Rockstar Cords

Just the other night I told Bryce that I wanted some cords and a denim shirt.  He said, "Don't go manish on me."

"Manish? I said. "Please! I've been wearing that look, on and off, since we kissed seventeen years ago in the denim stockroom at the Gap.  Didn't seem to bother you then.  Manish.  You've lost your sense of fashion."

Then the next day I went to lunch with my friends, and Shannon said she just bought some cords.

"Where did you get them?" I asked.  "We must be going to the same Circle K for our Diet Cokes, because just last night I said I needed some cords."

"Well," she said, Old Navy has the best cords right now, and I don't usually buy my pants from there, but they are the best, especially since they are 30 bucks.  Just be warned: they run really, really small, so you"ll have to go up a few sizes."

Last night I took her advice and I trucked it over to Old Slavy (that's what you call it if you work there), and bought some cords.  I took this picture so you could see what they look like.  Do you like my contorted and mysterious pose?  I couldn't fit my whole body in the picture, but it doesn't matter since I know you're not judgin' me.  And,  from the looks of it, Bryce likes the pose and cords, anyway.  Do you see him peeking from behind my shoulder?  Not so manish, right?

P.S.  I never worked at Old Slavy, but Bryce did.  Too bad I couldn't kiss him in their stockroom.

Jiro Dreams of Sushi

Have you watched "Jiro Dreams of Sushi?"  We started watching it on Netflix last night and I'm enthralled.  Here's a trailer if you want to know about it.  Maybe you'll be the next greatest something...

Farmhouse Obsession

Down the street from us there's a farmhouse for sale.  I'm obsessed with living in it.  Each day I come home from school to check the MLS to see if it's sold yet.  And last weekend I drove past it 20 times and even drove up to stare through its windows.

"It's not going to sell," I placate myself.  "It sits on the edge of a busy street and was built in 1952, so hellou, money pit.  The house sits on an acre lot whose land is to the side of it instead of in the back.  Who has a sideyard for a backyard?  And the land in the back houses somebody elses cows.  Unless there's free milk and cheese involved, who wants to smell all that?

This is what my rational brain tells me.  But over breakfast this morning I told Bryce,

"Maybe we should move there. Let's ask Travis, the owner, if we can just rent it from him--see if we like living there, on a busy street, in a county island.  Living on an acre has it's advantages, you know.  We could play baseball, plant a garden, get chickens and goats, compost, even build a better house when we're rich and country fancy.

"It's a money pit, Katy, I'm telling you.  But, maybe it's worth looking into.  It may have some potential."

He's giving me the green light, I think.  I'll keep you posted, but if you're interested in the money pit, you can look here.  Also, living here would allow me to inherit some super cool neighbors.

Constructive Criticism: Can You Take It?

I'm a good substitute teacher, maybe top 10 in the district if there were a contest.  But just today, some students shared with me that a teacher, for whom I subbed, was talking a little trash behind my back.  The students said:

"Mrs. Krantz said you have sucky handwriting, and so she couldn't read any of your notes you left her.  Also, you messed up a bunch of stuff, so, yeah, she was kinda bugged."

I stared at them in utter horror.

"She really said that?  About me, The Katy Suzuki? That's OK, girls.  I'll talk to her to make sure things are all right.  I feel horrible if that's really true.  Thanks, girls."

Of course I was nice about it on the outside, but my inner-me wanted to take the situation to the back fields.  Sucky.  My handwriting?  I've never heard that one before; and who uses that word, anyway? Especially in front of teenagers?

I texted her and asked if all this was true and she said the handwriting part was.

"I had a hard time reading your writing, and that was difficult for me."

"I'm so sorry," I said.  "I hope it didn't cause problems."

"Don't worry about it; it's fine.  Everything else was fine. Thanks."

"OK, thanks:)"  I texted back, leaving a smiley to let her know I put my dukes in my khakis' back pockets."

All day I've thought about my handwriting and how I thought it was actually quiet pretty.  I even wrote a little note to myself using the same kind of writing I always use, "Don't forget to pay the pest control guy."  The words and letters were legible, and I stood back to see if I could still read the note from a distance.  Crystal clear.

But just seconds ago I went outside to get the mail and in the stack there was a letter stamped "return to sender."  In perfectly printed writing above the address was written, "No such address."  I double checked the address to make sure I had written it correctly, and I had.  But a closer look to the street name revealed a truth that I might have to inhale (or suck).  When I had written Flower Rd., my F and L connected, forming an A: Aower Rd.  Now, on any other day, I wouldn't have thought twice about the returned letter.  I would blame the returned letter on the mailman's ineptitude and move on with it.  Instead, I readdressed a new envelope, printing FLOWER in all caps.

Maybe what looks perfectly fine to me is chicken scratch to somebody else.  Yes, Katy, your writing sucks.  Work on it.

P.S.  I also cut my bangs.

Sweet Is the Work

Here is the video of the activity day girls doing the dance.  They hooted and cheered after each time we shook it like a Polaroid.  Some girls said, "I'm doing this dance at my school talent show," and others said, "I'm going to teach this dance to my little sister when I get home."  I think a love for dance is universal, and I thank Savannah Harrison for helping us move like this!