Saturday, November 17, 2012

Fuck White People

It had been a rough couple of weeks.  Poor Lola looked butchered, violent looking staples running up her belly, the incision stained by iodine.  She couldn't run outside or play with other dogs.  My foot was broken anyway and I couldn't run outside or play with other dogs either.   Lola recovered quicker than I did, staring wistfully out the window before getting excited and pounding forcefully on the glass with her front paw-hands.  She would whimper.  It was horrible.

I took her to the vet right at the two week mark to get the staples removed.  Two 200 pound plus vet techs were assigned to my dog.  I was in there too.  At first, they tried to stand her up, holding her under her arms while the other came at her staples with some awful plier looking things.  Instead of barking and biting at the techs as any dog would do in that situation, especially a sixty-five pound, eight month old Pit Bull, Lola's ass started wagging back and forth, tail whipping as she stretched up and licked the tech's face that held her under her arms.  Eventually, she wrestled the other tech with the pliers to the ground as I tried to hold her still.  While the three of us laid sprawled on the floor, Lola pinning one of the techs to the ground and licking him, starting at the chin and over his bald scalp, butt and tail swinging wildly from side to side,  I suddenly imagined a bird's eye view of the situation and started laughing.   

Lola was free and ship shape again.  I was two weeks in to the four weeks I had to wear a cast before getting my foot X-raid again. 

I had taken her out to pee, just days before robbed uteri and broken feet had attacked us.  An Atlanta Public Schools bus drove by, kids hanging from the windows.  Probably middle school, I guessed.  Two little girls pointed at Lola.
"Look at that dog...." one breathed.
"It's cute...."
I smiled at them.
"FUCK WHITE PEOPLE!" a boy interjected, shoving his head through the window of the admiring girls.

"I wanted to contact you because I am concerned with Paul's performance in Spanish." I began, typing my usual introduction to a parent whose kid acts like a shitbag.
"He consistently has his head down and I have to ask him repeatedly to take his headphones off.  He is only passing the class by a point." I continued.
The parent's emailed resonse came almost imediately.
"We need to meet" it stated forcefully.
Great, I thought.  I knew who was going to be in trouble, and it wasn't Paul.  

I had been given three more weeks in the cast.  I was disappointed.  I had been totally counting on four weeks and then moving to an ugly shoe.  But no.

"Should I be like, sitting down whenever I can?" I asked my doctor.
"Well, yeah...," he replied, thinking, "don't you at school?".
"No, I mean, I float between three classrooms.  I move with the kids, I have to go up and down stairs....".
"YES" he responded.
"After all of that, you need to sit down the rest of the day".
Fuck me.  And fuck my a-hole school.

I checked my email.  I had suggested a time to Paul's mom and again, received an immediate response:

Wednesday at 4 pm will be fine.
Paul knows that I am not
playing with his education.

I felt a smile spreading across my face. She might be a little different than I expected.

I walked through my neighbor's house, headed straight for the bird room.  The giant birds that had been friendly the night before were acting strangely.  Actually, they scared me.  As I replenished their water and gave them kibble and nuts, I felt them biting my clothes.  One attacked my hair.  Two of them shrunk down and ran toward me, big-ass beaks wide open.  I tried talking to them.  These fucking things normally can talk back.  They didn't.  I gave them their food and ran out.  

"Hi, I'm Hadley!" the chipper, cute girl on my porch stated in introduction.  I had already introduced myself in the same manner, shaking her hand.
She wore short jogging shorts, showing off her muscled, spray tanned legs, though it was chilly outside.  She had on a long-sleeved running jacket, her face completely made up and hair in a high ponytail.    She was petite, yet buff and strong.
"I just moved here from California!" she stated, hugging and kissing Lola.
"I work with the athletic dogs!".

Perfect.  She would look great next to Lola, tearing through the park until my foot heals. 

Lola's my princess.  She deserves only the best. 

Wednesday, November 7, 2012


"I'll be back in ONE minute." I said, clutching Lola's face in my hands and kissing her on the side of her mouth-snout.

I ran into the beer store.  The homeless Rasta man was there again, but this time, he had a friend.  Something was up.  The friend was screaming at my brown-friend guy that works the store, waving the daily shit-ass Atlanta newspaper in his face.

"You vote Romney, right?!" he yelled, waving the 'Obama Wins' cover story in his face.
I went and got my beer and cautiously returned to the line.  The original Rasta man clubbed me forecefully on the shoulder, moving me ahead of him.
"Mama, you can go ahead."
"Did you see what he did?" Rasta asked me.
"I didn't see anything." I said, averting my eyes.  
"You vote India!" his friend screamed, waving the Obama page in his face.
"I'm South African!" Rasta-junior continued.
"I'm gonna come back here and shoot you!  Keep callin' those police!".
"Um, you're up," I told Rasta, "you've been here longer than me."
"Shut yo' mouth" Rasta instructed Rasta-junior.  

I paid for my beer, widening my eyes at the other brown-man friend I know that works behind the plexiglass.

I pulled my phone out as soon as I got in the car.  Lola was crawling on me.  I hid the phone beneath her, worried that the Rastas would see that I helped my brown men by re-calling the police.  I felt like I should have spoken up to them, to the Rastas.  These poor Indian/Paki/Middle Eastern whatever ass brown dudes were not their enemy.  But I am a cowardly female.  I just bought my beer.

I saw the police pulling up as I hid my phone under Lola.  I watched.  I wanted to tell the cop that Rasta Jr. had mentioned shooting my brown bro.  The Rastas charged the cop, my brown bro following quickly behind.  The cop shooed the Rastas away, just go away silly homeless fucks.  My brown-bro was exasperated, pleading with the cop. 
'Ridiculous,' I could imagine him saying, 'you don't know what just happened here.  They were screaming at me.  They threatened to kill me.  It's not right....'.

I took a right out of the gas station and drove home.  Lola crawled all over me, licking my face, jumping on my lap.

Though I didn't deserve it.  

Saturday, November 3, 2012

All Saints

I looked at my increasingly hostile, first period class.  The pale, visibly shaking girl was actually at school that day.  Despite her heavy load of medication, her dark eyes continued to glare at me while her body palpitated.  Her friend had made it for her one day of attendance a week as well.  They were usually together. 

"We'll quit talking and pay attention," the friend implored, "just don't make me sit somewhere with people behind me.  It makes me very uncomfortable." 

The athlete that had been expelled last year for robbing half of the student body entered the room well after the bell had rung, calling to other students and cackling jovially with his friends.  He stood laughing and talking with no intention of sitting down.  When I told him to get a late pass, he got in my face, then threw the pass on the floor in front of me. 

My OCD brat balanced with his stomach on the seat of a chair, arms on the ground and legs extended into the air.

 A third pale girl that sat with the shakers turned her head.  I saw that she was crying again. 

"Don't LOOK at me!" she said abruptly and left the classroom. 

I asked the smart girl to change seats so that she would quit talking.  She stood up defiantly, hitting me in the shoulder with her shoulder as she walked past me... the way guys do when they want to fight. 

"Did you see that!!!!" the athlete screamed, laughing loudly.

My Ethiopian special ed. kid balanced on the back legs of his chair, sans pencil, paper or any other type of provision.  He hadn't put pen to paper in weeks.  I was getting a lot of pressure over his failing grade.  The parapro assigned to him sat off to the side, engrossed in his Kindle.  He glanced up at the board for a second.

"I think you spelled 'roto' wrong." he informed me.  I hadn't.  He went back to reading. 

No, I do not work in an insane asylum.  Just an ordinary high school.

"My dog Gus is dead."

The text startled me.  I was riding in Alec's car, on the way to a going away party.  It was from my ten year old dog whisperer, Warren.  I hadn't received a text from him in about six weeks.

I sat on my sister's front steps, handing out candy when I spotted Emily.  She was wearing a puffy muscled Batman suit without a mask, her head poking out curiously. 
"Emily, it's me, I used to be your Spanish teacher." I said, fearful that shouldn't recognize me in costume or worse, remember me at all.
"Welcome back!"  she loudly and clearly.

I grabbed her and hugged her, not ever wanting to let go.