Monday, May 20, 2013

Suri's Biggest Fan

So.  There's this:

That's pretty much all it takes to amuse me today.

Love you,

Wednesday, May 15, 2013

Magenta Ho

First, my brother posted a story on his webpage about his experience with bad teachers, which was inspired by this Slate article.  So I decided to chime in.

I think I was pretty fortunate to have the teachers I had, for the most part.  I can remember being in elementary school in Little Rock, and standing around with the teachers while at recess, while they smoked their cigarettes and we "smoked" candy cigarettes.  This seems insane to me, now, but it was totally awesome when I was 9.

As a little girl, I was pretty much identified as one of the *special people* who was *extra smart*, which might have been more the result of good parenting and a relatively balanced diet rather than any genetic nonsense, although my parents are both remarkably smart people (even my hillbilly mother, who offers apologetic "nice ham" to me on a regular basis), and my brother was certainly gifted.

In Little Rock, and before that, in Columbus, Indiana, we went to pretty decent - and completely un-segregated - schools.  In Arkansas, our school was in our neighborhood, and there was a big fancy wooden playground and we played dodgeball and kickball with impunity, and I did get to go to the gifted classes where we recorded movies and created log cabin villages out of card board.  I was even a little extra special, because I was a year younger than my classmates, having been elected to skip Kindergarten since I was reading Nancy Drew by that time.  Reading was easy.  Writing, not at all so much, but that's another story.

Things were good, really, until we moved to Connecticut.  In the beginning of the 8th grade.

In Connecticut, I was, more or less, average.  Not at all special. Short.  They kind of stuck me in remedial writing, because I'd never written an essay at that time.  I was 11.  Give me a break.

But then, in high school, I got the mother load of all music teachers.  Instant hate, because I auditioned for the select choir.  "I heard you have a brother," she said.  I replied that I did.  "I heard that he sings in the church choir," she said.  It's true, he did, although for the life of me, I still cannot understand why.  I replied that he did.  "If HE would like to join the show choir, then I am sure we can make a place for you," she said.

The fuck?

I told her that I didn't think he would be interested.  I don't even think I told him about this offer.  I didn't make the show choir that year.

In regular choir, I spent many hours correcting her fat ass.  "Haydn," I would say.  "H-A-Y-D-N." "Bach was Baroque, not classical."  "Bogoroditsye Dyevo" is how that is pronounced.

She hated me back.

By my junior year, I did, finally, make the show choir.  By then, the hatred was visceral.

She had a long, long, long, maybe 12 feet long, magenta scarf that she liked to wind around her neck in a very dramatic fashion.

We called her the "magenta ho."

Once, we were on our way to all state try-outs, and she got in her little red mazda as we piled onto the school bus.  She slammed her door, and a solid 5 feet of that scarf hung out the driver side door, dragging through the slushy crap on the winter street, all the way to New Haven.


That does still make me laugh.

When we were seniors, my closest music friends and I convinced substitutes - which we seemed to have, often - that we were supposed to clean out her office when she was absent.  We found weed that she had confiscated from another student, one that we secretly discussed her bj'ing.  Which probably didn't happen, but it definitely COULD have, and she DEFINITELY WOULD have.  I think that guy - who was horrible - had higher standards than that.

Anyway, at the end of senior year, with graduation approaching, I started to get excited about auditioning to sing the solo at our graduation.  I KILLED in the Senior Play.  I knew I had a fighting chance, although there was a LOT of talent in our class.  I secretly realized how incredibly scary that would be, singing in front of all of those people, but I still was looking forward to the opportunity.

One day, in class, the magenta ho averted her eyes and told us that auditions had been held, and so-and-so had been elected.  Which is to say, I had not even been allowed to audition.  I was PISSED.  PISSED.

I left class and called my then-boyfriend, who was in college at the time, crying.  He was all, "what's the big deal," and I hung up on him and found my soon-to-be-boyfriend, whose response was, "I will KICK THAT BITCH'S ASS."

You see why that had to happen.

But the best day- the best day- maybe in my entire high school career - was the day she lost her temper with us, the select choir.  There were about 15 of us, all lined up in a row, and she chewed our ass.  Through her tears, she said, "You people...  treat me...  like a piece of SHIT.  S- H- I- T.  Shit."

God, it was hard to not laugh.  It was one of those times where you thought you might cry trying to hold in the laughter.

I bet five dollars that I could look at my friend Sarah H. right now, and go, "You people... treat me..." and she would fall apart laughing.

I secretly kind of miss the magenta ho.

Oh- and by the way - she really made it clear that she didn't think much of me as a vocalist.  I went by her office once, when I was home from college my freshman year.  "Oh, what are you majoring in," she asked.  "Well, I was one of 3 freshman to be accepted into LSU's School of Music as a Vocal Performance Major," I responded.  Her lips tightened.  Clearly, LSU was no longer a respectable school of music in her opinion.

I'd still treat her like a piece of S-H-I-T, given the opportunity.

Friday, May 10, 2013

Flower Growing Baby Mama Future Nun Pirate Whore.

It's a little known fact, but I like to kill grow flowers.  I do.  The artist formerly known as my husband really wasn't a fan, especially of inside flowers, but I still went through a phase every few years where I would spend a few dollars on some flowers, tend to them for a while, then get all "eh, fuck it" and let them die.

It's been a few years, though, and...  I dunno.  I think I might be back in the place that I once lived in, a place that once featured about 30 potted plants on a back porch.  I like pot.  s.  Pots.  haha.

We started with impatiens, and oooooh, they are pretty, and ooooooooh, they are easy.

This success has brought us to pot two (not to be read as pot, too):  marigolds and petunias.

 Thing is, my plan was ultimately to be to become a nun, so they can teach me how to garden and my kids won't have to support me come retirement age.  We all know I won't be able to support myself.  But now, what to do?  I'm learning how to garden all on my own!

Speaking of kids, it's almost Mother's Day, and, good gracious, I love these kids.  My sweet babies:

 The ni ni kitty was cold.  Bless it.

 Look at my sweet baby.  He's just getting too big.

This boy was tired out, kind of dirty, and had just gotten home from work.  Also, "Sam, smile," doesn't work well with him.  He's such a cute boy, though.

Anyway, the other day, I told the baby, "Hey, Mother's Day is coming up, did you know that?"  "I know," he said, "I made you a picture at school."  "Wow, thanks," I said.  "I LOVE your pictures!  I can't wait to see it."

"You are in the picture.   And you are wearing one of your dresses."

Okay.  I mean, it's like, once every four months that I wear a dress, but, you know, cool.

"You know that part where you can see your chest?  I drew that in, too."


Happy Mother's Day, everybody!  I'll post the drawing of my rack once it comes to me.  I'm not known as The Pirate Whore Monsterknockers for nothin.

Wednesday, May 1, 2013

Big Nose.

AND WELCOME, WELCOME, WELCOME to the month of presents!!!!

May is here, and May continues to be my very favorite month in the whole year, mainly due to it being the, as aforementioned, Month of Presents.

It has always started, technically, with the last Wednesday of April, the Administrative Professionals Day celebration that typically involves cake, presents, cake, balloons, and cake.

I'm a fan.

This year, the girlies at my work brought me a coffee mug.  And a cake.  The boss person, though...  took me as her "guest" to a luncheon, wherein she was modeling in a fashion show.  Oh, and we were sponsors.  My ticket was free.


And there was cake, but it was very mediocre.  Ahem.  That may long remain the very worst presentage I've ever been given on Admin Day, but in troof, I have to say that I think Admin Day in and of itself is kind of stupid, because really, you know what present I like to get for being a fantastic employee?

A paycheck.  Just saying.

However, in the near future, there are other opportunities for presents.  Used to be, my anniversary was May 4, but that is no longer applicable, so I have to let that one go.  However, Mother's Day is just a week after that.

I saw a groupon for a bracelet I wanted.  Made the boys buy it for me for Mother's Day.  I like it.  I'm wearing it.  Screw convention!  The little stones are our birth stones- the two reds are the boys.  The green is me.  The paw-shaped "diamond" is the cat.  That's how we roll.  The red heart says "Family."  Awwwww.

A week or so after that, I'll turn 32.  Birthdays are a fun time.  I'll probably drink.  I mean, "probably."  Come on, now.

My little bit has been the sickest he has every been in his whole life for the last few weeks.  Two Sundays ago, he woke up with a fever.  Strep.  Of course.  My mom took him to the doctor and they go, "strep."  Of course.  Gave him antibiotics, game on.  He got a little better, until the Tuesday night thereafter, when his temperature shot up to 105.  Shit.  Back to the doctor, and they determined it was pneumonia.

And strep.

Do it big, says I.

Anyway, so they put him on MORE antibiotics and then THOSE didn't really do any good, so then they did shots of antibiotics in his legs, and then they did MORE shots of antibiotics in his legs, and then MORE antibiotics, and finally, he managed to go without fever all day.  On Monday.  Over a week of being sick.  Sucktastic.

So he's back at school.

He said, "I think I would like to be sick on every day except Saturday."

I looked at this picture, and I go, "Hey, we have EXACTLY the same nose."

He goes, "um....   except yours is a lot bigger."

Just saying.

Glad he's back at school.  Glad we are back to normal.  Glad I opened my bracelet early.  Glad it's warm outside.  Glad we got a new - much cooler - temp at work, thus allowing me to screw around a little bit, like back in the old days.  Glad I have yarn. Glad it's Wednesday.  

Just not so glad I have a big nose.