Groundwork for an Introspective Existence

The other night, after a very long day out shopping with Wendy, I stopped off at Wall-Mart. I had promised Erin that I would pick up a few things for her. While perusing the art supplies, I turned my back for a few seconds. You might be thinking, 'no good can come of that, stupid-head. What were you thinking?' My answer to you: shove it. Don't call me stupid-head.

Anyway, my peripheral vision caught Wendy swiping the box of crayons from the shelf, but by the time I turned toward her and reached out my hand, she had dumped the entire box into the bottom of the cart. It couldn't have been the 24-count Crayolas, or even the 64-count. No. It had to be the 92-count box.

"Why did you do that," I asked as I tried to shove all 92 back in the box.

"I don't know," she exclaimed in her woeful gerbil voice, while shoving the crayons through the bottom of the cart. "What's wrong with me, Mommy? What's wrong with me?"

And that's the story about how I became the crazy, frizzy-headed mom with the psycho/hysterical laugh crawling around on the floor at Wall-Mart.

Ways To Get Fired

Tell a Puerto Rican kid that the homework is definitely due on Tuesday, unless of course, he is deported.

I only thought about how bad it might have sounded to a passerby after the fact. You have to understand the context. It's been a classroom inside joke for a few weeks-one kid says to this kid "you should be deported." This kid points out to that kid, "being deported to Puerto Rico is like being deported to New Jersey, as Puerto Rico is a territory of the U.S. you dumbass."

What I said was just playing off of that. But if someone heard just my end of it, oh baby. It would totally go on my permanent record.