Junior High Sucks

I have a daughter.  She is ridiculously smart.  Too smart, in the not-so-good way in which she know she's smart, so she doesn't try.  I am a teacher, so ... I give her shit all the time for not trying hard enough.  I mean, get it together, young people; intelligence isn't a social disease or something.  Embrace it.

And yet ...

My daughter is at the ass-end of a terrible, physical, allergic reaction of some kind.  She broke out in nasty, angry hives that had to be treated with Prednisone and copious amounts of Benydryl..  She missed five days of school in a row - she missed so much school, in fact, that while she was at home, we received the Truancy Letter from the State of Nebraska.  Don't get me wrong - I could care less what the State of Nebraska thinks about my children's school attendance - but I would rather not go to court for truancy issues, after I (mostly) avoided court during all my breaking-the-law years.

I digress.

I picked up all her work from school on Friday (after a full week missed), then I had to literally force her to attend to it on Sunday.  (This is after five days off school!!).  Here's the deal:  she was right to blow it off.  What a joke.  Assignment:  Think of scene and describe it.  Assignment:  Read this graph and answer some questions.  Assignment:  Read this news article about Julius Caesar and then write a (shorter) news article about Julius Caesar.  (By the way, the last one had equal points being given for the title and the byline and the who, what, when, where, and why.  Wtf?)

I spent more time harassing her than she spent actually doing the work from a missed week of school.  If I had the money, I'd home-school her.  In a heartbeat.  She is learning a big fat wad of nothing at that shithole, except maybe how to be a shitty human being via social media sites.

Another brick in the wall.

Spring!

O Sweet Spontaneous

by e e cummings

O sweet spontaneous
earth how often have
the
doting

               fingers of
prurient philosophers pinched
and

poked
thee
, has the naughty thumb
of science prodded
thy

         beauty                  how
often have religions taken
thee upon their scraggy knees
squeezing and

buffeting thee that thou mightest conceive
gods
         (but
true

to the incomparable
couch of death thy
rhythmic
lover

              thou answerest

them only with

                                spring)

Life is a Trade-Off

Everything in life is a trade-off.  We should.  We could.  We might.  If this, then that.

Once in a great while, it's possible to just say 'fuck it' and do whatever you want, but most of the time, life is a game of wanting to do one thing, but having to do a dozen other things just to make the one thing happen.  Why?  We work our asses off to take a week of vacation, but what's the point?  Shouldn't the general idea be that we live our lives in such a way that we don't need a vacation from the environment which we have so systematically built?  It just seems farcical that people have to live for some thing other than that in which we bathe every day.  If we choose to bathe in shit, that shithole will most certainly be exactly where we left it when we return from holiday.  Every day is exactly what we choose to make it.  I might fight that concept every day, and try to claim it's not true, but ... every day I choose whether to get up, go to work, work out, eat, drink ... everything is a choice.  Some choices are harder than others (which is why I don't make them), but that doesn't mean that I can blame other people for anything about my life's minutes and hours and days.

I live in a free country.  I won't get stoned to death for leaving my husband.  I won't be burned at the stake for not believing in a certain god.  I  can drive my car wherever I want, whenever I want.  I can vote without shielding my face or dodging bullets.

And yet ...

I know there's a better place (in a non-geographical, existential sort of way) than the place I'm living.  I just want to know how far away it is.  And I'd like to know how much of the present is mine to keep.  And how deep it is.  And how wide.  If I could tell ... well, I'd know whether to jump or not.  Take the leap of faith?  Or stand my ground?  To breathe?  To care?  Fuck, I don't know.  All I know is that I am what I am because I have made choices that contribute to the being I've become.  And I don't want to stop becoming quite yet.  I'm not finished.  I can do better.  

Spring Break 2014

Moment of silence ... Spring Break 2014 is officially over.  I am going to celebrate by drinking a mimosa (or two or five), because that is how I celebrated every other day of Spring Break.  I'm not saying I got all drunk every day during the past 10 days, but I made a point of having at least one mimosa every day, because I was stuck in the greater Papillion area all through break.

When I went back to the all-school "teacher meeting" today, staff was encouraged to shout out the cool places they may have visited over break, and it took all my willpower not to shout out the fact that I got as far as Omaha at one point, but that's it.  Most of my outdoor activity was spent in my own front- or backyard.  I picked up leaves and sticks.  I played one million games of HORSE (and got beat 900,000 by a 12-year-old).  I ... wait, that's about all I did.  Here is a list of things which I planned to do (since I was stuck here), but did not:  volunteer at the Open Door Mission, write summer reading curriculum, read The Republic again to prep for teaching it, cure cancer.  So, yeah.  I did none of those things.

But that's okay.  I hung out with my kids, had sleepovers with them, ate meals, slept in, and did a big bunch of nothing.  It's all good.  Oh, wait!  I also edited my two novels - gutted them, actually - which felt nice, even if they never amount to anything.  I also read Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy and Sharp Objects for nothing but pleasure (which is a rare bonus).  I figure that if I can just get used to being happy in my own skin and not actively hating the people who make me crazy, I will be okay.  I have decided to (try to) forgive everyone for everything all the time, because anger eats people alive.  It's just not healthy.  I don't want to hand over my mental and physical well-being to other people.  I am me, and they can be them.

I think that I promised myself a bunch of things which I did not understand at the time, and I'm ready to let those promises go.  Every day is a new opportunity, and yesterday is gone.  I'll try to be happy in this moment right now rather than thinking about other moments which aren't even happening right now.

(But let's be honest, my anger will be back.  It will manifest here.  And I'm okay with that.  Writing is catharsis.  If I bitch about life here, I can hit publish and send the negativity into cyberspace, where it will do far less harm than it does sitting in my heart every day.)

Life

I think I have forgotten how to live my own life, independent of other people.

The only people who surround me in life are people who are obligated to do so or who rely on me in some way or another.

I would like to change that.

I am not sure how.

Fuck You, America

 Here’s the deal:  I can’t afford to have a job. 

How stupid is that?  I can barely pay my bills, (like I literally don’t have enough money to pay off my debts with the money I collect every month) and yet I make too much money, (according to the federal government) to get a tax return or to get financial aid for my kids’ college tuition or to qualify for any government program which assists people on any level, whatsoever.

I would be better off, financially, to quit my job and just see what happens.  Being a proper job-holding, tax-paying, suburban, married person is infinitely worse than being a bum.  What the fuck?  I pay taxes all year round, but then the federal and state governments want to fine me at the end of every fiscal year so that my money can help other people.  If I have to take out a loan to pay a tax fine, even though I’ve been paying taxes all year, there is something tragically wrong with the system. 

Seriously, now … I am going to have to quit my job just to be able to survive financially.  Thank you, America.  Thank you for taking my medical premiums out of my paycheck every month and then making it so that even though I have (supposedly premier) medical insurance, I still can’t afford to pay my co-pays for medical procedures.  Thank you, America, for encouraging me to start a small business, and then totally fucking me when that business fails (like half of all small businesses do).  Thank you, America, for telling our children that they should attend college if they want to be anything of substance, and then making it impossible to pay for tuition unless we take out egregious loans.

I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life paying off medical debt and college debt and credit card debt and struggling to buy groceries in this vast land of opportunity.  What a great thing we have going on in these United States of America.  

How Did I Get So Old?

I’m thinking (shocking, I know) that I want a refund.  Not a refund, actually, but a trade-in.  You know how cell phone companies make you sign a two-year contract and then let you trade in for a new phone every two years?  That’s what I’m talking about.  My 40+ year old body isn’t cutting it anymore.  I’ve dragged this body through too many car accidents and overdoses and stress-traumas, and I’m ready for a new one.  Sort of like reincarnation, but without starting over as a tree or whatever. 

Actually, maybe completely restarting wouldn’t be so bad.  Let me propose a “conditional” restart:  I get a new, rejuvenated body, & any anxiety- or stress-inducing memories get flushed.  (I’m quite aware that eliminating “bad” memories might backfire in terms of personal growth, but whatever.)  I’d just like to get rid of all drooping, skin spots, clogged arteries, gray hair, and deeply imbedded wrinkles.   And animosity – how refreshing would it be not to begrudge people or want to rip their face off because of past grievances?? 

I’m just really sick of looking in the mirror.  (I thought of qualifying that last sentence with reasons why I hate looking in the mirror, but they all seem egregious.)  I want the young version of myself coupled with my older-person personal insight, minus the anger.  In truth, I think the anger and stress are to blame for that bitch staring back at me in the mirror.  Those things take a terrible toll on a body.

Sigh.  Shit.   I guess I’m stuck with this falling-apart version of myself.  The mirror doesn’t lie, but it also doesn’t tell the entire truth.  What all those ugly age spots on my face don’t show is all the beautiful, sunny days I spent drinking in sun.  I wouldn’t replace those with anything else, because while the sun may damage my skin, it definitely improves my attitude.  It feels good.  Just like working out or drinking mimosas or snuggling with someone you love feels good.  Feeling good doesn’t suck; I just happen to be really (unfortunately) good at making myself feel like shit. 

New plan:  burqa.   

Spring Break 2014

Listen.  It’s Spring Break Eve.  Packing and planning.  Searching google maps for all the great places I’m going in the next 10 days.  Double checking that I have underwear and that all my devices are charged for the flight. 

Listen.  I’m not going anywhere. 

I’m here, and here I’ll stay.  This month, as in all other months, the amount I owe in bills will far exceed the dollar amount on my paycheck.  I’m not sure how I’ve diligently worked the same job for 15 years and yet I can’t afford to take a fucking vacation.  I should have everything I need to live in comfort:  a house, three lovely children, health insurance, blah blah blah.  I know that taking a personal holiday is a luxury, but I’m old as fuck, and I deserve a vacation. 

Listen.  I used to work out every day, do yoga, and binge-read books.  Now it’s a good day if I walk on the treadmill for 30 minutes.  I binge-watch House of Cards, because I want to not care about anything or pay attention to anything.  Netflix thinks for me, and I like it.  I was probably more happy when I worked out, but I can’t really remember. 

I am going to spend Spring Break pulling my head out of my ass and acting like the rational adult that I am.  No more moping.  No more whining.  The new plan is to Judd Apatow my life:  take all the bad, weird shit and make it into entertaining, humorous episodes rather than some sad Lifetime docudrama. 

I'm going to start working on the soundtrack right now ...

Surefire signs of the death of a relationship

It is not a lack of love, but a lack of friendship that makes unhappy marriages.

-       Friedrich Nietzsche

Surefire signs of the death of a relationship:

·         When I look at you, I feel violent anger.  I would like to tear your fucking face off.

·         When you chew, you remind me of an animal unhinging its jaw in the wild.

·         I pay off our children’s medical bills with my income tax return; you buy a television for your bedroom.

·         When you’re home, you stare at the TV for hours on end rather than talking to me about the life we built, which is currently in flames around you.

·         “Quality Time” with the children always includes some version of staring at the TV.

·         You have “no money” to do anything, unless it involves drinking with your friends after work and then going out for after-hour restaurant food.

·         When you walk in the door, I just want to go somewhere else … anywhere you aren’t.

·         Many of the horrible personal tendencies my children exhibit are a direct reflection of your personality.

·         We sleep in separate bedrooms, but that distance is not nearly far enough away.  I want you in a different home where you take our children on weekend visits.

·         You don’t read books. 

·         In any moment of silence, you fill the space with annoying noises, just so you don’t feel uncomfortable.  (P.S. Your noises are worse than your aversion to conversation.)

·         There is no excuse for your belligerent stupidity in regard to the necessary functions of owning a home.  Pretending something isn’t broken doesn’t fix it.

·         When you ask me if we have any Spray ‘n Wash, I hate you with every fiber of my being.  You haven’t bought one, single necessity for your own life since we got together, because you think I’m your caretaker.

·         When I look at you, all I can think of is what I did wrong, and not what I’ve done right. 

We're done here. 

Guess what? I'm not a writer.

When I turned 40, I thought it was too late to become a writer.  I was too old, and people don’t just publish their first novel after they get old.  And then I read that Kurt Vonnegut published his first book when he was 42.  (Perhaps not coincidentally the answer to Douglas McAdams question about the meaning of life.)  And when I turned 42 a couple years ago, I still had the (delusional) idea that I could write and publish novels.   I have written two novels, started two others, turned one of the novels into a screenplay, and written another original screenplay.  They’re probably not very good; I got about 50 rejection letters for the first one I sent out, so I gave up.  It’s horrible to have people tell you they don’t want what you have, especially when publishing companies choose to print garbage like 50 Shades of Porn (or whatever it’s called). 

You see, I wrote a bunch of essays, posted them online, wrote the manuscripts … and I have nothing to show for it.  I’m still a school teacher, not a writer, and I am goddamn sick and tired of being poor.   At least if I was a proper writer, with an agent and projects in the works, I could cultivate the poverty for the bigger picture.  As it stands now, as a teacher, I will never become wealthy.  (Hell, I won’t ever be able to properly pay all my bills.)  I will always listen to adolescents actively complaining about my chosen profession.  I will hear “this sucks” over and over about everything all the time.  I will constantly be bombarded with interpersonal conflicts and hormonal breakdowns.  People will talk at me all day, without ever caring what I am dealing with as a person.   

I think it all boils down to the fact that I would like to just … be.  I don’t want to have a scheduled day anymore.  I want to have a more relaxing, peaceful existence of creation.  I am tired.  I just don’t know how to be the version of myself which exists in my imagination.     I don’t think people should have to be the same person their whole lives, but it seems like once we choose a profession, we get slowly & inextricably tangled up in it.  Especially with teachers, it’s almost impossible to be creatively mobile, because schools pay on a scale.  How long I stay is seemingly more important that how I do my job.  That’s pretty stupid, if you ask me.  (Which no one ever does, by the way…)

And …I’m starting to complain again, so I’m out.  

The Positive Effect

I am going to make a concerted effort to be more positive.  My anger eats at me like cancer, and apparently that’s pretty unhealthy.  (Who knew?)  So …

Here are some of my favorite things:

·         Listening to my Acoustic France cd.  My kids are used to it, but people look at me a little strangely when they stumble upon me listening to it.  I don’t care.  It reminds me of places I’ve never been, and I love those places.

·         Mimosas.  They are sort of a perfect storm of buzz and Vitamin C.  (That qualifies as a Food Group, doesn’t it?)

·         Netflix.  I know it’s bad to stare indefinitely at a screen, but I truly love binge-watching shows that I would literally NEVER watch when they are broadcasted.  (House of Cards, Frasier, Girls, Shameless, Modern Family…)

·         Black humor.  Harold & Maude.  Slaughterhouse Five.  Saved.  Heathers.  Running with Scissors.  Dogma.  (The shit that comes out of my own mouth…)  Humor is a really cathartic way to deal with all the shit that life deals out.

·          MONEY.  I know that’s so inappropriate and taboo to say, but when you don’t have any, life is harder.  Is there anything more appealing than a bunch of brand new hundred dollar bills?? 

·         Vacation.  Well, specifically, beaches.  I fucking love the sun.  It’s quite possible that I already have skin cancer from basking in the sun, but there is nothing else in the world like having your feet in the ocean sand.  It’s peaceful and tranquil and rejuvenating.  (And fucking expensive.)

·         The New York Times.  Do I occasionally find typos?  Yes.  Do I periodically feel sickness because of the human condition?  Yes.  But The NY Times is like black coffee – a little bit bitter and dense, but gratifying anyway.

·         Moments of silence.  Probably because I teach high school, and the verbal onslaught is nearly constant, I love an hour of quiet.  (That’s when I turn on the aforementioned Acoustic France cd and make good food, which I then eat – alone – with a glass of wine.) 

·         Discovery.  I’m (not-so-patiently) waiting for the third act of my life to unfold.  It will be beautiful, I have no doubt.  If only discovery wasn’t such a ridiculously slow process.  Maybe I’m doing it wrong.

·         Pearl Jam.  I won’t get into it again (because I’ve written about them so many times before), but those guys reach down … and pick the crowd up.

o   Music, in general.  Justin Timberlake, right this second, but music is the one common denominator. 

·         My bed.  $1400 worth of absolute comfort.  Best thing I have of my own.  If my house was on fire, I’d probably just try to drag the bed out.

o   (Actually, if my house was really on fire, I’d probably just grab a bottle of wine and my phone and watch that motherfucker burn.)

There are other things, of course, but I’m trying to make small, positive imprints for now.  This is mine for today.