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.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
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.
"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.
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.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
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......
Friday, June 20, 2008
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.....
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.....
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
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.
.
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.
.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
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 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 :)
Monday, May 19, 2008
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!
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.
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.
Friday, May 16, 2008
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.
"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.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
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."
"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."
Monday, May 12, 2008
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."
.
"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."
.
Monday, April 28, 2008
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 :)
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 :)
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