September 12 of 12

Where I'd rather be at 6:30 am
alas, it was not to be today...

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Nevertheless, I could still be chipper this morning...after coffee at 7:15

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After dropping off the kids at school, stopping for a moment to admire the Stone Mountain Yellow Daisies. I guess they are a weed, but such a lovely weed! This is around 8-ish, as I head towards work.

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Of course, no morning commute is complete without a 45 minute delay thanks to cheesewagons everywhere. 8:30-9:00 am.

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Did a bold and crazy thing and started submitting my work for publication again. Perhaps I'll make a collage of all the kind rejection slips. At least the last one was actually addressed to me by name. Noonish? Who knows...it's finals week so I'm a bit time-afflicted.

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This is the view my classroom. Heavy construction is going on, so we are assaulted by noise, earthquakes, and noxious fumes. On a good day. This is at about 5:30 when my last class starts.

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By 7:30 we were starved. Somebody broke the rules and pulled out a giant bag of candy. As if I'd enforce it....pass the snickers bites.

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The commute home in the rain. Bleh. It took me 45 minutes to make a 20 minute evening trek. This is just after 8 pm.

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I got home at 8:30. Dinner was over. Hmmm. I'll remember that.

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So I had some make-shift nachos. It was filling. Sort of.

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Then I washed the cross country uniforms myself, at about 9. Why? Because I paid a lot of money for those two uniforms, and one of my wiseguys wasn't going to ruin two red uniforms by using bleach. That's why.

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Ah, finally my little smushy pillow...maybe a 5 minute nap will refresh me before tackling the foibles of posting pictures on blogger. About 9:30 pm

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BONUS PICTURE: BREAK

And finally, although actually middly, since it was in the middle of the day, I took a break and listened to a podcast.

12 of 12 tomorrow...today? The 12th!!!

If you don't know what I'm talking about, check out the mastermind's site, Chad Darnell.

Pretty much, just take 12 pictures of your day and post them. Then share the link so we can all see what everybody is doing. It's weird. It's fun. It's...cool.

Do it.

Oh, I forgot. There's a bonus picture to make it a baker's dozen. Take a picture of break. I guess what you do on your break, or a pause, or something. Of course, somebody will just take a picture of a broken vase, but go ahead and feel creative.

I have nothing pithy to say

I posted my Monday Musings over at Rosary Army. I put the finishing touches on an essay I'm sending to a regional magazine, so tomorrow I have to write the query letter and get it in the mail (duh, I write, I just never submit anymore).

Things around here are going well. It's the last week of classes so I'm a bit deluged with paperwork, but that, too, shall pass.

I have successfully de-cluttered the kitchen, which is frightening. I threw away stuff. Lots of stuff. It is so empowering. Tomorrow I intend to pitch anything that isn't moving in the bathroom. That should be loads of fun!

In the meantime, take this stupid internet quiz--which sportscar are you? I'm a Ferrari. What a relief. I was beginning to fear I was an Edsel.

I'm a Ferrari 360 Modena!

You've got it all. Power, passion, precision, and style. You're sensuous, exotic, and temperamental. Sure, you're expensive and high-maintenance, but you're worth it.

"Take the Which Sports Car Are You? quiz.

today's frou-frou moment brought to you by...

John, who doesn't understand the concept of less is more, so he dumped 4 times the recommendation of bubble bath into the tub. He ws run out by the bubbles again, when he turned on the jacuzzi and it exploded into a scene from the Brady Bunch.

I know I said I was done

but this was too good to be true. At least today's sightings have some safety measures. The guy on the sidewalk, incidentally, was spotted getting out of the chair and walking into his apartment. Confirmation that these are used as transportation. Man!

Star Trek lives!

OK, I'm a gigantic nerd. Accept it, I certainly do. Today is the 40th anniversary of Star Trek.

Wasn't Shatner, um, Captain Kirk "hot" back in the day? I choose not to see the bloated pictures of an old guy. Except, I suppose we all get old and bloated, huh?

Anyway, there are probably tributes all over the web today. While I admit to being a fan of the franchise, I've never attended one of the various conventions held for sci-fi freaks. Does that make me a lesser fan? Um, how about it keeps me in the realm of the normal spectrum.

Nevertheless, I admit to having dressed up in a gold command uniform about a hundred years ago when I was teaching yearbook. I do believe there is a picture, too, but you're never gonna see that here.

My real love was for Voyager, until "Boobs-in-Space" came aboard, and the series shifted away from Captain Janeway and became all about that stupid Playboy-Bunny-in-Space. I thought Janeway was a compelling character, conflicted, like all good heroes. Then the writers ruined it by having her do something that contradicted everything she had stood for: she went back in time to save Seven of Nine. Sheesh. I guess you could argue that makes her human. I think that makes the writers stupid. Just sayin'.

I'm over it. She's still my favorite captain.

Live long and prosper!

happy anniversary to us

Here is my knight in shining armor. After 21 years, the armor needs a little bit of buffing, but we have the lifetime warranty plan.

I gave myself a hug today

See my shiney sink?

Excitement as the students come in with their exams grades

My remedial students are streaming into the office, clutching their PASS notices on their exit exams for their course, and in the excitement, I deleted the post that was, in all honesty, probably way too long, so you, gentle reader, can thank them for saving you a dull long post.

I, however, will not spare you, and try to reconstruct what I was wailing about.

It's been a while since I mention good old Wheel Chair Man. The truth is, there are numerous sitings, scattered all over Atlanta. Vicky counts in excess of 15 in and around campus, and I see the usual suspects in the neighborhood and on the way to work. The truth is, I'm done with it--it has become so commonplace that there's no sense in always droning on about it. Let's just say I'm giving up Wheel Chair Man badgering for lent. Early.

Of course, I have to pick up a new habit to replace the old one, and a woman in Old Town has kindly stepped up to the plate and provided me with some morning entertainment. This woman power walks in the mornings. She is scantilly dressed (almost naked, or almost nekkid, depending on what she's in a hurry about) and she jay walks all over the place. I've seen her cross and recross the street at different junctures, so who knows what's up with her. What's crazy is that she seems to be carrying on a conversation with herself (I finally noticed the bluetooth--a status symbol for a segment of our population). Today, she was carrying on in such an animated way, with a dish towel waving it all over, that I thought she was being attacked by gnats or something. It was just an animated conversation.

I look forward to seeing her tomorrow morning.

Oh Rob!

Here's the link to yesterday's article at Rosary Army!

Weekend Update

Wow, a blast from the past--reminds me of SNL and Jane Curtain. Well, I'm just dating myself there...

Anyway, a delightful and busy weekend for us. I picked up Vicky very early Friday morning, and she came home for the cliche laundry duty. She told stories a mile a minute, and we had a pleasant chat before Ihad to go to work. she ran errands, visited John at work, and then checked out Jonathan and Chrsity for lunch. At that point we had to take the Deb and Flo show on the road to that culinary powerhouse, Casa de Waffle.

After that, it was pick up the laundry and back to school by 3:30 to get ready for the performances for the football activities. A show, a pep rally, and then non-stop ESPN action until the game on Saturday night.

We went to the high school game, which should have been a victory, but was a tie. I hate ties--they define nuthin'. The kids enjoyed their friends, the crowd, and every once in a while, some football, and I stayed on the visitor's side helping to train a new batch of parents for concessions. It was merely a warm up for the next evening.

On Saturday we arrived at Bobby Dodd at 4, like the good worker bees that we are, and immediately went into pre-game mode. Note, that our start time is 4 pm--kick-off at 8. That was the most parental fun I've had in some time at one of those events. One of the moms was just confused about the whole process, and so, everytime we got instructions, she was questioning everything. I should describe the typical attire of a person who has worked one of these games before, and this fine lady's get-up.

Me: no make up (you've got to be kidding), hair pulled back in tight ponytail. Long pants (jeans) to avoid sticky coke sloshes on the legs, thick-soled walking shoes with socks, light t-shirt.

Newbie: beautifully applied make-up (sure to run and splotch when the sweating begins), hair coiffed, curled and perfumed, pretty capri pants, sily tank top, and Manoloesque style flats, with a pretty bow (no sole, no socks). She was distressed when they gave her an X-L t-Shirt, and told her to tuck it in, and not roll the sleeves. Oh, and she had to tuck her hair into a baseball cap.

In spite of this caricature, she was great fun, and it is always a relief to find someone elese with a sharp wit to entertain us. Some time after halftime a large guy with the band came to get some food, and he was wearing the awful dinkle marching shoes (in white!) with white socks, and the white pants, which are cheapo polyester and have that awful bib so it looks good with the jacket, but looks atrocious without the jacket.She had no idea it was a band uniform, sans the identifying part (the jacket) so she was just amazed at the guy's girth with that particular clothes.

Because she is a classy lady, the only thing she said was, "That man sure has made an interesting fashion statement."

I told her it was a band uniform, and she was relieved to find out that he wasn't wearing it on purpose. Then she gave him credit for coming off the field and into the stands, "Well, it takes a man with a great deal of security to walk around wearing that." I guess so. I made a mental note to tell Jonathan that in a getup with white pants like those, tightie whities are not a good choice.

Anyway, Vicky was all over the tv that night, and she had a blast, by all counts. She popped in to get some food, and then disappeared back into the football euphoria.

We didn't get home until almot 2, thatnsk to clean up and then traffic.

Sunday was all about slumming, and today, too, could be a slumfest, except the priest woke our butts up this morning with one of his bizarre unannounced visitations. BAHAHAHA.

I think I will indeed slum it the rest of the day.

Crikey!

Steve Irwin, the Crocodile Hunter, died in what the media has described as a "freak accident." C'mon now. This guy has been courting death for years, to call it a freak accident is not very accurate.

I'd say, Darwinism at work.

I found him amusing, weird, and entertaining. I also thought he was over the top--but anyway, I guess if I was Australian, the Crocodile Hunter had to be marginally better than Crocodile Dundee, although, I'd have to let my Aussie friends have the last word on that.

Still, no one wished the guy any harm, and as is usually the case with thrill seekers, it's the family left behind to suffer. May he rest in peace.

Ga Tech will dominate (maybe)

but all I'm interested in is the half-time show! You can watch it, too. The game starts at 8 pm.





Ok, maybe I am a little interested in the outcome. But not a whole lot.

famous masterpiece recovered

Edvard Munch's famous painting, stolen a couple of year's ago, was recovered! Thank goodness, now I can sleep at night.



On second thought, maybe the scary old guy is going to keep me awake. You gotta wonder about Munch's mental health when he painted "The Scream."

I think my dad painted something like this, only maybe less psychotic.

cross country

So, an exciting afternoon full of injuries. Jonathan wiped out on his way to the meet. He showed up at the field covered in blood, because he fell in a briar patch. Brilliant. It sounds like something out of a children's book, briar patch.

Chris killed herself in the woods, and the coach pulled her out of the race, so today and for the next several days she will be angry because she's never Not finished a race.

Incidentally, that pic of Dion was actually a big hello from him to Vic.

And the rest is full of the usual suspects--the media was there; there's a secret picture of him denying me the exclusive interview I offered. His loss at an opportunity for a Pulitzer.

The youth minister showed up, and proceeded to mooch gatorade (OK, I offered).

Check out the sexy legs contest, and then some wise guy took a picture of me bending over. At least it was from the front.

for your entertainment

because nobody goes to college to study.

Try this. I like the windshield wipers.

Of course, it might be more fun to dress up as a superhero.

Pol Pot!!!!

is not dead. Made ya look.

Al Gore

This has nothing to do with Al and weird global warming psychosis. I was just wondering what would happen if people were doing a google search on him, and ended up here.

So sue me. I have nothing more entertaining to do at the moment. Well, there's laundry, of course. And my desk looks like a bookcase fell on it, but I did say "more entertaining."

As a consolation prize for coming, here's that famouse Snicker "Voting Booth ad". It gives equal time to bashing both Gore and Bush.

In fact, it really makes Bush look totally stupid. I guess that's fair for bringing Gore-lovers here.

Stuff I do

Some of you may know that I like to write. I may have posted before about the fear of writing, and the neurosis to write in spite of it. Over the years, I've entertained thoughts of writing The Great American Novel, finished a poetry manuscript that is gathering dust, and failed miserably year after year at the open call contest that Simon and Schuster runs for a Star Trek short story collection.

I also have a real novel that I haven't quite finished, and one that I have abandoned (but picked up again recently)that I was writing for Jonathan.

I did finally finish my writing textbook, and it's uploaded at lulu but I haven't opened it for the public yet. OK, I'm retarded.

In spite of all this, it seems that this blog is what gets my attention, some days better than others. It goes back to my roots as a young writer, keeping notebook after notebook of personal essays hidden away in drawers in my bedroom. I think sometime around age 13 I realized it was a diary, even though I could never bring my self to use the "Dear Diary" opening. It seemed to me, even as a child, so cliche and teeny bopperish. LOL, I was a literary snob before I achieved my present state of cynicism and ennui. Go figure.

Well, the blog's metamorphosis into this public forum started at one of the sites I've listed to the right of this entry. Ink 'n Doodles, founded by Rob Suarez (another link), is a nice little safe community for artistic expression. I started posting a personal essay there on Fridays, and it blossomed into a daily reflection here. So, in spite of promises to him that I wouldn't take those ruminations elsewhere, here I am posting them here, and not there! Sorry!!!

As life happens, one thing leads to another, and now I am writing a weekly column called Monday Musings, which is posted Mondays at around lunch time at an apostolate that I serve in various capacities. You can see the link for Rosary Army on the right as well.

That little challenge at Ink 'n Doodles grew into something a bit more tangible for me than just "being a writer." It sure is encouraging to see a by-line as validation every now and then.

Anyway, today's biographical moment is brought to you as a way to comply with a request from Rob. He asked that I post a link here whenever I post something elsewhere.

I won't backtrack, cuz then you'll all hate me, but most recently I published today's Monday Musings entry. I guess I will make my writing manual available to you next. Hope you enjoy it.

for those of you pressed for time...

You can learn how to fold a shirt neatly in moments. Of course, I imagine that time isn't all that important to you anyway, if you're following up and checking it out here.

I'm just sayin'.

medocrity reigns, what else is new?

John's grandfather spent the last years of his life perched on an aluminum chair with a makeshift desk/dinner tray facing the tv to facilitate writing letters to the editor after watching the evening news. It's a caricature, I know, but somehow, I feel like I've become the old gentleman. Only, in my case, it's a computer monitor that crackles with interference from my cell phone, and I'm much younger. Nevertheless, we share the same outrage. Here's a copy of the letter to the editor I sent this morning, in response to the school board's insane policy change to make it easier to get on the honor roll.

Rockdale County Public Schools' decision to lower the standards for achieving the honor roll borders on the insane. Every school in the county made AYP this year, and instead of capitalizing on that accomplishment and recognizing the merits of hard work and commitment to excellence, we learn that students will not have to work hard in order to achieve the honor roll. Instead, let's just make it easier to get it.

Am I missing something here? All the self-esteem in the world isn't going to help a kid with a mediocre grasp of academics. While I admit that earning one A and the rest B's on a report card isn't exactly mediocre, it isn't exactly stellar, either. It is what it is, a respectable report card. Instead of encouraging students to work a little harder to achieve the honor roll, RCPS would have them think it's good enough.

We are creating a culture of "good enough" and minimum performances, instead of demanding that our children excel. As parents, accepting this attitude from our schools makes us accessories in the dumbing down of our children.

Telling B students that they are honors material, while boosting their self-image, is a disservice to them in the long term. If you want to see what a self-esteem curriculum does to college freshmen, check out the graduation rates at our public colleges. Only 54 percent graduate within 6 years, according to the Winter '05 State of the System Report by the Board of Regents (http://www.usg.edu/pubs/sys_supp/2005/winter05.pdf). Our students are not prepared to handle the rigors of college curriculums. Their inflated grades don't need the additional damage caused by inflated egos.

The second part of the decision, removing conduct as a component of eligibility, further disappoints me. What message is that sending to our youth? The authors of this policy take their cues from professional athletes: if you've got talent you don't need to be held accountable for your behavior.

For a school system suffering from poor PR, you'd think these folks would be creating and implementing policies that address real needs in our community. Johnny might not be able to read, but when his poor behavior lands him in juvenile hall, he'll have his framed honor roll certificate to cheer him up.

Mickey's dog alone in the universe

Evidently revisionists have expanded out of the arena of history, and into the cosmos. Where is Carl Sagan when we need him?

Why isn't Stephen Hawking weighing in?

It seems that some scientists are in a hurry to get rid of Pluto as a planet. I guess that's a plus for Disney.

a movie review, of sorts

OK, so this morning I go teach my 7:30 in the freakin' a.m. class, which is usually a chore for me because frankly, I don't think about what I'm going to do until I get there. I mean, I have lesson plans, and such, but the spectrum of abilites in there is all over the place, so more often than not, I find myself punting.

Well, today, the last student giving oral presentations goes. At least I'm feeling confident that it's not going to bore me to death. Some were really painful, and the rest were merely adequate. But this chick does a presentation on how to make a lemon coconut cake.

After going through all the instructions, she reaches behind the desk and pulls out a finished cake. Sweet! She even brought milk and juice for an impromptu snack. Needless to say, I gave her an "A." (OK, she earned it, but the "visual aid" was a bonus).

We clean up, and proceed with the day's lesson--some torture on adjectives (comparative and superlative). Here is where I confess that I am a literature teacher, not a grammarian. If my participles were dangling I'd blush, because the only thing that comes to mind is a naughty comment.

Anyway, here we are struggling through the lesson, with me staying barely one step ahead of the class, when one of the guys in the back row starts making really weird sounds. I'm talking strange noises here. Strange enough to have people looking AT ME like I'm supposed to do something. The guy is having trouble clearing his throat, so I suggest that he go get a drink of water.

When he returns, he starts making even weirder sounds. I don't know how to describe it--it's like he's pushing air through his throat, only it sounds really painful. I look up at him again, and he has stuck his finger all the way into his ear and is wiggling it like crazy, like he's trying to scratch at it or something.

IT WAS A SCENE STRAIGHT OUT OF HITCH!!! He was living the gigantic allergic reaction that Hitch had to shellfish. Oh my goodness, I was about to die laughing when it occurs to me that maybe I should be doing something other than laughing. So, I ask the poor kid if he's allergic to coconut, and he doesn't know, but it is now painfully clear to everyone else in the room that he is.

I suggested that he go get some more water and work on flushing his system. In retrospect, maybe I should have just sent him home. Anyway, we all settle back down to continue the torture, when my department chair decides that today is a good day to observe me, so she wanders in and takes a seat NEXT TO THE KID!!!

He starts hissing like a Cobra again, and we're all used to it by now, so we ignore it. But of course, there's no way humanly possible that she's going to ignore it, so I tell the kid to go get some more water, and I explain to her briefly what happened.

So then I ask her if I'm supposed to write an incident report, and she gets this blank look like maybe she hadn't thought about it before, and so she says "No."

I don't know if I was expecting a yes, or what, because then I ask her what happens if he drops dead. I get the same pained look, only this time she says, "Well, maybe then you should do an incident report."

HA!

Well, I survive that exchange and go back to my office to post this entry. It occurs to me that it would be really funny if I find a picture of Will Smith from that scene in Hitch, so I do a lame Google search. The thing is, that I have to turn off my pop-up blocker in order to run a report that I need for one of my classes, and I had forgotten to put it back on. Bad mistake.

FYI: don't search for the combination celebrity + pictures if you don't have a pop-up blocker. I instantly got assailed by PORN. Nice. On the college server. The damn thing even reset my start page as some atrocious thing. I'm still panicked.

Do you know how quickly I can delete cookies, history, run a disk clean up and reset the start page? Yeah, turbo speed.

Tune in tomorrow to see if i still have a job.

A book review, of sorts

Well, after taking another break from posting here, it occurs to me that my lack of discipline centers on the fact that my biggest critic is gone. Alas, one adjusts to these things....

A little tribute to Vic, via the weirdest angle, comes from a little scene in The Lake House. Sandra Bullock's character is having lunch with her mother, and she notices that her mom is reading some old book (perhaps Pride and Prejudice? I think the reason I see that book everywhere is that somehow, as an English major, I have managed never to have read it. Go figure). Anyway, the mother explains that she reads books that her dead husband enjoyed, and somehow it brings her closer to him. OK, I thought it was sweet and sentimental in the movie, but you know, one of those scenes that initially contributes nothing to the story, and then looms in your own mind much later.

So I find myself straightening up some of the secret spots where Vic has hidden things (there's a threat looming in the air that a massive clean up may be under way with no warning) and I found one of her favorite books, Ella Enchanted. It's yet another version of the Cinderella fairy tale. For years I've seen her read and reread the book, but I've never been interested in reading it. When the movie came out last year, we bought it, and she became immediately disenchanted with it (heh-heh, I'm so punny).

Evidently in that most heinous of Hollywood acts, they changed the story to suit their marketing needs. Oh well. I liked the movie, so instead of packing the book away in a box, I sat down to read it. It is delightful! I loved this version of the fairy tale much more than the original story. Perhaps that's not saying a lot, because I adore the movie with Drew Barrymore, Ever After, and also liked Gregory Maguire's Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister. I guess what I really enjoy is the variation on a theme.

I can see why Vicky likes the story. It's not as sophisticated as Ever After, or as clever as Ugly Stepsister, but I can see why she finds the story so appealing. It's a simple case of love triumphing over adversity. You can't beat a happy ending. Perhaps she's felt a bit like Ella. Maybe she has a fairy godmother that I've somehow missed. Hmmm. At any rate, it's a sweet book, and one I'd recommend for little girls, and big girls.

I'm a slacker again

I don't have the boss around me cracking her whip and demanding an update. I understand she's having internet limitations at the moment in her dorm room, and my other demanding reader is on vacation at the beach. Together, they keep me posting. Otherwise, I just slink away and play solitaire.

So, in spite of not updating, quite a bit is going on around here. Several posts ago I complained, among other things, that our neighborhood roads looked like a jigsaw puzzle because last spring the county sealed cracks, but never got around to putting down new blacktop.

I'm pleased to announce that evidently, the gestational period for roads in our fair burg is about 7 months. We have newly surfaced roads in the development. That's real good.

And, to my great mirth, Cole is, in fact, dead. Before PETA and the rest of you offended by my callous disregard for this little animal, it's actually more directed at his owner and his weird ways. Just in case, I'll put up my lightening rod.

Meanwhile, John had the plastic stuff taken out of his nose. No more mockery of his sneezing with his mouth open.

Hatzel is world-famous

Ok, maybe not WORLD-famous, but South Carolina-famous. Yeah, my Hatzel, yearbook slave and master of all things Nica and connoisseur of Fritanga.

Few students make an impact on their teachers. Our fragile little egos think that we are the ones that are changing their lives. Anybody in this field knows, whether publicly or privately, that every once in a while we learn quite a bit from some students.

Those lessons can be humbling, too. In my case, I had the insanity of accepting a teaching positon in a subject for which my knowledge was negligible. Heck, what am I saying? I knew NOTHING about yearbook. It was the greatest fake of all time. Had it not been for Hatzel, and his sidekick Helix, who knows what would have happened? Certainly, instead of a lovely book, I would have put out a coloring book and been ridden out of town on a rail.

Possibly tarred and feathered.

I'd rather not contemplate the circumstances surrounding my lynching by 5,000 students.

Anyway, Hatzel saved my life, saved my sanity, saved my job. All that for the price of feeding him every once in a while. Oh, and a ride home in the Vomit-Mobile.

Well, my precious Hatzel has grown up and become a real-life journalist. How about that? It turns out he really knew what he was talking about between mouthfuls of carne asada and queso frito.

I threatened to put up a picture of him as a geeky high schooler. I could let him believe that I respect him too much to do that. After all, anybody doing a search on him would turn up this blog. I'll let him believe it, too. That is, until I really do find his senior picture...I know it's around here in a box somewhere.

Meanwhile, here's a link to one of his spots.

NOT 12 of 12, but it could be

A lot has happened since Saturday. Vicky was gone Saturday and Sunday for band camp. I did get a call Saturday afternoon that she made the saber team, so instead of flags she'll be throwing swords in the air. I sure hope she catches them all.

The concert featuring Righteous B was last night. It was interesting. I mean that in a good way. The kids had a good time. We got the priest to do the Fabo, and he was bouncing a bit. Funny. Very funny.

Then, this morning I dropped Vicky off at college, and went back later in the day to drop off her stuff and help move into the dorm. I took her and a friend to lunch, and then it was goodbye. You can read my thoughts about it here.

This montage captures some of those moments between yesterday and today.

August 12 of 12

5:50 AM
My day started helping The Infirm One change the dressing on his nose. Gross.

12:00 AM - 6:00 AM
Had Sleepless in Seatle playing on a loop all night. Can't say it was a restful sleep, what with The Infirm One making weird gurgling sounds all night. Gross. Again.

10:00 AM
Tucked him in for a little nap. Mostly so I could get some stuff done.

11:30 AM
I'm off to teach a class. It's turning out to be a yucky day.

11:35 AM
This is the neighbor with the crop circles (from yesterday's post). Here is one of his random weed patches. Very weird. It's just a rectangle of unmown grass.

11:55 AM
One of the random lights I hit on the way to work. Check out the stupid signs. My dad the compliance officer would have a field day issuing citations in Atlanta. Notice that all the Cynthia McKinney signs are missing. I bet she got miffed and had them all removed.

5:00 PM
I got a text message during class to give Vicky a call when I had a chance. So I did, at a red light. She was reporting that she made the Saber Team for the band. Very cool. She's amazing at throwing things in the air. If only she'd learn to put things away.

5:40 AM
American history homework. Joy.

7:00 PM
A friendly game of Hand and Foot. Girls against the boys. The girls are the best team. Everybody knows that.

7:30 PM
Our friend Jeff stopped by with fresh-baked apple pie from the queen of apple pie. He was commisserating with The Infirm One, right up until he got unnecessary details about the gunk oozing out of the nose.

8:40 PM
Things looking terribly bad for the girls team. We are still the best, but....

8:55 PM
The guys pulled a victory out after all. Or, we took pity and let them win. Either way, here are the champs. For the moment.

10:50 PM
The bonus picture: HOMAGE. This is my homage to blogger because I got all the pictures posted in one shot. Miraculous.

phase II, bloody

I'll spare you the big picture, but bloody nose boy is feeling great, demanding Mt. Dew, and annoyed the hell out of the nurses in recovery until they released him.

No more packing in the nose, now it's just a gauze to catch the continuous bloody dribble. Gross.

Gross. Gross. Gross.

And he's stoned. That's damn funny.

So today is nose job day

and to introduce a little levity into my anxieties, we'll be doing a before and after shoot of the vict--um, patient. While it is medically necessary, it's still a nose job. Vanity, thy name is John.

So here's the pre-op picture, channeling C. Everet Koop himself:

Correction: COLE, as in Cole Porter

As if I really cared. Think about it.

R. I. P. Coal

Our neighborhood has experienced some crazy things. For example, we all know Reflector Man and his antics. He used to take his dog into everybody else's yard to do its business. We suspect the offending pooch is dead, as we've only seen RM out by himself. It's kind of like this Fidel business. Is he dead? Is it Memorex?

Then, last spring, the neighborhood was disrupted by county paving trucks. Our roads were in disrepair, and although the rerouting and roadblocks were an inconvenience, we were happy to be getting resurfaced roads.

Not!

They didn't resurface anything! Instead, they patched and sealed cracks. Now our roads look like a giant jigsaw puzzle. It offends me daily.

Then, a few years ago we had a neighbor that grew corn in his front yard. He had a corner lot, so one could argue that he was growing corn in the side yard. Whatever, anybody driving past his house would see the corn. It was a bizarre situation, so we started calling the old guy Farmer Dude because he had a tractor and wore overalls. He even had a straw hat. When he put the house up for sale we were sure it would never sell. Frankly, it didn'thave much curb appeal, what with the dead corn and all.

After about a year, a younger couple bought the house. The first thing they did was raze the cornfield. Then, this guy started exhibiting weird lawn behaviors. He planted banana trees. In Georgia. Then he planted new grass, but never cut it. Finally, he cut it with one of those antique push-movers that don't have a motor. We quickly dubbed him Farmer Dude II (Farmer Dude, Too--I crack myself up, thankyouverymuch).

This guy has to be our most eccentric neighbor to date. He mows the lawn in little sections of geometric designs and right angles, with clumps of weeds left to grow wildly, and then he'll come back on a different day and mow them down, only to leave some other patch in its natural state. It's a mystery.

Finally, John the Conversationalist approached Farmer Dude II and discovered that the guy works in a box all day, with no windows or sunlight, so when he gets home in the afternoons he does yardwork to reconnect to the world. OK, I can buy that.

It still doesn't explain the crop circles.

with apologies to farkers everywhere

Here's a sample of the brilliant minds at Fark.com, courtesy of my brother the maniac. Here's the link.

ran across this quote

Life should NOT be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, chocolate in one hand, wine in the other, body thoroughly used up, totally worn out and screaming... Damn, What a ride!!

Made me think. Maybe I'll find it offensive later, but at 6 am in a conservative mood, wearing pantyhose for work, in a heatwave, it sounds good.

Today's topic is ... feet

Yep, kind of a gross topic, even for me, but this morning I was startled into the observation because I had to wait about 10 minutes before I could get into my classroom. I was loaded down with stuff, so I I planted myself outside the room. There was nothing to do but people watch -- my favorite activitiy anyway.

And that's where feet come in. Feet are gross (tm). Some feet are very well taken care of, and others are just plain disgusting.

Let me share with you what precipitated today's bizarre rant. I saw a woman that was dressed up. She looked really nice. Then I looked down. She was wearing pretty leather flipflops, with pedicured toes. So far, so good.

However, the nails on her toes were so long, they curved over the edge of the sandals. GROSS! Who does that?

Of course, I spent the rest of my time observing.

• some people have very flat feet. It looks like their feet splatter across the sandals.
• some people should never expose their toes.
• other people have very lovely feet that look like those perfect feet in ads.
• some people have plain feet that are neither impressive nor offensive. I aspire to this category, as I think being nondescript in this aspect of my life may be the way to go.
• people in heavy sandals have "gripper" toes that seem to lurch out like they are grabbing at the air. That's pretty funny to see.
• and finally, some people have pretty dirty feet. I wonder if we should go back to the biblical practice of washing feet? For some, perhaps not a bad idea.

I think I will invest a little time in a pedicure. In the meantime, you can bet I'm keeping my feet under wraps.

Rah-Rah, Sis-Boom-Bah!

In spite of a somewhat rocky start, Christy and Jonathan have one week of school under their belts. Only 175 more days to go.

Notebooks, graphing calculators, mechanical pencils, and the assorted package of new underwear litter bedroom floors, because, well, they indiscriminately litter their bedrooms with their stuff. But anyway, there is a charge in the air (and on my credit card) from all the excitement. Whatever happened to getting a couple of packs of notebook paper, a 3-ring binder, and some yellow pencils? These kids have gone high-tech.

Let's not even go into the cost of Vicky's dorm room, which, to be fair, she's pretty much paid for herself. She can't contain herself either, and the big move is this coming weekend.

Sensing a big change, the siblings have been doing a lot of "together stuff." Jonathan was even allowed a "V" concession today, but he chose not to go with the Deb and Flo show and catch a movie.

Meanwhile, the heat is still oppresive around here. Cross country practice has been moved indoors. How does one practice running 5k indoors? I had the same question. It turns out that it is one quarter mile from the front of the school to the back if you go along one of the corridors. Yep. They run inside. It's pretty crazy.

Everything else falling into the routine. I need to go sign another syllabus.

lazy saturday (well, I have to go to work)

So it's 9:30 and all I've done this morning is throw in a hunk of roast into the crock pot. I have to teach my afternoon class, which means I'm outta here in a couple of hours, but I've wasted the last hour playing around on an internet face recognition thingie that Vicky discovered. You upload your face, and it matches your features.

I look like Nicole Kidman. OK, right. I also look like Margaret Atwood. She's a writer, so somehow that pleases me, except that maybe it wasn't all that flattering after all. But, there's no denying the messy, frizzy hair.

And then...it said I look like Peter Sellers and Elvis Costello. I WOULD HAVE BEEN BETTER OFF DOING LAUNDRY! At least I would have had clean clothes, instead of a complex.

Not to be denied the mockery element, I ran a picture of John. He came out looking like Daniel Radcliff (Harry Potter) and Dean Martin. DEAN MARTIN! I tried again. Peter Ustinov. Yeah. That was better. If he thought Nicole Kidman was in left field, then I wasn't stopping until I found something as awful as Peter Sellers. To my joy, Alfred Hitchcock also came up for him. There. I'm done. I'm a happy camper now.

Give it a try here. It's free.

a week of sadness, joy, and in Miami--elation

The week, and the school year started off with the tragic news that one of our football players died of heat stroke. It's a sad, sad day for everyone. I didn't know the young man, but any sudden and accidental death of a young person is shocking to everyone, and leaves me weepy at the thought of the family, and the young life snatched away.

In a different reaction to death, we also lost our beloved Fr. Charles, who died Tueday morning. He was approaching 90, and so very very anxious to go to heaven that mixed with sadness at losing his presence here on earth, is the joy that he is very happy now. God rest his soul.

And of course...

Who can deny the elation at Castro's apparent demise? The bastard's days are numbered, finally. It's surreal to be watching it from afar, in our second exile, away from Miami. I hope the people keep it peaceful. I fear that there might be a Romanian-style uprising in Cuba which would be tragedy upon tragedy.

Meanwhile, of course, the speculation continues. Is he dead? Is this a cover up? Is it a test run?

I think, in the end, regardless of the man's condition, that this has the potential to set into motion what the people in that island prison must ultimately do, and that is demand change. That's the tricky part. There are scores of exiled Cubans ready to support the movement. How will that be taken by the Cubans in Cuba?

I anticipate that there will be a need for a great deal of healing for both sides. After all, for the exiles, they left a Cuba that no longer exists. In a way, it's like the old Americans remembering their "Father Knows Best" period in the 50's, and their nostalgia for a by-gone era. Those days are gone, for Cuba as well as the United States. What's left is a country mired in the middle of the 20th century, while the rest of the world is racing in the 21st century.

There will be much more than rebuilding the beautiful cities that are in disrepair. Constructing a building, fixing wiring, applying spackle and paint are the easy cosmetic solutions. What has to be rebuilt with great care and compassion is the psyche of the Cuban people.

What kind of damage has been done to a society that was once used to an open market? What of commerce? It's essentially a welfare state, where hook ups and connections have replaced fair trade. Survival has certainly created some odd bedfellows, and a value system that may no longer complement a democracy. For most, communism (okay, let's call it what it really is: TOTALITARIANISM) is all they've known.

What kind of damage has been done to the integral unit of society, the family? For almost 50 years, it has been the mission of that despot and his regime to break up families, to cut ties that are greater and more wholesome than the repressive government. When you have no means of income, and no means of support, only then will you submit to the Caesarian God he has created for himself. Thankfully, Rome fell, too.

Finally, what damage has been done to the spiritual lives of a people? How has an atheist state molded the morals and values of a once predominantly Catholic nation, that understood God's people, and our place in the universe? How has a lack of real brotherhood broken the human spirit? How has a lack of hope fomented despair?

These things are the real challenges faced by the next generation of Cubans. If it has taken 50 years to bring a society to its knees, how much time will it take to nurture it back to health?

Pray for strength. Pray for cooperation. Pray for vision, and compassion, and stamina. Pray for peace.

Pray.

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.