Giving Up, Chucking Sponges & Name Calling

Enough already. 

I’d like to give up now. Call it quits. Say uncle.  Cash in the chips.  Throw in the towel. Give up the ghost. I want to scream every single cliche related to giving up, and then I’d actually like to give up. 

Yeah, I even want to use the phrase “chuck up the sponge,” but that little ditty sounds more like SpongeBob after a drinking binge instead of a quitter’s mantra, so I think I’ll just leave the sponge chucking alone.


But still enough, well, is enough. 

I’m spending way too much time with my DIs (Darling Inspirations). Last week I spent spring break in New York City with them. This Saturday I spent all day at a UIL academic journalism writing competition. In a few weeks, I get to spend another weekend with them at the state journalism convention, and then there’s another Saturday along the way for regional academic journalism writing competition. And, all of that doesn’t even include all of the before and after school bonding on deadline.


Out of the 180 numbers stored in my cell phone, probably 90 percent of them are the DIs that have crossed my path through the years. Most of my text messages are from DIs. Hails Bails, for my Friday night fun, I even went to a boys soccer playoff game because one of my DIs plays goalie.

Pathetic, I know. (Me, not him.)

Of course, all this newspaper bonding stuff makes it a tad difficult to slay those yearbook demons that keep hovering about.

And, of course, not slaying the yearbook demons makes me just a tad bit cranky which, of course, brings me to my next story that I shall simply entitle, “How Richie Managed To Call Her Beloved Principal A Moron.” 

It goes something like this…


First Period. Yearbook Class. Still behind on pages. Still behind on page proofs. Still behind on grades. Still behind on being behind.

Someone stands hidden by the door flicking the lights on and off.

Me… “Who’s that?”


No answer. Still behind on pages. Still behind on page proofs. Still behind on grades. Still behind on being behind.

Someone stands hidden by the door flicking the lights on and off.

Me (a tad bit more irritated)… “Who’s that?”

A few giggles in the classroom… Still behind on pages. Still behind on page proofs. Still behind on grades. Still behind on being behind.

Someone stands hidden by the door flicking the lights on and off.

Me again with a sterner voice…  “Who’s that?”

A few more giggles in the classroom… Still behind on pages. Still behind on page proofs. Still behind on grades. Still behind on being behind.

Someone stands hidden by the door flicking the lights on and off.

Me getting up to apprehend the culprit and saying… “OK, what moron keeps turning the lights on and off?”

Ahhhhhh, my principal…


Well, on a positive note, I didn’t say, “Big Fat Stupid Head,” so I get to keep my timer going, and because my principal has a sense of humor, I get to keep my job.


Unless, of course, I chuck up the sponge.