stop

I want Mariah Carey to stop. Stop with the tiny clothing. She is thirty six years old. The pig tails, the bare midriff, the tiny skirts and itty bitty pink terry cloth shorts. It's ridiculous. Put on some clothing. Get off of whoever the newest rapper is. Stand up like a grown woman. Sing something inspiring. Use correct grammar. Stop acting like you are a new teenaged performer. Respect yourself. Please, for the love of all humanity, cover those bosomy-like shape shifting things on your chest. I will not post a picture. Don't even ask. You all know what she's been wearing lately.

This is what happens when people become famous and ridiculously wealthy. They are surrounded by smacked-asses telling them that everything they do is great. Nobody challenges them anymore. They can't be "reeled back in." Accountability is a good thing. Some examples of other wealthy people in need of a gobsmack; Tom Cruise, Michael Jackson and several members of his family, Donald Trump, Naomi Campbell, Dubya, numerous athletes, Britney Spears, Courtney Frickin' Love, Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan, Tara Reid, Charlie Pervert Sheen(kid's clothing? What the hell?), Pamela Anderson, ....forget it, it's endless. Oh, wait! One more! That Jocelyn Wildenstein lady who had plastic surgery to make herself look like a leopard.

Tell me who you think the most ridiculous person in need of a reality gobsmack is.

bully; a four part post

Brutally Rebuffed in the Kmart

We were in the shoe aisle. She had pretty brown hair and her outfit matched. My haircut was homemade, so my bangs were thick and crooked. My outfits never matched. Her hair was neatly braided and finished at each end with a hair accessory. My hair hung slack and stringy. When I saw her, I took a few steps away from my mother’s cart and said, “Hi.”
“Don’t say Hi to me.” She said.
Her mother heard. Her mother gave me a once over, lingering for a moment on my dirty feet in grocery store flip-flops (This was the seventies. Flip-flops were not in vogue).
“Come over here.” She said and took her little girl by the hand as if to protect her from me.
It was the first time I felt shock, humiliation and indignation. It was the first time I felt I was not good enough. I was five. I didn’t cry or react outwardly. I went back to our cart.
“What did that little girl say to you?” my sister asked.
I told her.
“Mom, did you hear that?”
My sister told her. My mother looked hurt then angry.
“Well, some people think they’re better’n others. I wonder what they’d think if I went by and knocked ‘em in the head? Clunk! Clunk!”
Mom always said something funny to try to make us feel better. I didn’t feel better, but I didn’t let it show.
“You don’t want to talk to people like that anyway!” my sister chimed in.
But I did.


Boogies

On the day before Easter, my mother took us all to the Kmart. Everybody got a new outfit complete with shoes. My dress was long and cream colored with short puffy sleeves. Pink flowers were embroidered at the neck. It had my most favorite thing of all; a sash. At the age of six, I thought sashes represented the height of elegance. That night, my mother rolled my hair up in my pink squishy rollers. I had to sleep on them all night. The next morning, I woke to find my Easter basket by my bed. We got dressed for church. I couldn’t wait for everybody to see my new dress and shiny shoes. Our Sunday school class was very crowded. We sat on the floor and sang. I felt something touching me. I looked back. A little black girl was behind me. I looked down at her hand. She was touching my sash with one finger. On the end of her finger was a boogie! I looked at my sash. There were more boogies squashed onto my pretty sash! I hit her hand. She didn’t react, just stopped touching me. It was time to line up. The little black girl broke from her place in line and shoved me. I grabbed her shoulders and hurled her to the ground. I was shocked at myself. I didn’t know I could do such a thing. The little girl lay on the ground and cried. The other children told the Sunday school teacher. She asked why. I was too embarrassed to say “boogies” to a strange adult, so I didn’t respond.
“Kass, the teacher said there was trouble in Sun-dee school. What happened?” my mother asked me while we drove home.
I told her about the boogies. I made sure to tell her it was a little black girl, ‘cuz my mom and dad always said things about black people that were not very nice. I knew if she knew it was a black girl, I wouldn’t get in that much trouble.
“She was a-doin’ whaaat?” my mother looked horrified, shocked and amused all at the same time.
I repeated myself.
“Well, she shouldn’ta been a-doin’ that! That is deesgusting! But you can’t be shovin’ people ‘round. ‘Specially on Sun-dee! Easter Sun-dee! At Sun-dee school!” she paused for a moment. “…even if they are black.”


Social Leprosy

“Wyonchoo ever invite Lisa to go do thangs with you and yer friends?” asked Lisa’s mother.
I would sooner die. Lisa wouldn’t fit in with my new friends at all. My new friends were the most popular girls in school. They were cheerleaders and class officers. They were smart and intended to go to college. They had houses in Long Beach with swimming pools and hot tubs. Their families owned businesses. Lisa was a high school drop out. She wore “stoner” clothes and still had flat feathered hair. She wasn’t pretty. No cool boys liked her. She was pigeon-toed and stoop-shouldered. She smoked cigarettes and marijuana. She would often go for days without showering, lying around in her pajamas. How could I explain this to her mother, a hard drinking, hard living woman from Arkansas who dated married men and fought in bars? I knew Lisa because our mothers worked together and we were neighbors. When I first moved back to Indiana, my mother offered me up as Lisa’s friend without consulting me first. I wouldn’t have picked Lisa for a friend. We had been thrown together. As I ascended the social ladder of Jr. High and High School, Lisa was left on the bottom rung.
“My friends usually invite me to do things. I wouldn’t feel right inviting somebody else along. Most of the stuff we do is school stuff anyway.” I lied.
Mary Jean was no fool. “How’s goin’ a da beach in summer ‘bout school?” She narrowed her eyes at me. I knew she wouldn’t be talking to me this way if my mother were around.
Mary Jean had no idea how hard it was to break into the ranks of the popular kids when you came from our neighborhood. There was no way I could try to get clearance for Lisa. It would jeopardize everything. I would be cast out. I had been a nobody. Loyalty be damned; I wasn’t going back.


Submersed

“You! Come up here, please.” I was speaking to a tall seventh-grade girl who had just thrown a pencil across the room at a small boy. When he saw me observe this, he flushed bright red, averted his eyes and tried to shrink down behind his desk. She looked at me defiantly as if to say, “What? What are you gonna do, sub?” I had spoken to her twice already. As she came into the classroom one half of a millisecond before the bell, she pushed the small boy’s head as she walked by and uttered, “Fag-o-saurus.”
“Excuse me?” I said to her. She paused on the way to her seat.
“Nothing.” She said.
“Yeah…that’s what I thought.” I said and gave her my stern teacher look. The class instantly grew quiet and still. Aha! I had found the Alpha female. I instinctively know my own kind.
The small boy blushed and tried to disappear into the books on his desk. I introduced myself to the class and explained my expectations for behavior as I always did.
“I expect you to be quiet and respectful of one another. I expect you to stay seated. You may use the pencil sharpener at your leisure. I have been instructed not to give bathroom passes, but I will ignore this instruction. Do not mistake this for weakness. If you abuse your restroom privilege you will be reported to the office. I expect you to work on your assignment/pay attention to the film/participate in the activity, etc. If you deviate from these expectations, you will be sent to the office. This is not an idle threat. Try Me.”
We set about following the lesson plan’s instructions. The children were busy with the assignment. I began filling out the class behavior sheet provided by the teacher. The stillness of the room was shattered by a loud snorting giggle; the cry of the Alpha female.
I stared at her until she composed herself. She stared back.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” I asked. She smirked at me.
“Do you think you could control yourself while your classmates complete their assignment?”
“Yes.” She said in a manner that satisfied my question but was just snarky enough in its tone to retain respect with her peers.
“We would be very grateful.” I smiled back. Order was restored, she’d had her moment of attention, and I turned back to the form. I glanced up just as the pencil left her grasp. We watched its trajectory and its connection to the small boy’s head.
I handed her the written referral and she exited the room. Several minutes passed. The phone in the room rang. “Hello?”
“Yes, this is Jane from the office. Did you just send a student down here?”
“Yes.”
“Well, are you aware that if a student is sent to the office by a sub they automatically receive two days in detention during which time they are not allowed to make up any tests or assignments?”
“Yes.”
“Well, the student you sent, Susie Dadsacop…she’s a good student…she is well-liked…she’s on the honor roll…she’s never been sent to the office before...”

extra credit

In one of my Elementary Education classes, we are given extra points for volunteering for any event or cause related to teaching. I participated in a Curious George themed reading event held at the Palookaville Public Library. Upon arrival, I found the other participants preparing the room. There were eight tables. Each table had a bunch of primary colored balloons anchored by bananas. I was given a colorful nametag necklace and put to work taping construction paper signs with the name of each activity to the tables. The activities were as follows;
· Make a Curious George Puppet
· Make a Curious George Mask
· Reading Picnic
· Face Painting
· Dream Drawing
· Make a Boat
· Color A Curious George Scene
· Make a Book

As I started to punch holes into nametags for the guests, one of the facilitators of the event asked, “Katherine, are you artistic?”
“Yes!” I replied enthusiastically.
“Then you get to be the face painter!” She said this with just a hint of sarcasm in her voice. I had face painted before. Ten years ago, Palookaville Elementary hosted a “Fun Fair” with many activities. I painted faces for several hours. The most popular request was the Chicago Bulls logo. By the end of the day, I could paint that stylized bull head blindfolded and comatose. The most difficult request was a tiny girl who simply said, “May-shun.”
I looked at her mother for help with the translation.
“A DAL-MAY-SHUN.” Her mother clarified, speaking very loudly. I looked at her pleadingly. She didn’t take the hint. “You know the dog…with the spots.”
“Yes, I know what a Dalmatian is…I will do my best, but that’s a hard one!” I said with a big smile. Hint. Hint. The mother stood firm. I painted the most pitiful looking white blotch with black spots you have ever seen on the tiny cheek. The mother inspected it.
“Well, it sorta looks like a dog.” She said and led the girl away by the hand.
Um…You’re Welcome.
I took my place at the table and started to open up the supplies. Somebody brought me a Curious George template and my first victim; a seventh grader who was there helping her mother with the event. I painstakingly followed the template. It came out great. I was pleased. My next practice face came in the form of one of my classmates’ children. My classmate is a formidable woman whose mouth is always hanging slightly open, exposing her tongue and top teeth. She recently stated to the class that she thought creationism should be taught in public schools because, "We're Christians!"
I went on a rant about seperation of church and state that halted the entire discussion and left the room so quiet we could hear our breath rustling through our nose hairs.
“HI!!!” I greeted her a little too enthusiastically, still buzzing from my first face art triumph.
She stared straight ahead and did not answer. She was a large girl. Bigger than me. Her head was the size of my ex-boyfriend's, who is a former Division 1 lineman. Her eyes were kind of dull. Like her mother, her jaw hung slack, exposing her tongue and bottom teeth.
“Do you want a George?” I finally asked.
She continued to stare straight ahead and nodded almost imperceptibly. I followed the template again with great results. She rose silently from her chair and floated away. At no time did she smile or utter a word. This shouldn't surprise me. Many kids don't know simple social skills, and are not confident enough to employ them.
Some of the other volunteers noticed my Georges and complimented me. Two tiny sisters came over. I asked the bigger sister’s name.
“Ka-Lee-Ya” she said and presented her itty bitty cheek. This was more difficult, but I managed to pull it off. Then it was her little sister’s turn. I asked her name.
“Jush-ush.” She said.
“Justice?” I asked, remembering the name of a character portrayed by Janet Jackson in a popular movie of the 90’s. She nodded her tiny head. Ah, Palookaville. During my substitute teacher days, I encountered names such as Luxury Shatoya, Paradise, Juwanna, many variations of Jasmine, and countless versions of Jamal. I struggled to scale the size of the George face down to fit her miniscule cheek.
“Thank You.” said Kaleah.
“Shang Goo.” said Jush-ush.
Most of the children wanted George heads as well. I no longer had to refer to the template. I was keeping the line moving fairly well. A kid would sit. I would say, “Do you want a George?” They would nod complacently. The Pavlovian-behaviorist model of face painting; ask a loaded question, get the expected response. Cake!
“What do you want, Buddy?” said Cute Dad.
“A Zebra!” announced Buddy. Ah…a kink in the plan. I knew I had seen zebras somewhere in a Curious George book. I picked up a copy of The Complete Adventures of Curious George and thumbed through the pages. Oh Yes! The alphabet story! The letters were drawn to look like animals. I copied the Z-zebra as closely as possible. Cute Dad was pleased. My line had grown. Long. A younger child of the same classmate sat. “I want a butterfly.” She was a smaller version of the large child. This one was more aggressive.
I started on a monarch. I made a lovely pattern of orange markings.
“Why are you using black?” she asked.
“Why are you using orange?”
“Why are you doing that?” “Why aren’t you making it blue?”
“Why are you using yellow?”
Oops. I should ask more questions. I should let the children pick their colors. I was dictating what their objects should look like. They should be expressing themselves to me. They would learn more by trying to describe what they envisioned. I finished her butterfly. “Now I want a zebra on my hand.” She said.
I looked at the line of patient kids and parents. This would require a bit of diplomacy.
“Will you be a good sport and let somebody who hasn’t had a turn go? You have a painting and some people haven’t had a chance to get one.” This was a gamble. How would she react? What if she told her slack-jawed fundamentalist mother I had been mean to her?
She rose from the chair and left. Did she roll her little eyes at me? I think she might have. Now that the kids had seen some of the non-conformist non-George designs, they started to get creative with the requests.
“…a star that has yellow on the outside and green on the inside.” from one of my professor's children, Harry, age 5, who recently completed construction paper flags of all of the Olympic participants and presented them to the class with a factoid for each nation. Five. Five years old.
“…a goldfish and then, underneath the goldfish, in writing, I want it to say, ‘Goldy’” from the little girl with 3 siblings who were all home-schooled and quite precocious. It was a tribute to her deceased goldfish that was just ceremoniously flushed that very morning.
“A princess crown.” said a girl of about 11 who rode the Municipal Coach alone to get to the event. She proved to be my best customer of the day, returning 3 more times for different requests; a George, a flower, the crown and her initials.
“I would like a dinosaur with big teeth and blood coming out of his mouth like he just killed something!” from one of the home-schooled siblings, a brother.
At one point, I looked up to find two tiny rock stars staring at me. One wore a short sleeved tee-shirt over a long sleeved tee shirt, baggy jeans and a knit “skully” hat adorned with a hipster logo pulled down to his eyebrows. The other one wore a black hoodie with a flame design down both sleeves, and hair gel in his short spiky coif. I looked around to see if these were indeed the progeny of Tommy Lee or Jesse James.
“What’ll it be?” I asked the first one. He rolled up his sleeve and produced a bare forearm. “A snake…curled up…with fangs.”
“Alrighty!” I went to work.
“How’s that?” I asked. He gave a curt head nod. I now knew what it felt like to work in a tattoo shop. It was “Skully’s” turn.
“I want ‘NO FEAR’ in red and black. On my neck.”

My faith was restored with the remaining children of my professor.
“Pink. Pink George.” said Madeleine of the enormous eyes.
“If there’s time,” allowed the gracious Betsy, “I would like a rose in this color,” indicating a perfect shade of blue based red, “with a stem in this color.” pointing to an as-yet unused shade of green that was much more appropriate than the tealish green I had been using for foliage.
Why hadn’t I thought of that?
I was still painting away as the other tables were being cleared. Finally, another adult came to the rescue.
“Well, that’s it! You’re the last customer!” She announced.
I would have stayed the rest of the day. I gratefully went home and took a nap.

chil-ren

It is springtime in the rest of the world, but here in the Midwestern-I state where I dwell, it is not the same kind of springtime. Today we had a high of 48 degrees accompanied by a chilly breeze off of our Great Lake. Many people still wear their winter parkas. It is not uncommon to see snow storms well into April. As a child, I remember wearing my winter coat and snowboots with my Easter dress, and hunting for eggs in snow. Siobhan's little daughter Amina, 4, needed some clarification on this today.
"Is it winter?" she asked from the backseat.
"No!" Siobhan and I said in unison.
"Then what is it?" she asked.
"Spring!" Siobhan and I said in unison.
"Then why is it still cold?"
I took this one while Siobhan concentrated on the road.
"Well, it's not as cold as winter, but it's not as hot in summer, and we live in the Midwest, so this is our spring."
"But Grampy says that if it is still a little cold in the air, then it isn't spring!"
"Your Grampy is wrong. Tell him I said that. In fact, I will call him up myself right this very minute! Where is your cell phone?"
Amina laughed at me and said, "You aren't gonna call my Grampy cuz my cell phone is in my Care Bear backpack and I left it at home!"
Of course Amina does not have a cell phone. She is just that good at playing along with me.
One indication of how exceptional Amina is happens to be her ability to discern and understand sarcasm. I can tell her ridiculous things like, "I am going to beat the holy hell out of you as soon as your mother looks away." and she will totally crack up because she knows I am just talking smack. Sometimes she joins in on the smack-talk, "Well, I am gonna wait til we get home and then I'm gonna beat you up cuz I know how!" She also likes to do all the same stuff I like to do; color, string beads and make up ridiculous stories.
"OK, there's a chicken, a police man, a fox, a dog, and a bunny rabbit."she'll say, "Now, you go."
"Alrighty...Let's see...Once upon a time there was a bunny rabbit named Peaches and she was a very good neighbor. One day Peaches looked outside and saw a chicken chasing a fox chasing a police man chasing a dog. She called her friend the hippopotamus and asked her what was going on...." and the story gets more ridiculous from there with Amina interjecting different animals and possible scenarios and her parents sitting in uncomfortable silence in the front seat, unsure of what to make of a grown person engaging their child in this way for very long periods of time.
Amina is so smart and good humored and interesting that I am startled when she acts like a normal four year old. She made it through an entire day of driving, lunching, shopping for groceries and browsing a store full of imported furnishings, antiques and trinkets that begged to be touched and broken(wherein she scooted her little butt up onto an antique bench and declared, "This couch is hard as hell!" She even cusses correctly. Earlier, she was fidgeting with something in the car and said,"Shit! I can't get this to work!"). When we returned home, she walked with us for at least two miles. Mid-point into the walk, she broke down. I was alarmed. I don't have any children. I am not often around children. These things surprise me.
Now, Amina has a flair for drama. After being refused her way, she will sulk and pout. If she sees you are paying attention to her, she will change her facial expression to one of Dickensian despair and slow her feet to a pathetic shuffle. She began with a wind-up whining sound. It started with, "But, Mama I wann....and then it trilled up into something that sounded like, "weeee-eeeeeeeeeedeeeeeeeeeeeekeeeeeeeeeeeepeeeeeeeeeeehunhh!" Siobahn interpretted this primal screaming to mean, "I don't want to leave yet! I want to go to the park!" Siobhan calmly told her that it was time to go. It was getting late and cold and the park was not an option today. Amina refused to walk with us. Siobhan went to take her hand, and Amina ran away. Not unlike Henry does when he drags one of my bras from the laundry and I chase him around the apartment yelling, "No! That's a bad puppy! Very Bad! That's a NO-NO!"
"'Mina, if I have to chase you, you will be very sorry." Siobhan stated. Siobhan moved in her direction. Amina ran.
"I am going to count to five...one...two...three.."
Amina shuffled over still making the "weeeeeeepeeeeeeeeeeeeeeedeeee" squealy-screechy noises. Siobhan reach for her hand and Amina went limp. Her knees folded up and she dropped to the ground. Siobhan reach down and picked her up. Amina started screaming, "POPPA! POPPA! POPPA! I WANT TO TALK TO POPPA!"
Henry did not know what to make of this and at first thought Siobhan was hurting Amina and barked at her. Then he thought maybe this was some new kind of play and wanted in on the fun.He ran over and jumped up on Siobhan. I pulled his leash and he reluctantly came over by me. Amina continued to scream. I looked around to make sure nobody thought I may be involved in what looked like an abduction. Henry's ears were folded against his head and he started to walk faster. Siobhan passed us with Amina struggling and screaming in her arms. A drunken lady with no teeth and a snot trail from her nose to her upper lip yelled to them, "That's just how my son cries! Don't cry, baby! You're supposed to have fun! Give yer momma a big kiss and stop that cryin'!" Ah, Palookaville.
Siobhan was civil but not encouraging and trudged on with Amina bellowing to the top of her lungs.
I don't have children. It's a deliberate choice. I have carefully side-stepped them for a myriad of reasons. I don't want to pass on certain genetics. I don't have the appropriate resources. I don' t want to bring another person into the world who will have to plod along, struggling through a mediocre existence. I think it takes so much to give them an advantage. I love the ones that are here. I love the ones that are on their way here. I love all of them. Give me a kid, any kid and I am in love with it in two minutes.I applaud those of you who have had them. I believe you are a hopeful, faithful and trusting people. You find good in the world and are secure in sending a little person out into it. Your hope ensures that we will go on. So much of what goodness is preserved in this life it is done by people who have made that leap of faith and brought progeny into it. But, I can't. I will never join your ranks. I am afraid.

I am afraid I will beat the holy shit out of them.

I am being funny, but there is some seriousness in this statement. I am afraid I will just lose my mind and beat them senseless and change who they are forever and set them on a course of despair. I would never put my hand on somebody else's child. I don't hit Henry. But I am afraid I will hit my children.

The remainder of the walk consisted of me and Henry walking far ahead of Siobhan and Amina. Mostly because I wanted to ask Amina questions while she freaked out and I knew it was so highly inappropriate.
"So, tell me, Amina...Why are you flippin' out?"
"Weeeeeeeeeeeheeeeee-keeeeeeeeeeeeeepeeeeeeeeeeehunhh!"
"Do you think this is effective?"
"POPPA POPPA POPPAPOPPAAAAAAAAAAAAAAggghhhh"
"Do you really think your mother will take you to the park if you act this way?"
"IIIIIIWWAAAAANNNTMMMYYYYPPOPPPAAAAAAAAAAAGH!"
"How do you think we could avoid these outbursts in the future?"
"AGH! AGH! AGH! WEEEEEEEEEEEKUUUUUUUUUUUUGHAAAAGH!"

As soon as Amina calmed down, Henry layed down on the sidewalk and refused to budge until we were all in proximity again. Henry's a herder. On a walk, he frequently checks to make sure everybody is present and accounted for. If you lag behind, he will sit down and graciously wait for you to catch up. He actually has a look on his face like, "Are you comin'?" Funny, he was fine with walking far ahead while Amina was screaming.

That's my boy!

georgia on your mind

I think it's funny how I get so few comments on my CBS-obsession entries. Or maybe you are all just afraid of the mention of my Hoo-Ha.
Speaking of hoo-has, there's been a rise in labial plastic surgery. I thought this was ridiculous until I checked out a plastic surgeon's blog complete with photos of before and after hoo-ha pics(There's a link on "Awful Plastic Surgery" I don't know how to put a link on my blog. Leave me alone. I was born in the seventies.). If I had something resembling a piece of wilted flesh lettuce hanging from my nether regions, I would lop that shit off, as well. Good day!