Too Thousand Ate My Cupcakes. That Bastard.

Putting the "give me awesome shit" back in Christmas: Santa Matt brought me a MacBook and Santa Mom brought me a sewing machine because she wants me to be connected and domestically inclined. We made the yearly pilgrimage to Ohio where this year's quotable quote was "I'm going to get drunk tonight!" Perhaps you remember last year's? "You're !@$^ing dead." We love each other.
In non-religious greetings, Happy New Year all. Let's listen to Jesus songs Ryan Seacrest count 'em down.
To celebrate, I'll continue wearing the same outfit I've been wearing for the last three days. The Ohio Thrift Store was a GOLD MINE of sweaters and t-shirts. And! Plus! Half-off everything.
Carly thinks I look beastly and will thusly not take a photograph. You'll just have to imagine until we meet in the parking lot of Walgreens.

Hey Dexy, Why Don't You and Your Midnight Runners Shut the !@#$ Up?

Too loud. Too much 80s throwback music.
It's the week before Winter Break and everything's getting a leeeeeetle screechy for these precious ears. So I covered up the loudspeaker in my office with a t-shirt and some packing tape.

I Think It's A Cop-Out

"What are you doing to make the world a better place today?"
"Hi, Tom. Taking senior pictures for students who can't afford them."
"That's a good one."
"What are you doing?"
"Asking people what they're doing to make the world a better place."

I Prefer The Ravioli

Being sick in public causes me serious anxiety. I spend all of church trying to plan a gracious decline for the greeting of peace. Do I hold up my used tissue? Er...hi. Um. Peace. Don't touch me.
My weekend was all about convalescing, my only friends: hot water and fudge. (They're sick now, too.) Came back to work on Monday all craggy-voiced with a totally legit reason for missing the Sunday afternoon Holiday Party. Yessssss.
Tidbits:

• There is a slut outside my window: Hoar frost!
• Only now regaining my sense of smell, simultaneously discovering that any frozen lunch option purporting to be Santa Fe inspired may get you banned from the communal microwave.
• Read my first comic book last night by the light of a minivan on my way to Hinckley to perform for a company called Airgas. You will never guess what they sell. Oh. You did. Well done, you.
• Design blogs give me a reason to go on with this crazy relationship I call Internet Use.
  

A Thing or Two About DayQuil

I'm going to email Band of Horses and see if they want to make out. Because phhhhh. This song.
Excuse me as my face melts all over the desktop.
Do you ever have a day where you just want to be in the music so badly that you could just shove your hands into the computer to pull the songs out?

This week could have used more soup, and a flannel fitted sheet, and a hug from Isabel. Because look at that face. We've only been in the same place three times ever and I've known her since Summer 2003:
1. Nice, France. Villa de St. Exupery (now considerably fancier than when we were there.) We discover we are both theater nerds from Minnesota and decide we should journey together to Rome with a couple of other weirdos in tow. (Hi Keeler, Hi Hilary. Hilary loses her passport while we sleep. The perp gets caught by a plainclothes officer on the train and we spend the next 7 hours in Civitavecchia while Hilary tries to make a statement and the only English-speaking officer clacks it out on a typewriter.)
2. Minneapolis, MN. Bryant Lake Bowl. We discover that our theater nerdiness has brought us together and we are both acting in the same venue, different shows.
3. London, UK. This one was planned. $85 Starbucks. Brick Lane. $85 Curry.

My body is in shutdown mode now that our London adventure is over. It's all, "Hey everybody, take five. Go to the loo. Get something to drink. Shit. Did that kid just give her pink eye? Sully, send somebody up to the right ocular station to look at that. Page me if you need me."

Sometimes We Read, But Mostly We Just Giggle

This evening our bookclub (Sigh. Ok, get them all out now. Yep. Good one.) will assemble meals for this organization and then eat dinner at this organization. I've ordered us a limo to get from A to B, and they're giving us a discount on the price of transport TO HELL.
Quoting Anne:
I was assessing what to wear tonight, and thought:
1) Should I dress up or down to assemble charity meals?
2) Should I dress up or down to hit a swank restaurant?
3) Should I really hit a swank restaurant after assembling charity meals?

No Postage Necessary

Matt and I saw Glengarry Glen Ross last night with the illustrious Jonathan Pryce and this guy (so awesome) . I jabbed Matt's arm every time a misogynist idea/phrase/word cropped up in the dialogue. When we left he was sore from laughing and being poked.
Please also note that when I've had a pint of alcohol the words masochist and misogynist are interchangeable in my brain.
Much confusion on Matt's part.
We are home. And thanks to Dan's sciencey input, I am mostly germ-free, having peed in the (statistically cleanest) first stalls all around London's toilets.
Ben graciously hosted us for the rest of the week, while we had too much fun to sit down and write about it. Or remember it. (Moleskine! So handy! So still on my nightstand!)
The trip was a huge success.
If you expected a postcard, I apologize. The only one that got sent was for Matt's grandma. The rest you will get the next time I see you. It will say something like, "Hi. I'm standing right next to you. Ask me about my awesome trip. I will tell you about the Rothko room at the Tate Modern and the time I had to shove my nylons from my waistband into my purse."

Direction: Medford Or Something

I hesitated and I got bitten by the cruel hand of Tube Fate. The doors closed on me while my bag full of travely shit and I were attempting to board the train. Minding the gap, etc. Matt was too busy laughing to press the open door button and the rest of the passengers just stared awkwardly.
Thanks everybody. I got this one.

Two Sleeps

I'm taking these chapped lips and several suitcases to London tomorrow night. Matt and I will spend the next week in pursuit of things we've never seen in our travels before. I'm looking for aliens. He's looking for wealthy Brits who will buy us drinks.
On the advice of Rin and Ryan, my two crack-team specialists (is that the phrase? somehow crack-team evokes a different picture in my mind), I will buy a copy of Time Out magazine and use it often. I will put it in my "Clap Your Hands Say Yeah" tote because I am so hip. Yesssss.

Meaning Business!

Jake and Leah got married on Saturday. She wore make up. He wore a button-front shirt not made of flannel. We received them in the classiest 500-person place St. Cloud has to offer. Noted also for the Chippendale performance I attended there in 2000.
Hot.
We stormed the dance floor and I drank more Miller Lite than anyone would recommend. (Not in that order.) My bowels stood there with a clipboard; taking notes; shaking their head: No zis is too much. She will pay for zis in ze morninkg.
And how.
I lay in bed last night, reflecting on my weekend, safe from all the dragons outside. Wait. No. Sources tell me that they were our neighborhood cats making dragon sounds.
Animals: turn yourselves in to the proper authorities or I will call the cops. I said I would the last two times, but now I am serious! Now, where'd I put that six pack?

The Pre-Celebration, In Which I Narrow Down My List

Thankful for:
String Cheese
Converse All-Stars (old and new)
Podcasts of This American Life
Camera Equipment
Love
Music Inspired by Limp Bizkit
Sunglasses

Intimidation Techniques, Sting Operations, and a Panda

Somebody order me a full-spectrum light bulb.
This week has been longish with an incredible frustration. Knives! Theft! Destruction of Private Property! Let me tell you that I am thisclose to laying the smack down on my little adolescent friends here.
And when I'm done yelling at students, I will snuggle with a panda because I need to recharge in the arms of an extremely hairy immigrant. (No offense, Matt.) He can feed me eucalyptus and we can talk about his adjustment to apartment life.
So make that a full-spectrum light bulb, and a panda. Order them both from Amazon.com and qualify for free shipping.

The Height of Impropriety

I reheat my lunch in the nurse's office (a slightly less suspect machine than the one in which JudyOffice warms her U-shaped neck pillow (Disgusting.)).
My mind wanders over the model lungs until I hear something crackling and know the food is done.

My little friend Abdi (protecting the cute-faced innocent) stopped by today with a big grin. He has this inappropriate church giggle thing he does when he's uncomfortable. "What happened?"
He got up to switch chairs and when the teacher yelled, he started laughing:
Insubordination!
Wha?
Go to the office immediately!
Three minutes later, he was crying. "I can't be normal. I either cry or laugh. It's too hard here and I don't understand all the English. [...] When I get home I just need to watch TV to help me get out my stress. So I don't do my homework. I could give up TV."
At that moment I wanted to hold his hand and tell him that he doesn't have to give up TV; that I will buy him a TV chip brain implant so he can watch it all day long, until everything is easier. But I didn't. He blotted the tears in his eyes, left cheap school tissue in their place.

Some days I am bad at this job. I think I know the kids. I assume I know how they are living here and at home, and forget to have them explain it to me. But to imagine going through a day feeling like a failure or reading a textbook in a language other than your own... It makes the stupid stuff seem extra stupid. Except for that bitch with her corn-filled travel pillow.

Give Us a Kiss, Pancake

What I did:
-G-chat
-Shuffle paper
-Doodle

What I could have did:
-Work
-Dismantle the computer
-Melt ice cubes on the heater
-Fly to Europe
-Eat breakfast

I'm having one of those days where I got totally excited about snow and then it stopped like five seconds later. It was brief-but-real enjoyment. Now that the darkness comes sooner, I need to drink more brightly colored beverages and pretend I'm in a movie about Norway. I go from yipping to despairing in the blink of a pink eye. [I'm disease free, Mom. But it is cold and flu season. Wash your hands.] The Fratellis make me smile. And this.

Prelude to a Suspension

Student: I threw something at him.
Me: What?
Student: A fig newton.... He disrespected me. He got in my face.
Me: So you pegged him with fruit and cake?
Student (laughing): Yeah. [Unintelligible]
Me: It was an accident?
Student: No, I said it was nasty.
Me: You're out for tomorrow.
Student: I know.
Me: Next time?
Student: I'll make sure it hits him.

50 Minutes and a 10-Pound Bouquet

I had so much fun and did so little laundry this weekend that today I put on a strapless bra, the ramifications of which were horribly unclear until I sat down at my desk for Stabby Underwire Time, presented to you by Target brand undergarments.
Rin and Eric's wedding was totally kickass. Thupergroup performed; Matt photographed; Everybody cried; Nobody fainted. We ate many foods and danced many dances. Like the running man, which I am happy to replicate in any restaurant parking lot.

And You Call Yourself a [Party] Animal

We had two ninjas, one bride, one "hockey player" and about 17 pixie sticks each. That was before Lucy started puking (Carly, send me a photo of The Explorer)*.
Later, we had some Skittles.
I should probably take a breather from the candy, cause Rin gets married on Saturday and that is not enough time for me to have my dress let out. Unless she's cool with sweatpants (are you cool with sweatpants? I'm cool with sweatpants. Plus, I own a variety of colors, and Jo-Ann Fabrics has some pretty ribbons).

*This dog can't hold her processed sugar.

Attack of the Face Eaters

There is a time for killing.
Or at least spearing.
We get together on Monday nights, when the kids return to their homework and we need a little fellowship (see also: beer) to unwind. Justin and Dustin (the Ustins, hetero-lifepartners) had most of a keg left after their Halloween party, so we sat in their basement drinking, admiring the fake spiders and mice.
Mice?
Wait.
That one runs.
Why is it running if it is not--ohmyGodthat'sarealmouse! Aeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
It's in the laundry room.
What the hell? Oh, yeah. The window we left open all night. It gets so hot down here.
The next 45 minutes were a discussion, during which the mouse would emerge and be shrieked back, about how to eradicate The Rodent Issue.
Justin laid a foundation of duct tape beneath the door and the mouse came out, irritated but no less determined.
Finally we watched in silence while he ran across the floor and in seconds we had him cornered. Justin pushed away some decorative wall Zombies and fake cobwebs while the others crouched low with their weapons: duct tape ball, water bottle, metal siding, size small sombrero.
A hit! A palpable hit!
The mouse let out a horrifying scream and disappeared into a crack in the woodwork.
Have you heard a mouse scream? It chills the blood.
We slunk back into our chairs, certain that it would not come back. Me, with my feet off the floor.
It's really hot in here. We should open a window.

That Guy's Flag Says "Pace." Like the Salsa? Dude, I'm Hungry. Let's Go.

All we wanted to do was sit down for a minute. I mean, it's not like I enjoy the war. Obviously. Obviously, I don't.
And Barack, right?
[waiting for response]
Ok, fine. I left that purposefully open-ended so you would tell me whether he was a totally inspirational speaker, plus did you see that amazing tie; or he didn't even show up, that Ass.
We woke up, bundled up and rode the El all the way to an outlying suburb so that we could take the El back, un-bundle, shop, and trade in our sign for an Us Weekly. What?! It's important hotel-reading material.
When two of our three alarms mis-fired the next morning (Daylight savings time? Really? Phone, you are supposed to know these things. Do not ask for input), I set my sweatshirt over a lamp to diffuse the harsh glare.
I packed quickly. My stomach had finally calmed down from the deep dish and brownies and I was...Yum, what is that marshmallow-y smell?
Dammit. What is my favorite sweatshirt doing making a marshmallow-y smell?

Muffin and I just want to thank our sponsors (SL, TG, the City of Chicago and 60-watt bulbs) for making this trip possible.
We're home, Minneapolis. Where is your bean?

Wear It Like a Vest

Speculums are funny.
Nervous Doctors are not so much.
I'm not afraid of needles or getting weighed or being honest about how much I exercise ("define 'exercise...'"), but when it comes to the paper gown, well. How comfortable should you be? None. None comfortable unless you are the physician. Your job is to put me at ease with your professionalism while my ladyfeet are in the stirrups. That means laughing at my jokes, Jerk.
Int. room #9:
Doc: So, have you been getting your yearly pap?
Me: Mhmm.
Doc: Yes? Because it's really important.
Me: Yes. I like to make sure I get one really awkward check-up in this office every year. Wouldn't miss it for the world.
Doc: Oh. Um. Haha.
Me: In fact, you should really just follow me around....
Doc: ...
Me: Er...
Doc: ...

Jesus Loves the Little Children

Long weekend of JesusCamp is complete. My face is white and wrinkled like a mime with pillow marks.
Tired.
So tired.
And sick.
But mostly tired.
Castaway was a huge success. The rain stopped on day 2, the high schoolers were well-behaved, the two-person suit came together quite nicely. What more could you ask for? A gorilla costume. Even Mark's first-grade daughter laughed until she heard there were some gorillas outside the cabin. Screaming. Crying. Shhhhing. Calming.
"Gorillas are just big monkeys."
"Yeah, monkeys that tackle people."

Does Your Airline Allow Stowaways?

It was a delectable treat to attend David Sedaris' show last night at the State Theater. Big thanks to Muffin (Crumb Bomb) for securing the tickets. Sedaris read from some old work and some new work, correcting as he went. We were close enough to see the pencil. (I KNOW!)
When they turned on the house lights, he looked at the crowd expectantly and I could think of nothing nothing to ask of this lovably awkward little author.
In the car as we drove home I thought, why did I not just raise my hand?
Hi, Mr. Sedaris. Say, how long does it take you to go from having an experience to writing about it? Do you type or write initial drafts by hand? Are there certain topics you refuse to address in your writing, and why?
Hi, Mr. Sedaris. May I call you David? Dave? D?
Hi, Mr. Sedaris. The last time I read one of your essays, I choked on some black bean hummus. You're funny.
Hi, Mr. Sedaris. Does Hugh travel with you? Does he take up all your leftover leg room on the plane like my boyfriend?
I don't do well with celebrity encounters. My surviving memory of meeting poet Seamus Heaney is a photo I will try to find for you: I sweated and smiled so hard, the veins popped out of my blotchy red neck.
Last night I wore a scarf and kept my distance.

The Lazzo of the Leaking Radiator

The Landlord's last name is Doom, did I ever mention that?
(She is, in fact, non-threatening. Unless you happen to be a cigarette, in which case, look out. Seriously, run for your life. Not even the paper will be left!)
(And by that I mean her hair smells like smoke.)
Sometimes she stops by check in; verify that our windows still don't have screens--story for another day: how to get a pigeon into and out of your kitchen--and whatnot. Last night she came to turn on the heat.
In anticipation of cold weather, I've been preparing the radiators in my apartment with preptalks and friendly pats. I even bled them a little. Newb.
Later I mistook the sound of spritzing pipes for clicking pipes. "The heat is on!" I declared. Nicki and I went on with America's Next Top Model while a small lake formed in the divot of our dining room. Meanwhile, about five minutes after that began, a peeing fountain started from the radiator in the bathroom.
I step out of the room during a commercial...."Oh! Wow! Woooh! Shit! Shit! What the hell is that shit!?!"
"Aaack! Give me the key! The key!"
"Righty tighty? Am I turning right or left? I need to stand on the other side of this! Ahh! It's purple! What the hell!?!"
Nicki's dad and Google confirmed that's normal if you bleed your radiators before there's any steam built up. Noted.
Three towels and two pairs of socks later we returned to the couch. A knock at the door: Madame Doom, in the building to bleed the radiators.

Our Invite Must've Gotten Lost in the Mail

Matt and I stayed at The President Hilton in Kansas City, which was nice and fancy. Sometimes other famous people stay there. Like, oh, I don't know; Hillary Clinton? No joke. Friday afternoon she made a presentation of somethingblahblah. The Secret Service took up two floors. And Matt correctly identified public figure Rev. Al Sharpton, sitting in the lobby.
We drove across town for some shopping and tried to find her the appropriate "Hey, we think you're neat but we're not terrorists and this probably won't even get to you or anywhere in your vicinity" gift. I stumbled on several silver-glitter-covered table ornaments shaped like reindeer. I know you don't believe me. Witness: you may click on the picture which will take you to the website where you can see what they charge for something such as this.

Now, if that doesn't say, "Be my Democratic Nominee," I don't know what does.
America, home of the Free and the Craftbarns.

Solid Chocolate Center

Dudes,
Homies,
Bitches,
October is a busy month around here. Here being the Milky Way.
Mmilky way. Mmcandy.
I've already eaten my weight in Fun-Size Snickers (no, not the little bite size. I'm talking Fun-Sized. "Sized for the fun of buying new jeans for your big ass" Fun.) while around the corner lurks a bridesmaid dress. All of which yielded the highlight of this past weekend: Fitness Yoga.
Harder and faster and with less helpful instruction. I couldn't do any of the half-moon-into-triangle business. Which was fine, but where was all the farting I was promised?
It's just as well because I was too sore to laugh until today.
Other non-laughing notables:
-One of my students stole a car.
-I've been recently fearing that our plaster clawfoot bathtub might fall through the ceiling onto the apartment downstairs.
-Matt and I leave tomorrow to photograph a wedding in Kansas City. I hear it is wonderful, but nobody is specific about why. If it is nougat-based, I might not come back.

A Smile Would Have Been Sufficient

I wear a squirrel skirt made by Melissa. (That's me with my one peg leg sticking out of the bottom of that photo.) In fact, the first time I wore this for an evening at the theater, I received three complements in the first hour. One from a man with a boombox chained to the handlebars of his bike: "Great skirt!"
"You're goddamned right it is!"
"..."
"Thanks! Bye!"

Shapely

Roommate Nicki and I entered a contest and won (the first round), which started with this:

And then became this:

And eventually, this:

Cue landlord freakout.
Voiceover: "Worry not, Friend. These decals won't leave paint behind like the tenants of yesteryear. The girls who live here wouldn't do you wrong. And shouldn't they get a break on rent for being so respectful?"
Blik your walls. Do it. Make it happen.
P.S. I'm famous.

Skew This!

Rather than focus on the overwhelming nature of my work--children's futures strewn at my feet--I pick up the little Clinique compact in my desk drawer (free with purchase five years ago, bitches!) to check my teeth and notice I'm having a bad hair... season. If you have any ideas or wigs, please contact my publicist. She looks a lot like me. With equally bad hair. And she's about my size, so maybe just send two of everything.

Public Reunion

Last night our former (I would've said old, but I know you're out there reading this, Hardy, and I can't have you worrying whether I meant age. P.S. You're old. P.P.S. Just kidding. P.P.P.S. Not really) college professor came home all prodigal-like (you know, after spending our tuition on whores and feasts) and visited for some drinks late in the evening. (Too many asides?)
There was much jumping and hugging and delight. We were that table.
When you break the rules, but nobody gets hurt?
Awesome.
And when the rules are really just social convention?
Even better.
But then you realize that you were out until bar time on a work night and your eyelids are superheavy and you smell vaguely of fry-cooker?
Still pretty good.

These Shirts Are Dry-Clean Only

A former student stopped by my office yesterday. Juan graduated in May and went immediately out to San Diego to begin his new job; his new life as a Marine.
When I saw him (a smaller, stricter version of himself) I shook my head and blew through the list of questions I'd been saving since last we met, including, "Are they feeding you enough?" (Yes.)
He answered each question with all possible professionalism and dignity I've come to know in him. So sure, so calm. He re-enacted for me his graduation stance and rifle-handling bit and gave me a copy of his unsmiling picture.
I remembered our conversations for the last three years and how had I steered him toward university (because apparently I hate America).
As a first-generation immigrant, he has a special stake in this country and its freedoms. And it's not because he wanted to go to Iraq that he signed up. I will try to remind myself of that when he gets called into active duty.

Delusions of Gandalf

Take That!
I feel like she and I would really get along, mostly because this is the funniest thing I've read all day:

"Randy feels very strongly that cleaning utensils does nothing but weaken our immune systems. One day half the country will be knocked down from some giant, obscure food-borne illness and I will survive solely because Randy believes that cheese is its own cleanser."

And That!
Jill has solved the my anal-probe bike problem. The very same day of my sadangry post, she called to say: all that remains of her bike is the seat. Thank you, Jill, for making my athletic pursuits possible and time-save-y once again.
I have moved the entire contraption inside, injuring my elbows and the door frame, but hereafter let it be known: No more theft shall pass.
I need to wield a giant glowing staff with an eagle on top.
Can I find one at Goodwill?

Guided Meditation Or, The Blink

"And now I am walking through a field of strawberries and beyond that is a lemon grove. I will park this Tonka truck and walk among the trees. Because this is my sanctuary. It is good that I am here."

How Can I Keep From Sporting?

I didn't take a picture. I didn't want to jinx it. But it turns out, it's not me; it's the Universe.
About a month into my new bike ownership, I just need to take a moment out and say Thank You, whoever you are, looking out for me and my personal safety. I almost enjoyed a ride this weekend, but then I didn't take one. As a result, I did not get hit by a passing motorist or scrape my face on any pavement because I could not ride MY SEATLESS BIKE.
Seriously. It was really kind of you to steal my !@$%ing bike seat. You jerkface!@%^$.
!@#&%^#$**
[Maniacal arm-waving]
*#$%$@!!
[Accidentally hitting over a bottle of water]
DAMMIT!$%^&Stupid$%&@#!

Sporadic Alienation

I Hope The Bear Sketch Lives On.
Last night, Laura and I went on a minidate to the Brave New Workshop to watch their final dress rehearsal of their new show YouCube: This Company Loves Misery. Awesome. Awesome. Lauren Anderson Awesome. Go see it.
One thing I was sort of expecting to see was a bit about office lunchtime culture. I remember during my 90 terrifying days in the corporate world that (buses are an amazing invention, the Farmer's Market makes Thursday almost as good as Friday, and) everyone self-elects into one of two categories

1. lunch buyer
2. lunch bringer

And from there,

1. solo lunch
2. group lunch

I know how bad it is to be a solo lunch bringer. Because I was and am one. My department here in non-corporate is made up of administrators and counselors. I suspect that they do not eat; their love for students sustains them. I, on the other hand, am eating all the time. But only when I've been sitting still for longer than 10 minutes.
The Part Where I Get Serious
All of this brings me to my new 12th grade student. On the first day he stopped by to say that he hadn't "found [his] place" here yet. But three days later he's still finding ways to skip out of the cafeteria experience by coming to visit. My office is his hub.
Thank you, God, that I am not in high school anymore.
As one student of color among a sea of white faces, he scans the crowd looking for people who look like him. "Who would you sit with?" he asks me. And I am momentarily dumbfounded.
"The geeks."
"Really? I saw you drinking your water out of a gallon yesterday. That's more hood than geek."
"Ah. Then I would sit with the hood."
[shakes his head]
Tough Love
I just sent him down to the lunch room without me. Without me to protect him or guide him or walk him towards friendly faces. And I'm in my cozy office safely behind a desk, feeling like the hypocrite I am.

Productivity: Low

Bossman: Got enough water there?
Me: This is my goal for today. [Thinking: Idiot. That sounds really ambitious. My goal is to drink this whole gallon.] During the summer, I never drink enough water. I let myself slip. [WHAT?! Why am I still talking? Shut up.] Yep, that's what I'm working on: more water. [I did just pet the bottle, didn't I?]

Labor Day

Now with more home improvement!

Two Parts Pine Needles, One Part Bubbles

We're back to school this week for in-service and yesterday had a presentation on technology by some fancy man.
My favorite part was this video. Who knew that wikis were so handy? Anyone want to plan a family reunion? I'll bring the coleslaw, since I can guarantee that I won't eat it before I arrive. That shit is nasty.
Actually, why bother? We could just have the whole family reunion online through webcams. I'll get tipsy and pretend I'm not (like Christmas (just kidding G-ma)). When I disappear from the screen everyone will think I've gone to change the music for more internet karaoke, but I'll be passed out on my bedroom floor. At least I'm not driving, right? Right?

A friend from high school feared that Furbies would one day rule the Earth.
She was on the right track.

Professional Observer

I've had my hair cut before, and I watch very carefully. I also believe

1. I can fly
2. I look like I know what I'm doing.
3. If it doesn't go well, at least it will grow back

Another picture of Muffin's haircut.

In Comparison, I Guess It's Not That Bad

"Ah, another night of incest at the hands of our neighbors."
"..."
"Shoot, did I say incest? I meant incense."

But It's Still Important to Be Well-Educated

Check out the portfolio on this site. And then tell all the young people in your life that they are beautiful and normal just as they are.
And then watch Bridget Jones' Diary because Colin Firth says it better.

Conspicuous Consumer

I bought a beautiful bracelet for myself and when the lady behind the counter asked would I need a gift box I said yes. Because heheh. Obviously. Yes, I almost forgot to ask for a box. WAIT, I'M TALKING TOO LOUDLY? Oh.. Ha. Sorry. I love giving gifts. Yes. Gift giving. For others. On special occasions.

Charmed, In The Bad Way

Last night, someone absconded with Matt's Vespa. Who steals? Asshats. People who were unloved as children. People who really need food a more gas-efficient vehicle.
Guess what, Suckers? You can't even use it unless you have the codes. Plus, something about a microchip in the key.
The thing is, when it's locked, the handlebars don't even face front. While the image of some jackass wheeling it around in circles is completely satisfying, it doesn't exactly make up for the feeling of increased discomfort and personal loss...and we didn't get to watch. Selfish bastards.

Transitioning: A Skill In Writing.

Thanks for all the concerned emails. The coffee situation is under control.
Twine Ball Days were a huge success by every account, including the fact that our Spanish visitor tried water skiing for the first time ever and totally lived to tell the tale. Except for the "terreeble pain in my focking ash." We forgot to tell her about the free enema.
[Speaking of deals, let me introduce you to puellagirl.com. Roommate Nicki and I each took the $150 challenge and ended up with 10 solid items prime for self and regifting. Get your name on the waiting list.]
[Speaking of waiting lists, I present you with a mental image of my dad's birthday celebration yesterday and the Wii we bought him. Then Lucy, with her increasingly cryptic English, pulls out the day's big winner: "Mateo, how to tell some person happy birthday?" and totally steals the show.]

Let's Troll

My weekend is pretty full.
A cooler of beer from Jimmy Keeler's

and we are off to Darwin, MN for Twine Ball Days. You can find me on the lake. I'll be the one trying to explain Francis A. Johnson's vision to a Spaniard.

Free, Or Best Offer

It was all good until it was less good and then it was just bad.
When Matt entered the room, he didn't notice until he got close to the walls; the rug; the couch; Her Majesty, the blessed womb chair.
Lucy had called in a panic. "There is a coffee everywhere. It was an essplosion on the walls. Everywhere."
"Have you told Matt?"
"No. No. I did not."
Carly and I rushed over wielding a magic eraser, but the damage was done. Little brown specks covered the entire room.

As a stand-alone incident it would have been bad enough, but there was already the garbage- disposal-spoon-eating incident (parts 1-4), the wrong-detergent-in-the-washing-machine disaster, and the randomly-turning-off-the-air-conditioning self-appointment of 2007 (ongoing).

She Has a Little Notepad for Vocabulary

I returned home last night from Family Jesus Camp to be immediately greeted by my favorite Spaniard.
Now that we're on home turf, the English Language rules all conversation. Matt constantly complains that I am too lax in my corrections of her habitual mistakes. Any, none, verb tenses, etc. English is *%&^ing complicated. It's not me.
Lucia and I spent about 10 minutes talking about how surprised she was that our streets were so clean of rabbits.
I tried to explain that rabbits are more common in the suburbs, like where our parents and our married friends live.*
She says to me, "We are talking about rabbits or we are talking about garbage?"
And I'm thinking that she's asking whether rabbits live in garbage: "Heh?"
I'll spare you the remaining 30 seconds of sentence-pause-sentence before we discover the word is rubbish. When we return to Matt's, Lucy is trying to find a new bag for rabbits and I explain it's pronounced "rub ISH" before Matt interrupts me to say that we don't even use that word here.
I blame the British.

*Zing!

Light-Colored Wine

Conclusion: bookclub weekend was a total success. Thanks to Lori's parents and some very caring husband/father types, we seven stole away Up North... with our matching beach towels and a supply of Chexnilla.

Which is obviously Chex mix plus one melty bag of white chocolate chips.
And a year's supply of gas.

My bookclub, for which less than half the women actually read the book and even fewer discuss it at length.
We are so grown up.

Association Fees

In all the excitement* of the last few weeks, Matt moved into his muchly awaited condo. I present his piece de resistance: the Womb Chair.

Isn't that a curious name? If I were a chair, I wouldn't want my name to indicate lady parts. Maybe that's just me. And I would be called "Sweet Chair-ity."

Now, I haven't run this by its owner (hi, Dear), but I'm thinking that we should put newborns in the chair and survey them. "This chair is:
A. Exactly what I remember.
B. Red. I remember red.
C. Like a time machine.
D. Not remotely equivalent to the inside of a uterus."

*I accidentally held down the x key and this post took a decidedly inappropriate turn. Which is funny since I am about to reference female reproductive organs. Yesssss.

So the Cup of Coffee said to the Anxiety Disorder

"I was supposed to tell the one about the two strings who walk into a bar, but then I totally butchered it. A frayed knot, or whatever? And then, What's red and white and black all over? Er... A newspaper. But it was supposed to be a zebra on rollerskates or something. I don't know. I'm tired."
"It's ok. Some people can't do jokes."
"Uhhhhhh."

P.S. Heartburn. I bought a new camera today.

We Called It "The House on Poop Corner"

In the elementary years, we walked home from school because it was just a few blocks; passing by the house on the corner of Remington and Mound that stank all the time. We were not particularly athletic kids, but we always ran past it and the one with all the vines and the untouched newspapers.

Wedding with a View

Ash and Mike got married on Saturday. I brought out the point-and-shoot camera for some low-resolution documentation. Check out the happy couple, and this lady's back!

We celebrated their union by hoisting our personalized beer coozys (cozies? cooties?). Later I pretended--with incredible dexterity--that they were my hands. If anybody got a picture of that, best leave it under wraps. Then my secret would get out and someone would steal me for lab work on beer coozy hands.
Brent models the salad course. Leafy greens and strawberry vinaigrette:

Not sure what caused this extended blink. Perhaps I was moved by a toast and I didn't want anyone to see my crying. Yeah, that's it.

Now tell me, does this centerpiece not look like a giant beer?

Katie told me to delete this just as soon as I had taken it, which I could have done, but then how would I have remembered the look on her face? This girl loves shoes. [Please donate to Sara's finger-reattachment fund, and dial 911 if you see this girl with a crazed expression running around in these shoes.]

I guess this picture was to prove that they are a totally proportional couple.

It was a beautiful day and I'm very proud of everyone (else) for enjoying it responsibly. Congratulations, Newlyweds!

Happy Hour

Tuesday night I got together with some ladies for some drinks. Both the ladies and the beers will remain anonymous, so you won't judge me for drinking Miller Lite with olives or hanging out with beautiful people like Maggie.
Most of the conversation centered around marriage and weddings and the pets which allegedly prepare us for the eventuality of babies. Good God. I took a minute to calm my central nervous system before even typing that.
With these women, I fill my assigned role in the group dynamic. I am the theater one, the one who overreacts to the natural progression of life (see above), and suburban living; the one who gets her hair all chopped off just to have a very tiny ponytail and then forgets to tell anybody about it. Hello, you are my cute mini ponytail and I love you.

When I told them about my plan for an entire sleeve's worth of Virgin Mary tattoo, they abandoned years of saying "yes, I'd still be your friend if you [wore an eyepatch/spoke in tounges/had three nipples/_____]" and said no. But I know what that really means is that they TOTALLY approve.

*This is the only self portrait I took with my mouth closed. Like plucking eyebrows without tearing up. It's nearly impossible.

Feeling Aged (Parenthetically Speaking)

I got "ma'am"ed today at American Eagle Outfitters, waiting for a dressing room. (Seriously? Is 25 too old to shop for wordy underoos? But "World Traveler" describes what I do best!)
Shortly after which I returned home to find that L.L.Bean had sent me a catalogue. (And a British sensibility. Where did I pick up those extra vowels?) Unrelatedly, (or perhaps not; I believe this machine senses fear), I broke my iPod.
If anyone needs me, I'll be by the mailbox, waiting for my AARP card and asking that nice young man to help with my music player.

Just When I Was Totally About to Start Working Out

Sometimes I wonder about the 911 call I'll make. Hi, my bike was stolen...no, I don't know what make...um...purple and teal-ish?...straight handlebars....Serial number? I like Quaker Toasted Oa...oh. No. Sorry....yes, Officer, I understand. Thank you for your time.
My landlord had left a note: "Please move your bike. You have wrecked the flowers."
At first my feelings were hurt. How passive-aggressive, I thought. And then I thought it was funny. I will passive-aggressively not move my it to see if the notes escalate. And then I meant to move it. Honestly. But it was raining, so I took my car. And then I left for Mexico and forgot I had a bike.
A week later, it was gone. My landlord assuring me in her nearly Canadian accent that she was sooorry about my bike, but that she hadn't moved it. I checked all neighboring streets and I am suspicious of every two-wheeled contraption passing by. I've also checked Craigslist to catch the thief who stole the bike I had LOCKED TO OUR WROUGHT IRON STOOP. Also, I want my note back! It's not every day I get notes, Buddy.
Happy Independence Day, Asshat. Enjoy it, because you've infringed on my constitutional right to not have anything stolen from me. I'm looking that up and then I'm coming for you.

More Shameless Self-Promotion

I'm typing this at my parents' house, this little interweb window obscures a family photograph in which I am the only one looking questionable.
For pictures I take, in which people almost always look nice, please visit my professional site. And my new photoblog. Big thanks to Matty for the designinging (once I get started on that word...) and massive other technical support.

Silence, Lifted

It's been a little too long since my last post and I've been home for nearly a week.
There has been plenty of time for reflection. Plus, Muffin thinks that if I don't write soon, you'll think I've skipped town for good or killed someone or gotten my dang luggage left in the rain (two lies and a truth). In reality, the trip was blessed and wonderful, excepting transportation and the lingering smell of hot poo.
I did make a note to transcribe for you two instances:
[After much discussion of her fathers' diabetes and the diabetic's enormous responsibility] Me: Wow, it sounds like your dad could really use an insulin pump.
She: I don't understand.
Me: It seems like it would remove some of the stress on your family if your dad's insulin was regulated for him with a pump like [other kid on trip]
She: What?
Me: What?
She: I don't get it.

Later, following a discussion about Happy Fun Notes (positive messages written from trip participants to each other):
She: So I made a list and I think I wrote about 17 notes, but then I think I ended up writing a couple to the same people, and I'm not sure! I don't want them to think I'm a stalker.
Me: It sounds like these notes are adding some stress to your life.
She: What?
Me: The happy fun notes are causing some serious social pressure.
She: I don't understand. I think you and I have some trouble communicating.
Me: [dumbfounded. silent.]
She: Maybe we shouldn't talk anymore. Let's just draw pictures.
Me: Yeah, based on what we've got going right now, I'm not sure that would work either.

Up, Up and A Juarez

Our yearly pilgrimage begins tomorrow. I'll be sweating in the dry sun, thankful, at least, to not be sweating myself to sleep in the apartment.
The reason for our late departure: Matt and I spent today skipping the busride to photograph a double wedding (!) with sister brides (!!) and 26 ladies-and-dudes-in-waiting (wha?!!!). All of which means that we fly out tomorrow, so this post goes out to The Poppa, whose paternal celebration day I will miss (yet again) this year.
Dear Poppa,
Thanks for understanding. And thanks for giving me Carly, who would never ask me to have a double wedding because my head would implode at all the pressure. (Plus she'd have to wait between 3 and 7 more years.)
Love.

These Holes Are Too Small for Human Heads

To Whom It May Concern:

My sister, the recent college graduate, is still available for hire.
Though I suspect that her Red Cross Babysitting Certification has lapsed.

If I were topical and had HBO...

I didn't see the finale, so let's bypass and go straight to today's assignment.
Inspired by my book club homey Rachel (purveyor of all things distracting) and last night's Commencement ceremony (Congratulations, Class of '07. That backflip really spiced things up, no?), I'd like to know what you want to do before you die. For real. Big dreams, little dreams...You can share them in the comments or just write them in your secret love notebooks.
Here are some of mine in no particular order:

• Take some city kids to Africa
• Photograph religious people (nuns, Tibetan monks)
• Get a pixie haircut and wear it to a Pixies concert
• Get seriously ripped arms, but not the veiny Madonna kind
• Be really good at improv

A Theory

Related to our assumptions about the gender (and possibly sexual preferences) of God.
After an extensive GoogleMaps search, I have determined that cathedrals were built and then topped with domes to look like breasts, so they would be pleasing to the Lord as He looks down from above.
Please excuse my 7th grade boy readership who will now GoogleMap every major city in Italy.

When I Close My Eyes

Oy. In dreams I am not responsible for the occasional German accent:

[An Announcer:] Ladies und Gentlemen, I present to you: the amazing mobile telephone.
The device walks onstage and proceeds to dial itself and rings to an audience member's cell phone. (A plant.) The young man pulls the phone out of his pocket and answers incredulously: "Hello?"
Phone answers "I am calling to you from another time and place. Without wires. Wirlessfrauen and schoppenauer."

There is more. A dance or something.
Then I wake up to a surprisingly upbeat classical tune.
Possible contributing factors:

1. Carly's constantly ringing cell phone at dinner last night (also before dinner, and after dinner).
2. Matt is in Guatemala trying to cheat death and I feel guilty calling his phone because it costs so much. But he answers!

Trompe D'Oeil

Sorry about the slow posting. I'm busy making some new good habits. Bike riding (see also: coasting down the hills), lifting one weight, memorizing lines, watching NBC Nightly News (It comes up as a tiny fraction of my computer screen. If you have any insight, please email me before I discontinue my subscription to this helpful podcast).
Today my dad told me that my eyes look like marbles. Which is, in fact, a compliment. Where he comes from. Kids love marbles. Crooks do not.
Other things bearing some resemblance to marbles:

• bowling balls
• iridescent nailpolish
• sketches of eyeballs or marbles
  

From The Heart

It was a very sweet note from a student; thank you for all that you've done for me, etc. "I don't know what I would have done without you." And then the lines, "You are a detrimental piece to the puzzle that is my life. Thank you! I will miss you greatly."
Detrimental? I wonder, what is the etiquette, when receiving a thank you card, if there is an error of word choice? Or if perhaps she used this Hallmark card to finally air her grievances against me for @#!$ing up her Life Puzzle.

Violators Will Be Told Not to Park Here Again

Nicki, Jason and I are at a play last night (Jason came for the boobies). It's a three-hour emotional marathon. When I get out of the theater and notice three missed calls--one from my father--I start to sweat. A cell phone call from my father is an emergency notification. Or I'm in trouble. An emergency notification that I am in trouble.
As I'm speaking to him, he's got the Minneapolis police on the house phone line. They've found my car in an "unlikely" spot and they think it may have been stolen. It hasn't. I'm looking at it, and I'm looking at them with their bright lights facing me as I cross the street. They're smiling when I arrive, and they've got my photo up on the info screen. I say something like, "Who's that fox?" They point to a sign that says "no parking zone" and something about violators being towed. I point to a bigger, yellow sign that advertises this as a parking lot for the theater. A conundrum. "Miss, a lot of shady activity has occurred" in the time they've waited for me to show up. I'm parked "two blocks from the epicenter of crime in the 5th precinct." There have been "34 aggravated robberies and assaults already this month." People will "break a window for the quarters and dimes in your console. Let alone the bag* in your backseat."
Before they found me, they sent a car to do an apartment courtesy check, likely ringing the broken doorbell at my apartment. They urgently called my parents; left messages on my personal cell phone. And I think to myself, If I weren't a white girl with a car registered to a wealthy neighborhood address, would anyone even bother with all this? Probably not. They would have towed the car.
Well, I was thinking that and, How will I blog this?

*Full of church papers and a Bible. Which would have been so disappointing to a robber, unless they were searching for a free Catholic Study Bible and some discussion guides.

Our Girl

(The college grad. Be as excited for her as she is for herself. )
Pomp. Ceremony. Giant robes with nasty velvet hoods.
Carly is our family's first ASL interpreting graduate. Although unless I'm mistaken, nobody else majored in theater. Booya.

Instead of Orders, Offer Choices

Discipline must be exacted quickly to be effective. I have now established myself as the serious lady neighbor.
Last night the new neighbors--or possibly merely the Winter-Dormant neighbors are in mid-party on the patio we share. Three floors up I argue with myself about whether to say anything. Since the party isn't outside Nicki's window, she goes to sleep.
11 pm approaches. Sure, we're Uptown Girls, digging the nightlife (during the summer, when we don't have to wake up for work). We're also digging the open windows since we don't "have" air conditioning and thusly suffer the consequences of everyone else's late nights. But a Thursday? We finished college three years ago. (We are clearly still very young. (But not as young as the kid who got suspended today for "drinking carton after carton of milk until [he] vomited in the cafeteria."))
I'm not going change out of my pajamas so I passive-aggressively call out my window, "Could you keep it down?" I want to add "out there" and "please," but I can't get the words out before someone yells back, "No!"
"Super. Thanks."
Following a few "Dude, your neighbor is pissed" and "she didn't say please" snarks, the party breaks up. No fists thrown; no police or landlords called. An empty victory. So next time I'll try the aggressive-aggressive approach.

Someone Once Said

"I used to think Jim was short for Jimothy."
"It's got sequins but they're square sequins so it's not, like, trashy."

After three years of Monday night meetings, my church girls are done. They graduate from high school in two weeks and beyond that, they will go on to do wonderful, beautiful things for this world. I want to wish them luck and love and delicious college food. And to tell them that they should document it heavily. Because I won't be there to write down their quotable quotes, but I really want to hear about them when we reconvene for the holidays.
I've compiled a little checklist for success in college because I know how they love lists:

• Do your work
• Live with people who have different majors, or people who change their minds all the time
• See the art/theater/music shows
• Study abroad and eat peanut butter for homesickness
• Moderate your intake of homesickness peanut butter
• Take classes in a subject you love
• Call home as a surprise to thank your parents for helping you get this far, no matter who foots the tuition bill
  
• Play intramural sports
• Go to church or somewhere on campus that makes your heart feel full of God
  

Be good, Girls. I will miss you.

You'll Just Have To Trust Me When I Say That I Know, First-Hand

There is no good way to wear a Band-Aid on your lip.

Oh, No She Didn't

I know I'm doing a good job relating to my students when I hear myself say things like:
"If you can rise above the drama and 'She's a trifling b,' you will finish your education, as you came here to do, and become an intelligent, strong, successful woman."

Using the Free Address Labels from Amnesty International

I always feel a little guilty, but it's so fast! And stickers! With my name!
Bill payment is such a pain. The stamps, the envelopes, the check-writing. We should be able to do that grocery-store thumbprint account authorization everywhere. For everything. "Oh, hello Barkeep, I'd like a pint of Blue Moon. And a little tip for you, too." Then I thumbprint his hand and BOOM. He's got my 5.00. "This city is getting too pricey for me, Barkeep. I think I'll be movin' on. First I'll have to buy a car with better gas mileage because movin' on is getting expensive, too."
But I guess that kind of payment would still involve a trip to the bank to touch their thumbprint machine. You know what? Nevermind. Let's eat cookies.

Lilacs, Medical Waste

What a welcome.
I am home again where every verdant thing blooms; the calming wind blows through my curtains; my insurance company mistakes me for my sister and charges me for both of our doctor visits...
Springtime and buttercups. An insurance claim without error is like a sleep without dreams: missing something interesting. All is right with the world.

An Approximate Charting of Our Time Spent in the UAE

Would You Rather?

After 24 hours of hotel room stink and sympathy pains, I made a trip to the pharmacy. This, in itself is a victory. I woke up this morning feeling like a prisoner of this country, which is silly considering they have just changed their laws on women in the workplace. How generous. I cried a little and told Matt I'm ready to go home.
Try explaining to a group of women gathered at a cash register that your "husband" has constipation. Do they have laxatives?
"Laxatives?"
Then we have the problem of trying to explain that it's not too much, it's too little.
"Maybe better to go to the pharmacy."
"Oh, thank you."
Now I have returned with the most foul, thick paste-of-a-drink and Matt refuses to consume the mixture: "It might actually be worse than the farties."
"Drink the Movi-Col."
[time passes]
"Do you want food, honey?"
"I want you to drink the Movi-Col."
[more time]
"Uhgllghggg. It's slimy. Could I just have water instead?"
"Does the water have Movi-Col in it?"
"Dammit! Couldn't you have gotten pills?"
"They didn't have any."
"Did you ask?"
"Well...? No. But I would have if I thought of it. I asked for laxatives. They gave me Movi-Col."

Channel 33

I'm not drunk. I just have incredibly persistent hiccups after a pint of beer.
It's illegal to be drunk in the UAE. Which is ok, because I'm Not. Drunk.
Actually, it's illegal to have any drink and drive a car. One guy just got arrested because he was caught in his car after one beer, sleeping. Luckily for me, our hotel room is not a car.
Ahem.
Matt and I took the Lama Desert Safari today. Not llama. But there was a lot of sand and we drove through it in Land Cruisers (tire pressure deflated to 16 psi for "more traction, smoother ride." My ass). When I wasn't clutching the plastic throwup baggie, I disrupted Matt's bloodflow with my talons. The rest of the evening was touristy bologna. Henna and belly dancing and camels.
We indulged by taking a bit of video and some pretentious photos. Perfectly legal.
So I'll just lie here watching Al Jazeera for a little while until I drift off to some patriotic dreamland.
More tomorrow.

The Future Looks Good

By way of a wrap up, and a week's delay in posting, and a country change (Surprise, we're in the United Arab Emirates! Ask me questions about this strange and foreign land! I will answer them in broken English in the order in which they were received.) I have searched my noodle for some appropriately impressive words. Finding none, let's just say that a couple of trees got in the way, and they had them moved.
And, just for fun, they had a nation's worth of fruit shipped to an island off the coast of another island off the coast of Madagascar as a set dressing.
And, Waiter, I am displeased with the frills on my toothpick. Bring me another club sandwich.

This wedding--and I've seen a few--was kick a** (Dammit, Dubai! Where are my good descriptors?!). Aside from the firework display, allow me to list famous-ish people in attendance (In A Very Particular Order):
1. A Mona Who's the Boss Look-alike. Plus 20 years, minus 20 lbs and a few clothing items.
2. Emilio Estefan. (Sans Gloria.) He did bring along his troupe of salsa dancers from Miami.
3. Thom, the interior design guy from Queer Eye.
4. DJ Tony from the Ellen DeGeneres show. See Matt's blog for a red-hot shot of your man during his big event. The bride and groom are on there as well.

We're about 10 hours ahead of you, there, so from the future let me just say that tonight is so much fun. Definitely the black top with the acid wash jeans.

Palm Fronds

Oh, hi...
Who, me?...
Sure. I'd love a cold towel...
A fingerbowl? Absolutely. Now confidentially, what is this for?...
Right. Great...
Brioche. Yes, thanks...
Ok. This place is swarming with people who call me Madame without a shred of irritation.
Matt and I are at the One and Only in Mauritius. Please believe me when I say it. It's true. I couldn't dream this place up. Google map us. I'll be waving to you from the white sand beaches. We're gearing up to photograph a five-day-marathon-wedding extravaganza.

Amelia Bedelia Collects a Sample

Sifting through your own poo on a Wednesday is better than doing the same thing on a Monday or a Friday. It could really ruin a week, you know?
I might have a parasite.
I've been sick since before we returned from Mexico and when the doctor requested a stool sample, I asked if he was kidding. He wasn't. But he did have a weird smile, so you can see how I got confused.
If, someday after a meal and a glass of fine wine, you'd like for me to explain my process, I absolutely will. But not here, not like this. ([Caressing a statue of Prince Eric] "...It's all so--so sudden." In times of trouble, my mind turns to Disney movie featurettes.)
If not, that's cool, too.

Babe, I Hate to Go

Sunset. Two-on-two Trivial Pursuit on Derek's rooftop. Dan convinces his partner, Matt, that he has the wrong answer.
Me: "What song originally had the lyrics 'midnight plane to Houston'?"
Matt: "Uh...'Midnight Train to Georgia'?"
Dan: "Well, it could also be 'Leaving on a Jet Plane.'"
Matt and Dan: [singing] "Mid-night Plane to Hous-ton, I don't know when I'll be back again..."
Matt: "Yeah, that's it. 'Leaving on a Jet Plane.'"
[silence]
Me: "Um. No."

We've Got Work to Do

In the last week we've had a stabbing, a drug deal, and a kid complaining of someone's balls in his face. All unrelated, if you can believe it.
Anyway, I'm going to Guadalajara for a week. Dan, Matt, and I will be flying down to visit our friend Derek, who is teaching expatriated children. We're hoping our luggage will come with us.

Today...
A student reads my shirt: "Hollllllla!"
"It says Hola."
"Oh. I'm not real good at..."
"Get Señor Diaz on the phone."

Move to Canada (because there's a hit out on you)

Carly's 22nd Annual Celebration was rudely interrupted last night by this piece of sexist propaganda.
Seriously?
"Why is your logo the international symbol for 'male?'" was not addressed in the Volvocars.com FAQs. Am I the first person to ask? Somewhere somebody is talking about how people subconsciously feel safer with a male symbol. I want to yell at those people.
Volvo's newest model has a few special features. My feelings on those are as follows:

• If you need the blind spot sensor, maybe you should hand over your driver's license to the authorities. It's sort of your job to check there, anyway.
  
• It also has a heartbeat monitor; helpful in case someone is hiding out in your car, waiting to kill you. It will show up on your key fob in the form of a blinking light. If you see it, you should run away like the woman in the commercial and then figure out why the locks and car alarm couldn't keep an intruder out. It's just too bad that you'll barely have time to ask, since someone is hiding out in your car, waiting to kill you.

Carly, I got you something special--yes, you can keep the first edition Nancy Drew--it is your freedom from a sexist car that underestimates your abilities and intelligence. Ehhh? Ehh?
Happy birthday.

Churning Urn of Burning Funk

Since Last We Met

• I sat next to the Archbishop at dinner on St. Patrick's Day. He was good company, even if he did leave before my third beer.
• If my arms slip off my desk, I will not be able to type any more. Four shots yesterday: tetanus; Hep A, B; typhoid. I was due. There are bruises.
• Are there other people out there who delete every forward that comes their way? My sweet cousin Maya sent me a "flat" version of herself. I just re-read that sentence. Excuse me while I sound like an angry old woman. Flat Maya was much harder to delete. So I sent it to France. Let that be a lesson to any of you kids out there, with your paper dolls.
  

This Sh*t Will Blow Your Minds
And if it doesn't, why didn't you tell me before?
The more I learn about something, the harder it is... Or the more simple a concept, the more trouble it causes. (Subtraction has always been a problem for me.) Last night at improv--(Woops, that's right, I don't talk here about my nightlife as an improvisational comedy warlord. That's the other blog.)--we talked about story arc. And Holy Cats!
You mean that there's no reason to be coy; my character can just state my objectives? MMMWhaaa? Well, kick me in the face! And at the end, the story must make good on the promise it made in the first scene!
The culprit: reading non-linear books. Messes up the whole brain process. Only Jane Austen for me from now on.

Benevolent Authority Figurines

I never had Dooce's problem. I love my boss. She is caring and supportive and says things like "you're a rock star" and "you go, girl!" in complete earnestness.
And now she is retiring.
To be with her children and her husband and her mother.
They don't need her like we need her.
I will do the adolescent thing for a couple more days and feel as if no one understands me in all my loneliness and workplace strife and then I will move on, happy for her family because they get to be around her all the time.
In other retiring news, Matt is officially going full time at his photography. The world of youth ministry misses him already. Don't worry, honey. They've got Jesus.

Teach Them Well and Let Them Lead the Way

Overheard:
"Do you drive to school?"
"That's what she said."
"What? That doesn't even make sense. It doesn't even work in that situation."
"Of course it does. 'Drive?'"

Hey, you guys need to spend some more time watching television and less time talking. Ok? If you'll excuse me, I have to go deal with the kid who electrocuted himself by putting a paper clip into an outlet. Also, tell the kid with his girlfriend's ring stuck on his finger to calm down. The paramedics will be here in two shakes.

Ice Packs Not Included

Before today, I'd only seen it done on film. It is:

A) punching a wall/bathroom stall/locker
B) eating fried banana sandwiches
C) laparoscopic surgery

The answer is A. I tried it. I punched a bathroom stall. Like an angry person from Varsity Blues or Degrassi* . I (inexplicably) aimed high. As if I'd get the metal right on the chin. Turns out, ouch.
Hey, Sally Vaguepants, what caused this outburst? Communication failure with a taxi company.

*big ups to my Canadian posse of one

Absent Hearts Grow Fonder? You'd Actually Be Dead.

Maybe you're all "what's the deal with this girl?" Maybe you're not. Then, why are you reading? Then, why are you reading?
The deal is this: I got a new computer, a new internets connection, a new business, and now I'm in the process of congealing (concealing?) them all until they're ready to be unveiled.
I'm a lot like the magicians in The Prestige, which I met and loved this weekend. And I only napped through 3 minutes. World record. Hello, Prestige. You're intriguing. Call me.
Not since Tideland has a movie required such active participation as an audience member. True, a large part of my responsibility was being angry every time Scarlips Johansboobs appeared.
Hahaha. Scarlips.
Gross.

A Little Bit Frightening, Expert Timing

What if everybody really was kung-fu fighting?
Because I'll tell you that in my dreams last night, it didn't look as fun as I thought it would.

I Have Thusly Made It To My 25th Birthday

In the Interest of Full disclosure:
I never said I could cook. I make garlic bread. And that, only when I have someone to help manage the bread once it's been cut and it starts to do a little Jacob's Ladder thing in my hands. On Saturday, I promised Roommate Nicki that I would not repeat the tofu dog incident of 2007. Her skepticism, I believe, led directly to my frozen pizza disaster.
To be clear: I did not set the apartment on fire. I merely reheated the charred remains of cheese on the bottom of the oven. Very different.
Yes, the smoke detector did sound. Yes, we opened all the windows and turned on all the fans. Yes, we did end up watching a movie wearing blankets and hooded sweatshirts while the snow flew in.
Yes, we could have died of asphyxiation in our sleep. But we didn't.
We woke up another day to dig our cars out of the 40-inch snowdrift using only a dustpan, a wooden stick, and an ice scraper.
Congratulations, Frozen Foods, Nature and Mn-DOT, you put up a good fight.

Just When I Was Feeling Very Urban...

I'm currently in a meat-free state of being. But being the undomestic-asshat-of-a-chef I am...
It's just...
Tofu dogs burn easily. And the only thing worse than a burnt tofu dog, is a burnt tofu dog with stir-fry soaked in low-sodium Teriyaki sauce.

Strike two:
"Cally, you know you have a comb in your hair."
"Yes, I know that."
"Ok. I misunderstood. You see, I thought the comb-in-the-hair thing was passé."
"..."
"So, you need a bus pass?"
"Yep."

Whoever You Say I Am

[Here I justify my Eminem reference.]
See below for some whimsy.

Read my VisualDNA™ Get your own VisualDNA™

(Via Squab)

Adults Venture Outdoors: Find Calamity, Dead Animals

Yesterday's weather being what it was, we took to the streets.
The natural results of such unusual behavior:

• Matt's Vespa broke down 3 blocks from my apartment. 500 lbs of machinery Euro-cute to ride on, not so cute to push down Hennepin.
  
• Lost my wallet (in my sweatshirt pocket). Found it there only after cancelling the cards and looking suspiciously at everyone I passed.
  
• Encountered two perfectly-preserved dead animals and an empty plastic bottle of white grape juice. I hate to be obvious, but I think we all know where this story is going. The animals had a little too much to drink and died of hypothermia. Or, the squirrel got violent with the mallard before he eventually turned the bottle on himself.
  

Like The Gentle Bleeting of a Billy Goat

My Head, She Pounds.
Somebody turn off the lights and pass me that book. I'll rip the pages out to cover my body for warmth.
Drunk Girls Dancing All Around.
Richards and Co. played last night at the perennial favorite breast cancer benefit: Booze for Boobs. Two points for every woman there for having both booze and boobs. Some of them having too much of one or the other. I'm looking at you, Dooney and Bourke. You almost suffocated my boyfriend when you leaned over to ask for a cigarette. (No. He doesn't smoke. Gross. P.S. We need to talk about who, of the two of us here, needs a push-up bra. Ok. Agree to disagree.)
Maybe It's Something You Ate.
Blllleeeeeeeeerggggggggh. I guess that beer could have done it, but I prefer to demonize the peanut butter. Seriously. You're not hungover. It's salmonella. I will be sending in my lid for a full refund. Keeping you posted...
Cotton Mouth Kisses,
Sri

Lemon Zest with a Hint of Grated Knuckle

I look damn cute in an apron and bandana. That is the only reason I try not to cook or wear headscarves. Too much attention.
But I broke all the rules for Anne on Monday night. We went to Let's Dish to pre-pre-pare some meals for once her baby #2 arrives in t-minus-7 days. My own cooking philosophy borrows from the ancient Greek tradition of "oknonos," also known as, "reheating bags of frozen pasta from Trader Joe's."
"They are delicious."
"I know."
"I especially enjoy the arrabiata sauce because it looks all innocent like 'Who, me? I'm with marinara' when really it's waiting to burn its way into your belly."
"Menacing."
"Yes."
"You should get back to writing."
"Well, fine day to you, too."
"And don't forget to give Sara J the birthday shout-out."
"..."
"I know. But I watched TRL yesterday and it was in my head."
"..."
"I'm sorry. Tell me more about that pasta."
"[middle finger]"

Sugars: 27 grams

Happy Valentimes.
I tied a pink ribbon around my phone to celebrate.

It also reminds me to not get breast cancer.

All the [Work's] a Stage

We've got a lockdown drill today and guess who gets to be the victim of a fake stabbing?!!!
This guy.
Wish me luck.

It's Not Unusual

What two special things occured yesterday?

1. Muffin's birthday
2. Our landlord found a pen in the pipes of our commode

What do these things have in common?

1. Awesomeness
2. Inevitability

For the Right Reasons

Nicki and I went to see Freedom Writers on Wednesday night. There was an educator special deal at the AMC with the stadium seating.
When you wait all day to not pay for a movie, it doesn't even matter if it sucks. Frankly, I expected to hate it. It would have been appropriate for me to hate it. But I didn't hate it. I cried. And so did Nicki. Even though our seat neighbors repeated the poignant lines for the Lady who was Too Good for Assisted Hearing Devices.
Mini-gripes, keeping in mind that I cried:

1. Just once I'd like to see a blockbuster movie with a female teacher of color working with students of color in a life-changing-empowerment-Stand-and-Deliver way.
2. She stayed with them through their whole high school careers. The real challenge would be in repeating the success with various student groups each couple of years. Being brave and letting go are big important steps in education...
   

Anyway, we bought journals for our students. Inspired to give them a forum for their thoughts/ideas/inspirations. When I suggested it to one student today he said he'd be into it because it would get him "so much ass."
I'm going to be brave and let this kid go.



*Unfunny idea that I compulsively thought during the lobby/pre-show trivia: Me dressed as William Wallace, shrieking, "They can take our land, but they'll never take our Freedoooommmmm [Writers]!"

Call Me Savion

ShuFFLE, shuFFLE.
Rin and I intro'ed ourselves to Tap last night at a class called "Feets of Daring." Frankly, I found Tap to be a bit of a bitch. Shoes too small, improperly flapping feet. I made an ill-timed Barbaro joke and hated myself for the rest of the minute.
Instructor Rob held my hands to keep me from tipping while I learned how to dig my heel. Whenever he let go I added my own flourish. Like the greats.
All this is to say that tickets go on sale today for our Musical Revue: The Story of Rin and Sri, which we will perform (with much ado) in 2010 or 11, depending on availability. Much tapping, much hilarity. You can't get them through Ticketmaster, but if you're interested, please contact me with a credit card number or Money Order.

Crowning Achievements

I didn't get to see Justin Timberlake. But I did convince a kid that people aren't actually human beings until age 12. And I convinced another kid that the pump you use to blow up an air mattress is called a sphincter.

Paying Less, Eating More (Or At Least The Same. But Probably More)

The imaginary message I left for Target Execs when I imaginarily called from a SuperTarget to their comment line:
I love this place! Magical! Well lit! Archer Farms everything. I just bought Archer Farms Banana Chips! And Archer Farms Ice Cream Bars!
Voicemail #2:
I looked for a copy of Archer Farms The Collected Plays of Edward Albee Volume 1 and you didn't have it. So now I have to make a special trip to Half Price Books.
#3:
I was sort of hoping for a Unicorn sighting, but you didn't have that either.
#4:
I just climbed into the freezer section to be closer to your Archer Farms Mediterranean Pizzas. And I forgive you.