A Memorable First Date

I'm feeling lazy; sue me.  I grabbed this from my archives.  But I promise, if you've read it before, it's totally worth a re-read.  If you are reading for the first time, enjoy.  It's one of my favorite stories.  First dates just don't get much better than this one.  

July.  1994.  Talladega, Alabama.  I had gone to visit a girlfriend from college who'd moved to Hotashell, Middleofnowhere County, Alabama, with her boyfriend.  He'd just purchased some Honky Tonk there, and I loved to drink beer.  Regardless of the locale.  It was a win-win.

Quite surprisingly, that little hole in the wall in the middle of nowhere had a booming business.  Apparently, this little town in Middleofnowhere County was the Holy land for Nascar lovers.  I had no idea.  There I was in the midst of Dale Earnhardt country.  

Unbeknown to me, Mr. Earnhardt was a god in the racing community.  Seriously.  I'm talking god as in shrines, praise, and hallelujahs.  Everyone in that bar sported the number 3.  There were t-shirts, hats, bandanas, tattoos...  This bar was his church and those folks were his congregation.  A Nascar cult, if you will.  Had I not be under the influence, I might have been scared.       

The night was a blur of beer drinking and honey creeping.  Period.  Same song, same dance, different city.  The night ended the same as many before it with me shacked up (no shagging, though; I did have some dignity) with a stranger in a place I couldn't find again if my life depended on it.  

HELL-O?  Natalee Holloway?  Are you nuts, LB?  But that's how I rolled back in the day.  Luckily, he was a decent enough guy who even invited me to the race.

What race?  Oh, yea...that Nascar shindig? 

I had to feign interest which was quite difficult.  My impression of Nascar was not good up to that point.  Having gone to an actual race, it hasn't changed much either.  Picture the cast of Deliverance and you have the Talladega 500 Super Speedway.

I knew it was going to be a memorable first date when Dude pulled up with about 20 friends, 25 coolers full of beer, and a barbecue grill secured to the bed of his truck.  I'm taking you to the infield, girl!

*blink*  The infield?  *blink*

So the 20 friends all pitched in to pay the 50 gazillion dollars for admission.  Apparently, the infield is big time.  Who knew?  I was totally clueless, and I still had no idea what or where the infield was.  I soon learned, though, that the infield is that area inside the race track.  It is filled with RVs, tents, pick ups, rebel flags, and some things, frankly, that can only be appreciated in person.

Far too many of these guys...

The ever-popular swimming pool made of Visqueen...

 

The official beer of Nascar...

Live sex acts Mud wrestlin'...

It was like Mardi Gras for the inbreeding community!  On race day, all the churches and the Klan meetings are canceled.  Everyone puts on their Dale Earnhardt paraphernalia and hits the track.  Numbered flags are flown high on every front porch leading to the track. 

Although we headed out early in the morning, we waited in the infield line for what seemed like hours.We finally got in and found a good spot on Turn 2.  Like me fluent Nascar lingo?

 

It was 185 degrees.  At ten in the morning.  The redneck swimming pools were everywhere.  I now know why country boys prefer trucks.  Not only can they haul stuff in the back and ride through muddy terrain with the greatest of ease, they can also create an impromptu wading pool with a sheet of visqueen and a water hose.  If they weren't relaxing in their Z-71 pools, they were slipping and sliding.  That visqueen is pretty versatile stuff, ya know.

I can't just rag on the dudes, though.  The girls were just as, well, entertaining.  Though I'm pretty sure mall hair went out in the late 80s, the fashion police hadn't quite made it to Talladega, Alabama, yet.  I saw more camel toes, muffin tops, back fat, and barms than I ever wanted to see.  Cut offs with a bikini top was the standard uniform regardless of the size or amount of coverage.  Bottom line?  Lots of skanks!

I spent most of the day in Dude's truck with the A/C turned on, though.  I was too hung over and too tired for such mayhem.  The best part of the day?  As we were rolled out of the infield after the race, Dude's dad fired up the grill.  In the back of the truck.  As we sat in traffic.  I was wondering why they had that thing secured so tightly.  A new twist on the tailgate party, if you will.

All in all, it was probably one of my better first dates.

This is my contribution to this week's writer's workshop with Mama Kat.  I chose the first prompt:  describe a memorable first date.  For more memorable first date stories, check out her blog at Mama's Losing It.

Brown and Blue

I am six,
My mom's a slouch,
We're late, yes, we're late again.


It's 9:45,
We've got 30 miles to go,
And swim lessons start at ten.


I put on my swimsuit,
Brush my teeth,
And grab a hat to cover my hair.


Barefoot and flustered,
I scramble for shoes,
In my closet of ten thousand pairs.

My tummy is grumbling,
I grab the last Pop-Tart,
I feel like I'm starving to death.

I smile at my sister,
As she walks towards the pantry,
Because I know there's none left.


My mom yells to us,
"It's 9:55!
Get some shoes and get in the van."


I do as she says
And grab some Crocs
Then run as fast as I can.


We get to the Y 
And run to the door
It's already five after ten.


"Head to the pool," 
My mom yells to us,
"And I'll go sign us in."


Just a few feet away,
Yes, I am almost there, 
I hear my mom yell, "E!"


I turned in fear,
"What'd I do wrong?"
But she is just laughing at me.


She's giggling,
And pointing down at my feet,
I'm curious so I look too.


Oh, no!  Look at me!
These Crocs are not right.
One is brown and the other is blue!

So what do ya think??  This is my entry for this week's Writer's Workshop prompt #2:  Write a poem inspired by a picture you took last week. Share both!


To read more like it, check out Mama Kat's and all her groupies at Mama's Losing It.

How to Keep Children Academically Prepared Over the Summer

Most of you know that I am a teacher which is why I feel guilty for saying...

I am NOT doing freakin' homework over the summer!

Both of my kids' teachers sent home workbooks and lists of a gazillion assignments to be done over the summer.  Immediately, I tossed them in the corner bookcase in our dining room.  In other words, the abyss never to be seen again because we don't actually use the dining room.

What happened to the days when kids actually got a "summer break"?  When I was a kid, we had three full months of rest and relaxation.  I can remember sleeping until noon and then hitting the beach.  Never did I crack a workbook of math problems.  Nor did I have a required reading list.  In fact, I seriously doubt I read anything more than the directions on a box of macaroni and cheese.

Crap, wait a minute...  No wonder Mississippi is near the bottom of the educational success ladder.  But, seriously.  Is it necessary to do all those worksheets???  I think not.

Instead, I've developed creative ways for my children practice the requisite educational standards and demonstrate academic mastery.  Because I'm an excellent parent like that, I thought I share a few of my ingenious strategies with the lay people.  Now some may require a great deal of expertise, but do your best.  K???

Math.  It is a discipline in which many children struggle.  As a math teacher, I know all too well how easily they forget over the summer.  Consequently, I incorporate problem-solving and math skills in most of our interactions.  Here are just a few scenarios demonstrating how I do what I do:

• Me:  G, please pick up that mess.  G, I need you to clean up your mess!  1...2...  I mean it, when I get to 3 you better have that mess cleaned up or else!

• E:  Are we almost there yet?  Me:  No, we have about four more hours.  *three minutes later*  E:  Now are we almost there?  Me:  No, we still have about four hours to go.  E:  How much do I have to count before we are there?  Me:  Well, there are 60 seconds in an hour which is 60 minutes.  That means 3,600 per hour times 4 hours.  That's...um...14,400.  You have to count to 14,400.  E:  1, 2, 3, 4, 5...Mom, what comes after 109?

Reading.  Another important skill that many have difficulty mastering.

• G:  What's that sign say, Mommy?  Me:  It says "If you pee in the pool, you will get kicked out and arrested by that Life Guard."

• Me in the check out line at the grocery store:  Damn, I forgot the butter!  E, will you go get the butter for Mama?  E staring back with a deer-in-headlights expression:  What?  What is butter?  Me:  It is that stuff we put on toast.  It's in the big yellow tub in the refrigerator.  Country Crock.  On aisle 13.  (Notice the cross-curriculum activity.  Brilliant, I know.)

• G in Macy's:  Mommy, what does that sign say?  Me:  No running, or you will get a ticket!  G:  What about that one?  Me:  Use your inside voice, or you will go to jail!   

Writing.  This one can be tricky especially with young children.  However, throw in some markers and voila!  They can't stop writing!  On everything.

• Me just before company arrives:  G!!!!!  Did you write on my table with that marker???  (She's my little over-achiever.  She loves to write!  With marker.)

• And need I remind you of E's cartoon depicting the ways he'd get rid of his sister?  While a bit demented and messy, it was a wonderful exercise in creative writing.

Spelling.  This is my nosy-ass kids' favorite activity.

• Me to Mr. OCD:  You need to quit talking about S-E-X in front of the kids!  G:  What does that spell, Mommy?  Sssss...eeee... (as she tries to sound it out)  Me:  Um...Santa, baby.  We're talking about Christmas.

• Me to Mr. OCD:  Should I let him S-W-I-M today??  E:  Please, Mom.  I want to go swimming!  (I've got to admit; he's pretty sharp for a six year old.)

• G reading my grocery list:  What does V-O-D-K-A spell?  What is that?  Me:  Oh, never mind that.  Mommy just needs to get her allergy medicine. 

These are just a few of the exercises we do around the LB house to keep those little minds sharp.  I'm sure their teachers will thank me.   

That Time I Made a Reference to His Balls

It's Thursday, heifers!  Time to hook up with Mama Kat for her weekly Writer's Workshop.  If you haven't read her blog, you must.  She is pee-your-pants funny.  And she has the best writing prompts for bloggers.  She gets those memory juices a-stirrin', ya know?

Today, I'm going with prompt #4:  

We’re too old to be getting in trouble…aren’t we? Write about a time you were scolded…as an adult.

Yes, I am as old as Methuselah.  Thanks for pointing that out.

However, teaching was not my first profession.  I spent many years torturing myself daily at WeShip* Corporation.  I was a numbers cruncher building beautiful spreadsheets on toilet paper variances.  When my job began to include multi-page reports on the costs associated with lawn care, I bailed.  I was literally losing my mind, people!  Um..huh...  What about the gazillion dollars we waste each day on the 400 layers of management??? What about the catering costs associated with the pre-briefs and the pre-pre-briefs before the pre-meetings before the meetings???  Just a thought, Mr. Smith...

Still, teaching high school has its own set of challenges.  Even with an M.B.A. and a pin-striped suit, you can make a complete ass out of yourself.  In front of an entire room of hormonal teenagers who are just waiting for you to screw up.   

And much like most professions, the fine art of teaching is learned through trial and error.  There's no training program, really.  Don't get me wrong, there is a great deal of preparation that one must complete before going into a classroom -- you must be an "expert" in your area with a degree that includes courses in education like child psychology, accommodations for those with special needs, and diversity.  Additionally, as is the case with most other professions, none of that makes a hill of beans when it comes to actually *doing* the thing we call teaching.  Essentially you are placed in a classroom with 30 kids and a textbook.  For 90 minutes!  Here's your rosters, Mrs. LB??  Enjoy! 

I typically do not blog about that part of my life.  Yes, I realize I am missing out on a wealth of material, but that whole student-teacher confidentiality thingamajig is such a scary, gray area.  I just don't want to blab about something and then find out later that I shouldn't have.  You know, I do have a big mouth.  And while my blabbery is never out of malice, it can get me in trouble.  I'm honest to a fault.  

For this story, though, I think I will make an exception.  After all, this happened about six years ago, and it's not really about a child.  This is more about how ignorant I was when I first started the whole teaching gig.  Not that I don't do ignorant shit anymore, but let's just say I'm a bit less impulsive than I used to be.  The threat of lawsuit will do that to you.


To say my first year or so was crazy as hell a bit trying, is like saying 9/11 was just a little fire.  I am just lucky that no one was harmed.  Or at least I hope not.  If I could, I would give a personal apology to every student under my care for those first two years.  Seriously.

If you're reading this, I'm sorry.

AnyIwasinwayovermyhead, one student in particular has already had the pleasure of getting his personal apology.  I taught Johnny economics his senior year.  Because I was a new teacher who had no clue that I was boring my students to tears, day after day I stood in front of the classroom and lectured for 90 minutes.  About supply and demand and the national debt and foreign policy.

Stop your yawning, dammit!  I know now, okay??

Poor Johnny was no economist.  He was a third generation farmer.  He didn't care about communism or monetary policy.  He was just trying to graduate.  And stay awake!  So every day, he'd sit in the back of my classroom and make strange sounds to entertain his friends.  And every day, I'd tell him to stop.  And every day, his response would be "What??  I'm not doing anything!"

One day near the end of the school year, I was experiencing severe PMS.  I was literally ready to put a cap in the first person who crossed me.  I'm sure I'd been a royal bi-otch the entire day.  By the time the last period of the day rolled around, my head felt as if it was on fire.  Picture the Heat Miser from the movie, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

As usual, Johnny showed up for his daily performance.  Apparently, he was particularly amusing that day because his friends were laughing uncontrollably.  When I asked him to stop, he, of course, responded with "What??  I'm not doing anything!"


Those five little words were the trigger.  I went off!  To the entire class!  For a good fifteen minutes.  I don't remember exactly what I said, but I do remember that it ended with something like:

Ya know, there's nothing I can't stand more than a coward.  Seriously, if you are going to do something you should at least have the BALLS to step up and admit to it.

*Yep, I said "balls."  Pick up your jaw.  Teachers are human, too, ya know.*


Before I could even stop myself, those words came out.  I was so aggravated with Johnny.  Worse, I was extremely pissed at myself for having allowed him to act in that manner for an entire semester without doing anything to correct it.

Needless to say, I received a visit from my principal the next morning.  Mr. Boatley was, and still is, the epitome of professionalism.  Furthermore, he was a stern, fatherly type who would express his disappointment in that extremely polite manner that made you want to crawl under a rock.  I felt just like I did that time in 5th grade when I went to the Principal's office for calling Donna Trahan the b-word.

The conversation went something like this:

"Mrs. LB, I hate to interrupt your class, but I just got off the phone with a parent.  Do you know Johnny Doe?  I believe he's in your fourth period economics class?  Yes, well his mother called me regarding an incident from yesterday.  Did you say something to Johnny about not having any balls?"

*crickets*

I nearly shit a brick right there.  In that hallway.  The lump in my throat was the size of Zimbabwe.  Yes, sir.  I'm afraid I did.  Though he didn't actually scold me, he didn't have to.  I hung my head in shame, and proceeded to recount the entire episode.  I apologized at which time he suggested that I do the same to Johnny. 

I did apologize to Johnny.  And his mother, for that matter.  Although Johnny made my life a living hell that year, my apology was sincere.  Oh, I meant what I said.  I still take issue with people refusing to accept responsibility for their actions.  That will never change.  However, I was sorry for having lost control.  And it bothered me even more to have disappointed Mr. Boatley.

* The company name was changed to protect those poor, innocent fools still working there.    

Letter to Crayola

Dear Mr. Crayola,

Can you please explain to me the specific definition of the term "Washable"?!?!?  Those words are clearly marked on your markers and crayons, however, I want to be perfectly clear about the actual meaning.  Obviously, my understanding of "washable" does not correlate to my experience with your washable markers. 

First of all, let me just say that I am a big fan.  I have been for years.  Crayola is the only brand used at our house.  Having grown up in a poor family where my parents only purchased off-brand, waxy crayons, I can honestly say that Crayola is the best.  Hands down!  And those twistable colored pencils and crayons???  Best inventions since the flushable butt wipe.  Bravo!!  Impeccable craftsmanship.  No wonder you are the preferred brand of the National Teacher's Association.

Which is why I am totally perplexed at this moment.  My concern is with washability of your markers -- every child's dream and every mother's nightmare.  Because markers are so messy, I was careful to buy those clearly marked "washable."   I assumed that they are labeled as such because the markings can be washed from surfaces and clothing.  But with what???  Is there some magic solution of which I am unaware?  Must Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny perform some form of holistic ritual in order to wash the markings away?? 

My 6 year old son, Messy Marvin, recently completed an entire mural using your markers.  Yes, I know.  I am pretty proud.  And scared.  The mural drawings depicted all the ways he could get rid of his sister.  Some were a bit, um, disturbing.  In his defense, she does the pester the crap out of him.

Any way...  As luck would have it, his mural was mostly on paper.  He did, however, manage to get a good bit on his church clothing and his small white table.  I'm talking black marker.  And blue.

This was last Sunday.  Since then I've used every surface cleaner known to man to remove the markings from the table, but to no avail.  Mr. Clean and an entire army of other shiny, bald guys could not get the black and blue marks off that table.  Short of repainting it (which will be a royal pain in my ass), I have no idea how to get that "washable" ink off my furniture!

As if that isn't bad enough, I have pre-treated, treated, soaked, and scrubbed his cute little Kelly's Kids outfit.  You know, the whale one with the turquoise polo and the brown seersucker shorts???  So adorable.  Yes, so I washed and washed because, well...ya know...the label on the markers says "Washable."  That outfit, by the way, was brand new.  The tags were still on it until last Sunday when Messy Marvin managed to ruin it in less than 20 minutes.

Even after exhausting all my laundry goddess skills, the markings remain.  As vibrant as when they were first made.  Did I mention this was a brand new outfit???? 

While it's hard for a goddess to admit, I need your prompt assistance with this matter.

Please tell me what the fuck you mean by "washable"?  Just how the hell am I supposed to remove washable marker from seersucker and wood?

If the markers are just a labeling joke on your part and the stains are permanent, I will need you to be available on Saturday from noon until 3:00 p.m.  You, sir, are going to paint that fucking table and do a little toilet cleaning to work off the clothing debt!

Sincerest Regards,


LB, Marvin's mom

It's So Hot...

My damn facebook news feed is full of temperature updates!  Okay, already...  I get it; it's HOT outside.  

In fact, it's so hot I saw a funeral procession stop at a snow cone stand.  

It's so hot, Michael Phelps tested positive for Snapple.

It's so hot, I can roast marshmallows in my belly button.

It's so hot, I can use my seat belt for a branding iron.

And if that's not hot enough for ya...

Well, it's hotter than a witch's tit in a brass bra.

It's hotter than menopause in July.

It's hotter than the pavement in Hell.

It's hotter than a pair of sweat pants at a barbecue.

Of course, this post would not be complete without me specifically conveying how hot I actually am.

I'm sweating like a whore in church.

I'm sweating like your mama at a paternity test.

I'm sweating like a big, fat, one-legged hooker working both sides of the street.

I'm sweating like a pig in a sausage factory.

I'm sweating like a $2 hooker on nickel night.

What about you?  What's the weather like in your neck of the woods???

Six Word Memoir

I know.  You're thinking, "Right, LB!  You've never said anything in six words.  EVER.  Even at birth, you screamed, Let me out of here before I have a complete meltdown."  I have to admit; this was challenging.  However, after 50 gazillion attempts, here it is!  Poetry.  LB style.

Infertility, God's test.
Faith.
Perseverance.
Blessed.

If you'd like to play along, hook up with my girl, Mama Kat at Mama's Losing It for her weekly writing prompts.  They rock!  And she does, too!  Real talk.