All that Glitters is not gold. Or in this case - sane.

I will do my very best to write this scenario with 100% accuracy, no embellishments, and appropriate voice. This particular story begs to be reenacted (which I've done 4 times already today), but short of posting a video of myself doing said reenactment, typed words will have to suffice. Here goes...

So far, this year has been - um - interesting. I have students unlike any I've had in the past...and I've had some doozies! Maybe I'll post a quick list of some of my most interesting students/moments in the future. But this one - well - she deserves a post dedicated just to her. Her name (for the sake of confidentiality) shall be...Sequin.

For lack of a better term - or a medically accepted one - Sequin is (simply stated) crazy. I'm talking "off-the-charts, has had assault charges filed against her (by family members), has threatened students and staff, and is supposed to have a constant shadow" level of crazy. Emotionally disturbed crazy. (Aside: There's an episode of W&G in which Grace and Will are arguing about who's "crazier." Grace at one point motions to herself saying, "Oh! This crazy is allllllll real!!!" That's what I think of when I see Sequin.)

School Day 2: Sequin shows up to my class. Now it's only Day 2, so I'm still optimistic about every one of my kids, but I've already heard rumors about Sequin, although I haven't received paperwork on her yet. I think she must have esp because she instantly makes it her mission to shatter my optimistic hopes and dreams and just piss me off.

She talks back. Loudly. Rudely. Constantly.

She makes fun of other students. Loudly. Rudely.

She refuses to do any work.

She draws and scribbles all over her paper. Angrily.

After doing a group lesson and assignment during which Sequin did the aforementioned activities in lieu of her work:

Misc. Redhead (standing with my hand out, calm voice): Sequin, please hand me your paper. (Note: I've got to document her behavior and lack of work, so I can cover my own ass in the future.)

Sequin (crosses arms and begins a staring contest with eyes as evil as Damien's from The Omen)

Misc. Redhead: (continuing to calmly stand there holding out my hand)

Sequin (yelling in an accent that can be described as 98% ghetto and 2% Spanish): I ain't gonna give you my paper! (wads it up into a ball)

Misc. Redhead (determined not to back down, but can't lose my temper because - remember - I've heard she's certifiable...so, I just keep my hand out.)

Sequin (shoves past me and throws the paper in the trash)

I walk to the trash can and my stubbornness starts to kick in.

Misc. Redhead (calmly): Fine, Sequin, then I'll just get it out of the trash. You know what? That's absolutely fine with me.

Sequin (yelling): Man! You're nasty! You go on and dig in the nasty trash can, but don't come near me again after you get all nasty in the nasty trash can. (pauses) Nasty.

I WILL introduce her to a thesaurus if it's the ONLY thing I do this year.

She is subsequently removed from my classroom following a quick phone call to the behavioral intervention teacher. I (nor any other teacher) will see her for several weeks as her behavior becomes so out-of-control that she is not permitted to be around other students. Then one day...

I see Sequin in the hall during my off period...wearing a t-shirt that says "Cute Psycho" (I kid you not. I couldn't have written it better if I wanted to. Or got paid to.). I'll call this version of her "Sparkle" because I guarantee you it's not the same girl that sat in my room. This one is all smiles with a sugary sweet voice. My stomach turns at how sweet she is. Or maybe it was nerves as I was worried (or scared shitless - take your pick) that I might end up with a shiv in my ribs the moment she flips and becomes Sequin again.

I convey this encounter to her behavioral intervention teacher when she claims Sequin is "scared" of me as the reason for her not returning to my class. Get serious. No kid is scared of me. Ever. She has just figured out how to manipulate this awesome education system of ours.

Cut to today. Five weeks from our first meeting. Remember? When I was all "nasty"? Per a meeting with a cool acronym for a name, she's now "required" to attend class 75% of the time. Hey...two times in 24 days = progress!

Sequin walks into the room. I smile. She sees another boy who is quite "special" but very sweet. Another kid with emotional and behavioral issues, but on a completely different level.

Sequin (yelling): I ain't sittin' by him! I hate him! I don't even want to be in the same room with him! He's so gross! (poor kid just has a "huh?" expression on his face during this whole scene) Look! He put his stuff on that desk! That's too close to mine! Get it away from me! I don't want his stuff near me!

And on and on...while the rest of the class sits stunned while trying not to laugh out of sheer nervousness.

I just continue to smile and not confront her hoping she'll settle down. I continue on with class.

Sequin (again yelling and now pointing at me): And I was only nice to YOU that day in the hall because I thought you was Miss Smith. If I had realized it was YOU, I would NOT have been so nice to YOU!

I feel every kid staring at me with wonder. I just smile and ignore her.

A few minutes later she's continuing her constant, loud, rude, back-talking (to herself mind you because I sure-as-hell am not talking to her) and is disrupting other kids. I look at her and quietly put my finger to my lips in the infamous "shhh" gesture. Sequin puts her finger to her lips, gives me a "go to hell" face, and loudly "shhh"'s me right back. Quick phone call. And then Sequin was escorted out of my room. Again. I won't bore you with the details of that scene. Same song. Fifty-second verse.

I'm guessing I'll see her in another 24 days or so. If I'm lucky. And she hasn't tracked me down with a sharpened toothbrush by then.

"If I..." vs. "When I..."

I've now reached the point in my life where I say "If I..." instead of "When I..." in regards to marriage and kids. Part of me is saddened by this realization, while the other part feels it's liberating.

Ginger Me This

I haven’t taken the time to sit down and write lately, as it seems not much has happened that has warranted expression in the form of writing. Talking? Yes. Writing? No. You see, I don’t tend to write about things mundane. It has to be something that strikes my emotions or thoughts or interrupts my life enough that I have to express what I’m thinking, feeling, or experiencing. This is one of those topics. Not because it’s of great intellectual value; not because it’s enlightened my soul in some way. It’s just simply something that I have an interaction with on a daily basis, and for some reason, today, it’s been on my mind more than normal. Is the suspense killing you yet? Well, sorry to disappoint, but my topic today is just...my red hair, fair skin, and freckles. All the things that make me a ginger.

Mind you, growing up I was picked on as the redheaded, freckle-faced, awkward little girl, but the teasing terms didn’t truly bother me. For example, when someone called me a “carrot top,” my instant reaction (hands firmly placed on hips, of course) was one of, “Is this person stupid? The top of a carrot is green. If they’re referring to the rest of the carrot, it’s orange, and my hair is definitely NOT orange. Idiot.” (It’s amazing how much my personality was evident even in elementary school!)

My mom always called my freckles “angel kisses,” so as an innocent little girl, I assumed they were. It wasn’t until I went to my first dermatologist when I was about 10-11 that I began to have a hatred for these “angel kisses.” I had the misfortune of going to a dermatologist that apparently lacked the ability to interact with people. At all. She began berating me and my mom for the amount of skin damage I had already received. “Why didn’t you make her wear more sunscreen? Why did you let her play outside so much? I’ve seen girls die at age 16 from skin cancer!” And on and on she went. I was stunned, scared, and hurt. I had never thought of my freckles as “damage,” and I couldn’t understand why my mom had not been more truthful. I left the office and instantly went to the bathroom to cry. Uncontrollably. The only thoughts in my head were how close I was to 16, and I assumed based on what she said that 16 would also be my death. My poor mom was left to console me as best she could. I now understand that my mom was only trying to protect me from reality. She did try to keep sunscreen on me, but you probably know by now that I can be a wee bit stubborn and don’t like being told what to do. I repeatedly tried laying out in hopes that I would one day get a tan, despite her constant reminders that it would never happen. I was then left with numerous, painful sunburns. I can't tell you how many it took before it finally sunk it that it would, in fact, never happen. She knew I probably shouldn’t play in the sun so much, but how do you keep a cheery, chubby faced little girl inside when she just wants to run outside in the sunshine, play in the sprinkler, jump on the trampoline, and ride her horse? I realize now, I would have done the exact same thing. Let the girl play. After that eye-opening experience, I began wearing SPF 30 on my face every single day and I slather it up every time I’m going to be outside. It was and still can be a nuisance, but I now realize that hopefully it will be worth it. One, when I DON’T get skin cancer. And two, when all those tanned chicks look like leather, I’ll still have beautiful skin at age 50. Fingers crossed!

Later in life, I randomly came across an article written about “gingerism.” Yes, it’s supposedly a legitimate form of discrimination primarily in Britain. It’s considered a huge insult to refer to someone as a “ginger.” (I personally L-O-V-E the term and would L-O-V-E it if more people called me that. I see it as a term of endearment and, more than likely, sheer jealousy. But, then again, I’ve never suffered some form of discrimination. It’s even the name of my imaginary shoe boutique that I hope to open when I come into obscene amounts of money. Apologies for the aside.) People were quoted discussing all the ways their jobs and lives had been negatively affected by “gingerism.” They even went so far as to liken it to racism. I couldn’t help but laugh. Seriously? I wanted to jump on a plane to Britain, just to see how I was received. Would there be torch-wielding villagers waiting at Gate 7? Would rotten apples and spit be flung upon my perfectly coordinated, stylish, yet still comfortable, flight ensemble? Needless to say, I opted not to test my theory at that time. I’ll report back when I do.

Through the magic of Facebook, I was reminded of the infamous Ginger Kids episode of South Park today. Twice. It was a sign. I finally came around to watching the Ginger Kids episode a while back and just re-watched it today. Again, hilarious in my book, even if some did not find it so. Apparently, after the show’s airing, an informal National Kick a Ginger Day was formed in Canada and students were kicked numerous times at school and were sent home covered in bruises. Wow. As if redheaded kids don’t suffer enough! Back to the episode. I, folks, suffer from what could be considered a severe case of gingervitis. I do, however, have a soul. I think. (muahaha) Sometimes I wish I was a Daywalker (those redheads Cartman says do not have the fair skin and freckles and are therefore not harmed by the sun). So, in the summer, I do have that wish when everywhere I look there’s another bronze body. And I hate. Repeat, hate. Sunscreen. Those of you that slap on a mere SPF 15 or less and then immediately jump in the pool just. don’t. get. it. Never can. But once the miserable heat of summer is gone and fall and winter are sliding in, I once again embrace my fair skin and freckles. There’s something about the contrast between my hair and skin that I’ve grown to love. At times, it can be quite striking. And striking is not normally an adjective I would use to describe myself. So, if on the rarest of occasions, I can achieve even a glimmer of that, then it’s worth it.

Speaking of fall and winter, I’ve found a shade of red I want to try out for this year. I used to be opposed to coloring my hair, as I thought it would be sacrilegious and a slap in God’s face to tamper with the colors he so expertly blended on this head of mine. But, I then realized, he wouldn’t have also given me the fair skin and freckles that can pull off multiple shades of red, nor would he have allowed scientists the ability to manufacture said color. So, there goes that moral quandary.

I consider it a blessing to be a ginger. It’s one of the things that make me unique, so for that, I’m thankful. I can only hope that I have a little ginger kid of my own one day on whom to impart all of my hard-earned appreciation and love of the rarity that is being a redhead.

Some good redhead quotes:

“Connect the dots. Redhead with freckles included. Two players required.” :)

“Blondes are noticed. Redheads are remembered.”

“A face without freckles is like a night without stars.”

“It takes balls, passion, and intelligence to love a redhead.” (I obviously have yet to find a guy who possesses all 3 of those qualities.)

“Wow, the angels must have loved her the most!” (In reference to my freckles coming from angel kisses.) -Addie Sykora, age 4

"Once in his life, every man is entitled to fall madly in love with a gorgeous redhead." -Lucille Ball

“You’d never change your hair. It’s half your personality!” -Will to Grace

If you know my mom...

...then you know that I really need no explanation. In most ways, I am truly a carbon copy of the crazy lady. Things I got from Mom: 

my red hair

my inability to say "no"

my tendency to take on too much responsibility because I know only I can do things the exact way I have pictured in my mind

my flights of fancy

my sarcastic sense of humor and quirky personality

my love of being the center of attention

my love of quiet solitude

my passion for reading, but only if it's good, intelligent writing

my obsession with proper grammar, capitalization, punctuation, and spelling

my refusal to tolerate ignorance

 my love of cooking (and drinking)

my overuse of ... but nothing else more perfectly represents my shifts between my random thoughts!

 my great taste in all things

my love of great music...mostly nothing after 1980

And the list goes on and on...

But today she and I entered into a thread of emails that had me laughing hysterically at my computer while my kiddos worked on a semester exam review. I couldn't stop laughing because it was one more thing that proved how much I'm like her! If the threads weren't labeled, you could truly not be able to tell which one of us is saying what.

Mom: They just had a spot on "Today" about Prince Harry playing polo. As part of the spot they had a famous polo player (who also happens to be the Polo model) and "oh, my..." Forget baseball players! His name is Nacho Piedras (sp?) and all that can be said is "oh, my..." :)

Misc. Redhead: Haha...Nacho...I guess you could look past the name if he's that cute! :)

Mom: Oh, trust me - you could look past a lot of things...except, maybe, that wedding ring on his left hand. Then again... :)

Misc. Redhead: Shame on you!! ;)

Mom: I know you can't do YouTube at school but when you get home check out Nacho Figueras. He's got a couple YouTube spots and then you might be planning a trip to Argentina! Oh, my... :) I googled (and ogled :) ) him to send you a picture and the YouTube spots were the "best" - as if there could be a worst. :) !

How hip is she? She is adept at YouTube, and she uses "google" as a verb. I love her.

Now that I've piqued your interest, here's a little taste of heaven. You probably don't remember when I dyed my hair dark for the shoot because I quickly went back to red. Enjoy!

How old am I again?

This is a night full of contradictory components that make it hard to determine if I'm really almost 4 months shy of 30 or only 8 years old. I'm sitting in my big, comfy chair with pigtails, drinking a beer, painting my toenails, eating sour punch straws, and watching The Reader. If you haven't seen it, it's got some pretty intense sensuality...but it's with a teenage boy! I'm a little, ok quite a bit, disturbed. Just now getting to the post-statutory rape scenes. I think...

.

.

.

So Ralph Fiennes was in The Reader. Just started Taken with Liam Neeson. Two of my fave actors and some dang good eye (and ear) candy! :)

Scenes from an Italian Restaurant

I love that song...ok, I just love Billy Joel period. Today my parents and I took my grandma and great aunt out to lunch at the good ol' Olive Garden in celebration of AE's 91st birthday yesterday. Today was an all-around good day...everyone was lucid...no one thought anyone was stealing, plotting, or trafficking drugs. Little victories in my family that get us through. Thankfully, there was really, really good background music today that kept making me smile. I swear I was born in the wrong decade/generation.

Scene #1

(middle of a conversation with Mom about a tv show - keep in mind I am classic ADD and can't usually stay focused on one topic in a normal conversation, much less one involving these two)

Misc. Redhead: You haven't watched it yet?

Mom: No, I just haven't gotten around to it this week.

Grandma: What was the name of the lady who bought Lydia's house?

Mom: What?

Grandma: You know...the one who had that fat little dog.

Misc Redhead: Oh yeah...Speedy. Her name was Jean something.

Mom (looking back to me): Okay, go ahead.

Misc. Redhead: What were we talking about again?

Mom: House.

Misc. Redhead: Oh yeah. I don't know what I was even saying about it. Wait. I know. "Clang clang clang went the trolley" is stuck in my head. I think that's all I was going to say.

Grandma (looking at me): I bought that mirror you have from her.

Misc. Redhead: Who?

Grandma: That lady who bought Lydia's house.

(and on and on it goes)

Frank: Tell you that you're marvelous, tell you that you're marvelous, too marvelous for words...

Scene #2

(The hostess and a manager are setting up a table for 6 - the hostess originally sets up 2 on each side and 2 on the ends. The manager moves the chairs so there are 3 on each side.)

Manager: It's always better to arrange them like this because it encourages face-to-face conversation for the guests.

In come the guests...mom, dad, and 5 kids. I'm sure they're eternally thankful for the thoughtful layout of the chairs for face-to-face conversation comprised of crayons and menu/coloring pages folded over the kids' heads while they converse about politics and the state of the economy.

Dino: When the world seems to shine like you've had too much wine, that's amore...

Scene #3

There's a cute elderly couple at the table next to us. They each have two glasses of wine with their lunch. He has red; she chooses a blush. I'd like that some day. Enjoying wine over Sunday lunch after church with the love of your life.

Mr. Buble: But remember this, every other kiss, that you'll ever give long as we both live...

Scene #4

Grandma: I think AE has a boyfriend.

AE: (just gives her a go-to-hell smirk...in case you've ever wondered where I get my face expressions from)

Grandma (laughing): She does...my roommate's boyfriend.

Mom: Oh really? You've been making at eyes at someone? (Mom's classic phrase when we tease AE about chasing men)

AE: (just gives a devilish grin and nods)

Dino: When we dance you have a way with me, stay with me, sway with me...

Scene #5

(Walking out of the restaurant - discussing the surprise get-together we're having for AE later today at the home)

Mom: If you could get there a little early and take care of getting AE ready, I'd really appreciate it.

Misc. Redhead: Of course...what time? What all do I need to do?

Mom: I hung two outfits on her closet door that she can choose from. If she chooses the dress, there are some thigh highs in the top drawer she needs to put on.

Misc. Redhead: Thigh highs? I didn't know it was going to be that kind of party! Wild Turkey too?

Mom: (didn't even notice my attempt at humor because she's in her planning zone) And I bought her some new lipstick, so help her with that too.

Misc. Redhead: So that's a no to the Wild Turkey?

(AE perks up at the mention of Wild Turkey...she has a "history" with the stuff that we tease her about relentlessly)

Frank: But why should I try to resist when, baby, I know so well, I´ve got you under my skin...

Scene #6

I run into my dad's long-time business acquaintance/friend. He's one of the kindest and cutest old men with the brightest sparkly blue eyes. When he sees me, he tells the hostess, "Excuse me while I go hug that pretty girl." How could your heart not melt? He's a former city manager for this (relatively) small town and started talking to me a while back about wanting me to ghost-write his memoirs. He has some really good dirt about all kinds of scandals, dirty deals, and underhanded dealings from back in his day. I hadn't heard from him in a while and had honestly forgotten about it.  

Mr. S: How ya been, girl? Hey, I don't want you to think I haven't been working on my stories. I have; I've just gotten busy and haven't 

called you recently.

Misc. Redhead: Oh, that's okay. Just start sending me stuff whenever you're ready. (thinking, holy crap I completely forgot about this...

is there a way to back out?)

Mr. S:  Well, I've been jotting down some of my stories and I've been using little tape recorders. Would that work for you? We can just keep 

swapping them back and forth when you're done with one, etc.

Misc. Redhead: (thinking...what the hell have I gotten myself into? - but of course I adore this man and could never tell him no...plus I have 

the chance to write a book! So against my sanity the words fall out of my mouth.) Whatever works easiest for you! Just give me a call!

Not really playing at the restaurant, but I thought this would be more fitting:

Ado Annie (from Oklahoma!): I'm just a girl who cain't say no...

Scene #7

Dad: Mom and I were going to go see The Soloist on Friday, but it wasn't out anymore. So, we went to the Slippery Minnow instead.

Those're my folks! 

Cirque du Gouge my eyes out with a dull spoon

As the first number in the dance recital came to a close, I immediately whipped out a receipt and my trusty retractable Sharpie to begin taking notes...I could already tell I had some good material heading my way. And in the words of my mom, "You can't make up shit this good." Buckle in; it's going to be a long one.

Now before I fill you in on all the ridiculousness, I must first give you my qualifications for being such a harsh critic. Dancing was pretty much my life for about 20 years. During that time, I took ballet, tap, and jazz, and was usually (actually always), front and center. The stage was mine, and I loved it! For four years in high school, I was my dance teacher's assistant and pretty much ran those classes. Also, for two years in college, I was a full-fledged dance teacher with classes all my own. Oh yeah - and I have eyes. That last one is pretty much the only qualification needed to realize this show - the choreography, music choice, and all-around circus concept - was crap...absolute...utter crap.

The show started with the ballet (and I use that term very loosely) portion of the evening. Every single song was one of those French pieces used by Cirque du Soleil and the like. Those guys can get away with that annoying, uninspiring music because they are simply amazing at what they do. Not so with little girls who don't know their right from their left. That same monotonous cringing noise with pseudo-ballet went on for about 35-40 minutes. One of my dance studio pet peeves jumped out during this time. Would you try to teach differential equations to a 4-year-old? Hell, no. So, why in God's name do these small-town dance teachers think it's appropriate to teach 5-year-olds pirouettes and leaps? They can't and shouldn't do them yet, so don't put them in the damn dance! (Same goes for older girls. If they can't do the move, don't use it!)

We now enter the jazz set. I can pretty much sum this up with a verbatim quote from my receipt notes: "more freaking poms." Seriously. Poms have no place at a dance recital. Save them for the football field, people! But, I kid you not, over half the jazz numbers used poms. The song "A Little Less Conversation" has now been ruined for me for eternity. Then comes the performance to "Circus" by good ol' Britney. I'm thinking, "Okay, this one's got to have some energy....it's Britney freaking Spears after all!" Nope. Boring. I guarantee you, I could have gotten on stage in my 4-inch wedges and free-styled some better moves than what she had done. 

In between every single dance number, the "ringmaster" for the evening came out in a top hat and tails to introduce the next "act" of the show. He's a high school senior who I actually adore, and he was - hands down - the only truly entertaining part of the night (my weird enjoyment from watching the massacre of the art of dance doesn't count as real entertainment). At some point, there's also a "performance" by some high school students doing random crap like riding a tricycle, bouncing on a pogo stick, hula hooping, and blowing bubbles while roller-skating around the stage. I know - I couldn't have made it up if I tried.

Back to the "dancing." This one poor group of girls did a pom dance to "Get Ur Freak On" by Missy Elliott. I bet Missy would DIE knowing they used poms for one of her hard-hitting tunes. That then transitioned into "Super Freak." Remember the awkward stripper-style number done by Olive at the end of Little Miss Sunshine? It was awesome compared to the choreography these poor girls had. I promise you - I'm not exaggerating. (I love that scene though!)

Then comes the number one of my students is in. I'm still trying to think of what to say to her come Monday morning. But anyways, it's to "Whip It" and they use those ribbon sticks. You know, like what they use for rhythmic gymnastics in the Olympics except instead of ribbons, it's plastic pom-like strips instead of actual ribbon. Needless to say, they're flying all over the place, not to the music, getting tangled together, etc. Just a train wreck that should never have made it past the "now what about this?" phase. One group performs to "Route 66" and at the beginning and end of the number, a weird person dressed as a cat drives a toy car across the stage. Don't ask me - I have no idea.

Then there's the "How Much Is That Doggy" number...the quintessential little girl's dance number seen in every dance recital across the nation. The girls were, of course, cute because they're the 3-4-year-old class, and they're wearing these pink poodle costumes made entirely of tulle. Literally. You don't see any leotard...the whole bodice is tulle. But the weird, weird, weird part is this grown man dressed as a dog juggling at the back of the stage the entire time. Again, I have no idea what was going through this lady's mind when she came up with this stuff. Even if it sounded good in her head, how did she not realize how ridiculous it was during rehearsal? Why didn't someone speak up??

Now, I already told you I was an assistant and dance teacher for a total of 6 years. I stood on the downstage right corner behind the curtain (out of sight) and dorkily danced the numbers in exaggerated fashion to help the little girls who forgot the next move, etc. But, oh no, not this lady! She shouted the moves the entire time. I was on the very back row of the auditorium and heard "shuffle ball change," "arms up," "move to your circle," etc. throughout the entire dance.

The biggest travesty of all came at the end, thankfully. If it had come at the beginning, I may not have lasted. I feel it best to just, once again, quote my receipt notes: "Ring of Fire, tap, red cowboy hats, fake red boots, red sequined vests. Johnny Cash would die if he weren't already dead." That pretty much sums it up.

Those are just the highlights, and I probably didn't even do the show justice. It is disgusting, sad, and somewhat criminal that all those parents truly believe their money has given their daughters a dance education. I have, however, semi-calculated what that woman makes per month. Ladies and gentleman...I am opening a dance studio!