Day of (Blog) Silence

August 31, 2005

Today my thoughts and prayers are with the people whose lives have been upset and/or devastated by Hurricane Katrina, as well as with those who are risking their own lives to bring said people left in her terrible wake a modicum of safety and comfort.

Seriously, this is just heartbreaking to watch unfold. My deepest sympathies are with all y’all.

Except for ending slavery, fascism, Nazism, and communism, war has never solved ANYTHING!

August 30, 2005

Okay, besides the “fanatical television snarking” and the “random bitching and moaning,” I also promised “questionable political analysis,” so I am just going to go ahead and blurt this out:

Cindy Sheehan? SHUT. UP.
Liberty cannot exist passively. By all accounts, your son KNEW this.
The Grief Pimping must stop.
Go home, woman, and get the grief counseling you so desperately need.
Oh, and stop slamming American Idol, yo? I mean, honestly.

That is all.

The kids are home.

August 29, 2005

The house may still be in a state of disarray, the pictures may not be hung yet, the TV and DVR may not be installed yet, the master bedroom closet may not be built yet, but we will make do!

The kids are home.

The girls may have nary a stitch to their names, as TGIM accidentally up and left one rather large, unchecked, slightly vital piece of luggage (a suitcase stuffed chock-full of ALL the girls’ clothes, including their brand-spankin’-new school clothes!) sitting on the curb of Sky Harbor Airport– with not even a SCRAP of identification on it WHATSOEVER! I’m so serious! NOTHING! NADA! NO ID! It’s totally been stolen or, I don’t know, blown up by airport security by now! MY DAUGHTERS WILL GO NAKED!– but no matter!

The kids are home.

We may have received incredulous stares– not to mention a much-appreciated brief smattering of applause– from weary travelers waiting for luggage in Baggage Claim Area 13 at BWI Airport, as my daughters entertained us with an extremely loud, harmonically correct, heartfelt performance of “Angel of Music” and “Phantom of the Opera,” complete with snippets of dialogue from the movie. In stereo. Oh, yes. Wait. Did I mention the LOUD part? Because OMYGAWSH. A much aggrieved TD looked on in disgust: “See, Mom?! They did this THE ENTIRE TRIP!”

The kids are home.

I believe the BBQ grill may have broken my foot, when just as I shouted “Watch your feet!” to TD (who was helping me and TGIM haul its gazillion-pound bulk up the stairs of our new home’s deck), I– in fact– was not bothering to watch my own. But it will heal! It didn’t bleed for too long! And the colors of the bruising and swelling? PRETTY! Looks good with flip-flops!

The kids are home.

I am cooking for five again, instead of two, so I’m pretty sure I’ll put back on those five pounds I lost this summer, but my clothes will still fit! Just tighter! No biggie! Buns? Still STEEL! Just… bigger!

The kids are home.

Last night as I kissed the girls and put them to bed, then climbed up into TD’s behemoth loft-bed impressively assembled by yours truly (with crucial assistance from that European jet-setter Kalki and her twin-bed loving, “geek-genius husband”), and I watched his sweet little eyes flutter shut, and I turned to gaze at the ceiling (which, incidentally, was a mere five inches or so from my face– behemoth, I tell you! GOSH!), and I stretched and sighed– you know, a deep, heavy sigh from the very depths of my heart and soul— it was then that I realized that finally? Finally, y’all? I could BREATHE.

Who knew I was holding my breath?

The kids? They are home.

And people ask why I gave up teaching…

August 26, 2005

At around 6:30 A.M. yesterday I received this picture on my cell phone:


Whoops! Hee hee, sorry! Didn’t mean to scare anyone! Should have flashed some sort of “BEWARE: Graphic, Scary-Ass Image!” warning first, eh?! Much like this guy should have done for ME, because this picture?– aptly entitled “facial tatoos” (yes, spelled incorrectly)– scared the living bejeebies out of me!

Everyone, meet Tom. Tom, everyone. Tom is a former student of mine, a graduate of my illustrious Basic English Skills for Dirtheads class (a class which incidentally caused me so much grief I could write POSTS and POSTS about it! and probably will! after therapy!), and– boy oh boy!– I obviously taught him a BUNCH. Except, of course, that friends don’t let friends tattoo drunk. You would think after the TWO (junior AND senior) years he spent in my class he would have learned this basic rule. I mean I usually slid that lesson right smack between Fundamentals of Grammar and Usage and the unit on Story Mapping, but thinking back maybe he was absent that day? Or high? I guess we’ll never know.

So, after receiving this lovely morning pick-me-up, I TM-ed Tom right back. I should add that Tom lives in Arizona, so it was around, oh, 3:30 A.M. his time. Yes, I am EVIL. I believe my exact words were (wait, let me consult my cell phone archives…), ah yes, “GAH! Holy God! WHAT, I mean WHO the hell is THAT?!” Because, quite honestly, I didn’t recognize him. I am still having a hard time recognizing him. I mean, look at that face! The boy did not LOOK LIKE THAT the last time I saw him! He was a cutie once! For teenaged jailbait, I mean! Stop looking at me like that!

Amazingly, Tom was awake. Well, I assume he was awake, anyway. I don’t know. Thing is, when I get a TM, I usually have no idea. My phone will beep one time, one little blip, and I usually don’t even notice. It’s pretty pointless to TM me actually. I won’t get it for hours. Or days. If EVER. Last week I found one from TGIM that read, “I’m at the airport. Pick me up.” It confused me. I turned to TGIM and said, “You’re at the airport?”

But I digress. My point is unless Tom has his phone set to, I don’t know, RING or something when he gets a TM, he must have been awake. This, my friends, is what we educators call “deductive reasoning.”

Almost immediately I got a reply: “LOL its me, tom.”

I was understandably shocked, and responded accordingly: “NUH-freaking-UH! Wait. Are those PERMANENT?!” (Note my use of proper punctuation and capitalization. TM-ing is hard when you’re anal, yo?! Takes me forever, that’s all I’m saying.)

“Yep y woldnt they be” (OMG. I failed as a teacher.)

“U crazy, boy! Go back 2 sleep…” (I was getting my TM groove on… look at those hip abbreviations! Gosh! I was just itching to use something like “‘Sup, sk8er?” or “U R kewl”!)

“Haha heck no those arnt real, do u think im that dumb?” (sigh)

Okay, I admit it. I thought he was that dumb. In my defense, this is the kid who wrote a paper about accidentally setting himself on fire when he threw a bundle of firecrackers into a bonfire at a kegger, and the hilarity that ensued as he was tackled and rolled around in the dirt by his fellow partygoers. This illuminating magnum opus concluded with the sentence “My eyebrows have almost grown back.” Now I just feel bad. Relieved as all get-out, but bad nonetheless.

He went on to assure me that, no, he was not drunk-dialing me, and yes, he was working hard. He also mentioned that no, he wasn’t at vocational college anymore, but he was toying with the idea of hitting the pro skateboarding circuit.

My damn.

“Hardcore!” I TM-ed. I’m pretty sure that’s a skater term for, “Wow, buddy. That sure is neat. You are TOTALLY throwing your life away, but you’re only young once, so good on you, man.” Or something. Then I told him to get himself to bed. And he did! Or so he said. Which was amazing, really. He never obeyed like that when I was his teacher. He just flashed his devilish grin every time I asked “Please stop hitting Daniel with that medieval sword, Tom.” Or “Please put your shirt back on Tom.” Or “No, stop asking, I will not go to Prom with you, Tom.” So, see? Amazing. Maybe I taught him something after all.

Now, reflecting upon this experience, this little blast from the not-so-distant past, I am left praising God above that I am not teaching anymore and wondering this… How the hell did he get my phone number?!

Venting…

August 25, 2005

Fine. We are the house-poorest people EVER. In the whole known universe! Good lord, are we house poor. Which is why I am at this very moment hysterically crying– honest-to-goodness sobbing– as I watch the A/C tech put in my brand-spanking new $400 thermostat. OMG! That’s INSANE! Too much money! I can’t believe the damn thing broke as soon as we moved in! Damn Murphy and his stupid Law! Damn him to hell! Damndamndamndamndamn…

Wow, I feel a little better now…

Okay. Not really. I totally lied.

DAMN!

ETA: Scratch that. Make it $500! FIVE HUNDRED EFFING DOLLARS!
ooooooooh…
panic… attack… setting… in…

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