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: