SO glad I didn't go to high school with boys

First week of student-teaching! I'm journaling about the experience, since mostly my thoughts are probably not that interesting, and therefore not all that bloggable. Unlike my grocery store musings, which I think you'll agree are fascinating.

One relatively non-instruction-related thing I've been keeping an eye on is this student of mine, let's call him LoverBoy, constantly macking on another one of my students. I'd give him a 7 on a suave-scale of 1-10, with 10 being James Bond.

Anyway, whom did I see after school yesterday with his hands in the hoodie front pocket of SomeoneElse with whom he was sharing a set of iPod headphones? You know it was LoverBoy.

food stuffs

I think if this teaching thing doesn't work out I might become an anthropologist who studies grocery stores. I think what goes on in grocery stores is fascinating.

On my last trip to the grocery store, I engaged in no less than three super-cheery conversations with strangers; one was about produce, one was about the difference between grape juice and grape drink, and one was about shopping carts. Brief as those conversations were, I wonder why they were all so... peppy? Maybe it's me, since I was a control factor in the unintentional study, but I wouldn't generally consider myself to be a person of such spunk.

Or maybe I could be a geographer and look at where grocery stores are located in relation to various neighborhoods. Last summer we observed that the grocery stores in several of the low-income neighborhoods we we worked in were actually just a few food racks in gas stations. All the Doritos you can handle, but not an apple in sight. What's up with that, huh.

Anyway, I think I could be happy spending my life writing books with cheesy titles that capitalize on cliche grocery store stuff like "clean up on aisle nine" and "SPAM" and "B.O.B."

Unrelated, but um, oh hey sweet endorsement from Caroline Kennedy: NYT: A President Like My Father

Days of Existence update

Dad, not to be outdone by Mom in the Hilarious Department, sent me this message this morning. My brother Conor (CRD) and I (ECD -- Dad only deals in initials. First names are passé, I guess.) have some Big Days coming up in 2008! If you're interested in getting an exact number for Days of Existence (DOE) of our family, or if you'd like to see a matrix detailing the Differences in Days Old among us, I can gladly make the Excel spreadsheet available to you.

"Well, it's been building up inside of me for, oh, I don't know hooow long!"

Maybe it's because over break my mom (Third Mom shout-out this week? Oh yes.) made fun of me and Moe for the inane smiles on our faces as we sat on the couch one morning watching the end of Love Actually, but lately I've been hyper-aware of the faces I make when I'm watching TV. Like today I checked out the end of Never Been Kissed as I was eating dinner, and I caught myself with that same pathetic, shit-eating grin. I mean, I think that movie is dumb as hell, so what's the deal?

It's quite possible that I'm just a sucker for make-out scenes enhanced by The Beach Boys.

found on the quad

and the reverse:


What, bored with this "I need a bf" stuff? Me too.

Blog for Choice Day 2008

My brain is working hard to wrap itself around some heavy lesson planning, and anyway, I don't think I could put it better than Melissa did.

Vote pro-choice! (Sorry, Gram.) (Actually, I'm not sorry.)

The Simpsons poll closes

I do wish that I could say that I'm too mature to think, "I'm a stupid moron with an ugly face and a big butt and my butt smells and, uh... I like to kiss my own butt," is funny. But I'm not. Gets me every time.

Mom, see what you did to me? If you would have let me get it out of my system in the '90s I'd be so over this.

"No, no we are not satisfied, and we will not be satisfied until justice rolls down like water, and righteousness like a mighty stream."

Click to enlarge. (You want to enlarge.)

I'm having a difficult time verbalizing my reaction(s) to this. I'll leave it at W.T.F.

I'm hungry.

Man, I have something so crazy to post about, but I'm too tired to go to the computer lab to scan it. Let me tell you, tomorrow's post compared to this post is going to be like a grilled cheese with more than one kind of cheese and tomatoes made on sourdough bread compared to grilled cheese made with those wiggly plastic-wrapped singles made with regular old wheat bread.

I had a great afternoon though. UC Books to Prisoners collects books from the community and then uses the stash they've amassed to fill requests that prisoners in Illinois send to them via letters. Usually when I find myself surrounded by books I completely lose the run of myself and become this greedy book monster. None of that today. It was fun to put together packages, especially for people who have the same taste in books as me. (I'm self-involved like that.) I sent one guy Invisible Man, The Street Lawyer, and Why Are All the Black Kids Sitting Together in the Cafeteria? and some stupid mystery novel with a tacky cover... Whatever, man. If that's what you want. (I judge books by their cover.)

Pretty nice little Saturday.

Obama? good. Ellen? goood. Beyonce? reeeal good.

From now on, this blog is going to be all business. I mean it.

One of my favorite profs does this weekly (or most-weekly) thing on his blog where he posts a scanned image of a note or other piece of hand-written something that he or others on his Found Friday Research Team has found. Anything from grocery lists, to directions, to love letters, to whatever -- pretty good stuff.

I think I need a weekly series on this blog. Something to give a little structure to these ramblings. A little discipline, or something.

So, loyal readers (Hi Mom!), any ideas?

s/he with a teaspoon of offensive

They are 100% sure 10% of the time that I am "A Woman!" This graphic has got to be kidding me.

(Click to enlarge.)

The makers of this quiz can expect a strongly-worded email from this 10% Woman over this question:

I'm addicted to stress.

And it's so good to be back in my organized clutter.

These are my feet, and my legs adorned in my recently rediscovered "good sweats."

crazy liberals...

This post over at The Carpetbagger Report addresses a goofy chain email that I vaguely remember receiving from my Grandma a while ago that takes on the task of informing voters that Barack Obama is a Muslim who doesn't put his hand over his heart for the Pledge! Imagine!

Oddly enough, Benen mostly insists, No, he's not! He's Christian! And he does!

Um, so what if he was Muslim? One of the commenters borrows from Seinfield to remind readers, "Not that there's anything wrong with that."

My favorite commenter though, before s/he digresses into a borderline kids-these-days-suck rant, writes

"I don’t understand why human beings are so ritualistic and ceremonial. I’ve got a codicil in my will that says I won’t attend my own funeral because I can’t stand ceremonies.

Form over substance, every time, it seems. Even with religion. As if you could fool this god that nearly everyone believes in by praying out loud and talking a good game and browning him up.

I stopped saying the Pledge when I was seventeen. Aside from objecting to compulsory and public attestations of loyalty and faith, I found the first phrase, “I pledge allegiance to the FLAG,” to be ridiculous. Why would anyone pledge allegiance to a symbol? And the “under God” thing I found to be abhorrent, and unconstitutional. But as a matter of courtesy, I stand when it’s repeated at public events.

As for the national anthem, I also stand out of respect for others, but don’t place my hand over my heart, and I don’t sing, partly because I can’t sing, and partly because I can’t stand this thing - I’ve heard it a billion times in my 66 years. Enough is enough.

I just don’t understand why this empty symbolism is so important to so many people."

I'm not going to my funeral either! Fuck that.

Eff teaching!

A friend asked me to be a reference for him for a job he's applying for, and I gladly agreed. Today, I got an email from the prof doing the hiring. I've just to answer a series of questions about him to the best of my ability. Pretty standard, except for:

19. Is the applicant in good health and good physical shape? (The job
requires a lot of cliff-climbing, long hikes, squeezing through tight
barbed wire fences, fording rivers, and rapid chasing of monkeys over
rough terrain.)

20. Do you think that the applicant is excessively macho? Is s/he likely
to be applying for this position primarily to have swashbuckling adventure
stories to tell back home, or because of a genuine intellectual
fascination for the evolution of social behavior?

Um, this sounds like the coolest job ever. Unfortunately, I'm probably not qualified due to my desire for swashbuckling adventure stories. Seriously, who doesn't crave swashbuckling adventure stories?

"Every now and then I get a little bit tired of listening to the sound of my tears."

I thought I hated PlayStation and all video games (not for some problem I have with what video games may or may not be doing to the kiddies, but because I think they're boring.) But SingStar rules. I'm so glad my eight-year-old cousin got it for Christmas so that I could play with it. I wish I had the video of Sinéad and I singing this, but these Italians are doing a pretty good job, no? Here's us:



I had a blast in Dublin, and am now back to beautiful Evergreen Park, Illinois. Tomorrow: Urbana!

coffee and a bocadillo in BCN

Traveling alone is extremely conducive to eavesdropping. Since this trip (that’s sadly coming to an end) has required so many flights, I’ve had many, many opportunities to listen in on excited chit-chat at airport gates.

Right now I’m listening to some off-duty flight-attendants complaining with vitriol about passengers who ask, “Is this [peanuts and a mini can of pop] all we’re getting?” Their unanimous off-duty response: “Ummm... yeah.”

funniest thing ever

Last night we enjoyed some delicious fried fish for dinner. The idea was that we'd eat it while sitting on the curb outside the bar so that we could peek in at the football game on la tele. We figured that the dirty looks we got from several passersby had something to do with the ketchup we were using on our fish. Looking back, it was probably the steaming pile of dog shit within two feet of our makeshift dining room that they were judging.

esta cabalgata en Sevilla > our parades in Chicago

but is that blackface at the end?

charming

guy in bar (GIB): "¿Hablas español?"
me: "eh.. Poquito!"
GIB: "Tu amiga, la Chinita, es la mujer de mis sueños."
me: "ah Sí, ella es muy guapa, no?"
GIB: "In dee next life, she will be mine."
me: "Sí, claro."
GIB: "Solo, eh, fucking. ¿Has visto Spanish cock?"
me: "Cassie! Come here, you gotta hear this..."
GIB: "I shock pussy! I shock pussy!"

Seville does not rhyme with Cruella de Vil.

Luckily for me, Vicki arrived in Sevilla not too long after I did, so I was able to go home with her instead of waiting hours in the airport arrivals area for Cassie (-- Although by the time I spotted her I had pretty much resigned myself to an evening of Hugh-Grant-voice-over-in-Love-Actually-reminiscent basking in arrivals area love.)

Anyway, two reasons why an evening with Vicki was better:
1. The Estufa


It's this awesome heating device that sits underneath the table. You put a heavy tablecloth over the table, and then put your legs under the tablecloth while you chillax, as is shown above. Very warm, and an excuse to all sit around the table together. Love it.

2. Vicki said something along the lines of, "You know how when you die, on your grave it says, for example, "Ellen 1986-3081"? Well, that dash represents your life." Whoa.

I'm so happy I'm almost crying.

It's like, 4 something in the morning and I'm just up listening to Cassie Skype with her mom, and then I heard her say that Obama's won so I had to get up. Yessssssssssss

In Illinois? Register to vote in the primaries by 1/8! Right there -->

Because of some unforeseen circumstances, Cassie and I spent the last two nights in this hostel, which was actually pretty sweet. We chose it because it came up first when we organized the results of our Google search for "cheap barcelona hostels" according to price, but frequent readers of this blog will quickly surmise that there was another reason I was so pumped about this place:














Last night when we asked one of the guys working there what we should do this morning in our final few hours in the city he said, "There's nothing to do here. And it's going to be raining. You should stay here and smoke. And cook pasta. That would be good."

P.S. Props to whoever's photos these are that I borrowed from the common computadora.

Euro keyboard

Look at all the characters that I have access to on this here keyboard español:

ñ,€,¬,Ñ,Ç,¨,ª, and º

And Caps Lock is "Bloq Mayús."

scariest/most hilarious person to travel with ever:

This lady right here.

Me gusta mucho Barcelona!