Random Dew

Thanks to Laurie and her friend Kevin (who is apparently Bizarro Me) for sending this jewel along. I think the Menonites would enjoy the simplicity of the place's name quite a bit.

Behold! A Bloggy Bloggy Picture Post

Part One: The latest acquisition of the Two Neds' Garage aka My Dad's Playhouse: A 1978 Cadillac El Dorado.

The thing is over 20 ft. long, and it's named the "Beulah Mae" after the dead woman whose son Dad bought it from. Ms Mae only put a few thousand miles on it during a cross-country trip, then parked it in her garage, covered it with a quilt, and let it sit that way for the next three decades.

It's hideously pimptastic, but it is supposed to fetch a pretty decent resale price considering its mint condition.

My favorite parts of the car are its working 8-track deck--it's got a "contemporary music" tape with the Godfather theme on it--and CB radio handset.

Part Two: Odds and ends from the trip to Canton and Denton.

Canton has grown sad. Crafts and misc. junk are now outnumbering the antiques. There were a few neat metal animal sculptures, though. Most were whimsical enough. My favorite is the pig who looks like it's in the middle of a number two.

But a few looked like they'd just left Mount Doom and were merrily on their way to wage war on human and hobbit kind.

I did manage to find a few treasures during the weekend, although most were from a single store in Denton's town square.

John bought me the little bird pictured below. I've got a strange penchant for anything made of blue glass, but I've wanted one of these for years. My great-grandmother had a set that I loved. They're now the property of my grandmother, and will no doubt have to live through many other deaths before they're safe in my hands. Thankfully, I have my own now, and I will not have to anxiously await the passings of aunts and uncles before I can get my greedy hands on one. The bird(s) is called the Bluebird of Happiness. So, naturally, I caged it.

Jobby Jobby Dew

It looks like the Menno-Stare will now be an integral part of my existence.

I was at the local gym a few days ago when someone tapped me on the arm. It took me a few moments to recognize she was the director of the town’s Adult Learning Center, a free learning annex where adults can learn basic skills, prepare for the GED, learn English, etc. Apparently one of the center’s teachers is leaving next week for “unknown reasons” and they need, immediately, a substitute from now until the end of the school year. She knew of my current career trajectory—don’t ask me how—and offered me the job before I could remove my iPod headphones.

So the next day I went by the place—a set of five portable buildings behind the post office—to formerly accept the position and chat with the teacher to learn more about what exactly I would be doing. As it was technically a substitute position, I expected that I’d be given lesson plans for the next six weeks, something detailed and pre-planned.

Not. The. Case.

First off, the teacher, whose “unknown reasons” must be imminent death she was so old, told me that because she’d been teaching so long, she just “winged it” everyday. There were no lesson plans, no set curriculum, just the dowager herself and a room full of Mennonite women in their 40s who could barely speak English. The soon-to-be long gone teach did manage to tell me all about the coffee pot, though: how to make the coffee, where the creamer is stored, the best place to rinse the pot out. She also took a good ten minutes to fill me in on the particulars of the thermostat. Apparently, it is a persnickety old bat. So yeah, I left with no knowledge but the grim fact that I’ll be cluelessly in charge of these women for six weeks. At least we’ll be well-caffeinated.

I’m kind of excited.

Warning! Unbridled Cheesiness Ahead!

West Texas has always seemed to me to be a place that has been forgotten. By who or what I don’t really know, but all you have to do is take a look around to see the evidence of this negligence. It’s been forgotten by culture: very little art, no feats of architecture, no steady streams of stimulating music, theater, fashion. Even ideas fail to permeate our borders. It’s also been forgotten by one of the simplest things that creates life, a substance that permits the existence of anything green, that allows for lakes and rivers, for skin that doesn’t itch daily from mucous membranes that no doubt resemble some long forgotten fossil discovered in a bed of hot clay. All of this neglect and disregard tends to make people (myself obviously excluded) tough, weathered, and sinewy, a sort of beef jerky existence.

But every now and then something happens that threatens to change all of this. Something occurs that makes you feel that, even for a moment, this place has been remembered.

Our dry spell ended at about 5:30 this morning. It’s been nearly eight months since we’ve had a drop of rain. Maybe it’s because I’ve been living in humid Central Texas for years now, lost my resistance to the desert, but there hasn’t been a day since I’ve been back that I haven’t taken a moment to think about rain. How nice it would feel on your skin, how good it would smell, how only a little of it would wash away the inches of piled-up dirt from the tops of houses, barns, churches, and cars. How good it would feel for your cells and pores to finally be able to take a damned drink.

It was about 5:32 when the thunder woke me. My parents were already outside on the front porch, holding hands, watching what has to be the best alarm clock ever invented. No one said a word to each other. We just stood there and eyed the fat speedy drops, each of us smiling a shit-eating grin. Even Muppet seemed to be aware of what she’d been missing. She shot out from the porch and did laps around the wet yard. Of course it ended almost as soon as it began. I think we had a total of 15 minutes of rain, hardly enough to help agriculturally. I know this sounds ridiculous, and I’m not much of a spiritual person, but this brief rainy spell was ridiculously uplifting for all of us. And it was, by far, the best church I’ve been to in a long, long while.

Fun with Real Dialogue

Scene: My house in West Texas. I’ve just gotten out of the car after a tiring, six-hour drive. My defenses are down, and I forget to check the caller i.d. when the phone rings, the handset too nearby to ignore. The offending caller turns out to be one who rings my parents on a weekly basis and usually during dinner. They’ve asked me repeatedly to put a stop to such calls. Will I rise to the challenge?

Me: Hello?
Bubbly Girl Voice: Hi!!!!!!!!!
Me: Hello.
BGV of the Increasing Volume Type: Is Benjamin Matthews home?
Foolish, Foolish Me: This is he.
BGV of the IVT: Super!!!! This is (insert stripper name ending in “y”)! I’m calling from the Alumni Office at Pepperdine! I’m a sophomore!
Me: (slapping myself in the face and trying, unsuccessfully, to eat the phone) How can I help you?
BGV: I was just calling to update your records! Are you still at (lists parent’s phone number)?
Me: No. Never was. Parent’s phone number.
BGV: (laughing unwittingly) Well, can I get your number?
Me: I don’t have one.
BGV: (with cheery incredulousness) No phone?
Me: Nope.
BGV: Okay, how about an email?
Me: Don’t have one of those either.
BGV: (getting annoyed) Really?
Me: (realizing annoying Pepperdine students is easy and fun) Yeppers.
BGV: How about a work phone number or permanent address?
Me: I don’t have one.
BGV: A work number or a permanent address?
Me: Neither. I’m unemployed and shiftless.
BGV: . . .
Me: . . . .
BGV: So, um, I’d like to ask you a few questions about your time at Pepperdine. You know, we’re always trying to find out what former students liked and disliked to better our ranking.
Me: (baffled at the logic of the statement above) Okay.
BGV: So, how did you like it?
Me: I didn’t.
BGV: (shocked, as if these words have never been uttered) Oh. I see you’re from Texas. Was Pepperdine just too small for you?
Me: (again, blinded by her logic) No. It was more the rampant, smothering conservatism. And all of the militant Christians.
BGV: . . .
Me: Do you like it?
BGV: Um, yeah.
Me: Really?
BGV: (Still not getting it, but finally getting to her point) So, would you be interested in joining (some alumni club) or making a one-time cash donation of $100?
Me: What do you think?
BGV: Probably not?
Me: Probably not.
BGV: (defeated. it’s kind of sad.) Okay. Well bye.
Me: Bye. Oh, hey.
BGV: (a little bubble back in the voice) Yes?
Me: Please stop calling here.

School Hard

Another apology for being such a scant poster. I'm entering the last month of my teacher training, at least as far as my classes go, and things are really starting to heat up: classes, outrageous professorial expectations, my basal body temperature. Thankfully, I've arranged for a few days off to visit the wilds of Central and East Texas, where I shall be visiting friends and participating in one of my All-Time-Favorite-Activities-of-All-Time, the flea market. I shall attempt to post a few times from the open road (eat your heart out, pre-computer-age Kerouac.

In other news, my journey as my mother's subject for her physical assessments class continues to get weirder. Last night she needed to practice taking a written medical history for someone with gastrointestinal problems. Because I wasn't feeling the least bit iffy, I was asked to take on the role of someone with, wait for it, bleeding stools. Our subsequent 30-minute chat was truly darling.

Bloggy Bloggy Friend(s)

I'd like to introduce y'all to Laurie's Little Blog, the newest and first site to join Bloggy Bloggy Dew as an affiliate! Please check it out using the link at the top right of this page. If any other Bloggy Bloggy readers have marked off their own bit of cyberspace, let me know. I smell a coalition!

Who says West Texas is ugly?

I'm going to take a highly pretentious risk and title this "Sunrise." Notice the wee structure just right of the center. It's a windmill, y'all!

Happy Anniversary, Stinkpot!

Muppet and I will be celebrating our anniversary in a few short hours. Yep, it has been one year since I drove up to the Fayette County Animal Shelter, had her shot full of painful vaccines (not to mention a Mark-O’-the-Beast Microchip), and hauled her away from the warm, furry, and familiar embrace of her siblings. Despite all of that, she has forgiven me and been a good pal. She’s only destroyed one couch, one arm chair, and one pair of shoes, and has only set me back a couple thousand bucks.

Here’s looking at many (or at least one) more years together, Muppet Bear!

And now a retrospective: 3/27/2007-3/27/2008, the Year of the Labradoodle.

Oh, and here's Muppet's favorite song. Ignore the anime.

Grody to the Max

It is very difficult to enjoy your study break of Fritos and assorted dips when your mother will not close her picture book of diseased genitalia. That is all.

Crap on a Hot Tin Roof

So my trip to the theater left a little something to be desired. I have a feeling this entry’s title tells you all you need to know about the quality of the high school’s production of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. I expected to find a bunch of pubescents running around with taped on beards shouting lines way beyond their maturity levels, but I didn’t expect them to be so clueless about what they were saying. I really think the material was way too difficult for them, or perhaps just not adequately explained.

Needless to say, I had a hard time critiquing the play and for several reasons. First off, I had a sneaking suspicion the director thought it was brilliant, and I didn’t want to insult him or shatter his worldview by telling him the earth was indeed round. Secondly, the kids are competing on Thursday, and I didn’t see how helpful, much less palatable, a hot order of scathing criticism would be this close to their event. So I did try to “sandwich” my comments with praise. I feel bad for the kids, as they’ve obviously worked hard on their show. I guess I don’t feel that bad, though. Otherwise there’d be no drawing of rooftop-cooking feces ala Microsoft Paint on my blog. Oh, the special place in Hell awaiting me.

Seriously, though, I’m beginning to wonder how much of teaching will involve supplying kids with praise that is entirely unearned in order to not completely shatter their senses of self? And is this really doing them a favor? No wonder we have a whole generation of kids running around thinking they’re the cat’s pajamas. It’s really difficult to look at them in the face and candidly inform them of the vastness of their sucktitude.

I Believe That Children Are Our Future.

So for one of my classes I’ve been interviewing a teenage reader. We’re supplied with a bunch of questions that are supposed to be a “beginning springboard for a meaningful discussion.”

Here’s how my first interview went.

Me: What do you like to read?
Her: Nothing.
Me: Nothing? Well, what don’t you like about reading?
Her: Everything.
Me: Can you name something specific?
Her: It’s stupid.

I think this particular springboard is in need of oiling. Anyone got any cognitive WD-40?

In other news, my services as a drama critic have been elicited. I am to workshop the high school's production of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof tomorrow.

The SFFC Rides Again!

The SFFC is off to a slow start. It’s been nearly a month since our inaugural outing, and I’m beginning to think I might have overshot when picking that particular name. Maybe the Semi-Amusing Outing Dyad (SOAD) would have been a better title for our little group. Nevertheless, we have embarked on another mini-adventure, this time to the home of some old dead lady.

One of SFFC/SOAD’s passions is to visit the homes of old dead ladies, root through their things, and sometimes attempt to purchase various trinkets and baubles for a fraction of what they’re usually worth. We call this fun; the world calls it an estate sale.

Here is one half of SFFC preparing to enter the latest estate sale to grace Seminole. It is obvious that she is filled with hope, anxious of what treasures await her inside. She has no clue that she is about to walk into a structure obviously built atop a hellmouth of bad taste.

This ignorance is erased upon entering the home’s foyer. The walls of the large room have been covered in a photographic mural of some coniferous forest, mountains and sunshine tiptoeing out from behind the dense mass of two-dimensional pine trees. The image is akin to those found in the baptisteries of every Church of Christ in the greater Southwestern United States. We know we are in trouble. We now know that we won’t be finding any treasures, any semblance of taste. We’ll be finding these:

Bloggy Bloggy Blah

It’s been almost a week since I’ve posted, but I have nothing exciting to say—kind of a minor case of the blahs coupled with an acute outbreak of education overload (the non itching kind), both from too much homework and too many days substituting. The latter is really an energy drainer, but as George Washington said when crossing the Delaware, “It’s $60 a day, and I’m a broke-ass honkey.”

In other news:
Muppet is going to live!!!
I’ve been asked to direct a play by the chamber of commerce.
I should find out my student teaching locale next week.
Byeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

I CAN HAZ ONION RINGS?

So my dad brought home Charlie’s last night. Charlie’s is a steakhouse in Seminole that is more known for its killer onion rings than its steaks, emphasis on the word killer. Those of you familiar with my dog-parenting style know I’m a little overprotective. Well, this overprotective-ness came in handy last night when Muppet managed to eat each and every last onion ring while the rest of the family was occupied. My parents gave me the same line everyone gives me: “She’s just a dog. Dogs eat everything. She’ll be fine.” Thankfully, I remembered some previous research I did on food poisonous to dogs, and I knew that onions were right up there with chocolate. I’m even more grateful that there was a vet on call in Denver City—20 miles from here—who was able to confirm my suspicions and justify to my "she’ll be fine" parents that a trip to the doggy emergency room was necessary.

My mom and I made it to Denver City in about 10 minutes, and about 50 minutes to an hour after ingestion, Muppet’s stomach was pumped clean. I caught a glimpse of the battered culprit on a surgical table when they opened the door to release her. The rings, in all their regurgitated glory, were in a tangled mass about the size of a bowling ball. The worst part of the whole night was seeing Muppet after the procedure. They’d drugged her, and she came wobbling out of the room, eyes red and vomit all over her face. What’s worse was her trembling. If I ever get my Asian baby, it is not allowed to get sick. Too much trauma, thank you.

Muppet’s prognosis is good. The vet “highly doubts” that any onions were digested. We should know in about four to five days when she either continues to live or drops dead of hemolytic anemia.

Political Dew

Being gone for a week has really made me ponder the focus of this blog. I’m kind of embarrassed about how self-centered my posts have been, so I’ve decided to shift gears and talk about something of interest/importance to us all. Unless you are Helen Keller, you’ve no doubt seen/heard/read about the following when opening a newspaper, turning on the radio, or flipping on the television. Yes, I’m talking about the primary that has GRIPPED the nation’s attention. And we here at Bloggy Bloggy Dew couldn’t be happier about last night’s results. We’d been so skeptical about what the citizens of Ohio would decide, but we can now rest assured that this country is on the right track. For visual learners, and for anyone who missed last night’s triumphant showing by our party, I’ve enclosed the following:




Eat it, box of rocks.

Bloggy Bloggy Break

Muppet on the Internetz

Bloggy Bloggy YouTube

I'm more or less posting this so I can practice embedding videos. The first is one I've seen in three of my six education classes. It's geared toward teachers, but I think everyone will enjoy it. The second is just for the LULZ. And warning: Spoiler Alert! if you haven't seen Juno yet.

The Menno-Stare

Most of you have heard me talk about Mennonites, the sect of Amish-like people who have been living in Seminole since the late 1970s. Presently, they make up at least half of the county’s population. I fully plan on giving the Mennonites a separate post, one that discusses, in detail, their history, both as a people and as members of Seminole. This is not that post. This will only serve to illustrate, literally, a distinctive trait of this beloved subculture.

I haven’t noticed this so much in Menno-men, but Menno-women, god love them, are quite gifted in producing a certain facial expression. I call it the Menno-Stare. I suppose this has something to do with their culture’s belief that women are to be kept silent, and my lord, do they ever. You can be minding your business, walking along and thinking you are complete alone, when bam! You feel the stare. Sure enough, all you have to do is turn to find at least five of them—they are never without an entourage—staring at you in COMPLETE SILENCE. I know this is impossible, but their eyes seem just a tad larger than other people’s eyes, and this really isn’t the creepy part. The creepy part is how they WILL NOT break the stare, no matter how long you stare back. There’s nothing territorial or aggressive about the look; it’s more like they’re in a state of awe, like they’re aliens who’ve never seen a human being before. I’m pretty used to it by now, but it still creeps me out from time to time.

Like tonight. My family and I were eating dinner at La Sierra. I should have been prepared for the Menno-Stare; after all, we were eating at a Mennonite restaurant. But our host and server were men, so I thought I was in the clear. No, sir. Our booth was in sight of the kitchen, and about halfway through the meal I looked up and saw this:

Ignoring what I fully knew about the stare, I looked back, expecting them to break it off. They silently and emotionlessly stared me back down, back down to our table, down to my slice of Mennonite pizza. It was a little creepy, but I was kind of happy to finally get my first Menno-Stare since moving back home. Plus, this was nothing like the Menno-Stare of 2004. That was when I caught eight of them, only an inch away from my face, gawking at me when I looked up from a discounted bin of DVDs at Wal-Mart. I might have screamed a little then.