Big Brother and Beanpole

It's time I wrote a little something about Beanpole, my new friend at work. I can call her Beanpole because she calls me the most atrocious of names. I had not heard that particular reference for maybe thirty years, and then only from my expert older brother. He was expert at being a faster, bigger, smarter older brother, and that's what set him apart from the amateurish brothers who sometimes pestered my friends. Laughing at a sister? That was nothing. With Big Brother, one never knew when the bed would be filled with minuscule sharp crumbs, when kids at school would tease about a private mortifying event at home, or when one's name might be turned into a subject of disgust. The satisfied grin on his face made it that much more horrendous. And a tiny bit funny, I'll admit, thirty-five years later.

Back to Beanpole. She also likes to tease, but now that I'm an immature adult, I enjoy a good tease myself. Plus - and this is what bonds us - she is an absolute yente (busybody), and she knows a lot about what goes on. Despite my short tenure there, I also keep my little ears open, so between the two of us we are quite an encyclopedia of knowledge. Since her students become my students, there was an initial awkwardness about whether each of us was up to snuff. But then when she told me that she has no grade book and that she cares more about the kids than the academics, I realized that we are cut from a similar sensitive/lazy (you decide) cloth.

Beanpole is a lesbian. She looks around ten years younger than me but she is not. I have a theory about lesbian vagina - historically unfettered by the trauma of childbirth - that may be a moot point soon, as many lesbians are giving birth. My childbirth experiences did not devastate my vagina, but it did not help matters either. The ridiculous stretch, the perineal disfiguration, the golf ball/hemorrhoid, the subsequent back injury, perhaps the rapidity with which I shot those mucus-heads out, all, in hindsight, or perhaps in cunt-sight, aged my twot. It's a good twot, but it needs to be taken out and walked every day. It needs exercise, and it suffers from cramping when I menstruate.

But wait. I was not referring to Beanpole's vagina looking younger than mine; I actually meant her face and general demeanor. What would age her? No kids, no husband, no childbirth, no saggy belly. Doesn't it make logical sense, though, that if one's female parts are youthful that one's other parts would be in good shape too? And if you are reading this and thinking it's all crap and I would be fine if I just exercised, well, you are right. and I'm quite sure I'll start tomorrow. However, this little piece is about Beanpole, despite the detour into my - figurative - vaginal non-virginal canal. Hey- no fair! Beanpole sounds phallic but she is very much a female. That was some unintentional vaguely disturbing Freudish-type stuff that we shall now pass over.


The bit that is fun is Beanpole's unsquelched enthusiasm. Perhaps it belies her youthful glow, as it were. She asked me to help her move even though I have not known her for very long, and she laughed when I feigned offense. She raves about her dog as if he is a long-lost love, and she is something of an eager puppy herself. The friendly digs she seems to have borrowed from Big Brother make her that much more familiar. A bigger, faster, taller person who gives me grief! How refreshing!