I was watching Family Feud when Elliot came up to me with a hot-pink comb and asked if she could brush my hair. I put her on my lap, took off my hat, and told her, “Sure.”
She grabbed a fistful of hair, stabbed me repeatedly in the forehead, and then ripped the clump of hair out.
"Be careful!" I yelled.
She dropped the comb, grabbed two fistfuls of hair, yanked them alternately, and sang “Shake your booty!”
I told her that was enough and set her on the floor, but in an instant she climbed back up, recovered the comb, and attempted to saw my ear off. I yelped, pushed her aside, and ran to the bathroom. I wasn't bleeding, but things were looking a bit thinner up there.
I didn’t dare come out. I could hear her on the other side of the door. She walked back and forth, dragging the comb across the door, quietly singing: “I comb your hair. I comb your hair.”
“Go away!” I yelled.
After a minute or so, she went quiet. But I knew she was there, pink comb in one hand, clump of hair in the other. I turned out the light, slowly opened the door, and peeked into the hallway.
There was no sign of her.
I didn’t know if I should run for the bedroom or stay put. But then, to my relief, I heard Griffin squeal from the family room, “Get off of me! You’re hurting me! No shake your booty! No shake your booty!”
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Future English Teacher
I woke up early this morning to finish writing a book review. I was plugging away at the computer, book open in my lap, when Miles, my seven-year-old son, walked over to see what I was doing. He leaned against the computer desk—pajama-clad with wild hair—looked at the screen, down at the book, and back at the screen. “You know it’s illegal to copy out of books,” he said.
“Oh,” I said, and continued typing. “Where did you hear that?”
“My teacher told me.”
“Well I’m not copying,” I said. “I’m writing about the book.”
“Hmmm…” he said. “So you’re like quoting and putting it in your own words and stuff?”
“Yup," I said. "That’s what I’m doing.”
“Good,” he said. “Just making sure.”
“Oh,” I said, and continued typing. “Where did you hear that?”
“My teacher told me.”
“Well I’m not copying,” I said. “I’m writing about the book.”
“Hmmm…” he said. “So you’re like quoting and putting it in your own words and stuff?”
“Yup," I said. "That’s what I’m doing.”
“Good,” he said. “Just making sure.”
Monday, March 2, 2009
Procrastination
Hypocrisy isn’t something to be ashamed of. We should recognize it and embrace it. If we ever truly convince ourselves that we’re not hypocrites, then we have lost our ability to be self critical, which is a sad state of affairs.
My weekly hypocrisy comes in the form of procrastination. I’m writing this, in fact, while avoiding two papers that I should have finished and emailed to my professor five hours ago. I could blame Will.I.Am blaring on my PC speakers (“I like ‘em Chunky”), or the episode of Medium playing in the other room, but the real culprit is this deep-seated feeling of “I don’t want to, and you can’t make me!”
I sent an email to my students a few weeks back where I actually told them, “Please don’t wait until the last minute to write this essay. Take your time and have fun with it.”
Take your time and have fun with it? I’m working on my third English degree and I’ve never taken my time and had fun with any writing assignment. I even capped off the email with, “Leave yourself plenty of time to revise, because that’s when the fun really starts!”
I wrote that. For reals. Exclamation point and all. I would have hated myself as a teacher. Pile on the homework, give me strict deadlines, make me respond to boring articles, but don’t send me happy emails with exclamation points saying it’s going to be fun.
The world doesn’t need another writing cheerleader.
Maybe I should take a more realistic approach in my next email:
Class –
Your essay is due in a few hours, and I’m sure you’re just getting started. I know that writing this paper sucks, but just think of how badly it sucks for me having to read them. You only have to write one of these stinkers. I have to read twenty-five of them. So please, for the love of all things holy, try to make them interesting. If that’s not possible, just staple a twenty to the back and call it good. Either way, you’re all getting a C.
P.S. If you’re having fun writing your essay, you need help.
P.P.S. I put office hours on my syllabus because my boss told me to. My door really isn’t open—please leave me alone.
My weekly hypocrisy comes in the form of procrastination. I’m writing this, in fact, while avoiding two papers that I should have finished and emailed to my professor five hours ago. I could blame Will.I.Am blaring on my PC speakers (“I like ‘em Chunky”), or the episode of Medium playing in the other room, but the real culprit is this deep-seated feeling of “I don’t want to, and you can’t make me!”
I sent an email to my students a few weeks back where I actually told them, “Please don’t wait until the last minute to write this essay. Take your time and have fun with it.”
Take your time and have fun with it? I’m working on my third English degree and I’ve never taken my time and had fun with any writing assignment. I even capped off the email with, “Leave yourself plenty of time to revise, because that’s when the fun really starts!”
I wrote that. For reals. Exclamation point and all. I would have hated myself as a teacher. Pile on the homework, give me strict deadlines, make me respond to boring articles, but don’t send me happy emails with exclamation points saying it’s going to be fun.
The world doesn’t need another writing cheerleader.
Maybe I should take a more realistic approach in my next email:
Class –
Your essay is due in a few hours, and I’m sure you’re just getting started. I know that writing this paper sucks, but just think of how badly it sucks for me having to read them. You only have to write one of these stinkers. I have to read twenty-five of them. So please, for the love of all things holy, try to make them interesting. If that’s not possible, just staple a twenty to the back and call it good. Either way, you’re all getting a C.
P.S. If you’re having fun writing your essay, you need help.
P.P.S. I put office hours on my syllabus because my boss told me to. My door really isn’t open—please leave me alone.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Friday, January 23, 2009
When Crazy Calls
Yesterday, while waiting alone in a classroom for a seminar to start, I overheard a male student in the hall yelling at someone. I walked to the door and saw a scrawny pizza-faced kid yelling at Mary, an extremely sweet-hearted teacher of ours. “I’m going to the dean on Friday, and you’ll never work here again. I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!”
Each time he yelled “I hate you,” his voice rose and he swatted at his face. The guy was obviously cuckoo for cocoa puffs.
It was one of those moments where I should have leapt into action and made sure everything was OK, but as the adrenaline kicked in, I found myself stepping behind the door jam. I peeked around the corner and hoped the little freak would finish his tantrum and leave. But he didn’t. He just kept yelling while spit dangled from his mouth.
I’m terrified of crazy people. I could ride comfortably on a bus full of grouchy gang members, but if I see a slipper-footed old lady get on the bus, talking to herself and caressing a shoe, I start looking for the exit. I don’t do crazy.
As I hunkered behind the door, I had a quick vision of Elliott from Law and Order asking me where I was when the crime occurred, and why I didn’t intervene (I know, he’s special victims, but still…).
“This wasn’t in the job description,” I muttered and grabbed a pen off the table. I stepped into the hall, trying to look casual, not knowing what my plan was. Maybe I was hoping he’d see the pen and think, “Wow, I really need to reassess my objectives here.”
But just then a male professor stepped around the corner and asked if everything was alright.
“Yeah,” I said, in my manliest voice. “Everything OK?”
The kid yelled one last “I hate you,” and ran to the exit. The three of us stood and watched him try to slam the old wooden door, but he couldn’t get enough weight behind it. He opened and closed the door three times, and each time it only made a gentle fwump. From the stairwell, we heard, “I hate all of you.”
Mary just waved it off. “I’m fine,” she said and went back in her office.
“That was weird,” I said to the professor. I punched the palm of my hand. “I thought I was going to have to bust some skulls.”
He didn’t respond. He just walked off, and there I stood, my hands shaking, feeling like I needed to puke.
Each time he yelled “I hate you,” his voice rose and he swatted at his face. The guy was obviously cuckoo for cocoa puffs.
It was one of those moments where I should have leapt into action and made sure everything was OK, but as the adrenaline kicked in, I found myself stepping behind the door jam. I peeked around the corner and hoped the little freak would finish his tantrum and leave. But he didn’t. He just kept yelling while spit dangled from his mouth.
I’m terrified of crazy people. I could ride comfortably on a bus full of grouchy gang members, but if I see a slipper-footed old lady get on the bus, talking to herself and caressing a shoe, I start looking for the exit. I don’t do crazy.
As I hunkered behind the door, I had a quick vision of Elliott from Law and Order asking me where I was when the crime occurred, and why I didn’t intervene (I know, he’s special victims, but still…).
“This wasn’t in the job description,” I muttered and grabbed a pen off the table. I stepped into the hall, trying to look casual, not knowing what my plan was. Maybe I was hoping he’d see the pen and think, “Wow, I really need to reassess my objectives here.”
But just then a male professor stepped around the corner and asked if everything was alright.
“Yeah,” I said, in my manliest voice. “Everything OK?”
The kid yelled one last “I hate you,” and ran to the exit. The three of us stood and watched him try to slam the old wooden door, but he couldn’t get enough weight behind it. He opened and closed the door three times, and each time it only made a gentle fwump. From the stairwell, we heard, “I hate all of you.”
Mary just waved it off. “I’m fine,” she said and went back in her office.
“That was weird,” I said to the professor. I punched the palm of my hand. “I thought I was going to have to bust some skulls.”
He didn’t respond. He just walked off, and there I stood, my hands shaking, feeling like I needed to puke.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
CSI: Idaho
Reading through my childhood journals, I notice two recurring compulsions: I apologize any time more than a week goes by without writing, and I meticulously document what I ate for dinner.
June 1st, 1989. Sorry I haven’t written for so long. I’ve been busy. Tonight we ate pork chops with rice pilaf and dinner rolls. I ate two pork chops, but I didn’t like the dinner rolls.
I’d like to say I’ve evolved since then, but I feel compelled to apologize for not blogging these last few weeks, and to inform you I had a Cup O’ Noodles and pretzels for dinner. The pretzels were stale. I found them in my office.
My wife makes fun of the rote detail of my journal entries.
Today in typing class we learned the letters J and F.
Today we learned Y and T. I have a hard time hitting the Y.
But who else knows the exact day they learned to hit the Q without looking at the keyboard? I do. October 19th, 1991. It was a special day for me. We had meatloaf for dinner.
I like to think that someday the team from CSI could accurately reconstruct my 7th grade typing class.
“She couldn’t have gone missing that Friday,” Horatio will say, taking off his sunglasses. “They were learning the H and G that week, and the victim’s finger clearly shows stretching of the tendons. That could have only happened on a B or Y day, which didn’t occur until two weeks later.”
“But we found remnants of corn dog and tater tots in her teeth,” Delko will rebut. “And according to this journal, they were served on October 5th, but not again until November 27th.”
Horatio, framed by the setting sun and a pine tree, will let out a long, calculated sigh. “The journal doesn’t lie,” he’ll say. “It’s boring, but it doesn’t lie.”
Perhaps I’ve gotten past journaling the minutia of my life, but it’s hardly any more worthy of NBC primetime. I could tell you how I learned today that Oliver Wendell Holmes, as a Supreme Court judge, favored the uncertainty of pragmatism over the immutable platonist "Truths" (with a capital T) of his antebellum youth. But is that really CSI material?
Maybe House could pull it off. He could find the connection between Holmes, the Cup O' Noodles, and the weird itch in my belly button.
June 1st, 1989. Sorry I haven’t written for so long. I’ve been busy. Tonight we ate pork chops with rice pilaf and dinner rolls. I ate two pork chops, but I didn’t like the dinner rolls.
I’d like to say I’ve evolved since then, but I feel compelled to apologize for not blogging these last few weeks, and to inform you I had a Cup O’ Noodles and pretzels for dinner. The pretzels were stale. I found them in my office.
My wife makes fun of the rote detail of my journal entries.
Today in typing class we learned the letters J and F.
Today we learned Y and T. I have a hard time hitting the Y.
But who else knows the exact day they learned to hit the Q without looking at the keyboard? I do. October 19th, 1991. It was a special day for me. We had meatloaf for dinner.
I like to think that someday the team from CSI could accurately reconstruct my 7th grade typing class.
“She couldn’t have gone missing that Friday,” Horatio will say, taking off his sunglasses. “They were learning the H and G that week, and the victim’s finger clearly shows stretching of the tendons. That could have only happened on a B or Y day, which didn’t occur until two weeks later.”
“But we found remnants of corn dog and tater tots in her teeth,” Delko will rebut. “And according to this journal, they were served on October 5th, but not again until November 27th.”
Horatio, framed by the setting sun and a pine tree, will let out a long, calculated sigh. “The journal doesn’t lie,” he’ll say. “It’s boring, but it doesn’t lie.”
Perhaps I’ve gotten past journaling the minutia of my life, but it’s hardly any more worthy of NBC primetime. I could tell you how I learned today that Oliver Wendell Holmes, as a Supreme Court judge, favored the uncertainty of pragmatism over the immutable platonist "Truths" (with a capital T) of his antebellum youth. But is that really CSI material?
Maybe House could pull it off. He could find the connection between Holmes, the Cup O' Noodles, and the weird itch in my belly button.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Fiction 101: Fun with Elves
Santa had flown all night, despite having the flu. Somewhere in Tulsa he instructed Don Fabio, his chief elf, to deliver the toys—strictly taboo—while Santa shivered and moaned on the sleigh’s floorboards.
There was a ruckus below. Glass shattered. Words were exchanged. Don Fabio never returned.
Santa pulled himself into the seat and snapped the reigns. The sleigh groaned and popped as the reindeer leapt over an alley and landed atop another set of track houses. Santa slouched down, took a swig of cocoa, and gently punched the knee of Lord Willy, his newly-promoted chief elf. “You’re up.”
[Note: Boise Weekly holds a “Fiction 101” contest each year. The rules are simple: write a short story in exactly 101 words. While I have never entered the contest, I write these Fiction 101’s to kill time at work.]
There was a ruckus below. Glass shattered. Words were exchanged. Don Fabio never returned.
Santa pulled himself into the seat and snapped the reigns. The sleigh groaned and popped as the reindeer leapt over an alley and landed atop another set of track houses. Santa slouched down, took a swig of cocoa, and gently punched the knee of Lord Willy, his newly-promoted chief elf. “You’re up.”
[Note: Boise Weekly holds a “Fiction 101” contest each year. The rules are simple: write a short story in exactly 101 words. While I have never entered the contest, I write these Fiction 101’s to kill time at work.]
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