For some of you, this sounds lame, but I anticipate "craft teacher" to be the coolest job ever. It accentuates all the things I love about my job - instead of making escape pods out of toilet paper rolls with two kids, I get to do it with twenty little girls (who are all dressed in cute little baby leotards, I should add). And this job minimizes the unfortunate aspects of my job - you know, time outs, taking away cell phones, cooking uneaten rice concoctions or anything else that makes The Chirrens Garcia unhappy.
This ballet studio is run by Bobby Habibi's kooky mother, who I LOVE. I loved her the first time I met her. She's British and she's done crazy ballerina shiz all over the world. I also love her because her house is like an international trinket museum and I covet everything in there. Oh yeah, and her hair is purple (just like mine!). So basically, we are best friends, except all the friendly feelings emanate from my end of the relationship. I even have a framed headshot of her on my bedside table (Coco gave it to me - I promise).
Things went swimmingly on my hot date with The Butler. Well, except for the fact that we were out in public. You might not know this, but one of the reasons I'm so well-suited for my job is that it occurs almost entirely from the safety of inside the Rochambo house. I simply cannot be held responsible for my actions in public, though. It's such a weird, irrational place out there. We went to see a movie and I spent the entire time consumed with the idiosyncrasies of others. Example: "Do you think she likes walking under his arm the whole way through the ticket line, then into the movie? That has to be awkward for someone. Do you think he's abusive and she's scared to push his arm off? Maybe she has a balance problem and needs his support? What do you think? How do you feel about this situation"** And then I inevitably do something awful like ask the woman how she feels about this situation and then all hell breaks loose.
We went out again last night which inevitably devolved into another "let's all be held captive by Maggie's eccentricities" night. We were going to dinner until it started snowing, whereupon I freaked the fuck out and made him pull into the closest parking lot, which happened to be Borders. True, the snow wasn't actually accumulating and The Butler kept insisting that he was from the North and had seen snow before and could most certainly drive in the kind that melts on contact, but you know I wasn't falling for that shit. Not only am I from Mississippi where "snow" means the powder that your trailer park cousin slings on the weekend, but I am also a very nervous driver/passenger. It was relaxing to go to Philly because my friend Benjamin Franklin is one of the very few people I 100% trust not to kill me, so I didn't have to spend the entire time in the car mentally preparing to die (I just had to survive the trip there and back with Dora).
So N-E-Wayzzz. Back to the Hot Date II. We had to pretend not to be hungry and just go get coffee from Borders. Then I kept talking about how much fun Guitar Hero with Francois Philippe is so I could return to the safety of
the basement my quarters.
So there you have it, readers. I am insane.
**Those of you who know me know this is exactly how I talk. I have to know how everyone feels about everything at all times.