Guitar Hero 4- need I say more?
Sweet Valley High Gets Revamped! (And kind of tramped!)
To remind myself that I love birds. Thanks, etsy.
Umm, there are no words. Okay, maybe one: awesome. Do I get to be the Keymaster or the Gatekeeper?
It’s only $475! Pleeeeeease?
Must have. Right now. Lips so dry… parched… uncolored… send help…
And last but not least, concert tickets. ‘Cause wouldn’t that be hilarious to see?
Please and thank you.
As usual, I was late to the party when I signed up for RA’s Mission: Put Together pool on flickr. I didn’t join in until last Monday and I wish I could say I had a valid reason for waiting so long but sadly, all my reasons are lame, such as “I don’t have a full-length mirror!”, or “I need to clean my bathroom mirrors!”, or “Everyone will have way cooler work outfits than me and I will be the shame of the internet!” And while the first two were undoubtedly true, the last was not, yet it was probably the biggest factor that kept me from doing it.
Fortunately, no one has made fun of any of my fashion choices yet. In fact I may even end up letting all the praise go to my head if it continues on in this way. And I think it’s been good for me; I love to see what people are wearing every day and what kinds of accessories and shoes they choose to complete their outfits. Right up until college I never cared about what I wore, if I could have worn the same t-shirt and jeans every day it wouldn’t have bothered me one bit. Shoes? I think I had one pair of black shoes and one pair of sneakers. Hair? What a joke. Multiple people have seen pictures of me in high school and refused to believe I would ever have bangs like that. You think I LIKE admitting that my hair looked like a Jerry Springer special? Oh, and jewelry? HA! I don’t think I even owned a watch at that point. No, the biggest fashion choice I made between the ages of 13 and 17 was what color L.L. Bean backpack I should carry (purple) and whether I should wear a flannel over my t-shirt that day (likely).
In my defense: I grew up in New Hampshire. Not exactly the pinnacle of haute couture.
So once the beautiful, crazy world of fashion was revealed to me and I started earning an income that was more than $30 a week from my library work study, I found my shoes and jewelry increasing at an alarming rate. That trend continues on to today, where Chris has threatened me with a “buy one, toss one” mandate on the shoes. I just can’t help it. It is a weakness, and part of me still feels like I am just catching up to where most of my peers have already been for years and years. I revel in putting together an outfit that looks good and makes me feel okay about starting the day not feeling like a schlub. I’m not saying I don’t have days where I can’t be bothered to get dressed past a ratty t-shirt and a pair of yoga pants; there are still plenty of those. It just warms my heart to see that there are a whole bunch of ladies like me who just want to look “put together” as much as they can. Plus, if you ever want some hot tips on where the sales are at or what colors look surprisingly great together you should ask these women- they are hot. Bonus: I’ve noticed that I’ve started complimenting random people on their outfit choices, something emphatically un-New England. Stranger danger! But now I feel good about letting people know that they look good.
When Chris noticed the flickr pool he commented, “That is one thing you would definitely never see a guy doing.” So true, dear Christopher, so true. But there must be some guys out there who enjoy working an outfit, right? Maybe there’s hope for a Mission: Put Together- Dude’s Edition.
There has been an ongoing problem here in the library, one that involves mysterious odors that are sometimes so strong they actually blind me momentarily when I open my office door in the mornings. As you can well imagine, not exactly the best way to start your day. Last month the Principal showed me a work order he was placing, hand-written, noting that something needed to be done about the smell, preferably rightthehellnow. I have yet to see someone here to fix it.
Then this morning I walked into what I thought was my office but my office was apparently traded out sometime during the night for a sweltering cesspool. It was about 110 degrees and I had to stop myself from audibly retching and slammed the door back shut. So now I am sequestered to another part of the library until someone can come to find out why my space has become the dumping grounds for the town sewer system. The problem is, by the time the dudes show up from Maintenance I have usually opened every window and door in the place to air it out, you know, so I can work without being asphyxiated, and then at 2:30 in the afternoon when they finally saunter in they’re all, “What smell? We don’t smell anything!” and smirk at each other, pointing at their heads while making cuckoo motions.
So now every person that stops by my office and says “Ugh! What IS that?!”, I make them sign a sheet of paper attesting to the fact that they were assaulted by the disgustingness that is my work space. I have become the smell police, going into other people’s offices to find out if theirs also smells of poop and mildew. Before I would have been worried that other people might think I was causing the smell in my office, like I was incontinent or storing human waste under the sink, or worried that my co-workers would do that same cuckoo motion when they caught me standing in the stacks staring vacantly at books and sniffing the air. But now I have about 40 signatures on my piece of paper and I invite everyone to come smell my office before they can even ask me “Good God, WHY?”, and pretty much everyone knows that I am on a mission.
So you can bet that when those Maintenance guys finally do show up I will have a posse ready and I will rub their noses right in my list of names. And then WE will make cuckoo motions at THEM. So there!
In my desire to share with you the injustices of my landlord yesterday I neglected to tell you about my weekend. I will remedy that today so that no one (i.e. my mother) can claim dereliction of duty by NPW.
I suppose it all started on Friday evening, when I had agreed to participate in my school’s Bring the Family Night. Overall it was bearable, but only because I did not end up with a lemon meringue pie to the face. Otherwise it was filled with children giddy from being cut loose in their school building without any of the usual restrictions of decorum and high on cotton candy and blue raspberry slush. Plus, my Principal had volunteered me to run the Dance Dance Revolution room, where I had two TVs running two games at once. Because the kids have to take their shoes off to play the room quickly filled with noxious gym sock odors and blaring techno beats.
Chris was supposed to leave for Rochester on Friday evening but got stuck at work, so he decided to leave on Saturday morning instead. By the time I got home we were both ready for an evening of quiet television watching. On Saturday Chris left early and I packed up some stuff to head north, to spend the day with my adorable godson. We went shopping and every time my cousin rounded the corner with him in his stroller he would see me and shout “HI AUNTY NPW!” in his little midget yell. That probably happened about 15 times and it delighted me each and every one.
Saturday evening a bunch of ladies from the NPW family tree drove into the woods to a charity event held by my mother’s work. Luckily, it was held in a winery. Unluckily, wine plus a silent auction equals one broke NPW. But it was for a good cause! That might become my new mantra, like when I buy three new pairs of shoes in one outing. Fashion is a good cause, right? And also, I escaped the evening more cheaply than the rest of my family, who probably spent a combined total of… well, a lot of money. They walked away with Red Sox v. Yankees tickets, a flat-screen plasma TV, diamond earrings, and enough hair products to last a lifetime. Many appetizers and desserts later, I ended up with a bottle of wine and a collapsible salad bowl from Pampered Chef.
That night I stayed at my parent’s house in New Hampshire, despite the knowledge that my parents are prone to waking up in the middle of the night to start their day. It was still semi-dark outside when I heard my mother yell, “Garry! Quick! Get the gun! The squirrels are getting into the attic again!” And then the soft shot of a BB gun. I wish I were kidding. My mother may love animals, but she emphatically does not love squirrels nesting in her attic insulation and they apparently eat their way through the Have-A-Heart traps. They are tenacious little suckers. I blearily glanced at my phone and discovered it was not quite 5:30 a.m., and rolled back over in a vain attempt to get more sleep. By 7:00 I was up and ready for breakfast (damn you, internal clock!). So we went down the road to a place called The English Muffin. As we were ordering my dad commented on how he was recently informed of his high cholesterol and high blood pressure, then ordered the Irish Eggs Benedict. When it came it was a giant pile of hash, piled with english muffins, eggs, and Hollandaise sauce, with a side of holycrapmydadisgoingtobedeadwithintheyear.
Because we had not included my sister in the morning’s festivities she drove up to meet us for lunch. While waiting for her I vacuumed my car for the first time since buying it (in September, the shame) and washed it, while trying to avoid being eaten alive by May flies. When she finally showed up we grilled a delicious lunch and decided to drink the wine I had won the night before. The only corkscrew at my parent’s house was a throwback to 1972, the same style used in the Leprechaun movie to gouge out that one dude’s eye. So once that snapped off while in the cork we had some troubles. In the end we prevailed over that bottle of wine and drank it triumphantly with hamburgers.
And so we celebrated my mother, and then I went back to the city to have my dreams of dog ownership crushed by an unfeeling bald man. It’s times like that when I am extra glad I have my mother, so I can call her to cry and complain about my landlord and she can say, “Just have a baby then! That will show him.”
For months now Chris and I have been stopping into the local SPCA to look at adopting animals, as well as perusing the dangerously cute Puppyfinder. We are particularly keen on the Boston Terriers, not only because they originated in Boston (represent!) but also because you just try to say no to this face:
Yeah, that’s what I thought. So anyway, we have been discussing getting a dog and we were finally ready to take the plunge into pet parenthood. All that stood in our way was a quick phone call to our landlord. Originally I tried to tell Chris that he should be the one to call since our Greek landlord seems acutely uncomfortable any time I have a conversation with him that extends beyond “hello” but Chris was acting uncharacteristically shy about talking to him and so I sucked it up and called him last night.
He seemed hesitant about it and said he’d have to confer with his family (because have I mentioned that we live with not only him and his wife, but also his mother and brother? Yeah, it’s like a regular Greek festival up in here), but it would probably be okay. Happy with that, I hung up the phone with him, only to have him call me back five minutes later to say his family voted it down. He cited some reason, something to do with previous tenants having a dog that barked all night and day and peed in the house, and ended with a lame “but you can have a cat, if you want!”
No. I don’t want. I WANT A DOG.
I managed to hold it together while on the phone with the landlord but as soon as I hung up I couldn’t help but cry a little. I had my heart set on having a dog, he had practically said yes and then crushed my dream. And also, I like to embody the stereotype of emotional, hormonal female as often as possible.
Chris took the news in stride even though he was disappointed as well, and added that it was just one more incentive for us to start the hunt for new living arrangements. He’s right, of course. If the neighborhood banshee children aren’t enough of a reason to get off this street, being able to make my own decisions about whether or not I can have a pet sure is. But the thought of house-hunting sure doesn’t make my current heartbreak feel any better.
Update on the Principal Search 2008, because I know you’re all on the edge of your seats: the woman won out over the Asian gentleman. This news was met mostly with excitement; the only downside is that I know for a fact this woman is never going to talk about Kissing Balls on the PA system and that makes me sad for the sake of my blog entries. Also, I know a lot of you mentioned that our Principal search somewhat echoed the ongoing Democratic candidate battle, so I would like to add that while I am very happy to have a woman as Principal I hope it is not indicative of who will become the Presidential nominee.
Which is a complicated way of saying, go Obama!
Fortunately, school itself is the source of much of my blog material and tonight is no exception. It’s Bring the Family Night and the Student Council is raising money by asking people to buy raffle tickets. The raffle tickets go into buckets with teachers’ names on them and the teacher with the most raffle tickets will get pies thrown at them. Every morning I’ve peeked into the jar with my name on it and noted with alarm that there is a growing number of tickets in there. Not as many as some other teachers, thank goodness, but I’ve resorted to donating money to other teachers’ jars just in case. Personally I think the Student Council is genius, since not only are kids donating wild amounts of money in the hopes of throwing pies at their teachers, but now the teachers have been shelling out cash so that they can make sure they don’t end up with a face full of coconut cream.
Actually, now that I think of it, I don’t know what kind of pies they’re throwing. Let’s hope they’re cream-based and not, say, apple.
Happy weekend, party people. Try not to miss me too much over the weekend, okay?
I’ve been hemming and hawing about writing this post today. Usually when that happens I choose to not write at all because if I can’t pick a topic and stick with it, why should I expect anyone to read a rambling post full of nothing? But NPW, you ask, aren’t all your posts rambling and full of nothing? To that I answer, well, yes. But I do make an attempt most of the time to write something entertaining or at the very least cohesive and today I am feeling neither.
Instead the damp spring air feels oppressive. I threw caution to the wind this morning when I heard it would be mid-seventies and went with a skirt and a three quarter-length shirt and so now I sit in my office with my jacket covering my legs and getting goosebumps from the chill anyway. I wore my pretty new flats that are a plaid of black and pink with black flowers sewn into the side and they got wet on the walk from my car to the school building. The price for looking nice is impracticality.
I didn’t pack a lunch this morning and I didn’t make my usual to-go mug of chai. Instead I stayed in bed until the last possible minute before I would make myself late and then stopped at Starbucks on the way to work anyway. I accidentally spent $4 on a coffee and I wanted to ask the barista if getting soy milk should really cost me an extra 75 cents when I can buy a whole carton of soymilk for two dollars. I didn’t ask her though, I just silently handed over my $4 and tried to savor the warmth of the burnt coffee. How does one burn coffee by 6:30 a.m.? It baffles the mind.
And I just checked the school lunch menu: taco bar. Sigh.
The decision for our new Principal is being made today; by the end of the day we’ll all know who is to become our feckless leader. I am glad the process will be over, it has been intense in a way I didn’t realize it would be. The Superintendent of Schools is an imposing woman, no answer ever seems to please her, she doesn’t smile. It doesn’t help matters that every time I see her I am forcibly reminded of how much she resembles Skeletor.
This weekend will be all about my mom, not just because it is Mother’s Day but also because she is helping run a charity event on Saturday night at a local winery. That’s right, two charity events in as many weeks! What can I say, I am a very giving person. It also doesn’t hurt that I won a $75 gas card and some sweet Kate Spade sunglasses last year. Tomorrow Chris is off to Rochester to visit with his mom. She told Chris not to bring me because she can’t stand me. Okay, that’s a total lie, she loves me, I guess she just wants some mother-son bonding time. Since she only sees him a couple times a year I certainly can’t begrudge her that, even if it means I will miss out on some delicious BBQ. What about you? How are you celebrating your mom?
Strange days here at the middle school. For the past week I’ve been trying to complete an inventory of the A/V equipment. That basically involves me walking around the school sticking fluorescent orange stickers on slide projectors and checking off a sheet indicating that the teachers have not yet tried to steal any microfiche players from the library. Yes, it is as boring as it sounds. Unfortunately, the inventory used to be broken down into two sections; the responsibility was shared, someone else did half. Now that other half is gone and do you think someone else stepped up to take her place? If you guessed no, you get two gold stars from NPW. So since I’m already doing two jobs for the price of one, why not have me take two weeks to wander around classrooms looking for missing ancient laser disc players? It’s not like I have anything else to do with my days.
I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m a little stressed out and in an hour I am supposed to be meeting with the Superintendent of Schools to discuss who I’d like to see in the Principal position next year and all I can think about is that I am covered in dust and I have a big scratch on my ankle and I just put my inventory list down in a puddle on a science lab table and I’m not sure if it’s water or some kind of corrosive chemical. I won’t stick my fingers in my eyes, just in case. Or the Superintendent’s eyes. That might not go over well. Anyway, so after yesterday’s meeting debacle with one of the Principal candidates, where afterwards I felt embarrassed for the parents of this town if they sent a racist to represent them, I am feeling like I really want this meeting today to go well. And since this candidate for Principal is white I think the parents should be able to refrain from the racial slurs. Although now that I think of it, the candidate is also a woman, so that should provide some great material for any sexists that show up to the meeting.
Fortunately it is Teacher Appreciation Week, which I didn’t realize until yesterday when the parent group set up a luncheon for us. It was very nice, much better than the soup I had packed for myself to eat, and even the presence of the Luncheon Nazi did nothing to deter me from enjoying my free food. When she yelled from the back of the kitchen, “DO NOT REUSE YOUR PLATES!” I just sighed contentedly and thought about how much she must really appreciate me.
I am trying hard not to be bitter at the $75 price tag on this year’s school retirement party but I won’t lie, it’s difficult. Especially when I am considering using my boobs as advertisement to make money this summer, because people, houses are expensive and if Chris and I ever want to buy something reasonable in an area that is not filled with crack houses I need to start saving my cash. So $75 seems steep to me, for an evening of lukewarm chicken cordon bleu and a cash bar. At first I thought I might skip the retirement party altogether this year, except now I can’t because my Principal has just announced his retirement.
So I am kind of roped in, but I’m holding out hope that he will at least make some parting remarks that are blog-worthy, as he is wont to do. That might make an evening at the country club and 75 of my hard-earned dollars worth it. Of course, until then I will still have to suffer through every meeting where he talks about plans for next year and then ends with the statement, “not that I care about that, ha ha ha”.
There were actually a number of candidates competing for his position, which is always surprising to me since being a public school administrator is probably the least desirable job I can imagine. But they’ve narrowed it down to two choices and yesterday afternoon we got to meet with one of them. He is a middle-aged Asian gentleman and he seems very pleasant and student-focused. There was an informal meet and greet and parents from the district were also invited to ask him questions. The parents took this as an invitation to barrage the poor man with budget issues and questions regarding their specific children, which understandably flustered him a bit but he recovered pretty well. As I was listening to him answer questions though, I noticed that every time he answered something one of the other parents would loudly whisper Asian jokes to a friend. Finally one of the parents asked him something along the lines of: “My son likes to doodle on his notebooks as a way to express himself. If you were going to doodle something on YOUR notebook, what would it be?”
Now, this question is really kind of ridiculous, right? Am I not the only person rolling my eyes? So he starts to answer “a child in the middle and adults holding hands in a circle around them…” or something like that, but all I heard was “gay dragons and chopsticks” from the parent next to me. I glared so hard at him that he looked up and saw my angry face.
At least he had the good grace to turn red and leave the room. Can you even believe the level of rudeness? I had the urge to slap him, and I never have that urge. And we wonder why this generation doesn’t understand common courtesy and decency.
Breaking news: boobs plus beer equals cash money!
People, since I am a girl and I am not interested in boobs other than to find a way to comfortably strap them in, this is BRAND NEW INFORMATION to me. On Saturday night Chris and I volunteered at a charity event where we poured beers at an open bar to inebriated people with money to burn and let me tell you, I raked in the tips. Of course they all went to the homeless shelter but whatever, the point is that I have these valuable assets and I am seriously thinking about cashing them in this summer.
Why have I never thought about bartending before? I can pour beers like a pro. And while I don’t necessarily have “experience” bartending, I enjoy a good brew as much as the next Bostonian. How hard can it be? I mean, other than the late nights and working weekends. And running around like a crazy person. And being in a food service industry… ummm. This is starting to sound like work, and I don’t like work. Especially in the summer. Quick, someone talk me back into it!
Just out of curiosity I started looking at Craig’s list ads for bartenders and came across this little gem:
EXPIRIANCED REGISTER PERSON WANDED
EXPIRIANCED PERSON WANDED TO WORK AT THE REGISTER,MAKE COFFEE AND SERVICE THE COSTUMERS.VERY GOOD SALARY+TIPS.IT IS SMALL RESTAURANT,AND WORK WEEK ANDS. PLEASE CALL 781-395-0953 AND LIVE MACHAGES.
THANK YOU.
No joke, I really just cut and pasted that ad. Service the costumers? I don’t know if I’m ready for that. Live machages? I can’t tell if that’s supposed to be massages or messages, but either way I’m going to have to decline.
Sigh. Anyone else have an awesome money-making scheme I can try for the summer?
