With One Eye Open and Another Squinting

So today my breakfast consisted of breakfast links, potatoes, rice, and kimchee.  This really can’t be considered fusion cuisine, because fusion would point toward a blending of tastes.  It probably comes as no surprise that after washing down this meal with a glass of OJ, my stomach seemed to respond with a “WTF?”

Now about that kimchee.  One of my student’s moms brings me this stuff every so often.  She gave me three jars before Christmas break and I ate the garlicky concoction for about 8 straight meals.  A few interesting results followed.  First of all, when I would get in the car with my wife, she would start to get hungry for garlic bread.  In addition to this, I had a couple sleepless nights.  This was due to the fact that it was quite cold at the time and I needed to get under the covers.  Unfortunately, my garlic-oozing pores required me to come up for air after only a few minutes.

I believe I am on meal 5 or so con kimchee.  Fortunately, I only got one jar of it this time.   The results haven’t been as noticeable yet, except for the sudden disappearance of the local vampire chapter.

What’s Your Motivation?

It’s the end of the quarter as I know it…and I feel busy.  You might think this wouldn’t be such a big deal in the 6th grade, but take into account the following factors:

–A reading test (with essay question) was given on the same day that a research paper was due (not the teacher’s most brilliant stroke)

–Several students follow the time-honored tradition of turning in work in the last possible minute of the last possible day

–Grades must be calculated after tests, papers, and late work are completed

–Report card comments and the dreaded skill set grades are entered for every student

–There are 20 students

While most find motivation in things like alcohol and assorted acts of hedonism on Spring Break, I have set up my own personal system.  

Before I get to do something, I must complete a grading task.  For example, in order to eat my kimchee, rice, and prosage breakfast this morning, I made myself finish grading research papers and comment on 5 student report cards.  In order to take a shower, I had to write 5 more comments.  This blog is a result of 15 total report card comments.  It’s kind of like the 12 Labors of Heracles except with a red pen instead of a club (though some student papers do resemble horrifying beasts).

This is very different than procrastiblogging, because I am using the blog as a motivating force.  However, this may not work for you.  You may be the type who needs a motivational speaker who lives in a van down by the river–or just an outdated reference from the 90s.

No Child Let Inside

Last night, while going to see Slumdog Millionaire, we got carded.  At first I thought it was a matter of verifying our identification, since I had purchased the tickets on Fandango.  That is until the attendant said, “Because it’s an R-rated movie.”  

Do we really look like we’re 16 (going on 17)?  I might have just been amused by the incident, except for the fact that she made Sara go back to the car and get her ID.  So not only was The Ticket Nazi awful at gauging age, she didn’t even know the rules of an R-rated movie!  Couldn’t I have been the 17+ chaperone?  Last time I checked, the Academy of Motion Pictures had not given its top prize to an NC-17 film.   

As far as the film goes, I would highly recommend it.  It’s kind of The Usual Suspects meets City of God meets Lost meets Finding Nemo meets Sleepless in Seattle.  You might think that wouldn’t work, but it is all pulled together by the Bollywood dance number at the end.

I am Rain Man

I must have felt rather impervious this morning when I declined my wife’s offer of a ride to work.  And why not?  What with my rainproof parka gifted to me by the in-laws and my nifty Keen shoes, I had no fear of the pitter pitter pat.

Unfortunately for my Dockers, resistance was futile.  In fact, I believe my parka channeled water into the quadricep locale.  By the end of the 15-minute walk, it felt like my legs were being wrapped in cold damp shrink-wrap.  

So what does one do when he wets his…err, when his pants become thoroughly soaked and there are only about 15 minutes until the Teacher Appreciation breakfast?  Why he first considers taking off his pants and placing them on the heating vents.  Then he reconsiders this because there is no explaining that to a colleague who might pop in.  Next he considers calling his wife for backup, but that would defeat the purpose of why he declined the ride in the first place–wanting to save her some time in the morning.  Finally, he decides to stand on top of the vents (which are about 3 feet off the ground) so that the hot air can blow inside and aerate the aforementioned khakis.  Think the Marilyn Monroe steam vent photo only from a higher elevation and with hairier legs.  

About 5 minutes of this seemed to do the trick, leaving me rather impressed by the drying time of Dockers.  In the end, I got to eat breakfast in the comfort of my partially-damp pants, all because I refused a ride.  But at least wet pants by incompetence beat wet pants by incontinence.  Man, senility is going to suck.

Second Time, Second City

It happened again.  The first time was in Chicago on a Second City stage.  This time it was all in the spirit of collage ensemble experimental theater.  

The first time I got to dance on stage, participate in a debate about abortion, and get my head nuzzled in some strange woman’s chest.   This time I got married on stage, said “I love you” in four different languages, and awkwardly didn’t kiss some girl who I never met before when prompted with the line, “You may now kiss the bride”

In both cases I was sweating like a sumo wrestler in a sauna.   In the second instance I was wearing mismatched socks.  

Sometimes I wonder if I have a “humiliate me” sign that hovers in front of me like one of those presidential tele-prompters.  

I don’t think I care much for collage ensemble experimental theater.  Maybe I would like it better if I had gumption like my dad.  He kissed Miss America, you know.