saint-louise's Diaryland Diary
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I'm not stupid. I'm...okay, yes. I'm stupid.
I’m back in school again.
That phrase just begs for me to sing it in a special “school school yay school die die DIE freshmen DIE or at least just keep the fuck away from me with your squealing and hugging and yo-man greetings and blind, naïve, fresh-from-the-enthralling-royalty-of-highschool-seniority bullshit manifested most pathetically in your overwhelming stench of giddy freedom and chirping ‘hi! where’s converse hall?’ see that big building? the big fucking building with a big fucking clock tower? the one that says converse hall on it? yeah. funny. fuck the hell off, I’m trying to actually have a life” song. That special, happy, spring-in-your-step melody.
Goddamn it, fall semester is a bitch.
I’m treading the fine line of Jam-Packed-Life (strawberry; deeeelicious), and doing so in the stupidest possible manner. Hmm. Work. School. Kid. Homework. Kid’s school. Kid’s homework. Hey, I know! I think I’ll throw in some concentration on non-diary writing on the side, and maybe sign up the kid for some weekend lessons on top of that.
Hell, maybe I’ll take up a column in the local indie paper, start a hot rod fabrication shop in my garage, and organize weekly combination bake-sale/classical ballet performances on my porch. What the fuck, you know?
A couple of weeks ago, for kicks, Jam-Packed-Life threw in a couple of days where my body attempted to expel any internal organs that were installed shoddily out of any viable orifice, accompanied by unpleasant fluids in Technicolor, and one befuddled car pool driver who conveniently didn’t pick my daughter up from school one day, causing the secretary to call my cell during my Lit class and say perkily, “Hi, Mrs. Saint! It’s past 4:30 and Taylor is still here with me at the school. Is someone going to pick her up?”
Let’s analyze that:
“Mrs. Saint” – As we all know, the word “Mrs.” translates to “the wife of.” Come on, lady, everyone in the PTA is aware I’m an unmarried, tattooed, satan-music-listening, freak-of-nature who will never catch herself a man and tie him down forever in the misery of matrimony. Even if that were untrue, grammatically there will never be a “Mrs.” to my “Saint.” Come join us in reality. Or at least in the land of “No Longer Transparently Ignoring Life’s Harsh Little Truths in the Name of Political Correctness.”
“It’s almost 4:30” – Really. I hadn’t realized that, seeing as I have a class that starts at that exact time.
“Is someone going to pick her up?” – Ummm…yeah. Actually, do you think you could just set her up with a blanket and a packet of crackers from the lunchroom? She’s just going to have to go back to school in the morning, right? So let’s save us all some time and gas money. Okay?
Riiiight.
I also recently took a vacation, during which OH and I went to Seattle to visit my brother and his partner, and to see Eddie Izzard.
But that’s not interesting. Instead, I’ll tell you of an incident that happened last night. I got out of my car at the school parking garage, locked and closed the door, and as I pulled my backpack onto my shoulder, I realized that I couldn’t find my keys. Disgusted, I looked into my car to see if I’d left them in the ignition, as I do on an alarmingly and goddamnedfucking stupidly regular basis. However, the keys were not there. I looked on the ground. I looked under the car. I checked and double-checked my purse. I sat and stared into space with an expression of piteous despondency, trying to conjure up the memory of the last place I’d seen my keys (which was, as you recall, only five minutes before, while exiting my car – a time gap sufficient to see several species evolve, flourish, and achieve extinction in the hallowed albeit horribly graffiti-ed halls of my brain). As I shifted my backpack off of my shoulder to pick up a rock and smash my car window to see if I’d dropped the keys on the floor under the seat, the prize I strove for with such single(simple?)-mindedness, the keys – the very ones! – clattered to the ground at my feet.
You see, while pulling on the backpack with the keys in my hand, I’d wedged the keys under one of the shoulder straps, against my arm.
At that moment, I also realized I wasn’t wearing pants, my missing glasses were on top of my head, and I was a transient named Flo who had been wandering the city for a fortnight, begging for a decent enchilada and telling everyone they looked like my dead dog Scraps.
Go figure on that one.
11:54 p.m. - 2003-09-11
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