Kid: “Someone wrote ‘blowjob’ on a clipboard in school today.”
Me (deer in headlights): “What?! Oh my…”
Kid: “My teacher was SO mad.”
Me: “I’ll bet she was. Did she find out who did it?”
Kid: “No. So she just yelled at the whole class.”
Me: “Yikes…what did she say?” (I had to know)
Kid: “She was like ‘clipboards are for school work, not for writing about your day at the hair salon!'”
Kid: “Like you can write about Colonial America or fractions but not about your blowjob at the hair salon!”
Me (slowly getting it): “Right…yes…when you get your hair BLOWN OUT at the hair salon…of course…”
(long pause, starts to take out her homework)
Kid: “My mom LOVES getting blowjobs.”
While walking the class down the stairs for dismissal, I hear a kid (who I assumed was a boy, as boys and girls at this age sound exactly the same) scream from a flight below me:
Kid: “Miss Emily!!! Help! My balls are stuck to my instrument!”
Words cannot express the amount of relief I felt when I saw what the kid actually needed help with.
A sibling email exchange from 2009, the year of the swine flu scare. Once again, Stephanie contributes nothing.
(Jenny was Zack’s college girlfriend at the time)
We had students choose someone special and write that person a love cinquain poem. Two boys got right down to work….
Kid 1: “So who are you writing your valentine poem for?”
Kid 2: “Sarah.”
Kid 1: “Who’s Sarah?”
Kid 2: “Well, there are actually two Sarahs. One is my cousin, another is this girl I know from camp. Not sure yet which one I’m giving it to.”
Kid 1 (gravely serious): “Dude– you should definitely give it to your cousin. Giving a love poem to someone who’s not in your family would be REALLY weird.”
And so it begins. Two young boys who understand nothing about love, soon to be grown men who understand nothing about love.
At the end of the day, I asked two kids in the class to help me clean up:
Me: “Guys, do me a favor– one of you help put up the chairs, and the other please help pick up the atrocious amount of pencils that have been left on the floor.”
(kids burst out laughing)
Me: “Ok, I don’t know why that’s so humorous, but go ahead and get started, please.”
Kid 1: “Can WE use that word you used?”
Kid 1 (to Kid 2): “Ok, YOU pick up the chairs, and I’LL pick up the asshole-ish amount of pencils on the floor.”
Me: “Woah woah woah WOAH. No! I said ATROCIOUS amount of pencils!”
Kid 1: “Oh. That changes everything.”
Just now, at the gym, a woman who worked there approached me, toddler in her arms, and asked, “It’s ok to give him goldfish, right?” I looked at the toddler, looked back at the woman, and, confused, tentatively answered, “Um…sure?” She laughed and asked, “You’re sure?” and I said, “Yeah, why not? Kids love goldfish. Everyone loves goldfish!” She smiled, said, “Ok, great!” and walked away.
20 minutes later, this woman approached me again (sans kid)….
Woman: “Why didn’t you tell me he wasn’t your kid?”
Me: “Um, I didn’t realize you THOUGHT he was my kid.”
Woman: “Why else would I ask you if he could eat goldfish?!”
Me: “I don’t know, I thought you were just looking for the genuine opinion of a complete stranger!”
Woman: “You didn’t think that was weird?”
Me: “Of course I did– but this is New York! Everyone is weird!”
Woman: “Yeah but that would be REALLY weird.”
Me: “You’re right…I guess I’m really weird for not realizing how weird it was…”
It turns out I happened to look like the woman who had dropped this kid off at the babysitting center in the gym, so when the gym babysitter had a question about the kid’s diet, she asked me, thinking I was the mom. When she told me this, I found it pretty amusing, so I started laughing and said, “Oh well– hope it was ok that you gave him goldfish!”
Woman (unamused): “It wasn’t.”
I stopped laughing.
On the flight down to Mexico yesterday, after taking an extended drool nap that impressed even the flight attendant, who made it a point to greet me when I awoke with a hearty “You’re a very good sleeper for such a small lady!” (I’ve heard this before, and it’s always code for “You snore like a giant diabetic fat man off his meds!”), I took out my laptop to do some writing.
I began writing the story about how, when I was a kid, my mother kicked me out of the car and made me walk home because I was being a jerk in the backseat (more on that in a future post. Sorry, Mom). In my peripheral vision, I could see the guy sitting next to me repeatedly looking up from his kindle and staring at my computer. Pretty much any time I started typing a new thought, he glanced. Quite frankly, it was annoying, but I decided, in the Christmas spirit, to take it as a sign of flattery that he was clearly enjoying my writing, and not let it bother me. I turned to him and smiled.
Me: “Funny story, huh?”
Man: “Excuse me?”
Me: “The one I’m writing. It happened a long time ago, so I’m a little hazy on the details, but I’m trying to get down everything I remember.”
Man: “Ok, well, every time you start writing, you elbow me.
Man: “That’s why I’ve been looking over at you.”
Me: “Got it.”
Man: “So please stop.”
Me: “Sorry, I didn’t realize I was doing it.”
Man: “It’s probably because you type with two fingers.”
So the takeaway here is that he loved my writing, but was embarassed that I caught him spying, so he couched his enthusiasm in a bunch of insults.
Also I should learn to type.
And never talk to people.