My moderately bruised ego needs some massaging. Any takers?

Last night I was out with some friends, one of whom was a colleague. I overheard the following phone conversation taking place between my colleague and his friend. Of course, I only heard one end of the conversation. I was able to discern, however, that the conversation was clearly one wherein the colleague was trying to encourage his friend to join us at a local lounge:

my colleague: So are you coming out tonight, man?
there's a pause while guy on phone speaks....
mc: Well, I'm with Dana and my friend Tara, whom I work with.
another pause while guy on phone speaks...
mc: hmm... Moderately

It's not the first pause that concerns me. It's more the second pause with which I take issue. I am speculating that the guy on the other side of the phone asked "Is she good-looking/attractive/hot?" to which my friend answered "hmm... Moderately."

I had to call him out on this, of course. He seemed embarrassed at first, but he did not come out and tell me I was incorrect in my assumption. He made a few feeble attempts at coming up with some less hurtful options. My favorite one was, "Are you comfortable with the direction your friendship is taking?" Although this is funny, it doesn't strike me as the sort of thing one would ask to determine if he should join an already assembled group of people at a bar, that is unless said person is a psychotherapist (or an analrapist for you Arrested Development fans).

Another interesting fact about this exchange is that the guy on the other end of the phone did eventually join us at the bar-- with his girlfriend in tow (who, frankly, if I'm only moderately attractive, was not at all attractive). Why the hell was it necessary for this guy to ask my colleague if I was attractive if he already has a not-so-attractive girlfriend of his own? When they walked in I introduced myself. "Hi, I'm Tara. The moderately attractive one."

For the record, I don't know that I disagree with this evaluation of my looks; I'd just rather not know that other people have made that same assessment. Also for the record, I'm not mad at my colleague at all. I'm only moderately shocked that he was dumb enough (and/or drunk enough) to think that I would not have heard this exchange, seeing as how he was sitting right next to me in a cramped booth in a relatively quiet lounge.

So I need your help here, 4 readers. Anyone care to propose possible questions that would elicit the response of "moderately" in this situation? Let's limit it to questions that might heal my (moderately) bruised ego. Please?

I stole this idea from I-66, and I love it! Try it in your next post. Answer the below questions using only the names of songs by your favorite band.

Band: Built to Spill
1. Are you male or female? Distopian Dream Girl

2. Describe yourself: She's Real

3. How do some people feel about you: Untrustable

4. How do you feel about yourself: Fly Around My Pretty Little Miss

5. Describe your ex boyfriend: Out of Sight

6. Describe your current significant other: You Are

7. Describe where you want to be: Happiness

8. Describe how you live: The Plan

9. Describe how you love: Temporarily Blind

10. What would you ask for if you had just one wish: Reasons

11. Share a few words of wisdom: Singing Sores Make Perfect Swords

12. Now say goodbye: Stop the Show

BYO-TP

Check out my first tenant! I suspect this is the closest I'm ever going to get to owning something. She's a hip mom/teacher who isn't afraid to throw around a few curse words. My kind of gal.

I just read the most recent post of one of my favorite bloggers. In it, she tells her readers that she will be spending the summer in Egypt for an internship. This same girl recently returned from Greece and spent some time in Haiti this winter. She's even hoping to go to Israel while she's in Egypt. I'm sure to most people this all sounds thrilling. But for me, I just get mini-panic attacks over the idea of traveling abroad to exotic corners of the world.

Except for a trip to Mexico a couple years ago, I've never left the continental United States. It's not necessarily that I don't want to travel abroad, it's simply that I'm certain I couldn't do it on my budget. I suppose I could stay at a hostel, but a "hostel"? Really? They can change the spelling all they'd like, but as far as I'm concerned, it still sounds just like the word for 'unfriendly' or 'of or belonging to a military enemy'. On my dime, I'd have to stay in a place where guests are required to supply their own toilet paper and water; I simply am not down with a place that doesn't even provide the most basic tools required to maintain personal hygiene.

Beyond my budgetary constraints, which, let's face it, probably aren't going away, what scares me the most is the idea of not being able to communicate with anyone in the native language. I picture myself wandering around a strange urban square unable to find a bathroom, figure out the price of a leather good or determine how many points were in that croissant I just ate. Then I imagine myself starting to hyperventilate, causing me to pass out on the cobblestone, crack my head open, and bleed to death on the sidewalk, while the natives walk past the dying ignorant American who didn't even bother to learn how to say 'bathroom' 'leather' or 'points' in their language. Maybe I'm being dramatic, but I'd just as soon play it safe and crack my head open on the pavement here in Chicago.

However, I can speak English and Spanish so I do have some options. As long as I can stay in a place that provides toilet paper and water, I think I could survive in these overseas destinations:

1. London
2. Anywhere in Spain, but especially Seville and Barcelona (I speak Spanish pretty well, and the more I drink, the more fluent I become)
3. Germany, but only with my boyfriend, who is fluent in German
4. Anywhere in Italy, but particularly Cloz in Trento where my grandma is from (I took Italian in college and, combined with my Spanish, I bet I could pull it off).

Of course, I'd be hated in these countries because I'd almost certainly do what I always do when I visit a new place, which is walk around comparing everything to Chicago, with the host city always coming up short in all comparisons. "Come se dice, 'the flan in Chicago is much better than it is in Spain'?"*


*I think that would be "El flan in Chicago es mucho mejor que el flan en Espana" but I'm sober so I could be way off.

You deserve a Spring Break today

The spring break debauchery continues, readers! I spent last night doing blow off a hooker's ass and singing "Your Love" by The Outfield at a karaoke bar. I woke up this morning in the bed of a complete stranger! Spring break 2006, baby!

I'm not kidding anyone. I spent last night hanging out with my married friend in the suburbs, and I woke up in my old bedroom at my parents' house. I even had to go into work today. The most scandalous thing I've done since I last saw my students was eat fast food, and I'd probably feel less guilt about doing blow off a hooker's ass than I do about my recent trip to McDonalds.

Saturday I had a little tiff with the BF*, so I called Michael crying and told him I needed to have a drink. We went to The Map, a local tavern we frequently visit, and I drowned my sorrows in a bottle of pinot. Once again, on
the way home, we went to McDonalds. In my entire life, I can count on one hand that number of times I've eaten fast food, but you wouldn't know that from reading my blog. Once I moved in with Michael, somehow I became incapable of resisting fast food when under the influence. When I'm sober, I see Michael bring home McDonalds pretty regularly. I'm not even tempted by it. Sure the fries smell good, but I usually resist so that I can continue to be successful in Weight Watchers. When I'm drunk though, my judgment is obviously impaired, and an impending Weight Watchers meeting weigh-in can't deter me from the McDonalds that is just blocks from my apartment. I've done some pretty irresponsible things under the influence**, but I regret going to McDonalds the most. The kicker is that, on our walk there, my thought process was as follows: "This is a good idea. I won't regret this. I lost weight again this week, so I DESERVE this order of fries and 6 piece chicken McNugget. I predict I'll feel less hung over in the morning because of this trip to McDonalds."

Needless to say, my prediction was not accurate.

* This passed. We're fine, in case anyone is curious.
** There is a portion of my life which I don't write about on this blog for various reasons. It's mostly in my past and always involves bad decision making and a bottle of pinot grigio.

Cabo, Cancun... crabs

We've come to one of those glorious weeks in the school year where I love my job the most; that is, it's a week where I don't have to go to work. It's not that I don't love my job; it's simply that I'd prefer not to work at all. If I ever have children with the kind of man that expects one of us to stay home with the kids, I might just volunteer for that position. I'd probably miss work at first, but I suspect I'd find ways to cope with the loss. If I stay on the track I am now, however, I will be having kids someday with a police officer, which means we won't exactly be rich, which means I'd have to go back to work at some point. It's hard enough going back to work after one week off; I can't imagine the shock of having to go back to work after several years away from it. Maybe I should just not have kids at all. I don't think I could sleep at night knowing someday my daughter will ask me if she can go away with her friends for spring break.

I'm always shocked when I hear about the trips my high school students take with their friends and the permission of their parents. I have seen a few MTV Spring Break clips, and I think it should be mandatory that we show such clips at open house so parents know what they're sons and daughters are doing on their little spring break getaway. They might be shocked to find their students are posting photos of their spring break date rape on their MySpace page; or drinking 'til they puke and drown in a pool of their own vomit; or getting/giving oral sex in a hot tub to three or four different people. Then again, maybe they wouldn't be shocked. In my personal life, it's difficult to offend or shock me; but when it comes to the things my students do, I find that my jaw is on the floor every time I learn something new about what teenagers do these days. I know, I know, I sound old and prude, but I simply cannot accept that fact that girls actually volunteer to attend rainbow parties. In the 90s, there were no rainbow parties. Not only because we were too grunge to wear lipstick (the requisite party favor for the rainbow party to be a success), but also because we were depressed about the death of Kurt Cobain and Jerry Garcia. Who wants to give a blow job when in mourning?

So when I said "Good bye! Have a nice break!" to my students yesterday, I did it knowing full well that a few of them would come back a different person. *Maybe Megan would have crabs. Steve might have lost his virginity (but realistically, not without the help of a few roofies). Lisa's parents might be at the early stages of a lawsuit with a guy who posted photos of their drunk daughter being taken advantage of by 6 phi kappas. Who knows? I might even have a girl in the first trimester of her pregnancy. Not too late for an abortion though, right Jeanne?

I won't be doing anything nearly as scandalous on my Spring Break. I'll try to make more time for the blog, and I have to read In Cold Blood so I can teach it in a few weeks. No hot tub blow jobs for me, folks. If I change my mind though, I promise to blog about it.


*All names have been made up. I have some students who might come back with crabs or a baby, but none of them have these names.

Can you peaceably assemble next weekend?

I took a sick day today to get some grading done. I had planned to take the whole day, but this morning I had a "summative conference" with my supervisors so I had to go in for an hour or so. The summative conference is the meeting where they tell me whether I've been rehired or not. I've been rehired. I wish I could say I'm "relieved" or that it took some kind of weight off my shoulders. But the truth is, I knew I was getting rehired. I don't have tenure yet, but I've gotten all positive reviews over the past 3 years, so I'm usually pretty confident going into these meetings.

This past weekend Michael and I went to a wedding for one of the girls in my bookclub. My BF was supposed to go with me, and since he has never met the bookclub girls, I was looking forward to that. These protests were going on, however, so he was not allowed to take the night off. As a liberal, I'm usually in favor of the rights of Americans "peaceable to assemble" in protest of our government. I learned, however, this past weekend that my fervent defense of that particular right granted in the First Amendment is contigent upon it not impacting my "and guest" option on the wedding invite.

Overall, it wasn't a very good wedding. It wasn't quite as bad as the wedding I went to where, during the first dance, the couple looked more like they were making a business deal than actually being in love. It wasn't even quite as bad as the wedding where it was a cash bar and we were kicked out of our tables so they could clear space for a dance floor. But it wasn't very memorable. I like the girl who was getting married, but we had never met her husband, and it seemed like the crowd was older than most weddings I go to. The first five songs were all released around the time most baby boomers were in high school. To make matters worse, it was in a far suburb of the city, and the traffic on the Dan Ryan expressway was bumper-to-bumper on the way there and, from what Michael tells me, on the way home as well. The ride home is a little hazy so I don't remember the traffic; all I remember is rolling the window down, then up again, every few minutes to ward off the vomit I was certain was on its way up. I didn't mean to get so drunk, but I did, and I thought for sure I was going to lose it in the car.

I made it home without vomiting, partially because I fell asleep, but mainly because, when I woke up, I found that we were in the drive-through at the McDonald's ordering chicken McNuggets and french fries. I never eat fast food, but this was one time I feel like it was a good decision to eat 14 grams of trans fat (which is about 14 more than I have in a week) at 11:00 at night.

The Chicago Sideways

I've been tagged by Southie, who is freaking out about today's fantasy baseball draft. I, however, am not freaking out. There's no point in doing that; I won't maintain a level of commitment throughout the season to surpass Southie's and Gino's because, frankly, I have a life outside of fantasy baseball. With that in mind, my team, The Chicago Sideways, is guaranteed not to place in the top 3, hence the lack of stress for the draft. I have the 2nd pick though, so I am pretty excited about that. I kept Johan Santana from last season, who is ranked #1 in the league. I'm thinking of making my 2nd pick Bobby Abreu. We'll see.

As I said, I've been tagged by Brian. Since I'm completely out of topics, I'll play along.

The rules:
List seven songs you’re into right now. No matter the genre, whether [or not] they have words, or even if they’re any good, they must be songs you’re really enjoying right now. Post these instructions in your blog along with your seven songs, then tag seven other people to see what they’re listening to.

1. In the Aeroplane Over the Sea: Neutral Milk Hotel
2. Reasons: Built to Spill
3. This Broken Heart: Funkadelic
4. The skin of my yellow country teeth: Clap Your Hands Say Yeah
5. AM 180: Grandaddy
6. How's My Drinking: Guided By Voices
7. King of Carrot Flowers Part 1: Neutral Milk Hotel

I'm tagging the below people, but I'm most interested in the list of The Electric Goose, since I read a review he wrote about Clap Your Hands Say Yeah. Of course Dr. K knows I want to see his list; that goes without saying.

Heather B
Dr. Kenneth Noisewater
Esbee
The Electric Goose
Dilligaf
Marc
Blake

Blog-o-licious teachers

I raised my hand. My 5th grade teacher, Mrs. McCall, came over to my desk to answer a question I had regarding my spelling
book assignment. I pointed to the question that stumped me, and she leaned over to take a look at it. As she leaned over, she exhaled, and a flat, round booger dropped out of her nose, landing on my spelling book. An awkward moment, for sure. Her solution was to brush it away and say, "Well..."

I don't remember anything she said after that. I just stared at that spot in my spelling book for roughly 10 minutes, wishing I had a witness to the situation- not just because it was so bold of her to simply say "Well..." to such an embarrassing moment, but mainly because it was easily the biggest booger my young eyes had ever seen, so big that I think I heard it land on the page. Who would believe that story? Do YOU believe that story? It's true.

The thing is, I have tons of memories of my teachers all the way from my 3rd grade teacher who took me shopping to my driver's ed teacher who did a cartwheel in front of my class. After a long week where I feel like I've been too busy grading and going to meetings to have had time to make a difference, I remember that, at the very least, there are probably several kids out there who will someday tell stories about their high school English teacher who:

1. while being observed as a student teacher, tripped over the strap of her bag and landed on her face in front of the whole class.
2. said "condom" instead of "comma" to a room-full of 8th graders
3. shouted "no grinding!" to her high school students as they left class on the day before a big dance.

That's only in my first few years. Hopefully I won't have a moment like Mrs. McCall or the teacher with the itchy crotch, but you never know.

What seems to be the problem, officer?

This is Shane from The Shield. I just started watching the Shield a few weeks ago, and I'm completely lost. I think so far I've figured out that the goal is for the viewer to hate everyone on this show. It's the season finale next week, so I smell a sitting-on-the-sofa-and-catching-up-with-a-riveting-series marathon in the near future. Perhaps over my Spring Break. In any event, in spite of the creators' best efforts, I cannot hate Shane. Even though he is a lying, no-good dirty cop, I find him to be very sexy. Look at that chiseled jaw. And those eyes. Good christ. I'm not saying I'd do anything unlawful just to get him to arrest me, but I wouldn't object to a little deal making to get out of any trouble I might find myself in, if you catch my drift. He always wears a brown vintage leather blazer and hot jeans. He's what I like to call BaldingHot. Somehow, the BaldingHot guy succeeds at being sexy even though he has a forehead the size of a drive-in movie theatre.

The creators have been very successful in getting this viewer to hate everyone else on the show. Everything about it is dirty... the people, the set, the language, the story line. Dirty, but good.

I finally watched 24 on my TiVo tonight. The gratuitous deaths have to be stopped. As long as Curtis and Jack stay alive, they can take any fat loser from CTU they want. Just spare Curtis and Jack, and the world will be safe from evil.

p.s. The original photo I had for Shane was much better. It was not showing up for some reason.

Big Love

I caved in, naturally, and watched the Sopranos tonight. Not that I was trying to resist. It was intense. The thing I hate about that show, aside from the obvious, is that I get so worked up that I cannot fall asleep after I watch it. Hence, I am here posting at 10:45 when I should have been asleep a good hour ago. As I'm posting, I'm watching the new HBO series "Big Love." So far, I'm a little grossed out. I saw far more of Bill Paxton's ass than I'd ever hoped to see. I think there was even a glimpse of the scrotum from the rear. Not pretty. Too much mediocre-looking people sex so far already.

Italian guilt

The Sopranos are back tonight, as most of you probably know. I tried for a good two seasons not to watch the show. I didn't want to take part in yet ANOTHER show specializing in negative depictions of Italian-Americans, feeding into the stereotype that all Italians are criminals. It's easily the most well-accepted stereotype out there, to the extent that people are shocked when I am offended by people who assume my grandpa is a mob boss- a criminal (he's not). Imagine meeting a black man and saying, "What was that like? Growing up not knowing who your daddy was?" You wouldn't do that! It would be IGNORANT. Imagine a movie, no a whole GENRE of film, focusing on the drinking problems of the Irish, the math-savvy of the Asians, the taco-eating of Latinos, the self-deprecating wit of the Jews (oh... wait...). Aside from that last one, those things simply would not be acceptable. Yet, we Italians have allowed, and in most cases even encouraged, it to happen that a character in a film cannot be Italian without his affiliation with organized crime becoming an issue. Moonstruck, one of my all-time favorite movies, is one of the only movies I've seen where the realistic (sometimes positive, sometimes negative) side of Italian-American culture is explored: an old married couple who can't stand each other, an old married couple who loves each other, big meals with red wine, curses (not just cursing), Catholicism/Catholic guilt, opera, love, family-owned grocers, bread, dinners with family... In my life, that is what being Italian has meant (except you should replace opera with Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin). Not gangsters, men who hit their wives and kill their best friends. Italian-Americans (as are all ethnic groups) are interesting people with quirky and loving families. That should be the subject of a film just once. Hey Sophia Coppola. Why not make a movie like Lost In Translation whose main character has an Italian last name. And that's it. Just use an Italian last name ONCE without that and his criminal history being the focus of the whole damn movie (and inevitably the trilogy that will follow).

Yet . . . yet . . .

I watch it. And I love every second of it. DAMN ME!!!! To atone for my sin of finding pleasure in the perpetuation of the negative stereotyping of my people, I've provided a link that will give the tools to other braver Italian-Americans to fight back against the Sopranos. This link, by the way, is hilarious. You'd be at step one of three for at least a decade. . .

. . . Which gives me hope that these brave freedom fighters won't succeed before we find out if Tony and Carmela are going to stay together.

*This was supposed to be a short post that included only a picture of the Sopranos and one line that explained the guilt I feel for loving the show. I apologize for the rant.

Car Talk

I've had two boyfriends in my life who are car obsessed- my current BF is and my very first boyfriend from high school was too. Both of them have had an impact on me to the point where I can carry on a pretty lengthy conversation about Car and Driver's rating of mid-size luxury sedans, the next car I am going to buy and why, and my dream car. I don't even mind doing it. I don't claim to know anything about horsepower or torque or pistons, but I like walking around dealerships to look at cars I'll never buy, and I can identify just about any car from a mile away within two seconds of spotting it. I still talk to that high school boyfriend, and he still sends me pictures of himself in his friend's Porsche Carerra GT (see left). With my current BF, if he's being quiet, all I have to do is say, "So what is your next car going to be" and he is off and running for a good 45 minutes.

But that's not why I listen to Car Talk. I am an NPR junkie, so I'll listen to any old thing that comes across its airwaves, and that's how I found Car Talk, which is on Chicago Public Radio at 9:00 a.m. on Saturdays. It's hilarious. Even if you would rather eat poo that talk about cars, I'd highly recommend tuning in. Yes, they take calls from people having problems with their cars. But it's surprisingly entertaining to hear a woman explain the noise her 1996 Chevy Cavalier makes when she's in idle, a guy explain how a banana ended up in the tailpipe, calling an odor coming from a the vents a "car fart", and the two brothers goofing on the callers and each other for an hour.

Mammalian protrusions tonight in rm 263!

My lack of writing these last several days is due to a few things:
1. My BF was here two nights this week
2. I had parent-teacher conferences last night and today, and I stayed at my parents' house
3. I have nothing to say

Parent teacher conferences usually provide some pretty good fodder for the blog. This time, however, I had only a few appointments, all with level-headed parents who committed none of the following blog-o-licious offenses:

1. Stare at my boobs
2. Blame their child's poor performance on me
3. Have one eye that had a flap of skin sewn over it
4. Shake my hand with a sweaty palm
5. Scratch their privates

All of these things have happened to me at one time or another, and #3 was pretty unsettling. In fairness to the people responsible for #1, I unintentionally invited the shocked, open-mouthed stares at my chest. Allow me to explain: I wore a suit with a blue camisole under it. This camisole was new, and it was from Old Navy, which means it was cheap, chinzy and sort of deformed. But I had a blazer over it so I figured its flaws would remain hidden. As it turns out, the whole camisole remained hidden, drooping just low enough that it was nearly completely concealed by my blazer. The thing about parent-teacher conferences, however, is that you have very little time to leave your classroom to look in a mirror where you might want to, oh I don't know, apply some lip gloss, comb your hair, or find a way to contain your breasts before the next happy couple walks into your classroom. Finally at the end of the night I had time to stop in the restroom before my ride home, and it was then that I saw that I had some incredible cleavage going. I was very impressed with myself until I remembered that I was not at a bar or a club, but at parent-teacher conferences. Of course by then it was too late, so I decided to make the best of it. From there forward, I signed all emails

Regards,
Ms. J
(the one with the nice rack)

Fake Plastic Teacher

I am in the middle of a poetry unit with my freshmen. I always feel like an awful teacher this time of the year. With a background in journalism and the majority of the writing on this blog about the things that happen to me, reading and writing poetry is NOT my strength. Therefore, neither is teaching it. My kids just didn't catch onto the poetry analysis we attempted last week. They turned in an analysis sheet for a poem of their choice, and 90% did a half-assed job. Part of that might be my fault in some way, but I really felt like there was a lack of effort and in-depth thought, which, although it is unpopular with teenagers, is absolutely required with analysis of any kind.

So I decided to select a few songs from my collection to let the kids choose from for analysis instead of the awful poems provided in the curriculum. I would have allowed them to pick their own songs, but that would be a treat- and they really do not deserve a treat right now. I initially consulted with Dr. Kenneth Noisewater for his input, but I ultimately selected my own, even though he did have some awesome ideas. After logging a solid 2 hours on my sofa yesterday pouring over the 9 days worth of music in my iTunes, I finally arrived at the following songs. Fake Plastic Trees, by Radiohead; Opus 40, by Mercury Rev; Wish You Were Here, by Pink Floyd; I am Produced, by Guided By Voices. I'll try to post some of those lyrics below or in my next post, especially for Opus 40 and I am Produced, the lesser known songs on the group.

I spent several hours today and tonight analyzing these songs, and I'm concerned about what my kids are going to think about me after we analyze them together. Here's what I can conclude about myself from them:

I have an intense hatred for people who are phony or unoriginal (Fake Plastic Trees, Wish You Were Here, I am Produced- and upon further review, like a million other songs in my collection). That, and I'm this close to killing myself (Opus 40).

Maybe if they think I'm on the verge of suicide, they'll feel guilty and start actually working hard for me again. I might have to take advantage of this opportunity.

Opus 40
Mercury Rev

She tossed all night like a raging sea.
Woke up and climbed from the suicide machine.
With her Spanish candles and her Persian poems
stuck on the rocks inside Opus 40 stones.
And scratching her wrists in the pouring rain
she collapses down upon the ocean floor
again.

Tears in waves
Minds on fire
Nights alone by your side

Catskill mansions, buried dreams.
I’m alive, she cried, but I don't know what it means.
Somewhere out there across the moonlit sands
there's a line drawn like the lines on her own hand.
And slamming her eyes
locking the door
she collapses down upon the ocean floor again

Tears in waves minds on fire
Nights alone by your side

The search for the Lazy Saturday

I love the idea of sleeping in on a weekend and having a day of laziness. Unfortunately, no matter how much I long to experience it, I simply cannot succeed at having one of these days. I can sometimes manage it when my BF is here, but otherwise, when I am on my own (which I am 90% of the time), it's hopeless. There are several reasons for this:

1. IF I am ever going to see my BF during his work week, it is most likely to be on a Sat or Sun morning when he gets off work and I am waking up. Sadly, he often has a late arrest or is "too tired" to come to my house after work. Still, that doesn't stop me from waking up at 7:00 and watching the clock tick away until it turns about 8:00, at which point it's pretty much guaranteed that he is stuck at work or he won't be coming over. Once I'm up, I'm up for good.

2. You might remember my neighbors. They are loud at any hour of the day they feel is appropriate with no regard whatsoever for anyone around them. If our dog wants to play catch with a lumpy bowling ball at 6:00 in the morning on a Saturday, then let's get it on! (today) If we want to have a raging party starting at 3:00 a.m on Saturday that rages on until, oh, 6:00 a.m., we will (last Saturday). We will do this in spite of the fact that our irritated brunette neighbor below (after pounding on the ceiling with the flat end of a swiffer for the first two hours of the party) pounded on our door at 5:00 a.m. and made a request to PLEASE ask that girl to take her HEELS off while walking around on the hardwood floors, lower the music, put away the lumpy bowling ball and muzzle the dog. Instead of being considerate human beings, we'll just say "Sorry, dude" in our best stoner LOSER FUCK voice and have EVERYONE put on their heels so we can have a runway show!*

3. I hate working out. It's the worst 90 minutes of my day, but I have to do it. So that automatically makes my lazy Saturday at least 90 minutes less lazy than the average person wishing for a lazy day.

4. The way I see it, a lazy Saturday afternoon is not complete without a greasy meal. If I could do this, I would go to Silver Cloud and get grilled cheese with tomato soup, a side of tater tots and a large diet coke. I have calculated this very meal on Weight Watchers, and the only part of it I can do is the large diet coke; I don't think I have to tell you that the diet coke part of the meal isn't really the point of going to Silver Cloud.

5. I have to grade papers. I probably won't do as much grading as I should, but if any amount of grading goes on, the lazy factor is automatically lost.

Don't get me wrong, I've done my fair share of couch sitting on the weekends, and if I'm lucky, I'll take a little nap during the day. But what I really want is the full lazy Saturday treatment, which would involve:
a. Wake up at 11:00 after a night of heavy drinking and smoking in a bar
b. Roll out of bed, throw on jeans and my black Banana Republic turtle neck and go to Silver Cloud
c. Come back home.
d. Sit on couch. Watch "What Not To Wear", Seinfeld, Golf (great napping material), Arrested Development. Sleep for a large portion of the TV watching time
e. Keep doing this until it's time to go out again.
f. Repeat on Sunday.


* As I write, one of the neighbors is STOMPING around up there, which is what woke me up for the little cat nap I managed to get in. I have wished death on these people so many times that if one of them actually dies suddenly, I am certain a thorough investigation by the authorities will lead to my incessant wishing that they die.

Teacher's institution day

We've had institute days for the past 1.5 days. Institute days are always brutal. There is a committee at school that exists for the sole purpose of designing institute day agendas that are engaging and relevant. I know some of the people on that committe, and they are some of the most dynamic people in the school, but they fail miserably at making institute days enjoyable every single time. It doesn't help that we have, like, 12 institute days each year. The gimmick this time was to offer free massages during the breaks. I wonder if those massages came with a happy ending? I'm not a big fan of the massage. I've only had one massage. I never would have paid for that sort of thing; it was "free" with the inititation fee at my gym. I think I insulted the massage therapist. At one point I was actually twiddling my thumbs under the table because I was bored with this creepy Eastern European man's oily hands being all over my oily body, and I kept picking up my head to try to get a glimpse of the clock in the dark room with the "soothing" music (Enya). It was one hour long and all I could think about was the many other ways I'd rather spend that precious one hour. Here's what I came up with:
1. Sex
2. Shopping
3. Bikini Wax
4. Watching my BF get dressed for work
5. Sex
6. Grading papers (not kidding)
7. Reading
8. Teacher's institute day
9. 24
10. Sex
When he was done, I hopped up, got dressed and got the fuck out of there. I think he was expecting some kind of compliment, maybe a few mini-orgasms, but I just rushed out and said thanks.

I didn't have to try to dodge the massage therapists at school today because, in leiu of today's institute, I went to a conference at Northern Illinois University called "New Ideas in Communications and English: Pop Culture and New Media." I didn't sign up for the conference, but someone asked me to go when one of the original attendees had to drop out last minute. Southie probably should have gone, but I happened to be in the room when my colleague told my boss she had to cancel, so they asked me to go. I went to one session on film and literature and another on "The Television Western Returns: Deadwood and Genre Revisionism." I don't watch Deadwood, but I have a new respect for it after the (adorable) professor talked about it for an hour. I still don't know if I can watch it; as vulgar as I am, I don't generally like violence, cursing and sex in movies or television. I do like crime shows (24 and recently The Shield), but I think that has more to do with my cop fetish than the genre itself. The last session I went to was called "What's Old is New Again: Using Historical Popular Culture Materials in the Classroom." It was easily the 3rd most boring hour of my life (the first two most boring hours being the ones during the institute day yesterday when a Harvard professor gave a presentation on ADHD consisting of a PowerPoint presentation with brain scan pictures of what an ADHD kid's brain looks like in certain situations compared to what a non-ADHD kid's brain looks like, but with no information on how to make the former look more like the latter). This particular session featured a librarian (sounds exciting already doesn't it?) who read a speech word-for-word off a 5 page document about all the "exciting" primary sources in the library. Then she proceeded to make a pitch to try to get us to be "Friends of the Library" so we can have access to all these exciting resources whenever we want.

After checking my site meter, I noticed I had a few hits from someone inside of harpo.com. I wonder if it was Oprah herself (Esbee, you might get that spa robe after all!). I hope she's not mad at me (you know, like The South is) and in the process of putting a stop on my paycheck.

Good news: I'm finally getting a new mattress! A friend of mine works at The Fairmont. When I mentioned to her that I need a new mattress, she said that the hotel places orders for mattresses all the time, and they offer them at a discount to their employees and their friends and family. She said she sleeps on the mattress every night, and it's super nice. So I got a full mattress and box spring for about $400, and it retails at over $1,000! My mom and dad paid for it as my birthday gift (my birthday isn't until April 30, but this was too good a deal to pass up), and they got a king mattress and box spring of their own as well.

More teacher's institute days next week. I bet you can't wait to hear all about it.