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. . . . . . . . . . "Mrs. Webers"
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. . . . . . . . . . . . . . by Phairgirl
. . w w w . a n a d a . n e t . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Part One: Mrs. Weber, Dubuque Senior High School
I had spent years in the Honors programs--from seventh grade on. But
starting my sophomore year, I had discovered that honors students completely
sucked. Look at them. They study all the time. They only have a sense of
humor if you're making nerdy jokes (he's a gneiss rock in a pile of schist
springs to mind--I will never forget that as long as I live). And god
forbid you should GOOF OFF.
I spent most of my time in love with my non-honors classes, wishing
I was cool enough for the back row of desks, wanting to be a huge slacker
but not get into trouble for having bad grades. I was pretty much torn
between my fight to be myself and my fight to be a good student. Studiness
just wasn't a part of me. Yeah, I was smart, but I didn't care about
school. I was MUCH more interested in simply exploring things I was
curious about, not taking tests about things I most certainly didn't care at
all about.
So after spending one torturous semester in Honors Geometry with
Mrs. Connie Connelly (known to her friends as C SQUARED, AAAAAARGH FUCKING
NERDS), I decided I just HAD to join the ranks of the normal high school
student. I dropped down to Regular Geometry, taught by Mrs. Weber.
At first I kind of felt like an outcast. People *know* that when
someone joins their class at semester that they were once smart but now
deemed as stupid. And that I was. However, I was so looking forward to
some variety in what was once the geekiest of classes that I might actually
LEARN something. All C SQUARED taught me was that I was not as big of a
nerd as everyone else, and that it was bad to reflect the sunlight from my
watch into the teacher's eyes.
But after a couple of days in this class, I noticed something JUST
WASN'T RIGHT. All of these kids were so damned well-behaved. There wasn't
a flagrant goofoff among them. No cracks. No silliness. No ANYTHING.
Just geeky learning by an even worse teacher than the one I had just
escaped.
It didn't take me long to figure out what the deal was.
Mrs. Weber was a FUCKING FREAKO. She had never moved out of 1963.
This was reflected in her clothing, in her hairstyle, in her behavior, in
her expectations, and in her SENSE OF HUMOR. If you will recall from many
movies made throughout history, Back In The Day, teachers weren't your
friend. EVER. They were cold and heartless teachers of America's youth.
You obeyed or PAID THE PRICE. Well, I don't think anyone really feared
Mrs. Weber herself, but she had this way of making little things into a big
deal, like threatening bigger and badder punishments than were necessary.
I found myself seated in class next to this little nerdly-looking kid
who was really, REALLY talkative. Everyone thought he was an annoying
little twirp who disturbed their rapt attention of Mrs. Weber. (That whole
class reminded me of the blank face people in Pink Floyd's The Wall.) This
kid, Steve, made my whole existence.
The two of us got into trouble damn near every day in that class. We
learned that Mrs. Weber might SEEM scary, but really, she's just a
tremendous weenie. She'd yell at us all the time but never do anything
about it. Oh, we were SO SCARED of Mrs. Weber, let me tell ya. Steve and
I found more ways to annoy that old bitch than the world has ever known.
Also, it should be fair to note that neither Steve nor I actually did
any of the work in her class. We would screw around even during tests. We
were both failing and didn't care. Mrs. Weber would talk to us, consoling
us for some reason (as if we were upset about our grades) and would give us
Ds just because she knew "you two are smart enough to do the work, you just
don't APPLY YOURSELVES." And it's true. Well, mostly. I suck royally at
Geometry and always have. However, I wasn't going to argue that point when
she was offering a passing grade.
Even still, our antics didn't stop. Steve found a pen in the hallway
that was made of "100% corn and corn byproducts." During one test, Steve
found himself absentmindedly chewing on the pen. Suddenly he exclaimed, "OH
YUCK, IT'S BIODEGRADING IN MY MOUTH." He also once argued that he got three
points taken off on one of his tests for "not using pencil," to which he
argued, "It's blue pencil! It's still pencil! See, it erases!" as he
maniacally rubbed a hole through the paper.
Mrs. Weber's entire facade finally came crumbling down one day when
she was sick. We had this substitute teacher who was a regular at DSHS--she
wore way too much makeup and dressed like an 80s TV mom. She was infamous
for goofing off more than teaching. Suddenly, the true nature of our class
came out, and it wasn't long before she was teaching various students how to
ballroom dance by the light of the overhead projector.
The last few weeks were anarchy. All the goofoffs came out of the
woodwork and joined me and Steve in our cause. Finally... fun.
But Mrs. Weber wasn't about to give up that easily. You see, that
year, we had just gotten brand new Geometry books. So, according to Mrs.
Weber, the books should be returned EXACTLY THE WAY THEY WERE GIVEN OUT.
This means absolutely NO wear and tear, or you will get a fine.
Mrs. Weber went all-out on this one. That bitch would take stacks of
Geometry books with her to all of her study halls and would take even more
home to sift through in her free time. She honestly went through each book
PAGE BY PAGE and wrote down EVERY mark in the book, pencil OR pen. She
would then assess a fine of fifty cents for every mark, tear, or binding
problem, and you could only lessen your fine by going through and removing
those marks. (Mind you, this IS geometry, where you are instructed to take
your compass and measure lines that are in the book, making a pencil line to
mark to ensure your line is the correct size). My fine was only $4.50 after
pencil removal (I liked to finish the mind puzzles in the books with my pen
to fuck it up for future users. The fine was worth that for me). My best
friend Wendi had a $22 fine. I really don't think Steve gave a fuck either
way.
However, the war against Mrs. Weber was not lost. Upon hearing of
this $22 fine, my pal Wendi's mom (who owns a Harley shop, by the way)
stormed into Mr. Mitchell's (the BIG BAD PRINCIPAL's) office and flipped out
about the fines. The result was a stern reprimand to Mrs. Weber and the
revocation of almost all of the students' fines.
Last year, Mrs. Weber came through the drive-thru at Wendy's when I
was working. I instructed, as a manager, for everyone to spit in her food.
I hope someone listened.
Part Two: Mrs. Weber, next door to me
Before my family moved into this house at 1945 Garfield Avenue, my
great-grandparents lived here for many years. I practically grew up here.
The neighborhood has only slightly changed in that time. And when my great-
grandmother Esther passed away when I was a sophomore in high school, we got
the prestigious honor of moving into the old house.
Growing up, it was always the Popes living to the right of my great-
grandparents (Cassie, Russ, Randy, and Angel, along with their dog Sammy).
(They were later replaced by Ed and Sharon, who had a really cute dog.)
Joann living to the right of the Popes. Some lady with a cat to the right
of Joann. End of block. Across the street there were some people living
in a yellow house that we never knew. To the right was the Dolters (with
kids Tiffany, who was my age, and Matt, who was my sister's age). Next to
them were the Beaus (Danielle was a year younger than me, and she also had
older brothers) (who were later replaced by a house full of nuns), and next
to them was Mrs. McComish, the old lady with the mint green house. All of
these neighbors were tolerable.
And then, there were the neighbors to the LEFT of the house. Right
next door was Mrs. Weber. When I was really young, she had a yappy dog that
eventually died. I used to talk to her a lot, but I always thought she was
kinda nuts. I wasn't aware in my innocent youth, but there was a HUGE FEUD
between my grandma and Mrs. Weber. To the left of Mrs. Weber lives the
Hoschs. They were Mrs. Weber's House of Gimps. All I knew about them was
that they were EVIL PEOPLE.
When we moved in, we knew everyone, and they knew us. All was well
with the world. We knew who we could trust and who we could not. Things
were peachy koo.
It wasn't long before we found out just why my great-grandmother had
a longstanding problem with Mrs. Weber. She started out by simply being a
really good reminder that our hedges needed clipping or our berry patch
needed weeding. That was fine. We'd take our new kittens outside for a run
and chit chat with her for a bit. Happy smiley.
Then, the shit started hitting the fan. We planted flowers in our
front yard, all yellow and white except for one purple one. Lo and behold,
a few days later, the purple one was gone. Damn rabbits, we thought. Nope.
We found it, alright--in Mrs. Weber's flower garden.
The first big problem was when we received a notice from the city
that our berry patch was a health hazard and that we had 10 days to remove
it or pay a huge fine and pay to have the city remove it for us. This was
most assuredly the work of Mrs. Weber, as she sat outside on her porch
swing the entire time that we hacked, cut, and mowed away at the patch.
Those berry bushes had been there since before I was born.
It was also noted that if you look in Mrs. Weber's garden today, she
has her own berry patch, taken from the back of our berry patch where the
plants were the oldest and growing the biggest berries.
The bitch deserves to die just for that alone.
After that point, we weren't even friendly to her. There was a HUGE
hailstorm that destroyed half of Dubuque and she was flailing about after-
wards, freaking out like old people do. Her tree had fallen onto our house.
We played the part of Nice Neighbors and let her use our phone to call one
of her kids to come up and help her out. She then offered to SPLIT THE COST
of having the tree removed from our yard. What a nice gal. Of course, my
grandparents (who actually owned the house) said, uh, it's your tree, lady.
A berry patch for a tree. I'd call that fair. Almost.
My sister and I were friends with HOODLUMS at this point, and one
night when there was nothing better to do, they jumped our fence and tipped
over that old bat's porch swing. It had been cemented in that spot for
over 20 years, but they tipped it. We were filled with glee.
The next morning, she had the police at her house to investigate
(because, as we all know, the police can do a lot about some random act of
completely harmless vandalism). She said it was us that did it, and we
outright laughed at her. She indignantly pointed out that part of the BRAND
NEW FENCE (replaced after the tree had ruined it) was bent slightly towards
her house, to somehow point out that someone had jumped it from our yard to
hers. And while this was true, we just laughed some more.
Years have passed, and we avoid Mrs. Weber at all costs.
Nowadays, Mrs. Weber still likes to sit out on her damned porch swing
and watch us do any lawn work. The Hoschs join her in this venture. It's
like we're a freaky carnival attraction. I told my mom one day that I'm
just going to snap and yell at her, "HURRY UP AND DIE ALREADY." She's got
to be at least 90 by now. Her family only visits her on mandatory holidays,
and even then we only see them there for three hours, tops. Nobody likes
the bitch. WHY AREN'T YOU DEAD YET, STUPID BAG?
Moral: If you are an old lady named Mrs. Weber, kill yourself.
. . w w w . a n a d a . n e t . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. anada 109 by Phairgirl (c)2000 anada e'zine .
. . w w w . a n a d a . n e t . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .