Monday, April 26, 2010

Ted Offers You His Special Gold Tip Shaft

Remember how I wasn't around much for awhile, and then it turned out my computer was to blame and not even my laziness at all?  And then I disappeared for even longer?

It's like every time I complain that my computer is broken, the computer ups the ante.

This time it was blatant computer psychosis, all wacky Pac Man patterns and angry screens full of blather about crash dump this and I can read your mind that.  So I gathered it up tenderly and lugged the stupid thing down to the geek powers that be, who giggled and fidgeted and clicked the pen in their pocket protectors and then said probably your hard drive, that'll take 6-8 weeks.  Also they said, this is the third one of this model we've seen today! so it's good to know I wasn't the only person tricked into buying the Exorcist 300.

Now I've got a loaner that I had to sign over my grandmother and two camels for, and the thing makes a horrible thumping noise when you turn it on.  Probably the fan is going to fly out any minute and decapitate me, and then they'll charge my grieving family for the damage.

I am done now.  It was so much more peaceful around here before I showed up all whiny, I know.

How about if I change the subject?

Did you know Ted Nugent has his own brand of arrows?  They're called the Ted Nugent Signature Shafts. Gold Tip. Zebra-striped.

I know what you're thinking.

Rednecks.  You spray and spray and they keep coming back.

Even here, in southern California, land of movie stars and glamor, and tall , pointy shoes, we have a significant redneck underbelly.  Because when you travel east, towards the desert, but not far enough to land yourself in Las Vegas, you will encounter a steady increase in the population of people who have suspicious freezers in their sheds and neon beer signs over the baby's crib.

I myself am not a redneck, despite the banjo-players occupying my father's side of the family tree, and the shameful SPAM-filled years of my adolescence, but I'm excellent at spotting them.

For instance, my son decided, after a brief introduction to archery at snow camp this year, that he would like to take up the sport, and probably medal at the Olympics. We're big dreamers at Casa Vic.

So we signed him up through the city for some beginning archery lessons, and a sweet, tiny Filipino lady with a ball cap and swishy track pants took control of a class of young boys and two girls, all eager to shoot some arrows. The archery range is on the university campus, and at this point it felt pretty sporty and clean, the arrows breezing by on their way to the colorful bullseyes in the distance, the twang of the strings, the cute little quivers.

It was all fine until my husband decided to investigate the closest archery supply store (located at the back of a seedy industrial park) for a beginner's bow (the big twelfth birthday was just around the corner!  My son's, not my husbands, although it's safe to say my son is on the verge of passing his father up).

Inside the store lay horror.


My son said "Ooh, fluffy!" and put a finger in one nostril.

This wild boar was on the counter. That's all there is of him.  On the walls were the heads of eight of his wild-boar brethren, plus a deer, a rabbit, and a bear.  On the walls between the heads were the most terrifying camo-covered cross-bows, and pretzel-shaped hunting bows with sights, and laminated posters of woodland creatures with bullseyes drawn over their hearts and brains, and bowie knives.  And Ted Nugent Signature Shafts.

It was kind of a shock.  We have hunters in the family, and I'm used to the mental picture of gun-toting guys in orange jackets, like Elmer Fudd sneaking through the forest (BE VEWY QWIET) , but the Filipino lady didn't prepare me for the Killer Elf Supply Store.

The customer next to me at the counter kept looking down the neck of her very large T-shirt, probably because the girls seemed to be free and she was checking on their locations. Both were heading south, as far as I could tell.  Below the T-shirt she wore neon purple leggings and a pair of flip flops wedged over tube socks. She was the only one in the store besides our family that was not wearing a bristle hair cut.

It felt like a different country we'd stepped into.

On the way home I saw a sleek woman in a Mercedes next to us who had a doily draped precisely over her headrest, and it was then that I finally felt we had re-entered civilization.
 
Next post:  Anal Gel on the Horizon?  I Hope to God Not.

Tuesday, April 06, 2010

Also, someone in my house had a jawbreaker for breakfast. It's quick energy.

I have not fallen down today.

 I count this as a win, even though it is only 9:30 am, and my motor skills still have plenty of time to betray me.  I don’t think they will though, because I am using a mind-over-two-left-feet approach today, so I’m like a ballerina, not Kate Gosselin on DWTS. ( Poor Kate can’t help that she dances like a pterodactyl in a ball gown-  I’m pulling for you Kate!  Sort of!)

Today is a new day, people.  It will not be like yesterday, when, just before I had to leave the house, I broke a stack of fifteen plates trying to get something to rest my toast on.

They made a spectacular noise as the plates exploded on the cement floor.  While I was speed-sweeping the shards that were not embedded in the furniture  into the trash can I had plenty of time to wonder why we even needed fifteen plates in the house.  I think we were only just weighed down by our excessive plate ownership.  I liberated us.

Remind me later that we’re out of Band-Aids.

Also, this morning is beautiful, sunny and cool, and as I walked confidently onto campus at 8 am, wearing a new gray dress with blue-gray tights, another teacher approached me and said,

 “Hey!  I love your uniform!  I need to do that too-  it would make it so easy to get dressed in the morning.”

I was totally going for “uniform”.  It’s inmate-chic.  Prada’s spring Penitentiary line.

I’ve been modeling my fashion-forward look all morning on campus, because it’s state testing week, and since I have seniors, who don’t test, I get to be a bathroom break person.  I’m assigned four teachers to relieve, but two of them are missing, either in the wrong room, or on a plane to Rio, I’m not sure, so I’ve been wandering around campus like an escapee looking for clues.  I know I’m going to find them soon, but not until I finish writing this, because how often do they need to go to the bathroom anyway?  Teachers have monster-bladders.  It’s in the contract.

I just remembered one of the two who are not missing is pregnant.  I’ll be right back.

----

It was close, but I made it there on time.  While she was gone I inspected her baby books and ate a little of her trail mix.  It was on the desk.  Probably she left it there for me, because I’ve been doing a lot of walking. 

I’m kind of tired now, but I have to stay focused, because pretty soon the second half of the day will start, and happy students will come flooding in these doors.  Three solid hours of testing this morning will not have dampened their enthusiasm for learning.  Today we are talking about the meaning of life and Lance Armstrong. 

I have a gift for lesson planning.  And fashion.

What are your gifts?  Feel free to talk amongst yourselves while I go do this whole employment thing.  I’ll be around later.