He said, she thought - and that rarely turns out well..

He was kissing me good night - in a very platonic British way which still sometimes feels a little awkward (especially when he does it to my husband) - when it hit me. Well actually, he thought it hit him first, hitting me in a more informed way, but then it was supposed to shoot back to him, wrapped in a glossy package of understanding.. by osmosis. Instead, the point I was trying to make rebounded itself over his right shoulder, flew into the chilly Surrey air, finding its tarmac a street gutter.

I must have flinched.

Sensing my stress, he said, "You know, you are so blessed! Just be happy! All you need to do is meditate."

I said, "Fuck off!! Seriously. You think I haven't tried that?"

Actually, I didn't say that. My mumbled reply was something like, "Really? You know.. Um.. Really? You think that's the issue?"

Or maybe I didn't say anything out loud, but I must have at least looked uncertain.

"You are so blessed," he reiterated as he pointed up at my new place.

I didn't have to look at the soft glow emanating from the little apartment above the shoe shop here on Queens Street to know that he was right about the blessed part.

For the record, I am.  Completely blessed.

If blessed means being brave enough to completely decimate my old life - leaving my job, my dear family and friends, my roomy suburban house, a good job, financial stability.. my comfort zone - to come to an entirely new country and move into a tiny apartment above a shoe shop where I can't run the dishwasher and washing machine at the same time,  to try my hand at international teaching - privileged kids, no less- to sell two cars (my husband's and mine) to afford one and then drive it white knuckled on the "wrong" side of the road, to have to make a mathematical conversion every time I want to know the weather or cook a meal, to not know cultural nuances or if/ when to tip, to have to scrutinize the size and value of every coin in my purse to pay, holding up the line at the grocery store.. then yes. I am. I even made the transition with a 3 year old boy who happens to be blossoming here.

Yes. Yes. I am BLESSED.

And I mean that with sincerity because only a blessed life gets an option.

In that moment, however, I didn't feel blessed. I felt sad. I felt like life is hard.. because it is.

For a while I wouldn't allow myself the negative emotion because here I am in England - an English speaking country that I LOVE, a place where I have a really good friend who picked me up at the airport, whose family helped me beyond measure when I first arrived and had no bed to sleep in; the very one that suggested I meditate. This is a place that was and remains my number one on the list of "Where I Would Consider Moving My Family, For Reals Y'all", surpassing places like Morocco and Libya, but placed after Norway and Switzerland. I spent years applying - hoping - afraid - bold - begging - waiting - praying..

After confirming my job position, I spent the summer begging banks for money transfers, arranging for the new apartment, praying someone would rent my house "in this horrendous market", wondering if I made the right decision to uproot my son from a place and person he adored to go somewhere so far away. And what about my family? What was I doing to them?  What about my new position? Would it pan out? What, exactly, was I running away from? Or was it as I said - that I wanted a new start - an international experience for my son, for me, for my husband?

All of this - the epiphany that jolted through my body at a seemingly simple solution - to meditate or not to meditate..
I squared my friends shoulders and pointed to my temple. "I know that," I said. "I know that I am blessed, that I am living this dream of mine, but the problem is my brain doesn't get it. Neither does my heart. That's the problem. I have anxiety! It's not something that just goes away because I will it to."
What I meant was, please allow me a transition, friend. What has happened to (for) me - what I've made happen to me - is HUGE. And yes, I may need to meditate more - to, as my native Texans might say, "Hold onto my butt" a little longer, but as my epiphany that night suggested, I need to also allow myself to de-stress, to allow myself some transition time in this foreign place, to mourn the fact that I'm not around the majority of those who love me and no longer accessible to those who seriously, with heavy hearts NEED me, to allow for the understanding that meditation will come.. but not now. And not for a while.. At least not until I learn how to sleep through the night here in my very blessed apartment, on my glowingly safe street, in this new place, England.

Considering September 12th

(Hi Mom, don’t read this..)


Somehow I find it blasphemous to post this on this, the 10th anniversary of September 11th which, as you will quickly point out after reading this, is ironic on so many levels. So I won’t. I’ll schedule it to post tomorrow, a day that is not marked nor marred, neither memorialized nor mentionable.

Here’s the thing: I feel incredibly conflicted about September 11th. At this moment, Facebook, along with other mainstream media, is incredibly cluttered, heavy with the weight of questions like, “Where were you on the day?” over a link to an interactive pin site where everyone with an internet connection can pin a note showing where they were when the planes hit the Twin Towers. You can zoom in on Ground Zero in particular and read what folks witnessed then and how they are feeling now. The pins are even color-coded: Red pins represent the fearful; purple ones indicate anger; light blue pins are selected by the hopeful; dark blues are for the heartless, unmoved; and green are for people who feel secure. You can imagine what colors are most represented.

In addition to the sad posts, there are the patriotic ones: pictures of mountains, eagles, and, of course, the ever popular undulating Stars ‘n Stripes. And how many people changed their profile pictures to one of the iconic images, the flag flying over the wreckage, for example, or a NYC FD fireman’s hat? Listed are” inspirational writings” that say everything from the misplaced, “God Bless our Troops” to highly inspirational quotes by the likes of 9/11 figureheads like George W. Bush: "I can hear you, the rest of the world can hear you and the people who knocked these buildings down will hear all of us soon."

Fortunately, I haven’t seen any wholly disparaging quotes about Islam or any Middle Eastern countries. In fact, I found this from one of my lovely former students who happens to be a Muslim American:

“Tomorrow, on 9/11, I'll mourn the nearly 3,000 lives lost, the over 6,000 injuries, the infrastructural carnage and devastation in NYC, and the humiliation of my country, all perpetrated ignorantly in the name of MY religion.

And on 9/12, I'll mourn the nearly 1,000,000 lives, the 10's of millions of injuries, the infrastructural decimation in three countries, and the humiliation of my religion, all perpetrated ignorantly in the name of MY country.

May God guide us all.”

This is both sad and inspirational (and overwhelmingly apt, in my opinion).

I had the audacity to repost it as a reply on another person’s statistically incorrect post that was decidedly one-sided. She summarily deleted my response, I’m assuming because it allowed the notion that the US shares some culpability with regard to loss on this day. Maybe it’s because I said the words “Muslim” and “friend” in the same sentence. Who knows? In any case, her prompt censoring led to my swift and final friend dismissal.

Literally, I am a virtual outcast when it comes to my feelings about what should be remembered on a day like today. I am annoyed by all of the 9/11 pomp and pageantry and am almost completely intolerant of the boastful, blind patriotism that is attached to all of it. It's everywhere!

There. I said it.

Noam Chomsky, in an excerpt from his recent book, 9/11 – Was There an Alternative?, reminds us that before our country became enamored with our post 9/11 patriotic response, we were the perpetrators of much larger attacks as seen by our own history. He remembers the first 9/11, the one that happened in 1973 when we effectively over- turned the Chilean government and put Pinochet in office, a decision that led to 25 times the horror for the Chileans that 9/11/01 was to us. He notes that our most recent 9/11 war would be considered a crime of aggression, citing Chief Justice Robert Jackson’s proposal that the US (i.e. Bush), according to the textbook definition derived from the Nuremburg Trials, is a first aggressor who invaded another country.

“We are left with two choices: either Bush and associates are guilty of the “supreme international crime” including all the evils that follow, or else we declare that the Nuremberg proceedings were a farce and the allies were guilty of judicial murder.”

To be fair, Chomsky also cites Obama as a participant in the US’s injustices against others, specifically in his decision to execute bin Ladin without a trial - another example of “judicial murder.”

I realize I am being inflammatory at the moment. And perhaps this is the wrong time to bring up all of these points. Contrary to what you are probably thinking right now, I don’t plan on joining sides with the folks who burned an American flag outside of the US Embassy in London this morning (ouch), nor do I intend to further hurt or humiliate anyone who feels the very intimate loss that is associated with this day.

I would like to remind people that there is more to the story. September 11th should be remembered as a one of the most heinous days in US history and should be approached with humility, with empathy, and with an overwhelming reminder of how fragile and lovely humanity is. Perhaps we should be a little less patriotic, boastful, and dare I say, celebratory, and instead use our time to think deeply about what truths are buried in our collective American consciences that we may be compensating for in our allegiance to September 11th.

The Toilets Don’t Flush the Same and Things More or Less Awkward

So first of all, I’ve learned a new way to greet people.
Here people give a robust “Hi-yuh!” Which sounds to me like (or in my mind, has the same number of syllables as) “How are ya?”


It’s weird because when I hear, “Hi-yuh!” I want to respond, “I’m fine! How are you?” But that answer gets odd looks, especially since no one actually asked about my well being. What’s worse is when things are stressful, and in walks someone who says, “Hi-yuh!” and I’m all, “Well, shit. I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed, you know? I mean, I like it here and all, but things will be much easier when my bank account works or when internet is installed. You know?”

And they’re all, “Right. Ok then. I’ll just grab this breakfast bun and.. I’ve got to fly now.* Bye, bye. Bye!”**

So the correct response to “Hi-yuh!” is “Good morning” or a simple. “Hi”. Sometimes I get it right and say, “Hey, how’s it going?” which is somewhat more rhythmic and less awkward.

Next, I feel the need to address the fact that I cannot get a town coke here. Anywhere. There are a billion towns around these parts and all of them sell coke.. but not a town one. And for those of you who don’t know me, my mom, or my Mimi, you should learn that a town coke is a fountain drink with good ice – semi-crushed. I would even go as far to say that a town coke has to be from Dairy Queen or Sonic – a treat when you’re out driving the drag or when you need a little pick-me-up. Gas station fountain drinks don’t count.

And they don’t have them here in England.

In fact, no one seems to drink anything other than orange juice, coffee, pints, or (hot) tea. Bottled water is around, but I rarely see anyone having any. I remember Christine and I having a lengthy conversation about this once. I theorized that perhaps the reason the English don’t have Big Gulps or other embarrassingly large beverages is because the whole country is pretty much hydrated. “After all,” I said, my fore-finger in the air, “it does rain almost daily there.” Plus (and I forgot to tell Christine this) the grass is really sponge-y in England. Perhaps the Brit’s skin is like the grass and absorbs water from the air. (Some of my synapses may, in fact, be retarded.)

Christine politely didn’t roll her eyes (too much) and reiterated the fact that while here she just carried a huge water bottle everywhere. “I just slammed it on the counter like I owned the place. Everyone else be damned. Yep, “she said, “this is my ginormous beverage. Deal with it. What?!” ***

Lastly, I must mention driving. And with the word “driving” in England I should also say, “Holy shit!” because damn. I spend the majority of the time in the car with my buttocks clenched. Why? Because every moment on the road in England is a “close call”. Actually, what I’m learning is that unless you actually bend in the side mirrors (a feature that all cars have here), you aren’t really close. But tell that to me as I’m inching between an American sized lorry and a cyclist with a baby on board, in a lane meant mainly for Kate Moss to saunter down and we’ll talk about the medical benefits of butt clenching.

“CURB!” is the word I mostly yell seconds before I rip my passenger-side rims into one.

*Seriously. That’s another thing. They say “I’ve got to fly, now” and all I can think of is Gandalf falling into endless doom in mines of Moria and the hobits burying their heads in their hands, forever altered by their immense grief.


** And they say “Bye” at least three times, fading out on each one, especially if they’re hanging up on a phone conversation. I think it’s kind of poetic.


***Probably this is a paraphrase

Shoe Shocked

Muslim culture’s tradition of taking off one’s shoes at the door before entering someone’s home leaves this Western girl feeling insecure and uncertain about how best to move forward. In my culture shoes are essential. I’ve been taught that feet are dirty, that you can’t walk into a restaurant, convenience store, or any kind of market without them or if you do, you take a serious risk of either being kicked out or at the very least reprimanded by clerks and/or forthright patrons. It is an unwavering rule – No shirt, No shoes, No service. I’ve even found myself having acrimonious thoughts towards little children who sashay barefoot into places with their thoughtless mothers. How could any responsible mother allow her child to be subject to the many hazards and germs that foot to floor contact elicits? Worse, how could any responsible adult let another person leave germs and other hazards behind for unsuspecting, shoe clad people to muck through? If it weren’t a big deal, then why do shoe stores offer hosiery for trying on shoes? “Forget your socks? No problem. Have a footie,” reads a sign at DSW. It comforts me. At least I know that if someone tried on a pair of shoes I might buy, I can rest assured that probably no one’s stinky feet have actually touched my inner soles. Even in my childhood household, shoes were required in the kitchen, just as hairbrushes had to stay out.

It is these thoughts that hung over me as I stood on my sweet Muslim friends’ doorstep yesterday. Without more than a couple of natural movements, four people breezed through the front door, leaving their shoes in a nonchalant, cluttered pile. I, on the other hand, hesitated.

At least three years have passed since I remember walking into their home, not noticing that everyone had removed their shoes but me. Several hours into the visit I realized my error. Of course, the family was too nice to mention it, but I felt incredibly rude for being insensitive to that particular cultural norm. I remember trying to tuck my clunky shoed feet underneath furniture so as to hide my faux pas, and yet all I could stare at was everyone else’s toes.

And here, again, came the moment; it was time to behave as everyone else did and take off my shoes at the door. I felt like the others were watching me in anticipation. I was sure they were thinking, “Will she do it right this time?” or “Remember last time when she left her shoes on? They were sliders. She easily could’ve removed them!” or “Westerners. How arrogant!” Of course they weren’t thinking those thoughts. They’re much too kind to expel that kind of venom. Plus, rationally I am aware that not everyone has such specific memory about my flaws as I do. It probably wasn’t important to them in the first place. Still, as if I were stepping over a gated fence, I put one foot through the door and then the other. I slid into the nearest chair close by, and leaned down to take off my shoes. I kicked them to the side into the pile at the door and quickly curled my toes under my feet, afraid to look up and see if anyone noticed my angst.

Just then, a neighbor apparently walked by, as all of a sudden one of the little girls popped up and said, “Look! It’s so and so and her son!” She was pointing out the window behind me and hopping up and down excitedly. Everyone else perked up, too, looking around my form out the window. “Invite them in,” my friend said. “Yes do! Hurry!” another echoed. The little girl ran out of the front door, skipping over the pile of shoes, and insisted that her neighbors come in for a moment. Of course they did, as the hospitality of Islam encourages, and they also took off their shoes, adding them to the pile.

The woman stayed for a cup of tea and immediately drummed up a conversation about the circumcision of her 9 year old son which would be happening next week. She asked questions about what circumcision entailed, specifically, how to keep the “affected area” treated and dressed immediately after the procedure, and what the benefits of having it done were. They talked about the Islamic philosophy of circumcision, of characters in the Bible who had it done (one very specifically with an axe while he was in his nineties), the fact that someone’s grandfather did the procedure so rapidly, that he engaged in a competition with a local medical doctor to see who could circumcise the most boys in the fastest time. It was a circum-size-off! Boys lined up in two rows – one for the doctor, one for the grandfather, and someone ran a timer. Apparently, and according to the reenactment gesticulations of “snip and throw,” everyone in the living room smiled and nodded, one person even applauded, at the news that the grandfather won by a landslide.

During this entire conversation – which happened to be as bizarre and non sequitur as it is to you, the reader, as it was to me, the listener - all I could think about was finding a pair of socks.

A letter about good intentions

Hola Marcos!

So, it turns out I'll be wheels down in London in ten very short days. !! Currently I'm camping out in my casita here in Grand Prairie, having stream of consious conversations with myself such as this: You didn't pack the coffee pot which wouldn't work in the UK anyway, nor did you pack the filters or coffee measuring spoon which means you can have coffee in your pj's EVERYDAY before you leave. What luxury! So you made coffee, you clever girl... ... but then realized you packed all of your mugs which are currently sealed inside of a crate en route to the nearest body of water (Gulf of Mexico?) to be loaded onto a barge. WHY? How did you not remember the most essential coffee accessory? Really? A measuring spoon but no mug?? Ok. Regroup. What will it be for a mug then? Current options: A. a medium sized sauce pan B. a skillet C. a measuring cup? So close.. (sigh)

ANYWAY.
Here's where I'm going with this correspondence:

I will arrive on the 26th at 10:45 as you know. Of course customs will be a booger to get through, so we better add an hour (at least) to that time. I should roll out of the terminal around 11:45 with two (at least) very large, overfilled suitcases that will carry such things as a medium sized sauce pan, a skillet, a measuring cup, and other miscellaneous household items, including my professional wardrobe which is shamefully large.

Options:
A. You pick me up and I'm at your mercy, two (or more) big suitcases in tow
B. You pick me up and drop me at my new place (after picking up keys at the leasing agency) and I drop off some of my luggage and then we make a plan for hanging out or not hanging out. (I vote for hanging out)
C. I take a cab to my new place via the leasing agency and we connect at a later time
D. I call HR at Cobham and they pick me up and take care of carrying me all over hell and creation.

What are your thoughts about any of these options??? Please feel free to say "none of the above" or "really, Ginge, all you need is 3 chords and the truth - what up with all that luggage?" I know! I know..

Ok. 10 days!
g

from Weeds

A conversation between a middle aged suburban (unhappily) married PTA attending soccer mom and a troubled 10 year old boy- on life:

Soccer Mom: Everyone thinks I've lost my mind.

Boy: Everyone thinks I'm weird.

SM: Well, I can see why you may give that impression.

B: I really don't care what they think.

SM: Good for you. Let your freak flag fly!

B: Really?

SM: Really. I've recently stopped giving a shit about what anyone says, and I gotta tell you, I feel great!

B: But you have cancer.

SM: And you have a dead father.

Both of us make people feel really uncomfortable. There is no way around it. So either we can feel all self-conscious and pretend that everything is normal, or we can just be our strange selves.

B. Thank you.

SM: For what?

B: For telling me the truth.

SM: You're welcome.

It's a bitch though, ain't it?

B: (nods)

More reasons to love people...and enchiladas

I'm feeling much better today. It's amazing how healing an evening out with good friends and some EXCELLENT Mexican food are. We went to a little Tex/Mex hole in the wall called Rafa's where everything tasted AMAZING. The queso and margaritas alone were worth the trip to Dallas!

Also, because everything in Rafa's is very close together, I was practically sitting in the guy's lap next to me, which was not very enjoyable other than the conversation I was forced to "hear" was pretty amusing.

Here's the scene:
A Man sits next to me, his 4 year old mute child next to him, his mousy wife beside the four year old. At the head of the table is a high chair that holds another eerily silent child (who is old enough to eat pizza at a Mexican food restaurant, but young enough to sit in the high chair). Across from the man sits an elderly couple, the man's in-laws who obviously have never seen authentic Mexican food before and are horrified (as demonstrated by their facial expressions) that each food item is only a slightly different shade of yellowy brown and that all of it is touching.

Man: ...yeah it's supposed to look like that. Is it spicy?

In-Laws: (nod in unison)

Man: That's because they put jalapenos in it.

Children and wife: (blink, blink)

Man: In Spanish they say that hot food is caliente.

wife: (glances at husband)

Man: Oh. I mean calor. That's temperature hot. Like the weather. Caliente means... you know..

All: (blink, blink)

Man: You know... (gesturing loudly with arms)

All: (blink blink)

Man: Well, it means something sexual.

All: (look down at their plates)

Me: (biting the inside of my cheek, trying so so so so hard not to laugh out loud)

Man to in-laws: (in a flat, emotionless tone) Yeah. We are sure sad that you guys have to go back tomorrow... Yep. We sure are sad about that.

(and scene)

After dinner we "accidentally" ended up at Milwaukee Joe's for ice-cream, even though we were way too full for flan and sopapillas.

What?

I can't help it if we spotted it from the side of the road, pulled the fastest u-turn in the history of u-turns and HAD to go in since Milwaukee's has some of the BEST ice-cream on the planet. I can't help it that we needed to taste every single flavor before choosing one. I'm a productive member of society, folks. As a teacher, my ass is required to be double the size of my bust. It's the law. Besides, some things are just expected.

Anyway, we had a great night, and I went home to dreams of pastel tortillas and successful English train experiences, luggage and all.

Fekkin' rip off!

Yesterday, Wratch! and I spent a pleasant day together on the sushi side of the metroplex (as opposed to the, "Aw hell. That there is bait! Pass the calf-fries," side of the metroplex - aka: where I feel more comfortable), despite the nasty wind that whipped around leaves and sand, leaving our skin and teeth completely exfoliated and shiny.

We saw The Queen at the Angelika and, just so you know, Helen Mirren was brilliant and WILL win Oscar gold tonight! (Or else she owes me five bucks.) Afterwards, I bought a madras summer hat, and then we fought our way, against wind and sand, to the area's best pub for dinner and music.

Here's What Happened at Trinity Hall Last Night:

So Rich and I walk into the extremely crowded, "fight for a seat in the most polite way possible - with a tip of the hat, to ya'" Trinity Hall in all of its Irish glory. It was Murphys and ciders all around to the tunes of live Irish folk music (and piped in U2 between sets) when, finally, we were able to snag a table for two and order dinner.

I have to say that Trinity Hall is an exceedingly friendly place. I have met many colorful folks there and have even kept in contact with some of them. I won third place in an ironic game of Texas Hold'em in this Irish pub, a win that earned me a bottle of free soda bread! We celebrated the New Year there and felt warm as we held hands and sang "Auld Lang Syne" in a circle of bleary-eyed familiarity. Trinity Hall is where we watched the World Cup semi-final last summer when Basement Barry asked, as he had his fingers in my plate, if he could eat the raspberries off of my desert.

"Sure Basement Barry. We met ten long minutes ago, but you are welcome to my desert berries. As a matter of fact, why don't you finish off the rest of my ice cream, while you're at it."

"Thanks. I love berries."

"OK, then. Would you like to borrow my spoon?"

The point is, people there sometimes forget their American cultural recognition of personal space, and I adore this place for that very reason. Because the hall was so packed last night, people were standing all around the tables, having drinks and conversations in small circles which is lovely (!), except when you are eating your dinner and a circle of drunk Irishmen keep slamming their beers on your table, and that beer keeps splashing into your mashed potatoes.

At first, they were pounding the beers down on the edge of the table. That was enough for me to feel a little bit uncomfortable, but I thought, "Hey, sure. You can share our table. No worries."

As the evening progressed, they kept dropping their glasses closer and closer to my plate. Every two seconds a disembodied, blue cuff would jolt into my peripheral vision and grab the nearest glass. On the return trip, the hand would slam the glass nearer and nearer to where my glass was.

I never looked up. All I could see was this arm, which occasionally moved my arm out of the way so that there was room enough for the 2 empty beer glasses, 2 full beer glasses, two half full SoCo tumblers, and a glass of club soda with a twist - oh, and our plates and glasses. In between the constant lifting and slamming of the glasses, all I could hear in an Irish accent was, "I can't believe it was fekkin' sixty-sev'n p'nds. Fekkin sixty-sev'n!"

I was NOT at all angry. In fact, I was laughing so hard it (the laughter) was silent - you know that laughter where you're face is frozen in an agonizing smile and you can't breathe because the laughter is so deeply seated that it stays there in your soul, pressing your gut into your spine - and it hurts because it can't come out, so all you can do is double over and cry. For at least 10 minutes, that's how I was laughing.

Every time I gained some sort of composure, in would come the arm and SLAM! At one point, I really wanted to see what would happen if I picked up the nearest drink (which was not my own), and either took a little sip or moved it to the other side of the table.

Wratch (!): Go ahead. They might not even notice, or you can say it was an accident.

Me: Or they might knock me up side the head!

Wratch (!): They're Irish! That's how they show their affection!

Irish Men: Fekkin' rip off, that! Sixty-sev'n p'nds, my arse.

(SLAM!)

Me: (silent laughter of death)

By the time we stood up to leave, there was an empty Stella glass smack dab in the center of the table and a leaning elbow keeping its owner propped on a stool. Neither the glass nor the elbow belonged to Rich or to me. And the Irish gents were still at it!

What a fun day!

I LOVE people!

The Dandy Warhols-We Used To Be Friends

Don't you hate it when you can't remember the proper name for things? Daily I have a ridiculous number of conversations that go like this:
Me: Have you heard that song by that band that's on that show that comes on after Gilmore Girls?

Friend: What with the who now? Seriously. Are you on something? Give me a concrete noun, please!

Me: You know! That one song! (sigh)

Friend: Um. OK crack baby.

Me: Nevermind. Geez. (Seriously, I'm so misunderstood.)

So Fougs, it's "We Used to Be Friends" by the Dandy Warhols. Also, I haven't forgotten about the CD you wanted to borrow. I still remember the name of that one and will try to bring it to you soon.

A new homework excuse

This is the last week in the fourth six weeks grading period - which is really the seventh week this six weeks because we have to throw in an extra "ghost week" somewhere in order to meet the state's required number of school days, and we couldn't have put it at the end of the school year (final exam week) but whatever (stupid school district) - and so I've been dealing with the furious frenzy of marking last minute papers, incompletes due to absences from the "B" flu strain (everyone got vaccinated for the "A" strain) and, of course, this sort of thing:

That student: Mrs. H, I realize I did nothing but make your life really difficult this six weeks with all of my sleeping while you were lecturing/yelling out inappropriately/not doing any work/telling you that your hair is ugly and your shoes don't match your outfit, and today is the last day before grades are due, so what can I do to pass?

Me: Honey, do you really think there is anything you can do that will help bring up your 27 average? Also, no. I'm not sure you CAN do anything, seeing as you have chosen not to do anything for the last six weeks. Do better next year and YSEABOS.

I wish.
Really my reply is more like:

Me: Get me all 25 missing assignments by Tuesday, and if I can grade them by the end of the day (which I will bend over backwards to do because I'd rather do that than tell you that you won't graduate), that will bring up your average. Thanks and have a great week-end.

What's worse is when the parents call.

That student's parent: Hi Mrs. H. My son/daughter has a 27 in your class and is in danger of not graduating. Is there any extra credit I can do..uh.. I mean my son/daughter can do to bring up his/her grade?

Me: (SIGH)

I'm such a WUSS when it comes to these situations, but at the same time it's worth dealing with them in a passive manner since being a hard ass pretty much merits a hand-delivered invitation to parent/teacher/administrator conferences (notice no student is involved), extra tears from all, and it leads to that student further poisoning my room (a new personal vendetta implemented, after all it's not like he has any schoolwork to do) for the remainder of the school year! Plus, the grade outcome usually ends-up the same.

The point is that I have have been a neglectful blogger as a result, BUT I did invite (entice) one of my coolest friends to write for us again.

SO, following this post is a new one from the BRILLIANT and talented Jamie. You might remember him from the beloved Zombie Jesus post. To continue our monster theme, this one has to do with the vampires in corporate America, especially in the futbol arena. You'll love it!

Zombies (all together): I pledge allegiance to "the corporate man" of the United States of America..

ENJOY!