Tracks to Clementine

Definition, please.

Today's class with the 9-year-olds began when M sneaked in and swiped my notebook while my attention was focused on my apple juice. I winked at her and asked for it back as some of the information contained therein was inappropriate for her to see. She looked suspicious. "What kind of stuff?" she asked. She looked to her classmates for support. L was by her side.

"Inappropriate?" he said, "I've seen it all."

This is the part where I tell you that L was the same student who told me F got in trouble on the playground for saying "Suck my [points at crotch]".

I'm willing to believe that this is a child who has either a) an older sibling or b) walked in on his parents. (It could be any number of scarier things, but I don't really want to think about that anymore today.) A or B, I'm curious about what he thinks "it all" is.

And also, isn't "suck my [points at crotch]" way grosser than just plain "suck my dick or cock or what-have-you?"

That was a good one.

I just told my sister a good piece of juicy-juice. She said nothing, but her eyes got really big and she immediately dialed the phone. I've never had a better response to gossip ever.

Pick, pick, pick, talk a lot, pick a little more.

Respect My Authority

So one of my high school students came up to me today and said "TWM wants me to ask you if you'll chaperone the dance on Friday."

Who thinks they asked because they think I'll let them smoke pot and make out in the coat room?

(Mr. Norton, you stay out of this...except tell me what you think, 'k?)

Weights and Measures

I sometimes think everything would be okay if we would just switch to the Metric System, already.

Solid Words from Keira

"Personalities vary depending on circumstance and company; dick size never changes."

She's lying out there in the raaaaaaaain.

I had a dream last night that while acting in a children's play I drooled caramel spit on an old woman in the front row. Then I woke up because I heard a creature digging into a bag outside my door.

I prefer fantasy to reality. It involves neither rats nor landlords.

The Most Important Meal of the Day

While getting gas this morning I was inspired to eat the very same breakfast that I commonly ate eleven years ago: 32 oz of Lemon Lime Gatorade and one Mars bar. (I was 20 and regularly woke up late to ride Metro. My stop let me off in front of the 45th Street Texaco Food Mart. Later on I wised up and walked to Marketime before work.)

So, I had to substitute the Mars bar with a Snickers. That's okay. But then it turned out that they didn't have any Lemon Lime Gatorade and I kinda think any other kind of Gatorade is sick-making, but I decided upon Fierce Grape (because of the word "fierce").

It was a satisfying meal, if only nostalgically. I feel pretty comfortable with it as my first meal of the day when I compare it to the Worst First Ever. I was not the consumer of the WFE: the consumer was a Metro rider at 7:43am; I was witness to the act. The meal? Dr. Pepper and Funyuns.

And it came to pass.

After several months of thinning thread threats, it has happened.

The Pants of 30 have a hole in them, an honest-to-gosh hole on the left inner thigh. And when did this hole truly reveal itself? That's right, it became noticeable right before I had to teach the middle school acting class.

Now, I've worn shirts and pants that reveal my midriff upon stretching, but allowing a portion of one's inner thigh to be visible—particularly a portion that is generally covered by clothing regardless of social status—well, that just won't do.

I censored the area with a strip of blue tape and headed back to the ed office. "Hey," I said, sashaying my leg over the desk, "is this better or worse than just the hole?"

It was deemed that one piece of tape was less appropriate, but that two pieces of tape forming an "x" over the hole would be fine. And it was. Not one of my students said "hey, do you have a hole in your pants?" or "uh, you have a hole in your pants" or even "what's under that tape?" Not one middle school mind thought that the blue tape x was hiding anything at all. Why?

It is something I would do.

Public School Redux

The following exchange took place during today's rehearsal with the 4th and 5th graders:

Z: burping loudly

Me: Oooo, good!

Z: Can I really do that?

Me: Of course. Know why? Burps and farts are funny.

Group of fourth grade boys gets kinda toothy.

Me: There are only burps in this play.

Self Medicate

Why does that phrase have such poor connotations? Pfft. Like I need a doctor to tell me to drink a beer.

(The real question is am I Sally Kimball or Bugs Meany?)

Clean sheets mean a lot

It's a little strange to have a party of mostly strangers at your house, but it just ends up seeming like a bunch of really cool people came in off the street because your house seemed like the place to be. I say this, but I didn't talk to many of them, as I hid myself in the kitchen making this:

The orange icing and the glorious display of green coconut grass are due to the wonder that is Molly. (What you cannot see, and which is also due to Molly, is the pinker-than-thou inside of the cake layered with the orange-you-jealous-it-wasn't-your-birthday frosting.) There are so many candles because you have to have that many for a Winsome Roller Skater and a Sexy Periodicals Librarian to blow them out.

After awhile, there were plenty of people that I did know and that meant dancing. It also meant waffles at 2:30 in the morning, supplemented by the sausage and eggs that Patti just happened to have in her scooter.

Everyone left round about 4am and I was thinking happy thoughts while washing the dishes until I heard a strange noise. Ghost? Monster? Rat Goblin? (Serious considerations, given the assumed history of our house.) Turned out to be Zulauf, recently booted from Gavin's couch. He left, I locked the door, and went down into the ScaryScary Basement to fetch my freshly washed sheets.

There is nothing more satisfying than ending an evening of bright eyes, wine glasses, skirt-flipping, and cake than by crawling into clean, smell-good sheets.

(Okay, yes, there are a couple of things. But clean sheets are really great.)

Come and knock on our door... blah-blah-blah rendezvous

I have come to the epiphanal conclusion that when it comes to dating the advice I give myself is delivered through the me cast in the combined roles of Janet, Chrissy, and Jack.

So far, I am not in syndication.

(And don't try to tell me that "epiphanal" ain't a word.)

She breathes electricity.

So I spent a little time looking up boys I've slept with on the internet. Uh, I mean, ones I slept with in real life; I haven't fucked anyone online...there was a phone call at 4:30am one New Year's Day, but...

The searching began because I couldn't remember what one of them looked like. What I had in my head was a cross between Ray Liotta and Greg Kinnear, but I figured that couldn't be right. Ridiculously, I have a relentlessly clear image of what his testicles looked like. (Yes, Freesia, that guy.) I guess that oughta explain a bit about our relationship, though. He's also the guy who said the dumbest thing ever to me, "You smell like the wind" and the one who cried because the pig ears in Costco reminded him of his dog. (If he'd been anyone else, I might have thought this was sweet, but I was beginning to become suspicious of my motives for the liaison.) To balance that out, I also behaved the worst towards him, letting him think that a bruise on my leg was from sex with someone else and x-acto knifing a page out of a book he gave me so I wouldn't have to look at his handwriting. (Although I did do both of those things after we'd broken up.)

After a bit of sifting, I found him, but no photos. I moved on to another guy...and stopped. I couldn't remember his last name except that maybe it began with an "L." The last time I tried to make a list of everyone I've slept with--a brief exercise--I couldn't remember his name at all, so no last name was an improvement. Of course, the last time I couldn't remember I was at a concert (the encore was dull; the list was a diversion); I walked out into the lobby and there he was. That'll pop names right back into your head, let me tell you.

After those two, I started doing the dishes. Everyone else I see on a fairly regular basis and have no trouble remembering their names or what they look like. They're mostly smart and talented; only one was crazy, but he surfaced during a period of Sitting in the Garden Eating Worms. So here's a piece of advice: don't kiss boys when you're drunk if the previous day featured the following email exchange with your brother:

Ida: Am miserable. Please advise.

Ian: I am unable.

Behold: Man vs Beast

Okay, I'm sure some animals' rights activists must have had a problem with this, but I think it's the best thing I've ever seen on television, surpassing even cable access' "Bong Hit Finals."

The runner's best time is 9.8 seconds. The giraffe's time is unknown.

It was like sneaking out of bed in 1982 to watch Circus of the Stars.

Afterwards, Gavin and I played the home version: that's right kids, the tree has been chucked. (And not at anybody, so nobody in Brooklyn is feeling more festive.)

Of the D'Urbervilles

The crazed way my hair turned out today makes me feel like I should be sitting behind a cow milking until someone wearing boots comes up to me and we have an affair, except it's an affair that results in being more focused and relaxed and ruddy-cheeked and not an affair that results in murdering my husband and running off with my lover only to be discovered because the maid has spotted the blood soaking through the ceiling.

(Tess was the first movie I ever saw on a VCR. Then I read the novel. I was 10.)

One of us has got to go.

And it's gonna be the tree. Right off the balcony.

(Any further delay would result in walling myself up with a cask of Amontillado.)

L'Stranger

Today I wore the Extra Deodorant from the Upstairs Bathroom. I smell like someone is following me.

Sure, they're not medical benefits, but...

I started a new session of classes on Saturday. The second was kick-in-the-throat exhausting. Let these next two sentences serve as a window into the minds of the Leaders of Tomorrow:

Child A to Mother A:
"Mama, I didn't hurt anybody today!"

Mother B to Child B:
"I told you your skirt would keep falling down if you didn't wear underwear."

Plus I have to give Carbuncle the Car Monkey back to its rightful owner (who also happens to be the Skirt Slipper). Turns out that just because a six-year-old leaves a ridiculously cute monkey in your classroom does not mean that it gets to live in your car.

Damn.

I was also disappointed this evening to discover that the play written by a high school student and entitled The Sheep Child turned out to be about a girl who follows all her parents' wishes and not about a boy with a sheep's head.

Perhaps it is a sign that I should write a play about a little sheepy.

"We have ploughed the sea."

I woke up this morning thinking about Simón Bolívar.

(But I probably should admit that everything I know about Simón Bolívar I learned from Madeleine L'engle.)

Where the hey-nonny-nonny are my tweezers?

If you weren't planning to come see 14/48 tonight, maybe you should because a certain theatre supporter is in it this weekend, y'know, the one who sees every show ever produced and always has an extra opera ticket?

Y'know.

Butoh

Hey, remember that chicken thing?

Look what they came up with:
(Photo by Maja Sandberg)

Also: what should I wear to the wedding? It's on a boat.

A Good Way to Procrastinate

If you have folktale adaptations to write and had already put them off on Sunday because you played Trivial Pursuit so worked on them on Monday but then put them off on Tuesday to watch The Two Towers (again), then the best thing to do on Wednesday when you need them Thursday morning is this:

• Go to the home of The Girl and The Emporer Protector


• Eat things that start with the letter "c" with boys who start with "B" and "P" and "J" and girls who start with "T" and "S"


• Put all your scripts in your lap while The Godfather: Part II is loaded up


• get a headache and put away your scripts


• fall asleep, but wake every once-in-awhile and wish you were paying attention because Diane Keaton sure is mad


• be excited when the 2nd disc must be put in because you are too tired to go home


• Take boy who starts with "P" to sleep under his desk and boy who starts with "B" to Mr. House


• Return home and read The Stranger


• start working on scripts with renewed vigor and enthusiasm (and reduced-fat cheese crunchies)


• fiddle with fonts and make the happy sound of printing


• go to bed at 4:15am with five hours to spare!

Plan B

I've been kinda fretting over taking down the Christmas tree and how to get rid of it: did I already miss the curbside pick up day? Will I have to hack it into little bits and put it in the yardwaste container? Will I have to haul it to the dump?

And then I received a revelation: chuck it off the balcony.

Yep, just launch the thing into our bramble of a backyard, the bramble of a backyard that will remain a bramble of a backyard until the landlord tears down the house.

Can you think of any reasons why I shouldn't do this? Do you want to be there when it happens?

(PS, it is a Skirt day.)

Wandering the Shore

I'm talking a cloak, a long-lost sailor, and a woman who has been dead for seventy-five years.

The fog is fucking amazing!

(Unless it's poisonous. That would be really scary.)

I'm wearing The Skirt today.

I'm wearing The Skirt today.

Stop it, Aslan!

Out of all the things that happened this week during break camp my favorite—surpassing even various children wrapped in coats and shoved under desks for necessary napping purposes—was the following:

The six- and seven-year-olds had a musical theatre workshop for two-and-a-half hours. (Really. It was that long.) I returned for the tail end, just in time to hear the instructor say "one more time." Chantal's eyes grew big. Desperate, she looked at me.

"Ahhh! I gotta get out of here!"