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.