The Drawer of Klepducational Wonders

So, over the past few months I have been doing what any good Me does when

presented with extra space:

FILLING IT WITH CRAP.

As with 100% of the other kinds of stuff I seem to collect when I'm not Feng-Swayed

(terrible pun, sorry), I give le crap far too much meaning. Alas, the consume-less tagline that seems to work for most ("Keep only what is beautiful and useful"), only seems to have the opposite effect on me. "Beauty?" I ponder, as I pocket a name-tag that I confiscate from

a student who is colouring rather than listening to my glorious lesson on the days of the week.

"Marbles are useful" I muse, as I pry one out of the hands of a cursing 11-year-old who just finished slapping another well-spoken pre-teen in the face.

Sometimes le crap is given to me, rather than sto...I mean, confiscated. Like the smiling Mickey Mouse face given up for adoption by a clammy-palmed five-year-old: One day, she just realized that her Hannah Montana (pronounced "ANNA-UH, MON-TAN-AH-UH") pencil case was too confining a home for Mickey, and she handed him over to me.

Admittedly, the designer paper airplane was not a cadeau.... it's just that...well.... though I support all students with aerodynamic dreams, it became clear to me-- upon unveiling the image trapped in the folds of this engineering masterpiece-- that in this instance, my student was less focused on the aero than the dynamic part of his career. And that was simply not coo.

For those of you that have already begun to fret: don't. You can rest assured I will not be bringing le crap with me back to Vancouver.

Instead, I'll be mailing it directly to Toronto so it can be the first delivery of Un-Sway to Feng my new place in September.

PS The plastic mistletoe was a Christmas gift for "La Dame D'Anglais"-- the packaging already torn open. E-Bay be wanting my Klepducational Collection baaaaad.

Hold The Stress

Maybe you didn’t know you had it in you, but you do. They did. And so do I.

They picked up her car—all ten of them. One had been holding a lighter in his right hand for several minutes, the coarse metal beginning to wear on his thumb. Tender. It hurt but he liked how it felt when the heat seeped in through to his bloodstream.

The others (aside from the one that was still massaging his cell phone pad) flexed.

This was the moment they had been waiting for. All of those nights, standing in front of the mirror. Coconut oil on their pectorals: their big break.

Alexandra stood next to a wilting tree, eyes greener than yesterday. Bigger. Stunned.

“One, two, three, LIFT!”

Later that night, she would tell me, between fits of laughter, how the neighbourhood drug dealers (that had, six months earlier, thrown rocks at my very own personal stalker) had lifted her car out of the ditch. Now I’m the first to wave at them when I walk by their street corner.

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They call me fat—all of them. Most of the time, the compliments come one right after the other:

1) My morning jog: thighs exposed to the woman at the kiosk who always invites me to her house and often throws recyclables under the bridge, into the un-water. “It’s right by the ocean!” she says, referring to home, pointing half-heartedly SouthWest. “Come by before you go to Canada. And hey, haven’t you gained weight?” She caresses her legs, implying I should watch mine, and then cackles, toothless.

2) Apres-lunch/avant-cours: the adorable child without the necessary diagnosis of ADHD yells out “LA CHINOISE, LA CHINOISE, LA CHINOISE!” and hugs me. His Special Ed teacher rolls her eyes, predicts my post-family-departure sadness, and there-there’s me with a “you’re a little chunkier now.”

3) Home time. So tired. Must. Stop. By. Neighbours’. House. To. Say. Hi. Otherwise. Am. Im.Po.Lite.

All I want is a hug, but I get a belly rub and “Let’s just say our little one is not so little anymore.”

I flip out. Unsuccessful.

The next few times I just laugh and respond “Maybe. Maybe you’re right” They laugh back.

Sometimes that’s all it takes.