Underwear Should Not Be Optional

It's Theme Thursday everybody--and the first Theme Thursday I've been able to participate in for awhile because of the whole "three jobs" issue. In any case, Theme Thursday is sponsored by Jenn at Something Clever 2.0   and features a group of my favorite bloggers who all write on the same theme. This week's theme is advice. And since I've already used my best dating advice here, I thought I'd do another blast from the past.

As most of you know, I used to teach high school in St. Louis. And when I was there, I somehow ended up in charge of the "at-risk" kids from the inner city. In all honesty, it was the toughest job of my life--and the most rewarding. But, I jumped into it without knowing all the details. Like the fact that being in charge of this group also somehow put me in charge of the annual talent show.

Yes, I agree, the connection between troubled students and talent shows seems tenuous and odd. Which is why my advice is: If you are asked to sponsor the annual high school talent show--whether you're working with at-risk kids or not at-risk kids, basically if there are kids involved--RUN in the opposite direction, shrieking NO!!!!! at the top of your lungs.

Because it’s Hell.

Seriously.

In fact, I’m somewhat convinced it’s worse than Hell. So, if ever you find yourself standing before the judgment throne of the Lord God Almighty and He gives you a choice between the fiery pits of Hell and sponsoring the Talent Show, CHOOSE HELL!!!!!!

Trust me, it will be a lot less painful.

Here’s a look at the show the year before I moved to Okahoma:

The day started with a little activity I like to call “censorship.” This is when I review all the music that we’re using in the show and make sure it’s school appropriate. You see, when you are in charge of an event that is largely run by at risk teens, the administration seems to worry that there will be song lyrics that are a touch vulgar and/or sexual in nature.

It is interesting to note that this same concern was obviously not expressed that same year at the Winter Sports Pep Rally when the basketball team boogied out to center court to “She Does It Like A Nympho.” Oddly, my inquiries to the principals about this discrepancy were never answered.

But I digress!

Anyway, first thing in the morning, I headed to the theater to review the lyrics...which means some of you are wondering why I would wait to the last minute to begin such an activity.

You, clearly, have never sponsored a talent show.

The thing is teenagers can be crafty.  Sometimes the songs that kids try out to and the songs they bring to dress rehearsal are not always the songs that make it to the theater on the day of the show. So, I reviewed them several times throughout the whole talent show process.

So, I listened to the music while a couple of girls from my group put up last minute decorations. Unfortunately, I was interrupted by the sight of 3 students from my first hour class who were meandering through the theater to see what was going on.

“You guys are supposed to be in class!” I told them.

“Don’t worry,” they assured me. “We have a sub.”

Which is when I screamed “You’re supposed to be in MY CLASS!”

“We have a SUB,” they said, like I didn’t hear them the first time.

Which, oddly, I already knew since I ordered the sub so I could ORGANIZE THE TALENT SHOW.

And I was just about done screaming horrible threats at them when another group of kids from the group wandered in. These little pumpkins weren’t actually supposed to be in MY class, but they were supposed to be IN CLASS so I cheerfully added them to the rant, waving my hands in the air, making ridiculous threats, and barring them from my sight for the rest of the day.

Then I grabbed one of my girls, this enormous and incredibly tough chick I’ll call Kiki and put her in charge of the door. “Do not let another kid in here,” I told her. “And if anyone shows up, tell them to GO BACK TO CLASS!”

Kiki took to this responsibility with the dedication of one of those guards at Buckingham Palace, marching back and forth in front of the door, and shooting angry glares at anyone in a six feet radius. As I was off to the side, listening to the song lyrics, I could hear Kiki in the background, yelling threats that were much more inappropriate than mine and telling various people to “Gitcher ass bacta class.”

I probably should have stopped her but you know what?

It made me happy.

Right until the horrible moment when this incredibly young looking student teacher tried to get into the theater to ask me a question.

Apparently her education classes had not prepared her for an encounter with Kiki.

Nor had they prepared her for my giggling reaction to the whole mess…I think she wanted me to expel Kiki on the spot or at the very least send her to In School Suspension but I couldn’t stop laughing.

I mean, I made Kiki apologize and I apologized and I even took responsibility for the entire misunderstanding.

But I was laughing so hard I could hardly get the words out.

Stress. It’s a weird thing.

In any case, in spite of the fact that I was pretty sure I’d be getting an angry call from this girl’s mentoring teacher and maybe even her mom, I couldn’t reflect on her angst for long because it was 30 minutes to show time and I had to confront 2 of my little darlings about their last minute song switches.

“Destiny,” I said, cornering one of the performers. “This isn’t the song you brought to dress rehearsal.”

“I changed it,” she agreed.

“Change it back,” I said. “Because there is no chance you’re getting on stage and dancing to a song called I GET IT IN.”

“Come on,” she said in that you’re such an idiot tone that only high school girls can do really well, “It’s not dirty, it’s about dancing in a club.”

“I listened to it,” I responded in that don’t screw with me tone that teachers need to do really well. “And it’s about what some nasty people think about doing after they leave the club.”

But I am not an unreasonable woman. I told her that if she could actually explain to me what the word “it” referred to in a way that didn’t make me want to shower, she could dance her little heart out.

She decided to change the song back.

And you know what?

That wasn’t the most disturbing song conversation of the whole day. The most disturbing conversation involved a song called “Stanky Leg.” I think the fact that the song is performed by a group called the G SPOT BOYS should have been enough to convince the kids that it wasn’t, perhaps, school appropriate but teenagers are not always deep thinkers. Instead we had to go into a long horrifying discussion about what a “stanky leg” actually is.

For those of you who don’t know (and I hope that’s MOST of you) let me just say it involves women who have a lot of sex.

And if you think that’s revolting, imagine discussing that fact with a 17 year old boy.

Yep, I loved that job.

Anyway, once we got the show underway, things were a little smoother…right until the formerly Stanky Leg dancers got on stage and I realized I made one of the classic blunders: I didn’t check their costume from all angles.

I also checked all costumes before the show… a lesson I learned during dress rehearsal when one group of guys ran onto the stage in short lycra running tights, no shirts, and open leather jackets. But I didn’t check the outfits from all angles...or with all moves being performed.

Which means that about three steps into the routine, the audience and I all got a nice long view of butt crack.

Note to self: If I ever sponsor a Talent Show again, underwear will NOT be optional.

However, before I end, I do want to share a really uplifting moment from the show.

We had this one little singer who tried out and was quite good…but he was nervous about performing. A situation heightened by the fact that he’s special and tends to have a little trouble reacting to things in an appropriate fashion.

So he got on stage, started to sing, and totally forgot the words to his song. It was awful…he got all teary-eyed and flustered, until about 5 of my girls started singing the song, to get him back on track…and they sang it with him the rest of his performance.

I’m not going to lie, it choked me up a little.

When he came off stage, he was still upset and was worried that people were laughing at him and Kiki hugged him and said “Who cares? You made the show, the rest of these people were too scared or lame to even try out!”

It was so spontaneously sweet and kind that I wasn’t even that upset when she followed that with “So tell those a**holes to shut the f*** up!”

Although I do wish she hadn’t been so close to the microphone.

 

For other advice, check out the other Theme Thursday posts by clicking the link below:

 

 

For other advice, check out the other Theme Thursday posts by clicking the link:

If This Is The New Math, I Don't Get It

It’s been quite a long time since I’ve posted a “Life In Oklahoma” blog—heck, it’s been awhile since I’ve posted any blog at all—largely because I am currently working not one, not two, but three different jobs.

That’s right, after months of not working at all and then scurrying from one crazy gig to another, I find myself definitively over-employed.

Here’s what happened…the local university offered me another writing class. Since it only meets once a week (albeit for three hours), I agreed.

Then I got a callback on a job application that I turned in months and months ago…for a part time online monitoring job in which I spend hours at a time admiring and then deleting penis drawings and other questionable content from a website geared toward children (you can read all about that here or here). It seemed interesting and I got to work from home so I went for it.

Shortly after signing a 6 month contract with the penis patrol, I got a call from the publishing company that I have subbed at several times over the last year. They had a position open and they could be flexible with the hours but they needed me to start immediately—while I was still under contract for jobs 1 & 2.

“You have to take that job,” Opie said. “First of all, you like it there. Second, you need to actually interact with GROWN UP PEOPLE once in awhile.”

Apparently, he finds it disconcerting when I spend dinner explaining to him all the things the animals and I have talked about during the day. “You know they can’t actually talk, right? RIGHT, KIMBERLY?” he has asked more than once.

And if you think those kind of stories bother him, you should see his reaction when he walks in after a long day of work and I yell things like “You would not believe how many penises I’ve seen today! It’s like penis-palooza!”

So, I signed on with the publishing company and now I’m working 3 jobs. Which is kind of exhausting…but on the bright side, screaming “I have three jobs!” wins a surprising number of arguments before they even start. Like Opie will be all, “Ewww…did you know that the milk expired two weeks ago and has actually become a SOLID?” and I’ll start waving my hands in the air, yelling “Milk? How can I possibly think about milk right now? I have THREE JOBS! How many jobs do you have?!”

And, miraculously, the milk carton just disappears from the house, never to be seen again.

It’s great fun, make no mistake.

As far as the jobs themselves, they’re great too. Teaching college is still not as different from teaching high school as one would expect…as evidenced by the fact that I still have a surprising number of students who don’t realize that COMING to class and DOING THE WORK are necessary components of passing the class.

Like this one girl who sent me an email back in February after missing 3 weeks in a row. I have copied it verbatim below:

“Sorry I was not at class the last few weeks I was not feeling well. I know you don’t want us us to miss any more than one class so what I am really trying to ask is do you want me coming tonight even though I am still feeling sick? You probably don't want me to come. Question what did we do the last weeks and tonight since you probably don't want me to come?”

But she was wrong. I did want her to come, if only because I find it challenging to re-teach 12 hours of class in a single email.

However, that was 4 weeks ago and I haven’t seen her since…until last night. Just in time to get her midterm report.

“This can’t be right,” she said. “This says that I have an EIGHT PERCENT.”

I assumed that she was expecting it to be lower but, no, she was under the impression that after coming to 2 out of 9 classes, turning in 3 ten-point assignments and taking—yet failing—1 quiz that she would at least be passing.

At this point I inquired if she happened to be enrolled in a math class this semester and, if so, how that was going for her?

It is interesting to note that this particular student doesn’t think I am funny AT ALL…Especially when she started asking how many points she needed to get in the next few weeks to pass the class.

“Well,” I said “we have about 1000 total points each semester. We have about 500 left…you have 42 points total…”

I trailed off, thinking she might realize that her Comp ship has already sailed for the semester but she obviously just thought I was too stupid at math to figure it out myself. So she got out a piece of paper and began doing a little computing…”So,” she said thoughtfully. “I need to get 558 points to get a D but 658 points to get a C!”

“We only have about 500 points left,” I reminded her.

“It’s going to be tough,” she agreed. But walked out in a much better mood, presumably coming up with some elaborate MacGyver-like plan to get at least 115% on every assignment we do for the rest of the semester.

Or maybe her plan is based on those strange “imaginary numbers” that I’ve heard about but never really understood.

Either way, I feel a nearly overwhelming urge to look up her Algebra teacher and find out if I’ve missed some groundbreaking new twist in simple computations.

I have a feeling I’ll be seeing her again…



In any case, that’s part one of the latest Life In Oklahoma…but stay tuned, I have a pupdate on Peek, stories of mole murder, and a contest on who is the worst patient coming soon!


kimbo325 is a writer and a teacher (as well as an internet moderator and publishing company worker) laughing her way through life. She’s not too great at math herself but even she knows when to throw in the towel on a failing grade. To read more about her crazy life, tweet with her on Twitter, follow her on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/ItIsInterestingToNote?ref=hl#!/or leave a comment below.

Bad Decisions -- Why Teachers Drink

One time I did something really stupid, I agreed to work 3 different jobs which means I got way, way behind on my blog and my life and all this pent up writing energy  forced me to create a POUS (post of unusual size) for Finish The Sentence Friday.

So, let me start again, today is Finish the Sentence Friday (see the link below) and today’s sentence was “One time I did something really stupid, I—“ and today, I’m going to finish the sentence with a memory…One time I did something really stupid, I agreed to take another teacher’s class on a field trip. I wouldn’t have but the regular teacher thoughtlessly went into labor two days before the trip and I got roped in.   So, bright and early the morning in question, I assembled in the commons with 15 students (only 3 of whom I had ever met) and prepared for a little trip I like to call field trip hell.

HELL LEVEL ONE:

Now, one thing that was emphasized over and over again was the fact that due to liability issues and strict Missouri law, EVERY SINGLE STUDENT HAD TO HAVE A PERMISSION SLIP!

 
So, of course, I only had 14 permission slips. 15 kids, 14 permission slips. When I pointed this out to the girl who had no slip she completely freaked out, yelling that I had the slip, I had to have it. She knew I had it, what kind of crap was I trying to pull? AND WHY WHY WHY DID THIS ALWAYS HAPPEN TO HER???!!!

 Maybe because she was so darn annoying.

Of course I didn’t say that but I did finally ask her if she really thought that I-a complete stranger to her--had hidden her permission slip in some secret plot to sabotage her writing career. She allowed as how that seemed a bit far-fetched and I sent her off to call home and have her mom give verbal permission for the trip to the principal.

HELL LEVEL TWO:

After I finally got the permission slip disaster squared away, disaster two reared its ugly head. No bus. The bus we were supposed to take had not arrived. So I had to go make a few phone calls. And a woman from the district transportation office actually told me to look in the parking lot for a "big yellow automobile" like I DON'T KNOW WHAT A BUS IS FOR THE LOVE OF HEAVEN!!!

If she had been there in person, I swear I would have punched her in the face.

HELL LEVEL THREE:

The bus finally arrived and we loaded up. I did a quick head count. 13 kids. I contemplated suicide as I realized that in the 45 SECOND walk from the commons to the bus, I had managed to misplace 2 kids. The odds of bringing all kids back from a crowded university decreased dramatically. I asked the others where the missing kids were...off getting rubber cement to fix one girl's shoe. I sent 2 students in to retrieve my missing cobblers. Five minutes later, the cobblers reappeared WITHOUT the searchers. They hadn't seen the searchers but they were more than willing to go and search for the searchers. I pictured myself stuck in endless loop of kid-searching and stormed back into the building myself where I found two very surprised searchers standing by the lockers saying goodbye to their boyfriends. I threatened severe bodily harm; we all got on the bus.

HELL LEVEL FOUR:

The bus driver then asked me where we're going. I told her. The bus driver asked if I know how to get there.

Catch that? The BUS DRIVER asked ME how to get there.

I looked at her like she must be kidding. The original sponsor faxed her a map a week earlier. I had no map, I had no clue, I have never visited a world where people depend on me for directions.

Finally she called one of the buses from the other district schools also attending the conference and off we went.

HELL LEVEL FIVE:

After driving the WRONG WAY down a one-way street that was under construction, the bus driver found Washington University and dropped us off in front of a huge building.

The wrong building, as it turns out.

So there I was, with 15 kids, stumbling around carrying a huge box of creative writing folders, and I had NO CLUE where we were supposed to be.

Did I mention that I was not given a map?

The kids and I wandered around campus aimlessly.  They kept looking at me for help and I kept saying nothing.  Finally one of them said “Uhh…Ms. Haugh, you look distracted.”

This was, no doubt, due to the fact that I was silently trying to figure out how many different ways I could use the F-word. It's a verb, it's a noun, it's an adjective, it rhymes with so many things...

But I smiled and pretended like everything was fine.  “Just trying to figure out the shortest route to where we need to be,” I lied.

After wandering for a few more minutes, I saw another huge group of kids. We went over and sure enough, it was our conference!

Much celebrating...until:

HELL LEVEL SIX:

The sponsors from the other schools ran over, tackled me and yanked the box from my arms (ok, that might be a slight exaggeration). Apparently the huge box of folders that I was lugging around contained folders for all four district Schools, who knew? Although that does explain why it weighed about 275 pounds...anyway, the other sponsors grabbed them, passed them out and then gave my kids a schedule of sessions to attend.

The kids immediately started whining about their schedules so I told them to deal with it and switch places with one another if they wanted to.

Which is when the sponsor who handed them the schedules turned into a demon child. She started waving her arms in the air, her head spun around and around, she did the projectile vomiting thing (ok, another exaggeration) and told my kids they can't switch, that she spent hours figuring out who was going where and if they didn't like it tough!

I, meanwhile, was making "it's ok" gestures behind her back and still switching kids like mad.  Because I was pretty sure that, as long as the number of kids in each session didn’t change, a few flip flops didn’t matter.

Clearly, I was wrong.

“I spent a great deal of time arranging this schedule,” she told me furiously.  “You are undermining all my efforts!”

So, I put on my best teacher voice.  “I thought the point of this workshop was to foster the kids’ love of creative writing,” I said. “For that to happen, don’t the kids have to be at the sessions they’re interested in?”

And she looked at me like I was a complete moron.

“Well,” she said in a snotty tone, “the other sponsors and I all think that it’s important to expose the kids to all genres of writing so they can develop a true sense of what they like.”

Since I didn’t organize this conference and I don’t even teach Creative Writing, I’m pretty sure I should have backed down.

But you know what?

She pissed me off.

“Well, I think,” I said, imitating her tone exactly “that forcing a girl who likes to write love poems to sit through the science fiction session is insane.”

“The other sponsors—“

“And,” I said, not letting her finish. “I also think the ‘everyone else is on my side’ argument stopped being relevant in the third grade.”

She didn’t speak to me the rest of the day.

Which means I should have been free to enjoy the conference myself except...

HELL LEVEL SEVEN:

One of the sponsors who was still speaking to me cornered me before the first session and asked me if I was the English teacher from Quincy (my original hometown). I really wanted to know what she'd been hearing before I said yes (I mean, JUST IMAGINE the stories out there) but went ahead and confessed.

The woman practically hugged me because she's from Quincy too, in fact she went to Quincy High School...and she started rattling off a huge list of teachers, asking if I knew each one. It took me a few minutes to realize that she was talking about teachers she HAD not teachers she worked with. Since this woman could be friends with MY GRANDMOTHER, I was immediately offended that she thought I would know these people, especially since she kept saying they were "so old" when she had them.

I began digging in my purse for something sharp to poke her eyes out with but there was nothing in my purse except a Tootsie Roll Pop so I had to content myself that bit of oral gratification.

Then I tried to get away from her but she followed me around the rest of the day...she didn't even sit with her kids at lunch, choosing instead to sit with me and my kids. I wanted to ask her if she thought she was my new girlfriend but didn’t want to offend my only friend at the conference.

A feeling that didn’t last because after lunch she followed me into the next session, whispering questions while the poor presenter was talking. Now, considering there were only about 12 people in the room, I thought it was pretty obvious that she was annoying the shit out of everyone. She was oblivious. So I finally said "Excuse me, but I'm trying to take some notes here." and she apologized and shut up.

Ok, sure, the notes I was taking weren't actually on the presentation, it was pretty much the notes for this story but she didn't know that!

But trust me, I learned my lesson, and I am NEVER taking another class on a field trip!

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These Are Not My Children

Well, after a brief hiatus (darn that whole job thing for getting in the way!), I’m finally ready for another Theme Thursday blog post.  And this week’s topic is OPK—Other People’s Kids.

            And, to be honest, I almost missed this Theme Thursday too. Not because I don’t like the topic but because after years of teaching high school, I have had more than my share of drama with other people’s kids.  I loved teaching and I loved 99% of the kids I dealt with (even those I mentally called ‘loveable thugs’) but I could easily get into a crazy rant about the other 1%...and don’t even get me started on their parents!

So I decided to focus on the other people’s kids that make me happiest…my nieces and nephews.  I have 4 nieces and 2 nephews and I love them beyond reason—even though they’re always getting me in trouble.

Sure, they’re smart, good-looking, and sweet but, make no mistake, they’re trouble—at least for me.  For some reason, every time they spend the weekend with me, I end up getting angry phone calls from my brother.

It all started ten years ago, when my two oldest nieces were two and four.   I kept the girls while my brother and his wife went away for a romantic weekend. I had dozens of activities planned and afterward the four-year-old assured me that I was the “best aunt ever!” Clearly, the weekend was a screaming success.

Unfortunately, my brother didn’t agree. A fact made apparent when the call came a few days later. “Do you have any idea why my two daughters are running around waving their fists in the air yelling ‘It’s go time?’” He demanded, without even saying hello.

“I have no idea,” I replied. “But if I had to guess, I’d say that someone was mouthing off to them and they were forced to stand up for themselves.”

“It’s interesting that you say that,” he crowed triumphantly. “Because when the DAYCARE CALLED TO COMPLAIN, they mentioned that the girls first yell ‘Are you mouthing me?’ and then say ‘It’s go time!’”

Which, of course, made it a lot harder to deny. I had to admit that during our weekend reenactment of TV wrestling, I might have waved my own fist in the air and uttered the offending phrase.

“You have to be careful!” My brother insisted then. “You can’t teach them things like that!”

But, you see, these are not my children.

I love them more than anything else in the world, but I’m not Mom or Dad or even Grandma or Grandpa. I’m not supposed to teach them morals or traditional values. I’m Aunt Kimberly; my only job is to keep my purse filled with candy and gum and teach them things like “go time.”

That weekend I gave them a veritable cornucopia of valuable information. I showed them how to build a tent with blankets in the middle of the living room floor. I demonstrated the best way to roast marshmallows over a huge candle and how to make s’mores out of chocolate chip cookies. Finally I showed them how to burn off the sugar rush of four s’mores by jumping on the trampoline until we were ready to crawl over to our tent and watch movies until three in the morning.

As they’ve grown older, I’ve taught them other equally important life lessons. Like the exact amount of cookie dough they can eat before getting sick. Or how to blow bubbles that are as big as their heads--and almost immediately after that, the best way to get bubble gum out of their hair.

I’ve given them hot pink eye shadow and green lipstick—shades their parents would never approve of—just to show them how ridiculous they look in hot pink eye shadow and green lipstick.

I’ve even taught them the beautiful secret of reading between the lines and decoding “grown up speak.”  See, my personal philosophy is to never say no to them.  Not ever.  These are not my children and it’s not my job to set limits.  So I have two standard answers whenever they ask me to do something.  The simple answer is, of course, yes.  Yes, absolutely you can have chocolate cake for breakfast…or that new doll…or those amazingly tacky zebra stripe boots I bought and only wore once.  Yes, whatever you want my darlings.

But—all evidence to the contrary—I’m not a complete idiot.  Even cool Aunt Kimberly isn’t going to let an eleven year old go bungee jumping at some unlicensed carnival or let a thirteen year old go to a midnight concert in downtown St. Louis by herself.  And that’s when I pull out standard answer number two: Ask your dad.  If he says it’s ok with him, it’s ok with me.

The youngest one figured it out over Christmas break.   I don’t remember exactly what she asked me but it was something crazy, something like if I thought she could dye her hair purple—her favorite color.

“Ask your dad,” I told her.  “If it’s ok with him, then-“
            “That means no,” she said.

Bingo! Lesson learned.

My brother, I’m sure, is irritated by the way I make him be the heavy, make him take all the blame.  And he’d probably be horrified if he knew all the details of our weekends together. After all, he’s the parent not the “best aunt ever!” He’s supposed to make the girls eat their vegetables and go to bed at a reasonable hour.  He has to guide them through life and turn them into responsible, productive, happy, moral members of society. 

 I’m just the aunt and my job is much easier. I get to teach them fun things like how to fill water balloons and do magic tricks.

And, of course, how to deal with someone who’s mouthing them.


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The Second Worst Date Ever

So today I want to talk about a little journey from my single days that I like to call “The Second-Worst Date Ever.”  Second, not first—my friend, Kelly, still holds claim to the worst date ever because of the time she got stuck out in the woods with some creepy guy named Dallas who kept asking her things like “Does it scare you that you don’t know where we are?  Are you scared?  Are you?”  over and over.

However, although Kelly’s horrible date would make a fabulous pre-sentencing report or Lifetime TV special, it is not chock full of the same valuable life lessons as my evening.  For those of you who are still single you might want to take a few notes as you may have inadvertently made a few of these etiquette faux pas.  Married folks, do not despair, I think many of the rules below apply to a myriad of social situations.

1.               Do NOT show up twenty minutes late then order a Jack and Coke before saying hello.

2.               Do NOT, in the first fifteen minutes of conversation, volunteer the information that your FATHER uses TAMPONS in his rectum when his hemorrhoids get especially bad.  (No, I don’t completely remember what led to this comment but that isn’t really the point since THERE IS NO APPROPRIATE TIME TO SEGUE INTO A TAMPON UP THE BUTT DISCUSSION).

3.                Do NOT curse like a sailor in front of your date for the entire evening, dropping no less than 30 f-bombs but apologize to the waitress for cursing in front of her once.

4.               Do initiate conversations about mutual acquaintances but do NOT ask questions like “Was she the one with the big…?” and make cupping gestures in front of your chest.  Definitely do NOT follow this up with the information that you are an expert at picking out fake boobs while nodding your head meaningfully at one of the waitresses.

5.               Do NOT comment that you hope computers don’t completely replace sex any time soon since that could cause you to lose all muscle tone in your right arm.  (Masturbation references are the type of thing that should probably be saved for a second or third date).

6.               Do discuss your family in pleasant and loving terms but do NOT mention that your aunt, who can speak five languages, taught you some phrase that you don’t know the meaning of but she promises will get you immediately laid in Holland.  Some of us, you see, are uncomfortable discussing our sex lives with close family members, much less learning great pick up lines.

7.               Do NOT wonder out loud why, if alien life forms are supposed to be so advanced, they can only examine the human body with an anal probe.

If you do, for some unknown and intensely personal reason, feel compelled to share your anal probe observations, make them quick and DO NOT follow your fascinating insights up with loud shouts of “Why you gotta shove a cattle prod in my a**?”  while waving your hands in the air, pretending to fight off the aforementioned anal-probing aliens.

If, again, you feel compelled to share your observations and yell cattle prod comments, try with all your might NOT to finish this little skit with a thoughtful discussion of how you’ll beat the crap out of any aliens who attempt to probe your a**.

The problem with these actions, people, is that when combined with #2 on this list, they have a tendency to convince your already horrified date that you have some sort of strange anal fixation.

8.               Do offer to buy your date a drink but do NOT wait until your THIRD Jack and Coke to mention that you are really cutting back on the drinking because of ALCOHOL-INDUCED HERNIATED ULCER THAT IS EATING THROUGH YOUR ESOPHAGUS!!

NOTE:  Yes, I stuck around long enough for him to have 3 drinks, but really only to get more material for the blog I knew I’d be writing…he pretty much lost any chance he had with me after the tampon comment…it’s like Jerry Maguire in Bizarro World “You lost me at tampon…”

9.               Do NOT steal straws from the bar and mention how you are going to cut them in half and sell them to the coke-heads in the bar where you work for a dollar a straw.

10.            Do ask your date questions about her life but when she mentions that she has had plastic surgery to rebuild her nose because of a recent struggle with skin cancer, do NOT ask if she has any feeling left in her nose then joke “Cool, so I could punch you in the f**ing nose and you wouldn’t even feel it.”

That’s not even considered funny in the polygamy cult down in Texas.

But, if you forget all of this…if, in fact, you only remember one little piece of advice from this list, PLEASE remember this. 

11.            Do NOT EVER UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES AT ANY TIME, try to recover from the plastic surgery joke by saying (and I quote!) “The only plastic surgery I want is BOTOX for my BALLS…you know to eliminate the wrinkles.  I want them smooth like eggs.”

This, to be honest, not only guaranteed that I’ll never think of testicles in the same way but also kind of put me off eggs…

Happy Valentine's Gay

**This post originally appeared in 2013 as part of  a challenge to write about your "Most Memorable Valentine's Day"**

Since Opie and I have only been married a year and a half people are probably expecting me to write sort of a sappy, emotional tribute to the ultimate fabulosity of our lives together.  But sappy emotional tributes aren’t my style (unless, sadly, I’m writing about Peek-A-Boo, The Amazing Miracle Dog) and, besides, if I wrote that kind of public post about Opie, he’d break out in a rash…

So, instead, "The most memorable Valentine's Day I had was when I had the WORST VALENTINE’S DAY DATE EVER."

It was about 4 years ago; I had just gotten out of a bad relationship and I hadn’t reconnected with Opie yet.  I was a little down and crabbing about how it sucks to be alone on Valentine’s Day.

Then I learned what sucks worse: Having a so-called friend set you up on a date on Valentine’s Day with a gay guy.

I’m trying to give her the benefit of the doubt, like maybe she didn’t KNOW he was gay…but that would mean that she’d never spent more than five minutes in his presence…and I don’t know which bothers me more: that she set me up with a gay guy or that that she set me up with a complete stranger.

For the record, he didn’t actually come out and SAY that he was gay…but he was.

And for those of you who are horrified at my lack of political correctness, for my cruel pre-judgmental outing, please note that my friend Eric has already lectured me on my blatant breach of the liberal code.  He has reminded me that sexuality is a deeply personal issue and one of the few things in life that a person is allowed to self-identify. 

And then, after I told him the following story, he said “Yahhhhh, that guy’s gay.”

First of all, he was more feminine than I am—and I consider myself a fairly girly girl.  Second, he couldn’t keep his eyes off our waiter.   I’m not exactly Sherlock Holmes but when one man blatantly and continuously checks out another man’s perky behind, I suspect more than a passing interest. 

Which, in itself, isn’t definitive.  But then he turned every conversation into an oblique reference to the “desperately immoral lifestyle” he had previously been involved in.

Like I asked him how he knew my friend Sarah (who arranged this travesty of an evening) and he said he met her when he joined the same church she’s a member of.  “It saved me,” he said.  “I had immersed myself in a desperately immoral lifestyle.” And then he nodded meaningfully and took another peek at our waiter’s butt.

I decided not to pursue that and instead changed the subject and asked about hobbies.  At which point I learned that he has taken up running because he had to quit his gym after giving up his “desperately immoral lifestyle.”

And so on.  After about the tenth reference to this lifestyle, it was pretty obvious he wanted me to ask what it had been.

So, I sighed and asked “Drugs?”

“Worse!” He said.

“Murder?”  I suggested.  “Paid assassin?”

And then, like he was in some horrible over-stereotyped movie, he put his fingers in front of his mouth and tee-heed daintily.

It was one of the most bizarre things I’ve ever been forced to witness.

“Not that bad,” he giggled. “But close.”

Which I thought was incredibly sad—I mean, come on!  If you’re gay and your top ten list of evils in the world goes:

1.   Murder

2.  Homosexuality

I think you have some pretty deep-seated emotional issues. 

But I also think you shouldn’t be dating WOMEN.

Anyway, he looked at me eagerly, waiting for me to ask more.

And you know what?

I didn’t do it.

Instead I smiled and said “Good for you for getting out of it, whatever it was.” Then I told him I had to go.

Because Eric is right, sexuality IS a deeply personal issue and not one you should discuss on a first date.

Rock of Love Killed This Reality Star

Well, it’s Friday and that means it’s time for one of my favorite blog hop/link ups  from the ladies atJanine's Confessions of a Mommyaholic and “Can I Get Another Bottle of Whine with My Morning Quiet Time?” ,  Finish The Sentence Friday. They give the sentence and you can finish it however you want. Today's sentence is : "When it comes to reality TV, I…”

And, that’s easy.

When it comes to Reality TV, I am obsessed…I’ve actually written a whole other post on it called Reality For Me.  And,I know that I should be embarrassed by this because I am, after all, an English teacher…

However, I used to actually use that horrible Flavor of Love show as a motivational tool.  I was running a program for what we called “at-risk” kids from inner city St.Louis and I made a deal with them that if we got through the entire English lesson with minimal disruption, we would spend the last five minutes of class analyzing the latest episode and predicting who would go home.

Which was a little challenging to explain to my strait-laced evaluator—particularly considering the chart I had written on the back board with names like Hottie, Toastee, Buck Wild etc.

But you know what?

It worked.

And Flavor of Love was nowhere near as bad as Rock of Love…which I’m horrified to admit I also watched.  In my defense, I had a HUGE celebrity crush on Bret Michaels in high school and if I had know they were casting for a show in which I might actually get a chance to kiss him, I would have hitchhiked through Deliverance country to try out.

Wait, that’s not a defense AT ALL…that’s equally awful, if not worse.

The only good thing about the show is that it definitely cured me of any desire to be ON Reality TV because I am a crazy competitive person.  And  I think I can say with 100% certainty that there is no way I ever would have won.  I just couldn’t have come up with the following conversational gems that I remember even all these years later:

I’m everything I think a guy would want…I’m a little bit not too smart

Choking someone is…well, that’s bad.

Some people are born smart, some have to use their looks to get what they want…I’ve kind of gone that route…

I don’t know if Bret has ever been touched by the goddess but it’s time.

I also remember that there was some chick with freakishly large breasts who explained that she got her boobs done after she went to jail for putting graffiti on buildings…she figured she would be too scared to climb up and possibly fall if she had huge boobs. Please note that PRISON didn’t scare her but she thought a boob job might. After sharing this little nugget of wisdom, she sang a rap to Bret…that she had written out on the back of a genital herpes pamphlet.

 

I have a feeling that, if I had been on this show, I would have irritated that girl NO END.  And eventually she would have pulled out a shiv and shanked me in the fresh (I’m not going to lie, I’ve been watching a little too much Lock-Up lately).

 

Anyway, I no longer have any plans to be on Reality TV and I’m kind of over the VH1 dating shows.  I don't know if I'm getting older and more sensitive or if the shows are getting meaner but too many of them seem to look for emotionally damaged people to put on the air.  However, I still like Top Chef, Restaurant Impossible, Survivor, Chopped--pretty much any food challenge show...and if that means I have to turn in my English Teacher card, I guess I’ll just have to live with it.

 

For other reflections on Reality TV, check the link below: