The oranges I am eating are making a mess of the table and keyboard keys. It is spitting juice everywhere.
Very messy. Very messy indeed.
School started for me and 749 of my friends just over three weeks ago. We've been in class learning a ton of stuff, and we've been spending the time between the classes learning the names of the other 749 people in the program.
On the first week I went out to Baxter's Place and learned the names of a whole bunch of people, one among them was Ross. Red hair, glasses, early twenty-something. I quickly made a crack about Rachel that, luckily, no one heard. At least no one told me right away that they had heard. A girl sitting next to me told me a few hours later that she had heard me say it.
Though that's important. Ross didn't react to the joke I shouldn't have made about a television that isn't topical humor anymore.
Two days later I spotted Ross sitting in the lunch room and I went over to say hi and perhaps try my Rachel joke again.
Turns out I had sat down across from not-Ross. Red hair, glasses, early twenty-something - and not-Ross.
Not-Ross just smirked, awkwardly and shook his head no. Eventually he told me his name, to which I replied with mine and in the process of doing so promptly forgot his.
Luckily another girl I had spoke with at Baxter's came up and recognized him from a class of hers. While they talked I sat messily eating my orange.
Red hair, glasses, twenty-something, goes by the name of Dan.
I can never call them by name though. I see each of them in the halls still but there isn't a chance I'll be caught dead calling not-Ross by the wrong name again. I can't take the chance of messing up not-Dan either.
Remembering names isn't so hard, it's remembering who to call what name that is much, much harder.
Saturday, September 25
Friday, September 10
A bit too much bit
Today in class a teacher teacher read from a book called “Thank you Mr. Falker” which I snickered a bit because it reminded me of a couple of movies from a couple of years ago that played on a similar name.
As far as the movies went, I could have done without the play on swear words. I get it, they have an ironic name that does nothing to advance the story, and your son has an even more unfortunate first name that, again, does nothing for the story.
As far as the book goes, it turned out the name simply represented a particular young teacher who made a difference to a particular little girl who turned out to be the author of the book my teacher teacher read from.
By the end I was tearing up a bit. Not in a way that I put too much salt in the macaroni one time for H when she was little and we ate ice cream instead, but in a way that a bit of a hug can make the worst of a day the best day ever.
I was tearing up a bit, but not because it hit close to home, although it did, and not because it was the end of a long day, although it was, and not because I knew I would come home to a parking ticket that was a bit too expense, because I didn’t.
It was because it was the last class on the last day of the first week I realized that I have found something that I could absolutely be happy doing for the rest of my life.
It was also because the author who had been teased because she learned to read a little bit later than the rest of her class had become an author of stories about children that made eyes teary on grownup boys.
I think the girl sitting next to me, who shares Slice’s middle name except uses it as her first, might have felt nearly the same because she was the same little bit choked up as I was teared up.
The teacher teacher sent us on our merry way to find a children’s book of our own to share with the class which was fair to do because all I can think about it Mr. Falker.
Falk. Now what do I do?
As far as the movies went, I could have done without the play on swear words. I get it, they have an ironic name that does nothing to advance the story, and your son has an even more unfortunate first name that, again, does nothing for the story.
As far as the book goes, it turned out the name simply represented a particular young teacher who made a difference to a particular little girl who turned out to be the author of the book my teacher teacher read from.
By the end I was tearing up a bit. Not in a way that I put too much salt in the macaroni one time for H when she was little and we ate ice cream instead, but in a way that a bit of a hug can make the worst of a day the best day ever.
I was tearing up a bit, but not because it hit close to home, although it did, and not because it was the end of a long day, although it was, and not because I knew I would come home to a parking ticket that was a bit too expense, because I didn’t.
It was because it was the last class on the last day of the first week I realized that I have found something that I could absolutely be happy doing for the rest of my life.
It was also because the author who had been teased because she learned to read a little bit later than the rest of her class had become an author of stories about children that made eyes teary on grownup boys.
I think the girl sitting next to me, who shares Slice’s middle name except uses it as her first, might have felt nearly the same because she was the same little bit choked up as I was teared up.
The teacher teacher sent us on our merry way to find a children’s book of our own to share with the class which was fair to do because all I can think about it Mr. Falker.
Falk. Now what do I do?
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