Random thoughts ...

I hate this time of year.

I've said it before and I'll say it again. I really do. My birthday is Monday and the weather always sucks. Usually, we can't even drive anywhere within 75 miles to go do anything fun and get outta this snow-encrusted, bleak landscape.

I also hate my birthday being on a holiday. I'm not looking for sympathy - just understanding. Everyone is always saying, "Your birthday is on New Year's? That is SO awesome."

Well, it's not. Every place is crowded, people already have expectations about what we'll do ... and I decided this year we are NOT having a party. Because I'm NOT cleaning up the house so people can bring extra people and spill stuff on the floor and not bring food or drinks or even a birthday card. Not that that's the sole purpose of having a party, but it IS my birthday.



I hate used car lots and salesmen.

We finally decided we need to upgrade the shaggin' wagon. It's a Ford and it's getting close to 100,000 miles, so it's going to self-destruct soon. I can almost hear it ticking in the garage.

Unfortunately, shopping for new cars isn't as happy as shopping for a new... well, anything. We had a very bad experience at a dealership here in town. One minute, I was test-driving a 2007 H0nda CRV, and the next minute, the smarmy finance guy was trying to get us to sign a contract for the car. They never told us how much the monthly payments would be if we financed through them, they never even told us an interest rate.




The salesman was so shady that he actually sent me an email while we were in the finance guy's office congratulating us on buying the car, when we had NEVER (in the three hours we were there) said we were buying the car. And we didn't ever sign a contract. Then there was a second email apologizing for the "misunderstanding" and saying he hoped we didn't think he was pushy. Riiiight.

I finally had to say, "I think there's been a miscommunication. We are NOT buying a car today." They acted like we had wasted their time. Whatever. I didn't say we wouldn't be back - but now I feel so violated that I don't think I will give those jerks my money.


As my mom said, that tactic must work on some people or they wouldn't try to railroad us into buying the car.

Yeah, well I'm not "some people."

We've noticed a disturbing plethora of...

... a new species in our neighborhood. I saw a few of them pop up last year, but nothing like this year's numbers. They seem to be accumulating.

It seems that the holidayyus luminarius has taken up residence in Panor@ma subdivision. Cousin of the common Odocoileus hemionus mule deer, the luminarius also exhibits similar behaviors, such as seasonal movement. However, despite observations, we are unable at this time to determine where the luminarius goes besides grassy front-lawn areas and ultimately garages for most of the year.

Unlike its deer cousins, the luminarius does not camouflage itself with grays and browns in shrubbery. Quite the opposite, the luminarius somehow frightens predators away with its unusual phosphorescence, only detected after nightfall.

The economic importance of this species to humans seems to be nominal, however the luminarius appears to bring joy to young children and the elderly, who enjoy having them occupy their lawns. Research and observation have also indicated that the luminarius seems to multiply in adjacent areas. For example, the house across the street had a luminarius last Christmas, and since then, five other neighbors have created habitat for the glowing animal.

We, of course, are taking precautions to discourage the luminarius from migrating into our habitat. They make Maxwell nervous and we don't need any more poop to scoop in our yard.

The monthly report

Okay, so I made a deal with myself.

I wouldn't post again until I had good news. REALLY good news. No, I'm not pregnant. That would NOT be good news.

I GOT A JOB!!!

I've been working harder than a gnome in a molybdenum mine the last two weeks (what?). But overall this is a good thing, as M@rtha Stew@rt would say.

I'm teaching fifth grade and the opening for the job came up in an unfortunate manner. A friend of mine had the job before. I won't elaborate but you can check out the details here, since it was in the news anyway.

So I came into this classroom and there had been several sub teachers between the first teacher and me. The kids are pretty shell-shocked, although they're the kind of kids who are used to disappointment and abandonment by adults in their lives. For many of them, school is the most stable environment they have and this was a major earthquake in that safe little world.

The last two weeks have been absolutely crazy. I'm very overwhelmed and I realize I will never completely catch up to where I would like to be for the rest of this school year.

But that's okay. Yesterday I didn't have any of the kids ask, "Are you REALLY coming back on Monday?" and that tells me I'm making progress.

Complicated

Usually when someone dies, everything is sad.

This time, it's different. This time, it's too complicated.

Those of you who know me well know that the family situation with my grandmother is tenuous. I almost used the word complicated again. But that works too.

She died tonight. And, as my brother said, it's different than the last time we had someone die. It's either got to be harder than this, or easier than this, he said.

I feel exactly the same way. Without making this too complicated, I'll just say that this is the first time in my life that I have felt simultaneously disappointed, relieved, guilty, angry and devastated.

It's very overwhelming.

Dancin' the Night Away

Warning: Yes, I'm going to talk about dancing in this blog. And no, it's not as lame as you might think. Please continue.

We discovered contra dancing at our friends' wedding in June. Basically contra dancing involves Celtic music, usually a violin, and you dance in these lines that form patterns. You usually get a new partner about every 30 seconds. You don't have to wear a costume or know any fancy steps, because there's a caller that tells you what to do.

Now, don't get the wrong idea. Contra dancing is NOT square dancing. And it's most certainly NOT country line dancing. Can you picture me doing the Achy Breaky Heart dance? Ugh.

Contra dancing also does not involve giving any money or weapons to Oliver North or Iran or whatever. I swear.

It's fun enough for Mike to go. Of his own volition.

So we went to P@lisade for a contra dance on Saturday and had a blast. We went with some other younger people and managed to hold our own against the old geezer experts. I have discovered a potentially fatal flaw to contra dancing, however.

Some contra-dancing men are really tall. Like, freakishly tall. And very serious about the dance. And very sweaty. The problem arises when these things combine and I get passed on to a tall, serious guy contra dancer and he's all sweaty.

He pulls me in close, and my nose happens to come right up to the perfect height of... his ARMPIT! Ack! So I'm turning my head as we're spinning around and holding my breath... thinking, "God, let this end and please let the next partner be Mike," and I start to get really dizzy with the room spinning (perhaps from anaerobic effects on my brain) but I keep holding my breath because any breath of oxygen would be infused with my dance partner's man-stink ... until I'm tossed to the next person. A wild-eyed little man (thank god) with nappy sideburns and suspenders.

Another possible hazard of contra dancing in a smallish town: You end up dancing with a creepy guy who you met seven years ago. Who called you and asked you on a date when he stole your phone number off an invoice from the business at which he works. Who you told to never call again. And now is holding both your hands, looking at you and asking, "Don't I know you?"

And you look across the room to your husband, who is doubled over, laughing hysterically. Because remember, you are the Kevin B@con of GJ.

Ah well.

A mysterious affliction

Now that it's over, we can laugh about it.

Isn't that the story of our lives? Yeah, pretty much. Well, this time it was all at the expense of poor Maxwell.

We left him in the backyard for two hours and came home to find him in excruciating pain. He ran to the car, yelping. It seemed like every time he moved, he yelped.

We looked for blood and guts and didn't see anything. Thankfully, Mike's sister Debbie is a vet and she was visiting. She examined Max and found that the top three inches of his tail was really swollen and hot. He had apparently sprained his tail.

Now, don't ask me how this sort of thing happens. If it was the end of his tail, sure, maybe he got it caught in something or had it bitten or whatever. But this was the top part of his tail, next to his bum. What the???

We iced the tail down and Max laid in the same spot for hours, moaning. It took about a week for things to return to normal.



So we don't really know what made him so miserable. Did he kamikaze off the patio table and land on his tail? Is it possible for a dog to wag too much?

As long as it's better, I suppose it doesn't matter now that Max has overcome his bout with erect-tail disfunction.

Mortified

Thanks to my good friend Enrique, I'm reading a fabulous compilation of teen angst stories. Actually, it's excerpts from teenage diaries.

The intro to the book made me think about writing and purpose. I mean, why do we write blogs? They are sort of public diaries in most cases. Only we know that other people are reading our thoughts, so we self-edit them and (usually) omit the most embarassing things. Unless we're writing to obtain pity. I wouldn't even consider writing some things on a blog, and I have a love-hate relationship with it because of its public-ness.

Here's what author D@vid N@delburg said in his intro:

"In the days before blogs, people transcribed their everyday events with ancient tools known as pens and paper. Back then, private thoughts were not written to serve as public spectacle. Rather, they were intensely guarded keepsakes, hidden under beds, locked in cabinets, or buried in the back of closets. These were called diaries ... or if they were owned by heterosexual males, journals. To their oh-so-sensitive authors, such books served as their confidante, their shrink, and in a few somewhat pathetic cases, their only friend."

Yeah, I do wish sometimes that I could write everything that jumped into my mind. But who knows who is reading this and what they would think?

Haven't we all thought about that on our blogs? Wondered if so-and-so sent Aunt Whatzername a link and if she should really be reading this?

I guess, in a way, that's the main pitfall of blogging. Some people don't self-censor enough. They don't realize that there's still a place for a diary if they want one (NOT on Internet) and that their blog isn't really private, even though you think you know who's reading it.

They badmouth their boss online, quit that job and apply for another and then (mysteriously, by the powers of the Internet!) their potential employer reads the blog and it's all ruined. Or they think that it's okay to post photos of themselves drinking in hot tubs on mysp@ce even though their students have access to their profiles.

The potential to build bridges before they are even built is HUGE on the information superhighway.

Here's to teenage angst books that make you think!

The geek squad ...

Or, happy anniversary to us!


So we made a whirlwind trip to Denver this week so Mikey could cover a convicted murderer's appeal hearing. On our third anniversary. I had no idea the third anniversary present was "attend convicted murderer court hearing" as well as "leather" or the more modern "crystal" present.

Truth be told, as un-romantic as this sounds, it was a trip that truly shows that we are perfect for each other. What would I do with a stupid leather bracelet or crystal? I hate crystal. Crystal is usually some form of knicknack, which most of you know is banned from the McWiggins' lair.

Instead, we went to the hearing (my first trip to the Supreme Court chambers, ooh!) and then we met up with Mike and Mary for trivia at a pub.

We came in third. Not bad, considering we beat a team called "McLovin." We messed up on the round with the Neo-Claudian emperors. ("Caligula? Is that a real person?" :) ) But we kicked butt on the visual round. Nobody can recognize W!ll Sm!th's eyes like my husband. Heh.

Then we headed back the next morning after a quick stop in Ge@rget@wn so Mikey could go to a press conference related to a disaster. I wandered around town trying to find a place to get coffee that would accept a credit card. I narrowly missed being hit by a Budwe!ser truck on the narrow highway.

Boy, he's lucky he married a former reporter who understands how this journalism thing works. Happy anniversary to us!

Newest okay thing

I finally found a movie-rental method that suits me. It's my new friend the red box movie kiosk. Maybe you've heard of him. He usually frequents areas in grocery store fronts and near fast-food restaurants.

It's a lovely little red box contraption that spits out a movie when you swipe a credit card. It's only $1 per night, and you don't have to return them until 7 the next night. You don't even have to return the movie to the same red box you rented it from. You can return it to one of his friends, even if it's across town.

How can you beat $1 a night? I hate some other, unmentionable movie places where you have to rent a new release for three or four nights. What the heck am I going to do with one movie for four nights? I'm not going to memorize it.

There's only one thing about it that I don't like. If all movie rentals came from boxes that spit out only new releases, where are people supposed to get the classics? Is the up-and-coming generation going to even recognize Lawrence of Arabia? What about "Some Like it Hot"? And no one's going to see Maria frolicking in the hills that are alive with the sound of music in a red box.

Ah well, everything has its limitations.

Giving 110 percent

I bought a shiny silver whistle at W@l-M@rt this weekend.

I figured it might be useful in my next substitute assignment – gym teacher.

Now, don’t laugh. I know this is ironic, given that I was the kid who hid in the bathroom when the P.E. teacher was grading us on whether we could do froggy headstands. I couldn’t even do a cartwheel. And somersaults make me nauseous.

But there are some parts of being a P.E. teacher that I don’t mind. I like the fact that I’m doing a service to the classroom teachers by running the kids ragged so they can sit still later when they’re supposed to be learning. And I only have to listen to one particular group of students screaming for about 30 minutes, before I get the next batch. But, then again, you have to prove yourself ten times in one day instead of just once.

I have to admit I was a bit nervous to teach basketball yesterday. I can’t even play HORSE. And I swear there’s something about my head that attracts flying objects. It doesn’t matter if we’re playing volleyball, football or basketball, the ball always seems to hit me in the head somehow. Yes, that happened twice yesterday. And I wasn’t the only one who got injured. I peeled and applied more Band-Aids than a triage unit.

And am I the only person in the world who hates high-fives? I felt like I was hanging out with 100 David Puttys from Seinfeld yesterday. For someone who hates sports, this was a real challenge.

I’m back today with the trusty whistle, ensuring that I’ll have a voice at the end of the day. Gimme a high five.

I (was) saved at Wal-Mart

Not only are prices falling at Wal-Mart.

Freaks are dropping from the sky too. Or apparating in the parking lot, in my case.

I had gone shopping for my friend who is setting up her classroom. I paused with my cart full o school stuff to cross the parking lot.

A fairly normal-looking brunette lady in her late 40s was crossing as well, toward me. She was wearing plain clothes and glasses. She turned her head toward me and had this bizarre pasted-on smile on her face. I naturally gave a quick half-smile just in case she was someone I knew but didn't recognize right away, to be friendly. I couldn't tell if we had made eye contact because her glasses were tinted.

She made a beeline for me and veered toward my cart. I thought she was going to ask directions or something. Instead, she leaned close and said in a breathy voice, "Jesus loves you. I hope he's your best friend," without breaking the creepy plastic smile.

I said, "Thank you?" and I don't quite know why my voice went up in pitch at the end like it was a question. Then I crossed the street.

It's official. I'm a freak beacon.

The backup plan ...

or, I think I'll go live in a cave



So I went to substitute teacher training yesterday. Which is something I never thought I would actually be attending. I just signed up to be safe and have it be my backup plan. And here I am using it. Along with the retired teachers who sub for fun and the scary people with no apparent social skills who can't get a job. And I'm one of them now.

This goes along with my theory that I like to plan FOR things, but I don't like USING the plans when it comes down to it.

I should be happy to be done with school and relieved to not have to do any of the mind-numbing bureaucratic work in the program, but instead I'm depressed about having to use my "backup plan."

Why am I so upset about it? I'm going to make money, I don't have to worry too much about being responsible for test scores or the other headachey things that schools are famous for, and I'm frustrated. For one more year, I can go on a vacation whenever I want, and I'm pissed about it.

I think it all comes down to dealing with people who start conversations when they just shouldn't go there. There's much more to me than just a JOB or SCHOOL but they don't get it.

Once again I have had to restrain my urge to poke people's eyes out (even over the phone) for saying STUPID crap things in response to me not getting a "real job." I've resorted to the shortest possible responses and not furthering the conversation which they were dumb enough to start. Like these:

Anonymous Relative 1: So I hear you're unemployed.
Me: Yep. (long pause)
AR 1: Huh. Where's the soda?

AR 2: So you haven't heard anything about the job?
Me: Nope. (long pause)
AR 2: Well, it will be good to sub for a while. That way you'll figure out where you want to be. (Nevermind the fact that she KNOWS I want to BE in my OWN classroom, not pinballing from school to school.)
Me: Yep.
AR 2: And could you be hired a few weeks into the school year?
Me: Mmm-hmm.
AR2: Well at least then you'd have a classroom. (Didn't she just say it would be good to sub?)
Me: Yeah.
AR2: You'd have to hit the ground running.
Me: Yeah, I know.
AR2: Well, that would be good. (What???)
Me: I'm screwed either way, so it really doesn't matter, does it? I have to go.

AR3: So did you get a job for fall?
Me: Looks like I'll be subbing for a while.
AR3: Oh. Well, I meant a real job. Like at a school.
Me: Do you know where the drinks are?

And the nominations are...

Reno 911's hot-pants lieutenant.




I don't know who this other guy is, but the aforementioned Mike F. nominated him as a Mike look-alike.

To review, here's a pic of the subject. Mikey, of course. That's my most recent photo of him, on our way down 800-foot Beacon Rock in the Columbia River Gorge on our Oregon trip.

Check out the other three nominations in the previous posting and vote and let us know who you think looks like Mikey. Unless you think it's that guy that the aforementioned Mike nominated. :)

Still destitute...

In case you were wondering, NO I DON'T HAVE A JOB YET.

I seriously avoided people at my sister's wedding because I was sick of that question and having to explain that, yes, I taught summer school, but that's only in the SUMMER, and I don't have a permanent job for fall. And yes, I really am done with school. And yes, I did have an interview but I got a reject letter. And yes, there is STILL a CHANCE that I COULD get a JOB for this fall. Yes, even THIS LATE.

I had to put down the plastic fork I was eating wedding cake with to avoid the temptation of stabbing people's eyes out when they asked me why I don't have a job yet.

Here are some answers I felt like saying:

1. Nah, I don't have a job yet. Mike's quitting his job and we're going to take up professional beachcombing.
2. You know, now that I've got that teaching certification, I just don't think it's for me anymore.
3. I've decided that my new goal in life is to move as little as possible and eat as much chocolate as possible and teaching would sort of intrude on that goal.
4. I realize that the least-capable person in my teaching program has a job and I don't yet, but that doesn't bother me one bit (then my left eye starts twitching and I start mumbling about how someone will be sorry someday).
5. I saw how much those guys flying the sign down at the corner of First and Grand make with their "Disabled vet - anything helps - God bless" message and decided to take up panhandling. My sign says: "Out-of-work teacher. Will explain Pythagorean theorem for food."

I'll let everyone know when I have good news. Until then, remove all plastic forks from my reach if you dare to ask.

Mikey's debut

It's official. First there was the billboard. Then came the unlisted phone number because scary people featured in the blotter were calling the house. And last night...

"We have Mike W!gg!ns from the Da!ly Sent!nel joining us," on F0x News' 0n the Rec0rd with Greta V0n Susteren.

My husband is famous. Greta interviewed him about the

Pa!ge B!rgfeld case (the one with the missing mom/ex-wife of a crook/topless massage escort lady).

In his minutes of fame, he updated the host on a search near the Gunnison River and what the investigators are looking at now. He smiled when Greta greeted him and my aunt said it seemed like they were old friends on a first-name basis.

The funniest part of the whole experience came after the interview, when the camera dude at the PBS station that was providing the satellite feed heard something through his headphones connecting him to F0X in New York and replied, "Andrew McC@rthy," a few times.

Mike gave him a weird look. The dude explained that the folks in the F0x control room were debating who Mike looks like. In the past, he's been compared to T0pher Grace. My favorite is how a friend's dad greets him with, "Hello, guvnah," because he's also borne a resemblance to former Colorado guv Bill 0wens.

Judge for yourself, but I think Mikey definitely looks more like T0pher than anyone else.

It's the end of the world as we know it... in 5 years?

Have you guys heard of this "survive 2012" thing?

I guess people had to latch on to some new crazy theory, since Nostradamus is out of fashion and we seem to have forgotten about the avian flu.

A rundown on the theory: The Mayans and a Web-bot that searches for cataclysmic clues and supposedly predicted 9-11 both say that the world might end in 2012.

Or, at the very least, something world-altering is going to happen, like a solar flare or aliens invading or WWIII.

Some dude is even writing a book about it. I'd advise him to get moving on it, since he has less than five years to git-r-done and scare the crap out of everyone.

Part of the theory hinges on the fact that the Mayan calendar "stops" in 2012. Well, did anyone stop to think about all the unfinished projects THEY have lying around? Just because I forgot to flush the toilet doesn't mean I'm never going to use it again. Maybe the Mayans had to go sacrifice a virgin or grind some corn. They didn't have time to pound out another hundred years on their calendar with all the dots and dashes and clamshell symbols.

I've got my own theory. For some reason, some people need a deadline for the world. There have always been doomsday cult followers and there will always be people who take advantage of them. Remember the Heaven's Gate matching sneaker-wearers and comet Hale-Bopp? Remember Y2K and people building their bomb shelters and stocking up on water and Spam? Ever seen one of those people wearing a sandwich board proclaiming "THE WORLD WILL END TOMORROW"?

Yeah, well, today is the old tomorrow and we're still here, buddy.

In the meantime, I'm going to make a list of all the things I have to do in the next five years before the aliens from Atlantis come back to reclaim the world and drown the world in seawater. You know they've got to be behind this whole global warming thing.

I have such a patient, wonderful husband...

Seven easy steps to killing a squirrel...

Thought we were going to have a restful day off, but then Mike spotted an evil squirrel perched in our peach tree.

He took forever to load his air soft gun out to scare it away, and Max was completely oblivious to the creature, so I got a broom handle (why not?) and decided to bludgeon it.

Apparently murdering small, furry animals is my thing (recall the mouse incident of 2005?).

The squirrel was sitting completely motionless on the tree branch. Nervously, I raised the broom handle. As those of you who have watched National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation know, a squirrel in a tree can be quite dangerous.

I yelled out a war-whoop HI-YAH! and whacked it with the broom handle, hitting it so hard that the metal handle bent at an angle and the twitching squirrel dropped from the tree. I think I broke its back, I hit it so hard.

Luckily, the formerly oblivious Maxwell had gained interest in the incident and was waiting underneath the branch to catch the squirrel. He bit the squirrel and ran around the yard, shaking the heck out of it. I ran around the yard, wielding the bent broomstick and screaming.

The neighbor lady came out of her house, thinking that I had been ignorant enough to whack a beehive with a stick and was now having my flesh torn off by a swarm of bees. Mike and I were too busy trying to get the dead squirrel away from Max to fully explain the situation.

Now I've left a message at the health department to have the squirrel tested for plague, because its been found up here where we live and the mere fact that the squirrel was just sitting in a tree in Maxwell's yard seems like it was acting strangely to me.

In case any of you find yourselves wondering what to do with a real, live squirrel in your backyard, I've devised these simple and easy steps to ridding yourself of this destructive animal:

1. Get broom handle
2. Bludgeon squirrel with broom handle
3. Dog catches squirrel
4. Dog shakes hell out of squirrel
5. Bribe dog to stop trying to eat squirrel
6. Dispose
7. Inspect dog every two minutes for signs of bubonic plague.

Strangely educational but disappointing...

Went to the movies last night with Saccone. He's one of our only friends who could possibly be interested in the prospect of a documentary on Carthusian monks. He's a good sport.

If you aren't familiar with the monastery, it's located in an absolutely breathtaking valley in the French alps. The Carthusians are the strictest order of Christian monks. They make Chartreuse liqueur, although we didn't get to see any of that in the movie. Ironically, they also have a web site.

On one hand, the film was brilliant. It mimicked the monks' repetitive, silent lives and monotonous existence. However, three hours of exposure was asking too much of my attention and we didn't bring snacks. I know the filmmaker spent the past 17 years trying to get permission to do the documentary, but it shouldn't feel like I'm sitting in the theatre for 17 years watching it.

There was some very subtle symbolism and beautiful cinematography. One of my favorite parts was how the director zooms in on the monks' ears when they are praying or reading silently. It seemed to emphasize the loudness of the silence. I also enjoyed the director's portrayal of the individual monks, many of whom are quite elderly and made me wonder how much longer this cloister can survive.

There's even a little glimpse into monk humor, when we get to see the monks conversing on one of their Sunday walks - the only time they leave the monastery's walls of silence. One of them makes a joke about Trappists.

We endured 2 1/2 hours of near-silence; the only audio in this movie came from the welcome ringing of bells and some Gregorian chants.

When the filmmaker appeared to be dedicating ten full minutes to a monk gluing the sole of his shoes together, we just couldn't stand it anymore. I draw the line at watching glue dry. It's a sign we need to leave when my stomach growling is louder than the movie and the guy sitting behind us who clears his throat every three minutes.

Afterward, went to the Rockslide to debrief, drink beer and eat nachos and burgers. Good times, good times.

Ode to Mr. Williams

I received word today that one of my favorite high school teachers died suddenly yesterday. Mr. Williams, my chemistry teacher at Fruita Monument, apparently died of a heart attack. I haven't read a death notice or an obituary yet, though, and I'm hoping it's a really sick joke or a mistake.

Mr. Williams was about the same age as my dad - mid-50's, I'd say. He wasn't a tall man, he was a bit shorter than me, actually. He had this crazy hair that would never stay down and it's like all the thoughts whirring around his brain were powering the strands of hair to stand up with the storm of electricity. He also wore these eclectic button-up shirts, made from vividly colored fabrics he and his wife had bought on travels in Asia.

He was a kind person, the sort of teacher who asked how you were and really listened to see what the answer was. He had glasses, was pleasantly gnome-ish, and usually grew a really long beard in the wintertime. This accessory proved to be an occupational hazard in the realm of high school chemistry. I'll never forget the time his beard touched down on a Bunsen burner and ignited during an experiment. But he had a great sense of humor and just laughed it off as he patted his singed beard.

I got to know Mr. Williams and his family a bit more after high school, through unfortunate circumstances when his daughter and my brother were in a near-fatal car accident together. I'll never forget him showing up at the hospital and the look on his face.

Thankfully, his daughter recovered and went on to college. I thought of Amber today and her brother, and their mom. And how it's really unfair that somebody who loved life so much has died so early. And how sorry I am for his family that he is gone and there will be such a gaping hole in their lives.

I saw Mr. Williams the last time in July, at OfficeMax. I was always running into him there or at a bookstore. We talked for about 30 minutes about stuff. I told him I was going to be a teacher. He said it would be great for me to travel in the summertime. He told me a funny story about the first time he met his in-laws.

I'll truly miss his random, colorful stories told spontaneously in store aisles. He was a guy who really lived a carpe diem sort of life.

The only thing that comforts me right now is the thought that he had probably thought about what comes next in this world, or other worlds, and that he was ready for it. I don't think he dwelled on it, but I'm sure he had a belief of what comes next. I know some of you will make fun of me for quoting Harry Potter books, but at the end of the first book, Dumbledore says, "To the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure." I'm certain that Mr. Williams was ready for the trip.

It'll all be over soon...

Isn't that what you say to your kitty that you're putting to sleep? That's what everyone's been telling me about this friggin' joke of a teaching program at Mesa.

Well, it will all be over soon. This week, hopefully! I have a presentation I have to give tomorrow, then my licensure should be taken care of. Yippeee! And then after just a few more short weeks of school with the kids, I'm good to go.

I'm actually going to be very sad to let go of my precious little fifth-graders. I've loved every minute with them, even when I was exasperated because one of them told me his essay that I spent 30 minutes editing was accidentally shredded for his cat's litter box (because the cat had surgery and couldn't use regular cat litter) and was covered with urine so he couldn't make the changes.

Now THAT's more creative than "my dog ate it," right? Gotta give him points for that.

Coming up for air...

Hi all,

I'm updating all of you on my progress in Purgatory, otherwise known as the end of the one-year teaching program. Most of my projects are due Wednesday, but to make it extra painful, there is another project and a presentation I have to give in another two weeks.

My retinas are burning from staring at the computer screen so much and my estranged dog and husband wonder if I will ever mutter more than three words without bursting into a tirade about how much of my life is being wasted on crap. Mostly, they're lying low and leave the house a lot as to not disturb "the beast."

To make matters worse, the weight that is pushing down on my shoulders to finish this project seems to slowly be creeping southward. I've developed a really bad habit of using chocolates, jalapeno-cheddar Cheetos and everything else I can shove in my mouth to endure the project. I have a horrible feeling that at the end of this project, the weight off my shoulders will have migrated to my ass.

The end is near... And then I will write funny things again when "the beast" leaves. I feel like Kafka in that story about the man turning into the rodent. eek.

It's really sad when...

... people in Grand Junction don't even recognize you when you're famous.

I've always said that our little town has a special place on the road to and from stardom. Either people hit it on the way shooting up, or on their way falling down, down, down. Such is the life of burnt-out musicians traveling the road from Denver to Salt Lake. At least they get to have a few pathetic groupies in Grand Junction.

Last night we glimpsed the sight of a falling star at dinner. We were walking into the Rockslide, our favorite place to debrief after movies featuring dirty old men in them at the Avalon.

We were just laughing at the marquis at the concert spot down the street, which featured Winger. Let me jog your memory with this:



And as we were wondering exactly what Winger was known for, besides the kid named Stewart on Beavis and Butthead wearing a shirt with the band's name on it, one of the Rockslide workers informed us that we could ask a member of the band who was sitting in the back.

Lucky us! We sat two tables away from one of the esteemed members of Winger (who also used to play guitar for White Snake). He was chowing down on dinner and flirting with all the waitresses, inviting them to the show. I guess he knew that he needed to recruit his own groupies in GJ.

My sister contemplated having the Winger dude sign a body part, and she even had her camera with her, but she chickened out. Mike kept saying, "Leave Winger alone!" And so we did.

I think it might have been the guy second from the left in the picture. But I couldn't tell. His Farrah-like hair was pulled back in a greasy ponytail and he was pretty much dressed like the homeless man who was playing the harmonica on the sidewalk when we left the restaurant.

It's the only time I've seen a falling star and I didn't make a wish. By the way, you might recognize Winger from this clip on YouTube:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MzuAKBu366k

You know you're from GJ when...

I'm so busy and buried with homework that I've resorted to posting lists of mildly amusing things to assure you all that I am still alive. The fifth-graders haven't drained me of (quite) all my energy yet, so long as I can paste a list. - E.


...have no idea where this came from... but so true. Feel free to add some if you think of them.

You Know You're From Grand Junction When:

-You never use a compass. Mountain ranges tell you which directions you're headed

-Although your city has an airport, you always drive to Salt Lake or Denver for flights

-The term "Devil's Kitchen" doesn't intimidate you

-You've ever cruised North Avenue on a Friday night

-You know why Clifton Village South is not somewhere you want to live

-You travel out of town just to go to a decent movie theater (not anymore- thank you, Regal Cinemas!)

-You miss the cow on 12th Street.

-You spend every summer evening at Canyon View Park.

-You've driven all the way up to Glade Park to watch a movie projected on the side of a building and eat $2 hamburgers that were grilled on the back of a fire engine.

-You've actually climbed the face of a mountain merely to touch a flag pole.

-Floating down the river is a favorite past time.

-There are more churches per capita than anything else!

-The best day of your life was the day Krispy Kreme opened.

-You know which Wal-Mart is the "good one" and which is the "bad one"

-The name Gay Johnson doesn't offend you or cause you to blush

-No one knows what a yellow light means much less a yellow arrow

-You drive around all night looking for a corn maze that may or may not exist

-Your kids have gone trick-or-treating as skiers because it's so cold they need a coat

-You've actually cut down your own Christmas tree before out of a real forest

-You know the difference between Powderhorn and Old Powderhorn.

-Color Sunday is something you look forward to every year.

-No U-turns allowed. Anywhere.

-You have ever worked at Star Tek. And quit when you found out it has nothing to do with astronomy.

-You've ever timed your trips around railroad crossings to see if you made time avoiding the coal trains.

-Driving "all the way" across town only takes 20 minutes

-There's only one mall, and it's only one story, and you can stand in the middle and see each end

-You wonder where Jamba Juice went. And wonder what Jamba means.

-All major roads have two names.

-It's not weird to you that a road name can have a letter and a fraction.

-You call the state line the "Utah border" because you really think of Utah as another country instead of a state.

Ode to the noodle who invented these noodles...

I can't believe it.

The inventor of the Cup o' Noodles is dead.

Of a heart attack. Only days after he enjoyed some of his oh-so-good chicken delight.

Check it out (compliments of the AP):
______________________________________________________

TOKYO - Momofuku Ando, the Japanese inventor of instant noodles -- a dish that has sustained American college students for decades -- has died. He was 96.
Nissin Food Products Co., the company Ando founded, said on its Web site that he died Friday after suffering a heart attack.

Born in Taiwan, Ando founded his company in 1948 from a family operation. Faced with food shortages in post-World War II Japan, Ando thought a quality, convenient noodle product would help feed the masses.

In 1958, his Chicken Ramen -- the first instant noodle -- was introduced after many trials. Building on its success, the company added other products, such as the Cup Noodle in 1971.

The Momofuku Ando Instant Ramen Museum opened in 1999 in Ikeda City in western Japan commemorating his inventions.
_____________________________________

And what would the world be without Ramen? The convenience and cheapness of this great food not only sustained the Japanese, but it also fed great minds. Imagine all the poor, starving college students who went on to invent useful things beyond the Ramen. But could they have done it without frugal brainfood? I think not...

As Calvin Coolidge once said, "Economy is the method by which we prepare today to afford the improvements of tomorrow."

Things you never knew about Chuck Norris

My sister, showing her propensity for offering true thank-yous from the heart, sent this. I edited it slightly to spare you the mental repercussions from the original version.

Just wanted to say thanks for helping with the invites by sending some really important information about Chuck Norris:

Chuck Norris' tears cure cancer. Too bad he has never cried.

Macgyver can build an airplane out of gum and paper clips, but Chuck Norris can kill him and take it.



Chuck Norris once roundhouse kicked someone so hard that his foot broke the speed of light, went back in time, and killed Amelia Earhart while she was flying over the Pacific Ocean.

Chuck Norris doesn't read books. He stares them down until he gets the information he wants.

If you ask Chuck Norris what time it is, he always says, "Two seconds till." After you ask, "Two seconds to what?" he roundhouse kicks you in the face.

Rather than being birthed like a normal child, Chuck Norris instead decided to punch his way out of his mother's womb. Shortly thereafter he grew a beard.

Chuck Norris appeared in the "Street Fighter II" video game, but was removed by Beta Testers because every button caused him to do a roundhouse kick. When asked bout this "glitch," Norris replied, "That's no glitch."

Chuck Norris lost his virginity before his dad did.

Since 1940, the year Chuck Norris was born, roundhouse kick related deaths have increased 13,000 percent.

Chuck Norris sold his soul to the devil for his rugged good looks and unparalleled martial arts ability. Shortly after the transaction was finalized, Chuck roundhouse-kicked the devil in the face and took his soul back. The devil, who appreciates irony, couldn't stay mad and admitted he should have seen it coming. They now play poker every second Wednesday of the month.

Filming on location for Walker: Texas Ranger, Chuck Norris brought a stillborn baby lamb back to life by giving it a prolonged beard rub. Shortly after the farm animal sprang back to life and a crowd had gathered, Chuck Norris roundhouse kicked the animal, breaking its neck, to remind the crew once more that Chuck giveth, and the good Chuck, he taketh away.

Chuck Norris built a time machine and went back in time to stop the JFK assassination. As Oswald shot, Chuck met all three bullets with his beard, deflecting them. JFK's head exploded out of sheer amazement.

There is no chin behind Chuck Norris' beard. There is only another fist.

The original theme song to the Transformers was actually "Chuck
Norris--more than meets the eye, Chuck Norris--robot in disguise," and starred Chuck Norris as a Texas Ranger who defended the earth from drug-dealing Decepticons and could turn into a pick-up. This was far too much awesome for a single show, however, so it was divided.

The chief export of Chuck Norris is pain.

Chuck Norris is currently suing NBC, claiming Law and Order are trademarked names for his left and right legs.

When Chuck Norris plays Oregon Trail his family does not die from cholera or dysentery, but rather roundhouse kicks to the face. He also requires no wagon, since he carries the oxen, axels, and buffalo meat on his back. He always makes it to Oregon before you.

It was once believed that Chuck Norris actually lost a fight to a pirate, but that is a lie, created by Chuck Norris himself to lure more pirates to him. Pirates never were very smart.

Chuck Norris recently had the idea to sell his urine as a canned beverage. We know this beverage as Red Bull.