Ack! I should be doing my homework right now! But for some reason, my brain is thinking of everything else I could POSSIBLY be doing. And somehow, I can't help doing everything that isn't really very important right now.
Like writing this blog confessional about my supreme wasting of time. Ugh.
It's 7 a.m. and I'm already starting off on the wrong side of my brain this morning.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Slipping away...
Does anyone else feel like they blinked and summer was over? I can't believe that I'm being assaulted with Christmas bling already. Ugh.
Needless to say, things have been busy at my new school. I was placed in a fifth grade with 50 students. They're great. I look forward to going. The days go so fast, it's like time actually has another dimension at school.
Last night, I helped out with a Charlotte's Web book fair reading thingy. Got stuck handing out safety coloring sheets. Blech. Finally gave up on trying to make them fun and started telling kids they could make paper airplanes out of them, IF they read about how to not get hit by the bus first.
The most exciting moment of the night came from the star of the show, Nellie Belle. You see, Nellie is a potbellied pig. Wearing a pink, studded collar. She's a punk pig. And at one point during the evening, she was out of her cage for some reason. I heard a first-grader yell, "It POOPED!" and run screaming down the hall. Oink oink oink oink. Nellie Belle trotted past the cafeteria door, kids yelling and laughing.
So this is my life now. Really not that different than the days when old, senile guys would call the newsroom wanting me to write stories about farm animals that happened in 1950. Right? At least this is live-action.
Needless to say, things have been busy at my new school. I was placed in a fifth grade with 50 students. They're great. I look forward to going. The days go so fast, it's like time actually has another dimension at school.
Last night, I helped out with a Charlotte's Web book fair reading thingy. Got stuck handing out safety coloring sheets. Blech. Finally gave up on trying to make them fun and started telling kids they could make paper airplanes out of them, IF they read about how to not get hit by the bus first.
The most exciting moment of the night came from the star of the show, Nellie Belle. You see, Nellie is a potbellied pig. Wearing a pink, studded collar. She's a punk pig. And at one point during the evening, she was out of her cage for some reason. I heard a first-grader yell, "It POOPED!" and run screaming down the hall. Oink oink oink oink. Nellie Belle trotted past the cafeteria door, kids yelling and laughing.
So this is my life now. Really not that different than the days when old, senile guys would call the newsroom wanting me to write stories about farm animals that happened in 1950. Right? At least this is live-action.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Saturday, October 21, 2006
I want that 2 hours of my life back...
I have to warn you about the latest WORST movie EVER...
It's called "The Science of Sleep" and it's another testament to the fact that 3 stars don't mean crap.
The movie is about a socially awkward, almost Woody Allen-like guy named Stephan who comes back to France after his father dies in Mexico. He becomes infatuated with his neighbor, Stephanie, but he doesn't want her to know that he lives there. They both like to make weird little dioramas out of cellophane and felt.
Stephan gets a mundane job gluing things on calendars, which stifles his creativity. He wanted to make a calendar with his own illustrations, showing a disaster in history for each month (people burning up in volcanoes and airplane crashes). It's called "disasterology." But he gets stuck cutting and gluing things instead. For some reason, he keeps this horrible job that he hates.
He can't differentiate between sleep and awake - his dream world and reality. There is one amusing part where he falls asleep in a bathtub and wakes up to find that he wrote a gobbledygook letter to her and sleep-walks naked across the hall to put it under her door.
These weird dream sequences blend into the reality of Stephan's life so much that you can't tell what is happening when he is awake or asleep. Maybe this is artsy, but I find it just plain annoying. Unless you're watching a part where he's constructing and performing his dreams on this bizarre cardboard and egg-carton set in his subconscious mind, you can't tell he's dreaming.
I couldn't relate to the characters at all.
The only redeeming parts in the movie mostly come from a minor character, Guy, a guy who works with Stephan. He's a middle-aged perv who wears a leather jacket with pins on it to look "punk." He also farts on a park bench when he's eating lunch with Stephan. He provides most of the weird sexual references in the film and makes a hobbit-esque coworker smell his armpit.
Interesting trivia: This guy was the voice of the French Shrek. Huh.
It's called "The Science of Sleep" and it's another testament to the fact that 3 stars don't mean crap.
The movie is about a socially awkward, almost Woody Allen-like guy named Stephan who comes back to France after his father dies in Mexico. He becomes infatuated with his neighbor, Stephanie, but he doesn't want her to know that he lives there. They both like to make weird little dioramas out of cellophane and felt.
Stephan gets a mundane job gluing things on calendars, which stifles his creativity. He wanted to make a calendar with his own illustrations, showing a disaster in history for each month (people burning up in volcanoes and airplane crashes). It's called "disasterology." But he gets stuck cutting and gluing things instead. For some reason, he keeps this horrible job that he hates.
He can't differentiate between sleep and awake - his dream world and reality. There is one amusing part where he falls asleep in a bathtub and wakes up to find that he wrote a gobbledygook letter to her and sleep-walks naked across the hall to put it under her door.
These weird dream sequences blend into the reality of Stephan's life so much that you can't tell what is happening when he is awake or asleep. Maybe this is artsy, but I find it just plain annoying. Unless you're watching a part where he's constructing and performing his dreams on this bizarre cardboard and egg-carton set in his subconscious mind, you can't tell he's dreaming.
I couldn't relate to the characters at all.
The only redeeming parts in the movie mostly come from a minor character, Guy, a guy who works with Stephan. He's a middle-aged perv who wears a leather jacket with pins on it to look "punk." He also farts on a park bench when he's eating lunch with Stephan. He provides most of the weird sexual references in the film and makes a hobbit-esque coworker smell his armpit.
Interesting trivia: This guy was the voice of the French Shrek. Huh.
Sunday, October 08, 2006
Coolest site ever...
Compliments of my brother's random knowledge of cool stuff on the Internet, I bestow a really awesome site upon all of you.
It's called pandora.com. It exists to help you find music you enjoy, using the music you already love as a tool. It creates lists of this new music for you to listen to, and plays them randomly.
Only drawback: You can only skip like 5 songs during one hour. So it's not really conducive to surfing. BUT you can get around this little problem by creating new playlists. Hah!
It's called pandora.com. It exists to help you find music you enjoy, using the music you already love as a tool. It creates lists of this new music for you to listen to, and plays them randomly.
Only drawback: You can only skip like 5 songs during one hour. So it's not really conducive to surfing. BUT you can get around this little problem by creating new playlists. Hah!
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Gassy dog
As if getting kicked out of my elementary school wasn't enough today...
I get home from an "I have to go do something so I quit feeling sorry for myself" trip to Barnes and Noble, and Maxwell the wonder hound is prancing around the yard with a treasure in his mouth.
It's a red, mangled piece of plastic. The last remnants of a butane gas grill lighter. You know, the little clicky ones.
A certain someone at our house has a habit of leaving things outside that the dog can use to poison himself. "It's been out there for weeks," he says. "He never bothered it before." That's what he always says.
I flip out and call the vet. "He ate the whole lighter?" he asks. All that's left is the clicky part and the part the flame comes out of. It looks like he ate the part with the butane. There's a child warning on another one I found in the cupboard, but I can't tell if it's there because your child shouldn't EAT the lighter, or because your child shouldn't BURN the f-ing house down.
Gah! Like I need this today........
I get home from an "I have to go do something so I quit feeling sorry for myself" trip to Barnes and Noble, and Maxwell the wonder hound is prancing around the yard with a treasure in his mouth.
It's a red, mangled piece of plastic. The last remnants of a butane gas grill lighter. You know, the little clicky ones.
A certain someone at our house has a habit of leaving things outside that the dog can use to poison himself. "It's been out there for weeks," he says. "He never bothered it before." That's what he always says.
I flip out and call the vet. "He ate the whole lighter?" he asks. All that's left is the clicky part and the part the flame comes out of. It looks like he ate the part with the butane. There's a child warning on another one I found in the cupboard, but I can't tell if it's there because your child shouldn't EAT the lighter, or because your child shouldn't BURN the f-ing house down.
Gah! Like I need this today........
Good Riddance
It just occurred to me that I haven't posted anything about my student-teaching experience. So to bring those of you who haven't heard up to speed, here's the short version.
I've been student teaching in a third-grade class since August. I thought winning over the poor kids with meth-head parents would be the hardest part. Boy was I wrong.
Somehow I was placed with a teacher who never welcomed me or the students into her classroom. To say the least, she is extremely unstable and I never knew if Jekyll or Hyde would show up to school every day. She didn't include me when she planned lessons, I never knew what was going on in the class. When she DID give me something to do, it was either a menial task like sharpening all the pencils... or the opposite extreme - when she would just throw books at me and tell me to plan lessons on my own. Some days, she only said two sentences to me. Whenever she did let me teach the kids, she left the room.
After enduring this for six weeks, she and I finally had the "this isn't working" conversation. It ended with a mutual agreement that I should be transferred to another school for the rest of my student teaching. Then, for some odd reason, she started being nice to me. She planned the afternoon with me. She planned the next two days with me. Then she asked me if I wanted to solo teach the whole day. I said I would teach a few lessons but not the whole day.
When I showed up today, she wasn't in the classroom. I sat down to get ready for school, and the principal came in. He asked me what I was doing there. Long story short, she's nice to me and plans to have me teach, then she has the principal come tell me to get out. I wrote a note saying goodbye to the students and left.
I feel like I've been to crazytown and back. I'm frustrated and confused. But not defeated. I realize that I have to stop trying to understand what my mentor was all about. I don't know when she was being real or fake. It's pointless to dwell on the whole thing. I guess the main point is, I'm outta there and I'm not wasting any more time on this.
A personal mentor of mine told me today that we can't dwell on understanding sick, twisted individuals. Because if we truly did understand how they work and why they do these things, we would be capable of doing the same things ourselves. I have to accept what happened in my brain, then dump it out and move on. She's right.
I've been student teaching in a third-grade class since August. I thought winning over the poor kids with meth-head parents would be the hardest part. Boy was I wrong.
Somehow I was placed with a teacher who never welcomed me or the students into her classroom. To say the least, she is extremely unstable and I never knew if Jekyll or Hyde would show up to school every day. She didn't include me when she planned lessons, I never knew what was going on in the class. When she DID give me something to do, it was either a menial task like sharpening all the pencils... or the opposite extreme - when she would just throw books at me and tell me to plan lessons on my own. Some days, she only said two sentences to me. Whenever she did let me teach the kids, she left the room.
After enduring this for six weeks, she and I finally had the "this isn't working" conversation. It ended with a mutual agreement that I should be transferred to another school for the rest of my student teaching. Then, for some odd reason, she started being nice to me. She planned the afternoon with me. She planned the next two days with me. Then she asked me if I wanted to solo teach the whole day. I said I would teach a few lessons but not the whole day.
When I showed up today, she wasn't in the classroom. I sat down to get ready for school, and the principal came in. He asked me what I was doing there. Long story short, she's nice to me and plans to have me teach, then she has the principal come tell me to get out. I wrote a note saying goodbye to the students and left.
I feel like I've been to crazytown and back. I'm frustrated and confused. But not defeated. I realize that I have to stop trying to understand what my mentor was all about. I don't know when she was being real or fake. It's pointless to dwell on the whole thing. I guess the main point is, I'm outta there and I'm not wasting any more time on this.
A personal mentor of mine told me today that we can't dwell on understanding sick, twisted individuals. Because if we truly did understand how they work and why they do these things, we would be capable of doing the same things ourselves. I have to accept what happened in my brain, then dump it out and move on. She's right.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
"What's a prikit?"
I experienced one of the saddest moments of realization thus far in my teaching career last week, when a student asked me a question during silent reading time.
"What's a prikit?" he asked.
Puzzled, I asked him to show me the word.
"Oh!" I said. "That's apricot. You know, like the fruit."
He stared at me blankly and shook his head. I explained, "It's sort of like a peach but it's smaller and it's not as sweet." He didn't respond.
This child had never seen or tasted an apricot. I thought about expanding into the whole tomayto-tomahto quality of the word but decided it was too much for someone who had never even cracked one open.
I was sad. If the book had the words "roach" or "prison" he wouldn't have had to ask what they meant. But an apricot? The closest thing he's probably tasted is a syrupy, mushy canned peach.
It's not just missing out on the whole concept of the apricot that bugs me. The apricot holds a special place in my childhood memories. Along with other foods like rhubarb, cherries and tomatoes in the summertime, apricots spark the goodness of youth to return to my thoughts.
Apricots remind me of my Grandma Welch, a petite, gentle but firm woman who has been gone for nearly a decade. She had two gnarled apricot trees in her yard at the old house in Fruita. Early summer brought the hard green fruits to the trees, sprouting from the fragrant, delicate blossoms.
I always trusted my mother to pick a good one for me. We both liked them slightly underripe. Grandma didn't quite understand that.
We'd crack the fruits open with our thumbs and stand in the backyard eating them. Mom would tell me about the time she caught a hummingbird in her bare hands in this same yard. And how she wished she hadn't afterward, because her hands were so bruised. We threw the apricot pits in an old coffee can and keep eating as many as we wanted to pick.
Grandma kept a flattened sandstone rock on a weathered wooden bench by her shed. It was similar to the flat rocks the Indians used to grind corn on. We'd take turns smashing the apricot pits after they had a chance to dry out, on this flat rock. The nuts were small, teardrop-shaped delights with a milky-white interior.
I can't tell you how many blood blisters Grandma soothed with tiny band-aids after we aimed badly and smashed fingers holding the wobbly pits in place on the rock.
The apricots were good. We ate them until we could eat no more. And we did the same with the nuts from the pits. And we took time to be with each other in the backyard under the apricot tree and enjoy life simply. We didn't know there was any other way to be.
But the kids in my classrom wouldn't know about these things - their lives are devoid of the habitus of savoring something they just picked from a tree.
Instead, they know a life I probably couldn't even imagine. I'm sure their apricots are things like tattoos that remind them of Mommy's boyfriend of the month, or cigarette burns on their arms or seeing a policeman and remembering when Daddy got hauled off to jail.
But they wouldn't know about apricots.
"What's a prikit?" he asked.
Puzzled, I asked him to show me the word.
"Oh!" I said. "That's apricot. You know, like the fruit."
He stared at me blankly and shook his head. I explained, "It's sort of like a peach but it's smaller and it's not as sweet." He didn't respond.
This child had never seen or tasted an apricot. I thought about expanding into the whole tomayto-tomahto quality of the word but decided it was too much for someone who had never even cracked one open.
I was sad. If the book had the words "roach" or "prison" he wouldn't have had to ask what they meant. But an apricot? The closest thing he's probably tasted is a syrupy, mushy canned peach.
It's not just missing out on the whole concept of the apricot that bugs me. The apricot holds a special place in my childhood memories. Along with other foods like rhubarb, cherries and tomatoes in the summertime, apricots spark the goodness of youth to return to my thoughts.
Apricots remind me of my Grandma Welch, a petite, gentle but firm woman who has been gone for nearly a decade. She had two gnarled apricot trees in her yard at the old house in Fruita. Early summer brought the hard green fruits to the trees, sprouting from the fragrant, delicate blossoms.
I always trusted my mother to pick a good one for me. We both liked them slightly underripe. Grandma didn't quite understand that.
We'd crack the fruits open with our thumbs and stand in the backyard eating them. Mom would tell me about the time she caught a hummingbird in her bare hands in this same yard. And how she wished she hadn't afterward, because her hands were so bruised. We threw the apricot pits in an old coffee can and keep eating as many as we wanted to pick.
Grandma kept a flattened sandstone rock on a weathered wooden bench by her shed. It was similar to the flat rocks the Indians used to grind corn on. We'd take turns smashing the apricot pits after they had a chance to dry out, on this flat rock. The nuts were small, teardrop-shaped delights with a milky-white interior.
I can't tell you how many blood blisters Grandma soothed with tiny band-aids after we aimed badly and smashed fingers holding the wobbly pits in place on the rock.
The apricots were good. We ate them until we could eat no more. And we did the same with the nuts from the pits. And we took time to be with each other in the backyard under the apricot tree and enjoy life simply. We didn't know there was any other way to be.
But the kids in my classrom wouldn't know about these things - their lives are devoid of the habitus of savoring something they just picked from a tree.
Instead, they know a life I probably couldn't even imagine. I'm sure their apricots are things like tattoos that remind them of Mommy's boyfriend of the month, or cigarette burns on their arms or seeing a policeman and remembering when Daddy got hauled off to jail.
But they wouldn't know about apricots.
Goodbye, Sammy...
I don't like posting sad stuff. But this is something I'd like to share with all of you.
http://www.gjsentinel.com/news/content/news/stories/2006/09/20/9_20_1a_ag_Safken_Obit.html
Sam was our next-door neighbor. We only knew him for a year. He found out he had cancer after his back started hurting and he lost 40 pounds.
He graduated from Fruita with my brother. He was only 21. He was the local football star.
He really did approach his battle with cancer like another match or the biggest game of his life. Throughout his treatment, I kept saying, "If anyone can beat this, it's Sam."
He was a genuinely nice guy who would do anything - move the weird neighbors' TV for them, give someone a ride, buy a hamburger for the homeless guy at McDonald's who looked hungry.
And now I don't really know what to say to his family next door. There are tons of cars over there and people were swarming the house yesterday. I guess I'm waiting for all the people to disperse to take over some food. I tell myself that part of it is - I would be overwhelmed at this point and I would want everyone to leave. But the other part is - I don't know what to say or do.
http://www.gjsentinel.com/news/content/news/stories/2006/09/20/9_20_1a_ag_Safken_Obit.html
Sam was our next-door neighbor. We only knew him for a year. He found out he had cancer after his back started hurting and he lost 40 pounds.
He graduated from Fruita with my brother. He was only 21. He was the local football star.
He really did approach his battle with cancer like another match or the biggest game of his life. Throughout his treatment, I kept saying, "If anyone can beat this, it's Sam."
He was a genuinely nice guy who would do anything - move the weird neighbors' TV for them, give someone a ride, buy a hamburger for the homeless guy at McDonald's who looked hungry.
And now I don't really know what to say to his family next door. There are tons of cars over there and people were swarming the house yesterday. I guess I'm waiting for all the people to disperse to take over some food. I tell myself that part of it is - I would be overwhelmed at this point and I would want everyone to leave. But the other part is - I don't know what to say or do.
Sunday, September 17, 2006
Making good on the promise...
Compliments of Philly tour guides Jeff and Meg (And their trusty, drooling mascot, James), we experienced the euphoria of a true Philly cheesesteak sandwich.
Now, it's not just like you go to a restaurant and sit down and order one. There's a distinct formula to ordering a cheesesteak.
And if you're not prepared to order at Jim's, you might as well leave now and save yourself the ridicule of the four ginormous spatula-weilding black guys behind the counter.
Luckily, we were properly trained and the line was long enough for us to practice before we got to the counter (it ran out the door and around the corner of the building. The place is THAT good). As we approached the guy chopping up all of the meat and onions, we quizzed ourselves on the right way to order a cheesesteak.
As Jeff and Meg said, you don't get up there and be like, "Uh, I'd like a sandwich. I mean a steak sandwich, and, uh, cheese. Um, what kind of cheese do you have again? Uh. ..."
These people mean business. And plus, their Eastern. That translates to: impatient, pushy, direct and fast-talking. They don't have time for us slow-talking, slow-walking Western people who are here for the joie de vivre.
"WHADDAYA WANT???!" Is the bottom line. And here's the way to order a Philly cheesesteak with Cheese Whiz and onions.
"I wanna steak wit' whiz an' onions," and you'd better not mumble because if they have to ask you twice, you're probably going to be laughed out the door. And yeah, they really say, "Wit." These people don't even have time for an "h" on their "with."
Yes, we ate at the cheesesteak Nazi's place. This place was so cool, there were celebrities' photos plastered all over the walls. Even John Denver wrote on his photograph, "I'd be a vegetarian if it wasn't for your cheesesteaks."
Now that's a testimonial.
Now, it's not just like you go to a restaurant and sit down and order one. There's a distinct formula to ordering a cheesesteak.
And if you're not prepared to order at Jim's, you might as well leave now and save yourself the ridicule of the four ginormous spatula-weilding black guys behind the counter.
Luckily, we were properly trained and the line was long enough for us to practice before we got to the counter (it ran out the door and around the corner of the building. The place is THAT good). As we approached the guy chopping up all of the meat and onions, we quizzed ourselves on the right way to order a cheesesteak.
As Jeff and Meg said, you don't get up there and be like, "Uh, I'd like a sandwich. I mean a steak sandwich, and, uh, cheese. Um, what kind of cheese do you have again? Uh. ..."
These people mean business. And plus, their Eastern. That translates to: impatient, pushy, direct and fast-talking. They don't have time for us slow-talking, slow-walking Western people who are here for the joie de vivre.
"WHADDAYA WANT???!" Is the bottom line. And here's the way to order a Philly cheesesteak with Cheese Whiz and onions.
"I wanna steak wit' whiz an' onions," and you'd better not mumble because if they have to ask you twice, you're probably going to be laughed out the door. And yeah, they really say, "Wit." These people don't even have time for an "h" on their "with."
Yes, we ate at the cheesesteak Nazi's place. This place was so cool, there were celebrities' photos plastered all over the walls. Even John Denver wrote on his photograph, "I'd be a vegetarian if it wasn't for your cheesesteaks."
Now that's a testimonial.
Don't adjust your screen - we're BAAAACK!!!!
Don't check the address - this is McWiggins 2006 with a new-and-improved look.
(Which means our former look was old and inferior)
Nevermind that. In an attempt to start fresh and rid myself of my non-blogging habits, it's time for a change.
Not that this makes it any better, but I think we can attribute the non-blogging to a few factors.
1. Erin being swamped with homework all summer.
2. Third-graders sucking all the life out of Erin this fall
3. Erin attributing bad ju-ju to the computer because she only uses it for meaningless crap homework for the past four months. Begone, bad ju-ju!!!
(ignore the dead chickens in the corner and the Marie Leveau biography, please)...
Thanks to those who have been checking this site for months to no avail. I'm back, baby, I'm BAAAACK!
(Which means our former look was old and inferior)
Nevermind that. In an attempt to start fresh and rid myself of my non-blogging habits, it's time for a change.
Not that this makes it any better, but I think we can attribute the non-blogging to a few factors.
1. Erin being swamped with homework all summer.
2. Third-graders sucking all the life out of Erin this fall
3. Erin attributing bad ju-ju to the computer because she only uses it for meaningless crap homework for the past four months. Begone, bad ju-ju!!!
(ignore the dead chickens in the corner and the Marie Leveau biography, please)...
Thanks to those who have been checking this site for months to no avail. I'm back, baby, I'm BAAAACK!
Monday, May 29, 2006
McWiggins Adventure 2006 – Philly, NYC and … the Amish! (?)
Wow. I’m not sure where to start.
We embarked on our latest great adventure after I finished up a freelance job in Denver on May 19. The aforementioned Mike Faybik hooked us up with some sweet stand-by plane tickets from Frontier, since he works there.
For once, we didn’t have any trouble at the airport or with the flights. Mike didn’t get wand-molested at security because he fits the normal white guy profile. We squeezed on both flights, which arrived early. Man, this stand-by thing is awesome!
So we made it to our friends’ house in Levittown, PA. I’m not sure that Jeff and Meg Groves took us seriously when I told them that weird things happen when we go on vacation, but I think they believe us now.
More on that later... with pictures!
We embarked on our latest great adventure after I finished up a freelance job in Denver on May 19. The aforementioned Mike Faybik hooked us up with some sweet stand-by plane tickets from Frontier, since he works there.
For once, we didn’t have any trouble at the airport or with the flights. Mike didn’t get wand-molested at security because he fits the normal white guy profile. We squeezed on both flights, which arrived early. Man, this stand-by thing is awesome!
So we made it to our friends’ house in Levittown, PA. I’m not sure that Jeff and Meg Groves took us seriously when I told them that weird things happen when we go on vacation, but I think they believe us now.
More on that later... with pictures!
To the readers…
Okay. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for not keeping up on this blog. I’m going to promise to try to be better even though it might not happen (but I’ll TRY). And to Mike Faybik, thank you for alerting me to the inadequacy of my postings.
We get by with a little help from our friends. Gonna try with a little help from our friends.
We get by with a little help from our friends. Gonna try with a little help from our friends.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Behold, the power of ... the Internet
So the somewhat sophomoric guys I work with at the writing center are always talking about these videos on the Internet. Some of them are pretty stupid but I have especially grown to love Magical Trevor, a lovable wizard from the U.K. who is good at performing tricks on animals (yes, this is clean enough for kids to watch).
Check Magical Trevor out at http://www.weebls-stuff.com/toons/magical+trevor/
What's really amazing about this is, some of the videos on this site have been seen nearly three million times. That's incredible. Little nobody dorks who used to spend their time playing Dungeons and Dragons are making videos that people around the world are watching. Wow ... It really levels the playing field in some respects in regard to pop culture. Now ANYONE can make something funny that people like and make it famous on the Internet. A-mazing.
Monday, February 27, 2006
Jet-sitter
Max loves riding in Audra's Jetta. He had so much fun with her this weekend that he seemed sad when we got home. Our little guy is growing up! Sniff sniff.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
A silent epidemic
Did anyone else know that jugs of pee were such a problem? I had no idea anyone was keeping track.
http://www.roadsideamerica.com/pile/200303.html
Disgusting!
You makin' fun of my ugly tulips?
Okay. So long time no posty.
Nothing too noteworthy has been happening. School, work, dog, write, school, work, well, you get the idea...
Until I listened to a phone message on the answering machine.
"Yes, um, this is Frank Danielson, with A-Plus Siding, and I was calling to let you know that the outside of your house looks horrible. Please return my call at ***-****(insert foreign-sounding number)."
Um. What? I wrote down the number and wondered why the heck someone with an area code from who-knows-where was calling to tell us that our house looked like crap. Our neighbor three houses down was getting his siding replaced, so I thought maybe the contractor was trying to drum up business. In a really ineffective and tactless way. Who the hell was he to criticize my ugly blue paint and tacky tulip shutters?
So I spent about two minutes mentally summing up all the ways I was going to tell off this arrogant jerk who doesn't even have a local number... wait, it's not a local number. Where the heck is a 215 area code anyway?
I got out the phone book and scanned the tiny numbers across the U.S. Was it Ohio? Oh I wouldn't be surprised if it was. Those people from Ohio... New York? This has to be a scam. Wait - Philadelphia? Whaaa?
Suddenly I realized the sort of snooty, badly English sort-of accent belonged to our friend, Jeff, who lives outside Philly. I was surprised I couldn't hear his wife, Megan, snickering in the background.
Thanks for the laugh, you two. We know where you live, you know. :)
Monday, January 30, 2006
Mindless quizzes...
Apparently because I like wearing pants, I don't have an evil stepmother and I'm only slightly evil... this is my Disney alterego.
 | You scored as Peter Pan. Your alter ego is Peter Pan. You are a child at heart. Anything you believe is possible, and you never want to grow up.
Which Disney Character is your Alter Ego? created with QuizFarm.com |
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
Back to school... or, my life as an undercover student
Day One: Mission accomplished. I made it through the day without any of my fellow students suspecting that I have become one of the dreaded "non-trads."
Being a married, 26-year-old student who has already earned one degree, that's my new label. Last time I was in a classroom, I was 21 and I couldn't wait to get that stupid piece of paper that said I was smart and get outta there.
I hoped no one could guess that I had my backpack all inventoried and ready the night before school. I sat in the back of the class and didn't look too eager. And I never raised my hand.
In other words, I did my best to be the exact opposite of the native non-traditional student at Mesa State College. Heck, I still get carded at the movies, so I figured it would be a breeze.
My newly defined "peers" rolled their little wheeled suitcases around Houston Hall, clunking them up the stairs and running over people's feet. They sat in the front of class and tried to butter up the professor by mentioning things only baby boomers would have lived through. And they asked if there were any extra-credit projects they could do. Ugh.
There was one small thing I didn't anticipate that could have blown my cover: Wooden pencils. Apparently no one uses those anymore. Finding a pencil sharpener on campus was as hard as spotting a phone booth around town these days. And then, finding one that actually worked was worse. One sharpener held fast to the remains of the last victim in its rusty jaws - a dangerous stake was jammed in the heart of the ancient gnawing beast.
Those early-20-something whippersnappers pulled out their hip little clicky pencils with the stick lead and kept on writing while I stared at my pathetic, splintered No. 2.
How old school.
Being a married, 26-year-old student who has already earned one degree, that's my new label. Last time I was in a classroom, I was 21 and I couldn't wait to get that stupid piece of paper that said I was smart and get outta there.
I hoped no one could guess that I had my backpack all inventoried and ready the night before school. I sat in the back of the class and didn't look too eager. And I never raised my hand.
In other words, I did my best to be the exact opposite of the native non-traditional student at Mesa State College. Heck, I still get carded at the movies, so I figured it would be a breeze.
My newly defined "peers" rolled their little wheeled suitcases around Houston Hall, clunking them up the stairs and running over people's feet. They sat in the front of class and tried to butter up the professor by mentioning things only baby boomers would have lived through. And they asked if there were any extra-credit projects they could do. Ugh.
There was one small thing I didn't anticipate that could have blown my cover: Wooden pencils. Apparently no one uses those anymore. Finding a pencil sharpener on campus was as hard as spotting a phone booth around town these days. And then, finding one that actually worked was worse. One sharpener held fast to the remains of the last victim in its rusty jaws - a dangerous stake was jammed in the heart of the ancient gnawing beast.
Those early-20-something whippersnappers pulled out their hip little clicky pencils with the stick lead and kept on writing while I stared at my pathetic, splintered No. 2.
How old school.
Monday, January 23, 2006
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Scary stuff...(or) Bird is the word
Edvard Munch (1863-1944). Self-Portrait After the Spanish Flu
Okay, so is anyone else totally FREAKED out about this avian bird flu stuff?
Our local city council got an update last night from the county health folks about it. Okay, I was bored and I was watching it on the cable channel. I admit it. I watch channel 12 and I'm a news junkie.
Then I spent way too much time on the CDC web site today and I'm ready to go out and buy face masks and stock up on everything I could possibly need for months just to avoid contact with any other humans. Or find a way to transport me and my family to solitary confinement in the desert, away from germs.
In case you haven't heard already - this avian flu could be the next flu pandemic, meaning it could be a global outbreak that kills a lot of people. The last time something like this happened, "La Gripe" killed more than 500,000 people in the United States, and up to 50 million people may have died worldwide. According to the CDC, many people died within the first few days after infection. Nearly half of those who died were young, healthy adults. (Aack, I'm one of those!)
The ubiquitous "they" are saying that it's a question of when, not if, this avian flu will morph into something we humans can pass among ourselves.
I don't think anyone has a clue how fast this could spread, considering how global our world really is now with transportation making it easy to import germs. I also don't think we have a clue how this might change our everyday lives. Schools will shut down, hospitals will be packed with dying people, people will be wearing masks to go to the grocery store, if there's anything left on the shelves and people dare to go out in public.
I don't think I'm being the least bit pessimistic about the horrors that could come with a pandemic. Look for yourselves.
http://www.cdc.gov/flu/avian/
Saturday, January 14, 2006
Break off another piece...
I lost a piece of youth last week.
No, my big 2-6 was a few weeks ago. I'm so over that. This is about my earring.
I was sleeping in a hotel and got mad at the stupid staticky sheets that were creating a crackly blue lightning storm in my bed at 3 a.m.
In the middle of the Eye of the Storm, I jerked the blanket back and caught my hair in my earring - the tiny silver hoop in the cartilage of my left ear - at the same time. I ended up jerking the stupid earring apart but couldn't get the bent metal out of my ear.
After two days of my ear turning red and throbbing, I made it home and got out the pliers to extract the offending bling-bling. As I wrenched the mangled silver hoop from my ear, I thought about the day I had it pierced.
I was working election night 2000 at the local news/talk station as a reporter. It was all so exciting and plus, I found out that the local piercing joint was offering half-price body decoration if you brought in the "I Voted" sticker. So I voted (not for Bush OR Gore) and went down to the parlor by the college.
It seemed perfectly normal to commemorate my first opportunity to vote in the presidential election by punching a hole in my head. The act was quick and painless ... but I spent the rest of the night holding the headphones away from my left ear, trying not to let the foam pad touch the crusty blood.
Okay, so an extra earring isn't exactly what some juvies today would consider rebellious. But when I got it, it was a rite of passage. Something I knew my parents would try to ignore because they thought I did it to bug them. Something my grandpa would ask me about every few months for years.
"Where did you get THAT?" he'd ask, trying to point at my ear but having his finger veer wildly off because of an accident with a table saw years ago.
"What, Grandpa?" I'd pretend I didn't know and casually pull out my hair tie to cover my ear with long hair.
"That hole in yer head there. You kids. Why would you want to ruin your ears like that? You've got my bey-oo-ti-ful ears," he said, fanning at his much-larger, sticky-out ears. Then he'd grab me in one of his arm-crushing hugs.
The hole is nearly closed now.
I suppose I could get a needle and try to open it up again. But Grandpa's gone now. I don't really care about bugging my parents. And I have a mortgage, a husband and a dog. I think I'll just let it go...
No, my big 2-6 was a few weeks ago. I'm so over that. This is about my earring.
I was sleeping in a hotel and got mad at the stupid staticky sheets that were creating a crackly blue lightning storm in my bed at 3 a.m.
In the middle of the Eye of the Storm, I jerked the blanket back and caught my hair in my earring - the tiny silver hoop in the cartilage of my left ear - at the same time. I ended up jerking the stupid earring apart but couldn't get the bent metal out of my ear.
After two days of my ear turning red and throbbing, I made it home and got out the pliers to extract the offending bling-bling. As I wrenched the mangled silver hoop from my ear, I thought about the day I had it pierced.
I was working election night 2000 at the local news/talk station as a reporter. It was all so exciting and plus, I found out that the local piercing joint was offering half-price body decoration if you brought in the "I Voted" sticker. So I voted (not for Bush OR Gore) and went down to the parlor by the college.
It seemed perfectly normal to commemorate my first opportunity to vote in the presidential election by punching a hole in my head. The act was quick and painless ... but I spent the rest of the night holding the headphones away from my left ear, trying not to let the foam pad touch the crusty blood.
Okay, so an extra earring isn't exactly what some juvies today would consider rebellious. But when I got it, it was a rite of passage. Something I knew my parents would try to ignore because they thought I did it to bug them. Something my grandpa would ask me about every few months for years.
"Where did you get THAT?" he'd ask, trying to point at my ear but having his finger veer wildly off because of an accident with a table saw years ago.
"What, Grandpa?" I'd pretend I didn't know and casually pull out my hair tie to cover my ear with long hair.
"That hole in yer head there. You kids. Why would you want to ruin your ears like that? You've got my bey-oo-ti-ful ears," he said, fanning at his much-larger, sticky-out ears. Then he'd grab me in one of his arm-crushing hugs.
The hole is nearly closed now.
I suppose I could get a needle and try to open it up again. But Grandpa's gone now. I don't really care about bugging my parents. And I have a mortgage, a husband and a dog. I think I'll just let it go...
Thursday, January 05, 2006
Spicy soup for the hacking lungs
I have so many friends who are hacking up lungs right now with various forms of the crud. So here is a recipe for a remedy to try. It's less popular than chicken soup, but I think it's more effective.
New Mexican Posole
1 3-lb. pork loin
64 oz. hominy, drained
1 large onion, diced
2 tsp. oregano
1 1/2 tsp. garlic powder
1/2 tsp. thyme
2 TB salt
1 tsp. black pepper
16 oz. canned green chiles, chopped
Boil the pork loin in water until it's tender. Cool it and cut it into 1-inch cubes.
Put the hominy in a really big pot with 2 quarts of water. Add pork, onions and seasonings and simmer 1 hour.
Add green chiles and simmer for 1 hour.
Adapted from Green Chile Bible: Award-winning New Mexico Recipes
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
Fairy Smurfland, aka Goblin Valley
In our latest venture to bizarre places, Mike and I drove through the Utah desert to reach Goblin Valley, a spooky little land with lots of mushroom rocks on the edge of the San Rafael swell.
As childish as it sounds, we found it was especially fun to run around the rocks and hide in the shadows. Goblin Valley would be the most incredible place to play nocturnal hide-and-seek. It's amazing to explore the valley, especially when a rainstorm has washed away everyone else's footprints recently and you feel like maybe you're the first person walking among the hoodoos.
The other amusing thing to do at Goblin Valley is spotting rocks that look like other things. We found and named Hamster Rock, Gorilla Rock, Scary Neanderthal Rock, Turtle Rock and even this one, Shrek Rock.
Check it out at www.utah.com/stateparks/goblin_valley.htm. It's about 2 1/2 hours driving from GJ.
As childish as it sounds, we found it was especially fun to run around the rocks and hide in the shadows. Goblin Valley would be the most incredible place to play nocturnal hide-and-seek. It's amazing to explore the valley, especially when a rainstorm has washed away everyone else's footprints recently and you feel like maybe you're the first person walking among the hoodoos.
The other amusing thing to do at Goblin Valley is spotting rocks that look like other things. We found and named Hamster Rock, Gorilla Rock, Scary Neanderthal Rock, Turtle Rock and even this one, Shrek Rock.
Check it out at www.utah.com/stateparks/goblin_valley.htm. It's about 2 1/2 hours driving from GJ.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
