Archive for Freaky Friends

Trippy. Like A Wonka Experience.

Many years ago when I was still teaching in the classroom I found my people. My people came to me. I didn’t have to go looking for them because tra-la-laaaa I am just that ridiculously lazy. For some reason, a bunch of young teachers and I all seemed to click together one year. We were teaching at a middle school and everyone seemed fantastically awesome. Like I had fallen into the land of Oz of teaching where we ate flower cups and swam in a lake of chocolate. Hold on. That’s Willy Wonka. I’m actually going to just leave that analogy because it still fits. Except there was no Violet turning Violet, Violet nor was there a fat kid getting sucked up by a tube. There might have been a golden goose who was behind the curtain with a robot chicken.

My God. My childhood movie watching has morphed into my adult late night television watching and mixed itself a cocktail. Somebody either hold me or get me a bowl of Fruity Pebbles. Because I can tell this story is going to take a left turn at Albuquerque. 

LEFT.

Before I mention My People I have to mention running into some idiots this past week who were so far removed from My People that I had to wonder if they were people themselves. It was a group of people at the mall (the mall, y’all) where I had to run in to get my tights for the season. That sounds like a weird thing, but I love tights and wear them throughout the fall months because I enjoy keeping all my goodies intact even though sometimes I’m sure they’re trying to strangle me and sell my body parts to the Mattel Corporation for use in the mocha-colored Barbie dolls. There is such a thing, isn’t there? So, while I’m power walking through the mall to get said tights I see a gaggle of students whom I am trying to avoid because the administrator in me wants to yell, ‘PULL UP YOUR PANTS’ even though I know I shouldn’t do that when they’re just trying to get a warm pretzel but still. It almost comes out of my mouth but I sidestep them and they don’t really notice that it’s me which is a really good thing because I tire of the whole “What are YOU doing here?” question I always get because apparently I am an android who doesn’t require groceries or clothing or furniture polish. Then, I happen upon these people who are taking pictures of their socks. SOCKS. Socks that are not at all interesting. There are no sparkles or Santa wearing underwear or anything and I’m seriously starting to wonder if I shouldn’t do my tight shopping online. Socks. WTF, sock fetishists? 

My People like socks, but they don’t need to take pictures of them. My People were enthusiastic, creative, helpful teachers. We didn’t all teach the same curriculum either. Math, science, language arts. But something about this group of seven women clicked and we stuck with it. In the time since I started teaching with them we’ve seen marriage, divorce, house-building, pregnancy, miscarriage, hospital stays, autism, ADHD, and parties. There’s something I can say for that group: they know how to party. It was an anything goes time for us and someday I might tell you about the time we crashed a Halloween party when I was dressed as a pregnant nun and handed out communion (Hello, Hell. Are you ready for me yet?) and then later had to use the restroom so badly but didn’t feel like heading back into the house because it was constantly In Use so I just relieved myself outside. On the lawn. Of a stranger’s house. Dressed as a nun. 

These are the stories I can’t wait to tell the grandkids.

These gals helped me find myself and have fun doing it. They cried with me and laughed at me and we cooked together and I got my nickname of “Mocha” from one of them. It’s a beautiful thing when we can watch each other crash and burn and then pick up the pieces while each of us moves through the maze to find ourselves. It’s not always pretty, but it is what it is. But the really beautiful thing is that they also taught me to be vulnerable and allow myself to be taken care of and to always speak my mind because I might just have something interesting to say. Ok, so not like right now or anything. But sometimes. And when I get my lips to flapping I don’t always remember that it may be not-so-much-PC or that I let fly an opinion about a topic without wondering what the other person’s experiences have taught them about the topic and let loose a firestorm.

Last year I was talking with another former colleague and friend who told me that she won a $500 library for her classroom because of something I said. I was horrified that I might have said something rather stupid and I asked what thing could have possibly fallen out of my mouth to make her win books. One time in her classroom and we were talking about a myriad of things related to race and education and I told her that I started reading adolescent fiction and began to feel sorry for Black girls because they don’t often get to see a true reflection of themselves in literature. “Black girls don’t want to read ONLY about white girls and their experiences. They want to see themselves in books. Do you always assume that a character is white when you read a novel? Is that because the cover shows a white girl? Black girls want to read about themselves, too.” Without telling me about it, she responded to my comment by purchasing more adolescent fiction about Black girls and has continued to add them to her classroom collection until she started taking classes to get her Master’s degree and then mentioned this to someone who mentioned it to someone else and…well, the story goes that she wrote about it in a contest and won the money to put toward more books to help her students of all colors see themselves in what they read. She said to me, “If I made a difference it’s because someone opened my eyes. That was you.” Then, of course, I wept myself into a little puddle and felt so proud of my big mouth because, in a strange turn of events, it led to making a change in her that led to making a change in her classroom with her students and the students to come.

I might have made the youthful mistake of urinating outside one time while dressed as a nun, but sometimes my stupidity actually has some nice, unintended consequences. Willy Wonka would be smug about this whole thing.

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No Context Text Messages

When I look at my iPhone (yes, I say I have an iPhone because I waited 4 whole months to finally get that thing and visited it in the store several times just to say, “HI, LITTLE BABYCAKES. MOMMA’S GONNA BUY YOU SOON.”) I can see the first line of the latest text messages I have received. When I look at them I have to try to remember what the context of the message was but sometimes it’s just as fun to leave out all the other details. I am easily amused at times. This is one of those times. Even so, my friends are absolutely hilarious.

Text Messages

was just seeing if you had lunch plans. are you even wearing pants yet?

We drank one in your honor. and then we drank another and another…

are you willing and available for little house party chili college football?

I told him I was texting his mother.

There are pancakes here. Where are YOU?

Polo!

Would you please come over and stop me from watching this Lifetime movie?

Just vindictive vendettas. Fun day. I’m growing an ulcer from all this stress.

Gonna take it slow. Remember when we said this about relationships and not our aging knees?

If you say that one more time I will punch you in the face. (As soon as you get here.)

I found her house! In the dark!

Housewarming, poker, and hot tub tomorrow night. 7:00 cash game.

Did you see that skirt she was trying to wear? TRYING.

Finally cracked my neck. It was worth a text to you.

The cute new neighbor just stopped by. I was wearing the ratty bathrobe and a scrunchie.

THANX SKEEZE BAG

Get on the bookface!!

Kick that guy off the barstool in front of me!!

Are you watching the trainwreck that is Housewives of ATL? Because “Tardy to the Party” is so deliciously awful.

Hope you’re feeling better. I’m stuck in never-ending-meeting hell.

Oh, bite me. And my coin purse. HA!

I’m delivering this food baby soon. Want to attend the bris?

Far left if you’re looking at the stage.

You left your hair over here. 

Gray shirt black pants and black glasses. Walking in now.

Is there cheese at home? I really need cheese.

Your daughter will be at my home in MINUTES!

Till the cows come home.

I have the popcorn farts. He took me to a movie. Damn.

You were making those clicking sounds like that African language. Marry me?

Where are you? Better yet, where am I?

I hope I’m not the only one who gets a kick out of re-reading text messages. Have a funny one? Do your worst people.

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Writing LOVE

Today is a day when people are celebrating TWLOHA which is a rather funny looking acronym for the real name of the movement: To Write Love On Her Arms. It’s dedicated to helping those who struggle with depression, addiction, self-injury and suicide. People who struggle with that need to know so many things not the least of which is that there is HOPE and that they are LOVED. In my career there have been multiples times when I’ve been involved with students who are in need of just that thing. Depression knows no boundaries, but I do see how often it manifests itself as a drug problem or some sort of self harm. Kids will turn to those they trust. Hell, we all do that. 

Depression is a bitch. For my friends and family who suffer from it I know only their experiences as an outsider. I’ve never had an addiction or tried to harm myself. The thinking behind these actions are beyond my realm of understanding, but it makes it no less incredibly important in my life. When they suffer, I suffer. It is responsible for broken friendships, marriages, and hurting families that have all touched me somehow.

If you know someone who is hurting, please get them help. Love them through it. That’s all they’d want anyway.

whitney's love

This picture is taken from my friend Whitney who has resurfaced in my life at the best possible time – when we both needed each other. I dedicate this entire post to her.

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I am INSPIRED

I must admit: this is one of those times when I am in awe of what I have been able to do with a blog. At first, I read blogs in the hopes that I could learn something about the author and read with interest about their own anecdotes and stories. It took no time at all for me to exclaim, “Hey! I could do that!” and then this nagging voice in the back of my head would tell me that I hated writing and that I even hated teaching writing so why would I start an online journal of things that happen in my life? 

That stupid, nagging voice has been shut up for about 5 years now.

I must also admit: I had no idea that people from Springfield were actually reading me unless they were my friends who pitied me and felt compelled to write a comment now and then. I’M LOOKING AT YOU, BECKY. (I’m kidding. Becky doesn’t pity me.) (At least I hope she doesn’t.) (Because I love her to pieces. That’s why I hope she doesn’t. She’s ten shades of awesome yellow sunshine in my life.) (You know what happens when you mention just one of your friends? You have to mention them all.) (I’m going to get this over with, ok? Janie, Tammy, Kay, Lisa… hmm. Guess I don’t have that many friends.) So when I began reading comments recently I was surprised that so many people who live in my town are now reading my blog. I’d like to apologize if I’ve ever cut you off in traffic, ran to the checkout counter before you just to get served first, or if you sit behind me in a movie theatre because I’m so tall and annoying to have to see around. I also pop my gum and irritate most people within a 5 foot radius.

Other than that, I’m a pretty good neighbor. 

I’d like to think I’m a pretty good mom, too, because Mallory has sent out a request to her friends to help her mother’s Purse Drive out. Talk about being verklempt! I read her email and nearly fell over. Sometimes, we don’t even know how much we’re affecting our own children with our projects and activities. She came home from work last week (she’s a designer at an office space firm) and showed me this:

photo-1

It occurred to me that she was designing purses and wanting to use scraps of leftover materials. She also wrote on the bottom “Home ec. class?” which makes me think she had a great idea for students to sew them (which is just an idea – I swear I’m not trying to make more work for the home economics teachers). This project is taking on a life of its own and I have friends in New York and Chicago and Houston who are collecting more purses for my school to donate. Hopefully, our boutique (the girls and I decided that “store” sounded less fun than “boutique”) will be open in two weeks.

Mostly, it inspired me to keep on thinking about this and dreaming big for my students. 

I admit: that’s a fantastic feeling.

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Would It Help If I Said, “Sorry”?

I am having some major issues with the blog today. Getting up early, leaving for another trip to Chicago, and setting a post to auto-publish is never my favorite thing, but I did it and hit the road and didn’t have another thought about it.

Until very late in the day.

So, sit tight. Things are being fixed and there is help on the way.

But I promised a story now that you see how funky my blog is acting right now.

SO.

Two weeks ago when I was traveling the great state of Illinois a friend asked if he could have drinks with me. He is an old friend and I met him when I was in fourth grade. He has recently found me on Facebook and we have had a lot of fun getting to know one another as adults. Chad is the first boy I kissed and my memory of it is vivid. We were in my bedroom in the lower part of our house and his cousin and my sister had to force us to kiss. There’s not a lot that a fourth grade memory affords but being nervous and hoping that you don’t screw up your first kiss ranks right up there with one of the things I’ve done that I hope I did right. Basically, they pushed us together until our lips met. The only other details I remember is that it was summer and we’d played a lot of flag football in our neighborhood and we’d also did this due to pressure. Of course I wanted to kiss a boy! I was 10! I was curious!

When Chad read my Facebook status that I’d be in Chicago he asked if he could see me and I couldn’t wait to see him. Via messages we’d talked about the fact that we had kissed and to my horror he told me that HE HAD NO RECOLLECTION OF THE DEED.

I was mortified. Especially because my memory held it for such a long time.

He knew what hotel I was staying at and we exchanged cell phone numbers so he could meet up with me. We planned to meet at the hotel bar and Chad even told me that he had worked at that hotel many years ago so he knew exactly where this bar was so this wasn’t going to be any kind of logistical problem.

It’s been 20 plus years since I’ve seen him. We exchanged one text message prior to meeting up. I was hoping to play catch up for a few hours and to get to know him as an adult so to say that I was excited is an understatement. We determined a time and then we met at the Chi Bar to catch up and see what each other looked like and how we behaved as adults. It was the most lovely time I’ve had in quite some time. Chad was charming, delightful, and funny as hell. I had one of those times where I let out the obnoxious laugh and I don’t even care who hears me.

Also? Chad brought his boyfriend. His sweet, cute, doctor boyfriend.

The awesomeness doesn’t STOP with me.

The moral of the story: My kisses are quite forgettable.

*My blog will be fixed soon. Really, I’m so sorry about the timing, but you’ve probably come to expect that from me.

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