Really?

Another long weekend gone. I love Castaway. It is one-stop shopping for sleep deprivation and Jesus. This year we heard from speaker, Bill Paige, about keeping it real. Don't front. God already knows.
I'm still waiting for his list of Christian hip hop artists cause Neighbor, you know I love me some hip hop.
Since I come bearing no photographic evidence of waxing Eddie's back on stage, here's Pelican Lake as interpreted with Microsoft Paint and a certain level of exhaustion.

Backing Slowly Away from the Cage

Two gems from the last week, since it was otherwise filled with rocks:

• Rin: "It's the dude with the billy goat beard. Can we all agree that 9 times out of 10 it's the guy with the billy goat beard?" In this case, the billy goat beard was the one smoking up in public, outdoors, at 1 pm.
• Chris: "I'd hire you to write my life, and to provide me with huge, fictional sandwiches." Because in my first screenplay rom-com ever, "Margot and Chris," about Margot, a Canadian, and the lovely Chris, who meet in NYC, they spend the third scene at a deli eating huge sandwiches. Perhaps that quote began with adequate context.
  

So it was another week full of drama and exhaustion. This job is killing me -- loudly, with punches, and scenes in the lunchroom. Get me out of here. In fact, get everybody out of here. Let's start over: a charter school for non-person-to-person violence. If you get into a fight at this new school, we will throw you into the lion's cage and walk away. Because we didn't say anything about animal-to-person violence. And everybody signed the waiver.

Accountability

I'm getting angry. In the five years I have worked here, I have seen too many students come back to visit me with giant proud grins: I'm gonna have a baby!
Um... great.
I ask about their plans. I ask about the other half of the DNA. "Are you together?"
Most often I get something like, "Oh, no. That piece of trash? All he's good for now is sending child support."
And what I really want to say is this: That piece of trash? Really? You let somebody put part of their garbage self inside of you? So that you could feel loved for a moment? You selfish brat. For the record, almost anybody can make a baby. And this one deserves two parents who are fully present to care for it. You are not special, nor are you original. You are a pretty unimpressive statistic, on the whole. At least you graduated first.

Late September, Early Onset Diabetes

As I Was Saying
Do you ever get the feeling that your work is cutting in to your happy houring? Yes!
Thank you. Me, too. Mondays are hard because the weekend helps me unlearn all the--Shit. It's Tuesday.
Listen, I'd really like to finish pulling this report, it's just that Jill wants me to see her wedding photos, so....? Maybe? Next week? Thanks for being so understanding. Ooh, actually? I need to go to coffee with Lori to talk about some stuff. Heh. I'll be back next Thursday afternoon.

The Latest in a Dull Series
Rather than actually do the things I'm supposed to be doing, I'm breaking them up into manageable chunks. I'm going through a new organizational phase of small notes affixed to three-hole punched sheet protectors. It's hard for me to believe the amount of joy I derive from organizing to-do lists. Let's all air the vaguely OCD habits that shame us!

BabyStalkers, Inc.
Brunch-style bookclub on Sunday morning, 'cause we're unpredictable like that. And we didn't read the book, 'cause we're lazy like that. (Or we've been drinking at church Oktoberfest the night before and getting picked up by the cops for passing out under pine trees.) Anne brought the Jimster and I watched him sleep, as a safety precaution in case one of the other women tried to steal or bite him.

That Oktoberfest Passing Out Story is Matt's
Matt wins because he yodeled and schuhplattled. And he can keep that story because Wells Fargo is being an asshole to him. I said it. I SAID IT.
My Oktoberfest story is two parts strudel, one part text message: "Too dry k. Can't code my eyes. Spinny. So spinny."

AMERICA! Home of the Free and the Well-Educated!

This commentary makes me giggle a little. I know it shouldn't, because sexism is bad. But that's not why I'm laughing. What's funny is when somebody with a glamour shot on the byline is writing about sexism with such fervor and simultaneously, such vapid content.
In particular:

By treating Sarah Palin differently from other candidates in this race, you are not showing her the respect she deserves.

Free Sarah Palin.

Free her from the chauvinistic chains you are binding her with.

While you're at it, free Campbell Brown from her dangling prepositions.

Meet Pearl

She's here! I am the new owner of a used Subaru named Pearl (runner up name: Morty Fitzbaum III). I have one image, which does not provide a tremendous amount of context, but it does show you the junk in her trunk:

One lovely thing about having a trunk is that people cannot so much see that you are, in effect, living out of your vehicle*. Subes was a hatchback and thusly the trunk was more of a... three-season porch. I had a pair of crocs in there. One croc found a hiding spot among the laundry piles, greeting cards and the singleton mittens of yesteryear. The other croc stayed in the light, perched above all the other crap with the sun beating down day after day through the window.
I present to you The Raisin Croc (Expertly modeled by Carly. More cell phone pictures! More average quality visual media! Love this blog anyway. Please.):


(Raisin not because it's nature's candy, but because it has shrunken and warped.)

Moral of the story: Cut off some toes if you're keeping rubber shoes in your hatchback.

*The bad thing is that sometimes you forget even after you take a picture that you've visited the grocery store and your milk product goes into the questionable temperature zone.

Notorious

Gooodbyeee to Suuuuubes. Goodbye to everything that I knewwwwwooohooh.
You guys, I am sad to let this car go. (Escargot, my car go....)
Yesterday was our last day together and we were kind of in a rush, which is why I took these shitty cell phone pictures to preserve her in our collective memory. [Not shown: the villainous torque bind.]
Awwwwwrustspots and missing hubcap:

Up next: more rust in weird bubble form

Her sweet dented front bumper.

Keyed entry:

Let me never forget the months I spent opening the driver's side door with a separate key than the ignition because we had to replace that one lock after somebody broke in to steal the change from the cupholder. Sigh.

13 beautiful years, Subes. What is Aegean Blue? The color of my heart's tears.
This post sponsored by Subaru, Michelle Branch and Biggie Smalls.

Brought to you by...

My desktop is sponsored by Crayola and Post-it. My desk drawer is sponsored by cough drops and hall passes. And tiny bottles of alcohol.

Where was I? Ah, yes. Loosely tying things together....

My dad and his siblings are sponsored by my Gramma and Grampa whose 54th wedding anniversary is today. They were out to dinner when I called. Apparently their server called them "Lovebirds." I stopped listening after that, because she giggled and my brain mushed from all the sweetness.

Hold Me Closer, Tiny Banker

I don't claim to be shrewd or business-savvy or "profitable." But sometimes people frigging pay you money for the stuff you do, like take pretty pictures of their families or whatever. And sometimes even when you're brave enough to charge American dollars, people's mother effing checks bounce. Who pays...you know, eventually?

1. The babies? Nope. They're fine. Don't worry about the babies.
2. The government? Nope...well, maybe. I'm not clear on the way it all breaks down. Probably not, though.
3. ME? Hell yes. I am going to be charged for your mistake. $7. So I go from making money, to owing money. This math is bad and wrong.
   

Feeling a bit on the grumpy side of ok, due to the end of another glorious weekend. There was karaoke, bike rides, overbeering, sleeping late, meeting puppies, buying a big-girl bike bag (Not the orange one. That shit is ugly).

Esoteric Moment: Did a lovely set as "Sibling Rivalry" with a pair of friends last eve at Improv-A-Go-Go (too many hyphens?). If you don't go to this weekly $1 event, you are missing out. So much laughing for $1. I could have bought entry for 7 persons, but now I have to give that to the bank, who isn't even going to use it for recreational comedy viewing! Ass!

Consider the Following:

Thoughts packed like small fish in a tin can:

• It's layering weather. Sweaters and scarves and nomnomnom. I feast on you, Autumn Temperatures. And you, Falafel.
• Holding in my bizarre behaviors for the common good and the common spaces at work. Ready to explode when the day is done. EGGO!
• Why does laryngitis always sound fake? You're telling me that you can only make little squeaky sounds? Hehm, no. I do not accept that excuse.
• J. Crew's final sale--you can't return it, but don't eff up your order, and you won't need to.
  
• Hiding light under a bushel: 30 pack of Sharpies in my desk drawer.
• Mind-exploding conversations around the influence of gender versus personality. How much of anything can we attribute to gender or personality: likes, dislikes, tendencies? Right? Did your mind explode?
• The Mom and The Poppa are in New York for the US Open, which means two things: House party! Laundry! In that order, but without the house party one. Yesssssssssssssss.