English Teacher Humor

In Which I Dream About India and then Lose Everything

I composed a post today. It was all written up. It was lovely and beautiful and expressed my dreams of journeying to India one day, my smitten state about the subcontinent. There were photos. The spacing was cooperating (you know how blogger can be). I was merely highlighting everything to change the font.

And then I deleted it. All of it. Accidentally.
(Multi-tasking at work can be hazardous.)

Forgive me. I'm grieving the loss of a post I really liked but feel unable to recreate. One I'd been marinating for a while.

Here's a taste of what you missed (and I lost):







I refuse to see this as a sign that I'll never make it there. I will. And the going and experiencing will fill me so much deeper than any silly old blog post (even if I really liked it).

27.

That is how many mosquito bites I received on Sunday night at a family get together held in the great outdoors of Alice's aunt's backyard.

27 in 2 hours.



Why do the damned things love me so much?

Why?

Nice Neighbors

do not fry up a large vat of something smelling much like this:



and then let that stench float into the neighboring apartments. I'm gagging here!

In honor of my neighbor's olfactory cruelty, I'm posting some Robert Frost.

Mending Wall

SOMETHING there is that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
"Stay where you are until our backs are turned!"
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of outdoor game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
He is all pine and I am apple-orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, "Good fences make good neighbors."
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
"Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it
Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offence.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That wants it down!" I could say "Elves" to him,
But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather
He said it for himself. I see him there,
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father's saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, "Good fences make good neighbors."

And to this I add: impermeable walls, doors, and windows make good neighbors!

Never a Dull Day

Lately I've been wondering if I'd rather be stuck in a cubicle answering complaint phone calls about the Kinoki Foot Pad sham than deal with what's been going on around here. I think I'm cursed this year. Perhaps the insanely good view of park and the city and everything west of me is too good to be true.

Two weeks ago a bird of an unusual size (okay, it was a magpie, but a magpie with an insane bladder capacity) flew in through my classroom window. It scared me and I squeeled like a girl. My squeeling provoked a defecation debacle of epic proportions. Thankfully my office door shuts and I could watch out the window as the bird finally figured out how to EXIT through its unwelcomed entrance. Even more blessed: the kids were all gone.

Last week, running a bit behind, I began sprinting to catch the elevator up to my room. Acceleration was apparently a bad idea: the same calf muscle that had been a sore, tight ball for weeks made a wretched popping noise, gave out on me, then swelled with an unbearable ache. My google diagnosis leads me to believe it is a slight tear on the calf muscle. It is feeling much better now. The "injury" did allow me to move from the stair-stepper at the gym (Personal Trainer Toothpick Heidi's idea) to the bike while it heals.

Yesterday, only 15 minutes into first period, and a student went into a full seizure. It was both frightening and heart-crushing. Being the one person in the room who supposedly knows what to do made me acknowledge my adult-ness in new ways.

Today there was a fire alarm during first period. While lining up classes down on the field, a fight broke out. It was the scary kind of fight. The kind of fight where lanky math teachers trying to do the right thing fall victim. The kind of fight that's been going on long before the school year, a rivalry between impoverished boys of different colors that never seems to end.

I can't help but wonder what is coming next. Am I being prepared for something even worse?

I'd like to call this one "Irony".

My Day in Numbers (Or Rookie and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day)

Number of times I pushed snooze...3.

Number of times I checked the clock in my car to make sure I wasn't really THAT late to work...47.

Number of times I repeated directions to my students on a new writing program...872.

Number of people I ate with during lunch today...zero (unless you count the other people in the restaurant).

Number of assignments graded...79.

Number of text messages sent...103.

Number of text messages received...98.

Number of times I lost my car keys...1.

Number of times I scoured the parking lot of the doctors' office for said car keys...17.

Number of times I stared through the windows in my car to see of car keys were locked in...27.

Number of times I scoured the waiting room in the doctors' office for said car keys...83.

Number of times I scoured the exam room in the doctors' office for said car keys...14.

Number of people with car keys in-hand as they left the doctors' office (that I possibly stared longingly at)...35.

Number of suspicious people I accused in my mind of stealing said car keys (and stealthily followed into the parking lot--I swear she had two sets of keys in her hands)...1.

Number of phone calls to roommate to come rescue me at the doctors' office and swing by the house for a spare key...2, maybe 3.

Number of times my cell phone battery died while waiting for said roommate to come rescue me with said spare key...1.

Number of times I nearly cried...3.

Number of hours spent at the doctors' office...3.

Number of minutes spent (naively) thinking I was a car key and remote entry pad owner while at the doctors' office...15 (it all went down hill from there).

Number of hours my rescue team spent stuck in traffic or lost in an attempt to save me at the doctors' office...2.

Number of suspicious Land Rovers driven by a suspicious key thief (that I swear simply drove by in the parking lot hours after leaving with what I'm pretty sure were my keys) that I might have stealthily followed in traffic and scared a little (because Alice brought the spare key)...one.

Number of chances I'm wrong on that...too many to count.

Number of found keys...zero.

Number of new red stiletto heels stuck in sidewalk cracks at the temple...1.

Number of times I was glad I went to ward temple night (in spite of a wretched day)...156.

Number of times I stare-glanced a little bit at my new ward crush at ward temple night...16.

Number of times I really tried to NOT like his (DTR, please) "lady friend" with the great personality (she needs an eyebrow maintenance session--her only weakness)...I gave up after about 3.

Number of gallons of gas put in my car because it was bone dry...14.

Number of hours left until I need to wake up...6.

Weak in the Knees

Last week I went for my annual check up with the doctor. And by annual I mean my first time visiting the doctor for a complete health check since I went off my parents' insurance several years ago. (I know better. I have no excuse--procrastinating the inevitable is my bag, baby.)

In case you were wondering, I hated every last minute of it. The paperwork, the weigh in, the nurse's smug "Mmm kay" as she recorded the number following the weigh in, that awful hospital "gown" (or peep show with sleeves), the stirrups, the lecture about what I should and should not be doing.

But nothing, nothing at the doctor's office compares with the slow removal of MY blood through a thin steel device inserted directly through MY vein wall. Of all the things that happened to me here, this ritual was the most invasive, the most torturous.

Examine my va-j-j and conduct a breast exam while I stare uncomfortably at your fluorescent office lights, I can handle that. Ask for all of my top secret information including social security number and my weight (which, under normal circumstances, is revealed to flat out NO ONE), okay. But my blood!? You want my blood?!


Let me explain. Wait, no, I don't think I can explain it clearly. It is like this: I don't particularly like needles. Any needle with the sole function of entering my epidermis is not a good thing. But a needle carrying a vaccine into my upper arm might make me grit my teeth and little else. I can handle it with little more than a grimace. The real problem with needles arises when the sole function of that needle is to slice through a perfectly innocent vein and remove life-giving fluid from my body. For whatever reason, this tips me over the edge, typically the edge of consciousness. I sweat everywhere. The blood that was previously renewing my brain function suddenly goes AWOL and I turn a pale shade of colorless. My vision goes foggy, my breathing becomes labored, and I essentially lose muscle function and the ability to act sober. I lose conscientious control of my own body.

The pain isn't the issue. I can handle that little pinch of pain. And I'm not really opposed to freely giving my blood away because I know I will produce more. But, for whatever reason, this process of blood removal sends all functions of homeostasis into a chaotic disaster zone. And I cannot mentally stop it from happening. No matter the positive self pep talk, no matter my focus on anything but their blood snatching, I go weak in the knees every last time.

Perhaps it is that I have deeply buried veins in the crooks of my elbows (they usually go through my hand for the blood supply). Perhaps I should blame it on that destitute year of college when plasma donation kept me in an abundant supply of top ramen. Whatever the reason, I struggle physiologically with giving blood.

And the eight or so vials they removed last week are no exception to my trend. I wanted to go lie down, I wanted to stick my head between my knees. I wanted to get out of there and go to my car and forget the medical lab had ever happened upon my day. But I had to sit still. I had to stare at a wall until the ordeal was over. And by the time it was over, it was too late. I'd gone into my freaky blood loss zone, teetering between consciousness and a starry, starry night.

There is no point to this blog post, really. Other than to give you a good laugh at my weak-kneed expense. And, perhaps, this: the next time I go weak in the knees and swoon a bit, I'd prefer it be for a good reason. Say, six or so feet of tall, dark, single, normal(ish), LDS, and handsome. That's all I ask.

The Hidden Life of the High School English Teacher

The English Teacher, in her natural habitat of lounge pants and a ratty t-shirt, brings home her fresh kill.

With anticipation she picks up her first essay, ready to be wowed.

But wait! Something is amiss. Whatever could it be?

Is that disappointment? Frustration? 

Oh, dear English Teacher, tell us what is wrong.

What's that? You aren't sure what, exactly, "This iz 4 REEL" is supposed to mean. Silly English Teacher, everyone knows that!

Don't get angry, English Teacher, anger is like a stress. It can make us throw clots and stroke out. 4 real.

We know, we know. But anger only makes matters worse.

Oh, that's really mature, English Teacher, REAL mature!

Oh look, the English Teacher is bored with her students' mediocrity.

But...but...she never finished reading! Should we wake her up?

The Economy and My New Collection

So, apparently my bank (Washington Mutual) was forced to close its doors and sell itself to J.P. Morgan/Chase/some other mega-merging-conglomerate-company-thing yesterday. On the bright side, all 27 of the dollars in my savings account are FDIC insured. Thank heavens for that--because that totally would have been a disaster! At least a half a tank of gas.

So as I drive to and from work, listening to my NPR and its incessant coverage of this economic nightmare over the past few months, I can't help but think about my half-siblings' grandmother, a child of the depression era. When she passed away, among other odd items in bulk, they found a large collection of used cheap plastic laundry detergent scoops. Stacks and stacks of the things. And sometimes when I hear all this business about the economy I feel like maybe that is the only thing I can do to save myself and my sanity.

What about you?

Pioneer Day & Update

In my attempt to impress (because really, what else is a blog for but to fish for compliments), I worked diligently for the past two hours to post my fabulous technological savvy in the form of a Photostory movie I created. I made it both at home and in a professional development class I've been in for a couple of days over the past week. But, alas, it won't attach (of course not). The class was "Digital Cameras in the Classroom" and it was, by far, one of the best professional development classes I've taken. I received plenty of great photography/projects tips and fun ideas and I still have the Part II to go to in a couple of weeks.

Beyond that, it was a state holiday last Thursday, so Alice and I headed up to a fun resort town not too far from here and spent the night in my parent's timeshare condo. We walked around on mainstreet, played at the park with my niece and nephew, watched the parade on TV--which, by the way, made me cry twice because I'm becoming one of those weird and overly-sentimental old maids--and played around with our blossoming* photography skills. Enjoy these collages:




*Don't rip on my old-maid-ish-ness (that is its technical term) in using words such as "blossoming."

The Quintessential Guide to Geekdom

I could have written a book by this title in junior high. Now, I know many of you are thinking "We all could have written this." But, trust me, I could have been The Expert on all things nerdy during those painful years I spent transitioning from child to awkward adolescent. Add to the mixture that I used words like "serene" on a regular basis (I was always a book geek) and that my parents were poor/I was the youngest (i.e. hand-me-down central) and you start to get the idea.


A Testament in Ten: The Pain that is Junior High School

1. In seventh grade, still believing that proper hygiene was for sissies, I managed to go nine (yes, 9!) straight days without showering/bathing during Christmas vacation. How'd I manage this without my mother/older sisters putting a stop to "my run"? Who knows. My strongest memory of this time is the sensation of incredibly oily hair through my fingers. (No worries, by 8th grade I'd discovered the joys of a daily cleaning ritual).

2. I wore a flannel shirt with cut off, fringed arms and thought it was "soooo cute". (Hello: Joe Dirt called. He wants his shirt back).

3. My coke-bottle-thick glasses had only one inspiration: Sally Jesse Raphael.

4. During a severe bout with a nasty case of bronchitis during 7th grade, I shot off a deafening fart in Mr. Shields' Utah Studies class--I will never forget an eruption of laughter, a certain Chad G. sliding the entirety of his desk aside and shouting "WHOA!," followed by a sick and pleading "swallow me whole" vibe sent to the industrial carpet beneath my feet.

5. My athletic prowess (or the lack thereof) can be manifest in the following examples. I tried out for (on multiple occassions): volleyball, basketball, cheerleading, softball. I made...none of them. Yet I returned, year after year. I did, however, spend two weeks on the track team (no try-out necessary). I also made choir.

6. In 8th grade, my gym clothes, after a weekend of washing and a trip through the family may-or-may-not-work-dryer, returned to school on Monday with a few singed holes. Because my parents couldn't afford a new uniform, I wore the burned version for the remainder of the school year.

7. I wore hand-me-down sports bras all through junior high because regular bras "itched." Nevermind that my abnormally large C-cup should have been strapped down long before that. I didn't seem to notice much difference. (Now that I think of it, perhaps THIS contributed to me never making the team--the coaches were probably too distracted by the girls swinging).

8. I lied. Frequently. About really stupid things. I once said that I was going on vacation to Florida over Spring Break (Not entirely my fault: my mother was going to a conference and said I might be able to go too...which never panned out). I spent the entire long weekend not daring to go anywhere lest anyone saw me when I was supposedly in Utah. Furthermore, March in Utah is nothing like March in Florida. I laid out in the early spring sun to make my lie seem "authentic" and received absolutely no color.

9. In 8th grade, as a result of severe self-consciousness and adolescent hormones, my arm pits began to sweat. Horribly. And when I say "pit rings" I really mean soaking spots that ran down to my elbow. This persisted through high school and into my first year in college until discovering a certain clinical strength prescription that might potentially cause me cancer later on in life. This stuff turned my night shirts bleachy colors in the pits and eventually ATE THROUGH the material. But my pits are always silky dry.

10. I was a chubby kid. The majority of this chubbiness manifested itself in my boobs, thighs and butt. (Black boys typically crushed on me). Because of this development beyond the years of my flatboard counterparts, I became the victim of merciless teasing (Nick C. and the "Shamu" nickname were coined during junior high). This teasing included "I dare ya" butt-slappings from the popular boys my age while walking down certain halls of the school. Was this sexual harrassment? Absolutely. Did I know this at 13. Of course not.

Carol Burnett once said, "Adolescence is just one big walking pimple." I have to agree with her. For four years of my life simply waking up each day and facing what the world had to offer hurt (except during Summer Vacation). I hate to think that in my classroom there are kids in the thick of it every single day.

The one good thing about adolescence is that it does eventually end. And for this I am eternally grateful.

My Other Home

Some days I feel like I live right here:

Doing things like this:


13 more school days until summer. While the anticipation is thrilling, insanity prevails amongst the students .

Three Conversations I'm Tired of Concealing My True Thoughts from:
#1
Student: We should go outside today.
Me: Not today. Besides, it is always so loud outside from the cars. And the gym classes have taken up all the fields.
Student: It's soooo nice outside! We should. We could read outside!
What I secretly think: Yes, because when I said "No" and told you why we couldn't go outside, I didn't really mean it. It was a ploy to get you to nag at me and annoy me while I attempted to start class/keep your classmates from damaging property. Because I TOTALLY love when you do that.

#2
Student: So, my grade isn't looking too good and graduation is in three weeks.
What I Secretly Think: Please tell me you don't actually believe there is anything you can do about that now.
Me: *blink, blink*
Student: So, can I talk to you about my grade?
Me: I'm sorry, I didn't know you were still attending my class.
Student: I know, my attendance has gotten kind of bad. Senioritis. Heh heh heh.
What I Secretly Think: Did you mean laziness? Because it seems that this isn't an excuse, either. Though I do see you as the type that has weasled themselves out of trouble so many times they actually think graduation is still a reality. Unfortunately for you, there actually ARE consequences for your repetitive stupid decisions to skip my class.
Me: *blink, blink*

#3
Student: When does school get out?
Me: June 5th
Student: I'm not coming after Memorial Day.
What I Secretly Think: Great parents you've got there. Glad they've really engrained that whole good-work-ethic/value-of-education philosophy in you!
Me: 'Syour grade.

A Four Letter Word Beginning in F: On Failure

When I was in sixth grade I wanted to participate in the _________ Elementary 6th Grade Talent Show. As far as talent shows go, this was a big deal for my classmates and me. On a grey February day the sign-up sheet was passed around. I printed my name on the list with all of the anticipation an awkward 12-year-old could possess. I was certain that displaying my talent, whatever it might be (would I dance? sing? attempt ventriloquism?), for all the 6th graders to see could only provide evidence my unquestionable capacity for greatness. And so, my commitment was made. In the Spring I was to give what would undoubtedly be the performance of a lifetime.

Weeks passed by. The teacher reminded us each week of the upcoming performance. My friends spoke of their rehearsal schedules for the event. But life was happening as life tends to do and there was always more time. A girl with my flare and natural ability could certainly manage to pull it together by the time we performed.

You all see where this is going, of course. I didn't prepare until the night prior, and by then my practice was futile. So, on a Monday afternoon in the Spring, there in the school cafeteria, I stood before 80 of my ruthless peers with the cassette tape insert of Disney's Aladdin in hand, attempting, unaccompanied, to sing a solo of the duo "A Whole New World" (which happened to be one of my top three favorite songs of the moment). You can imagine the outcome. While the word gruesome comes to mind, I daresay 12-year-old boys took the taunting of my foible to a new level of cruelty in the weeks that followed. I seem to recall Nick C. (whom I will always loathe with a vicious hatred...until I seek intense psychotherapy) nailing quite the impersonation of my "performance." (My hatred for Nick C., lest it seem a little harsh, continued when he mercilessly dubbed me "Shamu" during the torture which we refer to as junior high school.)

Now, I tell you this story not for your kind pity (but I do deserve a little sympathy here, people). I tell you this story because I remember it in every painful, unharmonized, stumbling, Dear-God-PLEASE-Let-This-Linoleum-Covered-Earth-Swallow-Me-Whole-Until-I-Reach-College-Or-My-Untimely-Demise-Detail. Of many events during my childhood, I cleary remember this one.

My "performance" was a flop. A failure. Washout. Wreck. Bungle. A humiliation of the worst kind. Piece of pure rubbish. And oh, did it hurt. But here is the thing: I survived. Yes, survived. Now, I may not have walked myself into this kind of situation ever again (though I occasionally have nightmares of similar situations), but I made it through alive and well. And today I can even laugh at it--it is quite funny, really. (Though poor Nick C. still hasn't quite gained my full forgiveness).

Not only did I survive the Talent Show Catastrophe of '93, but I learned from it. I learned that talent or no, nothing replaces hard work, practice, and preparation. I learned that I had the ability, even as an overdramatic 12-year-old, to bounce back from the "depths of despair" and face those who mocked me with my head held high. I learned that I should never make fun of someone else's stumbles (exempting Nick C., of course). I learned that duets are best when sung by two people. And I learned that Nick C. would probably amount to very little in this life. Afterall, he didn't even try to participate in the Talent Show (my predictions, by the way, turned out to be quite true..."The Rookie is Petty Confession Time": I have been known to peruse the "head shots" of former classmates on a certain county jail's booking website which featured a certain grown "Saint" Nick).

The thing about failure is that we do learn from our failures far more than we ever do from our successes. Success is common and rather boring, really (unless accompanied by a previous failure overcome--why do you think everybody loves a good underdog story?). Failure offers life lessons that can't be taught any other way. And that is a gift we should acknowledge.

Oh, and if you think I'm original in my thinking (ha! that is something I am most certainly NOT): Click here for a more eloquent musing on failure. Furthermore, my comments seem scant of late--I'd love to hear all about your worst failures that taught you the very most.

It Just Ticks Me Off

You see this:



I think this blasphemy is bogus. A conspiracy, I tell you. A conspiracy.

I am unconsolable and distraught. It was tragic enough all those months ago when I discovered I'd ranked at the High School level. I attempted to up my blog writing prowess only to discover: I'm prefered by tweens.

Help!

My job is taking over my life. If I'm not teaching, I'm in a meeting. If I'm not at a meeting, I'm grading. If I'm not grading, I'm preparing lessons. And in the meantime it feels kind of like everything else in my life is slowly unraveling. And if I'm not working, I'm left feeling guilty for not doing work. I'm whining, I know. But I can't help but feel behind in every facet of my life.

Oh, and one other thing: may the cruel and sadistic inventors of NCLB suffer through hours upon hours of worthless district ESL Endorsement courses and homework assignments while there are a myriad of other pressing matters waiting for accomplishment.

42 more work days until summer. 42. Pray that I make it.

I'll Stick with Jell-O

So my good friend, Kim, has this analogy for dating. She says that dating is much like a restaurant everybody (everybody=married people) has been raving about. Not only are they raving about the restaurant, they're insisting that YOU SIMPLY MUST TRY the creme brulee. So, you, being a fan of creme brulee, head to the restaurant. The service is so-so, you place your dessert order: "I'll have the creme brulee." "Excellent choice," says the waiter. You wait patiently, mouth watering, for this delicacy. The people at the other tables are enjoying the rich flavor and you can hardly wait. Your waiter comes with your plate, you look down, and what do you find?

Brussels Sprouts!

Puke green, slimey brussels sprouts!

And you HATE brussels sprouts.

So your friends (the same "everybody" I referred to earlier) tell you "You just have to go back. Eventually the waiter brings you creme brulee and it is soooo worth it!" So you return again and again, always ordering creme brulee, always receiving brussels sprouts. You waste your money. You waste your time. And to make matters worse, you find out that going to this particular restaurant in hopes of creme brulee is a COMMANDMENT!

That, my friends is dating. And when I shared this particular analogy with my brussels sprouts of a date, he simply asked, "What's creme brulee?"

So many of you are asking me about my date. Well, let me just say that there are some things you just don't say on a date.

Things like (upon the waiter bringing our order) "Whoa...that's a big salad. You're probably going to have to take some of that home, right?" Ummm, noooo. I want to eat it all. That is why I ordered it. Did I say, that's a lot of chicken and rice you ordered? No. Why? you ask. Because I have tact. This is kind of where the whole date started going downhill.

Or there is the whole, "Oh, yeah, I date a lot. My problem is that once a commitment needs to be made, I lose all interest in the person." Okay, dude, if I were interested in you, which I'm not, but if I were...maybe you just shouldn't be waving that red flag just yet. Just a thought.

Like I said: There are some things you simply do not say. Ever.

Then there was the whole "footsy" incident. I had on slip-on shoes, so I was playing with them under the table (out of boredom? perhaps). My shoe happened to bump his so he raised his eyebrows and seductively uttered, "Playing footsies already, are we?"

And in case my polite I'm-just-not-that-interested-dude-vibe wasn't strong enough. Following is the scene as we left the restaurant (eating dinner, by the way, happened to be his only big plan for the evening) to go for a drive which I said I didn't really want to go on (I know better, but my pity somehow kicked in)...

BS ("Brussels Sprouts" and/or "Big Salad"): Brrrr, it is kind of cold out, are you cold without a coat on?

Me: Yep, it is kind of chilly.

BS: Well...(cue awkward reach around my shoulder...and not that I have anything against short people, but let me just say he had to reach UP)

Me: (step aside...sometimes non-verbal says it all)

BS: Oh, not comfortable with the physical touch, are we?

Me: Not really.

BS: Well, you never know. Some people have issues with that kind of thing.

Me: (in my mind) No, some people have issues in their ability to read the please do not touch me vibe.

So we go on our drive (with him singing to the too-loud radio) to look at a townhouse that he probably isn't going to buy because it is too far from his parents' house, but he looked at it and so he thought that was a great place to drive to (random?). And by then I'd given up trying to be polite. Frankly, I just wanted to leave. But I was trapped in his car, listening to him vent about living with his parents.

Finally the date ended, he returned me to my car and drove off into the sunset.

And me? I came home and ate the rest of my salad.

Chris Farley Reincarnate

I know, I know, I've already posted something today. But have you seen this? I can't stop laughing.