A cooler spot in hell

I stayed at work today and edited the paper . . . I am not the journalism teacher but I'm sick of the typos and the inappropriate material. I then stayed so the kid could do all the revisions. There should be a spot in heaven for me or at least a cooler spot in hell. (or a better table in hell . . . remember Stu?) Ugh, I hate it when people don't do their jobs (yes this is directed at you journalism teacher). I also hate it when I bail people out . . . since there were really inappropriate things in this senior issue that I suggested they cut. I should have just let the journalism teacher hang for it.

I'm all nervous and anxious about the yearbook coming in . . . I really hate this time of year and am a crab for most of it. When you hand the book out, for some reason, everyone (parents, other teachers, random adults) feels the need to scream at the yearbook advisor for "not doing a good enough job". I'm supposed to have the students make the book and yet catch every little mistake they make. All and all, most people are very happy about the yearbook but those people don't say anything . . . because they are happy with the product. So I get to hear two weeks of . . . "did you know you messed up this" or, more often, irate screaming. And yet, I still have to do the big send-off for the graduating yearbook staff with the party, the presents and the pomp and circumstance. In addition, those are the two weeks I have to go to every after school event because my seniors are graduating so I have to take the pictures. This then exposes me to even more of the public . . . who are sure they PAID for a yearbook even though they are not on my three lists (receipt book, spreadsheet and account register) and they don't have a receipt. Why is it that they always lose those darn receipts . . . maybe because they didn't have one in the first place? Why don't I just trust them, they have the check carbon copy, you know. . .

On the bonus side, I did get mentioned in the senior issue of the newspaper . . . by several different students, who spoke highly of me and were thanking me for things. So it might be worth all the hassle for that. . . maybe.

Shut off my head

So I get obsessed about little stupid stuff and I just get in this looping thing where I think and think and think but don't act until the hopelessly last second. My current thing is this gift I have to buy for a party I am going to on Saturday. I have to buy a graduation present . . . for a yearbook kid and I don't know what to get. I don't know if it's the kid . . . or going to the party . . . I just can't come up with an idea of what to get. Maybe it's that I got his brother a really good present and I'm afraid I can't match it (which I can't . . . N was easier to shop for. Art supplies.). Quite frankly, there will be nothing wrong with me showing up with the regular graduation gift, like, say the jar of quarters so you can do your laundry at college. I'm actually thinking of getting his mother a present . . . she really, really deserves the gift for letting him live for eighteen years, in my opinion. So far the only idea is an exacto knife set . . . which I am sure he already has . . . or a dictionary, which is lame. He would really appreciate the Anarchist Cookbook but I'm a teacher, so just can't do that. So gift certificate to the art supply store it is . . . and I'll just show up to the party late and with something to do.

Can't wait for school to be over.

They're new!

I changed my oil this weekend. Actually, to be more specific, my father changed my oil while I handed him things. After changing the oil on two vehicles, which is a surreal experience in itself, my father asked (yelled at) my mother about his "other" jeans "that he put in the wash two weeks ago". My mother replied (yelled back) that she had not "done jeans yet". Then there was much discussion (yelling) about "how the jeans were not done".

In the midst of this discussion (yelling), I went in and put the only jeans that I could find in the laundry room in the washer . . . which was filled with some other clothes (colors). My mother had already added detergent (Tide, always Tide) so I figured it was really to go. The jeans actually rounded out the load quite nicely. I walked outside and informed my parents, who were still discussing (yelling) but had branched out slightly to the "what exactly DO you do around here" discussion (argument), that Dad's jeans would be ready in about an hour . . . if he put them in the dryer.

This stopped them from their popular general discussion (argument) and the focus then came to me. How could I touch my mother's washer? How could I touch my father's jeans? What right did I have mixing jeans and colored clothes? (jeans are a color!) Was I trying to be a bad person? Was I trying to turn my father's jeans pink? It ended with me running in, stopping the washer, and pulling out the wet, unharmed jeans. Bad Emily . . . stop being helpful.

The discussion (yelling) resumes, but it is pointed out that my father has three pairs of brand new, with the tags still on them, jeans sitting on a shelf in his closet. Three pairs. Never been worn. I suggest that he could possibly wear one of those pairs while he waits for the other jeans to get washed. Since there are now TWO dirty pairs, they may make the washer because according to my mother, you can only wash jeans with OTHER jeans. Plus, with three pairs of jeans in circulation . . . the whole process may in fact be speeded up. Alas, the jeans in his closet are the kind of jeans that "they don't make anymore" so you have to save them, plus they would need to be washed before you can wear them. This entire discussion (argument) was precipitated by the fact that my father is STOCKPILING JEANS, for some weird blue jean-less apocalypse. He can't wear them . . . they're new.

The day ended with my going to Costco and finding my father some more jeans. They weren't the "right" jeans. He was quite upset by the thought that they were from the outlet mall, since they were Nautica jeans. "Did you go to the outlet mall AGAIN?" They have not been tried on yet . . . a new brand you have to think about for a while. But they can be added to the stockpile up in his closet. I don't know if then a pair of jeans is released into the circulation (thus keeping the reserve static at three) or if we are just hoarding.

Hopefully, the laundry situation may be helped by having more jeans in the house and thus shortening the two week washing turn around . . . Keep in mind that sometimes, if I have to, in the privacy of my own home, I might not fill the washer. I might do a half a load, if I really need something. Or, gasp, I just put my jeans in with my other colors.

So I got my father some new jeans . . . which he cannot wear . . . because they are new.

I might be irritating

Some people need to understand that there are work friends and then there are friends. And work friends can give you advice . . . like be more happy and accept your lot and "I just do whatever I want and I don't get in trouble" but if they don't accept you for who you are . . . then they cannot be "friend" friends. I'm sorry if I have high expectations, I'm sorry if I want people to do what they say and say what they mean, and I'm sorry if I'm not happy enough for you . . . but, you know, we could just NOT be work friends.

Pushing four or five at a time

There are certain people in this world who are "button-pushers". They assess another person's quirks and what would annoy them, and then just start pushing for fun. I must admit that I have done it on occasion. My brother J is a master . . . which is mostly why I like him. However, today I dealt two button pushers to the extreme. They are both clever . . . and bothersome in their glee at my annoyance.

The fish killer - evidently there are these fish called "Gobies" which are not natural to Michigan's habitat. So if you find one "you are supposed to kill them". One day this person was describing in detail how he kills these fish for fun. Throwing them against walls, impaling them on sticks, poking their eyeballs out first . . . you get the idea. Upon hearing this, I mentioned that if he was into starting fires or wet the bed that he would have the trifecta. So now he arrives early to talk about Gobies, just to get a reaction. Grins all around.

Why don't you tattoo that on your forehead -- my favorite button pusher went out into the hallway today, after hearing that there was a family of geese in the courtyard. In the camera blindspot, he propped open the door so the geese could come into the school. Soon there was daddy goose in the hallway. Next there was Mr. Goose and forty kids in the hallway. The goose was freaking out and trying to escape but was so upset that he couldn't find the doorway again and kept banging into the windows in vain. He was scared shitless . . . which guess who got to clean up later. I finally herded the goose back outside to his family . . . and herded most of the forty kids back to their respective rooms. "H-bomb" thought this was so funny . . . laughed and laughed. And I have to get him a graduation present in the next week.

I'm thinking something along the lines of a lump of coal, maybe some lint or some empty candy wrappers . . .

They really didn't teach me anything about this in college.

List of my head

Made some flowerbeds, haven't eaten dinner yet, made two CDs for a student of mine, will miss ALIAS again this week, finally planted those day lilies - though they may be dead by now, threw all the grubs I found on the sidewalk, need some ant killer - too many grubs, bugs, etc., have funky white stuff in my mulch - think it might be mold?, have to mow my lawn desperately - yet didn't do it today, putting off doing my resume and don't know why, have to mail water bill, change oil this weekend, ohh, and haircut on Saturday, want it darker on bottom, have to find money for haircut, find time to clean bathroom, have to clean nails now that you are growing them out - which is why I don't grow them out, Ben Folds is so cool, take cameras to school, make prom movie, must go make something to eat now, put stupid highlighter union shirts in washer so I can wear one tomorrow, have to tell Stu about being a union rep next year, he would have been so proud - not sure if he is still in the union rights stage at this point, have to stop sitting in front of this computer so much. . .

The leg bones connected to . . .

Deer parts?

A Dead Deer . . . and a half

After all that bad aunt action of taunting Z about "just stop being a wimp and go play in the woods if you want to", he talked me into taking his tour of the "leprechaun colonies" in my 'rents backyard. I usually beg off with the excuse that I'm wearing flip-flops, but with the enticement of "leprechauns" in little organized "colonies" (or was it lepers?) I had to go. There is a lot of poison ivy in the woods. And there are only deer paths . . . which is great for anyone, say . . . as tall as a deer, like Z. There are a lot of sticks, of the pointy variety, waiting to poke at my eyes and pricker bushes or pricker trees and poison ivy, did I mention the poison ivy?

So we start into the woods and we come to the pile of rocks that the farmers made from pulling the rocks out of the fields. This was the big leprechaun settlement. I suppose if you are a leprechaun living in my parent's woods, the rocks would be an excellent place to settle down. But wait . . . there is another leprechaun colony further up. And so we go deeper into the woods to the next pile of rocks. I've seen the rocks before but feign excitement for Z. He heads up the path, looking for the next pile of rocks, eh, I mean . . . leprechaun town and he finds a bone.

"Ohhhh, look a bone!" "And 'nother bone and there's 'nother bone, Emily!" I'm trying to look at the first bone that he is waving in my face, hoping that any rotting things or bugs are not being flicked on my face. I am trying to get a better look because I'm not sure what KIND of bone it is . . . other than old. Z hands the bone to me and proceeds to dig up more bones . . . as if it is a shallow grave, until he has more bones than he can hold on to . . .

I am trying futilely to stop him, just in case we have uncovered the burial grounds of the Oakland county child killer or something. I'm seriously worried that we are destroying a crime scene . . . or disturbing the final resting place of some poor deer. From the bone in my hand I can't tell. Soon he has twenty-some bones, which he gleefully takes back to my mother. I find a bucket and an old toothbrush and he spends a intense (and quiet) hour or so cleaning the bones. Kept him busy washing and arranging and washing again. Yeah, I'm pretty sure that their deer bones.

My mother took him into the woods today and he dug up, like, sixty more bones. He arranged them artfully on the lawn, which he was not supposed to touch because my father had fertilized this morning. He had lots of extra vertebrate, so he used them for knees also. Had half of the pelvis where the head was supposed to be . . . because it looked like an eye. Must have had twenty or thirty bones that he used as ribs. A wonderful anatomy lesson . . . and there was plenty of washing and arranging. Z's mother was kinda horrified but they were the best free toys ever, especially since Z is such a goth kid in training. My mother packed them all up for Z to take home, so he could take them to "show and tell" at school. And I learned that there are now three whole things that I am NOT allergic to . . . cockroaches, chocolate and poison ivy, because I stepped on a bunch of it.

And I'm pretty sure it's a deer, or two.

Anyone want to go?

I have been invited to the "Mustard Plug" show next Friday by a group (of all people) of my students. Mustard Plug was playing the MSU scene when I was there . . . a million years ago. I would really like to go to the show but I don't want to go with my students. M will be away, interviewing like the international jet-setter should. So if anyone in cyberspace would like to go to the Mustard Plug show . . . comment. It's on Friday the 13th in Detroit. I was told that they are playing at Alvin's but will have to check the website to know for sure. They requested some punk and ska at the Prom, which the D.J. actually played for once, and it came up.

Prom was really great this year . . . but I didn't show until ten, so all the obnoxious ones may have left by then. Only about fifty kids and they were mostly yearbook kids or friends of yearbook. I had a nice time, even did alittle dancing. Got introduced as "My favorite teacher" some . . . which means more to me than they even know. As always, I was the bouncer without planning on it. Had to kick out a bunch of drunk wedding people from the reception next door.

Funny story about that later.

Hurts my Head

Listening to the new NIN stuff . . . will have to buy it tomorrow regardless. Teaching Romeo and Juliet and feel like I'm just rambling . . . talked about Guenter today . . . about the classic adolescent theme of doing exactly what your parents tell you not to do. I think the girls got it . . . the boys all looked clueless.

Weird, that time is a world away, but can be pulled up like yesterday in my head. Like going to prom with Stu when I was fifteen . . . I can remember the inside of the car. Being in Thompson's class, practically making out with Todd Schoenburger in Lane Saborin's class (though I don't remember how to spell Lane's name), lying on the berm trying not to get caught by security while coming back from BK. So I describe these things sometimes and my students look at me like I'm older than dirt. In their eyes, I have always been this age . . . always been this dumb. And while I would never go back to that age . . . what an awful time, high school (though middle school topped it) . . . it's still weird being so old to my students.

Ahh. . . the Sweet Smell of French Fries

My nephew actually uttered this in the car on the way home from Red Robin one evening. Direct quote that my mother will bring up at his high school graduation, wedding, and whatever other time she can be embarrassing. Welcome to the family, Z! My "other brother darryl" evidently is opening three more restaurants in Miami, according to his website (see sidebar link). He was so annoyed by me this evening, critiquing said website, that he turned off his IM so I was just typing to air. His restaurant was featured on "Deco Drive", which I'm told is like Entertainment Tonight, but local and somehow he got filmed. So I'm waiting for this huge file to download of my brother on camera. (he didn't make the cut but they were nice enough to send him the clip?)

Although, I am not a television star (like J on the cutting room floor) . . . I am very sunburned. I edged some of my lawn, which has not been edged since the 1970's. Then I cut down some trees. My mother informs me that I cut them down WRONG and just made a mess but they are cut down, none the less. I like cutting down trees, or more clearly, thicket. Harold, the previous homeowner, was very depressed when his wife, Alice, passed away and proceeded to do NOTHING outdoors. No lawn maintenance, no weeding, no clipping or cutting. A weed that is left to it's own devices for thirty years becomes very big and sometimes becomes a tree. So that is what my backyard landscape is made up of . . . very large twenty to thirty foot weeds. I have four inch trees that grew up threw the chain-link fence so that the chain link is in the middle of the tree. It's a landscaper's nightmare.

Ahh . . . the sweet smell of french fries. Just focus on that. . .

The dead king

My nephew came over . . . brother needed to borrow the truck for the weekend. Took me out to Zumba for dinner, forgot how good and cheap that is. Z had all his books from his writing workshop in his backpack, so after we did some math homework, we read his books. He drew little Caldecott medals on the fronts. So much attention to detail, the illustrations are amazing. The best was "The Died King" (first grade spelling) which I will scan in as soon as I exchange the scanner. I wish I could draw half as well as this seven year old. He and I will have to go to CCS this summer for classes.

ack.

It's really sad that I can find out more about where I work from livejournal than from actually being at work. (I know, the dooce rule, but it will be short) The students are buzzing on their lj's and it won't be contained anytime soon.

Sadness and Snow

Alas, I will not be renewing eharmony . . . so there will be little to make fun of in the next week or so. I'm sure I will fill the emptyness with something else. No more ill thought out photos, no more profiles with five things that I probably so could live without. No more multiple choice questions. Sigh. The end of a very short era.

In other news, let the nephew play with the camera this weekend so will have some pictures to post as soon as I get around to digging the camera out of my purse. I am also toying with the idea of getting a summer job. Or taking some major classes. Maybe contracting. That way I could just build the garage myself. The possibilities are endless.

It's snowing here. The parents have, like, seven inches. I only have a dusting . . . not enough for a spring snow day. This makes NO snow days for the year and the kids will all be really, terribly, cranky tomorrow. I don't look forward to it. The snow at the 'rents was very pretty and, though it is April, was good to look at. That's what you get for living in Michigan.

Only person in MI

According to Mr. Crabbypants, I am the only person in Michigan that doesn't know that the Secretary of State's office does not take debit cards. The only person . . . in the whole state. No one else . . .

I think the Secretary of State SHOULD take whatever form of payment they can get. They should not be persnickety about payment methods, especially since I have to pay them ALOT of money (my fault, I could downsize to one vehicle but then the other vehicle would feel all abandoned and how do you choose?) and now I have to pay them on time. This is new. I always did mostly pay them on time, because I get pulled over all the time for crazy stuff, like having expired license tabs on my birthday (No, really officer, the tabs are in my purse. I just wanted to clean the plate off first. [holding stickers up]). Ah, the days when you could just save that cash until the end of the month because the tab said "April" and April had ten more days.

So now I have to go back to the Secretary of State with cash (or check, I suppose). Bugger.

Happy Lawnmower and Bats in the Moonlight

Very exciting! The lawnmower's oil is changed. The truck's oil is changed. The tires have been rotated. All is right with the world . . . except that I now will have to mow my lawn. I will mow my lawn tomorrow morning because I have bunches to do and I will wake up all my neighbors, the heathen set mainly because the rest will be at church. I will not be like Mr. Crabbypants and get up at the CRACK of dawn to mow (everyone everywhere is so glad he has a lawn service now) but I will be mowing in the 9 to 10 am area. I will probably only mow my front yard and maybe the side because my backyard still has giant holes and ruts from the "car getting stuck" incident, which we will not discuss at this time, because I just told my brother to read my blog. Since the holes are big enough to plant shrubs, I may, in fact, plant shrubs in them.

M is hopefully coming with me tomorrow to "great aunt wrangle" which will entail taking her to ice cream and confusing her with all the flavors for a time. This is so my parents and brother can move all of her things to a new apartment. Then M and I will just drop her off at the new apartment as if nothing happened. As if we are just taking the long way home. My great aunt, who is the sweetest, most wonderful woman in the world, inherited the paranoid gene and constantly thinks that people are stealing her things and replacing them with other similar but not quite the same, and certainly not as good things . . . because she knows her things and these things, well, they are not hers.

Keeping in mine that she is blind, can't walk, doesn't hear well and doesn't have anything to keep her mine occupied, I would probably think people were taking my bedspread too. If only to have something interesting to talk about. But tomorrow we are taking her bedspread and everything else. We are moving it to an apartment that is the same, but not quite the same . . . but does have a better view out the window. My great aunt has macular degeneration and can see in some spots, so the view is kinda important. This apartment is much, much closer to Stately Wayne Manor so it will be easier for my mother (my great aunt's only caretaker) to visit on a regular basis.

My father and brother pointed out that they have never met M (which I know that have . . . somewhere in the fourteen years) and are eager to meet her. I guess I'll have to take her to Stately Wayne Manor for the tour of the grounds. Saw a bat out there tonight. I could see through his wings in the moonlight. Very cool.

Perfect Card Carrying Geek

As it turns out, I'm a sucker for the "Dune" mini-series. I've read Dune by Frank Herbert at least four times though and the Sci-Fi channel did an excellent job of interpreting it. No Sting . . . but Paul Atreides is much cuter. This makes me a card-carrying geek . . . if they only had cards, but that would be too cool and FBI or superhero like. (in my own little mind - geek cards would be good for haircuts and money off boot cut jeans) I love a book that needs four Appendixes.

Someone today told me that she aspired to "be like me". She thinks I am "confident" and admires that "kick ass attitude" and I had to explain to her that it is mostly all a front. She was amazed that I don't party every night . . . as I was rebutting the "I wish I had your life" comment. She really doesn't wish that she has my life. Today I came home early (for me) because I refused to sit in the yearbook room, rotting and checking proofs, if there are no kids who care enough to show up. I did my taxes. I royally screwed up my taxes. I did my taxes again. I surfed the net. I watched "Friends" (an episode I hadn't seen . . . Rachel gets horny) and then I ate some leftover chili. (don't have a garbage disposal, have to eat the chili) Watched Dune and NCIS simultaneously. Watched Dune and Scrubs the same way. Now writing this blog. Yeah, I have a life to be envied.

Dancing Cats with Jessica Simpson

During this whole eharmony experience, there are two things that will make M close you out. Listen up, males of the blogosphere, anyone that mentions their cat or that they "enjoy dancing" is closed . . . with the curt checkbox "Based on statements made in this person's profile, I am not interested in this match." Today the nerdy eharmony demons matched me with someone who had both statements - can't live without his cat . . . loves to dance. CLOSE. Plus his profile said he was 33 and from his pictures he either posted pictures of his father or he was NOT 33. Maybe 33 plus 10 and then poking one eye and closing the other.

Now granted, males of the blogosphere, you are allowed to love your cat. I love Mr. Catman and I haven't ever touched him during his lifetime. You are allowed to shake your bootie . . . and enjoy every minute of it. You just shouldn't put them in your profile, cause you won't pick up wild and crazy girls like M and me. Under no circumstances should you lie about your age or post pictures of your father in the place of yourself. It makes for an awkward first date.

I know, I know, assuming that people would want to go out with M and I but we are kinda fun. And we can laugh about the concept of a cat in an eyepatch for, like, three hours intermittently.

As long as I'm on the subject of pictures - what is up with men and posting pictures? One would assume that the picture is supposed to reflect what you look like. The whole point is to see someone in person eventually. Yet some men have their senior high school picture, their ID picture from work, pictures with celebrities (Jessica Simpson, impressive), pictures with their girlfriend's cheek and arm still in it, pictures with the actual girlfriend (ex-girlfriend?) and lots and lots of men want me to see them running. Few people are attractive when running . . .

With the age of the digital camera, one would think that someone could take a current picture of themselves and slide it into eharmony. Come on guys, do it for all those families you want to raise! (they say that a lot on eharmony . . . with the cats and the dancing, it sets off the gaydar like mad)

You just woke up?

Mind you, I am thirtysomething. Yet my father calls this morning because he wants to gloat over a cheap price on a camera (fujifilm 5100 for 250.00 - good price if you want a 5100) and I'm all sleepy on the phone . . . because I WAS SLEEPING when he called. ". . . it's eleven o'clock for $%#@# sake." But I was up until three and that would be eight hours. We just talked about how I was having trouble going to bed yesterday as we were hurdling towards Wal-mart in that tiny race car of his. "Well, you get a watch and just go to bed at eleven." was his advice which I felt did not take into account my point that I wasn't tired at eleven. I can tell what time it is despite my lack of a timepiece. It's not like I don't know it's eleven o'clock . . . it's that I go to bed and stare at the ceiling. (actually the TV but that is a whole other issue) But this was the man who would insist I get out of bed at 7 am to "start the day" after I had worked 2nd and part of 3rd shift at the hot dog factory. He never did understand that I couldn't go to bed at 4am and then be excited about getting up at 7am. (heck, no matter what I do I'm never excited at 7am) I just have to be more "disciplined" about sleeping I guess.

You know . . . I could just NOT answer the phone.