Movie Review: Divergent (?)

Kira and I went to see the movie Divergent last weekend.  She has read the trilogy, and I chose the first book for my bookclub. Don't spill to the bookclub ladies that I went and saw it. I'm enough of a slacker at bookclub as it is.

The main character is Tris, a teenager living in a post-apocalyptic world where society has been reconfigured into five factions:  Abnegation, Dauntless, Gryffindor, District 12, and the Shire.  When kids are a certain age they take a test to see which of these factions they belong in.  Katniss's test is inconclusive.  She fits into three of the categories, and apparently (?) that is bad (?) for some reason (?). She gets to tell the sorting hat which faction she wants to be in anyway, so I don't really see the big deal about fitting into more than one faction.

She chooses to be in Gryffindor (District 12 (?) Dauntless (?)) and she is chosen to take part in a nasty game of Quidditch that pits teens against teens in a fight to the death.  She goes to a camp for the faction she has chosen so that she can learn to fight. She sucks. The place where they have the camp is not very nice. Cavey. And there is a giant pit and lots of bridges. Lots of kids trip and fall into the pit, or are pushed into the pit, or jump voluntarily into the pit. I think they should just get rid of that pit. They need a place with some natural light and level floors.

Tattoos figure prominently in the movie. And so does Kate Blanchett. (?) No, Kate Winslet. (?) The one who was in the sinking-ship movie, Poseidon (?).  Kate is bad news, but she wears the hell out of a dark blue business suit.   And why is she the boss?  Why does everyone do what she says?  I don't know.  I didn't watch very closely.

I might have to read the book. (?)

Katris and her Mockingjay tats

Aging Gracelessly

I am in my forties and have been waiting to start getting old. I know people in their forties who already are old. They are no fun. They think they know everything. They complain about aches and pains. They think their life is over. They are offended by things that are "inappropriate." I am none of those things. Immaturity has helped keep me young at heart. However, I have lately been made aware of a mannerism I have recently(?) developed that is making me seem old.

Apparently, I have the vocabulary of an eighty-five year old woman. Here is a comment I made on Facebook this morning about a movie my friend Katie posted:

Yes, I did notice it when I wrote it, and thought it seemed a little strange, but I went with it anyway, mostly because I had already pushed enter.

The other day I wanted to convey to Mitch that I have lots of energy lately, however, the words I actually said were, "I have a lot of zip." We laughed and laughed. I heard the ridiculousness of it one millisecond after it left my mouth. Mitch is still making fun of me. The problem is this: ten years ago, I might have thought the words, but then had time to filter them so I didn't actually say them. My filter is slowing down. My filter didn't catch the words until they were already out.

So my aging is taking the form of not being able to filter slang from the 1940s and keep it from making me look foolish. But you know what? I am not going to knock myself out over it because the next time someone calls me on it I'm just going to say, "Listen, Babydoll, don't flip your wing over the way I rap, because I am the bees knees and you are applesauce."  

Another Adult Internet Friend Sending My Daughter Stuff In The Mail

If you work in a school, like I do, you hear lots of well-meaning advice about not giving too much information about yourself and -god forbid- your children out over the internet.  After all, it's a place jammed with predators just waiting for an address to be carelessly shared, or looking at Instagram pictures for a school sign or landmark so they can come and find you and your children and do unspeakable things. Right?

Not so much.

Well, not so far, anyway.

My daughter Kira is practically the star of this blog because she is so weird and funny.  I write about her a lot, and because of this she has some fans and friends who happen to be people she doesn't know who are adults.  Creepy?  Maybe a little.  But sweet all the same.  A few years ago Kira got a package in the mail from a blog follower, Jane.  Jane and Kira are two sides of the same coin.  Kira and I both thought sharing too much information about her was for the best when she got Jane's fake roach in the mail and Kira went on to scare the life out of my sister with it.  Win-win for everyone (except Beth).

Yesterday Kira got another package and a note in the mail from a blog friend.

It's from Kady from A Lady Reveals Nothing.  She remembered a post from last summer about how Kira longs for quality toilet paper and never gets it, and she sent her some (half a roll, but she'll take it where she can get it). Sure, Kady might have the handwriting of a serial killer, but her heart is in the right place.  The note and package made our day.  The fact that she said she's been "saving up" since last summer and "here is half a roll" cracked us all up.  I picture Kady getting a cardboard middle out of some public bathroom garbage can and diligently adding a few squares of Charmin to it every day.  The fact that the notecard has a pedophile van on it, and it says "Thinking of You" is still making me laugh.  (Maybe I shouldn't be a parent), and the fact that Kady has taken on the title of the "Fairy Toilet Paper Mother," made my day.

Thank you, Fairy Toilet Paper Mother, for sending my child a weird package in the mail based on what I overshare on the internet.  You are the BEST!  

Kira's Boyfriend

In Kira's social studies class, the kids were assigned to do a project on one aspect of WWII. Kira chose the Holocaust and decided to focus her project on how Hitler tried to eliminate all the Jews. This is a story about how being hyper-focused on a goal can lead to problems.

First of all, she decided that her project would be in the format of a tri-fold posterboard. She likes tri-folds. She does a lot of them. She usually makes them multi-colored or neon on black, but this time the only color board she could get was white. No biggy.

Next, she had some time in the computer lab at school to type up her information and print out pictures. She wanted a picture of Hitler to put on it. She chose a big picture so it would take up lots of space that would otherwise have to be devoted to research and writing. She didn't choose one of the Hitler pictures where he is screaming like a mad dog, she chose one where he looks sort of regal. Whatever. She didn't look very long. She chose the first 8x10 she saw and picked it. She tried to print it, but it wouldn't print. The solution? Keep trying to print. Keep hitting the print button even though nothing was happening. Eventually whatever the printing problem was resolved itself, and about 30 pictures of regal Hitler printed. Kira took all of them, embarrassed, and was planning to secretly recycle them when she got a chance. She put them in her folder.

Later, as she was walking down the crowded middle school hallway, she stumbled and dropped her books. The 30 pictures of regal Hitler scattered. A teacher saw the whole thing happen, picked up one of the pictures and said, "Kira, this is inappropriate," as if Kira was planning on tacking up the pictures of regal Hitler all over the school. Because why else would someone have 30 pictures of regal Hitler, if not to tack them up around school? Inappropriate, Kira.

Later, Kira assembled her board. She made some questionable choices. She had a giant picture of a swastika, a picture of a little kid whose head was being measured with calipers, the Nazi/Eagle/Swastika insignia (two swastikas! Yeah!), and titled her project "Master Race." All on a white board. In her defense, the white board really made the swastikas pop.

When she was done, all she saw was a slapped together, good-enough project that met all the specifications of the assignment. However, Sam and I looked and saw something totally different.

Sam looked for a long time and then asked Kira, "So..... you're FOR Hitler?" She was appalled. "NOOO! Why would you think THAT?" she shrieked. He said, "Um, because of everything: the white board, the title seems like you are FOR a master race, the huge picture of Hitler, the swastikas (plural), the kid getting measured.... everything."

Kira then looked at her project with new eyes and said,

 "Crap."

But it was too late to change anything because in true middle school fashion, the project was due tomorrow. It was going to have to go as-is.

Because of this, Kira has had to endure some teasing from Sam (and me. I admit it. How else will she learn? ~ parenting 101) Sam said that if we look in her school notebooks she probably has "Mrs. Kira Hitler" written 100 times. He also was caught quietly singing, "Kira and Hitler sitting in a tree, k-i-l-l-i-n-g," which although inappropriate and mean, is hilarious because if you're going to make a project like that, you deserve some ridicule.

Movie Review: Twelve Years a Slave

I went to the artsy downtown theater to see Twelve Years A Slave yesterday afternoon. Let me tell you something about the artsy downtown theater in the afternoon on a Saturday. It is chock full of senior citizens who operate on a time schedule that is 5 billion times slower than this guy:

I arrived at the ticket counter seconds after a couple of old fuckers who practically ran to make sure they got in front of me in line. Seriously, the only time people over the age of 65 rush is to get ahead of me in lines. I have tons of anecdotal evidence to back me up on that. I don't know why either because when I approach a counter to buy something I am READY. I know exactly what I want and I have my money out. It takes me two seconds. But even old ladies with walkers scurry to jump ahead of me.

Anyway, back to the old fuckers who ran ahead of me to buy tickets. They had to have a long conversation with the movie guy about what movie to see? How much it are tickets? Where was the theater? Can they buy their food there too? What kind of drinks do they have? How big is the popcorn? How much is the popcorn? Oh, all of that is written on the HUMONGOUS board right behind the theater guy? Then they got their reading glasses out and read the board. Slowly. Out loud. And discussed it with each other. When they finally decided what they wanted and sloooooooowly conveyed it to the theater guy, he rung it up and told them their total. It was like a total surprise to the old man fucker that he was going to have to actually get money out to pay for everything he ordered. Then there was another huge production of getting out the wallet and deciding whether to pay cash or charge it. I was so tempted to grab the guy's wallet and take off running. I've never wanted to mug someone before, but I was really really tempted to do it yesterday. He'd never catch me. And by the time they described me to the police, my description could change drastically. I could gain 50 pounds. I could grow my hair out long. I could have a sex change. I could grow old and die.

After I was finally able to buy my own ticket, I walked towards the theater behind two older ladies. They walked three inches into the doorway of the theater and stopped. They stood there and looked around for a place to sit (ANYWHERE) and talked about where they wanted to go. They blocked the doorway and talked about it. What happens to spatial awareness and common courtesy when people age? I just don't get it. I pushed passed the old ladies and sat down.

Ten minutes after the movie started the theater door opened and an old woman and her husband came in. No, that is not accurate. An old woman and her husband opened the door and lingered there for what seemed like an eternity. The man was in a wheelchair and the woman was trying to manage the door, (someone was holding it open for her, but she had her own ideas about how that should happen) and manage the wheelchair (which was only an issue because the old guy in it wouldn't let go of the wheels). They looked around for a place to sit which was pointless because there was only one seat open for someone who wanted to sit next to the empty space left for a wheelchair. What's to discuss? Just go there! So they finally did decide to go there. Unfortunately, it was fairly close to where I was sitting so I got a front row seat while the guy did 11,264 adjustments and tiny turns with his wheelchair before he could back it up into the space, all the while having a loud whispery conversation with his wife about every single move. It was annoying, but what really annoyed me was when he finally got the chair to the spot he wanted and then he STOOD UP and shook his legs out individually to adjust his pants! He was quite spry. He could have just stood up and pushed the chair to the spot instead of the enormous production he did backing it in while sitting in it. THEN he spilled his popcorn all over the floor between where he and I were sitting. It seemed like there was more popcorn on the floor than could possibly fit in the tiny bag he brought it in. Throughout the movie I caught him several times reaching down and grabbing floor-popcorn and eating it.

The movie was excellent. Sad. Acting was great. Michael Fassbender was a fabulous bastard. Chiwetel Ejiofor was marvelous. Brad Pitt was annoying.

When the first credit popped up at the end, I popped up as well so I could get the HELL of the theater before all the slow linger/door-blocking/pointless conversing could begin and trap me in that little room with the indecisive, confused, old bastards for the rest of the day.

Happy Birth, Mitch!

It is Mitch's birthday today!  He is one year younger than he thought he was all year long.  I don't know how that happened since he loves to throw in my face the fact that I am 6 months older than he is, and he knows how old I am, but whatever.  When you're in your forties, I guess the number just doesn't matter that much anymore.  We actually did the math last night when we were out for his birthday dinner at a dive bar with our children.  Apparently parenting-standards don't matter much when you hit your forties either.  The kids loved the dive bar.  Kira has perfected tying cherry stems in knots with her tongue.  Good girl!

Nightmare Shitstormpocolypse

A few days ago MPR News posted this as a status update on Facebook:

They weren't kidding.  The next morning I woke up to this...

after our 6 billionth snowstorm of this winter.  Actually, I exaggerate.  There have not been 6 billion snowstorms because snowstorms can only happen if the weather is above absolute zero, and the weather has not been above absolute zero very much since November, but when it IS above absolute zero, we have a snowstorm.

I wouldn't say that I am a winter person, by any means, but I can usually roll with it.  Not this time though.  After the latest shitstorm I felt like I was going to have a panic attack and I just had to GET OUT!  Mitch and the kids and I went and shoveled.  It was really hard, not because the snow is very heavy or anything, but because the banks are so high, it's hard to throw the snow over the top of them.  They are over my head.

This is the path going to the driveway.  When I am standing on the deck, looking to the left, I can't see the cars in the driveway because the snowbanks are so high.  The next picture is the house to driveway view.

The snow is up to the branches on that tree that I have been trying desperately to keep alive for the last several years.  I hope this isn't what finally kills it.  I love that tree.  Can you see the cars?  Me neither.

This is the deck outside the sliding glass door.  The snow is above the railings, as you can see.  The top of those railings are about 5 feet off the ground.

Yesterday Mitch had to go on the roof to shovel the snow off because the chimney was buried and the furnace stopped working because of it.  Awesome!!!  He said it was hard to do because the snow didn't avalanche off like you'd expect.  It was stiff and frozen and every last granule had to be lifted and thrown.   Now the chimney is free but the furnace still isn't working.

I feel like Laura Ingalls Wilder, but I don't think she drank quite as much.  She should have.  The Little House on the Prairie would have been easier to cope with if she had.  

Happy VD everyone!

Happy Valentine's Day!  In honor of this special occasion, I am reposting the story of my worst date ever.  And no, it was not with Mitch.  Mitch is downright debonair compared to this guy.

______________________________________________________________________________

One time just after high school a boy I liked asked me out and I said yes.  He thought it would be fun to go "bird" hunting.  Okay, whatever.  I wasn't picky.  As long as they bought me food I was game for anything.

I wouldn't exactly call myself an "outdoorsy" person.  I like to go outside when it's between 70 and 85 degrees, with little or no wind, and lots of sun.  That is, of course, unless I'm sunburned from the last time it was 70 to 85, not windy and sunny.  Then I'd rather just sit in the shade and read a book.  I knew this was going to be an outdoor date and in my mind I pictured us walking hand in hand lazily along a nice path in a sun-dappled forest.  I really really hoped no birds would actually get hunted because I like birds and I hate the smell of gun powder.

There was no sun-dappled forest, and no lazy hand-holding walk.  He picked me up in a filthy SUV and he had a gigantic golden retriever with him.  I was a little disappointed to also see a gun.  I was kind of hoping "bird-hunting" was date-code for "going in the woods and making out," but apparently, he really did want to take me to kill animals.  Fun.

I guess I never knew what bird hunting involved.  I always thought it was just walking through the woods looking for partridge and then shooting them.  I never gave much thought to what happens after that.  As far as I knew, they just magically appeared on a platter, cooked to a perfect golden brown, and tasted delicious.  Oh, how wrong I was.

First of all, there was no walking in the woods.  We drove along a rutted dirt road going about 25 miles an hour, and if I knew I was going to have to withstand so much jostling, I would have worn a sports bra, but my date spent all his time with his head out the window and his eyes peeled for birds, oblivious to any jostling-of-boobs or discomfort for his date.  He couldn't hear anything I said with his head out the window either and whenever he saw me talking he would interrupt and say, "Are you looking for birds?!"  No, no I wasn't.   I was mostly holding my boobs and fighting with his dog who was a little put out that I was sitting in his regular spot.  Neither one of us wanted to sit on the garbage on the floor, or on the garbage in the back seat.

Suddenly Mr. Wonderful slammed on the brakes and he and the dog jumped out of the truck and I heard a shot.  I got out to see the dog jump into a ditch flooded with pondy, scummy water, swim across and then race into the woods, coming back with a partridge.  I was proudly shown the dead bird (ew) and then to my horror, my date bent over, stepped on the little birdy's feet, pulled on his wings, and the feet and guts all came out at once.  Oh my god, that was about the most horrifying thing I've ever seen. Five minutes before that little bird was just minding his own business, sitting in a tree, probably thinking about how cool it is to lay eggs, and then boom:  he was shot.  Then a dog got him.  Then his little feet were stepped on and he no longer had guts.  I must have looked as horrified as I felt because Mr. W. said, "Are you okay?  That's how it's done.  I thought everyone knew that."  (I did NOT know that...Did you know that?)  Then he asked me if I wanted to try to shoot one and handed me the stinky gun.  Um... No thanks.

We got back in the truck, and the dog, who was now dripping wet with ditch water sat in my seat before I could get there.  The seat was soaked.  Mr. W. shooed him out of the seat and offered it to me (ah chivalry), and I sat in it for about five seconds and then my pants were soaked, so I kneeled on the garbage with my arms up on the dash instead.  The dog saw that I was not going to be using my seat, so he jumped up from the back seat to reclaim his spot.  Like all dogs, he had to turn around a few times before he could sit, and on one of the passes he stopped with his wet ass by my face and let out a total wind fart.  It just went "hooooooooooooooooooo" with no resistance at all, right on my cheek.  I could actually feel the wind of it.  Mr. W. saw this and laughed so hard I thought he would crash the garbage-mobile.  I told him I wanted to go home, and to his credit, he turned right around and headed home, still laughing.

But wait, we still haven't come to the worst part of the date yet.

He kept his head out the window on the way back, still hunting for birds.  I was watching him and I saw him not-so-secretly pick a huge booger out of his nose and then leave it on his finger in the wind.  He happened to glance at me and saw what I'm sure was a look of absolute disgust and said, "What? I'm letting it dry."

I'm not even kidding.

What was your worst date?

I love ice dancing so much...

I forgot how much I love it. It's so pretty just watching people skate together so well without having to worry about the girl getting thrown thirty feet across the ice and landing on her face. When I was looking for pictures of ice dancing I saw that it sometimes tends to be a little risque. I realized that this may be the only sport that a person could legitimately say that they accidentally had sex with their partner during their routine.

"Oops"

When I downloaded this picture the caption for it was "icedancingfilth.jpg"

"Did you fart?"

This one is just weird. How do you end up in that position from a dance? Or get into a dance from this position. I hope this pair is in the Olympics so I can see it for myself.

This picture is from a new event called "Ice Dancing Gynecological Exams."

Happy Birthday to my Pocket-Loving Dad!

It's my dad's birthday today!  In honor of Dad's special day I am re-running an old post I wrote about him and his love of clothing with lots of pockets.

__________________________________

I got an email from my dad this morning.  As you know, he likes a shirt with a lot of pockets.  I knew that, but I didn't know how much. Here's his email to me...

I just read an ad in my latest Guns and Ammo magazine by Scottevest.  They have the "Revolution Jacket" 26 pockets... 

  O----M----G!!!! 

 and the Explorer shirt, 19 pockets!!!!!!!!!!!! 

Can you imagine how much stuff I could travel with if I wore this jacket and shirt with my new Blackhawk pants (8 pockets)? I could go on a two week vacation and not have to carry any luggage! Could life GET and better?

Wow, my dad really likes pockets.  And he's not the only one.  I looked at the Scottevest blog and there is a post that asks the readers "What do you carry?"  and then people commented with mile long lists of things they like to carry with them.  Seriously, to read just one of the lists I had to scroll and scroll and scroll.  Not only do they carry a lot around with them every day in their millions of pockets, but they are actually pocket aficionados who seem to be carrying things for the sake of carrying things and sharing it on the internet.  This is one guy's list:

In Fleece:
Shure e2c headset
HP hx4700 iPaq
Sony Walkman 850i mobile phone
32Gb iPod Touch
6 pack credit card holder
SureFire G2 LED flashlight
2 spare lithium batteries for G2
LeatherMan mini toolkit
SureFire Sonic Defender ear plugs
Pack of 6 cleansing wipes
Pack of 2 Self heating hand warmers
Pack of 2 travel sickness wrist straps
1 disposable sick bag
Pack 6 plasters
Nokia 6120 mobile phone
Driving Licence
Nokia N810 Internet Tablet
Serengetti Drivers Glasses
Car Keys with £20 and headache tablets on ring
Pack 3 tooth picks
6 sticks of instant coffee
Laser pointer
Whistle
£20 in canister
headache tablets in canister
Gloob-Toob waterproof LED light

In Jacket
RoyalTec BlueTooth GPS Receiver Logger
Office ID Badge
Olympus mju725SW Camera
USB Cable
Invisio BlueTooth Headset
BlackHawk Gloves
Sealskin inner gloves
WaterProof Notepaper Pad
Notepad holder
Fisher Q4 Space Pen
BlackHawk Fleece Cap
Garmin Colorado 300 GPS receiver with topo and street maps
2 AA Lithium batteries
Oatmeal bar
O'Reilly computer book
40gb usb harddrive

In Cap
Oyster Transport Card

In T-Shirt
Shure e4c headset

When traveling I also carry an eee PC with power supply

That guy is ready for anything.  If he went out in the morning and found himself:

1. in pitch darkness (flashlight and extra batteries), 
2. underwater and needing to take notes (waterproof notepaper and sealskin gloves AND waterproof LED light),
3. nauseous (travel sickness wrist straps and sick bag for when the wrist straps don't work, which they won't), 
4. with a headache (headache pills in TWO different pockets), 
5. eating corn on the cob (three toothpicks), 
6. needing to point at a person's crotch across a room (laser pointer),  
7. in space (space pen), 
8. bleeding profusely and/or refreshing a wall (6 pack of plasters), 
9. craving a stick of coffee (6 coffee sticks), 
10. coaching a sporting event and/or deterring a rapist (whistle), 
11. at his own office (office ID badge), 
12. taking some selfies (camera), 
13. wanting to play Angry Birds while listening to Ballroom Blitz (iPod), 
14. driving across the Serengeti (Serengeti driving glasses),
15. needing to repair an O'Reilly computer (O'Reilly computer book),
16. dropping a cell phone in the toilet and needing to call someone to them them he dropped his phone in the toilet (2 cell phones), 
17. and transporting oysters (Oyster Transport Card)... 

he would be READY FOR ALL OF THAT AND MUCH, MUCH MORE.

Dad, what do you carry in your outfit with 53 pockets?

_______________________________________

Happy Birthday, Dad!  I love you!

My Baby is 14!

Kira turned 14 the other day.  It is a tradition to take a nice birthday picture of the kids with their birthday cake.  Kira is difficult.  And maddening.  And hilarious.  I could not get a nice picture of Kira on her 14th birthday because she would not allow it.

I told her to stop it and let me get once nice picture.  She would agree, but a fraction of a second before the picture snapped, she made a face.

The girl can cross her eyes astonishingly fast.

After a while I gave up on a picture with the cake and just wanted a nice picture of my beautiful girl.

She would not have any part of it.

At this point, Kira said, "Mom, enough.  I'm starting to get a headache from crossing my eyes."  So we cut the cake and went downstairs to celebrate.

I thought I could pretend that I was reading something on my phone and get a clandestine picture of her eating her cake and looking like her adorable self.

No luck.

Happy New Year!

If I had green fur, I would look just like the Grinch.  Around the holidays I have the same scowl and roughly the same body shape.

Yesterday I took down all the Christmas shit and loved every single minute of it.  Goodbye stupid tree, goodbye happy little decorative snowmen.  See you in eleven months.  Or maybe even eleven months and two weeks if I can get away with it without the kids complaining.  A tree that looks so beautiful on December 10 looks like a cluttery, tacky piece of garbage on December 26.  There is something very satisfying about throwing all that crap in a box and vacuuming up all the needles.  

Even though I'm a Grinch, I do have a few funny stories from the holidays this year.

 - My dad was bringing a cash donation to the Food Shelf one day, and he was wearing his "everyday" jacket and shoes, meaning he was wearing an old ratty jacket that nobody has any business wearing when the temperature is below 40 and it is past 1985, and his shoes had holes in them.  When he got in to the Food Shelf, the lady took one look at him and said "I'm sorry sir, but we aren't distributing today."  I'm still laughing about that one.  I got him overalls for a present, which isn't going to help his case with the Food Shelf lady.  

- My brother-in-law Lorin told my dad that the deer my dad shot last month during hunting season was one that Lorin had non-fatally wounded three days prior to my dad killing it.  We were all stunned by this revelation.  Why wouldn't Lorin tell my dad this anytime in the month before Christmas?  How does he know it was the same deer?  I'll tell you how he knew it was the same deer:  he said that when it was hanging in the garage waiting to be butchered, Lorin had a good look at it and recognized its face.  I don't know if Lorin has any business hunting deer if he can recognize their faces.  That seems more like murder.  

- I was playing Barbies with my niece Millie who is three and I was making my Barbie complain about the ridiculous hooker shoes she was wearing.  Here is how our high-voiced, Barbie conversation went:

My Barbie:  My feet hurt from these streetwalker shoes, I wish I was wearing slippers.

Millie's Barbie:  Yeah, where are my God Damn slippers?

I almost died laughing.  

Milz.  She tells it like it is.

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.

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.

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.