Grace should be my middle name.

Location: United States

Tuesday, February 14, 2006


I have a pretty decent memory. I can remember all of my students name in less than a week. That's about 150 at a time. And when I switch kids 9 weeks later, I can learn the new 150 of them in less than a week too. Right now, I'd say I know at least 90% of the 6th graders names at my school. Dude, that's like at least 500 kids. Plus last years 6th graders, I remember most of them. So yeah. I can remember stuff.

Except that I can't. I can NEVER remember the abreiviations for teaspoon and tablespoon. I can never remember which way I'm supposed to turn my car wheels when parking on a hill (not many hills in Florida) and it wasn't until a few years ago that Al and stopped calling each other mid August and say, "Is El's birthday the 28th? or the 29th?" (El, we KNOW now. It's the 29th.)

I rarely remember details from movies. Unless it's a movie that I really liked or really hated. I can recite for you the entire script of The Little Mermaid but tell you the plot of a movie I saw this summer? Fat chance. I probably do a bit better with books. But ti's sort of the same thing. If I have no use for it, don't care or had no impression, it goes in the "Garbage Out" section of my brain and gets filtered out so that I have enough room to remember what I was wearing for every birthday and what I was doing almost every Thanksgiving.

So when I can still vividly remember a book I read 10 years previously and only once, it must have made an impact. And that impact EXPLODED when I saw the movie Capote tonight. SOOOooooooo intense. Read the book first, "In Cold Blood". Then see the movie. Wow.

Saturday, February 11, 2006

Allowed and Not Allowed

Those Allowed to be at the Laudramat:

1. Latinos y latinas y sus ninos. They're neat, clean and their kids are cute. They don't/can't talk to me. I dont'/can't talk to them. Perfect.

2. Rednecks. They talk to each other only and get out. Fast.

3. Single teachers, nurses and firemen, like me, who live in this county and get a fabulous deal on an apartment without washer/dryer.

Those NOT Allowed at the Laundramat:

1. Big fat black ladies taking up the aisle, smelling like fish and de-staining their undergarments for all to see. Sick.

2. Creepy 50+ men looking at me, but not as much as he's looking at my laundry. DON'T talk to me and DON'T look at my underwear. Sick.

Tuesday, February 07, 2006

The Fair

I feel that I may have been through this before. But it bears repeating: The fair is dirty. And gross. Dirty. Gross.

I spent 2.4 hours there working. Overtime. Except with none of that "overtime" payment. I'm not really bitter about that. It sort of comes with the territory of my job. You gotta do the extra stuff. It's what makes my job matter and what makes it fun. But that's besides the point right now.

The point is that the fair is dirty.

When I was young, when the fair came to town, everyone would start chattering, but when I'd ask my parents to go. They'd say NO. Vehemently, NO. End of story. No extrapolation and no real good reason. At least to a 5th grader it wasn't. They'd say, "The fair is dirty," or, "The fair is gross." But I guess kids don't get that or something. Because I surely didn't.

I guess when a kid hears, "The fair is dirty," they think: beaches are dirty, playing in backyard is dirty, running around and getting sweaty is dirty: therefore, dirty is GREAT.

The other thing was that I had never been to the fair. My parents would always say, "Oh, we took you to see the animals when you were little," which, I'm sorry, TOTALLY didn't count. And so the fact that I'd never really been to the fair to see why my parents were so anti-fair, was very confusing to me.

To be fair, other than the toddler-age-animal-viewing fair experience, my dad did take me once. But he only took me so that he could go see Bobby Bowden speak at a Christian men's conference of something. We didn't go on any rides. It was a Saturday. He bought me a bag of wool. From a real sheep. I don't think I was impressed. I think I was in 4th grade. What's up with that?

So anyway, I used to be bitter about the whole fair thing. And then I went. For fun. And it was pretty average. And then I had to go for work. To the rinky-dink fair where I live now. Technically, I really didn't go to the fair. I went a few days early, like I did today, before the fair began, to hang up art. And I was TOTALLY grossed out. Just like I was today.

So this is where I say that my parents were right. The fair is dirty. And gross. And I'm glad that I've had a shower.