Refereeing a 4-Square Game, and Other Reasons 8-Year-Olds Suck

"Pffffffttttt." The sound of the end of a duct-tape roll being stretched over a recycled cardboard box. It was packing time at Richmond Elementary, and I was soon to be reminded that, indeed, 8-year-olds will liken anything to the sound of flatulence.

"Ppppffffffftttt," I sealed another cardboard box full of posters and math supplies. I labeled it "miscellaneous," which was an abbreviated way of saying "this classroom has no organization, and in all reality, this box contains random $hit that should probably be thrown away. You own 700 plastic triangle cut-outs. And we're in a budget crisis." Miscellaneous.

"Pfffftttttt," I snapped the tape after it overlapped the top of the box, only to hear a couple muffled giggles.

Then, it happened.

An onslaught of high pitched yelps, coupled with hearty "HA-HA-HA-HA's!" before a slew of accusations:

"Sean farted!"

"He farted!"

"Eeeewww! Sean!"

"Oh my gosh it smells like eggs, you guys!"

I have to admit, it was pretty funny. I started laughing, but apparently, that was a bad move. The fill-in teacher of the classroom decided packing was a distraction and informed me, "Sean, your packing duties are postponed for the day."

Rats...what can I possibly do, if I can't make fart-noises with duct-tape? Looking back on it, I should not have asked this question, because the answer was one of my darkest fears:

Referee a four-square game.

If you've ever played four-square, you remember it either as the game you loved because you kicked everyone's a$$ when you were 8, or you remember it as the game that scarred your competitive confidence for the rest of your life.

For a tall, lanky kid who sometimes (always) cried if he got out, getting a red rubber ball smacked at me as hard as the opposition could propel it was not exactly a fond memory of mine.

Regardless, I tried my best to, you know, watch the kids, make sure they don't kill eachother, and always, ALWAYS call out the "Liner's."

"LINER!" The short, chubby 3rd grader screamed to me, on the verge of tears.

"What?" I replied.

"It was a LINER!" He said.

"SEAN! LINER!" He said, his lips quivering as his body was preparing to go into total and complete shock if I called him out.

"Liner? What the hell is a liner?" I said.

"Adult word! Adult word!" Some kid yelled, running through mud-puddles in the distance, flicking boogers on his classmate.

"It hit the LI-yinnnnE! So it's Ooooowwwt!" He said, in that whiny, awful 8-year-old voice that only 3rd graders can manage.

"Okay, Jesus. Fine. Liner!?" I said.

"WHAT!?!?!?" The 2nd grader who just got called out said, as if he just found out Spongebob Squarepants got cancelled.

He then proceeded to protest my call. It was really hard to take him seriously, because he was as tall as my shin, and sounded like John Mcenroe with a lisp.

"Youw can't be sewious! Wewre you evun watching? That's WEALLY WEALLY BAD!" He said, grinding his teeth, contemplating ways he could climb my body to destory me.

Another key element to 4-square is establishing whether "over-handers" are allowed or not. If you play with the "over-hand" rule, you can hit the ball a lot harder. Since there were 2nd graders in line, I decided under-hand only would be best for everyone.

This was a seamless transition for most kids, except for one little girl, who had some sort of thick European accent that I couldn't decipher.

"Soo, like deez?" She said, motioning her hands forward, with her palms facing down.

"No, sweetheart, you have to do it with your palms facing up. Under-hand only," I said.

"Oooog, ooog, so, like deez?" she said, her palms now facing outward, her elbows turned outside.

"No, no sweetheart," I said.

I reached out to turn her hands so that her palms would face upwards. She would not allow it. She provided an immense amout of resistance, and was not letting me rotate her wrists, or move her arms at all, for that matter.

"Hehe," she said, as she stared directly into my eyes with a weirdly menacing grin.

"I vey strong!" she said, in a voice that sounded like she hadn't swallowed her saliva for ten minutes.

"Haha, oh yeah? Have you been lifting?" I said, jokingly, expecting a blank stare in response.

To my surprise, she had been lifting.

"Yez. Mother make me lift milk jug. Over and over. Father have strong arm also!" She said.

"Pushups? Wan see?" She asked.

"No, it's fine...just remember to hit only under-hand, we don't want anyone to get hurt." I said.

Naturally, as soon as she steps foot on the court, she uses her mammoth arms to smack the ball with such force directly at the 2nd grader who is about the same size as the ball, and hits him square in the chest. The force of the ball nearly picked him up off of the pavement, and he started crying on his way to get an ice-pack from the office.

"I did eet!" She yelped, extremely proud of herself.

"No, you are out. You have to hit it under-hand." I said.

"Buh...wha...I...? Ugh...i hit? But...I Hit! I heet ze bol!" She said, in an utter state of confusion.

"You're out." I said.

She looked at me with such confusion and rage, it was unlike any malice I had seen from an 8 year old. She was envisioning me as the milk jug, and I was about to get lifted.

That is, until her friend came along.

"Wanna play house?" Her friend asked.

"Sure," she replied.

Off into the distance she scampered away, laughing about threatening the 4-square referee, and undoubtedly preparing to challenge her friend to a push-up contest.

Spelling Privilege

Going to a private school is really cool. You get to do things like call your professor by their first names, have 7 people in your class, take classes with titles like "Modern British Literature Composition and it's Contemporary Effects on The Political Relations of 3rd World Countries." That's not really a class, but there are some pretty odd classes offered at Willamette University. What do you do with odd classes? Find EXTREMELY ODD professors to teach them!

What if there are no more odd professors? Grab a phonebook, ask your friend to tell you their favorite letter, run your finger up and down the "F" section, stop on a count of 3, then invite that person to teach a class at your university, and charge students 47,000 dollars a year to pretend to sit in said class and listen.

I mean, this isn't a specific example, I swear, but as of right now...it seems apparent that this is exactly how some of my professors were hired.

For example, Sociology 131 is such an insighftul class, that it has provoked such discussion along the lines of "oppression" and "stereotypes." According to 3/4 of the class, we are all oppressed, upper middle class white-kids. Usually, those words do not go together in the same sentence unless the sentence is as follows:

"Upper middle class white people that go to Willamette University are not oppressed."

But, if you're in Sociology 131, your sentence would look something more like this:

"Um, professor? You know how when you're in line at Safeway, and they ask you for a donation to like, I don't know, Breast Cancer Awareness or something? Yeah, well, the lady asked me OUT LOUD instead of just pointing at the screen, and I was OFFENDED! I mean...how insulting! I said no, and she stared me down because I have nice shoes so she thinks I am rich."

Life is so hard. But seriously...this would be bad enough if the professor was like, "Yeah it can be frusturating when you feel that people assume you have more financial priveledge than you do, but realistically, she probably asks EVERYONE that, so it's probably not a big deal."

Noooo, noooo, no. Instead, the professor replies;

"Oh my god, something like that totally happened to me too!"

She proceeded to go into great detail about how one time she wore all black to the Oregon Health Services office and the lady who distributes food-stamps gave her poor service because she thought she was gothic, uneducated and lazy.

The course title is Sociology 131, but really it's just an hour of every day that every person who has far more opportunities than they realize can come to class and talk about how people aren't nice to me if I am not smiling and wearing nice clothes.

The proverbial cherry on top---one time, our professor was asked to go into furhter detail about the discussion we were having about the failed-bombing in downtown Portland over Christmas Break.

"Um, I don't know. I don't really like to stick my nose in other people's business."

Oh. Good.

Is it ironic that I just wrote several paragraphs complaining about people who complain? Yes. Is it ironic that while reading this, you are thinking 'Sean is a whiney brat' but you are STILL reading!? YES! Now, pay attention.

Another cool thing about going to a private school is that it is ridiculously expensive, so you get to do work study. I do work study at Richmond Elementary. If you've ever had a problem with an over-abundance of self-confidence, I highly suggest walking into a 3rd grade classroom. Working at Richmond Elementary is the most humbling experience I have ever had. And when I say humbling, I don't mean it in the way of putting things in perspective, I mean it in the way that "Oh my god, these kids are brutal and my borderline non-existent self confidence is completely shot by their unintentional jabs at my ego."

Upon first entrance, you will hear things like "You are so tall! But my dad is taller, and he can grow a beard! You just grow yours on your neck!"

That's not my beard, that's a shadow. But, thanks, 9-year-old boy who is better at insults than I am.

"What happened to your foot? You are walking weird."
"Do you play for The University of Oregon? Oh...what's 'Willamette'?"

"How many points did you score?"

I scored 21, but we lost.

"How many did they score?"

115.

"OH MY GOD YOU GUYS SUCK!"

No, I mean, our team had 100, but...

"You almost lost by 100!"

And my favorite so far..."You smell like chips."

Just this week, the students stopped calling me 'Mr. Sun-Chips,' mostly because I made the teacher tell them to stop, and one afternoon I was reduced to tears by their badgering.

Just kidding, about the crying part. But more interestingly, today the kids found out my last name is "Dart" and they couldn't get enough of it. Mostly because it rhymes with "fart" but also because "Dude I love that game! One time my friend threw a dart at me and I started bleeding. Wanna see my scar?"

There's a point where the things these children say stop being adorable, and start being obnoxious, at least that's what they tell me. I haven't reached that point yet, but when I do, I'll make sure to bring it up in my sociology class, and complain about how the constraints of society is allowing 3rd Graders to feel like they can tell me I smell like chips because I am oppressed, and cannot defend myself, and it's all the systems fault. Also, my jeans don't reach my ankles because The Gap discriminates against 6'6 men whose legs make up 75 percent of their body. Life. Is. So. Hard.

Neighbors.

Living in the luxurious estates of Cimmaron Manner in La Grande, Oregon offers many exquisite benefits. For example, it is located within walking distance of a cemetery. It is also right across from the campus of EOU…AND we have a swimming pool. Did I say swimming pool? I meant we have a large cement bowl filled with rain run-off, leaves and some empty milk cartons.

As part of being a citizen of the heralded Cimmaron Manner, you must have several mandatory meetings with the head of Cimmaron—Ken. Ken has a small chiuaua that smells like Top Ramen and he drives a golf cart around Cimmaron to pick up trash, and make sure people aren’t taking shits in the dumpster, because that is the only thing that is regularly monitored at our wonderful complex.

My interactions with Ken have been few, but memorable. One time, I locked myself out of my apartment and Ken let me in with his master key…only if I promised to run to Wal-Mart tomorrow and make a spare key.

“Ok…I’ll let you in…but you have to PROMISE me that you will make a copy tomorrow first thing in the morning. I don’t want you getting locked out and being stranded out in the cold, okay?”

Okay Ken…will do. I never did it, but it was nice to know he was looking out for me.
Last week, I woke up to some conversation occurring far too loudly for 8 A.M. outside of my window. I live on the second floor, but I was convinced Ken was laying in my bed and the crazy lady talking to him was screaming in my ear.

“I WOKE UP….AND I SAW SOMEBODY OUT HERE…AND I’M NOT DUMB…SO I GRABBED MY FLASHLIGHT….THEN I CAME OUT HERE, AND THEY WERE GONE!” The crazy lady who lives below me said incoherently and unnecessarily loudly.

Ken replied, “Yeah…this looks like a child’s work. It looks like a child did this.”

“WELL WHATEVER IT IS…I WANT IT GONE,” crazy lady said, while most likely drooling.

“I don’t think I can do that for you, because I don’t know who did this, or if anything even happened. There’s just some marks on your ground next to your window. It could have been from an animal for all I know.” Ken said.

“Oh…Okay. Um…I woke up last night and there was a shadow standing over my bed.” Crazy lady said.

(Silence from Ken. And me…but I was trying to sleep.)

“THEN I TURNED ON THE LIGHT AND IT WAS FUCKING GONE!” Crazy lady yelled, probably running in circles with her hands up.

Turns out crazy lady has kids. How do I know this? Because crazy lady and her husband and 4 kids all moved in beneath my apartment earlier this month, and every day, I have a new present waiting for me at the front door. It’s like a treasure hunt, except I don’t have to follow a map. I just open my door…and there it is! An empty can of Mountain Dew!

Next, I hear an orchestra of laughter by small children, then the door shut beneath me. I took the can and put it in my recycling.

After that, my roommate opened the door and there was a gigantic tumbleweed on our welcome mat.

“Sean…did you put this here?”

“No…why would I do that?”

“I dunno.”

Then my roommate dropped the tumble weed, and it kicked off in the distance, floating into the abyss of our parking lot. 30 minutes later, I went to take the trash out and tripped on the tumbleweed, which was now littered with random shoestrings and pinned down by a large rock. I was able to catch myself and not break every bone in my body while falling down 15 stairs, but the emotional pain of toddlers pointing and laughing far exceeded a broken arm.

A few days ago, I rode my bike home from practice to find a pint-sized girl standing at my doorway. As I pressed on my hand-break and slowly crept towards the stairs, as to not scare this little imposter, I stepped on a twig and her head snapped back like a deer that just realized it was in the crosshairs.

“DEY HOME DEY HOME! DEY HOME!” The little girl yelped, and stormed down the stairs. A little part of me was wishing she would tumble down the stairs, in an ultimate show of cosmic balance, but she just ran down, and her mom opened the door.

“You know better than to do that.” Crazy lady said, in the way that you say something and don’t mean it at all.

I walked inside and locked the deadbolt on our door, imagining my apartment raided and all my Barbie Dolls gone.

The next morning, around 10, her brother knocked on our door. My roommate answered, and the little boy asked, “Do you have 4 eggs?”
“Um…no. Sorry. I don’t have any eggs.”

The kid stood there for a few seconds, realized he wasn’t going to get any eggs, and ran downstairs.

I am still puzzled by these events…and I still think 4 eggs is an awfully peculiar thing to ask for from a neighbor. Lending sugar? Sure. Maybe 1 egg…or 2. Maybe they needed a couple eggs to make a cake or something. But 4 eggs? I don’t understand.

Other things that have changed since our new neighbors moved in:

-I cannot take a shower without getting high. The parents smoke an incessantly large amount of marijuana, and they do it in their bathroom, and turn on their fan 24 hours a day. It works great for them, but it really just blows the smell up to our bathroom, which is fragrant and gives me a headache.

-I wake up every morning to a dull roar of Alice Cooper songs. I really, really, really hate Alice Cooper.

-Ken knocked on our door with a loaf of bread in his hand and asked if we wanted it. We took it, but found out it spoiled last week. Thanks Ken. You smell like Top Ramen.

Things that have stayed the same since our new neighbors moved in:

-Kens little Chiuaua is still very fat. Also, she has like 12 nipples. Do all dogs have that? Or is she some sort of super-milker? I am sorry for using the term “Super-Milker.”

-Speaking of feet…Ken doesn’t wear socks.

-There is still a 90% chance of getting Malaria upon entering Cimmaron’s pool.

- 98% of Cimmaron residents are chain smokers. Yesterday, I was walking to the laundry room, coughed a few times because I have a cold, and was asked by the people across the lot if I needed a light. I shook my head…wondering what an extremely odd question to ask, as I was obviously holding a laundry basket and detergent, not a pack of heaters.

-Everyone has grocery carts outside their doors. This angers Ken, he is always asking people to take their carts elsewhere. They never do. Ken has the worst job ever.

-The change machine at the laundry room still doesn’t work.

But other than that…it’s pretty nice. Update: As I was writing this, the little boy from downstairs asked for a stick of butter. I tried to explain to him that I didn’t have any butter because I cook with Olive Oil.

“Sorry, I only use Omega-3-Heart-Healthy cooking oils. Butter clogs your arteries and KILLS YOU! Tell your mommy and daddy that we aren’t a grocery store, and it’d be neat if they could only smoke weed once a day instead of 4 times, K? Alright, run off little guy!”

Update #2: The rear window of my roommates Isuzu Trooper is no longer there. However, there is no evident damage done by way of rock, or a really really strong fist. Also, I don’t think those little boogers could reach that high. Unless they stacked on top of each-other, and I have heard that they like to attack in packs.

Worst. Neighbors. Ever.

“DEY HOME DEY HOME DEY HOME!”

Dirty Laundry

Back when you were a kid, you probably always complained about various chores to do…picking up the dog poop, cleaning your room, picking up the dog poop in your room, cleaning your pet rat’s cage, washing your dad’s nice sports car with a toothbrush and dial soap even though it’s negative 15 degrees out, you know…typical childhood stuff.

But then…when you’re OLDER and ON YOUR OWN, whatever the hell THAT means, you are supposed to welcome these chores. Like…okay, I’m on my own now…these things have to be done, so I am going to do it. Because I am responsible, and it is not responsible to let that dead cat just fester in my living room. I should pick it up.

Other things you are expected to do as an adult: Change your own clothes, be potty-trained, speak articulate sentences (as in…pronounce your R’s and don’t refer to your parents as mommy and daddy,) and worst of all…DO YOUR OWN LAUNDRY.

Don’t stop reading yet. Are you reading? You’re reading!!?!? Thanks. Okay. But seriously…laundry is the notorious chore that everyone hates, and if you know someone that says things like, “But…I LOVE LAUNDRY!” You should find that person and hurt them severely, or immediately inspect them to reveal their identity as a washing machine, not a person. In which case, you are weird because you make friends with robots.

The laundry room in my apartment complex is approximately a 40 foot walk from my apartment, but that can often feel like a 40,000 foot walk if you do it in severe wind, wearing a t-shirt and flip flops. So, to speed up the walk today, I decided to run.

So, there I was, carrying my large teal basket of laundry, sauntering down to the laundry room when I spot several kids playing on the jungle-gym on the way to the laundry room. I stop, feeling slightly embarrassed, mostly because the kids are laughing loudly and pointing fingers at me. I realize I look funny when I run, but I didn’t realize that 5 year olds believe so too.

I continued to walk shamefully with my head down, when I feel a slight poke on my left hip.

“Mister,” says the small child who is one of those kids that has an adult face on a toddler-body. I almost did a double-take to see if he was a cast member from “little people big world,” but he wasn’t. He was just a creepy little kid poking my hip while I ran to do my laundry.

“Oh, hey. How are you doing?” I say, because I can’t think of anything else to say, like “Don’t touch me, you creepy little midget child.”

“Why are you running?” his gigantic head says to me.

“Because it is really cold outside. I don’t have a jacket on like you do.” I say.
“Well…where are you running to?”

“The laundry room,” You little creep. Why are you asking me so many questions?
“I’ll run there too! It’s warm there!”

To the kid’s credit, it is warm there. It is really warm there. A lot warmer than outside.

So he and his little children of the corn friends follow me to the laundry room as I continue my apparently hilarious jog to get out of the god awful weather.

I proceed to do my laundry, while they punch against the vending machine, stare at me in a highly terrifying fashion, fog up the window pane and draw designs on it, and ask me the occasional question like, “Where did you get all the quarters from?”

Your mother.

I didn’t say that. That would be terrible. I told them the tooth fairy gave them to me…because I eat lots of candy and never brush my teeth so they fall out! If you guys do the same…you can do overpriced coin-operated laundry too!

Then I hear a tiny voice say, “I put my tooth under my pillow one time, and I woke up and there was chap-stick under it instead.”

I felt sort of bad, but I figured these little tykes knew I was just kidding. Cavities are bad.

I went back to the laundry room an hour or so later, to find no vacant driers, but one load was done drying, so I took the liberty of emptying it into a basket and putting my clothes into the dryer.

Then I hear another tiny, more-midgety voice say, “Are those your clothes?”

“No…they aren’t. But I need to use a dryer.”

“Well, what if that person wants their clothes to stay in there?”

“Um…if they really wanted them…they would have come to get their clothes by now. Besides, I’m putting them in this basket they can get them from there when they want to.”

“Those are my daddy’s clothes!” The little midgetman says.

“Really? Well…I’m sorry but you can go tell your daddy his clothes are done, but I’m going to use this dryer.”

“It’s not really my daddy’s clothes. My daddy doesn’t live here. He lives in jail.”

There was a few seconds of silence, then the far door opened and one of his little friends comes storming through the backdoor, looks up at me and says…

“You RUN FUNNY!”

I wanted to speak, but I couldn’t think of any words to say as I felt humiliated, embarrassed and really terrible for the little kid all in one. Instead, I just put my laundry in the dryer and walked away.

I came back about an hour later…30 minutes after the drying was done to find my clothes carelessly sprawled across the floor, and my dryer being used. I have no idea who was behind this, but I can only imagine it was those pesky kids, or maybe a really bitter adult who was upset that I moved their laundry. Into a basket. Not the floor.

Anyway, this simply proves that nobody likes laundry, and everyone hates the tooth fairy. I’m going to wash my clothes in the sink from now on.