Didja?

Did you know that TABLE TENNIS is an olympic sport???

For those of you playing at home, that's FREAKING PING PONG.

Who needs athleticism?  London, 2012 - let's practice, bitches!

PS - Can you imagine how much it would suck  /slash/  be awesome to have to explain to people that the Olympic Gold Medal in your bookcase is for frackin' PING PONG?  

PPS - Next time, do you think they'll include beer pong?

PPPS - Or maybe Ice Luging?

PPPPS - Or Air Hockey?

PPPPPS - If they include Air Hockey, then I have an Olympic Training Module in my living room.  That's DOPE.

Happy Birthday to me?

I'm just about a week away from turning the big 2-7, and I'm desperately trying to convince myself that I'm not too horribly old, that those aren't really faint wrinkles, and that a husband, a mortgage, and 2 dogs does not make me my mother...

Then I run into a former student of mine. Drinking at a bar. Legally.



Shit.

Crack is your fiend?

My parents are coming into town today to see our new house.

So I did what any logical girl would do...

I ran around and cleaned like a freakin meth addict.

What?  Like you've never lint roller-ed your couch??

As if you care...

I'm starting to think that if I had a superpower, the best one would be the ability to never have to wash and blow-dry my hair again.

But it'd look and smell like I did.



There. I said it.

Little Gold Boxes

Do you remember the packaging from your favorite toy when you were little? Mine was those little My Little Pony packs with the pony all encased in plastic that you had to rip off the cardboard backing. They always came with some innane accessory that you only used the day you bought it, like the little comb or something.

How exciting was that box? The smell of new plastic, and the little accessories all laid out and ready to play. Sometimes, if the toy came in a particularly cool box, you'd want to save it for no apparent reason, just to put the toy back in it and open it again.

My new camera and 2 lenses came in these little matching gold Nikon boxes that gave me that same feeling all over again. Looking at the piles of them in the store, and being handed the 3 that were now mine. I feel like I'm freakin 5. The excitement and anticipation that I felt cracking open the box and unwrapping all the little peices...

I love this.

A letter to my long lost love

Dear internet,

Oh how I miss you. It has been weeks since we parted, and my life without you is empty. I get to work on time, I get things acomplished, yes. But if only I had known it would be at the expense of time spent in my chair staring at you for hours, I'd take it all back. You were always so reliable, there whenever I needed you. You always provided me with entertainment in various forms - your myspace, your blogspot, your youtube. Oh how I miss your youtube. I don't know how to get through my day without seeing skateboarding accidents, dogs doing human-like tricks, and remakes of music videos with stick figures changing the words to what it sounds like the singer is saying, but isn't.

Things are looking bleak here. It seems as though I won't be able to see your smiling screen for another two weeks. The only comforting news I have for you is that my shiney new cushy chair is waiting, my desk is unpacked in anticipatipon. I will gaze upon you soon.

Love,
Me

I bet the youngest can buy vodka by now...

Or at the very least, his own porno.

Jeeeeeezus, I feel old. ish.



btw, when did the oldest get kind of hot? And kind of resemble old school Heath Ledger? You know, like, before he bellied up from the horrible stress of fame... (too soon?) Middle one still looks like an Olsen twin, though. Yeesh - that's irony for you. Fo shizz.


Good luck with your comeback, Hanson, you'll need it. I still have yet to meet anyone who actually admits to buying your first album. (I swear, it wasn't mine... I borrowed it from a friend)

The joy found in a lack of pills

I took my class to the computer lab to type their poems, which is usually a pretty mundane day for me:
Walk class to lab.
Watch them type.
Yell at someone to get the freak off myspace.
Watch them type.
Try to entertain myself with my non-populated email inbox.
Watch them type.
Scold someone loudly for looking at half nekkid pictures of Kim Kardashian. (Dumbass)
Sit there with my thumb up my ass...
Watching them type.

I did a quick round to make sure they were all on task, and I notice that Jake is on Microsoft Paint, scribbling away like a bat out of hell... for no apparent reason.

Before I can say a word...
Jake: WHAT AM I DOING???!! I AM SOOOO A.D.D.!!!!!!!
Closes paint window and gets back to pretending to type.


The best part is, I don't even think he knew I saw him.



Later... and also for no apparent reason...
Jake: Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you, AN UNMEDICATED BOY!
Gestures to self, whom is *truly* unmedicated for the time being.

Dear Will Smith Movie,

You suck. You killed the dog, and I don't know why Jansson made us watch you. Next time, please make a more consumer-friendly movie that does not involve animal killage. After all, your prime audience is almost certainly not Michael Vick. (Too soon?)

Anyways, long story short, ... ... ... poop on you, Will Smith movie.

Love, Me

Sometimes, I don't know why I try.

Technology hates me. Pretty much anything that plugs into the wall, up to and including the hairdryer, misfires when I try to use it. Or, worse, completely falls apart or stops working entirely. The *really* fun part is when it works again when someone else tries, laughing in my face as it makes me look like a total asshole. I know I'm not perfect, and there has to be a bit of Operator Error in there somewhere, but really - I just have bad luck. It's like all the karma of the techie world crashes down upon me, smiting me as though I was the guys in "Office Space" that smashed that fax machine. Arg.





I hate you, Toshiba laptop.

Die in a fire.

Coach Meanyhead

Me: I think that guy looks mean. I don't think I'd like to work for him. Ever.

Hubby: You don't want to work for the coach of the Giants.

Me: The Giants? Jeez, honey, I don't know shit about football, but even *I* know the Giants are a baseball team.

Hubby: The New York Giants.

Me: Oh.

Hubby: I really want to see you go up to him and tell him you don't want to work for him. That would be awesome.






So, since I'll never actually meet you, Coach Not-so-nice, I'll tell you here: I quit. That's right. I don't want to work for your bitchy little baseball team. I think you're mean.

Health Nut

So I'm in Round Table Pizza, looking *really* noble ordering just a salad to go.

Then, when I'm satisfied that no one's looking, I concoct a pile of almost equal parts lettuce, cheddar cheese, ranch, and those really awesome super-calorific croutons that you can only get in restaurants. So you can imagine my dismay, dear reader, to find only five lone croutons laying dejected at the bottom of their little plastic crouton-home.

Sheepishly, I have to ask the clerk to refill the bucket. (Classy joint, eh?) There was a time in my life when I would have been embarrassed. But now I figure you may as well own shit like this so no one thinks you did it on accident. Like you don't know you're a big slobby, crouton-hoarding, cheese maniac. Or worse yet, like you've actually tricked yourself into thinking that you're all Kate Moss-ish and shit, and you truly believe that your salad is any healthier than ordering a damn pizza. Cause, trust me, if defending your food choices actually dispersed the calories, I would be one skinny motherfucker.

Me: Yea, I know. I'll be damned if I don't try to deep fry this shit on the way out the door.

Pizza guy who, naiively, thinks I'm talking about the croutons: Well, at least you don't cover it with bacon and cheese!

Me: *Points to Mount Everest o' cheese*

Pizza Dude: Oh. Actually, the worst things on this salad bar are bacon bits and the olives.

Me: *Thinks about all the horrible shit that is actually on display at the salad bar* k.

I shovel on my croutons and leave.


And, boys and girls, the moral of this story is: oh, em, gee - OLIVES?! I felt like I was in an M. Night Shalksjdaflkj movie or something. Really, who saw that one coming?

Wants.

I've decided that, when I'm 80, I'd rather regret a saggy tattoo than a lifetime of wanting to do something and never doing it.





I have 3 problems:
1.) This one's going to wash off in the shower.
2.) I can't draw for shit.
3.) Needles scare the crap out of me.


Now, I need someone to design it (Ryan? Are you there?) and someone to go with me to feed me liquor and courage.

Everyone thinks they're going to become famous...

And, basically, no one will.

Sad?


The lucky few are picked from the internet like ripe fruit, leaving the rest to rot in their blogs. They're all out there, clacking away on their keyboards, possibly taking off their clothes, taking pictures of themselves with their arms stretched out in front of them, and making up ubercool alterego names that completely ignore their upright, effortless backgrounds.

One makes a movie. One becomes a comedian. One becomes a temporary phenomenon. One sells a book.

And the rest are all out there, clamoring for their spot on youtube and becoming "friends" with eighteen billion strangers on myspace.

And it's not that a lot of them don't deserve attention. But isn't it funny that the ones who actually get it aren't always the most deserving? It's like some big boss-type Internet God sits on his throne, drolling away on his computer choosing them. It's like gigantic career-altering wheel of fortune, spinning a wheel of 5 million blogs until he lands on the lucky now-famous one, calls them up and says, "Pack up your shitty gym bag and quit your desk job, you're going to Hollywood!" Where they proceed to divorce their supportive spouse, run off with a hooker, and do blow until they completely expel all of their non-talent. After that, where do they go? Is there some retiree home for them? If so, does Tay Zonaday run it, staffed by the dramatic squirrel, Tila Tequilla, and Jeffree Star? Does VH1 have a celluloid-shit special about them, discussing the possibility of a comeback on facebook and otherwise uncovering their life after they blew all their money on an MTV "crib," and went bankrupt in sync with the rest of the world remembering that they're not interested? I digress.


Am I different? Possibly. I don't *actually* believe I'll ever be formally famous. I'll be remembered by a few teenagers for teaching them how to write a paragraph properly or for being a mentor in a tough time. I'll never sell a book, never write a memoir, never type a prized screenplay. But I'm still out here in the abyss. At least I don't care if anyone's reading along, following the proverbial bouncing ball or whatnot.

More about the sex industry...

I'm, ashamedly, not much of a reader as of late.

Too much required reading + too many years of school = One outread actress.

However, I decided to pick up Diablo Cody's "Candy Girl," because I loved her screenplay and - well - it's about a stripper. And that's just rad.
I finished it in 3 days. And it only took me that long because I had other shit I *should* have been doing.



The book is like a pop-culture bible for the sex industry. She tells a fascinating story of going from being a completely "normal" girl, with no dangerous or revolting past, no history of perverted uncles, no absent parents, nor any other precursor for stripper life. She simply decided it sounded interesting and became engulfed in the life for a year, all the while remaining in a devote and healthy relationship with a man who completely supported her.

It's not going to win a Nobel Prize, but she's damn funny and very insightful.

Fucking awesome read. Go buy.


(and no, I'm not going to go become a stripper now. Nor am I a "porn star," thank you very much.)

A blonde, a redhead, and a brunette walked into a bar...

So... I dyed it brown. After being blonde for *almost* a whole year (if you know me, you know that it's a personal record!)

I've been wanting to for a while, but one of my LOVELY female students decided to announce in my friend's class that the boys said I looked like a porn star. Eek.


(Imagine how hard it was to find one of her with her clothes ON)



Did I mention that this is the same student who taught me my personal favorite student phrase EVER?

Her: *TALKING LOUDLY TO THE GIRL NEXT TO HER*

Me: (her name), Please be quiet.

Her: WHYYOUPUTMYNAMEINYOURMOUTH!?

Me: *Preppy and speechless*

Trust me, I've committed the words and exact tone down to memory. I use it on strangers.

Really? Swear to blog?

I've read other people's blogs before. The problem is that I've never seem one at the beginning! How lame is it to have one measly post??? I didn't think this through well at all.

So, whatev. Maybe I'll start posting twelve times a day. Ha. Take that blog world.

WTF, mate? Who is this? (fucking kangaroos.)

This whole blogging thing is fairly new to me. Not new like, "what the eff is the Internet,"-new, but new like I've never made one before. It seems a little narcissistic to start off with a personal ad-type pile of crap chock-full of useless information about myself, but I'm kind of into that, so here we go...

1. I lied. I'm not narcissistic. I'm just the raddest thing since Fruit Loops. Is that my fault?

2. I say "rad" still. Lots.

3. I'm married to a supersuperawesome guy. He's the bees knees, really.

4. I read $2 stupid celeb-gossip magazines like a freakin crackhead.

5. I teach high school. It's insane... I get paid to bug the shit out of teenagers. How rad is that?

6. I totally teach in the ghetto, and I learn slang from my gangmember students.

7. I think that my gangmember students are the shit. Except that whole "in a gang" thing. Not a fan of that part.

8. I, evidently, think that every animal in the world looks like my dog. I'm seriously deranged. I'll be like, "Hey, you see that crackhead squirrel with the missing eye and the deformed ear? It looks like Joe!!!"

9. I am desperately attempting to work up the courage to tell people off. And get a tattoo.

10. If you don't think I'm funny, join the fucking club. Then, go play in traffic - I don't like you. (See #9)