weird, confusing, and ridiculous icon refusals.

My little brother was right all along. I AM the weirdest dork on earth:

While walking small children back to class this afternoon, the Universe sent me an epiphany: I am (truly and without boundaries) totally weird. In fact, I suddenly knew without a doubt what has troubled me at the back of my mind for many, many years: that frequently I behave like one of those people often seen wandering the streets of a very large city having loud, angry conversations with no one in particular.

I present the following for your consideration, sirs and madams:

1-Whenever someone says to me: "Hey, I like your (green sweater, fluffy scarf, cute shoes, insert other item of clothing here)," my response is always along the lines of: "Thanks! Dress Barn, half off!" or "Target, on sale for $10!" or "Candies shoes, got 'em on sale at Kohl's!" or "insert other store and their current marketing gimmick here. "

Why do I feel the need to socially advertise for these stores? Why am I acting as their marketing coordinator when they aren't even paying me a six-figure salary? And why do I do it in such a nerd-like manner? I respond in the same way a person who has just met their favorite celebrity crush might speak: Oh my god! Clive Owen just spoke to me! Clive spoke to me.

Or maybe I just have a subconscious desire to be the face of some extremely large retail outfit. Just like Gwyneth Paltrow is the new face of Estee Lauder, I aspire to be the new face of Kohl's Super Fabulous Mark Down 75% Off Everything Must Go!! Women's Casual Wear department.

2-Today, I wondered exactly how many times a day I say to children: "Sit flat on your bottoms!" Because is there another way to sit on one's bottom? On a surface that is, by its very nature, flat? But maybe I say "sit flat" because I'm fairly sure "A" in my second class could figure out a way to not sit flat on a flat surface, yet somehow remain on her bottom. It would be just like A to mess with me like that.

O, Confusion! Thou doest beset our apple carts a-spinning:

Wednesday afternoon, I send an email to the right people about the wrong schedule for the right child in the wrong class. Everyone becomes confused. Except for me, who is suddenly enlightened due to everyone else's confusion. So now I must make amends with these confused people, who are not only confused but also confounded. And one individual who is highly infuriated by my mistake and looking for answers where there are no answers to be had. And blood. She'd really like to see some of my blood shed as well. Because I've upset her apple carts. Her apple carts were just fine and dandy while I was on maternity leave. Why'd you gots to come back and upset all these apple carts, Amy??

So on Thursday morning, I attempt to de-confuse the situation. Which involves sending another email that apparently infuriates Person X further, because her apples have spewn everywhere and she's so distraught about it she no longer possesses the ability to pick up them apples let alone breathe calmly. I let her know: Sorry! Sorry I upset all your apple carts! I have the right information and the right people now! It was all my fault, I'm deeply, terribly sorry to have confounded you--just disregard; continue as you were. And further, I promise to leave her and her fricking apples alone for the rest of the year. And also to bring my brain to school with me until May (knowing all the time I'll leave it on top of the refrigerator, which is where I leave it every morning I have to wake up before 7.00 AM).

Then this morning, I hear that Person X has been asking snoopy questions about what it is, exactly, ESOL teachers DO all day: do they work? or do they just laze about, eating bon bons? Which is just so dumb. Everybody knows ESOL teachers do NOT laze about eating bon bons all day; we laze about eating Hershey's chocolate kisses. Get it right.

And so I turn around and bitch to someone that Person X is kind of being a dumbass for getting all upset about her spilled apples. Nobody was interested in her apples to begin with, yo. Plus, she signed up to deal with those kinds of apples anyway and if she's upset about one tiny little email/brain blip from tiny little ME, maybe she shouldn't be dealing with apples at all. Maybe she should switch to a career in oranges or grapefruit.

And I go on and on about this, for like a whole 25 minutes. Of our precious 45 minute planning time, which is the only time elementary school teachers have to: eat lunch, cut/staple stuff for lessons, make copies, answer email, surf the internet (looking for ONLY educationally sound material) (of course), respond to phone calls, and go to the bathroom. Unless we have to have a meeting during planning time. And then we only have time to surf the internet, because the rest of the day we are eating our Hershey's chocolate kisses, and that time is sacred and holy and we do not mess with it.

But then driving home I realize: Gosh, I'm being such a bitch about this whole thing, and I was the apple cart upsetter to begin with. And so I should just shut up, get over it, resolve to bring my brain to work with me from now on, and find a way to never ever have to again communicate with Person X for the rest of my life. And stop using up valuable time by complaining to people who have no idea who, what, where, or why I'm upset. It makes no sense to anyone but me, and so I'm being ridiculous. And there's nothing worse in this world than a ridiculous bitch who's not making any sense.

Because did any of that make sense to you? I didn't think so.

Dear Harriet,

Please come get your crap and get out of my house.

Love,

Amy

On Wednesday evening, I stood at my stove. I wondered: how the heck did I get stuck doing all this cooking?! Man. And all frickin' week, people. Because everybody who's ever tried any of my cooking knows: avoid everything except the toast. Sometimes the spaghetti works out. But generally, just stick with the toast.

So there I was, throwing pork chops into a pan and chopping up asparagus. And also bathing a baby while said pork chops and asparagus cooked. And doing laundry and washing dishes. And getting bottles and lunches ready for the next day, along with picking out outfits and prepping up diaper bags. After picking up a baby from daycare and a husband from work because his car broke down. AND I managed to stick in a 40 minute power walk...WITH a baby, who I educated about trees and leaves for almost the whole 40 minute walk even though she's just like a good handful of my students: didn't understand a word I said--just likes watching my mouth move.

It was then I realized: Sweet Jesus on a freaking popsicle stick. Am I...? I am, aren't I?! Dagnabit! I AM! I am turning into Harriet. You know: Harriet. Of friggin' Ozzy and Harriet. Holy Mary mother effing son of a poop.

So we're going to rectify that situation. Immediately. I refuse to be an icon. I'm fine being a free social sales marketer for Kohl's and Wal-Mart, apparently I've got mad skillz as an apple cart upsetter, and I'm okay with telling wiggly people to do ridiculous things like sit flat on surfaces that are already flat. But I refuse to be an icon. It's unseemly, being iconic. And not a little bit ridiculous.