I love my work - I really, really do - however, in general, and as wildlife biologists have long surmised, it is not particularly exciting. Sure, there are wee bits of it that are fun (like that part where ridiculous sums of money show up in my mailbox, whee!), but no one is ever like, "Because dichotomous key! Bwahaha!"
Ever.
In fact, sometimes my work is so dull that I just fall dead asleep on the prairie and only wake up because I'm snoring so loudly. (To be fair, this was near the end of a marathon field stint and I was pretty tired in addition to bored senseless.) (But no excuses for the times I woke myself up by drooling on my hand or dreaming elk were jumping on me!) Some people drink chamomile tea in the evening; I just tuck a Daubenmire frame under my pillow and pass out cold from the sheer boringtude it emits.
But I seem to have fun, right? That's because I have this superpower, you see: I'm specially equipped to have way more fun than is reasonable in a given situation. I have fun all by myself, just in my own head, in spite of all the botany I am subjected to on a daily basis. (Really, it's the only way I could even cope with it. I know some botanists - okay, well, one - who have completely zero sense of humour and I seriously don't know how they haven't offed themselves yet.) If you're specially equipped in this way, you're likely to find that hilarity is all around you. It's like how optimists see good things around them and pessimists see bad things: I see funny things. But it wouldn't be a superpower proper if just any old schmoe could do it, so let me clarify further: I see funny things like Superman sees your gotch and Haley Joel Osment sees your great-great Aunt Helen. I see... beyond.
Or maybe I'm just crazy. Who knows! Either way I'm having a ton of fun, and my Tuckeb runneth over.
Saturday, August 23, 2014
Wednesday, August 20, 2014
Yay Crew Cab!
I won't name names here, but *some* motel in *some* small town in Saskatchewan gave away my room reservation the other night. I had had trouble booking a room in the first place, but by the time I got into town at 8pm and discovered my predicament the entire place was a hospitality dead zone - as was every town within a 2-hour radius. As more than one front desk clerk helpfully pointed out, "We're an oil town, ma'am. It's very busy here." Yes, thank you. That's why I made - and lost - a reservation in the first place. Given the constituency of the average oil town motel, I don't doubt I could have found myself some "shared accommodations" quite readily, but I'm not really in the market for that sort of shenanigans these days - particularly not with oil town motel constituents.
I had work to do so I couldn't afford to keep wasting time looking for a room. I gave the back seat of my truck a serious appraisal, then drove to Wally World to buy a pillow (yay $3 bargain bin!).
I fired off the proposal I was working on at 10:30 from the lobby of the local McD's (yay free WiFi!) and set out to find a suitable camping spot. Dark, quiet, cozy - you know, all the things one could want for a back seat adventure. And in fact, I had just settled in to my selected location when another species of back seat adventurers arrived and parked a short distance away. Then another. And then a couple of what appeared to be purveyors of illicit goods, just for good measure.
Oh. Right. Dark, quiet, cozy. I've really lost my edge the past twenty years or so - this hadn't even occurred to me. I felt almost embarrassingly straight, just standing there brushing my teeth and applying witch hazel toner with an organic cotton ball, beside my truck full of botanical guides and granola bars, while these people carried on with their shady weeknight activities. (Seriously people! On a Monday?!)
I relocated to a well-lit, bustling location and settled in for an uncomfortable night of little sleep.
I don't believe in bucket lists - I don't need another to-do list interfering with my life - but when something sortof rad and random happens to pop up, I jot it down on the post-hoc list I've got going. I call it the Tuckeb List, 'cause Anti-Bucket List and Fuck-it Bucket were already taken.
Spend the night in a parking lot? Check.
Sweet.
I had work to do so I couldn't afford to keep wasting time looking for a room. I gave the back seat of my truck a serious appraisal, then drove to Wally World to buy a pillow (yay $3 bargain bin!).
I fired off the proposal I was working on at 10:30 from the lobby of the local McD's (yay free WiFi!) and set out to find a suitable camping spot. Dark, quiet, cozy - you know, all the things one could want for a back seat adventure. And in fact, I had just settled in to my selected location when another species of back seat adventurers arrived and parked a short distance away. Then another. And then a couple of what appeared to be purveyors of illicit goods, just for good measure.
Oh. Right. Dark, quiet, cozy. I've really lost my edge the past twenty years or so - this hadn't even occurred to me. I felt almost embarrassingly straight, just standing there brushing my teeth and applying witch hazel toner with an organic cotton ball, beside my truck full of botanical guides and granola bars, while these people carried on with their shady weeknight activities. (Seriously people! On a Monday?!)
I relocated to a well-lit, bustling location and settled in for an uncomfortable night of little sleep.
I don't believe in bucket lists - I don't need another to-do list interfering with my life - but when something sortof rad and random happens to pop up, I jot it down on the post-hoc list I've got going. I call it the Tuckeb List, 'cause Anti-Bucket List and Fuck-it Bucket were already taken.
Spend the night in a parking lot? Check.
Sweet.
Friday, June 20, 2014
Cougar Monitor
There is something about ambiguous product names that makes me crazy. Like, baby wipes, I get it - clearly they are wipes for babies, not wipes made of babies. That's easy. But it took me forever to work up the courage to read the label on the bottle of fish sauce and see whether it was sauce for fish or sauce of fish. (Spoiler alert: it's of fish. Fermented fish. Ick.) And clam juice? Like, how the heck does one juice clams? But there it is, hidden in the fine print, presumably because that is just so damn gross that it can't be advertised directly in the name (e.g., Juice of Clams).
It seems really quite immoral that companies are allowed on one hand to advertise Made With Real Fruit Juice! in big bold print to trick stupid people into thinking that gummy candies are ever anything even close to being "fruit", yet on the other hand keep the whole "we have squeezed clams for your dining pleasure" business on the down low. Those companies probably all have some sneaky wordsmith on board, fine-printing their way straight to the bank. What kind of jerk makes a living writing weasel words to give the dubious products of big corporations a veneer of wholesomeness? I mean, not me, that's for sure...
Ahem.
So I was out doing some field work this past week - alone (my fave!) - when I got an emergency stand down call from the office: "There's been a cougar sighting 30 miles away - we're sending someone out to escort you around. Just wait in your truck until they get there."
Multiple ironies are woven into this little nugget. The painfully obvious: unless that particular cougar was a serial killer who planned on hitching a ride to my site to do away with me that very afternoon, the likelihood of my being eaten by a cougar had not increased at all by virtue of someone having laid eyes on one 30 miles away.
Secondly, it had only been a few minutes since I had hunkered down for a snack of celery sticks and peanut butter and pondered how pleasant it was to not be working in bear country where you have to think about actively making yourself seem not-delicious - oh yeah. Cougars too. Whoops.
And finally, who did they send out to act as Cougar Monitor for this middle-aged lady but a cute li'l 20-year-old boy.
Monitor for... or monitor of? The name reveals naught.
It seems really quite immoral that companies are allowed on one hand to advertise Made With Real Fruit Juice! in big bold print to trick stupid people into thinking that gummy candies are ever anything even close to being "fruit", yet on the other hand keep the whole "we have squeezed clams for your dining pleasure" business on the down low. Those companies probably all have some sneaky wordsmith on board, fine-printing their way straight to the bank. What kind of jerk makes a living writing weasel words to give the dubious products of big corporations a veneer of wholesomeness? I mean, not me, that's for sure...
Ahem.
So I was out doing some field work this past week - alone (my fave!) - when I got an emergency stand down call from the office: "There's been a cougar sighting 30 miles away - we're sending someone out to escort you around. Just wait in your truck until they get there."
Multiple ironies are woven into this little nugget. The painfully obvious: unless that particular cougar was a serial killer who planned on hitching a ride to my site to do away with me that very afternoon, the likelihood of my being eaten by a cougar had not increased at all by virtue of someone having laid eyes on one 30 miles away.
Secondly, it had only been a few minutes since I had hunkered down for a snack of celery sticks and peanut butter and pondered how pleasant it was to not be working in bear country where you have to think about actively making yourself seem not-delicious - oh yeah. Cougars too. Whoops.
And finally, who did they send out to act as Cougar Monitor for this middle-aged lady but a cute li'l 20-year-old boy.
Monitor for... or monitor of? The name reveals naught.
Thursday, June 12, 2014
Dance Fever
We bought Small Fry a clock radio for his birthday. It's shaped like a giant Lego brick (a two-er, if you're interested) (red) and it has since become an unexpected source of joy and consternation in our house. As is often the case with such things, the joy is his; the consternation mine.
Small Fry L-O-V-E-S his clock radio. He spends every morning dancing around his room in various stages of undress, and I spend every morning yelling PUT. YOUR. PANTS. ON! RIGHT NOW! But every song is a song he loves, and songs he loves just make him dance around naked. No amount of parental disapproval or threats of tardiness for school are going to change that. He's gonna be a hit in college.
If it was just music, that would be one thing. But there are also ads, and announcements, and news on the radio. Small Fry will come bolting into my room - usually naked - and announce breathlessly, "Mommy! There has been a multi-vehicle collision on the Calf Robe Bridge! Emergency services are on the scene!" then run back to his room to catch the next thrill coming down the pipes.
Thanks to Small Fry's clock radio, we have learned A Great Many Things at our house. We have learned that Calaway Park was opening (dammit!). That a wine festival was happening on the weekend (sweet!). That komodo dragons and a rhinoceros are coming to the Zoo. That McDonald's now offers three delicious flavours of iced frappe: coffee, caramel and vanilla chai tea. That Hooters is the ultimate Father's Day destination ("Mommy, we have to take Daddy to Hooters! My radio told me!"). That if we shop at Old Navy, we could win an incredible Brazilian adventure to the World Cup.
(Good golly. I just commissioned a Brazilian adventure expressly for Father's Day - do I really have to suffer through Old Navy and Hooters too?)
I had sortof forgotten about this Eerily Accurate Recall Stage (EARS) - Medium Fry went through it too, years ago. Seeing EARS in action again really strengthens my resolve to limit my children's exposure to advertising, because I find it seriously disturbing to see just how effective it is on the impressionable young mind. Just like smoking, I guess you've gotta catch 'em young if you want them to tirelessly campaign to go visit the new rhinoceros or celebrate Father's Day in an olde-tyme fried food and misogyny theme park, because surely no one else is listening.
But he drew a portrait - a loving, detailed, and vaguely Cubist portrait - of his clock radio on the table at Montana's the other night. With the numbers all square like digital clocks show them, and a happy stick version of himself dancing beside it. (Probably naked.) And my resolve to save him from the dangers of Hooters ads weakened.
Besides. I wouldn't have known about that wine festival if he hadn't told me.
Small Fry L-O-V-E-S his clock radio. He spends every morning dancing around his room in various stages of undress, and I spend every morning yelling PUT. YOUR. PANTS. ON! RIGHT NOW! But every song is a song he loves, and songs he loves just make him dance around naked. No amount of parental disapproval or threats of tardiness for school are going to change that. He's gonna be a hit in college.
If it was just music, that would be one thing. But there are also ads, and announcements, and news on the radio. Small Fry will come bolting into my room - usually naked - and announce breathlessly, "Mommy! There has been a multi-vehicle collision on the Calf Robe Bridge! Emergency services are on the scene!" then run back to his room to catch the next thrill coming down the pipes.
Thanks to Small Fry's clock radio, we have learned A Great Many Things at our house. We have learned that Calaway Park was opening (dammit!). That a wine festival was happening on the weekend (sweet!). That komodo dragons and a rhinoceros are coming to the Zoo. That McDonald's now offers three delicious flavours of iced frappe: coffee, caramel and vanilla chai tea. That Hooters is the ultimate Father's Day destination ("Mommy, we have to take Daddy to Hooters! My radio told me!"). That if we shop at Old Navy, we could win an incredible Brazilian adventure to the World Cup.
(Good golly. I just commissioned a Brazilian adventure expressly for Father's Day - do I really have to suffer through Old Navy and Hooters too?)
I had sortof forgotten about this Eerily Accurate Recall Stage (EARS) - Medium Fry went through it too, years ago. Seeing EARS in action again really strengthens my resolve to limit my children's exposure to advertising, because I find it seriously disturbing to see just how effective it is on the impressionable young mind. Just like smoking, I guess you've gotta catch 'em young if you want them to tirelessly campaign to go visit the new rhinoceros or celebrate Father's Day in an olde-tyme fried food and misogyny theme park, because surely no one else is listening.
But he drew a portrait - a loving, detailed, and vaguely Cubist portrait - of his clock radio on the table at Montana's the other night. With the numbers all square like digital clocks show them, and a happy stick version of himself dancing beside it. (Probably naked.) And my resolve to save him from the dangers of Hooters ads weakened.
Besides. I wouldn't have known about that wine festival if he hadn't told me.
Friday, May 30, 2014
Missed Connections > Fieldwork
Assiniboia Co-op - W4M
We made eye contact in the Foreign Foods aisle. I know I felt a connection; did you? Tell me how many bottles of SPF 60 I bought so I can tell it's really you. Hoping to hear back...
Shaunavon Frosty Treat - W4M
Thanks for helping me pick all those ticks off my clothes - you know what they say, a friend in need is a friend indeed! So message me if you see this. Tell me what colours of flagging tape I had hanging out of my pockets to weed out spam.
Maidstone Motel - W4M
Haha, the walls are SO thin here! I could hear you belching, which means you could probably hear me farting. It's like we're already past that awkward 'polite' stage together! Let's be gassy together, shall we?
Weyburn Boston Pizza - W4M
I thought it was cute the way you laughed nervously and let me in the restaurant anyway even though I pretty much looked like a homeless crazy person - pretty sure there was a spark there. Tell me why my pants were duct taped to my ankles to help weed out spam.
Oyen Subway - W4M
We made some serious eye contact over the veggies, and you didn't seem to judge me for my sunscreen-and-dirt 'stache or for getting a footlong sub and three cookies after a hard day of work, so we could probably get along alright. Let me know whether I had my sub toasted or not so I know it's really you.
Maple Creek Laundromat - W4M
There was you, washing your dirty coveralls, and there was me, shoveling taco salad like I just made a jail break from fat camp. We made awkward small talk over the folding table and tried not to notice each others' gotch. (I hope you only noticed my good ones, not my field ones, haha!) Let me know what colour the mystery sock that ended up in my load was so I know it's you.
Ponteix Bakery - W4M
I'm not actually pregnant, I just said that 'cause you were the only place open for a hundred miles and I wanted to pee in a real toilet instead of just in a field for a change. So, like, let's hang out sometime - I'm dying to know why the apple pie tastes sortof like onions!
Unity Prairie Moon Inn - W4M
We joked about the rubbery eggs and flaccid bacon in the breakfast buffet, even though I was wearing three-day old muddy clothes and everyone else seemed to be giving me a wide berth (possibly due to the faint boggy odour). That was real civilized of you. Maybe drop me a line sometime. Make sure you say what colour my Nomex were so I can tell you're you.
Swift Current Canadian Tire - W4M
I bought a lot of zip ties, bungee cords and duct tape and made a joke about building my field bondage kit; you backed away slowly. I know someone playing hard to get when I see it, you sly devil! (Or at least I think I do - it's been so long since I interacted with humans I'm starting to wonder a little, haha!) I hope you see this and contact me.
Provost IGA - W4booze
It was sweet of you to let me know I had mud in my ear and was bleeding lightly. I mean, I already knew those things 'cause it had been a rough day, but you seemed genuinely concerned. We could get a drink or something - I could really use some this week. Like about twenty. Let me know whether I used a cart or a basket so I can tell it's you.
Lafleche - W4COFFEE!
Seriously, is there nowhere to get a cup of coffee around here? This is insanity. I would kill for a double double. KILL. Also a pedicure. Don't bother calling, 'cause I am NEVER coming back.
Calgary
I'm never wearing sunscreen or bug spray again, ever.
... Until next year.
OMG I miss the field already.
We made eye contact in the Foreign Foods aisle. I know I felt a connection; did you? Tell me how many bottles of SPF 60 I bought so I can tell it's really you. Hoping to hear back...
Shaunavon Frosty Treat - W4M
Thanks for helping me pick all those ticks off my clothes - you know what they say, a friend in need is a friend indeed! So message me if you see this. Tell me what colours of flagging tape I had hanging out of my pockets to weed out spam.
Maidstone Motel - W4M
Haha, the walls are SO thin here! I could hear you belching, which means you could probably hear me farting. It's like we're already past that awkward 'polite' stage together! Let's be gassy together, shall we?
Weyburn Boston Pizza - W4M
I thought it was cute the way you laughed nervously and let me in the restaurant anyway even though I pretty much looked like a homeless crazy person - pretty sure there was a spark there. Tell me why my pants were duct taped to my ankles to help weed out spam.
Oyen Subway - W4M
We made some serious eye contact over the veggies, and you didn't seem to judge me for my sunscreen-and-dirt 'stache or for getting a footlong sub and three cookies after a hard day of work, so we could probably get along alright. Let me know whether I had my sub toasted or not so I know it's really you.
Maple Creek Laundromat - W4M
There was you, washing your dirty coveralls, and there was me, shoveling taco salad like I just made a jail break from fat camp. We made awkward small talk over the folding table and tried not to notice each others' gotch. (I hope you only noticed my good ones, not my field ones, haha!) Let me know what colour the mystery sock that ended up in my load was so I know it's you.
Ponteix Bakery - W4M
I'm not actually pregnant, I just said that 'cause you were the only place open for a hundred miles and I wanted to pee in a real toilet instead of just in a field for a change. So, like, let's hang out sometime - I'm dying to know why the apple pie tastes sortof like onions!
Unity Prairie Moon Inn - W4M
We joked about the rubbery eggs and flaccid bacon in the breakfast buffet, even though I was wearing three-day old muddy clothes and everyone else seemed to be giving me a wide berth (possibly due to the faint boggy odour). That was real civilized of you. Maybe drop me a line sometime. Make sure you say what colour my Nomex were so I can tell you're you.
Swift Current Canadian Tire - W4M
I bought a lot of zip ties, bungee cords and duct tape and made a joke about building my field bondage kit; you backed away slowly. I know someone playing hard to get when I see it, you sly devil! (Or at least I think I do - it's been so long since I interacted with humans I'm starting to wonder a little, haha!) I hope you see this and contact me.
Provost IGA - W4booze
It was sweet of you to let me know I had mud in my ear and was bleeding lightly. I mean, I already knew those things 'cause it had been a rough day, but you seemed genuinely concerned. We could get a drink or something - I could really use some this week. Like about twenty. Let me know whether I used a cart or a basket so I can tell it's you.
Lafleche - W4COFFEE!
Seriously, is there nowhere to get a cup of coffee around here? This is insanity. I would kill for a double double. KILL. Also a pedicure. Don't bother calling, 'cause I am NEVER coming back.
Calgary
I'm never wearing sunscreen or bug spray again, ever.
... Until next year.
OMG I miss the field already.
Sunday, May 11, 2014
So This Is Mother's Day
DH rolled over in bed yesterday morning and said, "Welp, I guess we had better clean the house today so you can have Mother's Day off tomorrow."
Wow, eh? I'll bet you're impressed all to heck. So was I, until he announced a short while later, "I cleaned the bathrooms," then settled in on the couch for the day with his laptop.
Oh. So not, like, the royal "we" at all. Or even the sortof egalitarian "we" one might foolishly hope for when it comes to the divvying up of household duties. More like... "me."
I worked extra hard yesterday to make sure all the housework and laundry were done so the fam could "give me the day off" today. At one point - I can't quite recall whether I was washing floors, cooking, vacuuming, dusting, washing walls, bathing Small Fry, making a grocery list or cleaning the kitchen at the time - DH looked up from the couch and said, "Oh yeah. I started the laundry, too."
In case your level of impressed-ness has just jumped back up to "we'll clean the house" levels, please allow me to clarify the statistical dishonesty that is "I started the laundry." "I started the laundry" not only makes no claims as to the degree to which the laundering is or ever will be complete, it doesn't even hint at whether the intent actually exists to complete it. Nor have any promises been made regarding the quality control methods employed. (Are my clothes wrinkly as all hell because they have been sitting in the dryer for three days? Are my t-shirts nipple clamped to the drying rack? etc.) In short, "I started the laundry" is right up there with 'Up to 70% Off!' and 'Lose as Much as 20lbs!' in the annals of misleading advertising claims:
But don't cry for me, Argentina. If I hadn't done my standard (i.e., lion's) share of the housework (yes, including laundry) yesterday, I might have felt a weensy bit guilty about leveraging the bejeebus out of Mother's Day today. In fact, keeping all of yesterday's toilings firmly at the front of my mind gave me the emotional fortitude today to whine like a big fricking entitled baby about pretty much everything my heart desired: I wanna go to the peeeeeet stoooore. And also Urban Barn and Chaaapterrrs. Buy me this boooook. I want some froooozen yoooogurrrt. I wanna play Monooooopoly. I can't do yard work if I don't have any beeeeeer. Make me baked potaaaatoes for my special supper. I can't wash dishes on Moooother's Daaay! I reeeeallly need a baaaack ruuuub.
Seriously, best Mother's Day I've ever had. Ever. I'm already planning my itinerary for next year.
Wow, eh? I'll bet you're impressed all to heck. So was I, until he announced a short while later, "I cleaned the bathrooms," then settled in on the couch for the day with his laptop.
Oh. So not, like, the royal "we" at all. Or even the sortof egalitarian "we" one might foolishly hope for when it comes to the divvying up of household duties. More like... "me."
I worked extra hard yesterday to make sure all the housework and laundry were done so the fam could "give me the day off" today. At one point - I can't quite recall whether I was washing floors, cooking, vacuuming, dusting, washing walls, bathing Small Fry, making a grocery list or cleaning the kitchen at the time - DH looked up from the couch and said, "Oh yeah. I started the laundry, too."
In case your level of impressed-ness has just jumped back up to "we'll clean the house" levels, please allow me to clarify the statistical dishonesty that is "I started the laundry." "I started the laundry" not only makes no claims as to the degree to which the laundering is or ever will be complete, it doesn't even hint at whether the intent actually exists to complete it. Nor have any promises been made regarding the quality control methods employed. (Are my clothes wrinkly as all hell because they have been sitting in the dryer for three days? Are my t-shirts nipple clamped to the drying rack? etc.) In short, "I started the laundry" is right up there with 'Up to 70% Off!' and 'Lose as Much as 20lbs!' in the annals of misleading advertising claims:
 |
| Seems pretty legit to me. |
But don't cry for me, Argentina. If I hadn't done my standard (i.e., lion's) share of the housework (yes, including laundry) yesterday, I might have felt a weensy bit guilty about leveraging the bejeebus out of Mother's Day today. In fact, keeping all of yesterday's toilings firmly at the front of my mind gave me the emotional fortitude today to whine like a big fricking entitled baby about pretty much everything my heart desired: I wanna go to the peeeeeet stoooore. And also Urban Barn and Chaaapterrrs. Buy me this boooook. I want some froooozen yoooogurrrt. I wanna play Monooooopoly. I can't do yard work if I don't have any beeeeeer. Make me baked potaaaatoes for my special supper. I can't wash dishes on Moooother's Daaay! I reeeeallly need a baaaack ruuuub.
Seriously, best Mother's Day I've ever had. Ever. I'm already planning my itinerary for next year.
Friday, April 25, 2014
Awards Night
I think I do pretty well with keeping the hounds of parenting self-doubt at bay. I mean, the kids are happy, they're healthy, they're wildly attractive (hey - you can't tell me that doesn't make life easier for people) - I can't be screwing up that bad. Why worry? Nonetheless, I will confess to having a tiny, ongoing internal dialogue about them that takes the form of those "Voted Most Likely to..." quotes in yearbooks. Why? Who knows. I've never had a yearbook that featured "Most Likely" quotes and in fact, I don't even care about yearbooks. I threw mine out years ago.
Maybe it's that I sense how difficult an unfortunate personal meme would be to shake: "Oh, hi, it's Frank Jones, right? I remember you! You were voted most likely to PAAARRR-TAAAYYY! How's your liver doing after all these years?" Or, conversely, how depressing it would be to be constantly reminded that one didn't live up to an overly optimistic high school approximation of one's future potential - you mean you didn't succeed/become a model/live happily ever after? Awkward!
Whatever the reason, these little quips pop into my head whenever the kids exert one of their personal quirks at school. For instance, we already know Small Fry is Most Likely to Suffer from an Existential Crisis on a Given Day, but did you also know he's Most Likely to Cross Dress to Kindergarten? (Variously: skirts, jewelry, hair accessories.) Most Likely to Envision a Polygamous Future for Himself? (He currently has two wives and two girlfriends picked out of the kindergarten lineup - I can't imagine what's going to happen when he hits a classroom with more than ten kids in it.) Most Likely to Bring Gross Snacks? (Cottage cheese. Seaweed. Radishes. Sushi.) He's a crippling personal meme just waiting to happen.
Small Fry's class put on their spring concert last night. It was probably the best kids' concert I've ever seen - just sweet and fun and (importantly) not too long. When it was over, the teachers had a surprise for the kids: an awards ceremony. They were going to say a few words about each child.
Uh-oh.
First few kids, no problem: "Bobby is a great listener; thanks Bobby!" "Jane is very enthusiastic; thanks Jane!" "Fred is very creative; thanks Fred!" I started to relax. This was not going to be my nightmares realized after all.
Then the teacher presenting the awards speeches called out, "Next is Small Fry! Now, where are Small Fry's parents?"
Uh-oh.
This was unprecedented. I pinched my arm. Awake. Damn.
We raised our hands.
"I hope you plan to enrol Small Fry in acting classes, because he is an amazing actor! Good work, Small Fry!" He happily accepted his awards trophy and went back to his seat.
Whew. Crisis averted. "Most Likely to Make Butt Jokes" could be really tough to live down.
Maybe it's that I sense how difficult an unfortunate personal meme would be to shake: "Oh, hi, it's Frank Jones, right? I remember you! You were voted most likely to PAAARRR-TAAAYYY! How's your liver doing after all these years?" Or, conversely, how depressing it would be to be constantly reminded that one didn't live up to an overly optimistic high school approximation of one's future potential - you mean you didn't succeed/become a model/live happily ever after? Awkward!
Whatever the reason, these little quips pop into my head whenever the kids exert one of their personal quirks at school. For instance, we already know Small Fry is Most Likely to Suffer from an Existential Crisis on a Given Day, but did you also know he's Most Likely to Cross Dress to Kindergarten? (Variously: skirts, jewelry, hair accessories.) Most Likely to Envision a Polygamous Future for Himself? (He currently has two wives and two girlfriends picked out of the kindergarten lineup - I can't imagine what's going to happen when he hits a classroom with more than ten kids in it.) Most Likely to Bring Gross Snacks? (Cottage cheese. Seaweed. Radishes. Sushi.) He's a crippling personal meme just waiting to happen.
Small Fry's class put on their spring concert last night. It was probably the best kids' concert I've ever seen - just sweet and fun and (importantly) not too long. When it was over, the teachers had a surprise for the kids: an awards ceremony. They were going to say a few words about each child.
Uh-oh.
First few kids, no problem: "Bobby is a great listener; thanks Bobby!" "Jane is very enthusiastic; thanks Jane!" "Fred is very creative; thanks Fred!" I started to relax. This was not going to be my nightmares realized after all.
Then the teacher presenting the awards speeches called out, "Next is Small Fry! Now, where are Small Fry's parents?"
Uh-oh.
This was unprecedented. I pinched my arm. Awake. Damn.
We raised our hands.
"I hope you plan to enrol Small Fry in acting classes, because he is an amazing actor! Good work, Small Fry!" He happily accepted his awards trophy and went back to his seat.
Whew. Crisis averted. "Most Likely to Make Butt Jokes" could be really tough to live down.
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