The kitchen table

My new kitchen table. I got it today, after much grappling with logistics and confusion. It replaces the other, brown table I had since I was married; but, since the husband is gone, so is the table.

There was some confusion as to why the table should be delivered on a certain day. I can't figure that out, but I won't dwell in minute details that no longer matter.

I wanted to take a photo of the table, completely clear and clutter free. It may be the only time this happens. I don't plan to ever eat on the table, though I did tonight because the clutter free surface was very appealing. Instead the kitchen table serves as my two cats' feeding area. I leave their food bowls on the table to avoid the nasty, tiny ants that invade my home looking for free handouts. My thought on this is: why make it easy for them.

Also on the table, where I sit typing this currently which is kinda cool because I'm tired of sitting in the chair in the living room - that is part of the old life, gotta get a new one. The oak and press board table is holding my four favorite things in the world (aside from the kitties) which are also what I'm addicted to, funny how that works.

My computer is the most awesome thing. It connects me to the bigger world, and keeps me up to date on the news (which I miss). It's also how I communicate with friends. Not to mention the writing which is beginning to settle back into place - where it friggin' belongs.

The coffee is important because I tend to live off caffeine at times, and it just tastes nice - kinda bitter and sweet.

My ipod. I live for what it offers me: music. My sanctuary and salvation; my feelings and blood. I know lots of people will never get this, but I know one will and that's all that matters.

The phone. Who ever guessed I would be addicted to texting. It doesn't matter to who (well it does, but whatever). Communicating in quick written bursts designed to convey a whole conversation in a few keystrokes and thoughts. Quite frankly, it could be the most coolest thing ever conceived. It's instant and written. Snail mail is an art, but one that is long lost. Why would I post a letter, when I could text my thoughts in a few quick letters?

Cartoons I miss

Cartoons that I so love and now miss terribly because we have the brilliant genius of Ed, Edd, & Eddy oh and how can I forget CatDog. yeah.

* thundercats - go lionel. didn't we all just want to be one when that really cheesy music played.
*he-man - he was friggin hot. all those ripply muscles and a prince, no less.
* voltron - because who didn't want to fly a big mechanical cat that made an ever bigger cat looking thing.
* G.I. Joe - Duke was my hero. 'nuff said.
* transformers - the movie was cool, but it all started on Sat. mornings.
* sailor moon - yup, I watched it.
* smurfs - I have discovered that the word smurf actually means fuck and can be used as such.
* Gummi Bears - bouncing here and there and everywhere . . . they are the gummi bears.

Crazy Daze

Moving someone is not as fun as it was when I was younger. Moving always meant a new adventure; this move signaled an end to 17 years worth of events, happenings, adventures, and friendship.
It was sunny and 65 today; perfect golf weather, but instead my spouse moved out, officially now. Normally when someone I know moves it rains – which ensures a successful move – the sun threw me today. I haven’t figured out what that means yet. Maybe nothing.
So now I sit in my living room with my cat crawling all over me and dragging around my dog-faced slippers and he isn’t snoring in his chair. But I’m sure he’s snoring in his new chair in his new place, which is kinda comforting. And he has cockroaches, which is comforting in an odd way. I’m laughing when I say this – glad it’s not me.
Instead, I have the killer toothache and I’m such a pansy about going to the dentist I’ll be in suffering stupendous pain before I even pick up the phone to make an appointment. Hello, Mr. Root Canal. Just how I want to spend my winter break – toothache hell.
Back to what I was saying: my life is moving on not in the original direction, but it’s still a direction. I’m going with the waves now – big ol’ life shattering, smashing, crashing, drowning waves.

School: Fail

The few, sparse days right before a somewhat lengthy break are full of absolute pain and hate. Mostly on the part of the teachers. The students lose all moral compass and do what they can to be as obnoxious and pathetic as possible. And most of this is just purely internal, inherent childhood ridiculous behavior.

In my experience, 45 adults and 850 students are not a healthy mix when both sides want desperately to be away from each other. While the adults have the advantage of, you know, thought and rational reasoning; the 850 students have the advantage of strength of numbers and the general mob mentality of wanting to sneak and pull anything on the teachers. Even given a few seconds of nonadult supervison, the kids will suddenly slip into psychotic break mode and turn into unrecognizable versions of their former selves.

Case in point, a few examples of the strangeness of the past few days.

* The boys' bathroom pee issues have intensified to the point that finger pointing has now started and the paranoia of dribblig a little on the side means something new altogether.

* The game of "how-many-kids-can-fit-under-the-teachers-desk" is played every time the teacher happens to turn his/her back to the desk.

* Games of sac tag have dramatically increased and random boys can be found curled in the fetal position at various points through the day.

*Absenteeism is so rampent that when you call out Ferris Beuller's name, you really can hear crickets.

* Homework? What's that? I never heard of that.

* The phrase "Please sit down and be quiet" is now replaced with "Get yo' butt in the seat and clamp it.."

* More inter-school emails are swirling discussing how important it is to partcipate in the Secret Santa project, and please don't forget your secret santa.

* It is the longest week ever known to man or woman

O' Xmas Tree, O'Xmas Tree - NOT

I’ve been very humbuggy, or scroogette-y as I have been called. Too bad.
But, after the accusations, I decided to accept a Christmas tree. I broke down and was ready to welcome the holiday spirit with open arms. My soon to be ex-spouse picked out the tree for me, brought it back to our house and set it up.
This was done without the usual fanfare that has always accompanied the arrival of the yearly tree. The cat (the one in my arms) didn’t go running for cover and cower on the spare bedroom bed in the mounds of clothes that I need to put away, only to pee out of fear causing the necessity of rewashing all of the clothes. It was nice not to worry about that.
Instead, Huey catted-up this year. He boldly walked to the lush, green tree, standing tall and proud on its tree stand in the middle of the room. This tree was going to get the royal treatment as far as display was concerned. I was unaware of Huey’s newfound bravado, but soon to be was enjoying it.
Then came a girlish shriek from the living room.
“Get in here, quick,” was the following call. I dropped the dishes in the sink with a splash and rushed to the tree – but alas – not fast enough.
Huey had mounted a side attack and had blindsided the courageous tree. He was standing on the tree stand (a tv stand) and had two branches in his mouth. With a vicious headshake, Huey had the tree on the floor, with green paper mache pine needles strewn everywhere. And as fast as I could move to make a lunging grab at him, he was down the hall with the tree, dragging it into the darkest, scariest recesses of the house. I wasn’t going to follow.
Instead, I got the shopvac and cleaned up the leftover remnants of the $1 Dollar Store 12-inch tall fake tree.
That’ll teach me to go back on my word. Next time I say I’m boycotting something, I’m sticking with it. I guess I’ll find the tree when I move.

Things I like:
After having a crap few days I need to remind myself of the reasons I don’t want to take the eternal dirt nap. Not in any specific order.

* The perfect sentence.
* The perfect book that shatters my thoughts and can take me to a different world.
* The way beer tickles your tongue when you take that first sip.
* Listening to a piece of music that triggers your soul and reminds you of something long forgotten.
* Seeing a friend pop up on IM.
* Getting a random text message from someone wishing you a good day or whatever.
*A sun-drenched spring day.
* A warm, but rainy spring day.
* Seeing the moon bounce soft light off ocean waves, creating a path to another world – even if it is just in your own mind.
* The way people can be nice to each other around the holidays (not really this year, but maybe in the future)
* Getting a hug from someone who loves you and he squeezes just a bit too hard in exultation so that the air in your lungs is expelled.
* Standing next to a guy who is wearing the most bestest smelling cologne in the world.
* Laughing at a joke or situation so hard you double over and tears flow freely from your eyes.
* Playing with my cats.
* The perfect spin.
* Making someone else smile.
* Ginger ale spicy enough to make your eyes water.
* Irony for the sake of irony.
* Dems in the White House.
* Holding a conversation without being made to feel like everything you say is wrong, wrong, wrong.

Invisible

It's nice being invisible. People tend to forget about you being around. You just become an afterthought, a whisper of a memory that floats in some blank space in a person's mind. Your thought of when that person or people have nothing else better to do, and then it's like "Oh, hey, yeah, what about what's her face?"
Then when the whisper turns a little louder people can again see the barest outline of your form - but never the whole thing. They don't want to see all that. They only want you for whatever random purpose filled their head at that moment. As soon as the task is fulfilled, you again sink into the neither regions of their existance. A silent shadow in the corner of the room. Not even lurking because you don't even get that high of a ranking in their lives - or they find something better to occupy their time and lives.
Slipping through time, unseen, ghosting through life can be a warm and fuzzy if you don't like the people you've chosen to be invisible around. It's easier to not exist at times, to skirt around the edges of everyone else, hearing and seeing every fucking thing they do, and they have no idea you were even there. They have no idea the number of proverbial knives you can suffer that have been driven deep into your core, because they can't even take the time to see you, or figure you out.
What's the point of offering a key to the puzzle that is you? It's no fun when someone can push all your buttons, without even taking the time to find them, or even decide if they like those buttons. So, you just sink into the background.
And one day, you just stop existing all together because etherial floating through time and space without hope and feelings is the preferred way to live.

Fun in the Restroom II

The fun in the boys' restroom intensified today. I find it truly fascinating that dealing with urinary issues in the opposite sexes' restroom actually takes up part of my professional day. How absolutely surreal and inane is this?

So, walking by the boys' restroom around 11 a.m., I noticed (hard not to) the most foul smelling ordor sifting out from under the closed door. The light was off, so I took that as a sign no one was in the restroom. The whole hallway reeked of stale urine - freakin' boys. I walked back to my room and had one of the boys in my class spray the restroom down. The smell in the hallway soon changed from a repulsive urine drenched malfeasence to one of a Lysol and urine drenched, gut-wrenching, hurl-inducing putrid odor. Lovely.

I gave up and went back to class.

Around 130 p.m. one of the boys came to me and said there was an actual puddle of pee near the entrance to the restroom. I, finding this hard to believe, had to go see for myself. Apparently, one industrious youth couldn't make it to the bowl and releived himself all over the floor, creating a small, yellow puddle, by the door. I just stared in disbelief at what I was actually looking at. I couldn't stop the thought that my two cats, both goofy as all get out, were better potty trained than the group of young men who are poised to be the next doctors, teachers, lawyers, and politicians of our society.

Stifling a gag (the instintive gag reaction finally overtook the disbelief reaction), I went to get another teacher on my team. Stupidity of this magnitude has to be shared. Her reaction was similar to mine - however, she actually did gag. We called the poor janitor who had to come clean up the the sticky, smelly, soggy, sickening mess.

I can't wait to see what wonderful little surprises will be yielded in the boys' restroom. It's a new present every day!

Fun in the Restroom

The boys’ bathroom at school is a total disaster. Some of the boys have trouble hitting the mark. This is mostly a sixth-grade phenomenon. The problem was exacerbated today when one of the seventh-grade boys returned from his trip to the restroom and proceeded to wipe his feet on the carpeted floor of the classroom. When I questioned his motivation for wiping his feet all over my floor – he informed me that the boys’ bathroom floor was sticky and he wanted to wipe his feet off.
It was pointed out to him that the sticky was created by the puddle of pee that had conglomerated around the base of the toilet. A chorus of ewwws resonated through the room and quickly touched off a wildfire discussion of pee etiquette for boys.
Some of the suggestions of the seventh-grade boys for better peeing technique:
- Toss in some Fruit Loops and have the sixth-graders “sink the ship.”
- Paint a big red X on the bottom of the toilet.
- Get a bigger toilet.
- Hold a seminar on how to properly aim for the bowl.
- Make them outside behind a tree.
The seventh-grade girls decided to try to name the disaster that is the boys’ bathroom. Some of their suggestions:
- Code Yellow
- Half life of Pee
- Weapon of Mass Destruction
- Gas chamber
- The pond

Thank God for Strong Fingernails

In the middle of the tempest comes a break. The first wall of water and wind breached and battled and leaving behind weary empty shells. Shells of what used to leave in the somewhat peace and tranquility of the pre-storm era. A used-to life. A time of repetition and certainty. A time of knowing what comes next; nothing on the horizon but the familiar.

The storm appears. You can see it coming; it's on the radar. Weathermen warn to take cover to duck to flee north from the monster coming to destroy your life. An easy Cat. 5. Naw, you think. It won't get me. It'll divert and head the other way like it always does. But, not this time. The ligthening strikes close, raising the hair on your arms and the small delicate strands on the back of your neck. And yet, you still don't take cover. You run to the front porch and marvel at the sheer magnitude of pure, unadulterated destruction barreling your way. Still, you think a juking and diving will save you.

Then the winds arrive like hounds loosed from their cages chasing the fresh scent of young fox. It howls and roars around you. The foundations of your house shake and rattle. Nails, formerly thought to be solidly entrenched in the wood, tear loose with the screaming buckling of metal. Sensing a weakness, the temptress wind seeps in through the openings and, at first, slowly, eats away at the interior of the house. Testing, pulling. pushing at the weak spots. Satisfied it has found a weakness the wind lashes with fury - focusing its gale force hate on the weak spots - until, finally the roof pries loose, followed by the walls. Off into the maelstrom they go - you no longer have the strong protection you once thought existed.

Now, shaking in fear, you look for some safe haven - none is found it is too late to hide from the baleful monster screeching in your face. You brace against what you have left - maybe a random interior wall, or the bathtub, or a stubborn bit of kitchen plumbing. You grasp with raw hands, those being ineffective, your grip slips to your fingertips, then finally to your fingernails. You feel the storm pulling your nails from the nailbeds in a horribly bloody attempt to dislodge you completely. And yet, you hold fast. By the last shred of ability you hold steady and maintain. Just maintain.

Slowly, the gusts of hate and putrid ignorance slow, and fade. Your feet gradually touch the floor and you no longer need to grasp at bits of wood and scraps of memories to keep you grounded. The sun shines. It is the eye. The calm. The time for regrouping. The gift of time to plot how to survive the south wall - the worst part of the storm; Hells own portal on earth.

You turn your face to the sun drinking in the momentary respite; realizing there is now no way to escape the coming fury. The time to run has long passed. Looking around, you gather your courage and stronger base from which to make your stand. This time, you know what to expect from the racing storm. You know you must survive by using more than your fingernails - they will not remain intact in the face of the coming fury.

And survive you will - there is no other option. Because, as you know, on the other side of the wall of hell is the sweetest air, the breath of hope, the knowledge of change and of again living in the sun. Of being able to rebuild what has been torn down and now lies in shambles at your feet. This time rebuilding stronger and with a better knowledge of how to avoid the next storm; how to survive with change.

Grocery Store Assault

My neighborhood grocery store was an absolute insane asylum this evening. For a Wednesday, the store was cram packed full of people. Normally only two registers are manned, but tonight all seven were running fast and hard with at least four people in line.

The night before Thanksgiving (Thanksgiving Eve?) everyone and their brother who is in town from Uttica were in the store with cell phones plastered to his and her ears asking how much, which brand, where's it located? People wandered through the store eyes glued to the shelves, reading the titles cans, boxes, and frozen items, while in their hands were the deep blue handbaskets filled with crackers, drinks, and random meat.

The line was four deep to stare absently at the vegetables as the younger male who was waving a cell phone in hand and squeezing onions in the other. He even took a picture of the onions, waited, talked, and then picked up the sweet onions. In the cheese section, the myriads of shredded cheese in multi-colored transparent bags flummoxed a family of five. The Mom was handling each bag, focusing on the shredded Mexican mix and comparing it to the varieties of mozzarella. While the Dad was intent on the sharp cheddar, and the older daughter (young 20s) was all about swiss slices. The two younger children, probably high school, were busy throwing the red-wrappered chunk cheese at each other.

It was the same in every other section of the store. If it wasn't so cute and amusing to watch, I would have lost my mind while waiting on the hordes of indecisive fools, wanding aimlessly through the grocery store.

Ah, Thanksgiving, I'm gonna skip ya' this year.

Sweetness is . . .

I've been brooding and dark lately, no wonder, and have been a total hothead and take things way out of context. I needed to so chill out and lighten up; however I didn't any relief coming any time soon. Even friends weren't the salve I've been needing.
Instead, my lightness returned in the form of an essay. A simple essay from a very simple kid who absolutely adores me, and who knew I desperately needed a laugh.
I assigned the students a Thanksgiving essay about someone, anyone they wanted, coming to Thanksgiving dinner and hanging out with the family. I was expecting famous musicians (I got some), actors (none), and sports figures (some). I never thought a large number of the students wanted to have dinner with me (about 45 percent). The best one, while not well written, but written with heart, made me laugh until tears were streaming down my face, I was gasping for air, and pounding on my desk.
According to the essay (i would reproduce it, but, it loses some when not translated), I arrive at the student's house. And save the family from a marauding T-Rex who has eaten the family dog.
After teaching the T-Rex manners and how to be smart, I then move on to a random monkey that showed up. I name the Monkey "Bacon" then fry it up and eat it.
Next, with a belly fully of bacon, I scream in excitement as all the Green Bay Packer football players show up at the house. I precede to dance with each one of them, and enjoy the experience so much, I take the team hostage.
Without warning, the FBI storms the house, because I have taken the football players hostage, and demand that I release the team or else I will be carted away.
The essay ends with me making a big decision - but what that decision is I'll never know.

The picture is representative of me, dancing - a blue booby.

Waiting

It's rainy and dark and cold. Ick. Winter is around the corner it's supposed to sleet tonight and I have to drive to work in the morning.

But, the kicker here is that my car is broken and sitting useless in the driveway.

The reason it's sat there for the last few days is that 1. it was too late when it died to go to a store and buy a new battery 2. Again, now, it's late and the store closes in two hours and my spouse who isn't going to be my spouse in a month went to a meeting and won't be back till late.

I sit bored, not really wanting to watch television because the offerings there are just quite pitiful, waiting. That's all I've been doing lately. Just waiting. Waiting for the people around me to wake. Waiting for me to wake up. Waiting for life to start again. Waiting to move on. Waiting on someone else to move on. Waiting to lambast another person who is waiting on the same reason I'm waiting.

Waiting is the worst waste of time, it's deconstructive and tears at the fabric of sanity. Gosh, I'm tired of waiting.

The worst part is that I'm not a great waiter. I hate it. When I want something done, it best well be done NOW, or even better yesterday. Life ceases when a person has to wait. So much actual life just floating by on the stream of time while I sit on the bank staring listlessly, wanting so much to jump in, and yet, being restrained by constraints not placed by myself, and yet, I'm adhering to them.

I'm being good; my eyes may be watering watching it all pass me by - watching others go zipping by without realizing I'm still sitting here - like I'm supposed to be and so should they.

I can see an end to the lazy stream - it's just right up ahead. All I have to do is walk a few unsteady and tentative steps to this great big yawning ocean where delicious waves and sunrises and sunsets await to capsize me into a new world where the waiting is of a better sort - the kind I want. And the kind that, hopefully, wants me.

Crossroads

Crossroads are paradoxical shifts in the space-time continuum of people’s lives; and more often than not they don’t even realize they’ve been through one. That they’ve made a decision and have selected a different path and are now traveling at a rapid pace away from what they originally wanted and are ow heading toward a new destination which may not have been their ultimate goal. Missing the crossroads or being oblivious to the new direction has unintended consequences and by the time you comprehend that you’ve chosen the wrong dirt or grass or macadam road incorrectly, it’s too late to hit reverse and do it again. And other times, crossroads are very evident; smack-you-in-the-face-stand-there-and-stare evident.
Both types are equally self-destructive or enlightening. Just a lucky few get to stand in the middle one and are not be bothered by the swirling mist of times past. The how-you-arrived portion of your life. Mostly we stand and with squinted eyes looking back on what we’ve done and groan as we see the better solutions materializing or slap our heads in frustration because the reasoning and meaning behind actions crystallizes into a pure thought. Too many times we get caught up in the backward view and force the future to fit into the what-should-have-been category. There is a reason we’re supposed to see the past clearly sans blinders of everyday life – so we don’t make the same mistakes. Those who can’t take a safe and unbiased view of their past are the ones who fail time and again as they make the same choices and repeat patterns that have ended in misery.
After facing down the past, the dark oblique world of the future can be even more daunting. There is no mist, there is nothing but blackness. But the blackness isn’t a scary evil type, it is the unknown type. The dark that precedes the dawn. The dark that ebbs and flows as soft as a mountain stream. The dark that envelops us when we sleep, and offers a respite from the harrowing misery of the day, or a break from the joys of life. Few want to walk into the black without having some inclination as to what they face. As the preconceived notions of what we think will happen melt into a blur, and forces the dark to be a terrifying prospect, while not physically scary, it holds its own terrors. New roads and surfaces are forged in courage and those willing to move ahead and follow their own path, alone, are the visionaries.
Of course, as with any crossroads, there are the two divergent side roads. And this is where the devil stands. He of the big smile and easy laugh; ready to sell what you can not afford but so greedily want. Give me your soul, he says dripping with confidence and lust, and I will show you which path to take, which is the easiest version of life. It costs but little and I only collect when you die. Sometimes, taking his hand and letting him lead you down the “safe” road is the most comforting choice, there are no worries because you know the future and can apply the past. Everything is laid out for you, there are no surprises and you get what you want, not what you need. Those who take his offer, what they can’t see because the truth is too painful, already proffer their soul. These soulless wander aimlessly with no real goals or ambitions because the smiling man has paved their way into a life of meaningless movements one no better than the next.
So, as I stand now, facing the receding mists of a damaged past and the vortex of an empty future, I eschew the smiling man and keep my soul’s virtue intact. With a deep breath and facing forward with extreme trepidation I’m taking the first step on a road created by hope.

Feeding the Beast

I feed a beast everyday. This beast is one of the most integral parts of my organization. Nothing would be accomplished if the beast’s hunger wasn’t satiated. The whole of the organization would come crashing down around the professional employees’ ears. Many would stand in dumbstruck horror as the beast, disabled by its almost perpetual appetite, stood silent – ground to a halt by the lack of caloric intake.

As it is, only a few brave souls dare brave the beast’s dangerous and darkly satanic hunger pains. Us brave few, we calm the monster; know how to assuage its demands; how to tame the raging tiger best so the rest of our staff can safely continue their day, as if none of us were in mortal danger.

I have taken to using the crazed creature only in limited quantities – I take no chances of rousing the anger of the gods – it would be akin to poking a sleeping bear or taunting a trapped bull, stuck in a corner with no hope of escape. To ensure a safe passage into the beast’s world, I always submit an offering. No matter how limited or sparing, the offer is taken into consideration by the static creature and it grants me safe passage.

Having proffered the beast my gift with humbly bowed head, and a cross of the fingers for a successful cooperative venture with the creature, I slip my request into its cold jaws and allow the beast to do its job. Take my work and make it more. Make it plentiful. Make it into hundreds of cloned copies. I rarely breathe while my work is in the beast’s capable innards, if any air escapes me, it is a quick prayer for a quick and fruitful end to my appeal.

The slightest growl leaves me spasming in terror as I imagine the horror of crawling through the creature’s inner workings to relieve its pain, to fix its soul before it will spring to life again at the touch of my fingers. Sometimes, if the damage is too much, if the beast decides to self-terminate without warning, to attack my person with foul directions and orders, I call in help. The beast is not averse to tying up the attention of two fully capable college-educated adults.

And yet, not many will take the time to learn the gentle tricks needed to calm the beast; the ability to quench its desires so the rest of the staff can tread with success and make a hasty retreat back to their own cubbies. These types are the ones who rouse the beast, who antagonize the creature stirring in the small, hot, crowded room. After using the monster, they, often, run as fast as they can from its cave – not bothering to replenish the required food source.

It is then that I wander into the dank little room and face sharply glaring red “eyes” while a clanging klaxon, capable of waking the dead, blares from the beast’s very mouth. Using what guile I can muster, I locate and grab the quickest food source and hastily hurl the needed nourishment into the belly of the beast. I utter curses suitable for the devil himself when someone has carelessly left behind a growling monster.

Then, when the monster has eaten his fill, I press the start button and my copies pop out the other end.

Robo-call how I love you

Robo-call, robo-call you seduce my machine
with the enlightening grumblings of Republicans moaning
the praises of the two-headed modern day Cerebus known as PalinMcCain.
Oh, the praises you sing.
The internationally-experienced savant hockey-mom

who handles the strained relationship of crab
fishermen glaring at each other across the frozen Bering Sea;
the flashpoint verbal lunge of your candidate searing the competition with charges of
pandering to and being a traitorous terrorist.
Redistribution of wealth destined to upend my life as Joe the Plumber’s
business swirls down the S-tube
Woe, woe – I am next – even if I never see more than $34,000 a year.

Robo-call, robo-call you seduce my machine
With the informative snarkings of Democrats decrying
the platitudes of the one-headed beast Obama* (who is the other guy, again?).
Oh the platitudes resonating through my voice mail.
The change we need, now, as opposed to tomorrow, coming from a family man who
is a community organizer of unknown talents.
And the ghost of the ticket. Um, what’s his name?
Your charges pointing out the cracking fault lines in your competition’s haute-couture
shopping bills, and travel plans.
Hailing to the twined, lockstep devotion the other candidate showers to the status quo
should lead you to say status no.

Robo-call, robo-call
Leave my phone the crud alone.

Too, too cold. Too, too soon.

Winter has arrived way too fast. It's not so as the photo, but, it was in the low low 40s in the morning and never climbed above 49 all day.

In fact, to help out the chill factor, mother nature saw fit to dump a heapin' batch of wind on us - enough to fill an advisory complete with gusts up to 40 mph.

MMM

Cold, freezing wind that drops the temperatures into the 30s. Enough so that the few random rain drops that have been forced squeezed from the sky were compressed into ice crystals, aka, snow flurries.

This cold weather is way too soon in the calendar. It's not supposed to snow until November. The almanac is calling for a snowy winter - yuck. So, I'm calling it now, in writing: 12-16 days out this winter.

Oh and yeah? What am I wearing in the horribly cold weather?

At school, flip-flops, capris, and a light cotton dress t-shirt. By lunch, my room was hot enough to cause a general lethargy in me and the kids, and topped out at 80 degrees.

At home, where general sanity rules (ha, not) shorts, jeans, sweat pants, wool socks, turtle neck, tee-shirt, sweat shirt, and fleece hoodie.

It's howln' like a mad dog driven to the brink by a full moon, and the smell of fresh blood wafting on the breeze.

I HATE winter.

My goal is to morph into a bright songbird and fly south for the winter. Somewhere warm, Florida, Costa Rica. . . .

Baseball really stinks

I now know what it feels like to have an aneurism.
Well, not really, but the point being: I sat down with my favorite drink in my nice easy chair in front of the tv. I turned on the infernal machine. And then about fainted.
No football. Yes, I am a football freak. Growling, I start channel surfing to find out why Sunday night football wasn’t on. And low and behold, the baseball World Series is on.
I had no idea. Now, I know the McCain camp is falling to pieces and Palin has been labeled a rogue and she spent $150,000 on clothing but plans to give it to charity, and the new season of 24 is gonna start soon.
But I had no idea that the World Series had started. Not mention who the teams are (which I do know now). Has baseball fallen so much that it doesn’t even register on my, a sports fan’s radar? I never liked baseball, I find it trite and useless, but still. . .
So questions for you (rhetorical; meant to make you think):
1. Who are the two teams in the series?
2. Where are they playing tonight?
3. What is the game count?
4. Who were the starting pitchers for tonight?
5. What are the mascots for each team?

They will inhabit the earth

I’ve been a tad sick with a cough thing, turns out its viral and I get to have my cough thing for about two more weeks. I will miss my cough thing, which I have since named “Enrique”, when it leaves me to find a home with another lucky soul who will have the pleasure of being sleep deprived and being bent at the waist while “Enrique” forces you to the ground in a spasm of hacking.
I digress.
To find out why I was still hacking after finishing antibiotics, I returned to the doctor. She, too, was puzzled and so ordered a series of chest x-rays to determine if I needed to be hospitalized (yippee). So, after our chat in the patients’ room, she lead me to the internal waiting room outside the x-ray area in the office. The nice x-ray quickly collected me (after I was able to read two chapters in my book) and showed me into the x-ray lab.
With a great flourish of her blue-covered scrub arm, she pulled out a puke pink dressing gown. I inwardly groaned at its appearance. She happily smiled.
“I need you to take off your top and bra and put this on with the opening in the back. Like a kitchen apron.”
“Yup,” I agreed with as fake of a smile as I could muster. Quickly, I disrobed and slipped into the oh-so-sheik crinkly paper dressing gown.
Next up with the x-rays themselves – no big. Turn this way. Turn that way. Hold your breath. Release your breath.
And it was done. So, I was asked to remain in the dressing gown until she could develop the film and see if it turned out. Not a problem, I thought. I plopped down on a stool and waited.
And there it was. My epiphany. A small piece of the great puzzle of life.
It was black and intricate lattice work comprising four sides of the object and sitting incongruously under a blue vinyl patient chair.
The Bob & Bob Dairy Works milk crate.
You know what I’m talking about. The crates that milk companies use to carry milk cartons into schools and some businesses. The ones with the “Property of” stamps plastering any and all free space and letting any wrongful user know who the true owner of the poor little lost crate is. This particular crate wasn’t holding chocolate milk cartons waiting for grubby school children’s hands, but, instead a variety of lead line protective covers.
I have seen these milk crates everywhere. In wood shops, with construction crews, on apple farms, and now, of all places, in the x-ray room. It boggles the mind that milk is so expensive today. I know why. It isn’t gas or production costs. It’s because the general public keeps jacking the milk crates, and the poor dairies have to keep replacing them.
Oh, and yeah, I have two deep red milk crates at my house; both filled with books.

Backyard fall photo blog

Don't Chase Bears

I am now a firm believer that some people should never be allowed to breed, thus continuing their line of inbred stupidity. Case in point: the most stupidest thing I have ever seen.
I was in a national park today, checking out the changing leaves(see pics below), and the park was just jam-packed with tons of people. Bumper to bumper traffic, actually. At one point the road was clogged with people yanking their cars to the side of the road and passengers jumping out of their side of the vehicle with cameras dangling from their necks; racing to join the crowd at the base of a steeply wooded incline. Once at the base, the passengers would frantically wave their arms, indicating the drivers should pull over.
In fact, people were starting to pour into the woods and run up the steep slope (the type where you need to hang onto saplings to keep your balance) cameras to their faces. I, of course, wanted to see what the big deal was about, so I too, jumped out of my vehicle.
When I reached the crowd, I caught site of the rump of a big ol' black bear. Being of a sound mind, my first thought was "What am I doing out here ticking off a bear?" I backed away from the edge of the base and jogged back across the road. But I soon realized that I was perfectly safe - the idiots who were scrambling and actually chasing after the bear on the slope would prove to be easy targets should the bear turn and teach these fools some respect for nature.
I had to be able to outrun about 50 idiots sliding around on a leaf-covered slope - no problem. Who in their right mind would chase a bear, armed with a camera, in the bear's natural habitat? Realizing the hiliarity of the situation, I quickly began rooting for the bear to turn and maul someone - just so I could get some good snaps of natural selection at work.

Skyline Drive - Photo blog

Coffee zombies - a scary, but true story

With coffee cups and 34 ounce hot liquid containers in hand, a band of rag-tag, thirsty, and very grumpy teachers huddled around an empty coffee carafe capable of holding about a gallon of hot joe.
Eyes darted left and right, shifty and wary, wondering who it was that took the last cup of coffee and didn't refill the percolator and make a new pot. A random growl was heard from the back of the pack. Finally, someone was coherent enough to speak up.
"Who the hell dared drink all the coffee. Now what will we do?"
The group-think mentality quickly turned ugly and morphed into that of an angry riotious mob - nevermind the first bell was about to ring in 10 minutes. Someone's grip on their plastic cup loosened from his or her weakening system and lack of caffiene.
"Let's find 'em and string 'em up," a growling female voice suggested. A general consensus murmur ran like lightning through the now-scary group of educators. Like a pack of rabid wolf-hounds, the group moved as one and, with mouths drooling, shuffled out of the lounge and in search of warm coffee smell.
I, the only one amoung the soulles gathering who was on their second cup of hot dirt, decided on a more rational solution. Using centuries worth of rational thought, I made another pot. Soon the warm, sensual smell filled the lounge. Lured by the heady aroma, I quickly found myself huffing the coffee as it dripped, maddeningly slowly, into the carafe. Tempted to just open my mouth under the dripping portal to heaven, I heard the groaning and shuffling of the crazed mob of teachers. I emptied what had dripped into the carafe into my mug and backed away from the coffee as the teacher-zombies brainlessly reentered the room - drawn by the smell of the cafe.
Within moments of drinking the coffee, the teachers quickly transformed into recognizable human beings again, and chipperly wandered off to their classes - evil thoughts forgotten.

Tonight's top 10 . . .

Can't ever have enough psycho-cat pictures.

Anyway, my real blog:

Top 10 things a middle school teacher never wants to hear:
10. Don’t you want to see the pictures I found of my sister online?
9. Should the air conditioner be shooting off sparks?
8. Oh, look! Mr. Science Teacher’s snake just slithered in the room.
7. Bobby just licked the chair.
6. Five second rule – Miss Straightjacket would you like a cracker?
5. Eww – what’s that smell?
4. Is it supposed to turn that color?
3. Dude, cool, a rotten banana at the bottom of my locker.
2. Who’s pants are these?
1. Come look at what’s in the bathroom.

I heard five of the ten today. Oh glorious joy of the youth of america.

Condiment extravaganza

Ever had the insatiable urge to just stomp on a ketchep or mustard packet just to see it explode in a mass of color?
My urge was quenched after my school day on Thursday. (teacher). I was fortunate, or not, to be witness to hundreds of the stupid things being exploded all at the same time at lunch at my middle school. Whoever says kids of today aren't intelligent has never seen the devients come together when the common goal of anarchy is presented.
Lunch time: I walk my class to the lunch room, as per normal, because middle schoolers find it physically impossible to walk more than five feet without giving in to the urge to touch, punch, kick, or generally beat down the kid next to them. An adult presence seems to quell this urge somewhat.
I released the hellions into the cafeteria, and the watchful eye of the asst. principal and gym teachers who pull the hell known as cafeteria duty (fourth circle I believe). No big. I do it everyday. I race walk back to my room, because I have only 20 min for lunch (otherwise known as 20 minutes of bliss away from all that is 12-year-olds). Within five minutes the principal comes on over the loudspeaker system. (Think M.A.S.H but at a school)
"Attention all available adults. Please report to the cafeteria. IMMEDIATELY" That's school code for move your ass there's a riot. So, I run. Just as I hit the double doors and bounce into the cafeteria girded for battle of some type, I feel about a dozen, kinda gentle, but gloppy sensations all over my body.
Unsure of what's hit me (thoughts of the infamous scene in Silence of the Lambs crowds my conscious) I duck and cover my head. Adults scream, kids howl with laughter, I hear gentle crying somewhere in the background. The cafeteria lights go out and the prinicpal is roaring at the 400 kids in the cafeteria in rage. Gathering courage, I peek out from under my arms (I had cowered against a wall near the door until the barrage was over - safety first), and notice all the red splatters across our normally white, sparkling cafeteria.
Gasping in shock, because I first thought it was blood, my eyes adjust, my brain catches up and I also see smears of bright yellow and forest green; at the same time the overwhelming smell of tomatoes and relish assualt my nose. Ah, condiment hell, I think with relief.
Then, my brain finally catches up to my adrenaline surge: those gentle gloppy feelings I had ealier - yeah - I was hit. Teacher down, teacher down. My nice pink shirt and tan khakis were covered in an array of condiment colors. Whoppee.
About 45 of the little darlings had conspired all week to attack the adults and each other with a condiment explosion extravaganza. A coordinated attack of stomping just as the maximum number of adults walked into the room assured student domination for the day.
I have to admit, it was quite ingenious to plan it all out, target certain doors, certain students. Scary little devient minds have they.
I spent the rest of the day, about 3 hours covered in ketchup, mustard, and relish. Ah, teaching. A wonderous profession.

Now I remember . . .

I want to thank writer Rick Telander for reminding me of several things that I sometimes forget, but shouldn't.
Like:
1. Why I've gone two weeks straight - away from home until 11 p.m. or later after arriving at work at 7:50a .m. every day. And will continue to do so with little hope of a break.
2. Why I have a separated shoulder.
3. Why I have a following not unlike a rock star's (and one that is just as fickle).
4. Why I spent several hours standing in a tropical storm for a quick smile, nod of the head, and fast wave from a friend - which meant not more than that to me but a whole ton to him.
5. Why two dinosaurs are suddenly the funniest thing ever to happen to a group of kids - and not say names when it came time to solve the puzzle.
6. Why a crestfallen look from a 16-year-old boy can crush my heart.
7. Why a dancing wildcat mascot is suddenly the best thing ever to walk the earth.
8. Why I spent this past Saturday in bed all day and evening with a 102 degree fever, wanting to crawl in a hole and never come out.
9. Why I will continue to follow inane stupid directions of others, as long as I'm the only one who hears them.
10. Why I will do this all and more again and again. For the next 38 weeks or until I collapse again - and then crawl out of bed and start fresh.
11. Why it's still my turn to give back, until it's someone else's time to step up.

Bliss

Another perfect night. That makes like two in the last two weeks. Total serendipity. This time the pink/purple sky coupled with a gentle salt water breeze was breath taking. Total zen.

No way it would get any more sublime; but then I walked out on the beach and saw this:

The moon created a golden path on the water. The most zen I've ever felt, or seen.

Perfect Day

The sun sinks lower in the sky now
Angles of light diffuse through green leaves
Shifting shadows silently and succintly.
Summer is silently shimmying into fall.
Haze riddled mountains appear bright and clear
and white puffy clouds move their unique
designs across the trees colored by shadows
made by a lower sun.
Evening breezes bring promise
of cooler days and brilliant blue skies.
Oppressive heat dashes from the sight of the
westward wind willowing its way to me.

Why Brett, why?

So Brett Favre has went the way of Joe Montana. Ugh. Why can't he give it up. Yeah, it's football, gets in your blood, clouds your judgement, makes you crazy, can't live without, makes the world crystal clear, blah blah. But still.

He is a Packer, and only sullies his reputation by donning another uniform in a hideous color green.

On the flip side . . .

This frees up Chad Pennington (a Thunderin' Herd alum - woohoo) who would look kickn' in orange and blue.

I need ice.

I'm getting old.

My muscles don't heal as fast as they used to when I was younger.

Whatever happened to running around all day, then bouncing around more at night?

Now, I gotta ice the spasms, the groaning, the creaking, the screaming bits and pieces of me that just don't want to work as fast or as stronge as they once did.

Ugh. Yeck. Blech. Ick.

Ralph. Hmph. Moan. Curse.

Goin off the grid, ala John Connor

So the cute, adorable phone of my childhood has turned into the second cousin of the Terminator - the big bad one sent back to kill Sarah Conner before John was even born. (Yes, I am a raging geek).

My phone line isn't working. So, being the smart resilient person that I am, I called the phone company (irony alert: have you tried to find the phone company's number in the phone book?) to find out what was happening.

I was welcomed by the automated responsed service (thanks tech support types); which is actually a nice pleasant female voice without a thinking mentality or a soul, by the way.

Following is my completely illogical conversation with one of the machines that will likely be taking over the world any day now.

Disembodied voice: "What type of service do you need. Please say telephone service or DSL. Or for further service say agent for a technician."

Me: "Human."

Disembodied Voice: "Okay, fios."

Me: "No, human, please."

Disembodied Voice: "Type of fios."

Me: "Telephone service."

Disembodied Voice: "I did not understand that request."

Me: "Of course you didn't you stupid machine."

Disembodied Voice: "Okay, DSL."

Me: "Oh my gosh. Agent, give me a human."

Disembodied Voice: "Please state your phone number, with area code first."

Me: "Im not talking with a machine. AGENT!"

Disembodied Voice: "I'm having trouble with your request. Please hold while I connect you with our technical support department."

Me: "Thank you. Woohoo a human!"

New Disembodied Voice: "Hello welcome to (phone company's name) technical service department. You have entered the automated tech service help line. Please state the type of service you would like. Telephone service or DSL."

Me: "ARRGGHH"

This blog brought to you by . . . the number 100

I SO hate the number 100 right now. It's dreaded hatefulness can just plainout bite me.

Granted, I despise numbers as it is - the world is a great number conspiracy, if you wondered. For example, computers, they RUN on numbers. No wonder the machines will take over the earth one day.

I digress.

I've spent the last four weeks chasing 100, I got it once and crushed it to shreds. But, now, it is back and will not leave me in peace. All I want is a teeny, sweet 99. I'm willing to barter, beg, connive, steal, threaten, and throw stuff to get my 99. Or even better a 98.

I'm right there with ya' Phil. Hang in there buddy, just watch out for malicious hospitality tents.

Got the time?

The arms swirl faster and faster, blistering speed

counting off the moments of life

wasted sitting on this stupid blog.

Or watching vids that take longer to buffer

than to actually watch.

The internet superhighway has become logjammed in

it's own brilliance, jackknifed Websites, t-boned online movies, crunched and compacted computer drives, and five mile byte backups.

Loading, loading, loading . . .

I wanna hire this guy . . .

So I've decided that I want a man-eating crocodile on my payroll (which currently includes two vicious mercenary tabbies who collect payment in kittie chow).

This fella would be a bonus to have when walking in my local Wal-Mart parking lot after dark (about a mugging a week, average); or when I'm waiting in line at the post office and the person holding up the line wants a detailed accounting of just how much insurance he should put on a letter that weights less than an ounce.

Also, I'd post my new ally at the gateway to my house (otherwise known as the front door) to ward off all those annoying door-to-door frozen meat salesmen. Where do these guys come from anyway? And, besides, who would be stupid enough to buy meat from the back of a guy's dented, rusted up 1992 Ford F150, with a basement freezer attached to the bed with bungee cords.

But the best benefit to having a man-eater hanging out in the house - I'd be the only one on the block with one. Take that Mr. and Mrs. Establishment Jones.

http://www.nationalgeographic.com/adventure/news/gustave-primeval/article.html

So, the South really did lose . . .

The 145th reenactment of the battle of Gettysburg was well worth (barely, the dude got lucky it was too hot to push his car over the hill) sitting in the stupid parking lot (a big ol' grass field) for 90 minutes trying to get out.

For some reason, I only took pictures of Union soldiers, hmmm.

Bloody Hungry

Bloody hungry, am I.

Hmm, who's bare flesh is that I see?

Two, long, gorgeous legs, ripe with sangria.

Darting toward the tan exposed skin

drunk on eatn' ya.

Diving daringly downward, in for a sip;

blazing balefully backward, out before the fatal finger whipp.

Gorged on rich blood, I sit on a nearby branch to digest.

While watching hundreds of my brethern be the next guest.

Driving Blind

I stop looking. I found it.

Strapping on the blindfold, behind the wheel, shut the door, roaring the engine to life.

Stomp it.

Feeling life springing under my fingertips.

Lit on power.

Red fire singing under my eyelids.

Red fire surging in my chest.

Intricate dance moves with kiss-my-ass curves.

Sashaying to a new beat, one long forgotten.

Alive, again.

Sweaty Balls

They fly, float, whirl, hurl, stumble, and slam through the air.

More coveted than gold, silver, or coin of the realm for their short time in play.

The desire of many of a focused, eye, heart, and soul.

Hearts beat, pound, and thunder at the thought of touching, of controling these implements.

Body fluids course, stream, and drip onto the objects of desire, onto the playing fields, and onto the players themselves.

No one noticing, no one caring - it's all for one thing.

Unless you're the poor schumk who's been asked "Hey, man, you mind?" before touching the slimy, shining wet ball and tossing it back over the fence or onto the court.