Wanna have a little fun? Click the graphic and go see how rich you will be in 10 years. The best part is, they don't tell you anything about how they figure this. It's all based on their very scientific questions!
20,370,710
How much money will you be worth?
This is the first Saturday in a long line of Saturdays that I actually have no obligations to anyone else but my family. And even then, my obligation there is to hang out with them. I think I can handle it.
The past 16 Saturdays, I got out of bed close to my normal time (6:00am--woo hoo! I slept in!), made coffee, waited for it to kick in, and then I wrote. And read. And did my homework. I did this for a graduate-level class that I was forced to take.
The school district had been avoiding their legal obligations to certain students, and waited until the courts said, "DO IT NOW OR ELSE," and they scrambled and came up with a plan. It involved partnering with a local university, and not letting any of us teacher know about it until it happened.
In fact, I got my registration packet in the mail before I knew I was taking a class. "Welcome!" it said. "We are so excited you are enrolled in this program!"
Um....I didn't enroll in jack.
The next day, I got the email from the school district, explaining that I had to take these classes, or I would have to switch to a school that didn't serve this special population of students. Since our school district has the majority of its schools in that category, it was clear that I would have to take the class.
I was not alone. More than a handful of the teachers in my building were taking the classes. They started last September, and just ended for me last week. Trying to be positive about it, I thought, "I can use these classes as recertification credit when I need to renew my teaching license. And I didn't have to pay for them, either." Since I just recertified in July, I thought that was a good thing.
Well, as luck/fate/plain ol' circumstances would have it, I transferred schools for next year. To a school where I won't have to take those classes. And I won't have to be the head of the department. And I won't have to do everything myself (my department was understaffed this year for the first semester--I was doing the job of 2.5 people by myself).
I'll miss seeing my friends' faces every day, but being healthy and a bit more underwhelmed with work is going to be a good thing. I'm really not that sad about leaving. I am sad that this year was so terrible. It almost broke me. But I've got some energy again.
Change can be good.
Yes, that's Izzy in the cowboy hat. He's a brewer!
When I read this, I immediately knew how that guy felt. Imagine that the original guy is a teacher, and the company that wouldn't pay up is the school district.
Discuss.
So, I was just off reading a blog. One of my favorites. Over there, on the right.
Dooce.
I had read, a long, long time ago, that she was sued by her publisher. Apparently, there was a misunderstanding about what she owed a publisher who changed the editor on her. She wanted to shop her book elsewhere, but the publisher had already expended considerable money and time on her stuff.
Whatever. It told me she was having troubles publishing the book.
I have a friend who is being published next week, and I have published two of my own books. I understand a bit about the publishing business. I am a writer and publisher and business owner.
And I am also a horrible, horrible person.
You see, when I saw Dooce's book today, on her blog, I actually had this thought:
"Editor? Edited by? You've got to be shitting me!"
I had been led to believe, this whole time reading her blog, that she had written a book. I don't know why, because I'm sure, somewhere, deep in the recesses of her archives, is a post that says, "I'm compiling essays for a book that is my idea." I didn't read this post that must exist, however, so I had the crazy idea that she wrote the whole thing.
Nope. A couple of essays inside the collection, yes. Wrote the whole thing, no.
And so, I am a horrible person. I thought, "Just edited?" the same way that people think I'm "Just a teacher?" "Just a mom?"
Or how, sometimes, I might say, "I just make soap. It's not rocket science."
I am certain the effort she put into editing that book was profound. I am certain she spent a lot of time and concern into making sure her essays in there are perfect.
I guess I was just disappointed that she didn't write the whole thing. I can't put my finger on why, except I am a bigot, a snotty, elitist writer who thinks if your name is on the book, you should have written the whole damn thing!
Go ahead! Vilify! I deserve it!
Yay!
Thanks to Kitt, I can now see how many people are reading mah blog. Schweet!
It's not that I didn't know how--all the geekery is in full force out there, and I just need to harness it. But I sit here at my computer, and have fleeting thoughts, like, "I wonder how many people read my blog?" but then I never do anything about it.
And I was asked yesterday how many folks read this. And I responded with something like, "I have no effing clue."
Now I do! All two of you!
Need somethin' to entertain you? Don't live in Manhattan or thereabouts? Just cruise on over to Normal Bob Smith's site and read about the Amazing Strangers he sees.
Some of my favorites:
What are these dudes doing in those neon clothes? And why must we squat when we wear them? Why?
This grrl caught Bob taking her picture. Uh-oh, Bob. That fist is menacing. You'd better scoot.
This lovely man is a newlywed. At least, he was when the photo was taken. He's got his own website and everything. I read it. Yes, it's disturbing.
Aaaand, this sums up why Union Square is so crowded every day. I am utterly baffled.
I just posted about Normal Bob Smith's Amazing Strangers. He wanted to know what my favorites are.
While God is always a treat:
My favorite posts are when he fills a page with an in-depth presentation of one particular segment of the population. For example, click here, and read up on the Peepers.
God, Bob, you are hilarious.
Hey, there.
Being somewhat of a Luddite, I have no idea how many people read this blog. I don't know how to find it out, either.
Therefore, I charge you, gentle reader, with commenting, so I can count how many of you hang on my
every
word.
Let me know,
Amy
Ah, springtime in the Rockies. 75 degrees one day, snow the next. Wind blowing all the apple blossoms around, ruining the perfect vision of a tree in bloom.
You've heard it all before, you Colorado-dwellin' goobs. It's springtime!
It's time for you to hear something else. I know you are sitting there, bored, at your computer (why else would you be reading this right now?), and you want some entertainment. I've got it.
Not for the ultra-Christian, not for pedestrian, white-bread, don't-show-me-anything-scary-'cause-I-don't-wanna-open-my-mind-at-all, and not for those who abhor performance art and Goth girls, I give you Amazing Strangers.
Normal Bob Smith is an Internet friend of mine. He's a staunch athiest, so don't bother testifying, folks. It's what he does. He's a freelance artist, and is self-employed in NYC. If that doesn't impress you, nothing will. Do you have any idea what the rent is in NYC?
Aaaanyway, it's also springtime in New York, and Bob's got a new camera. He lives near Union Square, and highlights the day's activities on his website, telling you all about the Amazing Strangers he sees there. Reading about them and watching the videos of them gives me a taste of actual daily life in Manhattan. I've only visited there once, but didn't make it to Union Square. You had better believe, if I get there again, I'm going to visit and take my camera.
I will also seek you out and accost you, Bob. I know your face. I've seen your tattoos.
Don't worry. I'm harmless.
My good friend, Esri Rose, is being published in about a week. Her novel, Bound to Love Her, is a wonderful tale of good elves fighting bad in transcendent Boulder, Colorado. It's got sex in it, too! You'll love it, even if you don't enjoy romance novels. I loved it and I don't read the romance. I got to read it because I am in the precious "inner circle," and saw the manuscript loooooong ago. It's awesome!
That said, you will now get your calendar ready, and mark it for Saturday, May 10, at 4:30pm. We will all trek to Boulder, to the Borders bookstore. There, we will buy her book, and she will sign it! Pre-order your book!
Book signing! Meet the author! Trek to Boulder! Hooray!
If you are a writer, you should go. If you are a reader, you should go.
That takes care of most of us. See you there.
Yesterday morning, the fat kitty was crying for water. I was running out the door to work, but who can ignore the cries of a kitty?
So I trotted downstairs and saw that the water was the reason, and turned to look for the small kitty. There she was, in the other room, lying down on the floor, on her side, with her legs stretched out, like she wanted to play. I would "psst psst" at her, and her tail would flick.
"Psst, psst, kitty," I said.
Nothing. My heart dropped. I looked closer. No movement at all in her middle. I ran in and turned on the light.
My kitty was dead. Lying on the floor, as if she was soaking up a ray of sunshine. Stiff, so very, very stiff.
My poor, old kitty. I petted her, and cried and cried. I ran upstairs and pleaded with my husband, who had railed against the cats for the past year, saying he wanted me to get rid of them. Tears streaming down my face, as I filled the water container in the tub, telling him my kitty was dead and would he please have some compassion and not make jokes?
And my daughter. My precious daughter.
"Mama, what's going on? Why are you crying? Are you hurt?"
"Yes, baby, mama's hurt in her heart."
"Oh, here, " and she walked across the bed, and kissed the middle of my chest, right where I had pointed. "There, all better."
I had to go to work, then came home on my break to take kitty to the Dumb Friends League, who would dispose of her body properly.
I'll post a photo one of these days. They are all on regular photos, not digital, as most of the photos were taken during her first few years of life.
She was 16 years old, and I had her with me since my first month of teaching. My entire career up until now, she was here.
And now she's gone.
If I didn't use TurboTax, I would be abjectly insane right now.
Note to self: go to the post office tomorrow.
Hey there, all you Internet friends. An article I wrote for Writers' Weekly was published today!
You can read it here.
In unrelated news, my asthma is preventing my lungs from expelling a soylent cough. Soylent cough is infecting people. PEEEEEEEEEEOPPPLLLLLLEE.
*koff*
Oh, we'll do a lot. Just check out the video my friend Esri Rose made. To promote her book on her blog, she held a contest, and the winner won...well...a ring.
A possessed ring.
A ring that is supposedly possessed by an incubus resembling Colin Firth.
*shakes head*
Oh, just go read her blog and catch up. Then you'll understand why she's interviewing a piece of jewelry.
Hilarious!
You, too, can twitter. I don't quite know how I'm going to use it, yet, but it's interesting.
You write very short posts. Others can follow your posts. My username there is: amykalinchuk .
Twitter is based on the following question: what are you doing?
I find it a little strange, still, but I'm willing to give it a try. It's another way to keep in touch. Or to write what I call "flash poetry." I'm sure I'm not the only one.
Are you willing?
So I did my taxes.
Even with the businesses we have, even with all the medical expenses we have, even with all that--I still owe taxes.
So I am going to change my W-4 and I guess my husband will have to get a job this fall.
*sighs*
The Internet is a wonderful, wonderful thing.
Okay, Kitt. This post is for you. And hey, all you Internet friends, this is for you, too, even though you probably know who Rex Smith and Kip Winger are. Kitt didn't know!
This shocks me a little bit, probably because I am egocentric, and think that everyone remotely close to my age knows every little trivial fact that I know. Imagine my shock.
So, in the interest of illumnating my previous post, I present to you, for your rock and or roll edification:
So my husband says to me, "I bet you were one of those girls who loved Rex Smith."
To which I replied, "Rrrrrrowwwrrrr."
After which, it just flew right out of my mouth, I swear, "He's a cleaned-up version of Kip Winger. Rather, Kip Winger was a dirtier version of Rex Smith. Double-rrrrrowwwrr."
My husband disbelieved this. I found the images to prove it. Please cover your keyboards with anti-drool material before viewing.
I suppose these images are safe for work.
Rex Smith. Teen Beat Magazine. Perfect hair, perfect cheekbones, muscle shirt. Yummah.
Kip Winger. Perfect '80s metal hair, perfect cheekbones, muscle shirt. Leather pants. YUMMAH.
Now, scroll up and down, and just look at them. Rex, Kip. Rex, Kip. Rex, Kip.
See? SEE?
