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.

haha.

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.

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."

UM.  WHAT?

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.

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.

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.

Week of Bad Things.

Dear Fucking Universe,

I'm pretty Goddamn Sick and Tired of The Week of Bad Things.

For the last two years, I've steadfastly ignored that The Week of Bad Things exists.  "Oh, it's April 17," I'd think.  "We are mid-way through The Week Of --- no, no, this is just any ol' week."

And kind of, it worked.

Three years ago, I'm all THE SPELL IS BROKEN, and all NOTHING BAD HAPPENED "except a little fire on an oil tanker or something," which turned out to be the most historic and devastating oil issue in the history of time.

And here we have a shooting, at a marathon.  White man's sports, running.

God dammit.

I've got to go for a run.

Friend Named Joe

I cut my hair off.  Not, like, a little.  A LOT.  All of it.  Most of it.  I'm happy I did that.  I look awesome.  And young.  And hot.  HAWWWT.

And like a villainess from a 1981 movie...

Works for me.

In other news, this weekend was the Louisiana Derby.  Like the Kentucky Derby, but white-trashier.  Well, honestly, just trashier in general.  It was a gorgeous day, and we wore hats, as one should.  My mother has developed a proper hunchback, and in a ridiculously large sunhat, it's very obvious:

My, how I love that woman.

I didn't win anything, and that's unfortunate, but it is so.  However, C-Luv won big monies on a single race, by betting a horse with long odds but wearing his middle name for a win.  We are talking $53.40 payout.  Big monies.  Otherwise, he mostly just hung out with his littlest cousin:

Awwwwww.

---

One of my favorite people from the grand state of Georgia passed away, suddenly, a week and some change ago.  The night he died, I sang karaoke, because that makes sense to me, and it had been a bad fucking day, and I wanted to drink.  So I did.  With Melissa.  Who danced backup for me, which was... odd.

I went to Georgia the following day.  Cried off and on for an entire weekend, and said my goodbyes on Monday.  The hardest funeral I have ever - ever - sung.  I hope he liked it.  I'm pretty sure he was there, fucking around with the piano while the pianist was trying to play.  In the spirit of Joe, I'd like to think that was him.  Good lord, he'd like fucking with the piano.  He also made it snow on us.  Thanks, Joe.  But really, he was an amazing friend.  Thanks for everything, Joe.  I hope you knew how much we all love you.  

As an aside, Joe was a namer- which is to say, he called everybody something, and mine was Sarie, and he was the only adult human being that could do that without getting a punch in the nose.  Perhaps.  Nobody else really ever tried.  When we couldn't agree on a name for Caleb (I mean, really, "DeMarcus"?  I do not think so.), it was on Joe we called, and he said, "Well, I've always been partial to the name Caleb."  Hence, history.

And so, on that somber note, I'm going to call this done.  I have a new (unusual) temp at work, and it's hard to tell her who to screen, so every time the phone rings, I jump out of my skin.  

Happy Monday, everybody.  And here's to Joe, one of the best I'll ever know.

Stretch Armstrong Runs a Race

It's been a few years since I started running.  I started at... Christmas... of 2009.  So, a few.  I ran a race last weekend, my fourth time in this race, which was my first race ever.  I have run this race with two other people, now, and twice by myself.  It was both of their first races ever, too, and it's so much fun to be there for that experience.

This race is 2 miles.  Last year I finished in 18 minutes.  Boom.  The year before that, 19 and change, and I PLACED and got a trophy.  I still don't know how I missed my trophy last year.

This year, I was coming off of pneumonia and had not run for a solid month prior to the race.  I was nervous going in, actually, afraid of how bad it was going to feel to finish last, or, you know, second to last.

There's this big ass loser in our town that I cannot stand, for whom I have a visceral dislike that I can't even pinpoint, there's really no reason for it.  This guy typically plays the National Antehm at this particular race, on trumpet.  He's all right on the trumpet.  Whatever.

This year, he also ran.  Make no mistake, I don't care if I did one solid cough the entire race, I was DETERMINED to beat this guy.

The first year I ran this race, and I ran every step, I finished in 24.40.  That's not at all a good time, that's super duper slow, but whatever.  I don't give a shit what you think.  I am a runner, goddammit.

Anyway.  This year, I ran about a half mile, then walk-ran the rest of the race.  It was a gorgeous day, warm and sunny, and I decided, well, fuck it.  I don't even care.  I enjoyed myself.  In that first 1/2 mile, I noticed the tubby yellow shirt of The Trumpeter, just ahead of me.  I looked at Mel- let's do this shit.  We pulled ahead of him, and even though a little while later I started walking some, and Mel ran on, go ahead her, his bright yellow shirt stayed behind us.

In the end, I finished in 24.40 - I KNOW - and was pretty satisfied, considering the state I was in.  Had time for some animal crackers and gatorade, when I heard the announcer call the Trumpeter's name, and announce his time.

30.something-or-other.

HAHA.  Fat fucker.  I beat the shit out of you, and I'm out of shape.

Oh, how unsportsmanlike I am.  Fuck it.

I had fun racing, and I'm pretty much ready to get back on the pavement.  Daylight savings is here, it's warm enough, and I've got to maintain a significant lead on trumpeters.

In other news, there's been some sad times lately, but during the sad times, there is often a moment where I can see people I love, and this was one of those.  Look at these cute girlies:

Now, look at my left arm.  It's freakishly long, and bent at an odd angle, and extremely thin.  Stretch armstrong.  That's me.

The baby is writing in a diary.  I did that, when I was little.  He doesn't know I took a picture.  He also doesn't know I'm going to post a picture of his diary on the internet.  PARENTING WIN.

"I went to a britthay at crassgates."  I went to a birthday at Cross Gates.  He had fun at that birthday party, a party of triplets, who live across the street from me.  I'm so glad.  I feel no compunction about letting him go over there to play, because I'm pretty sure she can't remember how many first graders are supposed to be there anyway, and so one more doesn't really make an impact.

Oh, how hilarious is the life.  Happy Tuesday, everybody.  I wish you a long arm, a britthay and a good run, beating out a yellow shirted trumpet playing asshole.

Label wearer. In case I lose my V.

And so this one time, I said, "I've got a cold thing going on."

You all know just how very much this girlie likes to be sick.  Well, if you don't, you definitely should.  Pales compared to how much I like a band-aid, but still.

As an aside, my friend Mel's daughter is EXACTLY like me.  Girl fell and hurt her wrist like two weeks ago.  After much whining, Mel took little bit to the urgent care for an x-ray and it wasn't broken.  But girl child really seriously considered that perhaps they screwed up the x-ray.  God, how I love that kid.

Anyway, despite my delight in ailments, I do not really go running off to the doctor with every little sneeze.  No, no.  I like to be martyr-like, stoic in my rapid decline.  And thus it has been for the last two weeks, what started off as a little sniff, a dry cough, turned into a big ol' shaking fever and a cough that sounded like, in my mother's words, the cough of a dog with heartworms.

Delightful.

Anyway, after coming to work one day last week, I decided that there was a definite issue and did, in fact, make an appointment with my Doctor.  I got to go and see the fabulous and slightly sexy new PA, whom I will call Doctor Dirty Dianna, her name being Dianna, and me being 12.

DDD called me "thin," though, so please note, I'm pretty much in total love.

And guess what?  My cold?  Not a cold.  Pneumonia.  She took a PULSE OX, which you just know I fucking LOOOOOOOOOVED.  I took another day off and resolutely, stoically returned to work, just so they could send me home because my cough was scaring them.  I like being scary.

It's been a week now, and I'm well medicated (five prescriptions - HIGH FIVE), and I'm improving, although I still have a little cough.  But good gracious.

In the midst of that nonsense, the little boy of my household SCORED A GOAL playing soccer (BOOM) and then attended a birthday party for TRIPLETS.  Because we are awesome.

Here are some pictures for you, of random crap.

Here is me, kissing an alligator.  I asked them to un-tape his mouth.  They said no.  I asked them if I could have him.  They said no.  Please note, I had the phone with me at the time.  I'm a very good worker.  I love alligators.  Especially their feet.  That's some cute feet.

Here is me, trying on a dress (while wearing my "winter flip flops", shoes which really ought to be thrown away) at the mall.  Which is, in and of itself, really fucking weird because I don't go to the mall.  Anyway, I tried on this dress, me with my little tiny white legs, because I thought it was cute, completely unaware that it was also a label for my v.  V.  Because, you know, I might lose it.  Nope, there it is!  Righty thery, ho ho!  That's my V!

When I am sick, I knit at about half speed.  Which is to say, still really fucking a lot faster than you do.  I imagine.  Whatever.  But anyway.  I knitted an elephant.  A pneumoniaphant.

With little, black, island-of-misfit-toys eyes.

And a little penis nose!  Hooray for penis noses!