Dumpster Diving

Teachers spend a lot of money on their classrooms, and to be honest with you - I am out of money.

I mean, I technically still have money in our bank account, but Rex insists that we should spend that on "practical" things such as rent and groceries.

Long story short, I can't afford to buy a bookshelf.

I have some great books to share with my fifth graders, but I can't afford a bookshelf to put them on.  The only shelf space available in my room is a shelf above the coat rack.  It was better than nothing, so I put my books on it.  For the entire first week of school, students would have to drag a chair over to the shelf and stand on the chair just to be tall enough to read the titles.

Then yesterday, as I was walking out of school to go home for the day, something in the dumpster caught my eye.

It was like in those cheesy movies when the detective finds just the clue he was looking for, and it lights up all shiny like the sun was shining directly on it.  My bookshelf was glowing in the dumpster.

I hurried over to the dumpster, thinking that maybe I was hallucinating a bookshelf because I wanted one so badly.  Nope - there it was - a perfect wooden.............something.  I'm still not exactly sure what this item was in a past life.  I'm pretty sure it wasn't a bookshelf.  It's a bookshelf now, though, and that's what matters.

I quickly hauled the wooden something out of the dumpster area and examined it.  Why would someone throw this away?!  It was a perfectly nice wooden something!  I inspected it for infestations of spiders or scorpions, but it looked clean and perfect.  I wanted to jump for joy, but can you imagine what you would think if you saw your teacher jumping around and dancing in the dumpster?  I decided to play it cool.

I picked the something up and carried it into the building (good thing I've been working out!).  It fit perfectly in the space where I wanted my nonexistent bookshelf to go, and my kids were so excited about it when they came to school today.  Hooray for my dumpster find!  My kids don't know it's from the dumpster, though.  Shhhhh...that's our little secret.

Fatty

I am happy to announce that Rex and I have a new foster pug!  This is our third one.  I LOVE pugs, and Rex LOVES me, so he lets me have pugs in our apartment.

The issue with this pug is that his name is Rex.  Obviously I don't get to name them.  Foster pugs come pre-named.  I can't have two Rex's living here, though.  I realized that the first day when Rex was pooping on the floor (the dog, not the husband), and I yelled, "REX! STOP IT!"  Well, my husband Rex got all freaked out because I almost never yell at him, and he was like, "Aaaah!  What did I do?!"

Obviously we had to come up with a new name for this pug.  Based on the fact that he is FAT (exactly twice the size of our last pug), we decided to call him "Fatty."  Fatty is now on a diet and goes on a bunch of walks every day.  We are determined to get him into slim, trim puggy shape.  It's funny because we will walk him for a little while, and then he will just plop down in the grass, legs splayed out in four different directions, and pant as if to stay, "STOP THIS MADNESS!  I CANNOT GO ANOTHER STEP!"  And then we say, "It's only been a block, Fatty.  Suck it up."  Ha ha...  We're not quite that mean.  We are trying to get him in shape, though, and we've been pushing Fatty to his limits.  It's The Biggest Loser - Webb Edition.  Fatty is competing against our cat Elsie, who is also on a diet.  She started stress eating when we got Elvis (on account of the fact that she hates him), and I knew it was time to put her on a diet when someone told me that her calico splotches looked like the continents on a giant furry globe.  She's been losing a lot of weight, though, so that's good!  Now we're focusing on Fatty...

For your viewing pleasure, here are a few photos of our new fat friend.  Please notice his fatness, his cuteness, and his extreeeeemely long tongue:

About the Author

My book The Elsie Files will come out in a few short months...I am very excited!  It is currently in the design department, and I got an e-mail from one of the guys working on my cover.  He said that he needs an "about the author" picture to go next to my bio on the back cover of my book, and that it should probably be a professional photo since it will also be on my website and displayed at book signings.

Of course I don't have the money to go get professional photos taken, but I don't want to use any old profile pic when I am trying to look like a real author.  I had the idea to call Petographique, a pet photography place that collaborates with the Southern Nevada Pug Rescue on fundraisers and such.  I told them that I volunteer with the rescue, and that I really needed a picture for my book.  Because they are a PET photography business, I told them that I would bring my cat to be in the picture, and therefore it could still be classified as "pet" photography.  Luckily, the owner of Petographique offered to give me an extremely steep discount in exchange for the publicity they will receive from having their studio credited in the book for my picture.  Hooray!

I was very excited about my luck until I realized that my arrangement meant that I would have to actually transport my devilish cat to the studio and then somehow compel her to pose with me, preferably in a pose that included no blood or claws.  I was not at all sure that it was possible for Elsie to do that.  She hates people, traveling, and ESPECIALLY hates cuddling.

Sure enough, she was super cranky when we arrived at the studio.  Rex and I walked into the beautiful lobby and were awed by the chandeliers and dark wood finishings around the room.  Elsie just looked around as if she was trying to shoot lazers out of her eyes to destroy everything in sight.  We went to the back room where the actual picture shooting takes place, and the photographer told me that I could let Elsie out of her cage.  I opened the cage, and Elsie immediately ran and hid under a bench.  We let her hang out there while the photographer set up the background, and then our photographer said, "Okay, go ahead and grab Elsie."  She may as well have said, "Okay, now go jump across that thousand foot crevasse."

I tentatively tried to grab Elsie, and I finally got her to the set amid a literal hissy fit.  She was spitting and hissing and trying to claw me, but I somehow wrestled her onto the couch.  The photographer tried to pose us, but Elsie dug her claws into the couch and glared as if to say, "You move me, YOU DIE."  Trying a new approach, the photographer asked me to scoot closer to Elsie.  I did, and my heart started beating a little faster because I was within clawing reach.  Then the photographer said, "You guys are too far away from each other...put your face down near hers?"  I wanted to ask the photographer why she hated me so much.  I wanted to say that I had thought of plenty of ways to die, and getting my face scratched off by a cat while on camera was not one of my favorites.  Still, I shut up, put my face two inches closer to Elsie's, and smiled through my fear.  The THINGS we do to get a good picture.  If this wasn't getting printed in my book for a bunch of people to see, I absolutely would have refused.  It was scary...my life flashed before my eyes a little.  I think my life flashed before Elsie's eyes too, as she was trying to plot how to make my life as short as possible.

Luckily, the photographer snapped a few pictures before Elsie completely lost her mind.  I actually don't think it turned out too badly.  It almost looks like Elsie and I actually like each other!  Let me know what you think.  :-)

Rich Girl

I crossed an important line today.  It was a line that I've been trying to cross for YEARS, and I've finally done it.  This is a very significant day in my life.

I have crossed over the line from "poor person" to "rich person."

Adios, ramen noodles!  So long, random meetings that I attended only because there was free food!  Bye bye Goodwill!  Actually, there are some great finds at Goodwill.  Okay, Goodwill can stay.  Ramen noodles are DEFINITELY gone though.

"How did she become so rich?" you might be asking yourself.  Well.  I'm not actually more rich than I was yesterday, but I am now an official "rich person" when I wasn't before.  How?  Simple.

I now shop at New York and Company.

Have you ever been to New York and Company?  Probably not, unless you too are in the club of richie riches.  Let me tell you about it.  It is the penultimate of professional wear.  That is probably why they make everything in there so expensive; you can't shop there unless you are a professional with a real career and steady paychecks.   (Not "I'm a professional actor because I had a gig ten years ago" or "I'm a professional artist because my friend gave me a penny to paint a picture of his dog."  You have to be a REAL professional).  Their clothes are made with the finest fabrics, and the top designers design their clothes.  Everything about their products oozes cosmopolitan chic.

Sometimes when I picture going to New York City (where I will go someday, I promise you), I picture all of the people there walking around in clothes from New York and Company.  Like, even the hobos are wearing blazers.  And then, while I'm trotting along to go hang out with Monica and Chandler and the rest of the cast of Friends (who obviously live in the apartment from the TV show), everyone will look at me and say, "Wow, she must be a real New Yorker, since she's wearing clothes from New York and Company!"

Yep, my whole life has changed today, and I owe it all to my dad.  When I was growing up, my dad used to buy me a "First Day of School" outfit every year.  It was a really fun father/daughter date, and it always gave me an extra boost of confidence on the first day of school.  He hasn't done it since high school, but suddenly this year he decided to send me FIFTY DOLLARS because he's proud of how I'm doing and wants to buy me a back to school outfit.  Hooray for Dad!  As I was contemplating all the things I could do with this money, my dad called and said, "Listen.   I know you.  Do NOT put this money into savings.  Don't use it to pay the electric bill.  I want you to go out and buy something nice for yourself for the first day of school.  I want to see picture proof of how you used the money."  Ha ha my dad knows me too well...I was fully thinking about spending $10 at Goodwill and saving the other $40 for groceries.

With $50 burning a hole in my pocket, I told Rex that we were going to the mall.  I started off with my usual shopping (Clearance rack at Khols), but I didn't find anything.  I found a shirt that I liked at Forever 21, but I didn't love it so I decided to think about it and come back later.  I was dejected at my lack of success, but you can't just spend $50 on the first outfit that jumps out at you.  I told Rex that I guess we should just leave and come back shopping another time.

As we were walking out, we passed New York and Company.  I started to say what I say every time we pass that store: "One day, when I'm rich, I'm going to shop there."  This time, though, I stopped.  Hundreds of times window shopping at that store came down to this moment.  I had fifty dollars to spend on a single outfit...maybe, juuuuuust maybe, I could afford New York and Company?

I told Rex that I wanted to stop and check it out.  I cautiously stepped over the threshold into the store, worried that some sort of "poor girl" alert was going to sound and they would know I was a fraud.  Before I had much time to worry, though, there it was in front of me:  the most beautiful blouse in the history of blouses.  It was a vintage pink rose color with a black stripe design on it.  It would look absolutely fantastic with my black pencil skirt.  I picked it up, and my hands softened on the glorious silky fabric.  There was only one left, and guess what size it was?  MINE!  I searched around the store, but nothing came close to the awesomeness of my blouse.  I told Rex that I was going to try it on, and I headed to the fitting room.

I pulled the blouse on over my head, and it hugged my body perfectly as if to say, "Hello, Christine, I am a high-fashion blouse.  I think I was made for you."  I didn't want to take it off.  It was so comfortable and so professional and so...beautiful!  I felt like a million bucks.  I bet the Duchess of Cambridge has a blouse just like that one.  Maybe she even has the same one.  I could totally see her wearing it.  I can be just like the Duchess of Cambridge!  Maybe I will teach with a British accent all year.  I can only picture the calls my boss would get:  "Ummm...hello?  I'd like to transfer my student to another fifth grade class.  Yeah, she's in the one with the wackadoodle teacher who thinks she's a duchess."


Anyway, I was in love with the blouse.  I turned over the price tag, and - GASP! - $36!  $36 for one shirt?  It wasn't even on clearance!  It wasn't on sale at all!  I took the shirt off, forlorn at my loss, and went to return it to its lonely place on the shelf.  I wanted to cry, but $36 for a shirt is ridiculous.  Plus, I never pay full price for anything.  I think Rex sensed my despair, because he said, "Christine, your dad wanted you to get something special, right?  Well, if you love this shirt so much, maybe you should get it."

By George, he's right!  (See?  I am so British).  I marched up to the counter to pay for the new love of my life, the pink shirt.  As I was waiting in line, a pair of earrings caught my eye.  They were a perfect match for my shirt.  It was as if they were made to go with it.  They practically jumped off of the rack into my hands, and who was I to stop them?  As I paid for my purchase, I told the cashier how excited I was that I was getting a new first day of school outfit.  She raised her eyebrows and said, "A teacher, huh?  Well then, you get 15% off!"  WHOOO HOOOOO!  So my earrings and shirt together cost only around $40, so I still have $10 left to spend on something else!  I am so rich.

Now my goal is that when I wear the shirt, someone will say to me, "Hey Christine, great top.  Where did you get it?"  I'll toss my hair casually aside and look to the ceiling as if trying to remember where I got it (since I have to pretend that I'm a true fashionista and have lots of high fashion things).  Then I'll casually say, "Oh yeah, I got it at New York and Company."  I will say it in such a way as to make the person think that I pretty much shop at New York and Company all the time.  They will think I'm super awesome (which, now that I have that shirt, I am).

Thanks, Dad.  You made me a really happy daughter today.  :-)

Bad Husband

Tonight was date night.  Rex took me to our favorite date place ever - Olive Garden!  I shudder to think of how much money we have spent there over the past six years...  It's a lot.

Rex and I were sitting at the table waiting for our food, and we got into a conversation about the newest gossip among our friend group.  My friend Becky had a baby today, so we talked about that.  Rex said, "The process of birth is really weird...like how your body suddenly decides, 'Okay, time to get this thing out of here!'"  I agreed.  It really is quite weird.  I know that Rex's family dog had puppies when Rex was a kid, and I asked him whether or not he watched that birthing process.  His answer startled me, to say the least:

"Yes.  I saw it.  And if you ever do that, I am instantly divorcing you."

Geez, a little harsh, don't you think?  I was kind of offended.  I mean, I know we're not planning on having any kids, but if we accidentally got pregnant he would just leave me?!  This is not the Rex that I know and love.  The scene flashed through my mind, and it went something like this:

Doctor:  PUSH!  We're almost there!
Me:  AAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!
Rex: (covering his eyes)  Ewwww...
Doctor:  Come on, Christine!
Rex:  That's it, it's too gross! I'M OUTTA HERE!  (he sprints out the door)
Me: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!
Doctor:  We got it!
Baby: Waaaaaaaaah!  Waaaaaaaaaah!
Doctor:  Here is your baby, Mrs. Webb.  (he hands me the baby)
Me:  Hello, baby.  (look around for Rex)  Oh crap, you don't have a dad.  He warned me this would happen back when we lived in Las Vegas, but I always hoped he would stick around.  Oh well.  I guess it's me and you, kid.

Somehow I really couldn't see that happening.  I decided to figure out what he meant, so I asked:  "If I had a baby, you would just leave me in the hospital because it's too gross?  And you would actually divorce me because you don't want a baby?"

Rex looked at me like I was crazy and responded, "Of course not.  I'm not going to leave you if you get pregnant.  I'm just going to be really freaked out if you pull the baby out of you with your teeth, lick it clean, and then eat the placenta.  I would find it difficult to ever kiss you again."

BWAHAHAHAHAHA!  Apparently that's what his dog did.  I thought he was freaked out by the birthing process (which, really, sounds quite freaky), but I'm pretty sure I can avoid lunching on an umbilical cord and eating placenta dessert.  It looks like our marriage is going to be okay after all - you can stop panicking.

Vegas Manicure

Have you ever had your nails done by a transvestite?  I have.

I have had a few people say to me, "Your life is so cool.  Exciting things always happen to you, so that's how you have things to blog about.  I never have anything interesting happen, which is why I don't blog."

Let me say:  that is dumb.  99% of the things I blog about are just normal, every day things.  I just write about them because I like to write.  This post, however, is the 1%.  I bet not many of you have had this experience.  It seems like a specifically Vegas-esque thing to happen.

I walked into the salon to get my manicure done, and I signed the little register to signal to the people that I was waiting my turn for a manicure.  After waiting for about five minutes, "Daniella" came out and said, "Christina? I'm ready for you!"  Apparently Daniella can't read very well since my name is Christine, but as no one else was waiting I figured that it was my turn.

Let me pause here for a moment and say that I am not at all sure what pronoun to use for a man who is trying to be a woman.  He or she?  A quick Google search tells me that the correct pronoun is "ze," a new politically correct and gender neutral term.  As an English teacher, though, I use my power of language authority to say that "ze" is the dumbest word I've ever heard, and I refuse to use it.  I'm going to use the pronoun "he" in this post, because God made that person a man, and when in doubt, I'll use the pronoun God assigned.

Anyway, Daniella came out, and he looked super weird.  He was wearing heavy make-up, and his shoulder length hair was pulled back in a pony tail.  He had large hoop earrings on and a black lacy top.  His hands were adorned with rings and jewelry from Tiffany and Co.  You might not have known he was a man except for the deep voice, the adams apple, and the complete lack of boobs.  So actually, I guess it was kind of easy to tell.  He was trying pretty hard to be a girl though.

Daniella and I sat down at his manicure station, and he started doing my nails.  I was a bit nervous at first, because men in general are very bad at giving manicures.  Apparently Daniella was more female when it came to this talent, though, because he did a very good job.  This was especially impressive considering the fact that I think he might have been high.  I can't know for sure, but every time I tried to talk to him he would pause and then look up at the ceiling, startled, as if confused as to who was talking.  He would flip his bangs out of his eyes in a valley-girl style and then say, "Whaaaaaaaaaaaat?" in a really airy and nasal voice.  I would repeat whatever I said, and he would finally look at me, pause again, and then say, "Oh."  I can see why other professions didn't work out for you, Daniella.

When it came time to choose the color for my nails, I decided to do an experiment.  I told Daniella to choose the color for me, because I really didn't care.  I was mostly just intensely curious to see what kind of color a transvestite would choose for my manicure.  I knew that he couldn't choose the same nails that he had for me, because his  ridiculously long nails were peppered with Hello Kitty designs.  (HELLO KITTY.  ON A TWENTY-SOMETHING YEAR OLD MAN).  So I let Daniella decide the color for my tranny mani.  He immediately exclaimed, "Glitter!  Let's use glitter!  I LOVE GLITTER!"  Awesome.

Now my nails are covered in "Olympic Gold" glitter.  It's quite fitting since the 2012 London Olympics are on for the next couple of weeks. (GO USA!)  I actually really like the way they turned out.  Yay for the he/she manicurist!

When the manicure was finally over, I went to pay the receptionist.  Daniella went back to his station.  When talking to the receptionist, I left a tip for my manicurist.  She asked who had done my nails, and I told her.  The receptionist said, "Oh, we just love him!  Or...her....or.....it.  We love it around here!"   Ha ha...  I may not be sure about the proper pronoun usage for Daniella, but I can guarantee you that the correct word is not "it."  That's a bit dehumanizing.  Oh well.  Transvestites are confusing.  At least my nails are pretty!