps not a great idea

***

7:28 am
arriving at work and parking in front of my favorite tree (pathetic, but brings me joy!)

***

10:00 am
class is finished, so I have time to catch up on the news, although, not quite sure why grillz are newsworthy

***

2:10 pm

random moment of the day, a student walks in to investigate my chairs (in the presidential suite). she claims to be a "homeowner" and needing to furnish the house. not quite sure what she wanted with my chairs, they are pretty ugly and cheap

***

2:50 pm

on a rescue mission to take Vic back to Tech to pick up her wallet, which she lost, and due to the star on her a** was recovered with everything in it, even the cash.

***

3:40

the name of the street not lost on her

***

4:00 pm

and who could miss an opportunity to pose in front of Tech Tower, while I was double parked and holding up traffic (not really, no one in sight)

***

5:10 pm

finally home, and LOOK, I can park in the garage (thanks to my honies that finally cleaned it out)

***

7:05 pm

browning some meat for dinner: burritos

***

7:30 pm

yummy, indigestion

***

8:54 pm

pleased with myself for figuring out how to post pictures to blogger when blogger doesn't want to cooperate.

Bonus Picture: HOLES

today is 12 of 12, get crackin'

I've been taking some pictures--some lame, some ok, and maybe, one will be amazing, who knows? I'll also experiment with a different format today, so we'll see how that goes.

and so it begins...inklings of the empty nest

Vicky got back from orientation last night, full of stories and excitement and enthusiasm for this new adventure in her life. It left John and me feeling the pinch in our hearts that very soon, too soon, she would be off to college and the growing snowball that will be her life, leaving us behind.

Sunday night we had one of those moments of clarity when we went to dinner after Mass. Christy and I heard John recover from giving the wrong number in our party, "Fi--uh, four." It was a sign.

Today we're back to four again, because Chris is at a weeklong seminar. Which just pours salt in the wound, because she'll be flexing those wings soon, too.

If I am to be true to this blog, then I have to go through with this post. If I'm going to be true to myself, I'll stop before my heart implodes.

Stay tuned as the adventure continues....

Gore/Lieberman all over again

We did it. After 4 straight losses in Hand and Foot, Christy and I announced our intention of embarrassing the sore losers, and sore losers they are. Tensions were running high as we whipped their sorry little butts, by 10,000 points.

It's a quiet evening on the southern front, as the boy has been exiled to do the dishes. If the victors get the spoils, the losers get the dishes. Except, guess who got stuck with the job all by himself.

Hello to my friends Mira and Jon

Just a little hello and welcome, and my condolences about the World Cup....

A week of excitement is coming up. Vicky just left for orientation at Tech, and tomorrow Christy goes in the opposite direction for a week at her favorite college, Oxford, leaving me to start classes tomorrow with no one to mock the weirdos.

Meanwhile, the men have been working non-stop on the basement, and while there is still a lot to do, there does seem to be an end in sight! I'd say about 3/4 of the way done with the big room. We did finish the garage and I'm parking my car in there again, but there's much to be thrown out still.

I gave up on the yard sale. I just made a trip to Goodwill, and a bunch of other stuff just got pitched. I'm amazed the trash guys took it up--we put out three containers over-filled. They are my heroes for carting it off.

Today's plan? More basement, and I have to prepare everything for the new term tomorrow. I've also been working on trying to show a slideshow within the post, but I have failed all attempts at html code (until Vic gets back) so here's a link to the Pastelito festivites. The long weekend in Miami, and then some shots back home at the horse park, waiting for the fireworks.

I'm moving to the projects, rich people bug me

So today, on the front page of our local newspaper, in a town where any number of crimes, or, GASP, some good things are happening, or at least, interesting things (see that on the same front page there's a blurb about one of our neighbor's seeking to convert their privately owned land for conservation) there's an article about whiny parents and their cheerleader daughters not getting to be on the football squad. I won't even poke fun of the high school, because that situation could have happened anywhere.

It turns out, that the football cheerleaders are an elite squad, i.e., you have to TRY OUT AND MAKE the competition team in order to be eligible for the football squad. In plain language, that means you have to be really good to be on the team. Um, duh?

This reminds me of a short story I read in high school, "Harrison Bergeron" by Kurt Vonnegut. Here's a link to a review, in case you're interested. It's a story about egalitarianism, and...dare I say it, what can happen in a society that continues to make everything available to everyone, regardless of talent, or drive, or skill. What is the point of achievement, if it isn't unique? What is the point of self esteem, if it isn't earned?

The thing about science fiction (which I love) is that it is brilliant social commentary without getting caught up in the problems of making enemies. You see, the enemy is usually so caught up in his agenda to notice the little ole sci-fi philosopher.

Blech. I have a foul taste in my mouth.

Another Friday, another diatribe

Let's face it, I have become cynical, mean, ornery, and generally intolerant in my middle age. Woe to the world when I get really old and lose the defeat button in my brain that is currently keeping my more vitriolic comments in check.

I realize that I can no more make people behave in a civil and appropriate manner than I can make pigs fly. Nevertheless, I still hope--yearn for the utopian moment when I can get through the day without encountering any egregious acts of willful inconsideration.

Not gonna happen.

We (lest I be accused of hypocrisy, include myself with the guilty) have become a society of rule breakers and "me first" proponents, never stopping to think that all of us can't be served "first" or that breaking this rule "just this once" translates to no semblance of order if everyone breaks it.

It is increasingly evident to me that we have raised a new generation for which law and order have no meaning. Please don't accuse me of being some wacky fascist--another accusation de riguer today. Check out this quiz--I'm all about personal accountability and limited rules. But, when most people think they are above having to wait in line, or behave in a considerate fashion, then yes, I do tend to have some psychotic leanings.

Just this morning, I had a woman walk into my office (regardless of the sign on the door) and ask me if I was a financial aid officer. My reply, no, was unsatisfactory to this woman, who then proceeded to make up information about the location and occupation of my office. I am the only occupant of my office. The President didn't like it--she works out of a bigger, better office on another campus. This moonbat wanted me to stop what I was doing (we don't have to share with anyone that it was a game of solitaire) to jump her to the head of the line because she knew that I could do it.

What? Rewind. She didn't want to wait her turn, so she figured that by catching me off-guard, that I would be tricked into getting her to the front of the line. I still can't believe it.

Once I kicked her out with a poor customer service scowl, I went back to work designing some last minute adjustments to my syllabi. I had to quit and go to lunch. You see, I have a glass door and a little tyke, no more than 18 months (and technically not allowed on campus) had his mother's keys and was scratching at my door! Yes!!!

Psychotic.

Let me just say that keys against a glass and aluminum door makes a lot of noise. Stop for a moment, and forget that my concentration was adversely affected. Momma didn't think Precious was doing anything wrong. Yes, because I always allowed my children to bang on furniture and doors when I was running errands with them. Imagine that I could be so backward that I might think about other peoples' property and work environment.

I wasn't mean, or ugly, or rude, I just went to the door and kindly, with a smile (was it too disingenuous--should I have scowled?) asked if Junior could move away from the door because I was on the phone (I lied, but they can't see my desk from the door). I got attitude for poking my nose in her upbringing style.

I went to lunch. Why fight? And yet, every time I throw in the towel it's another victory for the kooks.

In the world of gross, and super gross

Ran into this lovely site today. I think it's revolting, but the testimonials are very very sad. And some are really sad, in a terrible terrible way.

Check out these stuffed animals. You'll never guess what the stuffing is.

Ach. I have to go lose my dinner now.

Pastelitos for me!

Check back later for a report on how absolutely delicious and tasty they are (were- I did say I was gonna eat 'em).