... Psych! Just kidding. I'm not going to talk to you about sex. But in lieu of my son's upcoming Maturation Program (which I will attend with him), I feel I just need to express a few things. Mainly, how unreasonably excited I am for this event!
Now you're thinking, "Wow, this must be what it's like to find out someone you know is a child molester. I understand now why everyone always says 'I never would have expected it!'" But before you go calling Child Protective Services on me and whatnot, allow me to explain myself.
My excitement is not based on the fact that there will be much talk about the anatomy and physiology of a male's and female's bodies. My excitement comes from knowing that I have been handed the golden ticket to escort my son and all the boys in his 5th grade class to Major-Embarrassmentville. How could I, with the sense of humor that I have been graced (cursed?) with, pass up an opportunity like this? I'm already getting to work on the material that I will hiss out anonymously as different topics are brought up and different slides are shown. In a couple of days, I'll begin practicing in front of the mirror to hone my nonchalance and my "innocent" face. This elementary will never know what hit them. I can not wait!!!
I am prompted to share an experience I had with The Boy today as he came home with his permission slip, allowing him to attend said program. Of course, he seemed embarrassed by the idea of the whole thing. I explained to him that there is no reason to be embarrassed, that this little presentation is only there to help educate him about the changes that his body and the bodies of his peers will make as they grow up. I went on to stress the importance of understanding what his body will be going through, that it will help him to not feel so stressed, uncomfortable, or strange when puberty decides to rear its ugly head.
We try not to shy around the appropriate names of body parts in this house. Husband and I feel that too many people are embarrassed or ashamed to use words like "testicles", "breasts", "penis", etc., in situations where these terms are necessary -- however, this doesn't mean that these words don't make us giggle sometimes. If that's wrong, then I don't want to be right. Anyway, this is how we've tried to raise The Boy. So when he asked me, "Um, why is it that women have breasts?" I wasn't shocked or surprised. I answered like so, "Well, a woman is the one who can become pregnant and have a baby. Breasts are used to make milk, which will feed the baby. That's about all they do."
If you know children, you know that their minds move very rapidly. By the end of my answer, The Boy's mind had moved on to think I was referring to women now, not just breasts. He immediately says, "That's not true! They make dinner, they clean the house, they do all sorts of things!"
Imagine my confusion as I stated, "What?! Breasts don't make dinner!!"
We shared a look, and then The Boy said, "Well, they do for babies!"
Ah, this is what being a parent is all about.
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
Friday, March 15, 2013
Janitorium
In light of recent events (ahem, completely bogus furlough that will affect hundreds of thousands of hardworking Americans, my husband included), I have taken on a second job to help ensure that our family will not be hit as hard. As you already know -- and if you don't already know, read a few posts I've already written before continuing this one -- I am a lunch lady at a junior high school. It isn't a flashy or glamorous position, but I dearly love it. Even less glamorous is my new second job. That's right, ladies and gents: I am know a substitute janitor at the same junior high.
As a lunch lady, it has been very easy for me to enjoy the company of most of the students I encounter (a very select few brats are exempt from this, of course). I have the privilege of conversing and joking with them, sneaking them extras, and brightening their days. I find this work quite fulfilling.
As a janitor, it is a different story. Today was only my second day of work, and already I find myself asking "How in the world am I ever going to face these children again, knowing what I know now?" I feel like a child who has just spotted the mall Santa Claus smoking a joint behind the building with his beard pulled way down and his jolly red coat opened to reveal a food-stained wife beater underneath. I wish I could go back to my blissful cafeteria-isolated ignorance, but that moldy log has been lifted, and the nasty creatures living in the rot have reared their ugly heads.
Perhaps I'm over-reacting -- I've been known to do that, on occasion. But as I write this, I feel different, changed somehow. Maybe cleaning out the filthy locker rooms of teenagers can do that to a person. Perhaps scrubbing every urinal and toilet in the building has jaded me. I told myself that as the evening went on, I would become more used to the circumstances, that it wasn't so bad, after all -- but in fact, that was not the case. As I first extracted a Twix wrapper that had clogged up a toilet bowl, I thought to myself, "I hope I never learn who did this. I could never serve this child lunch again, and certainly not with a smile on my face and something nice to say." As I plucked no less than six wads of chewed gum from the drain of a drinking fountain later on, I couldn't help but think, "All right, here are six less children that I'd slip something extra to out of the goodness of my heart." As time wore on, my thoughts became more and more colorful, and less and less did I keep these thoughts inside. Eventually, as I scrubbed a wall that some boy had deemed more appropriate to relieve himself on than the nearby urinal, I verbalized the following: "All right, you little s**t, if I ever find out who you are, I will personally see to it that anything you consume from this school's cafeteria will contain a big, juicy lougie, made fresh especially for you."
When my shift was over, arms violently scrubbed clean and the smell of human waste nearly cleared from my nostrils, I knew that some naiive part of me had died a horrible and tragic death in the last three hours. I had seen the hideous underside of the youth at this school. I had seen their filth, both literally and figuratively, and I could not unsee these things. I am not the same person I was this morning. I have learned very important lessons, some of which I feel compelled to share with you so that you may learn from my mistakes. Please take these to heart:
-one must remember to bring one's own elbow-length rubber gloves to occupations of this sort, as there is no guarantee that such gloves will be provided otherwise
-one must ALWAYS turn one's face away when flushing a toilet, regardless of one's proximity to said toilet, lest one's face become splashed with offensive toilet water
-one must NEVER forget to remove soiled cleaning gloves before scratching an itch, especially if said itch occurs on or near the face
-one must avoid inhaling nasally while one is in a restroom, whether or not a door or window is open while one is in said room. This rule applies to the restrooms of males and females alike, the former usually quite pungent with the odors of urine, whilst menstruation is the predominant odor in the latter
-one must remember to squint one's eyes while in close proximity to an uncleaned toilet or urinal, as the aforementioned odors may have a tendency to sting the eyes and cause unwanted tear production. One must keep one's vision as clear as possible so as to avoid all possible unnecessary contact with the previously mentioned waste receptacles
As I pause whilst composing this post to reapply hand sanitizer for the umpteenth time, I recognize this opportunity to learn and to grow. I know more about my young associates, much more than I ever wished to know, and now I must learn how to live with this knowledge and continue my life. Will this be a challenge? Most certainly. But I can rise to this challenge, just as the fecal matter rises from a plugged drain. This children will not stop me from helping to support my family. I am no quitter. I will set my mind on my goal, and I will achieve it, come what may.
I do believe that I will never enjoy lemonade or Twix again. But sacrifices must be made! I'll be sure to reiterate that sentiment to my husband and son, come chore-time. They can clean these damn toilets themselves.
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
The Grinch Who Stole Pioneer Day
Let me begin this post by explaining something to all you non-Utah-resident readers of mine. Every 24th of July, the state of Utah celebrates a holiday known as "Pioneer Day", commonly referred to as "that weird Utah holiday" by the rest of the United States. Pioneer Day is celebrated in honor of those many brave souls who travelled the treacherous journey across the untamed wilderness to call the West their new home. Awesome. Good for them. Had they not done so, I might be serving school lunch to New England kids instead. And what a different blog this would be!
That being said, I hate Pioneer Day. Hate it. It's right up there with other holidays whose significance has been forgotten and is celebrated in ways that do not pertain at all to the actual meaning of the holiday itself -- such as Christmas, Valentine's Day, Easter, etc.
Why such harsh feelings toward Pioneer Day? Well, I'll tell you. In no way do I understand how setting off bright, obnoxious, loud aerial fireworks two houses down from mine expresses one's gratitude for their travelling ancestors. What does keeping awake your neighbor's 10-yr-old son 'til midnight accomplish vis' a vis' your pioneer heritage? What purpose does littering your neighbor's yard with huge chunks of expended firework ash serve? How will your forefathers recognize your gratitude when it is expresssed by leaving spent firework casings in the street to roll and blow about into your neighbors' yards?
I don't mean to be a raunch. I love pretending my neighborhood is a mortar test site as much as the next person. It's so much fun to have my dog shivering, bawling, and crawling all over me with each explosion. And forcibly returning my kid to bed for the fifth time, explaining that no matter how loud the neighbors are, it's still bedtime and he needs to at least try to sleep - what a blast!
There is, however, the concern of wildfire. If you are one who ever goes outside, you realize that it has been unseasonably hot and dry this year. Fires are breaking out left and right, and more than one neighborhood has been evacuated for safety purposes. The foliage around my house is particularly dry and brittle -- forgetting to water your lawn will have that effect. As such, there was much concern on my part for the possibility of an uncontrollable blaze starting nearby, and my yard going up like kindling. My fears mounted as hot firework ash & chunks drifted into my yard throughout the night, collecting like the Devil's snowflakes.
Needless to say, it was a rather anxious and sleepless night at the Peterson household. And perhaps this anti-Pioneer Day rant can be attributed by my broken >4 hours of sleep, my nerves so tight they almost sing, or the fact that my son didn't get his beauty sleep, and everyone knows little boys turn into snarling bears if they miss but 20 minutes of their full night's rest.
I do have a plan of action, though. Between now and next 24th of July, I will do everything in my power to travel state-wide and collect every aerial firework produced and available for purchase. I will gather these fireworks together, throw them in big potato sacks, and drown them in the nearest river like a bag of kittens. All the Whos in Whoville can join hands and sing all they want... I will NOT bring them back for all the pioneer spirit in the state of Utah.
But enough of this rant. I'm off to shovel the hell-snow.
That being said, I hate Pioneer Day. Hate it. It's right up there with other holidays whose significance has been forgotten and is celebrated in ways that do not pertain at all to the actual meaning of the holiday itself -- such as Christmas, Valentine's Day, Easter, etc.
Why such harsh feelings toward Pioneer Day? Well, I'll tell you. In no way do I understand how setting off bright, obnoxious, loud aerial fireworks two houses down from mine expresses one's gratitude for their travelling ancestors. What does keeping awake your neighbor's 10-yr-old son 'til midnight accomplish vis' a vis' your pioneer heritage? What purpose does littering your neighbor's yard with huge chunks of expended firework ash serve? How will your forefathers recognize your gratitude when it is expresssed by leaving spent firework casings in the street to roll and blow about into your neighbors' yards?
I don't mean to be a raunch. I love pretending my neighborhood is a mortar test site as much as the next person. It's so much fun to have my dog shivering, bawling, and crawling all over me with each explosion. And forcibly returning my kid to bed for the fifth time, explaining that no matter how loud the neighbors are, it's still bedtime and he needs to at least try to sleep - what a blast!
There is, however, the concern of wildfire. If you are one who ever goes outside, you realize that it has been unseasonably hot and dry this year. Fires are breaking out left and right, and more than one neighborhood has been evacuated for safety purposes. The foliage around my house is particularly dry and brittle -- forgetting to water your lawn will have that effect. As such, there was much concern on my part for the possibility of an uncontrollable blaze starting nearby, and my yard going up like kindling. My fears mounted as hot firework ash & chunks drifted into my yard throughout the night, collecting like the Devil's snowflakes.
Needless to say, it was a rather anxious and sleepless night at the Peterson household. And perhaps this anti-Pioneer Day rant can be attributed by my broken >4 hours of sleep, my nerves so tight they almost sing, or the fact that my son didn't get his beauty sleep, and everyone knows little boys turn into snarling bears if they miss but 20 minutes of their full night's rest.
I do have a plan of action, though. Between now and next 24th of July, I will do everything in my power to travel state-wide and collect every aerial firework produced and available for purchase. I will gather these fireworks together, throw them in big potato sacks, and drown them in the nearest river like a bag of kittens. All the Whos in Whoville can join hands and sing all they want... I will NOT bring them back for all the pioneer spirit in the state of Utah.
But enough of this rant. I'm off to shovel the hell-snow.
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
What-do-ya-call-'ems?
As a parent, I find myself evaluating my choice of words nearly every time I speak to The Boy. I find that there are some things I myself will say, but that I don't think a 9-yr-old should incorporate into his own vocabulary. Luckily, The Boy is very obedient in this regard and typically uses language that is expected of a child his age. On occasion, however, we find the need as a family to discuss what words are appropriate and what words are not. Last Friday was one such occasion. Being a woman, there are some things that Husband and The Boy experience that I cannot comprehend. Some of these things include (but are not limited to):
- an inexpressible urge to giggle at any bodily function that makes noise
- a lack of forethought in certain situations (eg: "Why did you hit (or kick, or spit on, or throw, or lick, or smash, etc.) that?" "... I dunno...")
- an inborn magnetism toward tools and machinery
- an intense aversion to any form of cosmetics or skin care
- an instinctual protectiveness of their nether regions
With regards to this last point, The Boy temporarily forgot his charge to protect his privates. Apparently, during some rough recess play the likes of which only boys can conjure up, he "fell down and got sort of pinched and smushed down there." Evidently the pinching/smushing caused him considerable pain.
I am home when The Boy gets home from school; Husband is not. The Boy seemed to think that such a personal problem shouldn't be discussed with his stepmother, so I spent the better part of an hour wondering why he was mincing around the house and refusing to sit. Every attempt to learn the reason was answered with a hurried "Nothing! Nothing's wrong!" Finally, Husband came home from work. Once The Boy felt that I was out of earshot (which I most certainly was not), he broached this sensitive subject with his father.
TB: "Dad, I hurt.. in my... well, you know."
H: "No, I don't know. Where does it hurt?"
TB: "Well... it hurts.... there..." (presumably pointing to his private parts)
H: (not one to stand for uncalled-for embarrassment) "Where? Your penis? Your testicles?"
TB: "My... my testicles."
H: "I'm sorry, dude. How did it happen?
The Boy goes on to explain the falling/pinching/smushing incident. Husband iterates how males need to exercise caution in all activities in order to maintain the integrity of their most tender regions. He then tells The Boy that if he is still in pain in a couple of hours, they will put ice on it. At this point, I enter the room that they are conversing in. The Boy immediately flushes tomato red and loudly says, "Um, at school today, we, uh, we read a book!" Husband, always quick to interpret The Boy's cues, says, "What, you don't want Bonnie to know?"
Me: "Know what?"
TB: (glaring at his father) "Daaa-aad!"
H: "Son, Bonnie is a grown woman. There is nothing you should be embarrassed to say to her. She knows all about boys and their penises and testicles."
At the "t" word, The Boy winces visibly. Again, quick Husband says, "Are you embarrassed by the word 'testicles'?" After a moment, The Boy nods.
TB: "'Testicles' just sounds like a type of spider or something..."
H: "Well, what would you rather say?"
TB: "... I don't know..."
H: "You could say 'balls'."
Me: "I don't want him saying 'balls'!"
H: "Why not?"
Me: "I don't know, it just seems kind of crude."
H: "Would you rather he said 'gonads'?"
Me: "No!" (to The Boy) "I don't ever want to hear you calling your testicles 'gonads'!"
H: "How about nuts?"
Me: "Ugh, really? Please no."
H: "What if he called them his 'giggle berries'?"
Me: (with a sigh) "I suppose 'balls' is fine."
H: "Ok." (to The Boy) "You can call your testicles "balls" instead. Is that better?"
TB: (with another nod) "Sure!"
Score one point for diplomacy.
I pray that when the time comes to discuss what to call "vagina," that conversation will go just as smoothly.
- an inexpressible urge to giggle at any bodily function that makes noise
- a lack of forethought in certain situations (eg: "Why did you hit (or kick, or spit on, or throw, or lick, or smash, etc.) that?" "... I dunno...")
- an inborn magnetism toward tools and machinery
- an intense aversion to any form of cosmetics or skin care
- an instinctual protectiveness of their nether regions
With regards to this last point, The Boy temporarily forgot his charge to protect his privates. Apparently, during some rough recess play the likes of which only boys can conjure up, he "fell down and got sort of pinched and smushed down there." Evidently the pinching/smushing caused him considerable pain.
I am home when The Boy gets home from school; Husband is not. The Boy seemed to think that such a personal problem shouldn't be discussed with his stepmother, so I spent the better part of an hour wondering why he was mincing around the house and refusing to sit. Every attempt to learn the reason was answered with a hurried "Nothing! Nothing's wrong!" Finally, Husband came home from work. Once The Boy felt that I was out of earshot (which I most certainly was not), he broached this sensitive subject with his father.
TB: "Dad, I hurt.. in my... well, you know."
H: "No, I don't know. Where does it hurt?"
TB: "Well... it hurts.... there..." (presumably pointing to his private parts)
H: (not one to stand for uncalled-for embarrassment) "Where? Your penis? Your testicles?"
TB: "My... my testicles."
H: "I'm sorry, dude. How did it happen?
The Boy goes on to explain the falling/pinching/smushing incident. Husband iterates how males need to exercise caution in all activities in order to maintain the integrity of their most tender regions. He then tells The Boy that if he is still in pain in a couple of hours, they will put ice on it. At this point, I enter the room that they are conversing in. The Boy immediately flushes tomato red and loudly says, "Um, at school today, we, uh, we read a book!" Husband, always quick to interpret The Boy's cues, says, "What, you don't want Bonnie to know?"
Me: "Know what?"
TB: (glaring at his father) "Daaa-aad!"
H: "Son, Bonnie is a grown woman. There is nothing you should be embarrassed to say to her. She knows all about boys and their penises and testicles."
At the "t" word, The Boy winces visibly. Again, quick Husband says, "Are you embarrassed by the word 'testicles'?" After a moment, The Boy nods.
TB: "'Testicles' just sounds like a type of spider or something..."
H: "Well, what would you rather say?"
TB: "... I don't know..."
H: "You could say 'balls'."
Me: "I don't want him saying 'balls'!"
H: "Why not?"
Me: "I don't know, it just seems kind of crude."
H: "Would you rather he said 'gonads'?"
Me: "No!" (to The Boy) "I don't ever want to hear you calling your testicles 'gonads'!"
H: "How about nuts?"
Me: "Ugh, really? Please no."
H: "What if he called them his 'giggle berries'?"
Me: (with a sigh) "I suppose 'balls' is fine."
H: "Ok." (to The Boy) "You can call your testicles "balls" instead. Is that better?"
TB: (with another nod) "Sure!"
Score one point for diplomacy.
I pray that when the time comes to discuss what to call "vagina," that conversation will go just as smoothly.
Sunday, April 29, 2012
The Spring Roll Twins
Every few weeks or so, we serve Sweet & Sour Chicken as an entree' in our cafeteria. Each serving also comes with one veggie, or spring, roll. The 700 or so students that we serve would have you believe that these veggie rolls are closely akin to manna. They rave about these hors d'oeurves. They form long lines for this dish, while the normally-popular sandwich and pizza lines stand nearly empty. Every other child begs for one more veggie roll with his or her lunch, just as they begged the last time we served this meal. If these students applied this same effort to their school work, no matter what subject, they would all be honor students.
Once we have served all the students, we gather together all the food that we have left over. If we have leftover veggie rolls, they are all transfered to one pan and brought out into the eating area for students to come and take more, if they wish.
The duty fell on me to take out the pan of extra spring rolls. I felt all eyes on me as I entered the lunchroom, and in that moment I understood how a gazelle must feel when it spots the lioness in the brush. Before I'd even set the pan on the table, I was surrounded by kids. The pan was half empty by the time it was fully resting on the table. It was completely empty by the time I had returned to the kitchen.
Several minutes went by, and as I was sweeping up, I was approached by two girls. Despite the obvious fact that these girls were not related, they had gone to every effort to look exactly alike. Remember, if you can, that Junior High Fashion Rule #1 is this: you must look identical to your best friend. If you don't, then you're lame and none of the boys will like you. Girl 1 pipes up:
"Are there any veggie rolls left?"
Me: "No, sorry, we just gave the last of them away."
(Girl 1 and Girl 2 both pout and huff as if someone just told them Justin Bieber endorses individuality)
Girl 2: "Well, can you like save some for us next time?"
Me: "Oh, sure"
(note: the likelihood of me saving spring rolls for two girls out of the entire student body was nil, but why crush their poor little tweener spirits?)
Girl 1: "What's your name?"
Me: "I'm Bonnie"
Girls 1 & 2 simultaneously: "K thx bye!"
Moments later, the twinner-wannabes approached me again, carrying an elaborately folded sheet of lined paper. After unfolding -- a task 56x more difficult than it should have been -- I found a short note, scrawled in an obnoxiously large and overly flourished hand, addressed to "BoNnIe ThE lUnCh LaDy".
"HI! Plz save us some veggy rolls next time! Wed like 3 each at least. Thx! XOXO Ellie Francom & Amber Mason" (sic, flowery drawings and scribbles omitted)
Oh, my dear girls. While your efforts are recognized, I will not, in fact, "save [you] some veggy rolls next time!" Perhaps if you were to be alert, like your predator-like peers, you would snatch up your extra veggie rolls before they were gone. However, I would like to thank you for the good hearty laugh I enjoyed at your expense. Take care!
Once we have served all the students, we gather together all the food that we have left over. If we have leftover veggie rolls, they are all transfered to one pan and brought out into the eating area for students to come and take more, if they wish.
The duty fell on me to take out the pan of extra spring rolls. I felt all eyes on me as I entered the lunchroom, and in that moment I understood how a gazelle must feel when it spots the lioness in the brush. Before I'd even set the pan on the table, I was surrounded by kids. The pan was half empty by the time it was fully resting on the table. It was completely empty by the time I had returned to the kitchen.
Several minutes went by, and as I was sweeping up, I was approached by two girls. Despite the obvious fact that these girls were not related, they had gone to every effort to look exactly alike. Remember, if you can, that Junior High Fashion Rule #1 is this: you must look identical to your best friend. If you don't, then you're lame and none of the boys will like you. Girl 1 pipes up:
"Are there any veggie rolls left?"
Me: "No, sorry, we just gave the last of them away."
(Girl 1 and Girl 2 both pout and huff as if someone just told them Justin Bieber endorses individuality)
Girl 2: "Well, can you like save some for us next time?"
Me: "Oh, sure"
(note: the likelihood of me saving spring rolls for two girls out of the entire student body was nil, but why crush their poor little tweener spirits?)
Girl 1: "What's your name?"
Me: "I'm Bonnie"
Girls 1 & 2 simultaneously: "K thx bye!"
Moments later, the twinner-wannabes approached me again, carrying an elaborately folded sheet of lined paper. After unfolding -- a task 56x more difficult than it should have been -- I found a short note, scrawled in an obnoxiously large and overly flourished hand, addressed to "BoNnIe ThE lUnCh LaDy".
"HI! Plz save us some veggy rolls next time! Wed like 3 each at least. Thx! XOXO Ellie Francom & Amber Mason" (sic, flowery drawings and scribbles omitted)
Oh, my dear girls. While your efforts are recognized, I will not, in fact, "save [you] some veggy rolls next time!" Perhaps if you were to be alert, like your predator-like peers, you would snatch up your extra veggie rolls before they were gone. However, I would like to thank you for the good hearty laugh I enjoyed at your expense. Take care!
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Here There Be Dragons
Ordinarily, I consider myself a pleasant person to be around. I've got a sense of humor, I try to be compassionate, and conversations seem to come easily to me. I'd like to hang out with me.
But every 28 days or so, all that changes.
At the risk of being distasteful, I will spare the details of my monthly visits from Aunt Flo. Suffice it to say, that when she's around, I transfom. The fun, cool Bonnie goes into hiding, and another side of me emerges.
I become the Dragon Lady.
As the Dragon Lady, I have no sense of humor. I have zero compassion. I'd just as soon spit on you than have any sort of dialogue with you. I will over-analyze everything that every carbon-based form says or does, and I will over-react to those things that have been said or done. Do not attempt humor; this has been tried before, and resulted in blood and tears. Do not try to reason with me; my logical processing has blown a fuse and is not currently in operation. Do not try to calm me or sympathize with me; these actions show weakness, which only feeds my primal hunting instinct and may end in your demise.
In short - stay away. Far away. As far as you can get. Nepal would be good. Pluto would be better.
And if you value your miserable existance at all, you won't come back without a 12 lb. brick of chocolate.
Bonnie is dead. The Dragon Lady has eaten her. But do not mourn for your friend. In five to seven days, she will be reborn. She will emerge, as a phoenix from the ashes, good as new, if not rather ashamed or embarassed of her previous dragon-esque exploits. Please forgive her for her crimes against you -- remember, without awful Aunt Flo, none of this would have happened in the first place.
But in the meantime, maintain your distance. The Dragon Lady is hungry.
But every 28 days or so, all that changes.
At the risk of being distasteful, I will spare the details of my monthly visits from Aunt Flo. Suffice it to say, that when she's around, I transfom. The fun, cool Bonnie goes into hiding, and another side of me emerges.
I become the Dragon Lady.
As the Dragon Lady, I have no sense of humor. I have zero compassion. I'd just as soon spit on you than have any sort of dialogue with you. I will over-analyze everything that every carbon-based form says or does, and I will over-react to those things that have been said or done. Do not attempt humor; this has been tried before, and resulted in blood and tears. Do not try to reason with me; my logical processing has blown a fuse and is not currently in operation. Do not try to calm me or sympathize with me; these actions show weakness, which only feeds my primal hunting instinct and may end in your demise.
In short - stay away. Far away. As far as you can get. Nepal would be good. Pluto would be better.
And if you value your miserable existance at all, you won't come back without a 12 lb. brick of chocolate.
Bonnie is dead. The Dragon Lady has eaten her. But do not mourn for your friend. In five to seven days, she will be reborn. She will emerge, as a phoenix from the ashes, good as new, if not rather ashamed or embarassed of her previous dragon-esque exploits. Please forgive her for her crimes against you -- remember, without awful Aunt Flo, none of this would have happened in the first place.
But in the meantime, maintain your distance. The Dragon Lady is hungry.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
That'll teach 'em
I work with this woman who has the highest, squeakiest voice you could possibly imagine. She's a fun, wonderful person (she even taught me how to knit!), and she's always been a pleasure to work with. I'd considered her a good friend, up until yesterday.
Yesterday she rose to "hero" status.
Every day, our lunch room is visited by a gaggle of teenybopper girls. There are about six to eight in this group, and they are all obliged to bring a sack lunch. These bimbos take it upon themselves to reenact natural disasters with their foodstuffs all over their table. Goldfish crackers are their preferred ammunition.
There are a total of eight trash cans in the lunch room. Each is located at a nearby and convenient station. They are also equipped with wheels, for those who would rather bring the can to their trash. Each can is ready and willing to be filled with the refuse of junior high boys and girls. In short, there is ample opportunity for one to clean up after his or her self.
But these fair maidens must not stoop to such menial tasks. Their time is much better spent shrieking and giggling, sending unintelligible text messages, fussing over their hair and wardrobe, and discussing who likes who. With all these important obligations, there is simply no time left for the cleanliness of their station.
As you might imagine, this daily phenomena has become a bit of a sensitive subject for us lunch ladies. Unfortunaately, most of us are also rather the easy-going, water-off-a-duck's-back personality type.
Most of us.
Not, however, our dear Squeaky.
Yesterday, Squeaky decided she'd had enough. She rushed out of the kitchen unexpectedly, towel in hand, the rest of us staring after her and wondering where the fire was. What we heard next will be forever cherished. Loud and clear over the din of 400 adolescents, Squeaky's voice at its squeakiest. The dialogue follows; I can only assume the pauses are snide and snotty replies, the likes of which only preteens can construct:
"Excuse me, girls. You need to clean this up."
Pause.
"Yes, I'm talking to you. Get back here."
Pause.
"I didn't ask if it was your mess, I just told you to clean it up. But it IS your mess, because I sat here and watched you make it. Now clean it up."
Pause.
"Yes, I'm quite serious. Do you think your mother works here? I'm not getting paid enough to clean up your crap. Get to it."
Pause.
"Excuse me? Chill out? This is me chilled out. If I wasn't chilling out, I'd be fired by now."
Pause.
"I'll stand here all day if I have to. I'm not the one with classes to get to. Get it done."
Moments later, Squeaky returned to the kitchen. She was welcomed with vigorous applause.
And today: not so much as a crumb was left on the Brat Pack's table. Squeaky deserves a raise.
Yesterday she rose to "hero" status.
Every day, our lunch room is visited by a gaggle of teenybopper girls. There are about six to eight in this group, and they are all obliged to bring a sack lunch. These bimbos take it upon themselves to reenact natural disasters with their foodstuffs all over their table. Goldfish crackers are their preferred ammunition.
There are a total of eight trash cans in the lunch room. Each is located at a nearby and convenient station. They are also equipped with wheels, for those who would rather bring the can to their trash. Each can is ready and willing to be filled with the refuse of junior high boys and girls. In short, there is ample opportunity for one to clean up after his or her self.
But these fair maidens must not stoop to such menial tasks. Their time is much better spent shrieking and giggling, sending unintelligible text messages, fussing over their hair and wardrobe, and discussing who likes who. With all these important obligations, there is simply no time left for the cleanliness of their station.
As you might imagine, this daily phenomena has become a bit of a sensitive subject for us lunch ladies. Unfortunaately, most of us are also rather the easy-going, water-off-a-duck's-back personality type.
Most of us.
Not, however, our dear Squeaky.
Yesterday, Squeaky decided she'd had enough. She rushed out of the kitchen unexpectedly, towel in hand, the rest of us staring after her and wondering where the fire was. What we heard next will be forever cherished. Loud and clear over the din of 400 adolescents, Squeaky's voice at its squeakiest. The dialogue follows; I can only assume the pauses are snide and snotty replies, the likes of which only preteens can construct:
"Excuse me, girls. You need to clean this up."
Pause.
"Yes, I'm talking to you. Get back here."
Pause.
"I didn't ask if it was your mess, I just told you to clean it up. But it IS your mess, because I sat here and watched you make it. Now clean it up."
Pause.
"Yes, I'm quite serious. Do you think your mother works here? I'm not getting paid enough to clean up your crap. Get to it."
Pause.
"Excuse me? Chill out? This is me chilled out. If I wasn't chilling out, I'd be fired by now."
Pause.
"I'll stand here all day if I have to. I'm not the one with classes to get to. Get it done."
Moments later, Squeaky returned to the kitchen. She was welcomed with vigorous applause.
And today: not so much as a crumb was left on the Brat Pack's table. Squeaky deserves a raise.
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