pitfalls of facebook

i was sitting in english class yesterday, "introduction to the major," while the class was discussing the book we were reading. tired, i began slowly zoning out. i slightly perked up at the word facebook, and turned my attention back to my professor.

an older, long-bearded, spectacle wearing man.he was going on about his facebook, and how he was on it last night, when out of the blue he bellows

"actually, i saw you!"

i jerk in my seat. he has one long arm and his pointer finger stretched out and is pointing, well, in my approximate direction.

i look behind me then in front of me, confident that it was not me he had just made eye contact with when he said that.

he repeats, re-jutting the arm and finger.
"yeah! i saw you!"

there is no mistake. he's addressing me.

"me?" i quaver.

"yeah! you! i was checking you out!"

i cringe at those damning words. the class erupts in laughter. i try to keep imminent embarrassment at bay. it doesn't work.

"oh?" i quiver.

"oh, i wasn't checking you out" he says goodnaturedly, too late. "but i did see you!"

still, i'm not quite sure how he saw me or even if it was me he saw. if it was me, he would have seen a picture of the lower half of my face and top half of my torso in a red dress with every inch of my open skin pasted with many bright and gaudily glittered tattoos. somehow, i doubt he saw this. or perhaps it's just wishful thinking on my part.

uhh...well...

just the other day, low unknowingly on fuel, me and sister c found need to stop in medford for a boost of it.

we stopped at the nearest gas station, swerved up, and parked ourselves alongside a dispenser. the man came up, asked us what we would like...etc.. and then he mentioned the universal: "would you like me to check your oil?"

a question that we usually respond "no" to. but sister c, letting the winds of spontaneity carry her replied "sure." i turned to her with a slightly startled expression on my face. "uh," i said, "we're in a hurry! why'd you do that for?"

"i don't know," she said. "it just sort of slipped out." i growled in annoyance.

the man swept by and told us to go ahead and pop the hood. moments later, sister c turns to me and whispers "where do we pop the hood?" me, thinking i know everything, replied that it was where the gas cap lever was. but no...

"that's for the trunk," she said. a slight frantic bulging of the eyes accompanying this statement.

"oh, well you're going to have to tell him to skip it today."

she shrunk in her seat as he came back around.

"actually, you don't need to check the oil. i, well, i don't know how to pop my hood."

he looked at us then turned his back to finish our fuel transaction. i thought maybe he hadn't heard her. slowly he turned around looked at us again, and pointed at an area slightly lower and to the left of the steering wheel.

"there." he said.

"oh. well i'm sure our dad checks it for us."

he handed over the receipt.

"well, thankyou!" sister c brightly shouted. as she zoomed full throttle out of the parking lot.

"'i don't know how to pop my hood.'" i quoted thoughtfully. "you know, that could be taken the wrong way."

resurgence of "the wolf"

last year, if my memory serves, i had mentioned “wolf hunting.”
---
january 2009

as part of the name brigade

and i quote
the wolf= a girl miss rabbit knows; always wears a wolf shirt and has a man voice; me and miss rabbit go wolf hunting all the time
end quote.
---
well, ladies and gentlemen, i never thought i’d live to see the day, that i’d actually HAVE A CLASS WITH THIS SPECIMEN! french 102.
it’s a relatively small class, and on the first day we gathered our desks around in a circle, and introduced ourselves. for blogging purposes only, i have persuaded the vestiges of morality left in my brain to allow me to use the wolfs first name. it just adds a special something to "it."

we je m'appelle(d) our way around the room when the torch came to "shelby" (again, real name). me, bored and not paying attention perked up at her coarse and entirely american "jam apphell." i looked at the owner of this, and oh god my sweet lawrd! the wolf!

the wolf, with her ever-present scarf (headband? hankie?) tied indian style around her forehead. her frizzy dishwater blonde hair confined in a low ponytail. her pink complexioned face. manly features. testosterone infused vocal chords. and her t-shirt. navy blue cotton with a roaring wolf image splayed across it's front. oh, and the high waisted boys jeans she does not, i regret to say, wear well.

everyday i am faced with this wolf. everyday she speaks her bad french, is a day i unsuccessfully stifle smiles and giggles. i know it's mean, but with all the history i know about her and then seeing her in the flesh, it's overwhelming.

a classic wolf behaviorism:

the wolf was asked to partner up with a girl across the room for a conversation piece acted out in front of the class. since the desks are locked in a circular shape, the wolf instead of scooching one out and squeezing between it, climbed atop her desk, dirty black hiking boots shuffling her across, crawled hands above knees, and then swung/jumped herself off like she was acting in an action movie. a really horrible action movie.

it was painful to watch. extremely painful.

and today, madame g was gone so madame s was teaching, and she passed around the roll sheet on which everyone who was present wrote down their name. the paper came to me i looked down, there written in broad boyish print:

Shelby "the Wolf" -last name-.

i had no words.