I Need A Job...

or everybody else just needs to post more so I have something to do when I check blogs every ten minutes. Sheesh.

Will You Marry Me?

No, not will you marry ME. I mean, will you MARRY me? See where the emphasis should be? Right now I have a reception hall, I have a ceremony location, I have a photographer, I have a dress, I have a man. Now I need someone to make it all legal like. And yes Dodge, I know you've offered your services, but some small part of me wants to be the traditional girl who gets married by, oh, someone affiliated with a church or something. Sure, the boy and I decided a JP would be fine, but that just means more planning on my part. A pastor/god-preachin' guy would take care of filling in. So, my challenge to you:

Hey, guess what sucks---somehow highlighting everything and making it go away. Stupid blogger. Fine. I will quickly give the challenge but that's all: find someone to marry me. Someone who doesn't give a big sermon or make unfunny jokes--that's what my dad's for. Matty--you know some people. Hook me up. That is all. Now I go back to laundry and what kind of meat to serve you all.

Fuckin' some shit up

Smith--
Last night in my dream a bunch of us English folk were staying at a hotel for some conference. While you were in another room a certain bitchy lit. student (ok, I'm talking about Panko--wait, no I'm not) came into the room with a videotape and asked if anyone would like to see something really funny. She flipped the tape into the VCR and the room soon saw Smith in a towel singing into her hairbrush. Then the scene switched to Smith pretending to make out with her pillow. Everyone started laughing and I went to pull the tape out. The chick tried to stop me and I punched her. Yay. Then she started screaming and went to find a certain lit. instructor, but I knew he wouldn't be mad because earlier in the dream he was watching me find my clothes while wearing a towel (I know, this is getting weird). Then I tracked her down and slapped her again. And what thanks do I get from the Smith for sticking up for her? She says she doesn't care if everyone sees her making out with a pillow. Well, at least I got to fuck some shit up.

I just finished writing a three page email to a friend, so this won't be long but it's been a while so I felt the need to put up a little something. Said friend actually gave me a good idea for a book. I'll never follow through, like the one I started last summer and was really passionate about it for about two weeks. It would have one of those covers with skinny cartoon girls in bright purples and greens. Go to Barnes and Noble--you'll see what I'm talking about. It would have been a hit.

Not much to say. I'm enjoying my first few days of glorious freedom, but I know I should be doing laundry or working on my thesis or cleaning out the fridge. Instead, I spend two hours on the computer emailing and googling. That's ok though, because yesterday at this time I would have been sleeping. I prolly still would be had the boy not called me at 8:30!!! Just cuz he has to get up for work.

I applied for a student affairs position yesterday. We'll see what happens. I'm so glad I got that extra degree so a man who has not a 4-year degree can make $20,000 more than me. Oh well, that just means he covers more of the bills.

The Last Semester

This has been my first moment of the semester to really reflect what is happening. I am done. This is it for me and grad school (unless for some awful reason I really do pursue this tech comm degree.) Maybe I just can't stay away from206A or waking up in cold sweats at 4 in the morning because I fear how my lit review will turn out.

Today during my final hour I had with my students I realized that may be the last time I teach; they would be the last class I stand in front of and make snarky comments to. I'm not gonna lie, I almost got weepy...almost. But I did make them stay there a full three minutes longer than need be so I could ramble and not let them leave. That may be the last time I have that power.

It's been a fun trip for the most part. Yeah, there were those first couple months I spent a majority of my time in my bathroom. Yes I had sunken eyes, but I looked better than I had since BC (before college). I celebrated by buying pants. Needless to say they don't fit me anymore.

But we had some good times too. There's the student who won honorable mention in the composition merit awards. He hugged me on the last day of Spring semester 04. I had my share of criers--the post-secondary whose boyfriend threatened to burn down her mother's house, the dental hygenist who I failed for neglecting to turn in a final research paper. The girl with short brown hair who works at the hub right next to the TCF bank? She's mine. So's the one who grew her hair out and got funky glasses and worked in the English office this semester. There's Shera, the hockey player from Canada. And the football player I had to fail because, umm, see previous statement. I also had half the volleyball team and a couple soccer players. Then there's my army girl who told me the first day of class she be missing half of them. And the cheerleader in love with her twin brothers and republicans (*See Smith). Then there's Dylan from first semester. He helped me believe I was capable of teaching students something. We worked hard, but by the end of the semester he had that comma/semicolon thing figured out. I think I saw him working at the tux rental place in the mall. And Kristi from last semester--I still see you at Menards on occasion. I loved how you would just laugh in class, though I think it was often at me and not with me. Oh well.

And while I've made half-attempts at finding another teaching job, I've gotten thin envelope after thin envelope. Not even requests for interviews. If only they knew how much I loved this. How it truly made me a better person. How even now I can cry because I may never get the opportunity to experience this again. But you don't see that on an anonymous sheet of white paper with generic fragmented sentences that are supposed to explain me, explain why I want to do this for the rest of my life.

I need a drink.

"Can I touch your bush?"

This is what I said to my forty-something neighbor this afternoon after long winter months of quick waves to and from our cars. At the same time the boy and my neighbor snickered. My neighbor (divorced) replied "It's been a long time since anyone's asked me that." How could I think that was an ok thing to say? And in case you're wondering, yes, I did stroke her bush a little.

(Context: The boy and I had just gotten back from Menards and were looking at shrubbery. I was trying to explain to him what type of bush I wanted in the front yard--it looks like a little pine tree but it's soft. We got out of the car and I saw my neighbor's bush and realized it was exactly what I wanted, but I did want to make sure it was the soft kind.)

You know what I find amusing--women who smoke and wear those yellow Lance Armstrong bracelets. To be fair, a male smoking with the bracelet on would also annoy me, but it's even worse when a female is doing it. Really, do they know what the bracelet stands for? CANCER! And surviving it. And it's for TESTICULAR CANCER. You know, one of those cancers you really can't prevent no matter how many $!*#ing vegetables you eat. But isn't the point lost on people who smoke despite knowing that it's prone to causing CANCER?! I love how the damn bracelet has become synonymous with American Eagle and Abercrombie (Psst Xtina..remember the girl at the copy machine who was using the see-through Abercrombie tube top as a skirt? That was hot.) And why is the sociology department or whatever marketing baby blue ones for, I dunno, save the fraternities or something as trivial when compared to the original point.

I got one of these yellow bracelets from a friend. She had bought them in a bulk package. One for every one of her sorority sisters and one for me. I put it on and felt stylish. Then I remembered how I have no real agenda with TESTICULAR CANCER. Skin cancer? Maybe, I am from a Scandinavian family prone to melatonin issues. Or even stomach cancer cuz, after all my grandpa had that. But not testicular cancer. I only know that from MTV specials on Armstrong and Tom Green. Some people say that's why it didn't work out between him and Drew Barrymore. I say it's because it was him and Drew Barrymore. So anyway, I gave the bracelet to my oldest brother. He works out, worries about his health, and seems like the kind of guy who wants daily to be reminded of the struggle surviving testicular cancer. This was last winter and I've since never seen him without it. Oh yeah, and he's not a smoker.

Things I'm reminded of when making tuna casserole

I'm from MN and yet I still used "casserole." And when I open a can of greenbeans and throw in a can of cream of mushroom soup, I call that a casserole. But when I'm usin' tator tots and ground beef, it morphs into a hotdish. Linguists of the world (or just Liz), tell me how this happens. Is it the tator tots? Shall we blame them?

"Give me one of your tots."
"No, I'm starving. Get your own."

While searching for the actual quote I found this: http://www.cafepress.com/flippin_sweet.19362212
Apparently you can get a calendar that says this. Too bad I've already got my [insert something clever here] calendar. Weren't we going to make a ladies of the 206A calendar? Let's make this happen over the summer.

I had a friend in tenth grade who used to make me save the juice from my tuna can everyday. He'd put it in a glass and drink it. I used to think this was pretty disturbing. Then I remembered I used to eat a can of tuna everyday for lunch.

...and back to our regularly scheduled work on my lit review (subtitled "Kill Me Now")

Oh what a night

I knew shenanigans were to ensue when I wore my supercute boob shirt from New York & Co (thanks Smith!) despite knowing there was a fair chance I'd run into half the department at the thesis reading. I knew more trouble was to follow when a certain professor I'd been avoiding sought out my future husband. And when he left for a refill, and I sat alone at the table like the last of the herd, she circled and moved in.

Professor I'd been avoiding: "I sense you've been avoiding me."
Me: "Um, yeah, a little." (A whole lot!! You've basically been telling me I suck for the last two semesters. I spent all of yesterday bawling because you think I'm incapable of producing a decent review of lit.)
Evil Professor in a confrontational, not-so-very-Minnesotan-voice-because-she's-from-the-ghettos-of-New-York-and-thus-she'd-sound-like-a-disgruntled-cab-driver-even-if-singing-"Happy Birthday"-to-a-three-year-old: "Well look at my comments. You can do this. You've already done the research."
Me (Caving like the wussy, passive-aggressive tater tot hotdish eating native Minnesotan I am): "Yes. After rereading your comments I agree with you and I know I can get it right if I just spend some more time revising it." (And if I promise to give away my first born to some magical lit review writin' troll.)

I pondered a repeat of our last ladies night when I chose the same booth where spendid girl-on-girl action took place. I was not disappointed. Of course, I had to wait until our trip to the strip club to fulfill that one. We got there, and I started to pull out my ID and a couple bucks for cover. The lady at the door declared I used to work there and need not pay. Things were turning out.

Ok, I used my alloted blogging time for the day. See Smith's for the rest. Nothing new. Just that a certain wet t-shirt contest participant spent the remainder of the night on my couch. It was hot.