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.