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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.

Hang on, Hester!

We’ve had 50-mph winds for the past three days. Wind like this is especially uncomfortable in West Texas, for we’re surrounded by tens of thousands of acres of dirt. With no trees, large buildings, or other physical manifestations of human progress in a 100-mile radius, there is nothing to protect your eyes, nose, and other various mucous membranes from being bitch slapped by speeding dirt. I had more to add, but I need to go and hack up a good portion of someone’s farm from my lungs.

One if by Land, Two if by Sea

I apologize for my hiatus. The last three days have been filled with schooling young children. Wednesday was a blast. I got to teach 6th graders about Eastern Europe. The kids were fun and eager to learn—“Do checkers come from the Czech Republic?”—and I’m already feeling kind of bummed that I won’t be certified to teach this grade. The 6th graders, for the most part, are still pretty sweet and want to be your friend. One kid asked if I could come back and be their teacher, as their current teacher was “old and mean.” Two kids came up to my desk and told me I was “cool.” Obviously.

Thursday was a different story. I had two 7th grade classes and two 8th grade classes. The 7th graders were pretty well behaved. The 8th graders were a little more spirited, and I think things would have gone better had we had something different to do than watch the world’s worst movie about the world’s most boring man:

The movie was just foul. It was part of a Biography for KIDS! series, and I can safely aver that whoever is in charge of making this series has never met a KID! in his life. In fact, the creator was probably never a kid himself but spawned from a pod on the planet boring. The worst part of the experience was the annoying, uber-blonde host who popped up every few minutes to recap what had just happened before making some truly painful joke: “Paul Revere rode on for another 12 hours! Talk about saddle sores!!! OMG LULZ!”

Needless to say, the kids were not paying attention, and they wasted little time before engaging in tomfoolery, hijinks, and miscellaneous shenanigans. My I’ll-Be-Your-Pal-If-You-Respect-Me-And-Be-Quiet teacher mode was not successful in quieting them down, as it had been the previous two days. Thankfully, we all emerged from the day relatively unscathed.

Friday was much, much better. I had the same class again, and was instructed by the teacher to play another movie. This time it was on:

I approached this day with a different strategy. Before heading to class, I did a little research on Ms. Anthony, at least enough to ask some questions and try to activate student background knowledge before launching the video. Unfortunately, most of the students had no background knowledge. There was one class of 8th graders who couldn’t tell me what the constitution was.

However, being the intrepid, four-days-of-experience educator that I am, I tried to incorporate into our pre-movie discussion what my training has professed to be the most important aspect of teaching: making the learning relevant to students’ lives. So I started over, this time asking the kids what privileges they enjoyed, what privileges their parents took away from them when they got into trouble, and what privileges and rights they looked forward to attaining when they got a little older. They were more than happy to regale me with stories about various groundings, missed youth center dances, the dream of the driver’s license, dating when they reached 16, etc. Next, I tried to ask them how they’d feel if these rights were taken away, or if they’d never have the chance to enjoy such privileges. By this point, most of the class was engaged, and it seemed a pretty easy task to link our discussion to the subject of women’s rights and Susan B(est let me vote, bitches) Anthony.

Most of the kids were then able to give the video their attention, at least for the first three-fourths of the period, which was a huge improvement from the horrors of Paul Revere Day. By the last period—I probably took some liberties I shouldn’t have—I opened the class with the above discussion and fast forwarded to the most interesting parts of the film, instead of making them watch the whole thing and risk losing their interest. All in all, I think it was a pretty successful day, and I left feeling that I might possibly, just maybe, be able to do this job.

It was pretty damn fun, too.

(ach)STUNG

I bought this necklace in 2003 in Arizona and have worn it consistently since. I just thought it looked neat, but I found out later it is the Vietnamese symbol for long life. I thought little more about this meaning until a piece of it broke off a few years ago. Part of me felt I should stop wearing it—would a broken long life symbol invite bad luck?—but I kept it on, superstitions be damned.

Until yesterday. I was outside with Muppet when I felt this weird crawling sensation on my neck. I looked down to find a wasp sitting ON THE SYMBOL. I proceeded to squeal like a troop of girl scouts, but that is not the point. The wasp was obviously beckoned by the evil necklace. Beckoned to the broken portion, where it proceeded to insert its nasty ass, foul, I’ll-cut-you stinger into my neck.

I’ve survived the ordeal. The wasp and the necklace did not—one is in a drawer, the other rendered lifeless by my mighty foot. So I think the moral of this story is pretty OBVS. Don’t wear tainted jewelry from the Far East and…

Pass the articles of incorporation, please.

Those of you who know me well understand that underneath my Type-B crust is a Type-A core that is piping hot and prone to rather seismic activity when conditions are right. This is especially true when it comes to dealing with the stresses of school work. My mom is no different if not worse. She rarely tears herself away from her studies, which, in my opinion, contributes greatly to her overall stress. In order bring a little fun into our lives—and get the hell out of the house—we decided it was indeed time to form our own little organization. So, bloggy bloggy readers, it is my great pleasure to introduce you to the…

For our first official outing, we decided to visit Gaines County’s Heritage Hall Museum. The museum occupies one half of Constitution Hall. The other half of the ole CH is the library, which was once the former hospital. My dad was actually born somewhere between non-fiction and periodicals.

Now picture this: You’ve been transported back in time to 1906. Seminole is brand spanking new, and what better way to mosey about the town than on a state-of-the-art Super Deluxe Rickety Wagon? The museum's curator—a former principal of the local high school and my old bus driver—has a hands on approach to history, and he was more than happy to let us climb aboard the wagon and take our picture. He was unable to verify the historic value of the stuffed Dalmatian in the front seat, but boy did that pooch give us a smooth ride around town!

The journey sure worked up an appetite! Here we have one member of the SFFC whipping up a pot of beans on ye olde stove in the 19th century bedroom exhibit, where we also, thankfully, found the 21st century bathroom.

Until the food’s ready, I think I’ll take a stroll down the Barbed Wire of Tomorrow corridor.

Or maybe I’ll ponder the colorful history of cattle branding.

Whatever I decide on, I’m sure it’ll be super swell.

BFFs

Here we find Muppet snuggling with Weaver, her Valentine’s gift from the grandfolks. Muppet is thrilled with the present. Weaver is less than pleased. He has already lost an ear.

Wonderland

My dad is a farmer by occupation, but his real career is that of a hobbyist. His hobbies have included everything from upholstery and wedding photography to building and flying model airplanes. No matter how many hobbies he’s amassed through the years, one thing holds true for each of them: he seems much more interested in buying stuff for the hobbies—kits, supplies, customized accessories—than the hobbies themselves.

Case and point:

Over the past two years he’s seemed to settle on a hobby: restoring antique automobiles. I use “antique” loosely, as one of his purchases is a Corvette from the 1980s, and I refuse to categorize anything from that decade as an antique. There’s also an El Camino—finally, one has come into my life!—of less than vintage standards. The hobby began with the purchase of a Pontiac GTO from the 1960s. It has a lot of brothers and sisters now, but the fact of the matter is that the GTO is in the exact same state as it was when it rolled onto our farm two years ago.

What has changed, you ask? Simple. The construction of a 7,000 square-foot auto shop, for one. A 7,000 square-foot auto shop that doesn’t produce autos. Citysearch would not give it a favorable rating. The place started out pretty functional: a room for the actual fixing of the cars, a paint room, and a shit load of various gizmos that I, for sheer ignorance, cannot begin to name. Now it is a Mecca for antique signage, gas pumps, and other automobile nostalgia. Now its walls are covered in fake red brick. Now it plays host to wayward farmers stopping by for cigars and donuts. Now it has its own name and matching coasters. Now it is the biggest clubhouse in the county, the Neverland Ranch of West Texas. I’m just waiting for a waterslide and a monkey.

I’m glad my dad enjoys it; I just hope his hobby-hungry eyes stay settled here for a few years. We’re running out of acreage.

You didn’t think I’d leave you without a tour, did ya?