Friday, December 31, 2004

How dare you say that to a child!!!


Just thought some could use a literature lesson. Apply as needed, lather, rinse, and repeat.


n: A figure of speech in which exaggeration is used for emphasis or effect, as in I could sleep for a year or This book weighs a ton.

n : extravagant exaggeration [syn: exaggeration]

Wednesday, December 29, 2004

"Mommy, can I get dressed today?"


Six little words that let a person know that, hey, maybe I'm enjoying this vacation a little too much. Heh. What kid doesn't love staying in her pajamas all day???

Apparently mine.

How in the hell did I end up with the kid who likes to go places on vacation days? Doesn't she know who I am? Doesn't she know of the sloth and laziness to which I aspire?

Seriously, vacation for some people means going places and doing things. Those are annoying people. Those are fucking annoying people who bug the shit out of me. Those are people who just don't do enough on their regular days to know what vacation days are for: DOING NOTHING. Not cleaning. Not running errands. Not cleaning (George, I put that in here twice just for you). Dear god, not for going OUT of the house and shopping or something horrid like that {shudder}. Vacation days are for staying in your pajamas and doing nothing. Period.

If the child asks me if she can brush her teeth or eat some broccoli, I'm giving her away; she's obviously not mine.

Friday, December 17, 2004

Santa's Little Helper... (and Me Without My Stripper Money)


In my never-ending quest for Mother of the Year (which I'm sure I've clenched since I'm the mom who lets them take the cushions off the couch and jump on the springs... it wears them out and they go to sleep earlier (making my life easier, and this is really all about making my life easier)), I decided that these children simply MUST see Santa, so last night George and I took the kids to see Santa. Oh, what a magical kingdom the mall can be!

"Is this Santa's house?" asked Maren.

"No, sweetie. This is his office. This is where he goes to get out of the house to escape from Mrs. Claus." I explained.

"Oh. Is this his house?"

*sigh* I love the circular conversations of a three-year old's mind.

When we found the festively decorated area where Santa had supplanted himself, we were thrilled to see that there were only about twenty kids in line--if that! What luck to have gotten there at such a time! Excitedly we took Maren to the line and explained how things would go:

"Here's how it works: you sit on his lap, he asks what you want, you tell him, they take your picture." Ba-da-boom, ba-da-bing. Done.

After about fifteen to twenty minutes of standing in line and repeating the instructions, in several (or was it just one continous?) circular conversations, they started to sound more like:

"Okay, just tell him you want a Barbie. Okay. Smile when you say it and they can take the picture at the same time." (Smart thinking, eh? That way we'd be done faster.)

After the next FORTY MINUTES, I'm afraid I might have gotten a little less patient. Heh. I believe that I might have said something to effect of:

"You tell that fat, fucking, stealer of evenings to give you a Barbie. And you make him understand that you expect your skinny bitch of a doll after standing in line for a fucking hour: You EXPECT your Barbie. You don't want it. You wouldn't like it. You fucking expect the goddamn thing!"

After an hour of watching a small train go around an even smaller track, and listening to the world's most hateful bastard of a child (I mean, someone's lovely angel who was not quite as patient as my child) ring the bell of the train until the clanger was nearly ripped out by all on-lookers, we finally got close enough to actually see there really was a Santa. And as a bonus, he brought a helper.

Oh, Santa's Little Helper. Apparently when she was looking for jobs at the temp agency, she had talked about her experience with poles and laps and pictures and they confused Santa's Little Helper with Porn Queen/Stripper. Really, when you think about it... it's an easy mistake to make. North Pole - "South Pole;" Lap Sitting - Lap Dancing;Taking Pictures - Posing for Pictures. The similarities go on and on... okay they don't. They don't at all.

Didn't anybody tell this dirty whore that she shouldn't wear pants that show her fucking hipbones and that go UP HER ASS when she's working with children? And they were sweat pants. And her shirt, did it need to stop at an inch above her belly button? And why, really did she need to have a little sweatsuit jacket zipped in such a way as to accentuate her boobjob? Oh, yeah, because she's a tasteless slut. Stilletto heels? Because what else would you NOT wear with that outfit (apparently, suprisingly(?), they hurt her feet so she had her shoes off)?

And the goddamned thing of it all is that I didn't have any fucking one dollar bills to stuff in her g-string for a tip.

Thankfully, the fine, upstanding citizens (much like George and Georgianna Popplewell) were appropriately appalled. This little strumpet left the parents chuckling, dismayed, and mostly feeling good about ourselves (for having the good taste to not be her), but most certainly not feeling good about choosing this particular mall for our children's Santa Visit. So, to answer Maren's previous question:

"No, sweetie, this isn't Santa's house, this is his office where he gets a lap dance and has his pole waxed."

Silly girl, thinking this is Santa's house, like Mrs. Clause would ever let Santa have a stripper in the house.

Sunday, December 12, 2004

So what can your child do???


I know so many moms with really smart and talented three-year olds. I'm just amazed at the things they can do! Some can write their names, some can use computers, some can ice skate (I think you know who you are, the next Michelle Kwan!), what can my child do???

She knows who the Beastie Boys are.

That's right. When my child (and don't give me any crap about letting her listen to them if you listen to anything I happen not to like) hears them come on the radio she sits bolt upright in her car seat--which is hilarious since she is then reminded that she can't sit bolt upright--and yells, "This is beastie songs! This is beastie songs!"

Not my favorite, but considering that she can sing along with Modest Mouse and U2 and knows the words to "Blue" by the Jawhawks, it's a start. I think she has the makings of a future music critic (or more likely a DJ, since she also has to talk over the music, heh).

So... what can my child do? Well, she can try really hard to cut herself with scissors while I nervously sit there and twitch, envisioning an expensive trip to the ER and painful stitches. She can go to, "dance kwass," where she really learns to clap and say, "macaroni and cheese," and learns cooperation and about music and rhythm (more than dance, for now).

She can torment the hell out of her brother. Holy shit, can she ever torment that little guy. She has no concept at all of how big he is getting, and how fast he's getting there. She can bug the living crap out of me at times, too, for that matter. Jibber, jabber, jibber, jabber, jibber, jabber... arghhhh. We are learning the value of silence in increments of a few seconds at a time. When I have her up to an hour at a time, I'll know I've succeeded with my grasshopper.

Mostly, she's just good at being charming. She's cute and outgoing... damn it, I think I might just have a cheerleader on my hands.

Hey... do I get to be a bitchy cheerleading mom???

Warm Fuzzy


And the next day in a science show assembly the kids were asked to pick their "favorite teacher" to go on stage for an experiment. I heard my name a lot. In fact, when I didn't go, our science teacher did (which is why I didn't, I figured it was his thing). Maybe I'm a little rough on myself and I take things out of context and blow them out of proportion a wee, tad. Heh.

Hee. Warm fuzzies are nice.

Wednesday, December 08, 2004

"Mrs. Popplewell, are you in a good mood today?"



"I... uh... nevermind..." (frightened seventh-grader scurries into classroom)


I've become that teacher you always kind of hated because you never knew what to expect. I'd sigh again, but that gets annoying. I always hated those teachers because it was uncomfortable for the first few minutes everyday and for the entire classtime some days. I'm her.

That question really stuck with me and, truth be told, has me quite down. I hate that I'm that person. I used to be the happy teacher whose class was pretty much always a happy place (at least I think it was, maybe it never really was). But the bipolar (which was brought out by PPD) has really changed who I am as a teacher. It makes me sad and really angry (which apparently leads to a great workout on the treadmill and a very tidy kitchen!) to be so unpredictable in my moods. I HATE THIS ILLNESS!!!

Today made me feel like the kids pretty much are afraid of me and don't like me. I kind of always thought I was a popular teacher... I'm sure I'm reading way, way too much into this short conversation, but it's one of those that will stick in the back of my mind (and stomach) for a while.

Sad Georgie.

The Breakfast Club


You see us as you want to see the simplest terms and the most convenient definitions. You see us as a brain, an athlete, a basket case, a princess and a criminal. Correct? That's the way we saw each other at seven o'clock this morning.

We were brainwashed.
(Source: Movie Script)

While on Floor 6 I was fortunate to meet some pretty interesting individuals... interesting, indeed. There were actually a few I hope to keep in touch with, and we dubbed ourselves The Breakfast Club. We did all of our hanging out together; helped each other through group, ate our meals together; even had some nice, touching conversations a la the movie. LOL! And when one of the particularly nutty guys started going off about "having a car and keys but not necessarily being able to drive" (for e-i-g-h-t minutes) in response to a "yes" or "no" question and then farted without missing a beat... well we did what any supportive Breakfast Club would do: We laughed our asses off and left the room to pee our pants. (Maybe all of us were the princesses, including our kind gentleman? Doubtful.)

There were two particularly entertaining gentleman (oh, hell, I can't use that word for them), guys, there. One had a name that made me think of a song (#5) everytime I saw him... which was too often, as he seems to be one who is unable to sit in one place for very long. I swear he, and I'll just call him ADHD, was CONSTANTLY on the move. If he sat for more than a minute he'd get all fidgety and have to throw a shoe across the room or something (actually did that a few times). He totally is the reason for that motivational speaker persona Chris Farley used to do... I'm pretty sure that ADHD actually does live in a van down by the river. (Not that he wouldn't have a home to go to, he's just proud and ill. I'm a bitch, but even I can recognize a sad story.)

The other, was a guy who is pretty sure that he's the son-in-law of a millionaire as well as a distinguished diamond expert. Didn't we know who he was??? (No.) Of course, the scabbed-over sores and greasy, long, thinning mullet kind of suggested otherwise. Oh, and the calls to "Mother, honey," to ask for rent money, but who were we: a brain, an athlete, a basket case, a princess and a criminal to ask?

Tuesday, December 07, 2004

Floor 6


That's where I found myself on this past Thursday evening. Not the looney bin (my favorite is where it refers to a fool as a "windbag, empty-headed person!"), or the insane asylum, because those are bad feeling words. Shhh. We don't want anyone to know that this is really where the crazy as shit people are.

My husband was told a couple of times to refer to it as "Floor 6" when he called for the "Psych Ward" over the weekend. Hee. I like his honesty, frankly. I mean, I was, after all, in the psychiatric part of a hospital locked into a section where they checked on me every fifteen minutes. Sometimes (I swear) while they were looking at me, they'd look at me a little bit wider and say, "Georgie, are you here? Just checking." Because you never know, I might have just slipped away while they were looking.

The following is what I wrote while there:

Floor 6

So, here I am. Again. Only this time it's under construction. And I have a roommate. Who snores. A roommate who snores. Who SNORES. Through a sleeping pill (two of them, actually) I woke up. Often. She doesn't seem that thrilled to be here (on Floor 6) either.

And did I mention the construction? Last time I was here (yes, last time) there was no construction and didn't really seem to have a need for any. The construction is a constant theme in the conversation here: "I'd like to go grab a book for you, but the c (we're just going to call it the "c" to save space)...." "How do I get to the ______ now? The c made it so I can't get there." Oh my fucking god, people. I am so tired of hearing about it!

You know what? Even though we are loonies, we can actually see the c. There's no need to mention it to us every 10-15 seconds like we can't see it. We just naturally assume that when there are power tools in use and there's DRILLING and BANGING--well, it certainly must be patient related. Wha??? No??? It's something else? What is this c that you speak of?

And manners. Sheeeeeesh. I'm crazy, therefore I can leave my shit all over the place and be loud and rude. Because I'm nuts. Give me a fucking break! I did more picking up on Floor 6 than I do at home (sorry George, it's true).

But the kicker, the sweet mother of treats is the six inch phone cord. Bwahahaha. Because you just never know.

So I'm currently in the hall journaling because I couldn't take the noise of the people in the other room. (Uh-oh, now I'm a crazy, loner. But I'm not planning anything, I swear, John Ashcroft's replacement!) A kind non-nurse worker, I have no idea what they're called but they run our group meetings (ay-ay-ay, a post for another day), was concerned that I was sitting by myself in the hall journaling in the relative quiet. You know, because we wouldn't want reflection or anything like that when we go to the psy--Floor 6! I responded by telling her that, "I'm not a really a noise person." This concerned the kindly woman a great deal and she put on her kindest, "oh, you poor lady who's lost her marbles" face and said, "Now you do know there's construction going on?"


Thursday, December 02, 2004

I'm not gonna get dooced, dammit.


George (aka Mr. Popplewell, aka Craig) didn't like the previous post where I talked about what an asshole I was at work yesterday. He thinks I'm going to get dooced.

I really take issue with this. I mean, I want to write about my life and work is part of my life. Now, I'm not going to gripe that "Jack" did "_______" and "I'm so ______." But if it's a self-deprecating tale (my best variety) and it happens to have occurred at work, I want to share it with you, all seven or eight of you who actually might read this.

Those of you who know me well know that I CANNOT separate my work from my identity--it is so much a part of who I am. God dammit I'm pissed that George Popplewell thinks that I don't have the common sense to keep the style and topic to something that would keep me out of trouble.

Then again... George knows me pretty damn well.

Still... it stays. So there. Stick that in your grandpa's pipe and smoke it! Jackass. (But you're my jackass. Unless you don't change the last item on the "Favorites" menu. Then you are most definitely someone else's jackass.)

... and sometimes you're the hydrant.


Luckily (?) I was raised to always stand up for what I believe in... whether or not it's right. Apparently even when I should be right, there's the slightest chance that an opposing viewpoint may be the better or perchance (hee, I used "perchance") the correct viewpoint.

>>insert eye roll here<<

To say that I had my ass handed to me at school today would be slightly overstating it, but it sounds better than just saying that I got a talking to by the principal. Apparently he doesn't care to have letters such as ACLU thrown around willy nilly (silly. Too bad his name isn't Billy.). I saw what I thought was a constitutional violation and felt it was my duty (as savior of the world/comma-splice queen) to point it out. Well... heh... turns out I have a big, loud mouth, there was not a violation of any sort, and now my principal knows me for the trouble-making pain in the ass that I am.

All in all I would say this was a great fucking day.