true love

True love is sleeping downstairs on the couch because your dog can no longer climb the stairs to your bedroom.

Group Projects Suck

The more time I spend working on my Master's Degree, the more I become convinced that GROUP PROJECTS FUCKING SUCK. I am of the opinion that if you want it done right, do it yourself. Personally, I don't care if the other people contribute. In fact, I'd rather do all the work and make an A than have them drag it down with their "ideas." What burns me up, though, is when they won't work and then complain that I took over. What? Or if they're a "taker over" and their ideas suck. Collaborative learning works well in theory but not in reality. If ever I am a professor, I will always allow students the option of an individual project.

Halloween novelties

I really should not have snatched the wig off of that fake-bride last night, but I was cold! I'd gone to a Halloween "party" that turned out to be some kind of drag queen voodoo priestess and a tiny woman in black named "Mami" doing a seance with eggs and baby dolls. It was very theatrical, with the lights flickering and a radio pre-programmed to turn on and off at the right times. But really, did they need to turn the air down so low?

Glue and Horn Fail

Today was the school's Halloween dressup day and some professors came in (shudder) revealing superhero outfits. I glued tiny horns to my head but wore normal clothing, as if nothing were at all amiss. During class, one horn fell off, so I pulled the other one off...and in doing so, ripped off a circular patch of skin and hair. See, this is what happens when you super glue things to your head. Sigh.

Sword Fail

Electrolysis

I just realized that as of today, I've had 19 hours of electrolysis on my face and eyebrows. Ha! This is what happens when narcissism meets boredom. But hell, my eyebrows are looking damn good.

Harharhar

I'm driving down to Marfa Monday to see them famous lights! I love being single for the very reason that I get to call the shots when it comes to road trips.

Wedding Crashers

So it was Gretchen’s bachelorette party last night, and as usual, I was “running late" on account of "traffic." Thing was, this place was at Carrabbas Italian Grill. I'd never been there before, and got kinda scared, so I was paying extra special attention to my clothing and hairstyle. Balding as I am, it took a long time to fix up the few hairs left on my head, so naturally, I was "running late." Because of "traffic," or so that's the story I told Gretchen.

Well anyway, I plugged that address into the GPS and I was following Jennifer’s directions (she’s my GPS’s voice, who frequently bitches at me for turning the wrong way) when she told me to turn right onto some side street. Now, GPS is usually pretty good, but if yours is like mine, sometimes it says, "turn right, turn left, turn straight," and the next thing you know, you're driving into the side of a building. But I looked and saw a legitimate street. I turned right and noticed that several cute looking Hispanic men in tuxedos were running a valet service. Mmmmmkay, I thought. Maybe Carrabbas has valet parking or something. Not wanting to spend money for what I could do on my own, I kept driving. Then I saw it. Oh hell, I’d just driven to an outdoor wedding. Clearly, the event was about to start and here I was, pulling into what turned out to NOT be a side street, rather, a long driveway that was serving as the bride’s pathway to the altar. I put that car in reverse, backed out, and floored it out of there, and all they could see was rapidly disappearing taillights.

So, to that bride who got married at that house on Voss, I’m sorry for spraying gravel on your bridesmaid. But at least fifty years down the road, you will be able to reminisce about that crazy boy in the red car who crashed your wedding. And to Jessica…maybe it’s time to switch you out to that Russian robot voice named Niki.

Grave Dirt and Underwear

So we're learning about dirt. Yep, dirt. My students live in the "inner city," which means that the only dirt around them is what you find on the floors in their nasty homes. Well I wasn't about to spend a damn penny on buying dirt at the Home Depot, but I needed about five pounds for this lesson I was teaching.

So um, I stole dirt from a cemetary off of I-10. Woodlawn or Wood Forest or something. I mean, it's not my fault that the security guard didn't catch me as I peeled out of there and sprayed gravel in his face. And besides, the people are dead and don't need the dirt! Anyway, I'll let y'all know if any ghosts start trying to eat me in my sleep.

In other news, I pissed myself in the bathroom of that Half Priced Books on Westheimer and Waugh. I'd just come from dance class and was looking at the comic books when I decided to pee. So I got in that bathroom, pulled down the dance pants, and just let it out. Oh goodness...see, normally I don't wear anything under my dance pants, but for whatever reason, I had on some whitey tighties. I stood there, with those underwears hanging off me like a soiled baby diaper and you know I just looked a damn fool. I left that bathroom with my underwear hidden deep in the trashcan.

Burning down the church...again

It was the Baptism of our Lord Jesus Christ a few Sundays ago, and I was chosen to lead the procession as the thurifer. This meant I got to light the incense and swing the thurible around and make things smell pretty (a thurible, for all you non “high church” people, is a hollow metal ball, split in two and with a thing inside to hold charcoal and incense, all hanging from a metal chain which you hold). Now, this meant I was in charge of lighting the thing and keeping the charcoal burning throughout the Mass.

Now, if you know anything about me, you’ll know that church, fire, and Georges do not mix. On All Saints Day, years ago, the votive candles used during the “remember our dead” part of the service all melted into one and became a huge bowl of fire, onto which the priest poured water and spread the fire. Technically that one was not my fault, but my shoelace was partially singed. Sometime later, I filled the sacristy with butane by leaving the valve open on a torch, but it was cool. No one died or was exploded. But this day, the problem was that we had one brick of charcoal which had to burn for two hours. Yes it takes Jesus two hours to get baptized. Anyway, so I was like the loaves and fishes, or the water from wine, where I had to make a one hour charcoal brick burn twice as long. I tried breaking it in half but it was too hard, and Mass was starting soon. So I burnt it as usual, processed in with the incense, and took it outside to burn out. The plan normally is to light a new brick thirty minutes before Mass ends, but seeing as how there was no charcoal; I was a bit freaked out. So, when it was time to light the thurible, I came up with the idea to dump a box of matches into the thurible, light it, add the incense, and hope for the best.

I began the procession with my makeshift charcoal brick and no one was the wiser…until of course, the thing started shooting out flames. It was at this point that I remembered how metal conducts heat and the chain I was holding began imprinting its links on my sweating palm. Being a hardy soldier of Christ, I kept a smile on my face and swung the thurible all the more vigorously. If Jesus could be cool about the crucifixion, I could handle being on fire for the Lord. I made it out of the church and stood at the front door of the church, wondering how to hide the charred thurible until I could get it cleaned. Unfortunately, a photographer had been hired to help create a church book to document our parish goings-on, and this is why there is a picture in our parish book of a wayward acolyte shrouded in smoke and hiding in the bushes.

Too much technology

I just can't get my mind around all this stuff. Face Book, Twitter, and my blog. My mind is just about 'sploding.