(This is Why) You Don't Bring Me Flowers

One thing not many people know about me is that I love flowers. Maybe I like them so much because I get them so infrequently, but when I have been lucky enough, they just about make my year. Seriously. I have been sent flowers exactly two times in my life. The first time was when I was in college, came back to my room and found that one of my guy friends had left them for me on my desk as a thank you for helping him with a job. He'd gotten the job about six months earlier, but in the note - which of course duh I still have - he wrote that it was not only for the job, but for just being, well, me. You don't forget things like that. The second time I got flowers was when a friend's family sent me them after I helped them get some tickets to a game a few summers ago. It was an unexpected very nice gesture. Maybe that's the whole key about flowers, is that it's a surprise and a gesture just intended to make you happy. I love that.

Anyway, I didn't just get flowers or anything and no, I'm not expecting any flowers any time soon, but I did have to order someone else flowers this weekend and so I was thinking about how nice it is to receive them. Sadly, this time, it was a sympathy delivery, but it still made me think good things and remember the flowers I once got, so I figured I'd start this post with something uplifting. Because my flower delivery experience... not so uplifting (and that's not even because they were a sympathy bouquet). Allow me to explain.

While I have received flowers only two times, I don't think I should really complain because in truth, I had only sent flowers once before this. I sent them to one of my mom's friends, who was basically like a second mom to me, on the day that she found out she was officially in remission. I was in college at the time and I think I did the whole 1800flowers thing because it was out of state, and it was pretty simple to go through the pictures and pick a bouquet. I didn't really want to do 1800flowers because they just pick a random florist in the area and all, and I know a few places. So I went online and started at the top of the line. That's when I realized... flowers are freakin expensive! That's one reason why I don't get them very often, probably. They're like $50 for a decent bouquet. The nice ones run about $95... at least on this very fancy site. I then decided, no, we don't need THIS top of the line. So then I thought, I don't really know what I'm looking at or ordering anyway, so I should probably just go to a store. I realized there was a flower store on my way somewhere else Saturday, so I was all set.

Or so I thought, until I met Rita.

Rita was putting together a bouquet when I first arrived at the shop that looked like a cross between something my Aunt Diane, a purple freak fanatic, and a five year old would put together. Not the best start.

"Would you like to order some flowers for a beloved?" was her opening line to me. Yup. Would I like to order some flowers for my beloved.

"Umm... no..."

"So then what are you here for?" Rita asked. Still pretty cheerful.

"I'd like to order some flowers for a sympathy bouquet."

She looked confused. In her defense, I thought maybe I had said the name wrong or something. I mean, I had only ordered flowers once, and I think I'd been in a flower shop, like, never, so maybe I wasn't using the right terminology.

"I need to send flowers to someone whose father died."

"Ohhh," she said. "Well, this is a pretty busy week."

"With Valentine's Day?"

"No, that's not this week. That's next week."

"Oh. So then... this week?"

"Well, this week we have to get ready for Valentine's Day."

Okay. Sometimes I legitimately wonder where I am.

I decided to just go with it and soldier on. "I bet. Well, I'm looking to have these flowers delivered either Monday or Tuesday. Is that possible?"

"Depends."

"On?"

"Well, it depends on whether you want them delivered Monday or Tuesday." I swear, Rita said this with a straight face. This Rita. My grandmother was a Rita. I sort of imagined the two of them having this conversation instead of me and Rita. Probably would've gone on about 20 extra hours. But anyway.

"Either, is what I was saying. If you can deliver them Monday, I'd like them to get there Monday. If you can't, then my second choice would be Tuesday."

"Well, which do you want?"

Seriously? Seriously, Rita? Really? She kept playing with this stupid mess of purple flowers, just rearranging the shit out of them.

"Monday."

"Okay. Let me see if I can do that. Can you hold these for me so they don't all come apart? I been working on them all morning."

Really.

"Sure. Do you have other florists helping you?" I asked. "Like someone who can maybe put together my arrangement so you don't have to stress about it?"

"No, I wish. Man, Brian, I keep telling him, he's got to get me some help around here. But he keeps saying, 'No Rita, no, you can do it, baby' and I keep trying to do it. But at the end of the day, if he wants the quality of the product to stay where it is" - she nods towards the explosion I'm holding - "then I got to get some help. But let me check here about Monday."

She clicked through a bunch of things and nodded. "Looks like we can do Monday afternoon. That work?"

"Great," I said. I was actually starting to semi-hope they were booked with Valentine's stuff, even a week early, and that I'd have to find someone who wasn't on purple crack to make the arrangement.

"So what kind of arrangement you looking at again? Birthday? For your dad?"

"Umm no," I said. "Sympathy arrangement, for a woman I work with, her father passed away."

"Oh. So not a birthday thing then."

"No, definitely not. Something... understated."

"Something not showy?"

"Right."

"Okay. So you thinking then... maybe some blues? Like she got the blues cause her dad died?"

You know, I should pause here. Because it was at this distinct moment that I realized, shit, I have to write about this. Right after that line. I knew, Rita had to be a Shut Me Up character. Just had to be. No matter if she pulled it together and acted absolutely normal from here on out, Rita was a story.

"Well, I was looking online and it seems like white is more of the sympathy direction."

"White is really, really boring."

I thought about this for a moment. As I was considering this, a girl named Olivia turned around from her spot arranging plants in the store. "You know, I went to two wakes this week. Yeah, really tough week for me... one was really sad, one wasn't so bad. But anyway, it was white overload. I think a little color might make someone feel a little better. Especially if these are going to this lady's home. You're sending them to make her a little happier, right?"

Olivia made some sense to me. She seemed pretty nice, and she seemed normal-ish.

"Maybe some light pinks or something... " I conceded.

"Well, I'm a fan of purple, as you can see," said Rita. "So do you like purple?"

I have to give myself credit, because I thought pretty quickly here. "I do," I said, "but my friend doesn't really like bold colors. Definitely more pastels."

"Okay. So I'll put down 'boring but not dead' on the notes section," Rita said helpfully.

"Umm, okay... maybe classic? Or pretty?" I tried helpfully.

"Pretty is dependable on the eyes of the beholder," she said. Pretty is dependable on the eyes of the beholder.

"That sounds true," I said, truthfully. "I think just something simple, is what I'm trying to say."

"Got it," Rita said. She took down the details and then told me the total. "It's $20 with the delivery."

"Excuse me?"

"Twenty, with delivery."

"That's it? What are you making?" I mean, I don't know much about flowers, but I know that for $20 - WITH delivery - I'm probably getting a bunch of baby's breath and white carnations. If I'm lucky. I could be sending a bunch of dandelions.

"You said simple," Rita said.

"Umm... so what does that mean to you?"

"I was thinking of sending a small bouquet of carnations," she said, confirming my fears. "You know, about twelve? Those bouquets cost about $7. But you need a minimum for delivery or else we charge, so..."

"Alright," I said, cutting her off. I had places to be. Rita was starting to really annoy me already. I liked flowers. I wanted to keep it that way. "I want to send a $60 bouquet. For $60, what white and pink flowers can you put together?"

She listed a bunch of flowers.

"Those sound great. I'd like those in the arrangement, so I'll take whatever you can do for the $60."

She typed in a bunch of notes and took my credit card and went through with the transaction. She repeated when it would be delivered - Monday - and what I wanted. It all sounded great.

"Okay, well, thank you," I said to her as I headed out.

"You're welcome, honey," she said. "And I'm sorry to hear about your dad."

A Raisin in the Sun

Recently, I've been having these awful moments of realization when I figure out that there's a whole bunch of things that I am never going to be able to do in my lifetime. Essentially, my dreams have been dying at a pretty rapid and alarming pace lately.

For example, Oprah has really been messing with me lately. I've always wanted to go to her show. Well, her show is ending this season, and I don't have tickets, so there's a dream... pretty much gone. I mean sure, there's the outside shot that I could get to a show at some point this year, so technically that dream isn't dead yet. It's just dying. That gave me some comfort, but then I watched her Favorite Things Show in November, and I realized that a more specific and bigger dream - to be at that show - was definitively dead. I told my sister this one morning on our way to work.

"It's my dream to go to that Favorite Things Show, and now, I know it will never happen," I said to her sadly.

"But how do you know for sure?" she asked me, just like everyone asks when someone says that something will never happen. Nobody likes when hope dies.

"Because her final Favorite Things Show aired yesterday."

"Oh."

Yeah, so that died. Thanks, Oprah.

Then, I was watching one of Oprah's new shows on her network and it is about the Oprah Winfrey Show Behind the Scenes. Secretly, or not-so-secretly, I've always sort of wanted to work for Oprah. There are many valid reasons for this, but that's besides the point. So I guess I could technically work for Oprah still, even after her show ends, but the thing that I could never figure out was what I wanted to do FOR Oprah. Like when people asked me, okay, so you want to work for Oprah, but what would you do for her? I couldn't answer that question. Until I watched this Behind the Scenes show. See, when I trying to figure out what to do with my career a couple years back, a lot of people suggested that I be a project manager. People thought that I would be good at managing projects. I couldn't really understand what that looked like, but then I saw this Oprah Behind the Scenes show and I realized... I should be a TV producer. Specifically, I would have loved to be one of Oprah's producers. Basically, producers take the idea for the show and then they manage the production of it. They make sure the guests are ready and prepared, that they have all the details nailed down for the segments, etc. It is essentially managing a project, and in this case, they're managing a project that I am definitely interested in... the Oprah show! So I found my dream career. I would like to be a TV producer for Oprah.

Well, coulda woulda shoulda, because as everyone knows by now, Oprah's show is ending and she doesn't need a producer. And I guess you could say that I could always just be a producer for another show, but no. My point is that yet another dream, to be a producer for the Oprah show, is dead.

This one was a little tougher to swallow, because it was more symbolic for me. See, I've always wondered what I am actually going to do with my life. Yeah, I teach and all, but I always thought that if I wanted to do something else, I could. And then I had trouble thinking of what that something else would be, so I stuck with teaching because it was familiar and comfortable and easy. I don't mean all of those things like it's a piece of cake job - it's not - but I mean because it's a lot harder to just stop your life and start over. As it turns out, I don't even think I COULD do that anymore.

I keep trying to think of an analogy for this, like if you went on this huge road trip or something and all of a sudden wanted to go somewhere entirely different, but I keep realizing that you could always turn back in every example that I think of. Every example, no matter what, you can turn back or make a change and start over. Except in reality, with time. Because you can't really start over there. You really can't.

So this dreams thing goes beyond Oprah for me. Oprah is sort of the embodiment of it right now, because it's the most tangible way to explain what I mean, but I would be willing to bet that everyone has an experience like mine with Oprah. Because at a certain point - sorry to be the dream killer - the long list you had as a kid of what you could be or do will turn into a longer list that you have as an adult of what you'll never be and do.

So I'm never going to be in Oprah's Favorite Things audience. I'm not going to be a TV producer for her show. I recently had a moment where I realized I'm not going to ever be Miss America (I'm beyond the age cut off, in case you were wondering how I knew that for absolute certainty). There's a bunch of serious ones I could put here, but you get the idea.

And before everyone freaks out that I'm being overly dramatic or depressing, I can tell you that there's still a lot of things I can do... some with great difficulty, but I suppose it's not impossible. It's just that recently, it feels a little like I'm in this minefield where I have to be careful of my next step because boom! another one of my dreams might just explode and die right in my face. It's very jarring when it happens, because it reminds you of the universal truth that my father once wisely shared with me. He won't remember this, and I include it for two reasons: one, because when he inevitably freaks out that I'm in some tailspin after he reads this blog I can point to what he said as evidence that he's thought the same thing, and two, because I finally understood what he meant.

We were driving somewhere, I forget where. Maybe to a bookstore. I don't remember what we were talking about or when it was, but I remember exactly what he said and how he said it. "I had this deep thought once," he said. (Yes, he said this.) "And it was like my one deep thought." (Yes, he said this.) "It made a lot of sense to me, because it's really deep." (Yes, he said this.)

"What?" I asked him.

"It's later than you think."

I probably said nothing in response.

"Very deep," he said again.

It took me a few years, but he's right. It is.

What is going ON around here?!?

I know I've sort of taken a sabbatical from this thing, but is it me, or are people out of fucking control around here?

Take parents, for example. These people are so self-righteous. I'm not talking about my parents or your parents or any parents specifically. I'm talking about parents as a species. These people think their offspring are so precious and fragile, it's outrageous. I have a real issue with the pricks who post "Baby on Board" stickers on their car, for example. Those people are true egotists. Do they really think that because they have a precious child that I am supposed to drive more carefully around them? Do they understand that they're implying the inverse there - that because I don't have a crying baby in my car, I must not care if people crash into me all over the place? People think that babies are so special. I don't even know your baby. I like my car better than your baby, so guess what? I'm pretty careful driving ALL OF THE TIME just like every other normal person out there. "Baby on Board" means nothing to me except the driver of that car is a fucking asshole.

I'm not done with parents yet, either. How about the parents that continue to push their children around in strollers when they're approaching middle school? I can't remember if I've covered this topic before, hold on let me check. I don't think so. If I have, a refresher course never hurt anyone. Anyhow, I am so sick of getting out of the way of these stroller parades. It's bad enough that one stroller is now the size of small studio apartment, but how about the ones that have a ten year old smushed into it? You think I'm kidding, but I'm not. I once saw a kid in a stroller reading one of those Harry Potter books. And don't think he was some child prodigy or something. If you're two years old reading Harry Potter in a stroller, then I'm impressed. But if you're above the age of five, I don't care if you're reading War and Peace. I'd rather have you spend your time practicing your walking skills and being a normal human being. That's more impressive to me. But anyway, my point is that everyone can blame McDonalds and ice cream for obesity problems in our country, but let's take a hard look at the stroller epidemic we have going on here. I was recently at DisneyWorld and the number of kids who were tall enough to ride Space Mountain but were still being pushed around by their parents was ridiculous. If a dad has to ask his daughter to pick up her feet so he can push her along, guess what princess? Time to lose the wheels.

My next concern took some actual research, because I was certain that I had to be wrong. I had been noticing that sometimes drivers and bike riders were wearing ipod headphones. I thought I had to be missing something, like maybe it was like early on bluetooth/wireless phones when you'd think the person ahead of you was a lunatic talking to himself before you realized he had an earpiece in. So for a few weeks I tried to figure this out. Then I realized, nope, I'm not wrong, these people are just retarded. In what world, really, in what world would someone sit there and be like, "You know what's a good idea? Drowning out all outside sounds while I'm driving in the middle of rush hour traffic?" Really?! And bike riders, when I see that they're wearing headphones, I freak the fuck out. I really do. I have enough problems with bike riders as it is. These people are so self-righteous I want to puke. They weave in and out of their lane, and I'm not just talking about the low-skill level ones who have no business riding a bike outside of down their driveway. I'm talking about the ones that just weave in and out at full speed, just to let the cars know that they ought to give their precious little bike some space. Or when you're about to turn right and a bike rider just comes speeding past you, giving you the stink eye? Really, asshole? I have a green light, slow the fuck down! Anyway, as you can see, my patience with bike riders is minimal at best. Add in that you're going to wear headphones while you weave in and out and cut me off? Umm, absolutely not. Listen, you want to listen to music? Ride in a car with a radio, buddy. Case closed.

And now I have to take on MTV. I think MTV is out of control, and I have to admit that because I watch it, I don't help the situation. But I have a real problem with this trainwreck Teen Mom Amber making more money than I have - combined - throughout my entire teaching career. Seriously, that's how much money she made last year. Are you telling me that some high school dropout oompa loompa who hits her baby daddy and sits around on her couch all day while letting her kid run around the house looking all raggedy is going to hit the Forbes list before I am? Or more realistically, if I see that stupid bitch running around with a Louis Vuitton before I have one, I am going to flip the fuck out. I get the concept behind MTV's teen pregnancy focus, and I honestly think they did a good job showing initially how hard and messy it is to have a kid before you've graduated high school, especially in cases where the teens are struggling with poverty as it is. But when you start changing their situations by giving them so much money just for being in these situations in the first place, then I have a problem with that. Amber should still be crying at her GED counselor's office and trying to keep her job at that nasty tanning salon (and as a side note, if I were her boss at that tanning salon - well, okay now I have to really stretch it and assume that I would hire such a moron, but I'll go there - anyhow, if I were here boss, I would be freaking out that she is bad publicity because she is bright freaking orange. I mean, I would NEVER go to that place, ever, ever, ever if there was a chance that I would be even slightly as orange as Amber. Or if there was a chance that she was the person operating my tanning room). Anyway, MTV should stop running that show with her and the other moms, too. Reality is, other teen moms, you had the baby and now you have the problem, but I'm not into seeing them get all these trips everywhere and new apartments and not have to work while I have to report to my job everyday and I didn't get knocked up at 16. I call bullshit.

I also have an issue with MTV and Jersey Shore. For the similar reasons as listed above, I don't think MTV should be paying these freaks all this money. But beyond that, I think they shouldn't show the faces of the girls labeled "Grenades." What I mean is this. The boys take these girls back to their house, with the assumption that they're going to get laid. They then make the next ten minutes of the show essentially a comedy of how they start realizing that the girls they thought were hot at the bar are actually really ugly, and how are they going to deal with that? Or they have one hot girl and one "grenade" and they have to figure out how one of the boys can bang the hot chick while not setting off the grenade and blowing up the whole spot. The key thing here is that MTV arranges the segment so the viewer is watching the story unfold while it is being narrated in separate interviews with the guys, that happen at a later point. Essentially, the guys are telling the story of the night - and totally being awful to the "grenade" in the process - while we're watching their story play out. So you get the idea. Now let me get serious for a second. I understand that the girls who agree to go back to the house have to sign a consent to be filmed, so I get that we're not starting with Einsteins or girls with high integrity as it is. I mean, you sign a consent to be filmed while a guy makes his moves on you, well, sometimes I think I should find better defendants. But regardless, I have a real issue with MTV then showing these guys absolutely rip apart these girls. They say such mean things about them that if I were that girl who had gone home with them, then knew I was going to be on the show and tuned in, I would be horrified. Now look, some people who disagree with me say that a girl who is willing to be filmed in even the known circumstances - you're going home with a guy from a bar at 2 am, you're in a hot tub with him, you're now in his bedroom, all with cameras around - deserves what she gets. And I agree with that, to a point. I agree that listen, you're going to be humiliated watching all that unfold on camera. But when you become the butt of the joke- when you're the girl they're calling ugly and fat and annoying - then you're watching something else entirely... and you didn't sign up for that. Can you imagine how humiliating THAT must be for the girl? Maybe it's become I'm a teacher, but with all this bullying stuff going on and how much I read about kids who are picked on or harassed, how are we promoting this? Like my middle school kids love this show and love the guys on it. I hate to sound like a real adult here, but what are they learning? Is anybody else concerned about this? Probably not.

Anyway, these are some of the things that have me wondering what the fuck is going on in the world. Anybody else worried about the 3000 birds that fell out of the sky and the 3000 dead fish that suddenly appeared? I probably have the wrong numbers there but I think someone or something much more powerful than anybody writing a blog might have some similar concerns.

Mind Your Fucking Manners, Morons

So apparently nobody has manners anymore. You might think I'm exaggerating, but I'm totally not. Nobody spends an ounce of energy thinking about how their actions are going to impact anybody but their sweet little selves. I used to say I was going to write a book just ranting about stupid people, but now I think in addition, I will write a manners guide with the title of this blog. Maybe then people will take notice. Because right now, it seems pretty hopeless out there.

In the past week, several incidents have happened where I think, "What the fuck is that person THINKING?" or "How is this person justifying this behavior as okay?!" and I have come up with nothing. This is depressing because it's like being the only sober person in a room full of drunks. Everyone else is having a grand old time and you're sitting there seeing everyone act like complete idiots and nobody cares but you. So you end up leaving because nobody cares that they're being stupid and everyone being stupid continues being stupid and has a great time. The problem with this in real life is that you can't just leave the party. Well you can, but that's very depressing to think about. What I guess I can do is start having equally bad manners.

At first I was going to just start small. For example, I have noticed recently that cashiers at stores don't talk to the customers as they ring their stuff up. Now look, as everyone who knows me knows, I don't really want to find out their life story or anything, but I do think a brief "Hello" or "Cash or debit?" or maybe even eye contact is appropriate. I sometimes have my debit card out and the guy chin-gestures towards the swipey machine and that's the most interaction I get. So usually when this happens, I try to be the more well mannered person (not hard in this case) and I say hello and smile at them. Sometimes I try to be facetious about it and make them talk to me. But mostly, I was genuine in my interaction. Pardon me for expecting to interact with the human one foot away from me. Well, no more. Now I'm not going to say a goddamn thing to any cashier. I will not speak until spoken to. You want to talk to me? Make the fucking effort. We'll see if I feel like talking in return. Maybe I'll just sign or shrug at my debit card to indicate that I'd prefer that to paying cash. Maybe I'll grunt once for paper, twice for plastic. The sky's the limit with this one.

At the movies, if I get a phone call, I'm answering it. No more silencing my phone when everyone else just puts theirs on vibrate or leaves it on all the way. And if I'm bored by the movie, I will text and play on my phone so the whole screen lights up without worrying that the people in the seats around me are all ticked off. I paid a million dollars like everyone else to see this crappy film so I will do as I please.

I'm no longer asking anybody if this is where the line starts, or if they were here first, or if they're all set. Lines are for losers. So I will go up and put myself in whatever place I want. (By the way, line cutters are the WORST. You call them out and they just do not give a shit what you're saying. And really, how much power do you have? You're trying to tell them off while not moving a foot to lose your spot in the loser line. They're getting rung up and leaving while you're literally stuck in place. Not worth it.)

I will no longer go out of my way to bake people cookies and cupcakes and banana bread. Fuck them. I bake these delicious goods, they eat it, and do you think the majority of people bother to say thank you? Absolutely not. You know what they do? They leave the empty crumb container for me to clean up or the cupcake wrappers all over my desk. "Did you make those?" "Yeah." "Can I have one?" "Sure." Takes five, walks away. You're welcome, you fat load. How about when you leave a freshly baked banana bread off for someone, they say thanks as though they were expecting it slash entitled to one, and then you never hear a "Hey, just had some for breakfast, thanks"? Is that really a lot to ask? Apparently it is, because that has never once happened. So from here on out, I'm only baking for people who actually seem to appreciate the fact that it takes more effort than five minutes of my time to make them such a delicious masterpiece. Seriously, I bet Betty Crocker didn't put up with this shit, so neither am I.

I'm not going to be a considerate pedestrian anymore. I used to move around people or let them go by me. If I saw a pack of people coming in the opposite direction, I would stop and wait for them to pass. That is just ridiculous. I am going to walk and be completely oblivious to anybody else on the sidewalk. I don't care if you have a walker or a stroller or ten of your best friends with you. I'm not stopping or moving. I might even barge right into you and not apologize.

I'm going to start giving people the same shitty advice and give them my opinion on things that have nothing to do with me and I have no idea about. When people ask me about whether I'm dating any good guys, I want to slap them. Guess what? If I have a new boyfriend to introduce to you, I fucking will. When you're finally pregnant, you'll show up and announce it. How would you like it if every time I saw you I asked you if you were pregnant yet? And then I gave you my opinion on what you're doing wrong or why you haven't had kids yet or tell you that you're a wonderful person and it'll happen for you and guess what, having kids isn't that great unless you really want them in the first place and you're ready for them. Or my personal favorite: you can only have kids when you're at 100% yourself! I would like to ask these fuckfaces when they tell me this about myself and why I'm single, "Oh really? So you're at 100% right now? And what puts you at that number? And no including anything that you do with your husband or wife." That should shut them right up. That or a good slap. Whichever works first.

Here's what it comes down to. I used to be a nice person who cared about other people. If I'm really facing facts, I'm still a kind of nice person who kind of cares about other people. I would find fun toys and desk things and books, all those little things, and buy them for people I knew would get a kick out of them. I would think, "I bet so-and-so would think this is cool" and then I'd spend the $2.00 and voila someone would have a present for them on a random day, just because I liked them and thought of them. That's pretty fucking nice. I would also remember people's birthdays or their favorite drink on a hot day or send a nice thank you email to someone about their employees who are so great. I would bring cupcakes for people who went out of their way to help me. I would send a text to see how someone's tough day went or a text to just let someone know that you know what, I know that your day sucked, but I was still your fan. Well, guess what I found out recently? Nobody. Gives. A. Shit.

Yup, nobody cares that I did that. Last year, I flipped out because I remembered everyone's birthday at work and brought in cupcakes and everyone's favorite treats - even going so far as to get sugar free candies in addition to cupcakes for one of our newly diabetic guys - and then when my birthday rolled around, nobody fucking cared. Do you think I got so much as a Hostess 7-11 cupcake? Nope. That was my first big metaphorical slap across the face.

(By the way, I need to stop here and explain that I'm watching this Oprah rerun, don't ask, and it's got this single woman on who lost like 300 pounds. When she was at her heaviest, she ate an entire three-tier wedding cake by herself. Now look, I love cake. I mean, I looooove cake. If she ate an entire cake, I wouldn't have really stopped and cared. But a wedding cake? Really? You're going to do that to yourself? Then she says that when she finally got her shit together, she started working out in a cemetery at night because she was so embarrassed by herself. Yikes. I mean, yiiiiikes.)

Okay, back to me and my birthday. So I made this huge stink that I hadn't gotten anything on my birthday when I cared about everyone else. I mean, I went all out. I didn't just say something quietly, like, "Hey guys, it was my birthday yesterday" or make little snarky comments about cakes and presents and guilt-trip them into realizing their mistake. I called them out on it. At one of our mini informal meetings, I told them how upset and angry I was. I didn't pull any punches, either. In the middle of a bunch of adults, I pretty much threw a tantrum about how rude they were. It was ironic, at the time, because here I was telling everyone how rude they were in a pretty infantile and rude way. I mean, if you know me, you know that when I decide I'm throwing a tantrum, well, I'm throwing a fucking tantrum. There was no tact. I don't remember everything, because I was pretty blinded with anger, but I do know I said things like, "You guys really are despicable" and "You don't care about anybody but yourselves" and "I hope nobody gets you a birthday cake on your birthday for the rest of your lives." Oh yeah. I went there.

Anyway, this year, people took the fucking hint and were wishing me a happy birthday all over the place. I got a cake with 28 lit candles on it and a freaking crown. See, these people learned. It wasn't that they cared so much that it was my birthday or that they loved me so much, it was that I had lost all subtlety and just told them how angry I was. I was just as impolite as they were when I called their moronic asses out. This is why I should write my book, because this was the only way I was effective. I guarantee that if I had said things like, "Well, I just really think that it would have been nice if people had remembered my birthday the same way that we've remembered everyone else's" that this year would have come and gone and I wouldn't have seen a crumb of cake on the big day. So I figured it out. Treat everyone like the moronic ill mannered morons they are, and we're all winners.

So the bottom line is this. I'm not going to be well mannered anymore because being good mannered while everyone else pretty much gives you the double finger salute is for chumps, and I'm no chump.

Also, I am going to contact a publishing company about my book proposal. And by "contact" I mean I'm going to tell them to fucking my publish my fucking manners book right fucking now because it is a gold mine and will make me and them filthy rich while ridding the world of ill-mannered morons.

You're motherfucking welcome.

Enough is Enough

First of all, I've written this post twice because the first time when I went to submit it, it said bad request or some bullshit like that. And I couldn't just go back one page and find the opus, so now I'm stuck writing it all over again. Yet another reason for me to be in charge of the world.

That's what this was all about in the first place. See, I'm starting to realize that for whatever fucked up reason, I'm not going to be in charge of the world anytime soon, even though it makes a lot more sense than what's been going on around here lately. A few examples of what I'm talking about are below. You can call them my case for being put in charge of this place.

My first case is about customer service. If I were in charge of the world, if you had a bad customer service experience somewhere, you could go to this court or just write it up or call someone, tell them the story, and the store would be investigated to see whether it was bullshit or not. You may think that we have something like this, called the Better Business Bureau. Well, I would tell you you'd be wrong. The BBB will take care of you if someone basically steals from you, but they won't do anything if you just think that having two separate lines for sales and service is total crap for how to help customers the best or if you have to deal with Mariah from Best Buy who is a total freaking moron. Nobody at the BBB cares. It makes me think that in my world, you could call up my system and complain about the BBB and maybe for once those people would be investigated. So there.

Anyway, I have tons of examples of customer service stupidity but the biggest offender right now (besides the perennial contender Comcast Motherfuckers) is Verizon. Verizon has the most bunk customer service plan I've ever heard of. Basically, you have to choose if you have a service or sales issue. You have to sign in on a computer at the front of the store and then you're put in a "queue" which is a freaking joke. I don't know why anybody thinks this, but people legitimately believe that if you're told you're in a queue it is far more polite and pleasing to the customer's ear than line. I say absolutely not and I get even angrier that someone thinks I'm stupid enough to fall for such crap. Anyhow, when I went in recently, I had a very quick issue that needed to be taken care of. I'd just gotten a Blackberry and I was having trouble figuring out how to work a simple application or key or something. Basically I needed someone there to tell me I was a moron and show me how to use it. I'd had a flip phone for years, and I wasn't used to dealing with all these applicationy things. It was literally going to take two seconds to set me straight.

So I go in. Granted, it was 7 pm on a Thursday in the middle of our humidity heat wave and I was hungry. So I give Verizon that they were at a disadvantage. But that didn't even matter. Kevin the Greeter started things off. As soon as I walked in, he made me sign in on the computer for a service or sales issue. Let me tell you, Kevin the Greeter takes his job seriously. See, this wasn't my first time at the rodeo so I knew Verizon's line game. There were already three people waiting in the service queue, the one I needed, and there was nobody in the sales queue. This is how it always works at Verizon. There's always a line for one and not a line for the other issue and so you have a bank of people just sitting there while a bunch of us stand around and wait and have nothing to distract us besides which plastic phone cover we like best. It is awful. I'm not sure which higher-up thought of this system, because I can't see how anybody would think that this would serve customers most effectively. Essentially it means that I could be waiting in their store for a half hour and still have two people ahead of me, and some jomoko can come in from off the street and walk right up to the sales counter and get help. How does this make sense? It doesn't which is why it shouldn't exist.

But anyway, Kevin the Greeter made me sign in so I did. Then I noticed that Kevin was texting on his blackberry since nobody else was coming in the store, and there were two people still in line for customer service issues - plus me - and nobody in line for sales issues, so the were three more Verizon staffers texting on their phones. That means that there were a total of 7 people doing absolutely nothing productive and four of those people should have been. Like, if I have a business and this scenario unfolded, I would want one of my go-getters to get up from the sales desk and transfer their service skills for fifteen minutes to get the line down. Duh! Someone tried to tell me that some Verizon employees are trained just on sales or just on service but if you believe that you are reallly fucking stupid because I saw the same guy who sold me my phone working at the service desk that night, and I've seen the opposite scenario as well. We're not talking whether you're trained to do cardiopulmonary surgery versus brain surgery here. We're talking whether you can reset a phone battery or sell me a new plan. Really now.

I could go into how I wasted the next 45 minutes of my life, but it's not even worth it. Suffice it to say that when I asked Kevin the Greeter my question, since I saw he had the exact same phone as me, he told me that QUOTE "I'm greeting today, so I'm in that mindset" and outright refused to answer my question. That led me to a whole list of questions, like, what kind of mindset do you have to be in to be a greeter at the Verizon store? Do you put your mindset on hold when you go order lunch? How do you maintain this greeter mindset while texting? I feel like these are very legitimate questions, which is why I should be able to ask them, which is why I should have some system in the world I can go to who will take care of these issues, which is why I should run the world. Case #1 done.

Case #2 is about the United States Justice System. I have a real beef with them. Mainly about their treatment of Lindsay Lohan. So Lindsay pretty much violated every court order she got and instead of cleaning up her act, she would just go out and get more and more wasted all over the place. I can't even remember the last movie she was in. Clearly, she is a complete trainwreck. Now look, if you know me, you know I don't believe in this whole rehab bullshit. I think rehab is a pretty good scam right now because you can pretty much do anything and then say you're going to rehab, go stay in a luxury resort, and you're cured. Then you have to do another stint ten months later. I think rehabs should have to give their money back to people if that happens because clearly, their services failed. But that's a whole other issue. I'll stick with Lindsay. For Lindsay, I actually think rehab is a good idea because she is just a mess and she definitely needs professional help right now to salvage her life, let alone her career. So I'm a proponent for Lindsay to go to rehab. I'll state that upfront.

What I am totally against is how ridiculous everyone is getting over her going to jail. In the two weeks between her sentencing and when she was supposed to report to jail, every time I checked one of my gossip websites there was some story on there about how she was freaking out over having to go to jail. They wrote this like it was major news. Umm, people? Isn't going to jail like the last resort? I mean, if you're not scared by going to jail, there's not much we can do for you. In fact, seeing that she was scared to go to jail was the first time I thought, "Hmm. Seems like she has some clue about life finally." So I was already annoyed that people were freaking out that she was freaking out and they were asking for sympathy for Lindsay. See, I don't have any sympathy for Lindsay. Well, that's not quite true. Clearly, I think she's in a lot of trouble and she just can't help herself or fix her life, so I do feel sort of bad for her for that. I also feel bad for her that she used to be this little kid on the Parent Trap and now she's probably the least bankable actress in Los Angeles. I mean, you might have people more willing to bet on Mel Gibson than Lindsay. That's saying a lot right now. So, I do feel kind of bad for her for how her life has turned out. But I absolutely refuse to feel bad for her having to go to jail! Sorry Lindsay! You got so many stupid chances and rehab visits and you made a freaking joke out of all of them. Spend some time in jail. In fact, I was disappointed that it was only a week she'd be there. (By the way, how annoyed do you think Martha Stewart is about all of these reduced jail sentences? If she had been charged in California, she'd have spent a week in her jail cell and then been home like Paris Hilton. Instead she had to come up with all these lemon recipes in the slammer for like a year. Unreal.) Anyway, I didn't feel bad for her jail sentence.

So imagine my disgust when I read that now her lawyers are saying that Lindsay is freaking out over having to go directly from jail to rehab. She wants to go home to her family first. Umm, sorry, no. You don't get that option. It is unfathomable to me the audacity of the lawyers to even ask this. Last I checked, a sentence is a sentence. The judge made the decision, you're done. Plus, no offense, but the Lohan clan isn't exactly the picture of stability and comfort for Lindsay when she gets out of jail. It's not like Dina can even go to Carvel to get her an ice cream cake to celebrate. (PS is there a bigger insult than Carvel revoking your celebrity gold card status? Yikes.) So here's the thing. In my mind, Lindsay is already getting a huge break by spending only one week of her jail sentence actually in jail. She needs to realize that. So if I were the judge, I'd tell Lindsay that she has a choice. She can either serve her full jail sentence, then take two days with her family, and then go to that rehab assignment for 90 days; or, she can serve the one week sentence and then go directly to rehab. Actually, if I were HER judge, I would probably just serve her right and bring her into court on the day of her release and tell her that her request was denied. And I would do this while having "Fuck Off" henna-tattooed on my hands. I'd also tell her that I was taking her request seriously. But that's if I were her judge. If I were just in charge of the world, I would give her the options.

Here's my point with Lindsay: I am tired of celebrities getting all these special privileges. I mean, these people play pretend for their living. They're playing the same games we all played when we were four years old in our backyards, only they have better costumes and props. Didn't everyone play cops and robbers? I mean, isn't that all half our movies are anyways? I'm just saying. Just because Lindsay had a few successful movie roles doesn't mean that she should be given special privileges. In fact, it's probably her special privileges that got her all messed up in the first place. You can't give people things all the time. It messes them up. Except if they're me. Then you can give me whatever.

Anyway, there's probably a bunch more that I have to complain about. And a bunch more great ideas I have. But recently I feel like every time I have an idea, someone else takes it. It's very depressing and reminds me that if I were in charge of the world, this shit wouldn't be happening because I would just think an idea and deem it so and there you'd have it. The world would be better.

A Bad Egg

Today I went to Target. At the Target near me, you can pretty much get anything you need. They have a huge, expanded grocery section and I happened to need to get some eggs, so I got a carton. Then I went to the checkout.

One thing I used to give Target credit for was their checkout system. Rarely have I had to wait in winding lines, or have I arrived at the checkout to see only two cashiers open with rows of closed registers while employees wander the store. So even though it was a little busy on a Friday afternoon, the lines weren't catastrophic. I got in one line and started to unpack my things when I noticed the cashier and for some reason, he gave me the creeps. So I moved cashiers to a nearby register. I remember thinking, hmm, I wonder if this is terrible of me to judge this guy and just move. Then I thought, well, this is Target, get over yourself, don't be a weirdo.

I shoulda been a weirdo.

Daysha wasn't the best, right off the bat. She sort of grunted at me when I put my stuff down on her conveyor belt, but I'm used to the lack of verbal interaction from customer service employees. Recently I was talking to my friend who told me she tries to count the number of words exchanged between her and a cashier. She says she has gone through a transaction with the count never leaving zero, and I believe her. Too bad for me, this exchange would go well above that mark.

So to cut to the chase, after everything's been rung through, I go to pick up the packages and as I do, I ask her which one has the eggs. I've probably got a skeptical look on my face because I can't seem to find the one bag with just eggs wrapped around it, like most grocery store places do.

"Why?" she asked.

I was momentarily silenced because I guess her question made sense, but I didn't really understand why she needed to know why. Maybe I wanted to eat one on my way home, for all she cared. "I just want to be careful with it, I guess," I said. I think I gave one of those little laughs to be friendly. No dice.

"That one." She jabbed a finger at the heaviest bag.

"This one?" I raised the bag.

"That one," she nodded. She turned to start the next customer as I looked at what Daysha had thrown on top of a carton of eggs: a cake mix, frosting, some pencils and erasers, a magazine, a toothbrush, a DVD, mascara, a container of Clorox wipes, and my personal favorite, a jar of tomato sauce. On the bottom? A carton of eggs.

Excuse me, a crushed carton of eggs.

"Umm, excuse me," I said. "But all of these things on top of the eggs crushed them, so I need to get a new carton."

"Huh?"

I sort of waved the bag at her. "See, all this stuff on top of the carton crushed it, so now I need to replace it with a new carton." I looked into the bag. "And actually, some of my things have egg all over them, so I'm going to need to replace those too."

"Huh?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Whatchu say?"

It took a lot to repeat myself, but I did it. Pretty much word for word.

"How come you need new eggs?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Why you keep saying that?"

"Because I don't understand your question."

"I said, why you need new eggs?"

"Oh, no. I heard you. I just don't understand why you're asking - you know what, nevermind. I need new eggs because these are cracked now and ruined because you put the packages on top of them in the bag."

"I did not."

"Did someone else bag my stuff? I honestly didn't see anyone else." I said this politely, like I was actually sort of asking her legitimately if I might have missed Daysha's friend come over and stuff everything on top of the eggs.

"No, I bagged it, but I didn't put everything on top like that."

"Umm..."

"Yeah, I didn't do that."

"So you bagged my groceries, but you didn't put them in the bags the way they're in there?"

"Zactly."

"Is there someone I can speak to?"

She got on her cashier phone and paged Heather. Then she shut off her light on her cashier line.

"I don't mind waiting to the side for Heather," I told Daysha. I looked apologetically at the person behind me.

"Oh no," Daysha said. "we gonna just wait. I'm on probation as it is here so I bet if she thinks I did this then I'm gonna get canned, so might as well just shut it down."

Hmm. Good work ethic, Daysha. Way to be working hard and doing your best when your supervisor comes to check out what's happening. Excellent plan.

But here's where I felt bad and I made a nearly fatal mistake. "I don't mean to cause any problems for you," I said. "I'm not even saying that you put them just like this in the bags. I'm just saying that the way they were bagged caused the eggs to break and now I need to replace some things."

I shouldn't have said anything. I shouldn't have said the thing about me not saying that she was the problem. Because let's face it. I know Daysha was the problem. You know Daysha was the problem. Daysha knew Daysha was the problem. Heather probably even know Daysha was the problem the moment she answered that red phone. So I should have just kept my stupid big mouth shut. But no. I wanted to make HER feel better. Stupid stupid stupid.

Heather arrived.

"What's the problem?" Heather said. She actually breathed this more than said it. One of those really heavy breather talkers. It pained me to listen to her. But I knew from my previous customer service debacles that Heather was going to have to be my friend, so I had to accept her breathing and just go with it.

"Her." Daysha pointed at me. So much for my olive branch. Big snap there.

"ME?"

Heather sighed. At least I think she sighed. She might have said something there too but I can't be sure. "Daysha, please don't speak to the customer like that." She turned to me. "What's the problem?"

"I just need to replace these eggs because the way they were packaged in the bag caused them to crack. And also, I need to replace the mascara, magazine, and tomato sauce. Everything else luckily looks okay."

"You need to check the egg carton before you purchase it," Heather said to me. Very matter-of-fact.

Again, and maybe because it was Friday afternoon and I was tired, but I engaged with this and told her, "Oh no, I did check it before I purchased them. It was after I purchased them and picked up my bag that I realized that how it was packed caused the weight to break them."

"And Daysha packed the bags?"

Before I could even say anything, Daysha piped up. "Oh, she said she wasn't saying it was my fault. I got witnesses."

She had witnesses? Where were they?

"Hmm," Heather sighed. "Well, I don't know. I just don't know."

"I'm sorry?"

"No, don't apologize, ma'am," Heather said to me.

"Oh, I'm not apologizing. I'm asking a question. Why don't you know?"

"Well, I have to see if they were bagged like this or if you may have caused this when you picked up your packages."

"Are you serious?"

"We just have to be sure, because if we find that Daysha did this, then we'll have to put this as part of her record. Otherwise, it will be difficult to attribute the cost of replacing the items."

"Can't that happen after you solve the customer problem here?"

"Well, it would be helpful to get a statement from you," Heather said.

"And mine," Daysha said. "And I got Tara here to give a statement too." She pointed at a girl who I hadn't seen before. Like she had literally just materialized. "She saw everything."

As I watched this unfold, I realized that I had to cut the bullshit and stop acting nice and polite and rational in a situation where nobody else was doing any of it.

"Look, I gave you a statement. I told you what happened. Now I just need everything replaced. Like now. Not after I say it again, not after they give a statement. Figure that out later. I need my things."

"I have to make sure that it was the store at fault," Heather repeated. I really wonder about the Target management program. They say you have to go through a whole training. I would settle for an IQ test. Actually, scratch that. I'd settle for a pulse test.

"Well, it was. It was the fault of the store. I can tell you that much."

"So it was Daysha's fault then?"

Maybe this Heather chick, if she got her breathing under control, could be a litigator. She really had this cross examination stuff down.

"I guess so. Whoever bagged my groceries - not me, one of your employees - put everything on top of eggs."

"And Daysha was your cashier."

"Yes."

"Cashiers bag their own merchandise."

"Okay..."

"So then Daysha bagged your groceries, and she put them on top of the eggs, causing the problem." There's some Latin phrase that basically means: yes, then it is so. My father knows it because he knows shit like this. But basically yes, ipsum locutum something-um.

I didn't bother saying that to her because even with her bunk legal proceedings, I didn't think she'd get it. I did consider saying to her, "Yes, it was Ms. Daysha, in the cashier line, with the tomato sauce" a la Clue, but I decided against it.

Daysha shrugged. "Maybe I did," she said.

"Daysha," Heather sighed. "Apologize to the customer."

What was this, mediation?

"That's really not necessary. It was a mistake. Can I just get this exchanged now?"

"Yes, ma'am, we'll take care of it."

"Thank you," I said. I was getting what I wanted, what I rightfully deserved, even though it was fifteen minutes past when it should have happened and I was pretty sure my blood pressure was now rivaling stupid Heather's. Daysha seemed pretty calm about this.

Until, that is, Heather started to walk away to make a receipt change or something. "What a motherfuckin bitch," she said.

"What?" Heather turned around.

"I said, 'What a motherfuckin bitch,' " Daysha repeated calmly. I was looking down at my wallet, trying to become invisible. So awkward. Please don't make this woman actually TRY to breathe heavily to make a point. I'm afraid she'll blow the place down.

"Me?" Heather asked.

"Yeah, you," Daysha said.

"In my office," Heather said.

"You mean the booth by the popcorn machine?"

Pause. "Just get over there."

Daysha put down her things and started to walk over to Heather's office/the booth by the popcorn machine.

Heather turned to me. "Rob will take care of you," she said, pointing toward the next available cashier. Turns out, it was the original guy I had rejected because he'd creeped me out. And wouldn't you know it, he packed the eggs all by themselves.

The Mob

Today I was finishing up teaching one of my classes when an assistant principal came in and asked me if I had work I could send home for one of my students. "Where is he?" I asked her. I expected her to tell me he'd gotten the flu or something, because sometimes kids whose parents are with it call in and report their kid is going to be out for a few days and ask us to send work so they can stay caught up. This boy is like that. He lives with his grandparents, whom I met at Open House. Actually, I met his grandmother, grandfather, little sister, little brother, and his father. His grandmother talked to me for fifteen full minutes about what she wanted for her grandson. I could tell in those fifteen minutes that this woman was serious and that this sixth grader had a stable situation at home, even if it wasn't with his dad or mom. Something wasn't quite right there, but I could tell that his grandmother was ruling that roost pretty well.

Another clue about this boy's life was his lunch pack. Not many other kids bring their lunch to school. Many qualify for the free or reduced lunch. Many have a buck or two to spend on the vending machine garbage and eat potato chips or Cheetos for lunch, and they throw away the "nutritious" cafeteria one that's provided. This boy had a velcro lunch pack that he brought with him every single day. I never knew what he brought with him, but in my years at the school, it was the first little lunch pack I saw. Someone, his grandmother I had learned, made sure he had a lunch with him every day.

I liked this kid. Anyone who teaches who tells you they don't have favorites is either a liar or a robot. It's just like anything in life - sometimes you click, sometimes you don't. Some kids you find endearing, others are annoying. This kid came in and I noticed right away that something was endearing about him. When I called out attendance, instead of saying the usual "Yeah" or "Huh" or "Here," he said, in a very clear voice, "Present." It was a slight difference, but it stood out to me.

He did his homework every night. He made sure that he was trying his best to do his work. When I read outloud, he was one of the kids that showed he was actively engaged - he would smile or laugh or get big eyes at exciting parts. In short, he was a pleasure to have in class. In fact, when I would tell people about the kids this year and say how they were a tough bunch, I would always come back to this one as one of the saving graces. He wasn't a teacher's pet - we have those - or a perfect student - we may have one or two of those a year - but he was just an all-around nice kid who wanted to be there and wanted to succeed.

Anyhow, so I thought that I'd hear that he was sick with the flu and his grandmother was sending for work. I was wrong.

"He's in the hospital," she told me. When I asked why, she shrugged. "He got jumped at the bus stop yesterday."

"And he's in the HOSPITAL? Is he okay?!"

"I don't really know. Can you get me some work to send for him?" She turned and left to go ask another teacher to send work and to tell them that one of their sixth graders was in the hospital because he'd gotten jumped at the bus stop. In that order.

I had been talking to his grandmother off and on for the past month, so I looked up her phone number. I had my twenty minute lunch in a few minutes, and I would call her to see what the story is. On my way to lunch though, I found out that his grandmother and grandfather had come up to the school and were in the conference room. I made my way there.

I was upset by the news initially, but I wasn't prepared for the conference room. His grandmother was in tears the whole time as she told us about how he'd been jumped by seven or eight other kids. She always walked him to and from the bus stop, every single day, but he had wanted to start going by himself. He was in middle school now. He was becoming a big kid. So she let him walk home alone on Monday. She kept saying over and over again that she would never forgive herself for that, after seeing him come home with his eyes swollen shut, his shirt covered in street dirt, blood all over the place. She would never forgive herself for having to take him to the emergency room and file a police report and have her younger grandchildren scared shitless by the sight of their big brother so badly beaten. As she talked, his grandfather's eyes were all watery too. He just kept shaking his head. "He's a nice boy," he kept saying, like he couldn't understand.

He's out of the hospital, but he's not talking too much. He won't talk to anyone about anything. He talked a little to the police, but that was it. His grandmother worries about getting counseling right away for him. I'm telling you, I knew that woman was on top of her stuff. So we talked about getting that set up, and then we talked about whether he should get a safety transfer. Basically this is what happens when you think your kid is unsafe at school: you get him transferred. We talked about the merits of this.

And here's where I have a major problem with what I am doing with my life: why are we transferring the victim? Why are we sending him away from our community rather than make our community safe for him by sending away the animals who did this to him?

We found out a few of the kids who did this to this boy. A few of them, I taught last year and the year back. One of them is a current sixth grader. When we rounded them up, they started to talk about choices and being leaders. It was outrageous to me. Here we are, talking to them with respect like they're actual little adults. All the administrators and teachers went around in a circle sharing what they had to say with them, saying that they were old enough to know better and that they were setting examples for the younger children on the bus. When they got to me, I didn't have it in me to give a constructive talk. I didn't have it in me to see the good in them. Maybe I just liked this kid too much. Or maybe I was too upset by seeing the grandmother, distraught over what had happened to her grandson. But whatever it was, it made me sick to have to sit in front of these kids - and I hate even using that word - and have to speak to them.

So I told them that. "It makes me sick to be here," I told them. "It makes me sick to have to think about a scenario where six kids gang up on one kid and beat him senseless. It makes me sick to look at you right now."

I've never said that to a kid before. I've said I've been surprised, shocked, angry, embarrassed, and disappointed by behavior. I've told kids that they were good kids who were making very bad choices. I've told them that they should be ashamed of their behavior. But all of those comments leave a slight sign of redemption for them, like they should know better than to do this because they are better than what they just did. That's pretty much what I base my entire professional life on: that there's some redeeming quality in every kid, and I just have to be patient and determined enough to find it. Find and love the good in everyone. That's what I try to do. I really do.

And yet, as I sat at that table, the very same one where I'd sat across from the kid's grandparents who were bleary-eyed from a sleepless night of crying and fear and guilt, I couldn't find anything redeeming in any of them.

"What can you do to fix this?" one of the administrators asked.

"Apologize," one of them answered.

I don't remember the next few minutes of the meeting, because I was going insane in my head. Apologize?!?! APOLOGIZE?! For what? What, exactly, are they planning on apologizing for? For beating up a kid who just wanted to get off the bus and go home? For ganging up on him - six versus one - so he wouldn't even stand a chance? For not just punching him a few times but beating him so badly that he needed to go to the hospital to make sure he wasn't going to die from bleeding in his brain? Because needed seven stitches in the side of his face? Because he has to stay home for a week until he gets physically strong enough to come back to school? Because it's going to be a whole lot longer before he isn't afraid every stupid second of his day? Because he might not want to take a school bus for the rest of the fucking year? Because every time he walks by that spot on the street, he's going to think of this? Because he's going to have a scar on his face that will be a permanent reminder of him being beaten?

And who, exactly, are they going to apologize to? Just to him? Or are they also going to apologize to his little brother and sister who had to see their big brother stagger home with his eyes swollen shut? Or his grandmother who broke down when she came to the door and saw him? Or his grandfather, who wants to know why such a nice kid would have this happen to him? Or to his parents who had to go to the emergency room to get medical tests done on their son so they could be sure that the beating he took on his skull didn't cause internal bleeding in his brain that could be fatal?

Or are they going to apologize to us, the adults sitting there around the table with them, who are supposed to be invested in making sure they become productive members of society? Are they going to apologize to us for wasting our time?

The thing is, I can't say all of this to them because they're kids and I'm the adult. They have to go through procedures. You can't just expel six kids, even if that's what I want to do. They do have redeeming qualities, even if I can't find them right now. At least that's what they told me, when we debriefed the conversation and I was still visibly upset.

A few hours later, after school, one of the kids saw me again and I couldn't look at him. "You gonna hold it against me forever?" he asked me.

He wasn't being nonchalant or anything, but he also didn't get it. How could I get over something in a matter of hours that is going to take this little kid possibly forever to get past? I was tired though, and I couldn't really explain it to him. What was the point anyhow?

I shrugged.

"You seemed real mad," he said. "Madder than I ever seen you. All of us was saying how you kept glaring and your eyebrow didn't even move, but you seemed madder than ever."

I looked up at him. He's thirteen. "I keep picturing him. I keep picturing him, knowing what a nice kid he is, and I keep seeing him be real afraid of you guys, because you're bigger and older and there are a lot of you. And I keep seeing him being so afraid and then I get this awful feeling in my stomach, like this dread when I think about how afraid and hurt he must have been when you kept beating him. I just keep thinking that."

Maybe it was mean to tell him that, but it's what I did. Because that was the truth. Even now, I keep thinking about it and I get really upset.

"We're gonna apologize," he told me. He shrugged, like that was all he could do. And it probably is, at this point. I don't think anybody's going to learn any huge lesson. These kids will probably beat up another kid soon. This kid will probably transfer because it's going to be safer, or so they hope.

It just breaks my heart. I hope - I really really really hope - that somehow, he's okay in the end. But I just don't know how he could be.