A-pug-alypse!

According to my father-in-law, America is about to go through even worse financial times than we are now. He’s a financial planner and knows quite a bit about the economy and so forth. Essentially, the debt America accrues will be so great that our whole economic system will buckle to an unsalvageable level. I’ve connected the dots and see what’s going on. Armageddon is upon us. Conquest, War, Famine, and Death will soon be riding their horses through the sky. I must start planning for the future – however desolate it may be. 

First, I need to get Lasik eye surgery. I can just imagine scurrying from my house of *corrugated metal to scavenge for my daily dose of acorns and pigeon bones like a common troll. While I’m out foraging, I notice all of the other Morlock-like sewer dwellers laughing and pointing at me. Much to my chagrin, I notice I put on my brown fingerless gloves and picked up the red polka doted bindle. That doesn't match!!! If I had better vision, this mistake wouldn’t happen. I will NEVER be the laughingstock to a bunch of Eloi eating, subterranean bastards!  

Next, I really need to start running. I figure when the streets are flooded with blood, I’ll need to be in shape to run away from cannibal marauders looking to eat my nose and various other body parts. Or vice versa, I’ll need to be in shape to run down the weak, so I can feed their noses to my dogs and wife. I’ll scream from the mountain tops as menacing as possible, “Listen and listen well. All of your noses shall sustain my pugs!”

I’ll also need an arsenal of weapons. My only weapon right now is a baseball bat. It’s aluminum though so I can’t even hammer long nails through the end of it like a true cave troll. Maybe I can duct tape some nails to it. I could also carry around a bag of rocks – rocks for throwing.

I’ll need to work on my percussion skills. There will probably be a lot of sitting around campfires. If I can play music on a Folgers can perhaps, I will be the hit of the tribe and they won’t want me to do stuff. It’ll be similar to being a celebrity now; I’ll be so revered that people will want to do work for me. They’ll say, “No, no. Please stay seated. I’ll go down to the quarry, boil drinking water for you, and wash your loin cloth. We need you nice and rested for the coffee can concert tonight. Tap-Dink-Tap is my favorite song!” I will humbly accept.

These are just some of the things I will need to do in anticipation for the End Days. These things seem hard though. Maybe I won’t do them. Maybe I’ll just sit in a chair on my lawn with a cold beer and watch the skies burn with the fire of a thousand suns. It’ll be quite a show.

* Corrugated metal: The wavy kind of metal used to make sheds and storage units that contain scores of dead, rotting bodies that burn in the hot summer sun. If this doesn’t make sense, read this.

I am so Thankful.

My mom told me I should write a Thanksgiving blog to list the things I’m thankful for. The problem with that idea is that I’d have to be serious, and those series of posts about how I proposed to my wife are serious enough to last for years. I decided to meet her halfway, so here is a post about the things I’m thankful for but aren’t serious. 

1.    The Suite Life of Zack and Cody. This show is always on and I always watch it. It has some magnetic power over me that just draws me in like a tractor beam. I never watch it longer than 5 minutes and I don’t really understand the overarching plot, but I’m with it. I was there when they were cute kids. I was there when Zach got fat. I was there when their voices started cracking. I will always be there.

 That is all.

P.S. Here is a weird drawing to go along with this. Layne, I didn't quite go as far you might have hoped.

Baby, I'm Not an Anarchist!

I minored in history in college. I took classes like Intro. to Modern Russia, Intro. to Modern China, and Anarchy and Socialism in Brazil. I’m totally not a communist, socialist, or anarchist, but obviously, that aspect of government and history interests me. I kind of feel like if we got into some neo-McCarthyist era, I would be screwed – well, at least they’d take a passing glance at me. 

Actually, just through a series of coincidences, my wife might get that passing glance as well. When I traded my old iPhone in for a new one, I lost all of my background pictures and ringtones. It wasn't a big deal because I don’t put much thought into things like that; I just use whatever I think is funny at the time. Here are some of the things I thought were funny at the time of the new purchase. I used this picture of Jack Nicholson for my friend Mark:

And I used this picture of John Goodman for my friend Joe:

Pretty hilarious, huh?

Well, I was running on a treadmill at the gym, and on TV, I saw this hilarious website that collects pictures of cats that look like Hitler. I went home, immediately found the site, and I saved this one on my phone. Now, it's my wife’s picture when she calls:

I’m not making a statement or anything; it just makes me laugh. Which wife wouldn’t want their husband to be in a good disposition when she called? I was also listening to the band Against Me! quite a bit back then when I got my phone, so I set up her ringtone as the song “Baby, I’m an Anarchist.” Here it is (go to the 1:00 mark):

I just don’t think. I definitely don’t put two and two together. The other day she called and that song played and that cat flashed. One of my colleagues happened to be looking over my shoulder at that moment. 

“Uh, I swear she’s not a Nazi-anarchist… cat.” 

Maybe I could find a picture of a dog that looks like Reagan and play some Kid Rock in the background. He’s like ultra-American, right? He's like this new Lee Greenwood. I heard his new one on TV the other day and thought it was a truck commercial. 

There we go. That works. Don't take me away.

Things I've Learned

I’m going to take a page from my fellow blogger Lex at www.lexinthecityblog.com and discuss what I’ve learned from my 5 months or so of blogging. 

I haven’t learned much.

1.    I use Google Analytics to track how many people visit my site. The word analytics has one C. I pronounce it with two C’s most of the time – analyictics. It sounds more scientific to me though I’m not doing it on purpose; I just mispronounce it.

2.    Getting the font style, font size, and spacing consistent throughout the entire blog seems impossible. I’ve tried everything. Three posts are the same and then – BAM – different. Sometimes the spacing is bigger and sometimes the font size is different. I think the fellows at Blogger are trying to drive my anal-retentive wife crazy. If my font ends up in wing-dings, we’ll all know the conspiracy is on.

3.    Apparently, font with curly letters is hard to read. My wife and my brother both told me to fix it. I used Courier before because I thought it looked like a private investigator from the 1920’s would use it – like I was cracking a case about the ass splitting pants, but no, it’s actually hard to read.

4.    Getting followers takes work. I don’t mean followers as in readers; I mean followers as in people who will put their picture on the side of my blog. No one wants to do it. I see other people and they have like 700. I have 16 (11 of which are people I saw at the last wedding I went to). My brother told me that it doesn’t do anything to officially follow and anyone who wants to read it will just RSS it. But, I like to have their smiling faces looking back at me when I post. It lets me feel like I’m doing this for them to read when they are supposed to be working. Or just want to relax with something to read on the can.

5.    What the hell is remroom.ru? It’s apparently a Russian furniture website, yet I consistently get readers from that site. I tried to read it but it’s written in the same language as on the outside of Superman’s incubator-spaceship from Krypton. If you’re the remroom guy, what’s up?!?

6.    Another thing with foreigners: are you really reading my blog? On my little site visit trackers, I get visits from Denmark, UK, Argentina, Slovenia, Philippines, etc. I suspect that someone I know is travelling the world and stopping off at little cafes and using the WIFI to read my blog.

If that’s not the case and if you’re one of these guys, I apologize for how I present Americans. We are not all ass splitting, fast food craving, idiots a la Hank Hill, Peter Griffin, Homer Simpson – just 90% of us are.

7.    Drawing pictures is the easy way out of truly writing and describing something. It’s like the caveman’s way of blogging. “You don’t get how I killed that mammoth? Just look at the cave painting! It clearly depicts how he was pooping and got him in the neck – BAM with a spear!”

8.    It has taught me how obsessive I can be. I look at my stats constantly. Why does it matter? I think my stats basically keep up with how many times a day I read my own blog. “Ooo, I had 5 hits last hour! It came from my IP address?!? Oh no! Is someone in my house?”

9.    I’ve learned that not too many guys blog and, furthermore, not too many man blogs are of the humorous variety. Most are super serious. Usually, bloggers read blogs; therefore, not too many guys are reading my blog.

10.  With that being said, maybe I should make my blog more woman friendly. I’m read-YYY! Who wants to chat about wine, boys, and ponies?

Feelin' Stupid Part 7

Four or five years ago, I had a student from England in my class. She was a nice, sweet girl, and her clothes were stylish and clean. The thing that stood out the most about her was a THICK cockney accent (like the way Dick Van Dyke’s character speaks in Mary Poppins). It’s hard for me to think of an example from a movie that truly expresses the extreme nature of her accent. She reminds me of the Scottish guys in the movie Trainspotting – she was indecipherable. She rarely spoke, but when she did, I had to ask her to repeat herself at least twice. The other students didn’t understand her either. I’d look over to them for help, and they would just collectively shrug their shoulders. 

We got to the point in the year when it was time to read Pygmalion (in case you don’t know, it’s basically My Fair Lady – if you don’t know still, it’s like the episode of Family Guy where Stewie makes a bet with Brian that he can make a lady of his new British neighbor). Well, everyone thought it would be ever so cute if our little British girl read the part of Eliza Doolittle – me included. She read it. It was SUPER cute. It was perfect because she could just read it without even trying and it sounded right. Normally, when my students try to read with a cockney accent, it sounds like Apu from The Simpsons or Crocodile Dundee, at best. 

I’ve thought about it since then and I kind of shudder with embarrassment at the thought. Usually, when someone has a cockney accent, they are poor and uneducated. Proper Brits don’t speak like this. Can you imagine Winston Churchill saying, “Lawd above! A lie gets 'alfway around da world befawer da truf 'as a snipe ter get its blowlamps on., innit.” Her accent was that times 10! I basically was saying, “Hey, you poor, unwashed Brit, why don’t you amuse us with your silly accent? Read, my little performing monkey!” Clap. Clap. This would be like if I asked a little country girl to read Mayella Ewell from To Kill a Mockingbird – you're probably racist, right? Why don’t you read this character? Or a boy with terrible acne to read The Summoner from The Canterbury Tales – hey, your skin’s a little beaten up and so is his. Perfect.

Luckily, I’m a little more cognizant of this now. Hopefully, she didn’t take offense to my ignorance. By the way, how many times have I ended a post with something like that? I hope ________ didn’t take offense to ________.

P.S. On another note, I’ve been thinking about this for a while now. Imagine, if you were a mobster and your mobster friend got shot, would you rather take him to a butcher or a tailor to get fixed up? Like, it’s 2:00 am and these are the only two places open.

Both have their positives.

Weight Control Problem IV

I wouldn’t say I have a huge ass; it’s just bigger than most guys that I know. That’s not saying much because all of my friends have rear ends that are more concave than convex. I’m an observant guy, and I notice that some of my friends look like they are always about to sit down, like this:

So, why do all of my pants rip at the seam (here’s the previous post about it in case you’re new)? This is a question that has plagued me since I started working and wearing slacks 90% of the time. I purposely never squat; I do a split kind of move to pick things up, like so:

I’ve even contemplated making my own fashion line that focuses on helping people with this unique concern. I figure I could make a pair of slacks with elastic for a seam, like this:

Inspiration stuck me the other day, and I figured out what very well could be the problem – my wallet is too big. 

I know what you’re thinking, is it because of the phat money he makes teaching? No, no, good reader. I keep that change in the console of my car. Here is a simple breakdown of the things in my wallet by category (besides the necessities like my ID, insurance cards, etc.):

2 Best Buy Reward Zone Cards: When I go to Best Buy, all I end up buying are packs of Gummy Bears. They ARE very rewarding but am I building up enough points to need two?

3 Old Hotel Keys: I am nostalgic about my last trip to a Hilton wherever it was.

4 different food places: Uh, the Freebirds one got me a free t-shirt.

Broken University of Texas Credit Card: A casualty of my… carriage.

The Sandals charge card from my wedding: Didn’t actually know it was there. It was stuck to…

One of my 3 ID badges from work – one is from 2004!

Here are the random individual cards: Blockbuster, AAA, Barnes and Noble, Borders, Babin’s Gift Card, Finish Lines Shoes, Bear Creek Golf Course Membership, and one for Kroger.

22 extra cards! What am I to do?!? I can only get rid of 3 – 4 tops. I better get started on elastic ass-ed pants!

Feelin' Stupid Part 6

During swim practice the other day, one of my athletes (Dan) asked to get out to go to Chinese Club (he’s Chinese). You’d be surprised but junior varsity kids sometimes come up with excuses to get out of practice. Crazy, huh? Who wouldn’t want to swim 5000 yards in a couple of hours? 

Because sometimes they are less than honest, I ask for some proof that they went; usually, the teacher they are going to emails me. When practice finished, I went in my office and checked my email. I wasn’t actually looking for Dan's teacher's email but I did notice there wasn’t one. I've never had any problems with him before, so I figured he went. If I were the Chinese Club sponsor, I would totally put off emailing the swim coach. “I’m busier than him damn it!” I'd angrily yell with my fist in the air if I were her.

When I was walking through the building and out to my car, I saw three boys of Asian descent walking out of a classroom. I called out to them (I was far enough behind them that I had to raise my voice). I loudly but nicely said, “Did you boys just get out of the Chinese Club?” Now, I’m from Texas and have a mild, at best, southern accent. “You boys” and “CHIIIII-nese” – I just can’t help it! They all turned at the same time, and the one on the left said, “I’m Korean and they’re Vietnamese.” 

I’m not racist, and I don’t even need to bother defending myself. On the other hand and more importantly, I really, REALLY didn’t want them to feel that way. All of the ration and reason of the situation began swirling around my head, and before I could defend myself, he said, “Yeah, we were there but it is called Asian Club.”

Thanks, Dan. 

Thanks.

Well, My Mom and Wife Will Like It (Part 3)

I slept well that night knowing that I had made it through several layers of my web of lies. Isn’t it funny how a huge ball of lies like this actually turned into a good thing? I mean, there is no way this could have been bad. If she would have found out, it’s not like she would have been mad at me. This makes me wonder, how does one teach a kid about lies? “Don’t lie – unless, you are creating a web of lies as a means to propose to your girlfriend. Also, you can lie if mommy asks if her haircut looks good.”

I had almost made it through the layer, but there was one big hurdle remaining: I hadn’t bought a ring. So, literally, as I am driving back from Austin, I’m going straight to Tiffany’s to buy the ring (don’t go crazy – remember, I am a teacher!). I planned on using all of the money that I made coaching summer league to buy the ring. All of the school days teaching from 7:30-2:30 and coaching from 3:30-7:30 and those summer mornings waking up at 5:00 a.m. would all go in to a circular piece of metal with some diamonds on it. It was worth it though.

On the way back, she expressed over the phone her annoyance that I wasn’t packing yet. The anger was mounting in her. I made it to Houston around 3:00 p.m. and went directly to the store. I bought the ring with minimal problems. The only real problem was my debit card wouldn’t allow me to take out more than $500 a day. The ring was a little more than that, and it looked like the lady behind the counter was used to commoners like me. Before I could start to panic, she handed me the phone and told me this was a regular occurrence. I got the bank to lift the max withdrawal and just like that, POOF! My bank account was left with $13.67.

Everything had worked out perfectly. I went over to her apartment and hid the ring. She would be home within the hour and I had to come up with an excuse to be there. I told her I was going to go to Mark’s house to hang out, and I had to wait there for him to get off work. This really, really pissed her off. She yelled at me on the way home! This made me laugh in my head because I knew she’d regret it later (not to rub it in her face J). She just about had it with me. I asked myself, Uh, is this worth it? She probably hates me right now.

The last part of my proposal was to have it hidden within a crossword puzzle. At that point in our lives, we worked crossword puzzles every night. It was our thing. I waited in bed for her to come home (she was planning on going to the movies with a friend (holla, Stef!) and could only be there for a minute or two).

She walked in already annoyed and saw me lying on the bed working a crossword puzzle. This further irritated her. I asked her for help on one, and she just said, “Why are you doing it without me?” She was VERY uninterested in helping me. I had to cajole her, and she finally sat down next to me. It took her a few minutes, but she found it out. Here is the actual puzzle; I DID make it kind of hard.

I proposed and she accepted. It was joy and happiness and tears. We made it through the thick and thin and were going to be together forever. The last lie came after that. She asked if I asked her sister for her approval. I said I didn’t. This disappointed her, but what could she do? She called PJ to tell her the good news, and PJ said she already knew; I was there last night! This was probably a bigger shocker than the proposal. Everything came together in wife’s head and she realized what really went on. Victory was finally mine!

P.S. I wanted to finish the puzzle, but she won't let me. She framed it and for some reason hung it up in the bathroom. Believe me, it's taunts me daily. Finish me! Finish me!

Well, My Mom and Wife Will Like It (Part 2)

I'm posting quickly so people won't think the worst of me. For this to make sense, you'd need to read the first post.

Part 2

Well, actually, I didn’t go out with Mark. I went to bed early because I had a 2 ½ hour drive to Austin the next morning. My wife’s sister (we’ll call her PJ) lives there with her husband (fiancé (we’ll call him CJ), at the time). CJ and I had already talked extensively about this. He knew I was coming well ahead of time. He even, quite sneakily I might add, was able to keep it from PJ. She had no idea I was coming and Wife didn’t know I was going. It was the perfect crime. 

On the way to Austin, I let CJ know my every move. He knew exactly where I was at all times. When I got close, he found a way to keep PJ in the house. She wanted to go to the gym (like the good little gym rat she is), but he managed to stall her. “Let’s finish watching CSI: Miami” and, “I need to potty.” He found a way – God bless him, he found a way. 

I showed up in Austin and knocked on their door. PJ answered and was shocked to see me. I’m not sure her first instinct was to assume I was there to ask for her sister’s hand in marriage. She asked, “What are you in town for?” I popped the prerequisite question: “I’m here to ask you if it’s okay for me to marry your sister.” Not really a question I suppose. She said, yes, and we rejoiced, tears, etc. In fact, we went to a local bar in the area to celebrate and played bar trivia. We won! Don’t ever doubt my knowledge of The Simpsons and Seinfeld! Conan O’Brien wrote the Monorail episode and the lady that fired George Costanza from the bra company was his girlfriend (different character) in the episode where Elaine is taking an art class. I was on summer break; I was watching TV for 10 hours a day.  I was two for two that night.

That night was pretty scary because wife wanted to come over to work on her computer, which I borrowed for summer league. The jig was almost up! If she went to my apartment, she would probably spend the night. I told her that I went out with Mark again (by the way, she was getting pissed about that – something about packing), and if I didn’t come home that night when she was expecting me, I’d be in for a serious world of hurt. Luckily, the Fates destined for this to work out and she didn't come over. 

Part 3 -- coming soon!

Well, My Mom and Wife Will Like It (Part I)

This is the story of how I proposed to my wife. I’m going to break this into parts because it’s complicated. I know that sounds cliché, but it really is complicated. My wife, girlfriend at the time, and I went through tough times like I imagine most couples do – especially when they are in their early twenties. Neither of us were mature enough to maintain a real partnership. Through the trials and tribulations, we made it through 5-6 years together (it’s hard to tell these days), and we knew we were going to get married. You know when you watch TV shows and some guy is stressing out over whether or not his love interest is going to say yes when he pops the question? We all know there is no reality to that. If you’ve been with someone long enough to get married, you basically plan out your future together and the proposal is a formality. We were those people.

She knew I was going to propose sooner or later, and actually, we had it planned out enough where when my lease was up, I’d move in with her. Her caveat was that we’d have to be engaged. It was June and my lease was up in August, so she knew it was coming but didn’t know when. 

Traditionally, a man asks for his potential bride’s hand in marriage, but that wasn’t her plan. Tragically, her mother passed away when she was in college, and naturally, she grew very close to her younger sister. She always told me that the most important thing to her was that I asked her sister for her (my wife – let’s not play the pronoun game) hand. 

When July rolled around, I think she kind of accepted that either I would propose or she would just let me move in with her with the expectation that I would eventually propose. Regardless, she would come over to my lowly apartment and see that I wasn’t packed – or even in the process of packing. She got after me so much for this that it drove both of us crazy. She is a big picture person and I’m a what-did-you-just-say person. As time progressed, she began to put more and more pressure on me to get my stuff together.

I was coaching summer league swimming and July 11^th was the last day. We planned the move for the following weekend. On July 13^th, she sat me down and sternly told me that I needed to pack for the move. I needed to do it over the weekend. Mind you, she has a normal job with normal hours; I’m a teacher, so I was doing – anything but work. This was MY responsibility.

That night I went to a bar with Mark.

Feelin' Stupid Part 5

I listen to all sorts of music. It basically depends on what I’m doing that determines which type. For the most part, I listen to indie-type stuff on a day to day basis. By the way, this isn’t going to be a stupid post about music like before (admittedly, my worst post… ever). When I go to the gym, I listen to mostly electronic, pop, and rap. I was getting warmed up on the elliptical machine and was listening to Runaway by Kanye West. Here it is in case you don’t know:

Near the beginning of the song, he says, “See, I could have me a good girl and still be addicted to them hood rats.” Hood rat is a common term in rap songs, and as a fan of Dave Chappelle, I’m familiar with the term. It never crossed my mind what hood rat means. I always kind of took it literally. In my head, I always imagined a less than savory, ratish type of woman sitting on the hood of a car, like this:

When I was working out today and listening to this song, it crossed my mind that it means ‘hood rat (a la Boyz in the ‘Hood) – ‘hood like a neighborhood. Either this is just a sign that as a white man I’ll always be slow with this kind of stuff or I’m just getting old and slang comes harder to me. Regardless, hood rat or ‘hood rat, I knew it was something insulting, and that’s what’s important, right?

By the way, get off my lawn you damn kids!

Man vs. Pugs II

I haven’t written about this in a while, but my dogs are still trying to kill me. I’ve been keeping a small journal of their activities on my phone, so if someone needed the proof, a la Paranormal Activity 2, they would see it. After the original September post, here is what happened the rest of the month.

Monday, Sept. 20^th: Went to the pantry to find something to eat but nothing looked too appetizing. Found a baguette. Took a bite out of it and almost cracked a molar. Decided it would have to do. Walked to the couch holding the baguette in my hand. Sampson jumped up and snatched it away. He ran off and hid under the table. Tried to reach him but he kept scooting away from me. Bonked my head getting up. Possible torn ACL.

Synopsis: He is trying to starve me. He is much quicker and more agile than me. Need to find a way to combat this. Net?

Tuesday, Sept. 28^th: Just got home, let the dogs out, and fed them. Let them back in to give them a treat. Earl walking between my legs. I’m very unsteady. Could possibly fall. Sampson bouncing and pushing on the back of my knee with both front paws. I’m very unsteady. Could possibly fall. Gained balance on the counter. Gave them treat despite attempts to crack my skull.

Synopsis: They are trying to take me out of the game but perhaps are keeping me around for the treats. Treats=survival. The ball’s in my court.

Thursday, Sept. 30^th: Watching Pardon the Interruption and laying on the couch. Earl putting his substantial mass on my… male parts. Tried to move him but he hunkered down. Hard to move a bowling ball.

Synopsis: Is he trying to make mine a fruitless crown? Methinks not!

Holt McDougal the Barbarian!

I spent this beautiful Houston weekend grading research papers. Each of my students wrote a critical analysis on a British masterwork of his or her choice. One of them had the line, “Beowulf was written by Holt McDougal.” Just in case you don’t know, Holt McDougal is the company that produces our textbook. But it made me think about a fictional scenario where this was true.

Holt McDougal was a pale, waifish member of a small Germanic tribe that existed in 400 A.D. called the Wulfings. While the other boys were learning to hunt, loot, and plunder, he was busy taking copious notes and editing bards’ songs, for he was not talented enough to write any of his own. He often corrected their grammar and found ways to abridge songs that were too long. He even came up with vocabulary questions to help the other tribesmen understand the more complex words. To increase his tribes’ comprehension of the songs, he drew pictures in the dirt. When Holt came around, the bards sighed because they knew they would be corrected by the carping, nagging little nerd. While he thought he was doing a great service, the Wulfings eventually ousted the meticulous yet annoying little editor, and he was forced to start his own tribe. Others who possessed no real talent followed him.

The McDougals were an unsuccessful tribe because no one could hunt and do anything purposeful in life. They somehow managed to survive by avoiding conflict and eating roots and berries. They still exist today. They are still annoying and talentless. They still remain on the root/berry diet.

Lessons In Life

As part of my so called weight control, I started the year off by eating black beans and hot Rotel for lunch. I literally bring the two cans to work, put the contents of both in a bowl, and microwave until hot. It tastes good enough and convinces me I’m doing something to lose these unsightly extra pounds. Well, after a couple of weeks, it pretty much stopped (I think it’s what the Kelloggs originally fed to mental patients to destroy their spirit). When I had motivation at the beginning of the year, I brought a bunch of cans of both and left them in my office. Now I basically only eat them when I forget to bring some food to work or don’t have any cash to buy the rectangular school pizza. 

I’m not sure if this has been made clear anywhere on my blog, but I am a high school teacher and a swim coach. During swim season (right now!), I have swim meets at least twice a week, and sometimes, I don’t get home from them until 9:00. Seeing as I go to bed around 10:00, I haven’t been preparing lunch for the next day too often; I’ve been resorting to the black bean combo. Furthermore, because I don’t plan ahead, I use the community bowls that are in the teachers’ lounge.

I noticed last week that my bowl looked dirty – like it literally was never washed (we have a dishwasher that has a clean/dirty sign on the front). I kind of expect this kind cleanliness when there’s no one really in charge of the dishwashing. It’s not like someone gets a stipend to do it, or it’s one of our duties. “You watch this hallway. You make sure the kids are getting off the buses and going inside. You make sure the dishes are clean, SPOTLESS. Use the lemony detergent too!” I have the first lunch, so obviously, I can’t be held responsible for this. 

It turned into a pattern. Eating BB and R – only dirty bowls available. Again and again. Well, the other day I walked in to the lounge to buy a coke, and the special needs kids were putting the freaking dishes away! Now, don’t get me wrong; I am absolutely not blaming these kids for this. The fact they are doing this isn’t wrong either. Their class is called Life Skills, and they are being taught how to live. The problem is the person in charge who doesn’t take the time to check to see if the dishes are clean beforehand. 

Even if I had a teenage son or daughter who wasn’t special needs, I wouldn’t let them put the dishes away before I gave it a once over first. I can tell you firsthand that teens are not the most thorough people in the world. I can’t get them to reread an essay even ONE time. I worked at Pizza Hut as a teenager; believe me, you don’t want them in charge of food or anything around food. Once at work these guys started throwing pennies at each other when we were working and one hit a pizza. I saw the cheese fly up like dust when a cowboy makes someone dance. We never found that penny.

The moral of this story is that teens need to be taught to be responsible. They need to learn to read, memorize SOHCAHTOA, and the bones in the human ear, but please stay away from my food!

Halloween 2010

*Note: I wrote this yesterday. The fast food hiatus ended pretty quickly.

I mentioned in Happy Birthday, Loser! that I would never dress up for Halloween again. Well, I’m a weak person and I gave in pretty pathetically. We had two parties to go to last night, so I figured between the two I’d feel even more awkward if I was the only one who wasn’t dressed. I debated about what to go as for weeks. Last year, my cat costume was inspired – a work of art. All I could think of was bat, bat, bat. Pretty lame, I know. It would just be my cat costume but with a cape. I changed my mind literally an hour before we left.

I went as Jacob from Twilight. I thought it would be funny because his abs look a little better than mine and Twilight isn’t really my style – kind of an ironic costume. I looked online and finding a picture of him with his shirt on was nearly impossible. It was also quite demoralizing. It’s like what are the bumps on his stomach and why doesn’t he have one big solid bump like mine? I felt like a teenage girl looking at pictures of Hannah Montana – or whoever the girls idolize these days. No wonder they have body image issues. I always felt like as long as I look better than John Goodman, I’m good. 

After sorting through all of the bare-chested pictures, I found one where he was wearing a black shirt with the sleeves cut off. Money. Have that. I found some jeans that I had – grown – out of a while ago and cut them into shorts. I even got some of my wife’s eyeliner and drew a tattoo like he has on my arm. It was perfect. I could imagine people sitting around sipping martinis and between conversations about the stock market saying, “Did you see that guy dressed as Jacob? Bra-vo.”

Between the two parties, I probably talked to at least 50 people. The two most common comments were “Why didn’t you dress up?” and “Are you Meatloaf from The Rocky Horror Picture show?” 

Not a single person guessed that I was Jacob. When I told them who I was supposed to be, they didn’t even snicker. Halloween is stupid.

P.S. I had fried chicken for lunch today and left a piece for later. I went to eat it a few minutes ago and my wife ate the fried batter off of it like Cartman did in South Park! That’s something a serial killer would do. Here’s the video in case you don’t get the reference.

The Death of Eric Cartman
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