"I don't want to hear, 'Dad, dad, anymore. Just SHUT UP and play nicely! SHUT UP!'"
This is what I just heard as I came from the basement next door where I sometimes do my laundry. This is where the coin-operated washer and dryer are located. My landlord, a nice and gentle man, is also admittedly cheap. One day I was walking home and saw him hanging things to dry in the basement. Goddamn, he's cheaper than I thought, I thought. Fucking washing things in the basement basin. Later, I realized he has his own washer in our building! The cheapskate keeps that for himself! But there is no dryer, as I saw him hanging his gray, but-used-to-be-white jockeys on a clothes rack.
When I heard the man yelling at his child(ren?), I did the thing of forcing myself to pretend that I heard nothing and briskly locked the door next door and opened the one to my building.
I've looked at some of the other blogs that blogger.com offers. All you have to do is press the "next blog" button at the top of the page. So many of them are the same! Are they cutting and pasting the ABOUT ME part?
Basically they read:
I am a God-fearing and loving Christian woman who is sooooooooo lucky to have three wonderful children - Bradley Lou, Brianna Lynn, and Brittany Lee - even though they all have leukemia. I am happily married to my husband, Todd, who fucks me whenever he wants, and sometimes fingers my daughters! What are ya gonna do - he's a man! :) I home school the kids here in Whitesville, Kentucky, and belong to a rifle club! :-) Sarah Palin and Laura Bush are my heros [sic] and I collect Precious Moments figurines because they are soooooo cute!
All the followers of those blogs have essentially the same profiles and their comments are about each others children (I cannot BELIEVE how BIG the TWINS are GETTING!) and what websites are best for finding gross recipes that use canned vegetables.
The other day I was flicking channels whilst eating but before watching a subtitled flick (because I am a cosmopolitan man of the world). I ended up on the Food Network. It was some show that I've seen before, fun to watch wherein they film the goings-on in a factory. There is something fascinating about those enormous machines, mindless, moving on their own, huge dull-silver contraptions repeating the same movements and producing masses of products. This show featured a segment on the delicious marshmallow Peeps. (Note: when one says "Peeps," they should say it like a baby chick in a falsetto voice; it's more fun that way.) Before I could watch my Spanish film, I had to scurry to the neighborhood CVS and buy several boxes of Peeps, both the bunny and chick varieties.
These days there are many colors of Peeps. Unlike the plain old yellow that I had to endure as a youngster, there are now blue, orange, green, gray, black, invisible, glass, rust, vomit, and blood colors.
I made a brood of Peeps pooping:
If Martha Stewart were smart, she would have me regularly featured doing a segment about CRAFTS FOR KIDS.
I'm not sure how and when it happened, but during their lunch period, a group of 5th graders come to my classroom to have their lunch. Actually, I think it began when I had asked a student who I worked with in small group last year to help organize my room. Okay, I'll be more honest: sometimes, there are some kids that organize my desk and room for me. I'm a mess. I'm sloppy. I lose things. Maybe it's ADD. Or ADHD. I tell people it's the state of being genius and that I'm busy with abstract concepts; who has time for straightening up and worrying about where I put files? Except, of course, when I need the paperwork. Too, when I am wanting the room straightened, I am a tyrant, bellowing, "FENG SHUI! FENG SHUI! I NEED EVERYTHING IN LINES! THE CORNERS MUST MATCH!" Two days later, the girls and boys who cleaned my desk say, "Um, Mr. Anonymister, didn't we just clean your desk for you?" To which I respond, "Someone broke in the classroom and messed everything up!" I always promise to follow up with filing a police report. The kids just shake their heads at me.
So the one student I had asked to help brought a friend to help organize. And then I think that kid brought a friend. And so on. Until eventually there has been about core group of about ten students, mostly 5th graders, who hang out at lunch. It's sweet. Sometimes they help organize things in the classroom. Sometimes we don't even talk at all because I'm busy working and dramatically hold my hand signifying that I have no time to talk. On those days, they have rap sessions with each other. Other times, if it's a smaller group of kids, we might talk candidly together. They might tell me about hating their mothers ("Yes, I know the feeling," I respond.) and fathers ("He be drinking too much beer with the neighbor."). Or, they might confide about the homeroom or specialist teachers that they loathe ("Yeah, her breaf be like a dumpster, and her armpits be nasty. And when she talk, she be spitting."). To these, I stifle my giggles, and lamely relate to having to respect my own boss.
What has touched me about this "lunch bunch," as a colleague calls them, is that they voluntarily hang there. I know they feel safe. I know it is a haven and that though sometimes they are there to work, always they can just congregate, relax and simply be. What has been remarkable about it to me at times is that the lunch bunch gathers even on days when the weather is beautiful and they have the opportunity to play sports at lunch time. Most of the boys love sports.
One of the boys who comes is a recent addition. He just transferred to the school around December. He is sophisticated, sometimes too much so, for an 11-year-old. He is a great dancer, full of energy, and quite funny. I have told him he talks too much. He also lacks a filter for his mouth. He is very much like me.
Today, I had him stapling some papers and he looked at another boy and exclaimed, "Oh no - BERT!"
After, he proceeded to laugh hysterically.
I looked at the boy he was referring to and, indeed, he resembles a Muppet.
Although I had always thought he looked more like a Sleestak.
Point is, this boy who made himself laugh has a mean streak. And I had to nip it. I had to tell him he could not make fun of anyone in my classroom. And that was going against my instinct because the shit was funny. I like to see when a person makes himself laugh
I'm using a different font today because I am fun.
During the snowstorms, I will admit that I watched TV. And somehow I stumbled onto RuPaul's Drag Race, the reality show in which contestants vie to be the next "Drag Queen Superstar!" Because, there are, SO many drag queens competing to be famous. In any case, I love the show. It's fascinating to me. I'm watching a subculture of the subculture that I'm in. I'll be candid: I get slightly uncomfortable. Here: I'll take it further: I get afraid. That's what's beneath my fascination. I simply don't understand it. I do not understand wanting to look like a woman, or a drag queen (I think there is a difference for some of them). I have had some friends who have done that on Halloween. I did have one friend, who I did heroin with, who was a drag queen performer. When we were fucked up, he suggested that he dress up as a woman, I put him on a leash, and we go sit on Santa's lap at Macy's for Xmas photos. But that's the extent of my experience with drag.
Now, I think to myself: can it really be called a "reality" show?
It's certainly a competition, but RuPaul is the monarch, and his/her word is final. When he sets the queens up for elimination at the end of the show, the tension mounts. The camera pans in on their pancake-makeup. You can see the fear in the queen's eyes, as if they're going to be thrown to crocodiles in a moat if they're eliminated. Then, to make matters worse, they have to "lip synch for your life." How sadistic, RuPaul, to make the queens do something that should be fun and free and frolicky in order to remain in the competition. What pressure! That's the part of the show I hate the most. I get so uncomfortable and embarrassed because one of those bitches is going to be sent packing.
When I discovered the show, I quickly called my sister.
"Oh man, you HAVE to watch RuPaul. Watch it, watch it."
She indulged me, as she generally does.
She texted during the show:
Ewwwww the fat one is fat!!
I texted back:
And fat, too.
Which begins the game that we play, which can go on for hours sometimes.
Her:
Thanks for saying And fat!
Me:
Thanks for thanking me.
Her:
Thanks for acknowledging that I said thanks!
Me:
I see you used an exclamation point!
Her:
Thanks for acknowledging the exclamation point!
Me:
Ur welcome.
Her:
Thanks for taking the time to say Ur welcome.
My sister is very mannerly. <-- the adverb modifies the verb
