How the other half lives

So, as I said in my boo-hoo post yesterday, Michael is out of town. I am looking into buying a new mattress. Actually I won't be doing the buying. I am getting my whole family and my BF to pitch in and make it my birthday gift. I need to do some research though, as this is a big purchase and I don't want to get just any old mattress. How does one research mattresses though? Going to a mattress store and lying there for a minute doesn't seem like enough, especially for such a large purchase (in size and cost as it turns out). I guess I could knock on random doors and see if people will let me sleep on their mattress for a few nights, but there must be an easier and less creepy way than that. Anyway, Michael got a new mattress when we moved in here (simply because it was easier than moving the one he already had- no, I'm not kidding), and I decided I'd start my research on his mattress while he's out of town. It took me forever to fall asleep because I was too busy boo-hooing over my BF being back at work, but once I did finally fall asleep, it was great. I woke up with virtually no back pain, which has not happened in years.

I went online to price this mattress. I found out the name of it (Verlo Embassy pillow top Enhanced) and looked it up on the Verlo website. I was shocked to see that it was nearly $1,000. This is obscene. My family is generous, but I don't think they are going to spend that much on me. The fact that I cannot have this mattress is symbolic of my life with Michael. We have lots of fun together and we get along. But Michael doesn't have to restrain himself from anything. He can eat whatever he wants; he can buy whatever he wants. He seems to have no limitations on his life at all. I don't have any negative feelings toward him for that, but sometimes it's hard to sit there eating plain broccoli with my credit cards literally suspended in a bag of ice in the freezer, while he tries on a new pair of jeans and eats his 3rd chipotle burrito this week. The mattress being out of my price range was just another reminder how I will have to restrain myself and he does not. On the other hand, Michael's father has cancer; I would rather be in my shoes (no matter how badly I want a new pair) than his right now. It's all about perspective I suppose.

Anywhoo, 24 is back tonight. This is a show my BF and I usually watch together. As he is exhausted from his first night back at work and probably sleeping, I guess I'll be watching it alone tonight. Then I'll go to sleep alone on Michael's fancy mattress. Or I'll go to my neighbor's house and give theirs a whirl. Should I bring my own pillow?

ps: Thomas J. Noisewater has a funny blog about online dating. He's not the most dilligent blogger, but he has some gems. Check it out.

poo poo pants

So my BF goes back to work tonight. My BF being on vacation is the biggest treat I get outside of myself being on vacation- maybe bigger. That's because he's a cop, and he works midnights- 11pm to 7am. If he were a cop that worked days, that would be difficult enough because, strangely, being a cop on the West Side of Chicago is stressful and takes a toll. But since he works midnights, it's even worse. Plus, his week is not a Mon-Fri week. He works 6 days, then he has two days off. The two days off change each week. So he'll be off Mon, Tues. Then the next week he'll be off Tues, Wed. And so on. When he finally does get to the point where he has an actual weekend off, he is off for three days straight- Fri, Sat, Sun one week, and then Sat, Sun, Mon the following week. Those are my favorite two weeks. Those two weekends straight of Tara/BF time are hard enough to rebound from, so you can only imagine how hard it is to cope with his routine after a 20-day straight vacation. Because then the routine starts all over again. Where we see each other only 2 times each week. Sometimes we'll see each other two times and then one more time when he comes over after his shift ends at 7:00 in the morning on a Saturday or Sunday. But that's no fun. I'm just waking up, his day is ending, it's only a few hours anyway... it's downright sucky.

It was so nice being able to see him a few nights each week and for multiple hours at a time while he was on his vacation. We didn't go anywhere or really do anything special. He's 10 years older than me, and going to bars and getting wasted isn't really his thing. Also, he's much more conservative with his money (and everything else) than I am, so we don't go to fancy restaurants or go away on long weekends together, even when we do have the time to do so. Sometimes I wish he were more like me in his willingness to throw money away, but mostly I like how it is enough to sit on the couch and alternate between watching TV, napping, and whatever else I can seduce him into doing with me.

Of course, I signed up for this. I knew he was a cop when I met him- it was hard not to notice since he was directing me across the street in his (hot) uniform at the time (he's not a traffic director anymore- that was during the time when he was in training and he was on the traffic rotation). And let's just say our relationship got off to a rocky start. * So it shouldn't be a surprise to me when I go days without seeing him. And it shouldn't be a surprise to me when he's cold or distant. But sometimes it's hard to get used to. Like tonight when I am sitting on the couch alone, my roommate on a plane to Florida for a 10-day vacation, and all I really want is someone to cuddle with when I get into bed (not that my roommate would do that, but at least I could share a smoke with him on the fire escape). ** It figures that Michael's trip to Florida then the Bahamas started on the exact same day that the BF's vacation ended. I used to live alone, and I really loved it at the time. But somehow, knowing that a companion could be here at home with me but is not makes living sans roommate for 10 days even more difficult than living alone.

Anyway, needless to say, I'm blue. It's going to be a long week. The good news is that the BF only works 4 days, then he goes into his weekend- he'll have Fri/Sat/Sun off. It will be his (39th!) birthday on Saturday, so we are going to a fancy restaurant with a couple of his friends. Until then, I'm the lonely girlfriend of a Chicago cop, and the abandoned roommate of a gay jet setter. The good news is, that gay roommate has a really comfy bed, which I have been given permission to sleep in while he's gone (he washed the sheets).

*The conditions under which we met were not so good. They are also not the kind of thing I'm prepared to talk about on this blog. I wasn't doing anything illegal though.
** sidebar: I've never watched Grey's Anatomy and now I know why. It's on while I'm writing and some awful female doctor is crying in a janitor's closet. This could be the worst display of fake crying I've ever seen on television.

Cannot

Blatantly stolen from Brian who blatantly stole it from Bone

Ten Top Trivia Tips about Tara!

1. Birds do not sleep in Tara, though they may rest in her from time to time. Usually in her hair.
2. If Tara was life size, she would stand 7 ft 2 inches tall and have a neck twice the size of a human! And don't even get us started on the size her rack would be.
3. Twenty-eight percent of Microsoft's employees are Tara. And they're all getting fired.
4. Tara can not regurgitate. But she can tell you that the more correct way to spell can not is cannot.
5. The risk of being struck by Tara is one occurrence every 9,300 years! But the risk of being struck by Tara's wit and charm is infinitely better.
6. The first toy product ever advertised on television was Mr Tara Head. And it was wildly popular, which is why advertising permeates our culture to this day. So you can blame her for all annoying advertising, including the commercials that appear before the previews in movie theatres.
7. While sleeping, fifteen percent of men snore, and ten percent grind their Tara. Only 10 percent?
8. About one tenth of Tara is permanently covered in ice. The rest is covered in ... oh forget it.
9. Abraham Lincoln, who invented Tara, was the only US president ever granted a patent for inventing the most awesome thing ever!
10. If you blow out all the candles on Tara with one breath, your wish will come true. But hers won't.

I am interested in - do tell me aboutherhimitthem

A simple request

I leave for work at an hour that most people would consider ungodly early. On a good day, I'm on the road by 5:45; on a bad day, it's 6:10. Usually it's somwhere in between. I see some interesting people on the road. The most common one is the car-full of latin men. It's always an early model American car of some kind, typically a Buick or Ford. And there are never fewer than 4 guys in the car. I noticed something today that I would NOT allow if I were the driver of this car. The guy driving was doing what all of us were doing- sitting in traffic on the Eisenhower "Expressway". Yes, even at 6:00 in the morning, The Ike is slow. His passengers, however, were all sleeping. This is as gross an injustice as I can imagine. The poor sucker in the front, who was the only one responsible enough to come up with enough dough to buy a car, is the only one who doesn't get that coveted extra 45 minutes of sleep that we early commuters all long for. If I were a person that was lucky enough to carpool with people, I would have very strict rules about being a member of my posse. The most important one would be NO ONE sleeps. This doesn't seem unreasonable to me. If I'm nice enough to haul your ass around, you'd better keep me busy. This sleeping while someone else is driving strikes me as the most insensitive thing in the world. Are you, sleepy passenger, the only one that would prefer to be in your cozy bed? No, of course you aren't. Every sad bastard in this early model Buick Century would rather be at home. But none of us are. So none of us is going to pretend otherwise.
The other thing I see on the road all the time are trucks driven by gross truck drivers who like to stare at me in my car and then make obscene gestures at me. I've been hit on while driving more than anyone you know. One time, a guy in a truck pulled up next to me and drove even with me for just long enough that I looked over at him. He made a gesture at me that said, "Hey! Nice rack!" I'm not kidding. He did that thing you do when you are trying to tell your friend on the other side of the room that some girl has big boobs (followed by a 'thumbs up' which is what leads me to believe he liked my rack). You know, you hold your hands out a few inches from your chest, making it look like someone's boobs stick out "that far." He was old too- probably like 60. It was awful. I've learned my lesson. I know better than to make eye contact with men in trucks now.

Oh yeah it's book club night...

I'm in a book club.

These 5 words were very hard for me to say out loud for the month that passed between being invited to be a member of a newly forming book club by a near perfect stranger and actually attending first book club meeting. In fact, even after that first meeting, I still wasn't confident that this was something I wanted to admit to being a part of. But within the first few months, when the membership was settled upon, it became something I looked forward to immensely. We meet monthly. It's been nearly 2 years since S invited me to be in the book club, and it really has been one of the best experiences of my adult life. The girl who hosts is the girl who picks the books. We've had some winners (Devil in the White City) and some losers (Late Bloomer- that girl got the boot), but no matter how good or bad the book is, we always have so much fun. That's because this isn't just book club-- it's 'book-tails' club, meaning everyone has to contribute an alcoholic beverage, which usually ends up being a bottle of wine. There are about 10 members total, and there are usually 1 or 2 that are absent each month- which means there's a lot of wine. We spend maybe 10 minutes talking about the book; the rest of the time is filled with gossip (provided by S, K, and K), sex talk (provided by me), complaining (provided by me, J and A), sarcasm and laughing- to which we all contribute. The interesting thing is that 10 years ago, I never could have imagined myself hanging out with any of these girls. Some would have been too proper, others too catty, but the whole lot of us together makes a really great mix. I'm not saying there aren't girls that I don't like or girls that annoy me; but all-in-all, I like this bunch. Every girl recognizes that she is required to put out a great spread; I think most of the members would agree though that mine is the best. I come from a family where there is food at every stage of entertaining, so the food I provide is always decadent. I'm not much of a cook, but when it comes to entertaining, I'll go all out so everyone leaves feeling guilty for having eaten too much of something that was likely very cheesy. All of the girls live in the city, so it's fun to see the apartments in the different neighborhoods from Bucktown to the South Loop.
Anyway, I'm beat. I had a couple glasses of pinot noir and I need to let that sink in while I drift off to sleep. Tomorrow's Friday! Yipeeeee!!!

ps: the above photo is not of a book club meeting; one of the girls got married and this photo was taken when half of us made it to her bridal shower (high tea at the Ritz- how classy!).

2nd semester, missed deadlines and country music

Second semester began today. It's a hectic time of year, but I like it. I keep most of the same students, but I do get one whole new class of new sophomores. Sophomores are interesting. I hated them in my first year teaching them, but I have learned how to deal with them. They think they're cool because they aren't freshmen anymore. Juniors don't have this reaction to the 3rd year; they are too busy being frantic about what they think is the "most important year" of their lives. Seniors are fine until about March, which is when they offically close shop. Anyway, I just let the sophomores go on thinking they're cool. I don't let on that I'm not any more impressed with the coolness sophomore than I am a freshman's.

My editors kept me late after school today which meant I could not go to the gym. I'm not complaining about this; I hate the gym. I'd much rather be locked in the lab with my editors trying to meet their deadline (they didn't) than be sweating at the gym with a bunch of skinny bitches who don't even really need to be there anyway. My Mon/Thurs step aerobics instructor has purchased a new CD, which includes the world's most annoying song EVER. I'm not sure what it's called, but judging by the refrain I'd guess it's called "Save a Horse; Ride a Cowboy." My skin starts crawling every time I hear this song, which does not, incidentally, stop it from being lodged in my brain all night. It's the combo of my two least favorite genres of music- country and dance. I suppose it's only country insofar as it includes the word "cowboy" and a few other choice country-type words, but that's enough for me. My editors' inability to meet their deadline saved me from that anyway. They missed their deadline because they are trying to run a controversial story this month about a kid that came out of the closet to his family. It's a feature story for a series we call "Triumphant Teens," and we think coming out of the closet as a sophomore in high school is pretty triumphant. I had to share it with my principal this morning (he has the legal right to prior review), and he wants us to hold it until we (my editors, him, me) have the opportunity to meet with the school's attorney's to discuss how we can cover our ass should this kid get harassed for being gay (which, considering this school is in the heart of DuPage County, he will). It sounds like he supports it, but he doesn't want legal trouble for the school or to put the kid in harm's way. As much as I want my kids to be able to exercise their freedom of speech, I don't want to see this little sophomore get gay bashed.

Time to gear up for 24. I get so worked up when I watch this show (on so many levels). I have a hard time going to sleep when it's over.

The Comic Sans (and 3 others) faux pas

I'm not very good at self-censorship. I'm usually surrounded by people who have accepted this flaw of mine. That's not the case at work, where I find myself having to work very hard at watching what I say. This, as you can imagine, is tiresome, and downright impossible sometimes. Well, I slipped up but good the other day.
Brian and I were looking at the website I am working on for our literacy center at the school. It's in the beginning stages, and I still have lots of work to do. I am using Trebuchet as the main font. I love that font. I think it's a classy font- modern and stylish. Brian, however, looked at it and said it was dangerously close to Comic Sans. This is the ultimate insult to a girl like me, who has been making critical font decisions since sophmore year in high school when I was the sports editor of both the yearbook AND the school newspaper. I hate comic sans. And if I were ever to establish a relationship with a man online, I'd immediately eliminate him from the running if I ever saw the font used in any form of communication we shared. It's silly. It's whimsical. It's cute, and I hate anything that can be described as cute (i.e. "Did you see Mr. and Mrs. Smith? It was so cute.") It's not like I'm some kind of font nazi, but I know what fonts I like. So I felt Brian was insulting my taste when he accused me of selecting a comic sans-like font. I blurted out, quite loudly I assume, "Comic Sans? Are you kidding? Comic Sans is for idiots!" I thought I was safe saying this because I was in the English department where I was the only publications person in the room. I was wrong. 5 feet away from me was easily the nicest person I know, nice to a fault even, who looked at me like I had just said "Suburban mothers of 2 are idiots!" Turns out, this sickeningly nice woman uses Comic Sans for everything. She even had a comic sans scripted flyer sitting on her desk to prove it. It was easily one of the worst foot-in-mouth moments I've ever had, not necessarily because it was particularly mean, but because the recipient of the blunder is so damn nice. Here's a few more:

1. While sharing a cab to the airport with a nice old couple from a hotel in Mexico, the woman, who looked about 80-years-old, told me she sold real estate in the Chicago area, to which I replied "YOU STILL WORK?"
2. In an attempt to send a highly personal email to someone I had just started dating, I actually sent it to my ENTIRE address book, including my dad and my ex husband. Fortunately, my ex, in his infinite kindness, called me immediatelly and said, "Um Tara, you just sent a REALLLY embarassing email to everyone in your address book." This blunder keeps me up nights to this day, where I'll think about it and get a really sick feeling in my stomach. I laugh about it now, but it was easily the most panick stricken I've ever been.
3. While on my honeymoon, my then-husband and I met two very stylish men from Italy who were vacationing in this adults-only resort together. One was a menswear designer and the other an entreprenuer. In a conversation with the menswear designer I said, "How long have you and your partner been together?" To which he replied, "No, we're not in business together. We're just friends." Assuming the Italian/English language barrier made him mistake my use of 'partner' as in boyfriend for partner as in business associate, I said, "No, I mean how long have you and your boyfriend been together?" He replied, "We're not gay!" To which I think I said, "Yes you are!" To be fair, I was pretty hammered. But clearly, they were god damnit! They were sharing a room for Christ's sake!

If Thomas J. Noisewater reads this entry, I'll need him to contribute in the comments section because he has been there every time I've said something dumb. Anyone else that can think of one, feel free to add on.

Uno Dos Tres Quatro!

I got tagged by Southie to do this, and as I cannot think of anything to write about, I'll play along.

4 jobs I've had (time at job)
Teacher (3 years) ; Substitute teacher (1 year); retail sales associate (on and off my whole working life); coffee shop girl (2 summers)

4 movies I'd watch over and over
Moonstruck; Spinal Tap; Sideways; Vacation (the original one)

4 places I have lived (time at locale) (actually 3)
Chicago (5 years); Chicago suburbs (20 years); Milwaukee (4 very long years)

4 TV shows I love
Seinfeld; Arrested Development; Curb Your Enthusiasm; 24

4 places I've been on vacation
NYC; LA; Florida; Mexico

4 favorite foods
Pizza; pasta; grandma's meatballs; Potbelly's turkey sandwich

4 places I'd rather be right now (note: I wouldn't want to live anywhere but Chicago; these are merely places I'd like to vacation)
Maui; Mexican Riviera; London; Seville

4 websites I visit daily
Weight Watchers (sad); Metromix.com; New York Times; Chicago Tribune

I'm not tagging anyone to do this. It's kind of a boring one, but it's better than whatever crap I'd come up with today.

"Comic Sans is for idiots!"

In my line of work, we focus on goals. The goals we are given are usually something like this...
"Student will be able to write in the transactional, literary and expressive modes."
So I've decided to set some goals for myself.

1. Person will be able to reserve judgement regarding the font choices of others (especially when "others" is a really nice person sitting 5 ft. away).
2. Person will be able to resist Nordstrom, premium denim and expensive footwear.
3. Person will be able to use under 1000 minutes on her cell phone.
4. Person will be able to resist hummus, pizza and other foods that hinder her ability to reach other goals such as #5.
5. Person will be able to fit in that adorable little black dress from 5 years ago sitting in the back of her closet that she wants to wear to a March wedding.
6. Person will be able to employ self-censorship techniques when she hears people say something like "My fiance and I went house hunting in the suburbs this weekend."
7. Person will be able to write well in any mode.
8. Person will be able to go to the gym 4 times/week.
9. Person will be able to avoid comparing herself to every female she meets.
10. Person will be able to forgive herself for her past transgressions.
11. Person will be able to learn from those past transgressions.
12. Person will be able to ignore late-night phone calls from angry exes.

It's a start. I tend to do pretty well at helping my students achieve goals at school. If not, at least I give it a try. If I put half the effort into my own well being as I do into my student's achievement, I might be okay.

Please won't you be my neighbor

I used to live in a high rise that had sound proof everything. Now I live in a rehabbed vintage building where every noise carries. It's very charming, except for one small problem; I've had it with the people that live upstairs from me. I'm sure I'm no peach to have living above you. I wake up early; I wear heels all the time; I'm generally a pretty noisy person- so if my BF and I are fighting, you'll hear it; if we're making up, you might hear that too. I do have a sense of timing though. I don't wear my heels while I'm getting ready for work, and I try to stifle my excitement when it's late at night. Still, I'm sure my neighbors have all heard noises coming from my place. But there is no way Michael and I rival the people living above us. I've only seen them once or twice. The guy is the typical dirty slacker type. I seriously doubt if this guy has a job. If he does, I'm sure he sucks at it. The girl is equally as unimpressive. She's in her early thirties with pasty skin, "dishwater blonde" hair that's been died black and, frankly, she's probably wearing dirty underwear right now (just a hunch). She's not ugly at first glance, but once you get a close look at her, you'll wish you had visited the unfortunate dark haired girl living one floor below her instead. It's not uncommon to hear them in a screaming match. I'm not talking about the occasional verbal back-and-forth most couples go through. I'm talking screaming. And the annoying-ness of her blood-curdling voice is matched only by the deep rumbling of his. To make matters worse, they also have a dog. I'm not a huge fan of dogs, but I certainly don't hold anything against people who choose to own one in an 1100 sq. ft apartment in the city. This is, however, no ordinary dog. They have a huge dog. It's got to be a solid 78 lbs. So what, right? I mean, if it were a 78 lb human being living above me, I'd never hear her. You'd think that would be true for the dog, too wouldn't you? Not so. In fact, having a 78 lb dog is the equivalent of having a 400 lb man on roller skates living above you. A 400-lb man who, incidentally, likes to play fetch with what sounds much like a lumpy 16 lb bowling ball.... at 11:30 p.m.... on a Tuesday... in those roller skates.

I wish I was exaggerating, but alas, I am not. I've tried pounding on the ceiling with the flat end of a Swiffer, with the pointy stick end of a toilet plunger and shooting dirty looks in the hall. I've even complained to my landlord about it. None of it has helped. The stomping, screaming and midnight bowling with the 78 lb dog continues. The visits from the police have ceased though, which is nice. The first week we were living here, a cop showed up at my door at about 2:00 in the morning. I wish I could say I was upset that a cop showed up at my door, but who am I kidding? He asked me if I heard anything "strange" going on upstairs (at which point I asked him if he'd like a cup of coffee while I tired to articulate all the "strange" things I'd heard in the past week). I, not surprisingly, did hear something strange not long before the officer arrived. I heard a loud bang, a crash and then the typical blood-curdling scream. As it turns out, the slacker boyfriend forgot his keys and, in his drunken stupor, decided he'd try to KICK DOWN the door of his apartment to get in. Brilliant.

Anyway, it's time for me to go. I had one of those days where I didn't have the opportunity to sit down until a little while ago when I put this computer on my lap to try to construct a decent post. I'm going to try to go to bed before the midnight bowling begins.

He's Back

Well 24 is back tonight. The Bears lost, but 24's return is easing the pain a bit.

Boo hoo!

Boy oh boy am I a tool! Sorry for my previous post where I felt sorry for myself all over cyberland. I should clarify a few things.
PK suggested that single female teachers are always sad. That might be true, but teaching is one thing that makes me happy. I can be really sad while I drive to work (weeping bitterly is how I described it one day), but then I'll get there and my mood improves. I love my goofy kids. They say funny things to me or do awkward things (usually the freshmen) and it cheers me up. So, while I might be sad often, it's not often that I'm sad at work or about work.
The great thing about this blog is that it reminds me about the good things in my life. I've been keeping a journal since I was young (I think I started my first "diary" in 3rd grade when Dominic told Roberta he liked her and not me). In every journal I have, I write the sad stuff. When things are going great for me, I write less, but when things are bad, I am the most prolific journal-er of all time. That means I have a dusty collection of spiral notebooks filled with lamentation, some trivial and of the Roberta-Dominic variety, others genuinely difficult and of the divorce variety.
When I created this blog, I didn't want it to be about the sad stuff, as I have a pretty accurate record of that already. I knew I would come across as a sad case because the people reading it would never see how much fun I can have, even if I do need the help of Pinot Grigio/Noir some of the time. I wasn't thinking that I'd have very many readers, but I knew I didn't want to whine to the ones I did have. So I make it a point to write about things I think of as funny or weird things that have happened to me. It's been really therapeutic. It has reminded me that my life isn't all bad. And it's probably more fun to read my posts when they are about overflowing toilets and evil substitute teachers.
Esbee said I don't strike her as a downer, and that's exactly how I want it to be on this blog. There is a part of my life where I am a downer. That part is supposed to remain private, and I let too much of it out last night in my boo hoo post.
Anyway, I logged on today expecting to see a big fat 0 when I looked at my comment section. It was nice to see that those of you that visited were nice enough to say something encouraging. Thanks, Southie, for offering me your ear this weekend. I am hoping I won't need it, but in case I do, get ready for some serious boo-hooing.
Incidentally, 20 other things (besides students) that make me happy, in no particular order:
1. Gianna, my niece
2. Rosa, my niece
3. My mom
4. My dad
5. My friends
6. When he is being good, my BF
7. My roommate, who is always always here for me
8. Shopping (hence the frozen credit cards)
9. A good pair of premium denim (again, the frozen credit cards)
10. Wine
11. Cheese
12. Wine and cheese together
13. Chocolate
14. Dice bouncing around in a plastic cup
15. Comments from people who read this shit
16. Nordstrom
17. Jon Stewart
18. Losing weight
19. A good deep v-neck black sweater
20. Music

Bad night

It's not bad like sick parent or child bad. Just bad like girl-who-is-perpetually-sad bad. Ugh. I can't think of a single happy thing to write. I'm not in the business of sad writing (or any writing for that matter) but writing feels good so I'm doing it. The pinot is helping of course. I don't call it the nectar of the gods for nothing. I love listening to music when I'm sad too. But I don't think it really helps. It helps, I guess, insofar as it allows me to wallow in self pity, but that's probably not the best solution. Must... resist... iPod.... I used to be so good at ignoring real emotion. I've lost that ability. In my old age, I'm getting dumb and emotional. The other day, when I was writing, I mixed up 'they're' and 'there'. That's awful. That inexcusable. And I did it. And sometimes I cry for no reason.
I always make fun of people who seem happy all the time; but I wouldn't mind being like that. I wish I was so content that 'happy' was one of those 3 adjectives the average person might use to describe me. But something tells me it's not.
The phrase "I've made a huge mistake" keeps running through my mind. Over and over and over. On that note...

Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am home again
Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am whole again

Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am young again
Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am fun again

However far away
I will always love you
However long I stay
I will always love you
Whatever words I say
I will always love you
I will always love you

Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am free again
Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am clean again

However far away
I will always love you
However long I stay
I will always love you
Whatever words I say
I will always love you
I will always love you

The Cure (obviously, right?)

Rude awakening

Today was a "late arrival day" at school. Late arrival days are only designated as such because the students arrive late, while teachers have to the endure mind-numbing meetings wherein we gather with our curriculum teams to discuss progress on the multitude of goals we are forced to set for ourselves each year. Most of these goals involve improving student performance on various tests, with the ultimate goal of improving their performance on the standardized tests used to determine AYP (annual yearly progress- NCLB). What a treat.
As a gift to myself, I make it a late arrival day for myself as well. Whereas my alarm typically goes off at 4:50, with me snoozing until as late as 5:20 on a normal day, my alarm goes off at 5:10 with me hitting the snooze button until about 5:40 on a late arrival day. So instead of arriving at 6:50 or so, I arrive at 7:30. Well today was a little different. On this late arrival I actually arrived LATE, as in 10 minutes past 8:00 late, 35 minutes AFTER the meetings started. I don't even know how it happened. I vaguely remember my alarm clock going off at the designated time. After that, I don't remember a damn thing. I may have pushed the "off" button instead of the snooze button; I may have never even set the alarm to begin with. Either way, as I slept soundly in my warm (but oddly uncomfortable) bed, that inevitable feeling of overindulgence crept into my brain. When I realized I was just too well-rested for it to be a Wednesday, my eyes snapped open to see 6:40 staring at me in the face. 6:40. Normally at 6:40, I am a Jack Bauer-style "5 minutes out" from school. But today at 6:40, I was in a Whitney Houston-style coma in my bed in Chicago, which is about 50 minutes (sans traffic- HAH!) away from my school. This is not the ideal way to start any day, much less the day after the night I had on Tuesday...
(cue flashback sequence....) My boss asked me on Monday if I could fill in for a colleague at the dreaded 8th Grade Parent Open House night at my school on Tuesday evening. The colleague had some sort of family emergency, and my boss, knowing that I am incapable of saying no (insert joke about naughty college years here), asked me to fill in. In spite of my sinus headache, runny nose and a sore throat the size of a college co-ed's at a Top 25 basketball team victory party, I said I'd do it. By 9:00 on the night of parent night, I was regretting that decision, and began to wonder if I should start subscribing to "O Magazine" where I've seen the headline "Learn how to say no to your boss (and yes to your health!)" on the cover at least 3 times. I have to admit, I was on fire though in front of all those parents. I did an academy award winning performance for them, complete with cheesy jokes and sly winks at hot dads in the front row (...kidding of course).
So when I finally got home on Tuesday night, I went directly into my room and passed out, not from a wine-drinking binge, but from a working binge. I felt so damn responsible it nearly made me sick.
That Golden Apple award-winning feeling melted away when I saw 6:40 on my alarm clock the next morning. The shit of it is that there are some people that get to school that late every damn day. But because I have set this precedent of being one of the early birds, I was convinced I wouldn't hear the end of it. As it turns out, no one even cared, and when I called my boss to tell her, she said it was no problem.
Moving on, Built To Spill is coming to Chicago again in April. I've seen them 3 or 4 times already, but I'm going again. I might even splurge and attend both shows. I hate that feeling that I might have missed one of my favorite songs on the night I didn't go. So I'll just avoid that and go to both. I might not be able to find a date, but it won't be the first show I've attended alone (loser). I know my ex will attend at least 1 of them, but we agreed that we will share custody of BTS.
Well, I have to set my alarm now. 4:50. Not 6:40. 4:50.
Wish me luck.

Cutie Pies, Part II

Allow me to brag for a moment. Aren't they adorable? I give you, my nieces.

My Curse

Michael rented another movie tonight. I never rent movies. It's not that I don't like watching movies, but there are usually about 10 or 15 things I'd rather do instead. The stupid thing is that I typically like just about every movie I see, and I'm always glad I've decided to see a movie (because I only see movies I am certain I will like). Tonight, though, there aren't many things I feel like doing so I'm sitting in the same room while Michael watches Hide and Seek; I didn't say he rented good movies. Anyway, I particularly HATE thrillers/scary movies so I'm not going to actually watch the film, it's just on in the background while I blog about it and then read (ps I'm reading A Long Way Down, the new Hornby book, and I L-O-V-E it). I don't enjoy horror films. I'm not one of those people that gets a little charge out of a thriller and then goes home and forgets about it or maybe has a fun little nightmare. Nightmares aren't fun to me. I have enough of them, and frankly, I don't need any help from Hollywood in coming up with terrifying storylines to keep me up nights. Anywhoo, one thing I hate about watching movies is that I cannot watch them without constantly thinking, "Wait... is that the girl from that one movie, the one with the romance and the comedy?" Or "Wait, wasn't he on that one TV show that got cancelled after 2 episodes...". When I write "thinking" I really mean "saying" because I always ask these questions out loud to my film-viewing companion. This is annoying even for me, but imagine how annoying it must be for anyone insane enough to want to sit down with me and expect me to be quiet for the duration of a film. I simply can't watch a movie without trying to place every character in the film. I do this with television, too, even commercials sometimes. It's a curse- an annoying one. So I'm sitting here, half watching this (horrifying) movie, and trying to place every person I see, much to the dismay of Michael, who looks a little annoyed. So far I've placed Amy Irving as the woman in Micki and Maude, a movie from 1984. I also placed the sheriff as the creepy dad in Happiness, a quirky film from the late 90s (a good one). There are many other people to place, so I need to publish this and get back to annoying my roommate.

Talking in hands

I have a habit of talking with my hands. It's such a bad habit, that if someone chopped my arms off, I would not only be unable to hug, drive, eat, etc, but I would also be a mute. To illustrate the extent of this problem, I'll share a tale of the worst sub in the history of the distinguished career of subbing. I was in 3rd grade, and I had high hair and low self-esteem. I approached the desk where the sub was busily reading the newspaper and *smoking a Virginia Slim, to discuss the likliehood of her letting me use the restroom. There I stood, a fragile 3rd grade girl making her case for a trip to the bathroom. She interrupted me mid-sentence and the following conversation took place:
T: On top of that Mrs. Sub, I need to spray my bangs, and ...
S: Wait. Put your hands at your side and tell me again why I should let you go to the bathroom.
T: Ummm... What?
S: I want to see you talk without using your hands!
T: Pfft... no problem. I can do this.
(Tara makes an awkward attempt at speaking without her hands...)
T: See.. I, well, can I...?
S: You can't do it, can you?
T: Of course I can. Just give me a minute.
At this point, it was clear to me that I could not, in fact, make my case without the use of my hands, and I was desperately hoping the **cigarette in her hand would set the newspaper on fire to cause a distraction. To make matters worse, I could feel Dominic, Roberta and Frankie's hateful eyes burning a hole in my back as I stood at the front of the room. The kicker is that none of the kids in this room full of dagos could have accomplished what this sub was asking (an anglo we would have called "whitebread" behind her back). The nightmare wasn't over yet.
S: Someone come up here and hold her hands down at her side. Let's see if she can do it with a little help. (I am NOT making this up)
I might have been Ashish (the lone Indian boy in our school who, shamefully, we called Ashish-Kabob- shameful but clever), that volunteered to hold my hands down (gee, I wonder why). Needless to say, I felt pretty awful, but I made one last attempt at making my case for the bathroom. This failed when I substituted the nonverbal expression of flailing hands, with a bobbing head. I don't know if you remember when Cindy Crawford hosted House of Style on MTV, but she used her head to talk all the time. That's what I looked like. It was humiliating. I was clearly upset, but this didn't stop the sub from further ridiculing me in front of the class.
S: Someone come hold her head.
The class roared with laughter. I sat down, my hair flattening and my eyes welling up with tears. Roberta flashed a satisfied smile at me, and went back applying shimmery lipgloss in her sequin-studded pocket mirror.
Hmmm... this story is kind of a downer. If you're feeling bad for me, I should mention that I might have been the kid that coined the nickname Ashish-Kabob. I bet little Ashish is blogging about that awful Italian girl who talked with her hands.


* This isn't true. I made it up for impact.
** Again, there was no cigarette, but this would have been an excellent out.

Desperate Times....

Life is a little dull when I'm working full time. No pinot, no broken toilets... I'm staring to realize that my life simply is not blogworthy Mon-Fri. This of course is bad news because I need more readers. I have a following of about 6 people, and I do appreciate those 6 readers; but my material is getting weaker, and I'm afraid I'm going to lose them. On top of that, like any publishing mogul, I'm always trying to attract new followers. I thought the best way to achieve this goal would be to sex things up a bit. So I've selected a tasteful photo of a sexy woman in a skimpy bikini. My projection is that my readership will increase roughly ten-fold, which would put me at approximately 60 readers. I'm going to try not to worry about the quality of reader I might attract with pictures of half naked women. Incidentally, based on this photo, it might look like I googled "woman with huge nostrils" but I actually googled "woman in bikini." It was just a bonus that her nostrils happened to be huge. Enjoy! And to the throngs of new readers... Welcome to the huge mistake that is my life.

Resume boosters

I wish my current post could offer as much debauchery and gluttony as the last one. Nope. This one is just about the fact that school has resumed. No debauchery or gluttony. Just agony. I almost think it would be healthier for me as a teacher if there were no breaks of the 2-week winter break variety. It was so painful this morning looking at that clock with the 5:00 staring me in the face. I swear when it went off I heard evil laughing from NPR's Melissa Block. For some reason, I can never sleep the night before the first day back to school. I took a Tylenol PM and I even had the BF with me, two of the three key ingredients for the perfect night's sleep (the third being pinot grigio, which, believe it or not, I do have enough restraint not to drink on a school night). Nevertheless, I found myself awake for most of the night. It was balls. I relied solely on adrenaline to get me through the day. On my ride home from work, I kept slowing down at stop lights (not a popular move here in Chicago) hoping I would hit the red light so I could catch a quick nap while I waited for it to change. (My logic: They'll beep!) I think I did pretty good at work though; no one would have known how miserable I was, unless they interpreted the black turtleneck, black slacks, black boots and black rimmed glass as mourning, which was in fact how it was meant to be interpreted. I had this awesome fake-happy thing going on all day. "Oh my god! How was your trip to ____________ (insert exotic locale here)?" The older I get, the more effectively I can fake happiness. You know the episode of Seinfeld where Elaine is really pissed that George and Susan get engaged, but the she fakes being happy for George when she runs into him at Jerry's apartment? I'm like that these days. I can be weeping bitterly on my car ride to work (not uncommon) and then walk in the door and put on a bright phony smile for my least favorite freshmen students. I might add this to my resume.

A good party goes down the toilet

There's really no delicate way to tell this story. After reading this, you might want to stop by Southie's page to get his version of the events of our New Year's Eve. I don't want to start the story with the part when the party went down the toilet (you'll understand later why that's funny). I'll start with the good stuff. Michael and I hosted a party with our friends B and T. Because B and T have a bigger apartment than we do, they agreed to have it at their place. We'd do the cooking and they'd let us use their diggs. We all thought this was a great idea. We made amazing food and had plenty of liquor. I didn't eat a damn thing, but I did drink my dinner- pinot grigio of course. Everyone that I wanted to see was there (with the except of the BF who had to work). Brian was there. Dana was there. S was there. J was there. The Captain was even there! It was great. Brian even seemed to make a connection with S, a connection I've been working on for a while now. I had my iPod and Bose sound dock rocking with my BRILLIANT New Year's Eve mix- complete with the Superbowl Shuffle, to which I know every word. Sounds like fun right? Oh it was. And I have the pictures to prove it. See, doesn't this look fun?

Things were going great...that is until the toilets starting overflowing. Keep in mind that these events occur almost simultaneously, which might be the most astonishing part of this story.
Toilet #1: Some bimbo FLUSHED her cell phone down the toilet. Flushed it! She didn't drop it in there and fish it out- she FLUSHED it down there. Who flushes after their cell phone lands in the toilet? Did she not see it in there? I've never really watched a woman pee, but I'm guessing I do it like most women do it. And if that's the case, this girl probably would have turned around after peeing to flush the toilet, at which point she should have seen her cell phone in there. At the very least, shouldn't she have heard it splash? Or maybe felt a splash of cold water land somewhere on her exposed skin? I don't understand how this happened. It actually kept me up last night. In any event, that toilet overflowed but good. A pool of water stood in the bathroom and it was quickly making its way into the hallway. I think T's pug Stella was drinking it, too, which only added to the comedic value (well, I thought it was funny; T and B didn't have the same reaction). As T and B sopped up the mess with every towel they could get their hands on, a 2nd problem arose.
Toilet #2: What happened in bathroom #2 is up for debate; and I don't even know how to appropriately describe it. But it appears that a person (who shall remain nameless- not Southie though) was peeing standing up (so we know it is a guy or a very crafty girl) and probably started to pass out (so we know he was a wasted hot mess) and probably tried to break his fall on the tank. And what happened next is something that I didn't even think could happen. This person's breaking his fall on the tank resulted in the tank snapping apart from the bowl, sending any water that would reside in the toilet (and presumably the urine as well) rushing onto the bathroom floor. The person who is allegedly responsible for this was passed out on the floor in bathroom #2 when the owners of the apartment ran to the bathroom in a panic to see why a river seemed to be oozing out of their master bath. To make matters worse, while the owners of the apartment and about 10 other people were cleaning up the messes, someone barfed in toilet #2 even though there was no water in it. That barf is still sitting in the toilet now in fact, which I'm sure is a lovely reminder for them. The person allegedly responsible for this is at the owner's apartment now waiting for a plumber. I'm guessing he has his checkbook with him.
I, however, was not one of the 10 people cleaning up the mess. I was too busy singing the Super Bowl Shuffle when this happened. Once I was done with this, I decided it would be a great idea to take pictures of this mess. My words when the owner was shooting me a dirty look as I snapped pictures: "Trust me, you'll laugh about this in two years, and you'll be glad I took pictures. (to Southie) Hey Brian, this will be great for my blog!" I admit; that was pretty insensitive of me. But these are the things I do for my (3) readers. We left not long after the mess was dealt with. I grabbed my iPod and whatever booze was left, and I brought the party back to my house. It was a fab way to end the night.