Sanitized

Words TBS "sanitized" in their broadcast of While You Were Sleeping tonight:

• schmuck
• schmeckle
• one-balled bastard (okay, well maybe I get that one...)

Why?

Overheard

Across the wall at work today, our resident aged hippie republican asked one of his team members:
Have you ever had hash brownies?

No child left behind

"So you'll be in my math class from now on," his voice rumbled down to me, just before he pulled me into a sudden, insincere hug. Released just as suddenly, I stumbled and wished that I had the power to insist he send me back to Mrs. Brown's pre-algebra group--the only highlight in my fourth grade life.

I went home that night and reported (quite likely tearfully) to my mom that Dr. Corash had informed me I was in his math class now. She was horrified and started the series of phone calls immediately to get me taken back out of my teacher's math class. The irony of this situation, which I didn't appreciate at the time, was that it was my parents' complaints which got my math class switched to start with.

I felt like I barely saw my parents that year--every evening there seemed to be another meeting they had to go to. When I had started fourth grade, it was the first time in three years that I'd had a new teacher, much less a new school. Within the first six weeks, one-third of the class withdrew and started their own private school. At the time, I didn't completely understand what was going on. I know now that my parents couldn't afford to enroll me in the private school my friends were starting, and they couldn't take me out of my class without jeopardizing my sister's placement at her elementary school. So they did what they could--working their way through the layers of bureaucracy to try and get me reassigned while keeping my sister where she was or to try to find someone to make my class better.

They started with the principal. Unfortunately she and Dr. Corash had been study buddies during their PhD program and she refused to listen to my parents' complaints. When they complained that we hadn't had math so far during the first two months of school, coincidentally math groups were assigned and divided up. Sometimes when they showed up for meetings with her, they found other parents--who were on "his side"--waiting there to rebut their claims. Soon their passion drove them to the school board.

The principal told everyone that my parents were trying to get my teacher fired and this caused the school board to treat them rudely and disregard their legitimate complaints. At one meeting, the head of the school board stood outside the door during their meeting--unable to leave hearing distance of the meeting but refusing to face my parents. Before another meeting, my parents got the last two spots on the list of people allowed to speak but when they showed up a few hours later discovered the principal had recruited a few other parents, and circumvented the school board procedures, to speak against my parents.

It was during one of their appearances before the school board that they mentioned my math class with Mrs. Brown. I may have been the only student who loved her, but she was a great teacher--consistent and demanding--and it was my few minutes in her presence every day that made school bearable. She was the complete opposite of my teacher who taught without lesson plans, flew off on random tangents, rarely followed through, and never explained the grades he gave out. Unfortunately the class I was in was called "self-contained" meaning it was only to include gifted students identified by the school district, and letting us out of the classroom for math violated that program, leading to my return to Dr. Corash for math.

I'm not sure who took pity on me and restored me to Mrs. Brown's pre-algebra class. I do know that eventually a few members of the school board heard my parents and they assigned a tutor for my teacher--someone to teach him to write and use lesson plans--and she also worked with me individually in English. The next year, he was transferred to another school in the district--his friend the principal felt forced to send him away--and we got a much better teacher in his place. Actually, the transfer proved to be good for Dr. Corash as well--a few years later I was at an awards ceremony where he was selected as the outstanding gifted teacher of the year in our district. It turns out that between the tutoring he received and his "team teachers" at his new school, he grew to be a good teacher.

That year was the most wrenching classroom situation of my twelve in public schools but I don't know how to draw a conclusion about public education from it. Elizabeth from Corporate Mommy had her say about it today and drove me to share this memory. I know the system is broken, but I don't know how to fix it. I also don't know how I feel when/if I'm presented with making that choice for my child.

Survey says...

When my aunt went to college in the 70s, she conducted a survey: were men with mustaches better kissers than those without?

While I was in college at the beginning of this new millennium, I decided I wanted to conduct a survey of my own. The factor I wanted to test--tongue rings. At the time, I didn't know anyone with that particular piercing.

I met a few potential test subjects--a singer in a visiting vocal group and a friendly computer geek with a penchant for passing out on my bed--but my theory remained untested until T and I began another flirtation. At the time, he didn't have a tongue ring, but shortly after I shared my curiosity with him, I dropped into a friend's place to see him and discovered he had changed his piercing status. While this postponed our first kiss of that cycle, it did introduce a new element and allowed me to indulge my curiosity. I think I'll keep my conclusions to myself. /wink/

Recently I dreamt that I was getting my tongue pierced. I liked the look and feel of it actually. Driving by a piercing salon on my way home from work the next afternoon, I remembered the dream and actually felt the pain. Ouch. It reminded me that piercings might look fun, but aren't for me. It also reminded me of a time when curiosity made this cat pretty happy.

Time of my life

When we were in high school, my best friend and I were derisive of our peers who considered high school the best time of their lives. Even though I enjoyed high school, I suppose I still haven't completely let go of that attitude. Now I find that I've become of those people who considers college her best years and talks about them more than I would like.

Over the past few months, I felt like I was getting closer to my coworker R. I wouldn't have said we were friends, but we've become a pair at work--someone to eat lunch with, see a movie with, and conspire about/against our coworkers. I know she is an opportunist--trading her husband for a boyfriend for another boyfriend--but I was still hurt tonight when she joined some of our other coworkers for fun and drinking between work and our office poker night and didn't tell me about it. While we were playing tonight she and W (another coworker) kept disappearing from the table together and I didn't catch onto the fact they were sneaking off to take sips from a flask and spike their sodas until W's wife clued me in. When the light dawned, I felt betrayed and left out.

I couldn't help but compare it to the nights in college when I had a seemingly endless number of friends to call and I never lacked for plans or fun.

Tales from an office fridge

M: Did either of you have cantelope in the fridge on Friday?
R & Angie: Nope.
M: Hmmm... I wonder who did. Because I took it home instead of breast milk.
R: I wonder who the lucky one who took home the breast milk is.

Living in Colorado

How many places in the country would a homeowner's association announce an outdoor pool opening, but provide an alternate location in case of rain or snow?

Note to self

R: Don't get your eyebrows waxed when you haven't slept. Either that, or if haven't eaten, 'cause wow, it hurts so much more!

Over the shoulder boulder holder

Otto Titsling, inventor and kraut,
had nothing to get very worked up about.
His inventions were failures,
his future seemed bleak.
He fled to the opera at least twice a week.

I started my quest tonight at that pink lingerie store, eager to redeem the coupon I'd received for free perfume. The coupon also included $5 off any bra, so I thought I'd try even though I doubted I would find anything there for me. I figured if I asked for a measurement and they didn't have anything in my size, I would be off the hook and my trip for free perfume would be complete.

One night at the opera he saw an Aida
who's t-ts were so big they would often impede her.
Bug-eyed he watched her fall into the pit,
done in by the weight of those terrible t-ts.

The cute young saleswoman measured me and announced her conclusion--36DD. My inner skeptic disagreed, but I obediently went into a fitting room and immediately knew she was wrong. Moving up one size, it still appeared I was out of luck.

Oh, my god! There she blows!
Aerodynamically this girl was a mess.
Otto eyeballed the diva lying comatose amongst the reeds,
and he suddenly felt the fire of inspiration flood his soul.
He ran back to his workshop where he futzed and futzed and futzed.

One of the horrible things about being a woman? In the five minutes that it took me to leave that den of femininity and head over to a major department store, apparently my whole body changed because my next fitting--by a "fitting specialist"--concluded I was a 42B. Again, I silenced my inner skeptic and obediently entered the fitting room.

For Otto Titsling had found his quest:
to lift and mold the female breast;
to point the small ones to the sky;
to keep the big ones high and dry!

Every night he'd sweat and snort
searching for the right support.
He tried some string and paper clips.
He even tried his own two lips!

Looking for 42B? Even with the help of two salewomen, I couldn't find any bras in that size. The two women came consulted again when I told them their next guess was not even close. (If you're keeping score at home, this is size number four in less than two hours.)

Well, he stitched and he slaved
and he slaved and he stitched
until finally one night, in the wee hours of morning,
Otto arose from his workbench triumphant.Yes!
He had invented the worlds first
over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder. Hooray!

Trying on size number four, I quickly came to the conclusion that one more tweak was needed.

Exhausted but ecstatic he ran
down the street to the diva's house
bearing the prototype in his hot little hand.
Now, the diva did not want to try the darn thing on.
But, after many initial misgivings,she finally did.
And the sigh of relief that issued forth
from the diva's mouth was so loud
that it was mistaken by some
to be the early onset of the Siroccan Winds
which would often roll through the Schwarzwald
with a vengeance!Ahhhhh-i!

After trying on nearly 20 bras, I finally found one that I could imagine taking home.

But little did Otto know,
at the moment of his greatest triumph,
lurking under the diva's bed
was none other than the very worst
of the French patent thieves,
Philippe DeBrassiere.
And Phil was watching the scene
with a great deal of interest!

Later that night, while our Brun Hilda slept,
into the wardrobe Philippe softly crept.
He fumbled through knickers and corsets galore,
'til he found Otto's titsling and he ran out the door.

The store was having a big sale tonight--buy 2, get 2 free. Having had one success, it would seem I was on my way.

Crying, "Oh, my god! What joy! What bliss!
I'm gonna make me a million from this!
Every woman in the world will wanna buy one.
I can have all the goods manufactured in Taiwan."

But with only one I wanted to take home, I came home empty-handed.

The result of this swindle is pointedly clear:
Do you buy a titsling or do you buy a brassiere?