Back On the Scene. Really, I'm just bored.

Ummm. My son will never start a blog only to let it die a slow, painful death. So a lot has changed since we last chatted. First of all, I re-read my original postings and they were OK. Not great, not horrible. Just OK. Hopefully this time around is a bit better. Maybe I'll actually stick with it this time. Maybe I'll actually entertain this time. Who am I kidding, I entertain myself every day. You want to know what's REALLY entertaining right now? I live in my parents basement. Yup. Almost 30 years old. Married. Kid. Living with the 'rents. It's not as bad as it sounds (because I think it sounds pretty bad). My husband and I inherited some land and we are building a house. Soon. We put our house on the market because, well, things around here just aren't selling so we didn't know how long it would take. It only took a couple of months. So we found ourselves homeless. And here we are. Literally. Right here. In my parents basement. Typing a blog.

So let's see. Funny teaching stories. Oh. And the boobs. You'd like me to explain the boobs. It's summer, so they're not fresh right now. The teaching stories aren't fresh. The boobs are fresh. I guess. Can boobs be fresh? Anyway. We were trying to get our kids to study this year and giving them different strategies as well as many many bonus points so they would please not fail for the love of God we can't make this any easier for you. So one day I gave them all a bunch of notecards. I told them to go home and write their vocab and definitions down on the notecards. If they did that and brought them back the next day, not only would they get extra credit, but also I would flash them. Wait. Think about it. Now you get it! Unfortunately so did about 6 of the kids and my co-teacher. Just enough to make me bright red and then die of laughter. After that it was over. I couldn't get them back under control before the bell rang. Little bastards. NONE of them did their notecards except one sweet little girl who never even realized what had happened. I guess my boobs aren't quite the bribe they used to be. Damn breastfeeding.

So anyway. We're basement living. Gus thinks it's the best thing ever to live with his Mimi and his Pops. I think he still loves me best, but we'll see how that all plays out depending on how long we are here.

My son will never love any of his teachers more than he loves me even if she promises to flash him.

We're going somewhere nice. Like TGIFriday's or Olive Garden.

My little dance team that I coach at my high school had a competition this weekend. They did better than I thought they would, considering they really don't like each other all that much. They are pretty bitchy to each other most of the time and have even been so kind as to post some choice words about myself and the other coach on their very private ("What? I only have 362 buddies. No one even saw it. And you had no right to look at it.") myspace pages. But, even with all of the nonsense I've dealt with this year, they continue to redeem themselves every once in a while. For instance, one of them made a homemade card for me the other night after an especially long week of practice. And when they are hurting they still come to us for comfort, and passes to be late to class.

So this past week my in-laws took Gus for an evening and the next day so he could visit with Santa. I wanted to take advantage of the baby-less evening and go out to dinner without being rushed. After trying to decides where I would like to go, and having John stuck in traffic I settled on a little, cheap, yummy Mexican place near our house. While it is indeed a sit down restaurant, I would barely call it a step up from Chipotle. Actually, I wouldn't call it a step up from Chipotle at all, but I like it. About 3 people at work asked me the next day where I went for my hot date. I was actually a bit embarrassed to tell them. That is the difference between me and the 14 year olds. After the competition was over as the girls were leaving, two of my freshmen were taking extra time and getting ready to go somewhere. I asked them if they had big plans for the night and they very excitedly told me "We're going out for dinner. Somewhere nice. Like TGIFriday's or Olive Garden." I almost fell out of my seat. They explained to me that "At least it's not fast food. You get to sit down and everything."

My son will never refer to TGIFriday's or Olive Garden as somewhere nice (even if I have to give him the extra money for an upgrade on his very first homecoming date and even if his date says she once went to this one nice place after a dance competition and maybe they should go there again).

Mother of the Year (or Why My Son Will Never Be A Product of His Environment)

This is what happened today during bathtime. Usually I begin to fill up the tub and undress him while the water is running. Then I pick him up and put him in the bath. Not today. Today my son decided that he didn't need me to help him. Instead, he crawled into the bath on his own. I will admit, I was not in the room when that happened. Don't go calling the authorities, I do this ALL THE TIME (wow, that looks bad when you actually put it in writing). I don't know how he actually got in the bath, but I do know this: a) he was fully dressed, and b) his hair was not wet at all. So. It was a safe and effective way for him to get in the bathtub. Our bath routine will change beginning tomorrow. Mommy doesn't get to change out of her work clothes while the water is running.

Now. For the part about my son never being a product of his environment. I teach a loooooow group of kids this year. Freshman who have yet to pass their 8th grade SOL tests. We are to help them pass their 8th grade tests while simultaneously (magically, even) teaching them the material to help them pass their 9th grade tests, too. Anyway. To make a long story short, I have a population of kids this year that truly are products of their environment. When I make the calls about discipline or see the parents picking up their kids I think to myself, honestly, that some of these kids didn't stand a chance. Just look at their parents. They probably left their kids unattended during bathtime or something horrible like that...

My son will never have a teacher call him a product of his environment (even if his parents are kind of idiots).

Vanilla K-Fed Baby dum dum didy dum du dunup

Oh. You know you watched it. And since school is not back in session yet, and I am running low on dumb teenagers to make fun of, I will make fun of my boy Kevin Federline. First let me start by saying how embarrassed I was that in my own head I thought "You know, he's not half-bad looking." But then he had to go and open his damn mouth. I'm talking about the Teen Choice Awards people! You know, the show last night with the TWO WORST CO-HOSTS EVER (but that's for a different day). (OK. Maybe it's for now. But just real quick. How glad was Nick that he is not married to that dumb bimbo anymore? Could she have been any stupider? And Dane who? He sucked! I think he's a stand up comedian. Last night just put the nail in the coffin for him. What a loser!) Anyway, I watched mostly the whole show so as not to miss the debut of K-Fed. Within the first 4 words I realized that he REALLY IS Vanilla Ice! Seriously. I was having flashbacks of the 5th grade when Vanilla was kickin' it one time, boyeeeeee! Laugh if you will, but Federshit is gonna be big. Mark my words. I've seen it before with Vanilla. Every generation needs one, and these kids just got theirs. Congratulations, Kevin. My apologies.

My son will never be a back-up dancer turned boy toy turned grown-up wigger turned rap star phenom.

8 Days?!

I can't believe it's been 8 days since my last entry. Not that anyone reads. Not that anyone has been sitting on the edge of their seat. Not that my audience has been let down. But it's theraputic for me. I need it right now.

Yes. I'm feeling kind of sorry for myself right now. I've had a shitty week and a half at work, plus Gus had a shitty doctor's appointment in the middle of it all. His doctor basically told me my kid was delayed because he does not do the following: sit up on his own, pull himself in to the standing position, say "Mama" or "Dada", play interactive games with me, eat solid foods, count to ten, recite the pythagorean theory, OR get his bid in in time for the Virginia primaries (which he would have won, hands down). F that. I wouldn't say that I'm a worrier, but now when my kid babbles I find myself thinking it's not good enough; when he's sitting and playing, I find myself wondering why he can't crawl; when I give him a sippy cup I find myself wondering why he doesn't know how it works; when I call his name, I find myself wondering why he doesn't care to respond unless I'm performing a song and dance. Damn doctor. A week ago I thought his babbling was the most precious thing; a week ago I was grateful that I could leave the room for a second without thinking he was crawling toward an accident waiting to happen; a week ago I was impressed at his strength while he used his sippy cup as a sledgehammer; a week ago the highlight of my day was doing backflips while saying his name to get him to look at me. A week ago I knew I still had a week left of work before I would be the sole person responsible for my kid's daily stimulation. I guess that's it. I'm scared that when I have to do this mom thing all day every day for the entire summer, I won't be good enough. I don't even know the pythagorean theory.

My son will never listen to people who only want to point out his flaws and let them FREAK HIM OUT OH MY GOD MY SON IS SLOOOOOOW!

Wow. I feel better already. That last part made me laugh. Seriously. He's frickin' perfect. Always has been. He's just waiting for when mommy is home with him to do all the cool stuff because he knew I wouldn't want to miss it for anything.

Girls Night Out.

Or in. Whatever. The point is, I had a girls' night. Yip! With adults and wine and everything. And funny stories about teaching. FUNNY. Man, you haven't lived until you've been a kindergarten teacher and you have kids who declare "I speak horse." And then kids who are jealous of the horse whisperer and declare "I know what the ants in the ant farm are saying. I speak bug." That's some funny shit right there. Plus, the wine. Not pink, cheap, sweet low-class stuff. Real wine. That gets you a bit drunk. And sleepy. My husband just asked "Whatcha doin?" Nothing. Going to bed. I've hit the backspace key so much my pinky is about to fall off. Id i hadno't, ths post wpould all have olooke liek this and you woeuldn't have been abelt o read it.

Oh yeah. Myh son will never even dream of not being aperfect angel like he was tongiht for mommy's firls night out. Brcause he is so sweet. the sweetest, even. the best babay bot ever. BFF.

She Out-Skanks Herself Everyday

*Note: This entry is about no one person in particular. Especially not the person pictured above. I just needed a picture to represent the generic idea of what a skank would look like. And the clothes, or lack thereof.

So I've worked at two different high schools. The first one I worked at was run by a horrible aweful dictator bitch-ass principal. My "duty" period consisted of standing by the front door every morning before first period and being the clothes police. In a mall, being the clothes police would be fun. There are offenders abound! Hell, my own father is guilty of wearing the occasional brown belt with black shoes and really really really pulled up high shorts. But in a school you are not there to judge the coordination of the outfit, you are there simply to make sure people are appropriately dressed. Man did the kids hate me. "Excuse me miss, do you have a sweater to put over that tank top? It's in your locker? Go get it and show me that you have it on or you'll be called down from first period and be given a referral." You think I'm joking. My job depended on how I performed this one task alone. On some mornings the bitch-ass principal would stand in the front office and bang on the glass and wave frantically to get my attention if I let a perp get past me. I hated every second of it.

Now to the flip side. High school number 2 is a different school in a different county. There are almost 3 times the number of students. At this school they worry about test scores and tardies, not the dress code. Good, right? WRONG! I never thought I'd say this, but I miss the days of telling a young lady that her outfit was not appropriate for school and then her actually having to do something about it!

At lunch today my friend asked if I knew a particular student. I said I did not, why? Her response was "She dresses like a total skank. You think Monday's outfit is bad and then you see her on Tuesday! She out-skanks herself everyday." I almost spit my cafeteria milk across the table.

Mothers out there, listen to me! Please, please do not let your 16 year old daughter out-skank herself on a regular basis. If they do, they will never be able to marry nice boys like Gus, because...

My son will never bring home a girl who out-skanks herself on the second date.