on my christmas list: a stuffed sheep named dmitri

I have got to start bringing my camera to the exciting events I now attend so frequently in my role as disgruntled teacher who feels compelled to share her negative attitude with the world. I spent the morning helping honor students volunteer at a local shopping center's Halloween costume contest (for dogs and children!), and there were some real doozies that so captured my imagination, much of the afternoon has been peppered with my random descriptions aimed, unsolicited, at Ben.

"And then there was this Chihuahua, dressed as a hot dog! It was sprayed painted red and sandwiched between two oblong white pillows, with curly yellow ribbons on top! Wait, let me draw it for you....."

Two hours later:
"Wait, then there was a dog dressed as Dog the Bounty Hunter, and his 13-year-old owner dressed as Beth [his enormously endowed wife], both with blond wigs! Only she had a flat chest and hairy legs! Because she was only 13! Let me sketch it out so you get the full effect."

Then:
[Me] "You had to see it to understand how cute it was, this baby dressed as an opihi [limpet that dwells stuck to rocks in the ocean]. Here, it was like this....no, more like this...."

[Ben] "Oh, so it was a disfigured baby to boot! Ha ha, your nostrils flare while you draw, because you have to concentrate so hard."

In other words, I have been reduced to the tactics of Cousin Balki's villager friend from Mypos whose job was to draw all the momentous occasions. Next thing you know, Ben will come home to a house full of raisin bran, as I empty boxes into every receptacle, unable to believe that the manufacturer would make false promises as to the number of raisins in each box.

dept. of education time-management report

8:00 am: Arrived at office (I know, scandalously late; only the teachers who have given up hope arrive this late), pondered whether to take a fun-size Snickers from the rapidly dwindling bowl of candy that my mom's retired teacher sorority provides annually for other teachers, not for custodians to stuff their pockets with a week's supply of candy, ahem.Chose to be martyr, sacrificing own needs for the less self-disciplined among the faculty.

8:20 to 10:20 am: Proctored state writing test to group of students (none of which were mine) whose earnest effort was both heartening and demoralizing. Heartening to see students whose 10-plus years of education has actually resulted in skills and the capacity to complete a ninety-minute assignment, which they seemed to give their best effort despite it having no impact on their grades or credis toward graduation. Demoralizing to know that my own pupils have yet to be simultaneously "on-task," quiet, or even seated, for more than ten minutes in my class.

10:20 to 10:45: Searched for teaching jobs in Bellevue and Seattle, pausing over the website of Life Academy just long enough to realize it's not a progressive school focusing on organic farming, but one of an alarming number of Christian schools in the area. Surfed over to The Superficial, which contains way too many photos of boobs in bikinis to be safe for work even before clicking on the NSFW links, but is worth the risk to satisfy my need to see what Britney ate today while walking to her car.

10:45 to 1:30: Oversaw what was supposed to be a fun, no-brainer project, using computers to make posters on literary terms like "plot" and "simile." Turns out that starting up a laptop, let alone manipulating MS Word, is a skill not yet mastered. Twelve computers; each and every error message, low battery warning, or cursor blip prompted a panicked and demanding "MISS!" Decided to extend due date by several days, and that all future assignments will be done on paper. Or slates.

1:30: Cringed when I saw that Anger Management Boy had folded the monitor all the way back and was jokingly, but vigorously, pounding on the desk in frustration. Told AMB that might break the computer. Not sure if it was true, but this is what I've become: a scaremongerer with more regard for discipline than scientific truth.

3:15: Famished from skipping lunch, cruised by the office with a glimmer of hope that basic decency had kept fellow teachers from completely plundering the candy bowl. Nothing, not even a stale Tootsie Roll remained in the plastic pumpkin. I bet this never happens in the private sector, where entire office budgets are allotted for seasonal candy.

3:25: Home, collapsed on couch, where gobbled countless Dove Promises, thus accounting for the subsequent loss of sanity that led me to watch Rachael Ray's segment on a bunch of nurses getting an office makeover. (Nurses have offices?) The reveal, in which the nurses inevitably burst into tears, actually made me choke up. Not tear up, mind you, like I did at The Biggest Loser. Physical sobs! Appalling.

As Ben suggested yesterday, maybe it's the menopause.

ben's multiple personalities

So, we're talking more seriously about moving away from here. (Ben's been talking seriously about it since we first moved here, while I've just been giggling and ignoring.)

Ben cracked me up this morning by announcing, "I feel like George Bush." Huh? "With all my reasons--are we moving because of my asthma? the cost of living? my constantly sweaty back? I feel like Bush taking the nation to war!"

My husband has a tendency toward melodrama. First Luca, now W.

that's it, I f-ing quit

Motherf.......atherSisterBrother! (As one of my students likes to say.)

****

I started the above post several days ago, upon my most inauspicious return to work. Now I can't remember exactly what prompted the proclamation; it could have been any number of things, from realizing that I have spent almost $10,000 to become "certified" in a profession I'm not at all sure I enjoy or am good at doing, to the invasion of ants that makes me explode with rage against nature several times a day. I'd rather be a vendor of certified organic produce some days. I'm definitely certified something, if you get my drift. Yuk, yuk.

Anywho, my desire to be a kept housewife has never been stronger. But the days are occasionally enlivened by the unintentional irony uttered from the mouths of (sixteen-year-old) babes.

Stude: Fuck, I'm so pissed! Fucking v.p. stay making me take Anger Management. I don't fucking need Anger Management, I'm like the coolest, laid-back guy brah! (beat.) Ass why I wen punch the wall, and now my hand stay all fucked up.

Today, after being given the third essay assignment of the year: Why the hell are doing so much writing? This is an ENGLISH class. (Spoken very slowly for the benefit of me, the dim-witted, writing-obsessed teacher.)

Sometimes I love Ben so much I could just squeeze him and pop him! Like when he remarked while writing wedding thank-you notes that he felt like Luca Brasi.

Other times, I'd just like to lance him with a sharp tweezer, but this post is about love.

nothing left to lose

I think it's time to admit that something is missing from my life; I just teared up a tiny bit at the opening scenes of The Biggest Loser season premiere.

Stephanie, do you think maybe you could set me up with your friend, the first Biggest Loser? I think a dose of his can-do spirit would do me good.

old post written last weekend

I want to be a better person.

Yes, that’s right, I have reached a turning point that is rare in modern life. In this world where everyone is perfectly, deeply content with themselves just as they are, I realize that I am going into uncharted territory here.

Step one on my list: Stop using sarcasm as a communicative style.

Obviously no one doesn’t want to improve him- or herself. In this Sunday’s paper—this is the West Hawaii Today we’re talking about—I counted five ads for dubious ‘dermatologically-affiliated’ offices offering Botox, Restalyne (Restylane?), microdermabrasion, glycolic peels, and everything else short of complete facial transplants. I admit I was paying extra attention because on Saturday, I had my eyebrows “shaped” (i.e., ripped from the follicles with hard blue wax), wax which was apparently a little too hot, because I now have an angry red mark between my brows, and another splotch in the arch of my right eyebrow.

Point is, everyone is out to look better, and I am not immune to such perversions. But I want to be a better person. One who is opposed to such things as waxing for reasons political, ecological, and of personal integrity. One who, after being burned by hot wax, refuses to go out and purchase expensive cosmetics in a vain attempt to cover the scars, but instead wears them proudly to remind herself that vanity is ugly. One who doesn’t buy clothes from the new fall J.Crew catalog, no matter how flattering the “new classic fit” cords promise to be, because of who might have woven them, how much gas it will take to ship them, and how much good could be done with the $79.50 it would take to buy a pair of them. One who wears, instead, jeans bordering on Mom-waisted, enduring the ridicule of both her high school students and her high school-mentality-having peers whom she feels sneering at her when she goes out to dinner. Oh, also, one who doesn’t go out to dinner.

I want to be a martyr.

No, just kidding. Sarcasm again! I just want to achieve the following, and preferably before the end of the month:

1. Eat a balanced diet full of leafy greens, darkly-colored fruits (instead of the apples that all the magazines say are nutritional duds) and thick porridges of whole grains. Return comfort foods like cinnamon grahams, Kraft singles and frozen burritos to their once-a-lifetime, guilt-inducing status. Only eat macaroni and cheese if it’s made of cashew-cheese and spelt-seaweed pasta.
2. Take a moment to breathe deeply and meditate when I feel the urge to growl, wail, or thrash at Ben for whatever reason it may be that day (I’ve found another dead bug in the kitchen, he left a wet towel crumpled in the spare bedroom, he thought it would be funny to put a can of corned beef under my pillow).
3. Stop fantasizing about horrible fates that will befall my students a few years from now, causing them to think, "I sure wish I'd listened to Ms. Mussy instead of ignoring her lessons as my (now-multiple-child-bearing, still unable to speak proper English) friends and I tried to best each others' stories of copious pot smoking!"
4. Cut out this bitterness thing.
   

Jeez! (I hate) earnest singing

One thing that really makes me cringe—I guess you could say it’s the one thing I absolutely can’t stand, excluding bugs and filth and bird beaks and cats and creeping vines that seem to have minds full of pure evil—is hearing a group of girls sing in earnest along to the radio. The scene in Harold and Kumar where they sing along to “Hold On” is hilarious, because it’s a self-conscious, ironic scene playing for laughs, as opposed to a trio of college students belting out a self-empowering anthem they feel was written for them, like…..well, . As is the commercial for some car where a bunch of hip young guys drive through the desert and one guy goes a little too far with his enthusiasm for “(Man!)” I Feel Like a Woman.”

It was just that song that recently made me turn the corner from thinking, “Yeah, it would be fun to raise babies to be teenagers” and run smack-dab into the truth, which is that they alternately endear themselves to me (when they remind me of the humiliating moments of my past) and make me want to run far, far away from the knowledge that I was once like them.

This whole high school business can be surreal. Last weekend, I spent 24 hours chaperoning a “camp” (more of a retreat full of Smores, silly games, and giggling in sleeping bags) for a club of the high-achievers of the school. It was like seeing a whole new species to hear them talk about upcoming tests, projects, and even current issues, such as when one girl explained that she decided to be a vegetarian after researching the issue and learning about the ecological costs of meat.

So back to belting out tunes in the car. I’m all for it. But when a group of teenaged girls sings in unison, even if they’re impressively in tune and know every “huh,” “ow!” and “whoa-oa-oa,” it makes my chest hurt to hear these things: the cadences that could only have been perfected with hours of singing alone in one’s bedroom, the glissandos that only studied listenings—countless listenings—to a freaking Shania Twain or Pussycat Dolls album could enable one to emulate. Why does it bug me so much? Why? Did I not pour my heart into “Fast Cars” or “Right Here Waiting” every time they came on? Do I not still do the same with “(Everything I Do) I Do It for You”?

What is it with song titles containing parentheses that makes them particularly amenable to heartfelt renditions?

Anyway, it’s the singing in earnest that gets me. I mean, I, too, know many of the lyrics to “Dontcha,” but only because it I bought it on iTunes so I could replicate the abs routine from my Body Pump class. But that doesn’t mean I sing along to it, at least not in a way that reveals I am fully invested in its lyrics and Forever 21 aesthetic.

It’s a fine line between those teens and me, and I’d better do everything within my power to etch it ever deeper.

Tattletale installment two

Mere hours before our friends descended upon the town for what would be the greatest week of our lives, Ben and I had a nice brunch with his dad and stepmom, then toured the grounds of the SHERATON KEAUHOU RESORT AND SPA.* As we passed the Keiki Club, or whatever the place is called where parents dump their kids so they can go on swingers’ booze cruises and make crooked real estate deals, I espied through the plate-glass window this charming tableau:

Ten or so children under the age of seven sit on kiddie-couches and beanbags, vacant eyes fixed on a (state of the art flat-screen I’m sure) TV. The only adult in sight: a large woman splayed across several geometrically-printed mini-sofas, mouth agog with the sweet relief that only an illicit on-the-clock nap can bring. I couldn’t hear through the glass but I’m sure she was sawing some major logs. We walked back the same way about twenty minutes later, after taking some silly pictures and plotting how Ben might sneak fifteen grown men in to use the water slide later in the week, and the scene was exactly the same. I was a little disappointed, thinking the kids would have at least had the chutzpah to draw on their governess’s face with a Sharpie.

The hotel could not have asked for a better advertisement. After all, anyone who would leave their child with an unknown babysitter on vacation deserves what they get, and in this case, they got textbook neglect by a hungover (or narcoleptic) employee who could clearly care less about how she came across to her resort employer and its hegemonic control over her native island. At least that’s how I like to look at it.

So much for a non-judgmental Tattletale column. Maybe next time.

* I took extra care to be detailed in my naming of names, in case prospective guests or repentant parents are googling this place, wondering if they a) should choose it for their family vacation or b) got their money’s worth. Well you did, neglecting parents! You get exactly what you deserved!

a tattling will i go!

I’ve decided it is my civic duty to start a regular feature called Tattletale which documents the peccadilloes and greater sins of the public. I shall try to offer them without judgment or judgmental commentary. May the deeds stand on their own merits (or utter depravity).

Today’s theme will be parenting.

1. A lady pushes her wailing kid around the grocery store (in a cart, not bodily). Every time the child emits a particularly loud shriek, she shoves a marshmallow into its mouth from an opened, but clearly not-yet-paid-for, bag.
2. As I drive by a neighborhood ballfield, two women are standing there talking over strollers. Beside them, their toddler-sized children climb the chain-link backstop. The mothers glance up periodically, apparently unconcerned that their three-year-olds are passing the 15-foot mark. Maybe they figure they've each got a backup kid.
   
3. In Macy's today, a dad pushes around one of the mall-provided cart-strolly-things. In the part where a child is meant to go sits a boy of about five. In the mesh bag where your shopping bags are supposed to go is a baby of about eight months, swinging to and fro as the dad zooms the cart around the wineglass displays.
   
4. This one’s cute. A gaggle of girls walks by (also in Macy's; my pool of anecdotes is limited, I’m on an island), nervously chattering, heads together. From the group arises the squeal, “Ohmygod, did I say ‘Hi!’ or ‘Hey!’?!” [God, that punctuation slowed down my typing.] One says, “You totally said, ‘Hey Cody, how’s it going’” to which the others reply with relieved, approving giggles.

not so cute in a thirty-year-old

My nephew, Theo, adorably thinks every colorful, wrapped package he sees is a gift for him. Equally cute is how, if you present him with a "present" that isn't wrapped, he accepts it, then asks, "Where's the present?"

Mr. Muss and I are at a similar toddler-like stage in our new membership in the married-or-getting-married club. In this stage, we blindly assume that whenever a wedding is being discussed, we will be invited. Our first brush, sort of, with this previously unimagined realm of social anxiety occurred before our wedding. When my dear friend since high school got engaged, I assumed we were going to be invited, because it was all we ever talked about: the dress, the photographer selection, the invitation font. When, about two months before the wedding date, Ben pointed out that we hadn't received an invitation, then dropped the subtlety completely and danced around the house singing, "You didn't get in-VI-ted! You didn't get in-VI-ted!", my heart sank...then fluttered madly with panic, as I remembered all the times I so blatantly let my friend know I expected an invitation. Like, the times I talked about shopping for a new dress for her wedding, or the times I said things like, "I can't wait for your wedding!"

Turns out, of course, we were invited to that one. My friend, with-it as she is, was sticking the the proper tradition of sending invitation six weeks in advance. Kind of the equivalent of not arriving at a party too early. I think I told her eventually how Ben had horrified and taunted me, and we had a good laugh.

Well, it's happened again, only this time I'm pretty sure it's for real. And this time, thanks to my big mouth, we'll probably end up getting a mercy invitation, which we'll have to figure out how to politely decline so we don't become the a-holes of the wedding.

Hmm, this sounds oddly like the times in junior high when I would think girls were inviting me to the movies or a slumber party, and it would turn out that they were just talking about their plans in my presence, loudly, only to create an opportunity to snub me and laugh hysterically as I wondered if my breath smelled like Funyuns or if I'd gotten something on my white Bongo miniskirt.

But that's a conversation for my therapist, or my locked diary. The lesson I've learned recently is that run-of-the-mill parties (which are inevitably potlucks here) and nights out to the bar are one thing; it's embarrassing, but not mortifying, to find that you've invited yourself to them. But when it comes to weddings, you must take every measure possible to prevent that from happening. My advice: keep your trap shut when the W word comes up. Nod, yes; smile, maybe; but do not say anything that could remotely be construed as implying or assuming that you are even on the radar for an invitation. Your self-respect is not worth the risk!

But it would still be cute as all get-out if Theo did it.

life is good

I should be ashamed of myself for thinking this, but I have had an awesome two days thanks to a near-natural disaster and how the false alarm raised around it stole two days of education from already vulnerable young minds. Lives could have been changed! Artistic impulses and literary passions ignited!

Our neighborhood was bone-dry and utterly still until this afternoon—hours after the alleged hurricane had passed—when it rained maybe half an inch. My fantasy came true! Two days off of work, without having to cower under a mattress or eat cold Spaghetti-Os! Now I get to savor delectably piping-hot Spaghetti-Os, with a nice Montepulciano.

Some women need cabanas at the Four Seasons, full-body skin peels at the spa, 15-dollar poolside drinks made out of cucumbers, and shopping sprees to feel they’ve gone on a real vacation, but not me. Over the past two days, I have read the last few chapters of Harry that I’d been saving for the past week; learned that we have the Travel Channel (Missymussy + Tony Bourdain = Luv); organized the linen closet; and subsisted almost entirely on canned vegetarian chili and Country Time lemonade. I haven’t been this happy since “Breakfast for Dinner” night at Colorado College. (Go CC.)

And now my 4-day weekend begins! Today a sub is seeing what it’s like to be ME as I get my teeth drilled, then spend the whole day blissfully reading stacks of literature textbooks as I try to get the whole semester planned in advance. Then, Friday is Admissions Day (one of Hawaii’s many extra state holidays, this one to celebrate the day we became a state and won the right to have frivolous holidays), and that still leaves two whole normal weekend days.

I'm starting to think that the perfect profession for me is as a teacher who doesn't have to teach. I believe they are called "curriculum developers," and I believe they make about three times as much as teachers. However, I also have a tendency to think of them as Satan's spawn.

we feel fine

Ben keeps saying it's the end of the world, God hates us, and the like. We are awaiting the arrival of Hurricane Flossie, which will either a) vindicate my anxiety by ripping the roof off our house and/or flooding away all of our beloved crap or b) make me admit I'm a bozo as I sheepishly survey the frivolous canned goods I bought and hope Ben forgets that I wanted to seal our wedding photos in Ziploc bags.

About an hour ago, there was a 5.3 earthquake that sent me scurrying out of the house in my humiliating at-home clothes (stretched out, thin Old Navy camisole with super-short, yet baggy, shorts that expose the waistband of my granny panties).

I guess no matter what happens, even if it's just a strong breeze, I will always end up looking a fool.

At least I get to spend all day tomorrow finishing Harry Potter and eating Spaghetti-Os (with franks!), Cocoa Krispies, cinnamon graham crackers, and all the other junk foods I decided were absolute necessities for the impending disaster. You can't tell me the Katrina victims who stocked up on Kashi bars and dried fruit didn't regret it.

i'm a polyester princess

Do you think it counts if you use fashion tips from "What Not to Wear" in selecting clothes that have several characteristics of the very items they tell you not to wear?

I just bought five knit dresses to wear to school, which are totally cute and figure-flattering according to Stacey and Clinton's standards. Unless, of course, you consider the fact that they're made of 95% polyester, with the other 5% being either nylon, lycra, or the sinews of Malaysian children woven into a cheaper version of nylon or lycra.

But to my eye, they look no different from the $180 knit dresses being sold at boutiques around the country. So if these fall apart after one wearing, I will only be out $12 per wear. That's like buying the good kind and wearing it 12 times.

I decided I needed new clothes when I tried on a denim miniskirt with zippers that I bought a few years ago, and when asked whether he thought I could still get away with wearing it, Ben replied, "Maybe if you're dressing up as one of the Bratz?"

the Yokels go out to dinner

To celebrate our upcoming one-monthiversary, we went out to dinner last night at Kenichi. Granted, the place was the catalyst for my pre-wedding breakdown when my attempted bachelorette party there was a bust, but I'm trying to give them the benefit of the doubt. Luckily, the a-hole bartender wasn't working, and in his place was a guy who in elementary school we used to call Hanabata (Japanese-pidgin for snot) and is super-nice. We ran in to fellow marrieds Rene and Mark and had a nice reliving of certain wedding moments that I only noticed in the pictures, like how as I walked down the aisle, half the people were holding keg cups.

ANYwho, it was lovely, and the extremely slow service (we're talking 45 minutes for a RAW salad and sushi roll) forced us to look deep into each other's eyes and talk, really talk.

Ha ha, only kidding. I read the menu at least ten times. It really gave me a chance to memorize the menu, and to decide if I wanted the ono tataki, a seared piece of ono served over sweet potato puree with a hoisin beurre blanc, steamed green beans and sauteed shiitake mushrooms; or the broiled black cod in Kenichi's own homemade miso paste. I chose the latter.

Ben's conversational gem of the night was telling me that he used to think the refrain in "Who's That Girl" went, Send your meatballs....to I-TALL-y......Who's that girl?" This, and "Cream of Plenty.....Alleluia" is truly why I married him.

Apologies to Stephanie (and Matt) for calling them at 2 am (their time) to ask how to order coffee with Frangelico. Turns out you just ask for it IN the coffee.

the ugly truth

We got our wedding photos back from the photographer (the one we paid, as opposed to the ones we guilted into taking hundreds of photos and then posting immediately online, before they even had a chance to unpack), and while I mostly like the way I look and all the memories they evoke, I am pretty sure the guy Photoshopped the hell out of my arms and hands in the close-ups. There's not a hair in sight. Which makes me start to think, how werewolf-like do I look in real life? And what other mythical beasts do I resemble without a makeup artist's magic?

all in fun

Since we've become man and wife, Ben has either

a) decided that he needs to pull out all the stops in the realm of teasing me, to remind me of why I fell in love with him and thus ensure our marriage will be life-long, or

b) reckoned that since I'm his wife, in addition to wearing the burqua for which he's been lobbying--nay, haranguing--I should be subjected to daily shocks, pesterings, and other depravations as a sort of wifely hazing.

c) started worrying that being married is a step away from losing all the magic of our early relationship, and decided it's his responsibility to top such high points as the bag of potatoes
and the battery-free remote control.

So, since our wedding, here is the first of many gems that've happened:

We're sitting for a house with an awesome view of City of Refuge. [I'm still putting together my House-Kit, full of fun activities for the house to do. It's decorated with rickrack and sequins. This note for Stephanie.] In addition to the spectacular sunsets, other-worldly views of moonrise over the ocean that half-awaken me at 2 a.m., and cable, including all the HBOs, we have the treat of a sweet-tempered dog named Nutmeg. If all my students had half her personality (and intelligence, there, I've said it), my job would be a cakewalk.

Last night, the tranquility of my post-hot tub (solar-heated) shower was shattered by the jangling of something metallic. The jingling of knives as the home invader, preparing to attack, pondered which would most efficiently disembowel me? The huge key ring of a night janitor escaped from the mental asylum, having just disposed of my husband and now ready to join me in the tub? These are actual thoughts that go through my mind when I hear strange noises.

No, I realized it was Nutmeg. But where was she? Why would she be in the bathroom? Wait, could Ben have collapsed in heap in the kitchen, and still be lying there for a coma-inducing length of time like Shelby in Steel Magnolias, all due to my neglect and self-indulgently long shower? I was just about to peek out of the shower curtain when I felt it brush against my leg and something soggy land at my feet, followed by a confused bark.

I looked down into the tub and saw Nutmeg's sodden chew toy, scanned up and saw Ben's grinning face as he squeezed out, "Attack, Nutmeg! Attack her! She stole your toy!" between giggles.

Is he mad? Emotionally retarded? Or simply a loving husband, trying (in his way, like King Kong pawing at the blonde lady) to show me he cares?

Either way, he's trying to show me my place as a wife. And that place is alternately a) cowering in the shower as a 75-pound dog wonders why someone is commanding her to "bite a leg," or b) spending my Friday night pontificating on his every move and trying to figure out how best to show that I truly appreciate the joy (childlike as it may be) that he brings to my life.

After the ecstasy, the laundry

[As part of my new blog revitalization plan, there is supposed to be a photo here but my TWO cameras aren’t working, and I’ve agreed not to use either Ben's camera or computer in the interest of keeping our marriage alive. Picture this: piles of cardboard boxes all askew, overflowing with gift wrap and beach towels and shredded ribbons and boxer shorts and bottles of hot sauce. Also one pair of electric blue Speedos--trunks, not banana hammocks--that must belong to someone.]

When I worked at the bookstore, I found a greeting card with that quote (from some California Zen white guy) and a cool photo of a shack with towels hanging on the railing. I thought it was a neat idea, and tacked it above my sink to remind me in the morning that whatever fun had been had the night before, I was starting a new day, cleansed and open to all possibilities, blah blah. Also that I should have removed my makeup before bed.

A few months after Ben and I started dating, he remarked that he had always thought that card was weird, reading it as an overtly sexual reference. He implied that it indicated I indulged in conspicuous promiscuity and had to remind myself to do the laundry. I don't know what exactly he meant. My mind was more pure, I suppose. I thought it was a reminder of being ever-vigilant of the present moment, and in finding joy in the mundane necessities of life, like laundry. Not even thinking about what might have soiled said laundry, necessitating its washing. Anyway, it embarrasses me to think about because my parents had just visited me in my apartment when Ben said that. We were still in our Being Blunt phase.

Whatever connotations were intended, I still like to think of this when I’m facing mountains of stuff that would be demoralizing and depressing if not for approaching them as incipient form within formlessness, a chance to take pleasure in sorting and pondering, another safe outlet for my OCD.

Also, these 'mountains' of things to be sorted, organized and wiped clean of Hawaii Decay (yes, even brand-new things are susceptible to mildew) are primarily gifts. Those that aren't are reminders of the immeasurable gift Ben and I were given by our dearest friends coming to join us for our wedding, which was, thus far, the best week of our lives. So it’s not like I’m facing a mountain of papers to grade. That will be in nine days. I got a job, and now it’s time for the laundry.

The real testimonial thank-you post still to come.

Pnewlywed Pneumonia & a Honeymoon Hangover

First of all, Ben has pneumonia and/or bronchitis. Thanks to Doctor Erick and Nurse Jenn who “ratcheted” Ben’s health from “Dismal” up to “May Live” with their melted-cough-drop concoctions, frank discussions of bowel functions, and other tireless efforts. For a hypochondriac married to the son of one, a few days with two medical professionals was the best gift we could have asked for. That, or a home IV kit.

There’s nothing worse than abruptly returning to your everyday life and confirming your suspicion that it would blow in comparison to the one magical week out of which you have just staggered, only to find:

• a closet full of mildew than your husband claims makes it impossible for him to sleep in your marital bed (we both secretly think, Yesss! Free at last)
• A refrigerator full of insufficiently wrapped gruyere cheese that must now be thrown away
• Shockingly, no notice in the mail that you have won any of the wedding-related sweepstakes you entered in the last eight months via wedding websites that are now spamming the bejesus out of you
• that Hawaii is hot, bug-infested, and unbearably humid when you aren’t trying to defend it to visiting friends

But there’s nothing better than slowly leaning back against the bolster of the recent past, letting the memories wash over you as you shudder with wonder that you have ended up as part of what must be the kindest, gentlest, badass-est, most generous group of friends ever to be assembled in the Pacific Rim—nay, the world.

To count among your friends:

• a librarian so artfully organized she has inspired subscriptions to Real Simple and ignited a dozen envious discussions of her aesthetic sense and Flickr site
• so many medical professionals (some of whom you pressed into duty on your honeymoon) that your family has started referring to every friend they don’t know as “that doctor or nurse”
• not one, but several, gentlemen who can genuinely be described as “unemployed…but brilliant”
• those who have walked among us as mortals but share wisdom only Bookworkers could know
• two college friends who have been asked to prove their loyalty time and time again (we're in the friendship mafia), and have always done it, often requiring air travel)
  

-- is something very few people can do. I think.

More of this list to come. Now I must go offer ice water (which he claims is my best dish) to my Husband (I’m sad that I can no longer call him “my Betrothed"), who has been watching Oz on DVD for the past six hours. I sure hope he doesn’t shank me!

pickles

I am returning to this BLOG (suck it, Anna Wintour) to start over like God intended, to do it right--to write as if no one else is reading, because no one else IS reading. If the blog is supposed to be like a journal, then it must be written with no intention of anyone else ever reading it, like a journal (or diary, as Ben calls it when he makes me chase him around the house as he waves my real diary overhead).

Ben is out of town, which is why I am a) up this late and b) doing what I want, watching Conan whilst noodling on my BLOG. (Again, Anna. If you haven't read about how Anna Wintour banned the word from Vogue's new web edition, and if you were present for the 'negatory' incident, you truly must track it down and read it. I think this proves that I have always harbored futuristic delusions about myself as a glossy-haired fashion and word maven.)

Also, I've given the lie to my claim that I am writing in the hopes that no one else is reading, by addressing "you."

prickles

[I'm sorry, but I like this font so much better.]

The whole reason I started this blog was so I could document incidents like the following.

When we got back from Christmas in the Pacific Northwest, where I understandably took a ten-day vacation from shaving my legs, Ben complained in typical heterosexual male fashion: "You're like Snoopy's cousin who lives in the desert!"
His name is Spike, Ben, and I think you conflated him with the cactus in your memory.

a new year, a new font, same overuse of adverbs

FINALLY! I have been in a pit of self-loathing about all the things I haven't been doing: mopping, flossing, adhering to the Ultra-Prevention diet I wouldn't shut up about all through December, and, of course, writing about random, banal crap here. It turned into a vicious cycle, wherein I was so irritated at myself about not having done X, Y or Z, it was painful to think about starting to do it again. My gums and the kitchen floor are in a disgusting state.

But the upside is: I now have a three-month backlog of "tidbits" and derivative observations just waiting to be put into the self-consciously jauntily-written word! Things like:

* Ben changed my screensaver to a photo of a giant eight-legged you-know-what that I discovered when I shut down my computer right before bed, causing an entire night of screaming nightmares!

* I spent $100 on dinner the other night with the intention of writing a restaurant review and being reimbursed, but have yet to write a single word! How me!

* I resolved to break with my addiction to celebrity gossip, until I discovered the treasure trove of videos on TMZ that allow me to feel smug and highly intelligent compared to the people I otherwise envy and begrudge their disgusting wealth! (If you haven't already, check out the one of Paris Hilton running out of gas in the middle of an intersection, and Cindy Crawford giving her husband a lap dance.)

* Don't you just hate those giant sunglasses all the young girls are wearing? They look like, I don't know--ooh, like big old bug eyes! Yeccch!

As soon as I remember the rest, I'll type 'em up. But trust me, they're cutting edge.

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.