Party?

So in ten minutes or less, I'm off to Mardi Gras.

People keep asking me, "Oh in Galveston?"

No, not Galveston.

"Ooh, so then you're going to New Orleans! That should be so cool!"

Nope. Not New Orleans.

I'm going to Houma.

Apparently every city, town, and speck on the map in Louisiana has their own Mardi Gras.

I get to go to Houma's.

Yup.

I'm the cat

So Friday was a staff development day. Meaning no kids. It was joyous. Well, not joyous, but a hell of lot better than dealing with the kids all day. We had some meetings and a couple of presentations to sit through, but all in all, not bad for a Friday.

During one of the presentations, we were asked to look at a group of words and determine which one did not belong. It was basically an exercise in explaining one's answers... ultimately modeling that as long as a kid can justify his or her answer, then it can be correct.

Anyways, the words we were given were Chocolate, Blue, Cat, and Peaches. We were asked to write our answers down on a slip of paper, justify them, wad it up in a ball, and throw at someone else in the room. My girlfriend, aka the school lesbian, (although there are many others...) wrote hers down and threw it at Carr, a rather boisterous teacher with whom we work. Carr is a piece of work. I admire her greatly, because she never seems to give a damn what anyone else thinks.

So we were asked to volunteer to stand up and share the answers of the paper ball we'd received. Most people said things like "Cat, because it can't be a color," or "Blue, because it can't have fuzz." All very creative answers.

Carr stood up and announced to the entire staff my girlfriend's answer.

"Coach C said Blue, because it's the only one you don't eat."

Pause.

Eruptive Laughter.

Carr hadn't really given the answer thorough contemplations. I think she was thinking about the answer as though Mr. Tieu, a Vietnamese paraprofessional, had written it.

Not as though the school lesbian had written it.

After about 15 seconds, a startled Carr let out a vociferous, "Oh. OHHHH! ohhhhh..." and immediately began to turn beet red as she sat down.

As was my girlfriend.

As was I.

I got meowed at all day.

Self humiliation is my specialty

So last week I had a seminar to attend on a Wednesday. The seminar itself was only mildly informative, but I got to spend a day away from my crazy seventh graders, so it really was worth it.

Unfortunately, I had been supremely busy the weekend before, and wasn't able to get to the nail salon. (I'm a fake nail junkie. I've had french tips, albeit very short french tips, for damn near 8 years. I started as a way to keep from biting my nails. Now I'm hooked.) Anyhow, if one does not get their nails "filled" every two weeks or so, they start to break as they grow out.

By Wednesday, mine were hideous. They were starting to peel, and I was eagerly anticipating my appointment immediately following the seminar. Unfortunately, I'm a fidgeter. I have difficulty sitting still for 7 hours listening to someone else speak. So i started picking at my atrocious nails. I figured, "What the hell. I'm getting them done today anyway... Might as well pick off the nasty old ones."

I started the seminar with one broken nail. I ended it completely nail-less.

That's not the bad part.

The bad part is that after I picked the acrylic off each one of my nails, I would bust out my little nail clipper and trim my nails down as short as possible. I was sitting at a round table with two of my colleagues and two teachers from another district. I apologized to the colleague sitting directly next to me for being so gross. I mean, who trims their nails at a seminar? I couldn't help it. It was a compulsion. I NEEDED to pick at my nails. They were driving me nuts...

Still not the very bad part.

The very bad part is when I was trimming the nail on my middle finger, which was at least a quarter of an inch long. Usually, I'm pretty good about controlling my fingernail clippings, but as soon as I heard the click, I knew this nail was a flyer...

And fly it did. I looked around the table, slightly panicked, wondering if my nail landed in someone's beverage or something else equally as disgusting. One of the teachers from another district slowly lifted her head and picked up the paper on which she was jotting notes. She glanced across the table and asked, "Looking for this?"

Sitting on her paper was my fingernail. I could have melted into my chair with humiliation. I don't think I've ever turned so beet red or apologized so profusely.

This was 2 hours into the seminar. I had to sit across from her for another 5 hours.

It was fun.
Yeah.