Sparkly Tigers!

I'd just like to say that being on crutches in an elementary school is nearly as hazardous as the accident which caused the crutches in the first place. Children are completely oblivious to the pain or problems of anyone other than themselves. While interested, children are not very sympathetic or concerned about my well-being.
It was funny to watch the reactions of children as compared to that of adults when I explained my little snafu with the sink.

Adult: What on earth happened to you?
Me: Well, I turned on the water in the bathroom of a restaurant and the sink fell off the wall and shattered on my foot.
Adult: What?! That's crazy? Are you okay? What actually happened to your foot?

-----------------------------------------------------

Child #1: Ooooh! Crutches! I had crutches! I fell off my bike!
Child #2: [gasp] You have crutches! Why?
Me: Well, I turned on the water in the bathroom of a restaurant and the sink fell off the wall and shattered on my foot.
Child #1: Oh.
Child #2: Oh. [pause] My brother? This one time? He had stitches?
Child #3: Hey! Mrs. is wearing a sock! It has tigers!
Child #1: Oooh! They sparkle! Sparkly tigers!
Child #2: Those are cats, not tigers.
Child #1: Mrs! Aren't those tigers?!
Me: Yes, they are tigers. Could we get started on some work now please?
Child #1: Hey, where were you yesterday? How come you didn't get the good sub? [turns to friend] Did you see Mrs.' sock? It has tigers!

Extreme concern, I tell you. Two have bashed into my tender little foot and not even apologized, even after my ever-so-sensitive reply, "Hello?! Stitches here?" When I have kids, I'm going to teach them some manners. And that they should always do their homework and turn it into the proper basket. Still having a problem there. Happy almost Friday!

-GimpyPig

A Suicidal Sink, a tale of surprise and intrigue

I thought that by relating the tales of my accident-prone nature (Egg Thrown at Face, Near Death by Coconut, On the Job Writing Injury, The Port-a-John Fracture), I might somehow purge myself of this accident-laden karma with which I have been blessed. Based on this past weekend, I was sorely mistaken in that assumption. Which is how I came to find myself in the emergency room until 5:30 Sunday morning. I digress. Let’s start at the beginning.
I spent my weekend visiting my dear old friend Cousineddie over in Virginia. We were having a grand time on the town when the Luck ‘O the Pig struck again. Having spent much of our evening at a local watering hole, we were up for some grub around 12:30am. An inviting Mexican eatery beckoned and our appetites responded. I decided to make a quick pit stop in el bano before dining. This casual decision? My fatal mistake. After taking care of business, my irrational fear of public restrooms prompted my obligatory hand washing. I reached out and turned on the water. All would have been fine and good had the SINK NOT FALLEN OFF THE WALL AND SHATTERED ON MY FOOT! Yeah, you read that right – the entire sink and all of its various plumbing accoutrements plummeted from its usual convenient location on the wall and exploded into a million pieces of porcelain atop my – brand new Kenneth Cole sandal clad – foot.

As you can well imagine, this is not a typical situation in which to find oneself. For a moment I stared dumbly at the pile of porcelain shards on the floor. Water sprayed at bizarre angles from the now-exposed pipes. I briefly lamented the time and effort I had painstakingly put into straightening my hair only for it to get unjustly soaked in the bathroom of a Mexican restaurant. Then, THEN! I reacted. I screamed and ripped the door open to find the owner and a non-English speaking employee gaping just on the other side. They gasped in unison and the woman braved the Shard ‘n Spray to grab me a huge stack of paper towels which she emphatically thrust at me and gestured at my foot. I looked down.
My foot was standing in a small pool of blood which to my surprise and alarm appeared to be flowing from me! I sunk to the floor and began trying to stop the bleeding. Flashes of old health classes began flashing through my mind – pressure! No, a tourniquet! No, let it breathe! Confusion and panic were setting in as I realized this little snafu extended a bit beyond my cute hair and new sandals.
“Can you get my friends?” I begged the waitress. Cousineddie would know what to do. Always level-headed, that Cousineddie. The waitress raised her hands helplessly.
“No hablo ingles,” she explained, hastily cleaning up my bloodbath in a very non-HAZMAT manner. I summoned my high school Spanish.
“Mis amigos? A la mesa? En la restaurante?” I had been reduced to speaking in questions like my students. Her eyes lit up and she nodded and trotted off to find my friends. I closed my eyes and concentrated on applying pressure. There was some definite gushing here.
“What’d you do now?!” Cousineddie burst onto the scene and her eyes widened as she took it all in. I was ready for some sympathy, some assistance protecting my jeans, and a good doctor. Know what I got? Hysterics. She burst into uncontrolled laughter and supported herself on the wall (a risky idea in this joint) as she heaved in gales of laughter at my expense.
“How?!” she gasped. Honestly, if I knew that I wouldn’t be in this predicament. Suddenly, my nostrils were assaulted by a pungent stench. I momentarily released my vice grip on my wounds to shove away the hand of Armando, the owner of the restaurant who had procured some smelling salts. FLASH! A camera appeared in my face. This was really getting out of control. Cousineddie was now documenting my humiliating situation with photographic evidence between her bouts of hysterical laughter.

“Can I have a doctor?” I pled, trying to invoke some seriousness into this scenario. Yeah, this was quite the ridiculous situation, but I really had a bloody mess on my hands, er…foot. It turns out there are a lot of vessels? Veins? Arteries? In the big toe region. Bleeders, they are. Mine were on high alert and full productivity.
After turning down Armando’s offer of an ambulance, he and my new favorite person I had just met that night hefted me into the car. I’m afraid that may have been my one shot at a queenly departure wasted on a sink attack. We pulled away, me still applying pressure, Armando frantically punching my cell number into his phone, fear of a lawsuit dancing in his eyes. Are you wondering about Cousineddie? She was giggling over the pictures she had captured and was reviewing her work in the backseat.
Upon our arrival to the ER, I was wheeled away in a wheelchair (FLASH!)
and checked into be cleaned up (FLASH!). I believe it was at this point that a cop kindly asked Cousineddie to put away the camera. I was admitted around 1am and left on a gurney in the hall of the ER.
The rest of the stats from the night are as follows:

• 5 hours


• 3 nurses


• 3 X-rays


• 2 witnessings of naked gunshot victims


• 1 witnessing of a possible gonorrhea infection, complete with penile swabbing


• 1 nurse whisking me away for


• 2 more x-rays


• 9 requests by hospital personnel to hear what happened to me


• 3 visits from a very giggly Cousineddie


• 1 tetanus shot


• 3 big needles in and between my toes


• 4 stitches



• 1 blue bootie



• 2 crutches

So there you have it. Hopefully, hopefully, this will really be it for a while. *fingers crossed*
Be sure to stop by CousinEddie’s for her version after you leave me the appropriate pitying comment.

I threw out my shoulder teaching writing.

You know, I've always heard all my life about worker's compensation from my dad, the insurance guru. He tells fascinating stories of workers in factories losing various parts of their anatomies, or of Hooters waitresses falling through floor vents up to their, well....hooters, which is apparently worthy of a workman's comp claim. My dad makes his living preaching safety to employees of various companies, factories, or trucking institutions. He never failed to involve his family in his safety ventures either.
When I was little, I genuinely believed each night that there was a strong possibility that my house would burn to the ground. I had an escape plan in every home we lived in and would drift to sleep each night not with visions of sugarplums dancing in my head, but more like flames. Flames engulfing my home, particularly my Pooh Bear that I clung to tightly each night in case of the inevitable evacuation that I knew was looming in my future.
I once tumbled headlong down a flight of stairs after a particularly windy night set off our smoke detectors after I had gone to bed. I was pleased to find that I still had Pooh Bear clenched tightly in my arms when I reached the botttom. It was almost a disappointment to find that our house was not, in fact, on fire. I had been prepping for that moment my entire life.
Back to my dad. It's not uncommon to be in a (public) restaurant with him and see him reaching up to test their smoke alarms. He'll interview strangers on their safety plans and give gems like fire extinguishers or stainless steel braided pipes to prevent bursting to my friends or boyfriends. He convinced my sister and I when we were young and impatient that ringing the doorbell more than one time would immediately burn the house down.
So you'd think that growing up under the Regime of the Safety Nazi that it would be unlikely that I would have a worker's compensation claim. Particularly since I work in a relatively safe environment. Except I have limited coordination and a knack for bizarre accidents. Which brings me to today. Today I had an injury while teaching writing.
How does that even happen, one might query. If it's an injury and it's within any realm of possibility, odds are that I can figure out how to do it. So there I was, teaching writing to my class and another which had come over to watch this particular lesson. Boy, I was teaching my heart out! This lesson was about grabbing your reader's attention at the beginning of a piece of writing. We had covered the usual dialogue, sounds, and description....I had moved into action. My kids are heavily into tetherball when the temperature allows us to go out to recess, and I thought it would make a pleasing example for an action beginning. I should have stopped with the writing of the beginning, instead of the acting out of the serving of the tetherball.
"I tossed the ball high into the air," I dramatized, acting as though I was throwing the ball up, "I pulled back my fist," I continued with great emphasis on my facial expressions as I drew my fist back, "and I POUNDED the ball into a dizzying spiral!" I concluded with exquisite form and vigorous follow through as I laid waste to my imaginary tetherball. I really should have stopped with the writing of the words because that was when I heard a questionable sound and felt a sneaky little pinch up in the 'ol ball and socket region. I gimped my way through the end of my lesson and cradled my wounded wing for the remainder of the day.
I threw out my shoulder teaching writing. Is that not the most nerdtastic injury ever? Is that seriously a worker's comp situation if I caused it myself? It was in pursuit of the highest degree of teaching! I did it for the kids, after all. Now I can't dry my hair, pick up a glass, or open the fridge. It utterly destroyed my tennis game tonight and I'm embarrassed to tell anyone at school how I did it.
How does the daughter of the Safetymeister Extraordinaire find herself in quite this predicament? This is stupider than the time I broke my finger in the port-a-john or the time I cut my forehead when an egg ran into me while I was rollerskating. If I have to go to the doctor, do I tell someone, or do I just slink away quietly and make up a new story? If I create a new story, what should it be? I need a superfabulous way to throw out my shoulder. I'll be here. Waiting. And not picking anything up.

Milk Wit My Cocoa Puff

Answer to yesterday’s riddle may as well have been an empty basket as Leesepea suggested. I had FORTY FIVE missing assignments. 45! I only have 40 students and there weren’t that many assignments. They just don’t care and their parents don’t make them care. One of my colleagues is having the same problem, and she came over in the middle of class to tell me about her situation. She asked her student, “So, it’s been two days. Are you planning to actually do your reading response?” She waited while he thought. And he really pondered for a minute before thoughtfully responding, “I don’t know…” He said he didn’t know! He’s losing $2 a day from his checkbook for missing work, but “he doesn’t know!” I just can’t wrap my head around these kids.

Let’s also talk about the full moon. I don’t know how many of you have spent time around children or animals during a full moon, but it changes them much like I imagine werewolves would transform. Gus has shifted from his Happy Playful Self into his alter ego, Evil FreakyWeird Gus. Since yesterday, he’s stolen and eaten a pack of Trident, a tampon, a sock, and countless treasures from the garbage can. He has barked savagely at anyone daring to set foot on our sidewalk and nearly thrown himself through the window at the children at the bus stop in our driveway. Right now he’s in the backyard howling at a hot air balloon.

In addition to the Full Moon Delight, how ‘bout we factor in our 100+ degree temperatures which prevent us from having outside recess? Let’s do that. ‘Cause that’s one of the primary factors which pushed my sanity to its breaking point today. During class, I gave a set of directions verbally (mistake #1 – assuming kids are listening) and sat down to start meeting with kids about their writing (mistake #2 – assuming they are mature enough to be able to focus during this, a debilitating moon cycle, and get work done independently). I looked up to find ItchyScratchy staring a hole through me.

“What?” I asked.
“Did you just say something in Spanish?” she stared in wonder.
“Um, no,” I replied.
“Are you sure? I couldn’t even understand what you just said,” she singsonged in her dreamy Valley Girl voice.
So apparently, not only do my kids not listen to me, but some think that I’m speaking a foreign language. Of course.

Which brings us to my last class of the day. The one with Mr.Owens. Thank goodness for Mr. Owens. During reading groups, I walked around babysitting to make sure that kids were on task when I kept hearing a bouncy little rhythm from the corner of the room. I casually sauntered over, hoping to bust the perpetrator and leaned in for a better listen.

“What you gon’ do with all that junk?All that junk inside your trunk?I’ma get, get, get, get, you drunk,Get you love drunk off my hump.My hump, my hump, my hump, my hump, my hump,My hump, my hump, my hump, my lovely little lumps.”

If you aren’t familiar, these are the deep and meaningful lyrics of a very popular Black Eyed Peas song, of which one Mr. Owens is apparently a fan. He was actually reading his book as instructed while rockin’ out in his own world with a jaunty little head bob at the same time.

“I mix your milk wit my cocoa puff, milky, milky cocoa, mix your milk with my cocoa puff, milky, milky riiiiiiight,” sang Mr.Owens as I stifled the uproarious laughter that was threatening to explode forth. He caught my eye just then and put his finger over his own lips, but continued to bob his head to the beat and read Harry Potter. I crept away and stepped into the hall and collapsed against the wall laughing. Not only does he march to the beat of his own drum, he can apparently sing along as well.

I finally made it to the end of the day, which included a round of chocolate cupcakes for a birthday (can’t be served at lunch, that would compete with the cafeteria! Better to take up instructional time). I waved a relieved goodbye to my gaggle of youth as they struggled out the door to go home and not do their homework. That’s when one of my kids from last year handed me a crumpled up, mangled brown envelope that he dug from the murky depths of his backpack.

“Here,” he said. “This is your present from the end of the year last May. I forgot it in my backpack.” He shuffled off, not embarrassed in the least that he was delivering a 4 month late end of the year teacher gift. Classic. I sighed. Classic.

7 Things

This little meme brought to you by Leesepea...

7 things I plan to do before I die:

1) Own a beach house and retire there
2) Write a book
3) Quit teaching and get a job where I can help teachers
4) Go to Europe
5) Learn how to water ski
6) Have 2.4 kids
7) Move back to the east coast!

7 things I can do:

1) Cook
2) Listen and do something else well at the same time
3) Win a Dutch Oven Contest
4) French pedicure toenails
5) Walk on stilts
6) Raise one eyebrow
7) Double jump rope (not double dutch)

7 things I cannot do:

1) Sing. Can't sing to save my life. But I really enjoy it.
2) Do a cartwheel.
3) Run a mile without gasping for breath.
4) See anything beyond five inches from the tip of my nose without my glasses on.
5) Fall asleep quickly.
6) Give up reality/trashy TV.
7) Mow.

7 things that attract me to the opposite sex/another person:

1) A great sense of humor
2) Full head of hair
3) Eye crinkles
4) Not so much chest hair
5) Toned muscles, but not the Incredible Hulk
6) Man hands
7) Good teeth

7 things that I say most often:

1) Yeah! No.
2) Squirrelly (even my class has pointed this out)
3) Riiiiiiight...
4) Or! (response to an unrealistic request, such as "Why don't you teach all the kids tomorrow?")
5) I gotta poop. (I'm proud of my regularity and I share often.)
6) It's always Tuesday.
7) Gus, no!

7 celebrity crushes:

1) Adam Brody
2) James Denton
3) George Clooney
4) Chris O'Donnell
5) Benjamin McKenzie
6) Matthew McConaughey
7) Topher Grace

7 people I want to do this:

1) CousinEddie
2) KatieBug
3) NYC Katie
4) Meredith
5) MommyProf
6) Christopher
7) PostHip Chick

Just One More Thing...

...about Mr. Owens and then I swear I won't talk about him for a while. His new thing is that whenever he asks me a question now he places his palms together under his chin like he's praying and looks down while he waits for my answer, then before he leaves, he bows to me. I have no idea where it came from, but when he did it on the playground today when he told me that he had completed his spelling work, my colleague asked me if I'd had him referred yet. I said no, that's just how he is. Normal in his own special way. Very special, but special.

Mr. Owens Again....A Cool, Refreshing Treat.

Certainly you’ll all remember Mr. Owens, my quirky, laugh-worthy kid. Mr. Owens is not the most stellar rememberer of all things, particularly menial tasks such as homework and getting things signed. In fact, Mr. Owens operates so much on his own schedule that sometimes we wonder if he’s even with us on the same plane in the universe. Mr. Owens and I had a rather pleasant exchange today. What I appreciate about this kid is that he is a reasonable soul, it’s just that sometimes he has to have certain itches scratched. By that I mean, he has to at least try to find an out on almost everything. What’s charming about him is the creativity with which he conducts these tasks. He may have a future in law. Today he remembered to do his homework, however he didn’t complete all of the parts of it as he was instructed. His name went down on my dreaded “finish at recess” list. Upon realizing his fate, he thought briefly, then traipsed up to me as we began Writer’s Workshop.

Mr. Owens: Say, Mrs?
Me: Yes, Ethan?
Mr. Owens: I’ve got a proposition for you. How about if I finish this assignment right now, and you take me off that list of yours? [Leans casually on my desk]
Me: Well, I would certainly be glad to do that if it wasn’t something you were supposed to have completed at home, Ethan.
Mr. Owens: Ah….I see that you do have a valid point.
Me: [stifle laughter as he troops resignedly back to his chair]

That’s what is so funny about this kid. He cracks me up without the slightest bit of irony. He’s not trying to be funny or attention-seeking at all – this is just who he is! Mr. Owens truly dances to the beat of his own drum. It’s refreshing to have an idiosyncratic individual in my room for a change. Refreshing.

Basket Case

"When you have finished the assignment, put it in the basket at the front of the room. Keep your eyes on your own paper and do your best! Where do we put our papers?" I am greeted with blank stares and two fingers pointing at various places around the room. Sigh.
"When you are finished put your paper in the basket." I waited. Still blank. I walked over to the basket and waved it around in the air. It is the only basket in the classroom and the very basket where we have been turning everything into for a month now.
I finished my spiel and began my slow and easy pace around the room. Walk, walk, pause. Walk, walk, pause. Stare chronic cheaters in the eye. Oh yeah, buddy. I see you. Walk, walk pause.
Small hand pats at my arm. I look down. The hand is attached to the aforementioned paper and is extended in my direction. I smile at the little person and continue my rounds. Walk, walk, pause. It follows me and pats at my arm again.
"Here," it says, proferring the paper with an insistent gesture. I smile again, a little more forced this time. Walk, walk, pause. "Are you gonna take my paper?" it asks. I smile sweetly and shake my head no.
"Raise your hand if you remember where we always turn in papers in this class," I ignored the unrelenting one and turned my hope to the rest of the class. My question was met by blank stares and one raised eyebrow. The person across from eyebrow pointed out their unique talent and began trying to raise their own eyebrow to no avail. Presently, I had one entire table squinting at each other and raising the entire heads as they attempted this daunting task.
"What are you guys doing?" asked a member of a neighboring table leaning across the aisle in a dangerous manner. I felt my blood pressure soar.
"Eyebrows down! Four legs on the floor!" I addressed them both at once. "You're giving me gray hair! The question was 'Where do we turn in our work?'" I stared expectantly at Eyebrow.
"You don't have gray hair," he replied, clearly concerned about my question. This thought aroused several from across the room.
"This one time? My mom? She let me dye my hair? And it was blonde!" started one little monster.
"Well, you know how my hair's blonde now? That's because-a my lice shampoo! It was really cool!" retorted CreepyCrawly as her tablemates began to twitter about lice and move away from her.
DING! I gave my old lady teacher bell a sharp tweak and watched 22 people jump in their chairs. We got back to work. Walk, walk, pause. Walk, walk, pause. Pat, pat, pat. That hand was back on my arm.
"Don't you want my paper?" it insisted. I kindly took it by the hand and walked it over to the wire basket. I pointed. It deposited the paper and walked back to its chair.
That was when I felt another paper being thrust at me. And that's when I went off the deep end and personally carried the wire basket from child to child introducing it to each student. And that's how all the children came to think that I'm certifiable. I'd love to be a fly on the wall for some family conversations at dinner tonight.
"And Mrs.? She walked around the classroom? And she introduced us to a basket? She said, 'Hello, Joey! I'm the basket!' I think she's kinda weird."

I Got a New Job!!

Phone rings at work today while kids are in PE:

Me: [perky, as always] Hello?
Office: Your 2:30 appointment is here.
Me: Okay, thanks! Send them on down!
Office: Oh, no. You need to come get them and escort them the 2.5 miles back down to your classroom. You see, they haven’t filled out their volunteer form or jumped through hoop C or D as mandated by the district.
Me: Well, they aren’t volunteering, I called them in for a conference, so you can just send them on down.
Office: No, no! They are considered a danger to children until they’ve filled out that form!
Me: Uh…don’t I teach their children?
Office: Other children. They might be a danger to other children. They can only be around their children in the office or the cafeteria.
Me: So, the cafeteria where all of the children are is okay, but not my empty classroom?
Office: Just come up and get them please. We need you to help us enforce the rule for safety.
Me: What about my safety? Do they look dangerous? They didn’t fill out that form, you know.
Office: [click]

So that’s how I came to add yet another feature to my job description. I thought I went to college to become a teacher. Silly Pig! I’m now a:

Teacher
Mentor
Coach
Self-Esteem Coordinator
Detective
Actress
Secretary
Friendship Counselor
Nurse
Diagnostician
Publicist
Handwriting Analyst
Author
Mediator
Child Psychologist
And my new title, Police Escort!

-Pig Who Wears Many Hats

Your Tax Dollars at Work

I've been pretty lousy at posting regularly of late. I'm just slammed at school. It's always like this at the beginning of the year: meeting after meeting (covering the same things that they did last year), paperwork, training of the darlings, and of course, more meetings. So you can imagine my distress when I sat down in yet another meeting after school one day labeled "Mandatory" on my email notification only to find my favorite thing getting ready to transpire: an icebreaker. As mentioned earlier this year, I detest icebreakers. This feeling of bitterness multiplies when said icebreaker is labeled "Mandatory" and takes up my valuable after school planning time. Let me tell you how it all went down.

1. I wearily pulled out my child-size library chair and collapsed into it. Began feverishly jotting notes to my teammates about all of the things we had to do after this Very Important Meeting (VIM).
2. Perky person from office who has not been around ten year olds all day bounces onto the scene. She is chipper and makes several lame attempts to get us to echo her in a school cheer. We look at her. And not very nicely.
3. Frisky McPerkyson unveils what she has clearly been working on all day in her office. It is a collection of detailed hand-drawn lipsticks in various shapes.
4. I stare without shame at her with my best "Get a job!" expression on my face.
5. We are then subjected to an explanation of how the form that your lipstick takes is an indicator of your personality. This is somehow related to my job of teaching fourth grade. The men on our staff were even less fascinated that we were, which is hard to imagine.
6. We all have to troop to the front and put a sticky note with our name under the lipstick that best matches our own. No thought is even given to the fact that not one of us has a speck of lipstick left on our faces at 4:00 on a Monday afternoon.
7. With great demonstrative efforts, Frisky proceeds to do the Big Reveal on what each lipstick shape represented and who shared personalities on our staff. Because the scientific evidence lurking behind this internet forward is so staggering, I feel certain that we as a team would not have survived one more day without this valuable bit of wisdom.
8. Then we were dismissed. For real. And people wonder why I'm cranky.

Hmmmm.

I was walking through the produce section of the grocery store a little while ago, casually fondling the sorry looking late summer tomatoes when an elderly woman with a crazed look in her eye grasped my arm firmly. She leaned in close to my face and hissed, "I'm turning 87 years old tomorrow and they expect me to buy bananas that are that green?!" Then she released me and hobbled away from the offensively unripe bananas and onto the card aisle with her cart. I glanced at the bananas. They were exceptionally green. She had a point, however based on her spunk and gumption, I don't think she was going anywhere before those bananas had a chance to ripen. I love old people.

Gus's Vocabulary

ride in the car

puppy chow

sit

stay

get in the bed

kitty cat

birdies

bunny rabbit

go for a walk

go to the park

treat

peanut butter

NO

come here

water

no licks

Snoopy (the name of the laser pointer)

go get it

take a bath

big boy bed

want to taste?

outside

do business

puppy

come inside

do nice (growl, don't bark)

no barks (muzzle is about to come out)

Daddy's home

It's Friday!

At least I'm not a nerd, I guess...

Dear Mrs.,
I don't think your a nerd at all. I think you are 1 of the best teachers I have ever had. I think that you are very pert - pertt - pretty. Guss who I am? I love the Nancy Drew filies. I'm in your real class. I had to call my mom.
Love,

You know, my job has some perks. Like finding this cute little note on my desk today. They really tell it like it is sometimes. We are still working on focusing ideas in writing and sticking to one topic. She'll get there.

-TeachingPig

Perhaps you don't want to see the second largest ball of twine on the face of the earth, which is only four short hours away?

I'm back! I can sense that you missed me dreadfully...anxiously searching the site daily for some new news from the trenches...I know what you were up to; I know your type. I went on a jolly little excursion back East for a little Clemson football action this weekend! It was good to see friends and family and get away from the country of Texas for a brief while. What follows promises to be disconnected and random, so fasten your seat belt and pay attention!

First things first: Clemson beat A&M properly, thus redeeming itself for last year's abyssmal performance in Texas. Attending this game was not only loads of fun, but it reaffirmed for me my theory that Aggies are a strange people who are a part of a strange cult. I'm all for school spirit and tradition, but these people take things to an entirely new level. There was a girl just in front of us who we'll just call Old Yeller. I suspect she's one of those people who give the rest of them a bad name, but I kid you not, she yelled - not a nice school spirit yell - a deep, throaty, gutteral roar for the entire 4 hour and 30 minute football game. It didn't matter who had the ball, she was roaring a constant stream of....well, noise. Not words, not chants, just a long grunt. A really loud one. While bent over at the waist, Texas tattooed arms extended, back of shirt fully visible which clearly read, "He might be shitting on your lawn" on the back. I'm not sure if it's a joke I didn't get, but it was pretty offensive to gaze at for four hours. Particularly when its owner was bellowing in such a raucous fashion.

But all of that was before I was nearly knocked unconscious by an overly enthusiastic Clemson fan. I had already endured a good 45 minutes of his wayward spittle splashing about the back of my neck, shoulders, and hair, but when his elbow came crashing down onto my headbone, that was the last straw. You can endure a lot from a fellow fan, but his less than chipper backseat coaching style had to stop. In case you're wondering, the words, "TIGHTEN UP DEFENSE!" can really produce an impressive amount of saliva. You'd think his anger would be the worst of it, but it was his physical joy over a mere field goal that was the catalyst for his fervent fist pump which almost rendered me comatose. Black passed before my eyes on my way down to my seat. I thought I'd been struck by a wayward football. What a kicker! I thought in my haze before I realized that Spitty McSlobberson had actually fist pumped me. "WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?" I roared as I whirled around, hand over rising welp on head, eyes blazing with contempt. He muttered something of an apology and toned it down for the rest of the game. What is with people?

Also at the game: I'm not sure if I give off a "Bad Kids Come Here" vibe or what, but there must be giant flashing arrows a la cheap motel over my head that only poorly behaved children can see. I know for a fact that there must be good children out there, but darn if it's not always the bad ones who seek me out. After the game, we returned to the tailgate for a little post game rehash when the spawn of Satan began tearing in and out and among our tables, chairs and foodstuffs. Just racing around, tripping over our trash and bashing into us! Then....THEN! that little turd shot rubberbands at me! In front of his parents! Can you believe the nerve? So don't think I didn't shoot one back at him. He's not my student. I'd have tackled him and stuffed him in one of those day old Port-a-Johns if I thought I could've caught him. [insert noise of disgust here] Were you perhaps wondering about his parents? Yeah, they were definitely one of about four couples standing right there, but - Silly! - they had wine to drink and game to talk about! Who drinks wine at football games anyway?

On a different note, my friends got the Cutest Kitten Ever and I spent far too many minutes for a person with a severe cat allergy playing with the kitten, then compulsively washing my hands and arms feverishly, only to go play with it some more. It's in that adorable Big Head/Skinny Body phase and enjoys such games as "Where's My Tail?" and "Hey! A Curtain!" If I knew how to put video on the blog, I'd show you some true cat hilarity. Drop me an email if you'd like to be a part of the fun and games.
This little guy's name is Scout and he enjoys long walks up the stairs and pouncing on human legs at just the most tender moment. Kittens are so spastic and twitchy that I could watch them for hours. If only they didn't insist on growing up into cats and making me sneeze, wheeze, and swell. Those few symptoms really dampen any feline fancy I might take more permanently than a passing fling over a long weekend.

So aside from long lines at the airport, high gas prices, and learning about how our school district will be taking on many new faces from Louisiana, that's about it so far this week! Until tomorrow.

-BeatenPig

August 32, 2005

That's all I have to say about my class this year. And I'm not talking just one kid.