Day 13: Character That You Warmed Up To

Day 13:  Character that you warmed up to

I still have mixed feelings about Iyami, but I do like him more than I did on my initial viewing of Osomatsu-san.  Not because of his style of comedy or his personality, but because of his history as a character:  you know all that crap he spouts about being the rightful protagonist, and how much better things were when he was the main character?  It sounds like he’s just talking out of his ass, but if you look at the previous adaptions of the series ... Well, it turns out he’s actually 100% right:  Back in the 1960′s, Iyami was a genuine cultural icon in Japan.  He was almost like the Japanese equivalent of Donald Duck; he wasn’t meant to be a huge character, but he was such a surprise hit with both kids and adults that his role was expanded, even overshadowing the main characters of his show and beyond.  He was so popular that they actually did make him the main character in the 1980′s adaption of Osomatsu-kun:  Yeah, he’s not full of shit, he really was the main character back then!  Make no mistake, he was still a scumbag, but he was kind of fun to watch as he tried and failed to swindle folks out of their money.  He came up with a good scheme once in a while, and he showed a kinder side in some episodes too.  

Now looking back on his personality in Osomatsu-san, a lot of things make sense when you consider his previous role.  His petty, spiteful personality in -San suddenly seems very justified:  watching the characters he stole the spotlight from suddenly steal the spotlight back all of these years later, it’s no wonder he’s become so angry and bitter towards them.  Over the years his style of humor has aged horribly, and he can’t seem to figure out why:  what used to be considered a hilarious gag is now considered a stale, outdated punchline.  That’s where his bitterness comes from: confusion.  He’s a product of his time, and adjusting to the modern setting doesn’t come as easy to him as it did to all of the other characters, and that just makes him even angrier.  It both explains his personality and makes for an interesting arc for him to overcome, something that I hope to see explored a bit in Season 2. 

Previous Day:  Here.

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@markiplier understands

PLEASE TELL THE CHILDREN THE STORY OF MS. STUBELS

Grace fuck, why would you invoke her name like that???

Okay, fine, gather round children, buckle up because we’re going on a bumpy ride back to everyone’s collective least favorite place: 7th grade.

Some background: I went to a very small Catholic school. One class per grade (we were the largest with 19 kids), everyone knew each other whether they wanted to or not. Despite basically every teacher and faculty members insistence that we were The Best And Most Special Class In The School and that everyone loved having us, the longstanding 7th grade teacher Mrs. O’Hara decided to retire in the summer of 2008, meaning the school had to find us a new teacher for the upcoming year. This would be like, the first new teacher in the school in a while, and as she was getting the ‘best class’, it was viewed as a Big Deal. Somewhere in like July or August we got a letter announcing Mrs. Stubel, and it came with a list of books to pick for the summer reading, and that was basically all the information we had.

So…the first day of class. She seems nice enough. Very…ditsy, I guess? It was very easy for her to get herself off topic while talking. She constantly paced around the room, never staying in one spot for longer than a second, complaining she has restless leg syndrome. Which like, I’m sure she did, but she was in the middle of introducing herself and then went on a 20 minute tangent about restless leg syndrome without anyone prompting her. It was almost like you could see her scattered thoughts flying around her head.

So anyone, she eventually gives somewhat of an introduction- she had only taught in public schools before, and kept worrying she ‘didn’t know’ how to teach in a Catholic school despite the entire class insisting literally nothing was different, you just teach the curriculum, twice a week we have religion class with Sister Mary King, that’s literally it (she still talked over us in worry), she told us about her kids, she told us about her obsession with Emily Dickinson, stuff like that.

And then she hands us this worksheet.

She’s like, “Oh, these are just some basic questions for you to answer! Just so I can get to know you guys better!” like in lieu of an icebreaker game, which is fine, but…the questions. The questions were all “What is your most haunting fear?”, “What is your deepest regret?”, “Have you ever experienced the pain of loss?”, “What was your worst injury?”, “What was your worst nightmare?”, all questions like that, and then on the back she wanted us to draw a gravestone and write out what we wanted our epitaph to be.

We were twelve year olds, mind you.

Oh my God and one girl missed the first day because of her grandmother’s funeral, so when she came the next day and saw what the teacher was insisting she do for homework, she almost had a panic attack? And the lady still made her do it? Literally who wants to think about death anymore at a time like that omfg.

Okay, so then we get to the summer reading book reports, right? Now, she had given a list of maybe, 20 books that you could pick from, read it, and then present an oral report on it. You had to have notecards and you had to be able to answer questions from the class at the end. All in all, I’ve had worse projects.

So, on this list, she apparently put Madeleine L’Engle’s entire book series on the list…only she did not make it known that this was a series and not multiple stand alone books, so when reports started up it caused mass-panic of kids trying to put together plot points and make connections on what the hell they had read.

I was the only kid in the class who had chosen to read “A Wrinkle In Time”, and that has since lead to a series of events that…really actually scares me, I’m still incredibly freaked out, I’m not going to get into it right now because it’ll take away from the current story, but just know that I’m not above wondering if it only happened because I read the book for Stubel.

Anyway, so like, I got through the report okay. The class asking questions about it was fine, but the teacher kept asking questions that didn’t make sense, like, at all. My friend Angie has always had super neat handwriting and Mrs. Stubel got like, obsessed with her notecards and asked if she could borrow them for something. When we got our grades back a few weeks later, Angie had points taken off for not having notecards.

And then her teaching just…didn’t happen. She’d never stay on a topic, she’d always get herself distracted! We were not learning anything. And like, this wasn’t a class of advanced smart kids that loved to learn. By all accounts we should’ve been thrilled. But it got out of hand. It got to points where we had to start teaching lessons to ourselves, asking teacher from other grades for help, always coming home in tears, complaining constantly to our parents and the principal because this woman wasn’t teaching us anything. There were two kids who asked her multiple times for extra help, and she told them each time to ‘talk to me after school’, but then she’d leave immediately after school so they wouldn’t be able to talk to her. They finally brought up the issue in the middle of class and she had a breakdown, yelling about how nobody ever thinks that maybe the teacher has a lot of work to do, and maybe she’s entitled to taking off early, but when we tried to argue she shouldn’t schedule meetings and then break them off in the name of relaxation, she stormed out of the room and tried to get the principal to give us detention. (Which, like, our school didn’t even do, and she was the only one in the wrong during this situation) We are still in September at this point, and already at least ten kids have parents considering transferring them to another school. (And remember, there was only 19 of us, and most of the class had been together since preschool, so that was a big deal).

Then, she starts coming in with all the weird bruises. All the Moms™ immediately started gossiping that her husband had to be beating her, and that’s why she was so screwy in the head. But the way she talked about her husband made it seem like he *might* be dead, and we actually did witness her fall and smack her head into a doorknob once, so no one really knew what to believe. (Also, I’m not trying to imply that abuse would make someone crazy or ‘damaged’ or anything, this is just what was being said. I think they were trying to turn her into a more sympathetic character, because if you feel sorry for her you don’t have to hate her for frustrating your kids so much, and Hate Is A Bad Emotion.)

Also…this woman and Emily Dickinson.

She talked about Emily Dickinson every chance she could get. None of us knew who Emily Dickinson really was before she got there and you could see in her mind it was a capitol offense. She found out the curriculum didn’t have room to cover her (because like, we had a text book), and was way too upset about it. She started reading her poems whenever she found the time (usually somewhere in history class), and always gave us very detailed accounts about her dressing up as Emily and reading her poetry at the library.

Now, two things to note here:

The library did not hire her to do this. She would literally just get in the mood, put on an Emily Dickinson costume that she made by herself, drive to different libraries, and just read poetry out loud to everyone there until someone eventually asked her to leave.

The way she described these events…her tone, the look on her face, her posture…you could just tell that she was getting some sort of sexual gratification out of this? Like dressing up as Emily Dickinson in public and reading her sad poems is really what got this lady’s jollies rocking? Got her all hot and bothered? Which is…a lot, but why would you tell a bunch of seventh graders about it holy shit. What about that sounds like a good idea! What about that turns you back on!

So anyway, we learned a lot about Emily Dickinson against our will.

One of the Davids™ was reading a book for pleasure- which shouldn’t have been a shocker, a lot of kids always had books on them, but Stubel got really interested and asked if she could borrow it from him. He was like ‘sure, after I finish it?’ but she took it that day. He asked her for it back for like five weeks straight.

And…the strudels.

Okay, so the school was trying some dorky thing to promote ~togetherness~ or some virtue or something, I don’t remember the specifics of why, but each class had to make a huge themed poster and hang it on the wall outside the classroom. Which was like, whatever, not the most thrilling project but at least it allowed us to be productive vs just sitting there as the teacher runs about the room rambling about her family vacation from four years ago. Mrs. Stubel decided we needed a quirky nickname and after like three days of deliberation we were christened “Stubel’s Special Strudels”!

(points for alliteration or whatever, but no one actually voted for that and what exactly do strudels have to do with Catholicism? It became a big running joke amongst the kids)

Also, in case you were wondering, she didn’t explain the assignment correctly to us- so every other class had like these beautiful, artistic, well-themed and put together posters, while ours was just…literally a bunch of shit thrown together on paper. Nothing fit with each other, it was literally embarrassing to look at.

But then…she wouldn’t drop the strudel thing. Like she kept bringing it up. She got really into strudels and would just tell us random shit about them. Finally, someone jokes that we should get strudels one day for a party (like instead of a pizza party), and she’s Freaking Out and On Board. She really wants to buy us strudels and have a breakfast party now. She talked about it for like two days straight.

So like… you know in school when you would have a pizza party, usually the teacher would buy it? That’s how they always happened in my experience (not counting the last day of 10th grade when some kid had pizza delivered to the school for lunch but it didn’t get there until math class lol). But especially in grade school? Like if it wasn’t a PTA made party that’s super organized, the school would buy the food, right? Right?

Yeah, so she was like, if this is happening you guys need to give me the money. Just give me the money and then I’ll pick them up on my way to work!! And after some arguing some kids are on board. Strudels should only cost a couple dollars right?

And she’s like, oh no, I’m gonna get them from this high end bakery near my house so it’ll be special, but they’re not cheap and it’ll be a big order! I’m gonna need like fifteen dollars from each of you!

And at this point I’m just like…lady. Come on. 

But she keeps insisting. She’s not gonna go until every student in class pays up.

And I’m like…I’m poor. I don’t even like strudel.  And some of the less-naïve kids are siding with me.

And then she pulls that “you guys are just spoiling all the fun for your classmates” shit, like the naïve kids who already paid up, so it gets to the point where we just gotta cave and give her the money.

(I ended up stealing it out of my Crazy Bitch Aunt’s wallet so it’s whatever, I guess.)

And then of course, shockingly enough, every morning she was met with “where are the strudels?” and every morning she went wide eyed, slapped her forehead and yelled in embarrassed horror “I totally forgot! Tomorrow, guys, I promise!”

Honestly, with how scatterbrained and confused she always was…like to this day I can’t tell you with 100% certainty whether she hustled us or was just actually forgetting about the damn pastries, I choose to lean towards the hustled us side because that’s just the type of people I’m used to, but if I found out it was innocent forgetfulness I wouldn’t exactly be surprised.

She couldn’t handle more than one person talking at a time. Like, we’d have break periods, or group work, or something and all the talking made her go wide-eyed and batty. She’d look overworked and anxious and would be darting around the room trying to do work or something but she couldn’t focus and she’d yell at anyone who tried to talk to her directly. I remember one time she was using this boys desk for something so he asked “where am I supposed to sit?” and she snapped “Sit on the ceiling for all I care!”. And this kid was the Class Clown™ , so he immediately grabbed a chair in one hand and started climbing the bookcase to try and reach the ceiling. She’s standing right next to this and doesn’t even notice. He got all four chair legs planted on the ceiling and was trying to somehow maneuver his way into the chair (I really don’t know what the plan was exactly- he was really tall and it was a small building, so I think he probably had the idea that if he can get his body upside down and in the chair, and stretch out his arms like a hand-stand to hold onto bookcase, he could arguably sit on the ceiling.) but he slipped. Crashed into my desk and the two desks next to me, knocked over the book case, broke the chair in half and hit the desks with enough force to knock them down lower. It was hilarious. Everyone was loosing their shit cracking up (he was fine) and it still took Stubel like five minutes to notice his lying out across the desks right in front of her eyes. She was pissed but how did she miss any of it in the first place? She was barely being helpful in whatever it was she was trying to do.

This was the year the Phillies were going to the World Series, and all the grades were having a Phillies Rally in the cafeteria so a news crew was coming to the school and each class was supposed to come up with fun little cheers for them to broadcast. Multiple cheer ideas were presented to her and she vetoed all of them, someone even suggested just singing the damn eagles theme song with replaced words and calling it a day but she vetoed that too, she was very adamant that she could come up with a cheer all by herself and it’ll be the best one (whoever had the best cheer was winning like an ice cream day or something idk). And then like…literally five minutes before the rally she just hands us signs with the letters and was like ‘we’re just gonna spell out Phillies it will be cute won’t it my strudels???’. We were the weakest class there, predictably. I think we lost to the kindergarteners. There might still be a video online of me yelling “ i “ passionately at the top of my lungs. It was online bc our cheer was so bland the news crew cut it out of the broadcast.

I literally can’t say enough about how she never taught us anything. She’d be going on some tangent about how she doesn’t understand the science behind skiing, and I’d be like “Okay yes but please can you just tell me where Romania is on a map???” And she’d start fights whenever someone actually wanted to learn. It was so easy to get her angry but so hard for her to stay on topic. Kids started teaching the class themselves! Like seriously, she’d be rambling and one of us would just go up to the podium, open the teacher’s guide textbook and just start reading out loud and talking over her. By the time she noticed we’d be halfway through a lesson. And we understood it better than when she tried! You know something’s wrong when pre-teens are more qualified for a job than an adult who supposedly went to school for this.

We were in the church having run-throughs for our upcoming Confirmation and she almost set the church on fire…fifteen different times. In less than half an hour. How hard is it to hold a candle?

Okay, and here’s when stuff starts kicking up. It was October 28th, a Tuesday, and it was our last day of school that week because they were having parent-teacher conferences the rest of the week. So we were just hanging out, watching movies in class and reading (lord knows we weren’t learning), and Stubel calls me over to her desk.

So like, she had given everyone little bags with candy for Halloween, but I get up there and she hands me an extra one. And she’s like “Molly I know your birthday is tomorrow and I bought you a present but I left it on my coffee table this morning by accident! So just have the candy for now!”

And I’m like….”Ma’am I’m like, the sixth birthday this year. You didn’t give anyone else presents?”

And she goes “Oh, I know but this is a special secret surprise. I just know you’re gonna love it! Do you wanna stop by my house later this week to pick it up or should I just give it to you Monday after school?”

And like…In writing this sounds like a non-threatening exchange, and like, it was, but I felt so uncomfortable holy shit. I’m looking over my shoulder and shooting my friends SOS signals. Something about this felt so weird in my gut omfg. I told her thanks and I’d just see her Monday.

So we flash forward to Wednesday- my 13th birthday, the day the Phillies won the world series, and also the day my mother innocently strolled into the school for her meeting only to be met with screaming, the sound of heavy destruction, and the school secretary Mrs. Daily running at her in a panic, waving her arms and yelling “YOUR MEETING IS CANCELLED YOUR MEETING IS CANCELLED GET IN MY OFFICE NOW!”

So my poor mother, who thought she could handle this whole meeting in a few minutes and barely be an hour late for work, is now barricaded in the front office with the school secretary, as the noises from down the hall get louder and louder. The woman explains that they had gotten so many complaints about Mrs. Stubel that this morning, when she got to the school, the principal Sister Patricia called her in and said “Listen, we need you to be professional and still have the parent conferences, but we have to let you go. We just don’t think you fit in well here, and the kids need to come first and feel comfortable in their school.” and like, I’m paraphrasing because I wasn’t there, but we all know she was very polite and professional about it.

Mrs. Stubel, however…was not.

She flipped her chair and stormed out of the office, and locks herself in the seventh grade classroom. She started wrecking the shit out of that place, screaming obscenities and the top of her lungs, they had to call the cops on her! She was locked in there for almost an hour! And let me just give you a nice little list of everything she did in that classroom:

Smashed three windows.

Threw everything off her desk and carved swear words all over it.

Got cleaning fluid that she knew would damage the chalk boards, smeared it all over.

Cracked the chalk boards by repeatedly smashing chairs against them.

Wrote swear words all over the walls and on desks

Went into students desks, ripped up their books.

Stole my glasses. (which were in my desk bc I only used them in class at the time)

Threw some desks around.

Carved swear words into the boards. (there was so much carving I’m assuming she just had a knife on her person, which has to lead to the question, did she have a knife on her while she was in class with us?)

Physically ripped the hooks to hang backpacks on out of the wall.

Knocked the closet door off it’s hinges.

Ripped up all the books in the bookcases and threw their pages all around the room.

Wrote lewd phrases inside student’s desks.

Broke multiple chairs.

Used her podium as a battering ram against the wall that’s in front of where the backpacks go. (the wall won but Damage Was Inflicted)

Set a fire in the trash can.

When the principal and other teachers started trying to get in, she tossed her rolling chair at the door to scare them off.

She was screaming curse words at the top of her lungs the entire time, and cursing the school and the kids and the principal and the church in general, and the school building was small, so all the parents and the smaller children that had to come to the meetings (who were locked in their respective classrooms in fear) heard everything.

So much more? But it’s 4:30 in this morning and this list is already long.

So my mom is in the front office and deadass the

entire police force

shows up, running down the hallway to the classroom yelling at her to stop, and it takes a while for them to get her out holy shit. They knocked down the door and she tried to escape out of one of the broken windows! But they got her and dragged her out.

So of course, in such a small school with very involved parents this shit spread like wildfire. The entire town knew within the day. The poor principal called the newly retired old-seventh grade teacher and was like “So we…need some help” and the lady was like “I already heard I’ll be there Monday” omfg. I remember I got a text from one of my classmates saying “if your birthday wish was for us to be set free from the beast I love you” omfg.

So, we eventually go back to school on Monday and everyone’s buzzing. The principal has us go to the cafeteria and she ‘delicately’ explains the situation, and that the old teacher is coming out of retirement for us, the school has a restraining order against Mrs. Stubel now and that she’s sorry we had to deal with this mess. Our classroom had to go under some heavy reconstruction before we could be let back in there, so for like two weeks we alternated between the cafeteria and the preschooler’s classroom, we had no books or anything, just provided loose-leaf paper and pens. It was like, surreal, but everyone was just so happy to be rid of her and to be in the presence of a competent teacher omfg. We eventually were able to get back into our usual classroom.

It took a while for things to go completely back to normal, though. After the big spectacle she made, for weeks after she was fired we were all very scared of the possibility of Mrs. Stubel returning to the school with a gun in hand. It was always a topic we whispered about at lunch with wide eyes and shivers. Like…genuine nightmare scenario.

About two weeks after she was fired, a boy in the back of the classroom gasped loudly during SSR, and when we all looked at him, he whispered in anger “She never gave us our freakin’ strudels!”

About three months after she was fired, we were lined up at the door to go to Library when a few of us looked through the windows and saw something darting through the trees. It was fast and we couldn’t make anything out, so we let it drop. When the class and teacher returned half and hour later, the book she had borrowed months before from one of the boys was sitting on his desk. It was just laying there, the room was silent, nothing had been disturbed…but I have never seen a book look so threatening. People were freaking out. Someone kept insisting that she turned the book into a bomb. No one figure out how she got in the school, and no one could figure out how she got it on the right desk, as we had switched the seating arrangement since she had last been there.  

A full six months after she had left, it was nearing the end of the school year and our class was dicking around during our last computer class. Someone found a website (that we weren’t allowed to be on) that pulls up any police records attached to whoever’s name you enter, so someone decided to search Mrs. Stubel as a joke. We ended up finding out she had like six DUI’s.

Aaaaand that’s the story of the horrendous teacher I had for two months in 7th grade. One of my favorite party stories but tbh she still haunts me™ .

Day 15:  Cutest Scene / Episode

Jyushi and his date are so friggin’ adorable.  That little montage of the two of them doing stuff together is probably one of my favorite sequences in the entire show.  They just look like they’re having so much fun, and so happy to be together.  It makes the rest of the episode that much more depressing, but I still love it.  I really hope we haven’t seen the last of her. 

Previous Day:  Here.

Next Day:  Here.

Challenge Start:  Here.

On May 28th, my sister, Edna, turned 31.

 Her mental age is about three years old. She loves Winnie the Pooh, Beauty & the Beast, and Sesame Street. Even though the below picture is unconvincing. 

Edna and “Cookie.” I think she was trying to play it cool. 

My name is Jeanie. I’m Edna’s younger sister. I’m also her guardian and caregiver. 

That’s me on the left. (Hey, you never know. After a year of writing a blog about online dating - Jeanie Does the Internet - I’ve come to learn that there are A LOT of fools on the internet.) 

ANYWAY, I’m not “doing the internet” anymore. I’m taking care of Edna full-time, after completing my MFA in Writing for Screen & Television at USC.

May 16, 2014. I wanted a picture. Edna wanted breakfast.

In case you’re wondering where our parents are, they’re dead. Our mom died of breast cancer when she was just 33. 

Us with mom before she died. (Obviously.)

As for our dad, he peaced-out around the time my mom got sick. His loss - we’re awesome. 

Here we are being awesome at the beach. Pushing a wheelchair in the sand? Not so awesome. 

In case you’re wondering “What’s wrong?” with my sister - as a stranger once asked me on the street  -  NOTHING. Yes, Edna has a rare form of epilepsy - Lennox-Gastaut syndrome - but I don’t know if that’s anymore “wrong” than people who don’t have manners. 

Basically, Edna was born “normal,” and started having seizures as a baby. They eventually got so bad that they cut off the oxygen to her brain, causing her to be mentally disabled. Or impaired. Or intellectually disabled. Or whatever you want to call it - except “retarded,” because in 2010, President Obama signed Rosa’s Law into effect, replacing that word with “intellectually impaired.” 

Which is cool and all, but services for the disabled and the people who care for them are SEVERELY LACKING. Also, there’s a bunch of people working in taxpayer-funded positions who are supposed to help families like us, but don’t. (Big surprise, I know.) They just fill out paperwork (whenever they feel like it) with asinine statements like this: 

YUP. I transport my sister down the stairs in her wheelchair, because that is not only safe, but TOTALLY PRACTICAL. Why doesn’t everyone in a wheelchair just take the stairs, for God’s sake? Stop being so lazy, PEOPLE WITHOUT WORKING LEGS! 

But, as it says above, Edna’s legs do work. Whether or not she wants them to, is another story. 

Edna refusing to go inside. 

These are the stairs that I have to carry her up - by myself - on a daily basis. That is, until one of my legs break and both of us are just sitting at the bottom of the stairs, helpless. 

For six months, I have begged - BEGGED - the State of California to help my sister, which they are required by law - The Lanterman Act specifically - to do so. But they’ve told me “these things take time” and that I “need to amend my expectations.” (That was said to me when I refused to place Edna at AN ALL-MALE CARE FACILITY. Because yes, that was an “option” that was offered to me.) 

Prior to Edna moving in with me in my one-bedroom apartment, she was living with her amazing caregiver, Gaby, back in Tucson, where we went to high school and I did my undergrad. Edna’s reppin’ the Wildcats below. 

But back in November, Gaby also died from breast cancer. (FUCK YOU, BREAST CANCER!) This picture was taken a month before she died. She never even told me she was sick because she didn’t want me to worry. 

By the way, we were raised by our grandma. Edna and her were very close.

She’s dead, too. Surprise.

She died when I was 20 and Edna was 21. That’s when I became Edna’s legal guardian and Gaby stepped into the picture to help me out with Edna. 

So, six months ago, after Gaby died, I moved Edna to California, where I tried to get the folks over at The Frank D. Lanterman Regional Center to help me. I’ve told them I’m worried about our safety - that one of us could get hurt on the stairs -  I’ve told them I can’t afford to pay the private babysitters $15/hour because the ones social services sent me who make $9/hour were unreliable (they didn’t show up on time or at all so I could get to school and work), untrustworthy (one of them let Edna go to the bathroom in the kitchen and then took her into the bathroom because “that what I thought I was supposed to do.”) 

But the people over at the FLRC don’t return my calls, they don’t file the paperwork on time - and the first caseworker that was assigned to us actually LAUGHED AT my sister when he came to our home to evaluate her. When I reported him to his supervisor, she told me, “That’s just [insert name of said jackass].” 

He was one of the two caseworkers that contributed to the report I mentioned above, which also included this: 

So let me get this straight - I have to feed, bathe, dress and help Edna in the bathroom and you can’t deduce whether or not she is able to vote? What in the fuck?!

Now I realize I seem angry. And you can bet your balls I am. I’m also sad. Sad for those who don’t have family to stick up from them and who waste away God knows where, monitored by no one. Or monitored by people who physically and sexually assault them. 

I’m also sad for the caregivers who are SO EXHAUSTED - trying to take care of their loved ones - while also trying to take care of themselves and battling a system that is supposed to help, but does nothing of the sort. And I know a lot of people give up. They let their dreams, their marriages, their friendships slide. All while trying not to resent the very person you’re doing it all for.

Edna wanted to sit next to me the other day while I was writing. Clearly, she’s not impressed. 

Here’s the thing: I REFUSE TO GIVE UP. I’M NOT GIVING UP ON HER OR MYSELF. I’m going to pursue my dreams while taking care of her, AND while ensuring that the people paid to do their jobs ACTUALLY do them.

That’s where you come in. I need you to help me get my story out there. Because I know I’m not alone in this. I want to connect with families who are in similar situations and also show people who have no idea what it’s like to care for someone with a disability (or even a loved one who is sick) that it can be rewarding. Super fucking hard. Exhausting. Painful. Isolating. But, rewarding. 

I’m going to get help for my sister - and others. My hope is that by sharing our story, I can bring awareness to the lack of services and help for the disabled. 

Thank you, 

Jeanie 

Facebook:  facebook.com/eisforedna

Twitter: @EisforEdna 

The Glue Famine of 2017

On February 6th, 2017, I ranted colorfully about a constant depletion of glue from retail stores due to a growing trend of children making glue slime. (To the many of you asking, ‘what the fuck is glue slime,’ here is a video of an excitable man showing you how to make it. A mixture of glue and borax.) The rant has become absurdly popular and just as absurdly long. 

I’m sure that people are just as tired of seeing it clog up their dashboards as I am of listening to angry parents use me as a receptacle for their repressed rage. So I have decided to perform a condensed recap in order to deliver the updates on my diminishing tolerance for humans in a much more digestible size. 

If you have been following along thus far, you may skip to the bolding below. For the rest… this is an exercise in foreshadowing. 

It was December 18th when we noticed that the glue was all gone. “Perhaps they’re using it all for Christmas projects,” offered one worker. “Perhaps they have a lot of crafting to do,” said another. 

But then came the phone calls: “Do you have any glue?” “Do you have any styrofoam pellets?” “Do you have any borax?”

Borax. Borax- of course!

They’re making slime! Someone must have taught it in a science class, I thought. And now they want to show their friends! Kids are so cute. 

But then the phone calls became more frequent, urgent: “Glue?” “Clear glue?” “Borax?” “Shaving cream, contact lens solution, glue?” “Glue glue glue?” “Where is the glue?” “Why don’t you have any glue?” “WHY DOESN’T ANYONE HAVE ANY GLUE?!”

I did what I always do when unreasonable quantities of singular items have suddenly reached an apex of ridiculous popularity: I ask the Internet. An article lands in my lap (literally, because my only computer is a laptop) about how glue slime has become popular. Thousands of videos of people playing with slime. At least a hundred tutorials. A lot of people use it to stim. Cool! 

The other part is about how kids who make it are selling it. There is an entire market in the 7-17 demographics bracket based around the buy, sell, and trade of non-newtonian fluids. People are selling by the ounce. 

And just like any other thing that happens in this town, the parents have gone completely bonkers that their children jumped on the trend a day late and start blaming us. Because it is entirely our fault that this trend blindsided everyone. People begin showing us just how little they know about working in retail by asking why we ‘don’t just order more glue?’ They feel that it is an affront, a personal insult to them, that we are refusing to do this specifically because of their requests and we are clearly anarchists bent on dismantling this oppressive system. 

But I digress. Ah yes- the glue. 

Just as we were beginning to give up, thinking that the glue famine was going to mark the abrupt end of the trend, I am tasked with setting up an endcap specifically for glue slime. 

With all the bottles of glue we don’t have. 

The glue slime display posed empty and yearning for two weeks before suddenly, miraculously, we were given a huge shipment of glue. Huge! Almost enough to fill the endcap! Yes! Finally, we could give the people what they want!

This was on President’s Day Weekend. It was empty by Monday. 

We played this tug-of-war between supply and demand for weeks and weeks until we finally started getting enough in per week to keep the endcap full. We began carrying it by the gallons! Gallons of glue were selling out by the end of the week, filling again on Thursday, only to be voraciously depleted by Saturday morning. People were still angry. We had become used to the angry. Boisterous shouts had become the rhythmic breath of the store- rising each weekend and falling to inhale by Monday. 

But we had reached an equilibrium. I could see an end to the madness. 

And this brings us to April.

I was promoted to shipping operations. The glue slime endcap was likewise promoted to drive aisle. 

As I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I take the monthly event calendar with me as reading material. They have me manage the classes and family events and it helps to prepare. 

I flip to the final page and what do I see?

And which poor soul is scheduled to lead this class? 

This is the moment where I realized that I was doomed to a sticky mess regardless of what position I held in this company. At least this time it wasn’t going to be a biological hazard.  Probably. 

But here’s the kicker: 

Because we don’t sell baking soda, borax, shaving cream, or contact lens solution, we technically can’t have the kids make the slime themselves. 

We have to make it and then bring it in for them to customize as they please. 

Our manager leaves in the middle of the day to get supplies to do a test run because she has never made glue slime before and wants to test the recipe that the Company gave us. She comes back to the break room as I am coming back from lunch. 

Over the headset, I hear: “Oh my god, it’s sticky!”

I find an amusing sort of symmetry in the fact that this is the same manager whose response to the aforementioned biological hazard was “oh my god, it’s chunky!”

This is that ‘foreshadowing’ thing I mentioned earlier. 

The days leading up to this event have filled everyone involved with it with dread and meticulous preparation. An entire gallon of slime has been made prior to the event and portioned into Easter eggs to ration each child’s daily allotment of slime. Little cups of glitter, beads, sequins, plastic animals, googly eyes, and (enigmatically) pom poms have been filled and set onto a table covered in paper for easy cleanup. 

We have been chanting to ourselves: “It’s only two hours, it’s only two hours, it’s only two hours.” This has become the heartbeat, a chant between raucous breaths of angry parents. 

We have played out every possible scenario that could happen and built a contingency plan around every problem. Our armor is on. We have backup. 

We are ready for battle. 

And now, submitted for your approval, I bring you to to today- April 8th. 

Which is, by some weird coincidence and because the fates like a good laugh, also my girlfriend’s birthday. 

I am told at the beginning of my shift that I need to change my shirt because I smell like sweat and my manager is concerned that the parents will find it offensive for me to smell like a human being who has been trying to work out the tail end of a fever for three weeks. 

Despite the fact that I’m going to be the one heading this thing, it is the managers who are the most nervous about its outcome. I’m the one preparing to drive myself deeper into my own madness. But sure- you can be the one worried about a vaguely salty scent in a room full of slime progeny. 

There is another class that I have to teach before I do the SLIME BAR and it’s just some silly little Easter craft object of little significance. I get to the end of the class and I start having dangerous thoughts. 

What if no one shows up?

This does not come from nowhere. In the sixty classes that I’ve been asked to teach since my title change, I have had people attend a grand total of ten. There are at least five easter egg hunts in the area, several pre-easter celebrations, and some kind of… soccer thing that are all happening at the same time as the SLIME BAR. 

Maybe no one will show up. 

As the word ‘up’ dies away in mental echoes, a woman pops her head into my classroom. 

“Is this the slime thing?”

I severely underestimated the siren call of the slime bar. 

“This is where we’re having it, but it doesn’t start until 1.”

She grumbles and disappears. 

If I do not eat lunch now, I will likely faint headfirst into a puddle of glitter. I leave for lunch. I return from lunch at 12:30 and there is already a line forming at the door of the classroom. 

“Is this the slime thing?” It’s not the same woman as before, but a near-identical woman with the exact same poultry-esque haircut. 

“It doesn’t start until one, ma’am.”

She folds her arms at her chest. “I can wait,” she says in a tone that indicates that no she certainly will not wait.

I quickly begin setting out the individually-portioned cups of glitter and other inclusions, the slime-filled eggs, the parchment paper. I hear a murmur outside, getting louder and louder and louder… more agitated. 

The door opens and a co-worker comes in. “There’s a line of like… twenty people out there,” she says. The room is built to house, at most, twelve.

“Please tell me you’re here to help.”

“I have been… encouraged to help.”

“Extra hours?”

“Extra hours.”

The people of the retail world all speak the same language. It is a  tired language.

It becomes one-o-clock and they all file in. All twenty four, standing around the table because they apparently didn’t understand me when I said ‘come in, have a seat.’ I call a framer to get us some extra chairs, which I suppose made that a little easier. 

Immediately, a little girl starts crying because she was under the impression that we were going to have them make the slime instead of customizing it and this has thrown a wrench in her entire day. She is not the only one who is upset over this development because apparently all anyone ever saw in the flier was ‘MAKE’ and ‘SLIME’ and all the other parts were decidedly unimportant details. Eight of the kids are upset, three are crying. Oh good- they’re learning disappointment early. 

 Each of the kids grabs an egg and they start smooshing whatever particulate they can find into brightly-colored semi-solids and the crying uplifts to joyous discovery as they learn all the ridiculous things they can do with slime. Despite all the various things we have provided for them, they only want to work with glitter. 

A tiny human poured the entire contents of a bowl of glitter into her hand and looked me square in the eye.

“What would happen,” she pondered. “If I…” She mimed the action of throwing glitter in the air.

“I would prefer it if you didn’t.”

And then she fucking does. Tiny fistfuls of sparkly particulate go shooting into the windless air, arching artfully over the table before scattering into everyone’s personal space. People are mad. 

She knew full well what would happen. I can see it in her shit-eating grin full of tiny, perfectly square teeth. 

I predicted this. I saw the future and the words ‘glitter’ and ‘sticky’ came up in my crystal ball. Mind you, I’m getting paid just above minimum wage here- so the crystal ball is more like… an overturned fishbowl. 

I look at my watch. It has been twelve minutes. 

As the first wave of families starts to take their oozing babies away to hopefully cleaner activities, a man comes in with his twelve-year-old daughter. 

“We’ll have you sign in,” I told him. “Name and phone number in case of an emergency.” The girl joins the rest of the glitter monsters while I speak with her dad. 

“This thing ends at 3:00, right?”

“We are holding the event until 3, but the activity itself takes about fifteen minutes.”

“I’ll come back in an hour just to be sure.”

“It’s only fifteen minutes.”

“Yeah, an hour.”

He turns around and leaves. 

The girl is done in less than fifteen minutes and begins asking where her dad is. “I’m sure he’s in the store.”

The girl does not seem impressed or convinced by this answer. At the half-hour mark, she’s getting tired of waiting for him and my co-worker escorts her out into the store to see if he’s anywhere. Nowhere to be found. 45 minutes, still missing. They call him.

Now, there is a sign prominently displayed in the room saying that we are happy to keep an eye on any children left in our care, but we kindly ask that any parents or guardians stay on the premises in case of emergency. 

Where is he?

At home with his feet up. He finally arrives at 2:15 to get her and if that went on any longer, I was going to call Child Protective Services because holy shit, you just dropped your kid off in the care of complete strangers juggling two dozen children at any given time. 

According to the girl, he always does this. Including one time where he made her wait three hours to pick her up from school because he was watching television. 

I don’t make it a habit of judging a person’s child-rearing techniques because I don’t intend on having them myself but HOLY FUCKING SHITBALLS. 

WHY?

WHY?

But that’s done. It’s done. 

It is now 2:30 and the influx of children has slowed to a trickle. The initial urgency to do the slime glue thing has waned and there are now only a few people in the room. We can breathe. 

I do a final count on the roster. Fifty-two. 

Fifty-two. Four dozen excited slime children have come and gone in two hours. This is a lot of things to happen in a short amount of time. But it is almost over now. It’s almost done. 

A small child toddles up to me and hands me an egg.

“I made this for you because I love you.”

And that was the last of them. 

There are four messages on my phone, all from my girlfriend asking me when I was supposed to be out of work, that her parents were here and that they were all going to dinner. 

So I clean up as fast as I possibly can, wipe down everything, sweep, throw out the rejected slime experiments, put things away, scan the used items out of our inventory and I am out of the classroom as fast as I can be. 

But on my way back to the break room to clock out, the framer catches my attention and has a customer ask me: “How do you make glue slime?”

My cells are vibrating with urgency and anger. JUST. GOOGLE. IT. Just fucking google it. You have all the information in the world available to you in the form of an overheated black rectangle in the palm of your hand. 

“Glue. Water. Borax.” These are the ingredients chosen to create the perfect little mess. 

BYE.

Flying out the door now because my girlfriend is urgently asking where I am, she’s worried. They’re tired of waiting for me and want to move on.

I arrive at the pizza parlor thirty minutes late and covered in a fine layer of glitter. There is a googly eye stuck to my butt. 

Her parents know me well enough to know that this is not unusual. 

And the upsetting part is…

…. I know that this is not where the story ends.