Eat this, Mara.

Thanks to all the gift cards I got from the family over Christmas, I have a slew (I love that word) a slew of packages waiting to descend upon my door:

1) Espresso machine and coffee grinder
2) iSkin (for new iPod Touch)
3) earbuds and a new T-shirt
4) Review item the first
5) Review item the second (with which I will learn what makes Erotica "French" if it's written in English...)
6) DDR and dance pad
7) Milk steamer and chocolate syrup
8) Two movies
9) Assorted pyjamas

And then I have to go to Borders, Old Navy, and some other one I have forgotten to get movies, clothes, and cooking supplies.

...

Fuck. Time to go meditate for hours.

The woman from brunch apparently thinks I am "very rude."

I find two things amusing about this:
1) The irony, and
2) Fam saw the need to tell me so.

I knew there was a reason why I never go to brunch.

Just got back from eating out with Fam and some friends of hers. I knew it was going to be a long brunch when the following ensued:

"Where do you go to school?"
"The University of Puget Sound."
"Oh, university! What year are you?"
"I'm a graduate student."
*pause* "And what are you working toward?"
"A Master's in Education."
"Oh, my. You don't look at all old enough to be teaching!"

...

Odd. You looked old enough to have tact. Looks like we were both wrong.

I wish I could say that was the worst that happened. Unfortunately, this woman seemed to take an immediate dislike to me. We made it through dessert before things finally crumbled, but when she went off on a rant about how "today's kids don't care about anyone except themselves," I lost it.

Angry Old Bat: "When I was in school I got good grades because I wanted to make my mother happy! No one does that anymore."
Fam: "Lauren, what was your motivation for grades? Did you want to make me happy?"

They both turned to stare at me expectantly. Now, what I wanted to do was tell these idiotic women that when I did well it was taken for granted, so it wouldn't have mattered either way. Or I wanted to point out, yet again, that she was not my mother. (Sorry, mom's still responsible for more than half of my life, Fam. And she will be for another six years.)

Instead, I stare at them and say "I don't understand the question." Fam realizes it's a joke and laughs, but this woman loses it. We get into a discussion about me teaching, and Fam makes the mistake of saying I can teach with my tongue stud in.

"What sort of standard do you think you'll be setting for the students? Why can't your generation not conform?"
"How is a pierced tongue any different from pierced ears?"
"Because pierced tongues supposedly enhance ORAL SEX."
"Ma'm, I wouldn't know." *lies through teeth*
*sputters* "Well, I'm not talking about you! I'm just saying teachers with weird hair, or dreadlocks, they're setting a standard for kids! At the school I worked at, all the kids had to wear uniforms and the teacher shook their hands at the door in the morning! You probably think that's stupid, don't you?"
"No, actually, that's how it worked at my last placement."
"Oh..."
"I think you're making some very dangerous generalizations."

And then the check came.

This is what OCD looks like.

Damnit. Damnit.

I asked for the hardcover boxed set of the Harry Potter series. I had the link to Amazon and everything so there was no guesswork involved. I got the children's paperback set, which has books 1-6. The seventh paperback book does not come out until July, and so I am incapable of completing the set. But it's okay--since they're paperbacks, the rest of the series will have fallen apart by then. No, that went from OCD to ungrateful, and I am glad I have six *twitch* of the books.

I am going to go insane. >.<

asdfghjawudsalghbuh!

"Lauren, will you write MiniFam a letter from Santa?"
"Fam, I can't write."
"Oh."

The only thing that's missing is a new sketchbook and art pencils.

She's been calling everyone "the little people."

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Pre-flight jitters

Animals fed and watered? Yes.
Cages and litterboxes clean? Yes.
Trash ready to be taken out? Yes.
Packed? Yes.
Meds? Yes.
Chargers? Yes.
iPod? Yes.

On the verge of a nervous breakdown and about to cry? Oh God yes.

This is what conflict looks like.

I'm doing laundry and cleaning the house in preparation for me leaving at 3AM, and all I can really do is stare out the window and hope it snows more.

On the one hand, presents.

On the other hand, peace.

I am a bad person.

::EDIT::
I changed my mind. Fam has been calling since 5AM. I am not a bad person. I am a cranky, sleep-deprived person!

Interesting.

So I e-mailed my family and told them there's a chance I may not make it in for Christmas. Their reaction then was to tell me I was overreacting. "I've seen the news--you guys didn't get that much snow."

Well, today Aunt K's plane was cancelled. So they call again and say "hey, how are the roads? Do you think you'll make it in?"

When I honestly answer "I have no idea," I get two responses.

1. "You're being awfully pessimistic."
2. "But we got you presents!"

Neither of those seem quite right...

because I can can can

I promised Maddo I'd send her humorous vibes today while she was flying over the Pacific, so allow me to do so by posting an anecdote I've been meaning to put up here for a week--in Film Noir Style.

---

It's the worst kind of snow. Not good enough for snowballs, snowmen, forts. Little kids stay inside because it gets into their gloves and shoes and chills them to the bone. I've been in it all night, walking the beat, collar turned up against the biting wind. I'm wearing the pastel-plaid scarf she got me and trying not to think as I breathe through it to protect myself from the chill of the night. This isn't the hour, the weather, for nice people. It's a night for people who will do anything for money. I fit right in.

Footsteps crunch behind me. I turn, but the traitorous scarf blocks most of my view. Snow white hair is all I catch a glimpse of in the gloom. Some old man, on his way home for the night. Nothing to worry about. I'm about to walk on and try to find some shelter from the biting wind when the figure speaks.

"I recognize those pigtails." The voice is oddly jovial, but rich, like a Santa Claus that grew up smoking and drinking gin while his mom sang jazz tunes. Memories come flooding back. This is the voice that took my everything. This is the voice that haunts my mind every night as I lie in bed wrapped in tangled sheets and wonder why the hell I bother waking up to face another day.

"Evening, professor." I turn and step into the glow of the streetlight, pulling the scarf down so he can see my face. He's buttoning up his coat, probably on his way home to the wife and the grandkids. When I leave in two hours, the apartment I drive to will be dark and empty, except for the cat. But who needs a dame when you've got a needy puss?

"Staying warm?"
"Trying to, anyways."
He gives a merry chuckle that makes me want to haul off and sock him one. "I'm glad I ran into you. I've been meaning to pull you aside for a chat."

My spine stiffens, and I consider my options. Could probably lose him on the steps--he's got a good forty years on me, but in snow like this I'm just as likely to wipe out. The building I was heading to is at the top. No luck there. I'm trapped. I know what his words can do, and I know I can't withstand another onslaught. Not tonight. Not after everything else that's gone wrong. My skin's gone colder than the air surrounding us.

"What's going on?" I accept my defeat. He's around me four days a week, so it's bound to happen sometime.
"I wanted to tell you I'm proud of all the good work you've done since we talked last."
My breath freezes in the air between us like a ghost and I stand frozen, waiting for the catch.
"I'll never forget--you gave me some perspective, that's for sure." He finishes the top button and starts on his gloves. "I'll never forget our conversation about your attendance. I had no idea what you'd been going through. And student teaching is a challenge for everyone, but I think you can do it."

My mind races like a two-dollar whore who just spotted the rich guy in her strip club. First things first--common graces, gotta keep up the pretense of humanity when I can.
"Thanks, Prof."

He dons his hat in an absurdly old-man fashion--don't pretend like you don't know what I mean--and heads for his car. I pull my scarf back around my face and turn back to the steps, but they seem suddenly endless.

Eight weeks. I've plotted, planned, dreamed of proving him wrong for eight weeks. And now he's told me he's sorry, in his way, and I don't feel justified. I don't feel free. Wrongs have not been righted.

In a way, I am angrier than before. I reach into my pocket and fire up a cig, letting its smoke be bombarded by the huge, soft flakes surrounding me. My shrink thinks I've got anger problems. Wants me to sit on a cushion and face a wall thirty minutes a day and pretend I'm not thinking about revenge. But the apology isn't enough. He needs to feel like I feel.

He needs to lose what I lost. Then we'll be even.

Having a smoke seems suddenly pointless. I toss the cigarette butt into the snowbank to my left and trudge up the stairs, listening to the soft hiss of fire enveloped by ice. It falls silent as I reach the top.

---

1. Long coat with popped collar? check.
2. Whoreswhoreswhoreswhores? check.
3. Dames? check.
4. Cigarette? check.
5. Angst? doubleplus check.
6. Context? Fiiiiine.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have laundry to do.

It starts

By popular demand, pictures of my backyard in snow.


Day Four.


Day Six, just a little too blue.

Expect another tomorrow morning after it finishes dumping on us.

It's that time of the year again.

I hope this doesn't come off as bitter or self-serving, since I don't really mean it that way, but.

I'm really looking forward to the time in my life when I can spend Christmas with people I enjoy instead of being either alone or depressed for the entire thing.

But someone has to stay with the pets, so I guess it's all working out the way it's supposed to right now. I suppose the Christmas I am looking forward to happens at my house.

In which much stupidity occurs

Me: *reads book at work desk, out in the open, for anyone with eyes to see.*
Bossman Extreme: "You're quiet this morning."
Me: *engrossed* "Huh?"
Bossman Extreme: *repeats*
Me: "Oh. Am reading book."
Bossman Extreme: "Oh."

Time: *passes*

Me: *Still reading book. Still not ninjareading book.*
Big Boss: "You're awfully quiet this morning!"
Me: *teary* "Huh?"
Big Boss: *repeats*
Me: "Oh. Reading book."
Big Boss: "Want some coffee?"
Me: "At this point that would be counterproductive." (Bed in less than an hour woo!)
Big Boss: "Huh?"
Me: *book*
Big Boss: "Sure you don't want any coffee? You seem tired."
Me: "Nope, just full of book."

Time: *passes*

Me: *oh god his feet wtf no!*
Bosslady: "Wren, you're quiet this morning!"
Me: *icily* "That does happen on occasion."
Office: "..."
Me: *book*

*snigger*

So I've been feeding the ratties their antibiotics in a little bit of strawberry Ensure. Since the non-sick ones love it, too, after everyone is dosed I have been filling tiny souffle dishes with some Ensure and letting them go to town on it.

Now Benny, Lily, and Jae have no problems sharing a souffle cup among them, but Melvin and Percy always get into little shoving matches. I can usually break these up easily with my fingers, and they settle down and lap away like everyone else.

Except yesterday. Yesterday I looked away for one second, and hear a quiet *sploosh.*

Percy has dunked Melvin's face into the Ensure. He resurfaces with a little rattie wheeze. I don't start laughing until I realize that his whiskers are coated in so much ensure that they're sagging down by his toes. He backs up and starts grooming furiously, and Percy gets the cup to .

Poor Melvin. My little strawberry goo-coated baby.

Work: The Musical!

Wren: "Nine in the bed and the little one said"
Dispatcher: "Roll over, roll over!"
Both: "So they all rolled over and one fell out!"

*Goes on*

Both: "Three in the bed and the little one said!"
Wren: "Fuck ye-es, fuck ye-es!"
Dispatcher: *groan*
Tom: "What's fun for fourteen out of fifteen people?"
Wren: *snerk*
Tom: *singsong* GANGBANG!
Wren: "Oh, I was thinking bukkake.
Tom: "Eh, that's a lot more than fourteen."
Wren: "point."
Wren: "..."
Wren: "Fifty in the bed and the middle one said *gurgleflail*! *gurgleflail!*
Dispatcher: D:<

I am under orders to post this

I've been looking over appreciations and suggestions from my "microteaching" lesson about the eye colors. One of them, from my professor, says "be careful when you use the word parents. Some of your students may not have them!"

When I told this to Bossman Prime, he laughed so hard he choked and fell over on the desk.

I love a little perspective

I did an admit for an OT/PT student today. Nothing unusual, except he's blind.

I asked to see his ID, and he got out his wallet and handed me his card. I wasn't sure where the room was, and he walked me there. I've run into him before, and he's one of the nicest guys on the planet, but it was exceptionally good to run into him today.

I mean, hell. If a blind PT student can make it, so can a teacher with no hands, right? (Also it makes me think 1.5 times before I whine.)

It's like getting tea poured directly into my soul

Smartboards. Today in class I learned you don't need a pen to write on Smartboards. You can use your fingers.

Today in class I learned that for the first time in two years, I might have a chance at writing on something without being in horrible pain.

I almost cried.

Buh

So I taught a lesson on eye color to my peers today which I might like enough to turn into a powerpoint online and post it here. While I was doing it, I was giving my "students" specific time limits.

"You have exactly one minute. Go! Thirty seconds! Okay, stop!"

Afterward, Manfessor comments:

"You know Wren, I didn't see you as a task manager."
Me: "...what?"
Manfessor: "I didn't see you as someone who'd be so dead on with time and keeping people focused!"
Classmate: *stares at me, stares at Manfessor* "Hell, I did!" *walks out of class*

Checking in!

At Kiran is back online in the sense that I am looking at it again. Expect a new chapter by Monday.

Also, Twist Shimmy is still looking for more betas! Those edits start next week!

What did I just do?

Well, now that NaNo is over, I've had time to play The Sims 2 again. So what did I just do? Did I make all my NaNo characters into Sims and build them their own custom district? Yesidid.

If you're curious, here's Izzy:

(If you're wondering about the sparkles, they were caused by witches. I am one hundred percent serious.)

And here's Magda (red hair will be along shortly).

The fact that she's in her underwear studying cooking in the middle of the day is not what bothers me about this picture. Instead, what gets to me is the chef. He waltzed into their flat, walked up to her, and started ranting about Sue's Secret Kitchen. And what is she doing? Looking at his crotch and thinking about twinkies! D:<

---

Magda's club has to have a band. So, meet The Band family.


Singer of the Band.

I am uncomfortably attracted to her hair. She is, unsurprisingly, the most photogenic of the group, and as a result there are eight thousand screenshots of her at The Band's album.


Drummer of the Band.

Yes. Nothing screams "I am a douchebag" like those shades.


Bassist and Guitarist of the Band, respectively.
Do I sense a little puppy love from the goth for his cougar counterpart? (And isn't he too young for a nipple ring?)

Er, no. Apparently not. (on both counts.)


Definitely not.


Magda gave them all an interview which consisted of sitting on the sidewalk in front of their house and talking, blocking traffic and being barked at by itinerant dogs. How long did it take? Three days. It rained, hell, it hailed, and there were wolves, and still they sat there and chatted.


In case you were wondering, staring at that for three days of game time is boring. So I surfed the web instead.

You have been warned. And I strongly encourage you to head over and check out the entire album. Really.

Shameless Pimping (You know why I'm doing this)

Twist Shimmy is looking for brave people who want to beta the next draft of her 50,000 word erotica. For details, head over to her Elljay.