Trend-setting

Just as celebrities set the trends for fashion and hip-hop artists set the trends for slang, I want to set the trends for icon usage.  Instead of strutting down the red carpet or making the Billboard Top 10, I dream of my text messages on the world's stage. I hope to grace the cover of Wired magazine. 

My pilot, trend-setting icon usage developed from a basic necessity: to text "fuck you" more efficiently. And I am not one to throw out those Bostonian, jovial "fuck yous" superfluously, so if I have the need, I know most of the population has a desperate need for a "fuck you" shortcut.

Recently, I trudged through a near back-breaking week. I saw it coming, which helps so that I can double up on my B12, but it was going to be a lulu to say the least.  Not only do I teach high school, but also I  teach at a junior college. As a result, on Mondays and Wednesdays I work a thirteen-hour day. Recently I had a work week that included writer's group on Tuesday night, and then the most dreaded night of any teacher's life: Back to School Night.

Oh, and I'm forty. For those of you south of thirty-five, who still can glide through those 12-16 hours workdays, beware. While the need to work long, grueling shifts will not end, your ability to work them without feeling hungover for the two days that follow will.

Knowing that this particular week of teaching, writing, and parent schmoozing was going to kick the snot out of me, I sent the following text to my close friends:

"This will be me by Friday." 

Of course, one of my smart-ass friends replied with "That's you now."

In the spirit of friendly texting banter, I wanted to reply with:

Courtesy of iStock Illustration.

But, Apple doesn't provide an emoticon giving the bird.  I would have had to either done the "f-u :)" or "fuck you, lol" but not "fuck you ;)" because then my friend would have thought that I was propositioning her. Besides, the main idea of my original text had been in the picture.  As a professional, I felt the pressure to maintain parallel structure and respond with a picture. But apple doesn't offer an icon with the exact message I meant to send.  I could have texted:

But that doesn't encapsulate my exact message. 

Dammit apple, you give me hypodermic needles, eggs in frying pans,a fish windsock, and an eggplant but no middle finger.  Fine, since I hate waste and I'm fairly certain even the passionate Italian food-lover only has so much need for an eggplant icon, I promote using the eggplant as a substitute for the middle finger.  

So when your friend compares you to a drooling baby, just send: 

When your friend reminds you that you really are a whore, just send: 

When your friend mocks you for getting your ass kicked in Grand Theft Auto 1000, just send: 

And you Bostonians, just text your mother: 

Join me in this emoticon revolution. Work those eggplants! I want to see them spilling out of phones, becoming the most popular dish in any Italian Restaurant, becoming the new black.  Make it happen!

"Reputation is an idle and most false imposition; oft got without merit, and lost without deserving" -- William Shakespeare

Amen, oh god of the quill.

What favorable, even if "unmerited" reputation that I have just took a roundhouse kick to the face. And, believe it or not, it was not a result of anything I did. The possibility that another person out there can inadvertently make me look bad is terrifying--I can barely keep myself out of the hot-seat, let alone stop anyone else from burning my ass.

But the most recent, undeserving blemish to my reputation did make me the center of attention, so I guess there's an upside. What's that saying: there's no such thing as bad publicity?  Oh wait, as a teacher, my reputation is more fragile than that of any politician.  Really, do you think a teacher with surname Weiner who had an extramarital affair could ever set foot on a campus again?

During this past summer, my high school held a leadership.  I was not invited, my school doesn't dare ask me to lead anything except the damned into the apocalypse, but even though  I was not there in body, I was there in libido.

As an icebreaker, my colleagues were asked to share their most embarrassing moment.  One of my colleagues, Evie, who attended the retreat felt a shortage of humiliating anecdotes to contribute (a conundrum of which I cannot relate) and took the liberty of using one of mine. Since I consider Evie a friend, my fuck-ups are her fuck-ups, but her fuck-up of my fuck-up could land me in jail.

"One time I caught Holly having sex with a student," Evie shared with the more upstanding, more influential teachers of my school, which included my principal, my three assistant principals, and both my department heads. 

Not only did Evie throw me under the bus, but also hijacked it and backed it over me.

She tried to back-peddle by explaining that she had misplaced her modifier, but that just turned into some kind of sexual innuendo about me misplacing my modifier, so now my fellow teachers think that in addition to me boffing my students I am also a hermaphrodite. Trust me, if I wanted them to believe either, it would be the latter.

Now, just to clarify, that is not even remotely what she caught me doing. In fact, she didn't catch me doing anything.  A couple years ago, Evie, myself and two other colleagues had to "do our time" teaching in a set of portable classrooms--constructed to last five years but were around eight years old by the time I got into them.  Even though the teaching conditions were several degrees below adequate, they were perfect for misadventure.  While up there, my classroom flooded after every rainfall; the portable across from me was invaded by a swarm of bees; we were greeted daily by rabbits, squirrels, and the occasional coyote; and if any of us teachers found ourselves bored, we could just wander over to the abandoned greenhouse and catch a handful of students smoking weed. But the finale, literally and figuratively, was when the teacher across the way from me, Paul, saw from his classroom window two students having sex on the baseball field.

It was during the 6th period final on the last day of school.  These teens planned on ending the year with a bang.

I am not the one who caught them, I was the one elected to go and interrupt their fornicating because a) I didn't have a class that period and b) I am known for being quite ballsy.

I know, not helping with the hermaphrodite rumor.

"Hey Holly," Paul yells.  I go to my doorway to see him braced in his with sophomores trying to squeeze out of the room.  "Take a look around the corner of my classroom."

I peeked around the corner and a young lady riding a young man.  This was no amateur show; at her age, I would have had no idea how to do what she was doing.

My solution was to just turn the sophomores loose on them, but Paul was afraid of legal ramifications. As if there wouldn't be any for that 38 year-old teacher who strolled up on the soft-core porn and said, "Excuse me, do you think that behavior is appropriate?"

I may be a bit of a bulldog, but I am not stupid.  I was not going anywhere near that situation. Instead, I just went with prudence and phoned it into the office.  Of course, being the last day of school, the secretaries figured that I couldn't be calling about anything that serious --the seniors had graduated the night before so the margin for disaster was much smaller. As it turned out, when I called to notify the dean that, "two students are fornicating on the baseball field," I was on speakerphone.

So much for avoiding legal ramifications.

Evie could have used the phone call as "her" embarrassing moment.  But nooooo, instead I had to hear from what seemed like every one of my teaching fellows: "Evie announced at the leadership retreat that you had sex with a student." They quickly added, "She did explain what she really meant, but it was really funny."

How nice; I'm the life of the party even when I'm not there.

Don't Jack My Schtick

I work with a collection of passionate, intelligent, and innovative teachers whom I regard with the utmost respect. But, I think I'm gonna need to keep an eye on a few of 'em. Especially the ones that are smarter than me, which happens to be most of the staff.

When surrounded by such accomplished co-workers-- a California Teacher of the Year recipient works at my school--one such as myself has to hold onto whatever talent she possesses in order to maintain her self-esteem.  

I forward some of my posts on slang to my English fellows because they have the same appreciation for language as I. Maybe I'm not throwing down any new knowledge on them, but I am at least entertaining. When a colleague stops me in the halls to praise a post, I can't help but puff up with pride. 

That will all end if one jacks my schtick. Right now, I have the advantage of having no kids, no husband, and no further educational goals to take up the majority of my free time so that I can sit down and write.   

The other day, as I was cruising through the office, a colleague who teaches AP English stopped me with "I've got a new slang word for you."

I was a little nervous. As a vegetable, this teacher trumps me in intelligence. And writing. The fact that the word was "for me" and that my colleague has several children and teaches at the local college kept me from flying into a full-blown panic.

"Lay it on me."

"Farting," he said.

"I'm sorry?"

"Farding," he repeated.

"Oh, okay. What does it mean?" 

"To paint the face," he said. "On my syllabus, I will have 'ladies, no farding in class.'"

His eyebrows pump up and down a couple times. He giggles, his brightening at his own wit.

"Cute," I said. 

Amateur.

Punctuation Is the New Sexy

Well, I thought that I had solved the mystery of why my forty-year-old ass can only attract men south of 30, but then a further study of the use of ;) blew my theory.  

At first, I thought that maybe these youngins were attracted to my maturity, independence, and confidence.  Then I began to wonder if the draw of older women stemmed from icons as featured in Sex in the City as well as other popular celebrities such as Jennifer Aniston, Sandra Bullock, and Halle Berry who are all gorgeous, successful, and “older.”  I was optimistic in thinking that now younger men see being with older women as a badge of honor, something to brag about, something that makes them feel more like men.

I learned quickly that that theory was not true. So, I moved onto the idea that "sleeping with an older woman" is in the top five of all guys' bucket lists and that they interpret "maturity" as "a good lay." 

But I am angry and am willing to concede that biases are heavily in play.

Recently, I thought that I had discovered that the reason I am so effective at pulling twenty-something tail is because they all believe that I am going to have sex with them immediately. I believed that this misinterpreted guarantee stemmed from my use of ;) or for those of you with iPhones, emoticons.

And because written language in any form is defined as "symbols" to represent an idea, emoticons' definitions are as fluid and generation-based as slang.  What my generation means to communicate with say ;) is not how it is interpreted by the younger generations. More specifically, the younger generations have another meaning for ;) depending on the context it is used in.

Wonderful. As if there aren't enough ways for me to complicate my life.

I use the ;) in the same way that I use LOL: as a way to indicate that I am being light-hearted and funny.  If these young guys would actually have a phone conversation, they could hear it in my voice, but since they avoid that like they avoid capitalization, I am limited in my tools for expression. Yes, I could resort to word choice and old-school, vanilla syntax, but I feel that these guys will think I am speaking a foreign language.

So, I use the :) and the ;) to keep things simpatico. You'd think I'd use :-L or some other form of angry face as well, but I prefer "fuck off" instead. How can one construct a middle finger with characters?  00l00? 

But I digress.  

Recently, while I was sitting in the lounge with my colleagues, one shared her miscommunication with ;).   She, as do many teachers, set up  a Twitter account in order to send students reminders to study for a test, finish homework, don't take ten hits off the bong before school ... you get the idea.  Well, my colleague tweeted a reminder to "do the extra credit by the end of the week ;)" utilizing the winky face characters to soften her tone (BTW, Twitter, shorter sentences tend to make the tone bossy, bitchy, and cold, hence the need for these *%!# emoticons).  

Thank God my colleague's students love her.  The following day they came charging in telling her that ;) means "sex."  Her tweet meant that her students had until the end of the week to have sex with her for extra credit.  

This new-found knowledge added some clarification as to why cubs try to get me home, naked, and in the sack within the first hour of the first date: I used to think it was the gnat-attention-span generation revising the three-dates-before-sex rule of my generation, but my initial investigation of the ;) made me believe that it's because during the text-courting stage, I unknowingly assure them that I'll be putting out immediately.  

I thought I had a handle on things, but further research has since debunked that theory.

Recently, while asking my students to explain the definition of "ratchet" to me, I decided to get some verification on ;).  I learned that as with all language, emoticons' definitions vary depending on the context of the message.  It only means "sex" if the context of the message asks the receiver to meet the sender in a "private location."

For example, "Meet me in my car at lunch ;)" means "Let's have sex in my car during lunch."  

But then I asked, "What if I texted: 'I'll see you at the house party ;)'?  That wouldn't imply to have sex because house parties consist of a zillion people."

"That depends," a student clarified.  "If you can find an empty room at the house  party . . . "

There's always a hitch. One thing the English language is good at is not being consistent.
 
I inquired no further.  I am certain that my use of ;) is never in the context of asking some cub to meet me in a private place.  So, the mystery of why I am a cub magnet is still an open case.

But, now I wonder what my colleague's extra credit was to lend her tweet such an interpretation ;).   

If you don't have anything pertinent to say . . . "

Well all do it. Every single one of us, and if anyone tries to tell me that he or she doesn't, I will call, "bullshit."

We all express our opinions without being fully informed first.

Bloggers can be counted among the most guilty. We comment on posts that we haven't read in their entirety. In fact, I am willing to bet that many bloggers comment on posts without reading an entire sentence. Read the title of the post, look at the pictures, scan a couple of the other comments, and then just tack one on. As long as your comment references anything--anything in the post it gives the illusion that you read it.

This bit of insincerity comes from a good place: we just want to make our fellow bloggers feel supported. Or, we want to make other bloggers feel guilty so that they'll check in on our blogs and comment on our posts that they haven't read--let alone read closely.

So basically blogging has become a lot like relationships: just another way to provide a false sense of security.

But my most recent post has brought to light a trend--at least new to me--in blog commenting. Not only does every porn site in the world "comment" on a blog if it is promoted in a public forum, but now a bunch of other online businesses are commenting "anonymously."

Courtesy of dryhumordaily.blogspot.com

Yes, I have finally learned the reason for the word-verification prerequisite in order to comment. Please refer to all posts related to technology if you are astounded at my stupidity.

And while we bloggers may not always read our comrades posts fully, we sure as shit read and re-read every single syllable of the comments to ours. This is how I discovered that blog commenting has become the new way to advertise, and apparently there is a huge market of out-of-work, pornography addicts online. 

Or maybe the title of my last post, "What Can Your Butt Do?", has the right key word to attract the automated, anonymous comments from the merchants of jobs and porno flicks. If you haven't read about my butt yet, please do so now.  I'll wait . . .

This post received a string of comments from anonymous "readers." To their credit, these comments are composed with sophisticated language and tailored to the writer's ego. Out of context, they seem intelligent and flattering. But, in the case of my butt-post, they are both impertinent and asinine.

For example, Forex Trading Systems commented:"I've been surfing online more than 4 hours today, yet I never found any interesting articles like yours."

Okay, if you can't find anything online more interesting than my ass, you are either retarded or even more inept with technology than I am.

Jobs from Home Online shared that I had, "read [their] thoughts" and that "[I] know a lot about this topic, like [I] wrote the book on it."  

First, if you are sitting around thinking about my butt, seek immediate help. Second, who else is going to write the book on my ass? It's not like I am wealthy enough to have my own private proctologist. And if such a book did exist, who in the fuck would buy it? 

I've also been thanked for "sharing this with all the people who understand what you are talking about." Really? There is a population of people who can trigger paper towel dispensers with their tush?

Finally, it seems as if I have "put a new spin on a topic which has been discussed for decades."  In this case, I'm willing to believe that this commentator did read my post, because I am sure people have been talking about my ass for decades.

Well, beggers can't be choosers, I suppose.

I'd appreciate your comments.

What can your butt do?

I have one talented ass.

And I don't mean "ass" as a synecdoche. I am referring solely to my gluteus maximus. Emphasis on "maximus" in my case.

My tush's talents do not relate to its basic functionality. So, those of you who are inching your cursor to the X at the top of your computer screen, come on back. This post will not include anything about my flatulence (which I never have) nor my feces (which does not stink).

My rear is an excellent ottoman. It's big enough to accommodate any side foot. Unfortunately, this use is not unique to me, but to all who have large derrieres. The more luxurious ones are not those of the yogi, the Pilates instructor, or even the runner, but those of the carb worshipers. Think in terms of a firm mattress vs. a tempurpedic.    

Courtesy of Colorbox

Those who have a cat, probably have discovered this next use of an abundant fanny: a pet bed. Whether stretched on the floor grading papers, reposing on my tummy on the couch, or asleep in my bed, my rear trumps all other locations in my apartment for cat's nap. In addition, my bum also seems to be the highest point in the room for my cats to climb up on and lord over their world, thereby complementing their egos.

My rump is also a weapon. A catapult to be exact. I once launched my best friend across a hotel room with my ass. In my defense, it was my only defense, even though I started out as the offense.  After too much wine and too much indulgence in immaturity, I decided a round of WWF as she is trying to inflate her aerobed was appropriate. On any given day, in any given situation, under any given condition, Lisa can kick my ass (now, I do mean "my ass" as a synecdoche) so once I riled her up, I knew I had to get some distance between us quickly, so I bumped her with my bum and she flew. Caught air. Her feet left the ground.

She forgave me the next day when I dropped my bottom like a bomb onto her aerobed to assist in the deflating.

But recently, I learned that my fanny has another talent; a use more valuable that a toilet seat cover.

A paper towel dispenser.

Now, I can pull a lot of things out of my ass, and paper towels from that region is of no use to anyone, so allow me to explain.

In the woman's bathroom at work we have an automatic paper towel dispensers. Ours if a fickle one. In theory, we are supposed to wave our hands under the senser to get a stream, but our dispenser makes us work for it. You have to damn near make love to it to get it to work. In fact, by the time anyone manages to get a paper towel, she has waved her hands around so much that a 757 has landed in the handicap stall and her hands are already dry. And in the amount of time we teachers have to pee added to the size of our bathroom as disproportionate to the amount of females on campus, no one has time to monkey-fuck around.

A colleague one told me that the senser doesn't work if it gets wet. Wait a second, a senser is sensitive to water when it's job is to provide that which takes the wetness away? 

Regardless of the efficiency of anything "technological," I will have problems with it. So, I automatically go for the extra roll perched on top of a shelf by the door. I have enough aggravation in my life. 

But then, my talented ass provided another solution. As I emerged from the stall and went to wash my hands something amazing happened. 

To fully understand, you must study the picture to the left carefully. Note the layout of sink to dispenser. 

I bent over to wash my hands and a ream of paper dropped right out. My booty set off the dispenser. And by the way, the senser is on the underside of it.

How convenient! Not only is that towel ready for me, but it saves time because it is dispensing while I am washing. Awesome. 

The colleague standing in line --my former student teacher, I might add-- was thinking more of my feelings than my new-found talent. As I turned to ask, "Did you see what my butt just did?" I found her covering her mouth with her hands, eyes popped open wide. 

My response? "Hey, what can your butt do?"

Idiot's Guide to Christmas Gifts

Gift-giving can be tricky during the holidays. First, you have to decide whom to buy for and whom not to buy for without offending either. You buy for someone who didn't buy for you leaves them feeling guilty; you don't buy for someone who buys for you leaves you feeling guilty. 

Drawing names and Secret Santa helps in avoiding this problem, but since I had to roll it like Greece (austere living with a bad attitude) this holiday season, I avoided the whom-to-buy-for conundrum this year by not buying for anyone I don't share DNA with. 

So when I found a gift in my mailbox at work, I was pleasantly surprised and slightly worried. When I saw that the present was from my department heads, I breathed a sigh of relief--as my superiors it was their obligation to buy me a gift in the spirit of morale. 

I took my present back to my classroom, shoved the 150 research papers that I would be grading over my Winter "Break" aside, and immediately opened my festive, cellophane gift bag, drew out the red tissue paper, and unwrapped this: 

My boss had bought me a pygmy pen. Cute. We English teachers can never have enough pens. 

Like all children, I wanted to play with my gift immediately, but I couldn't figure out where the tip of the pen was. I popped off the cap, and like a child whose parents forgot to buy the batteries her new toy needed, felt disappointed.

Well shit, my pen was broken. The tube of ink seemed to be missing. Putting the cap back on, I examined my pen more closely and realized that it didn't seem to be a pen. But what the hell was it?

An eraser? 

Nope. 

I was completely befuddled. But wait, I had seen my friend and colleague, Laura, in the lounge with hers clipped to the collar of her shirt. Walking a few classrooms down the hall, I found her with another colleague working on a state report. Flinging the door open, I held up my mal-factured gift and asked, "What the hell is this?"

I popped off the cap again, "What, is it for? Drugs?" Do my bosses think I do drugs, and if so, are they encouraging me to stay off of them? Do they know that I don't do drugs and are encouraging me to start?

Laura guffawed, cast a side-glance at our colleague, then straightened up and with her widest, most condescending smile said, "A stylus." 

That answer did not help me at all. 

"For your iPad." The district had bought our department iPads a couple months back so we could be more "mobile" when using technology for instruction.

I shrugged and shook my head. 

"So you can keep your screen clean."

Smallest damn screen-cleaner I'd ever seen.

"Now you won't get your dirty fingerprints all over the screen," Laura clarified. "You can use that instead of your finger."

Lightbulb. "Is that what this rubber tip is for?" I said.

"Yeeeessssss."

I wish I could say that my lapse of intelligence was due to mental exhaustion. I wish I could say that it was due to mentally already being on vacation. I wish I could say it was due to just being mental. But, if you've read my other posts on technology, you know I can't blame it on anything else than the fact that when it comes to anything digital . . .