Beyond Xanadu

Let me introduce Flip Side

2008-08-03T20:06:00.004-06:00

I recently cleaned out a desk that I'd had as a kid growing up in my parents' house. Not long ago, I had commented that I was thinking about getting a desk for my "junk room" and my mother proffered the desk up for taking. It's not like we're going for a "look" in the junk room, hence the name "junk room." We're going purely on function here, and free furniture is a nice bonus. Her one caveat: I was required to clean it out entirely and either take my stuff or throw it away. (Congenital packrat-ism: my mother plans to replace the desk's spot with file cabinets full of 3rd grade lesson plans she hasn't taught in 10 years. Plus, she's retired.)

Anyhow, in the desk, I found this essay, marked with an "A" and a note that Mrs. B, my 5th grade teacher, had written telling me that she thought I was an excellent writer. And now I feel I must share the beloved irony:

Flip Side

September 7, 1988

Let me Introduce Flip Side

I'm 10 years old and have two brothers. One is eighteen and wants to be a pilot for the navy. He went to N.M.M.I. to prepare himself for the navy. My other brother is fifteen plays J.V. football for KHS. He almost made varsity, but he sprained his knee. I'm 60 inches high, have medium lenghth {sic} hair of sandy blonde. I wear size ten shoe (and nines too sometimes) and have brownish eyes. (every time I ask people what color eyes I have I get different things.) I have a dog, springer spaniel, named Springer, who's supposed to be a show dog but didn't have good ankles. We have a tortise {sic} we got when my oldest brother was 4, and snake we found in the woods. (My dad brings home a live mouse every friday for her.)

I like to play soccer tennis and soccer. I love to read like to play with babies. I collect porcelian minitures {sic} and i have a lucky penny collection with 239 pennies in it. (I also hate to keep my room neat!)

My favorite subject is Composition even though i dont do well in it. I like to think creatively. My best subject is math. I've always had trouble with handwriting and neatness.

I'd like to be a lab scientist (like my dad) or sergeon {sic}, artist or cartoonist. I don't want to be a teacher because my mom says its to much hassel {sic}. I just hope I'm healthy and happy.

A Day of "Dick's"

2008-07-08T08:53:00.004-06:00

Dick's, also known as Dick's Last Resort, is an interesting breed of eating establishment. They pride themselves on "service with sarcasm" and proceed to don many a patron in curious looking butcher paper headwear. The environment is typically jovial and entertaining.

D and I had attended the Dick's restaurant in Las Vegas last summer. It was a blast. There was a large server named Taco who walked around, unabashedly showing off his bright pink thong, and encouraging patrons to press the "o" (as in Taco) tattooed across his belly. By pressing the "o," the guest was rewarded with a round of extremely vocal "ooooooooooo"s from the surrounding guests, who had all been well trained throughout the course of their meals. The butcher paper hat messages included things like, "This hat covers my bald spot," and the companion hat "My bald spot is bigger!" We also witnessed a few hats about breast size and other borderline raunchy things, but kept it mostly in check, as this is a family restaurant.

Last week, lunchtime was upon us, and we ventured in to the Dick's on the Riverwalk in San Antonio. This was a monumental error in judgement. There were four of us: Me, D, D's niece Traci, and Traci's 10-year-old daughter Britany. Judging by the dark atmosphere and callous host, I knew this wasn't going to be quite the same, but we ventured on in anyway. I knew things we're going to be sketchy when we saw a woman wearing a butcher paper hat emblazoned with "I will be blowing chunks later tonight," and her male companion wearing a hat that read, "Hi, I'm Chunks." (Okay, it's funny, but this is supposed to be a family restaurant...)

Upon seating ourselves at a table, we waited at least 10 minutes for the server to show up. When he finally graced us with his presence, he stood menacingly before us, a squirrelly little man with a frizzy mini-fro and really bad teeth, probably due to a wicked crack habit. Intimidated by his generally negative attitude, we began asking questions about the menu, only to be rewarded with a dramatic roll of his eyes. "What do you think comes with the f*cking sandwich? What normally comes on a sandwich?" As person with some fairly aggressive food allergies, I thought this response was unwarranted, especially considering we HAD A TEN YEAR OLD AT THE TABLE. He seemed completely oblivious to his consistent dropping of the F-bomb around poor, innocent Britany. (Britany wouldn't even say the name of the restaurant because it was a bad word.) STRIKE ONE.

We worked through that debacle, and Squirrel Man proceeded to take our drink orders. As I often do, I asked for water with no citrus. I tend to say "no citrus" as opposed to "no lemon" since limes are significantly cheaper these days, and many restaurants are using them instead of lemon to garnish water glasses. Squirrel Man had a field day with this, insulting me and and my use of "citrus" as opposed to "lemon" and claimed that NO ONE in the food service industry EVER garnished their water with lime and I must be a total social degenerate. Additionally, Traci ordered tea, and asked for sweet 'n low. He acted like we had asked him to climb to the polar ice caps to retrieve the little pink packets, when in actuality, they were sitting 10 feet away at the bar. He never did bring them, and D eventually wandered over to the bar to get the sweetener. STRIKE TWO.

After another significant wait, we finally did get our beverages. Both Britany and I had ordered glasses of water. Mine came looking crystal clear. Hers came looking like he pulled the water out of the river (aka drainage ditch) flowing outside the front door. It was brown and cloudy, but Britany sipped it anyway. She immediately spit it back out and told us that it tasted funny. I gave her my water, and she was contented that the other glass tasted much better. We waited for Squirrel Man to resurface, and when he did, he threw a fit, claiming they had both come from the same tap, that the glasses were merely different colors (which they were not), and that we were just trying to make his life more difficult. At this point, I was getting fumed. I calmly explained that yes, we knew we were at Dick's, and yes, we expected "service with sarcasm," but there is a substantial difference between "service with sarcasm" and just plain being an asshole. He got in face and responded with, "Well, I'm just an asshole." STRIKE THREE!

Although he reluctantly agreed to change out the water, I had had enough of his bullsh*t. I got up from the table with the enormous glass of clear water in my hand, walked over to where he was standing, and dumped the entire glass on his head. (he ducked, so I didn't get him very well. In retrospect, I should've gone underhanded like they do in movies.) As I stormed out of the restaurant, I spoke with the manager, who agreed that Squirrel Man's actions were not consistent with the "Dick's" philosophy.

I went on to enjoy an adult beverage and solo meal and at a very nice Italian restaurant across the river, while D, Traci and Britany enjoyed very thorough service for the remainder of their meal. (Ironically, the waiter at Italian restaurant brought me water garnished with a lime as he greeted me at the table. I took a photo with my phone and sent it to D.)

At the end of our 4 day adventure, when asking Britany what her favorite part of the trip was, we heard about the river rafting, and the wild animals poking their heads in the car, the waterslide at the Hyatt Wild Oak Ranch, and the playground at Hemisfair Park. But mostly, we heard that one of her favorite parts of the trip was when Flipside dumped the water on the waiter's head.

I would tend to have to agree.

I love my rainbow flipflops

2008-06-27T23:40:00.005-06:00

Not long ago, i made the break and unearthed my technologically dysphoric self long enough to get a facebook account. I've been teased for it by a few friends, but i do enjoy being able to keep in touch with people. The multitude of "applications" is obnoxious, but hey, they gotta make their money somewhere.

This tool of "social networking" has helped me to become more unfettered by my ubiquitous self-consciousness. Today i even let the (facebook) world know that I was considering attending the 30th annual Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, and Transgender Pride Festival and Parade that will be taking place this weekend.

Now, if you know me at all or have read anything I've written, you will know that I do NOT profess to belong to one of these categories. (I'm sexually ambivalent - i fell in love with a person despite of the genitalia, not because of it...) Here's the thing. I used to hang out with the gay crowd in Montrose ALL the time. It was fun to be a straight girl around gay guys. I felt a whole lot more comfortable hanging out at JR's pre-relationship than I do now.

But I really, REALLY want to go to Pride this weekend for one reason and one reason only. I have the most AWESOME pair of rainbow flipflops. I think I can handle being labeled a lesbian for the weekend if it means I get to wear my flipflops.

Superficial, whatever.

The Spectrum

2008-06-22T00:04:00.001-06:00

I started writing a book, but I don't think it's going to take. This is the gist of what I wanted to say in one of my as-yet unwritten bestsellers.

I believe that sexuality has a sliding scale.
There are currently 5 definitions in which to fit every individual's personal sexuality.

1) Straight. We know this one: the man prefers women, the woman prefers men. Simple enough.

2) Gay. Man prefers men.

3) Lesbian. Woman prefers women.

4) Bisexual. Man or woman prefers either men or women. I hate this word. It has terrible insinuations and implies promiscuity.

5) Transgender. Usually man (but sometimes woman) feels as though he or she has been born in a body of the wrong gender.

Somehow or another all 18 cajillion people on this planet are supposed to fall squarely in to one of these 5 categories. I find this simply impossible. Its like trying to categorize all of mankind in to one of five clearly defined ethnicities or even better, one of five clearly defined shoe sizes.

Here's where the sliding scale comes in; Imagine a spectrum if you will. At the one end, you've got your reds. These are the people that are 100%, without a doubt, dyed in the wool heterosexuals. The men want women and only women. The women want men and only men. Nothing else has ever crossed their minds, not even once.

At the other end, you've got your violets. These are your 100%, can't do anything about it (though throughout the years, sadly, many have tried) were born that way homosexuals. These are the people who grew up knowing something was different about them, and may or may not have known what was different about them. My girlfriend, D, for example, began proposing to her sister-in-law with the rings that come out of a gumball machine at the age of 3. Every trip to the gumball machine revealed a new ring to be presented to her brother's then girlfriend, now wife. D claims she probably went through over a thousand of the tin rings over the course of those early years. She knew she was not like the rest of the world, but tried anyways. She dated a few boys in high school, but did not fully embrace her sexuality until college. Many, many homosexuals feel this way. This how God made them, and this is how they are meant to live their lives.

I fall somewhere in the middle of the spectrum. I refuse to call myself a lesbian - I am not a bright violet who has always known there was something different about me. I enjoyed relationships with men, and quite frankly, should anything happen to D, I'd have to say that I'd begin looking for a partner with a penis when I decided I was ready to get involved with someone again. Not that I wouldn't be open to another relationship with a woman, but I really can't see myself hanging out at Chances trying to pick up chicks. If I must fall into a label, then I've created one of my own: Sexually Ambivalent. I fall in love with the heart and soul of a person, rather than the definition of a person by his or her genitalia.

I wonder if it will catch on. Maybe I should call Ellen.

The sweetest thing

2008-06-17T07:45:00.002-06:00

Yesterday, two little old ladies, Del and Phyllis stood before the mayor of San Fransisco and got married. They have been together for 55 years. Fifty-five years!

Yeah, the gay thing kinda weirds people out sometimes. I used to be one of them. [I STILL have no desire to EVER go to a melissa etheridge concert again (scaaarrry...)]

Chances are, the extreme right will figure out a way to change it back, but it amazes me to read stories of couples travelling from all over to marry after 20, 30, 40 or more years of loving each other. (Unlike Massachusetts, California has no residency requirements.) Even my uncle hinted at me that he and his partner of over 25 years may even head over the border from Arizona sometime soon.

I don't care who you are, the most conservative of conservatives, how can one not see how sweet it is that two little old ladies, who have loved each other for fifty five years are finally able to unite themselves in that love? How can it not be? Love is love is love. You can't help what kind of package that love comes in...

10 months later, I still dislike Hillary Clinton...

2008-06-17T07:39:00.004-06:00

...But it's been damn close to a year since I wrote anything here. I've been thinking about doing this for a while, but I think its time to resume the therapeutic process once again. I plan to go through and filter out some of the more meaningless mumbo jumbo, leaving mostly the gems behind. Admittedly, there area few gems. (check out Birthday Bash...)

And, yes, I still dislike Hillary Clinton, though not as vehemently. However, it does make me want to vomit that D drives around with that damn sticker on her car window, even though Hillary lost the nomination. ("The sticker doesn't have a year!" she says. Argh!)

So here we go...

Besides the fact that I can't stand her...

2007-08-06T09:09:00.001-06:00

I believe Hillary Clinton as president is the worst thing that could happen to our country right now. I've got my personal reasons, and despite my current "lifestyle," I still feel like a republican at heart. But the following train of thought is irrefutable, no matter your political leanings.

Let's think about this for a minute. Our greatest international challenge right now? Radical extremist Muslims, Al-Qaeda, etc. Now let's think about some of the tenets of the radical Islamic faith. (Not all Muslims, just the ones who hate us...) Where do women rank with these wackos? Somewhere between the sludge in the sewers and the homeless three-legged mutt that begs for scraps. Women are not to be taken seriously. Any progress that we might otherwise make on this front could never be made with a woman at the helm of our nation. She would never be taken seriously.

While I think it would be great to have a woman in the white house sometime in the near future, I firmly believe that NOW is NOT that time, and Hillary Clinton is not that woman.

A letter to Wayne Dolcefino and the local ABC affiliate I will henceforth be boycotting

2007-05-11T14:35:00.000-06:00

So maybe you've heard about this heinous story. Maybe not. My letters have already been mailed.

To Whom It May Concern:

You should be ashamed of yourselves.

In case you were unaware, education is not a field for everyone. Teaching requires a sense of dedication and commitment not required for other occupations. Teaching takes heart. Teaching takes being spit on by a student, getting called a “bitch,” and then having the strength of character to come back the very next day with a smile, to encourage and support that same child who would rather be doing anything else than sitting in your classroom.

Teachers do not choose their profession for the glory. Teachers certainly do not choose their profession for the financial gain. We are the last remaining stronghold of hope for many, many children.

A huge problem I find with the media is the constant need to find someone to blame. When something goes wrong, the reports immediately turn to “who can we blame? Who is at fault?” For some reason, your ignoramus of an “investigational reporter” has chosen to place blame on some of the hardest working, most dedicated individuals left in our society. Some of those individuals may have stumbled along their path, but they persevered until they attained success, a quality not often found in our youth, and one that is certainly not being emphasized at home. How can you blame them for continuing to work until they’ve achieved success? What message are you sending to our kids? That if you fail at something a few times, you might as well give up because some day the media will tear you down for your determination?

If you are looking for someone to blame, why don’t you start by looking at some of the children’s parents? More than half of my 7th grade students cannot tell time on a traditional clock. Most of them have never read a book that wasn’t required reading for school. I have some who have never turned in a homework assignment the entire school year, despite repeated phone calls home. Why is this happening? Because to many parents, their child and their child’s education is in no way a priority. I talk with my students. I hear what they have to say. Many of them don’t even see their parent every day. They go home unsupervised, they watch some TV, play some video games, and hang out with their friends. Many of these kids live a life in which their parents are at no point taking an active role in their education.

Education begins and ends in the HOME. If a child has no encouragement or reinforcement from their parents, why should he or she care that he or she is earning a 44 in my class? Why should our kids care about their education if their parents don’t? Parents: Open a book with your children. Talk with them, not just to them. Care about them: their development, their character, their future! But for God’s sake, don’t go blaming their teachers because the schools can’t miraculously fix what you did to them by ignoring their development the majority of their lives.

So what was the purpose of your story? To humiliate us? Embarrass us? Destroy our fortitude? Quality educators are retiring or leaving for other careers at an alarming rate because the education field has become too challenging. The children have become too unruly and disrespectful, the strenuous standards have become unattainable without parental support and, and as an added bonus from the media, we are now rapidly losing the respect we deserve. I once slept well at night because I knew my job mattered, and because I care about the lives of children who might not otherwise be cared about. I’m a role model and a confidante.

And you have the audacity to tell me that I might not “make the grade.”

Sincerely,

Ms. Flipside
7th grade math teacher

My fingernails are finally clean, though

2007-04-02T10:12:00.000-06:00

I stayed home today because I can barely move.

I woke up yesterday, thrilled because I finally got to assemble my pot project - one I have been looking forward to for nearly a year. (I found this thingy at an antiques shop in a touristy little fringe town, but I needed to wait until spring to plant anything in it.)

I woke up eager to start, having aquired the plants in advance, Iwas able to jump right in. I guess my girlfriend wanted to play with dirt, too, because all of a sudden, we had decided we needed to have a flower bed in the backyard, too.

While she dug up the sod, I built my flower tower. (How you ask? Well very carefully, that's for sure! Har har... No really - its a cool little pole-like gadget that you basically string the pots on... I fell in love with it the first time I saw it.) Anyhow, she spent most of her time doing hard labor, whereas only a fourth or so of my time was spent doing any heavy stuff. If anyone should've been down for the count, it should've been her, not me.

Eleven hours and only one additional trip to Lowe's later, we had: my amazingly cool little pot project with at least twelve varieties of blooms, a few other freshly potted plants, and, of course, lovely a 15 foot flower bed complete with 3 gardenia bushes, one spiffy new hibiscus, and one formerly potted veteran hibiscus.

It feels great to have accomplished so much, but I really feel old today. I have this back injury from over 10 years ago (a herniated something - sound like an old person yet?) that still incapacitates me once in while, usually when I do something stupid. I hadn't thought I'd been that stupid.

Maybe 11 hours was a little stupid.

So here I am, where one hard day's work sends me hobbling stiffly toward the emergency pain killers...

Ugh.

But isn't it all so pretty?

Look under "B" for "Best Seller"

2007-03-28T20:30:00.000-06:00

I have always wanted to write a book. The only problem has been that I have had no clue as to what to write about. As a teacher in a very low socio-economic part of town, I often wonder what shocking tales I could relate about the awakenings I've had, and how I really feel as work my ass off to reach these children. My experiences have led me to firmly agree with the girl who mailed her post-secret postcard under the title of "FREEDUMB: 'I believe apathy and self interest will be the death of our nation and it will happen sooner than anyone can imagine'"

I've often said that I could write a book about these tales and call my book something stupid like, "What's wrong with U.S., and how do we fix U.S.?" My biggest issue was that I didn't know how to fix us.

Then I saw a video, (which for some reason, I am unable to link...) featuring Roy Beck, in which he outlines one of the hugest problems in the U.S. - uncontrolled immigration. If you have 15 minutes to kill, copy and paste to watch it {http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=4094926727128068265&q=roy } and you'll find this video to be a dramatic, eye-opening wake-up call.

It's clear (at least to me...) how much these issues relate. As to just how clear, you'll know when you get the advance copy of my manuscript... be on the look out!

Birthday bash

2007-03-26T15:11:00.000-06:00

Disclaimer: this post is in NO WAY, SHAPE, OR FORM meant to offend anyone. I love everybody, and this story just cracked me up. Hopefully no one will take offense.

I'm a germ magnet. If there is a bacterium, virus, protozoa, or fungus that could potentially make me ill within a 10 mile radius of my location, there is no doubt that I will contract some sort of infliction. Whether it’s the projectile vomiting that usurped my visit to see Reba McIntyre at the rodeo last month, or the Great Dane-style cough I developed with the bronchitis cultivated during my trip to Seattle a few weeks ago, I often find myself feeling under the weather. Even my girlfriend claims that I am “the sickest person” she’s ever met. Whether its chalked up to that evil random virus that nearly killed me when I was 19 and consequently instigated the crapiness of my immune system, or the fact that I work in a tightly enclosed space with many grubby children who also tend to carry disease, I have simply learned to accept the fact that I get sick more often that the average person.

However, my immune system, or lack thereof, is not the purpose of this entry. My purpose is to tell you about a birthday party, and a delicious cake.

An old friend of mine and his wife recently held a birthday party for their adorable 2-year-old. The theme was Jojo's Circus, and all of the adornments were coordinated with the Jojo theme: the cups, napkins, tablecloth, balloons, even the expensive bakery cake, which was hand-frosted with the circus theme, not airbrushed like many you see these days. At the party, my girlfriend and I stood around awkwardly for a while, as having not brought an ankle-biter to the festivities made us feel somewhat out of place. Munchies were consumed, gifts were opened, and finally, the cake was ready to be cut.

Both of the child's grandmothers were present for the fete, and appeared to be in charge of the cake cutting. Grandma #1 asked Grandma #2 if she would like a spatula for the serving. Grandma #2 replied no, the knife was wide enough to serve the purpose. (Sidebar: at last year's party, the memorable First Birthday party, Grandma #2 had gotten impatient waiting for the child of honor to dig in to the cake. The child had spent considerable time dragging finger after finger through the frosting, tasting a bite here and there. Grandma #2 wasn't having it. She grabbed the child's hands and pretty much shoved them into the cake in order to make the appropriate mess that a child at his or her own first birthday party should make. It was an awkward moment, but humorous nonetheless....)

Anyhow, Grandma #2 proceeds to slice the first few pieces of cake, and despite her earlier claims that she did not need a spatula, ended up using her fingers to support each slice before it made it to the plate. At one point, no plate was available, so instead of putting the cake back down on the tray, she held the slice in her hand while setting down the knife with the other hand and using that hand to secure another plate. I was a little disgusted at first, but I just assumed that obviously, she would have washed her hands first. Then, after about 4 slices, Grandma #2's fingers were getting a little sticky and full of icing. So she did what any one else with icing filled fingers would do. She licked them clean. And THEN, she proceeded to keep slicing and serving cake with her saliva coated fingers. Every 4 or 5 slices, she would lick her fingers clean, and would continue to do so until nearly every slice had been distributed.

My girlfriend and I watched in horror as we shared a a mutual shock.

When it was our turn, Grandma #2 presented us with our choices,"White or chocolate?" My gut instinct was to say, "Which ever one has less of your spit on it..."

But I didn't. Instead, I graciously took a piece, scarfed it down, and soon cut myself another slice(no spit on that one...) The cake was delicious.

That was three days ago, and I haven't gotten sick yet. Here's to hoping that all those illness-carrying microbes drowned in the sugary sea of frosting.

saying goodbye

2007-02-11T16:25:00.000-06:00

My grandmother is 97 years old. Over the past few years, she's been a little frail, but her mental acuity is astounding. She can recall a tale from 1935 and tell it with such stunning accuracy that it would make your head spin. She reads the newspaper every day, always does the word search, and knows more about the epic-romance-slash-mystery-novel genre than any person I've ever known.

On my birthday last year, the last day of December, her health made a turn. Her bowel had become convoluted, and she underwent surgery to fix it, as well as removing her gall bladder and appendix. Since then, she has spent her time either in the hospital or in a nursing home to "recover."

It looked good for a while, but now, everything is caving in at once. She has pneumonia, is in congestive heart failure, has open infections, and is so weak she can't even feed herself. My uncle, her caretaker, has told me to "brace myself" for the worst.

We were planning a trip to visit her this summer. We were going to drive to Arizona and stay with her for a week while my uncles took a well deserved vacation. It doesn't look like that is going to happen.

We went to visit last summer, too. We wore her out, taking her to the movies and shopping. We spent no less than a week bonding with my grandmother, yet somehow, the only photo I have to remember that trip is a picture of my grandmother admiring the lingerie in Lane Bryant. No family photo of us with grandma, no photos of my uncles and her. Just the lingerie shot.

My grandmother is dying, and I’m falling apart, crying every day. I never imagined it would happen like this. I imagined she would simply die in her sleep, happy and comfortable in her own bed. I imagined I would get a call one random weekday, letting me know that she was gone, and I would bawl my eyes out, and it would be over. I never imagined it would be this agonizing, drawn out ordeal. I can’t even talk to her on the phone because her hearing is so poor. I can’t even tell her how much she has meant to me.

I've never lost anyone in my family before, at least not that I remember. My mom's parents both died by the time I was 6, and my dad's father passed away long before I was ever born.

I'm trying not to fall to pieces. I love you Grandma. I wish I'd been a better granddaughter.

But we'll always have Lane Bryant.

dazed and confused: a closer look at denial and distress

2007-02-10T10:48:00.000-06:00

I'm having an identity crisis.

Okay, well, technically, I've been having an identity crisis for well over a year now.

As I've grown up and am now pushing my extremely late 20s, I've dated a lot. With the exception of one boy I dated in high school and early college, I never really felt like I was in love with anyone that I dated. My relationships rarely lasted longer than 6 months. I just figured I hadn't found the right guy yet. I assumed when I least expected it, the right guy would take my world by storm, and I would just know that he was the one for me.

The right guy.

Last fall, I celebrated the one year anniversary of when my girlfriend and I first started seeing each other. I was leaving the karaoke bar where we were hanging out, and before I knew it, she followed me out the door and she kissed me in the parking lot. From that moment, I knew my world would never be the same. I fell in love, and it certainly happened when I least expected it. She took my world by storm, and somehow, I just knew this was it for me.

It still shocks the hell out of me, but here I am, madly in love with a girl. Friends have told me that I shouldn't be so concerned with the label, but I don't have a choice. Society labels me a lesbian. But I refuse to be one. I REFUSE.

I still think Matthew McConnaghey is the hottest creature alive, I still over-accessorize, I take far too long to get ready to do anything, and I refuse to leave the house without makeup. I've been to a Melissa Etheridge concert and felt so out of place that I wanted to cry. I refuse to watch the Comets or any other WNBA team. I carry purse with 18 kinds of lip gloss inside, and primp every time I use the restroom. Rosie O'Donnell still bugs me quite a bit, and uber-butch women creep me out a lot. And I certainly don't want to watch the parade of naked breasts that was installed on my screensaver by the somewhat butch Sponge of a woman who once lived in my guest room.

Part of my crisis also lies within the fact that I can never picture myself being with any other woman. I grosses me out a little. But then again, the thought of being with a man again grosses me out a little, too.

And of course, there's the fact that I cry each time I think about the fact that I'll never get to have that first dance with my daddy at my wedding, or have him walk me down the aisle. I'll never get to plan the soiree with mom, and fight over seating arrangements and invitations. (I know we've covered this before, but it's a biggie...)

It still shocks me to the core. I'm completely and totally in love with a girl, and I plan to stay in this for the long run.

But don't you dare call me a lesbian.

It's not a popularity contest. their voting by you're qualifications

2007-02-02T22:17:00.000-06:00

Recently, I was nominated for my school’s teacher of the year. Not really a big deal, just someone else in the building must think highly enough of you to nominate you.

Although I had no delusions of winning, this being only my third year and first eligible year to run, I submitted my application for candidacy, complete with three very well written essays. My writing received compliments from many who read my submission. (As well it should have – I worked and reworked those essays until they met with my total satisfaction.) I was quite proud of the results, and despite my inexperience, the literary masterpiece held its own as it was posted on the wall with the other nominees’ submissions.

The eclectic crowd of contenders included my air-headed department chair (who turned in her application complete with grease stains), an art instructor, a health teacher, a literature teacher, a PE teacher, and the two language arts teachers who made it to the run-off.

Again I reiterate that I had no delusions of actually winning. (Despite what some might call my clear verbal superiority…) I must also mention that I am quite sensitive to the mutilation of the certain grammatical basics. For example, I cringe when I witness the likes of “your cool” or “it’s you’re turn.” It physically pains me. I’m also not rather fond of the “there, their, they’re” triple threat that baffles far too many of us.

In less than a week before the elections, one of the language arts candidates sent an email proclaiming “your the best.” I cringed and sighed, and tried to shake it off as what was hopefully a fluke. A few days later, the second language arts candidate sent an email to the entire faculty mentioning that “students should be in there classes” after a certain time. The author of the latter error ended up winning the honor.

Did I mention that they were language arts teachers?

I had actually decided to vote for the art teacher, as it is most likely he’ll be moving up to administration next year, and this was his last chance to win. (That, in addition to the fact that he’s a fantastic teacher, and goes far beyond the call of duty in his services for the school…) Ironically, shortly after I cast my vote this morning, he alerted me to the winner’s egregious grammatical error that I would find when I checked my email.

I knew I liked him. I’m glad I voted for the art teacher. If nothing else, at least he has his grammar.

tears

2006-12-16T05:22:00.000-06:00

Last night I went to a wedding. When it was time for the bride to dance with her father, I bawled my eyes out, knowing I'm not ever going to have that moment.

Then I came home and pretty much cried myself to sleep, knowing that I've I've given up everything I thought I ever wanted for the love of my life, who came in the most unexpected of packages, and is everything I never knew I wanted, and more...

I'm ridiculously happy with my relationship. I hit the jackpot when I found her. But sometimes it's just so hard to be the one in love with a girl.

the scarf

2006-12-14T22:32:00.000-06:00

Today I ran errands after school... typical Christmas insanity. This morning, it was a tad chilly, so with my short-sleeved shirt, I threw on this really cute fleece scarf that my Secret Santa had given me, not because it was that cold, but simply because the scarf matched my outfit perfectly.

After school, it was probably 75 degrees out. Definitely no need for a scarf, but it wasn't uncomfortable, and I just hadn't gotten around to taking it off. Every time walked through the door of whatever store it was at which I had stopped, I would wish that I'd remembered to leave the damn scarf in the car. You know people were looking at me and thinking: "Dude. It's 75 degrees out. Lose the scarf."

And it's not that I didn't realize it was 75 degrees out and wearing a scarf. I just kept forgetting to take it off. And I kept saying to myself. "Dude. It's 75 degrees out and I'm wearing a freaking scarf."

The angriest I've ever been

2006-11-02T09:47:00.000-06:00

I should be sad today. I am sad, but mostly I’m angry. The cruelty with which some people can live their daily lives infuriates me beyond comprehension.

My grandmother and the only grandfather I’ve ever really known married before I was born. They had been high school sweethearts in the small town in Canada where they grew up. Early in the Depression, my grandmother moved to the US to find employment, and the two drifted apart. The both met and married the spouses they would have families with, and were both eventually widowed. (My biological grandfather passed away while my father was still a teenager.)

Anyhow, when they met again in 1976, not long after my grandfather’s first wife Violet lost her battle with cancer, sparks flew once more. When Grandpa Eric proposed, he had told my grandmother that he wasn’t letting her get away from him ever again. They married in the summer of 1977.

They lived happily for many years as old age crept up. They spent time living in both Canada and the US, but once they were too feeble to maintain their traveling lifestyle, they eventually settled in the small town in Canada where my grandfather’s children and grandchildren lived, not far from where they had grown up..

Both of them nonagenarians, my grandparents had endured their share of health problems. My grandpa Eric had had several strokes and survived a bout of lung cancer, though with only one lung intact. As his age neared 94, he would lose control of his bowels, and have frequent dizzy spells. My grandmother did her best to care for him, but the time came that she could no longer do it by herself. She talked to Eric’s family to see if they could help find an assisted living situation they could all live with. His children did not like this idea at all, thinking she should be able to care for him alone. (The phrase often repeated about my grandfather's health was that he had one foot in the grave, and the other on a banana peel.)

About this time, one of Eric’s son discovered that his father and my grandmother had stashed away a respectably sized nest egg. Totaling around $250K Canadian, the money was joint funds that had been accrued over the nearly 30 years they had been together. Eric’s children were previously unaware of this sum, and decided that the decades my grandmother had spent with him must have been some elaborate ruse to take all his money when he died. They called her a gold digger to her face. All for what amounts to less than $200K in American dollars.

Eric’s sons basically then strong-armed their father to cut my grandmother off. Eric had lost some of his mental faculties, and went along with what his sons requested. My grandmother felt overwhelmed – men whom she had seen as her own sons basically told her to sign over the rights to her hard earned pensions and investments. Not realizing what was happening, she did what she was told. After all, these people might as well have been her own children. They were family.

My grandmother contacted my father and my uncle, and after several of their visits back and forth to Canada, thousands of dollars in lawyers’ fees, and one set of broken hearts, my grandfather’s children achieved their goals. A settlement was drawn up, and my grandmother ostracized from her home, her friends, and her “family.” There was no divorce, but it was understood that she was no longer a welcome member of the family she loved, and was essentially forced to leave the only home she knew.

She came to live with my uncle (and my other uncle) in Arizona, and my grandfather stayed in an assisted living community near his children in Canada. His children had convinced my grandfather that my grandmother was deserting him, and the last words he spoke to her were unkind, to say the least.

That was just over two years ago.

Grandma still has some friends that she writes to in Canada. They hear from each other every few months. Two days ago, my grandmother received a letter from one such friend, who happened to mention how sorry she was to hear that Eric had passed away.

My grandfather died on Monday, October 9, exactly three weeks before my grandmother received the letter from her friend. She had been a widow for three weeks and did not know it. Eric’s family didn’t even bother to tell her.

My uncle found an obituary for my grandfather online. My grandmother wasn’t even mentioned. “Eric Samuel Mitchell, beloved husband of Violet (1909-1976) and father of Harold, Barry, and Beverly… passed away October 9, 2006.”

My grandmother has been flooded with emotion: heartbreak, and anger. She’s putting on a brave face, but I know she is feeling hurt and betrayed.

I suppose although he may not have realized, my grandfather’s children caused him to break the promise he made to my grandmother the day he proposed. He had let her get away.

And I firmly believe there is a special place in hell for the callous bastards who broke two old soul’s hearts, all for the sake of a few thousand dollars.

A measure of success

2006-10-18T09:54:00.000-06:00

It’s funny what people notice about the people around them. Some people notice faces or clothing, or even body size. I guess I’m weird. The first thing I notice about other people is their hands.

Waiting in line at the grocery store or the dry cleaners, I notice look at people’s hands. Are the fingers long and thin, or are they short and stumpy? I check out the fingernails… the well manicured, the greasy, the artificial…

What I notice most is people’s jewelry, or lack thereof. I always seem to notice that fourth finger on the left hand. Why it is that I am so intrigued by others’ marital statuses is a source of curiosity for me. I guess I’m driven by my own picture of success.

To me, true success is true happiness. True happiness can be found by finding someone to share your life with. Finding someone to share your life with means marriage. Marriage means a wedding ring. Therefore, success = jewelry.

Many people are unhappy in their marriages. I do know this. To them, that band may represent a prison, or a deep regret. However, the optimist in me likes to think that most of them are ridiculously happy, and feel the same way I feel about the person I have chosen to spend my life with.

I wonder if anyone has ever looked at my hands and thought that I was unsuccessful. I guess it doesn't matter, but it still makes me wonder.

In the mean time, I need to re-teach myself: Success ≠ Jewelry.

9/11

2006-09-11T19:43:00.000-06:00

I just came in from the back porch, where I’d been relaxing in the blissful post-summer-stormy evening. While outside, I watched a jet flying low across the sky. Five years ago today, that didn’t happen. Five years ago, the skies were empty. FIve years ago was a sad, strange, eerie day.

About half of the kids in my advisory class this morning didn’t know the significance of today’s date.

I spent the first 15 minutes of my school day having to define 9/11 for the next generation.

I felt this incredible load… how does one explain the gravity of that day, the day that has become our generation’s Pearl Harbor, that day that the world stopped…

To be the one to try to teach to a bunch of kids, who only somewhat vaguely remember that day in the fall of their second grade year, exactly what that day was like…

The gravity of my role in their lives came crashing down around me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And then there's this.

It's been only 5 years. Sponge (the girl that's been staying in our guest room for the past few months... I call her Sponge because right now, she has only a 50% success rate in actually paying the measly pittance we're asking in rent each month) just rented United 93. She's already seen the Oliver Stone movie with Nicholas Cage. She can't get enough. When I got home from my exhausting day today, all I wanted to do was relax in the peace and quiet of my own home. Didn't happen, because when I got home, the TV was blaring with one sensationalized story about 9/11 this and 9/11 that.

That's what my problem is. I don't have a problem with the stories, with the historical significance and the facts of 9/11. I want to learn as much as possible about that day. I want to know the about events that led up to it, the people involved, the aftermath it caused. And I can read about it and research it and try to understand the best that I can.

What I hate is the sensationalism that has become so commonplace in describing 9/11, so much so that the sensationalism seems to supercede the historical value of the information. There's a fine line between conveying information and sensationalizing it.

At some point in time, the two will ineveitably merge. The battle of the Alamo was a tragedy unlike any other in it's time, and no one really knows exactly what happened inside the mission that day. We try to understand the best that we can, and we've even got John Wayne and Billy Bob Thornton in their cinematic efforts to relay the information, the history of what happened that day. Of course, there will be some sensationalism of the facts. It's been nearly two centuries since that day has past. The historical information and the sensationalism can safely merge.

But in our case, it's been 5 years. Stick to the facts. Give me a documentary. Let me hear witnesses' recollections. But don't give me a fucking movie. Not yet. Our children need to hear about the real 9/11... the real life tragedy that occured.

My biggest fear about that day is for the kids in my advisory class, and for all the kids who don't remember what they day meant.

I fear that the only 9/11 they will really ever know is the 9/11 they absorb from a Hollywood production.

Saturday nights in Suburbia

2006-08-26T20:52:00.000-06:00

Usually my weekends are occupied with "us" time, but this weekend, I found myself in the posession of a other-halfless Saturday night. I was pretty excited at the prospect of hanging out with some pre-"marriage" drinking buddies, namely, my friend VodkaSoda.

I hadn't heard from VS in quite some time. I was pretty convinced that I wouldn't ever hear from him again, but then he called me out of the blue about a month ago.

VS has a alittle bit of a drinking problem. He has somehow managed to acquire four DWIs. Sometime last fall, he was stumbling around drunk in front of the recently aforementioned South Beach. I've seen VS stumble as he's been ridiculously intoxicated, and I'm not at all surprised that he managed to get slapped with violation for Public Intoxication. Aparently, getting a PI was in violation of his 10 years probation for his four DWIs, and a judge decided that he was a good candidate for a six-month "inpatient" program. (Read: inpatient = prison with group therapy)

Now VS is back out, and ready to begin his life anew. Not drinking is not an option, so he simply swore off vodka, and drinks things like beer and rum instead.

Tonight, we were supossed to meet and grab a drink for a fairly low-key night out. He called me at more or less noon, ready to begin the festivities. I had lots to do, but told him I'd call after 5 or so and meet up with him later, as we were supposed to hang out in the evening.

At 6-ish, I was headed down I-10 into town, and he informed me, somewhat slurrily, that they were at a bar in Montrose and I should come join them.

Upon arriving at the bar, I called again to verify that he was still at the bar he had mentioned to me. The conversion went as follows:

Me: "Hey!"

VS: "mumble mumble"

Me: "You there?"

VS: "Yea, I'mm shtill hurrr..."

Me: "So you're still at the same place?"

VS: "wull, I dunno where I wazsh when I talked to you.... but I think.... I've moved..."

Me: "So, where are you now?"

VS: "We're mumble mumble getting mumble eat."

Me: "That sounds like it's probably a pretty good idea."

VS: "Sho, mumble mumble coming?"

Me: "I think I'll pass. I'll talk to you later, VS."

VS: "K. Bye"

So I drove from the gay bar to the closest M.A.C. counter to get a lipglass replacement, and then came home. I was in my kitchen baking by 8.

I think things like this are why I primarily prefer solitude.

It's gonna be a long year...

2006-08-21T09:51:00.000-06:00

Cockroach count: 11

Today's High: 79 (so far... it's only 10:30)

My classroom sucks. I've killed at least one cockroach (huge ones) in each of my classes. Friday, I had one flying in front of the overhead. Flying.

It's also hotter than Hades in here. After two days of sweating my tail off, I decided I would bring a thermometer up to school to see how hot it really was. On Friday, my thermometer was reading 84 degrees by the end of the day. Add 25 kids with that middle-school funk, and my room was an odorific nightmare.

Stellar.

south beach

2006-08-19T04:01:00.000-06:00

Over two years ago, I did that South Beach diet and lost a bunch of weight. I gained it all back, and then some.

That's not what this entry is about.

It's 4:20 on a Saturday morning, and I've been wide awake for well over an hour, mainly because my throat is in excruciating pain.

I finally concluded that an early a.m. Walgreens - run was probably the best course of action, and left for the nearest 24-hour store, a good 10 minutes away.

I had my radio tuned to the local Mix station, and heard a super-commercial for South Beach, your friendly local mega gay dance club, just blocks away from my old place. "Follow the spotlights..."
On the local Mix station.

I guess that's 4:45 on a Saturday morning for you. (Been a long time since I've seen it...)

The first days of school...

2006-08-15T20:37:00.000-06:00

Tomorrow is the first day of school with kids. I say "with kids" because unofficially, I have been back up at school for the past two and a half weeks, moving, unpacking boxes, setting up my classroom, etc...

I have been thrust back into this school year kicking and screaming. I am so not ready. I have spent many, many hours whining and bitching and crying because I DO NOT want to back at school.

Last year ended badly for me. There were issues with administration and politics and drama that I simply did not want to deal with. I feared the beginning of school like one fears the apocalypse.

But here it is. The first day of school. And here's what I have to say.

Bring it on, Motherfrackers.

My job is to teach children. I may be a math teacher, but I don't teach math. I teach children. I am not going to let the administration tear me apart inside and let my emotions interfere with my ability to do my job. 99% of the time it's just me and those kids alone in the classroom, and it's my job to facilitate their learning.

I've decided that I don't care what the administration says or does or the games they play. I'll do what I'm told to do, and then return to my classroom to do my job. My job, teaching children.

I guess I'm more ready than I thought.

Bring on the kids...

“Be a first rate version of yourself, not a second rate version of someone else”

2006-08-08T20:26:00.000-06:00

When I was in high school, I met this amazingly cool girl at volleyball camp who wore a ring just above the second knuckle on her pinky finger. The ring was a simple, thin gold band that had been in her family for years, and looked subtly natural, despite its unorthodox positioning. She had started wearing the ring years before, and her skin had grown so accustomed to the ring that her finger actually bore a somewhat permanent indention where the ring sat on her finger.

For some reason, I always thought that was one of the hippest things I'd ever seen, and I was determined to recreate the effect on myself. As a teen, I tried to start wearing ring above the second knuckle on a few of my fingers, but I've just never been a very big ring person. It never took. I decided that I just wasn't cool enough, and would let that desire to have a finger-ridge fade.

~~~~

Also in high school, I uncovered a small silver band adorned with a turquoise apple from amongst my masses of souvenir jewelry. I really liked that ring, but since my fingers had grown larger since I'd acquired it as a youth, I decided that I would slide the ring on the second largest toe of my left foot.

I left the ring there for a while, and my foot grew accustomed to it. It got to the point where it felt more peculiar to not be wearing it than to be wearing it. By my junior year, the ring had become a permanent fixture on my foot, and I hardly noticed any longer. A few times, classmates even pointed it out and called me weird, as toe rings were not quite the rage eleven or twelve years ago as they are these days. I shrugged off the comments and continued to wear my ring.

After a few years, the silver band on my apple ring fell apart. I quickly replaced it with an actual toe-ring from a sterling silver outlet, simply because I couldn't tolerate the nakedness of my toe... it felt odd. I still wear that $5 ring on my toe, and I can't recall ever having taken it off.

To get to my point, I was getting my toes done today, and most uncommonly, the pedicurist actually removed my toe ring. As she did so, I noticed something. The second toe on my left foot had a dent. I bent over and felt it, and it was definitely there... a somewhat permanent indention, similar to the one I had seen years before, the one I had longed to mimic. I shrugged and smiled to myself, thinking back to girl I had once known.

It seems that the things we admire in others don't always work for ourselves, but its weird how when you do accomplish that something, it really doesn't mean what you thought it would.

I guess Judy Garland said it best...

slowly emerging from techno-phobia

2006-08-06T11:44:00.000-06:00

My mom has learned how to text message. I am so very proud of her. She has sent me several text messages in the past 24 hours.

And she signs them all: Love, Mom

the teacher otherwise known as Sasquatch

2006-08-06T11:30:00.000-06:00

The other day I was in the workroom at school, and a teacher who I don't know very well came in to make a few copies. She's not known for being sociable, but I was feeling affable and offered forth two simple questions. (Hey! How are you? How was your summer?) To both questions, she responded "Okey-Dokey."

Not once. Twice. Two "okey-dokeys" in a fifteen second span.

That's just weird.

Blackmail photo. Just give it 15 years...

2006-07-26T21:25:00.000-06:00

Otherwise known as the gratuitous nephew bathtub shot...

A feat I never imagined...

2006-07-25T19:30:00.000-06:00

So I'm somehow turning my girlfriend into such a girly girl. I never imagined that statement would come out of my mouth, but there it is...

Anyhow, it all started with the pedicures. The first time I took her, she chose to glaze her toes in a clear shade. Next trip, she chose a very innocent, pale pink. By the third venture to my beloved nail-place-upon-Montrose, she had selected a boisterous magenta-purple shade.
I was so proud.

Our most recent accomplishment is of the upper undergarment area. I, personally, have been a huge fan of the Lane Bryant cleavage enhancer for years. I never imagined we'd end up there, but after unsuccessful ventures to Kohl's, Avenue, and Catherine's (other big girls stores), we wound up at Lane Bryant.

She tried on bra after bra, even offering to try *gasp* underwire. Eventually, one of the clerks approached us to inform us that one of the girls working that day was a "bra-fitting specialist. "
After some significant whimpering and "no-way-in-helling," I got my girlfriend to submit herself to the woman' specialty. I even gave it a go myself.

After nearly 3 hours and way too much personal exposure to a perfect stranger, my girlfriend now owns underwire! Mission accomplished! Getting her to wear it, however, may be another feat entirely...

~~~~~~~
Sidebar:
Both of us were often in the same dressing room along with the "Bra-Fitting Specialist." Just in case the Bra-Fitting Specialist wasn't aware that we were "together," my girlfriend managed to point out to the woman that I "looked funny" donned in a certain style of bra I had never worn...

Beet red is such an apropos descriptor...

My butt hole

2006-07-25T17:54:00.000-06:00

I have a butt hole. Okay, so everyone has a butt hole, but I guess technically I now have two.

I just got back from visiting my brother and his family of small boys in Virginia, and one day while there, I decided I would get down on the floor and play with my 14-month-old nephew among his infinite sea of "little people" toys and his brother's Thomas trains.

Unfortunately, the floor was a literal sea of wood and plastic, and while I thought I had identified a spot in which I could wedge my rather large butt, it turns out that I vastly underestimated the size of my ass.

I plopped on the floor with full force, with my left cheek landing squarely on an upright plastic traffic light of terribly obelisk-y proportions. I rolled on the floor, wimpering in misery, and my little nephew soon followed with his wimpering cries. We were quite a sight to see.

Eventually I stood, and let my fingers probe my newest injury. There was a definite hole on the layers of fat in my ass, even though the skin was only mildly punctured. The next morning, my pain was rewarded with a large circular bruise of the darkest purply-black hues I've ever seen on my flesh, surrounding the still pale point-of-contact hole.

I've had difficulty sitting for days. My 3-hour return flight was torture.

My butt hole just hurts too badly.

Get your motor runnin'....

2006-07-18T02:01:00.000-06:00

Alright, so I seem a bit hung up on this suburbia thing, but get used to it... I'm having difficulty admitting that I'm settling in to Suburbia quite well. There are still a few things I miss about Xanadu and it's neighborhood, but that's to be expected...

Moving on, it seems I engage in some mundanely bizarre hobbies, one of which is driving. I absolutely love to hop in my car with a bottle of cold water and just drive. (As much as I do love driving, this does not mean that I'm pleased to be subjected to the nightmares of real traffic, nor do I relish fighting that distressing a.m. crunch...)

Anyhow, it seems that I simply crave the solitude of just plopping on the body-worn leather in my Toyotan respite-on-wheels and driving. I usually go in the evenings, whether it’s after sunset and the threat of rush hour has passed, well after midnight, or any time in between.

I do my best thinking alone in my car, absorbing the softly grooving Moby on my stereo (there's another story there...) as the wide open sunroof allows the mild evening winds to wisp the hairs on the top of my head into a tangle. Forget therapy. All I need is a smoothly paved road with very little else on it to do the trick...

Especially now.

While living in the city, being able to just go for a drive was a chore. There is always traffic. Even at 4am on a Tuesday... If I wanted to get away from it, I had to drive on a freeway, which didn't really seem to have the desired effect, never giving me the serenity to which I'd grown accustomed while living in Suburbia when I was younger.

Now that I've returned to Suburbia, I get to do those awesome nighttime drives again. I recently took a 45 minute drive heading west and north of my new home. I'm way the hell out here, as I passed several actual pastures on my adventures. (Not just the handful-of-acres-and-we-got-some-cows-here places you see sprinkled along the edges of Suburbia... Actual pastures...)

I think I might like it here. I feel better already.

Random observations upon The Best Day Ever...

2006-07-05T12:05:00.000-06:00

I really am having the best day ever. I got up early this morning and have been amazingly productive this morning. I have drawn many heavy dark lines through the exponentially growing, ominous and omni-present "To-Do list," all in the comfort of the bummiest of my attire. I can now feel free to have that "I'm gonna sit on my ass and do very damn little for the next s-e-v-e-r-a-l hours" kind of day I have so desperately craving for the past month (and summer is more than half over... grrrgh...) I'm so psyched. I make even bake. (I love my kitchen...!)

On a side note, Ken Lay died. How convenient. I wonder if he killed himself. It must be fairly easy to set up a major heart attack... On a less likely note, perhaps he faked his death...

Hunh.

A day in the life of my ass crack

2006-07-01T15:11:00.000-06:00

I’m exhausted. This summer is really wearing me out. When I finally got up this morning, I realized that I must’ve had a some what tortuous night sleep, because my panties were all askew and my hair was a mess. I could have sworn that I’d put my hair up before I went to sleep, though…

Anyhow, after 2 hours of hitting the snooze, we finally crawled out of bed to run all those errands we need to run today. I had shed my clothing and stood by the shower door, waiting for the running stream of revival to warm up, and my girlfriend stumbled by, turned gave me a peck on the shoulder. She quickly pulled away, and with a terrified look on her face, slowly uttered, “What in the hell is in your ass crack?”

I was a little freaked out, thinking I was a total gross-out with something like crusty toilet paper still lodged in my rear orifice from my previous night’s gastronomical discomforts (Not a fan of El Palenque, just FYI). Slowly, I reached behind me and felt my ass crack.

I knew I had put my hair up the night before. My rubber band had worked its way down my back in the night and found itself a snug new home in the safety of my ass crack.

And that is how my weekend began… can’t wait for the rest of it…

The Cirque du Soleil show was pretty damn good, though...

2006-06-29T22:48:00.000-06:00

There never seems to be time for anything. I keep saying, "once I'm done with this and that and the next thing then, then! I'll sit down and actually USE the computer I've finally aquired and for which I finally have internet access... it took several new holes in the wall, but we finally got there...

Granted, it's been a full two weeks since we got it all going, but I have been gallavanting through Arizona visiting my uncle, other uncle, and my amazing 97-year-old grandmother, visiting the Grand Canyon, and witnessing the fires in Sedona, etc, etc... (Our trip even included a jaunt to Nevada for excitement such as the Hoover Dam and several days in Las Vegas...) I've been away for the past nine days, so I have a mildly valid excuse...

I'm working my way back... slowly....

In these few moments I have just one trite and truly idiotic thing to say:

What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.

(In the same vein, I desperately need a slap upside the head!)

A sit and eat an entire pint of Ben and Jerry's night

2006-05-12T13:38:00.000-06:00

Edgar died.

I got home yesterday evening to find him lifeless under his basking log.

Damn turtle. I had just spent $30 buying him an adorable little habitat and set him up in what I would think would be a veritable reptilian utopia.

And he up and dies on me. In less than a week.

Damn turtle.

My new pet

2006-05-08T15:44:00.000-06:00

I have a new pet. His name is Edgar.

It all starts like this. Last weekend, some friends and I went to the international festival downtown. While there, we happened upon a booth selling little bitty turtles for $10, complete with a little plastic box to take him home in. I pointed at the adorable turtles and told my girlfriend that if I had an adorable little turtle, I'd name him Edgar. However, the international festival is not the place to acquire a new pet, so went along our merry way and left the turtles behind, not really giving it much of a second thought.

Saturday was our school picnic. It was also my dad's birthday. The picnic consists primarily of a crawfish boil, and being of the mindset that I would prefer not to be the one to remove my sustenance from it's carcass, I generally avoid such events unless it can at all be helped. Fortunately, I had an easy out, to spend the day with my parents for my dad's birthday. As it happened, I still stopped by the picnic toward the end of the day, once the majority of crawfish carcasses had been disposed of, to say hi and how-are-ya to my girlfriend and some other people from school.

Upon my arrival, I was told I had a surprise waiting for me. I was directed to a box, where I saw nothing but a damp pile of grass.

I was a wee bit confused, until I heard someone say, "Man! He must've gotten out again!" I looked about 15 feet past the box and saw the most adorable little turtle, scootling about as fast as a turtle can scootle, away from the crowd across the wet ground.

Apparently Edgar had been trapped in one of the many sacks of crawfish that were purchased for the picnic. When that sack was opened, out came Edgar. Quite a fluke, considering many experienced crawfish boilers had never seen such a thing. They rescued him, put him in a box, and (somewhat) vigilantly babysat him until I got there.

It must've been fate.

Edgar and I belong together.

Time for a mini-post

2006-04-21T13:36:00.000-06:00

I suck at posting regularly. I know this. Hopefully I will improve after I get my own pc at the house.

Anyhow, I just have to put this quirk of mine out there.

I am a terminal geek; I insist on using proper grammar in text messages. I even use apostrophes. I never abbreviate know with no or even you with u. Never. You're is always you're, never your.

I just got a new phone. It doesn't have an apostrophe as one of the punctuation choices. I'm dying. I've been spelling out I will instead of I'll, you are instead of you're, and will not instead of won't. It just bothers me so very much to omit punctuation.

I'm pathetic.

I think I need a new phone.

I fear naked men

2006-04-10T15:31:00.000-06:00

So somehow or another, I got roped in to attending the bachelorette party of a future daughter-in-law of a relative of a friend by proxy. Basically, someone I've never met, and will probably never see again. Fortunately, several people I socialize with these days got roped in (or volunteered) for this event as well.

The evening consisted of margaritas and Mexican food, followed by a 9 p.m. reservation at Houston's finest (and probably only) male strip joint.

Needless to say, I was a little uneasy. Upon entering the place, a scantily clad man came up to me and said, "Hi, I'm Aidan. Are you having fun?" I responded, "Hi, I'm Flipside. I like girls now."

I was terrified. Grossed out, and terrified. Seriously grossed out. I don't know if it was the men, or the stripper thing, or just the fact that they were simply greasy-ed up men in cowboy boots and thongs with things like "Git 'er Done" emblazoned on the back... but I spent the evening eagerly anticipating my departure.

So I sat and I drank my salty dogs as many of my companions teased the strippers with neatly folded singles, and every time a greased up hardbody came near me, one of the first things out of my mouth was, "I like girls now!"

Honestly, in retrospect, it was kind of a cop out. I don't fear all men. I don't like all girls. I'm just a little icked out by greasy men.

Either way, I still couldn't wait to shower when I got home.

When did this happen?

2006-04-03T16:11:00.000-06:00

So I got an invitation to my 10 year high school reunion the other day. I graduated in 1996. It doesn't feel like ten years ago, but I guess it was. I certainly don't feel like I've accomplished what I had hoped I would accomplish by now.

What I thought I would have accomplished by the age of 28 when I graduated from high school:

Graduated with honors from college in exactly four years
Immediately found a first rate job with a top rate company (Although I had no idea what I'd be doing... I didn't know what I wanted to be when I grew up when I graduated from high school... I think I pretty much just figured that one out a year ago...)
Met the love of my life, a hot and well-paid man, slightly older than my self by age of 24.
Married said man by the age of 26.
Put in a good 5 years at my top-rated company before having my first child at the age of 28, 29 at the latest, and staying home to raise my kids while my well-paid husband kept me living in the lifestyle to which I had become accustomed.

What I actually have accomplished by the age of 28:

Graduated from college with barely a 3.0 in exactly 6 years (I had 6 different majors. Not one of them was education.)
Immediately found a crappy-ass job at a mediocre company (Ever managed a collections call center? Ever done it for a shitty place like May Company? AUGH! No wonder I was miserable...)
Got fired. (Laid off. Whatever.)
Lived on unemployment for 6 months while I got my teaching certification, then sold paintball tickets for 2 months in the summer to pay the bills until I got a job teaching.
Dated loser, after loser, after loser... (Way too much of a kicker guy, guy far too obsessed with Highlander, the neo-liberal independently wealthy I-read-TheEconomist-for-fun-in-my-free-time guy, the Oakley-obsessed Canadian guy, and finally, the-took-me-for-$4000, left-dead-animals-on-my-car, threatened-to-kill-me, had-to-get-a-restraining-order-guy.... and those were the ones that lasted more than a few months...)
Started teaching. (love it, want to pull my hair out half the time, but I love it....)
Fell madly in love with the girls' PE teacher at my school, and am planning indefinite cohabitation with her as we both run up debt... (living, in no way, shape, or form similar the lifestyle to which I had become accustomed.)

But you know what, I don't think I'd be any happier if I'd lived the life I had imagined. I kind of like the way my life is shaping up. It's taken me a while to get to where I am, and think I like it here...

Party?

2006-02-23T15:26:00.000-06:00

So in ten minutes or less, I'm off to Mardi Gras.

People keep asking me, "Oh in Galveston?"

No, not Galveston.

"Ooh, so then you're going to New Orleans! That should be so cool!"

Nope. Not New Orleans.

I'm going to Houma.

Apparently every city, town, and speck on the map in Louisiana has their own Mardi Gras.

I get to go to Houma's.

Yup.

I'm the cat

2006-02-19T16:22:00.000-06:00

So Friday was a staff development day. Meaning no kids. It was joyous. Well, not joyous, but a hell of lot better than dealing with the kids all day. We had some meetings and a couple of presentations to sit through, but all in all, not bad for a Friday.

During one of the presentations, we were asked to look at a group of words and determine which one did not belong. It was basically an exercise in explaining one's answers... ultimately modeling that as long as a kid can justify his or her answer, then it can be correct.

Anyways, the words we were given were Chocolate, Blue, Cat, and Peaches. We were asked to write our answers down on a slip of paper, justify them, wad it up in a ball, and throw at someone else in the room. My girlfriend, aka the school lesbian, (although there are many others...) wrote hers down and threw it at Carr, a rather boisterous teacher with whom we work. Carr is a piece of work. I admire her greatly, because she never seems to give a damn what anyone else thinks.

So we were asked to volunteer to stand up and share the answers of the paper ball we'd received. Most people said things like "Cat, because it can't be a color," or "Blue, because it can't have fuzz." All very creative answers.

Carr stood up and announced to the entire staff my girlfriend's answer.

"Coach C said Blue, because it's the only one you don't eat."

Pause.

Eruptive Laughter.

Carr hadn't really given the answer thorough contemplations. I think she was thinking about the answer as though Mr. Tieu, a Vietnamese paraprofessional, had written it.

Not as though the school lesbian had written it.

After about 15 seconds, a startled Carr let out a vociferous, "Oh. OHHHH! ohhhhh..." and immediately began to turn beet red as she sat down.

As was my girlfriend.

As was I.

I got meowed at all day.

Self humiliation is my specialty

2006-02-15T15:50:00.000-06:00

So last week I had a seminar to attend on a Wednesday. The seminar itself was only mildly informative, but I got to spend a day away from my crazy seventh graders, so it really was worth it.

Unfortunately, I had been supremely busy the weekend before, and wasn't able to get to the nail salon. (I'm a fake nail junkie. I've had french tips, albeit very short french tips, for damn near 8 years. I started as a way to keep from biting my nails. Now I'm hooked.) Anyhow, if one does not get their nails "filled" every two weeks or so, they start to break as they grow out.

By Wednesday, mine were hideous. They were starting to peel, and I was eagerly anticipating my appointment immediately following the seminar. Unfortunately, I'm a fidgeter. I have difficulty sitting still for 7 hours listening to someone else speak. So i started picking at my atrocious nails. I figured, "What the hell. I'm getting them done today anyway... Might as well pick off the nasty old ones."

I started the seminar with one broken nail. I ended it completely nail-less.

That's not the bad part.

The bad part is that after I picked the acrylic off each one of my nails, I would bust out my little nail clipper and trim my nails down as short as possible. I was sitting at a round table with two of my colleagues and two teachers from another district. I apologized to the colleague sitting directly next to me for being so gross. I mean, who trims their nails at a seminar? I couldn't help it. It was a compulsion. I NEEDED to pick at my nails. They were driving me nuts...

Still not the very bad part.

The very bad part is when I was trimming the nail on my middle finger, which was at least a quarter of an inch long. Usually, I'm pretty good about controlling my fingernail clippings, but as soon as I heard the click, I knew this nail was a flyer...

And fly it did. I looked around the table, slightly panicked, wondering if my nail landed in someone's beverage or something else equally as disgusting. One of the teachers from another district slowly lifted her head and picked up the paper on which she was jotting notes. She glanced across the table and asked, "Looking for this?"

Sitting on her paper was my fingernail. I could have melted into my chair with humiliation. I don't think I've ever turned so beet red or apologized so profusely.

This was 2 hours into the seminar. I had to sit across from her for another 5 hours.

It was fun.
Yeah.

And the hits keep coming (out)...

2006-01-26T12:18:00.000-06:00

So last night was kind of a mommy-daughter bonding night. I had an appointment yesterday afternoon on the northside, so I had planned to go ahead and stop by my parents' house for some quality time with my loving progenitors. As (bad) luck would have it, my daddy was on a last minute business trip, so it was just my mother and myself. My parents are still struggling a little with this whole "Flipside has a girlfriend" thing, but god love them, they really are trying, and are doing the best that they can.

While I was there, my mom and I discussed the move that I will be making this summer. While I still love 40 with all my heart, and am going to miss her a great deal, I honestly can't wait to be living with my girlfriend. I can't wait to come home to her every day, to wake up with her every morning. While I'm sad to be leaving Xanadu and the glory that is Midtown and moving out to the boonies, (there are at least 3 properties with horses in less than a half mile radius from the house...) when it comes down to it, I really just want to be with the woman I love at the end of the day. Blah blah blah, enough sappy stuff...

So my mom and I are talking about the move and the house, and I'm telling her about the layout of the house, and where my furniture is going to go, and how awesome the master suite is, even if the other two bedrooms are a little small. At this point my mom interjects and says, "Well, I guess you'll be getting one of the smaller rooms. Is all your bedroom furniture going to fit in one of the smaller rooms?"

I stopped, dumbfounded. When I finally gathered my thoughts, I tried not to giggle or blush and pursed my lips a little. I contemplated how I would enlighten my mother as how this whole "moving in with my girlfriend" thing was going to work without saying anything that might be too startling to her ultra-conservative mindset.

I must have blushed a little, because she caught herself, and I watched as a small, yet painful lightbulb flickered behind her eyes. She slowly drew out the sentence, "I guess this isn't exactly going to be the same kind of roommate situation you have going with 40, is it?"

I shook my head, smiling impishly, and watched as yet another tide of Flipside-induced pain washed over my mother.

God, I hate doing this to her.

But the thing is, at the end of the day, she still loves me, and is proud of me, and tells me so all the time. She wants me to be happy, and I am.

And I can't ask for anything more than that. I just wish I could make it easier for her.

The perfect prom dress

2006-01-06T16:31:00.000-06:00

If I ever get to chaperone a prom, I'm going to want to do it in this dress.

Except DAMMIT... I'm allergic to latex!
I wonder how much harder it would be to get them to make me one out of polyurethane or lambskin...

The beginning...

2006-01-05T10:26:00.000-06:00

of the end...

Xanadu is no more. At least for me, it isn't.

Xanadu was my home, my little piece of rented heaven with vaulted ceilings and berber carpeting on the third floor in the middle of midtown: two blocks from the largest liquor store in North America, walking distance from dozens of the trendiest bars and restaurants, complete with a downtown skyline view from the balcony. We've spent almost three years there, 40 and I, and it's been some of the best times of my life.

We've loved it there. We even adorned the door with the silver letters identifying our home as utopia... it was welcoming beacon to all those who came to our home. XANADU. As if to say, "This is our paradise. We hope you love it as much as we do."

Things are changing. 40 and I changing. If someone had told us three years ago that she would be sober and helping others towards sobriety, or that I'd be deciding I want to spend my life with another woman, I'm pretty damn sure we'd have laughed our asses off.

I'm hardly ever there, at Xanadu, anymore. I spend most of my time at the house I'll be moving into when our lease is up this summer. I came home to Xanadu a few days ago because I needed to take down all the Christmas decorations and clean my bathroom. Knowing that there's a 99% chance that 40 and I are parting ways in June, I split the Christmas decorations into two stacks: her stuff, my stuff. Before, we'd always just put them in one box. I think I cried about six times.

It pains me to think about leaving Xanadu. It breaks my heart. But part of me feels like my home left me before I'm leaving it. When I was there the other day, it felt awkward and foriegn to me. Xanadu was a ghost-like echo of the paradise I remembered.

I suppose this means it really is time for me to move on.

I will always remember my time at Xanadu fondly. And even though the apartment is still my official residence, and the lease won't be up for another five months, in my heart, the era of 40 and Flipside in the utopia we called Xanadu has peaked and begun to fade away.

I am gut-wrenchingly sad to see it end...

It's official....

2006-01-03T13:48:00.000-06:00

.... I've been outed.

So my family came in over Thanksgiving, and out of respect for my parents' wishes, I said nothing to my brothers or their wives about my newest relationship.

Things were awkward and strained, but I thought it was just because I was uncomfortable.

Tuns out, it wasn't just me.

My uncle (my gay uncle) had ever so kindly "let it slip" to my brothers about my shifting sexual orientation, long before I ever saw them at Thanksgiving. No wonder there was tension in the air. I feel like a fool for having hid it the whole week. My parents even stretched the truth to them when they had ever so casually asked, "So, Is Flipside seeing anyone?" (My mom's response, "Um, she's just hanging out with friends from school..." Smooth, mom. Smooth.)

On one hand, I'm a little irked with my uncle for not telling me that they knew. He just kept urging me to say something to them, because they were"starting to figure it out..." (Yeah, they were starting to figure it out because you told them!)

On the other hand, it made the conversations with my brothers and my sisters-in-law a hell of a lot easier.

Me: "So um, I kinda need to fill you in on something."
Brother: "Um, yeah. We kinda already know. And it's cool."

I guess "coming out" doesn't get a whole lot easier than that.

But I'm still not admitting that I'm a lesbian. It's just that my girlfriend is.

Arrested Development arrested

2005-12-20T14:25:00.000-06:00

So it's 8 o'clock last night and I had 10,000 things to do before leaving town tomorrow morning, but I still sat down for half an hour and watched Arrested Development.

This is quality entertainment. (Not a fart joke in sight...)

I sure am pissed it got cancelled.

A moment of silence, please...

Balls

2005-12-05T15:03:00.000-06:00

So the other day I'm driving out in the boonies, and I find myself behind a very large "King Ranch Edition" Ford F-350.

Personally, I am of the mindset that vehicles of such massive proportions ought to be reserved for the actual rancher or farmer, and not some suburbanite male who purchases his to compensate for his small package.

This particular vehicle was all decked out... chrome accesories, huge tires, and complete with an actual trailer hitch. I noticed something peculiar dangling from the trailer hitch, and after a few lights i realize its none other than a large rubber ball sac.

Testicles. This pitiable, oversompensating individual actually has large replicated testicles hanging from his trailer hitch.

After the next light, I passed by the truck, giggling to myself, and strained to get a good look at the man driving.

He definitely looked like a man who would have a small penis.

What a dork. He's practically labeling himself so.

Rubber testicles. From a trailer hitch. Sheesh.

Diarrhea

2005-11-29T16:11:00.000-06:00

I grew up in a fairly formal environment where unseemly topics such as diarrhea were not spoken. One simply does not discuss diarrhea in polite company. Even though we all battled it on occasion, no one ever spoke of it. It was just one of those taboos.

My girlfriend, however, did not grow up in such an environment. Bodily functions are apparently suppertime conversation topics in her family. "What's the big deal?" she says. "Everyone has it from time to time!"

I had some food poisoning over the weekend. At least, I think it was food poisoning. It may have been some kind of stomach virus. Anyhow, it kicked my ass. As such an infliction would insinuate, I woke up several times in the middle of the night with chunks flying from both ends. It was ugly. I was in agony. I slept most of the next day, as my girlfriend worked on unpacking in her (someday our?) new house. From time to time, I would hear her in the other room on the phone with friends, discussing my physical health.

I swore I heard her tell at least FIVE people (some that I hardly know) about my vicious diarrhea.

I was appalled. Humilated. Not only does my girlfriend know about my horrible tummy problems, but so do half her friends? Before her, I've never even told someone I'm dating that I've even had so much as bowel movement, much less had them and their social circle be privy to the details of my gastro-intestinal eruptions!

If I weren't already dying from stomach cramps, I would have died again.

So Monday rolls around, and I thought I could handle getting up and going to school. When I awoke, the gurgling in my abdomen made me realize differently. I called in sick and spent the day alternately sleeping and darting to the potty.

Also on Monday, the principal of my school stopped by to see my girlfriend as she taught class. They chatted, and he inquired as to my absence.

And she told him about my diarrhea.

But at least she told the principal not to tell me he knew about my diarrhea, because I would be embarrassed.

Thanks, honey, for that tidbit of consideration. I feel so much better about it all now...

The airhead in me strikes again...

2005-11-16T07:37:00.000-06:00

So yesterday after school, I ran some errands, including going to the grocery store (twice) and then met my girlfriend (henceforth TPL) and some of her friends for dinner. As I was leaving, I realized that I needed a few more things from the grocery store... I had forgotten to get any beverages: I was completely out of water and Dr. Pepper at Xanadu.

I made a rapid trip through the store, picking up lots of Dr. Pepper, some Fresca, and a flat of water. I quickly paid, and rushed out to my car to put everything in the trunk so I could get home and shower and put on my jammies before TPL came over.

As I started to load everything in the car, I set my purse and keys on the floor of the trunk, and shifted over the nine heavy boxes from the cart. As I put in the last twelve pack, I instinctively slammed the trunk shut.

With my purse and keys safely inside.

I did the little "oh dammit" dance, and pulled desperately at the purse strap dangling out the side of the trunk, thinking that maybe, just maybe, if I pulled hard enough, the trunk would magically spring open and I wouldn't have to figure a way out of this mess.

Didn't happen.

I wandered sheepishly inside the grocery store and found a manager, telling her what I did and asking her if I could borrow their phone. By the grace of god, I actually remembered some phone numbers, which I rarely do. (Who remembers phone numbers anymore?) I called my girlfriend and let her know how stupid I had been, and she said she would come get me shortly. I also managed to remember 40's number, and had to admit to her as well how stupid I was so she would leave the door unlocked for me.

I went outside and waited. A storm had recently blown through H-town, bringing with it a blast of cold weather. (Finally! I'm so sick of this 85 degrees on mid-November crap...) Not only was it suddenly quite chilly, it was also startlingly windy. I decided I couldn't just sit there shivering and and not even try to get into my car, so again wandered inside to find the manager to see if she knew where I could find a coat hanger. She pointed me to a rack of t-shirts and told me to help myself. Unfortunately, the rack only held plastic hangers, not wire ones, and would therefore not going to do a damn bit of good.

As I dejectedly puttered back toward the door, I saw some wire handled fly-swatters sitting in a box for 89c each. I decided that the flyswatter handle would make a decent jimmying tool, and as I contemplated the 15 cents I happened to have in my pocket, I wondered if I would get busted for stealing a flyswatter. Deciding not to risk it, I convinced the manager to let me owe the Kroger corporation 89 cents (plus tax), and walked back out to my car with my treasure.

So Toyotas are built pretty well, and I had difficulty even getting the coat hanger through the window frame. Eventually I did, but in the process, I had an exceptionally active audience. The first spectator was a young mother who soothed me with, "Oh honey, that's nothing. I once locked my purse, keys, and toddler in my car." (ack!) Next was a pair of Jamaican men who told me that mine was an exercise in futility. They helped me bend the wire handle into just the right angle, and then wished me luck as they drove away laughing.

After about 45 minutes of mangling and cursing and hoping my girlfriend would get there SOON, a postal worker got out of his truck and immediately diverted his route from the entrance of the store towards me and my Solara. He looked at my finagled wire, and at me, and then said, "Hold on. This is easy. I've got this under control." I didn't know whether to be thankful or terrified. He darted back and forth to his truck a few times and brought back some tools and played around with my window for quite a while before he realized that he didn't have the proper equipment. He offered to drive home and get it, and then come back to help me break into my car. He was convinced that 100%, he'd get me in my car.

By this time, TPL had come to my rescue, and I was ready to head home, leaving my car there over night. I would simply come back in morning with my extra key. I really didn't want to wait around for this man to come back with his car-breaking-into-supplies, but TPL brought up a very good argument. If I leave, and this man is of less than upstanding character, it would be way too easy for him to break into my car ANYWAYS. I was a perfect target.

We decided to wait for a few minutes, and reliably, my postal worker friend returned with a length of thick yellow cable. And I'm thinking, "This is your foolproof plan?" We let him play with the window in vain for about 10 more minutes before thanking him profusely for his assistance. He apologized for not being able to help, and then finally made his way into the store.

I climbed, whimpering, into TPL's car, knowing that I am, without a doubt, the biggest airhead of all time, and knowing, without a doubt, that I'm going to be hearing about this for a very loooong time.

And thankfully, my car was still there this morning.

Anatomy of a Panic Attack

2005-11-08T16:03:00.000-06:00

I feel my chest pounding... it's like something really exciting is happening, but not in a good way. I can hear and feel my heart beating, racing in my ears and face, and it feels like my blood is starting to slam into my eardrums and cheekbones and ribs.

The pounding gets worse. I cover my chest with my hand because my heart is beating so hard that I'm afraid if I don't, my heart might literally leap out of my chest cavity and jump away...

As I wonder how to control the pounding in my chest, my throat starts to close. My trachea seems to shrink to one-tenth its typical diameter as I start gasping for breath, never able to get enough air in my lungs. I feel like I've been swimming forever underwater, and I just came up for air, but I can't seem to fill my lungs.

So I breathe hard. And then harder. And no matter how hard or fast I breathe, I can't seem to get enough oxygen to my brain to make the drowning feeling stop.

People are talking. What are they saying? I think they're talking to me, but I can't tell. Something about slowing down. Slowing down what? Why can't I breathe? Am I having a heart attack? My chest hurts so badly. I must be having a heart attack.

I'm shaking. My muscles are aching, my stomach is churning; I hurt all over. I feel like I'm going to vomit. Why can't I breathe? I need to get air into my lungs. I have to breathe harder. Harder... That must be the answer...

The room is spinning. My body is in tremors. Is someone talking to me? Who is that? Why do they keep saying the same things over and over? What do they MEAN deep breaths? I AM taking deep breaths... aren't I? My breaths aren't working... There's just no air!

Am I walking? Am I sitting? Where am I? Who is that? What on earth is going on? Why can't I breathe? Why is there no air? Why do I hurt so badly?

Darkness.

My body takes over. Thank god for my medulla oblongata...

updated Random Observations upon my life...

2005-10-31T15:19:00.000-06:00

1. The Texans actually won a football game. Be still my heart. At least we're not 0 and something anymore... we're 1 and something...
You should have seen the ruckus at Reliant. You'd think we'd won the Superbowl or something, not just that we'd actually won a game...

2. I have never in my life felt so much like my entire career is an exercise in futility as I do right now. We're working on percents in my math class. Today, in one of my classes, I had to ask NINE of my SEVENTH GRADE students, "100 divided by WHAT gives me 25?" before I got a correct answer. Nine. How can you you not know that by seventh grade? How can you not TELL TIME by seventh grade? Where in the hell are these kids' parents? How am I supposed to teach them algebraic reasoning and proportional relationships if they don't know HOW MANY QUARTERS ARE IN A DOLLAR?

3. I have 70 students. Today, I had one student turn in her homework. ONE. Out of seventy.

4. Why are people so mean-spirited by nature? Why must it be an instinct that to make ourselves seem better, we inherently feel the need to criticize and disparage others?

5.I want to cry. I'm doing that a lot these days. It quite sucks. I'm feeling a whole lot like I want to crawl in a hole and disappear for a while. I just can't seem to handle my life right now. I think if someone were to so much as cast me a harsh glare at the opportune moment, I would literally incinerate and crumble into a smoldering pile of ash.

6. Things will get better. They have to.

7. They have to.

Why high school kids in wanna-be gangs are DORKS...

2005-10-27T12:11:00.000-06:00

So there's a lot of tension in the air at the schools in our district. Being in a low socio-economic area, our schools have taken in several Hurricane Katrina survivors from low socio-economic areas in New Orleans.

As these students are slowly trying to integrate into life in H-town, many still feel very segregated and somewhat ostracized, as for some reason, a few of the refugees think they are better than our own idiot children.

So instead of trying to fit in, the kids are often forming their own little cliques, cliques that border on gangs. At one of the high schools, the kids are calling themselves the 504's, as 504 is the area code for New Orleans.

Those of us in education find this rip-roaring HILARIOUS.

In edu-speak, section 504 identifies children with "substantially limiting impairments." In other words, a "504 child" is classified as special ed. These dorks are walking around calling themselves slow, and every adult in the building knows it.

I guess you kinda have to be an educator, but lord, how it makes me laugh...

The Nasty Little House

2005-10-17T13:59:00.000-06:00

So there's this fabulous little hole-in-the-wall greasy spoon called Lankford Grocery about 3 or 4 blocks from Xanadu where they serve the ridiculously cheap and ridiculously delicious food. I love to walk over there on Saturday mornings and eat breakfast, but I hadn't been in a while because a) I've been a little busy, and b) it's been way to hot to walk anywhere in the morning.

Two lots away from this little hole-in-the-wall, there was the nastiest of nasty houses. There were always piles of trash in the yard, the front door was hanging off it's hinges, the porch was decrepit and sagging. Aw hell, the whole damn house was decrepit and sagging.

So this past Saturday, I decided I had to let my girlfriend experience the wonder that is breakfast at Lankford's. As we were walking over there, I was telling her about the nasty little house nearby. I regaled her with the story of the time I witnessed the large mouse/small rat (?) darting away from the house, followed by the scraggliest cat I ever saw, which pounced, chomped, and ran back inside with it's prey. (Ick...) As I finished the story, we turned the corner discover an empty lot where the nasty little house was.

Apparently, someone else had decided that it was time for the nasty little house to go. Since it had been a good 3-4 months since I had last dined at Lankford's, I shouldn't have been as surprised as I was to see the empty lot over grown with a foot of weeds.

Whatever. So we're sitting outside at the diner, and the little toothless old lady who has been working there for ages brought us out our breakfasts. Ever so casually, I asked her, "So, how long ago did they finally tear down that nasty little house that used to be right over there?" I probably should've mentioned it in slightly more diplomatic terms, but truth be told, that's what it WAS: a nasty little house.

She looks at me, and responds, "You mean MY house?"

I could have died a thousand deaths.

As, for 15 minutes, she filled me in with all the horribly mundane details of how she had lived there for 15 years, and the landlady did this that and the other thing, and how she had to (gasp) pay a pet deposit at her new house (which she was paying $20/mo less for than the one that was just torn down... I shudder to think...), I sank lower and lower into my chair, and my girlfriend tried to keep from cracking up.

It'll be a long time before I eat at Lankford's again...

dejected, terrified, hurt, and angry...

2005-10-10T12:57:00.000-06:00

I hate being condescended to.

I also hate having my emotions belittled.

Twice today, I have conversed with people I trust unequivocally, and once I was told to "just relax," and once I was told to not turn the feelings that I'm having into something "more than it is."

I'm overwhelmed by a whole lot right now, personally and professionally, and all I have to say is WOW.

Not to be unappreciative or rude, but these replies are a little less supportive and a lot more patronizing than I had anticipated. I’m not letting my feelings turn into something "more than it is." What I'm going through right now is already pretty freaking huge. My ENTIRE LIFE is changing direction a whole hell of a lot more than I ever imagined it would.

And I don't know if anyone can understand how terrifying that is, but I would hope my friends would at least try. I feel so very alone for the first time in a long time.

And I’m just NOT okay right now. I know I will be, and hopefully it will be soon, but right now I’m freaking out.

And quite frankly, I think I’m entitled to.

Insecurities

2005-10-10T06:44:00.000-06:00

I am about the most insecure, self-conscious person alive.

The second I do something slightly stupid (which happens a lot...), I want to run and hide and stick my head in the ground and disappear forever.

I'm perpetually embarrassed of myself, and I spend half my life apologizing. (And it's irritating as hell to those who know me.)

It's just that I feel that if I run away and hide, everything will eventually be okay, and I won't have to feel as idiotic as I do at that moment. I know that doesn't make sense to anyone else, but sometimes it seems like the only answer to me. It's all I've ever done.

And I'm sorry for being so shrouded by this timidity and lack of confidence. I'm really going to try to do better.

Ouch (in a better way)

2005-10-06T17:09:00.000-06:00

So yesterday, my girlfriend (the volleyball coach at my school) and I took on her team of 8th graders. Six of them versus the two of us.

We so kicked their asses.

However, it was really them that kicked ours, because we are both ridiculously sore.

My knee hurts.
My back hurts.
My swinging-arm shoulder is KILLING me.

And it's only been three months since I last played.

But man, was it fun...

The Man in the Glass

2005-10-06T09:25:00.000-06:00

When you get what you want in your struggle for gain,
And the world makes you king for a day,
Just go to the mirror and look at yourself,
And see what that man has to say.
For it isn’t your father, or mother, or wife
Whose judgment upon you must pass.
The one whose verdict counts most in your life
Is the man staring back in the glass.
He’s the one you must satisfy beyond all the rest
For he’s with you right up to the end
And you'll have passed your most difficult test
If the man in the glass is your friend.
You may be the one who got a good break
Then think you’re a wonderful guy;
But the man in the glass thinks you’re only a fake
If you can’t look him straight in the eye.
You may fool the whole world down the pathway of years
Getting pats on the back as you pass;
But your final reward will be heartache and tears
If you have cheated the man in the glass.

A college professor read this poem when I was 19. I have kept a copy of it in my wallet and on my desk ever since.

I read it to my advisory class today as a part of our Character Building exercise on having self-respect.

One response?

"Miss, it doesn't apply to me. I'm a girl. I ain't gonna be lookin' at no MAN in a mirror."

I fear for our future...

Opening up a can of worms...

2005-10-04T16:12:00.000-06:00

My mother wants me to get a lap band. You know, like a gastric bypass, but less invasive. They don't actually remove your stomach, they just cinch it up through laparoscopic surgery. She's even offered to help financially.

My mom is convinced that I have self esteem issues surrounding my weight. (True, but...)

I think that she's thinking that if I lose weight, I'll be better looking. As she says, "You're pretty, but if you lost enough weight, you'd be EXCEPTIONALLY pretty." I think she wants me to be able to get any MAN I want. Actually, forget think. I know that's what she's thinking.

Huh.

Go figure.

Excuse me while I'm a little bitter.

Let me first say that parents are very good people, but just like the rest of us, they are human and have made some mistakes. The following was a whopper.

In high school, my parents weighed me every single morning for 3 years. If I had gained weight, I was forbidden to drive the car they had acquired for my use. If I gained even more, I was grounded.

On my 16th birthday, I was not allowed to go get my driver's license because I was told that I couldn't get my license until I had lost 15 pounds. I had only lost 13.

I was never significantly large. I was maybe 15 pounds over weight, but I was a stellar athlete and carried it very well on my 5'11'' frame. I was never larger than a size 14 until I got to college.

It killed me to watch my friends go out and I couldn't because I may have eaten a few extra french fries at lunch. I had myself convinced that I was the most hideous of all creatures because I was so fat. It kills me a little now, because looking back, I really was gorgeous. I just didn't know it, because all I'd ever heard was how I needed to lose weight.

Needless to say, I developed serious issues with my weight once I left the house. I became a horrendous binge eater, and also dabbled in bulimia for a few years (Recall Exhibit A...), until my esophagus became so torched that I couldn't handle the pain any more. It ended up that while in college, I gained a total of 150 lbs. I nearly doubled myself. Pretty much, just because I could.

I've struggled with my size ever since. Currently, I'm still about 50-60 lbs heavier than I was at my extreme hottiness of 18-years old. However, I'm actually okay with myself right now, and I'm finally able to look at myself and not think I'm a horribly ugly monster.

And it just ticks me off a little that she's still doing this to me.

Still Breathing

2005-10-01T16:57:00.000-06:00

I'm still alive.

My parents know, and I'm still alive.

They're not happy about the whole girlfriend thing, but they still love me, as I knew they would. However, telling them was about the hardest thing I've ever had to do.

I am so very lucky to have the parents that I do.

Omigod

2005-09-30T16:23:00.000-06:00

Omigod, omigod, omigod, omigod.

So I'm telling my parents about this whole girlfriend thing tomorrow.

Omigod.

I'm really not sure if I'm ready to make this step, but a) I'm fairly certain my mother suspects something. She's pretty damn intuitive and can read me like a book, and b) 40's brother knows, and although he's sworn not to say anything to his parents, (who are close friends with mine) I simply cannot risk my parents receiving THIS kind of information from anyone other than me.

Omigod.

Omigod, omigod, omigod.

Redeeming qualities of Houma, Louisiana

2005-09-28T07:17:00.000-06:00

First of all, let me mention that I had to actually sit down and write 5 pages with pen and paper while in Houma because finding much technology there is like finding a needle in a haystack. I had a bajillion thoughts flitting between my ears, and I had to get them out. When I have a few moments, I will eventually sit down and transcribe the thoughts I was having at the time.

Secondly, here is the list of redeeming qualities I discovered in the tiny little armpit called Houma. (Not a fan of small towns, btw...)

1. The drive-through daquiri store that was open at 11 on a Sunday morning. (SCORE!)
2. The food. (They can cook!)
3. Sandbagging
4. Long red lights (don't ask...)

I am glad to be home, but honestly, in retrospect, it wasn't all THAT bad...

Flood Damage

2005-09-27T17:01:00.000-06:00

So Xanadu survived the over-hyped hurricane.

However, we still got some flood damage.

Due to the mass exodus from Houston and everybody needing to make their way back home, most of the school districts decided to give us until Wednesday to return to school. A nice break, but we'll be paying for it later...

Anyhow, 40 decided to utilize this time to the best of her advantage and take care of some household things. Like cleaning. And running the dishwasher. Unfortunately, we were entirely out of dishwasher detergent, so 40 filled the little cups with dishwashing soap.

Shortly after the load began, I wandered into the kitchen and noticed a good sized spewing of suds oozing from the dishwasher. (It was at this point that I inquired as to the nature of the cleaning element used for that load of dishes, and discovered what she'd done.) Having once performed a similar experiment, (granted, at the age of 8) I warned 40 that maybe this wasn't such a good idea. "Nah," she says. "We'll just use it to mop the floor later..."

Feeling a little precarious, I head to my bedroom and take a shower. Thirty minutes later, I return to the kitchen.

It's completely flooded.

40 awakens from her nap, and it took the two of us a good hour to dispel all the water from the kitchen.

And yet, the vinyl tiling still squishes a little and spurts pockets of suds when we walk.

oh joy.

Grr... Argh...

2005-09-25T13:37:00.000-06:00

So Rita barely hit Houston. My dad still had to put the sprinklers on his azaleas because they didn't get enough rain. As I sit in the Houma (Louisiana) Public Library trying to plan a safe route home (along with 1.8 million of my Houstonian brethren who evacuated the city), I'm wondering if Safe really is better than Sorry.

Especially since this time yesterday, I was helping to sandbag a levee. (However, I can't really complain about that... it was kinda fun...)

I wanna go home!

Gotta love Global Warming...

2005-09-21T14:21:00.000-06:00

So we've got a huge freaking hurricane coming.

Already, Rita's at a category 5 with sustained winds of 165 mph, and still has several hundred miles of churning over a hot ocean before she lets loose on H-town.

School has been cancelled for the next two days. I'm so very getting out of town. I'm not in a mandatory evacuation area, and I do love a good storm, but there comes a point where you wonder how sane it is to stick around. Mostly, I just don't want to be without power (read air conditioning) for the three to five days they're predicting. I also don't want to be one of those fools that I kept thinking about in New Orleans... ("Dude, they told them to leave... why didn't they leave?")

This morning, I spent 20 minutes calming down my first class. I had two little girls bawling because, "Miss, we're gonna diiiiie...." (Oh good lord... 12 and 13 year old girls are SUCH drama queens!) I even had to rearrange the furniture in my classroom, getting things away from the window that up until a few hours ago, I was so very thankful to have. Thank goodness for burly 8th grade boys with nothing better to do...

So in 20 minutes when I'm allowed to leave, I will be leaving at 4:00 for the first time yet this school year. I'm going home to pack, and then I'm hitting the road with my girlfriend (tee hee...) as we head 5 hours east, to Louisiana to stay with her father.

I know we're all a little gun shy from Katrina, and I know Houston is in much better shape than New Orleans, but I'm a little nervous...

Here's to hoping my apartment, car, and classroom are all still intact when I get back....

yeah...

2005-09-16T20:50:00.000-06:00

I am horrendous at communicating.

I have pretty much always been horrendous at communicating.

Don't get me wrong. At times, I can talk with the best of them. Mostly, I say stupid things. (Half the time, I'm embarrased of the banalities I spew forth.) As far as actually creating understanding in others as to the productions of my mind, I suck.

I think it may all go along with that introverted thing...

Anyhow, I'm pretty psyched that I've discovered that I can kinda write. I feel like I'm finally getting me across.

Yeah.

Making my way in a foreign land...

2005-09-16T15:48:00.000-06:00

So I have some slightly disturbing insight to the touching letter from earlier this week. The student who gave it to me also handed me an addendum, full of even more sappy thank-yous and I-love-you-so-muches. It's still sweet, but now we're bordering a little on the disturbing side. My girlfriend (tee-hee... it feels funny/cool to be saying that...) claims her gaydar is pinging at full tilt around this student, and she's convinced that we'll be running into Krystle at Chances or the like in a decade or so. She's certain that Krystle is experiencing her first crush on a girl, and has identified me as the object of her affections.

At first I thought such an idea was total craziness. But then I considered all the evidence:

Krystle loves me. I mean, LOVES me. I counted: today she hugged me eleven times.
She stopped by my classroom after school yesterday and played with my hair for a full hour before going to the gym for the volleyball game.
(During which time she hugged me at least a dozen times.)
Once I showed up for the volleyball game last night, she came and sat next to me with her arm through mine for over an hour instead of sitting with her friends.
She's enraptured with the details of my personal life. She knows I'm seeing somebody (there are flowers on my desk) and wants to know all the sordid details about "him." [I've tried to convince her I don't have a boyfriend, but she's not buying it. Her: "Miss, you got a boyfriend." Me: "No Krystle, I don't." Her: "Of course you do. Who else but your boyfriend would send you flowers? Why won't you tell me about him?" Me: "Krystle, I swear to you I don't have a boyfriend." Her: "Why you lying, Miss? Why won't you tell me about him?" We've been through this song and dance at least 5 times in the last two days. What truly amuses me is that she went up to the giver of said flowers and said, "Miss Flipside has a boyfriend, Miss, and she won't tell me about it..."]

Anyhow, I'm thoroughly digressing. I totally see it know. It's kinda cute, but the proliferation of Krystle-hugs are starting to grate a little on my nerves. They're becoming more and more common...

Oh well. Hopefully, she'll get over me soon enough...

Being Flaky

2005-09-16T07:15:00.000-06:00

It's been nearly two weeks since I scorched my sensitive Scotch-Irish skin at the beach.

And I'm still peeling like a snake. I have been exfoliating with a rabid abundance each morning in the shower, and have been drenching my skin in lotion several times a day, but with little success.

I look like a leprous freak.

Ack.

Krystle Clear

2005-09-12T10:32:00.000-06:00

There's this student at my school, Krystle. Krystle is a very loud, boisterous, and outgoing child, almost to the point of obnoxiousness. Let me rephrase. Way past the point of obnoxiousness. For some reason unbeknownst to me, Krystle likes me. I've never even had her in my class, but yet she comes by several times a day to get a hug from me and comment on my choice of shoes. To be honest, I have a soft spot in my heart for Krystle. She's a little nutty, but she's always smiling and cheerful.

Last week, Krystle was very upset and crying, so I let her come in and sit at my desk for a few minutes so she could calm herself down before going to class. I had a class of my own in the room, but after about 3 minutes, she let herself out and I didn't see her again until today.

When I did see her, see hugged me (of course) and handed me a note.

"2: You
4rm: Me
When: September 9
Where: At home (in room)
Time: 8:05
Reason: say how I really feel
Request: don't matter
Relationship: Best Friend (a person near my heart)

Hello, I'm sorry about today. Thanks for being there for me today. That was sweet of you. I never really had a teacher like you. Just so you know, I'm here for you also. You're sometimes the reason why I come to school. You let me know to keep my head up, and my dreams will come true. Thanks for letting me lean on your shoulder when I need to. Don't think I don't love you cause I do. I love you with all my heart. You're the 1st person eyes I evered (sic) look into when I talk to someone. That's a good thing. When I look into your eyes, I see I have a future and I love you for that.

Love always, Krystle."

And this is why I love my job.

On Limerence

2005-09-11T11:54:00.000-06:00

I get a kick when I can learn new vocabulary words in the most unusual of sources.

I read the comics religiously. Not all of them, mind you as I generally avoid the boring serialized ones like Mary Worth and Prince Valiant and what not. The Houston Chronicle has a fairly stellar line-up, boasting a full four pages of print devoted to the funnies. I've heard that people who read the comics live longer than people who don't, so I'm prepping to live to a ripe old age...

In yesterday's paper, Funky Winkerbean's Tom Batiuk introduced me (and I'm sure many other educated people) to an expression with which I was completely unfamiliar, but that I really like. (Apparently it's a rather obscure word, as MS Word doesn't even recognize it.)

Check it out....

I love learning new things!

Bordering on fearless...

2005-09-08T10:40:00.000-06:00

So I met with my friend Dr. Pheelgood last night, whom I miss greatly these days. He is no longer at the same school as I am. We had margaritas (well, I did...) and I took advantage of his counseling skills. We talked about life, but mostly, we talked in great depth about my left-handed confusion. (Remember, we're dealing with an allegory...) He truly helped me see things more clearly.

I'm not so stressed anymore.

And also I'm rather sure of something: I don't want these feelings to go away...

An Allegory of Confusion

2005-09-07T15:59:00.000-06:00

So I'm right handed. I've always been right handed. Never in my life have I ever considered being anything other than right handed. Granted, from time to time, I've thought about using my left hand, and wanted to use my left hand, but not very often. However, there's a strong possibility that I've thought about using my left hand more than most right handed people would...

I have a lot of left handed friends. I hang out with left handed people all the time. Sometimes, I feel more comfortable around my left handed friends than around my right handed friends. Even though I've spent a lot of time with left handed people, I've never contemplated that I could actually be left handed.

Recently, I've been spending a great deal of time with a left handed friend with whom I had only spent small amounts of time with in the past. This is nothing new; like I've said before, I've hung out with left handed people all the time.

Herein lies the confusion. The more time I spend with this particular left handed friend, the more I find myself thinking about wanting to use my left hand. I'm not saying that I think I'm fully left handed, but I'm thinking there's a strong possibility that I may be a little more ambidextrous than I thought I was.

Although this confusion has thrown me for a huge loop, I can't say I'm totally surprised. A little bit of the urge has clearly always been there. I guess it's all just surfacing more in this new friendship.

The question is, what do I do now?

Do I mention this to my left handed friend? (Or have I already by writing this post?) ... I don't want to look like a complete and total idiot...

Do I ignore the impulse to use my left hand and hope it goes away? Do I even want it to go away?

*sigh*

Any input on the subject would be greatly appreciated...

Wide awake and staring at the ceiling...

2005-09-05T21:55:00.000-06:00

I can't sleep.

I'm horribly confused about something I never imagined I'd be confused about. I'd go into details, but I wouldn't even know where to start.

Where is the Ambien when I need it most?

You could fry an egg on my forehead...

2005-09-04T19:31:00.000-06:00

So I've returned from a weekend at the beach and I'm miserably sunburned. I'm crispy red... it's awful. I've bathed in cool cucumber stuff, but my skin is still horridly ablaze...

Anyhow, there's something that's eating at me right now, and quite frankly, I'm pretty damn edgy.

As I've alluded to in previous rants, I am a painfully introverted person. I've almost always preferred and been thankful for my solitude. For the most part, being around other people has terrified me. I like being alone. For years, if given the opportunity, nine times out of ten I would chose solitude over social interaction. I've never gotten lonely. Ever. Seclusion has always been Option A.

But I'm suffering a feeling I've never in my adult life experienced. Right now, for the first time I can lucidly recall, I feel lonely. An episode of Family Guy was a nice bandage for a 30 minute fix, as were a few phone calls. But I'm still jittery and anxious, and I don't like it. I guess this is normal, this concept of loneliness, but it's never happened to me.

I'm physically trembling.

But that could be the sunburn, too.

Shout out for the Big Easy

2005-09-02T05:58:00.000-06:00

So my school enrolled a couple dozen students from Louisiana yesterday, and are expecting several more today. I've already had two added to my classes. I just can't fathom what these kids are going through. You're told to leave your home for a few days, and then, whoops, just kidding, you can't go home until December. And that's if you even have a home to go to...

On the radio this morning, one of the news reports talked about how these displaced people from New Orleans are no longer considered "evacuees." They're full fledged "refugees." No homes. No jobs. No belongings. Just the clothes on their backs. The newspaper (and 40's brother) mentioned that the city will probably never be the same. Many refugees will find new homes and jobs elsewhere, (like here in H-town) and will most likely never go back. Why would they...? There is nothing left...

On a more disgusting side of the story, our local street beggar people are totally pissing me off. The same guy I saw by the overpass last week with the "Will Work for Food" sign is now toting a piece of cardboard claiming "From New Orleans. Please help." Mother fracking leeches. Get a MF job.

And on an ever so slightly related note, 40 got a new phone a few weeks ago, and chose "When the Saints Go Marching In" as her new ring tone. Although I've never really cared for the song, particularly in the metallic rendition offered by LG, I now am finding it to be awfully distressing and rather macabre when her phone rings.

My heart goes out...

tee hee...

2005-08-25T20:11:00.000-06:00

You know what's hot? Men with women's names.

You know what's hotter? A man with a woman's name who told me that I remind him of Donna from That 70's Show.

That's gotta be one of the coolest compliments I've ever received. I told him so. He just grinned at me.

Excuse me while I blush and giggle.

Insert appropriate title here

2005-08-24T20:14:00.000-06:00

So I really like the National Geographic channel. Earlier this week, they did a four hour presentation called Inside 9/11. Normally, I would scoff at such a thing, and mention how horrible it is to profit from such a tragedy. Then I thought, but this is the National Geographic Channel... Hmmm...

Seeing as how I was still enduring a generous amount of back pain, I spent a large portion on Monday night on the couch with an ice bag, and so I decided to give it a few minutes to see if it was worthwhile.

Needless to say, I was more than impressed with the presentation. I missed the first half hour or so, but I watched an hour and a half of it before i went to bed, making sure to DVR the last two hours. It was incredibly clear in lining up all the history of the men and the plots and the places, without any editorializing. The intricacies of the information we now know is damn near fascinating.

I started to watch the last two hours of it last night, but as the documentary grew closer and closer to the devastating climax with which we are all far too familiar, the program got harder and harder to watch. I found myself trembling and shuddering off the chills. I turned the tv off, and again, went to bed.

So there I was earlier tonight, again with remote in hand. Part of me didn't want to see the rest. (In retrospect, there are parts I wish I could un-watch.) However, my thirst for knowledge and perhaps some inkling of understanding why this happened made me want to finish the program.

One hour to go, my heart aches.
Forty-five minutes, I want to turn it off, but I can't...
Now thirty minutes to go...

I feel almost obligated, as my patriotic duty, to be informed of this nightmare, to not forget the damage that was done.

It scared me, actually. It scared me a lot. I don't think we'll ever find bin Laden. The program mentioned how the new terrorism policy means the US will no longer tolerate any government that uses terrorism as means for power. Okay. Great. The Taliban's gone, and so's Saddam. But how is our government going to find a man who has a welcome refuge among a zillion nomadic and tribal societies scattered across the -istan's?

The last line of the program left me shuddering. Not long after the attacks, a Pakistani reporter mentioned to bin Laden that things have turned out exactly as he predicted: fire and brimstone, war all around him in Afghanistan, etc. The reporter asked him how he felt about the war he created, to which bin Laden replied that he was happy. He would not mind if were killed in the ensuing war in Afghanistan. He said, "That's the difference between us. We love death. Americans love life."

I tremble still, just typing the words. Such evil and such devout faith spat out all in one breath.

I'm going to go to bed now, and going to try not to think about it.

Bon Voyage, Kahuna

2005-08-23T06:49:00.000-06:00

So there's the guy I kinda started dating... I'm so very glad I listened to my gut on this one. Not only is the man a very bad kisser, he's 37 and still lives with his parents. At first, I thought he was sweet and nice and attentive and that fun stuff, but I kept poking at his spongy exterior of pseudo-personality, only to discover an abysmal lack of anything worthwhile in his character. There's not really anything there. And he lives with his parents. At 37. Never having moved out. (With the exception of the 7 years he spent in college....)

I killed my back last Friday trying to move a bookcase in my classroom, so I spent my weekend lying on the couch doped up on celebrex and vicodin with a bag of ice on my back. Kahuna, as he calls himself (don't make me laugh), stopped by to watch a movie with me since I, once again, finked on our Saturday plans. While there, he complimented my roommate on her cute shorts no less that 4 times. Strike one.

We also had a conversation about our hobbies. His include legos, collecting Star Wars paraphenalia, and going out drinking 7 nights a week. When I asked him why he still lived with his parents, he said he had a lot of credit card debt. Ummm.... who doesn't? Here's an idea... maybe if you didn't go out every single night, you could pay off some of your credit card debt. Here's another thought... if you are 37 and living with your parents and concerned about your debt situation, maybe going to bar and ordering a $4 Corona instead of drinking the $1 draft beer, simply because you "don't like draft beer unless it's St. Arnold's" is NOT THE BEST IDEA! Goddamn. Strike two.

After I realized this was sooo not gonna happen, I had a little "Come To Jesus" [vocab compliments of 40] talk with him, saying that perhaps we shouldn't get in over our heads, I'm not looking for a relationship, my career needs to be my top priority, blah blah blah... Basically, the "Flipside is not really feeling it anymore, honey" speech. It didn't really take. ("But I have a job, too," he says. Really? So why are you STILL LIVING WITH YOUR PARENTS? I digress...) I'm not sure. He still wants to come with me Wednesday... (I had plans to take a recently single lesbian friend to Professional Lesbian Night at a local gay bar.) I think we're still going to be friends... ? Like I said, I'm not really sure what he took from our conversation... (I should probably also mention that Kahuna's propensity for frequenting gay bars is a little disturbing for a "straight" man...)

Anyhow, I find out that the very next day, he's already called an acquaintance of mine, (who was also there the day we met) and asked her if she wanted to "hang out" with him. Are you kidding me? It's not as though I really mind , or even that she'd actually want to be involved with him after our ever-so-brief entanglement, but come on. Talk about poor form... Mother Effing Strike Three.

Thinking back, I knew there was a reason I told myself that I wasn't going to date anyone I met in a bar. This experience about solidifies that sentiment. I'm going to chalk this whole fiasco up to way too much champagne on a Sunday afternoon. Ugh.

Oh, the places she'll go...

2005-08-13T16:34:00.000-06:00

In this past week
The Flipside has found
All sorts of new fun
While travelling the town.

The waxer, drink mixer,
a man who likes boobs,
And with DVR,
never missing the tube!

Okay, okay, poetry is not my strong suit.

Seriously though...
Fun thing #1 - the waxer: I fould this aesthetician out near where I work (in the boonies) who does bikini waxes for only $20. Her office is in a bank building... not extravagant, but very clean and calming, and she did a great job. What a steal - the last place I went for a bikini wax was upwards of $50, and that didn't even include a Brazilian. Then, we'd be talking $80 or more. (New place: $35!) I had convinced myself I couldn't afford such luxuries anymore. I'm so psyched. No more shaving! No more bumps!Yay!

Fun thing #2 - drink mixer: There was this place in small college town where I went to school called Double Quick. It was an extraordinarily fabulous place. Technically, it was a drive-thru convenience store, but they also sold these frozen drinks called Igloos. Igloos came in just about every flavor combination you could imagine, and although they were already pretty intoxicating, you could increase the alcohol content by adding a shot (or two, or three...)

Today while driving to my parent's house, I saw a small billboard for a place called Eskimo Hut, touting "frozen daquiris to go!" Out of sheer curiousity, I stopped in, discovering that this place is indeed of the same nature as my favorite convenience store in my college town. $7 acquired me a medium orange and cream slush with 2 extra shots, complete with a hermetically sealed bag over the styrofoam cup stating "The state of Texas and Eskimo Hut strongly encourage you to refrain from opening this bag until you have left your motor vehicle." Damn open container laws.

I'm in heaven. And did I mention the owner is a complete and total hottie? Who carded me? (I could've hugged him right then...) I think I'll be heading up to visit my parents more often...

Fun(?) thing #3 - the man who likes boobs: Actually, the jury is still out on this one. I met a really nice guy last weekend. He's sweet and a little bit dorky, which for me, is a good thing. However, he is not a very good kisser.

I simply cannot stand kissing someone who comes at you with their tongue already out, ready to jam it into your mouth with very little attention paid to the lips. Kissing should be mostly about the lip action, with the tongue secondary; a pleasant afterthought to be saved for once the lips are all working together in harmony. Should this problem be a deal breaker? I can't say. Hopefully, this is something that can be rectified, but is he likely to be receptive to change at 37? And training a good kisser takes a lot of effort...

Tonight is the vital third date, and quite frankly, I'm feeling a little apprehensive. If the kissing is bad, what else might be bad? Do I really want to test this theory? Do even want to go out with him tonight? Do I like him enough to exert the effort? Argh. Help.

Maybe it'll all be better after I finish my orange and cream slush... I'm taking it in the shower with me.

Here's to a chaste, generic and (illiterate?) night...

2005-08-06T20:38:00.000-06:00

My supercool Have-a-Day calendar actually has "have a night" sayings on Fridays and Saturdays. Today it says, "Have a night painting the town red," and beneath the smiley face splattered with red paint, it marks this day as "National Night Out." [They have some of the weirdest date denotions in my calendar from Bad Poetry Day to Evel Kneivel's birthday..]

This particular Saturday night, I'm staying home and doing laundry.

Should I have looked at my calendar before I decided to sit on my ass tonight?

Am I reading much too far into my calendar?

Verdict: my desire for clean clothing, coupled with budgetary constraints, will trump the calendar tonight.

Just call me Queen Homebody.

Me with my baby nephew

2005-08-06T10:06:00.000-06:00

Okay, so I'm no supermodel, but I still think it's a good shot...

Addendum: Celebration time! I finally figured out how to post my photo to my profile. (Don't laugh at me. I'm technologically retarded.)

Freaky Friday

2005-08-05T20:57:00.000-06:00

So I woke up this morning from a phone call from my dear friend KT. No longer a Kindergarten Teacher, she is now a 3rd grade teacher, but to me, she'll always be KT.

KT called me at roughly 7 this morning. Apparently, she and her crazy roommate friend decided that cocaine was a relatively wise idea at 4 am this morning. THis surprises me a little, because KT does not usually indulge in such extreme craziness. Moderate craziness, yes, but cocaine? Really?

KT was a little freaked out when she called me. I immediately threw on boxers and a t-shirt and drove the whole six blocks to her apartment. When I got there, she was beyond freaking out. She was pacing and mumbling and generally acting quite wierd. I did my best to calm her down, but it was a little scary for me. KT is a poster child for why I never have and never will do coke.

After several hours of calming and consolation, by about ten a.m., I told KT that I was sorry, but, I absolutely had to get to school and finish putting together my classroom.

K.T. said that was okay, and I invited her to come with me because quite frankly, I was a little worried about her. Leaving her alone at home was definetly NOT a good idea. She didn't need or want to be left alone.

So K.T. came with me to school today. By the time we got out to the Boonies to the middle school where I teach, KT was much more collected. As we turned on to the street where my school is, KT felt a sense of familiarity and turned to me and asked, "Tell me again who your principal is?"

Turns out, K.T. and my PRINCIPAL taught their first few years together. Dude. What the fuck?

Small world. And I'm still a little freaked out.

K.T. and my principal (read, BOSS) sat and chewed the fat for a few hours while I put up posters and such in my classroom. My principal apparently thought it no big deal to feel up K.T. in the security of his office, and stick his tongue down her throat. Like I said, they're good buddies. This is a man (married, btw) who, until today, has imtimidated the crap out of me.

So if I was worried about my career this year, I needn't have been. I'm sooo set. I'm psyched. This rocks. Bring it on, fall 2005!

8 random observations upon my life...

2005-08-04T20:33:00.000-06:00

1. Things seem to be much more harmonious at Xanadu these days. For a week and a half, 40 had gone a-traveling with the Til5 family across many southern states, leaving me to some much needed solitude after an all-too-short summer, including several trips of my own. Since her return, I haven't had any of of those horrible "I miss my friend" pangs I had been having for the past few months. I even succeeded at talking her out of a really BAD idea she had had. [I won't go in to details, but 40 is one headstrong chick. It's a bitch to try to talk 40 out of bad ideas... in the past I have tried and repeatedly failed...]

2. The last two days have been bucketloads of joy. Moreover, I remember why I did not go into manual labor. But my new classroom is all set up and looks great. I'm so excited... I have carpet this year. And a window. I'm so spoiled.

3. I simply cannot allow myself to believe Rafael Palmiero is guilty of steroid abuse. I'm so naive.

4. Roger Clemens is 43 today. FORTY-THREE! That amazes me.

5. I'm really psyched for football season.

6. All of a sudden, a few months ago, I started liking beer again. It's wierd. I've disliked beer for going on close to 8 years. I never really could drink beer after this whole Kegstand Flipside episode I had back when I was silly enough to be in a sorority in college. [Except imagine a name with a a better alliterative effect than Flipside in this particular nickname...)
And then all of a sudden, I liked beer again. I'm such a versatile drinker now. I can drink and enjoy just about anything. Anything but gin. I dislike gin.

7. Still waiting on the snapshot. You won't be disappointed...

8. It's past my bedtime. I have a bedtime again.

She even bought me panties...

2005-07-30T23:49:00.000-06:00

My mother took me shopping for back to school clothes today. My disposable income each month is laughable, and I quite frankly, think my mother was sick of seeing me in all the same clothes over and over. Granted, I do see my parents quite frequently, but I think she had my pattern figured out...
Anyhow, we spent no less than six hours in two stores, and my mom dropped damn near half one of my paychecks on acquiring a new, more professional-ish teacher-y wardrobe for me. I really enjoyed just hanging out with my mom, but I got a huge bonus... a butt-load of clothing!
Don't get me wrong, I have clothes, it's not like I'm rotating the same handful of outfits or anything, its just that most of what I buy comes from Old Navy or somewhere else of equally shoddy durability of construction... and therefore a large majority of my wardrobe could certainly stand replacing/updating.

Bonus:
I got home with a shot of energy from a post-dinner frappuccino and actually CLEANED OUT MY CLOSET! (clothing only - i'm not starting shoes at this hour.) I wanted to have a place to put all my awesome new clothing. I accumulated well over 50 empty hangers in the process, AND now I get to put a check by that thing I didn't think I'd get done this summer...

Double Bonus:
I got some prints of pictures from my trip to Virginia to see my new baby nephew. There's this one of me holding the baby, and I look awesome. I looked at the photo and said, "Damn, I'm pretty..." (... and I have immeasurably low self esteem, so you know its gotta be a good picture...) As soon as I get my hands on the digital version, I'm so posting my picture on here. I never thought I would put up more photographic evidence of my existence other than my feet, but Damn, I'm pretty...

{Unfortunately, however, we will still not be posting our photo to our profile because we are still somewhat frustrated with the whole store your photos elsewhere thing, and trust us, we have invested some time, but you know what, we're not going to be talking about this right now... we'll come back to it, though... oh, indeed, we will...}

It's been a great day. I go to bed happy. And did I mention, Damn, I'm pretty....?

A self deprecating moment

2005-07-30T23:46:00.000-06:00

How is it that I am so self-involved as to not be able to remember the birthday of someone I've known over ten years?

How much worse is it that never would have remembered on my own?

Notice - Shuttle service has ended...

2005-07-28T17:06:00.000-06:00

At first, I was somewhat devasted by the news that the shuttle fleet was grounded indefinitely. There would be no return to space until 2010, when a new vehicle could be developed.

Hmmm...

The very shuttle flown, Columbia, launched on April 12, 1981. 1981? That was 24 years ago. I was 3. The whole shuttle program inception dates back to 1972... and Nixon! That was a generation ago...

1981? 1972? There were no cell phones, no home computers, no internet, no cell phones, no Microsoft, no MTV, no cell phones, no PDA's, no DVD's, no CD's, no cell phones, and a pocket calculator still cost upward of $20...

And that's just for us common folk.

Imagine the technological advances plausible for the scientific community. Imagine, given the brightest minds and the thirty-three years of technology that has unfolded since the program's inception in 1972, what can be created next.

Although we know 2010 will turn into 2015 or 2020, I say OK. I can wait. My curiosity has the best of me. Maybe I've watched too much Star Wars, but I say: NASA... Bring it on!

An apprentice to the Goddess

2005-07-27T17:13:00.000-06:00

I know I keeping whining that my summer is over, but the bitching stops here. I'm taking this workshop by Marilyn Burns, the Goddess of Mathematical Education, and it's crazy awesome. I have learned so much. There are so many things that I'm psyched about for my classes this year. I'm so looking forward to taking on this school year. I've had a nice, relaxing break, and now it's time for me to be a productive member of society again; I'm fired up and ready to work really hard and start applying some of this stuff I've learned. (And I'm really lucky that I feel this way because my new department chair is the superintendent's daughter. Unfortunately, she has never taught middle school before. This should be interesting.)

Now I just have to get out of the habit of sleeping in past 8, 8:30, 9:00....

Other than that minor issue, all I've got is "Look out you pre-pubescent *fuckers. Here I come... you're going to learn, and goddammit, you're going to enjoy it!"

* by fuckers, I do, literally, mean "fuckers." Many of my 12 and 13 year old students engage in frequent sexual activity. Even on campus.

Frack Bob Schieffer

2005-07-26T17:12:00.000-06:00

***On an unrelated note: So my summer, technically, is over. I'm in either workshops or staff development meetings every day until the kids come back. This is the part where I whimper.***

I was at a workshop today, (a pretty cool one actually, where impact of the lessons is to invoke student empathy) and I wasn't home to watch the Discovery launch. Fortunately for me, I have become the goddess of DVR since having it installed 5 days ago, and recorded the launch. When I got home, I immediately sat down and watched it. I was thoroughly impressed. They had all these cameras to make sure they could see if there was any damage, and they had one between the fuel tank and the orbiter where you could watch as the earth disappeared. Eventually, the fuel tank and the camera pulled away, and you could see the shape of the bottom of the shuttle as it continued on. It was quite cool. I'm glad I DVRed it. (DVR rocks!)

However, the entire process was a little marred by Bob Schieffer, the moron who's fronting CBS Evening News these days. He said something to the effect of, "I think its, uh, something special that we're, uh, all so excited to return to space that no one has, uh, taken the time mention this mission is commanded by Eileen Collins, uh, uh, a woman..."

Way to go, dinkbreath. Wouldn't it have been even more special, had this fact remained unspoken and accepted as the norm it is and should be...? Must we have been subjected to random musings of a antiquated member of the good-ol-boy club?

Not a big deal indeed.

See if you can tell what my new pseudo-swear word is... or "Fun in the Capital"

2005-07-22T16:28:00.000-06:00

Bonus points if you know what t.v. show it's from...

So I spent the last week in Fairfax County, Virginia, on the outskirts of Washington, D.C. My brother and his wife just had a baby last month (my fourth nephew total) and I went for a visit. My brother, a Major in the Air Force, just moved to the area a few months ago and is now working in the National Reconnaissance Office. That's pretty much all he's allowed to tell us about his career. [Me: So K, what did you do at work today?" Him: "I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you." This is not news to me. His previous position was at the Space Warfare Command Center in Colorado.] And of course, my nephew is adorable; he's a really good baby... he hardly ever cries and loves to snuggle... He almost made me want to re-think that whole "I never want to have kids thing." Almost.

However, I digress. I did the whole touristy thing while in D.C...I hit up the Archives and a couple of the Smithsonians... saw the Hope Diamond, the Enola Gay, declassified documents regarding the U-2, and of course, walked all over the mall to view the monuments like the brand-new WWII Memorial, the Lincoln Memorial and the Vietnam Wall. And I have never sweat so much as I did the day we walked the mall... Apparently there ARE places that are hotter and more humid than Houston. I refused to believe it when my brother told me it was hot and humid there. My thought process was "Hey, I'm from H-town... if anyone can handle ridiculously hot and humid it's me." But, OMIGOD, it was so fracking hot, and the humidity was up around 96%. NINETY SIX PERCENT! Are you fracking kidding me? It was more like swimming than walking when you were outside... I was so relieved to return home to the 90 degree, 80 % humidity weather... (?)

The sad part was that my very favorite part of the trip is when I saw a guy wearing a t-shirt that looked a lot like this one. I think this is about one of the coolest fracking things I've ever seen... I immediately came home and surfed the web until I found one like it so I could pay a ridiculous amount of money to acquire it. I hate cigarettes. Let me rephrase. I ABHOR cigarettes.

And that's what I did on my summer vacation.

Grr. Argh. School starts in two weeks.

*sigh*

Space... the final frontier...

2005-07-12T18:14:00.000-06:00

I'm ridiculously excited about the U.S.'s return to space. I am having DVR installed tomorrow, and they're supposed to come between 12 and 2. They sure as hell better make it by 2, because the very first thing I plan to digitally record is the Discovery launch at 2:51.

I'm such a dork.

But I'm also the same girl who cut classes in college to watch John Glenn return to space...

Sometimes the human race just shocks me...

2005-07-08T12:50:00.000-06:00

Yesterday I took my parents to the airport. I was on my way home, and one of those random vicious storms that have been slamming Houston the past couple of days decended upon the northeast side.

It was raining like gangbusters. I was honestly a little terrified, and I have driven through some pretty nasty storms. The freeway traffic was crawling along at about 25 mph. At one point, I saw lightning strike one of the freeway light towers. (Probably one of coolest things I have ever witnessed, but I was too busy staring at the road to pay it too much heed.)

I was on 45 heading south, about halfway between the beltway and the loop, and this SUV dauntingly passed by me. As it inched past, I noticed that it's hazard lights were on.

Hmm, I thought. That makes it really easy to see him in this wretched rain.

The pick-up in front of my must have had the same thought, because a few seconds later, his hazard lights were on, too. And then the Mustang two lanes over had it's hazards on. And within less than a minute, all of the eight or nine cars in immediate proximity to this SUV had their hazards on. Including me. It was so much easier to drive a little faster, because you could comfortable SEE everyone around you. We had this nice little pack going, all with our hazards on, moving at a fairly comfortable 45-50 miles an hour through some of the worst rain I have ever seen.

When the rain suddenly ceased about 5 miles later, everybody shut their hazard lights off, and accellerated gracefully on the dry (?) pavement.

Brilliant plan, Mr. SUV. Way to go Houston drivers.

Like I said, sometimes something small happens, and we redeem our primarily stupid selves.

Home sweet Houston

2005-07-06T18:34:00.000-06:00

I've always thought that one of the coolest things about living in Houston was the suprisingly low cost of living, as far as huge 4 million + cities go. However, according to CNN, we hit the middle internationally. Out of 144 of the largest cities in the world, Houston lands at #70.

Places where its cheaper to live than Houston:

*Kuala Lumpur - Hmm... I've always wanted to see the Petronas Towers...

*Bangkok - umm, I'll pass on this one. I imagine it's still a little messy from the tsunami... and all the hookers...

*Denver - Denver? Really? It's cheaper to live in Denver than Houston? How is that fair?

*Sao Paolo - Well, Brazil certainly wouldn't suck.

*Seattle - again, pass. It's pretty, but the weather blows. (Says the girl who's car thermometer hit 104 degrees today...)

I guess it's not as cheap as I thought here, but it's home, and I do love it. After all, H-town is the home of Xanadu...

River Rats

2005-07-05T11:06:00.000-06:00

*this part of the blog not intended for children*

Last month, I went to the river with some friends and neighbors (and a bunch of people I didn't know.) [I started to write this shortly after our return, but never posted it, so forgive me for the old news.] Even though I was still recovering from my horrible tummy affliction and therefore was not imbibing as much as, well, pretty much every body else, I had a fabulous time. There were a whole lot of wasted people on this adventure. I think I had 4 beers the whole weekend. Most of the rest of the crew had 4 an hour.

We stayed in these bad-ass cabins right on Canyon Lake - each cabin had room for 12 people to eat, sleep, bathe, and party. And party we did. There were flashlight strobes to highlight the dancing on the porch, and I think at least 9 people crammed into the hot tub at one point. There was even a Ron Burgundy wannabe contest. Well, not really, but this guy definitely won.

So on Saturday night, after a long day of floating and drinking and getting sunburned, a group of us, mostly girls, were all hanging around inside, enjoying the AC for a bit. Although the party is still in full tilt, the Hostess (who later that night broke her nose when someone tried to pick her up and she fell flat on her face - that was fun, and a whole nother story...) starts cleaning up a little. Somehow the conversation goes toward the inherent connection between cleaning and sex. (?) Apparently the Hostess is quite energized by sexual encounters with her husband, and likes to clean post-orgasm.

Jay, a small, yet very entertaining guy, was walking through the cabin to grab more beer and heard part of the conversation, so he decided to throw in his two cents. "Man that's awesome. I need a wife like that. Every time I wanted my place clean, I can just grab her and say, 'let's do some fucking so we can get this place straightened up!'" He then made a lovely little hip thrusting gesture and walked back out on the the porch, as we sat giggling at his wierdness.

Then the blond chick sitting next to me, who hasn't said much in a while, comes back with the most fabulous retort. "Poor Jay," she says. "No wonder he isn't married. He still thinks that orgasms come from fucking."

I laughed so hard that I snorted.

I can't wait until next year.

My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die!

2005-06-30T22:15:00.000-06:00

I love The Princess Bride. Who doesn't? However, it disturbs me a little that the guy who played Inigo Montoya, Mandy Patinkin, is now hawking Crestor, a cholesterol reducing drug.

Aw hell, if Jean-Luc Picard (I mean Patrick Stewart) can do it, so can Indigo.

Have a bitten day...

2005-06-30T12:04:00.000-06:00

I have one of those really cool "Have-a-Day" calendars where it has some wierd smiley for every day. Today is Mike Tyson's birthday. So my calender says, "Have a bitten day" and has a a smiley face with a bite missing.

Why, I think I'll go have a bitten day...

Ten more reasons I LOVE summertime!

2005-06-29T21:10:00.000-06:00

Don't say it doesn't mean Jack...

2005-06-29T17:29:00.000-06:00

Travelling to and from Prescott, Arizona is not as easy as just hopping on a plane and having someone pick you up at the airport. Phoenix, the only city of substantial size in Arizona, is a good 100-some-odd miles south of Prescott, meaning I could either rent a car, or take the glorious Prescott Transit Authority shuttle for the two-to-two-and-a-half hour drive through the hilly terrain. Renting a car was ridiculously expensive, especially since I would have no need for it once I got to Prescott. So I took the shuttle both ways.

On my return trip to the airport, I scheduled my shuttle trip with plenty of time, because Arizona is currently suffering from an onslaught of wildfires, and the interstate had had some sporatic closures because of it. I had a 3:30 flight, but I boarded the PTA shuttle at 11, just make sure. As I sat down with my book and my baggie of cashews, ready for the long drive, I said a hi and how are ya to the handsome guy next to me. Well, at least as good looking as a man can be with longish - almost mullet-like- hair and a big silver loop earring. (Don't be too harsh, he's from Idaho. They've got to be somewhat fashion challenged up there. It's in the middle of nowhere. They're probably just now hearing about the wonder that is the zipper...)

Seriously, though, the guy was really my type. At least 6'4", beautiful blue eyes, a fabulously manly build, and a killer smile. Unfortunately, we also had a wedding ring. Despite that fact, Jack and I had an instant connection, and kept each other entertained for the entire ride to the airport. I never even opened my book, or my baggie of cashews. We had some great conversations, pleasant banter, and all-in-all, I was sad when we reached the airport far ahead of schedule. I truly enjoyed this man's company.

Having arrived at the airport with plenty of time to kill, we agreed we'd both made our way through security and meet at a bar in the terminal. There, we sat for another forty-five minutes or so, wowing each other with witty reparte and dreading the ever nearing hour when his flight would board.

When he stood up to leave, he looked me in the eyes, put his hand on my cheek in a very comforting and not at all sexual way, and told me that I was one of the most witty, intelligent, and "uniquely beautiful" women he had ever met. It was our very first moment of awkwardness, and he started to say something about how he was unsure whether or not we should contact exchange information. Before he could get through the sentence, he trailed off, as we both knew the answer was no. He is married, and has a wife and two children under the age of ten. There was no reason for us to be in contact. I told him how much I enjoyed meeting him, and he told me how much he enjoyed meeting me, and we hugged and he left, and that was the end of that.

What Jack didn't realize is that he gave me something very special. I felt a renewed faith in myself, knowing that YES I AM a beautiful, witty, intelligent woman, and some day, some guy out there will, like Jack, recognize that fact.

Only hopefully, the next time, he won't already be married.

The Grand Canyon

2005-06-25T19:50:00.000-06:00

So I'm in Arizona (again) visiting my grandmother and my uncles (again) but this time without the horde of family members that descended upon them the last time we came to visit. This time, it's just me. When I arrived, my uncle asked me if I'd ever been to the Grand Canyon. My answer: technically, yes. I was, however, only nine months old at the time.

So on Saturday, my uncle, my grandmother and I drove a circuitous route from Prescott, AZ, through Sedona (very cool little resort town that I missed on my last trip due to my little nephew and the lovely stomach flu he gave me) up to Grand Canyon National Park. Mostly, it's a beautiful drive, but the last 45 minutes or so are rather dull. As you're driving along this plateau, the route is really quite flat. Except for the signs reminding you of it, you would have no indication that you're actually at a sustained altitude of six or seven thousand feet high. It's feels sort of like driving across a rolling (and very arid) prairie.

And then you get to the park, and damn. Would you look at that, there's a huge freaking hole in the ground! The surrounding landscape gives you no indication that it's even possible that there would be such an enormous chasm, but there it is. Color me impressed. Way to go, Colorado River.

But next time I go, I'll be sure to bring a Winnebago so I'll fit in with the rest of the crowds.

Happy things...

2005-06-16T18:48:00.000-06:00

I'm exhausted, but I'm happy. Here's why...

1. My room is clean. That may sound like a stupid reason to be happy, but I started at 10am, and finally finished at 7:15. That's nine and a quarter hours for you non-math people. I'm a horrible pack rat. I took no breaks during my cleaning spree, for fear I'd lose my momentum. Actually, now that I think about it, I haven't eaten a single thing all day. Hmm. (Which leads me to...)

2. Ima gonna make me some chili. I love making chili.

3. Part of being a pack rat means you stash things away, and easily forget about them. I found 24 dollars in my room today. You can't beat that.

Are you kidding me?

2005-06-13T22:46:00.000-06:00

Michael Jackson was acquitted...?

Unbelievable.

The whole thing makes me sad, but you can bet your ass I'll read the paper from cover to cover tomorrow morning.

Radio Revelations

2005-06-13T22:24:00.000-06:00

1. Rob Thomas is a very cool, very talented man.

2. That "Drops of Jupiter" song that everybody loved and then everybody hated because it got so horribly overplayed was actually a really good song, even if the lyrics were a really cheesy.

3. I've finally burnt myself out on Classic Rock. I started loving The Stones and The Beatles back in high school. For years, I have listened to and worshipped the genre. I used to hit all the outdoor concerts with the great classics like Steve Miller and Journey. I waited tables when I was 19, and I remember asking my manager, Dan (Dan the man!) for a particular Friday off so I could attend a Steve Miller concert in the Woodlands. He smiled and joked about me being in a classic rock phase, and how he went through that phase, too. I remember feeling very indignant, thinking, "this isn't phase, I'll always dig classic rock!"

So here I am, nearly a decade later, and I think I'm finally over it. Don't get me wrong, I will still continue to love my classic rock, but I feel like I've heard it all before, and I'm ready to see what else is out there. I'm putting more focus on the alternative class, but I am being courageous in my endeavors... I even sang along with Akon to Mr. Lonely... *gasp* !

And that's all I have to say about that. It was only a forty minute drive.