A couple of weeks ago Grace tried out for The Voice in Houston. The entire SGG was there to support her and, if you follow me on my regular Facebook page, you know she didn't make it (again) but Leiah almost punched someone in the trachea.
My big plan had been to blog about the entire adventure (and Lord was it) when we returned home, but I was so freaking busy grading papers I didn't have time to do jack shit. Luckily for y'all I unexpectedly have some free time on my hands. Enough that I may or may not now know how to crochet a penis-complete with balls. My new time has nothing to do with the drug dog. I only wish it was something that cool. I will save that story for another day.
The Friday we set out for our trip/SGG reunion/audition, I went to work for half the day. My big major goal was to leave early enough we could beat traffic because I honestly thought being caught in traffic was the worst thing that could happen to us. Until second period.
That's when the drug dog showed up.
Some authoritative looking lady I now know is an assistant principal arrived at my door right in the middle of a great lesson about Duck Dynasty (it was relevant to writing, dammit) with a police lady and her German Shepard. She told us to leave our hoodies, purses, jackets, backpacks and all other personal belongings and step into the hallway. I was pleased none of my little angels looked nervous while the dog sniffed around.
Not even when the AP lady came out and asked, "Whose big gray bag is that by the teacher's desk?"
Probably because a) there was no gray bag and b) it didn't belong to any of them.
No one made a peep, so she threatened to search the bag, but before doing so, she stepped aside to let me see if I could identify the owner of the bag. I was like, "Do you mean the big brown bag?"
Affirmative.
"Uh, that's my bag," is not a statement you want to make in front of a class of sophomores when the police, an AP and a drug dog are involved and you are their teacher, in case you were wondering.
For a brief moment, I reached a new level of cool with those kids because they thought I had actual I'm-going-to-lose-my-teaching-certificate-and-be-someone's-bitch-for-the-foreseeable-future drugs in my purse. Then I had to explain it was anti-anxiety meds and medicine to keep me from offing someone due to the occasional hot flash and I threw them in my purse because I was headed out of town in a few hours.
There went all my cool points.
But the AP totally looked like she got it.
So, when my phone had major problems and when my ex-husband didn't pay child support and when my dad met us to give us "spending money" before the trip, and then we were almost back home because the GPS stopped working only to magically start working right when we were about to take the exit to town, all putting us on the road right at 5:00, on a Friday, in Dallas, I wasn't remotely surprised. I was just like, "Yeah, the drug dog attacked my purse, so you know, what the hell else could I possibly expect but for everything to get wonky?"
I thought I'd outsmart the traffic, though, and have the GPS take us the fewest highways route. It said we'd be arriving at our hotel in about six and a half hours, which would've been the same amount of time if we'd set in traffic.
About two hours into the trip Grace was like, "Mom, isn't this the way we go to Mississippi? I don't think Jackson and Houston are the same direction." It's cute how she likes to pretend she knows directions. Or even what state Houston is in. God love her.
Grace was really concerned, so when we made a pit stop in Lone Oak, where they were having a free Christian rap concert that seemed to be attended by a lot of cowboys, she double checked the GPS just to make sure we wouldn't be showing up at my aunt's house, even though she totally knew the garage code, so we'd be able to get in if she was out of town. By the way, we didn't stop for the rap concert. We stopped to pee.
We were, indeed, headed in the right direction and then Grace and I had a long talk about why she knows everyone's garage codes because, seriously, she doesn't know her address, but the kid can enter garages in multiple states.
We had plenty of time for a long talk about a lot of things. She said I am her best friend and gave me a Little Debbie cupcake, which made me love her more. But why so much time, you ask? Because my GPS is a lying asshole.
Remember the six and a half hours?
What the old girl really meant was eight hours. Which, coincidently, is the same amount of time it takes us to get to Jackson.
When we finally got to the hotel, Grace went right to the room and crashed, only to be awoken by the drunks next door screaming, "I'm a calm drunk and you're a crrrrraaaaazzzzyyyy drunk!!" She had to call and tell us that, because Leiah, Katie and I had killed a bottle of wine in about three seconds and were, at the moment, hanging out with scandalously young boys from Ole Miss and crap-tastic Mississippi State.
Those stories will have t come in multiple posts from Leiah, Katie and I because it was a lot. A lot of scaring the hell out of those poor little fellas and stepping in someone else's vomit in the bathroom.
But the moral to the story is this-if the drug dog attacks your purse in class, you can be pretty sure the rest of your day is going to be weird, crazy, and unforgettable.
Hell, it might even be ten kinds of fun, despite the vomit stuck in the grooves of your tennis shoes.
My big plan had been to blog about the entire adventure (and Lord was it) when we returned home, but I was so freaking busy grading papers I didn't have time to do jack shit. Luckily for y'all I unexpectedly have some free time on my hands. Enough that I may or may not now know how to crochet a penis-complete with balls. My new time has nothing to do with the drug dog. I only wish it was something that cool. I will save that story for another day.
The Friday we set out for our trip/SGG reunion/audition, I went to work for half the day. My big major goal was to leave early enough we could beat traffic because I honestly thought being caught in traffic was the worst thing that could happen to us. Until second period.
That's when the drug dog showed up.
Some authoritative looking lady I now know is an assistant principal arrived at my door right in the middle of a great lesson about Duck Dynasty (it was relevant to writing, dammit) with a police lady and her German Shepard. She told us to leave our hoodies, purses, jackets, backpacks and all other personal belongings and step into the hallway. I was pleased none of my little angels looked nervous while the dog sniffed around.
Not even when the AP lady came out and asked, "Whose big gray bag is that by the teacher's desk?"
Probably because a) there was no gray bag and b) it didn't belong to any of them.
No one made a peep, so she threatened to search the bag, but before doing so, she stepped aside to let me see if I could identify the owner of the bag. I was like, "Do you mean the big brown bag?"
Affirmative.
"Uh, that's my bag," is not a statement you want to make in front of a class of sophomores when the police, an AP and a drug dog are involved and you are their teacher, in case you were wondering.
For a brief moment, I reached a new level of cool with those kids because they thought I had actual I'm-going-to-lose-my-teaching-certificate-and-be-someone's-bitch-for-the-foreseeable-future drugs in my purse. Then I had to explain it was anti-anxiety meds and medicine to keep me from offing someone due to the occasional hot flash and I threw them in my purse because I was headed out of town in a few hours.
There went all my cool points.
But the AP totally looked like she got it.
So, when my phone had major problems and when my ex-husband didn't pay child support and when my dad met us to give us "spending money" before the trip, and then we were almost back home because the GPS stopped working only to magically start working right when we were about to take the exit to town, all putting us on the road right at 5:00, on a Friday, in Dallas, I wasn't remotely surprised. I was just like, "Yeah, the drug dog attacked my purse, so you know, what the hell else could I possibly expect but for everything to get wonky?"
I thought I'd outsmart the traffic, though, and have the GPS take us the fewest highways route. It said we'd be arriving at our hotel in about six and a half hours, which would've been the same amount of time if we'd set in traffic.
About two hours into the trip Grace was like, "Mom, isn't this the way we go to Mississippi? I don't think Jackson and Houston are the same direction." It's cute how she likes to pretend she knows directions. Or even what state Houston is in. God love her.
Grace was really concerned, so when we made a pit stop in Lone Oak, where they were having a free Christian rap concert that seemed to be attended by a lot of cowboys, she double checked the GPS just to make sure we wouldn't be showing up at my aunt's house, even though she totally knew the garage code, so we'd be able to get in if she was out of town. By the way, we didn't stop for the rap concert. We stopped to pee.
We were, indeed, headed in the right direction and then Grace and I had a long talk about why she knows everyone's garage codes because, seriously, she doesn't know her address, but the kid can enter garages in multiple states.
We had plenty of time for a long talk about a lot of things. She said I am her best friend and gave me a Little Debbie cupcake, which made me love her more. But why so much time, you ask? Because my GPS is a lying asshole.
Remember the six and a half hours?
What the old girl really meant was eight hours. Which, coincidently, is the same amount of time it takes us to get to Jackson.
When we finally got to the hotel, Grace went right to the room and crashed, only to be awoken by the drunks next door screaming, "I'm a calm drunk and you're a crrrrraaaaazzzzyyyy drunk!!" She had to call and tell us that, because Leiah, Katie and I had killed a bottle of wine in about three seconds and were, at the moment, hanging out with scandalously young boys from Ole Miss and crap-tastic Mississippi State.
Those stories will have t come in multiple posts from Leiah, Katie and I because it was a lot. A lot of scaring the hell out of those poor little fellas and stepping in someone else's vomit in the bathroom.
But the moral to the story is this-if the drug dog attacks your purse in class, you can be pretty sure the rest of your day is going to be weird, crazy, and unforgettable.
Hell, it might even be ten kinds of fun, despite the vomit stuck in the grooves of your tennis shoes.
2 comments:
Gross- vomit in shoe grooves. Ugh, totally been there.
You really can't make this stuff up! Got a picture of your crocheted porn???
wow I'm still trying to figure out how your daughter can remember codes to garages but not her address. LOL
and well at least you can say you live an interesting life. :D
http://laneyg02.blogspot.com
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