Neuroses, Ho!

I am walking around one big goddamn regret after another. I just spent all of this time looking back at old posts because a new friend, Sway, is going to look at my blog and maybe she'll discover what an ass I am. I started a new job and people seem to think I am intelligent over there. Well now my cover's blown! Plus: maybe I should have exercised a bit over the past twenty years. Or even this morning, I could have read the paper more carefully so I would be more politically attuned. I truly obsess over all of the millions of things I could have done or said. Another friend said 'shoulda coulda woulda,' as if I should just forget it all. But my regrets are like a map of my neuroses and without my neuroses, well, would I be the same gal?

There is no way I could be as pseudo-anxious as Ally McBeal, who I loved to hate, except when I was hating the other people on the show. Remember when Peter McNichol was on that Family show in the seventies with his actual sister Kristie who turned out to be a cute lesbian with frosted hair but no tv career? Then there's the mom on Malcolm in the Middle - love her! She's like the best Queen Bitch you ever dreamed you'd be. But I'm more like Leah Remini, the wife on King of Queens, with the UPS guy and Jerry Stiller. She worries about the stupidest crap and what people said and why they said it and whether her ass has gone bad. That's me right there. Except in real life she's a Scientologist and in real life I am prejudiced against Scientology because it seems like Tom Cruise is a freak. Not a good freak - a bad icky freak. Plus, regarding Leah, I would never marry Kevin James. He's too I'm-a-big-hunka-stupidity. I wouldn't mind being related to Jerry Stiller. Maybe I am related to Jerry Stiller. Or maybe I just look like Leah Remini?

Religious Cynicysm, Money & Other Musings

They're expanding the temple where my daughter goes to Hebrew School and we can't afford the dues or the requested building costs, there are some stylin' new clothing items that so suit me right now, and I love my job where I don't make enough money but did receive a bonus for the first time in my life.

The temple thing is crappy because my brother's memorial service was there and every time I go in I feel, well, grief-stricken, and also they are way into doing mitzvahs and I'm like you're a buncha excessively rich people who deign to donate cans, and now they're publishing the names of people who donate cash to the place in their newsletter. And I'm like donate! I am one of the people who gets a major break on dues, for crissake, or god's sake, or somebody's sake. Why do I belong to a religious institution anyway? Rugelah wants to take the classes and have a Bat Mitzvah, and that, actually, is very worthwhile. If only it could be done in another context, but I guess this as progressive as we can be, without having a Buddha Mitzvah in a grassy field.

My fashion frustration is that this whole long-shirt smock-type idea is excellent for me and I bought one in New York (with the money I didn't give the temple, poor Jew that I am) and it looks great. Compliments my still-perky yet small breasts, and covers the tummy bulge aptly. So I went to this excellent fashion site, Bluefly, and all of Sweet Pea's stuff, who I recognized from Project Runway, which we watched at my rich cousin's house because we don't have cable, is so very even-a-middle-aged lady could wear this. Plus Envi/En V had this cool red-and-gray mod circles and snap at the top dress. okay, I admit it's a bit short for me, but I love it anyway. It is just so lovely to have clothing one likes and kinda shitty not to be able to go out and buy it all. How spoiled-brattish of me, but waah!

My life is quite better lately because I am not so heavily grieving for Baby Brother as I was for so long. The trial was the proverbial travesty of justice, but Baby Brother always referred to the corrupt legal system, so it was validation that his anti-establishment stance was right on.

And now I'm off for dresslust.

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.