More Thoughts on School from This End

Um, when you're the Art History teacher and you wear a cutie pie new shirt, make sure that you don't accidently flash your luscious breasts to your students.

I bent down to get some things out of my bag (yes, the fabulous red bag), and noticed that my whole class could see down my shirt.

Perhaps it will help me get a decent review at the end of the semester.

Thoughts on school from This End

Oh my god, when you're the teacher you totally have to read the material you assign.

That was today's revelation from a newbie college teacher.

You know you want to see them

My class is still rocking. Oh yeah. Today, I actually had students ask a lot of questions and there was even a discussion! I'm so excited. As a lecture course, I didn't know what to expect. I'm so happy they're engaging with the material.

I started out really stressing the book material but GOD that was boring. I figure they can read the text and I plan on really digging into the slides. I'm hitting the points the in the book but attempting to analyze them better. This is what spawned questions and discussion.

I finally saw less of the frantic notetaking and more interested looking and thinking about the art. I mean, I think notes are important and they were still taking them, but I hated when they were all staring down at their notebooks and trying to suck in everything I said. For a student, that blows. As an instructor and very recent student, I think engaging with the material is what makes it make sense. This time, the class asked great questions about each slide and started blurting out comments. I loved that!

If you remembered that I said "ginormous breasts" when referring to the Venus of Willendorf and either were offended or laughed, then you'll remember that image better on a test. Yes, I said "ginormous breasts" in class. I also said "bulgy vulva."

Now, about the blog's name change. I know I've asked for advice and then just sat on it. I apologize. See, Internet, it's not you. It's me. I know I told you I would change it and I didn't. I'm not happy with any of the previous ideas. I want something that captures me but I, um, don't know what that would be yet. I'll get there.

Also, I found this great website. It's called DeviantART and it's fabulous. In particular, I love the prints.

Lastly, I bought these, and these, exciting over the knee socks from Sock Dreams. They have so many more I need to buy. Pretty soon, all my socks will grace my knees only to show you all my silky, silky thighs.

Out from under a rock, a fat jade rock

Tonight, my exhibition opened. My name was properly on my essay in the catalogue and in the acknowledgments section. My fabulous wall text panels were hung and the labels placed in the vitrines. The opening reception had a great turnout and the space was beautiful. So why am I not flying high tonight?

I think it's a two-pronged issue. First, my parents and their weird, weird partners arrived and although I enjoy dealing with the parents, I can't handle the partners.

Secondly, I just feel so relieved this process is over.

I won't miss the dogfights with the museum curator. She is not a bad person but her ethics are garbage. Again, the ethics maven does not live within me but I can't handle out and out lies to the public. I won't miss doing hours and hours of research only to be trumped by an ebay article waved in front of me. The exhibition did not, in the end, lie to the public but she sure tried.

I am proud of the show. I think I'm more happy that it's pasted on my CV.

On the Lowdow...oh, no? Okay.

Tonight I played Sneaky McSneakers for one of my best friends, Christine. If you're name is James, stop reading here. Is he gone? Okay, we can talk now.

Christine called me worried about the sound of a woman's voice through her boyfriend's cell phone. When asked about said woman's voice, the boyfriend hedged and made awkward explanations for her presence:

She is just some girl.

Her name is uh, um, Molly. (which is Christine's daughter's name, how convenient)

She just wanted to play pool with me. So we're playing pool now, uh yeah, just the two of us.

She um, no I've never seen her here before.

Yes, I know I'm in a league here and she's new.

Um, she's just some girl.

Okay, men, listen up. To women, especially women who have a bit of a history with not-so-fabulous-men, this sounds like:

She is just some girl with ginormous breasts and a lips that would look great around my cock.

Her name is something I can't share with you because then you might know who she is. (Alternatively: Her name is something I can't remember since I was staring at her tits.)

She just wanted to play pool with me so she can bend over the pool table and give me a great view of her rack or her ass, thereby encouraging the fucking that will happen later. Yes, I've chosen to play pool with her, alone, so I can show her how much I would love to fuck her later.

I've never seen her before so you can't possibly recognize who she is.

I know this is league night and I can't explain why the new hot girl is here so I'm stuck and can't think of a good lie.

Um, she's just some girl with ginormous breasts and lips that would...

Men, we envision lots of bad, bad things when you act like a deer in headlights. You do the exact same thing when we do this, so why are you confused? Dear James was that deer tonight, so I did what any girlfriend would do. I spied on him.

I drove up to the pool hall and kept Christine on the phone. I've never met James so she had to describe him to me and I had to give her a running tally of what I could see. I walked around until I found him. And there he was, sitting next to a girl.

I tried not to sound weird because the two weren't flirting and they weren't even close to each other. It actually looked innocent. So I told Christine and waited.

She let out a big WHEW!

He was sitting next to a "safe" girl; a girl Christine knows and is in no way worried about James with her. All the other women in the place were, um, definitely not his type.

James, although he may not like this round of espionage, should really thank me for the nice homecoming he'll be receiving tonight. The other version included Worried Christine and involved screaming and the throwing of hard objects.

You're welcome, James.

Prof Girl

I'm so totally a teacher now. Holy Shit.

My class is going great! I love this work. The class seems attentive, only a few yawns and no sleeping, even though my slide machine petered out on me. They talked to me after class and I even had a student tell me they really liked today's class. I love them, I really do.

In other news, my exhibition that I co-curated opens this Friday. Exciting stuff, man. I can't complain, I'm doing everything I went to school for and it's nice.

So, how are you? I've missed you all.

Oh, I've also worked out a, ahem, system with Mike to help make that ticker at the bottom of the page move a bit quicker. No, I can't share the details of our arrangement but be sure, it's dirty.

Hello! Hello?

I'm alive. I swear it. But, I'm swamped. I promise to do a normal post soon. Much hilarity to share. And I miss you all. Truly.

Mini Vote

So, Baroque Princess or Neptune Girl?

The Incredible Shrinking Woman (Without the incredible and seriously *hoping* for some shrinkage.)

The name game is still on and I am totally undecided. It will happen, I swear.

I have made one decision. I need to lose some weight. Now. Although vanity plays a small role, I simply don't feel healthy. I thought I would do it by eating less meat, but then I forget and eat chicken. I just keep adding pounds and I don't like the feel of it.

My thinly veiled feminist rankles at the thought of needing to lose weight at all. I think all women are feminine and sexy, because they are women, regardless of size. But I need to MOVE. I need my body to feel like I like it.

I plan on sharing the progress and details with you.

But I won't be eating anything on these cards. These fabulous 1974 Weight Watchers recipe cards. Oh, yeah. Enjoy Caucasian Shashlik made with Caucasian(?) meat, Slender Quencher drinks with beef boullion, and Fluffy Mackerel Pudding. I can just feel the weight sliding off my hips and out my colon, and my self worth drowned with 40 secreted Hershey bars, with this winner:

Post #101

This is post # 101. Hooray! Thank you to all of you for reading, commenting, and sharing with me. In honor this post, I would like to subject the upcoming Name Change to your approval. I am that needy for attention.

Please, feel free to comment or email a vote to me on the following blog name ideas or to submit a name. Thank you.

POTENTIAL NAMES:
Bluestocking
(synonymous to a nerd)

Baroque Princess

Extra Bitches
(from Chappelle's show, just think it's funny)

Maternal Harpy

Muchalicious

Neptune Girl

Princess Hyacinth
(Yes, I would like to be a princess)

Tarty

Trollop

Anything tickle your fancy? Yes? Tell me. Nothing? Then suggest something already!

Fug McSweeney

Finally added to links: "McSweeney's Internet Tendency" and "Go Fug Yourself." It's Funny McFunny on a Funny Sammich.

"Baby, you know you are the Evening Star of the family. You inherited the title from your great, great, great grandmother."

I'm thinking of changing my blog's name. I love the Mucha work. But I also adore his Princezna Hyacinta, among many others.

I think the name as it stands may sound a bit too much like the DTN, calling late at night, choking down sobs regarding my unique aura and how Lindy and I have inherited the magical glory of my matriarchial line.

Observations and Things Heard in the Car

Missouri License Plate that said: "Classy."

Brett, staring lustfully at an empty new-car-hauling truck: "I wish I had that cash!"

Daniel, upon viewing the ruins of a Church on Spring Ave.: "Mom, Roman ruins!"

MBA Conference (that we totally walked through, not that we attended): No less than 15 women attempting to replicate the weird Omorosa short-skirt, aggressive walk, super enunciated speech, and the phrase "overcompensating attention whore" etched in their unmovable hair.

Everything that comes from McDonald's tastes exactly the same. Even a mango-raspberry shake has the flavor of warm vanilla lard.

Grandma: "We never said, 'fuck,' around our kids. The worst we ever said was, 'shit,' and 'damn."

Brett, after attempting to tell him about the several art galleries on Washington Blvd.: "You are really confusing me. I know all about the art museum and it is not on this street. Are you lost? Isn't art your job?"

Man really, really picking his nose on I-70. Man was, surprisingly, not my father.

And much to my art historian's utter delight, Daniel, eyes up on Grand Blvd.: "Copper! Mom, they know how to use copper on buildings here!"

It's 6 am and I'm still awake from last night.

Unlike some other times, I'm not up due to insomnia. I'm working. Any loser can manage at 9-5 job and pump out the good stuff at work. I'm cracked and I know it. Maybe it's my mild OCD or something but I do my most focused and highest quality work when I wait for the last possible moment and work the 9 p.m. to 5 a.m. shift. I am regularly productive at work, but the work I produce there just doesn't have the same shine that I rub into the late night, procrastination product. Tonight, I wrote labels for 250 objects for my first exhibition as a curator. Do I ever worry that I won't make it. Of course! And do I always make it and present a sparkling product? Absolutely. Several moons ago, I even wrote my Master's Thesis in 5 days. And. Graduated. With. Honors.

Off to bed, finally.

Elegant and Brilliant, I fucking told you so

I just took the World's Shortest Personality Test. Enjoy.

You are elegant, withdrawn, and brilliant. Your mind is a weapon, able to solve any puzzle. You are also great at poking holes in arguments and common beliefs. For you, comfort and calm are very important. You tend to thrive on your own and shrug off most affection. You prefer to protect your emotions and stay strong.

The World's Shortest Personality Test

Balls

Now that Daniel is with his father for the weekend (the regularly scheduled weekend thing), I am taking a break from the obsessing of the events of this week.

So what do I do?

I say the word, "balls," like, a thousand times.

It's not all my fault. See, there was this truck. With homemade. silver. balls. dangling. from the hitch on the back. Two.

It was this chain with two silver-colored balls dangling, and bouncing, and gyrating as the truck drove ahead of us.

Balls.

Much to Mike's chagrin, so began the spouting:

Do you love those balls?
Those are some mighty fine balls.
Wow, those balls dangle pretty low.
Honey, do you see the shiny balls?
Man, he must really love his balls.
Have you ever seen such a ballsy truck?
I love balls. Shiny ones.
Don't you wish you had metal balls?
I wish you had metal balls.
clang! clang! clang!!
Hell, I wish I had metal balls!
What kind of balls do you think that guy has, you know, to feel he needed to add them to the truck?
Can we put balls on the minivan?
Please?
Dammit.
Can we put balls on my (tiny, tiny) car?
Fabulous!
Do his balls interfere with hauling stuff?
Mike. Look. At. His. Balls.
I bet they come in gold.
Ohh, I bet I could get them in marble.
Marble balls. Fantastic.
I like his balls, but I want mine a tad more petite, you know because I'm a girl.
Ooooh! What about oversized, shiny, metal ovaries?
Perfect.

Then everyone will know how much of a tool I am.

Seriously, if I am describing your truck, you are a tool.

Nature is taking care of (a) for me

Daniel's feet are blistered.

Let me rephrase that, Daniel's feet are horribly, sickeningly blistered.

He walked on hot asphalt for two hours; it looks like he walked on hot coals. He walked down the only three busy streets near here and although he luckily didn't get hit by a car (considering he crossed one of those streets), he walked on the blackest, glass-littered streets available.

His heels are each one, huge blister. When he got up yesterday morning, one of them split open. From one side of his foot to another. This deep gash is not pretty.

The arches of his feet are spotted with hundreds of tiny, deep cuts.

His toes are misshapen by blisters and cuts.

I can only hope that the pain takes permanent residence in his brain as a warning against pulling this crap again, even if he doesn't listen to a word we say.

However, the worst part of seeing his little feet this way, even worse than seeing my baby hurt, is knowing he caused this exact pain to his babysitter.

Can't. Deal.

Daniel is due home from his father's soon and we need to figure out what to do about his stunt.

Do we:
a) punish him in an especially torturous way
b) help him handle what he's feeling right now and how he felt at that moment
c) stuff him back into the womb so we can be ever aware of his location and give him more time to ripen before throwing him back into the world?

We may try c but I shudder at the thought of suddenly being 11 years pregnant. Perhaps this is exactly why my belly has been expanding lately. It was just preparation for the "big one."

Funny you should have called your last post, "Lost," isn't it Melissa? Yes, yes it is.

Today, I lost Daniel.

He got mad at his brother and took off out the front door. Babysitter flew after him and told Brett to call us. He did but neighbors found Brett hysterically crying in the front yard and called us too.

Mike and I left work in downtown St. Louis (read: far, far away from the home in the 'burb) and struggled desperately through traffic to get home. To all of those on the highway with us, we apologize.

Two hours, a huge family and neighborhood search team, and the police department later, he was found.

He walked down busy roads, and walked, and walked. Babysitter the whole time freaking out but staying with him.

Both were barefoot.

He is now with his police officer father. We gave him our talking to, but his father knows exactly what happens to children in this sick world and we hope it gives Daniel some perspective on how to handle anger better.

People, I've never realized the pain of giving your child's description to a police officer. For all of those who have been there, and especially for those who never found their children, I am so, so sorry.

Details to come when I can process everything.

Lost

Where are my brains lately? Where is my comment posse? Where are my children's manners? Where is my vagina? Oh, wait, that's under this Buddha belly.

Where is my liquid paper?