Meet Oreo....

She has wanted a guinea pig for the longest time.

"No." I'd answer. "Not until you can keep your room cleaner. I'm not having a pet in your room that is going to add to what it smells like. No."

"Pleeeeeeeeeease."

"No amount of begging will assist you to your desired end. Show me you can keep a clean room, and the pig pig pig is yours."

(I totally stole pig pig pig from Shelleyness. I think it's a riot. So I call Kinger dog dog dog sometimes...)

So Doug goes to take some books to Portsmouth to the bookseller to turn into cash for our church (books that have been donated, and no one has had the time to sort through them or make heads or tails or money out of them), and he offers to take Jessica with.

While they were gone I did my last entry, played with Geoff, did laundry. Nancy (of the bible study hook up fame) came over for a quick visit to give me the next study guide in case I'm free on Thursday. She had her son with her. We were about to have tea.

Then Doug and Jessie came home.

With a box.

A little black and white guinea pig in a box. A baby pig pig, in a box.

Jessica named him Oreo, and he cried these cute little scared cries when we took him out of the box. Nancy's son and Geoff were excited -- Nancy's boy (I'll call him T) showed Jessica how to pick the pig pig up and hold him, and Oreo tried to burrow into the couch to hide. We had Kinger out in his pen while Oreo got used to the scene here and Doug set up the really large aquarium our tennant had given to us last year that we were saving for when the house was all set up and nice. Looks like it'll be a guinea pig house instead of a fish habitat. Kind of a shame, but hey. He's got a nice big place to live.

Kinger was enthralled with the piggie, and you should have seen that tail wag and seen the energy he had bouncing around the room just trying to look at the thing.

I can't believe he did this. I told Jessica that NONE of her friends can come to visit and see the piggie until her room is spotless. So that should motivate her.

Hopefully.

So we now have a new family member. Here are some pictures:

Doug cuddles Oreo and gives us a great big smile, like a new daddy almost!

Awwww, Jessie and her piggie. He's got the tiniest little spot of brown on the right side of his head but otherwise he's totally Holstein.

I can't stand how cute they are sometimes.
Especially her:

Pig tucks into Doug's inner elbow crook and tries to hide.

Kinger and Oreo getting to know each other. I'm ready to bolt, just in case...

Me and the baby. He's rather cute.

Oreo is kind of washed out in this shot, but Kinger looks really awesome with his eyes all narrowed and that tongue hanging out. He was too excited... panted for hours.

I hold up Simba! I mean, Oreo!
The circle of life continues!

Sorry, that was stupid. So there you go. Never a friggin' dull moment here at the Way Out Inn. A new family member comes to live here. If Geoff could only get his way and we'd get a cat, it'd be a veritable menagerie. But we had a cat a long time ago, sniff, and sadly never will again. Geoff wants one so badly... he talks about how cute cats are and how soft, and he pretends he is a kitten... not going to happen, not as easily as his sister got a guinea pig.

To continue the theme of "never a dull moment," here's what happened after we got settled down from all the pig pig pig excitement. Aaron is already laughing, because he knows the story.

We were eating dinner, and I was on the phone with Aaron. Geoff had complained about a half hour earlier that his stomach hurt and he had to throw up. He'd eaten quite a few Reeses Peanut Butter Eggs, and I thought maybe his stomach hurt because of his candy abuse. He sat down to eat in the living room and threw up all over the coffeetable.

"Gotta go Aaron, Geoff just puked!" Click, I hang up the phone and grab the boy to get him to the bathroom.

Then, he turned and threw up all over Kinger.

All,

Over,

Kinger.

Kinger, in true and predictable doggie form, then tried to run into one of the bedrooms to rub his head on a bed or carpet.

I grabbed Kinger, Doug grabbed Geoff.

While Geoff showered, Doug brought Kinger outside so I could clean up the living room.

Kinger then got a bath, and didn't enjoy it at all. While Doug was bathing him, he tried to jump out of the tub, causing the shower curtain rod to become dislodged, and fall down on Doug.

Kinger ran all over what physical space he could in the 8x8 foot bathroom we have. It was a nightmare, and I was trying really hard at that point not to laugh.

Doug was yelling for help but had locked the door and couldn't open it. Eventually he got the door open and the dog came running out... I grabbed him to dry him and he shook all over the kitchen and living room soaking the entire area...

I used three towels to dry the stupid beast, four others to dry our floors.

While I'm drying the floors, Aaron calls back. Jessie answers and informs him that Geoff's okay but that Kinger got barfed on and was getting a bath and I was drying the floors from his shaking. She hands me the phone, and all I can hear is Aaron laughing his royal ASS off at me. So I start laughing, "Don't you laugh at me, shut up!" and we laughed and laughed...

Doug didn't laugh so much. He didn't want to talk to Aaron when I offered the phone to him because he knew Aaron would just laugh him to death. So we'll laugh at Doug next weekend when A&M come to visit.

It was kind of funny. I'm smiling just writing this. My life is a fucking nightmare sometimes... but I have to laugh. I have to. The scene was unreal. Not only was all this going on, but Jessica sat on the couch and continued to eat, and then Geoff ran around naked because his underwear and Tshirt were inside out and he needed help but no one could help him at that immediate moment.

Welcome to our house, piggie piggie.

Doug implied this was all my fault for letting Geoff eat too many Peanut Butter Eggs... I saw him eat three, I don't know if he actually ate more.

Aaron told me he thinks it's Doug's fault for bringing a new pet into the equation and knocking our family alignment out of whack. Geoff and Kinger both said "A new addition, eh? Well, let's see if it can out do THIS!!!!" Puke, Puke, Bath Shake.

Pig can't compete, so Kinger and Geoff reign supreme in attention hogging and energy sucking.

Well I'm going to hit the hay. I've had enough for one friggin' night. Just wanted you to meet our new friend and witness the end of our weekend.

Come meet the pig any time you want. Don't bring chocolate.

"Have you ever seen a black person?"

This is a kind of church filled entry... Feel free to skip it, except you will mis a rich opportunity to laugh at me in the first part of this entry.

Today in church, we had another guest rector. A South African who is assistant pastor in a northern suburb of Boston. He brought his two grandsons, who were immediately embraced and well liked by all the kids. They were in fifth and third grade. Very fun morning.

When the pastor did the children's sermon, he invited up all the kids to sit by his feet. His back was to me, and I could have sworn on a stack of any print publication in that building at that time that he asked spryly and gingerly "Have you ever seen a black person before?" as the opening question to his remarks.

!!!!!

What! Did I just hear that? No, I didn't. I couldn't have. One of the kids said "Yes, I saw one on the street once."

Oh please. Tell me I'm not hearing this. The rector then asked, "What do black people do all day?"

"They beg for money sometimes with a cup," answered one child.

Oh my Lord. No.

"They walk with a cane and sometimes have a guide dog."

???

Okay, now I know I didn't hear black person. It was BLIND person.

Oh my God. I'm such an idiot. I was so relieved that the line of questioning wasn't exposing how culturally insensitive our congregation is, but instead exposed the fact that I am culturally biased, had a certain anticipation for what was going to come out of his mouth, and I need a friggin' hearing aid. Now. All this combined with his accent caused me to make a big mental hiccup.

I'm a jackass.

---

It was a very good service. The pastor was very pleased to hear of our friendship with Jen and Alan in Durban, RSA, and he was an enthusiastic pastor with a kind heart. Overall, the best substitute pastor we've had.

His time spent at communion was slow and serious, very caring and humble. Our last pastor rifled through communion like it was a race, the long prayer at the beginning "In the night in which he was betrayed he took the cup saying..." was a jumble of words that no one could follow. Combined with a heavy Australian accent, if you weren't reading along, you may as well just file your nails and not bother.

This pastor had an equally thick accent, as evidenced by my mishap in hearing above, but he spoke with a slow gait, and knelt down and did all sorts of things that made you just want to watch as he went through the process. He holds the act of celebrating communion very seriously... It was lovely. I am glad he was with us.

The organ concert last night was very well attended. Packed house, with childcare next door in the church hall so parents could enjoy the service. The organist and his wife were the stars... and let me tell you, that woman can sing. Amazing. High C on Bach's "Alleluia" at the end. She cracked me up though. She came out when it was time to do her first solo in this gorgeous purple velvet dress (which she purchased for 20 bucks at the local salvage/seconds store "Building 19") and had on shiny white satin gloves that went all the way up her arms, and this huge black velvet hat.

The hat alone made me almost lose it. I'm sitting RIGHT next to her and I'm smirking hard the whole time because the smirk could at any point turn into an absolute laugh.

But, she blew me away with her solo, and she was just gracious and amazing.

I got home at 10pm. Exhausted. Crashed. Woke up at 4am to an amazing rainstorm with crashing wind and howling bansidhe like voices whipping through the hemlocks in the back yard. I got up and went to the bathroom, woke Geoff up so he could also go to the bathroom (I try to do that once a night, usually way before 4am, just so he doesn't have an accident)... and then I lounged in bed looking out my window at the branches whipping at the streetlights and sky. I'm really tired from lack of sleep, but have a lot to do. I have to finish the website I started last weekend, and the one I'm doing for free... I'm amazed that neither person has called yelling at me yet.

We took all the books from the church basement and Doug is taking them to a bookstore where he does business in trade to get them cashed in, then we'll put that in next week's collection. Our coffeepot pooped out royally this morning, so I see a trip to WalMart on our agenda this afternoon.

I got email from our friend Smitty today announcing the demise of his cat Ted, who was 17. So I thought I'd give special notice here .... Ted was a good cat. I met him a few times. Orange tabby. God rest ye, merry tabby... godspeed.

Sniff.

Yesterday morning Doug purchased my plane ticket for my return trip from Florida. Normally we would use Manchester Airport and fly Southwest, but, the least expensive fare we could get for either that Monday or Tuesday (March 25 or 26) was 168 bucks. One way. Doug did some digging and found AirTran had an 80 dollar ticket on Tuesday at noon, getting me into Logan. So he'll have to fight traffic to come down and get me for that day... we hate Logan and patently refuse to go there, but for 50% less the hassle can be tolerated. Perhaps we'll go out to dinner right after.

So My Sister better not change her mind about leaving (shaking my fist at her and glowering, mmmmmm!) I ain't letting her alter the plan.

Florida, HO!

In a final note, the other day Tess wrote an entry about how a co-worker of hers gave her snide comments about wearing crosses when she "doesn't believe." She had to defend herself and her beliefs, and thought it was kind of bullshit to have to do so. I thought the entry was very moving, and felt the need to drive up there (to Alaska!) to set Tess' homeslice coworker straight on a few issues.

I love Tess, I've gotten to know her pretty well through email and her open and honest entries. She's not a card carrying member of a local church. She believes in God, but has reservations about organized religion. She lives with her boyfriend and takes a lot of shit from family because she's not married... she plays the role of stepmom to her manfriend's young son, and does a good job of it.

She works hard every day putting up with all kinds of bureaucratic crap from a company that she doesn't necessarily like anymore.

So this coworker of hers decides to pull a holier than thou nose crinkle at her for wearing crosses. Called her a hypocrite.

Uh, way to witness, stupid lady.

See, instead of giving Tess a load of crap about what a hypocrite she thought she was for wearing crosses, it could have been an opportunity for her to ASK what Tess' beliefs are and LEARN something from her about what her thoughts and feelings are. Perhaps SHARE the gospel and her own experience in a kind hearted and open way.

She's comfortable being agnostic. Agnostic and Atheist are NOT the same thing. Why can't people figure that out?

Laying some sort of "isn't it ironic that you wear crosses..." thing on Tess isn't the truly righteous thing to do. Live and let live baby. If someone digs the look and concept of a symbol, let them. Perhaps they'll some day love the symbol for the same reason you do. Why not take the opportunity to talk instead of guilt.

Get off the high horse folks and just be nice. Fer chrissake. I'm going to get off on a rant here.

I have a Celtic cross that Doug bought me for Christmas a few years ago. I don't wear a lot of jewelry, but I love to wear this. I especially love to wear it in church in my choir robe.

In some schools of thought it is technically a "Pagan" cross. The early church in Ireland tried to incorporate some of the earth religions into the stylings of the cross to make people more comfortable as they at the same time made strides to squash their culture and their pagan beliefs.

The three rings in the center don't symbolize the Father, Son and Holy Spirit the way some people think they do. They symbolize the goddess and earth and sky. The four branches of the cross are for the north, south, east and west. The traditions of the native Celts eventually faded and came to mean something different to people as time went by. In recent years, many people have researched the roots of the cross in Ireland, and discovered the meanings behind the unique styling of the symbol.

Many evangelicals today find these definitions of Celtic stylings offensive. I say screw. I think the Celtic cross is ornate, lovely, and a piece of my heritage... my earliest family were probably pagans on the emerald isle way back in the when, way back before William of Hastings, Hadrian, St. Patrick and others. It is a blend of the people who brought me to this point, and the current beliefs that I hold dear.

So I love to wear this cross. It's symbolism doesn't make me a pagan. It just makes me a modern person willing to recognize and love my history. I've had this discussion with evangelicals in the past, and get that wrinkled nose kind of thing from them. So Tess, suffice to say that even "inside the fold" there are those who feel the need to belittle others rather than learn a thing or two.

I hope this entry hasn't sucked too badly for you.

It's the Saint Patrick's day parade in a lot of towns around the area... most towns can't compete with the attention brought to the big city parades. As a woman descended from the ancient Celts, I'm not necessarily participating. I have a boy to watch and a coffeemaker to buy. And playdough to clean out of the crevasses in my cross (I just noticed, while contemplating it, there is yellow playdough encrusted into some of the serpentine design). I have no idea what my schedule is for next week yet, except that Wednesday I'm going to take a day free to take the kids to the doctor and do some other errands. So this is it for me on my weekend.

More Substitute Teaching Stories

3:50pm

I thought I was going to be the remedial reading teacher today.

Surprise. They switched me.

I found out from someone on staff that they do this all the time to subs ... without thinking a thing. I was all prepared to have fun with reading. Instead -- I am a sixth grade science teacher.

Mother of God.

You've gotta be kidding. Science? I tell the witch, I mean, secretary that I don't do science classes and she says "He leaves instructions. You just have to be in the room."

That's not good enough. I'm your social studies, english, writing, reading kinda gal. I'm not your math or science. NO.

I told her in future not to put me in a science, gym or math class, thanks.

She thought I was being bitchy. I guess I was. But kids smell fear and lack of knowledge. The minute someone asks me what the pythagorean theorum is, I'm fucked. They will be like wolves on a calf. A wounded calf who has broken her leg struggling out of a bear trap. No thanks. Not for seventy five bucks a day.

The first two classes were a study hall and a reading class. They both went swimmingly and I liked the kids a lot.

I then had four science classes. The kids in these classes are working on group projects. They all had folders, and the instructions I had were that they weren't allowed out to the library because the teacher had all the books sent to the class room. So the kids were ripshit that I wouldn't let them out.

Tough noogies. "But Mr. XXXXX lets us go to the library all the time."

"Well, he left instruction saying that you were to stay here. Sorry."

"But we're allowed to --"

"No. Sit. Thanks."

In the first class, the printer and the scanner broke on one of the computers (the one belonging to the teacher). After spending about a half hour during my break trying to fix the scanner, I gave up and decided no one in the next three classes needed to scan anything, they just needed to make a note of what picture they wanted, and deal with Mr. Teacher Man when he got back.

Class two accepted that. Class three was bad right off the bat before I even informed them that they couldn't scan. It was downhill from there.

"He knows how to fix it," said one kid pointing to another. They really wanted to scan things.

"I'm sure he does, Sxxxx, but I'm experienced with computers and scanners and there's something seriously wrong with it. I just said that I spent a lot of time trying to fix it, and it isn't worth it --"

"He fixes it all the time. He can do it."

"There is limited time and this is a big class, I don't want to waste precious computer time with troubleshoo-"

"But he can fix it. I know he can."

"Third time I'm having to say this. No. No, no he can't. He's not going to take the time when the PC is needed for research. No. Thanks for your help. But no."

"But he can fix it."

I didn't tell him to shut the fuck up but I was one haresbredth away from doing so. Little shit. He then proceeded to be a complete pain in the ass for the entire class period. A complete and total fuck. Sorry for the language, but I think my size ten shoe would have looked fabulous upside his smartmouthed asshole head. He kicked chairs when he wanted to get someone's attention and they chose to ignore him. He fought with another kid over scrap paper, of which there was an ample supply. He bothered other groups. He harassed kids who were working.

Here's what I wrote to the teacher:

Dear Mr. XXXX, For the most part, the students were good. But your R-3 class was right straight off the bus from hell, specifically XXX and XXX. A few of the kids in that class were okay, but on the whole, 90 percent of them I never want to see again as long as i live."

I hope he rips the living shit out of those little bastards on monday. mwa ha ha ha! Fuck with me when i'm your sub, you best watch out! This'll learn you. My car is gonna be SO keyed in the parking lot next week if they find out it's mine.

---

By the way, I thought this was an interesting article from the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. They seem shocked that schools have to hire non-certified people to sub. Like me. To be honest, half the teachers I've known in my life don't want to teach at all in the first place.

My friend Wayne said at his school the subs are treated like absolute crap. It is the thankless job that no one except Peggy Hill wants. I'm not Peggy Hill, and I'm just going to do this for a while. I do not plan on making this a career. Nah. No thanks. Even when I hear from a kid "Oh, I heard you subbed the other day and you were cool..." I just don't want to do it forever. Screw'em.

Jessica got her report card today. After the day I had I was hoping for a great report and it was. She came up in things that I wanted her to, and improved in stuff I didn't think she would. She maintained others that she needed to maintain. Her teacher's comments were great and I was pleased.

She wants pizza as a reward. I'll give her a million pizzas based on the report card... she deserves it, and I'm so happy to read what she had sent back after dealing with the kids I had today.

One thing I noticed about sixth graders is -- they smell. They reek. No lie. Half the kids I had today possessed nasty ass body odor. They appear clean, but they are not. I got Jessica deodorant a few months back because between showers she just ain't fresh. And I think that some of the parents of my sixth graders need to do the same. Whew! Damn. Stink-o-rama! Not as bad as farting kid, but bad enough to make me wrinkle my nose.

Alright. My kids are raiding the cabinets. Doug should be home momentarily. I want to be ready to assail him with pleas for beer and pizza once he gets in the door, before he gets his shoes off and his dorm pants on. Then I'm the one who will end up going out to get food. And I sure don't want to. I may or may not get to write over the weekend. We shall see.

Catering; Bach's Alto Daughter

I made more hummos. I made chicken and artichoke skewers. I made pita points for dipping in the hummos. I made bacon scallops for hours d'ourves.

Now, one of my favorite things in the world when I go to a catered event is the blessed bacon scallop. You know, a gorgeous scallop wrapped in a nice slice of bacon... cooked just right, seasoned just right. Pop it in your mouth, savor it. A joy. A burst of happiness.

Before I met Doug I refused to eat any seafood. I'd been brainwashed by my mom to hate it. She grew up on Cape Cod and hates seafood. So in turn, she made us hate it. It wasn't until I actually tried some things that I began to like it. And scallops are one of my favorites. As long as they are fully cooked, and don't have sand in them. Meh!

I got to make bacon scallops, and let me tell you, they are a bitch and a half to make. They are gross to make, of course, because bacon is fatty when it is par cooked and you have to wrap the poor little scallop in a piece of bacon that doesn't lay straight because it got shrivelly on one side and had more fat over here, and the toothpick won't go in and goddamnstupidpieceofshitthingfellapart AGAIN!!!!

So the next time you are at an event, and these are offered, think of the pain in the ass it is to wrap those slippery little suckers up, and say a quick thank you for your catering prep person.

Catering man made us lunch, which is one of the big perks of working for him, I tell you what. He does a killer sandwich. He grilled us up chicken strips, put them on gorgeous bread, honey mustard and mayo, fresh onion, lettuce and tomato... I could have eaten ten sandwiches. Good thing he only made me one.

I also got to grill red peppers on the gas stovetop by placing them on the grate and rotating them until the entire pepper surfaces were blackened. It was wild. I've never done anything like that before. Hot damn!

Catering man rocks. But my back is killing me ten ways from Sunday. I have never been in good shape, even when I was thinner, but now that I'm old and grey and fatter than I've ever been, the old back muscles are having a hard time supporting the collective fatness of my being. Damn. I got into the car when I went to leave and lifted my left leg into the car.

Lifted it, damnit!

So I'm resolved to improve the way the body feels. Catering man told me he started running a week or so ago, every other day, one mile. He's in good shape, he certainly isn't fat or anything... but he wants to run in the Falmouth Road Race this summer and has to be in tip top shape to do so.

So he is starting slowly... and will build himself up. I am not going to start running, but I certainly am going to start to improve my lower back and lower abdomen, so I can stand for quite a while. My legs are getting stronger from standing and don't hurt at all today. I took a huge hot shower when I got home, aiming the heat right at my lower back. I took a few ibuprofen. I will maybe have a drink with dinner. That should relieve a lot of the stiffness and discomfort. That and a great night's sleep.

The perils of being a fat ass who sat at a computer for five straight years or more, and did nothing to counter act the atrophy of the body...

and, even though I took the shower, my hands still smell like bacon. MEH!

At our church on Saturday night we're having a Lenten Organ concert. I know. It sounds thrilling. I'm in choir, so I have to be there... but the best thing is that I love our organist. His name is Chuck, and he's got a really super sense of humor and is so talented and wonderful. He is really proud of his organ (he likes the double entendre of "organ" and uses it as often as he can, tongue in cheekly) and recently took a local cable TV show crew through the back of the instrument to show them all the history in there. It is over 125 years old, and until the 50s was hand bellowed pumped. Then the put and electric blower in there.

He kept saying things like "this guy came in here and jacked the organ..." he must have said "jacked the organ" ten times, meaning fixed it... not... stroked it. And that cracked me up to no end... his snide little smirk, his heavy thick Eastern Massachusetts accent. What a riot.

So I watched the cable TV broadcast of the history of his organ (bwa ha) and had this incredible feeling of admiration and appreciation flood over me, and felt like crying. Rock on chuck. Keep slammin' your organ!

The music he's chosen for the service is heavy, heavy, heavy stuff for Lent. Super duper inner reflection, sorrowful stuff. We're doing a Bach piece, and I'm the only alto who is able to be there. So he carefully went through the alto line for me three or four times for this one song.

"You know, Bach had an alto daughter," he tells me.

"Yeah," I retort, "he must have hated her."

"Why do you say that?" asked the choir director.

"Look at this stupid alto line! He must have hated her so much to write alto lines like this... torture and death."

Chuck laughed.

I have a feeling I'm screwed. I can't actually read music well. I'm a super singer, when I know the part by heart. So Chuck will sometimes play the alto line very strongly for me, and lead me... and that makes me feel like he cares. I appreciate that so much from him. I think he likes me more than Bach liked his daughter.

So that's my update kids. I'm wiped. I am subbing tomorrow, and sure hope I'm not limping from class to class. God, that'll make me look like an addled freak. I have to go make supper, and get my family situated. I had more to write, but meh. Meh meh meh. I'm too tired.

Whine, bitch, moan, complain. Who needs me. Not you!

More tomorrow. I'm sure there will be farting. Burping. Spitballs. Death.

Middle school is not as much fun as Elementary school

It's not even 9am and I already know I never want to be a middle school teacher.

Well, perhaps it is different when you are an actual teacher, but subbing bites the big one. Put me back in the elementary school, please.

I was asked to sub for the technology teacher in a local middle school, grades 5-9. Cool, thought I, technology teacher is what I'd like to be. It'll be fun. So I accepted.

Little did I know but they have a sub police a study hall. The teacher gave me these stupid worksheets that weren't even like a fun wordsearch or anything. They had to do math to come up with letters, sort of like Ralphie decoding Little Orphan Annie's secret message "Be Sure To Drink Your Ovaltine" in "A Christmas Story."

I felt guilty just giving it to them.

The study hall is supposed to be quiet, but of course the kids don't know they are supposed to be in study hall, so they don't bring anything with them to study... and, I'm a sub so they don't give a shit... so they're noisy. For the most part it is boys who are noisy. The girls kept rather quiet until the last 5 minutes or so.

I got royally ripped off.

Worksheets.

Puh-lease. Who wants to do a stupid math worksheet or their homework or study anything at 7:45 in the frigging morning.

What a waste of time.

One of the boys in my first class is an African national, and he was initially really nice and respectful. Then he started in with "Osama is my father. I am fighting to save him. I will kill Americans." The other boys thought it was funny.

I told him essentially that no matter who his dad is that I respect him and expect him to be nice, quiet, and respectful to me. I told them that I felt bad having to police a study hall, that I was fully expecting to actually teach a frigging computer class.

I said "This stinks for me as bad as it stinks for you so I apologize. But if you can just sit down, do some homework, talk quietly so others can do their homework, this will go bye quickly."

Then one big fat kid, they call him Buddha of all things, farted.

Of course he had to.

It is inevitable that 7th graders fart. A lot. When someone called out "Who did that? Who farted?" I said "I can assure you gentlemen, it was not I." "Buddha" then confessed to dealing the mighty whiff. This kid set off about 4 incredible stinkbombs in his BVDs that prompted me to ask him if he needed to go to the health center for medical attention, or, to the bathroom to check the condition of his shorts.

Well, that cracked those kids up to no end.

The African kid jumped up screaming and ran to the window to open it. It was pretty rancid... and I thanked him for liberating us from the stench and saving us all from becoming nauseous and dizzy. He said "I only was thinking of myself, I don't care about any of you. Remember, I am Osama's son and don't care. I only wanted to save my life!"

Whatever, shithead.

Regardless, he did save us all.

Now I have two free periods. Which is kind of cool. This school is screwed up beyond belief. They run on a six day cycle, but remember, there are only five days in a week. So today is "Day Two" on the schedule, even though it is the third day of the week. The schedule rotates around, and makes absolutely no sense whatsoever. It is fucking unbelievable. I looked at this thing and was aghast. Where the hell am I supposed to be right now!!!

And the class lists are incredible. They don't put "Eight grade Technology, period five" or something like that at the top of the page.

No.

It is on my schedule as 8032-5, but on the attendance sheets there is no corresponding secret code. I need to go find one of those Nazi "Enigma" machines and punch the code in and figure out which class list I should be working off of.

Good lord.

Anyway. My next class is eighth graders. Yippee. That's at 10:20 I think. I need to go decipher the cryptic schedule and determine if the stars are in correct alignment and sacrifice my first born in order to find out what room and what grade and which attendance sheet I should be using right now. That should take the better part of an hour...

Why not make this harder on everyone and require us to walk on our hands around the building? Who thought this schedule up!

Doug warned me... he knew about this kind of a schedule and said it used to make him kooky. I agree. Kooky's the word. So I'll be sure to write some later. I have a fourth, fifth and sixth period classes, then lunch, then 2 free periods. The day is over at 2:30. But technically I am done after 1:12. According to the directions I received, I'm not allowed to leave the building though.

Whatever.

---

4:18pm

Home.

Thank God.

Okay the Farting Incident was the worst thing that happened today. The two eighth grade classes were great. They used the study hall for study hall. They were quiet. But I am kind of freaked out by eighth grade.

Eight grade girls are either skeevie or total bombshells. There were four girls, obviously popular crowd girls, sitting together. One had a very large lollipop on an extremely long stick. She was probably a size two, had huge breasts and a tiny little hawaiian top on (today was "Hawaii Day" for spirit week. I wish someone had told me before I came in. I'da worn my coconuts). Her hair was long and ash blonde, and she had grey eyes.

She had braces too.

And she sat there licking the lollipop staring into space up over the head of the girl across from her. One of the boys in the class looked like he was unable to stop watching her while she did the lollipop thing. He was nerdy and wore a big Linkin Park hooded sweatshirt. I think he was undressing her in his head. And doing all kinds of things.

Hormones. It's a dangerous thing. I wanted to go in the hall and get the firehose and spray them both off. Problem is, they both would probably enjoy it incredibly.

I let the class do whatever they wanted, and a group of five boys sat in the back playing hangman and tittering and giggling away. "Is there a P?"

"Yeah."

"hmmmm. A five letter word, starts with P. Is there a U?"

giggle giggle.

"no"

"is there an E?"

"Yes."

giggle giggle.

Okay boys, you've eliminated the fact that the hangman secret word is Pussy, so it must be Penis. Congrats. You are geniuses. I ignored them. I let them play and laugh and spell whatever words they felt the need to spell. At least no one was throwing food at me.

After my second eighth grade class, I went with Doug to his speech class. He was in the building today working with the kids in the middle school, which he does once in a while. He sees one girl twice a week who has down syndrome. She loves Doug. And for a half hour a day in her own room in the school, he gets to spend time with her reading books and working on her language. He said in October she was hyper, distracted and disinterested in doing anything. Now she listens to stories, has books memorized so she will recite the lines (I got to be special Guest Reader for "Gingerbread Man.") and she has a book of things that she gets to explain to visitors... pictures of her family and dog... I had fun spending time with them. And after being around some of the special ed kids with him I've got a lot more admiration and respect for what he does. Not that I was lacking in the first place. I thought it was a cheap trick that he got to sit around and play cards with kids... but I see why they do it.

And this girl loves Doug... so many of the kids do. He's great at what he does. So my hat is off to him.

I had sixth graders at the end of the day. I played hangman WITH them instead of letting them play. I stumped them with "Baltimore" in the U.S. Cities category. HA!

Then, the last period of the day is supposed to be a reading period on Monday, Wednesday and Friday. I have no idea what they do on Tuesday and Thursday. But the teacher I subbed for has a class full of kids that he taught to JUGGLE.

That's right, juggle.

So they wanted to show me. And tried to teach me. It was a fun ending to the day. I get to go back on Friday and be the reading teacher's substitute, which means I'll probably have some actual work to do... which beats the crap out of making a study hall for kids who'd rather be working on their computers.

---

A few people have wondered about the interview I had yesterday afternoon. In a nutshell... it was interesting but doesn't pay a lot.

It pays about 17 bucks an hour, 30 hours a week, and summers off.

I'd be far better off NOT taking this job if it is offered to me and just going on unemployment. Reason being -- money through the summer. I would be unable to collect unemployment if I take this job. And unemployment pays MORE than this job does, once you add in the 2 kids (25 bucks a week each) and the allowance to work part time and earn 1/3 what you're earning on unemployment. I could make close to 600 bucks a week working 10 - 12 actual working hours.

But I digress...

The interview went very well. The guy really seemed to like me, the fact I had graphic design experience and knew how to use desktop publishing and web design software. The job is pretty much 50% clerical/office support and 50% the sky is the limit with opportunity to help define the role and help the office build a marketing plan and community outreach in many different ways. The guy who interviewed me asked me if I would be bored at this job because of the clerical and day to day business kinds of tasks. I told him that I would not have sent my resume in if I didn't anticipate some of that work to be involved, so I was expecting it.

The problem is going to be with the pay. It simply isn't enough for us to survive on, even if I get a part time job on top of it or Doug gets one.

Kind of sad.

It'd be a fun opportunity though. They are doing call backs next week for second interviews and want to make their decision during the week of the 18th so that the job can be filled by the first of April. If I get a second interview, I'll go to it... and ask if they put people on layoff at the end of the school year or not. If they do, that might change the picture for me. Otherwise, it isn't worth it to take the job.

Subbing makes more money.

Subbing and working for the catering man makes more money.

Unemployment and working one or two days a week through the summer for catering man makes much more money.

Anyway. Geoff really wants to play tic-tac-toe, supper needs to be undertaken, Doug needs the PC to write some reports. He just brewed me some coffee. So I'm going to FTP and get a move on. More tomorrow. I'm catering man's girl tomorrow, so it'll be a welcome change.

Sayonara.

Job Search; and recalling Julie and a cat...

I don't have much of anything to say today, but I have a lot on my mind...

I have a job interview at 1pm for a support position in an office. It has very flexible hours, and in the summer it has a lighter schedule. As long as it pays more than unemployment I will be happy.

I got called to sub today by the elementary school, but declined due to the time of the interview. I should have tried to schedule this interview for later, knowing that I would probably get a call, but they were pretty firm on the time. The secretary at the school was very happy for me (I won't give you details about the job, but the office provides services to a collective of local school districts) and she wished me luck. I think she likes me.

A lot of my friends have wrinkled their noses at me because I'm looking at support staff positions instead of professional positions. I roll my eyes at them.

I look at it this way kids:

It's a job. I need a job.

There ARE NO MORE FULL TIME SUPER HIGH PAYING DESIGN JOBS OUT THERE unless you can get in the door nepotistically through a relative or friend.

No one is hiring from the jobs they post on Monster.com or throught the Boston Globe. No one.

I've heard told that companies are posting jobs that don't even exist so it looks like they are not dying. How shitty is that, y'all? A perfect job for you posted by jackasses who aren't even going to do any interviews because they are trying to mask the fact they are going bankrupt.

I have come to accept this fact that I am not going to find another design job anytime soon that pays 50,000 a year. Or 45,000 a year... or 35,000 a year.

In January before I got laid off, the City of Portsmouth was hiring a web designer. I thought about sending in my application, but it only paid $38,000 a year, and I didn't want to lose my job prematurely. I wanted to stick around and see what would come to pass. A week and a half later I found out.

I probably should have applied in hindsight, but I'm glad I stuck it out with the company I was with. I had no idea we were going to take the axe when we did. But what can you do, eh?

Problem now is that I'm not finding a single thing I am qualified for. At all.

The job I am interviewing for is not only an office support job, but it is a creative job -- doing all the writing and communications for the office. So I have a chance to bolster my writing portfolio, even if it is a collection of newsletters. Perhaps they don't have a decent website and I can talk them into letting me do one. Who knows. Anything to build my portfolio.

So for whomever is to hire me, whether this job or another somewhere else down the line:

Dear Mr. Man or Ms. Lady Person:

Thank you for giving me the opportunity to come and interview with you for the XXXXXXX position at XXXXX company/school/office. I trust that you will find me to be an honest and dilligent member of your staff. My goal while working for you, should you choose to offer me a position, is to do exactly as I am instructed, while offering as much support to the other team members as I can.

By looking at my resume, please do not pidgeonhole me as a designer only. I've done several years of support, technical and customer, I am efficient and kind. I have a super sense of humor. When shit is flung at me in moments of high stress, I weather it with good charm and a strong spirit. Unless you are verbally and/or physically abusive towards me or my co-workers, I can do any job you set in front of me. Sometimes it will be cake. Other times, I'll need a book, or perhaps some guidance from you to get me off the ground. But I can do anything you need me to do. I'm just that way. Look at the resume I've given you, and you will see that my vocational pathway has twisted and turned, not because I've chosen that, but because someone has set something in front of me to do, and I've done it well. Very well. I assure you I will do the same for you.

XXXXX company will be a better company for choosing me in this process. I'm old enough to have a lot of knowledge and skill in my arsenal, but young enough to be willing to learn more and grow without grumbling and bitching about what you put on my plate.

If chosen for this position, I trust that you'll be happy with me, and perhaps this will be that job I stay with for many years to come. Thank you again.

With sincere appreciation for your time,

Christine

---

A few years back when Doug and I were living in Atlanta (more than a few... 10 to be exact) I went on a job interview through a job placement agency.

They didn't like my hair cut, the fact I didn't wear makeup, the way I dressed. They sat me down with a stylist ON THEIR STAFF to talk about clothing for interviews, hair dos and don'ts, and how appearance is everything in the world of office support.

I thought it was total bullshit at the time and still do.

I barely knew how to use a computer, and that was anything Mac or Windows 3.11 based only. At the time could type about 45 words per minute (that's wpm for those in the know)... and thought that perhaps seeing someone who could teach me how to use Word Perfect 5.1 would be better than talking to someone about what blouse goes with what pants.

They sent me on an interview with a small mom and pop construction company who needed an office manager. It was way the hell a thousand miles away from my apartment in Decatur, on the far western side of Atlanta. It was a $6.50 job. The agency told me this company was looking for someone who would stay in that position for life... so they informed me that I should say I was looking to get in a job and stay in it until I died of old age.

I told the guy that.

A 24 year old woman saying that she wanted a poorly paid, shitty job a thousand miles from her house doesn't sound too convincing when she says "I'm looking for a job that I'll stay in for the rest of my life, sir!" Pfth. Yeah. Sure you are.

They didn't offer me the job, and the woman told me it was because of what I wore pretty much, not because they told me to fling bullshit at the owner, or the fact I was totally unqualified to do anything involving book keeping, accounts payable/receivable or benefits management.

I ended up going to a temp agency, hoping just to get some pay for some work. They were called Georgia Temps, and were a division of Georgia Pacific, of all things. The staff there was wonderful... super nice incredible women, who gave me a few software tests, showed me how to do some things, recognized that I could figure any phone system out and had a great demeanor on the end of a switchboard (Thank You Jeanne at Gordon College for teaching me all the switchboard ins and outs!).

They taught me some really good skills for data entry, and how to use Word Perfect 5.1. I got to work at RJR Nabisco at their front reception area a bunch of times. And I got to so some very weird stints as an office girl in a couple offices that didn't have any incoming calls or staff... I thought I was being set up for an episode of "Candid Camera."

The best placement I had was a regular one with a trucking company called Trammell Crow to do end of the month billing and lading data entry for the forms that the truckers turned in when they dropped shippment. The entries all had to be in by the end of the month. I worked with a wonderful, beautiful woman named Vicki who was ill at the time and unable to keep up with the work when the last week of the month rolled in. I sat with her in a cube where they'd placed an extra dumb terminal and she taught me what I needed to know. For eight hours a day at least I'd pound in entries. We were a good team. And while it was mind numbing, it paid better than the other job I'd interviewed for, and Vicki and the other office girls were really nice.

The guy in charge of this area was a nice and very young guy named Phil who smoked in the office (which looking back seems so weird these days...) and he told me all about brown reculse spiders. I had never heard of them before coming there, and from that point on wore boots to the office instead of sandals, and constantly looked under the desk and behind the computer, and up above my head when working. Never tell a transplant about your killer local flora and fauna if you want them to be productive in the office space.

Being put into the office as a temp meant that I didn't get to know a lot of people. I was there a maximum of 7 days a month for a couple of months. But circumstances being what they were, they gave me a small going away baby shower when I left, and I made some nice friends. One of those girls was the office assistant to Phil, her name is Julie.

She had rescued a cat from her neighborhood, he was wandering around her neighborhood crying one day. So, she took him in and took care of him. He was a siamese cat, filthy, and one of his eyes was missing. She couldn't figure out what was going on with him... he was friendly and loving, and had no collar. She figured that perhaps he was a stray or someone had driven him out there in her rural neighborhood and dumped him. How he lost his eye was a mystery.

She needed to go to a vet, but couldn't really afford it and no one was in her area. The vet who had taken care of the cat we'd adopted (Linus, I should write about him sometime...) offered to see him for free after I called him and told him about the condition the poor beast was in.

Julie met me at the vet's office, and we took the cat in. She had washed him up, he looked 100% better, but he wasn't eating and didn't look well at all.

The vet checked out his missing eye, and determined he had a brain tumor that had spread to his eye and caused it to explode. Yup. Explode. The family who owned the cat probably didn't have the heart to put him down, or the money, so they drove him out to the woods and dropped him off. Left him to deal for himself or die.

(sidenote, my tennant is home, just came tearing up the stairs above my head, and she is CRYING her ass off up there. Part of me wants to call and say hey baby, you okay, need to talk? And the other part says - stay uninvolved. If she keeps it up for a long time I might just call... but who knows what her deal is. Hmmmm.)

Anyway,

The vet determined that the cat had about a week or two left, due to the not eating... he wasn't exhibiting any signs of pain, but there wasn't a chance in hell of him making it very long even if Julie could get food in him. The vet offered to put him down for just the cost of the medicine, not the cost for the whole procedure. He did a lot of work with the ASPCA, where we adopted our cat from, and was very caring and understanding. Best (and cutest) vet I've ever know.

Julie knew that she had to put him down but wanted to wait a few days and just be with him. She figured that if he had to go, he should go after being loved for a while. It still chokes me up to think of the look on her very beautiful face and the tears falling out of her huge blue eyes. She took him home. A few days later I met her at the vet again as she dropped him off. She stayed with him, but I couldn't. I sat in the car and wept. It was an incredibly difficult experience for me. I got to play with him before she brought him in, and I remember him purring in the cage as I reached in to scratch behind his ears.

When I left, and the girls gave me that goodbye party, Julie gave me a tall, thin, white wax candle of a siamese cat. It's in a box somewhere in storage, because I cry when I look at it.

I lost track of Julie after she got married and moved to Oregon. We wrote letters back and forth for a while... but she hated Oregon and I knew they wouldn't stay there long. She longed for Atlanta, and wanted to move back. I can't remember her maiden name or married name, and have no idea where she ended up. We've been here for about 6 years now, and she wrote me here, so if she wanted to I'm sure she could drop me a line... I wonder if she thinks of me, goodness knows I think of her every once in a while.

That was 10 years ago in December.

My life has changed a lot. Things have happened (kid, house, kid, dog, dog) and my skillset has evolved and improved.

When I interview I still don't dress up super nice, I'm presentable, I'm clean. I'm just not going to knock their socks off with my blue blazer and business short skirt and high heeled pumps. Fuck that shit.

I've gotten to the point where I know right away whether or not I'm going to be accepted at this particular workplace NOT because of the way I dress but because of what got me in the door in the first place -- my resume.

I feel badly for women who are trapped in a cycle of clothing slavery and are expected to look a certain way, that in order to excel in the workplace it is all about their physical presentation.

How about be efficient, neat and polite? How about great grammar, awesome interpersonal skills and the ability to work hard and do your job and stay out of other people's business? How about not panicking and taking the ball and rolling with it, with a willing heart and kick ass spirit in general?

I wish that the workplace was geared towards these kinds of attributes instead of excellent boobs and asses in a certain blouse or pants.

But I know that is a mindset I'll never be able to overturn. I just gotta show up and be me. Speaking of which. Gotta run shower. Time's running short. More on how things go later on...

stupid smarch...

We're solidifying our plans for the big trip to Florida. My husband said he's going to take the day off of work on the Wednesday to drive me down to NY (we'll go Tuesday night) so the kids can see their auntie Lee Lee prior to her departure. We'll leave the Thursday morning, drive to Charlotte, stay with a friend of Linda's (they haven't seen each other in about 4 years so the fact that Charlotte takes us at least 5 hours out of our way is cool, it'll be worth it for them to get together). Her friend is supposed to have some minor surgery that Friday, so we may or may not stay depending on if she needs help with her kid and how she feels about having us there. We could split Friday if it doesn't look like it's going to work out. Regardless, we'll hop back on the highway either Friday evening or Saturday morning, perhaps stopping in Charleston, SC to see the people who used to live upstairs from us... then progress to the Ft. Lauderdale area, where Linda will be staying.

For those of you who pray - add her to your list of people to pray for. She needs to find a job pretty quickly. She has plenty of people to stay with, so housing isn't an issue but I do know that she doesn't want to burden anyone for long, no matter how willing they are to have her in their home. So call upon the Lord to guide her planning, her seeking and her comings and goings, and to get her into a healthy workplace with people not as crazy as Gayle.

"It's been a while..."

There is a long and convoluted story behind this, but, suffice to say, someone's personal stash of coffeecups, sweet & low (I shoulda added that to the picture. crap. don't feel like redoing it now...) and other coffee related paraphenalia vanished from my sister's company's kitchen, and all signs point to someone we all know and love.

I am so going to hell for this.

I mean, I don't even KNOW the woman. My sister begs me to photoshop her up some crazy shit and I do. I am such a tool. Anyway... she wanted this done before she left the company so she could give it to her old boss and make the woman pee her pants laughing... so... I obliged. Ta-daaaa!

Okay. What's on the agenda for the rest of today? Dishes. Laundry. Cleaning. The usual. I haven't gotten nearly half the stuff done I wanted to, and I feel guilty for it.

It's 10am, so I'm not going to spend a ton of time here on the PC. I've got stuff to do. And I have to iron my dress for my interview tomorrow. Yup. Interview. I have an interview with a local education collaborative for a secretarial/office manager job. I would like the job because it is a 9am to 3pm job, sweet, and I can do design work at night and stuff to augment the poor salary. Plus, while they are open in the summer, the ad said the hours were flexible... which hopefully means I can go in earlier, and leave earlier, and thus have fun summer time fun with my family. We shall see. In my cover letter I let them know that while my resume makes it look like I am not qualified for an office support job, I feel I'd rock their world overall.

So cross your fingers.

I am never going to find another job doing what I've been doing for the past 4 years, so I'm looking to change track I guess. Unless the dream design job lands in my lap, I'm onto other moneymaking schemes.

Right. Enough. Have a super Smarch day.