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?

Not Taking It Anymore...

...because I really am mad as hell. I've decided to begin posting some of the comments I leave on other people's blogs, websites, listservs, etc. because I'm starting to come up with some real comic gold in my rants. At least, I think it would probably be funny if our society weren't at such a critical point right now. Or maybe that's the paranoia from the weed talking...ha! Just kidding. It's really from the ibuprofen...

Today's Therapeutic Anger Triple Feature:

From a listserv
"And I trust a CSU suit to competently perform his/her job about as much as I trust, oh, THE ENTIRE FUCKING LEGISLATURE OF THE STATE OF CALIFORNIA THAT CAN'T BE BOTHERED TO PASS A FUCKING BUDGET AND CONTINUALLY BURDEN PUBLIC EDUCATION WITH THEIR GENERAL DOUCHEBAGGERY.

Call your representative and tell him/her that he/she is a douchebag. Get everything in writing. In all caps. Do not assume that ... anyone who should possibly have been paid a royalty or licensing fee will be cool with their work being ripped off."

I got mad props for my use of the term 'douchebaggery' on that one. And don't assume that John Q. Public will be cool with having their special services districts torn a new financial asshole in the current economic crisis.

From an online petition to forgive student loan debt that I couldn't quite sign because it meant registering for stuff and I hate doing that (that's the paranoia talking again)
"I am a public school teacher. Like most teachers, I acquired student loan debt in order to receive the education and training that would give me the tools to become a competent professional in the classroom. I go to work every day to educate the children that our federal government is SCREWING by eliminating major education spending provisions from the current stimulus bill. Mr. President, I am not an eternal optimist. I expect that when reason and compassion are blatantly thrown under a bus to pander to ideological nincompoopery on the part of elected officials that the public reserves the right to use shame and derision to meet its needs. Please tell the Legislative lunkheads you work with that their constituents are speaking - it is time to listen."

Honestly, I'm not even sure I am making a coherent point in this one. I was just really pissed off and needed to yell at someone. Kind of like the lady at the beginning of this clip...

A Major Award

Wow! I am an official Smart Bitch winner and the proud recipient of a coffeemaker with travel mug kinda funky psychedelic peppermint swirl hot chocolate pot (Bodie says I am being redundant by saying the hot chocolate pot is both "kinda funky" and "psychedelic". I reply that I am "swimming in my stream of consciousness". He leaves the room. When he comes back he says that my blog readers probably think the handsome Mr. G. pictured above is my husband. Well, he isn't. Click on over to Bodie's blog to see his picture.)...

Seeing my name in the list of winners made me think that I should update the Smarty Pants saga. You know, um, just in case I get any more traffic from, say, endlessly nagging Bodie to publicize my triumph via his Facebook page (I'm not linking to this because I don't know how and he isn't here right now for me to ask. And did I mention that I'm also standing in my kitchen, barefoot, pregnant, and without the benefit of a big, strong man to work the internets for me?)

So, an update:

We aren't in Las Vegas! Ha! Who would have thought that we would have moved from behind the Redwood Curtain to an entirely different state for all of, oh, 10 days before moving back to California for me to accept a job offer in the quaintly disgusting area that is the southern Central Valley in California. The air quality is bad, the politics are hell and gone from progressive, and I think this is some sort of cosmic penance due to the fact that I turned thirty this year.

[pause for a long telephone chat with Mr. L, who is having to plan for his first substitute teacher ever this Thursday and needs advice...and my old sub plans emailed to him...tonight]

On the bright side of things, we gathered all of our belongings into one residence within four months of the first move, which totally beats our last record of ten months, with only three moving trucks and one storage facility being rented this time around. Of course, the lovely Ms. D. did have a goodly pile of our shit in her garage for all of those four months, but I don't have to count any of that because we weren't technically paying for the space.

Bodie is now a full-time parent and part-time musician playing with the...you know, I was going to write the name of the organization, but he has suddenly gone all paranoid on me. Probably because we keep leaving irate messages on the answering machines and servers of various elected state officials. Hey, it's not my fault that the level of general douchebaggery on the part of the State of California has reached an all-time high. If they did their jobs I wouldn't have cause to point out what a mealy-mouthed sell-out weasel Glen Thomas is for being the Governor's two-bit political hack. Anyway, Bodie is fine, dislikes our current geographical region intensely, and will be insanely grateful when we move away from The Land That Progress Forgot.

Claire...Claire is the most rockin' kid ever. She serenades me at bedtime with "Anchors Aweigh". She calls her flying leaps onto her thinking chair 'engine' (ninja) jumps. She tells me she misses me when I'm at work and that she loves me very much. And she went pee-pee in the potty tonight all by herself...for the low, low price of half of a square of milk chocolate. This girl knows how to negotiate and her reasoning is nothing short of Jesuitical.

Flan-ing the Flames of Desire

Smart Bitches was running a contest today for recipes written in purple prose. I just had to try...'cause who wouldn't want to win a copy of Natural Harvest: A Collection of Semen-Based Recipes? Oh, and a Cuisinart. Those are cool, too!

So, here for your romantic machinations is (in a slightly edited form now that I'm not trying to beat a deadline)...

FLAN-ing THE FLAMES OF DESIRE

Ingredients
6 eggs, smooth and round
12 oz. evaporated milk, poured in a silky, creamy stream from the can
14 oz. sweetened condensed milk, slowly drizzled from the tip of a spoon, reserving enough to dip your middle finger into before sensuously licking its rich sweetness from your fingertip
3 oz. cream cheese, warmed from the heat of the sexual tension
1/2 tsp. vanilla extract
Dash ground cinnamon
-AND-
1/2 c. sugar, ‘cause it makes it taste so good

Add the eggs, milks, cream cheese, vanilla and cinnamon to a blender. Pause between additions to trade suggestive looks and double entendres while slowly edging closer to each other. Blend for 1 minute. Let mixture rest. Ignite stove by bending over burner knob while slightly arching your back. Look over your shoulder as the burner ignites, catching him watching you, and sharing that look that says, “I know that you know that I know that you want me.” Carmelize sugar in a heavy saucepan or skillet, imagining your inhibitions melting away with those sweet sugar crystals, and immediately pour into an 8"x8" baking dish, spreading sugar to coat bottom of dish. Add blended mixture to baking dish. Place baking dish in a water bath and bake at 350. Remember that there was a serving platter that you needed to get down from a high cupboard right behind him. Climb onto a step stool to reach the serving platter, slightly hesitating while asking him if he will take it from your hands. Turn to face him just as he moves to stand in front of you, losing your balance just enough to fall into his waiting arms, yet not hard enough to drop the platter. Let your face come to rest within an inch of his, gazing at first his eyes, then his mouth, allowing flames of desire to ignite…

Remove the flan after 1 hour and chill overnight (or just leave it overnight in an oven that has been turned off - flames of desire are notoriously tricky to keep hot and a long delay can result in cold feet). Invert onto serving dish and serve either cold or at room temperature.