Says the girl with three remotes...

I'm really happy right with myself right now.

I watch far too much television.

It is my firm belief that most of what is wrong with today's youth is the omnipotence of the idiot box.

Wow... put those thoughts all together and we've got the theme of tonights crazy, long and complicated entry.

I've been doing a statistics project with my seventh grade math kids where they have to survey their classmates to gather data, and then find the mean, median, mode and range. Part of the assignment was to independently generate a question. At least one student in each of my classes chose to ask their classmates how many televisions they had in their homes.
I was shocked by the results of these surveys. My students have, on average, 3.5 televisions per household. (Keep in mind, 70% of these kids have their breakfasts and lunches paid for by our tax dollars, and most live in apartments.)
One of the things I've learned about my students this year:
They get home from school, and they watch TV.
They eat dinner, and they watch TV.
They get ready for bed, and they watch TV.

Therein lies the tragedy. I firmly believe that television is responsible for thwarting intellectual growth of our youth. I consider myself the perfect example. I honestly feel as though far too much of my life has evaporated as I cast aside the notion of autonomous contemplation and, for hours, allowed my mind succumb to whatever might be playing on tv that day.
The same thing is happening to our kids. They have no desire, no curiosity, no encouragement for independent thought. They seek only entertainment. They seek neither inspiration nor knowledge. It truly makes me sad.
In seeing this disheartening trend in our youth, it made me realize how much of my own life I have simply wasted in the same manner. I don't want to go so far as to say I am trying to set a limit for myself, but I am. I’m thinking no more than 10 hours per week... I know that seems like a lot, but I once watched 10 hours a DAY....) It's almost like an addiction. Tonight, I'm going to choose not to warp my brain. Tonight, I choose not to watch mindless sitcom reruns.

Instead, tonight, I choose to rant about the television instead of watching it.

And THAT is why I am so pleased with myself. I chose not to watch tv night, and instead, make this heartfelt, albeit slightly inebriated, supplement to my diary.

I just wish I could get my kids to want to make that choice as well...

Except for that whole inebriated thing.

An exercise in grace

Yesterday I was at school late, and didn't head home until 6:30 or so. It's a good 18 miles home, and the little needle on my gas gauge was doing a little dance below the empty line, so I stopped for gas a few blocks away from school, right in the heart of lower class suburban America. Since most of the clientele at this gas station is normally pretty trashy, I was feeling pretty uncomfortable. A woman in high heels and dress pants is probably aberration at this particular locale.

It was a lovely day, and I had my sunroof open, as I often do on lovely days. (Sidebar - this has been about the most gorgeous spring that I can remember in recent history...) Anyway, when I stopped at the pump, I fished around for my debit card, then got out and started pumping, locking the door as a force of habit. Therein lies the blunder that began my aptly named exercise in grace.

Shortly after I began pumping the gas, I realized that my keys were still inside, stuck safely inside the cup holder. Damn. Fortunately, the sunroof was still open. (Thank heaven for small favors...) Looking around, I identified the only thing long enough to stick in through the sunroof and flip open the lock, which was one of those windshield cleany-wiper thingies that soak in a mess of dirty water next to the pumps. Grabbing it by the wiper end, I tried to appear confident and poised as I reached through the sunroof with the wiper and smoothly popped the lock open...

This would be the end to my story if my car didn't have a goofy panic system them starts blaring when you unlock the door from the inside. Now, instead of being just locked out of my car, I was locked out with the alarm blaring at full blast and my aura quickly fading from poised to sheepish.

After about 30 seconds of horrendous screeching, the other patrons at the gas station started giving me questioning looks. I stood there, pretty much befuddled and stupefied, wondering what the hell I should do. When the two men standing by the dumpster drinking their 40 oz's started laughing at me, I realized that I was probably creating a spectacle unlike anything they'd seen. So I decided to give them their money's worth. I kicked off my high heels, climbed on trunk of my car, crawled up to the sunroof, and dove head first into the belly of the screaming beast. Of course my butt and legs were hanging out of the roof as I fished around for, and eventually found, my keys. I contorted myself into a position that I was unaware I was capable of and put the keys in the ignition (putting the key in the ignition is the only thing that will silence the alarm at this point) all the while with my ass hanging out of the sunroof.

It would have been nice to jump in my car and immediately take off, but the pump still had about a quarter of a tank to go. With my dignity only slightly scathed, I let the pump continue. As I stood there, I tried desperately not to make eye contact with the people around me. At least twenty years later, the pump cut off, and finally I returned the nozzle. I started to get into my car, but I thought I heard, ever so softly, the sound of applause. I turned around to discover that the guys with the 40 oz's by the dumpster were apparently pretty impressed with my maneuvering.

Gentlemen, I'm so glad I could make your day.

George Hamilton, who...?

I've spent a lot of time outside recently. Granted, most of it has been lying by the pool exerting very little energy, but I have done a bit of volleyball playing, walking around, etc...
Anyhow, the point is that I woke up this morning and looked at my ever darkening skin in the mirror and thought, "Wow. I look quite tan. Cool."
At school today, several kids made comments regarding my glow. However, never once did I hear the word tan. I heard a lot of reds and pinks, which I resent a little. (This is about as brown as my naturally rosy-pink Scotch-Irish epidermis gets.) I heard a couple oranges, and even a dark. But absolutely no "tan." I even heard a "Miss, your nose is kinda purple..."

Damn. Next weekend, I'm gonna stay inside.

fun with the 5-0

I'm sorta dating a cop. It all started innocently enough...

Well, not really. I was on my way home from lunch in the Village, complete with a very large pitcher of Sangritas. I was feeling good, to say the least. I was rushing because I couldn't wait to get back to Xanadu's Awesome Pool, where more margaritas were awaiting me.... but I digress.

Houston cops have an interesting way of pulling you over when driving downtown. They merely stand in the middle of the street with a radar gun in one hand and the other hand up, and then point to a nearby parking lot. They are rather difficult to spot, (especially after Sangritas) and I accidentally drove by this one. I realized I needed to go back, so I drove around the corner and back to where they were camping out, which conveniently gave me time to inconspicuously dump out the alcoholic beverage I had in the cup in my cupholder.

When I made it back, this particular cop read me the riot act. Not only did I pass him, but I was going 13 miles over the speed limit. I thought I was pretty much screwed. Of course, though, I was a little on the tipsy side, so I bravely and got out of the car and started to negotiate. Apparently I negotiated well, because I got off with a warning. So I hugged the cop. Twice. I'm surprised he didn't smell the hint of tequila.

Apparently cops don't get hugged very often. This one started up a conversation, and the next thing I know, he's asking for my phone number. Being the slightly inebriated idiot that I am, I gave him my actual number. Not even two hours later, he called me.

Damn. By this point, I'm at the pool with a beer in one hand and a vodka drink in the other. I had at least a thirty minute conversation with the guy, which I kinda remember. I recalled that I did make plans with him for the next day. Again, damn.

So now it's been less than two weeks since I he pulled me over, and already he's:

• brought me a rose (twice),
• brought me breakfast,
• introduced me to half his co-workers (Just FYI - sitting at a table with six cops and myself, law-bender extraordinaire , is NOT my idea of fun),
• invited me to his softball game to sit in the dugout with him and meet all his friends
• has asked for a picture of me to put in his locker.

All this on top of several MAJOR red flags:

• he smokes (cigarettes, which I ABHOR)
• he's 45
• he's been married three times
• he doesn't drink (Apparently he's allergic alcohol. Allergic to alcohol? What a travesty...)

Hmmm. How do I get out of this? I really don't want to follow up my Adventures with a Psycho Ex-Boyfriend with Adventures of a Psycho Cop.

Oh, but how he worships the ground I walk upon. Maybe I should play it out just a little longer...

Addendum: After this guy sent me a text saying "My heart feels empty, must be because I'm missing you," still less than two weeks after we'd met, I cut this guy loose. Faster than you can say, "Put your hands on your pride and step AWAY from the creepy guy."

It all started with a cop bringing me breakfast...

April 15. Tax Day.
An average day, or so one might think. It’s Friday afternoon, I’ve come home from work, and I’m looking forward to an evening of doing very little.
Or so I thought.

After getting my obligatory Friday afternoon social calls out of the way, I try to call back a neighbor whom we’ll call Lady Wine. Twice this week, I’ve gotten messages from her to call back, but every time I try to, her line is busy. Around 6 or so, I decide I’ll wander back down there to see what’s up. We shoot the breeze for a while, with Lady Wine suckin’ down her wine like a pro. I’ve had a relatively sickly week, and decide I really don’t want to drink a whole lot, so half an hour and a bottle of water later, I’m on the couch with my evening newspaper and my book, ready to veg on the couch until 10, when I can crawl in bed and get a great night sleep…

After about 8 pages, I get a call from my dear, sweet, flaming gay neighbor-friend, Vodka And A Splash Of Soda. VodkaSoda has had a difficult week of unemployment and wants to vent about his most recent trauma. Apparently, due to his FOURTH DWI, VodkaSoda is not allowed to renew his lease. Of course, feeling sympathetic, I invited him over to hang out until his newest boyfriend came to pick him up and take him to the Gay Bars. Not thirty minutes after that, Lady Wine gives me call because she is livid about her paycheck… apparently it wasn’t as much as it should have been.

Eight o’clock, and grudgingly, I realize I’ve got instant party in my living room.

Roughly Eight Forty-Five. Lady Wine and VodkaSoda decide my alcohol supply is simply insufficient, so they make a power hike over to Spec’s (the largest liquor store in North America is Two blocks from Xanadu….) and pick up some vodka and mixers. On the way back they found KT, my favorite kindergarten teacher slash neighbor, and the party really was on.

Nine Fifteen. I play bartender for a while, and mix up a pretty snazzy batch of beverages… Vodka, cranberry, pineapple, splash of lemon-lime club soda… It’s a hellafied beverage, if I do say so myself. I had exactly one and a half. Not even a half, really. It seems, that while KT and I were holding a civilized conversation over the course of MAYBE twenty minutes, Lady Wine and VodkaSoda had killed the ENTIRE bottle of vodka. They were mixing their own drinks… half was my pre-made (and delicious) concoction in a glass, the other half straight vodka. Damn.

Ten o’clock. Being the terminal party fouler and geek that I am, start warning everyone that when this clock strikes at Eleven, and then I’m going to bed. Lady Wine is several sheets to the wind at this point, as is VodkaSoda. In fact, Lady Wine gets a little weird because she keeps asking, “Who is that?” “Who is that?” And she’s referring to ME! It was definitely time for Lady Wine to go home and go to bed.

Ten Thirty. Lady Wine and VodkaSoda slosh out of the apartment, and KT and I are wondering if perhaps we should walk them home. Nah, we figured. They’re professional drunkards. They’ll be JUST FINE. We giggled at them a little. They were both pretty wasted, but this was normal for both of them. The plastered leading the plastered… no big deal.

Again, or so I thought.

Not five minutes later, I get a frantic phone call from VodkaSoda. I had no idea what he was saying; I just heard words like “fell” and “garage” and “emergency”interspersed with random obscenities… I ran out to the garage, only to find Lady Wine lying on the ground of the parking garage, whimpering, her hair a bit matted with blood. Apparently, Lady Wine was having a difficult time walking from my building to her building, and fell and hit her head on the concrete. When I got there, VodkaSoda was screaming incoherently at 911, something about, “Oh, who cares what the cross street is, just get here…” I took the phone away from him, said to the operator, “Tell me what information you need.” The operated released an audible sigh of relief and quietly uttered, “oh, thank god...”

Ten Forty Five. Props to the Houston EMS. Not four minutes after I hung up with 911, we heard a fire truck coming around the corner. They came in to the garage and started attending to Lady Wine, who was still verrrrrry intoxicated and only semi-coherent.

Eleven ish? Lady Wine is all bundled up and ready to go to the hospital. KT drives, and the three of us follow the ambulance to the hospital.

Eleven fifteen. We meet up with Lady Wine at the ER, but are banished from her side by the Triage Nazi. All three of us must wait in the waiting room. Before we trudge out, the EMTs are sniffing around KT (who is exceptionally HOT, btw) and trying to figure out exactly how wasted their newest patient is… I think I heard a pool being established on Lady Wine’s BAC…

Eleven thirty. Finally, we are allowed back to see our friend. Unfortunately, there is a two guest maximum. KT and I decide to take turns hanging out back there after the irritated nurse bitched at us a couple times. After about five minutes, I went to go find KT, who was on the phone. She said she come trade out with me as soon as she’s off.

Eleven Forty Five. KT comes to trade with me. For a nanosecond, there are three of us behind the curtain. In response, the uber-bitch nurse calls security and has KT and I removed.

Yup. I got kicked out of an Emergency Room while pretty much damn near stone cold sober on a Friday night.

Midnight. KT and I laugh it off, and leave the hospital. KT knows VodkaSoda will be calling her in a bit anyways, looking for a way home. KT will head back after Lady Wine gets released. But WHAT THE HELL? The two SOBER people just got kicked out the hospital, while drunk-ass Lady Wine lies whimpering in bed with her drunker-ass companion VodkaSoda tries to soothe her and picks on the nursing staff about having to try twice to draw blood.

We figure the hospital made their choice. Let them deal with it. I’m going to bed.

And THAT, dear Forty, is why all the lights were on, the door was unlocked, and there were drinks scattered everywhere when you got home.