When I See You Walk Across The Campus

Matt's out of town again.
I'm taking suggestions for how *I* should start my getting paid to travel exclusively to awesome destinations during the workweek, flying first class. Public education, I like you, but you will never send me anywhere first class.
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"Beer!"
"Sweets!"
"Using the Lord's name in vain!"
Happy birthday Carly, you can have all the ice cream cake you care to eat.
I probably should have chosen something I could go back to guilt-free after Lent.
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Had a great Easter celebration Sunday with the nuclear family churching and dining and watching of Batman Begins. [Awesome except for the trademark Katie Holmes smirk.] We like to mix it up. Sometimes we take a "Christmas card" picture.
I used to wish for spontaneous traditions to emerge among my friends. Perhaps it was a result of being in what felt like constant flux: Go to school. Go home for summers and breaks. Go back to school. Study abroad. Come home. Graduate. Move home with parents. Move out.
Recently I said something like, "Yeah, it must've been about a year ago or sometime during college..." and Matt had to interrupt to remind me that we graduated four years ago.
Huh. So you're saying I should stop using my student ID?

When I See You Smile

My Thursday night was muchly improved when I walked past a giant black man standing in the greeting cards section of Target, giggling to himself. Kind of along the same lines as this big guy, little ukelele theory of humor.
I spent my Friday night talking to 8th grade girls about how to be better friends to themselves and others. To wit, I shared with them an entry from my entirely embarrassing Diary of Crushes and Pettiness for which I Will Never Properly Atone. I gauge my presentation as moderately to largely ineffective, but my audience meter was down that night, so I guess we'll never know.
P.S. Can anyone tell me where I can find a battery made of unicorn mane and fairy dust?
Wow! Holy crap! I almost left you without saying: It's St. Patrick's Day! Hi. Hi. Check this out.

Taking Notes

I'm sitting on an exercise ball. It's part of my new approach.
Nicki and I attended a conference last week about working with difficult and hard-to-reach students. Most of the strategies were not about changing the kids, but about managing our own perceptions. Aaaahhh! Tricky!
The perception I'm changing today is that I need a regular chair.
The perception I'll change tomorrow is that I am gradually sinking into the floor because this exercise ball cannot support me.

Maggie's Getting Married

Somewhere between the "How Well Do You Know Your Fiance?" game and the Hungarian's arrival, we had an [olive] oil spill and 1.5 head-to-wall collisions. Angie #2 downed a quart of vodka. Maggie spilled cranberry juice on her white pants. I stopped counting the number of Victoria's Secret bags when I got to 7.
The tanned, waxed Hungarian "Firefighter" got down to his spiderman thong. Personally, I preferred the clothes-on version. Or at least the non-defilement of superheros version. He provided the soundtrack. The rest of us provided the gawking. Eventually it wore off.
What do you do when nobody is interested in watching the stripper anymore? Ask him to leave? Offer him chips and salsa? Make the oil slick kitchen floor into a slip n' slide? We all slowly returned to our previous conversations and helped him gather up his dollar bills. Because it would've been totally degrading to make him get them himself.