ABC "Family" should be ashamed of itself

We set Tivo to record anything that said "pilot" in the description so we wouldn't miss out on some of the new shows coming up. One of the shows grabbed was one called Ugly Betty. So the name intrigued us. After 15 minutes, I noticed that the ABC Family logo hung in the lower right-hand corner of the screen. Considering I was about to tell Dale to turn off this trash, I cried out instead, "ABC FAMily?! What's family about this?"

The show is on 7 p.m. on Thursday nights, a prime viewing time for a typical family. But if "family" means that we get to share what the b-word is and have to explain why that woman was coming up from underneath that man's desk and why are those women all showing their underwear, (and did I mention the constant use of the b-word?) then this is the wrong kind of family. The rest of the show goes on as to how badly the guy with the woman underneath his desk doing you-know-what can humiliate Betty so she'll quit because she's too ugly. The man's father who hired Betty was hoping that his son--the libido-crazed 30-something who is the editor of a fashion magazine--won't be attracted to this woman and won't want to sleep with her like he does with every assistant. The women constantly showing the guy their underwear are sleeping with him to get the job, and there is one scene in which he makes Ugly Betty call his cell to warn him that another one is on her way up to his loft apartment. It's a revolving door of sex romps, though the romps are implied and not shown, thank goodness. But that's the only thing I have nice to say about this show. Oh, and the young boy in the show who is Ugly Betty's nephew seems to be portrayed as gay.

What crap. What trash. And if you have kids in the house younger than 16, you should NOT consider this a family show. Good thing that CBS is our channel of choice, and thank goodness the person who created Tivo created Tivo. And now that Alias is no longer in production, we don't need ABC anymore.

Family, my butt.


Goals: Short and Long Term

1.) Ultimate Long-Term Goal: 125 pounds, 12% bodyfat.
a. When people see me, I want them to admire my physique and to know not to even think about messing with me because I could drop them on their hineys.
b. I want to be published in a magazine before and after success story article. The picture would have to be the one taken at April and Tom’s wedding when I wore those atrocious size 16 pants that barely fit and had elastic in back and rubbed into my skin. The jacket was one of those hand-made numbers Dale’s grandmother made for her “fat days.” She gave it to me because she had “whittled down to nothing. Here Tracy, it might fit you.”
c. I want my butt to be smooth.
i. (if achieve a. and c.): Celebrate with professional pictures
2.) 12-Month Goal: 130 pounds, 16% bodyfat. Fit a size 4.
i. Celebrate with a one-hour massage and a facial
3.) 3-Months’ Goal: 135 pounds, 20% bodyfat. Fit a size 6.
i. Celebrate with a one-hour massage.
4.) Weekly Goals:
a. To weigh myself (and not wimp out). Saturdays.
b. Measure weekly. Saturdays.
c. Eat only one cheat meal per week (Saturday evening)—and not any more than that.
5.) Daily Goals:
a. Increase vegetables to 4 servings per day
b. Drink one gallon water per day
c. Weight-lifting 5 times a week.
d. Slow-mo cardio 1 time per week.
e. 1800 calories per day
f. Complex carbs for first three meals of the day
g. Fibrous carbs for last three meals of the day
6.) Beating my Personal Best:
a. Increase jogging times to more running, less walking.
i. Run a 5K in 30 minutes or less
b. Increase weights on benchpress, deadlifts, squats.


Jesus Goes to the Office

I wrote up Jesus today for having his cell phone out in the hallway. He knows the rules.

Okay, am having fun with this kid's name, who actually did turn into a good-natured kid; he just forgot that he wasn't the center of the universe and there were actually teachers in the halls, and yes, we do watch what the little buggers are doing. I'm standing by my classroom door and not more than two feet away from me, a kid is checking his phone for a text. Rule in the school is no cell phones until after 3:20. This was 11:58 a.m. I give him the I-Can't-Believe-You-Just-Did-That Look and he looks at me. My hand is outstretched as if I expect him to drop his phone into my palm just like that. Actually, I do expect that, but am equally expecting him to give me trouble. I scope out if he has a school ID hanging off of him just in case he runs, I'll know who to write up. I don't see the ID. I wiggle my fingers as if to say, "Come on, come on. Time is precious." He turns off his phone, his face is turning pink and he writes his name on a sheet of paper. He's a ninth-grader, bless his heart, and that's the end of that. I see the name of Jesus --------, and I say, "Hay-zeus?"


"I have to give this to your administrator."


Okay, then. A parent gets to come up and get it and the kid gets a day in the In-School Suspension Room. What will Jesus do?


Am I dreaming?

My honors freshman class is probably what "regular" freshmen looked like about fifteen years ago. They are good kids. They remember their homework, they get right to work when told to do so, they discuss, they listen, they follow the rules, they know when to laugh at my stupid jokes.

But they don't seem too "honored," if you know what I mean. They're good, but not terribly bright. In fact, I probably have only two kids in this class who I would consider to be well above average. The rest are--average.

Does this mean that if a student in high school is someone who can do the aforementioned things should be a head above the rest? What would happen if they were in regular English? Would they become tainted or would the others rise above to reach that level of what we used to consider as average?

That average student entering high school now refuses to listen, refuses to comply with adult authority, refuses to complete homework assignments, and there are a few who plain ol' refuse to do any work in the classroom. I wrote up a kid today who for the fourth week in a row, forgot his English notebook, refused to get out materials to work and was content to just be a seat-warmer. I refused to let him go through one more day of painful non-learning. I told him he needed to speak to someone else about it because this wasn't working out. I had tried the me-counseling route, the psychologist-depression route, the calling-Mom route. Obviously those didn't work. Plan D. Don't know if it'll change anything, but at least I know I'm doing everything that I can to make sure he succeeds. Too bad he doesn't have that in him to do that himself. I did warn him last classtime that if he didn't have his English notebook put together that I would send him to his administrator. After that class, I found a partially torn up 3-ring notebook under his desk. I had called his mother shortly after that discovery. She had bought him a 3-ring notebook, she said. I told her that he's not bringing it. When he came to class today, I asked him to get out his English notebook (as I asked the rest of the class, as well, but he had a personal invitation). He said he didn't have it. That he must have forgotten it. I told him that was a sad situation.

The others seemed a bit surprised that I wrote up someone who was being quiet. I think they hav the impression that if they're just quiet, that they'll be okay. Mrs. Catlin likes things quiet. But here she was, writing up someone who hadn't said a word. What was this??

So--I think any of one my regular kids can attain "honors" status in today's public high school. But what is so honored about doing what should be done to be a decent human being?



There is a young man out in the hallway outside my door somewhere who feels the need to exclaim at the top of his lungs every 30-seconds the signal: "Wooooooooo-Eeeeee!"


Meth Heads Hear Me Now

I hope every meth head who ruined it for us all gets the flu--the most rare kind--and suffers because they have to show their ruined i.d. in order to get a bottle of DayQuil or the generic version of such medicine. I hope they die with phlegm packing their lungs, making them have to sleep in an upright position so they don't drown--if they can sleep at all. I hope their skin ages another 50 years as they're sneezing snot out of their noses at high velocity. I hope the fever that racks their bodies burns out the drugs in their system as well as burn off their stupidity. Perhaps that'll teach them that they're all a pack of idiots.

Whatever bug I caught has hit me hard. I couldn't sleep last night and got up at about midnight to watch the rest of Big Brother All Stars that I had Tivo'd. (Drat that Mike! Can't stand him, either). I took a quarter dose of Tylenol PM, but it didn't do me any good. Sleep doesn't come if you can't breathe. I went back to bed about 12:30, hoping the Tylenol would kick in, but my lungs felt like I could drown if I laid flat. I propped myself up, reminding me of my pregnancy days when I couldn't sleep, either. Somehow, I must have fallen asleep, but it was fitful.

Dale had volunteer time this morning, and it was just me and the kid. When I gathered enough energy to actually get dressed, off to Wal-Mart we went. First aisle: DAYQUIL (or the generic thereof) and NYQuil (or the generic thereof). Nyquil was easy, but it must be the ingredients in DayQuil that meth-makers really relish. There were plastic cards made up to take one card to the pharmacy register to get one bottle.

Okay. Great.

I took a card, Emily was quiet and not telling me yet another story about flying unicorns, and I passed by three workers in the pharmacy and I stood at the neglected register. One of the problems with that is that though these workers know there are people in the pharmacy, they don't seem to think that any of their customers will need to pay for anything. The Register Goes Unnoticed by WalMart Pharmacy Workers. I waited. I made some noise. I waited. I coughed--which is not a pretty sound lately. I took my meth-head induced card to one of the workers who was at the window. She tells me to go wait at the register.

You have to realize that not only do I not feel well, I'm also premenstrual. I don't have the energy to do anything more than shoot her my PMS look.

Thankfully, she makes it to the register, gives me wrong directions, has to see my driver's license, I have to sign a document on their little machine--the one where it looks like my signature was drawn while I was on crack. I croak out a thank you, and hope it's obvious to her that I am actually going to use this medicine for good and not evil.

Emily and I finish our shopping, go to the register, and by golly, if I didn't have to show my driver's license again.

I want every meth-head to line up while I sneeze and cough on them.