Two women and a movie

Two years ago, I read The Hunger Games on the recommendation of our school librarian. It grabbed me from the beginning, and even before I finished the first few chapters, I recommended it to my friend and colleague, Linda. She plowed through it as fast as I did and even bought and read Catching Fire, the second in the trilogy, before me.

I clearly remember the day she finished The Hunger Games.

“This would make a GREAT movie!”

And then, several weeks later, “They’re making a movie! I CAN’T WAIT!”

I was excited too, but two years is a long time to wait. In the meanwhile, I recommended the novel to every kind of kid in my classroom: the honors student, the reluctant reader, girls, boys, scifi/fantasy readers, realistic fiction readers, romance readers, kids interested in politics, kids who could care less about politics. I recommended the book to adults too. Word of mouth spread like wild fire…it always does with a good read.

After a while, I would ask, “Have you read The Hunger Games yet?” and three or four kids in the room would chime in with “OMG! That book is so good!”

Linda and I periodically discussed the movie, analyzing the choices as actors were cast, wondering how they would deal with various plot points and whether they would dial back the violence to allow a larger audience to see it. Our discussions always ended with “I CAN’T WAIT!”

Fast forward to yesterday, opening day. My boys, both of whom have read the book, bailed on me and went to the movie with other people. Bruce wasn’t interested, and Linda had other plans. My frustration reached a fever pitch around 9:00, and I had just decided to get in the car and go by myself when Linda called.

“Okay, I’m done with my stuff and Robert is dropping me off. Meet me at Wendy’s in 15 minutes with a corkscrew, some plastic cups, and a bag of ice!”

There is a reason why this woman is one of my closest friends in the world.

We chattered like excited school girls all the way to the multiplex and arrived in time for the 9:40 showing. Linda had a very large purse and brought her own refreshment into the theater. I was driving and opted for a soda and some $10 M&Ms from the concession stand.

Our movie started right about the time UK tipped off, and thanks to the statewide insanity over basketball, we had great seats. The lights went down, and Linda turned to me.

“I AM SO EXCITED!!!”

“I KNOW!! ME TOO!!”

The first preview was for a remake of Dark Shadows by Tim Burton with Johnny Depp. I LOVE Johnny Depp in bizarre roles with weird make-up. Seriously, read my review of Alice in Wonderland. The trailer for Dark Shadows was hilarious, classic weird Johnny Depp. Can you imagine him as a soap opera vampire?

I CAN’T WAIT!

We were frothing at the mouth by the time the previews ended and the movie started. I dispelled the froth with a large swig of Diet Coke. Linda uncorked the bottle in her purse, refilled her red solo cup, and read the opening text on the screen out loud…

North America has become Panem, a country composed of twelve poverty-ridden districts which provide resources to the ruling elite in the Capitol. Each district must send one boy and one girl between the ages of 13 and 18 to the Capitol to participate in the annual Hunger Games. The teens are chosen through a lottery called the reaping.

The movie opens in District 12, Appalachia, on the day of the reaping. District 12 looked exactly as I imagined it. The mountains were beautiful juxtaposed against the poverty of Katniss’ family home. The town reminded me of a 1950s era mining camp. Then, superimposed over that, was the stark dystopian future in which it existed with Peacekeepers reminiscent of Storm Troopers and large Orwellian telescreens.

From the beginning, Katniss, District 12’s female tribute, is the strong heartbeat of the story, and kudos to the moviemakers for getting her right. She is smart, courageous, resourceful, self-reliant, and self-sacrificing, imbued with a sense of responsibility for family and community. She is everything the heroine of another monster franchise which shall remain nameless is not. She is not defined by the boys in her life, nor is she rescued by them. She fights alongside of them, and more often than not, they look to her for rescuing.

And forgive me for editorializing, but hey, it’s my blog. Katniss is an image of femininity sorely needed in a time where politicians use women’s health issues as a lightning rod to obscure their lack of vision (or repugnant vision) for the economy and foreign policy, a time where pundits on both sides freely throw around pejoratives like “slut,” “prostitute,” and “bitch” when a woman has an opinion they don’t like. Katniss is the image of capable femininity that scares the living hell out of the kind of man who needs male privilege because he doesn’t have the goods to earn it fair and square.

But I digress…

Having said all that, I honestly thought Peeta, Katniss’ male counterpart, wasn’t quite strong enough in the movie. As a player, he can’t match Katniss’ skill in the woods, but he is wily and has a better grasp of human nature than she does. Josh Hutcherson just doesn’t have the chops to play opposite Jennifer Lawrence, and his Peeta came off a bit weak. Liam Hemsworth’s Gale is strong, and I look forward to the second and third films where he will have a larger role. I won’t post spoilers, but for those of you who have read the whole trilogy, the disparity in the strength of the actors playing Gale and Peeta poses a potential problem for those movies.

Woody Harrelson was an inspired choice for Haymitch, former winner and mentor to Katniss and Peeta, although my younger son thought they cut too much of his part out in the movie. I tend to agree. Donald Sutherland was excellent as President Snow, the epitome of the evil despot packaged as benevolent father figure. His conversations with Seneca Crane, the head gamemaker, gave me chills.

Most of the gore in the arena was implied and not explicit, making way for a PG-13 rating. I would still be wary of taking young children. Sometimes, what is unseen is more frightening than what is seen. I remember being particularly horrified by the tracker jacker scene when reading the book, and not seeing Glimmer’s body up close in the movie suited me just fine.

Explicit violence notwithstanding, I honestly don’t think the movie captured the tension of the book. The horror of using children to keep a country subdued and defeated just wasn’t there. There were glimmers, especially in President Snow’s scenes, but overall it was lost. Frustrating because there were so many opportunities to show it: Haymitch’s disappearance into a whiskey flask, the Avox servants, Cinna’s subversive packaging of Katniss and Peeta. Lenny Kravitz was wasted as Cinna.

One of the aspects of the novel that made it brilliant, at least in my mind, was the way it captured the zeitgeist of reality TV. Whether it be celebrity scandal, American Idol, or hard news, the media frames everything for us. They give us the storyline and tell us how we are supposed to perceive what they are presenting.

In the novel, Haymitch invents a star-crossed romance between Katniss and Peeta in an attempt to frame their story and make them more appealing to the audience. Audience appeal means sponsors. Sponsors mean timely help in the arena. Haymitch is the architect, but Peeta sells it because he really is in love with Katniss. Maybe it was because they cut too much of Haymitch or maybe it was because Josh Hutcherson wasn’t up to the challenge, but I thought that important storyline was muddled in the movie.

The movie is entertaining. It doesn’t suck, but as movie adaptations go, I’ve seen better. Both of my boys agreed with me that the book far outshone the movie.

Isn’t that always the way?

What did Linda, my partner in crime, think? Funny that. We whispered back and forth during the first part of the movie, but then I became engrossed and assumed she was as well.

After the final scene faded to black and the credits started to roll, she stayed seated, so I did too. Sometimes, when you wait out the credits, you are rewarded with an extra scene, a teaser, or something. Since she wasn’t moving, I assumed she thought there must be some little nugget. I like reading credits, and I noted that Suzanne Collins, the author, was listed as one of the screenwriters. I said as much. No response from Linda.

Finally, I turned and looked over at her, and there she sat, smiling beatifically and SOUND ASLEEP!

I had to nudge her twice to bring her to consciousness.

“Linda! How long have you been asleep?”

“I don’t know. She was running in the woods and I dozed off. Every time I opened my eyes she was still running in the woods. I knew she was alive and I went back to sleep.”

Two years of waiting, and she slept through the whole second half of the movie. Take what you will from that. Luckily for her, she is going again tonight with her girls. She plans to leave her big purse and plastic cup at home, so maybe this time she’ll see the end.

May the odds be ever in her favor.

Honking for Freedom!

This was the scene in front of Qdoba Saturday.

Members of the Syrian community in Louisville were drawing attention to the plight of their homeland with a protest on Bardstown Road. This came as a crushing disappointment to me and four of my girlfriends. Don’t get me wrong. We have nothing but sympathy for people struggling under the boot of oppression. Our disappointment stemmed from a simple misunderstanding.

As we approached the protest, multiple cars honked their horns. Of course, we automatically assumed the horns were for us, five attractive women beginning our girls’ weekend with an afternoon of shopping. When we piled out of my car earlier, another car slowed down so the occupant could yell, “Woo Hoo! Ladies night!” at 1:00 in the afternoon. We obviously had it going on.

Imagine our chagrin when we got closer and heard the shouts, “Honk for Freedom!”

Truthfully, Freedom is pretty cool. My friend, Pam, took the pictures and even had a brief conversation with a couple of the women protesting. I hope their friends and family in Syria find Freedom and peace.

My girlfriends and I found our own brand of freedom (Note the lower case f. I do realize it’s not in the same universe as Syrian Freedom.) in our second annual escape from work and family responsibilities. We strolled up and down Bardstown Road all afternoon, wandering in and out of funky boutiques, consignment shops, artists’ studios, used book stores, and even an African bakery and craft store. We tried on hats, shoes, vintage dresses, and handmade jewelry.

I bought a pair of awesomely funky shoes. Here they are looking hot beside Tammy’s boots.

The day was gorgeous, partly sunny and mid to high forties. No sign of the “white death” the hostess at Cracker Barrel had warned us was coming. Tammy thought she was warning us about the 2012 apocalypse. We were momentarily confused since it’s only February. I’ve decided White Death will be my karaoke stage name…or the title of my next book.

We stopped for a late lunch/early dinner at Impellizzari’s Pizza. Linda ordered a beer and claimed it would probably fill her up too much to eat. After which, she proceeded to make a massive piece of the deep dish Sicilian sampler her bitch, along with two slices of the thin crust margharita pizza and several breadsticks.

The pizza was excellent, but the company was better.

We shopped a bit more after eating, but decided it was time to call it a day when a member of our party who shall remain nameless spent $20 on a bracelet made of string. In her defense, $20 for braided string seemed perfectly reasonable after a couple of beers, and it was cute.

When the shopping wound down, we geared up for an evening of music and dancing. On the way in to the tavern, a car honked. Pam declared that it was NOT a honk for Freedom.

We heard some great music. The band opened with Pink Floyd, and four teachers belted "we don't need no education" at the top of our lungs, but sadly the dancing did not come to pass.

We were ready. See? Don’t we look cute?

We had our dancing shoes on, but when we got there…

Linda, “This is like the Inferno. What fresh hell is this?” (You’ve gotta love a friend who combines Dante with Dorothy Parker.)

Pam, “This is enough to make me never drink again.”

Tammy, “Not enough alcohol in the world to get me out there.”

See Linda’s face?

Let me paint the picture she’s gazing upon in horror.

Three women dancing, all wasted, beyond wasted, probably didn’t leave the tavern under their own power wasted. Now, I’m not throwing stones at their degree of drunkenness. And Linda is no shrinking violet. A trio of trashed girls in and of themselves would not elicit this face.

One of the girls is overweight. So what, right? There's more. Her shirt is askew, and her bra is twisted. The only thing sort of covering her large breasts is the stack of Mardi Gras beads around her neck. She rips her shirt open again in front of the band’s lead singer. He hands her the beads, but turns his head. She is way too drunk to notice, but seriously, if the dude is turning away from your breasts, you should probably quit flashing them.

The second girl keeps her shirt on and would probably be cute sober and not grinding on everything with a pulse. Boys, girls, it really doesn’t matter. She grabs people and loops her beads around their necks, essentially trapping them in an obscene embrace. Some, like the bass player in the band, look slightly alarmed as he tries to keep the beat with a girl humping his leg. Others, like the chick with the boobs and the beads join in with gusto. At one point a guy squeezes in between me and Tammy to get a better look.

“What the hell? Is she motor-boating that girl?”

“I’m trying not to watch.”

“It’s a f’n train wreck. How can you not rubberneck?”

Tammy turns and looks at him like he is a piece of toilet paper on her shoe. It's daunting, and he backs away.

Pam has this to say about the last girl in the dance floor triumvirate. “This is her night off. She’s way too good on those stilettos to be an amateur.”

She is over six feet tall in the heels, and she has a banging body. She drops to the floor and slides back up a person in one smooth motion, even blind drunk. We see that move a lot. When she gets up close and personal with the lead singer, her boyfriend pulls her off. Her boyfriend is a mountain of a man. If she is six feet, he’s six-five easily, broad shouldered with hair past his waist. I can’t tell you if he’s cute. I never see his face under the lion’s mane of blond hair. Together, they get into a head-banging, hair-slinging contest that clears the dance floor. Even boob girl and bitch-in-heat get out of their way.

Can you see it now? Just out of the frame?

So yeah, we didn’t dance. But the band, Stone the Crow, was very good. They mostly played classic rock covers, but they did it well. The lead guitarist was incredible. Watching him almost made me forget the train wreck on the dance floor.

The icing on the cake came when we left. The temperature had dropped, and our coats were in the car, so we sprinted from the exit. I dived into the front seat without looking right or left, so I didn’t initially see why Pam was screaming.

“OH MY GOD!!!”

OMG indeed. In the SUV right next to us, live in Technicolor, a woman was “taking care” of her man. Or a man. One wonders if it was actually her man since they didn’t wait to go to their house to do the deed. We backed out of the parking place and rolled down our windows.

“Look in that car!” Pam yelled to a group of people approaching. “Hurry! Right now! Look!”

Six people pressed their faces to the glass. They screamed and then laughed. We honked on the way out of the parking lot. For Freedom, baby!

We ended the night at Krispy Kreme followed by Steak and Shake. What? Life is short, eat dessert first, especially if dessert is hot and fresh Krispy Kremes.

Being Nice makes you Happier

Another flash fiction challenge offered up by Chuck Wendig enticed me to play. The game this time is to write an unlikable protagonist who remains compelling and readable, 1000 words or less. Mine comes in at 747. Enjoy.

Being Nice makes you Happier
Condoms? Yeah, good luck with that, buddy.

Out loud, “Big date, tonight?”

The teenager flushed underneath his zits. “No, but you can’t be too prepared, right?” He reached for a nonchalant smile and failed. “That’s what they taught me in boy scouts.”

Boy scouts don’t get laid.

Brody examined the box before bagging it. “Ribbed for her pleasure,” he read. “Very considerate. You are a boy scout.”

The boy laughed nervously, shifting his weight and clutching his wallet with white knuckles. The soccer mom unloading groceries on the belt behind him radiated disapproval.

Beautiful.

Brody grinned and totaled the order. “Okay, box of condoms, pack of gum. That’ll be $4.78 with tax.”

The kid threw his money at Brody, grabbed the bag like he stole it, and hurried out the exit.

“You embarrassed that boy on purpose.”

Brody fixed an impassive stare on the woman. She stared back.

He shrugged, “If you’re man enough to have sex, you ought to be man enough to buy a condom without turning five shades of red.”

“It was unkind.”

“So it was.”

And speaking of Trojans…

Brody typed a code into the register before he scanned the first item. The display screen dimmed slightly, indicating his program was running in the background. He swallowed another grin and scanned silently.

Vegetables, fruit, chicken. Damn, this chick needed some red meat in her diet or something. Whatever. Produce was easy to hide behind.

“Being nice would make you happier.”

Your money will make me happier.

He allowed the grin to show. “I couldn’t resist teasing him. He reminded me of my little brother. But you’re right. I should’ve been nicer.”

The muscles in her face relaxed, but not enough to produce a smile. He slid a box of tampons across the scanner. Bitch must be on the rag. The bag of Oreos confirmed it.

“Those cookies were marked on sale. That’s not the sale price.”

“I’m sorry. Do you remember the price? I can send someone to check.”

“$2.99.”

He voided the cookies at $3.78 and punched in $2.99. He considered killing the worm. She didn’t fit the profile. She was paying attention and confident, and he had nullified his native charm dicking around with condom boy.

Would she go home and examine the receipt?

“Shouldn’t you tell someone those cookies are ringing up wrong? A manager or something?”

“Technically, the sale starts at midnight. The guys on the floor got a jump on the signage.” He pointed to the plastic pinned to his chest. “I am a manager.”

“Oh.”

She kept her voice neutral, but the raised eyebrow told Brody exactly what she thought of his managerial skills.

Game on.

He scanned her organic milk. The shit was expensive, and the worm left it alone. People paid attention to the pricier items on their ticket. Her eyes were glued to the display screen.

The block of cheddar cheese rang up .30 higher than the correct price.

She didn’t blink. Neither did he.

Cheerios, .20 higher. No reaction.

A loaf of fresh-baked bread, a nickel higher. She flicked her eyes from the display screen to his face. He smiled pleasantly.

Antiperspirant, a full dollar higher. I’ve got a Secret too.

Her eyes returned to the display as he scanned a two-pack of toothbrushes, .20 higher. Toothpaste, razors, and a bottle of Midol.

“Your total comes to $76.42.”

Her brows knitted together, and she stood frozen, debit card in hand.

Come on Mama. Scan your card for Snakebyte.

Deliberately, she returned the debit card to her wallet and pulled out her checkbook. Brody ran the check and handed over her receipt.

“You have a wonderful day, ma’am.”

She slid the receipt into her checkbook, eyed him suspiciously one last time, and walked away silently.

“Being nice makes you happier,” he called after her.

She kept walking and Brody chuckled. The cash drawer popped open of its own volition, and he removed $5.20 and slid it into his pocket. A grain of sand in his rapidly growing sand castle, and undoubtedly, the best $5.20 he would earn today.

His gleeful meditation was interrupted by the sound of screaming children. A woman in sweats threw her credit card at him and struggled to unload an overflowing cart. The toddler on her hip crushed a fistful of goldfish and reached for the opened bag on the belt. A red-faced infant screamed from its seat in the cart.

Snakebyte smiled sympathetically and punched in the code.

Beautiful.

Youth and Beauty

I’ve enjoyed the hell out of the last several weeks in my classroom reading To Kill a Mockingbird. The kids have enjoyed it too. Every day, we challenge a different stereotype. What does it mean to be black? White? Southern? A girl? Poor? Educated? Mentally healthy? Religious? Old? Young?

Our discussions have been rich, and the kids seemed to embrace Atticus’ philosophy. You never really know a person until you get inside his skin and walk around in it. I was energized. Attitudes were adjusting, including mine. One book really can change people’s lives.

Cut to today.

“Who were you rooting for yesterday, Ms. Owens?”

“The Giants.”

“Really? Why?”

“Well, normally I’m not a fan of either team, but we have a couple of connections to the Giants, and that seemed like a good reason to root for them. Plus, I’m over the Patriots, and yeah, that’s probably sour grapes from when they beat teams I like, but whatever.”

“But Tom Brady’s hot! You have to root for him.”

“So is David Beckham, but I’m not buying his underwear.”

I watch a girl’s eyes glaze over. “I totally would.”

I realize my eyes have glazed over, and I shake myself back to reality. “Come on people. You do not have inferior minds. Surely, you base decisions like which team to root for and what products to buy on more than just physical beauty?”

Beavis and Butthead in the back of the room, “huhuhuhuhuh…Go Daddy!”

“I bought M&Ms this morning, but I based that on humor. They had the best commercial. Plus, I like M&Ms.”

“OH! It’s that kind of party!" Everyone laughed amidst general agreement that M&Ms had the best commercial. (This was the first commercial mentioned by students in every class. Good job M&M/Mars! You reached your target audience.)

“What about that half-time show? How old is Madonna anyway. She’s like my grandma’s age or something?”

“Yeah, seriously. Why do they keep getting old people?”

Ouch. This one hit home, and my knee jerked.

“Madonna hit the charts when I was in high school. She has adapted for thirty years. How many of your favorite artists will still be relevant when you’re in your forties?”

“Justin Bieber.”

I’m not making that up. I might have thrown up a little in my mouth. I resisted the urge to make a snide remark and further pigeon-hole myself. I had already planted a flag in “old people” land.

“Who says Madonna is still relevant?”

“We’re talking about her aren’t we? She played to a billion people last night. A lot of them are talking about her too. Plus, that awful song she just put out is on the radio every five minutes.”

“SEE!! You don’t even like her anymore! She’s old!”

“I don’t like that song because it’s stupid. Let’s see if I can sum up this discussion…Only hot people are worthy of our attention and fandom, and old people need to get out of our faces because they aren’t relevant anymore. Is that about right?”

Beavis and Butthead, “hehehehehehe….yeah.”

Everyone else backpedals warily, smelling a trap.

“Betty White is old, and we like her. She’s funny.”

“So old people are good for a laugh in a commercial, but leave the half-time show to us young, relevant folks?”

“You are totally twisting our words, Ms. Owens!”

“Then, please, tell me what you really mean.”

Several false starts, then, “Nevermind.”

“Uh huh…get out your homework.”

I’d like to say victory was mine, but it was hollow at best. I’d like to blame it on the fact that these kids are 15 years old, but I saw the same discussion on Facebook and Twitter last night.

We are only willing to get inside someone else’s skin and walk around in it as long as we can go back to our own young, beautiful skin to live.

My favorite commercial? The Audi headlights that blew up those eternally young, eternally beautiful vampires.

Zen and the Art of Teaching

American Idol returned tonight, and while they highlight some good singers, the audition shows are all about the delusional. I'm not throwing stones. Sometimes, I think delusional might be a nice place to live. Think about it. To be blissfully unaware, clueless, secure in the profound belief that you are awesome would be liberating.

Don’t get me wrong. Some days I actually am awesome, but I know when I’m not. Today, a bit of delusion would have been useful, but I just couldn't muster any. So in lieu of delusion, I’m going to indulge in a little public therapy.

Over the years, I’ve invited a lot of visitors into my classroom: principals, other teachers, college kids, guests from foreign countries. I've had them all. As a general rule, visitors, announced or otherwise, don’t shake me. I learned I was hosting today’s visitors, teachers in my district in a leadership program, during class change, five minutes before they walked into my classroom. I knew most of them. One was a former student. Another was a close friend.

No worries. Right?

My colleagues would be observing an honors class with no real behavior issues. My lesson plan was a little loose, but when we’re discussing a reading assignment, it often is. I have five or six points I want to be sure to hit, but mostly, I let the discussion go where it goes. When kids work through their own questions about the text, pinging ideas off of each other, extending the text into their own experiences and drawing conclusions about culture and life and everything in the world that matters…that’s when the magic happens.

Except when it doesn’t.

The bell rang. I simultaneously tried to find seats for my guests and get my kids started on their journals, a bell ringer activity that keeps them busy while I’m dealing with housekeeping issues and gets them thinking about the discussion for the day. I usually go over it before they start writing, but teachers kept filing into the room. The original group of four guests turned into six, then seven, then ten. Okaaaay. Third hour was now standing room only.

The kids couldn’t get settled because several of my guests were elementary and middle school teachers they knew and loved. Lots of excited waving and even some hugging ensued. In hindsight, always 20-20, I should have just stopped, acknowledged the unusual situation, and let the excitement play out before I moved on. Instead, I tried to play it cool. Why? Beats the hell out of me. Maybe because my class wouldn’t settle, and I was beginning to feel like a rat in a science experiment.

Just as I finally started talking, two boys who sit right in front of me began to gag and spit. Brown sludge coated their tongue and brown drool ran down their chins.

“ACK! UGH! Oh my GOD! You said this was chocolate!”

A girl two rows over replied, “It is. Dark chocolate.”

“YOU GAVE US DARK CHOCOLATE?!? I need a drink! Ms. Owens! I’m gonna die!”

The class erupted. Tweedledee and Tweedledum basked in the glow of the spotlight even as they spat chocolate into their hands and knocked over a chair trying to get to the door and the water fountain beyond.

I rolled my eyes and called for quiet, but my deep reservoir of zen had sprung a leak. I reminded myself that my guests were actual teachers who deal with craziness on a regular basis. Onward and upward. I threw out my first question and got a tepid response. This was the same question that had generated 30 minutes of rich discussion in my first hour class. Different class, different kids. I mixed it up and tried again. Instead of waiting for a volunteer, I called on specific students. Lukewarm. One word. No response. Flat out wrong. My reservoir was draining fast.

Like a bad American Idol contestant, when things went wrong, I just started singing louder and more off key. Instead of letting the kids make the connections, I started making them myself. Instead of facilitating discussion, I lectured.

Sigh.

Tweedledee was still wiping dark chocolate off his tongue with his sleeve, but he had his book open and seemed to be reading furiously.

Ah ha. The light dawned.

When I’m flummoxed, I’m slow on the uptake. A third of the class was either studiously avoiding eye contact with me or reading as fast as their little eyes could scan the page. I’m mean when I’m embarrassed and pissed off, so I targeted those kids with laser precision, forcing them to say it out loud in front of the company. “I don’t know. I didn’t do the reading.” And no, I’m not particularly proud of that either.

I had a conversation later with my friend. She assured me it wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought it was, but she’s my friend, and I don’t think she would say anything to make me feel worse than I did. Turns out, the group was supposed to be making notes about rigor in the classroom. My friend told me I asked rigorous questions.

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry at that.

My guests left after 20 inglorious minutes, and I had a come-to-Jesus meeting with the class. Tomorrow is a new day, and I’ll bet my next paycheck that the kids who didn’t read last night will be prepared tomorrow. They’re not bad kids. They’re just kids. And a wrench in the works (or dark chocolate streaming from a boy’s mouth) is not usually enough to turn me into a babbling Cruella DeVille, but I’m not delusional enough to make that claim today.

Margaritas, Snow, and Black Sludge

I've had an interesting week. It began with a margarita tour of San Antonio, included one day with freshman drunk on the prospect of the year's first snow day, and ended underneath my bathroom sink clearing that which shall not be named from my pipes.

Why a margarita tour? Why San Antonio? Bruce had to go to San Antonio for the AFCA convention, but since I'm not a football coach, I went for the margaritas. I was not disappointed.

Sunday: Patron Mango Mint Margarita at the Iron Cactus paired with lobster tacos and tortilla soup.

The Iron Cactus boasts the largest selection of tequila in San Antonio. The menu listed more than 80. My margarita had two different kinds of Patron, along with fresh-squeezed agave, mango, and a mint leaf. To say that this margarita was good would be like saying Michelangelo was a decent sculptor, Mount Everest is fairly tall, Eric Clapton doesn’t suck. I would order this margarita as part of my last meal. If I was stupidly rich, I would fill a swimming pool with this margarita and dive into it like Scrooge McDuck. Not being stupidly rich is the only thing that kept me from drinking them until I slid out of my chair and into the river. At $10 a pop, moderation was a given.

Monday: Prickly Pear Margarita at Boudro’s Texas Bistro paired with blackened prime rib.

This was the only frozen margarita I sampled. I’m a rocks girl as a general rule, but sometimes decadence trumps the rules. The real star of this meal, though, was the steak, spicy and crunchy on the outside, tender and juicy on the inside. I ate everything on my plate. If I hadn’t been in a fancy restaurant with the entire Vanderbilt coaching staff at the next table, I would have picked up my plate and licked it clean. Being full of prime rib and prickly pear margarita made me all warm and fuzzy, and I actually dozed off at the BCS Championship party we went to afterwards. In my defense, it wasn’t a very exciting game.

Tuesday: Traditional margarita rocks at the Lone Star Café paired with a thinly sliced brisket sandwich slathered in barbecue sauce. No picture on this one, but it was good, reasonably priced, and within walking distance of our hotel. I ordered the second (and third) guilt-free.

Lest you think all I did in San Antonio was eat and drink margaritas, here is some photographic evidence to the contrary.

We explored the Riverwalk…

Visited the Alamo….

Stayed at the historic and beautiful Menger Hotel (OMG, their breakfast buffet!)…

Hung out at the Menger Bar where Teddy Roosevelt recruited the Rough Riders…

And even did some actual AFCA convention things like pose with the Heismann…

…and study current marketing trends. This is how they sell shoulder pads.

Wednesday was a travel day. We returned home to find that the boys had not trashed the house in Risky Business fashion (if you don’t count the pile of dishes in the sink and laundry on their respective floors). The dog wasn‘t languishing. The cat had food in his bowl. The neighbors hadn’t left nasty notes in the mailbox.

Being able to trust your kids -- priceless.

Thursday: I realized I need to leave for three straight days more often, so I can hear this when I return. “Ms. Owens! You’re back! We missed you!” The kids were genuinely happy to see me which was nice and completely manic because of the snow predicted for that afternoon which wasn't as nice. I have no windows in my classroom, and they invented every excuse in the book to walk down the hall and see if it was snowing. Talk of snow seemed to bleed into everything.

Consider this: At the end of chapter 17 in To Kill a Mockingbird, Jem is pleased with Atticus’ questioning of Bob Ewell, but Scout thinks Jem is counting his chickens.

“What does Scout mean by Jem counting his chickens?”

Crickets.

“The whole idiom is ‘Don’t count your chickens before they hatch.’ Think it through. What does that mean?

Crickets.

“Okay, it’s like this. Snow is predicted, but it’s not here yet. You decide not to do your math homework because you just know we’re getting a snow day. See? That’s counting your chickens before they hatch. You might get a snow day, but you might end up in Ms. Bleuel’s class tomorrow with no math homework. Don’t count your chickens before they hatch.”

“Ms. Owens, I don’t know anything about chickens, but I’m definitely not doing my math homework tonight CAUSE WE‘RE GETTING A SNOW DAY TOMORROW!”

Friday: We get a snow day. The snow day coincides nicely with the exact moment my frustration with the slow-draining sinks in my bathroom reaches critical mass. Armed only with rubber gloves, I remove the curvy pipe underneath and clear a foul mass of methane-infused, hair-clotted, slimy, black sludge from each. Eldest son came looking for a roll of toilet paper and ran screaming from the room. Youngest son squatted down next to me, fascinated, and asked me where it came from.

Happy thought for the day: All the lotions, potions, unguents, and sprays I use become black, hair-clotted sludge in my drain.

So there you have it. The week that started with a Patron Mango Mint Margarita ended with black sludge, apparently run-off from my face. I’m pretty sure there’s a profound metaphor in there somewhere, or maybe it was just a really weird week.

When Just Right is Just Wrong

If Chuck Wendig's TerribleMinds is not already on your daily blog roll, it should be. Among other interesting tidbits, he hosts regular flash fiction contests on his blog. Each week a specific set of parameters is given and everyone is invited to play. You post your story of no more than 1000 words on your blog and link to it in the comment section of his.

This week, I couldn't resist. He linked to a set of 50 Unexplainable black and white photos on Buzzfeed. Many of the photos were disturbing. They were all weird. Perfect story material, right? Here's mine, along with the photo that inspired it.

Just Right

Onyx had never found Papa B’s bed too hard, but when her subversive sister, Goldie, uploaded her first self-produced video to YouTube, it had inexplicably gone viral. Papa may have been cast as a lumbering oaf who slept on an iron mattress, but he was no fool. He turned the den into a B&B and charged extra for Baby B’s room.

Mama B left when Papa sold the movie rights to Hollywood. No one was surprised. After all, they slept in separate beds. While Papa had laughed off the caricature Goldie made of him, Mama hated being seen as a frumpy housewife eating cold porridge and driving Papa off to his hard, lonely bed. The prospect of a nationwide movie release sent her over the edge. She took her share of the advance and hit the road.

Secretly, Onyx was glad. Other than the separate beds, she couldn’t speak to Mama’s relationship with Papa, but she had been best friends with Baby since the third grade. Baby was sad when Mama left, but truth be told, she had been motherless for years. Her real mom had died in childbirth, and a desperate, broken-hearted Papa had remarried, hoping to give Baby a mother.

Desperate and broken-hearted is no way to begin a relationship. Everything about Mama B had been wrong. She was bi-polar, and while Onyx would never fault a person for having an illness, she could fault them for refusing to treat it. Mama only took her meds about half the time which made her highs and lows even worse.

She was too happy or too sad, too mellow or too angry, too trusting or too paranoid. Goldie’s video had, in fact, been an homage to Mama’s earth-moving shifts. Unfortunately, one character trait was constant. She was too freaking critical, and it was all aimed at Baby.

Baby was beautiful, but you wouldn’t have known it if you heard Mama talk. She told Baby one day, that she was too fat to fit in the den and the next, that she was too skinny to survive the winter. Mama railed over Baby’s lush, perfect hair. It was too long, too short, too thick, too thin, too dull, too shiny, too, too, too…it was Mama’s favorite word.

Everyone knew Baby B was just right. Onyx knew it better than most, and she reminded Baby at every possible opportunity. She spent a lot of time in the B’s den working the desk, cleaning, cooking for the guests, and anything else Papa needed done. Goldie was off at film school on Papa’s dime, so her own house felt cold and empty.

Baby had gone into the new family business as well, giving tours and having her picture made with the guests. At night the two of them would curl up on Papa B’s big, very comfortable bed (Papa had taken to sleeping outside) and whisper their dreams for the future.

Onyx’s dreams had not included getting pregnant, but Brad had been so handsome when he checked in late on a cold February afternoon. The fire had roared cheerfully, warm porridge steamed on the stove, and Onyx had been alone. Reservations were light in the winter. People came to B’s B&B to see big Papa and just right Baby, not Goldie’s homely sister.

Brad had been different. He didn’t seem to care that he was in a celebrity’s den. He had eyes only for her. They had shared a bottle of wine over a bowl of just-right porridge, and before she could say, “My what big teeth you have,” Onyx found herself wrapped in Brad’s arms.

The magic of the night had been washed away the next morning when she woke alone in Baby’s bed to the sound of Papa B’s booming voice.

“Onyx! Where are you?”

Wearing her disheveled clothing from the night before, she had slunk out of Baby’s room. Brad sat grinning in front of the fire, and Papa caught on immediately.

“Oh Onyx, I thought you had more sense than this.”

Brad fist-pumped like the frat boy he was. “Big Brad Wolfe strikes again!”

“Get out and don’t come back!”

When Papa B roared, one ignored it at his own peril. Brad made a quick exit, but the damage had been done. When the stick turned pink, Onyx’s shame was complete.

Good friends make all things bear-able and no matter how low Onyx sank, Baby B was there with a kind word and gentle touch which of course was just right.