Pantsing was a pasttime in junior high--during a time when sexual harassment was only a myth. Looking back I could've been a recipient of some serious compensatory cash, but that's not the kind of person I am (blah blah). Instead, I just pants back. When I say pants, I mean the pants, literally, especially during P.E. It was me and this one kid named Steve Jones, black guy...really smart...funny, super nice...but he was my pantsing buddy. We took turns going at each other, like tag but with pants. Those gym shorts just slipped like my tongue when I'm in an awkward social situation. No one got hurt, no one ever paid much attention even. It was just a little yank, some drawers, then a pull back up and all was well. Until the final blow (the verbage is at a loss now, there's no helping all the words), on the soccer field.
Picture it, 1987 on a spring day (because it was PE not real soccer, okay soccer freaks?), we were all out on the field, boys and girls. I was a few yards in front of the goalie, Jason Mueller, who was pretty cute, but never was an interest of mine. The game was on the other end of the field, so my team must have been doing pretty well, like I cared. I hung back, not even watching the game. I must've been thinking about something because I was so oblivious to EVERYTHING. Steve Jones, what an opportunist, was not in la-la land. No, friends, he was calculating. Right now, he must be making big dollars somewhere taking advantage of poor, vulnerable people who are looking the other way. I'm standing on the field when suddenly I feel my shorts go down my legs. They don't go down as in "oops, slip" grap 'em and back up. They went D O W N my legs. But that wasn't the worst part. Steve, still the reigning king of pantsing, had grabbed my underwear (that's what they were when I was in 8th...no one wore thongs, that was weird). The breeze was free to roam in the parts that don't get a lot of fresh air. My bare bottom was free for Jason to check out. I grabbed the clothing (multiple) back up and heard the laughter getting louder. Five black girls were standing to the side. One of them screamed, "She got hair!" Very mature, what...you don't have hair? How old are we? In eighth grade, everything is embarrassing, so you can imagine how that one did me in. At least my butt was cute back then. Now if he had done that yesterday?...Sexual harassment suit for "all he got," that's all I can say. (my head is doing the 'attitude' bob as I write that.) Now that is history I'm proud to share with my posterity.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Thursday, September 11, 2008
I just wanted to point out that 9/11 is a day of happiness for me, but of sorrow as well. While I remember vividly watching the towers fall that day, little did I know that I would be pushing out my fourth and last child a year later. I cried as I watched the towers fall, no sounds emitting from my mouth...just the flow of tears as I stood in horror. I went to school that day, afraid as usual of missing something important, only to be kept in the class as the university took measures to protect those who shared nationality with the enemy. Upon my release, I rushed home to my three babies. That December, when my husband's brother came to visit, a little oopsie daisy that turned into the best thing that happened to me became a reality as I vied for my husband's attention. It was when the last box was carried into our first home that my contractions started at midnight on 9/11. As my husband lay his head down for the first time that day, I tapped him on the shoulder and told him it was time. Only a few hours later, our 9 lb 7 oz baby boy was celebrating his birthday. A packed hospital that day with other new babies, I spent much time alone as my husband ran about getting our girls into school and finalizing moving details. Now, six years later, my baby boy, Ty, gives me a reason to be happy on that horrific day. Instead of calling it 9/11, we call it 9-7 on 9-11. Happy Birthday, Ty Ty...and a moment of silence please.
Just to have a little "get to know me" time, which is not because I am the "Me Monster" as Brian Regan so aptly named an ego maniac, I thought I'd add a story here and there about the old me. Again...cheaper than therapy is a good old home remedy (a blog). I grew up down the way from where I currently live with a house full of females, one crazy male, and a father who didn't spend much time at home. (does this sound familiar, anyone?) I was number two of five with the lone male tailing behind the Hormonal Four (would've had a band if any of us had talent.) My poor mother, bless her locked bedroom door heart, had to do much of the raising alone. I liked to sleep in, unlike my three sisters, and would get up long after they had wiped out what little food we had to eat. By the time I went to the kitchen for breakfast, all that was left were remnants of store-brand sugar cereal lining the cracks of the wall behind the curtains where my sisters would think they were sneaking the cereal at dawn. I, of course, was left with store-brand Cheerios, or what we called Toastios, or some shredded wheat business. When I did resign to eating such blandness until I dumped a half pound of sugar on it, my sisters would go further to have fun with me. Just as I go to put the first bite into my mouth with all that was left of the silverware (an enormous serving spoon meant for Thanksgiving Day only), I would hear "bwahahahas." Looking back, I should've kept going, but in my naivety, I had to ask what the deal was. My older sister (see photo insert), who still apologizes profusely for acting on behalf of Satan my entire adolescence, bursts out laughing again. In between snorts, I hear her say something about having stuck that last spoon in her bum. I look at the giant spoon then back at her, questioning the unquestionable, wondering how and why she would do such a thing. Again, naive. In my hunger, which was desperate, I shrugged my shoulders to show them I didn't care, only to lift the spoon high above my head, then drip the contents into my mouth so as not to touch the spoon with my lips. It was okay, I guess, to allow my food to go down with bum juice on it, just as long as it did not touch my lips. And I remember thinking, this spoon does smell a little like her bum. The power of the mind, or lack thereof.
You all know how much fun Kindsay is. When I say fun, I mean that I can say she is fun three days after the trauma occurs, but not a moment before. As exasperated as I always am about how she DOESN'T keep her room in the remotest possible way of being entered, she managed to add another element of exasperation. I walked by the other day, only to hear a beeping noise, like an alarm, along with wafting food scents, coming from her room. As though I had taken a wrong turn and thought I was actually in the kitchen, I did a double take. Alas, I was only in the hall, just past her room. As I turn to question the unquestionable, she exits her room with a bowl of hot oatmeal, blowing it business as usual, looking at me like, what? She had found Greg's old classroom microwave and installed it at the foot of her bed. I ran to see what other appliances lined the wall and was thankful to find that his refrigerator had not been brought in from the garage as well. Then it dawned on me, she can't get that thing in here alone...unless she figures out that the dolly sitting five feet behind it will easily cart it into the room without effort. So cross your fingers, ladies and gentlemen, that my special little appliance savant doesn't make any connections. Otherwise she'll be wondering how to get a toilet in her room and will thus not have to leave her room for anything but to get on her bus for school. Don't tempt me.