The scene: around the dinner table at Chez Shamela, while the fire burns merrily in the fireplace in the next room (Fall came last night, WTF?) and while pizza and broccoli are consumed
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There is a discussion raging at Chez Shamela, regarding the replacement of our shoddy garage door. We are in agreement here that we do not want the Sears salesman to try to talk us into the premiere steel model, because for now, we do not have a multiplicity of things that must be kept out of our garage, and furthermore, we are very poor
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The Scene: Shamela's kitchen, where she is finishing the dinner dishes. The Heir Apparent enters, and with no explanation, lays his head down on the table, where, among other things, there is a Rice Krispie treat in a sandwich bag.
Not a great day--but not a completely horrible one, either. And really, what does excellence in teaching matter when three different people stopped me on the sidewalk to tell me that my hair is Pre-Raphaelite?
Which is what I've been going for all these years...so...can I retire now?
For what felt like most of the night, I dreamed that I was in a large warehouse-ish space, filled with cats. All of whom I had to bathe, one by one, in a utility-room tub that produced only cold water. Sudsy, but cold.
In light of the fact that school starts for me today, discuss.
Imagine my surprise to hear the following come out of my mouth in staff meeting just about an hour ago, and furthermore, with no irony whatsoever
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I...just don't know how to feel about this. I mean, the original reaction was a semi-hysterical "SQUEEEEE! Are you for REALZ?" and now I'm thinking, perhaps...ewww?