Am I in hell, or Sushi World?

I need you all to know that I love food.  Food makes me happy.  My thighs bear witness.  But... 

SWEET BABY JESUS.  
Please don't eat here.  Please. 

First impression:
The restaurant looks like an episode of Hoarders. Piles of junk everywhere - when you walk in, junk.  Covering the bar, junk.  Along the sides of the room, junk junk junk.

Food time!:
We get seated at a rickety ass table, order iced tea.  Is it possible for water to rot? Because this was some sour iced tea.  It just tasted dirty.  
I asked the waitress a question about the sushi, which she couldn't answer because she spoke NO ENGLISH.  Which might have been charming, if she only spoke Japanese, but no...she only spoke SPANISH.  The 3 English words she did know were "You speak Spanish???"   No.  Sorry.  I don't know how to order my sushi in Spanish.

At this point we should have got up and walked out.  Oh, if only...

Mr. Sushi Chef comes by for his visit.  He points out some stuff on the menu, and then hand writes a "coupon" for a free roll for our next visit (gotta give him some credit for optimism).  

Waitress comes over.  We order 2 rolls, some salmon sushi, and a chicken teriyaki bento box.  We also tell her we have a gift certificate to use (some http://restaurants.com thing).  She says ok, smiles, and takes the gift certificate.

A few minutes later, Mr. Sushi Chef comes by again, pulls out a box of gum, and gives us each a piece.  Random, yes, but okay...I like gum.  He then says "25 dollar discount?" We say yes, assuming he's referring to the gift certificate, and the dude REACHES ACROSS THE TABLE AND TAKES AWAY THE COUPON HE WROTE US!  And he walks away.  Such a dick move.  SERIOUSLY?!?!  
Whoooooooole new level of crap customer service.

My bento box comes first - and its just gross.  I mean, even the white rice tasted bad.  You know wet dog smell?  That's basically how all my food tasted.  I had a bite of each thing, gagged out, and then was forced to wash it down with rotten iced tea.  

My fiance's sushi came 5 minutes later - he said it was ok and he ate most of it.  Towards the end it started catching up to him and he was too grossed out / scared of food poisoning to trust the food and finish it.
 
The one thing they were good at was bringing us our bill - which was $45.  We paid $45 for an hour of misery.

We got in the car, had a discussion about whether or not we should make ourselves throw up, and then stopped at Eatzi's to get some real food.

I think a little bit of my soul died tonight.

This happened.

Table of girls asking me question about Luis.  

I'm pretty sure Jessica keeps asking me "Do you guys sex everyday?"  

I am shocked, and keep asking her to repeat herself.  She does.  I'm getting more and more worked up.

A friend of her finally says (slowly) "Do you guys text everyday?!?!"

Oooooooooooh.  TEXT.

Needless to say, it took about 20 seconds for the entire class to figure out what I thought she was saying.  

September 7, 2012.  The day things got awkward and I lost control of my 7th period class.

Highlights

First day of school.
There was this:

• Student: You don't look like an art teacher.
• Me:  Oh?  What does an art teacher look like?
• Students: (Shrugs) I dunno.  Maybe like...her! (Points to a girl at another table), like...cool.

wah wah.

And then this:

I had an Q&A session during my about-your-teacher schpeal.  A student asked me how old I was.  I did my typical mock-horror response, which is the ever-annoying "(Gasp!) You should NEVER      ask a lady her age!" (God, I'm such a teacher).  I then followed with "Guess.  How old do you think I am?"

(side note: I usually looooove  this.  Students suck at guessing ages, and they always think I'm       between 18 and 21.  It feeds the ego, people.  I get the compliments any way I can - I ain't too proud to beg!)

Student thinks about it for a moment and then says, "38!"

wah wah.

I wasn't the sole object of ridicule, however.  I retaliated when possible. Made fun of a few man-earrings, laughed at a students genuine attempt at wearing a anime inspired hairdo (it was baaaaaad),  and started calling a student randomly wrong names (because I r.e.f.u.s.e. to call him Slim Shady).  

Unfulfilled.

If you have any taste at all, you know that the fresh, hot rolls from Spring Creek Barbecue are manna from heaven.  I just want to bury my face in them.  I want to be buried alive in pit of those rolls and eat my way out.  I want to bathe in them.  I want to eat them till I puke doughy, bready, yeasty vomit.

You get the picture.

So, tonight we ate us some Spring Creek Barbecue.  I had the roll that came with my plate, and then anxiously awaited the roll wench, to get a second roll.

She never came.  SHE NEVER CAME.  

She.  

Never.  

Came.

I'm crushed.  I'm pissed.  My night is in shambles.

Life sucks.

Disgustingly delightful!

I love hoarders.

I mean, they are disgusting people in every way (ever see an attractive hoarder?), but I am obsessed with their dysfunction.
I'm a throw-away-er.  I don't do clutter and like getting rid of things (sometimes, things I actually need).  I"m a hoarders nightmare.  I think one of the reasons I love hoarding shows is because I love watching them throw so much stuff away.  That's messed up, I know.
  
So my life took on a new level of exciting when, perusing Netflix streaming this past weekend,  I came upon a delightful series - "Confessions: Animal Hoarding."
 Be still my heart.
(Quick aside: Animal Planet, marry me.  I am deeply in love with you.  First, "My Cat From Hell", and now a ANIMAL hording show?!?!)

I'm having to pace myself with watching the episodes.  There are only 16 total, which could easily be blown thru in a marathon day.  To maximize the longevity of the series, my routine has become:

• Get up.
• Make my morning cup of coffee.
• Watch an episode.
• Do something productive - laundry, perhaps.
• Watch an episode.
• Pick up the house.
• Watch an episode.
• Nap. (Duh).
• Get dressed and brush my teeth before Luis comes home.

That's three episodes a day.  Tragically, I'll be done by the end of the week.

I'm at episode 7.  The synopsis:
"A retired Army linguist shares his house with 158 roosters and hens.  A popular waitress is fired because she reeks of cat urine."

I'm giddy.

Glurg.

Like most normal people, I don't like going to the doctor.  It's such a beating in every way.

Drive to the boring brick building.  Get in an elevator with sick people and try not to touch them or breathe their air.  Go through the awkward check in process where you aren't sure if you are supposed to just sign the clipboard or talk to that lady behind the glass that's ignoring you. Sit in a chair and read outdated magazines that are undoubtedly germ city (can you imagine what it would look like if Dr. Oz took a blacklight to those magazine covers and chair arms?  GROSS OUT.)

Then some overly chatty nurse comes to get you and makes you stand on the scale (backwards, so I can't see the numbers, like I'm some eating disorder nut job). Go to the exam room, climb on the too-high, paper covered, chair-slash-bed and wait. Notice the size of my thighs against that chair-bed and try to arrange them in a more slimming way.  Impossible.  Wait.  Read weird posters on wall showing a dissected bladder.  And wait.  And then...Knock! Knock! Doctor is here.  Doctor spends about 3.5 minutes with me, diagnoses the issue, and then peaces out.  I'm never really confident that they had any clue what I came in for.  If I'm lucky, however, I'll come out with a prescription for some medicine that makes me sleepy.  Mmmmm num num - me + sleep medicine = LOVE.

This is my week of doctors visits.  I have three.  Eyeballs (that puff of air!), dentist (judging me for not flossing) and the gyno (all up in my lady bits).

Yay!

Mmmm...Meat and Veg!

Started 21-Day Sugar Detox today.

No sugar.  None.  No fruit, no honey, nothing with a single effing carb.

This is how it went down:
(Setting - Friday, 5:00ish, at home)
I really really really wanted me some happy hour.  I wasn't even that hungry, honestly, but I was jonesin' for a margarita.  Or two.  Or ten.
So I started with the hints as soon as Luis came home.  I showed him pictures of drinks.  I showed him pictures of queso.  And then, I broke down and I begged.
Sensing my desperation, Luis, who loves loves loves being healthy (ugh.) (but also has a soft spot for queso (yay!)), made me agree to do the 21 day detox with him in return for happy hour at Chuys.  In a blind food-fever, this chunky girl gave her word.

Day one down.  Twenty to go.

I miss you, cake.

Blondie Kung-fu Grip

I think I've blogged about this before, but I'm so deep in a shame spiral right now that I'm going to blog about it again.

You know how anorexic girls look in the mirror and think they are fat, even though they weigh like 82 pounds?  Their mind plays tricks on them, or they are so deep in denial that they can't see reality?  Yeah, well, I have that same problem, but the opposite.

I'm the fat girl who looks in the mirror and thinks I'm skinny.

I look in the mirror and think "Not too shabby Hoffmann, not too shabby."  Which is fine, right, having a healthy self-image, not being all judgey about your body, blah blah blah.
It's all well and good until someone posts a picture of me on facebook in my swimsuit and I look like a pregnant BBW porn star.


I'm going tankini shopping ASAP.

Shame.  Boatloads of shame.
      

Devos

I attempted a job change this year.  In typical Lissa style, it was too little, too late.  Most teachers start the application / interview process in April, and I waited till mid-June. By then, most spots are either a) filled, or b) have stacks of prospective teachers to choose from.  I'm vowing to get on my game NEXT year, but meanwhile, it's back to the fun filled land of MIDDLE SCHOOL!

I know I didn't blog about last school year - and really, the world is a better place for it.  It was a really, really, REALLY hard year.  Students were squirrely and hyperactive and rude and just...dumb.  I mean, sorry, but D-U-M-B.  I oozed negativity.  

I can't have a repeat of all that mess.  I cannot.  I have 5 more weeks until I return to work and  it's on the brain.   So, I'm looking for ways to keep things happy.
  
I think I might do a not-christian morning devotional.  I mean, I'll say a prayer, but I think I need to start my mornings with some sound educational mumbo-rah-rah-rah-jumbo.  I need to find a good book that I can start my mornings with.  It makes me nervous though, because educational books = trip to Mardel.  And Mardel = homeschooling flashbacks.

This book idea better work, because I haven't found a plan b (other than starting my morning with a shot of Bailey's in my coffee ((which may have happened during the month's of November and December last year.  You know, holiday spirit and all.)).
  

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood.

Living right beside our community pool has given me a plethora of opportunities to creep creep out my window at my neighbors.  It's a motley crew here on Lovers Lane, lemme tell ya.

  

Lets start with what's going on at this moment...Cougar-town.

Every Friday night a bunch of divorcees saunter out to the pool area in their capri pants and flowing, floral tops.  Double-fisting glasses of wine, they sit around and gossip and chain smoke and discuss the evils of man.  Luis is (legit) afraid to go outside after dark when this is happening.  

One of them is either a) a crackhead, or b) the community prostitute.  I don't know what's going on, but she's in and out of multiple units all day long.  She looks about 100 years old - a little like tanning bed mom, in fact, but with a dark bob. One of the weirdest things is that she sometimes has a little girl with her, who calls her "mommy".  I have no idea how this women is capable of conceiving a child at her age.  I have fantasies that the crackhead (PROSTITUTION WHORE! <-- Real Housewives of New Jersey...anyone?  anyone?) kidnapped this poor little girl and it's up to me to save her.  But then that seems like a lot of work, so c'est la vie.    

Then there is the lesbian softball team who has giant parties at the pool.  All girls-wearing-board-shorts pool parties.  I don't know if any of them even live here.  

One guy with bright rainbow shorts lays almost every day for HOURS.  He's always on his back though.  Doesn't flip over.  I don't get it.  For someone who so obviously like to tan, he sure doesn't have a efficient system.  Sometimes his wife/girlfriend/lady lover comes out with him. She is equally as tan, but prefers to lay on a float in the water.  What bugs me about her is that she leaves the float at the pool when she's done.  I don't understand.  Is she trying to be a cool lady and leave her float for others to enjoy?  Or does she have a warped sense of entitlement and thinks she can just leave her stuff wherever she feels like it, for the rest of us to deal with?  All I'm saying is if she comes down to the pool one day and that blue floaty is slashed to pieces, don't come knocking on my door.  It wasn't me...

Livin the dream.

I like to write, ok?  And I like people to read stuff I write and tell me I'm cool, ok?

So I started another blog.
Get off my case.

Geez.

I'm currently on summer break, living a life of luxury & leisure (minus the luxury).  Less than a month left, so I'm focusing on perfecting the art of doing nothing with my day. Today has consisted of:

•  painting my toenails (lavender, which I now regret but holy hell, toenails are a lot of work and I'm not doing them over again), 
• watching waaaaaaay too much TLC (until A Baby Story came on - even my low standards can't make it thru 30 minutes of grunting, heaving women and all sorts of questionable bodily fluids), and
• ranch dressing.

I realize that to have interesting things to write about I'm going to have to get out and do interesting things.  OR, I can just grumble and complain and judge and dream-kill.  I think we all know which way this is gonna go.