I quite simply have nothing to say. It's been a week since I last blogged here, and I don't have a single new thing to contribute to the blogosphere.
I will, therefore, exercise a level of restraint too often missing in today's society: I'll just be quiet, and refrain from adding to the meaningless noise of the Internet.
I hope I'll have something more to say soon.
4 comments:
How about this: I go to play softball, looking kind of like Violet in Willy Wonka after she eats the gum, and this young guy standing there bundled in the cold from the last game shrieks, "Holy S---! I know you! You're Ms Cornelius! MAN! I had you in 7th grade!!! Do you remember me????"
I'm hoping to God he's not some former ratfink kid I had to write up who is waiting to coldcock me with a softball bat for the years of therapy he had to undergo because of my treatment of him. Now, he's got a pound of facial hair and golden spiky things in his hair and a hoodie on. He has the mien of many a young lad I've shepherded through middle school through a judicious mixture of noogies and demands to think, but I dunno... He certainly didn't look like that at 12.
Luckily, he let me off the hook and told me his name, and we reminisced. It was cute. He then yelled at two of his teammates to come over, and they had know me at the middle school too. His dad even hugged me, much to my shock. He even insisted I have one of his team T-shirts because it would get me free beer at the restaurant who sponsors his team (what a thoughtful gift!).
Ever had that happen?
I can go one better: It's parent/teacher conference day, and after talking to about 75 sets of parents ("Oh, your child is doing OK, we just need to work on getting homework assignments in on time," and "He/She would do much better if he/she could just shut their f-ing yap in class!") several of us retired to our favorite watering hole.
After several hours of liquid refreshment, I'm chatting to a guy sitting nearby, and realize that I hadn't given my name. "By the way, my name is Mr. C.," says I.
"I know. You're my kid's history teacher!"
Not exactly what you want to hear when you're pushing a .2 BAC.
BTW: I did not drive home that night. My lovely and devoted spouse picked my sorry rear-end up.
Yes, that is so sucky. Ha! What an impression. Of course, that guy was in a bar, too.
Now, see? You wrote something.
Thanks for being my muse!
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