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!"
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
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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