Play That Funky Music, White Boy!

I have some very important happenings to report to you. First of all, it's Saturday, so w00t! Love me some weekend. In other news, I know how fascinated you all are with my work so I brought stories:

1) Last Thursday we had a deejay at the school all day long. He set up shop in the cafeteria and the kids were allowed to go in and dance--by grade level, mind you, we don't want those preschoolers teaching any upper grades their slick gyrating dance floor moves--periodically throughout the day. This was some kind of reward for something good that the kids did, Lord knows what because I know these kids and I don't think that even 30% of them are capable of holding onto so much as a breath of good behavior for longer than 1.3 seconds, but whatevuh. I like the music, which is heavily weighted toward disco, and I DO love the disco, so I'm in favor. Anyways, I went in for a few minutes while the kinder kids were dancing, who are always the best because they are so unfettered by any sense of self-consciousness. One of the kids on my caseload, who we'll call Lonnie because he can't say his L's and so if he said this name it would come out "Yonnie," and that would be funny, came over and, heavily prompted by his teacher, said, "May I have this dance?" Oh, lawd amighty, there is nothing more adorable than being asked to dance by a 5-year-old! I told Yonnie that I would yove to dance, so we jiggled and jumped and wiggled and bumped and had ourselves an exhaustingly fun time out there on the dance floor, where I hovered over his tiny self like a gigantic T Rex. It was fun right up until the music stopped, which is when I learned that no matter how old you are, or what the age difference is between you and your dance partner, there's always that awkward moment when the song ends:

Me: "Um, okay, Yonnie, I'm just going to go now."
Yonnie: silence
Me: "You know, I've got work and stuff."
Yonnie: silence
Me: "Okay then, see you later." (runs away)

Tooootally awkward.

2) I've been promising a certain 3rd-grade class that I would bring in some folders that they could use for the work we do together. Currently, at the end of each class session, they shove a gazillion sheets of paper willy-nilly into my hands, most of them without names and covered in a suspicious substance. For weeks now, I've been saying, "Oh, I'm going to bring you those folders next time, I am." And because they are young and innocent, they believe me. Bless their hearts. And are disappointed time and time again. They don't understand about my perimenopause and how what's left of my memory would fit into a Dixie cup. A very small Dixie cup. Fortunately, they are tolerant and kind, and don't hassle me too much about the situation. However, on Friday I REMEMBERED to bring the folders, which was preceded by my remembering to BUY the folders on Thursday night. AFTER, I'll admit, I had a small drinky winky with a friend. So this was big stuff. When I sauntered in with those folders, looking cool and all, "Of course I remembered, like, duh,"those darn kids broke into applause. And probably I should have been embarrassed that a bunch of 8-year-olds had to give me my props like this, but I'll take it where I can get it. Hey, all life is a circle, my friends--if you're nice to the 3rd graders, they'll be nice to you. Embroider it on a pillow.

3) I don't have a #3.

Have a groovy weekend! YMCA! Disco Ducks! Funky Chicken!

Love,
Wicked