Month: May 2013

Oops, Late-Night Retrobruxist Friday 5/31/13

Ran across a blog post today titled Worst End of School Year Mom Ever. I can relate. I think most teachers feel like bad teachers at the end of the year.

Forge Mom's Signature

Main reason: standardized testing. It’s The Worrrrrrrrrrst. Bad for kids, sure, but as I tell the kids: “At least you get to DO something. I just have to SIT THERE.” In fact, read I Got Middle Schooled for a little taste of what teachers and proctors go through. It’s horrifying and hilarious.

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Three years ago, I shared my experiences with anti-depressants. The magic bullet I mentioned was amino acids—a monster truck load of them per day—which I took for several years, and they definitely helped. But they were super-duper-expensive and not-at-all covered by my super-duper-crappy health insurance. I weaned myself off them within the last six months, and I think I’m doing OK. I have my moments, but between CrossFit, food choices, and workin on mah shit, I’m maintaining a pretty healthy level of sanity.

Two years ago, I found the All-Time Worst Prospect on OKCupid. Seriously though.

A year ago, a shocking news story broke.

Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.

 

Retrobruxist Friday 5/24/13, or I Am Rad

June 5. That’s when I cancel my Match subscription. Twelve more days.

The only reason I’m keeping my nose above water is my friends. My friends are pretty great.

Not Scary Spice

He added, “We are all rooting SO HARD for you.” And I know they are.

Dan NJ wrote: Since it’s been at least a month since I said so- can I remind you of the Avogadro’s number of awesome particles that make up, and emanate from, you?  These particular elements represent a periodic table of Amy’s awesomeness, and are subdivided into categories such as brilliance, loveliness, kick-assedness, nice-assedness, and noble gases.  (The last one is pure speculation on my part…)

And a little faerie (possibly named Megalu) writes pro-me statements on the sticky notes on my desk every time she comes over, which I find later and stick to my computer monitor.

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And all these words of encouragement serve to remind me that, no matter what happens in my love life, I most definitely have love in my life. Thank you, friends, and I love you all.

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Three years ago, I cheered you up with some stellar knock-knock jokes.

Some people love my teaching stories; others enjoy the tragically delicious dating stuff. But there are those who just really revel in the fact that I’m, to quote a friend, “bad at lawnmowers”, e.g. this post from two years ago.

You know how Google’s informal motto is “Don’t be evil”. I wish that sentiment could be codified into all companies’ bylaws. Alas, as I mentioned a year ago, insurance companies are nothing but dens of thieves.

What you may have missed on Fat CrossFitter: Who gets to define my fatness, and my two cents on the problem with progress.

Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.

 

Swordfish

A couple years ago, I started password-protecting stories about my students so I wouldn’t get dooced, and occasionally I lock down a post about a boy and/or a dirty thing I do. My friends have the password. So does my dad, so he gets to read about the dirty things.

Awk-ward.

Anyway, I have a lot of friends, and I’ve made friends, friends who wanted the password, so I gave it to them. A person here, a person there, and it’s gotten a little unwieldy.

It’s not that I regret giving anyone the password—basically, I just need a list of who has the it, so in case somebody blabs, I’ll know whose bed to short-sheet. Or at least which 30 beds to start with.

So it’s time to reset. New password. Ready? And the password is—

Jk, you have to send me a message to get it.

(Dad, you can still have the password/read about the dirty things. Even though it’s awkward.)

Persona, Personae

As y’all know, sometimes I write about CrossFit, and I try to make it a story, not just a recap of my workout, but for people who don’t do CrossFit—I don’t know—it could be boring.

At the same time, folks who are interested in reading about CrossFit may not give a crap about my cooking mishaps or disastrous love life.

So!

I’ve created a tumblr called Fat CrossFitter. (Twitter feed here. Facebook page here.) I’ll link to some of my old CrossFit posts but also tell new stories about when I’m up in the gym just workin on my fitness. And I’ll make sure to update everybody with PRs on my HSPU and my new 1RM on HBBS, and OMG, WTF? LOL, I kid you!

Anyway, if you want to hear about the trials and tiny victories of this Fat CrossFitter, well, there you go.

Athletic Yet Kinda Smushy in Most Places

Here’s the thing: I’ve seen a few guys on Match that I thought were… I don’t know, interesting? reasonably attractive? legit prospects? And then I scroll down to their preferences:

Slender, About Average, Athletic & Toned

And I’m not slender. I’m not about average. One could argue that I’m athletic, but fuck if I’m toned. I have a lot of jiggly bits.

And I just give up.

Fuck everything.

 

Retrobruxist Friday 5/17/13, or Him’s a Her

Three years ago, I divulged that I’m a major weenie when it comes to medical procedures.

My public inner monologue about sperm donation started two years ago. If you attended the Monti GrandSLAM last month, you got an update. Stay tuned for more on that topic.

A year ago, I went on a date with “Mike“. It was terrible. (I feel like I should make a “major weenie” joke here… something about what could’ve salvaged the date, but… nope. I got nothin.)

It’s not going much better now. The prospects on Match are 0% higher quality than on OKCupid (“PS NO LIBERALS” read a recent profile), and the algorithm—that I’m paying actual US dollars for—notified me that it had matched me with jls1969 because we had the same birth month.

The same. Birth. Month.

They tried to make it sound better by saying he didn’t smoke either. OH GOOD GOLLY GOSH, a Virgo or maybe a Libra who is also a non-smoker?! Thank you, match.com—it’s everything I ever dreamed! When I was a tiny girl, I used to say, “One day I want to marry a non-smoker who is a Virgo. Or maybe a Libra.”

I mustn’t lose faith. There’s always this guy:

Him?

What do I think about him, match.com?

I think him’s a her.

Looks like she thinks him’s a her too.

Of course, the pic looks like a stock photo plucked from a Google Image search for “straight white teeth”, and the profile is almost too perfectly generic. My guess is it’s a new angle on the old Nigerian bank scam.

But! Him/her is not a smoker!

There’s that!!

!!!!

I can’t for the life of me understand why people think I’m jaded.

Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.

Dinner with Dad

Dad gets antsy in the evening. “I suppose we ought to go for a drive,” he says. He has traipsed around Durham earlier in the day, so we head to Chapel Hill. Neither of us is hungry yet. We park and stroll down Franklin. Watch people. Look in windows. Survey the scene.

I point. “Wow, look at those azaleas! Gorgeous!”

“Yeah,” Dad says appreciatively, “they have all that floral shit over here.”

Eventually, we get an outside table at Tallula’s, a Turkish place I used to go to back in the day. Dad asks for the lamb kebab. I order the sea bass special.

"Whoa, it looks like somebody drove over your fish," Dad says.
“Whoa, it looks like somebody drove over your fish,” Dad says.

I eat it quickly. Dad looks at my empty plate. “Must’ve been good, run-over or not.”

“It was delicious,” I say. “How’s your kebab?

“Adequate.”

He keeps eating.

“I’ve had worse.”

A few more bites.

“In England, at a Cypriot restaurant. Tasted like braised donkey butt.”

Five more forkfuls.

“This just might’ve been left over from last night.”

He finishes it.

The check comes. Dad looks at the total. “That’s not bad. The bread was good. So was your crushed fish.”

On the way home, Dad narrates all the changes in the landscape over the last 30-odd years.

“How long has that Red Roof Inn been there?!…

I remember when they were building I-40 through here…

That place used to be a small Volkswagen dealership…

(and then waving his hand toward a sea of headstones) They‘ve been there a while, I guess.”

Rarely does my dad laugh at the things that make me laugh because they’re not jokes to him—they’re just his thoughts. But that last one. That last one made us both crack up.

Retrobruxist Friday 5/10/13: Veins, Mowers, & Feelings

I’m genetically a whole lot like my mama. Growing up, everyone always said, “You look just like her!” (which was nice because she’s a good-lookin’ lady). I’d pick up the phone, and they’d start asking about Lamaze classes or some Boone UU function, assuming they had my mother’s ear on the other end of the line. Or they’d hear my laugh from another room and come in looking for her. Three years ago, I realized the one thing I didn’t inherit from my mom was her fire hoses.

(That’s not true. I got my sense of humor and ability to generate ear wax from my dad.)

Two years ago, I put on my big girl panties and bought a gas-powered mower. I learned so many lessons that day.

One year later and I’m still not in feelings. Pout. Stomp stomp stomp. Wah. Boo-hoo.

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Oh yeah. Thanks, post-it.

 

Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.