Would You Like a Cup of Tea?

I have class every Saturday morning from now until April and boy am I pleased. I'm thrilled to be a student again because it allows me the stalking possibilities that I had lost when I graduated from college. My new stalking target I will call Miss Twitchy. Miss Twitchy would have not made the grade in my college days because she is technically by roomates' boss (boss to three of my roomates) but I'm less picky now. She has a masters degree in Community Organizing and childbearing hips and always appears to be about 20 minutes away from a nervouse breakdown. Since Miss Twitchy taught this particular class I was able to observe her for hours at a stretch and was amazed to discover that she is able to coast on just-about-to-snap-and-kill-you-all for a three hour lecture. She also blinks way less than a normal human being should.
When not observing Miss Twitchy I read the collection of anti-smoking propaganda scattered around the American Indian Health Center where the class was held. The gist of their message is: a modern American Indian knows tobacco is sacred to her people. Therefore she would never be so filled with self-loathing and dishonorable as to smoke cigarettes. Also, you will get cancer.

The Germans have been studying us, Detroit I mean. They've made a "Save-the-Children" style documentary about our pathetic post-industrial city. They're fascinated. They've written position papers.
I don't know how to feel about this. Part of me is channeling the Apalachian housewife too proud to accept government cheese; part of me knows government cheese is tasty, or government bratwurst, or, stepping back into literal reality: government windmills.
The Germans are giving us a windmill. It's a small 120 volt windmill that we'll be installing over the barn to power the chainsaws and assorted powertools. We have to get the windmill installed and the who barnyard looking alot less pathetic by the time PBS comes in April to film their documentary so we don't end up look like those crude, drunken charity cases that no one wants to donate to.
So yes, I'm going to be famous, sort of.

In New Orleans they celebrate the arrival of Lent by drinking and filming Girls Gone Wild videos. Here in the obese, polish midwest we celebrate Pazcki day. Pascki (pronounced pooonchki, singular pooncheck) are jelly donuts made of lard. My grandfather ate 5. I ate none as I am a joyless vegetarian.

The USDA has program where members of various national agriculture organizations are able to, for a nominal fee, receive a bundle of seed packets and flat of transplants at the beginning of every growing season. To keep costs down, as USDA reimbursment is stingy, the seeds are bought in bulk by these organizations and then some unlucky member must spend the last month of winter dividing the bulk seeds into individual packets.
At my house he accomplishes this task in his pajamas with the physical help of his girlfriend and some measuring cups and the emotionally assistence of some beer. It means I know who to track down when I actually need to know that I have added half-a-cup of flour to my cake recipe but since I usually have to track down someone to finish any complicated recipe it is an improvement.

Sorry Internet, I've been neglecting you. Today I helped my desperatly overstressed housemate make sure her Reclaim Your Health conference is not a funny looking white people only affair. I did this by flyering at several black power bookstores and cafes, while projecting an aura of downness. I am soo bad at this.