Not much to tell

Nevertheless, I figured I'd better write something. We're leaving my place early tomorrow for parts north, and I'll likely be offline until Monday. I finally got my stuff from Amazon, so I was able to exchange gifts last night with my mom and boompah. We had a nice evening and tried a new restaurant (Dragonfly, where we had spring rolls and taro chips and I had a house salad and vegetable noodles). I got all kinds of cool stuff, too! Good new books that I can't wait to dig into, a great new Scurvy sweater that I had coveted, a new piece of Fiestaware, an awesome carry-on bag, and from sweetie, WonderWoman underoos, a Vendetta shirt (www.makingfiends.com) and a Making Fiends piece of signed artwork! I think most of my gifts went over well.

Christmas shopping -- glad I'm not in the middle of it. I went to Target tonight to pick up a couple things, and found a relatively short line. Only one woman was in front of me, and she was already being rung up. Great! Especially because the store itself was really busy. Except . . . she had taken one bottle of some juice drink from a 4-pack and drunk it while she was walking around, and now she wanted to pay for it individually. Since the 4-pack was $2.59, she figured the individual drink should be between fifty and sixty cents, but the clerk and her supervisor are suggesting .75 with the CRV included. Well, she's not willing to let it go, and she's using her (incredibly inaccurate) math skills out loud repeatedly to convince them that she should basically be deeply discounted for stealing their product and consuming it before getting to the cash register. When I FINALLY got to the front, I said, deadpan naturally, "Hey, I ate half a bag of Pepperidge Farm cookies back there, and since I only ate four and there are eight in the bag, I figure you should only charge me $1.50." Poor thing, the cashier looked absolutely stricken, like she was trying to keep a cheerful and understanding face on while she was dying inside. I quickly explained that I was joking, and she said "Oh, that was a good one, because the woman in front of you did something JUST LIKE THAT." Um, yeah. Way to have your humor hat on. I wished her a happy holiday with not too much stress. Yikes.

Okay, my ass has got to be ready at 4:30 tomorrow, so I'm going to give my cat a little extra loving, then I'm going to wash and dry my hair so I don't have to do it in the morning. Take care all, have a wonderful Christmas or Yule or Solstice or Hannukah or Kwanzaa or stay-at-home-and-eat-Chinese-food or regular old Saturday. Take care,
CM

Christmas as an adult

Yeah, so Christmas as a child is all red and green and construction paper garlands and cookies and good foods and mountains of presents and music and decorating the tree and hot cocoa . . .

Merry Christmas! Says the plumber. Your garbage disposal's totally shot. I could replace it right now for $400. I've got one in the truck . . .

Merry Christmas! Says the auto body shop guy. Your car needs just about $3,000 worth of repairs and we'll need to keep it for a week . . .

On the bright side, and there is one . . . I got paid early, have a little money, and can afford what I paid (NOT the whole amount in either case -- a deductible on the car and just over $100 for the plumber to fix a leaky pipe. And even more bright side, the car will be good as new when I get it back and my insurance company is covering a rental. Also, I think I (and maybe Dad and Piggs) can probably handle a garbage disposal installation. So it's not all that bad, it's just that now I see how mom felt all those years when like the week before Christmas the washing machine would start walking through the house, or the refrigerator would die, or the garbage disposal, or the dishwasher . . . sometimes these would happen at the same time, too.

Even more slightly unrelated bright sides . . . I had a tiny little cocktail party last night for a couple close friends, and had a really nice time. I enjoy putting out a good party spread. I made way too much food, but it was fun to do. We had chocolate fondue with angel food cake, asian pears, bananas, an orange, and red grapes. There was a cheese tray with gorgonzola, brie, sharp cheddar and chevre. I had two baguettes, some chips, and crackers for the dips, which included muhammara, tapenade, chipotle-orange creme, new-fashioned onion dip, my mom's salmon dip, and smoky lentil spread. We also had crudites, cookies, peanut brittle, wine, sparkling fruit juice drinks, and hot cider. It was cool. I got some great presents, including an original artwork made with me in mind! We leave for Oregon on Thursday (crazy early), and until then get to just kick back and enjoy our vacation! I'm going to ballet tomorrow (to work off at least SOME of that cheese) and we're meeting my mom and boom-pah for dinner and present exchange tomorrow, but other than that, we've got no plans, appointments, or obligations. Ah, this is the life.

Oh, and I do still love the lights and colors and decorations and music and food . . . I've got the spirit, it's just that there's a whole new side to it all as a grown-up.

Not much else is new. Take care,
CM

Whoo hoo!

Okay, so today I'm checking the job postings online for my district, and there's one at a school that I've been given an insider tip on -- that there's going to be an English teacher job that's for high-level college bound students. Sounds perfect, right?
I call, because it doesn't say whether it's that particular opening or not, and tehe secretary puts me on hold to ask. She asks me to repeat my name a couple times, which makes me nervous, because my dad works at that site, and can be a bit of a rabble-rouser. Anyway, after she gets back on the phone, she says no, that's not the one, but the principal would like to talk to me. I talk with him for a minute, and he says my name has already come up for the position (from the same insider), that it will be posted in the early spring, and that they'll be in contact about it because they are not passive about getting good teachers. He also asks whether I've had training for the program, which I haven't, but I did say I was willing to take the training this summer, and that I had other applicable experience, like teaching at City College, and having my M.A. Anyway, it sounds really good! I know I sitll have to apply and interview and whatnot, but if the principal already has my name on what sounds like a short list, that can only be good news, right?

Man, this could be just the break I need.

In other news, teachers are weird. We had this meeting after school yesterday to train us on how to use a program that kids can use to take short quizzes on books they've read, and two teachers talked the whole time, worse than the kids. One of them kept repeatedly making the Mac make its "Whoops" noise, which is a loud electronic thunk, and she commented that it would make a pretty good drumbeat. The she wanted her name added to the list of kids so she could take quizzes, too, and begged "Leave it on there permanently! I can't wait to use it!" Crazy.

Dirty Santa

Oh lord. Why am I me? My friend calls and invites me to a party. He says "Oh, don't forget to bring a present for the Dirty Santa exchange." A few days later, by e-mail, I think to ask "how dirty are we talking?" He responds, as dirty as you want. Which to me means we are exchanging sex stuff. Yeah? It has to stay under ten bucks, so I'm thinking a bottle of warm-up lube or some of those dice which instruct you what to do and where. I make a special trip to the G Spot . . . . Wait, here is a good time for a side story.

So I'm walking down J street thinking "Have I passed it? I didn't think it was this far down. Oh god, I CAN'T FIND THE G SPOT!"

Okay, back to the main story. I get in there and look around, and as it turns out, my under-ten-dollar options are plentiful. There is "Lotto for Lovers," the aforementioned dice, a number of lotions and lubes, some novelty candies (Dick Tacs, Tit Tacs and gummy penises), as well as feather-y things, or even small plasticy whip-like items. But on the shelf in the center is the Toot-Z-Pole, a "personal massager" in an aerodynamic shape in a package that looks like the candy the name suggests. It's $6. I get it, as well as the lotto things (which are $3). I feel confident that I have a good Dirty Santa gift.

We arrive at the party a little late, due to having attended my staff Christmas party earlier the same evening. When we get there, the gift exchange has already begun. The rules are that you can choose a new gift from the pile when it's your turn or "steal" someone else's gift. A gift may only be stolen twice, and if your gift is stolen you have the option of opening a new gift or stealing another. Anyway, as I sit down, the gift currently being opened is . . . martini glasses with 8-ball stems. My host decides he needs to catch us up on what's available to steal. There's also . . . a bottle of wine and barware. And a nutcracker. Not even a dirty "nut"cracker or anything, just a nutcracker. I start laughing my ass off, realizing that my gift really does not fit with the rest. I tell my host, practically hysterically, that I really thought he meant "dirty" Santa like "porno" Santa. He reassured me that I'd done the right thing, and that this was one of the tamest years they'd had. Yeah. Okay. I don't feel like a perv. Anyway, it worked out fine -- my gift was selected right after my admission, and then rapidly stolen, and though I had thought of it as a novelty item, I am actually fairly well satisfied that the gift will be put to good use. And after everything was opened, it turned out there was another personal massager, it just wasn't as cylindrical as mine -- it was a fingertip massager. Sheesh. We ended up with the wine and barware, by the way.

It's bedtime now, but I promise I'll tell the highlight of the staff party, too, the wine smuggling adventure . . .

Interview tips and galoshes

Yay! My galoshes arrived! They're pink with apples all over them. I'm almost proud of myself for finding something so uniquely me -- like when you get someone a present and you just KNOW they're going to love it, only it's for me. I couldn't contain my enthusiasm when I got home, so I put them on immediately (they're still on) and started singing Galoshes to the tune of Volare.

Okay, so I got conned into sitting on an interview panel yesterday (had I known I'd be at school over three hours later than usual, I'd have said no), and I have some tips for interviewees.

Gleaned from Interview 1 -- First, if you are a woman, no, it is not necessary to wear makeup or a skirt. At least for this interviewer. I don't care. But if you're sweaty and greasy and disshevelled as all get-out, maybe you could blot and run a comb through your hair. This goes for men, too, but this particular interviewee was female.
Also, be confident. Just because you're interviewing for two positions at this site, don't ask "Does that seem weird?" You seem nervous and needy. Just assume or pretend that it isn't weird.
And third, you should probably find out what the job is, because standard interview questions assume you know (e.g. "What makes you uniquely qualified for this job?" "What will you be doing in a typical day?"). If for some stupid reason, you didn't at least look at the job description before you applied for it, don't begin answering every single question with "Well, again, I really don't know what the job entails . . ." Dude, make some shit up. I'd have had way more respect for a decent bullshitter than I did for someone so lost and forlorn-seeming. If you gave good answers that seemed confident and like you knew what you were talking about, even if you were WRONG as to what you imagined the job entailed, I'd have ranked you higher.
Oh, and finally, don't mention that you worked with a population just like ours and didn't like it at all.

Gleaned from interview 2 --
Let us close the door, sit down, and ask the first question before you begin your verbal barrage about why you'd be the best candidate.
Second, you may indeed have 50 pages worth of recommendation letters, photocopies of your war medals, praise from various groups . . . but it was kind of weird to give us a several-pound stapled document. Especially since several of the pages were stapled upside-down.
Third, if you're going to be working with kids, we all know we secretly call them things like "knuckleheads" and "hoodlums" in the staff lunchroom, but maybe don't call them that in the interview. Repeatedly.
Fourth, it was a little odd when we asked if you had anything else to add and you opened your wallet to show us pictures of your kids.
Fifth, we weren't all that put out that you were late, it happens. But when I realized you were late because you'd scheduled your interview for 3 pm when your school day gets out at 2:45, and you still have to negotiate the staff parking lot, one of the busiest, most traffic-jammed streets in the city, and the several-mile drive here, I lost a little sympathy. Here is what you do -- when the person calls to schedule your appointment and you know you have a snowball's chance in hell of making it on time, you say "Actually, I don't get out of school until almost three. Is there a later appointment available?" Or if you can't and it's that important to you, get a half-day sub, go have a nice lunch somewhere, and be on time.

And more generally, no dead-fish handshakes (shudder). You got the job, Interviewee 3, but only after overcoming that horrible first impression. I still get queasy thinking about it.
Interviewee 4, you were well-qualified, you would fit in well with our staff and population, and in fact we know you from subbing here regularly. You rule. You got the job, too. But dude, throw away the 1980s polyester Cosby sweater. No, seriously. I don't want to see that thing again.

Okay, all for now! Five more days of work until vacation time!!!!!!!!!!

No Rest for the Wicked

Would have been a better title for the last post, but not this one. This one's about my awesome new glasses!

Dude, my regular ones are kind of a glittery copper that's iridescent enough that when I tilt my head they can appear blue or green. They're a really good shape for my face, too. And best of all, on both sides of the frame on the outside, there are five tiny rhinestones. Hee hee! The sunglasses are cool, too. I talked my grandma out of several pairs of her old glasses, and settled on a bronze-colored very extreme cat-eye with a dark brown lens. Now I need a head of platinum blonde hair, red lipstick, a scarf to keep my hair back, some driving gloves, and a convertible.

Busy weekend

So, on Friday after school I ran over to Mom's house, and Mom and Boompah and I went on the Christmas home tour. It's always fun to see other people's homes, especially the beautiful original bungalows of East Sacramento. We saw another super-girly house (by another, I'm referring to a home tour I blogged about a few months back). At first, I was like "Okay, this is an acceptable use of pink and lavender" but by the time we got to the bedrooms, I realized that EVERYTHING was pink and lavender and covered in flowers and chintz. You know, even if I were a woman living alone, my house wouldn't get taken over by the spirit of girlishness. Geez. We also saw the same house that last time made me so sad -- the one with the frame pictures still in the frames. They had changed a few things (by they, I mean the new designers) and there appeared to be a few more personal touches, but it still felt lonely and deserted. The strangest one by far, though, was a beautiful old house with a number of incredible features some people would die for -- a spacious entryway, original hardwood floors with an oak-leaf stencil, big rooms . . . but the "artist" who lived there apparently has a yen for mid-century modern furniture in citrus colors. Seriously, the dining room had a chrome and glass table with ACRYLIC chairs and an acrylic fireplace screen and was painted tangerine! The gorgeous and huge living room had two things in it, a large crimson sectional sofa and an abstract tall sculpture in vibrant colors. However, even the size of the sofa was no match for the size of the room, and it looked forlorn and out of place. It was quite odd. The other interesting place was decorated with a bunch of what appeared to be original art deco pieces. I had to admit some jealousy when I saw the incredible peacock-fan shaped fireplace screen with what looked like an Erte girl at the top. Incredible. I also liked the orange-vanilla candles burning in one of the homes (they smelled like Dreamsicles.

That night my band had a show out in Citrus Heigts. We were a little skeptical about the place, since it looked like about half the people at the bar were long-term alcoholics who were perfectly happy to listen to "Love Me Two Times" on the jukebox all night long, and that perhaps the big guy with the noose and hangman's knot tattooed on the back of his head and around his neck might not appeciate the subtleties of our lyrics in the Mullet Song or White Trash Whore. I thought that the people getting Bugles from the vending machine next to the stage might not appreciate our prog rock song about Valkyries. But I'm always down to play, and so I got into my high-energy mode and made friends with the other bands and got hyped and ready to play. I stood up front while the other two bands played, and I was surprised that I liked them both a great deal, especially the second one (I won't name names, because band people love to Google themselves, so let's call them the Blue Collars), who had an old-school sound kind of like X. I stood up front and bounced/danced to all the music. After the Blue Collars got done, I told them how much I liked the music, and the lead singer said how much I'd helped him out. I was confused fro just a second when he continued "I like to have a pretty girl up front to watch, it helps me focus." Oh. So I joked back that he would have to return the favor and stand up front when we played. We had a good show -- I jacked up a couple times, but the people ate it up, and I was pleasantly suprised to find that the audience was mostly made up of other band members, their friends and our fans. It went really well, and because the other girl band, Silk Rage (fake name again), had cancelled, they kept shouting for us to go on and on. We really didn't have much prepared in the way of encores (must change that in the future), but we did a couple things, and they just loved us. The Blue Collar guy stood upfront the whole time, except when he disappeared and came back with a beer for me. Uh-oh. I had been making eye contact with everyone, but after that I made a conscious effort to not make eye contact with him on lines like "then we can make love . . ." Anyway, after the show he came over and gushed to us about how wonderful we were, what great singing voices, our style. We started packing the car and he stood around watching. A couple other people bought shirts. We got paid and went inside to split the door money -- he asked again and again whether we had his e-mail, whether he had ours (I reassured him that we'd signed his mailing list), he'd love to play with us again, did we have his e-mail? Finally we're all packed up and ready to go and he wants, to, I know! Buy a shirt! Yeah, anything to get like two more minutes of Mockula. Poor thing. But altogether it was a good experience and a good show.

Saturday -- weird day. I went and picked up my new glasses (so cute!), then tried to get gas, but my debit card was declined! Even though I had plenty of money in my account! I figured it was just Arco. Then I went to the Co-op which was crowded as usual. I didn't want to stay long (the car was still packed with all our band equipment) so I only picked up a few things. I also tried to use the ATM there to deposit some checks, but they were out of deposit slips. Okay . . . Finally, I decided to just use the ATM on the way home, but it's on Stockton Blvd, which is currently torn up six ways from Sunday due to various projects, so the snare drum is going crazy at every bump. I get to the bank and there's a crazy guy trying to figure out how you get money out, and he thinks that perhaps his California ID will work. He is polite enough to let the two people behind him go when he can't figure it out, but there's no money in the machine. Oh well, I just deposit my checks and get the hell out of there.
At home, we made pita bread, which was delicious. Saturday is typically sushi night, so we went there. Mine was delicious, but the water was funky. I was hesitant to complain, but it was like sucking up a swimming pool, so I mentioned it to Brian, the owner, 'cause we've kind of made friends with him. Piggs' was not so good. Well, what he ordered was good, but they were trying something new, the "Tune 'em Up" roll, which was shrimp tempura inside the roll with spicy tuna on top, then torched like creme brulee to, I guess, sear the tuna. Anyway, Piggs is anti-shrimp, and he said the roll tasted of acetylene, so he got kind of ill. We came home and fought with the christmas tree, which is as we speak leaning at about a 75 degree angle. I can't get it to sit in the stand properly, and the screws on two sides are easier to tighten down than the screws on the other sides, so it's like a tree pendulum that can swing back and forth on the screw fulcrum. It was a pain in the ass, and moderately like the scene in A Christmas Story when dad is battling the furnace, and all you could hear was "frickin' frackin' marquar farkle!" Piggs' legs were sticking out from under the tree, I could see the pruners disappearing into the underbrush, then a stream of cursing, as (I assume) he did things like squash his own head with the pruner handles. We had pleasant Christmas music on and hot beverages. It was funny.

Okay, that's it for now. Bye everybody!

Ranty-head

Okay, this entry is going to sound like a real live blog. Or possibly like a hipster posting to an "online community" (i.e., I've been reading too much Craigslist).

First, on bathroom etiquette. In the office at work, there is one ladies room. It has an outer "waiting" area, and an inner W.C.-eqipped room. Rant number one is "How the hell did I walk in on you?!" Seriously, if you had left something in the waiting area, I'd have suspected you were in there. If the light in the inner room was on, I'd have heard the fan. If the DOOR WAS LOCKED I wouldn't have been able to open it. But none of those things gave me any clue that you were sitting with your pants down on the pot. Why? Why would you subject me to this?

Rant number 2 is that earlier today I did all of the above -- had the light on (and therefore the fan running), a briefcase on the counter outside, and the door locked. In fact, on top of that, had you listened, you might have heard the telltale signs of urine hitting the bowl and of me pulling toilet paper off the roll. But you tried the handle, tried it again, again, knocked . . . did I really need to say "Just a minute, someone's in here" for you to get the hint? I mean, really?

Now this next one is actually Craigslist-related, but I don't want to post it there because I really don't want to go from observer to participant in that teeming morass, but I read an anti-anti-smoking "Best of" post on there earlier and it was, in tone and in idea, like many others I've read, and it irritated the crap out of me. Basically, the short story is that a guy was standing in line for a movie and smoking. A woman came up and asked him to stop, but he didn't want to. She was a bitch about it and he was an asshole back. End of story. But he somehow extrapolated from this encounter that all non-smokers are whiny SUV-drivers who don't bathe. Or something like that. To go into slightly more depth . . .


SMOKER DUDE "Let me begin by saying that this woman was what I refer to as a "yippie." You see, Santa Cruz is full of people who were "there" in the sixties, and thought that being a free-spirited hippy was the proverbial bee's knees. Then the 80's happened, and they sold out all of their values, and bought into the establishment. Not that there's anything wrong with that. What's wrong, is that now that we're in the new millenium, they have decided that they miss all of the free spirit of the 60's, and that they want it back, but are also unwilling to relinquish their cellphones, SUV's, beach-front condos and Starbuck's mocha-soy-latte-frappuchino-whateverthefucks in the spirit of all that is "groovy." So instead, they buy expensive leather jackets, become buddhists, extol the virtues of a vegetarian diet, and last, but not least, they PREACH BULLSHIT TO UNSUSPECTING PASSERSBY AND WHEN CONFRONTED WITH INDIFFERENCE RESORT TO BEING PISSY AND QUOTING THE MUNICIPAL CODE!!"

MOCKULA: Are there people like that? Sure. But the writer knows nothing about this woman other that what she looks like, is wearing at the time, and what she said (and he admits elsewhere in the rant to having been drunk at the time, so consider the possible impairment of his perceptions). Do we know this woman is a "Yippie?" Not at all. And did she "preach bullshit" to him? Doesn't sound like it. It sounds like she asked him to put his cigarette out. Finally, there are ample nonsmokers in the world who don't necessarily drive SUVs and who boycott Starbucks on principle. Me included. Plus, I don't have a cellphone or a beachfront condo. I'm also not a Buddhist and I don't own a leather jacket. I am, as a matter of fact, a vegetarian. Wow, one out of eight stereotypes ain't bad!

SMOKERDUDE: "I agree--smoking is disgusting. It smells like shit, it makes you cough up shit that looks like leftovers from the set of "ghostbusters" and it makes people die. However, if I am offending you with my second-hand smoke, it isbest to politely say, "Excuse me, but I really don't like cigarettes, so would you mind either putting it out or moving a little further away from me while you finish it?" In this case, I would surely respond, "why yes, I am terribly sorry for offending you,and I would be more than happy to accomodate your polite request." And I would. Gladly."

MOCKULA: Gee, sounds like fun. I might just take it up. Is he right in suggesting the polite way to ask a smoker to put out his butt? Yes. And I don't know SMOKERDUDE personally, so I can't say for certain that he wouldn't respond as he indicates he would, but my first inclinations is to laugh my ass off. I have never seen this happen in my whole life. The usual response I've witnessed (I tend not to bother asking people to put out their cigs) is "fuck off, bitch."


Note: The movie they were in line for was Fahrenheit 911.
SMOKERDUDE: "So, I guess the moral of this story, is that if you're going to go see a scathing liberal movie that's full of trumped up ideas that support the writer's own beliefs, you can sure as hell expect the audience to act the same way. I did like the movie, but I definitely took it with a grain of salt. All I could think, was that here we are in line, about to see a movie about exercizing your personal rights and freedoms, and not letting the government dictate how you should live your life, and this stupid yippie bitch is quoting the fucking municipal code instead of just asking me nicely to put out my cigarette.
I hope her cellphone gives her cancer."

MOCKULA: Wow, hostile much? Also, I'm not sure I got the exact same message from the movie, but whatever, I agree with him that the government shouldn't dictate how you live your life. However, my sympathy for your lifestyle choices stop at exactly where they start to infringe on mine. Heck, you can shoot yourself up with heroin using dirty needles, good luck to you, but you can't stick ME with them. And unlike the lady in line with you, I probably would not have asked you to put your cigarette out. I would have either waited until you put it out, or let the line get a little longer so I didn't have to stand right by you. Also, I'll never tell you how you're going to give yourself cancer. Unless you're illiterate, deaf and blind, there's a good chance you know smoking is bad for you. Heck, even Hellen Keller would understand someone grabbing a cig out of her mouth and writing "No! Bad!" into her palm. So I'll never feed you that bullshit. In fact, I'm generally not even one of those people who makes "stinky face" and waves my hand around. I do, however, hold my breath when I'm walking by a smoker, because I'm a lifelong asthmatic who has had pneumonia more often than most people have had a cold. I don't need your habit compromising my health. And I've read other smokers' rants indicating that those people who cough around smokers are faking it to send a message. I don't know most of those other people, but if I cough, you may be satisfied that it's for real.

Finally, it's not in this guy's rant, but I've read it a number of times anyway --- the people who complain about not being able to smoke in bars. Actually, let me quote a real one, because I ran across another. Here's Marlborogal:

MARLBOROGAL: "I'd like to address some of your imbecilic arguments. Because they're really dumb. Also because I'm bored at work.

(Enter anti-smoker #1, an overweight soccer mom with bleached-to-shit mall hair. She settles her blowed-up ass onto a barstool next to mine and her cell phone comes to life with an obnoxiously loud, midi-sounding version of 'God Bless America'. She answers it and tells little Aidan that, no, he can't stay over at Jeffery's tonight because Jeffery's dad only makes five figures and Jeffery's mom drives a used Camry. Which is devilish. Now go home and keep your daddy company while he chugs an imported lager or five and dreams of a life less dismal than the one he wound up with. She hangs up and goes back to pretending to watch the basketball game flashing on the tv screen above the bar to impress the buff black guy sitting next to her, because she gets no validation from her husband anymore and needs to seek it elsewhere by flirting and getting a response from strange men, and all black guys love basketball so it'll totally work, and I light up a cigarette, horror of horrors, and she turns to me with a sugary smile and asks me to put it out. Why?)

"Oooh, well, second hand smoke kills, didn't you know?! I don't want to be breathing that shit in while consuming copious amounts of the health-promoting wonder-drug Jose Cuervo and eating chicken wings fried in synthetic whale blubber with a side of processed ranch dressing! I'm trying to keep young and virile, here!"

Fuck. You."

Wow, I gotta do some research and find out if smoking increases hostility. Again, we see the stereotypes about this nonsmoker at the bar that really, the writer knows absolutely nothing about. Nice guesses, and frankly, I think the great majority of it is total fiction. I think there might be a grain of truth in there that a woman at a bar once asked the writer to put out her cigarette. Plus, I can eat and drink anything I like, as long as I'm doing it to myself. That's the real difference, isn't it? I could eat fettucini alfredo (heart-attack-on-a-plate) two inches from you and it still wouldn't affect your health. Second, let's say that instead of the soccer mom, it's me, Count Mockula. Well, I generally eat well and exercise, so if I go to a bar, who are you to say that my health is for shit and I'm being a hypocrite if I eat something deep fried once a month? You know nothing about me, yet you're imposing your bad-health habit on me. Once a month cheese fries vs. pack-a-day habit? Way to get on your high horse, Marlboro cowgirl.

MARLBOROGAL: "Listen, you needle-dicked motherfuckers who pollute the living hell out of our air by driving in your ugly, lumbering SUVs in the middle of a FUCKING OIL CRISIS!"

MOCKULA: Whoa, the SUV thing again! It's downright weird. Is there some survey out there that I don't know about it showing that nonsmokers overwhelmingly drive polluting vehicles? You know, when I bought a car, two of the qualities on my shopping list were good gas mileage and low emissions. But I must be the exception. (And on the topic of polluting, I hardly dare to bring it up, but do you know how many TONS of cigarette butts get cleaned up off our beaches every year? Somehow this undermines these smokers' perception that they are environmental superheroes. Do all smokers throw their butts on the ground? No, but go anywhere near the smoking areas outside offices, etc. and look around. I think a LOT of them must.)

MARLBOROGAL: "You hypocritical shit sticks who work knowingly - and without the tiniest of moral qualms about it - for companies who dump toxic waste into our water, who pump out thick clouds of inky smoke into our skies twenty-four hours a damn day. I don't give a fuck if my second hand smoke kills you. In fact? I hope it does, because apparently, the process of natural selection is running out of energy trying to keep up with all you morons and could use a little nudge. Yuppie idiot.?"

MOCKULA: Huh. I'm a teacher. I don't think we pollute that much.

MARLBOROGAL: "'They're my lungs, and I have a right to want to keep them healthy!'

No, seriously. Fuck you."

MOCKULA: Now see there? That's intellectual debate, ladies and gentlemen. That stunning and inarguable comeback just shut down the opponent! Whoo-hoo, way to use your logic. Oh wait, no you didn't. Seriously, do you mean that other people really don't have the right to stay healthy should they so choose? So would you vote for de-criminalization of poisoning, stabbing, murder, malpractice, vehicular manslaughter? If people don't have a right to not have other people hurt them, what do they have?

MARLBOROGAL: "Or how about this guy?

"Ewww, I don't want to go home with your satan smoke clinging to my clothes and hair!"

Pussy ass tea-bagging homo. Fuck you too.

I read recently that there's an amazing new product that'll clear that shit right up for you. It's called 'Shampoo,' you cunty little crybaby. Also? Some Tide will take care of that singed Garth Brooks Tour, '96 T-shirt you're so worried about. I know that shit's irreplaceable.

I mean, I hate to make you have to do a load of laundry just because I want to be self-indulgent and light up in a BAR, because I know you usually don't have to wash your clothes. People who don't smoke don't produce any sort of offensive bodily odors or ever spill anything on themselves or come out of a restaurant smelling like 30 different kinds of meat. Also? Their shit doesn't stink. So, I apologize, sincerely, for adding another chore to your pure, clean, minty fresh life...but, seriously? It's not that difficult. You don't even need a river and a washboard anymore."

MOCKULA: Now, the writing here is actually kind of amusing. It's the logic that's lacking. First of all, not wanting to stink don't make you homosexual, although there is probably more stink-tolerance on the part of heterosexual men in general. Second, yes, shampoo is stupendous. But I don't usually use it at two a.m. and have to stay up extra-late to blow dry my hair so that I don't go to bed with wet hair. Usually, I can fall into bed after a night out NOT stinking so badly that I can't stand the funk. Second, I do wash my clothes, duh. But do I usually wash my jacket after a night out? Or my purse? No, but those items reek so badly that I can't go out in public with them again until I have them dry-cleaned (which is pretty expensive). Also, I often wear dry-clean-only clothes when I want to look nice for a night out. So then that's more expense (because do I often get away with several wearings of those items otherwise? Yeah -- I have a white-collar job and don't sweat much.) And finally, even those clothes I throw in the wash regularly, like a t-shirt and jeans, get so befouled by your stink that I often can't stand to have them in the bedroom at all, and must wash them immediately so that they don't make the entire house smell bad enough to make me ill.

MARLBOROGAL: You've all met this soulless, braindead numbfuck:

"I don't care if you kill yourself, just leave me out of it!"

Oh, for real? Cool. And I don't care if you have a problem with smoke. Just stay the fuck out of my precious few pro-smokin' bars."

MOCKULA: Okay, now she makes a little bit of sense. See, since I don't like dealing with the illness, stench, 2 a.m. shower and blowdry, extra dry-cleaning and loads of laundry, potential asthma attacks, not to mention burning eyes and disgusting morning-after pleghm, I generally DO stay out of the bars that allow smoking. But thank god for the ones that don't. And curse the nights when my band plays one of the ones that does. Because then I can't avoid those thoughtless assholes who seem to be able to justify sickening and stinking up others on the grounds that it's their right to harm themselves. I won't wish any ill on you, partly because I'm just not nearly that hostile, but partly because (insert sanctimonious tone) I really don't need to, do I?

Bollywood, no, wait, not . . .

So we were in this Indian restaurant the other night (actually, I think it bills itself as Nepalese) and had a delicious dinner. While we were eating, the friendly server was talking for a while to a couple at the next table -- the young woman trying not to look like she was entirely clad in Old Navy fleece, and the young man trying desperately to look like he grew up on the Panhandle in 1969 (dreadlocked white boy). The Nepalese gentleman is discussing his love for films -- how when he was in Kathmandu, he rented American movies all the time, sometimes renting the same ones twice without realizing it. He's a comedy guy, he asserts, although one of his favorites is Rambo. Old Navy starts giving him a list of movies to check out, and he really wants to remember, so he gets a paper to write down her suggestions, which include the Slums of Beverly Hills (I'm sure he'll get a big kick out of the vibrator scene) and American Pie (yes, all middle-aged Nepalese men enjoy pie-screwing flicks). Piggs and I kept giving each other those "Are you hearing this?" looks. It was a little surreal.

Although it is basically Indian food (naan, samosas, curries, tandoori . . .) there are a few unusual touches: twice they've given me just a little taste of this cold, spicy potato salad. It's delicious, quite hot, and the guy said it's a traditional Nepalese dish, in which case I'm all for Nepalese food. Bring it on!

I got my Christmas shopping basically done. Whew! I haven't even set foot in a mall. I did it all online. I also couldn't help myself -- I bought a Nanowrimo shirt. Hell, I'm a winner, I deserve it! http://www.nanowrimo.org -- go to the donation station and store. It's the one with a pencil cannon that says "For those about to write we salute you."

Okay, gotta work. --CM

NaNoWriMo

Dude, I finished! I kind of can't believe it. I really thought I'd puss out before the end, then when it was clear I wasn't, I was still not sure I'd have time to finish. But I did! And it's not great, but it's somewhat satisfying. Maybe with some serious editing it will be readable.

Paper Cut of Doom!
Last Sunday I got this nasty bleeding papercut. By Wednesday it still really hurt, so I put a band-aid on it so it wouldn't continue to hit every damn thing I touched. Thursday after one change of bandaid it still felt funny, so I took it of to look at it and to my surprise, there was flesh where no flesh had been before! Extra skin! With nerve endings! Ouchie ones! It was an abcess! Piggs asks if that finger is warmer than the others, and lo! It is! I go wash the hell out of it with one of my numerous antibacterial products and decide to let it dry out. I also aply Bactine liberally. Fortunately, it is now nothing but a little scab, but the skin around it still feels funky and kind of hurts. The good part is I got to hear a couple really grody stories from my mom about infected fingers. Ewww.

dreams

Funny, I've always had weird or vivid dreams, and like many people, I've had a ton of flying/falling dreams. My flying usually involves running my ass off, then leaping and flying for only short distances. But this morning I woke up from a dream that I realized I'd had several of lately -- breathing underwater dreams. Yeah, they feel a little like flying dreams because I'm floating or swimming, but I'm aware that I can't normally breathe underwater, and I take very small breaths of water, because that's all I can get. I can't breathe very deeply or anything, but enough to stay underwater. I can get oxygen straight out of the water in small portions. It's kind of cool.

Well, tomorrow I go back to work after this wonderful 5 day break. Wednesday was a good time to dink around, get a few errands done. Thursday was family day. Friday was big homemade breakfast, then lounging, then band practice, then a fancy dinner date. Saturday was not much of anything, which was wonderful. We had sushi in the evening, I got a little ahead on my NaNoWriMo (I'm worried now that I'm getting to the end, because I'm not looking forward to the upcoming death of one of my characters), and I put a bunch more CDs into my computer, although I still have almost an entire binder (400-ish CDs) to go, and nowhere near the capacity for all of my music. I might get an external hard drive at some point.
Today so far I had toast and coffee, showered, called my mom to see if she wants to see "Finding Neverland," (she does), read the entire Sunday paper (my favorite Sunday morning activity), and I'm just firing up the computer to write a little more. I figure if I do it now, I won't have to later. I only have 5,500 words to go in three days, so I should be fine. Then I'll be a NaNoWriMo winner! It's like the special olympics of writing -- if you finish, no matter how well you did, you win. Okay, take care, y'all.

Happy Thanksgiving

Yeah, well, everybody and their brother is doing it, so why not me.

Thanksgiving isn't a big deal to me other than that I really enjoy spending time with my family, and I am a crazy person for stuffing and pumpkin pie. But I do often stop and reflect on the things I'm thankful for, just a few of which follow:

Love
Family
Friends
Health
Security
Freedom
My home
My cat
Having strong opinions, and generally having them respected
Music
Books
Being willing to change, and able to
A fire in the fireplace
Good food, good drink
Wet leaves stuck to the sidewalks, bright red
Intelligence (don't be an asshole, I'm not saying I'm thankful for my genius or anything, just that I'm thankful for being relatively smart)
My warm fuzzy robe
Growing older (yes, really)
Occasionally having ballet classes where I actually kick ass (rare)
The anticipation of getting a big dead pine tree for my living room!
This amazing year, and all my new experiences, including, but not limited to: My first (and second through eleventh) plane rides, taking me to New York, the Caribbean, Portland, and Palm Springs. Meeting my loved one's loved ones. Moving in with said Piglet.
Wireless internet
A bright future, filled with possibilities.

And in with the friend and family stuff, I am so happy for all of them, who have, between them all, gotten halfway done with law school and proven themselves extremely accomplished (best oral advocate award!), found a cute new place to settle semi-permanently, had babies (two friends), decided on a graduate school path and found a school that really seems to fit, moved in with boyfriend/girlfriend, started college again after a long absence, sought counseling when needed, recovered from illness and become an auntie, started on a managerial track at a new job, received a glowing letter recommending retention, retired and gotten a bunch of new experiences done, too, including painting most of the house, found out they were pregnant (the thankful list for that new baby will have to wait until next year) . . . really, the good stuff list goes on and on, and I feel extremely happy that all their lives are going so well, and for all the good things, big and small, that they have gotten or acheived. It makes my life feel full and (dare I say it?) blessed, too.

So, thanks.

Oh, and because I think someone comes and gets you in the middle of the night if you don't say this (listen to the radio if you don't believe me) on your Thanksgiving list, I AM THANKFUL FOR MY WONDERFUL COUNTRY WHERE WE HAVE THE FREEDOM TO SAY WHATEVER WE WANT, MOSTLY BECAUSE OF THE BRAVE YOUNG MEN AND WOMEN FIGHTING FOR OUR RIGHTS AND FREEDOMS AND WAY OF LIFE OVER IN IRAQ. (At least, I think that's what they're fighting for, right? I just read it from the script . . .)

With a self like this, who needs enemies?

Yeah, I punched myself in the face last night. No kidding, all day long I've been waiting for someone to ask me what happened to my nose, so I could answer truthfully "I punched myself in the face." It went down like this -- it's bedtime, I reach over to hug my bedtime partner, and with my right arm, apparently misjudge where my nose is, because I rake it badly with my thumbnail. I start laughing right away, and Piggs says incredulously "Did you you just punch yourself in the face?" which sends me into an even worse laughing fit, the kind where I'm totally out of breath and some spit in my throat starts making clicking noises. Tears are streaming down my face when I finally calm down a little, and he asks "are you bleeding?" I tell him no automatically, but he looks over and says I am. I tocuh the spot, come back with blood on my hand, and start cracking up again. I don't know why it was so funny. You should see the other guy. Oh, wait. I bloodied myself by punching myself in the face last night. Classic.

Count Mockula's Busy Day

Well, it was a whirlwind of a day. I started with a little cherry chocolate tea loaf and a tangerine with some coffee, cleaned a little, then went to Naked Lounge to write. I got my 2,000 words for today in, which still leaves me 4,000 words behind, from the night my laptop got commandeered for repair purposes and the night we had out of town company. Anyway, I have to write more tonight. For a few minutes, I actually felt very cool, because my friend Kizzy came in, and she radiates cool, and I know her, you know? Plus she introduced me to her companion as "a fellow musician," and when she asked what I was busy working on, I got to tell her about NaNoWriMo.

Then I went to Mom's house, and they were having my stepdad's (hereafter known as "boompah") dad and close family friends over, and we had lunch. Then I ran home and got Piggs, and we went to my cousin's place for my 4-year-old twin cousins' birthday. I don't think my Little Golden Books went over as well as the fairy princess dress-up set or the Spiderman bean bag, not to mention the kiddie ATVs and bicycles, but I feel they have staying power. After all, I got Chris "Where the Wild Things Are" and "Gerald McBoingBoing" and Beth "There's a Monster at the End of This Book," "Richard Scarry's Word Book," and "Bedtime for Little Bear." I loved Richard Scarry's stuff when I was a kid, and that Little Bear one ruled.

After that, we went to the insanely crowded mall to look at printers (but made no decisions). On the way out, we saw one of the most asshole parking lot manouevers ever: a car was waiting for a spot that someone was just pulling out of. It was obvious they'd been waiting for a while. Another car pulled up from a stop sign around the corner, edged forward, and just as the parked car pulled out, they raced in front of the waiting car and pulled in. I mean, it was totally intentional, there was no way they could have not noticed the car waiting. I must assume that the asshole's car is now keyed. If the other driver didn't do it, she's a better woman than I.

Then we went to the Doubletree to pick up one of Piggs' friends from SoCal, and we had a nice dinner at (where else?) our favorite Saturday night sushi place. She seemed really nice, so I'm sorry we didn't get to spend more time hanging out, but her boyfriend's band was playing in Roseville and she needed to get back to the hotel in order to go with them. Anyway, now we're at home hanging out. Piggs is playing San Andreas, which he just got today (I was PLANNING to get it for him for Xmas, but he couldn't wait), and it looks very cool. It looks difficult though. I thought about getting Trivial Pursuit, be even though I love Tetris, I don't play it often, so I could hardly justify buying another game, could I?

Well, I'm going to try to get another two thousand words in tonight so I'm only two thousand behind. I have Wednesday through Friday off for Thanksgiving, so hopefully I'll get some writing done then and maybe get ahead. We'll see.
Take care all,
K

A few minutes free

So I can blog. I fell behind a little on NaNoWriMo. I need to catch up this weekend. I'm about 2,000 words behind where I'd like to be. Bummer. At least it's not any more than that.

Bad karma.

So, I'm driving home last night and my car feels wobbly. I have a low tire. I stop and put air in it, but it's wobbly again by the time I get home. No big deal, I think, I'll leave a little early and ride my bike to work. But my bike's got a flat, too! Criminy!

This is the second month in a row that I haven't gotten my mid-month paycheck. It's not huge, last year averaging about $125, but it still irritates me, partly because this year it should be more money (I'm now theoretically getting paid for after-school meetings and a class I teach after school two days a week). It's just irritating, I guess, because why should I have to wait until mid-December for work I did in September? What a pain.

Interesting stuff -- I love reading the Bee, and I'm hopelessly addicted to it. Maybe because it reflects the community I know so well. For example -- two weeks ago, there was an article on the guy who runs my favorite sushi place (Kamon on 16th), and whom I've talked to on many occasions. Last week was an article on Amber Kloss, a personal friend. Three weeks ago was a tidbit on my ex-father-in-law (he "had a few beers" and lost his wallet, but it was returned). Then I went to get a massage on Tuesday (Monkeygirl sprung for a gift certificate) and the massage therapist was none other than Christelle Garcia, who was featured a couple months ago because she founded the "River Bats," a goal ball team (basically like soccer, but blind). Kooky, huh?

Okay, got work stuff to do. --CM

Whew!

I think I'm relieved, anyway. So, a couple years ago, I decided I wanted the website thegynas.com, and I bought it, presenting stickers with the website to the other girls for Christmas. I really didn't know what I was doing, having had only home pages before, never whole domain names. I picked a company pretty much at random and have stuck with them because I really don't know how to change. Frankly, doing anything web site related can be a big pain in the ass, since they have to authorize stuff through like four other companies and make sure you're really you, and you may trust that EVERYTHING you do costs additional money. Anyway, it's time to renew, and I've procrastinated a bit, because renewal is due tomorrow, but they've been able to do it instantly by credit card in the past. Only this time, I keep getting messages that I can't pay by credit from this IP address. I try it about fifteen different ways, but nothing works. Finally I contact the support people and it turns out that they are no longer taking credit card payments from outside the UK due to some fraud they experienced last year. Well thanks for letting me know in advance! Anyway, I can't mail a check, because it would have had to be there about yesterday. Still, the nice customer service guy says he'll forward my message to the accounting department because I'm an existing customer.

Funny, but the website is based in the UK, so it's all in British English, like asking if I want to pay by "cheque." None of it's too hard to follow, but I feel like a real dolt when I try not to sound too much like an American redneck in my requests for help. "Whatever am I to do?" that kind of thing. "I cannot make a payment by cheque." Heh.

This one's for the ladies . . .
So, I had this snowball shopping experience this weekend. I went to get my hair cut and highlighted, and I have some extra time, so I go to Express to look at the "Editor" pant, which I read in a magazine had a flattering cut. I fall in love with the lavender velvet version and pick them up for the holidays. They're a bit long for flat shoes though, and I hate wearing pumps to family parties, so naturally my thoughts turn to the ankle boots I'm seeing everywhere. I go to Nordstrom rack and try on a bunch of pairs, and while there, see a great pink fuzzy sweater, too. Now all I need is like a champagne colored camisole to go with the pants, and I'm set. Wait, didn't I just to to the mall to get my hair done?

I'm still Nanowrimoing, and I'm over 18,000 words. I guess I'd better come up with a plot soon.

We went to Apple Hill this weekend (Portlandians -- a collection of mostly apple orchards with some other produce and crafty stuff). I went a little crazy, deciding to try at least two (so Piggs and I could each have one) of all the kinds of apples I'd never had before. We came home with Winesaps, Mutsus, Arkansas Blacks . . . but I didn't label them or anything, so next year it'll be like "Look for those smallish red ones, those were good." We also have a big bag of tangerines from drummergirl and some persimmons, gigantic Asian pears (I ate one today) and ten cute "Lady Apples," which are tiny. We're like crazy fruitheads around Mockula's castle/the Piggpen.

Okay, that's about it. Take care, all.

I lied

Yeah, so I said I wouldn't slack off on the blog because of Nanowrimo, but I lied. Writing 2,000 words a day is hard, especially when I have no idea where the plot is going. Nevertheless, I'm less than 1,000 words behind, total, which puts me at 13,047 words right now. Not bad, huh? Zoombaba, I guess you'd better get on it! Consider this friendly encouragement, or outright taunting if that works better for you.

In other news, Monkeygirl has an adorable new cat, Nibbler. Nibbler is a tiny little tuxedo cat with long hair, and is a complete spaz in the way that only new kittens are. You know, grown up cats will occasionally do something stupid, get caught at it, but look nonchalant, like "what? Don't you ever get stuck at the top of the screen door?" But a kitten does stuff like this about twenty times a day and doesn't know enough to look embarrassed or tough. Nibbler kept doing things like leaping off the chair onto the side of the ottoman, sideways of course, falling on her ass, then looking at up at us because she heard the laughing. "Huh? What?" Cute. Makes me want a baby kitten again, instead of my big old fat cat who refuses to play. My cat's a tease . . . she'll look at the toys, you'll be encouraged to wave them around and jingle the little bells, you'll continue doing this for half an hour while she looks interested, crouching, lowering her ears, twitching her tail . . . but no action. It's boring. She's good for cuddling, though.

I went to the Naked Lounge coffee shop to do my nanowrimoing tonight (Piggs is gaming), and it was really crowded. I sat in a small armchair next to a loveseat two college girls were sharing, and I got a Mexican hot chocolate (delicious). I wrote for quite a while, and I looked around once in a while to take in the folks around me, and I did notice the two young women to my left who were soon joined by an older, well-put-together blond woman, maybe in her thirties. When the college girls left, these three moved closer to me, bringing over an extra chair. Two other younger girls soon joined them and brought more chairs. Now I was sort of involuntarily part of a circle, so I grabbed my drink off the table and turned my chair a little so it didn't look like I was actually in the circle. Soon, I heard the older woman sort of take charge, asking to hear the "highs and lows" of the girls' weeks (one of the girls called them "Sweet 'n' Lows" and they all giggled). I overheard a little, but was trying to focus on my own stuff. One of them had boy problems (she liked a guy more as a friend, but he didn't know it yet and had "I heart my Maya" written on his phone), and another was rear-ended on the freeway. I had noticed with a slight eerie feeling that there were a few bibles lying around, and one of the girls had in fact complimented the older women on her bible, saying that she had just been looking at that one in the bookstore. Soon, as I feared, they started their bible study group. I was a little distracted already, but then all their guy friends came in, started complaining that it was hot, stood around the girls (and me) and propped the door open. I had been looking around for a while for another chair, and that was the last straw -- I found a chair and moved, fast. Then I noticed a knitting circle around another couch, and I had a wierd sense of deja vu, because I am sure that I read somebody's blog (article, letter?) about reading in a coffee shop and suddenly finding themselves surrounded completely by a knitting circle. Also strange was that one of the women in the knitting circle had the exact same sweater and a really similar hairstyle to the bible group leader. I actually did about a triple-take.

Today I noticed a new Calvin pissing sticker with "Omarosa" underneath the stream. Seriously. How can you possibly feel so strongly about a losing character on a reality TV show.

When I borrowed my dad's big giant truck to move two weeks ago, I noticed an odd phenomenon. Now, I only had it for a few hours, so it may not be a representative sample, but if this happens all the time, I'm confused: Everywhere I went, much smaller vehicles seemed to wait until I was a few yards away, then pull out right in front of me, no matter how much space there was either in front of or behind me. It was like they were suicidal -- I was barrelling down the street (understand that "barrelling" describes driving within the legal speed limits, of course, but on many streets those are 35 to 40 MPH) and these little Yugos (okay, I'm kidding -- Hondas and stuff) kept waiting in driveways until I was nearly upon them, then pulling out in front of me and going 20. What? Why would you do something like that? It was like in Yosemite, when a friend and I were riding our bikes and these kamikaze squirrels kept throwing themselves in front of our bike tires. Except it wasn't like that, because they didn't stay right in front of the bikes, and the bikes would have needed to weigh like a trillion times as much for these situations to be approximate. Why would you do that? If you are a driver, may I suggest not doing that? If a big-ass Ford 250 is hurtling towards you, either go while it's still far away or wait until it passes. Sheesh.

Okay, that's pretty much it for now.

Le sigh . . .

For once I am actually all caught up at work, so I keep checking my e-mail for friendly voices, but alas, I am alone . . .

Miscellany

Well hello there. I just have a few miscellaneous tidbits to share.
First, Piggs is an excellent breadmaker. We were supposed to make bread together, but because I wasn't feeling very good yesterday, I pretty much abandoned the task to him (with occasional kibbitzing), and now we have two delicious loaves of homemade French bread. Actually, more like one and a quarter, now that we've scarfed most of one loaf.

I hung out with/babysat a 6 year old yesterday. She has more energy than I do at my best, but she sure as hell beats the crap out of me when I'm sinus-head-explody. Nevertheless, we managed to watch "Shrek 2," eat dinner, play dominoes, Uno, go fish, and Curses (this was more interpretive than usual), play several rounds of "animals," do some stuffed animal role playing in which Racky Racoon repeatedly ran away and was attacked by bad guys, read some books, and found out what all of our favorite breakfast foods, times of year, desserts, fruits, movies, DVDs, etc. were. I'm still recovering.

I started NaNoWriMo, and since I am too lazy to include links, you will have to Google it yourself to find out the challenge. I'm already 2,000 words behind, by my calculations. I would say that you could expect to see less of me in the "blogosphere,"* but since we still don't have cable TV to waste time on, I may very well have the energy to post my random bullshit on here as well as writing 47,876 more words of random bullshit for NaNoWriMo.

*I have seen the word blogosphere pop up more and more times outside of said sphere, like in the newspaper. I'm betting that it will be A: one of the newest dictionary entries this year and B: one of the words on Life in Hell's end-of-the-year words we're tired of list.

Good stuff, too

Okay, this morning has reminded me that there's a lot of good stuff about my job, too. First, LeKeisha came in to talk to me -- she does almost every morning. She talks about shoes, her uncle, doing hair, her baby brother . . . but she chooses to come talk to ME every morning. Then Tony comes in, and I had forgotten, but a few weeks ago, I was bending over to pick up a piece of trash and my tattoo showed for a second. It's an apple, and the kids nearby asked why. I teased that "in the OLDEN days when people LIKED their teachers, they would bring them an apple." Tony walked in with an apple for me this morning and put it on my desk.
Nick and Gary have made a game of being the first one to ask for my Sports section to read. Today Nick showed up 20 minutes before school with a big grin on his face. He got it.
Last week Jennifer in 3rd period brought me crispy M&Ms twice until I thanked her and told her she didn't need to bring me candy. Gayb tells me every day that I look nice, even when I know I don't.
Seriously, even when I have bad days, I need to remember that there's a lot of god, too.

Democracy is making me fat.

Well, that and chocolate chip cookies. No, seriously, cortisol, the hormone you produce when under stress, is linked to fat around the midsection, and that's totally where I'm fat!

Okay, really, this post is best skipped if you're in a good mood and don't want to be brought down, because I haven't sat down to blog in a while, and I have some things to say.

First of all, I've been reading a lot about the need to reunite as a nation, to put our differences behind us and look toward the future. And as someone brought up with good morals, who values the idea of unity, I would like to answer the question "Can't we all just get along?" by saying . . . No! NO, screw you guys! I'm not playing! Listen, there's a huge gap between putting aside minor differences or agreeing to disagree and completely forsaking all your beliefs and values, and to back President Bush in any way would mean that I would have to betray myself and all my ideals. Do I agree to disagree with lots of people on lots of issues? Sure I do. Every day, practically. But these are not those kinds of issues. Bush now has a Republican controlled Senate, and may be able to appoint a Supreme Court Justice. This system (which I do value -- I LOVE my country, although I'm a little disappointed in its people right now) has checks and balances for a reason, and we're throwing it away. We have a Bill of Rights for a reason, and we're throwing its protections away. I think the patriotic thing to do here IS to throw a fit about it. Our country is quickly turning away from its most precious assets and becoming something new, something different, something I don't like much. Something like a theocracy. Something like a dictatorship. And what's worse, we voted for it.

Bush fucked the environment, the economy, the lives of thousands of American soldiers, the lives of numerous Iraqi and Afghan people, our standing in the court of world opinion, the law (don't get me started on all the Republican-fed examples of voter fraud, or Halliburton), the 1st amendment (reporters are being jailed for not revealing their sources, and the right of the people to peaceably assemble? Try it around the RNC), the 6th amendment (one word --- Guantanamo), he's trying real hard to fuck the tenth amendment (by taking away states' rights in regard to gay marriage), he's handed fat contracts to his cronies and given fatter tax cuts to the wealthiest one percent, he'd like very much to privatize social security (score one for fucking the elderly) . . . To say that the list goes on is a gross understatement. And yet, (THIS IS FOR YOU, THE AMERICAN PEOPLE) you voted him in for a second term? What, are you nuts? High? Has the crack rock epidemic gotten this bad? I had no idea . . . Okay, listen, I get the Christian Coalition folks voting for him. How could you not? The guy swears he's got a direct line to God. I get the wealthy -- he scratches your back, vice versa. I get the Texas loyal cowboy thing (although the bastard is about as much of a cowboy as I am, but he's cultivated the image). I get the NRA folks -- he sure enough has devoted himself to your cause. But poor folks? Hello? What has he done for you lately? Anybody ever planning to need Social Security? How about health care? Yo, women? (At least most of you went Kerry.) Minorities? Anybody out there? Gays? Everybody who professes a faith other than Christian, or no faith at all? Where the hell were you? Okay, I guess you were the 48%. I sure as hell hope you were. How do the numbers add up this way? I just don't get it.

You know, not to get all self-help-y here, but I'm really stressed, and I started thinking about this book I read several years ago. You've probably heard of it -- Reviving Ophelia. It's basically a breakdown of all the ways teenaged girls can be messed up, with case studies. I was just reading it for the heck of it, when I came upon the teenage Count Mockula chapter. Yeah, there's a whole chapter about the specific ways in which I was messed up as a teen. Basically, smart sensitive girls tend to go through a depression because they start hearing about all the fucked up shit in the world that they can't do anything about, (animal testing, apartheid, FGM, whatever) and they haven't grown that hard cynical outer shell that allows grown-ups to go "Wow, that sucks" and get on with their lives. So they get depressed because they feel helpless, and the not-quite-as-smart set usually doesn't give a rat's ass because they don't seek out the info in the first place. Anyway, I haven't felt that way in a long time, because I did (finally) grow the "Wow that sucks" shell. But I feel like this election got through the shell a little. Like, I feel both knowledgeable of all the bad stuff that's going on and helpless to prevent it. Maybe I need a little news fast. Maybe that would help. I'm a bit of a junkie, though.

Okay, off politics, I'm pissed about work, too.
Number 1 -- Mrs. R gets yelled at by a parent who says she's been trying to reach us for three weeks to arrange a meeting and no one has called her back. The parent immediately calls back and gets the principal, who hands off the message to another teacher (one not in our usual meeting group). None of us has EVER gotten a message from her before. When I talk to her, she says she's called twice -- talked the the receptionist once and the attendance clerk once. I have no idea where those messages went, but it all comes down to me, because as house leader, I'm the one who's supposed to be making the callbacks. But how can I if I never get the messages?

Number 2 -- I frequently threaten to keep my 2nd period late after the bell (they're assholes), but rarely do it. I basically tell them that if they can all sit down at one time for like a second, I'll dismiss them. Well, Monday I'm trying to get the "Everybody's ass in a chair during the exact same second" thing happening and the bell has already rung. Am I a fascist? No. Touch your derriere to the plastic, and you can go. One of the many kids I have whose name is spelled wrong says "I'm leaving!" and barges out the door. I send a referral to the office. All you have to do is SIT DOWN and I'll dismiss you, but instead you left without being dismissed after being asked repeatedly to sit down (and by the way, given plenty of warning before the bell rang). The referral comes back this morning with an indication that SpelledWrong has received NO punishment at all for his defiance, and I get kind of a funky tone from the note, which says that he was worried about being late to his next class, and therefore did the right thing, and I had put in in a difficult position, because he would get a referral from me if he left (um, not if he put his ass down and got dismissed) and the next teacher if he was tardy (for the record, no teacher I know gives referrals for being tardy). So the VP made it seem like I put him between a rock and a hard place, when in actuality there was one soft option (follow instructions and get dismissed on time, thereby getting to your next class on time) and he chose to do it the hard way. Except I guess it isn't the hard way, because you can do whatever the fuck you want and not get in trouble if you tell your sob story to the VP. Incidentally, this kid is no angel who was just anxious about being on time -- he's been suspended EVERY DAY THIS WEEK, we've met with his mom, and he must have a file with 20 referrals in it. Whatever, I'm changing my classroom rules sign from the official one to one that says "Classroom rules: None." And I'm getting a nameplate that says "Ms. Doormat."

Number 3 - Our principal seems to think if he finds something to be "for the good of the order," we should all hang around for countless hours of our own free time to listen to it. Today was only our second meeting of the year, but it's the second meeting at which the designated ending time has been totally ignored in favor of some speaker he's invited in. Now, first of all, if you really want us to hear this speaker's presentation, shouldn't you have them start it before 3:40 when our meeting is scheduled to end at 3:45? Second, if you think it's so important that we should all stay and listen, send out an e-mail ahead of time asking us to stay. Or schedule it on a different day and ask people to sign up for it and get credit towards staff development hours. But for the second time now he has simply expected us to stay without any prior warning, or even an announcement like "I know it's time for you to go home, but I would really appreciate it if you could stay and hear this speaker. If you need to go, I understand, and now is a good time." Instead, he leaves us to pack up and sneak out if we need (or just want) to go home, to our lives, where we're also not getting paid, but at least have our own agenda. This has also pre-empted scheduled union meetings for two months in a row. I feel bad for sneaking out (I know it's rude to the presenter) but it's MY FUCKING TIME and also, I signed up for the exact same workshop she was giving today and attended it three days ago, so I already have the information (and I DID get staff development credit). Why on earth would I sit through it again for nothing? No money, no credit, not even any new educational opportunities.

I'm CRAAAAAAAANNNNNNKKKKKKKKYYYYYYYYYY. But at least now I've gotten it all (I think) off my chest, and maybe now I'll be able to move on to bigger and better things. Oh, wait, one last thing. I've always been somewhat politically active (money to PETA, breast cancer research, to various other causes, letters to the editor, lawn signs, faithful voting, fundraising for AIDS -- nothing big), but the one thing I can say that was positive that came out of this election for me is that I am re-committed to working for my ideals. I may not have a lot of time, but I can sure as hell put my money where my mouth is, and I know some causes that will need help more than ever now that our country has gone retarded, I mean Republican. For example, Planned Parenthood and NOW could probably use a hand. It turns out that this time, my vote really didn't count, but that doesn't mean my voice won't be heard. I'm not waiting aroung for 2008 to improve my world. Fight back against our loss of freedoms. Fight back against policies you don't believe in. Fight back against government corruption, fraud, lies, and immoral wars. Do what you can. Fight back.

Hey red states!

F you! You suck. "Duuh, I'm gonna vote for a cowboy! He's a good old boy just like me! He's dumb, just like me! He's got a limited voca . . . er, he don't talk good, just like me! Also, I heard uv him before, like, his name was on the teevee, and I didn't recognize none uh them other fellas on the ballot. Plus, he likes guns! And he says he ain't gonna raise my taxes, like that other fella with the girl name, Carrie, heh. I'm gonna go pick my nose a while."

There's more for you later . . .

Work

is hell today.

Every once in a while we just have a retarded day, where they can't listen to save their little lives. Even the principal is pissed, having made two "get your act together" kind of announcements over the loudspeaker.
Today, question 6 is "Draw a diagram showing how Columbia played a practical joke on Olaf." I wrote it on the board. I read it to them. I actually did the diagram myself yesterday. I explained in detail what happened in the practical joke. I told them what diagram meant. I told them what to draw. I drew it on the board myself, and pointed to it and said "draw this." Really, there was more -- it went on for about 15 minutes. And I STILL had kids saying "I don't know what to do."

Top ten responses from kids caught talking:
10: He was talking to me.
9: I was just talking to myself.
8: I wasn't talking, I was just saying . . .
7: I wasn't talking, I was whispering.
6: No, I was just telling him something.
5: He asked me a question.
4: He has my thing.
3: Can I get some water? (The deflective question.)
2: I was talking about the assignment.
1: What? I wasn't talking.

Okay, the political stuff

is really more Piggs' thing (I'm informed and involved, I just keep it to myself most of the time), but this was so funny I had to share:

The Sloganator

Miscellany

Okay, so I had my doctor's appointment, and after about a 5 second questioning, it turns out I have shut-the-hell-up-you're-a-whiner disease. No, what he actually said was "fibromyalgia," but they're pretty much synonymous. Anyway, I have to call and see how the lab work came out (they're ruling out lupus and about 4 other things), but if it's "fibromyalgia," I will just ask for a foot X-ray and drop the whole matter. Fybromyalgia . . . I swear to god.

Piggs is all moved in. His office looks great. Clothes whore that I am, I still managed to make some room for his clothes (not nearly enough, but some). There is still some detritus around to deal with, but he and I are basically tidy folks, so I believe it won't last long. I get the impression that he's more anti-clutter whereas I am more anti-dirt, so we may just complement each other cleaning-wise.

SBC sucks. Piggs called long before the move-in date and asked whether his DSL could be moved to my number. Nope, I had to cancel. Which I did, effective the 28th. Then he transferred his service (complete with new phone #) to our place effective the 29th. That day, we moved all the stuff, then put most of it away, then he started fiddling with the DSL hardware. Well, it didn't work, and they said on the phone that the customer service person he'd talked to previously was on crack rock, and they wouldn't be able to get it done until Tuesday. Needless to say, Piggs is cranky about it. Sample exchange of 30 seconds ago: "What are you doing over there type-head?" "Blogging." "GRRRRRR."
I've still got the ol' dial-up, which he is WELCOME to use, but he has decided to be cranky about it instead. I just sent out an e-mail saying I'd changed my phone number, but I might just change my e-mail as well, because I don't really need to keep the dial-up if I can use the DSL. I'll think about it.

I made yummy sugar cookies in holiday-themed shapes and gave them to neighborhood kids and took them to a party. I decided not to keep any here, because I have such a sweet tooth that I would eat them ALL.

Let's see, what else. I have to go back to work tomorrow, and I have a TON of grading to catch up on by Friday, when grades are due. I'm not looking forward to it, and even worse is that I have a workshop tomorrow after school. Hmph.

I was Twiggy for Halloween -- houndstooth mini, very mod boots, batwing sweater, toggle coat, and I pretty much already have the haircut. I did the big false eyelashes, too. I think if you knew who she was, you'd get it, but how many people would? Oh well, I amused myself.

I finished "America: The Book." Very funny, not only in what it had to say, but in the way it mocks history textbooks. Some very astute and pointed shit in there, as well as some very silly. My favorite quote was about how all the senators were Republicans or Democrats, then it notes that yes, there might be some Green party senator from Oregon, but Hippie Q McFreakington probably wasn't going to get much outside the greater Eugene area. Hee.

Okay, I really should go do something else now. Take care, all.

Gee,

. . . you must have missed my mindless ramblings over the last few days! I've been busy with house stuff. With my mom's help, I painted the trim and ceilings in the two bedrooms in my house that I don't sleep in. My home projects are a lot like having the 3 stooges in the house all the time. Just ONE example of many is the heating vent. It needed cleaning, so I took it down. I couldn't clean it with regular products, so I used oven cleaner (it's metal, right?). It cleaned it, but also took some paint off. So I decided to spraypaint it. I spread newspapers outside and sprayed it with Rust-oleum. It looked great. Then I went inside while it dried. I went back out later, and because of the breeze, all the newspapers had blown up against the fresh paint and stuck to it. So I scraped all the newspaper off, sprayed it again, quickly removed all the newspaper and brought it inside. Except some newspaper was stuck to my feet, so I came inside with newspapers and leaves floating around and under me like Pigpen in Peanuts. I was like the spraypainted newspaper monster. That's pretty much how everything goes with me. You should have seen me with the caulking gun. Ridiculous. But it's mostly done now.

I just made the best oatmeal chocolate chip cookies ever. They're my uncle Allan's recipe. I totally forgot how much they kicked the ass of the Quaker Choc-Oat-Chip cookies. It's a KO.

Gotta go to ballet. See y'all.
Oh, just in case the news didn't make it out of Cah-lee-for-nee-ya, the latest symptom of the Governator's foot-in-mouth disease was last week's quote "The Indians are ripping us off."

Formula

Let O = Outside temperature.
Let B = Temperature in my bed.
Let M = number of minutes I stay in bed past the first alarm.

B-O=M

I am a snooze button abuser.

I'm afriad it's hypochondria -- a severe case.

Okay, I'm going to air my neuroses here -- lately I have noticed a bunch of things going wrong with my body, and I sort of put them all together and realized they were all joint related. So I finally gave in and looked online for some possible reasons. I assumed it might have something to do with my vegetarian diet, and that maybe I was B12 deficient, since although I'm not vegan, my dairy intake is pretty low. But B12 deficiency seems to manifest itself in anemia, which I don't have. In fact, every web site I looked up joint pain and stiffness on came up with arthritis. (Well, except the lupus one, but I don't have any of the other symptoms of lupus at all.) Yep, and my joint pain fits the symptoms of osteoarthritis better than rheumatoid arthritis, even though OA tends to develop in older people. I've got pain and stiffness, but not swelling, redness, or elevated temperature. Like I said, I think it's just hypochondria, but here's the list of symptoms:

Stiffness, crunchiness and pain in both shoulders, but particularly the right one.

Occasional temporary "locking" of the hips.

Pain, usually sudden and brief, in the knees, as well as locking, popping, and some crunchiness.

Loss of flexibilty in the right ankle (it does not bend nearly as far as my left).

Some pain, crunchiness, and stiffness in both ankles, including occasional severe pain that feels like a sprain, but goes away quickly with rest and icing.

Stiffness and pain in both big toe joints, much more so when weight bearing (i.e., when walking it's "Ow. Ow. Ow," as opposed to all the time "Oooowwwwwww."

Something odd has happened to my right hand twice lately -- when Piggs was grabbing it to lift me up, the bone on the pinky side of my hand suddenly made a popping feeling, accompanied by extreme but short lived pain.

(This last one is the worst, but it might be tendons, not joints.) My right foot has two bones in it (seemingly attatched to the 3rd and 4th toes) that have been painful off and on since about February. It feels like they are rubbing against one another, or have something going on between them, and it is noticably exacerbated by a lot of walking or other use (dance class). These become extremely irritated, to the point that I walk with a limp and can't wear shoes other than very comfortable flats. Rest also improves this condition, and sometimes it will go away and not bother me for days at a time, but when it comes back it's always in the exact same spot -- I suppose this one might be a metatarsal stress fracture.

Am I making too much of this? Should I call my health care provider just to check? I started taking B12/Folic Acid/B6 vitamins, but is there anything else my loyal readers (about two friends and my mom) would suggest? Humor me.

Curses!

Well, I only got mildly lost getting out of the air force base. I turned left at the left turn only sign exiting the parking lot, onto a one-way street with no turnoffs for about a quarter mile, going exactly the wrong direction. What really should be the embarassing part here is that I actually used to work on that base -- grading standardized tests as a temp job (so did monkeygirl, just later on) -- and worse yet, an ex-bf also used to work there, and I picked him up or dropped him off on several occasions.

It wasn't the worst workshop ever. I did find out that the technology we're using can do exactly what I want -- YAY. As soon as I can coerce, cajole, and nag the computer guy into installing the new version, so maybe in another 5 years or so (for the record, that's how long it has taken to get him to get another program working for me).

I think that's it. I need to clean.

Oh, um, quick survey. Do you think an all-girl punk rock pajama party with pillowfights would be an entertaining show, one that you might like to attend? Just out of curiosity, nothing in the works yet . . .

Frustration!

Okay, I'm at a workshop for school, and the e-mailed confirmation had a link to mapquest. I've been out to this area before, but it's an old Air Force base, and the roads throughout are curvy, the names change frequently, they turn one-way without notice, and it's generally difficult to navigate. So when Mapquest said it would take 16 minutes, I left half an hour early. Still, Mapquest had not accounted for the GIGANTIC friggin' accident on one of the only big streets out of my neighborhood. And naturally, the thinking-outside-the-box creatice geniuses in the turn lane in front of me decided to just wait it out rather than flipping a bitch. So I was already running late when I actually hit the AFB, and then I kept looking for streets that didn't exist, or running across streets that were supposed to be two or more turns later. Finally (after turning completely arond in the middle of the street about 3 times) I saw a big sign on a shiny building that said SCOE (Sac county office of education) and I figured that was it. I get really uptight when I'm late (if you know me, you'll understand) so I was freaking out when I walked in at 4:02, but as of 4:11, they just now finished taking attendance. Now they're starting. --CM out.

Wrap-up

So, I pretty much covered Palm Springs, but there was one last page of notes yelling at me to include them. At Ruby's, the 50s diner, we saw billowing clouds of smoke flowing out of the upstairs window of the steak & martini joint, so much so that it looked like they had one of those misters . . . (To any Portlandians reading -- here in hot climes many storefronts are equipped in the summer with hoses that emit a very fine mist to help combat the heat.) All along the sidewalks are stars like in Hollywood, but not all of them are famous people -- some are, like Sophia Loren and Bob Hope, but others are just the normally anonymous backstage guys. I liked that. There was a guy selling his book, Sunkissed: Bathing Beauties something or other . . . I didn't go up to look at the book because I don't like to have to talk to authors. I think it's leftover from the sad booksignings we always had at one of my retail jobs. But he looked suave, all in 50s gear.

I was a little troubled by the Cahuilla maiden statue -- am I the only one who thinks that Native American women probably did not all look like bare-breasted nubile white chicks in Injun drag?

I liked waking to the church bells that had the same ring as my childhood doorbell.

I started having major Holden Caulfield moments, feeling like the place was full of phonies. Rich, gay, foreign, or a conventioneer . . . that was the entire population, minus the wait staff at restaurants and the maids in the hotel. I wonder what home they go to at night. Not that being rich, gay, foreign or a conventioneer makes you phony -- it was more like the whole place had that air, so you couldn't help but get caught up in it.

I mentioned that one of our presenters yesterday looked like Christopher Walken and Spalding Gray, but the third person to mix in there to get a really clear picture would be Andy Warhol. And picture this guy slapping his hand to his forehead to puch his hair out of his face. While we were in our last workshop, you could tell it was shutting down, because some guys came and picked up the fake ficus and loaded onto a cart.

Oh, one more thing -- I haven't looked up this Johnny Lang character who gave the concert on Friday night, but I was noticing that his stuff sounded really old time rock 'n' roll . . . Kinda Bob Seger, kinda Lynyrd Skynyrd, kinda Creedence . . HEY WAIT! I thought. This guy is country! I realized that the old style of rock has so faded from our collective consciousness that if you hear it today, it's probably another genre altogether. Odd.

Hey, SD, I bought three albums lately and have read a shitload of books, so I promise to get over to ZZZ right quick. I've just been busy.

Painted the Piggs Office. The color is "Spring has Sprung" and he picked it (but I'm happy, 'cause I was gunning for green). This weekend Mama Mockula and I are doing trim and ceilings in Piggs' and Mockula's respective offices. Offici. It's strange to refer to oneself in the 2nd person possesive case when using one's online-only nickname. Okay, I could blather about nothing all night, but I'm in the middle of a good book, so I gotta run. Take care all,
CM

Palm Springs Land

Hi y'all! I'm just back from Palm Springs, where it was 98 degrees on Wednesday. It's overcast, rainy, and rather cold here at home. I went to a conference on dropout prevention. It was a good one -- I heard two great keynote speakers and went to several good workshops. For your amusement, I will probably only make fun of the bad ones instead of talking much about the good ones. We flew in on a prop plane on Wednesday and immediately went for lunch in the restaurant that our hotel, the Spa Casino Resort (talk about a no-frills descriptive name) housed. It was okay, nothing spectacular. I learned that our allowance for meals was $5 for breakfast, $9 for lunch, and $16 for dinner. Here at home, no problem, but in Palm Springs it proved challenging. We then walk to the convention center to register and get our tote bags (I am the queen of free tote bags), and it's not a long walk, maybe 10 minutes, but it's HOT out. Still, we beat the rush and now have the whole afternoon and evening free with no workshops scheduled! We all go back to the hotel and the guidance counselor and I change into bathing suits, and we all go sit by the pool and have beer, margaritas (mmm) or virgin daquiris (for the lightweight). I hang out in the spa mainly and read My Year of Meats (great book by the way). After a while I go shower and change for dinner, and we start walking downtown. We choose just about the first place we see, the Kaiser Grille, and bop in. It takes us a while to get service, but that's okay because it's taking almost everyone else a long time to decide (one of the beauties of being vegetarian is that I rarely have to decide between more than a couple things). Finally we all order and get our food, and the waitress tells us we can't have separate checks, but that she can just split the bill evenly 5 ways. Yeah, but I ordered the $10 pizza, and everyone else was getting booze and a $20 special! I decided to run across the street to the ATM so I could opt out of this whole equality thing (I'm not cheap, just poor). I also think it might be smart to have change, so I break the 20 by getting a drink, a kahlua and soda, which in most places would probably be in the $4 range. Nope . . . in beautiful Palm Springs an ounce of Kahlua costs you $7.50. Okay, well, at least I'm getting the hang of the place now. Incidentally, there was a guy sitting at the large open windows on the side of the restaurant, smoking a cigarette and exhaling massive lungsful of smoky air straight into the restaurant. I couldn't figure out exactly how this failed to violate the "no smoking in restaurants law" California has, but it was only the first of many occasions I noticed something like this. After dinner we walked to the casino that is across the street from our hotel (and part of the hotel), but were stopped at the door because the math teacher couldn't bring her leftover box. It was really smoky in there, so in the like 15 seconds it took for us to figure out we weren't getting in with the box, I announced "I'll walk you back to the hotel!" She agreed, and we walked out, both gasping for air (she's asthmatic and sensitive to smoke, too). We spent a quiet night reading and watching the presidential debate, and I didn't even miss the opportunity to gamble.

Thursday -- we slept in, I read the LA Times, and then it was conference time. They gave us bag lunches and we heard an inspiring keynote speaker. Actually, she made me cry. I told you I wouldn't talk much about the good ones, but a highlight was when she played the theme song from "Cheers" and made us all sing along. (Her point was that every child should feel that way about school -- that it's a place where everybody knows your name, and they're always glad you came.) The same speaker was the one in my first workshop, so I lucked out. Then I went to another one -- a good one, actually, but the speaker had a lishp. "Shtudentsh need reshilienshy." It sounded like the "Pork chopsh and appleshaush" episode of the Brady Bunch. After the workshops we all walked downtown together. We stopped in a great many shops, most of them selling postcards, t-shirts, and tacky desert souveneirs, like scorpions encased in plastic. I'm okay with going into ONE shop like that, but by the third one or so I'm ready to hang myself, so I keep running out to check the London Underground or the skate shop or cool stationery place. I actually found some really cool stuff in the stationery place -- cards and calendars . . . Plus, the salesguy looked like John Cusack. There was a market thing going on much like one we used to have in Sac called Thursday night market. There were produce stands, but also flavored coffee, hot food carts, chair massage stands, handmade soap sellers, artists . . . It was cool. We walked south through the market to the end, and settled on a Mexican place there called Del Rio. It was crowded and noisy and I'm not certain it was all that clean. I ordered a margarita, thinking I would get the regular size, but if you don't specify they bring it to you in a bucket. After drinking that whole thing, I honestly couldn't tell you whether my burrito was any good or not. The counselor, VP and admin asst. went back to the casino and the math teacher and I stayed in again.

Friday morning -- we had to be at the conference center earlier, but I had slept poorly so I jumped out of bed and walked downtown. I read my LA Times again and got a continental breakfast which, though tasty, was marred somewhat by the acrid cigar smoke assaulting my nostrils the whole time. My first workshop was a real dud. Basically it took the guy (who looked like Christopher Walken and Spalding Gray) an hour to tell us that if we feel stressed out, we should take deep breaths. The second workshop was much better, and the guy gave us plenty of practical applications for his ideas, as well as keeping us entertained and involved. We had another box lunch and another awesome keynote speaker. My workshop after lunch happened to be the same guy as before lunch, so I was happy. Then I went and changed into cooler clothes. We had been experiencing a lot of togetherness, and I'm by nature a bit of a loner, so I went out exploring by myself. It was nice to be able to walk at my own (much faster) pace. I walked all the way up Palm Canyon drive out of the downtown area and well into uptown. I turned and walked down another street on the way back once I started hitting residential areas. It wasn't until this day that I really started to get a feel for the town. I had noticed a lot of Spanish-style architecture, and I assumed that, like many small historic towns, those newer constructions had been modelled to look like the oldest buildings in town. But the more I walked, the more I realized that the Spanish-looking places were ALL new. In fact, the oldest places in town were in the 50s modern style, and had probably been built like that in the 50s! There is this big "check out our Cahuilla indian stuff" motif around town, but there are no historic structures or anything. It's got the same feel as a castle at Disneyland -- it's ALL new, it's just made to look old, like it's "Disney's Magical SpanishVillaLand." After this all dawned on me, I started to get a creepy feeling about the place. Not that I hated it, just that it felt really phony, kind of like South Lake Tahoe did with all its Alpine Ski Lodge-style Carl's Juniors. I stopped in at the Welwood Murray Memorial Library, and I haven't been in a library that musty and forsaken in a long time. While I walked, I considered heading for the hills and hiking in the mountains a bit, but I only had sandals on, my right foot (which I think is injured) was starting to throb, and I wanted to get back at a reasonable hour for dinner, so I skipped it. Also, every time I'd think "maybe I'll turn here and wander alone into the wilderness," some skeezoid would walk up behind me.

There were things I liked about the town, too. I mean, even if the Spanish thing was a fiction, they did a pretty good job of sticking with it, and had some pretty tiled fountains, a gorgeous Moorish looking feature on the hospital, and a building that looked like the old Alhambra theatre in Sac. Also, where they landscaped with native plants it was very exotic and appealing to me -- there was salmon-colored bouganvillia, sea hibiscus, frangipani (or "frangy pangy," see my Virgin Gorda entries) lantana, oleander, succulents . . . And there was a lot of public art, even if some of it was funky (the larger-than-life Sonny Bono leaps to mind). By Friday I wished I'd struck out on my own more -- I passed Persian restaurants, sushi, several Thai places . . . I definitely would have eaten better if I wasn't with a bunch of picky eaters. I swear, for a vegetarian I am almost the least picky eater I know. On the other hand, I did opt out of that night's popular choice -- the overpriced seafood buffet in the smoky casino. No thanks, dude. Math teacher and I ate at a 50's style burger joint instead, and I had a Gardenburger patty melt with "fit fries" and a root beer float. Mmmm. On the walk back to the hotel, we heard the strains (and "strain" may be the right word here) of "Sweet Home Alabama" as performed karaoke style by a patron of Peabody's. Math teacher and I stayed a minute, listening to another guy sing Bob Seger's "Still the Same," then some country song I didn't know but she did. We both sat down, ordered a Sprite, and I grabbed the binder of available songs. I settled on "Me and Bobby McGee," but the DJ didn't have it. He had "House of the Rising Sun," though, and I nailed it, if I do say so myself. I got a round of wild applause which followed us out into the night . . .
I spent more time in the spa that night, and listened to the outdoor concert going on just outside the pool area, and read "Gangsta Rap," (shut up, I have to preview young adult books before I recommend them to the kids, and they have to be books my kids might actually WANT to read).

Since we took off the next morning after a Jamba Juice, early morning walk, and LA Times gorge (on my part only), and one last conference (boring -- one hour on "kids need to be motivated"), there's not much more to tell. Palm Springs is surrounded on three sides by sandblasted mountains that always look a little hazy and purply, like watercolors in the distance.

Maybe a little more tomorrow. --K