Just in case you mistakenly thought of me as smart...

Let me tell you what I did today.

After BD cut the grass this morning, the kids pointed out how the side of my van was all plastered with stray bits of grass and dirt. We decided it would be fun to wash the car and get wet in the blazing, unseasonable-even-for-Memphis heat. I went in the house to get a big pan (the plastic bucket is mysteriously bottomless) and soap and rags, then came out and pulled the hose out from the uncooperative reel. Remembering that I was out of washer fluid, I decided to fill the receptacle with the hose before I did anything else. In the winter I use real washer fluid but it's not like it has a chance to freeze anytime in the next four or five months.

You may see where this is going now. I popped the hood, propped it up, and looked around at the various caps that opened onto fluid receptacles. I knew that putting water in the wrong one would be bad. I saw two that were obviously the wrong ones, and one right under the windshield that had no discernible markings (that I could see), and after looking over the whole works one more time, I chose that one, uncapped it, and put the hose to it. The opening under the cap seemed very small and I sensed without it really registering that this didn't seem right. After a few minutes I stopped, looked around under the hood some more, and saw what I'd missed--the actual washer fluid receptacle. Crap!

I alerted BD to what I'd done and he came over to see that I had, in fact, put water where only brake fluid is meant to go. I went ahead and filled the actual washer fluid tank, and then the kids and I washed the van before I headed out to the oil change place a few blocks from our house. There was a young female employee greeting cars as they pulled up to the bays, and when I told her I needed my brake fluid drained and replaced, she shook her head and said "Oh, we can't do that." I think this is a lie, but I went on about half a mile or so down the road to a bigger tire/service place. I could tell the guy wanted to turn me away because they were so busy, but then he seemed to take pity on me because he called the mechanic in and asked if he could do it. He could. "You'll have to just leave it here and come back at four because we're so covered up," he said kindly.

I started to call BD to come get me, but reconsidered when I remembered the kids playing happily in the neighbors' sprinkler with their son. Instead, I went next door to Krystal, bought a pomegranate freeze, and set out for home on foot. It really wasn't a bad walk in spite of the heat, and the occasional honk from passing cars reassured me that if I have to be dumb, at least I'm still passably hot from a distance if the car is moving fast enough. The only downside to the walking was that I had on flip-flops. I was just recently told by a podiatrist not to wear flip-flops or any other cheap, unsupportive shoe if I'm going to be walking or on my feet for any period of time. At least these were the ones with the inch-thick foam footbed that actually does have some arch support built in, but the top straps are rubber and the left one had rubbed skin off the top of my foot by the time I got a few blocks from the house.

Once I made it inside, I stripped down to my skivvies and lay spread-eagle under the fan for about five minutes to cool off. In spite of the heat, loss of foot skin, and acceptance of the fact that I'm not very smart, I felt proud of myself for cleaning up after my own mistake without creating a hassle for anyone else. As it turns out, it's probably going to cost the exact amount I just received for my first paid writing gig. So I'm the only one paying for my mistake, in every sense of the word. At least that's something, right?

You Have Been Here and You are Everything

When I was fourteen years old and just starting tenth grade, I was not what anyone would call a happy or well-adjusted girl. I also wasn't as badly off as I probably liked to think back then, but a summer's worth of Dead Milkmen and Violent Femmes will make you morose if you're not careful. I was, however, a lucky girl. In fact, I was the luckiest girl in the world. I just didn't know it yet.

When I was fourteen and just starting tenth grade, I met the love of my life. I met the boy I would grow up with and have babies with and, I have no doubt, the man I will grow old with. And fourteen years ago today, I married him. It was the best and smartest thing I ever did. Every good and beautiful thing in my life involves him and grows from our relationship.

Happy anniversary BD. Your unwavering willingness and ability to love me have, do, and always will astonish me.

Happy Birthday Genevieve!

You are two years old today and I can scarcely believe it, the time has flown by so quickly. About two years and 34 weeks ago, it was slowly dawning on me that you might be with me, a stowaway secreting yourself in small, warm, well-broken-in quarters until the time was right for you to show yourself. I wish I could say that I was immediately overjoyed at the thought of you, but see, I didn't know you yet. Only two weeks before I had ended the 50 straight months of nursing your brother then sister, uninterrupted by my pregnancy with her. For the first time in over four years, I didn't have a nursling or anyone in diapers. Your Daddy and I had wrestled with the idea of having another baby, and even though four children were what we had once imagined, we were tired and thought maybe three would be enough after all.


Thank you so much for knowing we were wrong. Thank you for staying with me and bringing your tiny blue self into the world, knot in the cord and all. I can tell you in all honesty that you have brought joy and beauty and searing love to me every single day of your life. You were only weeks old and so very tiny when you showed me how much you had to say, when I would prop you on the pillow in front of me and you would lock your eyes onto mine and kick and wave and make all manner of coos and grunts. Your story was already fascinating and it only grows more so with each passing day.


So now you are two. You look more and more like your big sister as you get older, but you are the only one of golden hair with highlights that no amount of money could buy. You are fiercely independent in some ways but you still love your mama. You love to swing and to be outside as much as possible. You love to go to the grocery store and run up and down the aisles and try to convince me to go "dif way!" You throw a mean tantrum and can turn from stingy to generous on a dime.


At night when you finally admit defeat and snuggle into my body to nurse and sleep, I smell your hair and rub your back and know how numbered those nights are now. You are my last baby, and hardly a baby at all anymore. I know this and the understanding is deeper than it was with your siblings and all the more bittersweet.

Home Stretch

Remember the last time I wrote a real post, like a week ago? Well I'm still here. At work. With no students. As of today, no one at my school has any students anymore, though, since Friday was the last day of classes for all schools in the district. But while other teachers scurry to get grades done, I had to do all that a week and a half ago. All I have to do now is go through the checkout process. This is somewhat like a scavenger hunt, only less fun and instead of collecting stuff, you get rid of stuff and collect signatures. You give your receipt book and summer address to the financial secretary and she signs your blue form on her special line, you give your AV inventory to the librarian and she signs, and so forth. I can't find anyone to take my offspring and sign off on them, though. There's no line for that.

Yes, it's that time of year when my own children come to work with me since they have nowhere else to go. At least I only have to work today and then until lunch tomorrow. And actually, the kids do great while they're here. Mostly. First they play games on the computer. This involves me a lot of me having to come over and try to figure out why the desired game will not work right. Then they draw on the whiteboards. This is the phase we are currently in. Calvin is drawing a variety of dinosaurs, both winged and non, and Somerset is drawing food and trees. Joshua is still on the computer. Somerset has also had a brief interlude with markers and construction paper that resulted in a lovely card for me, delivered to my desk organizer for work-to-be-graded, which is otherwise blissfully empty. Later the PTSA is feeding us lunch, which means I'll try to find something among the meat trays and pasta salad and crackers that my kids will eat and it will all end in Joshua having a chocolate chip cookie the size of his head for lunch.

Hang the DJ

My Pandora stations:

1. Al Green radio
2. The Smiths radio
3. Blue Mountain radio
4. Drive-By Truckers radio
5. Paolo Nutini radio
6. Lucinda Williams radio
7. Joni Mitchell radio

Now playing: Garrison Starr radio

In Which I Sit Here Wanting A Fountain Coke

We've reached the portion of the year when I no longer have any students. Since I teach all seniors, and said seniors have taken their exams and will be graduated this Saturday at an hour of indecent earliness so that several other high schools may cycle through the too-small venue on the same day, I'm done. But not done. I still have to come to work every day until May 23, and then come back for the two administrative days after Memorial Day even though I had to bust ass to get all my grades and debt slips and what have you turned in yesterday.

I enjoy the quiet time, but it's also somewhat frustrating in a "hurry up and wait" kind of way. It's almost as if there's a moratorium on getting anything useful done during this time. For example, I have to stay after school today to hand out caps and gowns to my homeroom, because we do not want Them back in the building during school hours, roaming the halls out of uniform and mouthing "suck it" to their underclassmen friends through the little steel-mesh-sandwiched windows of their classroom doors.

I also can't go home and clean my sty of a house or go get my oil changed and find out why the little engine-shaped light in the van’s dash is coming on suddenly. I could, however, go down the street to Exxon right quick and get a big Coke and a bag of Doritos. I'm starving! And sitting here all by my lonesome knowing I could go get naughty snacks is not helping me any. When my students were here, I didn't really think about how hungry I was, because the time seemed to fly by until lunch at 11:50 (twenty seven minutes of frozen, low-cal meal. Mmm-Mm!), and it's not as if I found Chip-Juice at all tempting. (For the record, Class Day was replete with Chip-Juice references that ranged from revealing shout-outs to premature nostalgia to an edgy spoken-word piece in which the two performers at one point shouted alternately at each other "Chip!" "Juice!" I am not making that up.)

So what will I do all day, you ask? I do have some things I want to do, like organizing books and cleaning out my junky desk and what have you. Sometimes I'll be called to cover classes for absent teachers, since most of the subs with any sense have gotten the hell out of Dodge by now. Mainly I'll read and play on the interwebs and try to stay under the radar. And try not to succumb to the siren song of sneaking off campus for empty calories.

I'm a cliche!

All my attempts to distance myself from whiteness have failed, apparently. I am not kidding or exaggerating when I say that I lecture either BD or SAM on the virtues of the Oxford comma at least once a week. In my defense, it's usually when asked to edit something they've written, or when they're forced, reluctantly, to remind me that I can't use my beloved Oxford when I'm supposed to be employing journalistic style. This usually sends me off on a rant about how journalistic style is barbaric writing for the illiterate. Because I am that person.

Mothers Acting Up

If you can squeeze in an hour or so amid your Mother's Day activities this Sunday, come down to Cooper-Young for the Mothers Acting Up parade. The theme is Reclaiming Mother's Day and eight local mamas will be recognized for work in the community, including (blush) yours truly and my girl SAM. The parade will start at Mothersville (800 S. Cooper) and end at Peabody Park. This will be a very kid-friendly event with stilt walkers and such, and of course the playground. Come on out!

S is for a Stitch in Time

Last night as I lay in bed, just as I was drifting off to sleep, it occurred to me that I had barely had any contact with Somerset all day. BD picked the kids up from school so I could have a little time to myself in the afternoon, so I missed that pick-up and ride home conversation. She played with a friend all afternoon with me intermittently fussing at her for various infractions. We did all sit down at the table for dinner, and it was a pleasant meal with minimal complaining and the kids talking a little about their day. But I don't think she and I had even a minute of meaningful or significant contact between just the two of us. That realization made me want to cry.

I feel like of all my children, Somerset has the greatest potential to be damaged and have her life ruined by me. She was my baby, the only girl and the object of her two big brothers' affection for almost four years, and then one day, she wasn't. And she knew it. She still knows it. She's a lot like me in that she's stubborn and has a fiery temper. When faced with trouble she will usually laugh in its face, but it's mostly bravado. If I poke at it even a little, her face will crumple and she will dissolve into tears. She fights with her brothers almost constantly because she knows the brotherhood bond between them is forever and unfairly closed to her. I try to make her believe that if she would just stop pestering the crap out of them for a few minutes they might be nicer to her, but she's not buying it. Maybe she shouldn't. What do I know?

I'm the oldest child. There are almost five years between my sister and me and another five between her and our brother. All I ever wanted from them was to be left alone. That was mostly all I wanted from my parents, too. I knew I was loved and taken care of, but for whatever reason, I never craved or expected a closely-bonded relationship with my parents. My kids do, though. Somerset remembers when she was my baby and I held her and carried her around and nursed her until her third birthday. She remembers when I looked at her with nothing but pure, unadulterated love and adoration, and she's aware that too often now, all she can see in my face is frustration and annoyance. She needs attention and the more she raises hell to get it, the more I push her away in ager because her behavior makes my day more difficult.

I have to do better with her. She deserves more than what she's getting from me, and she knows it, and if I don't get it together there's going to be hell to pay later on. I know that as certainly as I know my own name.

World according to Calvin

On the way home from the grandparents' this evening:

"If cars were people, that one would have a unibrow. And it would be mad all the time."

Casual Friday

As the school year draws to a close, my seniors are mentally checking out. Right now their main focus is signing yearbooks and taking pictures for the Class Day slide show. I thought you might enjoy seeing me with some of my fifth period.

The War Prayer

My favorite source of classroom inspiration right now is the website of a Chicago teacher named Joe Scotese. I'm introducing his "illuminated texts" idea in my classroom today. I wanted to show you my favorite one because I find it to be both very timely and extremely moving, all the more so because it was created by students.

A Prayer For the Lost

You can read the complete text of "The War Prayer" here. I like that Mark Twain.

Idiocracy

Have I mentioned that we have not been able to file our taxes because we can't find Genevieve's Social Security card? Yeah, we haven't been able to. And I want my money. At the beginning of this school year, when BD made his annual pilgrimage to get replacement copies of the kids' birth certificates and such in order to register them for school, we had all four of their certificates and Social Security cards together in a manila envelope, and we put it somewhere safe. Very, very safe, apparently, because exhaustive searching has turned up Calvin's original, missing-until-now birth certificate, as well as Joshua's that could not be found at the beginning of this year, but not the most recent batch.

I tell you all this as background for the most ludicrous example of red tape that I personally have ever encountered. Having finally given up on the search, I decided yesterday to bite the bullet and just go get a replacement card. Before leaving work, I went to the Social Security Administration's website and patted myself on the back as I printed out the form and filled it in, then stopped on the way to pick up the older kids and got a certified copy of GK's birth certificate to show as proof of her identity. I continued on the midtown-downtown loop, picked up the kids from school, then stopped in at the SSA's office on Monroe before getting the baby from Montessori school.

I walked in and was directed by the security guard to take a number and stand behind the red line near window A. These directions were repeated in a sign posted next to the elaborate computer set-up that was there in place of the usual "Please Take a Number" ticket dispenser. I pressed the number one and "enter" and a printer printed out a numbered receipt-like ticket. That's thousands of taxpayer dollars well spent, I thought as I took my place behind the one other person waiting. And then we waited. And waited. And waited. The kids were in the row of chairs right next to me thumb wrestling and behaving reasonably well, but that would only last so long and I didn't want to be late to get Genevieve to the tune of $20 per minute for unplanned after-care. Jeez lady, I thought, studying the curly do of the woman at the window, just give it up already. She was having what sounded like the same four-sentence conversation with the two women at the window in a continual loop. I gave myself another mental pat on the back for being prepared. I'm not very smart, see.

When I finally got to a window, I told the woman I needed a replacement card for my daughter and handed her the completed application along with the newly-acquired birth certificate and my driver's license. When I say "completed application," I mean complete except for one blank: the one where her social security number should go.

"What's her social security number?" a voice droned from behind the propped-up application.

"I don't know," I replied, "that's why I need a replacement card."

"Uh oh," she said "you up the creek then."

That's right. According to an office of the United States Government, I can not be told my child's social security number because I do not already know my child's social security number.

We ran through a list of possible places I might find the number. School form? Pediatrician's office? That blank is blank, because I don't carry my child's card around with me, on account of I live in a crime-filled craphole and I don't want my kids' SS numbers used to open fraudulent credit card accounts. Last year's taxes? Um, not filed yet. I know, I know! We're working on it. I want that money too! So no, her number is not written down anywhere. We don't have it. We can't find her original card, that's why we need a new one. If I knew her number, why would I need her card? So she can apply for a summer job?

I went round and round with this woman. I explained why we don't have her number anywhere. She told me stories about how they can no longer do an "alpha search" for anyone's number because when they enter a person's name and DOB, more than one name pops up. And that might result in them, employees of the United States Social Security Administration, seeing people's information. Information such as their social security numbers. And that would be bad, see? And then I would say "Okay, I can accept that you can't look up the number for me. But there must be a procedure in place for this. I'm not the only person who has ever needed a replacement card and been unable to produce the number. What's the process here? What do I need to do?" And she would stare at me blankly and tell me there is no process. Then we'd start again. At one point she said to the empty area behind her head "Can anyone think of a way she can get her child's Social Security number?" Crickets chirped. She got up and made a show of criss-crossing the apparently empty back office. Then she sat down and we had the whole conversation again, with the added info that some schmoe earlier claimed that the east office had looked up numbers for him recently, and maybe they would do it for me, she didn't know, they're not really supposed to but you never know what people in other offices will do. So that was reassuring. Unwilling to drive a half-hour to the east office on the word of some guy who, for mysterious reasons, apparently has regular and repeated need for look-ups of unknown social security numbers, I countered her "There's nothing you can do" with another "I don't accept that." Tired of me at last, she waved me toward the waiting area and told me I could ask a supervisor.

Out of both time and patience, I growled at the kids to "Come on!" and stormed toward the door, cursing and muttering under my breath much like the three other people who had left the office during the time I had been there. Why had I been so smug? How had I assumed that I was somehow better equipped than the lady with the large body and tiny head who had left window C in such a huff? I realize I'm a screw-up for losing my kid's SS card and not having written her number on any one of many official forms, but I presumed that I was not the biggest lost cause the government had ever seen. I can't decide what's scarier: that I might be that bad off, or that the agency in charge of the nation's social security is stymied by such a small request.

Read 'Em and Weep

I just added book number 500 to my shelves at GoodReads. Catch me if you can, suckers!

(Click on my widget over there to join me.)

'Cause I Can't Stand to See You This Way

You may have read that BD and I had the pleasure of going to see Elvis Costello in concert last night at the New Daisy on Beale Street. BD is the big EC fan in our house, although I like him well enough. I don't have much to add to what he said about the music, except that strangely, my hearing is fine today in spite of spending two hours in front of a giant stack of giant speakers, and that although I involuntarily know every word to at least a hundred Costello songs, I knew maybe four he played last night. Oh, and we were, like, 20 feet from the stage, off at an angle so that even my short self could see perfectly the whole time, and I only almost had to take down one really testy trollish woman who was terrified that we would try to take "her" spot. At which point SAM was quick to assure me that she does not have my back in a bar fight. Like that's news.

So, see that up there, where the venue was called The New Daisy? Doesn't that sound all fresh and spring-like? It doesn't sound like a place where one would enter the bathroom and thank the goddess of tile that she had on a short-ish skirt instead of jeans because this stroke of wardrobe genius has spared her from dipping the bottoms of her jeans in a puddle of suspicious-looking "water." And yet, that is exactly what kind of place it is. It's the kind of place with general admission and no seating except in the balcony, and a high ceiling with black acoustic tiles missing. Back in the day, we would go to friends' small shows there (when "Jim" was "Tippi" and the band was Judge Crater) and, I kid you not, I would dance barefoot in front of the stage. Ditto the Antenna. That was then. Last night, I stood in my spot and danced an appropriate amount, in place, and my back ached a little and I wondered if there was a way to calculate how much sooner in my life I would go deaf as a result of this one concert. I'm old, my friends. O.L.D.

Although, although! I also realized as we stood out front killing a little time before the show and observing the people milling about in front of the Daisy and on the street, that I should really get out more because it is great for my self esteem. People, they do not look like they do on TV and in movies! It may be possible that I am not in as bad a shape as I think I am. Of course, it may also be possible that this particular crowd was exceptionally dorky and old, but we don't have to look at it that way. Well, when I think about that big group of old guys herking and jerking in front of the stage and looking like night of the living dead, I may be forced to look at it that way. And the one guy with his arm stabilized to his body with a big brace and his other arm up in the air making the rock and roll finger sign while he thrashed about, reminding me of Joan Cusack's unfortunate character in Sixteen Candles. Now that I think about it, the crowd was not only graying and bookish in a not-so-sexy kind of way, it was predominately male. There were women, sure, but there were a lot of guys there with no women. Of course, two girls who were way cuter than moi had to spoil the illusion by standing in my sightline near the end of the show, but their day will come. Won't it? Tell me it will!

Simmer Down Now

List of things we'll have to do before moving to parts southward and beachward:

1. Get our house in shape to sell. This probably includes getting a new roof.
2. Hope the housing market improves while we wait so we can make a little moving money.
3. Get our finances in order.
4. Get jobs in our intended destination.

This is all going to take at least one year. And as much as I'd love to pick up and run the day school gets out this year, I know we can't do that. It could realistically be two years before we can go, but that's my absolute deadline. Calvin has two years before starting middle school, so that could work well anyway.

I know that some of you are having a hard time understanding our motives or my view of Memphis. A lot of the current mood is the direct result of a rash of armed robberies that have affected people close to us. Once a gun enters the picture, it becomes harder not to think about how easily things could go horribly wrong. I don't feel scared all the time; I do feel fairly certain that my time will come, and that odds are that my kids will be with me when it happens. That's just unacceptable to me. Why would I choose to live in a city that had about 150 homicides last year when I can live in a city that had one. One homicide. And the beach! It's ugly here. It's beautiful there. I have always said and felt that life is too short not to live in a beautiful place. It just feels like a no-brainer to me.

Home is Where the Heart Is?

Big Daddy and I never planned to raise kids in Memphis. I spent my entire childhood and adolescence hating this town and vowing to leave. But then I discovered midtown, and I realized that my suburban existence really had nothing to do with living in Memphis. I got accepted to Rhodes College, which happened to be the only school I applied to in my haze of oblivion. Luckily it was a good school and a great fit for me, although it would have been nice if the guidance counselors at Kirby could have pulled their heads out of the student council's collective ass long enough to let me know that my ACT score qualified me for free tuition at just about any state school in Tennessee, if not elsewhere. Oh well.

We got married two weeks after I graduated from Rhodes, and about a year later, we did leave town. BD's mom, step-dad, sister, and two brothers lived in Panama City Beach at that time. We are both beach people, we both wanted to move away, and on a visit to his family, as we sat on the deck of a beach-side restaurant and watched the sun set spectacularly into the gulf, he said to me "See that?" I knew then that we would move. And we did, not to PCB, but to Panama City proper, on a little peninsula off downtown that put us a few blocks from the city marina, a bayou that housed a smaller marina, and the St. Andrews Bay. We lived in a tiny, generic little apartment but in a great neighborhood, and we broke the mold by being the two people who live near the beach and actually go to the beach. We rode bikes around the marina and through Bunker's Cove (imagine Chickasaw Gardens on a bay) and ate at Joe's on the bayou and Schooner's on the beach, where I also waitressed for a while. Those parts of living there were fun, and BD was happy to be near his family for the first time in a few years. But there were no good jobs, and the only culture was the culture of low-brow tourism. We left with the intention of moving to Taos, New Mexico, which lasted a week. That's a whole other story, but the end result was that we ended up, unexpectedly and against all my swearing that we'd never live here again, back in Memphis. In the next few months I learned I was pregnant, had a difficult miscarriage, got pregnant again, went back to the school where I had taught before the move, and supported BD in the decision to buy The Tobacco Bowl. So just like that, we were entrenched in Memphis again.

I noticed way back in elementary school that new kids who had moved all over the country came here and never moved again. I didn't understand until adulthood that relatively high salaries combined with a low cost of living combine to make the standard of living for the middle class enticingly comfortable. There have been a few times in the past few years that BD and I have talked about moving and looked around at jobs and housing in various places. But every time, in almost any city where we would want to live, I've faced about a $10K a year cut in pay and said "maybe not just now." Memphis teachers make the highest salaries in the Southeast except for those in Atlanta. And we're still poor! Money is the biggest reason we've stayed here so long, followed closely by proximity of family and friends.

But the list of reasons to leave is growing. Lately it seems like crime in Memphis is spiralling quickly out of control. Too many of our friends and family have been victimized. The break ins while no one was home were a lot easier to take than the recent and all-too-in-person hold-ups. At gun point. I don't like feeling like I'm just waiting for it to be me, or BD, or another person we love. I don't like wondering how I will help the kids feel safe again when, not if, our house gets broken into. When I feel like I'd carry a loaded gun strapped to my person if I didn't have kids, but at the same time like I need the gun to protect my kids and wonder if a taser will be good enough, I think we are approaching time to go.

There has been some exciting talk within BD's side of the family this week about all of us moving beachward, not to Panama City this time but elsewhere in the Florida panhandle. There are still a lot of details to work out, but I know that the idea of living near more of his family again, for the first time in adulthood, is very appealing to him. And of course, we'd love to be near the beach, and also to raise our kids in a place where the crime stats are not even close to the numbers we see here. The decrease in my pay is looking less important when balanced against the increase in peace of mind.

Bragging Rights

Big Daddy's first installation of his new column in the local paper was printed today! You'll have to settle for the on-line version if you're not in Memphis, but it's so impressive all the way down the side of the front page of the "M" section!

Congratulations BD. I'm so proud of you!

Chip-Juice

We have a phenomenon here at The high school that, while assuredly not unique, does go by a name that may not exist outside this building. It's called Chip-Juice.

Chip-Juice refers to the practice of selling snacks out of a back pack. But not just any snacks. No, here at The high school, Chip-Juice means precisely Hot Cheetos and Capri Sun (flavors of Capri Sun may, however, vary.) The term Chip-Juice can be used as either a noun or a verb. It can be used as a response to a complaint or question, or in place of a person's name. For example:

Student A: "Man I'm hongry!"
Student B: "Chip-Juice!"

or

Student A: pokes head into classroom, obviously scanning
Student B: "Chip-Juice?"
Student A: nods head
Students A, c, and G: "They got him last period!"

Which brings us to another phenomenon: the Chip-Juice bust. A Chip-Juice bust is bad for everyone on different levels. For the Chip-Juice himself, it means loss of revenue and possible suspension, depending on his record (Chip-Juice is always male. Girls sell Fruities, which is a different post). It's bad for potential clients, because at any given time there are only two or three Chip-Juice in the building (the plural of Chip-Juice is also Chip-Juice) so they will have to go without snacks for at least another hour. It's bad for a teacher who happens to be housing the Chip-Juice at the time of the bust, particularly if said teacher's trash can is full of empty Hot Cheeto bags and flattened Capri Sun pouches, because this indicates that said teacher has turned a blind eye to the practice.

This morning during third period, the principal and two assistants came into my room on rounds. They were looking for two things: uniform violations and, you guessed it, Chip-Juice. One of the VPs was wearing a back pack, signalling his victory and showing that one C-J had already gone down in flames. The search was uneventful, but a few minutes later, a certain student who we'll call Mr. Chocolate (in honor of his promise to make me a chocolate statue of myself after a particularly merciful report card grade) returned to the room from Guidance. The class erupted into cries of "They came in here and they didn't even see your bag sitting there! They looked right over it!" Apparently Mr. Chocolate is Chip-Juice number one, and this morning he dodged a bullet.

A Whole Lot of Wrong

I've been digging around, researching this Life Choices place. If I was angry before, now I'm horrified and enraged. Among the most disturbing information:

1. It's tax funded!

2. Although it presents itself as a "clinic," it provides no medical care and has no medically-trained staff.

3. It's tax funded!

4. One of their tactics is to make "patients" wait up to an hour for pregnancy test results while being shown gruesome footage of dismembered fetuses well beyond the development stage of a first-term abortion.

5. So-called "Crisis Pregnancy Centers" have received $60 million in tax payer money since 2001.

6. One example of where the Bush administration has sent tax dollars is the Tennessee-based Life Choices Pregnancy Support Center, where the staff believes "without reservation or qualification that the Scriptures teach that human life begins at conception.” The Post review shows that it had revenue of $81,621 in 2001. Two years later, the center received a $534,339 grant to teach “abstinence-only” programs. By 2004, annual revenue totaled $617,355. *

7. Girls who have been lured into these places thinking they will be presented with all options have been handed baby dolls and scissors and told "This is what your baby looks like now, so if you want an abortion, just take these scissors and cut this baby up, because that's what you'll be doing."

8. In March of 2006, the state of Texas announced $5 million in grants for crisis pregnancy centers. A report from the NARAL Pro-Choice Texas Foundation documents the other desperate health needs that are going unmet, just so that politicians can pursue their anti-abortion agenda:

• Texas ranks 50th among states in the percentage of women with health insurance. Yet the state chose to fund crisis pregnancy centers rather than real medical care. Crisis pregnancy centers don’t even provide information about birth control options!
  
  • Texas ranks 46th in the percentage of women who’ve had pap smears in the past three years. Pap smears help detect cervical cancer, but instead of helping more women get this vital test, the state cut funds for the service.
    
    • Texas ranks fifth in teen pregnancies—but instead of investing in more sex-education programs, it’s sending money to crisis pregnancy centers. *

Nothing like an unconstitutionally-tax-funded religious fake clinic elbowing out a legitimate small business. Nothing like teaching abstinence only to pregnant girls. Thanks W!

* Numbers six and eight were taken directly from this article.