Hither and Thither in The Springtime

Omigosh I haven't posted in so long and ya wanna know why? It's spring out there, the crocuses are up and so are the daffodils, along with my caffeine consumption, I'm applying for jobs hither and thither, and I have been a wee bit depressed. But see my depressed is far more exciting than your depressed. It's because of the cycles. After a bit of depressed, I become like obsessed, and kinda happy, and I listen to loud music, pluck my eyebrows, and sort through old jewelry. Also, I am excellent at creating a pseudo-healthy dinner out of virtually nothing. If you have frozen peas and frozen tortellinis it actually becomes something, especially if you give them milk, too. Not the peas and tortellinis - the kids. Now I get a footnote in The Good Mother Book. Woo-hoo, a good day's work. Then, regarding my other depression cycle skills, I can also speed-talk on the phone, or speed-listen. What's speed-listening? That's talking to Chrystal. She and I are quite alike except that she doesn't obsess sometimes; she does it non-stop. She apologizes all the way through, and then I listen, truly, to the whole monologue. My own kid, Rugelah, also does the monologue, but she is describing the building or the idea she has imagined in all its intricacies and if I am to get into the Good Mother Book for real (a heading, maybe) I am compelled to listen. Her ideas are rather exciting at times, so it's an easy one. Oops - I gotta go now because I am bound to call my neighbor about the fact that some of the rich people where I live wanna tear down lots of regular people trees near the regular people neighborhood so they can save the rich people trees. Can ya see how busy a gal can get? Depression is rough, especially when you use caffeine as your medication of choice.

Becoming George

A lotta gals appear to be reading my blog which is lovely and feministic but it does change one's perspective when it is not just the three friends, the cousin, and the dog. My friend Paloma and I rented Thelma and Louise from blockbuster aka Ovary-buster. The DVD was cracked. I had planned the entire evening: invited myself over, made the margueritas, and Paloma provided food on which to gorge. And then we were Blockbustered.

We watched old Seinfeld episodes instead. I had never seen the episode in which George plays the opposite game and becomes successful, and Julia Louis-Dreyfus becomes... George! Ack! It got me to thinking, as all good t.v. shows do - that maybe I, too, am turning into George. I am about to quit my job before I get booted, my excellent haircut is growing out and I look like a troll, and, and, I walked into a pole the other day and I have a huge bruise on my nose. Yes, I did. I was chatting up a curriculum director, all professional, and as I turned to go, a pole rammed me in the face. Did I mention that I need new glasses? I went to a work-sponsored health fair that was, strangely, required, and discovered that I'm hypoglycemic, sun-damaged, and I need bifocals. That answers a few burning questions you may not have had about me, and questions even I did not have about me, but at least now I know why it's so hard to read a bedtime story aloud to Rugelah lately. Plus my own reading had taken a sudden nose-dive: a few pages, burning eyes, and I'd realize that my concentration was shot. I had no idea that when the letters do little polkas on the page that perhaps one needs to visit the eye doctor.

Anyhoo, back to the premise, if there was one, I may be George. Problem is, he is a television character. Worse, he ended up doing Kentucky-Fried commercials that were so bad I was embarrassed for him. KFC makes me throw up - always has. Even as a tyke, I'd eat that hearty meal and hurl it back within the half-hour. McDonald's, yes. Burger King, yes. Four Donuts Sunday morning, sure. No KFC. You can imagine my conundrum. I am turning into a big fat hairy loser, to use my sister, Kitty's expression, yet I am unable to fully embrace even that role. Over the weekend I discovered that the job I really want has 6 - count em in any language, including pig fucking latin - 6 "strong final applicants." That's way too fucking many experienced solid people and one of them is, bizarrely, me. Aw, cut the 'another woman dragging herself down' crap. I know where my strengths lie. And at this point, well, reminiscing about puking works for me.

Aw, crap, I gotta go get ready for my militaristic yoga teacher. She gets pissed if I'm late.

A Calling

Yesterday The Big Cheese gave me a quasi-ultimatum, but it was all friendly and well-dressed, as in your options are to remain here and be tossed, or to go graciously. And all so sorry about the circumstances, etc etc, it is a bum deal, that murdered brother thing. Ach! I'm too sensitive. In all fairness, she had not been prepared for the nuts and bolts of screwing people, if you'll pardon the mixed-tools metaphor. I was absolutely exhilarated. I neither burst into song, however, nor did I 'tell her off.' I held my mental state in, and shined with the veneer of contained professionalism. The extra Klonopin may have helped. Sitting in my cozy chair, gazing out onto the plaza where the children would soon mount the steps of the bus, I articulately spoke of my plans to focus on my teaching. I imagined my brother when he was all 'I'm a union man,' working for a pizza joint. My whole class identity is utterly fucked up since I am granddaughter and grand-neice to immigrant mechanics and butchers turned car-salesmen, and daughter of a doctor. I went to a crappy provincial public school and an elite prep school. I'm thinking that bitch better not fuck with me, and simultaneously, why must women drag each other down? I have relatives who have millions and others who rent apartments in little towns. Are we all like that?

Oh I'm drifting. The point is, I gathered up all of my poise - actually it's not mine, it was a loaner from my mother, I shook The Boss Lady's hand, and I walked out thinking hallelujah. I can finally spend time with Rugelah (Teen Boy wants very little to do with me and Ball & Chain can wait a bit), with no thought a'tall about money. I can't miss a paycheck, but in my heart I know that somehow, somewhere, there's a big fat wad of dough waiting for me. I was raised with the knowledge that, despite my father's protestations that we were using too much Worcestershire sauce, costing the family a bundle, we actually had infinite amounts of cash - no worries!

When I hear about my financial limits, and I know Ball & Chain works with truly poor people, and I see the numbers, it is sobering until I have a symbolic shot of budget amnesia. Between visiting my parents at The Big House (and it is big), and being partially delusional, I am quite sure that I am loaded. Not in the "we are rich compared to most of the world" sense (and of course we are); but rich in the "I think I'll go to Asia next year" sense. I'd rather prefer to sail, and perhaps ride an elephant. When I arrive back home, I'll consider finding another job, but only because teaching is a calling, and I think Ball & Chain may start calling, rather loudly.

A Stinker

What do you do in the days preceding the meeting at which you might be told that you are going to be put out, like Felix Unger, on the doorstep, with a saucepan in hand? Rugelah, my lovely daughter, told me that everyone makes mistakes, that if she misses her uncle this much, I must miss my brother a lot, and I did my best. That helped for five minutes, and now I'm nervous. The Big Cheese is gonna lay one on me, it's gonna stink, and I have no idea how I'll react. You know those moments when you wonder if you'll bust out in song, or cry, or tell the jerk to go to hell? I'm worried I'll violate some norm of decency, and one doesn't do that in the public school realm. Perhaps I should wear a corset? A muzzle? Or maybe more drastic measures are required: a full-facial botox, so that my expression is frozen into a single emotion: indifference. It would remove the risk of the facial tic.

Maybe I need to fantasize about what I would say to her if I could? Nah, that's too simple. She is not any smarter than me, she's been a boss lady for 6 months, and she has a chronic panty line disorder. It's no fun with such an easy target. If only I were Marsha Brady, I could imagine her in her underwear, and pass the driver's test. Yeesh, maybe not.

Chrystal came over tonight and told me yet another story of how she showed up to interview some academic bigwig in sweats, unwashed, because she'd forgotten the appointment. Shouldn't there be a law that if one's closest friend gets to act like a cheesy slob, the privilege is shared? Some girls across the hall today, both of whom are in my math class, were giggling and teasing me about what a terrible teacher I am. They had big smiles on their faces. Now's the time for some cute little ending, but there is none. I'm off to dream of a place where I am the boss and all of the people who work for me are required to pay me for the honor, clean stuff up, and write their own goddamn evaluations. Plus, no panty lines.