What my new favorite student wrote in all of the girls' yearbooks today:

Don't get pregnant over the summer.

--V


***

I'm dying to blog, but I have homework that's dying for me to do it, and class in an hour that is dying for me to come.

News today from overseas, where James is in Ireland at the time: We likely have a third roommate for the house. He's a doctor, in his 20s, and from Canada. As I just said to the X and P in an email: What time is it? Time to secretly get preggars by a Canadian doctor who assumedly will be amazingly attractive, as my predictions imply.

News on the tooth later. As I was on Nitrus Oxide for 45 minutes, there's news (mostly about how much I love gas). There's a hole in my mouth and pain in my jaw, but there are also excuses to eat many mashed potatoes and chocolate shakes.

Oh, hell no. HELL NO.

So. Went to the dentist yesterday, which was fine until the last 5 minutes of the appointment when they TOLD ME I HAVE TO GET A TOOTH PULLED.

Apparently, there is an issue with my wisdom tooth. In the mouth, it's referred to as "#1." #1, apparently, has had a cavity for awhile because it's just nice and snug in the back upper right and really hard to clean. Last time I was at the dentist, it was marked for "watch" but apparently nobody watched it. Nobody told me there was an issue, that it should have been taken care of a while ago, and now the cavity is much, much deeper. No use in repairing a wisdom tooth! The dentist says. Looks like we're just gonna pull it out.

Honestly, I was feeling pretty faint at just listening to the dentist talk about this mouth trauma. I would rather give birth to an 18-wheeler TRUCK than have an adult tooth pulled out of my mouth. I tried to think of a way to get out of this; I mentioned my insurance expired by 30 May. Dentist said: Well, we can get you in next week. So I don't even have time to process this. One week from today, it will be over. My #1 will be gone, root and all, sitting in some stupid dentist's jar and lonely and bloody. And I will be vomiting and crying and wondering how I will teach my first 8th grade lesson the next day.

Also, I'm getting this done right in the dentist's chair. No oral surgeon, no "going under." Just a shot of novacain in the mouth I suppose, and then all the drilling and tugging. I'm getting woozy. I can't write about this anymore.

Okay. But here's the thing. I've always been afraid of teeth getting pulled--the dentist. Have I mentioned in a blog before that my mom and dad used to chase me around the house once they found out I had a loose tooth? While my brothers would just rip out their teeth on their own to collect the tooth fairy money (50 cents for Craig; $1 for Travis--tooth inflation) I would never disclose a loose tooth. I'd only tongue it at school or at night so they couldn't see. And when they did see, they'd chase me around with a wet rag and suggest I just get it out of there. (My mom is the same way with zits; you have a zit on your face, she will not let it go until you let her squeeze it. This is disgusting.)

Once they'd catch me, one would sit on my 8 year old chest, and the other would hold my mouth open, and the one on my chest would form a little "thumb claw" under the wet rag and put it in my mouth and tug and tug. I could feel the tearing, the little strap of gum still holding on. Until the little bloody baby tooth was in the bloody rag, and my mouth was gaping and sensitive to cool air.

Sometimes they'd talk me into it. I'd let them catch me so they'd let it go. My thoughts now are of myself running around the dentist's chair, in circles, commanding that the only way he's gonna get that tooth out is if he can catch me. But I'll be faster than him. I'll sprint down the road, he'll trip on the cord to his drill, and I'll be home free. Then he'll say what he said yesterday: If we let it go, in a couple of months you're going to be having a thousand dollar root canal. We have to get #1 out of there.

I am so fucking scared. The dental assistant and the dentist kept using phrases like "this will be no problem" and "little pain" and "roots are going the right way; it will come right out" and they were all dirty, dirty lies. Teeth aren't meant to come out. This isn't going to be easy.

Dear today:

For my first day off in a while, you kind of suck. Look at this Tuesday schedule:

5:30: Wake up.

5:50: Wake up for real this time:

6:30: Leave house in Rochester to drive to Plymouth; running late for 8 a.m. doctor's appointment.

8:45: Arrive at doctor seriously late; apologize profusely.

9:00: Weight taken. 13 pounds more than last time. Motherfucking shit. Pledge, again, more running and less eating, promise self it was because the last 6 months were spent in a desk chair moving a mouse back and forth. Really, remember that the weekend was spent eating shit food because of the move on Sunday--everything is in Rochester, still mostly in boxes, the Minneapolis house needs to be cleaned--and because there was no time to eat breakfast but only soda and crap food from vending machines throughout days because of long, long classes. Also, the teacher doesn't believe in a "lunch break" because that way we get to go home eariler.

9:05: Still sad about the fat thing.

9:10: Blood pressure is normal.

9:15: Exam room. Told that a pelvic exam and a urine sample are needed in order for me to renew a prescription.

9:20: Still pissed about the pelvic/urine sample. Go to bathroom, pee in cup and all over self. Write first and last name on cup, wonder if the sharpie is just full of pee. Other people's pee. Disgusting.

9:25: Finger prick.

9:30: Ask nurse: Will the shot hurt? Nurse says: I won't lie; it will.

9:32: Shot. It hurts. I can feel the medicine rushing into my upper arm, and I imagine this dull, disgusting throbbing pain is like what migraine sufferers feel at the point they want to bang their heads against the wall. Except it's my upper arm and I want to punch it until it's a sharp pain instead of a dull ache.

9:35: Exam room. ... Inquire as to the status of my examination gown, nurse says it is in there, it is that weird paper vest thing sitting on the exam table. I don't "get" it, but I put it on anyway.

9:37: Breast exam. I feel gross and sweaty. Before this, the doc had listened to my heart and lungs and told me I had a good heart. "I'm a runner," I say, and she tells me to take care of my knees, and I know she's thinking: how is this girl who gained 13 pounds a runner. How did she run that 10K. And my, doesn't she have wonderful cancer-free breasts.

9:39: Pelvic. Hate the world.

9:41: Pelvic is nearly over. Continue to hate the world.

9:43: It's over. No "I'll call you sometime," or, "It was good; I needed this." Just information about returning for two more shots, told to get dressed and get out, in nicer terms.

9:45: Get dressed and get out. Forget information packet without realizing.

9:53: Call from doctor: You forgot your information packet; I'll mail it to you.

9:54: Still convinced that the: "Once you pee in this cup and let me touch your ovaries--THEN--I'll give you the Rx you want" rules are unfair.

10:28: Caribou, check email, get pissed that the internet sort of doesn't work and my computer is awfully fucking slow.

11:12: Now. Arm hurts from shot, sun is beaming in the window and making my computer keys hot to touch, except for the finger where I'm wearing the Band-aid from the finger prick. Also, a little light-headed.

11:13: Predict the rest of the day:

11:30: Probably just a little nap and a little bit of reading for school.

11:30: Why hasn't the teacher sent the to-do list, yet? I just need to know what my homework is. How can I get started if I don't get the reading under my belt? That's ALWAYS what I do first. Come on. Stupid grad school.

1:45: Dentist's appointment. That's right. I've been to the lady doctor, and now I'm going to the dentist on the same fucking day. Isn't it awesome when you have one day off and 10 days of insurance left before it goes away again?

2:00: I hate HATE HATE the dentist. It smells all clean and evil in there.

2:10: Make small talk with the stupid lady who has been cleaning my teeth for 10 years.

2:25: Still don't care about her daughter.

2:38: Still don't care about her daughter. Don't want to talk about "my plans" or "going back to school" or "teaching" or the papers she wrote 18 years ago.

2:42: Teeth cleaner lady makes a weird face while holding the scraper. I know I have a cavity, because it is nearly impossible to reach my wisdom teeth, but I have neither the time nor the money to get them ripped out. Shit. Worry about when the dentist will come.

2:44: At least I'm not getting a cavity filled this time. No mouth shot today; just arm shot.

2:48: Dentist comes in: You have a cavity, he says. Stop drinking Diet Coke and eating Bit 'o Honeys. You have to come in to get it filled.

2:50: Can't, I say. My insurance expires in ten days. He tells me to come in tomorrow to get the cavities filled.

2:52: Cry, drive home. Decide to go running, in spite of a hurt mouth and arm and the fact that I feel light-headed.

3:45: It was a good run. Forgetting about the 13 pound thing from earlier.

(11:19) Girl in Caribou says that her mom doesn't want her to work in Albertville because of all the "foreigners coming in." (Um, where?) Also, those foreigners might get her into the girl trafficking market. Jesus Christ. C'mon Albertville. Can we please be grateful that everyone here isn't disgustingly white anymore?

4:00: Who knows. I want to go on a picnic later. Right now it feels like 3 in the afternoon instead of 11 because I've been up so long.

***

The last weekend was a huge mess of class, teaching class, and moving. I've fallen off my 'rocker' in regards to keeping my days and schedules straight, and I hate myself for it. The good news is that I've been doing well in school (first day photos later, as I forgot my camera, of course!) and that the 8th graders who can't pronounce my last name call me Miss P. (What was your last name? Proactive? One girl said. Um...that's an acne cream, I said.) I ate school lunch two days because I didn't have time to pack anything; pizza both days, two milks like always. I budded in front of the students in line, and I held onto the tray, and I said "What the crap" when I realized that a snack pack would be 50 cents extra. That should come with. ... I'm not eating school lunch anymore. It's too awkward. And the awkward feelings are exactly the same as they were when I was in 8th grade instead of half-teaching it.

I also put together a killer power point on Abraham Maslow for my EDUC605 class. Very nice font choices, I must say. My Hierarchy of Needs first includes a nice font, and then a nice color for the font, and then a nice background photo.

On Sunday, I moved my shit into the farmhouse. It fits, which is good. The rest of my stuff is in an Albertville storage unit, and I realize that I will miss the couch for a year. And the green chair. What will I do without the green chair? My desk is clear and ready for me to do work on it. From the window in front of my desk, I can see the tree fort. When I go outside at 10:30 at night, there is absolutely no sound. And little sight. No streetlights, no cars, no city sounds from blocks away. No planes and no busses. It's such a change. I'm sure I'll call it a peaceful change once May finishes itself up, but for now it's the only solace I've got. I want to come home from 14 hour days and collapse on the lawn, dandelions poking up through my splayed fingers as though they're growing through my body and I've been lying there for years.

Operation pass Praxis I: Accomplished.

I passed the reading and writing sections of the test today, after staring at a computer screen for three and a half hours straight. The writing scores will come in the mail in the next two to three weeks, as they have to evaluate my 30 minute essay on a scale of 1 to 6. If I didn't pass the writing part of the test, then, well. I'm pretty fucking useless. I think MSU has the right to take my degree back, then.

This morning I studied from the guide I bought a couple of weeks ago--definitely a good investment. And it's not that the test is hard--because it's really not--the test is just so logic based. And I don't have any logic. I had to read each of the paragraphs in the writing samples like 4 times. I'm just bad at that. Anyway, I passed, so who cares. Did you know that Wisconsin has higher test score requirments than Minnesota? Pshft.

I nearly ran out of time in the math section, and I guessed on a lot of the answers, and I'm lucky that they only offered "insufficient information given" in one of the question's answers (and I chose it for that question).

But this morning, while studying, I encountered this question:

Ramon wants to buy fabric for drapes in his den. He has one window 60 inches wide. The top of the window is 6 feet 8 inches above the floor. He wants the drapes to hang from 2 inches above the window to 1 inch from the floor. He also wants the drapes to extend 4 inches on eiher side of the window. He needs to allow 6 inches at the top and the bottom for hems, and he plans to add 50% to the width to allow for pleats and side hems. What are the dimensions of the piece of fabric needed before it is hemmed and pleated?

Hm. This is an interesting question. I went through the following thought process as to what the answers should be:

a) When did Ramon come out of the closet?
b) What color are these drapes, and are they hiding blinds? Can he just get drapes that don't allow sun and take those nasty blinds down if he has them?
c) Did Ramon and his boyfriend argue over what type of fabric they'd use for the drapes?
d) And this is for your den? Is this really what you tell your mother is your "roommate's room" since she doesn't know the two of you are sharing a bed?
e) Are you painting the walls in there, and based on whether you take down your ugly blinds and get dark drapes, will the paint be a lighter color?
f) "Pleats"? "Side hems," huh? Gay.
g) Insufficient information given.
h) Why can't Ramon just buy a shit-ton of fabric and then make matching pillows for the drapes with all the excess? This is clearly the most brilliant solution. The answer to this question is: As much as he can carry, and then use the rest to make matching pillows.

A fucking plus.

Liz, Chad. Stop really doing the problem. Math is ridiculous.

Will Jeano's thumb turn green-o?

I'm back.
This has been a weekend of second guessing and that life-in-a-haze feeling that I always go through when life is in a "change" phase. But on Saturday morning, I sat in a six person graduate class, taking notes, watching videos, looking over a syllabus. The other five future teachers and I exchanged stories of how nearly everyone who wasn't a close friend or family member said, "You're so crazy! What are you doing?! I could never do that!" When they told them that they were pursuing a career in public education. One woman, an athletic, spunky woman named Laura, left her job of 20 years to be in this program. As an engineer. Now she's gonna teach high school math.

And I was nervous. Of course I went through that feeling where I wondered what I was doing, even though this is just a year. I've been told that this is a mistake. I've thought this. I've thought of the days I spent at the YMCA Summer Camp not knowing how to deal with the teenagers, the days of Comp when I walked out frustrated and exhausted after only one class. But then our program advisor came in, and she talked to us about what other people will say. And she gave us a pep talk, and then we talked about our experience so far, and then we talked about how we belonged there. And then I thought about teaching high school versus college, and I thought about how much psychology and education we'd be discussing in this class. We talked about the differences in teaching high school versus college, the balance of teaching content versus teaching life skills and understanding how adolescents learned.

My favorite part of Comp was conferences, getting to know the students, wondering why they chose their paper topics, how they were surviving as students. I loved what I taught them, but I always wondered if my insane drive to learn more about psychology would ever come into play. I think I might not have the brains and general knowledge to teach college, but I just care about people enough to teach them to read, how to get excited about education, and how to grow up. Maybe a prerequisite to teaching high school is having at least a couple of years of high school hell.

This first class felt right. It did. We've been assigned readings about how the brain works, and I'm excited for it. We've watched movies about teachers who struggle from day one, and I'm nervous about it. But Jean, I tell myself. That's why you're here. You're nervous because you don't know how to do any of this yet. In a year, you'll be ready. You will know how to handle these students, and you'll combine your love of English and psychology and teaching and learning--and you'll have a job that you've decided in the past year you needed to make you happy: no answering to the numbers of a business, no sitting at a cube and trying not to make eye contact so people can't see how sad and out of place you are, no more wondering where you'll find yourself in a career and how it will be anything like you, because maybe you don't know education so well because you've been in it so long--maybe you've been in it so long because it's where you're supposed to be. That's why you keep going back. Not because you don't know what else to do, because you just love all those student loans, or because you're afraid of trying something else. It's because no other career could make you feel better. The lows are different kinds of lows, at least. The kind that still have an inkling of hope hiding underneath them; the chance to move forward instead of in circles, if only just mentally. You're not trapped in your room, in your cube, at least for now.

So, yes. This pep talk sounds kind of lame, but it's just that I've had a lot on my mind. Not necessarily about whether I've made the right decision for this next year, because a change in my life is past due. But after this, when I've got a year in high school under my belt, I wonder what will happen.

Some shit will go down this next year, and I'll find myself unable to sleep and repeating records on the phonograph. I will. I'll blog about whether I'm doing the right thing, and whether I am the kind of person who can survive with teenagers. But, hey. The first thing we learned in EDUC 605 was that an attitude about what you're doing dictates your entire day, year, career. And I just know I had this odd last year so I can reflect on it when I'm wondering about the decisions I've made. I can think about all of the interviews, the job hunts, the cover letters, the speeding tickets I got on 35W the same week I lost my job. I can think about what I've lost and gained, how I'm actually excited to put most of my things in storage and just move my bed, music, and books down to Rochester. Yes. Some shit will go down, but I'm motivated, I've found myself back in school, but this time it's with much more of a mission than it's ever been. Like a year of career training. Some people think I'm nuts, I"ll be poor for the rest of my life, I can't do this. But. I keep thinking: somebody has to do this. Somebody has to have a passion to work with high school students, to keep an enthusiasm for learning, to address "challenges" instead of "problems." How long until a teacher loses this attitude?

Who knows. But here are some pictures of the farmhouse and the land. If anything, I get this for a year, and I can't imagine anything better. Moving from this cute, tiny house on this busy, claustrophobic street, to this country which loves the colors blue, green, and brown. And it hasn't even truly bloomed yet.

Creek in the backyard.

Garage, house, giant backyard tree.

View in the chicken coop turned work space/shed. It's a green building perpendicular to the garage. James also has snowmobiles in it. Notice the tin roof, which is the reason why I'll be in there often when it rains.


Baby spruce in the front yard.

One of James' gardens. Notice the moat to keep out the weeds, and possibly the naughty, naughty rabbits.

Me in front of the garden. I hope James will teach me (or at least let me watch) the harvest this fall--of sweet corn, pumpkins, blueberries, strawberries, raspberries, and whatever else these little buds are going to turn in to. He's also planted fresh herbs, and maybe I can talk him into some flowers to keep on the deck. This is the year. When I'll wish for longer days and more time, leave the need for a long afternoon nap in the city and instead find myself walking along the creek, dreaming up poems that I'll dismiss too quickly except for occasional sounds and lines. This is the year I'll find time to enjoy this open air, green land, and new running routes on dirt paths.

And, yes. I know you're going to give me worst kind of shit for this, but I bought a gardening hat. Hey. All it took was new, cute short socks to get me running again.

The end of this somewhat retarded era.

As in, the last 11 months of my life have been missing a chromosome. Now is the part where I freak out because the decisions I've made are sort of coming true. Like being pregnant, but then just sort of thinking you've gotten fatter and aren't with-child, and then one day a fucking baby pops out of your vag and oops! you have to deal with it. And feed it and make sure it's breathing and stuff.

Last night I saw Tony Sims in gmail, so I just sent him a chat that said, Tony Fucking Sims! Come home.

Then he wrote that Georgia was home, and asked how I was and sent me a freshly picked song from his song garden. It's pretty amazing; a Beatles-esque, somewhat "Day in the Life" somber song with the phrase, "I'm jealous of your light." I just listened to it. Good stuff.

I wasn't expecting today to be my last day at Capella, but my boss talked to me about the mess of a day that was yesterday, and she put that offer on the table. I thought it was for Capella reasons only, as in, you crazy fool, get out of here now--but it really wasn't. She could just tell my brain wasn't there. Not in the sense that I'd given up on the job (I mean, not anymore than I had been hiding from the beginning) but in the sense that I wasn't myself. And I wasn't. My brain is doing that thing where I feel like it's trying to float out of my head--like it's hitting up against the sides like a tightly filled balloon that just wants to get out of this small space--and I need to not be at Capella next week, once classes start. I really, really need the money. But today the impulse to leave was too strong. First of all, I had a huge headache and the thought of not sitting in that desk chair seemed pretty sweet. Also, being in that cube, in that building, really plays up on my serious claustrophobia, and I probably should be avoiding that claustrophobic feeling, since my "life-decisions" of going back to school are slowly closing in on me. Does this make any sense? I cut myself free just a bit early at the cost of 2 and 1/2 days of work. I'm moving to Rochester, to the farm, next week. We ended, unexpectedly, on really good terms, and I'm not being sarcastic.

And so, the summer sort of begins. Soon it will be July, the month of fat women, as I like to think of it; the time of year where all you can imagine are either barefoot children with red popsicle faces or extremely overweight women in tube tops wiping sweat from their brows under their short, curly and damp hair. Their shorts are too short, they always miss an awkward spot on their bodies with the suntan lotion, and they're always reading The Globe (and it was a sought purchase, not an impulse.) They're always afraid to lift up their arms, and they're wearing flip flops, and their toes aren't ever painted so their toenails are light yellow, and they really, really like to sit in the sun. On a bus bench, on a blanket at the beach with a mass market paperback, or in their front yard on a cheap plastic lawn chair, like the fully-clothed sunbathing Mexicans in this neighborhood do around 40th Street.

So is summer, or late spring, or whatever is here when I go outside and sneeze and squint my eyes. Today I had to take the 5E home--my last bus ride--because I was able to leave work early, since my last meeting was a brief meeting with HR, and I gave them my building security badge. I knew it had to be the 5 on my last day. Even though I'll miss the 133 and the lady with the weird wart on her face and the lady with the ridiculously fat face who wears an anklet, short skirts, and long shirts (so she appears without-pants), it had to be the stupid adventure bus, the 5.

I got to the bus stop on 8th two seconds after the bus came, and I tried to wave it down to no avail. So I had at least 15 minutes of waiting for the next 5. I sat on the bus bench, which I rarely get to do, as it is often cold and my ass freezes. There is the skinniest black man I've ever seen on this bench. He has luggage with him--a suitcase and a carry on bag, and he reeks, he is saturated, with the stench of hard liquor. Also, he is wearing a sweat suit and there is an huge and oddly shaped skin tag on his face, right next to his mouth. Even more odd, the skin tag is white skin and doesn't match his dark complexion. From far away, it would just look like he had a giant morsel of uneaten food on his lip, but up close one wants to rip the unmatching skin from the rest of his face.

This man decides to make a phone call to tell someone that he has money, he has $100 dollars in his pocket. This is fine. Well, it would be fine if he didn't insist on screaming that he had the money as loud as possible. I got the money! I got the money! Let me talk to her! Let me talk to her! He screamed. This matter was even more complicated for two reasons. 1) I sat next to him before this display started happening, so people sort of thought I was with this guy. Like his case worker or something. All of 8th street looked over at us, as his voice boomed and echoed through the downtown buildings, and I just tried to look away as though I didn't notice this drunken fool next to me. 2) The woman he was commanding to talk to was named Jean. So he kept saying let me talk to Jean! Let me talk to Jean! And it was emotionally awkward, as I felt out of body already because it was my last bus ride and my last moments as someone who worked "downtown."

But, he took his cane and left after hanging up abuprtly, and decided not to wait for the bus, but waddle down the street with his cane while looking over his shoulder, paranoid. Then, I sat for longer while other busses went by. Then a woman came up to me and asked how long I'd been waiting, as she was waiting for a bus and didn't know when it would come. Then her bus came, and mine didn't. Then another woman came and sat next to me, a frail woman with gray shoulder-length hair and orange lipstick. She sounded exactly like my old forensics directory Sue, minus Sue's often held Diet Pepsi and pack of Kools, so I took a liking to her. Why not be friendly, when I know I'll never be there again, and when the sun is out? What else to do on a bus bench at quarter to four.

She sat down and started talking about her husband and his green thumb, then told me that she kills plants just by looking at them, and did I kill plants, too? I told her, Yes, I often did kill plants. She liked this. She talked about spring, putting her winter clothes away, washing her summer things, waiting for the sun to come out with her husband, who was waiting for the sunb to come out too. Her lipstick was sticky and coagulating on her lips. Then she started talking to other men who were reading Vince Flynn about her husband, who loves Vince Flynn. The thing is that I couldn't really decipher her lazy of crazy. I figured she was like 5% more crazy than me, considering I've felt like 30% more crazy this week than I normally do.

Then her bus came, and mine didn't so I wished her to enjoy the weather. Then, my bus came, and there were a lot of fat women with mustaches riding and also a man who just looked out the window and said bang, bang, bang the whole ride home.

We are not friends if any of this suprises you.

• I was going to take a short nap today, then run, then pack a box or two to bring to Rochester with me when I drive down tomorrow for class; instead, I slept from 5 until 9:00;
• I was so tired at work today, I essentially blacked out at my desk (passed out while bending over in my chair to fix my shoe) and two managers came rushing over to see if I was okay; I said it was a serious headache;
• Liz made cookies for work and left a note that I could have a "couple" and I ate more than was fair;
• I was upset that my landlord scheduled a showing and then again never showed up;
• Frozen pizza for dinner;
• I saw a picture of this giant caulk in downtown St. Paul yesterday and commanded this picture:

That I said I was giving up candy and three days later requested a pit stop at candyland:

That's all for today. Good thing Liz has half her shit packed and I haven't packed anything, that I ordered more books for myself on Amazon, that I haven't started prep work for my class.

Tomorrow is the beginning of change. I'm heading down to the farmhouse (more on that later) to sleep before I have class on Saturday morning; tomorrow I'm going to Target to buy myself school supplies. Out of season, but exciting nonetheless. I haven't gone running in days in spite of the gorgeous weather; this morning I slept through my alarm.

I don't quite feel yet that I'm leaving this place, that come Memorial weekend I'll be permanently in renting a room in the house of James, the farmhouse with the cold, 19th century Blair Witch basement, with wet, green hills and acres of woods, and a chicken coop-turned-shed with farmers' etchings and penciled math doodles on the wall. Maybe it won't be until I'm there that I will finally accept that my life is changing for the better, that weeks will no longer crawl by with simple bus rides and long naps in between.

Here are pictures from the last weeks that I've finally uploaded. Note the sculpture garden, Jesus, and mystery pants.

Here we go. Tomorrow, I will pack my first box, drive to Rochester, go to the first class, and do a total life-180.

Thanks, Mark.

This weekend was:

Groceries in downpours; amazing food: "almost" vegan fajitas, a discovered love for fresh guacomole, fresh wheat pasta and asparagus, bread, bread, bread, mozz and basil and bruschetta, vegan breakfasat, fresh pumpkin waffles; long walks around Nokomis in brisk winds, where you notice the beginning sprouts of May green on twig branches; dog kisses; people hugs all around; annoying bagel-joint employees; open windows to let smells in and heat and conversation out into the dark; 4-hour long what-if games including over-use of the word "pussy" that began with the idea of drinking beer out of it; no interests in maturity; discussions of possible band names, such as "pussy cubed"; foul smelling body parts in the nether-region; delicious alcoholic bevarages: Beer-aritas, fresh strawberries and tequila, Dos Equis; ripped papers with black ink all over the floor; long games of Apples to Apples involving a "phony" Helen Keller; fresh ice cream and lemon and ginger sorbet almost on the floor of the ice cream shop; confusing metal sculptures, used bookstores, spice shops with fresh varities of cinnamon; cute vegan outfits with red shoes; the return and demise of the mystery pants; car rides with the windows down; chair parades with $3 vintage chairs Whoa! It's Important! message boards purchases in a restaurant basement; people named "Vote for Obama" at the hippie restaurant; exchanged Indian recipes; MSP International to start and end; teasing, old jokes, sharing of pasts, and new jokes.

Thanks for the good times, friends. Can't wait for more.

I never blog anymore.

I'm not gonna start right now, because by the time I get home I'm pretty fucking sick of computers. BUT GUESS WHAT BEVIN IS COMING IN FROM CANADA AND X AND LIL'P ARE COMING TOMORROW AND I HAVE THE DAY OFF AND IT'S GONNA BE AWESOME.