It's cool, like margarine is butter...

Close, but not quite right.

Nevertheless, this post is mostly just to inform you that there will be a sudden and drastic lack of posting for the next few weeks. I am leaving to Washington to hang out with my sister and her family....and purposefully am leaving the laptop home. I figure if I am going to spend money to go visit, then I'm going to visit...with real people, not blog people.

I'm sure you'll manage.

All I want for Christmas is.......you

...you awesome piece of utilitarian furniture. I hear angels singing the praise of such an inspiring and totally cool piece of furniture. I don't just want you. I need you. I just can't quit you and your multipurpose manufacturing.

If you love me, you will buy it for me. If you love me a LOT, you will buy me my own house to put it in. You decide.

Feliz Has Been Robbed From My Navidad

My high school experience can pretty much be described as, A Tale of Two Personalities. I was the funny fat kid who made friends easily, was quick with a self deprecating joke and masterful at diffusing tension with clever banter and wit. On the flip side, I was completely content to blend into the background. Eager to please, but happy to not be noticed. I have always been more of a spectator than a participant. A vocal, clever spectator, but a spectator nonetheless. My sister was the cheerleader, I was the stat girl.  That might explain why, to this day, I could put name to face of about  90% of the students that I graduated with. I'm a freaking Rainman with names and faces.I don't know what the percentage would be in reverse. But considering how many times I have had to explain who I am to people that I have known for years, I doubt that it would be very high. 

All of that nonsense is mostly just a tangent...on with the story!

Every year during Christmas, my high school Spanish teacher would drag us around to various classrooms and offices while caroling en español. This drummed up some very conflicting emotions in my angst ridden high school heart. On the one hand, I would rather die than make a fool of myself shakin' it like a white girl, singing stupid songs in a language that I didn't understand and certainly didn't speak very well.  On the other hand, I was all about participating enough to ensure that I held onto my spot as Ms Rocca's favorite student. (Did I mention that I was a huge nerd?)

Like the true geek that I am, I scoured our 'set list' and devised a plan to participate my little corazón out, and still manage to save some face with my peers.  It was obvious that the most requested and best preformed song in our repertoire would be, José Feliciano's "Feliz Navidad."  All I had to do was convince Ms Rocca to let me shake the maracas and belt out the standard mariachi band "AAAhhhhhaaaa." If I could lock down the parts that are meant to be funny, I was off the hook for any naturally occurring teenage humiliation.  I don't want to pat myself on the back or anything, but this plan was nothing short of a stroke of genius. And since I really was her favorite student (of all time) it wasn't that hard to convince her that I was BORN for those two parts.

We practiced our canciones all month long and totally rocked it. I shook the hell out of my maracas, literally, and timed my "AAAhhhaaaaa" just perfectly.


(1:17 that was ALL ME!)
It's been seventeen a few years since freshman Spanish, but every Christmas when I hear that familiar refrain, I get a little excited. I shake my imaginary maracas and shout out my "AAAhhhhaaaa" like I am the long lost blue eyed member of Los Lobos.

But this year....something bad happened. I was driving home from work listening to the radio, and after just two or three notes, I knew what was coming. I bopped and hummed along, waiting for my big part. AND. IT. NEVER. CAME. Sure the maracas were there, but what good are maracas without a little "AAAhhhhhhaaa!"

I don't know what Spanish speaking Scrooge thought that it was okay to rip out the hear and soul of a classic Christmas cancion.....but I am certain that my heart has shrunk at least two sizes. And I bet Ms Rocca will be pissed when she hears about this!

The Funk of Forty Thousand Years

So Natalie Portman has gone from Padame, to Anne Boleyn, and now to Elizabeth Bennet? I am not sure how I feel about this.  I do love Ms Portman, and heaven knows I do love Pride and Prejudice. But for some reason, I have not been able to get my mind around this zombie, seamonster, business. I am all for any excuse to get kids to read....but is this the way? Why mess with the classics? Have all the good stories already been told? Are we doomed to a life of watered down distortions and half-rate retellings?

Plus, the only zombies I care about....

are dancing zombies.

If You Don't Get it.....You Never Will

Twilight Years from Tom on Vimeo.

courtesy of sherpa

Have Eggs Will Travel

One could be a fluke.

Two and three could be a coincidence.

*But four is a definitely enough for a pattern.

(Watch out though, he's got a mean right hook!)

We make DANG cute babies in my family. And by 'we' I mean, of course, my siblings. There is more than just physical evidence of this. The fact that each one of them is down right hilarious, clever, and unfailingly sweet, can be proven a thousand times over, but that is a whole other Oprah.

Just so you know I'm not making unfounded claims of hilarity. Once my dad asked one of the girls if she would take care of him when he was really old and needed to live with someone. With the complete sincerity of a child she said, "I dunno grandpa, you should ask my sister. I might be busy" ha HA. So clever. So funny. And still, so sweet. Take that Grandpa and your emotional, guilt ridden warfare. Looks like immunity to the guilt trip must skip a generation. Lucky grandkids.

*My ovaries almost can't take it.

Two Gold Stars

One slightly more awesome than the other.
**click to enlarge

I hate to admit how close to home both of these blurbs hit, but in the spirit of full disclosure...

1. There are 4 (soon to be 5) Wal-Mart's within a 10-15 mile radius of my home.

2. My mom is one of the school clerks that have to hold the 'DONOT' sign. I'm not sure if she was solicited for sugary morning goodies this particular day...but you better believe this will become a long running family joke. Mark my words.

My Holiday Anti-Wish List

In case your holiday shopping is not done yet, let me just take a second or two and narrow down the field of possibilities for you. This....I do not want.

I prefer my gifts to be delivered by Santa exclusively.

I'm guessing, but I bet Jewish women can think of many other ways to light their menorahs.

I CAN'T BELIEVE THEY ARE RUNNING THESE PSA'S SERIOUSLY! Who thought up this new slice of hellish gift giving? I totally thought it was a joke or the preview of a SNL skit when I first saw it, but no. Real.

I want gifts. I like things that are shiny and sparkle. But if it comes down to it, I'd rather have livestock, or a grove of miracle trees in some foreign land where they would be needed, than a Pap smear. Anything but the silver duck. *you may or may no want to click that link, depending upon your gender.

I'd much rather have you give me a couple of goats that would serve to give milk and offspring, for generations to come, in rural villages. Or even maybe a freaking camel! I've always wanted a camel. If you're feeling feisty, I might even be down with a couple of donkey's. Donkeys and camels, totally cool...... pap-smears, not so much.

What is CBS trying to do with these PSA's? Make the holidays as awkward as humanly possible? In this case, you can't even say, "It's the thought that counts," cause QUIT THINKING ABOUT MY COOTER! Sick.

Crap No One Needs: Volume 2

Portable Scooter Luggage
My bottle of hand lotion is off limits, but this scooter is allowed to slip past the TSA?


Can't see anything going wrong with this plan. I hope these roll out just in time for the busy holiday travel season.

Amazing Grace

I am not sure what upsets me more- 1) That I am not on the next Amazing Race; or that 2) The Fictious Love of My Life appears to be running it with his newly minted millionairess girlfriend, who is not me, by the way.

Let me just say, that I would totally rock the Amazing Race. Yes, I am about to toot my own horn, but it's my blog, and I can toot what I want to. I am awesome at traveling. I am practically a savant when it comes to finding my way around airports, am like freaking Magellan when it comes to public transit, I have no problem climbing things, or throwing my body off of ledges, be they stationary or air born. And who are we kidding, I am built more like a linebacker than a ballerina, but I could do a passable job at activities requiring either skill set.

The only thing that has kept my application out of the Race is that I can't figure out the perfect person with whom I should enter. Keeping in mind that theoretically, I would like to actually have a chance of being competitive, and still both of us should come out the other side of the race physically, and emotionally unharmed. I have thought about this a lot.

Option 1- Two girlfriends- Ehhhhh I am a firm believer that this would be a friendship killer. No. Matter. What. That is not to say that I don't have any friends that I love to travel with, I do. You don't get to be my age and single and not develop good, good girlfriends that will go on wild adventures with you at the drop of a hat! I have been blessed many ways in that regard. But adding competition, and exhaustion to the mix, and knowing how I react based on the few times I have been lost, would be a recipe for disaster. I would just hope that the camera crew would be able to intervene quickly enough, to save my teammate from permanent damage after being choked out and left on the island to die because of one too many screw up's with the map. When in the jungle, jungle rules apply. Only the strong survive. Can't read a map? Weak.

But in the spirit of Karmic retribution, I also have the type of girlfriends who don't bother to mention to the group that we are snorkeling with sharks. My friends just hop back in the boat, smile, wave and take pictures from the safety the watercraft. All the while we are swimming with death at our heals. Just helping Darwin along, right? Nope. Not gunna work out. Fail.

Option 2- Me and a parent. No. Just no.....for various, yet, significant reasons in both regards. I love them both, more than words can say. And in an effort to keep it that way....nope on the parents. Fail.

Option 3- Me and a guy friend. Hmmmmm 1)I can't even think of any guys that I would want to spend that much time with (or I would be dating him). 2) If I have spent sufficient time with him and am not dating him, there is probably a douchey, obnoxious, Ed Hardy-esque quality about him that I would be forced to mock incessantly...and that would only drag our team down and breed negativity. At some point he would muster up the nerve to call me out on being a bee-atch. I would cry, because deep down, I probably have a monumental crush on him. And no one wants that girl on their team. Fail.

Option 4-Me and My sister. Well, due to the fact that I would refuse to be seen on any plane/train/automobile with her and her 'anxiety/nausea bands,' she would most assuredly be barfing most of the race. Tick-tock-tick-don't have time for that. Plus- we would fight a lot. (I have a vague recollection of someone getting their boob bitten in one particularly nasty fight. And another time when mom had to drive to Utah to keep us from killing one another, when all I needed was a ride to work in the snow) Plus-she is knocked up with kid number 4, so she's gonzo. Sorry, Jen. Fail.

Option 5- My little brother. My last and best chance. He was a college football player, so pretty fit. If there was a roadblock or task that required nothing but a strong back, he'd grab that one. He is able to think pretty quickly on his feet, too. (Read: not above being shady) He may have even perfected and is the literal 'King of the Cheap Shot'. So that would come in handy. Plus, he's my brother, so I can be mean to him all I want. Then he can smack me in the back of the head and tell me I am being a butthole....and at the end of the day, we're good. WIN!

A Perfect Plan, right? Yeah- Then he went and got married a few years ago-knocked his wife up and is now officially an infant baby daddy and - off the roster. And there went all of my viable hopes and dreams for ever winning the Amazing Race. Dammit. Fail.

FINAL OPTION- So Jeff is now my only hope. If by the grace of God, Jeff can't do the Race with Jordan....I'd totally do it with him. (HEEEY- double entendre-totally intended)

*UPDATE---Usually, they have one 'special' team...whether it's the angry deaf kid, the midget, the really old guy, or a chick with one leg. The only way Jeff and I wouldn't be the PERFECT Amazing Race couple, is if they tried to get slick and have another midget on this season. It would be like my kryptonite. I would be so awkwardly fascinated that I wouldn't know what to do. Do you let the midget win....cause, "Dude, you out ran a midget. Are you proud of yourself?" or "Dude, the midget out ran you. How do you live with yourself?" I would be trapped by my own anxieties and would eventually implode. So there you have it. Do with it what you will.

They Only Come Out At Night

So- I had a metric crap-ton of errands to run the other day. Since many of them could be loosely described as 'work related' (What? I wear shoes at work.....and there was a sale! Back off) it only seemed reasonable that I get them done during my conference period and lunch. It really is convenient that the two flow together, let me tell you! If I did my errands after work, that would mean I would have to postpone the meeting of The Great C-dub. Simply, out of the question.

Anyhow-Earlier that day, on my drive to work, I made the upsetting discovery that my eyebrows and she-stache were a little more out of control than I normally allow them to be. Since there was a salon in the same parking lot, I stopped to remedy the situation ASAP.


In perfect Vietnenglish the lady said to me, "You sure you don't want me wax the rest, whole face?"

I stammered about with various renditions of, "UUhhhunnn ohhh, whaa? Work. Go. No thank you." In my mind I was thinking, "WHAT THE HELL IS THAT SUPPOSED TO EFFING MEAN?"

She didn't say, "Do you want me to...," like it was an off the cuff remark. She said, "Are you sure you don't want me to...." Like I should really put some some thought into this, if I have not yet done so.

Is it possible? Could I have survived 31 years of life, being pretty self aware, almost bordering on self conscious, and not known that I look like this?

Seriously? What. The. Hell.

Shoot. I knew I should have given Jacob more of a chance.

So This is Christmas

Whenever people mutter on about dreaming of White Christmases, I don't pay much attention. I figure those songs were written and meant to be enjoyed by people in the Midwest, and North East. Certainly had nothing to do with my childhood Christmases out in the Mojave Desert. My memories of Christmas are most assuredly NOT white, not even hazy white, or greyish. They are brown and dusty. For some reason, that I could not pin down until today, there is a strange degree of shame that accompanies my memories of beige Christmases.

So in the spirit of Christmas...I offer you these gems from my childhood. A mirror to the past, if you will. This really explains a lot about me. If you are insightful....I am sure you can recognize the root of many personality flaws/quirks, trust issues, struggles with self esteem, and even maybe some of my issues with animals, right in these very pics.(Notice none of my brothers and sisters are dressed as live stock) I prefer to just bury all of those things and appreciate these photos for the 80's childhood hilarity that they are.

Merry Freaking Christmas.

Hey Yo, Fat Girl! Come Here, Are You Ticklish?

I found the Christmas balls! I ate the Christmas balls. And even though I am not feeling real hot, my Christmas cheer is officially back on. In spite of the fact that I am now transitioning from clothes with actual structure, buttons, and zippers, to shall we say, less restrictive clothing....I am still felling very, Fa-la-freaking-la.

But all I really want to know is...are you singing the Humpty Dance? Then, my work here is done.

In Case You Were Wondering Wednesday

1) My socks don't match today, but they are similar...so I feel okay about that.


2) I did not brush my hair this morning. What's worse, I didn't even think about brushing it. What's even worse, I have received no less than 10 compliments on how it looks. And what's even worse than that, on days where I actually DO adhere to standard grooming procedures...no one mentions a thing.



3) This little message on my board reminded me that I am doing a STELLAR job as an English teacher.



4) In spite of the fact that I come from a long line of coaches and jocks, I am not a farty, burpy, giggle and talk about pooping kind of gal. So- when I was in the bathroom at work today, and the poor lady in the stall next to me (who was obviously not feeling well) started talking to, "Dear Sweet Jesus," about how this particular bathroom visit was going, I was equal parts horrified/embarrassed/nervous about possibly exiting at the same time she was, thus requiring awkward conversation.



5) I REALLY hope this gets to come home today!

With Mogwai, Comes Much Responsibility

Dearly Beloved,
We are gathered here today...because there is a new baby! And he is cute! And tiny! And all swaddled tightly with care!

But that is actually all heresay passed via picture emails and text messages. We are in fact, not gathered. Not gathered one little bit. Which to the likes of me, (who is in possession of a womb that is equally likely to shrivel up and fall out as birth any actual children) sucks pretty hard. Those damn pigs and their germs went and ruined all of the vicarious baby delivery fun. "NO VISITORS," they say. Not even if you are kosher, or don a HAZMAT suit. "Not even in the hallway or the waiting room. But you might be able to look in the window if the room faces the parking lot." What kind of communist dictator nurse, whose heart is two sizes two small, thought that up?

And a follow up question, don't hospitals and law enforcement officials generally discourage people from crawling through the bushes to sneak-a-peek at those inside? Last I checked with Angelina, that sort of thing was frowned upon.

Now that I read that back, I am absolutely not sad to miss out on anything that might possibly involve sharp instruments and my lady parts...but I have a freaking box of chocolate cigars and congratulations ready...and no one to hand them to!

Official note:
I fully understand the hospitals desire to keep newborns safe from any germs or viruses. Real or hysterical. I understand that they have a huge responsibility....Don't get 'em wet. Don't feed 'em after midnight. Yeah, I know. I also realize that I run the risk of getting busted by my family for 'stealing the thunder' of official announcements, but what's a spinster aunt to do? There is a brand new baby less than 10 minutes from me and you expect me to twiddle my thumbs for two days until I can squeeze him? Are you kidding me? I'm dying here!

Pride of the Family

On his left cheek bone is inked the Pittsburgh Pirate’s ‘P’, “for the Pittsburgh, that’s my favorite team. Barry Bonds, when he first started.” The thing about the P is, however, that it’s backwards and looks more like a 9. DeShawn tried to explain, “No, if you’re standing where Dom’s standing and looking at me, it looks like a P.” Dominic McGuire was standing directly in front of him about 10 yards away, but it still looked like a 9. I think DeShawn meant to say, “when I look in the mirror it looks like a P.” The final new tat is a crack on the left side of Stevenson’s forehead. He said it’s because “I don’t crack. I feel like people always try to break me, but I don’t crack. So, I put that there. --Washington Times--

A prime example of what happens when a person has more money than brains.

Fear does not exist in this dojo

On my list of favorite, overly commercialized, sugary, non-holidays, meant to scare children and encourage begging, Halloween doesn't really rank that high. (And if you think that Halloween is the only holiday where that sort of behavior is appropriate, you've obviously never been a chubby, teenage girl on Valentine's day.) I am not really into scary movies or gore. I know that the call is coming from inside the house, yadda, yadda, yadda. I don't have any particular reason for my blazeh attitude. Most of the "meh" comes from the fact that, on Halloween, I am charged with corralling sugar fueled, scantily clad teenagers all the live long day. By the time trick or treating comes around, I would rather stab out my own eyes than get up off the couch every 30 seconds and fake that some strange kid, who I have no genetic link to whatsoever, is "The cutest little princess ever!" When in reality, it is the exact same princess that has magically appeared from CVS six times already.

Being that most people will use any excuse imaginable to whore things up in the wardrobe department, I've pretty much washed my hands of the hope for a creative and clever Halloween. Whatever. I can't really throw that stone from my glass house.

Apparently I was down with Slut-o-ween circa 1986. Really mom? A garter? On an 8 year old?

I don't think store bought costumes are fun, interesting, or worthy of praise. Most are fairly inane. I miss the days of dreaming up an awesome ensemble and then spending the entire month of October slaving away* to make the vision come true.

Exhibit A:

It's hard to pull your eyes away from all this awesome, right?

Enter October 30, 2009 - Day of Mischief. The day that students, young and old, dress up and act like fools regardless of the fact that All Hallows Eve is still 24 hours away.

Here is the play by play.

7:00 am- I arrived at work, waded through throngs of teenagers, and attempted to keep my eyes on the ground. I find it best not to make eye contact. That way I can plausibly avoid the fact that most of the girls are dressed as some slutty version of a Disney character that neither Walt, nor God, ever intended. The boys on the other hand, seem to be under the impression that eyeliner and a hoodie, or Scream masks are passable excuses for costuming.

7:04 am- One young man is standing perfectly still at the gates of the school. He is inside two cardboard boxes that are painted yellow and stacked on top of one another.

7:06 am- I am completely stumped as to what on Earth box boy might be and wonder what the hell kind of Cirque de Soleil, voo-doo, acrobatics will be required in order to fit into his tiny, immovable classroom desk.

7:07 am- I say a prayer in my heart, thank God that I don't recognize him and hopefully won't have to worry about his seating arrangements.

7:12 am- I realize that I don't have enough copies of the quiz for the day and frantically hustle up to the office to make more. En route, I notice another kid dressed in cardboard. This one, however, is painted blue and is just one big square.

7:13 am- "Hmmm. That's strange." And then I mentally chastize myself for passing judgement on kids who want to join in the Halloween fun but are obviously poor and can't afford a respectable slutty Snow White costume or mask.

7:17 am- In my head, I begin a rant about, "Kids these days. Pathetic! In my time, we were way more creative than a store bought stripper Cinderella! Halloween has lost all of it's charm..." In my heart, I secretly suspect that I was Cady Heron's zombie bride to Regina George's playmate.

7:25 am- The bell rings and I open the door to begin the chaos that is Halloween at a high school. Past me walks yet another kid dressed in a yellow, L shaped, cardboard box.

7:26 am- What in the hell is with all the freaking cardboard boxes?

10:05 am- I head across campus to grab a bag of chips. In the quad, a crowd of students part and like a vision from above, I realize the deal with all of the cardboard boxes. The three kids that I saw separately this morning are now walking together. Linked together....like this...

And with that, my faith in Halloween was restored. And I wished that I still had Wilma. That was a an awesome costume.

* Not so much ME slaving away, so much as watching my mother.

Cute or Blazing Hot?

It's hard to nail down all of the reasons why this was the best three minutes of my day....perhaps my entire week.

Crap No One Needs: Volume 1

I plan on purchasing this and using it whilst wearing my Snuggie.

True Confession Tuesday

I wish I was in The -Vo for this.

And this would be nice too.


Instead, I live here.

Okay-fine.

This may not be an actual picture of my lovely hometown a-la helicopter, but the wind (and resulting sand storm) did "blow the satellite off the roof" of the gas station this morning. Thus, I could not use my ATM card. My empathy for hobos, bums, college co-ed's and general ne'erdowells has increased tenfold since my morning rummage for spare change. Seriously, who carries cash anymore?

Point being, all of you losers who mocked the 8 year old me for wanting a camel?

You suck.

I totally should have stuck with Operation Cam-o.

Falling to Pieces

Making your way down the stairs head first and landing on your kneecap has a tendency to screw things up. Obviously, not the way that you would want to start the school year. However, in an effort to avoid the need to have my kneecap screwed back together, I chose to apply the doctor's advice liberally and stay off it for a while. Needless to say I have used all of my sick time for the entire year....plus 5-ish. Yes-I know, it's not even November yet! Just thinking about that makes me more than a little sick....and now that my knee is better...I'm certain that my back is broken. It's a vicious circle.

I know, complain, complain, complain. It's what I do.

Tricky Little Taco Truck

Seriously Mexico...did this really seem like a good idea?

Shot Thru The Heart

I stumbled upon this little gem of hilarity today. It was all sunshine and giggles until I got to this post,

“Just be yourself. And if that doesn’t work, be your mother. She wasn’t still single at thirty.”

Then I found myself looking for a band-aid to cover the tiny hole in my heart.

NCI Love you

I don't know if I have exposed this dirty little secret to this here blogosphere, but I watch too much TV. As an English teacher I feel compelled to fudge a little about how much I watch and how little I read. The former I round down, the latter I round up. But I can live a lie no more.

I don't read as much as I should...and I watch much more TV than I ought.

Come to think of it, I've never gotten an official verdict. Do books on tape count as legit reading? Suppose we should throw that quandary out to all the gods ever taught about in theology class. You know, cover all the bases.

Anyhow-What has prompted me to expose my shameful secret? Jeff from Big Brother, Dexter, and NCIS. I can hide my love under a bushel no more.

I do try to work at keeping the line drawn clearly between fact and fiction. But Jeff.....oh my heavens, he's a real live man....and I think he could love me. Heaven knows I already love him.

That's right about where the line between reality and fiction starts to get a little fuzzy.

One of my girlfriends, who has gotten herself stuck in a state of Missouri, informed me that there was an awesome show that I have completely missed out on. Apparently there was some misunderstanding on my end. She was talking about Chuck.


I, on the other hand, thought she was talking about Dexter. A bit dark and twisty, but equal parts gruesome AND awesome. Plus, dude is smoking, fire, hot. I might be able to look past the whole, kill the bad to protect the good, serial killer thing. A man with principles, I can live with that. I could love that. In fact, I do.


Ahhh well, if Jeff insists on not loving me back and I can't live a happy life raising Dexter Jr, then I would like to heretofore be known as Mrs Anthony Dinozzo. This video is probably one of my favorites because 1) Tony is smoking hot and kicks serious butt. 2) He gets a divorce from his pretend wive Ziva,so he's fair game! I'm no home wrecker. And yes, he is a bit of a man whore, that's fine. People can change, right? Right? Mrs Dinozzo. Oh heaven help my heart. I want to lick him. I am certain that you will love him as I do. Unless there is something wrong with you...but either way, back up off my man

And sweet mother of all that is good, now we have an NCIS Los Angeles? I may join the navy just so that I can get into some sort of horrific trouble L.L. Cool J could come and save me from. My love for him goes way back to Fendi bags and a bad attitudes. That really did put me in a good mood. I've always had at least one of those two.

Now the men of NCIS are on my half of the country, commonly rolling thru Dodgertown? That's super awesome. If joining the ranks of the navy and falling into distress isn't enough to get his attention, I'd be willing go out of my way to start some schenanigans that would ensure LL must fulfill his obligation to the law and be my arresting officer. Yes, I do submit to a body search.....and those cuffs...fine by me.


Oh dear...I might need a minute.

That's Some Pig

I wouldn't say that I'm an alarmist by any means. That being said, when school started (and I eventually decided to join them) I went with a steady supply of hand sanitizer in my purse. I've been around high school kids long enough to know that they are a filthy little bunch....in more ways than one.

But what to do when the aforementioned bottle of hand sanitizer explodes and ruins the inside of my very favorite (and very expensive) purse?

Swine-flu be damned.

I looked the pig in the eye, wiped the gelatinous mess from the once so soft lining of my purse, then threw caution and the empty damn bottle to the wind. (Amid a litany of mild curse words.) Personally, I'm not convinced that the swine flu isn't a conspiracy dreamt up to scare people into supporting health care reform*

After all of my theatrics, I still feel no satisfaction. I am going home to make a BLT and burn my copy of A Day No Pigs Would Die.



*Before you get your panties in a bunch look up the word 'hyperbole' and keep your political rantings to yourself. This is my blog....and I don't care what you think about health care. I was joking!

A High Degree of Jack Assery

Cliches become what they are due to the fact that they are overused. Overused right into the ground. Meaning exists no more. "I cried because I had no shoes until I met a man who had no feet." In the past week, this one has gained some actual meaning.

Saturday night I came downstairs to get a drink of water. I didn't turn the light on. I didn't notice that there was a reusable grocery bag on the stairs. I didn't catch myself after the bag acted as a treadmill and propelled me down the last few steps onto the tile floor. I didn't rejoice when the doctor told me I broke my kneecap.

As I sat at the park bemoaning my fate, I also didn't notice the Iraq vet/amputee sitting right next to me.

Say it with me: Jillian you are a jack ass of the highest order. Oy Vey! Now quit complaining!

Oh My Goodness

I know that I have been posting a lot of video's lately, but I just keep finding super awesome things.

Believe This

I love these kids. Awe-some. I can't even find the words to describe how amazing the teacher is.

Seriously...love them to tiny bits and pieces.

Why Ration Passion?

Every now and then something happens that shakes me from my self centered, pouty, pessimistic natural state of being. This week I have been shaken by the news that an old friend from high school is one of the American climbers lost in an avalanche in China. Granted, we have not kept in touch much as adults, but the impression that he left has stood the test of time. Good lesson on always doing what you love.

I read somewhere that a candle that burns brightly burns quickly and that seems to be the case with all three men. Couldn't have been a nicer or more inspiring guy... Godspeed, wherever you are, Micah.

Huge Loss of Wade, Micah and Jonny in Sichuan Mountains China. from renan ozturk on Vimeo.

Goodnight Moon!

As many of you may well know, I don't sleep. Ever. Prescription medications to remedy this problem are a pretty common occurrence in my life. I don't like it...but I also don't like the sunny side of 3am. I am a self admitted pill popper. Trouble is, they don't really work anymore. So I have been reading up on ye ol' interwebs and trying to come up with a Plan B. You know, just in case Plan Ambien ceases to work completely.

There is an article on MSN today titled, "Finding Dreamland." Sounds promising, no?

No.

This is the first brilliant idea they tossed out,

Turn off your mind
Keep yourself from rehashing a stressful day of worries by focusing your thoughts on something peaceful and non-threatening, says Michael Stevenson, Ph.D., a psychologist and clinical director of the North Valley Sleep Disorders Center in Mission Hills, California. Play some soft, soothing music as you drift off or some environmental noise, such as the sound of a waterfall, waves crashing on a beach, or the sound of rain in a jungle. The only rule: Be sure it's not intrusive or distracting.

OHHHH! I should turn off my mind?! That's great info, thank you. Never occurred to me before. I am about as satisfied with that tidbit as I was when I left the sleep clinic and they said, "Yeah-you never really slept all night. Hmmmmm"

Hmmmm indeed.


(And on an unrelated note, why is 'goodnight' one word but 'good day' and 'good morning' are two?)

The Daily Debate

I am a high school teacher. As such, I find myself caught in many-a-mind bending conversation. The debate for the day?

Do dog's have butt-cracks?

I offered up a resounding NO. And to prove it, I tossed out the following evidence,
along with the reasoning that you can have a hole but not a crack.

I am amazed to report that I am still in the minority. They are so wrong...but so convinced that they aren't. Unreal.

On this day, I am proud to be a teacher.

Queen of Indecision

I don't do change well. I don't like it. I don't thrive on it. I don't thirst and hunger for the excitement of it. I may go as far as to say that I hate it. I'm sure a therapist could get to the bottom of my issues, but I think that a fear of failure (or screwing up) is at the root of it. Perhaps, it is just an issue of dealing with the devil's you know.

As a result, I find myself trapped in a world of indecision. Too many options to screw the pooch and I don't want to be the one to blame when the proverbial crap hits the fan. What if this happens? What if that does? What if I choose wrong and am doomed to a life of misery and misfortune? So...I stay where I am. Not terribly happy but not terribly sad. Just beige.

Indecision...I am your Queen. Feel free to bow and courtesy before me.

I deserve a tiara.

Bottoms Up!

If this isn't reason enough to start drinking, I don't know what is.

Karma's a Cruel Mistress

Let us rewind to a conversation that I had with my friend Naomi shortly before we left for Puerto Rico.

"Do you think I should bring my computer with me? I might get some work done if we have some downtime," Naomi said.

"I don't know. I don't think I would. What if it gets stolen, or broken? I don't think that's a good idea."

She brought it...it got infested with ants and then was baptized by the stupidity of our neighbors. She freaked out that all of her doctoral work was lost. I went back to bed. (In my defense, I was very tired....and maybe in an Ambien haze.) I waited a few days and then reminded her, "Like I said....I wouldn't bring my computer on vacation."

Jump ahead a few weeks. My portfolio for my master's degree is due on Thursday. Two years worth of papers, data, charts and graphs should all be tied up nicely with a pretty little bow. But what do I have?

A virus. Oh- and a bunch of files that say, "Data corrupted. Cannot open," or some such nonsense.

Karma is cruel, indeed.

Desperately Seeking Dash

My lovely friend Heather, who I don't think reads this, posted a poem on her facebook the other day. I read it. I heard it. I felt it.I let it rumble around in my head for a bit. And I may have gotten a bit choked up. Not for any one reason in particular, but rather as a result of the sum of many parts. My dash has not gone the places I expected it would. My dash has been neglected. Sometimes I've been mad at where my dash has gone. As a result, I've treated it poorly, ignored it, infact. Poor Dash. I've let my dash be controlled by so many things that I shouldn't have. I'm sorry. I'll try to make it up to you. Things are looking up, though. As of, May 8th, Dash, you are all mine! I will be done with this masters work, shortly after that I will be done with real work....then it's just me and you. Jill and the Dash......doin it hard core.


The Dash
by Linda Ellis
I read of a man who stood to speak
At the funeral of a friend
He referred to the dates on her tombstone
From the beginning to the end
He noted that first came the date of her birth
And spoke the following date with tears,
But he said what mattered most of all
Was the dash between those years
For that dash represents all the time
That she spent alive on earth.
And now only those who loved her
Know what that little line is worth.
For it matters not how much we own;
The cars, the house, the cash,
What matters is how we live and love
And how we spend our dash.
So think about this long and hard.
Are there things you’d like to change?
For you never know how much time is left,
That can still be rearranged.
If we could just slow down enough
To consider what’s true and real
And always try to understand
The way other people feel.
And be less quick to anger,
And show appreciation more
And love the people in our lives
Like we’ve never loved before.
If we treat each other with respect,
And more often wear a smile
Remembering that this special dash
Might only last a little while.
So, when your eulogy is being read
With your life’s actions to rehash
Would you be proud of the things they say
About how you spent your dash?
©1996 Linda Ellis

Very Serious Plans

But I need some volunteers. This is not a joke.

Don't Call Me Mellow Yellow

Dear Mother Earth,

In light of your day, I just wanted to clear up a few things. I love you. I really do. I love to visit with you in far away lands. I love to swim in your oceans and hike up your mountains. On some level, I might even call it communion.

I traded in my gas guzzling SUV for a jelly-bean of a car, which can only be respectably driven if you are a 20 year old co-ed. I turn off the water when I brush my teeth and I recycle each and every one of the 36 Diet Coke cans I drink on any given day. I'm nothing if not a team player.

However, I have a few things I would like to make clear. I don't think that we are solely responsible for your temperature. You're a woman. Sometimes you're hot. Sometimes you're cold. You get to change your mind just like the rest of us. Do what you need to in order to make yourself more comfortable. Who am I to try and regulate your hot flashes? I'll do my best to turn the air down for you, but ultimately, you're changing. I have every faith in the fact that you will do what you need to get through it. And we will change too, or we will go the way of the Woolly Mammoth. It's a pretty simple equation. I don't think that we can take all of the credit, or the blame, for the changes that you go through.

Also, could you please pass a memo to the dirty hippies, steeped in patchouli and mired about in their own filth? The, "If it's pee, let it be," plan for conservation, is not appropriate for the workplace. It's disgusting and it's rude. No one appreciates those who leave behind their biologic waste, regardless of their noble intentions. One flush is NOT going to change the world. And please, drink a glass of water, for Heaven's sake. Urine should not be neon yellow.

Go green, not insane.
Jillian

My family is growing!

Okay-fine, I'm not knocked up. But there is an expansion in the works. It's not really a growth in the typical, "Go forth and replenish the Earth," kind of way. Seriously, who am I kidding? My sole companion is a fairly neurotic miniature schnauzer. It's more of an expansion along the lines of, "My big giant @ss is busting out of my jeans."

If my calculations are correct, someone may need to contact Maury Povitch on my behalf. I would just like to have a construction crew ready to cut through my bedroom wall and lift me out with a crane if that is what needs to be. I have recognized that there is a problem, but am not quite to the point where I am ready to do anything about it. I don't even have a real explanation for my wild and out of control eating habits as of late. Stress? Boredom? A particularly nasty combination of both?

But really, why are those who manage to procreate the only ones who get to take a pass when it comes to chowing down? Eating for two, my @ss. That's not fair. I am at the forefront of the campaign for becoming a veritable Mormon Nun and I never get an excuse to binge eat? Screw that. (Or don't, depending upon your religious convictions. Mine don't allow for such activities, whadayagunnado?)

Since Monday, I have eaten all of the following. Sometimes cloaked in shame, alone, in my car. Sometimes together with friends in various dining establishments. Either way, know that my jeans are so tight, they are digging into my waist* in a manner that is so painful, only true chubby girls understand. (And if you are a skinny girl, please don't email me to say, "You get it too." No- you don't. And the fact that you claim to is an insult to big girls world wide.)

A) This is where it started.

There is a donut shop next to the place where I take Freddy M.D. to get groomed. It is owned by the nicest couple. Back in the day when I cared that my jeans were getting tight and my arteries were hardening, I would see them at the gym all the time. The irony in that was not lost on me. Anyhow- they make the freaking best chocolate chip rolls.

2) Then, in celebration of stupid STAR testing, a few coworkers and I decided to stop and get dessert.This was quite possibly the best freaking cheesecake I have had in a long, long while. I woke up at 12:30 last night to finish eating it. Under the cover of darkness. Alone. In my kitchen. With no light except for the glow of the open refrigerator door. I am not proud.

iii. I have no explanation for this. I was hungry.

D) Then it got really hot. And I don't know if you have much experience with a room full of sophomores after they have come from P.E., but it really defies description.
I needed a slurpee, or twelve, to quell a heat/stink induced meltdown.

V. This last one was just my humble attempt to stave off rickets for another day. I typically don't eat things that grow, but I'm thirty...I really should have grown out of the Diet Coke and Dorito stage of my life, but I haven't. And I don't see it happening any time soon. This was an attempt at a baby step in the direction of eating like a grown up. In the spirit of full disclosure, I took about two bites, nearly gagged on the blue cheese and ordered the aforementioned cheesecake.

*Update- So after I peed today at lunch, I attempted to pull up my jeans and my poor, overworked belt-loop ripped clean off. I may have reached a new low.