Wicked Thistle

So Maybe 5-Year-Olds Aren't So Smart After All

2011-09-13T20:20:00.005-06:00

Yesterday I wore capri pants to school. While I was sitting criss-cross applesauce with my little group of 5-year-olds, one of the girls gave a dramatic gasp, pointed to my calves, and said, "Miss Wicked, what's wrong with your leg?!" I looked down, expecting to see blood trickling down or maybe a space alien bursting through, but just saw my regular ol' leg. I asked her what was wrong, and she said, "Your leg--it's so...WHITE!" So I got all sniffy about it and made everyone stick their leg out so we could compare, and I'll admit to you right now that I gloated just a tiny bit when I saw that her leg was whiter than mine..

Is It Wrong to Lie When It's Funny to Me?

2011-09-08T21:12:00.001-06:00

I have convinced a friend to go to pole dancing class with me by telling her that we're going to sample cakes for a friend's wedding.

Doop de Doop

2011-09-03T17:53:00.001-06:00

...aaaaaand it's Saturday. Me, I worked today at the rehab hospital and I'm just happy to say that none of my male patients exposed themselves to me. Not that it happens often, mind you. But once is enough.

p.s. I should point out that they don't mean to expose themselves to me. It's a part and parcel thing, goes along with the brain injuries and whatnot.

Ahem.

2011-06-20T14:51:00.000-06:00

Well, yes, it has been a while. Since last August, to be specific. Lots has happened since then, including the fact that I now live in a house full of boys and go to the grocery store twice a week. Also, I play computer games, which is a huge, soul-sucking waste of time, but DANGIT, THEY GOT ME HOOKED!! It's like crack, I'm tellin' ya. Anyhoo. We can talk LOTR vs. King's Bounty some other time.

There was also The Wedding and The Honeymoon, in which I became officially marrit and much better-traveled. In the interest of weaseling my way back into the blogging world, I thought I might highlight, with numerous pictures and very little text, these two events. Let us begin.

For starters, it's important that you understand just what a family of whackjobs I have entered into. Yes, they are mine own. Here are the guys on the Day Of Marriage, AKA "Wedding #1." They're trying out their gangsta poses, which took some time to perfect. Let's go through the evolution:

Here they are discussing proper technique. Apparently, at a certain point with children, the parent stops being the teacher and becomes the teachee. You can witness that here:

Dad gets it! Nice work, Max. And Elder Son brings his own style into the mix, while Younger thinks to himself, The likelihood of these pictures ending up on the internet is very high. I think I'll err on the side of coolness.

The younger joins in, just as the elder drops his pose. Max, of course, just goes deeper into his role. Gentlemen, this is much like synchronized swimming. Coordination gets you a higher score.

Yes, they're getting into the spirit of things now! Except Elder Son, who hasn't moved. Perhaps he's thinking about dinner. Personally, I think they're starting to take on a certain je ne sais quoi. I see "frame-worthy" written all over this one:

I can't explain this one. It's as if they forgot themselves:

And now let's move into the meat of things. The bride enters:

And the minister, too! We have all the ingredients for a wedding now. This particular minister hadn't done a wedding in 30 years, but he was available on two days' notice and happened to be a very good friend of Max's. He read from The Velveteen Rabbit at the wedding, which turned him into a very good friend of mine. We got married in a beautiful old mansion-turned-restaurant, which was also available on two days' notice. The staff helped us move two tables and voila! Everything was ready. Behind el ministero is a big, beautiful bay window, which you can't see, but trust me, it's there.

I think this is the part where Max started quoting from The Princess Bride. If you've seen the movie, you know what part I'm talking about. Ad libbing makes weddings more fun! Is Younger Son texting over there on the left?? No, no, just getting the ring ready.

Well, badda bing, badda bang, we were married just like that. All we said was, "I do," and we were hitched. Crazy. The seven of us then went upstairs to the lounge and had a little snacky poo and a drinky poo while we waited for the restaurant to be ready for dinner-serving, then we went downstairs and had a fantastic meal together. It was the perfect wedding.

Oh, and you thought I'd just end there, did you? Nyerp. It's honeymoon time! We, of course, took Younger and Elder Sons along with us to the fabulous Greece, where much fun awaited us. It all began in the airport, where Max began a long obsession with cell phones. Here he is trying to get our international phones activated:

The rest of us were enjoying a delicious airport breakfast. We flew Lufthansa most of the way, and I applaud them mightily for their wonderful service and fascinating snack crackers:

Who is she? Why was she in a snack bag? Her husband was in there, too, along with the moon and the stars. They were delicious. The crew never stopped taking care of us and all the electronics worked perfectly, such as the headphones and individual video screens. I cannot say the same for our flight back, on which we flew a non-Lufthansa airline, but I will name no names.

Here's underage Younger Son, having his first legal drink!

Here we are in Athens, where we had to wait FIVE HOURS to get on our island-hopper flight. That's a really long time when you've already been traveling, like, forever. The guys are trying their first Greek coffee, which stunned them. Or maybe it was the really bad ouzo that they drank just prior to the coffee that gave them these expressions. It's hard to tell.

This is my all-time favorite photo. It's just so doggone sweet. We were still...waiting...for the flight that would take us to Santorini. Not that I'm complaining, mind you. We were in Greece. I'm not sure that boy took off those sunglasses during the whole trip.

At some point everybody just gave up and did this. Not me, though mind you. My job was to worry about missing our flight, and I take these thing seriously. Why is it that men can sleep anywhere?!

At last! Aloft! These are just two of the many, many little islands we flew over on our way to ours. The sea was every bit as blue as better pictures than these show. It was elegant, it was beautiful, it just called to be swam in. Pity it was so cold.

This is the descent onto Santorini. Max and I stayed near Oia, which is the quieter and better-for-old-fart-couples part of the island. The boys stayed in Fira, which was the action-packed party area. Relatively speaking, anyway. This picture shows neither of those areas.

We were happily exhausted by the time we got there, but that didn't stop Max from immediately touching base, checking in, updating and figuring things out. He'd never admit it, but he's an Organizer. Also, he looks pretty comfortable on that couch, eh? We did manage to go out to dinner, but that was the end of the adventures for the day. Zzzzzzzz.......

So that's it--Day One. Over the course of the trip I took about a thousand pictures, every one of which I will share with you. Don't panic!! Just kidding! But I will share some, cause they're perty. Opa!

Testing, uno, dos, tres, kick left, kick right!

2010-08-28T08:28:00.002-06:00

Hello, Little Children! Hello!! Little Children?? Come Back! It's Miss Wicked!!

2010-08-11T21:28:00.004-06:00

Tonight I bid adieu to summer and bonjour to the little children (well, technically I'm bidding bonjour to an all-day training tomorrow, but that's a much less dramatic statement).

The good news is that I shall be back at the elementary school this year, the Home of Stories, where I will be with students closer to my own age.

BWAAAA HA HA!!! I crack myself up. You see why I fit in so well there. If you think that last joke was juvenile, you should see my reaction to fart humor. Anyway, see you soon...with stories!!

Simple Peace

2010-07-13T18:28:00.017-06:00

In my opinion, there is nothing so pleasant as a cemetery. These hallowed grounds have such a special feel to them--in these places, there is nothing due, nothing to rush off to, and no one asking you questions. You'll never find someone trying to sell you a hot dog or a timeshare there. Cemeteries are a hassle-free zone. In them, you can just be. They are simple peace.

New Mexico has such an interesting array of them. There's a small one located just at the on-ramp to the freeway to I-25 as you leave the airport. It's small and untended with lots of cement, and I do sometimes wonder how those souls there feel about their location. I'd prefer a more pastoral place, myself, but then again, I suppose the venue itself is more for the living than the dead. After all, I intend to be steadily employed in my next life as a cuddler of kittens and rescuer of squirrels, and will have no time for sitting about by my headstone plucking at flowers.

I love to stop at cemeteries and wander around, saying hello to those who reside there and marveling over things such as their names, their life spans, their military service, the children they have buried near them. I feel it's a moment of recognition between us, as if the veil gets lifted for just a moment so that we can give a single nod to each other. I see you, I say, and I think they say the same right back.

This is all brought to mind by the fact that I'm sitting a stone's throw from the Kit Carson Cemetery in Taos. I happened to have some meandering time, and what better place to go when you're feeling a little poopy la la and need some perspective? (Also, and very importantly, I have found the free parking in Taos.)

I suppose it's obvious to say Kit Carson is buried there. Kit was a fighting man who had his own share of controversy, as any decent man of the wild west does. It's a little hard to figure out which one is his grave--there are several with his name on it, who I suppose are his descendants. I had to look up his dates of birth and death to ferret out the right one, which is here:

Kit gets all the attention, of course, but nestled next to him is his wife, Josephine. I think she's worth a mention. One wonders just who she was, and how she lived her life married to this man. The best part about cemeteries is that one can make up stories to suit one's purposes, so I've decided to characterize her as a saucy woman who didn't take anything lying down, no sir. She gave as good as she got, and when the rebellion came, she was out front fighting with the men. Probably with a baby under each arm.

But keep in mind I made that up.

And speaking of temperament, take a look at this lady:

Benigna. Do you think she lived into that name as a delicate and sweet woman who never uttered a word that was not soaked in kindness, or did she spend her life railing against it? I'd like to have known her. Honestly, that's a heck of a name to saddle a gal with, unless you're trying to give her the element of surprise in a bar fight.

One of my favorites at the Kit Carson Cemetery was a fella who just unabashedly put it all out there:

"I am at rest for an eternity near my idol Kit Carson." Way to go, John McCurdy. Just say it like you feel it.

Another favorite:

Unknown to end. Unknown to end. Oh, what greater way to whet the curiosity of the idle observer? Was this truly a stranger buried here, unknown to anyone but himself or herself to the end? Or perhaps it was someone who chose to live a life of taciturnity, and this was his or her spouse's way of getting even for all those long, silent nights? It truly does beg wondering, doesn't it? Interestingly, he or she was buried near Kit Carson. Very near. Closer even than John McCurdy. The plot thickens.

Keeping with the theme of mystery, I found this marker tucked back by the fence:

Clearly it's a headstone of sorts, but for who? And when? It was near a marker for Mister Solomon Grubb, who had no issues with declaring himself:

At historical grave sites, you get to learn things. I found this marker, and while the type is too small to be read here, allow me to summarize:

Antonio joined the seminary following the death of his wife and child. He became a major religious leader and was famous for "obtaining the abolition of tithes." Srsly. He also established the first co-ed school in New Mexico and published textbooks and one of the first newspapers in New Mexico. It may not surprise you to know he had a few religious differences with the Bishop, and was ultimately defrocked and excommunicated from the Church. Rome better pay attention because I guess this is what happens when you let married men wear the collar. They go all modern and change things.

Another famous name in this neck of the woods, aside from Kit Carson, is Mabel Dodge Luhan. She was a philanthropist and entertainer to the stars, but check out her grave marker:

One word: understated. I love the candle and the flowers--somebody's still looking after Mabel.

There were families buried there with beautiful names: Soledad DesGeorges, her husband Esteban DesGeorges, and their DesGeorges children. Aloys Liebert came to Taos in the 19th century, dying there in 1905. His descendant, Alois Liebert III, illustrates to us how subtle spelling changes take hold and create a slightly altered lineage. Severino Martinez. Ney C. Galaway. And another favorite:

Yes, Hipolita. The head had come off the animal that was topping the marker, but do you think it was--dare I say it?--a hippopotamus? I hope she had that sense of humor. At all times we must laugh, even in repose.

Thank you for joining me in my journey beyond. The earliest date of birth I saw was 1820, and the latest death was in the 1970s. These folks may be long gone, but certainly not forgotten. At least not by me.

Oh! A Story! I Have a Story!

2010-04-22T19:02:00.005-06:00

Oh, I do miss the little ones. They just exude stories...along with a truly astonishing amount of disgusting bodily fluids, but that--thank heavens--is not what I'm here to talk about. Middle schoolers are not so full of stories, at least not the kind that don't end with you calling social services. (Shudder...you have no idea.)

BACK ON TOPIC, then. As I was saying, there are no stories to be had with middle schoolers. At least none that don't end with a fantasy of me wielding a big ol' whackin' stick. There. That's better.

(On a side note, I would just like to say that there is nothing that makes you feel more like a middle schooler again than being a hormonal, 44-year-old woman working in a middle school.)

So today I went to the elementary school to evaluate the heck out of a first grader. He had been described to me as "quirky" and "odd," so I liked him right away. In the interest of protecting his identify, and just in case any of you shop at the Smith's grocery store in Edgewood where no doubt he is right now putting together a pirate's shopping list for staging a mutiny, I shall call him...Tad. Tad Pole.

Tad Pole and I had a lovely introduction. He had absolutely no qualms or reservations or concerns or even a snippet of thought about going anywhere with someone he had never seen before in his life. I had barely gotten out my usual introduction--"Hi there, Tad, I'm Miss Wicked and I've got some pictures to show you" (OMG, I had no idea how creepy that sounded until just now)--before he jumped up and started giving orders. "Okay, where's my favorite pencil it's purple with little stars and I have to take it and you carry my jacket except I don't want to take my jacket and hey, put my jacket back, Billy, you come with us we're going to look at pictures--" and so on and on and on until my head was spinning and I was totally confused. This was followed by him charging into the hallway and yelling, "HI! WHAT'S YOUR NAME?!" to sixth grade girls looked at him like he was a glob of spit.

Wow.

After Tad ran full force down the hallway, leaving both me and Billy with confused looks on our faces, I did a quick trot after him and caught up just before he went outside with the fourth graders. As you can probably imagine, with this sort of high energy, Tad's feet lived in a continuous state of hotness. They are practically on fire all the time, I'm sure. So once we got settled into my office, naturally his first question was, "Can I take my shoes off?" And naturally, my first response was, "No," because boy's feet are stinky, no matter what their age, and also very gross. So Tad proceeded to take his shoes off. And here is a transcript of our ensuing conversation:

Me: "Tad, put your shoes back on. I told you to leave them on."

Tad: "But my feet are so hooooooooot."

Me: "Bummer, dude. Leave that to someone who cares. Put your shoes back on."

Tad: "Can I keep them off for just for a few minutes, pleeeeeeease?" (blink blink)

Me: "No. Put your shoes back on."

Tad: sticks out his lower lip and gives me a glum look. Then, in a strange turnabout of emotion, he suddenly smiles and says, "Okay!" This is followed by a magical shuffle of his feet, and he again announces, "Okay!" I look under the table at his feet.

Me: Sigh. "Tad Pole, put your shoes back on."

Tad: "I did!"

Me: "No, you didn't. Put your shoes on."

Tad: "Okay!" Shuffle, shuffle.

Me: "Tad, I'm about to look at your feet. Is there anything you want to do before then?"

Tad: "Nope." Smiles sweetly at me.

Me: I look under the table. Deep sigh. "Tad. Put. Your. Shoes. On. Now."

Tad: "Okay!"

This went on for some time before I finally got my big ol' whacking stick out and gave the boy the business end of it. Ha, ha, not really, I don't hit kids, that's illegal! Ha, ha! No, let's just say that Tad and I came to a sort of agreement, which he immediately broke, and then I pitched a fit and cried and threatened to take away every reward I had ever offered if he did not PUT THOSE SHOES BACK ON IMMEDIATELY!! WAAAAAA!!

Somewhere along the line during my little rant he took on a really bored look and put his shoes back on. It really took the fun out of everything. Still, I can't wait to see him again. I've got a whackin' stick with his name on it. And I am ready for some more stories.

A Rant, Then Rest

2010-02-21T20:33:00.006-07:00

Hello, all (3 of) my cyberworld friends!!

You doing okay? That's great.

Now let's talk about me.

At 2:00 this morning, I was driving down a dark, dangerous, foggy road in eastern New Mexico with a snoring man in the passenger seat and a semi truck carrying a load of hay flashing his lights on and off at me in my rear view mirror. Well, I exaggerate--the semi driver only flicked his lights once, and that was to let me know I was clear to pull back into the lane after passing him, but still...some serious Stephen King stuff. I'm pretty sure we were just one wrong turn from ending up in a murky forest where a man with a hook for a hand was waiting patiently for us to get a flat tire. Scratch, scratch....

It will relieve your hearts, no doubt, to know that I'm lying in bed now with popcorn, a glass of wine, and a cat, so obviously the above terrifying teaser has a happy ending. I feel compelled to reassure you, as I do so hate leaving anyone in a state of worry, plus I don't plan on really explaining that story so it seems only fair to let you know that it all worked out. (FYI, this is not the rant portion of this blog, merely a stream-of-consciousness that will likely be very unsatisfying in the long run, induced by oh, so very little sleep (reference above paragraph).)

So we'll start with the story of my weekend (which, despite the big lead-in, doesn't really have much of a supporting story), followed by my Big Rant, then off to bed.

You know I'm the big advocate of getting out of the house and experiencing your community. I have a whole blog that I've written (in my head) about small venue concerts. I love 'em. There's nothing better than getting to know the performers you're going to see, and what better way to do that than by sitting two feet from the stage in the company of a small crowd of other equally non-mainstream (read: weird) people? It's supportive in a very personal way and forces you to be present to what you're experiencing, which is kind of nice in these veg-out-in-front-of-the-TV-only-talk-to-your-friends-on-the-computer times. It's also possible to take that intimacy right to the limit.

Friday night the Maxter had, as is his way, bought tickets for a concert but did not tell me for whom. That's okay--I like surprises, and his track record is excellent for homing (honing?) in on the good finds in the city. So off we went, putzing happily down the street until he pulled into a Unitarian Church parking lot. This in itself was not weird, but the fact that there were only three other cars in the parking lot was. You can guess the conversation that followed--are we too early? is it the wrong date?--but ultimately we decided there was only one way to find out.

I will tell you this about small venue performances: once you walk in, there's no discreet walking out if you decide it's just too small for your tastes or maybe you think you walked into the wrong room by mistake. As we approached the glass doors, we could see that there were only a handful of people in there and it was looking suspiciously like a church service. Me, I would have been happy to do a U-turn at that point and spend the evening on the sofa watching a romantic comedy. Max the Intrepid don't put up with that pansy kind of behavior, though (plus he had two tickets waiting at will call, so I guess he was what you might call incentivized), so we just waltzed right in and, after a lengthy three-second search, found two seats near the front.

In total, there were 13 people in the house.

That included the three performers and their spouses. I think five people were good friends of the performers and were just there to support them. So that really just left us.

No pressure, but could you all clap really loud??

We ended up sitting behind one of the performers--all of whom were piano players, by the by--and had a lovely conversation with her before the show started. First of all, she had more hair on her head than I've ever seen on a person. I didn't know it was possible to have hair that was that thick. It was mesmerizing, which made it difficult to fully participate in the talky talk, but that's why Max and I are a team. He talks while I gaze and have important conversations with myself, and sometimes other people, in my head. By the end of the night, not only had we heard three very delightful and diverse performances, but we were also good friends with all the pianists. And their spouses. And their five friends. Tres cool.

There is no moral to this story, it was just a good time and I wanted to let you know all about it. So we're done with that now. It is now time for me to put on my ranting hat (sound of footsteps as I step up to my soapbox). Prepare for a complete change of topic and tone (I'll give you a moment).

Yesterday the front page of the local newspaper heralded this headline: "Snow Area Tragedy." The article was about a 12-year-old boy who suffered a spinal cord injury while at a nearby snow play area. Before I go any farther, let me say that I have great compassion for this boy and his family, and for what they're facing as a result of an unfortunate accident. My diatribe is not about what happened to him, but about the handling of the incident in the article. It happened at a designated snow play area on the mountain. On site there's a sign that lists rules for playing there, then notes that the area is unsupervised. Unsupervised, in case you didn't catch that the first time around. This poor kid was standing up at the bottom of the hill when another sledder ran into him, knocking him to the ground and, unfortunately, causing a spinal cord injury. In most circumstances, he would have probably just had the wind knocked out of him or suffered a sprained ankle. This time, though, the odds weren't in his favor and he ended up with a big-ticket injury. It sounded to me like the very definition of a horrible accident.

I guess not everyone saw it that way, though. The article was about how, despite the warning that there was no supervision there, someone should have been responsible for protecting the boy from getting hit. Someone should have made sure that every person there was safe every second, that no accidents occurred, that no injury befell anyone, despite the fact that it was a large group of people moving at breakneck speeds down a frozen hill. Who is that someone? Who is this mysterious person who can save us from all our foibles, our momentary distractions that put us in harm's way, or just our bad luck at being in the wrong place at the wrong time? I'd like his number. (I don't know why I would refer to this person as a "him." If ever there were a magic person who could protect us from All Bad Stuff That Ever Existed without so much as breaking a sweat, it would totally be Lynda Carter, and she's a "her." I think.)

There were further complaints that cell phone coverage was spotty, making it difficult to call for help. Folks, it's a mountain. Having perfect, round-the-clock-in-every-location cell phone coverage was not promised in our constitution. It's. a. mountain. Then there were complaints that it took 25 minutes for the EMTs to get there. Folks, it's a mountain. An icy, snow-packed mountain that does not have a city, complete with speedy ambulance service, located at its apex. The reason you go up there to play in the snow is because it's a mountain and it has snow. Playing in the snow comes with risks. It's not necessarily anyone's fault. These things sometimes happen. There isn't always a reason.

Sigh..I sound so curmudgeonly, don't I? I just get frustrated at the human need to find someone else at fault for everything. I believe that bad things sometimes happen, regretfully, things that change our lives and put things forever into 'before' and 'after.' And I don't believe that there's always someone or something to blame.

On the other hand, blame is one of the stages of grieving, isn't it? So maybe it's the most natural thing in the world. In which case, never mind this rant but still POO on the media for contributing their piece.

It are 10:15 and I was going to try to wind this up in a coherent fashion (HA HA HA HA!!) and maybe even circle back around to my opening paragraph, having been trained in the journalistic fashion and all, but now I don't wanna. I'm going to bed, and I wish you all a very good night and the very best of sleep.

(You see this is the problem with just anyone being able to blog these days, they will just carry on to no end.)

Middle School Teaches Me About Gender Differences

2010-01-26T12:51:00.003-07:00

From one 8th grade boy to another, while matching wits in a game:

"I think you'll get this one, and I don't mean that offensively at all"

Read: It's easy enough even for YOU, loser.

Turns out 8th grade boys do not get offended about things like that at all, they just laugh and high five.

An 8th grade girl, on the other hand, would have sheared off the top of his head with her teeth.

Just sayin' is all.

In other news of note, yesterday was marketed by Tom Joles at Channel 4 news as BOTH the Most Depressing Day of the Year AND National Bubble Wrap Appreciation Day.

Did I Mention You Asked For This?

2009-12-04T14:43:00.004-07:00

First of all, I would like to thank my three readers for being so wonderfully encouraging to me to get off my arse and git writing. I appreciate that you still check this site; I really do, since I certainly don't anymore. I deserve some flogging with a wet noodle and constant browbeating, and that's just to get me through my morning.

Since you asked, though, I'll share all my random thoughts with you right now. Prepare for a big, fat stream of consciousness. Remember, you requested this. And since my latest theme has been alllllll about being a tourist in your own state, we'll just co-opt that and call this Being a Tourist In Your Own Head. Or mine, in this instance (although feel free to turn inward at this point and entertain yourself with your own thoughts). Hey, is anybody still reading?

First of all, it's freakin' cold outside. (I would love it if someone would chime in with an It's so cold... joke here.) Auntie M, I heard that even Dallas got snow, and it's not even 2012 yet! And speaking of 2012, is anyone really going to go see that movie? Do we honestly need any more fear and hysteria running loose in our brains? Maybe we do. I'm often thinking along a straight line and neglecting to look at the grayer possibilities, so maybe this movie will actually encourage us to be nicer to each other for the next two years or something.

BWAAAAAAA HA HA HA HAAA!!! >wipes tears of laughter from eyes<

Moving on. I realized yesterday that among the many postings I have not made here lately, there have been none about The Children. Now that I've been placed in middle and high schools to atone for my sins, I really don't have anything cutesy to share about them. The teenagers, not so funny. Dramatic, yes; emotional, yes; annoying, yes; but funny, no. And they are annoying me mightily this week, just let me say. They are whiny and unmotivated and not-direction-following and we can only have one of us like that in the classroom, now can't we? These teenagers have a responsibility to be a role model for the adults around them. We're tired. We're tired of them. We have worked for many years and right about now, that fire of enthusiasm is juuuust about extinguished. We need us some winter break, and we need it bad.

But I don't mean to sound cranky. I just miss the hugs at knee level and the sweet smiles. As much as I miss those little elementary critters, though, I do not miss the planning that it requires to therapize them, mm-mm. And speaking honestly, I really do enjoy the bigger ones, as long as I remember that their aberrant behavior and general annoyingness is a normal stage of development. (Not one that I went through, of course. I was all sunshine and roses as a teenager, just ask my mother. Also, I toot butterflies. And please don't really ask my mother, it will put her in a terribly awkward position, as it makes her uncomfortable to lie. Thank you.)

What were we talking about? Oh, yes, Christmas shopping. One word: online.

Wow, we are just cruising through today's topics. What else ya got? I know you all want to talk about the cats & wabbit, but I simply must refuse. Except to say that Bugs' foot is just fine now, although his attitude remains unimproved.

Um...I'm all tapped out now. Again, as a disclaimer, I must remind all three of you that you asked for this. Now go talk amongst yourselves and start planning the intervention. Smooches!

R.S.V.P. to Your State, Part II: Look to the Sky

2009-10-29T19:50:00.006-06:00

Cheap and guaranteed beautiful.

But beware the wrath of the birds, for they eat well and have good aim.

Please RSVP to Your State, Part I

2009-09-14T20:25:00.011-06:00

Well, hellooooooooo, everyone!

Nice to see you.

For some months now, I've had it in my mind to do a blog about touristing in your own state. Typically, when we take vacations, we dream about far off destinations, saving our pennies for months or even years so that we can go to some distant place and explore new cultures and risky cuisine.

Don't get me wrong. I'm all for that.

But what about destinations that are right out our front door? How about a trip that takes relatively no planning, limited cash, and can be done in a day? I suggest to you now that you commit to strapping on a camera and becoming a state tourist . Your own city, if you wish to start small, or perhaps just your neighborhood, if you're comfortable right there on the patio with your margarita.

There's so much to see and do just outside our front doors, and it's easy to forget that trembly-on-the-inside excitement when you move to a new place. Remember how that was? You could hardly stop yourself from seeking out cultural stimuli and calling everyone you knew to tell them about that fanTASTIC band you just caught at the AWESOME coffee shop that's been in the SAME hip downtown location for the last 20 years that's shaped like a UFO and has the most AMAZING art on the walls and did you know that you can eat green chile EVEN IN PIE and PEOPLE WILL ACTUALLY GIVE YOU THEIR NEWSPAPERS WHEN THEY'RE DONE WITH THEM and isn't everyone just so nice here?? Where does that excitement go, anyway? When does that subtle shift over to complacency take place? It is so easy to forget about all the great things there still are to do, not to mention the new things that are popping up all the time. It becomes so darn easy to slip into a rut of not going out, not exploring your community, not checking the local alternate rag for new local bands, and finding yourself slipping into that comfortable spot on your sofa that just happens to be shaped like your ass.

Dangerous stuff, that.

I'll admit to falling headfirst into that rut.

When I moved to New Mexico, I was out every weekend checking out everything New Mexican I could find. I went hither and yon, visiting all the cool places I could find, and setting my schedule by whatever the Alibi said. It was groovy. But gradually, through the years, I somehow stopped seeking out all the fun things that Albuquerque and its surrounding areas had to offer. I'm not sure why; I guess I just lost the rush. I've been hot on the trail of rediscovering New Mexico lately, though, and have been having the best ever time finding new things to see or revisiting old favorites. And it's gotten me inspired to inspire YOU. So I'm inviting you to get on board the tourism train, wherever you live. Let's all make a pact to find some new things to do, either something as yet undiscovered or perhaps something you enjoyed that you haven't done in a long while.

We'll even start simple. I suggest that next time you're out and about, keep your eyes open for goodies like this:

I found this while driving to work one morning and it brightened my commute to no end. For thems as don't know, Blake's is a hamburger joint. Usually boards like these are used to advertise a special or disparage the competition, but someone had a stroke of creativity that I would have applauded had I not been using my hands to steer my car.*

So I urge you to do this: simply open your eyes and look around next time you're out doing errands. Seek out the unexpected; I promise you it's out there. You just might end up with a smile on your face. And that, my friends, is our first step into local tourism. Stay tuned for more installments!

*Note: Although I am a vegetarian, I will not be planning a press release, interviewing with Katie Couris, or starting a reality show to express my outrage at this blatant discrimination against me and my peeps. Live and let live.

Oobala, Oobala, Oobala

2009-08-20T20:55:00.005-06:00

Hi, friends! How've you been? I've missed you. It's been a great summer, hasn't it? Some people--particularly those crazy academic folk--might tell you that summer is over because school has started, but NO!! I defy it to happen! What ever happened to relying on the calendar, anyway? We've got one more month to go, my peeps, so let's make the most of it. We got some shizzle to look forward to. Let's check it out:

*Santa Fe Indian Market: THIS WEEKEND! Ride the train up, my fancy french donuts, and enjoy a day with the masses secure in the knowledge that traffic is your bitch today.

*Great American Duck Race: ALSO THIS WEEKEND! Go root for your favorite duck and practice your waddle. You know you want to.

*New Mexico Wine Festival: September 5-7. Mmm. Wine. Drink it, my lushious little pinot noirs. Sip from the vine of happiness.

*Zozobra: September 10. Check it.

*29th Annual Pietown Festival! September 12! You know how I feel about pie, and I know you feel exactly the same way! Call me! We'll carpool!

*New Mexico State Fair: September 11-27: All right, technically it crosses seasonal lines, but it's going to be hot out there and I'm still counting it as summer. Nyeh. Funnel cakes trump autumnal equinoxes any day.

That's just a small smattering of what's to come here in New Mexico over the next several weeks. For a look at a hardcore calendar, check this out. It'll make your head spin.

And speaking of calendars, has anyone else heard that the Mayan calendar ends in 2012? Just saying. Am I the only one who feels nervous about this?

Enjoy these last days of summer. I'll be around, drinking a margarita on the patio and enjoying the sensation of warmth. Hope to see you there.

Joy

2009-07-31T14:38:00.002-06:00

In the Epic Battle Between Bugs & Wicked, Bugs Always Wins. Harumph.

2009-07-22T11:16:00.013-06:00

Da poor widdle bunny. He has had a weird and icky foot growth for some time now. I won't go into the details; just allow me to emphasize again the weird and icky parts of the disorder. I had taken him to the vet twice in previous months to have it looked at and removed. The vet, when asked what she thought--in her overly-priced professional opinion--it was, said, "Huh, I really don't know." And apparently she wasn't too interested in finding out. Thank you, vet person! Helpful!

All right, I'll grant you that maybe rabbits aren't the typical house pet brought in to veterinarians. Maybe they shouldn't know the entire range of possible disorders, and maybe they don't have to waste their time looking things up in their special veterinarian medical databases. I understand. But when the growth returned for the third time, I decided to take Bugs to a vet who had ample experience with wabbits. He took one look at it and gave an instant diagnosis. Then he took a closer look and revised his diagnosis. Either way, he felt confident that it could be completely removed, never to bother the bunny again.

Eureka!

So Mr. Buns got to get surgerized yesterday. Bunnies are typically fragile creatures. Extreme temperatures can send them into heart failure; being approached by larger animals can send them into heart failure; being chased around the room by children can send them into heart failure (me, too); going under anesthesia can send them into heart failure. So the procedure wasn't without risks, but the new! improved! vet felt that Bugs would do just fine. And Bugs is a tough old guy; he spent the first two years of his life in a hutch that offered little protection from heat or cold or the noses of curious dogs. So he learned to chill, as well as to develop a really annoying attitude of independence. He's cute and fluffy, so why won't he let me smother him with kisses??

So the strong-willed and hearty wabbit did just swell in his surgery and came home yesterday afternoon, chock full of painkillers. While the nice tech was giving me his post-care instructions, she mentioned that I should watch him to make sure he didn't chew out his sutures (bunnies are big on the chewing). I told her this was my biggest concern, and asked her what powers she thought I had to prevent this. She assured me that it likely would not be a problem, since he hadn't bothered them since his surgery. Oh, yes? I don't think she'd worked with bunnies much. Anyway, she went back to get him and was gone for a really long time. When she came back out, she wore a sheepish look and said, "While we were talking he chewed out four of his sutures, so we had to put some staples in." Mm-hm. She then advised getting some baby socks, cutting out the toe, and putting one on his stapled foot.

Which I did, because I am really, really good at following instructions. I bought these really adorable little infant sockies:

I cut out the toe, wrestled Bugs into temporary submission, and quick-like-lightning put that little sock on his foot. Look how cute:

Yeah, that puppy was off within a nanosecond of putting him into his pen:

Evidence

Bugs is so noncompliant.

I guess if he's going to be all bossy about it, then he's on his own regarding foot maintenance. He's hiding out right now, not wanting me to even set eyes on it. He forgets that he only thinks he can hide from me. I have access to his little hideout from above, ha ha! Of course, this does not negate the fact that, so far, he is totally winning.

# # #

In other news, I came home from a recent trip to discover that somebody had peed on my new expensive yarn from Taos. My first thought was to blame Fiona. After all, look at her:

She lives in a state of unremorsefulness. Plus, she loves peeing where she's not supposed to. Unrepentant, that one.

But then I thought further. Fifi does have some litterbox avoidance issues, to be sure, but she usually limits her bad behavior to the carpet. She's completely apolitical about it, never using her pee to make a statement. So I don't think she would have chosen fancy wool as her voiding platform.

This one, on the other hand, has his own history:

He has great litter box habits, but sometimes cannot help using another container as his potty. He's a man, after all; they like peeing in weird places. So I've decided to pin this crime on him. I think he smelled that animal scent on the wool and could not help himself. He just wanted to be close to the sheep. He's a lover, not a fighter.

Knowing the culprit didn't make clean up any easier, though. Getting cat pee out of yarn sux. See, my yarn had been wound for me at the store and looked like this:

Pretty, eh? Well, guess what? It--two skeins--had to be completely unwound and treated, then rinsed and dried. Very. time. consuming. It's a good thing it's summer is all I can say, with lots of daylight and time available. Here's the yarn in its drying process:

Note: it's very annoying to work with wet wool yarn. Also note: it's very annoying to rewind yarn after it's been set out to dry. Lots and lots of tangles, no matter how careful you are. But they're all rewound into lovely balls now, ready for that project that I probably won't get to for years. And at least they don't smell like pee.

Helloooooo (echo echo echo)!!!

2009-07-14T11:00:00.004-06:00

I don't think I've ever seen a REAL-LIVE-IN-PERSON celebrity in my life. I equivocate on this because I forget a lot of stuff, and so it's possible that I spent some time with Jimmy Buffett in the 80s and just don't recall. I simply don't know.

Anyhoo, I have a blog now to log these sorts of things in for eternity, plus telling you guys about it means that you can remind me later after I've completely forgotten (fast forward to party scene):

Me: (sigh) I sure would like to see a celebrity some time.

You guys: But Wicked, you have seen a celebrity. Remember, you blogged about it on July 14th of 2009.

Me: I did?

You guys: Yeah.

Me: Oh. (thoughtful pause) Who was it?

So see what a public service you're all providing? Thank you from the bottom of my heart and the empty spots in my brain. We appreciate it.

Moving along, you may have guessed by now that I have had what may have been my first celebrity sighting!! Woo hoo! And it was not only a sighting, my friends, it was an elbow jostling, direct eye contact, reach-out-and-touch-the-celebrity stalker moment if ever there was one. Oh, yeah. Hollywood, here I come.

Not really.

So here's the story: I was at the International Folk Art Festival in Santa Fe last weekend. Hot as the dickens, I might add, and a parking arrangement that fell just short of a robust hike, but an adventure nonetheless. Santa Fe, as many of you know, is just so Santa Fe-ey. People dress like Santa Fe, they wear their hair like Santa Fe, they smell like Santa Fe. They are so them, and you are so not them. (Okay, it wasn't quite so exaggerated as all this, but what's the point of blogging if you can't use it to explore your dramatic side?) So there I was, elbowing my way through the crowd, sweating onto all the textiles and beading and tinwork and Guatemalan bags when I found myself face to face with this woman:

Maybe looking a little more mature, sure, but definitely her. I know because her name badge said, "Ali McGraw." Had she not been wearing a name badge, I would have thought, Gee, that woman looks familiar. Wonder if we worked at the university together? That's what I do now--I think everyone I see looks like they fit into some time frame from my life, and I get all caught up in figuring out how I know them. When that doesn't work--as it usually doesn't, since I've never met these folks before in my life--I just figure we all worked at the university together. It's a system that works, giving me satisfaction while reducing the stress of actually having to use my brain, so don't go judging on me. Fortunately, she had on the name badge, which diverted me from having to use any unnecessary mental energy on a hot day.

So there we were, Ali and me, looking at each other for a fragment of a second and coming close to something really meaningful. Instead, she simply shifted her glance beyond me and began talking to her assistant, with whom she does have a meaningful relationship, I'm sure.

Still, it was good for me.

If there's anyone out there still reading this blog, please do share your close-up celebrity experiences. I know you have one. If you don't, make one up; hey, I just did (ha ha, just kidding!!) Seriously, spill it. I'm ready.

For the Record, I Am Thinking Up a Blog

2009-06-17T17:11:00.002-06:00

Story People of the Day

Flying Naked With Jesus

When I was

younger, I used

to fly a lot in my

dreams. I used

to dream I was

naked too. My

grandma said it

was all because

of original sin &

that if I lived a

pure life that

someday I would

be able to fly

naked with

Jesus & then she

looked at me &

said many are

called, but few

are chosen &

later on I

thought it was a

damn good thing

too & I gave up

pure living for a

long time after

that just to be

sure.

Sunday Morning With Fred

2009-05-24T08:11:00.003-06:00

From Frederick Buechner's book, Listening to Your Life:

In Christ's parable, a third man finally did come along, of course. He looked, really looked, and saw not just a man, a man, a man, but saw what was actually sprawled out there in the dust with most of the life whaled out of him. He bound up his wounds, set him on his own beast, took care of him, and his reward was to go down in fame as the Good Samaritan, which seems to be a marvelously inept title somehow, because just as I prefer to think of the priest and the Levite as less than really bad, more just half blind, in the same way I prefer to think of the Samaritan as more than merely good. I prefer to think that the difference between the Samaritan and the other two was not just that he was more morally sensitive than they were but that he had, as they had not, the eye of a poet or a child or a saint--an eye that was able to look at the man in the ditch and see in all its extraordinary unexpectedness the truth itself, which was that at the deepest level of their being, he and that other one there were not entirely separate selves at all. Not really at all.

Your life and my life flow into each other as wave flows into wave, and unless there is peace and joy and freedom for you, there can be no real peace or joy or freedom for me. To see reality--not as we expect it to be but as it is--is to see that unless we live for each other and in and through each other, we do not really live very satisfactorily; that there can really be life only where there really is, in just this sense, love. This is not just the way things ought to be. Most of the time it is not the way want things to be. It is the way things are. And not for one instant do I believe that it is by accident that it is the way things are. That would be quite an accident.

You Media Potstirrers Can Just Go Ahead and SHUT IT Now

2009-04-30T15:32:00.007-06:00

Things the little children said to me today:

"Miss Wicked, I think I have the swine flu."

"Miss Wicked, I have the swine flu." (cough, cough)

"Miss Wicked, my brother has the swine flu."

(followed by putting her snotty little hand in mine)

"Miss Wicked, my mom says I have the swine flu."

(followed by a large sneeze directed at my face)

"Miss Wicked, my cousin's friend's mechanic's neighbor's dog has the swine flu."

"Miss Wicked, I have a bump in my mouth and I think it's the swine flu. Wanna see?"

# # #

Also said to me, on an unrelated-to-swine-flu note:

Miss Wicked (to a child during a mapping activity in a 4th grade classroom): "Oh, you got the map from Oklahoma. Guess what, I'm from Oklahoma!"

Another child: "You're from Oklahoma??" (long, long pause as she looks real hard at Miss Wicked) "But you don't have brown hair."

Yet another troublesome child: "That's because she dyes it."

Yep. That's my world, people.

I Am So Sorry For This Stream of Consciousness

2009-04-15T19:55:00.003-06:00

Le sigh.

Sure, a girl goes a day without blogging, then a week, then another week, and before she knows it the prospect of getting back in the blogging saddle has become so large, so unattainable, so OUT THERE that she gets exhausted just thinking about it and has to sit down for a minute. And then she sits down, and lo and behold, there is a remote control which is attached through some invisible magic she does not understand to her still-relatively-new-bigass TV and so how easy is it to walk her fingers over and just hit that power button? And now that she's sitting down and enjoying the latest episode of Lost (can anybody tell me WTF is going on in that show?), she needs to have a little cheesy snack. As she eats her cheesy snack and tries to figure out how Jack can be dead and then undead and how time travel can make one's nose bleed, she becomes sad that the thought of putting fingers to keyboard has become so overwhelming that she's not sure if she can ever blog again. And once upon a time, she loved blogging. And cheesy snacks. And then she starts wondering what would happen if someone took those away?? What if prohibition came and took the the form of cheese?! And then she sees something shiny and starts thinking about Fridays.

You see why I never get anything done? These voices in my head are so distracting and lead me into medinas that are impossible to extricate myself from. I've not-blogged for so long that every day it becomes a bigger and bigger deal for me to blog, and therefore I can't because there's too much pressure to write something really grand to make up for my absence. By the way, is there anyone out there even still reading this?

And so I feel so...le sigh.

So I decided tonight that it's okay to start small, perhaps with a story from that strange world of kids that I inhabit. It doesn't have to be a big deal. Let's give it a try.

The other day I took the preschoolers out for a color hunt. They're learning colors because they're five now, and by golly, THEY WILL KNOW THEIR COLORS BEFORE THEY REACH KINDERGARTEN. So we're doing colory things with them to really grind the concepts into their itty bitty brains. Since we were having a rare pleasant day outside, I thought we'd go wander the school property and see what kind of colorful trash we could find lying around. Don't pick up the hypodermics, kids! So off we go. We partnered everybody up and tromped off into the great wilderness that is known as Wicked's School.

Everything was going fine until we got distracted by young Ozzie, who decided to go look into the classroom windows of kids who were taking the highly standardized and heavily controlled federally mandated annual test from hell. Maybe you remember this from when you were in school? No? Mmph. Well, it's a heavy situation--there are to be no disturbances at all, no deviations from the standardized administration, under threat of being reported (gasp!) to the state. And there goes Ozzie, ready to yell, "Hewwo! Hewwo! Bwue!" into the windows. So we all go chasing after him, whisper-yelling at him to get back here right now! In all the ruckus, no one noticed little Peter, who had decided it was the right time to whip out his pee-pee and water the flowers right there in front of the school. Nice. So now we're whisper-yelling at him to stop, which is funny when you think about it because what 5-year-old could possibly stop his stream of pee? He took no notice of the four adults circling him and just completed the job with an air of casualness about the whole thing.

Good heavens.

Well, we quickly whisked those kids back into the building, with me trying to come up with an explanation for the principal about how our nature walk turned into a lesson on boys' anatomy. Fortunately, he never asked, and since our number one motto in preschool is don't ask, don't tell, I got to walk away from that one. Whew.

Well, that is my story and now I am exhausted and must go to bed. I'm counting this blog as a success, not for its literary content, heavens no, but because I a) started it, and 2) finished it. Woo hoo! Goodnight, all.

And She Rambles, And She Rambles Some More With No Definite Conclusion

2009-03-27T06:15:00.005-06:00

In my long-ago journalism classes they taught us that good writing involves saying what you're going to say, saying it, and then restating what you just said. Today's blog will not involve good journalism.

# # # #

In a gift so great it could easily be confused with a multimillion dollar Wall Street bonus, my district has been blessed with a bona fide snow day on the DAY BEFORE SPRING BREAK!! Normally I would respond to this by saying, "w00t!" but my mole in the teenage world says that that is no longer cool. So instead I say: "w00talicious.!"

This snow day is a good thing because I had planned not even a minute of therapy today, so the little children were going to be treated to a view of Miss Wicked sitting on a stool in the front of their classroom, eating from a big bag of Doritos and giving them the stinkeye. Procrastination--it can work for you!

That doesn't mean I don't have stories, of course. I've been trying to mentally save them up for you for the last week or so, but you know how that goes--I'm lucky to remember I have a job, much less the details. This doesn't stop me from sharing, though! I'll put your heart at ease right this minute and tell you that not one of these stories involves diarrhea. w00t!

# # # #

Sometimes the tables get turned and children teach the adults something, and usually that thing is: "You're an idiot." I've been working with a class of 3rd graders on writing narratives, not only because my student in there desperately needs someone to sit on him and say, "No, you may NOT have flying monkeys and endless potato burgers in your story. THEY DO NOT MAKE SENSE" (killing the spirit of a child is just one of the many benefits of working in the public school system!), but also in anticipation of the Evil Advent of Testing, which involves a narrative-writing segment. So I gave them what we call a story starter to get the ol' writing juices flowing. As I was planning this Very Important Therapy in the 30 seconds before I walked into their class, I decided that there's nothing better than a good, old-fashioned UFO story. So I worked up a beginning to the story, then decided to work on some descriptive aspects cause, you know, kids should know how to do that stuff. I drew a picture of a UFO on the board (yes, I do know what they look like, and no, I can't tell you why) and had them come up with descriptive vocabulary. Oh, I got the usual: silver, circle, bright lights, aliens, blah, blah, blah. I decided they needed a bigger word, a better word, a word that really captured the essence of the flying object. So I taught them the word oblong. Hey, it's a shape. They're 8 years old--it's time they learned a little more than circle, square, triangle and star. Oblong. We reviewed it and moved on, with them writing their wonderful little stories.

So it came time for them to read their epic creations. The teacher and I sat back, ready to reap the rewards of our hard work and take full credit for all their work. And this is what happened: to a child, they said things such as:

"Then the oblong flew over the school."

"The oblong landed and the aliens got out."

"After the kids saw the oblong, they screamed and ran inside."

"The aliens took the principal on the oblong and it flew away."

We looked at each other and, in unison, sighed.

(For tales of a REAL! OBLONG! SIGHTING!, go to http://www.ufocasebook.com/roaringriver.html)

# # # #

As previously touched upon, the Season of Testing is upon us. It's no longer about just spelling tests and math pop quizzes, gang, now kids get the screws put to their thumbs for two weeks every March whether they like it or not. Thanks to that fabulous law, No Child Left Untested...um, I mean Left Behind, mammoth amounts of data are collected as some part of an effort to get every child in the nation up to grade level in their academics. Had a brain injury and no longer recognize the alphabet? Too bad, bucko, we'll expect grade level reading skillz next month. Maybe your brain didn't develop fully in utero? Ya big sissy, better start studying those algebra equations because they're going to be on this year's test. Your parents work two jobs to keep you from living in a van by the river, so they don't have time to do homework with you? That's a shame, because there's a whole lot of general knowledge that you're going to need to know to pass that test. How you gonna get that, mm? Kids are uber-aware of the importance of the assessment and stress over their performance. Eight-year-old kids. Stressing. Over a test. Hmph.

Well. That wasn't at all the story I intended to tell., so I'll just step off my soapbox now and regroup and tell you the more important aspect here, which is all about me and a radio. Because the students' environment must be carefully controlled, no child is allowed to leave the classroom during testing unless they have an adult escort. Lord knows they might have a cheat sheet tucked into the third stall of the bathroom, and we don't want them having access to THAT. That could really set the curve. This means there has to be hall proctors who can take kids hither and yon as needed. I was asked to be a backup escort, which was fine, and then given my very own walkie-talkie so that I could be accessed wherever I was. So I took my little radio into the preschool classroom, where I see the children and we run around and have lots of fun. Oh, and we were just having the best time--it was the 3- & 4-year old class, who require lots and lots and lots of support just to stay in their chairs or not blurt out answers or pick each other's noses, and that involves some very loud voices and the occasional shunning.

(Is it just me, or is this story getting longer and longer? With all this buildup, it's sure to have a disappointing ending. )

All righty, so there I am with the preschoolers, when someone from the front office comes in with a very determined look on her face. And she is eyeballing me. She clickety-clacks over to circle time, where I am leading the children in a brilliant, but loud, activity, puts her hand out, and says, "Give me the radio." She did not look amused. Well, turns out I was inadvertently hitting and holding the "send" button on the walkie-talkie, entertaining the front office with all the joy and volume that is preschool. I guess at some point they got weary of the yelling and constant redirecting and general chaos and so my principal instructed someone to come and take away my radio. Pah. Talk about being shunned. How humiliating.

# # # #

Well, enough already. I'll end with this: remember Ozzie?? He moved away last year, but now he's baaaaack, making us happy with his own self. And that is the end of my stories, where I conclude absolutely nothing. Good day!

For the Love of Gawd, SHUT UP!

2009-03-17T18:22:00.003-06:00

How I was greeted this morning:

"Miss Wicked, Miss Wicked, I have diarrhea!"

Just thought you should know.

I Am Ready to be the Wake-Up Fairy Now, Thank You

2009-03-16T19:20:00.004-06:00

There's a new girl at school. She's in 3rd grade, and here's what I know about her so far:

1. She has a pretty name
2. She's a little shy
3. She's already deeply unpopular

How does this happen? Seriously, she had only been here a few days when I noticed the collective shunning taking place by her classmates. It seemed that she had barely arrived before her expiration date came due. At first it was subtle, like no one offering to loan her a pencil when hers broke, but it quickly escalated into something much more direct and disturbing. The other day I saw her hot on the heels of one of the sweetest girls in the 3rd grade. Suddenly, sweet girl spun around and had this conversation with her:

Nice girl: (in very frustrated voice, suggesting this was not the first time she had had to do this) "Will you please stop following me around?"
New girl: "But you're my best friend!"
Nice girl: "Nooo, I'm nooot." (stomps off)
New girl: (in plaintive voice to nice girl's back) "But I want to be your friend!"

Oh, it was sad, folks. It was just sad and heartbreaking. And I bet every single one of you experienced some kind of horrifying flashback to elementary school days when you read that, didn't you?

The whole thing has got me to thinking about popularity and unpopularity and just how soon that imprint is made in life. It seems implausible that by age eight those lines could be drawn, but then I remember Mrs. Hendrix and my friend Margue. Back in the days before kindergarten became a work camp, we took naps. And Mrs. Hendrix always let some special girl be the Wake-Up Fairy when nap time was over (I'd explain more about the job, but the title seems self-evident). Weeeellll, it didn't take long for the rest of us girls to catch on to the fact that Mrs. Hendrix was choosing Margue just a tad too over-often for our tastes. Yep. At the tender age of five, Margue was already popular, and we weren't getting to be the cute girl who woke everyone up with a light tap of a wand. Not. Fair.

Fortunately, Margue was also an eminently likable girl, which helped take the sting out of the injustice. Not so the new 3rd-grade girl, I'm afraid, which means her future is likely set. It makes me sad for her, to see her so needy and hungry so young. I'd like to explain to her about how this works, how stalking isn't an attractive friendship quality and perhaps a different approach might yield better results, but I'm not sure it would matter. Poor thing.

If I'm Hiking for the Children, What Color is My Bracelet?

2009-03-01T16:59:00.007-07:00

I love hiking. I've hiked for many years--since moving to New Mexico back in '92, actually--but for the past year or two, my love has become rather theoretical. I loved the idea of hiking, but when it came time to get out the boots and fill up the Camelback, it just seemed...so...haaaaaard. There was a time when a weekend wasn't a weekend unless it involved a really good hike, but as of late, my goals have dumbed down to just a walking a lap or two around the park. Not that there's anything wrong with that, mind you, and I do love a good walk in the park, it's just that I love hiking. Remember?

I decided during the somber coldness of winter that when spring came, I would get back on that hiking horse. No matter how tired I felt or whiny I got, I was going to get out there, dammit. Well, even though it's not yet spring by the calendar, we've been blessed with such lovely warm weather lately that it seemed I would be able to accomplish my goal ahead of schedule. And I tell you what, if I hadn't had that lingering cold and that report I needed to write and knitting to do and lazing about to accomplish and errands to run and cats to feed, I definitely would have done it. Immediately. Really.

But then I got a task. My darling nephew Joel sent me a cutout gingerbread man that he had decorated. A note from his teacher accompanied it, explaining that Joel and his classmates were asking that friends & family take Gingerbread Joe out and photograph him at various places in their area. It was to be a fun way to help them learn about other parts of the country. (Some of you may be more familiar with the "Flat Stanley" version of this game.) I will not tell you how long ago I received this request, because it is not relevant to the story. Besides, Joel's mom said it was okay to send it in late. And besides that, as far as I'm concerned, as long as I don't send it back in June, I'm early.

Anyhoo. This little project lifted me up off the sofa on this lovely day and propelled me northward toward mountains and stuff. I packed my day pack, filled my water bottles, took 438 snacks because GAWD FORBID I might get hungry out there in the boonies, and I went up to one of my favorite all time places, Tent Rocks. It's one of the most beautiful places in New Mexico, as far as I'm concerned, and those of you who have been there will likely agree. It's a short, easy hike with not much altitude gain, which I figured significantly lowered the risk of needing a helicopter rescue.

It was every bit as lovely as I remembered it. Unfortunately, some travel mag must have written a bigass article about it, because the place was jampacked. You practically had to take a number to get through the narrower parts, but everyone was friendly and there were lots of dogs and so I am not complaining. For those of you who have not (yet) experienced this great beauty, let's go on a little photo tutorial of the area, with emphasis on the photo part and ignoring of the tutorial because I've hiked today, people, and you can't expect me to teach you anything.

Here's the beginning of the journey. Can you see the tent rocks? Nope? Me neither.

Here's the picture I will use to teach the children about what 'scrub' and 'tumbleweeds' are. Don't ask me about the purple border--my camera chose today to start whacking out. I think it's kind of nice, though, and I'm sure the children will adore it.

A-ha! We approach the tent rocks. Mischievous Gingerbread Joe wants to tap dance on top of the mesa.

Welcome to the purple-tinted entrance to the the canyon! This is where it gets narrow, and very, very pretty. This is also where you would not want to be if there was a flash flood up the path a bit. Whoosh!

If I felt like it, I could use this picture to teach the children about strata and geological formations and volcanoes and crap.

If I felt like it.

Ooh! Slot canyon! Who's that jerk coming around the corner, ruining Gingerbread Joe's picture?

Oh my goodness, look at that sky. Just look at that sky.

We're almost to the top, Joe and I, and we only had to shove a couple of Floridians aside to get there! South end of the Sangre de Cristo mountain range ahead, way up at Santa Fe.

Here Joe is being impish, pretending to balance on two formations. I think the kids will be totally fooled by this.

For thems as don't know, tent rocks are also referred to as 'hoodoos.' I read somewhere that true hoodoos are only found in New Mexico and Turkey, but it was a long time ago and I've probably misremembered the information. But please, tell your friends!

Here is the secret mystery cave that has probably been used in important rituals and whatnot. I wouldn't let Joe go in. I was pretty done by this point.

And so ends the tale of Gingerbread Joe's Excellent Adventure to Tent Rocks. It was a lovely drive home and a very rewarding day for both of us. We do hope you've enjoyed our little photojournalistic tale. Happy hiking to you all!

Miscellania

2009-02-26T17:43:00.003-07:00

AJ recently made (yet another) excellent point: the picture below has been just beggin' to be posted. So here it is, and next time you're in the mood to question my party behavior, just remember--these are my people. You can't fight genetics.

In other news, there are currently some lovely kitties being hosted in Casa Wicked's guest room. It's always fun to have new friends around. Please to meet Smokey:

Smokey is loving and adorable and a GIRL, so don't go thinking she's gonna let you borrow her truck or build you a fence or anything. She is a highly adaptable young lady and has moved right in to her new surroundings with panache (I say that without complete confidence in my understanding of the word panache. Bold, eh?). She is also incredibly tolerant of the other cat she lives with, to whom you will be introduced shortly. I would love to let her out to roam the house freely, but on her first night here she escaped from the guest suite and was promptly chased around the house by Fiona of the Puffy Tail, so for everybody's sanity, she's staying put.

And speaking of sanity--or lack thereof--I offer this:

This is Ryder. She's not right, but in such a lovely and interesting sort of way. I know, you probably confused her with Fiona, didn't you? The similarities are striking, not to mention disturbing. Her engine is stuck on full speed ahead and I swear her eyes are always dilated (fine, if you're going to be a stickler, except for in this picture. Hmph.). My own big boy, Max, is always eager to act as ambassador between home and visitors, so he goes in daily to check on his women. Calm, loving Smokey is very interested in him, but he only has eyes for the unstable one, the one who chases him and whacks him repeatedly on the head. He's in there with her right now, accepting her abuse with panache.

Huh, I thought I had more, but I don't, so goodnight.

(And hey, AJ, thanks for the kick start)

:-)

Bad Moon Rising

2009-02-15T16:56:00.004-07:00

Yaaaaaaawwwwnn......strrrreeeetccchhh....mmmmm.....zzzzz...

Looks like Wicked's been on a break, yeah?

Yeah.

What can I say, o friends of mine? My mojo's done gone and leff me. The inertia of winter has seized me in its grip and squeezed me lifeless. I'm nothing but a pool of drool these days. All I do is eat, sleep, work, and lurk on Facebook to see what the real people are doing. That's right, I've been watching you.

A girl cannot live by vicariousness alone, though, so I have dragged myself over to the Flying Star with my sturdy laptop and NOTHING ELSE so that maybe, with the help of a grilled cheese sammich and fries, I can get the hamster wheel spinning again.

Let's begin. I would like to officially declare the last few weeks FULL BLOWN CRAZY. Has anyone else noticed how whacko-macko things have seemed lately? It seems that a day can't go by without some high drama playing itself out at work. Recent items of note:

* The school went into a "freeze" because an emotionally distraught 3rd-grader took off and couldn't be found. As it turned out, no one was exactly sure what a freeze was. We knew what a lockdown was. We knew what a fire drill was. We even remembered the J. Geils Band's song, "Freeze Frame." But a freeze? Not so much. Therefore, there were plenty of us wandering the halls under the auspices of not understanding what we were supposed to do, when what we were really doing was rubbernecking the situation. Fortunately, I had the inside scoop since I had been witness to what behaviorists would call the antecedent of the situation. Yes, I had seen the missing 3rd-grader (prior to her missingness) sitting in the lobby of the school, sobbing hysterically, while the principal said to her, "I'll let you stay out here if you promise not to run off." PING! I swear I saw the lightbulb go off over her head. "Ah, yes, now I know what to do; I'll run! And then I'll hide!! And they'll never find me!" And so she did. Bad news for her, though, 3rd graders don't have the skillz to find the really good hiding places. Under the sink in the bathroom? Sorry, kid, you're nothing but an easy mark.

* A few days later, the crisis response team was called out to the playground. Apparently a couple of the 6th grade boys got to fighting, and one of them took things a little too far. You know what you get when you take things a little too far on the 6th grade playground? You get put in a hold, that's what. In front of your friends. And your teachers. And it doesn't matter how much we like you, we will not let you go while you're yelling at the top of your lungs about how the first thing you're gonna do when you get free is to go kill the other kid. I had to relieve the first responder, and I do believe it was my first time to actually use a hold on a kid. It's not fun. It's so incredibly sad to see a kid in so much anger and pain that he literally cannot control himself, and to have to hold him until he can. T-e-n-s-e. Not to mention a little awkward the next time you see him in the lunch line.

* You thought we were done, didn't you? No, no, no, a few days after that, someone e-mailed in a bomb threat to the high school! Isn't technology wonderful? This time we got the lockdown, even though the threat wasn't actually at our school. The buses couldn't leave the high school, which meant that they couldn't come get our kids, so it was crazy, daisy, man. And naturally this happened just at the end of the school day, so everyone was stuck there for quite a while. I'm not sure how long, because I snuck out to keep an appointment in town. I love to be the exception to the rule.

The good news is that in every instance, things ended well. Situations were managed and disaster averted. Yay! Go, team!

In the midst of all these crazy crises, though, I had such a funny moment that really restored perspective for me. I walked into one of my classrooms for our usual group session and the teacher turned to me and said, "Miss Wicked, the kids have all written you letters of apology for their bad behavior in your last class." Huh? Blink-blink-blink. Huh? Apparently the children had misbehaved, those bad things, even though I didn't remember it one bit. Shoot, I had bigger fish to fry around there. The letters were delightful, though, and I'm going to share some of them with you so that you, too, can experience the joy of a well-written apology.

Dear Ms. Wicked,
I am sorry for talking in class while you were teaching me. Please forgive me for talking in class please come again I love you comeing and teaching me.

###

Dear Miss Wicked I am sorry that I wasn't paying attetieon well you were teaching us and am relly sorry and not listing to you. So I hope you forgive me and you are sweat.

###

To Miss Wicked
I'm sorry for being loud in class and talking when you were tring to teach. Thank you.

###

Dear Ms. Wicked,
I'm sorry for playing when you were talking to us. Sorry for not penattention. I'm realy sorry for doing all that. I'm realy sad.

###

Mrs. Wicked I'm sorry I was talking while you were teaching. Next time you come. I will have better expectations.

###

Dear Mrs. Wicked I would like to apolagize for the actions of the class and myself I am sorry.

###

Ms. Wicked,
i am so sorry for talking during when you were teaching. it will never hapen again. (ed: BWAAAA HA HA HA HA!! I know who wrote this. it will never hapen again, my ass.)

###

Sigh...and this is why, despite the freezes and holds and lockdowns, I keep going back to that crazy, crazy place.

Well, it seems the Flying Star has worked its magic, so I shall bid you adieu now. See you all on Facebook!

Be Back Soon, In The Meantime Watch This

2009-02-12T20:53:00.001-07:00

When the Mothership Comes, I'll Be Ready

2009-01-26T18:37:00.009-07:00

All right, I'll say it again, Facebook is turning out to be a wonderful thing. I've been getting in touch with all sorts of folks that I knew way back in my childhood years. Not only are we sharing memories, we're having real, live, actual conversations about who we were back then, the accomplishments we're most proud of, the regrets that just won't fade, and who we are today. Ever notice how rarely we adult humans do this anymore? Maybe it's just part and parcel of growing up, settling down, and getting into a routine--it doesn't seem like there's so much new to talk about anymore, certainly not like when we were adolescents and everything was a new and exciting (or excruciatingly painful and dramatic, but still).

Anyhoo, some friends have been posting pictures of our sweet selves back then, and it got me to thinking about that box o' stuff in my garage labeled "memorabilia." (Who labels things "memorabilia," I ask? Me, apparently.) So I dragged the thing out and have been going through it for the last two days. Oh, lawsy, the memories it's bringing up! It's a funny thing how you get used to yourself after a while and forget how you once were, and probably still are underneath all those layers of adulthood. Going through the box has been enlightening, disturbing, but mostly just plain delightful. And while it would be easy to wax on about youth and its energy, vitality, focus, loyalties, intensity, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, I would really prefer to talk about this:

Holy mother of gawd, would you look at those GLASSES?! Let's forget, for a moment, about the caterer's outfit I'm wearing. And it's really not a good time to discuss those bangs, as that issue has never completely resolved itself. Setting aside the adorable fluffball named Myrtle who could almost distract you from the moon goggles, though, one wonders what in hell was I thinking?! Who left me unsupervised in the industrial frames section at the optometrist's office?!

Oh, and folks, this wasn't just a one-time fashion don't made after one too many sips from the communion wine. No, no, this was a bonafide trend. Behold:

Preparing to embarrass myself in front of a crowd

Embarrassing myself in front of God and his staff

Unafraid to go out in the light of day in those things. My niece was unaffected due to her missing front tooth, which made her look like a doofus, too. We were soulmates.

My poor nephew, cool even at this tender age, was forced to sit next to me and my BIG, HUMONGOUS GLASSES for this picture. He's been scarred ever since. Just look how depressed we both are.

Thank goodness my brother A.J. did not abandon me in my time of need, when no doubt sirens were going off in his head and escape hatches beckoning. He was so cool even I couldn't break his stride. I love you, man. Thanks for not leaving me in the dust. And for giving me a ride on the back of your motorcycle. I probably had to wear my glasses over my helmet, didn't I? Sigh...

Hmm...Apple? Tree? Anybody?

The pièce de résistance. Horrifying, yes?

All right, in my defense, I would like to say two things. First, I was not alone. Say hello to Tamara, a friend and fellow fashion idiot from summer camp (Hello, Tamara...).

See, see? It wasn't just me. Thank you, Tamara, for serving as an object lesson. Power to the bug eyes, my sista!!

Rest In Peace, Number Six

2009-01-15T20:15:00.002-07:00

For more info on Patrick McGoohan, click here

In Case You Were Looking

2009-01-13T20:45:00.001-07:00

Thank you, http://icanhascheezburger.com!

Let's Just Say

2009-01-12T20:22:00.003-07:00

Let's just say that you decided to meet some friends last Friday for pizza. And let's just say that you chose to do this after work, so the restaurant you chose was not too far from your place of business, insomuch as an elementary school can be considered a place of business.

And let's just say that while you were there, you ran into a bajillion students from your school, and then let's just say that you revised that number to four because you tend to exaggerate.

And let's just say that on Monday, 6-year-old Steven sees you in the hall and says, "Ashley-said-she-saw-you-at-the-Pizza-Barn-and-she-said-you-were-drinking-BEER!"

And let's just say he says this in a very loud voice at the end of the day when there are lots of parents wandering the halls.

Sigh. Freakin' kids, eyeballing me while I'm out drinking.

# # #

Now let's just say that even though you have a fabulous and large new television, you don't have cable or satellite or Tivo or whatever newfangled thing is currently out there, so you don't really understand the endless array of stations available for your viewing pleasure. And let's say that when you went to your newly! refurbished! gym today to Get On It with the good health program, you discovered that the machines all have individual TV screens attached to them--WITH cable!! Or satellite! Or whatever! And since you're"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""????????????????????;....................../ (please excuse; contributed by Max the cat, who has just joined us.)

Ahem. And since you're not used to the gajillion channel options (and this time you're NOT exaggerating the number), you don't know how to find Animal Planet or CNN or Dirty Jobs with the adorable Mike Rowe, so you're stuck scrolling through the channels one by one until you find something agreeable.

And then LET'S JUST SAY THAT YOU ACCIDENTALLY FOUND THIS AWESOME MOVIE, CIRCA 1978:

Ohhhh, yes! Please, please, PLEASE scroll down to the next post and watch the video. You will not be disappointed, I promise you. I only saw the last 10 minutes of the movie, but there was daring and adventurous dialogue such as:

"Are you feeling disappointed about something?"

(Long pause...) "No."

There was a monkeyman who doubled as a blind man (I did not make that up), a seeker named Corb and a place that looked like a monasterial Oz. It was super-rife with symbolism and loin cloths; the special effects were monumental, I feel sure, for the time. I think the clip below speaks for itself. I would tell you not to miss this movie, but I'm pretty sure it's unavailable at your local video store.

# # #

Now let's just say that Monday is finally over. Goodnight, Irene.

The Silent Flute - Man In Oil Scene DO NOT MISS!

2009-01-12T20:03:00.001-07:00

"Oh, you are obviously mentally disturbed. You should have seen a doctor."

"I am a doctor."

Wicked Joins A Modern Society

2009-01-10T09:27:00.009-07:00

You might want to sit down for this.

Thems as you as have been to my house know that you don't come over to watch the latest episode of Fashion Runway or to catch up on your South Park or even to watch Hallmark's latest weepfest. Why not, you ask? Because for the last 20 years, this has constituted my entire entertainment center:

Perty, ain't it? That's 13" of viewing pleasure, my friends. Funny thing, but over the last couple of years, it's been getting harder to see and hear. Must be something in the picture tube or the audio cable or sumpin' other than my own deteriorating eyes and ears. Anyhoo, this is college-era vintage, baby, and you can't find one just anywhere. Not even eBay stocks this lovely. I have loved this TV, insomuch as one can love an inanimate object, and when all that ballyhoo started about the big analog-to-digital changeover, I was truly torn. As much as I knew it was time to trade up, I somehow felt that I was bending to the will of consumerism to do so. This TV represented something to me; it meant that my life was interesting enough not to need a big screen telly to occupy my days and nights, that I could make do just fine with my tiny antique model (it's got color! Muted color, but still!). Plus, I was worried that if I got a big ol' honkin' television, all I would ever do was watch it (same rationale I employ for not getting cable or satellite, by the way).

All that philosophical thinking flew out the window when I saw this baby on sale at Target:

Yep. I bought it.

Please let me introduce you: TV, my readers; my readers, my new TV.

Now I am the proud owner of something that every other American takes for complete granted. And guess what? I can see it! I can hear it! The volume works, the picture's good, and it came installed with this guy:

Cute, huh? He wants to be my lawyer. Also, I get more channels with my digital presentation, and am now able to enjoy this fanciful show:

Well, there you have it, Wicked's fall to consumerism. Did you hear the big whoomp when it happened? The politicians will be so proud, as I have now done my my patriotic duty by contributing to the economy. You're welcome to come over and enjoy a show or two with me, but don't ask me out to dinner or to go to the show or really to leave the house at all, because I'm too busy these days. Watching.

This Blog Is Not Dead

2009-01-05T18:51:00.004-07:00

It's just resting.

Well, hello, and happy 2009, everybody! I hope you all had mightily good holidays and are chock full of new year's resolutions. I made some, but I'm not telling what they were; everyone knows that telling is an automatic jinx against your success, so mum's the word. Not telling. Nope. Uh-uh. They had nothing to do with exercise and writing, no, no, they did not, so quit asking. Still not telling.

On an unrelated note: I actually set off TWO (2) smoke alarms while cooking my supper tonight. Two! And weird, the food wasn't even burned. Thankfully, none of my resolutions involved improving myself in the area of cooking, so we're good there.

And how did your holidays go? Mm? Mine went just peachy. I drove the horrendously boring 11-hour trip back home in two pieces, first to Oklahoma City to stay the night with my b(r)other AJ (Hi Jeffrey!) & his family, then the final stretch the next day to the mothership (with two nephews in tow, w00t!). Staying with AJ and his peeps was pure fun, man. I think maybe he was just the skoshiest bit worried about the domestic chaos awaiting me there, but you've gotta remember that I live a pretty quiet life so I was really digging all the crazyass nonsense that comes with stuffing seven people into a house and shaking it hard until something explodes. (Disclaimer: it wasn't really crazyass. I just wanted to say crazyass. Crazyass. Well, it was a little crazyass.) Anyhoo, there was beer and card playing and cursing by minors and guitar string plucking and nail polishing and carousing. Yes, indeedy, there was. It was good. And it didn't scare me at all.

Then it was on to my mum's house, where we packed in the numbers and all got along just fine, if you ask me. High number on the head count was 19, I think, although I might be missing some. I feel so fortunate to come from a family that truly enjoys spending time together, even if we had to (once again) learn that playing Pictionary always leads to the stomping off of at least one player. Hey, we can laugh about it later, as long as that person is out of the room. We played some board games and Wii games and watched a lot of movies. My sister-in-law, Nougat, built us some mighty impressive fires in the fireplace (thanks, Nougat!). I spent the night at my sister's house, where we played Mario Kart and screamed out loud on the tight turns. There was knitting, oh, lawsy, was there ever knitting! You remember Andy, yes? He knitted. And my two nieces have gotten quite good at the fiber arts, I must say. I made two scarves and started in on a bag, and my sister the stuck-up ho made a purse. Down time is good.

I stayed long enough to get really comfortable with having a house full of people around me, which was just so...nice (deep sigh). On the drive home I kept looking around for someone to talk to, but it was just me and my iPod, whose battery was running low. I couldn't make my peace with the quietness, which was a bit of a problem since I live alone and don't make just a whole lot of noise. Now that I'm back, I find myself wishing to return to a house full of peoples, even if it does mean cooking and sharing bathrooms and taking very short, lukewarm showers.

The good news is that I'll see everyone again in six short months at the beach, at which point I will have gotten used to my own simple life again and will spend the first three days wondering why everyone will not just shut the heck up. And then I'll get used to the chaos and start liking it. And then I'll leave and be sad without it. So you see? All life is a circle.

I bet you've missed my little philosophical musings, haven't you?

Enough already. After all, my keyboard's been dormant for so long that I don't want to break it by writing a long post. Let's just sneak up on this writing thing, why don't we, WHICH IS NOT ONE OF MY NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTIONS SO QUIT ASKING ME ABOUT IT ALREADY, WOULD YOU?!

Geesh. Happy New Year.

Five Things That Happened to Me Before 10:00 This Morning

2008-12-15T17:32:00.002-07:00

1) Burned my neck with the curling iron. I rarely even use a curling iron, which might account for my mismanagement of the implement. Ouch.

2) Found that a headlight on my car was out again. According to the nice man at Pep Boys, this happens a lot with this particular bulb type. Excellent.

3) Had an early morning dentist appointment, during which my tooth stump was manhandled by an inept dental hygeniest--without benefit of narcotics (for me at least; I can't speak for her, although it might 'splain some things if she's been doping before sunrise).

4) The road conditions were already well toward nasty by 8:30.
On the up side, snow!

5) I went to see a kindergartner who is brand new to my caseload today. She sashayed over to me, cocked her head to the side, then proceeded to pat my hair on one side, and then the other. I said, "Sweetie, what are you doing?" To which she replied, in perfectly clear speech, "Your hair's messy." Down side: she is so going to be the boss of me. Up side: I think she's cured! Getting to the bottom of the situation: fine, if you must know, my hair was messy. But I don't need a 5-year-old to tell me that.

Oh Joy! Oh Great Delight!

2008-12-14T14:41:00.008-07:00

What greater joy is there than to wake up on a Sunday morning to snow falling, knowing that there are no demands upon you to go anywhere or do anything? One can fix a nice cuppa, put on her comfy pants, burn a little toast and while the morning away with great bouts of nothingness. Ahhhh...

Max gets very excited when it snows. He must go out in it, he simply must, and then he must come back in immediately before he can feel the wetness of the snowflakes underneath his 10 pounds of fur. It's how he does things. Witness:

I must go outside. See my head? It needs more snow on it. Let me out.

I must come inside now. I must. Open the door.

I am not fooling. Look into my adorable and beseeching eyes. Open the door. This isn't funny anymore. It's cold out here.

Aha! I am inside now! Where is that bee-yotch Fiona? I shall lord my freedom over her.

Shoo. Get out of here. Me and Kris Kringle have a date, and you're really ruining the love buzz.

Fine. Let me out again. I must go out.

All right, I don't know why you put up with that ridiculous cutesy crap from me. Let's end this on a more dignified note, with some serious winter pictures.

Now let me out.

Moments From A Monday

2008-12-08T19:17:00.009-07:00

Best Sign Seen Today:

"Toys for TaTas"

(I'd tell you where I saw it, but I think you know.)

Best Short Bus Moment:

Hermy, the adorable-but-a-little out-to-lunch 3rd grader, standing in front of his bus trying to find his bus. As the bus driver honked at him. Seven times.

Moment That Most Made Me Rethink the Size of my SLPenis

After spending 30 minutes on a lesson with a kidlet, we passed a colleague in the hall and I excitedly asked my boy to tell her what we'd just been talking about.

His response (after a looooong pause): "Uuuuuh...I don't know."

Sigh.

The Power of Perimenopause

When someone told me today that I was wrong about something, I replied, "No, you are."

Then I turned and walked away.

And I felt good about that.

Best E-Mail Subject Line

Your lovegun final destination

'nuff said.

Have a Holly, Jolly Christmas!

2008-12-03T20:27:00.008-07:00

Hey, folks, guess what?? The season of CHRISTMAS SPECIALS has officially begun!! "Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer" kicked things off tonight, and I'd be lying if I didn't say that my arse didn't leave the sofa once during the show. Don't tell me you don't love it. You know you do, no matter how jaded and tough you may think you are. I know you. You're pure sentimental mush inside. How could you not love all that stop-jerk animation and the cast of ridiculous characters? Pure delight, it is, I say; pure delight.

Consider Yukon Cornelius, for example. Loud, full o' himself, impulsive, brash. But he always manages to come out ahead. He plays the bumbling savior role to perfection.

And what about Hermie the Elf? Annoying voice aside, he stays true to his dreams of dentistry. And in the end, it saves them all. Inspiring.

Then there's Clarice, the only one who truly accepts Rudolph as he is. Typical woman, loving her guy through all his hardships, a real stand-by-her-man kind of gal. Going out in a blizzard and risking becoming the next white meat for a nasty snow beast. In the end, she gets a kiss and her man.

The Bumble, well, he's the ultimate scene stealer, isn't he? A dark (metaphorically speaking) and dangerous creature, he's the original hater. Despises Christmas. Wants to eat all the cute reindeer. Forgets that he can't swim and steps right into the deep ocean blue. The Bumble has issues. But even he finds redemption in the end, coming around to find his new avocation--placing the star perfectly on top of the tree. Cheers abound, happiness ensues, and good will is ensured. And all it cost him was all his bright, shiny, reindeer-munching teeth.

Even Hermey's supervisor eventually comes around to the right way of thinking, letting Hermey set up his practice and fix all the elf cavities that year-round sweets can buy. Probably the first and only push for diversity the North Pole has ever experienced.

Anyhoo, I LOVE when the holiday specials start. What else can whisk us back to the shiny parts of childhood faster than Burl Ives singing "Silver and Gold?" Oh, joy! Oh, delight! And the lessons that the Island of Misfit Toys impart--well, would we be lying if we said, from time to time, we haven't all felt that we belonged there? When we see those toys floating down to their new homes, we can believe in anything.

What about you? What's your favorite holiday special? I'll give three cheers for "The Grinch Who Stole Christmas," myself. Go on--'fess up. It's good for the soul.

Better Than a Digestive Biscuit

2008-11-28T15:44:00.001-07:00

2008-11-24T20:24:00.002-07:00

I know it may appear that I blew off my blog-posting last weekend, but I didn't.
I posted blogs, all right.
They were just invisible.
And there was a special code that you had to have in order to access them.
Did you get the code?
No?
Huh. Imagine that.
.
.
.

All right, dangit, I didn't post any blogs last weekend. I blew my 22-day streak of daily blogging because I dint feeeeel like bloooooogging. Let's all be grown-ups here and just move past it. Thank you.

Anyhoo, I promised you a story, a story of love and hope and determination. A story of the F word and abandonment and dejection, followed by more redemption and love and hope and determination. With a happy ending, just in case you're one of those who can't stand the suspense.

I believe I have spoken before of my little chair-throwing kindergartner. You know I love him; I really do. I wish I could predict what sets him off; I really do. I wish I could calm him and get him back on track every time he has a complete emotional breakdown; I really, really do. But I can't. And that was so very apparent last Friday.

Young Humphrey came in all out of breath to class, sat down and immediately took issue with the fact that I did not respond to his impulsive shouted-out answer to the question I had posed to the group, but rather selected the sitting-quietly-with-her-hand-raised Cinderelly good girl. Not. Good. Humphrey yelled out, threw himself on the floor, and screamed loudly about the fact that I never call on him, never, never, never! Now, God love him, this poor kid ends up in the principal's office fifty five gazillion times a day, and he's only five, and I didn't want things to end this way this time. So I quietly reminded him about the randomness of getting called on and how you should never give up hope, little cowboy, and don't you want to sit back down in your chair? Once you stop kicking it? Yes? No?

Here's the fast forward version of the next quarter hour: more chair kicking, yelling, table moving, object throwing, removing other kids from his area, threatening, running around, using the calm voice (that part was me, definitely not him). None of which worked. When Humphrey started getting a little too close to the other kids and threatening to put my eyes out with the magic finger pointer, I told all the other students to quietly line up and go out to the hallway. Then I buzzed the office and asked them to call the teacher back from WHEREVER THE HELL SHE WENT so that I could have a little assistance here, thank you. Humphrey went on running around in circles and found more things to throw at me, telling me all along how much he hated me and dropping the F word casually into the stream of things.

My favorite moment was when, after I didn't react with shock to his bountiful cussing, he yelled, "I saaaid f%*#!" Oh. Okay, then. Yes, you did. Bravo! Well enunciated!

Well, it was quite the 15 minutes and, at the end of it, after he hit me in the leg with the glue then locked himself in the bathroom, he did have to be carried away to the principal's office. As he was toted him down the hallway, he carefully folded all the principal's fingers down but the middle ones, then gleefully said, "You're flipping everyone off!" Later he informed the principal that one of the syllables in his last name sounded like "dumb."

Have I said that I love this kid? He's brilliant. I don't really care if he flips me off or cusses me out or says he hates me. I love him. There is no one else like him. And I am only sorry that his distress and pain is very, very real and that there is no easy fix for it.

But here's the up side. After he unburdened himself to the principal (Miss Wicked called on everyone twice and she never called on ME!), he was put into a different kindergarten classroom, you know, just to see how that went. Sometimes a change of scenery can do wonders. And it just so happened that I was doing a group in that very classroom, so I welcomed Humphrey with open arms and was delighted when he just sat right down and fit right in. And he did just fine.

And that was not such a bad way to end the week.

F Is For...

2008-11-21T19:02:00.002-07:00

1) Friday, to be sure

2) The finger

3) F*%@ you

And I have been on the receiving end of all these things today.

Story to follow.

Must go find that big bottle of whiskey now.

Armed and Dangerous

2008-11-20T17:21:00.004-07:00

A story for you:

About a month ago I lost my scissors. And in case you're wondering, that is not a euphemism in the way that I lost my marbles is. Not that I have all my marbles. I most assuredly do not. That's what allows me to work with the children.

But my point is (ha ha! point! scissors! ha!)...wait, how do you guys get me off topic so fast? MY POINT IS that I literally lost my scissors. It was weird, because I knew exactly where I had used them last, and it is not a long walk from my sofa to the drawer where my scissors live. It's not like I could have meandered off trail on my way to put them back, or even laid them down in a place where I couldn't easily find them. But when it was time to scissor again, they were not there. Dammit.

So I spent two weeks just waiting for them to show up again. It was a long two weeks; you'd be surprised how often you need a pair of scissors. Some people have backup scissors, but I myself like to live on the edge (ha ha! edge! point! scissors! oh, the witticisms!). When the scissors didn't appear again, I sucked it up and bought myself a new pair. I even popped for the $1.99 ones. And since then I've been quite pleased with my forward-thinking implement replacement program and have had all my cutting needs met.

Which should be the end of things, but you guys know where this is going, right? Yes, yes, yes, the mysterious lost scissors have mysteriously reappeared! You'll never guess where they were. Never. Please, stop begging me, for heaven's sakes, I'll tell you! In. The. Knife. Drawer. This is the same knife drawer that I'm into once or twice a day because it also contains my wine bottle opener and the plastic lids for the cat food. And those scissors weren't crammed in the back somewhere, underneath something big that obliterated my view. Nope, they were just a'sittin' right there. Right there. Looking at me, for the past month, in that way that scissors have.

The bastards.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go take my doggone scissors and start looking for those missing marbles.

What Wicked Is Watching

2008-11-19T20:22:00.007-07:00

Join Me In My Time Machine

2008-11-18T19:59:00.010-07:00

I know you all think daylight savings time has come and gone. But today I need you to turn back your clocks to September 4, 2008. That was the day that Zozobra, Old Man Gloom, was burned to ashes just up the hill in Santa Fe. This is the blog I meant to post that day, but better late than never, right? And while we're at it, don't cry over spilled milk. And let us not forget that a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush! And who killed J.R.? All right, all right, moving on...

For those of you not from the area, let me tell you about Zozobra. Or rather, let's let Wikipedia tell you about it, because you know I'm far too lazy to come up with the words myself:

Zozobra ("Old Man Gloom") is the name of a giant marionette effigy which is built and burned every autumn during Fiestas de Santa Fe in Santa Fe, New Mexico, usually during the second week of September. As his name suggests, he embodies gloom; by burning him, people destroy the worries and troubles of the previous year in the flames. Anyone with gloom that they need to get rid of can come by the offices of the Santa Fe Reporter in the weeks leading up to the burn to drop off slips of paper with personal gloom written on them. Many people put legal papers in the gloom box as well. At the festival the papers from the gloom box are placed at Zozobra's feet to be burned alongside him.

I found this much more lively description from http://www.zozobrahistory.com/history.html:

Zozobra is a hideous but harmless fifty-foot bogeyman marionette. He is a toothless, empty-headed facade. He has no guts and doesn't have a leg to stand on. He is full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. He never wins. He moans and groans, rolls his eyes and twists his head. His mouth gapes and chomps. His arms flail about in frustration. Every year we do him in. We string him up and burn him down in ablaze of fireworks. At last, he is gone, taking with him all our troubles for another whole year. Santa Fe celebrates another victory. Viva la Fiesta! - A.W. Denninger

I love the idea of taking all one's wishes, regrets, mistakes, hopes, debts, irritations, subpoenas, to-do lists, dirty laundry, embarrassing pictures, and rejection letters and watching them curl up and disappear into the flame. Had there been, oh, say 5 people celebrating Zozobra instead of 40,000, I might just have gone up there myself. I don't like crowds, though. I can't even handle the Wal-Mart. So since my crowd phobia prevented me from joining the masses, I decided to just hold my own Zozobra here at the manse. And just in case you missed it, too, I have recreated the experience in a pictorial how-to:

First, take a piece of paper, preferably one you pulled out of the recycling bin:

Fold it in half like so:

Draw your own Mr. Speedy von Nicklaus to your liking:

Cut that baby out. You know you want to. Please don't forget the tabs; you will need this to create a two-dimensional character that can (sort of) stand on its own.

Now is the time to let all your artistic schizophrenia loose. Jazz him up. Make him perty, if you like. Draw a face that looks suspiciously like your last boss.

I like him. He looks all shadowy and dangerous.

Next, use your fire safety skills to locate an appropriate container in which to perform your pyromania:

Then LET 'ER RIP!!

I took an awesome video of the burning process--two, in fact, because there were technical issues that the fire safety team would not have approved requiring a burning, part deaux--but for the life of me I can't figure out how to get them off my camera. So never mind.

Well, there ya go--good luck in making your own creation. I hope this has been a useful life lesson in letting go of the past and all that other stuff and more stuff. If not, then at least maybe it offers a new technique in time-wasting for you. Either way, never forget that when you need a time-wasting fire setter, Wicked is your gal!

Msiethsoeihrapofullfm

2008-11-17T21:19:00.002-07:00

I have just spent the last three hours writing up progress reports and thppfffffffft! That is all that's left inside my head. Now you tell me a joke.

It's Sunday I HAVE TOO BLOGGED!

2008-11-16T20:41:00.003-07:00

You may think I haven't blogged today, but you'd be wrong. I just haven't blogged here. I've been way into the knitting this weekend, so I took my lofty fiber art ramblin' thoughts to my girl-family knitting blog and wrote them there.

Just don't want you thinking I'm not working.

Also, I learned today that when I miss the ball at the driving range, that is called a whiff.

Look Carefully...Very Carefully

2008-11-15T19:14:00.002-07:00

2008-11-14T20:26:00.005-07:00

Wicked just found out that she can play DVDs on her laptop.

She can't talk now.

She's busy.

for Moi

2008-11-13T20:50:00.003-07:00

For those of you still pondering whether there can ever be too much of a buttery aftertaste:

Wicked Would Take You Down, If She Just Had the Energy

2008-11-12T20:01:00.003-07:00

I spent my morning learning how to deescalate violent situations with children.

Gives you a warm fuzzy, doesn't it?

Sigh...yes, it's sad to think about, but sometimes kids just don't have the impulse control, good judgement, or words to express that they are about one bus stop away from Crazyville. Come to think of it, I'm not so sure that I do, either. Howevuh, while no one is lining up to take a body blow to save my mental health, part of my "other duties as assigned" is to talk these kids down from the ledge. And, failing that, to tackle them using district-approved holds.

I was going to take pictures of the holds from my manual, but I left it at school.

I was going to draw pictures of the holds and then take pictures of them to post here, but it gets dark so early now and I fall into a stupor of nonproductivity once it gets dark, even when that happens at 5:15.

So here we are.

I can describe to you that there is a kindergarten student who(m?) I love and cherish and who threw a chair at me yesterday who might be a good candidate for the techniques I learned today. Earlier in the day his teacher lost him. Lost. Him. Other people checked the room and swore he wasn't there, but eventually he was found tucked beneath the teacher's desk. She now refers to him as The Demon Child because apparently he can disappear at will. Nice, huh? I wonder where he gets his issues from.

For your information, I learned how to break out of the following situations:

*An arm grab
*A kick
*A hit
*A choke
*A hair grab
*A bite

If you are under 4 feet, I can put you in a hold singlehandedly. If you are over 4 feet, I will need a trained friend to help, but I can do my part. When we practiced the two-hand arm grab today, my former assistant principal could not break out of my grip. That's how much of a natural I am at hand-to-hand combat. Be afraid. Be very afraid.

And you thought Wicked was just another pretty face.

2008-11-11T20:05:00.005-07:00

OMG, I WAS SOCIAL ON A SCHOOL NIGHT!

That's right, I went out on a week night. I cannot emphasize enough the bigness of this. I'm one who, once I get back into my nest after a long day at work, has to be crowbarred out the front door to take out the trash. But tonight, a Tuesday night, I went to the Flying Star cafe and...hold on to your hats here...KNIT! Yep. I knit. With other people.

Believe it or not, this whole thing started months ago. One night last summer I went to a different knitting group--that's right, I have left the house twice in recent months--because I wanted to meet other knitters. I'd been a lone wolf fiber arts gal for long enough, and it was time to run with the pack. So I drove a bajillion miles to another cafe across town and met some really hip, knowledgeable women who didn't have a lot to say to me. They were lovely, really, but it was a little difficult to break into their already-ordered passel, so I went away and just ignored that niggling thought that I should try again. I couldn't bring myself, the traffic hating hermit, to drive through stoplights and dodge drunk drivers just to go hang out with people who were pretty well entrenched with each other and not with me.

And then I found out that there was a group of knitters that met just down the street from me. And I knew that it was time to try again. Tonight, though, I had a plan. I did not want to get stuck for another awkward night with women holding sharp sticks who knew each others' stories and weren't interested in mine. My plan was to sneak in early, find a seat with a good vantage point and pretend to work while I surreptitiously checked out the group as it gathered. If they looked friendly, I would break from my disguise and join them. If not, well, I was out of there like a shot. Just call me Agatha Christie.

Unfortunately, I was late. And unfortunately squared, I was immediately made by the group's leader when I got there, especially since they were sitting right by the front door. I'm not sure what it was that gave me away; maybe that big knitting bag hanging over my shoulder? It's hard to say. She kept staring at me while I was in line until I was finally forced to acknowledge her and her big knitting bag. So there I was and there they were, and before you knew it there we were. I sighed, sat down at their table, and prepared to fake an emergency phone call from a friend if necessary.

But, hallelujah, I didn't need to! They turned out to be a lovely group of people, and since there were only four of us, it made it really hard for them to ignore me. Especially when I kept "accidentally" poking them with my knitting needles. They even gave me their screen names for a knitting web site so I could pester them there. And they told me they would help me with my knitting questions because, and I quote, "We want everyone to be able to knit anything they want." Raise your hands in the air and sing with me, We are the world, we are the children.....

It's always good when Wicked has a positive social encounter. And even better, she was back at her house by 8:00 with enough time left in her evening to get in her comfy pants, pour herself a glass of wine and celebrate her successful socializing. She is feeling very satisfied with herself. Very satisfied, indeed.

2008-11-10T18:33:00.006-07:00

I know you're all dying to know how I'm doing with Facebook.

Right?

Hello? Is this thing on?

I'm going to tell you anyway.

Facebook is going just swell, thanks for asking. Hold onto your seats, kids, because I'm actually finding it to be...fun! I know! It's like some cyberspacery spiderweb, connecting me with people I haven't seen in years. I've reconnected with friends from long ago, "kids" I once sat next to in high school classes and college courses. I've gotten back in touch with some folks from more recent times, people who had strayed from my constant thoughts but remained in my heart. As a double bonus, I get the pleasure of talking with Robert & Zak, sometimes even by--gasp!--instant messaging! I know, I'm all that and a cup of tea. A slice of toast? A chunk of cheese.

It's good to know that even a cybertard like me has been able to figure out the Facebook basics. I can now write on other people's walls, that's right. I can comment on what I'm doing in the moment, which seems to be the thing you do--"Wicked is in a one-armed throwdown with the cat right now," that sort of thing. And there are a few other things that I've done but I'm not really sure what they were--commenting on other people's comments, poking a friend, which seems really rude--but I've done that, and I think that makes me Facebook cool. Double dog dare you guys to come on board. Oh, that's right, I was the last one on this train. Never mind.

So never underestimate a thing you don't understand, I guess that's our life lesson for today. Gotta run now and see if I have any new friends waiting for me out there; but if you're in the mood for some silly fun, go here: Http://DNA.imagini.net/friends.

2008-11-08T08:43:00.010-07:00

Prayer

The Beginning of a Weekend Photo Blitz

2008-11-07T17:08:00.008-07:00

Contact

Ode to Mister Sun

2008-11-06T20:16:00.004-07:00

This week you started to arrive

So very bright and early.

Your chipper glow and one-eyed stare

Keep me from getting squirrely.

Amen.

Quality Control Has Really Gone to Pot Around Here

2008-11-05T20:10:00.006-07:00

I'm all tarred out now after a day of doing my Very Important Stuff, which included my annual exhausting trip to the Wal-mart, but I have committed to putting fingers to keyboard every day for a month--my own Blogowrimo version of Nanowrimo--and now I am stuck with that decision. But meh, I don't waaaaaaannaaaaa. So instead, I give you this:

My apologies to the young lady, who I do not know and was not responsible for this atrocity on her head. Not that I couldn't have been. I could have; oh, I surely could have.

I am counting this as a blog posting; don't bother arguing with me. You'd be right, but I'm not listening.

What It's All About

2008-11-04T20:38:00.005-07:00

I am all atwitter with the excitement of Election '08 finally coming to fruition! It's about time, I say. Twenty-two months is a long time to endure all the theatrics, don't you think? Come tomorrow we'll have a new president-elect, like him or not.

I know we're all on the edge of our seats, waiting to see who that will be. I also know that when all is said and done, some will be exhilarated, others disappointed. It's the way of things; a win isn't really a win unless there's a loss. As I am fond of saying, all life is a circle, or some other not-really-applicable thing like that. No matter what, though, I am deeply moved by having the opportunity to cast my vote without fear getting shot, set on fire, or laughed at for wearing a dress. And then cast out with admonitions to get back to the kitchen where the women belong. This is rightly called a(n?) historical election, and I'm glad to have been a part of it.

My mother and I, who live on opposite sides of the political fence, had a conversation this morning that ended with the promise to keep loving each other no matter who won. Doesn't that sound precious? This was after an exchange in which she told me that if my party won, maybe me and my similar-minded sibs would just have to stay in the basement come Christmas. I told her that Jesus doesn't like us to argue over politics and she generously agreed, after which she told me that Jesus wants her party to win. So I told her that my heart was pure and that I was good and she was bad, and she followed up by telling me that I was out of the will. Okay, I made that last part up. But she could have said it, and I think that's all that really matters here. Hey, what we lack in conflict management, we make up for with good humor. Either way, we'll keep loving even other, even if we can no longer speak to each other.

I dramatize, of course. We have a long-standing tradition in my family to ignore the things we don't agree on, and this will be no exception. Also, I make the best Chex mix evuh so if she bans me to the basement over the holidays, none for her. Hear that, Queen Mum? Eh? That's what I thought.

(Speaking of which, mum has crept ever closer to being online. Technically, she can be online now anytime she wants. All she has to do is figure out how. We're working on it. I'll keep you posted.)

Whoever wins, I hope we never lose sight of the fact that we're all in this together. Together we stand, divided we fall is as true as it gets. Plus, Jesus doesn't want us to fight. I know. He told me so.

Wicked Faces the New Century, 8 Years Later

2008-11-03T17:30:00.008-07:00

I have just been dragged kicking and screaming into Facebook by my ultra-cool and savvy friends who are full inhabitants of the 21st century. I know that I'm usually the last girl on the bus when it comes to these modern things--heck, I have a 20-year-old TV that runs off rabbit ears, and don't even talk to me about something called "BluRay" or even "cable TV" or "satellite dish"--but I hadn't realized the full extent of my techonologus ignoramus until a friend told me I really ought to try it. Both she and my other happening friend taunted me with invitations to view their pages, but those crafty muthas over there in Facebook Technology World wouldn't let me look at nothin' unless I signed up for my own page. So, in a moment of post-workout-adrenalin-high-risk-taking-this-is-what-your-mother-warned-you-about behavior, I did.

And then I freaked out because I PUT MY NAME OUT THERE ON THE INTERNET AND NOW PEOPLE WILL KNOW THINGS ABOUT ME AND FIND ME AND THIS THREATENS MY UNDER-THE-ROCK, BUILD-MY-OWN-BUNKER EXISTENCE.

Hey, paranoid much?

This process has really made me aware of just how close to the vest I play it when it comes to revealing myself, particularly in that great big scary cyberspace. Stepping into a personal space on the internet just feels so...shaky (please don't be put off by the big words I'm using). As you know, while I have freely shared pictures of other people on my blog, only recently did I put my own photo up there. And even doing that gave me a little twitch that hasn't completely gone away yet. And now here I am on Facebook. The whole thing is making me itchy.

So the situations I'm faced with, aside from my general distrust of the human race, are: a) my unease with getting up close and personal with technology, and; 2) the fact that I have no idea what I'm doing once I get there.

For example, *just* in the time I have written this I have gotten responses to some of my requests to be Facebook friends. First of all, I had no idea that I was asking people to be friends when I signed up. How did this happen? I promise you--promise you--that I'm going to be embarrassed if some of those people who I haven't spoken to in years actually respond. Secondly, I have no idea how to respond to anyone. My niece sent me a message and, seriously, I don't know how to reply to her. I went to my profile--apparently I have a profile now--and tried to figure out what to do, but I couldn't. I am such a cybertard.

So please, any of you who have a handle on these crazy new interacting personal web space online thingymabobs, help me. Surely there's a Facebook for Dummies book out there, but since I don't have the attention span to read it, maybe one of you could Cliffs Notes it for me. Or maybe I'll just forget the whole thing and purge myself of the experience by drinking the rest of that bottle of Cab-Sav on my counter. The bottom line is that this is all proving to be too much for me. I think I better go put some cheese into my newfangled microwave device and melt it on something.

¡Día feliz de los muertos!

2008-11-02T10:45:00.005-07:00

I'm not sure what it is about the Day of the Dead that appeals to me so, but I fo' sho' tell you that something about it does. Maybe it's living in New Mexico, where Catholicism is a not just a religion but a culture. Maybe it's all the skeleton folk art that can be found in shops and arts & crafts fairs around the city. Maybe it's the sheer novelty and shiny strangeness that attracts a white bread Okie girl like me. Cases in point:

Perhaps, though, it's the idea of welcoming the dead back into our midst in such a ceremonial and communal way that appeals to me most of all. It's a day to build altars and take food, drink and flowers to the graves of deceased loved ones, the idea being to entice the souls of the departed to return to visit the living--and let's face it, we all know there is no greater draw than food. I love the idea that we can simply call our loved ones back to us with prayers and stories and laughter and good cheese on flavorful crackers. And if you believe as I do that energy follows thought, then perhaps we can. The drawing up of memories can create an almost tangible presence; when done in numbers, that is a powerful thing, indeed.

Moi recently posted a beautiful piece of poetry by Mary Oliver that struck at the heart of things for me:

To live in this world, you must be able to do three things:

to love what is mortal; to hold it against your bones knowing your

own life

depends on it; and, when the time comes to let it go, to let it go.

Perhaps the greatest gift that the Day of the Dead brings us is to have the opportunity to gather and talk about those we love, those we miss so very much. I hope you have had that chance this weekend--in the most simple of ways, to laugh, to cry, to hold close and to let go. And above all, to celebrate and honor.

Two Words:

2008-11-01T17:23:00.004-06:00

Puppy yawns.

and that is all I have for today.

thank you.

EEEEEEEEK!! Happy Halloween!

2008-10-31T06:57:00.002-06:00

2008-10-26T09:19:00.010-06:00

While going through a festive search yesterday for one very specific picture that I needed for one very specific project, I found--to my delight--several picture CDs that I had all but forgotten about. I love finding surprise pictures! You never know what memories they hold, what feelings they'll evoke. Among the many jewels I discovered was a CD labeled "Albuquerque Trip October 2003." It had a pretty label on it so I knew it wasn't one that I had put together, since my general modus operandi is to leave all my CDs unlabeled and then toss them into a drawer with my blank CDs. That ensures that I'll never be able to find anything I'm looking for that's stored in a digital format, with the added bonus of never being able to find a blank CD when I need one.

Anyway, that October 2003 CD was turned out to be a trip that my parents made out here five years ago. It was my father's last visit here, which gives the memories a particularly poignant flavor. It was thrilling to find these photo memories of our time together, so I thought I would share the love here, it all its digital glory.

Look at this cute couple. Don't ask what my father is doing with his hat. Since he was an engineer, I'm sure he had a very good and important reason. And isn't that a darling hat my mom is wearing? My clever sister made it for her years ago.

This is my new favorite picture of my mom. Doesn't she look contemplative? She's probably wondering where we're going to have lunch.

Here's some nice Jemez red dirt. I think we stopped and bought some fry bread at a roadside stand here. Mmm, fry bread...

Here's Wicked and her dad. Again, we don't know what he's doing with the hand, but since he's an engineer we trust him. Sort of.

Albuquerque Biopark

I love this picture. Since my parents were not really the handholding type, I think my dad was probably helping my mom down the slope here. Or maybe getting ready to hurl her off the mountain. Still--so sweet.

Favorite picture #2 of Mum.

Thanks for joining me. Oh, and hey, BONUS, I found that picture I was looking for. w00t!

Play That Funky Music, White Boy!

2008-10-18T14:32:00.005-06:00

I have some very important happenings to report to you. First of all, it's Saturday, so w00t! Love me some weekend. In other news, I know how fascinated you all are with my work so I brought stories:

1) Last Thursday we had a deejay at the school all day long. He set up shop in the cafeteria and the kids were allowed to go in and dance--by grade level, mind you, we don't want those preschoolers teaching any upper grades their slick gyrating dance floor moves--periodically throughout the day. This was some kind of reward for something good that the kids did, Lord knows what because I know these kids and I don't think that even 30% of them are capable of holding onto so much as a breath of good behavior for longer than 1.3 seconds, but whatevuh. I like the music, which is heavily weighted toward disco, and I DO love the disco, so I'm in favor. Anyways, I went in for a few minutes while the kinder kids were dancing, who are always the best because they are so unfettered by any sense of self-consciousness. One of the kids on my caseload, who we'll call Lonnie because he can't say his L's and so if he said this name it would come out "Yonnie," and that would be funny, came over and, heavily prompted by his teacher, said, "May I have this dance?" Oh, lawd amighty, there is nothing more adorable than being asked to dance by a 5-year-old! I told Yonnie that I would yove to dance, so we jiggled and jumped and wiggled and bumped and had ourselves an exhaustingly fun time out there on the dance floor, where I hovered over his tiny self like a gigantic T Rex. It was fun right up until the music stopped, which is when I learned that no matter how old you are, or what the age difference is between you and your dance partner, there's always that awkward moment when the song ends:

Me: "Um, okay, Yonnie, I'm just going to go now."
Yonnie: silence
Me: "You know, I've got work and stuff."
Yonnie: silence
Me: "Okay then, see you later." (runs away)

Tooootally awkward.

2) I've been promising a certain 3rd-grade class that I would bring in some folders that they could use for the work we do together. Currently, at the end of each class session, they shove a gazillion sheets of paper willy-nilly into my hands, most of them without names and covered in a suspicious substance. For weeks now, I've been saying, "Oh, I'm going to bring you those folders next time, I am." And because they are young and innocent, they believe me. Bless their hearts. And are disappointed time and time again. They don't understand about my perimenopause and how what's left of my memory would fit into a Dixie cup. A very small Dixie cup. Fortunately, they are tolerant and kind, and don't hassle me too much about the situation. However, on Friday I REMEMBERED to bring the folders, which was preceded by my remembering to BUY the folders on Thursday night. AFTER, I'll admit, I had a small drinky winky with a friend. So this was big stuff. When I sauntered in with those folders, looking cool and all, "Of course I remembered, like, duh,"those darn kids broke into applause. And probably I should have been embarrassed that a bunch of 8-year-olds had to give me my props like this, but I'll take it where I can get it. Hey, all life is a circle, my friends--if you're nice to the 3rd graders, they'll be nice to you. Embroider it on a pillow.

3) I don't have a #3.

Have a groovy weekend! YMCA! Disco Ducks! Funky Chicken!

Love,
Wicked

In This Economy, Is A Picture Still Worth A Thousand Words?

2008-10-14T19:06:00.018-06:00

All right, so the verbal cortex of my brain seems to be shut down indefinitely for repairs. I have recently discovered that I have no more than 632 words available to me each day, most of them being "stuff" and "things" and "huh?" Sadly, I use all those up at work. And let me tell you, being a speech-language pathologist really bites (ha! oral cavity joke!) when you're all run out of words. A lot of my therapy sessions these days consist of me saying, "Okay, your turn." Often the response is something like, "But Miss Wicked, you didn't say anything." Mm-hm, smarty pants. Okay, your turn.

Be that as it may, it occurred to me that while I may have no words, I do, at least, have a mighty arsenal of pictures. So what better than to post some and call it a blog? And post some more later and call it another blog? I'm pretty sure I'll still get credit on the Productive side of my Life Worksheet without having to wallow in my current, albeit temporary (please, please, please) verbal inadequacies. And don't you worry, the talk will come back eventually. Slothitude cannot last forever. And you'll be sorry then, I promise you that.

Anyhoo, today's theme is New Mexico. This is prompted by the weekly discussion-in-my-head about moving out of this fine state. It's not that there's anything specifically wrong with it, I've just lived here a loooooong time. Much longer than I intended, and, frankly, sometimes I get itchy feet. Now that may actually be from playing Twister barefoot with my preschoolers earlier this week, but still. Still. I think about it. So tonight I decided to look at my many, many New Mexico pictures and remind myself what I love about this place. Hands down, it's the beauty of the land. Green chile? Good, very good. Balloons? Colorful and very exciting. State fair? Meh. But the landscape--aahhhhh, the landscape. It practically makes me turn cartwheels, it's so breathtakingly gorgeous. So please, join me in my pictorial ride through parts of this beautiful state.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present you with New Mexico, in all its glory.

(p.s. Please have mercy and count structures as landscape. It's the only way I can keep within this theme that I pulled out of my a--...um, carefully planned for your enjoyment. )

Wake Up!

2008-10-07T20:01:00.001-06:00

...and feed me. I are hungry.

Okay, Now I Am All Out of Words

2008-09-30T20:26:00.004-06:00

Oh, hey, what's going on out there? I think of you guys all the time. I miss talking to you. Sometimes I even plan out a blog post during my commute. I go through a series of motivational talks in my head several times a day about writing and consistency and dedication to the craft and whatnot. I've even tried getting stern with myself and insisting that I WILL write something when I get home, dammit.

Sigh, yeah, whatever, it all seems to be to no avail. I got no mojo, gang, so we're all just gonna have to wait for the magic to happen and inspiration to take hold. In the meantime, I'm going to go have a cheesey snack. Maybe you should have one, too.

Do you think it was Ray's butt that took the wind out of my sails?

I May Be All Out of Words, But Never Butt Pictures

2008-09-19T17:31:00.004-06:00

I call this picture:

Ray Moon, Australian bodybuilder who overcame great obstacles to win the blah-blah-blah-oh-look-at-those-pecs-and-whatnot-and-hey-it's-Friday!:

Squeeze it, Ray! Squeeze it!

But this picture I call:

Ray Mooning

Is it just me, or is that one sexy octogenarian patootie?

More Words to Live By, ala Story People

2008-09-13T09:13:00.003-06:00

Loose guidelines for

living: Part I

#3. Just think to

yourself: "what

would Jesus do?" & if

you don't like the

answer, try again

with a slight

variation: "what

would Jesus do if he

were in your shoes

had all those bills &

he was used to all the

perks of being an

American, too?

Would he do it any

different?" & usually

the answer is No.

(magic religious 8 ball)

2008-09-08T19:53:00.003-06:00

Oh, I had a blog all planned out but then my 45-minute commute home turned into a 2-1/2 hour commute home and now all the bounce has gone from my bungee (name that movie) and I don't waaaaaant to bloooooog, waaaaaaaah.

So, instead, I offer you this picture. My Auntie M sent it to me today, and it was sent to her by my crazy Aunt Becky, who is not actually my aunt but is definitely a nutcase. I mean, the woman took this picture out behind a Home Depot in Houston. What more do you need in the way of evidence?

Hi Auntie M! Hi Aunt Becky! Love you guys!

Soon I'll Stop, Although, Seriously, With Material Like This, Why Should I?

2008-09-06T13:13:00.003-06:00

Yesterday, when I went into the screaming five-year-old's class, he immediately ran over to his backpack, grabbed something out of it, and came rushing back to me. "I saved this for you," he said with enthusiasm as he put his little fisted hand out. With great trepidation, I extended my open palm to him. Into it he placed the orange, middle portion of a piece of candy corn. He had eaten the yellow parts on the top and the bottom. But he saved the orange part for me. For me.

I think in some countries that would make us as good as married.

Aaaaaaaaaand...

2008-09-04T20:34:00.002-06:00

...today he hugged me.

Important Update

2008-09-03T17:21:00.005-06:00

Today the screaming five-year-old flipped off his teacher.

Last week he called the principal a bastard.

I am really starting to like this little dude. Spork notwithstanding.

This is not that kid

Things That Really Make You Look at Your Life

2008-09-02T20:37:00.003-06:00

A screaming five-year-old threw a spork at me today.

I am just saying is all.

Randomosity

2008-08-25T19:34:00.013-06:00

Yeah, yeah, yeah, so here it is Monday and I'm all cranky. This is week 2 of my Return to the Land of the 5-Day Work Week, and I'm telling you, my desired bedtime hour is not at all compatible with my required waking up hour. Also, people are pissing me off. Case in point:

On Friday I went to talk to the kindergarten teachers about scheduling therapy sessions with my kids. (An aside: I've taken ownership of everyone in my life lately. I can't mention a person or group of people without preceding it with the word "my." My kids, my teachers, my principal, my occupational therapist, my cabana boy...I don't understand this sudden surge of proprietariness.) See, there's this crazy concept called Early Intervention that suggests that working on the problems of the children is best to occur sooner rather than later. Ergo, there should be no 6th grade children on my caseload still working on their /r/ sound. If you start early, then hopefully you'll get these darn kids all wound up to normal by the time they're 8 or 9, and the only upper level kids you see are the ones who've been living near meth houses their whole lives. Therefore, I expect to see more kids in the lower grades than in the upper and I expect for there to be some happy faces when I come waltzing in to offer my services, because these are needy children and I am helping them, doggone it. So, I trit trotted down to A hall, where the kinder classrooms are, and brightly informed a couple of teachers that my kids were in their classes. Here are their responses, with no attempt made to sympathize with their overworked, no-time-to-dawdle, no child left untested, candyass little schedules:

Me: "Hey, two of my kids are in your class! Let's talk about a good time for me to come in and work with them (i.e., run the class for 30 minutes at a stretch)!" (Also, highly enthusiastic voice was used along with a brilliant smile)

Teacher #1: Deep sigh, followed by whiny tone... "Ugh, I just don't waaaaant to give up any of my teeeeeeaching time..."

Me: Proceed to tell her allllll the options for my services and bending over backward--or was that forward?--to be flexible in dealing with her schedule. She hears: "Blah, blah, blah, blah! Blah!"

Teacher #1: "Unh, I know, but I just don't waaaaaant to give up 30 minutes!"

Me: "Um, actually I'll need an hour."

For my own safety, I left soon after that.

As for teacher #2, the conversation went pretty much exactly the same except that she spent a liiiittle more time explaining how busy her schedule was with the kids and then, in some thinly veiled way, she insulted my work (I won't explain how here because it will reflect on how greatly I blow things out of proportion, and I'd prefer to have you believe that everything I say is true and completely believable).

Well. Okay then. We in the kindergarten world won't burden ourselves with a little something called THE LAW or even worry about the needs of the children. No, I'll just take my great big ol' kindergarten "eff off, you effing eff" and do what the engineering beau likes to call The Workaround. So now I'm going to pull my kids out of those classrooms and trot their little butts over to one of the other kindergarten classrooms where I am loved. The end, amen, and don't call me at home, I'm busy not caring.

By the way, I never meant for this to become a blog about my work.
But whatever.

So, to that end, I shall Move On and provide you with random pictures from my external hard drive.

Here is what I ate for dinner tonight. They're called Smash Potatoes, Or Crankpot Potatoes, or something like that. There's nothing wrong with the one on the left, it's just purple, and it's supposed to look that way. I bought it at a grower's market, which makes me all hippy and cool. I found the recipe for these yummy things over at Ree's blog, and I heartily recommend her recipes. Except the meat ones. Meat's dead, ew.

And here is my nephew Robert's mouth. Why were you showing us your mouth, Robert? I can't remember now. But more importantly, look at those fine teeth! Where are the cavities? I see none!

And this is Robert's friend, Zak. I deliberately chose the blurry picture of him because I know how sensitive he is to having his picture displayed on the internet.

This--THIS--is my great niece Camille. At our recent family reunion she just came waltzing down the stairs dressed like this, carrying her bags for traveling. I learned later from her mother that the wings were a trade-off (read: bribe) for Camille's agreement to wear her big girl underpants. Fair trade, I'd say. I'd totally wear my big girl underpants for some pimped out wings like that. (For those who are following my family lineage, Camille is aj's granddaughter. Yeah. I know.)

And from the random picture generator, we have this:

I double dog dare any of you to find a running theme in this post. Meh. I'm going to bed.

Pah on the Olympics, Here's Your Games!

2008-08-20T18:26:00.009-06:00

Day One With the Children

1. This guy is in 5th grade now. Also, he's off his meds. And he's just spent two months with his crazy mother. So on day one in his new classroom, this is what he did:

Teacher, who is reviewing the rules and regulations of her boot camp...er, classroom and is just about to tell the kids that she considers herself to be a strict teacher, even though we all know that she's really just a nasty old Cruella deVille who enjoys demeaning children: "Kids, I want you to know that I consider myself to be a (pauses for dramatic effect)--"

Stanley: "Asshole!"

Stanley, one, Batcrazy teacher, zero!! I don't think he needs that medication after all. As an added bonus, he enunciated all the sounds in "asshole" quite well, which means that I am doing my job.

2. We have one particular student--another 5th grader--who tends to steal things, followed by vehement denials of said criminal activities (all the while sucking you in with his beautiful, doe-like, guilt-evading eyes). We warned his new teachers about this, as well as the possibility that he might covertly steal away from class and just possibly start a fire in the bathroom trash. We gave them strategies to deal with these behaviors. We explained some of the social-emotional issues he has that might cause this sort of behavior. In fact, we felt quite proud of ourselves for covering our bases so very, very thoroughly. What we didn't prepare them for, however, was the fact that he just might pee on the floor during class.

Which he did. Number one question asked by every person who heard the story: "Did he pee in his pants or did he just whip it out?" We all wanted to know whether the penis made an appearance. Who knew the school was populated by so many voyeurs?

3. Remember my saran-wrapped car? And before that, my stuffed-with-shredded-paper car? Well, there was one particular young lady who was involved in--nay, instigated--both of these activities. She's the daughter of one of the teachers, so it only stands to reason that she's got rules to break and mayhem to prove. Well, today the little imp got her desk wrapped in saran wrap! Ha! That'll show her! Wrapped it right up! Nice and tight! Let the pranks begin! And before you go accusing me of discriminating against 5th graders in this post, let me assure you that this youngster is also in the 5th grade, so that means...huh. I guess it means I've got something against the 5th graders this year. What do you know? Still, pretty good prank, eh? Eh?? Can I get a witness?

All right, Wicked out. I gotta go search for my mojo. I think one of the kids stole it today. Probably a dang 5th grader.

WTF and Prank Update

2008-08-17T09:33:00.003-06:00

Okay, for them that was up this morning and saw the "I'M GOING TO DISNEYWORLD" video blowout...well, I just don't know what to tell you. I tried desperately to get that video onto my blog before I left for Florida, but apparently there is an unwarp feature in cyberspace delivery time that I didn't know about. I can't pretend to understand it. Anyhoo, sometime over the course of the last whatyhoo number of hours, they all got delivered at once. I deleted all but one, which I'm leaving up as a testimonial to resisting impulses such as pushing the elevator button a hunnerd times in the hopes that it will make it go faster, or clicking on the "post to blog" button a hunnerd times because you are tired of waiting. Patience, grasshopper, patience.

Secondly, nobody at school gave a crap about last year's car pranks anymore, so I guess I'm off the hook there. ...hmm, unless they're just trying to lull me into a false sense of security....DAMMIT!!

Nancy Kerrigan, Where Are You When I Need You?

2008-08-15T19:12:00.001-06:00

I'M GOING TO DISNEY WORLD!!!

I'm off to learn Important Work Stuff and seduce Mickey Mouse during my breaks. After that, I'm going face to face with Hurricane Dolly in Texas. Don't you worry, though, I'll keep my eagle eyes peeled for blogging fodder. That's me--committed to my craft. And stuff.

p.s. Mice--no relationship to squirrels, right? Right??

Disjointed Rant and Plea For Help! Apologies For Lack of Sense-Making!

2008-08-13T12:47:00.018-06:00

Tomorrow is day one of my 192-day worka worka contract. Up side? Biweekly paycheck. Down side? Yeah.

It's fine. It's all good. As most people reply when I groan about the summer ending, "SHUT UP!! SHUT UP!! SHUT UP!!" Not everyone gets two months off to dawdle about, and I do appreciate that time. It's just that I want more. More, more, more. With paychecks and full benefits.

Any takers?? No? Fine. Harumph.

Over two months ago--the last day that Wicked stepped foot in the school building--I was bamboozled in the first degree by my stealthy and conniving co-workers. They handed me this:

...knowing that I would spend the next hour and a half walking around the building, showing the widdle baby off and saying things like, "Oh, isn't he just the cutest wutest? He's such a baby waby, we wub him soooo much!" Knowing how easily distractible I am, it worked like a charm. And so while I stared at him all googly eyed and wubbed his belly, this is what they did to my car:

Ha ha ha, they're laughing, life is good, aren't they funny?! Let's see, last year it was a car filled with shredded paper, this year it was a full saran wrap-a-round. Ha ha ha ha ha, I am laughing so hard!

You know what, though, it was fine, it was all good, I laughed and thought how fun it would be if I were actually a person who could come up with good revenge ideas. But I'm not. Oh, I'll go along with a good plan, but I am not your idea person, uh-uh. Mind. Goes. Blank. And since it was my last day at school*, but the evil saran wrappers still had one more day to go, I was pretty much screwed anyway. Even if I had been able to come up with a good idea, I had no supplies, no tools, no nothing. Not even a good imagination. Meh, I thought. Whatevuh.

So imagine my surprise when my phone rang that night and a friend-who-shall-remain-unnamed said, "Don't you worry, little missy, I'll take care of you. I'll round up my posse and we'll show them what's what!" And Lawd a' mercy, they did! Just look at what they did the next day--and I cannot emphasize this enough--in my absence:

My accomplice actually managed to convince the saran crowd that I had driven 38 miles on my day off just to smack down their saran-wrapping asses! It was brilliant. So brilliant, in fact, that they totally bought it. They absolutely, 100% believed that I wrought this upon them. And now I have to go back to that building tomorrow and face them and whatever revenge they've been brewing up for me all summer. Even though I honestly mostly had nothing to do with it.

Yikes.

Suddenly I feel very small and vulnerable and incapable of standing up against this. Should I just suck it up and take it like a man? Should I go on the offensive and strike first? Should I play the wait and see game?? Tell me, tell me, tell me! Friends, I need you! I have ABSOLUTELY NO IDEAS rattling around in my head, and no hope of any! I need hep! What great unfulfilled revenge ideas have you been working up for the past 20 years? What's worked for you when you needed to give someone a big ol' what for? You must tell me! You must hep me! Send ideas now and you will receive, at no extra charge, photographic evidence of the mayhem created by your most excellent evil plans! Really!

Bunny says, "Help Wicked or I will eat your nose. All of it."

*I'm special.

Oh Mickey, You're So Fine, You're So Fine You Blow My Mind, Hey Mickey! Hey Mickey!

2008-08-05T17:17:00.012-06:00

Actually, Mickey didn't blow my mind at all; rather, he blew me off. The mouse bastard. I looked high and low for that man, and although he left graven images of himself everywhere, his actual Mickey self evaded me.

I found images of him in the soap wrapping:

And in the soap itself, which was a little creepy come bath time:

Even in the shampoo:

But I did not find him in my bed:

Look carefully--no Mickey.

Listen, it's not like I needed to see him, but you'd think he would have the decency--or at least some sort of contractual agreement--to come by and say hello to his guests. But no.

Aside from this rather gaping hole in the fabric of my Disney World experience, it went pretty well there. I'm no big Disney fan, mind you, but I have to say that it is a very special place. I'm pretty sure they start pumping opiates into the air the second you pass through the gate, but who am I to complain? If that's what it takes to keep the tourists compliant, then so be it. And compliant they were. I didn't see one knife brandished, one threat made, nor any mention of an alert level. Disney does, however, take your fingerprint when you enter the parks, which is more than just a little disconcerting. Apparently they trust you, but just so far.

Aside from that, the comfort and pleasure of the guest is paramount. There is absolutely no reason whatsoever to leave the park once you get there. Between the monorail, the buses and the boats, you can get from any point A to any point B that you like. There are plenty of walking/jogging trails, not to mention the bicycles and the carriage rides and jet skis. And the pools, oh, the crazy, crazy pools that come in all shapes and sizes and almost always have a waterfall! And let us not forget the theme parks themselves, which is, of course, why most folks visit there. It's just one big, happy utopia unto itself.

With all that fun going on, it was really a pity that I had to be at a conference and couldn't spend every second of every day enjoying it. Fortunately, the conference ended by three or four each afternoon and anyway, my boss (who was there) gave me tacit permission to leave early. Well, at least I think she did; she blinked twice and then clicked her pen, which we all know means, Hey, don't worry about attending the conference that we paid a lot of money for. Go ahead; cheat the system. We'll still keep you on staff. Not that it's easy to lie in Disney World, though, what with all the goodness and purity floating around. Even though I never saw Mickey, I did feel his presence around me, judging me harshly, so I hunkered down and did the right thing and went to my dang conference and bolted out of there only after the last PowerPoint slide had made its way to the big screen.

But once I was free, man, I was all about scoring the Disney experience. Disney Downtown, Epcot Center, fireworks show after fireworks show, drinks in the penthouse lounge, ethnic food, walks around the lake --there was an endless array of choices for my apres conference activities. It's practically round-the-clock fun, and perfect for the insomniac. So if you love fun and adventure and waiting in line, I heartily recommend Disney World to you for your next vacation. And if you do go, please hunt Mickey down and tell him I said hello. And that I know where he lives. And that I'll never, ever, ever get tired of looking for him. And then tell him I love him, I mean really love him, the kind of love that endures for an eternity. And if he doesn't know what "eternity" means, tell him that it's forever. F.o.r.e.v.e.r. Mickey and Wicked, together forever.

Looking out from my hotel room; ooh, how lush, not at all like the desert!

The dock out back

The nice singing man at the British pub; my boss really liked him. I mean really liked him. She grew up in England, so it's not like she could help it. But seriously, I thought she liked him a little more than a respectable married woman should.

Nancy Kerrigan, Where Are You When I Need You?!

2008-07-23T22:20:00.003-06:00

Well, crap, I just wrote a fascinating blog about the fact that I'm leaving for Disney World tomorrow, but since I tried to link it up all fancy-wise to a youtube video of some guy yelling, "I'M GOING TO DISNEY WORLD," it got lost in cyberspace.

Whatever, dudes, I'm going to Disney World on bidness (squirrel bidness, Moi) and then on to Texas to meet up with my freaky family and bask in the aftermath of Hurricane Dolly. So I'll see you laters, alligators. Peace out.

Love,
Wicked

p.s. Expect mouse-shaped baby in about 9 months. That Mickey is HAWT!

Saright....or Sarong?

2008-07-18T12:52:00.022-06:00

I like to knit. I think we all know that. It truly is a form of active meditation for me, if you consider "meditation" to be the ceasing of the cacophonic carrying-on provided 24/7 by the sock puppets in my head. And I do. I find it infinitely relaxing to get into a rhythm of knit & purl and just let the world go on around me.

Sometimes, though, there's one particular voice that breaches the levee and infiltrates the inner recesses of my quiet time. This particular puppet suffers from fits of grandiosity and is so charismatic that she has no difficulty pulling me right over the edge into her delusions of grandeur. This voice emerges when I'm lazily perusing knitting patterns with no intention whatsoever of knitting any of them. C'mon, you know how that goes--sometimes it's nice to just look at pretty--or tasty--things without placing the burden of follow through on one's shoulders. Well, she--and I'm sure it's a "she"--waits until she sees a lovely, but complicated, knitting pattern and then whispers in my ear, "Hey, you could make that, you know." Oh, it doesn't matter if it's a fair isle or entrelac pattern, or something I've never even tried before, this voice remains confident that I--not her--can do whatever learning and hard work might lie ahead to create the knitted item so that she can wear it. She is such a bee-yotch, and let's call her Suzy, shall we??

Me: (Flipping, flipping, flipping through knitting recipes, smiling at all the lovelies)

Suzy: Oh, look, how pretty! You could make that, you know.

Me: No, no, I can't do that. I don't even know how to do that stitch. Plus I don't want to. (Tries to flip to next page)

Suzy: Yes, you can (flips page back). It won't even be that hard. (Saying in her sing-song voice) You'll get to buy some new yaaaarn (hitting me right in my Achilles heel, damn her).

Me: If you shut up I'll buy you something pretty.

Suzy, after brief pause for contemplation: I don't want you to buy it. I want you to make it. You can do it!!

Me: Oh, I don't know...(Interest starts to pique and I take a closer look at the picture) You think so? Really?

Suzy: Oh, sure! And we can go by that yarn store you like and find some really pretty yarn! Come on, let's go!

And that's all it takes to get me in the car, headed dead-on toward a yarn-buying bender. Just a little pouting and cajoling and I've been duped into believing that I am capable of doing something far beyond my actual abilities. It's embarrassing, but true, and I'm sure you're all going to use this little piece of information to get me to do your bidding in the future.

Anyhoo, this is how I came to be knitting a sarong. Suzy decided this would be a fun gift for my nieces, since we're all meeting up at the beach next week. And I not only jumped right into her little ruse, I gleefully enrolled my sister, who is a yarn goddess like nobodies business, and who volunteered to crochet beach bags and decorate flip-flops for the girls. Her items will look gorgeous, I assure you, and thank goodness I have her as my knitting mentor. She's a great encourager who doesn't let me give up, which I would do in a split second if left to my own devices.

Here's the pattern that Suzy chose:

Pretty, isn't it? It's called a sarong, but I think it's worthy of being called a saright.

Mine, on the other hand, I have dubbed a sa-wrong. Here's why:

WTF??! In a dazzling display of poor judgement, I did not knit a swatch so that I could test out the stitch before committing to it, nor did I even choose a good, steady, reliable yarn to make it with. Oh, I chose a pretty one, to be sure, but one containing a variety of textures. I call it my Multiple Personality Yarn.

See, it has this one, which I call "Ladder":

Then there's this one, called "Thick and Unwieldy":

And this goodie, named...uh, I don't have a name for this one. Let's call it "Tulle":

And my personal favorite, which I call "The Devil's Spawn":

Let me just say again that THESE WERE NOT FOUR SEPARATE YARNS, THEY WERE ALL ONE YARN!! It was the damnable eyelash yarn that did me in. Sometimes I inadvertently separated it and knit two stitches out of one; sometimes I knit two pieces of it together; sometimes I just shot right past it without knitting it at all. The end result was that I ended up with a gazillion extra stitches that gave the sa-wrong a really funky look. And not in the good way. Feh. Double feh.

But you know that Suzy did not let me give up here. No, that girl wanted a pretty. And I know that you're all caring people and are undoubtedly concerned about the outcome of this high knitting drama, so let me give you some comfort--there is a happy ending. Suzy and I, me in a fit of yarn annoyance and her in a fit of Where's my pretty??, went back to the yarn store and did a little more prudent selection of fiber for attempt #2. And look!

Pretty, eh? Eh?? EH?? That's what I thought. And don't dawg me about the fact that the curly bobbles have been replaced with good old-fashioned fringe. I was at my limit, man.

If one were looking for a moral to the story, one could say that perseverance leads to success. Or that necessity is the mother of invention. Or that if at first you don't succeed, try, try again. Or even that things aren't always as difficult as they seem at the outset. Or, maybe we could just give a deep sigh and recognize the incontrovertible proof that this project illustrates: Suzy was right all along. Sigh.

The bee-yotch.

It Ain't No River in Egypt

2008-07-09T18:19:00.004-06:00

I persist in believing the following things:

*If it takes 20 minutes to drive from my house to my destination during a time when there is virtually no traffic and all green lights, I will leave to reach this destination at EXACTLY 20 minutes before I'm due there even if it's 5:00 and I know that every light is going to be red. And then I will be truly surprised when I am 15 minutes late.

*Whatever temperature it is at my house is the same temperature at the place I'm going to. This is not affected by altitude, differing weather patterns, latitude, or air conditioning. If it's 82 degrees at my house, it will be 82 degrees there, and I will dress for that, damn it.

*If I go into a yarn store "just to look around," I will follow my own self-imposed governor and actually leave empty-handed rather than spend $30.00 on pretty yarn that I have no pattern in mind for.

*If I spend six days at my mother's house to help her get connected to the internet, by gawd, SHE WILL BE CONNECTED TO THE INTERNET by the time I leave no matter what influencing factors exist, such as other people's schedules and my own lethargy.

And it is for these reasons that I am constantly disappointed. Because the truth is that these delusions add an element of anxiety to what I was expecting to be a pretty laid-back life. And the worst part is, if I would just take one little step into reality and adjust my expectations accordingly, I probably wouldn't have this small knot of worry squirming around in my belly when I'm speeding to get to my appointment or freezing my tuckus off at the dentist's office or figuring out where I'm going to put the 82 skeins of new yarn that I just bought.

Or wondering why it is that my mother does not have internet yet.

That's right--I said it.

She doesn't have internet yet, even though I was hellbent on being victorious over that Demon of Dial-up, that Monster of Inert Technology. Definite steps were made toward that goal, though, such as finding out for absolute sure that her computer's modem was the victim of some long ago power surge or lightning strike or something else electrical. And so poof! It is gone. Also, we know that the existing computer will be just fine for internet looking once a little memory is added. And--perhaps most importantly--we discovered that wireless internet IS available in her remote area. At least we think so. There's a man who needs to climb into my mama's attic who will have the final word on that. So a few steps were left untaken, but I trust implicitly in my mother's motivation to get herself hooked up and communicating to take her the rest of the way. There's porn out there, after all!*

So you can all put away your party hats and noisemakers and virtual welcome mats and hearty glasses of Sauvignon Blanc, because she is not quite here yet. But she will be soon. And we'll all be waiting for her. With party hats. And porn.

*My mother doesn't look at porn, for heaven's sakes! Shame on you. Get your minds out of the gutter.

Happy Monday!

2008-07-07T09:40:00.002-06:00

2008-07-04T08:33:00.001-06:00

HAPPY INDEPENDENCE DAY!!

What will you be free from today?

Patron Saint of Computers, Appear!

2008-06-26T10:18:00.003-06:00

In a few short hours I'll be leaving a jet plane, headed directly for the MotherLand. Among the many fun things we'll be doing, a priority is getting the Queen Mum on the internet. Oh, it's been tried before, yes, but without success. You see, my father was always the computer guy; he understood how the thing worked and, when things went smelly, why they went smelly and, if he couldn't figure that out, he at least knew who to call. But then he went to the Big Internet Cafe In The Sky and took with him the knowledge and understanding and care and feeding of his computer. He left the computer itself--apparently there are spiritual laws against taking communication tools along--which has been a two-edged sword because while some aspects of it work, its ability to hook up to the internet does not.

So doggone it, we are going to figure it out. And I don't care how many servicemen have to come over to help us, WE ARE GOING TO DO THIS.

Please say your prayers, light your candles, and send technology blessings our way. 'Cause Lawd knows our ig'nornt selves don't know what the h-e-double-toothpicks we're doing.

To Dispatch, or Not To Dispatch?

2008-06-24T13:34:00.002-06:00

The following is adapted from www.dictionary.com, because who the heck references hard copy anymore??

Mail:
Noun:
1. letters, packages, etc., that are sent or delivered by means of the postal system: Storms delayed delivery of the mail.
2. The system, usually operated or supervised by the national government, for sending or delivering letters, packages, etc.; postal system: to buy clothes by mail.

Verb:
1. to send by mail; place in a post office or mailbox for transmission.

Yesterday I received letters from my nieces in Vermont. They came in my mailbox, which I check irregularly for bills and exciting fliers for products that I wasn't aware I needed. Their letters came in a single envelope that had a picture of a cow on it. How clever! That cow picture was my first tip (Ho ho! Cow! Tip! Same sentence!) that this was no offer for a 3.2% interest rate, noooo indeedy, nor was it a reminder that I continue to need to make a monthly "payment" for the privilege of "owning" my home. Upon seeing the cow picture, my mind immediately leaped to a summer during which I had an unnatural and unfortunate liking of cow motifs, and for a moment I thought the ghost of Bessie had come to visit me. But then I looked more closely and was treated to the complete picture, which showed the cow wearing sunglasses at the beach! And then I knew it had to be from one of my crazy famblee members because we go to the beach every year and it's our thing and the time is quickly coming for our reunion, and...well, you get it.

Anyhoo, I was delighted to find that it was from my nieces. Their letters contained chatty little updates about their lives--reading tests, broken arms, dance recitals, a health update on their cat--that reminded me how much of each others' lives we miss by not living nearby or, in the absence of that, at least communicating regularly. When I was little, I remember my father diligently tapping out letters to his family on Saturday mornings. Before the advent of the Commodore 64, he used something called a typewriter and carbon paper to make multiple copies to send out to branches of the family. Looking back, I realize that he was showing by example the importance of keeping in touch. Back then, long-distance phone calls were pretty much exclusively used for Big News; a long-distance call usually started with the words, "Sit down, Ma, I got something to tell ya," as Ma clutched at her heart with one hand. Letters, however, were used to convey the details of daily life, the little stories that may have individually seemed insignificant, but together wove a tapestry of life as it existed right then. I love reading all letters, but particularly old family ones. They offer a spyglass into lives of which I was never even a part. Others give me insight into my parents' lives at various stages, while occasionally a particularly naughty moment of one of my siblings was caught on paper. (I was never naughty so everything ever written about me was put on gold leaf and circled and starred and accompanied by pictures of angels.)

One letter that particularly stands out to me is one I received from a brother during my freshman year in college. In a spasm of independence, I had decided to break up with my high school boyfriend of three years. While I was excited about all the possibilities that being 18 and single brought, I was a little wobbly with the newness of it all, too. And then out of the blue came a letter from Stinky, who hitherto had been the bane of my existence. We were champions in the division of hard-headedness; most of our interactions consisted of fighting over the TV channel while trying to grab the bag of Cheetos away from one another. So it was a mammoth surprise to get a letter from him offering understanding and encouragement at a difficult time. He wrote of how hard a breakup can be, but emphasized all the new experiences awaiting me and encouraged me to enjoy this new stage of my life. Now, even at his advanced age, he'd still steal my Cheetos away in a heartbeat, but it's nice to have hard evidence that a softer side does exist. And anyone will tell you how important it is to know your brother is on your side when the going gets tough.

Like everyone, these days I use e-mail and phone calls to keep in touch. Even my father eventually succumbed to the ease of instant communication. But these nieces of mine have inspired me to write real letters again. There's something different about putting your thoughts on paper that e-mail and IM just can't capture. And what about you? You know how I like to pick your big brains (ew). Who was the last person to whom you wrote a letter? What was the most memorable letter you ever received? At $0.43 a whack, do you think you'll ever send out snail mail again? Come on, fill my empty mental spaces with your thoughts. Otherwise there's just a lot of mooing going on in here.

Why Yes, It Is A Small World After All!

2008-06-19T14:30:00.013-06:00

Hello, my little chickadees, and how is everyone? We're two days away from summer and Lord a'mighty, I'm happy. Today, as I stood outside my car pumping gas ($53.00!! $53.00 to fill up a freakin' VW GOLF!! And the tank wasn't even empty!! Fine, fine, moving on), I took a moment to appreciate the fact that I wasn't wearing a coat or sweater or even any type of jacket because...(drumroll, please)...I was not cold! I could stand outside in a t-shirt and shorts and worry about nothing more than a dribble of sweat rolling down my back. Well, maybe more like a bucket of sweat, but I am dead set against complaining about the heat in the same breath that I am praising it, so never mind. I'm saving that topic for next week.

Summer is the season of hope. If ever the sensation of timelessness exists, it is within the long, warm days of summer. When it's winter and cold, all my body parts remain in a permanent state of clenched as I sit hunched over in my 32 layers of clothing in a prehistoric effort to protect my vital organs. I have heard that some people like the cold; this I cannot understand. Winter is all about trying to make it home before the sun sets at 4:30 and turning your lights up all bright like so as to fool your brain into thinking that there are more than six hours of daylight available. With summer, though, anything is possible. Daylight just goes on and on and on so that by 9:00 in the morning you can accomplish everything on your to-do list and still have SO MUCH TIME AHEAD OF YOU!!

(I do have an issue with time, but that's not where I'm going with this post so please, just love me through it. Refer to the StoryPeople quote on the left for clarification.)

Anyhoo, it's summer and it is good. I am such a lucky duck to have wandered my professional way into the school system, which offers me 10 weeks off during the very best months of the year in exchange for my willingness not to be paid for it. (In an aside, I love it when non-teacher people tell me how easy squeezy it must be to work in the school system what with all the time off and that. The first thing I say to them is, "BWAAAAA HA HA HA HA!!" followed closely by, "Did you know that there are kids there?" and then, "Dude, it's not like we get paid for that time off."). Because we all spend 12 years or more of our youth following the school calendar, I think we become imprinted with the idea that June and July are ours to do with what we wish. I mean, come June 1st don't you always feel like it's time to go off the clock for a while?

That feeling, that sensation of freedom, is what I think we're supposed to naturally feel in our lives. Natch, we don't because of work and family and various and sundry obligations that probably further us along as human beings. Still, I think not enough emphasis is given to just relaxing and being. It's golden. So, in an effort to share that feeling with you, I'm going to list five summer things that make me happy. Because you know how I love my lists.

1. Getting up without an alarm clock in the morning and drinking tea in my pajamas. Ahhhh...

2. Running errands in the middle of the day...BECAUSE I CAN!! And seriously, normally I hate the errand thing. Heck, I'll even go to the mall in summer.

3. Sitting down to read an entire book at once. Oh, joy! (Ask me about reincarnation; that's been today's literary pursuit.)

4. Eating ice cream for lunch. And cake. And sitting on the patio with family and/or friends drinking margaritas with no worries about what needs to be done for tomorrow.

5. Just...not...rushing. (See previous comment about issues with time.)

Well, there it is, a random list of whatever popped into my head first. I'd love to hear from you, though--what is it about summer that makes your heart sing? What do you enjoy doing, or not doing, that makes it a vacation whether you're working or not? Come on, tell me. I won't tell anyone. Except for those people who read the comments section. But other than them, I won't tell a soul. Tell me one thing. Tell me a hundred things, I don't care. You know why? Because I have the time.

Love,
Wicked

P.S. If you are wondering why the title of this blog has nothing whatsoever to do with its content, it's because I had meant to write about something else entirely. But that's how my mind meanders these day, so I've decided to just leave things be and get back to the original post, oh, sometime.

Lackluster Locks

2008-06-12T14:07:00.010-06:00

Today I would like to talk about my hair. Go ahead--sit down, get a drink, prepare to be fascinated!

If I were to write a personal ad for my hair, it would read: 42-year-old chevelure seeking hirsute companion for romantic dinners and walks on the beach. Thinly built, a bit poofy without conditioner. Often uncooperative and difficult to control. Sometimes resembles a dandelion in the morning.

My mother, who shares my hair texture, calls it "our English hair." Together we kept the perm business in operation through at least two decades. In the genetic lottery, my sister inherited her beautiful, lovely, wavy locks from my father. But I got the cute feet! Oh, wait, no, she got those, too. Dang it. But I persist in loving her anyway. I've spent my life in a metaphorical headlock (ha! head! lock!) with my hair, using volumizing shampoos, blow drying it while holding my head upside down, curling it, ratting it; you name it, I've done it. And pretty much to no avail, because my hair is just going to do what my hair is going to do, which is mostly lying flat against my head.

So the other day I went into hair crisis because it was once again lying flat against my head and refusing to budge. I tried pinning it up this way, pinning it up that way, but I could do nothing to resuscitate it. It looked nothing so much as a hairy version of last year's bird nest. Clearly it had gone past its due date. So I quick called the salon and declared a hair emergency. "Cut it!" I said. "Cut it now!" The nice people, recognizing that special brand of woman lunacy, made room for me in their schedule and within hours, I was sitting in the chair. Diane, whom I had never met, drew the short straw and cheerfully popped up in the mirror behind me and asked me what I'd like to do with my hair. Shave it, I thought. Torch it. Dreadlock it for all the good it's doing me. But, instead, I had the same conversation with her that I've had with every other hairdresser who has cut my hair:

Me: "Oh, I don't know. What do you think?"

Diane: "Hm, well, let's see..." (She does her magic hairdresser thing of prancing around my head, pondering options, touching here, poofing there. She then picks up a book of hairstyles, flips through a couple of pages, and points proudly at a picture of a woman with a cute little flippy haircut.) "There. What do you think?"

Me: "Oh, um, sure. Looks good." (What I knew that she didn't was that that hairstyle would never look like that on my head. But I'm used to this and know the futility of trying to find the perfect cut for my hair, so I say nothing. It's just easier.)

Diane: "Great!" (20 minutes of clipping sounds ensues, followed by blow drying.) "Okay. Now since your hair is so fine, let me give you some tips on adding volume to your hair. Do you ever backcomb your hair?"

Me: (awkward silence)

Diane: "Do you know what backcombing is?"

Me: "Sure. Of course. No."

Diane: Small sigh. "All right, you take this hair here (she grabs a clump of hair near the crown of my head) and do this (she vigorously combs my hair backwards, toward my scalp). You can get a brush like this at Sally's."

Me: "Okay. Who's Sally?"

Diane: Bigger sigh. "Never mind. You can use whatever you have. Now, take a little of this volumizing spray--do you have some of this?"

Me: "Yes."

Diane: "Do you use it?"

Me: "No."

Diane: (Looks at me for a long while in the mirror, then seems to make a decision to ignore what I just said) "All right, well, spritz a little right here and then floof it a little with your fingers. Then flip this part of your hair forward..." (She flips my hair forward into my eyes, after which I can't see anything she's doing. I wisely say nothing because this woman carries around a pair of really sharp scissors in her pocket and she's working on my head) "...and work this part right here. When you're done, flip this hair in front back (Eureka! I can see!) and carefully finger comb it into place. Don't use a brush, just use your fingers. Think you can remember that?"

Me. "Sure. Of course. No."

Diane: (Definitely ignoring me now) "Great. Now when you're done with that, take this hairspray--it's very light and won't weigh your hair down--and spritz some on your fingers."

Me: "On my fingers? Not in my hair?"

Diane: (Closes her eyes and takes a moment) "No. Spritz it on your fingers, then lightly fluff it into your hair. The spray will stay in your hair."

Me: "Great!"

Diane (with a tone of deep resignation): "Yeah."

The two of us look at each other for a long moment in the mirror. Neither of us mention that my hair, while looking much better than when I walked in, looks nothing like the cute little full-volumed flip in the picture. It's as if we have an unspoken understanding to just end this as quickly and painlessly as possible. Quietly, she unsnaps the plastic cape and removes it, then walks me to the register.

She does not ask me to come and see her again.

You Betta Belize It!

2008-06-09T15:37:00.012-06:00

Hey mons, did anybody notice that it was bacation time??

I did. See?

This is the beautiful Belize. Having just returned from there, I am happy to report that it is still stunningly gorgeous and full of beer. Well, a little less full of beer than when I got there, but don't worry, there's still plenty left for you. Buuuuuuuurp. When I did all the counting in my head, I realized that this was my fifth--FIFTH!--trip down there. This is bordering on an addiction, I'm afraid. A very expensive addiction.

This trip was a lot like the month of March in that it came in like a lion and went out like a lamb. My general ignorance and total lack of foresight (hello, internet!) left me blissfully unaware that a tropical depression was forming in the very center of our travel destination. My first clue that things weren't going as planned was when the pilot of our big ol' fat airplane couldn't land because he couldn't see the airstrip. Could not see the airstrip. And frankly, at that point, we just weren't that far above it. Ladies and gentlemen, it does not build your flying confidence to be told by your pilot that he cannot land because he can't find the airstrip. And the more he assured us that there was no need to worry because we had plenty of fuel left, the less secure I felt. Fortunately, all the up-and-downing of the plane started to make me feel a little barfy at this point, so I lost interest in fearing for my life in favor of worrying that I might york in the middle of a plane full of strangers. Somehow that seemed worse, because let's face it, nobody wants to be the one to set off a chain reaction.

Fortunately, on our FOURTH PASS, the pilot set us down perfectly on the airstrip with nary so much as a wobble. And that is when the fun started, because guess what? If your big old 737 plane can barely negotiate flying through the murk of a tropical depression, there is absolutely no hope for a 6-seater puddle jumper to navigate its way out to your island home. Nor can a water taxi pick you up and get you where you need to be. And while you might think that just being in Belize would be enough, you have obviously never been to the Philip S. W. Goldson International Airport. While it's true that Jet's Bar (a tiny little watering hole wedged between duty free shopping and gate 2) would be happy to accommodate your drinking needs, Jet does eventually go home and has no hesitation in leaving your drunk, sadass self there.

So there we were, wet and homeless. Fortunately, a kind agent recommended a fine hotel a mere five minutes away from the airport that had shuttle pickup. What more could a person want? The Global Village was all that and a slice of cheese, if you don't mind your cheese presented in a very utilitarian and low budget format. I'm pretty sure at the end of the day housecleaning just turned on a high-pressure hose and washed all the hippie grime down the drain. Here, allow me to illustrate:

This place was the cat's meow, the bee's knees, the standard by which all future accommodations will be judged. Having set up flights out for the morning--because Lord knows we were on a schedule and tropical depression Arthur would just need to move on--a number of us from the airport had made our weary way out there and set up shop for the night. The spartan surroundings were just one big ha-ha on our road to adventure. Everything was tile-covered and dimly lit, along with a television that showed snow. Lots and lots of pretty snow. I found that if I tilted myself slightly onto my left butt cheek while sitting on the bed, I could turn the lights out. With my butt. Very handy, that.

Arthur really got his bad self going during the night and entertained us with practically nonstop lightning and thunder shows. It really just seemed like welcoming fireworks to me and, even then, I was dumbass ignorant of the larger implications of the storm. Come the next morning I was up and eager to get back to the airport on our 8:30 flight. So off we went without checking the weather (unless you count sticking your head out the window) and without checking the status of outgoing flights. Because why would we need to? We had a scheduled flight, after all.

Now all you smarty folks out there have probably long figured this out, but in case the point has evaded you, Belize is pretty much at sea level. So even though the rain had abated, water was still sloshing all around with no place to go. This was especially true on our destination island, which had less land mass to absorb the inches and inches of rain that had fallen overnight. So when we marched right in to get on our plane and fly our happy selves out of there, we quickly learned that the airstrip on the island was underwater and no flights were departing. And no, actually, they didn't know when flights would be available. And no, actually, they didn't know what we should do with ourselves now. And please, ma'am, would you please stop asking stupid questions and go away?

Fine. So we sat and pondered and questioned and weighed the possibilities and finally decided that if an airstrip is underwater, it is highly unlikely that it will be ready to accept incoming planes anytime soon. Therefore we hired ourselves a taxi and told the driver to whisk us away to Belize City, an inviting place noted largely in guide books for its high crime rate. He kindly informed us that the city was quite flooded and impassable but maybe we would like to go to a nice hotel on the outskirts of town. We had so stopped caring by this point that we said yes and that is how we came to spend the next four hours of our lives at the Belize Best Western Biltmore Plaza:

It was lovely and welcoming and, most of all, the water had not yet encroached upon it, so it was perfect. We chatted with other travelers and sent out e-mails letting people know we were okay, (although it turns out that news of Arthur had hardly made headlines in the U.S.--what?!--so there was really no need to bother). And we got a very nice room where we drank whiskey and knitted and ate snacks. And it was good, this one more step on the road to our Eventual Beach Adventure. There's a camaraderie that develops among wayward travelers that makes even the most annoying of snafus okay, because they are shared snafus and we're all going to the beach to drink beer, anyway.

Lo and behold, on a leg-stretching tour of the hotel I discovered that the lobby had cleared out, suggesting--nay, promising!--that flights must be back on! After a quick confirmation with the front desk, we grabbed bags and the first taxi we could get to make our second trip to the airport for the day. A few hours later, we were happily tucked into our decadently luxurious room and enjoying this view:

Ahhhhhhhhh, yes..... A little cloudy, a little windy, but still beautiful, yes? Yes. And with a definite upgrade to the bathroom, I must say:

What you can't see is the swimming pool-sized jacuzzi bath and the mighty fine walk-in shower with a spigot placed conveniently at foot level, the better with which to wash off all that pesky sand at the end of the day. I'm happy to report that the rest of the week was spent exactly as it should be on a beach vacation--drinking beers on the lanai, snorkeling with the sting rays, walking about town, seeing old friends and meeting new.

And as for me, now that I've returned to the landlocked, reptilian climate of my New Mexico home? Well, I've started a new penny jar. For trip number six.

Today on MythBusters: The Safety Fair

2008-05-23T14:02:00.008-06:00

Once a year, whether I think I need it or not, I get an invitation in the mail to attend a safety fair. It comes from the people at my weekend job and usually includes three dollar words like "mandatory" and "you will not be allowed to work if you do not attend." Implied in the letter, though not explicitly stated, is, "This will definitely affect your paycheck."

The first time I was ever invited to a safety fair I was so excited that I had to do a safety fair dance. For the record, it was not at all like the one that Men Without Hats did because I am not a freak in that particular way (p.s. does anyone else find it hugely ironic that a man who CANNOT DANCE AT ALL recorded a song about dancing? And then created videotaped evidence of the fact that he can't dance and put it on MTV? I wonder if they had a line item in their budget for, "Costumes obtained from church basements, previously used for Renaissance Fairs?").

Anyhoo. Fairs bring back such loverly childhood memories for me. We went to the Tulsa State Fair every year, and the minute I walked through the big shiny gate I fell deeply under the spell of the endless rows of special fair food, the likes of which you couldn't get anywhere else (including but not limited to deep fried Snickers bars, deep fried corn on the cob, deep fried curly-Q french fries, and OH DEAR GAWD deep fried funnel cakes--wait, is anyone else seeing a pattern here?). And what about those fabulous rickety rides that were carefully assembled by one-armed blind men who regularly exceeded the allotted number of riders just for the thrill of seeing what could happen? Remember what snappy neck felt like? Thank heavens our bones were good and rubbery back then. And let us not forget the animals. From the gigantic, uncastrated bulls (hey, it's not like I was looking, but how else was a young girl supposed to learn about these things?) to the tiniest of baby micelings, the animals were always the last, and quite possibly the best, stop in a day packed chock full of goodness (and now let us collectively and silently agree not to talk about what happens to the animals after the fair ends. Amen.).

So maybe now you can understand why, after I got my specifically-addressed-to-me invitation to the safety fair, I thought only good things were in store for me. I was ready for clowns, crazy scary rides, and deep fried popcorn. But guess what I got instead? TESTS, that's what. FORMS TO FILL OUT. A CHEST X-RAY, thank you very much. None of these things fall under the category of "Fun" or, for that matter, "Fair." A safety fair, as it turns out, is a whole lotta work. So, in the interest of public education, I thought I would share with you a few of my insights regarding the matter so that you don't get skunked into attending one:

1. There are no deep fried foods at safety fairs. In fact, there is no food at all except that which you can pry out of the vending machine's cold, dead hands, the same vending machine that DOESN'T TAKE DOLLARS.

2. The only animal you can expect to see is the squirrel you almost ran over in the parking lot. And it looked rabid.

3. Don't expect anything in the form of entertainment, unless you count the people who laugh at you while you're demonstrating your ability to seamlessly transfer a patient from a bed to a wheelchair without droppi--oops. Hey, you okay down there? (On the up side, this counts as a ride for the poor chump who volunteered to be transferred.)

4. There is a bald man.

Here's how it really goes at safety fairs. First, you get a very large document that is full of questions in different fonts and formats. You are supposed to put your name on the top of each page, but as that is boring, you don't. You will pay for this later.

Next, you have to find the safety fair. There is no one to help you. Were it a real fair, you could follow the smell of fried grease. As there are no clues such as this to light the way, you simply listen for the screams of frustration and go there. Once you locate the place, you quickly observe that a large number of science fair-type display boards have been set up, each one covering a different topic. Good, you think, this will be easy cheesy. Somewhere in the distance you hear the sound of laughter.

Opening your gigantic packet, you see something titled "Infection Control." Okey doke, you look around to find the matching display board, ready with pen in hand to find your answers in record time. Check me out, you think, I'm going to be the fastest paper filler outer this safety fair has ever seen. Unfortunately, there is no board titled Infection Control. Hmm. Okay, then, on to page two, "Standard Precautions." You're pretty sure you can fill this one out without a nancy board--after all, you did work for a research project on infectious diseases for five years, so how hard could it be?

That question was rhetorical, and so we shall not dwell upon it. Suffice it to say that later, when that page is graded, you will be looked upon with sadness and just a hint of disdain, as if there has never been anyone as stupid as you.

Now let's fast forward an hour and a half in time. You've filled out all the multiple choice questions and managed to find where the MSDS is kept--and what it is. You've become stuck, however, on this question: "What is a symptom of latex gloves?" There is no possible answer to this question. A latex glove doesn't have symptoms; it has four fingers and a thumb, but no symptoms to speak of. It just isn't possible. Finally, you sneak a glance at the smartypants person next to you, and notice that she wrote, "Rash." Oh. Rewrite question in head to, "What is a symptom of latex allergy?" Geesh. After spending another 10 minutes trying to find what JCAHO stands for, you finally give up and start looking for someone in authority to ask. Enough, already.

And that--THAT--is when you are led to the bald man.

The bald man sits in a corner looking as innocuous as could possibly be. He wears no badge, nor does he draw attention to himself by holding a pen or clipboard. He...just...sits. And waits. Because, as it turns out, the bald man is more than willing to fill out any part of the test that you can't. He's got the answers memorized, and he is not one bit stingy with them. AND WOULDN'T THIS HAVE BEEN NICE TO KNOW AN HOUR AND A HALF AGO.

So two days later you finally get to leave the safety fair, which was no fair at all but actually a horrifying purgatory that ultimately belched you out into the parking lot with nothing more than permission to work yet another day. Pah. Give me bull balls any day.

Jeepers, Folks

2008-05-14T20:13:00.003-06:00

An angry bull was shot out in front of the school today.

FOR THE SECOND TIME THIS YEAR.*

*Second bull, that is, not the second time the same bull has been shot. Just clarifying.

Alaska Is Being Cheeky

2008-05-05T21:24:00.001-06:00

If you just replaced, "Are you ready to come in yet?" with "Are you ready to get up yet?" and, "Come on, you've had extra time" with "Come on, you've pushed the snooze button enough," you'd pretty much have my morning.

et al

2008-05-02T17:45:00.007-06:00

Okay, so maybe it was a little harder to google that copulation quote than I thought. But I'm sure it was all worth it when you came across this fascinating little item in your search: http://www.4hearingloss.com/archives/2005/12/copulating_deaf.html?? That alone was worth the effort.

So in the interest of journalistic integrity and as an experiment in task completion, here is The Source: that line was DiRECTly quoted from a l'il ol' song called "Watchdog Report," which was one of many songs from "The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas." And that, my friends, is some dang good music.

There. Moving on.

As those of you who stay in touch with the news already know, the midwest was slammed with tornadoes yesterday. When I called my mum this morning for our Friday-drive-to-work chat, we talked for some time before she casually mentioned that tornadoes had been predicted in her area last night. Well, that's nothing new in Oklahoma--it ain't called Tornado Alley for nothing--but it is a little unusual for where she lives. In some kind of weird weather vortex phenomenon that I don't fully understand--or understand at all, actually--tornadoes don't really bother them. The whole time I was growing up back home, I can only recall one that actually hit the ground. That, of course, didn't get us out of piling into the halls of the elementary school en masse and practicing our "OH NO THERE'S A TORNADO COMING!" pose, nor did it keep the warning sirens from blaring five-hundred-and-fifty-two bazillion times between March and October. Nor did it keep my brothers from standing in the front yard while the sirens screamed, trying to see the tornado as it descended its whirly twirly cone of death upon them. What is it about boys?

Anyhoo, there was a threat of tornado near the homefront last night, so my mom did what any good midwesterner would do: she tucked her purse, her cell phone, a battery-operated radio, and a variety of Small But Very Important Things into a pillowcase and toted it around with her while she cleared out a downstairs closet for her and the five dogs to hunker down in.

Jeepers, folks, this is quite an image, don't you think? I didn't know whether to laugh or to move her out here immediately, without passing go or collecting $200. After all, we all know it's much safer here in the desert, where--if she felt so inclined--she could spend her time preparing emergency fire evacuation kits. There's something about the thought of my mom getting ready for disaster all by lonesome that just tugged at my heart. Given, she has the five dogs, but their main contribution in that situation would have been flatulence--at best--and dog panic. It's not quite the same as a human companion, who could worry and angst with her and soothe her when the fear rises to mania levels. Also, people have opposable thumbs and can play the piano through the darkness, a la the Titanic. Much more comforting, don't you think?

On the other hand, dogs don't scream or clutch at you or barter you away in a desperate negotiation with God. So maybe she's got the right idea after all--clear a space, surround yourself with canines, crank up the radio with a little hip hop, and just enjoy the ride.

Name That Tune

2008-04-26T21:41:00.001-06:00

Thank you all so much for your excellent playing along in the drunken starfish game. Since I do not have time for this blog thing* just right now, I'm handing out another assignment, and a jolly good one at that. Name the source of this quote:

"Stop that copulating!"

No excuses on this one, not with that modern day Google witchcraft right at your fingertips. Go on, now--git huntin'!

*I am busy making up the most ridiculous crap to write in a report on a kid whose language is just so...WTF?!

Is It Live or Is It Memorex?

2008-04-22T21:23:00.002-06:00

What is happening with this starfish?!?!

Discuss.

Marion the Librarian**

2008-04-16T19:43:00.005-06:00

Something disturbing this way came on my recent visit to the MotherShip. Something that made me rethink everything I know about myself. Something that made me dig deep and ponder hard, and since I am not so much into that these days, it was a bit of a shock to my system.

It happened while the Queen Mum and I were at the hospital. I was staying there with her, so I was pretty much always present for whatever was going on. I was a big help, too, saying things like, "WHOA, look at the size of that needle!" and asking the same question 32 times until I got an answer I could finally understand. Anyhoo, there I was, still in my pajamas, when the physical therapist came in to therapize my mom. Being in the industry myself, I felt that immediate kinship that comes from a shared understanding of rehabilitation. So I was busy telling her that I was a speech-language pathologist and generally impressing her with my knowledge of therapy stuff when she said, "Oh, yeah, you look like a speech therapist."

Say wha-ha-ha-HAT??!?

These words rocked my world. I was horrified and surprised by the sheer viscerociousness of my response (yep, made that word up). Something in me seized up a little. How does one go about looking like a speech-language pathologist?? I don't feel like a SLP, other than when I'm at work. I just feel like me, who is part SLP but lots of other parts, too.

This comment bothered and upset me and disturbed the fine little hospital utopia that I had created for myself. It was almost as bad as being told that I looked like a librarian on my first day on the job as a librarian.

Wait a minute. That story is true--on my very first day working at the university library in college, some yahoo riding with me in the elevator volunteered how very much I looked just like a librarian. Never mind the big glasses I was wearing. Never mind my hair up in a bun. No, sir, I do not looke like a librarian, I look like a hot college student who just happens to work at a library, and THAT IS ALL. So, um is it just me, or is anyone else seeing a pattern here? Is there something about me that causes me to take on a certain "look" depending on my job? Am I just a...morpher?

I've been doing this with accents forever. Even though I'm from Oklahoma, you'll rarely hear it in my voice unless I'm on the phone with my family. I used to share an office with someone who said she always knew when my mom called; my voice immediately reverted to the drawl of my homeland and stayed that way for at least half an hour. Heck, you should have heard me back when I worked for a Native American agency; there's nothing like a white girl saying "ya-ta-hey" in her best Navajo voice to make you laugh out loud. But it was hardly volitional; it just happened.

So now I wonder if I'm doing this with my jobs, too. The accent thing I've learned to live with; but again, and I cannot stress this too much, I do not wish to look like my job. It leaves me feeling a little pigeonholed, and Lord knows I do not like that. What if I decide that I don't want to be a SLP anymore but I can't get out? What if I go to apply for a job as a multi-millionaire but I get turned away because I can't play the role convincingly? What if a lucrative publishing company calls me and tells me they're ready to publish my as-yet-unwritten book, but then they take one look at me and burst out laughing, saying, "Oh, my dear, you'll never be anything but an SLP! It shows on your face!"

As you can see, the ramifications of this simple comment are far-reaching. Now I feel stuck, and Wicked don't like that feeling. I have no idea what to do about this, other than to pierce my tongue or grow a mustache or give myself a mohawk. Speech-language pathologists don't wear mohawks, do they?

Maybe you can help me. There's strength in numbers, after all. Do you think you resemble your profession? For instance, if you were at Disneyland, might someone point a finger at you and yell, "Oh, thank goodness, Herbert, we've finally found a _______________! We've been looking all over for one a'them!" That might possibly not be the best example, but I think you know what I mean. Let me know. And quick.

**Disclaimer: I haven't blogged in two weeks. Please excuse the rambling and incoherence.

Tag, I Are It

2008-04-05T14:16:00.004-06:00

Moi has tagged me to write a memoir in six words. I've been trying not to consciously think about it, trusting that when it came along I would just know. Today, it appeared to me in a vision whilst driving east on San Antonio, and it is thus:

Tit for Tat, I See You.

I do not know what this means. I am open to interpretations. I also have no one to tag, because everyone I know out there has already been tagged. So all you lurkers and drive-byers out there, I tag you! Oh, well, and AJ, of course. And maybe Robert and Zak, too, if it won't divert them too much from their great movie-making schemes, because one day they're going to have to take care of me and I don't want anything to get in the way of them making the gobs of money that they'll need to support me in a style more lavish than that to which I am accustomed. Child labor laws, pah.

Bionic Knee, Activated!

2008-04-02T16:42:00.007-06:00

Good news, everyone, the Queen Mum passed her knee surgery with flying colors!!

She is now fully bionified. She was the golden child of physical therapy, achieving a full 111 degrees of flexion (say that in a Captain Kirk voice: "one--hundred-----degrees of--FLEXION!") only a week and a half after surgery. So far her pain has been much less than she had been warned it would be, and she was dragging her walker up the stairs by herself on day nine (this was not an approved use of her new knee, by the way). Go figure.

The adventure did not come without a few bumps in the road, of course, but fortunately there were doctors and nurses to answer our obsessive questions 482 times a day...or night. There were also plenty of male nursing techs to help my mother in and out of the bathroom and shower. Herself, existing all her life as a reasonably modest woman, found that modesty is a thing one can pretty quickly part with when you're wearing a gown that doesn't close in back--thereby proving that, yes indeed, there is always room for change in our lives. I myself learned that pajamas are a perfectly reasonable outfit for a 7:00 a.m. doctor's visit when one is sleeping on a rollout bed in the hospital room. It's still good at 11:30 a.m., too, when you just haven't gotten around to changing yet. Those fluffy, striped socks were cheap entertainment for the staff, no doubt, and I was glad to help relieve any job stress that they might have been feeling. That's me, always willing to take one for the team. In my fuzzy socks.

We also learned that if your caretaker is watching "Mr. Bean" at medication time, there is just the slightest chance that she will attempt to overmedicate you. It's an attentional thing. There's really no need to discuss this any further.

So I guess the take home message from this is: you just never know. Worrying, planning, and obsessing will only take you so far until you get to the Real Thing. Things that we didn't anticipate happening, happened. That which we were fraught with worry over turned out to be minor problems. Hopefully we'll learn from this and next time approach things with a little more aplomb...although, frankly, I doubt it. But you never know.

Another item in the family update post is that my sister's husband also passed his car wreck with only a few broken ribs. Well, and a whole lot of pain. But still, I saw pictures of the car after the Jaws of Life had its way with it, and we were all quite grateful that he got away with no more than that. So we're all high-fiving Jesus and feeling groovy these days. Hope you are, too!

(Photo brought to you, not surprisingly, by the strange but glorious AJ)

Live on, Lindsey Wagner! Take Form of...My Mom's Knee!

2008-03-21T07:56:00.004-06:00

Well, my blogging has just gone to hell in a handbasket, hasn't it? Please excuse my recent absences and consider this a doctor's note for the next week. Because in a few short hours, I'll be leaving on a jet plane to go see the Queen Mum, who now has a NEW! BIONIC! KNEE!

Yes, after Lord only knows how long of bone-on-bone pain she's been suffering and through the miracle of our fancypants modern medicine, some parts of her knee have now been replaced--or perhaps even all of it. I'm honestly not sure, but plan on having a stern discussion with her surgeon where I demand that he tell me everything that I already should know. My sister has been doing a beautiful job of tending to her and her post-car crash husband, and I'm looking forward to helping with those divided needs. It's probably not so fun to have two of your loved ones in the hospital within an 8-hour span. The good news is that everyone is okay, albeit very sore.

I spoke briefly with the queen last night and I have to tell you, it is fun to talk to people who are under the influence of pain medication. They slur their words and go off on unexpected tangents. I expect to learn some things in this week with my mother. However, most of it will be spent with crowbar in one hand (to get the pain medication in) and whip in the other (to encourage her to rest when she needs to). She'll take care of the hard work and the rest of us will move objects out of her path and pick up buckets of fried chicken for her when it just all gets to be too much. She is a Southern girl, after all.

Have a wonderful week, my friends, and hopefully when I get back the blog-writing part of my brain will have reactivated.

Wonder Twin powers, activate! Take form of...brain!

(I'm sorry, I cannot help this stuff. I am so stuck in the 70s.)

Wicked Thistle

So Maybe 5-Year-Olds Aren't So Smart After All

Is It Wrong to Lie When It's Funny to Me?

Doop de Doop

Ahem.

Testing, uno, dos, tres, kick left, kick right!

Hello, Little Children! Hello!! Little Children?? Come Back! It's Miss Wicked!!

Simple Peace

Oh! A Story! I Have a Story!

A Rant, Then Rest

Middle School Teaches Me About Gender Differences

Did I Mention You Asked For This?

R.S.V.P. to Your State, Part II: Look to the Sky

Please RSVP to Your State, Part I

Oobala, Oobala, Oobala

Joy

In the Epic Battle Between Bugs & Wicked, Bugs *Always* Wins. Harumph.

Helloooooo (echo echo echo)!!!

For the Record, I *Am* Thinking Up a Blog

Sunday Morning With Fred

You Media Potstirrers Can Just Go Ahead and SHUT IT Now

I Am So Sorry For This Stream of Consciousness

And She Rambles, And She Rambles Some More With No Definite Conclusion

For the Love of Gawd, SHUT UP!

I Am Ready to be the Wake-Up Fairy Now, Thank You

If I'm Hiking for the Children, What Color is My Bracelet?

Miscellania

Bad Moon Rising

Be Back Soon, In The Meantime Watch *This*

When the Mothership Comes, I'll Be Ready

Rest In Peace, Number Six

In Case You Were Looking

Let's Just Say

The Silent Flute - Man In Oil Scene DO NOT MISS!

Wicked Joins A Modern Society

This Blog Is Not Dead

Five Things That Happened to Me Before 10:00 This Morning

Oh Joy! Oh Great Delight!

Moments From A Monday

Have a Holly, Jolly Christmas!

Better Than a Digestive Biscuit

F Is For...

Armed and Dangerous

What Wicked Is Watching

Join Me In My Time Machine

Msiethsoeihrapofullfm

It's Sunday I HAVE TOO BLOGGED!

Look Carefully...Very Carefully

Wicked Would Take You Down, If She Just Had the Energy

The Beginning of a Weekend Photo Blitz

Ode to Mister Sun

Quality Control Has Really Gone to Pot Around Here

What It's All About

Wicked Faces the New Century, 8 Years Later

¡Día feliz de los muertos!

Two Words:

EEEEEEEEK!! Happy Halloween!

Play That Funky Music, White Boy!

In This Economy, Is A Picture Still Worth A Thousand Words?

Wake Up!

Okay, Now I *Am* All Out of Words

I May Be All Out of Words, But Never Butt Pictures

More Words to Live By, ala Story People

Soon I'll Stop, Although, Seriously, With Material Like This, Why Should I?

Aaaaaaaaaand...

Important Update

Things That Really Make You Look at Your Life

Randomosity

Pah on the Olympics, *Here's* Your Games!

WTF and Prank Update

Nancy Kerrigan, Where Are You When I Need You?

Disjointed Rant and Plea For Help! Apologies For Lack of Sense-Making!

Oh Mickey, You're So Fine, You're So Fine You Blow My Mind, Hey Mickey! Hey Mickey!

Nancy Kerrigan, Where Are You When I Need You?!

Saright....or Sarong?

It Ain't No River in Egypt

Happy Monday!

Patron Saint of Computers, Appear!

To Dispatch, or Not To Dispatch?

Why Yes, It *Is* A Small World After All!

In the Epic Battle Between Bugs & Wicked, Bugs Always Wins. Harumph.

For the Record, I Am Thinking Up a Blog

Be Back Soon, In The Meantime Watch This

Okay, Now I Am All Out of Words

Pah on the Olympics, Here's Your Games!

Why Yes, It Is A Small World After All!

Alaska Is Being Cheeky