Parker, Parkour

Background...
My bed is about a gazillion feet off the floor.   When we bought the new mattress and box springs, we didn't realize that putting them on our bed frame would make their combined height about five foot.   I exaggerate by only about 2 inches.

Background...
Parkour for those who don't know is trying to get from point A to point B in the most direct path.  This involves running, jumping over obstacles, and basically acting a fool.  The Kid is really good at one of the three.

I'll let you guess which one.

The story.....
There I am, lying in bed, letting my phone charge, and generally being lazy on a weekend morning, when she comes running in.

"Parker! Parker!" she screams at the top of her lungs shattering the morning calm and screeching as though perhaps someone named Parker has broken in and is chasing her.

Confused, my mind immediately goes to 70s heartthrob Parker Stevenson of the Hardy Boys.   I always knew I would marry him in my little 8 year old brain.  Apparently, he finally got the memo and is coming for me in my old age thirties.

Dreamy, isn't he?   Even with Farrah Fawcett's hair.  

"Parker?" I ask.

"Parker! Parker!"

The Kid flings her body, like a drunk in a mosh pit, off the bed only to immediately high jump back onto the bed like an Olympic gold medalist.

Unfortunately, I had shifted slightly with my elbow resting on the bed and my lightly closed fist high in the air.

My hand glances along her cheekbone and rests on her eye.

"Stop, you nut job! I don't want to explain to the ER how you blacked your own eye on my fist!"

"It won't be my fault.  PARKER!" she screams as she flops around on my bed like a fish out of water.

 I begin to mimic my own voice talking to a doctor from the emergency department. "Yes, doctor.  There I was just lying there, minding my own business, checking Facebook, and in she runs and throws herself on my fist while screaming something about Parker from the Hardy Boys."

I change my voice into a deep, pompous  doctor's voice, "Yes, I see.  She screamed Parker and then you punched her, because she is mentally disturbed and special.  Nurse, call CPS."

I bump her with my shoulder, "Do you see how this is going down?  This is the beginning of the story of how you got a new family."

The Kid starts giggling.  "Who's Parker?  I said 'Parkour.'"

You said, "Parkour? Parkour?"

The Kid rolls off the bed and flings her body back onto the bed, her feet almost hitting in the ceiling fan.  "HARDCORE PARKOUR!"

So when you see her with a black eye and various bruises all over her body, she's not been abused.  It's just hardcore parkour, bro.

These Happy Days are Yours and Mine

Tomorrow is 50s Day for our middle school pep rally.  

I'll be sporting a Lucille Ball-style dress complete with petticoat, red lipstick, heels, horn rim glasses,  and pearls. 

 I remember back when I was in school...we would throw our hair up in ponytails, roll our jeans, and slap on some Keds, our daddies' white oxford and class ring, maybe a familial letter jacket, and a chiffon scarf tied around our necks.  We were style icons.    Those who were really committed boasted a felt poodle skirt and saddle shoes.

The past few years of teaching, I've noticed that kids are no longer understanding what the 50s uniform is.

This is a conversation from my classroom today.  I wish I could say they were trying to fool me, but unfortunately,  I repeated bits of this conversation all day long, as did other teachers.  Read with caution...you'll age thirty years over its span:

Student A, excitedly:   I can't wait for 50s day tomorrow.  I'm dressing like that TV show "My Name is Earl."

Me:   What?  That's not 50s!  Think "Happy Days," "Laverne and Shirley"....

Student A:    It is, too, 50s!   Flannels and mullets are from the 50s!  Have you ever even seen that show?

Me:  Yes, I've seen every episode.  I love it, but  it is definitely *NOT* set in the 50s. 

Student B, confidently:  Um,  nope, you're wrong.  Hippies are the 50s. 

Me:   Um, nope *you're* wrong.   Hippies are the 60s.  Woodstock, fringe, flowers, tie dye, Volkswagens, peace.....

Student A:  No they're not.   You're wrong.   "My Name is Earl" is based on Woodstock which is the 50s!

Me, shaking my head:  You don't even know what Woodstock was, do you?

Student A, adamantly:   Yes, I do.  It was drugs and flannel and mullets and music.

Me:  Two out of four.....  Mullets are the 80s and redneck, definitely not 60s...

Student C, interrupting and absolutely outraged:   Hey, my dad had a mullet!  Are you calling him a redneck?

Me:  Uh....

Student D:  My dad had one, too!

Student E: Mine too!

Student F: So did mine!  

Me, trying desperately to recover:   So how many of your fathers had mullets?

*about 9 hands go up*

Me:  um......So Billy Ray Cyrus had a mullet in the late 80s..... Ever heard of "Achy Breaky Heart?"

Student A:  He's a poser.    He took it from the 50s.

*Students D, E, F, C, G, H, J, K, and M  nod their heads and murmur their agreement about his posing as a redneck and not truly being one*

Me:  Mullets are the 80s.   You say your parents had mullets.  Are your parents old enough to live in the 50s?   Do the math!  They'd be in their 60s!  

Student A, doggedly pursuing the flannel issue:   But flannels and long hair are 50s!     

Me:  Nope.  That's  the 90s.... Nirvana, Soundgarden... The Grunge movement from Seattle grew the flannel movement in the 90s.

Student A, absolutely bewildered:   Who the heck is Nirvana?

Me:  You did not just ask that!

Student N:  I think they play them on the oldies station. 

Student A:  Yeah, 'cause they're FROM THE 50s!!!!

Me:  NO!!!

Student R:  So what do we wear for the 50s?    

Me, relieved:    Poodle skirts...

Student S:   WHAT?!?!?!?  They wore skirts made from poodle skin???

Me, horrified and rising in volume with each word:  Oh. MY. LA.  NO!!!!!  It's a felt skirt with a poodle on it.   

Student N:   Well, that's just stupid.

Student O *nodding*:  Yep.  Pretty stupid.

Me:  It was actually very cute and feminine.    

Student P:  Still sounds stupid.... so a skirt with a dog on it for the girls.   What about the boys?  A shirt with a cat?

Me:  Funny,  but no...... the boys wore blue jeans, rolled up.  Converse.  White tshirt.   Hair greased back.

Student P:  So basically, they just wore the same thing that they wore in the 70s.   

Me:  You guys are kidding me, right?   You know this stuff.  You cannot possibly NOT know this stuff.

Student Q:   When did everyone have Afros?   

Me, tiredly:   That would be the 70s, but not everyone had Afros.  

Student Q:   I think you're wrong.   I've seen pictures.  

Me:  Well, a lot of people did.    Some black people had them, and  some white people got perms.....

Student R *interrupting*:  I think that's racist.  

Me: Well,  I think we are through with this conversation.  Ever seen "Grease"?  Dress like that.

Student B:   But it's not 60s day....

Me:   No it's not..... It's 50s Day and that's 50s clothing.  It's set in the 50s.   "I Love Lucy,"  set in the 50s.     "Happy Days," set in the 50s.    Laverne and Shirley, set in the 50s. If you've seen those, dress like them. Otherwise wear flannel, grow your hair long, wear an Afro, whatever......

And that's how today became one of those Unhappy Days........

Death By Crocodile

So today, my day was my crap.

Then I read this.


http://dailycaller.com/2014/09/16/woman-commits-suicide-by-crocodile/


Yeah...

So to sum up, there's this 65 year old lady in Thailand.    Her family was a little worried about her on Friday and contacted the police because they couldn't get ahold of her.    The police said she had to be missing 24 hours before they could fill out a missing person's report.

Meanwhile, she travels to the largest crocodile farm in the world, Samut Prakarn Crocodile Farm & Zoo,  home to over 100,000 crocodiles. She walks up to the fence, takes off her shoes and sets them neatly down by the fence, and dives head first fully clothed into a ten foot deep pit filled with ONE THOUSAND FLIPPING hungry adult crocodiles waiting for her.

The workers tried to beat the crocodiles away with long poles, but, you know, ONE THOUSAND FLIPPING HUNGRY CROCODILES said, "Thanks, but we've got this."

You read that right.  She committed suicide by crocodile.

What.  The.  Heck.

Can you imagine?    How stinking bad must your day be to say to yourself, "Self, death by being eaten and mauled by a thousand savage beasts is appealing to me today?"

This article has taken up a good portion of my subconscious today.  I cannot stop thinking about it.
It's a horrible way to die, and perhaps the gruesome of her choice of suicide makes this one stick out horribly to me. To be honest, though, one of the things that has bothered me all day, besides her death, are the shoes.

Why did she take them off and lay them so carefully?  I've had a thousand ideas.  Were they crocodile shoes and she didn't think it was right that they eat them?    Were they her sister's and it was a final good-bye?   Was taking off her shoes before she committed suicide a sign of respect for her country? Did she just want to be barefoot when she left this world?

It has bothered me all day. I can't stop thinking of those two little shoes lying there beside a fence, while a horrible death goes on beneath them.   It's too vivid a picture for me, and I just have to know why.

I was talking to The Kid about this, and very pragmatically she said, "Easy.  She wanted to make sure people knew it was deliberate and  that she didn't accidentally fall in."

Oh.  Wow.

That makes sense.  The one scenario I didn't think of and it's so simple.

So while I've had a really bad, no good horrible day, my day has *NOT* been death by crocodile bad....It's all about perspective.

May this poor woman finally find peace.

The Trickle

Weird things sometimes happen to me in public bathrooms.  When you have a disease/disorder/funky colon that refuses to work correctly, you spend a lot of time in that lovely little room.

Maybe that's why I notice the weird times.   Not much else to focus on.

In all my times in public bathrooms, however, I can honestly say that I've never struck up a conversation.  God forbid, I HAVE had to ask for paper from my stall neighbor, but never have I just been like, "Yo, how you doin'?"

I've never asked someone if they're having a good day. I have never asked if the other pee-er has seen a certain item and on what aisle I might find it.     I've never asked if they know a good place to eat lunch. *excuse me while I make gross sounds with my ass and expel last night's dinner while I was ask you about where I can stuff my gullet back full so I can repeat this whole disgusting process tomorrow*

I have had these things happen *TO* me... and more.... but I've never talked to someone else.

I've also never apologized for any noises.  The way I see it, we all make noises while on the porcelain throne, and in polite society, we just freakin' ignore them and move on.  I heard nothing.  You heard nothing.  I smelled nothing.  You smelled nothing.  If anyone asks when we leave this place, we all farted roses in here and danced with a unicorn. Capice?

Today though, bless her sweet, meek soul, I had someone apologize to me.

 But not for what you think.

There I was minding my own business, doing my own business, when the bathroom stall beside me locked.

I could hear Homegirl prepping the toilet with the Paper Shield of Cleanliness and Sanitation (because all germs are afraid of paper, don't you know... they see that paper and cower in fear. If you're very quiet you can hear their voices, all Cindy Loo Who-like scream,  "Please, not the paper!" every time a stall door closes.)

Finally Homegirl settled down, and her own sweet angelic voice pierced the quiet.  "Forgive my awkward stream."

"Seriously?" was my first thought.  Then I wondered wildly, "Wait, is she praying or is she talking to me? Am I supposed to respond, and what if I do respond, and she was praying and thinks I'm an idiot?"

But then I heard it.

Her awkward stream.

DRIP.  DRIPDRIP.  DRIP.   PSSSSHT *for a nanosecond*  DRIPDRIP. DRIP. PSSSHT. *for a full second*  DRIPDRIP......DRIP.

Then she giggled, wiped *I assume*, and flushed.

What in the name of Charmin was going on next door?  Did she pee or was the toilet leaking?  I've choked on more water than she expelled.

Seriously count, "One Mississippi... Two Mi....." and that's how long she peed. Seriously.

I know  Kegels are good for you, but I humbly submit those were not Kegels she was doing.  That, my darling loves, was a kidney infection waiting to happen.  There was no way she emptied everything up in there.  My only hope is she went and got some cranberry juice, and she is sipping on a glass of that bad boy right now.

Homegirl's gonna need it.

Unappreciated

My poor kid just doesn't realize how blessed she is to have a mom who likes to spend time with her.

Today while driving home from work with The Kid in the car, we listened to some music on my iPhone.  I have pretty eclectic tastes... I never realized just how much until today.   I don't think The Kid did, either.   This song came on from one of my playlists from one of my first teaching jobs.   It is one of my all time favorite songs.  I love the whole CD,  really, and know it by heart.

Isn't it just a happy bouncy song?  It makes you want to dance to it...which I did.

While driving the road at 60 mph.  It was a sight to behold.

I love this song much.   I can sing all the words.  I can translate the words.  I can even sing the music......at the top of my lungs... *especially* at the top of my lungs...much to The Kid's chagrin and the poor pedestrian's  fright.  They were just walking down the street, minding their own business and got dragged into my happiness vortex.

They may never be the same.  Bless them.

Of course, the more The Kid  fussed, the louder I had to turn it up, and the more I had to shout the words and sing the trumpet parts.     I enjoyed myself so much the first time that I went back for another round.    By this time, we were passing the house, so I just drove around with the child guard locks on (so she couldn't get out and run) and blasted this melodic jewel.  

She says it was kidnapping.  I say it was just good family bonding time.  

I can't wait until the drive tomorrow to school.  I feel Styx, "Come Sail Away" building up inside of me.

Good times.