Thursday, April 30, 2009

Hey Big Spender...

I have this tendency to call my students my "kids." I'm not really sure why I say this. I guess it makes me feel like I have a closer relationship with them than just strictly student-teacher. I'd like to think that they also view me as more important in their lives than simply someone who teaches them proper grammar and sentence structure.  

So the other morning, I was enjoying some brunch with a group of girlfriends. An acquaintance of one of the girls comes up, and we begin discussing the Walk for Autism that was held that morning. Without even thinking twice, I said, "Oh! One of my kids' moms helped organize that!" The woman had a perplexed look on her face, and I could read her thoughts:  "One of her kids' moms??" I instantly clarified that I meant one of my students' moms.

I've made several more "kids" references this week, and it reminded me of a joke my mom emailed me a while back because she knows that I use this term of endearment. Her preface suggested I watch my words at the grocery store when talking to men. Keep in mind, I am hit on every time I'm at the grocery store. It's just usually (okay, always) by little old men buying a six pack and some chicken, and we discuss how he's going to prepare his chicken and what I'm making for dinner over the gentle hum of a conveyer belt. I'll flirt with whatever I can get sometimes.

Anyways, here it goes:

A guy goes to the supermarket and notices an attractive woman waving at him. She says hello. 
He's rather taken aback because he can't place where he knows her from. 
So he says, "Do you know me?"
To which she replies, "I think you're the father of one of my kids."
Now his mind travels back to the only time he has ever been unfaithful to his wife and says, "My God, are you the stripper from my bachelor party that I screwed on the pool table with all my buddies watching, while your stripper partner whipped my butt with wet celery?"
She looks into his eyes and says calmly, "No sir, I'm your son's teacher."

The only caveat is that I'm pretty sure I would never be mistaken for a stripper...I don't think I meet the, er, requirements if you know what I mean. Kinda like the fact that no matter how high I can kick (which is still pretty damn high), I'll never be a Rockette.

Wednesday, April 22, 2009

Going for a Record Tonight

Calling all Miscellaneous Redhead virgins...

This is a note sent out to some new potential Misc. R readers: 

Based on a recent personality profile I conducted, comprised of your history of drinking with me, laughing with me, making fun of others with me, or some combination of these characteristics, I've decided to invite you to read my blog. (Please realize this is an honor and this decision has not been made in haste.) This also means you are not likely to be the subject of one of my least not one of the "what the hell was this person thinking?"-type posts. If so, I wouldn't be inviting you to read. I'd be making fun of you...behind your back.

I don't blog regularly, only when something I feel is somewhat interesting happens. I don't promise you'll think it's interesting or entertaining, but I do promise to write the truth, the whole truth (unless I can embellish it to make it better), and nothing but the truth (see previous aside regarding embellishments). Feel free to use any information you read in my posts against me.


It Ain't Easy Bein' Red

I wanted to expose a glimmer of my neuroticism. (See "Shirley" post regarding my destiny.)

As is obvious by my blog moniker, I have red hair. Not just red hair. Red hair with fair skin and freckles. Here's what happened when God created me. 

God: "Hmmm...I need to create one perfect poster child for skin cancer. But who can that be? Ahhh...I know. Sweet Miscellaneous Redhead. She won't get picked on enough as an awkward elementary school kid, so I'll add the fear of Myself and skin cancer into her worries along with just a dash of family history to top it off!" (note: When this creation happened, I don't believe He'd quite mastered the fine art of proportions yet considering my top and bottom halves.)

So, I'm basically a little neurotic, perhaps obsessive, when it comes to my hair and skin. To quote Will and Grace (don't worry, you'll get used to it), my hair is half my personality. See pic below showing just how much I like hair products. Granted many of these are empty, and I just leave them here until I'm ready for one mass rinsing before putting them in the recycle bin (yet another obsession).

And now for the skin. I decided that since God did not grant me the ability to tan, I am going to make damn sure that when all the current tanned folk look like leather handbags, my skin will look like the lily-white ass of a newborn...with a few freckles of course. This doesn't even show you my Smithsonian-worthy collection of sunscreens of every shape, size, scent, and spf.

Not the most interesting of posts, but perhaps as insightful and eye-opening as if they'd done an E! True Hollywood Story on the life of a redhead.

Why do you drink? Give me another drink and I'll tell you.

Pretty sure everyone who knows me, knows that I pride myself on my ability to insert quotes from plays, musicals, and Will & Grace into any conversation no matter how off-topic they may at first appear. Hence the blog title. (Cat on a Hot Tin Roof if you're not already aware...and if you're not, why are we friends?) But I digress (note: digress is one of my all-time favorite words...I think because I do it about every 4.76 seconds). But again, I....say it with me...digress.

Those people who are lucky enough to have known me most of my life know that I was not much of, nay, not at all, a party girl growing up. I've always tried to ask my mom how she instilled this intense guilt and fear in me, but she just taps her fingertips ala Dr. Evil and snickers saying it was all part of her "master plan." I call b.s. on her because I, for one, know that one of my main reasons for not drinking growing up and mostly through college was due to the stories I heard of my grandfather's alcoholism. The intense and inate guilt that I felt just thinking about the possibility of letting my mom down in any similar fashion was enough to keep me from the liquid I now cherish and adore. My parents have never had a problem with alcohol, and in fact, alcohol flowed freely in my house growing up (still does, although I think these days gushes is a more descriptive verb for my parents and their wine and beer!). So, all through my college years at wild and crazy M&A, I rarely for a few random occurrences.

But nowadays...things could be considered, shall we say "different." A few reasons come to mind:

One - I think I matured to the point that I realized I could drink without becoming the grandfather I never got to meet. 

Two - I consider myself a "late bloomer" and didn't really come out of my shell until after college. Now I bet some of you are wishing I'd shut my mouth and go back in said shell.

And three - I became a teacher.

Now if you're not a teacher, you may be rolling your eyes saying "yeah yeah yeah." But seriously. I'm not kidding when I say that 7th graders and other adults at my school have led me to drink. Often. As I was updating my Facebook status the other day, it dawned on me that I had four happy hours last week. Four! (Now one was a solo ride on my back porch, but it still counts.) As people, including my former boss, commented on it, I couldn't help but laugh at the vast difference between Misc. Redhead now and Misc. Redhead then. I had an offer for another drinky drink this evening, but after having gone out last night too, I decided to stay in and try to act like the pushing-30 grown-up I should be. So, I'm doing some innocent stalking on Facebook, blogging, and laughing at the cute face one of the cats is making while he sleeps.

Damn that sounds sad. I should have gone to the bar.