one to grow on

If there were a pro-aging retreat, I would go on it. I need to add a few years to my life after this past week. Here's a sampling of what I've had to do lately:

* assume the persona of a 15-year-old to write a 12-page case study of adolescent cognitive and social development

* sit with a freshman boy wearing Etnies and big fake diamond studs (him, not me) helping him outline a 25-page health textbook chapter on STDs,

* write a 10-page short story for young adults based on my traumatic middle school experience of being ostracized and humiliated.

I've gone through some serious (47 pages!) regression. So I think it would be wise to steep myself in adult.....stuff, like meditating on who I am, what I've become , why I am ready to settle down and get married, etc.

Or maybe I should just drink several martinis, fall into bed, then get up and eat bran flakes and coffee before embarking on another day of dejectedly accepting the hand life has dealt me. That's what adults do!

moonlighting

Should I apply for this job? It will have to be at the expense of my career, as prime-time TV conflicts with a teacher's sleeping schedule. Also, the deadline is tomorrow and so are a number of assignments I have yet to begin.

Media Life is looking for writers who can review new TV shows and also revisit exiting shows and offer solid yet lively critiques, writing to a sophisticated audience of people who plan and buy media for a living. A strong background in television would be helpful but is not required. Include a full resume. When applying, mention you saw this opening listed at
JournalismJobs.com.

To find out more about this job, go to:
http://www.journalismjobs.com/job_listing.cfm?JobID=647171

Position: TV writers
Company: Media Life Magazine
Location: Telecommute
Job Status: Freelance
Ad Expires: November 29, 2006
Job ID: 647171

thanksgiving rumination

(with a cornucopia of parentheses)

One of my new favorite reading-inspired activities is plunging parboiled vegetables into an ice-water bath. It started when I was making haricots verts from my Martha Stewart Living cookbook a few weeks ago to take to my parents' house for dinner, and I liked its green-preserving effect so much that I extended the practice to some steamed broccoli I made a few days later.

If you were a vegetable, and knew your fate was to serve as a plate divider between pools of gravy, butter-oozing potatoes, and maki sushi (this is my family, after all), wouldn't it ease the pain of searing heat, just a little, to be lovingly bathed in ice water midway to your final destination?

Ben is in the other room, watching Babe while he eats a "stomach-stretching" vat of broccoli salad before our big family dinner tonight.

update: He just trotted into the room to say, "That'll do, pig. That'll do."

just humor him, he's my betrothed

I meant to start this awhile ago, when Ben first suggested we get wooden wedding rings. It's a list of ridiculous ideas Ben has offered for our wedding/marriage/honeymoon in such a way that I suspect he's not joking.

Today's gem: "Let's go to Las Vegas for our honeymoon. I want to see a Don Rickles show!"

F this

This is one of those times when I get a glimpse of what I'll be like as a parent. [Notice I did not say, "what I would be like as a parent."] This crew of guys has been working for the past two weeks repairing our neighbors' collapsed rock wall. It's been a pretty interesting process to watch, as I've always wondered how they get an infinite variety of different-shaped rocks to fit into a level, symmetrical design. Still don't get it. But I think it involves chopping up big rocks into smaller ones, and you don't just stack rocks willy-nillly, you have to set up a string mold first.

Anyway. I was feeling solidarity with the rock wall workers, as I've adjusted my backing-out-of-the-driveway techniques and even my picking-up-the-mail schedule to accommodate their presence. I've started wearing more respectable clothes around the house in case they can see in, and I used them in an analogy in a Power Point presentation for one of my education classes. It wasn't a flattering analogy, but whatever.

Today, though, all love has been lost. The f-ing f-ers have become markedly louder and more brash, probably because the project is almost done and it's Friday, and they can't f-ing say more than three f-ing words without inserting the f-word in there some f-ing place, the motherf-ers! F! It's driving me f-ing crazy!

In case you can't tell, I don't really like to use profanity. And as I've paced around in the kitchen, becoming more and more incensed (could also be due to the three cups of coffee I've had with no food yet), my thoughts are all centered on The Children. "What about the (f-ing) children?!" I want to lambaste them. There are CHILDREN in this neighborhood, and I'd rather not have them exposed to this kind of language and animalistic behavior. Try to adopt a modicum of self-control!"

That's what I'd say, if I had a child of my own to tote along as punctuation. If I went out there now, speaking on behalf of the 6-year-old who lives across the street and taunts us when we drive by, I'd probably be cussed out by her mother.

dead right out of the gate

I was going to take part in this Blog or Die thing I read about on Molly's blog, where you have to write every day in the month of November. Not doing so well with that. I don't think "dead right out of the gate" is the right phrase, though. I am presently attending an online course in Adolescence and Education (like, I'm in class right now), so I have a few things competing for my attention. Like my guest list manager at The Knot.com. According to the budget tool (with my initial allotted budget), I can afford to spend $12.50 per person on food, and $0.63 on each favor! Not too shab-by.

So, yesterday was my one free day. I am going to Blog or Die as a sign of my newfound self-discipline.

Ben and I are going to Hilo (about 2 hours away) tomorrow to attend some event called "Black and White Night." When I first heard about it, I was all excited, expecting we'd get to dress up and drink free champagne with a big band playing in a ballroom. Where did I think we lived, Cleveland? Turns out we're staffing a table (I thought you got to stop doing that when you graduated from your mid-twenties), and his boss is going to wear a black t-shirt, probably with the company logo on it. And, we're staying at a budget motel in what is probably the Skid Row of the Big Island.

But, I get to go to my first-ever bridal shop! It actually carries a line of gowns that I saw and liked in a Brides magazine that a friend gave to me. I'm kind of sad that I have to go alone, but what can you do.

bulletin

Is anyone still out there. Anyone. Anyone.

Just kidding, from the beginning I've written this for myself. Self, you know it's true.

But now that this is a wedding planning blog, everyone's gonna want a piece of this!

Oops, I was going to lead up to that. Ben and I are engaged. If you weren't already aware of this, kindly write to me and tell me so as a form of demographic survey. I want to know if those hits from Singapore and the U.K. are real people. Something (the pornographic nature of their sites when I click on them, the gibberish their blogs contain) tell me they aren't. But still, you never know. And I think those are the only people we haven't told.

Also, there was this big earthquake a week ago that I was going to write about. I thought it would be ripe with potential for self-searching and searing insight into my true psyche. But never mind. We're so over it!!!!

That reminds me of the guy who came into the bookstore once and chewed me out for half an hour because someone (it was me, but no way was I telling him that) had used three exclamation points on a flyer. "You would never put three periods at the end of a sentence, right? Right." I think he had recently read Eats, Shoots and Leaves and was high on his own perceived potential as a grammarian. He engaged me in a debate between A) it never being appropriate to use !!!, and B) there being a right time and place for everything. The relativist position (B) was me, and the guy left thinking he had won. I guess he did--for the rest of my time there, I obsessed over every punctuation mark on every flyer I designed. Bastard Bookstore Guy with a ponytail.

But he's probably not engaged, and I am. So there.

holy frijoles!

Gall durn, New Mexico. Will you ever stop?

From the AP:

Three workers at a Burger King restaurant were arrested after two Isleta tribal police officers discovered that the hamburgers they ordered were sprinkled with marijuana.

The Isleta Police Department officers ate about half of their burgers Sunday before discovering marijuana on the meat. The officers used a field test kit to confirm the substance was pot, then went to a hospital for a medical evaluation.

Let us add this to the list of idiotic things people in New Mexico have done to make the national news:

1. Landed a police helicopter while on duty in the parking lot of a Krispy Kreme.

2. Tried to smuggle black tar heroin into a prison via a burrito, only to have it confiscated by a guard, who then STARTED TO EAT IT.

To think, I was less than a few miles from that Burger King days ago. Had I only known.

my quest

I'm going to be late for school again because of my addictive/obsessive personality. I think I've found the book that I've been dreaming of since I last saw it when I was four! Does anyone remember it? What I wouldn't give to look inside.

nanny-nanny boo boo!

It's a four-day weekend! Were I a real teacher, it would only be three-day, but since the unfortunate teachers have a day-long workship in the school cafeteria tomorrow, I don't have to go in.

I'll get mine, though, when I have to sit through 16 hours of teacher training classes over the weekend. Every few months, the students in my program from outer islands meet for the weekend, to give a human dimension to our mostly online courses. The most annoying thing about the weekend will be listening to twenty or so people mistakenly refer to Kailua-Kona as "Kona," and claim that the area I live in isn't Kona, and asking me how often I "drive into Kona." Argh.


Our fabulous, dish-washing, beer-supplying houseguest duo is back for their second honeymoon! Last night Ben fed them chicken fingers and we watched Wedding Crashers; we dispensed with any pretense to sophistication right off the bat. There's nowhere to go but up from here.

Happy Aloha Friday to all!

updates

Yeah, yeah, I'll get to my homework right after this. I realized I toss out groundbreaking pieces of news, like my plans to attend a class at the gym, and then never follow up. How are people supposed to follow my every move? Here are some updates:

My quest to become a sub: They wouldn't let me into the class, because there was an inexplicable cap of 15 people. I'm first on the list for the next session, but it will only be held if a minimum of 23 people sign up. This bitter irony is emblematic of all Hawaii state institutions.

Karaoke: Ben did a duet of "Love Shack" with one of our companions. I drank two Cape Cods and a few sips of Stella, and realized I am now a lame adult when I woke up with a splitting headache.

The 2-hour step workout: Yeah, I didn't go.

Napoleon Dynamite re-enactments: Last night we had some friends over and served them tater tots. They had never seen ND, so I got to act out the "Napoleon, gimme some of your tots!" scene for them and they thought it was fresh and original. I even happened to be wearing cargo-ish pants! Opportunities like this are few and far between.

Other topics requiring updates: I can't think of any more.

give me freedom!

Today I am seeing deeper into the root psychological cause of rebellion. I hate "assignments"! Tonight my "reading autobiography" is due for Adolescent Literature and Literacy. It's just a three-page essay on my favorite books and reading experiences. I could easily have written it as a blog entry, or in an email to Lucrecia. Heck, our discussion of You've Been Away All Summer would fill three pages. I could fill three pages just describing the books I remember from childhood: Fish Dangerous to Man. Last One In Is a Rotten Egg. The Old Man Who Couldn't Read. And those are just crappy books from my first grade classroom.

But because this is an assignment, and has requirements like double-spacing (ick, I detest double-spaced stuff) and proper citations of the books, it is tainted by duty. And it has become the Moby Dick of my weekend.

[side note: Does anyone remember a book that was all about "little" things, like, "A little Indian is a papoose. A cookie is a little cake." Maybe because this line redefined how I look at baked goods, the image of the cookie part has been haunting me for years. It's a little round cookie with a hole in the middle, on a baby blue background, and it's soooo cute. Thinking about it makes me long for a fine, crumbly sugar cookie. Anyone? Anyone? I would pay big money (like maybe $20) for this book.]

Now I understand those students who complain about everything they're asked to do. It sucks being forced to do something, especially when it's something you would have enjoyed had you done it willingly. Wait, this is why some people hate to work! It all makes sense to me now! I sense a new chapter of my life beginning: resentful adulthood.

I must just sit down and write the darned thing. If I don't finish it in time for dinner, I won't be able to watch the Emmys.

I shall not mention the gym

My childhood best friend, Lori, is in town, and tonight Ben and I are meeting her, her sister and some others at the bowling alley for karaoke. Lori lives on Oahu, and I haven't seen her since her wedding in June. We've gone to the BA before, with a couple who can actually sing. [Female member of the couple, if you don't mind me using your names, please give a shout out in the comments.] They sing a perfectly harmonized duet of "Faith," Ben growls out a Johnny Cash or Bob Dylan, and I sit back bemusedly with my Amstel Light passing judgment on it all.

The only other place I've ever "done" karaoke is at Ed's Leisure Bowl in Albuquerque. There I also passed judgment, but on a more motley crue. [Is the word "motley" spelled with an umlaut in real life? If not, why did the band add the stupid thing?] If I could have a video of one moment in my life, it would be of the bartender at Ed's doing a surprise number, that "Hero" song from Spiderman, from behind the bar. Wearing a headset. And polishing glasses as he sang. It was breathtaking. (I needed to take lots of breaths to keep up with my laughter.)

At this particular venue, you sing from your seat, unlike the scene at Ed's. There is also the added frisson of not knowing whether one of the patrons is the parent of a past or future student. This is why I don't sing. That, and how Ben compares my singing to such delights as the Wicked Witch and a cat dying. The words are shown over a backdrop of what I can only describe as soft-core '80s Hawaiian porn, that has no relation at all to whatever song is playing. Picture "Purple Rain" as a curly mulleted guy in a red tank top argues with his skanky girlfriend in a motel room, then goes surfing.

***

If my writing seems overly punctuated or stilted, it's because I spent 2nd period today (yeah, I think like that now) helping kids with a worksheet on parallel sentence structure. Problem is, the worksheet was poorly designed (I thought), evidenced in the fact that I couldn't tell what the right answer was half the time. It was yet another reminder that I am not prepared yet to teach. Which is why this job is perfect for me.

About a month ago, I had a nightmare that the chairperson of my certification program told me they had added a new requirement: I had to go back through high school. I think only sophomore and junior year, but still. So I went to class, and found that I had been cutting class all semester! And was impossibly behind! It was a horrible, panicked feeling.

I am basically living the nightmare. Only it's more like a weird dream, because I'm getting paid for each hour, I can skip class and not get in trouble (though I do worry every period I spend not with students, like, creating fake spreadsheets), and I don't have to actually do the assignments. But I have felt a few of the old high school feelings in the past two weeks: that my feet stink, that maybe I sat in chocolate and everyone's laughing as I walk through the hall, that I should have worn the other shirt because maybe the boys can see down it when I lean over their desks.

It's actually pretty fun. Today I was hanging out in the library at recess, and I heard a girl tell her guy friends, shakily strident, "High school is so lame because I already know all this stuff. I haven't gotten anything less than, like, an 85 percent since freshman year. It's like, 'fill in this worksheet' with crap I already know, god!"

Heh, heh, girl. Wait till you get to college. Better yet, I hope I get you next year, and make you study postmodernism. Never mind that it's probably out of fashion now. You will learn it, and you will struggle with it, just as I did with finding "themes," and then you will feel hopelessly inferior in college when it turns out no one really does that.

mussy slump

Returning to the working world sure knocked me for a loop. I always felt justified in taking a nap after a day of teaching, but after my new workday of 2 hours real work + 2 hours chatting with teachers + 1 hour doodling and pretending to read student data, I end up just as tired.

I'm getting into the routine, though, and working back toward my old level of self-discipline. This week, I only skipped the gym once to eat ice cream and watch TV. (The other 5 days I skipped were either to nap or run errands, a much better ratio of excuses than last week's.) Tomorrow will be the real test: I'm going to do a two-hour "Step Marathon." I haven't Stepped in over two years, so it could be ugly.

I don't know what the marathon is in support of. Ben mocked me, comparing it to "Running in place for cancer." Even worse, I think this is just a narcissistic calorie-burning extravaganza, an opportunity to show off your cardio capacity and sexy sportswear, hoping someone will ask you out for a wheatgrass smoothie afterwards. But back when I was addicted to exercise, I would have been at the front of this marathon, just behind the teacher, hoping she'd point me out as a model of perfect form.

So last night I did a whole lower-body routine of lunges, squats and leg presses, etc. before going to Body Combat, where we hold down invisible foes and punch them repeatedly in the face. At the end, I felt pumped up, buff, and powerful.....until I went to the locker room and couldn't untie my double-knotted shoelaces. That was a blow to the old ego.

it's a whole new world before 10 a.m.

I'm up before 7 for the first in months. Today begins my week from hell. Granted, it will only last for three days, and I named it thus because I have TWO things to do each day instead of zero. I really have no business calling it that, but I will. First, I'll start my new part-time teacher job (I've decided to go with that, its official title in the eyes of the Dept. of Ed, because it sounds a little better than "tutor," which evokes images of a spinster governess or virginal, consumptive Englishman). Then I'll pick up my auntie and rush down to the other high school (the one by the garbage dump) to make it to our first day of substitute teacher certification class. My aunt, who taught elementary school for 35 years before retiring and moving here to live with my grandma, has to take the same class as degenerates like me. That's messed up.

Anyway, the class will be 2 nights a week for the next 3 weeks, totalling 30 hours. I'm not dreading the class on its own merits; I actually do quite well in situations where I have to sit still for hours and pretend to pay attention to someone. Borne of a lifetime of going to church and two years in grad school when my mind was elsewhere. No, I'm incensed and resentful that I have to spend 30 prime-time TV, work out (and Workout) usable hours that I will not get paid for. Ugh. Isn't my sense of entitlement cute?

But after it's all done, I'll be qualified for my dream job of nervously placating ornery children! It's a good deal.

***

Here are some of the ways in which my new job is preferable to my old one:

1. I have to turn in my keys at the end of each day. This means that I couldn't return to school to do a little more work if I wanted to.

2. I am not responsible for the welfare of anyone but myself. That responsibility rests solely with the teacher whose room I am visiting, and whose clothes I will make fun of with doodles and notes with my pupil.

3. At 2:30, I will be elbowing those kids out of my way as I make a run for the parking lot.

4. It's now 7:15, and I am typing this instead of frantically grading essays, there is no dreadful churning in my stomach, and I'm not too nervous to enjoy a Missymussy breakfast burrito. (It's tiny and made with a whole wheat tortilla; I haven't totally abandoned my old ways since living with Ben.)

More later if I'm not utterly exhausted from this monumental day of exertion.

missymussy world tour 2006

Someone call the Anodyne staff and tell them they'll need to stock the vending machine for the first time in a year, because I'm coming back to Albuquerque!

No, I'm not moving there for a third time. But I will be there for ten whole, glorious, chile-filled days in October, neatly in time to coincide with my birthday, yippee! Here's the itinerary for those of you who want to plan a surprise party. Don't worry, I'll totally act surprised.

Sept. 29: I arrive at the Sunport
Oct. 2: Ben arrives

OCT. 7: MY BIRTHDAY

Oct. 8: I leave for HI
Oct. 12: Ben leaves for Philly

Crap. Only now do I realize that I leave the day after my birthday. Perhaps we should celebrate it a night early, you think?

Anyway, we are very excited. Ben hasn't been back to the mainland since he moved here. That wouldn't be such a big deal for me. Ha. I am going to be a circus attraction if it's less than 70 degrees, or if I have to drive on the freeway, where I'll be so intent on looking for people I know in passing cars that I'll cause a crash. That, or no one will understand what I mean when I flash my brights at them while slamming on my brakes in a merging lane. (Here, that means, "C'mon in, buddy!" I'll wait!") Basically, any public outing is a risk.

If you would like to pick me up at the airport around noon, I will buy you lunch and bring you a Hawaiian gift that I will carefully pack in my checked luggage so it's not confiscated. Not that it's going be a gel or liquid, but I've heard they're making people throw out their manapua at the Honolulu airport. Please email me for details.

why?

Tonight, while I was watching PBS with my mom (Andre Rieu conducting his orchestra before thousands of cheering white people in Holland), I had an inexplicable urge to watch an awards show. The Grammys, People's Choice Awards, CMAs - it wouldn't have mattered. This surely signals the implosion of my intellect, the coming apocalypse, or both.

back from Green Acres

We're back in our real house. From one pretend home to another. Last night as Ben and I unpacked our overnight bags (I have an awesome new one featuring Count from Sesame Street), we reminisced on the luxuries of the past week.


MM: I'm going to miss the dishwasher most of all. I've never realized how much of my life I spend washing dishes until now. That, and throwing things down the garbage disposal.

B, wistfully: My favorite was the ice water.



It's true, our lives have come down to this. Ben had been complaining that we were the boringest couple of all time, but I didn't believe him until now. Our grandest aspirations are to have an array of modern kitchen conveniences, especially a refrigerator with an ice and water dispenser. Ben claims he "can't make good ice water," but at the house-sitting house, he was magically transformed. We are both very well-hydrated.


***


I am now completely unemployed. My stint as an office lady, which was AWESOME, is over, and I don't have any word about the tutoring job. Today I'm going to Restaurants # 1 and 2 on my list to humbly apply for waitressing jobs. I think. I haven't quite got up the nerve to change out of my pajamas.

reader survey

Have you ever worked in a non-air conditioned office? Particularly one in a tropical climate, in August? It can be quite trying.

That's all I have for now. The heat is making it so all I think are boring thoughts.

Also, office work is kinda boring. Gosh, I bet that's the first time such an insight has ever been broadcast into cyberspace. What a revolution I have on my hands!

working vacation

A brief description of my daily schedule this week:

8:00 am: wake up to the gentle nuzzling of Nutmeg, a
yellow lab
8:30 am: watch Will & Grace while drinking coffee
9:00 am: read newspaper and write in journal while Ben
taunts me, "Ooh, I'm writing in my journal! Ben's so
dreamy!"
9:50 am: leave for work with Ben
10:00-4:00: fulfill my childhood dream of working in
an office (which I would indulge by "playing office"):
tippity-type, send important sounding memos, exert my
authority over the phone by placing people on hold at
random intervals
4:30: ride around the property with Ben on our John
Deere tractor, singing Green Acres song
5:00: begin preparing dinner
7:00: the battle with Ben for the remote control
begins
10:00: lounge in hot tub under the stars while gazing
out at the dark sea
11:00: read P.D. James in bed until I fall asleep and
have nightmares

Ain't it the life? This week we are housesitting for
Ben's office manager, and I also get to fill in for
her at the office! And I don't need to come in until
10 am!

Our new pretend home is on 13 acres overlooking City
of Refuge. I can almost hear the Hawaiian
kapu-breakers as they run for their lives. The owners
are trying to start a coffee farm, and have equipped
it with all the dude ranch essentials: giant gas
grill, lanai with retractable awning, a beautiful
outdoor shower made out of lava rock, and the hot tub.
I'm in for a rude awakening if--I mean when--I start
working at the school again. But for now, it sure is
fun. Tonight: steaks (for Ben), macaroni and cheese
(for me), and a new Workout. I can't go to the gym
because a) it's now 40 minutes from where we're living
and b) I have homework to do. I'll try to do a few
squats as I watch Jackie and her posse, while drinking
a nice Chenin Blanc.

count the TV references. count em!

Sorry I've been gone for a few days after my empty promises to stay true. It won't happen again--until I get a job, and who knows when that'll be. School starts on Monday for the kiddos, and I haven't heard anything yet. That's the way things work here; plus, who needs tutoring on the first day of school?

Anyway, I haven't written because I've been feeling utterly ashamed of my lazy lifestyle, which offers nothing noteworthy to write about. Just kidding! I am totally proud of the fact that I've been sleeping until 9:30, doing crosswords, and re-reading P.D. James mysteries to see if I can catch any of her clues this time.

Sadly, Ben had the cable shut off on Wednesday. That sounds like he's domestically abusing me by taking away my privileges one by one. Really, we had it changed from full cable to basic, so we still have Comedy Central and TBS (where you can now, I was shocked to learn, hear the S and the D words), but we've lost VH-1, E!, Bravo, A & E, Discovery Health (bye bye, Medical Mysteries) and, the biggest loss to me, Lifetime. I'll have to rely on memory from now on when making plans to reconstruct the Golden Girls. Lucky for you, Robyn, Stephanie and Lucrecia, I was at home every single Saturday night that GG was on the air. So I know it all.

This was not supposed to devolve into TV commentary, and pathetic commentary at that.

***
These asterisks oughtta do the trick.

I wanted to share my elation about a dramatic new turn my life is taking. Several months ago, Ben and I joined The Club, one of our town's two gyms, and haven't set foot in it since early July. Yesterday, I woke up with a newfound zest for life, and decided to go to a class called Body Combat, in the name of doing something positive for me.

Just kidding. What happened was, before RIP-cable-day, I watched Workout, the new series about trainers in L.A., and came down with a little COIAD. I realized that only by starting a strict fitness regimen would I have a chance at emulating Jackie Warner, the gym owner in Workout, in every way but for her lesbian girlfriend, Mimi. [Sorry, Ben.] She is buff but not intimidating, dresses adorably, and drinks white wine in almost every evening scene. I also may start painting my fingernails dark blue or black, but I'm wondering if this may be a well-known lesbian code.

Anyway, Body Combat (think ominously & hum Mortal Kombat song here). The class was basically Tae-Bo with some fake Asian moves (I got to bow to my sensei!). So of course I kicked ass, having done many hours of VHS Tae-Bo in my sister's Seattle apartment when I was an unemployed mooch. I also already knew "the claw" from an Oprah episode about defending yourself from parking lot rapists, and that was a key move in the workout.

I stopped working out about two years ago. This is, not coincidentally, when Ben and I started dating. As I would notice my muscles atrophying, lung capacity diminishing, energy level dropping and bones brittling, I would be mildly concerned, but never to the point of action. I kind of accepted it as part of my new teacherly persona: dowdy wardrobe from Macy's, comfortable shoes by Clarks', disdain for the music nowadays, addiction to prime-time shows, Olive Oyl (quoth Ben) limbs.

But as I left the gym after Body Combat, and today after Body Pump (unh!), I felt a flutter of a feeling that I had forgotten existed. Something about the hour-long oxygen deprivation to my brain, coupled with the mist of fatigue creeping its way through muscles that hadn't been used in Apple Paltrow's lifetime, evoked a sense of nostalgia for adobed days gone by. The scene it brought to mind: driving home from Defined Fitness into the sunset, sweat evaporating into the dry desert air, feeling both revulsion and envy for the pastel-hued, Mercedes-sheltering, faux Mexican folksy complexes I passed. [I feel that same love/hate for the beautiful scenery and unattainable property of Kona.] The post-gym grocery shop, filling the cart with things I think my friends would like instead of the weekday weighing of cost per serving and indulgence factor. [We had friends over for dinner tonight, now rare but back then, an almost daily occurence.] Exhilaration, uncertainty, pleasant anxiety as my mind swam with possibilities for the night ahead, or the life ahead. A cheesy fitnessy person would bring up endorphins. I prefer to think of it as some kind of magic that reminds me of someone I used to be, or maybe still am.

trash-talking

I'm spending the day (god, I hope it doesn't take all day) writing my dang Educational Philosophy, which is worth most of my grade in "Introduction to Teaching." I hate the word dang. It's so Britney-white-trash. But when you've eaten refried beans for breakfast and are sitting in the kitchen with a blob of aloe gel greasing up your burnt face, you may as well go whole-hog. Did I mention I'm wearing cut-offs and drinking Kool-Aid?

So, the point is, I'm stuck in front of my new laptop and will probably be posting random irrelevancies every 15 minutes.

distractions

Okay, so, I wanted to start writing more about matters of substance, however uninformed my perspective may be, and regardless of how few people care to hear my opinions.

It's just so hard to get away from the trivial when things like this keep happening to me: I heated up some refried beans in the microwave, and as I stirred them up, a red-hot blob of bean splattered up onto my face, burning my cheek in what I think is the second degree. I have a bean burn blister!

Naturally, I've lost my train of thought, which was headed toward solving the Middle East peace crisis.

casting call

Dear Friends,

There's no denying that we're getting older. It's never too early to think about the future. So, I'm throwing this out there: Who wants to be one of my Golden Girls?

We'll have a tastefully decorated house that's just a little over-the-top. We'll dress in 2030's version of flowing caftans, coral lipstick, and filmy blazers with whimsical brooches. We'll always look dignified, even when we gather around the kitchen table to eat cheesecake late at night when one of us can't sleep because we've gotten ourselves into a pickle.

Of course, participation requires that you be either widowed, divorced, or a lifelong spinster. But this is the postmodern version, so maybe we could work something out where any husbands live together in a house across town.

If interested, please respond with a brief description of your qualifications and what you would add to the house. I'll be out on the lanai having a mai tai.

P.S. I'm serious.

awesome

Ever since Theo was here, I have been afflicted with a touch of Baby Fever. So naturally I pay more attention to the commercials with babies-through-toddlers in them (my Fever only extends to about age four), which are usually for things like Juicy Juice, Silk soymilk, Cheerios.

Here's a little nugget I saw tonight. It's for Happy Meals, with Mother beaming at daughter eating Chicken McNuggets. Over the picture float various attributes, ending with

"100% Tender".

Think of the poor schlub who sold his soul to write this ad copy: "100 percent......um, well, I guess..... tender?" It's not like tenderness can be measured and regulated by the FDA.

Apologies to Steph for the ellipses. Any suggestions for another way I could have done it?

also

Whoops. I forgot that the whole reason I started that list in the previous post was so I could list this:

* living in a place where people have vanity plates that say things like "LA FABS."

sitting in the dark.....

Anonymous said...

Yeah, but you know you just wanna be hangin in the ghetto in ol' Abq sweatin' in 90 degree+ heaven sippin' your margarita in your favorite outdoor pub or eatin' pizza at joe's and havin' a beer while the neighborhood cats rub at your feet! You know ya miss it!

All right, aNONymous. Whomever you are. Maybe I do miss Albuquerque a little bit. So what if I do? I just try to keep my NM-stalgia in check to encourage Ben to let go of his belief that it's heaven on earth, to which Hawaii will never compare. It doesn't help that the other night, we went over to our friends' for dinner and they had a houseguest who used to go to UNM, and knew all the same weirdos as Ben did. (No offense to the few weirdos who may be reading.) The reminiscing was fast and furious, and freaking hilarious. Our hosts, who are from Boston and Philadelphia, were like, "Man, we never knew there were so many freaks in Albuquerque!" It was then that I realized how truly...unique Albuquerque is. Kona wouldn't tolerate a naked guy in a sandwich board parading along Palani Road for one day.

Some other things I miss about living in the Q:
* bread for under $4 a loaf
* the dollar theater
* the less-than-savory clientele at the dollar theater
* Mickey Mouse guy outside the Anodyne
* making snide remarks about slutty girls wearing miniskirts in below-freezing weather downtown
* hurrying away in fear from mean-looking slutty girls who may have overheard the snide remarks

Anyway...who are you, Anonnie? Let it be said that I enjoy anonymous commenters, at least to a point. The mystery adds a little spice to my life. If I can't guess who you are after a few days, I'll become annoyed. In this case, the consistent use of apostrophe-"n" in all gerund verbs is a big clue. As is the margarita reference.

some of that news I promised, plus unrelated photos

I think I have a job lined up! I'm a little disappointed that I won't need to apply to be a poolside cocktail waitress at one of the luxury resorts 40 minutes away, or a wisecracking secretary for a construction company.

The vice-principal of my school called and offered me a position as a reading and writing tutor for students who need extra help in the classroom. I'll spend three days a week visiting students in their English classes (thus accomplishing my goal of observing more experienced teachers), offering help to my assigned kids as well as anyone else who needs or wants it. I won't qualify to keep my health benefits, so they're trying to come up with a different position with a few more hours.

Either way, I'm psyched! I'll still make enough money to live on, I'll still get to commute 3 minutes to work, I'll still get to work in the classroom....but I won't have write lessons, grade papers, or overcome paralyzing fear every morning! Yesssss. (Let's leave aside the fact that I'm merely putting this off until next year, when I plan to get a real teaching job again.)

I'll probably still look for a waitressing gig to do a couple nights a week. I have my sights set on this sushi place that charges $6 for a spear of asparagus tempura. Or I may sign up to be a substitute teacher. School starts August 1st, and I don't think I'll start this new phantom job until a week or so after that. But the wolves are at bay!

The downside is, I'll have less time to spend on things like this:

Or this:

This post brought to you by the letter T and the number 2

All right, so this is my excuse this time:

Theo and I have been on some very important conference calls with Big Bird.

I can't go into details now, but I will drop the names Slimy the worm and Herry. Biff and Sully, the trash carriers who haven't been seen since the early '80s, are also involved.

sloth

I have completed my metamorphosis into vacation-mode Lazy Me. Yesterday I didn't leave the house at all until 5:30, when our need for groceries became inescapable. I finished Season Six of the Sopranos, watched four episodes of West Wing, and ate leftovers from a Thai and a Mexican restaurant.

Ben's mother is visiting us for two weeks, but she went to the island of Maui for a couple of days, so we are reveling in the bad habits we'd been hiding. I'll write more about her visit once I become certain she has never found this blog. Just kidding, Gail!

you aren't going to believe this

Friday was the last "real" day of school. (Tomorrow we get out at 11:30, so I've a feeling the three kids whose parents are sticklers will show up.) The day was kind of stressful, as all rules seem to go out the window, or at least my window, and I was worried I'd get in trouble for letting kids into my room without a pass, or, I don't know, letting my sixth period have a paper war for five minutes.

Our rollicking game of charades got so loud at one point, a neighbor teacher came over to huffily tell us he was giving a test. Who gives a freakin' test during the last period of the last day of school? I was vindicated when the madcap science teacher blew up a rather dicey sulfur bomb outside a few minutes later, and the entire school ran out to hoot and holler, as the crazy teacher continued to set off more explosions, almost losing his arm in the process. School-themed charades pale in comparison to reckless endangerment.

When the bell rang, something I had not expected to happen happened. I felt sad. That school was out! I'll never again have this particular group of gangly, self-important, insecure creatures squirming under my attempts at control. I felt a poignant let-down as they waved goodbye, calling, "Bye Miss! You're the bomb!"

Then I came home and felt blissful relief as I settled in front of a West Wing DVD with, for the first time in 9 months, no sense of guilt or impending doom.

whoopsie!

I didn't mean to imply that I was quitting missymussy. Just trying to make excuses for being a lame-ola poster.

We're going to the beach today! My mom's brother, his wife and two kids are visiting. It's always more fun to go to the beach with kids (they're in 4th and 8th grade). Last night the little one ordered nachos for dinner, and when the typically huge platter arrived, she gazed at it with wonder, like, "This is all for me? Yesss!" Then, of course, had to take almost all of it home. Stephanie and I wouldn't be caught dead taking home nachos. Or leaving one chip on the plate, right, Steph?

So anyway, the beach. Then I have to come home and whip up some games for the wedding shower I'm "throwing" tomorrow. It's not at my house, I didn't send out the invitations, and I'm contributing one dish. But I'm the maid of honor, so technically I'm throwing it. And thus will be responsible for the cringe-inducing games. But I have 28 prizes, so we'll have to play at least nine games. Any ideas? So far all I have is Celebrity: Couples Edition, where you have to guess famous couples instead of individuals. The best part is, I am providing all the couples. It's my dream version of Celebrity, where I don't have to fool around with other people's crappy contributions to the name bank.

this is how a blog dies

Hmm. I was going to write a bulleted list of various reasons that blogs either lose readers or the interest of their authors. But there's pretty much just one reason: that. The two reasons are one and the same. And there's one reason that I don't write much: I spend my time thinking about things like that.

So. News: Ben is at the brewpub, supposedly working. Pfft. There are 11 and a half days left of school. Only last week did I learn the secret to easy teaching: grammar. Not just grammar, but Xeroxed-from-a-workbook grammar, with the verb tenses and the Anglo-centric sentences. And the kids are actually listening to me! What the?

I guess this probably wouldn't fly for an entire year. But it's pretty fly right now to be able to read over a worksheet five minutes before class, acquaint myself with the future perfect tense (I honestly didn't know what it was before yesterday), come up with a few funny (or so I think) examples to put on the board, and spend a class period feeling like I'm teaching something. Kids like structure. I must remember this for next year, if there is a next year.

i'm still alive

SO-onnnn, I said. Have I got a little story for you. Man you thought was your daddy?

tee, hee.

But for reo, I'm alive. Stay tuned for further details. If you dare.

vocabulary list manifesto

A few months ago, I found a list of SAT prep words on the internet. I've been picking the ten each week that I think are the most important for an adult to know, whether or not s/he goes to college. The stock "use these words in a sentence" has become most students' favorite assignment, and mine. It's easy, may teach them some new words, gives them practice writing, and is a predictable task whose expectations they know well.

Lately, I've started to examine the thought process behind my choices. I realized that I have sentences in mind as I choose the words. While this allows me to pat myself on the back for keeping it relevant to their lives, I've sensed a pattern, and am wondering if I'm foisting an agenda on my hapless studes.

I mean, the sentences write themselves. And often do. But is my subconscious word choice unethical? Am I pushing a leftist agenda when I give them smiley faces for turning a clever phrase that happens to be Bush-bashing or anti-development? See if you can tell what I mean:

1. amass: After they have amassed wealth through generations of privilege, retired haoles from the mainland enjoy moving to Hawaii and exploiting our island while contributing little to the community.

2. animosity: There is a great deal of animosity between locals and tourists.

3. bolster: While tourism does bolster the local economy, one could argue that it leads to a colonialist mindset and strip-mines the island for dubious profit.

4. deter: Most adolescent discipline plans rest on the hope that strong consequences will deter behavior that cannot be legitimately prohibited by any other means.

5. disparity: The disparity between rich (white) schools and poor (brown) schools does not escape students, who recognize that the acceptable standard for their school is not quite as high as some others. [Today when we discussed possible topics for letters to the editor, school lunches aroused the most passion. Seems like a typical, frivolous issue...until you hear one of the free/reduced-lunch kids say, "Our lunches are like prison food, but on the mainland, I hear they get to choose their lunches!" Granted, those mainland kids are eating french fries and drinking Coke, but teri beef patties with white rice aren't much better. And the heartbreaking thing about it was to hear a fifteen-year-old voice the truth--that in some parts of the public sector, fourth-best is good enough--while not being quite able to frame it in relation to larger ideas of how the world works. To him, our lunches are unfair, and McDonald's is the answer. It's also unfair, as the same boy brought up, that he signed up for Auto Shop expecting to learn how engines work, but instead has hammered out dents and done free paint jobs all year.]

Hmm. I think I've built up a sufficient soapbox with five words instead of the intended ten.

What are the chances that a challenging course on engines would have inspired this guy to push himself in science, math, and eventually become an engineer? Probably not high. If he does end up running a body shop, he'll probably make more money than I ever will. But isn't this attitude defeatist, and defeating, at heart?

I know that I am guilty of the very same thing. Teach them how to fill out a job application after the first quarter was filled with failed essay and literature assignments.

I guess what I'm thinking about, as I decide whether or not to even try to do this again next year, is am I doing any good? Should you teach them to make do with what they have? Or try to incite a riot for what they deserve?

a happy relationship is built on posing for pictures against your better judgment

I don't have time to write anything, since I'm behind as usual, but here's a funny picture of Ben. Don't be intimidated by our utterly original photographic vision and whip-smart, dry sense of humor. We don't think we're superior to you.

Don't try this at home!




And here's another idyllic (to me) scene from Waipio Valley. I wonder if my dream home would still have a rusty tin roof if I pictured it in a dank, weedy city block. Probably not.

This was the view from our "sleeping loft." I'd follow it with a view of my classroom to make a point, but it would be too depressing.

It's not so bad. Tomorrow begins the sixth-to-the-last week of school. In the past week, I've eaten at eight or nine good restaurants, spent two days that should've been spent at work unrepentantly reading, and enjoyed the adoring benevolence of my Benj. So I will just try to be grateful that I had some nice days off, and not compare them to the asbestos-clogged week on which I now embark.

Also, I could remember how there were termites in the cottage and my allergies made my nose grow two sizes. AND I was constantly afraid of being bitten by a centipede.

If only Dawber were here.

My work week ends tomorrow, thanks to the self-granted 4-day weekend. Ben's dad and stepmom are visiting us for 10 days, and we are going away with them for two nights to this place.

Now, this all seemed like a grand idea when it first came about. I've wanted to stay here since Ben and I were planning to sneak away from the booksnore in 2004, and I would show photos of it to everyone at work, all, "Look at where I'm going!" We realized we couldn't afford it, and chose instead to stay in my childhood bedroom.

So I was psyched to stay in this cliffside perch, with its purported sweeping ocean vistas and moonlit hot tub. There's only one bedroom, but a sleeping loft sounds fine! According to the website, four people have stayed here and had a great time. Bring on the backgammon.

Until I watched an episode of Coach over the weekend, and realized, this is a mid-90s sitcom plot waiting to happen.

Hayden and Christine, Kelly and Stuart go off for a ski weekend. They arrive at their cabin, to find (to Hayden's fury) that instead of two bedrooms, it has one bedroom and a sleeping loft. Stuart's humidifier, which he needs to combat the altitude, won't work in the sleeping loft, so he and Kelly get the bedroom. Great tension ensues, and eventually Stuart accidentally locks Coach outside while he's soaking in the hot tub.

This would be way more parallel if we were going away with my parents.But I thought I'd still try to make it work. My dad's not a Big Ten football coach, but he is a dedicated UH Rainbow Warrior fan. His relationship to Ben could totally be blown up to Coach/Stuart proportions. And we could convince our tall friend, Alan, to cut his blondish hair into a tilted bowl cut.

Maybe enough years have passed that I could actually sell the story again to someone in Hollywood.

four eyes...that's me!

Guess what? Now I wear glasses!

Pic to come when Ben gets home. This will also be a good chance to show off my Rachel 'do.

Oh, but I only wear the glasses while driving. If I ever go to the movies, I'll wear 'em then too. Maybe now I'll achieve the gravitas and hipness I've long craved.

discipline

It's what I need.

Maybe if I posted everyday, I would write with an economy of words, happen upon daily insights, and gain the trust of you, my readers, that checking my site doesn't hold an 80 % risk of being a complete timewaster (there's something about visiting a site that hasn't been updated since 2003 that makes me very, very depressed, and this happens to me a lot as a teacher).

Other reasons why I need discipline:

* I spent Day I of my III-day weekend (Good Friday is a state holiday for some unfathomable reason I will not question) lying in bed unsatisfyingly until IX (I kept having dreams that I needed to wake up), watching the morning news (I detest Matt Lauer with the heat of a thousand balding, overpaid heads), and "helping" Ben at his paper. "Helping" because I was there for III hours, supposedly proofreading, and spent .V (how do you write fractions in Roman numerals?) of them proofreading, II reading a P.D. James novel, and .V picking at my fingernails.


* I've decided to quit junk food (a recent re-addition to my lifestyle after V years of stoicism), but today I both stopped at Wendy's AND bought a pack of powdered sugar donette gems from the gas station.

* I had to be formally observed by a vice-principal this week, and during the period she was there, three students came in late; I had to shout, "Hey, guys! Will you puh-LEASE listen!" at least five times; the same three students left class early without permission; and another ratted on me for selling drugs at recess. Just kidding about the last one. (Somehow, that is a writing "technique" I just can't seem to let go.) She said my lesson was great, but kindly noted that all first-year teachers struggle with classroom management. Yeah, it's the last quarter. I'm starting to realize that.

* I can't even maintain a lame-brained "theme" like Roman numerals for more than two bullet points.

* I can't restrain my use of parentheses (they make it so easy to write a run-on sentence that mirrors my thought process).

* This list sucks and I'm going to go watch Cheap Seats.

I beseech you

Does anyone have any ideas for studying lyrics with a rather remedial class of 11th graders? I promised them this assignment before spring break, and if I don't follow through on Monday, there could be a mutiny. Of course, I told them about it without thinking through how we would study their chosen songs, which are largely about hard core drug use (a 50 Cent ditty about heroin), recreational drug use ("Wrap it Up," a double entendre for both rolling a joint and fornicating), and whatever other kinds of drug use there are, without degenerating into a session of "listening to CDs." (No one in this class has an ipod, thank goodness.)

So, the parameters are: they get to choose their songs, I get to veto the really bad ones, and I need to make them study the words and write about the songs in some way. The goal is to learn that understanding and analyzing how language works can be fun! And you do it everyday without realizing it! And knowledge is power! And if they are inspired to lift me up at an assembly while singing "Lean on Me," so be it.

do the rachel

you stupid, no good, piece of crap haircut.

I have identified my problem. Gosh dang it all. I will never have another good haircut unless I move back to Albuquerque or Durham. Actually, the salon I'm talking about was in Raleigh, but the memories all live in Durham. Studio 929, husband-wife-duo Silvia and Brian, representin the 9-1-9, holla! Or as I like to say in Jewish circles, Challah!

I guess there always has to be a tradeoff. In Durham, I lived alone in a state of forced misery that I thought would confer the Legitimate Grad Student mantle upon me. I drank Tang, ate canned biscuits, and tried (unsuccessfully) to skip the occasional meal. But it was here that I had The Best Haircut I Ever Did, or Would, Have. I got the first one in December of 2001 and thought nothing of it, other than it was $45, more than I had yet paid for such a service. Until I was at a party with the girl who had recommended Silvia, and another woman came up to her and gushed, “I just had the bEST HAIRCUT EVER WITH SILVIA! OH MY GOD!” I thought she was just trying to be the next Sex & the City tagline, but it got me thinking. Could there really be a “best haircut ever?”

Turns out there can. And I've already had it. And don't have a chance of ever finding it again.

Also turns out I am always on a quest for the best [_______blank_______] ever. Best breakfast burrito ever? Albuquerque, of course, at either Twisters in the South Valley or Flying Star. Or Java Joe's. Or R.B. Winnings. Basically, wherever I'm the most hungover, that is where the BB will taste the best. Best eggs and grits ever? Durham, at Elmo's. Best makeup shopping? Mark Pardo in Albuquerque, where you can pretend to be looking for the 'perfect mascara' and get a free makeover by the best undiscovered queens the city has to offer. Best mall food? Walking by Gloria Jean's at Coronado with Lucrecia or Beth, then stopping at See's for a free sample, then giving in completely at Wendy's or Del Taco. Best waste of money? A day in Kona. At least that one is still applicable to my life. $4 for a cup of locally grown coffee? Come on.

Anyway. Living in paradise? The tradeoff is having your every haircut be a game of Russian Roulette. Where your stylist could be a woman named Paulette, who refers to your home island as “paradise” at least twenty times during the 45 minutes, and tricks you into confiding in her about your religious inclinations because you assume she is somewhat liberal, then turns out to be a Mormon from Utah who doesn't believe in living together premaritally. After you've told her you are living with a half-Jewish guy, and realized she's noticed, and expressed disapproval of, your bi-racialness.

AND CUTS YOUR HAIR IN THE RACHEL GREENE.

That is what I've realized. No matter how many pictures of the tousled, non-Rachel-styled bedroom look from Victoria's Secret I take in, how many creative verbs and adjectives and adverbs I use to describe my desired look (“I want the hair to cavort lethargically about my nape"), all haircutters, save Silvia, revert to their trump card from the Middle American Hairdos of the Mid-Nineties Deck: The Rachel Greene. They perfected it back then, so why not break it out at every possible opportunity now? Their careers between 1994 and 1999 were probably a facile assembly line of shoulder-length shags. When they see me walk in the door with my clueless look and obvious obeisance to the beauty industry, I am a flashing goldmine. Click, autopilot: Give her the Rachel, act like "it's about time" and jump ahead to lunch.

So when I've said I looked like Claire Huxtable, this is what I meant. I've had this haircut six times in the past wo years. Claire was a better, blacker version of Rachel, at least hairwise. The working woman's mullet.

Never again.

NEVER AGAIN.

dear reader(s)

Please stay with me! I have seen the error of my ways (communicating sporadically at best, being a sometime blogger, emailer, and caller) and have found my way back to the light. Here are some things that have happened since my last missymussion:

I. School let out for Spring Break. I now have one week (of two) left, and while I have to accomplish a great many things (planting a garden, reading five books, grading, spring cleaning, getting a haircut, doing my taxes, and starting an exercise regimen), I feel more relaxed than I have all year because there's only one quarter left, the State Assessment is over, and the end is in sight.

II. Carolyn and Scott, guests extraordinaire, honored us by spending their honeymoon with us. I've always hearted Carolyn, but now I heart Scott as well! He made a great playmate for Ben, too. Their stay was ideal for several reasons:
a) neither Ben nor I had to work;
b) Scott can't stand to have dirty dishes in the sink, and takes care of business; and
c) they share my attitude toward vacations, and life in general:
1. if ice cream presents itself, eat it.
2. Wal-Mart and Costco are perfectly respectable and worthwhile tourist destinations.
3. There's no wrong time to drink alcohol when you're on a sanctioned vacation.
d) they left me a little gift of Scott's rosemary-thyme body wash which I had been
coveting, though I tried to hide the fact that coveted it.

III. We had a par-tee at our house that, may I say, was our best yet. We invited the brothers, and they serenaded us with bluegrass music, silly ditties, and an old-fashioned sing-song broke out on the back lanai. The neighbors probably hate us now, but it was worth it. There is a hilarious anecdote about Ribsy that I am trying to figure out how to tell while preserving its hilarity.

IV. I got a ridiculous-looking sunburn that sealed my fate as a leathery-chested lady in the now-nearer future.

V. Ben scored tickets to a Chocolate Festival, where we were served about 40 different chocolate treats, coffee, wine, and champagne. I made the mistake of eating a 3-pound Portuguese sausage-omelette-fried rice at Teshima's just beforehand, and thus had my smallest appetite for chocolate ever, but it was fun all the same. I drank enough champagne to de-sensitize my fullness mechanism and managed to choke down some truffles.

VI. The Chocolate Festival, which was a fundraiser for the local Waldorf School, provided me with a new poorly-reasoned soapbox from which to pontificate. I need to work on the specifics, but I am pretty sure I feel strongly about it, and will start a viewpoint article for the newspaper that will never see the world outside my computer screen. More on this later.

Dang it, I can't get the spacing right on my outline. Please know that I do know how to write in outline form.

it's. a. duck blur!

We had lots of fun at the par-tee! Can anyone tell me what juvenile book that is from? It's the same one I obliquely referenced in yesterday's post about eating too much cake and barfing. Also, maybe the short party pants.

My hors d'oeuvres were a success, although I had to swallow my pride when I overheard a few people helpfully explaining to their mates, "They're little pancakes with guacamole on top." Avocado salsa, you rubes. There's a vast difference.

We had been instructed to provide entertainment for the birthday boy, and while I had a pipe dream all week of doing a comedy routine, we chickened out, so Ben recited some Ogden Nash poetry that had people in stitches.

The highlight of the party was when Ben and I were being miscreants out on the lanai with these two brothers who look like Jason and Jeremy London, while the others were still politely listening to the folk song performances inside, and somehow incited the brothers to sing the theme song from Duck Tales in its entirety. Ben and I chimed in rap-style on the words we knew at the ends of lines. Our chorus became so loud that we stopped the school librarian's rendition of "Scarborough Fair" (Faire?). I'm hoping the London twins will want to hang out with us again. They play the guitar and accordion, and maybe also the banjo. Imagine the '80s TV song possibilities!

and etc.

Okay, I'll admit, that last thing (Animal, etc.) happened a few weeks ago. I've been meaning to tell someone about it ever since. I kind of like being told I look like Animal. I mean, he's a party animal. But Shelley Winters? Her character in Lolita is one of the most pathetic in film history. Of course, Ben is proud as can be about his resemblance to the guy from Sling Blade when he adopts the right posture and mannerisms. So darn it, I will wear these similarities as a badge of honor.

Tonight Ben and I are going to a birthday party. I've got on my party dress, and Ben will wear his short pants and jacket. We'll be on our best behavior, and try not to eat so much birthday cake that we barf. I hope we get goodie bags!

Seriously, and bittersweetly, I am taking wild rice and scallion pancakes with avocado salsa. Sniff, sniff. Whenever I make anything that I first cooked in either college or Cimino Compound, I get emotional. Days gone by, caprice of youth never to be recaptured, etc.

Last night I dreamed I was visiting the CC dining hall, and didn't know where anything was, or where to put my dirty tray, and all the other kids were my current students, who tried to be helpful, but it was obvious I was an outsider. Then I had another dream where I was getting ready for school (high school), and felt that all-too-familiar teen panic of a wardrobe and/or hair crisis. I went back and forth between thinking I was going to teach class or attend it. I am awash in existential confusion, at the crossroads of adulthood.

But shouldn't I have come to this crossroads sooner, like maybe at the age of 20? I hate being a late bloomer.

non sequitur

I have been compared to Shelley Winters (watching Lolita, in which she is particularly whiny) and Animal (while doing my air drum in the car) in the same day by my boyfriend. Humph.

would you like to hear about a timeshare opportunity?

Today is one of those days when my old bookSnore job (complete with back strain and panic attacks) looks pretty good. Or my two-day stint as a shave ice stand-tender.

Let's see, have I been adequately demoralized today?

First, this douchebag writes a letter to the editor about how the state of Hawaii is punishing its students by hiring teachers without teaching degrees, who ruin lives and crush young spirits with every bumbling misstep in the classroom. Public disapproval of the endeavor to which I've devoted the past seven months of my life? Check.

Then, my students act like holy terrors all day. My request to have my room cleaned (it never has been)--which was met with a vow from the principal that yes, the seven-month accrual of spit, gum, cockroach droppings and dry-erase dust would be remedied ASAP (we're big on acronyms in the DOE)--went ignored for the third straight week. The three referrals I sent to the vice principal last week (referrals supposedly being the strongest action a teacher can take to discipline a kid) have never been acted upon, so the Mean Girls to whom I've been promising a come-uppance get off without a scratch for calling me a f-ing bitch and drawing a cartoon of another student as a crack whore on the board, among other things. Least supportive work environment ever? Check.

For the next three weeks, most of my students are taking the Hawaii State Assessment, the battery of tests that will determine whether our school "meets standards" or whether, according to No Child Left Behind, it is a failing school and must be restructured. I don't know exactly what this would mean for the school, only that the results will be directly traceable back to me, and my competence judged accordingly. Oh, and since the kids found out it has no effect on their grades or graduation, they don't give a fig. In fact, I suspect many of them will choose to get stoned for the occasion, just to make it more interesting. Outrage with no avenue for action? Check-arooni.

Just before I leave school, I have a long chat with my favorite colleague, who tells me that the lines (slates of classes for next year) are up, and not only are there none open for me, the woman who came back this quarter to fill in for an English teacher with cancer will most likely get any spot that opens up. Wind sucked from my already flagging sails? Che-eck!

Then, finally at home, trying to unwind with my giant Hershey's Kiss (a student Valentine I've been saving), I open up a Title Nine catalog (fitness clothes for lesbi--I mean, women) and happen upon this caption, which would make a middle school yearbook editor cringe:

[over a photo of a black woman doing jazz hands]
"Shawn takes hip hop dance classes. Watch out folks, don't try this at home!"

I spend my weekends writing funny and topical vocabulary quizzes, study guides and friendly essay-margin-comments that no one ever reads; I will probably be waitressing in 3 months; and this hack gets paid to write the lamest captions ever, and probably gets all kinds of free sports crap to boot? This is irony. I guess I'll file it away to put on a worksheet someday.

Oh, wait. I won't be writing worksheets, because I WON'T HAVE A JOB.
I don't want to sound like I'm begging for sympathy. Eh, what the hell. GIVE ME SYMPATHY!

Or maybe this will be the kick in the pants I've long needed to start Jillding's Buildings.

it's just you

Maybe it's just me being a dud, but isn't it kind of a bad idea to drive while eating an ice cream cone?

a photo essay

Here's where I went when I cut school last Friday.

First, you climb down this:




Then, you get to this:




Pretty cool, huh? It's a green sand beach on the southernmost tip of the island (and the US, for that matter), where the sand is made up of lava rock and fine particles of a semi-precious green stone.

Too bad I was grumpy because the wind was like this:


Jon and Melissa (the lovely lady seen walking above), if you are reading this, I'm sorry I was such a sourpuss. Ben, sorry I wouldn't let you jump off the 40-foot cliff; something spooked me. Perhaps it was the conversation we'd had a few minutes before about how there is nothing between this spot and Antarctica, or how Melissa's guidebook said if you jumped off, the current would take you directly there.

To any future visitors, I now offer my endorsement to jumping off the cliff at the South Point fish ladders.

the longest post

Perhaps I have taken this retro thing too far.

Scene I just found myself in:

Splayed out on the sofa, feet up on the toy chest/coffee table, hair up in a disheveled bun, eating Haagen-Dazs coffee ice cream from the carton as I watched THS: Paula Abdul; after six hours of housework.

A modern person would have achieved what I just did (clean the whole house from top to bottom) in less than two hours, using a Swiffer Wet Jet, Clorox Easy Wand, and maybe a vacuum cleaner and calling it a day. But not me! I am '50s housewife extraordinaire! I use baking soda, vinegar, essential oils, and I scrub the floors and baseboards on my hands and knees! I would pat myself on the back, but my wrists are in excrutiating pain and my back muscles are getting stiffer by the moment. Whoopsie.

The owners of our house are coming tomorrow (and there's a chance they'll stop by tonight) to look for an important document in the spare bedroom where we've been throwing all the crap that gets in our way. Considering how incensed and violated I felt when a sestet of twenty-somethings moved into my Grandma and Grandpa Risinger's beloved Loveland home, and I learned that they had turned the Game of Life family room into an extra bedroom, drilled a shower head into the butterfly-wallpapered Blue Bathroom, and put a sports flag over the front door, I was inspired to make up for the past seven months of neglect of this equally meaningful house.

Of course, it's not as if we have torn out the screen from the porch on which my golden childhood innocence was sanctified over Poudre Valley ice cream sundaes and fried chicken, or killed the raspberry bushes that were Grandpa's pride and joy. Oh wait, we have also let the yard go to pot. Well, not real pot, unless Ben's sudden interest in restoring the fountain is a cover for....

Eek. I'd better go.

***

Apologies. That was exactly the sort of cringe-worthy "stylistic flourish" I would have added to a letter or diary entry in 7th grade, thinking myself the cleverest writer of all time. And, like the "Guess who's back? Bartlet's back" incident, I cannot resist leaving it there.

The point of the ice cream, Paula-watching scene was to say: I am reconsidering my professed desire to be a housewife. It both beckons and repulses me.

Off I go to disinfect the kitchen!!!!! [another 7th grade throwback]

a new series

Ben's Outrageous Request of the Day

[Background: Ben got a free massage yesterday from a guy (don't worry, he's a massage therapist) whose dog he found on Mauna Kea on Christmas Eve.]

B: Give me a massage.

MM: Ha ha. No way.

B: Massage me!

MM: What, do you need one everyday now?

B: Yes. Massage me! Every day! You should massage me everyday and feed me beer, like the Japanese cows.

do not go gentle

My goal for today is to plan out the next two weeks in complete detail, so that I don't have to do a lick of work for the next 10 days, when Ben's childhood friend (trust me, they're still "childhood friends," no offense, Jon) and his gal-pal come to visit. I want to show them a whirlwind good time, and that does NOT include having them sit around uncomfortably watching my tear my hair out each night as I wrestle with my insecure-teacher demons. So I must plan. And what better way to fill two weeks than with a scary assignment like "Create a poetry portfolio that will make up 20 percent of your final grade?"

Is anyone reading? If so, I need suggestions for writing exercises that will lead high schoolers into writing poetry. Respond! Respond, respond, against the dying of the light.

a morbid new low

As Ben and I were cleaning the house for our next visitors (yay!), I found my little notepad of "things to tell people the next time I talk to them" and "inconsequential crap I could turn into a posting for my blog." I quickly scurried to the computer to try my hand at spinning this little gem into gold:

My new favorite song is called "Sanvean," a lush, haunting, religious-sounding wailer by Lisa Gerrard (formerly of Dead Can Dance) that I heard at the end of a particularly poignant West Wing. Of course I immediately looked it up on WestWingDorks.com, and bought the CD at Borders with the gift card my lone kiss-ass student gave me for Christmas. Since then, I've been drenching myself in its mournful, heart-stirring sounds....like ten times a day. It's a Tom Hanks with the aria in Philadelphia type moment. It's great, and is making me a better, more spiritual person, I'm sure.

ANYway. I'd been doing this in secret from Ben, 'cause I knew he'd make fun of me for a) liking such girly, Enya-ish music and b) buying a CD because one song was on a West Wing that made me cry. But one night I just had to listen to it while he was in the house. Feeling candid, I confided that this was a song I'd like to hear on my deathbed, if given the option. You know, like if I come down with consumption like Beth from Little Women and everyone gathers around to send me off into the white light.

I know, I should be committed for even thinking these things. But I can't help it! It's another itch I just have to scratch.

Here's why I love Ben. Instead of being deeply disturbed, or laughing in my face, he said:

"If I'm dying, I hope you play something really torturous, like 'Simply Having a Wonderful Christmas Time' by Paul McCartney, so I'll be grateful to die."

Then we sang it and danced around like fools. How did I get so lucky?

re: BLA BLA BLA

As a savvy reader noticed, the previous post was indeed Ben. This is his idea of a good time, as is hacking into my Netflix queue to add 30 movies with the s-word in them (the word that starts with sp and ends with a sound that rhymes with "yder").

BLA BLA BLA

Bla bla bla Theo Bla Bla Bla pop culture reference BLA BLA BLA what's your favorite movie scene with KE-A-NU does something dreamy. BIG PRIZE FOR THE BEST ANSWER!!!

other dental news

I get to get a new appliance! Soon the sounds of my teeth-grinding, which Ben likens to popcorn popping or ice cracking, will not sully the night air. I have to get a custom-made device, for 500 clams, to wear to bed. Eh, I didn't want an ipod or a trip to the mainland for spring break anyway. I'd much rather my teeth not be worn down to nubs by age 40, which is the other option.

Will I EVER use this to write about things of consequence, or at least interest to anyone but my hypochondriac self? Tune in and see!

the hedonist approach to oral hygiene

I just returned from the dentist, where my teeth were prodded and scraped with sharp metal implements to within a millimeter of their lives, and I wish I could snuggle them in a fluffy, white comforter. The closest thing I can think of is to fill my mouth with marshmallow fluff. That ought to make them feel better, at least for the time being.

C'est la vie!

As I sat in front of the fuzzy TV screen, barely able to make out Freddie Prinze, Jr.'s simian features, and scoured my mind for the tu conjugation of "faire: to do," I realized: My capacity for procrastination is insatiable and revolting.

I was conjugating irregular verbs in my School Planning notebook, people. Recreationally.

Frenchies out there: it's tu fais, right? Maird. Come to think of it, I don't even know if faire is an irregular verb. But I know avoir is.

je vais nous allons
tu vas vous allez
il vails vont
elle va elles vont

Teaching high school provides endless and interesting navel-gazing fodder -- that is, when I have the energy to focus my eyes on my navel -- especially for an ex-nerd. Like, while conjugating, it hit me how much perverse pleasure I used to find in the drudgeriest of exercises, like trying to make my 8-segmented conjugation table perfectly symmetrical; how I'd dutifully check each spelling against the textbook, or carry around a rubber-banded pack of flashcards to drill myself throughout the day on my SAT words. They weren't even for the SAT, but for a weekly vocabulary quiz at which I became absolutely famous for beating everyone else in AP English, and wasn't about to relinquish my title to Leah Hill, thank you very much.

Good god, was I a freakin' dork. (You've heard about the "freakin'/freaking/friggin/fricken" embarassment, right?)

Why did I do this? Fear of parental disapproval if I failed, desire to get into A Good College so I could escape the island to which I'd then long to return for 10 years, the need to fill my mind with something other than how awkward, weirdly dressed, and non-party-going I was? Was I a nerd because I had a deep love of learning, the outgrowth of a beautiful mind, or because I had nothing better to do, and was afraid to be anything else, like a stoner or a band geek? Oops, I was also a band geek.

And now I'm teaching those very hordes of kids whose attention I tried to duck behind my copy of The American Pageant. As I conjugated my verbs and tried to weave "obfuscate" into my speech at recess, I was pretending I didn't care that I had no idea who'd slept with whom over the weekend, that I wasn't in the drunk pictures being passed around, that I didn't snicker when someone made a pot reference because I had no idea what they were talking about. Okay, I got the pot references. But the oral sex ones? Didn't have a clue.

At least I didn't get pregnant. But now, to return to the school that was the site of my most direly angstful moments, and to be thwarted in my attempt to minister to the nerds who I know still wander its halls, it's just frustrating sometimes, that's all. Somewhere in my school, there are teenagers studying for the SAT. If only they knew that the secrets to a fairly high verbal and middling math were within their grasp down at room F-102. Flashcards would be litteringthis school, motherbleepers!

in the teacher's lounge

When I'm not frantically running off copies (this is what you actually call it when using a Duplo, as opposed to a photocopy, machine) for the activity I have just improvised, or scarfing down a Pop-Tart hoping a student won't see me and ask me for half, I am having a leisurely lunch of microwaved chimichangas in the teacher's lounge, listening to other poor teachers make frantic copies a few feet away. In the toner-induced haze, I find myself in some strange conversations, like today's about the dental habits of the Marshall Islanders.

Our ESL teacher and a German long-term sub started talking about the behavior problems posed by the recent (past 10 years is recent here) influx of Marshallese, in our oh-so-tolerant rainbow society that is hardly influenced by the 19th century plantation dynamic. We did use their islands as practice bombing targets, so we can't, and don't, complain about the fallout when their natives come here to live; if you lived in one of the highest person-per-square-foot-densities in the world, you would, too. What we do do (ha! I said doo-doo!) is provide sad commentary, whilst shaking our heads.

The German lady has strong feelings about the Singaporean approach to discipline, but that's for another time.

The ESL teacher says that her biggest problem by far is that her kids miss tons of school due to toothaches, making it impossible to establish continuity, which is a necessity that kind of leads to....literacy. Yes, toothaches. I picture bald cartoon stick figures with big white cotton bandages wrapped around their heads. Or mouths, I guess. The uncomfortable silliness of this image helps me deal with the fact that in this day and age, thousands of years after the toothbrush was invented (trust me, I wrote an article for an in-flight magazine on this very subject once, and did exhaustive research), a child could miss school for multiple days due to a toothache. Which will probably turn into an abscess.

Honestly.

At first, I just took this into my bosom of "Things That Make Me Feel Better About My Own Classes." I chase boys old enough to sire children around the room to stop pencil fights, it's true, but at least I don't have to drive a girl home as she writhes in pain because her parents don't know this state offers nearly universal health care for children, and could stop her toothache with one free visit.

But then I kinda felt bad. Even worse when I told my mother, and she recounted how one of hercounterpart students (likely these kids' cousins) developed boils that became a systematic infection, and the school nurse couldn't communicate to the parents that he needed to go to a doctor.

Sorry for all the italics. But they seem necessary, to convey the...I don't know, "what the heck should I do"-ness of.......stuff.

If only The Bureacracy didn't keep us from solving the problem with its red tape. (Irony intended, reinforced, and shoveled on just there.)

Oh, so my funny point was: The German, eating her muesli mixed with water (I am not kidding), was lamenting the backwardness of the Marshallese, how they snack on candy and sodas all day, and that wouldn't be so bad if they knew to brush their teeth right afterwards.

"Eet is not so bad zat zey eat sveets! But zey do not brash zeir teece aftervwards, and zat eez ven your teece are under attack!"

It was at precisely that moment that I was opening up my Gladware full of Oreos. To be fair, they were Newman-Os, which are wheat-free cookies made of barley and oat flour, and probably organic sprouted sea kelp juice instead of sugar. But I felt that to point this out would only draw attention to my vice, which I could not keep from eating. Four of them.

Whatever, at least no kids have poisoned my coffee with Wite-Out, which is more than I can say for an infamous ex-teacher I know.