My Wish For You: Volume 2

Yes, these posts are about eleven minutes apart. Just enough time for me to get a glass of water and watch the trailer for the new Karate Kid movie. Can I just say for about thirty seconds after watching it I was seriously going to nix my idea for my next wish and put down : Become a master in martial arts because it looks awesome. You know, in a totally 'movie for kids' way. Kind of. GOD I WISH I WAS JADEN SMITH.

Moving on. Yesterday was my first afternoon back at the daycare and while I began the morning excited and filled with anticipation at seeing all those adorable, tiny faces again I left at the end of the day filled with an odd sense of...I dunno....I can't quite put my finger on it but I believe I repeated "I'm never having children of my own EVER" several times because it was just that kind of afternoon.

During a particularly heated argument with a little one named Jack (aka Lucifer's Angel), it treaded into what I like to refer to as "showdown time" in which me and the child stand off across from one another and shout things back and forth because I've obviously lost all control of the situation, while the other children watch us like an illegal dog fight placing their playdough bets on this kid because, let's face it, he's quicker and smaller than I am and therefore, it's obvious where the win is going to end up. So we're really going at it with me saying things like "I TOLD YOU I WOULD LIKE YOU TO SIT ON YOUR BOTTOM PUH-LEASE AND I'M NOT GOING TO ASK YOU AGAIN!" and this child, this MANIACAL child with evil beady eyes looks back at me and screams out "I WILL NOT SIT ON MY BOTTOM I DON'T WANT TO AND I FORGOT TO TELL YOU EARLIER THAT YOUR BREATH IS STINKY!"

And for some reason, this leads me to my next wish.
My Wish For You Today #2: Health and Wellness

And really, you can apply this wherever it needs to be applied because no one knows better than you where you need health improvement. I know, especially now, that perhaps brushing after lunch will be a better all around choice for my personal hygiene so that perhaps no one calls me out in front of a group of five year olds in a heated argument and therefore no one will be able to call me "stinky face" the rest of the day. See? Now I know.

Take a look at what you need. Let's take my mother for example. The "I quit smoking and then started again in secret during an economic meltdown, the MOST inopportune time to begin paying five dollars a pack". She could probably say to herself, "My teeth might be fine after lunch but PERHAPS I SHOULD QUIT SMOKING.AGAIN." See how this works? A five year old humiliates me in front of twenty. I turn around and humiliate my giver of life in front of hundreds. Is this considered 'paying it forward' like Haley Joel Osment taught us to do in that movie? I THINK SOOOOOO.

Do yourself a favor. Get healthy. And buy your best friend a toothbrush.

My Wish For You: Volume 1

I KNOW, don't even start. I realize that I promised I'd blog everyday and the amount of people who came back time and time again yesterday according to my statcounter (Hello, Warrenton, VA)revealed that people think I mean it when I promise something and are now pissed and for that I'm sorry. You get a two-fer today! HOOORRRAAYYY!!

It occurred to me in the car on the way home from work this afternoon, whilst listening to Bob Marley, that I worry too much. About stupid stuff too. Like, "Why did she cut my bangs this length? Where am I going to find a good recipe for gingerbread cookies? Does this length make my face look too round? I hope nothing is seriously wrong with our family cat that keeps crapping on my mom's bed....do you think if I went back to the hairdresser and asked her to fix it, she would charge me?" and so on and so forth. We all do it.

And then, the most fantastic movie-moment happened. "Three Little Birds" started to play and suddenly I was bobbing said awful bangs to the beat of "don't worry about a thing" and feeling like everything was SERIOUSLY going to be alright.

It has also come to my attention that I need to start thinking about the New Year or, as I would like to refer to it as "The Year that couldn't possibly be as bad as '09". I mean...we lost Michael Jackson AND Brittany Murphy? Will the torture that is 2K9 NEVER END???

Thus, Bob Marley + 2K10 = My Wish For You Blog Post series in volumes.
Today's Wish: No More Stress.
If there's one thing I hope that I have more control over next year, it's that I need to realize I have very little control over anything at all. Seriously, the universe will do whatever the F it wants anyway so what does worrying get me? Will standing in line at the Walmart, fretting over the smell of the new makeup remover wipes mean that there will be no odor at all in the end? NO. Will losing sleep over the thought that the pants I want to wear in two weeks to a fantastic party might not fit mean that they will actually end up fitting better in the long run? UNFORTUNATELY, NO. We need less stress. We need more laughter. We need to push the worries out the windows, to take things as they come, and to always have plenty of booze on hand for when the worries become reality.
Here is my vow to you, strange and wonderful, faithful observer. When I come across you standing in the grocery aisle, holding two different jars of peanut butter and you have that stricken look on your face that can only mean you can't tell if less fat means less taste or if it truly is the peanut butter of your dreams and will your husband actually eat anything that says "less fat" on the label strictly on principle and what if that means less trans fat but more essential oils which have been proven lately to be just as bad for you as what they claim to be taking out and can you possibly use this in your grandmother's peanut butter thumb print cookie recipe and THE WORLD MIGHT END OVER THIS JAR OF JIFF....I will kindly take your hand in mine and lead the entire condiments aisle through a hymn of Kumbaya.
All I ask in return is you do the same for me.

Oh Crap

It's 12:17 a.m. and I just got done watching this HORRIBLE Michelle Pfeiffer and Ashton Kutcher movie that I netflixed in a state of obvious insanity when I realized I didn't blog today. THREE DAYS INTO MY PACT Of blogging everyday and I have sucked it up already.
So, fine. I'm sorry. While listening to Alexi Murdoch this evening for some chance of inspiration to come, I was only reminded of the movie Away We Go in which A. Murdoch does the entire soundtrack in such a mystical fashion it should be illegal. Seriously, never seen the man in person and want to have his babies, it's just that mystical.
Which reminded me of a few short weeks ago when Beth and I sat together to watch the film and we were uncharacteristically quiet during the majority until I was finally like, "Uh...does he sort of look..." and was met with such an enthusiastic "OHMYGODYES" that we had to rewind and watch again our favorite and most ridiculous portions of the movie.

Because John Krasinski and Scott could be identical twins.
Oh, you don't know Scott? Scott is one of my best friends who, on occasion, looks homeless because he refuses to shower and shave and put on real pants. And while I can't exactly argue with the last statement for strictly hypocritical purposes I will say that SHOWERING IS A NECESSITY.

I mean, isn't that just silly? It's extremely weird to watch this guy in action in the movie as well because he's equally, if not more so, socially awkward and kind of fuddy duddier than my own friend. PLUS they have the same glasses. I mean Sam Mendes strictly made this movie to freak me out.
And for a minute, I was actually convinced they were the same person. I was all "WELP, clearly Scott is leading a double life and this is my opportunity to threaten to black mail him out of all of those 'The Office' millions he's rolling aorund in, in secret. I could use a new car. This is going to work out splendidly in my favor."

And then I saw this:

and I'm right back to knowing Scott and John Krasinski are DEFINITELY not the same person. At all.

Just say no to Mutton Chops and a 'Stache.

Getting Ready For Christmas

I hope you had as much fun, and as little discrepancy over your own fake baby Jesus, as we did this year.

Dedication and The Devil

Kelley mentioned to me back in November that it was National Blogging Month and I totally missed it like a craptastic loser. However, with all my new free time I've come to the conclusion that I can make up for my mistakes or I can give myself a fresh pedicure daily with the many nail color options here in a household with three little girls (Kissed Mint is a color...could you blame me if I chose Option B?).
However, I will refrain and do my best. Here it goes. Blogging everyday for a month.

Well, at least a week.

Let me introduce you to Max:

Or as I like to call him, The Devil.
He's currently giving me that look because I'm interrupting his morning nap/"Who Wants To Be A Millionaire" watching and don't I know Dawn leaves that on for him when she runs errands as a special treat?
This is the same dog maybe a month ago, in a state of frantic panic while doing laundry, I couldn't find and spent several minutes scouring the house for, hoping he hadn't eaten anything poisonous (kind of) or fallen down a set of precipitous stairs (not really) or, Heaven Forbid!, run away all together (we can only hope). After much screaming and running and full out sweating I come down to my room to get my phone to call Dawn and the little monster is just laying. On my bed. HEAD ON PILLOW.

I think these are the kinds of moments young mothers talk about when their child has just been discovered in the bathroom completely covered in a tube of Crest and they're written on the walls with your lip pencil and you just know it's going to take seven Mr. Clean Magic Erasers to make this all go away but they're grinning up at you beneath Whitening Sparkle eyelashes with such a look that you think
"if you weren't this adorable, surely I would murder you."

And that is exactly what this dog is capable of. He ate a kitchen fork. "But he looks so happy!". He tore apart Madison's homework. "He looks really sorry though!". He nearly caused a massive heart attack. "Clearly he was just tired and needed a place to lay down." This dog is the devil who's stolen my heart.

Seriously not a post for dudes

So I've spent maybe forty minutes today trying to figure out how to design my webpage and have come to the conclusion that it is Effing Hard. My only hope is to hire some small, experienced teenage boy to create my master piece in hope that he is willing to be paid in M&M's and a little eye flirtation because I don't know if you know this but student teaching doesn't pay well. As in, at all. As in I'm pretty sure it was designed by communists, but whatever, moving on.

What happens when girls are sitting at home with one giant task looming over their shoulders and absolutely no enthusiasm with which to complete it? We surf the net for our dream wedding items. Don't even lie, every chic knows she does this. And dudes, yes, your girl is included. She might have said, "I don't know babe, I thought I'd watch a Lifetime movie on my couch, maybe run to Payless for their BOGO sale" on a carefree Saturday, but nay...don't be fooled. She's totally Googling your future together and at one point was a mere click away from reserving a beach house in Brazil for her dream destination nuptials because she was really hoping by that date in 2012 you'd have already proposed. Does your girlfriend have the day off? Does she currently spend a lot of time at home on the weekends with "no real plans"? Welp, sucker, you've been warned.

ANYWAY my real point I'm trying to get at, in all of my Crazed Woman Googling, was the fact that I came across Vera Wang's website. Now, I stumble on her site maybe once every other year because for the most part I convince myself that "Vera is too cliche to get married in..OF COURSE people expect Vera...no no, I need something different" when the real truth is that even looking at her site is enough to make my bank account flounder into nonexistence and I can't be tempted to even make one more click on the A-line ball gowns. I can't. Baby Kittens in Africa die every time I click through her site, it's just that detrimental, I'm sure of it.

Alas, today I was so bored I did it and can I just say, Vera has gone a...different route recently. Maybe I'm just not hip. Maybe I'm not with it enough to find things that are truly fashionable to be so. I mean, I totally didn't get it when neons came back a couple of years ago and I am still grappling with the concept of witch pointed heels, something my closest friends pull off quite adorably I might add. So, maybe it's me. Maybe I'm completely off when it comes to Vera's ingenious creations.

HOWEVER, there is something...scratch that, SEVERAL THINGS so totally off putting to me about this.
Like the fact that she's clearly starving. And, do wreaths count as veils? Seriously? I mean, I always thought the conundrum was "To Veil or Not To Veil...that IS the question" when really, all along, it could have been "To Veil or To Use Backwoods Pine".
LASTLY...she's going straight from ceremony, to reception, to star in A Midsummer Night's Dream, right? This outfit is threefold.

I don't know. I just don't get it. And I'm pretty sure if Beth and Kelley saw me sauntering down the aisle (yes, clearly she is sauntering and pouting like all brides dream of on their big day) they would AUDIBLY GASP before ripping me from my groom's clutches and dragging me back to the dressing room with questions like,
"You didn't think you needed to brush your hair today, AT ALL?" and "A Wreath? Really, Ash? A WREATH??"

I have too much time on my hands.

The Public Education System has failed us:

"Macy's piano lessons begin the 21st of September. She has lessons for eight months. Which is the last month of her piano lessons?"

A. March
B. April
C. June
D. July

After much debate, I told Ryann to not answer this question and to please write next to it:
"This question is retarded" to which she promptly replied, "Ashley, I CAN'T write that" and thus, I leave it up to you to write to your governor and demand a FULL ACADEMIC REFUND on life.

Go ahead, what do you think the answer should be?


**Of course I would rant and rave and forget to put the right date in. Now, I look like less of an idiot. Let the critiqueing commence.

Being Home is Grrrrrrrreat

So I'm in the kitchen with my mother and I'm trying to do the National Geographic crossword while pretending to make conversation or at least pay attention to whatever it is she's talking about. The woman likes to talk about nothing important UNTIL she points out to me that googling the answers to my crossword isn't allowed. And I was all "Don't tell me the rules of googling my crossword, this shit is hard" and she was all "Your father thought he was a genius when he figured out he could google the answers to the TV guide crossword."

And she paused for several moments before continuing:

"Then he got creative and wondered what would happen when he googled "vagina" and thus was your father's discovery of internet porn."

And now I'm no longer in the kitchen pretending to make conversation with my mother.

"Never get married...or at least, if you do, buy a duplex"

I can't even put into words what it's like to have a conversation with 150 people ALL UNDER THE AGE OF 18 in one day. It's like speaking to brick walls of confusion.
Where the bricks stare back at you with questioning eyes and when you try and explain it further you're all "I just went over what that word meant...WHAT HAVE YOU BEEN PAYING ATTENTION TO?" and it's so freakin' obvious they've been trying to draw a penis on the neck of the person in front of them for the past eight and a half minutes and missed everything I just said but they can't seem to bring themselves to admit that, EVEN THOUGH YOU'RE NOT BLIND AND KNOW IT TO BE TRUE and so you stare at them and they stare back and no real words ever get exchanged.

Again, brick walls of confusion.

So I was ranting...seriously, ranting in the car to myself on the whole drive home with statements aloud to no one like,

"Don't tell me you'll do it for homework...what, like I give you time in class for my health?"
and

"No notes? I give you ONE homework assignment of taking NOTES and it's physically impossible for you to do that?!"
and my personal favorite,

"All my pens...gone. No one has a writing utensil...have stolen....ALL MY PENS."

And it was, of course, just then that I turn to my right at a stop light and see the most attractive individual just staring at me. That's right, staring at me while I talk to myself and no matter how much I smile and wave in my calmest, loveliest, I'm-not-crazy-really manner he just kind of looks horrified and pulls up his car the slightest bit so that we're no longer looking at one another.
You know, AKA THE CRAZY LADY BRUSH OFF.
And if just reminded me of this. And also, that I'll never date ever again in my current condition. Not even Mickey Fart Pants.

Homework Distractions

I have so much f'ing work to do. No, seriously, I do. I just looked at my list. I have to read Grapes of Wrath by tomorrow. Just, fucking, reading the whole damn thing like it's no big shake and instead, I'm watching The Ruins on HBO for the ONE BILLIONTH TIME.

Oh, haven't you seen The Ruins? The movie about four unsuspecting college kids traveling in South America when they happenstancingly wander onto some sort of Mayan Temple/Raiders of the Lost Ark/Goblet of Fire bullshit and are forced to stay because OH HOLY MOTHER OF THE LORD THEY TOUCHED THE PLANTS. The guards around the temple with their arrows lose their shit immediately and get all "Shoot her on my mark, she looks like she has a grass stain on her knee... we can't have none of that round here."

That's right, the bad guy in this film feeds off of: photosynthesis and your brain.
And, I mean, really the whole thing is just so ludicrous but I just keep watching in horror as one by one they get picked off by the vines that creep into your flesh in the middle of the night when NO ONE SHOULD BE SLEEPING ANYWAY but of course they all are. Truly, the film ends with more blood and gore than a Jason flick. I can't tear myself away. It's just that terribly, horribly, frightfully, awfully good.


(From left to right)
"I TOLD YOU NOT TO TOUCH THE PLANTS! They don't call it POISON IVY because Drew Barrymore was just THAT HOT in the movie!"

"I didn't mean to, it was an ACCIDENT. I don't know why you're so upset...I'm the blonde one, clearly I'm going to die first."

"Why am I washing her cuts while it's raining?"

"Ok, I know you said they were bad...but what about this one? Is this the type of weed I can smoke?....still no?...ok, I'll keep looking."

How the Harmonica Saved Me

My terrible day? INSTANTLY BETTER. Behold:



You can thank me later.
Or you can check her out here.

Getting fired from a job that doesn't pay me anyway

This year the high school I'm interning at made it to State Finals for Volleyball. I won't say which division or class, only that we went and it was great. Fans came from all over and for a girl who doesn't understand what it means when someone screams "Touchdown!" at any other sporting event, I feel like I held my own at this one. I got it. Don't let the ball go outside the square. Don't hit other players on purpose. You need to be tall to play. That kind of stuff.

No, the real error of my ways was going with the family I live with as the mother coaches the team and the father's sole purpose when sitting on the sidelines is to make crass comments and jump around nervously the entire time they're playing.

So, I'm sitting with the family and their family friends and all the kids and out of nowhere this guy dressed like a horse shows up as one of the mascots and the two year old that is sitting with us just FREAKS THE F OUT. Like, "Holy crap have you ever seen anything scarier than a man dressed like a horse? Wearing a JERSEY? IS HE WAVING AT US?!?! AND DAAAANNNNCCCCIIINNNNGGG HEAVEN HELP US NOOOOOOOOOO" and immediately is scrambling her way from adult to adult to get as far as possible from said horrific mascot five thousand feet away across this giant ass gym dancing with some old woman to "Eye of the Tiger" playing loudly overhead. We must vacate the premises.

So I volunteer to take her and I walk with her a few seats away. We bounce. We dance. She asks me repeatedly "when will he come over here, why does he like little kids, can't you make him LEAVE?!" (I wish I were exaggerating) and lo and behold some of my students from school sit right behind me while I'm in the middle of consoling. Not coincidentally. No, no. They've been stalking me. We'll go into that more later. What's important right now is that they sought me out so they could wave stupidly at me while I dance to Miley Cyrus with a toddler and they can giggle like kindergartners.

BUT THAT'S NOT EVEN THE WORST PART. The WORST PART is that the father of the family I live with see's this all go down and because he's CAPTAIN FUNNY PANTS looks right at the kids, smiles widely and says to them, "Didn't you hear? Ms. E has a kid. She got knocked up in high school."

Time stopped. It was like I saw the idea form in his head above his hair...like in a tiny "evil breeds here" bubble but could do nothing about it. His definition of funny is so DIFFERENT FROM MY DEFINITION and I just couldn't get the words out fast enough. I couldn't prevent it, it just happened he said it and suddenly I was SO ROYALLY FUCKED because doesn't he know that nothing...absolutely nothing in the world of 16 year old boy is a joke?!?!

If looks could kill that man would be 'fillet of asshole' on the planet Mars right now but as it is, looks cannot kill. I stopped midbounce, the toddler continues to writhe hysterically because if we're not dancing that must mean I've noticed the mascot on it's way to EAT US ALIVE and all of these teenage boys are laughingly hysterically at this shared information.

AND THEN I can't even do anything about it! My options are so limited! I COULD deny, deny, deny because HELLO IT'S NOT TRUE but they are just laughing so hard and I could rip the head off the perpetrator but God what a scene that would cause and you can only imagine how much the small child would lose her mind because she's sure fresh carnage attracts even more mascots from around the world, much like in every zombie movie where one signal can send them all rioting. So what do I do?

Nothing. I smile, shake my head, call my frenemy an 'evil fucker' under my breath the entire rest of the game and finally have a one on one conversation with the damned horse wearing mascot to vacate our immediate vicinity.
Today I was asked twice today to tell my daughter my students said 'Hi'. I'm so fucked. So completely fucked. So much so that I've "f-bombed" six times in this posting.

Three weeks left? I'll never survive. Never.
To top it all off? We lost the match.

Touchdown.

I carry your hearts with me

I'm busy. You're getting all "um, did you forget you have a blog?" and I'm like, "Dude, seriously, I just graded 58 papers on The Great Depression, I'm BUSY."

So I'm back for a moment and really the reason makes me almost ashamed. I was perusing ModCloth.com and they have this blogtastic contest going on right now for Thanksgiving where if you mention them and the people you're most thankful for in your life, you win some gift cards and I was like "I freakin' LOVE free stuff" but then I wanted to stick my whole, giant size nine "We call you Big Bird behind your back" foot in my mouth because, HELLO, giving thanks shouldn't be about getting. It should simply be about giving.

So here goes. I'm most thankful for my girls. I mean, yes, I love my family and my other friends and all the little blessings in my life but if someone were to pull me off the streets and ask me what helps me through the day, right AFTER I said "grilled cheese sandwiches" it would totally be my girls.

I love Beth and Kelley with a love that should be illegal. I honestly don't think I could survive without you. And I mean that because it wouldn't be surviving if you weren't around. It wouldn't even be living. It would be force fed, constantly state of monotonous couch sitting that people would come from miles around to see as I accumulate cobwebs in my ears that my mother was swabbing out when she remembered I was still sitting there. It would mean a machine that chewed for me. No more hair combing EVA. It would be "I'll never have another grilled cheese in my life again if I can just have them back" type of prayer around the clock.

You help me breathe. You help me succeed. You help me believe. You make my life better. Scratch that. You are my life.

I'm thankful for your souls.

And I'm totally taking you shopping if I win this Modcloth business.

Joy to the World

I was digging through my mom's mail the other day and I'm not ashamed to admit it. Frankly, my mail is boring. Yesterday I literally received a map of the U.S. in an envelope asking me to donate to some sort of wildlife fund and I was so excited about getting free stuff, I almost wet myself AND gave my entire life savings to the Polar Bears. I mean, this was even better than the time I got free baby formula in the mail and that was an INTERESTING day...both in the "Gifts I didn't expect to receive" and "How do I explain something like this to my mother?" categories.

Moving on. Whilst digging through her mail I realized that the madness that is Christmas Card exchanging has already begun. AND THAT reminded me of last year and how she pre-ordered hand selected cards with which she did not have to sign because our names were stamped on the inside.

I'm sorry, did I say OUR names? I meant to say, the names of my backstabbing rat faced family that did NOT put me on it. Apparently being 25 and still living at your parent's house isn't socially degrading enough...now I've been eliminated on the Christmas Card and have been replaced by our three labs (and if the hamster hadn't died so untimely, that bitch would have made it on there as well I guarantee you).

SO I've decided, fine. Be that way. I will make my OWN Christmas card this year and it will be so stinking fantastic you'll be jealous I didn't include YOU on the inside, let alone on my mailing list. Would you like a Christmas card from me? Let me know. I deny no one the gift of blessings during this glorious holiday season.

Fa-la-la-la-la-fa-fucking-la.....laaaaaaaaa.

Math can suck it

Turns out I might not have eighty posts. I don't know how this happened, I'm assuming blogger hates math as much as I do and one of us is wrong in our addition. Regardless, by now I'm sure many of you have sent me many "Happy Eighty Posts" day gifts and I just want you to know DO NOT FRET. I will still accept them, accurate counting or not.

Phew, huh? Sweet relief, I feel better too.

Numero Eighty-o

Eighty posts. That's obscene. Let's celebrate!

Today I started teaching the ninth graders a new book, one of which required that we take a look at the last 100 years of life. You know, a little fun history exercise and holy crap did they love exploring the U.S.'s past. I gave them the floor and suddenly found myself covered in dry erase marker smudges while running from one end of the board (1890) to the other (1995), trying to keep up with their frantic screaming of whats important enough to belong.
"Titanic! The first Wright Brother's Flight! World War I but please don't ask me what year that was I just know there was one! OH AND ABBA!"

And seriously, if you just let ninth graders take over they totally will. I had kids volunteering to carry my shit and wipe down the board and collect my quizzes and their participation was just through the freaking roof. It was seriously the MOST fun day I've ever had teaching and as the bell rang and they filed out, wishing "Mrs. E" a great day, my mentor teacher came up to me and smiling, said, "That looked like you had a lot of fun."

WITHOUT EVEN THINKING (because hello, it's me) I shout back at her in a fit of uncontrolled bliss, "Dude, it TOTALLY was!"

She blinked for several seconds, much like if I had spit in her cornea and she wasn't sure how to react next and it was in those few seconds that any shred of respect she had gained for me in that class session had disappeared in the professional world when I called her 'dude'. Nonetheless she shook it off, regained her composure and muttered, "Yes, well...I suppose that's good."

And I don't even care. I'm so freaking high off such a great class. I had kids coming UP TO ME. They were all "Hey, Mrs. E I read that book you were talking about and do you think I left my sweater here yesterday and I heard you told my best friend I put his name on all my vocab cards" and it was just such a connecting kind of day. You know? When students look at you and no longer see the weirdo who wears pencils in her hair and considers that 'business appropriate'? I'm no longer lame! Scratch that...I'm probably still just as much of a loser in their eyes today that I was yesterday. But today, I felt like their teacher. Their fun, 'Hey I might not hate English' teacher. And it's great. I'm pretty sure it's exactly how Obama felt four weeks into staying at the White House when he was suddenly all, "Holy crap...I'M the PRESIDENT". You know he had that moment. He had to. Today was mine. Today was my Obama moment.

Excuse me, I have to go now. I'm very busy and important being a teacher. Plus, I just downloaded all kinds of Abba.

Happy Birthday To Me

What I'm about to share might be too much. You may start this and go "Oh Jesus, if I had known she was in a dear diary mood I might have just spared myself from the beginning" and thus, if you do not care hear to me gripe and complain for however many paragraphs it takes to get this out, then please move on to candystand.com or something and waste your time there. If you decided to stick around, hold onto your hats. This one is a fucking DOOZY.

I do not talk to my father. Anyone who knows me knows that. The fact of the matter is that I do not like my father. I don't deem him a "nice" individual. He isn't kind. He's actually quite selfish. And mean. I could elaborate on those but I won't because I'm nice. Just know I have my reasons for decidedly not conversing with him. It saves everyone a lot of grumbling and fierce shouting in the long run. For the most part I live at my parents house and we just avoid one another at all costs. Like we're the others invisible counterpart. It works well.

Well. It DID work well. See, as much as I dislike my father, for whatever the reasons may be, I'm not cruel to him. If he asks me a direct question (which is rare) I will answer it. If he needs me to hand him a pencil, say, I will hand it to him (pointy side out) and if he were drowning in the backyard due to a sudden quick-sand portal that opened up where our septic tank used to be I would throw the guy a freaking rope. In the same manner, when it is Father's Day or his birthday or Christmas I extend him a card, a gift, a well wish. He is still family, family still deserve some perks of having to share a living space.

You might be able to see where this is going.
This weekend I went home to spend time with my family. I'm terribly homesick for my mother's ludicrous dogs and my flannel sheets and the way the house smells like feet and cinnamon potpourri (a special home creation)and so I went and the plan was to celebrate my birthday in the same manner that we celebrate everyone's birthday every year. A gift, a cake, singing, etc. Nothing elaborate. Hell, I'm 25. It's not like I need a clown (although I wouldn't object). I just need them.

And it didn't happen. It was supposed to but it didn't work out. My brother and my dad ended up working on Sunday and what should have only been a half a day job turned out to last until late in the evening until I had no choice but to drive back without seeing them. My mother and my sister sang to me over a pitifully delicious cake and took pictures of me crying because I am simply that pathetic. I guess I was looking forward to the celebration more than I thought. I guess I was considering how much we put into everyone's birthdays every year and just felt so jipped. So forgotten and it was silly of me to get so upset, especially since my mother and sister tried so hard, but I did. I cried uncontrollably in the car the entire ride to Kalamazoo. What was worse is that I didn't start crying, like full on rumbling tears, until I realized that they had made it home shortly after I left and still hadn't called me to tell me they were sorry. I think it was then that my disappointment grew to something so much more.

I love my brother. He may be 21 but he just a child and therefore perhaps doesn't realize quite yet just how much his actions hurt me. My father, however...well, get in the fucking game dude. Sure, maybe we don't talk. Maybe your selfish and cruel actions finally caught up to a point where you proved me right BY FORGETTING YOUR OLDEST DAUGHTERS BIRTHDAY?

Just, if you can for a moment, think back to the moment you wanted me. Think back to the day when you decided to be a part of my creation. When I arrived and you held me for the first time and you said to yourself, "she is going to be something great" and you realized that I looked more like you than I looked like mom and perhaps that thought gave you the smallest sense of pride. Maybe it didn't. Let's pretend it did. Let's pretend for a second that you celebrated that day, the day of my arrival, the day your life was changed forever. Conversation or not, I'm still your child. Relationship or not, you still owed me that phone call and apology.
The celebration of a life still deserves a birthday card.

Needless to say my father doesn't read this and I'm sorry you had to. Perhaps it's a bit hypocritical for me to expect anything. "You chose not to talk to him, what do you care if he gives you a card or calls?" and yeah, maybe you're right. Maybe I'm bringing about my own misery. Maybe this is part of the deal that comes with not speaking to your father and I should just face that fact rather than fight it or complain about it.

And perhaps another part of that deal HE should live with is that I'm so totally paying someone to shit in his Christmas stocking this year as an act of retaliation. Forget your daughter's birthday? Lesson: Learned.

Halloween can suck it

I hate costumes. This is why:


And this:


Why aren't I cute as a mouse? You don't EVEN want to see me with the tail on.

A Conversation with my Mother

Mom: "Ok I have to go. I got a concussion last night walking the dogs and it's causing me a lot of pain now."

Me: "Oh....uh, alright. Talk to you later."

Mom: "Sounds good. Oh and if I die and we can't talk later...well...then goodbye."

Me: "Really?"

Mom: "What?"

Me: "Those are your last words for me? If this is the end...goodbye?"

Mom: "What do you want from me?"

Me: "I don't know. ANYTHING but that?"

Mom: "Fine. If this is the end, please...I don't know, take care of your sister."

Me: "Awesome. Will do."

Mom: "Oh and the dogs."

Me: "The dogs that are the cause of your imminent death? Sure, no problem."

Mom: "I don't know what I'm supposed to tell you. I'm running out of time, I'm in pain, I have to go now."

Me: "Seriously, this sucks. At least tell me I get your jewelry, something!"

Mom: "You already get all my life insurance, it's in your name."

Me: "No shit...seriously?"

Mom: "I'm going now."

Me: "That is SO MUCH BETTER than your crappy ass jewelry."

Mom: "Love you too Ash. Bye."

End Scene.

My Parents and Yours

Today started out so lovely. I slept in. I got up and ate pizza for breakfast. I put on four day dirty clothes for optimal comfort and took up permanent residence on the couch with an orange juice to watch Sixteen Candles from start to finish, which, let's face it, never gets to happen. Always, ALWAYS, I turn on the television to catch it at the part where the Asian kid and his body-building girlfriend are on the exercise machine and while that's entertaining, it always irks me that I have missed my favorite part already - the school dance.
So I'm sitting, sipping, enjoying and my phone buzzes to let me know I have a text message and OF COURSE it's my mother who states the following:

i got a new phone with a keyboard! for more texting!

And I don't want to admit that I did this but let's just get it out there. I groaned OUT LOUD to myself the same way you might groan when you know that you have to start reading a manual for an electronic device or to build an IKEA bookshelf. It was SO LOUD. Exhaustingly loud, epically loud, "I'll bet they're going to make me read these directions in Spanish" loud and this is why.

The first text message my mother ever sent me was "Tori Spelling looks like a horse" and believe it or not, they have only gotten more absurd since that first one! Always with the questions and the useless information and suddenly, with a keyboard at her fingertips she is going to be worse than the mother on Everybody Loves Raymond who lives right next door because who needs geographical convenience when technology can make it seem like she's sitting right next to you ALL THE TIME. ALL THE TIME TEXTING EASILY.

The best part is she doesn't even wait for my 'oh so convenient' text reply and immediately calls me to inform me that her and my father are on their way to 7-11 straight from the phone store.

And don't I know that this phone is so neat because it looks just like a Blackberry without all the trouble of actually having to BE a Blackberry with all that 'extra junk I don't want to pay for anyway' and do I want to add someone to their circle of friends for unlimited calling (sidenote: the moment I realized I had no one to add because I only ever consistently talk WITH MY MOTHER) and the best news of all DAD GOT A BLUE TOOTH.

So if you go to your local 7-11 this morning for a Big Gulp and a Slim Jim and you see two individuals sitting confusedly in the front seat of a TrailBlazer, one of which is sliding her phone open and shut with sheer amazement like a toddler who has just discovered its hands and the other, with sweatpants undoubtedly up to his armpits, wearing a Blue Tooth headset but talking to no one at all, just enjoying the feel of it on his head: Yes. Fine. Those are my parents.

And don't FOR A SECOND start to think you should feel bad for me. Because it's quite possible that the couple in the next minivan over struggling with an iPod and whatever the heck these fancy mp3's might be, are your parents.

Let's see if we can ketchup

In five or less headings, shall we?

Teaching: Is going fine. Well, I suppose it's going fine. It's going fine in the sense that someday, when I have my own classroom, as long as I don't opt to put porn on the syllabus, I will be allowed to teach whenever and however I want and that is a freaking GLORIOUS concept. That is what keeps me going. Freedom. I count down daily actually: 55 more days in the classroom under the watchful eye of my mentor teacher who can spot a screw-up in my honor from four classrooms away and will make sure I hear about it, even if telling me means making me cry. WHICH I HAVE DONE. Like a weakling. I need to toughen up. I need to figure out the brass knuckles of the soul. How do you take a hit and just not care? I need life lessons from bad asses and street walkers. Drug dealers and dirty lawyers. When the world seems against you, how do you not end up crying in some terrible high school bathroom stall? WHAT IS YOUR SECRET???

New Website: Is in the future. 55 classroom days away, hopefully. I've come to realize that blogging is my outlet. I live for it, even if no one could care less what I have to say. Music and books: I live to recommend. Complaining: Is my forte. Admitting all my faults while staying mysterious to whomever reads this blog in Australia (hey, thanks by the way): I need it. I bought the rights to my site name (soon to be revealed but my GOD is it kickin) and am currently on the hunt for someone in the area who can teach me how to make an actual website. Please be patient for awesomeness. Just pretend it was like before Titanic came out to the theaters and you bought Seventeen magazine monthly for new shots of Leo and a quick clip about production and you truly thought the movie would NEVER GET HERE and suddenly it did and it was just as fantastic as you had hoped and really, the wait was worth it. Crap, was that just me?

New Tunage: Hit an all time high today. I literally walked around FYE (not my first choice but HELLO, I'm on the west side of Michigan, there aren't a lot of Empire Record-esque options out here) for two hours while the guy at the counter came to collect used cd's from my clutches occasionally so I wouldn't drop them. Clearly, this was just his ploy to get me to buy more because everytime I looked down I only had one or two in my hands but by the time I got to the register there were eleven discs waiting for me and I had to sheepishly explain I don't know how this happened. One iced coffee and the girl loses all of her wits in CD land. I narrowed my choices down to five: Bob Marley (Legend), The Stone Roses (The Stone Roses), The Black Keys (Rubber Factory) Ryan Adams (Easy Tiger) and last but certainly not least, REM (Out of Time). If you're sitting there comtemplating my list and trying to narrow it down to just one fantastic rock-out fest at a time, I insist upon The Stone Roses self titled album. I won't even get into the head-banging that happened in the car on the way home. "This is the One" - really is the one you've been waiting for. They know it and remind you constantly.

My Girls: I miss you. I know that we're starting to get back in the groove of weekly calls and I'm sorry I was MIA for so long but I literally couldn't talk to another soul at the end of every day save for the guy at Taco Bell who knew my order by heart and we needed no words, just a connection of eyes at the drive thru window. I hope beyond hope we do Minneapolis for Halloween again. I've been thinking about costumes since I started texting Kel this morning and have been thinking of epic trios we just might have to take on. Observe:

Three Little Pigs: If anyone can make a snout sexy IT IS US.
Alice, Rosalie and Bella: Kelley read that and spontaneously combusted. I just know it. I hope Target has a good cleaning crew.
Ron, Harry and Hermoine: FINE FINE, I'll be Ron.
Sex, Drugs, Rock'n'Roll: Can we just stop for a second to determine how awesome those costumes would be?
That's all I have for now, but trust me, I have faith we can recreate the crazy of last year, minus Beth asleep on a sidewalk, plus even MORE Jimmy Johns.

Books: Is this even considered a heading? IT IS TODAY because I am in the middle of Gargoyle by Andrew Davidson and never before did I think a novel that told the step by step recovery of a burn victim could be so enticing! Every page I think to myself, "My God will he be debridled again? Will he tell me more about his days as a porn star? (wow, porn mentioned TWICE in this post. Record made!) Will I learn even more about medieval Germany?" Do yourself a favor, do not Google Debridlement because frankly, the book descriptions are enough to make any stomach turn. Get the book, become enraptured, send me a thank-you note on personalized stationery. (I heart personalized stationery hard.)

The bolding of this post was insane. Sorry if the headings exceeded the limit. Pray for my soft-as-cheese soul and please send the name and number of any badasses you can recommend to toughen me up. It's a hardknocks life...well, according to Annie anyway. Perhaps that's what I need. A bad-ass, street wise orphan. My God, what has my life come to?

Workin' It

It has come to my attention that teaching is fucking hard. Like, ASTRONOMICALLY hard. Gigantically, humongously, earth-shatteringly, Oh please God what have I gotten myself into, hard. Yes, that kind. Where there's no escape. I could be sitting knee deep in a pile of mud out in the Amazon, getting ready to wrestle an alligator for my only child that he stole from my clutches while I was in the middle of an uphill marathon on the side of a mountain, right after getting a root canal minus the anesthesia and I would still say to myself, "Well, at least it's easier than teaching". It's THAT kind of hard. Drama-queen hard, if you will.

And it's not the material so much. It's not the kids who think they know more than you. It's not the getting up at 5 am and staying until 5 pm and having to guess what it is your mentor teacher is thinking at all times because she's not very good at oral expression. It's not even the fact that I have been wearing the same underpants for three days because I simply don't have time to wash any new ones. It's everything. And I just don't happen to be very good at everything.

Teaching is like being a parent, if you think about. You know how they say mother's have to be chauffers and chefs and mechanics and all of that garbage that we take for granted still today because they just have to be great at everything they attempt? Well, teaching is sort of like that except in the Extreme Sports area. Like, I can't just be a role model and an English expert and a babysitter at times. I have to be SO MUCH MORE AND IT'S KILLING ME.

Sprinter: For hall duty to catch those rat bastards who should still be downstairs at lunch instead of parading the halls in search of friends to bother.
Police Officer: To reprimand said rat bastard
Improv Actor: For when you look down to see that your lesson plan for the day has already run out and you still have nineteen minutes of class left and all you can do now is fake it. That's right. At least 30% of every lecture you've ever heard was a teacher going "oh crap oh crap" mentally and just plain out faking it on the outside.
Custodian: Because one sneaky heathen that I WILL CATCH is leaving his red gatorade bottle inconspicuously throughout the room everyday that I later find and recycle for him. I'm thinking about doing DNA testing.
IT analyst: For when your mentor teacher can't figure out where she's sending 90 pages worth of work when printing it. See Sprinter for when she wants it figured out quickly.
Personal Assistant: Because even on the THIRD DAY OF SCHOOL some kids refuse to turn their simple assigments in and if your mentor teacher is like mine and states that absolutely no one fails, it's YOUR job to track that kid down, give them a gentle reminder and then ride their ass every step of the way until they get it done.

and it's just all so overwhelming that when I think about how I want to be an actual mother and a teacher AT THE SAME TIME someday I almost start hyperventilating at the concept because I can't be the chef and the mechanic and the sprinter all at once and this will only end with me serving an unsuspecting student whole grain pancakes right on their desktop at school and yelling at my four year old when she walks down the hall to the bathroom because Doesn't she know she's not supposed to be wandering around after the bell rings?!?!

I love it. I know I do, despite all my complaining. Every day I leave and I think to myself, "Yeah, this was it all along Dumb Ass. Of COURSE this was it" but still. Overwhelming. Please forgive me if I forget your birthday (Scott) or sound confused when I answer my phone if you call. It's just that I don't know how to keep anything straight anymore.
And I kind of like it.

Where I Belong

Ok, so I know last night I was all 'Freak out!' and mopey and most of you were probably all "Ugh, cyanide and razor blades much?" but today was SO MUCH BETTER THAN THAT.

I mean, how could it not be?

Let's just say that we had our curriculum meeting for English Language Arts across the schools and it was just a giant gathering of women eating bagels and talking and I swear someone actually said

"My daughter-in-law is studying Library Sciences in Boston and I got to go on a private tour of the rare books...where I TOUCHED original works of Shakespeare and Canterbury Tales"

and like a well oiled freakin' nerdy ass book wormin' machine the entire room goes
"OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH" and I sighed contentedly to myself because, finally, FINALLY I have found a collection of people who understand me. Sure, I have girlfriends. The occasional other book-girl and Kelley is fantastic for a good rec but to be in a room with a ton of them at one time was just the mecca of gatherings in my mind.

From there one teacher asked me if I knew "What the fuck a nominative predicate" was and if I had read Olive Kitteridge this summer and we discussed how awesome it will be to teach Life of Pi to the 9th grade honors this year and I swear, I might have had an actual orgasm in line getting the bagels because the conversation was just that stimulating.

Well, that and nothing turns me on like an Everything with Shmear.

This is why I'm hot

I actually have no idea why I titled the post the way that I did. I'm currently wearing sweatpant capris and my 80's lovin'-exercise sweatshirt but that song is just on repeat in my head and well...there you go.

I'm pretty sure my life imploded within the last week. If you've been calling me (Scott, Beth, lady I sit for from my daycare...oh and my mom) and I haven't been answering or calling you back it's because I physically can't bring myself to talk anymore during the day. I've literally reached maximum capacity. My mouth is DARING my head to open up for yet another conversation just so when it does it will gain psychotic control and curse out at whichever unsuspecting soul is on the receiving end and is all "why did you just call me a rat faced goat farmer?" and my only explanation will be "I told you. I can't talk anymore. My mouth is psychotic. I shouldn't have answered the phone."

Really, I'm doing you all a favor.

There just gets to be a point in your week that you've undergone so much change it's exhausting to even think about any longer.
These past few days I moved back to Kalamazoo, into a house I've never lived in, with people I've never lived with, eating chicken I'm very unfamiliar with. I've started a job I don't really understand, am doing homework for brand new classes and Beth gave me two wonderfully new cd's and even that has me all clusterfucked up. I literally looked at the television I currently have on buzzing in the background this morning and said OUTLOUD LIKE A PSYCHOTIC PERSON WITH A PSYCHOTIC MOUTH
"It's weird to be able to see the whole screen when I'm laying down. My tv at home isn't like that...." and then *click*. I turned it off. Because it was different. And my mind simply cannot handle another iota of different at this time.

Not to say it's all bad. On the contrary. I love the house I'm living in. I love the family I'm living with and how freaking courteous they are of me and my space and I love having my own bathroom! I love the teacher I'm interning under...she says things like "Holy Canoli" and really, what's not to love about that? Classes aren't hard...sure they're new and different but not hard. It's just all very...different. No one is screaming at me about pants that got thrown in the dryer. Three 90 pound animals haven't tried to eat my new work shoes. No one's watching Judge Joe Brown. Have I mentioned the word "different" enough times yet? Are you getting the picture? I DON'T HANDLE CHANGE WELL.

DIFFERENTDIFFERENTSHMIFFERENTIWANTMYMOMMY.

So please, if you will,give me a while to adjust and I guarantee it will only be a matter of days before I share with you the wonder that is teaching ninth grade English. Also, please expect me to start using phrases like "Holy Canoli". OH and "Cat's Pajamas" because this lady is full of shit like that and I can't get enough.

Hocking Shit You Already Own

Tonight I'm feeling a little grateful. It just seemed that after a day where I must have said the sentence, "I'm going to punch you in the throat, child, I swear to Gawd," under my breath more times than I can count, it felt good to come home and have things just go right. Please allow me to be a little Oraph-esque while I while go into the lengthiest explanation of why you should own what you probably already own and if you don't why you should go out and buy it.


Windex
I shall begin with a side-note because this is my blog and I feel like it, dammit.

I took twenty three kids ages four to eight and a half bowling today with two of my coworkers. Thats a 1:8 ratio and in case you were curious, in a smoke filled, crowded, ugly-shoeed facility that ratio is OUT OF CONTROL. But fine, we made the best of it. We bowled!

(I didn't, good lord, my high is a 32 and I haven't bowled since then. I'm actually still trying to block out that drunken mess of an evening and how one swollen finger got stuck in one of the finger holes of a ball far too heavy for me and a friend of mine spent the next twenty minutes lubricating it with a beer WHICH IS NOT REALLY MEANT FOR LUBRICATION PURPOSES and asking me why I thought putting my thumb the smallest hole was a good idea in the first place...uuuggghhh. Side-note side-note over)

So the kids bowled. And one darling little girl is made of all sticks and twigs...you know, no body mass and kind of resembles Gumby and so I knew when she was kind of swaying drunkenly under the weight of her ball I should intervene but she kept SCREAMING at me over the blare of one thousand other children screaming that she "Can do it by MYSELF" and I watch the entire scenario go down as she shuffles onto the wooden bowling floor and slides in those horrific shoes they give you that are supposed to make this experience easier but I only ever witness twice as many people fall than not with them on and she literally WINDS UP by swinging it back and forth and every nerve in my body is cringing in anticipation as she swings back...forward...back...forward....back and just lets it go RIPPING IN MY DIRECTION until it makes direct contact with my leg and I feel like a victim in that film Saving Private Ryan as I lie on the floor sure everything from my knee down has been blown off by force and lord knows if we don't put that sucker on ice quickly they'll never be able to sew it back on, I know this because I watch ER and Friends reruns. You always put that amputated shit on ice.

Luckily I did not lose a leg, it is only severely bruised and sore and I'm pretty sure I have some minor cartilage damage. Nothing a little booze can't fix tomorrow night.

So, bowling ends and I come home and wash my face and take my hair down and put my glasses on and come face to face with the debacle I've been having for weeks. The fact that I did not buy scratch resistant lenses because, I don't know, I have waves of retarded frugal-ness when it comes to important things like my eyes but do not possess that same frugal-ness when it comes to my hair. $90.00 shampoo is totally worth it. Expensive glasses are for chumps. JUST SQUINT UNTIL IT BECOMES CLEAR.

Anyway, I'm fed up because someone in my family has also been very careless in that they have flecked toothpaste or soap or whatever on these same scratched up lenses that were lying on the bathroom counter and have become that much more blinding than before. It takes every last ounce of will in my body to drag myself downstairs to go clean them. I hate going to clean things when the cleaning supplies are ALL THE WAY downstairs. COULD THE DOWNSTAIRS BE ANY FARTHER AWAY? But I do it. I go downstairs. I coat both front and back of these suckers in Windex and rub them down and lo' and behold......THE SCRATCHES ARE GONE. It just turns out those scratches were the very evidence of my 'downstairs loathing' laziness. And so, it reminds me of that old guy in My Big Fat Greek Wedding who was always "put some Windex on it" when family members had zits and scratches or whatever and I was actually tickles by this concept. Put some windex on it. Put some windex on it. I squirted the kitchen sink that didn't even need cleaning. I squirted the counter. Stove top. My left arm. I squirted the cat.

And just for good measure, I then Windexed my horrific bowling leg accident. I'll let you know how it heals.

Hibernation

Please observe my sister:

Yes, that's her in the pile of innumerable (that's a word, right?) comforters and blankets along with the cat. This picture was taken at exactly 12:20 p.m. after I came back from the grocery store.

I don't mean to brag but I've been up since 6:30. I've made and drank eight cups of coffee. I've taken a shower. Done some homework. Cleaned my room. Surfed the entire website of Etsy.com. (Bought a really cute laptop bag). Bought all the ingredients for worms and dirt to make with my campers tomorrow morning. I've even let the dogs out once to pee and have a drink of water from the toilet NO SMALL FEAT I MIGHT ADD YOU'RE WELCOME MOM.

And she has slept through ALL OF IT. Not even like "hey, I'm up to have a pancake and back to snooze." Seriously, sleeping. I sang along to Leeann Rimes in the shower this morning at my peak vocal capabilities (high soprano, DUH) and still, nothing.

And all I'm saying is that this is no different from yesterday and I would bet my entire book collection...the ESSENCE OF MY SOUL...that this will occur again tomorrow. So help me God, if she goes back to school this fall and begins her "What I Did This Summer" essay with anything but the sentence "Slept as much as possible without being in a drug-induced coma" I will march straight here from Kalamazoo and rip that Hello Kitty pencil from her clutches. Then, I will snap one of those nose covering masks over her face representing the major role she could play in Pinocchio and scream out at the top of my lungs "COOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMAAAAAAAAAA" leaving an entire classroom full of eleventh graders awestruck.
Because, that too, will be in high soprano.

EPIC POST for epic love

I don't really know how to start a post involving my girls. I know in my head I should just keep it simple. "Hey, Kelley was here this weekend and we had fun drinking and eating and more drinking and giggling like little girls. I hope you all had a glorious weekend as well."

Except, it can never be that simple. Spending time with those girls is like spotting Barack Obama in a coffee shop and sitting down with him for a minute to shoot the shit and the entire time you're in your own head going, "OMGOMGOMGBARACKOBAMA" but trying to appear all cool and the second he leaves you literally stand up and scream out so that everyone in Starbucks is staring at you because it was just that thrilling and you'll never forget that moment ever in your entire life ever, ever.

That is what spending time with my girls is like.
So like all posts, lets start at the beginning.
Kelley got in super late on Thursday evening and while the hole in the wall bar she had us meet at was awesome to a point the real fun did not begin until Friday when Beth and I drove up to Clarkston to spend the night with her. We made margi's. Ordered pizza. Drank the margi's. Nom'ed the pizza. PLAYED TWILIGHT THE GAME AGAIN. In case you were wondering, no matter who you play that game with, it will always be fucking ridiculous. As Beth soon discovered:

Long, terrible, excruciatingly terrible story later Kelley cheated her way to victory:

and we called it a night.
The next morning after a fantabulous breakfast made by her daddy, we went home to rest up for round two. Hey, here's a fun fact! I got a haircut!

Please enjoy the sleeky, smoothness that is this coif because it will never look this way again. I have no freaking clue how to use a roundbrush and all you ladies out there who understand my problems with the blowdryer/brush in both hands while styling a masterpiece at the same time, holla at your girl because trust me I FEEL YOUR PAIN and have since looked like a little Asian boy with shaggy hair since this picture was taken. It's a learning process, let's hope when I get students in a few weeks they will find it in themselves to call me Ms. Earp even though I clearly resemble more of a Mr. Kim.
For evening round two we went to Royal Oak and had Margi's again! And Mexican food! We traipsed it up to Woody's with Matt and Mark and got good and drunk, rounded the evening off with a trip to a bakery where we ingested cookies like cyclones in Kansas and fell asleep promptly on Beth's floor. Oh, excuse me. For some reason I was feeling all "The floor with this awesome little yoga mat will be perfect" and the girls were, very hesitantly all "uh, ashley, are you sure?" and I'm all "yeah yeah it's great" and then slept not at all while Beth's cat loomed over me from her bed and stared until I had convinced myself when my eyes closed she was going to come over and suck my brains out of my nose. The Damned Cats can do that, you
know. Also, I'd like to introduce you to that which is Ashley's Drunk Paranoia.

But really, the whole point of the weekend was before all of this drunken happiness even occured. Saturday at exactly 4:45 pm we sat side by side with Diet Cokes and candy in hand (kelley spilled about sixteen pounds of Mike and Ike's EVERYWHERE BEFORE IT EVEN BEGAN, but, I digress...) and watched the one and only movie we've been waiting for since it was a sparkle in Brad and Jen's eye.
The Time Traveler's Wife. And every moment of Eric Bana's bare ass was totally worth the wait. Seriously, the man at any age is a heart breaker. I'm contemplating renting the attrocity that is Troy again and watching it tomorrow strictly because my new found crush on him has left me dreaming in mesh. He's wearing golden armor and suddenly disappearing bare assed into the night. Fighting with his punk ass brother, convincing his six year old wife he really can travel to the future. It's confusing and yet erotic. I need a better handle on that is Eric Bana and yes I mean that kind of handle. HA. Get it?
Seriously though, the man is smoking. Moving on.

Because we are who we are, the weekend ended epically. Beth did the impossible, at least, impossible in that I have NEVER ever succeeded in doing what she did today effortlessly. Please observe:


I miss them already. I was grouchy the second Kelley dumped me off in my driveway after a rousing car ride of Mama Mia soundtrack singing and have been sour ever since. Coming off 'Girl Time High', I'm pretty sure, should constitute some time in rehab but whatever. I'll just take my aggression out on some unsuspecting eight year old during dodgeball tomorrow. I love you girls. I miss you like crazy even though we talk four or five times a week about absolutely nothing. Lovelovelove.

How I spent my Day

Today was awful. I mean, I normally start every post with "hey, by the way, today sucked" but in general I did way more today that I disliked than on a regular basis. Really stupid stuff, like took our three labs on an EPICALLY LONG WALK and then bathed them immediately after, followed by sit ups in the driveway on a balance ball for all of our neighbors to witness. However, I'm taking a different path today. I won't tell you how terrible it was. No, no. Today you get to witness it first hand on your own.

Try not to throw yourself at the screen when you witness the hotness that is me post exercise and washing a dog:



THEN because Jeff bought me Twilight the Game, Afton and I had to play it. Can I just say that if you saw the movie and thought it was retarded and a complete waste of your time, the game is even more so. It is like a vortex of confusion that sucks you in and there's no end and the whole time you're playing you're going "I thought this was a GAME. Aren't games supposed to be fun? What part of playing a game makes you want to stab yourself repeatedly?" and the answer to that would, of course, be The Twilight Game. Observe and again, I'M LOOKING SMOKIN, try to control yourself.



Let's just say I won and the game was put promptly under my bed until I can somehow trick my brother into playing with me one day. Not for his pleasure. For my own, torturous enjoyment.

Failure is not an Option

The other day someone from work asked me to describe my mother. Actually the conversation was more along the lines of watching this terrible kid in my class defiantly give me the face of "piss off" and ran when I told him he was in need of a timeout. One lady was all "oh, my mother would NOT let me get away with that crap" to which I replied, "My mother left my sister in the parking lot of Walmart once as a form of time out." There was a long pause and before I realized that I had made Mrs. Earp out to be a parent worth of a visit from the Department of Child Welfare she turned to me and warily asked, "...wow....what's your mom REALLY like?"

How does one describe their mother? I've been thinking about it for the majority of my day and I'm still having a hard time coming up with the answer. Can any explanation really give your mother justice? Does the statement 'pick three describing words' tell anyone about the time she almost beat up a foreigner in a Subway over some napkins and a skinned knee?

Perhaps an ode or poem can capture the way she fell in love with a Celine Dion CD when I was sixteen and played it incessantly until I realized that perhaps going away to college the next year didn't sound like such a terrible idea after all?

No, no. Instead I said the first thing that came to my mind. "My mother is a Hit the Bricks kind of lady" to which my coworker asked, "like...she's on the run from something?" Befuddled I took a second and came back with, "I'm sorry, I thought that phrase meant Get out of my way before I hit you with this Brick. That's a more appropriate representation of my mother."

ERRRR let's try this again. This is my mother:


I won't even go into how much more she loves that dog than anyone else in my family. Really, it's a whole new level of bitter I'm coming to terms with.
I guess the best way to describe the aforementioned woman is, maybe, failure is not an option? Is that a description of a person? Because I mean it in many different ways, this being one of them:

My mom has this friend at work with terrible kids. Two teenage daughters that are relentless in their terrible habits and shenanigans and the eldest so outrageously slutty that she got her cell phone taken away for sending pictures of her bits and pieces (yes THOSE bits and pieces) to boys via text and THEN when she couldn't get her correspondence done any longer with her newly confiscated piece of technology she took HER MOTHER'S phone in an act of retaliation...took a picture of her ass in a thong and sent it to everybody with a penis that she knew. THAT kind of horrible. Perhaps you have a kid and they never clean their room or have a bad nose picking habit or what not and you might say to yourself regularly, "lordy my child is plum awful" but that would be nothing...that would PALE in comparison to this woman's whore hounds.
And so my mother turns to me after telling me this story and simply says (cocktail in hand, mind you):
"At that point I would realize I had failed as a mother. And I hate failing. It would be so upsetting to me that I would drag you all into one room with no windows and explain to you that I'm really sorry that this didn't work out, that I didn't do better or whatever and gas all of us. Me for failing and you all so that you never reproduce and create others stupider than yourselves."

That is what I mean by the idea If My Mother Were A Phrase she would be "Failure is not an Option". Because if she did fail she would clear out the evidence or rid herself entirely so she'd never have to hear about it.

If she were a drink she'd be Vodka and Club Soda with a twist of lemon. If she were a song she'd be something that began with The Platters, ended with Lil Wayne and met in the middle with our friends Celine and Shania. If she were a book she'd be 101 Bathroom Jokes for Friends and if she were a movie she'd be the kind that you cried really hard during but ended with a terrible joke that made the entire emotional ordeal well worth it.

She's really obscene. Really loud at inappropriate moments. Really drunk occasionally and really hates hugging but will hold your hair if you're puking even though she'll tell you the entire time she really hates that as well and might remind you about that time she did what she really hated because she loves you JUST THAT MUCH over and over again once you're feeling better. She's really a survivor. Above all, she's real.

And if she were a color? Something like rust; like a combination of dirt from working and longevity and being worn down but relentlessly holding on. She teaches me daily Failure is Not an Option. It will get better. Do not give up and when it gets really hard, please meet me in the kitchen so I can tell you the words again out loud with a much needed glass of wine.

Perhaps this was an Ode to My Mom. In hopes that one day, she never has to gas me.
I love you mom.

Clinton and My New Boots

Today is an odd sort of day. Absolutely nothing has been making sense. It was breezy and yet unbearably humid to start which made for a great head of hair in the morning followed by a ludicrous head of knotted hay by midafternoon. I got plenty of sleep and yet rocked a headache like nobody's business which has left me feeling fatigued and irrate. Bill Clinton freed some individuals from North Korea and yet I'm having an ankle boot conundrum that has absorbed more attention in my mind than it should have today. So I suppose I should just start where I start and let it be what it shall be.

The following conversation happened on my facebook today. Please observe the madness that is the female mind that all began because I cannot bring myself to buy a horrendously expensive pair of boots without Kelley's opinion and asked for her said opinion last night,which prompted the following:

you bring up an inner dilemma i face often. the ankle boot. am i a fan? absolutely not. are they cute on some? yes. most? no. i feel like in order to pull them off you must A. be on a runway (read: pole thin and pasty white and attractive in a bizarrely unattractive way) or B. be pole thin and mega trendy and pasty and have a super angular haircut that looks stupid, except on you and be attractive in a bizarrely unattractive way.

when paired properly they posses an almost mythical power to look AMAZING, but in general i hatey hate hate.

sorry to kill your dreams love. ps i'm gonna be there in like, two weeks...can you even handle that????

of course, because when one of us cries out in pain, another will answer and the third will feel it in her bones that there are happenings going on without her like a witch of Eastwick, so Beth decided to throw in her two cents:

The elusive ankle boot....it's always just out of reach.
ps. love.

followed four minutes later by:

Ok sorry I just actually LOOKED at the boots on Kelley's wall.

If you're not buying them I am.
Actually, would you mind if we both had them?
They are too amazing NOT to look perfect on us, no?

So, of course, I'm torn between my girls like a lover between Edward and Jacob. TO BOOT OR NOT TO BOOT FOR THE LOVE OF JESUS? I love them but HELP ME OUT HERE.
And then, just to make matters a little more interesting, Kelley followed up:

now i feel like the evil boot hater. i'm sorry, i wasn't implying they wouldn't look good on YOU (or Beth...you too love)...just that they're tricky. when wrong...it's like the Canklites from Caklonia (it's a real live place i swear) knocked on the door of whomever got them wrong, schmucked them over the head tied them down and inserted a bike tire pump into their calves and pumped until the ankle region is as large as their knees and left them to wallow in their cankle-ness. that's all. :) not that they find EVERYONE...just those who are unaware of their existence is all.

If you think you're confused, please just go ahead and ask me how long I spent trying to do research on a place called Caklonia and THEN ask me how long I spent sitting on my bed with my feet stretched out before me, one sock on and one sock off asking my cat "these aren't cankles, right?" before giving up all together and opting for ice cream with my sister. Clearly THAT will solve all of my cankle problems.
I'm no closer to boot problem when I see the girls have taken the conversation into their own hands by posting on Beth's wall:

PS...your hair is black again?!?!? how did i not know about this??? i feel like you just told me you went off cheese.

HELLO?? WHO THE FUCK IS GOING TO HELP ME WITH THE BOOT PROBLEM? BETH RESPONDS:

It's not black, really...its actually the EXACT color of Ashley's right now. We were at dinner last week and realized that we are hair twins. Those last pictures that were posted were taken the day I got my color refreshed, which in fact makes it look much darker than it actually is.

I would never color my hair black, or go off cheese, without informing you.
Absolutely can't wait to see you holy crap.

If you can picture me sighing heavily in exasperation, please do so. Yes, yes, we are ADORABLE hair twins and thank Jesus no one in my immediate group of friends has stopped eating cheese. SERIOUSLY THOUGH. THE BOOTS. YAY OR NAY.

I love my girls a retarded amount. Only that love will carry me through the fact that not only am I questioning the size of my ankles because of them or the ankle boot as a whole, but also the serious repercussions of eating cheese and having black hair. I'm pretty sure I love cheese. I'm also pretty sure I've been so close to black at times I could have been Morticia Addams. Were these mistakes?! What else am I possibly doing wrong? WHERE IS CAKLONIA?!

To top it all off Bill Clinton went and got that Asian actresses' journalist sister from North Korea today and I couldn't help but be all "fantastic for you B.C. but I hope you scoured a few of their terrible, rat infested, sweat smelling gonorrhea breeding prisons for some other equally innocent American citizens before your photo op. and run back to the states," because...I KNOW I should be happy. He did a good thing. A great thing. And if she hadn't been related to the Asian actress with the great ass who starred in Kill Bill opposite Uma Thurman I doubt she would have been rescued at all. And that, my friends, is what I like to call: horse shit.

Someone please remind me politics and cheese should never go in the same blog post.

Confidentiality Blows Me

I wish to God that I could post one of the pictures I took of my students today.
Apparently there's this like, unspoken craptastic rule where you don't post pictures of other people's small children on the internet without their permission.

Therefore you will just have to imagine the shot I got of one five year old boy sitting upside down on the classroom bowl chair during silent reading today. There are like, sixteen other kids peering at his face while my coworker is using our first aid kit tweezers. on his nose.

TO REMOVE THE LEGO HE PUT UP THERE.

Oh yeah, this actually happens. Like not just in movies on the Disney Channel. But in my life. Apparently, more than once, albeit the last time it was a raisin but still. I can only imagine the number of times it will happen again. What creative objects kids will think "this would go GREAT in my nose" are in my future? Magic Eight Ball, BRING IT ON.

Confessions of a Shopaholic

And I buckled. I came across this little gem on the internet early this morning and since I was still in a sleeping-pill-induced-coma-like-did-i-really-just-have-a-dream-about-scott-baio-and-a-peacock kind of state, I saw this dress and was all "Oh sweet Jesus, how did I live without this before?"

You know what the problem with women and shopping is, don't you? It's the daydream. The point where you come across a beautiful piece of fabric or great heel and before you can say "cease and desist spontaneous combustion" your mind has wandered to the perfect event to wear that exact thing. Like this dress. I saw it and said to myself,
"That would be the perfect thing to wear in Tokyo. Like, if I were there with my husband(HA) and had my long hair (which I don't have) pinned up all messily and was sporting some really great low heeled boots (which I also don't have) and we sipped saki (which I hate) from the balcony of our incredibly expensive hotel right before we went out for sushi and karaoke with his business partners. I have to have this, clearly."

So if, in fact, you come across me in the near future wearing this dress trying to awkwardly act like I bought it specifically for the bat mitzvah we're attending together please do us both a huge favor. Bid me a friendly "konichiwa" and be on your way. The dream is always better than the reality.

I AM your Dojo Master

Today we took fifteen kids to martial arts class as a field trip for our summer camp.
Which means that someone...SOMEHOW SOMEONE felt it was a wise idea to load fifteen kids into a bus and trek them into downtown Rochester for one hour to learn how to kick and punch and yell "YAHHHHHH" like barbarians over and over and over again just so we could load them back into the bus and head back to school.

You know, so I could say things over and over the rest of the afternoon like "please don't kick your neighbor during silent reading" and "I don't care if you're trying to break that block of wood with your miniscule fingers, sit down" or my personal favorite
"You cannot karate chop someone else's ass crack, now you get a time out". In more or less words.

Exhausted. Hiya!

I've been angered...

and it's time to bring the wrath. It was like my brain imploded this evening with things I've seen on my useless night time tv watching and I just couldn't take it anymore.

Talking Guinea Pig Movie: Are you KIDDING ME? I mean, I come from a family where everyone went to see Alvin and the Chipmunks the movie and I cannot, CANNOT, fathom who put millions of dollars into graphics and high pitched squeaky voices to do that travesty ALL OVER AGAIN. I just saw the commercial where they all chant together "poop in his hand, poop in his hand!" and I was angered on so many different levels. Now, I will take my hatred for this movie out on innocent family guinea pigs. Hide your pets, Ashley is coming to take them out of their adorable, miserable existences. Just like this poor bastard:


My Email shit the bed: Like, twenty minutes ago for absolutely no reason.
All of the sudden it's like "oh you want to reply to that person? Thanks but no thanks, try again later. What? You have an assignment due TODAY before midnight that relies on sending via email? You'll pull out every hair on your head in frustration to get this done? You're currently screaming out 'WHY ME HOW DOES THIS EVEN HAPPEN' over and over again like a lunatic while your cat buries itself further into the abyss of your covers so that all you'll be left with is a six pound pile of fur under there before the night is through to get all up in your toes while you sleep, all because I'm not working? It really is a shame. TRY AGAIN LATER."

All of my socks are missing: Just, all of them. Up and fucking left. Grew feet with socks of their own, took one look at the miniscule, child like dresser drawer I've been keeping them in ever since I moved back into my old room...the same dresser I've had SINCE I WAS BORN...and were like "wow this sucks, I'm going to go take up residence somewhere else...hey, how's the dogs stomach looking these days?" and my feet are freezing. yes, it is july but i LOVE sleeping in socks. More importantly, I love knowing where my shit is. Do you have my socks? If you do, I suggest you run because I will hunt you down, i will take them back. Best hide your guinea pig with you, wherever you go.

ABC Family and their incessant need to be retarded:
Who the hell is working for the chumps on this tv station? Seriously, they got together and were all "hey what are some crappy teen movies from nine years ago? How about an even worse teen movie from only three years ago? Let's make tv shows out of them!" Everytime I turn on the tv I'm blinded by terrible acting on '10 Things I Hate About You' the show SANS HEATH LEDGER (is that even legal?) or the show with the gymnasts. The gymnastics movie was TERRIBLE. AWFUL. I can't even describe how bad it was. And now, it's on once a week right after that OTHER terrible show, Secret Life of An American Teenager where the title is too f'ing long and it's a total rip off of Juno without actually being funny at all. The only good thing about that show is the main character's bangs, they're actually quite adorable, but other than that it's crap. Complete crap. I mean she named her baby 'John'. What sixteen year old do you know is going to have a baby in high school and decide "John" is the best choice for him? If my sister had a baby tomorrow, even with my mother screaming down her neck about how she's completely ruined everyone else's lives ever for the duration of eternity, she would still muster up the creativity enough to name him Rainn Patrick Brigadoon. Because she is SIXTEEN. THAT'S WHAT A NORMAL SIXTEEN YEAR OLD WOULD DO.

Lauren Conrad's crapasaurusrex of a book hitting the Best Seller List:
I can't even touch this one. I want to. TRUST ME I am reaching out with my teeth and claws ready to tear this sucker apart and yet something in the back of my mind tells me to stop. I have a feeling unleashing the anger I have for this one would be like when the electric fences stopped working in Jurassic Park. Instead, just picture that scene with those adorable, tiny, unsuspecting kitten like dinosaurs screwing with Newman in that film and he's finally trusting them and then they open their horrendous mouthes and out comes rancid poison that burns the flesh from his entire body and then they devour him. That's me and Newman is Lauren Conrad and her book.


I feel better. Mildly. Kind of. My email still wont work and there is still crap on television but I also feel like I brought you down a little bit with me. And I'm cool with that.

Straight from my Inbox:

Kelley and I have been talking recently about a trip to Europe. Where and when we're not really sure but there are a ton of things we'd like to see and do and we've been shooting eachother the occasional 'Omg can we do THIS in Italy?' texts and emails throughout the week that keep us constantly pumped up, Arnold style. It wasn't until I read the following email from Kel that I realized how serious she is about going. See if you can figure out what she's most excited for:

There is NO ONE ON THIS PLANET I would rather ride a tandem bike in France with while chanting "je voudrais le frommage, et beacoup de vin, s'il vous plait!!" Versailles?? Hello!!

Can you imagine us in Italy....with our dark hair and overall loveliness....the men will fawn, we will marry and move there and eat pasta all day long.

Then how about Spain? Men in tight pants and short jackets encouraging angered bulls to charge them! HOT! (note to self: look for sturdy sinks).

Prague? Sophistication, classiness, adorable outfits. I'm in heart.

We could drop in on Vienna and Salzburg and pay omage (sp?) to Julie Andrews and the Sound of Music, charming little Austrian towns that we could EASILY grace with our presence.

How do you feel about Portugal? Kind of wanted to see it ever since the adorable girl in Love Actually said "just in cases". Agh.

Switzerland? They specialize in chocolate and fondue. CHOCOLATE AND MELTED CHEESE. I rest my case for reasons to visit.

This WILL happen...it's just a matter of when. I like your idea to use a travel agent as well...i'm looking at the EuroTrain info and not gonna lie...kind of confusing. It would be a huge comfort to have someone tell me the deal. Love it. Let's chat more about this plan.

I love you like fat kids love cake.
Love,
Me

Kelley Greeley | Senior Business Analyst | Electronics ||Target.com |33 S 6th St Minneapolis, MN 55402

If I'm not mistaken she wants European men and food SOON. Honestly, I can't argue with her. I would die to see all of these things with as many of my friends as I could find. Please locate your passports pronto and let me know if the European Man and Food hunt is on your agenda for 2009-10. And if not, no worries. More wine and cheese for us.

The story behind Kelley needing sturdier sinks to follow soon.