Unmitigated

Car Stories for a Holiday Weekend

It's Sunday. It's a holiday weekend. The last one before the school year. The blogosphere is so empty today its echoing. Aside: Why doesn't Typepad's spellchecker recognize the word "blogosphere?" Hmmm. It doesn't recognize the word "Typepad" either. On a different note, when I misspell 'word' as 'worg' one of the spellchecker options is 'Borg.' Typepad has been assimilated.

Empty. Right. Back to the topic. Actually that's not my topic. But since it's a holiday weekend and many people are traveling, I thought I'd share two car stories. They are also short, so when you are all trying to catch up on your blog reading on Tuesday, you can thank me for being brief.

Car Story Number One

It rained here Wednesday night. I left my car windows open Wednesday night. Great combination, no? My car seat was not damp, which made me glad because I didn't want to be at work all day with a wet ass. Once on the road, however, I discovered that I had very thoughtfully provided shelter from the storm for every mosquito in the tri-county area. Rather than spend time smacking various spots on my car and my person while driving, I decided that if I created a wind-tunnel effect, the mosquitoes would not be able to land on me and attack, turning me into a welt-covered, yet dry-assed teacher. Once at work, I was dry-assed, not-welt-covered, and my hair? was SPECTACULAR from the wind-tunnel effect.

Car Story Number Two

Story number two features two actual conversations between Husband and I on the way to Up North, Michigan.

MAW: I need to get a...
Husband: Yes, you do.
MAW:...
Husband: And I'm gonna help you get it.
MAW:It's probably not safe, though.
Husband: What are we getting?

MAW: (listening to song on CD) Is this what I fear it is?
Husband: No.
MAW: Oh. Good. (pause) What was I afraid it would be?
Husband: That song from Titanic.
MAW: You're good, Honey.
Husband: Yes.

Name That Smell

It hit me with my first step in the door.

"It smells in here. What's that smell?" I asked 16-year-old-Boy, just on his way for his morning shower at 4:30 p.m.

"I know, I noticed it too. What is it?" he replied.

"Are you sure it's not...you?" He is, after all, a smelly teenage boy, not yet showered. Did I mention it was almost dinnertime? When he's clean he smells like too much AXE, not the best smell even in moderation, but teenage boys love it. I wish I could convince him that teenage GIRLS are not quite so impressed. Still, I'm glad he's finally trying.

"It's not me!" he protested. In fairness, if it was him, he probably would never have noticed it.

When I was nineteen or twenty and my mom would get in my car, and she'd wrinkle up her nose.

"What is that? Is that B.O.?"

Thanks mom, I love you, too. No wonder I moved out so young. Things like that made me crazy, so the smell at home was making me feel like my mother, a feeling every woman longs for, and I wasn't getting any less crabby.

The unknown smell faded. More likely I was accustomed to it. Downstairs to catch up on some laundry. Back up to the kitchen. Damn! What IS that SMELL?

Garbage can - nearly empty, no smell.

Pantry - full, but no smell. I once forgot about a bag of redskin potatoes in the bottom of my pantry. Until assaulted by the smell. Gas mask territory, but not this time.

Fridge - I don't see anything, but wait a  minute...what's dripping? GAAAAAHHH!

In the very back of the bottom shelf of the fridge, completely hidden by all the carryout containers (shut up) is something that was once a wedge of watermelon. Once. Long ago.

Much disinfectant, hot water, and ickiness later, smell is gone.

Except for Eau de 16-year-old-Garcon.

Not Quite Fear and Loathing

This is my sixth year as a molder of young minds. For the last two weeks, I have been preparing my classroom for the onslaught of eleven-year-olds. It looks the same as always, but something is going on.

This is the first year I am not excited about going back to school.

I am a really good teacher. I am the kind of teacher that connects emotionally with her kids. They become my kids. I laugh with them and read to them, and enjoy their company. Really! At the end of the school year, I hear from parents that this is the first time their child has ever enjoyed going to school.

Having lived through sixth grade and beyond with my own children, I have my priorities straight about sixth grade. The curriculum is not life-changing, but my relationship with your kid can be.

Your kid's heart means more to me than your kid's GPA. So sue me.

And I'm not excited about going back. I think I could easily stay here in my own house eating, sleeping, reading, and writing for the rest of my life. I don't think this is a good sign.

Maybe it's the unending pile of crap-ass meetings, where we discuss mission statements, and goals, and a limitless load of topics that mean absolutely zero when it comes to the work I do in the classroom. But really, that stuff has been part of teaching longer than I have.

I like to request that pain-in-the-tuchus boys be placed in my class. Really, if I could avoid all the hormonal pre-teenage girls, I'd be happy as a clam. Boys are so much simpler to deal with. No drama. I like the boys who have files this thick because no one can figure out what the hell is wrong with them and why they do so poorly in school. Those are my boys. I take a peculiar pleasure in telling their previous teachers, "Really? We don't have a problem. He's doing a great job for me!"

Even with all that? I'm not excited to go back. I know I'll still be a good teacher. If something tells me that I'm not, I'll need to reassess. Or something.

Damned if I know what.

Dumpster Diver to the Stars

The first and only time I ever went dumpster diving was in an affluent Northern Michigan community which shall remain nameless. We were staying with friends at their lovely vacation condo in this community, having a wonderful, restful week. Then Thursday morning came along, and one of our hosts disappeared for about fifteen minutes. He came back carrying a cordless drill.

"Look what I found," he said.

"You found that? Where?"

"Somebody was throwing it away!"

"You mean, it was in the garbage?" we asked.

"Yeah, you wouldn't believe what people throw away!" Now, the place I live is NOT an affluent part of Michigan. We range decidedly from blue-collar to poverty level. When people throw things away in my neighborhood? It takes a while to convince the garbagemen to pick them up.

Not only did he find the drill, we went back to the dumpster, rooted around a bit, and found the rechargeable battery packs and the plastic carrying case. This is a Ryobi* drill! That works perfectly! We figure it was a 12 volt and somebody wanted to move up to something with more muscle.

Damn, people, donate! This should not be in the garbage. Neither should those almost-new deck chairs, or that framed artwork! Within five miles of this upscale condo development are a Habitat for Humanity store AND a Salvation Army Thrift store. Only laziness can account for this waste. Don't rich people need tax write-offs, for Pete's sake?

"We must really like you guys. We don't often tell people we go dumpster diving!" they said.

"Your secret is safe with us," we replied.

And I've never told a soul.

*It might have been Craftsman. Still.

Owie!

Visited the chiropractor today (on the off chance that he reads this, I won't mention that he is hawt because he has enough of an ego as it is) only to have my arm and shoulder tortured to the brink of bad, bad swears. My right shoulder, arm, hand and my neck on that side have felt awful for the last two-three weeks, and I know Dr. Greg can help. It's just that...digging a hole in my muscles with your thumbs? Sucks. While it's happening anyway. A couple days later I feel differently about it.

So, I'm waiting for my turn, and the patient in the next room is practically moaning with delight...oh, thank you! I needed that! Oh, that feels much better!, etc. I couldn't help but comment that it was probably going to sound different in my room. Shit! Oh, man that really hurts! Oh my God, are you done yet? Do you ENJOY causing pain? I think he does, actually. it's like a little side benefit of the job.

Lest you think I disparage my chiropractor, let me mention that I have, on more than one occasion, sent poeple to see him and mentioned that he "has a gift in his hands." He really is a genius at what he does, and even though he's been PROMISING to come talk to my sixth grade class for like THREE YEARS AND HAS YET TO SHOW UP, I still see him regularly.

I used to think that chiropractic was garbage. Then I ran into some medical doctors whose heads were so far up their asses they should have studied proctology with such a front row seat. And I decided that it was time to take the advice of many and try Dr. Greg. Let's see, non-invasive, patiently explained, actual, tangible results at half the cost? Yeah, I can see why I was avoiding this: I'm a dork.

So here I sit, bruised and sore, ice pack on my shoulder so I can quit whining already! But I know that tomorrow? And the next day? Life will be better. No injections, no drugs, no surgery. Just results.