Daily Diatribes

Last night, my child threw a fit of epic proportions. We were having a perfectly lovely evening, cuddling on the bed together while watching that cinematic gem “The Wizards of Waverly Place Movie”, when she innocently dropped a bomb into the conversation.

“Oh, I got in trouble at lunch today,” she lisped sweetly.

I came up off the bed. “WHAT?” I enquired sharply.

She looked at me innocently, apparently astonished by my reaction. “I got in trouble…we were kind of fighting,” she said, shrugging as if to indicate that she didn’t understand why anyone would get into trouble for that.

“What do you MEAN you got in trouble for fighting? What were you fighting about???” Something about my tone, or perhaps it was my clenched fists and the veins throbbing in my forehead, clued her in to the fact that perhaps I viewed fighting at the lunch table as slightly problematic.

She immediately switched on Defense Mechanism Number One: big tears formed in the big eyes of goddess-blue. She began to hyperventilate slightly and she whimpered piteously “I don’t know!!!!”

My rage escalated a notch or ten. “What do you MEAN YOU DON”T KNOW???” I roared quietly.

The tears began in earnest and she said “I DON’T REMEMBER!!!!!!”

This is, of course, Defense Mechanism Number Two. Those of a certain age will recall Ronald Reagan employed this same strategy in the 1980s during the Iran Contra thingy. However, I was not buying it. The goddess may not be MENSA material, but she certainly has a good enough memory to recall the plot of every single episode of “ICarly” ever filmed. She has instant recall when it comes to promises I may (or may not) have made regarding the purchase of toys, friends coming over, or trips to the movies. I found it interesting that, given her ability to instantly quote any episode of Sponge Bob, she could not recall exactly why she got into trouble during lunch.

“Fine,” I said, “you can go upstairs right now and go to bed. Maybe that will help you remember.”

“But MOMMY,” she screamed, “IT’S NOT MY BED TIME!!!!!!” It was in fact, thirty minutes before bed-time and a more suitable punishment could not be devised. Being the much younger sibling, bed-time is always a bone of contention with her. The fact that Napoleon and MA apparently stay up until all hours of the night while she is confined to bed by 8:30, galls her to no end. And to be put to bed at the ungodly hour of EIGHT??? She was beside herself.

She went upstairs, screaming all the way. I waited a few minutes, and then followed. I opened the door and found her behind it, sulking ferociously. “Get into bed right now,” I snapped.

“But mommy, NOOOOOOOOOOOO,” she screamed. “It’s NOT my bed-time!!!!!!!!!!!”

“Your bed-time is when I say it is!!!!” I told her. “Now get your pajamas on and get into bed!!”

She screamed, she flung her hair, she wailed and gnashed her teeth, but I held firm. I continued to question her about the lunch-time incident, and in between sobs, she managed to share the following information: a kid maybe thought that she called him gay and he went and told on her but she certainly didn’t do it and she really didn’t understand why she had to sit at the punishment table when she clearly did not call him gay and was not responsible for his misunderstanding of the situation.

That confession caused me a lot of difficulty, because I really wanted to snicker a lot. I managed to keep a straight face and kept insisting to her that there had to be more to the story, but she was adamant that there was no more to it. Finally I gave up. “Fine,” I told her, “you’re still going to bed.” And despite her screams of protest, I kissed her on the forehead, turned out the lights and went downstairs.

Where I could here her screams as clearly as if we were in the same room. “BUT MUH…MUH…MUH….MOMMY…..I DON’T WANT TO GO TO BED!!! IT’S NOT MY BED-TIME!!!! I’M NOT TIRED!!!!!!!!!!!!”

I endured it for fifteen minutes, before I went upstairs and told her to stop screaming. Somehow, I managed not to scream back “SHUT THE HELL UP RIGHT NOW OR I WILL SMOTHER YOU TO DEATH WITH A PILLOW!!!” Thank God my medication is working!!! What I did tell her was I didn’t care if she wanted to go to bed. After all, if she was happy about going to bed, it wouldn’t be much of a punishment. I told her to knock it off because the noise was getting old. I kissed her again and went back downstairs.

She finally got quiet and then I heard her call me in a very soft, very pitiful voice. I sighed. Got up again. Went back upstairs. Pulled her close and cuddled her for a few minutes. Then she said “Muh…mommy…I MISS KIRBY!!!!” Kirby being our golden retriever who died last fall. This is Defense Mechanism 3: project your woe onto a new subject and play that sympathy card. I pushed her back down, and said “I am NOT going to do this with you. I love you. GOOD NIGHT!!!!”

“But mommy….,” she protested.

“Do. Not. Start!!” I warned her and she subsided. Even she knew it was too much!!!

She finally fell asleep and I was able to crawl into my own bed and laugh about the whole thing. I hope she can make it through today without making disparaging comments about anyone because I don’t think I can handle another night of early bed-time!

Wow, this is the longest I have EVER gone without blogging, since I started the dumb thing! Lots of things have prevented me from blogging. We went to New Orleans, the kids started school, I started school, the planets were not properly aligned, my Bejeweled Blitz scores have gone down and I needed to spend more time on that and various other excuses. Basically, I just haven’t felt like blogging. So there.

But tonight, since I am sitting in class and not paying a bit of attention to the instructor, I thought it would be a good time to blog. I am going to share my class with you because blogging about it is way more fun than paying attention to it!! I never not pay attention, but this class….well, it’s just not conducive to paying attention. It started at 4:30, it’s now 5:00, and we have yet to actually touch on the topic. This makes me very tired and cranky, as well as slightly homicidal, which is not really good for anyone. Honestly, I am on the verge of going on a rampage with a paper clip, mutilating as many of my fellow students as possible, before turning the clip on myself and gouging out my own eyeball. I’m definitely on edge.

So, in an effort to restrain myself, I am writing this, with the hope that I can calm myself. I hope to enter a zen-like state in which I become a concerned and compassionate individual, ready to learn as much as possible about exceptional people. I saw an exceptional people at the soccer game on Sunday. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a guy on the sideline throw the ball back onto the field. I wondered why he was on his knees, since it was extremely muddy outside. Then I did a double take, because he was an extremely short little person. I found this fascinating, particularly since he darted back into his tent immediately. It was a little like being at the circus, but there was no popcorn, which made me sad. I texted my friend Alanna to tell her I had seen a little person and she texted back and said “there are three of them” which means it was like a midget soccer troupe was running around. Yes, I’m insensitive. I admit it. I was also dripping with sweat, suffering from mild heat exhaustion, and feeling slightly delirious. I couldn’t tell if the midget soccer players were a mirage or if they really existed. Strange.

It’s now 5:10 and we still haven’t started on the Power Point. Waste my time, PLEASE!!

5:15. We have begun. And someone has already stopped the lecture to ask a really stupid question. WHY???????????????????? I wonder if I will even post this? It makes no sense because I am basically vomiting words onto the screen. But it is fulfilling me on a very personal level, so perhaps I shall!

Long conversation, off subject, about the term “retarded” and whether or not it’s a bad word. Since it’s the adjective I most often apply to my own children, I am feeling somewhat embarrassed. Perhaps I need to stop referring to them as retards and start referring to them as Mongoloids, which is more accurate anyway. I guess I probably should stop making jokes about the short bus too.

Well, the woman in front of me is going to question EVERY SINGLE STATEMENT on the power point and the professor’s elaboration upon them. I really want to reach forward and whack the crap out of her. Where is my paper clip????? It’s 5:36 and we haven’t even gotten through chapter one.

Nice comment, weird bald guy in the corner. Yes, let’s train the pediatricians to scope out excpetionalities in children, because they don’t have enough to do already. Let’s train them to sniff out drugs and bombs too. OH MY GOD!!! Someone just asked if the APGAR was a means of screening for disabilities!!!! As a graduate of WebMD U, I am appalled!!! Really??? The APGAR basically makes sure the baby is BREATHING!!! It doesn’t check to see whether or not it’s going to grow up to be a neurosurgeon!!!! Wow, I am SUCH a bitch!!!

Ok, let’s ALL share our stories about EVERY SINGLE special ed case we’ve EVER HEARD OF!!!! Will this be on the test???? 5:41 and still off subject!!!

Wow!! ANOTHER pointless anecdote!!!! 5:44

5:48 Halfway through chapter one. It’s only taken an hour and fifteen minutes!!

Another anecdote!! Woo Hoo!! Can’t we call this class Exceptional Anecdotes instead of Exceptional Learners? Oh, creepy bald guy just couldn’t RESIST!!! He had to chime in about his foster daughter and how she tested out of special ed thanks to his diligent instruction. “And she could do laundry and wash dishes….” Probably because they had her enslaved….like Long Duck Dong in “Sixteen Candles”!!!!

6:15…..she promised we were going to take a break. Now there’s no point because class ends at 7. Guess we won’t be getting to chapters 2 and 3. NO MORE ANECDOTES!!!!

She just said “Is that thunder?” RANDOM!!!

Alright, I’m going to wrap up this nonsense. Because I can’t take it anymore. I’m digging out my paper clip RIGHT NOW!!! Watch for me on the evening news because I am about to snap!!!!

I sit before the computer screen, gazing blearily at it through a haze of chocolate. You see, in a fit of domesticity, I decided to make a pie. It’s the easiest possible kind of pie you can make, the kind of pie your average five year old could whip up in a minute: Chocolate Dream Pie. I successfully made one a few weeks ago and it was very well-received, so I thought I would try it again. Alas, I was too confident in my own abilities as a pastry chef. Although why wouldn’t I be confident? The recipe is ridiculously easy: mix some milk and Dream Whip in a bowl, beat it for six minutes, then add chocolate pudding mix and more Dream Whip. Really, the Village Idiot could make one of these things. Unfortunately, the village idiot is far more competent than me in the kitchen!! But I should have known it wasn’t my day to make pie. From the very first, the project was doomed because of the hand mixer. A pastry chef is only as good as her tools, and mine proved inadequate for the job at hand.

I own(ed) two hand mixers. I don’t know why, although I’m sure there is a perfectly good explanation that has been lost in the fogs of my mind. And I vaguely remember that the last time I used them, one of them made a funny noise and quit working, so I had to use the other one to finish the job. Yet despite the funny noise, I replaced the mixer in the cabinet, thinking perhaps that a little rest would do it some good. Right, because we all know that electric items can be restored to full working order if they are replaced in their cabinet/drawer/closet/shelf and ignored for awhile. Confidently, however, I grabbed the mixer. Yet as I was fitting the beaters on it, that sense of unease persisted; a soft little voice was saying “don’t do it, it’s bad” but I ignored it. I’m bad about ignoring those little voices. I cause more trouble for myself than any person I know.

With the beaters in place, I lowered the mixer into the bowl and hit the power. The mixer sputtered a few times, and a ton of brown, crusty stuff fell off the mixer and down into the virginal white Dream Whip in my bowl. I fumbled around, shut the power off and stared grimly into my bowl. Flecks of brown matter despoiled the landscape of my Dream Whip. Quietly, I uttered a few words that, had I been using real whipping cream, would have easily curdled the entire thing. Even then, however, I was committed to the project. So I stuck my finger into the bowl, and went to work, scooping out the brown, chunky stuff, hoping that it was just ancient brown sugar, fearing that it probably wasn’t. I worked diligently and after several minutes, had managed to remove enough of the brown stuff to pass FDA inspection. What is it, like three roach legs per ounce or something like that??

Right, so this time I threw the bad mixer in the GARBAGE and loaded the beaters onto the OTHER Hand mixer. I lowered it into the (mostly) clean Dream Whip and hit power. It surged to life beautifully, and as I whipped the cream, I found myself entering a Zen-like state that can only be achieved through the creation of (mostly) wholesome food for your loving family. After six minutes, I turned the mixer off, added the chocolate pudding mixes, a little vanilla and the rest of the milk. Feeling a bit like one of those Food Network chefs, I turned the mixer back on and went to work. And promptly dropped the mixer into the bowl, where it continued mixing merrily, sending great gouts of chocolate spewing out into my kitchen. Cursing furiously, I fought through the chocolate mixture, grabbed the mixer and managed to turn it off, even as it sprayed me down with gobs of chocolate pudding. I wish I was making this up. I really do.

I was now enraged. There was chocolate pudding ALL OVER MY KITCHEN!! On the cabinets, on the ceiling, on the canisters, and naturally, ALL OVER the damn mixer!! There was chocolate pudding in my eyes, in my hair, all over my shirt, and even between my toes. It looked like a nuclear chocolate bomb had exploded in my kitchen. Truly horrific words emerged from my mouth. I believe my eyes might have rolled back into my head. I was in the throes of the most exquisite anger; I wanted to pick up a butcher knife and mutilate the hand mixer beyond all recognition. Not that it was actually recognizable in its current state, since it was liberally coated with chocolate pudding and Dream Whip.

But I was not about to give in. By this time, I was so angry, I was going to finish the @)#*$)#(*$_)(*@_#*($_@#* pie if it killed me!! By God, the family was going to have the dreamiest (#&)($*@)(#*$)(@* Dream Whip Pie they had EVER HAD!!! Cursing wildly all the while, I grabbed the mixer, chocolate coating and all, and continued mixing the pie. Horrible words were coming out of my mouth…horrible. I mixed and cursed and mixed, all the while thinking to myself that the mixture didn’t look right. It was too thick. This made me even angrier. But I didn’t care because by golly we were going to have PIE IF IT KILLED ME!!! At the end of the proscribed two minutes, I turned the mixer off and flung it aside. As I scooped the pudding mixture into the shell, I knew it wasn’t right. It didn’t look or taste right.

Finally I admitted defeat. I flung down my utensils, picked up the boxes and realized I had gotten the wrong size pudding. So there wasn’t enough milk in the mixture. And there was two much chocolate pudding mix. And some brown crusty crap. I thought about scraping it all back into the bowl; actually, I tried it. The graham cracker crust buckled and the whole thing threatened to fall into the bowl. So I picked the whole thing up and, uttering one final, crazed curse, I threw the whole mess into the garbage and surveyed the wreckage. Chocolate pudding was everywhere, dripping down walls, and out of my hair. Dead pie in the garbage. Empty boxes everywhere. All this for a recipe with two steps that is written in language targeted to those with an IQ of 50.

The moral of the story is this: I am never going to make dessert again. Grocery store bakeries exist for people like me, those who should not operate any type of kitchen machinery. Don’t come to my house expecting homemade yeast rolls or fine pastries. I will, however, be glad to offer you a Pop Tart!

Last night I was sitting at the computer in a fog of exhaustion, listening to the noise ebb and swell around me. Someone, who never once touched the piano during the entire two years of lessons that she took, was pounding away at the piano behind me like Liberace in a gay bar. Since she only took two years of lessons, her repertoire is somewhat limited, so she kept playing the same primer piece over and over. Two or three or six children galloped madly through the house. People kept calling my name, leaning over my shoulder, tugging at my sleeve. Welcome to Hell.

Thinking to lessen the chaos somewhat, I suggested to Napoleon that he and MA go somewhere together. I didn’t really care where they went. The movies, the library, the meth lab down the street, just somewhere out of the house and away from me.

“No,” he said, “I’m not going anywhere with her. We’re fighting.” This was no news to me; my children are blessed/cursed with strong personalities and they are always fighting about something: the color of the sky, whose turn it is to unload the dishwasher, and other important issues of national security.

Mildly, I enquired as to the source of the argument and he said “Pop Tarts. MA hid the blueberry pop tarts and she won’t tell me where they are.”

MA whirled away from the piano (thank you JESUS!!!) and said “I only like the blueberry and everyone else eats them so I hid them!!!”

Really?? This is my life, refereeing disputes about Pop Tarts?? You see, lately the three older children in the family (I am including Stalin in that number) have decided that they adore Pop Tarts above all things. If I don’t cook dinner (which these days happens quite frequently) they are content to stuff themselves full of Pop Tarts. They consume them by the multi-pack. The landscape of my home is littered with silver Pop-Tart wrappers because no one ever throws them away. However, in this great paradise in which we live, a magical fairy comes through and picks up the wrappers, cursing like a sailor as she does.

I have to admit, I find the whole Pop Tart adoration thing a little sketchy. For starters, Pop Tarts are not particularly tasty. I find it interesting that Kellog’s bills them as “toaster pastries” because they resemble pastry in the way I resemble Christie Brinkley, which is not at all. Pastry is flaky, buttery goodness. The “pastry” in a Pop Tart resembles a rectangle of compressed sawdust. As a matter of fact, I think sawdust may be one of the primary ingredients. From the start Kellog’s has misled the Pop Tart consuming public by representing them as pastry because they are clearly not pastry. I am considering filing a class-action lawsuit on behalf of millions of Pop Tart consumers who were misled into buying them, thinking they were pastry. We are Americans and we should NOT be subjected to inferior pastry.

So you’ve got the compressed sawdust base, and then they add the thinnest smear of filling possible, just enough to add a technicolor layer of sugar. But if you buy one of the fruit-flavors, Kellog’s boasts that you are eating “REAL FRUIT”!! Again, the bright red ooze in the middle of a strawberry Pop Tart resembles real fruit the way the Pop Tart pastry resembles real pastry, which is not at all. Eating two strawberry Pop Tarts is not going to help you hit the magical 5 servings of fruits/vegetables recommended for you by the interfering government agency who handles these things (bastards, leave me alone, I’ll get as fat as I want!!). Let’s face it, you are not getting any adequate nutrition from the 1 Tablespoon of red, strawberry-flavored, high fructose corn syrup that Kellog’s is billing as “REAL FRUIT”! There’s no fiber, no minerals, there’s not even any Vitamin C in it! Not only is it not healthy, that stuff may even cause eyelid cancer in rats. At the very least, I’m pretty sure it takes four months for a Pop Tart to be completely broken down by your stomach acid. And you were going to eat that??

We’ve got the sawdust base, we’ve got the schmear of fruit or chocolate (personally I choose chocolate every time!!) and now it’s time for the FROSTING!! Because unfrosted Pop Tarts are like a Chippendales dancer wearing clothing. What’s the point??? Only the frosting on Pop Tart is like no frosting I’ve ever seen before. I believe the recipe is 2 parts Elmer’s glue, one part shellac, they paste it onto the Pop Tart and it instantly freezes into a hard, shiny, technicolor rectangle. Like roaches and tupperware, I’m pretty sure Pop Tart icing can withstand a nuclear blast and the ensuing nuclear winter, unscathed! But, just in case you are not enticed by the Pepto Bismol pink glaze on your cherry Pop Tart, Kellog’s goes that extra step and adds SPRINKLES!! Because everything, EVERYTHING, is better with sprinkles!!!!

Right, so my family ARGUES over these things. MA continued her argument passionately: “Daddy and Napoleon have strawberry and cherry and I don’t like those flavors, I only like blueberry, and Napoleon’s stupid friends come over and eat them and then I don’t get any. So I hid them!!!”

“I like blueberry, too,” Napoleon said, “so you better tell me where they are.”

“NO,” MA shrieked. “They’re mine!!” And as the argument continued, I stared blearily at the screen, grateful that summer is almost over!

Once upon a time there was a little blog. It started out small and was very cute, as many small things are. it was a place where its creator could air her views on serious issues. like condoms. and vacuum cleaners. and vomiting children.

and so the blog grew and grew until the author was writing huge, long posts about absolutely nothing, glorying in the dominion she had over words, twisting and shaping nouns and adjectives into new and exciting thoughts about nose hair and missing socks. she looked about her blog and saw that it was good. she didn’t get many comments, but being ever the optimist, she assumed it was because her literary feats were so dazzling, so awe-inspiring, that readers were rendered speechless, impotent, unwilling to comment on her writing for fear of looking insignificant beside the mighty blog mistress. they were afraid to try and match her scintillating wit and brilliant insights on toenail fungus. or maybe it’s just that the comments she did get represented the only actual readers of the blog, but she preferred the other explanation.

but one day she discovered she was bored. she no longer took pleasure in the small events of her day, the endless round of soccer carpools and girl scout meetings and meatloaves. she looked deep into her soul and discovered that what was missing was another college degree. ’surely,’ she thought to herself, ’surely if i get a master’s degree i shall find ultimate fulfillment and achieve my destiny.’ she was not actually sure what her destiny was, but she had a vague hope that it involved George Clooney and lots and lots of cocoa butter.

so, recognizing that her destiny would never be realized unless she went to school, she got a one hundred dollar bill from the man known as STALIN and she went downtown and took a test to get into school. she was not at all surprised that she performed very well on the test because filling in bubbles on standardized tests positively thrilled her (although it’s not at all the same kind of thrill that she would get from George Clooney and the cocoa butter) and so, test results in hand, she applied to graduate school.

in the early days of her back-to-school venture, she glowed with contentment. being in an institution of learning was unbelievably exciting. she loved the flow of new ideas, the camraderie with her peers, the shiny new school supplies. but gradually she discovered that, just as they had in the days of antiquity when she first went to college, these darn professors actually wanted her to turn in assignments. it wasn’t enough for her to sit at their feet, soaking up the knowledge they rained down upon her. no, they wanted her to apply that knowledge and show that she understood it. unspeakable bastards.

very quickly she became overwhelmed with loads of homework and projects that must be completed and returned in a timely manner. she began to gain weight because she had no time to cook the healthy, nutritious meals of hamburger helper and stouffer’s lasagna as she had in the past. and worst of all, she gradually began to lose interest in her poor little blog. how could she possibly blog when she had to construct test blueprints and create sample syllabi and write essays on the likelihood that juliette suffered from penis envy and committed suicide because she couldn’t take the nurse as a lover, as evidenced by the phallic nature of the vial of poison?

and so her blog readership began to decline and her readers began to seek their diatribes elsewhere. they went to tmz and that pioneer woman and *shudder* Fox News. the author was deeply saddened but she didn’t know what to do. because there were essays to write and books to read and bulletin boards to design. ok, granted she played more than her fair share of games of bejeweled blitz, but that doesn’t count. bejeweled blitz has educational merit and helped her develop better hand/eye coordination which could be important one day if the Geroge Clooney/cocoa butter thing ever pans out.

but one day, as she suffered in the thrall of a paper on william faulkner, she decided to visit her blog. it was a very sad place. cobwebs hung from the walls and drifted over the windows. stacks of half-finished blogs lined the room, random thoughts on mosquit bats and mushy peas begging to be finished. and she decided it was time to re-connect with her little blog. ‘i know,’ she thought, ‘i’ll write a post about my blog and i’ll write it in lower case because that will take less energy than using upper case. i’ll use grammar, though,’ she thought, ‘because i hate bad grammar.’ and that’s what she did!! she wrote a very long, extended piece on absolutely nothing.

and guess what? people read it!! and maybe a few of them will even comment on it, since it is a far cry from the glory days when she wrote long blogs on squirrels! hardly a masterpiece, but still a very worthy attempt at blogging. ‘although,’ she thought to herself modestly, ‘it’s still better than anything that cow Barbara Cartland could’ve written!!’

Tomorrow I have a job interview. I have always known that this “back-to-school” nonsense would eventually lead to gainful employment. My husband, somewhat unreasonably, thinks that if you spend $15,000 to get a degree you should seek gainful employment upon graduation. Myself, I think I could do with another five or six years in school before I get a job. I like taking classes!!

Although I am actually not slated to graduate for another year, I have now taken enough classes to be interesting to certain people. And so, when I heard that several English teachers at the local high school would be going on maternity leave in the fall, I contacted the assistant principal and advertised my availability. She knows me, and yet despite that, she agreed to see me anyway. And suddenly I am faced with my first real interview for my first real professional job. I tend to get really nervous during interviews and blurt out classics like “that hit-list thing at my last job was a big misunderstanding….” I am praying I can control myself. Here is a list of things I hope NOT to say during the interview:

Principal: Why are you interested in this job?
Me: My parole officer refuses to pay me child support, so I need to do something to make the bills.

Principal: How will you reach the English Language Learners in your classroom?
Me: I WILL TALK REALLY LOUD AND REALLY SLOW….

Principal: What if a student attempts to push the boundaries to develop an inappropriate relationship with you?
Me: Well, naturally we will only meet for drinks after school hours. And I promise not to post any pictures of us on Facebook.

Principal: How do you feel about “Team Teaching”?
Me: Will I be teaching the football team or the baseball team? Personally, I like the wrestlers because they’re big and dumb, but I’ll teach whichever team you want me to.

Principal: How will you handle discipline in your classroom?
Me: I know public flogging has fallen out of favor these days, but the federal government is prepared to cut me a sweet deal on some used waterboards….

Principal: What if a student asked you to attend a party after school hours?
Me: Dude!! Party?? I’m SO in!!! Will there be “BROWNIES”?? Just kidding man….

Principal: How will you differentiate instruction to reach learners with IEP’s (Individualized Education Plan…or something like that!!!)
Me: Naturally I will keep a supply of crayons and coloring books on hand for those kids that ride the….ahem….short bus!!

Principal: How do you feel about group learning?
Me: About the same way I feel about group sex…the more the merrier dude!!!

Principal: What about your syllabus?
Me: Well, it’s actually in remission right now, but I have antibiotics to take if it flares up again. How did you know about that??

Principal: What if a student talks back to you? How will you handle it?
Me: I have this chokehold I saw Hulk Hogan do once and I think it will work really well. Otherwise, just well-placed smack upside the head.

Principal: How will you handle a parental complaint?
Me: I will meet be glad to meet with parents anytime. I will happily explain to them that little Johnny cannot read because he is a horny, little crackhead and if he’d spend more time reading Shakespeare and less time looking at Hustler, he wouldn’t have so much acne.

Principal: How will you handle bullying in your classroom?
Me: I will personally beat the hell out of anybody that bullies another student.

Principal: Do you have references we can call?
Me: Yes, this one is my favorite guard from the prison and this one? She was the BEST nurse on the psych unit!

Right, so hopefully none of these things will come out of my mouth. Although I really like my syllabus question; close your eyes and imagine the dawning look of horror on the interviewer’s face as the meaning sinks in. Priceless!!

This morning I was sitting here at my computer when, unbidden by me, the song “I’ve Never Been To Me” popped into my head, fully formed, begging to be sung. If only I lived in Japan, where surely there would be a karaoke bar open at 10:00 a.m. on a Sunday morning, then I would be able to share the song with the world!! If ever a song was created for karaoke, it was this one hit classic from Charlene. Charlene who was so fabulous she only need the one name and the one hit to be remembered forever!! Alas, I live in Alabama, not in the Land of the Rising Sun (is that right?) and there are no karaoke bars open for heathen women who are skipping church and to engage in the devil’s play of karaoke. Since it is the millennium, however, I did the next best thing to karaoke. I found it on YouTube.

I found a wonderful version of the original that I fondly remember playing on the radio for many, many weeks on American Top 40! Someone (probably someone from Japan based on the comments below the video in Oriental script) created a powerpoint display of wistful looking women, looking off into the distance to accompany the song as it played. And they kindly included the lyrics! Thank goodness!! Because when I was in 8th grade, which is when the song came out, I was convinced that she was a “RICH AND MENTAL” wife. That’s actually not too far off the mark. Ok, fine, so the real lyric is “regimented” but I think I can make a case for “RICH AND MENTAL”! And is the lyric REALLY “subtle whoring” because I thought the whoring was actually pretty overt! I mean, the chick gets it on with a preacher man AND a king! She gets around, know what I mean?? Please notice as you watch the stanza that contains “THE ISLE OF NIECE”….even back in the day I knew it was “NICE”, pronounced “NEECE” to rhyme with GREECE!! Definitely a non-English speaker, or at least someone who can’t spell!!

I have spent the morning dancing around the house in my pajamas, gloriously alone, belting out the lyrics at the top of my lungs. I cordially invite you to do the same!! I haven’t been to paradise or to me, but I do know how to have a good time!!

I received this today….OH NO!!! MY ACCOUNT AS BEEN LOCK!!! Who in the Hell sent this??? Pepe LePew???? I’m wondering if I should click the link and let the Nigerians have their way with me!

!! Your Account As Been lock !! Update Your Account Now !!!!!!!! Chase Bank to you (bcc) - 13 min ago More Details Add to: To Do, Calendar
Access To Your Account Is Not Fraud Protected

Dear Customer,

Your account is not yet protected from fraud and identity theft .

Please click the link below to protect your account access.

CLICK HERE TO PROTECT ACCOUNT

Thank you for banking with us.

Security Advisor
© 2009 Chase Bank .

I have nothing to say. Less than nothing. My mind is actually a Void of nothingness, devoid of anything inspirational or funny, full of absolutely NOTHING!! But I’ll try. For you, my faithful, the last handful of pilgrims who still trek through the dust of the internet, who forgo surfing porn or reading TMZ just to get to my blog, I’ll try and think of something.

Wow. That was it. There doesn’t appear to be anything else to say. I’m racking my brains for something, but it’s just not there. Gonna try and think some more. Hold on.

Hmmmm….still nothing. This is bad. Embarrassing actually. I never have nothing to say. Usually I have so much to say that people run the other direction when they see me. No one wants to hear me pontificate for hours. And yet, faced with a blank page just BEGGING to be filled with my pontifications, I find I am pontification-less. I feel so empty and ashamed. Yet strangely exhilirated. How the HELL do you spell exhililrarted???? Fine, I’m enthusiastic!! Expressive!! Emotional!! Exemplified!! Exonerated!! Forget about exhillirated.

I am reading William Faulkner right now and the first section of “The Sound and the Fury” is a ’stream of consciousness’ narrative. It worked well for him. He’s a literary giant. I bet I can do it too!! I’m good at stuff like that. I can do SOC. So here I go. Streaming. It’s like a live feed, straight from my brain on a Sunday morning. I am just going to spew for a few minutes like the BP oil well beneath the sea, polluting your minds with my oily thoughts.

Actually, reading back over this, it’s really stupid. But I’m probably going to publish it anyway. I have to publish something or I’ll lose everyone to that Pioneer Woman. Ok, fine, she can cook. I can’t cook. Her husband looks like the Marlboro Man. Mine looks like Jed Clampett….actually, I always thought Jed was hot. There’s something about the rakish angle of his hat that suggests a latent sexuality just begging to be coaxed to the surface like…well…oil. Hmmm, I sense a theme here. Isn’t this how real writers write? Just babble until a theme emerges? I’m gonna go with it.

Not much going on in my world lately. School. Kids. School. Soccer. Kids. It all kind of runs together. I do have a wart on my foot. It’s the plantar kind and I have been battling it for three months. I was going to write a post about it and call it “I Lost the Wart but Won the Battle” only I can’t get rid of the damn wart, thereby nullifying the effect of my title. The wart started out as a tiny black speck. I thought it was a splinter, so I grabbed my trusty splinter removal kit (straight pin, lighter, tweezer, peroxide and vodka) and went t work. I dug around for a good ten minutes, but never could get the splinter, leading me to think that perhaps it might not be a splinter. This was confirmed a few weeks later when a large, ugly wart erupted on the sole of my foot.

And that sucker hurts!! Thus began the cycle of home treatments. I froze it, then applied wart pads, then applied duct tape, then pumiced it, then froze it again, then more wart pads and the BASTARD WILL NOT BUDGE!!! Even my husband, who deplores every medical copay I make, said “GO TO THE DAMN DOCTOR AND GET IT TAKEN CARE OF!!” Because, rightly so, he has accused me of spending twice as much on home remedies as the copay for a licensed physician. But it’s a matter of pride. I can kill this wart. I know I can. It’s just taking a little longer than I thought it would.

Yesterday, MA and I were at the Wal-Green’s, where I toyed with buying yet ANOTHER round of wart pads (at ten dollars a box, this being box three…yep, that would’ve been a copay!!). I picked up the store brand and read the directions, to see if it was effective for Plantar Warts. It didn’t say, but it did helpfully inform me not to use the product on “warts with hair growing out of them.” This struck us as deliciously hysterical!!! Warts with HAIR!! So funny!! No disrespect to any of you readers who have a wart with hair growing out of it, but come on….WARTS WITH HAIR!! Hilarious!!! I think if you have a wart with hair it’s a lot like having a furry little pet that lives on your body and is with you all the time. Definitely, if you have a WART WITH HAIR, you should give it a name. Like June. Or Marvin. And you should ‘love it and hug it and kiss it and cuddle it’!!!!

Right. This is the sum of my existence: Wart War. Nothing else going on here. I hope you’re not sorry you stopped. I’ll try to fall down again this week. Or at least have an amusing exchange with one of my children. I promise you won’t be subjected to another SOC blog again. I promise. Although I am going to hold a seance tonight and contact William Faulkner’s literary agent to see if he thinks I might have a future with this genre. Who knows, I may make into a Norton Anthology with my riveting Wart Sequence!!

My friend Sylvia, who lives in Germany, contacted me a few weeks ago and asked me if Napoleon would be interested in corresponding with a German pen-pal. The daughter of a friend of hers was looking for an American pen-pal because she wanted to practice her English. Since Napoleon is taking German and has a passion for all things German (including German girls!), I gave her his email address. And promptly forgot about it. However, few days ago, Sylvia contacted me again and said her friend had not heard back from Napoleon. I asked him about it and he told me he had not received her email. I decided I had probably screwed up the email address because he recently created a new one, disdaining the one I had started for him when he was ten, the one that was so locked down all he could look at online was Disney Channel. Ahhh….those were the days of wine and roses….the days when I still had COMPLETE control…

But I digress. I emailed Sylvia again and told her to just have the girl send her letter to me and I would make sure Napoleon got it. And so, on Saturday, I got this:

From: mechtatvoiya
Sent: Sat, Jun 26, 2010 6:50 pm
Subject: Hi my new friend!

Hi my new friend! (a nice start from a nice German girl!)
My name is Tatyana I hope my letter will find you in good mood. (Tatyana? I would’ve though Helga or Ursula, but what do I know about German girls?)
I for the first time try such a way of dialogue, and I really don’t know what to tell
right now even though I understand that this first message have greater importance. (awww…first time she’s sent an email to a foreign boy!!)
But I have decided to write to you and maybe you will answer. (well, yeah….that’s the point, right??)
I sincerely hope that you are looking for the same as I. (Whoa….he’s looking for a pen-pal…what are YOU looking for???)
Once upon a time, the loneliness has come into my home and since then does not want to let me off. (ominous turn here….LONELINESS???)
The loneliness establishes own laws of life and life filles with sadness and disappointment. (WHAT???? HUH????)
I freeze from loneliness. (Well put on a jacket, Fraulein!!! My kid is NOT going to warm you up!!!!)
Every evening I look at a sundown and I try to absorb all warmth of day, up to last drop. (What?? Like Folgers???)
I am looking for a partner in life to share simple pleasures and together take off from the soul the weariness and sadness given birth by loneliness. (Partner??? Partner???? I thought this was a pen-pal relationship, not a MARRIAGE!!!)
I am looking for a man to become friends first of all and to go together along the road of life, (HE’S SEVENTEEN!!! NOT A MAN!!!!!)
to have common joy, together enjoy autumn magnificence, together build the future. (FUTURE MY ASS!! WTF IS THIS????)
I do not know if it is really possible to find it in such a way. (Trust me, IT’S NOT POSSIBLE WITH MY SON YOU GERMAN HUSSY!!!!)
But I know that many people not been able to find happiness in the usual life, have found happiness in this way. (Getting more and more freaked out here!!)
I am happy where I now, and my life is a good life, but happiness has no sense if you cannot share it with person dear to you. (NO!!!)
I could not find here a man who will make me blossom like flower. (My son is not going to make any German hussy BLOSSOM LIKE A FLOWER!!! NO NO NO!!!!)
That is why I took this courageous for me step. (Step back bitch….leave my son alone!!!)
As speak, the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. (Again…step away from my son and no one gets hurt!!!)
To tell about itself briefly is impossibly, therefore I will not try to do it now. (That’s right…don’t try it NOW or EVER!!!!)
I will wait for your letter and if you are really serious in your search, maybe we will find interest in each other. (Nope, no interest!!! You’re gonna be waiting a LONG TIME!!!)
Neither of us knows to where this path will lead but I am willing to walk it and see where it takes us. (Let me assure you fraulein that it will take you NOWHERE!!!!)

Luckily, I read it before I forwarded it to him. Because….well….ummmm….the first few sentences were fine. Kind of sweet even. “I hope this find you in good mood”….such a sweet thought! But then she got to the “loneliness”. I thought she wanted to practice her English. “Loneliness” sounds like she wants to practice her French…kissing that is!! And she says she is looking for “a partner in life” and I thought all she wanted was a freaking pen-pal!! And “blossom like a flower”??? I’m telling you right now that my kid is not going to make ANYONE blossom like a flower, especially some German hussy pen-pal who is not a pen-pal at all, but apparently a sex-starved maniac looking for a date!!!

I read it through a couple of times. I read it out loud to my friends who were over to watch the USA lose their World Cup bid. We all agreed that she sounded like a girl in search of a green card, not a pen-pal!! Filled with righteous indignation, I contacted Sylvia and told her about it, upset that she was apparently pimping out my virtuous American boy to German hussies! She asked me to forward her the letter, which I did. Here is her reply:

I am rolling on the floor laughing.

Sorry, Jenny, but this is NOT from my friend Patricia over here.

lenta.ru = ru stands for RUSSIA.

I have NO IDEA who that might be and NO, I didn´t give her Napoleon’s email address!!!!

But if you would like to have a russian daughter in law who is sad and lonely, go for it ;-))

I can give you the address of the girls parents who wanted to contact Napoleon so you might want to get in contact first.

Well alrighty then!! Apparently Sylvia is NOT a Trans-Atlantic Madame, brokering out German girls to unsuspecting American boys. *blushses sheepishly* SORRY SYLVIA!!! Apparently….and how freaky is this??….it was just a COINCIDENCE that the letter came as Sylvia and I were trying to establish the pen-pal relationship between Napoleon and the nice, non-LONELY, German girl. I was beyond relieved. I love Sylvia and hated to think she had been reduced to pimping out kids!!

And so ends the love affair between Tatyana and Napoleon. She will have to try and hook another unsuspecting teenage boy!! Then again, maybe Tatyana was soliciting my husband. In which case, she BETTER LOOK OUT!!! Because I might just let her have him!!!