Who Let the Dog Out?

So yesterday I was in my classroom, getting all of my stuff together for the State Writing Test, when my phone rang.  It was the front office.  The following conversation commences:

"Hi Mrs. P., your dog is here."
"Huh?"
"Your dog is here."
"Wait--what do you mean my dog is 'here'?  Define here."
"Here, in the office."
"Um, well, okay.  I'll be right down."

I then proceeded to the office, where I found Cleo--my rambunctious drooling Great Dane--bouncing around in the counseling department, making friends with students and staff alike.  Now normally I would have had a campus aid cover my class for twenty minutes while I dragged my sorry mutt home (in a universe where this situation is considered "normal").  But that morning I was administering the State Writing Test, a process which requires us to watch a video and sign an affadavit in advance.  Today was the one day that a campus aid could not watch my class.  Since running home wasn't an option, one of our secretaries grabbed my keys and my daughter, and the two loaded Cleo into her Jeep and took her back home.

Oh, Cricket and Yang got out too, and also showed up at my school.  The only difference is they didn't hang out like Cleo.  They got tired of campus life pretty quickly and ran back home.  The secretary brought Cleo home and put her in the chicken coop area in our backyard, but put the two smaller dogs in the house, knowing that they would probably get out again.  I gave her my blessing in all of this, but there was a good two hours where I was stressed, wondering what kind of havoc the dogs were wreaking in my house.  They've been in the house countless times when we're home, but never by themselves.  I was imagining trash spilled throughout the house, an upturned bird cage, a chewed up couch....

As it turned out, the only thing that was out of place were a couple of Elijah's toys and a block of dehydrated Top Ramen on the living room rug.

Later my sister-in-law checked on the dogs, and she found Cleo running down the street with our cat.  She then took all three dogs back to her place until Clint got off of work.

Upon investigation, it looks like one of the smaller dogs dug out, the other followed, and--seeing those two flaunt their freedom in the front yard--Cleo jumped the fence.  As far as what prompted Cleo to run all the way to my work and into our front office, either a) I have a very strong chemical trail, or b) She followed a student as he walked or rode his bike to school. 

A little concrete and chicken wire we *think* have resolved these issues.

Here's Cleo at eight weeks old....

Does that look like the face of a trouble maker?

Here's Cleo, a little more grown up.  This picture was taken on January 30th, so she was about four-and-a-half months old.

She turns six months old next week, so she's significantly bigger now.  She still puts her giant head and paws on my lap, but the rest of her has to stay on the floor. 

Fire and Ice

I don't know how to start this entry because I'm so behind on writing, and so much has been going on. 

I think the first thing I want to address is the tragedy at Sandy Hook Elementary.  Like most Americans, I was horrified by what happened on Friday. This feeling intensified last night when I came across a CNN article that actually gave the profiles of several of the victims.  Reading about little 6 year old Jenny who loved her chocolate lab Sasha, or about 7 year old Cody who was getting his first bike for Christmas (randomly generated facts, but you get the point)...it was just crushing.  On the spur of the moment I texted my principal and told her I was going to start a charity drive for the Sandy Hook Memorial Fund.  I made a giant collection box and decorated it in green and white with a soaring eagle to represent the school's colors and mascot.  During lunch this week Builders Club will be collecting students' spare change.  None of this will do a damn thing to allay the families' grief, but I just feel like my school can--and should--do something.  I'm still absolutely chilled by the fact that so many families In Newtown, Connecticut are going to experience Christmas day beneath such a black cloud.   

Okay, much needed change of subject before I start shuddering with rage again.  On Friday night Tarius (a teacher/colleague) and I put on our school's Winter Dance.  We were nervous as hell about it because neither one of us had ever been responsible for an entire dance before, and there is a ton of work that goes into them--everything from advertising, creating/selling your tickets, getting all of your approvals turned in, buying/making decorations, planning for concessions, and so on.  The most stressful part for me was the decorating.  We had three periods to pull it off, which sounds like a lot, but the cafeteria proved to be a massive space when you're trying to fill it all in with a chosen theme.  Our theme was 'Fire and Ice', and we ended up with a wall of fire on one side of the cafeteria and ice on the other.  We also had columns of balloons everywhere--red/yellow/orange for fire, white and pale blue for ice; not to mention streamers, sparkly snowflakes, garland, piles of white "snow" (made from fluffy strips of cotton), white silky fabric draped in various places, and so on.  The best part of the fire side was a huge red arch with flames coming out of it.  The best part of the ice side were the giant snowflakes (they were the size of Saint Bernards) and all of the white Christmas lights.  We had four choreographed student performances that night, and we also crowned a Fire Queen and Ice King.  The dance turned out to be awesome.  Tarius and I had both been losing sleep over this dance for nearly two weeks, so we were on such a high when everything was over--we were thrilled that we had actually pulled it off!  After the clean-up (which lasted over an hour), we went to wine night at a colleagues house (Mr. A) to celebrate.  I am proud to say that this time around, I stayed away from the red wine.

Today I got annoyed and slammed a jar of lingonberries on the counter while emphasizing a point, and the jar ended up breaking.  It's weird, I haven't broken anything out of anger since my early twenties (I broke a bathroom mirror once with a hairbrush a long time ago).  But this jar did indeed break, and at first I didn't notice, until I was flinging my hands around emphatically and I saw red drops puddling all over the floor.  I realized the jar was broken and thought the red splatters were the lingonberries, but it turned out that I was flinging my own blood all over!  I looked at my finger and it was dripping with blood.  Even beneath water and with pressure it would not stop bleeding for a good twenty minutes.  It was a small cut but it went in deep (haha, serves me right).  Trin asked me later what happened to my finger, and I said "I was throwing a temper tantrum and decided to shatter a jar."  She thought this was really funny and said "Are you still mad?"  And I said "Yes, because I'm really craving lingonberries." 

Other things I want to talk about but will have to wait for another time include:  Our new(er) Great Dane pup, an upcoming visit with Matt and Alana (yay!), another finished painting, a current bathroom remodel, and...I think that's it. 

Oh, but real quick, I want to paint this picture.  I found this back when I was searching out ideas for 'Fire and Ice'.

And I love this song.  Rihanna's lyrics are happy, but somehow the song sounds sad.  In the video, I find the scenes with the horses incredibly sweet.

The Darker Side of Teaching

This morning as I crossed the parking lot to enter my school, I heard a woman's voice scream, "Get the f* out of my car!"  I turned around in time to see a female student--an eighth grader--stumble out, as if pushed.  The driver took off.  I ran up to the girl and asked her if she was okay.  She was holding the side of her head and crying.  She said she was fine.  I asked her what had happened, and she said her mom had yanked her hair, screamed at her, and pushed her out of the car. 

In moments like this, it's hard to stay calm.  Being a mom, I understand how easy it is to feel angry at your child--especially when he or she reaches those hormonal teenage years.  No parent is perfect, and we have all said things and done things that we are ashamed of.  But even in my worst moments, I have never screamed at my child.  Never.  I can be pretty cold when I'm upset, but the way this mother screamed at her daughter, and the words that came out of her mouth--it's just...mind-blowing.  Not to mention the physical assault on her daughter.  My God.  I just don't get it.

At any rate, I introduced myself to the girl, and we talked.  I asked her if this type of behavior happens often.  She said yes.  I asked her if she had reported it to the counseling department, and she said that she had once before, but she didn't know if they believed her.  So of course I reported this incident to admin. and the counseling department.  Later I filled out a mandated-report for CPS.  Thankfully, about an hour after the incident, the school received a phone call from a parent who had also witnessed this same incident taking place.  I felt relieved that there was someone else out there who could corroborate what I had witnessed.  Despite everything, it's not my goal to get the girl removed from her home.  I just want this incident to be investigated; I want the mother to get the help she needs, and I want this student to be safe.  CPS can decide how to make these things happen.

This incident gnawed at me all morning.  I hate it that some kids are growing up in a household where they are never given a chance to experience the warmth of a loving family.  And I know similar things are happening to students in my own classroom, but unlike today's parking lot issue, such incidences are conveniently tucked away behind closed doors.  Year-after-year I get the painfully shy student, or the student starving for attention, or the emotionally disturbed student...how many of these students are entering my classroom after enduring a morning of screaming--or worse?

On the other end of that, I feel so grateful that my own kids were born to ME.  I might not be Mom of the Year (wow is that an understatement), but my kids have zero doubt they are valued and loved. 

Christmas [Apocalypse] Wish List

Every year, both my family and Clint's family request that we write them Christmas lists.  Since there are ten people shopping from our lists, we always have to come up with a variety of stuff.  I sent mine out--along with the kids--last week.  Clint finally finished his last night. Okay, so check these out:

 Jodi's Christmas List 

1. Soft cuddly throw blanket
2. Hampton Tomachi Knife Set --multi-colored
3. Long-sleeved night shirts
4. Knitted poncho or knitted shawl
5. Cute work clothes, size 5 or size small
6. Stylish Boots, size 8, low heel, black or brown
7. Cute dresses--size small
8. Cameo necklaces (like the ones on my Pinterest)
9. Custom-made quill pen (also on my Pinterest)
10. Book Cover-Making program (do those exist?)
11. Pretty or unique wine glasses
12. Any home-decor from Kirklands
13. Neverending Story Kindle cover 

Nice and normal, right?  Yeah, now onto Clint's.....

 

Clint's Christmas List

1. Splatter targets
2. Exploding target powder
3. M48 Apocalypse Tactical Tomahawk
4. Bullets:  .223 rounds
5. Survival food
6. Other survival supplies
7. Parachord—550 rated
8. Sawback machete
9. Survival books
10. Scope/scope mount for Mosin Nagant
11. Range finder
12. Black leathermen's newsboy hat

Do you notice any disparities between the two?  Like, I don't know, the fact that my husband is INSANE? 

Grannie B is gonna have a blast shopping for him this year. 

To his credit, he did at least ask for a hat. 

Rambling on about Whatever

I already posted today, but I'm feeling really chatty and have no outlet for it right now.  I'm just going to ramble on about whatever.

This week was Red Ribbon Week, which translates to our school doing a series of themed dress-up days to celebrate.  It's fun, but I always feel like my wardrobe is being hijacked for a week.  By the time it's over, I'm feeling pretty eager to wear my normal work clothes again.  Monday was "Twins/Teams Day," where the students and staff are supposed to dress like each other, or wear their favorite sports team shirt.  I just wore my normal clothes and told my students that I didn't need to dress like a twin since I really am a twin.  Boring, I know.  But it was Monday.  No one wants to go all out on a Monday.  Tuesday was "Hawaiiin Day,"  so I wore a hula skirt and a cheap blue lay.  That last sentence didn't sound right.  It was probably the use of the words "cheap" and "lay" in the same sentence.  Wednesday (today) was Crazy Hair Day.  I wore bright green extensions in my hair.  They were pretty cool.  Tomorrow is "Smurf Day."  I guess we're supposed to wear a bunch of blue.  Friday is "Red Hot Day." where we wear a bunch of (you guessed it) red. 

Last night I met Becky for dinner at La Casita.  She had texted me, apologizing for the short notice but asking me if I wanted to meet after work for a quick bite to eat.  I have to admit, I felt a tiny bit nervous; only because the last time I met up with a friend for a spontaneous meal, it was so Alana could tell me she was moving.  But thankfully Becky didn't have any earth-shattering news; she just wanted to have dinner with a girlfriend.  It was really nice.  Becky's life is so overwhelming, so it always leaves me feeling touched when she takes the initiative to meet up with me.  I think reaching out might be hard for her, especially since her past friends have had a tendency to do a lot of "taking" without giving in return. 

Complete change of topic, but I have had a hell of a week dealing with animal control.  I mentioned that Cricket had puppies.  Well, our other dog, Calzaghe (pronounced Kal-zoggie--I know, it's a mouthful, but he came to us with that name) is the one who sired those pups.  Last week when we took his new puppies and Cricket to the vet, he escaped the yard.  This has never happened before.  He is a really good dog and never runs off.  But he had never been alone in the backyard before, and apparently he freaked out.  So animal control picked him up about a half a block away from our house while we were at the vet.  The problem?  They refuse to let us bail him out without neutering him first. This wouldn't be an issue except for the fact that he's a pure-bred, AKC registered Pembroke Welsh Corgi whose puppies are worth about $600 each. 

We showed animal control his AKC paperwork, but it didn't matter.  Not only are they making us pay $175 to bail him out of the pound, but they are also making us pay for his neutering.  Everything totaled comes to $285.  Almost $300!  We're essentially buying our dog back, but minus his assets.  I tried for a week to save my dog's balls (never thought I'd say that particular sentence) and even took the issue all the way to the City Manager, but it's a city ordinance and just can't be bent.  So at 8:30 this morning, Calzaghe was neutered.  I am so very very frustrated.  I do totally understand that rules need to be in place to avoid over-population of animals, but this whole thing just seems so harsh considering it was a first time offense.  And I think it should be illegal to neuter a papered pure-bred against the will of the owners (not to mention make them pay for the unwanted lopping),  That's like damaging personal property to the point of rendering it worthless.  Even if the property still has sentimental value (as is the case with a pet), it no longer has monetary value.  What gives the city the right to take that away?

Cajun Sunblock

I went to the lake today with my sister.  It was a gorgeous day: bright blue sky, beautiful pine trees, the whole works.  After getting settled on the beach and sunblocking the kids, Shan asked me if I would spray her down with some of my sunblock.  I asked, "Are you sure?  It's SPF 50," thinking that she might want to get a little bit of color on those albino legs of hers.  But she insisted that she didn't care about a tan, so I coated her with sunblock.  Meanwhile, I misted tanning oil all over myself (which only has an SPF of 4), because I'm more shallow and not health-conscience when it comes to things like that.  I just want the tan.

A few hours later, as we were getting ready to leave, I noticed that Shan's arms and legs were sunburned as all get-out.  She was absolutely fried.  I, on the other hand, was sportin' a nice golden tan without the slightest trace of a sunburn.  How the hell did that happen?  She was wearing SPF 50.  I was wearing SPF 4.  

So just a quick word of caution: If you're looking for a reliable sunscreen, you might want to stay away from Banana Boat's Ultramist Spray-On Lotion. When they say "SPF 50", what they really mean is "Sun Penetration Factor 50 times worse than you'd expect." Or in layman's terms, "Scorched Pretty F***ing bad" (the 'b' is dropped for posterity).

I think next time we'll just slather Shan's legs with good ole' saturated beef fat.  Or maybe spray her down with some non-stick canola oil.  Maybe THAT will work out better for her than Banana Boat's cajun-style "sunscreen".

Broken

I feel like I've been punched in the stomach.  I just found out that my friend's husband committed suicide.  She and I met through kickboxing two summers ago and bonded right away...probably because we were both going through the same torture together, and we both teach English. Their daughter is in the same karate class as Trinity, and her husband is--was--a bit of an artist who enjoyed making pottery, amongst other things.  He gave us these for Christmas:

It was a completely random gift; I don't think he had any clue that I was an avid hot-tea drinker when he gave these to us.  You can see from the stains that they have been well-used in the last six months, but now I feel strange just looking at them.  The man that created these mugs used those same hands to take his own life. 

I'm not going to try to make my friend's tragedy my own.  But my heart hurts for her right now, and I hurt for her daughter, who no longer has her dad.  I feel shocked and horrified that suicide has touched the lives of people I care about.  I hate this feeling.  I need to go hug someone.  And then curl up and take a nap.   
      

Easter and Some

Easter Sunday was windy and chilly.  It seems to me like the last five or six Easters in a row have been breezy and cold.  At any rate, it was still a fun day, despite the weather.  And at least this year there were no earthquakes, and I didn't have to wear a pirate patch on my eye (like last year's Easter debacle), so that alone rates this Easter better than last's.  Although I wound up losing the egg-rolling competition, so maybe they're about tied.

We started the morning going to church, where we watched a drama/musical called "Bow the Knee."  It was a beautiful, moving performance.  When we first arrived to church, a couple of Clint's karate students snuck behind him and wrapped their arms around his neck in one of their karate-holds (I don't really know the names of the moves).  Then one of the kids pretended to pull out an invisible knife and asked Clint, "Okay, what's your next move gonna be?" and the two continued to play around in such a manner.  I was chuckling at their rowdy behavior as we took our seats.  We wound up sitting behind more of Clint's rambunctious dojo friends.  One acquaintance, a man about our age (married with kids), turned around and was chit-chatting with Clint, when he leaned his entire arm on Clint's leg, and allowed his hand to rest on Clint's knee.  At one point of the conversation, the man said (in a mischievous way that reminded me of Drew Carey), "Hey, this doesn't make you uncomfortable, does it?"  Clint said with a perfectly straight face, "No, not at all."  I chimed in with, "We've only been at church for four minutes and have already been accosted with invisible weaponry, and now some guy is feeling up my husband, so needless to say, it's been an interesting morning."  The man responded with, "Yeah, church people weird me out too."  Let the record show that, at this point, his hand was still on Clint's knee.  I was crying with laughter...on the inside, of course, cuz we're in church.  The outer-laughter would happen later once the service was over and I was safely in the car. 

After church, we did the normal Easter stuff.  Clint's entire family came over for a BBQ lunch and Easter-egg hunt.  We did our hunt indoors this time, because of the crummy weather.  We also did our annual roll-off, which Clint's sister won.  For the life of us, no one could remember who the reigning champion was from last year.  I'm such a scatterbrain because I just now read last year's Easter entry about ten minutes ago, and discovered it was me.     

On an un-Easter-related note, my dad was attacked on Friday.  He was driving home (in broad daylight), when the driver behind him began honking and pointing to his car.  My dad thought something must be wrong with his car, so he pulled over to the side of the road.  He had just started to open his door to talk to the driver of the other vehicle, when suddenly the man punched him in the left cheek without any warning.  Two other guys appeared, and they beat him to the ground.  They quickly hurried back to their vehicle and drove away.  The cops appeared a short time later and took a report.  They originally thought that it might have been an attempted car-jacking, but that theory doesn't carry a lot of weight, given that the men did not try to get into my dad's car.  Most likely it was some kind of random, senseless, gang initiation, and my dad was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.  He is fine; all of his injuries are superficial (black eye, puffy cheek, scraped up arms), but his pride is deeply wounded, and he is emotionally shaken by the whole thing.  I, on the other hand, am absolutely pissed and pretty much want to run those guys over with my car.

The only other thing of consequence that happened this weekend was an issue with baby spiders.  We never have spiders in my house.  We get armies of ants every summer, but for some reason, never spiders.  That's why I was surprised when last night, I went to close the drapes in our master bedroom, and as I pulled them closed, dozens of little tiny spiders came pouring over the curtains.  It truly was an arachnophobic sight, if you're afraid of spiders.  Luckily spiders don't make my heart race in any way, so I just stared at the curtain for a minute or two, trying to decide my next move.  Then I walked out into the living room and told Clint, "There's a bunch of baby spiders crawling down our curtains."  He said, "Did you kill them?" I said, "No, I don't do that."  He said, "Okay...what do you want me to do about it?"  I said, "I'm not sure...maybe find the source?"  So he went in the room and said, "Damn, there is a bunch of spiders!"  He killed as many as he could, but now I'm thinking there's a nest of them somewhere in my room?  Do spiders have nests?  Or maybe they came in through the window sill.  I thought it would be hard to sleep last night, knowing that a bunch of refugee baby arachnids were possibly still scampering around my room, but I ended up sleeping like a baby last night, so I guess my sub-conscience wasn't too worried about it.  But still...blechhhh, right?

Small group is coming over tonight, so I better go get some food ready!

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Shooting and Indoor Caves

Today was the Superbowl!  Congrats to Green Bay for their exciting victory!  You know what my favorite part of Superbowl Sunday is?  Blowing off the game and doing something that's actually fun.  Like shooting stuff.  Okay, I just re-read that, and it sounds pretty messed up.  But the Superbowl is just so long.  My eyes start to glaze over staring at a television for that length of time.  So today we opted to go shooting in the mountains with Shan and Jeremy instead.  I finally was able to try out my new shotgun, and it was so fun!  It is light, comfortable, and easy to aim. 

I also shot Jeremy's M14 rifle (very top picture), which can be pretty thrilling because the scope allows you to hit nearly 100% of your targets.  It makes you feel like you have this amazing skill for precision-aim, when really you don't.  It's just the rifle making you look good.

After target practice, we went to the Stockade for a late lunch/early dinner.  They had the Superbowl going in the restaurant, so we were able to catch glimpses of it, although I was more interested in scarfing down my hot pastrami sandwich and chatting with my sis.  We later returned to Shan's house, where I learned something incredible.  They have a cave in their house!  And no, I am not being metaphorical.  They actually have a friggen' cave in their house.  I'm sure this is just a typical part of mountain homes; some sort of access area within the house, but coming from an area of bland, plain ranch-style homes, I was pretty awed by it.  In the mini-kitchen they recently cleared out, there is a small cabinet-type door at about chest-level.  Trinity kept pointing at this door and asking me, "Hey Mom, you wanna see the cave?"  After dismissively waving her off a few times, thinking it was just her being overly-imaginative about an everyday storage cabinet, I finally said, "Yeah, sure hon."  When she opened the door, there it was:  a cave!  With rocky mountain walls and everything.  The entrance is about the size of a large doggy door, but theoretically a full-size adult can wiggle their way into the cavern, at which point they can stand at full height and walk around.  The kids had a great time playing in it, until the men started yelling for them to get out  (you know, spider webs, dark creepy corners, etc.).  At one point, after examining the cavern from the outside with a flashlight, I collapsed on the bean bag and whined, "My house is so boring."  And of course Trin and Elijah have begun the tirade:  "How come I can't have a cave in MY room?  I want a cave too!"  Hey, I thought the fact that they had TVs in their rooms, a DVD player, a turtle, two rats, a walk-in closet, and their own bathroom was pretty cool.  But no; they want a cave. 

Smoking Toddler in Indonesia

I heard this on the news the other day and was at a loss for words. I mean, I realize that there are some dumb parents out there, but this just blows so far past the line of simple, common sense that even someone like ME, who's often deficient in the common sense department, has a hard time fathoming this level of ignorance and stupidity. The little Indonesian boy in the picture, Ardi, is two years old, and he smokes somewhere around two packs of cigarettes a day (click here for the full article). His dad gave him his first cigarette when he was 18 months old, and now he's hooked. Mom and Dad refuse to kick Ardi's habit, because he throws temper tantrums when he is denied a cigarette (um, really? You'd rather turn your kids' lungs black than hear him scream for a little while?).

There are so many problems with this story, I don't even know where to start. I cant even imagine why the Dad would ever in a million years give his baby a cigarette in the first place. The only theory I can come up with is that Dad thought it was funny to see his baby puffing on a cigarette, in the same way some people feel amused to see their dog lapping up a bottle of beer at a barbecue. Perhaps stupid, immature Dad never realized that this so-called funny display would actually lead to an addiction. But now that the toddler is hooked, why on earth do the parents keep supplying him the cigarettes? The government even offered to give the family a brand new car if they quit giving Ardi cigarettes, and they refused. Apparently having shiny new transportation isn't worth the family having to endure Ardi's temper tantrums when he is denied his next cigarette. I almost wonder if, in some sick twisted way, the family is enjoying the attention from the media. They didn't seem too shy about offering up a video proudly exploiting their toddler's smoking habit, and even now, the dad just doesn't seem overly concerned about his son's health.

At any rate, these parents are seriously disturbed, and it's a shame that Indonesia doesn't consider this child abuse. The whole thing is just sick.

Twitchy Butt Syndrome

Last night I was feeling really optimistic about getting a good night of sleep. I did all of the right things before bedtime: took a nice, warm bubble bath, drank a cup of chamomile tea, read a little bit of my book...you know, all of those little relaxation techniques that doctors and such recommend to help improve the quality of your sleep. So by the time I hit my pillow at 10:00, I was thinking, "This is it! This is going to be the night that I actually get eight hours!"

But at about 10:15, my right butt cheek began twitching. I don't know how to describe it, other than to say it felt just like a blepharospasm (eyelid twitch), but on my bootie. And it went on and on and ON, all night long.

So finally, at almost 2:00 a.m., I typed up some sub plans and logged in to our sub calling system to schedule an absence. When you log in, the system requires you to state the reason for your absence. I scrolled up and down, but couldn't find "because my twitching ass has kept me up all night" anywhere on their list, so I finally just checked the box next to "illness."

Oh well.

So Now I'm a Hyena

Yesterday I took a quick nap and had a dream that Clint and I had entered into a karate/kickboxing-type tournament somewhere far away. Before the competition began, there was this ancient guru woman who was supposed to read all of the competitors' "animal spirits" (like in Clan of the Cavebears). She began with the first competitor; a big, strong opponent. She declared to the audience that his animal spirit was a tiger. This was good news for him, because tigers were fierce competitors. But she warned him that he would have to be careful, because tigers could be impulsive and make quick, foolhardy decisions. Next, she read Clinton, and announced he was a horse. This was also good news, because even though horses were somewhat slower, they were very disciplined, steady, and obedient.

Next was my turn. She read me, but then I had to go to the bathroom, so I dashed off before she could tell me what animal spirit I was (stupid wimpy bladder). As I ran off though, I heard the crowd groan, and I heard the woman lamenting about what a shame this spirit was. Once in the restroom, all the stalls were occupied, save for one, which had a big rustic copper toilet with a sign that said "out of order." I remember feeling panicky because I was running late for the tournament, plus I knew that the old woman was probably upset that I had run out in the middle of her reading.

I finally gave up on the restroom, but ultimately refused to go back to the competition because of my embarrassment over being late. Instead, I returned to a restaurant-like booth where two men were sitting, watching the tournament from a small television set. I asked them what animal spirit had been assigned to the third competitor. They told me that the third competitor had run off in shame, because that person had discovered that they were a hyena. According to the men, this was the most disgraceful of all the spirits. I wasn't too thrilled about it, because I kept picturing those mangy, slobbery hyenas in The Lion King.

Okay, so I obviously have some unresolved security issues with kickboxing, but seriously...what the hell? Animal spirits? Where did that come from? What am I, a Shaman? And rustic copper toilets?

For the record, I did look up hyena animal spirits, and they're not all that bad. Here is the description:

People with a Hyena totem have the ability to discern, to be clearer on what to do, whom to trust, what to believe, etc. They trust “what smells right” and what doesn’t. Communication is very important to Hyena people but they need to be careful with their words. (http://www.linsdomain.com/totems/pages/hyena.htm).

See? I don't know what that dream audience was groaning about. What a bunch of drama-queens.

By the way, when I woke up from my nap, I still had to go to the bathroom.

This Mom's Smoking the Big One

Earlier this week, my students asked me if my own kids still believe in Santa.  I told them in a playful tone,

"Oh yeah, my kids know that the second that they stop believing in Santa, they no longer get gifts.  However, I will say that when it comes to the big ticket items, we put 'Mom and Dad' on the tag.  Cuz let's face it, there's no way I'm going to let the big guy in the red suit take the credit for Nintendo DSes and laptops." 

The kids all had a good laugh, and we moved on.

Then this afternoon, I received a phone call after school from my vice principal.  He regretfully informed me that a parent had called, complaining to him and feeling incredibly upset because I had told her son that Santa wasn't real. 

Um...huh??  I have a couple of problems with this.  First of all, it's not like I walked into the classroom and said "Okay, everyone take out your notebooks and number your papers one through ten.  And, oh yeah, Santa's not real."  I'm not much in the way of shattering students' hopes and dreams--I mean, really, there's generally only three or four days out of the month that I actually derive some kind of sadistic pleasure out of trampling spirits and squelching dreams, and this was not one of those days. 

But secondly, and most importantly, I teach seventh grade!  Twelve and thirteen year olds!  So even if I did perform said atrocities above, who cares?!  Why on earth is your almost-teen son still believing in Santa?  Is my next principal phone call going to be because I take his binkie away in class and make him stand to use the potty?

Seriously.

Young Eyes

You never quite realize that you're becoming a "regular" somewhere until you start meeting other so-called regulars.

Every Sunday I go to Burger King to grade papers.  It's not like I'm crazy for Burger King's food (although I will admit that a juicy whopper hits the spot from time to time), I choose Burger King simply because it is the only place on my side of the bridge that has a play area.  A play area is an absolute must.  Clint sleeps all day on Sunday until 3:00, and I need a way to get my work done while simultaneously keeping the kids entertained.  A play area provides just such an environment.

Every Sunday I sit in the same booth.  It's located outside of the play area, so I don't hear all of the high-pitched squealy noisiness, but it faces directly into the play area so I can monitor the kids as I work.  Some time ago I began to notice that these two older men tend to sit in the booth right in front of me.  They look to be in their seventies or eighties.  Sometimes they arrive before I do, and sometimes they arrive right after.

Last week, I was inputting grades into my laptop, a very common practice for me, when one of these ever-so-familiar senior citizens began to complain about my using my laptop.  He stated that the booth area I was sitting in was way too dark for reading (which, hello, Burger King does have this thing I like to call "light" and "electricity"), and questioned (quite rhetorically) how I could stare at a screen like that without straining my eyes.  At first I thought that he was just expressing concern and trying to be polite, but then he continued to go on and on, drilling me about how I was hurting my eyes.  He even got out of his seat and walked behind my booth to analyze the screen from my angle (awkward!), and came to the conclusion that I was crazy for working on my laptop in the dark.  Again, it's not like I'm trying to input grades in a pitch black cavern in the Alaskan wilderness at midnight--we're talking Burger King here, at noon, in broad daylight.  It was so strange--all I could think was "Lay off you crotchety old bastard!" 

At one point, the other old man told Mr. Obsessed-With-Eyeballs to leave me alone.  He said that, like much of the youth of America, I had those "young eyes" that could stare at screens for hours, unphased.  I didn't want to interrupt him by telling him that I actually have the vision of an old lady, because the guy was defending me.  So finally Mr. OWE got off my case and started asking me some more normal questions, like what is it that I do for a living (he thought I was a bookkeeper...does that profession even exist anymore?), and how long have I lived in the desert.  We started conversing, and it turns out that other than a decade-long reprieve to pursue an education, Mr. Owe has lived in the desert since the late forties.  He told me some really interesting stories about what the High Desert was like way back then.  Apparently there were only somewhere around 400-and-some residents living in all of the desert towns combined.  He remembers when Main St. didn't have a bridge, so residents actually crossed right over the tracks.  There also used to be a train station here in 'Tumbleweed'.  All in all, it was a really interesting conversation.

Today I didn't have any grading to do, but at lunch time I took the kids to Burger King anyway, just because it has become our Sunday tradition.  I headed toward my normal booth, and of course Mr. Owe and his friend were there, in their normal booth.  We greeted each other, and then the kids and I proceeded to eat our lunch.  After we finished lunch, the kids ran into the play area and I pulled out a book to read.  Mr. Owe immediately began complaining about my reading the small print of the novel in the "dark."  This time I was just amused by the whole thing, and brushed him off.

Later on, a little old lady joined the men.  Not realizing that I was eavesdropping, she asked Mr. Owe who I was, because she had seen us talking.  Mr. Owe replied "That's Young Eyes.  She's a teacher.  She comes here on Sundays to do her work."

I swear these crazy old kooks are growing on me.

Life is Short. Have an Affair.

This is the logo of an up-and-rising website that is putting a new twist on so-called "dating services." Clint and I saw an interesting commercial on television for a company called "Ashley Madison Agency," and he got curious as to what exactly this agency was. So we looked it up online, and it turns out that this agency is an online dating service for married people. According to the company's description, Ashley Madison is "the world's #1 married dating service specifically for ATTACHED men and women who are looking to have an extra-marital affair." It is basically a "match.com" designed specifically for those who are looking to cheat on their spouse. It cost $250 to sign up for Ashley Madison's services, but they do guarantee that you will have a satisfying extra-marital affair within three months or your money back. And the website currently has over four million members. Staggering.

That being said, what...the...hell? I guess I'm completely naive, because I had no idea that such blatantly immoral sites actually existed. Can we possibly come up with any more creative ways to desanctify marriage? But it's honestly not surprising...just look at the time we're living in. The liberals "gray area" has become like the Blob, oozing into every crevice of our value systems, slowly spreading and growing with each ounce of morality it gobbles up.

Nobel Peace Prize

I intended to mention this days ago, but as you know, Obama won the Nobel Peace Prize. I have nothing fresh or new to add to the commentary concerning this that I’m sure is already out there, but I just have to say a few words any way. In the past, the Nobel Peace prize was awarded to people who actually did something concrete toward attaining world peace. I mean, even when Al Gore won the prize for his efforts in global warming, at least that was something somewhat tangible. Yet the Nobel is being given to Obama for something that he is aspiring to do, but hasn’t actually done. So he is promoting world peace—tell me what beauty pageant queen hasn’t advocated for the same thing? What’s worse is that Obama was elected for the Nobel only two weeks after he was sworn into office. At that point of his presidency, the only thing Obama had accomplished was to talk a good talk.

Basically a bunch of European elitist are the ones who decided to give Obama the Nobel, and why wouldn’t they? They love the new watered-down, “neutered” America that Obama is promoting. Also, by giving him the Nobel, it would now be oxymoronic for Obama to send those 40,000 troops to Afghanistan, although I do agree with O’Riley that winning the Nobel will probably not sway Obama’s decision one way or another regarding the Afghanistan issue. He already has the award now…it’s not like the Nobel Peace Prize committee is going to take it back if Obama decides not to play nice. But regardless, it seems to me that awarding Obama with the Nobel peace prize has a lot less to do with actual merit and a lot more to do with the clever strategizing and promotion of a weaker, more diluted America by certain stakeholders.

The one thing I will say to Obama’s credit, however, is that he never asked for this award, and he was extremely humble in his acceptance of it. Us Obama antipathizers (yes, I made that word up—can’t help it if there are holes in the English language) almost wish he had been more arrogant in accepting the Nobel, because it would have made it so much easier for us to target our criticism and contempt over this decision at Obama himself. But Obama actually showed a lot of class and what seemed to be genuine surprise in his acceptance of the award, forcing us to target our criticism toward the unknown entities around the globe who made this idiotic decision instead. Good job there, Obama.