What is this, a Presidential Debate?

My students at school are very interested in this year's Presidential election. Some people may find this unbelievable, given the varying abilities of my kids. But after all these years with these amazing young people, nothing surprises me.

About two weeks ago, we were doing an activity in Occupational Prep class. We were conducting job interviews. The teachers had divided the class into groups, and we were working on interviewing strategies and techniques.

It sounded really good in the curriculum guide!

My group consisted of Debbie, seventeen years old. Debbie has never met an opinion she didn't like. Or express. Vocally and at great length. I also had a young man I shall call Peter. Peter exists in his own wild and wonderful world. He smiles and crinkles his eyes and agrees with just about everything that's said. I also had a fantastic young man I'll call Dante. Dante approaches the world with great humor and enthusiasm, but totally without a clue.

None of these names are real. I've changed identities to protect the innocent. Namely, myself.

As our activity progressed, and order broke down with Debbie arguing with everything that I said, I could not stop myself from saying, "What is this? A Presidential Debate?".

"Well, of course it is!" exclaimed Debbie. "And I'm Hillary Clinton and I'm gonna be the next President and you better learn to like it!"

Works for me!

Peter replied to Debbie's declaration of candidacy by saying, "Hillary Clinton? Who's that? Is she a movie star?"

Debbie's response was, "What, you're John Edwards all of a sudden?"

I choked on my Diet Pepsi.

Dante mumbled something about cowboys and space aliens.

Debbie said, "Shut up, Barack. You ain't making no sense today".

Oh my. The real Hillary better watch out.

Debbie is quite an admirer of Senator Clinton, it turns out. Hillary, in her considered opinion, is way cooler than Oprah Winfrey. She is not as good a singer as Hannah Montana, however.

Sorry, Hillary.

Our Hillary also has a tight rein on her Presidential spouse. "Ms. Chris," she announced one morning, breezing into the classroom and throwing her backpack on the floor next to my desk, "Bill's getting on my nerves! He better learn to shut up or I'll fire him!"

Um, President Clinton? I'd be real careful about crossing Hillary these days.

A few days later when our friend Tommy, star of another blog, had the temerity to tell Debbie she was getting on his nerves with all the blah, blah, blah, about Hillary Clinton, Debbie responded with a loud and firm, "What, you think you're Bill O'Reilly? You better shut up. Nobody but loons listen to you!"

Fox News, please take note.

Since that time, we have a self-proclaimed Condoleeza Rice, who wears her mother's pearl necklace to school these days and waves like Queen Elizabeth.

We have also been graced with the presence of our own Republican candidate. One of our students has Multiple Personality Disorder. One of her personalities is "The Preacher". The Preacher manifested last week, loudly proclaiming the word of God and testifying for Jesus. Debbie, dear, sweet, Debbie, stood up, put her hands on her hips, and said, "Calm down, Governor Huckabee! Nobody's voting for you anyway!"

We adult educator types, who are supposed to be in charge of this classroom, have seized the teachable moment presented and are teaching about politics and the election. It invariably deteriorates into mass chaos, but I figure it's a fair representation of a national political convention.

In the meantime, our own dear Senator has offered me the position of Chief Advisor. I will not get paid, mind you, but I will get to live in the White House and ride in a limo.

I wanted to be Vice President, but alas, this is not to be. That job is going to Zack from High School Musical.

Lucky Hillary.

Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom!

I have some absolutely incredible and amazing students in my FALS classroom. They are all my favorites. But there is one in particular who reigns supreme in my heart. I shall call him Tommy. This is not his real name.

Tommy is now seventeen years old. He is three and a half feet of pure joy. He will be forever five years old with limitless dreams and hope. How wonderful is that?

Tommy has, among other "handicapping conditions", Spina Bifida and mental retardation. I question the latter diagnosis. My man Tommy is a genius. He has figured out the secret of life.

Be cute and all shall be handed to you on a silver platter.

The first day I met Tommy, five years or so ago, I introduced myself. He looked at me very seriously and said, "Your name too hard for me. I call you Mom. Okay, Mom?"

Well, of course it was okay.

Tommy is a video game expert. "Mom! Mom! I bring my X-Box to school, Mom?"

I tell him no, Tommy, you can't bring your X-Box to school.

"Bad guys steal it, Mom?"

Could be.

"I karate Ninja chop them, Mom"

That'll teach 'em!

Tommy does not like Math. "I not need Math, Mom. I got credit card."

Sound logic there!

Tommy does not like reading. "It give me headache, Mom."

As if video games won't?

Tommy does not like writing. "My hand is hot, Mom."

Oh, we can't have that.

Tommy does not like walking. "My feet is hot, Mom."

Truly tragic.

Tommy does not like being outside. "My head too hot, Mom."

We would not want to melt your brain.

Tommy does like girls.

And women.

"Look, Mom! A hot womans!"

And the hot womans absolutely adore Tommy.

He has a never ending stream of hot womans lining up to be his girlfriends.

He probably holds the world record for prom dates and homecoming dates.

Prom King? Tommy!

Homecoming King? Tommy!

And he just eats it up with a spoon, a radiant smile beaming from his sweet little face.

He collects the phone numbers of hot womans daily. "Write it down, Mom! Her HOT!"

Of course he never calls the hot womans. Use of the telephone is not one of his strong subjects. "It too hard for me, Mom".

As our days go by, Tommy brightens my days and the days of everyone he meets. He is the Big Man on Campus. The Little Man with a Plan. Even the toughest kids in our high school know Tommy. They will stop and shake his hand, high five him and tell him how cool he is.

"That's my Mom!" he tells them, pointing up at me. I think most of them really think I am his mom. That would account for all the gray hair, though.

And Tommy enforces the school rules. He is the Chief Hall Monitor, as specially designated by our Principal.

"Take that hat off, man!"

"No cell phones in school, hot womans!"

"You no cuss! I tell my Mom!"

And they all listen to Tommy and sheepishly put away the hats and cell phones and say they are sorry for cussing.

"You no do it again or Mom will Ninja Karate Chop you butt, right Mom?"

Um, maybe not, Tommy.

But the best part of working with Tommy is that no matter what we do, he says, "Thanks for helping me, Mom".

And heaven forbid I should do something wrong or make a mistake! "You fired, Mom!"

In my dreams, Tommy.

And always, before he gets on the bus to go home, Tommy says, "I love you Mom. You HOT!"

If only all he men in my life were like Tommy!

St. Joseph is in the House!

And it's still not sold!

Nine months on the market. Two realtors. Too many price reductions to count. Time and money spent on improvements.

And it's still not sold!

But it's okay. I have St. Joseph in the house.

I found him at a local Catholic store. Just for the record, I did not burst into flames upon entering said Catholic store. I know some of my friends were taking bets, but it was cool.

People had told me to get a St. Joseph statue to help me sell my house. There was a big article in the Baltimore Sun newspaper about the power of St. Joseph in real estate sales. They even sell St. Joseph on E-Bay! What more convincing did I need? I mean, if it's on E-Bay, it must work!

St. Joseph comes in a "real estate kit". For $7.50 you get a three inch plastic statue of St. Joseph and a card with a prayer on it. It also has a nice picture of St. Joseph. He'd probably think this was all pretty cool. Recognition at last!

The very nice and sweet Nun, who thought I was a total riot, told me I could place the statue in my bay window, looking out on the view. When I sell the house, I should take him with me and put him in a place of honor in my new house. She also said he might like a little cowboy hat when we finally get to Texas. How cool is that? Sister said I should say the prayer daily and give St. Joseph time to do his work and get the house sold. And she told me not to worry. He'd even work for Pagans like me. He's an equal opportunity Saint.

Whew!

I've had him for a few weeks now. Since then I've had an upturn in showings. I was given the opportunity to get an affordable storage unit for all my beloved clutter. We found by chance, driving down the road one day, an antique bedroom door, complete with amazing period brass hardware, for my ever-loving teenage son's bedroom. It needed to be cleaned, sanded, painted and installed. It was the exact right size. That was unbelevable. I was also able to do some needed work on the house, including work on my very gorgeous oak hardwood floors. My new realtor is very pleased, happy and impressed with the positive feedback she's gotten on the house.

Is all of this the work of St. Joseph? Who knows? All I know is I have a renewed sense that my house will sell soon. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but surely before 2046. I had just about given up hope for my Texas dream to come true. But now, with St. Joseph on my side, I believe the end of this ordeal is in sight.

Wide open spaces, here I come!

The biggest miracle, however, is that said teenage son is keeping his room clean without argument.

I wonder if that's why my St. Joseph statue is carrying that big old hammer?