I was quirky before that was even a thing.

OBVIOUSLY, riiiiiight? No one could put ME in a box!

Proof: Collage made in ... I want to say, 1991?

Get your goldbricking ass out of my beach community!

Fact the first: We -- Kid Gleemonex and I -- have missed the Flag Salute portion of the school day thrice in twelve days of school. This is where the whole school, K-5, stands out in the baking sun-drenched playground and does the PledgeAllegiance, then the principal in his hilaaaarious Californian voice wishes us all a great day here at San Dimas Elementary and the kids go in their classes & parents off to work/brunch/Yogilates, whatever.

Fact the second: I'm surprised it's only been just the three times so far. This thing where I'm always runnin' for it is a lifelong failing of mine; despite my everlasting best efforts, the kids're probably just gonna have to get used to it. There are people who get really shirty about other people being late -- like blah blah blah respect my time, *I* got here on time and the fact that you didn't means that you are a fucking wino hobo BUM, yada yada -- and that is just a world, like Bronys or birthers or Louis Quatorze furniture miniatures, that I will never be a part of. SORRY I'M LATE BUT I'M TRYING GODDAMMIT.

Fact the third: We were on time today! It was awesome! The crossing guards didn't get to make fun of us like they usually do!

And finally, Question Pertaining to the Facts: As we're nearing my secret ninja parking spot, we pass these knots of parents and kids on the sidewalk by the school, and y'all -- these moms. These moms with the cute maxi dresses, mani-pedis that are detectable even from the window of my hi-tone hoopty wagon at 25 MPH, the kind of sandals that look casual but cost $150, they hair done, they makeup on, walking with two or three kids (WALKING, because they don't have to run for it because they're on time, just like they are every day) and I. d.o. not. HOW ARE THEY DOING THIS? What the fuck time do they get up? How do they get the kids up and fed and toothbrushed and hairbrushed and uniformed and socked and shoed and sunscreened and out the godDAMnFUCKing DOOR with all their shit and into the car and strapped in and ALSO their own toothbrushing/mani-pedi/hairdo/cute maxi/makeup? The hem on my brain has fallen out so many times I can't even patch it with Wonder Under anymore -- and I've only got the one school-age kid (plus a very compliant, morning-happy toddler), a three-minute drive to school, and a choice of two (2) gym outfits to yank on before I crank up the morning machine. What the gobstopping fuck, y'all?

Don't you say hey to me, you ugly girl! You say good afternoon, Mrs. Dubose!

So this kid who is in lurrrrve with my kid asked me at his birthday party on Sunday, "What's your name?" Caught off-guard, I said, "It's [Winona]. But you can call me Ms. [Gleemonex]." And since that sounded so stiff, and the kid is five and looked kind of confused, I hastily added, "Or just [Kid Gleemonex]'s Mom."

Because whaaat? I found myself suddenly at war with myself: The instinct to be cool (use a first name cause that's what's done these days) vs. the deeply-ingrained sense of right and proper division between Kid World and Adult World vs. straight practicality & ease of use.

Complicated, of course, by the fact that this particular kid, as I said, is in lurrrrve with my kid. He seems sweet, and he has a rad mohawk, and he fell in instant and total love with Kid Gleemonex from the moment they were seated together on the first day of Kindergarten. He waves at her and shouts "HI KG!" when he sees her every morning, he reported to me on Friday that he had kissed her (to which I said sternly, "Was that OK with her?" and they both laughed but I was fucking serious, and I've had half a dozen conversations with her since then about how if anyone -- kid, adult, relative, teacher, whomever -- tries to touch her or kiss her or hug her or whatever and she doesn't want them to, she should say No and insist on it and tell an adult if they don't stop, even if she's been ok with it before and even if she likes that person generally, and etc. etc. etc. CONSENT IS REQUIRED AT ALL TIMES AND IS REVOCABLE AT ANY TIME FOR ANY REASON), he invited her to his birthday party (we went, and he ignored all his other guests to hang with her), and yesterday he called out "I LOVE YOU KG!" when we were leaving school. She's all "whatever" about it -- she likes him, too, and they bomb around on the playground (playing Zombies? WTF?), but she's nowhere near that intensity. KIDS.

Anyway, that has me thinking a lot lately about how deeply uncomfortable I am with the whole little kid "boyfriend/girlfriend" nonsense. This one friend of the Gleemonex family has been pushing that kind of thing since the moment each of his sons were born -- "Oh hey, Baby Inappropriate, heeeere's your little girlfriend!" "He's a total chick magnet!" "Look out, we better not let them be alone in a room together for long -- I don't want to be a grandpa yet!" FUCKING GROSS, and a thousand times more so because you're talking about TODDLERS. Now, that guy is an extreme, but there seems to be this prevailing attitude that it's just adorrrrable, and to be indulged and encouraged wherever possible, for little little kids -- particularly boys -- to fixate on some other kid, particularly girls.

There's a lot more rattling around in my head on this subject, but ... I am tired, and it's only the third week of Kindergarten.

Well, I coulda had a payin' job / workin for some fucked-up slob

So here's the front cover of one of my textbooks -- it doesn't say, anywhere on here, which book, but I obviously loved my own art so much that I thought it worth keeping at the end of the year. (There are more of these, o lordy.)

Clearly I was going through some ... conflicting themes in my many influences. Revisiting the Chronicles of Narnia,* quotin' some Calvin & Hobbes, some Tess of the D'Urbervilles, and some rad buttons I saw at Spencer's in the Golden Triangle Mall, and pretending that in my free time, after church, youth group, National Honor Society, 17 nerdy school club memberships, tennis team, acing the PSAT, and holding on to second place in the class rankings, I might just possibly be a "Wasted Rock Ranger." Good times, tenth grade. Good times.

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*In retrospect, I realize that I was trying really hard, one last time, to make sense of the whole Jesus thing, after believing without understanding at all my whole life -- I gave up about two weeks into my freshman year of college, but I did really try.  

Well, at least we got Samantha Mathis goin' for us.

Shatner bless the teachers, parents and administrators who put up with my ungrateful bullshit back in the day.

This was my nametag from the UIL Academic State Meet in 1991 (with my actual name redacted to protect myself from dying of shame). I wore this for two days straight, throughout the competition, the social events, the actual contest, the awards ceremony. It was my way of givin 'em the what-for, showing my speshul youneekness, letting everyone know how badass I was -- I might be competing in an extremely nerdy academic event at the state level, it snarls, but I am an iconoclast who cannot be contained in your straight, uptight, matchy-matchy little boxes! I'm destroying the System from the inside! Look on my nametag, you sheep, and despair!  

This and a thousand letters from my far-flung correspondents with, like, They Might Be Giants lyrics all over the envelopes

Found this in the olde home place:

It is my attempt at a "comic," undoubtedly drawn during some other class when I was supposed to be doing something else (as I am coming to realize is my lifelong M.O.), in about 1990. We of the Honors Chemistry class were all supposed to have been doing a Big Project for the Major Science Faire, and as you can see, I ... hadn't been, and ... was pretty much fucked. I'd had six months to work on it, it was due soon (next day? christ what was the matter with me?), and I had -- as you can see -- no sprouts, no detailed notebook logging the effects of whatever third-grade bullshit "experiment" I'd half-assedly come up with, no tri-fold posterboard thingy to show my work, and it kept me awake nights -- though not, apparently, in the actual doing of the project. Just obsessing about it and having the fantods from the anxiety of it. Jesus Fucking Christ I hated chemistry.

PS: new label for all these posts: hantavirus treasure trove

Ah ain' nebber seed nuffin lahk dat, sho nuff.

Wait, hold up, hold up -- did y'all remember that there is a minstrel show in Little Town on the Prairie? And that this minstrel show features Pa (and five other town leaders) in blackface, doing darkie jokes and singing darkie songs in darkie voices? And that everybody in the whole goddamn town thinks this show -- the climax of an entire winter's worth of Friday night Literaries -- is the best funniest most awesome and hilarious thing in their whole fucking lives?

Because there is.

And I, being slightly hung over, very tired, and decidedly not in the mood to explain cracker-ass racist fuckery at 7:15 on a Sunday morning, skipped -- for now-- the several pages devoted to its description, Shatner help me.

For instance: an ENTIRE YEAR'S worth of notes from English class with the word "Pritchard" in the headline. Because the English teacher making me write summaries and analyze poetry was EXACTLY LIKE the Pritchard textbook in Dead Poets' Society.

Ohhhhhhhhhh kids. You have NO IDEA what a golden goddamned treasure trove of insane pretentious weirdo nerdery and junior jackassitude I have discovered amongst the hantavirus-harboring nooks, floorboards and crumbling stuffed-full shoeboxes of the house your old pal Gleemonex grew up in. I'm still here, exploring this rich bounty in the 106-degree heat, so most of the full-body cringing and really hard forehead-slapping is mine alone, for now ... but I promise you riches beyond riches.