Leafy Goat Testicles, Anyone?

Bodie went shopping today and came back with a copy of The Urban Homestead. This was a cool bit of psychic awareness on his part because I spent most of the time thinking, worrying, and feeling anxious about a summer garden that is still several months away from go time (or, as Bodie calls it, full-capacity production). What if I don't prune that nectarine tree correctly? What if I have already killed off the lime tree by over-pruning it? And, sweet Jesus, the squash bugs are going to come back and they are so disgusting looking and make that horrible firm-squishy feeling when you mash them under your gardening gloves that I don't know if I'll be able to garden sober this summer. And don't even get me started on those goddamn evil-looking leaf-footed bugs, because those things really freak me out. But I digress...

As I turned to the first page of the book and began to read, one word jumped out at me. And that word was aggravating for me as a budding backyard gardener and advocate for great-tasting, good-for-you, homegrown produce.

ARUGULA

Yes, arugula. Right there in the first sentence, as in "a salad of peppery arugula and heirloom tomatoes". Peppery. Huh. According to the article in the above link there, arugula seed was also used as an aphrodisiac at one point in time. Aphrodisiac. Huh.

It is fairly easy for me to believe the whole aphrodisiac thing when I consider that it was used at a time when everyone drank wine or beer because the water supply was more likely to give you dysentery than quench your thirst. "What, dear? Arugula seed oil? Well, I don't know...it's not hydrogenated or a trans-fat is it? Okay, just let me finish this liter of vino with dinner and by then I'll be so tipsy that I can overlook the odor of arugula, since it is slightly less pungent than the smell of our unwashed bodies, and we can have sex."

I really have a hard time seeing arugula in this positive light of wholesome, leafy green goodness when I think that arugula tastes like...well, imagine that goat testicles were made out of plant leaves instead of skin. Now imagine that all day those goat testicles are hanging out (no pun intended) while the goat frolicks in a meadow, runs over hills, and becomes all sweaty and musky smelling while rolling around, peeing and pooping with his little goat friends. And that at the end of the day the little goat comes home, Bodie plucks his little testicle leaves, puts them in a salad with a little Goddess dressing, and then tells me that the reason my salad tastes so "zesty" is because it has arugula in it. Huh.

"But, Briony", you say, "it just isn't possible for all arugula to taste like leafy goat testicles. No one would eat it if it did!" Oh yeah? Read Kitchen Confidential sometime and then tell me that people won't eat swill-sauced shit if it is served on a fancy enough plate for the right price and with the right marketing. The elevation of arugula to this exalted status frustrates me because there are a lot of leafy greens in this world for aspiring backyard gardeners and foodies to try that don't taste like leafy goat testicles.

So, in summation, don't eat arugula. Ever. But feel free to offer some to Bodie.

Happy New Year, Mother#&*%@^!

I really did intend to start my first post of the new year with something profound. The cosmos, however, was against me. Please picture a bleary-eyed woman ($3.99 bubbly - why do i keep doing this to myself?) sitting in the dark at 6:34 a.m. typing as quietly as she possibly can to refrain from waking a certain small child (who slept through the copious amounts of gunfire at midnight but woke up spazzing out twice in the wee hours of the morning - stupid toddler dreams).

It took me almost two minutes to enter my password for the site because it is too dark to see the keyboard and I couldn't remember where the number keys are on the Macbook. I couldn't even make a mildly amused sound at the absurdity of it all, although I did smile wryly to myself. I am convinced that Mrs. Crow, my high school keyboarding teacher, knew I couldn't touch-type those numbers so I would find a way to distract her every time she came by to monitor my typing. Hah! The joke is on me after all these years.

So, coffee is ready, ibuprofen and decongestant are on the counter, and...

I am not the type of person to make New Year's Resolutions because I think they are generally worthless. Resolutions are like the Magic Eraser of bad behavior - look! it's gone! - they are disposable and they take away the appearance of vice without really affecting the reason for it happening in the first place. Resolutions are those little white lies you tell yourself to make you feel like a better person without really having to become one. You make a resolution and -whamo!- now your conscience can feel virtuous about taking the high road after having all that questionable sex, or snorting all that coke, or eating all that food that is so horrible for you* because you have resolved to never do it again...until you're in a similar situation, with similar people, all of whom have made similar resolutions and all of whom have about as much moral and/or ethical resolve as Pavlov's dog. Resolutions are the bets your super-ego makes against your id and, chances are, they and your ego all come out losers in the end.

So, no resolutions for me this year. Will I try to be a little bit better as a human being? For sure, but I'm not going to use a lame bet I made against myself as my incentive for doing so.


*I was going to go for a sex, drugs and rock n' roll reference, but since most "rock" is auditory diarrhea these days, I opted for sex, drugs and food. Which makes me wonder if diet books outsell albums these days. I bet they do.

Generation Gap

Who actually says "making love" when talking about the act of "having sex"? According to my poll (Bodie & my recollections from, ahem, several previous relationships), no one actually says this. At least, not anyone from my generation when they are sober and having sex. However, if I were to crack open any romance novel - okay, almost any - all of the characters refer to sex at some point as "making love".

Is this a generational thing? Or am I a romantic meat-head who, having only ever been in relationships with other meat-heads, has a distorted perception of acceptable terminology when discussing sex while in the midst of attempting, executing, and reviewing it?

(just covering all my bases there)

Assuming a generation gap is to blame, my shoot-from-the-hip armchair-analysis of the "sex" vs. "make love" lingo says it goes like this:

I learned in an anthropology class (in 1999!) that marriage allows a man to have legitimate sexual access to a woman and that is why marriage became so cool from a societal standpoint way, way, way back in the day (you know, before the development of an agrarian society and the creation of all of those reality-based wedding shows). My theory is that people in previous generations used the term "make love" when referring to sex because it was an amorphous term that, while being fuzzy in denotation but having definite connotation, brought a whole slew of positive emotional associations to the physical relationship. Which is great if you're the man because now you have just legitimized the out-of-wedlock sex that you are REALLY wanting to have with your lady. And now she's on the emotional hook because sex is bad but making love is okay because I love you, baby. And I don't know how my body works, or how your body works, or how babies are made, and I listen to Bruce Springsteen and everything seems to work out okay for him.

People from my generation use the term "have sex" because we are a product of public school sex education. Everything is clinical, proper names are used for all body parts (I don't remember what the hell 'seminal vesicles' are, but I can still spell those motherfuckers after 15 years), and we are told that if we can't discuss sex with a straight face then we aren't ready to have it. Also, we are in high school during the Clinton-era and have access to the many resources that help us to make informed, scientific-sounding choices regarding how we are going to explore and use our bodies in a sexual way.

Hmmm...now do I have a point...yes! Unfortunately, I am not ready or willing to turn this entirely random thought into an entire master's thesis in psychology or women's studies, etc. But I am quite curious now to find out if I am at least a little bit right in my analysis.

And, as a special bonus, I am linking to what I believe is the most loathsome song ever created to patronize young women who are ready to explore sex but have unfortunately chosen an absolute douchebag to do it with.

You're welcome, Internet.

There Are So Many Places This Could Go

(45 minutes before my first Open House at this school)

Mr. L: Like, not in the whore way, but...

(awkward pause)

Me: This is an interesting way to begin a conversation...

According to Mr. L, I am the free-spirited Jenny to his Forrest Gump. That is quite possibly the sweetest thing a co-worker has ever said to me. Although, come to think of it, we never did establish or define the whole Jenny/Forrest analogy. I think after that he bailed on the conversation as fast as he could. Smart, smart man. Mr. L totally rocks - even though he still hasn't confirmed reading my award-winning recipe for Flan-ing the Flames of Desire. Maybe it was my reference to semen in the first paragraph that did it...

(And someday, when I finally get him to break down and read my blog, he will shake his head while reading this and wonder how he ever got stuck teaching kids with someone like me. )

I Went to This Concert Once...

...with my friend Vince - a big old-timey country music fan - and we saw Johnny Paycheck at the Crystal Palace. This must have been 1997 or 98 and, man, that was a good show (I was still occasionally smoking Marlboro Reds back then - ah, youth - and we stopped for a fresh pack, I believe it was my last one ever, after the show). And as I was reading an article in the NY Times tonight, I was reminded of that concert and one of Johnny's famous hits. However, to write my own lyrics, I think it would be more along the lines of "take this tenure and shove it".

Now, according to these people (who are definitely knowledgeable, well-respected professionals in their field) teaching is a viable career alternative for people who are looking for a new professional start in life. Well, p'shaw!, I say. As soon as the word 'tenure' appeared, I was pissed, and here's why:

I don't understand how anyone associated with the teaching profession can dangle the "tenure" carrot in front of prospective teachers in an article and ignore the GIGANTIC sticks that are wielded by state and federal governments. There are the licensing fee schemes that would put mafia racketeers to shame, the constant vilification of you and your colleagues for all manner of failings that are outside your authority and control, and then the always sickening reality that most of your students do not have access to affordable medical, dental, and mental health services to combat the myriad effects of the garbage the USDA calls a school lunch.

Holy canoli, there are so damn many links I could possibly link to that my brain is bleeding out my eyeballs from considering all of the many aspects of graft, corruption, and nincompoopery associated with the business of recruiting, training, licensing, and retaining teachers that ARE NOT mentioned in this article.

Wait, let me calm down a minute...okay, I've lit my prayer candle with the picture of Jaime Escalante on it, have some soothing music by Coolio playing, and I have my bourbon on the rocks resting on a copy of Freedom Writers. Whew! For a minute there, the realities of teaching in the modern public school system were just too much for me. Now, where was I? Oh yeah, I was going to say that there is a reason that most people don't stay in the teaching profession for more than five years but, unfortunately, my Xanax and Ambien just kicked in and I can't remember why. Oh well, I'm sure everything will be fine because, you know, I've always got tenure to look forward to.

I Can't Wait to Be Seventy...

On today's edition of Therapeutic Anger we have Mary, a septuagenarian from Tampa, Florida, who demonstrates the appropriate expression of anger in a discussion with the smarmy neocon douchebags who have delighted and profited from running our country into the ground. Note the even tone of voice, the use of analogy, and the quiet outrage that simply skewers both the host and guest on a kebab of contempt.

Bodie says that Mary is the C-SPAN equivalent (he wouldn't say equivalent - because he just told me he wouldn't - but I would, so I'm paraphrasing) of Jon Stewart on "Crossfire".

Meanwhile, I sat on the sofa, not at the table, during the last staff meeting. Trust me when I say that my anger was therapeutically expressed by my choice of seating and did not go unnoticed by at least one of my coworkers.

Best Laid Plans

So, my plan was to rekindle the romance in our marriage because even after 2 2/3 years we are still trying to find a balance between 1) sweet lovin', 2) my need for sleep, and 3) the absence of a certain child who shall remain nameless.

And then the harsh realities of spontaneous sex caught up with me...

Me: (in a practical tone) So, honey, if we're going to do this let's go to the bedroom. The floor kills my back.

Bodie: (breathing heavily) We all have to make sacrifices.

Me: (practical again) I thought my hideous hair and schlubby pajamas were sacrifice enough.

Bodie: (exasperated) Those are my sacrifices. What are yours?