Lately I've been obsessing about my inane fear of wildlife. The coyotes in the area were out running around during the wee hours of morn, and I could hear them yipping, running through the brush, cavorting like all nocturnal meat-eaters do... In the midst of this 2 am cacophony of carnivorous chaos, I found it impossible to keep from meditating on the very thought of our plans to take our 15 month-old son camping in a few weeks. Understandably, with the night-music playing out in the predawn hours, I was seized by nightmarish scenes of me being confronted by a pack of coyotes, a cougar, a bear or two, or all of the above all at the same time, with my baby boy in tow... Not exactly what sweet dreams are made of. In addition to my inexplicable fears, being that I am also 5 months pregnant, I generally need to pee at least 8 times per hour per night. While camping, this would translate to approximately 64 trips to a campground shithouse WITHOUT my husband in attendance, as he would need to stay in the tent with our little bundle of diapered joy... That's 64 too many opportunities for me to be stalked by a bear with the case of the munchies...
Needless to say, I don't think we will be going on this camping trip.
But there are scarier things in this world. Scarier by far, indeedy. Once again, tonight I found myself perusing a box of odds and ends, the type of doo-dads you pack away for sentimental reasons, then 18 years later wonder why you saved all of this garbage. But it was a healthy reminder of how pathetically sick I was over boys and my paralyzing need for them to like me. Not that I dated. I mean, I wanted them to love me, but only from afar. They scared the living crap out of me.
Indy and I went to Europe together over one summer on a high school band trip. The group we traveled with, the United States Collegiate Wind Band, a non-audition menagerie of band kids from all over the United States. We traveled and played in musical performances in 7 countries over 21 days. It was a blast, and I'm sure the music was mediocre to fair. But what I remember most was my near-handicapping crush on a boy named Chad, whom we referred to as "Flax" because of his sandy, flaxen-colored hair. Anyway, on our return flight to New York, I brought a notepad around to all of my friends to collect their mailing addresses and little personal messages, a fond remembrance. Getting all of my friends' information was the ruse -- the real motive was that I wanted something in writing from Flax, so I could take it with me and keep close to my heart for always. Or until our children asked, "How did you meet Daddy?" And then I'd have it in writing, the beginning of our love story... He'd write, "My fingers will forever regret not treasuring the silkiness of your long, flowing, blond waves of sun-spun glory which you vigilantly brush every 5 minutes... I will love you from afar, if for now that's the only way I can love you." Or at least that was kind of what I was hoping for.
Instead, this is what he wrote:
Hey Anita,
Your pen sucks. That's why I'm going to finish with my trusty #2 pencil.
Because I am heavily sedated from motion sickness pills and decongestants, my mind is quite blank and I can think of nothing to say except that I hope you found the back of your earring.
Chad H-------
(mailing address to include only a PO Box #)
Impersonal at best, and yet I still cherished his barely-know-ya-couldn't-care-less-about-ya "love letter." Well delivered, Flax! Regardless, it didn't faze me. I wrote him multiple letters to which he never responded, and it never swayed my adoration for him in the least. These romantic delusions were by far freakier than being stalked by wild predatory beasts who want to eat you while you're sitting on the can in the woods in the middle of the night.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Thursday, August 21, 2008
An Ode To Indy
While digging around the same said box that offered up the last horrifying glimpse into my then 12-year-old douche-bag (thank you, Dean McDermott) of a soul, this is another little gem I found. Penned by none other than our favorite professional volunteer mother, Indy, this is one of the many, many creative writings she effortlessly authored...
An Ode To Anita
You're sleeping again
With your head on your purse,
You're so easy to bug
And you call me a curse.
Your life is so boring,
You sleep it away,
I wish you'd wake up
'Cause I want to play.
I pull at your hair,
And you yell with a wheeze
Ani you know I would stop
If you'd only say 'please'.
Your hair is a mess,
You look like a frump
You SNEEZED so hard in Austria,
You fell on your rump.
But since you are tired
And not full of glee,
I guess you are too busy
To even notice me.
So Ani cheer up,
Don't sleep life away,
'Cause if you don't wake up
I won't go away.
I'll keep pulling your hair
And moving your purse,
And give you good reason
To call me a curse.
Well now class is over
And we're in the hall
So Ani wake up,
And do have a ball.
We've been through a lot
Like you and your shoes,
Hey Eileen, Guide Right
And the Great Senior Blues.
So Ani wake up
Don't be such a toad,
And we'll go to Denny's for
Pie a la mode.
Luf,
Eilee
I think this would have been more appropriately titled, "Ani, Wake Up!" or, even more aptly titled, "Mr. Reilly's History Class Was A Great Big Bore at 8:00 AM." Which I'm sure it wasn't -- if I had been awake I'm sure I would have been riveted. Anywho, here it is, in the annals of history in cyberspace. Cheers to you, Indy, for being a great poet of the late 20th century!
An Ode To Anita
You're sleeping again
With your head on your purse,
You're so easy to bug
And you call me a curse.
Your life is so boring,
You sleep it away,
I wish you'd wake up
'Cause I want to play.
I pull at your hair,
And you yell with a wheeze
Ani you know I would stop
If you'd only say 'please'.
Your hair is a mess,
You look like a frump
You SNEEZED so hard in Austria,
You fell on your rump.
But since you are tired
And not full of glee,
I guess you are too busy
To even notice me.
So Ani cheer up,
Don't sleep life away,
'Cause if you don't wake up
I won't go away.
I'll keep pulling your hair
And moving your purse,
And give you good reason
To call me a curse.
Well now class is over
And we're in the hall
So Ani wake up,
And do have a ball.
We've been through a lot
Like you and your shoes,
Hey Eileen, Guide Right
And the Great Senior Blues.
So Ani wake up
Don't be such a toad,
And we'll go to Denny's for
Pie a la mode.
Luf,
Eilee
I think this would have been more appropriately titled, "Ani, Wake Up!" or, even more aptly titled, "Mr. Reilly's History Class Was A Great Big Bore at 8:00 AM." Which I'm sure it wasn't -- if I had been awake I'm sure I would have been riveted. Anywho, here it is, in the annals of history in cyberspace. Cheers to you, Indy, for being a great poet of the late 20th century!
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
An Apololgy
This evening I happened upon a primitive, yet shameful reminder of one misguide attempt to better myself as a student and as a contributing member of society. Lofty? Yes. And considering the magnitude of such an endeavor, I needed a strategy. Being the planner that I was (and still am), I thoughtfully jotted down some guidelines to help me keep my priorities in sight and aligned to achieve global success. It was a good exercise to help me get my shit together. I'm sure I thought it was a good idea at the time, but some 23-odd years later, this all comes off rather as proof of having born the most ruthless and coldhearted machinations to achieve epic social and academic status. Cruella DeVille comes to mind. Or Hitler. Or Stalin.
Scary, considering I was only twelve when I wrote this shit. And let's call this what it is, ladies and gents, for shit it is, albeit it is slightly hysterical shit (the kind of hysterical that gets a person medicated in a padded cell)... It is apparent to me now that in addition to being shallow, catty, callous, and a bit of a stalker, I also must have had an enormous fear of being lost. (And lets face it, folks -- all 3 of you -- I was lost in soooo many more ways that I realized...) I'm surprised I didn't include a map of the school with highlighted shortcuts between my locker and the nearest bathroom mirrors.
While this is a seriously late apology to the people named within, please know that it is truly heartfelt... I am aghast at the person I was in my errant youth, and hope I've improved at least a little bit. And I'm a little bit thankful that my readership includes no one who's been named... That would be too embarrassing! (*Sidenote: all lower case letter i's were dotted with an enormous balloon dot.) Here's what I wrote:
HEADING FOR 7th (GRADE).
Thank God I'm having another baby boy. Who knows what a girl of mine would be capable of...
Scary, considering I was only twelve when I wrote this shit. And let's call this what it is, ladies and gents, for shit it is, albeit it is slightly hysterical shit (the kind of hysterical that gets a person medicated in a padded cell)... It is apparent to me now that in addition to being shallow, catty, callous, and a bit of a stalker, I also must have had an enormous fear of being lost. (And lets face it, folks -- all 3 of you -- I was lost in soooo many more ways that I realized...) I'm surprised I didn't include a map of the school with highlighted shortcuts between my locker and the nearest bathroom mirrors.
While this is a seriously late apology to the people named within, please know that it is truly heartfelt... I am aghast at the person I was in my errant youth, and hope I've improved at least a little bit. And I'm a little bit thankful that my readership includes no one who's been named... That would be too embarrassing! (*Sidenote: all lower case letter i's were dotted with an enormous balloon dot.) Here's what I wrote:
HEADING FOR 7th (GRADE).
- Get to know way around school.
- Making the grade, and new friends.
- Get to be popular, and be good friends with "The Ginsberg" (the unlucky apple of my eye at the time)
- Memorize where locker is, find out where Lisa's locker is + Bo's.
- Don't act like a teacher's pet or aim directly at being one.
- During gym, when a running period, aim for a good score.
- If time for small talk (between classes, saying hello) fine, otherwise get to classes early.
- For basketball or rally team, try out, or even for track (if open for girls)
- Hang around a bit, with about 3 or 4 girls.
- TRY to be yourself. Try not to be over-popular, or always be encircled.
- Don't show off (Wow. Conceit.)
- Don't swear, (aww, hell with it!) but don't act like a goodie-too shoes. Hang around with good people. Not the street-type girls (because LOJHS was just BRIMMING with prostitutes), or the too homely kind (C---- M-----). (This girl's name was actually spelled out. As low as it goes.)
- On first day, find Lisa, and Becky, and Leslie (Keep and eye on Bo.).
- Be nice to people. (Even to the "homely" people???)
Thank God I'm having another baby boy. Who knows what a girl of mine would be capable of...
Monday, August 18, 2008
Retribution Finale: 1991
Let me just start by saying that the most pathetic thing about my posting these yearbook entries is that they comprise over 50% of ALL of my high school yearbook scribbles from friends... Alas, here is Indy's last entry:
Anita -
Ahhh Aveno... (Smiley face) You're the greatest, Nita! I am so glad that we met, wrote songs, did boo-bee, went to Europe, laughed, cried, and had many great memories together. You are a gem. (Yes Ani, both of you... See the quote page.)
You have been there for me many times and I really am glad, that I can look to you for a listening ear. Europe was the best... We got to know each other much better, and I think our friendship really grew. (Except in Italy.) But I do know one thing... Sit down this is going to come as quite a shock to you. No matter how close we are, I can never marry you... You snore. (Smiley face) I just wouldn't be able to cope. I hope you aren't too heart broken. (And now a word from our sponsor... Blaaah.)
A poem for you:
You're thinking again with your face turning blue,
your locker is stuck and where's Tara Sue?
Between each class we'd quicly rush,
But at the locker you'de be seen clutching your brush...
In the cafeteria they fed us... crap,
But you sure ate healthy, a Pepsi chased by a Wiener Wrap.
During each class you'd get lost of sleep (see pg 134-135)
And all period long you'd dream of a Jeep.
Anita Kay R------ you are a great friend,
And we will definitely be friends 'til the end.
As a great man once said... "I have and always shall be your friend." I could not say it any better. (Spock)
Good luck in all you do. I wish you much happiness.
Love,
Eileen E-------- S----
WE'LL ALWAYS HAVE PARIS, LONDON, VENICE...
Anita -
Ahhh Aveno... (Smiley face) You're the greatest, Nita! I am so glad that we met, wrote songs, did boo-bee, went to Europe, laughed, cried, and had many great memories together. You are a gem. (Yes Ani, both of you... See the quote page.)
You have been there for me many times and I really am glad, that I can look to you for a listening ear. Europe was the best... We got to know each other much better, and I think our friendship really grew. (Except in Italy.) But I do know one thing... Sit down this is going to come as quite a shock to you. No matter how close we are, I can never marry you... You snore. (Smiley face) I just wouldn't be able to cope. I hope you aren't too heart broken. (And now a word from our sponsor... Blaaah.)
A poem for you:
You're thinking again with your face turning blue,
your locker is stuck and where's Tara Sue?
Between each class we'd quicly rush,
But at the locker you'de be seen clutching your brush...
In the cafeteria they fed us... crap,
But you sure ate healthy, a Pepsi chased by a Wiener Wrap.
During each class you'd get lost of sleep (see pg 134-135)
And all period long you'd dream of a Jeep.
Anita Kay R------ you are a great friend,
And we will definitely be friends 'til the end.
As a great man once said... "I have and always shall be your friend." I could not say it any better. (Spock)
Good luck in all you do. I wish you much happiness.
Love,
Eileen E-------- S----
WE'LL ALWAYS HAVE PARIS, LONDON, VENICE...
An Ode To A Friend... Short Round 1990
An entry in my junior year yearbook from another one of my dah-ling friends, Short Round: (And it's in green because she's part Irish)
Anita Kay -
Now that senior year is finally over and I'll be writing in our SENIOR yearbook soon, you finally got around to having me write in your junior book. GOOD! Thank you for the great times that we've had together. For the laughs and tears, whines and insults, smiles and stupid jokes and even the disagreements (*Note: I have no recollection of disagreements with Short Round...) Thanks for letting me sit in your bedroom and whine to you about my "dream man." I still promise to take you out in my MAZDA car. Thanks for the great times in the Mexicali Express, driving around and around and around etc. We've wasted a lot of gas and REALLY helped to contribute to the depletion of the ozone layer. Whenever your down about not having a date just think of Homecoming at my house and take out the CHIPS and CLAM DIP! Or just give me a call, and I probably won't have a date either! (Smiley face) I can't believe that this year is almost over. When you think about it we just booked through this year. I will miss you so much next year. I hope you ahve a great and successul year in college and that you always have unlimited dating. Write me and don't forget it!
Love Always,
KMS (initials only to protect her identity!)
"Katie"
Irish men...
PHI DELTA
PHI DELTA THETA
GRAND OL' fraternity
P.S. I hope a bear never eats your dog on your back porch! (Okay, seriously Short Round, WTF??)
Anita Kay -
Now that senior year is finally over and I'll be writing in our SENIOR yearbook soon, you finally got around to having me write in your junior book. GOOD! Thank you for the great times that we've had together. For the laughs and tears, whines and insults, smiles and stupid jokes and even the disagreements (*Note: I have no recollection of disagreements with Short Round...) Thanks for letting me sit in your bedroom and whine to you about my "dream man." I still promise to take you out in my MAZDA car. Thanks for the great times in the Mexicali Express, driving around and around and around etc. We've wasted a lot of gas and REALLY helped to contribute to the depletion of the ozone layer. Whenever your down about not having a date just think of Homecoming at my house and take out the CHIPS and CLAM DIP! Or just give me a call, and I probably won't have a date either! (Smiley face) I can't believe that this year is almost over. When you think about it we just booked through this year. I will miss you so much next year. I hope you ahve a great and successul year in college and that you always have unlimited dating. Write me and don't forget it!
Love Always,
KMS (initials only to protect her identity!)
"Katie"
Irish men...
PHI DELTA
PHI DELTA THETA
GRAND OL' fraternity
P.S. I hope a bear never eats your dog on your back porch! (Okay, seriously Short Round, WTF??)
Retribution Part Deux: 1990
Indy's second and considerably more prolific yearbook entry:
Ani-
To think that if it weren't for "Hi Eileen, guide right" we mayh never have had the nerve to talk to each other. (You did say that!) We have been through so much together. And it is amazing that we've managed to stay such good friends. Some people say that they have been through it all, but can they say they've been to hell and back... Oops, I mean to Europe and back. (Maybe I WAS right the first time). I would though go through that trip all over again if there was a promise that (I could shower first) I mean if we got to travel in luxury Jeeps, rather than "deluxe" motor coaches. Even though life is like a jelly doughnut, I think that you and I ahve had the chance to dip our fingers in the jelly. So what if the flavor is prune. (Heck, it'll keep us regular. Regualr what's, now that is an entirely different story. Ask me in 20 years.) One day we'll be able to look back at high school and cry our eyes out... Oops I mean LAUGH HYSTERICALLY until we cry. "I'm never going to see you again."
Not like we haven't done a lot of that anyway. (Lights on, lights off. Ani, you cannot have your own seat on the bus, it's my turn. Bullcaca & Bullgobble.) If only life were more predictable. (Or more like your sneezes!) Loud and quick so we can make our mark and get out quickly (ha ha ha). Why are we always laughing? Could that be the basis of our friendship? Nah... Yes it is. Why is it that everytime we go out we eat? And why is it that we neve meet decent guys? Ani, shere are the GUYS? Why can't we find guys? Heck, even though we are always eating, you'd think thatsome guy would walk through the door. But then it would be my luck that the firstguy to walk through the door would be the PIZZA MAN - and he would end up being the man of my dreams and I would be destined to go through life saying "Welcome to Dominos Pizza, can I help you?" I can't believe we have five of seven classes together. History. (We are true amARicans.) Physics. (My feet are possessed... etc.) Psychology. (We never do anything.) Band (what a joke.) English. (Good old Lav.) I really wish that we weren't going to college in different states. We're hardly going to see each other! (Frowny face) At least we have Paris, and Belgium, and Italy, and Germany, and Switzerland, and etc, etc, etc...! I'm so glad it was you that I went with, any other person and they might have killed me. You're so patient with me. Why?
If I haven't made it clear before, I am so very glad that we are friends and our friendship is VERY special to me and is something that I do not want to live without. I just hope and pray that I enver have to;. To save this from getting too sappy and ridiculous. I'll stop for now but remember, wherever you are, whatever you do, you'll always be thinking of....... SOMETHING BLUE! Well I have yet to touch your record of 3 pages in my book, but I am not as wordy as you are, Anita Kay!
Remember all of the good times!
(heart) ya,
Eileen
WHEEL OF FISH!!!
Ani-
To think that if it weren't for "Hi Eileen, guide right" we mayh never have had the nerve to talk to each other. (You did say that!) We have been through so much together. And it is amazing that we've managed to stay such good friends. Some people say that they have been through it all, but can they say they've been to hell and back... Oops, I mean to Europe and back. (Maybe I WAS right the first time). I would though go through that trip all over again if there was a promise that (I could shower first) I mean if we got to travel in luxury Jeeps, rather than "deluxe" motor coaches. Even though life is like a jelly doughnut, I think that you and I ahve had the chance to dip our fingers in the jelly. So what if the flavor is prune. (Heck, it'll keep us regular. Regualr what's, now that is an entirely different story. Ask me in 20 years.) One day we'll be able to look back at high school and cry our eyes out... Oops I mean LAUGH HYSTERICALLY until we cry. "I'm never going to see you again."
Not like we haven't done a lot of that anyway. (Lights on, lights off. Ani, you cannot have your own seat on the bus, it's my turn. Bullcaca & Bullgobble.) If only life were more predictable. (Or more like your sneezes!) Loud and quick so we can make our mark and get out quickly (ha ha ha). Why are we always laughing? Could that be the basis of our friendship? Nah... Yes it is. Why is it that everytime we go out we eat? And why is it that we neve meet decent guys? Ani, shere are the GUYS? Why can't we find guys? Heck, even though we are always eating, you'd think thatsome guy would walk through the door. But then it would be my luck that the firstguy to walk through the door would be the PIZZA MAN - and he would end up being the man of my dreams and I would be destined to go through life saying "Welcome to Dominos Pizza, can I help you?" I can't believe we have five of seven classes together. History. (We are true amARicans.) Physics. (My feet are possessed... etc.) Psychology. (We never do anything.) Band (what a joke.) English. (Good old Lav.) I really wish that we weren't going to college in different states. We're hardly going to see each other! (Frowny face) At least we have Paris, and Belgium, and Italy, and Germany, and Switzerland, and etc, etc, etc...! I'm so glad it was you that I went with, any other person and they might have killed me. You're so patient with me. Why?
If I haven't made it clear before, I am so very glad that we are friends and our friendship is VERY special to me and is something that I do not want to live without. I just hope and pray that I enver have to;. To save this from getting too sappy and ridiculous. I'll stop for now but remember, wherever you are, whatever you do, you'll always be thinking of....... SOMETHING BLUE! Well I have yet to touch your record of 3 pages in my book, but I am not as wordy as you are, Anita Kay!
Remember all of the good times!
(heart) ya,
Eileen
WHEEL OF FISH!!!
Retribution Part I: 1989
Indy is a smart-ass by posting my voluminous yearbook entries in her books. So I did some super-sleuthing and found MY yearbooks, the three in which she is also featured, and upon perusal discovered that Indy herself, indeedy, had the ability to wax diarrhetic in prose. Thus, I have taken it as my honorable obligation to importune her forthwith as much as possible and in the same manner as I have been affronted... Ha! My next four posts are dedicated to friends Indy and Short Round, who are two of the (only) four people to have ever graced the pages of my yearbook with their beautiful adolescent penmanship.
*Note to readers (all two of you): keep in mind that our inane high school thought it best to provide yearbooks in the fall of the following year, so in many instances what is written for the year in print actually pertains to the following year...
NANI,
Wench (ha) you did too! Guide right Eileen! We have done so much to and for the band. Laker Nag and Laker Rag have been put to rest and on the the new year.
THANX for taking the scared and thin blonde under your wing! And the dough of life really kneaded its way out! Well look, I'm Vice Prez of band, one of the uniform managers and a front rank and a prospect for the honorable position of drum major.
I'm glad were band fags together.
(heart)
Eilee
Remember Guide Right and Cover Down!
You're my best friend and don't forget it!
Now, wasn't that sweet? And all of the capitalized words were in Indy's signature bubble-block letters (we all had our signature block letters, right?) Indy was SOOOOO good to make up for the brevity of this yearbook entry in my next yearbook...
*Note to readers (all two of you): keep in mind that our inane high school thought it best to provide yearbooks in the fall of the following year, so in many instances what is written for the year in print actually pertains to the following year...
NANI,
Wench (ha) you did too! Guide right Eileen! We have done so much to and for the band. Laker Nag and Laker Rag have been put to rest and on the the new year.
THANX for taking the scared and thin blonde under your wing! And the dough of life really kneaded its way out! Well look, I'm Vice Prez of band, one of the uniform managers and a front rank and a prospect for the honorable position of drum major.
I'm glad were band fags together.
(heart)
Eilee
Remember Guide Right and Cover Down!
You're my best friend and don't forget it!
Now, wasn't that sweet? And all of the capitalized words were in Indy's signature bubble-block letters (we all had our signature block letters, right?) Indy was SOOOOO good to make up for the brevity of this yearbook entry in my next yearbook...
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
"I Love Boobs"
One of the funniest things I've seen lately, other than Ms. Douglas, the Star Wars Trumpet Solo Girl on Youtube (again and again and again), was this little message, an honest, thoughtful message written on the back of someone's Honda. "I LOVE BOOBS." That says it all. At least they were honest. "They" being whomever took the time and trouble to write it in the dirt on someone else's car. I thought it would be even funnier if it was on my car, but then it would go from being funny to strangely uncomfortable, seeing as how I actually carry a hefty cargo... Which I hate. I really hate having them just, well, out there. But even so, it was still funny seeing it written.
Ah, saying what's on your mind. Even if it's stupid as sh*t. Puts me in mind that I'd really like to have a reader board drilled into the top of my head, so when I go walking with my young son and friends (this being a bi-annual event), I can let the inconsiderate drivers know that they're pissing me off with their high-speed antics, and that the posted speed limit of 15 mph going up to my street is posted as such for a very good reason... Not that they'd care.
Maybe not a reader board... Maybe a loud speaker wired to a hands-free microphone. That way I could just bark at them and they could bask the free advice I'd be handing out at no cost to them. Then again, it would probably sound more like a sex-show on tape, what with a lengthy walk pushing a jogger up a steep hill resulting in my extremely labored gasping and moaning. Might come across more like geriatric amore on a stairmaster. Eeew.
How about a big sandwich sign? What are they called again, sandwich boards? The kind you wear with a hot dog hat on your head? Could be good... But then again, it would have to be a one size fits all kind of comment, like "Are you sure that's a good idea?" That way, it would apply to speeders, vandals and public nose-pickers alike. No need to single any person out in particular. And then I couldn't get slapped with a discrimination lawsuit. Sweet.
Of course, what prompted this reverie was an instance, not an 'incident' tonight, in which I went low-tech old-school on some punk kid driving his daddy's Toyota Thundra - is it Thundra or Tundra? - up our hill at about 30 mph. Our windows were down, and without much forethought, I bellowed, "Slow the hell down, punk!" Ooops. His windows were down, too. Poor little whippersnapper. He slowed up, just in time to safely round the corner and proceed into the intersection with caution. I felt I had done my good deed for the week, and added an element of safety to the world in which we live. And it didn't cost me or the kid in question anything, no real heated exchange, no explaining, no drama. Just me speaking my mind. End of story. It felt really good.
But just in case I ever find anything unsavory written in the dirt on back of my car, I'll know who did it -- took the little f*cker's license plate down just to be sure.
Ah, saying what's on your mind. Even if it's stupid as sh*t. Puts me in mind that I'd really like to have a reader board drilled into the top of my head, so when I go walking with my young son and friends (this being a bi-annual event), I can let the inconsiderate drivers know that they're pissing me off with their high-speed antics, and that the posted speed limit of 15 mph going up to my street is posted as such for a very good reason... Not that they'd care.
Maybe not a reader board... Maybe a loud speaker wired to a hands-free microphone. That way I could just bark at them and they could bask the free advice I'd be handing out at no cost to them. Then again, it would probably sound more like a sex-show on tape, what with a lengthy walk pushing a jogger up a steep hill resulting in my extremely labored gasping and moaning. Might come across more like geriatric amore on a stairmaster. Eeew.
How about a big sandwich sign? What are they called again, sandwich boards? The kind you wear with a hot dog hat on your head? Could be good... But then again, it would have to be a one size fits all kind of comment, like "Are you sure that's a good idea?" That way, it would apply to speeders, vandals and public nose-pickers alike. No need to single any person out in particular. And then I couldn't get slapped with a discrimination lawsuit. Sweet.
Of course, what prompted this reverie was an instance, not an 'incident' tonight, in which I went low-tech old-school on some punk kid driving his daddy's Toyota Thundra - is it Thundra or Tundra? - up our hill at about 30 mph. Our windows were down, and without much forethought, I bellowed, "Slow the hell down, punk!" Ooops. His windows were down, too. Poor little whippersnapper. He slowed up, just in time to safely round the corner and proceed into the intersection with caution. I felt I had done my good deed for the week, and added an element of safety to the world in which we live. And it didn't cost me or the kid in question anything, no real heated exchange, no explaining, no drama. Just me speaking my mind. End of story. It felt really good.
But just in case I ever find anything unsavory written in the dirt on back of my car, I'll know who did it -- took the little f*cker's license plate down just to be sure.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
"Those People"
Father's Day came and went... Without much fanfare, occasion, and nary a card from me or the kid... It sounds kind of sad, but really, who could expect more from me?
We returned from a trip to the Midwest at 10:00 pm the night before. We started that day at 5:15 am in Wisconsin, drove to Chicago and flew from there to Dallas Ft. Worth Texas, then on the Colorado Springs, CO, for an emergency medical landing, and then FINALLY landed in Portland, albeit two hours later than planned... And traveling with a cranky, teething (5 new ones coming in at the same time) and tired little boy had both Mom and Dad wishing for a great, big, huge bottle of single-malt scotch... Oh yes, we were "those people" flying with the child, the one who was jumping in his parent's laps, trying to pull the woman's hair in the seat ahead of him, screaming to play with the light switch and air vent, lifting the sun shade countless times, and every 4 minutes screeching out of frustration because Mommy wouldn't let him chew on her arm. We changed his diaper in the cabin in our laps when we weren't able to get up to use the "changing table" in the lavatory -- which amounted to a 6"x10" ledge hovering above the sani-can. Added to this were were toting around 3 carry-on bags, 3 suitcases, a stroller, a folding crib, an enormous car seat, and one squrimy child to boot. Needless to say, I'd have bought the entire cabin a couple of rounds had we not been seated in First Class to begin with. Which kind of makes it worse, if you think about it.
At the start of our flight out of Dallas, my fellow seatmate asked me where we were ultimately headed. After telling her that we started out in Chicago and were headed to Portland, she commented that we had quite a strange, weird route in getting there. Then a few minutes later, I heard the passengers behind us comment on it as well, who speculated WHY in the hell we'd choose to take such a convoluted route... Unless... What they didn't finish with was, "Unless they're flying First Class for free because they're using her mother's frequent flyer miles, otherwise they'd be sitting in the main cabin with the rest of the peons and we could be enjoying our chilled chardonnay in relative peace and quiet..."
So yes, we were "those people," those who get what they can in life for free and inconvenience all others who pay their own way for the sake of more leg room, comfortable seats, and the prestige of having been served a free beverages before anyone else boards the plane.
So regarding Father's Day, we went to breakfast at one of the few restaurants that does Eggs Benedict right, then came home. Daddy got to read from his book for a little while, and it was much like any other Sunday. And because he's such a wonderful human being, he was perfectly content with it all.
We returned from a trip to the Midwest at 10:00 pm the night before. We started that day at 5:15 am in Wisconsin, drove to Chicago and flew from there to Dallas Ft. Worth Texas, then on the Colorado Springs, CO, for an emergency medical landing, and then FINALLY landed in Portland, albeit two hours later than planned... And traveling with a cranky, teething (5 new ones coming in at the same time) and tired little boy had both Mom and Dad wishing for a great, big, huge bottle of single-malt scotch... Oh yes, we were "those people" flying with the child, the one who was jumping in his parent's laps, trying to pull the woman's hair in the seat ahead of him, screaming to play with the light switch and air vent, lifting the sun shade countless times, and every 4 minutes screeching out of frustration because Mommy wouldn't let him chew on her arm. We changed his diaper in the cabin in our laps when we weren't able to get up to use the "changing table" in the lavatory -- which amounted to a 6"x10" ledge hovering above the sani-can. Added to this were were toting around 3 carry-on bags, 3 suitcases, a stroller, a folding crib, an enormous car seat, and one squrimy child to boot. Needless to say, I'd have bought the entire cabin a couple of rounds had we not been seated in First Class to begin with. Which kind of makes it worse, if you think about it.
At the start of our flight out of Dallas, my fellow seatmate asked me where we were ultimately headed. After telling her that we started out in Chicago and were headed to Portland, she commented that we had quite a strange, weird route in getting there. Then a few minutes later, I heard the passengers behind us comment on it as well, who speculated WHY in the hell we'd choose to take such a convoluted route... Unless... What they didn't finish with was, "Unless they're flying First Class for free because they're using her mother's frequent flyer miles, otherwise they'd be sitting in the main cabin with the rest of the peons and we could be enjoying our chilled chardonnay in relative peace and quiet..."
So yes, we were "those people," those who get what they can in life for free and inconvenience all others who pay their own way for the sake of more leg room, comfortable seats, and the prestige of having been served a free beverages before anyone else boards the plane.
So regarding Father's Day, we went to breakfast at one of the few restaurants that does Eggs Benedict right, then came home. Daddy got to read from his book for a little while, and it was much like any other Sunday. And because he's such a wonderful human being, he was perfectly content with it all.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
I'm All Knocked Up
Yep, there's a bun in the oven.
Second pregnancies are different from first one, in ways innumerable. First off, my first pregnancy was totally textbook-normal. But I can't seem to get it through my head that this one is also "normal" but is different, so I wonder... Anyway, the main difference between the two is that, while I was well overweight for the first pregnancy, I started off this one about 13 pounds heavier... I was told to not gain more than 15 pounds the first round, and my OB-GYN laughably told me THIS time to not gain more than 10 POUNDS... That can be accomplished in one sitting, given good bacon and if you know where to find the right buttercakes...
So, at my 2nd OB-GYN appointment, whilst standing on the scary scale, I closed my eyes, then flashed them open, purely out of morbid curiotsity, to find that their scale weighed me almost 3 pounds heavier than at home. Bracing myself for the nurse's scathing remark (which never comes, she's way too nice for that), she informs me that I'm DOWN a pound or two. WTF?!??!! Sure enough, according to their charts, I was down a pound. So for the first time in my life, my doctor, hell, any doctor, enters the room and practically high-fives me for a "fantastic job on the weight gain!" Thus began my current obsession. Which probably should have started 10 months before I got pregnant again.
There are things the books don't tell you. Sure, sure they say "you may be feeling more emotional than usual." I'm sorry, "more emotional?" This means I'm tearing up while watching the end of Independence Day, and finding really, really poignant moments in episodes of Tori and Dean: Home Sweet Hollywood. Again, I say, WTF?!?!?!! I personally cannot handle too many cathartic moments in one day, or I feel like I'm starting to lose my mind. My mom's best friend recently passed away, and while damn-near having an anxiety attack regarding her family's impending loss, I had to keep reminding myself, "This is not your family, this is not your mother, this is not about you." I tend to internalize WAAAAAAAAAY too much, and nothing good comes from it.
Among other things, I can't stand the feel of my own leg hair on my legs while lying in bed at nighttime. My feet hurt on the outer edges and my heels throb. My face itches, and I have a strong desire to scratch my hair, although it's not like my scalp actually itches... It's beyond me. Smells still bother me, things still taste funny. A lot of what I experienced before, somethings more intense than the others.
One thing that hasn't changed: my boobs are still enormous. They reached near epic, circus-proportions while I was nursing my son, but now they're back to being mere triple-Ds, as usual. Yay me.
So with that, the bun is in the oven. Elvis has not left the building. And I need to shave my legs.
Second pregnancies are different from first one, in ways innumerable. First off, my first pregnancy was totally textbook-normal. But I can't seem to get it through my head that this one is also "normal" but is different, so I wonder... Anyway, the main difference between the two is that, while I was well overweight for the first pregnancy, I started off this one about 13 pounds heavier... I was told to not gain more than 15 pounds the first round, and my OB-GYN laughably told me THIS time to not gain more than 10 POUNDS... That can be accomplished in one sitting, given good bacon and if you know where to find the right buttercakes...
So, at my 2nd OB-GYN appointment, whilst standing on the scary scale, I closed my eyes, then flashed them open, purely out of morbid curiotsity, to find that their scale weighed me almost 3 pounds heavier than at home. Bracing myself for the nurse's scathing remark (which never comes, she's way too nice for that), she informs me that I'm DOWN a pound or two. WTF?!??!! Sure enough, according to their charts, I was down a pound. So for the first time in my life, my doctor, hell, any doctor, enters the room and practically high-fives me for a "fantastic job on the weight gain!" Thus began my current obsession. Which probably should have started 10 months before I got pregnant again.
There are things the books don't tell you. Sure, sure they say "you may be feeling more emotional than usual." I'm sorry, "more emotional?" This means I'm tearing up while watching the end of Independence Day, and finding really, really poignant moments in episodes of Tori and Dean: Home Sweet Hollywood. Again, I say, WTF?!?!?!! I personally cannot handle too many cathartic moments in one day, or I feel like I'm starting to lose my mind. My mom's best friend recently passed away, and while damn-near having an anxiety attack regarding her family's impending loss, I had to keep reminding myself, "This is not your family, this is not your mother, this is not about you." I tend to internalize WAAAAAAAAAY too much, and nothing good comes from it.
Among other things, I can't stand the feel of my own leg hair on my legs while lying in bed at nighttime. My feet hurt on the outer edges and my heels throb. My face itches, and I have a strong desire to scratch my hair, although it's not like my scalp actually itches... It's beyond me. Smells still bother me, things still taste funny. A lot of what I experienced before, somethings more intense than the others.
One thing that hasn't changed: my boobs are still enormous. They reached near epic, circus-proportions while I was nursing my son, but now they're back to being mere triple-Ds, as usual. Yay me.
So with that, the bun is in the oven. Elvis has not left the building. And I need to shave my legs.
Father's Day Quandry...
My husband is a saint. An honest-to-goodness, patient, tolerant, understanding, won't-hold-it-against-me but holds-my-purse-while-I'm-in-the-bathroom kinda guy. And seeing as our little boy just turned one this week, Daddy gets to celebrate his 2nd Father's Day this year. And for once, I'd like to get him something that would be useful and meaningful.
Useful and meaningful -- that's a tall order, to find a giftie for a man who pretty much has most of what he wants, and if he wants sometime in particular, he's pretty particular so it's usually best if he gets it himself, otherwise it will take me about 4 trips to the store to get it right... And so, keeping this challenge in mind, here are some ideas and my thought processes on whether or not they fit the "useful and meaningful" criteria:
1.) Noise cancelling headphones: He's mentioned numerous times that he'd like a pair, and we've even tried them on at a Bose store. But they're damn expensive, and honestly, he's such a resourceful man that he's already found the cheaper alternative -- earplugs. He wears them at night now because since being pregnant the first time, my nose swelled up the size of an eggplant and I was stuffed up for the entire 9 1/2 months, and even one year after delivery, I still snore. A cacaphony of sonic booms, if you will. Bless him, for he hasn't moved out of the bedroom, yet. Anyway, while I was pregnant, he'd gently wake me in the middle of the night (because I didn't wake up enough on my own to pee) and tell me that I was snoring. I think his idea was that I'd just roll over, change position, and the snoring would stop for a while. Life, and sleep more importantly, would go on. Nay, nay! I couldn't let it go at that -- instead, I always had the good sense to argue with him in my sleep (because I never seem to remember it ever happening) that I in fact was not snoring... At any rate, these ear plugs come in very handy in other occasions, such as when he's reading and is really, really into his book and doesn't like to be interrupted, even when I have something interesting to share, such as, "I smell catshit" or "Do these shoes make me look like a man?"... So maybe we'll forego the Bose headphones for another year. He's got that covered.
2.) Tums: For when I cook. Wait a minute, I actually don't cook a whole helluva lot. This is how wonderful my Lambkin really is -- again, when I was pregnant, but even for months thereafter, he would come home from a long day's work, aching feet, hole burning in his stomach because he was so hungry, and he would fix ME dinner. Even this year, while I'm taking the year off to stay home with our son and should conceivably have the entire afternoon to get dinner ready (those with small children know that without the afternoon nap happening, getting dinner ready is a crap shoot), he still makes me dinner. And sometimes even feeds the kid. I think I broiled some chicken last night, and that was a major accomplishment. So I guess he doesn't need the Tums, since he does almost all of the cooking (still) and he's an excellent cook!
3.) Cattle prod: What's it going to take for me to get my ass out of bed??? Here's another wonderful thing about my husband -- when our little turkey wakes up anywhere between 6:00-7:00 am, I bring him into our bed with us, nurse him and then attempt to go back to sleep with a wiggly, giggly, jumpy and yumpy little squirt wedged between us, who will invariable attempt to climb the wall or insert his pacifier into one or both of our mouths. Who in the hell, may I ask, can sleep through this? Proudly, I say I can! But only so long as someone else is awake with the boy. Around 7:00 am, Daddy gets up, showers and takes little Bucko with him into the kitchen, feeds him, changes him, gives him his vitamins and flouride, and plays with him until Daddy is at least 20 minutes late for work, JUST so I can sleep in a little longer... The truth is, my Lovey understands that I require what I refer to as a "Gentle Wake Cycle," which means I need innumerable soft-spoken, soothing reminders that it is time to pull my sleepy head off the pillow so we can all enjoy our day... This still a backlash against my father's idea of effective child-waking practices: flip the lights on, snap the covers off the bed, and in a caffeine-induced perky voice bellow, "Wakey-wakey time!" (My inner armchair-psychologist is telling me this could be why I didn't have the closest of relationships with my dad.) So my Honeypot is sweet and loving to me when slumbering and while riding the rim of the toilet bowl of consciousness, before plunging headlong into the swirling mess of the morning... Why would I want to change that?
4.) Sex: Nah.
5.) Auto-detailing: It would be useful and meaningful, but judging by the number of finger and toe-nail clippings I find on his nightstand, I'm not sure I want to know what's hidden under his floormats.
Hmm, I am losing steam on this whole giftie-thingy for Father's Day. Perhaps I'll do what I always do for such occasions, when I can't decide on a gift: purchase many, many cards, most of which should never be read by my mother-in-law, and get him a small box of nice chocolates to go along with it. If I were a father, that's what I would like. And if a woman is happy with it, a man is bound to be happy with it as well. At least that's the twisted logic I'm sticking with, because this post is going on far too long, and if I don't quit now, I won't get this posted until after Father's Day.
Any ideas are GLADLY welcome!!
ADDITION TO POST: I just made my husband sit down and read this nonsense. He laughed and said, "Well, you make me sound as pussywhipped as can be." So I'm thinking, maybe I should just give him his balls back instead?
Useful and meaningful -- that's a tall order, to find a giftie for a man who pretty much has most of what he wants, and if he wants sometime in particular, he's pretty particular so it's usually best if he gets it himself, otherwise it will take me about 4 trips to the store to get it right... And so, keeping this challenge in mind, here are some ideas and my thought processes on whether or not they fit the "useful and meaningful" criteria:
1.) Noise cancelling headphones: He's mentioned numerous times that he'd like a pair, and we've even tried them on at a Bose store. But they're damn expensive, and honestly, he's such a resourceful man that he's already found the cheaper alternative -- earplugs. He wears them at night now because since being pregnant the first time, my nose swelled up the size of an eggplant and I was stuffed up for the entire 9 1/2 months, and even one year after delivery, I still snore. A cacaphony of sonic booms, if you will. Bless him, for he hasn't moved out of the bedroom, yet. Anyway, while I was pregnant, he'd gently wake me in the middle of the night (because I didn't wake up enough on my own to pee) and tell me that I was snoring. I think his idea was that I'd just roll over, change position, and the snoring would stop for a while. Life, and sleep more importantly, would go on. Nay, nay! I couldn't let it go at that -- instead, I always had the good sense to argue with him in my sleep (because I never seem to remember it ever happening) that I in fact was not snoring... At any rate, these ear plugs come in very handy in other occasions, such as when he's reading and is really, really into his book and doesn't like to be interrupted, even when I have something interesting to share, such as, "I smell catshit" or "Do these shoes make me look like a man?"... So maybe we'll forego the Bose headphones for another year. He's got that covered.
2.) Tums: For when I cook. Wait a minute, I actually don't cook a whole helluva lot. This is how wonderful my Lambkin really is -- again, when I was pregnant, but even for months thereafter, he would come home from a long day's work, aching feet, hole burning in his stomach because he was so hungry, and he would fix ME dinner. Even this year, while I'm taking the year off to stay home with our son and should conceivably have the entire afternoon to get dinner ready (those with small children know that without the afternoon nap happening, getting dinner ready is a crap shoot), he still makes me dinner. And sometimes even feeds the kid. I think I broiled some chicken last night, and that was a major accomplishment. So I guess he doesn't need the Tums, since he does almost all of the cooking (still) and he's an excellent cook!
3.) Cattle prod: What's it going to take for me to get my ass out of bed??? Here's another wonderful thing about my husband -- when our little turkey wakes up anywhere between 6:00-7:00 am, I bring him into our bed with us, nurse him and then attempt to go back to sleep with a wiggly, giggly, jumpy and yumpy little squirt wedged between us, who will invariable attempt to climb the wall or insert his pacifier into one or both of our mouths. Who in the hell, may I ask, can sleep through this? Proudly, I say I can! But only so long as someone else is awake with the boy. Around 7:00 am, Daddy gets up, showers and takes little Bucko with him into the kitchen, feeds him, changes him, gives him his vitamins and flouride, and plays with him until Daddy is at least 20 minutes late for work, JUST so I can sleep in a little longer... The truth is, my Lovey understands that I require what I refer to as a "Gentle Wake Cycle," which means I need innumerable soft-spoken, soothing reminders that it is time to pull my sleepy head off the pillow so we can all enjoy our day... This still a backlash against my father's idea of effective child-waking practices: flip the lights on, snap the covers off the bed, and in a caffeine-induced perky voice bellow, "Wakey-wakey time!" (My inner armchair-psychologist is telling me this could be why I didn't have the closest of relationships with my dad.) So my Honeypot is sweet and loving to me when slumbering and while riding the rim of the toilet bowl of consciousness, before plunging headlong into the swirling mess of the morning... Why would I want to change that?
4.) Sex: Nah.
5.) Auto-detailing: It would be useful and meaningful, but judging by the number of finger and toe-nail clippings I find on his nightstand, I'm not sure I want to know what's hidden under his floormats.
Hmm, I am losing steam on this whole giftie-thingy for Father's Day. Perhaps I'll do what I always do for such occasions, when I can't decide on a gift: purchase many, many cards, most of which should never be read by my mother-in-law, and get him a small box of nice chocolates to go along with it. If I were a father, that's what I would like. And if a woman is happy with it, a man is bound to be happy with it as well. At least that's the twisted logic I'm sticking with, because this post is going on far too long, and if I don't quit now, I won't get this posted until after Father's Day.
Any ideas are GLADLY welcome!!
ADDITION TO POST: I just made my husband sit down and read this nonsense. He laughed and said, "Well, you make me sound as pussywhipped as can be." So I'm thinking, maybe I should just give him his balls back instead?
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Prom Queens and Wall Flowers
I'll admit it: I wanted to be a Homecoming Princess in the worst way. I wanted the five-minute fame of having my name called out during the school assembly so I could gracefully walk down the bleachers in front of the entire student body, and after being escorted to my aluminum folding chair by the star of the soccer team, receive a kiss on the cheek and a floral wreath on my head signifying that yes, I in fact fit in and was officially not a dork. Naturally, it never happened. Like all of my friends, I swore that I'd die if that ever came to pass, which is no small truth. I'm sure I would die. You see, I was a wallflower who aspired to greatness but was much, much more comfortable blending in.
It's funny, the shift we make from our knob-kneed adolescence to our (some of us) soft-kneed adulthood. I taught middle school band for a number of years and I used to say, half-jokingly and half-seriously, that I did it to relive and set to right my own nerve-ridden youth. Either that or I felt that in some way I was going to make all of the bitchy, self-righteous, entitled snot-nosed punky little kids (albeit they were different kids than when I was in school) pay for the damage they caused me... Which is actually absurd, I did nothing of the sort. However, in addition to wanting to teach kids how to play their instruments, read music and be part of something that was much bigger than themselves as individuals, it did give me somewhat of a cause to try to to help those kids with whom I identified in my formative years. I went into teaching for all of the right reasons, and I don't kid myself when I say I also got out of teaching for all the right reasons.
When I was teaching, I had to grow almost a new layer of skin, one that I was much more comfortable wearing (I'm sure this new layer had the new-fangled technologically advanced lycra in it, so it stretches and breathes easily!) when in front of 70 some-odd kids in class... It's too bad I didn't get a sweat-proof layer of skin, because MAN did it wig the kids out when they'd see my sweat spots, and YES, I'm a woman! Anyway, I grew much more comfortable in front of these crowds, either in class or for public performances. I still felt like a total dork half the time, especially when certain things happened, like accidentally pulling my own slip down during class when it caught on the heel of my shoe and then tripping on it... Or making a complete ass out of myself when talking into the microphone during a concert because I LOVED hearing my voice over the sound system (not that I liked my voice, but it kind of felt like playing God and that is one heady experience!)... At any rate, I grew way more comfortable with myself, and felt in a way that I came into my own for a while there. Up until I quit because I harbored this fear that I would become a total hack like the orchestra teacher with whom I had to work. (Note: she was INSANE.)
Where was I, oh yes, coming into my own... Before I left, I wasn't nominated "Teacher of the Year" or anything like that. I never received the accolades I'd have given my friends' eye-teeth for in high school, but kids -- these kids in particular -- began to share their own impression of what I must have been like in school:
"You must have been a cheerleader!"
"You must have been a all-star athlete!"
"You must not have dated very much" (some kids are so painfully spot-on).
"You must have been some freaky kind of genius in school... Why are you always right?" (Okay, I just made that one up. I'm hoping my kids will say this one day.)
How gratifying it was, for kids to think that based on who I was as an adult (or what they perceived me as), I must have been the complete package when I was younger. And what a fantastic opportunity it was for me to open up to those same kids and tell them the truth: When I was twelve, I was a character from a John Hughes film: glasses, braces and a REALLY bad perm ("Sixteen Candles," channelling Joan Cusack). I desperately wanted the world's attention and affirmation, but I was deathly afraid of my own shadow. Oh, and I was boy-crazy. So totally boy-crazy that I walked into a wall when turning my head to say "hi" to a boy I was ga-ga over (who, upon report, was a total ass in high school), which in my head sealed my "freak" fate. But that whatever form of a freak you think you are when you are twelve or thirteen years old, change is inevitable -- you will grow up, and most of the time you won't even know it when it's happening. So for now, be yourself, and learn to enjoy being you.
Lastly, know this: regardless if you are beautiful or homely, witty or dull, prom queen or a wallflower -- even if those teenage wild dreams of yours come to fruition, you will STILL look back at your school photos and laugh your ass off.
Oh, and to all of you real prom queens out there -- "pppppt! Jog on!"
It's funny, the shift we make from our knob-kneed adolescence to our (some of us) soft-kneed adulthood. I taught middle school band for a number of years and I used to say, half-jokingly and half-seriously, that I did it to relive and set to right my own nerve-ridden youth. Either that or I felt that in some way I was going to make all of the bitchy, self-righteous, entitled snot-nosed punky little kids (albeit they were different kids than when I was in school) pay for the damage they caused me... Which is actually absurd, I did nothing of the sort. However, in addition to wanting to teach kids how to play their instruments, read music and be part of something that was much bigger than themselves as individuals, it did give me somewhat of a cause to try to to help those kids with whom I identified in my formative years. I went into teaching for all of the right reasons, and I don't kid myself when I say I also got out of teaching for all the right reasons.
When I was teaching, I had to grow almost a new layer of skin, one that I was much more comfortable wearing (I'm sure this new layer had the new-fangled technologically advanced lycra in it, so it stretches and breathes easily!) when in front of 70 some-odd kids in class... It's too bad I didn't get a sweat-proof layer of skin, because MAN did it wig the kids out when they'd see my sweat spots, and YES, I'm a woman! Anyway, I grew much more comfortable in front of these crowds, either in class or for public performances. I still felt like a total dork half the time, especially when certain things happened, like accidentally pulling my own slip down during class when it caught on the heel of my shoe and then tripping on it... Or making a complete ass out of myself when talking into the microphone during a concert because I LOVED hearing my voice over the sound system (not that I liked my voice, but it kind of felt like playing God and that is one heady experience!)... At any rate, I grew way more comfortable with myself, and felt in a way that I came into my own for a while there. Up until I quit because I harbored this fear that I would become a total hack like the orchestra teacher with whom I had to work. (Note: she was INSANE.)
Where was I, oh yes, coming into my own... Before I left, I wasn't nominated "Teacher of the Year" or anything like that. I never received the accolades I'd have given my friends' eye-teeth for in high school, but kids -- these kids in particular -- began to share their own impression of what I must have been like in school:
"You must have been a cheerleader!"
"You must have been a all-star athlete!"
"You must not have dated very much" (some kids are so painfully spot-on).
"You must have been some freaky kind of genius in school... Why are you always right?" (Okay, I just made that one up. I'm hoping my kids will say this one day.)
How gratifying it was, for kids to think that based on who I was as an adult (or what they perceived me as), I must have been the complete package when I was younger. And what a fantastic opportunity it was for me to open up to those same kids and tell them the truth: When I was twelve, I was a character from a John Hughes film: glasses, braces and a REALLY bad perm ("Sixteen Candles," channelling Joan Cusack). I desperately wanted the world's attention and affirmation, but I was deathly afraid of my own shadow. Oh, and I was boy-crazy. So totally boy-crazy that I walked into a wall when turning my head to say "hi" to a boy I was ga-ga over (who, upon report, was a total ass in high school), which in my head sealed my "freak" fate. But that whatever form of a freak you think you are when you are twelve or thirteen years old, change is inevitable -- you will grow up, and most of the time you won't even know it when it's happening. So for now, be yourself, and learn to enjoy being you.
Lastly, know this: regardless if you are beautiful or homely, witty or dull, prom queen or a wallflower -- even if those teenage wild dreams of yours come to fruition, you will STILL look back at your school photos and laugh your ass off.
Oh, and to all of you real prom queens out there -- "pppppt! Jog on!"
Monday, March 10, 2008
Ssh... Do You Smell Something?
There's dog poo, fresh from the oven, in my yard and I'm all fired up about it. I sit in my kitchen most of the day with my 9-month-old son, surrounded by windows - big ones that allow me a view of all who pass by and let their beautiful, pedigreed dogs stop to smell the flowers and crap all over my yard. It's on our walkway, in front of the mailbox, on the curb, one the corner of the driveway, on the rock pile, and ALWAYS in the exact same spot on which I am about to step... And if this was the only crap I had to deal with, it might not be so bad. But I have 2 cats, one of which poops in the hallway when she's mad. And a baby. And a dog who poos in the backyard. I have my fill of poo. I don't need any more. So it should be no surprise when I say that all of this extraneous poo is pissing me off.
My husband and I are not avid gardeners. We are what you would call slack asses when it comes to yard work. We're also living in my mother's house while she's away indefinitely, and her yard is absolutely wild. Not quite Grey Gardens wild, but a close second. When we do get outside, we do a bang-up job getting the yard in shape, but getting out there is almost half the hardship. It could be that I'm looking for an excuse for not doing more yard work but I could dig it more if it meant NOT tromping through someone else's dog poo...
You know how neighbors acquire titles or reputations? The family that gives boxes of raisins for Halloween? The woman who hollers at cars to slow down? I'm the one-woman poo-patrol. And it's becoming an obsession. I've talked to the family with the golden lab about cleaning up after he squats on top of our bushes (the grandmother informed me she lets the dog out but she herself "does not do dog poop."). And the professional dog walker who let her charge waltz up our walkway, onto the rockery, and bear down on top of my budding crocuses. In broad daylight! (Okay, I yelled at her and it felt reeeeeeally good.) But it didn't seem to make a lick of difference.
My initial knee-jerk reaction was to post signs in the yard. A neighbor in mind had one that read,
"Here he lies, cold and hard.
The last dog that pooped in my yard."
Too cute. And I remember seeing a ton of poo in front of the sign. I don't wish to incite a backlash of vindictive poopers, which I'm sure such a clever sign would. Instead I thought of a dozen or so extremely offensive signs, all of which contained the words "dogsh*t" and "a**hole". Honestly, you'd think my husband would have a better sense of humor about it (because I didn't). So quite obviously, I didn't post them. What I eventually printed and laminated (because I am one of those people who now owns a laminating machine) read,
"Enjoy stepping in dog poop?
Neither do we.
Be responsible.
Clean up after your dog."
It was a little wordy. And I'm generally not ballsy enough to post it in the yard. Besides, it might look a little tacky.
I enlisted friends to come up with alternative methods to deter others from letting their dogs go number two (and BIG number twos as it is) in our yard and not cleaning it up. We could set out plastic bags and a garbage pail, but the whole idea is that I should not, under any circumstances, have to clean up after anyone else's animal.
A dear friend from high school, I will call her "Indy," had the most creative, daring and ingenious design. First, I should track down where the errant owners live, like a stake-out. Then, when they least expect it, take a picture of my husband taking a crap in their yard and post it (life-size) on their beautifully manicured, palatial front lawns. Just so they would know how it feels. (Thank you, Indy! I feel your love!) Needless to say, I laughed so hard I almost pooped my own pants.
In the end, my husband and I decided that the most direct (albeit passive aggressive) approach would be to simply throw all of the poo into the street. Maybe the repeat offenders haven't come by yet, maybe they walked through it and got the picture, maybe the street sweeper got to it before anyone else. But we haven't seen anymore poo in our yard, and either way, that's fine with me. Until next time...
My husband and I are not avid gardeners. We are what you would call slack asses when it comes to yard work. We're also living in my mother's house while she's away indefinitely, and her yard is absolutely wild. Not quite Grey Gardens wild, but a close second. When we do get outside, we do a bang-up job getting the yard in shape, but getting out there is almost half the hardship. It could be that I'm looking for an excuse for not doing more yard work but I could dig it more if it meant NOT tromping through someone else's dog poo...
You know how neighbors acquire titles or reputations? The family that gives boxes of raisins for Halloween? The woman who hollers at cars to slow down? I'm the one-woman poo-patrol. And it's becoming an obsession. I've talked to the family with the golden lab about cleaning up after he squats on top of our bushes (the grandmother informed me she lets the dog out but she herself "does not do dog poop."). And the professional dog walker who let her charge waltz up our walkway, onto the rockery, and bear down on top of my budding crocuses. In broad daylight! (Okay, I yelled at her and it felt reeeeeeally good.) But it didn't seem to make a lick of difference.
My initial knee-jerk reaction was to post signs in the yard. A neighbor in mind had one that read,
"Here he lies, cold and hard.
The last dog that pooped in my yard."
Too cute. And I remember seeing a ton of poo in front of the sign. I don't wish to incite a backlash of vindictive poopers, which I'm sure such a clever sign would. Instead I thought of a dozen or so extremely offensive signs, all of which contained the words "dogsh*t" and "a**hole". Honestly, you'd think my husband would have a better sense of humor about it (because I didn't). So quite obviously, I didn't post them. What I eventually printed and laminated (because I am one of those people who now owns a laminating machine) read,
"Enjoy stepping in dog poop?
Neither do we.
Be responsible.
Clean up after your dog."
It was a little wordy. And I'm generally not ballsy enough to post it in the yard. Besides, it might look a little tacky.
I enlisted friends to come up with alternative methods to deter others from letting their dogs go number two (and BIG number twos as it is) in our yard and not cleaning it up. We could set out plastic bags and a garbage pail, but the whole idea is that I should not, under any circumstances, have to clean up after anyone else's animal.
A dear friend from high school, I will call her "Indy," had the most creative, daring and ingenious design. First, I should track down where the errant owners live, like a stake-out. Then, when they least expect it, take a picture of my husband taking a crap in their yard and post it (life-size) on their beautifully manicured, palatial front lawns. Just so they would know how it feels. (Thank you, Indy! I feel your love!) Needless to say, I laughed so hard I almost pooped my own pants.
In the end, my husband and I decided that the most direct (albeit passive aggressive) approach would be to simply throw all of the poo into the street. Maybe the repeat offenders haven't come by yet, maybe they walked through it and got the picture, maybe the street sweeper got to it before anyone else. But we haven't seen anymore poo in our yard, and either way, that's fine with me. Until next time...
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