Yes, I'm Home

Cowbell came knocking so despite my exhaustion I will report that I am now gainfully employed at a progressive independent school, I haven't had a moment to do much more than eat, sleep, and teach; and Ugly Betty - sorry too tired to link - is not as good this season.

I miss reading my blogs and writing of all sorts. I don't miss correcting papers or arguing with teenage boys who thinking they are smarter than me and in reality may be smarter than me. That's because I do those things a lot. Ball & Chain's substance abuse counseling has been amazing, and he realized that he was self-medicating for years. Some of the flaws I'd accepted since 1990 just aren't there anymore.

I'm so middle-aged: my feet hurt, my back hurts, I've gained a little weight and I don't give a shit, my hands are purply-veiny and I don't give a shit, and I am utterly baffled by the notion of doing things like cooking after work. I wear under-eye cover-up every day as well as some lipstick. I met some cool people at work and I thought wow everyone's great. But on second thought I'm like, not really. Also, again, I don't give a shit.

I hafta stop writing because I am so goddamn tired. How pathetic. Within 10 minutes I'll be asleep, responsibly supervising my kids, in my dreams.

I Quit

Okay enough of the Lou Grant stuff. He wasn't Ed Asner, he wasn't Lou Grant, he wasn't even a he. He was a she. When I first started writing about it, that seemed irrelevant. But now I believe that no male boss would have the nerve to bully me in quite that way. Did I really write that? I did. Somehow I seem to irritate female bosses, asking more questions than they want me to answer. Of course men in general are bigger bullies than women, but my experience is that my female bosses have not wanted to hear from me. One of them told me that when I asked questions, she felt I was undermining her authority. But, like, I truly needed clarification. Was I supposeta just walk off, dumb?

I am freaked out, to say the least. She Who Shall Not Be Named refused to speak with me, forbade me to speak with others about certain topics, chastised me for discussing the design of my classroom with co-workers, and put me in a training for first year teachers. That's just the beginning, but it all came to be utterly humiliating. I felt a visceral sense, driving home one day, that I could not do it. I knew she would not write me a reference; I knew that I might end up back in the hospital, after years of staying out.

Me, being defensive: one veteran teacher cried after a staff meeting ('I can't believe I'm doing this again.'). Many were up in arms. The head of special needs told me she had to work all summer because people kept quitting. So the day I resigned, I was thrilled, freed, liberated. Then came the next day. Why? Why do I choose crazy quirky schools? Why can't I tolerate following orders, even when they don't make sense? Why wasn't I a movie star like everyone in the magazines? They obviously have no problems.

I did finally receive some good news, and that's why I am able to blog: the wonderful pre-school where I useta work contacted me and they have openings. They loved me. But it doesn't pay enough. I would have to tutor, too, which would be good if I knew I had the tutoring students. Meanwhile, I am applying to every possible job and trying to squeeze a reference out of justabout anybody.

Oh, and did I mention that I have no money? Oy vesmir.

Shit! My Boss Scares Me

It's about that simple. I make one wrong move, and he's like all angry and weird. He treats people like shit. We never know what to expect, and things change constantly. We're not stockbrokers, for godsakes, we're teachers. There is no real reason to describe it all: intimidation and manipulation, that's it. What's so complicated?

I'm over there trying to help other people hold themselves together because they feel like shit, too. Somehow the staff is phenomenal, but Voldemort has favorites, enemies, and folks in-between. I am in-between because I bug him and I ask questions. He has me in a training - a three-year program - that I have had before (I should be doing one year at the most because I am at a new grade level), and just 'dug in his heels' when I showed him the credentials. It is infuriating to train to be a more effective and compassionate teacher whilst being shat on.

I keep using the word shit. Hmmm. Maybe something about my boss reminds me of excrement. Yes, I think that must be it.

He refused to discuss the redundancy of my being re-trained, and forbade me from discussing it with anyone else. I have no idea if the administrator I trusted to be confidential let it slip, and so I'm in a sorta no-win situation with her, too. I can't ask her if she slipped because she'll tell him I did if she did. How utterly stupid. And shitty.

So I advised a few of the younger folks who are really down on themselves to try "voodoo" dolls. I knew someone who had a horrid boss and an artist-friend made her a so-called voodoo doll, and yes I know true voodoo is something totally different. Nevertheless, the suggestion was meant to cheer them up, and it did. It's plain wrong for a young and talented teacher to blame herself because she cannot continue to speak up after so many of her ideas have been sot down. Really shitty, like bad diarrhea.

Anyway I am totally angry at myself for spending so much time worrying about Voldemort and even find myself worrying about what I say here because I am like paranoid which is probably the point, or something. I know that he has told numerous people that I am a "wonderful teacher." How does that help me when , in person, he is somehow disordered, either happily praising me or telling me he can't talk to me for even a moment? And then I feel happy when he's nice to me. Egad it hurts, but it's true. Sooo shitty, like I stepped in it and it's ruining my shoes. (I'll kill the metaphor if I want to - it's my shitty blog!)

People in my life have all sorts of opinions about this and mainly I hafta stay where I am for another school year unless a dream job pops up this week. Since I do not have a fairy godmother, or, alternatively, a license in special education, I will hafta try to avoid Satan. I'm telling you, though, The Big Shit scares me.

One Small Note, then Bathing Suits & My Body

Excuse me for being like everybody else, but this is far too clever to leave off. Rugelah and I cannot stop imitating Catherine Tate, a British comedienne with a flair for characterization. This was a link to the youtube video, but it will only lead to youtube itself. Try "Tempura" & "Catherine Tate." It's worth it, and as for the link glitch, mea culpa - I'm a writer feigning knowledge of technology.

Somehow, despite adoring Monty Python, Big Kid finds our amusement with Ms. Tate utterly disdainful, like nails on a chalkboard. I think Rugelah's accent is fine, especially with a tiny bit of incredulity as she repeats the word "tempura." This jocular tidbit of has little to do with the following intellectual essay, but it's my blog, so there.

In other news, Suzanne recommends that we all post pics of ourselves in bathing suits, thus contradicting the myth of the swimsuit issue. I love the idea, but since my blog is anonymous, and since my camera is broken, and since I am not as evolved as Suzanne, I plan to post a bathing suit photo that could be me.

Here I am after I had all of my organs removed, and a few select extras transplanted as breasts. In the spirit of full disclosure, the left breast is a kidney, the right a lung.

That did not work out too well for me, so the docs agreed to give me my old body back. Problem is, I pretend to be an NB, "near-B" in-between breast size. Only because I'm a little bigger than an A, and I am uncomfortable without a bra. Don't get me wrong: my breasts are excellent. They fed two babies, and they perk up quite nicely. Without the nipples, I am fairly sure that I would never have had an orgasm. Lucky me! Their size, though, cannot be replicated in photos because you cannot see them too much. Think Grace from Will & Grace in a padded bra. That's about my size.

Which leads to my post-op dilemma. My hips and thighs are a nice size, and I have a little belly where they put my uterus back in. So I'm kinda small above the waist, and then I gather heft as I go down. My weight goes up and down generally, as it will, and sometimes, due to my sensitive stomach, aka migraine/nausea and diarrhea/reflux (don't that sound sexy) I cannot eat much and I become rather thin. Other times, when I can be the swine I was meant to be, I get more hippy and my belly pooches out like everybody else's.

The point is that all of the women with nice big butts also have tits and all of the women with small tits have no hips. Apparently I am mutant. Clothes fit me, and I can get my ass through doors. But all of the women in photos lack my lovely proportions. Also, when a cyst ruptured twenty years ago, the surgeon stapled me up a bit funny so my belly sorta hangs down over my undies, as if my undies are too tight, but they're not. I say "undies," or "underwear," not "panties," because my Mom always said panties and I found it far too dainty a word, then and now. It's my underwear, goddammit. I never liked the expression "bowel movement," either, which my parents shortened to "BM." Jeez. It's shit, it's poop, or it's crap, one of my all-time fave words. Usage: the idea that women are built like pre-pubescent boys with two grapefruit breast implants is crap.

If I had my way, we'd all wear those old stylin' bathing suits. Then I wouldn't have to share my pubic hair, or the little rash after I shave it, with the rest of the world. Plus those old styles suit me - pardon the pun please. So much for being anonymous. If you see the one woman around with child-bearing hips, a belly drooping over her drawers - there's a good word, too - and small breasts, that's me. I miss my lung/kidney breasts, but the sacrifice was worth it. Now I can breathe, extra-deep.