Monday, December 16, 2013

Touching Base

I got the sweetest comment from an anonymous follower the other day:

Awwwww!!!  How sweet is that???  Sorry "Followahh,"  I've really sucked lately at blogging.  I am busy, but still, I could take a few minutes here and there to blast out a few lines to keep me"relevant."  (Stop laughing!)

So what have I been doing that keeps me so dang busy?  Well, it's finals week at my college prep high school.  I don't have to take any finals (thank the sweet sweet lord) but I have to do what teachers do to wrap up a semester and get grades ready.  That is tedious because I have a few students who want to hand stuff in from September to get their grade up.  You know what I say to that?  I say, "HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!  You're HILARious!"  But I am not a total hardass, and if they bombed a test or an essay, I will let them retake it.  It's SCHOOL, they are supposed to be learning and that's part of the process.  Next semester I'm going to make a big sign that says, "Dirodio!  Every Day!"  Dirodio is an acronym for DO IT RIGHT OR DO IT OVER.  I'm only going to give A's, B's and Dirodios.  It's too discouraging to give F's.

I've been killing it at the gym.  If my 40 year old self could look into the future and read that last sentence she would say, "HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!"  and then she'd collapse because she'd be out of breath, and then she'd go have a glass of wine and a Ding Dong.  But I have been killing it at the gym.  I'm stronger, faster, better than I have been EVER.  And the better I get, the better I want to get.  I have some crazy long-term goals that I am not even going to tell you about just in case this is a phase and it never comes to pass, but I will tell you about my shorter term goals:
1.  Lose weight - already lost 20 pounds.  Need to lose about 20 more, all the time keeping in mind that the last time I was at my ultimate goal weight, I got knocked up.
2.  Run in 5ks this summer.  Yeah, that's right, a running race.  No, you shut up.
3.  Lift more weight than an annoyingly strong lady at the gym.  She doesn't know I'm breathing down her neck, but I am.

What have I not been doing?

 I have not been reading anything other than ninth grade essays.  Book club is still fun though.  Until they kick me out for not doing my work.

Oh, and also: cooking, cleaning, parenting, spousing.  And blogging.

Sunday, December 1, 2013

Still Night Crawling

Remember when I told you about Kira's night crawls?  She spent the last several days at my parent's house and I got this text from her at 2:20 AM.

Tuesday, November 26, 2013

Chicken Combs

Kira had a band concert at her school tonight so Mitch and Sam and I went to watch.  They were pretty good, but the most memorable part of the entire outing was how weird my husband is.  After the performance we were in the lobby talking to some parents and friends.  My friend was talking about having to have knee surgery sometime in the future, and another guy that was there was talking about having to have hip surgery.  Okay, whatever, people talking about things they have in common, right?  Here is how the conversation went:

My friend: I was supposed to have surgery last summer but I just couldn't.
Guy: Yeah, I was supposed to have hip surgery but I don't think I've got the time right now to do it.
My friend:  I have been getting these shots that help with the pain a lot.
Guy:  Oh yeah?  Cortisone?
My friend: No, it's some kind of gel and it really works great.

Mitch:  Oh yeah, it's a lubricant made from chicken combs.

Me:  ..........What???????
Mitch:  Yeah, they make a gel from chicken combs. (This said while miming a chicken comb with his hand)
My friend:  ....... I don't want to know where it comes from.
Me:  I don't even know where he gets this stuff.
Mitch:  What?  It's true.  Look it up.
My friend:  Oh yeah?  Do you work in the medical field? (she knows full well he does not)
Mitch:  No.
My friend: ..............
Guy: ..............
Me: ............ (mouth hanging open)

Later in the car:

Me:  Seriously Mitch?  WHERE did you come up with that one?  Chicken combs? That has to be one of the weirder things you have ever said.
Mitch:  Get your phone out and look it up.  I'm serious.
Me:  No, I'm not falling for it.  It's just about the stupidest thing I've ever heard.
Mitch:  Everything I said was true.  They get it mostly from roosters with big combs.  And they have to be tall roosters.
Me: .......????....... what?
Mitch:  Look it up.

So I Googled it.  And found this.

Rooster comb injections may cause reactions for people allergic to chickens or eggs.

Thursday, November 21, 2013

I Beat Jeff (vol. I) <-optimism

I'm getting fit and in shape and I feel pretty good about it.  I am seeing a personal trainer, Jeff, who I adore, but he and the other trainers at the gym I go to are annoyingly fit.  For example, one day the workout was to do 150 wallballs for time.  Wallballs is an activity where you throw a 14 pound medicine ball at a line on a wall.  The line is about 8 feet up, so the process is to squat down low with the ball, then shoot up and throw the ball at the line.  150 times.

It was absolutely exhausting but I didn't want to take too many breaks to catch my breath because it was being timed and I wanted to beat all my peers. (I'm suddenly competitive.) I finished at right around twelve and a half minutes and was extremely proud of myself. Jeff was proud of me too. I thought I was the greatest. That is until I learned that Jeff and another trainer, Brendan, did the same activity; except after the 150 wallballs, they did a bunch of burpees, and then 150 more wallballs. Jeff did the first set of 150 wallballs in five minutes. Yeah, that's right, five minutes. I fought and scrounged and almost threw up doing it in twelve minutes, and he blasted it out in five.

My goal lately has been to do something, anything, better than Jeff.  It's not happening. I saw him do a standing ab rollout one day, so that is the current goal I am working on and I am getting closer. Just when I thought I was hot stuff, I saw him doing one-armed ab rollouts. If you are not familiar with ab rollouts, let me just tell you, a person has to be freakishly strong to do it with one arm. Freak-ish-ly.

I want to be that strong.

This morning Jeff was talking to my friend Rae Ann and me about his and Brendan's latest feat of strength. They had a contest to see who could squat down and hold it the longest.  Jeff said he beat Brendan and could do it for 8 minutes.

"I really have to poop."

We said big whoop. So what? Who can't squat?  So he challenged us to go ahead and try it. We did. I got nine minutes and quit because, why go on? That was all I needed to beat Jeff. Rae Ann went to 12 minutes and then only quit because she had to go to work. I still don't see what's so hard about squatting for time. The most challenging thing about it is that it really "engages the bowels" (if you know what I mean), but otherwise, what's the big deal? I'll tell you what the big deal is:

I beat Jeff. 

Monday, November 18, 2013

Parenting 101

I have the best husband in the world.  Kira is thirteen and is socially retarded. Harsh words? Maybe, but if the shoe fits...  In just the past two weeks she has had a long texting conversation with a strange man who accidentally texted the wrong number; AND she sent aerial photos of our house to someone online who said they are moving in next to us. When we FREAKED about that she said that we were overreacting because she knows who it is. We asked who and she told us a screen name. She doesn't know who it is in real life.  Yeah, I see you shaking your head. We are still shaking our heads about that one.

So we gave her the expected lecture but Mitch has quietly taken it upon himself to be with her every second she isn't at school which means he comes home from work early to be here with her so he will be able to intercept the internet predators she has cluelessly lured directly to our home. Just imagine a "To Catch A Predator" type scenario, but instead of meeting Chris Hansen and his smug face, and having a humiliating television interview and an arrest; they would instead be met by a raging dad-monster and get disemboweled and die a horrifying death. The nice thing for me is that while he is home waiting to murder internet predators, he fills his time cooking and cleaning which I appreciate almost as much as keeping our offspring safe.

The other day Mitch had to run some errands so Kira had to go with him. They were sitting somewhere waiting and he said he had a good look at her and thinks she is turning in to a beautiful young lady. While he was looking at her lovingly, probably with the song "Daddy's Little Girl" running through his head, wondering where the time has gone, she looked at him and said, "Hey Dad, mouth tastes weird."

We have a couple long years ahead of us. 

Thursday, November 14, 2013


Update!  I got a clean bill of health so I suppose my stupid uterus can stick around for a while longer.

Why is it that we (as a society, not me or you specifically) have been able to perform seemingly miraculous tasks in the field of medicine like organ transplants and mapping the human genome, but women's reproductive health is still a fricking mystery?  I mean, the ovaries and uterus lie inches below the surface of the skin in the lower abdomen, yet they might as well be disembodied and off in the universe somewhere based on how much we know about what is going on in our particular ovaries/uteruses (uteri?) at any given moment.  That just seems wrong.  Is it because women's health is still not a priority?  I can hardly believe that because more than half of us are women, and in the past few years almost all of the medical professionals I have dealt with are women. But if that's not the reason, what is?  It's something.

The reason I am thinking about this is because YET AGAIN I am having issues with those particular woman parts. This isn't the first time.  The first time was when I was in college and had what turned out to be a benign tumor on my cervix.  The first doctor that looked at it judgementally diagnosed me with genital warts and applied some kind of acid. What?  No!  Yes.  It was horrifying.  So I went to an actual gynecologist who did a test other than a peek and an assumption, and figured out that it was in fact a tumor, not warts, and needed to be cut out and biopsied.

The second time was when I was pregnant and during an exam a doctor discovered pre-cancerous abnormal growths on my cervix.  They had to be cut out.  While I was pregnant.  It was stressful.  Not only that, it was painful.  And it was ridiculous because the amount of gauze that can be hidden away in a pregnant woman is astonishing.  I was like a clown pulling out handkerchiefs at a horrific children's birthday party.

The third time I was diagnosed with "stage 0 cervical carcinoma."  Well?  Is it cancer or is it stage 0 because stage 0 would seem to indicate there is no cancer, yet the word carcinoma would suggest there is.  Again, it had to be cut out.  This time I suggested that maybe they just cut out the whole deal because I had already had my babies and I didn't need those parts anymore, and if they were going to just exist to cause me problems, why keep them?  I was told no, that was too radical and sent on my way.

This time after experiencing some unpleasant symptoms that I will spare you the details of, I went in to the doctor, was examined, was sent for an ultrasound and was told to wait for the doctor to call.  That's what I'm doing right now.  Waiting.  I want this not to happen again.  I want a partial hysterectomy.  I have researched it and I know the risks and rewards of it.  I get that it's a major medical procedure, but to me it seems like preventative medicine.  I don't WANT to get cancer and by all indications, that seems like the path I've been heading down - getting it, catching it early, then cutting out chunks.  I would like to avoid the anxiety, stress and worry associated with having symptoms every few years, but in order to really be heard, it seems like I may have to actually become hysterical, hence proving the need for a hysterectomy.  I've been practicing and I'm getting pretty good at it.  

Saturday, November 9, 2013

Parkour, Celebs, Day-drinking, and Three-hole potties: My trip to DC

I'm in a dumb phase lately.  I can hardly think a coherent thought.  Tonight I sat next to a man I work with every single day and I could not for the life of me remember his name.  Then I had to get money from the ATM and I couldn't remember my pin number.  Jesus, what is happening to me?  And the dumbest thing I've done is totally forgetting to write about my trip to DC with my sisters!!!

We went for a long weekend because Amy was going to run in the Marine Marathon, but she got a deferment for a year because she didn't exactly train in any way whatsoever.  Oh well, we decided to go to DC anyway and it was FUN.

The first night we checked into our hotel and got settled, then went for a walk.  Our hotel was right downtown, kind of by the white house, so we walked down there to see it.  It was lit up pink for breast cancer month.

Then we were walking around and Beth was talking about how she is really into Parkour lately.  You know, Parkour?  Like this:

Amy and I didn't quite believe her and told her to prove it.  She took on the challenge and jumped off a one foot step, and then leap-frogged this barrier-thing which would have been really cool if she didn't stub her crotch and fall down.  If the barrier was three inches shorter, it might have been impressive.  So then I tried to jump over a fire-hydrant but forgot I was wearing a skort and almost killed myself.  We are lucky we came back from Washington with all our teeth.  Here's Amy Parkouring her ass all over the place.

The next day Amy and I went for a run.  No, you shut up.  I can run!  We ran for about 23 miles all over the Mall area.

 Amy says it absolutely was not 23 miles but I don't know how she knows it wasn't because we didn't map it out or anything. It was probably pretty close to 23.  

We went to the Holocaust Museum.  Depressing.  They have a gift shop in the lobby so you can shop for key chains and coffee mugs that say "We Shall Never Forget" all over it.  There was even a little stuffed bear in a trench coat who was wearing a little tag that said, "I'm a refugee."  It was a bit much.  Amy thinks that a bar would do better business than a gift shop because after going through and seeing all the horrors that was the Holocaust, a person really needs a good stiff drink.

So then we went to have a good stiff drink, which leads me to the day-drinking portion of our trip.  We did a lot of that.  That's what vacations are for, right?  At one bar we sat next to a guy that told us that Chris Brown of beating-the-shit-out-of-Rhianna fame was arrested at the W Hotel right across the street from us. Turned out to be true.  Some guy photo-bombed a picture Brown was in so he ran after the guy and mercilessly beat him.  Seems like an appropriate response.  We also went to the W Hotel (fancy schmancy) to have a drink in the bar that is on the roof.  It was nice but every table had a reserved sign on it and nobody came to sit at them.  I got a free beer.

Saturday we went to MOUNT VERNON!  We took a boat from DC up the Potomac to the estate.

Amy and Kristen on the boat to Mount Vernon.  They can
barely contain their excitement.

 Unfortunately we only got four hours to tour the place.  I thought it was kind of a rush, but nobody else did.  You can see barely anything in four hours.  We hit the high points:  The house, museum, tomb, wharf-area.

This guy took us through a hay-bale maze.  What's the point of a hay-bale maze, you ask?  I don't know.  You can see right over it and figure out your path.  Easy.  This guy said to shut our eyes and go through conga style.  It was weird.

Then I saw one of my favorite Mount Vernon attractions:

The three-hole outhouse.  Amy asked me once if I could meet George Washington and talk to him, but only if we were both using the three-hole outhouse, would I do it?  Probably.

The next day was the marathon so we went to watch the runners.  It was a beautiful day and it was fun to watch the marathon.  The people at the front of the pack run fast the whole time.  I mean FAST.  It's not a sprint, j'all!

We met some cool people while we were there.  We saw Senator Franken at the airport and said hello to him.  We met a retired Capitol Police guy at a diner one morning and got him talking about senators who are all bluster in public and who cry in the elevator at the end of the day.  And we met Carlos Arredondo, an activist who helped save people after the Boston bombing.  I recognized him from a picture and we talked with him for a while.  He is a fantastically nice person.  I was really happy we got to meet him and I got to take a picture with him and an ice-cream sandwich.

The last day we were there we walked around for miles and miles and miles.  We went to the Smithsonian Portrait Gallery too.

Amy took this picture of me nerding it up in front of a statue of George Washington surrendering his commission after the Revolutionary War.  He was dreamy.

I also got this really cool photo of the Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial.  Nobody was there right then because the marathon was going on and everyone was cheering on the runners.

But before I got that good picture, I got this one:

This lady literally ran into the frame at the last second.  I wish I knew who she was so I could send her the picture.  

Tuesday, November 5, 2013

Kira in the Car

"This weird guy keeps texting me so I told him I was from Canada so now I have to think of a city in Nome to tell him I'm from."

SO many disappointments for a parent packed in to one short sentence.

Friday, November 1, 2013


I've been going to a gym with a personal trainer for five months and I love it, LOVE IT.  I have met so many great people and I got my three best friends to join me, so now working-out is like going to a party.  AND I got measurements taken for the second time since I started and I have made fabulous progress!  I've lost 9.75 inches off various places on my bod, and have lost 3% body fat.  I can't tell you how happy that makes me.

However, I think that old cliche about dumb jocks might be true.  I'm getting fitter and happier, but I think at the same time I am getting dumber.  For instance, the other day we all did a rowing test to find out our "race pace."  We did 2000 meters as fast as we possibly could and that is our race pace.  Now when we do rowing workouts we gauge how fast we go according to our individual race paces.  On the machine there is a monitor that tells you how fast you are doing a 500 meter race, so 1/4 the time you would do a 2000 at race pace, right?  Are you getting this?  So anyway, here is a conversation between my friend Rae Ann, me and our trainer, Jeff:

Rae:  How fast should I be going?
Me:  Race pace.
Rae:  What's my race pace?
Me:  1/4 as fast as your time you got on the 2000.
Rae:  It was 9:43.
Me:  Okay, 9:43 divided by 4.
Rae:  .....(crickets)
Me: .....(tumbleweeds)
Jeff:  What are you guys doing, get started.
Rae:  I can't figure out my race pace.
Jeff:  It's 1/4 as fast as your 2000 time.
Rae:  ......(crickets)
Me:  ........(tumbleweeds)
Jeff:........ (haunting lonely wind)
Rae:  Well?
Jeff:  Just go at a 2:20 pace!

(9:43 / 4 = 2:36)

And earlier the same day the three of us talked about a series of box step-ups we did the day before.  We did 20 step-ups on the right leg, then 20 on the left leg, then 19 on the right, 19 on the left, 18 right, 18 left and so on and so on down to 10.

Rae:  How many step-ups do you think we did altogether?
Me:  20 + 20 + 19 + 19..... etc.
Rae:  I know how to figure it out, dummy, but what is the answer?
Me:  I don't know.... probably about 900.
Jeff:  It was not 900!  Oh my god!
Me:  Well then how much was it?
Jeff:  (crickets)  I don't know.  It's probably a hundred and some.

(It's 330.)

So then I got measured and one of the parts that gets measured is my bicep.  This is supposed to be measured with your arm down and relaxed, but I don't want to know how big my arm is relaxed, I want to know how huge my pipe is fully flexed.  After telling me to put my arm down and stop flexing so he could just get the measurement already, Jeff took the standard, boring measurement of my arm relaxed and then conceded, "Okay fine, let's measure it flexed."  It increased by 3/4 of an inch from 11.25 to 12,  and I was disappointed.  Jeff said, "What did you expect?"  I said, "18."  and he said, "That would look RIDICULOUS," and he spaced the measuring tape out to the circumference of 18 inches and showed me how big my arm would be if it did flex to 18 inches.

I don't think it would look ridiculous, Jeff, I think it would look awesome.

Rae and Jeff and I might not be advanced math whizzes (adding, dividing, estimating = advanced math), but we look amazing.


I went to the gym today and Jeff said that although he thought this post was funny, I had my calculations wrong.  "Yeah, right!"  I said!  It's simple math!  When I'm sitting down with a calculator I think I can do simple math, JEFF.  He said, "You calculated Rae Ann's time as if it was on a scale of 100, but minutes and seconds are on a scale of 60 (idiot).  You figured 9:43 as if it was 943/4, not 9 MINUTES and 43 SECONDS divided by 4." Which is ...

....Okay, I'm sitting here with my iPad fully intending to give Jeff his redemption and when I figure 9 minutes divided by 4 I get 2:25, but I don't think that is right.  Why can't I do this?  ...OHHHHHH, I get it, it's two and a quarter minutes, which is 2:15.  Got it.  Stupid fractions.  And 43 seconds divided by 4 is ... just a minute, must grab the calculator because I don't trust myself to do simple division... 10.75.  So Rae Ann's race pace (if in fact her 2000 time was 9:43 which Jeff also thinks is WRONG) is 2:25.  So he said he was only 4 seconds off.  But you weren't!  You were 5 seconds off!  HA!  IN YOUR FACE!  He said her time was 9:39.  If in fact that is true, her pace would be 2:24 and Jeff would then be...... 4 seconds off.  Dammit.

So then I said, "Okay, you may have been right(ish) about the seconds/minutes thing, but you totally blew it on the number of step-ups we did!"  All he said (smugly) was "...PER ...LEG."  330 divided by two .... just a sec... calculator... is 165.  Shit.  He was right about that too.  Goddamn it.

So there, I gave Jeff his stupid redemption, but he should know you can't believe everything you read on the internet, it's full of blogs written by total morons.  (Who's the dummy now, nerd?)

In other, totally unrelated news:  I'm teaching CALCULUS next semester!!!!  Yay!

Wednesday, October 23, 2013

Why does my anxiety have to come in the form of unrelenting diarrhea?

This might be the last post I ever write because I feel like I'm about to DIE.  Not die so much, that might be overstating, but I feel like I could have anxiety induced diarrhea for about three hours.  Not quite so glamorous as dying beautifully with my hand on my forehead and a forlorn feminine moan.

Tomorrow I am going on a much-anticipated trip to Washington DC with my two wonderful sisters, and because I've been so busy with work and life in general; I forgot that I am getting worse and worse when it comes to taking off and landing in planes.  I am right this very moment at the public library with one of my classes (have I mentioned that I LOVE MY JOB) and I got an email from Delta telling me, "It's time to check in!" and almost immediately my stomach rumbled and I remembered, "Oh yeah, I hate flying."

Actually I don't mind the flying, it's only the two minutes it takes to get off the ground, and the ten minutes it takes to land.  On one of my recent trips we flew through some bad weather on the descent to the airport and did a free fall for what felt like two miles.  When we were exiting the plane I saw the pilot and he looked all sweaty and nervous.  Holy crap.  And a few months ago I saw the movie Flight with Denzel Washington. In it he is a drunken pilot and the plane breaks in mid-air and he has to do some quick, alcohol-induced thinking and fly the plane UPSIDE DOWN in order to land.  I think I would rather just die.  And won't it be ironic now if I do.  No, that's not irony, stupid.  

Wednesday, October 16, 2013

The Mystery

I started the day off laughing my head off because of one of my coworkers.  I saw her in the lobby shooing kids up the elevator to school and I stopped to chat with her.  Let me first say that she is a beautiful woman; youthful, in shape, open, and just generally a very positive person to be around which is why this conversation was so weird and funny. Here is our exchange:

Me:  Good morning!  How are you today?
Her:  Hi!  Better than I was yesterday.
Me:  Oh?  Why is that?
Her:  When you're 51 you never know what your day will be like.
Me:  (laughing)
Her:  I'm not kidding.  It's worse than you think.
Me:  Well, I guess that is something I have to look forward to.
Her:  It's worse than pregnancy.
Me:  (no longer laughing)  .... oh.  I hated pregnancy.
Her:  Yeah, it's worse than that.  Someone should tell you the truth.  It's worse than you think.
Me:  Shit.

I still don't know exactly what we were talking about, but I'm really not looking forward to it.  

Monday, October 7, 2013


I got hit on today.  I was putting money in a parking meter and there were a couple guys sitting at an outside table at a sports bar.  I dropped my keys and one of them said, "Hey lady, you dropped your keys."

Oh yeah.... I've still got it.

Just kidding.  Actually that really happened but that's not the end of the story.  After I picked up my keys he said, "Hey bright eyes, how about getting a drink with us?"  I looked behind me because he couldn't have meant me in my cardigan sweater, sensible shoes, and the 2013 version of a station wagon, could he?  I looked behind me and then back and he said, "Yeah you!"  I said, "Are you buying?"  He said, "Yeah, Come on, I'll buy you a drink!" I said, "Thanks, but no thanks, I'm still on the clock" (it was right after school and I was about to go supervise an after-school group).  And then he said, "......Bitch."  Like the fact that I was still working was some comment on the fact that he was at a bar at 3:30 on a Monday.

It was the first time I've been hit on in about a decade.  It was a stormy, exciting, passionate 30 second relationship. But ultimately we were no good for each other: him always wanting to throw caution to the wind and have fun, and me always telling him to get off his ass and get a job.

Friday, October 4, 2013

Trees are bastards

Remember this post when I wrote that I got maimed by a tree while mowing the lawn?  Well, I got a comment on that post from someone named "Tree Nursery," who I strongly suspect is a tree.  

I am so glad you "cherished" my horrible story of abuse-by-tree, you sick bastard.  I've got two words for you:  FIRE WOOD.

Wednesday, October 2, 2013

Chivalry is not dead

I got an email from Mitch today:

Referring to his odd animosity for baboons.

Here's the video:

One less thing to worry about because my chivalrous husband WOULD DESTROY THAT BABOON. 

Saturday, September 28, 2013

"Can I have your fat?"

I've been losing weight lately, and I haven't even been trying.  I think that all the working out at the gym with a trainer is finally paying off.  If I had to guess, I would say that I'm increasing my lean body mass enough that it is having a positive effect on my metabolism.  Finally!  I went to the gym this morning and I am getting very strong.  I was able to "skin the cat" on the hanging rings, and I was able to jump up to a pull-up position and hold it, while holding my legs out perpendicular to my body.  And I can do push-ups.  Regular push-ups.

I have come to accept the fact that I will have to continue with a pretty regimented work-out routine because when it comes to food, I am hopeless.  My aunt and I have discussed the fact that we have both asked the question, "Can I have your fat?" to people we have eaten dinner with who for some unfathomable reason don't like the fatty edge of pork chops or steak.  We decided that anyone who has uttered the phrase, "Can I have your fat?" better face the fact that they will always have to be super active if they don't want to balloon up.

Also I was reading some of my old blog posts and I came across a telling old gem.  I was writing about how I found the story in the song "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald" disturbing, but not because they all died in a shipwreck, but because of their food situation:

The dawn came late and the breakfast had to wait
When the Gales of November came slashin'.

They had to wait for breakfast because of the terrifying storm.  Ugh, I hate waiting for breakfast, and then...

When suppertime came, the old cook came on deck sayin'.
Fellas, it's too rough to feed ya.
At Seven P.M. a main hatchway caved in, he said
Fellas, it's been good t'know ya

Well?  Did they eat lunch?  That cook is a real downer.  Like it's not bad enough to be in a cold, scary storm, but for the cook to refuse to feed you supper because of it?  Especially after not serving breakfast? That sucks!  And then at seven p.m., when the main hatchway caved in, I bet everyone was really depressed and scared (and hungry) and that old bastard rubbed it in by saying, "Fellas, it's been good t'know ya."  Way to think positive, Old Cook!

Tuesday, September 24, 2013

It's my birthday soon! (I think), I'll be 43! (I suspect) Updated with a new message from DAD!

It's that time of year again:  my birthday.  Today isn't actually my birthday but I am pretty sure it's happening sometime soon. I am not quite positive how old I am going to be either.  If you are new to the blog you are probably thinking, "Wow, this lady is really an idiot," and although that may be true, it is not my fault I don't know how old I am or when my real birthday is.

When I was a teenager I put together these facts: 1) My parents met in January of 1969.  2) They got married in June of 1969, a mere six months after they met.  3) My mother wore an empire waist wedding dress,

and 4) I was born in September...... of 1970, so they say.  I innocently questioned if their wedding was of the shotgun variety those many years ago and they both were defensive about it.  A bit overly defensive, if you ask me.  So I have long suspected that I am actually a year older than they tell me I am.

Two years ago around my birthday I asked again if I was born in 1969 or 1970 (I figure they will slip up and the truth will come out eventually), and this is what my dad told me in an email:

"Here's what I remember about your birthday. In September 1970-do the freaking math will you!........ (see? defensive. Too defensive??? You decide.) You were born in a Catholic hospital in St. Cloud with nuns in attendance. Mom was in labor for over 24 hours and she passed out between labor pains. At one point she told the cute little red-headed nurse she wanted to go home. The nurse looked at me and said, "Do you want to take her home Mr. Lindahl?" I didn't.  You finally popped out in your own good time and all was well except we missed some insurance deadline for coverage by an hour or two so the good old nuns changed the dates of your birth to get us the coverage we needed. You ended up costing us not much. Whew! You may have been born on the 30th of September but it was in 1970 NOT 1969. Sometimes you acted like a little bastard but you actually are not one. Happy birthday and legit or not, I love you! Dad"
I totally did not expect that I had the wrong day for the first 41 years of my life, but at least I was only one day off.   And then several days ago I got this:

I think my dad is gaslighting me.  Or my birthday is actually September 17.

My parents are coming to visit me this weekend and take me out for a nice birthday dinner.  I can't wait for this year's birthday bombshell.  What could it be this time?  I'm adopted?  I absorbed my identical twin in the womb?  I was born a boy?  Who knows?!

UPDATE:  I just got this from my dad.  At this point I don't think he is trying to drive me nuts.  I think he is losing his marbles.  Time for the home!
Errrrr, BTW, I've been thinking lately and you may actually  be 45 on Sunday, not 44 or 43. Sorry, it's all just a little fuzzy about dates and all back then. You know college kids in those days. It was the 60's you know. Oh well, who really cares how old you actually are anyway. See you this weekend. Dad
It won't be so bad, Dad, you could maybe be the prom king! (that's an optimistic maybe)

Monday, September 23, 2013

Smart kids

I am teaching high school English this year for the first time in a very long time.  In the recent past I have mostly been teaching people with remedial reading skills.  I was very excited to be able to finally get back to teaching people who already know how to read well so we could get past the fundamentals and move forward with the content and themes of selections of reading.  However, I think I may be in over my head. For four of my five classes I'm totally fine.  I'm teaching the eight parts of speech and literary elements and have a plan for how to build on those things to get them to read more complex things, and eventually write somethings they can be proud of.  But the last of my classes is Honors English.  This is a class of 9th an 10th graders that are miles, MILES, above their peers academically.  And after correcting their first essay test, I suspect that a few of them are miles above me as well.  (Not really, but only because I have 30 years of experience on them.)

Just to give you an idea of how smart they really are:  I was correcting one test and came across a word I hadn't heard.  I was about to circle it but then something in me stopped myself and I looked it up.  It is a word and he used it perfectly in context.  I just didn't know it.  I almost made a total ass of myself.   As I was reading through one of the essays, I said, "Unbelievable" under my breath and Mitch asked me what I thought was so unbelievable.  I read him the first several paragraphs of one of the essays.  Mitch said, "Ha! Google the first sentence of the paragraph and I bet it will pop up.  That kid copied that from a college paper!"  But I know they didn't copy their essays from the internet because this was an essay test and they didn't know what the question would be until they came to class, and then they wrote their answers RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME.

I find it thrilling that there are such smart kids in the world and that I get to spend some time with them this year.  I think I forgot that there must be an equal and opposite to the low kids I've been working with for years.  However, I have to wonder if I am the best thinker for them to learn from.  Just yesterday I ate more beets than I cared to eat just so my pee would turn red.*  I will have to bring my game up considerably for these kids and that might be kind of fun.  If I can do it.

*it worked, and it was cool.

Saturday, September 21, 2013

I got beat up by a tree

I mowed the lawn today for the first time in weeks.  We haven't been able to mow for weeks and weeks because we haven't had a day without rain.  Not that it's been raining a lot, but lately every time that I thought, "Hey, I should mow the lawn." it would then rain really hard for five minutes.  Long enough to get everything soaked and make me say, "Screw this."  The grass was loooooooong.

I was on the tractor, mowing under a stupid tree that has really low branches. I was ducking down so as not to get beheaded, when the tree literally grabbed my hood and tried to strangle me.  I couldn't stop the tractor because I was leaning over on the wrong side.  The tractor kept going, but my hood dragged me back and as I was being ripped off the mower, the tree branch scraped along my face and a particularly hard branch punched me solidly in the shoulder.  My face hurt so bad that I was sure I was bleeding profusely, but I wasn't.  I have a thin welt and scrape that runs from the left side of my mouth to my ear.  Like the Joker. They call it a "Glasgow Smile."  Really attractive.  Thanks a lot, tree. That looks weird, but my shoulder is KILLING me.  It hurts to even touch the skin.  If I knew how, or dared to use one, I would get a chainsaw and cut that stupid tree down.  

Sunday, September 15, 2013


I am a mother with a full-time job (still celebrating that), two teenagers, and a house.  When I started working I thought to myself, "Hey, why should I spend every one of my weekends cleaning up the house and doing shitloads of laundry?  There are two nearly grown people who live with us who have lots of time to kill. They can help.  Last year I made a daily chore list and one of them would do half one day and then they'd switch and do the other half the next day.  Well, it became kind of a competition to see who could leave a bigger mess for the other the following day.

For example, Kira would have dishes one day and she'd do a half-assed job of doing the dinner dishes, putting the plates and silverware in the dishwasher and not starting it even though it was jam-packed, but then "soaking" the cooking pans and "forgetting" anything left on the stove.  So the next day Sam would have the dishes and he would start the dishwasher, but then he would have to "soak" all of that day's dishes because they couldn't fit into the dishwasher.  Meanwhile, on Kira's kitchen day, Sam's chore would be to do the laundry.  If you do a load of laundry a day, it doesn't pile up and isn't that hard to keep up with.  Well, he would throw one load in the washer, and then MAYBE put that load in the dryer, but he couldn't be bothered to turn the dryer dial far enough so it goes long enough to actually dry a load of clothes, so when the dryer stops they are still damp, but he brings them up anyway to fold, but then doesn't fold them.  So he leaves a load of wet clothes in the washer, a load of damp clothes in the dryer, and a load of too-damp clothes in a heap on the couch.  The reason he has three loads is because when Kira had laundry day she "forgot" to do it.  And so on and so on and so on.

So this year I thought I would get creative and make them do one set of chores for an entire week and then switch over on Sunday.  I made charts:

I hang them on the fridge with a hanging pencil, like at the bank, and the kids have to check off what they do when they do it.  I thought it was INGENIOUS.  I could hardly wait to show Mitch.  I envisioned us high-fiving and celebrating my super-parenting with a gin and tonic.   When I finally got to show him he looked at me with pity, and said, "You know that they are never going to let you live this down.  This is what you will be remembered for."

Sure enough, when Sam got home and I told him all about the new system, he looked at me with a smirk on his face like I was kidding.  I AM NOT KIDDING!  I DON'T WANT TO HAVE TO DO THIS SHIT!  He said, "Okay, it's a good idea, I guess.  I'll get started.  Let's see, first thing on my list is to empty the dishwasher.  But look, Mom, it's empty so should I cross it off?  I can't cross it off because I haven't done it.  But if I don't do that chore can I move on to the next one?  What if I don't have all my checks?  Will I lose credit?"  and so on.  And then later he called down the stairs to me, "Hey Mom!  Are you sure I can't give the bird dirty water?  I really feel like I should give the bird dirty water, but the list specifically says 'clean water is important.'  So what should I do?"

But you know what?  Every stupidly specific thing I put on that list is on there because they have done something stupid to require the specificity.  They will say they cleaned the bird cage and then I look and her water is almost gone and full of bird shit.  That's not done right.  And when I call them on their shitty work they say, "Oh.  I forgot."  Really?  I FORGOT?

The chore lists aren't working as well as I had hoped.  Right now as I'm typing this I am looking at a sink full of dishes, shoes and school bags crowding the back door, and laundry in various stages all over the living room.   So I will throw this out there to the internet:  How do you get your teenagers to be actually helpful and productive without driving yourself nuts?  Anyone know?  .................Anyone?  

Wednesday, September 11, 2013

Power Bones

When I was at the gym yesterday my trainer was trying to get me to have good form doing "power cleans."

(This is a power clean)

I don't like to have the bar land on my shoulders like that because it feels like it is going to break both my collar bones, and then I'd have to walk around with both my arms in slings for about three months.  My trainer assures me that the bar will not break my collar bones and with more practice of letting a huge, heavy weight bar pound repeatedly on my shoulder bones, I will develop "Power Bones."  I said, "...what???" and he said, "You know, power bones, like these," and he pulled his collar down and showed me his power bones.  They look dense and kind of stick out, like they are mostly scar tissue.  I said, "But I don't want power bones..."  and he looked at me like I was nuts.  Like, who wouldn't want power bones???  I don't want power bones.  Do you want power bones?  

Sunday, September 8, 2013

Kira in the Car

"Mom, do penguins have knees?"

I don't know why, but this made me laugh and laugh.  So I looked it up.  LOTS of people wonder this same thing.  I even came across a blog post that answers that very question, complete with a picture of a penguin skeleton.

See the knees?  No?  How about now?

Yeah, there they are, but you can't see them on penguins because they are up inside their bodies.  Can you imagine?  

Tuesday, September 3, 2013

The Story

Okay, yesterday I told you about the daily torture my newly teenaged daughter puts me through.  In her own special way she lets me know that I HAVE NO CONTROL OVER HER.  I have no control over her and it scares the crap out of me.

Yesterday as I was enjoying a Breaking Bad marathon while lounging on my bed she came in and said, "What are you doing?  Huh Friend?  What are you doing?  Let's do something together," and she climbed behind me and sort of sat me on her lap and held my arms down and petted me like a dog while talking to me in a southern accent and calling me her friend.  I couldn't move.  I was immobilized by the weirdness and her unbelievable physical strength.  I called Mitch to help me.  He came in and laughed.  Thanks for nothing Mitch!  Then he pushed her off of me (and it wasn't easy, I think I may have been overestimating his toughness for YEARS) and he held her down and told me to run.  All the while he was laughing because she was still talking in the southern accent and calling me "friend."

I ran.  She got away from him (I think he let her go) and caught me right outside her room and tussled me in and pulled me onto her lap on her bed and started holding my head and petting me again and calling me her friend.  It was so ridiculous and silly that I was beyond words.  Mitch came in and he was just as flabbergasted as me. Why is she like this?  We were both laughing because of the ridiculousness of the whole situation.  Mitch pulled her off the bed but then she was on the floor.  Without missing a beat she crabwalked backwards toward the door.  It was so creepy.  There is a very short little corridor just inside her bedroom door.  She was blocking the door.  Mitch looked at me and said, "Uh oh," and then Kira very gently shut the door, leaned her back against it, propped her arms and legs against the walls and said, "Well, Friends, here we are."  We were trapped.  We tried to each take a limb and drag her away from the door, but with whatever two limbs we could NOT grab, she would prop herself into the little corridor with the other two and she was IMPOSSIBLE to move.  We thought we might have to pop the screen out of the window and escape that way.  Every time we tried to be stern and parental with her, she would make us laugh.

Eventually Mitch said, "Okay, that's it." and he forced a foot between her and the door and then he sort of oozed down the door and displaced her enough to open the door.  It was horrifying to witness.  How can he make his body do that?  How did he KNOW he could make his body do that?  We escaped.  Finally.

So she is not only an unpredictable, weird, funny teenager who is out of our control, but now she is STRONGER THAN US AND KNOWS IT.  Help us.  Someone help us.

Monday, September 2, 2013

The Set Up

I knew that when Sam was little that he was easier to handle than 99% of kids and that I was lucky.  I knew that the chances of having two easy kids wasn't very likely, but I went ahead and risked it anyway and had another baby.  I knew when I was told it was a girl that I would possibly encounter some conflict when she got to her teens.  But I had no idea.

She tortures me.  The other day we were all in the car and she started narrating everything that was going on in the deep voice that movie announcers use.  You know, the guy who says, "IN A WORLD...." and then goes on to tell about a boring movie in a melodramtic way?  Yeah, she was doing that.  But she was just copying everything we were saying.  For instance, I would say, "Kira stop doing that!" and she would say, (in the deep voice), "MOM WANTS ME TO STOP DOING THIS."  Sam would say, "Kira, seriously, it's really annoying."  and she would say, "SAM SERIOUSLY THINKS THIS IS ANNOYING."  It was funny at first, then it was annoying, then it was really annoying, and then it got ridiculous, and then it got funny again. Eventually we all had to stop talking so she wouldn't have anything to narrate, but then she started narrating the songs on the radio.  She was narrating that song by Kelly Clarkson, Stronger, and I was just trying to get home.  We were close. I was flooring it.  Just a few more miles.

Kelly Clarkson singing:  What doesn't kill you makes you stronger...

Kira in the movie voice:  WHAT DOESN'T KILL HER MAKES HER STRONGER...

Kelly Clarkson: Stand a little taller...


Kelly Clarkson: Just me, myself, and I...


And then I totally lost it and almost had to pull over because I was laughing so hard I was actually in pain.  I had tears streaming from my eyes and I could hardly breathe.  It wasn't that funny!  Why was I laughing that hard?  I think she just wore me down and made me crack.  Up to that point it was just irritating and kind of funny.  All she was doing was narrating whatever anyone else said, but for some reason, converting the pronouns of "me, myself, and I" to "her, herself, and her" in that ridiculous voice just made me lose it.  It was an uncomfortable, totally out of control feeling and I didn't like it.

This isn't even the story I meant to tell here.  This was just the set-up to let you know what I go through on a day to day basis.  The real story is so so so much worse.  But this post is already long enough so you'll just have to wait and read it tomorrow.

Friday, August 30, 2013

Cute Bunny with a cart full of carrots EEEEEE!

I've been really busy lately working at my new job, getting ready for the students to start next week.  It's a lot of work, you guys.  It is a LOT of work, so I don't know how good I am going to be about updating for awhile.  Just know this:  My new job is fantastic so far, but just when I thought it was too good to be true, I found out the school is haunted.  I wrote that as a status update on Facebook and one of my friends wrote, "Always new challenges, right?"  I LOLed.  So since I don't plan on being a very good blogger, I've put a cute picture for you to see when you click over to see if I've updated.  No, I haven't updated, but hey, there's a cute bunny to look at, right?

Sunday, August 25, 2013

Red Flags

I got a new job.  I told you last week about my dilemma with the job I accepted at the middle school, which is different than the middle school I worked at last year, but in the same district.  I was offered the position of teaching what I did last year with the addition of one class to get me up to full time.  I was a little nervous because I've heard terrible, TERRIBLE things about this particular school.  Apparently they had an awful principal for years and staff moral was as low as low can be.  But this year they got a new principal!  The school is in a gorgeous new building!  Things will be fine!  Right?

One of the first red flags was before I even went to the school.  I printed out the staff list.  It lists who works there, what they do, and their phone numbers.  About half the staff is for special needs students; like special education teachers, emotional and behavioral specialists, social workers, psychologists etc etc. Normally in any public school situation, at most 20% of the students have special needs. What is with this one?   Red flag.

Another red flag is when I went there the first few times.  I did not have a classroom, or even a desk, and I was not scheduled to teach the two classes I agreed to.  I was scheduled to teach four classes, one of which included a class teaching kids who have managed to get to middle school and are still functionally illiterate.
Some people are good at teaching that.  I am not.  I would never have agreed to teach that.

The class I had agreed to teach, Read 180, is a program that the district bought several years ago that cost tens of thousands of dollars.  It is highly researched, intense reading program that is proven to work at getting readers who are a little bit behind up to grade level.  The most important part of the program is that the classes are taught in two hour blocks because if someone needs to acquire and make up skills they didn't get before, it's going to take more time than one 50 minute class a day.  I was signed up to teach that, but because of scheduling conflicts, they cut it down to one period blocks, which totally dismantles the program and dooms it to fail.  They spent lots of time and money training me to do this program.  I know how it works and I know that it isn't going to work in one period blocks.

Aside from teaching remedial reading, and reading to non-readers, I was scheduled to teach one section of English for seventh grade, and one section of English for eighth grade.  These classes with "normal" kids are jam-packed.  Last year there were 40+ kids in one class on average.  That is overwhelming.  Can you imagine the amount of correcting?  Yikes.

Also, one day I stopped by the school to drop my stuff off and as I was between loads, I discovered that the building automatically locks down at 3:15.  Why?  I don't know.  But it's like a prison.  I had to have a custodian escort me in and up to my room, unlocking doors all along the way.  Why does a school need to be locked down like a maximum security prison?  Red flag.

In the midst of freaking out about all the red flags and feeling like a trapped animal, the college prep charter school called me again and asked if there was anything they could do to lure me away from the public school.  Yes.  Yes there was.  They offered me a little more money than they had previously.  I took their offer.  Now I will be teaching small classes of 9th and 10th graders.  I'll be teaching World Literature and English Fundamentals.  I also get to teach an elective of my own choosing, which will of course be The Biography in which we will begin the course by reading a biography of George Washington.  Duh.

I'm a little overwhelmed right now trying to figure out a new system, and meeting new people etc. etc. but I have not seen any glaring red flags as of yet.  

Saturday, August 24, 2013

Full Grown Lady

I've been feeling pretty good about myself lately.  I got a new job*, I am getting in shape, I got a new purse, I finally got a cute haircut; anyway, I think I might have been getting a little too big for my britches because I really got taken down a peg or two today.  First of all, it is hotter than hell.  I did not want to cook so I offered to go get KFC for the family.  That also made me feel like hot stuff because I never let my family eat that shit, so they were pretty excited.

So I'm driving along with my arm out the window, letting the wind blow through my new cute haircut, and something hit my arm.  No biggy.  It happens.  I'm breezy.  I don't care.  So I continued to wave my arm in the air, singing along with the radio, and feeling like I'm a lady with her shit together.  Then I noticed something moving around by my legs.  It was a bee.  At least I think it was a bee.  It was big and flying, but to be honest, I was freaking out so badly I couldn't exactly make out what kind of bug it was.   That was obviously what hit my arm and then ricocheted into the car and was stunned for a few seconds.  Because it was stunned, it was flying slowly and bumping into my legs.  Needless to say I started screaming and kicking, which isn't the best thing to be doing when you're driving 60 miles per hour on a busy highway.  So, being the safety conscious full-grow-lady-with-her-shit-together that I am, I pulled over, jumped out of the car and screamed and writhed around like an idiot for all the people also driving on the busy highway to see.  Even while I was doing it, I thought to myself, "Why am I doing this?  I'm making a fool of myself.  It's just a stupid bee.  Calm down and get back in the car.  The bee is gone."  So I checked the car and couldn't spot the bee.

I got back in and got back on the road and admonished myself for acting like such a spaz.  I'm a full grown lady with her shit together.  I can't act like that.  I decided to just keep my arm in the car.  To stop living so wild and crazy, on the edge; to reduce some risk.  Just when I was sure I was away from any other drivers or any homeowners that saw me acting like such a moron, I saw the bee again.  It was flying around by my waist, slow and menacing.  Why do they do that?  It's so scary.  Just when I thought I would have to go through the entire, embarrassing, exhausting pull-over-and-spaz-out routine again, the bee flew out the open window.  Whew.  

After I got the KFC, I decided to stop and get some beer too because I deserve it.  1) because I'm a lady with her shit together, and 2) because that ordeal I endured with the bee made me crave something to soften what seem to be some pretty sharp edges.  I got the food out to the appreciation and delight of my family, and then I opened a beer and promptly spilled half of it in the open silverware drawer, managing to hit every single utensil.

Now, two-hours later, after sweating over cleaning the millions of utensils that fit into a seemingly small drawer,  I'm a full-grown lady with her shit together with a sparkly clean silverware drawer.

Now THAT's impressive.

*story to follow

Tuesday, August 20, 2013

School needs to start now UPDATED

Kira's August art project. She said she got a headache blowing the egg out of the shell and almost lost the will to stuff the tiny rubber chicken in it.  (For more of Kira's art go here.)

UPDATED:  It now has wings.  And we discovered that Kira has a "feather jar."

Friday, August 16, 2013


In the midst of my job-choosing stress, I nagged Kira to clean her room up because it is a dump.  She pretended to be busy in there for a while and then came out to the living room and sat down.  I said, "You CAN'T be done already.  Go finish."  She said, "I AM done, it's clean!"  So I got up to go check.  She jumped out of her chair and was on my heels as I walked into her room to see a slightly less disgusting mess.  I turned around to yell at her and she rubbed two wadded up one-dollar bills across my mouth and said, "Shhhhhhhhh.... you don't see anything," and then she pressed the two dollars into my palm and pushed me out of the room and shut the door quietly behind me.

Thursday, August 15, 2013


Oh my god, what an EPICALLY shitty week this has been.  It actually started out pretty good.  Last week I had two job offers for the fall.  One was for a college prep charter high school and one was for the district I worked in last year doing the same thing I did last year for a hell of a lot more money than the college prep school.  So I turned down the high school job, (when I would LOVE to get back to teaching high school) for continuity, pay and benefits.  Oh well.  It's at a different school than the one I loved last year and I negotiated my way to full time by taking an additional class.  Pretty good huh?  Well, I've been to my new building twice and both times I left feeling like shit.  The first time was because rooms still weren't assigned (what?) so I couldn't start setting up, and because one of the custodians yelled at me and told me not to go in any rooms with wet wax!  Like I would.  Then I think he felt bad because he came back and asked who I was and to chit chat.  I told him I was new to the building this year and he actually said the words, "Welcome to hell."  I said, "THAAAAANKS!!!"

Then yesterday I called to see if rooms had been assigned yet and the secretary told me they had.  She said I would be in two rooms, and I'd be sharing both rooms.  Not ideal, but doable.  So I said I would stop by to drop some stuff off.  I looked at the room I thought I would mainly be in (four class periods a day out of six), and it isn't as gorgeous as my room last year, but it is certainly functional and will be fine, although someone else is totally moved in.  Her stuff is in the desk, her stuff is all over the place.  What about me?  I dropped off a load and went to get another.  When I tried to get back in the building, it was locked down.  I knocked on the door because my purse and car keys were still up in the room.  The crabby custodian opened the door and said, "The building locks down at three fifteen!"  Like I'm just supposed to know that.  What the fuck?  So I told him I was just dropping my stuff off.  He said, "You have to be out by three thirty!"  Whatever.  So I went up to drop off another load and I met another custodian.  I must have looked freaked out because he was very nice to me and chatted me up for a few minutes.  Then he said, "You want a piece of candy?"  and I almost cried.  Yes, I wanted a piece of candy.  He said, "You look like you could use it."  THEN I went into the office to talk to the secretaries and one of them let me look at the tentative schedule.  They have me scheduled to teach English 7, English 8, Reading, and Trans Reading.  Four preps.  I negotiated for two.  I can't do four preps.  I would do a shitty job and be stressed and crabby every single day.  So I left.  And then I freaked.  Apparently the schedule isn't "set in stone" but still.  I am totally stressed out.

And I gained two pounds last week.

And we let two of the three bunnies go this week and the third one died in my hands last night.  Don't know why.  He was fine, and then a few hours later was listless and weak and then died.

Then today I went to work, then I went to the beach with a couple of friends, and I got a call from the college prep school telling me that they want to try to counter the Duluth offer if I haven't signed any contract yet or anything.  I haven't.  They gave me a new offer which is still less money and the benefits package isn't as sweet, but I would be doing what I like, at a place I could have some ownership in (own room, teacher-governed school), I would have small classes, and when I go there I leave feeling inspired and not like total shit.

So now I have to make this decision all over again.  I talked to the principal at the middle school to see if she could give me any guarantees about what I would be teaching and where I would be teaching it.  She made no promises.  She said she would get back to me tomorrow.  I told the charter school people I would get back to them tomorrow.  Shit shit shit.

Now I'm going out to drink with some friends and then we are going to a play.  Hopefully after my first margarita my mind will slow down and I will be able to think without wanting to cry.

Wednesday, August 14, 2013


I saw this online last night:

It is a prescription drug for ladies who lose eyelash thickness as they age.  I am not even kidding.  Just one more way women are DISGUSTING as they get older; thin eyelashes, YUCK!  Go back in the house, you old hags!  The best part of it is the side effects:

1.  Effects on intraocular pressure.
2. Iris pigmentation (Turns your blue eyes brown)
3. Lid pigmentation
5.  Intraocular inflammation
6.  Macular edema

Does that sound worth it, or would you just rather use mascara which is cheaper, easier and safer; or just say fuck it, who cares about eyelashes?  

Sunday, August 11, 2013

Bunny Drunk

We have had these little baby bunnies for a week now.  They are off formula and totally on plants now and they are getting chubby.  I CANNOT STAND HOW CUTE THEY ARE.  It almost kills me.  They are generally pretty mean and feisty, but every so often they like to be snuggled and I hold them in my two hands up next to my face and rub their fur across my face and get completely intoxicated.  Bunny drunk. Sometimes I can even get bunny drunk just watching them eat and groom themselves.  They do that thing where they lick their paws and then clean their heads.  Jesus.

We have been letting them run around the yard to get used to outside lately.  We want to get them to be able to successfully run away and hide.  One of them succeeded tonight.  He got away from Kira and hid in the woods and she couldn't find him.  She crawled out of the brush full of scrapes with twigs in her hair and no bunny.  I hope he lives a long and productive life and I see a million of his babies hopping around here for years to come.

I took one of them outside today and tried to get him to hop away.  He wouldn't.  I laid down on the grass next to him and he just kept hopping up to me and eating grass right next to me.  Uh oh.  So then I stood up and tried to spook him a little.  I nudged him with my foot and he reared up and bared his teeth like he was going to fight with my foot. Crap.  I said, "You are a FLIGHT animal, not a FIGHT animal!  Hop away in an evasive manner!  Zig!  Zag!"  He didn't.  He just braced himself for a fight so I picked him up and brought him back in the house.  He was biting me the whole time. That one is as mean as a little snake.  No, I've had little snakes and they weren't nearly this aggressive and mean.


Wednesday, August 7, 2013

The Delegator

This morning before I got up and went to work (I'm teaching summer school. And no, I am NOT crazy, why do you ask?) I woke Kira up and told her to scrub the shower because her miles-long hair clogs the drain, and her gallons of conditioner make a layer of slippery scuz on the floor.

When I got home the shower was clean.  I was happy.

Then Sam wandered up to me and asked, "Hey Mom, did you tell Kira to tell me to clean the shower this morning?"  I said, "NO, WHY?!"  He said, "Oh.  Well, I cleaned the shower."

I was immediately irritated with Kira.  That little turd, I thought.  I give her one thing to do and she pawns it off.  Ugh!  So I said to her, "I told YOU to clean the shower, not Sam.  Why did you tell him to do it?"  She could see I was annoyed and said, "Hey, the shower is clean, right?  What difference does it make who did what?"

She had a point.  Then I was irritated with Sam and said, "WHY on earth would I wake Kira up to tell her to tell you to do something?  Why would you even believe that?  Come ON!"

And then Sam felt like an idiot.

It was a win-win day for Kira.

She doesn't look like an evil genius.

Sunday, August 4, 2013

New Babies!

Mitch mowed under some stuff yesterday that hasn't been mowed under for quite a while and he found a wild rabbit nest.  I won't go into the details about that except we now have three baby bunnies!  Yay!

Normally I would be nervous about raising wild baby animals, but there is something you probably don't know about me: I am a rabbit whisperer.  I don't like to brag.  I raised a wild baby bunny several years ago and it was way smaller than these babies are.  He grew up and went off into the wild and I am sure fathered several generations of rabbits.  These bunnies are probably his great great great great great great great great (ad infinitum) grandbunnies.  I bet he is still hopping around out there somewhere remembering fondly his time with his human mother.

These babies are at least three weeks old, and would probably be fine out in the wild by themselves but there has to be some transition between being all snug in a nest to traumatically not being all snug in a nest, right?  I'm going to keep them for a while, feed them some kitten formula and freshly picked dandelion greens and let them grow a little and then set them free.  Maybe.

I was reading some stuff on the internet about caring for baby bunnies and one of the sites said I should let nature take its course and leave them alone because they would be better off without my interference. Maybe their mother would meet up with them again and they would be fine???  That's supposedly better than having me for a mom?  Please.  I might not be the greatest parent in the world but I am a way better mother than a rabbit.  Has a rabbit ever successfully raised two human babies?  No, but I have. And I have a dwelling free (mostly) of parasites and mosquitoes not made (primarily) with my own body hair.  If a rabbit has a question about raising a rabbit, can it Google it?  No.  They can't even read. Can a rabbit offer these babies protection from predators (and lawnmowers)? Obviously not.  Would their bio mom sit and cuddle with them while watching several episodes of Orange Is The New Black?  No.  Rabbits don't get Netflix.  Can you imagine: No Netflix??? Jesus.

So these babies are going to hang out with me for while, burrowing deeply into my robe sleeves, eating, and growing.  Then we'll see about transitioning them to the next stage in their lives which hopefully won't include getting eaten by raccoons.

Oh also, in the middle of the night I heard something on the deck so I got up to look and it was three baby raccoons eating dog food out of Maisy's dish.  They were cute but fiendish.