you are not my typewriter
{Wednesday, January 05, 2005 . 17-year-old white female seeks older male ...}

You know you do it. You lust after your teachers. Admit it. Admit it to yourself. The truth will set you free.

In the interest of freeing myself of the bonds of ... um ... I'm going to give a brief profile of every male teacher I've ever had (that I can think of right now) and whether or not I was "crushing." Enjoy.

Mr. Booras: My sixth grade math teacher. His name was quite appropriate. Boring as fuck. Plus he hit kids (lightly) on the head with yardsticks when they mouthed off. Definitely not.

Dan Harazin: My seventh grade gym/world history teacher (both). Although he was widely considered good-looking (and I would have to agree), he was such an unbearable prick that I couldn't ever bring myself to be attracted to him. Plus, he didn't know shit about world history beyond what was in the book. I may have had one or two fantasies, but I believe I was the only (straight) girl in Thompson Jr. High *not* crushing.

Dan Harrison: My band director all through junior high. Although he wasn't particularly unattractive, Mr. Harrison just never *did it* for me. I don't know. He would say sort of meanish sarcastic things, and I could never tell if he was joking or not. And he had a huge chest and arms that hung down to his knees. Well, his chest didn't hang down to his knees. You know what I meant. I never really crushed.

Rufus Brown: Oh, man. I took guitar lessons from Rufus from fifth through eighth grade. I majorly crushed. He was pretty young - late twenties - and he had this long shaggy hair (before it was all that fashionable to have shaggy hair) and he was always fucking *smiling* about something. Plus, he always told me I was his favorite student because I made him laugh. He was married, and his second daughter was born while I was taking lessons from him, but somehow that only made him more attractive. Don't you ever do that? Don't you ever see some young, attractive man with his precious newborn infant and go, "God, why couldn't those two have been in me?" Rufus was dreamy.

Mr. Creepy: I honest to God can't remember my eighth-grade algebra teacher's name. I think I blocked it from my mind. Anyway, he was creepy. He was really mean. One time, when I was super into henna, I came to school with these intricate floral designs all over my hands (courtesy of Kyle ) and he asked me what they were, so after this long explanation of what henna is and it's cultural significance around the world, he goes, "Your mother lets you do that?" Fuck you, Mr. McDowell. That's his name! Mr. McDowell. If you take an old five dollar bill (the kind with the small picture) and a one-dollar bill and fold them both in half lengthwise, then put the top half of Abe Lincoln's face together with the bottom half of George Washington's face, and then draw a giant mole above Abe's left eyebrow, it looks just freaking like Mr. McDowell. I swear to God. Try it. In summary, Mr. McDowell is a douche, and I never crushed.

Frank Tieri: My high school choir director. Okay, I know I'm going to get shit for this, but Mr. Tieri isn't all that unattractive. In fact, I might go so far as to say he's a little attractive. I mean, he's an amazing musician (which is one of the hottest things someone can be) and he's extremely smart and witty. And I'll bet he was okay looking when he was younger (he's about forty, now). I wouldn't say that I ever *crushed*, but Tieri has his moments. They're short. But they're moments.

Patrick Stinson: Hell no. My Lord. Stinson is the most abbraisive man I've ever met in my life. He's was my sophomore oral interpretation teacher, but I've also had him throughout high school as a speech coach and choreographer for show choir. I hate him with all of my soul. He was probably kind of cute when he was younger, but now he's just creepy looking, and he smells like he just finished eating week-old roadkill. I definitely never crushed.

Mr. Kline: My freshman year technical applications teacher. He was an ex-football coach. I think. It doesn't really matter, because he's an assface. For our final project, we had to do a power-point presentation, and I wanted to do mine on the correlation between the AIDS epidemic and the gay rights movement. He suggested I just do AIDS, and not mention the gay thing. So I went completely the opposite direction and did it on the Stonewall Riots . I got an A in the class, but that doesn't mean I was crushing.

Glenn Schneider: Assistant director of bands at Oswego High School. Also percussion instructor. Very good looking, but never really did it for me. Maybe it's because his tall, skinny, blonde, flute-playing wife is named "Ashlee." You have to look at a man's taste in women.

Brad Leeb: Former assistant director of bands at Oswego High School/former director of the OHS Marching Panthers/current director of bands at Oswego East High School. Oh, lawdy, lawdy. Leeb is a fox. He's a little older than Glenn - 31, I believe - but much more attractive. Plus, he's Jewish, which I love for some reason. And he's a vegetarian. And he's indescribably adorable. He has huge eyes. They're enormous. I'm totally crushing.

Jim Appel: I broke the whole chronological order thing to save the best for last. Mr. Appel, or "Jim" as I call him in my girlish fantasies, has to be one of the creepiest crushes I have ever had. He was my eighth grade American history teacher. My mom said he reminded her of Ichabod Crane. Me, too, and if you will recall, Ichabod Crane was quite the lady killer. He was tall and skinny with a big nose and an overbite. He was forty-eight, though, and he had grey hair and kind of shook sometimes (I suspect he may have Parkinson's). That's beside the point. He was dreamy. He had these big, nerdy glasses and this shit-eating grin, and whenever I would make some humorous comment in my awkward, thirteen-year-old girl fashion, he would look at me through those huge glasses and kind of chuckle and I would just melt. MELT! He always said that when he retired, he wanted to go and work in Williamsburg making shoes or something, so I had this bizarre fantasy where every summer he would leave his wife in Illinois to go work in Williamsburg, and I would claim to be doing something or other and go spend the summer with him in his big Virginia farmhouse. We told the people there I was his daughter. Sometimes I would be a character in the village, too. Other times I would be working as a waitress in a vegetarian restaraunt the next town over. But the house was huge and white and the windows were always open so the gauzy white curtains could swish over the hardwood floors, and I would just laze about all summer listening to his fantastic stories and kissing his big, precious, gray head. I won't make you read any gory details, but suffice to say I crushed majorly on that one.

How did it come to be that "awful" and "awesome" have opposite meanings?

posted at 8:53 PM by Alison


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