As I've mentioned in the past, I'm pretty adept at small talk. I'm confident I know what questions will be on the social gathering mid term, if you know what i mean.
All adults should be prepared with concise, perhaps cute, or at least interesting, answers to the following, because the answer to these questions guide the rest of the conversation, or stop it dead, depending on what you say:
1. At a gathering for a mutual friend: "How do you know so and so?" (oddly, i've heard second hand from only one person that white people, but not black people, ask this question. Can anybody dispel or support this claim?)
2. "Where are you from?"
3. "What do you do?"
Case in point, for all my fellow MFA poets out there, while in school, when asked question 3, we'd obviously say something along the lines of, "I'm in grad school." Not necessarily poetic, but clear and to the point.
And, since most of us know how to engage in polite small talk, the obvious next question would be: "Oh, what are you studying?"
To which we'd reply, "Creative writing. Poetry specifically."
And then the conversation could proceed in three likely ways (at least for me... I can no longer speak for every single grad student studying poetry):
1) The conversation dies because this person has no interest in talking with a person who goes to grad school for poetry,
2) the person asks if I'm a fan of poets I either do not care for, or more likely, have never read, making me looking quite stupid considering I'm going to grad school for this,
or, the most likely, 3) the person asks, "So what do you want to do with that degree?"
Because education is invariably tied to occupation. You study something, not because you are just interested in it, but because you could possibly make a living wage based on the knowledge/skill you gain in the subject. Sure, we'd all agree accounts payable might be interesting enough for the average person to read about on Wikipedia, but it's unlikely you'd pursue a degree in it just for the orgasmic high of a balanced ledger.
(honesty alert: i had a hard time writing that last sentence because i didn't know who I'd offend with which career I'd choose to highlight. I know nothing about accounts payable and apologize to anyone who feels a real passion for it and would do it for free).
Anyway, while I was still in school, it was easy to shrug off this question with an insouciant blow off:
No, an MFA won't help me get a job necessarily. But, I'm an artist and I'm more concerned with feeding my art than myself.
But when the student loans stop coming in, you realize, shit, that wasn't quite truthful was it? I'm actually very concerned with feeding and drinking myself. I'd shoot my art in the throat for an Italian hero, post degree.
So yes, I still get that "What do you want to do with that degree?" question nowadays, especially as I'm still job hunting. But here's a question that took me more off guard, asked by an acquaintance with whom I've hung out many times:
"So... what are you qualified to do?"
Ummmm.... well, I guess all the things I was qualified to do before I got the MFA, except now I'd like a bit more money for it because I have to pay back student loans. Or actually, I might be a little less qualified nowadays because time has passed and I've forgotten things I used to know... but, yes, I'd still like to be paid at a Master level, please.
Among the many things for which a grad degree in poetry does NOT qualify me to do (along with neurosurgery, semi-pro lacrosse, and cosmetology) you can add "passing the Oregon State driver's knowledge test."
***
Whenever I move to a new place, there's about an eight day window of productivity for me. It's the time when I'm still fresh, still new, and willing to unpack and organize my room, meet neighbors, help the homeless, set up a new daily routine, and generally get settled and become part of my new community.
So enthusiastic and eager was I when I moved back to Portland last month, that on my second day in the city, I braved the DMV to get my license, title, and registration all switched over. I had two proofs of ID, three proofs of address, and my DNA sequence and blood type all handy and ready to go.
Everything seemed to be going way too easy. The lines were short, the forms were simple, and all my documents were sufficient, miraculously. I was being helped by an Asian dude who was all laid back and seemed to love being at the DMV. You could definitely see him being the smart ass, but lovable, partner in a buddy/cop movie, or the smart-ass, but lovable, roommate in a buddy/cop sitcom.
Then, as he was finishing up my title and registration, said, "Okay, my man. All you need to do now is take the Driver's Knowledge test and you can get your license."
I was not expecting that. "Ummm... so what happens if I fail?"
"Man! You gotta think positively!"
Well if this DMV fella I just met believes in me, I guess it can't be that hard, right? I mean, he doesn't seem too nervous about it. And, c'mon now, I had just driven across the entire country, and at least a third of the way, I was pretty much asleep. So I felt confident I knew the rules of the road.
Apparently not. After paying a $5 testing fee, I sat at a computer where I'm sure dozens of 16 year olds sat all day before me and had taken the same test and passed. So many questions, and so much uncertainty. Can a Class C license allow me to drive a fire truck? How far behind an intersection can i park? If I have a green light, but see a man with a cane at the corner, should I still go?
No practical real world questions for me to answer, like "How do you eat corn on the cob while changing lanes on the freeway," or "How do you give a douchebag the finger with your toes?"
I got a little more nervous with each wrong answer, but still that Asian DMV guy seemed completely unconcerned, so I assumed I'd done enough to pass. Right? Again, apparently not.
"Aww, you failed? What happened?" he asked when I came back to the counter with my failing score.
What happened?! You fucking gave me false confidence in myself. Thanks Asshole for the worst test prep coaching in history and taking my $5 testing fee without first perhaps suggesting, "hey you know people do fail this test, so maybe you should grab one of those free DMV manuals, read it over, and come back when you're ready."
It took me quite a while to finally pick up the DMV manual and read it through (it was past my 8 day window of productivity... same thing with finding a real bed, so it's likely I'll be sleeping on a mattress on the floor for the rest of my life in Portland), but I eventually read the whole thing. I returned to the DMV, and while still not perfect, received a good enough score to be granted driving privileges in the great state of Oregon. The same Asian dude was there again, but he had clearly forgotten me because he just sees $5 bills instead of people's faces.
So, even with the very pragmatic Master of Poetry degree in my pocket, there are still things to learn, including how to drive safely. Coincidentally, as I left the DMV, i actually saw a blind man crossing the street, but worry not friends. Thanks to my diligent study, I remembered to let up on the gas, apply the brake gently, and NOT hit the man. Now that's knowledge you can use in real life.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Friday, June 24, 2011
education
My first memory of being absolutely wrong about everything in the world:
I was maybe four of five and had just learned how to add at day care.
Johnny has two apples, Alice has three... No problem.
Never again would I be caught slack jawed, blindly guessing at the total produce in the possession of friends and acquaintances. I had just acquired the gift of certainty.
As my dad was driving me home, I stared out the car window flush with the wondrous realization that I had pretty much learned everything I would ever be taught. Sure, I knew there were some things I'd learn later, like multiplication once I got to fourth grade, but other than that, I had pretty much learned the last thing I really needed in life.
Later that day, in the garage, i was dribbling a basketball since, remember, I'd accomplished all the education I'd ever need, so I deserved a little R & R. But my dad came in and told me I was doing it wrong. I was slapping at the ball with my palm instead of pushing it lightly with my fingers. As I tried it his way, it dawned on me that, perhaps, there really was more to learn past pre-school.
Twenty five years later, I went to grad school because I believed there was more to learn past pre-school and high school and college. And if I learned anything during my MFA, it was how much I still need to learn regardless of what degrees i accumulate. Also, my dribbling is no better than when my dad first taught me. That's probably not gonna get any better, even if I seek a PhD.
I was maybe four of five and had just learned how to add at day care.
Johnny has two apples, Alice has three... No problem.
Never again would I be caught slack jawed, blindly guessing at the total produce in the possession of friends and acquaintances. I had just acquired the gift of certainty.
As my dad was driving me home, I stared out the car window flush with the wondrous realization that I had pretty much learned everything I would ever be taught. Sure, I knew there were some things I'd learn later, like multiplication once I got to fourth grade, but other than that, I had pretty much learned the last thing I really needed in life.
Later that day, in the garage, i was dribbling a basketball since, remember, I'd accomplished all the education I'd ever need, so I deserved a little R & R. But my dad came in and told me I was doing it wrong. I was slapping at the ball with my palm instead of pushing it lightly with my fingers. As I tried it his way, it dawned on me that, perhaps, there really was more to learn past pre-school.
Twenty five years later, I went to grad school because I believed there was more to learn past pre-school and high school and college. And if I learned anything during my MFA, it was how much I still need to learn regardless of what degrees i accumulate. Also, my dribbling is no better than when my dad first taught me. That's probably not gonna get any better, even if I seek a PhD.
well...
... those last two years were pretty uneventful, huh? i mean, perhaps something happened at some point between Oct 2009 and now, but certainly nothing worth blogging about.
But I've got a good feeling about the latter half of 2011. It's ripe for bloggable moments. You know the old saying: "Red sky at night, sailor's delight. Red sky at morning, Armin starts blogging." So on with the show, without further explanation or apology for the extended absence...
Not buying it, huh? Do I really think I can disappear for two years and expect people to add me to their Bookmarks just because i felt like coming back? Dude, there's something called Twitter now that makes blogs look like Troglodytes. Who even has time to read full sentences with punctuation? (#straightupcretaceous)
Fair enough. There's no reason anyone should tune in, especially since I allowed this site to be overrun with comments by online pharmacists and purveyors of donkey porn. That's offensive to both real pharmacists who spend many years earning the right to peddle Cialis legally and to anyone who's nauseated by donkey porn (which, between the two categories, would encompass my entire readership, I hope).
And worst of all, it's not even like there's anything interesting going on in my life at this very moment that warrants blogging. Actually, the opposite is true: because I have absolutely nothing going for me at the present (out of school and unemployed) I have oodles of time to blog. My only other mental exertion is the word jumble i tackle while eating oatmeal each morning. My mind is atrophying rapidly and while I'm not a full blown vegetable yet (think summer squash, because it's delicious), my mental capacity can be gauged someplace between an incredibly precocious avocado and a decorative koi trained to respond to a dinner bell.
So, apologies to anyone who has periodically checked this site over the past two years, only to be disappointed by my complete negligence. And apologies in advance for the next time I bail out. At least by then, blogs will be as ancient as papyrus scrolls and Apple will have unveiled a new device that projects youtube videos directly to your soul. #welcomeback.
But I've got a good feeling about the latter half of 2011. It's ripe for bloggable moments. You know the old saying: "Red sky at night, sailor's delight. Red sky at morning, Armin starts blogging." So on with the show, without further explanation or apology for the extended absence...
Not buying it, huh? Do I really think I can disappear for two years and expect people to add me to their Bookmarks just because i felt like coming back? Dude, there's something called Twitter now that makes blogs look like Troglodytes. Who even has time to read full sentences with punctuation? (#straightupcretaceous)
Fair enough. There's no reason anyone should tune in, especially since I allowed this site to be overrun with comments by online pharmacists and purveyors of donkey porn. That's offensive to both real pharmacists who spend many years earning the right to peddle Cialis legally and to anyone who's nauseated by donkey porn (which, between the two categories, would encompass my entire readership, I hope).
And worst of all, it's not even like there's anything interesting going on in my life at this very moment that warrants blogging. Actually, the opposite is true: because I have absolutely nothing going for me at the present (out of school and unemployed) I have oodles of time to blog. My only other mental exertion is the word jumble i tackle while eating oatmeal each morning. My mind is atrophying rapidly and while I'm not a full blown vegetable yet (think summer squash, because it's delicious), my mental capacity can be gauged someplace between an incredibly precocious avocado and a decorative koi trained to respond to a dinner bell.
So, apologies to anyone who has periodically checked this site over the past two years, only to be disappointed by my complete negligence. And apologies in advance for the next time I bail out. At least by then, blogs will be as ancient as papyrus scrolls and Apple will have unveiled a new device that projects youtube videos directly to your soul. #welcomeback.
Monday, October 5, 2009
so sick
This is disturbing.
Every night I come home to my apartment and open the kitchen trash can.
Let me explain:
I moved into my Newark apartment a month ago. My roommates are perfectly pleasant and conscientious of common spaces (mostly because one seems to never leave his room and the other seems to never leave Manhattan), but if they have a vice, it would be their selective blindness toward a garbage can that has met capacity. Since neither cooks, they don't produce much garbage and probably aren't used to taking the trash out more regularly than the changing of the seasons.
One day, the garbage was full and my roommate, Dmitry, instead of taking the trash out, left the bag from his take-out dinner on the floor next to the trash can.
I am as curious as a kitten born into a world of yarn balls and crippled mice.
Naturally, as I assume everyone would do, I untied the plastic "Thank you for shopping" bag and peeled it back to reveal a paper bag within whose mouth I uncurled as quietly as possible (Dmitry's room is not far from the kitchen and the sound of my foraging). Inside was a styrofoam container which I placed on the counter. I pushed the tabs in and the lid popped open like the hood of a car.
My knees buckled. I suppressed a gasp.
Uneaten french fries! Dozens of them! And uneaten chicken skin! Sheets of the stuff: flabby, cold, salty, and tempting me with its calories.
I love chicken skin.
Armin the Kitten now learns that the yarn balls of his world are laced with catnip and the crippled mice have tiny bluefin tuna swimming in their bloodstream.
I stole away with my treasure so i could enjoy it privately in my room.
Ever since that day, I open the trash can hoping for the same luck. If i find what I'm looking for, I pull the styrofoam carton out, but put the paper bag back into the plastic bag and puff it out a bit before tying the whole thing shut so that it looks untouched and full. I'm well aware of the risk of my behavior. Not disease-wise. The risk that Dmitry will walk in on me with my hands in the garbage and my feet too giddy to keep still. it's as if a part of me wants to get caught with a mouthful of salty, cold fries in my mouth.
Also disturbing is the fact that I'm not even doing this out of hunger. Usually I'm coming back from my mom or sister's place having just had dinner and carrying leftovers for the week. And, if I really wanted half a chicken and french fries, I could walk four blocks down the road and buy my very own sytrofoam carton of it, hot, for $4.50 and tax. I have a sickness.
Last weekend, I took Dmitry out for dinner to celebrate his earning a PhD in math. He loves discussing all varieties of controversial topics and somehow the discussion strayed to gun ownership.
"A person has the right to stop a crime occuring against him on his property, even if that means using a gun," he said.
"Even if it's a non violent crime?" I ask.
"Yes. If a man is in your house carrying your TV away, how can he hurt you? His hands are tied holding your TV. But you have the right to shoot him to stop him."
"What if someone is on your property rummaging through your trash to steal your identity?"
"I believe as the law is written, the garbage is still your property until it is picked up by the sanitation department. So yes, that's a crime on your property and you should have the right to shoot him."
I paused. How much does he know? Are a couple handfuls of fries and chicken skin (and sometimes meat stuck to cartillage) worth getting shot?
I still peeked into the garbage last night, so I think we know my answer.
Every night I come home to my apartment and open the kitchen trash can.
Let me explain:
I moved into my Newark apartment a month ago. My roommates are perfectly pleasant and conscientious of common spaces (mostly because one seems to never leave his room and the other seems to never leave Manhattan), but if they have a vice, it would be their selective blindness toward a garbage can that has met capacity. Since neither cooks, they don't produce much garbage and probably aren't used to taking the trash out more regularly than the changing of the seasons.
One day, the garbage was full and my roommate, Dmitry, instead of taking the trash out, left the bag from his take-out dinner on the floor next to the trash can.
I am as curious as a kitten born into a world of yarn balls and crippled mice.
Naturally, as I assume everyone would do, I untied the plastic "Thank you for shopping" bag and peeled it back to reveal a paper bag within whose mouth I uncurled as quietly as possible (Dmitry's room is not far from the kitchen and the sound of my foraging). Inside was a styrofoam container which I placed on the counter. I pushed the tabs in and the lid popped open like the hood of a car.
My knees buckled. I suppressed a gasp.
Uneaten french fries! Dozens of them! And uneaten chicken skin! Sheets of the stuff: flabby, cold, salty, and tempting me with its calories.
I love chicken skin.
Armin the Kitten now learns that the yarn balls of his world are laced with catnip and the crippled mice have tiny bluefin tuna swimming in their bloodstream.
I stole away with my treasure so i could enjoy it privately in my room.
Ever since that day, I open the trash can hoping for the same luck. If i find what I'm looking for, I pull the styrofoam carton out, but put the paper bag back into the plastic bag and puff it out a bit before tying the whole thing shut so that it looks untouched and full. I'm well aware of the risk of my behavior. Not disease-wise. The risk that Dmitry will walk in on me with my hands in the garbage and my feet too giddy to keep still. it's as if a part of me wants to get caught with a mouthful of salty, cold fries in my mouth.
Also disturbing is the fact that I'm not even doing this out of hunger. Usually I'm coming back from my mom or sister's place having just had dinner and carrying leftovers for the week. And, if I really wanted half a chicken and french fries, I could walk four blocks down the road and buy my very own sytrofoam carton of it, hot, for $4.50 and tax. I have a sickness.
Last weekend, I took Dmitry out for dinner to celebrate his earning a PhD in math. He loves discussing all varieties of controversial topics and somehow the discussion strayed to gun ownership.
"A person has the right to stop a crime occuring against him on his property, even if that means using a gun," he said.
"Even if it's a non violent crime?" I ask.
"Yes. If a man is in your house carrying your TV away, how can he hurt you? His hands are tied holding your TV. But you have the right to shoot him to stop him."
"What if someone is on your property rummaging through your trash to steal your identity?"
"I believe as the law is written, the garbage is still your property until it is picked up by the sanitation department. So yes, that's a crime on your property and you should have the right to shoot him."
I paused. How much does he know? Are a couple handfuls of fries and chicken skin (and sometimes meat stuck to cartillage) worth getting shot?
I still peeked into the garbage last night, so I think we know my answer.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
post racial?
I recently took a trip to my local CVS to find an anniversary card to send to my girlfriend. I sifted through the displays, but unfortunately, most cards are now of the talking variety and while I love those weird green and purple creatures with the high voices that star in most of the Hallmark cards, they're not always the most appropriate for every occasion.
I live in a neighborhood heavily populated by Portuguese and Spanish speaking people, so there was a large selection of cards in Spanish. I don't think it was prejudiced of me to ignore that section. I wanted to pick a card I could read. However, my prejudice did become harder to defend when I got to the Mahogany section of the Hallmark brand. I found a card that showed a happy young black couple dancing. Jenny and I have gone dancing and enjoyed it. The couple seemed to be in our age range. There was nothing on the card that made it seem exclusive to a religion, culture, or way of life. It was just a happy, young black couple dancing with a background of jazzy colors. It seemed appropriate enough.
And, yet, I just couldn't picture sending it to her. There's no guarantee that if I saw a white version of this card, I'd be more inclined to get it. However, I'm sure that because they were black I was immediately less inclined.
I remember as a kid my mom and I went shopping to buy a birthday gift for my baby cousin. I watched a lot of TV back then and knew all the toys from the commercials. I was pointing out different dolls to my mom (this one can eat and afterward you can clean the poop out of its diaper; this one can suck its thumb and sing the chorus of "Hey Hey, We're the Monkees") and I pointed out a new doll that was all the rage. I don't remember what made it special. Maybe it got good gas mileage and doubled as an espresso machine. Anyway, my mom was appalled I'd even suggest it because the only one left at KMart was the black version.
At the time I could distinguish between race, but I just didn't see why it was a big deal, especially since we're not even white. It's not like Mattel makes a little Filipino doll that sells Chicklets on the street corner and rolls lumpia for holidays*.
*As a complete aside, does anyone else find it odd that the only picture I could find of children rolling lumpia turns out to be a picture of black kids?
Anyway, I guess as you grow older, you notice differences more. I ended up getting one of those cards that shows two little kids pretending to be adults. You know, the kind that has the four year old boy dressed in a suit and the girl gives him a kiss before he takes the train. Isn't a card that implies toddlers engaged in adult behavior and forced to grow up too fast much more disturbing than a card showing adult black people dancing?
I guess I know the answer based on my choice.
I live in a neighborhood heavily populated by Portuguese and Spanish speaking people, so there was a large selection of cards in Spanish. I don't think it was prejudiced of me to ignore that section. I wanted to pick a card I could read. However, my prejudice did become harder to defend when I got to the Mahogany section of the Hallmark brand. I found a card that showed a happy young black couple dancing. Jenny and I have gone dancing and enjoyed it. The couple seemed to be in our age range. There was nothing on the card that made it seem exclusive to a religion, culture, or way of life. It was just a happy, young black couple dancing with a background of jazzy colors. It seemed appropriate enough.
And, yet, I just couldn't picture sending it to her. There's no guarantee that if I saw a white version of this card, I'd be more inclined to get it. However, I'm sure that because they were black I was immediately less inclined.
I remember as a kid my mom and I went shopping to buy a birthday gift for my baby cousin. I watched a lot of TV back then and knew all the toys from the commercials. I was pointing out different dolls to my mom (this one can eat and afterward you can clean the poop out of its diaper; this one can suck its thumb and sing the chorus of "Hey Hey, We're the Monkees") and I pointed out a new doll that was all the rage. I don't remember what made it special. Maybe it got good gas mileage and doubled as an espresso machine. Anyway, my mom was appalled I'd even suggest it because the only one left at KMart was the black version.
At the time I could distinguish between race, but I just didn't see why it was a big deal, especially since we're not even white. It's not like Mattel makes a little Filipino doll that sells Chicklets on the street corner and rolls lumpia for holidays*.
*As a complete aside, does anyone else find it odd that the only picture I could find of children rolling lumpia turns out to be a picture of black kids?
Anyway, I guess as you grow older, you notice differences more. I ended up getting one of those cards that shows two little kids pretending to be adults. You know, the kind that has the four year old boy dressed in a suit and the girl gives him a kiss before he takes the train. Isn't a card that implies toddlers engaged in adult behavior and forced to grow up too fast much more disturbing than a card showing adult black people dancing?
I guess I know the answer based on my choice.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
worth sharing today
Here's a poem worth sharing today from one of my favorite writers, X.J. Kennedy.
"September Twelfth, 2001"
Maybe it's even more important to reflect today that it was yesterday.
"September Twelfth, 2001"
Maybe it's even more important to reflect today that it was yesterday.
Monday, September 7, 2009
everybody plays the fool, concluded
On April Fools Day of 2008 I wrote a post called Everybody Plays a Fool detailing a couple humiliating moments in my life and promised that a third "Armin Plays the Fool" story was soon to come. I assumed everyone would start salivating for this last embarrassing story, like the third secret of Fatima.
But no one seemed very interested, though I was under the impression that "Armin makes an ass out of himself" stories were the bread and butter of this blog.
So here it is, whether anyone cares anymore:
3. I shat my pants.
Is that the proper conjugation of the verb? I shitted my pants? I had shit my pants?
Regardless, the take home point: I lost control of my bowels while still wearing Dockers. Not when I was six. Not when I was ten. Well, actually, I probably did shat/shit/had shit my pants at those ages, but the the story I'm recounting took place when I was twenty four.
I was working as a teacher's assistant at a high school and, as a side gig, I went to the house of a special needs kid in the morning before school started to help him with his hygiene routine. I was supposed to make sure he showered, combed his hair, shaved, and found clean clothes to wear. For some reason, they picked me for this job even though I could use my own minimum wage earning teacher's assistant to help me with all of these things, too.
At the time, I was not a regular coffee drinker, but some mornings were so rough, I needed to stop at Dunkin Donuts before I got to his place at 6:15 AM. This morning, I left his place after drinking a large coffee (probably recuperating from a week day night out, which most likely also aided in my gastric turmoil). Halfway to school and stuck in greater metro boston traffic, I realized I was in serious trouble. My intestines were reenacting the French Revolution.
Worse yet, I got a call from my boss saying a potential new student was visiting. I had just been promoted to lead teacher of my own classroom for the coming school year and a parent was bringing in her son to see if I would be the right teacher for him. You know, the kind of teacher that is caring, attentive, in control of his bowels...
After thirty minutes of agony, a wave of hope flooded me when I got past the traffic, turned into the school parking lot, and began the penguin waddle to the restroom, trying to walk with haste, but keep my butt cheeks clenched simultaneously.
The high school where I worked was like a college campus, comprised of a bunch of separate buildings instead of one large building. The building containing my classroom had a restroom, but I didn't want to risk the students seeing me, so I headed to the cafeteria instead.
I was in the faculty bathroom (private, thankfully), had just enough time to lock the door, pull down my pants, but was a second too late. Disaster. Do you remember that swimmer in the Beijing Olympics who lost to Michael Phelps by a millionth of a second? I know exactly how he feels. I was that close to surviving this ordeal with my pride intact.
The excitement over, I sat in the bathroom pondering my choices. I called my boss and lied saying I had a flat tire. I don't condone lying to a supervisor, but even Jesus and Abe Lincoln would have had a hard time fessing up at that moment. Since the students walked between the classroom and cafeteria, I was terrified that a student already saw me on campus. The next day, one girl said she did see me, but it was easy to convince her otherwise because she's retarded. I don't mean that as an insult at all. She's mentally retarded and it's easy to convince her she didn't see me even though she really did see me walk the horrible walk of shame from the bathroom to my car.
Here's a bonus: that same year, I was living with three other people in a one bathroom apartment. One morning after drinking too much, there was someone in the bathroom and without another option, I took a shit in a Hefty garbage bag in my room, then left that garbage bag on the street because I didn't know what else to do with it.
I don't deserve to be part of the civilized world and I atone for all my sins. But, as a warning, if we're driving in your car and I say I need a bathroom, I'm not just trying to make small talk. You best be finding the nearest rest stop or Arbie's.
But no one seemed very interested, though I was under the impression that "Armin makes an ass out of himself" stories were the bread and butter of this blog.
So here it is, whether anyone cares anymore:
3. I shat my pants.
Is that the proper conjugation of the verb? I shitted my pants? I had shit my pants?
Regardless, the take home point: I lost control of my bowels while still wearing Dockers. Not when I was six. Not when I was ten. Well, actually, I probably did shat/shit/had shit my pants at those ages, but the the story I'm recounting took place when I was twenty four.
I was working as a teacher's assistant at a high school and, as a side gig, I went to the house of a special needs kid in the morning before school started to help him with his hygiene routine. I was supposed to make sure he showered, combed his hair, shaved, and found clean clothes to wear. For some reason, they picked me for this job even though I could use my own minimum wage earning teacher's assistant to help me with all of these things, too.
At the time, I was not a regular coffee drinker, but some mornings were so rough, I needed to stop at Dunkin Donuts before I got to his place at 6:15 AM. This morning, I left his place after drinking a large coffee (probably recuperating from a week day night out, which most likely also aided in my gastric turmoil). Halfway to school and stuck in greater metro boston traffic, I realized I was in serious trouble. My intestines were reenacting the French Revolution.
Worse yet, I got a call from my boss saying a potential new student was visiting. I had just been promoted to lead teacher of my own classroom for the coming school year and a parent was bringing in her son to see if I would be the right teacher for him. You know, the kind of teacher that is caring, attentive, in control of his bowels...
After thirty minutes of agony, a wave of hope flooded me when I got past the traffic, turned into the school parking lot, and began the penguin waddle to the restroom, trying to walk with haste, but keep my butt cheeks clenched simultaneously.
The high school where I worked was like a college campus, comprised of a bunch of separate buildings instead of one large building. The building containing my classroom had a restroom, but I didn't want to risk the students seeing me, so I headed to the cafeteria instead.
I was in the faculty bathroom (private, thankfully), had just enough time to lock the door, pull down my pants, but was a second too late. Disaster. Do you remember that swimmer in the Beijing Olympics who lost to Michael Phelps by a millionth of a second? I know exactly how he feels. I was that close to surviving this ordeal with my pride intact.
The excitement over, I sat in the bathroom pondering my choices. I called my boss and lied saying I had a flat tire. I don't condone lying to a supervisor, but even Jesus and Abe Lincoln would have had a hard time fessing up at that moment. Since the students walked between the classroom and cafeteria, I was terrified that a student already saw me on campus. The next day, one girl said she did see me, but it was easy to convince her otherwise because she's retarded. I don't mean that as an insult at all. She's mentally retarded and it's easy to convince her she didn't see me even though she really did see me walk the horrible walk of shame from the bathroom to my car.
Here's a bonus: that same year, I was living with three other people in a one bathroom apartment. One morning after drinking too much, there was someone in the bathroom and without another option, I took a shit in a Hefty garbage bag in my room, then left that garbage bag on the street because I didn't know what else to do with it.
I don't deserve to be part of the civilized world and I atone for all my sins. But, as a warning, if we're driving in your car and I say I need a bathroom, I'm not just trying to make small talk. You best be finding the nearest rest stop or Arbie's.
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