Homewok

• Lori Palminteri
• Uncategorized
• February 6, 2017

When I was in the 5th grade, my teacher, Mrs. Miller (whom I would later babysit for, and then she would become one of my closest friends, which my brother has said, “makes me a really weird person”), had the class write to pen pals with a class in the other middle school in our town.  The thought of this really excited me.  I loved writing.  Plus, I already was pen pals with my cousin, and even though at this time we already had computers, my cousin and I both loved to write and receive letters (I still write letters to my Mom and send them in the mail, which my brother has said, “makes me a really weird person.”).

Even in the 5th grade, I found I could best express myself through writing.  I do not recall what I wrote in my first letter to my 5th grade pen pal.  I probably wrote about the beach, my family, and funny shows on television I like (really, I have not changed much).  I was proud of that letter, despite having no memory of what I wrote.  I couldn’t wait to get my letter in return.  And when I did, I was so disappointed.

My pen pal started the letter by talking about her favorite president (Abe Lincoln), and why she adored him so much.  I immediately didn’t like this girl.  I mocked her to my parents, “we’re in 5th grade.  Who writes about their favorite president?  And Lincoln?  How original.”  My parents joined in my mockery of my boring pen pal.

She also wrote, I’ll never forget this, that she loved doing homework.  What kind of a mentally ill kid loves homework?  I think my Mom suggested I ask my teacher for a new pen pal.  This girl was not only boring, but clearly insane.  I hated homework.  My Mom always enforced the discipline that we had to come home and do our homework before we could go play or watch TV.  As soon as I got home, we were given a snack, and I’d sit at the kitchen table and hash out my homework before the sun went down so I could go outside and run around with my siblings or friends.  Then, later in the evening, after dinner, watch comedy programs with my parents before bed.  Playing outside and watching funny movies with my family were basically all I ever wanted to do (really, I have not changed much).

To make matters worse, my pen pal wrote that if her teacher sometimes forgot to give out a homework assignment, she would remind her.  “What a kiss ass,” my mom said.  With my parents full support, I wrote back with dry comments about why she should not do that, if for no other reason than pissing off every one else in class (if I could have called her a kiss ass and not get in trouble, I would have).

I always did my homework because I was a good student, who never wanted to disappoint my teachers or parents.  But I hated it.  I hated every minute of it.  Unless it was a writing assignment. Especially if it was a story.  I liked writing stories.

In college, despite having numerous mental breakdowns and anxiety attacks due to be overwhelmed by papers, etc, I did actually like having homework.  By the time I was a junior in college, all my classes were writing or production based, so I no longer had tests.  Essays, short films, and scripts.  And I liked doing all these things.  Also, I liked the feedback.  Especially when it was good.

Present day, I’m working on a writing packet with a deadline, and I spill coffee on my laptop.  I quickly clean it up, and all seems to be fine.  Phew.  Dodged a bullet.  I keep typing away, and then I notice I’m making a lot of eos.  Something is wong.  In the last couple paagaphs, thee is cleay something vey wong.  The “r” key had opted out of working.  Ugh.

I start to panic, and immediately start emailing myself what I’m working on.  It appears to be just the “r” key that isn’t working, so in my half freaking out because I have a deadline brain, I decide, “hey, let’s restart my computer, and maybe that will fix it.”  And then I remembered immediately that I have to type my name to get into my computer: Loi Palmintei.  Fuck.  Fuck me, stupid idiot.  But then I realize I can use an external keyboard to get in.  So one of my good friends came to the rescue and lent me a wireless key board.  I decided I don’t like typing on said large keyboard, so I continued to use my keyboard, with the wireless keyboard by my side, simply to hit the “r” key.  Yeah, it kind of sucked, but I got my work done.

But I love deadlines.  Love them.  They give me anxiety, and stomach cramps, but the word “deadline” really gets my dick hard.  Because it means someone is reading my work!  And that might mean I’m getting feedback!  Or maybe, I’m getting paid to write!  And that’s a good thing, indeed.

So, I guess, in a way, I owe my 5th grade pen pal an apology.  I kind of get it now.  If you’re reading this (and you probably are not), I’m sorry that I (and my whole family) mocked your letter, and called you a “lame psycho.”  It would appear I’ve grown up to be a bit of a lame psycho.  Still, running around outside keeps me sane after hours of editing.  And at the end of a hard days work, I just like to watch some comedy as a little reward.