Today I went into Hogsboro High for the first time this year. The good news: no panic attacks! In fact, disregarding massive renovations to the room down the hall which has filled my room & the English office with noxious fumes, there was almost no physical discomfort whatsoever! Many staff admired my baby belly & haircut (despite the fact that I need a trim & look rather haystacky this week) and I got to eat free pizza intended for "new teachers."

The bad news is that in my 2 Grade 10 remedial English classes (joy enough), I have every Grade 10 student I failed last year, save one: 11 of 'em. I probably would've had 12, but that last one is on co-op this semester. There is one student in there that I've had three semesters in a row. The first time he failed, on the second try he took a month off to work without telling the school. Charming.

The free pizza was a part of the "new teacher's do," to which I was invited last year and not this year. I went anyway; nobody is going to keep Knocked-Up Bride from free pizza. The old hands introduced themselves and then the principal (who really needs a pseudonym. Suggestions?) came in with Ice Breaker Bingo. The question on my mind was simple: where the hell was the pizza? After 15 minutes of schmoozing (I fit the 'has a tattoo,' 'plays more than 3 instruments' & 'owns a Donny Osmond record' squares), I decided to investigate the concern of the hour.

Strolling nonchalantly to the adjoining kitchen, I found the new gym teacher scarfing pizza in the dark.

"You! You...!" I spluttered.

"I'm not stupid," he responded simply, his mouth full.

"Yeah, well...I'm pregnant!" I responded incoherently, diving for the open box. We stuffed our faces in silence for a few minutes, then decided not to push our luck with more than one piece. We wandered out & mingled with the others, expressing great hunger when the pizza was actually served. We're crafty, crafty people.

"Lopsided piece of hell!!"

- my mom's expression of frustration with the cake she's currently icing

Unfortunately, the cake is for a wedding shower that will be largely populated by hardcore UCW members. These, of course, are the women who don't suck back enough boxed wine to ignore poor cake decoration. Tough times, Mom. I suggested that she break out the vanilla mimbo cake she'd made in case my chocolate birthday mimbo didn't turn out.

Speaking of which...

The glorious chocolate mimbo, my mom, and half of my delighted face.
Not pictured: the belt that says 'Hi Aleta.' He knows my name!

The delight of showing my mimbo to a dozen guests and carving the belt for myself is too much:
I dissolve into hysterical laughter.

An action shot! I carve specific pieces of his torso for my guests.
St. Jack: "Are we expected to eat that?!"

The remains...

(By the way, these pictures were all taken with my parents' old manual camera, without a flash. This may be why the entry is causing flashbacks to the 70's.)

Booty Call: Day 173 - Lungs begin to manufacture surfactant, a substance that keeps lung tissue from sticking to itself.