tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-208328582024-03-07T01:53:57.515-07:00traveling musicjessyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16339546917326325058noreply@blogger.comBlogger90125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20832858.post-81946640911965340142012-07-05T20:43:00.000-06:002012-07-05T20:50:54.074-06:00The DMV<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
In Colorado it comes around every 5 years. Or, according to the signs haphazardly posted
around the Driver’s License office (could you call it an office?) more often if
you want to get your driving privileges back by paying your tickets and child
support. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">The need to renew my license slipped my mind. I have my reasons. I only discovered I’d been driving on an expired
license for over a month when I left it behind at the rec center and the
girl behind the counter was trying to find me based on my listed address of
seven moves ago. When I came back for it
I realized a couple things. 1. We move
way too much. 2. My name is no longer unique. (So much for that
one-in-a-million speech in 8<sup>th</sup> grade) 3. My license had expired. Really expired</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">I walk in, Jack in tow, and present myself at
the first counter. A humorless lady asks
what I want. “A renewal.” I hand her my current license. She asks boy or girl. Boy, I tell her. “How old?” 11weeks. “Here’s a number, you
need a statement with your address and we only take cash or check.” My bank is at the other corner of the shopping
center so I drag Jack a block down in 100 degree windy heat (feels like a
convection oven) and return with cash and proof of address. Next line.
It’s assumed that you’re going to spend a considerable part of your day
in line at the DMV when you’re unfortunate enough to have to go there but I’m
still never quite prepared for the experience.
The place is packed. Is there a
DMV that isn’t? I’m all the way in a different
line and the lady back at first counter asks again how old my kid is. And she does it in such a way that makes me
look around to see if there are any other kids because A: she already asked,
and B: was just awkwardly quiet enough that I honestly didn’t know she was
talking to me, until I realized she was talking to me.</span><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I make it up to counter #2 to talk with socially awkward DMV
worker #2. He asks me a series of questions
so quietly that I wonder if I’m losing my hearing. I see his lips moving but its hard to know if
I’m answering questions correctly and then I start to panic because what if,
horrors, I answer incorrectly and lose my license forever? Or will be forced to pay child support to some other child I don’t know I had? Apparently I answer
stunningly because after only a couple minutes he smiles and motions for me to
wait for counter #3 where I will get my temporary papers and photo taken. I ask him if I can just keep my photo of 5
years ago. He smiles and says no. Here’s the thing with Colorado: Your license
is good for 5 years, like I mentioned before, and I feel a lot of pressure to
have a decent photo. I already look
be-draggled. Sure its only one in the
afternoon but I’m not one to put a whole lot of stock in my morning beauty regimen
so by noon my hair was in its typical matted frazzed (yes, I just made that
word up) bun-ponytail and after spending even a moment out in the heat my face had procured
a greasy glaze. I gave myself a
pep-talk. “You are not vain, you don’t
care, the glimpse you got of yourself in the shop window was decent enough and
for heaven sakes you have a 14lb 11 week old you’ve just toted around for the
past hour like an Olympic medal depended on it.
You’ve got your smile. Just give a good smile and maybe it will distract
from the fact that it looks like a band of chimps attacked your hair.”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wait in line for counter #3. It’s the changing of the guards and another
humorless lady steps up to the desk. My
name is called. I step up. She mumbles for me to verify everything on
the slip of paper. I repeat what she
says to make sure I heard her right. She
glances at me like I’m an idiot. She
asks me to sign the bottom of the paper but to stay inside the box. I passed the vision test without my glasses, kept Jack happy and quiet the entire time and
offered to donate my kidneys. I got this. I madly sign what I think is my best
signature yet. This is NOT one of those
times when you want to step outside of the box.
A piece of a letter slips outside the box. She scowls.
“Ugh, I have to get another one.” Oops.
This time I tone it back. Not my
best but at least I stayed in the box. She
asks me to step up to the hanging blue background and look at the blue dot. OK. Now is my time to shine. I may look ridiculous but I can pull it
together with a smile. I stand there
smiling not wanting to miss my opportunity.
She mumbles something else and just as I’m about to say “what?” she
flashes the camera. Crap. I lost my smile and I’m fairly certain I
blinked. “I think I blinked” I tell
her. She says to wait a second. “Uhmm, Its fine” She responds. “Your new license will be sent to you in the
mail within the next 30 days.” “NEXT!” (And was that a smirk I detected?) I’m pretty sure she planned that. Glad I could make her day. </div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8Mi-zeI6sQsuhSgnnZQaJ11yYiUnsf7oDE2BRBnf7hC3Lm2trnNm0BBv-czMKmxg50VEvtO3IYM-n226BTbWAkVysxJatXKWKh6_7pwUBTKQpdc6JAmVXXz-Wn6A85fz93Tp0/s1600/DMV+006.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8Mi-zeI6sQsuhSgnnZQaJ11yYiUnsf7oDE2BRBnf7hC3Lm2trnNm0BBv-czMKmxg50VEvtO3IYM-n226BTbWAkVysxJatXKWKh6_7pwUBTKQpdc6JAmVXXz-Wn6A85fz93Tp0/s320/DMV+006.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What I would have been satisfied with.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEBGMTV5RIdO7BhyphenhyphencO52Cc6eEs5_7eRDin5dLFgdPGRGA7vPSEGgVziqQBYJh3KWTHCueWsQ3wr62icKoDiH4ceFsV-jGQSDr_le6yzmYAXw2EQmsYKHSLs6RJbnejQIw6PiGX/s1600/DMV+007.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEBGMTV5RIdO7BhyphenhyphencO52Cc6eEs5_7eRDin5dLFgdPGRGA7vPSEGgVziqQBYJh3KWTHCueWsQ3wr62icKoDiH4ceFsV-jGQSDr_le6yzmYAXw2EQmsYKHSLs6RJbnejQIw6PiGX/s320/DMV+007.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What I'm pretty sure happened.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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</div>jessyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16339546917326325058noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20832858.post-5189885401849851812011-02-22T10:29:00.001-07:002011-02-22T13:04:54.706-07:00Attack of conscience<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg75OYL5a-UYrBKcticuK2Xc7JPfsi_xAbj6sFvTmbEpZ1AODXPCJyg2-h2jd3AI_RM8iqtOFhZbDU2PYFnkEtBQhSPCV56UJlBveMg5JHvvnGFM1GBE35F3tfi6njrlH-dpg6Z/s1600/monkey+cat+017.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg75OYL5a-UYrBKcticuK2Xc7JPfsi_xAbj6sFvTmbEpZ1AODXPCJyg2-h2jd3AI_RM8iqtOFhZbDU2PYFnkEtBQhSPCV56UJlBveMg5JHvvnGFM1GBE35F3tfi6njrlH-dpg6Z/s320/monkey+cat+017.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>This was in a package. From my mother. In Virginia. <br />
<br />
This can only lead me to believe one of several things:<br />
A. Reacher has learned to use the phone to call my mom.<br />
B. He has a secret email account, thus learned to type.<br />
C. Possibly has a Facebook account.<br />
or D. Somehow telepathically communicated with my mother.<br />
<br />
I am now worried because:<br />
A: My cat is communicating with my mother.<br />
B: My mother communicates with cats.jessyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16339546917326325058noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20832858.post-77321363761060081242011-02-13T10:35:00.000-07:002011-02-22T10:35:57.257-07:00Case of the Mondays<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZbiMjirZ98DrPatd0rY11ib4NJ9U_aHn8-xiesjpyanSIcEDUb1uD2C27EHFr6Rqod6r-mMOe-Lo2f8TDOrpIAK5jp_gE-olh2RCEMDMon87fKgCWsT_-F-l_VPfxHR3Nfy8J/s1600/monkey+cat+015.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZbiMjirZ98DrPatd0rY11ib4NJ9U_aHn8-xiesjpyanSIcEDUb1uD2C27EHFr6Rqod6r-mMOe-Lo2f8TDOrpIAK5jp_gE-olh2RCEMDMon87fKgCWsT_-F-l_VPfxHR3Nfy8J/s320/monkey+cat+015.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>While I'm happy with the optimistic forecast, I'm not thrilled with the prospect of three Mondays in a row. I mean, really. Really?!jessyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16339546917326325058noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20832858.post-30608110844358391552011-02-09T16:03:00.000-07:002011-02-09T16:03:59.295-07:00Confessions of Capt. Destructo<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPwrgGZ4kChykV8Cmw22ttHkSw17r52xTXx8jMHi4bZX_eANt65FcMGsRP6CPT0c4IfZLc3biJtctrnkV5gKs-lHrxIQgvtTUGvb83Pfp5EW_rjTvJedvhThcnTVuwAKQPcQlS/s1600/monkey+cat+010.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPwrgGZ4kChykV8Cmw22ttHkSw17r52xTXx8jMHi4bZX_eANt65FcMGsRP6CPT0c4IfZLc3biJtctrnkV5gKs-lHrxIQgvtTUGvb83Pfp5EW_rjTvJedvhThcnTVuwAKQPcQlS/s320/monkey+cat+010.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Its their fault for leaving it on the counter above the sink.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbCDoQB47DFJZhKSq8AfVzybxE5yW4AKYeWlrXt7yQFlCo5GdndgR7nkO0v0Rqpc_VZwffAAJBg-mD_3C3d3q0DaKs-AgTWN0WdNhnazxzTm37qo2SepDoXWXbslwtYeMBgXiW/s1600/monkey+cat+026.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbCDoQB47DFJZhKSq8AfVzybxE5yW4AKYeWlrXt7yQFlCo5GdndgR7nkO0v0Rqpc_VZwffAAJBg-mD_3C3d3q0DaKs-AgTWN0WdNhnazxzTm37qo2SepDoXWXbslwtYeMBgXiW/s320/monkey+cat+026.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Sure, they found it after the horrendous noise the disposal made but by then it had been Dee-Stroyed! and they could only blame themselves for flipping the switch. It was more perfect than I could have anticipated.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_NbIomO29gEfPB1xGVd_NyAf1FEawwYATMWdrizFQP8gqo7vTk6DGbLMGqQR99PbLuEHPB1HsfGEINwIISTUTAkmqOGdZNyxlTysHI3gF_S1877iBKg-jdELnBBoylht-LlkX/s1600/monkey+cat+027.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_NbIomO29gEfPB1xGVd_NyAf1FEawwYATMWdrizFQP8gqo7vTk6DGbLMGqQR99PbLuEHPB1HsfGEINwIISTUTAkmqOGdZNyxlTysHI3gF_S1877iBKg-jdELnBBoylht-LlkX/s320/monkey+cat+027.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Mwaaa-hahahahhaahh!!!!</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>jessyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16339546917326325058noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20832858.post-65096621937878888522011-02-07T23:23:00.000-07:002011-02-07T23:23:53.207-07:00How-to get a workout and make yourself angry (in that order)Since I'm not traveling as much as I'd like or as I once did when this blog was born I now must fill my readers in with descriptions of self embarrassment and other prose, currently mis-entitled blog that it is. <br />
<br />
I shall now share a little how-to. <br />
<br />
How to attach a dryer hose: (AKA: How to re-attach the dryer hose of a double stack unit after the overpaid dryer repairman left it unattached making <i>everything</i> in our bedroom damp during and after a dry cycle):<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjDRNzl5B_jskYAsw_U1bHcs5vxK1Ew4f7Uys-pcRaQVlbE21b59NVJLXizE86piDhnXdzoxmoHfq8glEdYqGLG_wSh8Gnxpg6jeC1ynKyVKVoHhBmfW1d0wXbtr9cQr0ChK93/s1600/dryer+blog+010.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjDRNzl5B_jskYAsw_U1bHcs5vxK1Ew4f7Uys-pcRaQVlbE21b59NVJLXizE86piDhnXdzoxmoHfq8glEdYqGLG_wSh8Gnxpg6jeC1ynKyVKVoHhBmfW1d0wXbtr9cQr0ChK93/s320/dryer+blog+010.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Step 1: Tie back loose ends (swim cap works well)</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv9vrtfEwdFb5qQDl6rl-5H6pouSkwOxhHtRA7lANzePgBSwP-yD59is5yE_yaHwejLwYxYu-0df1OMIjs4IOgd2W803s9Z7na1z1sxB50QJpweLDr0zbG_MCobcOXOfZtvvJL/s1600/dryer+blog+011.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv9vrtfEwdFb5qQDl6rl-5H6pouSkwOxhHtRA7lANzePgBSwP-yD59is5yE_yaHwejLwYxYu-0df1OMIjs4IOgd2W803s9Z7na1z1sxB50QJpweLDr0zbG_MCobcOXOfZtvvJL/s320/dryer+blog+011.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Step 2: (Also part of Step 1:) Switch loose clothing for more appropriate attire (see above example)</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR3nKfWIiyl0LzzZfqrV5z2mfx3DO44ZCbPBZ9gcfD6r6V1fUCXqaZLgtuJXhFmfpydDqpM5RLCCv9GRyLx1sEOUBOdy5rXDupfERAKlLp-t8YurwhzlOuJk9pA4FuFTqUSgNW/s1600/dryer+blog+012.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR3nKfWIiyl0LzzZfqrV5z2mfx3DO44ZCbPBZ9gcfD6r6V1fUCXqaZLgtuJXhFmfpydDqpM5RLCCv9GRyLx1sEOUBOdy5rXDupfERAKlLp-t8YurwhzlOuJk9pA4FuFTqUSgNW/s320/dryer+blog+012.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Step 3: Perfect the Grunt</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPJ4P9PxSb4yrMhLtC8hVxCyuU9QamPp9BLiiAAI8puddaXOJEQ3Y_MH6SnpFloUKwCwHVDLY7P5uhzZeXF0uzF7o47LqwLYV3M1Faqm2DD2V8uzojlmzpPhAvT4yNUSIGziyq/s1600/dryer+blog+013.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPJ4P9PxSb4yrMhLtC8hVxCyuU9QamPp9BLiiAAI8puddaXOJEQ3Y_MH6SnpFloUKwCwHVDLY7P5uhzZeXF0uzF7o47LqwLYV3M1Faqm2DD2V8uzojlmzpPhAvT4yNUSIGziyq/s320/dryer+blog+013.JPG" width="214" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Step 4: Use full weight distribution, specifically, hang from the top of the unit with your full weight</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw8neZUAFUsy9SJo-9hmXZBHIkx05y1LcJ66-5s6CMS7_k0RVfVD0-YxS2ilBSAjnWmmXX1S6d-ciLfmXnOg-L6kHMjNoXgLXL37Ll2fjaI50ics5WURGhxaxJfLXaShyx8m86/s1600/dryer+blog+018.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw8neZUAFUsy9SJo-9hmXZBHIkx05y1LcJ66-5s6CMS7_k0RVfVD0-YxS2ilBSAjnWmmXX1S6d-ciLfmXnOg-L6kHMjNoXgLXL37Ll2fjaI50ics5WURGhxaxJfLXaShyx8m86/s320/dryer+blog+018.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Step 5: Grip with every appendage and pull</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijnR5lXbnrLkY8G39n2jet5TFVKDxJji0K8zGj4CuZ_dzlZ7xhsAfFmOPyGquln21UmIGd-DqSdoZ-2RZeGcqOUH2TZp2C9qwn5YFTO823OXmNXtM-4K2wyQgyPyhmBoFQGrmO/s1600/dryer+blog+019.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijnR5lXbnrLkY8G39n2jet5TFVKDxJji0K8zGj4CuZ_dzlZ7xhsAfFmOPyGquln21UmIGd-DqSdoZ-2RZeGcqOUH2TZp2C9qwn5YFTO823OXmNXtM-4K2wyQgyPyhmBoFQGrmO/s320/dryer+blog+019.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Step 6: If step 4 and 5 fail to budge the washer/dryer unit, use the full body simultaneous push-pull wedge</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVA-lu48lw3N8IinFwyPhN1YC7v8bDW7kO-_Af54xm0Nz1M1ZbFSbK8SCFVWxGmZSArX8gQOPQxVLi12hNM4JCG_r9_5_v7NPD9MU887cOOxUsHEE4F67bAq3JaIybuF-Re0TP/s1600/dryer+blog+020.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVA-lu48lw3N8IinFwyPhN1YC7v8bDW7kO-_Af54xm0Nz1M1ZbFSbK8SCFVWxGmZSArX8gQOPQxVLi12hNM4JCG_r9_5_v7NPD9MU887cOOxUsHEE4F67bAq3JaIybuF-Re0TP/s320/dryer+blog+020.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Step 7: More wedging</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFgd9DnS2hOhewAT6TWX6d1_bOstZKCt6q_pG4Z8z65i3yXh-UosgK5xlhLkL3urpaUt0II6mj1-AETkxMou6jzfb_TlD_ZBA4EP2CPalaYnyTBYamToxhcqGEmANI6lmoDK0X/s1600/dryer+blog+021.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFgd9DnS2hOhewAT6TWX6d1_bOstZKCt6q_pG4Z8z65i3yXh-UosgK5xlhLkL3urpaUt0II6mj1-AETkxMou6jzfb_TlD_ZBA4EP2CPalaYnyTBYamToxhcqGEmANI6lmoDK0X/s320/dryer+blog+021.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Step 8: Do the squeeze (not to be confused with wedging)</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqVHx0ubwSA7UGOq1GCZm64KmRuOMsoH95ZeR8TH0fSKUEeUPZo3dCP1bebuDqIAkOH5Z8KSoqJQBWDTkcwhq1gjd4aj3Mv43sUHG-pq5hVWbFAzIL4JV3P3xfE0Q2aQyTH42L/s1600/dryer+blog+026.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqVHx0ubwSA7UGOq1GCZm64KmRuOMsoH95ZeR8TH0fSKUEeUPZo3dCP1bebuDqIAkOH5Z8KSoqJQBWDTkcwhq1gjd4aj3Mv43sUHG-pq5hVWbFAzIL4JV3P3xfE0Q2aQyTH42L/s320/dryer+blog+026.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Step 9: Once you've sufficiently pulled the unit and given yourself a hernia, if you still have the energy, attack the dust bunnies<br />
<br />
Step 10: Attach one end of the dryer hose to the wall hole and the other end to the dryer hole<br />
Step 11: Hope it stays in place<br />
Step 12: Try to push it back into its wall space gently enough to keep the hose attached<br />
Step 13: Keep trying Steps 10-12<br />
Step 13: Begin a rhythm of crying, grunting and pushing until a full blown tantrum erupts<br />
Step 14: Curl up in the fetal position until husband comes home<br />
Step 15: Watch husband do in 10 minutes what took you 2 hours</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGJ0FCC5JU_58TVb6I4DvFYaowWjV9gcOakVqjjuEc9q6qD2Wj1AThnSh9CbyPn6W4mZ9nLnKL0Wkb_uSwz0VC24d1oI9J4oHGjx67FxYUxaA7-rgkDQaq7NfuJiRf9QG3VMtx/s1600/dryer+blog+030.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGJ0FCC5JU_58TVb6I4DvFYaowWjV9gcOakVqjjuEc9q6qD2Wj1AThnSh9CbyPn6W4mZ9nLnKL0Wkb_uSwz0VC24d1oI9J4oHGjx67FxYUxaA7-rgkDQaq7NfuJiRf9QG3VMtx/s320/dryer+blog+030.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Step 16: Pose for final Failed Angry Dryer Ninja shot while husband tries to control his laughter </span></td></tr>
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</div>jessyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16339546917326325058noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20832858.post-29775079845869258662011-01-27T17:36:00.000-07:002011-01-27T17:36:46.489-07:00Hello Kitteh<div style="text-align: justify;">I know its been a while. You don't have to remind me. Its been so long that it took me well over an hour to try to figure out my login and password and in the process, discovering an email address I forgot I had. Nothing in the old email but Winter Park promo's and (dare I admit) InStyle updates with of course the usual deluge of penis enlargement and Viagra notifications from unknown friends from around the world, I say friends because apparently we're on a first name basis. (And while we're on the subject, who continues to generate these emails in the hopes that they actually work to attract business? I mean, really. If I HAD a penis I certainly wouldn't jump at the first email suggesting I enlarge it, wouldn't that lead me to believe that somehow they knew it was too small and in that case I'd be too embarrassed to contact them in the first place, thinking, OMG! how does Kachinka know I want to enlarge it and WHY would I confirm her suspicions?) </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfGzstEeqrZZ0YzpR4Msj90p3PkazF32F-uo0vVth4rhdkH8zgxoDfaKcUNiYxHzNhQKWB-vSeSoqj-r9d6rGgUl26rKN7KF8grA11llHe2DjLJImcD5weLA5kLZajrsXddaYV/s1600/the+kittehs+003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfGzstEeqrZZ0YzpR4Msj90p3PkazF32F-uo0vVth4rhdkH8zgxoDfaKcUNiYxHzNhQKWB-vSeSoqj-r9d6rGgUl26rKN7KF8grA11llHe2DjLJImcD5weLA5kLZajrsXddaYV/s320/the+kittehs+003.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Alright. Enough of that. Where were we? Cats. Right. So my last entry, back in Feb of 2010 was about a suspicious Realtor who speaks to cats and an idiot hiding in the closet. That was so last year, but, just to bring it full circle, my first blog of resolutions shall be about a cat: our cat, well, our second cat. I know what you're thinking, Ugh, this chick is turning into a cat-lady. Not so fast my friend. Well, maybe. We all gotta have our vices. Don't get judge-y with me. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">It took Paul and I one year and seven months to finally settle on a name for our first cat. She is officially known as Salander, of course with her gambit of nicknames that have coursed through the beginnings of her life here with us. We named her after the "Girl with the Dragon Tattoo", it just seemed to be more appropriate than all the rest. Our second cat was named the night we got him. Reacher. Lee Child novelist fans, you know who you are. Of course he wouldn't be fully inducted into the Taylor household if we didn't have at least one nickname for him. I'm pretty sure he asked for this one: Captain Destructo. Toddler proofing a house is not enough for this little hairy wonder. At least we know now to zip-tie the fireplace screen shut for our future firstborn. (Don't get excited. I meant to say our distant future firstborn)</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj5FgsL4dK5dp8olWE9lw0DvoGKkRIgJac808ORnVcyr3EfaZya7SsoInOR0HGgyFy0G7mDpCCvkZ7eX0THzX_g2AguqdTTLNrcd1wAO6Qesk1VkT9Qc914_pWSKc_76T2ZsBx/s1600/the+kittehs+030.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj5FgsL4dK5dp8olWE9lw0DvoGKkRIgJac808ORnVcyr3EfaZya7SsoInOR0HGgyFy0G7mDpCCvkZ7eX0THzX_g2AguqdTTLNrcd1wAO6Qesk1VkT9Qc914_pWSKc_76T2ZsBx/s320/the+kittehs+030.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reacher :: 1 -- Lampshade :: 0</td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">Reacher is a lover and when he needs to be, a fighter. In the short month we've had him I've had at least three people suggest they might kidnap him due to his overwhelming cuteness. (But wouldn't they call it cat-napping instead of kidnapping?) I take no responsibility for his personality and blame my little brother Ethan entirely for the untold hours he spent in the cat-house holding and petting Reacher and his sister as kittens. (I know what you're thinking and no, get you're mind out of the gutter, its a doll-house turned cat-house. Wow, that didn't make it sound much better did it?)</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_H1al7rlhy-Ndl3x0Vw6r8lzyL4XZZOLgQI4XNMEOatbOuhhXRSfTykU2ZBuLkKjY8F2_cw4crj4eD2F2LA2lHpDhtXK8cKCF8a4r4sRKekDMvWcBVwutkdFeThPXC2E1OfCv/s1600/the+kittehs+025.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_H1al7rlhy-Ndl3x0Vw6r8lzyL4XZZOLgQI4XNMEOatbOuhhXRSfTykU2ZBuLkKjY8F2_cw4crj4eD2F2LA2lHpDhtXK8cKCF8a4r4sRKekDMvWcBVwutkdFeThPXC2E1OfCv/s320/the+kittehs+025.JPG" width="320" /></a><br />
So that's about it. I guess we're all caught up. See you next year. Same place, relatively same time.<br />
<br />
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jessyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16339546917326325058noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20832858.post-47413755998102971212010-02-02T15:44:00.011-07:002010-02-02T17:26:05.997-07:00Hello Kitty<div style="text-align: justify;">I have hide<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKHX6z8UhLQnknEm7wQCqohNScCq8rGRaaC0eapUyq2Y6tHWGIBRrIncOKloUXutpvy1yZ09KBqo6pgx1kwF5A_9f7sXYsVVQ5Mc2_EahFu-JZq5PGCN80gr8nhh-XK3SM7grj/s1600-h/images2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 148px; height: 111px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKHX6z8UhLQnknEm7wQCqohNScCq8rGRaaC0eapUyq2Y6tHWGIBRrIncOKloUXutpvy1yZ09KBqo6pgx1kwF5A_9f7sXYsVVQ5Mc2_EahFu-JZq5PGCN80gr8nhh-XK3SM7grj/s400/images2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433804920610376786" border="0" /></a> 'n go seek jitters that come from the anticipation of being discovered. I'm sitting in the closet. I've been in here for 15 minutes. My feet are already going numb and my back is cramping. Why did I think this would be doable for two hours? I'm anticipating Paul's call or text inquiring where I am.<br /><br />I think I hear a door shut....My hands stop typing....My ears strain to detect noise but my sinus infection hopelessly clogged them...I pray they don't notice my computer cord.<br /><br />I won't liken my condition to Anne Frank. This predicament is of my own choosing and while I could get in trouble for this little charade my life wouldn't be at stake, at least I hope it wouldn't, if it is, then the real estate business is worse than I thought. I had 30 minutes to find a suitable place but honestly I am too sick and too exhausted to look for something outside of the house.<br /><br />I can hear the central heating turn on...thirty minutes now....still no show. I'm stocked with everything I need: tea...check....snacks....check....water, cell phone, computer, headphones...check, check, check and check....dang, forgot tissues. If my nose starts to run I'll have to sacrifice the tank top. The nervousness is starting to dwindle. Confidence builds as time ticks by. Hopefully the monument of duffel bags will obscure any outsiders vision of the stowaway in the back of this closet perchance they open the door. My phone rings. I hope at first that its the centralized showing calling to say they cancelled. I could get out and stretch my legs. Heck, I could get out and start dinner. Its Paul. "hello?" I whisper. Paul: "What are you up to?" Me still whispering: "hiding..." Paul, now whispering because its contagious: "Where?" Me: "in the closet...i feel too sick to bike anywhere and they scheduled another showing at the last minute" Paul: "so I'm guessing I shouldn't come home right away?" Me: "Do a drive by, if there is no car, come inside and hide with me, if not, wait. I'll text you when they leave." "I think I hear something...Gotta go." Click.<br /><br />Definitely a car door shut. My heart is starting to pound. Confidence vanished. Doorbell rings. I don't answer. Obviously. Someone rattles the lock box and comes inside. By the sound <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyNhz-Z3_Wi6BqPfHvepuJaih1gcnpq8_dYTuYvh4ovzA_lTniuf7A_KM-Psc1r_Dtiy5ANJ8_exqIEbHoNCYlxAwyaLOMxPPxslwUXrLNS737MEtv5Z4-P4gOz299dUuDu5yg/s1600-h/images1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 107px; height: 118px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyNhz-Z3_Wi6BqPfHvepuJaih1gcnpq8_dYTuYvh4ovzA_lTniuf7A_KM-Psc1r_Dtiy5ANJ8_exqIEbHoNCYlxAwyaLOMxPPxslwUXrLNS737MEtv5Z4-P4gOz299dUuDu5yg/s400/images1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433804432026406530" border="0" /></a>of the footsteps its only one person. All the gusto I've built up comes crashing down. I suddenly feel very vulnerable. My pits are sweating profusely. Someone is looking through my things, well, I guess its mostly the staged things, but my things too. I'm not worried that he or she will find me. I pull a blanket over my head as purely precautionary. Footsteps come closer. "Hello Kitty" Its a male voice. I'm guessing Kitteh's head peeks over the pillows surrounding her lair. She always does that. Either that or I'm in much more trouble than I thought. Footsteps back away. They head upstairs. Sounds like this is a quick looksey. He's in the master bath now. Wait. What is that? He's PEEING?! He flushes. I can't tell if he washes his hands. Footsteps coming down the steps. It sounds like he's moving something in the living room. The door suddenly shuts. Did he leave? Is he coming back?<br /><br />My phone rings. Its centralized. "Ma'am?, Mr. Delaney has left the building and you are free to return to your home." Me: "Thanks." Click. I begin to extract myself from my fort.<br /><br />I text Paul: "He came.Said 'Hello Kitty'.He peed.He left.What a dip-shit.U can come home."<br /></div>jessyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16339546917326325058noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20832858.post-14385742344850404362010-01-28T11:29:00.003-07:002010-01-28T13:08:21.967-07:00the root of the problem...<div style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHksdVTj_g2v64pjBdLuW_H1o1BNLFUBLD23rT3ofp0NS93gtktDAgnz2QhXDaBPA9L-kqZkG2LKTUg1rPPz0ngVf0xtduGqpzoBQLsEXM4dsQpWSQeVcJrWx1b97lwsryBPLg/s1600-h/generic-dentistry-from-encyclopedia-britannica.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHksdVTj_g2v64pjBdLuW_H1o1BNLFUBLD23rT3ofp0NS93gtktDAgnz2QhXDaBPA9L-kqZkG2LKTUg1rPPz0ngVf0xtduGqpzoBQLsEXM4dsQpWSQeVcJrWx1b97lwsryBPLg/s400/generic-dentistry-from-encyclopedia-britannica.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431884086549014930" border="0" /></a>I suppose I should be grateful that I prolonged it as long as I did. When I first moved to Colorado back in 'o4 and saw a dentist for the first time in, oh, two years. He gave me two fillings with the promise of, "Oops, that one's kinda deep, you're going to have a root canal within the year." I made it to 2010, Ladies and Gentlemen; no root canal. I was kind of hoping I had permanently averted disaster. Alas. No such luck. I went in for my check-up and my new dentist said, "You're teeth look great." I thought to myself, "Nice, I'm still good." Then she added, "but I'm going to go ahead and recommend that you go to an endodondist though and get those back two, 14 and 15 evaluated. Looks like you might need a root canal on at least one of them." Shit. I knew it was too good to be true.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">I'll give you the synapse of the previous week and bring you up to where I'm sitting now with an aching jaw and left side facial droop that has people stopping me on the sidewalk and asking if I just had a stroke.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Endodontist said, "Yup, we're going to have to do a root canal on 15" (For those of you non-dental type people, that's far back top left.) It was scheduled for last Friday. It went well enough. I didn't love it but it wasn't the worst pain I'd ever felt, but please keep in mind the bridge jump disaster Summer of '04, for your score card. The anesthetics made me all tweaky and sick to my stomach and of course I was fully aware of my jaw and every muscle attached till Sunday.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Wednesday of this week, my dentist planned on crowning me. The receptionist asked me to come in earlier so they could redo the filling on 14 while they were at it. Shot up once again, jaw unhinged so completely I'm pretty sure they could see the contents of my stomach. The dentist starts on 14 and realizes its worse than the x-rays revealed. Damn x-rays. "You're not going to like this but you're going to have to get a root canal on 14 too." Ugh. She calls the endodontist and immediately schedules a root canal for this morning at 8:30am. More jaw shots, more unhinging of the jaw and I don't know if anyone else has experienced this but utter and complete increasing pain on the back of my skull as it rests on the seat, unable to move my neck and readjust. Whatever they used to clean made my mouth smells like I'd just licked the bottom of a swimming pool. I also had to pee 15 minutes into the procedure so that by the time they were nearly finished I could taste urine as well as smell chlorine. <br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">So here I sit in the present. Full mobility of the right side of my face and as I try to slurp some much needed food into my belly. The soup slithers across my lips and down my chin like an unruly snake. I try to catch the escaping drips, face unequally scrunched like a contortionist. Its a challenge because I don't quite feel them until they've reached the un-numb portion of my chin. I need a bib or a mirror. <br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">I believe the moral of the story is: just don't go to the dentist. Maybe mom was right all along...just swish with charcoal water, or liquid vitamin or whatever concocted swill she came across or invented. They were<span style="font-style: italic;"> all</span> better than this.<br /></div>jessyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16339546917326325058noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20832858.post-73101315009489473692010-01-21T13:44:00.003-07:002010-01-21T15:05:47.121-07:00Will the real Michael Scott please stand up?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUvF4nQvSYmX83j8KOKRpeD3oIKHlwFKPXbb7ISgsZuV4K6vmmZAkYSnsMA7UQgQr8dH3GLfrH_QH1kTUJGjQlJdKD_vD2zXteZ527nTW4ZWjtC_7Jhwe0Rv7O8IurcmwTF1U2/s1600-h/michael-scott-the-office.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 246px; height: 274px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUvF4nQvSYmX83j8KOKRpeD3oIKHlwFKPXbb7ISgsZuV4K6vmmZAkYSnsMA7UQgQr8dH3GLfrH_QH1kTUJGjQlJdKD_vD2zXteZ527nTW4ZWjtC_7Jhwe0Rv7O8IurcmwTF1U2/s400/michael-scott-the-office.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5429317114054808322" border="0" /></a>Along with the gadzillion other changes I've been plowing through the past months I have also changed jobs. I'm no longer working at the miniature poo factory. I now work at an industrial sized poo factory. Go big or go home, eh Gibbler? And I feel the need to stick with the poo factor. Its where I'm most comfortable. Psycho-analysis not needed. Where am I working? In the words of Michael Scott, "Drum-roll please...". The local community hospital. My job description has obviously changed. Instead of wrangling a classroom of preschoolers I now try to get pertinent detailed information from someone who is sick, or semi-conscious, or drunk, or all three symptoms. When I stop to admit it, the similarities between my last job and this are actuallyquite extensive. Some patients lack in verbal communication areas not unlike a two or three year old. Some can be quite demanding. Some don't stay in the room where they were dropped off. And some like to scribble their names in poo. One difference now is that I don't have to clean it up. I get to see it, write about it, possibly laugh at it, but no longer do I need to be elbow deep in it. I have arrived.<br /><br />Something else about this new job, no two days are ever the same. Don't get me wrong. Childcare days weren't the same either but at least when I woke up in the morning I had a general idea of who I was going to see that day, what plans I had and that I could control a good portion of the outcome. This new thing of not knowing is both refreshing and terrifying. I don't even necessarily know who I'm going to be working with. This is also good and bad. Bad because I don't have the time to mentally prepare myself for certain individuals. Good because, why stress about what you don't know. When I walk in the door and discover I'm working with co-worker Q, I am pleasantly surprised or I walk in and see that I'm scheduled with co-worker X and have to score an extra cup of coffee and some deep breathing exercises before taking my place at the desk.<br /><br />Co-worker X is no laughing matter. Although, now I will take the time to laugh. HAHAHAHAHA. I get my very own female version of Michael Scott. Just like back at the school when I worked with Dwight Schrute Blonde Sorority Girl I now have the pleasure of working with yet another Office character. I haven't figured out which character I could be; for now I'm enjoying spectator status.<br /><br />Co-worker X comes fully loaded with jokes that aren't funny, expressions that are overwhelming annoying, vain confidence that she is right and no matter what you do you are wrong, if she makes a mistake its your fault, every good idea is her idea, a receding hairline and in the right light, which is just about every light, a mustache. I guess Michael only has a mustache in some of the episodes. That, and he doesn't perpetually half close his eyes when he's showering himself with verbal accolades.<br /><br />Yesterday she was showing me how to type in some patient information and was needlessly flying through the tabs in the medical computer system. I'm pretty sure she was going even faster than necessary just to show how quick she was and to try to make me think I'm an idiot for asking about something on page one when she was already on page five. She got to the part where it asked for a particular zip-code that someone would have had to google or just know. This Michael Scott, she knew. She speedily typed it in. I had ceased asking questions by then. I made no sound. She lauds, as if typing in the zip-code nominated her for the Nobel peace prize, "Don't ask me how I knew that. I'm just <span style="font-style: italic;">one</span> sick puppy." I hadn't asked.jessyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16339546917326325058noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20832858.post-15691780414837759552010-01-11T17:30:00.008-07:002010-01-11T18:38:52.348-07:00the plants...<div style="text-align: justify;">Paul and I have moved. I doubt that many of you will find that unusual. What is unusual is that we moved from 400 square feet to 3,065. Just the two of us. And the cat. What ridiculousness is this you ask? We don't own it. We don't pay rent either. We're basically squatters. Our only task is to keep this place clean and neat, oh and to disappear when told. Sometimes we have days advance notice and sometimes minutes. The owners of this pretty sweet pad, that we lovingly have dubbed "The mansion", moved south before it sold and we moved in to stage it and care for the upkeep. The joke is that we're staging it with our measly amount of furniture. Paul and I have lost track of each other on more than one occasion now. I call out and Paul answers sounding more like he's 5 miles, than just two but very large rooms away. I'm getting used to the echos and creaks that big houses with small furniture are guaranteed to have and have taken to naming our plants to make it feel like more people live here. Victoria Hemingway, Tom and a few other plants moved with us from our 2711 nook but remained nameless till coming here. Lola, Herbert and Zoe recently joined the ranks as they pose in various corners of the house to trick visitors into thinking its fuller than it really is. Tom hasn't been fairing as well as I'd hoped. I first tried to figure out exactly what kind of plant he was but after searching online plant encyclopedia's my only conclusion is that he's a frightened anomaly. I re-potted him thinking some space for his roots might do him some good. Our cat promptly molested his soil the next day. She's got a thing for fresh dirt and I guess Tom's pot was just too tempting. He's still not fairing too well. Therapy is next.<br /></div><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjccZbppnKARePzOryhrx098RX37M2njwyuUpIg_fTaEbKaX45weV92r4Lfys6IJdUNNwyCiZ88arhI0N-F3ne_YV4zHUzNDpJoEpLYR3ryzzqqfeY3bAiropujEUVc0gp3Gw3z/s1600-h/funny-pictures-cat-plants-listening1.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjccZbppnKARePzOryhrx098RX37M2njwyuUpIg_fTaEbKaX45weV92r4Lfys6IJdUNNwyCiZ88arhI0N-F3ne_YV4zHUzNDpJoEpLYR3ryzzqqfeY3bAiropujEUVc0gp3Gw3z/s400/funny-pictures-cat-plants-listening1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425659698601713250" border="0" /></a>jessyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16339546917326325058noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20832858.post-23896595719000294502010-01-09T12:39:00.005-07:002010-01-09T15:39:10.395-07:00the ying yang of holidays<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihZFVjEsP_LOHSGRiwmRG5tuG2sBTj7UuGZrMfx5RbXDU23wBiGumPsuh9CunUV7_0-k0IsPARHvPh1QM11tg2aH8isKeW_3VH3l-tPztO1OrkmGcMhSjcaRLeCApuiPloMufq/s1600-h/airplane.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 135px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihZFVjEsP_LOHSGRiwmRG5tuG2sBTj7UuGZrMfx5RbXDU23wBiGumPsuh9CunUV7_0-k0IsPARHvPh1QM11tg2aH8isKeW_3VH3l-tPztO1OrkmGcMhSjcaRLeCApuiPloMufq/s400/airplane.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424872288025933154" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">I realize that holidays are typically the time of year when family comes together and warm fuzzies are in abundance. I believe though, in order to keep the cosmic balance (how dare there be a week where everyone in the world was freakin' joyous), airline companies along with their TSA minions join forces to keep the would-be/could-be happy travelers from getting just a little too gay, merry and bright.<br /><br />My blessed grandmother bought Adam, Paul and I our tickets and that right there was cause for much celebration. She cashed in some of her air mileage points with United Airlines and reserved for us some round-trip beauties, exceeding our expectations by omitting a lay-over in Chicago O'Hare and instead having us stopping over at Dulles in D.C. We were due to depart on Christmas day. The morning arrived with promises of cold but sunny skies. Adam drove. We were expecting to park in long-term parking but flying out a couple days after the mad traveling rush left all the parking lots full, now with a time constraint we were told to park nearest the airport, in the garage, and at a discount for $10 a day. Not bad actually. Covered parking for a few days. A little more than we had anticipated but we'd make our flight on time.<br /><br />Security was a joke and when Paul and I checked our bags in, they never even asked to see our ID's. Whatever. Our flight was on time so we waited at the gate, spending time and making conversation with some students of mine and their family that were coincidentally on the same plane. The flight was long but a movie sped the time and we arrived in Washington D.C. with an hour before our next leg to Richmond. The weather was still holding with a light drizzle at Dulles international but nothing to write home about...until now. Turns out that during that hour, our luggage along with the luggage of about half of the passengers on that flight was left in a pile. On the tarmac. In the light drizzle, that after we took off turned to a rainstorm. Our luggage, left behind. On the tarmac. Who does that? United. Apparently.<br /><br />We arrive in Richmond sans luggage and discover that no amount of sincerely forlorn looks shot in the direction of the conveyor belt would turn them up. Ours, along with about 15 other bags would not be magically produced no matter how kindly nor condescendingly we spoke to the customer service rep behind the counter. Threatening her job and quoting the survival rate of United Airlines as a company did little more than produce "we're sorry/complimentary" ditty bags of miniature toothbrushes and shaving paste. Extremely disgruntled we tackled our next task. Secure a rental car. I won't even get into it except to add that Horance the Horrible, you know who you are and you should be ashamed of your overweight ass as you poured over your hydraulic office chair and refused to leave your warm and sweaty seat. And Crystal your co-worker? She's not even worth mentioning.<br /><br />The next morning we were informed by a terribly kind Chai-drinking customer service rep in Dubai that our luggage had happily and indeed arrived at the airport and he was pleased to inform us that we could kindly return and pleasantly retrieve our luggage and would we joyously please get there by 12:30pm as the baggage claim would close by then and thank you so much for your business and have a very good day. It was 11:00am. We raced the hour and a half back to the airport. It was 12:36. Baggage Claim was locked up tight. We could see our luggage through the window. The plus side was that we could definitely see it. The negative side was, well, you get it. So close and yet so freakin' far. It was almost as if the manically happy Indian had arranged to have it placed just on the very other side of the glass so we could be absolutely positive it was ours and then go mad beyond all reason that we could do absolutely nothing about it. When would this saga end? The three of us marched up the escalator to the United ticket counter and were immediately shunned by a freakishly tall northern European woman who responded to the name C Bordeadeaux. She haughtily informed us that unless we were First Class she would not assist us in any matter. All we wanted was someone to open the baggage claim door. We can see it through the glass. Were we first class? No? No! She told us that she was the person who could do that for us but that no she wouldn't and furthermore she wasn't surprised they had lost our luggage because of our attitudes. Wait. What? So what your saying is that somehow United baggage handlers KNEW we were going to be grumpy about losing our bags and therefore left them just to make sure we became grumpy. Can't upset the balance of nature now can we? We left I-could-but-I-won't-psychic at the First Class counter and walked away to take matters into our own hands. Back down to Baggage Claim we started prowling for anyone wearing any type of United insignia. We saw a man wearing a United blue jumpsuit. Ground crew. We pounced. He unlocked the door and gave us our bags. We thanked him profusely. We were just about to head to the car but upon inspection of our things we discovered that leaving baggage on the tarmac during rain has its consequences. Our clothes were wet and stained. Gross. We couldn't let this one go. Paul trudged back upstairs. C Bordeadeaux was still at the counter. He said, "I know you're busy so can I please speak to a manager?" She called the cops. The people waiting in line now took up our cause. The cops arrived. Pointing at C someone remarked, "She's the one that should be arrested, for a bad attitude." "All this guy asked for was to talk to a manager." The cop said, "I'm just trying to keep the peace, please sir, just go wait in the back of the line." Paul went to the back of the line and waited. A manager arrived, he said something in C Bordeadeaux's ear. She left. A few minutes later she was seen skulking out, belongings in hand, chin to chest. The crowd cheered. Not much more was done. An honestly nice guy named Thomas apologized for the frustrations gave us some vouchers and told to report our damage claim online. Ready to just be done with it all we left to head to Massanutten and some fun with family.<br /><br />The week was busy but a blast: A yoga class that turned out to be kickboxing on speed and then a yoga class that was purely commercial time for some unknown to us local health-nut celebrity. Wine and beer tasting of some local wineries and not-so-local breweries. Yankee Swap Recycled Ornament Exchange. Splashing at the park. Christmas dinner and presents. Playing some very loud board and card games all day and night. Impromptu jam sessions. Late night movies. Trying to break the record of most inner-tubes in a chain. 13. Or was it 14? We almost had 22. Counting in the new year while David hastily poured champagne and sparkling cider and Karen spun Grandpa to play the KKC version of Pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey known as Dizzy-and-blindly-tape-your-red-circle-closest-to-your-name. Talk time with family. Catching up on the happenings of the past two years. Cookie Eating. Smiling Laughing Joking time. It was all too good. Psychic C Bordeadeaux knew it. United Airlines knew it. It was time to reset the balance of all the joyousness and bring these happy people back down to freakin' grumpy earth-time.<br /><br />Adam had left on the 30th to get back to work. He had left before he had upset the balance so his trip back was smooth and fairly uneventful. We left Massanutten early to have time to meet up with Gibbler and squeeze in some face time before flying back West. By the time Paul and I left with Bex and Seth to get to the airport the joyous-merry-happiness had tipped the scales with an obscene weight and it was time the universe was balanced again. We were in for a long day. Bex and Seth were picked up by Seth's parents to fly out the next day. Paul and I stayed to fly out in a couple hours. Checking in we saw both Horance and C Bordeadeaux but were determined to not let them get us down this time around.<br /><br />We made it through security. Still pretty lax. We arrive at the gate. Our flight was due to leave at 2:37pm. Nope. Now 4:10pm. Wait, what? Our connecting flight in Dulles left at 3:56. Simple math proved that wasn't going to work. No United reps could be found. People gathering at the gate to board now realized most would miss their connecting flights. Still no reps. Police were called. This time to find a United representative who could appease the frustrated and growing crowd. Even an environmental service guy started hunting. No rep came. Finally, Thomas appeared. We decided that he must be United's last man standing. Apparently it wasn't in his job description to work the ticket counter or the gate counter but here he was again saving us and our luggage and trying to help us get home. We're pretty sure he's the only reason United still holds a contract at Richmond International. We waited in line. Thomas got us on a different flight. It gets cancelled. We wait in line again. Thomas switches us to Airtran, probably realizing us flying out on United is a hopeless dream but promising to personally put our luggage on the plane. Back to the ticket counter. This time checking in with Airtran. Back through security. Our flight is due to leave at 6:36pm. Now 7:38pm. Is it just us? Do we have some serious back luck or did we just have too good of a time with family? Now it's due to leave at 7:56pm. At this rate we're going to miss our connecting flight in Atlanta. Paul is silently shaking his head and I'm beginning to fear we will never leave Richmond airport as visions of Tom Hanks in "Terminal" dance through my head. We've been chilling in the terminal for close to 8 hours now. We could get stuck in Atlanta. We've got a new decision to make. Airtran can't switch us, we'd have to go back to United and get switched to another flight due to leave the next morning. I would take my chances with Airtran. As more people gather at the gate whispers spread that the connecting flight in Atlanta is also delayed. So you're sayin' there's a chance. We board and fly. Making it to Atlanta we race to the gate. We do have time. It was delayed. Sweet Jesus. Just as we're about to board we realize we have two separate seats. Since the only remaining seats together were in <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1263065790_3">business class</span> they actually made us pay to sit together. The seats were wider but that was about the only amenity. Oh, that and we got drinks 2x instead of just 1x like the rest of Economy Class. No movies though. I had really bad gas on that flight, it was probably all the airport food we had to rummage through for the previous 10 hours, but since I figured, Dangit, I paid extra for this crappy seat I'm going to light it up, I let them rip. Paul was immune but I think the business dude behind me was asking for an oxygen mask about an hour into it. Oh, and when obese guy across the aisle from us took his seat at the beginning of the flight and Paul and I happen to be looking in his direction at the exact same time to witness him bend over to grab his seat-belt and reveal not just an ass-crack but a curly-cued hairy ass-crack. We nearly blew out our eyeballs trying not to explode with laughter.<br /><br />Four long hours later we arrived in Denver. In Colorado at last. Thomas came through, our luggage arrived too.<br /></div>jessyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16339546917326325058noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20832858.post-29025085966397941742009-09-16T19:23:00.008-06:002009-09-16T20:38:51.062-06:00Itching yet? You will be.<div style="text-align: justify;">I should be studying right now. I have to decompress from today first <span style="font-style: italic;">and</span> cart untold amounts of laundry down three flights of stairs to burn them in the washing machine before I can sit still long enough to study. I still have the precautionary eebie-geebies.<br /><br />Today was going to be "Back to School Night". An evening where friends and family come to school and explore their child's classroom, preferably with their child. Its also a chance for them to meet and talk with the other parents. I was planning on getting to school at 7am to finish some last minute set-ups before school started at 8. I rolled slowly over while untangling my arms from the down comforter and located my phone as I tried to focus on the numbers. 7-4-7. 7:47am!!! Adrenaline temporarily replaced my need for food and caffeine as I threw on my clothes and raced out the door.<br /><br />I arrived at school by 8:01, discombobulated, hungry and tired. Did the parents notice that one of my eyes was still stuck shut and my hair looked as if I'd just wrestled a bear? I wrapped my head in one of my infamous scarves. If I'd only known how prophetic that would turn out to be. After the arrival of almost all the children we headed outside the playground. I'd been out there for about 10 minutes when my co-teacher, Darla, came out to give me a "hea<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibazvsUsxk9TvXUaYQrz51ONbKNFcPJiSvwndZ1rda-KyITY1raKxusNvnZxSNebswzzbxz0-0TaPXt68HOI8ZJnKPAcF6UKcIEqI19teri4pGEhu0d48M2m91R4NzES5lvkAs/s1600-h/images.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 133px; height: 112px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibazvsUsxk9TvXUaYQrz51ONbKNFcPJiSvwndZ1rda-KyITY1raKxusNvnZxSNebswzzbxz0-0TaPXt68HOI8ZJnKPAcF6UKcIEqI19teri4pGEhu0d48M2m91R4NzES5lvkAs/s320/images.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5382259569912610930" border="0" /></a>d's up", pun intended that we had one confirmed case of head lice and do we know what to do? and did I know what they looked like? and she thought the office was going to send down some teachers to help us clean and quarantine our classroom. Over the next couple of hours, while wrangling preschoolers and making sure no one died I watched the borrowed teachers painfully disassemble, scratch that, destroy my classroom. T-minus 7 hours till Back-to-School night. Awesome. Was anyone going to check the current classroom population? The office was still sketchy about what they wanted to do. Apparently not a whole lot of protocol had been put in place for a time like this. Apparently I was the only person on the premises that even knew what head lice looked like, thanks to my mom and her ambition for the humanitarian of the decade award. Of the many stray people my parents had opened their home to while we were growing up, several had brought us the gift of lice. So, not only<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuh8GFU_ykXZgpMDZdaMkvT4zqn58C_DojlZYB5LZsAMQ5jpFetAcXXLxRuZr-ipvD8Vz7bHAze5UnDud0F8oXR06uNEQyqKGtl6RxU1Jnx5n1E2zPGjjIVhIhZ35Bn2NzFodq/s1600-h/scratch.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 88px; height: 91px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuh8GFU_ykXZgpMDZdaMkvT4zqn58C_DojlZYB5LZsAMQ5jpFetAcXXLxRuZr-ipvD8Vz7bHAze5UnDud0F8oXR06uNEQyqKGtl6RxU1Jnx5n1E2zPGjjIVhIhZ35Bn2NzFodq/s320/scratch.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5382260076082957330" border="0" /></a> had I had it on more than one occasion, I knew what they looked like. I checked my charges. No lice. I moved onto the room next to ours. Discretely checking child after child. Clean, clean, clean, lice, clean. Back up. Yup. Nits. Didn't even take the time to locate any adults. Lice sighting. That child also had a sibling in another classroom. Another affirmative. After finding it in not one but three separate classrooms I became the School Lice Expert. Can't wait to add that to my resume.<br /><br />Paul's and my clothes, bedsheets, rugs and towels are currently being scalded down in the laundry room whether they need to be or not; shrinkage and color transfer be damned. <br /></div>jessyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16339546917326325058noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20832858.post-45669978309527313872009-05-12T21:32:00.002-06:002009-05-13T22:09:02.818-06:00Anatomical Woes<div style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimBl-oXT6ProYwZsc9eK1vwmchOtzPsBc9NieMr653gvYF0eVL4YurvIoeYzqSqguPqbyXNcfaXG-_GAiSI3oXfla0TIF9venyMl_902uY_f3qHlxtzbQstC67UTsC2rhK4kUT/s1600-h/42-21472201.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 231px; height: 165px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimBl-oXT6ProYwZsc9eK1vwmchOtzPsBc9NieMr653gvYF0eVL4YurvIoeYzqSqguPqbyXNcfaXG-_GAiSI3oXfla0TIF9venyMl_902uY_f3qHlxtzbQstC67UTsC2rhK4kUT/s320/42-21472201.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335526558860032514" border="0" /></a>The students wanted to go to the Theater but certain tasks had to be accomplished first, certain tasks such as cleaning up from snack and running everyone through the potty mill. The moments surrounding meal times are becoming my least favorite moments of the day. There is always someone that must be prodded, chided, coaxed, or wrangled back to the table to clean up their lunch or to the potty. Its like they enjoy peeing on the floor. One little boy, Caillou, and I have a strained relationship when it comes to potty time. Our relationship, however strained, has indeed progressed. Yesterday, while angry that he was sitting on the toilet after putting himself there, screamed out at me, "Hold down my penis." I replied, "Dude, you got this one." Still hysterically crying, "Nooooooo, I want you to hold my penis down, I'm peeing on my leeeeeeeeeeggggggg." Ahhhh, Wipe it offffff, wipe it offffff." (I did not hold it down. I cleaned up the catastrophe after but I didn't hold it down. Was that wrong?)<br /><br />Today we started our morning on the playground with some older kids. Caillou had been on the playground for a total of 10 minutes when apparently an older girl thought it would be great to run up and punch him in the penis. "She did what?" I think they left out these types of post-war resolutions and fly-by terrorist attacks from Early Childhood Development class specifically to test our creativity at dealing with such negotiations. I pulled the kindergartner girl aside. At first she claimed he had hit her but knowing for sure that it wasn't his M.O. to hit a girl twice his size I asked her again if she was sticking with that story. She then said she just did it because she thought it would be fun. I turned to Caillou and asked him if he thought it was fun. Nope, he did not like it. I told her that punching kids in their privates was not cool. Did I really need to even say that? I thought that was universal. Apparently not.</div>jessyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16339546917326325058noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20832858.post-40396505749415813022009-04-04T17:32:00.006-06:002009-04-05T17:14:16.688-06:00Confessions of a Non-Runner<div style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgCklQH8M9JTkt57XYlcb3DPKfdO6rGNEKRdHCFTexQUTlulDrcF7cTtIl59YjIGR-bDOzsRvnLQ3dBpjXeqWjkQh4r_0wLsKk1RgNyQ3SQU15uZ1JxxTTvwvJ2-QOEr_2Xf2V/s1600-h/P5260037.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgCklQH8M9JTkt57XYlcb3DPKfdO6rGNEKRdHCFTexQUTlulDrcF7cTtIl59YjIGR-bDOzsRvnLQ3dBpjXeqWjkQh4r_0wLsKk1RgNyQ3SQU15uZ1JxxTTvwvJ2-QOEr_2Xf2V/s320/P5260037.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321003394041253666" border="0" /></a>This may come as a shock to some of you but I am not a runner. I may have given the impression or outright lied that I was. I may have even told myself that I was and I may have signed up for races, but you won't see me out there pounding the pavement until about two weeks prior to the race date. So, in the current spirit of truth I confess: I am not a runner.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />But you've been running since you were 11, you say. That may be true but I only started because as one of seven children it meant that was the only "Dad & Me Time" I was going to get all day. Dad would come in at 4 or 5 something in the morning and shake me saying, "We're going in 10." I'd begrudgingly pull on my athletic duds, secretly excited I had Dad all to myself but annoyed that we were running <span style="font-style: italic;">and</span> at the crack of dawn. I rarely complained out loud but I'm sure Dad got the message when he'd have to re-wake me up two or three more times before I was fully dressed and out the door. One time he handed me a glass of water on his first wake-up call hoping to speed the process. I fell back to sleep with it resting on my chest, jerking awake when I heard my dad re-approaching, this time splashing the full glass of water on my face and soaking my pillow and pajamas. I was wide awake after that.<br /><br />The running tradition started when we moved to Canada. I had no way to measure the cold other than by how fast it took to freeze the snot in my nose or how my chilled breath seemed to blur my vision. Regular runs with dad continued on through high-school in Oklahoma, where the wind gusts would try to blow me off the road, and up until I left for college in Missouri. I would run with Dad when I'd come home on Holiday and I would run, more sporadically, at college. I'd run <span style="font-style: italic;">mostly</span> when I was frustrated or feeling chubby or out of excuses for my best friend (who was a jog-a-holic) or when, like most co-eds, I was trying to impress the opposite sex, especially since part of the trail went passed the back half of the baseball field during practice. The fact that my jogs were during practice was merely coincidental. I <span style="font-style: italic;">always</span> ran though, when I missed my dad. I'd imagine he was there beside me, our footsteps and breath in sync, less about the conversation and more about the rhythm.<br /><br />I don't go home as often, and when I do, its sometimes too short a trip to squeeze in a run with Dad, who is still in better shape than I am. I also care less about giving the impression that I'm a runner. People may think I'm in shape, but if I am, its only because I spend 40+ hours a week chasing 3-year-olds and because I bike to work but only if the weather's nice, if I get up in time and if Paul doesn't need the car that day.<br /><br />I'm not sure what got me out the door today. I certainly had my list of excuses. I was not particularly missing my dad, not feeling especially frustrated or chubby, Bolder Boulder is still nearly two months away and I'm definitely not trying to impress the opposite sex, since mine's finishing up a 12-hour shift at the hospital. I mindlessly pulled on my athletic duds. I could have stopped when I failed to find the other half of my favorite running socks. I could have stalled to re-charge my deceased ipod. I could have gone back inside when I stepped out and realized it was both freezing cold and windy. But I didn't. I have no idea why I ran, because, like I said before, I am not a runner.<br /></div>jessyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16339546917326325058noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20832858.post-68352071776950482422009-04-04T13:40:00.012-06:002009-04-04T14:27:20.119-06:00Potty Talk and Where To Go Potty<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEkObf3b00sYaQwLb4ozdh_7q_rN2KTv4ReraJ5dVtZ-6eh0QRjs5XbO6ldi7x7_J2nysomesWL40LoCHDHZWGa65jKBSQUiFWPbvckLe7WS3u9SQMWp1RT9CEnqUfCJuggvAQ/s1600-h/Potty+Talk.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 170px; height: 113px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEkObf3b00sYaQwLb4ozdh_7q_rN2KTv4ReraJ5dVtZ-6eh0QRjs5XbO6ldi7x7_J2nysomesWL40LoCHDHZWGa65jKBSQUiFWPbvckLe7WS3u9SQMWp1RT9CEnqUfCJuggvAQ/s320/Potty+Talk.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320934884482135618" /></a> I'm not quite sure where it all went wrong. The day started out like every other day. Kids and lunch-boxes were dropped off with bids of see-you-laters and just-one-more-kiss and, for the most part, even though we were 4 kids over the limit and 1 teacher short, it promised to be somewhat smooth sailing. My co-teacher and I talked about our plan of attack for the day over the wails of sirens that only 3 year old boys can perfect, sirens that still make me wonder where the fire is. It was decided that my co would take a small group of four to the Light and Shadow room for some investigations while I stayed in the classroom with the remaining children to work on some bigger projects. About five minutes into our work I changed course and chose to get everyone outside where they had more space in which to kill each other, since they seemed bent on doing so anyway. After about 30 more minutes of “I need help with my coat” and “I have to go pee again” we were finally in the fresh air where I started to do some deep breathing exercises to bring my blood pressure back down. We decided to walk to the garden situated at the back of our school through a gate at the end of our playground. Sixty-five percent of the kids stuck to the plan while the rest thought it would be hilarious to run the other direction. After some more cat-herding negotiations we were finally in the same area at the same time. I took this moment to take another deep breath. We're all here. We're safe. We're alive. Good.<br /><br />Mounds of snow and ice were scattered throughout the garden and most of the children used this opportunity to either jump in it or eat it. I usually try to discourage the eating of it because God knows whats in it but after I've reach my nagging limit for the day I just say, "Whatever, its your stomach." One little girl, whom I'll call Tina, seems to have an unquenchable oral fixation even though she should clearly be over the I-put-everything-in-my-mouth infant discovery phase.<br /><br />I turned my back on the snow munchers for a second to remind another 3 foot tall friend that hopping down icy stone steps was a great way to get hurt. I swung back around to see another friend, naked from the waist to his knees, now struggling to get his undies back up. I was truly confused for a second. What on earth could he be doing? My first thought was that maybe he was all bunched up or something was itchy or a bug got in there? Trying to maintain as much calmness as possible I asked, “What's going on Hunter?” He looked up with the biggest smile of accomplishment since Phelps and his Olympic Golds and answered, “I's peein' on the snow.” Slightly stunned from this brazen display and too frazzled by this point to immediately handle the situation with some Dr. Phil psycho-babble I caught yet another development out of the corner of my eye. Apparently Tina had noticed Hunter pointing and saying “snow”. Thinking he was pointing out another icy cold buffet , her tiny pink tongue was now inches from where he had proudly relieved himself. I yelped and reached out just in time to catch her coat and pull her back from certain disaster. She, of course, thought I was just physically enforcing the anti-snow-eating policy and threw herself into a full body display of stubbornness and anger. I hugged her and tried to slowly explain why I'd stopped her but she would hear none of it. Hunter, still struggling to pull up his pants and loudly touting his accomplishment was pulled into the impromptu conference as I explained, while buttoning his britches, that eating snow and peeing on snow were things we should probably NOT do at school.<br /><br />Just when I thought the day could not possibly be any more exciting a fellow 3 year old from another class, I'll call Mason, threw down an object and enjoying the noise it made yelled out, “That's bullshit!” Fortunately another teacher immediately swooped in with a list of school-approved fun words like “Shaboom” or “Shabang” to say. Unfortunately the damage had already been done and just as I was helping Hunter go pee in the school-approved potty he happily yelled out, “Bullshit! that's a great word, Mason, Bullshit!”jessyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16339546917326325058noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20832858.post-1523901429549550992009-03-31T18:03:00.005-06:002009-03-31T19:00:12.041-06:00My eye is funky...<div style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjetTCOi9YXrrUruOXSFm4lD0kCm1d7Ni5hhaFPNVNkDTfR6q7rSh3frJo_NBwFgTXElOJt_0YAVSe8oYY-jCxHICeKjeIo28SrNUg0eXN6X-7F6sjVkXDqr-3OKiz-4385Worm/s1600-h/Blogshots+001.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjetTCOi9YXrrUruOXSFm4lD0kCm1d7Ni5hhaFPNVNkDTfR6q7rSh3frJo_NBwFgTXElOJt_0YAVSe8oYY-jCxHICeKjeIo28SrNUg0eXN6X-7F6sjVkXDqr-3OKiz-4385Worm/s200/Blogshots+001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319521145251641362" border="0" /></a>One of my little charges has been going through a particularly rough period, especially in the subject of potty-training. I thought 2 weeks ago was the worst of it when, he stood, inches from where I was squatting trying to help him, while grunting out, "I don't have to go potty" while every body gesture was screaming, "I'm currently pooping my pants and you can't do anything about it."<br /></div><br />At least it was contained.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Yesterday brought a new dimension. I thought progress had been made. The tantrums were decreasing in both intensity and time. Then something unearthed the dormant monster below. I wasn't sure what set him off. My co-teacher had to leave early and a substitute was brought in. I thought we were just about to go on the potty when a tantrum began. In the warm-up phase the sub had managed to get his undies and pants off because by this time he was tizzing (tantrum-whizzing, also of the same genre as lizzing: laughing and whizzing, as seen on 30Rock). By the time he was kicking and screaming he was performing a stand-up puddle stomp. Pee trickling down his leg. He refused a diaper, refused the potty, he even refused to stand near the potty as he continued to fling dribble on my skirt, the chair and everything within a two foot radius of the bathroom. I tried to shield myself from the onslaught while trying to calm the little man down. After 60 minutes I guess he could hold back the flood gate no longer and he agreed to let me set him on the toilet. With all that had splattered I thought it was safe to assume he didn't have much more. I was wrong. Still in the resolving shutters of the tanty he failed to aim and rapid fired on the remaining dry wall.<br /><br />Today we did better. It was a minor incident this time revolving around hand-washing. What is it with boy's and hand-washing? Do they think all their hard-work and play is going to dissapear down the drain? He calmed down a bit when his best friend joined him at the sink. All of a sudden he wailed. "My eye, my eye!" I went over. I asked him if he'd gotten soap in it. He shook his head. Now wailing louder. I asked him what was wrong while I started to examine it for an eyelash or bubble or rock or 2x4. He then said, "Nothing's in it, my eye is funky." He stopped crying and walked away.<br /><br /></div>jessyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16339546917326325058noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20832858.post-43526005393692703422009-03-30T17:48:00.004-06:002009-03-31T19:02:41.194-06:00Water cooler chit-chat<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0loqzJqndwLzYlM8jpGWC0w1semLD4mvC5JYcqBiEItJ2hZU4aaPD3N5Av9pTq3n8G0cNRmYi8Cyj6HA-U5LQBkWYy_xD9byxpcZ_mJzSTNaFjN3MPq9hnd8IcUUSRKw7YuiK/s1600-h/42-17020327.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 113px; height: 170px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0loqzJqndwLzYlM8jpGWC0w1semLD4mvC5JYcqBiEItJ2hZU4aaPD3N5Av9pTq3n8G0cNRmYi8Cyj6HA-U5LQBkWYy_xD9byxpcZ_mJzSTNaFjN3MPq9hnd8IcUUSRKw7YuiK/s320/42-17020327.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319505703744790466" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">My quote of the day:<br /><br />"Uhm, I don't know if you realize this or not but you're missing your underwear and pants."<br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"></span><br /></div>jessyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16339546917326325058noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20832858.post-18701924854572399522009-03-21T17:32:00.001-06:002009-03-27T17:37:54.383-06:00Four states in 10 hours<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimfsF2cPxHkSvs0OkSQ33RBI9pyvgZQuWfjA6Ev2In-s7TSZz5fHIgX24YA6uTluRLmeS4F8GBHxLXdnibwzUVOkQ7LOzPXyhzbxfMn3kVXJcARk_QvYQbiHwsvkCJnL-hP9Rx/s1600-h/CBR003599.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 170px; height: 170px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimfsF2cPxHkSvs0OkSQ33RBI9pyvgZQuWfjA6Ev2In-s7TSZz5fHIgX24YA6uTluRLmeS4F8GBHxLXdnibwzUVOkQ7LOzPXyhzbxfMn3kVXJcARk_QvYQbiHwsvkCJnL-hP9Rx/s320/CBR003599.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318015790376449378" border="0" /></a>“Yes, but this is the United States, you pay.” “You burp, you fart, you yell, you pay”<br />I had just asked an apparently jaded Middle Eastern man in a shocking red sport coat if Newark had wi-fi.<br />I responded with, “Denver Airport has free wi-fi.” As if somehow that would instantly encourage Newark to compete with Rocky Mountain standards.<br /><div style="text-align: justify;">“Well then, go to Denver.” He staccatoed back. He then ranted something about New York and New Jersey, but I couldn't make out much more than his frustrations about paying for everything.<br /><br />Four states in 10 hours. You'd think I was going for some kind of record or nationwide scavenger hunt, driven by some new cleaning or teeth-whitening product that was supposedly sponsoring me. Nope, this was my sneaky attempt at a cheap ticket home to surprise my siblings and Expedia had stuck it to me. Not one but two lay-overs. Denver to Indiana to New Jersey then finally Virginia.<br /><br />My journey started this morning, leaving my Boulder apartment just after sunrise, stopping for a quick breakfast with Paul and a hug for Johnny Whispers before driving to DIA. We'd spend the next two hours in line. For a boarding pass. Paul patiently goofed off with me. We worked up skematics to a new game that I'm sure will soon be popular. It might even make the 2012 Olympics. It consists of standing in line. Not for what's at the end of the line. Just for the enjoyable sake of standing in line. We could go to various attractions just to stand in line. We wouldn't ride the ride, or get the ticket to the concert, or get in to hear presedential hopefuls. We'd simply stand in line. Once reaching the end, we'd leave, or run back to the beginning, to start again. It would be all about the journey and nothing about the reward. These are the things you concoct when standing in lines that are too long for rewards that are too short-lived. <br />The attendant had the mic to her lips and was just about to call my name when I marched up to the gate flashing my ticket like a badge of a sent for CSI at a crime scene. My popularity quickly waned as I became the latecomer and my carry-on resembled a craze fan at a rock concert as four other passengers lifted it overhead to find room in the bins.<br /><br />For all the nerve shredding antics that Frontier caused in the boarding pass line (shun the line-cutters) I must admit that both my ticket and my phone said 10:50am as we pulled away from the gate.<br /><br />The window seat is a bad place to be when you realize that you have to pee as you're racing down the jetway. Two complimentary beverages later I still had to go, only now I was considering squatting over a barf bag. When I could wiggle no longer I turned to the lady next me and said, “I gotta go to the restroom, I don't mind crawling under your legs, but I gotta go.” The gentleman next to her was snoring after three consecutive Bloody Mary's. She immediately started knocking on his arm to get him up. I felt guilty about disturbing the peace but seriously, what else are you going to do on plane? I felt justified when I saw both of them use the bathroom before returning to their seats.<br /><br />Landing in Indianapolis I was informed that my bag hadn't been on my flight. Excellent. I love getting to my destination without all my bags. I wasn't worried about me, I had a spare outfit in my carry-on. My large duffel contained birthday presents for my aforementioned soon-to-be surprised siblings. Just as I was buckling my seatbelt, a really great ticket agent came onto the plane to inform me my bag had joined me. Extra bag o' peanuts for you, kind sir!<br /> <br />The next flight was attended by a short squatty eye-glassed soon-to-be celebrity. Apparently he was finishing his drink-serving, safety-informing gig and landing in Newark to finish filming “Honey I Shrunk the Kids 3” where he would be playing the dad character from the original version. You'd think he would have been a bit more generous seeing as this was his last flight for a while...I didn't even get mini-pretzel crumbs in a bag.<br /><br />I made it to Norfolk with 20 minutes to spare. I was sprinting down the concourse so quickly I almost missed my dad. Hugs exchanged we made our way to baggage claim where, sure enough, my bag o' gifts had arrived. <br /></div>jessyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16339546917326325058noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20832858.post-13965593968393222422009-02-21T19:28:00.000-07:002009-02-22T20:08:52.856-07:00world's worst cup of coffee!!!<div style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0NAZQ3olsp7VZumC5Ebw7pmtTSxMhE9JM6r6fGmTUarj78xVYep62k_919PjES4uirk8pvR3f0ClpaWx8_KroeAlSjwzQuinNBaNrE7Y1sl4fRLGgzaxt9yIaPBvtW7hpRdp7/s1600-h/Downtown+with+Joey+073.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0NAZQ3olsp7VZumC5Ebw7pmtTSxMhE9JM6r6fGmTUarj78xVYep62k_919PjES4uirk8pvR3f0ClpaWx8_KroeAlSjwzQuinNBaNrE7Y1sl4fRLGgzaxt9yIaPBvtW7hpRdp7/s400/Downtown+with+Joey+073.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305824192558944866" border="0" /></a>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."<br /><br />Starbucks, I don't think you have anything to worry about. <br /></div>jessyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16339546917326325058noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20832858.post-88350482913297543322009-02-11T07:49:00.004-07:002009-02-11T08:04:20.924-07:00Attn: 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.)<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZaT0Yj_uIwcnTgzQxknoJeS1vdoPmtgal-dtN55dzjJD70slGLSvJanIgUxKaDdZFZlevj-MhxB9k-cPVsCn3xfV08Mw_-8-D8ALwixe8U30sHYgdFUDres9wJkbJW9DpT9p9/s1600-h/42-19782112.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 111px; height: 170px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZaT0Yj_uIwcnTgzQxknoJeS1vdoPmtgal-dtN55dzjJD70slGLSvJanIgUxKaDdZFZlevj-MhxB9k-cPVsCn3xfV08Mw_-8-D8ALwixe8U30sHYgdFUDres9wJkbJW9DpT9p9/s400/42-19782112.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301553927637586834" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">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.</div>jessyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16339546917326325058noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20832858.post-87194512131746644852009-02-01T13:17:00.007-07:002009-02-01T14:05:41.608-07:00Poo Bombs<div style="text-align: justify;">I'm beginning to think that life centers around poo. Could be my current occupation, but the idea is beginning to grow on me.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /></div>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?"<br /><div style="text-align: justify;">"What do you need, Big Guy?" I responded.<br />"Help?" He questioned, not quite sure what he needed.<br />"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?<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.)<br /><br />"No, I'm done." (I think the Bathroom had frightened it out<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgPZWQH0wmFjMmt7UpbqnRxKJO8U6Xb84ry_ObdVQ32nd7fZFMlV_PIiFs8RxeXTxnOHWwGDdU133yHQ1WU_Y6jBnSGEF6Vv_3E5Vwp_oW1moiEoL_ivLoM7eeWU80o5u35N7c/s1600-h/DZ006629.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 142px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgPZWQH0wmFjMmt7UpbqnRxKJO8U6Xb84ry_ObdVQ32nd7fZFMlV_PIiFs8RxeXTxnOHWwGDdU133yHQ1WU_Y6jBnSGEF6Vv_3E5Vwp_oW1moiEoL_ivLoM7eeWU80o5u35N7c/s400/DZ006629.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5297935142928841394" border="0" /></a> of him. And just to bring home the sheer devestation...the little guy had somehow managed to get it between his toes.)<br /><br />A full package of wipes and half a spray bottle of bleach later Boy and Bathroom were clean*.<br /><br />(*<span style="font-size:85%;">No child or animal was harmed by bleach during these events. I did, however, briefly consider taking a blowtorch to the bathroom. )</span><br /></div>jessyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16339546917326325058noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20832858.post-81101569813399860402009-01-30T13:14:00.000-07:002009-02-01T13:16:35.996-07:0025 Random Facts1. Fact: I can burp louder than my husband Paul. This has been a sore point in our relationship.<br /><br />2. I order black coffee or no-room americanos when Paul orders soy lattes. Life is a competition. Not sure what I'm competing for.<br /><br />3. I have to poo with the bathroom door open, this is also to Paul's chagrin. I can't poo when I'm feeling claustrophobic and our bathroom is so small that I could clean the bathtub, wash my hands in the sink and sort the laundry while I'm going #2. I've actually tried.<br /><br /><span> 4. I despise jean shopping. If I'm ever feeling too good about myself and then have to shop for a pair of jeans I become sorely humiliated, depressed and angry (its basically a grieving process. every time.) And I then force myself to remember that A: jeans were made to be worn only by women in magazines and B: i am NOT the shortest girl in the world with the tushie the size of texas...i am NOT the shortest girl in the world with a tushie the size of texas...i am NOT the shortest....girl...in...th</span><div><wbr><span class="word_break"></span><span>...world...tushie...texas.</span><wbr><span class="word_break"></span>... well. you get the point. basically it becomes my mantra. (or my last words prior to bursting into tears and running out of the store)<br /><br />5. I broke my neck on my day off from my job as a camp counselor and after the ER visit and my complimentary neck brace I returned to camp to finish out the term, without any meds since some turd-licker took them right off the counter in my ER room and I didn't realize it till I stepped outside and the ER peeps said I'd have to check in all over again to get any pain meds. So I went without. Clearly I'm no longer bitter.<br /><br />6. Some of my favorite words are: peeps, tryst, solidarity, knickers and monster. I don't care what they mean I just like the way they sound.<br /><br />7. I drank my first beer in Germany.<br /><br />8. Some of my least favorite words are: moist, mildew, jagular (its a word, even if its made up) and any and all naughty/mean words for girls and their parts.<br /><br />9. I cycled across the states with a team of guys, the youngest, 12, had serious mommy issues and attempted to strangle me with a clothesline and the oldest, 62 was a self-obsessed, coca-cola drinking, preacher who wanted to be in every newspaper/tv interview along the state highways and benched me one day because I challenged his authority. I feel the need to mention that there were 3 other guys on the trip who were actually pretty cool and rode with me in the support van the day I was benched.<br /><br />10. I'm not sure why but when I'm telling a story and I need a large random number I always pick "65".<br /><br />11. 79 is my most favorite number.<br /><br />12. One day after looking over Paul's shoulder while he was reading "Crime and Punishment" I wanted vodka and cherry pie for dinner.<br /><br />13. I used to say that good looking guys were all kept in some warehouse and they only let them out a little at a time. I met Paul while on a blind date with his cousin during the tour his cousin was giving me of his warehouse.<br /><br />14. I'm hopelessly addicted to "The Office".<br /><br />15. I was addicted to CSI, the original -Las Vegas, but since they killed off Warrick, sent Sarah on a trip to Costa Rica and Grissom following after her I just can't watch it anymore. CBS, if you reading this, and I know you are...what the heck were you thinking??<br /><br />16. If something in my clothes itches me it drives me crazy. I will even strip down in a public restroom stall to get to the bottom of it and if I can't fix it I will never wear it again no matter how cute or trendy it is.<br /><br />17. The extent of my teenage rebellion was getting a belly ring that got infected and when forced to show my parents my dad replied, "Well, that was pretty stupid, don't you think?"<br /><br />18. I have one tattoo. It doesn't count as teenage rebellion since I got it 3 years ago.<br /><br />19. I once peed my pants when I was jumping on my 1st Grade crush's bean bag in his bedroom. When my mom picked me up from our play-date I was wearing his clothes. I was both embarrassed and elated.<br /><br />20. I was kicked out of H.S. Geometry and English class multiple times for uncontrollable laughter.<br /><br />21. I never went through the "boy's are icky phase" I did however go through a phase in 3rd grade where I thought I could be one, I stopped when my siblings asked me to stop peeing in the shower, since that was the only place I could do it standing up, because for some reason I thought that was all it took.<br /><br />22. I also had 2 identity complexes. When I was four I thought I was Orphan Annie and insisted on calling my mom Ms. Hannigan. When I was 10 I thought I was Laura from Little House on the Pairie. I wore dresses over dresses to get the layered pinafore effect and had my mom pack my lunch in a tin pail for school. I was such a weird child.<br /><br />23. By my freshman year in college I was well over my #21 phase and quite content in my own skin. I was given Landscaping for my summer job on campus. For the first two weeks the Landscaping boss sent me out to mow with the boys. The beginning of the 3rd week he sheepishly called me into his office to explain that I was to go on the rose-trimming/garden crew with the girls. He finally admitted that for the past two weeks he had thought I was a guy until some of the girls started complaining that they all wanted to mow. In all fairness, I didn't get boobs until my sophomore year. For the rest of the summer though, everyone called me J.T.T. (Jonathan Taylor Thomas) or Zack from the 'Mmmm Bop' Band.<br /><br />24. When I was twelve I climbed a banana tree in Canada just to say I did. I discovered banana trees are not very climbable. <br /><br />25. I have a strong desire to be an FBI agent, a Hollywood actress and a National Geographic photographer. I currently have a job that combines all of that. I am a pre-school teacher.</div>jessyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16339546917326325058noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20832858.post-72640844042086259042008-11-22T12:26:00.003-07:002008-11-22T12:51:57.658-07:00Every time a bell ringsI found a vintage cruiser in a junk heap outside our apartment building that no one laid claim to, so i decided to fix it up. Paul helped me with the rusted nuts and bolts and i degreased, cleaned and de-cobwebbed the rest of it to reveal an electric blue J.C. Higgins classic cruiser. There was one part that we needed to order so we took it to a logical place, the REI bike shop. I could have taken<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy4iypFPfF6J5_I9aAK152BU3SikMLCXBgsCC4CwmaNk2O4Q6xzQo-c-g1_GTJ3q-oIxitA5x_UNjzduff5qrPe6KjdwJY7mSdscq_d-RmKAK5o7WXOD5S5YXFGrtW7e4NOky8/s1600-h/21bgio+pdSL._SL160_AA115_.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 115px; height: 115px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy4iypFPfF6J5_I9aAK152BU3SikMLCXBgsCC4CwmaNk2O4Q6xzQo-c-g1_GTJ3q-oIxitA5x_UNjzduff5qrPe6KjdwJY7mSdscq_d-RmKAK5o7WXOD5S5YXFGrtW7e4NOky8/s320/21bgio+pdSL._SL160_AA115_.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271571931488250610" border="0" /></a> to a bike shop that was closer but since Paul worked at REI it seemed more logical. First, they said that they just needed to re-build the axle on the front tire...3 weeks later they decided they needed to just order a new front tire...4 weeks later, forgetting to put the order in they said they'd expedite at no cost...1 week later the "new tire" comes in and Paul puts it on my bike. The next morning I carry my newly working cruiser down 3 flights of stairs and throw my bag of teacherly goodies in the rear baskets and push off. The front wheel weebles and wobbles and I nearly crash. Clearly the axle is loose and the front tire is not working. Having lost 2 months of riding I decide to take her to a different bike shop. They take a look and tell me that the "new" front tire is not new and that the axle had been stripped. Not cool. Return parts to REI along with some unpleasantries. A "for real" new tire is ordered and less than 5 days later she's up and running beautifully, complete with a bike bell that says, "I love my bike" a gift from my friend Beth before she returned to New Zealand. This morning I take her for her virgin voyage and look down at the newly shined handlebars...some punks stole my bell.<br /><br />I'm not sure what the moral of the story is here...i'll get back to ya after i kick some thieving booty.jessyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16339546917326325058noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20832858.post-26149277641046258972008-11-21T22:14:00.006-07:002008-11-22T12:26:13.313-07:00Sesame Street's got nothing on me<div style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTfno-z9H7gCD1f2Cl015z0gngKfi5_hckrBhfBysiyp1R-gfxB0lk5y4RAQuafsIoEvxzY3vtfJ9MZB42DGBH1Eb1WYM-vyjCI_Sf5-G8ub34gt5jxrZ8h7uCKXaHTR5U4LF_/s1600-h/BE023722.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 170px; height: 139px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTfno-z9H7gCD1f2Cl015z0gngKfi5_hckrBhfBysiyp1R-gfxB0lk5y4RAQuafsIoEvxzY3vtfJ9MZB42DGBH1Eb1WYM-vyjCI_Sf5-G8ub34gt5jxrZ8h7uCKXaHTR5U4LF_/s320/BE023722.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271354385810322258" border="0" /></a>There are people in this world who continually collide with disaster. I am one of those people and one of my disasters is two and half years old who I'll refer to as, Mr. Bean. I try not to let his English accent woo me, especially when it emits, with miniature Tony Blair vocals, "Jessy, I've soiled my trousers." Cute it may seem -until I have to help him change his poopie drawers. For some bizarre twist of fate I always seem to be just in the perfect vicinity to be sneezed on, peed on and pooped on. A couple weeks ago we were having our morning meeting on the carpet and my red-headed Mr. Bean, during a particular rousing song, looks me in the face and sneezes. Not only do I get a snotty booger on my cheek but it happened so quickly I didn't even have time to shut my eyes. (Did you know that sensitive baby wipes hurt if you try to clean your eyeballs with them?) Today I barely survived two attempts at my hygienic life. The first was this morning. His mother bid him goodbye and he went over to our art studio, sat at the table and promptly pooped his pants. I recognized the "poo face" seconds too late. He waddled to the bathroom with me as I gathered a fresh pair of "trousers", gloves and <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUo6fgZn1B8jOBVX4NDsMsiRMOLcM9G8c-dy3ztKgx9Bkxjv60hPn6gpI2v8bn03WAcLJMkNXVLy6nkFXFLZAc6t6iL7Xp0IAR56b6_Y_nwzrRlHuRlxeFlzXtWMi9kpnNd9Iz/s1600-h/BXP51648.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 111px; height: 170px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUo6fgZn1B8jOBVX4NDsMsiRMOLcM9G8c-dy3ztKgx9Bkxjv60hPn6gpI2v8bn03WAcLJMkNXVLy6nkFXFLZAc6t6iL7Xp0IAR56b6_Y_nwzrRlHuRlxeFlzXtWMi9kpnNd9Iz/s320/BXP51648.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271356391481806514" border="0" /></a>wipes. Being the conserving type that I am I didn't want to throw away the undies, now hosting a rounded turd resembling a dirty baseball, nor did I want to send the turd home. I leaned over the toilet and tried to gingerly roll it into the basin. It fell with a kur-plunk. Back splashing me...IN THE FACE. I managed to keep my breakfast down. The second attempt was this afternoon when I reminded him to go pee. Apparently uncircumcised preschool-aged urinary members are harder to aim because just as I was reminding him to hold "peter" down pee shot up at my leg and I leaped away with no seconds to spare, saving only what hadn't already been previously "poo-splashed" on.<br /><br /></div>I came home to check the numbers on my pay-check stub. Nope, not enough digits.jessyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16339546917326325058noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20832858.post-65200726243682032932008-11-19T19:04:00.003-07:002008-11-20T19:28:06.907-07:00Uhhh....<div style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtvjan37bIXZRK7Ibb05ul180STcIQER8ZxFX8O9tbDsmD24R1VVatK3nn6iK0RVnxwPiwp_-lNs7-O16h5XfsdOc0GsjhejApyTQZXYwv43p0pXhn6TzBKAHmb5exJk__L8Q8/s1600-h/RF4780705.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 226px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtvjan37bIXZRK7Ibb05ul180STcIQER8ZxFX8O9tbDsmD24R1VVatK3nn6iK0RVnxwPiwp_-lNs7-O16h5XfsdOc0GsjhejApyTQZXYwv43p0pXhn6TzBKAHmb5exJk__L8Q8/s320/RF4780705.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270931293235424562" border="0" /></a>There seems to be a rash of moments lately that have just taken me by sheer shock and as a person who prides myself in being able to adjust and adapt and think quickly in my current vocation i have been utterly incapable of functioning. Today two of my preschoolers (who happen to be twin girls) decided to go "swimming" in the inner-tube that some of the boys and I have been conducting experiments in rolling with. These two girls are the oldest in the class and youngest in their family. My co and I have the worst time trying to convince them to keep their clothes on. After 5 or 6 negotiations they know they have pushed my last button. When I saw them stripping, yet again, I asked them what they were doing. When they answered "going swimming", I saw potential for constructive dramatic play and frankly, one less battle to fight. I said, "When you are done swimming can you put your clothes back on?" They both answered yes with a laugh as if I was the lunatic. Not 45 seconds later I look over and see one of them sucking on the other's nipple. Louder than I intended, I asked, "What are you doing?", still trying to allow for a reasonable explanation. "I'm the baby" the suckling one answered. I stood there, frozen. My brain not even processing how to handle the situation appropriately. "Uhhh, put your clothes back on. Baby's done drinking." <br /></div>jessyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16339546917326325058noreply@blogger.com0