Another double

I once more did my annual Turkey Day cooking. The difference is that this year I did not have to work on Wednesday so I decided to get a headstart on the cooking since everything tastes better as leftovers anyway.


I'm starting to think the holidays are all about meat and carbs. And don't worry. This was the taste sampler from Wednesday. Thursday I did actually add vegetables to the plate.

Another tradition is that I save the wings for my aunt. She headed over Friday for leftovers and a doggy bag. Now I have been obsessed with this one dessert since I had it at Baraka in February. Didn't know what it was called but knew the ingredients. Thank you Google for answering my question.


Galaktoboureko. You'll have to scroll down a ways to find the actual recipe.

And for those of you desperately waiting for it, here's this weekend's quiz. I'm off to look for turkey hash recipes. Of course that means I'll have to go grocery shopping because I have no eggs and what is hash without eggs?

You Were a Deer

Graceful and gentle, you appreciate beauty and balance. A giving soul, you are able to sacrifice for the greater good.

What Animal Were You In a Past Life?

Back by popular demand

Yes, I'm back. Of course, I wish I could say the same about my voice. It seems to come and go. Hopefully it will be back completely by Monday but I doubt it. I have improved from Wednesday. Now I can actually talk at a regular level. But yelling? So not happening.

My first year teaching something similar happened. I showed up to work on a Friday feeling kind of so-so. As the day went on, I started feeling worse. By the time my last class showed up (I was teaching middle school and had three groups of students.), I had almost no voice. Luckily I had won them over by that point in the school year. When they realized that I had almost no voice, the more boisterous members of the class turned and shouted, "Shut up. Can't you see that she has almost lost her voice?" I taught the rest of the day at a near whisper -- and no one missed a word.

That is when I realized the power of whispering. I stopped yelling at my class. Instead, when I really wanted their attention, I would drop my volume. I have tried it a few times this year. They're a little slower to catch on. I try to explain to them that my vocal cords cannot take yelling all day long, even when I am healthy. I have also explained to them that this is why I don't drink coffee, but instead drink tea with honey all day long.

You should have heard me in the grocery stores on Wednesday. It almost made me want to go out drinking. Because my voice had that perfect level of raspiness. What a bummer when I spoke to my dad latter that afternoon and had most of my voice back.

Then again, it gave me a perfect excuse for not going to Sack of tomatoes. It seems that T-day was at my dad's brother-in-law's house. Now, there is only one person in that family who actually likes me, my father's sister-in-law. Of course, she catches a lot of flak from her family as well. Her family's take on me? Spoiled brat. Ummmm. Stop hating the player, hate the game. I know some of you are wondering about the reference. Let's face it. I can play my dad like a fiddle most days. Not that I've played a fiddle but I did take cello. May be why my ex used to say that I should become an actress. (Of course, the only one who always sees through the act is my mother. Then again, some of this I learned from her.) I can't help it that they grew up wanting and all. I don't think they were poor, kind of like my mom's family, but they did not have the finer things in life. I mean shouldn't every 16 year old back in the 80s been well acquainted with Ernie's and Victor's? Well, my sixteenth birthday was not spent at either, but instead at this place, Alexis, which was almost my name. Not around anymore but it was at the peak of (S)Nob Hill across from the Mark Hopkins.

So my stepmother doesn't like me much because I've always had more than she has and I know more stuff than she does. My dad and I have always been huge trivia fans. My dad is also a huge fan of Scrabble thanks to his mom. When my dad puts down some mystery word, I never challenge him because I know that he has studied the Scrabble dictionary in depth. What truly irritates my stepmother is when we watch Jeopardy. Not my fault that I can come up with many answers before Alec has finished reading the clue. To be fair, I started pausing a second or so after Alec finished reading the clue. Same result.

So she belongs to all these organizations -- because she is married to my dad. That is about the only reason why these women welcome her. Me? Well, yes, I am my father's daughter but I am also far more charming and know how to work a room. I remember the venom that seethed under the surface for some of my mom's sorority sisters when I was accepted to a certain deb ball. "How did you get your daughter into that ball?" Easy. One of my mom's college friends knew the women on the committee and knew that I would be able to charm them. The one time my name actually hit the society page (Pat Stiger's column, for locals). Like that will ever happen again. And I read that column like a Bible when I was growing up. I know. Funny for a girl from Richmond but then many people underrate Richmond. I mean, how many of you shelled out dollars to see Coach Carter? (No, that was not my alma mater. Mine was the one that was supposedly the "Owls" in the movie.)

And I guess I should be saying that I will be resting the remainder of the weekend but that would be a lie. Instead, I will be doing a little salsa on Saturday. And if that's dead, then I'll be doing some tiki bar action. With fellow teachers. 'Cause we get down like that when the kids are away. And maybe I'll chainsmoke some cigs so I can hopefully recapture that raspiness again.

Thanks and all that other stuff

Neil has this idea that we should all thank our first commenter. I started wondering if I should thank my first commenter here or at the old blog. Turns out it's the same person.

Thank you, Gloria. I don't know if I'd be blogging if it weren't for you. You talked me into contributing to Online Misadventures due to my willingness to actually meet the freaks -- ummm, men -- who post on CL. And I quickly discovered how much I enjoyed blogging. The natural response was to set up a blog that was purely me.

And Gloria, through your blog, I have discovered many other bloggers. I don't know if I would have ever found Cookie Crumb if it were not for Gloria's love of Bean Sprout. I went for the dog and stayed for the food.

Jen and Laurie? Well, Jen commented on Gloria's blog so I followed the link. I couldn't stop coming back. And that's how I found Laurie.

So thank you, Gloria, for opening up a whole new world to me. And may all of you enjoy Turkey Day. Well, those of you who celebrate it. I must now return to the kitchen so that I can truly start torturing the cats. There's something about the smell of roasting turkey that gets them going.

And hopefully after Thursday I will regain full use of my voice. Because right now it's pretty scratchy and on it's way out. Good thing I was too tired to go out last night. Damn kids.

Curse words

Yeah, that's right. I said it. Curse words.

They have been a part of my vocabulary since early childhood. The first evidence of my using a curse was at age four. My dad and I had gone to visit his family. In driving from Georgia to Alabama, I suddenly discovered that we had left my favorite stuffed animal behind. I quickly informed my dad of this. His reaction? He kept on driving. My response? "Turn this damn car around now!" My exclamation was eventually met with a backhand over the top of the front seat. This would be after my grandmother, who was riding shotgun, said, "Why I think she just said a bad word." My dad tried to placate me by stopping at the next department store and buying me a new toy. Not good enough. My grandmother mailed my animal to me along with some new toys once I returned to California.

In first grade I knew kids from higher grades. They expanded my vocabulary. One night my mother sent me to my room as punishment for something I had done. While I sat in my room, I pulled out paper and pencil to compose a letter to my mother. It read,

"Dear Mommy,

You are a mother fucker.

Dagny"

I left the note on the floor in the hallway outside of my door. I regained my sanity and reclaimed the note before my mother saw it. When I was around 30, I told my mother about the note. We still laugh over it. And mention how it's fortunate that I retrieved the note as I would not be alive today if I had not.

Back in the days when I was the queen of the fag hags, I used to frequent this one place, The Pendulum. Now the reason why I appointed myself the queen was because there was not a bar in the Castro that I could enter in which they did not know me. I met this woman who tried to declare herself a fag hag but then had to back down when I asked, "When you walk into bars in the Castro do the bartenders greet you by name and offer free drinks? Do the regulars at that bar walk up and ask, 'Where have you been lately? We've missed you.' Do your gay friends start saying that you know more guys than they do? Do you get free drinks from random guys?" So back to The Pendulum. It was the place where younger African American males met older White males. On a good night there would be five women in the place. And you've got to love a place with a padlock on the women's room. They also had a DJ who shared my love of Teena Marie and a back deck. On Sunday nights the back deck action was all about dominos and Spades. Me? I'm all about the Spades action. As the game would progress, the more talk would come from my mouth. I remember one night that the guys at the table said, "Girl, you have a mouth like a sailor." My response was, "Just shut the fuck up and deal the next damn hand."

Where is this all leading? Well, now I'm teaching kids. It's kind of frowned upon if you curse in front of the kids. (Don't ask my current kids this question though. Apparently their teacher last year used to curse all of the time. Believe me. They could drive you to this. The little vultures see the look on my face and say, "Go ahead and curse. Our teacher last year did." Did I mention that I have my current job because they ran her off? Of course, they do know that I do occasionally have homicidal thoughts and that the only thing that stops me is that I love my job. Oh, and did I mention that I know the third graders who I will have as students next year and completely love them?) Woo. That was a mighty long aside. Back to the main topic. Cursing in front of kids. There is a kindergarten teacher who thinks that we should be allowed one curse per year. As each situation arises, you will think to yourself, "Do I want to use it now or save it for later in the year?" Most of us have agreed that the phrase would be, "Shut the fuck up ... now!" So this kindergarten teacher and one of the fourth grade teachers have agreed that the word that is sorely missing in our vocabulary at work is "fuck." They came up with a hand sign. Originally it involved raising your hand to your forehead and rubbing only your middle finger across your forehead. It has now evolved, as more teachers have learned about it, to patting your first three fingers over the eyebrow on that side. Our joke now is that we can tell how bad someone's day has been by the impression on his/her forehead. The best part? The kids have not figured out the code yet.

So we freely walk the hallways asking, "How [two taps to forehead] are you?" Especially bad day? The appropriate response is nonstop head taps. At least that's what I did last Thursday. We are still waiting to see a teacher with a huge dent in the forehead.

Have I mentioned recently how much I love my coworkers? If I haven't, then I have not been giving them enough credit in ability to stay sane. Oh, and props to those parents who recognize how stressful my job is and feed me or give me hugs when they see me.

On a fence

So many of you have asked me about my feelings toward Underwear Guy. Well, I hope the title of this post helps to clarify it.

When we parted ways last on Tuesday, he said, "Call me the next time you are in San Francisco."

And I guess I fibbed. If he was truly the perfect gentleman, he would have walked me all the way home. Instead, we parted ways at the last entrance to BART on the way home for me. Might be why I offered a cheek for the kiss instead of my lips.

My friends at work who are around my age question my exclusion of men my age or older as far as dating is concerned. These are women who still dream of having the happy marriage with kids. I tried to tell them that my doctor had helped solve part of this problem years ago. I still remember being about 30 or 31 and my gynecolygist proclaiming that I was "hormonally fragile." She then went on to explain that the only way that I would have children completely naturally would be by age 35. At 40, I have done the math. Even if by some miracle (Because in vitro? Way too expensive for words.), I actually give birth to a child in the next year or later, I will be heading into my 60s when this child heads to college. I don't think so. I am too selfish to allow this. By my 60s, I want to be in a posision to be truly enjoying life. This means the children have finished college and have started their careers. My mother's solution to this is that I adopt.

So one of the things that Underwear Guy has in his favor is his desire to not have children of his own. We had a whole conversation about his love of other people's children. Apparently he now has a namesake who is showing signs of becoming a rampant Republican -- a regular Alex P. Keeton. Fortunately he sees this as a slap in the face. Underwear Guy even agreed to speak to my kids about his job.

Hmm. That last sentence seemed like a total non-sequitar to me. But I'm going to ignore that. Instead I'm going to try to put down in words all the things swimmming around in my head since my class on Saturday morning.

My class was part of a part of "Teaching American History." My old landlord in SF would ask whose history are you teaching. And this would answer many of the questions in my family. One of the teachers present asked how to deal with the lack of information on certain groups in history texts. Did this make a difference in where the student was from? The facillitator told her that a lot depended on the child's teacher. At the break, I told her that it also depended on the child's parents. My parents? They regularly supplameneted my history lessons with oral histories from our family as well as books from Marcus Books.

Eck! I've just realized that I have strayed from the post title. Or have I? My favorite Southern author has always been Faulkner. On Saturday we were asked to read a number of quotes and to write a response to one that reverberated for us personally. Me? I chose Faulkner. Over Martin Luther King. Over Albert Einstein. Over Frederick Douglass.

"The past is not dead; it's not even past."

Bottom line? I have all these wonderful ideas for my classroom but still have not made up my mind about Underwear Guy. My coworker Queenie (I finally remembered the name I was going to give her.) and I are going out in SF tomorrow night since we don't have to work on Wednesday. She says that I should call him. I don't know though. What if there's someone even more interesting in the place?