Full moon = Full on crazy.
I should’ve seen it coming when I noticed a few wasps in my living room. They were dazed and confused, but seemed to have come out of nowhere.
Or, I should’ve realized crazy was the theme today when I noticed a spider crawling on the top of my shower curtain. I jumped out naked and nervously turned off the faucet. Grabbing my towel and my robe, I sloshed to the spare bathroom to shower there – all the while afraid that I had baby spiders living in my shampoo, loofa sponge, or face wash.
Crazy started at about 8:15 a.m. when I arrived to work (a solid 15 minutes later than usual due to the spider incident above mentioned). I “hit the ground running” feeling scattered and underprepared, though I had spent a good portion of the previous day writing lesson plans and grading.
Crazy was on the rise when I asked a mouthy sophomore girl to step out into the hallway because she was being spiteful and rude. A few minutes later, after getting my other students on task, I stepped outside to talk to her. She was nowhere to be found. A few emails and twenty minutes later, I found she had taken herself to the Assistant Principal’s office and tried to “tattle” on me for kicking her out of class. Later, she came to me to ask me for notes, and challenged me on why she got a zero and an absence in my class. She couldn’t understand that what she did was skip class, nor did she think it was fair or right when I explained to her that she was responsible for the makeup work in class.
Crazy came to a boil when, at hall duty, another “classy” young lady decided to challenge my authority. I asked her to stay in the cafeteria and to close the door. She “told on me” to her friends, who all turned and taunted and made faces. Classy got right up to the glass door, did some wild, taunting hand gestures, looked me in the eye, smiled a rebellious smile and said, “What ya gonna do about it bitch?” What I did was march her ass to the Assistant Principal’s office. Classy back-tracked her story and said that she was just singing and dancing with her friends. It still didn’t get her out of a day of In-School-Detention, but I commend her on her blatant, ridiculous lie she told with laughter in her voice and stupidity in her heart.
7th hour rolled around and I had to explain myself at least 3 times in 3 different ways and hand out worksheets that they either lost or threw away last week. Once I had them in the English Writing Lab, I had to make them log off their computers and march their asses back to class just because blank Word Documents were on the screen. No one could shut up long enough to hear me say, “I mean it. Let’s go,” until one meek and mild girl finally stood up and pushed her chair in and walked to the door. Twenty more minutes of cracking the whip and ripping out sheets of paper from my own notebook to give to students with no material, and I was beat. Crazy was knocking at my doorstep, and I finally decided to let her in. I sat and stared out the windows of my classroom listening to a police siren and watching dark clouds blot out the sun.
Once I finally got a chance to gather my stuff, I realized I had left my flashdrive in my other classroom, 3 flights down. I shoved my papers and books in my bookbag, wrapped my purse around my arm, shoved my keys in my pocket, and grabbed my sweater from the chair. I huffed and puffed down the stairs, and as I was rounding the corner, my clickity-clackity cute flats slid across the slick concrete floor. My left ankle gave way and down I went -kersplat! My bookbag knocked into my hip, but softened my landing. I got up saying “Dangit” (surprising for me), but was thinking “Holyhell, sonofabitch, muthafucker that hurt”. Luckily “Dangit” came out first because two doe-eyed teenaged girls were standing there asking me, “Are you all right?”
I limped to my car after getting my flash drive from the other room. I called my friend Mary, told her briefly about my crazy day, and agreed to meet her for dinner in South City St. Louis. I had to take an alternate route to get on the interstate when a traffic jam caused by a traffic accident was blocking my path ahead. A shoeless woman with a cut on her knee waddled by me as I turned my car around. Then, three police cars and an ambulance screeched by me, as I inched my way towards the interstate.
Once in St. Louis, as I was turning onto Grand, Mary called and said that she could feel the crazy vibe while still in her car. She said she went to turn down her car’s radio but realized the blaring was from a house nearby. We should’ve known that crazy was in full swing just from the noisy, raucous traffic driving by too quickly as we sat outside at the cafe trying to have an intelligent conversation.
Each of our Crazy was competing for attention causing us to get distracted, lose our train of thoughts, drop our food out of our mouths as we talked, and break eye contact whenever a fire truck with flashing lights and blaring sirens raced by or a police helicopter flew above the buildings.
We gave each other a hug and said goodbye, and I thought my crazy day had finally had a positive ending to it: I got to see my friend and hang out with her even though it meant wading through the crazy to get to that point. Little did I know that I would wind up sitting over a half an hour in construction only because crazy drivers flew by me on the shoulder and the left lane trying to squeeze in to the one open lane.
After arriving home and letting my dog do his thing, I went inside to change in my pajamas. Just then a wasp flew by me. I ran upstairs, nervous and a bit hysterical. I finally calmed down and changed into comfy sweats and a t-shirt. Now, I’m thinking I need to drink a mug of hot cocoa, prop my semi-swollen ankle up on some pillows, and pray to God that the Crazies don’t find me in my sleep.