Oxymorons.

1.

"And for making fun of them, you get to clean the cafeteria."
"Awww. But.... but....!"
"Alone."
"Why?"
"Because your shirt is also untucked."
"It's not untucked. I just untucked it intentionally."


2.

"Wow. Really? Passing a note INCHES away from me. Smart."
"We were passing a note! But! Its not a note!"


Er..... is there something in the water here?

Miss Information, meet Mis-information.

Sometimes, these kids just kill me. Examples....

After school, Ms. C and I are outside, pretending like we could actually be of some use if a fight breaks out. One of her students comes up to us and says....

"Ms. C, if Mr. X doesn't like you, its just because he's English."
"English?"
"Yeah. You know. English. All of them guys over there, they're all like... you know. Liking guys."
"They do?"
"Yes. And he talks like them. He's serious like, (here, his pinky goes straight into the air, and he busts out a wicked accent) "may I have a cuppa tea?"

Ms. C and I are now looking at him like he's mad.

Ms. C's voice now, oozes sarcasm.
"And that means he likes guys."
"Well, if he doesn't go for YOU... he MUST."
"Thank you, Laredo. Go home."

So there you have it.
They don't know their multiplication.... but they "know" that the entire UK consists of gay men.
They don't know where the equator is... but they can do a great job pantomiming oral sex.
They know how to find brass knuckles... but not their homework.
They can get weed... but not to school on time.

Someone, please explain this to me.

Insults

In case you are curious, here are the insulting words/phrases we've learned so far.... (some of which, I use yo mama jokes with)...

acephalous chicken
ubiquitous slime mold
flea-bitten vagrant
racist xenophobe
narcissistic
lachrymose leper
absconding fugitive
petulant pansy
apathetic robot
raging halitosis
alarmingly Lilliputian
vapid valley girl
ophidian conspirator
recalcitrant brat
scatalogical sleeze bag
coprolite
duplicitous deceiver
flatulent spaz

Part 2: (in time for Halloween)
pilfering prosimian
putrid pile of tripe
neurotic vampire
mephitic werewolf
unctuous manipulator
gangrenous corpse
pustulating sea hag
repulsive cephalopod
addlebrained recluse
necrotic zombie
melancholic pessimist
vacuous sasquatch
microcephalic imbecile
bumptious jock

Anybody know 'em all? Oh, how I love words....

Shoulders and Pride

At the end of the day, I take my last class to gym. They know to walk straight out of my room and stop at the end of the wall.

For a straight line I look for two things.
1) That each student has their right shoulder touching the wall.
2) That all of them are looking forward.

Of course, there are always several who aren't doing these two simple things. So, for the first few days, conversations like these could be heard:

"Where are your shoulders PEOPLE?!"
"Right here Miss J!" Point, point.
"Connected to my arms!"
Asses.
"Where should the be?!"
"On me!"
"Okay, people. Everybody, put your shoulder on Jesus."
"NOooooooo!"


And "Okay, you keep looking behind you, and I'm going to turn you to stone!"
"How are you going to turn us to stone?"
"Have you not SEEN my face?"
"WHAT?!"

Then a bright student: "Dude. She's saying she's Medusa."
"Yes. 10 points for you, Tiffany. I am a Gorgon. So hideous, I turn you to stone. Whaa! Boom. Stone."
"Wait, is that the lady with the snakes for hair?"
"Yes. That's me. Now look ahead lest you want my venom hair to sting you dead."
"I thought you were going to turn me to stone. I can't be poisoned if I'm stone."
"Oh, for the love of God! Can we go?"
"Yes, Miss J."

Then, one day, I asked again.... "Where should your shoulders be?"
Rosalie looks at me, gleaming with mischief. "On the floor," she responds.
I raised an eyebrow. "Really?"
She nods.

"Okay everybody, that's it! You heard the woman! Shoulders on the floor!"
A cacophony. A chorus.
"Are you for REAL?!"
"You can't be serious!"

Oh, but I am. Shrieks, and all 30 8th graders drop like stones.

Now, this is a game. Every once in a while, they'll look at me now, in the mood for trouble, knowing that moments later the hallway could be flooded with other 7/8th graders... eyes sparkling.. knowing this is our strange inside joke....and one kid will say questioningly "Shoulders?"

"Shoulders!" I'll shout. They all grin, groan madly, and collapse to the ground. Then, crack up, scream at Eduardo (the one kid who won't participate) ... then jump back to their feet, and we start walking, all giggling quietly to ourselves.

Today, was one such day. Only, as they are all dropping to the ground, who walks out of his room? Mr. X. Oh yeah. He starts leaping over them, obstacle course style. Until his foot slightly snags Tiffany. And out of her mouth come the purest, most beautiful words I've ever heard.

With ease, with grace, with total comfort, and without a second's thought she says:

"Leave me alone, you dirty vagrant!"

The sound was deafening. A tidal wave. A roar. Every kid went ballistic with laughter, gut-shaking laughter. I doubled over, quaking in delight.

See? There is a reason I teach my kids (using the scientific method, of course) an insult of the day. There is a reason I pound college level words into their heads every day. There is a reason I test them, even though its technically not science. For when, they really want to curse out someone they really shouldn't.... brilliant, intelligent words spew forth instead of curses.

I could not be more proud.

Pray on It

"Miss J, you have halitosis from kissing Mr. Faulk."
"Yes, that's totally true."
"No its not! How would she even find his mouth? His forehead's so shiny she'd be blinded before she got there...."

-----------------------------------------------------------------
"Miss J, as a religious individual, I don't think science is relevant to my life."
"Well that's very interesting, Bryan. Good luck with that."

30 seconds later. Bryan, quiet smart ass, raises his hand.

"I'm sorry.... do you need help with your science? From your science teacher?"
"Yes."
"Well, I don't think I'm quite the person you want to talk to. Don't think I'm qualified. You know who you should talk to?"
"Who?"

I grin.

"God."

I pause for effect. Glorious, glorious effect. Fold my hands angelically, look toward the heavens, blissful smile on my face.

"Pray on it, Bryan. Pray on it. Maybe divine intervention will give you the answer. Maybe a miracle will happen. Pray on it. See how that works for you."

I walk away. Grinning to myself. In my wake, the table of divas plus one sheepish Bryan erupts.

"AWWWWW Daaaaaaaamn, she got YOU! BUUUUURN! You just can't GET her!"

My grin widens.
30 seconds later.

"For real, Miss J, help?"
"Seriously? After all that?"
"Seriously."

Another raised eyebrow.
"We good? You gonna work now and stop givin' me crap?"
"We're good. Sorry about that."
"Mm-hmm. What's the problem?"

Temperature Rising

After school, I'm in my room grading papers. Kids in various sports stream in and out so I can sign slips saying they aren't failing my class.

William walks in.
"Daaaaaamn, Miss J. Why's it so hot in here?"

I don't even look up from my papers. Before I can think, I hear my voice, matter-of-factly say:
"Clearly.... because I'm in here."

A pause, and a trickle of laughter erupts from William's lips. Two seconds later, Edgar walks in.

"Why's it so hot in here?"
Again, I cannot resist. The monotonic drone repeats.
"Obviously.... because I'm in here."

I look at William, and before Edgar can even react, we both explode with laughter.
Edgar laughs and shakes his head. Both boys leave, I go back to my papers, little smirk on my face, hoping another kid will come in and ask the same stupid question.

This is just never going to get old.

The Greatest Gift of All

For whatever reason, our building is infested with various endoskeletal creatures. The ELD teachers' rooms are especially infested, and they've learned, relatively quickly, that the women on the floor are the ones to call. The ones who don't mind bugs. The ones who can kill them with one pretty squish of the high heel. The men? Well, they go a bit white in the face and scream girlishly from the edges of their desks, bodies crouched and shaking.

I only exaggerate a little.

For some reason, however, two of the teachers have decided that I like bugs. Because three times now, I've gotten them as gifts. Now, the first, granted, was quite impressive-- a bright iridescent green beetle about an inch in diameter. He was cool. I put him in a little plastic container and placed him on the desk of Mr. X who, like some of my girly-girls, panic at the sight of any creature with more than four legs. (He, in turn, tried to scare my girl Monica with it by placing it either on or extremely close to her... but she just looked at it and said "Cool"... cus she's my girl. :) )

But then this week? I got a grasshopper. And then a cricket. The kids bring them to me with a smile, cupped hands. The transfer. And oh, lovely. Another insect to put in my room. Thank you. Let's think positively.... Now we can have an insect symphony. And crickets are good luck.

The other good thing about handling insects on a near-daily basis? I don't mind holding their squirming bodies so much anymore. In fact, just the other day, I was in the cafeteria when a cricket scampered across the floor in front of me. Jaleeza, one of my 8th grade girls, saw it and started screaming. (And if you know Jaleeza, you know that this is not pleasant--even her normal speaking voice is decibels above that of a jet engine taking off....)

"Oh my GOD what IS that THING?!" she shrieked.
"It's just a cricket," another girl replied, annoyed, as she was half squished by Jaleeza's squirming, terrified body.

I just grinned. And picked up the cricket. And started walking towards her.
"You want to get a closer look, Jaleeza?"

Oh, the screaming. And the laughter. Some days I just crack myself up. That ability? The greatest gift of all.

Snippets II

One of my students has this insane, plastered-down, curly hair. He looks like a Latino Ken doll, hair all plastic-y and one piece. Last week, I bribed him.... let the hair go, own it, and you get yourself some cookies. Two bags of Oreos? Deal.

So, Jesus let's the fro-go, I grin, pass over the goods, and then, Monday comes, and his bright, mouthy girlfriend Bryanna decides to poke a little fun at me.....Bryanna, possibly the only student who knows with absolute certainty that there is nothing going on between myself and Mr. F..... Bryanna who's just trying to give me shit.

Bryanna: "So, you're in love with Mr. Faulk. We know. Cuz you gave him TWO bags of cookies." Her eyes glint. A twisted little grin spirals on her face.

Me: "Well, by that logic.... I'm also dating Jesus. As, I gave him two bags of cookies on Friday as well."
Bryanna: "Back off Miss J! ...I thought I trusted you!" Sniff.
Well... stop givin' me lip, woman....and I'll stop.... Wow. Yeah. Gotta stop making comments like that before I get fired.

Course, I'm incorrigible. I need to keep myself entertained. So, the insanity continues.
Usually when the kids leave my room, I have the last kid flip off the light. This day, however, I flipped it off just as they started walking out.... The room blossomed with the requisite amount of ooOOOOoooos at the sudden darkness. And of course, I have to open my big mouth.

"I know it's all dark in here, but....no making out in my room! You hear me?"
The kids walk out, giggling.
"I'm serious. There will be no making out in here. This is a making out free zone."
Now I'm just asking for it.... Here comes Leslie....
"Oh come on Miss J, you KNOW if you had a boyfriend at this school youd be making out in here ALL THE TIME."

Err...... Wow.

Perpetuation

So, remember that Boy? Well, here's the wee detail I neglected to mention, which makes the whole thing relevant to this blog-- he works with me. Let's call him Mr. X. (He's a math teacher. X is the most common letter used as a variable. And the situation is currently an "unknown".....Wow. Dorkiness prevails.... Don't tell anyone that you know and love me....)

Hence last post's "something I thought I would never do." Date a co-worker? Horrible idea! The rumor mill, the drama, being "that couple," having everyone know my business, the sea of broken 7th grade hearts....

No thank you!

Three things save me and make it all completely worth it:
1. The fact that he is (get your barf bags now) utterly, astonishingly, amazingly good to me.
2. The hilarious assumptions the kids make.
3. Mr. Faulk, my hero.

Let's go to #2. The kids, in all of their adolescent glory, assume that Mr. X is dating Ms. C-- the 8th grade math teacher (Should she be variable Y? Cus then they could be X and Y! Like on a coordinate grid!!!! .... Ohhhhh....here I go again. Pretty soon I'll be bustin' out algebraic equations...)

Anyhow, Ms. C's friendly and bouncy and platinum blonde and hilarious. X and C's rooms are right next door to each other and the best part? Adjoining window. Shenanigans ensuing? Oh yes. There is constantly a prank war going on.
Let's do the math here:
1. They're both math teachers. Common ground? Check.
2. He's an insufferable flirt. Enough said.
3. She's the type of girl that most guys go for.
And they get along. So clearly, clearly, they must be dating, right? Right?!

She's the type of teacher the boys think dirty thoughts about, and he's the kind of teacher the boys idolize (he's their coach) and the girls love even more (especially the way he hip-sways when he walks...according to Bryanna). So, of course, it seems like the match made in heaven.

X + C = LOVE (Awwwww yeaaaaah!)

Here's what the kids see: Mr. X and Ms. C walking together, laughing. Nearly every day.
Says two students: "Oh, Miss J, they have SUCH chemistry! You should see them. They're so good together."
Says me: "Oh yes. Definitely. Very cute."

What the kids don't know: The reason Ms. C is laughing? She's teasing Mr. X about me, and as his face starts to turn scarlet, or as he tries to deny whatever nonsense they both know is true... she bursts into laughter. Perfect.

The kids tell them about all of their dates, and Ms. C agrees with it all. From time to time, she tells them she's going to break up with him, and they scream and whine "No, Ms. C! Give him another chance! He's a really good guy!"

But, there's a glitch. There's a 9th grader who comes back to visit all the time, and for whatever reason, he's figured it out. I walked into Mr. X's room after school. Juan, the student, looked at me, looked at X and went "Mmm hmm."
Like "Oh, yeah. I got this."
He looked straight at X and said "You WILL be telling me by the end of the day who you are dating." And then stared me down. Broke into a grin. And walked out the door.

Shit, shit, shit! The problem isn't Juan knowing. The problem is that Juan's best friend's brother is an 8th grader. In my class. An 8th grader with an exceptionally large mouth. If Juan knows, his best friend will find out, which means his little brother will find out which means ....the entire school will erupt.

So, enter my savior, Mr. Faulk.
Thursday, between two of the last periods of the day, while at least 80 kids are standing out in the hallway, Mr. Faulk says "Miss J, dinner, Saturday?"
My eyes light up. I stop in my tracks, and twirl like the most excited girl in the world. My hair orbits wildly around my face. I brush it from my lips and look at him with wide, luminous doe eyes.
The kids go silent.
"Really?!"
He grins, seeing how totally full of shit I am. I nod, giggle girlishly, scamper around the corner, burst into laughter, and start down the steps as some of the kids start to go wild. Chimpanzees on parade. The oohing, the aahing, the excited cacophony erupting.

At duty, at the end of the day, a sea of kids swarm me.
"So, is it TRUE?! Is it TRUE, Miss J?!"
"Don't deny it, Miss J. I was THERE. I HEARD it!"
"SECRET LOVAHHH!"

I widened my eyes and blinked them innocently. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Denial, as you know, is a powerful tool. The more you deny it, the more they believe it. Damn, I'm good (but nothin' at all without the Faulkster).

The next day, to thank Mr. F, I brought him in two bags of those high-quality, Pepperidge farm cookies in the little white, aluminum lined bags. But did I deliver them myself? Ohhhh no. Think efficiency. Let's get that rumor mill workin' in my favor....

I had kids deliver them and worked it out so that each of my 4 classes would know me givin' F some suga' before the end of the day: first hour gives it to his first hour-- my third hour. Second hour gives it to his second hour-- my fourth hour. PERFECT!
On one bag, I stuck a pink post it note, Mr. Faulk, thank you so much for everything you've done for me....

By the end of the day, the kids were even more chaotically excited.

"You and Mr. Faulk can NOT stop talking about each other."
"You guys are like, so totally in love."
"Miss J, you'll never believe it!"
"What?"
"Mr. X is TOTALLY JEALOUS!"
"WHAT?!... er. I mean... what?"
"Well, he saw the cookies and tried to STEAL them. But Mr. F said "I know enough secrets about you that you do NOT want to take those cookies!" So, Mr. X stops in his tracks, turns and puts them back on the table. TOTALLY JEALOUS."
Oscar chimes in. "Totally. OOH! Ooooh! You know what you should do? You should write Mr. X a love letter to make Mr. F jealous."

Me: "But I'm friends with Ms. C. Won't that make her mad?"
Oscar: "No! Have her help you! Let her in on it!"
Me: "I'll keep that in mind....."

But again, Faulk comes to my rescue. This morning, Faulk told the kids how romantic our Saturday date was, how we shared and appetizer and desert to save on money. The kids ate it up and walked into my room with knowing grins on their faces.

The best part? Knowing that one day, they'll probably figure out the truth... and the looks on their faces when it dawns on them that we'd been messing with them the WHOLE TIME? Ohhh! It is going to be absolutely priceless.

"INSTANT DEATH!"

A couple days ago, I got a new student.... seemed all spunky and intelligent, which I like. I like the punks. Today....

"So, if we're going to puzzle out what 'vapid valley girl' means, we have to look at the word vapid. What part of speech is it?"
"Its an adjective," new kid says with a scorn-filled smirk.
"It is? How do you know?"
"Because its describing."
"But, adverbs also describe. How do you know its not an adverb?"
A pause.
He looks me dead in the eye.

"What's your point?"
Now, its my turn to pause. Seriously? Did this kid just ask me what my point was?
"Well, both describe words. So what's the difference between an adjective and an adverb?"
"What's your point?"

AGAIN?! Okay. War. Let me roll up my sleeves, baby. I'm going to enjoy this.
I leaned forward, cold smile silently feathering across my face.
Quietly, grinning like a shark, I say "You really want to fight this with me?"

And from the back, Big William, one of my favorite kids from two years ago screams...
"Ohhhhhhhh! OOOOOOOhhh! Not smart! INSTANT DEATH! INSTANT DEATH!"
His smirk shrinks. Damn right, I think.

I grin wider. William has totally made my day. And now I am a predator. Instant death? Oh no. I'm gonna gut him. With a grin.

"Anyone? Difference between an adjective and an adverb?"
Iris, the most vain and one of the most intelligent girls in class says "Duhhhhh! An adjective modifies a NOUN and an adverb," she spits out the sarcasm, "an adverb modifies, oh I don't know... a VERB?" She shakes her head and rolls her eyes.
My grin has now reached epic proportions.
"Very good, Iris. Thank you."

I stare back at Newbie. I smile. And then playfully, I say "And there we have it. So, next time, maybe, if you want to be a smart alec and challenge me.... next time, it might be a good idea to know the right answer. Eh?"

He doesn't say anything. I've won this battle. I haven't let him ruffle me. He's testing me, seeing if I'm possibly smarter than he is. I've got to earn his respect yes, but the little bugger's got to earn mine too.

Later, I pulled him outside as the rest of the kids were working.

"Here's the thing. I like you. You're smart. You've got personality. You've got spunk. I like that. But you don't know me. And I don't know you. Those kids in there? I've known some of them for going on three years now. You've got three days. They've got my respect and I've got theirs, which is why I can play, which is why I can talk smack and get back to work. But you? I don't have your respect yet, and you don't have mine. So, we're not crossing that line. We're not playing until you know where that line is. So, when you've got MY respect, then, game's on. But until then? Sit back and learn. Fair?"

He shakes his head. "Yeah."
"Yes ma'am," I correct.
He looks at me, into my cold eyes, "Yes ma'am."
The coldness melts. I open the door for him. "Now, that's more like it. Welcome."

Booyah.

Phat.

Today, the principal came in to watch me teach. She sat in the back, typing away as I did my thing, acted ridiculous and had fun with my last hour class.

I wanted to recap a story I had told them the day before ... but none of them would summarize it for me. Suddenly one girl pierces the silence:
"You're FAT!"
I pretended to be horrified and shocked "I'M FAT?!?!? How.... I..... Oh my god.... How could you...."
"NO! In the STORY. In the STORY you were fat."
I ignore this.
"Oh my GOD, you're right I am fat," I replied. Then, my eyes sparkled....
"P-H-A-T, baby! Awwwwww, yeah!"

Later: "Okay, eyes, eyes, eyes, eyes. I need all your pretty little eyes on me please. I know I'm hideous and I'll probably turn you to stone... but I still need your eyes if you can bear to look at me for just a moment."

Later: "Thank you, my dear students, for making me look good in front of the principal. I mean, let's be honest here, I already look reaaaaaaaaally good, so its not much of a stretch."

Student: "Miss J, you have some serious issues with your personal appearance."
Student 2: "Yeah, first she was all acting like a narcissistic mirror-gazer, and she's acting like a hideous monstrosity, and now she's back to being like a vapid valley girl again."
Me: "Okay, first, I'm joking. And secondly, I did not teach you those insults so you could use them against me."
Student 2: "Can we use them against Mr. Faulk?"
Me: "OH yeah. Totally. Or, rather... maybe just teach them to him. Mr. Faulk has a small vocabulary."
Student 3: "Them's FIGHTIN' words, Miss J!"
Student 4: "We taught him halitosis so now he can say you have bad breath intelligently."
Me: "Again.... not supposed to use our intelligent insults.... against me. You punks."
Student 3: "You love us."
Me: "Yes, yes I do."

Taking Flight

So, while school has been taking up tons of time, as per usual, it isn't the reason I've been such a slime-mold about updating. The reason? I've been holding off sharing a story some of you already know. This blog, generally speaking, I reserve for school-related stories. Yet as any teacher knows, the two worlds become so utterly entwined sometimes, that stories are hard to separate. Plus, the situation was more delicate than sunbaked wings of a dragonfly. But, the time for being delicate has passed on to the time for being honest.

This year, as I've mentioned earlier, is a year for me. A year to write and draw and play and learn. A year for me to refuse to be boxed in. A year to really work on myself. A year to be undefinable. A year to say I have no regrets. A year to make myself the person I want to be in full. A year of good habits. A year for the soul. A year of friendship, of exploration, of adventure. A year for me.

So, I did something I never thought I'd do. Nope. Not skydiving. No to joining a shooting range. Also no to karate and horse whispering. No, even, to taking bootay-shaking classes. (Which, really, is a shame, no?)

Instead of all of those things..... I stirred up the drama pot something awful, got a terrible, terrible stomach ache, twisted my hands in frustration, furrowed my brow into crevasses and nearly gnawed off my bottom lip. Why? Because I'd been laughing, euphorically, for weeks.

That makes sense, right? To be terrified because I'd been skipping around, grin on my face, feeling free? Feeling like a flood of shimmering golden butterflies were swirling around me, lifting me gently me and giving me wings, strong and powerfully gliding. Monarchs in migration to warmer climates; monarchs migrating to better times. Feeling like, I can do anything. Floating, lifting, climbing into the stratosphere. Jettisoning into space. Propelling into wonder. Why? Again, if you know me at all, you know.
As it turns out, there's this boy......

WAIT!
Halt!
Stop now!
Quit thy eyes from reading! Turn off your brain completely! It's about to get sappy. And if sap causes the gag reflex or reverse-peristalsis... you will be hurling your Oreos all over your monitor! Cease, I say. (And desist! my mother would add)

No? Going to be difficult? Okay. You asked for it...

So it goes like this....

Girl invites boy to hang out, purely platonically. They've known of each other for a year, but don't really know one another at all. Girl is curious and sees a potential partner in crime; she is always on the lookout for a fellow mischief-maker, you see. So, boy and girl go to the bookstore, talk about nerdy mathematic/science-y things, eat lunch, dress up in ridiculous outfits and laugh, heads tilted to the heavens and chortling.... all day. Then, while walking amidst commerce, misty lights, and winking stars; among the sounds of laughing children and the splash of fountains, the girl has this thought, this sudden, epic, striking, lightning-bolt thought:

This boy is going to be one of my best friends.

She stops for a second, pauses her feet from chasing him through the fountain, and looks at him through half-squinted eyes. Eyelashes dotted and sparkling with droplets, eyes seemingly dotted with these watery sequins, she knows. A best friend. She can feel it. Being with him feels like being with every Great Friend I've ever had.
She also knows she's gleaming, and that it's not from the soft spray of water, its not the subtle glow of perspiration from the scampering. Its from the smile that glints in both sets of eyes. As children squeal and squeak, as the light glows blue, colored my neon lights, as the moon in its nearly-whole state beams, the girl, a guarded-ninja by trade.... becomes the little girl she is with only her best friend in the galaxy.

She realizes, (another lightning-bolt moment) that the whole time, she's been the Real Her. She's there, in all her glory. Every ounce of the Girl. There's no fear, no holding back. The silly voices and dances and nuances are all there. There's this feeling, this feeling of complete and utter comfort. Yes, this boy is going to be one of her best friends.

A week passes, a mere seven days, and hours of conversation helps bloom a budding friendship into an explosion of unfurled petals. The girl unleashes her darkest demons on the boy, unloads trunk-loads of baggage, spews her most horrid memories, and he doesn't flinch. She unleashes her total and complete Silly Monster... and he doesn't flinch. She opens the box of Utter and Rampant Denial and refuses to admit that the boy's actually kind of ridiculously adorable.... And he doesn't flinch. And so, the dastardly dance of flirtation begins. The girl, terrified of making waves, suddenly panics.

What if, what if, what if... what if this goes all to hell?

But then a Voice of Reason (named Liz) asks back "What if it doesn't?"

Another voice. "You're YOU when you're with him. And you're not always you."
A third voice with a possible smirk. "I could get behind that."
A fourth voice, absent, detached, not in-the-know, and far away. "So, when are you two going to hook up?"
A fifth voice with a raised eyebrow. "You like him. Own it. You can't stop smiling at your phone."

And so, favoring experience over stagnancy, adventure over routine, the girl takes a deep breath, spreads her tiny muscle-barren arms, let's go of the denial and the lingering fear, and lets the monarchs take her.

To be continued.....

Speaking of Being an Ass...

So, this story involves Mr. Faulk again, and if you wouldn't know any better, you'd probably assume that I had a mad crush on him. The kids think I do, in fact, and sometimes refer to him as being my "secret lover," which, for reasons I'll make clear (eventually) I totally perpetuate. Oh yes. Mr. F? So dreamy.

Anyhow, a few days ago as I was walking my little darlings back from lunch, Mr. F handed me a cookie. Naturally, I started picking off chunks and eating it in front of my kids who all stood attentively in line. Attentively, of course, because they wanted me to share. HA! Oh, funny kids.

"OOOoooooo! Mr. Faulk gave Miss J a COOKIE!" (Give me some!)
"SECRET LOOOOOV-AHHHH!" (Can I have some?)
"oooOOOOOooooo!" (Miss J, where's mine?)

"Yep. Mr. Faulk. Is dreamy. And no, I'm not sharing. (You're mean!) Yes. I know. I'm terrible and evil and a dictator. Can we walk now?"
We walk a bit, I nibble my cookie, and one of my girls goes "You know, Miss J, for a little white girl you got BOOTY!"

Oh sweet lord. AGAIN!?

"1) No, I don't. 2) WHY ARE YOU LOOKING AT MY BUTT?! Sickos."

"No, really, Miss J. (turns to a friend) "She's got WAAAAY more booty than you do!"
"Nuh-uh!"
"Oh yeah. Miss J. Booooo-tayyyyy!" (girls crack up. I cover my butt and keep walking.)

Maybe that should be my rapper name, eh? Miss J Bootay? Once again, all I can do is shake my head.

Rapalicious Miss

Once again, let me apologize for being an ass.
I am sorry. I am an ass. I have neglected you for far too long and you have every right to smite me and give me leprosy. Or thumb your nose at me. Or some other such nonsense.

To get you to forgive me, I shall now write several entries. To delight you. Or, more so, to get myself out of this terrible, terrible mood I'm in. But more on that later.

I know it's been a horribly long time since I've written, and if you're a follower with any decent sort of regularity (or lack there of as I've been said ass), you know that about me by now-- I get all caught up in the moment and can't escape. Only for me, moments are like weeks.

Have hijinks ensued? Of course. Just today, while having story time, when my Smart board screen went black, instead of saying "could you put that back on please?" I looked at particularly sexually charged group of 8th graders and said "Could one of you tap that?"

Tap that.

Which, in the world of 8th graders is slang for... well, you know. Or, you should if you are in the know at all. Watch any ho-rap video.
What did they do? Cracked up. Rolled on the floor with tears in their eyes. No joke. (Course, we were on the floor to begin with so it wasn't much of a stretch for them to get there.) I, naturally, could NOT laugh as that would mean owning up to the fact that I'd realized what I'd said.
No, Leslie, I do not want you to have wild and dirty sex with the Smart board. *smacking forehead*

Also, I had earlier planned a rap-off with one of my fellow teachers. But, as life has it, we both got busy. I have my rap written, but do I have it memorized? Nope! Do I have my ghetto-fabulous outfit planned? Nope! Do I have my cheering hoard of fans... well, yes. Yes I do.

I had thoughts about not posting my raptastic-writing here as I know my fantastical team-mate does read this blog and wanted the rap to be a surprise.... but at this point.... well, its just too good to leave the rest of you waiting. So, for your utter amusement (moreso if you actually know the Wondrous Faulkster):

Mr. Faulk's Rap:...

Mr. Faulk be sayin’ that
I’m an albino
but rhino’s have more
flavor to savor than this
Florida native
who’s got less color
than vapor.

Rockin’ out polos,
Faulk be swinging solo
tryin to ride the
gansta wagon
sock pulled up neat
draggin’ feet and
and leanin’ like a cholo.

His pick up lines
lay lame like a possum,
a bit of a late blossom,
Fresh Prince of Glendale
since lederhosen was
awesome.
Oh wait I forgot
that’s never been in style
I kid you not
this mama’s boy’s got it
off by a mile.

Roots and suffxes
have him lustin’,
before class
busting out moves with
sass wondering where his
homies be at.
Sayin’ “What up dawg?”
wishin’ he was wearing a
backwards hat to cover
that forehead,
fillin’ me with dread
every time I see it
gleaming, beaming light
and waking up the
dead.

He’s so tough
bees flee when they see
that grin on his face
displacing his
scowl when he’s playin’
at being serious.
Or maybe
his fearful flailing displaces
all perilous insects from their
original places.
Either way, spiders
bees and outsiders
make him whirl,
spinnin’ and screamin’ like
a little school girl.

Hope he can spit
back rhymes like
a viper but thinkin’
he’s all hype and
hyper so far singing
only one line at a time.
What skills he’s got, its not
clear, so far only
“ain’t gonna be no
grindin’ up in here.”

Gimme a breath mint.
For a minute
hint that I smell
well, bring it on, Greggy
keep talking’ crap
but now you know that
this white girl can rap.

All's I gotsta do is add a "word, yo" at the end. That'll make me genuine, right? That and a pair of giant hoops that have my name curled in them in giant swirling script. Oh yes. I am 1) and ass but 2) also a badass. Right?...

As heard in Miss J's class....

5 Cookies for you if you can tell me what this phrase means:

"Optimus Prime, Kangaroo!!"

Needed: One Breath Mint

Last week, as I wait in the hall, I see one of my girls, Leslie, walking towards me. She's got fire and mischief in her eyes, and she's walking toward me like she's on a mission from God. Before I know it, she's standing right in front of me, and is staring me down, smart ass grin on her face.

"Miss J, Mr. F says that you seriously need a breath mint."
"What?! That's crazy. He would never say that."
"Well, he did."
"I don't believe you. Mr. F would never say that. That is an extremely unprofessional thing to say, and he would never stoop to that level."
"Well, he did."

"You know what? Let's go ask him. We have time. And if I find out you're lying to me, you are SO getting detention."
"Deal."

30 students and one teacher walk down the hall, excitement brewing in the air.

"Mr. F, Leslie tells me that you said I was in dire need of a breath mint. Did you say that?"
"No! I would never say that."
"That's what I told her."

"NO! He's LYING!" Leslie screams, stomping her feet.

"I also told her I'd give her detention if I found out she was lying to me."
"I think that's a great idea."

"This is SO UNFAIR! He's LYING!" A whole crowd gathers, looks curiously.

Mr. F grins at me, then looks calmly at Leslie and smiles.
"Leslie," he says, "you've just been punked."

High five. And done.
And that's how you get the respect of smart ass 8th graders.

The Experiment Continues: Enter the Poet

So, after being humiliatingly rejected and turned into a spurned lover (okay, that's all utter nonsense, but it sounds more dramatic, doesn't it?) I was convinced by several insanely-minded people to join one of those horrific dating websites.

I was sold once I realized that it would be perfect fodder for this blog. Meeting Copious Amounts of Horrendous Guys But Not Dating = impressive amounts of ridiculous stories. Meeting Seemingly Decent Guys and Dating = impressive amounts of ridiculous stories. Thus, the experiment begins.

First of all, let me just say... that I still consider myself the same awkward thing I was at age 12. The braces, glasses, skin issues, ears that stuck out like satellite dishes.... bad perm... not a pretty picture. So, even if I have pictures of myself I like, I still am That Girl. However, this apparently doesn't come across on the internet.

To try and show this nerdy, playful side, I started my profile off like this: "I spent my childhood in the Midwest, camping, climbing trees, making up dances, writing silly stories, exploring, checking out every book in the library, building ridiculous forts and singing Mariah Carey songs so loudly, my parents were sent into waves of convulsions."

I talked about being a science teacher, and briefly about my travels, of which there are more pictures of than myself. I talked about how its the little things that make a difference, like leaving sticky notes for the person to wake up to. And lastly, that I didn't need a man at all.

I thought, that ought to ward off the players and the.... okay. I'm an idiot. You know this. I am blissfully unaware of how I appear to the opposite sex, apparently.

The astounding statistics?
In 4 days.... I got 106 emails. I was "winked" at 75 times. Over 30 people favorited me and my profile has been visited a mortifying 1,041 times. Insane and unbelievable? Yes. Mind-boggling? Also yes. A little creepy and mystifying? Makes me want to get a doberman and post pictures of my grandmother instead? Yes and yes.

I will, when I have a bit more time, post some of the more horrific e-mails I've received, but this one, today, made me laugh out loud.

Backstory: This guy had written me a quick e-mail. I checked out his profile and saw that everything rhymed. So, in typical Miss J style.... I made fun of him. (Surprised?)

And this is what I received:

I got more rhymes than the other guys do, they're just the chimps I'm the whole damn zoo.

At 13 she was just a young buck building basement forts, dropping Carey's notes in her tacky jam shorts. Sticking bubble tape under the Mrs Butterworth's table all just to get back to her My Little Pony play stable.

He was just a young punk spitting rhymes like his favorite MC, Bust a Move was the note to be. Times have changed and so have we, Imogen Heap could never replace her old cds.

From the Midwest? I put this game to a three question test. I bet she's with the Barack party-a native of Illinois could you be? She didn't post any pics of an elephant nor did I see the kicking donkey, but if I had two more guesses I'd say she digs the Wisconsin brie. Or the L'Etoile du Nord state?

You mentioned China, but posted no pic of the Terra Cotta fighta. Maybe next time daddy will fly you on an Asian lina in hopes to sit in a dim sum dina.

You say your looking for a knight to hide some sticky love notes, but I'm looking for a lady to laugh at my lame Chappelle quotes. However, if we can joke about the withering sounds of Diane Rehm's voice, then I'll find time to boobie trap your favorite rainy-day coats.

Well Mrs. Freeman, you can Lean On Me a little more seeing a this took a sec to plop this together. F&%@ Bill Nye! Try Steve Spangler-he's quite the dry-ice wrangler.



HA!!! Oh, the laughter. How great. A dose of my own medicine. I am totally amused.

More Williamisms

"I'm too cool for any of the teachers here"
*snort!* "HA!"
"Okay.... I'm to funny for any of the teachers here."
"Yep. That's true. I laugh at you."
"HEY! .... I make you laugh....."
"Yes William. You make me laugh."


"I'm not dating middle school girls anymore. They're crazy."
"Yep. Lots of hormones and drama."
"Yeah! And also, you just mess around with another chick and they're all like OH MY GOD WHAT DID YOU DO THAT FOR YOU JERK and then they start hitting you....."
"Yeah. Imagine that. Cheat on your girlfriend and she gets p-oed."
"I know!"
"...Where'd you leave your loyalty, William?"
"At home."
"Maybe you should try bringing it sometimes instead of leaving it under your bed."
"Maybe I should date older girls instead."
"Good luck with that."

Magnetism

Yesterday, a couple of my former (and soon to be current!) students were around to help some of the teachers unpack their things. After lugging around tens of large, heavy boxes (more on all of that insanity later), we plopped down on my new tables.

William sees me flicker my eyes away from our conversation. Out the door, another teacher carries a box of garbage into the hallway. My eyes flicker back. The madness starts.

"Did you just check him out?"
"Nope. I saw him. Seeing doesn't constitute checking out."
"I think you were checking him out."
"And I think you need to go back a grade."
"Miss J was checking out the new language arts teaaaaacherrrr!"
"Doofus. I have someone I can look at if need be."
"Wait! I thought your guy broke up with you."
"He did."
"You have a new one?!"
"Sort of."
"Man! Miss J, are you a boy magnet?"
"HA! Hahaha! I don't think so."
"Can I meet him?"
"What's with all you guys and the show-and-tell?"
"Well.... we just wanna make sure he's good enough for you."

Well, I guess I can't argue with that.

Unexpected Rorschach Tests

It has been ten days since I took the plunge and joined the squadrons of bouncing brunettes and muscle-bound blondes.... Ten days, seven visits, only three near heart attacks.....

Visit 1: Oh god, oh god, I'm an OUTSIDER. I'm the thing that doesn't belong in that Sesame Street song! I'm like a pitted, gleaming, bioluminescent orange sitting among a pile of perfect, smooth, white eggs. Eek! Thank god I'm wearing pants. Okay, I made it. I made it up the stairs! The machine I want is open! There are people here that are worse off than I am! No one is looking at anyone else! Okay.... okay.... I can do this....Just... breathe..breathe.. wait no! Don't hyperventilate! The song blaring into my ears? C'mon baby and rescue me.....

Visit 2: In front of me, a behemoth of a man is on the treadmill, fat lurching with every heavy, plodding step, sweating huge Rorschach tests through his red shirt. I see a dragonfly, a lightbulb and a thunderhead and wonder what that says about me.

Then, watching him heave along, I think to myself "You know, I really respect that guy. He could be sitting on his couch right now... but what is he doing? He's here. Bettering himself. In front of a bunch of skinny broads. What a cool guy!" And then, I wonder if everyone else felt the same way about non-athletic people braving the space. I hope so. In my ears, Charles Wright is cheering us both on.....
What ever you do, UH! Do it good.
What ever you do, do it good. All right...
It’s not what you look like, when you’re doin´ what you’re doin´.
It’s what you’re doin´ when you’re doin´ what you look like you’re doin´! Express yourself!
If I understood what that meant I would agree completely! You sing it, Charles!

Visit 3: The Stairmaster should be renamed as the Tripmaster. Used to taking stairs two-at-a time, I trip over my feet, smoosh my toes into the step, flail, hurk, and if it's possible to stutter with one's feet instead of one's mouth.... I do it.
I look like I'm sliding on ice, like bees are attacking my ankles, like I accidentally walked on coals and broken glass.

I switch to elliptical (my favorite thing, as it turns out) and while I'm sliding along, all smooth moves and suaveness....the mental damage has been done and I feel moronic. I swear people are thinking I'm part of a movie and there's a crew somewhere secretly taping me, for there's just no way a person could bust out those moves without serious choreography or comic genius... right? No one could be THAT pathetic....

Forty five minutes later, I hop off to stretch, get a drink of water and ....wait one god damn second. Is that...sweat? Between my THIGHS? Is that crotch sweat? That's not possible. Sweet lord, I hope that's not where all that moisture came from. That's just gross. Hold on. Can the people BEHIND me see this? Can they see my crotch's Rorschach test? Oh, hell, oh HELL!

In my ears? Creedence Clearwater.
Come on the risin' wind, we're goin' up around the bend.
*sob*


Visit 4: My best friend told me I had to buy running shorts. I made snarly noises at her. I won't be running. I don't need running shorts. Who wants to see these gams? But she insisted. So, I bought running shorts. Black ones with pink stripes. And then they sat and stared at me petulantly for days like a dog I should have been walking but just let outside... and left wholly unsatisfied. But on the fourth visit? The day that God supposedly separated light from dark and placed the moon and the sun in the sky to guide us.... or presumably, to never let us escape the hatred of our thighs.... I wore the damn shorts.

Why? Because they were expensive and they made me feel guilty. And more importantly: to possibly thwart the dreaded inner-thigh sweat. And you know what? They worked. I am now a short-wearing fiend. Turns out one should always listen to best friends. They know what they're talking about. Pants be damned! Song? I want to take you hiiiiiigher! Ike and Tina, baby.

Now we're on visit seven. I have tried 4 leg-working machines, the Tripmaster, two ellipticals (I prefer the one sans crazy arm levers... they make me feel like a spastic monkey with ADD). I have figured out how hard I can push myself so I can do cardiovascular ridiculousness for an hour straight. I can touch my palms to my toes. I feel less stupid. And I ask myself a question very few women ask.....

"Hold on. Does my butt look SMALLER in these pants??!"

So now, like God, on the 7th day, I can rest. Ain't no Mountain High Enough blasting in my ears, smile on my lips, terrified no longer.

Bring it on, world.

A Rant on Wommenfolk

So, not long ago, I watched the movie Hitch. A relatively cute movie, as so far as romantic comedies go. However charming, there was one part that made me massively annoyed. At one point, Eva Mendes's character goes into this frenzy and starts throwing broccoli at Will Smith's character, drinking wine with reckless abandon out of the bottle, and shouting like a rabid banshee.

Why? Because she thinks he's done something terrible. She makes an assumption and runs with it into the land of little white jackets and padded cells. And what does he do? He let's her go nuts, and then ADDS TO THE INSANITY and throws lettuce back at her. Totally sinks to her level. The worst part? Later, he runs after her to prove himself, and realizes, of course, that he loves her and chases her until she caves in. I wanted to punch both of them. Right in their beautiful faces.

Why are we perpetuating this? Why is this behavior seen as okay? Why do we keep allowing this crap to infiltrate our media and poison the minds of our little girls? And our men? I'd say 90% of women, to some degree, do this crap. These are the women that are ruining all the good men out there. This is why our men are commitment-phobic. This is why they're guarded! This is why they're jaded. They're hurt.

These are the harpies that think its okay to be manipulative and crazy, and expect the guy to run after them when they storm off. And 90% of the time... the men do! Thus, perpetuating the bullshit!

Guys? Don't. If Lady acts Crazy, let her GO! She's not worth it. She doesn't respect you. And if you really feel something for her? You really think she's a good woman? Fine. Let her walk away. Don't chase her. Call her on her crap. And if she changes? Wakes up? Apologises? Okay then. Give the gal a second chance. But if she does this again? She's gone. Have some dignity! Self-respect, man!

What should Eva have done? Obviously, she should have just talked to him. Confronted the issue. Had a nice little conversation before jumping to ridiculous conclusions. But she didn't. And most of the women in most movies I've seen do the same nonsense. Its in books, its on the television, its done by our female family members, probably most of our female friends. Even I did some of this crap before I was called on it, made aware. And yeah, I realize that a conversation doesn't make for the best drama, takes away some of the suspense of the film/movie/book whatever... but seriously? Can we not find a better way to create drama than portraying our women as illogical, manipulative, emotional wenches? Please? Because, you know what? Not all of us are. But, what we see, we'll model, unfortunately. And this has become accepted by our society.

It's just not okay.
So, girls, stand up and throw the games to the wind. And men? Don't play into their hands. If you love 'em, put your foot down. Its all about respect!

Another thing?
Not long ago, I read this astounding mass of drivel and wanted to smack my head against the wall a few times. Okay, woman. You know what? We've got some things in common. I'm 25, I'm not terribly hideous, and sure, some security would be nice... but.... could you let me rewrite your entry for you? And then post it not on craigslist but somewhere less sleazy?
In fact, I think I'll do just that.....

Let's see here... ah-hem....

"What am I doing wrong?
I'm tired of beating around the bush. I'm 25, and getting to that point where I worry that I'm never going to find someone that appreciates the insane amount of love I generate. I'm looking to be with a man who loves me despite the fact that I accidentally let food go to waste, leave empty glasses all over the house, and have to have every shirt in my closet facing the same direction.

I believe that my man should have his independence, his own friends, his own interests. I believe that beer with the buddies is a good thing just like I believe girls night is also a necessity. I believe in giving both loads of teasing and unconditional love. I believe that communication is incredibly important, but asking permission to do what you want is silly. I believe in a team, a partnership, a best friend who gets my heart too.

Are there any men out there, men not terrified of commitment? Not burnt so many times that they've just given up? Men that work hard but have the time to make their significant others feel important and cherished? Men that realize time is more important than money, and a handmade card is more precious than a string of pearls? Wives, where did you meet them? More importantly, how did you keep them? How do you convince them that you won't hurt them? That you're not one of the masses who storm off and break their hearts? That you can be trusted?

I'm just a girl who wants to spoil someone instead of being spoiled. I know where the Goonies was filmed, and the original skin color of Nick Fury. I can quote Monty Python and know all the words to the Kiss Destroyer album. I sing Disney songs to cheer myself up, bowl like an idiot, and find joy in the small things. I love action movies, The Office, giving massages and surprising people with picnics and treasure hunts. I enjoy the artistry of makeup, but will run outside when it starts raining without a second thought. I enjoy camping, hiking, biking. I love wrestling with dogs and getting over my fears. I make a mean lemon meringue pie and the best potato salad you'll ever taste. I push myself. I'm a workaholic. I am constantly learning, changing, evolving. I go to fancy restaurants, shopping centers, movie theatres, and yes, even the gym...all my myself.

I don't need you.
I am fine all by my kick-ass self.
But having a high-quality man in my life sure would be a lot of fun."

The End.

Matching Wits

A conversation with my sister.

"I moved almost all of my books to the new place today... they took up almost my whole car. I don't know what I'm going to do if I ever move back home."
"I have a solution for that."
"What?"
"A match."

Ass.

Pieces of Meat

So, despite all of my foot stomping, tantrum throwing, and grousing about roommates.com, I did end up finding the perfect place. It is five minutes from a major highway, five minutes from a major shopping area, five minutes from a really nice gym... and... yes... I did just use the words "nice" and "gym" in the same sentence.

Some people fear dentists. Speaking in public. Clowns. Punk ass middle schoolers. Me? I am apparently afraid of good looking people on treadmills.

Once, my best friend dragged me to the gym to deal with her peach melba (...don't ask) and I agreed to go with her. It was only a small university gym, and she promised it wouldn't be terrible. After all, I was going with her. And everything with her is fun. Big fun. So much fun, in fact, that it should require a permission slip signed by a half-drunken guardian who has no clue what sort of shenanigans will ensue.

So, I went. Borrowed some clothing. Sat on the bike. Pedaled like a starving mountain lion was gallumphing behind me. Tried to fit in. But, in the end, still felt like a total moron. No, I didn't fall off the bike. I didn't slide off the end of a treadmill and smack my gluteus maximus into a wall. I didn't even almost choke myself to death on the bench-pressing rod thingie. (See? Look at me bust out my knowledge...of weight terminology.... sob...)

Anyhow.
I felt like a moron because despite the fact that I was wearing some old t-shirt, my hair in a ponytail and a pair of sweatpants....I was desperately trying to hide the fact that I was also wearing a pair of shiny, black dress shoes.

Oh my god, do you see that girl? Not only does she have no idea how to use an elliptical machine a chimp could figure out, but she has no biceps! And...wait. No, it can't be. Get a load of what she's WEARING!!! Guffaws, tales told at frat parties, cries of "no way!". Let's all toss our heads back and laugh! Aha! Oh, man. Good story, Julie.

Who's insecure? Not me. Nope.

So yes, to reiterate, gyms are scary places. Too many good looking people who don't actually need to be there. Too many people that could be looking at how lame I am. Too many veiny meat heads. Too many girls who were never awkward, ugly adolescents... or so I imagine.

Its an alien landscape. That I have decided to completely rule. Because life is too short to be afraid of stupid things. Right? Right. But, I am a glutton for punishment, thus I will put myself through feeling idiotic for a few weeks...and then, hopefully I can walk around like I own the place. Swagger in my step, a little z-snap here and there.

One day, I will be so comfortable, that instead of walking in, I can interpretive dance in. Kick-box in. Skip in, saying hi to every person, and then? Then, we will all burst into song, machines clinking and clanking in rhythm, footsteps pounding in tandem, voices high and strong! It will be Dancer in the Dark meets Lion King. It will be beautiful. Victorious. And we won't even break out in a sweat.

And THEN, icing on this particularly scrumptious cupcake, I can be one of those obnoxious girls that wears too-short miniskirts and prances around with no thighs and makes everyone want to develop eating disorders. Or throw hamburgers at her. Won't that be fun? Course, if you throw a burger at me, I'll just be thrilled. I like burgers. That's one thing that's never changing.

In fact, if I ever tell you I'm giving up red meat, I personally give each and every one of you permission to slap me senseless with a big ol' slab of beef. I may be evolving, but some things will always ring true. I will always have a dentist as a father, I will always enjoy giving presentations to crowds. I will always be amused by punkass middle schoolers. And I will always salivate over a nice piece of meat.





* I'm just gonna let you take that as you wish.

Runnin' with Big Dogs & Big Words

Okay brilliant ones, notice anything different here? Eh? Eh?

The title, yo! I am now, officially...an 8th grade teacher! Summon the horns and fling confetti! And then, bring my lovely, and now old, 6th graders back to me! Better yet? I don't have to teach math! Why is that exciting, you ask? Well, potentially (if I'm lucky....very, very lucky) that means I only have ONE LESSON PLAN TO MAKE A DAY! *end line dance*

I... am thrilled. Realistically, I know its still going to be a lot of work.... but I have decided that this year, this year I get to be selfish. I get to focus on me so I don't burn out. I get to take classes and try to get over my Fear of Going to the Gym. I get to write and play and go out with friends and have a life. Because the alternative = Miss J loses her mind. I don't want to end up in some fetid sanatorium somewhere.

Now ask me, Miss J, how much have you prepared for your year thus far? Um. Well, I bought a book of Yo Mama jokes that threatens to bring comedy into the classroom (yes, I did say threatens. There is no fun, no laughter, and certainly no sarcasm once you hit 8th grade). I will be using them to teach my kids wickedly fun (or as my dad would say, "bitchin' ") vocabulary. And they'll have to use the scientific method to figure out each word.

Example:
"Yo mama's so porcine, when I asked for pigs in a blanket, she got back in bed."

HA! Oh god. Its going to be awful. And hilarious. Can you imagine? All of the 8th grade teachers are going to SLAUGHTER me. You just know that every third kid is going to go to their next class and tell the joke to the teacher. ...What worries me is that some of the teachers might not get the jokes... Oh well! They know where to find me! *maniacal laughter*

And...that's about as far as my planning has gone. I have been busy, today, writing poetry for 10 hours. And eating copious amounts of rice krispie treats, and reminding myself how much I love words.

Like lugubrious and rubiate. Overzealous. Renegade. Enigmatic. Ubiquitous. Top new favorite: crepuscular. It sounds SO revolting, doesn't it? Much to my surprise, the word has nothing to do with pus, but in fact, the tendency of animals or beings being out and about during twilight. How great is that? OH! And I learned a new one-- malapropism. This is what Mike Tyson does-- confuses one word with another. When he says "I might just fade into Bolivian" that phrase... malapropism. Great huh? Bust that out at a cocktail party. Well, the word itself. Not malapropisms. If you say "I faced a lot of diversity in my life" and you meant "adversity".... then we will all ridicule you. Gladly.

And now... now, I'm going to go practice my crepuscularity and play in the rain. That's right. It is raining. Another miracle.

Narcissus Replies

So Narcissus (that's him, by the way, pretending to be all brooding and serious. Anyone else rolling their eyes with me here?) wrote me back again, almost immediately after I sent him my Poem of Magnitude.

wow.....speechless. Such wordsmithing. I am seriously stunned even with a degree in English Writing and Art (design emphasis) ..simply stunned. Your command of language is superb. :) This is getting interesting!

By the way self-absorbed pretty boys don't volunteer for Big Brother Big Sister. They usually don't give a shit about anything other than themselves.

You really made me smile the way you crafted that response.

Oook. Now I'm officially done. Arius was right. This Professor of Sleaze thinks I'm flirting. Let's look at some possible responses I'd LIKE to send... but won't.

1. Hey, I know. Since I'm so impressed by your degrees (sarcasm emphasis), why don't you send me your whole transcript? I'd love to hear you brag loquaciously about your likely 4.o. Also, can you send a list of recommendations? I'm guessing it includes the president and a rock star or two. Maybe the Pope has you on his prayer list? If not.... he should. You need all the help you can get.
2. No, it's not getting interesting. There's nothing left to say. Other than, maybe "I think you're slimy and repulsive."
3. Do you also volunteer for a soup kitchen that feeds blind orphans? Do you rescue kittens and keep them in your pockets? Do you read to the deaf and dance for the blind? Knowing your intelligence, that last one's probably a yes.
4. Are you sure it was my poetry that made you smile, or were you just looking at your biceps again?

I'm done. No more time, no more responses. I have other people in my life that actually DESERVE poems written about them. Good ones. And by good, I mean praising their virtues. Like Liz, the leggy genius who reminds me of Katherine Heigl. Or Megatron, who is Dynamite. How about Karen, Nancy or Melissa? Each lady on that list has listened to me preach about the woes of teaching and hasn't complained one bit. Or maybe Moonie, who is my favorite person on this whole planet. Or Danimal, who listens to me whine and wheedle almost daily. Or French toast and its deliciousness. All would be better subjects than narcissuses. :)

OH WAIT! I forgot to tell you. When I popped open the computer this morning (oh, who am I kidding here? You all know I don't get up in the morning....) I saw I had not ONE but TWO messages from this fool. TWO. That's....SEVEN e-mails in two days. HA. Anyway, the first one said something about me being "too white bread" for him if I hadn't responded by now.

[Because, clearly, I have no life, no goals or aspirations, no interests or ideas in my pretty little head. I am just sitting at my computer fawning over your gloriousness.]

And then, the second, sent minutes after, said "let me take you to lunch." It's like he realized, magically, that he might have offended me by calling me 'white bread' and had to quickly make amends.
I can just hear him rhyming poorly now..... Oh, wait, pretty young thing! Please don't go! Let me buy you food so I can stare at your lips and my reflection in the window!

Oh, and one last, beautiful detail. No shit, this guy's last name is.....
You are not going to believe this.
Are you ready?

Vains.

Vains! I'm not kidding!

AHAHAHA! Oh god. Again-- no words. I've got nothin'
Mmkay. Composure's back. We all got a good laugh didn't we?
Adventuring on......

Narcissus Strikes

Since talking about how "teachers get the summer's off" will only thwart my calm, I've decided to tell you about the many happenings of mine instead of cursing and turning into a vitriol filled banshee.

So, recently, as in, 24 hours ago, I signed up at roommates.com. Currently, I am living with a friend/coworker, but her place is eons away from anything and everything else. Friends are 35 minutes to an hour away, grocery store/bookstore/Target.... similarly. Its very pretty and very isolating. So, I thought, hell, I'll wander. See if anything good pops up.

On the site, I placed a picture (called by a friend to be JC Penney's catalogue worthy) of my sister, grandmother and myself. I also placed picture of my overwhelmingly handsome cat, and low-quality snapshot of myself in my new glasses (the ones that make me look like I should be saying something like "Gimme two more seconds! I can hack into the mainframe!"). All three, lacking of bosoms, lacking of pouty lips or any type of sexiness of any kind.

Not a day passes, when I receive this e-mail.
" Hi there! YOU look fairly normal :) Let me know if you'd be interested in renting from me. Also I have another ad on mysapce for rental."

I look at the person's page and see he is 34. A musician. And clearly wayyy too fond of his own appearance. Is that a glamor shot? Good god. I go back to my profile. I see that it clearly says I am 25, do NOT want to live with men, am a teacher... and not much else. Okay. So, I'm safe.

I decide to let him down softly. Because, although its clear that he thinks he's hotter than fresh horse dung... he hasn't done anything to offend.
"You know, I AM fairly normal... as much as a middle school science teacher can be, anyhow. Unfortunately, your place's location doesn't suit me, and I'm not the type of girl who moves in with strange musicians.
Your house looks beautiful though. Good luck on your quest."

And then, I get two emails. In rapid succession... What, I think, is this guy waiting by his computer?
"mmmm.. just saw your other pic. LOVE the glasses...and lips! Holy lips!
Anyway, since you're not moving in...call me! Or text me...seriously. I would love to chat or maybe even see your lips in person ?
Rodney
*** *** ****
waiting

cmon pretty head....let's see what ya got"

Followed by:
" hmmm come to think of it I love the hair too. Stop it already"

Oh god. Really? Seriously? Two minutes and you're already talking about my lips? C'mon pretty head? Let's see what you've got? More than YOU can handle!!! You...are a douche-bag. Bona fide. And I am disgusted.

But once again, just to torture myself mostly, I decide to be nice. This guy doesn't know where I live, doesn't know anything, clearly. He probably thinks I'm some little, impressionable chicky who will be flattered by his attentions. So...
"Wow. You're ... a terrible flirt. Sorry, but pretty boys with compliments dripping from their lips don't impress me. Good bye."

And now I see that this... was a challenge. I should have stuck with my instincts. Because what I got next, made me do several things.... One, involves unbridled laughter. The other involves uncontrollable vomiting. Here, in it's unedited glory, is Rodney's masterpiece.

Once upon a time in the land of non-originality, a pretty boy was searching for a roommate on the internet. "Wow" he thought unimaginatively, "girls are good."

He pondered.

Even though he had no idea what ponder meant. Then he had an idea. "I will do something, maybe!" he shouted to himself aloud quietly. And he nearly did, but forgot what it was going to be...so he took a nap and had a sandwich when he awoke. In his mind he pronounced it 'samwich" like every other ignorant modern day pretty boy in the land of clones.

Then it happened.

With a click of the mouse he landed on a page so different, so engaging, so pure and titillatingly elegant, his entire world changed (if only for a moment).

Suddenly there was color where grey had been, song where there was silence, and the "d" pronounced in sandwich. He was struck. Awe-struck if you will...and even if you won't. His eyes soaked in the beauty...the lips...the hair...the funky glasses and the golden cat (not so exciting but still fun to look at) and his simple, unimaginative self stood up and made a pledge.

"I will know this woman. I will speak to her and picture her lips moving when she speaks my name. I will stand close enough to her to smell her skin, yet far enough from her so that I don't step on her toe. I will do all these things because in my simple visual world, she has turned on a light (energy conserving flourescent) in a place that has only known darkness. Plus she's hot."

He finished the last bite of his sandwich and did a set of curls with a nearby dumbell and proudly looked at his reflection and thought, "I love things."

He waited by his phone, for surely a man of such character and command of prose would deserved a call or at the very least a text from this ruby lipped earth angel.

So he waited....

Okay. Where to begin?
1. "Girls are good"... at WHAT? What does that MEAN? "He shouted to himself aloud quietly." Is that supposed to be deep and artistic? And forgive me... but are you trying to rhyme? In every paragraph? Is that where this drivel is coming from? Hold the phones. Did you just write "Plus, she's hot."? I... have no words. No words for that. Other than maybe... I am feeling my lunch starting to defy gravity.
2. Hello, Narcissus. You love things, eh? Like.... your own biceps? Do you look at women with as much lust as you look at YOURSELF? I have a few things you could do with that dumbbell.... And ruby lipped earth angel? Ha! Are you using magnetic poetry?
3. Command of prose. Right. You talk about sammiches and how you don't know the definition of "ponder." Also, you are RHYMING. That makes it some sort of poetry/prose chimera. And lastly....I will show you command of language! *shaking of fist*
4. Wait. Did refer to my lips again? You did. Okay. Now, you're going down.... but....
5. As much as I want to smack your ass back down to earth, you are going to have to keep waiting. Because you don't want to.

So now, now it's a game. I know that whatever I do from this point will just egg him on. I'm not an idiot. But it's also clear that this guy has to be taken down a few notches. A few...dozen notches. And, you know, I'm pretty good at that sort of thing. I've been wanting to get back into writing, and I've been especially wanting to back into poetry. So, I will simultaneously fulfill both aspects--cut a few of his trees down while polishing my skills.

I present, my rebuttal: (which, for the record, I haven't sent yet... I want to make him wait a while... because I am pure, concentrated evil.)

Twilight blossoming,
nomadically wandering
through created spaces
searching for my own abode
in places shady
not good enough for this little lady
preposterous prices
girls with vices and
people hiding thoughts filled by
malady

Then, hilarious
(possibly nefarious)
meanderings from pretty boys
who probably please most
lasses by
swooning, crooning and showing
off muscles, but this time,
criticized
supersized by dumbbell action
hoping for friction but I’ve got
traction

Perhaps it’s pessimistic
but seemingly narcissistic
mirror-gazing boys
who think they’re impressive enough
to hit on this Rolls Royce
(attempting rosy prose and
making internal wagers)
still won’t be able to savor
this wordsmith’s “beauty”
chronic spontaneity or
much of her behavior

Time for truth-telling
get your soothsayer
this girl’s genuine, fierce and
not sanguine, proposing that
you’re just a player
say your arms are flexing but
vexing me, this ego of
monstrosity has made
optic cord damage from
rolling eyes beneath lids
call me titillating and
I’ll think you an annelid
giving already reasons
to be wary
complimenting lips and not
my vocabulary


Aaaaand bow. Take THAT, you goon.
I will keep you all posted.....

Of Age

School is officially out for the summer! With joy and elation, I pranced like the most festive and rainbow striped of all gazelles.
To celebrate, I slept many hours, spent some time terrorizing a boy, and went to see the new Sex in the City movie with friends.

Disclaimer: I am not a Sex in the City person. I'd seen a couple early episodes and thought it was petty and trite and awful. There was not one character that I identified with, and though the show was largely about single women in NYC doing it on their own, the focus on fashion (boring) and sex (less boring but really... that's all you have to talk about?) left me rolling my eyes so many times I think I saw more of the inside of my eyelid than the screen. BUT, because I wanted to hang out with my girls, I went. To a matinée.

It goes like this.
I say, somewhat embarrassed and with disbelief, "One for the 4:20 Sex in the City."
The young pony-tailed girl behind the glass replies, "That'll be...blah blah blah too much money."
I hand over my credit card, she asks for ID. All's well and good. Except for the fact that I am paying to see a movie I'm not interested in.

She stares at my ID for what seems like half a century, and I'm thinking "How long does it take to compare my name with the name on the card?"
And then it dawns on me.

That isn't what she's doing. Frantically, my mind struggles to come up with other explanations than the one I know to be true. Finally, the words slip out of her mouth, making my fear a reality.

"Wow! You just look so YOUNG!"

.... I GOT CARDED. At the THEATRE.

Un...believable.

It's not like I was seeing some slasher movie at 10:30, all dressed up in black, hanging out with my obviously emo friends, wearing mermaid-like eye glitter, chucks and moodily enhancing my tresses with a strand of hot pink. Come on!!


For shame. One of these days, one of these glorious days, I'll look of age.

.

You're like... a 50!

The following is a conversation I had with my class today. I hadn’t planned on sharing this with them, but… well, we’re close. My comments are in bold. Enjoy.

Miss J are you texting again?
Nope, but I just got one.
From your best friend again?
Nope.
From who? Why are you smiling?
No reason.
Yeah right. You’ve been smiling all week.
Okay, okay. You want to know?
Yeah!
Really?
Yeah!
Are you totally sure? Cuz it might kind of gross you out.
Come on!
No seriously, you guys get weirded out if you see me in the grocery store.
Tell us!
Fine. Sigh. I went on a date.
*gasp!*
What?! Lucky guy! Was it Edgar?
No!
If Edgar was older would you date him? [Class cracks up]
No!
Would you date a 16 year old?
And again… NO. That’s just gross. Not to mention illegal. And also gross.
How old does a person have to be for you to date them?
Uhh… at least 23. No older than 30.
Hey! If you add me and Lorenzo, that makes 24! I can just sit on his shoulders and wear a long jacket!
Nice problem solving, guys.
How old is he?
26.
Oh, he’s older than you. But not too old. That’s good.
Yes, it is.
Is he cuter than your old boyfriend? On a scale of 1-10 what would you rate him?
You’re like, a 50, Miss J!
Did you upgrade, Miss J?
Guys… good lord. Don’t get carried away. It was one date.
Yeah, but you’ve been grinning all week.
So?
So it must be good.
How’d you meet?
He’s a friend of a friend.
Oh! Your friend gave you the hook up? Nice! You should thank her.
Is he Mexican? Is he Japanese? Is he a Pacific Islander?
No, you morons, he’s AMERICAN.
Did your dad get ever get mad when you brought home boys?
Well, if it was a boy that was my friend, he’d steal them, show them all his guns in the basement, and take them shooting. Then I’d be lonely. If it was a guy I wanted to date, dad would bring the gun upstairs and clean it. [Swipe, swipe. Dangerous expression…] When will you be bringing my daughter home?
Miss J! You should bring him in to show and tell.
That’s a terrible idea. In the beginning of the year, Panerio wanted to punch out my last boyfriend and “take me as his own” if I recall correctly.
Don’t worry, Miss J, I won’t bring my shotgun
Thanks, Meza. That’s kind of you.
Miss J, did he do the cheesy stretch thing? You know like yawwwwn! Streeeeetch!
No, no he’s not that cheesy.
Yeah, he’s probably really smart, huh? You wouldn’t go out with a dumb boy. What did you talk about?
Told stories. Talked about people hallucinating in the Amazon rainforest. You know. Science. History. Life.
You talked about SCHOOL STUFF?
Guys, I hate to tell you this, but intelligent people need more to talk about than themselves and other people. You gotta know what’s going on in the world so you have something interesting to say. I don’t always want to be the teacher, you know? Sometimes I want someone to tell me something I don’t know. Sometimes I want someone who has the same information already so we can share.
Nerd!
Yeah, yeah. Like you didn’t already know this about me.
If a girl started talking about history, I’d be like, see ya!
That’s because you’re 12.
Are his hands sweaty? Does he have a mustache? Are his armpits hairy? Do you want to kiss him? DID you kiss him? Is he strong? Is he stronger than Gerome? Gerome’s got like, little rocks in his arms! Could he take out Gerome?
Oh, I don’t know. I think Gerome might have a good shot at kicking his butt. [Gerome, tiny and adorable, grins]
Does he have a tattoo?
I don’t know if he has a tattoo or not, seeing as how all of his clothing remained ON in the movie theatre.
[Class cracks up]
I bet he has a little star tattooed right on his butt.
I bet you’re right. Lorenzo. I’ll ask him.
Would you stop dating him if he had Winnie the Pooh tattooed on his butt?
Is he rich?
Who cares?
Did he use breath freshener?
I have no idea. But I did.
Yeah right, you did not!
I did! [whips it out of my bag] You don’t want to sit be that close to someone and insult their senses.
Woooo! Go Miss J.
Is he really loud?
Naw, of the two of us, he’s the shy one. I’m the flirt.
If he tried anything would you smack him?
Oh totally. Without even thinking.
So…..have you had to smack him?
Ha! You guys are awful.
What does he look like? Does he look like Meza? Can you bring in a picture?
Does he have spiky hair?
Does he have a flat-top with lightning bolts cut in the sides?
Yes.
Really?!
No.
Damn!
Ha! Okay. We done? Can we talk about biodiversity? Or do you have anything else to throw at me?
What if you were at his house at like 1 am and….
Jacob, where is this going?
I better not finish it.
Jacob, you’re a pervert. Miss J is no ho.
Thank you, Adrian. You are correct. I not a ho. So, science. Who wants to know how plants have sex?
Oh! I do, I do!
That’s what I thought. Check this out….


.
Many thanks to Rapunzel the Koala :)

Miss J; History Buff. Edgar: Not Buff at All

Oh yeah!

For the record, I passed the state's history exam. I got a perfect score on my essay (an examination of westward migration and its impact on natives, the land, and its ties to future events like the Dust Bowl), and am pretttttty sure I'm a supa genius. Just a rough estimation though. I might actually be just a genius. There's no way to tell for sure.

So now I am officially qualified to teach k-9 (That's kindergarten through ninth, not dogs. Though I'm sure dealing with German shepherds would be easier to deal with than horny 6th graders. With the dogs? You can take them to the vet's and have their bits snipped out so they stop humping things. Can't do that with kids. What a shame, no?) with specialties in language arts/reading, science AND history.

Who's awesome? Oh yeah. Me.

Who's NOT awesome? That'd be Edgar.
We were taking a test the other day and he was getting a litle squirrely. So I balled up a piece of paper and chucked it at his shoulder. His eyes got really wide, then really narrow. He grabbed the missile, feigned innocence, and flung it where I'd been standing only moments before. But, because he'd failed to look.... he didn't see that I'd moved completely around the corner. He missed me by a mile.

Quietly, I walked to the board and wrote "Edgar has no skills." Then I made two columns. "Times Edgar Got Me, Probably by Accident" and "Times Edgar Missed Completely and I Laughed at Him". I looked at him, and made a giant line under the second category, smirked and raised an eyebrow.

Now, about a third of the class was watching. Edgar flexed his non-existent muscles (pushing the bicep up from the other side) balled up another piece of paper, and with all his might.... FLUNG IT! It missed me by about 6 yards. Silently again, I pointed, pretended to laugh so hard I'd fall off my stool, and marked another tally in the column. No skills, no skills! I pointed to my own arm to mock his. My elderly grandmother's got more power than that! I mouthed.

At the end of the class period, all of my kids had finished their tests. All were watching silently, Edgar was throwing different pitches and I was red from holding back laughter.

Final score? Hits 7. Misses? 32. The bell rang. I circled the words "Edgar has no skills."
The kids lined up.

"Miss J? Can we do that again? Only can I throw next time?" Devin says.
"Sure, but you know I'm going to ridicule you and make fun of you every time you miss, right."
"Yeah."
"Game's on."

So next time, I'll have to let you know who wins. Miss J, the history buff, Edgar, who's not buff at all, or Devin. Stay tuned!

Things they Want to See

Today, disgust.

Sick little pervert: J, [not even MISS J!] can I see your thong?
[two seconds of RAGE]
Me: Can I see the 18 missing assignments you've racked up this month?
Class: BUUUUURN.
Me: So that's a no then. Get out.


Today, smug elation.

My 6th grade sister: Miss J, you look really happy. And really tired. Were you out partying too late last night?
Me: Partying is for losers.
Sister: Hmm. I know that look on your face. Half the 6th grade's got it.
Me: What do you know? You've got nothin' sistah.
Sister: Uh huh. [scrutinizes my face] You say that, but I think you got yourself a new man.
Me: [eruption of laughter]
Sister: Keep laughing. But I know its true. ....He any good?
Me: I do not have a new man.
Sister: Yeah. Not YET. It's...what's the word you used earlier today? Preliminary. That's it. Don't worry though. Your secret's safe with me.
Me: Mmkay, Jessica. Whatever you say.

Immaculate Conception?

Today, my partner teacher was showing my kids the movie Twister. In the very beginning, the husband/father character is devoured by the shape shifting maw of a tornado. To this devastation, David says...

"Oh my GOD! Does that make her mom a VIRGIN?"

The sweetest, smartest girl in class replies, "No, it makes her a widow, you crack head."

Hilarious.

Snippets

"Jacob says he's a camel. What's so special about camels anyway?"
"Uhhh.. well... they can store water. This is a desert.... That might come in handy."
"What is a camel anyway? Some kind of horse?"
"Its a dromedary."
"A what? Does that mean he can be in the acting club?"

"Are you guys rooting for a specific presidential candidate?"
"Yeah! I really like the guy whose name sounds like Yo Mama."

Something About Jesus

Some of my kids from last year stopped by today. Not long after they arrived, the girls started beating up on the boys [out of love of course]. While I sat back and tried to hold in my laughter [I failed] this was the conversation that followed.

"Ewww, Jesus, your hair is all white and flaky."
Eyes glint. A huge mischievous grin erupts.
"Yeah! It has.... SPERM in it."

Silence.

"Sperm?"
"I'm not even going to ask you how that got there!"
"It's Israel's fault!!"
"Israel's sperm is on your head? Now I'm really not going to ask."

"You guys are all bunch of perverts." [me]

Moments later, one randomly opened a textbook.

"Speaking of perverts.... Miss J, why the hell are there penises drawn on the inside covers of your textbooks?"
"You solve that mystery and you'll become one rich lady."
"Yeah, either that or I'll go insane from looking at all of them. Ew."
"I echo those sentiments, girlfriend."

.

Why the Caged Bird Sings

Today, instead of getting in line with the rest of the miscreants, I saw a kid dancing. While this is usually something I jive with.... this was no psuedo-disco. No macarena. No hokey pokey, much to my dismay.

Oh no, Mr. Hotstuff was thrusting his hips and grabbing his junk. Shaking it. With rapture. Like it was a pair of magical maracas. Who knows? They might as well have been. I didn't get close enough to look.

Anyhow, Mr. Junk Grabber, swaggered over to the wall, and with enthusiasm started to sing "Balls to the wall! Balls to the wall!" Thrust! Thrust! "BALLS TO THE WALL!"

Yes, because what every wall needs is a good dry humping. I know that's what I need. (Oh wow. Okay, that was sarcasm. Sarcasm, folks. Don't get any ideas.)

So, I walked behind Mr. Humper and cocked my head at him, much like a parakeet that isn't sure if its reflection is another bird or not.
The boys around Prince Humperdinck saw me watching, half amused, half "confused" and erupted with raucous laugher. To which, our prince, assuming the laughter was his, started thrusting even harder.

He was: a porch swing in a tornado, an oil derek out of conrol, waves with an erratic moon's orbit, a bumper car stuck sideways in a small hallway. BALLS [HUMP!] to the [HUMP!] WALL! [HUMP!]

Austin Powers on Viagra.

I tapped his shoulder.

"Excuse me," I said politely, and for the hell of it, with a slight British accent, "But what are you doing?"

Crimson! Scarlet! Maroon! Flood. Stuttering silence.
Hilarious laughter. Stern British nanny face.

"Well?"

Nothing.

"That was quite a show. Wherever did you come up with that? Was it in detention? Because I don't want to send you back there if that's where you learned it."

More stammers. "I uhhhh was fixing uhhhh my zipper."

Right. [Seriously? That's the best excuse? I would have believed "My balls got stuck in my zipper," with those moves more than fixing it.... Good god.]

All of this just reaffirms my theory that 6th grade boys have the mental acuity and maturity of.... a parakeet. You know, the ones that hump the mirrors as they believe their dashing good looks to be another bird? (Not the ones that just cock their heads and look confused. There is a distinction there...)

The point of all this?
I, like Maya Angelou, now know why the caged bird sings.
The only distinction: unlike Maya, I know the lyrics.



(This one's for you Mr. Faulk :)