These Happy Days are Yours and Mine

Tomorrow is 50s Day for our middle school pep rally.  

I'll be sporting a Lucille Ball-style dress complete with petticoat, red lipstick, heels, horn rim glasses,  and pearls. 

 I remember back when I was in school...we would throw our hair up in ponytails, roll our jeans, and slap on some Keds, our daddies' white oxford and class ring, maybe a familial letter jacket, and a chiffon scarf tied around our necks.  We were style icons.    Those who were really committed boasted a felt poodle skirt and saddle shoes.

The past few years of teaching, I've noticed that kids are no longer understanding what the 50s uniform is.

This is a conversation from my classroom today.  I wish I could say they were trying to fool me, but unfortunately,  I repeated bits of this conversation all day long, as did other teachers.  Read with caution...you'll age thirty years over its span:

Student A, excitedly:   I can't wait for 50s day tomorrow.  I'm dressing like that TV show "My Name is Earl."

Me:   What?  That's not 50s!  Think "Happy Days," "Laverne and Shirley"....

Student A:    It is, too, 50s!   Flannels and mullets are from the 50s!  Have you ever even seen that show?

Me:  Yes, I've seen every episode.  I love it, but  it is definitely *NOT* set in the 50s. 

Student B, confidently:  Um,  nope, you're wrong.  Hippies are the 50s. 

Me:   Um, nope *you're* wrong.   Hippies are the 60s.  Woodstock, fringe, flowers, tie dye, Volkswagens, peace.....

Student A:  No they're not.   You're wrong.   "My Name is Earl" is based on Woodstock which is the 50s!

Me, shaking my head:  You don't even know what Woodstock was, do you?

Student A, adamantly:   Yes, I do.  It was drugs and flannel and mullets and music.

Me:  Two out of four.....  Mullets are the 80s and redneck, definitely not 60s...

Student C, interrupting and absolutely outraged:   Hey, my dad had a mullet!  Are you calling him a redneck?

Me:  Uh....

Student D:  My dad had one, too!

Student E: Mine too!

Student F: So did mine!  

Me, trying desperately to recover:   So how many of your fathers had mullets?

*about 9 hands go up*

Me:  um......So Billy Ray Cyrus had a mullet in the late 80s..... Ever heard of "Achy Breaky Heart?"

Student A:  He's a poser.    He took it from the 50s.

*Students D, E, F, C, G, H, J, K, and M  nod their heads and murmur their agreement about his posing as a redneck and not truly being one*

Me:  Mullets are the 80s.   You say your parents had mullets.  Are your parents old enough to live in the 50s?   Do the math!  They'd be in their 60s!  

Student A, doggedly pursuing the flannel issue:   But flannels and long hair are 50s!     

Me:  Nope.  That's  the 90s.... Nirvana, Soundgarden... The Grunge movement from Seattle grew the flannel movement in the 90s.

Student A, absolutely bewildered:   Who the heck is Nirvana?

Me:  You did not just ask that!

Student N:  I think they play them on the oldies station. 

Student A:  Yeah, 'cause they're FROM THE 50s!!!!

Me:  NO!!!

Student R:  So what do we wear for the 50s?    

Me, relieved:    Poodle skirts...

Student S:   WHAT?!?!?!?  They wore skirts made from poodle skin???

Me, horrified and rising in volume with each word:  Oh. MY. LA.  NO!!!!!  It's a felt skirt with a poodle on it.   

Student N:   Well, that's just stupid.

Student O *nodding*:  Yep.  Pretty stupid.

Me:  It was actually very cute and feminine.    

Student P:  Still sounds stupid.... so a skirt with a dog on it for the girls.   What about the boys?  A shirt with a cat?

Me:  Funny,  but no...... the boys wore blue jeans, rolled up.  Converse.  White tshirt.   Hair greased back.

Student P:  So basically, they just wore the same thing that they wore in the 70s.   

Me:  You guys are kidding me, right?   You know this stuff.  You cannot possibly NOT know this stuff.

Student Q:   When did everyone have Afros?   

Me, tiredly:   That would be the 70s, but not everyone had Afros.  

Student Q:   I think you're wrong.   I've seen pictures.  

Me:  Well, a lot of people did.    Some black people had them, and  some white people got perms.....

Student R *interrupting*:  I think that's racist.  

Me: Well,  I think we are through with this conversation.  Ever seen "Grease"?  Dress like that.

Student B:   But it's not 60s day....

Me:   No it's not..... It's 50s Day and that's 50s clothing.  It's set in the 50s.   "I Love Lucy,"  set in the 50s.     "Happy Days," set in the 50s.    Laverne and Shirley, set in the 50s. If you've seen those, dress like them. Otherwise wear flannel, grow your hair long, wear an Afro, whatever......

And that's how today became one of those Unhappy Days........

Death By Crocodile

So today, my day was my crap.

Then I read this.


http://dailycaller.com/2014/09/16/woman-commits-suicide-by-crocodile/


Yeah...

So to sum up, there's this 65 year old lady in Thailand.    Her family was a little worried about her on Friday and contacted the police because they couldn't get ahold of her.    The police said she had to be missing 24 hours before they could fill out a missing person's report.

Meanwhile, she travels to the largest crocodile farm in the world, Samut Prakarn Crocodile Farm & Zoo,  home to over 100,000 crocodiles. She walks up to the fence, takes off her shoes and sets them neatly down by the fence, and dives head first fully clothed into a ten foot deep pit filled with ONE THOUSAND FLIPPING hungry adult crocodiles waiting for her.

The workers tried to beat the crocodiles away with long poles, but, you know, ONE THOUSAND FLIPPING HUNGRY CROCODILES said, "Thanks, but we've got this."

You read that right.  She committed suicide by crocodile.

What.  The.  Heck.

Can you imagine?    How stinking bad must your day be to say to yourself, "Self, death by being eaten and mauled by a thousand savage beasts is appealing to me today?"

This article has taken up a good portion of my subconscious today.  I cannot stop thinking about it.
It's a horrible way to die, and perhaps the gruesome of her choice of suicide makes this one stick out horribly to me. To be honest, though, one of the things that has bothered me all day, besides her death, are the shoes.

Why did she take them off and lay them so carefully?  I've had a thousand ideas.  Were they crocodile shoes and she didn't think it was right that they eat them?    Were they her sister's and it was a final good-bye?   Was taking off her shoes before she committed suicide a sign of respect for her country? Did she just want to be barefoot when she left this world?

It has bothered me all day. I can't stop thinking of those two little shoes lying there beside a fence, while a horrible death goes on beneath them.   It's too vivid a picture for me, and I just have to know why.

I was talking to The Kid about this, and very pragmatically she said, "Easy.  She wanted to make sure people knew it was deliberate and  that she didn't accidentally fall in."

Oh.  Wow.

That makes sense.  The one scenario I didn't think of and it's so simple.

So while I've had a really bad, no good horrible day, my day has *NOT* been death by crocodile bad....It's all about perspective.

May this poor woman finally find peace.

The Trickle

Weird things sometimes happen to me in public bathrooms.  When you have a disease/disorder/funky colon that refuses to work correctly, you spend a lot of time in that lovely little room.

Maybe that's why I notice the weird times.   Not much else to focus on.

In all my times in public bathrooms, however, I can honestly say that I've never struck up a conversation.  God forbid, I HAVE had to ask for paper from my stall neighbor, but never have I just been like, "Yo, how you doin'?"

I've never asked someone if they're having a good day. I have never asked if the other pee-er has seen a certain item and on what aisle I might find it.     I've never asked if they know a good place to eat lunch. *excuse me while I make gross sounds with my ass and expel last night's dinner while I was ask you about where I can stuff my gullet back full so I can repeat this whole disgusting process tomorrow*

I have had these things happen *TO* me... and more.... but I've never talked to someone else.

I've also never apologized for any noises.  The way I see it, we all make noises while on the porcelain throne, and in polite society, we just freakin' ignore them and move on.  I heard nothing.  You heard nothing.  I smelled nothing.  You smelled nothing.  If anyone asks when we leave this place, we all farted roses in here and danced with a unicorn. Capice?

Today though, bless her sweet, meek soul, I had someone apologize to me.

 But not for what you think.

There I was minding my own business, doing my own business, when the bathroom stall beside me locked.

I could hear Homegirl prepping the toilet with the Paper Shield of Cleanliness and Sanitation (because all germs are afraid of paper, don't you know... they see that paper and cower in fear. If you're very quiet you can hear their voices, all Cindy Loo Who-like scream,  "Please, not the paper!" every time a stall door closes.)

Finally Homegirl settled down, and her own sweet angelic voice pierced the quiet.  "Forgive my awkward stream."

"Seriously?" was my first thought.  Then I wondered wildly, "Wait, is she praying or is she talking to me? Am I supposed to respond, and what if I do respond, and she was praying and thinks I'm an idiot?"

But then I heard it.

Her awkward stream.

DRIP.  DRIPDRIP.  DRIP.   PSSSSHT *for a nanosecond*  DRIPDRIP. DRIP. PSSSHT. *for a full second*  DRIPDRIP......DRIP.

Then she giggled, wiped *I assume*, and flushed.

What in the name of Charmin was going on next door?  Did she pee or was the toilet leaking?  I've choked on more water than she expelled.

Seriously count, "One Mississippi... Two Mi....." and that's how long she peed. Seriously.

I know  Kegels are good for you, but I humbly submit those were not Kegels she was doing.  That, my darling loves, was a kidney infection waiting to happen.  There was no way she emptied everything up in there.  My only hope is she went and got some cranberry juice, and she is sipping on a glass of that bad boy right now.

Homegirl's gonna need it.

Unappreciated

My poor kid just doesn't realize how blessed she is to have a mom who likes to spend time with her.

Today while driving home from work with The Kid in the car, we listened to some music on my iPhone.  I have pretty eclectic tastes... I never realized just how much until today.   I don't think The Kid did, either.   This song came on from one of my playlists from one of my first teaching jobs.   It is one of my all time favorite songs.  I love the whole CD,  really, and know it by heart.

Isn't it just a happy bouncy song?  It makes you want to dance to it...which I did.

While driving the road at 60 mph.  It was a sight to behold.

I love this song much.   I can sing all the words.  I can translate the words.  I can even sing the music......at the top of my lungs... *especially* at the top of my lungs...much to The Kid's chagrin and the poor pedestrian's  fright.  They were just walking down the street, minding their own business and got dragged into my happiness vortex.

They may never be the same.  Bless them.

Of course, the more The Kid  fussed, the louder I had to turn it up, and the more I had to shout the words and sing the trumpet parts.     I enjoyed myself so much the first time that I went back for another round.    By this time, we were passing the house, so I just drove around with the child guard locks on (so she couldn't get out and run) and blasted this melodic jewel.  

She says it was kidnapping.  I say it was just good family bonding time.  

I can't wait until the drive tomorrow to school.  I feel Styx, "Come Sail Away" building up inside of me.

Good times.

Pretty, Pretty Ballerina

These are my favorite socks.  

These socks make me unbelievably happy....stupidly happy...because I feel graceful and thin and like a ballerina in them.

Yes, these socks make me feel skinny. Odd, I know, but whatever works, people.

Big Daddy hates these socks.   Every time I put them on, he rolls his eyes and sighs this big, deep long-suffering sigh.

I'd feel bad for him, but I'm too happy wearing THE SOCKS OF ETERNAL HAPPINESS.

Actually, I don't know if it is the socks so much that he hates or the fact that while lying on the couch, watching TV and wearing these socks,  I am constantly pointing my toes and scissoring my legs through the air while screaming, "Watch me dance!  Daaaance!"

Or it might be that as I'm walking through a room, I'll suddenly stop and shout, "Fourth position!"  and then freeze.  I don't care who is behind me or trying to get around me.  Dance stops for no one, and I am a serious artist.

Big Daddy might also hate that I toe through a room like a demented ballerina on crack, sing-songing, "I'm a pretty, pretty ballerina!!! Looooooove me!"  and then I dip down into a graceful, ballerina-esque bow.  

Whatever the reason, obviously, he's the one with the issues.  If I wasn't a pretty, pretty ballerina, would I be able to do this????

Peek a Boo, I See You

I took The Kid for a leisurely trip to our local Books A Million bookstore.  Since it would take less time for a hipster to grow an ironic beard than it does for her to pick out her latest book, while there, I had to run to the bathroom.

There are two stalls in their restroom, and both stall doors were closed    The room was rather small and to keep from being hit by the main door, I leaned against the sinks and patiently waited my turn.   In one stall, a young mom and her preschooler kept up a steady stream of conversation about Fancy Nancy.   I could feel that my bladder would not wait much longer and tried the handicap stall door.  

Locked.

Of course.

I leaned back against the sinks and crossed my arms, silently praying that my bladder would stretch a wee bit more.

I glanced at the handicap stall door and realized there was about a 3/4 of an inch to an inch inch gap and that I could see right into the stall.    I quickly looked away, granting that poor lady privacy, and then looked back.

Tell me I did not see that.

Au contraire, I did.

There she was.   A woman in a bright red sweater, dark hair pulled back, pants pulled up, just sitting on the toilet, book in her hand, looking at me.  

Are you stinking kidding me?

She gave me a bit of a look, like I should mind my own business as she was doing hers.   I looked away again.   Then glanced back.  SecretBookThief was looking back down reading.  Reading!!!!   Not doing her business at all.

 My bladder twitched in anger.

I ran through possible scenarios in my head.

 Tell the manager she's in the bathroom reading when the sign CLEARLY says not to bring books into the bathroom?  Nah.   I'm not a tattler.

 Say something?   Well, Mom and Sparkly Baby Toms were so busy talking, I didn't think SecretBookThief would hear me.

 Front her out after they left?  Possibly.  I am the Queen of Passive Aggressiva, after all.   That might definitely work.

 About that time, I glanced back over, and she was looking at me through the crack and giving me a dirty look.

Frowning, I made my first two fingers into a vee pointed at my eyes and then at her.  The universal sign for, "I see you, now go outside and read in the bookstore like the rest of the normal people, instead of trying to steal books in your purse.  Dangit,  I have to pee.  BAD."

She jumped a little and guiltily looked down.   The toilet flushed in the other stall and my bladder celebrated.
I quickly entered the now empty stall.  As I did, there was a rustling in the stall next to me.  

Perhaps she's decided to do her business now, I thought.

Then a shirt landed on the floor, its arm half under the divider between our stalls.

What.  The.  Heck.

There was more rustling.   What was she doing?  

A bra joined the shirt.    I quickly finished and flushed.

As I opened the door to go wash my hands, the clink of the button on her pants hit the tile.

Ooooooo....kay....

I kept my eyes averted and went to the sink to wash my hands.      I checked my appearance in the mirror, and  like the car wreck you can't help from looking at, I used the mirror to glance at the reflection of the floor of her stall.    Yep, there was her entire outfit on the floor, and without looking at the gap itself in the mirror, skin was visible.

Homegirl was now buck ass naked, reading a book.

And that's when I left.

So yeah.   Don't use hand  military hand signs in the bathroom.    People may think you are a creeper and try to out creep you.  

It *will* work.