Absence makes the heart grow mildew.

16 06 2009

And now, the story.

I haven’t touched my blog in SO long.  A few weeks ago I finished my first year of teaching.  It was an extraordinary year!  I cried every night for the first six weeks of school because I hated it so much.  The kids were ridiculously wretched, I had no idea what I was doing, my program coach insisted on throwing new materials at me day after day, the kids were ridiculously wretched, and then there were the kids, who were ridiculously wretched.  I hated teaching, and, more specifically, I hated teaching those kids at that school.

Then things mellowed out.

One night in January I cried because the school year was half over and pretty soon those kids, those funny, smart, interesting, fantastic kids, would be leaving me.  I miss them terribly, by the way.  Some of them.  Particularly the ones who I was convinced were trying to kill me.  Jimmy B.  Marquis.  Briana P.  Victor!  Oh my god, Victor.  Those kids wrote me the nicest notes in my yearbook!  I learned much more from them than I managed to teach them.  That’s ok, I think I needed it more than they did.  I’ll never forget them.  Anyway, I held tightly to a very tenuous grasp on my sanity this past school year.  If I had tried to talk about while I was in it, well, I shudder to think what I might have said.  Anyway, that’s why I haven’t touched my blog.  School, baby.  I’m really excited for next year!  And after August 1st, it may be another year before I touch this dusty old blog again; I’m the cheer coach, yearbook advisor, and promotion coordinator.  Why yes, I do want to die!  Thanks.

But you came for the puppy!  Maybe even what turned out to be the sad tale of dinner, for which I had such impossibly high hopes.

About a week ago I was cruising tastespotting.com looking for dinner ideas.  Why?  That thing is like the Moosewood cookbook- infuriatingly complex, even while promising to not try my skills overmuch.  I found this recipe for something called El Jibarito sandwiches.  YUM!  This evening I endeavored to make some.  I fully intended to serve my family something edible.

As is often the case, I was missing several key ingredients.  No orange or lemon or lime juice?  No problem!  I have margarita mix!

P6160005

Marinating!

Wish I were…

How is this plantain-squishing thing supposed to go, anyway?

Here’s what they looked like, all assembled.

Here’s what was left, a whole lotta plantain:

Dude, those things were too difficult to eat!  The plantains were so thick and dry.  I think, if I ever make these again and don’t you go thinking I will because I most likely will NOT, I’ll quarter the damn things and then squish them.  Whatever.  I had such high hopes.

I shall seek comfort in the new love of my life, Special Agent Dale Cooper.  We named him this because the adoption thought he was part lhasa apso.  As we all know, those dogs were bred to live in the monastery with Tibetan monks.  Anyone who watched Twin Peaks over and over, and maybe over again, will remember the scene in the forest during which Special Agent Dale Cooper explains his dream-technique learned in Tibet.  Et voila, our doggie was named after one of our favorite TV characters.  But it turns out the kid is part chow chow, part miniature pinscher, part Norwegian elkhound, so what we should have named him is Al Swearengen, after our latest favorite TV character.  Too late, Cooper already has his tag and everything.

Seriously.  That face.  I am in love with this little boy.  However, he managed to gain four pounds in a month, so who’s little now?

Fatty Fatass.  How does he even fit in his bed??





Watch This Space

16 06 2009

I know I haven’t posted in a million years, I don’t know if my three readers have given up on me, but later this evening or tomorrow I’ll have a story for you, a story about my puppy and a story about the most delicious dinner which I’m about to start fixing! Wow one sentence!





David Bowie

17 06 2008

One of the two benefits to having your children involved in way too many extracurricular activities is that there’s a good chance at least one of their coaches/instructors will be hot. My kids’ former karate instructor, one Sensei Chris, was our delightful token hottie for the past year after their former sensei died unexpectedly (although, seriously, he was severely obese, had horrible teeth, and sounded like he’d been a smoker since 3rd grade, so how unexpected could his death have been I ask you? I couldn’t stand him, but NO, I did NOT bust out the voodoo dolly on him). He’s leaving Arizona for North Carolina and a corporate job with the organization through which my kids are learning to kick ass in a major way. By the way, Sensei Chris claims to have trained a champion cage match fighter, but I googled his whole name and found nothing. I seriously think he’s a stoner, despite his tight embrace of martial arts and self-discipline. Anyway, here’s a picture of last Friday’s class. That little blur is my son. Notice, please, the thorough ass-kicking he’s giving Sensei Chris.

I love this new camera. You know what else I love? These stemless wine glasses, the wine inside it, the knitting it sits beside, the lamp behind them, and the table upon which they all sit. I’ve got paint chips on the wall, trying to pick a new color for our walls. What is on the walls now is the grossest, shiniest, stickiest white white white paint ever. Encased in this paint, like Han Solo in that carbon stuff, I’ve found the (2) curly black hairs (they’re at chest level, or so I hope) and one (1) cricket. How do you paint a cricket into a wall? I know HOW, I just don’t get why.

Jimmy swears this is a Jesus fish on our back wall, but seriously. If a Jesus fish were to magically appear to anyone, it would not be either of us.

Knitting! I’m knitting the Lace Ribbon Scarf (too lazy to link, and besides, everyone knows how to find knitting/crochet stuff these days anyway) and here is a super crappy picture! I can get the focus down juuuust right, but I’m having trouble with the color settings on my new camera. I’ll get there.

All right. I really want you all to know how much your sweet comments mean to me! There have been some rather crappy times chronicled on this dusty old blog, and your support and kindness meant a lot to me then. And all these years later, there are some diehard readers (Batty! My most frequent and lovely reader!) still offering me so much kindness and cheer. The other night I had a dream about my first day of school, which is coming up sooner than I think OH MY GOD. I dreamt that my kids were horrible, ill-behaved monsters. In my dream I was so incompetent and freaked out, I tearfully begged the janitor to come help my get my students under control. I guess that’s nothing compared to the dream I had last night in which legless people were being hoisted by pulleys onto a table so they could have sex. Ok, WTF?





Next!

30 05 2008

I promise not to post just when big things happen in my life. Because this would probably be my last post ever.

Since April 19th, I:

Graduated with my Master’s degree in Secondary Education;

Became an officially certified teacher;

Accepted a teaching position in a somewhat tough school in a somewhat scary part of the city;

Bought a house!

I’m on my way right this moment to get the keys. So good bye!





Married married married!

19 04 2008

In a few hours my best friend and I are joining forces to spend the rest of our lives together. I’ll put up pictures later unless I’m in a wedding cake coma. That’s entirely possible.

Right now I’m listening to Bruce Springsteen sing “Book of Dreams” to me and I could just up and die of pure love. But I won’t.





My therapist says not to see you no more.

22 03 2008

I realize that’s a double-negative, and that my therapist means that I should see more of you, but what James meant when they sang that is “My therapist is telling me to stay away from you because you drive me crazy and not in the good way, but in the Britney Spears You Drive Me Crazy head-shaving way.” 

For some reason I like to pretend I’m a prude.  I’m not.  I’m coarse, I’m vulgar, I appreciate a good dirty joke, but all in the privacy of my own little world.  And I don’t like it when people bust into my own little world with their vulgarities.  I’m also very liberal in my definition of “my own little world.”  By liberal I mean it’s ok when I’m coarse and vulgar, but not anyone else.  This is something I need to work on, and so I shall.  I get quite uptight and judgmental when something goes down that’s not to my liking.  Realizing you have a problem is the first step.  Living in a glass house, as I am, I should not be throwing stones.  Which is all my way of saying I do solemnly swear to no longer get uptight and panties-in-a-wad-ed over anything on ravelry ever again.  Thank you.

So what’s up with my knitting?  I’ll tell you what’s up.  I’ve got that Noro sock I’m working on when I’m very very bored, and that’s about it.  And that’s because I now know how to crochet and let me tell you, I take back every bitchy, condescending thing I ever said or thought about crochet. 

 

That’s going to be a Babette blanket for my son.  He’s too young to know that the 70s were the height, the pinnacle, the zenith of tacky ugliness and that these colors bring back all of that in one fell swoop.  He’s in love with it, which thrills me to so many pieces.  That yarn is Cotton Ease. It’s so soft.  It’s so cheap.  It is so machine washable.  I can’t wait until it’s done!  And then I’ll make another one to throw in the couch, and Loverman and I shall snuggle under it and ok, now I realize that yarn needs to be machine washable, too, if you know what I mean and I think you do.





And a soda on the side.

1 03 2008

Because I care about Ed and his ongoing quest for reading pleasure, here’s a blog post. 

Um.  I finished the kitted part of a really cute green purse.  I used Berroco Suede and some shiny nylon tape thing.  I started this originally as one of those “knit a long rectangle, fold it in half, and seam up the sides” deal, but instead I redid it with a rectangle bottom, then I picked up stitches on three sides and knit in the round until I ran out of the shiny tape stuff.  Which wasn’t very long.  I should have taken a picture of the ridiculously tangled mess I had with this yarn last weekend as we drove down to Tombstone for the day.  I didn’t, though.  Here it is with the handles that still need to be attached.  I’m not sure what the finished dimensions will be.  I’ll let you know after I line it with cute fabric and something to make it not floppy.  Suggestions?

 

That’s my new laptop, by the way.  A Dell XPS M1330.  In addition to a ridiculously wonderful machine, I also get instant tech support with people who LIVE IN UTAH.  That’s all I have to say about that.

 
Speaking of Tombstone!  It was great fun.  It occurred to me, towards the end of the day, that Tombstone is a lot like a renaissance fair(e), but with boring costumes and fewer women.  And no delicious smoked turkey legs that require one to be prepared with plenty of dental floss.

 

We went on a tour of the historic Birdcage Theater, which is apparently the only thing keeping Tombstone designated as a historical town or whatever it is.  Apparently this is the most haunted place in Tombstone, but that’s like saying my silverware drawer is the most haunted place in my kitchen.  I took plenty of pictures figuring I’d find some ghostie orbs or ghostly figures afterwards.  This is the most interesting picture.  I don’t know for sure what those fiery blobs are, so I’m going to assert that they’re manifestations of unhappy souls of departed prostitutes.  I might be full of crap. 

 

On our way back home we stopped for dinner in Tucson at a place called Lil’ Abner’s.  Oh.  My.  God.  I have never had such gloriously wonderful ribs in my entire life.  They have four things on their menu.  Wait, they don’t even have a menu.  They will serve you a gigantic steak, a gigantic slab of beef ribs, a gigantic slab of pork ribs, or a few chickens.  Take your pick.  Eat them all.  They grill their meat over a pit, and they don’t start cooking until you order.  Go there.  Lil’ Abner’s in Tucson.  It’s housed in what used to be a Pony Express depot.  Pretty awesome.   Check out my boy in a food coma!   (No, he didn’t eat all of those.)

 

 





Yes, we can.

3 02 2008

I don’t think I’ve ever talked about my personal politics here.  Maybe I have, I don’t remember.  And it’s not often that I ask you for anything, but today I am.  Please click right here and turn up your speakers.  Then come back.  I’ll wait.  Go!  I’ll still be here. 

 
All right.  I ask you, was that or was that not the most inspiring, uplifting, and hopeful thing you’ve seen for, oh, at least EIGHT YEARS?  I am in love with Barack Obama.  I am in love with his optimism and realism.  I want him to be my President.  I want him to be your President.  And if you’re Ed, I want him to be the President your Prime Minister meets with from time to time to discuss important matters such as “How the in the world can this horrific wound be healed?”

 
Barack Obama, ladies and gentleman.  Vote.  Yesterday my teaching team leader went canvassing for Obama.  At a little house in central Phoenix he rang the doorbell and was greeted by an elderly black woman.  When my friend introduced himself and told her why he was there, she began to cry, saying she never imagined she’d see the day when a white man would walk miles and miles to support a black man for President.  Yes, we can.

Yes, we can, yes, we can.





So what you’re saying is….

28 01 2008

So.  All that happy clap-trap was before I met the delightful creature who I’ll call Smayla Smaxwell.  Student privacy and all.  The evil evil ass-faced bitch actually told me to shut up and chill out.  Oh yes, and then she invited me to bite her.  Remind me, why am I doing this?  Why did I want to be a teacher? 

 

I’m just kidding.  I love teaching, I really do.  I just hate that evil ass-faced bitch and hope she … transfers.

PS- Noro Sock Yarn.  Believe, yo.





F that S!

12 12 2007

So I did this little thing to see what my blog would be rated and I’m quite displeased!  Only PG-13?  What kind of crazy talk is that?  Maybe I should say stuff like “boobs” and “whiskey” and “drunken sluts”.  But you see how I put those in quotation marks?  Those aren’t my words!  I don’t use such language!  Priss priss priss!  This story is about to change all that. 

Loverman works for a marvelous internet advertising agency, and they are very good to their employees.  Twice a year they throw big parties, take their sales guys to trade shows in NYC and San Francisco, all sorts of good things.  I was very much looking forward to this year’s Christmas party; all the guys who work for this company are nerdy and awkward in their own special way.  I’m not sure they’d deny that.  The wives and girlfriends, however, are AWESOME and I always have a good time with them.  Oh, and two of their super super gay boys, one only semi-spectacular gay boy with the BEST girl pal ever.  For some reason the party organizer decided that this year, there would be entertainment.  I’m not sure what he was thinking when he booked the dance troupe, but I’m quite sure it wasn’t “Ooh!  Itty bitty titties!  Deeelightful!”  But that’s what we had, and it was quite entertaining.  I am mostly convinced that more than half of the troupe members were not originally women.  All right. The evening progressed, I tossed back more vodka tonics than would prove later to be good for me, and had a gay old time talking with K, L, and J about which dancers we thought were doing a great job at passing, and which dancer had the most prominent package.  Towards the end of the show, the main entertainer (and I think she was the main entertainer because she shook her booty more feverishly than any of the others) waved to a man in the crowd and said “Come on up here, baby!  And bring your chair!”  And I, never having experienced a lap dance before, was reluctant to sit idly by and watch someone else enjoy the entertainment all on his own.  So I opened my big fat mouth and “Where’s MY lap dance?” came sauntering out.  Well.

“Come on, honey!  I don’t discriminate!”  So I grabbed my chair and joined co-worker and Dancer and sat happily down.  I spent the next thrilling four and a half minutes trying to determine the gender of my lap dancer.  Her bum was squishy when she sat on me, but her shoulders were broad AND she was wearing a wig.  I didn’t spank her, although now I think I should have and I regret the missed opportunity.  However, she did pull out the top of my party blouse to check out my rack, after which she announced “They’re fabulous!  And they’re real!”  Thanks!  Thanks, Victoria’s Secret, Secret Embrace Angels Bra with up-lift and separation!  The dance ended al too quickly and Dancer kissed my cheek.  She left a very big lipstick mark and I walked around with my cheek stuck out for the rest of the evening, bragging about my slutty encounter. 

The next day at work management herded everyone into the office and apologized for the entertainment.  Apparently Organizer truly had no idea what he had booked, and they were truly sorry if anyone, particularly anyone’s spouse, was offended.  Loverman piped up “Mine sure wasn’t!”

 
I can’t wait for next year’s party.  I’m bringing some fives, though. 








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