world's worst cup of coffee!!!

We were heading down from an amazing day of snowboarding, Becky, Seth, Paul, me. No traffic. Fresh powder in the morning. Sunny and warm but not slushy or icy. We cut out before the last run of the day to keep up with our good luck of no traffic and to stop in Idaho Springs at the McDonalds for a famed cup of their "unsnobby coffee" espresso drink. I haven't eaten McDonald's food in about a decade and haven't been in one in over 5 years. (In 2004 I went in for a desperate potty break.) I wasn't sure about the McCafe phenomenon. Paul and I saw one open up in New Zealand while we were there and refused to go in. Seth was more hopeful. He'd stopped at 4 other McDonalds trying to get his taste-buds around their version of coffee but always with the promise that it was coming soon. Today his wish would be granted. We pulled up to the drive-through and ordered two mocha's, a vanilla latte and a cappucino. Make that three mocha's and a vanilla latte. The ordering process alone made us skeptical. We pull up to the next window. If you ever wished McDonalds would just slow down (c'mon peeps, what's the rush?) you would have been thrilled. We sat in the car wondering if they were growing the beans. The ads said they ground the beans but were they sprouting them too? She finally passed 3 mochas out to us. They felt disapointingly light. She said the latte was going to take a bit longer. We gave them the benefit of the doubt thinking that maybe they hadn't really practiced making espresso drinks. I mean, really, they specialize in heart-stopping deep fried potatoes and mad cow burgers, I don't think their job description allows for barista skills. We did't wait for Becky's latte. The rest of us greedily sip our mochas. Ugh. Are you kidding me? What is this? Watered down milk with whip cream and chocolate drizzle? The three of us were equally dissapointed. Maybe Seth was more so. He'd been anticipating this for a couple weeks while Paul and I had only been thinking about it for the past 40 minutes. Becky's latte finally came. She tasted it. Passed it to me without comment. Her face said it all. I sipped. "Uh, it tastes like hot plastic, wait, maybe its the lid, nope, tastes like hot plastic."

Starbucks, I don't think you have anything to worry about.

Attn: Parents and Washington

(My job continues to gain rhythm over chaos, although its rhythm, in and of itself, is chaos but at least I know what to expect more now than before.)

Maybe its more due to our demographics or general location, but C'mon, you're the one dropping your kids off for Pete's sake instead of staying at home with them, I'm not complaining because this means job security for me, but you shouldn't be either. If you think you can do a better job, keep your kids at home. First of all, its not a day care, its a school. If it were a Day Care you'd be stupid to pay $20,000.00+ a year per child. Second, I'm a teacher, contrary to popular belief, I'm not just there to wipe butts and make sure your kid doesn't die. I'm sure most of you are really nice, but since you're in the habit of dropping and running I don't really get a chance to see that you are. Yes, our room is going to look a bit scattered at times but bloody hell, I want to see what your house would look like with 20 three-year-olds and a guinea pig running around for 8 hours. No, we don't just let them do what they want but because you are paying 20k for your kid to go here we are expected to negotiate rather than command or drop kick...let's see how much you accomplish trying to negotiate with a 3 year old. Washington doesn't even accomplish as much. At least 8 of our kids can wipe their own ass. Last time I checked that was more than the Senate and House combined.

Poo Bombs

I'm beginning to think that life centers around poo. Could be my current occupation, but the idea is beginning to grow on me.

The other day I was covering for another teacher in her classroom as she ran to get something. In the 15 minutes she was gone, a toddler exploded.

I was unaware that Garrett wasn't fully potty trained, blissfully unaware that he needed help wiping and completely unaware he'd try it out by himself first even if he couldn't. After about 3 minutes in the bathroom G-dog pokes his head around the corner and says, imploringly, "Jessy?"

"What do you need, Big Guy?" I responded.
"Help?" He questioned, not quite sure what he needed.
"Okay, I'm coming." I take three steps towards the bathroom and freeze. Before me lay a battleground in which G-man and the bathroom had fought, using poo as ammunition much like artillery shells that covered the Beaches of Normandy on D-Day. I was astounded not only at the sheer volume of the feces but also at the height and distance it had reached...had he been throwing it? Had the tiles been tossing it back at him?

I had to hold back my reaction to keep from scaring the poor kid. I had never seen such utter disaster in all my life and I had been there during OKC Bombing.

I said, "Alright buddy, let me help you get cleaned up. Do you have to go anymore?" (The last bit I found out, by way of default, is necessary to the cleaning process.)

"No, I'm done." (I think the Bathroom had frightened it out of him. And just to bring home the sheer devestation...the little guy had somehow managed to get it between his toes.)

A full package of wipes and half a spray bottle of bleach later Boy and Bathroom were clean*.

(*No child or animal was harmed by bleach during these events. I did, however, briefly consider taking a blowtorch to the bathroom. )