Episode 4: Allison becomes a Sex Ed Teacher...

I promised a new topic this week...and by request, here is the story of my first day of teaching sex ed...



I used to be a sex ed teacher. I loved it, mostly because it was the one time I could hold a classroom of high school students' attention for an entire hour.

The way it worked was they just told you you were teaching it, handed you a binder with antiquated worksheets and diagrams and off you went. No preparation, and certainly no training. Just thrown to the wolves and you had to pray you didn't smell like raw meat. 

I clearly smelled like raw meat. 

The first day I was supposed to be teaching, I had a student go into crisis first thing, which is a fabulous way to start a Monday. While I was dealing with that, the Dean of Students covered my class. There were just four students in the class, and generally we crossed the street to a small classroom in the gym house. But because the Dean needed to remain in the main building, she took my class to the Administration trailer where there was a little waiting area with a table outside all the offices. And four administrators behind closed doors. So I got my student settled down and returned to teach my class. Because the class only had 15-20 minutes left by the time I got there, I did not want to waste anymore time marching them across the street to our usual classroom, so I decided to keep them where they were...having no idea what was about to happen.

So began the unit. Keep in mind administrators were listening to this entire lesson. Nothing at all scary about that, since I had NEVER done this before. So that day, the plan was to just have them write on one sheet of paper everything they already knew, and on another, things they wanted to know or were curious about regarding sex. Seems easy enough, right?

Wrong. Very, very wrong. Because you see, these are kids without filters. They can't help but say everything (and I mean EVERYTHING) that comes to mind.

So the lesson went like this:

Student: "Do condoms come in colors?"

Me: "Yes. Was that a question, because you should be writing it down."

Student: "what about flavors?"
Me: "Write it down please. I promise I'll talk about it when we get to the section about birth control."

Student 2 "Wait. Flavors? Why would there be flavors?"

Me: "Write it down please..."

Student 3: "I mean, what kind of flavors? Like bacon?"

Me: That would be an interesting choice. Please write down your question.

Student 3: "you want me to ask you if condoms come in Bacon flavor?"

Me: I do if that's your question...

Student1: "Come on, you have to know why they have flavors. Ever heard of a blow job?"

Student 2: "Allison, what's a blow job?"

Me: "I think that's a great question for you to WRITE DOWN. You should not be talking." 

I'm positive at this point, every administrator is now leaning against their door, ear pressed to it. Because not only do these kids not have filters, they also don't have volume control. 

Student 3: "I once heard about a guy who got his penis chopped off and the doctors replaced it with his thumb."

Me: "That absolutely cannot happen."

Student 1: "Ew!!!! But wait, that would be like constant masturbation. you know, finger down there..."

Me: "Ok, ok...enough. We are WRITING our questions. There will be PLENTY of time for discussion later. (When 4 administrators are not listening, preferably)

Student 1: "Can you fill a condom with water? Can you blow it up first to check for holes?"

Me: "PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE write these questions down."

Student 2: "I knew a man once who made a plastic mold of a penis."

Student 1: "That's called a dildo, dumbass. They make vibrating ones too, you know."

Me: "Watch your language and if you have a question about that, write it down. And NO more talking!!!!"

Student 2: "Oh yes, that's what it's called. How would that be a useful tool?"

Me: (becoming frantic...) please write your questions so I can answer them as we go. I cannot possibly answer all your questions today!!!!!!!

Student 4: I don't think I have any questions.

Me: (in my head..I think) Oh thank God. 

Episode 3: Life in the Jungle

One more post about my landlord and his newfound love for plants, and then I'll move on to a new topic...like maybe the parrot they keep in the garage that squawks incessantly and whistles inappropriately when you walk by. Because there's nothing better than a squawking, inappropriate parrot hanging out in your garage.

Except living in the rainforest. Which is where I live. In the middle of Hingham, Massachusetts...which is not exactly where one would expect to find a rainforest.

I should mention here that I hate humidity. And bugs. Particularly spiders. Which means I am not really meant to live in the rainforest. But I don't think my landlord knows this. Probably because he didn't ask before he began transforming the house into a jungle bungalow.

After the great tulip disappointment of 2012 and the peach tree vs squirrel standoff, I thought maybe he'd just putter around his garden in the backyard, growing normal things like tomatoes and corn, maybe a little bok choy for the occasional chinese dinner night. And I was right. He did do those things.

But corn and tomatoes are boring. Anyone can grow those. And after the tulip disaster, he had something to prove.

So the exotic plants began arriving.

At first, I was able to ignore it...after all, the plants were on his side of the house (The house is a ranch style duplex) and some of them were even pretty. But then, they began creeping over to my side. Which was also ok with me until they began blocking my entrance to my front door.

You see, the soil in Massachusetts is not akin to growing plants that belong in a rainforest. So the exotic plants have to be potted. So, you guessed it, large pots began appearing all over the yard. And up my front steps.

One moonless, pitch black, rainy night, I come home to a burned out porch light. So I do what every other American would do in the situation, and pulled out my iPhone to  use as a flashlight. But I didn't actually use the flashlight app, I just used the screen to make my way toward my house, figuring I was in familiar territory, so I didn't need a full light, plus my hands were full. I go to move up my front steps and immediately trip over something that definitely wasn't there when I left. I shine my phone at the ground and discover there are now flower pots leading up my steps. Which would have been fine if they had been small. But these pots were the opposite of small. They were taking up more than half my steps, which are not very wide to begin with, and the one on the landing was preventing me from being able to open my door more than half way. So by now, I'm wet and I'm pissed off that I can't even easily maneuver into my house any more...I manage to get myself inside and go back out to remove the pots from my steps.

That's when I discover that a large ceramic pot full of dirt that has been rained on weighs more than I do, and cannot easily be moved to a new location.

I do not think this was an accident.

I contemplate getting a sledge hammer out and smashing the pot so I could leave the pieces and the dead plant on his steps, knowing that would definitely get the point across. But, I don't have a sledge hammer. And, he had just run a wire that gave me access to their cable, which has all the movie channels. And I love HBO. So I reconsidered,  changed out of my wet, soil covered clothes and decided to try to peacefully co-exist with my new plant friends who were taking over my house.

This was just the beginning...

At first, it wasn't so hard. After I got used to having to walk through my front door sideways, I got into a rhythm and I've almost stopped slamming my storm door into the pots every time I open it. (I may or may not have bent the door frame, however, with my initial accidental slamming...) And my landlord was very considerate in his plant choice...he planted many exotic plants I can't identify, but then he showed me that in the middle of them, he had planted a single sunflower, because in a moment of weakness, I told them they're my favorite. (Next year, I fully expect to be living in a field of sunflowers...) After he showed me he had planted these plants with my taste in mind, I couldn't very well complain that I was no longer able to gracefully enter my house.

But when I made the decision not to complain, what I didn't remember (probably because I've never actually been to the rainforest) is that exotic plants grow to be enormous. And they spill out of their pots and turn the simple task of walking up three steps into a complete obstacle course. Because the leaves are half the size of me. I could wear them as a dress, if I was at all creative or able to sew.

Or Lady Gaga.

With Autumn upon us, the air is cooler, the leaves are shriveling up, and I am hopeful the pots will disappear, I'll once again gain full access to my front door, and life will return to my version of normal...

Over the weekend, I made baked pumpkin donuts to welcome Autumn. It was very festive of me.

They were delicious.

I ate two, and took the rest next door. I explained what they were, and my landlord said, "Oh, you like pumpkin?" To which I replied, "I do. It's one of my favorite things about fall." I turned to go back to my house and he called after me, "Next year, I'm planting you a pumpkin patch!!!"

I should know better. 

But fine. Just don't plant it on my front steps.

Episode 2 - Life is Peachy...or is it?

My landlord is a tailor. A hell of a tailor. He's the head hauncho at Neiman Marcus. He's altered two bridesmaid dresses for me. 

Having a tailor in the basement is handy. 

Apparently, however, sitting in a small room in front of a sewing machine has made him go stir crazy. It's made him want to be outside, soaking in the rays of the sun. It seems a vitamin D deficiency has turned him into a crazy gardener. And I don't mean a "lets-grow-a-garden-in-the-backyard-and-give-our-renter-all-the-bok-choy-she-can-eat" kind of gardener. I mean the obsessive, "let's-really-make-our-house-stand-out" sort of gardener."

This was fine when he decided he wanted to grow tulips that rivaled Holland's finest last year. 

They were gorgeous. 

But then he saw their beauty, and that's where it all began...suddenly, he was out there like a rabid gopher, digging holes all over the place, (including the middle of the lawn) dropping in as many bulbs as he could get his hands on. I'd come out of my house at 6 am, and he'd pop out of the shrubs and say things like, "Allison! See that hole? There's 62 tulip bulbs in there!" I'd nod politely, pick up all my belongings from the lawn where I'd thrown them from being startled out of my morning stupor by his excitement, and sprint to my car, reminding myself to lock it, lest he start trying to turn my Subaru into his next planter...

I think when all was said and done, he planted something like 12,000 tulip bulbs. 

I'm only slightly exaggerating. 

I should also mention that our yard is maybe 10x8 feet. Come April, he sat outside everyday waiting for the tulips to sprout. Even I, who rarely gets excited about plants, couldn't wait for the explosion of tulips. I mean, his excitement was contagious! I pulled out my wooden shoes and looked into building a windmill. 

We waited. And waited. And waited. He began pacing, talking to the ground, becoming more and more frantic as each day passed and there was no sign of the tulips. 

I quietly put my wooden shoes away and scrapped the plans for the windmill. 

The tulips never arrived. 

Now, I am not a gardener by any means, but I think it might have been due to the fact that there were 62 bulbs in each hole. Perhaps tulips don't like to be crowded. 

But I couldn't tell him that. He was depressed. He reverted back to his sewing machine and I didn't see him for weeks.

But then things started happening again. The yard became abuzz with new plants. My favorite was the arrival of the peach tree. I was certain that this too would bring great disappointment, because to my limited fruit tree knowledge, peaches grow in Georgia, not Massachusetts. 

I was wrong. 

Peaches DO grow in Massachusetts. At least they did this summer, when it was 86 billion degrees every day. Again, only a slight exaggeration.

So, given the disappointment of the tulips, imagine his joy multiplied when the tree produced many baby peaches, sending him into dreams of peach cobbler, peach ice cream, dreams of being back in Trinidad (his original home) where as a child, he could walk outside and just pick a piece of fruit off the tree anytime he wanted. He had been yearning to share this experience with his own son, and now he could. 

He had succeeded. 

Then, one quiet morning, I was sitting on my couch, minding my own business, when suddenly I hear my landlord screaming at the top of his lungs. I was sure he must have been on fire from the way he was shrieking. I dash outside, fire extinguisher in hand, to find him spinning in circles, throwing whatever he can get his hands on up into the air...his shoes, his work bag, a rake...and I run back inside to avoid being pelted by flying objects. (it's hard to aim when you're spinning in circles in a clear psychotic episode.) I pick up the phone, certain I was going to need psychiatric back up, when I saw it: 

A squirrel on the telephone line, holding a peach. 

I put the phone down. Perhaps I had been premature in celebrating peach success. 

In that moment, war had been declared. 

My landlord took the day off work to sit by his tree to "watch the squirrels" and devised a plan: he's going to build a 12 foot cage around the tree. When I heard this plan, I considered taking a day off too. 

Because this I had to see.

I should mention here that my landlord is a man of a million ideas, is an excellent self starter and a terrible finisher. I'm not sure I have ever seen him finish a project. Ever.

So, the building of the peach tree cage commences. He brings in reinforcements. His wife and son are out offering support, suppressing their laughter. Ok, they're not suppressing their laughter. In fact, they are hunched over in full belly guffaws. His brother, uncle, 16 cousins and several friends are there, offering advice, none of which is making ANY sense. It seemed everyone had a vision about  how a peach tree cage should be built. I watched from the safety of my living room. Because I saw the materials he is working with (wood stakes and string) and I could see exactly where this was going. 

Absolutely Nowhere.

As it got darker and darker, he came to the conclusion that he was going to need actual wood and chicken wire. 

Operation "Cage the Peach Tree" halted for the night, and was scheduled to re-commence at 6 am the next morning. (Where he was going to get chicken wire before 6 am, I am not sure. Actually, I don't want to know. I really don't.)

However, what he didn't think about was his poorly planned original cage was effectively a squirrel jungle gym.

Squirrels like jungle gyms. Particularly ones with a peach tree in the middle.

So the next morning, I took my tea and list of adult psychiatric hospitals out to my front steps, because I felt like I needed to offer moral support. And I was certain I was witnessing a psychotic break, and felt like I could offer my services to his wife. 

And then he came outside. With a large bowl. I couldn't wait to see what he had planned for that. Maybe he was going to wear it as a helmet. I positioned my camera, anxious to capture this moment.

And then he began picking peaches, placing them gingerly in the bowl. 

What was this? Was this resignation? Was he beating the squirrels at their own game in a manner that was rational? 

Disappointment filled my chest. The comedy routine happening in my front yard had come to a screeching halt. I took my tea back inside, knowing the show was over.

And the best part? He left 6 peaches on the tree for the squirrels. 

A peace offering of sorts.

The Pilot

I swear my life is a sitcom. There's no other explanation. Someone, somewhere has scripted the encounters I have every day and someday, I am going to find they have filmed my every interaction. I swear. 

For instance, how many of you have a landlord who has come to your door bearing a gift of wilted bok-choy? Happened to me last week. And yes, I had to spend 30 minutes on google just to identify it and then another 30 on uses for bok-choy because really, who USES bok choy on an average Thursday night? Or ever? I am sure the look on my face as she handed it over was priceless. Becase it clearly said, "You want me to take this wilted plant that looks like a cross between celery (which I hate) and rhubarb and do what exactly with it? But she was standing there, hands full of bok choy, so happy to share that I couldn't exactly slam the door in her face. She might raise my rent. Or tell me I can't use the washer anymore. So I took it, hopefully changing the look of utter confusion to gracious appreciation for her thoughtfulness.

And for the record, I didn't ask that next time she decides to deliver a "treat" to my door, I'd prefer that she come bearing cupcakes with chocolate frosting. Because I love cupcakes with chocolate frosting. They require zero googling, they're already cooked, AND are not an obscure vegetable. 

But I really wanted to.

Bok Choy. In case your neighbors come bearing it, this is what it looks like.

Just thought I'd save you the effort of googling it.

You're welcome.

This is just one example of the many, many sitcom-like moments in my life. And because I am often left wondering how these things happen to me, I have decided to share them with you for your enjoyment, or perhaps you can script them to punk someone else. Because I am more than certain that some day, I am going to wind up on punk'd or candid camera...if that show still exists.

So sit back, relax and get ready to laugh as I share with you stories such as my first experience teaching sex ed, my gift for receiving the, uh, let's say unusual gift, adventures in psychiatric evaluation, interaction with small children, and other every day peculiarities as they arise. Because some of this stuff is just too funny to keep to myself.

I hope you'll tune in and enjoy the idiosyncrasies that make up my sitcom life.