How I'm celebrating Leap Day.

By shaking my hands...one as a fist, with rock concert elan and the other as a fist also, but old-lady-yelling-at-whippersnappers-style

Fist Pump 1. I'm hanging out my laundry for the first time this year. I'm so damn excited about this!

Sure enough, the signs of spring are here... The gal I work for (this is the couple who own their internet business) said she couldn't remember the last time crocuses, snowdrops, and daffodils were out at the same time. Usually, they're out in stages, one blooming and fading as the next takes its place.


Fist Clench 2. I'm getting the new Samsung Galaxy S II (?) today. The contract's up and Vodaphone's been bugging me to upgrade. To shut them up, I'm going to get a free phone that I can use when I move home. Because I will move home someday.

Yeah, am celebrating Leap Day with some major homesickness issues. Got an email from MomUnit that sent me into a blubbering spiral of drippy snot and leaky tear ducts. It was an attachment! It was a picture of my dear friend's three children, two of which I've never met. Her children are just beautiful and it's like looking at her from across the classroom that first day I met her in junior high. I want my kid to be friends with her kids.

And there's other children I've never met, which bugs the hell out of me. Because they don't know me and because I've just figured out that I really like other people's kids. I like mine just fine, hell, I LOVE her...but I like other people's kids. Not when I was younger, like baby-sitting age...couldn't stand that. But now, I guess it's because I've got one and I'm all like, ME TOO! So, yeah... a niece that's new last year, SciMan's bestie has a kid and another coming... another couple have two children, one I got to spend time with, the other was born two years ago or so... I don't even know when! My brother and sister are becoming adults without me buying their first legal beers. Who's gonna drive them home? DadUnit's going nuts and no one's stopping it. My former students... I can't observe them from my corner of the school and feel proud. I can only just feel a pale imitation from memory. Some dear friends are getting married this year and I've no way to know if I we're going to be there to see it.

So I want to put everyone back home in a time capsule and insulate them in tree sap so that when I come back I can just Jurassic-Park scientist them and resume where I left them. I want to reel in that false sense of control I had over everyone and cast it back out among them. My pot, it is not stirred.

This is the part of living overseas that I knew was going to happen and I accepted it, but it doesn't mean that I have to smile about it. I had it in my head that I wouldn't go back until this "three-hour tour" was over. If I wanted to be illogical about it, it's mainly because I thought that if I did come home just for a visit, a taco and some Ted's queso filling in as a carrot or a crowbar threatening to pry me off the couch wouldn't be able to get me back on a plane for the exhaustible flight. There's been an exodus in the Americans in the UK online community and I sure as hell am jealous about it.

Because they're getting to not only have the very best in laundry drying equipment (a dryer), they're getting to be present, stirring the pot, making a difference, participating in the life fabric that is quilted by shared experiences.

It was a bad decision to come here when viewed in this context.



But then again, if not for that decision, I wouldn't have the trifecta of spring flowers in bloom in a graveyard that has been converted into a playground next to the Kiddo's school. So, really, little things give back and  compensate for other little things that take away and negate.

Snowdrops you can see, crocuses you can't.

SciMan's long, dark teatime of the soul: Sunday

I don't usually have a guest post...but when I do, it's my husband. My husband's a witty, witty man. He writes very well about some things...except the amount of alcohol I consume in an evening.You can read some of his writing about dealing with international travel systems in a  previous post of mine. It's quite funny, really. 


His day job is alchemy, or physics, and he's got a computer background, so just ignore that or understand that, your choice.


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How to screw up a romantic Italian dinner 
How to have a great Italian dinner with Terry Pratchett, by SciMan
2/19/2012
Douglas Adams wrote that Sunday afternoon is the long, dark tea time of the soul. I imagine this is true for lots of people, and there's certainly times that it's true for me, too, but I also find my Sunday afternoon's introspection is often replaced by a sturdy Sunday afternoon ambition. Today, as one of those days, I decided I would cook an awesome meal [ERROR]. 

The focal point of the meal would be meatballs. 

While my wife was at work, my daughter (who is 4.5) and I walked to Tesco for raw materials with which I could practice my industry. When we got back, I set the girl in front of a Winnie the Pooh marathon, and set myself to work. 

I like meatballs to taste like small, crusty nuggets of meatloaf, so I followed my time honored recipe of lean ground beef, minced onion, bread crumbs, egg, Worcestershire (which I can now spell right the first time, every time), ketchup, salt and pepper. I mixed these things according to a secret ratio, and stored the dead spiced cow in the fridge for a bit. I moved on. Next, I washed and sliced mushrooms and onions. Then, I went to play Legos with the kid. 

It was Lego Princess Rose's birthday. She and her horse, also named Rose, were throwing a party. The Prince, unnamed, and his horse, also unnamed, were not allowed to eat anything. 

When the wife got home, she relieved me of Lego duty, and I brought her a glass of wine [E]. It was time to start cooking. This was going to be a four-burner task: 

Burner 1 - Meatballs (and later, peppers)
Burner 2 - Sauce
Burner 3 - Sautéed Mushrooms & Onions
Burner 4 - Spaghetti 

I laid out some aluminum foil, and started rolling meatballs. Meanwhile, I had a few tablespoons of extra virgin olive oil warming in my giganto Cuisinart skillet on Burner 1. When I finished this I attempted to fit all of the N meatballs into the skillet [ERROR]. This did not work, my giganto skillet has a strict capacity of N-4 meatballs. "That's okay", I think to myself, "I'll cook them with the peppers." Since the sauce merely needed warmed and doctored a bit, I started on the mushrooms. Now, Burner 3 is half the size of Burner 1, and it's diagonal to it, but I still couldn't fit my next largest skillet on this silly British stovetop. So the mushrooms and onions were downgraded to a skillet far too small for their bulk [ERROR]. You know the difference between a heaped tablespoon of flour and a level tablespoon? It was like that, but with mushrooms and skillets. Next, I go for the red wine, which I notice is not a dry merlot, or even a cabernet, but something labeled "Light and Fruity". It's Sunday (a bad day for ambition) and Tesco closes at 4pm, so I decide we'll have light and fruity mushrooms [ERROR]. I take the wife another glass of wine [ER]. 

Now, I always find the jars of pasta sauces to be too sweet, and since my ambition attack attacked late, I didn't have time to slow cook my own. So instead I decided I'd go with the best jar of tomato, garlic, and basil sauce that I knew of, and then just add some more tomatoes and garlic. Into a small pan on Burner 2 went the jar of sauce and a can of chopped tomatoes (which for this purpose works much better than buying fresh tomatoes, which really aren't ever quite ripe enough). 

I proceed to chopping garlic (recognizing that I was going to try to get the kid to eat this, too, I did not chop the peppers for sauce inclusion). 

This is an exciting part for me. I know the trick of lightly crushing a clove of garlic with the flat of a blade so that it's easier to peel. I'm so proud of knowing this trick, that I'll happily peel an entire bulb of garlic before thinking about how much of it I need. I did this [ERROR]. So now I have a bulb of chopped garlic, and I think to myself, if the wine is supposed to be sweet, then this might be fine for the mushrooms and onions, but might not go well with garlic. So, I dump the garlic in the sauce. Two minutes later, I remember again that I want the kid to eat the meal, too, so I fish 2/3 of the garlic out of the sauce. Lacking a better idea, I eat it [ERROR]. 

The first batch of meatballs is done, but I haven't started the spaghetti yet. I taste one, I think it's pretty good, but my inattention and my recipe have given these meatballs an abhorrence for spheres and a set of self-destructive behaviors, such as sticking to the pan, melding with other meatballs, or crumbling to pieces. 

The kid is falling asleep. I bring her a plate with three meatchunks on it. They're a little burned, so I decide the meal will be better received if I bring the wife another glass of wine [ERR]. I start the spaghetti on Burner 4. 

Wife (to kid): "Do you want some spaghetti?"

Kid: "No."

Now, Burner 2 and Burner 4 are pretty small. This is fine for the sauce on B2, but it takes forever to boil water on B4 [ERROR]. 

Now, I thought about just putting the sauce and meatchunks together and baking them. This would have worked easier. But I wasn't sure if the kid would eat the sauce no matter my efforts, and it's been a long-time habit of mine to not mix meat with pasta sauce until serving time anyway. This habit comes from college. 

Long ago, my college roommate is cooking spaghetti one evening for dinner. I'm watching TV. He announces that the spaghetti is cooking, but he wants to get a shower after working all day, and would I watch the pot? Sure, I say. A couple minutes later it occurs to him that he meant to fry some ground beef, but forgot, so he tries to suggest I take over cooking it.

Roomie (yells from the bathroom): "Hey SciMan?"
Me: "Yeah?"
Roomie: "I didn't think of it earlier, but if you would vastly prefer meat with the spaghetti... uh... I'm already naked."

At the time it took me quite a while to parse those ellipses. 

Anyway, you never know, sometimes people want vegetarian spaghetti, and most meat ingredients can be included after everything is cooked. 

I add the 4 raw surplus meatballs to the giganto skillet and wait for them to turn to meatchunks. When they're about half done, I add two of the red chili peppers. I'm of the mind that the very best crushed red pepper is crushed with the teeth. 

At this point an hour has gone by. The spaghetti is nearly done, the peppers are lightly blackened, and wife announces that it's time for kid's bath. The phrase "before she falls asleep" was added gently to remind me that dinner was taking too damn long. 

So back to the mushrooms and onions. They shrank, as expected, but between the water they lost, the wine, and the oil, they were essentially boiled. I had even failed to stir them, which wasn't a problem since they had failed to be sautéed. 

The spaghetti finished cooking while wife explained to kid the mechanics of hair washing, again. Unsure of how long that would take, I fixed a bowl that included all of the things I had made, with one of the lovely peppers I had fried in meatball juice and olive oil right on top [ERROR]. 

I picked up my recently purchased Terry Pratchett book and sat down at the table with my dinner. Alone. 

A measure of the "hotness" of a pepper is the Scoville unit, a logarithmic scale presently dominated by the Butch-T Scorpion chili pepper from Australia. Another metric of a pepper's hotness might be how little you can taste everything else after eating it. While I'm sure it couldn't hold a candle to the Butch-T, I had consumed two glasses of water and half my spaghetti before I could taste anything again. Terry Pratchett managed to catch a single tear that fell off my cheek. 

I finish my meal. 

Enter wife and kid

Kid: "I love you daddy!" Big hugs ensue. This is a relief, because yesterday she said she didn't love me any more because I told her to stop licking her hands.

Wife (to kid): Do you want some spaghetti? 

Kid: "Yes!"

I bring the kid a bowl of spaghetti. I bring wife her wine [ERRO]. 

Kid eats two bites of spaghetti. 

Kid: "I hate big forks!"

Wife: "Honey, that's not a big fork, that's a little fork."

Kid (Whining): "Nooo, it's a big fork."

Wife: "Do you want to go to bed?"

Kid (rubs eyes): "Yeeeess". 

Now, wife had a bowl of food, so I take kid from here. We clear the ponies off of her bed, and I tuck her in. I start reading, and she makes it half-way through the book (I always try to keep my voice slow and deep when reading to her at bed time). But, it's actually a good book that we got recently when the author was doing an event at the bookstore. He also illustrated the book, and he signed it for her. The story is a local legend of a knight killing a dragon, which apparently happened nearby, though not recently. It isn't a long story, so I read the rest of it to myself. 

When I return downstairs, wife has finished eating. She refuses to eat the other pepper. 

We had a romantic evening cleaning up the kitchen. We freeze most of the meatchunks for a time when we can eat them peacefully. 

I feel full, but I can't remember eating my food. I smell garlic every time I breathe. I don't remember if the mushrooms tasted light and fruity. I don't remember eating any of the onions at all. I forgot to get parmesan [ERROR]. The meal was not legen -- wait for it -- dary. But we've eaten and we have leftovers and nothing burned down, so 8.8 errors is probably still passing. 

Why are garlic peels sticky?


***************************************************************************




I like how he thinks we had a romantic evening cleaning up the kitchen. I also like the amount of wine that I'm supposed to have consumed this evening. 


And yes, the meal of meatchunks and boiled flour sticks with minutely alcoholic fungi was very tasty, bless him.

Health... who cares?

I'm doing it. I'm finally doing it. I've reached the limit of my tolerance and endurance. I'm going to see a doctor on Wednesday.

I have, what I believe, is a ganglion cyst on my right inner wrist. If I desist from treating my wrist, I can't make a fist you get the jist. According to my analyst, I should make a list of who I know is Baptist, to get them to thump it so it ceases to exist.

I live with chronically re-occurring back pain but this, this is shit. It's like what I imagine a combination of arthritis, trigeminal neuralgia, and carpal tunnel would feel like. Sometimes, when I know I'm going to bring on the flash of pain, I can handle it...like if I'm lifting a box or bag at work. I'm ready for it and boyhowdy I guess I deserve it. But when all I fucking did was to turn on a lamp switch and it triggers a twinge x1000, like what happened last night as I got in bed, well then by yompy, shit needs to change.

I suppose I could do the home-y, impecunious treatment for the cyst myself if I had a bible in the house, but George RR Martin'll have to do. Thick fiction shortage? I think not. Yet, I can't really bring myself around to the idea that I would have to smash all those hundreds of pages onto my wrist with enough force to burst the tendon sheath that's housing the fluid build-up. Don't think SciMan would be up for it either...something about chivalry and men shouldn't hit women nonsense. I think I'd rather a certified medical technician drain the gelatinous material via needle than allow it to explode internally due to blunt force trauma. I'm no Aron Ralston; I think I'd happily choose to not saw my arm off.

So, yeah, Wednesday. I'm availing myself of the socialist infrastructure. I'm getting some free health care. No copay or bills to remit later.

But if they come at me with a saw, I'm booking it out of there and I'm taking all the wooden tongue depressors with me.

Because I have a kid, you know.

Never again shall I have to visit the abyss that rivals southside OKC

So, I bet you've been on tenterhooks, just waiting to hear more about my candidacy for the long-term substitute job in Hartlepool. Welp, I shall never have to go to Cesspool ever again for I did not impress them enough.

(This is the part where we listen to the sound of the American flag touching the ground before straightening itself in secular righteousness. We might even be able, if we strain our ears and are really, really good boys and girls, to hear the melodious voice of Lee Greenwood belt out that he's proud to be an American where at least his guns, while not free, came to him quite inexpensively and after only a short wait)

What's more, I found out that I didn't care. Yes, I would've like to have had a long-term teaching job. Getting paid lots of money to work on your career is nice. Good. That out of the way, on to something completely different...





Yes, the Python Troupe shall reunite to make a 20-year old script that's been lying around in a drawer into a movie.

It's gonna be great! It's gonna be great! It's gonna be greeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat!!!!!

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Came across this little bit of Dadaist, anti-Zen, surrealism the other day. Let's see if you think it's as funny as I do. Admittedly, I'm basically going to be copying down what was written, so if you'd rather skip the commentary and just go straight to the article, click here.

photo source

MPs and their aides get to eat in really pretty frickin nice restaurants in the House of Commons, yet they've found many things about which to complain.

For instance, the above picture of the bucket o' chips, "while attractive to some and no doubt trendy, makes for soggy chips. The tower arrangement is better. Hoi Sinduck (sic) spring rolls are consistently delicious -- lots of duck."

Basically the complaints are about how the food is subpar in this government subsidized cafeteria. Want to see this lovely facility?

A patron remarked that "the canteen staff made them feel like second-class citizens" when  a complaint was made about  breakfast "running out at 10:30 in the morning." Quoted, "if I'd wanted lunch, I would've just gone to the Mackdonald's."
photo source

So... here's the grocery list of whinges:

• watery eggs

• "Just wondered if you're doing the scrambled egg in a different way now? Tastes kind of watery -- not nice!"

You ever eaten watery eggs? At a restaurant? Yeah, you'd complain too.

• change given is in "coppers", not the nice shiny, silver five pence pieces

       I totally can get behind this whinger. It's the psychological factor, ya know? No one wants pennies... You've heard of the "BAD PENNY" but you've never heard of the big bad nickel, right? Plus, all the cool kids put nickel in their loafers, not pennies. Wouldn't want to not fit in with the ol' Eton crowd, wot wot?

• crisp packets are 10 grams too light

• "The normal weight for a packet of individually bought crisps is 34.5g (38p supermarket price), the packet I purchased from the vending machine was 24.5g (50p)."

***The Commons authorities have promised a "full investigation" into the matter. }end quote. Serious.

• the view of the Thames provided a "dismal experience"

• "The room is gloomy with no soft lighting to make it more welcoming. My starter of beetroot and pumpkin salad consisted of one piece of beetroot in a puddle of pumpkin puree and was tasteless. My main course of fish cake was far too dry to eat and both main courses were far too salty." 

Okay, now this is just nitpicky. I've had beetroot and I've had pumpkin and I consider myself a fair cook, but I'd never, EVER, put beetroot slices and pumpkin puree together. I'd julienne the shit outta them instead. Coleslaw, now THAT'S some shit! Throw in some hushpuppies and fried okra and I'll throatpunch any complainer.

• Soup bowls were too small.

        Ain't nothing worse than a too small soup bowl. Can't get the fucking soup spoon in. Have you seen British soup spoons? According to Barbara Cartland's 1962 etiquette book, here's how to eat soup properly in England:

When eating soup, you should hold your spoon in your right hand and tip the bowl away from you, scooping the soup in movements away from yourself. The soup spoon should never be put into the mouth, and soup should be sipped from the side of the spoon, not the end.

     So if the dining room's soup bowls are too small, then the MPs and aides are in danger of committing major social faux pas. One does not simply breach etiquette in England. Come to my house, with your little bowls, o' fretter of little diameters. In my demesne, you can tilt that bowl lip straight into your gullet, safe in the knowledge that there's no judgement for elbows on the table.

• The vegetarian tart came with too small of a portion of couscous.

   Well, if you'd've ordered a processed meat sandwich, you wouldn't have noticed how small a portion of couscous you got. Then again, you might've.

• The processed meat thickness is too much and should be sliced finer.

•  "it makes it a bit tricky to eat the salami because the rinds are so sturdy."

What is this I don't even...

• A vegetarian dish was rendered inedible due to addition of Worcestershire sauce. (It's the anchovies, stupid!)

• "Commons staff retorted that the offending sauce was indeed, in fact, balsamic vinegar."

I'm starting to imagine it's like the opening sequence of West Side Story....you got some snappy suits in a Barbour/Burberry mix twirling around the chef's tunics and Crocs.

• Kedgeree, a hearty brunch-time meal, left one MP in the cold. The following public complaint was written out I'm sure, in a really nice cursive font.

• "WHERE'S MY DAMN QUARTER EGG! GIVE ME MY QUARTER EGG! I NEED MY QUARTER EGG! IT AIN'T KEDGEREE IF IT AIN'T GOT THAT BLOODY FULL BOILED EGG! YOU CALL THIS REAL KEDGEREE! FUCK! IT AIN'T KEDGEREE IF THERE'S ONLY THREE-QUARTERS OF A HARDBOILED EGG!"

However, since he's British, this is what he really wrote:


• "The boiled egg had been cut into THREE quarters -- no sign of the fourth... Petty and insulting way to save a buck."

• The price of alcoholic drinks has increased enormously to match the price of drinks sold everywhere else...in order to comply with a governmental ruling that "Parliament's bars should raise them to match high street pubs".

"I was amazed at the price increases on beer in the Strangers' Bar. From now on I will be drinking in the Sports and Social club so rather than raising revenue you have lost a customer."  

   Good riddance, ya poncy nance!  The price he's complaining about is a pint of beer for £2.60 ($4.09)  and a glass of wine for £2.35 ($3.70)! And I'm thinking, as I'm sure all the taxpayers of Britain are, just who the hell does he think he is? A little out of touch is who he is.

Hell, I pay £2.80 for a pint of Stella in my local. STFU, Marie Anthony.

Here's where the surreal part comes into it... for every £10 spent in the dining rooms, £7.60 of it is paid for by the taxpayer.

"The Commons catering budget recieved a taxpayer subsidy of £5.8 million last year, an equivalent of  a top-up of 7.60 for every £10 spent by an MP on lunch and drinks."

76% of each food bill is paid for by the taxpayer. Wow. And they're cutting back child benefits and educational funding? Tools.

So what are they eating? They're eating "pan-fried red mullet with carrot puree and a soft boiled quail's egg for £4.15 or artichoke and tomato salad with truffle dressing for £2.05."  Channel 4 News has some menu items listed as well. 60p for chicken & sweetcorn soup (yuck), £2.15 for roast belly of pork confit (what the hell is this?).

I'm looking at some of the menus online from 2009 and it's like OH MY GOSH! £10 for pan-fried fillet of sea bass?! With sweet parsnip puree (what is with the chefs and their purees?), spinach and saffron oil?! And I only have to pay £2.40 in real physical money? Sign me up! I want to go to the soup kitchen for hungry MPs.

Here, just click here and scroll down to see for yourself. I'm getting sick.

I wonder what the House of Representatives dining room complaints are like.

Happy Birthday to a fellow blogger friend's kiddo

I made the cartoon below with my Wacom Bamboo Tablet and the new software update, Animator. Love it.

How's my first attempt?





Thanks Jill...for providing the inspiration for my first animation

21 Beliebers Can't Be Wrong

Created by Oatmeal

...but could I take on four drunken teenage girls? From Friday's free paper on the bus:

Look at that! They misspelled 'Wetherspoon's'. Wetherspoon's is the kind of place one can be banned from and I'm sure these young ladies will be future bannees. Look maternal unit! I made up a new word!

I think the best part is how no arrests were made and how Chairman Tough wasn't so tough. Another good part is that the girls were complaining how there wasn't anything for them to do on an evening out on the town. I'm thinking attending and breaking up a political meeting whilst defacing governmental property is a helluva night out. Add the lager, and we've got a Beer Putsch!

Wonder what the obscene gestures were?

Also in the same paper, a short blurb about a father-daughter duo who refuse to pay their parking tickets since the tickets were issued in the English language.  They will not pay the fines unless the ticket is issued in Welsh.

"'r dad a ferch ydy 'n sylweddol hurtyn, achos Saesneg ydy 'r swyddog dafodiaith chan Lloegr!"

Right, well, Welsh is a made up language anyway and I resolve to refuse to take any of them seriously.

Of special note, today I used picadilo dot com to find my celebrity look-a-like. I'm 80% matched with Renee Zellweger and 79% matched with Ben Affleck. 

"Well, we're awake...but we're very confused."

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Have not heard back from my agency handler about the job. Maybe tomorrow.

Stumbling through the Class of Abysmal Doom- Part 3 of my hand-basket of interview hell

For a bit of background, click on Part One. For a bit of light reading, click on Part Two.


We arrived at the last classroom of the day. The coats looked up at me and wondered aloud where they could be put out of reach of the "lowest students in the building". Purse just shrugged as if she had no real opinion on the matter. I determined none of my companions to be of any real help and that I'd have to be the one to take initiative. Coat 1 and Coat 2 were jostling for primacy, Purse was just too busy holding everything else. Earlier, at lunch, I was introduced to this class's teacher assistant. She seemed nice enough then and my initial impression of her continued.

She had a bit of trouble deciding where Coats and Purse should go, but eventually narrowed it down to the locking cabinet, to which she actually had a key. I mentally chalked thousands of points up on her side of the scoreboard. Thus far, on that day, she was they only one who understood the dilemma of personal belongings in a school.

I helped her set out the day's activity for this class. It was Geography, but not. The class's name was "Travel and Tourism". The students, five boys, were to finish their cut-and-paste activity from the day before and then start on the next cut-and-paste. I still don't see how it was related to learning about "Travel & Tourism" as there was no critical thinking portion.

But on the other hand, after spending two hours with these children, I can sort of see why. These boys, roughly 15-16 years old (because if they were 17, they'd not be in school) were what we in the business like to call ED with a BIP. The TA told me that two of the boys had finished yesterday's assignment, so they'd work on the current one. Also, they'd have to be kept away from one particular boy, or they'd gang up on him.

Here, rather than verbally describe the set up, here's a floor plan with short descriptions of the malcontents.

As the fifth period progressed, I found myself counting down the minutes until the sixth period class and the next set of students. But as it got closer and closer to the end of the hour, none of the boys were doing the antsypantsy dance students do when a class is about to be over. They weren't clearing away the supplies or getting their stuff together. The bell rang AND THEY DIDN'T LEAVE!

#6 was quite an astute individual. He picked up right away that I was thinking that I was going to get rid of them when the hour was up. I liked him, but he would not shut up. He was constantly talking talking talking talking. His patronus would be a squirrel. Or Grr from Invader Zim.

So, for the two hours, I'd move between tables, working with whoever the TA wasn't with. She stayed pretty much with #3 the whole time. Except when she'd leave. Which was quite often and without so much as a heads-up to me. I'd be sitting next to #4 or #1 and all of a sudden realize that the monkeys were swinging from the branches and no one else was around to herd them back towards their typewriters.

The IT guy was no help and it didn't occur to me to censor myself in front of him. Yeah, at one point during the second hour of that class, #4, 5, and 6 were just such a wall of sound that I'd had enough.

"Shut up! Do you know you've been talking non-stop since you walked in the damn door?"

YEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Well, if I don't get the job, it'll be because of that. But if I don't get the job, I'll never have to walk in to the Class of Abysmal Doom either. Lose-Win situation.

 Oh, I gotta tell you about #1. #1 would sit for a while, then get up and mess about with #4, 5, and 6 (the cool kids of the lot. yuck) I'd redirect him and make sure he had everything he needed to accomplish the next step. Eventually, it devolved to:

1.  me standing right next to him, handing him the scissors
2. taking back the scissors
3. handing him the glue stick
4. taking back the glue stick
5. picking two items he'd cut for him to choose
1. at which point, he'd say it was too hard to choose
6. encourage him to decide for himself since he was a big boy and could tie his shoelaces and wipe his own ass.

When they told me these were really "low" students, I had some idea of what to expect and I wasn't surprised honestly. I did expect the TA to have a bit more authority than what she showed, but I guess that's how she was raised.

There's a lot more to this class, but a bunch of it is negative and I really don't feel like rehashing and dissecting each and every action.

The day ended and I retrieved Coats and Purse from their naptime. I waited around for Mr C because I thought that maybe after school was when we'd sit and have an actual interview.

Him: "Well, how did it go."

Me: No problem. It was a great day.

Him: Right, well... I'll submit your hours online and thanks for coming today.

Me: Thanks for the opportunity.

I walked out. I got on the bus and 1.5 hours later put Coats and Purse on the table, grabbed some cash and called Roo to meet me at the local where I decompressed with Peter the Bartender.

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I called the agency afterwards and my handler was even surprised about how the day went. Meh. The next candidate did their "audition" on this last Friday. If they don't put that person through their paces the way they did me, I shall be very put out.

Mucking through the abyss- Part 2

If the number of movies I've had on in the background is any indication of how much I didn't want to write the next two entries delineating my experience, then so be it. I'm currently on Star Wars Episode V.

To read Part 1- Foray into the abyss, click the post with the same title to your left, or place your mouse on the designated word and click on it

The "Informal Chat" was over, Mr S took me on a tour of the school. It was a square doughnut layout, similar to my previous school site. And like my previous school site, this school looked old even though it was built sometime in the 2000s. Unlike my old school, this one has a rock climbing wall. I asked if there was a climbing club. There is not. There used to be but no one wants to sponsor it. The PE classes use it on occasion.

I was taken to the next classroom to meet Ms R, the teacher that is going on the pregnancy leave and for whom I'd be tolling the bells. I say goodbye to Mr S and look around for an appropriate place to put my two coats and largish purse. I settle for under the teacher's desk, next to the wall and behind some strategically placed bins.

Ms R asks me if I feel okay about the lesson since it is basically the same one from Mr S's class. I tell her sure. She then reiterates to me what Mr S nattered on about earlier, that this next class was "lower level". I said, "fine, no problem. Can I tweak the PowerPoint a bit?" So I did. She also told me I'd be taking attendance and showed me how to use the computer program attendance is counted on. Ms R also began to describe the personality dynamics of the class. She stressed to me about the set of four girls in the farthest corner of the room that were a bit of a bother and would need to be monitored and "if they act up, threaten them with separation." Immediately, I'm thinking, "What the hell kind of classroom management were you taught?" If you have an admittedly troublesome group, you don't let them stay together, you separate them before there's a problem, not during or after! The bell rang a bit later and I went to stand outside the door, like you do.

Class begins and I take attendance, trying to match names to the voices that come out of the faces. In this class there were only 14 students. And wouldn't you know it, the four girls had a couple in the group that didn't respond to the oral attendance. Now, this program is on the big projector and all of the students can see it. So, they knew what was what. Everyone else answered either "yes, Miss" or "here, Miss".

An aside note: this "yes, Miss" and "no, Miss" and "Miss? Miss?" got old pretty quickly.

I taught the lesson with no real problems other than the girls. Had a bit of an issue trying to get them redirected away from touching each other and refocused on the lesson's objectives which was to label the damn map of Madagascar with its "lower level" requirements. None of my magic touches worked, so I had to devolve and separate them. OH WHAT HISSY FITS WERE THROWN THAT DAY!

When time for the oral assessment, no one got any candy. Turds. I hate 14/15 year old girls.

That class ended and my coats, my purse and I were marched off to the next class where I "team-taught". Team teaching, I think, is a joke when done right, so this was hilarious. I get to the classroom and 40 faces look at me like I'm ... I don't know, ice cream? Anyway, after stashing my stuff, I helped out by passing out the worksheet I was going to teach them after the video. These kids were great. They asked me all kinds of things, like

1. Where're you from, miss?
2. How did you get here, miss?
3. Do you live here, miss?
4. Do you know any cowboys, miss?
5. Do you like beef jerky, miss?
6. Which do you like better, England or America, miss? I bet England.
1. Kid was really disappointed when I said the US.
7. Can you say "sector", miss?
8. How many guns do you own, miss?

So these kids, after reviewing a video on the Amazon, did a worksheet which I did with them. And that was it. Nothing too taxing, just climagraphs and a few questions. I love 6th graders. I think the feeling's mutual.

That class ended and so commenced lunch. I leave Coat, Coat, and Purse in the most important room in the building (teachers' lounge, but that bathroom really was okay) and go get something to eat.

OH THE CHOICES! Fresh made to order sandwiches, hot meal of Yorkshire Pudding as big as your head with vegetables and gravies and mash! Jacket potatoes (in US, baked potatoes) with variety of topping, multiple pizza sizes in cardboard boxes...we're talking delivery or DiGiorno, your pick. Pasta bar, wraps bar, pastry bar... and in the middle, pre-packaged sandwiches. Really, I needed to do an eenymeenyminymo to choose, there was so much sensory overload.

I'd be looking at the choices in each offering, and a line would form up behind me. Tell you what, the British do love to queue. Could be an Olympic sport later this summer. I couldn't decide and I was still having that agonized nervous butterfly feeling from all the anger that was not yet fully realized. So I took a packaged sandwich from the middle and paid for it. Only £1.00. Went back to the VIP room and proceeded to eat sandwich and read John Le Carre's Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy. Was unsuccessful because the sandwich was not legen,,,wait for it...dary. Not legendary! True story. I was eating it and thinking, "where's the flavor?" I looked at the label.

It was a tomato, lettuce, and cress sandwich. No meat. No cheese. No condiments...not even butter. They put butter on every sandwich in this country except for that one. That bread was as dry as the Atacama Desert. It is totally in my personality dynamic to have all these awesome food choices and pick the not very best one. The bell was about to ring so I threw it away and we all wandered off to the next classroom, Coats, Purse and me. To the class that I'm to cover for the teacher who was out sick that day. The class that no other teacher in the building was willing to cover.

Tune in next time for THE CLASSROOM OF ABYSMAL DOOM.


Oh, in case you were wondering... Leia, Han Solo and Chewie are trying to leave Hoth.