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The after-school tutoring program I work for is entirely voluntary (for the students–not for me: I wouldn’t be doing this without a paycheck–momma didn’t raise no fool). The school identifies students who will benefit from the service, and sends them an application. The parents fill it out and return it to the school, which determines who will be my students. Because the program is voluntary, there is little accountability. Students who were healthy enough to go to school occasionally miss tutoring because they’re sick. Sometimes the tutoring/babysitting conflicts with the parents’ schedule, so the students don’t attend. And sometimes kids just don’t want to go (I can’t really blame them: if they liked school at all they would be able to learn the material during school hours instead of having to give up their afternoons to do it all again).
Attendance was low the first few sessions, but we’ve grown to the point where I’ve met every student. Well, every student but one. But since he’s on my roster, I make sure I call his name every day. “Ausente, Chico? Is Chico Ausente here? Does anyone know Chico Ausente?” It’s become a bit of a running joke betweem me and . . . . .
“EEEEEKKKKKKK! THERE’S A LIZARD IN THE HOUSE,” The Wife screamed, which was followed by a dash out the front door with such speed it would make the Flash envious. Knowing she would never return unless the cold-blooded houseguest was removed, I figured it was my husbandly duty to catch it.
I spotted the lizard in a corner, hiding behind a stack of books. About an inch and half long. It couldn’t have weighed more than a nickel. How the wife spotted it was beyond me, but she has a knack for that sorta thing. We can be watching TV and she’ll somehow spot a spider in 12 feet away directly behind her.
Being a city boy, I’m not exactly versed in the capture of live animals. Sure, as a boy I would pick up worms off the sidewalk and chase girls around the playground–but they were there for the taking: catching a live animal would be a whole ‘nother challenge. I saw no need to kill the lizard. If I could somehow grab it, I would put it in a jar and take it outside. At least that was the plan. Unfortunately, the reptile seemed to disagree and didn’t want . . . . .
Now that our car quest is over and The Wife has a suitable vehicle, I am in the process of trying to unload her car on some poor, unsuspecting sucker. Not that I’m trying to scam anyone–I’m very clear about the process and have no intention of hiding the blown head gasket (it’s not like you can hide a blown head gasket anyway–the car shakes like a earthquake when you drive it).
In the past, I’ve always used Autotrader to buy and sell cars. But about a dozen years ago something called the internet got invented (by Al Gore) and launched all sorts of wonderful free services–most notably, Craigslist. Craigslist has been in the news an awful lot lately. For those unfamiliar with the service, Craigslist offers more than overweight strippers and dirt cheap hookers–you can also buy and sell goods. So instead of plopping down 50 bucks on Autotrader, I opted to try posting a free ad on Craigslist.
They say in life you get what you pay for. Perhaps that’s the attitude of Craigslist shoppers: they figure since the ad is free, the product should also be available at a significant discount. I can’t believe the riffraff I’ve . . . . .
Even though I have no job nor any prospects of finding a job, The Wife and I are in the midst of buying a car (and if CNN is right, we might be the only two car-buyers in America). The world economy is falling apart; everyone is scrimping and saving; I have no job–we’re a single-income family…and we still want to buy a car (which says a lot about the state of her current vehicle). This is something we talked about long before stock market Armageddon came. This was a decision we made before I lost my job. The point I’m trying to make is that we’ve need a car for a while now and is not a decision made lightly.
I’ve noticed an interesting phenomenon during our hunt–a plethora of incompetent sellers. Since we’re in the market for a used car and I think dealers are the scum of the earth (although slightly better than politicians and insurance executives), we’ve contacted quite a few private parties. I’m not expecting to meet J. Paul Getty when buying a ten-year old used car–but I’d like to meet someone who could at least put a little bit of effort and enthusiasm into . . . . .
From the pointless researcher department…
Did you know Rudolf the Red Nose Reindeer was a girl? It’s true because I saw it in print. I’m not sure if I blame the journalist or the “experts” who debated this topic, but overthinking like this really sucks the fun out of Christmas.
Last week at work we had our annual white elephant gift exchange. At this point, I’m sure everyone is familiar with the concept (if not, Wikipedia it). Since I’m blessed with the unique combination of being extremely lazy and remarkably cheap, I decided to put zero time, money, and effort into a gift. Instead of trying to give a good/funny gift, I decided to give the lamest piece of crap that came to my mind. I reached this conclusion while reading an old newspaper…which prompted the idea to GIVE an old newspaper.
The Wife quickly protested the idea. “That’s an awful gift,” she said. “You can’t give that.”
“It’s supposed to be an awful gift,” I pleaded. “The only people who give anything good or nice are newbies–suckers who are too afraid to give junk.”
Despite much–uh, persistence–on her part, I stuck to my guns and wrapped up a week-old . . . . .
I have spent way too much time over the past couple weeks talking about politics. Sure, it’s a subject that fires me up–and I guess it’s best to write about something you care about–but that’s not the kinda writer I wanna be. I like writing about funny stuff. I like telling amusing, lighthearted stories with my own slanted view on society. So enough with the gloom, doom, and negativity–let’s talk about something fun.
From the “it could only happen to me category,” lemme tellya about the snafu I somehow managed to get caught up in with my landlord. I learned a long time ago I’d much rather have something do something automagically than be held responsible to remember to do it myself. It’s not so much because I’m forgetful…I just sorta get distracted and ignore responsibilities for something more amusing. Either that, or I’m lazy. In any case, it’s all automatic for me. Programming the VCR to record shows (back when I had a VCR) even if I planned on staying home to watch them (ya know, just in case). My phone is “programmed” to change to “audible” every night just in case I fall asleep with it on vibrate. . . . . .
During a baseball broadcast, I heard a promo specifically encouraging Dodger fans to vote. Yeah, that’s what American needs: Dodger fans determining how the country is run. Not every uneducated literate with a criminal record deserves a voice. It’s this sorta propaganda that pisses me off. I hate voting season.
I’m not completely helpless. The Girlfriend might think I am, but there are plenty of things I can do on my own–one of which is basic car maintenance. I took a year of auto shop in high school. I like working with tools. I wouldn’t call myself a man’s man–but I can perform rudimentary vehicle maintenance like replacing air filters, changing spark plugs, and jump-starting a battery.
One of the things I won’t do is change my own oil. Sure, I could do it–but it’s just too darn messy…especially when I can take my car somewhere and get the oil changed by a professional for 20 bucks. It seems like money well-spent.
I needed an oil change and opted to go to Jip-U-Lube. It’s right near work and I had a coupon for a $20 oil change. It was for the deluxe package that includes the 14-point inspection. Personally, I . . . . .
When The Girlfriend I went to San Diego last month, we stayed at a hotel that just open. And by just opened, I mean two days prior. The place was brand spanking new–so new that the address couldn’t be found on Mapquest.
There’s a difference between a national hotel chain opening up and a lavish grand opening on the Las Vegas strip. Instead of celebrities and glitzy, that San Diego hotel opened to empty rooms and hallways that reeked of glue. Las Vegas hotels work out all their kinks beforehand; smalltime San Diego hotels lock their guests outside at night because the door near the pool doesn’t work (thank goodness I managed to flag down an employee; otherwise, I would’ve had to spend the evening sleeping on a pool cot).
I’ve stayed at an Unidentified National Hotel Chain many times before and one of the reasons I do so is because the free breakfast they offer in the morning. I’m not talking a continental breakfast composed of generic cereal and day-old bagels. No, no–Unidentified National Hotel Chains have wonderful fresh, hot breakfasts. Eggs, waffles, bacon–a true, real breakfast with the quality of Denny’s–sans the smell of old people on the . . . . .
Everyone has a birthday and everyone deserves a special day on their birthday–that’s why I had no problem going all out for The Girlfriend’s birthday this year. When you meet the girl you’re going to marry you better damn well treat her like a queen…even if it means having to go see Kathy Griffin perform. I spent $70 a ticket–good money that could buy a lot of pizza and porn–and took The Girlfriend to see comic’s show. Not a lot of straight males buy Kathy Griffin tickets and I now fear I might end up on a gay watch list.
It turns out my fear was more substantial than I thought. In a crowd of a few thousand people, there were approximately three straight males. The gay quota was through the roof–including an obnoxious gay guy who sat directly in front of us. Normally I don’t have a problem with the gays–after all, I used to work at Disneyland. In fact, I’ve come to realize that I love gay dudes (there’s something about that statement that will probably worry my mother). Gay guys always seem to have an energy about them. They love life and are always jovial (maybe that’s . . . . .
When I was in high school, I used to bike pretty much everywhere. Soccer practice, friends’ houses, Music Warehouse–anywhere I had to be I got there by bicycle. My buddy and I had annual passes to Knott’s Berry Farm and we spent a lot of summer days there. A few times we went over to the beach…even though none of us liked to swim. I biked to Disneyland when I didn’t feel like driving just because I could (Disneyland, Knott’s, and the beach were all with in biking distance…yet somehow I was always bored). I think my radius was about ten miles.
A couple years after high school I abandoned my bicycling ways. Work ended up being too far to bike and it was awfully hard to pick up girls for dates on a Huffy. Like most things in life, it’s not like I stopped biking cold turkey: it sorta just phased its way out of my life.
But for years I’ve felt bad about it. I used to love biking. It was fun, easy, and fast (mainly ’cause I ignored every traffic law imaginable). When I went to college, it was easier to bike there because finding a parking . . . . .
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