Crybaby

Those who have known me for any length of time might have already heard this story, but forgive me for repeating myself for a moment. When I was in the third grade, I had a teacher, Mrs. B, who I, for some period, thought was the bee's knees. The reason was simple: she had traveled the world with her husband, and would tell us great stories about schools in other countries, about the proper way to wrap a sari and about her true hair color: her hair was naturally near-black like mine, but she had long kept it a yellowy bottle blond. I was enchanted with her stories and her frank talk. Up to a point.



That point came midway through the year when Mrs. B, as brittle as her suicide-blonde hair, mocked me in front of the class for my poor penmanship. Embarrassed, I stopped emulating my dad's scrawl and mimicked my mother's girlish hand instead. But Mrs. B wasn't done. Later in the year, I broke my arm and midway through the healing process, I was due for a doctor's appointment to check my progress. Instead of riding the bus that day, my dad was due to pick me up at school. But there was a problem: under our school policy, the only way to not be put on the bus was to have a parental note or phone call alerting our teacher to the change. My dad had been too rushed to give me the note, and promised to call the school secretary. Later, he would tell me the message must not have been passed on, but in retrospect, I tend to think he just forgot. But I am meandering off-topic here. Anyway.



So, near the end of the day, I told Mrs. B that my dad was supposed to pick me up. She told me she hadn't heard anything of the like, and that I would have to ride the bus home, per usual. Now that freaked me the fuck out. You see, my dad has a notoriously bad temper (one of my early childhood memories is of him making Trish, a family friend, cry) and I was worried about what would happen when he arrived at my school and I wasn't there. I (barely) held back my tears as my brain worried over what I should do. And then it happened. A kindly student teacher looked over, saw that I was upset, and asked me what was wrong. And then the floodgates unleashed. She clucked sympathetically as I explained, through tears, the situation.



And then Mrs. B noticed me. From across the room, she shouted, "Why are you crying, crybaby?" Which is sort of an answer and a question all wrapped up in one, y'know? And just plain mean, to boot. So, yeah, imagine my surprise -- and delight -- this morning when I heard the local news broadcast about a woman who'd been attacked by bed bugs while on vacation in Cincy. It was her. And then I set to googling her. And that's when I found this, which included comments such as [Mrs. B] was the worst professor I have had at OSU. She was unprofessional as she just complained to us and never actually taught ...



And let me tell you, the 9-year-old in me couldn't be more pleased with this development.