LuLu's Land of the Fey

All the news that bores the pants off anyone who cares.

Saturday, August 16, 2003

Oh, the insanity

School starts Monday. I spent the better part of this week vainly attempting to get my shit together so that when the lovely little buggers come into my room next week, they'll have something to do. Alas, the blasted virus grabbed hold of my school's (as well as a good portion of the rest of the world, from what I hear) computers so we couldn't log on at all. So basiclly, I spent the week sifting through the stuff I left on my desk and the surrounding area back in May when I said, "I'll be coming in to work on this during the summer."

Right.

I haven't even unlocked my closet yet. I'm afraid to. I remember that there is a lot of crap in there. A lot. The woman who had my job before me was a very nice older lady who was on the cusp of retirement. She was only at the school for a few years--three or four at the most. While I appreciate that she cleaned up a lot of the mess that the woman before her left (apparently it was pretty nasty, from what the kids say), she had some peculiar habits. Her most alarming one, and the one that I'm still dealing with to this day, was hoarding. Unfortunately, she hoarded stuff that is of no use to anyone with an iota of sanity left. She saved these little (7x2.5x2.5 inces, approximately) boxes that were big enough to hold a few pencils and nothing else. She saved these little plastic cases that opened up and did Goddess knows what. And somehow, she had about twenty copies of about ten different posters, all the same size, all laminated. It's as if she wanted to wallpaper the room with these ten images but never got around to it.

The year before I got to the school was her last year before retiring. She didn't order any supplies that an art teacher might need--paint, brushes, paper, silly stuff like that--because she knew that in a year she was leaving and she didn't want to leave any unwanted supplies for the next teacher (me).

Erm, thanks. I have to wonder what she did for her own class' materials?

So I get to the school, I have little to no paints, and the paint I do have is that stank tempra stuff that makes me ill when I smell it. My brushes are in a state since apparently the students have never been shown how to care for them. My paper closet is a joke--almost empty, except for that funky manilla paper that rubs off when you erase it. I've got a little glue, but not enough for a whole year. Very little clay, but that's ok since my kiln is dead and even if it wasn't, I don't have any ventilation system for it.

But I have lots and lots of little boxes in my closet. Yay.

So the long and short of it is this: I spent the year getting supplies as I needed them from Art Club funds. Finally got around to ordering a mess-load of supplies like paint, paper, wire, etc. at the end of the year when I knew what I was going to want to use next (this) year. Claimed I was going to get my closet cleaned out this summer, once and for all.

And then I didn't do it. In my defense, I did move this summer, so it's not like I sat around the whole time doing nothing. Perhaps I will get a student or two to stay after school with me a few days next week and get some extra credit for helping me throw away crap.

Oy.

Oh, and I finally got my webpage updated. I have projects from the whole school year on here, but the most recent stuff is in the Art History section (the Renaissance project), the Activities section (field trips and goofing off), the Beret Club, and the Awards Ceremony. Go and look. Or don't. Whatever. I did my part.

Now I'm off to enjoy the last two days of my summer vacation.

.: posted by amy 12:08 AM

Wednesday, August 13, 2003

Enlightenment

I now know why they call it the trots.

.: posted by amy 10:20 PM

Saturday, August 09, 2003

Poor Charlie

A few months ago, Robert and I decided that we wanted to try fishing. As luck would have it, the state holds a 'no license day' (or whatever they call it) in June; it was the next weekend, so we went out on a boat with Robert's dad to try our luck. Nolan has an interesing knack for making a sport where you sit around and try to convince (admittedly not the smartest) animals to eat your food and, thusly, become your food, fun. Needless to say, we both had a good time that day--I caught the first and biggest fish of the day, a crappie. Yay!

So the next weekend, Robert and I, who are never at a loss for enthusiam to spend money, went out, got our own gear, licenses (which would last only through the end of August), and started trying to fish on our own.

Now, when I say that I caught the first fish back in June, that's kind of a technicality. I held the rod and reel while reeling the fish in. I sat with it and watched for it to do the bobbing thing that I was told to watch. But that's it. Nolan likes to make sure things run smoothly on his boat, so he has a tendency to bait the hook for you (males and females), and he often likes to cast for you. And he keeps the fish you catch. But that's cool--when you're on his boat, and he's teaching you to fish, you don't mind making that kind of "payment."

Robert and I tried to fish on our own out at Tyler State Park, but that was a bust. The piers from which we were fishing were void of anything except those pesky perch that are too small to take home but who love to eat up your bait. (In retrospect, if I were a fish and I saw that my friends kept disappearing every time they went near the spooky wooden thing in my home lake, I might avoid it as well, which makes me rethink my whole opinion on fish intelligence.)

We have tried a few other times, also with little to no luck. We recently moved close to Caddo Lake State Park, so we've been out there several times. In between the dry runs we have made hither and yon, we have gone back out with Nolan on his boat and always caught at least a few, which reminded us of why we had started doing this in the first place, and why we had so much fun with it.

We had not been fishing for about a month because, as I said, we just moved. Pretty much the entirity of the last three weeks has been us unpacking boxes, taking trash to the dump, replacing appliances, and bitching about unpacking boxes, taking trash to the dump and replacing appliances. Not very much fun, admittedly, but necessary work.

We decided today that enough was enough; it was time to go to the lake and let the fish mock us.

After he researched the best way to fish for catfish, Robert rigged up our rods, packed some drinks and we headed out. We got to Caddo around 5:30ish, which to us seemed a good time--past the really, really hot time, but not quite night yet. We staked out our section of the bank along the river, and we cast in.

Apparently, 5:30ish is a good time to lots of other people. Imagine that. We saw the boaters who drive through the no-wake zone at full speed, flying their rebel flags and pulling skiers. We saw the rednecks who insisted that everyone must want to hear Jerry Jeff Walker. There was the girl who walked over to Robert's area (clearly designated by his chair) while he was over at the table rebaiting his hook and began casting. There was the family of ten who walked by us, asked how the fishing was going, and set up camp within ten feet of us, screaming lot of brats and all.

And there was Charlie.

I had been sitting, watching my rod, waiting for something, anything, to happen for perhaps thirty minutes. Was getting a bit bored, but figured I'd try to appreciate the outing for the Zen appeal the lake has. It truly is a beautiful area--looks very primordial with moss hanging from trees and big cyprus knees sticking up out of the water. I'd be completly unsurprised to see a dinosaur come around the bend at this place, although I'd probably be more likely to see an Aligator.

Anyway, I'm Zenning out, enjoying the beauty, when the tip of my fishing rod starts to dip wildly. I grab it up, silently cursing myself for removing my flipflops, and start to reel in. I've felt this rush of excitement before, but in the past, it has always been extinguished pretty quickly by seeing the pathetic little perch that usually grabs my line. I was ready to be disappointed.

But then I saw Charlie. At least, that's what his name would have been if I wasn't going to take him home and eat him. You can't very well name the fish you have just killed if you are going to filet him up and drop him in boiling oil, even if you know he doesn't know the difference. "Charlie" is a twelve inch (just barely met the state minimum!) channel catfish. Robert, ever great husband that he is, ooohed and ahhhhed over him for me, and removed the fish from the hook for me. We dropped him in the cooler, whereupon he creeped us out for the next two hours by flopping around, fast at first and slower and slower as time went by. (Actually, in retrospect, it reminds me of listening to microwave popcorn in reverse.) In the end, that was the only fish caught today--even the pesky little perch weren't biting. I personally think it was the evil heathen childen who scared them off.

Anyway, here's a picture of me and "Charlie," before Robert fileted him for me. And here he is after.

I've got to stop naming my food.

.: posted by amy 10:19 PM

The First Rule.....

Hee hee hee.

.: posted by amy 3:55 PM

Friday, August 01, 2003

My Father's Daughter

So I'm at SuperTarget yesterday in Shreveport with my friend Tonia and her baby girl, Sarah. We had been over to visit the hospital at which Tonia and the baby had spent three months last year when Sarah was born three months early. The nurses oooohed and aaaahhed over her, quite justifiably, as she was born weighing not quite two pounds.

Incidentally, if you ever have the experience of visiting a mother and her extremely premature baby at the hospital, you should be prepared for all kinds of horrific tubes and needles inserted into all kinds of places on the baby. In addition, the baby will probably be tiny, and perhaps a bit hairy on her arms and legs, not to mention a bit wrinkly. In all, seeing Sarah was one of the scariest things I have ever seen; I can only imagine how terrifying it must have been for Tonia and her husband, Joe.

But I digress. We had been to the hospital to show the doctors and nurses how much Sarah had grown and how beautiful she is. Afterwards, we went to this restaurant, The Blind Tiger, down on the Red River and had an awesome lunch of Creole Pecan Catfish and garlic mashed potatoes. The food was heavenly, but, alas, was not quite on my low-carb diet. Those of you who low-carb know that to get "off diet" isn't a sin, per se, but you will definitly feel the results of your binging.

So we're walking around in Target after eating, trying to find some contact paper for my new house, as Walmart just didn't have any that appealed to me. We've been there, at this point, for at least thirty minutes, probaby closer to an hour. I am starting to feel the bloat that accompanies any self-respecting carb binge, and I'm getting a little bit gassy, as is my curse. I feel the need to fart coming on, but I don't want to let rip around Tonia and her baby--I try to keep at least a semblance of couth around most of my friends--so I head over to the next aisle and say I'm going to look at the stuff "over there." Tonia says that's cool with her and that she and the baby will be looking at dish towels on the next aisle. [For all I know, Tonia could have been doing the same thing I was doing, only she was subjecting her poor daughter to it as well.]

Anyway, I head over to the unoccupied aisle and proceed to quietly let rip with a really nasty, greasy, oily fart. In my family, the men are usually the ones who are able to clear rooms, but I sometimes like to pride myself on the fact that this time, the gene went to a woman.

So I void myself of all gasses and start heading out of the aisle, all the while looking around innocently and demurely. While I'm heading off the aisle, a woman and her little girl begin to head onto it. The little girl, who couldn't have been more than two years old, was adorable in pink, ribbons, lace, all that girly stuff that people gush over and compare to sugar and spice, and was being pushed in a stroller by her mom who looked about as stylish as someone in Shreveport can possibly muster. I considered warning them about the impending danger, but decided at the last second not to.

As I rounded the corner, the mother got a look of confusion and disgust on her face. The little girl started to cry.

I've never been more proud of myself in my whole life.