Flying Food Particles OR Kids Are Gross

Monday is my volunteer day at the girls' school. I start with Writing Workshop in Vida's classroom, move on to 3rd/4th/5th grade yard duty (where I try to even things attention-wise by over-chatting with Risa), and finally head over to Lea's classroom to help with reading groups. I find all of this enjoyable and rewarding, with the pronounced exception of the 40 minutes I spend supervising the lunch tables.

Kids are gross.

They are so, so gross.

Unleashed after more than 3 classroom hours, they are like rabid feral beasts. They have no sense of personal space, and despite the fact that there is plenty of room to keep a good ten inches between their butts, they prefer to sit on top of each other the better to push and elbow and tickle and lean. They also like to scream directly into each other's ears. Everyone touches everyone else's food, and they are laughing and guffawing in a way that encourages semi-chewed food particles to fly out of their mouths and land, let's say, behind the ear of someone else.

Last week one of the kids picked up a handful of tater tots, smooshed them on top of his hamburger, and then covered the whole thing in two packets of mustard. The worst part? HE ATE IT. Someone didn't want their carton of milk, so I walked amongst the tables asking if anyone wanted it. This set off a frenzy between two boys, and I was only able to quiet them down when I told them they'd have to Ro Sham Bo for it (Ro Sham Bo works in a variety of situations, actually, and because there is always a clear winner when using the "best of 3" option, there is never any argument afterwards). One kid asked me if he thought he needed plastic surgery. I told him I'd get back to him next week. Another scowled when I said I liked his haircut. One kid's garbage was free floating all over the place. "'Scuse me, Mister," said I. "Can you please pick up your garbage?" He then rolled his eyes, which ignited a stare-off between us.

I won.

I Prefer Silence, Plus The Very Loud Bookstore Warlock

I have escaped to my bedroom for some peace.

Do not tell my children where I am.

They are in the dining room playing round after round of "Connect 4," and the noise level is alarming.

I repeat: do not tell my children where I am.

I don't know how to explain this recent oversensitivity to noise; it's not like my home SUDDENLY became noisy, after all. Last night I couldn't bear the surround sound in the den and chose to express my dismay by saying, "Oh. My. GOD," every few minutes. Lately, I am constantly turning down music, constantly glaring at people who project their voices unnecessarily in hushed places like the library or even certain cafes.

This seems as good a time as any to introduce you to one of the banes of my existence: the very loud warlock who works at one of my local bookstores.

I have nothing against warlocks in general (at least I don't THINK I do), but I do have something against warlocks who are forever shouting about how they are warlocks and explaining their warlock jewelry and special warlock powers and the significance of their tiny little warlock finger tattoos so that the entire store can hear. And also, this warlock is forever directing unsuspecting customers to his personal areas of interest rather than catering to them. Here is a 99.7% true example:

UNSUSPECTING CUSTOMER: Can you tell me where to find the THE KAMA SUTRA?

VERY LOUD WARLOCK: THE KAMA SUTRA? Well, that's okay, I guess, but have you ever heard of THE SECRETS OF TOTALLY AWESOME WARLOCK SEX? I only ask because I have it on my own shelf at home, and it's a terrific reference.

UNSUSPECTING CUSTOMER: Oh? Well, no. I was really looking for...

VERY LOUD WARLOCK: Are you familiar with the double trilogy boxed set of WARLOCK WISDOM/WARLOCK WONDER? NO? You've never heard of it? I find that hard to believe. I'm a little disappointed, to tell the truth. It was a phenomenon in the book publishing industry. Absolutely a phenomenon. I see you're looking at my ring!

UNSUSPECTING CUSTOMER: No, I'm not. I...

VERY LOUD WARLOCK (conspiratorially): Everybody looks at my ring! They're attracted to its power. I'm a warlock...

I can be standing 200 feet away from the guy, and I can hear him. Sometimes I just crouch near the magazines, cover my ears, and scream silently. And then the spousal unit laughs at me. "You better watch it," he says, while spinning his arms around. "He might gather the dark forces." And then I say, "Foolish! Hasn't he said a million times that he uses his power only for good, never for evil?"

The same cannot be said of me.

The Calm Before the Storm or Ver's Tale of Terrible Women

I'm in an odd limbo state at the moment, calmly awaiting what I am sure will be the mother of all back-to-school meltdowns from one, some, or all of my kids. For now, all is well and, in fact, I have never witnessed such eager-beaver-ness from my brood. But as sure as I'm blogging here, drama will unfold. And until it does, and I successfully set things right, I just don't have the room in my head to re-start all of the things that I seem to have put on hold since June. Writing things, mostly, I think. Although it should be noted (by me, not by you, dear ones), that I did, somehow, finish a story this summer.

Speaking of meltdowns, I've had quite a few in the last two days. Little spasms of horror, tiny moments of wanting to do violence. Mothers who are new to the school and for whom our school is pointedly NOT their first, second, or even third choice, have uttered some of the most bigoted and willfully ignorant things I have ever had the displeasure of hearing in conversation. At one point, I was sandwiched between two of these horrible beings, attempting—much to my permanent shame—to make them feel better. I'm flailing; I don't know how to deal with such women. Women who say their daughters have no one with whom they can "identify" in their class. Who wonder out loud why all the kids who can't yet speak English are not kept in one classroom. Who refuse to believe there is even the SLIGHTEST possibility that a child of color and lower socioeconomic background might be as brilliant and capable as their own. Who refuse to acknowledge the existence of mothers who are not carrying the right bag or who have not been botoxed to within an inch of their sad, sorry lives.

It's not that I can't think of a hundred smart-ass, cutting retorts; I can. But that's the easy way out, and for some reason I'm willing to work at this (maybe I should do like AD and invoke the patron saint of lost causes). Earlier today, I was wondering why, exactly, these women believe their children are better than the other children. And then I realized maybe they're afraid they AREN'T. Fear being the root of all evil and whatnot...

Yes, I Know: We All Look Alike

Late last night I received an e-mail from my lovely friend, K., who is half Korean and half Caucasian. She said she was at the gym when a woman with whom we have both been friendly for about four years, started chatting with her. After several minutes, K. realized that this woman had mistaken her for me, thus necessitating an awkward correction.

Indignant and infuriated, was I. Of course I shot back a reactionary e-mail. You know, I've had it with her, I began. Earlier this year, when another mutual friend, P., put his arm around her for a quick hug, she said, "Most Asian men aren't physical. You are the most physical Asian man I know!"

*eye roll*

What would lead her to make such a ridiculous, not to mention—hello!—completely random statement? And then she mistakes K. for me when, in fact, K. and I look nothing alike? And even after an inordinately long time, she couldn't even self-correct? And we've both known her for years? How lame is that? So I sent all this in an e-mail to K., who calmly replied...

You know, I really think she's just a space cadet.

Ah, yes. But a space cadet of whom I am now officially weary.

Spineless Blogging Or, If You Prefer, Blogging Without Balls

Hmmm.

I just wrote a whole big ol' long entry and then decided not to post it. I've censored myself plenty of times before even typing the first word, but this constitutes the first time in at least a year that I opted not to hit "publish" on a completed post. This makes me think of the charming AD and how he sometimes publishes and then un-publishes a post. And it brings to mind, yet again, the idea of boundaries and what we choose to reveal and not reveal about ourselves here in blogland.

In the post-that-will-never-be, I referred to the recent Helena Maria Viramontes interview in P & W and how I was intrigued by the way she likened the act of writing to the act of prayer. Now, maybe I have heard this analogy before and maybe I haven't. Regardless, this is the first time that it caught my fancy. Like prayer, writing requires stillness, reflection, reverance, and a desire to locate truth in what can be a confusing existence. Like prayer, the act of writing can be communal or personal. So, I like this idea of writing as meditation, writing as prayer.

The rest of my post-that-will-never-be was inspired by the book Parenting Beyond Belief. Well, really, since I don't have the book yet, it was inspired by the website's FAQ, which can be found when you scroll down here, and included complaints about insufferably creepy things like...female servitude, intolerance, absolutism, fear mongering, hypocrisy, and the curbing of inquiry. Regarding the latter: I was once at a service (non-Catholic, by the way) where the priest declared rhetorically and with infuriating pomposity, "I don't care what you think; what do the great thinkers say?" It was all I could do to keep from reaching into my purse and ninja starring him with my trusty Pigma Micron Pen.

And so, anyways, what you just read was my original post minus, um, balls.

Re-Thinking That Vacation to Greece

According to this week's New York Times Magazine cover story...

"The Greek word for maid is Filipineza."

Testy

Tonight I'm joining some other parents in support of our teachers as they make their case for a pay raise in front of the School Board. We are welcome to speak, but I'm so angry about the whole situation that the extent of my eloquence is likely to be, "You know...you know...you know...this is shameful."

And something tells me that won't help much.

It would take a near-catastrophe to persuade me to consider sending my kids to private school. I'm just one of those people who believes strongly in the idea—or is it a dream? I'm thinking maybe it's a dream—of public education. I know I've said this before, but I will repeat myself because it's my blog: I cannot envision what benefits my children could glean from sitting in a classroom full of kids who are exactly like them in terms of culture and economics. How does that prepare them for the actual world? I mean no offense to private school proponents (kids have different needs, and I respect the decisions that parents make to meet those needs); I'm just saying I don't get it. At least not for my family.

This salary business does not qualify as a near-catastrophe for me (though it could for the teachers, of course); I'll continue to throw my weight behind my neighborhood public elementary school. But someone ought to know that I do not appreciate this fucking about with my idealism. It's making me so testy.

Not testy enough, however, to say what I wanted to say to a woman who stopped me yesterday morning as I was leaving the school. She was in her car, and her entire face wore a frazzled and needlessly dramatic expression. She was all pleading eyes and oh-please-help-me-ness:

She [pointing to Lea]: Does she go here?
Me: She'll start Kindergarten in the Fall. I have two daughters here already, though.
She: I just don't know what to do! I'm on the waiting list at two private schools, so I need to enroll somewhere, but I just don't know about this school. Everyone says the kids don't speak English.
Me [wondering how any reasonably intelligent person could believe this is even possible]: That's a huge misconception. We have several parents who don't speak English, but I have never met a student who doesn't speak English.
She [doubtful]: So you're happy here?
Me: Um, I'm ecstatic here.
She: Because I'm such an involved parent, you know.
Me [wondering how—if she is involved as she claims—she knows nothing about the school in her neighborhood]: Oh, well that's great.

And on it went, her blithely lobbing insults wrapped in the sugar coating of concerned parenthood, and me biting my lip and trying to answer in a way that did not sabotage the public relations we have worked to build for the last four years. The thing is...if you strip away all the civility, what she was really asking was whether or not her precious offspring would catch cooties from all the brown kids, and what I was really saying was you are a small, small person.

See? Testy.

Why I Am Not a Teacher

Yesterday, I helped Risa's class in the science lab. Today, I helped Vida's. It was the second time that each class had been to this new and rightfully exalted campus hotspot.

Each class was broken down into teams of four to work on the same task. A task, I was informed, that would take three sessions (this being the second) to complete. I was all Three sessions? What're they doing—cloning a bevy of small animals? In fact, no. All they had to do was inventory large storage boxes filled with various building pieces: axles, wheels, tubes, etc. Each team had a Recorder, Retriever, Sorter, and Counter.

I was directed to shrug my shoulders in the exaggerated manner of a circus clown any time a child asked me a question. The Head Science Lady explained, "We want them to figure everything out themselves."

Well, the whole "figuring everything out themselves" was the problem right there, folks. Because, really, how long could I be expected to watch these little kids completely butcher their assignment without screaming, "What are you? CRAZY? Why are the four of you just sticking your heads in the box? Sit up, take that shit out, sort it, count it, and write it down. For the love of honeybees and dovetail swallows, get your heads out of the box."

So, yeah. That's why I'm not a teacher. And why I'm sometimes a very bad mom (although never with the potty mouth, I swear).

Dirty Bastard & Dancing Queens

Could this be true? Everyone knows he's capable of much worse, so I certainly wouldn't put this juvenile bullshit past him:

Karl Rove has been bragging for weeks about his "72-hour program" to swing the elections, which predict a Democratic takeover of Congress.

Now we know what it is: a dirty trick campaign using robocalls.

The calls are made to Democrats and swing voters at all times of day or night to make them angry. And they pretend to be from the Democrat ("Hello, I'm calling with information about Lois Murphy"). If you hang up, they call back 7-8 times, and each time you hear the Democrat's name, to get you angry at him or her. If you stay on, you get to hear a scathing attack on the Democrat.

via Democrats.com

Whatever. Just make sure to vote tomorrow so we can start cleaning up this ridiculous mess.

Now onto the Dancing Queens portion of this post:

Had I known that so much fun could be had while clad entirely in non-breathing fabric, I would have made vastly different wardrobe choices during my life. And if I had known the deep level of satisfaction that could be attained while spinning around singing "Dancing Queen" as colored lights flashed all about, I would have made vastly different leisure choices. And another thing? Fondue is really good.

One of my friends was wearing a red jumpsuit and a gold "SuperFox" necklace. I was so jealous.