Author: avidbruxist

Oh, Those Kiwis

“Flight of the Conchords” has to be the funniest show on television.  Course, I don’t have television so I can’t be trusted.  But I do have NetFlix, and out of the shows that I NetFlix, it’s definitely the funniest.

Murray:  I can’t go back there!  I’m a persona non regatta.  Do you know what that is?

Jermaine:  You’re a person who’s not at a yacht race?

Murray:  That’s right.

Batter Up

I’m going to the North Carolina State Fair tomorrow.  Yeehaw!  Course, I’ll have 30 fourth graders with me, but whatever.

Fair food boggles my ever-lovin’ mind.  Don’t get me wrong, I love me an ear of roasted corn or a funnel cake.  And I don’t love candy apples or cotton candy or giant turkey legs (does anyone else think they should sell goblets of mead and horned helmets with those?) but I understand how one might enjoy them.  What I don’t get is all the deep-fried stuff.  Yes, I know a funnel cake is fried, but it’s not food unless you fry it.  I’m talking about the stuff that’s already food (and already horrible for you all on its very own!) even before you batter it and submerge it in hot oil:  Twinkies, candy bars, cheesecake, Oreos.  With the exception of Twinkies, I like all those things, and feel pretty sick from them, pre-fry.

(Last year, the big, new thing was Deep-Fried Coca-cola.  I imagined a glistening, coated cylinder of aluminum and wondered how you’d hold the damn thing without burning your fingers, but it turns out just to be a funnel cake with Coke, rather than water, in the recipe.  Now why would you go and fuck up something as sacred and delicious as fried dough?)

Dear Violet, Part 3

Dear Violet,

You know that I know that you know that I know that you’ve been sleeping in my bed while I’m at work.  Come now, I’m not that dirty.  I also don’t tend to put shoes on my bed.  I especially don’t tend to put ONE flip-flop and ONE sneaker on my bed.  So stop looking all yawny and waggy, with your ears back like “What?”, when you meet me in the kitchen when I get home.

Love,

Amy

P.S.  I love you anyway.

The Game

Redford gets so excited about the treat that he’ll get when he loads up into the car that sometimes he doesn’t wait for me to open the door before he tries to jump in.  He’s so pretty.

This morning, he did just that, and while I was fretting over his noggin, I dropped Violet’s leash.  She seized the opportunity to sprint toward the road, which of course made me freak out and run after her.  And then I remembered.  That’s her game.  As long as you chase her, she’ll run.  So I turned my attention back to my special needs son.  Sure enough, Violet came strolling back up the driveway and jumped in the car.

I was reminded of this kid, Michael, who I had my third year teaching in NY.  He was a handsome little guy, always in uniform:  navy pants, yellow button-down, navy tie.  (Some public schools in NY—mostly low socio-economic schools—opt to be uniform schools.)  Smart too.  But Michael was a desk-thrower.  And he cursed A LOT.  He’d have these fits where I’d have to evacuate the rest of the kids from the class and let him wreck the joint.  And sometimes he’d get mad and leave the classroom.  The first few times I ran after him.  I was worried he might hurt somebody or run out in the street and get hit by a bus or something.  About the fifth time, I don’t know, the novelty had worn off maybe, and it took me a little longer to follow him.  When I got into the hall, he was peeking back through the double doors to make sure I was coming.  That’s when I realized, he didn’t want to run away; he wanted to be chased.  Dogs and fourth-graders, man.

P.S.  I used to talk to Michael’s grandmother every day after school.  One Monday, I went out to tell her that he had a GREAT day.  I told her, “He was calm and focused.  He didn’t curse or have any tantrums.  He did all his work.”  She said, “Yeah, he started anti-psychotic meds on Saturday.”