I cried wolf with the candy. On two (two!) separate occasions earlier this month I picked up candy “for the kids.” Yeah, because everyone in line with a bag of Milky Ways on October fourth is “just planning ahead.” So then today when I needed candy for the actual kids, I felt compelled to go to a different store than my regular neighborhood CVS, lest the glassy-eyed, near catatonic cashiers figure me out. They haven’t spoken a word or made eye contact with anyone in the past eight months, but somehow I thought they’d leap over the counter and check me into a sugar binging clinic.
I bought Starburst, which is glorified rubber to me, but I’m not really motivated to hand it out tonight. I spend all day with kids who beg me for candy today and every other day of the year, why bring my work home with me? Oh, the power of sugar. In grad school they teach you that what kids crave the most is praise and discipline, but it’s really watermelon Dum-Dums and gummy worms.
The most disturbing thing that I witnessed today wasn’t the bipolar second grader who dressed as a ghost but insisted that he was actually an evil marshmallow, or the little Muslim kindergartener who didn’t have a costume because her family doesn’t believe in Halloween and after dismissal sobbed inconsolably into her mom’s burka. No, what rattled me the most was some teacher assistant who blew by me as I was mid-conversation with someone else, screeching about how I should have dressed up as a maneater. I only half heard her.
“What? An anteater?”
“A MANeater. Wouldn’t THAT have been appropriate? Ha ha ha!”
I smiled politely. “Ha ha ha.”
“Come on, that would be the PERFECT costume for you! Watch out, she’s a maneater! Ha ha ha!”
Uh. Yeah. I’ve had maybe two conversations with this woman, both of which were probably about the weather. I’m kind of used to the decrepit, macrame sweater-wearing teacher assistants assuming I’m a vixen because I’m single, but come on. I don’t assume you’re a sexless troll because you married a Wal-Mart stockboy with BO when you were 19. Well, actually.
I make a special effort to keep my true hoodlum self under wraps when I’m on the job. I don’t put on a sparkly tank top and shake my moneymaker to Ayo Technology while walking down the hall. (Although I want to. I love that song!) The only time I let the professional facade slide is when I’m with my work friends, but that’s only at the end of the day when we close the door to debrief and let out all the pent-up swearing. We can only spell curse words until we teach the kids to read, although one of my coworkers is the quickest draw you’ve ever seen when it comes to “M-O-T-H-E-R-F-U-C-K-E-R.”
So, given my angelic work self, why do I ever get comments? Maneater Lady is just another feathered hair oldster who will say to me on a Wednesday, eyebrow arched, “So, RED! What did YOU do last night?” as though I hosted an orgy instead of balancing my checkbook. (Okay, if given the choice between the two I’m probably more likely to do the former.)
Incidentally, one time I spent an entire game at Fenway with friends determining what my at bat song would be. I finally settled on Maneater (by Hall & Oates, not the Nelly Furtado version, because I’m 90), but only provided that I was the star closing pitcher, and they’d play it as I jogged to the mound to thunderous applause and sighs of relief. The lyrics are very fitting for that situation. “She’ll only come out at night…”
Apparently it’s not just a baseball thing. My elderly coworkers would advise you to watch out, boys. I’ll chew you up.
Yeah, so anyway... 