Just a few minutes ago I was walking up the stairs with one of my more "interesting" students, Chucky. Here is how the conversation between us sounded.
Chucky: "Do you have a child?"
Me: "No, I don't."
Chucky: "Are you married?"
Me: "No, I'm not."
Chucky: "Do you have a boyfriend, and do you live with someone?"
Me: (Choosing to ignore the boyfriend question, I said, "Yes, I live with someone, I have a roomate."
Chucky: "Well, I think you'd be much happier if you lived with a boyfriend. How old are you anyway?"
Me: "I'm 25."
Chucky: Yeah, you should live with someone, and probably get married soon--you don't want to die alone.
Oh my god.
Are you a). My inner most thoughts, and b).My 82 year old Jewish grandmother??
Monday, October 26, 2009
Boys are Weird
I think that the title of this blog is quite telling of what today's subject matter is going to be. Boys. And them being weird. The following are examples of things that have happened to me in the last week that have to do with boys, and them being weird.
1. I have decided to switch banks from Bank of America to Chase. After corresponding through e-mail with a Chase Bank associate who I had met once before, we had decided that I would come in later today to set up my new account. He is an older gentleman, who when I wrote to say that I would be in later today, he wrote back seconds later with..."Good girl, I CAN'T WAIT TO SEE YOU!!!" We've met once for thirty seconds, he is the Chase bank man, and he is old enough to be my grandfather.
2. This week a boy from my past resurfaced--let's call him Scott. Scott was someone that I used to, shall we say--"hang out" with during the May-June part of my summer. He disappeared from my life, after the 4th of July when I told him to stop calling me only at or after 3 am. I'm not saying that I'm completely above the 3am phone call, but when I ONLY hear from you after 3 am, that's when I gotta call it quits. (I may have my moments of questionable sexual morals, but a girl's gotta have some assemblance of dignity). Regardless, my last contact with Scott was in early July. Yesterday, around 2 pm, I received a text message from him, after almost four months of no communication. The text message simply said, "Hi." Thank you, Scott for clogging my inbox with that interesting and thoughtful text message!
3. Marc-Adam continues to call me on the phone daily, and we still continue to never see each other in real life. Weird, but tradition is tradition.
4. If you sign up for a Citibank credit card, my dad's picture comes on the brochure. My dad (who works for Citibank) is a boy(man), and I think that's kinda weird.
There are many more reasons why boys are weird, but I think that I'll stop here, with the weird boy events from my week. Please note that I also think that girls can be weird, (Case and point--me).
1. I have decided to switch banks from Bank of America to Chase. After corresponding through e-mail with a Chase Bank associate who I had met once before, we had decided that I would come in later today to set up my new account. He is an older gentleman, who when I wrote to say that I would be in later today, he wrote back seconds later with..."Good girl, I CAN'T WAIT TO SEE YOU!!!" We've met once for thirty seconds, he is the Chase bank man, and he is old enough to be my grandfather.
2. This week a boy from my past resurfaced--let's call him Scott. Scott was someone that I used to, shall we say--"hang out" with during the May-June part of my summer. He disappeared from my life, after the 4th of July when I told him to stop calling me only at or after 3 am. I'm not saying that I'm completely above the 3am phone call, but when I ONLY hear from you after 3 am, that's when I gotta call it quits. (I may have my moments of questionable sexual morals, but a girl's gotta have some assemblance of dignity). Regardless, my last contact with Scott was in early July. Yesterday, around 2 pm, I received a text message from him, after almost four months of no communication. The text message simply said, "Hi." Thank you, Scott for clogging my inbox with that interesting and thoughtful text message!
3. Marc-Adam continues to call me on the phone daily, and we still continue to never see each other in real life. Weird, but tradition is tradition.
4. If you sign up for a Citibank credit card, my dad's picture comes on the brochure. My dad (who works for Citibank) is a boy(man), and I think that's kinda weird.
There are many more reasons why boys are weird, but I think that I'll stop here, with the weird boy events from my week. Please note that I also think that girls can be weird, (Case and point--me).
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
...Cause Growing Up Is Hard To Do...
I understand that in the grand scheme of life, being in 7th grade still means you are very small. Being in 7th grade means that you have the potential to look uncomfortable in your own body for at least another three years, (and if you are me, make that five). I know that in 7th grade you don't look your best. In fact, you probably look your worst-I sure did. I was in that really pretty, I'm growing out my bangs phase of bangs. The bangs hit exactly at my eyes. I parted them directly down the middle of my forehead. I thought I looked great. I wore a necklace around my neck that said, "Hippies Rule." (It was 1996). And oh yeah, I begged my orthodontist to give me braces.
Despite all of these things, I had a genuine attack of nostalgia today. And for once, not for my own youth--but for somebody elses. The school that I teach at goes until the 8th grade. The first group of students that I ever taught are now 7th graders. Walking into the middle school for a fair, I saw my first class. Teenagers. I nearly shat myself. Well first, I nearly cried, then I nearly pooped. Some of my former students look so grown up, it's actually scary. They have gotten so tall, and their faces are in that in-between stage of still looking like children, but also slowly morphing into adults phase, but most terrifying of all-- the girls have boobs. I know that thirteen year olds may not seem old in the scheme of life, but they do when you teach these thirteen year olds when they were just nine year olds.
It is not (nor has it ever, nor will it ever) be easy for me to acknowledge the fact that I am growing up(slash grown up). But ask me to acknowledge the fact that everyone else is growing up too?? Not gonna happen. Similarly to my blog entry entitled The 90's, this is new for me. This is really the first time that I'm cognisant of seeing people that I grew up with getting older. All of my favorite celebs from the 90's are kind of old now. It is not easy to watch people older than you grow up, and at that same token, it is not easy watching those younger than you grow up too.
This can't be a new emotion, and I'm sure teachers all over the country feel this way when they see old students. It must make them feel old. Funny how you notice everyone else getting older, but you feel like you are staying the same...
And, as much as it makes me sad to see my old kids growing up, I kind of loved it a lot. That little boy who once brought me in a baggy of his toenails is all growned up...
About six months ago, I was at Mr. Chu's, my family's favorite Chinese food restaurant back at home. A place where you are bound to run into atleast 87,663 people that you know. (Obviously, adding to my list of reasons why I love it there). On my way out the door, I bumped right into my 4th grade teacher. While she did not recognize me (Hey, it had been like 15 years), she did recognize my mom. She was able to put two and two together. Her reaction? She fell against the wall. She closed her eyes and said, "Don't even tell me how old you are." Then she opened one eye and said, "Okay, tell me how old you are." I replied, with my age. She closed her eyes shut again. Poor Mrs. B. On a much tinier scale, I kind of get it. And still, I will keep my fingers crossed that one day fifteen years from now, I will run into someone that I once knew when they were very small.
Despite all of these things, I had a genuine attack of nostalgia today. And for once, not for my own youth--but for somebody elses. The school that I teach at goes until the 8th grade. The first group of students that I ever taught are now 7th graders. Walking into the middle school for a fair, I saw my first class. Teenagers. I nearly shat myself. Well first, I nearly cried, then I nearly pooped. Some of my former students look so grown up, it's actually scary. They have gotten so tall, and their faces are in that in-between stage of still looking like children, but also slowly morphing into adults phase, but most terrifying of all-- the girls have boobs. I know that thirteen year olds may not seem old in the scheme of life, but they do when you teach these thirteen year olds when they were just nine year olds.
It is not (nor has it ever, nor will it ever) be easy for me to acknowledge the fact that I am growing up(slash grown up). But ask me to acknowledge the fact that everyone else is growing up too?? Not gonna happen. Similarly to my blog entry entitled The 90's, this is new for me. This is really the first time that I'm cognisant of seeing people that I grew up with getting older. All of my favorite celebs from the 90's are kind of old now. It is not easy to watch people older than you grow up, and at that same token, it is not easy watching those younger than you grow up too.
This can't be a new emotion, and I'm sure teachers all over the country feel this way when they see old students. It must make them feel old. Funny how you notice everyone else getting older, but you feel like you are staying the same...
And, as much as it makes me sad to see my old kids growing up, I kind of loved it a lot. That little boy who once brought me in a baggy of his toenails is all growned up...
About six months ago, I was at Mr. Chu's, my family's favorite Chinese food restaurant back at home. A place where you are bound to run into atleast 87,663 people that you know. (Obviously, adding to my list of reasons why I love it there). On my way out the door, I bumped right into my 4th grade teacher. While she did not recognize me (Hey, it had been like 15 years), she did recognize my mom. She was able to put two and two together. Her reaction? She fell against the wall. She closed her eyes and said, "Don't even tell me how old you are." Then she opened one eye and said, "Okay, tell me how old you are." I replied, with my age. She closed her eyes shut again. Poor Mrs. B. On a much tinier scale, I kind of get it. And still, I will keep my fingers crossed that one day fifteen years from now, I will run into someone that I once knew when they were very small.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Adventures from Underground
Last winter, late one afternoon, I was traveling home from work via the subway. It had been a long day. I was relieved to have found a seat on the train, and was excited to return to my warm apartment. Once seated, I was quickly lost in my own thoughts, as mid 90's dance music blared through my ipod headphones.
I looked up and noticed a tiny homeless man had taken post in front of my seat. I heard slight mutterings from under his breath, but did my best to ignore his increasingly close swagger. After he stumbled, and almost landed in my lap, I heard a more distinct muttering. Something that sounded like, "blue bitch." Yes, yes. That's what he was saying, "blue bitch, blue bitch" over and over again. I soon realized he was talking about me: I was the blue bitch. (As I was the only person on the train wearing electric blue tights). I started to feel a little bit nervous, but calmed myself down with the fact that I was amidst a crowded train. I relaxed, as I told myself not to worry, this guy may be homeless and crazy--but he won't bother me.
I was dead wrong.
That is when I heard the sound that can only be described as lugie chawking (I have absolutely no idea how to spell that, and believe it or not--the phrase hawking lugies was not found in the dictionary!)
All of a sudden, tiny homeless man lunged forward, and a giant wad of his phlegmiest phlegm landed directly onto my face. YES. Tiny homeless man SPAT on my face. Can anyone really be prepared for a situation like this? I don't think so. I wanted to stand up for myself, but feared being spat on again--or possibly even worse. I could not get off of that train any faster. I held my shit together. I exited the train, now above ground. I crossed the street, and burst into tears. It was revolting, and I wouldn't wish that experience on anyone, ever.
On this particular morning, I was on the subway en route to work. I noticed a tattooed covered gentleman in the corner. Of course, we were the only two people on the subway car. He had a duffle bag on his lap, and I could tell that he was doing something with his hands underneath his bag. I was pretty sure that he was playing with himself, but tried not to make any sort of eye contact with this man. But, similar to a side of the road car crash--the more you don't want to look, the more you find yourself looking... Suddenly, the bag disappeared from his lap, and tatooed gentleman started licking his lips at me. Oh my god...I caught a tiny fleck of pink, and I realized that this man's entire wang was outside of his pants. He was jerking himself off, on a train, as I sat in the seat across from him. Enough was fucking enough. As soon as the train car stopped, I would be on my way, and I would never look back. Ever.
I looked up and noticed a tiny homeless man had taken post in front of my seat. I heard slight mutterings from under his breath, but did my best to ignore his increasingly close swagger. After he stumbled, and almost landed in my lap, I heard a more distinct muttering. Something that sounded like, "blue bitch." Yes, yes. That's what he was saying, "blue bitch, blue bitch" over and over again. I soon realized he was talking about me: I was the blue bitch. (As I was the only person on the train wearing electric blue tights). I started to feel a little bit nervous, but calmed myself down with the fact that I was amidst a crowded train. I relaxed, as I told myself not to worry, this guy may be homeless and crazy--but he won't bother me.
I was dead wrong.
That is when I heard the sound that can only be described as lugie chawking (I have absolutely no idea how to spell that, and believe it or not--the phrase hawking lugies was not found in the dictionary!)
All of a sudden, tiny homeless man lunged forward, and a giant wad of his phlegmiest phlegm landed directly onto my face. YES. Tiny homeless man SPAT on my face. Can anyone really be prepared for a situation like this? I don't think so. I wanted to stand up for myself, but feared being spat on again--or possibly even worse. I could not get off of that train any faster. I held my shit together. I exited the train, now above ground. I crossed the street, and burst into tears. It was revolting, and I wouldn't wish that experience on anyone, ever.
On this particular morning, I was on the subway en route to work. I noticed a tattooed covered gentleman in the corner. Of course, we were the only two people on the subway car. He had a duffle bag on his lap, and I could tell that he was doing something with his hands underneath his bag. I was pretty sure that he was playing with himself, but tried not to make any sort of eye contact with this man. But, similar to a side of the road car crash--the more you don't want to look, the more you find yourself looking... Suddenly, the bag disappeared from his lap, and tatooed gentleman started licking his lips at me. Oh my god...I caught a tiny fleck of pink, and I realized that this man's entire wang was outside of his pants. He was jerking himself off, on a train, as I sat in the seat across from him. Enough was fucking enough. As soon as the train car stopped, I would be on my way, and I would never look back. Ever.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Columbus Day Massacre
If you understand this blog title, (Beverly Hills 90210 Shout out: Season 7) then well, put simply...I love you.
Oh! The joys of a three day weekend. There is nothing better than the procrastination of those Sunday night blues until Monday night. Knowing that I'm going into a 4 day work week, I feel like I can really do this. Hit me with your best shot, third grade!
I haven't blogged in a while, and do not have one concise topic on which to discuss--so instead I will tell you seven things in no particular order...
1. Provided to me by Rweissy and Galzbabi, was what could be the makings of my perfect Halloween costume. Me: Ten Years Ago. For those of you that did not know me a decade ago, the costume will entail the following: One Winnie the Pooh sweatsuit, one chapstick necklace, and one large eyebrow. And just like in 1999, no boys will talk to me all night. Let's not forget: tradition is tradition.
2. Mike-Jason-Scott-Todd-Andrew-Jeff-Matt...remember him? Yeah, he's still in the picture. If by in the picture, you mean we talk on the phone religiously, but never actually see each other in real life. Although, this is probably for the best. Who am I kidding? If I ever see him again in real life, I probably wouldn't recognize him anyways.
3. Hidden in a cabinet in my school's cafeteria is a tub of frosting. (Used to decorate cupcakes). Each day after lunch, while craving something sweet, I sneak into the kitchen, scoop myself some icing, put it into a bowl, eat it with my spoon, in a corner, by myself. I am foul.
4. On Saturday night I left the bar I was at to buy myself a hot dog from a local vendor. It was 3 am, and I was really craving some meat. (Not a sexual innuendo), I stood outside--alone--and REALLY enjoyed my hot dog. Thank you very much.
5. On Sunday, I came home to NJ and Little Mimi Girl took me shopping. We were listening to Z100 on our way to the mall. Black Eyed Peas, "I gotta Feeling" came on the radio. Even if for some reason the rock you are living under did not get radio reception, or at the very least i-tunes--you would still somehow not confuse The Black Eyed Peas with THE FRAY. Yup, Little Mimi asked if I Gotta Feeling was sung by the fucking Fray.
6. It's getting cold out, and I don't like it one bit.
7. It is hard for me to poop at school. The kid bathrooms usually have something delightful left in the bowl. The grown up bathrooms are far and few between and I always get too nervous, (performance anxiety) knowing that someone will be waiting to use the bathroom. My solution to this problem, is to walk down the street and poop in the local (and anonymous) Barnes and Noble. This plan was working out great for me, until last week when I was five minutes late picking up my class from art. Sorry kids, but I must have lost track of time! Time flies when you're pooping at Barnes and Noble!
Oh! The joys of a three day weekend. There is nothing better than the procrastination of those Sunday night blues until Monday night. Knowing that I'm going into a 4 day work week, I feel like I can really do this. Hit me with your best shot, third grade!
I haven't blogged in a while, and do not have one concise topic on which to discuss--so instead I will tell you seven things in no particular order...
1. Provided to me by Rweissy and Galzbabi, was what could be the makings of my perfect Halloween costume. Me: Ten Years Ago. For those of you that did not know me a decade ago, the costume will entail the following: One Winnie the Pooh sweatsuit, one chapstick necklace, and one large eyebrow. And just like in 1999, no boys will talk to me all night. Let's not forget: tradition is tradition.
2. Mike-Jason-Scott-Todd-Andrew-Jeff-Matt...remember him? Yeah, he's still in the picture. If by in the picture, you mean we talk on the phone religiously, but never actually see each other in real life. Although, this is probably for the best. Who am I kidding? If I ever see him again in real life, I probably wouldn't recognize him anyways.
3. Hidden in a cabinet in my school's cafeteria is a tub of frosting. (Used to decorate cupcakes). Each day after lunch, while craving something sweet, I sneak into the kitchen, scoop myself some icing, put it into a bowl, eat it with my spoon, in a corner, by myself. I am foul.
4. On Saturday night I left the bar I was at to buy myself a hot dog from a local vendor. It was 3 am, and I was really craving some meat. (Not a sexual innuendo), I stood outside--alone--and REALLY enjoyed my hot dog. Thank you very much.
5. On Sunday, I came home to NJ and Little Mimi Girl took me shopping. We were listening to Z100 on our way to the mall. Black Eyed Peas, "I gotta Feeling" came on the radio. Even if for some reason the rock you are living under did not get radio reception, or at the very least i-tunes--you would still somehow not confuse The Black Eyed Peas with THE FRAY. Yup, Little Mimi asked if I Gotta Feeling was sung by the fucking Fray.
6. It's getting cold out, and I don't like it one bit.
7. It is hard for me to poop at school. The kid bathrooms usually have something delightful left in the bowl. The grown up bathrooms are far and few between and I always get too nervous, (performance anxiety) knowing that someone will be waiting to use the bathroom. My solution to this problem, is to walk down the street and poop in the local (and anonymous) Barnes and Noble. This plan was working out great for me, until last week when I was five minutes late picking up my class from art. Sorry kids, but I must have lost track of time! Time flies when you're pooping at Barnes and Noble!
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