Some Pig

Color Me Beautiful

The end of the school year is often a race against time.  Every day becomes a challenge to squeeze in one more nugget of information, one more activity, one more homework assignment.  It's also a time when I question what I've done - have the kids done enough reading this week?  Should we have one more formal writing assignment?  Are their skills developed well enough for them to succeed next year?  There's a lot of curriculum to cover in the last quarter of the year, and on top of that, both the students and I are tired.  No, scratch that.  They're tired; I'm EXHAUSTED. 

Of course, we have a lot to cover this week, and of course, we have the usual panoply of interruptions and disruptions to our schedule just to make it even more fun.  But I've put the kiddos through the wringer over the past week, and there's only so much a body can take.  So today, I broke out the colored pencils and the outline maps and had the kids shade the Confederacy, the Union, and the border states.  Without exception, even at the end of the day when the kids with attention deficits have lost focus and the kids who hate school can't take it anymore and the kids who want to do a good job are distractable, everyone settled down to work without a murmur of protest.  Even better, every class experienced that golden moment of Zen calm when there's not a sound to be heard except for the soft shushing sounds of pencil on paper.

Tomorrow, we're going to have to get back on the bandwagon.  We have notes to take, primary sources to read, skits to perform, quizzes to complete.  But today, we experienced the simple pleasure of listening to rain patter on the roof while we applied color to paper.  And that was just what today needed.

Occasionally, The Good Guys Prevail

I know I share a lot of stories of heartbreak and woe on these virtual pages, or at least, I gripe a lot about what pisses me off, but once in a while, I hear a heartwarming story that makes me want to stand up and cheer. In the spirit of the new year, I thought I'd share: Over the holidays, I got to spend some time with a good friend. She told me a story about her nephews, who are high school- and middle school-aged. Younger Brother has Asperger's Syndrome, including the problems with social skills and peer relations. Older Brother, being a good sibling, has made a point of looking out for Younger Brother through the years. However, once Older Brother went to the high school, he could no longer be the eyes and ears he had been.

Well, Nature abhors a vacuum, so you can imagine that once Older Brother was out of sight, someone else stepped in to fill the gap - cue the entrance of one Juvenile Delinquent, newly returned to the community and, of course, assigned to the same bus as Younger Brother. You can fill in the rest - the harassment, the intimidation, the lack of effective intervention from authority figures, all of which continued until Little Brother had to be driven to school every day.  Older Brother was, needless to say, beside himself, but being at a different school, there was nothing he could do about it. Then school started in September, and - guess what! - Juvenile Delinquent was now in 9th grade. At the first opportunity, Older Brother sought out Juvenile Delinquent. He tapped on JD's shoulder. "Hi!" he said, "You don't know me, but I'm Younger's brother!" Then, without waiting for a reply, he pulled back, cocked his fist, and clocked the @sshole right in the jaw. The kid went down like a ton of bricks.

My first reaction to this story was surprise - surprise because this story made me realize just how ordinary scenarios like this used to be, and how comparatively rare they are now.  The fact that one kid administered some sorely deserved schoolyard justice to another kid used to be much more commonplace. 

Second, this story brought home just how much we have infantilized and disempowered our children in the name of making schools and other institutions safe, welcoming environments for everyone.  The fact is, school shouldn't be a safe and welcoming environment for everyone; it should be a safe and welcoming environment ONLY for those people who are willing to reciprocate in making it safe and welcoming for others.  The kid who makes homophobic, racist, or sexist comments should NOT find school a warm and cozy place to be.  The kid who picks on littler or weaker or less able kids should NOT think s/he is going to get away with it.  The kid who thinks it's funny to be mean to the kid who's different SHOULD be looking over his or her shoulder and wondering when it's going to catch up to them.  In reality, all the security cameras and no-tolerance policies and such have had a paradoxical effect in giving the jerks more power instead of less, because the good kids who used to stand up to these kids are actually concerned about their reputations and records, while the jerks don't give a sh!t.  Furthermore, we have managed to eliminate or subvert all the opportunities the good kids used to have to learn how to handle the jerks.  This is scarcely an original sentiment, but it's true - thanks to scheduled playdates, supervised sports, structured enrichment activities, and hyperinvolved parents, we have managed to raise a generation of kids who don't know what to do when life spits in their eye. 

[A lengthy aside is necessary here, lest a certain element of my readership try to claim that this is the fault of FDR, the nanny state, and/or Great Society programs.  Let me state for the record that the forces that have created the atmosphere of enablement and entitlement know no color, creed, or political persuasion.  I am definitely in the "knee-jerk liberal" camp, but I firmly believe that my girls have to experience at least their fair share of hard knocks and deal with them without benefit of parental intervention; by the same token, many a enabled little princeling or entitled junior diva pulls up to school in a vehicle plastered with Tea Party bumper stickers.  So let's not make it a political issue, mmmkay?]

The fact is, kids are pack animals (to a greater or lesser extent), and they do act as a corrective force on one another.  If you were lucky enough to grow up in the 70's, think about it:  How many times did your parents get on you to wear clean clothes, take a shower, and comb your damn hair once in awhile?  Did that change your behavior?  Now when your peers started saying, "dang, man, you smell," - what happened then?  I'm willing to bet that far more kids got turned on to the benefits of personal hygiene by fear of their peers' disapproval than by their parents' efforts.  Looking back at the story that started this post, is Juvenile Delinquent likely to see the error of his ways?  Maybe, but probably not.  Is he likely to think twice before picking on Little Brother or any other atypical kid again?  I bet he is.

I need to be clear here that I am not advocating for allowing unchecked vigilantism or wishing for a return to the law of the jungle.  We can't have kids walking around decking one another over every social infraction, real or perceived, or we'll never get anything done at school.  But let's face it, peer influence is a form of power, and like all forms of power, we need to teach kids how and when to use it appropriately.  To return to the example above, kids aren't born knowing that it's okay to call someone out for behaviors they can change or control, but it's not fair to do so if they can't.  But nowadays, we don't even try to teach kids to discern between using peer pressure the right way or the wrong way.  Instead, we treat peer influence like a pair of extra sharp scissors that has to be kept far away from the curious toddler.  We lock the scissors away and then wonder why, when it comes time to send the little dears to college, none of them has any idea how to cut a piece of paper. 

His Fifteen Minutes Must Be Up

While we were lolling about, watching the Macy's Thankgiving Day parade, the now-famous "men screaming for Justin Bieber" ad came on.

"What do you think of Justin Bieber?" I asked my eldest.

"Eh," she said in her best, been-there-done-that, world-weary tone, "He's not as big as he used to be.  He's losing fans by the minute!"

"Oh, really?" I responded. 

"Yeah!  He's lost Brynn," she continued.  Brynn is one of her little seven-year-old buddies at school.

"Oh, Brynn doesn't like him anymore?"

"Well, she still likes him, but she doesn't like him as much as she used to.  He's not that big anymore," India said, summing up the situation dismissively. 

They're a tough crowd, primary schoolers.  Once you lose them, you might as well hang it up. 

 

PS Once the Biebs cut his iconic 'do?  I knew it was over. 

It's All In How You Use It

The church we attend - okay, shut up, I KNOW, and NO, this sentence doesn't end with, "has been struck by lightning" - anyway, the church we attend has a semi-sorta-unofficial policy that if your kids attend Sunday school, you have to take a turn as a Sunday school teacher.  Teaching school is exactly what I'd love to do on my weekend away from my job, as you can imagine.  Thus, I quickly figured out which Sunday lessons required more crowd control than actual teaching, and signed myself up for those days posthaste.  So far, my plan has worked brilliantly (at least from my perspective).  I don't have to worry about goals, objectives, lesson planning, classroom prep, or any of that nonsense, and all I have to do is correct errant behavior, which is as natural to me as breathing.  And there's a LOT of it to correct.  Since Sunday school isn't "real" school, naturally the kids do not feel compelled to use their "real" school manners - which is fine and to be expected, of course.  However, my fellow volunteer teachers often seem somewhat taken aback by how kids behave en masse and sans their accustomed authority figures.  Then they try to intervene, but as nicely as possible - think about how you talk to your kid's friends when they're over at your house.  That may be fine with one or two extra crumb crushers, but when you get twenty-plus of 'em in a room, suddenly that approach of saying would-you-please-and-thank-you in your sweetest tone of voice?  Doesn't work.  That's when I break out my Stern Voice, coupled with my best I-Expect-You-To stare.  Let me be clear; I'm not yelling at other people's children for no reason.  I'm just Setting Clear Expectations, which is effective in a way that being nice alone is not.  For example:

Maddysohn is having a long, whispered convo with her BFF during Sharing Circle, when only the child sharing is supposed to be talking.

Nice Mom Volunteer:  Maddysohn, can we all listen? [nothing changes]

Me:  MADDYSOHN.  (stern glare stern glare stern glare)

Maddysohn and her friend shrink back into their seats and pay attention. 

Me:  Thank You.

Girl in a momentary snit decides to curl up on the pile of carpet squares for Sharing Circle, thus inconveniencing everyone else.

Nice Parent Volunteer:  Malyssah, would you please get down from there?  There's a seat over there if you don't want to be part of the activity. [Malyssah doesn't move]

Me:  MALYSSAH.  That Is Not A Seat.  Your Choice Is To Sit Over There, Or Be Part Of The Activity Over Here.  Figure It Out NOW.  [Malyssah gets down from the pile and sits in the chair]

All the classes are gathering together for closing of service.  A Nice Parent Volunteer mentions that the kids will be blowing out candles in earshot of one little cherub who always has to be the center of attention.

Constant Attention Seeker [before anyone else has a chance to find out what's going on]:  I'LL DO IT I'LL DO IT I'LL DO IT!!!! 

Nice Parent Volunteer:  Uhhh, welll, I guess -

Me:  You Go Sit Down.  You'll Get The Same Chance Everyone Else Has When It's Your Turn. 

Constant Attention Seeker:  [scurries off to seat silently]

Nice Parent Volunteer:  (look of relief, mixed with gratitude)

The best part about this is, the other parents in the room think I walk on water - or at the very least, that I have access to some kind of magic Child Whisperer power that they don't have.  And you know what?  I totally don't.  You'd be amazed what you can make kids do just using a firm tone of voice and a long, hard stare.  Unfortunately, it doesn't work so well on your own kids in your own house when you're one-on-one (or two-on-one, three-on-one, or heaven forfend, four-on-one) with your own flesh and blood.  But when they're all milling about in a big group, then it's lion-taming time.  Do you think the lion tamer at the circus asks Leo to please be nice and open his mouth just a little wider so the lion tamer's head will fit inside?  NO!  The lion tamer tells that beast just exactly what is what, and two minutes later has his head down that cat's gullet.  (Okay, this analogy might be headed a wee bit off the rails, but you get the idea.)  And that, my friends, is the way it is with groups of kids, too - if you act like you believe in what you're saying, and you say it like you believe they're going to listen to you, generally speaking, they'll do what you say. 

Thus endeth today's lesson.

Except for the postscript, which is, I could never ever ever not ever be a primary school teacher.  And those of you who are, I bow down before you. 

First World Problems, Teacher Edition

A couple days ago at school, I was terribly inconvenienced by ... something, and being me, I had to share the love with my long-suffering coworker.  (By way of an aside, I feel as close to my teaching team members as family.  I am the older sister they never wanted.)  Anywhat, I grumped to my colleague about whatever it was that annoyed me for that nanosecond, and he responded with, "Wow, that's a first-world problem."  This got me thinking:  If RFML can have a Mommyland edition of first-world problems, well, by gosh, so can teachers!  Here's what I've come up with so far:

I hate having a first-period class to teach, because my coffee gets cold by the end of the class.

Ohhh, no, not THAT copier - that one leaves a faint line across the bottom of every page!

The on-line calendar doesn't automatically update itself.  I have to click on a bunch of links and do it myself.

The hallway smells like lunch, and they never cook anything good.

There's no automatic hole-puncher on the copy machine, and a kid broke my heavy-duty hole punch, so now I can hole punch only three copies at a time.

Sometimes I have to get out of my seat to walk across the room and talk to a student.

YouTube doesn't have any interesting videos about this concept, so I'm going to have to figure out how to teach it without a video.

The laptop carts are all signed out for next week, except for the sucky one with the door that sticks.

There's only narrow-lined paper left in the supply closet, and I prefer the wide-lined.

The loudspeaker makes an annoying background buzz when they're reading the announcements.

There's never any good chips in the snack machine now that the school vending machines are all supposed to be 'healthy food only'.

Believe me, I could keep going - but now I think it's time for your turn.  Fellow educators, what problems do you have that anyone in the developing world would die to have?  Leave your thoughts in the comments (instead of on my FB page) so we can all share!

Why Every Day Math Can Suck It

Okay, we've had waaaay too much serious heartfelt arglebargle round these parts lately.  You know what we need?  A good ole rant, that's what!  So pull up a nice, comfy grudge and make yourself at home, because I am locked and loaded to go OFF.

Where to begin?  Oh yes, the start:  India brought home one of those blasted "Home Link" jobbies from that accursed Every Day Math program the school inflicts upon us.  Of course, the first parent letter was ALL ABOUT how critical it is that we parents be involved!  and engaged!  and proactive!  in our child's math education.  According to this letter, if we parents are not intimately involved in our child's every mathematical effort, if we don't point out how often we use numerical reasoning in our everyday lives and explain why you just can't function without good math skills, then our children will grow up to be chowderheaded ignoramuses who can't figure out how to count to 20 without taking their shoes off.  To which I answer, bollocks!  I've seen hundreds of kids who have gone through the EDM program, and I can attest that there are plenty of them who still can't count to 20 without taking their shoes off, despite having gone through EDM!  And I don't think my involvement is going to make one iota of difference, beyond telling India to quit whining and do her homework already, or there's no dessert.  In fact, I would be willing to bet cash moneys that if you tested the efficacy of the integrated-parenting-advice approach versus the no-dessert approach to teaching math, the no-dessert group would win hands down every time. 

Furthermore, I am morally and philosophically opposed to the odious practice of giving parents homework to do at night.  FFS, do I have nothing better to do than practice my vowel blends and math facts at 7:30 p.m.???  Tonight, India's homework challenged us to write down three things about math that we find interesting.  Wanna know something interesting about numbers?  Here's a number for ya:  1985.  That is the last year in which I had to give a rat's @ss about mathematics, because I had to gimp through Algebra II to be considered by any serious four-year college.  You know what else I find interesting about math?  Nothing!  So now I'm forced to be a hypocrite and lie to my daughter about finding the number zero utterly enthralling.  Great. 

You know, I've read about eight million different articles and books about teaching and learning, and nowhere in there did I read anything that indicates parents should have to do homework alongside their kids.  If I had come home and announced to my parents that they had to do homework with me, they would have laughed so hard, they'd've choked on their bourbon old-fashioneds (they were the last of the cocktails-before-dinner generation).  My parents were of the mind that schoolwork was MY problem, seeing that a) I was the person actually in school at the time; and, b) they had been through school already, so clearly they shouldn't have to do it again.  Now we've got "home links" and "parent help tips" and all this other bullpucky, all of which boils down to making ME somehow responsible for my kid learning her math.  To which I say, bushwa! I'm sending India to school precisely so that I don't have to teach her that stuff.  Why?  BECAUSE I HATE IT, THAT'S WHY.  If I *wanted* to teach elementary math and count cows and subtract chickens, I would have gotten myself into ridiculous amounts of student loan debt for elementary ed instead of secondary ed.  And then I could spend my whole entire DAY immersed in math facts! But I didn't.  I am a full-grown woman, dammit; I am NOT doing second grade math homework, AND YOU CAN'T MAKE ME!

I'd like to write all this out on India's math homework and send it to the elementary ed curriculum coordinator, but truth be told, I'm a coward.  I helped India with her stupid "parent link" homework.  I pretended to be fascinated by numbers.  I try (and mostly fail) to think up times when knowing math has been critical to my continued health and well-being.  But I'm telling you, I'm bound to snap one of these days.

Letter From A Broad, Weather or Not Edition

Dear kids,

Today you proved to me beyond a shadow of a doubt that you pay absolutely, positively no attention to instructions.  Not that I needed the proof, let me hasten to add; if I needed proof, I could just look at any of the kajillion assignments you've turned in that don't meet the simplest directions I can think to give.  But this time, it's different.  This time, I have incontrovertible proof that it is not. my. fault.   And that, dear students, is worth more than gold to me right now!

So let's review, shall we?  Last Friday, during our snow day (I know - a snow day in April IS insane, a-thank you very much), I called each and every one of you who were scheduled to go out on the school ropes course today.  And, being a teacher and all, I had a little script mentally prepared so that all 25 of you would get the exact same instructions.  Here's the basic rundown of what I told all 25 of you:

"Hi, John/Jane Student, it's Mrs. S.  We didn't get a chance to meet with you today, so I'm calling to let you know that you're going out on the ropes course on Monday.  You need to be prepared for the ropes course, which means you should wear jeans and sneakers.  You should have a jacket and probably a hat with you.  Check the weather the night before and you might want a water bottle.  Basically, be prepared to be outside for the majority of the day, okay?  Thanks!"

Did you get that?  It's really pretty simple.  Here it is in bullet form:

• Wear jeans
• Wear sneakers
• Wear a jacket
• Bring a hat
• Check the weather
• Bring a water bottle
• Be prepared to be outside.

Now, we live in northern New England.  It is early April.  What comes to mind when you hear "northern New England in April"?  Is it, a) sunshine, blue skies and warm breezes; or b) cold temperatures, damp conditions, and rain?  Are you stumped?  Let me give you a hint:  IT'S NEW ENGLAND.  IN APRIL.  GENERALLY SPEAKING, THE WEATHER SUCKS.  So why in the name of sweet holy Buddha would you show up to go outside in April dressed in ANY of the following:  Capris, shorts, jeggings, short sleeved t-shirts, or (dear lord) a dress and leggings?   The weather for the past week has been cold and sunny or cold and rainy, yet only TWO of you thought to bring a hat to wear - and those two are related!  So that really only counts as one of you!  And why, oh, why, after I called you on FRIDAY and told you to be ready for MONDAY would you give me a blank look this morning and say, "You mean today?"  YES, TODAY!!!  WHAT OTHER MONDAY WOULD I MEAN - THE SECOND MONDAY THIS WEEK???  Why would I call you last week to tell you you're going out on the ropes course next week?  Why wouldn't I just wait til the next time I saw you in school to tell you?  Is this a true glimpse into the inner workings of your fevered brains, or were we just having an off day around here????

I have to admit, however, in a strange way, this whole situation makes me feel better about myself.  Lately, I've been despairing over my seeming inability to give clear, coherent directions.  I ask for pen, you give me pencil.  I want a paragraph, you give me a picture.  I was thinking that I might just be crappy at giving directions and it was my fault.  But honestly?  I cannot think of any clearer way I can convey the idea of "wear jeans and sneakers" other than by saying, "wear jeans and sneakers" and you still couldn't get your minds around that.  And, short of tattooing it backwards on your forehead so you could read it in the mirror, I can't think of any other way I could have told you.  So for once, I can say it's not me - it's you.

Now, I know - or at least, I fervently hope - that this is just a passing stage, caused by the fug of hormones and distractability in which you young'uns tend to wander around.  And if this is your standard operating procedure and not just a developmental phase, well, dear lord, please let me know before all y'all hit the roads with your newly -minted licenses.  I can just imagine the conversations you're going to have with the local constabulary:  "What - you mean I have to stop at every red light?  Really?"  Just don't tell 'em I taught you everything you know, okay?

Yours,

Some Pig

Letter From A Broad, Lord Knows I Tried Edition

Okay, I give up.

I swore I was not going to let myself get pulled into the morass of the current climate around public sector workers and union rights and the states, et. al., but I have failed.

The most recent development in my new state, and the last straw, was an email in my in-box yesterday from the union's legislative action team.  The Republican-led Finance Committee sneaked in a cute little item amending public service contract law late in the night.  Basically, if a union contract expires before a new one is put in place, the previous contract ceases to exist and everyone becomes an at-will employee, subject to the terms and conditions set by their employer.

Let's think about that for a minute.

Let's say you're a school district with a large number of teachers at the upper end of the pay scale.  You'd really, really like to jettison some of that baggage so you can hire a bunch of newbies lower down on the pay scale.  Why not drag your feet in negotiations to the point where the contract expires, and then fire their @sses?   Why not?  It's legal, after all, even if it's not moral OR ethical, and in fact, stinks to high heaven!  Hey, either way, you win - either you get to hire and fire at will, or you get to hold the union hostage to the threat of letting that contract expire!

Now those of you in the private sector may grump that hey, you're employed at will, why not those pesky teachers (and by extension, cops, firefighters, sanitation workers, etc. - except somehow they never seem to be on the firing line of public perception)?  The difference is, my friend, you are working in the for profit world, where there is far, far less incentive just to dump workers as soon as they get to a certain level of compensation.  Now imagine you're a teacher with 20 years in a system, earning at the top of the district's pay scale.  You get into a clash with administration over - whatever.  Teaching methods.  Curriculum and instruction.  Personality issues.  Citing employment at will, administration tells you to get lost and stay there, and turn in your keys on the way out.  And there you are, out on the street, starting over after 20 years in the profession you expected to pursue til you retired, with few rights and little recourse.  Is that the kind of system you want YOUR kids educated in?

So, being me, I did what I do oh so well and wrote an email to my friendly legislators, of which there are about eleventy jillion (fun fact:  With 424 members, the General Court is the largest state legislature in the United States and the fourth-largest English-speaking legislative body in the world, behind the Parliament of the United Kingdom, the Parliament of India, and the United States Congress[1].) (Thanks, Wikipedia!) (NB:  Yes, students, I realize I don't let you use Wikipedia.  I get to because I'm a grownup, and I say.  Yes, I realize that is unfair.  That is why it is more fun to be a grownup than it is to be a kid.  Get over it.)   And, since I was on a roll, I figured, why not share my words of wisdom with you?

Letter From A Broad, Reduce-Reuse-Recycle Edition

Dear Primary and Preschool Teachers of the Some Pig offspring:

You're killing me here.  No, honestly, you are.  Ever since India made the big step to elementary school, the regular trickle of papers flowing from school to home has become a veritable Class IV rapids.  Every night, I wince as I open the school-home communicator (a rather fancy-pants name for what is, in reality, a laminated folder, don't you think?) and a cascade of worksheets, notices, calendars, requests for volunteer assistance, and miscellaneous drawings engulfs me, the counter, and the floor.  Holy hardwood, Batman, how many trees have to die for my kid to get a first-grade education?  Can't you take a page from the Puritans' (horn)book and use a slate or something??  Geez, Abraham Lincoln learned his letters by scratching them out in the ash of the hearth with a burnt stick, and if that was good enough for honest Abe, by dingo, it's good enough for my kids! 

And YOU, preschool - don't get too comfortable,  because I have a bone to pick with you TOO.  Do you really have to send home each and every scrap upon which my child has put pen (okay, crayon) to paper?  I have innumerable pieces of 'artwork' that consist of two lines and a circle in the middle of a mostly-blank page.  I know we live in the age of helicopter parenting, but even the most dedicated of smother-mothers can't find a lot to ooh and aah about there.  Do you both have to save EVERYTHING?  And then send it home???  My kids are already on the fast track to appear on Hoarders 2037 as it is; can't you help a sista out just a little and do some judicious pruning between the cubbie and the folder?  You could reduce the ten worksheets on skip counting by twos down to a more-manageable four, for example.  (An aside:  Please  choose the ones where she got most of the work right so I don't feel like a total failure.)  My kids already have a full wardrobe of 'necklaces' and 'bracelets' that consist of three plastic beads and a piece of ravelly yarn, so feel free to quote-unquote forget to send them home at the end of the day, all the better to cut them up and use the beads again!  See!  It's a win-win!  You don't have to spend as much money out of your meager take-home pay on craft supplies, and I don't have to damn myself to hell because I've lied to my children eleventy-jillion times about not knowing where their eighty-seven strings of beads are (in the bottom of the landfill, to be exact).  As it is, I have to sneak out under the cover of night to put out the recycle bin full of drawings and papers - I learned that the hard way, after an unfortunate incident involving a bucket full of old worksheets and an indignant four-year-old.  So now I make a big fuss about new papers as they come into the house, whereupon I leave them out for awhile until the creators move on to newer pursuits, at which point I quietly whisk them straight to the outside recycle bin.   Keeping up this charade is exhausting.  I'm running out of ways to make the girls think I'm keeping every golden scrap they give me when I'm really jettisoning nine-tenths of it at least.  If you don't start doing your share, teachers, I'mma saving up a dumpster's worth of this crap and leaving it on your doorstep one of these nights.  Then I'm going to ring your doorbell and run like hell, just see if I don't.

You were warned.

Some Pig

Dear Warren,

I'm holding you genetically responsible for the hoarding thing.  Just so ya know.

Love,

Your wife

FML Friday

How to end your week with an epic fail:

1.  Walk into coworker's room at the end of the day when no one else is around.

2.  Make a slightly risque comment to coworker, who is of opposite gender and same sexual orientation.

3.  Somehow mangle the delivery of said comment so that the effect is not lighthearted and irreverent banter, but rather, creepy and disturbing innuendo.

4.  Feel like a complete ass.

5.  Have the same coworker, in a kindhearted attempt to alleviate your feeling like ass, tell you that you are "that cougar age."

6.  Realize that he is trying to be nice, not cracking a joke.

7.  Realize that he ACTUALLY CONSIDERS YOU TO BE OLD ENOUGH TO BE A COUGAR.

8.  Have coworker say, "You're in that mid-forties range, right?"

9.  Inform coworker stiffly that you are in your YOUNG forties, thank you very much.  When he asks you to define at what age cougar-ness begins, answer, "WHATEVER AGE IS OLDER THAN I AM."

10.  While reflecting upon the whole situation several hours later, realize that, on top of all the other failure and humiliation you've visited upon yourself, your coworker is the sexual harassment officer for your place of employment.  Become embarrassed all over again.

That, my friends, is what we call an epic fail.  I'd call it an uber-fail, but my computer keyboard doesn't have umlauts (sadly enough).  Ur-fail?  Whatever.  You figure out what you'd call it; I'm going to go hide under a rock until this passes.