The Little Old Lady Who Lives in My Brain

A few weeks ago I had the pleasure of taking an extremely long subway ride with a lovely lady by the name of Bobbie (and…of course that was her name, there is no other name she could be) who started every sentence with, “So I says to Nancy, I says--Nancy that’s my boss, that’s Nancy--so I says to Nancy, I says…” and then she said whatever she said to Nancy, she said. She, apparently, said a lot of things to Nancy. And she said a lot of things to Nancy, she said, about those gosh darned Democrats and about how they keep calling to complain about this ad that they say is a baldfaced lie and she said to Nancy, she said, ‘Do they know it’s a baldfaced lie or not, have they read the research? Do they know it’s a lie? Do they know for sure that it’s a baldfaced lie?”

I kind of think, if those gosh darned Democrats had just said the ad was a regular lie, I would have nothing to write about right now. It was the baldfaced part that seemed to rub Bobbie just the wrong way and kept her from ever, ever stopping with the talking.

The point though? About Bobbie? Is that I’m OBSESSED with her. I’ll likely never see her itty bitty little frame in her hot pink terrycloth jumpsuit, her bleached “kicky” haircut, and her gigantic glasses ever again but a little part of her? Lives in my heart. The part that is super mean. A bigger part of her though, lives in my brain. And ever since that day? I have started almost every thought in my itty bitty little brain with, “So I says to ______, I says.” For example:

So I says to Paul McCartney and Heather Mills, I says, did you ever think that you all are getting divorced because you are both annoying as fuck?

So I says to the show “Alias,” I says, I have no interest in you. Just go. And put something vaguely interesting on in your place, because you are at best? Dull.

So I says to the show, “Grey’s Anatomy,” I says, I know my sister has more than put you in your place but godDAMN you are the worst show on television. Of course women can’t be good doctors! They only want men. They only play doctor till the big boy doctor pays attention to them, or sleeps with them in an empty room, and then they are truly happy because they never wanted to be a doctor. They only wanted a boyfriend! I hate you. And not just because I hate Ellen Pompeo. I hate her because she just seems mean.

So I says to the guitar player of The Eagles, I says, so Bravo put your concert on TV, do you really think it’s a good idea to remind everyone that you’re just a bunch of whiny-voiced assholes by wearing a yellow construction hat and Hammer pants for no apparent reason? And nobody likes “Hotel California.” Shut up…I says.

So I says to MTV, I says, nobody, and I mean from the deepest part of my soul, NOBODY wants to watch another Road Rules/Real World Challenge. NOBODY! Aren’t all these people like 40?

So I says to the fucking bumps that are reappearing on my hands, I says, I will fucking burn you off before I will deal with you for the rest of my life. I suggest you deflate…now.

So I says to American Idol, I says, you make me very uncomfortable. When are you going to go away? When is Paula Abdul going to rehab? She could not even hold herself together on the Home Shopping Network (HSN) to sell her star-shaped jewelry!

So I says to you, I says, I prefer not to discuss why I know about Paula Abdul’s visit to HSN.

So I says to the people on Channel 4, I says, is it really that cool to ask people who you are warning that a TORNADO is soon to arrive at their abode to send any film or video of that tornado to you? Do you not think that could be a little, I don’t know, fucking dangerous?

So I says to that toenail fungus commercial or whatever the fuck that commercial with the yellow thing is for, I says, I will pull my toenails off myself before I use whatever the fuck you are selling to cure whatever the fuck might be wrong with them.
(That was a little gross, huh? Sorry. I think Bobbie has taken over my body because I appear to be full o’rage.)

So I says to myself, I says, why are you cussing so much today?

And then I says to myself, I says, I swear in ordinary conversation I do not talk like this but in my head I am basically waiting for the day when my grandchildren sit me out on the lawn with a poker visor, a webbed plastic chair, and some pink lemonade so that I can flip off the neighbors without fear of reprisal.

Later.

Why Don't I Know Anything?

I had an expensive, extensive education, where I had the opportunity to learn anything and everything I could possibly want to know. And what I learned is that I can write, I think fairly well (did you not see the fantastic and fascinating list I composed earlier this week? Genius). And I have more than your average aptitude for numbers. I’m smart enough to recognize people that mean me, and more often than not you, harm and I’m smart enough to pay some fucking attention when I finally meet a worthwhile and lovely boy. But what I never learned was what the hell had happened.

My knowledge of history and science is woefully inadequate. I vaguely can tell you whenabouts something happened and more often than not I can tell you who probably won a given war. Absolutely somebody walked on the moon and of course My Very Educated Mother Just Served Us Nine Pies…I think. But there is so much I don’t know it actually frightens me at times. And what I never figured out is how I missed out on knowing. Of course, I never did my homework. Ever. But I never did math or English homework either so that can’t entirely be why. What I think, however unfairly, is that the science and history teachers I came across early on were just not up to the job. I suspect that almost everyone in my graduating class from that school is just about as uninformed as I am. This is not a screed against teachers. (See? Screed? Smart.) I know a billion teachers and I am also smart enough to know that they will never be paid enough. They just won’t. Granted, they may not be able to handle the rigors of smiling widely like Julia Roberts does to earn her $20 million a movie, but they deserve a little more dough.

But my specific teachers? In elementary school? Well, one told me that my grandchildren would have gills. (“How’s Nemo?” “Cute, Mom, but how do we get him to stop picking his fins?”) The one thing I learned from a certain social studies was that the Firth of Forth, whatever that is, if that is even a thing, is in Scotland. I learned that because he made me stand in front of the entire class like an asshole and make like a hundred million guesses before he gave in and told me. “Come on, Erin. Firth? Hello? Scotland? You can sit down.” Dick.

I’m reading this book right now about John Wilkes Booth and his brother. Did you know they were actors? Famous ones? Both of them. I knew JWB was an actor, but I totally thought he was a shitty one. I thought he was Kyle from the Real World Chicago who is taking the world by storm as Philip on Days of Our Lives, the dumbest hammer on record. There is all this information about the Civil War in there, most of which I respond to with, “Huh?...huh.” Because I have no idea what happened. I went to Gettysburg, but all I remember is the bus ride. It was long. I’m also getting ready to read a book about how drinks, such as tea and soda, shaped history, and another about Booth and still another about e.e. cummings and then when I’m finally done, I’m going to read a bunch of books about LBJ and then track down something that will teach me any kind of something about this planet, or the other ones. And then I absolutely have to track some books about Vietnam and World War I and II and the Korean War because if there is anything I know nothing about, it is what caused these wars.

Perhaps, you’re thinking, I just didn’t have the “head” for history and science. To which I would say, no expression has done the children of this country a greater disservice than that one. I read a brilliant article in library school that proved, basically (this could not be more boiled down if it was, you know, something very boiled) that girls who are exposed to nonfiction books at an early age are more likely than other girls to score high on math and science tests. That is mindblowing to me. One extra click at Barnes and Noble or Amazon and your daughter has hopped one more fence keeping her from her fine lab coat. How many more easy things could we be doing? There are so many people, myself included, who just aren’t doing enough as they should be to knock those fences down altogether for girls and boys, especially the poor ones. I see so much wasted intelligence on a daily basis that it is disheartening.

Today, one of the schools that I should be serving learned that it will close at the end of this school year. And it is in a dilapidated building in a kind of shady neighborhood and absolutely there are valid reasons why it should close. Except. And this is the thing that no one will know because it IS in a shady neighborhood and it DOES serve kids that you cannot help but want to look away from and there are richer and poorer schools closing. The Except is: this is the only exclusively special education school in the neighborhood where I work. And that is why it is so expensive to operate and why it is hurting my heart a little bit that it is closing. Another school I serve has not had a librarian, or a library, for three years. Next year it will be four. Kids attend that school for seven years total. When those kids are my age, and realize they know nothing, it will not occur to them to look for a book to teach themselves unless I force myself on them now to an obnoxious degree and teach them how to do it. That could also be disheartening, or it could be a purpose. We shall see.

Nothing, really

So, you may be wondering why I have reappeared.

Some may think it’s because I have used so little of my brain lately it’s starting to leak out my ears. Some may think it’s because I have huge news to impart (I totally don’t, if you are part of that some, you should look away). But the truth is this. My sister has decided to try to outblog me, with not one, but two blogs that are better than mine and that just will not stand.

As some of you may know, my sisters and I are ultra-competitive. We MUST outdo each other and make the others feel small and little and also? Puny. We’re like those sisters in that movie where one plays one instrument (saxophone?) and one plays another (cymbals?) and the little mousy one gets famous and the more-talented-yet-also-more-evil one gets…drunk, and I think dead. That’s us! Hate and Bitter and Mean Stuff spewing whenever we get together!

Just kidding, of course! Although we do get drunk a lot.

My sisters and I are actually all the same person, born in different years with completely different hair. We are so similar we almost always say the exact same thing at the exact same time. In fact, if my other sister were to also get a blog, I can pretty much guarantee that one day the three of us would each post the exact same entry on the exact same day without even trying. That would be, of course, only if I update mine more than once every 5,000 days. But I’m going to. I promise! I do! I am not even lying! This time I mean, I am actually not lying.

To catch you up, though here’s a quick rundown of the months you have been without me.

Times I have fallen down: 4

Times I have cut my hair: 1 (I know! It was gross. I just can’t go that long again.)

Times I have had a pox…yes, a POX! Break out on my hands and feet: 1

Amount of time it took to recover from the pox…yes, a POX!: 3 weeks (I know! It was also gross.)

Times I have gone to the Bahamas: 1 (You should totally go. They have conch! Everywhere! It’s not that exciting, really, and it’s very chewy but isn’t it hard to find around here?)

Pairs of butterfly flip-flops purchased: 1 (So cute)

Other pairs of shoes purchased: 0 (Shameful.)

Times I spilled gasoline all over myself: 1 (I think that’s enough, don’t you?)

Times I hit my head on the wall in the shower: 1 (I think I have an inner ear disorder)

Times I have walked around the zoo for fun: 1

Times I have walked around the zoo for exercise: A lot. (And it isn’t fun. But I am hopeful that I am building a good enough relationship with some of the animals that should they escape, they will not snack on me. My sister assures me that this is unlikely and that instead they will probably come right for me. She’s nice.)

Number of jade necklaces I had lost almost a year ago found this week by my mother: 1

Number of times I had told myself, “This is why you cannot have nice things. Because you are irresponsible and you don’t put things away and that is why they get lost or broken so you canNOT buy that gold bird necklace because you do NOT deserve it!” when thinking about lost jade necklace: 4,870

Number of times it occurred to me I was possibly being a smidge too hard on myself: 1 (But then I quickly changed my mind because Erin, if you do not take better care of your things, you will have no more things because I will not buy them for you! Love, Erin)

Number of times I had secretly thought that my nieces and/or nephews had broken it and thrown it out so as to avoid getting in trouble: 1,297. (Except they ALWAYS either confess or out each other so that was an unlikely scenario.)

Number of times my refrigerator broke and needed to be replaced: 1 (And that is plenty, thank you.)

Number of days I have left work unable to feel my feet because the air conditioning is up too high: 3 and counting.

Number of times I have thought about eating macaroni and cheese in the last month: 1,443 (No reason, really, I just think about it a lot.)

See? Nothing. There is nothing going on here, but the real reason I am coming back to the blog and hopefully back to some normal brain function, because I seriously think mine is rotting, is that yesterday I spent 45 minutes reading a scrapbooking catalog. And I mean reading closely and critically and trying to figure out what a brad is and marveling at the eleventy hundred types of paper available and wondering if instead of ordering the variety pack of barbecue brads (that I still do not understand the purpose of) I can just order the ones shaped like grills. And that? Well…That just cannot happen again. And I'm not anti-scrapbook, it's just that if I start one more thing that involves bringing even one more piece of crap (or scrap...hee!) into my apartment, I will pop.