Speaking of shaving, my legs are currently inflicted with approximately seventeen thousand ingrown hairs. Hacking away at them with tweezers didn't help much, either. Time for a new razor, perhaps?
* * *
I'm currently wearing a pair of Jacob's socks. A pair of his dirty socks. Now, I do own several pairs of socks myself. But 85 percent of them have holes in them, and retrieving them would have required -- gasp! -- opening a dresser drawer. Much easier to just pick up the socks on the floor. So now my feet are warm(er) and I have two fewer socks to pick up in the bedroom! Win-win.
* * *
The other day, Jacob and I attended a game night with my sisters and their husbands. For one of the games, each player had to write down one word that described me. My sisters and brothers-in-law wrote words like "musical," "entertaining," and "easygoing." You may be wondering what word Jacob picked to describe me. Beautiful? Charming? Practically perfect in every way?
Nope. He wrote down "awkward."
I have no clue where he got that idea from.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Monday, March 28, 2011
I'm Roy G. Biv, the rainbow man.
On the way home from work on St. Patrick's Day, I told my friend about how my mom would go all out with our dinner on certain holidays. I told her how she would dye our rice green, make green Jello, and make green cheesecake each year. (Lo and behold, the very next day my mom wrote a blog entry about just that.) I then lamented about how I was a lamesauce wife because I hadn't planned to do any of those fun things for dinner that night.
As it turns out, I ended up being even more lamesauce because I didn't even prepare dinner that night. Jacob came through and made us some chicken-flavored rice combined with Spam. An unusual combination, perhaps, but not bad. And you have to give the man props for effort.
The next day, I decided that we needed to celebrate St. Patrick's Day after all. I knew my mom turned rice green by adding dye to the water while it was cooking, so I wondered if I could dye pasta the same way. And since I was making fettucine alfredo, I might as well dye the alfredo sauce, too! . . . Right?
As it turns out, I ended up being even more lamesauce because I didn't even prepare dinner that night. Jacob came through and made us some chicken-flavored rice combined with Spam. An unusual combination, perhaps, but not bad. And you have to give the man props for effort.
The next day, I decided that we needed to celebrate St. Patrick's Day after all. I knew my mom turned rice green by adding dye to the water while it was cooking, so I wondered if I could dye pasta the same way. And since I was making fettucine alfredo, I might as well dye the alfredo sauce, too! . . . Right?
The end results were . . . scary.
I took a picture of Jacob eating some of the fettucine, and he looked akin to a swamp monster. However, he made me promise not to post it on the blog or facebook (he's worried that one day a future employer will stumble across this site and refuse to employ him on grounds of being awkward or something). But! I am not a girl to let down her loyal fans. So I made a picture in Paint that is a pretty good representation of the original, in my humble opinion:
Not bad, eh? Eh?
I also had the urge to dye our milk green, despite the fact that it looks really foul:
So there you have it. Our fantastic St. Patrick's Day dinner (albeit one day late).
And word to the wise: don't add food coloring to your pasta.
Hairy Scary Monster
Conversation with Heather (paraphrased):
Heather: I'm glad it's Conference next week. No skirts!
Me: Skirts are the bane of my existence.
thinks for a minute
Me: Actually, shaving is the bane of my existence.
Poor Jacob. He didn't know he was marrying a hairy she-beast.
(For the record, however, I do attempt to shave my legs at least twice a week.)
Also, for the Erickson Family Slideshow Extraordinaire, Jacob and I need to come up with a fake rock band name for ourselves. The possibilities are endless! And since it's hard to settle on just one name, I'm turning to you, dear readers, for your input. You may vote on your favorite of several band names on the poll on the right, but I'm also open to further suggestions.
The fate of our band is in your hands.
Heather: I'm glad it's Conference next week. No skirts!
Me: Skirts are the bane of my existence.
thinks for a minute
Me: Actually, shaving is the bane of my existence.
Poor Jacob. He didn't know he was marrying a hairy she-beast.
(For the record, however, I do attempt to shave my legs at least twice a week.)
Also, for the Erickson Family Slideshow Extraordinaire, Jacob and I need to come up with a fake rock band name for ourselves. The possibilities are endless! And since it's hard to settle on just one name, I'm turning to you, dear readers, for your input. You may vote on your favorite of several band names on the poll on the right, but I'm also open to further suggestions.
The fate of our band is in your hands.
Friday, March 18, 2011
The fuzz
If I die before Jacob comes home from school, that probably means I missed a spot when scraping the mold off my bagel before eating it.
You'll be sure to spread the message to him, won't you?
You'll be sure to spread the message to him, won't you?
"NOW what am I supposed to do?" "Stare at the students?"
As a substitute teacher, I often get asked whether I have any offspring attending that particular school. I suppose it's somewhat understandable if these individuals are envisioning kindergarten-aged young'uns -- if I had been a child bride and started popping out kids right away, I could be old enough to have a five-year-old. (Perish the thought.)
What's a little more disconcerting is when sixth graders start asking if I'm so-and-so's mom, because we happen to have the same last name. Really? Really? Do I look old enough to have a twelve-year-old? I mean, I know I found my first gray hair when I was sixteen, but I haven't found any recently, and I certainly don't have any wrinkles.
Some students are shocked and appalled when they find out I don't have any children yet. In the immortal words of a first grader I taught yesterday whose name I have already forgotton: "You've been married that long and you STILL don't have any kids!?!"
Sorry to disappoint you, kid. But considering the human gestation period is nine months and we've only been married for fifteen, I don't think that's too bad.
With these recent conversations, I started to wonder if I look older than I really am. Which may be one of the reasons I agreed to sub for a high school art class today for the first time. Maybe the high schoolers wouldn't realize that I am a mere four years older than some of them!
Um, yeah, right. I probably looked like a little freshie wandering the halls looking for the main office to check in, and some of the guys in the class looked like they were in their late twenties. (Well, maybe they were. How many years can you be held back before you're written off as a lost cause or forced to graduate?)
I was flooded with high school memories: students garnished with multiple piercings, hair dyed outrageous colors, and the faint aroma of cigarette smoke all brought me back. As did the students who refused to make eye contact with me and just sat there sullenly instead of working on their art projects (or, alternately, left class for 25 minutes at a time).
Oh, high school.
On a side note, subbing for high school is both the easiest and most boring way to make money. Allow me to give you a brief outline of my day:
7:40 -- Arrive at class and review sub plans. Note that the teacher has a prep period and thus will not have any students in class until 9:25. Hmm. Congratulate self for bringing a book, and commence reading.
9:25ish -- Welcome students to class. Take roll. Pass out worksheets and explain directions. Walk around room to make sure everyone gets started.
9:40 -- Sit at the teacher's desk. Rack brain for something to do that doesn't involve reading a book, as reading during class is discouraged. Oh! Let's practice cursive, shall we? As a prospective teacher, I'm going to need to improve my handwriting. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. The quick brown fox jumps over . . . okay, this is getting boring. Opt to copy the sub plans, word for word, in cursive instead. A slight improvement, but not really.
10:00 -- Walk around the classroom again, encouraging students to stay on task. What's this? One student hasn't even started yet? And he doesn't have a pencil? Direct said student to the pencil can on teacher's desk so he can begin work. Feel slightly guilty for not having caught this earlier, while simultaneously scratching head in befuddlement. You would think a junior in high school would think to bring a pencil to school. Or ask to borrow one. Or . . . maybe he was just lazy.
10:05 - 10:55 -- Alternate between monitoring the room and practicing cursive. Read about what to do during a bomb threat in the sub plans, just in case.
10:55 - 11:30 -- Eat lunch. Finish book. Send a text to husband complaining about how boring this job is.
11:30 - 2:25 -- Pretty much the same thing over again, two more times, except without the lunch and prep period.
Pretty thrilling, eh?
What's a little more disconcerting is when sixth graders start asking if I'm so-and-so's mom, because we happen to have the same last name. Really? Really? Do I look old enough to have a twelve-year-old? I mean, I know I found my first gray hair when I was sixteen, but I haven't found any recently, and I certainly don't have any wrinkles.
Some students are shocked and appalled when they find out I don't have any children yet. In the immortal words of a first grader I taught yesterday whose name I have already forgotton: "You've been married that long and you STILL don't have any kids!?!"
Sorry to disappoint you, kid. But considering the human gestation period is nine months and we've only been married for fifteen, I don't think that's too bad.
With these recent conversations, I started to wonder if I look older than I really am. Which may be one of the reasons I agreed to sub for a high school art class today for the first time. Maybe the high schoolers wouldn't realize that I am a mere four years older than some of them!
Um, yeah, right. I probably looked like a little freshie wandering the halls looking for the main office to check in, and some of the guys in the class looked like they were in their late twenties. (Well, maybe they were. How many years can you be held back before you're written off as a lost cause or forced to graduate?)
I was flooded with high school memories: students garnished with multiple piercings, hair dyed outrageous colors, and the faint aroma of cigarette smoke all brought me back. As did the students who refused to make eye contact with me and just sat there sullenly instead of working on their art projects (or, alternately, left class for 25 minutes at a time).
Oh, high school.
On a side note, subbing for high school is both the easiest and most boring way to make money. Allow me to give you a brief outline of my day:
7:40 -- Arrive at class and review sub plans. Note that the teacher has a prep period and thus will not have any students in class until 9:25. Hmm. Congratulate self for bringing a book, and commence reading.
9:25ish -- Welcome students to class. Take roll. Pass out worksheets and explain directions. Walk around room to make sure everyone gets started.
9:40 -- Sit at the teacher's desk. Rack brain for something to do that doesn't involve reading a book, as reading during class is discouraged. Oh! Let's practice cursive, shall we? As a prospective teacher, I'm going to need to improve my handwriting. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. The quick brown fox jumps over . . . okay, this is getting boring. Opt to copy the sub plans, word for word, in cursive instead. A slight improvement, but not really.
10:00 -- Walk around the classroom again, encouraging students to stay on task. What's this? One student hasn't even started yet? And he doesn't have a pencil? Direct said student to the pencil can on teacher's desk so he can begin work. Feel slightly guilty for not having caught this earlier, while simultaneously scratching head in befuddlement. You would think a junior in high school would think to bring a pencil to school. Or ask to borrow one. Or . . . maybe he was just lazy.
10:05 - 10:55 -- Alternate between monitoring the room and practicing cursive. Read about what to do during a bomb threat in the sub plans, just in case.
10:55 - 11:30 -- Eat lunch. Finish book. Send a text to husband complaining about how boring this job is.
11:30 - 2:25 -- Pretty much the same thing over again, two more times, except without the lunch and prep period.
Pretty thrilling, eh?
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
"I think I laid an egg." -- Unnamed husband
A few weeks ago, I ventured out to get my biannual haircut. One of the very first comments the stylist said to me was "Wow, your hair sheds a lot, huh?"
Why yes, yes it does. How kind of you to point that out to me. As if making small talk to the person responsible for cutting my hair wasn't awkward enough already.
* * *
How many butter knives can two people use in 48 hours? Approximately 40 million. Same goes for cups.
* * *
To celebrate Pi Day (3/14), I made a chocolate pie and insisted that we listen to "American Pie" -- all 8 and a half minutes of it. Listening to the song quickly turned into singing it at the top of my lungs and dancing around the living room like a crazy person. (I like to think that Jacob is secretly impressed by my ability to remember all the words to that song.) As I later found out, our neighbors may also be secretly impressed, as our kitchen window was wide open at the time.
Here's to hoping they were celebrating Pi Day far, far away from the complex at that particular moment in time.
* * *
I have nothing more to say.
Why yes, yes it does. How kind of you to point that out to me. As if making small talk to the person responsible for cutting my hair wasn't awkward enough already.
* * *
How many butter knives can two people use in 48 hours? Approximately 40 million. Same goes for cups.
* * *
To celebrate Pi Day (3/14), I made a chocolate pie and insisted that we listen to "American Pie" -- all 8 and a half minutes of it. Listening to the song quickly turned into singing it at the top of my lungs and dancing around the living room like a crazy person. (I like to think that Jacob is secretly impressed by my ability to remember all the words to that song.) As I later found out, our neighbors may also be secretly impressed, as our kitchen window was wide open at the time.
Here's to hoping they were celebrating Pi Day far, far away from the complex at that particular moment in time.
* * *
I have nothing more to say.
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