Back to School

So, this morning, HellCat goes back to class. That's right, she's making herself more attractive in the editing world by learning 3D motion programs. I have a great job title and good references behind me, now all I need is some more software knowledge.

So, today, I am brown-bagging it and wearing knee socks. And a pleated skirt. I figure that if I suck at After Effects, at least I can do a Basic Instinct leg cross and come out on top. I don't think we're getting grades in this class, though. Oh, well!

I am reminiscing about teachers I've had, like old Mister Page. He was my sixth grade social studies teacher, and a mean bastard. He had lips that stretched all the way across his face like a fish. I think he hated the world because of it. He always requested Miss Silver to be his substitute. Miss Silver was about 100 years old, and wore open-toed shoes with pantyhose on. This wouldn't have been more than a minor faux pas, except that she had these freakish block-feet, like someone had bound her feet or something when she was young. We had trouble focusing on making her life hell because we couldn't take our eyes off her feet.

In high school, there was that one woman who was scared of M&Ms, so the class would sometimes lob them towards her desk in the middle of class while her back was turned. She would always look to see what the noise was, even though she should have known. It would take a minute for her to find it on her desk, and then she would recoil in horror and squeal. She used to brush it off her desk with a piece of paper and look at us accusingly. I hope she was faking it...but something tells me she wasn't that good of an actress. We'll never know.

I had one math teacher who would stick Playboy mags in his Algebra text while we were taking tests. He wasn't there more than a year, let me tell you. And another math teacher hated our Gifted and Talented class so much that he would yell at us at every opportunity. We didn't learn much because he spent so much time yelling. One day, after he claimed we had misbehaved in an assembly, he got so mad that he cracked a yardstick over Carl Frerich's desk and broke it. Carl claimed he got a splinter in his face, but he was a total fucking idiot, so no one believed him.

We were so middle class and privileged that we were outraged. We plotted our revenge. One day, he set himself up better than we could have ever hoped. He had brought his pet raccoon to class and was returning it to its cage in the back room. So, we locked him in. The only problem was that the phone was in there, and he called the Vice Principal and she stormed up there to let him out.

One time, when cell phones were relatively new and no one had one, Buff Holbrook (yes, that was his real name) sat in Ms. Keyes 9th grade English class and called her phone line. She picked it up and he was able to fun on her for about three minutes before she realized who it was.

Miss Barnhill, my Spanish teacher, had an obsession with New Order. The drama teacher, affectionately known as Thomas, would sometimes share stories about Mardi Gras and describe the most obscene costumes in detail (like a naked man who wore nothing but a cast-iron skillet placed strategically over his swimsuit area. He was Peter Pan! Get it?!). Our principal was an ex-bodyguard for Aerosmith.

Sometimes people tell me that when I describe my life, it sounds like a Coca-Cola comemrcial. I think they're right.

Enough rememberizing. I am off to immerse myself in the world of learning. Suddenly, I am having to resist the urge to fake sickness and watch TV all day. Some things never change...

whine. g