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!!!