Confessions of a secret choch-a-holic

I have a confession.  Most of you know, I am not a huge chocolate fan.  I don’t eat a lot of it, and I don’t have the cravings for it that women get.  There is an exception to this (as with all of my rules).  There is one time a year, that I eat chocolate.  Valentine’s Day.  Please understand, I don’t just eat any chocolate, I eat a certain kind of chocolate (and the freak comes out).  The only time I can get this certain kind is Valentine’s Day.  And the only place I can get this certain kind is in a very specific box.  This box.

Understand, this isn’t just any kiddy box.  This is a very specific kiddy box.  They have small ones and they have big ones.  To be sure I have the right box, I flip it over and make sure the picture is on the back.  

Now that you are fully comprehending my madness, I will explain even more.  There are only TWO of the FIVE candies that I will eat out of this box.  The rest are tossed (or if Little Man is standing around, he eats them).  

See the two that look similar, with the stripes?  Those are the diamonds in the rough.  One of them holds a strawberry cream, and the other holds a sherbet cream.  Both, equally special.  

I wait all year for these little boxes to come out.  When they do?  I stock up.  After Valentine’s Day, I stock up again (half price).  This is the only time of the year that I splurge and eat candy like no other.  I have searched for these candies other times of the year, even gone into chocolate stores searching for these magical treats.  I always come out empty handed with an upside smile.  It’s okay though.  Because when a freak stocks up....

A freak stocks up.  But don’t ask to have one, or even try one because

1. I don’t share 
2. I don’t eat after people, so once you bite into it...it is dead to me
3. I.  DON’T.  SHARE.

Potty Fist

Wanna hear something that drives me crazy?  

Instead of asking to go to the bathroom, students do this.  All.  Day.  Long.  I will be talking to a student about something they are working on, and another student will shove their little potty fist in my face and wave it back and forth.  I cringe and nod my head, as they run off to the bathroom.  I don’t know why this bothers me so much.  I think I would rather them ask, “Mrs. J, can I go to the bathroom?”  There is something so vulgar about them throwing their dirty little fists in the air and shaking it at me.  

I am not sure why the teachers have the students do this, but it drives me nuts.  Even writing about it makes my blood pressure go up.  I was telling Little Man about this annoying signal and he was listening intently, asking tons of questions.  He always asks me how my day goes and is always fascinated about the stories I bring home.  Later, that day, he was outside playing with Molly (puppy-love).

I went out and watched for a bit, and then came back inside.  When I came back inside, I locked the door behind me, out of habit.  Fifteen minutes later, I am sitting in the Chief’s office talking to him and we hear a knock at the back door.  I turn and there is the Little Man, locked out.  As we sat there and debated about how long to make him wait, the Chief said, “What is he doing?”  I turn and look again and the little shit....HAS.  HIS.  STUPID.  LITTLE.  POTTY.  FIST.  IN.  THE.  AIR...waving it at me.  

An hour later, we let him in.

Hole in One

I was flipping through old pictures the other day and came across this one:

I want to say first, I am not an avid golfer.  I am not even good.  But this day, I was THE BEST.  So when we lived in Texas, we were members of the golf course across the street from our house.  In the summer we went golfing all the time.  I never liked going just the two of us, because we would always get paired with two strangers, always men.  It is extremely intimidating golfing in front of men.  I feel like they are thinking, good lord, just hit the damn ball so we can go onto the next hole.  Its hard enough to make contact with the ball when you are on your own, add three men watching?  Unfathomable.  So we go from hole to hole, hitting, chasing, hitting, chasing.  We get to hole seven.  This is a really short hole, that goes over the pond.  

It's hard to see where I actually teed off, but it was at the very top of the picture, under the pool.  

By the time the Chief and the two guys with us had made their shots, the pair of men that were golfing behind us had caught up.  They told me to go ahead and hit the ball and we were going to let them play through us.  So now, not only is the Chief watching me, but the two guys we were with are standing there, AND the two guys that had caught up were there too.  So NOW here I am trying to hit a ball with four strangers and the Chief watching.  No pressure.  I grabbed my driver, reminder I am not that good, so the club I love the most is my driver.  Any good woman player would have used a 7 iron.  If you know anything about golf, that should tell you how NOT good I am.  I am terrified as I walk up to my ball.  Please don’t hit the houses to the left.  Please don’t go in the water.  As far as the ducks laying in middle of the fairway?  Go ahead, that would be better than the other two options.  Here goes.  I swing.  Beautiful swing.  Happy it didn’t land in the water, or through the window of the nearby house, I bend down and pick up my tee, as one of the guys say, “Ummm, that went in the hole.”  

I turn to him and laugh, “Trust me, I suck.  It didn’t go in.”

The other guy says, “Holy shit, that chick just got a hole in one.”

The Chief turns to me and said, “Go check, babe.”  

As I walk to the cart laughing, I yell back, “Guys, it DEFINITELY didn’t go in.”  

They all just stand there until I drive up to the hole.  I get out of the cart, walk onto the green and over to the hole.  I stand over the hole, remove the pole, and see MY.  BALL.  SMILING.  UP.  AT.  ME.  As I bend down to grab my ball, I can hear the men screaming and cheering.  I turn to them and jump up and down with my ball in my hand.  I am facing five men yelling and cheering.  I think they were more excited then I was.  When they got over to the green, they congratulated me saying they had never before witnessed a hole in one.  

The rest of the 18 holes?  I sat in the cart and called everyone I knew to tell them about my amazing accomplish aka my lucky shot.  No way was I going to play anymore golf.  You can’t outdo a perfect shot.  

Good times.

Aunt Judy

One of my favorite places to go is my Aunt Judy’s farm.  Ever since I was a little girl, we would take trips to Aunt Judy’s house.  We would get in the car, and drive for 14 hours.  I would patiently take potty breaks, and food breaks with the anticipation of turning down that long rocky driveway.  When I knew we were within miles, I would close my eyes and wait.  Then I would feel it.  My body would start the rock-jiggle.  I would feel those tiny white rocks toss and turn underneath the tires of my dad’s truck.  My heart would pound with excitement.  Then the truck would come to a stop, and the fun would begin. 

One of my favorite pictures of Aunt Judy holding me next to my momma...

There were so many things to do at Aunt Judy’s farm.  She had cows, chickens, geese, kittens, and turkeys.  Being a city girl, just being on the farm was better than any amusement park.  I remember waking up to an open window and the chirping of chickens.  The smells, that some may think are terrible, are absolutely exhilarating and refreshing to me.  I would wake up to a homemade breakfast of champions.  My Aunt Judy can cook.  Not only that, she makes the best hot chocolate with breakfast.  I don’t know what she does different then what I do at home, but I can never duplicate it.  Her eggs are cooked to perfection.  I just come out and sit at the kitchen table where she says, “What would you like?”  It doesn’t get better than that.  

As a little girl, I would beg her to let me collect the eggs from the chicken coop.  She would follow me in, let me make an attempt, knowing I was too fearful to reach under the swollen bellies of the chickens that remained guarding their possessions.  I would walk out of that coop, proud of the few that I collected (that were abandoned), knowing in the next few days I would be eating those for breakfast.  I went back to Aunt Judy’s farm a couple years ago and went to collect the eggs.  The excitement doesn’t fade.  I walked in there (by myself this time), and stared down those chickens guarding their most prize possessions.  I can do this, I tell myself.  I would go and reach and the chicken would move.  I would jerk my hand back in fear of getting a little peck.  I would curse myself, what are you, a sissy?  You can do this, it’s just a silly little chicken.  The worst thing the little guy will do is peck me on the hand.  I can take a little peck.  Just do it.  DO IT.  I would reach again.  That little shit would give me the stink eye and bark at me.  Did you know chickens bark?  Well, maybe they all don’t, but indignant ones do.  I would jerk my hand back again.  Don’t show fear.  Don’t let them know I am scared of them.  I can do this.  I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.  I would reach again, and the little creature would stand and bark, this time thrusting her neck forward at me.   I could read it in her eyes, she wanted to rip my hand off.  She would rip my hand off.  I can’t be scared of a stupid little bird!  Come on, put on your big girl panties!  Do it!  I would reach one more time.  Again, the stink eye.  Screw it, it isn’t worth losing a hand over.  I am meant to be a city girl.  

Another fading memory I have of Aunt Judy’s farm is underneath her couch, she would have this smurf thing.  Remember the smurfs?  I loved the smurfs.  Under her couch she had this box.  This is so hard to describe because I don’t think they even make these anymore.  They were like plastic people that stuck to this board.  So I could dress them, and stick there clothes on and make my own little picture.  Then if I wanted to start over, I could remove the stickers and reuse them.  I loved that little smurf game.  It wasn’t even a game.  You played with it on your own and built your own little world.  

I talk about Aunt Judy like she is single.  She isn’t.  Aunt Judy is an amazing wife.  I don’t know any woman that takes care of her husband better than Aunt Judy takes care of Uncle Howard.  They have been together so long, that she completes him.  He sits, she makes his breakfast.  There doesn’t need to be conversation about what he wants, because she knows.  My Uncle Howard would take me out on the four wheeler when I was little.  City girls don’t have four wheelers.  Uncle Howard would even let me sit in front and drive.  We would go through the fields, and I would feel like we were flying.  One time at band camp, Uncle Howard was letting me drive and I made a sharp turn causing the four wheeler to tip over.  Uncle Howard is a very calm man.  I don’t remember him ever raising his voice at my carelessness.  He just made sure I was okay, he put us both back up on it, and we rode home.  I remember his head was bleeding.  To this day, I think he still has a scar from our accident.  Little did I know this was the first of many accidents I would have in a motor vehicle.  My older cousin Na-Na would also take us out on the four wheeler.  When I went with him, I was no longer the driver, but the passenger.  I remember he would go flying down the long driveway and make me think he was going to go off the edge.  I would desperately cling to him, praying I didn’t die.  I remember being so petrified, but desperately wanting to act tough.  Those days were so much fun.

My favorite part of Aunt Judy’s Farm was the kittens.  I would sneak to the barn in search for the kittens.  There were always kittens to play with.  ALWAYS.  We would find them and hold them all day long.  Mom would reprimand us telling us we had to put them down or their eyes were going to swell shut.  Where else can you play with an endless amount of cuddly kittens?  

As an adult, I still love my Aunt Judy’s farm.  Not only the farm, I adore my Aunt Judy.  Maybe because over the years of my childhood, I saw her more than any other Aunt, or maybe it is just because she is who she is.  She is patient.  She is kind.  Her heart is so simple.  Things are simple when I am with her.  Not only is this woman simple but she isn’t afraid to get her hands dirty.  She could kill and pluck a chicken blindfolded.  She has a beautiful garden that she puts time and work into.  She drives a damn tractor!  She is no pansy.  Aunt Judy is like a farm girl version of GI Jane!  

I remember when I was about 11, I got my tonsils taken out.  My Aunt Judy sent me the coolest card.  Each flap held a little puzzle.  I still have that card.  I was so excited that she sent it to me.  I remember feeling so special that someone so far away had thought of me.  It is odd to me that I don’t forget things like that, but as far as what I ate for breakfast...I’m clueless.  I love my Aunt Judy.  I love her home, and the life that surrounds her.  This is the only extended family I keep in contact with.  When I have questions like, “Which came first, the egg or the hen?”  I call my Aunt Judy.  Other questions only Aunt Judy can answer:

Do brown chickens only lay brown eggs?

What is it called when you pull those tassel things off the top of the corn?  And why do they do it?

Is the corn that you grow in the fields corn that you eat, or corn that you use to feed the animals? 

Why do chickens still move after you chop off their heads? 

What’s the white stuff on top of chicken poop?

Over the years I have also become close to my favorite cousin (her daughter).  I call her and just chat about life.  She gives me advice, and we laugh together.  She is like a long-distance sister.  Love her!  

I wasn’t fortunate enough to be raised around family other than my sister and parents.  I have wonderful memories that surround my Aunt Judy and her family, and our long trips to Iowa.  A piece of my heart will always stay in Iowa, where memories swarm of cornfields and kittens...and a wonderful Aunt.   

                              

New London High

Another day at New London High School.  After doing weeks of teaching little ones (first through sixth), I was excited to get a little break and go back to the older ones. 

Little break my butt.

What was I thinking?  I’ll tell you what I was thinking.  I was thinking I would finally get to go into a classroom where I don’t have to tell a kid to get a kleenex.  I was thinking I would get into a classroom where I didn’t have to use phrases like:

Friends, I will wait until everyone is quiet before I move on....

Friends, line up so we can go to recess...

Snack time, Friends!  Group one may quietly go grab their snack and have a seat at their desk....

Friends, lets gather on the carpet for story time...

1-2-3 eyes on me (kids respond with: 1-2 eyes on you)...

Criss-Cross Applesauce, Michael....

No touching please, Jamie.  Remember, Friends, keep your hands to yourselves...

Hands down, Friends.  Give Kristen a minute to think.  

No No No, I wanted a break from that insanity.  Instead, I wanted to step into a classroom where no one is my friend.  No one wants to be my friend.  No one even wants to be nice to me. I wanted to step into a universe where students don’t acknowledge my presence.  Students don’t ask me to go potty, they simply get up and walk out, with me yelling behind them pleading with them to tell me where they are going.  Instead, I wanted to walk into halls where kids are leaning against each other, dry humping against the lockers.  I wanted to walk into a world where cell phones are a distraction, even though students aren’t supposed to have them.  Instead I want to walk into a place where children tower over my 5’7 small-framed build.  I chose to go to a place where they don’t use words like “friends”, “please”, and “thank you”...instead they use profanity.  Sweet, Lord.  What was I thinking?

Instead of precious angels telling me how pretty I am, and how I am their FAVORITE substitute, I walk into a classroom where my morning greeting is, “I am not doing this shit work.”  Welcome to the world of high schoolers, or maybe the word demons is more appropriate. 

I want to start off by saying, even though this school is in “the hood”, I was teaching AP English for the day.  So I get the best of “the hood”.  First and second period went well.  The students came in, I gave them a long poem by Whitley to read.  Then they were to answer the prompt afterwards.  The students sat quietly, and did the work.  I let them all know they were to turn in the work by the end of class.  So five till, students came to me and stapled their two page papers, and handed off their work.  Simple right?  Third period.  Seventeen seniors.  I begin the same shpeel I have given to the two prior classes.  I walk around and hand out the poem.  I have two female students who immediately shove their poems into their bags.  I ignore it and have a seat at my desk.  The majority of the class immediately gets to work.  My two trouble-makers decide they are going to chat.  I decide to give them three minutes before I say anything.  One minute goes by.  Two minutes goes by.  By the end of two minutes they are talking so loud that they have involved the gentleman next to them (who is sadly, no longer working).  I say, “Guys, let’s get to work, this is due by the end of class.”  One female doesn’t even pause in her sentence.  She finishes it, and then starts a new one.  I say a silent prayer, Dear Lord, please don’t let any of them have guns today.  I stand up and say loudly, “Are you kidding me right now?”  This has not only made her stop talking, but has made the whole class meet my gaze at her.  Inside my body is trembling because this confrontation is actually terrifying.  The reason I am terrified?  

1. I am 5’7 and 128 pounds.  ALL of these kids have 50-200 pounds on me.  
2. I am wearing a long skirt with a cute grandma sweater (wishing I could take back my New Year’s Resolution of “no longer shopping in the teen section” of Kohls, but now the adult women’s section...aka old lady section).
3. I have a small bow in my hair (now cursing myself for trying to look “cute” instead of tough...why the heck didn’t I wear my combat boots today?).
4. Let's face it.  I am no GI Jane, I am more like a Mary Poppins.

After my bark, I knew I had no choice but to follow it with a bite.  Let’s go back to all eyes on me.  The female talking, rolls her eyes and looks over at me like I have rudely interrupted an important conversation.  I repeat myself.  “I said it is time to stop talking and get to work...this is due at the end of class.”  She stares at me.  I’m thinking in my head, You wanna piece of me?  You wanna take this on?  Bring it BEEYACH!  Just kidding, I am really thinking of an escape route just in case she stands up.  I slowly sit down, happy for standing up for myself and not getting walked all over.  My head gets just a little bigger as I cower in my seat.  She stays quiet.  For.  One.  Whole.  Minute.  Then she is right back at it.  I put my big girl panties on, walk across the classroom to the phone and call the front office (a number I have memorized subbing in this school).  “I need you to send someone to my class to escort a few students out.”  As I hang up the phone I hear a student ask another student if I just called the front office.  I walk over to my desk and sit down.  About a minute later, my door swings open.  Instead of the 300 pound security officer that helped me out last time, I get a shmuck wearing a tie.  

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“Yes, these three students are not only refusing to work, but they are talking so loudly that it is hard for the other students to do their work.”  As I say this I am walking behind one of the female students I am having a problem with.  She stands up, puts her face about three inches away from mine and screams:

"I KNOW YOU AIN’T TALKING ABOUT ME TALKING WHEN THE REST OF THE CLASS IS TALKING, B----!"

I take a step back and put my hand up.  “You need to have a seat.  You are not going to speak to me that way.”  I turn and look at mamby-pamby who is standing there.  He immediately turns to the three students and tells them to go in the hallway.  I head back to my desk noticing the students left their stuff in the classroom.  

Three minutes later, my door opens and the three students saunter back in the class.  I stare at them wondering why they have come back.  Last time I called security, they took the student away.  There was no re-entry of the classroom.  

They sit down and immediately start chatting up again.  This time, they are twice as loud and they are sure to involve twice as many students in their conversation.  I look at the clock and realize I have 23 more minutes of this.  I am stumped.  I am not sure what to do at this point.  I called the office and they were “talked to” in the hall by mamby-pamby.  Lotta good that did.  Now I am angry.  My hands are shaking.  The longer I sit the more angry I get.  Not only did the Jack Wagon with the tie not help the situation, but he made it worse.  Do I call the office again?  Do I tell them to leave?  Instead I sit there and stew in anger for 23 long minutes.  The second the bell rings I walk over to the phone and dial the office again.  I ask the office lady who they sent to my classroom.  She told me Mr. E.  I hung up with her and turned to my new classroom full of 7 students (smallest class of the day) and asked them where Mr. E’s office was.  One of the students told me he was standing in the hallway.  As the bell rang, I swung open the door to find him standing outside my door.  He immediately saw me and walked over.  I asked him to hang on for a second because I needed to talk to him.  I peeked my head back into the class, told them to get started on the assignment she left.  I then stepped back out in the hall, and closed the door behind me.  

Lucky for me, this guy is about my height.  He is also a shmuck in a tie (probably also boughten in the “old man section” of Kohls).  I then proceed to tear him a new one.  This is no exaggeration.  I am angry.  I am so angry the vein in the side of my head is beginning to make an appearance.  I have already told myself that if they tell me to leave, I will happily.  I have also already told myself if they tell me I am no longer welcome in their school, my only response will be, “THANK YOU, JESUS!”  At this point I don’t care.  I am here standing in front of a red-headed, mamby-pamby that I guarantee you was the last one picked at dodgeball in middle school.  I have had enough.  I have sat for 23 minutes and listened to three students mock me.  I am done.  Here is how my end of the conversation goes...

What you did about 25 minutes ago?  Yeah, that was completely useless.  If that is how you show support to substitutes, you need to find a new way.  Not only did you waste my time, but you wasted the last 23 minutes of class for the rest of the students.  Those students that you supposedly read the “right act” to, laughed at you when they came into the classroom.  They also made sure to “show me” by talking twice as loud as they were before.  You ruined the rest of my class period.  You were worthless to me.  When I called to have students escorted out, I thought you were actually going to escort them out.  

He is standing there staring at me, dumbfounded....and probably a little shocked.  He opens his mouth to speak, and then decides it’s probably better to wait until I have told him he can speak.  I continue...

So I just wanted to make sure that you are fully aware that your “assistance attempt” sucked.  Completely sucked.  Okay?

I can see that I have frightened this little leprechaun.  I have completely pulled the chair out from under him.  He is drowning.  Look who wants to crawl under the desk now?  He slowly says, “I am so sorry.  I had no idea.  I thought they would come back and work quietly.”  

“Really?  Is this your first day in this gangster high school?  You really thought they were  going to come back in peacefully and miraculously start doing their work?”  

“Well, I talked to them and they said they were going to go in quietly and do what the teacher left them to do.”  

“Funny that you thought that would work.  These kids don’t do anything you tell them to...I would think by now you would know that.  But whatever.”  

“Well, if you want, you can write them up and I will assign them a Saturday detention.”

“Really?  I would LOVE that.”

“I will bring you two referrals later today.”

“Okay, thanks.”  

He later brings me those referrals and apologizes profusely about how he failed me.  He also informed me he has never been yelled at by a substitute.  I started to apologize and he said it wasn’t necessary and that it was completely deserved.  As he left the room, I am thinking to myself, this is the guy that the administration chooses to enforce the rules??  He cowered at my presence!  Imagine what high schoolers do to him!  

What I should have said to the mamby-pamby, was, “You should consider switching to preschoolers.  You might be able to frighten the few that are shorter than you.”   

Daily Visitors

Viewer discretion is advised

I’m going to talk about a topic that some consider a little “taboo”.  I’m just going to lay it out there and tell it like it is.  I am sick of tiptoeing around this silly little subject.  Enough is enough.

Why is it that men can poop like clockwork, and women can’t?  The Blond BFF and the Brunette BFF, I KNOW are with me on this.  I don’t get it!  Men get up, sit on the pot for 45 minutes, drop the Browns off at the Super Bowl go about there morning, visiting the commode again after lunch to drop off a stinkpickle, then again by unleashing the chocolate terrorists after dinner.  Seriously, three times a day?  Are you kidding me?  I can’t remember the last time I took a daily doodie, much less three times in a day.  One other thing, why the hell does it take so long?  When I do go, I get in there and get out.  Minute thirty tops.  Why do they go in with a magazine and then come out 45 minutes later with loose pants, deadly fumes, and a stupid smile across their face?!?  I’m sorry, but I don’t have any desire to sit in my own pew and read.  

And the comments that come out of the mouths of babes, or er men...

“That was a three pounder...”

“Double-flusher”

“Don’t go in there for about forty...forty-five minutes...”

“That one was so big, it deserves a name!”

Why?  Why do you need to talk about it?  I don’t need to hear about what you did in there.  I don’t need a description.  I don’t need to hear gloating about what you can do that I can’t.  Don’t rub it in.  Just do your deed and get out.  

I will also throw in there, it doesn’t matter how old.  This starts early.  Clockwork.  Little Man, from the age of six, would come home from school, sit on the potty and do a little stinky turd.  Know what the first thing he does when he comes home from school at the age of 12?    

I have tried many different ways to have at least a daily stinker, and I get nothing.  I have tried drinking 84 gallons of water a day.  I have tried eating an apple every day.  I have tried eating foods with high fiber.  I have even tried adding a spoonful of Metamucil to my morning orange juice.  The worst thing I have ever tried (thanks to the Brunette BFF) was this:

Women if you haven’t tried this, I have three words for you.

Oh hells, no.    

Don’t do it.  Don’t even THINK about doing it. You know what these should be called?  GAS bars.  The only things these stupid little tasty treats do, is make you fart...A LOT.  The ONLY good thing I got out of these bars, is FINALLY I am able to make the Chief put his shirt over HIS face (instead of the other way around).

While we are on this topic... What is the fascination with farting in boys?  I understand we all have to do this.  It is a normal thing...like pooping.  What I don’t understand is why we think, or men think, it is so stinking funny (no punt intended).  As a child, I remember my mom telling other women how my dad did it and then forced the covers up over her head so she had no choice but to take a breath.  I also remember, from a very young age, my dad doing it and then chuckling afterwards.  If it was a place that was inappropriate, he would simply let it slide out.  Instead of bursting out in laughter, he would do the silent laughter.  The one where you knew he did a bad one because his whole body was trembling with his skill of “silent laughter”.  If we were in a store, and I was walking next to him, he would let one out and then turn to me and yell my name out.  Onlookers would turn and stare at me with disgust.  Now 20 years later, I have a husband and son, that do the same thing.  What is so funny about farting?  I don’t think a man is capable of passing gas without following it with laughter.  They are so proud, as if they have accomplished curing cancer.

Well, I feel better.  Glad I got this out on the table.  I don’t have daily doodies.  The Chief; however, has enough for the both of us.  Lucky bastard.  


Saw the below video the other day and had to add it to this blog...  No comment.