Humor

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I’m so excited to be at Jamie’s Rabbits today.

Jamie is so frickin’ cute I want to eat her up.

(Wait, maybe that’s chocolate…)

One thing I love about Jamie is that she is consistently hilarious.

In person, people tell me that I am funny, but I don’t think that I am a funny writer.

So I kind of freaked out when Jamie demanded requested that my post be funny.

Gah!

Like I’m so not funny.

Except when it happens to leak out accidentally, and even then, it isn’t always funny in a hahahahaha kind of way.

Anyway, if you head on over to Jamie’s Rabbits, you can read my piece “How Not To Study With Your Children” and decide for yourself.

I’m closing comments here today, but I promise I’ll respond to you from Alabama. 😉

Dear L’il Niece and Nephew:

As you may or may not know, I absolutely hate to shop, but this year I went out and actually found cool stuff for both of you! L’il Niece, I got you that unicorn that you wanted and Nephew I was almost able to get that cool guy that you love from that awesome YouTube video to come to your house, but instead I ended up getting you a unicorn, too.

They were having a buy one/get one thing, and I figured if your sister was going to have one, what’s one more unicorn in the barn? I mean, they eat rainbows, right? So it’s not like they cost very much or anything. Anyway, I was really psyched about having completed my holiday shopping early because not only was I done in time which we all know is rare (like unicorns), but I also knew I was mailing everything with plenty of time for everything to get there in time for all the festivities.

That was waaay back on December 9, 2011.

And then, right before Christmas, your mom called me and told me that neither unicorn had arrived.

I had a bad feeling because I didn’t insure anything this year.

Anyway, as K$sha would say, I’m pretty sure I’m on the family $hit list.

And I just wanted you all to know that I apologize.

I have learned my lesson.

In the future, presents will be sent in November and from here on out, everything will be insured.

And don’t worry, your gifts will get way more interesting.

I’m thinking packs of pencils or bags of rocks.

Or both.

Anyway, I hope you all had a wonderful Christmas and a great New Year.

I love you both and hope you can forgive the United States Postal Service even though they really $uck.

Because I think we all know someone who probably deserved a lump of coal is totally loving those unicorns right now.

Any post office horror stories? Misery loves company.

May you all have a wonderful evening!

Thank you for all your support this year!

See you in 2012!

Can you guess which freak person I am?

Recently, Tech Support has become much more private. About everything. Where my 12-year old son used to willingly spill all the beans at once, now he doles them out in microscopic handfuls. And even then, I get a little morsel only after extensive prodding and threats of punishment. Picture a skinny 7th grader with freckles and a pre-recorded robot voice. Because basically, that’s what I’ve got goin’ on these days.

This is how most our after-school conversations sound:

Me: How was school? Tell me something cool that happened today.

TS: I do not like to talk about my academic life.

Me: Well, your father and I think it is important that we know what you do during the day.

TS: Cheese.

Me: Tech Support, it’s not like I’m asking you to reveal our nation’s secrets. If you don’t tell me something about your day, there will be a consequence.

TS: Will this consequence involve my iPod Touch?

Me: It might.

TS: I had a very good day.

Me: That’s a little vague. Can you be more specific?

TS: I do not like to talk about my personal life.

Me: Can you tell me who sat with you during lunch?

TS: I do not remember.

Me: How is that possible?

TS: *shrugs*

Me: Okay, what about that girl from last year. Do you still see her?

TS: I do not like to talk about my social life.

Me: If you don’t give me something, there will be a consequence.

TS: Will this consequence involve my iPod Touch?

Me: It might.

TS: She still likes me. I know because she still emails me once in a while and talks to me in the hall. But she doesn’t like like me.

Me: How are you doing in your classes?

TS: I don’t like to talk about my grades.

Me: Are you kidding?

TS: If I don’t answer you, will I lose my iPod Touch?

Me: You are heading in that direction.

TS: Then I am doing very well. Very well, indeed. I have A pluses in all my classes. I have found a way to stop the United States dependency on foreign oil. I did this in science with my lab partner. I have written many long essays in English. My gym teacher loves me.

Me: Are you messing with me?

TS: Indeed.

Me: Dude, you are exhausting.

TS: *smiling* Will that be all?

Me: May I ask one more question?

TS: If I do not answer, will I lose my iPod Touch?

Me: That joke is wearing thin.

TS: Fine. *glaring* What?

Me: How is the Bar-Mitzvah preparation going?

TS: Very well. When I get up to read from the Torah, I plan to bust out into a rap. Or sing like Operaman. It will be excellent. Everyone will love it. They will think I am awesome and tell me I should be a rock-star when I grow up.

Me: If you do that . . .

TS: . . . will it involve my iPod Touch?

Me: No. *not smiling* It will involve this . . .

And then I jump on him. I tackle my snarky little son who suddenly knows all the answers to everything. He is longer than I remember. And stronger. We are laughing as our fingers intertwine.

Tech Support and I notice at the same moment that our hands are the same size.

TS: That’s weird. When did that happen?

I think about his question. I remember his tiny fingers wrapped over the edge of his blanket, how he used to clumsily grab magic markers and paintbrushes. I think about the way he used to build with LEGOs and K’Nex and how he still loves to make magnetic creations with those super tiny Bucky Balls. I consider how gracefully he holds his sabre before each bout.

My son interrupts my thoughts.

TS: I think I know when it happened.

I tilt my head, lean in, and give all my attention to him.

TS: Probably while I was on my iPod Touch.

*weep*

What physical and/or emotional changes do you remember people commenting on as you grew up? Or what did/do you notice changing about your child/ren? How did your parents punish you? Do you ever take away your kid’s iPod Touch?

Can you imagine if my kid does a Hebrew version of this on his Bar Mitzvah? Oy!

Fall came late to Rochester this year. Just the other day, the leaves were firmly attached to the trees — all braggy with their reds and yellows and purples and oranges. The sky was summer blue. It was actually warm outside.

And then…

And then all my fingernails broke.

Quick! Tell me something to love about winter. Because it’s coming.

Special thanks to my son, Tech Support, for helping me put this together at the 11th hour. The snow actually happened last Wednesday, but I can’t do a stinkin’ thing without that kid.

This blog entry by Kathy English, author of “Mom Crusades” is one of the best articles I’ve read on how Halloween costumes have morphed from simple, home-made creations into an entire industry of expensive outfits.

And when it comes to girls’ (and women’s) costumes well, let’s just say the choices are sometimes downright skanky!

For those of you who don’t know me  — and for those of you who do, before I am accused of being a total hypocrite — I have to confess, I kind of like displaying my inner naughty-girl on Halloween.

Hubby and I like to throw costume parties every few years and I have been a naughty teacher (typecast?), a St. Pauli Girl, a French Maid, even a slutty pirate. Once I wore a really short toga.

A. Really. Short. Toga.

Here’s why:

On Halloween 1999, a mere two months after my son was born, hubby and I decided to go with a “family theme” — you know, because I was about 50 pounds heavier than I was accustomed to weighing.

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

My husband was a farmer – complete with red flannel shirt and overalls – our baby was a cute little heifer, and I … I was a big, fat momma cow (complete with over-sized, pink, rubber udders).

Oh. My. Gosh.

Never did I feel less attractive. I really felt like a cow. The fact that I had to go upstairs and actually pump breast milk in the middle of the evening did not help things. As I sat attached to my industrial strength Medela pump, I vowed to never again wear something on Halloween that made me feel unfeminine.

So while I philosophically agree with Kathy’s blog 100%, I am not going to be a hobo with facial hair for Halloween.

What is the best costume you ever wore for Halloween? Or what’s the least appropriate costume you’ve ever seen on an adult? Describe it in detail!

Tweet this Twit @rasjacobson

To review for those of you who might be late to the party:

We failed Goldfish-101. (So we squished three googly-eyed goldfish into one tiny bowl without a bubbler or filter? What’s your point?)

We failed at Puppy-101. (After two weeks with the puppy formerly-known-as-Mojo, Rubie now resides with my husband’s brother and my sister-in-law.)

We failed at Kitty-101. (Right at the three-week point, just as we had all fallen sufficiently in love with him, our fabulous polydactyl cat’s dander caused my husband’s allergies to go haywire, so Hemingway had to go back to Habitat for Cats.)

That was a heart-breaker.

The other night, I was informed that every one of Monkey’s brand new tropical fish – in his brand new tank is either dead or contaminated with something called Ichthyophthirius or Ich.

I don’t know; it’s some kind of parasite or something.

Ick.

I’ve said this before, but no one seems to want to listen to me.

The Lord clearly does not want us to have pets.

We are great with houseplants and lawn maintenance.

My husband can grow a mean tomato.

But pets?

Not so much.

So while Husband was feverishly Googling “How to make Ich Disappear,” Monkey was a little mopey.

He had dared to name his fish, so he was more than a little bummed about Hoodie and Mad, Derpy and Silverstein and The Something Brothers.

I went to his bedroom to console him, and offered to read him a book,

He wanted something short.

Something light.

I picked this.

“Really mom?” Monkey said, “A book about animals with spots?”

In hindsight, perhaps not the most sensitive selection.

Returning the book to his shelf, I grabbed another.

I hardly looked at it.

Hubby came upstairs then and adjusted the temperature in the tank to 86 degrees.

He announced that Ich can be killed if you increase the temperature, but that the tank would need treatment too.

You know, because the parasite is all over everything. The rocks, the plants.

I hate parasites. How they get all over everything like that. They are so nervy.

Anyway, Hubby saw the book I was preparing to read.

Excellent choice,” he said, “One Fish, Two fish, Red fish, Dead Fish.”

We all laughed.

Because pathos can be funny.

Especially when it rhymes.

Hubby and I smooched our son and told him we’d work on things in the morning.

Meanwhile, I ran downstairs and hopped onto Facebook to discuss the issue.

My friend Melissa reminded me of those dog collars they used to have at fairs.

You know, the ones that have a little harness and make it look like you are walking a dog?

Only there isn’t a dog.

Because that is what we need.

An invisible pet.

And to the person who joked that we need to get a pet rock?

We had one.

His name was Rocky.

We lost him.

(Which reminds me, we failed at cyber pet ownership, too.)

Yeah, I am pretty sure we are at invisible.

Can you think of other things that would be insensitive (read: really funny) to sing/read/watch/do when your kid has a fish tank contaminated by a funky parasite?

Tweet this Twit @RASJacobson

Someone really smart once said, “Kids seldom misquote; in fact, they usually repeat word for word what you shouldn’t have said.”

In fact, that person might actually have been sitting in my classroom the day I taught Flannery O’Connor‘s short story “A Good Man is Hard to Find” to a bunch of 11th graders.

I had taught the story dozens of times and found the simple premise and the unfulfilling ending always led to great discussions.

One particular day, I asked my students to take out their copies of the story. A simple directive, right? Only this time, my students started snickering.

Initially, I assumed that perhaps someone had farted or something.

(What? It happens.)

We started to discuss O’Connor’s work, and everything was going along swimmingly. I asked someone what he thought the point or message of the story might be.

Four or maybe five people burst out laughing.

I wondered if I had pit stains or if I was dragging toilet paper around behind me as I walked around the room.

I couldn’t figure it out.

The laughing flared up again. And again.

Finally I couldn’t take it anymore.

“Why is everyone laughing?” I demanded.

Silence.

Of course.

I insisted, “Seriously, I’d like to know what is so funny.”

One brave girl tried to help me. “Mrs. Jacobson,” she said, “The story is called ‘A Good Man is Hard to Find,’ but you keep calling it… something else.”

She pointed at the blackboard behind me.

I turned to look at the board and sure enough, I’d even written it out in chalk: “A Hard Man is Good To Find.”

Oh. My. Holy. Embarrassing.

And did I mention that I was about 6 months pregnant?

Well, I was.

So they were all thinking about how I had gotten it on with a “hard man” and it was “good.”

Or something like that.

Teachers have to be careful to watch what they say whether in the classroom or out in public, and I have found the best approach is to assume that everything I say could be published or broadcast to the world. That way, I have to be sure what I am saying is appropriate, clear and concise. And cannot be misinterpreted.

But sometimes I stick my foot in my mouth.

So I’m guessing I was heavily quoted that night.

Unless, of course, that batch of students forgot all about my faux-pas.

Because teenagers do that.

I mean, a lot of stuff happens between 7:50 AM and dinnertime.

In her short story, O’Connor goes to great lengths to show her readers how meaningless many of the small things we concern ourselves with are in the grand scheme of things: how many of the things that we fret over are really not very important at all.

I mean, obviously, in the larger scheme, there are many worse things than jostling up a few words in front of one’s students.

So maybe that moment was not very important.

I can buy that.

So why do I remember it so vividly?

And can somebody help make that memory go away?

Done anything wildly embarrassing recently? Anyone like to predict some dumb things I’ll probably do this semester?

A little while ago I received my roster for my fall Comp-101 writing class.

I scored a great building.

(No pole in the middle of the classroom this semester, people!)

And I have a full house, so there is no chance the class will be canceled.

Also reassuring.

And then I noticed it.

Assuming everybody shows on the first day, I should have four Ashleighs.

And an Ashley.

Four Zacharys.

And a Zach.

One Nathan.

And a Nate.

Oh, and two students with the last name “Johnson.”

With my luck, they will be identical twins.

Holy crowly!

I’m usually pretty good with names, but I’m thinking it is going to take me longer than usual to figure out who is who.

Several years ago, I repeatedly called a student Brennan. Problem was his name wasn’t Brennan; it was Brendan. By chance, Brendan chose to sit in the exact same seat that Brennan sat in one hour earlier. I tried moving Brendan’s seat, but I kept calling him Brennan. He was gracious at first – but eventually, he got annoyed.

Can you blame him?

But even if I goofed up my students’ names, I never confused their grades because my sound-alikes were in different sections.

But this year is going to be different.

All these students with the same-sounding names will be in the same section.

How are we going to have class discussion?

What will I do if 3 Ashleighs are simultaneously raising their hands because they want to respond to something?

Secretly, I find myself praying that one or more of my duplicates will drop my class before the semester starts. Or, in the very least, that each student will have dramatically different appearances and personality traits.

I’m hoping that Ashleigh #1 will be an amazing writer who loves to talk while Ashleigh #2 will be lazy and fall asleep at her desk each day. With any luck Ashleigh #3 will have tanning-booth bronze skin a la Snooki, and Ashleigh #4 will be an albino with red eyes and protective eyewear. I haven’t figured out what Ashley could be like. Maybe she will walk through the doors wearing a fabulous fuchsia pin. And maybe I can persuade her to agree to wear it every day Monday, Wednesday and Friday for the entire fifteen weeks of the semester.

I’m a little anxious about this. Can you tell?

What tricks do you use to remember people’s names? And what tactics do you recommend for a situation like this — other than a seating chart. Think creatively, people.

I’m kicking off Wednesday #TWITS: a fancy-schmancy acronym for Teachers Who I Think Scored / Teachers Who I Think Sucked. (It only took me eleventy bajillion hours to think up that one.) So here is my middle school memory about one very specific moment. Obviously, I have changed the teacher’s name.

• • •

In middle school, I had the meanest homeroom teacher. Unfortunately, she was also my English teacher, which meant I had double doses of her each day. Mrs. Dour ran a tight ship. She liked her rows straight. She liked her students quiet. She hated boys who leaned back in their chairs. She also hated girls who wore clogs. “Too noisy,” she complained. She called on people when their hands were down, and when she wrote words like “onomatopoeia” on the blackboard, she pressed so hard against the slate that the white chalk often crumbled into dust. Mrs. Dour wore her reddish-hair in a tight bun every day, but by 8^th period, when I had her for English, most of her hair had fallen down, giving her a slightly deranged look.

I was pretty scared of her.

One June day, Mrs. Dour gave us all a 7-minute writing assignment during which time we were supposed to do something in our black and white composition notebooks.

I can’t remember what we were supposed to do because of what happened next.

Mrs. Dour turned her back to the class to write on the board. She was wearing a lightweight, white top and a long, gauzy, white skirt that day. I remember this because at that time I was preoccupied by what everyone wore. I noted in my superficial middle school manner that white did not flatter Mrs. Dour’s pasty complexion, and I planned to deconstruct her ensemble after class with my two friends during our bus ride home.

Right about then I noticed a small, reddish dot on the back of Mrs. Dour’s skirt.

Initially, I figured Mrs. Dour must have sat on one of her red felt-tipped markers. She was the only teacher who wrote in red felt-tip marker, and her fingers were often covered with red lines by the end of the day. While waiting for inspiration, I stared at the red mark on Mrs. Dour’s skirt – and I noticed the stain had grown larger. I looked around to see if I could catch anyone else’s eye, but everyone was madly engaged in our teacher’s in-class activity. As Mrs. Dour’s hand carefully crafted perfect cursive letters, I tracked the red as it spread across her bottom. What started out first as a dot, morphed into a quarter-sized circle and rapidly grew into an asymmetrical patch of red, the size of my adolescent fist.

I remembered how, midway through that year during gym class, we girls had been made to watch The Movie, a film created to explain what was starting to happen to our female parts. Our innards. I learned why some of us had boobies already and why some of us would have to wait. (In my case, years. Stupid hormones.) I remembered how we had grabbed each other’s hands as we huddled together in the gymnasium, trying to stifle our giggles. And before we left the locker room that day, each of us received a plastic “goodie-bag” filled with a cute little free sample of mouthwash, some deodorant, two sanitary napkins, and two tampons.

So I knew what was going on.

Meanwhile, I waited for someone else to notice. Or do something.

But as I watched the hand on the clock do that backwards-to-go-forwards click, I realized I was going to have to be The One.

I quietly pushed back my chair and, leaving my clogs behind so as not to make noise, I tiptoed across the room to join Mrs. Dour at the board.

She saw me out of the corner of her eye but kept writing, her back to the class.

How I wanted her to turn sideways and look at me, but she didn’t.

“Is there a problem?” Mrs. Dour snapped without so much as glancing my way.

If she had looked at me, I could have been more discreet. Instead, I fumbled for words. It hadn’t occurred to me to get the words right and then approach Mrs. Dour. My feet had just moved me to where I needed to go. I figured the words would follow.

“Yes,” I said.

Mrs. Dour spat, “Well, what is it?”

Heads popped up.

As inaudibly as I possibly could, I whispered: “There is blood all over the back of your skirt.”

Mrs. Dour, whom I had always assumed to be very old, was probably in her late forties. She was always so terse; she came off like The Wicked Witch from The Wizard of Oz, which definitely added a decade of scowl lines to her deeply furrowed forehead.

So there I was, Dorothy Gale, stuck in the tornado that was Mrs. Dour.

“Come with me!” Mrs. Dour growled. She took my left arm firmly and escorted me from her desk to the door which she snatched open. Together, we marched directly across the hall to the student bathroom where Mrs. Dour disappeared behind a stall door.

I stood by a trio of sinks, waiting for directions. For divine intervention. For Mrs. Dour to tell me to go. Or stay. Or something.

I didn’t expect Mrs. Dour to cry.

But that is exactly what she did.

From behind the stall, I could hear her pulling the terrible, industrial squares of toilet paper and weeping.

For the first time, I stopped seeing my English teacher as Mean Ole Mrs. Dour, the persnickety disciplinarian with all those rigid rules: the woman who gave me detention at least once a week.

I saw her as a small, embarrassed, woman who didn’t know what to do.

I looked at myself in the mirror and found enough courage to ask Mrs. Dour if there was anything that I could do for her.

My voice echoed against the empty bathroom walls.

“Do you think many people… saw?” Mrs. Dour asked.

“I don’t think so,” I lied.

Truth be told, I suspected that nearly everyone had seen the mess on the back of Mrs. Dour’s skirt, and if they hadn’t seen it with their own eyes, the people who had were likely telling everyone who hadn’t.

I was pretty sure that would be the end of Mrs. Dour. After suffering such public humiliation, I was positive she would resign that afternoon.

But Mrs. Dour was in homeroom the very next day. She was not any nicer. She continued to do her job just as she had before.

She continued to complain about the girls who wore clogs. She continued to issue me my weekly detention. Mrs. Dour was not a nice teacher. I cannot remember any books that I read or projects that I did that year. I remember only that single incident. But I learned something important from her nevertheless.

I learned that sometimes a person has to push through her fear no matter how scared she might be and just keep moving forward. Sometimes, you have to take a deep breath and face the thing that you fear: which in this case – as is often the case – is the fear of ridicule or the laughing masses. Because sometimes that’s all you can do.

I suppose Mrs. Dour did teach me one other lesson.

A teacher myself, I can tell you I have never, ever worn a white skirt.

Ever.

And I never will.

When is the last time you were truly afraid? What got you to push past your fear?