tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4688051007714365472024-03-05T19:00:11.940-08:00Lisa-tastrophies & other sh*t that happens to meLisa-tastrophieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04087582850469993109noreply@blogger.comBlogger117125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-468805100771436547.post-91650439672271118942013-06-30T14:59:00.004-07:002013-06-30T14:59:45.252-07:00For $500, You Had Better Suck!!<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Dear Makers of The Dyson DC14 Animal Vacuum Cleaner:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"> A few years ago my old vacuum cleaner decided to go on strike. It had had it with trying to pick up the cat hair, my hair, random stuff and dust bunnies that make a house a home. In my neat-freak panic I decided that I was going to quit throwing money down the drain and invest in a vacuum cleaner that would really suck. One that had a reputation for never losing suction. The kind of suction that would make a high school slut and a trailer hitch proud. So I forked over 500 big ones for your DC14 Animal.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /> RRRROOOOWWWWRRR. Even the name sounded like it could peel the paint off a wall from 50 paces. My inner cleaning animal was unleashed. I developed a relationship with your DC14 that bordered on co-dependent. It would suck the padding from underneath the carpet as I hit the high notes like Liberace in Vegas. The feeling of clean carpet under my toes made me want to pull it out and use it every day. For $500, I was getting the kind of satisfaction that normally comes from a day long Law & Order marathon, vodka, xanex, and HoHo coma.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /> Now, just like Mick Jagger ~ I can't get no satisfaction. Apparently when your inventor, James Dyson, said "never" he was talking more like approximately 4 years. Cause this baby doesn't suck any more! Nothing! Not even the random piece of string that I ran over 25 times, then picked up to inspect, then returned to the floor to run over again 25 times. So much for never loses suction. Even the high school slut is still giving out after 4 years! Doing the math (cause that's what former math teachers do), my Dyson only gave me $125 worth of suction a year. I don't think of that as suction so much as I consider it getting screwed. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /> So now I have a new vacuum with a much smaller price tag and it sucks just fine, thank you. At the price I paid for this little Hoover sucker if he gives out at the end of the year I'm not going to be upset. As for your DC14 Animal, he is now residing outside my apartment complex dumpster. In fact, DC14 has been sitting out there for two days now and even the dumpster divers won't take him. Guess that tells you something, doesn't it?<br />Dyson, you don't suck ~ you blow.<br />Sincerely,<br />Ms. Tastrophie</span><br />
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Lisa-tastrophieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04087582850469993109noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-468805100771436547.post-3967722141597124092013-06-30T14:44:00.004-07:002013-06-30T14:44:51.390-07:00Excuses, Excuses<h3>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #999999; font-size: large;"><i>(Previously written in 2009 ~ but not published)</i></span></h3>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">As a teacher I have seen my fare share of notes from parents. Although, the notes I get usually aren't ones asking how Little Johnny is doing science or what kind of homework he will be doing this week. I get ones that say Little Johnny was sick with an upset stomach for the last three weeks and could I please excuse all the work he has not done so that he will pass the 7th grade and make it one year closer to getting the hell out of our house? </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">But in the two years that I have been teaching this is by far THE BEST parent excuse letter EVER! </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Plese excuze Dumb-Ass* from school yesterday. The mutha f*cker found my stash and smoked up all my sh*t and was gotten to high to go to school. Dont bothr punishin him cuz I grounded him til he pays me back all my sh*t he smoked." </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">*pseudonym</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Now for all you people freaking out over the whole thing, don't worry. The authorities were alerted. Yes, CPS was involved and took care of things. That's not what this blog is all about. This blog is about YOU using YOUR creative skills and giving me a note from home to be proud of. One worth reading. One worth my crushing my academic integrity and ethics in order to help Little Johnny over that silly little road-block called an education.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I have to tell you, I get some really boring notes from parent and I don't feel any need to reward bad excuses with good grades. So next time, instead of telling me Little Johnny had a fever and chills, make some good sh*t up. Tell me you and the Mr. got a little too freaky last night, over slept and decided that freak-round two should occur at 8 a.m. Which sounded a whole lot better than hauling your @$$ out of bed and getting your off-spring to school. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Tell me that you thought that taking a "mini-break" to the sale at the outlet mall with your little diva-in-training appealed more to your sense of economical duty than the need for your daughter to know the history of the Spanish occupation of Texas, Louisiana, and Mexico. (I would probably agree with you on that one.) Besides, if the little diva in training is destine to become the next Jackie O or Kate Spade, who am I to stand in the way of some field research? Just remember me when she's designing her Spring collection.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Remember, creativity counts and snaps will be given for excuses that include blatant sucking-up to the teacher. Calling me the best teacher Little Johnny has ever had, and that he has learned more from sleeping through my class than any other class he has slept through before, will appeal to my sense of empathy. I promise not to count off on the missed classwork if you put a little imagination into Little Johnny's excuse. Hell, I might even give extra credit for style and original concept. Just don't admit to committing three felonies and bad spelling.</span></div>
Lisa-tastrophieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04087582850469993109noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-468805100771436547.post-3549789604583185442013-06-30T14:38:00.000-07:002013-06-30T14:38:58.731-07:00The Anger Files<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Warning ~ this is not the nicest post I have ever written. Mostly it is me getting some stuff off my chest. In fact, it isn't even semi-good, as far as my writing is concerned. Again, it's my blog and I will use it to vent, if I want to. (Originally written in 2010 ~ while having a VERY VERY baaaaaddd day.)</span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Ms. Tastrophie is in a mood people!! I am fairly certain that the good Lord is trying to see how far I am willing to go in order to keep that whole "thou shall not kill" commandment. Because I will bet that He is putting people on this good green earth just to try my patience!! </span> <br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">First off, I inherited my grandfather's lack of patience. He had about .05% of his good nature to waste on people acting the donkey. I think I have about .025% of that and right now it's about half gone. It started about two weeks ago and maxed out on Thursday afternoon. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">T</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">hings That Will Prove You are an Ass Hat; Ms. Tastrophie is Right in Thinking That She May Have To Hurt You:</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">1. You don't know how to merge and think that you don't have to follow the rules of the road or be nice. If there is a line a mile long where people are having to merge; you don't get to bum-rush everyone else's spot and drive to the very front of the line, thereby passing everyone else who was nice enough to merge politely. Don't even think about easing around my car assuming that I won't make a quick turn into your car. I have phenomenal car insurance and your ass would be at fault any way since you failed to yield right of way, and I am just the b*tch to do something like that. So don't test me.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />2. I really do not think that natural childbirth means you should get some sort of Medal of Honor. First off, women have been doing it for centuries. You weren't the first and you won't be the last. However, I know for damn sure that I will be taking whatever drugs I can get my hands on up to the minute I even think I am in some form of labor (should all hell freeze over and I become pregnant). It's not my fault that you didn't think about getting the big shot of Pain-Away and thought that being in labor to 300 hours while trying to squeeze a baby the size of a watermelon through an opening with a dilated circumference the size of a coke can is some form of bravery. More power to ya, but don't think I'm going to think you are a hero. A masochist maybe, but not a hero. Oh, and I do NOT need to hear your war stories about how you were in labors for hours and torn from ass to chin by a 10 pounder making its way all sling-shot from your vajayjay. Complete with contraction-by-contraction details of how little Suzy was ripping your hoo-hoo to shreds, thank you very much. I don't read horror stories for a reason and that would be a horror story to me! With that being said, I do think you deserve a life time supply of vodka and hohos for your trials as I am too much of a chicken shit to <i>EVER</i> go through the time honored throws of childbearing.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">3. And should you have said child and make the commitment to raising him or her be sure not to f*ck it up any more than the normal amount of required parental angst we all get. I am a teacher. Not a freaking clean up squad. It is NOT my job to have to listen to your child: </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">b. Tell me to suck his d*ck</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">c. Call me a c*cksucker</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">d. Otherwise speak to an adult in a less than civil tone and with some level of manners already taught/</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I also do not have to be a moving target for your little brat's throwing practice. In the past two weeks I have been hit with erasers, pencils, paper wads, Runt candies and something I can't figure out except to say that it was blue and hard and hurt like hell when it hit my lower back. I have a suggestion for you. If little Johnny or Jane starts to make that magic down hill slide into delinquency, I recommend heading it off at the path and taking care of it at home. Don't think my job description lists anything other than teaching Science. I HIGHLY recommend military schools. I heard they now have a Marine Corps Kindergarten, which tickled me red, blue and gold!!</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">4. Last but not least, do not tell me, when I feel like my entire world is crushing me from every corner of the universe, to pray about it!!! I love God and have my faith, but nothing will piss me off more than telling me to do something I already know (and do). Not to mention at that particular moment, I am not exactly lovin' the situation God has apparently put me in; if I am to base my understanding of the situation based on your explaining of God and how stuff works. Piety in others pisses others off ~ ask Jimmy Swagggert.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Now I have to go and find out if I can legally get a Valium infused air freshener put into my car. Because I am going to kill the next M-F*er who cuts me off in the merge lane. </span></div>
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Lisa-tastrophieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04087582850469993109noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-468805100771436547.post-78957723862224737002010-11-07T16:32:00.000-08:002010-11-07T16:32:19.126-08:00For Sarah ~ Who Never Stopped<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;">For the past five years I have been a part of the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure. Which is to say, for the past five years I have done little more than paid my entry fee and ran 5 kilometers one Sunday morning each year. Each year I ran alone. I have mercifully never had breast cancer and I don't think I personally knew anyone who had it. I ran alone, most for the joy of running and a little for the cause. Last year changed all that.</span></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;">Since I run with the lightening speed of a turtle, I usually queue up at the back of the pack. Somewhere between the slow runners and the sea of walkers. Last year was no different. I found my place among the throng of participants and next to a rather large group of walkers all decked out in hot pink and wearing a sense of purpose. Surrounded by this pepto-pink doused group was a women. The most incredible woman I have ever met.</span></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;">Clad in pink fuzzy slipper, pink leopard print pajamas, a tiara baseball cap on a hairless head, and a feather boa that would have made Liberace proud was the shell of a woman. She sat in a silver and pink sequins wheelchair equipped with IV bag and rims. Her name was Sarah* and she had end stage triple negative breast cancer and was running her race for the last time. </span></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;">As the race started and we began to slinky our way across the starting line, my desire to be a lone runner died. I walked along side her entourage talking to a woman who had been part of Sarah's care team at M. D. Anderson. I learned that Sarah had been a part of the Komen Race for a Cure for over 10 years. She had never missed a race. During chemotherapy, she walked. Weeks after a double mastectomy, she walked. During recovery, she walked. Now, with time racing against her and life showing it's last days, she would once again walk. This time in a tricked out wheelchair surrounded by friends, family, care takers and clergy; she would make one last stand against a disease that cares little about race, religion or ethnicity. She would show cancer that it may have claimed her body, but it would never kill her spirit.</span></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;">I walked half that race with her and her team. Each step learning more about what it means to live, survive, fight and love. I don't know what happened to Sarah. I assume that cancer finally claimed her body. I doubt it ever got never her soul. This year, I ran with more purpose. I asked people to donate. I was no longer a lone runner. Despite a hip injury that sent shooting pain down my leg with every step, I refused to stop. I couldn't stop. Sarah never stopped. And if she could do it, so could I.</span></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">* In respect of her privacy, I have not used her real name; although, I somehow think she wouldn't have minded.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">** </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"I walk for those who walked before me and those who walk beside me"</span></span></i>Lisa-tastrophieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04087582850469993109noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-468805100771436547.post-39891980267099690842010-10-18T20:01:00.000-07:002010-10-18T20:09:19.762-07:00Are You a Good Witch or A Bad Witch?<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span">A</span></span>pparently the women's movement has yet to overcome the one holiday where we get to express our inner alter egos.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzvfQ9r0IGPcKCgjWETUXkPiQk8EkVvvvnlsZLOLMdWVBJPy-iatBWDtelBh5QzUii8XejhpaHdqFl5oX7F8c28abQ-M6KDLb2I2BvoTdpdQYEpiO00Oe8YTCo36JBXhpm6RqnrqmmS_U/s1600/thumbnail-1.aspx.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzvfQ9r0IGPcKCgjWETUXkPiQk8EkVvvvnlsZLOLMdWVBJPy-iatBWDtelBh5QzUii8XejhpaHdqFl5oX7F8c28abQ-M6KDLb2I2BvoTdpdQYEpiO00Oe8YTCo36JBXhpm6RqnrqmmS_U/s1600/thumbnail-1.aspx.jpeg" /></a></div><br />
Last week I was in search of some Wizard of Oz decorations for a bulletin board at school. During my search, I went to several party supply stores and a few costume outlets. Note: Wizard of Oz is apparently passe on the party circuit as I could not find ANY decorations remotely dealing with ruby slippers, gingham dresses or dogs named Toto. Ditto on the Good Witch. However, I did find several variations on the Wicked Witch of the West. Let's just say that having a bucket of water doing her in has done wonders for her night life. <br />
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What I also discovered on my Dorothy Hunt was that no matter how far the Equal Rights fight and Bra Burning movement has come, the costume makers of America apparently use October 31st as the day to break it all back down to the level of every porn fantasy ever thought of. Because, according to the costume choices given to women, we apparently want to make each one of our alter egos the same variation on one theme: SLUT.<br />
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So I am standing there in front of this HUGE wall of costume choices and I start to notice a pattern. See if you can find it:<br />
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Sexy Cop<br />
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Sexy Doctor<br />
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Sexy Lawyer<br />
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Nun<br />
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Sexy Teacher Sexy Bartender Sexy Witch Nun <br />
Sexy Vampire Sexy Zombie Sexy Kitten Nun<br />
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Anyone seeing a pattern here? Apparently in my foolish believe that Halloween was a time to play dress up and, for me, homage to my shameless adoration of Scarlet O'Hara and her fine green velvet drapes, I missed the part where I was supposed to make Ms. Scarlet look more like Belle Whatley than a fine Southern Lady. How is it that this fun time of being fairies, witches and Minnie Mouse has turned into a live peep show for perverts? I don't remember seeing any male costumes that included fishnet stockings, 4 inch hooker heels and a thong. Apparently, we women really didn't go through that whole women's lib movement in order to be thought of as equals, but rather we suffered through it in order to fulfill some twisted guy fantasy one night out of every year. Go figure. <br />
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Now if you will excuse me, I have to go find a costume that can set the women's movement back into 2010. Anyone know where I can get a positive female role model costume that comes with dignity and respect?Lisa-tastrophieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04087582850469993109noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-468805100771436547.post-45003763189837611192010-09-28T19:17:00.000-07:002010-09-28T19:25:08.375-07:00Balls-y Move<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxK1HxkccbaDMobas2HRtHN0C6dRzzowUVxnO3onhAImeNZZBRFaX3kXSjoUKjSPu2NVs7aNo_wU3DYRWs-zrKR51ylo6O22FnA-RlqtuTtADBJJrFNUoUMHhpdtX-0cyWAR5KJb7mn8w/s1600/thumbnail-5.aspx.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxK1HxkccbaDMobas2HRtHN0C6dRzzowUVxnO3onhAImeNZZBRFaX3kXSjoUKjSPu2NVs7aNo_wU3DYRWs-zrKR51ylo6O22FnA-RlqtuTtADBJJrFNUoUMHhpdtX-0cyWAR5KJb7mn8w/s1600/thumbnail-5.aspx.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Yeah, that's me and my students.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">It's tough to get 8th graders interested in chemistry & physics. Hell, it hard to get me interested in chemistry & physics. I'm more the life sciences teacher type, but that gets taught to my 7th grade class. For those of you who do not know, I teach in a "challenging" environment. My students are more into gangs, drugs, and sex than they are into elements, molecules and Newton's Laws of Motion. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">In my attempts to bring it to the level of my "criminally gifted" audience, I have turned to my love of movies. (Little snippets to grab their attention, if it doesn't put them to sleep the minute the lights go out.) For this little lesson I turned to a certain film featuring a young hunky Ben Affleck and my Moonlighting crush Bruce Willis, called Armageddon.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">We were studying the difference between weight and mass. One being the amount of matter an object has and the other having to do with the gravitational pull against that mass. Now you can imagine what kind of snooze-fest it was in my classroom. Seriously, the only thing my students want to know about weight and mass is how much does a dime bag really weigh and how many buds would that mass have in it. Anyway, I decided to use a clip from the movie that shows the oil-drillers training for their walk on the asteroid. In this clip, Bear (Michael Clark Duncan) is not paying attention to Astronaut Watts instructions. Being the good instructor that she is, Watts gets Bear's attention and tells him she is trying to teach him how to use his suit, so that if she were to kick him in the balls, he wouldn't go flying off into outer space.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Oh, don't get all uppity on me about the balls comments. If you worked in my classroom you would understand that saying "balls" is about as benign as saying "hoo-hoo". My kids can conjugate the F-bomb like nobody's business, so showing a movie clip where they say the word "balls" is nothing. Get over it. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBxNqe9WXOd71_vAbLTJGVSyic6_CP8DnF6fCTODMKSYbXILuAZrDmY2iBNSc8TlANL1w2cKdTNdHh-nHIkxUpK9qaWoNpKFcOykP9hm1tstAzuJTTqdQYF8XcwxmR63OGadK7oMqyKRA/s1600/thumbnail-2.aspx.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBxNqe9WXOd71_vAbLTJGVSyic6_CP8DnF6fCTODMKSYbXILuAZrDmY2iBNSc8TlANL1w2cKdTNdHh-nHIkxUpK9qaWoNpKFcOykP9hm1tstAzuJTTqdQYF8XcwxmR63OGadK7oMqyKRA/s1600/thumbnail-2.aspx.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBxNqe9WXOd71_vAbLTJGVSyic6_CP8DnF6fCTODMKSYbXILuAZrDmY2iBNSc8TlANL1w2cKdTNdHh-nHIkxUpK9qaWoNpKFcOykP9hm1tstAzuJTTqdQYF8XcwxmR63OGadK7oMqyKRA/s1600/thumbnail-2.aspx.jpeg" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; color: black; font-size: x-large;">Anyway, I used Bear's predicament as our scenario. First I ask "What would happen to Bear if Watts kicked him in the family jewels while Bear was still on earth?" After several comments about Bear kicking Watts' behind after he could walk again, and how they would kick someone's @$$ if a chick did that do them - we get to the point. The point being that the earth has gravity holding Bear to the ground. It's what makes Bear weigh so much. I then ask "Why would Bear fly into outer space if Watts kicked him in the family jewels?" The right answer is because the moon does not have gravity. It takes a few minutes for them to catch on.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Next we move on to the topic of mass. "Now did Bear change in size when he went to the moon?" I asked. No. He is still the same size. His mass does not change. It remains the same on the moon as it is on earth. This they seemed to grasp fairly quickly, so we return to the weight portion and start to review.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Again, I ask "Where would Bear go if he was kicked in the pants on earth?" Answers varied from falling on his knees and crying to beating the snot out of Watts. Eventually we get to the idea that he does not leave the earth's atmosphere because the earth has gravity and Bear has weight. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin5DiTXZkyRWNeNpLooyoYZ-Ijp6RqIrUNAxtCeMVPtXo1eBUPfoRIVVNy_aGg7Nbni4sn1A5MLeqzVkFl3YSPPjm5UTIwQHnNF7YF_fcx-Sv-MqRxPfzi2_uR6xKBJDpCOhcAeRjSvSI/s1600/thumbnail-3.aspx.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin5DiTXZkyRWNeNpLooyoYZ-Ijp6RqIrUNAxtCeMVPtXo1eBUPfoRIVVNy_aGg7Nbni4sn1A5MLeqzVkFl3YSPPjm5UTIwQHnNF7YF_fcx-Sv-MqRxPfzi2_uR6xKBJDpCOhcAeRjSvSI/s1600/thumbnail-3.aspx.jpeg" /></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Then I make the fatal mistake. I ask "Where would Bear go if Watts kicked him in the pants while he was on the moon?" Silence. Then the lone voice from the back of the room shouts...............................WAIT FOR IT.............. "He'd go to Uranus!" The class erupts and students (OK, and teachers) spent the next 20 minutes trying to regain some composer. Yep, another fine teaching moment brought to you by Ms. Tastrophie's Criminally Gifted & Talented 8th Grade Class.</span>Lisa-tastrophieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04087582850469993109noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-468805100771436547.post-11877148855757607992010-09-08T17:13:00.000-07:002010-09-08T17:23:27.440-07:00What Do You Make?<b>Miss Tastrophie has been around. At least in the terms of her careers. In previous lives she has been a secretary - want to know who knows all the company dirt? The secretary. Trust me people, do not piss her off, because the secretary can turn your life to a living hell with the flip of a Rolodex. A waitress - where she learned that she really was not meant to serve the masses. You want your order right and not to get charged for drink refills? Be nice to the waitress. You want a watered down scotch & soda - piss her off. You want to afford oh so cute Coach handbag - get another job. A bartender, but that didn't last long - something about the vodka being for the patrons, not the bartender to suck down with her ho-ho's during her many "union" breaks...whatever. A personal assistant - ditto to the secretary thing here. And a health information systems analyst - yeah, it was as boring as it sounds, but the perks and pay made up for the "dork" factor. Plus, it put Ms. Tastrophie in too cute hand bags and shoes for several years. But for the past three years, Ms. Tastrophie has been living a different, sensible shoes and handbag life as a teacher...and I FREAKING LOVE IT!!! </b><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu3ZQrZNHql40urJA3vHbsaVU1G2rjs7FL1yrI5vaunVZQ5PpLT3a4c2A0VeUwSd5PNnDlDOEjiLWmQs4mtE-px6Tsb_cw7bhcdle7h2u1tHN6SdKuiE2L4mFqWUT6EnrlSAYyXvPTp5s/s1600/thumbnail-1.aspx.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu3ZQrZNHql40urJA3vHbsaVU1G2rjs7FL1yrI5vaunVZQ5PpLT3a4c2A0VeUwSd5PNnDlDOEjiLWmQs4mtE-px6Tsb_cw7bhcdle7h2u1tHN6SdKuiE2L4mFqWUT6EnrlSAYyXvPTp5s/s320/thumbnail-1.aspx.jpeg" /></a></div><b>Granted, the kids I teach are among some of the best "criminally gifted and talented" this town has to offer, the pay is somewhere below that of an indentured servant, and whoever told you that you get summers off was full of sh*t, but I love it. I work harder now than I ever did when I was a corporate drone. The one thing that I have noticed about teaching is that since I have become a teacher, people seem to think I have lost some I.Q. points. As if the brain I had when I was answering the phones, shuffling drinks, or telling people that their ERM was FUBAR had suddenly disappeared. But my favorite part of teaching has to be when people belittle what I do. And it is usually done by some pompous @$$ who thinks his job is soooooo much more important because he has a litany of initials behind his name. I especially love it when he/she equates my non-existent income with what I make. </b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnGSUlnFMHD_7KrfBtzey1dqoSDhVjUxyEH7LBg90umHiYpFfACyRx2tXUIIRzruM-EizoMygN1YrZIYvxTraYUMfXxePpAvx9Rayt5zN99GioLffms6BXlyyCjlBhuPzmU4pHtzBLeGY/s1600/thumbnail-2.aspx.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnGSUlnFMHD_7KrfBtzey1dqoSDhVjUxyEH7LBg90umHiYpFfACyRx2tXUIIRzruM-EizoMygN1YrZIYvxTraYUMfXxePpAvx9Rayt5zN99GioLffms6BXlyyCjlBhuPzmU4pHtzBLeGY/s320/thumbnail-2.aspx.jpeg" /></a><b>So recently I was sent the following little tidbit of humor that I found slightly appropriate for dealing with those snug @$$ people who don't realize that if it wasn't for some poor teacher way back in their life; they wouldn't be so smug. I don't know who wrote it, but they are forever in the heart of Ms. Tastrophie - 'cause you know she loves a good comeback.</b><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b>The dinner guests were sitting around the table discussing life. </b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b>One man, a CEO, decided to explain the problem with </b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b>education. He argued, "What's a kid going to learn </b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b>from someone who decided his best option in life was to become a</b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b>teacher?" </b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b>To stress his point he said to another guest; "You're a teacher, Bonnie .</b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b>Be honest. What do you make?"</b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b>Bonnie, who had a reputation for honesty and frankness replied, </b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b>"You want to know what I make? </b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b>(She paused for a second, then began...)</b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b>"Well, I make kids work harder than they ever thought they could.</b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b>I make a C+ student feel like the</b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b> </b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1283990181_0" style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;"><b>Congressional Medal of Honor winner</b></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b>.</b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b>I make kids sit through 40 minutes of class time when their </b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b>parents can't make them sit for 5 without an I Pod, </b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b>Game Cube or movie rental.</b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b>You want to know what I make? (She paused again and looked </b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b>at each and every person at the table)</b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b>I make kids wonder.</b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b>I make them question.</b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b>I make them apologize and mean it.</b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b>I make them have respect and take responsibility for their actions.</b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b>I teach them how to write and then I make them write. Keyboarding isn't </b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b>everything.</b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b>I make them read, read, read.</b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b>I make them show all their work in math. They use their God </b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b>given brain, not the man-made calculator.</b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b>I make my students from other countries learn everything </b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b>they need to know about English while preserving their </b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b>unique cultural identity.</b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b>I make my classroom a place where all my students feel safe.</b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b>I make my students stand, placing their hand over their heart to </b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b>say the</b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b> </b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1283990181_1" style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;"><b>Pledge of Allegiance to the Flag</b></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b>,</b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b> </b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1283990181_2" style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;"><b>One Nation Under God</b></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b>, because we live in the</b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b> </b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1283990181_3" style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;"><b>United States of America</b></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b> </b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b>.</b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b>Finally, I make them understand that if they use the gifts they </b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b>were given, work hard, and follow their hearts, they can succeed in life.</b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b>( Bonnie paused one last time and then continued.)</b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b>Then, when people try to judge me by what I make, with me knowing </b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b>money isn't everything, I can hold my head up high and pay no </b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b>attention because they are ignorant. You want to know what I make?</b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; line-height: 21px;"><b>I MAKE A DIFFERENCE. What do you make Mr. CEO?</b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; font-size: 18px; line-height: 21px;"><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; font-size: 18px; line-height: 21px;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial; font-size: 18px; line-height: 21px;"><br style="outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></span>Lisa-tastrophieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04087582850469993109noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-468805100771436547.post-15207028881449850172010-08-24T18:14:00.000-07:002010-08-25T15:45:15.170-07:00The Woman Lie Detector<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV0VFFdbLosI3RGHFtnxEi5PDXHRZv5Uoe2uFtPHiaCbmfwC6ZugbkT6VNaHyCBn3yEFtUik1YoTXyrto9LJVrkJkHp6Nlu597DSTGQG8d9IBtigsIjT3Y5eKYXrDfl-ANIJtUA_HAQDk/s1600/thumbnail.aspx.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV0VFFdbLosI3RGHFtnxEi5PDXHRZv5Uoe2uFtPHiaCbmfwC6ZugbkT6VNaHyCBn3yEFtUik1YoTXyrto9LJVrkJkHp6Nlu597DSTGQG8d9IBtigsIjT3Y5eKYXrDfl-ANIJtUA_HAQDk/s320/thumbnail.aspx.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
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</tbody></table><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>When the good LAWD all-mighty was making men I am sure when He was done, He had an entire bag of left over parts and no idea what to do with them. I know for a fact that one of the parts in that bag was the "Woman Lie Detector" part. Not the part that can tell when a woman is flat out lying about something. For example: "Honey, I have NO idea how that three foot scratch down the entire side of your beloved 1968 Shelby Mustang got there." LIAR!!! She knows. Hell, she probably put it there in retaliation for some trivial thing the guy did. But here's where that missing "Woman Lie Detector" part comes into play. Had the man had this missing part installed, he would have been able to safely navigate through the Man/Woman mine field therefore completely avoiding the possible destruction of his most precious automobile.</b></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>The scene possibly started like so: A conversation about plans. Plans with the guys. Plans without the woman.</b></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Him: "Honey, I am going to (insert name of sports bar or best guy-pal's house) to watch the (insert sporting event name here) with the guys. I'll probably be gone all afternoon/evening, so don't wait for me."</b></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Her: "Now?"</b></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Him: "Uh, yeah now."</b></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Her: (in a slightly pouty, but semi normal voice) "But I thought we were going to (insert some form of chick based activity - i.e. watching The Notebook for the 100th time)."</b></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-y8H9pSA96m1yZ05GFXdyIiKSjrWZ3rFxgVgAzNMi3PX-y9VXkadR6px9PCqsgmQaT7T8mfyZtr4g4p324m7XZFLK1laMITTHodu-ex6lDezl_w181SLKRLpDqoFdE89cqgFQfiB1Sos/s1600/thumbnail-1.aspx.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-y8H9pSA96m1yZ05GFXdyIiKSjrWZ3rFxgVgAzNMi3PX-y9VXkadR6px9PCqsgmQaT7T8mfyZtr4g4p324m7XZFLK1laMITTHodu-ex6lDezl_w181SLKRLpDqoFdE89cqgFQfiB1Sos/s320/thumbnail-1.aspx.jpeg" /></b></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Him: "Honey, this is a really important game. If (insert name of fantasy football quarterback pick) gets 3 TD's my fantasy football team moves into the league championships and I could totally kick a$$ this year."</b></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Her: (in a more pouty, but still normal tone) "So you would rather sit in a room with a bunch of guys, drinking beer and watching a game instead of spending the afternoon with me?"</b></span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTEz8ETzClFNcpnleKnfdaEs5Ysy2WTlryiKlZHUv3lpRkV1b-PkMAv1AcVB9rd4h1PQ7H5po3h09o1e2e3v52GPbfxrON9mi2TxWOVlDyTg2R-zHNYsN_z5Z_Rg1v_w2xRsqsOlwbBGg/s1600/thumbnail-2.aspx.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTEz8ETzClFNcpnleKnfdaEs5Ysy2WTlryiKlZHUv3lpRkV1b-PkMAv1AcVB9rd4h1PQ7H5po3h09o1e2e3v52GPbfxrON9mi2TxWOVlDyTg2R-zHNYsN_z5Z_Rg1v_w2xRsqsOlwbBGg/s200/thumbnail-2.aspx.jpeg" width="158" /></b></span></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>*****DANGER****** Men, this is the most critical moment of your life! I guarantee you that every instinct in your body is going to be crying out for the beer, buds, and ball you so richly want. Don't do it! Those four hours are not worth what is coming next. And here is where that missing part could help save you hours of misery.</b></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Him: "Baby, you know I love you. I'll be back right after the game and then we can spend all night together. (Insert promises of movie, roses, back rubs, whatever you think you will have to give, in order to get the h*ll out of the house in the next ten minutes)"</b></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Her: "O.K. Fine."</b></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>DING!!! DING!!!! DING!!!! And men, with those two words, she has just sealed your fate in the world of payback-is-a-b*tch. Because everything is most definitely NOT fine and you are blissfully unaware that your fate has now been sealed. All this could have been avoided had you just had the "Woman Lie Detector" installed. She would have said "Fine" and you would have been beeping like a blinged out rap artist in a metal detector at that lie. Thereby allowing you the time to find a successful comeback that would have allowed you to watch the game and still make the little woman happy. As to what that comeback might be, heaven only knows.</b></span>Lisa-tastrophieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04087582850469993109noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-468805100771436547.post-55985390300579885542010-08-19T18:57:00.000-07:002010-08-19T19:14:39.643-07:00Who Ya Gonna Call?--<div style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"></div><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Once again it is back-to-school. And once again, teachers everywhere are schlepping back to the classroom with their dreams of summer vacation slowly fading from memory. OK, not so slowly fading as I found myself daydreaming about lounging by the pool, eating ho-ho's, drinking umbrella garnished vodka drinks, and a certain cabana boy named Paco who will forever hold a special place in my heart.... uhm, when I was supposed to be engaged in professional development training. By the way, teachers are WORSE than students when it comes to our behavior during "class". </span><br />
<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">During the back to school flurry of fun we teachers get to have, there are tons of forms, schedules, and spreadsheets to complete. My favorite form is the "Personal Information and Emergency Contact" form. What kills me about this form is that it is the EXACT same form I filled out when I was hired by the district years ago. And the same form I completed last year, and the year before, and the year before, and the year before....... Why they just don't keep the form I completed last year and tell me to let them know if anything changes, I don't know. Maybe they just enjoy seeing me realize how pathetic my life really is as I answer questions about my marital status and interests. "Single, two cats, knits." Yep, it's pretty pathetic. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Since we all know I don't do well with things I find to be slightly irritating, I like to have a little fun with the form. (Not to mention slightly redundant.) I like to express myself and answer with the truest of all Ms. Tastrophie answers. Things like when it asks me for my name and what I want to be called, I answer: Well, I want to be addressed as "The High Empress of All Things Chocolate, Princess of the Starbucks and Masterful Queen of the Sarcasm" but if that's too much you can just call me Ms. Tastrophie. The form asks me for my address - which I give. You never know when someone would want to send </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">moi</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> flowers or shower me with gifts and I would hate for them not to be able to send them to the right place. My phone number - again I give it. Just in case they need to call and tell me to take the next week off with pay and not to worry about a sub because they have it all covered. And my date of birth. Which is totally rude and none of their business unless they are going to be sending expensive birthday gifts. In which case see the question regarding address. Not to mention I lie on that one anyway, because a lady never tells and I refuse to admit to being a day over 25. Even though I graduated high school in 1987 and college in 1993 and 1999. GAWD bless the miracle of botox.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Then it gets to the part about emergency information. This is where I just can't help myself. I have to answer these questions with all the do seriousness these questions are just screaming for:</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">1. Any medical conditions that would prohibit you from doing your job? Well, I am allergic to work and break I out in hives when I am required to do any physical labor. Plus, I don't do mornings very well, so I would appreciate it if you could schedule the classes I have to teach in the afternoons. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">2. Are you currently taking any medications? Not right now, but I intend to go to lunch and self medicate with my daily ho-ho with xanax and vodka chaser. I will probably change the times for these self medication rituals once school officially starts, but I'm waiting to see what the semester brings.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">3. Do you have any special needs? Oh sweet mother-of-pearl YES! I need a job where I get paid to look good and not one that requires me to get up before 9 a.m. But if you can't arrange that, could you please get me a room with an ocean view, a masseuse named Sven to help work out the stress knots I have in my shoulders and a T.A. who can actually work the copy machine without screwing up a two sided copy?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">And my ALL time favorite question</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">4. Who do you want us to call in case of an emergency? My answer: 9-1-1!!!!</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Seriously, what do you think my sister could do for me? She's a flight attendant not a doctor. If I ever need to safely exit a 747 during a freak air incident; she's the person I'm gonna call, but if I'm having a stroke at school because a 7th grader actually DID their homework and turned it in on time, I want you to call the paramedics! What do you think my dad's going to do? He lives three states away. I'm thinking it might take him a while to get there. Don't call my family, call someone who can competently administer high dosages of xanax and ho-ho's. Preferably one of these guys:</span></span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoVeXShnfHZ-AtUv9nLmoeLKRWctvm4zABVuFNF2iTS4A5_5ysWVurD-2AhBWpYEwQUnpcupkzX8A7j-qQh-T3L0KuiHhR2YK4nwsBp1HKxprHWVWTD0vprgGOu00ACMkUvOJ0ylXH3f8/s1600/thumbnail-2.aspx.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoVeXShnfHZ-AtUv9nLmoeLKRWctvm4zABVuFNF2iTS4A5_5ysWVurD-2AhBWpYEwQUnpcupkzX8A7j-qQh-T3L0KuiHhR2YK4nwsBp1HKxprHWVWTD0vprgGOu00ACMkUvOJ0ylXH3f8/s320/thumbnail-2.aspx.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-large;">OR</span></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"></span></div><div><div style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWtxpWPVY6Im3bGX5eigwjX0IF_TXsF5YPZHDJqp_-pCFAJaKkkmcxwxmXEb033vFH43JYjbyCONIFwiIGs9JHz6rr4MzfO0sb5r4ZQGwqW38o0Tdg0thcMdG6HDz7YHSDOjzVHHvIaTk/s320/thumbnail-3.aspx.jpeg" width="258" /></div></div>Lisa-tastrophieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04087582850469993109noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-468805100771436547.post-15269682516681649042010-08-15T12:11:00.000-07:002010-08-15T19:41:07.247-07:00Family Time And Other Time Warps<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I love my family. Don't get me wrong, I really do, but they can push my sense of "come on people, let's go" to the end of all reason. As I understand it we have 4 time zones here in America. So why is it that my family operates in it's own little time warp continuum that prohibits them from getting anywhere together in a reasonable timely manner? I'm not joking. Herding cats is easier than getting my family to the church on time, if ya know what I mean. At least with cats, you can get everyone headed in the general direction.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">A few weeks ago, Ms. Tastrophie was visiting most of her time-delayed family and after much discussion, we decided to head out for dinner. The decision was to go to Jack Stack's for BBQ. And for those of you who don't know, let Ms. Tastrophie educate you: Kansas City has THE BEST BBQ in the world. Hands down. Even when KC BBQ is bad, it's still better than any other BBQ in the world. I know many of you may think them there are fightin' words, but bring it. 'Cause brown sugar and molasses kick some pork rib @$$! </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Now the where to eat discussion alone took us the better part of an hour, so once the decision was made, Ms. Tastrophie thought it was a <i>fait de compli</i>. Why I don't know better by now, I can't tell you because this was not the first time I have made this mistake. And here is where the time-warp-continuum begins:</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii5of3v26_8Xq-A2G8TiKzyf4FcjAUksxqdo50CAzkmK9S2RsQ33y87iuFI-J1SniV-XaowTvmF9x3IVxCvFsn-akVIJpZgO2O2MOSMr20v611xwF95ckJepkKzWID1yNuQfFfMcOoQn8/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii5of3v26_8Xq-A2G8TiKzyf4FcjAUksxqdo50CAzkmK9S2RsQ33y87iuFI-J1SniV-XaowTvmF9x3IVxCvFsn-akVIJpZgO2O2MOSMr20v611xwF95ckJepkKzWID1yNuQfFfMcOoQn8/s320/images.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Oh look, the family's all here.</span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">6:00 p.m. - Grand announcement that we have "made a decision and are leaving" is made. This is the announcement that signals everyone should get their stuff together and make any needed restroom breaks. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">6:15 p.m. - My aunt, step-mom, and I start looking for car keys, purses, cell phones and discussing who will be riding with whom in which car. The men haven't moved from their respective positions since the Grand Announcement was made. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">6:30 p.m. - The women are walking out the door. I decide I have to go back to the bathroom...again. My family knows I have the world's smallest bladder and <i>why</i> they think I can make it out the door with only one potty break, is beyond <i>moi</i>. My dad can't find his cell phone and has to have it because it's the one he uses for business. My uncle is still standing in front of the t.v. watching sports center and it hasn't been determined whether or not he actually heard the "grand announcement".</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">6:45 p.m. - One person has decided that the outfit currently worn doesn't match the shoes currently worn and has returned to the bedroom to change. (To protect the innocent, no names will be mentioned here...LISA.) There are now two guys in front of the t.v. watching sport center. Someone has discovered the sports section from yesterday's paper and is re-reading it to see if anything has changed since it was printed. My aunt is on her cell phone talking to a friend back home and has poured herself a glass of wine.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">7:00 p.m. - Someone has stuck their head in the refrigerator and is rooting around for something to eat. The kids have returned to the den and the previously started video game. I am texting and two people suddenly have gin & tonics in their hands.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">7:15 p.m. - Step-mom (bless her heart, she is trying to get us out the door) re-announces the "Grand Announcement" to which the fluttering of car keys, cell phones and potty breaks begins anew.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">7:30 p.m. - All family members are actually OUT of the house and standing halfway between the door and the cars. Someone notices the inside only cat is now standing outside. Cat herding for real has begun.</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8OSTSIpWqczDuy0SnY0pP6Hnz9aFIGAqd-5xYvlvt_AfOLjxy1Mo9khP8csNqCDRqHr7nw0uOv9ksZuxiUt1Fgw956tGSUr37DFX2kmSooxYcH2v6q1-7cPIdNQILENEHNGXQre3wsds/s1600/FatCat.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8OSTSIpWqczDuy0SnY0pP6Hnz9aFIGAqd-5xYvlvt_AfOLjxy1Mo9khP8csNqCDRqHr7nw0uOv9ksZuxiUt1Fgw956tGSUr37DFX2kmSooxYcH2v6q1-7cPIdNQILENEHNGXQre3wsds/s320/FatCat.JPG" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">7:35 p.m. - Cat is much faster than the rotund body shape would imply.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">7:45 p.m. - Grown people are circling a car attempting to coax rotund feline out from under the front axle. Neighbors are gathering to watch the show.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">8:00 p.m. - Long pole is used to "gently" herd cat to back end of car where rest of family is waiting to pounce and procure said feline.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">8:05 p.m. - Neighbors start taking bets. Odds listed at 80:1 in feline favor.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">8:08 p.m. - Cat has outsmarted the entire family and is now up a tree and hissing. Debates about calling the fire department vs. leaving feline up a tree. One person has returned to the house to watch sports center and finish his gin & tonic.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">8:25 p.m. - After much cat calling and fresh tuna enticement, the feline is out of the tree and safely inside the home. Antiseptic, bandages and another gin & tonic have been applied. All members are out of the house and half way to the car.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">8:30 p.m. - Final head count is taken and all members are in assigned cars. Assurances that a hospital visit is not necessary as enough gin & tonic has been consumed to kill toxoplasmosis, thypoid, and the common cold.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">8:35 p.m. - Someone announces they have to go to the bathroom. To which the reply "tough noogies" is actually heard out of a grown woman's mouth (O.K. it was my mouth) and the procession of cars pulls away.</span></span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3LOxsehAH92A8mkeDC79lNOzlV_un2CZHtpAij1dB1yLFgrfWrsVXoS9vf3le45wjOo2DqxqACeqMczzGOA0MlJ_tNZJ1m0h2weH4506VFuBfvBk3RBRBL5Gzq4xKXgbQMda10to-nIo/s1600/unnamed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3LOxsehAH92A8mkeDC79lNOzlV_un2CZHtpAij1dB1yLFgrfWrsVXoS9vf3le45wjOo2DqxqACeqMczzGOA0MlJ_tNZJ1m0h2weH4506VFuBfvBk3RBRBL5Gzq4xKXgbQMda10to-nIo/s320/unnamed.jpg" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">8:55 p.m. Arrive at Jack Stacks "on time" for THE BEST DAMN BBQ EVER!!! </span></span>Lisa-tastrophieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04087582850469993109noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-468805100771436547.post-86561507409517115632010-08-11T10:13:00.000-07:002010-08-11T20:23:46.699-07:00And Thank You For Flying "I QUIT" Airlines<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Now you know Miss Tastrophie could NOT pass this one up. Seriously, if you thought I wouldn't have something to say about a flight attendant losing his bacon on a flight, telling everyone to suck it because he quits, then grabs two beers, pops the chute, and makes the best exit from a plane in all airplanedom? Baby, you obviously do not know Lisatastrophie very well. Cause this guy is my new hero.</span></span></div><div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 128px; height: 77px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKG2se-q4xhF2j80REHcwWhgy28nijgnG_9aC1fs-_mzqZ46w0mAv7hgO3-6-l-WsKz1AvVPCZ2kz6oYcGZ04cPVzoMs-1g4EXUcD2QNQc-1uXLlhPfFdcJtORba_g3BaJuEeQm2ufcjg/s400/images-1.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504357728762651586" /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">I mean, who wouldn't love to quit their day job in a larger than life manner? Oh Lawdy, I know I have. And you know Ms. Tastrophie would have to give her two cents worth as she was walkin' out the door. Trust me there have been days when the only thing that got me through that day, was dreaming of how I would quit my job - provided I won a few million dollars in the lottery and I wouldn't go to jail for doing it. Because I don't do the poor thing and I just do NOT look good in orange. I don't care what my color wheel says.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">So I thought I would share a couple of my favorite "This job sucks lemons and I ain't making lemon aid out of this cr*p anymore" quitting fantasies with you.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 225px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBfZilynjCq8GwXbCUSzfTKyQbsvz0lxevjC7F_AbysqNDF9DffJyWj8mHK6oUdHrZIYopu13JbWDCJnWieeZV6bWaGl_V9NmgrdKwilBu7lBeP-q2tKhwzRQ0BJLEEWph_Uox_o2KPQs/s400/images-2.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504357395013195762" /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">I did have one job quitting fantasy that involved naked pictures of my boss, photoshop, and some barn animals. Needless to say I bordered on using them for revenge or blackmail in my fantasies, but could never decide which would work best to my advantage. They were defiantly fun to think about. Plus, I'm not really sure if you could get any self respecting farm animal to come within a fifty mile radius of my disgusting (at that time) boss. Good thing I never really learned how to work photoshop all that well.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Then there was the one where I am stuck in a life-sucking-mind-numbing meeting from h*ll and just at the moment when I realize I have won the lottery and no longer need to be a sycophant on my bosses rear, I stand up and announce: "Excuse me. I have a few things I would like to get off my chest. You're "Golden Boy" Robert has been padding his expense re</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">port to cover his topless bar and drinking problems. Sara is the refrigerator bandit who has been pillaging our lunches by taking bites out of peoples sandwiches and then putting them back. Personally, I think Sara's got bigger issues. With her using the copier as her own personal porn reproducing machine. Sara, next time take off the wedding ring before you hit copy. And Boss-man, your wife know you are having an affair. Because really? The only reason a 50 year old man get contacts, joins a gym, and suddenly develops a sense of style is so he can impress his half-his-age-botoxed mistress. Buddy, you're not fooling anyone, let alone the people who work for you. Especially since the bimbo you hired as your new "secretary" can't even fill out a phone message form, but does manage to fill out that $300 Anna Sui cardigan quite nicely. Which, by the way, I couldn't afford on MY salary and I KNOW I bank more than she does. Oh yeah, AND I QUIT!" While I might not have enjoyed working at that office, it did make for some really good better-than-Days-of-Our-Lives daytime drama.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 394px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8DMQ4wddCZE2qQ97bl9KQJttYXtDFnJOHDsOqIVfMqy_-F6T4nqIvJ62hI8iaHRs32f1RBpvUKck-op8m_270_dIKoSKInzjdRVtS-IxiXqgovLtTnh64llwHdK271kZ7C1Wfpvr82Bc/s400/i-quit.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504356945465738594" /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Since I am no longer in the corporate world, my fantasies of quitting involve hyping 7th grade juvenile delinquent wannabes on pure chocolate, Jolt cola, and Tupac videos right before I call the front office to tell them I am walking out the door. They can keep my my Hello Kitty wall clock, pink post-it notes and the candy bar stash I have in my desk drawer. I'm taking the xanax and Ho-ho's with me because I do have my priorities people.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Even with my job ending fantasies, Steven Slater is my new "I quit" Hero. Nobody has done it better when telling the masses just what he thinks before sticking it to "The Man" by pulling a several thousand dollar get-a-way on an emergency exit slide. Not to mention he got free beer out of it- BONUS! What I do find slightly ironic is that there hasn't been any mention of the passenger who felt she was above the FAA rules and could get her bags whenever SHE wanted. (And, no, it was not Ms. Tastrophie.) I wonder if Miss-I-don't-have-to-follow-flight-attendant-instructions-like-everyone-else-even-though-they-tell-us-in-the-flight-briefing-that-it-is-a-federal-offense-not-to has gotten into any trouble or if she is blissfully unaware that her being a royal assha*t has given America a new "I Hate My Job And Want To Quit Hero"?</span></span></div><div><br /></div>Lisa-tastrophieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04087582850469993109noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-468805100771436547.post-84337934240623355032010-08-10T06:00:00.000-07:002010-08-10T06:00:09.844-07:00Hot Enough For You?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYdMoA_a71xwt4v-IOsF86v-X42IqG5jeTJFjINO-jA3j5C54DkHqpC6dCZoFFRLmWLCxFVDoRHLP1Vjxg3Wy0IOVAGInu_c9zRhvmLmjyRPNI7YNLRHx_gtVtcVHa2R1R_osGvX_QJoI/s1600/thumbnail-3.aspx.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 120px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYdMoA_a71xwt4v-IOsF86v-X42IqG5jeTJFjINO-jA3j5C54DkHqpC6dCZoFFRLmWLCxFVDoRHLP1Vjxg3Wy0IOVAGInu_c9zRhvmLmjyRPNI7YNLRHx_gtVtcVHa2R1R_osGvX_QJoI/s400/thumbnail-3.aspx.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503597778566834882" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Miss Tastrophie is not one for idol small talk. I mean, she can chit chat with the best of them while standing in line at the liquor store, but she has no patience for the stupid. So asking her if it's hot enough for her while the mercury is pegged at triple digits and she is sweating in places Gawd NEVER intended for her to sweat, is just stupid and might get you a free can of the smack down. Just sayin'....</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Anyway, Miss Tastrophie was on her way home a few weeks ago from a nice little visit with the fam. (GAWD love them - they are a hoot, but couldn't get their collective rears to the church on time for their own funeral if it killed them) when she found herself sitting in the airport waiting lounge. First off, this was a new experience for our heroine as she previously existed only in a world of the Admiral's Club, Elite check-in, and First Class. Now she finds herself sitting in coach, using the kiosk, and flying Southwest. It's sad, but we hope she will be able to adjust to this new found life style without going all Wynonna Rider five finger discount at Nordstroms.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 119px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYdervCOr64SBRGRQh50NhERElCN715b1mDUIKyuhm_OIQFfDuGThrvWyahQcR7202J4VQMpKSUW74Hz7BgIdIjAgUEvUKnBnTfkW7hb9X7O4vvNgBiUbTXpAOrN4hqGHGUtLT5N7qD8o/s400/thumbnail-4.aspx.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503596900253244434" /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">While sitting and knitting I got the grand pleasure of listening to three passengers talk about how hot it was (close to triple digits) and how the media was reporting how horrible it was that the members of a certain pro-football team were being made to practice in this gawd-awful heat. What with them being in tee shirts and shorts and blasted by oversized industrial fans equipped with water misting equipment. The indignity of having to wear their pads and run drills that required fancy footwork, tires, and a lot of throwing and catching while sweating like a virgin on prom night. (Somebody call Amnesty International on this travesty.) All this while collecting a paycheck that at the VERY LEAST has one comma and six digits BEFORE the decimal. Some having two commas and seven digits before the decimal. Now, I'm not innocent in this little discussion. I agreed with them that it was hotter than bejesus out there and I thank GAWD for the genius who invented central air 'cause I don't do sweat, but then again I also don't have a paycheck with six digits before the decimal. Nor I don't go a b*tchin' to the media about how awful my job is. I am very grateful to even have a job in the suck economy. (I just do my moanin' and groanin' to you fine people).</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">After fifteen minutes of listening to the heat-index trio, I had reached my max on the whinny. So ever so sweetly, I had to butt into their conversation to put things into a little perspective - Miss Tastrophie Style!</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><b>Miss T </b></span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">(said in my sweetest southern belle style equipped with just enough sarcasm to be my oh-so-subtle self)</span></b></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><b>:</b> Excuse me, but I couldn't help but overhear your conversation - because apparently after the third beer in the airport lounge, you'all forgot </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:georgia;font-size:large;">that normal human beings have good hearing and whining at the top of your lungs is almost as annoying as your conversation topic. I am sure the fine folks at gate 38 -(we were at gate 30) - have enjoyed hearing you as well. Anyhoo, I think it's nice that you care for our fabulous members of KC's finest, yet constantly choking it, football team and are worried that the heat is just too much for a bunch of spoiled-over-paid-should-have-majored-in-something-useful-as-a-back-up-plan-football players. I think we need a little perspective here.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 160px; height: 106px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ6k7UWsuLK8hj58BvvUzd-BeaMQRLEYUjGt9EquOA7eUWh-LswLtOzpYKXbjuX0fmW-VXxPK2fnEGFgR3V3TzBBk0Ijh1lW9AKowEfkcwuo_KqlhNHeVPyJMP1IC4r7mr8AnFAHNHXnE/s400/thumbnail-1.aspx.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503597536467806866" /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Right now, this country has service men and women who are fighting in countries that regularly peg the triple digit mark on the mercury scale. </span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">They sport 60 plus pounds of protective gear that could barely stop a hot rock let alone a piece of shrapnel from an IED. Which they have to wear regardless of whether or not they are going outside their tent to patrol or to use the head (toilet for all you non-military types). And I know for a fact that not one of them is touting a six digit paycheck to the bank. More like a three digit paycheck that will barely cover the rent on my luxury apartment. So before you go all flower power on me; no I am not making a</span></span><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 160px; height: 147px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7rVseoi3wr47l4fwv7EV7eQse8mdOUWK0BH56XLpUcjFMbcD-y9peoZkbJIYtXyd7c0CUiwuKxTmi8oi2J9_zkl1eTVnQYsLS71ec948gGDiK9FEV6DQjVk627v3MXtw3cDO5Z9oAoWQ/s400/thumbnail-2.aspx.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503596476218837362" /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> statement about whether I do or don't support the wars. What I am saying is I DO support my military families. And while your complaining about some hot-shot pro player who entertains you for four hours on Sunday and the suffering he must go through, I think your concern would be better placed on the poor Private First Class who stands ready to give his life for your ability to watch the freakin game on your HD flat screen in your air conditioned living room. Don't you?</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">After which I smiled my best "love ya, mean it" smile and went right back to my knit 2, purl 2 ribbing on the oh so fabulous scarf I have on my bamboo needles. Funny thing was, it got a lot quieter in the lounge and a I swear I heard the distinctive sound of hands clapping from gate 38.</span></span></div>Lisa-tastrophieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04087582850469993109noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-468805100771436547.post-78305712701992177762009-12-07T11:25:00.000-08:002009-12-24T14:53:27.969-08:00A Jury of My Peers<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Weeeeeeeelllll, I have now seen it all. That's a pretty big statement considering that I have seen quite a bit in my 40+ years. </span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">I had to report for jury duty. Or as I now like to call it "Holy Batsh*t, our legal system is in a whole lotta hot water duty". I don't even know where to start with the whole-lotta wrong I saw. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">I get to the court house early and finally find a parking spot that is somewhere between the building and the middle of bejesus nowhere. I park my car, pay the meter, walk in the rain/drizzle to the courthouse while avoiding the advances of a couple of "displaced" persons. Then I get to the courthouse and have to go through a metal detector and a security screening process that would be an embarrassment to even the White House screening staff. I took my knitting bag and a book since anyone who has ever been called to jury duty knows, you are going to be bored off your bum for hours on end. First off, my knitting needles were bamboo and the tips are rounded, so any threat this middle class white chick was going to be was to her yarn and not to the judge. Bubba the cop-wanna-be who was in charge of checking my bag, kept trying to UNSCREW the needles from the plastic cord that attaches them! Yep, boy wonder was a mental giant among men, but he is nothing compared to the people I got to spend the next couple of hours with in an air conditioned (it's 40 degrees outside!) room.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Once I sat down, I quickly got out my knitting and tried not to make eye contact. I heard somewhere that it's a sign of aggression in prisons and since a lot of the people in that room looked like they were fairly intimate with that part of our legal system, I wasn't taking any chances. Somewhere between my fifth K1P1 row, I looked up to see something that even in a Ho-ho/xanax induced craze, I would NEVER have thought up. There was this woman, weighing in at roughly 275 pounds, walking towards me. By looking at her hair and make up, you would have thought she was going to a casting call for The Love of Ray Jay. Then I caught full sight of her fashion choice for the day.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">When I got my jury summons, right there at the bottom was a little note about wearing clothing appropriate for the somber atmosphere of a court room. I have no idea what it said at the bottom of this lady's jury summons. I think it might have said "Pimp and Ho attire welcome" or wear what you wore the last time you were in front of a judge. She had on jeans in a size she probably wore back in 1997, but hasn't seen since then and ~ wait for it~~~~~~ A TUBE TOP!!!! With sequins!!! And this tube top was working overtime trying to keep her massive mamas hidden from view. Personally, the fact that everyone in that room didn't get a full frontal assault from those jugglies is a testament to the strength of cotton. Did I mention it is December? It was 43 degrees outside? The jury room was freezing as well? To her credit, she had completed the outfit with a big Michelian Man looking parka, but she wasn't wearing it. Just carrying it around as a fashion statement. All of this was being moved around by a pair of 6 inch, bright red, plastic-leather-clear-heeled hooker heels. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">It took me five minutes to close my mouth and realize she was not going to topple over me as she passed. And trust me, I was so relieved when she chose to sit on the bench two rows away from me. I spent the rest of the time waiting to be called, looking at this woman and thinking, "If this was your best choice of the things you had to wear. What was your second choice?"</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">After that it was pretty much a blur. I was called. They asked questions. I answered in the manner I felt that would work best to insure I NOT get selected. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Yes, I believe in the death penalty for stealing candy from babies. Yes, I think we should bring back the guillotine. No, I don't think embezzling should be a capital offense, if you are taking rich people's money. Could we hurry this up my Knights of the White Magnolia meeting is in two hours and I have to pick my sheets up at the cleaners. </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Yeah, none of that worked because I was impanelled and have to report back on January 11th. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">As we were being released for the day, I saw Ms. Tube Top walking out of the court house. Guess what? She had a nice notice of impanelment piece of paper in her hands as well. I now feel free to commit any crime I want, because I can tell you that if that woman was on my jury, I would have significant grounds for an appeal. None of my peers would be caught dead in a tube top, let a lone a tube top in a courtroom, in December!!</span></div>Lisa-tastrophieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04087582850469993109noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-468805100771436547.post-62960127185976881362009-12-06T17:10:00.001-08:002009-12-06T18:32:33.805-08:00An Open Letter to my Cats<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Dear Family Felines:</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">As you well know, things have started to settle into a nice routine since the newest edition to the Tastrophie household arrived. Now that we have overcome the small issue of a certain orange someone's addiction to my panties <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">(see blog post of September 23rd)</span></i>, I would like to address some of the other issues we are experiencing while cohabiting.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 130px; height: 121px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0ApT6h-Txqd_EcKryGTjFzc4emOspEX1idqxpLns1WP1WJdUV-rF4UkjUb3F4TBiefAmBWxSdQNjqc2UuAWT-z4ZSm1CCmcCfu74d1Rmn-7d4VXXUfEwBqf1zCWgtDNNwcKF8RvEEXoM/s400/106f2449791b36be.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412311551375792770" /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">First, my house is not a NASCAR race track. Nowhere does it say Indie 500 or Churchill Downs on my property. I know the lay out of the rooms makes a nice little circle if I leave all the doors open. It is tempting to take a lap or two around the house every now and then and being the competitive siblings that you are, I understand the need for a little race-and-chase. However, we might want to rethink the timing of our daily workouts. I suggest some time between 7 a.m. and 5 p.m. when I am at work and not likely to get my legs broken by the sudden impact of two felines going top speed around the corner. And not between 5 a.m. and 7 a.m. when I am still coming to terms with the fact that I have to be awake, for which I am not the happiest of campers to begin with. Notice that I did not include any time after 9 p.m. or before 5 a.m. This time is reserved for Mommy's sleeping and should be revered as sacred. I have inflicted bodily harm on people for messing with my sleeping; I am not above knocking your racing rear to the curb at 5 a.m.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 109px; height: 145px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQQxjXnDkl1fy23F6n07vlCTG66ljS0gVnZfiifav5kB7AM-9SSm6KDRgeDDnpjQjHD4NMAyGLwaGySXrnKcMMNTsxdIxcaC4tCQPzEGWTp50qzVUfvSGwG1RW4VS2e3cunqY3FByvaw8/s400/761b57722fcf4df0.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412312110136086946" /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Second, if it is in a glass/mug or on a nice plate and it smells good, it belongs to me. I do not need you to check my drink/food for poison as I am the one who fixed it and poisoning is not the method I am going to chose to off myself with any time soon. Especially after you have just returned from using the cat "facilities" and have litter mushed in your paws. Please be so kind as to at least do a preliminary wash down before attempting to check the coldness of my ice cubes with your paws. I bought you both some really nice, overly priced prices of "flatware" on which your meals are placed every morning. I can't really imagine that your culinary tastes run towards the Lean Cousine and South Beach Diet pallet as you mostly lick your rear end or fur on a daily basis. I still find it a stretch that the makers of cat food pretend you actually know the difference between roasted duck and chicken tartar. Seriously, I don't know why they just don't flavor them like fur and hinney, since that's what you are licking half the time anyway. Either way, since my tastes do not run in the fur and hinney directions, I would appreciate it if you would not mess with my food.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 145px; height: 97px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhONYRDUKa6FD139GUmX8OXEX7imUwnB7IWIV360FGihFJ-oX-RxQIeVzYL0rpTeQ22O9QYAI2Tc6WLqyeHX-eApq-XsGwt9xHy-61Mo9zBa-kSMIIaYq5gFLZfVxxYukgRbx2RzmeM5MM/s400/db7b2542ab40dd7a.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412313434893583506" /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Third, personal habits. There are boundaries to our relationship. Do I go and stare at you when you are in the litter box? No. I would appreciate it if you would not walk in and sit smack dab in front of me and stare while I am trying to use mine. First, it creeps me out. Second, I don't work well under pressure and your need to have the end-all-be-all of staring contests at this crucial moment in my life really messes with my head. I am coming to terms with your fascination towards the shower/bath. I have stopped having small heart attacks at the sight of you jumping through the shower curtain and shower liner a~la Psycho/Norman Bates. And I no longer hear the theme from Jaws every time you stalk me while I am in the bath tube. Which pretty much leaves your staring at me while I put my make up on the only thing that we have left to deal with in the bathroom. </span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">This brings us to other things for which I don't need an audience. To put it politely, if Mommy is gettin' jiggy with it in the bedroom, you should go entertain yourself in the other room. Really. I can't tell you what it does to my psyche to look up and have the two of you sitting on the dresser staring at me like the olympic gymnastic judging team. Half the time I expect you to start holding up score cards and to hear Nadia Comaneci doing a recap of the night's activities. I had both of you snipped to keep the feline population in check, not to create two voyeuristic peeping tom cats.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Now, I know that I have some issues in our cohabitation as well, and I promise to work on these. As soon as I win the lottery, I promise to stop working 14 hour days and be home more often or at least awake when I am home during the week. I understand your addiction to that kitty-crack-cat-nip and will make a sincere effort to have a better stash on hand at all times, and not just when I remember to pick it up while standing in line at the pet store after running out of cat food at the end of the month and having to feed you tuna for two days in a row until payday. In addition, I promise to try to curl into an even smaller ball while sleeping in order to give you maximum bed space available for your night time slumbers. I know it was wrong of me to think that my bed is there for my own sleep comfort. Silly me. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Love</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Mom~tastrophie</span></div>Lisa-tastrophieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04087582850469993109noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-468805100771436547.post-82236348518267003512009-11-27T10:40:00.000-08:002009-11-27T12:44:11.056-08:00Turkey for One<span style="font-size:130%;">I have had the best Thanksgiving! School got out on Tuesday and the Fearsome Foursome headed out for some celebratory ritas and enchiladas. Nothing like starting an American tradition in the Tex-Mex way :-) I was so looking forward to five whole days of nothing to do! By nothing I mean I planned an entire list of "To-Do's" to get done.<br /><br />Since this year, I was not going anywhere for Thanksgiving, I had planned to spend the five days powering through my list and relaxing. Now, I love spending time with my family and my family has always come first, but this year it was nice not to have to haul my rear around the country like a turkey with it's head cut off. I spent Thursday knitting, watching movies and cheering on my beloved (yet losing) Aggies as they once again lost to Texas. Judging by the fact that I never got out of my Pj's ~ it was awesome!<br /><br />Now, there is that "To-Do" list I was talking about. Being the anal-retentive-control freak that my mother raised, I have a pretty long list of things.<br /><br />The list looked something like this:<br />1. Clean out and organize personal files<br />1a. remove outdated files<br />1b. make new folders for old kept items<br />1c. make new folders for non-filed items<br /><br />2. Balance and prep budget for upcoming holiday season<br />2a. checkbook update<br />2b. holiday spending list<br />2c. Estimate Birthday money wind-fall :-)<br /><br />3. CLEAN (not clean, but scrub the ever loving daylights out of type CLEAN) the house<br />3a. clean & Detox cat box<br />3b. dust, vac, and mop all surfaces<br />3c. Clean in this order: Living room, bdrm, ktch, bath, then cat stuff<br /><br />4. Laundry ~ including mending and ironing<br />4a. dryell<br />4b. bleached items<br /><br />5. Update my knitting on Ravelry (knitting website)<br /><br />Told you I was annal about it. I like to think that in a past life I would have been Martha Stewart or Leona Hemsley.<br /><br />Here is what I have actually managed to accomplish:<br />1. Ate an entire package of Sultana Biscuits (my favorites that I get in Bonaire)<br />2. Knitted the bodice of two sweaters (waiting on yarn to finish one)<br />3. Finished reading "Shopaholic Ties the Knot"<br />4. Slept<br />5. Watched Cake Boss marathon ~ all 12 hours straight!<br />6. Made napping an Olympic sport.<br /><br />Since I am now three days into my five day holiday break, I am thinking I am not going to make a dent in my actual "To-Do" list. Being one who hates to do anything half-arsed, I think I will chuck the list all together. (Save those things for another more productive time.) Bummer thing is that I can't blame my lazies on the Turkey-trypto-thingy.<br /><br />Here's hoping you had a Wonderful and Happy Thanksgiving.</span>Lisa-tastrophieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04087582850469993109noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-468805100771436547.post-68512503613898151612009-11-08T00:22:00.000-08:002009-11-08T10:26:11.955-08:00Will Read For Food<span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Once again this year I am teaching Language Arts. Ironic isn't it? Since I tend to be the Queen of the Comma Splice and the run-on sentence. Not to mention, that my writing style is so not exactly in line with the MLA style. But hey, you know what they say, "those who can do ~ those who can't teach". (Which is truer than you think.) </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I also got tasked with being the "Reading" teacher. Now when I was a kid, by the 7th grade, most of us knew how to read, so I took that as an indication that my students would also know how to read. Yeah, I was wrong. I was thought that everyone valued an education...eventually. Yeah, I was wrong. Less than 60 years ago, we read pretty much as part of our daily lives. Until T.V. came into our world and started sucking our will to learn straight out of us. As kids we used to read from books! Not iPods, Kindles, or computer screens. And kids read things like Shakespeare, Keates, and Shelley; not Patterson, Rowling, and Meyers. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Today, I spend more time "dumbing down" my lessons than I do actually teaching. Remember learning to diagram sentences in order to learn about subordinate clauses, noun - verb agreement and dangling modifiers? Ah, we don't teach that any more. "It's too difficult" for students today to "grasp" that concept. Did IQ's drop suddenly since the 1980's? I have students who are reading "Curious George" because they can't comprehend a sentence structure that includes a noun, verb, adverb, and an adjunctive. They are still amazed when I tell them "She swam" is a complete sentence! I don't think any one of them today would be able to survive the educational process that was in place 100 years ago. Come to think of it, neither would I since I couldn't speak Latin if my life depended on it.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Education used to be HARD. If you were privileged enough to get any education, let alone a "good" one. Most people who were able to go, went to a one room school. Where all grades were taught simultaneously and no one gave a rat's ass if you were a kinetic, auditory, or whatever learner. You got what you gave and you earned your grade. Today, I have to give "participation" grades in order to even out GPA's and I am not allowed to "give" below a 50% on anything! This includes assignments where a student does NOTHING!! I have to give this "grade" when a student doesn't even </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">TURN IN THE WORK</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">!!</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> Tell me, what I am "teaching" my students by rewarding them with a grade for nothing! WOW! If I had known I could get half my paycheck for doing half or none of the work, I would have been surfing the net on company time years ago. Yeah, that's a real life lesson. And it still doesn't teach them to read.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">The students tell me they don't need to read because they can watch everything on the TV or listen to books on audio! I am beginning to think that one day job applications will be completely verbal. No writing, just answering into a little microphone your response to things like name, age, education level... Who needs a high school diploma or a college degree?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Sixty years ago not everyone went to college or finished school, but just knowing how to read, cypher and do math were impressive things. If you were blessed with the means, your education was more robust and harder. Seriously, anyone out there (other than MJenks) know how to read Latin? Speak two or more nonnative languages fluently? Know how to fence and ballroom dance? Can you run a household with a staff similar to that of a small business while maintaining proper decorum and finding a suitable mate before you become a spinster at the rip-old age of 20? How about knowing the simple basics of being a gentleman or lady? Don't even think this stuff is taught these days. I went to cotillion classes when I was in 8th grade. My students have never even heard the word cotillion. Please and thank you won't come out of their mouths without a crowbar and a jack hammer. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">No Child Left Behind has not left our children behind, it has lowered the bar to the point that a slug could pass over it and be considered a rocket scientist. I hope one day we will remember that not everyone gets to be a rocket scientist and start making education worth earning. Not just a baby sitting location for children ages 5-17. Society can't handle a 30% drop out rate. The jobs just aren't there anymore and the military isn't a holding ground for them. I am off to figure out how to inspire a new generation to read and write, so that one day their generation will be able to take care of themselves.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></div>Lisa-tastrophieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04087582850469993109noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-468805100771436547.post-67123300810524132632009-10-17T18:36:00.000-07:002009-10-18T16:58:22.385-07:00OH MY GAWD GIVE IT TO ME!!!<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I am somewhere between nirvana and a toe curling scream right now. I was watching t.v. and this vision appeared to me. It was if the Ghost of Drinking Binges Past had come to visit me. There on my t.v. screen was the one thing that would make Ms. Tastrophie break down and beg for more. If Elvis were alive and it was 1950-whatever, I would be screaming my throat out and tossin' some panties. It's as if God knew my most secret-of-secret dreams and decided to grant them to me all at once.<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Little Debbie, the makers of that little life saver known here as the Ho-Ho,* has created a contest just for me!! </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">They are giving away A MILLION HO-HO's!!!!!! Just go to their website and enter. OMG!! OMG!!! This is almost as good as sex!! Except it has been so long since I have had sex that I am thinking this is as good as sex. I maybe wrong. Now if the makers of Xanax would just come out with a similar contest, Ms. Tastrophie's world would be perfect!! </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">*Side note: Ho-ho's in Lisatastrophie's world are really Swiss Rolls (also made by Little Debbie), but have been called Ho-Ho's ever since a really crass girl's night several years ago. It's my blog/world and I will call it what I want. </span></span></div></span></span></div>Lisa-tastrophieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04087582850469993109noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-468805100771436547.post-52581792542740549432009-10-04T17:10:00.000-07:002009-10-04T18:31:35.314-07:00Note on Nooners<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">The following is from my days in corporate life, when I worked for the nation's leading healthcare tech company.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 283px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4n5mCoRQpmLyoflzAUrvW-QLGt1PwGUUg-YWs7JvF7w5i28L8GCsTPI84cA_i9TZuTASWIDyUrFEwgxcCl4uaSx1ebR9Ty9QnA4d1kzJ0clYb1B4Fsgt1IO1JhteUyyBXlJytxfF5Miw/s400/why-men-use-post-its1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5388919834578684690" /></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Dear Co-worker:</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Hi! How are you? I am going to assume that you are doing great considering the glow you have after returning from that extra-long lunch you took today. In fact, I am going to go out on a limb and guess that you had a wham-bam good time at lunch.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">I only say this because, we (your fellow co-workers) have noticed a few changes in you since you came back from that small 2 hour lunch you and the hot new guy from resource management took. Like how bouncy and fluffy your hair is now. It's a complete 180 from the semi-plastered look you were sporting this morning. And speaking of sporting... Do you remember in the 6th grade when they taught us about the birds & the bees? Did you by any chance happen to pay attention to that part where they talk about hormones and pheromones? You should have. While, I am not one to knock knocking boots; I am one to advocate good hygiene and a quick little shower or some perfume after the quickie would be a good idea for next time. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">While we here at work are all so delighted in your happy-go-lately attitude that has suddenly developed ~ it is a welcome depart from the uptight b*tch you usually are; we did want to let you in on a little secret. Yours is out! No amount of sitting on a dead phone line while pretending to talk in an overly developed stage whisper to your best gal-pal "Cynthia" about how you just couldn't find the shoes you were looking for during your lunch hour and how the sales lady made you late getting back because she kept bringing you the wrong size, is going to make us think you did anything but get jiggy with it while you were gone. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Oh, and in case you haven't noticed, we work in a glass building ...On the fourth floor. One floor above the parking garage. The garage that you and hot-guy from resource management both use while managing to park right next to each other...On the top level. So, that little last minute grope session you two had right before you came back to work was a nice peep-show for those of us blessed with window cubicles (and anyone else we could manage to get the attention of during the fifteen minutes of fame the two of you were having). Seriously, park on the second floor. No one parks there and therefore would not have seen that you are not wearing panties or hose anymore. Which, by the way, was another thing that tipped us off. You had pantyhose on this morning. Might I suggest having a back up pair just in case these little afternoon delights get a little rough on the original pair. Just a suggestion.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Sincerely yours,</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Ms. Tastrophies & </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">The ENTIRE PathNet Team*</span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>*cause you<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"> KNOW</span> I told everyone and their uncle about this.</div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Lisa-tastrophieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04087582850469993109noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-468805100771436547.post-36915402765469857552009-09-23T16:35:00.001-07:002009-09-23T18:18:55.592-07:00The Curious Case of the Missing Underwear<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Well, now that I have MJenks attention, I am going to sadly reveal that this story is not about any new found love of going commando. Sorry guys, but the epic question of "Does She or Doesn't She" will not be answered here today. </span><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 101px; height: 126px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivy8pZg3NXaaxYBIxTBNxC8ywrj9iW4-eAfmrVdtVKZQ8gWTf1yr1rygKDVGA5BcNdAxKdoYz7nRlR9Aq1KWV_jYpsUo9Dz2_j3Rn1Eu4bxg58OzCQksqB2rrDwUiClsmuFqfhtLLqytE/s400/images-3.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384830917928889154" /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Two weeks ago I made my way to the local animal shelter to adopt another kitten. After two months of mourning the passing of my beloved B-Phat, I had decided to bring another kitten into my home. Elsa wasn't really happy about my decision, but since I buy the Fancy Feast and have the hook-up for the catnip, she gave her reluctant meow of approval. I, on the other hand, am now asking WHAT THE HELL WAS I THINKING??!?!</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">OMG people, I have completely lost my freaking' mind and had the world's biggest brain-fart. It's been three years since I last had a kitten in my house and apparently time erases the memory of all the crazy batsh*t things kittens like to do.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Like:</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">1. Get a cold one week after you bring them home from the local Typhoid Mary Infirmary, so that you can spend every last dime you have until the next payday on x-rays, shots, IV saline re-hydration, oxygen tank confinement (seriously?!), antibiotics, and your vet's new Lexus XL complete with GPS and side door airbags.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">2. Keeping you up until 5 a.m. the night before a full day when you have to get up at 7 a.m with their sneezing and hacking up a lung onto your carpet, bedspread, and new cashmere sweater you bought on sale for 50% off of the 50% off sale price from the original price.</span></div><div><br /></div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 124px; height: 62px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWAarqV2hP61gAusGi9Vf_oVkN4C99dCP_2sKH1hyphenhyphenhWdHx8gycRbmotmuii36I3kotEc2cPruMg4ZhgSwX8IWWuXmbc7XOL2v3x9LDCsosUYiPyrET8bhnCugxH3GV9CRB5zxRkZmO9Q4/s400/images-2.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384828699968614626" /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">3. Running full balls-to-the-wall speed down the hall, across the coffee table, over the love seat, and straight into a full set of closed window blinds in the middle of the night; thereby causing you to have a small, but significant heart attack that is only calmed by half a bag of Ho-Ho miniatures and two xanaxes with a triple vodka chaser.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">4. Chase after a rather rotund three year old feline who is seriously pissed at her owner for getting her de-clawed because she would really like to smack the sh*t out of the new kitten at this point in time. Why she doesn't just sit on him is beyond me. She may not have claws, but she is up about three weight classes on him and could take him out with one good sumo squat.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Basically, I now know why God and I have decided that kids would not be a good thing for me. Cause right now, I am one good midnight race-and-chase away from re-inventing the catapult. But, love conquers all and Sneezes (no, I am not really going to call him that permanently, just until I can think of something more befitting) will curl up on my lap to "make biscuits" while purring the "Battle Hymn of the Republic"* then all is forgiven. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">* </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Ok, he doesn't really purr the Battle Hymn of the Republic, but I think he was humming the theme from Jaws last night.</span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">So, what the hell does any of the above have to do with underwear? Well, I'll tell ya. Tonight, I was trying to get some housework done. Including laundry. Which I hate to do and will put off until I have worn every last pair of clean socks, underpants, and tee-shirts I own. Which is enough to last me about two weeks. As in... I got Sneezes about two weeks ago. Anyone getting a little light switch flick right about now????</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 265px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6AnDUqKw1De4AB_sOzUQeelnKFrj6OjjxOpV_dygjceb_8pcmHLYbbo-378lx-DyuButZFJWtgSByA1r6n9dNKDc17eV7dHKsUvWyhU-elIHtR8nmhwIz-dXigp-rA7EUYop_seYJz7Y/s400/128738535408389628.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384829427065474546" /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I go about sorting my clothes. Turning thing right side out (like my Mama taught me), when I start to notice a decided lack of something in my hamper. I kept sorting. And thinking, "I know I have worn underwear lately". Followed by, "Where the hell are all my panties?" For a minute I panic and think that I have left two weeks worth of undies at the gym and the people at Lifetime are going to ask me to go through some sort of sensitivity training before I can return. I think I must have done a load of laundry earlier and left it in the dryer. Nope, I checked. Not there. Then, from out of nowhere comes this small orange streak, racing full speed ahead with a flash of zebra print sailing behind it like the Black Pearl at full mast.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">HOLY VICTORIA'S SECRET, BATMAN!!! That was yesterday's panties streaking by me at 30 knots. I gave chase to the little thief and discovered that he has absconded with every pair of underwear I have put in the hamper since I released him from his new-kitten quarantine. He has been stashing them in the back of my closet behind a suitcase doing all sorts of who-know-what-kitten-things to or with them. UGH! </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Now I have a big decision to make: Do I wash them (about 50 times in </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">really</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> hot water) or do I toss them out and run to the local Wally-world for a clean 5-pack of the Fruit of the Looms? Then I have to decide what a kitten therapist is going to cost me because I'll bet you good money this little kitten has got some sort of full blown pantie issues going on and I can just see him growing up to become an internet-kitty-porn addict if I don't get this nipped in the bud right now. Does anyone know a good therapist who is also fluent in Feline? Or if Tide works on cat fur?</span></div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 130px; height: 104px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYUNoWEtxzQuB6Qqv0a5_gF2KM-VXWj2NmuDAEV8FnFMXAuQUVPxchSUaAI1e5VTzMTnXZ6K22CYVahMxDRnTCO_TRbn_xhqqg7WjecQGGOj8lYx_uLANKXwcsrvlHxJB2-7zgTb48lyQ/s400/images.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384830332482720146" />Lisa-tastrophieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04087582850469993109noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-468805100771436547.post-30563677269730909742009-09-07T17:19:00.000-07:002009-09-07T19:03:30.665-07:00Sophie's Choice<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Sunday, I went to the local animal shelter. Bud E Phat has been gone for two months and while I morn the emptiness that he has left in my house, I also yearn for the pitter-patter of four more paws. That is not to say that Elsa is not the love of my life. I fought hard with the decision to bring another kitty into my home. In all honesty, I am still not sure I am doing the right thing for her. There are times I wish she could speak to me. Even if it is just so she could tell me what the h*ll "Meeow, mow, moooww, meow" means. Especially at four a.m. when she thinks this is a life ending all important thing to tell me at the top of her lungs.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">The shelter was overflowing with kittens. They were everywhere. I was on fluffy overload. As I went between the two cat houses, I couldn't believe that I wasn't finding the soul of my beloved B-Phat in any of the cats I held. That soul that has come to me each time I have needed it and it never fails to give me unconditional love, affection and gratitude.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Then a volunteer came in with a pet carrier. Inside it was the most beautiful Snowshoe-Siamese mix I have ever seen. Eyes as deep blue as the waters I love to dive and a chocolate brown coat that begged to be petted. The volunteer appeared to be so blase in his duties that he banged the carrier around a few times when he sat it down to prepare a cage for this gorgeous animal. A new home for what will be the last days of his life.<br /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">The minute I looked into those eyes I saw that soul. The soul of my Turbo. My Baby Kitty. My Bud E Phat. That soul that seams to find me every time I have an empty spot at the food dish. That soul that I have loved so deeply that I would give my last breath to save. And on Sunday, I broke my heart and walked away from all he promised yet again. For on this animal were four words that will condemn this wonderful creature to a death that even I can not delay: Owner Surrender ~ Behavioral/Urination. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Before I even laid eyes on the surrender form, I knew I wanted this cat. A cat that had been someone's faithful companion for 7 years and was now looking so lost at the drastic change in his life. The soul I have been blessed with three times before, shone brightly behind those blue eyes, pleading with me to take him home again. I had found him once more and my heart cried in joy. But this time was not meant to be. This time logic won instead of my heart and I chose another. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">That is not to say I do not adore the cute little orange and white tabby that is to come home with me next Saturday. I have known this kitten soul before. He is the soul of Thomas O' Malley. He lives with my Dad for now, but time is winning that age old battle with him. (Thomas lived with me after Turbo had gone but stayed by my Dad's side after I had gone.) I know that his playful demeanor and little "chirping" noises are what drew me to him. Soon he will have covered my house and heart with cat-fur and I will love him as much as my Elsa. Maybe one day, my old soul will come to see me again through him. But for now my soul is back there in a 3'x5' cage waiting for a rescue that this time can not come. He is waiting for a heart that is fractured by reality, logic and reason instead of being ruled by instinct, faith and love. For this I hope he can forgive me and once again come to find me when the time comes.</span></div></div>Lisa-tastrophieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04087582850469993109noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-468805100771436547.post-60696779439900508712009-09-02T14:22:00.000-07:002009-09-02T19:20:25.790-07:00We Need A Meeting<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">I know, I know, I haven't written. I'm going to claim utter desolation at the pain inflicted by the two Ex's. In reality, I have been caught up in the back to school madness that is Jr. High. But have no fear, I found something to Yip about. See? I knew it wouldn't take long since I am fairly certain that there are elements out there specifically designed just to piss me off. One of them is "The Meeting". Low and behold, my employer decided that we need more meetings. (Which is funny because we have been having weekly meeting since last year and no one remembers why we were meeting in the first place.) Usually a meeting can be a small but painful thing. Like a paper cut. They tend to be self contained and last a mercifully short (1-2 hours) amount of time. That is if course unless someone higher up in the food chain decides he/she "has a great idea" and wants to re-invent the wheel or beat a dead horse into dust. This decision usually morphs into "The Seminar". Which is slightly less painful than a root canal done by a chain saw.</span><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">"The Seminar" is the modern version of the Grand Inquisition. It has probably taken more lives the Inquisition at this point. "The Seminar" last just a little shorter than the Six Day War. Any longer and it would be a "Convention". "Conventions" are not as immediately painful as "The Meeting" or "The Seminar" as participants are able to slip out undetected for longer than scheduled in order to partake in the team building exercise known as the liquid lunch or the extra-early-happy hour. "The Seminar" and "The Convention" are also mercifully held at a location other than your office, so they have a nice min-break appeal to them. Something to do with the cat being away and mice playing. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">"The Seminar" occurs when someone in management (who has access to major budget funds) decides that life as we know it has been going a little too well, and he/she has to muck it up some how. While "The Meeting" is typically used to get workers to drink the kool-aid or a major management-to-employee flogging; "The Seminar" is used to completely F-up life as you know it. Nothing gets a CIO/CEO/CFO hotter than thinking that worker bees really give a sh*t about rewriting the company mission statement or redesigning the process-flow/task analysis of the water cooler bottle replacement system. This leads to hours upon hours of discussing the merits of totally trivial sh*t; like the toilet paper being hung with the flap forward vs. the flap facing backwards. Especially when worker-bees know it's all going to be chucked in the bin by an over-riding management brain-fart two months from now when management gets another "bright idea" to create more work than humanly possible in addition to the 80 hour work week that we now endure without complaining for fear of losing our jobs in an economy that sucks hard than the prom queen.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Management will schedule a 2-3 day confinement in a banquet room or conference hall, where a perky, overly-caffeinated, ex-prom queen consultant will tell you how you are now going to beat a dead horse to death with a new and improved beating stick. The entire stick will be used in a more timely and efficient manner. (Cause GAWD forbid, that the way you have been beating it for years isn't the right way. No matter how well it got the job done.) In the meantime, work will be piling up on your desk and you will be expected to be "on top of it" even though you are locked away for 9 hours a day, learning how beating the dead horse with the old stick is no longer efficient. And isn't the new stick all nice and shiny? The new stick will turn out to be the old stick with bows, bells and whistles added to make you think it's a new stick. Then they will ask for your input on how the company can better beat the dead horse. This little piece of input typically manifests itself in the shape of an "anonymous feedback" survey where the first question is "Name"? Usually this is when management takes note of the nay-sayers and has them taken out by the secret Gestapo when no one is looking. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">I would write more, but I have to go to another meeting. Really. It's been my fifth one this week and it is only Wednesday. At this rate, I am going to have to add another meeting to my schedule because all the drinking I will be doing in order to recover from the last five meetings is going to send me straight to AA!</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div></div>Lisa-tastrophieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04087582850469993109noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-468805100771436547.post-104998936426094212009-08-15T11:43:00.000-07:002009-09-02T18:50:06.480-07:00Tale of Two Ex's<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Oh, we all have them. Ex's. Ex-boyfriends, ex-husbands, ex-what-was-your-name-again? If life was fare, we would break up with up them and never hear anything about them again, except that they spent the rest of their lives pining away for us. We would not have to hear that they happened to find the love of their life with the very next girl they decided to date right after you...</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 129px; height: 121px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_QD_-w0L5zoWERT1jAI5UfRVDjavZPmOY1GlcM-YFvbRtpqQEdkikHWMPskRzHr8gzHndwV_vW2MlO_u1loJcretKDTYHn6XXHamJixRKIeNCBElvbFLaoJIIAr1u2PYXbTJGyFcmC8E/s400/images-4.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373256157834075778" /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Or that they are getting married. Ever. Which they informed you after having had some sort of massive brain fart then getting the fabulous idea that they needed to call/e-mail/facebook/twitter/IM you with that little glorious tidbit of information. Just so you would know. Cause the fact that you weren't </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">THE ONE</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">, but </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">the one before THE </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">ONE</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> isn't enough to make that bitter taste in the back of your throat every time some one brings up Ex's name (or in this case apparently ~ names) go away.</span></span></span></div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Here I was enjoying the last bit of my summer break. Not having a care in the world since the school district can't get their sh*t together and actually post the curriculum so I wouldn't have to bust my hump making lesson plans that have more amendments to them than the Constitution on the day school actually started, when I get an e-mail from Ex#1. What?! I haven't heard from him in ages and while, yes, I was technically the one to dump him, it was still a little *Yeah Me* on the ego scale to see that he had been thinking of little ol' <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">moi</span>. It was full of the usual catch-ups: How are you? What have you been up to? How's teaching? And, Oh by the way, I am getting married. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">I think I spent five minutes reading and rereading that little dagger through the heart. Strangely the announcement never changed no matter how many times I read it thinking I had mistaken something in the Times New Roman font. Ok, time to woman-up, Ms. Tastrophie,</span></div><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 106px; height: 135px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZB2LuebjyiWWYFUaRhmU4U8fWjWvRbKOiYjmDT-A_SxpGPHT-xktwSo_kGC0AqprrGyJSpVqtL5RxQgxnq902ZC2hw1J9eEx3j4ON32HaoqAaYXoZg6ohcNROLsd1CBG7Sx5SmeH1ts8/s400/images-3.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373256272189418370" /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">and send Ex#1 a begrudging congratulations. I mean, I was the one to break up. And I knew I wasn't </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">THE ONE </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">for him, but single-at-40 is still a bitter pill to swallow, no matter how many Ho-Ho's and Xanax you use to cover it. I sent a slightly over-the-top-cheerful note expressing my hopes for a long and fruitful union. Then went and downed a couple of Ho-Ho's to sooth my bruised ego. (Make that several Ho-Ho's: you know how big Lisatastrophie's ego is.)</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">About an hour or so later I am talking to Ex#2 via IM. Strangely, through our love of a similar sport, EX#2 and I have kept in brief/random contact. So having a random IM conversation with him was not too far fetched. Plus, he was the one who said we could still be "friends" when he broke up with me and I took his word on it. (Note to guys: Don't even bother with this bullsh*t line. We know you don't mean it and we will only use it as an excuse to drive you batsh*t nuts. It's our little way of getting even for your breaking our hearts.) Anyway, I was telling him about Ex#1's little announcement when he decides to disclose to me that he has an announcement of his own: He's engaged as well. Then he proceeds to give me every detail of how the nuptial asking went down. Being that Ms. Tastrophie is a true Southern woman, I gave my second cheerful congratulations of the day and quickly ended the IM session before I went all Fatal Attraction on my pillow with the butter knife.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">The whole time I am making mince-meat out of my favorite feather down king sized pillow, I am thinking "OMG! Are you kidding me? This can not be happening twice in one day. Hell, lightening doesn't even strike twice and I just got a double love-karma b*tch slap from two Ex's on the same day!!!" I didn't get this kind of love-karma-hell when I got divorced. Oh Sweet Mary someone get me the double sized box of Ho-Ho's STAT cause this is not going to be pretty. Who cares if I was the dumpee or the dumper? I don't want to know that my Ex's are living happily-ever-after when the closest thing I have had to a relationship in the last year has been telling my batsh*t crazy co-worker to go screw off. Now that I think about it, he is now my EX-co-worker and with my luck will probably call me to tell me HE has gotten engaged as well. </span></div><!--StartFragment--><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">After the first (of many) 30 minute crying jag, I managed to find my recipe for Lemon Drop Martini's (*see below) and make myself a few (I lost count at 5) that would have made James Bond beg me for more. I am not sure what happened after martini #3 but I do know that the hang-over I had the next morning would have given both of the Ex's sweet satisfaction knowing that once again Ms. Tastrophie was given a taste of the little karmic-kick-back she is so richly getting from the universe these days.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 106px; height: 132px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_dBEOSPXIdmtkOEHHajcASSg1-FLCHA0Tsr8c37GKgLZk9vtVQCV9G3eMkyrOd67mxQLrf5B6ZAb2AjKbIa9w_CK7PllFJ7SKwjOORHB-ooFj5LhK61asu1yndeaqW24k77CIYTamc38/s400/images-2.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373255849179756978" /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Life's Little Helper Lemon Drop Martini's</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">1 1/2 ounce Vodka</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">3/4 ounce Triple Sec</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">2 tsp Sugar</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">3/4 ounce Lemon Juice</span></div><div>Mix over ice. Shake 40+ times. Strain and pour in sugar rimmed glass. <br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Drink responsibly please. :-)</span></span></div></div>Lisa-tastrophieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04087582850469993109noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-468805100771436547.post-38070294977897174602009-08-14T09:24:00.000-07:002009-08-14T15:39:21.297-07:00Yulekaka ~ Or How to Offend an Entire Country in Just 9 Hours<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">My mother's side of the family has Nordic ties. In fact, if I had inherited any of her side of the family genes I would be 5'9" with awesome cheekbones, fare skin and hair. My Dad's side of the family hails from Germany and Scotland. Three guesses which end of the gene pool I went swimming in? Yeah, this sucks. Although I can pound the sauerkraut and brat wurst with the best of them.</span><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Anyway, in a yearly attempt to get in touch with my Nordic roots I embark upon making the traditional Christmas/Holiday fruit bread called Yulekaka. No, it's not fruit cake. Trust me, when made correctly, it is a small piece of heaven toasted and topped with butter. Made incorrectly it is just this side of the third circle of Dante's hell.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 116px; height: 92px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvqY3uFwedSwTWfZil_A_KnyV-_WqxFtmU5-MZBZWrVGwOqkg6gNPzgQQLpYkg2PkvfTJBBj5Hyw_AwJC4PMj_68qi7EjemLFk7m7uXAS-BeGDzujvdQZRM1_yKXqvEQEszBMSgFujRUo/s400/images-3.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5369912372416446402" /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Now, Norway is known for several things: gorgeous men, The Three Billy Goats Gruff , and one of my favorites ~ trolls. These creatures guard bridges, wreak havoc, and basically make life hell for any man who crosses their path. (See why I like them so much ~ we have similar goals.) You really do not want to offend the trolls. Or any Nordic gods, for that matter, as they have a few anger management issues when it comes to mere mortals stepping on their terrain. Making Yulekaka incorrectly appears to fall on their terrain.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Last Christmas, I set out on my yearly quest to make this small sampling of Valhalla. I get out all the ingredients. I measure precisely the amounts and set everything aside in cute little Williams Sonoma ramekins a la Ms. Martha. We are talking about <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">moi</span> after all and you know I am high maintenance, so why wouldn't my kitchen<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"> accoutrements</span> be. I get out the needed pots, pans, mixers, oven mitts and my little troll dolls. I make sure to place the trolls in a position of significance as not to offend their delicate sense of authority. The trolls are a very important part of making Yulekaka. They have to watch over this process in order to insure the proper making of this Valhallic delicacy. But they will also wreak havoc if you happen to do anything that could slightly offend Thor and his might buddies. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Which apparently I was destined to do... yet again. Yulekaka takes about 9 hours to make ~ if you make it right and don't cheat by using the quick bread method. Which by the way is for wimps and cowards. I'm not joking ~ nine hours. It has to rise twice and the mixing has to be done just right... with details like the beaters need to be all the way in the batter and the mixer NOT set on high when you turn it on. Ugh, details, seriously people you know I just don't do details. So I measured, poured, mixed and kneaded. At some point in this process one of the trolls got knocked off his perch. How? I don't know. What I do know is that he was pissed and hell bent on wreaking a little havoc into my Yule time baking. I ended up with batter on the ceiling, the walls, across the room, in my hair and on the cats. Note: Bread batter + Cat = antiseptic, band-aids, and possibly a trip to the emergency room for a few stitches. I killed the yeast. The dough (what was left of it) didn't rise all the way. The candied fruit had gone bad ~ even though I could have sworn I checked the expiration date five times!! Candied fruit has the shelf life of a Twinke. It will last longer then cock roaches after the nuclear holocaust, but these had gone rancidly bad.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 84px; height: 135px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvCWf4fnl6Gey9MaDBb5yNjlZykl1PjxrXXq3brgYYXviZjP35KvO4lA6vIGga2XnZvgop16Hot4nS4w0_g3W7Sjxh5VU7i1sPlu7d3XTmzXoenPZFiqHlIgOs3m3vlb45zIlXqAnAlnM/s400/images-2.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5369912120268378914" /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">By now I was about four and a half hours into this Yulekaka operation and the only Kaka I was getting was coming from a mean little troll laying face down in the flour bin laughing his bum off at my feeble attempts and sending me every ounce of troll turmoil. The small loaf that I did manage to somehow cajole into rising the second time turned into an Acme Brick in the oven. Thor had turned his back on me and had given the troll permission to make this mission impossible. And I was so pissed that I tossed the terrible trolls into the oven with the brick burnt offering and let them melt into one giant lump of coal. Which set off the fire alarm and brought about a dozen very pissed off firemen to my house. BTW, none of those firemen where hot, so it was a lose-lose situation all around.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Needless to say, I went without my Yulekaka that year - until my mother rescued me and made me a few loafs. Thor & the trolls always did like my mother best. I waved the whited flag and have given up any future attempts at getting in touch with my Norwegian ways... Unless his name happens to be Sven and he looks like this:</span></div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 131px; height: 100px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ61tpizd_KLnwR7Pw3Vcma6HazGvVDQ0Mu3vUG5YUbQeoRUY0XQVqwA1u1TZcNWbiJxoeG3RZe90si3DBFsLzzb9pSHiUjz0YlShLWnvDWiEyjAPrrYOBvhenc-lDbI_yCYf9-U99Y1I/s400/images-6.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5369911775053546514" />Lisa-tastrophieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04087582850469993109noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-468805100771436547.post-56396722347432995792009-07-21T17:00:00.000-07:002009-07-21T16:23:27.410-07:00TMI Tuesdays ~ Sweet Mammories<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-large;">Introducing TMI Tuesdays. Inspired by Mjenks ~ This One's For You Oh Mighty Crown of Thistles.</span></span><br /></div><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">One thing that I have no problem admitting is that I've had a little after-market work done. I don't mind admitting it, trust me people know and it's not like I'm trying to pass anything off as home grown or original ownership. Plus, I just don't give a crap if anyone knows ~ I'm not showing them off or letting people get a free feel of them, but I don't care if they know. </span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">In fact the year that the twins first arrived, I was in a master's program. The twins were "delivered" over Christmas break ~ Merry Christmas to me. The kicker was that I would have</span></div><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 120px; height: 123px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd5YYsd937wYjaESnctEcvQto0q6zgsxH6r_2-3WKsLyshRH9cpBnYkO6kyVQAhV7hkLt7qAp8Nvu2h9Af9Q6YwLIF862OMOZPa8wCCg9cajv3EH-i7tzHDrG_ZXSAU23IHRcPDddqxCM/s400/82ee86126e1347c6.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361055078171471378" /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> to tell my instructors that I had "had a little work done" and would not be fully recouperated until at least two weeks into the new school year. Nothing like telling a couple of pudgy, not-gettin-any collage professors that you just got a new pair of turbo twins to cause a few "awkward" moments. In theory, the professors can't touch them, look at them, or even think about them because they are professors and aren't supposed look at student's chest. In reality, it causes more than a few sneaky glances south of the collar bone and some really interesting faculty meetings.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">At first I wasn't going to tell anyone at all. Then I found out the recovery would take a whileand I was going to need help with things, not to mention still be on-boarding the </span></div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 93px; height: 125px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZNxSS9sBg4yCxxVS55zRAblW6w8sa4KpsU3Cfr4MDNGZRC087y3QovLnMPno9QQoSKkg-djmtSfsFILhmXoq0lTx0tHh_No6gmIXt8uKNbWdxwEdQL3cP6pJcYKILZ91Fr4HEdcDU6Ys/s400/6a5b52d1582ac2c0.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361056333554957474" /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">nice little muscle relaxers that come with the new equipment. It wasn't like I was going to back to school and someone would look at me and say "Oh, did you get your hair cut? You look different." No sh*t Sherlock, I now have knockers where once the cupboard was bare. Cause guys may not notice a new hair cut for weeks, but bring in the boobs and they spot them right away every time. So being up front about it cut down on the amount of class gossip and whispered questions.</span></div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Well, I was not about to have the twins delivered by just any man. So I asked around for some referrals. I got a few names and a few invites by girls to "feel" their work. Yeah, it gets a little creepy when women you barely know start flashing you their tatas and invite you </span></div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 93px; height: 125px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigbG65_MmHu8WkB8WUSsRxRQlUpN-8nGufsMMJAbvmR9Vx6h7h4qvUCvPnqIN0LVSsxg3Xyo28kv48oRrSnZtSJp2HHwBAUCoQ9sSeeNTBMWanZ_MwIzc4yFADADxCQ0SKjE4AT2JyyCU/s400/3f612258e408f3e2.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361055355357858450" /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">to grope on them like a freshman in high school. Maybe not for you guys, but for me ~ yeah, creepy. However one name kept cropping up: Dr. M.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Now before their was Dr. McDreamy, there was Dr. M ~ the original McDreamy. Not only was he highly recommended for his surgical skills, he was recommended for is, ahhhhhh, ahhhhhh, scenic offices. Yeah, that's the ticket. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> A few consultations later and wham! I'm in post-op. Where I was begrudgingly dragging my drug induced comatose ass back into reality. Dr. M walks in to check on me and give me the post surgical update. After a few minutes of his cajoling me to wake up and talk to him, I finally mustered the strength to lift my head and look at my chest. OH-SWEET-MARY-MOTHER-OF-GAWD!! look at these babies!! They are HUGE! <br /></span></div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 145px; height: 95px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSWkgOkQJQLOUyNkJ2rfha-37eU03uJwpT20x_7kcfML-yKcXm5XmPtnDXQGjzsJH0EgiU6XxzTWG7-rGamWaxOfsUlj2AwGa8CrjHp0E6b5HGnY6TFEKSXU1DumvoV-hPcbJctS68t3w/s400/2d14beb32b62ccb4.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361054300766566482" /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> They were especially large from the angle I was looking down at them. They were BIG. Mount Everest Huge. If I could have lifted my hands, I would have felt myself up right then and there. Instead I put my head down, look Dr. M straight in the eyes, and with a smirk whispered "sweet!" Then passed out. </span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">P.s. Blogger has crappy formatting!!</span></span></div></div>Lisa-tastrophieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04087582850469993109noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-468805100771436547.post-76058949475962128502009-07-12T19:34:00.000-07:002009-07-16T19:43:00.371-07:00Goodbye Buddy<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH0e61AlfmxAlBopVn5G1MKR068sM7TgWek9wCs55WO9Q15Gei0ZFfSLbPy2oaN5ZCECGX5Y3xbxSDPCAfKh_quEnVg5R_6iqJLy44X3DVEY4Ib5R7BR1BeQhsdpOdFTHTE-vdHoYKsPg/s1600-h/bud2.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 329px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH0e61AlfmxAlBopVn5G1MKR068sM7TgWek9wCs55WO9Q15Gei0ZFfSLbPy2oaN5ZCECGX5Y3xbxSDPCAfKh_quEnVg5R_6iqJLy44X3DVEY4Ib5R7BR1BeQhsdpOdFTHTE-vdHoYKsPg/s400/bud2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357774085429420258" /></a><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Friday July 10th at 12:45 p.m., Mr. Bud E. Phat went to wait for me at the Rainbow Bridge*. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">After two months of battling with medical problems, my Buddy could fight no more. After careful consultation with his personal vet, we decided that his quality of life would not improve and it would be best to let him "retire". I cradled him in my arms. Whispered "I love you" and looked him in the eyes, so that the last things he would see and hear in this world was his mom's love. I told him I would come for him one day and to wait for me at the Bridge with Baby Kitty and Turbo (my cats who have gone ahead of him). He lay peacefully in my arms as we said our goodbyes. Me giving him paw-kisses. He giving me, with the last of his strength, one final head-butt goodbye. I cried at the sight of his life leaving; fading those beautiful green eyes as they closed in death. My heart was screaming "Don't go! Stay with me forever", but I knew that he was no longer in pain and I had done the right thing. </span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">I'm sorry this is not a better written goodbye, for Buddy really deserves one, but right now the grief is too raw. Each corner of my house holds some memory of our life together. A feather toy here, a cat hair covered pet bed there. The luggage he would lounge on as if he too had been a frequent flier. The corner of the bath tub where he would sit in silent demand until you turned on the water for him to drink. His spirit fills every nook and cranny. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Elsa is missing her big brother. She meows for him as she searches throughout the house. She goes to his favorite spots and looking to see if he is there. She doesn't understand why there is now only one food bowl on the floor. Often she will sit by the window, looking at Buddy's favorite patio perch, as if she is expecting him to return at any moment. One day I may get her another brother or sister, but for now we will have to take comfort in each other and the knowledge that one day we will all be together again.</span></div><div><br /></div><br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">*THE RAINBOW BRIDGE<br />Just this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge.<br /><br />When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to Rainbow Bridge. There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together. There is plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable.<br /><br />All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor; those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by. The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing; they each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind.<br /><br />They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent; His eager body quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster.<br /><br />You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart.<br /><br />Then you cross Rainbow Bridge together....<br /><br /></span><br /></span>Lisa-tastrophieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04087582850469993109noreply@blogger.com8