In what way are you stereotypical?

Marian answered, “I suspect I’m a stereotypical lesbian – short hair, flannel shirts, hiking boots, fire gear for my volunteer deputy fire chief job – except…I’m not a lesbian.”

Click: images that capture the imagination.

On a rainy day I saw two boys get on the bus, looking like the same boy seven years apart, one fifteen and one eight. The eight year old got on the bus first, and his brother followed, looking for all the world like a very young father as he self-consciously furled the umbrella in his hand, the umbrella covered with pink flowers that his mother made him bring to school that morning.

Two young women were working at the library checkout desk. The short, stocky middle aged man in front of me gave his books to one woman, then leaned over and waved his hands until the other one looked up. She smiled, obviously recognizing him.

“I can’t talk,” she said, putting her hand to her cheek, “My teeth hurt. I had to have two out.”

He put his hand up to his own cheek, mirroring her. “Me too! I hurt too! I want to kiss nice lady. I go to kiss her and she punch me. She punch me!”

The two women made sympathetic noises, but you could tell they were sort of wondering if he was really telling the entire story.

I was walking by a community centre, and I saw a square plastic storage container about five feet high with a large, expensive looking padlock securing the doors. There was a large sign taped to the front which read: “This is ONLY GARBAGE INSIDE”.

And you know, if that were my trash storage, and I’d showed up to work one day to find the garbage scattered all around the parking lot, I would have cheerfully cleaned it up and put it all back without the sign. Because, seriously, how satisfying to know that some group of teenage boys worked for an hour to break the padlock, only to find nothing more than coffee grounds and dirty diapers.

I remember liking my tenth grade history class because it was one of the only classes with a clock that had a long hand, a short hand, and a hand that counted off the seconds. So while my teacher was droning on about yet another war fought by yet another group of men, I could actually prove to myself that time was passing by watching the seconds tick…tick…tick…by.

But I do remember him standing in front of the class one day and telling us with a long, doleful face that the White House was white because it had been burned, and they needed to cover the scorch marks on the stone. He said it as if it had been his own house, a personal affront for Mr. Carlson, Tenth Grade History Teacher.

I don’t remember any other details, but Three Dead Trolls in a Baggie can tell you…