obama us and tattoos

I celebrated the arrival of spring, dear reader, --the kind that finally grudgingly comes to us here in New England with tree buds and pastel blossoms and swarms of killer ants-- by allowing a wasp to sting me twice. HERE! TAKE ME! STING ME! REMIND ME HOW LUCKY I AM TO BE FREE OF PAIN!
As I took my deserved repose after a long day of reading arguments about the death penalty (pro and con), abortion (likewise), gun control (same), and legalization of marijuana (completely and overwhelmingly pro), I felt something in the sleeve of my sweater, moving on its own. Now I am a hopeful person by nature. Ah, it's my pencil, I may have thought. Gosh darn it, what's it doing in there? Or an errant thread perhaps. This sweater is the one I wear all winter for warmth. It's on the raggedy/pathetic side. Or maybe I thought it was a ladybug or some benign insect. It's hard now to reconstruct what I thought in those few fleeting seconds. Because almost as soon as the thing moved,

IT STUNG THE LIVING CRAP OUT OF ME AND THEN DID IT AGAIN. I ripped the sweater off and crushed the wasp. CRUSHED it, I tell you, with a student folder [don't tell] Then I further smooshed it by enveloping it in the bedsheet and pushing hard. When I was finally satisfied that the thing was dead, I opened up the sheet and it flew away. It's still in my room.

The really eerie part is that I was wearing that sweater for hours. I'm pretty sure that wasp didn't crawl in after I put it on. I think it was in there all the time, walking around with me, going downstairs, into the bathroom, eating lunch. I wonder if I disturbed its wasp dreams.


I considered putting a photograph of my forearm here, but I do have some scruples, dear reader. Geez, think how far we've come from the early days of the internet where stories of real worth and importance could be read, and a blog where someone puts their pus-oozing wasp wound.

I dunno.

Anyway, I'm getting some good bloopers and I'm saving them. But here's one that comes from my own manuscript (just to prove that I am no different from my students):
"Patsy Lopez was wearing as much eye makeup as a raccoon."

Yes, I wrote it. There's a small part of me that thinks there could be some raccoons who wear eye makeup, the more civilized ones maybe, not the ones out in the forest but the ones close to the garbage cans, where they could probably find thrown out Revlon mascara wands, but I know my case is weak.
A bientot
love,
becky