In which that went better than I hoped

I won’t be in my classroom tomorrow.  I’m assisting (where “assisting” means “taking primary responsibility for,” because if I do it it’s going to be done right) on a major project in the office, and they’re putting a sub in my room so that I can get everything done.  I have told the boss he is providing me with doughnuts and orange juice and lunch.  He did not argue.

True fact: after spending all summer trying my damnedest to stay out of the classroom, I’m now officially pissed that I’m getting pulled out of the classroom.  Because clearly I am never happy.  Three days in, I’m still over the moon with my homeroom girls, and my afternoon class ain’t half bad either, although there are a few of ’em in there that I know I’m going to end up tangling with and there are a lot of special ed kids who are going to end up challenging in an entirely different way.  Some of them are the same kids.  I like my para, too.  I’ve always had good luck with my paraprofessionals; that streak is apparently continuing this year.

My main goal this weekend needs to be to find some way to get at least a little ahead on next week.  Given that I’m working Saturday night and we’re hosting a birthday party for our son on Sunday, that seems a trifle unlikely.  But I remain optimistic.  I’d also like to– God forbid– get some writing done that isn’t blog-related.

How’s your week going, y’all?

Three facts. Maybe four, depending on how you count.

I ordered my birthday present yesterday.

Today I went to a Fathers’ Day thing at my kid’s day care and then came home and took a nap.

Other than that I got nothin’.  How’re you?

Birfday!

T-minus an hour and fifteen minutes to relatives and toddlers, and I’m getting hangry. Will. Not. Touch. Cupcakes.

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In which I have a three-year-old

Yesterday was awful, but not in a way that I can make funny or entertaining– “these numbers won’t add up, and nothing we can do will make them!” does not make for a fun blog post– and I basically took the entire day off from the Internet.  Today is my son’s birthday, so I’m gonna be busy as hell for at least the next seven or eight hours, but may be around tonight, since I was smart enough to take the weekend off from OtherJob.  

MISS ME, DAMN YOUR EYES.

Speaking of lazy…

photoA friend of mine turned forty on Tuesday.  This is (I think) the first time this has happened, which is kinda weird.  I have friends who are forty or older, but this is the first example I can think of of a friend turning forty who was not yet forty when we started associating with each other.*

It makes me feel terribly old by proxy.  I’m not 40 yet, but I can sure as hell see it from here, and not in a Sarah-Palin-and-Russia sort of way, but an “across the goddamn street on a bright and sunny day” sort of way.

(Related, short anecdote: I got into an argument with my brother a couple of weeks about how old he was.  I was wrong– not because I didn’t remember how old he was, but because I didn’t remember how old was and I therefore did the math to arrive at his age incorrectly.  This is a true fucking story, I swear to God.  I was off by a solid year, and I think I’d managed to spend a couple of months thinking I was 38 rather than it being a one-time brainfart.)

Anyway.  Speaking of me being ancient, let’s talk about my latest life decision.  I’m sitting in it right now.  There’s a picture of it right there.  I have decided that the best move to make with my current life is to become an Old Man with a Recliner.  It is not literally “my” chair in the sense that I lay sole claim to it, but I’m starting to believe that it’s mine anyway.  My wife called it “Daddy’s Chair” to my son almost the very second he noticed it.  I’ve never owned a recliner before, but our couch is developing issues and we needed at least one new place for people to sit in the living room anyway, so I figured I may as well go Full Lazy.  Very soon I will start demanding that dinner be on the table when I get home and possibly learning how to snore.  Because that is what Old Men with Recliners do, right?  Sure.

I turned my phone on during my prep period (I got a prep today!) to discover that there was a two minute old voicemail from the delivery guys that they were sitting in my driveway wondering where the hell I was.  “Where I was” was at work, since the damn chair was supposed to be delivered on Saturday.  How do I know this?  Because I have a full time damn job, and my wife has a full time job, and why the hell would I schedule a delivery on Thursday during ISTEP week when I know damn well neither of us are going to be home?  I didn’t, that’s how, and I didn’t get the phone call yesterday to tell me when the delivery was supposed to be like they said I would either, because if I had than I would have rescheduled with those people.

I called the guy right back and was in the early stages of “this is not what was supposed to happen and frankly I’m pretty pissed about it even though I know it’s not specifically your fault” when I realized that I was having the conversation in an empty classroom because I didn’t have any students.  At which point I abruptly reversed direction and asked the guys if they minded waiting ten more minutes and raced home.  I sat in my chair for about a minute and a half before heading back to work and nearly fell asleep during that minute and a half.  That comfortable.

Further updates on my inevitable transformation to Recliner Guy will surely be posted as they happen, unless becoming Recliner Guy makes me too lazy to write any more.

(*) I’ll give it ten minutes until someone pops up on Facebook to point out how terribly wrong I am.

In which I alter society to fit my whims

bbarkerOn the one hand, anyone good enough at staying alive to have a 9 in any but the last digit of their age really doesn’t deserve to have me blowing shit at them.  On the other hand, holy shit dudes Bob Barker is scary as hell all the sudden.

I do not actually want to live to 90– given the wild variety of aches and pains and various iniquities and inabilities that being merely 37 has inflicted upon me, I literally cannot understand how anyone over 50 is even alive.  But if I do make it to 90, I’d like to think that I would terrify small children.  Way to be, Bob.  I’ll spay something for you.


I don’t normally link to Slate, but when I do, I do it twice in a week.  This article is not typical Slate Contrarianism like the last time, it’s something far more inexplicable:  apparently some study has determined that 1 in 200 pregnant women claim that they are virgins.  A British medical journal– well, actually, it’s apparently called The British Medical Journal (I would have thought there’d be more than one)– apparently spent fourteen years tracking the lives of some 8,000 post-adolescent girls.  During that time, just over five thousand reported a pregnancy.  Of those five thousand, 45 managed to achieve pregnancy without achieving sex.  While I don’t know if the survey tracked creative use of turkey basters or artificial insemination, the authors (or at least Amanda Marcotte, who wrote the article) have thus concluded that those 45 young women believe themselves to have given virgin birth.  This line from the study is wonderful:

While more virgins gave birth to boys (59.8%) or may have learnt they were pregnant during Advent, these trends did not reach statistical significance.

That, right there, is quality snark, kids.

Let’s talk about virginity, just for a second, if you don’t mind.  And you don’t mind, do you?

Virginity is fucking stupid.

Don’t misunderstand me:  I’m not claiming that being a person who has not had sex is stupid.  That’s fine with me.  Glory in yo’ spunk, as BB King might say.  Or, y’know, glory in being eight years old.  Whatever.  I don’t care if you have sex or not.  You’d probably like it, if you tried, but I haven’t ever had a whiskey sour and people say good things about those too.

What’s fucking stupid is that we have a word for people who haven’t had sex, and that, worse, we perceive this state of non-fucking-ness as a thing that is lost when either your penis enters a vagina or your vagina is entered by a penis or whatever other definition you’ve constructed in your head to determine whether your sex “counts” or “doesn’t count,” which no doubt is determined mostly by how interested you are in disappointing your mother.  And baby Jesus.  Who hates sex, apparently.

Think about this:  there is no other thing, in the English language or any other that I’m aware of, where we have a word for someone who has not done something but no word for someone who has.  I’ve never killed anyone.  There’s no word for me.  I kill someone, I become a murderer.  I’ve never lived in Paris.  No word.  Once I do?  I become a Parisian.  

What do you call someone who has had sex?  Well, okay, fucker, but that’s not actually what anyone means when they say that, although maybe they should, because that word really isn’t versatile enough.  Sexer?  Nope.  That’s someone who can tell whether a chicken is a boy or a girl. Which, by the way, is fascinating.

(Click the link do it do it DO IT YOU WILL LEARN THINGS)

(Then imagine what you might find if you GIS “chick sexers,” and then find out for yourself.)

The hell was I talking about?

Oh, right.  Virgins.

(cough)

Here’s the point: these young women, if they even exist and aren’t some sort of bizarre statistical anomaly in this survey, are in need of something very badly (no NOT THAT JESUS SHUT UP YOU PERVERT):  comprehensive goddamn sex education.  They’ve clearly not been getting it (SHUT UP) and they need it (QUIET) and they need it now (OKAY FINE YOU WIN I GIVE UP).  No one should be so pig-ignorant about how their body works that they think they got pregnant in a swimming pool or from a toilet seat, and if we’re in a world where we hope that people are lying because the alternative is scarier, we’ve still got a problem.

Here’s what we should call people who haven’t had sex: people.  Here’s what we should call people who have had sex:  older people.  This entire concept that there’s purity of some vague metaphysical sort attached to a state of non-sexytimes is destructive and stupid and  as a culture we should squash it dead right the hell now.  Virginity is stupid, and no one should be one. Death to useless concepts!

(It’s been a long day.  This is the best I can do.)

(True fact about me: my last blog was something like the #4 Google result for years if you for some godforsaken what-the-hell-is-wrong-with-you reason chose to search for the phrase “duck cock.”  The duck penis, also, is fascinating.)