Morning Chat

Monday mornings suck. I didn't do my homework. I'm giving an MCAS test. And I have to look decent. Who came up with this system? It's time to go but I'm writing here instead. Both of you readers, and the dog, I hope you appreciate this, because of course it's for you. I found the perfect job but it pays half of my current salary. That is because the children are too small to matter. Any dumbass could teach those kids, and their development is like, wow, I learned how to count. Big effen deal, right?

There's a school around here that was giving electric shocks to autistic children. Some of the parents said it helped, so the courts never prosecuted the place, and now people are angry again. I don't want to name names, but it's The Rothenberg Center. I have a policy of not judging parents or hard-working teachers. Oh well. That is cruel and unusual. I wouldn't shock my dog. Who convinced these people that this was humane? Sure, I'll bet it worked. I'd stop any strange behavior whatsoever, I'd be docile as a lamb if the alternative was to plug me in. I'm betting those parents were desperate because that's another area - helping disabled kids - that gets neglected. People raise money at Jerry Lewis events and wheel out the cutest cripple, then they pay an idealistic young woman who wants to work with that kid enough to eat a pickle and a vegan burger once a week.

Well I gotta go to my suburban teaching job now. If I sound like a morning talk show host, that's because I am considering that as my new profession. Yes! Exciting, isn't it? I could take calls from those beer-belly cigar smoke people who have gads of time to yack and swear at the host, or hostess, and every time they say shit like "the market determines the rate of pay," or "you're one of those crazed peacenik-feminist types," I'll be like "yeah, I'm the one that castrated George W. Bush back in '2000."

I'm sorta glad we skipped the anesthetic. The kids like looking at the remnants in a jar in the basement. Don't worry! They're really, really small, and the jar's sealed tight.

Health Insurers You Are Going To Hell

And when you get there, I will be the demon that won't pay for your meds because the pharmacy shorted you and I don't listen about that atall. I will not wear red - so passe - I will wear whaddevvah the hell - haha - I please and you will have a helpless 'I wonder how much sicker I might get' feeling. My pockets will be rather large on either side of my garment, and yes, you will have taken it with you, and then you will proceed to give it to me. I'll hurl it upstairs for my offspring who had to live with me while you said I didn't need any more treatment.

It would be too cruel to subject you to the sudden death of a sibling so instead you will just experience all of the symptoms of, I dunno, leprosy?, And then just as you are getting better, one arm gone maybe, but the other still hanging in, I will send you an oversized letter, pages and pages, describing your diagnosis, and confirming that after 8 visits, you will be recovered, completely. Never mind the court dates for the person who willingly gave you the leprosy, or the actual hospital visits at which you will be injected with more of the disease - 8 visits.

More later. Next time I write on here, I'll be down to 7 visits, and much much better.

Guide to Mediocre Mothering

Here's how one gets into The Crappy Mother Book. I have referred in the past to the Good Mother Book, particularly when insisting that my children eat two spears of broccoli even when they're not in the mood. But I'm changing course, moving into my realistic phase. Here's how to get into The Crappy Mother Book:

Wait long enough to make dinner so that your teenager volunteers to make it.

Spend a lotta time communicating with guidance counselors and teachers while completely ignoring the children.

Take on all emotional concerns of your children because you know you can do it better than your partner, even though your are exhausted. Be smug about it.

Complain about work so that your kids get a complete picture of the experience of adulthood. Then lamely tell them that you really do enjoy your job, proving that parents truly are hypocrites.

Go on a trip and forget your asthmatic child's new medicine, despite the fact that he just had a problem a few days before. When your pathetic health insurance won't pay for a dose at a different pharmacy, leave him no choice but to take the old stuff that makes him queasy and dizzy. Say you are going to call the health insurer later and give them what-for, or what-have-you. Take a nap instead.

Let your children watch cable t.v. for hours when they visit the grandparents, then feign surprise when they mention something wildly inappropriate in front of a neighbor.

Say "that's right, shithead" to stupid drivers while your little one is in the back seat.

Skip her bedtime ritual when 24 is on.

Make them clean their rooms when yours is an absolute sty.

And finally: take a third cookie when they're each having two, and tell them it's because you "feel like it."

Is there a martini and cigarettes category or would that be gauche?

Testosterone Visits and Streams of Semi-Consciousness

Some men are reading my blog. Part of it is my fault. And part of it is hilarious. But the original intent was that I could write about the two-ton hemorrhoid what I gave birth to, along with my children, without feeling hampered. What if a man should read about the excess hair? The lack of any real substance to my personality? Actually, that's a bit disingenuous: I do have a few quality items to express about politics, parenting, and childhood, but my fashion comments and my penis curiosities lack the intellectual rigor and research that I should have given them.

Note to self: when giving blog name to old friend at reunion, pretend you did not have extra-strong margarita (I never did triple sec in there before), and remember to say it's kinda confidential. But then if a man reads this it ends up being funny anyway because it's so estrogen-bound. Maybe someone will write in and actually clarify the whole burning issue of gender? Nooo - anonymity? Women finding spaces in which to commune without male feedback? Why does this strike me as funny? Did I take an extra little pill today? If an issue arises vis-a-vis people of the male gender peeking in, I'll letcha know.

So there's this guy, right? Speaking of guys. (Did I just write that? Am I a middle-aged man sitting at a bar?) And he makes it seem like he's giving me a job. Being naturally negative, I am not one to pretend that someone seems to be giving me positive signals. When he decides no, he emails me the rejection! I spend half a day at the goddamn place and all I get is a lame-ass email. When I ask him why he's basically like: well that's what we decided. I think of chicken testicles, only I don't know if chickens have testicles, but if they do, I bet they look like that slimy yellow chicken skin with little lumps.

Remember the guy from "Crossing Delancey?" He was kinda hot in a Jewishy dark way, and Amy Irving was sultress/idiot stereotype, too foolish to realize her lust target was a cad, but the good Jewishe boy was decent, loyal, and certainly circumcised. At one point, Jewish boy says, referring to his pickle barrel business, and forever winning my politically incorrect heart, "What? You think it defines me?" And he is so right because he was a hottie and intelligent, despite the fact that he was cast as a pickle guy. He went on to make some excellent films, and poor Amy Irving spent years wondering what color to dye her hair. You knew after a few days she'd go back to the artsy cool stereotype guy and pickle man would settle down and have a buncha kids with braces.

Personally, I adhere to no stereotypes, unless women writers who start out writing about one thing always inevitably end up writing about the dish on mediocre actors, job rejections, and lost anonymity. All of these topics tie together, actually, because I am taking poetic license. I earned my poetic license after years with a permit and now I am allowed to say whaddevah the hell I want to. And what I want to say is that any man who reads this and actually knows me should skip any part that you think maybe is just for females, start selling pickles, date a confused Jewish woman, or, even better, call the lady if you don't wanna hire her, instead of sending a chickenball email.