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.

Camping Recommendations, Scholarly Jews, & Digressions

Camping is fun. Bah, you say? You simply haven't found the proper place, the proper equipment, or the proper camping partner. When I camp, I prefer to tag along with Ball & Chain. We pretend we are going together, as a family, even, but he does, like, everything. It is so very satisfying! I do not know why he does everything, and I do not know why building a fire counts as the thing that I do, but it does. Hee hee hee. We have fire-starter, for "post-feminism's" sake (nosuchthing, really), so I just do the stuff I was taught at private school go-away-and-learn -about-nature trips, and I stay warm.

Here is what you need to do if you want to have fun: first, go somewhere that has clean flush toilets. Otherwise, well. Not a literal well, just, I am not sure of how much adventure one wants. Next: a hot shower is good, but I'll admit that you should bring little plastic flip-flops and a certain blind-eye attitude toward soap residue and anonymous hairs that I obviously don't truly have. The blind-eye, so to speak. But I digress, and in opposition to the case I am trying to make!

Have a partner who loves to camp and has a strong back. He or she must be good-natured, and come from a hearty WASP-ish background. Okay, if you are a Jew who actually camped, I congratulate you, I just didn't know our tribes did that in the seventies, from whence I hailed. Actually, I hailed in 1964, but the seventies and suburban temple is more relevant here. Not, however, in the woods. Nothing mandatory whatsoever, and certainly not 3 afternoons of learning to read Hebrew, an excellent language I'm sure, but if I understood a word, the reading might have been more helpful. (I know not of the relationship between contemporary camping and ethnicity or race, save one qualitative sociological observation: campers of our ilk are not in banking.)

Yeesh, bear with me here - not a black bear, but they may be around, too: I have just found some lovely sites reminding me of the many times Jews prayed and studied in private, but also gorgeous renderings of children studying Hebrew in the woods. And contrary to the above-authored blurb, I am reading a thus-far excellent book by Allegra Goodman called Katerskill Falls about observant Jews summering and studying. And although Ball & Chain practices Buddhism, the three others in our little family, the actual Jews, including me, read profusely while we were there. So we were quite Jewish about it, and I stand self-corrected. Nevertheless, I leave my error intact, as it is along the lines of Jews not being athletes, which is such crap, and if I am going to Say Something, I might as well air the whole mishegas out.

Yikes, more digression!

The campsite should absolutely not have tons of RVs, bare-bellied teens smoking as you drive in, or a plethora of activities going on. Red flag! If you see dogs, excellent. Matching dobermans, beer cans, no. People actually making fires, yes. A dead deer on the roof, perhaps not.

Lastly, try to find a place that is a state park. The sites should be fairly private and flat. The lake and sprouting little trails and creeks should be a short walk from the site. At night, be sure to look up, look up, and see the stars. During the day, look up again at the under-shapes of the leaves and the changing sky behind. Sit your ass down in a folding chair - a must-have for every pseudo-camper - and watch the leaves sweep around in the wind. Fall asleep if you like.

Here's what to eat: soak your corn, unhusked, in water for a bit, and then wrap it, still unhusked, in aluminum foil and put it over a raging fire. After a few minutes, it will be very hot, and the taste: sublime. The husk and threads will pull off easily. Your marshmallows need to be near hot coals to brown perfectly. Take your time, so the insides melt. If you want something extra-good for your s'mores, put a small piece of chocolate inside the marshmallow. Yummy.

I saw a small wildflower, three or four in a tiny orange-red bunch, on top of one stem. It bloomed and faded over the days there. Big Kid learned how to play cribbage and Rugelah talked a lot about the many shades of green. It was our 17th wedding anniversary, and the 20th anniversary of the year we met. Thinking back, I realized that I have been a rather persnickety wife. I told Ball and Chain, as we sat by the fire, and he bunched up his face and asked what 'persnickety' meant. When I said a bit too picky about small things, he sort of shrugged. Ironically, the realization itself was a small thing, and we both let it fly away with the crackling smoke.

Documentation

I am writing this a few hours before omigod I almost wrote "my brother goes to trial," but my brother is dead and today the judge will decide when the trial is, unless the defense does some other crazy thing. So I am documenting what it is to be like while one goes through such a surreal moment and yes tears are rivuleting down my cheeks and yes I am a shitty mother and I took a klonopin to try to calm down. There is no rule book for someone murdering my brother. It is not even in "Worse Case Scenarios" which seemed funny and was something Z, my brother, and I laughed about when he sent it to Big Kid.

And about writing, which has been integral to my identity, I have been torn from it and applied all of the guilt that a remiss older sister might feel to the endeavor. Why am I not a better blogger friend? How do people have time to read other blogs or even focus on them? I admire my faves so much - they are listed as is customary, but Suzanne and Purloined and all of those people over there keep writing and writing and I do wonder whatever happened to that homeless woman, maybe she's a millionaire now.

I am always diagnosing people and myself, like the doctor-by-proxy my dad always said I'd be and I definitely am GUILTY. I should have worked harder in school. I should have been tougher, but I should have been kinder. I should have cared about all of it instead of picking and choosing. I should have figured out how to keep my act together when several employers kinda said we're not firing you but you're not up to snuff.

Chrystal has all sorts of excuses for me re the traumas of the past few years, but really why I am not one of those nose-to-the-grindstone-republicanish types? I don't need reassurance, I need a diagnosis. I am truly obsessed with all the wrongs I have committed and I am fearful, too, because my boss really can be so mean and everyone there is intimidated yet there are things there I love.

And what does one do when the words are spoken? The trial is... I am not even sure who I am writing to but since my vow is to say something I do want to say something about how when you murder someone you devastate their family and it's children and mothers and regular people who might have been doing other things, like holding a little new baby neice, or worrying over stupid stuff. So now I am writing, and this is the documentation, and they don't ask sisters to make victim-impact statements, but I wish I could.

No wrap-it-all-up ending.

Something Serious to Say

I am sad. In 6 days we will find out when the trial for my brother's killer will be. That is a strange sentence to type, or even think. It becomes difficult to follow an actual whole book, or to consider writing about anything. One proceeds through, feigning some degree of normalcy, and then it's like oh a murder trial. How surreal and emotionally bizarre.

We often refer to people "understanding." That's not really possible, and I am not convinced that it's necessary. Since I have family who also experienced the loss, I know there are at least 3 people who "get it." But to 'get it' may just mean they feel awful in a similar style to my awful feeling. There is a good chance that we are not all on the path to any meta-cognition about the matter.

Indeed, the crux of the problem seems to be when one loses the meta-cognition and is unable to see one's self realistically. The situation comes back in distortion, of course, as the human brain is truly ill-equipped to manage the information too closely. We are all better at storing it away, and events like trials cause a little leakage from that remote storage area.

Here's what I think I might sort of know: natural justice will prevail in the so-called life of the person who killed my brother. Regardless of what a court decides, there is an accounting that will have to be made, and there will be no freedom for her. Perhaps this is what I tell myself as comfort, but I also believe that people's spirits bear out, so that we all do know when someone is good or when someone has dome a horrible wrong. We sense the disturbance; we hear the dog growl, and eventually, he bites. Then people say "we had no warning." But there are warnings, if we are able to look. Killing is wrong, and in this instance, it was, ironically, both brutally deliberate and utterly random.

Artifice, Love, and Dicks

Last night, Rugelah and I watched a show in which older women and younger women competed against one another for the attentions of a tall guy with an accent and a pea for a brain. Really, though, how intelligent could these women be? You may be wondering why I'd watch with my daughter. It's because I'm a bad and hypocritical mother. Besides, the day before, I made a major effort to attend the Impeach Bush/Cheney protest in Kennebunkport, so my Good Mother Points were way up there. Rugelah didn't come with me, but I set a helluva good example. Big Kid said it was futile to go, and that really set me off - a cynical teenager - so I had to go. And with my Mommy and Daddy, no less.

There were lotsa people there. On the shuttle bus, I sat next to an amiable fellow who spends half the year around Maine, half in Florida. He looked maybe fifty-five, and he chatted about Bush's many violations of the law. As the bus neared its destination, he lowered his head and said something on the evidence that 9/11 was really an American, home-grown job. Oh Lord, I thought to myself. I can't abide conspiracy theories: they're just too hokey, or something. Even when Ball & Chain was convinced Rugelah had conspired to lose her glasses, it caused terrible turmoil in our home, and it turned out to be untrue. At the rally, some talented speakers did a good job of making a point. Some other people campaigned for Kucinich and I'm like stick to one issue, puhleez.

So back to my low-brow activities. After a day of blathering on about the inadequate and inaccurate media coverage at George Bush's summer shack, I needed some down-time. Way down. I think it was called Love Connection, or something like that. Ooh, remember that show? People would try to figure out if they had the connection. there was some catch, like they couldn't see each other? Horrors. On the show last night, a buncha women just prayed that a guy would choose them over the others. The so-called man was an utter boor, kissing everyone, and whining on about how hard it was for him to choose. Each woman, in succession, talked about her growing feelings for him. It was a little like an election, I suppose, with everyone getting all hyped up about someone we don't really know. We feign strong feelings for the person, but then if we find out he got an illicit blow-job, we're like 'kick him off the island,' or the show, or the Presidency.

Who the hell would ever join a gang of a buncha women waiting to be noticed by one guy? How utterly demeaning. Each of them, Rugelah pointed out, had flat tummies, large breasts, and - I noticed - a pleading expression (please pick me!). We agreed that neither of us would ever sit around in a herd, hoping not to be dismissed. Yet as a public policy matter, it seems we all do that. Who are these people who run for the Big Office? I never met them. They are strange men, literally strangers, pretending to know us. The point is, don't fuck around with strangers, especially on t.v., and probably if they're the President, and absolutely not if you are meant to compete with a herd of needy Barbie-dolls. (No offense, Barb, I'm sure you're monogamous.)

We missed the best part of the show, though, or what looked like it would be: one of the women was getting ready to ditch the guy. There was no chemistry, and she was ready to be done. She talked empowerment, but that ended quickly. He asked her to stay, then there was a commercial, and then by the time we got back, she had returned to the herd of girlfriend-wannabes. So, begging your pardon, this really is like the Presidency. It's a lot of artifice, it's televised, people feel passionately. The problem is, after the Presidency Show, the dumbass main character is truly still living in the White House, and he's already chosen a scary partner, a real Dick.

Intermittent Me/ How to be "A Writer."

As anyone can plainly see, I have been on yet another hiatus from blogging. Ironically, I have been trying to get back to story-writing, but instead of doing that, I've been somewhat paralyzed. Some folks tell me to blog, some folks tell me to get back to stories. My writing is definitely a metaphor for what's going on in my head, and it is definitely not a linear matter. I need guidance.

Perhaps some of my former readers will come back and tell me what you think? Truly I want to pursue my writing my I'm sorta slogged about which to do. Perhaps the answer is to try to do it all, and I could post some stories and poems. Anyway this, is meant to be brief, as the navel-gazing is not warranted given the circumstances. Any advice about How to Pursue One's Writing would be appreciated.

Did I Really

say "I'll be riding tonight" yesterday? I did, of course, and upon re-reading it, I am stunned that I wrote something so very absurd. How ridiculous. I was channeling a college guy in Arizona, maybe, or just writing something that would look embarrassing later. I am purposely not deleting because it is so ridiculous and I can be a doofus and demonstrate that it is okay to appear foolish and live to write about it.

Back when I wrote that, I looked like a regular forty-ish gal. Now, on Chrystal's advice, I look like a punk wannabe and it does not work. My hair color was too light, she said. Make it darker, like your natural color, she said. Use this and that crap from the store she said. And after an apparent channeling of Lucille Ball on one of her most hysterical days, I neglected to read the side panel and I ended up with purple hair. No, I am not exaggerating. Both children laughed. Even I laughed. I washed and washed and washed it. I thought it was better, but yet another friend said to put brown over it. I did that, too - this is all month-long color, nothing too damaging - and now I look even more witchy. Fair skin , dark hair, circles under my eyes even more visible. I'm already rehearsing the easy laugh for tomorrow when I return to work looking like I had a mid-life goth crisis.

I told Rugelah: "This is what vanity gets you." At the time her face was contorting this way and that, in an attempt to express her thoughts about the red stain in my hair.
"But you're not vain," she answered.
"I'm vain enough to color my hair," I told her.

I look like an ass, or rather, a dumbass. It's a bit Ronald Reagan, with my wrinkles and other skin flaws more pronounced. Who knows what tomorrow will bring? I may need to visit a salon so I can be presentable again. Or maybe my hair will be a family science experiment. What exactly does nutmeg to auburn to light brown highlights actually look like? I wish I could see that I am embracing the very idea of looking foolish and managing it, but it was much easier when I was using lame language on my blog. Looking stupid, now that's harsh. Did I really? Yes, I did. Gimme a broomstick, pierce my tongue, my cheek, my brow, I'm ready to ride.

Eating, Fake Television Eating, and Sexy Food

I ate so much I sorta made myself sick. Sick because my intestines were crammed full, and sick in the figurative sense, as in disgusting myself. But it was all so good. An analysis of food and television is in order. Of course, this will not be a comprehensive analysis; it will be from a more engaging and Lucy-ish perspective. Yummy and entertaining!

We all know in the old days, people pretended to eat on t.v. Why? Maybe they were worried about food in the actors' teeth? Or perhaps it was the concern that food doesn't film well. Thus the use of wax or white glue or something on cereal commercials. Perhaps that's an urban myth? What does it mean to watch television and eat, and watch people eat? Not much, but it could be a proper analogy for the show, and logically, and excellent analogy for actual people. But it's not even an analogy. Like if you drink coffee from a diner mug whilst watching Seinfeld, there is no analogy, you're just sticking yourself into a diner with them, or pathetically paying homage to an actor (in a re-run, no less). Eating crappy food while watching crappy television - that's appropriate. There's nothing left in the house so you're stuck with something like a can of old soup, and there's nothing on t.v., so you're stuck with an infomercial, or even worse, the Unfunny UPS guy sitcom re-runs, and his perpetually annoyed wife. How did they ever get Jerry Stiller to agree to that? Television imitates life, and life is like television, especially at the mediocre moments, and people eat, or not, in both places.

When I first stayed over at a girl we'll call Priscilla Harrington's house - we'll call her Priscilla Harrington but we won't name her house - I was aghast at the small servings her mother gave us. It was a fraction of the amount we gobbled at my breakfast table, which made me realize how big and uncouth we were. We always had seconds and thirds and we argued over the toy inside. These folks discussed the day's activities, an apparent imitation of a scene they had watched on television. Priscilla's family was preppy and put-together. In later years, her sister developed an eating disorder, but I digress.

Take the mushroom. People who like mushrooms are foodies. People who don't like mushrooms are either young children or unable to get in touch with their sensual side. When Will and Grace go with their dorky friends to The Olive Garden, and the friends rave about the food, you just know that Will and Grace have had risotto, and they are aghast to even be seen at the de-classe establishment. They have tasted of something a little sweeter, if I may. I'm betting the Olive Garden is tasty, but I am not raving about the chain-restaurant-frozen-shrimp flavor.

Another show on which people actually eat is Malcolm in The Middle. I didn't watch it much when it was on for its regular run, but the repeats are hilarious for any person who has ever been a parent or lived with boys. For people who have done neither, it probably seems like a perverse and cruel take on the American family. And they do eat. With their mouths full. Dad also feeds the boys as if they are puppies, throwing morsels into their mouths. They may not be foodies in the mushroom sense, but they do eat a realistic amount of food.

Back to not-television, and my mostly-excellent culinary experience this week: Halvah, which was sub-standard (tahini paste Middle Eastern candy that is crumbly and almost-buttery, akin to a scone but with no ingredients in common); papaya and avocado salad with arugula; and chocolate hazelnut mousse. Also: fresh and still-warm -from-the-machine/cooker maple syrup. Shrimp curry, and naturally, mushroom soup.

I do not associate eating and sex simultaneously but I do associate them. The very idea that an oyster is meant to be an aphrodisiac, and the fact that they are pulpy and salty and smooth in my mouth, definitely puts me in the mind of something smooth that feels good. This cannot be experienced on television. Also, a great meal seems to have been the predecessor to much of the great sex that I have had, but I think that gets back to the sensual food and sex connection. I cannot fathom, however, the food-sex combo. Like I'm not hungry for the oyster when I'm hungry for the meat, if I may be a bit less refined than I claimed to be a few paragraphs ago. I may have written awhile back that I have no interest in licking any food item off of any body part. I would be open to it, I suppose, but really I don't need it. It seems like the overlap of two things that are not meant to be together.

There was a scene in the movie, Blaze, years ago, with Paul Newman and a voluptuous dark-haired actress - in which they shared a watermelon as she rode him, and they laughed and talked as they fucked. He may have worn a cowboy hat. That was memorable - my first exposure to sex as a fun activity. But not anything that would make me want to chow down while getting down. It seems when I write, that I get back to sex a lot. Perhaps I am not so different from your average male: a lotta talk about feelings may be included, but it's the sex she really wants. Or maybe I'm just menstrual - which affects me similarly to ovulation - and I am a wee bit more interested than I am at other times. Some days sex is like that can of old soup. Prediction for this day: I may eat something tasty, I may watch a movie or a re-run, but I will be riding tonight.

Pathetic Insecurities & Biology

My head is all over the place because first my little tiny vulnerable son went to California on a big bad airplane and I had to put away all thoughts of scariness that I cannot even write here because that will bring the thoughts back. Also, Ball & Chain is going through some process of dealing with the use of alcohol and I am the unconventional partner yet somehow still vulnerable to being blamed for something that has nothing to do with me. And my job is lovely except for Lou Grant is so unpredictable I never know when he will bark at me and it is unnerving. Plus I was a scheduling nightmare this week, overlapping all sorts of things and causing many people to be rightly irritated with me. Perhaps the use of commas would have been appropriate back there, but I am not in a comma mood. Maybe if I was a bit calmer! (Yikes.)

What is my life, anyway? I have several people who love me unconditionally. Notice how I skipped right over my life and went straight for how other people feel about me. These people are related to me by blood, if you will pardon the expression, or even if you will not pardon it. Other people may care or not care for me but they are not in my fabric of who I am because it takes 500 years and a lotta bullshit for me to trust people. I notice them, adore them, I listen to them, but they must witness an unnamed number of bad weird episodes of This Fucked-Up Lady, and live through them, to be eligible for me believing that they care about me. Bad grammar embraced.

Does it help that I went to fancy schools and ended up a mere teacher? Does it help that I'm a writer who is too lazy or too busy to submit her work? Now I have demonstrated that my head is, indeed, everywhere. What to do with the information? First: I plan to clean my room. That's always a solution. Once people wake up I will call Miss Kitty on the phone. She is an excellent sister and our experiences are parallel to the extent that I sometimes feel like a twin, although I do not know if I have ever mentioned that to her. Oh and back there when I said "mere teacher," not all teachers are mere teachers, but I am because I go from job to job and because I am me, I am feeling quite mere today.

This morning's blog was going to be about linguistics, actually, and link to a New Yorker article. I wonder if I will write about that later? Instead I am going to say right here right now and even these words are delaying it but I would definitely like to have a partner like my high school boyfriend, who doted. Could someone please appreciate me? Verbally? Am I the clone of women everywhere, under-appreciated and nagging about it? Or stereotyping myself? Why am I so verbal when my partner is so non-verbal? Please do not tell me about the studies that show men talk less than women. The reason is that they are stupid, and withholding, and too busy reading the paper. My high school boyfriend just knew how to make me happy, get himself laid, and get a head.

This is who loves me, and by the way, I have been doing this exercise for years, and I am putting my children last so it doesn't seem like I rely on that love, or depend on it, even though I think I might, and I am lying to myself. Right, here they are: Mommy, Miss Kitty, Daddy, Baby Brother (whom I miss terribly), Cousin Darling, and Big Kid and Rugelah. Mabel loves me, too, and she is a blood relative and I am not required to explain how that works, so I won't. And Chrystal is not theoretically a blood relative but she might as well be. Sheesh, that's a lotta people. Who am I to complain? Be glad for what you have. Or, alternatively, how pathetic that one must list those who value one for one to feel any value at all. The people on my list are intelligent, too, so that must mean a little something about me. Also, while we're being both honest and dishonest, I do very much love Ball & Chain. He thinks I should know how much he loves me but since I don't I think he should do something about it, for crissake.

Now is the point where, in regard to narrative, one would expect me to link back to what I think my life is. Despite the intent, I do not have an answer. I can describe what I do, or who I love, or what I think, but I have no idea what my life is or the purpose. I get the mother part. And then, and then. My life is a series of losses and gains, maybe a sort of football game despite the fact that I loathe the sport for its symbolism. (How ridiculous, then, to use it as a symbol.) My life is an exemplar of devotion a la my Jewish nun moments. No, my life is that of any hectic American woman living in hectic 2007. Bullshit, all of it. I have only one clue. Lately I notice that I have more habits like those of my mother at my age, and more of her physical idiosyncrasies. So I am following her imprint on the world, and to some extent, my life is like my mother's life. Biology is a little trump. And now, like my mother - every night - I am off to take a bath.

Let It Out, Hold It In, and Eat

It is wicked late and I am still working because I am so diligent, and also I didn't really start until ten p.m. Passover passed. I sat at the table and cried so hard I could have parted any color sea you want. Then I drank a lotta Peach Manischevitz. Peaches are my fave food and this stuff was heavenly. When I ran out, I guzzled white wine. Instant sedative.

It is not easy to cry hard at a seder table. You hafta shut up, or shveig, as we say in Yiddish. You cannot make a scene in front of the children. Even if you have made a scene in front of the children before, if your mommy is stoic, then there is some expectation that you should have your shit together, so to speak. And the kids deserve a little happiness.

Let the tears stream down, and be proud that you just bought that waterproof mascara. Look up long enough to see that your beloved sister-in-law, Mabel, is also imitating a crying statue. Notice that your sister, Miss Kitty, is doing fine. Wonder how long that will last. Be so fucking glad that your kids are not right next to you. Follow along with the seder, and be cautious as you look at the Haggadah you made years ago.

Dry up a bit, wipe off your face, eat some parsley in salt water. Realize that you love your husband and consider sleeping with him sometime soon. Keep eating. Eat, eat. The next morning, come downstairs to find that breakfast is over and most of the food is gone from the serving dish. Eat the leftover matzoh brie off of all the kids' plates.

The Crappy Truth

In the interest of honesty, which is part of the moronic theme of my blog - what was I thinking - I gotta say that I know where my anger is from, and its not related to work. I thought it was, but in a deflating moment, I realized that my huffery is a cover, a distraction, an obsession that helps me to cope with the real shit.

Someone murdered my brother. That someone is, unfortunately, still alive, and I have seen It. It is unfathomable to me. When I have seen Its face, imagining that this is the anti-person who killed my brother is not possible. Beyond the realm of possibility. Yet many people saw it happen, and there is no question, no doubt. Only a ridiculous legal procedure during which strangers and pay-for-pseudo-psychiatrists will decide if It was insane.

That's all, nothing more. Except the hurt in my belly and an inability to think hard about this.

The Goddess of Gotcha Back

Wouldn't it be great if you could post a crazed blog about how much you want things to change and literally the next day they did? Well, that's exactly what happened! First: I walked into work yesterday morning ready to rip someone's arm out of its socket. Before first, I saw pointy little pathetic crocuses popping up from the ground. Don't show me fucking flowers, I thought.

Second: Lou came out of the office to tell me I am going to be teaching writing for an hour a day! I almost pissed my pants, but that might have seemed less-than-dainty. He was all happy for me and smiling and I was saying writing!? Gotcha, you bastard, I thought. Finally, I had scored a piece of my job back. I will be working with two people I really like, one of whom is a man, so clearly Lou is not worried about me as a sexual predator. How utterly awful to have even written that, especially since I have had the sexual prey experience. Back to happiness mode: the plan is for the students to write a research paper, or research and write a paper, whatever order you wanna put it in. And my job is to plan the projects with my colleagues, create the rubrics, and teach the kiddos how to write a paper. I really am a word nerd.

Third: When I received the schedule with my name on it, it said writing in big letters. It was an advertisement for Lucy Teaches Writing. How utterly lovely. I considered framing it, but that seemed a bit grand. Lots of people teach writing and they do not get as worked up as I do. But lotsa people do lotsa stuff and they do not get as worked up, or as dragged down, for that matter, as I do. I am like Bette Midler in Ruthless People combined with, um, Bette Midler in The Rose? Anyway, it's a big deal to me and that's what matters. Right? Right. I'll be a published novelist at age 20 in my next incarnation as someone who doesn't yak on the phone, hang out, go to the movies, read, read, listen to music, and patchke (mess with) her every blemish. That's polite talk for all of the zits I've squeezed.

Fourth: Today, Opie (for whom I confess to feeling a smidge of compassion) came to my classroom to ask about something. I was just walking out of the room. As Opie approached, Lou popped out of his next-door office! Opie began to stammer, and say it's no big deal typa-stuff. How convenient. How many people seek out someone who is harassing them? Well, people don't! So there. An answer to my blog. And I thought there wasn't a God. Clearly, she exists, she believes in karma, or she understands what it is to be petty and immature. I like her. Today.

Regarding the compassion, Opie is so disorganized, and also I am an idiot, since he could have cost me my job. The whole point is that I can't stand him and he messed with my integrity, or something. It's hard to be all all-or-nothing, even though I 'go there' a lot. The guy is anxious, and young, and stupid. Plus, if I am going to believe in a goddess today, one who helped me get back at him, I need to love thy enemy, or some shit like that.

Dickless Opie Stole My Job

I hate work and I hate going there and I hate everyone who works there. Opie acts so much like everything is fine and dandy even though he almost lost me my fucking job and I feel like give me a goddamn apology, grow some testicles, and go tell Big Boss that you were off the mark. Either that, or he could at least apologize to me. We're all assigned to a special project and I will be working with a person who is awkward, loud and sometimes nasty. A firm teacher is good. A loud nasty teacher is bad. And I am convinced - because I am paranoid and also smart - that Big Boss is trying to fuck with my head, keeping me from the people I get along with and isolating me with some temporary-type discipline freak. She knows I know how to do all of this stuff, so on a good day I'm thinking okay, I see that she's also isolated another experienced teacher, and has her doing hard crap. Today is not a good day and I am sure she is marginalizing me so I feel desperate.

But puhleez! And I hafta shut up. That's what I totally fucking hate. I don't want to shut up. I want to say Hey! Why do I hafta specialize in reading? Why do I have to be all loyal and all kiss-ass and all piloting this fucking program? Writing, I wanna teach writing. But no, Opie is teaching writing. Is he teaching it well? Maybe! I wish I could say no. But I can't. The fucking bastard has become much more creative, ever since I encouraged him to do that, and there is no payback. No payback. No one has figured out that he is a creep, and my dear friend is now all cozy with him. Okay, maybe not a dear friend. Maybe someone who was all freaked out about how weird he was at me, and now is all teasing and flirting. She's married too. Why is she not criticised? I don't care that this all sounds vaguely sexual - Dickless made it that way.

I am pretty sure this "guy" has the tiniest penis in the world. You know how it's sorta obvious when there's a lot there or justa tiny bit? Chrystal has confirmed this observation for me. And he is all skinny and petite and like I am ready to kick his non-existent ass. That's it. He has my job. He has the job I was hired to teach -with him - and I have the we-so-need-you-to-fucking-do-this-job job.

I am trying very hard not to look up his shitty little fratboy myspace page so I can hate him even more, but it feels like obsessing again. I want him to apologize, I want him to disappear forever, I want him to be assigned to teach farting in a little room so I can go back to my my my job.

You Never Know, Girls.

I was going to write all about the Lucinda Williams concert and how The Heartless Bastards totally rocked so actually maybe that's what I'll do. First, though, I must sing a little song here, figuratively, of course. I'm sure a techno-wizard could add sounds, but I cannot: I Love My Linkers. This is my song because some truly very funny and smart people who put their funnysmarts into their blogs have been hanging out here, and I am so happy because one must find one's soul sisters in order to answer the truly deep questions like: why would anyone wanna tint her nipples, why do my breasts do what they do, and how many ways can we make fun of people who are assholes? Those are my priorities, anyhow.

I do make up a lotta songs and I do sing a lotta songs. One of my old faves is a show tune I learned in middle school, "It's All for the Best." I oughtta google that or something. I was watching t.v. and an ad where a car-tester guy makes a gear shift play "Purple Haze" came on. I remembered that I sang that song at a talent show in middle school. It was intense. A room full of arrogant preppies, getting down to Hendrix's"Purple Haze." I had a microphone, large breasts for my age, and the sense to scream rather than to actually sing. Would that I had pursued the guitar after that. Instead I spent my time gossiping, an apt pre-occupation before my heady foray into blogging, complaining about my husband, and forcing loud sounds to come out of my mouth.

The Heartless Bastards are three people rockin out, punk and fun at the same time. The lead singer's voice reminds me of The 4 Non-Blondes, a flash-in-the-pan band that had a great song about feeling fucked up and crazy. We were in a high-up balcony, waiting for Lucinda Williams, and the opening band came on and of course I had no expectations. I certainly was not prepared for the major drums, the heavy-wild voice, and the excellent guitar. This was not middle school. I was absolutely jazzed the whole time, and I did my nerdy text-message my musician friends near the end of the set. It turns out Ball & Chain had just read about them in The New York Times. (I do not mean to imply that a band's quality is related to their popularity - often it is the opposite.)

Farbeeyit from me to say anything about Lucinda Williams beyond that she is a phenomenal writer and musician. Her voice is both smooth and crackly, and she is up there saying all sortsa shit about sex and love and hatred. The woman is emotional , she is pissed off, and she knows how to tell someone to fuck off. I love that. But but okay okay, stutter stutter, how come she talked so very very much? (I guess this is my Gertrude Stein imitation.) She thanked the audience and said she was humbled and grateful a few times. I think, maybe maybe, she had a little too much mind-alteration? Oh Lucinda I am sorry, the show was fun. But I kinda thought Heartless Bastards were great and you were a bit too relaxed. And didja hafta say that women complain too much about being too fat and too old? Didja hafta tell us that it takes talent and hard work to succeed? That was a little, well (I'm whispering now), cheap.

I came home and today I am loving the new CD. But this is why one should not ever hear too much from one's idols. It's like the time Audre Lourde wouldn't speak to me when we were introduced, or when Marge Piercy rolled her eyes at me, the bitch. Her husband apologized for her and said "she's been sick". I had just told the woman that we used her poem at our wedding, for crissake. Anyway, Grace Paley was absolutely, well, gracious, so that worked out.

Lucinda Williams is 'a shitkicker,' to quote B & C, and maybe when I'm 54 I'll be confident enough to tell an entire concert audience that I'm talented. Maybe the point is, though, not to say too much when you've had a few drinks or tokes or whatever, because you might say some shit you regret. But of course, if you are Lucinda Williams, you could write a helluva song about that.

The As-Yet Unrecognized Art of Being Me

I finally figured out where my talent lies, so to speak. All this time I thought I was mediocre, and actually, it's an under-appreciation problem. I heard myself complaining about finances one day - as I am wont to do - and saying that someone should pay me for being me, because I am really good at it, and I do it better than anyone else. This is true, but first I must explain the money complaint thing. No, I do not think I have anything real to complain about. But quit lookin down yer snout at me. I am great at kvetching (complaining), and so it all leads back to that good-at-being-me thing.

The money story is that I grew up in a big house and my father made a lotta money. Not like trust fund, but like plenty. I did not know that I would ever hafta worry about money because I assumed that I would grow up and make some. That's what they tell you at private school. went to shitty public schools until sixth grade. That gave me grit, or something. Then I went to private school. It was weird, because there were other Jews there, and also kids who seemed sorta like me. Also, there were Levi's, fair-isle(?) and argyle, and Lacoste shirts and absolutely no training bras. How embarrassing. Lower middle class and working class girls had tits by then, but the well-educated daughters of professors, doctors and lawyers were flat-chested. This is not a phenomena I will pursue here, and of course it changed in middle school. Wait, where was I. Oh, so of course I know that I have enough money. But making enough to pay a small mortgage and a life-for-four without saving anything kinda sucks. Sorry, oops, I shouldn't say it. But I would like to have a lotta money, and yes, I tell my kids that compared to most of the world we are rich because we are, but christ could I please just have some fucking cable t.v.? And I would like to go out to dinner, a lot. And I wanna travel around and see stuff.

Who is the Director here and how did I get to money? The purpose of this entry is to explain how great I am. I am using reverse psychology to disgust the reader with my materialism, only to endear her to me later when I explain that I am a teacher in a city school. God, I'm obsessed with rationalizing and pseudo-joking with liberal excuses. But I'm not liberal, I am me. And I gotta say something about that.

Right. First, I look good. Good in a warm way, I think, and people seem to enjoy my company, unless I hate them or dislike them or sense something that is simply not right. I am beginning to look my age, and that is because I have circles under my eyes and lately the make-up isn't working. I was opposed to make-up when I was younger, but then when the under-eye issue became visible enough to look like 2 tiny bruises, I said screw that natural stuff, cake me now! Also, I am quite accepting of other people, unless I hate them or dislike them or think that they are assholes. I have a good sense of humor unless I have my foot in my mouth. Then I apologize pathetically, and have faded old visions of what a weird little girl I was, and I think of myself as a weird big girl. That goes away because I manipulate the people closest to me into giving me compliments, and then I believe them.

I love dogs. Loving dogs makes a person that much better. My dog is the best dog in the world, and everyone says so, which is fun. He does all sorts of hilarious shit to make me feel better. I know, because his personality changed after my brother died, when I cried like a faucet that won't stop - and loud too. Let's don't get all maudlin: everyone cries when someone dies or else they are very sad. And my dog - we'll call him Rover - can read expressions so very well. Recent research that showed that dogs are better than apes at interpreting human facial expressions. He began to always be near me, sit up on his butt like a person at a table, cross his front legs like me, and crawl under my legs when I was at the computer. He also does a most excellent head-tilt when I talk to him, as if to say he can't quite gather what I am saying, but he is trying. I like other dog people but I think it's odious when people rail on about their pets (I would never), and I have little interest in cats. My sister's cats are good - and I am obliged to say that for fear of reprisal - but most other cats suck. They say nothing, they do nothing, they won't make eye contact. Plus they stink up the house and shed everywhere so ya feel like you just went through the dryer without a lint collector.

Otherwise, I like to serve tea, I like to drink vodka and to listen to loud music - new or sometimes old - currently The Feelies - and I sing along loudly. I like to go out because then I feel a bit relieved. I don't know what else to say about myself, except I am superb at doing all of the things that one must do to be competent being me. I throw my clothes on my chair, I wear hip outfits, and I hang out with my cute little family. My teen family member is tired of my voice, and that is fine and normal. Really, it's fine. Honest. I love it! One less kid to look after, and another adult to criticize me. I am good at taking criticism because I become defensive and I make sarcastic remarks. Other people pretend to be mature. I am too honest for that.

Tomorrow we are going to see Lucinda Williams. She is an idol of mine because she says what she means, she sings, and she has a foul mouth. I will go as myself and there will be no one there who can even approach my mastery of the art. Now if I could get someone to pay me for being me, then my pettiness and my talents as my self would be realized. Lucinda Williams certainly gets paid, and she is Lucinda Williams. I can go be me at her concert and yell loudly and collect my paycheck at the end of the week, which happens to be tomorrow. If none of my plan to be employed as myself works out, I could easily be a brash obnoxious bitch. Does that pay well? And what should I wear?

The Blue Area, Better Bras, and My Mini-Bosom

Is it verboten to write about my blog hits? I think it may be, so here I go. More than one person and the dog have been looking at my blog. Not like as many as anybody else's, but a few more. Like maybe three, two hamsters, and the dog. But there are a lotta people in the blue section on my stats page. That means that a lotta new people are coming to look. Not clear that any are returning. Oh who am I kidding? Clear that many are running for their lives. So my concern is: who the fuck are these people, or small animals, what do they want, and what am I doing to scare them away? Here is my theory, and please forgive me if it seems a bit harsh: they're all mainstream, narrow-minded, nose-pickers, and when they read my blog, and realize that it is not porn, I am not warm and cozy, and I truly dislike Oprah, they scatter in fear. Whaddaya think? My other theory is that the site is mediocre so a buncha people come and read and then never come back. Aw, but that's so far-fetched. And don't write in re-assuring me that I am simply the undiscovered voice of females everywhere who wish they felt comfortable writing about vaginal discharge. I know.

Also, my bras don't fit. Chrystal taught me to wear a lightly-lined bra to work so that my nipples aren't sticking out like weapons - I'm a clear shot at thirty feet - but that isn't quite working anymore. Those bras sorta lose their shape, or something. So they're sticking out, and my tits are just like 'hey! we're over here.' I am at that strange size of needing a bra but having small breasts. They are remarkably perky, so I no longer feel gypped for having missed the massive-tit breastfeeding experience. I did breastfeed, but my tits did not get that much bigger. They were spouting fountains, but they were no more than a C.

Anyhoo, yesterday, once again, Chrystal has on this hot-as-evvuh Victoria's Secret bra (not linking to that exploitive establishment) that fits her perfectly. When I asked a bra lady to help me find my actual real true bra size, she said I was a 30DD and that the whole real bra size thing is a crock. At this point I'm a near-B - thank you Playtex - but maybe I should be an A and pop the hell outta there. I'm returning the 2 bras I ordered and heading over to Victoria Slut Bras. It's not just the size, it's not just vanity, it's the fact that my sister, Ms. My-tits-are-Bigger, saw one of my bras lying around in my clothes mound, and she was like "sexy bra." And she did not mean it, except with bosomy sarcasm. I looked at it after she left - "I'm not into that whole sexy lingerie thing" I had lamely replied "- and it was like 2 triangles of beige I don't-wanna-fuckness.

If you are a new reader, and after reading this, you are thinking 'get me the hell outta here,' I plead with you to try again. My next entry will be about something super-important: I'm thinking of why people like me so much, or maybe why I hate Hilary Clinton. Otherwise, I'd hand out candy and stickers, but that might seem a bit pathetic.

Oh I Admit It

I kinda like the Ball & Chain today. He was all himself and everything and we discussed an argument that had me a wee bit steamed and he was like all but I have been supportive and I realized well, yeah, you made one mistake. One mistake. That's not so bad really. Also, his hair looks excellent today, and with B&C, he's actually good-looking, but if the hair is off, it's all off. Oops am I not supposeta give a shit about how my partner looks? Oh well, too late for that. What am I, a saint? Oh, right, I am, except I missed that category in relation to shallow topics. Although, certainly, maybe, I could qualify as a Semi-Saint of Shallow? But I dunno if I could really live up to some of those wicked rich California Barbie people with dumb names and no talent.

On a related note - me - I took the Official English Teacher Test today, and it was fun. I guess I'm a word nerd. I remembered taking tests years ago and feeling like I was learning as I was taking the test, and that's what it was like today. I remembered so much. James Joyce, T.S. Eliot, the Old Testament even. I gotta admit, being me has been a rather literary experience, despite my choice to switch out of English-majoring (very conservative department). And the two essay questions were on gender (which I did study, intensely), and a poem. I write poetry. I read poetry. It was good. Maybe I'll pass the test.

And because I am embracing all realm of emotion these days, in particular loathing, there is a final note. I hate people who proctor exams and then whisper to one another while I am trying to be a fucking English teacher, for godsake. Actually, being a fucking English teacher might involve teaching people how to fuck in English, or to go to the UK to fuck?

Where's The Love? Not Over Here.

I am Not Better. I took one of my emergency PRN (when ya need it) medicines and I was sedated for maybe an hour. It's supposeta fucking last. And now I feel crappy and my hair is up and I've never worn it up at work and I feel self-conscious oh and by the way, I hate everybody, except for certain women I know. Like any blog pal, Chrystal and Becca, other formidable friends, a coupla people at work, and my neighbor women. Everyone else, I hate. I hate the lady at work who talks like she knows everything. I hate the castrated assistant to my boss. I hate all the fucking la-di-da parents who are going to a breakfast for Rugelah's class at a time when a working mom cannot. I hate their fruit salad, their bagels, and their fucking horses. I hate policies about no personal time at a time that is most certainly Passover. I hate the goddamn idiots I have to speak with directly every day because they lack the backbone.

The only male people I like are the best male people in the world and they are not married to me but they are my son and my brothers and my students. I like men who wink at me but I hate men who are intimidated by me. I swear I could shrink a probably-already tiny dick into a thumb-size nothing with justa coupla jokes about something completely unrelated. Pardon me for being tall. Ha! Pardon me for being confident. Ha! I kicked my boyfriend's ass when I was nine years old - am I daunted now?

And when I get to work today if that goddamn fragile Princess complains to me, I am going to reassure her in the most condescending of ways because I hate her. She is a whiner, and a passive-aggressive 'mealy-mouthed' spinster-before-her-time. The brilliant Mary Daly deconstructed the word spinster to detail that it really means someone powerful. In this instance, it means someone who darns socks, only dates good boys, and never broke a fucking rule in her life.

Here are the other people I hate:

All politicians except for the ones I like. I do not like Mitt Romney or Hilary Clinton.
Bureaucrats
Preppy suburban moms
The lawyers who keep stringing my family along
People who drive under the speed limit (hello)?
Hairdressers who pretend they know how to cut curly hair
People who rag on beggars for being a hassle
All the teachers who hassled The Big Kid because they were too stupid to figure him out
The little people in my computer who fuck it up
And a lot of other assholes about whom I cannot write because I hate them so much that I have repressed it.

List of people I love: I'll write it posthumously.

This Is A Fucking Rant

Lou changed his mind, temporarily. I do not start teaching my new doobers this week. I teach some other doobers for a coupla weeks so that their regular teacher can teach about MCAS (impending standardized test). Lou is quixotic? Impulsive? The teacher for whom I am covering, Princess Priscilla, is all freaked out and I'm like this is my fourth job here since November-fuck off! And remove the argyle sweater before I puke. It is all a flashback to Freako (former co-teacher who got mad at me and then complained to Lou). Why oh why? My schedule, my lunch break, it's all changed. But only temporarily until the next big idea.

Fortunately, Ball & Chain has been very supportive. Until last night. Last night he told me to forget about it, drop it. Then he told me that things with Freako were intense, and then they "just flipped." Dontcha hate it when people cannot say what they wanna say so instead they say something so meaningless and stupid you're like 'shove off' and you fall asleep and wake up 7 times?

I called my therapist. How cliche. She said it is normal for me to continue to be upset about Freako, despite Ball & Chain's advice - "forget it" - such classic repressive bullshit. Pearls of wisdom he gives me. Freako jeopardizes my job and I should forget it? Princess Priscilla told Freako that she does not like working with other people. Ha!

Why should work matter to me? Because it does, for fuck's sake. Half the time I am doing great stuff with students and the other half the time my head's shoved so far up my ass I could suck my navel in like a pacifier. Tuesday I have a new class; Wednesday I'm covering someone else's class for two weeks. Would this not make an otherwise fucked-up person even more fucked up?

Oh I know. It must be hard on the students too. God I'm sicka that - I put kids first all day every day. Kids are resilient. Let's focus on the real problem. I'm middle-fucking-aged, a cheese with just the hints of mold, and wherever I work I seem to cause a disturbance because I am either dysfunctional somehow or else I have a big fucking mouth. Not literally a fucking mouth, but I suppose at some moments it has been. You get the gyst.

The absolute worst part is that I have no fucking goddamn crumb of an idea whether Freako regrets being an extreme ass, realizes how much I did, or even notices any of this crap. After being "friends " for a coupla months, I suspect he's all flippy about it - a very sensitive and bizarre-ish type - but why the fuck do I care? It's half juicy gossip and half I-thought-it-was- all-good but it was all bad, and working in the same vicinity when two people have discomfort is discomfortable.

I am a fucked up emotional angry needy bitch. I need a cigarette a vodka some very loud music and someone to yell at. I should probably be saying something like he tried to take my dignity, but my ovaries are intact. Instead I'm more he fucked with my job and now I'm a paranoid doormat. In more practical terms, I'm I gotta go cook dinner because my people require food three times a day.

Something Excellent Happened & I Will Say Something Positive About My Self

Something quite excellent happened, at work. And I was due. I have been soldiering forth, my head up, my mind finally calming down. Today I must have given twenty reading assessments. Holy shit it gets boring. But I teach a lotta kids who are way below 'grade level,' so it has been a righteous, if not thrilling task. That combined with recovering from my co-worker's true craziness (the really crazy people are rarely the ones who know they have mental health issues).

So, so, so, my boss, aka Lou Grant, who is such a bossy pain in the ass and also a good person, told me, finally, today, what the plan is. I will be teaching reading and writing to the kids at risk - about 1/3 of the kids - at the same times I taught them before. Lou had thought previously that I would teach reading only, and that had been a painful idea. Hence the soldier metaphor.

I will have lovely little groups of personable hilarious and adorable students (I know them), and the students who really drove me to wanna valium will stick with Opie, or Opie's evil twin, as it were. Mean girls, farewell! Attitude boys, seeya! Okay, it's true that some of the stronger students are okay, but the ones I am truly attached to come visit me anyway. And not all of the weaker students are hilarious, but a lot of them are. It's a combination of defense-mechanism and their smarts leaking out in other places apart from literacy. I am a very very very happy lady.

My vindictive little tidbit, too, is that Opie/Satan is also extra-fond of the students who will now be my charges. Not his. For all the mishegas (nuttiness) about my being bothersome, the fact is that I am experienced, and he is not. So in the end, or what is the end at this particular time, I am doing what I like to do best.

You know it may seem weird, but I do love teaching. Today in one of my classes, I joked about being "reluctant" to come in to the classroom - we were studying vocabulary - and Georgia said "Miss, that's not true! You are always smiling when you come in here!" I guess even when I was flipping out I managed to do my job. Actually, yes: even when I was flipping out, I managed to do my job.

Quiet As A Monk

Big Kid doesn't talk to me. It is not his way right now. Man of few words, stuck with a mother who's all 'how do you feel/how-do-I-feel.' So a solid piece of my home life is controlling my impulse to speak, inquire, opine, or chat in Big Kid's direction. It is a vow of almost-silence for me, but I break it to much. Hello, good-bye, and whazzup are okay, but I may not initiate substantive conversation, and over-excitement at his conversation initiation is also a communication-killer. Big Kid does not say these things to me, as that would not be his style, of course.

And when he is doing or saying something obnoxious, I hafta work terribly hard to swallow my sarcasm and these icky nasty remarks that pop out of my mouth before I realize how goddawful I sound. This is not a theory. Big Kid and I have talked about it. It is one of the rare instances in which being a bitch is not working for me. I pray to the Goddess of Chatty for wisdom. Perhaps I should switch to a Silence Goddess, but that seems so dull?

Tonight, I drove Big Kid to the movies. It was really far. We took his friend too. Friend had to look through all of the movie listings once we were on the way to a particular movie. Then he had to read off each movie and listen to my summary. I did pretty well. I thought maybe Big Kid was getting irritated at Friend, so I tried to sound relaxed about the fact that I was already driving toward the theater where the original movie choice was playing. And it was a million fucking miles away, and I am a saint, a Jewish mother saint. (I finally said it - it's a relief to come out with the truth.)

Friend alluded to paying for himself, but I assured him I would pay, even as I was getting nervous about how much that particular theater costs. Big Kids eat like swines. Pregnant swines. So it took me a few minutes to locate the theater, and I dropped off the Big Kids to go get tickets. The excellent movie we were supposed to go see was sold out. Big Kid looked bummed and mopey. Friend popped around chatting about which movie to see, sorta like a Pez dispenser, but without any offer of candy. He seemed to have missed the concept of all other movies having started half an hour earlier. There were no goddamn choices. I behaved, though, like a pious monk. That was a foreshadowing of the bad-as-crap movie we would end up seeing. (Monks featured, and they were not Tony Shalhoub. They were draped, colorless, and silent.)

We "chose" the monk-y British King flick with Peter O'Toole and Richard Burton. I was so preoccupied at that point that I forgot that they're both dead. It was a fucking sixties epic, except there was no fucking. It sucked. It was not Children of Men. It was not Clive Owen. It was the disturbing mashed-potato face of Richard Burton in a big religious dress and a crown to match. It was agony. I kept looking over at Big Kid - I had assumed I would sit in the back, but they were both like sit with us, whaddevvah - for some sort of sign that we were sharing the this-movie-sucks moment. But we weren't. Friend had actually studied the King Henry number something history and now had an interest. The very idea of an interest in conflicts in England hundreds of years ago is science fiction for me. I'm a world history dumbass, with the exception of a few "explorers" who claimed they discovered shit that was already here and belonged to someone else.

In the car on the way home (finally), friend said he really liked the movie. He asked me what I thought, and I told him I didn't like it. Thinking he needed to defend his opinion, he said "Well, I don't get out much." I thought that was hilarious, and I reassured Friend that everyone is entitled to his or her own taste. So perhaps Friend had simply been very anxious to go to just the right movie, or perhaps he was a tad nervous being out, hence the pre-movie ruminating about what to see.

After that, The Big Kids talked about science fiction authors, and plots, and books they had liked a lot. I hummed along, eyes on the road, very proud that I had seemed so patient, even during the half hour we had to wait for the monk movie to start. After Friend got out of the car, I did not ask if he is a good friend. I did not ask if he was more of a buddy or a confidante. I said absolutely nothing about feelings. Big Kid, however, said several sentences to me! I responded appropriately. I did not thank him for talking to me. I did not tell him how much I love him, or how mature he seems compared to Friend. I was so good. Now I will pray for a few more sentences in March.

Notes on Nurses & Other Pearls of Rage

It was the welbutrin what fucked me over. It's not even clear at this point whether I will continue to have bipolarish symptoms, or if that was a reaction to the medication. I thinka little bit o both. So beware side effects, even if you have been on a medication for a while.

The Nurse Practitioner, Nurse Sobedda, who was covering for Distracted Doctor, was remarkably attentive and also had excellent fashion sense. One of those great short haircuts, and a noticeably appropriate affect when she heard my story. Sobedda had chutzpah, too. She said something about being comfortable contradicting what Distracted had said, and having her own opinions. Well, sign me up!

Once she heard my story, she said she was sure that I had been through so much trauma that that was first thing to address. It was validating, and it also really sucked to hear the truth. Couldn't we pretend that 18 months is plenty of time to regain one's footing after the loss of a sibling? Oh, okay, the sudden loss? The violent loss. Ach.

It is all so Joseph Heller ala Catch-22. I would be crazy not to be crazy. And what is it to not be crazy? Is it marching along with life and looking like I'm okay? I can do that. Is it managing to be consistent, or keeping from being depressed? Ball & Chain said that I will need to accept Baby Brudda's death. We were on the phone, and I had one of my I-wanna-reach-out-and smack-you moments. I am not going to accept that someone killed my brother. I refuse, and I consider it an insult. I completely reject it. I need to 'face facts,' or whaddevvah, but one cannot make nice, emotionally or otherwise, when a young man is robbed of a huge portion of his life.

So I say fuck the stages of fucking grief. Fuck the bullshit about everyone experiencing the same thing, and to hell with the idea that someday I will accept my brother's murder. I keep going, and I do a lotta shit, and I hafta know what I know and proceed. But I don't accept violence; I don't accept cruelty. Death is as natural as birth, but not when a person deliberately kills another. That's a fucking crime against humanity.

Calmed Nerves, Friendship Requirements, and The Difference Between Late and Early

Mania Receding. Anyone who actually read the longest-fucking-blog-I-evvuh-wrote (that's you, Suzanne ): hey that's not a weird blog frown, it's a colon after end parens Thank You for tolerating the unbottling of feelings and thoughts that probably should have remained in an unwatered seed form, left to dry up and blow away. ("Oh, dry up," my former friend Shithead's mother useta say.) Shithead dropped me after twenty years of friendship because she said, basically, that I was too fucked up. That was very sweet, especially since we'd already drifted apart and I assumed we weren't hanging out anymore. But as a "good Christian" she said she had to be honest with me - in writing. What a Shithead. I had the nervous breakdown, got over it, and she lost what would have been the most entertaining moments of her life. Dumped by a friend, though - that's harsh.

I have about 577 unfair and biased litmus-tests for people who apply to be a good friend. Friend, fine. Good friend: fuck off. That's test number one. Can you take a joke? Have I known you for awhile? (Otherwise you may be a former beauty queen, or who knows what?) Have you been a beauty queen and now you realize it was ridiculous? Are you super-polite (deal-breaker - too much etiquette freaks me out, unless you're my mother). And on and on, of course. Do you believe everything happens for a reason? If yes, fuck off, unless you passed 576 other tests, and then I'll take it into consideration if you compliment me a lot. Okay, considering my state of reality, I cannot list the other 567ish other tests. A few days ago, the number would have been bigger, and I could have enumerated each requirement. Like I said, mania receding.

So I stopped taking Welbutrin and ta-da, I'm kinda sad and sleepy and the way any normal gal would be during the month in which her late Baby Brudda was born. Funny thing is, Baby Brudda was always late. I couldn't stay mad at him, though. He was the one person in the world I could not remain irate at, or with, or whaddevvah. Regarding the description of dead people as "late," it is absurd. Late for what? Late for lunch? They can go wherever the hell - or heaven they want. It's been proven, time and time again. Think of all of those walk-through-walls ghosts. Or maybe it means late like 'seeya later, in the after-life?' BB was early, folks. Early. By about sixty years. His bald spot had just started and he pouted when I inspected it. His band was mid-recording for their newest CD. He and Sweetheart were planning to start the fuck-for-a-baby program.

Well that's why I'm sad, that's why I am anxious, that is why, if you are able, you should listen to music you love and hang out in your pajamas and watch movies and eat a lot. Because that's what BB did, and he passed virtually all of the 577 tests. No one can pass all of them, because I cannot remember them all. I just know they're there.