Monday, March 31, 2008


I'm in somewhat of a dilemma.

The school I'm attending isn't very organized from an administrative standpoint. It's mostly run by women who spend more time on coffee breaks and playing hostess than actually taking care of the details of running an institute of higher learning.

For example. Every six weeks we take up valuable class time to have an assembly. During this assembly, the students with high GPAs receive kindergarten style certificates of recognition, along with recognizing the students with perfect attendance. It is quite embarrassing. The rest of the time is spent socializing and eating whatever food local vendors have been conned into supplying.

This is all well and good, and if my class schedule weren't such a mess I'd have no complaints.

However, every time I try to go to the registrar to ask if they've gotten my transcripts or if I have a class schedule, I am told they are extremely busy and I will have to come back another time.

On my third attempt, I went to the lady in student affairs to complain. As luck would have it, the registrar (about whom I was forcefully voicing my displeasure) came up behind me in the doorway and heard everything. She then announced her presence and assumed I would be embarrassed that she'd heard. I wasn't. But I was even more angered by the fact that she thought she had the upper hand.

Normally, I'm a pretty laid-back, diplomatic person. But the second someone decides it's a good idea to be condescending or insinuate that their incompetence is justifiable and must be respected by me, I speak to wound.

It's a family characteristic. In these situations, we don't yell. We get very calm and slowly and deliberately humiliate the person who has roused our wrath. I don't say this with any pride. It's a very ugly thing to witness and rarely never solves the problem.

So after calmly and methodically eviscerating the registrar, I departed the school in a white hot rage.

Now I have to deal with the fact that I have insulted and alienated the only person who I can speak to regarding my schedule.

I'm considering finding another school, but I have a feeling most are like this and I didn't care enough to notice before.

The Scramble

It's been so long since I've really blogged about anything that I actually feel a little rusty. Or maybe it's the fact that there are so many ideas in the pipes they feel a little clogged.

Since my sister's wedding, we haven't had a minute of extra time. And it's been good. We've had good weeks at the clinic, I've been swamped with work for school, we've been invited out quite a bit, and every other moment we've been doing stuff with the girls.

One of Jethro's patients is a VP at Sea World and gave us tickets two Saturdays ago. We got there at 8:30 in the morning and for a house full of night owls, that was really really really early.

But we were the first ones there and considering there were 30,000 people at the park that day and we stayed until 6:00pm, we did a lot.

I got sunburned in patches and had to buy a new pair of shorts because my pants got wet on one of the rides. It was the weirdest thing. I was dry everywhere but my crotch. It was as if the waterfall had one singular intention. Yeast infection.

You'd think we'd have been exhausted by the time 6:00 rolled around, and you'd be right. But my sister called and said she, her new husband, and his family who were still visiting from the UK were going to a rodeo a few miles outside of New Town, and asked if we wanted to go too. Since we were already in the car, we thought, "why not?"

I'm so glad we did. It was probably the most fun I've ever had. It was especially fun to watch it with the Brits. The bull-riding is usually pretty exciting, and their stoic faces actually grimaced a couple of times. I think they enjoyed it.

I was kind of in heaven. Cowboys, beer, cowboys, more beer, a pretty lame band, beer...

And I found out the type of girls Jethro goes for. I was always under the impression that it was the cheerleader types. And that was close, but not quite. He likes country girls. The girl who was taking our money at the entrance was prettier than a speckled pup. Cowgirl-Angel-on-the-Christmas-tree kind of pretty. I took note, as I usually do when I see someone or something beautiful, and then noticed Jethro's voice as he handed her his money. Everything suddenly made sense.

I called him on it (naturally) and he grinned sheepishly. "The FFA was really really big where I grew up," was all he would say on the subject.

Anyway, we had so much fun that my sister and her new husband brought their Scottish Friend up this past Saturday and we all went again. There were also a whole bunch of kids from Wisconsin on their band trip. They didn't know how to do the Cotton Eye Joe which baffled, confused and mildly upset the natives who had to inform them about hollering "Bullshit" which baffled, confused and mildly upset the Wisconsonites. But it was still fun.

I guess the bulls had their balls wrapped a little tighter this time, because they were a little more pissed off than last time. One clown was tossed straight into the air and did a few cartwheels before landing on his face. I felt we'd gotten our money's worth on that one.

And it seems that Gwennie at least has not inherited her mother's weakness for cowboys. No. She digs the rodeo clowns. One of them took down his overalls to moon a bull with his red underdrawers. Everyone was chuckling while he was putting his pants back on except Gwennie who screamed, "TAKE 'EM OFF!!!" to my consternation.

Gwennie and Emma both did the calf scramble. Neither of them have any sense of strategy.

Emma also rode the mechanical bull with her little arm way up in the air. Everyone watching just melted. It was so cute to see her do it because she is usually way too shy to be the center of attention like that.

Jethro, New Husband, and Scottish Friend also rode the mechanical bull with hilarious consequences. But I'll let Jethro tell that one.

Anyway, that doesn't even begin to cover our week, but it's a start.

Friday, March 28, 2008

Miss Saigon

I remember when I listened to the soundtrack of Miss Saigon for the first time. It was Easter Sunday and we were driving down to Galveston. Jethro had the CD. He'd seen it twice and it was part of his repetoire of seduction, It was so amazingly beautiful and sad. I fought to hold back tears because I didn't want Jethro thinking I was some kind of nut. To cover it up, I started asking him questions about the play. I never thought I'd see it, so he told me every detail. He has an insanely good memory.

Then, for my birthday one year, he got me tickets to see it in Austin. I was ecstatic, but I secretly wondered if it had been ruined for me since I'd listened to the soundtrack many times and knew the whole story.

Oh. My. God.

I've never cried so hard in all my life. The fact that I knew everything that was going to happen made it exponentially worse. I pretty much started crying right after the opening number and didn't let up until we were well on the road back to Houston.

And of all the songs in Miss Saigon that make me cry, this one makes me cry the hardest. Every time.

Of course if the emotion is too much, you can always watch the high school version of The Heat Is On In Saigon. It's not good, but it is pretty funny, especially the last 10 or 15 seconds. If I were her I just wouldn't bother to get up.

Tuesday, March 25, 2008

Bits 'n' Pieces


I just discovered
My panties are inside out.
It's not a big deal,
But now that I'm alerted,
It will annoy me.


I'm finishing up my last week of classes, but I'm off next week completely, so I will hold a veritable blog fiesta. One post for each day I'm off, perhaps not counting weekends. Or perhaps counting weekends. I don't know yet. The possibilities are endless.

I want to post some of my projects, and I think I might just do that before I submit them. It would help to get some feedback from honest people who don't want to keep me down because I'm white. And old.

Just kidding. My last project was skewered mercilessly by the cholos, but that was because it was good. I don't think it was because I'm white.

Anyway, I must be off. My next project is a Bauhaus poster. It was either that or Russian Constructivism. My instructor is a commie who thinks it's a shame that Bob Dylan is not considered the ideal man. I mean I love Dylan, but there's Dylan, and then there's firefighters.

Friday, March 21, 2008

He Takes a Lickin' and Keeps on Politickin'

I have a few posts in the pipe about the wedding and my relatives, but I'm going to wait on them so I can post about The Politics.

I've actually thought I might die laughing over the past two weeks.

First came Eliott Spitzer and his Jersey 'ho. It was hilarious to read the lib blogs who insisted that he shouldn't have to resign because Democrats have no moral standards to which they can be held accountable. "They don't judge other people on issues like that, so you can't hold them accountable when they fuck up." To which I reply, "Oh yes, I fucking can. Spitzer took oaths on more than one occasion to uphold the law. He's prosecuted others for breaking the law. I'm going to judge the mother-fucking hell out of him."

Mark Foley sends dirty messages to some pages and Republicans (most correctly) kicked his ass to the curb along with Hastert just for knowing about it.

But Eliott Spitzer, prosecutor, pays $1,000 per hour to bareback a hooker, and he shouldn't be held accountable? Right.

Then came The Racial Controversy.

I have to say, Obama's pastor is one crazy sonofabitch. Jethro and I have been having a contest to see who can imitate him saying "a Black Maaaayaaaan" better. Jethro has a deeper voice, but I have depth. And soul.

I'm going out on a limb, but I think Obama's done, if not in the primaries, then most certainly in the gen election. I appreciate the fact that he's been searching for his black identity given the fact that his black father abandoned him, but to sit your ass for 20 years in Wright's church and then try to claim you want to unite the races? Sorry, bud. Not happening.

I was greatly amused by the controversy until he tried to compare Wright to his little white granny. That was kind of sad. Wright is a psycho who thinks the CIA infected black people with AIDS. His poor granny was afraid of black men walking down the street. Speaking from personal experience, I'd say the latter, while a bit offensive, is not without basis in reality. But Wright has taken a triple Gaynor off the Cliffs of Insanity.

Anyway, the controversy doesn't mean a whole lot to me. I'd read about Obama's crazy church months ago and had already decided not to vote for him because I disagreed with every vague stand he'd ever taken and disliked what I considered his condescending platitudes.

But I am enjoying sitting back and watching the libs scramble to loosen the racial standards which they have tuned to the highest pitch over the past decade. It's too late, though. The string snapped.

Monday, March 17, 2008

"No, I Haven't Dropped Dead" or "The Bloody Pianist"

No, I haven't dropped off the face of the earth. I have been hosting relatives for my sister's wedding, participating in said wedding, and recovering from said wedding.

It was a great time bordering on fiasco. I have so much blog fodder I don't even know where to begin.

Both of my grandparents (from opposite sides of the family) had heart issues, the rehearsal BBQ was a wreck, a fire alarm went off at the hotel, the limo took the wedding party to the church and forgot to return for the bride necessitating her to run from the hotel to the church through crowds of spring breakers, and the elderly pianist for the ceremony fell on the way to the wedding and busted her head open. She showed up all cross-eyed and covered with blood, but insisted she could play. Jethro took a look at her and decided that she could probably last through the ceremony, so she played. She did pretty well, all things considered, but I was frantically practicing "Edelweiss" and "Ode to Joy" in my head just in case.

The reception was a blast. Everyone danced until the DJ quit in exhaustion, then we went down to the hotel bar to drink some more.

Jethro and I eventually left, went to our hotel room, then returned the next day to drink still more. It was a blast. The Brits were hilarious, they seemed to like us, and we all had a pretty good time. They are staying for a week and I'm hoping we will get to see more of them.

Anyway, I must run. I still have school this week, and I want to be all caught up by tomorrow morning. I will post more this week while the events are still fresh in my head.

Lest I forget, I'm reminding myself to write about an interesting discussion I had with my grandfather, my grandmother's hypochondria, my sister's toast, and The Worm.

Monday, March 10, 2008

While American feminists are contemplating their vaginae in endless, agonizing minutiae and trying to get them to talk, Wafa Sultan channels a bit of Ayn Rand and reduces her deranged male opponants to screaming imbecility.

Ms. Sultan and Ayaan Hirsi Ali are probably the two bravest, most intelligent women alive today, yet the average woman has no idea who they are.

Thursday, March 06, 2008

Yes Trashman, The Coffee Break's Over

Because it is Jethro's and my 9th anniversary.

I've now been blogging over half my marriage.

Happy Anniversary darlin'

The sex will be...sexual.


Anyway, I'm taking a break from my housecleang to write a quick little post. I'm in something of a quandry.

I have to pick one of three graphs which I think best depict how humanity will be punished for our reckless abuse of the Mother Nature.

The problem is that I have no opinion. I simply don't know enough to make even an educated guess.

Just wing it, you say?

I can't. I can't put forth an opinion in which I have no confidence. I don't even know how to begin.

Will we run out of renewable resources and be punished with an unprecedented dieback of epic proportions with the future marked by drastic increases and decreases in the population? I don't know.

Will we correct our greedy, shameless ways and experience only a minor dieback still of epic proportions, but still able to sustain human life at a few billion below the current number? I don't know.

Have we raped the earth to such an extent that recovery is now impossible and we will reach population 0 in 500 years? I don't know.

I'm a fetishist for disaster scenarios, so I'm tempted to pick the last one and go nuts. But it would be like writing fiction, and I have no proof of anything with which to back my most dire fantasies.

I am considering writing a paper in place of this which details my ignorance on the subject while demonstrating that I have the capacity to learn it should he be so kind as to teach it.

I don't want to hurt his feelings though. He is such a nice, nice man.

Sunday, March 02, 2008

Coffee Break

Coffee is like crack to me. I've written before of the effects in has upon my person. I probably shouldn't drink it, but I can get a nice, large, hot, foamy cup at my school for $.50 as opposed to $1.25 for a soft drink, and it keeps me awake until the end of class at 10:30pm.

The downside to this is that it makes me a little chatty. During one of the breaks last Thursday, after having just consumed my usual Amaretto Cappuccino, I rushed outside in a frenzy of caffination. A couple of of my classmates were having a smoke and a conversation. I was frantically whistling "Dueling Banjos." I interrupted them to tell them about Deliverance which for some reason had been on my mind most of the day ever since I had the bright idea to look up Dueling Banjos on about genetic deficiencies...(but seriously, if you have a moment, click the link and read the comments. The best are the folks making fun of the "imbreds").

One of the classmates was a nice Hispanic guy, very very handsome, quiet and artistic. I call him "Sonny" in my head. The other was a gal with whom I have quite a bit in common. She's about my age, doesn't finish things easily, and has a very pervy sense of humor. Try sitting next to her in Environmental Science and watching a documentary in which someone at some point decides to manually beat a wheat stalk until the kernels drop off. You wouldn't necessarily think that's perverted, but it was. I'll call her....Mandy.

I finished discussing Deliverance complete with audial and visual accoutrements which included simulated, bare Ned Beatty chest rubbing, a little squealing, and some air banjo.

Luckily, I don't care about popularity this time around. Mandy was staring at me with fascination, and Sonny with abject horror. Man-rape, as I find out, is nothing to make light of.

I tried to make myself look less insane by relating the story of the rapist's audition with the director of Deliverance. He wasn't a professional actor and upon being apprehensively informed by the director that his character would have to rape a man, his calm reply was, "I done worse."

The story did not help, but break was over so we all went back up together.