Monday, June 19, 2006

I Like 'em BIG.

Over the weekend I attended a shower with Harry - the bride registered at Macy's and the groom at Sears (power tools!). The entire event was catered by my seventh grade teachers which made me nervous to no end. Should I have looked down and noticed that I was, in fact, wearing acid wash jeans with surfer boy patches - I would not be surprised that my worst nightmare was coming true.

The groom's mom, my seventh grade math teacher, frightened me so bad in my youth that I worried she would turn me inside out for not knowing what 7 x 6 equaled. Her friend, the health teacher warped me for life after proclaiming, during the dreaded "SEX ED" lesson, that the "anus was where gay men have sexual intercourse" and then slapping the diagram of the psuedo-endowed sketch. Another in attendance was my science teacher, a subject I only excelled at when copying vocabulary words straight from the back of the book. She made me dissect a frog. 'Nuff said. And finally, my homeroom teacher - whom I adored and who, upon seeing me, had no clue who I was. I made such an impression on her in my youth, that I was nonexistent in her memory.

I visited with them and reminisced over the old school and old teachers and old memories and, for some reason, I felt the need to continually compliment them on the food they had provided for the shindig.

"I LOVED the big hot dogs!" I'd exclaim.

"Those BIG hot dogs were great!" I'd squeal.

"I'm gonna have to get me some of those BIG OL' hot dogs," at this point - the phrase "big hot dog" should've been stricken from my word usage. I should not be allowed to use that combination of words ever again. But I did.

Repeatedly. It got so bad that Harry would visibly flinch when they would fall out of my mouth and land, dead, on the heated pavement beneath our feet.

I blame the heat for my lack of charm - it was 90 degrees and sweltering and we were hanging out in a garage - eating big hot dogs and talking to retired teachers and police officers.

And now, as I groggily type away, I wonder about my dear hubby, thousands of feet in the air in a big tube hurling towards Texas - hope he's okay, hope he's happy, hope he's missing me, hope he'll bring me back something Texas-y - like a big cowboy hat or a flat of land with an oil well on it...



tenyearnap said...

My Junior High Sex Ed. teacher was a recently-retired Marine Staff Sgt. who didn't seem to know that we kids were not his new recruits for "the 'Nam". He was HUGE and still had Marine-hair. He yelled a lot. I remember him breaking a window and using a friend's brother's body to break it! (I am NOT kidding.)

I didn't have sex until I was 19 and even then I was scared that Sgt. Yoslavsky would find out and yell at me.

dpoem said...

Glad you enjoyed the big hot dogs.  

My sex-ed teacher also taught drivers' ed, and he was a raging drunk and once gave us an hour-long lecture on the hazards of getting plastered and picking up ugly people in bars and waking up with crabs.  

After that, in drivers' ed, he spent a while explaining the importance of eating an English muffin with lots of butter before going out and drinking so we won't get too smashed.  However, if we forgot to eat an English muffin before our teenage binge-drinking, he gave us a long list of excuses that apparently worked for him.  For example:

"When the cops ask you why your eyes are so red, tell them that you were crying because you just broke up with your boyfriend or girlfriend.  And, if they ask you why you smell funny, tell them that during the breakup, your drunk boyfriend or girlfriend threw up on you."  

I think he might be in jail now, but I'm not sure.